What Is Love?

There are many splendid arrangements driven by love.

But where human mating habits are concerned, there are really only two motives anyone has for choosing to "love" anyone else.

1) Conquest
2) Companionship

You can think of them as stages that comprise a continuum.

You can think of them as competing desires.

You can think of them...as both.

The Conquest Motive has, at its core, the urge to discover.


For some, discovery is an end in and of itself. They love in order to learn about themselves. To learn about other people. To learn about processes. This application of discovery would seem to contradict the word "conquest." But if you channel Derrida for a moment, you can zoom in on descriptors like "acquire" or "gain mastery of" and the idea of a conquest meant to nurture starts to sound pretty feasible.

For others, discovery is the means that leads to some sort of triumph. The literal application of "conquest." I don't know if people still make notches in their bedposts every time they've finished a new lover, but that's kinda how this one works. Maybe you know the concept as a "Cooch Count" or a "Peter Meter." Whatever the case, this application of discovery is all about victory and volume.

Meanwhile, the Companionship Motive is self-evident.


Most people don't like to be alone. Most people prefer familiar company to share...well...pretty much everything. It can start with a laugh and build up to an entire life. Some of it may be compelled by customs. Like, you're just supposed to get married and have kids. Much more of it is inspired by an innate need for simple human contact that is most efficiently fulfilled by choosing a partner who will promise to provide you that point of contact. Maybe it's a permanent arrangement. Maybe it grows out of whatever is most practical at that moment. Bottom line: people need people.

Of course, there are the unlucky ones. The people who genuinely wish to be alone. Those people don't really have a place in this theory. They are evil and heartless. Sub-human, even. And they are known by their scientific name: the San Antonio Spurs.

Now that we understand each of these motives, how exactly do they work?


If we consider them as stages, at some point every person's hormones will scream at them to go out and discover what that thing is that is making the spine tingle, the belly flutter or the heart pound. Which means that Conquest usually comes first. After a person has discovered enough things, their emotional architecture can transform to house a yearning for shared intimacy. That shift signals the kicking in of the Companionship Motive. Basically, Conquest colors adolescence and Companionship is the driver during adulthood.

However, the motives are not exclusive to those two life stages. Which, in short, is why love is messy. But not for everyone.

Some people do all their discovering. Then they get boo'd up. And they're good.

For a lot more people than that, the motives wage something of a civil war. They want to conquer, but they also need a partner. Or maybe the partner doesn't provide the right degree of human contact. So the urge to discover overpowers that unsatisfied desire for fellowship. Or maybe a person realizes there was more to conquer than they had conquered before they opted to jump the broom. Or maybe they picked the wrong partner, the pairing ended and now they're left to go back to the discovering stage whether they really want to or not. The scenarios for this kind of conflict really are endless.


So...that's love. In a nutshell. It's a whole lot easier to type than it is to do. But it's not nearly as perplexing as it might seem.

It's just a matter of understanding why you're doing whatever it is that you're doing.

First Writing Since

If you don't know who Suheir Hammad is, shame on you. If you've never heard the poem below, give up the next 7 minutes of your life to change that.



Now that we've got that out the way, this entry has nothing to with Ms. Hammad. (Except for the homage being paid by its title.) Or Sept. 11. It might have to do with anti-Islamism. But only in a very tangential way.

Two weeks have passed since the United States of America elected Barack Obama as its President.

And it still feels weird to type that. Or say it. Or know it to be true.

The pinch-me-ness of the good guys finally winning something big has yet to dissipate.

The piece-by-piece assembling of President-Elect Obama's cabinet tends to bring it into focus and make it feel more real.

I liked the Rahm Emanuel choice. But am feeling underwhelmed by everyone who has come after. Or everyone who has been rumored after.

While I don't doubt that Barack remains the smartest guy in the room, I am beginning to wonder how many concessions he had to make in order to collect the full support of the established Left.

I believe that change happened.

And I hope change will continue to come.

Congratulations to America

There is a non-descript government building that opposes a McDonald's on the corner of 14th and U in NW Washington, DC. Outside this building, a row of flags--an American flag and a couple of other anonymous banners--sprouts from the sidewalk. On any normal day, or night, it is an ordinary site that plays host to little other than a cool breeze and some passing pedestrians.

Last night--as 50 Stars and 13 Stripes whipped jubilantly overhead--I danced in a drum circle while hundreds of citizens of the District of Columbia chanted "USA! USA! USA!" and a warm, Autumn rain washed all of us.

It was a fine American mess. The finest I've ever seen. Or expect to see in my lifetime.

Many better-informed, better-paid, more eloquent people than I will seek to capture for you what the election of Barack Obama means. They--along with many others who hack away like I do--will probably describe their version of the moment. The moment Barack Obama was elected President of the United States of America. Every version of the moment will contain its own magic. And every description will rise with ambition to approximate the power that surged within all of us last night.

I can list for you the details of my moment. A cubby hole with a liquor license and a kitchen full of delicious. Stone's throw from Howard University. Old friends. Happy strangers. Tears. Hugs. Applause. Smiles wide like it was a wedding day. Sam Cooke's "Change Gonna Come." More tears. More hugs. More applause. A toast. A pledge. More hugs. Smiles still wide, unremoved and beaming.

Eventually, many of us took to the streets after a symphony of car horns beckoned us. Someone handed me a pile of Obama'08 signs to pass out. I kept one for myself and wandered west on U Street trying to pierce the sky with it like any good son of Norma Rae would be expected to do. A young, midnight-complected woman hanging out the passenger side window of an Explorer waved me over, squeezed me as if she was trying to pull me into her skin and screamed "OBAMA!!!" for the entire ether to hear.

That drizzle that fell on our nation's capital late last night fell a little bit harder with each passing minute. Sometime after midnight--after Obama delivered the last word of his acceptance speech--the skies dried up. The rain had come. And the rain had gone away.

The rhythm from the drums grew louder. Police sirens wailed halfheartedly. The rhythm grew even louder. Car horns helped keep the beat. Sub-woofers from stoodstill cars blared whatever song the iPod shuffled up next. Someone started an Electric Slide. Everyone else seemed to join in. It was a celebration worthy of Rick James himself.

To some degree, we witnessed an affirmation of American-ness last night. If we have learned anything about this Grand Experiment of ours, though, there lies a mess beneath the make-believe monolith that is these United States of America. Our one nation, some might argue, is structured in a fundamentally divisible way. You can draw up whatever teams you want. Based on whatever terms suit you. In every case, tax-payers will be pitted against each other. There will be an "Us." And there will be a "Them."

On this day, after last night, "Us" can be defined much more broadly than it ever has been. You didn't need to ask anyone on U Street to know that. Their eyes, their smiles and the hugs they gave declared as much. It was as if a good many of us had finally arrived at 1776.

Much later in the dry darkness of this morning, I sat in my bed in Northern Virginia. Inhaling a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and some McDonald's fries. Bar-b-que sauce dripping on my t-shirt. A good friend called from Texas--interrupting the feast--to celebrate and discuss what had happened and what could happen next. There remains, we agreed, a massive amount of work to be done.

For there is a fine American mess that a very different, brand new "Us" can claim, in part, as our own.

Prepping for Election Night in the US

I've heard, read and witnessed a wide variety of emotions being expressed today across the United States as decent and not-so-decent Americans alike have made their choices in the quadrennial clash between good and evil.

This evening, predictably, TV sets will flicker late into the early part of tomorrow. Revealing the ultimate deceit for some and confirming the joys of an impossible reality for others.

Regardless of whom you drew your sword for today, we can be certain of one thing:

Celebration and consolation will taste very much alike. They'll both taste like whiskey.

And the first Wednesday in this November will be a pretty shade of ugly. Or an ugly shade of pretty.

Or, perhaps, it will deliver another fine American mess.

Early Season NBA Thoughts

LeBron James will win an NBA championship before his current contract expires.

I trust Mike D'Antoni. Knicks fans should, too.

D Rose is already the best Chicago Bull.

For as much as people will focus on the importance of New Orleans signing Posey, Mike James and Julian Wright will be the role players who tilt the Hornets' fortunes.

As long as he stays healthy, which he should, D Wade will take Miami to the play-offs.

I love watching Kevin Durant play basketball, but I can't stomach the idea of watching the Oklahoma City whatevers. It just feels wrong.

If I was any player who was nearing the end my third contract and my team was more than 15 games under .500 in Feb, I'd ask for a buyout so I could go play with Kevin Garnett for the veteran minimum.

I'm lukewarm on the Sixers.

I still don't believe in the Rockets.

I do believe in OJ Mayo. And I can't wait 'til he escapes Memphis.

I also believe in the Hawks. Joe Johnson and Horfy are the truth. Acie Law IV is gonna be a ice-cold killer of a third wheel for them. Eventually.

The real Greg Oden won't arrive until sometime in 2010. He'll dominate when does show up, though.

I like the Clipper roster. In a best case scenario, they're this year's Sixers. In a worst case scenario...they're the Clippers.

If the world will simply let Dirk, Kidd and Josh Howard play basketball...I think they'll be pretty good at it.

Tim Duncan looks very fit, very rested, very aggressive and very focused to start the season. He'll probably win the MVP award after the Spurs clinch their division. Unless LeBron or D Wade averages a quintuple double.

Socialism has arrived in America and it wears a Laker uniform. Only two guys (Odom and Ariza) are playing for contracts and neither of them plays a game that requires them to get big numbers to prove their worth. The roster is two (three?) deep at every position. They can play any style they want to play and may invent four new styles this season just for the hell of it. The only thing standing between Showtime 3.0 and the employment of a no-star approach to spreading the stats around is...Kobe. Does Kobe still need the numbers at this point in his career or does he really only care about the ring? Could the effective Europeanization of his team be the intended destination of Phil Jackson's coaching career? I don't know, but it might be the most interesting subplot of this season. And, thankfully, there's reason to believe Mayor Villaraigosa may host a parade down Figueroa in June. Maybe. If Chick Hearn's ghost smiles on the Laker Nation and helps everything break right.

My New Resumé

I am not currently looking for work. Nor do I have a compelling need to update my resumé. I can, however, reduce my resumé to the most essential information you need to know about my working self:

Tim Adkins
Media Guy/Creative Type/Professional Empathizer

Skills:
Can give a very sincere shit about any problem you have and will collaborate with you thoughtfully and artfully to create a solution that leaves you feeling good about yourself and profoundly satisfied with whomever or whatever I have been tasked with representing.

Salary:
Six figures gets you a conversation. Seven figures gets you a meeting. 18 figures gets you my soul for half of eternity. 36 figures gets it 'til the end of all time.

Opening Day

With the Lakers-Celtics Finals and the Olympics, there's been very little time for many hoop fans to feel like our lives have been missing anything so far in 2008.

But it has been, like, two whole months since Team USA vanquished the Spaniards to claim this year's Gold.

Thankfully, basketball is back. Are you ready? This guy is:

The Message Is the Message

Yes, I know Marshall McLuhan is spinning in his grave. Which makes this Thursday no different than any other day that someone has invoked or remixed the most famous sentence that ever emerged from McLuhan's typewriter.

To support the title of this post, I'm sharing two clips from my favourite show on anything, C-SPAN's Washington Journal.

Before I do, I want you to put your own personal opinions on these terrifically divisive subjects on the shelf and really listen to what each of the panelists is saying. Taken together, the following clips provide a master class in message discipline.

This one, on both sides I think, is how message discipline is done well:

Washington Journal 10.22.08
Frank Schubert, Yes on CA Prop. 8, Co-Campaign Manager & Kate Kendell, No on CA Prop 8 Campaign discuss California's ballot initiative on same-sex marriage

This one, also on both sides I think, is how tangential elements of your argument can subsume the core of it:

Washington Journal 10.23.08
Crystal Clinkenbeard, No on Colorado Amendment 48 & Bob Enyart, Colorado Right to Life, Director focus on Colorado Amendment 48, known as the "personhood" amendment, defines the term "person" to "include any huan being from the moment of fertilization."

In the case of the second clip featuring the folks from Colorado, Mr. Pro appealed a little too much to the emotions associated with his debate and, though extremely bold in places, he also came off as a lil bit irrational to me. Mrs. Con, on the other hand, raised her hands in defense, but failed to counterattack what she called mischaracterizations with any substantial data of her own.

Having said all that...I hope both measures are soundly defeated. Like the Celtics crushing the Lakers in Game 6. (Yes, I think I'm finally over the NBA Finals.)

"You have one ___ message."

There is a voicemail message currently residing on my work phone that was left for me two Septembers ago. Which should tell you three things:

1) I'm a pack rat.

2) I've been collecting paychecks from the same place for a while now.

3) It's one helluva message.

Actually, it's not necessarily the message so much as the person who left it. The guy's surname is Teodorescu and with his accent from wherever it is that he comes, the message begins with him saying what sounds like "to the rescue".

Which is fantastically silly. And never ceases to crack me up.

Especially on those days that feel like they last a week. Or during those weeks that feel like they last a decade. Or during those decades...

Lord, I hope I don't spend 10 years in the same place.

Scissor Me

No, this isn't about South Park.

It's actually about coupon cutting.

And a woman who might be the best who ever did it.

NPR's Morning Edition reports. Circa yesterday.

(Oh, but if you want to see that episode of South Park again, go here. Season 11. The D-Yikes episode.)

Playing Hooky

There is a pretty famous Englishman who theorizes that public schools often kill creativity. Here's his argument:



Personally, I think he's on to something.

Which is, in part, why I played hooky from work today. Sorta.

Early this week, I got an e-vite for this event.

Which was quite timely as I had just finished reading this collection of mini-essays.

Since Friday is normally my work-from-home day, it presented the perfect opportunity for a field trip.

So I took one.

Naturally, I learned some cool new stuff. Notably from the guy who runs this organization.

Then I wandered DC a lil bit. Checked out a couple book stores. Furniture stores. And some sneaker spots, too. It was, after all, a truly blue sky autumn afternoon in the nation's capital.

Now I'm home. Getting caught up on email. Flirting with some of the "work" I missed this afternoon. And I'm thinking that I've stumbled onto a new rule that would make Sir Ken (the guy in the video up there ^^^) proud.

Everyone should play hooky from work once a month.

It does a body--and a spirit--good. Lotsa good.

The catch, though, is that you probably shouldn't simply sit at home and watch The View. Or ESPN Classic. Or a My Name is Earl marathon.

This rule should have a clause that you have to do something that inspires you. Doesn't really matter what it is. Or even what it inspires you to do. Just that it gets the neurons in your brain firing. That's all.

'Cause the thousand paper cuts of death that await you in the cube farm don't actually need to succeed.

No matter how important that TPS Report is.

A Bunch of Sofa Kings

I'm still deciding whether I like Santogold or not. I am certain that I like Jack Davey's voice better. But there's enough stuff on Santi's first album to keep me listening. For now.

One song may or may not be construed as a response to Barack Obama. It also might be the mantra of your average hipster.

If you've never run across Adbusters...firstly, you're forgiven...secondly, check this article out. Especially this passage:

"An amalgamation of its own history, the youth of the West are left with consuming cool rather that creating it. The cultural zeitgeists of the past have always been sparked by furious indignation and are reactionary movements. But the hipster’s self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution. Western civilization’s well has run dry."

If you read the Washington Post this past week, you might make that as an answer to this question:

"The stock market has gone nuts, and the federal government is treating Wall Street with experimental cures that will cost nearly $1 trillion. An unpopular foreign war, now in its sixth year, has resulted in more than 4,100 American deaths. For the first time in history, the presidential campaign includes an African American candidate for president and a Republican female candidate for vice president.

Taken together, these data points give this moment in American history a once-in-a-great-while feel of Something Large. But if this is truly a pivot in time, its most peculiar feature may be how un-peculiar it feels. For all the social and political upheaval, for all the 60-point headlines and for all the bipartisan calls for change, there is plenty of unease -- but a very notable lack of unrest...

...How come?"

To extend a phrase...the kids are alright because the kids just don't care.

Naturally, that's a gross generalization. One that leans heavily on the predictability of teenage angst. And one that relies upon the idea that youth has been extended indefinitely so that traditional teenage angst prevails as the default emotional status of 20- and 30-somethings. In other words, Xers and Millenials never really grow up. Since they don't, they are possessed of the vanity and insecure nonchalance we typically associate with the US high school experience.

(It also assumes that all young people are hipsters. Which they are not. But the point about self-involvement holds true for anyone who has a myspace page. Which is everyone under 40.)

Like I said...a gross generalization.

But is it utterly incorrect?

Kinda. Kinda not.

In terms of historical moments, we can best describe this one by borrowing from last year's live action version of Transformers and Aqua Teen Hunger Force (ATHF).

In Transformers, there's a scene right before Barricade confronts Sam. The one where Mikaela is sitting at a Burger King while Sam is pedaling his mother's bike down the sidewalk as the Decepticon gives chase. Sam hits a crack and flips the bike. Mikaela sees Sam stumble and says:

"Sam...That was, um, pretty awesome."

(I'd link to that clip, but I can't find it online.)

In the scene, Mikaela actually searches for the words to describe what she's just witnessed. And all she comes up with is "awesome." If you've had a conversation with any English-speaking person in the last year you know that "awesome" is the new "like." If "like" were multiplied by "dude" then that sum were multiplied by "cool."

It is spoken. Frequently. Which brings us to ATHF.

You may have seen this scene from the cartoon. Or heard it on the DangerDoom album.



What you wanna pay attention for is the line "Loses meaning." That, I think, is the point of all this rambling.

If high school is the dominant cultural motif of our times (which was being hinted at earlier), then what is the peak moment of high school?

It's four letters long. And it's not lunch. Or graduation.

The Prom.

And what's the prom about? Other than busting your cherry, it's about hyperbole.

Now, if "awesome" is the verbal pinnacle of hyperbole and is also the most conversationally used word in the English language, then it stands to reason that "awesome" has lost all meaning. By extension, meaning itself has been dulled. We wake up expecting each morning to deliver us to the prom. Based in part on the deluge of 60-point type telling us what is happening in the world. Whether or not that day is a prom day, there really isn't anything more to experience. It's that. Or, so it feels, nothing.

Which may or may not be a bad thing.

I really can't tell.

Darling Nikki

Chris Rock is not going to win an Oscar for his acting.

Or his directing.

But he may win one for casting. That is, if he had any hand in choosing the female lead of his second adventure in directing, I Think I Love My Wife.

(If he didn't, then tall props to Victoria Thomas.)



That's Kerry Washington. Chewing up scenery as Nikki Tru.

If you've not seen the movie--and most of you probably haven't--here's the 40-word synopsis:

Married banker reconnects with smokin' hot acquaintance (SHA). SHA asks favor. Banker delivers. SHA asks more favors. Banker keeps delivering. Emotional experience of an affair transpires, but no sex is involved. Nonetheless, banker's marriage threatens to disintegrate.

Interesting premise. Some very funny bits that feel as if they come from one of Rock's stand-up films. And...this is a KRS-ONE-sized AND...a whole lot of Kerry Washington.

Rather, of Nikki Tru.

I've met Nikki Tru. A couple versions of her. She is always stunningly attractive. Immaculately attired in a way that invites you--commands you--to stare at her. She flirts with you in a way that feels much more like actual foreplay than playful banter. If she doesn't know everyone in the room, then everyone in the room certainly wants to know her. She carries no money because she is her own currency. She lives in every major US city. And there are small posses of her preying on the unsuspecting (willing?) men who live in (or visit) LA and NYC imparticular. You might call her--every her--a muse. You might call her a shatterer of the ordinary. You might even call her a drug. You'd definitely call her "Yes."

That type of woman--for whom sex is a semi-commercial enterprise--affects a man in a way that defies explanation. Your moral fibre may be rich with things like logic, loyalty and temperance. But once a Nikki Tru locks eyes on you, you're gonna do whatever she wants you to do. For the better. (Or what feels like it ought to be called better.) Until something worse occurs. (Something really, really worse.) When the worse hits the fan, Nikki Tru will probably leave you. And if she doesn't, then you might find yourself standing in line at the courthouse trying to file papers to get a restraining order.

This isn't to say that a Nikki Tru is generally a bad human being. Just that she's so good, she tends to be unaware that bad exists. So she does her good thing to you and whatever happens...well, it happens.

I've watched I Think I Love My Wife a half dozen times now. And I'm reminded of that phenomenon every time I see it.

To be honest with you, I envy Chris Rock's character. Well, I envy his character to a point. He makes some decisions I probably wouldn't have were I in his situation.

Which is probably why I'm in my situation. Thinking I need to find me a new Nikki Tru.

Still Isaac Hayes

Death is a difficult thing to digest.

The gag reflex of the heart (or is it the soul?) tends to produce a vomitous outpouring of sadness, anger and the most profound of all human vulnerabilities: that we are merely human after all.

Somewhere in some Parisian apartment--in the moments just before either of Daft Punk were a glint in their father's eyes--there was, probably, a record spinning on a turntable. This record would have helped spark that glint in their father's eyes. This record would have served as the soundtrack to the session that conceived either of Daft Punk. This record, of course, would have featured the voice of Isaac Hayes.


It's both easy and predictable to say that Isaac Hayes was a bad mother--shutyermouth. It's also true.

A week (two?) has passed since Black Moses suddenly escaped planet earth. I'm sure there have been a dozen kadrillion fitting eulogies for him. Each of them celebrating the epochs that comprised his career. Some of them exploring the man and his choices of faith. And, I'd guess, that a fair amount of them included the phrase "chocolate salty balls."

Ultimately, there's nothing tragic about the death of Isaac Hayes. There is only tragedy in the timing and/or the circumstances of his exit. This is true for all of us. We all finish the human race in the exact same place.

While I know that everyone mourns differently--digesting death individually--I feel a bit dismissive of the whole process where someone of Isaac Hayes' stature is concerned. He became something. Rather, he became several somethings. Equal to the expectations of different people depending on what role he performed in at the different plot points that comprised his career.

I suspect that some of those people feel as if one of their icons has fallen. Truth is, he could never fall. Once he came to stand for something, he would forever stand for that thing. If there's any doubt whatsoever, then put your head phones on and journey back to that day when that bad mother--shutyermouth took center stage at the Los Angeles Memorial Coleseum. The day he performed at Wattstax. Live. Put that CD on. Or pop the movie in. And there he. Still standing. Still the icon. Whatever happened in addition to that moment, there always will be that moment.


Maybe a better example of the permanence of iconography is Michael Jackson. For a lot of people, he's a crazy child molester and that's it. (Which is much more extreme than Isaac Hayes being reduced to Chef.) But, if Thriller or Heartbreak Hotel or A-B-C ever meant something to you, I'd bet that you could listen to those records and still connect with that thing. No matter how far the icon seems to fall, there is still that place where he once stood. And, for whatever reason he stood there, there is always some relic to transport those who bore witness back to that place.

So, there was Isaac Hayes. And there is Isaac Hayes.

Wherever his spirit is traveling to right now, that doesn't change.

He still stands accused. And he's still a bad mother--shutyermouth.

The Future of Team USA

The first half of the Battle of Beijing is now over. (Getting to the Gold Medal Game)

The second half of that battle will probably be as awkward as the quarterfinal game against Australia. (The looming rematch with Spain.)

Once that game is over--regardless of who wins--then what?

For all the talk about the importance of the short-term mission tasked to this iteration of Team USA, the larger takeaway may be the strategic groundwork that has been laid to re-envision the way our national men's basketball program is run.

(There's also no shortage of talk about Jerry Colangelo's leadership, but humor me here as I break out the crystal ball.)

Assuming that the new permanent rule is to require a multi-year commitment from a pool of 25 or so players who will be eligible to compete for a spot on the national team, what might we be looking at come 2010? Or 2012? Or 2016?

Well, we can expect that at least 4 and as many as 8 (more?) of the guys ballin' in Beijing will suit up in the red, white and blue in London. Certainly for the next World Championships in Turkey.

It's hard to project whom that would be, but you have to assume that Jason Kidd won't be one of them. And you have to hope--or pray--that LeBron James will be.

(Sacrifice 40 goats if you have to, just do whatever is necessary to make sure LeBron plays. And let's pencil in Chris Paul, Deron Williams, Chris Bosh, Carmelo Anthony and Dwight Howard, too.)

The key thing is the pool of players who would even be invited. Right now, the bulk of those players would presumably be younger than 30. And, each would have either proven to be capable as an NBA starter or be widely thought to be a franchise-calibre player.

If we throw the names of most of this year's roster into that pool (excluding Jason Kidd), we would probably add the following guys to the short list of possible, future Team USA team members:

Gilbert Arenas
Michael Beasley
Caron Butler
Andrew Bynum
Kevin Durant
Monta Ellis
Danny Granger
Devin Harris
Josh Howard
Andre Iguodala
Joe Johnson
Kevin Martin
OJ Mayo
Greg Oden
Rajon Rondo
Dereck Rose
Brandon Roy
Amare Staudemire
David West

(Actually, that's not a very short list at all. It safely covers, like 70% of the best US-born NBA players under 30. Naturally, it omits people like Chauncey Billups and Elton Brand who might also be part of the pool. But those guys are the very, very, very-near future. At best. And that's it.)

I don't know about you, but when I think about those players--and consider them alongside the current Team USA--what jumps out to me is that all of the possible combinations of US-born NBA players moving forward look pretty much the same.

Lots of stupidly freakish athleticism. Most guys somewhere between 6'6" and 6'9". Very few with etched in stone positions on the court. And, most importantly, not much in the way of classic pass-cut-shoot basketball that every other country on Earth seems to play.

(It's almost as if all the best American players learned their games on the streets of Chicago. Too much wind to worry about shooting any Js. So just get out and run and try to jump over the other guy.)

All of this to say that the style of basketball we have watched in the 2008 Olympics (the swarming perimeter defense and the offensive acrobatics) is what we're going to get plenty of during the next 10-12 years. At least. And unless some major revolution takes place in the way teenage basketball talent is developed, (Stephon Curry, please save us!) it's entirely possible that US basketball has forever committed itself to that style. (Forever = until David Stern retires.)

Frankly, as we've seen in these games, that's not entirely a bad thing. Our guys can still perform some amazing basketball feats. And the generations coming up after them will presumably be capable of more of the same. And, clearly, the best American ballplayers can generally still kick the crap out the best players any other country can throw together.

We just need to be sure that we stick to what we're good at. And hope that amazing will always be enough to bring home the gold.

Rather, that controlled acts of the amazing will be enough. 'Cause amazing by itself didn't do too well in '02. Or '04. Or '06.

Which means that the coach (whether his name is Krzyzweski, Popovich, D'Antoni, McMillan, Howland or Izzo) is just as important a choice as the players.

The common thread when forecasting the future players and the coaches of Team USA, I s'pose, is that the fundamental challenge facing USA Basketball is to overcome our own predilections for vanity. Which is basically the thing that caused the semi-final game against Argentina to be so close.

'Cause we really are bigger, stronger and faster. (Mostly 'cause we have LeBron and Superman.) What ails us--if anything does--is a queasy gut. It's just too easy to marvel at our own natural brilliance and neglect the little bits of willful effort that yield great champions.

Maybe that's why some people in some countries hate America. Or, maybe it's just basketball and I'm one member of the sad, but likable mass of hoop fans who cares a little bit too much.

Either way, we have met the future. And it is us. As we are now. And will be.

The New Silk Road

On the new Silk Road, they don't trade much silk. (That I know of.)

And, it appears, that there isn't actually much trading going on.

Just "the most bare-knuckled resource grab the world has ever seen."

If I've emailed you or talked to you during the last 2-3 months, there's a good chance I've referenced the series that follows or even shared these links with you. It is, quite simply, the finest piece of journalism I've come across in 2008.

It is long. But reading it represents a great investment of your time. Whether or not you were curious about the relationship between China and the African continent before you poked your head into this post.

Without further ado...

China in Africa Part 1

China in Africa Part 2

China in Africa Part 3

China in Africa Part 4

China in Africa Part 5

China in Africa Part 6

There is something very pyrrhic about how the people of those African countries have entangled themselves with the Chinese government and the Chinese business community.

Mutually assured destuction is too hyperbolic, but I don't think there's a more fitting phrase to project the outcome for both China and the Continent. It just can't end well.

She Said "JaJaJaJa"

An email huddled in a long line of unread messages in my inbox when I logged in at work this morning. It was a response from a colleague based in Puerto Rico. She was following up on an interview we were working on. She, the subject. Me, the interrogator. I mean, inquisitor. I mean...aw hell...I was the guy asking questions.

In that message, she commented about one line of questioning and typed "jajajaja" in one conspicuous place that looked like a typo. Which made sense given that she was writing in her second language. Even though she spoke and wrote her second language quite well.

After initially raising a curious brow, I forgot about it and dug into what was a crazy ambitious schedule.

In the afternoon, she and I continued our dialogue on the phone. She does some really interesting work with furniture, space and architecture. Which is cool. But not quite as attention-grabbing as the way she spelled out the URL for her home page.

She said "blank blank blank blank blank blank punta com."

OOOOOHHHHHHHH.

Right.

"Punta" = "point." Or "dot."

And "jajajaja" = "hahahaha."

I get it now.

I think I'll be boarding the small yellow bus today. You s'pose they'll let me have the same seat I sat in yesterday?

I Think I Won the VietNam War

I started reading this book, The Best and the Brightest, way back in November. Of last year. On the day I met the single most memorable person I know. For lunch. The day before her birthday. Several hours before I planed across the Atlantic. To the Netherlands. Seven months--and three countries and two broken hearts and one haircut--later, I have finally arrived at its 672nd page. I am done reading it. Finally.

Which is something of a shame.

Firstly, because it is a spectacularly good read.

Secondly, because it never should have taken me that long to slog through it.

Lastly, because that damn'd Halberstam is gonna make me start writing. Again. For the second time.

When I logged entry #100, I thought it a nice milestone to savor. And a good occasion to take a break. Maybe re-design the layout. Possibly re-think my tagging system.

Then I got enveloped by the NCAA Tournament. Swallowed by the NBA Play-offs. Addicted to IBeatYou.com. Wildly distracted by my dayjob. And trudged ever more slowly toward finishing and releasing that movie. You know the one. All of which left me grossly uninspired. Unmotivated. Probably both.

Which is all a tapestry of excuses for saying I had nothing to say.

(Perhaps I still don't. But let's pretend for an entry that I do.)

History exists mostly in slivers. Highlights. This thing happened. Then that thing happened. Now, here we are. Slivers are often bundled together conveniently to express what we come to know as eras. These chunks are charged with telling the stories of the events that deliver us to the holy surprise of right now.

Which allows me to say something like "The '60s" and have you instantly call up the 32kb of data stored in your own walking hard drive to understand what that means.

But in doing so, do you actually understand what took place on the planet Earth from Jan. 1, 1960 through Dec. 31, 1969?

(You don't have to answer that. It's a rhetorical question. Which you knew. But I needed an excuse to plop parentheses here.)

Context is, mostly, a luxury for any contemporary storyteller. It probably should be a prerequisite, but often isn't. In the race to the point, you're often forced to splice in whatever context the attention span of your audience will afford you. That challenge is not unlike the way that warfare is waged during the digital age. Or the last days of analogue. The ones that took place during the '60s.

Which brings me to the explanation of how I think I won the VietNam War.

It is, to be sure, a facetious claim. But one that someone should make. There were too many lives, too many resources, too many careers and too much talent squandered in the accidental, yet desperately purposeful chasing of ghosts in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Halberstam gave us an epic recounting of how many men went so very wrong. And dozens of others--through books, movies, etc--have weighed in on the same. The gift that all of them--especially Halberstam--can offer is the gift of context.

(That, BTW, means you can win the VietNam War, too.)

The war wasn't some monolithic collection of slivers. There were a whole lot of ideas, philosophies, flukes of circumstance and political pressures that delivered us to 1965. And then kept the US tab running until 1975. VietNam isn't simply synonymous with the '60s. And the '60s aren't simply synonymous with VietNam. The decade--like the war--was richly comprised of visible and invisible forces which drove the events--some connected, some not--that unfolded during it. Neither can be neatly captured. And both must be exhaustively recounted in order to really understand what happened.

It's not something you can do in less than seven months.

Apparently.

Humility in the Porn Industry

I'm late on this. But I only just watched it last night on Showtime when Dr. Insomnia paid me a visit. Not to mention that it's definitely worth sharing.

Of all the absurd moments you might expect from something called the 25th Annual AVN Adult Movie Awards, this one was definitely the most surreal and it offered the tightest statement about the business of intimacy in the 21st century:



Of all the lessons a person might take from watching porn, who'd have thunk that "respect is the key to good sex" would be among them?

The Disappearing Soul

When a person--or a group of people--is defined by something which s/he (or they) are not, how do they maintain their sense of identity when that negative is removed?

More to the point, when a group of people are bound together (in part) by a shared sense of struggle, of hardship or of profound oppression, how is that group impacted by a potentially positive change to that circumstance?

And perhaps this is the real question: what happens to you when you start to get what you want?


There are several cliched answers to those quasi-rhetorical questions. Most of them involve the costs associated with compromise.

"Compromise" is an interesting word. It is a paradox that can be used in very different, but fundamentally connected ways:

"Blending qualities of two different things"
"Settle by mutual concessions"
"To cause the impairment of"
"To expose to an unauthorized person or enemy"

That's almost a four-step outline of how to sell one's soul.


The first step is fairly benign. If you're Black and you live in a post-slavery, still-segregated America, you'd probably want the freedom and equality that some white dude long ago wrote into the founding documents of the country you might call home.

The second step speaks to the process associated with obtaining that freedom. Basically, the people oppressing you are gonna have to agree to stop that shit and you, as the oppressed group, are gonna have to agree not to kick the shit out of all those people for everything they ever did wrong to you and your folks.

The third step furthers the second by implying that getting what you want (rather, getting some of what you want) will cause you to sacrifice some things that you already have. If you're a group of people who has previously been segregated (either in part or holistically) then your forced and logical communal ties could suffer once you and the group you are a part of are integrated into a larger society. In short, both your collective and individual identities are gonna need to be rethought and possibly re-expressed.

The fourth step indicates that something may have disintegrated in the quest to obtain the goal outlined in the first step. If you're Black and you live in a post-Civil Rights, legally-integrated America...well...I'm not sure exactly how you'd feel. There are millions of people far more qualified than I am to intimately articulate that experience. BUT...from an outsider's perspective...I have to think that you might feel as if you've sold a piece of your soul in order to enjoy the basic rights and freedoms that had been so egregiously denied to you, your parents, grandparents, etc.

At least, that was one of my takeaways from watching ESPN's documentary mini-series, Black Magic.


Frankly, that should be part of the jump-off from that film. Granted, Black Magic is an outstanding piece of filmmaking. Something I wish I would have made myself. Something I will be among the first to buy whenever it's made available for sale. Mostly so I can cherrypick from the craftsmanship of it for my own future reference.

I suspect, though, that Dan Klores and Earl Monroe (along with Ben Jobe, Jon Chaney, Earl Loyd and the rest) would be terribly disappointed in all of us if we didn't dive a little deeper than that after seeing the film.

If you haven't seen it yet, Black Magic is nearly four hours of stories about the forgotten generation of Black basketball players who played at HBCUs during the 50s, 60s and 70s and who integrated that sport while America itself was being integrated. As you can imagine, there's lots of ugly history there which is offset by magnificent stories of personal triumph. Along with some personal tragedies. Both minor and major.

In sum, it argues that the people who just wanted to play ball (at the highest levels) and the people who created the space for them to do so (when the highest levels weren't accessible) gradually sacrificed the integrity of that space in order to obtain the right to play ball at the highest levels possible.

Or so it would seem the argument goes.

Whether it was intended or not, we could scale that argument to apply it to the identity chronology of Black folks in America during the last 150 years. We could also scale it to explore the principles associated with the process of reaching compromise. We could even scale it to the assorted acts of being alive.


Really, that last one is what I s'pose I'm most interested in. On some what is soul? steez.

I have neither the time nor the energy to even count, let alone read about and meditate on all the various ideas and theories about what the human soul is and how it contributes to a person's existence. I do, however, default to Funkadelic whenever anything about the nature of life is in doubt for me.

(If I wore acronymic wrist bands, mine would read "WWGCD?" After all, there may be worse moral barometers (or better ones) than George Clinton, Bernie Worrell, Eddie Hazel, Fuzzy Haskins, Bootsy and co., but what's really funkin' with them? You can have your Moses or your Buddha and I'll be just fine with all the Woo in the world.)

Soul, as Funkadelic would tell us, has everything to do with how you relate yourself to the world around you as well as, conversely, how you digest that world to achieve your own ends.

At some point, every soul arrives at a crossroads faced with two choices: 1) stand on principle every time in perpetuity without flinching no matter the cost or 2) compromise once and once again every day for the rest of your journey because once you make one concession, you'll never reach a point where you concede no more forever.


If a soul (or a group of souls) chooses the path of compromise, it is not necessarily a well tread road to hell. Nor is it an easy path to paradise. It is a struggle. One that is different from its prideful (patently stubborn and generally courageous) counterpart. No less prone to success or failure. Just different.

But (here's the rub, kids) a soul who chooses compromise has to understand the potentially pyrrhic nature of that path. The choice to compromise could be the most mutually beneficial for everyone involved, but it's going to cost someone something. Sometimes, it costs some folks everything.

Going back to the takeaways from Black Magic, I can't say that I feel hopeless. Nor would I encourage anyone else to be. I do believe that enough time has passed since the close of the Civil Rights Era, that we can place certain issues of identity in their proper context thereby adopting a healthier approach to solving today's problems which are clearly rooted in the problems of the past yet are altogether different.

Which is why I'm particularly curious about the dialogue Barack Obama is about to launch concerning race.


If for no other reason than a leading presidential candidate is about to tackle the biggest, meanest elephant that has ever thundered through any room in this old American house.

Certainly because, now that we know the cost of compromise, we might actually be able to address this thing with some candor and without the belligerence that so naturally accompanies it.

All of us may have shaved a little piece (or two) off our souls to get some of what we wanted, but we haven't made them disappear completely.

Not yet anyway.

Sweet Sixteen

Sixteen thoughts about the one holiday that is truly worth celebrating: The NCAA Tournament.

Merry Christmas
Dionte Christmas' name will be the source of many bad puns. But the best name in the Tournament actually belongs to Haminn Quaintence. I can't pronounce it, but I can tell you the kid's game is directly descended from Devin Davis.

The Only Sneaker That Matters
Brand Jordan. I've seen some cool newish designs in the conference tournaments. There may be more to come. Everything else feels like we've already seen it before. Didn't used to be that way. Shame how the game has changed.

What's in a Name?
Belmont. Butler. Cornell. Davidson. Drake. Siena. Winthrop. One-word schools are the new hotness in Cinderella picks. Two of 'em will stick around for the second weekend.

St. Mary's Meet Mt. St Mary's
Yes, there are two of them. The former has all the Aussie Ex-Pats. The latter has the smallest good player in the Tournament. The former should have a chip on its shoulder after getting knocked out in its conference semis. The latter won't be able to handle the press against a long, quick team.

Up Goes Down
Arizona and Kentucky. George Mason and Gonzaga. Blue bloods. Underdogs. Which one is really which? I honestly can't say any more.

Separation
Apart from the 6 best and the 6 worst teams in the field, there isn't much distance between the other 53 programs invited to the Tournament. Which means most upsets really aren't upsets. Which diminishes the natural drama of the dance rendering it slightly less riveting than the NBA's ongoing Western Conference Play-offs. Which, FTR, started two weeks BEFORE the All-Star Break.

Eff the Selection Committee
For 2 years in a row now, they called out my Pac-10 loyalty by matching 'SC up with one of my favorite Big 12 teams. As much as I'd like to see K-State make an '88 Kansas or '04 Syracuse run...they just don't have the guards to deal with the Trojans back court.

Four Big Finales?
Kevin Beasley would be better off in the NBA. Tyler Hansborough and Kevin Love would be better off in college. Blake Griffin would look great in a Laker uniform.

Shaq-In-Training
The Suns desperately need Roy Hibbert or Hasheem Thabeet to fall into their lap. Hibbert would help Nash now in the way Shaq is supposed to. Thabeet would allow Amare to have the career he wants to have.

The Beast(s)
At least one Big East team is going to make a deep run. It could be Georgetown. Or UConn. Or Louisville. Or even Notre Dame. Sadly, it probably won't be Pitt.

"Let's Go Pee!"
I mean, "Let's go, Peay!" There will be no better or more entertaining cheer heard this March. Not even "Rock. Chalk. Jayhawk. KU."

Clean Sheets
Of all the 1's and 2's, Kansas is the least likely to shit the bed. UCLA is the most likely to wake up with brown sheets.

Power U's
The best conferences in college basketball this year were (in this order) the Big East, the Pac 10 and the Big 12 (2a and 2b respectively). There is a very small gap between the first and second(s) spots--which only exists because the Big East has so many more teams.

New Rules
The rule change concerning the way players line up for foul shots is going to come into play at some point in the story of one of this year's big upsets. Probably in the form of an offensive rebound off of a missed 1-and-1 in the closing seconds. Matter of fact, this situation might actually save Memphis from itself.

Brick City
We are all going to quickly tire of people talking about how poor of a free throw shooting team Memphis is. But we're going to have to hear about it for at least 2 weekends.

The Pick
Sike. I'm not giving anything away here. Just in case you're reading this and you're in a pool with me. But let's be honest, there are only 6 teams who can win 6 in a row beginning on Mar. 20: Carolina, Georgetown, Memphis, Kansas, Tennessee and UCLA. You can pick a dark horse if you like (Duke, Louisville, Michigan St, Texas, UConn or Wisconsin, for example) but you'll probably be wrong. Or maybe not. Go with your gut, kids.

Enjoy the madness!

The Spectacle of Safety

The compulsion of fear begets the need to feel safe.

That is "feel" not actually "be." It is a key distinction. And it is that "need to feel" that thing--in this case, safe--which serves as the foundation of so many illusions.

But what exactly is "fear" about? Good question. Bill the Butcher has an answer:



It's a pretty powerful weapon. Maybe the strongest in any man's (or nation's) arsenal. Used wisely, it is a supremely effective agent of control. But to be used wisely, it must be used in concert with something else. In this case, something else is the "need to feel safe."

Let's take, for example, the "war on drugs."

Some people think all drugs are bad, mmmkay? And that's why, I s'pose, we have a war on drugs.

Plenty of people get rich because of drugs. Some of those people are drug dealers. Some are suppliers. Some are attorneys. Some of those attorneys become elected officials. It is a mutually benefical bifurcation. For the most part. Right up to the point where someone gets arrested and sent to prison for a kajillion years. At that point, there's only one side cakin' up.

And how ridiculous is that? In this straight-from-the-gut editorial, one man speaks on it very truthfully:

The truth is, big drug busts do almost nothing to stem the flow of drugs or change the complexion of the culture, save for making a handful of rather uninformed citizens and angry parents feel better for about 10 minutes, and causing the street price of your narcotic du jour to jump 20 percent for a week. Which, I suppose, is a big part of the reason it happens at all, to give the appearance of justice and enforcement and overall safety, to prevent everyone from freaking out and whining to the mayor.

The "appearance of justice and enforcement." Rather, the appearance of safety.

He's right. We don't need to watch The Wire to recognize the cyclicality of the capital-G Game. It goes on. It will go on. You can't stop it completely because you can't fully eliminate human desire. Not collectively anyway.

Which leaves you--and by "you," I mean a so-called "civilized society"--to choose between A) perpetuating an illusion and B) governing yourself pragmatically.

Obviously, no balkanized group of people is smart enough to agree on a practical solution. So, here we are. And there we go. Exciting ourselves about the evil scourge of all drugs--which is another way of saying that we're ashamed of our own humanity--and cheering on the occasional "victory" that the rich guys who allegedly do the least harm can take credit for.

And, in the end, some of us feel "safe."

While the rest of us are in "the bottle."



Say, brother, can you spare a dollar nine?

The Origin of "Yay!"

Nearly every woman I know--regardless of age, race, geography or cup-size--uses the word "Yay!" (Some dudes use it, too. But not with nearly the same frequency as the average woman.)

They use it supportively. They use it to express their own jubilation. They even use it as conversational filler.

But has this always been the case?

I don't recall "Yay!" being so commonly used 10 years ago. While I may be wrong, I do want to get to the bottom of the "Yay-nomenon." So, I asked google 'cause google knows everything.

Curiously, google didn't have an answer.

Which led me to ask a friend of mine in a a recent AIM convo. (My AIM name is "th cptl t." "F.O." = "friend of") She posed an interesting theory as to where "Yay!" comes from:

F.O. th cptl t (12:35:48 PM): mothers
F.O. th cptl t (12:36:00 PM): when a child does something good
F.O. th cptl t (12:36:09 PM): we say "yay!" to encourage them
F.O. th cptl t (12:36:48 PM): i think it's said to all babies
F.O. th cptl t (12:36:55 PM): but as the child gets older
F.O. th cptl t (12:37:03 PM): only girls continue to hear it
F.O. th cptl t (12:37:18 PM): and boys get "good job" or "allllllright!"
th cptl T (12:37:41 PM): so, it's a mother thing?
th cptl T (12:37:45 PM): interesting
F.O. th cptl t (12:38:42 PM): i think mothers started it
F.O. th cptl t (12:38:50 PM): and since every girl has a mother
F.O. th cptl t (12:38:55 PM): we keep it going
F.O. th cptl t (12:39:10 PM): i think most mothers stop saying "yay!" to their sons
F.O. th cptl t (12:39:16 PM): when they turn 2 or 3

So that's it. "Yay!" is the product of feminine nurturing. And it probably doesn't hurt that it's a word seemingly built for a text message.

FUCK ED RENDELL!!!

There is a very slim chance that my grandparents will ever discover this blog. Despite those low odds, I tend to be EXTREMELY selective about how and when I use different curse words in my writing.

(FTR...my grandparents aren't the prudiest of people, but I do respect them for their sheer elderness and I try--emphasis on try--not to unleash my full asshole-ishness in public in deference to them. I might not care about the perception of me, but perhaps they do.)

If you've read this blog, then you know that I swear fairly casually, but not as gratuitously as my man Cap does. Which, of course, brings me to the title of this post:

FUCK ED RENDELL!!!

For real. Fuck him. 1,000 times. Asshole. Bastard. Motherfucker. Spawn of Satan. Bitch.

Seriously.

He created a career for himself by getting into bed with the FOP in Philly and he endorsed (and perhaps instigated) the bombing of the MOVE headquarters as well as the lynching of Mumia Abu-Jamal.

(FTR...I think Mumia probably is responsible, in part, for Daniel Faulkner's death. But I also believe that Officer Faulkner--and the unjust mandate authored by then District Attorney Ed Rendell and the Philadelphia police department circa 1980--are equally responsible for creating a climate where reasonable citizens were made to both fear and take an aggressively self-defensive stance against the Phildelphia PD. That may sound like the placement of blame on the victim. I assure you it is not that. As people like Prof. Marcus Rediker will tell you, there is no full and simple truth about Philly in the early '80s. It was a messy place. At the messiest of times.)

Which gets us back to the business of motherfucking Ed Rendell. The sitting Democratic Governor of Pennsylvania.

I should tell you that I truly do not care what type of apparent budgetary miracles he performed as the very first "America's Mayor." I was, after all, one of the innocent kids who got caught in the melee in LA during the 2000 DNC National Convention when "hizzoner" chaired what a few thousand of us who merely wanted to see a free Rage and Ozo show will testify qualified as "1968 Remixed."

So, why this post? And why today?

The Governor of Pennsylvania had the nerve to tell Bill Maher that Hilliary Clinton is more "qualified" to be the President of these United States than Barack Obama.

And he didn't simply compare and contrast their resumes. That sick son-of-a-bitch had the gall to declare that voters aren't "electing a rock star." As if Obama is nothing more than the crackling sizzle of a vacuous steak containing absolutely no nutrients.

Ed Rendell's entire career in politics has been devoted to serving the greater good insofar as the greater good advances the career of Ed Rendell. Make no mistake, that motherfucker is not--by any stretch--a public servant.

Doesn't matter whether he's the DA, the Mayor, the Governor or, gasp, Hillary Clinton's running mate.

He is a real motherfucker.

And none of you, I mean none of you, should seriously consider anything he says to be anything other than the gospel of his own patently self-serving professional agenda.

FUCK!

ED!

RENDELL!

The Revolution Is Here

Run DMC made me.

Sort of.

I grew up in a small town in Ohio in the '80s. At about the same time my fifth grade self started scratching out a world view, I dubbed a friend's copy of Raising Hell. After that...well...you might say it was all down hill. Hurtling toward a perspective that was simultaneously wide open and narrowly defined.

"Fuck Amerikkka, still with the triple K..." ---Ice Cube

Public Enemy. NWA. BDP. EMPD. Redman. Cypress Hill. Rakim. All of 'em trailed Run DMC fairly predictably. At best, that music told stories which didn't appear in my history books and never made the reels of the newscasts available to me. At worst, it violently condemned the majority of the dogmas which had been fed to me. Resulting in what would best be described as a very young, paling version of Black militancy. I viewed a lot of the things in this world--things like the US Congress, Nike and all basketball referees--not simply as enemies to be opposed to, but as special incarnations of evil.

"Every official that comes in/cripples us, leaves us maimed/silent and tamed and with our flesh and bones/he builds his home..." ---Rage

Hip hop, of course, is not the only music I've ever encountered. And Black militancy is not the only philosophy I've ever digested and spit back up, in some part, as my own.

As I've aged, supreme righteousness has given way to agnostic cynicism. Sort of. Maybe it's more like practicality at this point. It's very easy to snipe at the country you live in when your passions are tweaked by local injustices. But in the long, broad view so many of the things that I find fault with seem to be less about what is unique to the United States and more about the most common shortcomings of humanity in general. That recognition can be fleeting when witnessing the grossest of grievances in one's own backyard, but it has become part of the base of my personal belief system. It does, however, contrast sharply with hope. The salt that desperately needs some pepper to prevent a belief system from succumbing to a self-loathing fatalism.

"Now you know I'm only human, instead of all the things I'd like to be..." ---Gil Scott-Heron

America has a bloody history. Some of the ugliest moments in the whole human narrative.

Slavery. Annihilating the First Nations. Japanese Internment Camps. Jim Crow.

And that's just the easy stuff to condemn. Nevermind the pieces of the story that concern hoarding of wealth and resources. Or the unequal distribution of rights allegedly guaranteed all citizens. Or...well...I'll stop there. I think you get the picture.

But, in the big picture, what country is not bloody?

Nation building is not an idyllic endeavor. At best, it involves a war of words. At worst, men make oceans of blood in order to draw the boundaries separating them from their neighbors. Mayhaps, they kill their neighbors to get more land for themselves. Whatever the case, it's not a pretty picture.

What counts most, though, is what a nation does after the blood has been spilled.

"The Revolution is here..." ---Common

Let's suppose that a motivated group of Americans decided that we hated what America has become and agreed to re-revolt. Today, we wage a massive war and we win our revolution overthrowing the government in the process. Tomorrow, what are we gonna do? We have to build our own country. And what country are we gonna build?

*Pause*

That's a damn good question, inn'it?

We would have to build something. Otherwise, we'd run the risk of a counter-revolution. And all our efforts would be for naught.

Of all the different forms of government we could cut and paste or modify to our liking or create from scratch...are we really gonna come up with a remarkably better system than the one that is already in place and has been evolving for 230+ years?

Frankly, I think not.

Resignation does not hold an obvious place within the act of revolution. Within the process, though, it is a key component.

"Change is easy. Living it is hard." ---Kelly Tsai

I am a Bicentennial Baby. Not quite as Twy-centennial as my friend born on July 4, 1976, but born in '76 no less.

The bulk of the bloodiest, most unjust chapters of the American story precede my life. Among those chapters, there are many egalitarian pages. Whether charting the best or worst of times, I cannot say that America itself is solely to be lauded or denounced. Rather it is the people who created and maintained our institutions who deserve credit or blame.

It is the people whom this Grand Experiment has always been by. It is the people whom this Grand Experiment has always been for. It is the people who have changed institutions to make this union more perfect. Rather, more closer to perfect.

And it is the people who will always have to live with those changes. Even the ones that make us less perfect.

When we encounter those changes, though, that's when we get revolutionary.

Rather, more revolutionary. Than we already were.

"He's Named Like My Name."

I used to think "Max Power" was the best name anyone could possibly have.



Used to.

This guy--known simply as Dr. Brilliant--is the new champ.

Dude.

Dr. Brilliant.

Wow.

Let's Talk About Patriotism

Let's talk about patriotism.

Why not? Everyone else is.

(Well, everyone who's not obsessing over tonight's big showdown between Kobe and Shaq, that is.)

Historically, my heart tends to bleed.

And, at previous points in my life, I've viewed symbols like the American flag, the National Anthem and the Pledge of Allegiance as gross reminders of all that was promised and never delivered. I'm not alone in that feeling. Disenfranchisement is contagious when the Joneses are 20 paces ahead of you and the Smiths are standing on your throat.

In the most recent years of what some would call my adulthood (it's a generous label for me, I know) I've taken to referring to the United States as the Grand Experiment.

In one breath, it is remarkable. Stunning. Mesmerizing. The absurd ascendence to the top of the world's moleheap in such a short amount of time despite nearly being ripped completely apart from within. The evolution toward the potential spelled out in its founding documents. The sheer vastness of all of it.

In the next breath it is puzzling. Incomplete. Exasperating. The lack of governmental courtesy/empathy (see: no apology for slavery). The ongoing double standard in our criminal justice system (see: Rockefeller Drug Laws). The half-assed intrusion into foreign affairs (see: do I really need to list these for you?).

For me, there are moments when it is cool as hell to live in the United States and there are moments when it is downright embarassing. On the whole, after 230+ years, I think there are more moments that inspire the coolness than there are that evoke the embarassment. Which, I believe, counts as a better than fair success rate if you buy into the notion of the Grand Experiment.

Does that make me a patriot?

Probably not.

But it does make me an American. For some better. For a lil bit of worse.

Today.

And tomorrow.

Which, I trust, will inch all of us closer to that deferred dream.

'Cause if it doesn't, then I'm moving to Saturn.

__________'s Lesson

I watch The Wire.

You may already know that about me.

My house has HBO on Demand.

Which means that I am one week ahead of the episode schedule. Because, like the best reason for doing anything, I can be.

I have just watched episode #58. I will not spill any details here, but I will make one comment before I am able to view the final two hours of the finest achievement in the history of dramatic, scripted television.

Based on what I have seen thus far this season--coupled with the teasers of what is to come in the final episodes--one lesson appears to be revealing itself as the primary moral of the show:

The Game is always faster than everyone who plays it.


Does that mean none of us should play? That depends upon the game. And, naturally, on the player.

(Word to Planet Patrol.)

Post-Script: That still comes from Season 4. Just in case you thought I dropped a spoiler.

There's Been a Gil Sighting

Two, actually:





Technically, that's the same event. But you can forgive some creative license where Gil Scott-Heron is concerned, right?

'Specially when the news involves Gil still being alive--and still able to perform.

I have to admit, I was a lil bit surprised. Also a lil bit sad. Though, I s'pose, Gil is exactly where he ought to be in life. A soft echo of a rebel yell released long ago by lungs who sought to collapse themselves.

Whither the Neo-Coms?

Yes, I did mean to type an "m" there. Not an "n".

In this case, Neo-Com equals Neo-Communist.

A friend of mine loathes communism. For reasons deeper than I have time or energy to get into right now. (Why he is my friend may also require an explanation of similar depth. Another time for that as well.)

The point I would like to make here is that it appears there is a budding "Communist" bloc building. Rather, a bloc that is gaining in coherence as the parties to it are defining a common enemy.

And that enemy is America. Which is pretty much everyone's enemy right now. Especially for self-loathing Americans. Rather, for George W. Bush-hating Americans.

Capitalism, in principal, is not a bad idea. Neither is Communism. It is the way those ideas are implemented and the systems they evolve into that stir up the passions of men. (Unless, of course, you have a merciless opposition to the principal(s) in the first place. If you do, then there's really no talking to you at all. Your mind is closed.)

George W. Bush-haters, to some degree, detest highly-concentrated, hyper-capitalism that sustains itself through the spectre of fear. Hence, they hate the America that is right now. (And, perhaps, has been for the bulk of recent memory.)

Wait...what does that have to do with Neo-Communism?

Youknow...I'm not entirely sure. The article I've linked to above makes clear distinctions between the polled feelings of the Russian people (they have been fleetingly disenfranchised by the US govt) and the actions of Putin's administration (he's taken full advantage of that current feeling to his own benefit). It also links them causally. Showing us that Putin retains that totalitarian tendency of some of his predecessors. The one that has been used to stoke the fires of anti-Communist forces the world over. The same one that has also cleaved citizens living under Communist governments closer to the State's breast.

But what about China? They're still nominally Communist, but they hardly resemble the best practices as described by Lenin or Mao. And are they really that interested in aligning with the Russians? Aren't the average citizens of both countries competing for the same scarce resources? If not now, then eventually, no?

I'd like to think that we're smarter today than our ancestors were when it comes to gauging the true threats of ideologies that don't synch up with our founding principles. But, in talking with my friend, the fierce foe of Communism everywhere, I'm not so sure.

Communism ain't what it used to be. Right?

There Are Some Kick-Ass Stamps Coming Out This Year

Yeah. You read it right. That's exactly what I meant, too.

There's a journalist series that includes Ruben Salazar:


A Black Cinema series that includes Duke Ellington's first movie:


A series honoring the Eameses:


A Linus Pauling stamp:


And a Latin Jazz stamp:


So...if you're expecting snail mail from me in the next 12-15 months, you can expect to see one of those on your envelope.

And if you're not expecting mail from me, then cop a couple series for yourself 'cause cool kids use cool stamps on all their correspondence.

Least that's what they do at my school.