Eat Local

For eight glorious days spent in the Last Frontier of Alaska, I indulged in one of the state's many splendors: fresh fish.  Living in the Midwest for all of my life, I adopted the practices of eating what I could see (and when the winds were right, what I could smell).  So in the summer this meant a bounty of fresh vegetables and the meats of cows, swine, chicken, and so on.

But for eight days, I most likely ate as much fish as I had eaten in the last five years.  Yes, this rightly acknowledges problems with my diet, but fish in the Midwest is generally fried and I am not much of a fan of said preparation.  And farm-raised salmon sucks with its oily bites and pale-pink color.  And for the rest of the ocean, well, I have had fish far too many times when I was near its capture that I cannot stand the taste once it arrives in the cornfields.

But for those eight days, I ate fish for lunch and dinner every day.  We had it grilled, poached, blackened, sauteed, and yes even fried bites for an appetizer.  It is the best eating I have enjoyed in many moons.  Below is a filet of sockeye salmon, I hope the color captures the deep red color and excites your tastebuds.  The second is a part of our last night feast, where I indulged another great joy: cooking.  I long to return to such a culinary bounty.

River Rhythms

There is something magical, soothing, unknown and comfortable about water, especially the water from the world’s rivers.  Rivers that have spent thousands of years carving their way through the landscape, a zig here, a zag there.  I was fortunate enough to make a connection with water early in my years as both a swimmer and traveler, so I am saddened by all those that are weighed down by their aquaphobia.  I have just returned to the lower 48 from the last frontier – Alaska.  Three of our days were spent drifting down the Kasilof and Russian Rivers fishing for king salmon in our Willie Boat.  

With our guide on the oars and anchor, we played a strategic game of location and movement down the river each morning.

Each morning began with a 3:20 a.m. wake up call, a quiet car ride for 40 minutes, to the boat launch by 4:30 a.m., in the water by 4:40 a.m. drifting down the river, anticipation of the unknown before us.

  

The sun has breached the horizon but the dense tundra owning the sides of the rivers will not expose the sun’s rays for another couple of hours.  Man, it is cold in this boat.  But it is quiet, except for a bird or when the river’s most powerful places churn up a symphony of sound as water passes over rock.  But the sound is quickly gone and you are back to the solitude of your row boat.  And you wait, wait for something to happen, wait for the sun to warm your body, wait to spring up and battle these legendary creatures.  But you are also surprised, surprised by the knowledge and kindness of your river guide who knows exactly when to speak to motivate and occupy by the boat, knows when to let silence reign, and most importantly he knows how to maneuver his boat into the prime spots with what I will later determine is the best possible gear for catching these fish and teaches the technique for setting the hook and getting them in the boat.  Which also explains why our best salmon fishing was on our first day as we had a different guide the other two days, if you need a guide for the Kenai Peninsula, Laine is your man. 

And he is a great storyteller, a storyteller-hunter, fishing in the summer, all-manner of hunting in the winter.  This is his profession; he is a hunting guide, outfitter that goes deep into frozen Alaska, at times for 2-3 weeks at a stretch for hunts.  And never talking about the conquest with a puffed up chest, but speaking plainly, reverence for the environment and the animal.  This is not the only hunting story I was told during my time in Alaska, at least 5 other people randomly shared their hunting stories.  And it is the stories that explain a significant factor that determines the societal, cultural practices of this part of the world: a ceaseless winter is always at the forefront of your mind and planning.  All these hunting stories ended exactly the same, "I was able to freeze 150 pounds of bear meat, 90 pounds of elk meat, and 110 pounds of halibut for the winter."  Winter is always coming up here, frigid cold, tons of snow, and while I loved the 19 hours of sunlight I just experienced, I know there is the reverse six months away, 19 hours of darkness.

But back to the river, all manner of bird dotting its shore or lording over us high above in an eagle’s nest.  And we float.  And the movement of the water carries away your stress, your judgment and lets you just be in the moment for a moment.  It also gave me patience.  While I have been on and in water for most of my life, I entered this anew.  Often in the past, when fishing got slow or I was just ready to get off the boat, I would be sullen and moody and bored.  Over these three days this only happened once and I forgive myself because it came in the last 20 minutes of fishing after two straight days of catching one fish total each day.  No, I spent a great deal of my time enjoying a moment, an ever-changing moment of drifting down a majestic river painted aqua green by the glacial silt.  Floating through trees and mud banks and jumping fish and people fly-fishing from the shore.  The rhythms of the river calmed my mind and invigorated my body and imagination.  Expensive therapy, but worth every penny.

Trying to Train a Trainer

I should be pleased when I learn that the folk around me whom I see every day—the trainers at the gym, neighbors walking kids and dogs, people at the café—have incorporated writing of one sort or another into their lives. In truth, however, I am not always pleased with this development. Taking exception to a shared love of literacy and writing is really only limited to a few cases: conservative pundits/jackasses, insipid celebrities, inarticulate/pandering sports figures, and haughty service providers. I realize that I could easily fall into the last category, but still I will press on with my rant. You see, I just learned that a trainer at my local gym has a blog and I just wasted a few minutes reading it. Allow me to tell you what is wrong with the author and his advice.

On the face of it, Steve’s Body Shop (http://stevesbodyshop.wordpress.com/) might seem like a useful site where one can learn about fitness and the thoughts of a fellow Colorado citizen. However, I have spent too much time around Steve to recommend him or his blog. Let me be more frank: Steve’ purportedly insightful and helpful advice belies a rather vain and condescending attitude toward others. I have taken too many abdominal classes with Steve to believe he cares. In these classes I found his preparation for the evening’s exercise was nonexistent and his central focus was on the attractive women around me. Worse yet, Steve has a tendency (if several of my female gym members are to be believed) to ask out his clients and class members. I could stand a bit of his hypocrisy about learning to love the body one has, pushing his readers to do more cardio, and appreciating the vivacity of the elderly who refuse to give in to age and infirmity were Steve not such a posturing player.


I am no gym rat, nor do I have Steve’s enviable physique, but I do have some respect for the people who share my gym and I do not think that treating females as meat and offering platitudes is to be praised. Were Steve to take something away from my chastisement of him then I would offer him the following suggestions. First, attempt sincerity when possible; many people know that you look at them as inferior specimens, and some of these specimens look back at you with equal amounts of contempt when they sense you are pandering to them with your comments. Second, only ask out people when you are sure that they are interested in you as a sexual partner, not as a trainer or an instructor. Simply put, try not to mix your professional and romantic personas. And third, carefully consider how hubris may play an important role in your future. If Steve can make some of these changes then I might consider returning to his blog. For the time being, I will avoid his classes and his comments.

I Pimp My Pen

Long time no write--apologies all. I just wanted to advise all of our readers that I have lately decided to "pimp my pen," or what might be better understood as writing all manner of things for the benefit of others, and maybe even my own gain. The effort is still at an early stage of implementation, but to date I have written a letter to the editor (LTE) of a local community newspaper that attacked a local group for opposing a proposed bike rental station near our local park. I mean come on: who could oppose more bikes and less traffic around here? My second effort was a contest (again locally based) to explain why I support a neighborhood business. On this occasion I gave reasons why my preferred coffee shop receives so much of my business. To close this brief post, write on I say, write on.

Bent

I have been trying to improve my mood for the past two weeks, but sometimes getting angry is what is both easiest and most immediate. But that is not a sufficient justification for my ill humor; instead I should balance my rage with something positive. Therefore, I offer up this metaphorical scale of something I like and dislike for your consideration.

On the side of extreme dislike, I offer Bryan Fischer. This homophobic, inarticulate, erroneous, and silly excuse for a public figure should make anyone who resides in America and cares about factual statements, accountability, and intelligence pause. Better yet, he ought to be shunned entirely for saying the things he does. If you doubt me then check this clip from The Daily Show: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTVMKERBeuA
Incidentally, I laud The Daily Show for sending up Fischer so cleverly.

Fischer's side of the scale is balanced by the humorous folk at ChristWire for mocking the ridiculous thinking of the religious right with satire. ChristWire offers its visitors a video containing many evangelically oriented euphemisms for lady parts (http://jezebel.com/5858562/finally-some-christian+friendly-words-for-your-vagina?tag=ladyparts), and below are my euphemisms for the male member with a similar evangelical slant:
The one tined pitchfork
A sin sceptre
The sick muscle
The devil's spyglass
A devil's digit
The rooster pole
The obelisk of temptation
The pillar of persuasion
An unholy clam stick
The unclean fishing rod
A pillow prodder
The serpent's tongue
Beezelbub's broomstick
A passion pillar

The Deluxe Billiards

What was initially planned as a reply to Thesaurus’ ode to the tavern has blossomed into my own youthful ruminations and brief commentary on the current state of the American bar.  I have had a long, romantic relationship with the tavern long before I understood its historical significance here in the U.S. (as an extension of the public square, much of the discussion and planning for revolution took place in the taverns of the colonies, historically a space for fellowship, occasional armchair philosophy, and always good cheer). 

I grew up in a college town, a college town that has to this day the ridiculous yet lucrative policy of allowing patrons entrance into a watering hole at nineteen years of age but of course does not allow these kids to drink (wink wink).  A fiendish sub-industry rose up alongside the nineteen and over policy – regular police visits and the issuance of thousands of dollars of underage drinking tickets annually (excuse the momentary digression).

But, I did not have to wait till I was nineteen.  Thanks to an older brother that looked a lot like me in the photo at least, I was bequeathed his fake id at fifteen.  I only tried this id at a few places around my home town, a liquor store on the poor side of town and the campus town bars Coslow’s, Nature’s Table, and Eddie’s, notorious for its lax policy on drinking.  Eddie’s was actually four bars in an enormous old house: Eddie’s in the basement, Chin’s on the first floor, the Tiki Garden on the second and third floors (restaurant and bar) and up in the attic, Chin’s Wok n Roll (all owned by the notorious yet lovable local character George Chin).  I saw two of the top ten live shows of my lifetime in his attic bar (Cowboy X and Titanic Love Affair).  But back to Eddie’s.  At fifteen, my friend Pearse and I sauntered into Eddie’s looking exactly fifteen years old and got drunk on draft beer (never once having to show id this first time).  Nonetheless, underage drinking in bars became fairly routine for me. 

[It was not until recently that I realized I was allergic to some forms of alcohol, darks beers, most wines, and champagne, breaking out in hives, reacting to the sedative qualities, and having extreme hangovers.  This explains my turn toward alternative substances as my preferred method of teenage escape.  Nevertheless, many friends and I were weekend regulars throughout our high school years.] 

This came to a screeching halt when I moved away for college, a Midwestern city with a keen eye for fakes and no tolerance for those that attempted entrance.  So campus parties and cheep keg beer became the order of the day.  However, the twenty year wait would soon come to pass and the first hometown campus bar I ever had a legal drink in upon a visit home was called the Deluxe.  The quintessential dive bar, really an old pool hall with a long wooden bar, an even longer wooden bench against one wall, a bunch of pool tables, and some of the dingiest bathrooms I have ever stepped foot in.  This place was famous for its fish sandwich, which was quite good, but anything fried with competency tastes pretty damn good.  While they did change the fryer oil, I am convinced the secret ingredient was the layers of gristle and oil that caked the deep-fryer that was never cleaned.  A tin ceiling, a beautiful old wood bar, PBR bottles (long before this became chic), wooden bar stools, a black and white checkered floor, and space, lots of space.  It was comfortable.  And a bar does not have to be a dive to be cool and cozy – just  have its own soul, an identity that makes sense.  The Deluxe was one of several places my friends and I frequented over the years.  And for the eight years I spent as a baker / line cook / station cook, most nights were capped off with the comedown only a beer or cordial and a smoke could provide at such establishments.  Cooks and restaurant folk have no tolerance for bullshit chains and non-descript watering holes, needless-to-say I became a bit of a snob myself when it came to getting a drink.

Regrettably, like many areas of our country, the Deluxe lost out to the suburbanization of most of the campus town night life in my home town in the late 90s and 00s (hence faux urbanization).  Eddie’s, Chins, Nature’s Table, Coslow’s and countless other locally-owned, singular entities were swallowed whole by upscale, big-city rip-offs [A cool, somewhat electric bar scene has emerged in areas outside the campus though].  I swore I would never go into the new place that took over the Deluxe (the new place shuttering the old for nearly a year of renovation).  But one day I was convinced to pop in for an afternoon beer.  I was chilled by the experience.  No doubt nostalgia and disgust colored my impressions, but this new place looked like a thousand other places found in hundreds of different towns.  It was cold, bland, uninteresting, the wood appeared to be a veneer, and schlock covered the walls with no clear plan or aesthetic.  Quite uncharacteristically, I asked the folks if we could go somewhere else, and we did.

Unlike Thesaurus, I am fortunate, there are three bars within walking distance that I quite enjoy and while my bar hops are now infrequent, I have a few places nearby that are their own (and two take the menu seriously, offering fare that is not expected and/or good bar food).  And Thesaurus is right, what the fuck is up with the televisions in every possible open space.  I visited a brand new Asian restaurant located in a brand new commercial development recently, and while a bit cliché, the décor demonstrated some thought and care (it had really strong design lines that flowed throughout the restaurant and the color palette worked for me), but all of this was interrupted by this enormous flat screen hanging over the bar that distracted all those patrons not with backs turned.  We can be unplugged for a meal, no?  R.I.P. Deluxe.    

A (Drinking) Place of One’s Own

I will not make apologies; I like taking the occasional drink in public. However, what passes for a good bar in my neighborhood these days appalls me. Gone is the sense of locality and owner’s identity from the décor. Instead I see cost cutting, bland kitsch, and some imitation of style selected from focus groups by corporate decorators. I hate the coldness, the haughtiness, and the overwhelming lack of personality of these places. Within close walking distance—and proximity matters if one wants to be local, inebriated, and responsible—are three bars. Two of them are so soulless as to be sure favorites of the Banana Republic crowd, while the third once felt local and now is just on the make to be corporate. That third bar considers decoration a spate of neon beer signs, cheap tables and barstools, and the acoustics of an airstrip. And while I am at it, can someone please remove the televisions from the bar? I understand their place at a sports bar, but when I want a cocktail or a draft beer I need not consume it in the company of the Sports Center or ESPN.

My preference is for a place with its own style, where the staff takes pride in their establishment because, despite the vicissitudes of capitalism and fickle patronage, it has ridden out the swells of trend and time, manages to entice regulars and new members due to its ability to provide tasty libations and conversation with ease, and can be aged without looking shabby. The ideal bar I have in mind is no Cheers knockoff, but a bar that knows its geography and caters to it. Take my former home of Los Angeles and the Dresden Lounge. Say what you will about L.A., but the Dresden stopped following fads years ago, and now it stands above them. Even the folks behind Swingers knew this; the Dresden makes a cameo in this movie because it gives a glimpse of the “cool” of Old Hollywood that the new kids always hope to find.

When, upon walking in the door of a new bar, you sense that the establishment is attempting to be the next hot spot of a city’s nightlife then I recommend leaving. I do not care what drink is in fashion this week/month/quarter, and I should not have to dress to impress the “Style” section of the New York Times just to have my schnapps. My style is my own creation and my ideal bar should feel likewise. I am not saying that my ideas of décor, attire, and attitude must prevail, but I want to respect my bar for having its own unique take on those three essentials.

I will continue to walk the streets of my neighborhood hoping that one day someone will see bar design my way. And yes, I will drop in the local places for a drink now and then, but I am unlikely to become a regular. At least I can find a small sense of solace in the money I am saving from not drinking more frequently at these establishments. Until something that suits me arrives, I will use those funds on the restaurants in my neighborhood, and some of them have lounges. I think more exploration is in order. Would you care to come along with me?

A Strange (and Hilarious) Moment of Movie Marketing

Thumbing through yesterday’s New York Times “Arts” section on movies and performance, I stumbled upon a full-page age for the latest Nicholas Sparks’ book adapted to film, The Lucky One, and this odd marketing maneuver to sell the film. 

Disclaimer: I have never read the books nor watched the films I am about to comment on, you tell me how much it matters with what follows?  And I do enjoy films that deal with romance and love, supposed “chick flicks,” but these specific types of films, not much of a fan.  [When Harry Met Sally, Say Anything, Eternal Sunshine, … thank you] 

In big letters at the top of the advertisement of the two leads, beautiful young people in an embrace, was the following “It’s Dear John meets The Vow …” [Vow is not a Sparks book].

I burst out laughing and embarrassingly did an involuntary spit-take of water I had just sipped.  The laughter was due to the memory that these two films were roundly criticized, I read one review that had been forwarded by a friend for its scathing dissection.  So I did a quick search, and here are a few words and phrases used to discuss these films: a bad soap opera, mawkish, ridiculous, tedious, concocted banality – you get the picture.  I visited Rotten Tomatoes as they provide a critic’s aggregate of most of the official reviews, each film received a 28% favorable ruling, average of 4.4 out of 10 for Dear John and 4.9 out of 10 for The Vow.

So back to the choice to compare this new release to two films widely dismissed as junk.  What were the movie marketers and their millions of dollars of budget thinking?  We can return to Rotten Tomatoes for the answer, both of the earlier films had a 65% viewer ranking, which means these movies made money.

Our friend M. Doughty said it best: “Gone savage for teenagers that are aesthetically pleasing, in other words fly.  Los Angeles beckons the teenagers to come to her on buses; Los Angeles loves love.”

In Praise of Goths

Listen: I am the last person to defend the purportedly innocent pastime of objectifying women. In fact, I despise the whole Maxim mentality, what with its penchant for ill-fitting lingerie and silly steam room aesthetic. However, I will confess an appreciation for the sartorial excess of Goth. Just yesterday the Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/gallery/2012/apr/26/goth-for-life-in-pictures) ran a series of photos chronicling Goth gatherings and I was impressed.

While I came of age during Goth’s first flourish, I had neither the fearlessness nor the physical qualities that made for a good Goth (I am short, tan easily, and lack that aristocratic English bone structure). But like MC Frontalot, I do appreciate the look of those Goth girls. But I won’t play the sexist here; some men can pull off the Goth look too. For instance, how about the aging Goth front man Carl McCoy (Fields of Nephilim)? I would not try to wed frontier fashion with a Mad Max apocalyptic sensibility, but McCoy pulls it off.

How about these lovely British souls at the Whitby Goth Weekend? The matron in this photo, and I use that term primarily for its historical resonance to the Goth folk, looks rather stunning in her corset and mourning veil.

Then there are these three folk in the cemetery. The older gentleman takes me back to childhood memories of the original Dark Shadows, while the younger woman in scarlet looks rather like Kate Beckinsale. I tell you, there are sure to be some sci-fi devotees actively imagining themselves in the crypt with these two.

In preparation for the coming weekend, let us raise our figurative glasses to the Goths. I salute your avoidance of convention, your willingness to work within a limited color palette, and your appreciation of a fashion that has been thirty years in the making. Cheers!

Praising Auditus

There are many reasons I consider Auditus a good friend, but some of you may not be familiar enough with my collaborator here to know what they are. So in a spirit of honor and education I want to give you a sense of why I am honored to call him a friend.

1) He has taught me to appreciate music of all sorts. Yes readers, I have limitations and snobbery is among them. Auditus has taught me that as far as popular music is concerned, there are no guilty pleasures. He has convinced me that a good song is a good song, even if the person who recorded it is a joke and the only reason it was released was to make a record label vast sums of cash. Now I can own up to liking Rick Astley (nice voice), the occasional hair band (Cinderella), and old school rap/hip-hop (NWA). But Auditus is not just about redeeming songs, he knows vast amounts of information about bands, instruments, producers, and all other such details so as to make the average fan mag covet his knowledge. I prostrate myself before the alter of music wisdom that is Auditus.

2) Auditus appreciates artistry of all sorts. Be it athletic grace, witty prose, or an insightful interview, Auditus knows why he likes particular public figures. Trust me here, watching the Daily Show is much more fun with Auditus in the room; one never learns so much as when he calls out the name of a particular rhetorical tactic while John Stewart takes apart another politician.

3) The value of animal companions is not lost of him. Whether one likes dogs, cats, snakes, or hamsters, Auditus understands. His own best (canine) friend is a model of civility and peacefulness, and to watch them together is to understand what thousands of years of human/animal collaboration has given to our society. Here are two beings attuned to each other’s needs and most comfortable in the other’s presence.

4) I learn something almost every time I talk to Auditus. This should not be a surprise to our readers, given that his deconstructions of political tactics and rhetorical strategies are worthy of graduate seminar lectures. However, if I have not said this before one reason that I do not offer as many political critiques as my blog partner is because I do not think that I can equal his insights.

5) The man is damn funny. Some folks are witty, some are humorous, but Auditus is hilarious. He can be sardonic, wry, silly, and withering, but in all cases his comments elicit smiles and laughter. There was one time a potential graduate student was staying with us and Auditus . . . oh never mind. I need not embarrass someone unable to defend himself, but I can say Auditus coined an expression on the spot and it still makes me chuckle. Let me just say that Auditus knows how to use humor.

There are many more flattering things I could say about Auditus, but this should convince you that he is deserving of your attention and my friendship.

Play Time

I too have a desire to stand on the stage with a voice that has the beauty of Jonsi, the howl of Robert Plant, the soar of Adele, the high notes of Jeff Buckley, the low notes of Mark Eitzel, the strut of Mick, the sexiness of Marvin, the emotion of Bruce, the soul of Tina, the rawness of Axl – talk about greedy. And yet I still want more, because I also want to be shredding a Gibson Les Paul at 11 through a stack of Marshalls. Catchy melodies and an occasional solo, hands sliding up and down the neck, bending the strings, working the peddles – play guitar as Mellencamp once said. 

Some say all boys love the guitar for its phallic extension, there is no doubt I would love to play the opening riff of Whole Lotta Love so I can feel it in my loins. But one of my two greatest regrets from youth, not sticking with musical training and not paying better attention or practice in German class. So this desire to be the ultimate front man and ultimate lead guitarist might paint the picture of a man filled with grand delusions of grandeur, no doubt there is some part of me that enjoys the center, wants to take home the girl. But there is also the potential for positive internal comfort that comes from the mastery of difficult skills and living an artists’ life. While I rarely, if ever, admit it – I love to perform. I enjoy the ledge, the preparation, the partnership, and that adrenaline rush so unique to the performance (part of why I love teaching).

As for sports, like a good boy, I played many in my youth. But by my late teens, I had one sports infatuation and that was basketball.  But other than park district ball, the school playground was the only witness to my sporadic glory and far too many bricks.

But I grew up in the Jordan era. So, again, I had daydreams of the basketball court – skying for a rebound, drop-step fade away jumper, dunking over some poor soul, the game-winning basket. If you liked basketball in the Jordan era and you watched closely like I did for a lot of years, you saw someone play with everything he had every night on the court – whether a meaningless game against the Clippers or six championship finals. You also were witness to something astonishing every night, some impossible shot, and shutdown defense. You changed watching him play, he changed you, and how you thought about the game, the possibilities. My interest for basketball has waned in the years since, changed for many reasons. So have my opinions about the man off the court, but those memories resonate still to this day and conjure up an occasional asphalt wonderland.

The grace and power of surfing has always intrigued me, I got up once or twice on a long board many moons ago in Hawaii, and I hope to paddle out again in the future gliding atop the water in concert with the motion of the wave.

A Desire for Staggering Talent

I am going to hazard a very safe guess: Most of us would want to possess a talent of enviable proportions. Actually, I think many of us would like multiple talents of this sort. There are many reasons why we would like to have such skills, but I think there are at least three elements at play, at least in terms of my own psyche: insecurity, a histrionic nature, and a curiosity to know what that skill feels like when it is employed. Feeling confessional today, I thought I would share this short list of those talents I wish I possessed.

I believe I have said this before, but if I could be a member of a musical group then I would prefer to take the role of lead singer. Certainly, this confession reveals all manner of things about my personality and superficiality. Before you get too smug in your certainty of my emotional state, however, consider that I would like to have a voice of a particular quality. Surprisingly enough, that quality is a depth of tone. Now I am not talking about the average deep voice one hears in some popular music; I am talking about a truly deep voice of the sort possessed by Paul Robeson or Thurl Ravenscroft. Years ago I hear the Chorovaya Akademia perform live. One member of the group, their bass, had a voice so deep and rich that I felt shivers as his notes ringed the balcony around me. When I hear a voice this deep I want to be able to produce sounds of the same sort. Unfortunately, I have neither the training nor quality that I desire. Still, had I that talent I might sound like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kMZih9eQThw

Surprisingly, I do not harbor desires for many athletic talents. Maybe this is because I was a decent high school athlete, or possibly because I still stay active. All the same, every once and a while I see a sport that I have no idea how to play and would like to possess the speed and power related to it. I used to harbor a small interest in surfing, but now I think I might want to possess the skills of a world-class rugby player. Being that I am rather small of stature, I would look a bit odd on the field. As for a visual, use this one of Shane Williams, but think leaner.

Having said all of this, I cannot be the only person with such impossible desires. What, I ask, are yours?

The Pop Music Tableaux Circa 1984-1993

The dinner party got off to an awkward start, what with everyone trying to arrive fashionably late. Once in the door, however, they all headed to the bar. Said bar was simply an alcove carved out of the living room wall and decorated with strips of mirrored glass and stained cork paneling. Foreshadowing his role in years to come, Andy Rourke acted as DJ, offering the assembled group choice cuts of Delta Blues and authentic rockabilly. Lloyd Cole held court in a shadowed corner, his blue eyes artfully covered by the hanging strands of his lightly tousled hair. Emma Anderson listened to him expound on Ezra Pound and what keys he favored when playing acoustic guitar. She nodded respectfully, her cigarette smoke rising in slow swirls toward the textured ceiling. Morrissey, as was often the case, hid himself away in the kitchen, where he and Miki Berenyi shared stories of rabid fans over glasses of an imported rosé. The assembled members of New Order mingled throughout the crowd, but when last I looked Bernard Sumner and Johnny Marr were having a friendly debate on their favorite brand of guitar strings. Speaking of guitars, Dave Wakeling brought one along in case anyone wanted to play a song or two; this was all for naught though, as no one wanted to raise the specter of competition in this accomplished yet fragile group.

Shaun Ryder and Bez slipped off to the bathroom for a bit of E, and bumped into Neil Tennant. Neil wanted to talk about the latest reviews from NME, but the Mondays had different plans. Some time later Neil found himself counseling Peter Hook about the art of keeping the band together.

Drinking pints on the servants’ porch were Paul Heaton and Billy Bragg. They agreed that socialism went best with lager. John Lydon had to disagree, and by disagree I mean he tossed his can through the neighbor’s window and stormed off into the night. Behind the house in a yard thick with shrubs Boy George and a rent boy were frolicking on the swing, or at least that is how it looked as I passed a window on my way out the door. Clare Grogan and David Stewart sat cross-legged on the lawn and waved me a quick goodbye as they went on chatting about who-knows-what. “What a pity,” said Stewart Copeland as I unlocked my car. He was leaving too and I didn’t even notice him parked behind me. “This was a really great party before everyone else knew about it,” he intoned. “But isn’t that always the case? By the time people realize something is blowing up the next new thing is always taking form on the horizon.” I nodded and shut the car door. Stewart always impressed me with his ability to keep time and find a different beat. Behind me in the mirror I saw a crowd starting to form on the sidewalk, but then I looked forward and lost sight of it all.

Missing My Mija

[Author’s note: This semi-fictional story was inspired by an actual text message and attached photo from a wrong number.]


Do you know how hard it is to be a player nowadays? Just last night my current girl left her phone with me while she went out drinkin’ with her friends. Bored, I decided to text Kells, her cute friend back in high school to see what she was up to. Kells and I have been flirting for weeks now, and I was sure something would happen if I helped it to. I even included a photo for her so she could see just how good I am looking lately.

Hours go by, but nothing happens. I figured maybe she was out, so I reset Dacia’s phone thinking that my text would disappear with the rest of her data, which it did. But this morning some random guy returns my text from last night telling Dacia that she had the wrong number. With no background for his message Dacia begins asking this guy all sorts of questions because she knows I had her phone. (Man, a player can never catch a break. Just when I am getting sly some chump comes and wrecks my plans). He tells her about the first message and the photo, so soon I am fumbling to explain myself. Then I come up with a plan; I will call this guy and tell him he has the wrong number--case closed. Everything is going fine until he cops an attitude and tells me that I was the one with the wrong number. But before I can tell him off he chills out and says it is no problem and hopes that I have a good morning. Now I am confused. Dacia knows that something is up and is fuming, while some random guy was nice to me for no reason. I give Dacia back her phone and tell her I have to roll so that I can get ready for work. She doesn’t say a thing as I close the door behind me. I know we are over, but the good news is that Kells and I can start something. Next time I text Kells I am going to double-check her number. Stupid Dacia doesn’t even have the right info in her phone for her closest friends. I am telling you, a player can’t ever catch a break.

A Day of Concern and Contrast

While ultimately a worthwhile detour in my teaching career, I am teaching a class this semester that has made me question and evaluate all of my teaching practices. In nearly ten years of collegiate instruction, I have never, ever had a collection of students this pathetic. Nearly half of this class received Fs at the midterm. The students do not come to class, do not turn in assignments at all or on time, never come to class prepared, do not listen, cannot follow instructions, fail every reading quiz, cannot perform basic / competent research, in some cases cannot write simple sentences, have an astonishing level of entitlement, and generally are not prepared for college – ultimately they are wasting their time and my time.

At some point it is on the students to learn and perform, so on one level I have given up trying (I still hold class, still give reading quizzes, the assignments will still be required and graded, I go over the course material – I am not proud of this development for the final three weeks of class, but I have lost energy and spent significant time in reflection, planning and worry regarding these students and I am just waiting for class to end). There were three students, THREE, that I thought I was reaching and who were producing above-average college work and kept me interested in class, but even these three completely under-performed on the major assignment due today. So, I am giving as much attention and respect to the class as the students have for the remainder of the semester.

I have tried everything, been nice, been mean, lectured, group discussion, group activities, small group discussion, small group activities, watched videos, asked questions, critiqued contemporary rhetoric, connected topics to their lives after school, read popular media about vampires and reality television, had one-on-one meetings – throwing everything I can at them to see what works, see what sticks. Oh, there were a few days I was satisfied with their participation and comprehension, but most days I walked out of the classroom with slumped shoulders and a befuddled brain.

Today was no exception. After the students complained about how short a time I had given them to complete the assignment due today, I made the classic mistake of adjusting the schedule and gave the class an additional four days (weekend included) to complete the assignment, believing this would produce better work (my initial review of the assignments this evening: uninspired, underdeveloped, and rushed assignments that might average out to a C-minus for the class). Other than one or two students, giving a class more time only means one thing: the student will procrastinate longer and still rush to complete the assignment. Fuck! I knew this and am so mad at myself for not relying on my classroom experience. Instead, I bargained with the students, not often a good idea!

I received two emails this morning from students requesting extensions on the assignment due today (the most-important assignment of the year with the highest single point value toward their grade). Here are excerpts from my replies to these students:

I have already given you one extension, and that is all each student is provided. You have been aware of this assignment for over two weeks, so there is no reason you should not be prepared. There will be no extension, and I am astounded by your request.

You have had two weeks to complete the assignment, had your outline reviewed by a classmate a week ago, although you never sent a draft to me (which is another point deduction). So why are you not ready to go? Did you know this yesterday? Why did you not talk to me about this in-person, in class? This is not something that should be handled via email the day an assignment is due. As I said at the midterm, you have choices in college, so the choice is yours.

Thankfully, this maddening day in the classroom was wiped away by the other classroom I have led this semester (thankfully a mere hour later). I work with a group of 25 first-year students that compose an advisory council that has met seven times this semester; providing feedback on topics, assignments, the classroom environment for a first year seminar required by my college (1800 students first semester students, in 80 small group sections). This classroom workshop has been phenomenal. These students are so engaged on campus and in the classroom. This was a volunteer council and I had nearly full attendance at every meeting. They completed assignments and readings outside of class, provided written and oral communication, and are currently producing an amazing welcome video to the incoming class of 2012 to be debuted at a Welcome Event in the Fall.

These students are smart, funny, insightful, imaginative, courteous, prepared, conscientious – the exact opposite of my class discussed above. I leave every meeting with a smile and a thousand ideas for curriculum development, new topics and assignments, and a sense of accomplishment and pride (in them and myself).

Is this what is ultimately bothering me about this semester’s other classroom experience? My identity is so tied to being a teacher and the pangs of doubt and failure are weighing me down? Is it all really just about me? I cannot translate my area of interest and passion to these students, skills that will be essential throughout college and their lives afterwards? No doubt, some of this doubt is about my identity as a teacher.

But there is a much bigger concern, has the systemic paring down and dismantling of public education produced this rotten fruit? Has the everyone-gets-a-ribbon culture of no accountability and standards gutted a generation?  Has the lack of real writing in high school and teaching-to-the-test created students incapable of critical thinking?  The first-year seminar referenced above was started by a directive from our provost after studies clearly demonstrated that current first-year students at my university had a significant gap in knowledge that is essential for college success. [And the 25 students participating in the council this semester were the best students from the fall, not a representative sample of the 1800 students in the course]  And my own class this semester has 80 percent, 4 out of 5 students, that are not prepared and not capable of college success – I teach an introductory course this semester, while the workload and requirements are significant, the material is not. 30 percent of the class was failing last week (all 5 of these students have petitioned the department to withdraw from the class as it is now too late to drop, wasting three-fourths of a semester). And I don’t think this is one of those back-in-my-day moments.

So, while I am thankful for one amazing classroom this semester, I loathe another. And I am worried about what is happening to our educational system. Thanks for letting me vent.

McCarthy's Love Child

Representative Allen West (FL) has double-downed on his recent claim that there are 68 to 71 members of the Communist Party in the Legislative Branch of the United States government (please see post Wheeling, Revisited below for further information).  In the grand spirit of his rhetorical father, Senator Joseph McCarthy, West has not backed down from his claims, but when asked to name names, he noted he was not going to play that game.

Instead, he gave us these rhetorical jewels taken straight from the red scare handbook: "There is a very thin line between communism, progressivism, Marxism, Socialism.  It's about nationalizing production, it's about creating and expanding the welfare state, it's about this idea of social and economic justice ... it is also about the creation of a secular state."  

He went on to say that the recent “debate” over  proposed federal government rules requiring most private insurance policies to cover female contraceptives was actually the communist plot of the federal government to manipulate religious organizations “however they wish.”  West concluded by stating “Folks, do your research, understand these ideologies, this is a choice between two very clear futures for the United States of America.  And I’m not going to back down.”

The classic maneuvers of a fear campaign on display.  First, level the first of many unsubstantiated claims by creating a bogeyman, in this instance via a list of people, 68 to 71 members of Congress to be exact, that are communists infiltrating our government.  When challenged on this specious claim, the magician’s sleight of hand begins and the initial fear tactic is set aside, the list vanishes into thin air, essentially forgotten by the rhetor, and new claims of a threat to our way of life are introduced, and more specifically threats to religion are at the root of your political enemy’s enterprise.  The grand maneuver of fear production, a false binary is produced (one of the most used fallacies in political argumentation and persuasion - the false dilemma/binary); and you have a choice here folks, the traditional America you love OR a communist, dictatorial state of big brother controlling all.  Finally, the cherry on top of his rhetorical sundae - the ethos/mythos creation of a lone warrior fighting to stop this insurgency for all us, a warrior that will not back down to the threat of communism.

In the first quarter of 2012, Allen West raised $1.8 million toward his re-election campaign.  I wonder how he did that? 

Canine Politics

Although first published several years ago, a particular story has dogged Mitt Romney’s campaign for months during the 2012 Republican primary.  The Dog Story.  A quick synopsis (confirmed by multiple members of the Romney family): while driving the family from Boston to Toronto in 1985, Mitt thought it a good idea to affix a dog kennel to the roof of the car, toss the dog, Seamus, inside, and take a road trip with the family.  During the trip, several of his sons noticed a brown liquid dripping down the side and proceeded to yell out, “gross,” as the dog had shat in his temporary living quarters, which was now streaming down the car (as any dog owner would know, dogs are quite susceptible to anxiety, they hate being left alone, often get nervous during lightning storms), so hurtling down the interstate at 65 miles per hours does wonders for their psyches and bowels.

When asked about this story some years later, Mitt’s first attempt at an explanation included, the kennel was air-tight so the dog was safe.  Well, if the box was air tight, the dog would have died and shit would not have been all over his car.  In his second attempt at an explanation, Mitt assured all of us that the dog loved it, it was no big deal, Seamus jumped right in.

At first glance, maybe this story can be dismissed as a mole hill, media hyperbole elevating a story to circulate through a couple of news cycles.   Just as the commercial media elevated no less than eight candidates as the next Republican nominee (remember Michele Bachmann and Herman Cain?) to fill their 24 hours of horse racing, Mitt’s dog story might be just that.  But those folks came and went (as well as an infinite number of forgotten election controversies), Seamus has not gone away.

And the reason this anecdote has not vanished is because in many significant ways it demonstrates the problem with the Romney campaign.  The guy is clueless, so detached from reality and so inept at human connection that he thought it was a good idea to drive a car down the road with a dog fastened to the roof.  At its simplest: this was a terrible idea, end of story.  As president, don’t we want a leader that makes good decisions?

Another example of the detriment to and symbolism of this story on the Romney campaign, the Republican echo chamber began a talking points campaign this week highlighting an excerpt from President Obama’s first book, Dreams of My Father, and his story of being a nine-year old in Indonesia that ate dog meat (as well as snake, grasshopper) served by his stepfather.  While hard to comprehend in our culture where dogs are members of our family, in the Indonesian culture as well as many others, eating dog is not uncommon.

Nevertheless, in an interview with the National Review, Mitt was asked this week the following question: In light of the President’s strange dietary selections in Indonesia, what is the strangest food you’ve ever eaten?  Mitt’s reply: I don’t recall eating anything particularly bizarre.  In addition to this gem, Sarah Palin made a joke about eating dog meat, Romney aide Eric Fehrnstrom commented on a photo of the President with the White House dog as a “chilling photo,” and then comes the best of the best, Daily Caller genius Jim Treacher (the man taking credit for unearthing this bombshell from Obama’s New York Times best seller first published in 1995) who declared this week: Say what you want about Romney, but at least he only put a dog on the roof of his car, not the roof of his mouth. And whenever you bring up the one, we're going to bring up the other.

So first things first, Mitt’s reflection on his own dietary practices was one in a thousand ways the President has been categorized as the Other.  Mitt tells us that he has eaten escargot and oysters and mussels but these are not “exceptional features of American restaurants.”  The ethnocentrism at the root of his personal observation is another clear illustration of his disconnect and narrow view of the world.

Now let us get back to Treacher and his surrogacy here for Romney: the campaign wants the dog story to go away, and yet, here it is in back in our faces, front and center.  And more moronically, Treacher compares Mitt Romney’s decision-making and leadership to that of a nine-year-old boy.  So the standards his supporters are holding him to are the same as a child, a relatively poor child living with his family on the other side of the world.  Do not forget, it was Romney that bound Seamus and the kennel to the roof of a car, not a nine-year old boy.

The Sound and Sights this Morning

I was not ready to work on the dissertation this morning, so I thought that I might warm up a bit by considering the week’s subject (music) one more time. My love of music is a pleasure I take as a consumer and not a producer. To the great disappointment of both my ego and insecurity, I seem to have no skills as a musician. While I can sing tolerably, I do not feel I possess the vocal qualities of a skillful lead singer. Having watched a friend in high school with more swagger than talent embarrass himself (in my mind, not his) in front of our peers, I opted never to go down the road of having more musical desire than talent. Hence, I fancy myself a fan of popular music. Rock, electronica, classical, jazz, blues, rockabilly, tango, and other styles all appeal to me to greater or lesser degrees. These thoughts of music are at the forefront of my consciousness as my online music subscription just renewed and I was able to add a few more jewels to my collection. Today’s haul included some Underworld (Glam Bucket), Pet Shop Boys (Love etc.), Win Win (Interleave), Big Mamma Thornton (I’m Feeling Alright), and Morrissey. There is more electronica than anything else here, but I will own that; most of my listening these days occurs when I am working out at the gym and when I am writing. Having something upbeat suits these occasions. Clearly, I am still feeling a bit self-conscious if I must explain why I am favoring one genre of music.

Anyway, the sights beyond my window are filled with the evidence of spring. The purple locust is beginning to flower. In the yards beyond my own I see the rich green of new grass and trees leafing out for the first time in months. At this hour the sky is a hazy blue, not quite the color of a robin’s egg but lighter than a swimming pool in summer. Quite the lovely backdrop for a morning of writing I must say. And you, fair reader, what combination of senses describes your environs?

The Elevator Music Effect

The day is still young and I want to jot a quick note to our readers on this week’s topic--music. I can only agree with Auditus’ recent thoughts on singer-songwriters. Still, I must confess in all embarrassment that there are often times when I simply want a music track that helps propel me through my work and whose lyrics and notes do not/should not captivate me enough to pay full attention. Please don’t get me wrong: I am foremost a fan of insightful lyrical content and compelling note structure, but if I must concentrate then I often cannot afford the time to be distracted by the artistry of a particular musician or group. Hence I have several iTunes playlists composed of songs whose sole function is to keep me moving forward with a project and do not call particular attention to themselves. As I said, this is an embarrassing admission.

I might even propose a very tentative thesis; as music collections and the devices that play them have become ever more portable I think many of us have altered our relationship with prerecorded music so that it now acts as a permanent background for our other activities. Of course this has been happening for many years, but the elevator music effect as I might term it has moved from banal corporate spaces into our most personal spaces. Once our listening was no longer ruled by radio station playlists and the discomfort related to transporting our collections, music became less a pleasure for which we were willing to make sacrifices, such schlepping tapes and CD’s with us. Furthermore, as earphones became acceptable workplace attire, we could listen discreetly to whatever we wanted whenever we wanted (within certain prescribed bounds). The result of all this being that I find myself limiting my musical selections more often than not to those pieces that do not excite, captivate, or intrigue me to the point of distraction. This makes me wonder if I might be dishonoring my musical purchases and the people who make them. Yes, this assumes that the artists in question took serious time to write, record, and advertise their output, but I will abide that assumption. After all, I prefer not to own the most commercialized and least personalized of popular music. But still, I am unsure if the changes wrought by the ability to easily transport and play my music collection are always for the best. What do you think?

Lloyd Cole, Alright

Thesaurus has struck a tuning fork and the melodies and choruses of hundreds of singer-songwriters can be heard in my subtle acoustic resonations emanating from the tines.  While spoken for much different reasons in Cameron Crowe-ease, this blog title is a second round of cheers to Lloyd Cole.  Actually, I must broaden the cheers to all the singer-songwriters that have captured my angst, spoken of love, stung by heartache, found the humor, railed against injustice, ridiculed our “leaders,” and ultimately told stories of life and the human condition.  While I like to think I have an expansive taste in music, leave me on a desert island, put together an all-time top ten list, there will be many singer-songwriters joining me / on my list.

Before returning to Lloyd, I quick aside as to how I found him.  For many teenagers, music and youth are essential to survival.  With rampant hormones and voracious external pressures, relief must be found somewhere.  For me, the first time this happened was from my neighbors to the North in the form of Paul Westerberg, and when I heard Color Me Impressed, Within Your Reach, Answering Machine, Kiss Me on the Bus, Left of the Dial and most notably, Here Comes a Regular.  Who was this guy, with sloppy guitars, a voice that broke, and lyrics as clever, witty, mean, enlightening, and beautiful as any read in a book?  And are there others out there like him?  [As always happens, the rest of The Replacements are forgotten, this is unintended here, but Paul was the songwriter].

Well, that question has led to a lifetime of discovery.  Elvis Costello, Patti Smith, Tom Petty, Aimee Mann, Mark Eitzel, Tommy Keene, Shawn Colvin, Elliot Smith, Kevin Salem, Jeff Buckley, Mathew Sweet, Tommy Stinson, Josh Rouse, Ryan Adams, Conor Oberst, Neko Case, Ray LaMontagne, Bon Iver, Norah Jones, and so on.  And of course Lloyd Cole, who I first heard with the Commotions and Rattlesnakes, but it’s his self-titled first solo album that has deep grooves from its heavy rotation [“the coolest thing I ever saw, you were sitting there smoking my cigarettes.  You were naked on the bare stone floor”].  The guitar inter-play, the melodies and chorus, the lyrical references nuanced and complicated – all packaged in an amazing four-minute pop song.

The singer-songwriter has morphed into a pejorative in some circles, the pretentious poser rambling on and on with no direction, or the guy singing and strumming on the fraternity staircase as Belushi walks by and obliterates his guitar, or in the eyes of the old-fashioned record industry: music we can’t sell.  And most of those names listed above never found much widespread commercial success, certainly enough to make it their profession, but no boy band or virginal pop-princess fame and money came their way [of course, a few reached high up the rungs].  But for me, those names above represent me, my youth, my outlooks, my soundtrack.  So indeed, three cheers to Lloyd Cole, three cheers to the singer-songwriter. 

Giving Credit to Lloyd Cole

There is someone to whom most of us are indebted, even if we have never met our influence in person, shared a drink, or had a long conversation. One of these influences of mine is Lloyd Cole. I first heard his songs as a high school kid back in Central California, but what really sealed my allegiance to Lloyd (I have known him so long now that we are on a first name basis) was my sophomore roommate in college playing his album X for me. I was studying creative writing and trying to get a handle on the whole loving-the-opposite-sex-but-not-being-loved-by-them-thing. Lloyd’s songs were poetic, employing an obvious degree of literary knowledge and an enviable ability to turn a memorable phrase. He also understood the appeal many males like myself have held for the beautiful but damaged woman. Yes Lloyd was my musical companion. In fact, I would surely include a few of his songs on that imaginary MP3 player that would accompany me to the deserted isle on which I would be stranded. Yep, Lloyd would serenade me as I scaled the rough bark of coconut trees and chased fish in the tranquil waters of the lagoon.

I was reminded of my fondness for Lloyd Cole today when I came across an older article about him from Traffic East Magazine (http://trafficwest.com/archives/issue-three/lloyd-cole-in-his-american-circumstance). The article is good and captures just why so many of us appreciate his oeuvre. I need not summarize the piece for you (I think you should read it for yourselves), but I felt I needed to acknowledge my debt to Lloyd and hope that maybe some of you might check out his music on your own. Feel free to start with his earlier work with the Commotions. I particularly recommend “Jennifer She Said”, “My Bag”, and “Perfect Skin”. From there I suggest you give the aforementioned X and then Love Story a listen. The rest of his catalogue is impressive too, but one needs to start somewhere. As for myself, I am grooving to Music in a Foreign Language at present, which always shocks me with its ability to capture the feelings I had of inhabiting Los Angeles in the Nineties and being a somewhat lost college graduate. Lloyd’s music does that: It transports one to a period and a place with its circling guitar chords and confessional yet witty lyrics. But I will not claim this is just a sentimental time machine. Lloyd’s music helps us to begin a halting dialogue with our former selves in the hope that the experiences of our past might explain the current conditions of our present circumstances. In one of my favorite songs—“My Alibi”—he writes, “Remember when you said you're my best friend
 If that's the best that I've got”. Well, I consider Lloyd both a friend and certainly one of the best popular musicians we have. I hope you can become acquainted too.

Conservative Talk Radio War?

Maybe this is elected naïveté, but I am still going to hold out hope; according to NPR, Mike Huckabee is going to have a radio show to compete with Rush Limbaugh (http://www.npr.org/2012/04/12/150365244/huckabee-pledges-more-civil-alternative-to-limbaugh). The hope onto which I am holding centers on Huckabee’s claim that his show will be “the community of conversation.” The implied contrast is with Rush Limbaugh, who offers his listeners a community of confrontation and aggression. Look, I am no Limbaugh fan, particularly because I find him to be guilty of applying the most deplorable rhetorical tactics to sway his audience towards his improbably claims. Moreover, the hypocrisy of a former drug addict and likely sex tourist (http://www.cbsnews.com/2100-201_162-1753947.html) advising the nation about the moral decrepitude of others is too hard to take.

Therefore, while I may not be a political supporter of Huckabee I welcome a different conservative voice that claims to prefer conversation to vituperation and welcomes disagreement with consideration instead of denigration. As for Limbaugh, I am enjoying the irony that economic competition may erode his appeal, particularly because he is such a staunch supporter of free markets and the competition associated with capitalism. Maybe this conservative media war will provide the sort of thoughtful entertainment radio shows like Limbaugh’s own have failed to provide. So man the battlements conservatives, there is a civil war! We more moderate folk will wait to clean up the mess, as is so often the case.

Wheeling, Revisited

“The reason why we find ourselves in a position of impotency is not because our only powerful potential enemy has sent men to invade our shores but rather because of the traitorous actions of those who have been treated so well by this Nation. It has not been the less fortunate, or members of minority groups who have been traitorous to this Nation, but rather those who have had all the benefits that the wealthiest Nation on earth has had to offer: the finest homes, the finest college education and the finest jobs in government we can give.

This is glaringly true in the State Department.  There the bright young men who are born with silver spoons in their mouths are the ones who have been most traitorous …

I have here in my hand a list of 205 … a list of names that were made known to the Secretary of State as being members of the Communist Party and who nevertheless are still working and shaping policy in the State Department.”

-Senator Joseph McCarthy, Wheeling, West Virginia, February 9, 1950

Often credited as launching his presence on (and as) the national consciousness, McCarthy’s “Wheeling Speech” quoted above, is a tragic example of demagoguery that has littered United States’ history.  A few days following this speech, McCarthy held up a piece of paper during a speech in Salt Lake City claiming to be a list of 57 communists in the U.S. government.  At the same time he sent a telegram to President Truman repeating this claim and ordered the president to root out and fire these 57 employees of the government.   The numbers shift between Wheeling and Salt Lake are insignificant when falsely shouting fire in a theater. 

Four long or short years later, depending on your perspective, McCarthy’s infamy would lead to a censure by the U.S. Senate and findings from the Tydings Committee that his charges were a “fraud and hoax.”  Simply put, this moment in our history should never be forgotten.  Why you ask? 

While all of us should know what occurred after Wheeling, it is often forgotten by most or simply limited by the term McCarthyism and the whims of a single madman.  An abbreviated reminder:

·    McCarthy held countless public hearings under the banner of the House Un-American Activities committee, where citizens had to publicly justify their First Amendment protected actions against spurious allegations and bogus evidence;

·    Countless citizens were blacklisted and ostracized by society, for decades in some instances, and publicly imprisoned by McCarthy’s careless and shameless accusations;   

·    McCarthy’s red scare produced un-constitutional legislation, like the McCarran Internal Security Act and I quote “In the United States those individuals who knowingly and willfully participate in the world Communist movement, when they so participate, in effect repudiate their allegiance to the United States, and in effect transfer their allegiance to the foreign country in which is vested the direction and control of the world Communist movement,” and the Communist Control Act and I quote, “To outlaw the Communist Party, to prohibit members of Communist organizations from serving in certain representative capacities, and for other purposes.”

As a society built on of the rule of law (sorry evangelicals) as the foundation for our society, McCarthy and these laws are tragic moments of vague, ambiguous injustice.  These laws were so broad that single men were given king-like powers.  Thankfully, McCarthy was brought down by the simple, televised question: “Have you left no sense of decency?” during the Army-McCarthy hearings.  Yes, in the end the dominance of pathos wore off and logos, ethos, and pathos collectively righted our ship.

So, why I am revisiting ancient history?  Because last weekend, current U.S. Congressmen Allen West (FL) made the following claim: “I believe there’s about 78 to 81 members of the Democrat Party who are members of the Communist Party.” 

See above for why this is total bullshit.

Appreciating Spring

Given the lovely weather we are having here just east of the Rockies, I thought I would offer up a different sort of post for your reading pleasure.

As a child spring used to be my favorite time of year; back in central California the yard of my father’s house was always verdant and the scent of flowers was on the air. Even the oppressive smog seemed to lessen in springtime. The reveries of the season were somewhat lessened when my allergies would trouble me, but I always liked the colors and scents April brought us. As the years passed I grew fonder of autumn, which I attribute in part to Keats’ poetry and my burgeoning appreciation of cooking local foods (so many more items seem available at our local farmers markets in fall).

Today, however, I am giving spring a renewed appreciation. From yesterday’s overcast skies and later flurries of wet, spring snow this morning we found ourselves blessed with some roiling clouds above the mountains and the remainder of the sky quickly bluing toward the plains. The air was still wet and fresh, while the pavement had a few puddles left from the previous day’s precipitation. Both the dogs and I enjoyed our stroll through the neighborhood, taking in the scents and sights of a landscape freshly washed and still dripping. Spring, in its lush and fecund attire, was finally with us. Here, ankle-level with the Rocky Mountains, I can understand spring’s popularity, particularly when the air smells so rich and the sidewalks are covered in a confetti of early flower petals. There is little point to noting the variety of the seasons if one cannot appreciate them all, and I find myself becoming a convert once again to the charms of this period of budding and renewal.

Theocratic Living and Design

Readers:

I have been absent for a spell and I am sorry for not providing you with my thrice-weekly rant. However, I see my apology is unnecessary because Auditus filled with void with some good humor and clear thinking related to our ongoing argument with Michael Eden. I really do not think I am up to equaling Auditus’ post on the matter, but I will offer up some thoughts inspired by his own.

Some years back a friend of mine who labels herself an evangelical Christian asked me about my religious views. When I told her that I was happily agnostic she questioned my intellectual commitment because, to paraphrase her, thinking about God is the most essential of questions. I disagreed with her then and I more strongly disagree with Eden and other evangelical folk now. For me trying to argue about one’s faith and attempting to persuade others to change their views on the subject is often a colossal waste of time. Why so, you ask? The reason is that arguing about disprovable faiths gets in the way of living. What I mean is that, for me at least, the point of life is trying to figure out what one can do, how to best live with oneself and others, and what sort of a positive change can be made in the circumstances into which we are cast. I find the idea of a text that purportedly conveys all the answers to life’s questions is anathema to free thinking, self-direction, and intellectual curiosity.

And to digress further, living in a religious plurality should mean that we do not compel others to accept the markers and quotations of another’s (or any) religion in our courthouses, capitals, or public squares. For people like Michael Eden, his bible and his Christ should always be given pride of place, yet never would he allow a competing religion the same honor. I want to argue that none of these faith-based trappings be added to any public structures or places, though I do not have an issue when the marker or quotation was added many years ago and thus has a long and, one hopes, uncontested history. If people want to decorate their private property, their vehicles, and themselves with such ornaments then feel free. When it comes to public spaces, however, I say we should adopt the policy of keeping a neat house. Such a house would be free of the religious decoration favored by folk like Michael Eden. Were he allowed to design and control our public spaces then we would quickly find ourselves inhabiting the monochromatic and stifling land of theocracy. Why don’t you pray over that one, Eden? As for myself, I will go about the business of living and trying to understand existence on my own terms.

Could this be ...?

Thesaurus theorized last week that our blogger nemesis, Michael Eden, is most likely blogging under a pseudonym (I was mildly annoyed I had not thought of this first).  If you consider Eden’s world view and religiosity, his name makes complete sense.  Michael, or the Archangel Michael, in Hebrew means “who is like God” and leads God’s army against Satan’s forces in the Book of Revelation.  The creation narrative that emerges in the Book of Genesis introduces us to the Garden of Eden, or the “Garden of God,” and among the many items, The Tree of Knowledge (of good and evil).  Hence, we have Michael Eden, the blogger ferreting out the evil of liberalism as far as the eye can see (and more often way, way beyond both the eyes and intellect can see).

Eden’s rage and violence and hatred for those that do not share his very specific world view suits his alias quite perfectly.  So, since this is not his real name, I wonder if we can figure out who the real Michael Eden is.

Maybe it is the legendary football analyst Pat Robertson, who recently stated regarding Peyton Manning’s signing with the Denver Broncos and Tim Tebow’s subsequent trade to the New York Jets: “You just ask yourself, OK, so Peyton Manning was a tremendous MVP quarterback, but he’s been injured.  If that injury comes back, Denver will find itself without a quarterback. And in my opinion, it would serve them right.”  While there is plenty of room for interpretation, is Pat’s implication that the bad karma created by the trading of God’s quarterback will be demonstrated by harm/injury coming to another quarterback?  Sounds a lot like the violence Eden wishes upon those that disagree with him.

Or maybe it is preacher Dennis Terry of the Greenwell Springs Baptist Church who recently introduced GOP presidential hopeful Rick Santorum at a campaign rally raging against no longer being able to pray in public (really?) and went on to say (his voicing getting louder and louder), “Listen to me, if you don’t love America and you don’t like the way we do things, I have one thing to say… GET OUT!  … We don’t worship Buddha! I said we don’t worship Buddha, we don’t worship Mohammed. We don’t worship Allah. We worship God. We worship God’s son Jesus Christ … The church needs to be the conscience of the nation [so] put God back in our state house.”  Candidate Santorum blithely clapped along to Terry’s rant and the imposition of Terry’s beliefs as the only beliefs for our country is applauded. 

Now, if we used the right’s argumentative framework for President Obama over the last four years or so, I could make an argument about the company one keeps (you know, Obama’s relationship with a Harvard professor or a charismatic preacher or Weather Underground terrorist).  But guess what, such an argument is a FALLLACY, so I am not going to project the ideas of Terry on to Santorum because this is the inductive fallacy of argument by association, similar to the hasty generalization where the qualities of one thing or person are inherently attributed as qualities to a separate thing or person, quite often by an irrelevant association (thus we get the classic fear, misinformation tactic of guilt by association).

But what I can do is note that not too long ago candidate Santorum stated that the separation of church and state made him “want to throw up.”  The association to Perry is thus unnecessary.  And by the way, why does Christianity always believe it has cornered the market on values and decency, I am tired of their proclamations of what is good and evil and the condescension, righteousness, and judgment by some in the Christian business and the narrow vision they do want to impose on the rest of us.