No one cries for a champion. At best, winners receive a begrudging kind of respect. At worst, winners are the targets of pitched jealousy. Both are earned. Neither really matters. The champion is the champion. There is no need for any further validation.
When your favorite team wins a championship, it is common to feel a beautiful combination of joy and relief. All of those nights you cursed at your TV were worth it. All of those mock drafts and fake trades you generated had meaning. And every piece of shit you talked with opposing fans...well...it wasn't just shit-talking, now was it?
In the event that your team wins a second or third or fifth title, your vantage point as a fan evolves. No longer are you the desperate observer. Instead, you may find yourself wallowing in the sustained brilliance of your team's play. As you wallow, you'll behave arrogantly. This is inevitable. If you're any kind of smart, you'll move away from the arrogant sense of entitlement that can seize the average winner. And you'll recognize that you occupy a privileged observational space.
Most people are quick to acknowledge that history is being made, but how many can say they followed it from the precise point in time the moment was conceived? While cheering for a dynasty, you're not just watching history happen, you're in the middle of it repeating itself over and over again. It's hard to explain to someone who is ambivalent about sport--let alone a fan whose team has never won a title. You may as well tell someone you were an engineer when Herbie Hancock used to play with Miles Davis. Or when Jay Dilla recorded with...anyone.
What you may lose sight of--either because you're consumed by the long tail of your team's brilliance or because you're reluctant to accept that it won't trail forever--is that every conception eventually yields to a completion. If it began, it must end. When a season ends with your team raising their sport's most coveted trophy, the ending itself is the source of desire. That's what you wanted and that's what you got. It is the epitome of satisfaction.
But after you've tasted that same kind of satisfaction for the fifth time, it's not quite so...satisfying. Relief overtakes joy leaving that feeling you felt way back when your team claimed its first championship to be grossly imbalanced. And you're probably gonna wonder why that is.
Truth be told, when you're cheering on a transcendent player (or group of players) you'll reach a very distinct point at which you must accept that their transcendence may endure in the videos and t-shirts and headlines they leave behind. But it cannot continue on the court (or the field) forever. And you never know which championship will be the last one. To be frank, that feeling kinda sucks and it is your unique burden. No fan of any other team will weep for you. To be frank again, you can't even really talk about it as the conversation will only elicit a sense of relief in other fans that your team's obnoxious stranglehold could soon be coming to an end. And that is not the kind of relief any fan of a champion several times over wants to contemplate.
So where does that leave you?
As a fan, your options are limited. You can rage against the dying of your team's light by advocating for trades to concede the current season in favor of stockpiling for a more serious run at next year's title. But what if there is no next year? And what if the trade that looks good today is oh so wrong in the long run? You can run a bunch of numbers to generate extremely likely probabilities, but you can't know exactly what will happen until it actually happens.
Or...you can watch the games and take the journey. Again. Just like it was the first time. The desperation is there. But it is very different. The desperation of a champion is not at all like the desperation of a challenger. The challenger, as you'll recall, needs to know what winning feels like. The champion, as you now know, worries that the era of his dominance may never come again.
It is not, in fact, much of a choice at all. Fortunately, your favorite team continues to compete. And there is a championship--somewhere out there ahead of the regular season slog--to be won.
Showing posts with label Junk Food for Thought. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Junk Food for Thought. Show all posts
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Final Psychoanalysis of LeBron James
One week after LeBron James announced his intention to leave his home state of Ohio to sign a free-agent contract with the NBA's Miami Heat, the one finality we can be certain of is that the walking, talking triple double will never again earn his living in Cleveland. All the rest, it seems, continues to settle.
With the two best players of their generation--who double as top20 (10?) talents in the history of the game--and an All-Star Stretch Four in the same starting lineup, professional basketball's elite now resides in Miami. Except, of course, for the fact that it doesn't. The Los Angeles Lakers are reigning two-time champions fresh from their third consecutive trip to the NBA Finals. Superman still wears an Orlando Magic cape. And the Boston Celtics, no matter how many Philadelphians may wish otherwise, are not dead. Not yet anyway. (Lurking elsewhere around the periphery are Tim Duncan, Steve Nash, Mark Cuban and eager franchises in Utah, Houston and Chicago.)
While the new truth may not be all the way true yet, there stand Dwayne Wade and LeBron James--with Chris Bosh clinging proudly to them as if to form the tallest boy band the world has ever seen. Clearly, three young, Black men have taken control of their own destinies simply because they have excelled at what they do. All three also possessed the business savvy to dictate the terms of their employment at the moment their services were in the highest demand. Before these men are anything else, they are capitalists. True blue (or perhaps Heat red) Americans. And they have likely launched a paradigm shift in professional sports--certainly in the NBA--such that players alone would become the ultimate arbiters of the viability of the business.
At the core of this story are two of those Americans: Wade and James. James and Wade. The most absurd and most terrifying one-two punch of current NBA players an opposing coach could dream of. It is there, in that dream, where the presumed greatness begins. As soon as the upcoming NBA season concludes, the Larry O'Brien trophy will wake up in South Florida. Where it is expected to make its permanent home. So we are told.
Along the way to the inevitable(?!?) coronation, there is a subtext in LeBron James' choice to migrate to South Beach that may undermine a cherished human institution. At the very least, his decision countervails certain situational failings of that institution.
During the week that has passed, James' decision has been dissected repeatedly by writers, podcasters, talk show callers, serious fans, casual fans and drunkards killing time on worn-out bar stools. All of them--and many more--have decided that the story of the contract signing heard 'round the world is about:
Brotherhood is equal to or greater than fatherhood.
We know that Wade and Bosh both had relationships with their biological fathers. Their relationships may have been like the age-old bonds sons typically share with their fathers. There is little evidence to suggest otherwise. And there is reason to believe classic parental norms informed their childhoods. James, on the other hand, was different from them. He, as various wikis tell us, was raised by a single, teenage mother. Her aptitude for parenting has rarely been called into question. Similarly, she has rarely been mistaken for an actual father. Women, no matter how butch, can't completely fulfill that role for their sons. Something invariably lacks. A boy can mature to become a man with none but his mother to guide him. But can he really know how to be a man with only her guidance? It's a question that generations of young men have wrestled with since the implosion of the nuclear family some decades ago. I submit that in LeBron James' decision to sign a free agent contract with the Miami Heat we have the potential for a definitive answer.
If an athlete of such prodigious gifts as LeBron James chooses to eschew the quest to become his own man of trophies in favor of a collaborative journey to basketball greatness alongside one of the few human beings on earth who stands as his sporting peer, how much sense does it make for any other fatherless man in any other situation to insist that he carve himself completely out of his own image? If there is no father to help a boy become a man, what is really wrong with the boy gathering with his brother(s) to decide together what will constitute manhood?
By no means does James' decision render fatherhood irrelevant. Instead, it provides an alternate model for defining manhood. Choosing to seek his own legacy in concert with Wade means James does not have to fumble alone like the fatherless child he found himself to be as a Cleveland Cavalier. The pairing provides an immediate beta standard to grow in tandem with and reduces the burden associated with the the individual pursuit of athletic glory. The reward for that risk could very well be an extended basketball transcendence we have not seen since Red Auerbach and Bill Russell bullied the NBA during the middle of the previous century.
Much has changed since that Celtic Dynasty dutifully accumulated championship banners to be hung in the Boston Garden. American social mores have wilted to accept (or at least acknowledge) that the structure of a family need not be limited to husband + wife + children. The mores have had no choice. Divorce has broken too many of those equations. Wars (both foreign and domestic) have subtracted one parent or the other (mostly the fathers). And wife + wife or husband + husband has proven the equal of any other structure.
Children, of course, are also possessed by a natural desire to act as their own bosses. That LeBron James, regardless of how much love or respect he may have for his mother, would elect to try to build a basketball dynasty with his brother(s) seems, in hindsight, to be quite inevitable. We may not know any more about the man who exists in addition to the athlete than James permits us to know of him. But his basketball decision is quite revelatory. On paper, the brotherhood model appears to be a fitting surrogate for the fatherhood model. And, with obligatory apologies to Pat Riley, it could replace it altogether.
In the event that it does, the legacy of LeBron James may ultimately be measured, not in championship rings, but in the cultural shift to accept as virtue the practice of a man creating himself with the help of his brothers. In the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, celebrating the collaborative construction of masculine identity is something of a long shot. One that may be outside of even Mike Miller's considerable range.
[Photo via Mediaoutrage.com.]
With the two best players of their generation--who double as top
While the new truth may not be all the way true yet, there stand Dwayne Wade and LeBron James--with Chris Bosh clinging proudly to them as if to form the tallest boy band the world has ever seen. Clearly, three young, Black men have taken control of their own destinies simply because they have excelled at what they do. All three also possessed the business savvy to dictate the terms of their employment at the moment their services were in the highest demand. Before these men are anything else, they are capitalists. True blue (or perhaps Heat red) Americans. And they have likely launched a paradigm shift in professional sports--certainly in the NBA--such that players alone would become the ultimate arbiters of the viability of the business.
At the core of this story are two of those Americans: Wade and James. James and Wade. The most absurd and most terrifying one-two punch of current NBA players an opposing coach could dream of. It is there, in that dream, where the presumed greatness begins. As soon as the upcoming NBA season concludes, the Larry O'Brien trophy will wake up in South Florida. Where it is expected to make its permanent home. So we are told.
Along the way to the inevitable(?!?) coronation, there is a subtext in LeBron James' choice to migrate to South Beach that may undermine a cherished human institution. At the very least, his decision countervails certain situational failings of that institution.
During the week that has passed, James' decision has been dissected repeatedly by writers, podcasters, talk show callers, serious fans, casual fans and drunkards killing time on worn-out bar stools. All of them--and many more--have decided that the story of the contract signing heard 'round the world is about:
- A) one self-absorbed brat-athlete taking his ball and choosing the path to greatness which offers the least possible resistance
- B) one clever brand manager creating the stormiest opportunity for his brand to exploit the world's stage in a premeditated (and superfluous) quest for redemption
- C) one mind-boggling experiment in the convergence of sport, celebrity, media, appetite and finance
- D) all of the above
- E) and so much more
Brotherhood is equal to or greater than fatherhood.
We know that Wade and Bosh both had relationships with their biological fathers. Their relationships may have been like the age-old bonds sons typically share with their fathers. There is little evidence to suggest otherwise. And there is reason to believe classic parental norms informed their childhoods. James, on the other hand, was different from them. He, as various wikis tell us, was raised by a single, teenage mother. Her aptitude for parenting has rarely been called into question. Similarly, she has rarely been mistaken for an actual father. Women, no matter how butch, can't completely fulfill that role for their sons. Something invariably lacks. A boy can mature to become a man with none but his mother to guide him. But can he really know how to be a man with only her guidance? It's a question that generations of young men have wrestled with since the implosion of the nuclear family some decades ago. I submit that in LeBron James' decision to sign a free agent contract with the Miami Heat we have the potential for a definitive answer.
If an athlete of such prodigious gifts as LeBron James chooses to eschew the quest to become his own man of trophies in favor of a collaborative journey to basketball greatness alongside one of the few human beings on earth who stands as his sporting peer, how much sense does it make for any other fatherless man in any other situation to insist that he carve himself completely out of his own image? If there is no father to help a boy become a man, what is really wrong with the boy gathering with his brother(s) to decide together what will constitute manhood?
By no means does James' decision render fatherhood irrelevant. Instead, it provides an alternate model for defining manhood. Choosing to seek his own legacy in concert with Wade means James does not have to fumble alone like the fatherless child he found himself to be as a Cleveland Cavalier. The pairing provides an immediate beta standard to grow in tandem with and reduces the burden associated with the the individual pursuit of athletic glory. The reward for that risk could very well be an extended basketball transcendence we have not seen since Red Auerbach and Bill Russell bullied the NBA during the middle of the previous century.
Much has changed since that Celtic Dynasty dutifully accumulated championship banners to be hung in the Boston Garden. American social mores have wilted to accept (or at least acknowledge) that the structure of a family need not be limited to husband + wife + children. The mores have had no choice. Divorce has broken too many of those equations. Wars (both foreign and domestic) have subtracted one parent or the other (mostly the fathers). And wife + wife or husband + husband has proven the equal of any other structure.
Children, of course, are also possessed by a natural desire to act as their own bosses. That LeBron James, regardless of how much love or respect he may have for his mother, would elect to try to build a basketball dynasty with his brother(s) seems, in hindsight, to be quite inevitable. We may not know any more about the man who exists in addition to the athlete than James permits us to know of him. But his basketball decision is quite revelatory. On paper, the brotherhood model appears to be a fitting surrogate for the fatherhood model. And, with obligatory apologies to Pat Riley, it could replace it altogether.
In the event that it does, the legacy of LeBron James may ultimately be measured, not in championship rings, but in the cultural shift to accept as virtue the practice of a man creating himself with the help of his brothers. In the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, celebrating the collaborative construction of masculine identity is something of a long shot. One that may be outside of even Mike Miller's considerable range.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Lessons from Watching HBO's The Pacific
I was busy doing...something else...when HBO premiered The Pacific earlier this spring. So I skipped the series altogether thinking I'd watch it On Demand after every episode was made available.
This weekend, I finally found time to run that marathon. Here are 10 lessons I picked up from watching all 10+ hours of The Pacific:
1) In real war, as opposed to movie wars, anyone can get wounded -- or killed -- at any time.
2) When you're low on troops, you pick the targets with the smallest square milages 'cause they possess less space to capture/hold.
3) After you do capture a hunk of land, there's no guarantee the people who ordered you to capture it are gonna use it for any reason other than planting a flag in it.
4) Australian girls were easy back then. And hella cute, too.
5) People can be turned off -- and on -- by patriotism for exactly the same reason Patton cited as the objective of war: You're not supposed to die for your country, you're supposed to make the other poor bastard die for his.
6) War smells awful. Maybe more awful than any combination of the awful-est smells your nostrils have ever been revolted by.
7) If you were a Marine in the early '40s, you never said "Hoo-Rah!" "Ooo-Rah!" or any derivation thereof. That musta come later.
8) The safest feeling any warrior can entertain is numbness. It can also be the most awkward feeling to manage.
9) No matter what war you're fighting in -- at any point in any place for any side -- there are always three enemies: the person who is trying to kill you; the physical environment in which combat takes place; and the inside of your own head.
10) For those who were tasked with fighting it, the war is never really over.
There are probably more lessons to take from a less intensely-sequenced viewing of the series. There is probably also one single lesson you can distill all of these things -- and all of the hours that went into producing or watching The Pacific -- down to:
White people will never tire of making movies about World War II.
This weekend, I finally found time to run that marathon. Here are 10 lessons I picked up from watching all 10+ hours of The Pacific:
1) In real war, as opposed to movie wars, anyone can get wounded -- or killed -- at any time.
2) When you're low on troops, you pick the targets with the smallest square milages 'cause they possess less space to capture/hold.
3) After you do capture a hunk of land, there's no guarantee the people who ordered you to capture it are gonna use it for any reason other than planting a flag in it.
4) Australian girls were easy back then. And hella cute, too.
5) People can be turned off -- and on -- by patriotism for exactly the same reason Patton cited as the objective of war: You're not supposed to die for your country, you're supposed to make the other poor bastard die for his.
6) War smells awful. Maybe more awful than any combination of the awful-est smells your nostrils have ever been revolted by.
7) If you were a Marine in the early '40s, you never said "Hoo-Rah!" "Ooo-Rah!" or any derivation thereof. That musta come later.
8) The safest feeling any warrior can entertain is numbness. It can also be the most awkward feeling to manage.
9) No matter what war you're fighting in -- at any point in any place for any side -- there are always three enemies: the person who is trying to kill you; the physical environment in which combat takes place; and the inside of your own head.
10) For those who were tasked with fighting it, the war is never really over.
There are probably more lessons to take from a less intensely-sequenced viewing of the series. There is probably also one single lesson you can distill all of these things -- and all of the hours that went into producing or watching The Pacific -- down to:
White people will never tire of making movies about World War II.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Ruined
Red got some bad news this week. So did the Liberian Girl.
(If you're new here, the former is my little sister. More or less. The latter lets me wake up at her house a few mornings each week.)
The news each got represented a pretty big professional setback. The kind of setback where you're staring across a great big gully at the other side of a road that is, all of a sudden, no longer beneath you.
You know how that feels, don't you? It feels like your whole life is ruined.
You could be relieved of your job. Your girl could leave you. You could smash up your car. Your college could suddenly find another big pile of debt for you to pay down. You could lose all your vinyl in a fire. Or a flood.
Whatever the cause of your ruin, there's a cliche for how you can handle it. The one about lemons and lemonade. Or that other one about taking a hit versus how hard you can hit. Or, in the parlance of our times, those three letters that signal your disgust with it all: FML.
There's something kinda stunning about the imagery of a person surrounded by the debris of one day's catastrophe. I think it's the holyfuckness of the moment.
Like, "Holy fuck, I'm still alive?"
Followed by, "Holy fuck, did that really just happen?"
Which eventually leads to, "Holy fuck, what do I do next?"
Amid the ruins there always is a next. Which is kinda the point of life. It goes on. Until it no longer has to. And when it no longer has to, there's no next for you to be worried about. And there's certainly no ruins to follow you. At least not as far as this silly bastard knows about.
So, as I said to Red, get used to it. Your whole life is gonna be ruined a bunch of times while you still have it. Dozens. Probably hundreds. And it'll be ruined more frequently the older you get.
But every time it is, you'll get to figure out what to do next.
"Holy fuck" is right. Maybe the only right way to understand the ruined.
(If you're new here, the former is my little sister. More or less. The latter lets me wake up at her house a few mornings each week.)
The news each got represented a pretty big professional setback. The kind of setback where you're staring across a great big gully at the other side of a road that is, all of a sudden, no longer beneath you.
You know how that feels, don't you? It feels like your whole life is ruined.
You could be relieved of your job. Your girl could leave you. You could smash up your car. Your college could suddenly find another big pile of debt for you to pay down. You could lose all your vinyl in a fire. Or a flood.
Whatever the cause of your ruin, there's a cliche for how you can handle it. The one about lemons and lemonade. Or that other one about taking a hit versus how hard you can hit. Or, in the parlance of our times, those three letters that signal your disgust with it all: FML.
There's something kinda stunning about the imagery of a person surrounded by the debris of one day's catastrophe. I think it's the holyfuckness of the moment.
Like, "Holy fuck, I'm still alive?"
Followed by, "Holy fuck, did that really just happen?"
Which eventually leads to, "Holy fuck, what do I do next?"
Amid the ruins there always is a next. Which is kinda the point of life. It goes on. Until it no longer has to. And when it no longer has to, there's no next for you to be worried about. And there's certainly no ruins to follow you. At least not as far as this silly bastard knows about.
So, as I said to Red, get used to it. Your whole life is gonna be ruined a bunch of times while you still have it. Dozens. Probably hundreds. And it'll be ruined more frequently the older you get.
But every time it is, you'll get to figure out what to do next.
"Holy fuck" is right. Maybe the only right way to understand the ruined.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Secret to Valentine's Day
Valentine's Day is a terribly misunderstood holiday.
It's not really about flowers. Or chocolates. Or chocolate-covered flowers.
It's not some grand conspiracy intended to make single people feel embarassed about being single.
And it's not a dull obligation masquearding as an icon of passion.
Valentine's Day is actually a referendum that has little to do with how either party of a relationship feels about the other. Instead, it's about how people who are not the couple perceive the couple's relationship. Valentine's Day is a show and it has lots of judges.
Let's say you're a dude who likes a chick. Let's say this chick digs on you as well. As the calendar flips from January to February, you find yourself brainstorming for the best way to pay tribute to all the liking and the digging.
You're probably thinking that the chick is your audience, but she's not. Your real audience is the chick's friends. Maybe her family, too. Possibly even her acquaintences.
After February 14 ends, people will ask the chick how the two of y'all celebrated Valentine's Day. If you chose well, there will be some giggling and some cooing before the conversation trundles happily to another subject. If you chose poorly, there will be awkward sighs, reassuring pats on the shoudler and, hopefully, an abrupt end to the dicussion of Valentine's Day. If the conversation lingers harshly on your poor choice of a celebration, the judging could condemn your relationship. All because you bought the wrong chocolate-covered flowers.
You don't have to be a dude in order to fail at Valentine's Day. You don't have to be straight either. This kind of judging isn't exactly partial to any specific pairing of the sexes. But it is the driving force behind the holiday.
And now that you know that...what does that mean to you?
It's pretty simple, actually. You could retire from Valentine's Day like all of those smart people who stopped going to church every Sunday. You could spend some time prying into the minds of your S.O.'s friends and family to find out what won't offend their sensibilities. Or...you could talk to your ______ (whomever you wake up next to) and reach an understanding that certain things matter to both of y'all and certain things don't. Valentine's Day could really be one of the things that matters to one party or another. (Probably because one of y'all really, really enjoys chocolate-covered flowers.)
Once you both reach an understanding, then you can focus not only on who really matters, but on what it is that matters to them as well.
And you can disregard everything--and everyone--else. 'Cause what doesn't matter...doesn't matter.
It's not really about flowers. Or chocolates. Or chocolate-covered flowers.
It's not some grand conspiracy intended to make single people feel embarassed about being single.
And it's not a dull obligation masquearding as an icon of passion.
Valentine's Day is actually a referendum that has little to do with how either party of a relationship feels about the other. Instead, it's about how people who are not the couple perceive the couple's relationship. Valentine's Day is a show and it has lots of judges.
Let's say you're a dude who likes a chick. Let's say this chick digs on you as well. As the calendar flips from January to February, you find yourself brainstorming for the best way to pay tribute to all the liking and the digging.
You're probably thinking that the chick is your audience, but she's not. Your real audience is the chick's friends. Maybe her family, too. Possibly even her acquaintences.
After February 14 ends, people will ask the chick how the two of y'all celebrated Valentine's Day. If you chose well, there will be some giggling and some cooing before the conversation trundles happily to another subject. If you chose poorly, there will be awkward sighs, reassuring pats on the shoudler and, hopefully, an abrupt end to the dicussion of Valentine's Day. If the conversation lingers harshly on your poor choice of a celebration, the judging could condemn your relationship. All because you bought the wrong chocolate-covered flowers.
You don't have to be a dude in order to fail at Valentine's Day. You don't have to be straight either. This kind of judging isn't exactly partial to any specific pairing of the sexes. But it is the driving force behind the holiday.
And now that you know that...what does that mean to you?
It's pretty simple, actually. You could retire from Valentine's Day like all of those smart people who stopped going to church every Sunday. You could spend some time prying into the minds of your S.O.'s friends and family to find out what won't offend their sensibilities. Or...you could talk to your ______ (whomever you wake up next to) and reach an understanding that certain things matter to both of y'all and certain things don't. Valentine's Day could really be one of the things that matters to one party or another. (Probably because one of y'all really, really enjoys chocolate-covered flowers.)
Once you both reach an understanding, then you can focus not only on who really matters, but on what it is that matters to them as well.
And you can disregard everything--and everyone--else. 'Cause what doesn't matter...doesn't matter.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
The Drunkard's Calendar
So...yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. Which, I believe, is the holiday that celebrates the birth of Tequila. That's as fine a thing to celebrate as any, but it got me thinking about all the other holidays that are celebrated in the US.
Sure, there's important stuff like Christmas and Flag Day, but the real holidays are the ones that call for us to bug out of work early (or not work at all), plop down at the bar (or a lawn chair in the backyard) and glug down enough alcohol to destroy four livers.
Those holidays, it might be said, comprise The Drunkard's Calendar. Which looks a little something like this:
New Year's Eve
St. Patrick's Day
Cinco De Mayo
Memorial Day
July 4th
Labor Day
Halloween
Day Before Thanksgiving
If you notice anything about that list, it is probably that it is far too short. So, I'm thinking that we need to expand the Drunkard's Calendar. We need one holiday a month. At least. We definitely need less than 6 weeks between holidays. So, how about if we add:
Valentine's Day: No one really celebrates this one any way. If they do, they're celebrating it all wrong. Given the choice between flowers that are gonna die tomorrow and vodka that's gonna make tomorrow all headache-y, which would you choose? Exactly.
NCAA Men's Basketball Championship Game: It's always gonna be a Monday in April, so we give ourselves a new 3-day weekend right when the weather is turning. Besides, the game is usually kinda mediocre. If you know anything about whiskey, you know that enough of it turns mediocre into legendary.
Juneteenth: No one ever knows what this holiday is supposed to be about, but people sure do like to BBQ and play dominoes to honor it. Where there's BBQ and dominoes, cold beer can't be too far behind.
Kool-Aid Day: This apparently takes place in mid-August. All we need to do is pour some rum in it and we have ourselves another drunkard's holiday.
Repeal Day: Did you know that Prohibition was officially repealed on Dec. 5, 1933? If you can't drink to that, you can't drink to anything.
And that brings us to 13. A full Drunkard's Calendar. So full that there are more holidays to celebrate than there are months in the year. Which sounds about right.
Don't you think?
Sure, there's important stuff like Christmas and Flag Day, but the real holidays are the ones that call for us to bug out of work early (or not work at all), plop down at the bar (or a lawn chair in the backyard) and glug down enough alcohol to destroy four livers.
Those holidays, it might be said, comprise The Drunkard's Calendar. Which looks a little something like this:
New Year's Eve
St. Patrick's Day
Cinco De Mayo
Memorial Day
July 4th
Labor Day
Halloween
Day Before Thanksgiving
If you notice anything about that list, it is probably that it is far too short. So, I'm thinking that we need to expand the Drunkard's Calendar. We need one holiday a month. At least. We definitely need less than 6 weeks between holidays. So, how about if we add:
Valentine's Day: No one really celebrates this one any way. If they do, they're celebrating it all wrong. Given the choice between flowers that are gonna die tomorrow and vodka that's gonna make tomorrow all headache-y, which would you choose? Exactly.
NCAA Men's Basketball Championship Game: It's always gonna be a Monday in April, so we give ourselves a new 3-day weekend right when the weather is turning. Besides, the game is usually kinda mediocre. If you know anything about whiskey, you know that enough of it turns mediocre into legendary.
Juneteenth: No one ever knows what this holiday is supposed to be about, but people sure do like to BBQ and play dominoes to honor it. Where there's BBQ and dominoes, cold beer can't be too far behind.
Kool-Aid Day: This apparently takes place in mid-August. All we need to do is pour some rum in it and we have ourselves another drunkard's holiday.
Repeal Day: Did you know that Prohibition was officially repealed on Dec. 5, 1933? If you can't drink to that, you can't drink to anything.
And that brings us to 13. A full Drunkard's Calendar. So full that there are more holidays to celebrate than there are months in the year. Which sounds about right.
Don't you think?
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Let Them Eat Cake
Way back when The People took to the streets of Seattle to protest the grotesqueries of the World Economic Forum, I probably said, "Right on! Give those bastards hell!"
I was younger back then. And I was rancid with piss and vineager and righteous indignation over greedy somebodies who ran the world and were the cause of all our problems.
Now, I'm older. A certain red-haired girl might even tell you I'm just old. Either way, I'm a little wiser. Perhaps, I'm just less pissy. Whatever the case, I subscribe to the Leila Dean Principle. It involves compromise. And cake.
One lump or two? (2:30) | PRI's The World
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I was younger back then. And I was rancid with piss and vineager and righteous indignation over greedy somebodies who ran the world and were the cause of all our problems.
Now, I'm older. A certain red-haired girl might even tell you I'm just old. Either way, I'm a little wiser. Perhaps, I'm just less pissy. Whatever the case, I subscribe to the Leila Dean Principle. It involves compromise. And cake.
One lump or two? (2:30) | PRI's The World
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Sunday, March 29, 2009
A Writer's Guide to Alcohol
There are an infinite number of combinations of spirits you can pour into your body to make yourself drunk. However, there are only a certain number of base alcohols that can be used to create those drinks.
There's gin. There's vodka. There's tequila. There's rum. There's whisky.
(You could argue for other delicious poisons to be added to the list, but those five are all I'm dealing with today.)
During my drinking career, I've poured a little bit of each of those spirits into my body. And I've figured out how each of them works. More or less.
Gin is slow. It lingers. You won't feel a buzz right away, but when it does kick in, it tends to kick with the ferocity of Chuck Norris. That is, if you've slurped down 10-15 glasses with some gin in them. Anything short of that will kick more like...your girlfriend's kickboxing instructor. Or maybe one of the women in the kickboxing class. The Chuck Norris happens once you hit double digits. Also, the way gin lingers, it has a very cathartic effect for the digestive system. One way or another, something is coming out of you if you drink enough gin. So plan on being near a bathroom the morning after. Or as soon as the Chuck Norris happens.
Vodka is a bit like gin. But not quite as violent. It also works more quickly than gin does. If it takes you two hours to get a good gin buzz, you'll arrive at tipsy in half that time with vodka as your driver. Vodka also tends to be pretty flat. When you're vodka drunk, it'll feel pleasant, but it won't feel pleasant-er or pleasant-est. It'll stay pleasant for as long as it can, then it'll turn almost immediately to pre-hangover or even hangover. There's a reason the Russians can be some mean sonsofbitches. It ain't the communism. And it ain't the weather. It's the vodka.
A lot of folks are scared of tequila. Probably for good reason. It acts fast. Which is good if you're trying to find that good feeling quickly. The trouble occurs when you don't realize you're in the good place and you continue to search for it. You really have to let the tequila work for you. Don't work for it. Inhale a shot. Or three. Breath it out. Let it wash over you. Soak up that buzz. Then manage it. For as long as you can. Eventually, the tequila will take over. And you won't be accountable for your actions. At least you shouldn't be. 'Cause tequila is a helluva drink. The upside, if you drink tequila right, is that it leaves your system the same way it came in. The buzz builds quickly and can wear off with the same speed. Assuming you don't drink all the tequila in Jalisco, that is.
Rum is the stuff good vacations in the tropics are made of. It's very leisurely. Both in how moves through you and what it does as it moves. Rum also works in whatever way you ask it to. If you insist on speeding through it--like you're trying to relax too hard an your vacation--it'll punch fast and hard. And you'll be worn out from it before you hit day four. Rather, round four. On the other hand, if you slither into the rum--like you're lazily unwinding at the beach--it'll treat you pretty nicely for a good long while. Until you get somewhere into the 20s. Which is kinda like forcing a second week of vacation. It sounds like it'd be a good idea. But it really isn't. The downside to rum--like the downside to any good vacation--is that it ends. When it does end, sometimes you need another vacation to recover from it.
Then, of course, there's whisky. The writer's nectar. There are a variety of processes that yield a variety of whiskies. But, whichever you're drinking...they all tend to deliver you to the same delicious destination. It happens almost instantly. For the uninitiated, the natural reaction is to screw one's face up as soon as the whiksy makes contact with the taste buds. For your friendly neighborhood writer, the whisky goes down like water. Or whatever is smoother than water. If you're not used to the whisky, I'm not sure what to tell you...other than...get used to it. Which is also the best way to describe how whisky works. The buzz can be aggressive. But it doesn't have to be. The hangover can be vicious. But it doesn't have to be. Drinking whisky is very much an acquired skill. Even after you acquire the skill, though, you'll probably not master the skill. Just like you won't completely master the whisky. You can make a habit of sipping it and enjoying it. But, every once in a while, it'll get away from you. And it won't be pretty.
Such is life, though. You can blame it on the alcohol if you need to. But you don't really have to.
There's gin. There's vodka. There's tequila. There's rum. There's whisky.
(You could argue for other delicious poisons to be added to the list, but those five are all I'm dealing with today.)
During my drinking career, I've poured a little bit of each of those spirits into my body. And I've figured out how each of them works. More or less.
Gin is slow. It lingers. You won't feel a buzz right away, but when it does kick in, it tends to kick with the ferocity of Chuck Norris. That is, if you've slurped down 10-15 glasses with some gin in them. Anything short of that will kick more like...your girlfriend's kickboxing instructor. Or maybe one of the women in the kickboxing class. The Chuck Norris happens once you hit double digits. Also, the way gin lingers, it has a very cathartic effect for the digestive system. One way or another, something is coming out of you if you drink enough gin. So plan on being near a bathroom the morning after. Or as soon as the Chuck Norris happens.
Vodka is a bit like gin. But not quite as violent. It also works more quickly than gin does. If it takes you two hours to get a good gin buzz, you'll arrive at tipsy in half that time with vodka as your driver. Vodka also tends to be pretty flat. When you're vodka drunk, it'll feel pleasant, but it won't feel pleasant-er or pleasant-est. It'll stay pleasant for as long as it can, then it'll turn almost immediately to pre-hangover or even hangover. There's a reason the Russians can be some mean sonsofbitches. It ain't the communism. And it ain't the weather. It's the vodka.
A lot of folks are scared of tequila. Probably for good reason. It acts fast. Which is good if you're trying to find that good feeling quickly. The trouble occurs when you don't realize you're in the good place and you continue to search for it. You really have to let the tequila work for you. Don't work for it. Inhale a shot. Or three. Breath it out. Let it wash over you. Soak up that buzz. Then manage it. For as long as you can. Eventually, the tequila will take over. And you won't be accountable for your actions. At least you shouldn't be. 'Cause tequila is a helluva drink. The upside, if you drink tequila right, is that it leaves your system the same way it came in. The buzz builds quickly and can wear off with the same speed. Assuming you don't drink all the tequila in Jalisco, that is.
Rum is the stuff good vacations in the tropics are made of. It's very leisurely. Both in how moves through you and what it does as it moves. Rum also works in whatever way you ask it to. If you insist on speeding through it--like you're trying to relax too hard an your vacation--it'll punch fast and hard. And you'll be worn out from it before you hit day four. Rather, round four. On the other hand, if you slither into the rum--like you're lazily unwinding at the beach--it'll treat you pretty nicely for a good long while. Until you get somewhere into the 20s. Which is kinda like forcing a second week of vacation. It sounds like it'd be a good idea. But it really isn't. The downside to rum--like the downside to any good vacation--is that it ends. When it does end, sometimes you need another vacation to recover from it.
Then, of course, there's whisky. The writer's nectar. There are a variety of processes that yield a variety of whiskies. But, whichever you're drinking...they all tend to deliver you to the same delicious destination. It happens almost instantly. For the uninitiated, the natural reaction is to screw one's face up as soon as the whiksy makes contact with the taste buds. For your friendly neighborhood writer, the whisky goes down like water. Or whatever is smoother than water. If you're not used to the whisky, I'm not sure what to tell you...other than...get used to it. Which is also the best way to describe how whisky works. The buzz can be aggressive. But it doesn't have to be. The hangover can be vicious. But it doesn't have to be. Drinking whisky is very much an acquired skill. Even after you acquire the skill, though, you'll probably not master the skill. Just like you won't completely master the whisky. You can make a habit of sipping it and enjoying it. But, every once in a while, it'll get away from you. And it won't be pretty.
Such is life, though. You can blame it on the alcohol if you need to. But you don't really have to.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Dumb and Dumber
For a while now, I've felt like I've been getting less and less smart. Or is it that I've been getting more and more dumber?
Either way, I'm not the only one whose brain is eroding. So is everyone else who is older than 27.
Thank goodness for that. Idiocy loves company.
Either way, I'm not the only one whose brain is eroding. So is everyone else who is older than 27.
Thank goodness for that. Idiocy loves company.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Holy Vacancy, Batman!
I moved to LA just before the Lakers abandoned the Great Western Forum in favor of Staples Center. Their move from South Central to downtown left a giant, fully functioning building sitting unused. More or less. It wasn't unused for long, though. God--or God's people--tend to fill vacancies in this world pretty quickly.
From what the Washington Post tells us today, a similar transition is underway in a Northen Virginia neighborhood I used to call home:
I haven't visited that neighborhood since I left there in '06. But...it all sounds about right. Even when there's less than half of enough to render unto Caeser, there's always some scrilla to spend on God's behalf.
From what the Washington Post tells us today, a similar transition is underway in a Northen Virginia neighborhood I used to call home:
Wall Street and the titans of American commerce might be teetering, but at Sudley Corner Center, an aging business park just off Interstate 66 outside Manassas, the pioneer spirit is not yet vanquished. With low rents and loose zoning restrictions, Sudley Corner Center has become a draw for immigrant entrepreneurs, small specialty stores and shoppers from across cultures and socioeconomic classes.
And lately, as businesses have gone bust, leaving empty storefronts in a community whose Latino presence is strong, it is love for the Lord Jesucristo to which Sudley Corner Center's warehouselike spaces increasingly have become devoted.
I haven't visited that neighborhood since I left there in '06. But...it all sounds about right. Even when there's less than half of enough to render unto Caeser, there's always some scrilla to spend on God's behalf.
Monday, March 09, 2009
The Jerk Theory
Yesterday, I said this:
Today, I think it's worth explaining what I meant by the phrase "enough jerks on the team to actually win six games."
I can do that. But I'll need to tell you some things about Mr. Tar Heel first.
Tyler Hansbrough is Mr. Tar Heel. But not for his career accomplishments. No, he is Mr. Tar Heel because of his personal constitution. And here is what his personal constitution says:
"I am physically and mentally gifted. I work extremely hard. I am profoundly honest in word and deed. I obey all the rules. I defer to my teammates and coaches. I do everything the right way. I expect to be rewarded appropriately."
Tyler Hansbrough is a nice kid. That's exactly what the average North Carolina Tar Heel is. It's a living tribute to Dean Smith. A long-living tribute that also helps explain why Carolina only won two national titles during Smith's legendary tenure.
Mr. Tar Heel is a loser. He's not a loser because he is nice, he's a loser because he doesn't know how to not be nice.
Remember that famous game against Duke when he had his nose cracked open and blood gushed all over Dean Smith's court? Do you remember the look in his eye?
It looked like he was enraged. And he was. It also looked like he was stunned. He was that, too. His aghast anger drove him to behave rather crazily. As if he couldn't believe anyone would play the game in any way other than the way he plays it. For him, like the average Tar Heel, there is no other way to play. That's another part of the long-lingering tribute to Smith. And, you guessed it, it is the program's tar-splattered achilles heel.
Every winner has a little bit of jerk in him. Some simply are jerks. For those who are only jerks in part, the jerk part is what allows them to disconnect from their sense of honorable/fair play to take what they want when the moment to seize a victory arises. They may win the right way. They may win the wrong way. What matters is that they take what they want and they win.
Sometimes, you can simply be superior to everyone else and that's enough to cause you to defeat your opponents. Other times--like when your opponents are at your level or maybe even a little better--you need to know how to be a jerk in order to snatch a W.
Mr. Tar Heel doesn't know how to be a jerk. Few Carolina kids ever do. Of the ones who do, they're forced to compete against the culture of their own program in order to let their jerk out. That system--Smith's legacy--is why Carolina has four national championships since he was hired instead of, say, 12.
Let's be clear about one thing: All jerks are not winners. Just like all winners are not exclusively jerks. But when the sucker punch of life puts an opponent in front of you who wants to rip from your clutches that reward you believe you are entitled to, you can't respond psychotically. You can't operate irrationally. You have to be able to hold on to your shit. You can't let them take it from you--by force or by virtue of your own incapacity to fight back effectively.
You have to know how to be a jerk. That's what champions are made of. Just a lil bit.
And if you're Tyler Hansbrough, you need to be thankful that Ty Lawson is on your team. 'Cause that's someone who has a little bit of jerk in him.
"North Carolina has just enough jerks on the team to actually win six games. Their most valuable player: Ty Lawson. It's not even close."
Today, I think it's worth explaining what I meant by the phrase "enough jerks on the team to actually win six games."
I can do that. But I'll need to tell you some things about Mr. Tar Heel first.
Tyler Hansbrough is Mr. Tar Heel. But not for his career accomplishments. No, he is Mr. Tar Heel because of his personal constitution. And here is what his personal constitution says:
"I am physically and mentally gifted. I work extremely hard. I am profoundly honest in word and deed. I obey all the rules. I defer to my teammates and coaches. I do everything the right way. I expect to be rewarded appropriately."
Tyler Hansbrough is a nice kid. That's exactly what the average North Carolina Tar Heel is. It's a living tribute to Dean Smith. A long-living tribute that also helps explain why Carolina only won two national titles during Smith's legendary tenure.
Mr. Tar Heel is a loser. He's not a loser because he is nice, he's a loser because he doesn't know how to not be nice.
Remember that famous game against Duke when he had his nose cracked open and blood gushed all over Dean Smith's court? Do you remember the look in his eye?
It looked like he was enraged. And he was. It also looked like he was stunned. He was that, too. His aghast anger drove him to behave rather crazily. As if he couldn't believe anyone would play the game in any way other than the way he plays it. For him, like the average Tar Heel, there is no other way to play. That's another part of the long-lingering tribute to Smith. And, you guessed it, it is the program's tar-splattered achilles heel.
Every winner has a little bit of jerk in him. Some simply are jerks. For those who are only jerks in part, the jerk part is what allows them to disconnect from their sense of honorable/fair play to take what they want when the moment to seize a victory arises. They may win the right way. They may win the wrong way. What matters is that they take what they want and they win.
Sometimes, you can simply be superior to everyone else and that's enough to cause you to defeat your opponents. Other times--like when your opponents are at your level or maybe even a little better--you need to know how to be a jerk in order to snatch a W.
Mr. Tar Heel doesn't know how to be a jerk. Few Carolina kids ever do. Of the ones who do, they're forced to compete against the culture of their own program in order to let their jerk out. That system--Smith's legacy--is why Carolina has four national championships since he was hired instead of, say, 12.
Let's be clear about one thing: All jerks are not winners. Just like all winners are not exclusively jerks. But when the sucker punch of life puts an opponent in front of you who wants to rip from your clutches that reward you believe you are entitled to, you can't respond psychotically. You can't operate irrationally. You have to be able to hold on to your shit. You can't let them take it from you--by force or by virtue of your own incapacity to fight back effectively.
You have to know how to be a jerk. That's what champions are made of. Just a lil bit.
And if you're Tyler Hansbrough, you need to be thankful that Ty Lawson is on your team. 'Cause that's someone who has a little bit of jerk in him.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Simply Begin
A wise guru once told me:
Consequently, I tend not to float a lot of unsolicited advice. I will take advice, though. Whether I sought it or not. Whether it was intended as counsel or not.
Last year, I heard one of the founders of this site share some of the best advice that anyone could possibly give...or receive. While discussing how he overcame certain obstacles to launch that venture (the one in the link up there ^^^), he said:
He couldn't be more right. You know that anxiety that rumbles your belly and races your head in the direction of an empty distraction or a convenient excuse? You do, don't you? It's the prelude to procrastination and the first step toward quitting altogether. Some people call it second thoughts. Some people call it fear. However you'd like to label it, it's there whenever you're wavering about doing something new.
And, if there's one thing you could ask me to tell you in that moment when you're not really sure you can do whatever it is you kinda wanna do, it's those two words I heard nearly 12 months ago:
"Simply begin."
'Cause that shit has worked really well for me.
"It’s often easier for one, to give advice
Than it is for a person to run one’s own life"
Consequently, I tend not to float a lot of unsolicited advice. I will take advice, though. Whether I sought it or not. Whether it was intended as counsel or not.
Last year, I heard one of the founders of this site share some of the best advice that anyone could possibly give...or receive. While discussing how he overcame certain obstacles to launch that venture (the one in the link up there ^^^), he said:
"Simply begin."
He couldn't be more right. You know that anxiety that rumbles your belly and races your head in the direction of an empty distraction or a convenient excuse? You do, don't you? It's the prelude to procrastination and the first step toward quitting altogether. Some people call it second thoughts. Some people call it fear. However you'd like to label it, it's there whenever you're wavering about doing something new.
And, if there's one thing you could ask me to tell you in that moment when you're not really sure you can do whatever it is you kinda wanna do, it's those two words I heard nearly 12 months ago:
"Simply begin."
'Cause that shit has worked really well for me.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The New Digital Divide
While talking with Mom Dukes the other day, she used a phrase I've heard her use many times before: "on the computer."
She was trying to describe a video she had watched. She reported that she had done so "on the computer." The choice of phrase struck me as both normal and mundane. At first.
After I thought about it for a little bit, though, it occurred to me that she had pinned herself on one side of the digital divide. The side that lives somewhere in the middle of the 20th Century. The side that relates awkwardly to the hardware that has invaded their lives. The side that would probably leave their laptops behind were their homes to catch on fire. If they own a laptop, that is.
On the other side of the digital divide are the people who use words like "Google" and "YouTube" and "Twitter" as verbs. The side that relates to the hardware as if it were a car. Or a telephone. Or a TV. The side that creates the software which is used to perpetually reconstruct the framework of their lives. The side that lives somewhere in the late 22nd Century.
I know that the phrase "Digital Divide" is traditionally used to express the access gap between the people who have the resources to get online and those who cannot. But, let's be honest, that application is dated.
The New Digital Divide has much more to do with relatability. It is, simply, the difference between "getting on the computer" and living seamlessly on the interwebs.
I may or may not be late to the party with that realization. But, I'm pretty sure, it's truthier than Paul Pierce and Stephen Colbert put together.
She was trying to describe a video she had watched. She reported that she had done so "on the computer." The choice of phrase struck me as both normal and mundane. At first.
After I thought about it for a little bit, though, it occurred to me that she had pinned herself on one side of the digital divide. The side that lives somewhere in the middle of the 20th Century. The side that relates awkwardly to the hardware that has invaded their lives. The side that would probably leave their laptops behind were their homes to catch on fire. If they own a laptop, that is.
On the other side of the digital divide are the people who use words like "Google" and "YouTube" and "Twitter" as verbs. The side that relates to the hardware as if it were a car. Or a telephone. Or a TV. The side that creates the software which is used to perpetually reconstruct the framework of their lives. The side that lives somewhere in the late 22nd Century.
I know that the phrase "Digital Divide" is traditionally used to express the access gap between the people who have the resources to get online and those who cannot. But, let's be honest, that application is dated.
The New Digital Divide has much more to do with relatability. It is, simply, the difference between "getting on the computer" and living seamlessly on the interwebs.
I may or may not be late to the party with that realization. But, I'm pretty sure, it's truthier than Paul Pierce and Stephen Colbert put together.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Closer to God
My co-worker just announced that her husband knocked her up. (She's due in August.) The big homie and his wife are expecting their first bundle of joy later this spring. (May, maybe.) Somewhere in Youngblood's loins, Niecephew #2 waits for his/her turn to swim. (2010?)
Er'body is preggers. Or probably preggers. Sometime soon.
I'm not. That's neither a tragedy nor a surprise. It's also not physically possible. I'm a dude. Not the kind of dude you find on The L Word. A regular dude. With dangly junk. Without a womb.
Womb. It's an odd-sounding word. Say it out loud. Once. Now again. There's a certain longing majesty in between the sound the "w" makes and the way the "b" disappears into the "m." Almost as if the word wants to betray the consequence yielded by the thing it describes.
What is a womb used for? For cooking babies, of course. Also, I'd say, as a transformational device delivering ordinary human beings into a state of existence that is as close to god-like as any human can aspire to. For many parents, whether they intended to or not, that is where they land.
They don't need to be convinced of this either. Most of them describe how that sweet, screaming, pooping life upended both their world and their worldview. "It changed everything," they'll say.
I believe them. Those new parents. All of them. I think each of them experiences varying degrees of change in their spiritual orientation. But I think they all pass through the same holy portal.
Some of them crave it. As if it were the supreme application of the superego. Others stumble towards it. As if they're perplexed by their own power. There are even those who avoid it altogether. As if they would prefer to embrace their own lesser devils. The devils are, after all, usually more fun. And less work, too.
(If you're childless, go type 150 pages of something. Anything. Genius. Complete garbarge. Whatever. Then print it out. And hold it in your hand. You'll have a scaled down version of the moment every new parent experiences after the umbilical is cut. But you will get an inkling of what goes through one's mind when you hold your own creation in your hands for the first time. And you'll whisper the words "I did that" over and over to no one in particular.)
It really sucks all the air out of the deepest trenches of your belly. Leaving you floating somewhere between Jupiter and Botswana. Thinking, just for a moment, that the world really is yours. And that you can order it beneficently for this precious little creature who has Uncle Lamont's eyebrows and Auntie Tremaine's nose.
But, um, you can't.
I think that's what causes some parents to lose their minds. Others simply surrender control of the asylum to the inmates who do not yet realize there is an institution to honor.
After that momentary authority of the highest order gives way to the happy accident of humanity, you fall quickly back to the terra that doesn't feel as firm as it used to. Knowing what it is to be God. Knowing that you, most certainly, are not. Knowing that the portal is really a revolving door that will spin you back out of that glorious building whether you've been inside as long as you wanted to or not.
Naturally, it's not a hopeless endeavor. Nor is it an unrewarding one. From what I'm told, it's a terrific blessing. (Or was that terrifying blessing? I can't remember.)
I'm not ready for it myself. I have some devils I'd still like to play with.
If you happen to bump into God somewhere along your float, though, tell Him I said what up. That's as close as I'm getting. For now...?
Er'body is preggers. Or probably preggers. Sometime soon.
I'm not. That's neither a tragedy nor a surprise. It's also not physically possible. I'm a dude. Not the kind of dude you find on The L Word. A regular dude. With dangly junk. Without a womb.
Womb. It's an odd-sounding word. Say it out loud. Once. Now again. There's a certain longing majesty in between the sound the "w" makes and the way the "b" disappears into the "m." Almost as if the word wants to betray the consequence yielded by the thing it describes.
What is a womb used for? For cooking babies, of course. Also, I'd say, as a transformational device delivering ordinary human beings into a state of existence that is as close to god-like as any human can aspire to. For many parents, whether they intended to or not, that is where they land.
They don't need to be convinced of this either. Most of them describe how that sweet, screaming, pooping life upended both their world and their worldview. "It changed everything," they'll say.
I believe them. Those new parents. All of them. I think each of them experiences varying degrees of change in their spiritual orientation. But I think they all pass through the same holy portal.
Some of them crave it. As if it were the supreme application of the superego. Others stumble towards it. As if they're perplexed by their own power. There are even those who avoid it altogether. As if they would prefer to embrace their own lesser devils. The devils are, after all, usually more fun. And less work, too.
(If you're childless, go type 150 pages of something. Anything. Genius. Complete garbarge. Whatever. Then print it out. And hold it in your hand. You'll have a scaled down version of the moment every new parent experiences after the umbilical is cut. But you will get an inkling of what goes through one's mind when you hold your own creation in your hands for the first time. And you'll whisper the words "I did that" over and over to no one in particular.)
It really sucks all the air out of the deepest trenches of your belly. Leaving you floating somewhere between Jupiter and Botswana. Thinking, just for a moment, that the world really is yours. And that you can order it beneficently for this precious little creature who has Uncle Lamont's eyebrows and Auntie Tremaine's nose.
But, um, you can't.
I think that's what causes some parents to lose their minds. Others simply surrender control of the asylum to the inmates who do not yet realize there is an institution to honor.
After that momentary authority of the highest order gives way to the happy accident of humanity, you fall quickly back to the terra that doesn't feel as firm as it used to. Knowing what it is to be God. Knowing that you, most certainly, are not. Knowing that the portal is really a revolving door that will spin you back out of that glorious building whether you've been inside as long as you wanted to or not.
Naturally, it's not a hopeless endeavor. Nor is it an unrewarding one. From what I'm told, it's a terrific blessing. (Or was that terrifying blessing? I can't remember.)
I'm not ready for it myself. I have some devils I'd still like to play with.
If you happen to bump into God somewhere along your float, though, tell Him I said what up. That's as close as I'm getting. For now...?
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, October 03, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
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:
If you read the Washington Post this past week, you might make that as an answer to this question:
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.
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.
Monday, March 17, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
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:
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?
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?
Monday, February 18, 2008
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?
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?
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