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.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
A lot of things have changed. A lot of things have not.
Back when I used to scramble onto long, yellow buses bound for museums or other excuses for giving kids a vacation from the classroom, the best seat on the bus was always the last one. That's where you were farthest away from the teacher. And that's where you had the clearest view of the world racing alongside you. Or behind you.
Just about every kid's favorite pasttime involved one of two arm motions. The wave. And the tug. The wave was the big hello to every other driver and passenger on the road. You wanted all of them -- or any of them -- to wave back. When they did, you celebrated with the predetermined assurance of a Yankees fan. Then you turned and flapped your arm vigorously at the next approaching car.
The tug was the desperate plea to the truckers who sat as high as you did. You wanted any of them -- or all of them -- to make their horns blow a big, nasally gust of air in your direction. When one of them finally did, you celebrated with the ecstatic relief of a Cubs fan. You danced in your seat. You giggled with the kids sitting near you. Then you searched for another vehicle to beckon.
At least, that was the scene when I was kid...like...a million years ago. Before iPhones. Before Tivo. Before Google. When Tupac was still alive. When Ronald and Nancy Reagan were wreaking havoc in the White House.
This morning, as I exited the parkway just outside of Washington, DC while travelling to my dayjob, a bus sped past me. It carried a bunch of kids in the direction of the Air and Space Museum. Half of them were waving. The other half were tugging.
Just about every kid's favorite pasttime involved one of two arm motions. The wave. And the tug. The wave was the big hello to every other driver and passenger on the road. You wanted all of them -- or any of them -- to wave back. When they did, you celebrated with the predetermined assurance of a Yankees fan. Then you turned and flapped your arm vigorously at the next approaching car.
The tug was the desperate plea to the truckers who sat as high as you did. You wanted any of them -- or all of them -- to make their horns blow a big, nasally gust of air in your direction. When one of them finally did, you celebrated with the ecstatic relief of a Cubs fan. You danced in your seat. You giggled with the kids sitting near you. Then you searched for another vehicle to beckon.
At least, that was the scene when I was kid...like...a million years ago. Before iPhones. Before Tivo. Before Google. When Tupac was still alive. When Ronald and Nancy Reagan were wreaking havoc in the White House.
This morning, as I exited the parkway just outside of Washington, DC while travelling to my dayjob, a bus sped past me. It carried a bunch of kids in the direction of the Air and Space Museum. Half of them were waving. The other half were tugging.
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
The Greatest Rapper of All Time Died on March 9th
The greatest rapper of all time died on March 9th. His name was...
...Charles Bukowski?
Yep.
Hank did die on the ninth of March. Back in 1994. Three years before Christopher Wallace was killed.
I wrote a lil something about Bukowski. You can find it right here:
http://www.doyoulikemoviesaboutgladiators.com
(P.S. I'm contributing over there now. Random stuff about movies. Will still raise a leg on this site every now and again. In case you're interested in either.
...Charles Bukowski?
Yep.
Hank did die on the ninth of March. Back in 1994. Three years before Christopher Wallace was killed.
I wrote a lil something about Bukowski. You can find it right here:
http://www.doyoulikemoviesaboutgladiators.com
(P.S. I'm contributing over there now. Random stuff about movies. Will still raise a leg on this site every now and again. In case you're interested in either.
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.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Date Night: Avatar
An hour after word first began circulating that Kobe Bryant may end his two-week injurcation to suit up for the Lakers-Grizzlies game, I received this text message:
"I would like to have date night on Tues."
The Liberian Girl who sent that text had no knowledge of the status of Kobe's health on Monday, but she does know where the Lakers rank on my Priority List. She also knows where she rates on that same list.
On Tuesday night, as Andrew Bynum--also recently mended--jumped center in Memphis, I slid a pair of 3D glasses up the bridge of my nose in anticipation of my second screening of Avatar. The Liberian Girl burrowed into my left rib and nibbled on Nerds. She hadn't seen the film yet and finally caved to all the buzz about it. (After we ate a proper dinner first, of course.)
At this point, what more can you really say about Avatar?
The mythology of the film has been shredded, diced and gnarled by critics from all sides. "Why does the white man gotta save the natives again?" "Why is capitalism always the villain?" "How did we survive three hours without a single nipple slip?"
(Whoops. That last one is more pornographic than political. But those two disciplines share so many things that who can really tell the difference?)
The story--and this won't spoil anything if you've not seen it yet--is underwhelming. The characters are reduced, ironically, to flat caricatures. The dialogue is the height of cliche. There is more than one nagging continuity question. And, most alarmingly, there's no actual nudity despite the fact that those lithe blue bodies dance through the jungle for 2/3 of the flick.
All of which is to be expected.
Avatar is nearly three hours long, but it MOVES. It jukes through a brilliantly imagined world. And it sprints through a simple narrative that isn't meant to do anything more than provide back-up for a massive, MASSIVE creative accomplishment.
There are so many teams of people who collaborated on that film that you need a second mouse to scroll through the whole cast and crew list on IMDB.com. If you know anything about the process of trying to make a film, the more people who get involved, the more likely it is that something about the finished product could suck. Long chains do tend to have lots of slack.
So if you're spending eight kajillion dollars to invent a whole new way of making movies, something has to give, no? If you're going to get anything really, really right, then you need to conjure up all the genius your acres of collaborators can muster to make sure the world you create together is jaw-dropping. Anything else--like the story--should probably be executed as simply as possible. That compromise, regardless of what non-lethal stereotypes it furthers or what agendas it hamhandedly espouses, can ultimately be forgiven.
Upon exiting the theatre, the Liberian Girl evaluated the film with a fitting eloquence, "The story wasn't amazing, but everything else was."
That's just about as precise as Kobe was during the closing seconds in Memphis.
(So I was told by a very different text.)
"I would like to have date night on Tues."
The Liberian Girl who sent that text had no knowledge of the status of Kobe's health on Monday, but she does know where the Lakers rank on my Priority List. She also knows where she rates on that same list.
On Tuesday night, as Andrew Bynum--also recently mended--jumped center in Memphis, I slid a pair of 3D glasses up the bridge of my nose in anticipation of my second screening of Avatar. The Liberian Girl burrowed into my left rib and nibbled on Nerds. She hadn't seen the film yet and finally caved to all the buzz about it. (After we ate a proper dinner first, of course.)
At this point, what more can you really say about Avatar?
The mythology of the film has been shredded, diced and gnarled by critics from all sides. "Why does the white man gotta save the natives again?" "Why is capitalism always the villain?" "How did we survive three hours without a single nipple slip?"
(Whoops. That last one is more pornographic than political. But those two disciplines share so many things that who can really tell the difference?)
The story--and this won't spoil anything if you've not seen it yet--is underwhelming. The characters are reduced, ironically, to flat caricatures. The dialogue is the height of cliche. There is more than one nagging continuity question. And, most alarmingly, there's no actual nudity despite the fact that those lithe blue bodies dance through the jungle for 2/3 of the flick.
All of which is to be expected.
Avatar is nearly three hours long, but it MOVES. It jukes through a brilliantly imagined world. And it sprints through a simple narrative that isn't meant to do anything more than provide back-up for a massive, MASSIVE creative accomplishment.
There are so many teams of people who collaborated on that film that you need a second mouse to scroll through the whole cast and crew list on IMDB.com. If you know anything about the process of trying to make a film, the more people who get involved, the more likely it is that something about the finished product could suck. Long chains do tend to have lots of slack.
So if you're spending eight kajillion dollars to invent a whole new way of making movies, something has to give, no? If you're going to get anything really, really right, then you need to conjure up all the genius your acres of collaborators can muster to make sure the world you create together is jaw-dropping. Anything else--like the story--should probably be executed as simply as possible. That compromise, regardless of what non-lethal stereotypes it furthers or what agendas it hamhandedly espouses, can ultimately be forgiven.
Upon exiting the theatre, the Liberian Girl evaluated the film with a fitting eloquence, "The story wasn't amazing, but everything else was."
That's just about as precise as Kobe was during the closing seconds in Memphis.
(So I was told by a very different text.)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Online Retail Fail
Gil Scott-Heron released a new album last Tuesday.
That's an ALL-CAPS headline deserving of thoughtful, probing analysis. But I ain't hear the album yet. Got sidetracked by life. Although I did mark a very big star next to that item in this week's To Do List. (Translation: "You really need to tick this one off cause it's extra, extra important.")
On Monday afternoon of this week, Barnes & Noble (B&N) was kind enough to alert me to a big sale they're having. $8.99 for any single CD. Perfect. I was gonna buy the Gil album anyway and here was a nice price break to validate my neglect in being among the first to cop it.
This morning, I opened the email from B&N to begin making the Gil purchase. I've never ordered from them online so I had to fill in some standard shipping and billing info during the first phase of the checkout process. No biggie. After securing all of my information, B&N informed me that the brand-new, just-released Gil CD is usually available within 1-2 weeks and that I could choose an ultra-cheap shipping option ($2.98 to receive my order in 3 days or less) bringing the total for my order to: $12.57 (including tax). Suddenly, this didn't seem like such a good deal.
I opened a new tab and clicked over to Amazon. I've ordered from them several times before. Probably more than several. Many more. The Gil CD was in stock both new ($12.99) and used ($11-something). Amazon offered me the same fast click checkout option they offer all regular customers and promptly informed me that I could receive the Gil CD by this Thursday (less than 48 hours from now) for a total of $12.99 (free shipping, no tax). That sounded pretty cool.
If you're scoring at home, here's how the retail fail breaks down:
Barnes & Noble = $12.57 to wait as long as two weeks to receive a CD that was released last week
Amazon = $12.99 to get the same CD within the next day or two
I ordered from Amazon.
Thanks for the coupon, B&N. I put it to very good use. For your competition.
That's an ALL-CAPS headline deserving of thoughtful, probing analysis. But I ain't hear the album yet. Got sidetracked by life. Although I did mark a very big star next to that item in this week's To Do List. (Translation: "You really need to tick this one off cause it's extra, extra important.")
On Monday afternoon of this week, Barnes & Noble (B&N) was kind enough to alert me to a big sale they're having. $8.99 for any single CD. Perfect. I was gonna buy the Gil album anyway and here was a nice price break to validate my neglect in being among the first to cop it.
This morning, I opened the email from B&N to begin making the Gil purchase. I've never ordered from them online so I had to fill in some standard shipping and billing info during the first phase of the checkout process. No biggie. After securing all of my information, B&N informed me that the brand-new, just-released Gil CD is usually available within 1-2 weeks and that I could choose an ultra-cheap shipping option ($2.98 to receive my order in 3 days or less) bringing the total for my order to: $12.57 (including tax). Suddenly, this didn't seem like such a good deal.
I opened a new tab and clicked over to Amazon. I've ordered from them several times before. Probably more than several. Many more. The Gil CD was in stock both new ($12.99) and used ($11-something). Amazon offered me the same fast click checkout option they offer all regular customers and promptly informed me that I could receive the Gil CD by this Thursday (less than 48 hours from now) for a total of $12.99 (free shipping, no tax). That sounded pretty cool.
If you're scoring at home, here's how the retail fail breaks down:
Barnes & Noble = $12.57 to wait as long as two weeks to receive a CD that was released last week
Amazon = $12.99 to get the same CD within the next day or two
I ordered from Amazon.
Thanks for the coupon, B&N. I put it to very good use. For your competition.
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, January 27, 2010
I Have Failed as a Laker Fan
Last night, I broke my three-year drought of attending NBA games. During that span, I've watched hundreds of NBA games on TV, online or at a bar. And when I say hundreds...I mean that there simply were not thousands of games played for me to watch. Consquently, I'm a lightweight NBA junkie. A very, very, very poor man's Kelly Dwyer if you will. Which, in junkie terms, means that I've taken a couple of hits while Kelly has been high for 15 years straight. But I digress. I'm a junkie who watches, but who has been completely absent from NBA games.
Last night, the homie Dae and I boarded 14 different escalators before climbing the final peak of the Verizon Center to fill two seats in section 431 seconds before the defending champion Los Angeles Lakers tipped off versus the utterly mediocre Washington Wizards. Seconds after Andrew Bynum won the tip for the champs I realized something: the NBA game is really quick.
Yeah, you get that when you watch on TV. But it's different when it's live. Maybe it's different when it's live and you're more than a free throw lane away from the court. But it's definitely different. And it's definitely much, much quicker than a person may be prepared for. That is not the point of this post, though. I do, after all, need to explain its title. Which we will get to. Eventually.
The hapless Wizards played with great hap during the first 18 minutes of the game. They held a lead for the bulk of the first quarter and remained very competitive even after they had given it up. Late in the second quarter, ShanWOW got loose. Three times. One of which was a backdoor lob play I've seen the Lakers run a few dozen times. Apparently, they don't get that YouTube channel in our nation's capital because no one wearing a Wizards jersey saw the Top 10 Plays nominee coming. Apart from that oop, the Lakers offense still looked very kinky for much of the first half, but they did start spitpolishing their own offensive glass. And Wizards players began mistaking Lakers for their teammates. In seven shot clocks or less, all of the haps were sucked out of the franchise that Abe Pollin built. With a 16-point halftime lead, I started thinking of tacos. And I got pretty excited about that.
From my perch, I noticed a few things about the NBA game experience. Firstly, there is a whole lot more audience participation now than the Verizon Center played host to three years ago. Most of it is egregiously sponsored. And much of it seems to come at the expense of the poledancers who may otherwise be known as cheerleaders.
The cheerleaders...or dance team...or whatever the half-nekked hot chicks should be called are still part of the game experience. They're just not very pronounced anymore. Instead, during breaks in games there are tried and true gimmicks like the Kiss Cam and and the Chipotle burrito launch. There was also dancing performed by the Beat Ya Feet Kings, which is a group of young dudes from DC who kinda sorta spaz out while go-go music envelops the inside of the arena like it tends to do outside the arena on 7th Ave. The cheeleaders, meanwhile, pommed their poms in a quiet gray space tucked in to one corner of the arena. Or, on occasion, in one of the stairwells in the lower bowl.
There was also something called "This or That," sponsored by Sprite and scored by Black Sheep's clever licensing company. In last night's episode, Caron Butler recorded a series of answers to very simply framed questions aimed at identifying his personal preferences. Two brief phrases would smash wipe onto the screen of the jumbotron. ("Big East or ACC?") Cut to Caron standing between the two phrases and choosing one over the other. (It wasn't ACC.) Before one of Kobe's old workout buddies would answer, he would pause long enough to give the crowd time to shout out their own choices. After the Butler announced his preference to each question, some of the crowd would cheer as if he had just validated their taste for this or for that. Which he pretty much did. Although that was only the second most important public service he provided last night.
At halftime, a young woman from San Francisco balanced herself on a very, very tall unicycle. She also used her feet to toss small bowls on top of her head. It was a certain kind of ridiculous that is better seen than described.
A minute or two before the Wizards inbounded the ball to begin the second half, Kobe Bryant emerged from the locker room. He was the last Laker to do so. A couple of his teammates had preceded him by 10 minutes. The rest straggled back on to the court in groups of two or one with no deliberate speed. The Wizards, on the other hand, were all back on the court nearly as soon as the unicycling, bowl-tossing woman left it. They were uniformly covered in their head-to-toe warms and they half-sprinted through lay-up lines. Like a hungry high school team. Or a battered NBA franchise hoping to acquire the right to draft John Wall.
As Kobe waited for the second half to begin, he stood next to Pau Gasol. More correctly, Pau wandered over to stand near him. The two gestured with their arms about some scenario known only to them that would presumably enable the Lakers to pile more points on the Verizon Center scoreboard. Or to prevent the Wizards from doing so. After they reached agreement about this scenario, Pau swung his right arm upward and grabbed Kobe's head as a big brother might do to a little brother. It made me question all the analysis of Kobe's innate asshole-ishness. Maybe it's not the virtuoso's duty to lower himself to blend with the orchestra. Maybe it's the orchestra's job to aspire to meet the standard of the virtuoso. Maybe Kobe doesn't need to be a rally-the-troops kind of leader. Maybe the locker-room hydra of Derek Fisher, Lamar Odom and the Spaniard is the rightful condutor for Phil Jackson's brilliant compositions. Maybe Kobe only ever needed to be the master violinist (and occasional player of the entire string section). Maybe that's a cliched analogy doubling as a sad apology. Whatever the case, Pau pawing Kobe's scalp was my favorite moment of the game that didn't involve Shannon Brown.
When the third quarter finally began, the Lakers offense actually started creating points. Imagine that. They seemed to be spread mostly between Kobe and Pau. But that didn't matter much as the Lakers score mostly went up and the Wizards score mostly did not. With about four minutes remaining in the third--just before the Lakers decided to go back to sleep--I leaned over to Dae and asked, "Do you think any Laker fans would join me if I started a 'We Want Tacos!' chant?" One of the 75 true Wizards fan in the building laughed, shook his head and sighed all at the same time.
It seemed like a reasonable question, though. There were no empty seats I could see as I scanned the bleachers of the Verizon Center. Squatting in most of those seats were people wearing purple and gold. Or forum blue and gold, if you prefer. A lot of #24 jerseys. A few #8s. Some #16 jerseys. (But a whole bunch of Spanish flags.) A #17 jersey here. A couple of #32s over there. Even a Sasha Vujacic. While Kobe shot free throws during the first quarter, a chant of "M-V-P!" broke out. A smattering of boos countered it. According to my ear, it sounded like 70% the former and 30% the latter. (That means a lot more for Kobe than against.)
So...I started thinking of milestones. If the Lakers could hold the Wizards to 70 points after three, there was a strong possibility they would be in taco range late in the fourth. (If you've never witnessed a blowout Laker win in Staples Center, there's a long-standing promotion whereby if the Lakers can prevent their opponent from scoring 100 points, all fans in attendance can redeem their ticket stub for free tacos at Jack in the Crack...I mean Jack in the Box. That promise of being able to hold two cornshells dripping with grease has inspired a tradition whereby Laker fans chant "We Want Tacos!" whenever the defending champs are getting close to putting a Staples Center game in the refrigerator.) At the end of the third quarter last night, the Lakers led 87-72.
During the break between quarters, I noticed two things. The first was something I had observed earlier in the game. Several times. The second was something that could help make my taco dream come true.
The repeated thing I noticed was Phil Jackson wandering onto the court, clipboard in hand, sketching patiently while play was stopped and players caught their breath on the bench. I think they call that a timeout. Most times, Phil would huddle his team near the end of this stoppage to tell them something. Mostly, he sketched.
The other thing I noticed is that Dae and I were seated in the Espana section for there were dozens of people cloaked in the yellow and red of the Spanish flag. Many simply wore the flag itself like it was a double X hoodie. A small group of them--teenagers mostly--screeched a single word, "GASOL!!!!!!!"
I thought about pitching the teenagers on the idea of starting up a "We Want Tacos!" chant if the Wizards hadn't hit 100 by the 46-minute mark. After I heard Pau's acolytes speaking Spanish when they weren't making his surname echo off the rafters which hung just a couple of yardsticks above us, I thought it may take too long to explain my taco dream. I also thought that request would be one car in the xenophobia train that I probably shouldn't board.
Into the fourth quarter the game trudged. The Lakers had really run away from the Wizards in the second. They got a little bit more separation in the third, but gave most of that back before that quarter ended. The pace favored the champs throughout as it remained ironically fast. They played mostly to a draw in the fourth--with ShanWOW, Odom and Jordan Farmar catching grooves to compliment the Pau + Kobe show. The Laker lead was secure. With just under three minutes to play, the Wizards notched points 96 and 97.
Nearly a quarter of the people in 431 and the adjacent sections had departed into the chilly Washington night by that point in the game. Even some of the Laker fans had vacated early. I quickly discarded the notion that I could rally my purple and gold comrades for an amusing act of hubris. If there was going to be a "We Want Tacos!" chant in the Verizon Center, I would have to start it alone.
Possession of the ball changed a couple of times. The Wizards held on 97. Sixty-some seconds remained. The shot clock turned red. A Wizards possession looked as if it would end horribly. I finally summoned the courage to stand up and answer my own prayer.
Which is exactly when Caron Butler performed his second act of public service that night.
An errant pass from...I don't remember which of Caron's teammates...morphed into a loose ball floating toward half court. A Laker pursued it, but was a step behind the Butler. Caron coralled it and heaved the ball in the direction of the shot clock. Just as I rose from my seat, the dreaded 98th, 99th and, yes dear readers, 100th Wizards points of the game swished in. There would be no taco chant that night.
As soon as the ball oozed through the net, I regretted that I didn't begin screaming "We Want Tacos!" two possessions prior. That's really when the Lakers could have used it. And that would have allowed enough time for some other simple-minded Laker fan (or 300) to join me in slapping the home team in their 14-30 faces.
But I didn't do it. And I wouldn't get to do it. I didn't get to do the "We Want Tacos!" chant outside of Staples Center.
I failed as a Laker fan.
Last night, the homie Dae and I boarded 14 different escalators before climbing the final peak of the Verizon Center to fill two seats in section 431 seconds before the defending champion Los Angeles Lakers tipped off versus the utterly mediocre Washington Wizards. Seconds after Andrew Bynum won the tip for the champs I realized something: the NBA game is really quick.
Yeah, you get that when you watch on TV. But it's different when it's live. Maybe it's different when it's live and you're more than a free throw lane away from the court. But it's definitely different. And it's definitely much, much quicker than a person may be prepared for. That is not the point of this post, though. I do, after all, need to explain its title. Which we will get to. Eventually.
The hapless Wizards played with great hap during the first 18 minutes of the game. They held a lead for the bulk of the first quarter and remained very competitive even after they had given it up. Late in the second quarter, ShanWOW got loose. Three times. One of which was a backdoor lob play I've seen the Lakers run a few dozen times. Apparently, they don't get that YouTube channel in our nation's capital because no one wearing a Wizards jersey saw the Top 10 Plays nominee coming. Apart from that oop, the Lakers offense still looked very kinky for much of the first half, but they did start spitpolishing their own offensive glass. And Wizards players began mistaking Lakers for their teammates. In seven shot clocks or less, all of the haps were sucked out of the franchise that Abe Pollin built. With a 16-point halftime lead, I started thinking of tacos. And I got pretty excited about that.
From my perch, I noticed a few things about the NBA game experience. Firstly, there is a whole lot more audience participation now than the Verizon Center played host to three years ago. Most of it is egregiously sponsored. And much of it seems to come at the expense of the poledancers who may otherwise be known as cheerleaders.
The cheerleaders...or dance team...or whatever the half-nekked hot chicks should be called are still part of the game experience. They're just not very pronounced anymore. Instead, during breaks in games there are tried and true gimmicks like the Kiss Cam and and the Chipotle burrito launch. There was also dancing performed by the Beat Ya Feet Kings, which is a group of young dudes from DC who kinda sorta spaz out while go-go music envelops the inside of the arena like it tends to do outside the arena on 7th Ave. The cheeleaders, meanwhile, pommed their poms in a quiet gray space tucked in to one corner of the arena. Or, on occasion, in one of the stairwells in the lower bowl.
There was also something called "This or That," sponsored by Sprite and scored by Black Sheep's clever licensing company. In last night's episode, Caron Butler recorded a series of answers to very simply framed questions aimed at identifying his personal preferences. Two brief phrases would smash wipe onto the screen of the jumbotron. ("Big East or ACC?") Cut to Caron standing between the two phrases and choosing one over the other. (It wasn't ACC.) Before one of Kobe's old workout buddies would answer, he would pause long enough to give the crowd time to shout out their own choices. After the Butler announced his preference to each question, some of the crowd would cheer as if he had just validated their taste for this or for that. Which he pretty much did. Although that was only the second most important public service he provided last night.
At halftime, a young woman from San Francisco balanced herself on a very, very tall unicycle. She also used her feet to toss small bowls on top of her head. It was a certain kind of ridiculous that is better seen than described.
A minute or two before the Wizards inbounded the ball to begin the second half, Kobe Bryant emerged from the locker room. He was the last Laker to do so. A couple of his teammates had preceded him by 10 minutes. The rest straggled back on to the court in groups of two or one with no deliberate speed. The Wizards, on the other hand, were all back on the court nearly as soon as the unicycling, bowl-tossing woman left it. They were uniformly covered in their head-to-toe warms and they half-sprinted through lay-up lines. Like a hungry high school team. Or a battered NBA franchise hoping to acquire the right to draft John Wall.
As Kobe waited for the second half to begin, he stood next to Pau Gasol. More correctly, Pau wandered over to stand near him. The two gestured with their arms about some scenario known only to them that would presumably enable the Lakers to pile more points on the Verizon Center scoreboard. Or to prevent the Wizards from doing so. After they reached agreement about this scenario, Pau swung his right arm upward and grabbed Kobe's head as a big brother might do to a little brother. It made me question all the analysis of Kobe's innate asshole-ishness. Maybe it's not the virtuoso's duty to lower himself to blend with the orchestra. Maybe it's the orchestra's job to aspire to meet the standard of the virtuoso. Maybe Kobe doesn't need to be a rally-the-troops kind of leader. Maybe the locker-room hydra of Derek Fisher, Lamar Odom and the Spaniard is the rightful condutor for Phil Jackson's brilliant compositions. Maybe Kobe only ever needed to be the master violinist (and occasional player of the entire string section). Maybe that's a cliched analogy doubling as a sad apology. Whatever the case, Pau pawing Kobe's scalp was my favorite moment of the game that didn't involve Shannon Brown.
When the third quarter finally began, the Lakers offense actually started creating points. Imagine that. They seemed to be spread mostly between Kobe and Pau. But that didn't matter much as the Lakers score mostly went up and the Wizards score mostly did not. With about four minutes remaining in the third--just before the Lakers decided to go back to sleep--I leaned over to Dae and asked, "Do you think any Laker fans would join me if I started a 'We Want Tacos!' chant?" One of the 75 true Wizards fan in the building laughed, shook his head and sighed all at the same time.
It seemed like a reasonable question, though. There were no empty seats I could see as I scanned the bleachers of the Verizon Center. Squatting in most of those seats were people wearing purple and gold. Or forum blue and gold, if you prefer. A lot of #24 jerseys. A few #8s. Some #16 jerseys. (But a whole bunch of Spanish flags.) A #17 jersey here. A couple of #32s over there. Even a Sasha Vujacic. While Kobe shot free throws during the first quarter, a chant of "M-V-P!" broke out. A smattering of boos countered it. According to my ear, it sounded like 70% the former and 30% the latter. (That means a lot more for Kobe than against.)
So...I started thinking of milestones. If the Lakers could hold the Wizards to 70 points after three, there was a strong possibility they would be in taco range late in the fourth. (If you've never witnessed a blowout Laker win in Staples Center, there's a long-standing promotion whereby if the Lakers can prevent their opponent from scoring 100 points, all fans in attendance can redeem their ticket stub for free tacos at Jack in the Crack...I mean Jack in the Box. That promise of being able to hold two cornshells dripping with grease has inspired a tradition whereby Laker fans chant "We Want Tacos!" whenever the defending champs are getting close to putting a Staples Center game in the refrigerator.) At the end of the third quarter last night, the Lakers led 87-72.
During the break between quarters, I noticed two things. The first was something I had observed earlier in the game. Several times. The second was something that could help make my taco dream come true.
The repeated thing I noticed was Phil Jackson wandering onto the court, clipboard in hand, sketching patiently while play was stopped and players caught their breath on the bench. I think they call that a timeout. Most times, Phil would huddle his team near the end of this stoppage to tell them something. Mostly, he sketched.
The other thing I noticed is that Dae and I were seated in the Espana section for there were dozens of people cloaked in the yellow and red of the Spanish flag. Many simply wore the flag itself like it was a double X hoodie. A small group of them--teenagers mostly--screeched a single word, "GASOL!!!!!!!"
I thought about pitching the teenagers on the idea of starting up a "We Want Tacos!" chant if the Wizards hadn't hit 100 by the 46-minute mark. After I heard Pau's acolytes speaking Spanish when they weren't making his surname echo off the rafters which hung just a couple of yardsticks above us, I thought it may take too long to explain my taco dream. I also thought that request would be one car in the xenophobia train that I probably shouldn't board.
Into the fourth quarter the game trudged. The Lakers had really run away from the Wizards in the second. They got a little bit more separation in the third, but gave most of that back before that quarter ended. The pace favored the champs throughout as it remained ironically fast. They played mostly to a draw in the fourth--with ShanWOW, Odom and Jordan Farmar catching grooves to compliment the Pau + Kobe show. The Laker lead was secure. With just under three minutes to play, the Wizards notched points 96 and 97.
Nearly a quarter of the people in 431 and the adjacent sections had departed into the chilly Washington night by that point in the game. Even some of the Laker fans had vacated early. I quickly discarded the notion that I could rally my purple and gold comrades for an amusing act of hubris. If there was going to be a "We Want Tacos!" chant in the Verizon Center, I would have to start it alone.
Possession of the ball changed a couple of times. The Wizards held on 97. Sixty-some seconds remained. The shot clock turned red. A Wizards possession looked as if it would end horribly. I finally summoned the courage to stand up and answer my own prayer.
Which is exactly when Caron Butler performed his second act of public service that night.
An errant pass from...I don't remember which of Caron's teammates...morphed into a loose ball floating toward half court. A Laker pursued it, but was a step behind the Butler. Caron coralled it and heaved the ball in the direction of the shot clock. Just as I rose from my seat, the dreaded 98th, 99th and, yes dear readers, 100th Wizards points of the game swished in. There would be no taco chant that night.
As soon as the ball oozed through the net, I regretted that I didn't begin screaming "We Want Tacos!" two possessions prior. That's really when the Lakers could have used it. And that would have allowed enough time for some other simple-minded Laker fan (or 300) to join me in slapping the home team in their 14-30 faces.
But I didn't do it. And I wouldn't get to do it. I didn't get to do the "We Want Tacos!" chant outside of Staples Center.
I failed as a Laker fan.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Prop 8: Best Thing to Happen FOR Gay Marriage
Based on what little I understand about the US Constitution, there's not a whole lot in there about morality. There's a lot of suggestions for how government is supposed to work. And a few bits about what rights people are expected to enjoy without fear of persecution. Or prosecution. But there's not much in there about how right and wrong are defined.
That's the kind of thing was left to the Bible writers.
If you're the type to thump your Bible (or Torah or Qur'an or whatever), then you may be able to make a moral argument against homosexuality. (You'd probably be kinda wrong, but you'd be welcome to try it.) What you can't really do is skim through the US Constitution and find an article on which to build a case that gay marriage is against the law.
On the contrary, you can pick any number of rights outlined in the Constitution and argue that they--as written--account for the right of people who share a gender to share some wedding vows.
That's more or less what I took from this segment Fresh Air ran yesterday.
I also took away that Prop 8 may ultimately be a good thing for gay marriage. Simply put, if you want to get a case to the Supreme Court to establish a principle as immutable law, you need a catalyst. Prop 8--while it was something of a bummer in the fall of '08--looks to be that catalyst.
While the Sups have been acting kinda strange this week, they'd be hard pressed to wholesale discard what appears to be a pretty obvious matter of constitutionality.
Right?
That's the kind of thing was left to the Bible writers.
If you're the type to thump your Bible (or Torah or Qur'an or whatever), then you may be able to make a moral argument against homosexuality. (You'd probably be kinda wrong, but you'd be welcome to try it.) What you can't really do is skim through the US Constitution and find an article on which to build a case that gay marriage is against the law.
On the contrary, you can pick any number of rights outlined in the Constitution and argue that they--as written--account for the right of people who share a gender to share some wedding vows.
That's more or less what I took from this segment Fresh Air ran yesterday.
I also took away that Prop 8 may ultimately be a good thing for gay marriage. Simply put, if you want to get a case to the Supreme Court to establish a principle as immutable law, you need a catalyst. Prop 8--while it was something of a bummer in the fall of '08--looks to be that catalyst.
While the Sups have been acting kinda strange this week, they'd be hard pressed to wholesale discard what appears to be a pretty obvious matter of constitutionality.
Right?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
One Nation?
Last night around the time the pundits on my TV were calling the Massachusetts election for the Republican, my thoughts immediately turned to what the poly sci takeaways would be. Sure, there are obvious questions about the Kennedy stranglehold and the legitimate will of the people of the Bay State. There is also the matter of how parity has kinda sorta been restored on Capitol Hill. Despite those things, I couldn't help but think about patriotism. Particularly how it sometimes seems like a contrived pollutant.
*Pause*
Look around the earth. Look at Brazil. Russia. India. And China. Look at Ethiopia and England, too. Or...pretty much every country other than the United States. What you'll probably see when examining different applications of nationalism is a common culture. Things around which people of that nation can define a shared sense of what their country is. Things in which they can take pride. Things they can celebrate. Food. Music. Language. The national football...er soccer...team.
Wherever you are in the world...as long as you're not standing between the shining seas...there is a visceral sense of what it means to be a citizen of that country. One that is celebrated simply and naturally. Which is probably why most countries other than the US seem to talk/act in terms of "nationalism" rather than "patriotism."
Now look around the United States. It doesn't matter whether you see red, blue or purple. What you'll see is a whole lot of different shit. Different food. Different music. Different football teams. And, to the dismay of many, different languages. I think there's a term for that...something like..."melting pot."
I'm not all that bright. Nor am I all that original. So count this as the 4,080th contemplation of what the American melting pot means. This one has as its thesis a simple, fragmented notion of what constitutes America. Which, predictably, is the US Constitution. Rather, the ideas on which the US Constitution and our system of government is founded.
You know all about those ideas, right? You don't need any (more) ramblings from me about the Grand Experiment. Freedom is pretty cool. Whether it's "of" "from" or "to" it is fundamentally good. Case closed.
It's also the kind of thing that is slightly awkward to celebrate. If you're completely and utterly free, then you can do anything. Everything. And if everyone is doing anything, then what exactly are you supposed to rally around? I'm eating a hamburger. He's sluping lasagne. And she's chewing some General Tso's chicken. We're all eating. We're all happy. But we're all doing very, very different things. It's not exactly...united.
But we have the ideas. We have the opportunities. (Kinda). And we have the system. That's what makes an American...an American. And that's it. There's nothing else for us to rally around or to draw a shared sense of identity from. It's not a good thing or a bad thing. It just is. But it's also something that I don't believe we've all come to terms with.
Some of us have a fetish for those ideas and rant joylessly about the imagined obligations that come with them--a counterintuitive act if there ever was one. One man should never be compelled to belittle or squash another man's freedom in order to execute his own.
Others of us misunderstand the ideas completely and exalt frivolity rather than freedom. American Idol hardly rises to the level of idolatry, but it isn't exactly what the founding fathers had in mind when they designed a system of civic engagement.
On the other hand, maybe that's the lighthouse in this murky sea of US identity politics. TV is good, right? That's something that America invented and that's something we can all celebrate. Right?
*Sigh*
Maybe not.
There's too many CSIs to choose from.
*Pause*
Look around the earth. Look at Brazil. Russia. India. And China. Look at Ethiopia and England, too. Or...pretty much every country other than the United States. What you'll probably see when examining different applications of nationalism is a common culture. Things around which people of that nation can define a shared sense of what their country is. Things in which they can take pride. Things they can celebrate. Food. Music. Language. The national football...er soccer...team.
Wherever you are in the world...as long as you're not standing between the shining seas...there is a visceral sense of what it means to be a citizen of that country. One that is celebrated simply and naturally. Which is probably why most countries other than the US seem to talk/act in terms of "nationalism" rather than "patriotism."
Now look around the United States. It doesn't matter whether you see red, blue or purple. What you'll see is a whole lot of different shit. Different food. Different music. Different football teams. And, to the dismay of many, different languages. I think there's a term for that...something like..."melting pot."
I'm not all that bright. Nor am I all that original. So count this as the 4,080th contemplation of what the American melting pot means. This one has as its thesis a simple, fragmented notion of what constitutes America. Which, predictably, is the US Constitution. Rather, the ideas on which the US Constitution and our system of government is founded.
You know all about those ideas, right? You don't need any (more) ramblings from me about the Grand Experiment. Freedom is pretty cool. Whether it's "of" "from" or "to" it is fundamentally good. Case closed.
It's also the kind of thing that is slightly awkward to celebrate. If you're completely and utterly free, then you can do anything. Everything. And if everyone is doing anything, then what exactly are you supposed to rally around? I'm eating a hamburger. He's sluping lasagne. And she's chewing some General Tso's chicken. We're all eating. We're all happy. But we're all doing very, very different things. It's not exactly...united.
But we have the ideas. We have the opportunities. (Kinda). And we have the system. That's what makes an American...an American. And that's it. There's nothing else for us to rally around or to draw a shared sense of identity from. It's not a good thing or a bad thing. It just is. But it's also something that I don't believe we've all come to terms with.
Some of us have a fetish for those ideas and rant joylessly about the imagined obligations that come with them--a counterintuitive act if there ever was one. One man should never be compelled to belittle or squash another man's freedom in order to execute his own.
Others of us misunderstand the ideas completely and exalt frivolity rather than freedom. American Idol hardly rises to the level of idolatry, but it isn't exactly what the founding fathers had in mind when they designed a system of civic engagement.
On the other hand, maybe that's the lighthouse in this murky sea of US identity politics. TV is good, right? That's something that America invented and that's something we can all celebrate. Right?
*Sigh*
Maybe not.
There's too many CSIs to choose from.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
"Wrong Country"
The scene in Richmond, VA last fall probably called for a suit--or a least a sport coat--and a law degree--or at least the intention of obtaining one. I can not say how many players were involved. Nor can I explain the methodology whereby they arrived at their conclusion. I can only tell you that--when the ink hit the paper--they had agreed to raise the rates on the toll road I travel from DC to near West extremities of northern Virginia. Effective Jan. 1, 2010.
It is an unfortunate fate for me--and any one else who commutes occasionally along the Dulles Toll Road. What used to cost 75 cents now costs a dollar. What used to cost 50 cents now costs 75 cents. Incremental change, to be sure. But that's precisely the problem: the change.
As you approach the toll booths that populate the Dulles Toll Road, flashing lights steer you toward the lanes that are E-Z Pass accessible as well as those reserved for the unwise or stubborn souls who've yet to affix an electronic sticker to their windshields. The lanes that service the unwise blare plainly that you must use coins if you wish to pay the machine. Otherwise, you'll have to suffer the indignity of interacting with a living human being in order to hand your folding money over to the Commonwealth.
I'm unwise. But I'm not a complete fool. I traveled the toll road last week and realized that the change holder in my car was nearly emptied by the new, increased fees. I made it a point to grab a whole bunch of change from the change dish at my house on Thursday night because I knew I'd need it on Friday morning.
(Yes, that means I spent the night in the city. Probably in someone else's bed. And that's all that needs to be said about that. ;P)
Jump cut to Friday morning. NPR is telling me about what's happening in Haiti. Or maybe in the US Supreme Court. I've arrived at the very last tool booth I must endure before hopping off the parkway and slipping into my office. My paw swipes four big, round coins from my car's change holder. I good morning the old fellow manning the toll booth as I dribble each of those coins into the oversized coin collector.
As I inch my car forward, the graybeard yells something. I pump the breaks and glance at the red light that tells me I've not completed my transaction. The attendant climbs out of his post, retrieves a coin from collecting device and reaches his hand into my car window to hand me ten pence.
"Wrong country."
Whoops. Um...yeah.
I threw an American quarter into the machine and sped off.
Haven't been to the UK in more than two years. Haven't sifted through my change jar in at least that long. I'd like to be mad at the suits--or sport coats--in Richmond who caused me to dig so deep into my change reserves.
But I can't really be mad. 'Cause I wouldn't have been there in the first place if there weren't a woman involved somewhere in this story.
I think next time, I'll buy an E-Z pass. Assuming I will still have a need for one.
(Yeah, go 'head and assume that one. For both of us. ;P)
It is an unfortunate fate for me--and any one else who commutes occasionally along the Dulles Toll Road. What used to cost 75 cents now costs a dollar. What used to cost 50 cents now costs 75 cents. Incremental change, to be sure. But that's precisely the problem: the change.
As you approach the toll booths that populate the Dulles Toll Road, flashing lights steer you toward the lanes that are E-Z Pass accessible as well as those reserved for the unwise or stubborn souls who've yet to affix an electronic sticker to their windshields. The lanes that service the unwise blare plainly that you must use coins if you wish to pay the machine. Otherwise, you'll have to suffer the indignity of interacting with a living human being in order to hand your folding money over to the Commonwealth.
I'm unwise. But I'm not a complete fool. I traveled the toll road last week and realized that the change holder in my car was nearly emptied by the new, increased fees. I made it a point to grab a whole bunch of change from the change dish at my house on Thursday night because I knew I'd need it on Friday morning.
(Yes, that means I spent the night in the city. Probably in someone else's bed. And that's all that needs to be said about that. ;P)
Jump cut to Friday morning. NPR is telling me about what's happening in Haiti. Or maybe in the US Supreme Court. I've arrived at the very last tool booth I must endure before hopping off the parkway and slipping into my office. My paw swipes four big, round coins from my car's change holder. I good morning the old fellow manning the toll booth as I dribble each of those coins into the oversized coin collector.
As I inch my car forward, the graybeard yells something. I pump the breaks and glance at the red light that tells me I've not completed my transaction. The attendant climbs out of his post, retrieves a coin from collecting device and reaches his hand into my car window to hand me ten pence.
"Wrong country."
Whoops. Um...yeah.
I threw an American quarter into the machine and sped off.
Haven't been to the UK in more than two years. Haven't sifted through my change jar in at least that long. I'd like to be mad at the suits--or sport coats--in Richmond who caused me to dig so deep into my change reserves.
But I can't really be mad. 'Cause I wouldn't have been there in the first place if there weren't a woman involved somewhere in this story.
I think next time, I'll buy an E-Z pass. Assuming I will still have a need for one.
(Yeah, go 'head and assume that one. For both of us. ;P)
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Big Yank: Lessons from a Tonsillectomy
As far back as I can remember, I've had some kind of throat problem. When I was a not-so-little-kid I'd catch bronchitis every year smack in the middle of hoop season. I remember one case that brought with it some bronchial spasms that pretty much prevented me from breathing and caused me to miss three days of basketball practice. Whether or not you're trying to cover 94 feet in less than 4 seconds, you kinda need to breathe in order to be alive. Thankfully for me, I didn't stop living. And I didn't miss any games either. Just practice. That time.
More recently, I've been the beneficiary of what appeared to be a chronic case of tonsillitis. Two or three times a year, I'd get some sort of sinus congestion that would drip into my throat thereby irritating my least favorite body part. Once it was irritated, my throat would stay sore for...a while. Back in August, I was diagnosed with inflamed tonsils. The day after Halloween, they were still inflamed.
It's taken me several years, several sore throats/inflamed tonsils and several visits to several different ENTs (I've moved around a lil bit and I don't have a primary care physician) but earlier this fall, I finally heard the words I'd been waiting for: "So, do you wanna get your tonsils removed?"
By all accounts that I'm aware of, doctors do tonsillectomies on adults only as a last resort. It's supposed to be painful and it allegedly takes a long time to heal. Some urban legends even say it's risky. I cared about none of those things when I heard those eight beautiful words. My tonsils, as far as I could tell, had reached the point of diminishing returns and were no longer of any positive use for me.
(Except for the part of the sore throat experience when my voice sounded raspier than Miles Davis. That part was pretty cool. For about a day and a half. Until all the coughing was a lil more important than all the cool.)
On Tuesday, Dec. 1, I went under the scalpel (or whatever tool they use to reach way into the nether regions of your mouth to yank out your tonsils) for a long overdue tonsillectomy. Since that day, I've learned a few things about what it takes to recover from The Big Yank.
1) You're gonna lose some weight. The doctors advise you to begin eating things like mashed potatoes as soon as it feels comfortable to chew and swallow. Which may take a week. Or more.
2) Drink lots of fluids...that are fortified with something. Bolthouse Farms smoothies, Sobe Lifewater, Propel and Gatorade kept me alive for the first couple of days.
3) You really don't wanna eat a lot of ice cream. Or maybe any. Your throat will be too sensitive to all that damn'd cold. For the first week at least.
4) Pudding is your friend. Somewhere in the middle of day 2, I discovered that pudding was the most soothing thing I could swallow. Applesauce seemed like a good idea, but really wasn't. Oatmeal, on the other hand, slid down nice and easily. It just wasn't as satisfying as pudding.
5) You're not gonna be able to use your tongue for a while. Stretching it just a little to scrape debris from your molars won't feel good. So...you're gonna need to devise some other way to be...um...cunning.
6) Shut up. Don't talk to anyone for a couple of days. (Except for your smokin' hot S.O. who has volunteered to take care of you.) It's just not worth the effort. If you've stocked up on pudding, smoothies, water and instant oatmeal, you don't really need visitors during the first day or two anyway.
7) Sleeping may be the hardest part. Getting there and staying there can be kinda unpleasant as you may simultaneously experience pain in your ears and in your throat. You can take a painkiller to aid this process. But if you're staying superhydrated, you'll invariably wake up to pee. Which will start the whole process over again. And will probably trigger the other unpleasant end of the sleeping process.
8) Waking up isn't fun either. For the first week, your throat will be hella dry, but it'll be extra hurt-y to try and swallow anything to relieve your dry mouthedness. Again, painkillers help. But they'll reduce the pain from double-you-over-spasms to take-the-Lord's-name-in-vane-exclamations. Until they kick in 15-20 minutes later and take you to that happy place where the soundtrack is provided by the Grateful Dead and Snoopy D-O-double-Gizzle.
9) Stretch. A lot. By day 3 or day 4, you're gonna start getting restless and maybe a little bed sore. Or couch sore. Unfurl that yoga mat and do a mini-routine. Your back and legs will thank you later.
10) Stay clean. Bathe and change clothes once a day. Brush your teeth and do a mouthwash treatment, too. Change your bedsheets every 4-5 days. Those will accumulate a lot of funk.
11) Read something breezy and captivating. I recommend this and this to get started.
12) Laughter is not the best medicine. Until day 3 or day 4, it's gonna hurt to laugh. Even as I discovered that, I inexplicably killed a lot of hours watching sitcoms. 30 Rock. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Better Off Ted. Parks and Recreation. On the plus side, I'm all caught up on each of those shows. Also, I've watched Michael Clayton 45 more times.
13) Work from home as long as possible. Email is your friend, too. (Although its not nearly as friendly as pudding.) You can be as verbose as you need to be using your fingers. The voice is gonna be weak for at least a week. Maybe two. Unless you host a talk show, your office can miss the sound of your voice.
Truth be told, the only thing you really truly need in order to recover from The Big Yank is time. As long as you don't do anything dumb--like eating homemade bread the day after the procedure--you'll probably be okay. The doctors are going to prep you pretty thoroughly. And it's simple enough to follow all their instructions for what to do, what not to eat, where you can expect to experience pain, etc.
As long as you do that, you should be cool. It's gonna suck for a while. But you'll eventually get past it.
With the help of lots and lots of pudding.
More recently, I've been the beneficiary of what appeared to be a chronic case of tonsillitis. Two or three times a year, I'd get some sort of sinus congestion that would drip into my throat thereby irritating my least favorite body part. Once it was irritated, my throat would stay sore for...a while. Back in August, I was diagnosed with inflamed tonsils. The day after Halloween, they were still inflamed.
It's taken me several years, several sore throats/inflamed tonsils and several visits to several different ENTs (I've moved around a lil bit and I don't have a primary care physician) but earlier this fall, I finally heard the words I'd been waiting for: "So, do you wanna get your tonsils removed?"
By all accounts that I'm aware of, doctors do tonsillectomies on adults only as a last resort. It's supposed to be painful and it allegedly takes a long time to heal. Some urban legends even say it's risky. I cared about none of those things when I heard those eight beautiful words. My tonsils, as far as I could tell, had reached the point of diminishing returns and were no longer of any positive use for me.
(Except for the part of the sore throat experience when my voice sounded raspier than Miles Davis. That part was pretty cool. For about a day and a half. Until all the coughing was a lil more important than all the cool.)
On Tuesday, Dec. 1, I went under the scalpel (or whatever tool they use to reach way into the nether regions of your mouth to yank out your tonsils) for a long overdue tonsillectomy. Since that day, I've learned a few things about what it takes to recover from The Big Yank.
1) You're gonna lose some weight. The doctors advise you to begin eating things like mashed potatoes as soon as it feels comfortable to chew and swallow. Which may take a week. Or more.
2) Drink lots of fluids...that are fortified with something. Bolthouse Farms smoothies, Sobe Lifewater, Propel and Gatorade kept me alive for the first couple of days.
3) You really don't wanna eat a lot of ice cream. Or maybe any. Your throat will be too sensitive to all that damn'd cold. For the first week at least.
4) Pudding is your friend. Somewhere in the middle of day 2, I discovered that pudding was the most soothing thing I could swallow. Applesauce seemed like a good idea, but really wasn't. Oatmeal, on the other hand, slid down nice and easily. It just wasn't as satisfying as pudding.
5) You're not gonna be able to use your tongue for a while. Stretching it just a little to scrape debris from your molars won't feel good. So...you're gonna need to devise some other way to be...um...cunning.
6) Shut up. Don't talk to anyone for a couple of days. (Except for your smokin' hot S.O. who has volunteered to take care of you.) It's just not worth the effort. If you've stocked up on pudding, smoothies, water and instant oatmeal, you don't really need visitors during the first day or two anyway.
7) Sleeping may be the hardest part. Getting there and staying there can be kinda unpleasant as you may simultaneously experience pain in your ears and in your throat. You can take a painkiller to aid this process. But if you're staying superhydrated, you'll invariably wake up to pee. Which will start the whole process over again. And will probably trigger the other unpleasant end of the sleeping process.
8) Waking up isn't fun either. For the first week, your throat will be hella dry, but it'll be extra hurt-y to try and swallow anything to relieve your dry mouthedness. Again, painkillers help. But they'll reduce the pain from double-you-over-spasms to take-the-Lord's-name-in-vane-exclamations. Until they kick in 15-20 minutes later and take you to that happy place where the soundtrack is provided by the Grateful Dead and Snoopy D-O-double-Gizzle.
9) Stretch. A lot. By day 3 or day 4, you're gonna start getting restless and maybe a little bed sore. Or couch sore. Unfurl that yoga mat and do a mini-routine. Your back and legs will thank you later.
10) Stay clean. Bathe and change clothes once a day. Brush your teeth and do a mouthwash treatment, too. Change your bedsheets every 4-5 days. Those will accumulate a lot of funk.
11) Read something breezy and captivating. I recommend this and this to get started.
12) Laughter is not the best medicine. Until day 3 or day 4, it's gonna hurt to laugh. Even as I discovered that, I inexplicably killed a lot of hours watching sitcoms. 30 Rock. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Better Off Ted. Parks and Recreation. On the plus side, I'm all caught up on each of those shows. Also, I've watched Michael Clayton 45 more times.
13) Work from home as long as possible. Email is your friend, too. (Although its not nearly as friendly as pudding.) You can be as verbose as you need to be using your fingers. The voice is gonna be weak for at least a week. Maybe two. Unless you host a talk show, your office can miss the sound of your voice.
Truth be told, the only thing you really truly need in order to recover from The Big Yank is time. As long as you don't do anything dumb--like eating homemade bread the day after the procedure--you'll probably be okay. The doctors are going to prep you pretty thoroughly. And it's simple enough to follow all their instructions for what to do, what not to eat, where you can expect to experience pain, etc.
As long as you do that, you should be cool. It's gonna suck for a while. But you'll eventually get past it.
With the help of lots and lots of pudding.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Tax Us, Please
Germany's economy is in trouble. A bunch of rich barons want to come to its aid...by asking the German government to conditionally raise their taxes.
Crazy, right?
PRI's The World broadcast that story last night.
Crazy, right?
PRI's The World broadcast that story last night.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
A Facebook Strategy for Parents of T(w)eens
Since I don't have any kids of my own that makes me an expert on telling other people how to raise their offspring. Today, I'd like to share a rather simple strategy for how to govern your not-so-little person's usage of social media.
First, say a conditional yes to whatever online community they want to join. Unless, of course, it's the Little Hitlers Society or a San Antonio Spurs Fan Club.
Second, in the event that you are a member of the same community, do not require them to "friend" you. Don't even ask them to.
Third, lay down this one rule that you will not compromise on:
Once a week (or at a slightly more frequent interval of your choosing) junior will agree to sit down with you at his/her PC or Mac to review and talk about one element of his/her profile in this community: their friends list.
Your agenda for tracking that one thing (and only that one thing) should be a rational one that mirrors the most basic good parenting strategies for the physical world. You'll be looking for people you don't know. If you don't know someone who is in your son's or daughter's online circle, then ask them about said person. "Who are they? How do you know them? Why are they your friend?" If your youngin' can't answer those questions to your satisfaction, then Johnnie or Tremaine can't be online friends with the stranger. Just like you wouldn't want them hanging around with Greg Popovich in real life.
You'll need to be very disciplined during these friend list review sessions. Resist the urge to ask to see other parts of shorty's profile. Instead, if you have your own profile, share that with them and talk with them about your own experiences socializing online.
If you don't have a profile on whatever site they want to join (or if you're still something of a social luddite), then track down stories where people said something online or posted a photo that came back to haunt them in a real way. Like getting fired. Or arrested. Or dumped by the love of their life who looks just like the vampire kid from Twilight. The point of the exercise is to train junior to recognize that s/he needs to be thoughtful about his or her digital footprint. Everyone is gonna act a fool sometimes. And you ought to give your kid the space to make mistakes. But you don't want the kinda crazy thing they did seven Fridays ago to derail their Senatorial campaign in 2032. Or their shot at a college scholarship a couple years from now.
That's it. Follow that one rule and you'll create a portal into your seed's online experiences. Odds are that, if you maintain a healthy dialogue in general, Johnnie or Tremaine will share something with you that happened on Facebook that is not germaine to their friend list. Even if they don't, you're still doing your job. And that's really all you can do. Online or off.
First, say a conditional yes to whatever online community they want to join. Unless, of course, it's the Little Hitlers Society or a San Antonio Spurs Fan Club.
Second, in the event that you are a member of the same community, do not require them to "friend" you. Don't even ask them to.
Third, lay down this one rule that you will not compromise on:
Once a week (or at a slightly more frequent interval of your choosing) junior will agree to sit down with you at his/her PC or Mac to review and talk about one element of his/her profile in this community: their friends list.
Your agenda for tracking that one thing (and only that one thing) should be a rational one that mirrors the most basic good parenting strategies for the physical world. You'll be looking for people you don't know. If you don't know someone who is in your son's or daughter's online circle, then ask them about said person. "Who are they? How do you know them? Why are they your friend?" If your youngin' can't answer those questions to your satisfaction, then Johnnie or Tremaine can't be online friends with the stranger. Just like you wouldn't want them hanging around with Greg Popovich in real life.
You'll need to be very disciplined during these friend list review sessions. Resist the urge to ask to see other parts of shorty's profile. Instead, if you have your own profile, share that with them and talk with them about your own experiences socializing online.
If you don't have a profile on whatever site they want to join (or if you're still something of a social luddite), then track down stories where people said something online or posted a photo that came back to haunt them in a real way. Like getting fired. Or arrested. Or dumped by the love of their life who looks just like the vampire kid from Twilight. The point of the exercise is to train junior to recognize that s/he needs to be thoughtful about his or her digital footprint. Everyone is gonna act a fool sometimes. And you ought to give your kid the space to make mistakes. But you don't want the kinda crazy thing they did seven Fridays ago to derail their Senatorial campaign in 2032. Or their shot at a college scholarship a couple years from now.
That's it. Follow that one rule and you'll create a portal into your seed's online experiences. Odds are that, if you maintain a healthy dialogue in general, Johnnie or Tremaine will share something with you that happened on Facebook that is not germaine to their friend list. Even if they don't, you're still doing your job. And that's really all you can do. Online or off.
Friday, October 30, 2009
What's In a Name?
My brother, Youngblood, and his wife are expecting their second child. As a rule, they don't know the gender of the baby. And they won't until Mrs. Youngblood pushes that sweet, screaming, poop-making machine out into this world. They've got some ideas for how they'll refer to this forthcoming bundle of joy. One of the candidates for a male baby is the name "Brendan." Of which, I'm not a fan.
Believe it or not, I've got a couple of quasi-reasonable objections:
1) It's too easy to confuse "Brendan" with "Brandon" and I suspect a person named the former would spend a good deal of his life in correction mode.
2) When the other kids start picking on him, he'll invariably be called "Brenda." (That's certainly what I'd do if I were 9 years old and I wanted to tease a kid named "Brendan.")
3) I can picture a little boy named "Brendan," but I can't imagine a grown man called "Brendan." It just feels like a short-term solution. It doesn't really...mature...very well.
I'm probably responding rather weirdly when it comes to this particular name. And, now that I've shared my objection with Youngblood (and the rest of the free and not-so-free worlds), my objection can pretty much be discarded.
Except, perhaps, for that last reason.
I don't--thankfully for the rest of the planet--have any kids. I don't have near-term plans to have any either. Which is to say that I'm grossly unqualified when it comes to debating parenting philosophies. At least from a first-person standpoint. I am--allegedly--a modestly intelligent person. And I have had, like, three whole conversations with parents and/or their offspring about parenthood. So I'll step into my arrogant pants for a moment and tell other people how they should live their lives. (Just this once.)
Arguably the biggest mistake any parent makes is limiting the concept of their "child" to the first life stage their son or daughter travels through. A baby will be a baby for a while. And then they won't be. They'll be a third-grader for an even shorter amount of time. And they'll be a teenager for far longer than is comfortable for any sane person. And then, most importantly, they will be an adult. At some point. It's an inevitability that all of us should be so lucky to endure.
In my experience, there's a wistful fetish--that is perhaps only a couple of generations old--within Western culture for a certain notion of what childhood is supposed to be about. Someone or something is always trying to protect children or preserve the integrity of the experience of being a child. And someone or something is always celebrating childhood as if it were a bubble of pure, unadulterated joy. Like there's a cultural decision to make bliss the most blissful when ignorance is the expected, accepted norm.
Which, of course, is not really the case. At every stage of development that I've observed, children/kids/juniorpoopersofpants have a lot going on mentally and emotionally. They may enjoy more moments (and/or moments that last longer) where the psychological obligations of behaving in a civilized manner do not appear to exist but, to their credit, the youngin's are not braindead or heartdeaf. They see things. They think and they feel. And they're slowly accumulating the stories on which their identities and personal belief systems will be built. They are, very plainly, adults-in-training.
That sounds kinda like a hairy, steaming pile of suck, don't it?
Well...it could be. But it doesn't have to be. Childhood and adulthood are not simple, monolithically categorizable experiences. There are rites of passage that link many people together as if they're all taking the exact same steps along the exact same journey. But we don't take the same steps. And we certainly don't all step in anything that resembles the same order.
Some of us graduate from pre-school, lose all our baby teeth before we finish learning to multiply, discard the idea of the other gender as having cooties at some point around junior high, obtain a driver's license as soon as legally possible, do our first kegstand before college, do a lot more kegstands in college, survive those first three really crappy jobs, choose a spouse, push out some pantspoopers of our own, finally move into that corner office, cry when our own kids begin to remind us how far we are on our own journeys and then...well...some other stuff.
Before that other stuff happens, those bittersweet reminders are probably what trigger the fetish for childhood. The view via the rear mirror is always much happier (or, if you prefer, more painful) than the time that has passed really was. Memory, despite the complex series of chemical interactions that make it possible, is the great simplifying tool. It transforms childhood into this thing that is innocent and pure and wonderful. It dulls the awkward, irrational truth which is neither entirely bad nor entirely good.
Childhood, like adulthood, is just another thing you do that you can enjoy if you want to. You shouldn't be told what it will be or how you're supposed to experience it. The only expectations a person who is experiencing childhood--or adulthood for that matter--should have are that there will be lights and tools and people to help you learn how to use those tools as you stumble and glide along your path. You don't need anything to be dulled or amplified for your benefit. You just need the freedom to fumble...or to start the wild rumpus.
Wait...this was supposed to have something to do with a name, wasn't it?
I guess I don't know exactly what IS in a name but I do know that no parent is simply naming a baby or a child. They are, Godwilling, naming a person who will grow up. Consequently, the job of a parent isn't to raise a "child", but to train an adult. Which is probably a far scarier endeavour. Maybe that's why the persistent longing for "childhood"...persists. It looks like it is more fun perhaps because it was. Or so it seemed. And maybe that's why so many baby names are...cute.
Believe it or not, I've got a couple of quasi-reasonable objections:
1) It's too easy to confuse "Brendan" with "Brandon" and I suspect a person named the former would spend a good deal of his life in correction mode.
2) When the other kids start picking on him, he'll invariably be called "Brenda." (That's certainly what I'd do if I were 9 years old and I wanted to tease a kid named "Brendan.")
3) I can picture a little boy named "Brendan," but I can't imagine a grown man called "Brendan." It just feels like a short-term solution. It doesn't really...mature...very well.
I'm probably responding rather weirdly when it comes to this particular name. And, now that I've shared my objection with Youngblood (and the rest of the free and not-so-free worlds), my objection can pretty much be discarded.
Except, perhaps, for that last reason.
I don't--thankfully for the rest of the planet--have any kids. I don't have near-term plans to have any either. Which is to say that I'm grossly unqualified when it comes to debating parenting philosophies. At least from a first-person standpoint. I am--allegedly--a modestly intelligent person. And I have had, like, three whole conversations with parents and/or their offspring about parenthood. So I'll step into my arrogant pants for a moment and tell other people how they should live their lives. (Just this once.)
Arguably the biggest mistake any parent makes is limiting the concept of their "child" to the first life stage their son or daughter travels through. A baby will be a baby for a while. And then they won't be. They'll be a third-grader for an even shorter amount of time. And they'll be a teenager for far longer than is comfortable for any sane person. And then, most importantly, they will be an adult. At some point. It's an inevitability that all of us should be so lucky to endure.
In my experience, there's a wistful fetish--that is perhaps only a couple of generations old--within Western culture for a certain notion of what childhood is supposed to be about. Someone or something is always trying to protect children or preserve the integrity of the experience of being a child. And someone or something is always celebrating childhood as if it were a bubble of pure, unadulterated joy. Like there's a cultural decision to make bliss the most blissful when ignorance is the expected, accepted norm.
Which, of course, is not really the case. At every stage of development that I've observed, children/kids/juniorpoopersofpants have a lot going on mentally and emotionally. They may enjoy more moments (and/or moments that last longer) where the psychological obligations of behaving in a civilized manner do not appear to exist but, to their credit, the youngin's are not braindead or heartdeaf. They see things. They think and they feel. And they're slowly accumulating the stories on which their identities and personal belief systems will be built. They are, very plainly, adults-in-training.
That sounds kinda like a hairy, steaming pile of suck, don't it?
Well...it could be. But it doesn't have to be. Childhood and adulthood are not simple, monolithically categorizable experiences. There are rites of passage that link many people together as if they're all taking the exact same steps along the exact same journey. But we don't take the same steps. And we certainly don't all step in anything that resembles the same order.
Some of us graduate from pre-school, lose all our baby teeth before we finish learning to multiply, discard the idea of the other gender as having cooties at some point around junior high, obtain a driver's license as soon as legally possible, do our first kegstand before college, do a lot more kegstands in college, survive those first three really crappy jobs, choose a spouse, push out some pantspoopers of our own, finally move into that corner office, cry when our own kids begin to remind us how far we are on our own journeys and then...well...some other stuff.
Before that other stuff happens, those bittersweet reminders are probably what trigger the fetish for childhood. The view via the rear mirror is always much happier (or, if you prefer, more painful) than the time that has passed really was. Memory, despite the complex series of chemical interactions that make it possible, is the great simplifying tool. It transforms childhood into this thing that is innocent and pure and wonderful. It dulls the awkward, irrational truth which is neither entirely bad nor entirely good.
Childhood, like adulthood, is just another thing you do that you can enjoy if you want to. You shouldn't be told what it will be or how you're supposed to experience it. The only expectations a person who is experiencing childhood--or adulthood for that matter--should have are that there will be lights and tools and people to help you learn how to use those tools as you stumble and glide along your path. You don't need anything to be dulled or amplified for your benefit. You just need the freedom to fumble...or to start the wild rumpus.
Wait...this was supposed to have something to do with a name, wasn't it?
I guess I don't know exactly what IS in a name but I do know that no parent is simply naming a baby or a child. They are, Godwilling, naming a person who will grow up. Consequently, the job of a parent isn't to raise a "child", but to train an adult. Which is probably a far scarier endeavour. Maybe that's why the persistent longing for "childhood"...persists. It looks like it is more fun perhaps because it was. Or so it seemed. And maybe that's why so many baby names are...cute.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Revolution Will Not Be...Monetized?
The Revolution, according to Michael Moore, has come. It may not be time to pick up the gun. But it is time to pursue a better -ism than the -ism that ails us at present. So, we're told via his latest film.
Whether or not you've seen Capitalism: A Love Story, here (for the purposes of this half-witted rant) is the executive summary of the film:
In the latter decades of the 20th Century--at the height of American prosperity--some combination of the US banking industry, the wealthiest 1% of US citizens and the US government all cahooted to abandon the US manufacturing core in favor of a speculation-based economy that was measured primarily in terms of theoretical paper wealth. In doing so, these cahooters manipulated the dreams of the average American to maintain their control of the country. The resulting evils the cahooters perpetrated have ushered many Americans right out of their own homes and their own jobs into...well...that's just it...the poor, dumb bastards who comprise America's working classes have been left with their thumbs to sit on and the dwindling hairs on their heads to give them shelter.
That's the movie. In a nutshell. And it gives us--the choir to whom Mr. Moore so lovingly sings--this plan of attack:
"We're mad as hell...we kinda know what we're mad about...we really wanna do something about it...but we don't know exactly what that will be...yet."
Oh, wait, Democracy. That was the answer one of America's greatest storytellers proposed to the problem of Capitalism gone wild. That and a Second Bill of Rights (as outlined in some very cool film of FDR) aimed at guaranteeing certain rights for wage-earners. While noble, that answer (rather, that plan) is incomplete. Democracy is certainly a tactic and the Bill of Rights 2.0 is certainly a clear goal. But how will we deploy the vote and what will we do once we have achieved that particular goal?
In the film, Moore challenges us to embrace democracy and to engage the most fundamentally American tools of civic participation in order to resuscitate our great nation. He also reminded us what happened when we tried that last winter in the midst of the debate over whether to begin issuing bailouts to American industries. Um...it kinda didn't work. We got overruled. And the industries--particularly Wall Street--enjoyed a cash injection from the dirty syringes we weren't done using ourselves.
It's easy to hate on Wall Street. But you know who has money parked on Wall Street? I do. So does my father. And his sister. And her neighbor. And that guy's kid's teacher. We're all, to some degree, invested in the greatest ponzi scheme the world has ever known. And while many of us suffer from the genius applied by some of our brightest engineering minds who have abandoned engineering in favor of finance, some of us are forever thankful that those same minds have made us money that we would not have "earned" otherwise.
Speculation is a great seductress and she knows we all dream of wiping our funky asses with Benji Franklin's big face. Sadly, though, speculation ain't what she used to be. Back in 1849, you could discover oil or gold or some other very tangible commodity whose value may flutuate but would never be called into question. A century and a half later, you can launch Twitter or get in on the ground floor of some other intangible, yet very cool thing that hardly anyone knows how to monetize but that everyone is sure is worth billions. Well, they're pretty sure. After all, the guy who founded Friendster is still rich, right?
There's a moment in C:ALS (brilliant pun of an acronym, BTW) where a woman associated with these striking Chicago workers talks optimistically about what the power of the people could yield. She ponders their collective potential as owners and asks, almost wistfully, "But where would we get the money?"
And that's the question that Moore really leaves us with. Rather, that's one of 'em. Sure, Democracy may be the answer. Tactically. But what do we really want to accomplish? Do we simply want good jobs? I thought the American Dream had to do with owning your piece of the pie. To do that, you need to bake the pie or buy the pie. Either way, you're gonna need some kind of investment in order to deliver a slice to your plate. The solution for the dilemma of capitalism--an economic system which is less about immorality than it is about inevitability--isn't so easy as voting the bums out of office and writing new laws to ensure that there will always be a clock for the clockpunchers of our country to...well...punch.
Let's suppose that Moore's Revolution were to happen, though. Would US factory doors swing back open to welcome US workers back to the jobs that would now be a key part of their birthright? Not exactly. Most likely, it would take time to return those facilities to a sound operational state. Time, as so many cliches have alerted us, is money. So we're back to that question: "Where would we get the money?"
Well...Moore's Revolution could always mimic the cheapest form of birth control known to wo/man: Pull Out. If those 200 workers from Republic Windows had pulled all their money out of the stock market (and possibly their savings accounts, CDs, IRAs, etc), they may have had a pool of money big enough to buy the company themselves and run it as a co-op. Maybe it would have worked. Maybe it wouldn't. The workers certainly would have controlled their own destiny. Which, I gather, is all Michael Moore asks of his America.
As for what Moore asks of us to conduct this Revolution, the film fails to unveil a concrete plan. But it does appear that a more detailed sketch of how to make the porkiest capitalists cry whee, whee, whee all the way back to their opulent homes lives on Moore's web site. The site certainly offers a deeper understanding of both the means and the ends associated with Moore's Revolution. Which makes a person wonder: isn't C:ALS just one big commercial for 21st Century Progressivism? While that may not be such a bad thing, the film does come across as a scratchy note passed between the kettle and the pot.
Hopefully, that pot has some gold in it. Or some seed money. Or something. 'Cause a broke revolution ain't gonna solve anyone's problems.
Whether or not you've seen Capitalism: A Love Story, here (for the purposes of this half-witted rant) is the executive summary of the film:
In the latter decades of the 20th Century--at the height of American prosperity--some combination of the US banking industry, the wealthiest 1% of US citizens and the US government all cahooted to abandon the US manufacturing core in favor of a speculation-based economy that was measured primarily in terms of theoretical paper wealth. In doing so, these cahooters manipulated the dreams of the average American to maintain their control of the country. The resulting evils the cahooters perpetrated have ushered many Americans right out of their own homes and their own jobs into...well...that's just it...the poor, dumb bastards who comprise America's working classes have been left with their thumbs to sit on and the dwindling hairs on their heads to give them shelter.
That's the movie. In a nutshell. And it gives us--the choir to whom Mr. Moore so lovingly sings--this plan of attack:
"We're mad as hell...we kinda know what we're mad about...we really wanna do something about it...but we don't know exactly what that will be...yet."
Oh, wait, Democracy. That was the answer one of America's greatest storytellers proposed to the problem of Capitalism gone wild. That and a Second Bill of Rights (as outlined in some very cool film of FDR) aimed at guaranteeing certain rights for wage-earners. While noble, that answer (rather, that plan) is incomplete. Democracy is certainly a tactic and the Bill of Rights 2.0 is certainly a clear goal. But how will we deploy the vote and what will we do once we have achieved that particular goal?
In the film, Moore challenges us to embrace democracy and to engage the most fundamentally American tools of civic participation in order to resuscitate our great nation. He also reminded us what happened when we tried that last winter in the midst of the debate over whether to begin issuing bailouts to American industries. Um...it kinda didn't work. We got overruled. And the industries--particularly Wall Street--enjoyed a cash injection from the dirty syringes we weren't done using ourselves.
It's easy to hate on Wall Street. But you know who has money parked on Wall Street? I do. So does my father. And his sister. And her neighbor. And that guy's kid's teacher. We're all, to some degree, invested in the greatest ponzi scheme the world has ever known. And while many of us suffer from the genius applied by some of our brightest engineering minds who have abandoned engineering in favor of finance, some of us are forever thankful that those same minds have made us money that we would not have "earned" otherwise.
Speculation is a great seductress and she knows we all dream of wiping our funky asses with Benji Franklin's big face. Sadly, though, speculation ain't what she used to be. Back in 1849, you could discover oil or gold or some other very tangible commodity whose value may flutuate but would never be called into question. A century and a half later, you can launch Twitter or get in on the ground floor of some other intangible, yet very cool thing that hardly anyone knows how to monetize but that everyone is sure is worth billions. Well, they're pretty sure. After all, the guy who founded Friendster is still rich, right?
There's a moment in C:ALS (brilliant pun of an acronym, BTW) where a woman associated with these striking Chicago workers talks optimistically about what the power of the people could yield. She ponders their collective potential as owners and asks, almost wistfully, "But where would we get the money?"
And that's the question that Moore really leaves us with. Rather, that's one of 'em. Sure, Democracy may be the answer. Tactically. But what do we really want to accomplish? Do we simply want good jobs? I thought the American Dream had to do with owning your piece of the pie. To do that, you need to bake the pie or buy the pie. Either way, you're gonna need some kind of investment in order to deliver a slice to your plate. The solution for the dilemma of capitalism--an economic system which is less about immorality than it is about inevitability--isn't so easy as voting the bums out of office and writing new laws to ensure that there will always be a clock for the clockpunchers of our country to...well...punch.
Let's suppose that Moore's Revolution were to happen, though. Would US factory doors swing back open to welcome US workers back to the jobs that would now be a key part of their birthright? Not exactly. Most likely, it would take time to return those facilities to a sound operational state. Time, as so many cliches have alerted us, is money. So we're back to that question: "Where would we get the money?"
Well...Moore's Revolution could always mimic the cheapest form of birth control known to wo/man: Pull Out. If those 200 workers from Republic Windows had pulled all their money out of the stock market (and possibly their savings accounts, CDs, IRAs, etc), they may have had a pool of money big enough to buy the company themselves and run it as a co-op. Maybe it would have worked. Maybe it wouldn't. The workers certainly would have controlled their own destiny. Which, I gather, is all Michael Moore asks of his America.
As for what Moore asks of us to conduct this Revolution, the film fails to unveil a concrete plan. But it does appear that a more detailed sketch of how to make the porkiest capitalists cry whee, whee, whee all the way back to their opulent homes lives on Moore's web site. The site certainly offers a deeper understanding of both the means and the ends associated with Moore's Revolution. Which makes a person wonder: isn't C:ALS just one big commercial for 21st Century Progressivism? While that may not be such a bad thing, the film does come across as a scratchy note passed between the kettle and the pot.
Hopefully, that pot has some gold in it. Or some seed money. Or something. 'Cause a broke revolution ain't gonna solve anyone's problems.
Friday, October 09, 2009
What's Really Wrong With US Health Care?
It's not something that can be answered on the Hill.
Instead, you have to go to someplace like Lewiston, Maine to wrap your arms around the cultural mores and systematic flaws that lead to questionable consumption of medical services...among other things.
In order to get to Lewiston, you need to travel via NPR. Have a look and listen at/to part one of this brilliant series.
Instead, you have to go to someplace like Lewiston, Maine to wrap your arms around the cultural mores and systematic flaws that lead to questionable consumption of medical services...among other things.
In order to get to Lewiston, you need to travel via NPR. Have a look and listen at/to part one of this brilliant series.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
40 Rock
If you've never heard of a dude called Geoff Dyer, you should google him. And you should probably start reading him. I'm just about finished with a quasi-memoir called Yoga for People Who Can't Be Bothered to Do It.
In a portion of the book titled, "Hotel Oblivion," Dyer writes:
Yeah, man. That sounds about right.
In a portion of the book titled, "Hotel Oblivion," Dyer writes:
It was better being forty than twenty, when one was full of fire and ambition and hope. It was even better than being thirty, when those hopes that had once animated you became a goading source of torment.
"Once you turn forty," I said to Matt, "the whole world is water off a duck's back. Once you turn forty, you realize that life is there to be wasted."
Yeah, man. That sounds about right.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Ramble On
Almost three years to the day, I'm leaving the house I moved into when I started this silly little experiment. I'm not sure if it means I'm done with this experiment. I have been, largely, a vacant landlord. And this experiment has not at all been what it is supposed to be.
Initially, I thought it'd be a way to track my own re-adolescence. It kinda was. But mostly, it evolved into that rickety hoop in the backyard. The one I mess around on to keep the skills from fading completely. Since I have been so vacant, I suppose the skills have faded. The hoop has certainly rusted. And, perhaps, it is time to take it down.
Today, I am 33 years old. I still haven't completely finished that damn'd movie. Although, there are only two pieces of paper standing between me and its vanglorious release. I am still broke. Although not nearly as broke as I was three years ago. I am...in all likelihood...single again. Although, there's still a chance that a Liberian Girl will keep me around for a few more weeks. (I should have shared more on THAT story. And I will. Maybe.) I am also still...very much...unsettled.
There is something I should be doing in life. But I'm not certain what that thing is yet. Or, perhaps, what those thing(s) are. I used to believe I could write my way out of any problem. Maybe I still can. And maybe I'm not facing a problem so much as it's just another milemarker on the road to...wherever.
If I were a more eloquent mu'fucka...I'd have more to say. Much more. But I'm not.
So here we are. And here I am. Back to wandering. Back to the pen.
Inevitably.
As it were. As it will be.
What'd Jack Sparrow say? Drink up, me hearties.
Initially, I thought it'd be a way to track my own re-adolescence. It kinda was. But mostly, it evolved into that rickety hoop in the backyard. The one I mess around on to keep the skills from fading completely. Since I have been so vacant, I suppose the skills have faded. The hoop has certainly rusted. And, perhaps, it is time to take it down.
Today, I am 33 years old. I still haven't completely finished that damn'd movie. Although, there are only two pieces of paper standing between me and its vanglorious release. I am still broke. Although not nearly as broke as I was three years ago. I am...in all likelihood...single again. Although, there's still a chance that a Liberian Girl will keep me around for a few more weeks. (I should have shared more on THAT story. And I will. Maybe.) I am also still...very much...unsettled.
There is something I should be doing in life. But I'm not certain what that thing is yet. Or, perhaps, what those thing(s) are. I used to believe I could write my way out of any problem. Maybe I still can. And maybe I'm not facing a problem so much as it's just another milemarker on the road to...wherever.
If I were a more eloquent mu'fucka...I'd have more to say. Much more. But I'm not.
So here we are. And here I am. Back to wandering. Back to the pen.
Inevitably.
As it were. As it will be.
What'd Jack Sparrow say? Drink up, me hearties.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
We Will Know #3: Lamar
NOTE: This is the third of three. It should have been posted first so that all of the notes made sense. But this is a blog with the word "backwards" in its title, so...what did you expect? Hey...I've written something again. The world should be...well...I'd like to think it should be thankful for that. But, perhaps I'm mistaken. Anyway...enjoy!
Lamar Odom is 6'10".
If he were 6'3", he would have been hailed as the best guard prospect of his generation.
But he's not 6'3". He's 6'10".
So...call on whatever memory you have of Tiny Archibald, Kenny Anderson or Stephon Marbury and imagine if those players were the size of a power forward instead of the size of a point guard.
You'd probably paint a picture of Magic Johnson. And you'd be right. To begin with. You'd be careful to shade it with a whole lot more athleticism, though. 'Cause, believe it or not, Lamar Odom has every inch of Magic Johnson's game, but he's FAR more (and it's not even close here) athletic than #32.
What he's never had is Earvin Johnson's head. Or his heart.
Which is the twin shame of Lamar Odom.
He is the most uniquely gifted player in a sport famous for the singularity of its players' athletic freakishness. Quite possibly, he is the most uniquely gifted player in the history of this sport. (On top of everything, he's a leftie for chrissakes!)
So, of this uniquely gifted player, what would any reasonable person expect?
All-Star. All-Pro. Championships. Hall of Fame.
Would you believe Lamar Odom--save for one All-Star appearance--has accomplished none of those things?
In his decade or so in the NBA, Lamar Odom has been the most perplexing player in the league. It is the only "most" that he has achieved thus far.
Yet, here he is. Preparing to play in his second consecutive NBA Finals. Positioned--almost as if by fate--as the most important player on the Lakers roster.
Because of his flexibility and the natural fluidity of his game, he provides an all-in-one solution for every problem posed by every player on Orlando's front line. Granted, he's not going to guard more than one guy at a time, but he could guard any one of them at any time. On the other side of the ball, none of those players--when Lamar's game is on--can guard him.
But is Lamar's game going to be on?
We really have no idea. And we'ver never had any idea about his game either.
We've known about some of his off-court episodes.
The recruiting mishaps that had him committing to, like, 4 different schools before finally being allowed to enroll at Rhode Island. The drug violations that nearly prevented him from being eligible to play in the NBA.The trade out of LA. The trade back to LA. The death of his son. The launch of his clothing line. The sweet tooth that would make Willie Wonka sick.
But we've never known about his game.
We've never known whether we're going to get the 20-10-5 from him that he's given us during brilliant flashes. We've never known whether he's gonna pick up 2 fouls in the first 3 minutes of the game then spend his time sulking by the 3-point line launching shots even the Beastie Boys wouldn't advise.
We've never known what the hell we're gonna get from Lamar Odom. But we keep wanting to believe that he's gonna give us something transcendent. Because that is precisely what he is built for.
And, you would think, that's what the NBA Finals can bring out in a player.
You would think that. You would also think that Lamar Odom will be Lamar Odom.
Which is to say that you have no idea what he will be.
You will find out, though.
And you still won't know. Not exactly
Lamar Odom is 6'10".
If he were 6'3", he would have been hailed as the best guard prospect of his generation.
But he's not 6'3". He's 6'10".
So...call on whatever memory you have of Tiny Archibald, Kenny Anderson or Stephon Marbury and imagine if those players were the size of a power forward instead of the size of a point guard.
You'd probably paint a picture of Magic Johnson. And you'd be right. To begin with. You'd be careful to shade it with a whole lot more athleticism, though. 'Cause, believe it or not, Lamar Odom has every inch of Magic Johnson's game, but he's FAR more (and it's not even close here) athletic than #32.
What he's never had is Earvin Johnson's head. Or his heart.
Which is the twin shame of Lamar Odom.
He is the most uniquely gifted player in a sport famous for the singularity of its players' athletic freakishness. Quite possibly, he is the most uniquely gifted player in the history of this sport. (On top of everything, he's a leftie for chrissakes!)
So, of this uniquely gifted player, what would any reasonable person expect?
All-Star. All-Pro. Championships. Hall of Fame.
Would you believe Lamar Odom--save for one All-Star appearance--has accomplished none of those things?
In his decade or so in the NBA, Lamar Odom has been the most perplexing player in the league. It is the only "most" that he has achieved thus far.
Yet, here he is. Preparing to play in his second consecutive NBA Finals. Positioned--almost as if by fate--as the most important player on the Lakers roster.
Because of his flexibility and the natural fluidity of his game, he provides an all-in-one solution for every problem posed by every player on Orlando's front line. Granted, he's not going to guard more than one guy at a time, but he could guard any one of them at any time. On the other side of the ball, none of those players--when Lamar's game is on--can guard him.
But is Lamar's game going to be on?
We really have no idea. And we'ver never had any idea about his game either.
We've known about some of his off-court episodes.
The recruiting mishaps that had him committing to, like, 4 different schools before finally being allowed to enroll at Rhode Island. The drug violations that nearly prevented him from being eligible to play in the NBA.The trade out of LA. The trade back to LA. The death of his son. The launch of his clothing line. The sweet tooth that would make Willie Wonka sick.
But we've never known about his game.
We've never known whether we're going to get the 20-10-5 from him that he's given us during brilliant flashes. We've never known whether he's gonna pick up 2 fouls in the first 3 minutes of the game then spend his time sulking by the 3-point line launching shots even the Beastie Boys wouldn't advise.
We've never known what the hell we're gonna get from Lamar Odom. But we keep wanting to believe that he's gonna give us something transcendent. Because that is precisely what he is built for.
And, you would think, that's what the NBA Finals can bring out in a player.
You would think that. You would also think that Lamar Odom will be Lamar Odom.
Which is to say that you have no idea what he will be.
You will find out, though.
And you still won't know. Not exactly
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