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It's a mouthful.

Updated: 2018-03-05T18:40:04.608-08:00


Crisis Management


I don't know why I'm posting this here. Perhaps to get it off my chest without throwing it in the faces of the people who read Nobody In Particular or my Google+ posts. Or maybe just because I was careless with a click and ended up here, and found that after all this time, it's still active. And I found myself with an opportunity to vent.

About a year and a half ago, after my father died, I found myself in an online argument with a group of self-described Social Justice Warriors. And one of the more philosophical members of the group made an interesting point.
Being the change is important -- people need intuitive positive role models to look up to.  This is the peace version.

Another way that change happens, a lot, is through social pressure.  This is essentially what you're experiencing right now in this comment thread.  We've gotten far with public shaming -- look at the recent Donald Trump news, to take a completely random example.  This is the war version.

Telling other people what to do and "talking down to them" creates environments in which people are threatened with shame for not doing that.  It's dirty, but it gets the job done.  When they look for alternatives, that's the time they look at people who are being the change they want to see in the world.  But, as a change consultant, I can tell you that people typically don't change without the impetus of a crisis -- Our job as warriors qua warriors is ultimately, in the very long scheme of things, providing that crisis.
And Donald Trump is now President-Elect of the United States of America. So... tell me again how your social pressure, threatening people with public shame and creating crises in people's lives is creating the change you want to see in the world? Tell me again how far you've gotten with those tactics in the past eighteen months. Tell me again, Ms. "Change Consultant," how the crisis you have "provided" has become the impetus to things better for anyone.

Look upon the riots, the smashed storefronts and the damaged cars, and tell me how your war is going.

RIP Kennedy Smith (Urquhart)



Hello, Fraysters


Since Slate closed the Fray, many of us have moved here. Please drop by and say hello.

Streaming video is a dubious luxury


The phone rings. It’s Madeline. She’s left her white t-shirt and bobby socks in the dryer. The same white t-shirt and bobby socks that I washed for her at eleven o’clock last night, when she informed me, in a panic, that she needed them for the dress rehearsal of her high school musical today.

She wants me to deliver them to the school for her. It’s only a dress rehearsal, for christ’s sake – what would she do if I wasn’t home? But I am home, and so I drive the clothes over to her school, rehearsing a response to her inevitable dismay when she finds out that they’re still damp – “Well, if you’d gotten them out of the dryer this morning, they’d have dried in your locker.”  I’m annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of the afternoon, when I was busy watching The Human Centipede on Netflix.

She meets me outside, and thanks me profusely. “It’s alright,” I say. “I wasn’t doing anything important.” I go home and watch the rest of the movie.

It’s morbid curiosity that makes me do it. Three people joined, mouth to anus, by a mad doctor – who would make a movie like this? By the time it’s over, I don’t care. It’s an awful movie, and not in a good way. Its badness is utterly banal. There are inept attempts at escape, lots of over-the-top mugging by the mad doctor, and interminable periods of keening and weeping by the captives, all interspersed with long, ponderous shots of the boring interior decor. It’s not shocking. It's not suspenseful. It's not even interestingly gross. Three people joined by their digestive tracks – so what? The only thing I find disturbing about the film is that some viewers might get an erotic charge out of it. I feel embarrassed for the actors. Who would appear in such a movie?

But I can’t unsee it, so I get busy convincing myself that it’s a clever critique of capitalism, a wry metaphor for trickle-down economics, surely unappreciated by unsophisticated audiences. It ought to have screened at Cannes.

The absurdity of this is comforting.

I’m looking forward to the high school production of Bye Bye Birdie later this week.

Meditation Retreat - Part Four


Part 1 Part 2Part 3Day 9 – In Which My Inner Child Gets It It’s another all-day meditation day, but from the time I wake up until 2pm, my mind is a neurotic dog, waiting for its owner to come home, gnawing the fur off its flanks and pacing, pacing, pacing. By the time it finally settles down, the rain has stopped and the sun is breaking through the clouds. I put the clothes I washed two days ago back on the line, hoping they’ll dry. There are numb areas on the left side of my face, along my cheek and around my eye. I have vertigo, and my cognition is choppy, like my brain is skipping. It’s a migraine, but a painless one. No headache. We learn metta practice. We’re instructed to develop a feeling of lovingkindness in ourselves, towards ourselves, and then to direct that feeling toward all other beings. I try to stop my mental griping and go along with it. Goenka intones, “May all beings be haaaaaapppppppyyy. May all beings be peeeeeeacefuuuulllll.” This makes me giggle, which makes lovingkindness easier.Everyone in the meditation hall seems to be farting. Blow-hole girl next to me lets out a poot-poot-poot, and exhales hard through her nose. The knuckle-cracker and the cushion-rearranger are still at it. None of this bothers me.At the break, I approach the assistant teacher. “Is the chanting designed to drive us crazy?” I ask. He looks pained. It’s Goenka’s way of doing metta, he says. It’s meant to calm and sooth us. Oh.Debi brings me walnuts again. They’re delicious, but I worry that she’s not getting enough to eat. Another cold night. I use the blow dryer to warm up my toes and the inside of the sleeping bag before I crawl in. It’s freezing in the cabin. I want to leave, just get in my car and drive until I’m home. I talk myself out of it and count the hours until the retreat is over: 34. I sleep, and dream that I’m strangling a little girl. In the dream, I realize that she’s me. She doesn’t seem to mind that I’m strangling her, but I stop anyway.Day 10 – Noble ChatterThe group meditation ends at 9am, and Noble Silence is officially over, though men and women will remain segregated until the following morning. People leave the meditation hall and go to the washroom or to their cabins, not speaking. I go to our cabin. Debi comes in a short while later. We sit quietly together, talking, as we’ve done for five days. Outside, the chatter begins. Debi and I listen. As the minutes pass, it grows in volume and excitement, punctuated by giggling. “I have no desire to go out there,” Debi says. Nor do I. “We could be the shy recluses,” I say. “They have insecticide for those,” she says.Lasagna and apple crisp for lunch. I join in the chatter and apologize for my incessant coughing. The girl who sat next to me says that at some point she realized that she’d begun exhaling loudly through her nose. She worries that it bothered people, that she’d become “The Exhaler” in everyone’s minds. I assure her that this isn’t the case, thus breaking the fourth precept. Another of the women dismisses my coughing as not particularly annoying, because she knew I couldn’t help it. The cushion-rearranger and the knuckle-cracker, however, really pissed her off. I like these women more than I intended to. They’re bright and funny and full of life. Many of them are world-travelers. One who doesn’t know my name calls me Juniper, the name of my cabin. “You just seem like a Juniper,” she says. No one has caught my cold.During the evening discourse, Goenka reveals that we have been living as renunciate monks and nuns for the last nine days, observing the five precepts, being housed and fed through the charity and care of others. I wish I’d been more in tune with this, because if I’d been viewing myself as a nun, I’d have been more at peace with the process. Instead, all I’ve been able to think about are the goddamn rules and the relentless misery. I take a show[...]

Meditation Retreat - Part Three


Part OnePart Two Day 7 – Rainforest 2:30am. Three hours seems to be all the sleep my body wants, so I get up to take a leisurely shower while the other women sleep. I’m washing clothes in a bucket when they start to wander in at 4am. I ring out my sweatpants and t-shirts and hang them on the clothesline, pleased that I’ve laid claim to the scarce supply of clothespins before anyone else, but before long it starts to rain, so I take the clothes inside.I’ve got my GoreTex and my fleece, and I know rain. I can do rain. I stroll the path between the dining hall and the cabins and smell the trees. The aspen have gone to gold. Their leaves twist and clatter in the wind. They’re dwarfed by the towering lodgepole pine and Douglas fir. I walk on the soft carpet of needles, hold my face up to the sky, marvel at the height of the trees, at the rings of cloud encircling the mountains. I stop to examine the resin-clotted bark of a lodgepole pine. At its base, I recognize the shiny dark leaves and blue berries of a salal bush. I’m back in my rainforest. Home. And now I’m longing, aching for Vancouver, which I’m not supposed to be doing. Clinging, clinging, clinging – dukka, dukka, dukka. Below the cabins I hear water. There’s a stream down there, but the plastic ribbon prevents me from exploring. The squirrels have been putting up their winter stores since we arrived, and the weather doesn’t slow them down. One drops pine cones from sixty feet above, scampers down the trunk, races across the trail at my feet, and climbs on a stump to chatter and squeak at me, the interloper.In the meditation hall, a bowel chorus plays. The moaning and sighing of the other students’ GI tracks sounds like whale song. Apparently Debi and I aren’t the only ones having trouble with the diet.For a moment today, I get a fleeting glimpse of freedom. Just enough to shore up my resolve.At the tea break, I have some hot-spiced apple cider along with my tiny glass of milk. I’m essentially fasting for 19 hours a day, and it’s fine. I fantasize about hamburgers and pizza when I’m lying in bed at night, but I don’t feel like I’m starving. If I really can’t bear it, I could always sneak out to my car and get the protein bars and almonds I’ve got squirreled away, but it’s very cold tonight, and wet. I lie in my bunk willing my feet to warm up and the cold from the window singes my face. I pull the sleeping bag over my head and drift off, wondering about carbon dioxide poisoning. Day 8 – Daddy IssuesWe’re supposed to maintain a meditative focus all day today, no matter what we’re doing. During the morning session in the hall, Goenka’s chanting is driving me mad. It seems louder – so loud, in fact, that it’s causing me pain. It’s a vuvuzela chorus, designed to make me suffer. It’s still raining. It seems like everyone is coughing and sniffling. One guy to the left of me rearranges his cushion again and again. The buckwheat stuffing makes a hissing sound. Someone else cracks his knuckles. This, during the time when we’re supposed to be as still as statues. I’m sitting with my eyes closed, but the noise is bothering me. Another sound starts up on the men’s side, like someone is popping their lips open. Is someone really doing that? I listen for a while, and then in exasperation, I turn and glare in the direction of the noise. The men’s liaison is standing by the door. His eyes are open. More chanting at the end of the hour, and I’m about ready to scream. When we take a break, the men’s liaison approaches the assistant teacher, says something to him, and points at me. They both look at me. I look back. Just try me, fuckers.And then I realize that it was water. The sound that drove me into a rage was dripping water. But it was so loud. I must be getting a migraine. Back in the cabin, I’m left to face the feeling of being trapped while someone drones at me on and on, a[...]

Meditation Retreat - Part Two


Part One Day 4 – Further Insults I wind my blue cashmere-and-silk scarf around my neck and go to the morning meditation. For the retreat, I’ve given up makeup, perfume and cute outfits. The scarf has become my comfort object. It’s not a “bodily adornment” if I cover my mouth with it every time I cough.My buckwheat hull-filled zafu is like a rock under my bruised tush. My neck is still giving me grief, and my back is a symphony of twinges and twangs. It occurs to me that repeatedly eliciting a vow not to leave before the ten days are up should have been a clue that they planned to torture us. I want to leave every day, and every day I talk myself out of it: I gave my word. It will upset other students. This may be a waste of time, but given the countless other days I’ve wasted, what’s ten more? Stretching after every session helps with the muscle aches. I’m going to be very limber by the time I go home, with much-improved posture.At breakfast, I discovered hidden amongst the green and herbal teas, the Pero, Postum and Inka, a jar of actual instant coffee. It tastes like dust from a Mayan burial chamber, but with a little brown sugar and a lot of milk, it’s drinkable. Ah, caffeine! During morning instruction, Goenka lovingly imparts the Vipassana technique. Three days of focusing on the little patch of skin below my nose has sharpened my awareness to the point where I can feel thousands of sensations every second, and now we’re to apply that awareness to the whole body, remaining detached, not identifying with the arising and passing away of each sensation. Equanimity of mind. Liberation within the framework of the body. This makes perfect sense to me. Goenka goes on. He repeats every instruction two, three, four times. Every day, the same instructions. On and on. Who needs to take notes? I’m listening, trying to do as he says, going over my skin inch by inch, being aware of heat, cold, pressure, numbness, tingling, pain, etc., etc., etc. It’s not easy for me to divide my attention, listening and following directions, but I’m trying, I’m doing it, I get it, I’m there, and still he goes on, repeating anicca, anicca, anicca, over and over, until…MURDEROUS RAGE. Shut up shut up shut the fuck up can’t you ever stop your braying you tiresome old donkey! I go back to my cabin to continue practicing. It’s a good thing I can’t talk, because I’d be screaming curses right now. It takes me a long time to calm down.Goenka as a donkey makes me think of Nasreddin Hodja, which makes me think of Gregor Samsa, which makes me smile.Day 5 – In Which My Right Leg Achieves LiberationMore torture. Today we have to sit through each hour of group meditation without moving. I settle onto my zafu rock, prop my knees up with pillows, and resolve to hold this position until the hour is over. Goenka chants us into the meditation, and then in the quiet, I scan my body for sensations. After 40 minutes, my right hip is throbbing. The pain radiates over my right buttocks and down my right leg. I do not move. I focus on the pain. I do not identify with the pain. I pay attention to the variety of sensations within the excruciating, throbbing pain in my right hip and leg – anicca, anicca, anicca. Sensations are impermanent. They rise and fall, form and dissolve. They become like musical notes – the music of the body – and I can listen without shrinking away, without suffering. Equanimity. When Goenka starts chanting at the end of the hour, my concentration is destroyed, and the pain is just pain again, not music – but I did it! I sat through the whole hour, in pain, without suffering. I am very proud of myself. I’ve learned a new skill, and what a variety of uses it will have! I’m impervious. I’m unshakeable. I’m a ninja. After lunch, I stretch myself out on a rock and feel the sun lift the last traces of my cold up and out of my body[...]

Meditation Retreat


Day 0 - The Last Supper I wake up sniffling and coughing at 6am. After getting a flu shot and taking Vitamin C crystals for weeks to make sure I’d be healthy for the retreat, I have come down with a cold. The website asks students to stay away if they have the flu, but says nothing about a cold. Still, how unpleasant will it be to sit through ten hours a day of meditation and sleep in an unheated cabin when I’m sick, not to mention the certainty of passing the virus on to others? I consider canceling, but I’ve been preparing for this for two months and I don’t want to back out now. Kirt goes to the drugstore and brings home several boxes of cold medicine. I’m going. I pick up Abe at his house in Ogden, an hour away. He’s tall, blond, good-looking, and very young. It’s his second time on this retreat. He asks me what made me decide to do it, and I tell him it’s my 46th birthday present to myself. “Me, too! When’s your birthday?” The 30th. “Mine’s the 29th.” He’ll be 21. Abe is a talker. He confides that he’s been diagnosed with ADHD, Tourette’s, and Bipolar Disorder, and that he was taken from his home and put into foster care at the age of 12 when his younger sister made allegations that he’d sexually abused her, which he denies. He was in foster care for five years, but is now back with his family. He’s an ex-Mormon, but his family is still involved in the church. He dislikes porn and sluts (like his sister), and he tells me in all seriousness that the Obama administration is paying people to kill off elderly citizens. He wants to marry an Asian woman, because he believes them to be more loyal than American women. He’s starting school to be a massage therapist in October. Despite the prohibition against “bodily adornment” for old students, he’s wearing a do-rag with a skull on it. I assume he’ll take it off once we get to the retreat. Other prohibitions for old students: no food after the 11am meal, and no sleeping in “high or luxurious beds.”Four hours later, we arrive at Camp Sawtooth and check in. Megan, the women’s liaison, will be the only person to whom I can speak freely for the next ten days. She directs me to a cabin called “Juniper”, in which I’ve already been assigned a bed. I’ll be sharing it with three other women – eight less than I anticipated. I’m given a form to fill out which asks me, among other things, to declare any non-prescription medications that I’ve brought with me. I tell Megan about my cold medication. She says she’ll have to check with the assistant teacher to see whether that’s permitted. I explain that I’ve brought hand sanitizer, and plan to be very careful with my germs, but I’ll go home if I must.I keep filling out the form. It asks about the general state of my family life. “Sublimely happy,” I write. It says, “Please do not begin this retreat if you cannot commit to staying the full ten days. Can you commit to staying the full ten days?” I check the box for “yes.” I sign and hand in the form. We’re instructed to finish unpacking, and to move our cars to the long-term parking lot further away from the camp. I unload my backpack, sleeping bag, and the bag containing my zafu and pillows. I chill out in the cabin until 5pm, when we’re to return to the dining hall for orientation. The orientation consists of a review of the rules: No cell phones or mp3 players. No reading or writing materials. No tobacco products. No food. No talking to or making eye-contact with other students once Noble Silence takes effect. No leaving. The men and women will walk on separate paths, and sleeping and eating areas will be separated by sheets hung so that we cannot view each other. We’re to stay inside the designated areas of the camp, and not venture beyond the pink ribbons that have been strung along paths and behind cabins[...]

Poltics as Art


Several things I have read lately (plus one movie), all fantastic, converge around a central idea: the thrust of 20th century art was to blur the distinction between art and everything else. The details of each are a bit beside the point, but here's the list:

  • Exit Through the Gift Shop, a film by Banksy, a graffiti artist most famous for a series of images he painted on the wall between Israel and Gaza, but also renowned for inserting his own work onto the wall of the Tate Modern.
  • Seeing is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees, a book about the California artist Robert Irwin, who began at some point creating installations that were as much about ordinary life as anything else. Lately he's been doing landscape design as well.
  • Alex Ross's article about John Cage in this week's New Yorker. The piece speaks in particular about a Cage composition that is 4 minutes of silence.
  • Andrei Condrescu, The Posthuman Dada Guide. Rules on how to be Dada, except that to be Dada is to reject rules.
More stuff, too. The list, as I say isn't what's important. It's just the stain of thought that separating out some stuff and calling it "art" is a mistake -- that really the idea of art should implicate everything we do.

This idea leads me to a question for which I have no answer. How is politics art? What way might there be of handling ourselves, making decisions, and the like would result in a process that was aesthetically pleasing. Failing that, isn't there a way of doing things that is not nauseating? Every time I hit upon what passes for "debate," I'm only a degree or two of separation from somebody saying something at best stupid and at worst noxious. Surely there is another way, and given that other models have failed, why not art?

Buddha Camp


Next Monday I’m leaving for a ten-day Vipassana retreat at Camp Sawtooth in Sun Valley, Idaho. Following are excerpts from the Code of Discipline that students are advised to study prior to attending the course, and my notes on those. I’ve taken some liberties with the text, bringing related parts together where it made sense to do so. (A pdf of the document can be found here.) The word Vipassana means seeing things as they really are. It is the process of self- purification by self-observation. One begins by observing the natural breath to concentrate the mind. With a sharpened awareness one proceeds to observe the changing nature of body and mind and experiences the universal truths of impermanence, suffering and egolessness. I’m all for seeing things as they really are, but what if they really suck? Does “observe the changing nature of the body” mean I’ll have to sit in the half-lotus while my legs go to sleep? I want enlightenment, but I want to be perfectly comfortable and happy and feeling terrific while I’m getting it, too. I got knee pillows to go with my zafu.Ten days is certainly a very short time in which to penetrate the deepest levels of the unconscious mind and learn how to eradicate the complexes lying there. Continuity of the practice in seclusion is the secret of this technique's success. Rules and regulations have been developed keeping this practical aspect in mind.Can I "to penetrate the deepest levels of the unconscious mind and learn how to eradicate the complexes lying there" if I spend the whole ten days arguing with myself about why some rule should be forfeit to my comfort because I’m special and different? I don’t know how I’ll resist breaking a rule or two – sneaking off to grab a shower when everyone’s supposed to be meditating or ignoring the 4am wake-up bell because the temperature in the cabin is hovering around the freezing mark and my sleeping bag is nice and warm – so I’m going to try very, very hard to not break a single stinking rule. I’m probably already breaking a rule. Students must declare themselves willing to comply fully and for the duration of the course with the teacher's guidance and instructions; that is, to observe the discipline and to meditate exactly as the teacher asks, without ignoring any part of the instructions, nor adding anything to them. This acceptance should be one of discrimination and understanding, not blind submission. Only with an attitude of trust can a student work diligently and thoroughly. Such confidence in the teacher and the technique is essential for success in meditation. I’m not supposed to break any rules, but I’m not supposed to submit blindly, either. This is a trap. What if I’m so warped and rebellious and just plain bad that I’ll dissect every rule in my head and have an on-going conversation with myself about how it’s wrong and unfair and it doesn’t apply to me, and the only way for me to not break a rule is to just submit to the stupid rule? Bam! I am already breaking a rule. And what if a rule, such as attending every meditation session (ten hours a day, total) runs athwart another rule, such as "abstaining from killing any being"? What if I’m getting ready to go to the hall to meditate, and there’s a spider in the cabin, and instead of killing it, I have to navigate around the bunk beds in the tiny cabin I’m sharing with eleven other people to catch the spider and deposit it outside, in a place where no one will accidentally step on it?A student will have to stay for the entire period of the course. The other rules should also be carefully read and considered. Only those who feel that they can honestly and scrupulously follow the discipline should apply for admission. Sigh.People with serious mental disorders have occ[...]

Great American Novels


I was reading Ted Burke's insightful thoughts on Franzen, and it occurred to me that Franzen is not the only novelist I haven't been reading. Chabon's fiction, Nathan Englander, Jonathan S-something Foer, Nicole Krauss, David Foster Wallace, Jane Smiley,Gary Shteyngart, Rivka Galken, Annie Proulx -- I haven't read any of them. I've only read a few candidates for Great American Novel at all. The ones that I have read and enjoyed are not really comparable to one another: Middlesex, The Great Gatsby, The Invisible Man, and Jazz.

Even making the lists bores me.

I like big social novels of ideas, I really do, and I would like to read most of the authors on that list (just not Foer. If I am ever locked up in interrogation, the way to make me crack would be to dangle a copy of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in front of me). I just think the whole enterprise of setting out to write a great American novel -- or worse, The Great American Novel -- is at heart empty in the same way I find nationalism empty.

I'm repeating a sentiment offered here, but I think my critique is a little different. Laura Miller thinks the practice is old and tired. I think the practice was never all that interesting to begin with, but sadly seems to linger in the imagination of many of the folks who have been christened as the next generation by the likes of Granta or The New Yorker.

Political Landscapes


There are a lot of clichés of American politics. The best writing (Joan Didion on California) upends these the tired topographical truisms, which are as dull a feature of current political discourse as, well, the rest of it.

At a certain level, politics is aesthetic and irrational, and the terrain that plays the greatest role in shaping my own is surreal. Literally. I could write at great length about the beauty of Virginia, but I think it's senseless to try to translate the Blue Ridge or the Tidewater flats into some meaning. My psyche, on the other hand, bends time and space, and in the resulting bleak dreamscapes I think I can make out something of how I think.

Seattle is one of my favorite cities, but in my dreams it is a dark place, its streets rising ominously and its rain a bit more sinister than the real deal. I think I must be recalling a couple of moments of terror I felt in the city when, biking downhill in the rain, I realized my breaks were not working, and I had to choose between wiping out now, wiping out later (only much faster) , and hoping to make it to the uphill. Seattle is a dilemma. In my dreams it is also a frequent setting for elaborate, probably fruitless plans spun in coffeeshops. More optimistically, it can be the scene for a kind of pan-out -- I've never dreamed about the sweeping vista of Mt. Rainier, Cascades, Mt. Baker, Olympics, all looming over the Puget Sound, but I often feel the breathless sense of release I used to get in Seattle when I'd make it to some high point on a clear day, the sense that one could take in a wondrous whole.

North Carolina's Outer Banks also tend to loom in my dreams as an expanse of dooms lowering to the ocean. I have an entire genre of nightmares, each relying on my different position in this world for its particular plot twist. Sometimes I am on the top floor of a house and the ocean surrounds everything, almost peaceful if not for the implication of loneliness and devastation. Sometimes I am right where the shore meets the water when I realize I am facing a gigantic wall of water. Sometimes I am father away, trying to rescue something. Various people have told me the best way to handle the fear in such dreams would be to enter the water, but this has only happened once: in my one view of a benevolent ocean, I could breathe underwater and play with friends as the wave rushed overhead, and the feeling was half jacuzzi, half surfing.

I want a politics of optimism. I want not to be ruled by fear. How I get from these fairly raw emotions to particular policies is, of course, always chancy, and often my reactions are prior to any sort of reasoning whatsoever. Tell me we are caught in a great wave of history, and I will recoil. Tell me to shoot at something, and I will assume it has as much effect as shooting at a tsunami. Tell me to overcome my own anxieties and limitations, to leap in or rise up, and I am likely to sign on. But mostly I would love to see again a politics that accepts how surreal at root so much politics is.

On Being Boring


My previous post is very boring. Not only are lists boring, but within moments of posting this one I had echoing in my head the speech the Jack Black character makes about some list that combines standards with a few curves thrown in just to make you seem slightly original. Polythene Pam, you expose me.

I was born in Heidelberg in the immediate aftermath of the breakup of the Beatles (after Abbey Road and just before Let it Be). I was unaware of the extent of the tragedy of John Lennon's death, even after my pacifist elementary school teacher had us all study the lyrics to "Imagine." I liked the song just fine, but a ten-year old boy's interest tend toward (I can't honestly remember what... I think Blondie). I didn't listen to the Beatles until my buddy Chip brought over the White Album. I remember him with a big grin on his face mouthing "Bang bang, shoot shoot" on "Happiness is a Warm Gun." We were sitting in an odd part of my old house, a narrow sort of wing off of the living room which featured mostly bookshelves, my parents' record player, and a smallish bar. For months thereafter I listened to cassettes of Sgt Pepper and Rubber Soul and Revolver, and discovered to my delight that my parents (whose collection was otherwise disappointing) had a copy of Abbey Road.

Probably my peculiar sense of the passage of time, of decades and of eras, has as much to do with those months as with anything else. It turns out, according to Billboard, that the number one song of 1970 was "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head."

A small coda: a little before I latched on to the small, sad youth culture of John Hughes movies, the Violent Femmes, and others unimpressed with Morning in America, and it may have been a matter of months, I was at a dance somewhere. "Hard Days Night" came on, and I danced, leaping up and down alone. It gave me a way to make it through to college, a little bubble to ride out adolescence. Thinking of it now, it's not the same as nostalgia. It was a tool, and that tool gave me a particular sense of history, one that skewed some things and clarified others. It was very interesting to me, yet now seems banal in the telling, a lot like my list.

Beatles Top 10 (or so)


Rolling Stone magazine has a list of hundred greatest Beatles songs. Here's my top ten (based on the songs I most want to hear at any given moment):

1. Norwegian Wood

2. Got to Get You into My Life

3. Across the Universe

4. Hard Day's Night

5. Polythene Pam

6. You've Got to Hide Your Love Away

7. Get Back

8. Day in the Life

9. She Came in through the Bathroom Window

10. Helter Skelter

The songs that came closest to making the list were "Come Together," "Blackbird," "Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds," and "Getting Better." Rounding out my top twenty would be a couple of more Abbey Road tunes ("Here Comes the Sun," and "Her Majesty"), "Help," "In My Life," "Eleanor Rigby," "Rocky Raccoon," and "Day Tripper."

Here's my favorite cover.



I have been treating, somewhat nostalgically, the sixties and seventies as a time of greater acceptance of progressive ideas, and wondering what happened. Keif and Dawn suggest a slightly different approach to history, one in which patterns, coincidences, and commonalities play a greater role.

Indeed, this approach has already born fruit. There is a longstanding tradition of mocking liberals for being fruity, overly earnest, self-righteous, self-serving and humorless. Here's Henry James, writing in 1886:

Since the Civil War much of her occupation was gone; for before that her best hours had been spent in fancying that she was helping some Southern slave to escape. It would have been a nice question whether , in her heart of hearts, for the sake of this excitement, she did not sometimes wish the blacks back in bondage.

I would have thought that it would be hard to take the piss out of an abolitionist, but apparently it's cake.

Elections Revisited


Some time ago on the Fray, Gregor tried to get me and others excited about what he saw as a paradox at the core of democracy: in general, different election methods can give widely different outcomes, and some of the ones that seem most fair can in certain circumstances lead to ludicrous results. His post is here. See also Concorcet's Paradox. If a fair election is a theoretical impossibility, and a "free and fair election" is the minimal requirement of democracy, what's left?

I thought then, and I think now, that voting has as much to do with rituals of power as with fairness. Failure to vote is an issue less because your vote is likely to affect the outcome, but because it's a kind of ritual impropriety, a poo-pooing of politics, like insulting the bride at a wedding.

Turns out democracy has a lot of problems tucked into its elaborate mythologies. The guy who writes about them most lucidly is Raymond Guess, whose History and Illusion in Politics is a handy primer of bogosity. Voting is but a small bud in an elaborate bong. Why in the hell did I ever think the contract theory of government made sense? What kind of contract is this -- I'm part of the contract from birth, and if I decide I don't like it, I can go to jail. Does tolerance make sense? What is a human right?

Guess writes with incredible clarity on these and other matters. I had been wondering how it was that institutions that I felt were the cornerstones of our democracy have been tumbling so easily. Part of the reason is that most of us never understood what they were doing in the first place.

Glee Annoys Me


It didn't at first. I'm a sap, and I enjoy a good song and dance number. As premises go, the show seemed no more stupid than Fame. But as I have followed it on Hulu this summer, I have gotten annoyed.
  1. There's some point when the condescending plotlines about the unseen depths and tribulations of various minorities seem racist. More so when the challenges pale in comparison to the tenderness the show displays to the merely unpopular.
  2. The characters are supposed to be charming, but they lead fundamentally sad lives. So sad that the highpoint will be high school glee club.
  3. I agree with Sue about the hair.
  4. Anytime they put on cowboy hats, I want to shoot them.
I have, fortunately, found an antidote.



I tried to clean up our blogroll a bit. If there's anything that should be added or modified, please post in comments.

Interlinear Commentary on a Few Lines by Michael Chabon


Chabon, Michael. Manhood For Amateurs: The Pleasures and Regrets of a Husband, Father, and Son, 2009 Quoted passages are on pages 200-203.The seventies have always been prone to more ridicule than their twentieth-century cousin-decades, without anyone giving sufficient notice to the fact that it was the seventies themselves that originated the teasing (Annie Hall, Nashville, "You're So Vain"). At the time I remember dancing on the tops of tables in the schoolroom to "Grease" and "Saturday Night Fever." It was like dressing up (I'm a little younger than Chabon). The Bicentennial was the same way. I went as Uncle Sam to see the D.C. fireworks. Of course I looked ridiculous. To get at Chabon's point here, compare You're So Vain (1972) to I've Never Been to Me (1982 -- actually written earlier, but nobody cared until 1982). Carly Simon is smiling, even now. Charlene Duncan makes paradise sound like the DMV. It required no retrospection for the occupants of the zone now understood as the seventies to acknowledge the goofiness in all their pieties and solipsisms, and it is a mark of our own naivete (at the least) to suppose that a straightfaced young tax attorney going out on a Saturday night in 1974 wearing platform boots, glitter mascara, and his hair combed up into a two-foot Isro, for example, did not realize that he looked pretty silly. I remember grown-ups doing all sorts of non-silly things in the decade, of course, but those are not the things that became the seventies in memory, the notion that everybody became so self-absorbed that they let the country go to hell while they were tripping over their wingtips. It's just that looking like a fool was correctly understood to be a likely if not an inevitable result of the taking of risks. Saturday Night Live. Apocalypse Now. Fear of Flying. Free To Be You and Me. All had moments of intense silliness. The sense of liberation that resulted from such risk-taking, however conventionalized or routinized it became, was felt for a little while to be well worth the price in foolishness. It is amazing to me the number of people who will make total idiots of themselves out of fear of looking like an idiot. We are crippled in so many ways today by the desire to avoid fashion mistakes, to elude ridicule -- a desire that leads at one extreme to the smiling elisions of political candidates and on the other to the awful tyranny of cool -- that this willingness is hard for us to sympathize with or understand. I don't agree with any of that. "Smiling elisions" were as rampant in the seventies as in any other decade, as was the "tyranny of cool," and while I think there is a general reluctance to see things from the point of view of a different person, I'm not sure the seventies the greatest victim of this near-universal solipsism. But I do agree that there is a humorlessness about the hilarity that people find in the decade. In this age of, we have forgotten the seventies spirit of mockery that smirks at the pretensions and fatuities of others in a way that originates with and encompasses ourselves. I've been watching reruns of Saturday Night Live, and this statement describes the humor. Steve Martin's humor depends on the idea that he is a bit of an ass. Ditto Bill Murray's lounge singer. Gilda Radner is more earnest, but the central conceit of her characters is that they are fundamentally silly, and she is brilliant for her full embrace of the lunacy. Atom for atom, we are made of exactly the same stuff as all the stars and galaxies. I love this essay. It's about V[...]

Jonathan Franzen


I guess having a personal rivalry is a common experience. At least, it shows up often enough in sitcom plots to make me think I'm not alone. In this case, I mean the kind of rivalry where party of the first part is in deep competition with party of the second part, and party of the second part is unaware of party of the first part, or even of the existence of parties. So it is with Jonathan Franzen, who has never heard of me.

I learned of Franzen from my adviser in college, who claimed to have been Franzen's adviser (though I have never fact-checked the claim). Franzen had been a favorite student, a kid with interesting things to say, and he was on the verge of finishing a novel. Well, this Franzen fellow was filling a role I had scripted for myself, and I was nonplussed to find his literary VW parked in my space. The Twenty-Seventh City appeared a bit later, and I did not read it. Nor did I become a novelist, nor a man of letters in any respect save what is evidenced in the archives of this blog.

I must have had other rivals in my lifetime, but I have forgotten about them. This Franzen fellow, though, will simply not go away. He won the National Book Award. He got in a spat with Oprah. Now he's on the cover of Time. I'll freely admit that a Time cover is not what it once was, but still. It's getting to the point where I feel I should read something he wrote.

On another note, the adviser introduced me to Rilke, so he retains a fond-ish place in my memory despite the Franzen mess, but I try not to think about college much, precisely because I felt so adult at the time, but when I examine my memories, it turns out I was more childish then than at any other point in my life, except perhaps, occasionally, online.

The Good Fight


The Attorney General for Washington State, Rob McKenna, has enrolled the state in the lawsuit against the recent health-care overall effort. The state's Democratic establishment is, to somewhat understate things, hopping mad. (It's not shaping up to be a good first quarter for Governor Gregoire. The Attorney General isn't the only other elected official who's not being cooperative.)

Attorney General McKenna was on PBS yesterday, explaining his position. Of course, he was asked if he's against the reforms. This is to be expected, given that he's an elected Republican. In fact, Democratic fund-raising e-mails are thick on the ground, using McKenna's "rebellion" to soliciting funds. Admirably, the Attorney General refused to be baited, and calmly, if emphatically, explained that he felt that the Federal government calling for an individual mandate for citizens to purchase something from a private company on pain of penalty was simply outside of the powers that they had been granted in the Constitution. All in all it was very interesting, and it indirectly undermined a major Republican talking point - during one part of is argument Attorney General McKenna basically said that part of the reason that the individual mandate was unconstitutional was that it wasn't part of a government takeover of the health care system.

This argument makes perfect sense to me, even though I lack the Constitutional scholarship to evaluate its accuracy. But what I applaud the Attorney General for is not allowing himself to be pushed into the idea that a laudable goal should be allowed to trump the law. We all understand that it's possible to do something perfectly reprehensible while adhering to the letter, and possibly even the intent of the law. The flip side of this is that things that may be perfectly just, moral, ethical and necessary may be patently illegal.

The whole point behind the rule of law is that the rules are the important part - even if they become an impediment, there are rules and procedures for changing them other than the whim of rulers, or even the public at large. Our tolerance for bending or breaking the law when we feel that's warranted or required can lead us to some very bad places, all in the name of the greater good. So as much as the slog that was enacting health care got on my nerves (Is it just me, or can Democrats barely lead a horse to water?), if they have to through it again to get it right, so be it.

So fight on, Mister Attorney General. I don't know that I'm in your camp, but I applaud you for standing up for the rules.

Disbelieve With Me


What really disturbs me about the Tebows, and about many other people who think of themselves as religious, is their facile confidence that when things work out well for them, it was God's idea all along. As though other people don't suffer calamities in almost exactly the same circumstances -- or, worse, as though when other people suffer such calamities, that was God's plan, too. And there are plenty of new-age liberals with the same attitude: "Your cancer is back? Oh, dear -- it must be wrong with your spirituality." People seem unable to accept the world's frightful indifference[...].William Saletan - commenting on "Focus on Your Family"Mr. Saletan takes exception to the ease with which many people chalk up the myriad good and bad things that happen in the world to God's plan or correct or faulty spirituality. Fair enough. But this isn't a "facile confidence," it's a central tenet of their faith. Evangelical Christians and new-age liberals alike eschew a belief in "the world's frightful indifference," not because they can't accept it, but because they won't accept it. Their beliefs tell them that it's a patently false idea. One thing that I've noticed about many people's approach to not only faith, but it seems knowledge in general, is that we have an easier time understanding why people don't believe in the things that we believe in, as opposed to the fact that they believe in things that we don't. (In this regard, the supernatural and man-made global warming are in the same boat.) In another example, in this BBC Radio documentary about child sacrifice in Uganda, when the Ugandan Minister of Ethics and Integrity refers to consulting with Witch Doctors as "nonsense," Tim Whewell immediately assumes that he dismisses the whole idea of the spirit world, thinking it "made up." Instead, what the Minister is referring to is the idea that one should actually pay attention to the desires of Evil Spirits. When Whewell suggests that perhaps the Ugandan government should tell people that spirits don't exist at all, the Minister is scandalized by the idea that the government would disseminate such obvious disinformation. While the British documentarian doesn't seem to have much difficulty with the idea that people out in the bush believe in spirits, he seems genuinely impressed that the educated minister isn't more skeptical.To a certain degree, it appears that we have come to expect a certain level of agnosticism from other people when it comes to those things that we don't believe ourselves (especially when we think of them as educated), rather than realizing that people with different belief systems are sometimes (if not often) going to have fundamental differences with us in the way they see (and interact with) the world. Someone who honestly believes that life events are directly tied to divine intervention or the practice of spirituality should be expected to behave as if that were true, and should be expected to espouse that if asked. Why do we expect them to express skepticism about such an idea, simply because there is a potential for people who find it preposterous to be in the audience? As I mentioned before, it's not just the supernatural that triggers this - pretty much any strongly held belief, especially those that inspire people to change their behavior (or not, as the case may be) can be suspect. I've come across religious people who seem to have great difficulty with the idea that anyone sincerely believes in the theory of evolution, for example.N[...]



The country faces a fundamental disconnect between the services the people expect the government to provide, particularly in the form of benefits for older Americans, and the tax revenues that people are willing to send to the government to finance those services.Congressional Budget Office Director Douglas Elmendorf. Entitlement Spending and the Long-Term Budget Outlook.While I would expect that Director Elmendorf is fundamentally correct, I would offer a slightly different take on his words:The country faces a fundamental disconnect between the actual costs of the services the people expect the government to provide, and their impression of the amount of tax revenues available to the government to finance those services.That is to say, that rather than (intentionally or not) being too cheap to pay for the services that they expect (or just as often, deride) from government, the average American can't understand how a pot of money as large as the annual budget of the United States fails to pay for everything they feel needs to be paid for. Therefore, they have trouble understanding why either taxes should be raised or services diminished, and this allows politicians to conscript the old hobgoblins of waste, mismanagement and fraud (a.k.a.: programs that benefit someone else) to rally public anger over funding requests (usually for programs that will benefit someone else).It's easy to understand why this is the case. Governments routinely deal in amounts that most of us can only imagine, and even that not very well - even if we can imagine quite a lot. For most of us, the concept of one billion dollars is more of an abstraction than a fabulous amount of money. If one heads down to the Sodo (South Downtown) area of Seattle and looks at the two stadiums that stand there, it can be hard to really wrap one's brain around the idea that several hundreds of millions of dollars went into those structures. Somewhere along the line, just as it did when we were children, large numbers quietly fade into "infinity," and we can no longer conceptualize of just how one would go about reducing a number with so many zeroes after it to just plain zero. (Although I'm pretty sure that I could manage to do in a billion dollars, given the chance.)The game of politics is a large part of the problem. Liberal politicians promise benefits and Conservative politicians promise tax breaks, each with the understanding that when they implement it, it will be an investment that will automagically reap greater rewards than the costs. Aid to the poor will enable them to become taxpayers, and contribute more to the economy than is given to them. Lower tax rates will increase the volume of taxable transactions enough to pay for itself and then some. Both of these articles of faith have their limits, which no-one ever want to test to see if we have reached. But then again, faith only succeeds to the degree that it not subject to tests of proof, and so the myriad failures of such policies to work out the way they were promised through the past are conveniently ignored, chalked up to the viciousness or vacuousness of the opposition or dismissed as lies spread by people somehow brain-damaged enough to have a sincere aversion to wealth and prosperity.And we, as the overall public, are the rest of the problem. We become attached to entitlements, "sugar cookies," as my friend Curtiss so aptly terms them, and, especially once we start planning our standards of living around t[...]

Gotcha! I Think...


The online commentary magazine Slate runs Doonesbury every day as one of their features. On the page, among other things, is a section titled "Say What?" This generally showcases something silly, disagreeable or contradictory that someone has said. The 29th of December features Senator Jim DeMint - a Republican from South Carolina.
"I never wanted to break the president."
-- Sen. Jim DeMint, 12/27/09

"If we're able to stop Obama on this [health care reform], it will be his Waterloo. It will break him."
-- Sen. Jim DeMint, 7/17/09
Gotcha, Senator DeMint! Or... maybe not. It's a pretty damning statement, on the face of things. While it's a safe bet that DeMint does, in fact, want "to break the president" (c'mon, he's a Republican - it's like saying that houseplants want water), it's worth keeping in mind that it for DeMint's August statement to make a liar out of him in December, you have to make an assumption that you can't support simply with the statements given.

DeMint's August statement is simply an understanding of cause and effect - if A, then B. Yes, I know: "But," you're asking, "If DeMint is working to defeat health care reform, which he knows will 'break the president,' doesn't that mean that he wants the president to be broken?" If, and only if, you presume that opposition to health care reform is a means, not an end in itself. If that isn't true, "breaking" President Obama may just as easily be the unwanted consequence of a necessary action. And, of course, if defeating health care reform is an end in itself, then DeMint might simply not care about the consequences. With just the two statement to go on, you can't make that determination. (Personally, I agree with Jacob Weisberg - the Democrats are looking to buy votes with through government expansion, and the Republicans don't see the aided demographic translating into votes for them, and so are out to nix the deal.)

Partisan bickering is becoming the norm in general political discourse these days - that's nothing new. And one of things that goes along with it is an often shocking willingness to believe truly nasty things about the opposition. But I guess I still find it important to convict the guilty, rather than settle for framing them.

Booga, Booga


So today I received a flyer from a group calling itself the "Campaign for Responsible Health Care Reform," exhorting me to call a number NOW to register my displeasure with my congresspeople (Representative and Senators). Of course, why it's responsible for me to start calling people simply because someone sends me a flyer in the mail telling me to do so is left unanswered. It turns out that this "Campaign for Responsible Health Care Reform" is an arm of the United States Chamber of Commerce, and an ideological slant was immediately apparent. It turns out that "Real Reform" is this wonderful thing that brings all sorts of benefits, without costing anyone a dime (and, of course, it comes with no details), while what Congress has in mind is just about increasing costs and cutting services.

It's unfortunate that the flyer didn't arrive in time for Halloween - it would have made for a terrifying decoration all by itself.

Of course, in the political scheme of things, someone at the USCoC should be drawn and quartered. The sort of blatant fear-mongering that this flyer represents is a travesty. People should become involved in their government because they understand that it benefits them to be more involved - not because some group with an agenda of its own is spreading fear around like manure. But fear works, and so we're going to see more of it, coming to a mailbox near you.