A Legend Of Man's Hunger In His Youth

November 5, 2008

2008-11-05T00:48:00.000-08:00

Oh, the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathin'.
Like the stillness in the wind
Before the hurricane begins,
The hour when the ship comes in.

Oh, the seas will split
And the ship will hit
And the sands on the shoreline will be shaking.
Then the tide will sound
And the waves will pound
And the morning will be breaking.

Oh, the fishes will laugh
As they swim out of the path
And the seagulls they'll be smiling.
And the rocks on the sand
Will proudly stand,
The hour that the ship comes in.

And the words that are used
For to get the ship confused
Will not be understood as they're spoken.
For the chains of the sea
Will have busted in the night
And be buried at the bottom of the ocean.

A song will lift
As the mainsail shifts
And the boat drifts on to the shoreline.
And the sun will respect
Every face on the deck,
The hour that the ship comes in.

Then the sands will roll
Out a carpet of gold
For your weary toes to be a-touchin'.
And the ship's wise men
Will remind you once again
That the whole wide world is watchin'.

Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep still in their eyes
And they'll jerk from their beds and think they're dreamin'.
But they'll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that it's for real,
The hour when the ship comes in.

Then they'll raise their hands,
Sayin' we'll meet all your demands,
But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered.
And like Pharaoh's tribe,
They'll be drownded in the tide,
And like Goliath, they'll be conquered.

- Bob Dylan, 1963.

You Can't Make This Shit Up

2008-08-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

Despite being the world’s laziest blogger, there was no way I was going to let the selection of first-term Alaska governor Sarah Palin as John McCain’s running mate go unmentioned in these hallowed pages. Read on for my reactions in roughly the order I had them, uncensored, unabridged, and unkind.

As I drove into work, the know-it-alls on NPR were hailing this as an opportunity to fundamentally reshuffle the electorate. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but as an Obama guy, I’ll admit thinking “if walruses win the right to vote between now and November, we’re in big trouble.”

The cynics have said this is further evidence that McCain will do anything to get elected. I just think it’s further evidence that he’ll do anything to get an erection.

Now that McCain has cast his lot with an ethically dubious nutcase from a western state with a four-digit population, Larry Craig has to be thinking “Who do I have to blow to get a slot in this cabinet?”

A hardline social conservative, Palin’s newest fearless policy initiative is to rename the waterway bordering Alaska’s westernmost point the “Bering Straight”. OK, even I’ll admit that wasn’t very funny.

Palin apparently named her first son “Track”, her first daughter “Bristol”, and her youngest son “Trig”. It’s a good thing frontier toughs don’t tend to believe in therapy, because these kids could go through a high six figures worth.

While this pick is sure to enrage whatever portion of McCain’s base has the slightest belief in meritocracy, it could be the best chance yet for the famously Internet-shy senator to learn such 21st-century terminology as “WTF” and “RUFKM”.

It’s too bad noted squirrel chef Mike Huckabee isn’t the presidential nominee, because he and mooseburger aficionado Palin could throw a varmint supper fundraiser that would singlehandedly negate Obama’s online contribution edge.

Much in the same way that McCain promises to be a continuation of Bush, Palin promises to be a continuation of Cheney. Think about it: they’re both hunters, both hail from the middle of nowhere, and, if Palin keeps having kids at this rate, she’s statistically almost certain to someday have a lesbian daughter she can conspicuously avoid discussing.

But don’t let Palin’s meager resume and McCain’s preponderance of vacation homes fool you into thinking these two won’t work round the clock. Between them, McCain and Palin have both 4 PM and 4 AM feedings covered.

This Side of History

2008-05-24T14:10:00.000-07:00

In a campaign where unfortunate, often outrageous statements have served as the most distinctive landmarks, Hillary Clinton’s latest broadside bears all the blithe insanity of a desperate basketball team fouling a 90% free throw shooter in the hope that he’ll miss everything from here on, and they’ll hit four or five half-court shots in the next 7.3 seconds. If you haven’t heard, or wish you hadn’t, Clinton had this to say on the mounting absurdity of her continued presence in the race:

"My husband did not wrap up the nomination in 1992 until he won the California primary somewhere in the middle of June, right? We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California. I don't understand it."

The rest of the political universe (at least those who are not preoccupied debating whether talks with Iran would be more akin to giving away the Sudetenland or losing a NASCAR race to a Frenchman) is, predictably, disquieted. The calls for Hillary to bring the ship in to shore are growing louder; as Newsweek’s Howard Fineman put it, “this is a campaign that needs to be put out of its misery real soon". My first reaction is “Forget its misery; how about mine?” But this is about much more than pained rhetoric or Machiavellian opportunism. To decry Hillary Clinton’s cynical self-justification is to shift the blame unfairly from her indifference to something much larger.

Since 1968, idealists have, not unjustifiably, feared the worst. To a lot of people, Hillary Clinton seemed to be saying “I’m going to hold on, because hey, you never know what could happen to this once-in-a-lifetime black leader”. Calmer heads must prevail, however. I don’t doubt that a few of Clinton's supporters (especially in the Davey Crockett states) are that virulent, but to ascribe this sort of malice to someone who is quite obviously crumbling is a temptation Obama supporters shouldn’t permit themselves. More than that, it trivializes what is really on the line here.

Returning to 1968, the real message in Clinton’s poor choice of words is her ignorance of how she fits into the larger context of the Democratic heritage. Hillary Clinton has vowed, even within the last week, to take the fight to the convention, and that invokes its own, subtler nightmare: few backroom deals could encapsulate the dispossession of the progressive movement like Hubert Humphrey, who barely bothered to campaign, securing the nomination by virtue of his pre-existing hold on the delegates. While it would be foolish to claim that Clinton hasn’t bothered to campaign, when she’s exhausted a seemingly infinite number of political lives in this process, the fact is that the Clinton camp had not planned on a post-Super Tuesday strategy. As P.G. Wodehouse once said of a hapless foil, “He had confused the unlikely with the impossible, and as a result he was taken by surprise.”

The surprise, however, is not how badly Clinton miscalculated, nor that the establishment has turned on her. The exodus of superdelegates followed the emergent mathematical probability, not the other way around. The real surprise of what everyone thought would be a historic campaign is this: Hillary Clinton landed on the wrong side of history, spurred by her own worst impulses as much as the advent of a remarkable new voice. By invoking Bobby Kennedy, she invoked the most sacred iconography of the Democratic Party, an iconography in which she (and her husband) have no place at present.

However, the Democratic party has been left with an iconography of false choices. Their most shining legacy, so we've been told, is a pair of fallen brothers; the rest of the story is populated by lovable losers, ineffective stiffs, and vile compromisers, with a few worthy fighters thrown in. This is not meant to ignore Martin Luther King, Jr's fifteen-year struggle, which, while it transcended mere politics, is surely inextricable from the transformation of the Democratic Party and the schism with the Dixiecrats. Nor is it meant to diminish at all what John and Bobby Kennedy accomplished in their too-brief allotments.

However, we know what is at stake: for the Kennedys' brilliant but incomplete legacy to be Barack Obama’s inheritance would be the greatest tragedy yet. No one can know fate, but the dream must be to lead with a wisdom that endures, not to spend another forty years of darkness lionizing one more noble sacrifice. In the pernicious political universe we inhabit, moral victories will no longer suffice. The threat is so dire and real that, paradoxically, we are better off not speaking of it, and in a time of such flickering hope, that is Hillary Clinton's real transgression.

Democrats have always had the reputation for eating their young, and this explains much of the futility, compromise, and bitterness of the past few decades. The most meaningful breakthroughs, at least since my parents came of age, have traditionally required that the young, and young-at-heart, eat the establishment instead. Geraldine Ferraro and her ilk have been quick to pin Hillary Clinton’s downfall on a conspiracy of the boy’s club, but the fact is that Hillary Clinton had the boys in her pocket not six months ago. What makes Obama’s ascendancy so refreshing, and so in keeping with the true Democratic spirit, is that he recognized when others did not that while he could not win without the establishment, they had to embrace him more than he embraced them.

The difference this time is that it should not be about who’s eating whom. Obama’s detractors have comforted themselves by dismissing his movement as a cult, but it would not be unreasonable or derogatory to say that it is a church. More importantly, it is a church in which all should be welcome. Hillary Clinton, by virtue of this latest verbal ordeal, might appear to be past help, but, for better or worse, her supporters might well determine whether the party eats its young yet again. To ensure that it does not will require the best efforts of everyone involved, and while it might be a bitter consolation to everyone who staked their hopes on her campaign, averting civil war is her best chance of journeying back to the right side of history.

Dispatches from Youngstown: Part Two

2008-03-03T19:08:00.000-08:00

One day in, I wake up just in time to take a shower, dress respectably, and scramble downstairs to meet my ride to canvassing HQ, and in a quiet moment on the way over reflect how quickly we assimilate to routine. I've been in Youngstown less than 36 hours, and it's already another day on the job. This is a good thing; outsized expectations and lofty ideals have a tendency to put undue pressure on what should be the simple task of crossing names off a list. If it sounds unromantic, it is, and that's for the best. You have to forget, to sail away from your illusions, before, as Crosby, Stills, and Nash put it, "you understand now why you came this way."

My canvassing partner today is John, a retired high school math teacher who began his career in Youngstown in 1960. Our beat is a ramshackle stretch of South Youngstown, almost entirely black, some two miles south of HQ. It's sunny and mild, and while a welcome relief, this seems to underscore the omnipresent decay. John warns me in a tone that is grandfatherly yet ominous that we will see numerous houses boarded up, or simply abandoned; many properties are worth less now than they were twenty years ago - not adjusted for inflation. Looking at the street names - Glenwood, Park Cliff, Fairmount, Ravenwood - you could be anywhere in any city in America. The WASP street name aesthetic is alive and well, belying a squalid and essentially segregated reality.

After an opening stretch where almost no one answers the door, we find fertile ground away from the main road. People open their doors
with justified suspicion at first, but tend to warm up when we say who we're with. John reminds me to hold up my door hangers prominently so that the image of Obama is the first impression. When given a few seconds of goodwill past our opening pitch, we urge the more passionate-sounding voters to come by and help out tomorrow. John points out, time after time, "This kid came out here from California to work on this campaign!" It's an effective line and seems to engender genuine appreciation. Underneath, it feels more like a luxury than a sacrifice.

An hour or so into our route, we see a car pulling into a driveway, towing another, almost identical one close behind it. This seems like a moving enough parable of humanity, until the driver's eye catches ours, and she steps out and welcomes us onto the front porch. She is thirty-something, determined, and voting early, and giving rides to her extended family. She takes enough flyers and stickers for all, and enthuses, "Regardless of who'll be elected, I'm just so proud to be a part of this century, where a black man and a woman have a chance to be president." She trembles, and adds, "I'm sorry, this is just really touching me", before bursting into tears.

The glow of the interaction lasts well into lunch and is not interrupted until we resume canvassing on Glenwood Avenue, even sides this time. A middle-aged black man answers the first door with a shaking head, then announces with discernible glee, "Obama? You've come to the wrong place. I'm voting for the blonde!" John asks wearily if anyone else in the family might be for Obama, and the man replies "Not in this house!" as the door closes emphatically. This exchange should provide plenty of material for problematic race and gender themes, but for me, the lesson is this: the true battle is always against whomever we perceive as the uncool parent.

During the longer stretches between assigned houses, John fills me in on how much the area has changed since his first classroom forty-eight years ago. Dollars are tough to standardize in your mind, but there is nothing ambiguous about this statistic: Youngstown's population has declined from a peak of 185,000 to fewer than 85,000 today. A high environmental cost preceded the economic and psychic toll of the steel decline; the Mahoning River once had an average temperature of 107 degrees along the stretch of steam mills that powered Youngstown's industrial heyday, and the water was reputed to be the most polluted in the United States. It is one of countless mistakes we hope that progress will not cause to be repeated, another exhibit of evidence for reinvention, not restoration.

Nearing the end of our route, we approach the first white man we've seen all day as he steps into his car. He wastes no words. "Democrats, I assume? Well, there's only one issue for me: abortion. You've pushed a lot of Catholics out of the Democratic party!" He backs out of the driveway as we tiptoe around patches of rapidly melting slush, and drives off, shooting us a look of accusation as if to suggest John and I were personally responsible for the political disapora of the believers.

I return to canvassing HQ happy to have finished a route from pages 1 through 15, and head for the tables. I'm beginning to feel like a part of the family now, but reveal my vestigial Northern Californian diffidence when I search furtively for a plastic knife. A kindly older woman asks what I'm looking for, and laughs at my sheepish admission. "Honey, you eat chicken with your fingers!" Evidently, that was all I needed to hear.

By this point, the collective din in the hall makes phone banking next to impossible for me, and a few tortured, half-understood live interactions convince me there must be some other way to contribute. This spurs me to catch a ride a few minutes away to the local Obama HQ downtown, a bustling, white-lit, modest space reminiscent of the all-night computer lab where I wrote two dozen or so of my more desperate college papers. There was usually a great sense of accomplishment which I later realized was actually relief.

After a few minutes of helplessness, I start coloring in the letters of a "Honk If You're Voting For Obama!" poster, joining Jessica, a young, blonde mother of two who looks barely more than twenty, and Elaine, a middle-aged lady whose voice makes everything sound like a lullabye and whose utopian vision for the country makes Obama himself seem downright cynical. Elaine announces that "God is good! I got tomorrow off work!", and given the swiftly closing window before the polls open and the ground force enters its most concerted and crucial push, I nod feverishly in agreement.

Once settled in, any resemblance to my collegiate haunts quickly gives way to an overwhelming sense that I'm back in the first grade. Now as then, there aren't enough Magic Markers to go around, and the seemingly bottomless black one is in high demand. I press my marker tip flat against the paper and fill in the blank spaces with firm, parallel strokes, trying to cover the most paper with the least ink. Our supervisor praises the resulting poster as a "work of art!", and her teacherly tone transports me once more to the first grade.

And for the first time since, I find myself genuinely believing anyone can grow up to be President.

Dispatches from Youngstown: Part One

2008-03-02T23:41:00.000-08:00

I. I touched down in the Cincinnati airport late yesterday afternoon and was immediately seized by an amaranthine sense of yearning. To be so close, yet so far, from Kentucky. Learning, several minutes later, that the Cincinnati airport actually is in Kentucky was only the first of what I expect will be several days of humbling lessons.

Opportunities to be humbled abound in Youngstown, Ohio, where I’ll be spending the next several days canvassing and cajoling for the Obama for America campaign. The hub of the Mahoning Valley, an overwhelmingly Democratic region with little cause for optimism, Youngstown has weathered over thirty years of stagnation since the decline of the steel industry in the 1970s. Youngstown seemingly captures the political imagination every four years, only to be forgotten by the next wave of economic development and innovation. On 1995’s The Ghost of Tom Joad, Bruce Springsteen included a searing portrait, simply titled “Youngstown”, of a city and economy left behind:

Seven hundred tons of metal a day
Now sir you tell me the world's changed
Once I made you rich enough
Rich enough to forget my name

Thirteen years later, progress remains slow and expectations are muted. All is not despair; last summer, John Edwards praised “Youngstown 2010”, the city’s plan to crack down on blight through organized shrinkage, and the establishment of a downtown tech-job district, as “visionary”. But as America once again casts opportunistic eyes on Youngstown, Youngstown glances back suspiciously. Driving past the dark storefronts, missing street signs, and sagging traffic lights of Belmont Avenue, you come to understand how sympathy is ultimately as cheap as neglect. In a widely-referenced New York Times feature, Youngstown’s Downtown Director of Events and Special Projects, Phil Kidd, charges, “The problem is that this is a rubber-stamp Democratic area so they know it’s almost a guarantee they’re going to get our vote. We just have to hope that this time whoever wins won’t forget about us.”

As of the article’s publication (February 26), Kidd was said to be “leaning toward” Obama. Kidd is an interesting lens through which to view the Obama campaign. The creator of the “Defend Youngstown” t-shirt, featuring a towering steelworker swinging a hammer, Kidd has taken on the tenuous challenge of bringing not only visibility but respect back to the city. Kidd is also using the internet to further visibility’s too-often neglected cousin, transparency. His blog details exactly how his days are spent advancing downtown revitalization, and include - perhaps tellingly, perhaps not - a summary of his meetings with campaign to finalize the location of Obama’s headquarters.

What Kidd may or may not see in Obama is idle speculation, but I do feel obligated to explain why I’m here, and why now. As Michael Jones wryly reminded, (and as I acknowledged in a pre-emptive announcement last week), my dating life was not absent from consideration. Guilt has played a role as well: I was plenty unhappy about how my own state’s primary played out, and realized I’d done little to change it besides a few arguments held in the safety of friends. Once I decided to get involved, the choice of Youngstown was both symbolic and strategic. This is probably the toughest battleground in the crucial Ohio primary. Obama’s message of hope finds a receptive audience in the favorable acoustics of San Francisco Bay; here in the Mahoning Valley, skepticism is plainspoken and arises of necessity.

But hope is also vital in Youngstown. Despite the working-class hero iconography of the “Defend Youngstown” movement, the steel heyday of the mid-20th century will not return in its original form, nor will the jobs shipped oversees magically reappear. This is, perhaps, the essence of the Obama pledge. In his “Blueprint for Change”, Obama declares, “I don’t want to spend the next year or the next four years re-fighting the same fights we had in the Nineties.” The dark side of this looking so firmly forward is the tacit acknowledgment that many of those fights have been lost, as have many in the new century. I’m not naïve enough to think Obama can succeed in fixing Iraq. I’m hopeful that Obama has the judgment not to lead us into an even deadlier entanglement in Iran. Likewise, foundries and sheet works are not going to erase the economic ravages of the past 30 years, some of which can be attributed to NAFTA and some to the simple vagaries of commodity and manufacturing markets. Instead, the hope is that Obama will have the foresight not to sign another NAFTA, and use government to catalyze, not stifle, innovation in building, transportation, and energy, creating both assembly-line and work-station jobs in the process. In both cases, the hope rests more on Obama’s intelligence, demonstrated prescience, and lifetime of working for the little guy than any sweeping legislative or diplomatic triumphs.

II. Neither complex economic issues or lofty rhetoric, however, have much bearing on the immediate challenges of Sunday, March 2: increasing the chances that both committed and likely Obama voters actually make it to the polls Monday and Tuesday (early voting is an option, and many of the voters I met today plan to take advantage). Logistical traps are rampant, and canvassing is more about filling in these gaps than changing people’s minds. For an elderly voter reliant on a walker, or someone without internet and television, a free ride to the polls or confirming the location of the county board of elections is the difference, not a new slant on the issues.

After an orientation lasting no longer than necessary, I set out to canvass in the suburbs just south of Highway 80. Obama’s gospel of participation is the main orthodoxy: there is no need to burden yourself with excess preparation, just hit the road and go. My canvassing partner is a nice middle-aged lady from western Pennsylvania, just 20 minutes east of Youngstown. She drives – you guessed it – a Prius, though it is gunmetal gray as opposed to the ubiquitous silver or burgundy models seen in San Francisco. It seems like a discreet nod to the location, but that’s probably reading way too much into it. Still, I can’t help but shudder, recalling how Hillary champion Tom Buffenbarger, president of the Machinists Union, denounced Obama supporters as “latte-drinking, Prius-driving, Birkenstock-wearing, trust fund babies”. Coffee is served black at headquarters, and thankfully it’s too cold to be tempted by impractical footwear. Two out of three ain’t bad, right?

I started this trip with castle-storming ambitions to, as Michael put it, “struggle against the Forces of Darkness in the Battleground for The New Tomorrow.” Minutes after leaving headquarters to begin canvassing at an address 5.3 miles away, I’m ready to settle for just finding the damn place. Detours, indistinct maps, and most of all the aforementioned missing street signs make navigation a royal pain in the ass, and frustration is only overcome by the image, rife with symbolic possibilities, of the wayward Prius adrift in suburban Youngstown.

If the snow pack and basement cinder blocks, both showing several inches aboveground, aren’t enough of clue that Northern California is far away in every sense of the word, there are red-on-white signs, seemingly every third house, proclaiming “Keep 9/11 In Liberty.” I’m not going to argue this is good or bad. It is, however, ineffably different.

My partner is reticent to attempt to drive up on the frozen roadside, leaving nowhere to park but driveways. Hence, she drives almost from house to house, in obscene hiccups of motion, and we brave unplowed lawns and ring doorbells, usually to no avail. Live greetings are few enough to remember verbatim:

Fiftyish man: “Sorry, I’m a Republican.” But you can vote in this primary too! As Rush Limbaugh is reminding his remaining listeners in his effort to game the system by getting them to vote for Hillary in Ohio. On Friday, Fox News, alas, lacked the forbearance to give this latest stunt of an Oxycontin-addicted icon of both literal and metaphorical deafness fewer than the requisite fifteen minutes of coverage.

Fiftyish man, walking dog: “I guess it’s between Hillary and Obama for me. Well, I think he’s inexperienced. He’s not what this country needs right now. But thanks for your effort! It’s what makes this country great!” If I were in familiar territory, I would be certain he was mocking, not enthusing. Today, who knows. But it does make me wonder: What does this country need right now? More fear-mongering and tough-guy posturing? More compromise and obligations to lobbyists? More rhetorical questions? Always.

Fiftyish man, smoking a cigarette indoors. “Hell yeah, Obama!...I’ve been for him since the beginning…Can you put a sign in my yard?” In my experience, those who persist in smoking indoors tend to be individualists, and rarely decline to state allegiances. For good or evil is anyone’s guess at first glance.

Seventyish man: “I’ve picked my guy. But I like ‘em all!” That was a popular sentiment six months ago. These days, in my crowd, it’s Panglossian naivete at its finest. Unless you’re kidding, which is just too close to call anymore.

After a couple of hours, my partner decides to call it a day and return to Pennsylvania. However, I’m quickly absorbed by three students from the University of Pittsburgh. Our beat for the afternoon is a retread of a cluster of tenements closer to the industrial heart of the city. Almost all of the residents who were reached the first time around were Obama supporters; we are visiting the places where no one answered the door the first time around. In stark contrast to the suburbs, almost every knock is answered, and for a long stretch, the voters here are as overwhelmingly female as the suburban ones were male. At several addresses, painfully polite children intermediate between us and wary mothers or grandmothers.

Besides tallying who supports whom and offering rides, information, and toll-free numbers, we have door hangers and glossy leaflets to give away. I offer one to a man staggering across the road, who replies, “Thanks, man, I got boo-coup of those!” A little further down, a boy and girl, no more than five, ask what we’re selling. My partner, clearly more at ease with the very young, exclaims “Why, sweetheart, we’re not selling anything. These are yours to keep. But show them to your mommy and daddy.” Are we selling something after all, though? Emphatic no. On second thought, it’s too soon to say.

In some buildings, apartments are accessible only from inside, and we’re let in with remarkable ease. The Obama pin seems like a good-luck charm here; we’re saved many cases of fruitless knocking by good neighbors who let us know not only who’s sick or who’s out, but who’s likely to need a ride and what her phone number is. As we give out the last of our materials, someone asks for a pin like the one I’m wearing. Upon finding out we don’t have any to give away, she asks me the best rhetorical question of the day: “You’re spending a million bucks a day, and you don’t have a pin for me?” I step forward and remove mine. “It’s yours. But only if you recruit all your undecided friends.” Something tells me that won’t be too difficult. Then, we knock on another door, and another small boy intermediates between us and his mother upstairs. She is voting early, tomorrow. And would she mind letting us no for whom? The reply comes direct: “That’s none of your damn business.” Fair enough.

We return to canvassing headquarters again, having completed the full route this time. The gas station where we stop to refuel has an Obama sign in the window, making this particular gratuity to OPEC slightly more palatable, and some of the cheapest cigarettes I’ve ever seen. The lunch table has been restocked, and a crowd every bit diverse enough for a pamphlet cover trades war stories over fried chicken and spaghetti.

After a couple of hours of phone-banking and a round of Nerf football to unwind, I catch a ride back to my host family. Looking up Youngstown on Wikipedia, I learn that its most famous natives include a host of American icons: Catherine Bach, who played Daisy Duke. Ed O’Neill, better known as Al Bundy. Chris Columbus, who wrote “The Goonies” before producing “Home Alone" and numerous other, less distinguished films. And, as one of my favorite Warren Zevon songs tells us, boxer Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini, a lightweight champion whose epic, 14-round battle with Duk Koo Kim assumed tragic proportions when Kim died five days later of brain injuries.

Whether silly or sobering, these icons are each firmly rooted in an increasingly distant past. To suggest that the resulting void in iconography could be filled by the resolute, granite-steady face of Obama himself, however, would be forgetting a lesson all too recently learned. I’m here, with hundreds and thousands of others, in the belief that Youngstown itself can assume a new place in American iconography, that this embattled, depressed, and impossibly hopeful city will come to symbolize the reclamation of not only its own destiny but that of a nation.

The Hempire Strikes Back

2007-11-04T17:42:00.000-08:00

And it’s up against the wall, Redneck Mother
Mother who has raised her son so well
He’s 34 and drinkin’ in a honky tonk,
Just kickin’ hippies’ asses and raisin’ hell.

- Jerry Jeff Walker

This blog is about to boldly go where no other entry has gone before: I will not only touch on incidents of a personal nature, but I will make pointed accusations, denounce an entire group of people, employ dramatic narrative strategies, and pass value judgments. I will, in short, complain.

First off, it should be said that my relationship with so-called hippies has always been a complicated affair. On the fuzzy side, I’m the son of a Berkeley ’69 graduate. I lived in a co-op for three years of college. Crosby, Stills, & Nash’s “Teach Your Children” makes me so sentimental you could shit. I’ve used a frying pan as a musical instrument, and eaten more than a few meals off a Frisbee. I think Burning Man is the coolest, although, as longtime readers will know, I’m in it for the conspicuous consumption and sheer patriotism of it all more than any feel-good ideology. The point is, I’m not going to be confused with the Project for the New American Century anytime soon.

There are contradictions, however. I often denounce residents of the Mission as “liberals and vegetarians”, tongue partly in cheek. While I was certainly an avid proponent of some aspects of co-operative living, I also took a hard line against the resident ideologues. During my house’s now-infamous “buy local” meeting, I declared, “I don’t care if they come from Mordor, I’m eating a banana every morning.” I enjoy hunting wild boar in the wilds of coastal California. I part my hair with precision. I think the American system of government is superior, I’m just not convinced of the efficacy of trying to impose it elsewhere. I’m a pretty reasonable dude, when you get down to it.

All of which makes the current outrage afflicting my previously pristine quarters overlooking San Francisco’s Aquatic Park all the more difficult to brook with equanimity and grace. Last Sunday, after several days away from home, I returned to find that my housemate was going away to Aruba for a wedding and would be gone most of the week. I also found that two textbook cases of unmitigated hippie scum, itinerant jewelry “artists” who eschew last names, had been invited to stay the week and furnished a pair of keys. I was further informed that they were recuperating from an infection of “worms”, and were treating themselves with a strict diet of vegetables and almonds.

I have been familiar with these two for some time, and I must disclose that my enthusiasm becomes more restrained with each successive visit. Past highlights include the matriarch and nutritionist, as it were, informing me that “you shouldn’t eat fruit with anything else, because it rots in your system”, and the whole menagerie badmouthing my friend, the human rights attorney, for being a “fancy Stanford and Yale person” while they thought she was out of earshot.

One could debate the merits of taking nutritional advice from people who sleep until 3 PM, smoke cannabinoid stimulants throughout the weekday, appear to have four or five functioning brain cells left, and make a point of driving across town to dine at Café Gratitude. But that's a given. I will instead present some of the more noteworthy scenes of this past week, for your moral instruction:

Scene 1: Wednesday, 10/31/07, 4:00 PM. The male hippie has risen for the first time all day and is busying himself in the kitchen.

Me. So, what’s the plan for the rest of the week?
Male Hippie: We don’t have plans, we have visions.

Scene 2: The same day, 5:15 PM. The female hippie is busy concocting numerous unappetizing substances in a blender. I enter the kitchen to put together a marinade for that evening’s dinner.

Female Hippie: Hey, do you want me to clear some room? Are you gonna make lunch?
Me: No, that was a long time ago.

Scene 3: The following day, around 3:30 PM. The male hippie shambles into the kitchen in a state of obvious decrepitude.

Me (pointedly): Good morning.
Male Hippie: Good morning, man.
Me: I was kidding.

Scene 4: Several hours later. After disappearing back into my housemate’s bedroom, with no evidence as to the activities within save for a steady trail of marijuana smoke, the male hippie re-emerges.

Me: So, what’s the agenda for this week, guys?
Male Hippie: We might be taking off in a couple of days. We want to find some more stores to sell our jewelry, but we got a lot of work to do before we can do that, y’know.
Me: (Suppresses urge to helpfully point out that waking up during normal business hours and leaving the house might be effective ways to follow through on this strategy). Yeah…you know, I’m going to be doing a silent meditation all weekend, so the sooner you all could clear out, the better.
Male Hippie: Cool, man.

Scene 5: Saturday, 11/3/07, 3 PM. Both hippies, in an unprecedented state of dress and mobility, leave the house, bags in tow.

Hippies: See you later, Gabe!
Me (overjoyed): Are you guys leaving for good??
Female Hippie: No, we’re just checking out some stores! We’ll be back!

I’m heading back to my apartment now after a day exploring many of San Francisco’s cosmopolitan pleasures. Who knows what I’ll find on my return.

“The omen is bad…Today, I saw the day become like night. I saw a man run with the Jaguar…”

To be continued.

Concerning Brave Captains: Jay Fliegelman, 1949-2007

2007-10-17T16:01:00.001-07:00

“Rosen, you should check out this class with me. I hear this guy is amazing.” So said Noah Barron, my brother in arms in the English department, with little idea how prescient he would turn out to be. The spring quarter course catalog said only “Eng 138: Melville”, and I had never heard of the professor, Jay Fliegelman, though his name had a pleasant familiarity to it. It was an unseasonably warm day, and the seminar room on the edge of the quad was filled to capacity. A signup sheet went around, but there were no pleasantries or introductory remarks dispensed. Instead, as sweat beaded on his forehead, Jay Fliegelman read Melville’s “John Brown” with searing clarity, until, as he hit the poem’s iconic final line, “The meteor of the war”, a whole room trembled along with him. Judging by the look Noah and I shot each other as we filed out of that classroom, we had come home at last. Not everyone, however, was equally moved. Another friend remarked, “I dunno, I think this guy is a little too intense for me.” He was probably right.

For all his oracular qualities, Jay was also a lot of fun, especially in those early days of the quarter, which were ardently consumed in cracking his newest students open as thinkers. On the first day of class, he promised that an extremely long term paper would be required, then, on the second day revealed with no little mischief that he’d only said so to scare away the pretenders. Jay’s teaching recalled what Edward O. Wilson said about good science – that it consists of play disguised as serious work. Our work, nonetheless, was cut out for us. To follow Jay’s inquiries was to hitch a ride from the inscrutable to the sublime, often within minutes, as he coaxed each student from fogginess to intimation to discovery. The questions usually stemmed from somewhat counterintuitive focal points, and it seemed almost a game: what absurd political cartoon, tangentially related landscape painting, or 1840s household object would lead us closer to the truth today? Invariably, Jay supplied just enough revelation - any more and we might have started to take things seriously.

All levity aside, however, it quickly became clear that Jay Fliegelman’s teaching centered on a proposition more radical than any critical theory or political agenda: that his students had ideas worth seeing through. His penetrating brand of scholarship defied easy categorization, while rising above the fray that tends to dominate the academy. He opposed himself against no orthodoxies more violently than intellectual complacency and reliance on others to supply personal conviction. Jay’s guidelines for how to write a paper sounded innocent enough: Pick out something in the text that speaks to you, something that gets stuck in your head, and work inductively to get to the bottom of it. What Jay did not advertise, but what we all found to be true, was that he would help a student to attack the “pasteboard mask” of uncertainty with a vengeance worthy of Captain Ahab himself.

Jay was not given to overt political pronouncements, being both too wise and too jaded. All the same, it was clear how acutely he felt the sting of an age when America seemed to be turning its back – gleefully – on its own intellect. As someone who had dedicated his career to charting the evolution of the American mind, it was only right that Jay should be among its most jealous guardians. Having assembled the members of the Melville seminar in his home for an end-of-quarter pizza party, Jay exhorted us to strive to truly become intellectuals, and to wear that mantle without apology. At a time when Americans were being told in no uncertain terms to watch what they said, Jay raised the specter of unquestioning acceptance, and it was as terrifying as any of the more obvious demons thought to afflict us.

I spent two memorable summers assisting Jay with the researching of his long-awaited masterwork, Belongings: Dramas of American Book Ownership. Though we were nominally working under the auspices of Summer Research College, a flagship program with formal dinners and presentations, Jay quickly dispensed with all notions of supervision and turned me loose in the libraries with only faint clues for assignments. We would, so the plan went, check in once I had something. Like many American Jews of his generation, Jay regarded Chinese food as a panacea, and our more or less biweekly meetings invariably took place over Mongolian beef and moo goo gai pan at one of several familiar Palo Alto haunts. Though the majority of these “progress reports” seemed to focus on our respective dating lives (at least during the first summer), we usually made time to go over the findings of the previous few weeks. It always held an air of high adventure, as Jay no doubt intended. On a good day, a connection might surface that had escaped the notice of earlier scholars, and Jay would note, with barely restrained triumph, “That’s going in the book.” Having known him those few months, I understood, even then, that there could be no higher compliment.

One afternoon, driving to lunch downtown, I asked Jay if he was a Beatles fan, and his voice quavered and slowed as it did whenever making a particularly impassioned point. “I saw them live. Three times!” Encouraged, I popped in a mix, beginning with a shaky but especially ethereal bootleg of “Across the Universe”, and went silent, stealing furtive glances at Jay as John Lennon intoned “Jai guru deva om”. Neither of us spoke for the length of the song, and for some time afterward. Looking over to my right, it was clear that Jay had been transported, by forces stronger than a ’93 Volvo, to somewhere far beyond Palo Alto.

Not surprisingly, my education broadened when it was Jay’s turn to pick the music. One muggy July evening, on the way down University Avenue, he at first cranked up some standard Motown classics, then reconsidered, asking if I’d ever heard of Laura Nyro. I had not, and sat, mesmerized by her voice, as he pulled his Chrysler Sebring into a parking lot. With the devotion of someone who remembered his teenage years and still honored them, Jay kept the car on for the full length of the song, and began to sway, at first imperceptibly, and eventually with rhythm and gusto few would have thought possible. Turning to me, he exulted, “Is that a song, or is that a SONG!”

Between his New York roots, taste in restaurants, evangelism of Melville’s novellas, and talent for self-deprecation, Jay felt like a member of my own family, even in the early days. The effect was at once paternal, fraternal, and avuncular, and represented a sort of coming full circle for me: finally, thanks to Jay’s guidance, I could discuss Benito Cereno with my own father, who had been urging me to read it for ten years before I finally experienced it under the fierce torchlight of Jay’s seminar. Although my college graduation was almost entirely a blur, the one image that remains absolutely clear is that of stumbling, dazed, out of the main entrance of Memorial Church, and finding Jay at the head of the crowd of well wishers thronging the quad. Without speaking a word, we embraced, and then I ran over to summon my father away from the extended family, to meet the professor I had raved about in almost every call home since the first week of English 138. Fixed in the benevolent gaze of two of the most indelible influences I’d ever known, I felt my true graduation ceremony was taking place, and for a few seconds I stood as proudly as in all the twenty-two years that went before.

Jay and I last spoke in early November, 2006. I was at the height of optimism, fairly gushing about my various projects and prospects, though feeling a touch the prodigal son – after all, there was not too much evidence I was using the many gifts imparted to me by this titan of professors. On the other hand, he was the same man who, upon being informed that I would not be applying to graduate school, grinned ever so slightly and told me “Get out while you’re still young!” Jay, for his part, sounded as ebullient as ever. Typically the Rembrandt of self-effacement, he was finally permitting himself a bit of triumph. He was in high demand on the lecture circuit, at home and abroad. The by-then legendary manuscript of Belongings was developing apace, and promised to be the apotheosis of his lifetime of thinking. Finally, he had found, in Christine Guth, love, light, and wholeness.

We concluded our chat on a note of mutual admiration, and I vowed to visit the next chance I got. That I never did is a sin a thousand Yom Kippurs won’t erase, but, then again, neither teacher nor student ever set any records for synagogue attendance. Jay’s world was one of few pieties - and almost infinite reverence. Knowing his distaste for easy consolations, perhaps Jay would remind us that, as with the annihilation of the Pequod, the sea simply rolled on this time as well. Yet, to leave it at that would likewise be too easy a consolation.

Neil Young, writing in the spring of 1970, knew it all along: We’re finally on our own. It’s an ambiguous line, equally an expression of liberation and bereavement. All of Jay’s teaching held the conviction that we must take our own compass readings, however wavering or imprecise. Like all great captains, he prepared his crew, whether consciously or not, to someday sail on without him. That is our only solace today, as the North Star disappears over the horizon and unknown leviathans approach. We have always been free.

FIRE TRENT JOHNSON NOW

2007-03-15T17:00:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t easy, but I have finally stopped vomiting long enough to put some thoughts down for your moral instruction. This morning, as everyone knows, witnessed Stanford’s wholesale destruction at the hands of Louisville, including a 22-3 run that left Stanford down 46-20 at the half and several turnovers below their own basket. It was an all-too-appropriate finale for a squad that has been in absolute freefall since a gritty comeback from a 17 point deficit to stun then-#3 UCLA seemingly ages ago.

For the sake of what’s left of our basketball program, Stanford fans cannot request that Trent Johnson be removed from his post as Anthony B. Joseph Director of Basketball. They must instead demand it. Johnson has done everything to bury this once-great program short of making his players compete blindfolded – although, given his brand of guidance, he can even be accused of doing just that. Under Johnson’s tutelage, today’s stat lines have become commonplace: 21 turnovers. 13-27 from the foul line. 10 turnovers in the first 10 minutes. I could go on, but I’d wear out the numbers on my keyboard.

From my freshman through senior years at Stanford, the team won 31, 20, 24, and 30 games, with conference records of 16-2, 12-6, 14-4, and 17-1. Since Johnson’s takeover, the team has won at most 18 games. They have made the NCAA tournament twice in 3 years, losing both times in the first round by a combined 43 points. They have beaten hated rival Arizona only once, at home.

Johnson’s teams step on to the floor unprepared, unsteady, and visibly shaken, getting down early and irreversibly. Ball control ranges from shaky to abysmal. With a lack of any rhythm to the perimeter passing game, opposing defenses have all day to adjust, as each perimeter player is forced to put the ball on the floor. Almost no effort is made to get the ball into the low post; despite the presence of two seven-foot McDonald’s All-Americans, Stanford routinely loses the points in the paint battle. Badly positioned wing players jack up three point attempts from almost anywhere, without reproach, while legitimately hot shooters are yanked from the game the moment they have established any rhythm. Defensively, Johnson refuses to make adjustments until the team is in desperation mode, stubbornly leaving his worst defender to get mercilessly picked apart. The same feeble motion schemes net opponents uncontested three pointers a half dozen times in a row. When substitutions are made, it is wantonly and without purpose, such as rail-thin forward Taj Finger for a lead-footed point guard.

At the center of this miracle of ineptitude is Mitch Johnson, a point guard who Trent Johnson saw enough in, apparently, to displace Chris Hernandez to the “2” in 2005-2006. Achingly slow, lacking in court vision, with no handle, easily taken off the dribble, and boasting the ugliest shot imaginable, Johnson the player’s presence on this roster is a mystery to all but Johnson the coach. While effective players such as Lawrence Hill and Fred Washingon have spent lengthy periods in Coach Johnson’s doghouse for relatively minor mistakes, Mitch Johnson’s record of cascading liability to his team has been rewarded over and over. Meanwhile, intriguing prospects such as Kenny Brown, Da’veed Dildy and Landry Fields must scrap it out between each other for the 16 minutes a game that Johnson isn’t forcing his team to play 4 on 5 from both ends of the court. Upon closer examination, given his contributions to the opposing team’s offense, we might be compelled to call it 4 on 6. Finally, consider Coach Johnson’s early-season penchant for playing Mitch Johnson at the same time as Carlton Weatherby, giving the Cardinal a backcourt averaging 6’ and 4.7 points per game.

All this, and the guy has about as much personality as a head of lettuce. I say fine. He can be a head of lettuce. Just let someone who knows his ass from a hole in the ground be head of Stanford Basketball.

Change on its own is no guarantee of success, but retaining Trent Johnson is a guarantee of the following: 20 point losses, dwindling attendance, golden potential gleefully squandered, scoring droughts long enough to read The Economist cover to cover, and a once-proud program sinking into an abyss of mediocrity unseen since the dark ages that preceded Mike Montgomery. Who, the last time I checked, wasn’t up to a whole lot.

Marshall Hydorn, 1982-2006

2006-10-02T12:11:00.000-07:00

Late Wednesday night, the phone rang, and unsure whether I was awake or dreaming I picked it up. A minute later, I learned that my high school classmate and friend Marshall Hydorn had “passed away”, thought it’s extremely difficult to imagine Marshall doing anything as quietly or passively as the phrase implies. True, I couldn’t picture Marshall growing peacefully old. This was someone with “blaze of glory” written all over him, and at the same time it’s impossible to conceive of a presence so vitally alive being gone. I just can’t understand.

Except for some brief correspondence and a few chance meetings, I can’t say I saw much of Marshall the last several years. The Marshall I knew was mainly the Marshall of high school and one or two years after. Partially because he was so enigmatic, his figure loomed large in my consciousness, and there was also something uniquely genuine in him that held no mystery and needed no explanation. That’s the Marshall I want to remember, and despite the circumstances in which his life ended it’s the only Marshall I can remember.

Marshall and I competed together in soccer and swimming, and while he’ll always be known as a fierce individualist, he was also as fine a teammate as you could ask for. Without being violent, Marshall was a warrior, and he carried himself as one. When there were rumblings of aggression from an enemy soccer team, Marshall would stand up with an expression of simultaneous calm and fearlessness that made it clear that he was ready and willing to take them all on. It was a look that could take your measure in an instant, and throughout more than a few tense moments, I never saw anyone fail to back down.

Marshall was no less intimidating in the pool, but it was there that his freewheeling, celebrity side emerged. He cut an unmistakable figure on the deck with his shades, sideburns and shock of black hair, and was one of the few seasonal swimmers to specialize in the 100 yard butterfly, which he swam with bravado. He was an excellent relay teammate as well, fast off the blocks and quick to offer inspiration, often derived from the martial arts movies he loved. My favorite Marshall moment, however, was when I was dispatched to go find him and tell him to put his suit back on because we had a 200 yard freestyle relay to swim in 3 minutes. Marshall, of course, was at the far end of the P.G. High aquatics complex, dressed to the nines and entertaining several female P.G. students, to the obvious resentment of some of their football players. Marshall continued his virtuoso flirting performance for another minute as my blood pressure inched upwards, then changed in a flash and arrived at the blocks just in time to swim a great race. Recognizing greatness, no one said a word about it.

Our senior year was marked by a cultural renaissance of sorts at Carmel High, and Marshall was, as usual, in the thick of it. One of his more remarkable contributions was introducing the practice of Falun Gong, a series of meditation exercises followed by millions and brutally suppressed by the Chinese government. Along with Tom Logan, Marshall established weekly Falun Gong sessions in Room 36, leading the exercises with a strong sense of both spiritual discipline and solidarity with oppressed followers in China. Marshall was seemingly everywhere at once: DJ’ing Asian hip-hop at lunch, forming the breakdancing club, injecting new life into student government, and keeping things interesting in many unofficial capacities as well. One weekend, I was told that Marshall was filming a kung fu movie in Carmel, and to get downtown as fast as possible. Never mind if anyone besides him knew kung fu, or if we had a script or the proper equipment. I’d learned some time before to show up first and ask questions later, if ever. No one had a cell phone in those days, and by the time I caught up with everyone the kung fu movie was several plans ago. It didn’t matter. Life with Marshall was cinema enough.

That was Marshall the persona, and, regrettably, for much of the time I knew the persona better than the person. Marshall the person, for me, was defined by two things: he was up for anything, and if you were in a fix, he would be there in two seconds. There are people who can attest to that much better than I can, but the quality was unmistakable in him. As a friend, Marshall’s life, for better or worse, was a study in brotherhood. As an individual, he was colored by a relentless hunger for truth. I’m not sure if he ever knew how much he really possessed.

The association seems wrong – too mellow, perhaps - but there’s a Jackson Browne song called “The Barricades of Heaven” that I haven’t been able to get out of my head since I heard the news. Recalling his own feverish coming of age, Browne sings,

Running down around the towns along the shore
When I was sixteen and on my own
No, I couldn’t tell you what the hell those brakes were for
I was just trying to hear my song…

I don’t know if I ever heard mine, Marshall, but I’ll be hearing yours for a long, long time.

Fahrenheit Four Five Wonderful

2006-09-17T21:11:00.000-07:00

I. “I need to go take care of the big bunny outside.”

As with all great declarations, there was implicit nobility in this statement, and that bothered me. I wrinkled my brow quizzically before thinking better of it. The first step of the revolution, conventional wisdom would tell us, is questioning. The final step, I realized somewhere around Day 3, is ceasing to question. Make this decision a moment too soon or too late, and it’s game over. I nodded approvingly at the man, whose spiky tufts of hair ringed his pate in a sort of corolla. “Wicked.”

And with that, the afternoon bacon was served, as it had been since as long as anyone could remember. But then, the things I remember best now, I had no awareness of while they were happening. The important things, anyway.

II. "De Toqueville? More like De Tokeville!"

In desire of many marvels over sea,
Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.

- Rudyard Kipling, “The Song of the Banjo”

Understand this if nothing else: Burning Man, for all its reputation as an anti-capitalist confabulation of unwashed heathens knocking out tribal rhythms on a reused yogurt container, is at its essence a celebration of fundamental American values. Outrageous vehicles, fabulous babes wearing little to nothing, domestic comforts imposed ruthlessly on unforgiving soil, aimless migration from one abject thrill to the next, – we got it all, hombre. You have to bring in your own water, of course, which is a fair approximation of how Southern California, for instance, came to support fifteen million people with barely enough native resources for two or three. Progress and decline are both writ large on the stark expanse of the playa, where a metropolis of 40,000 appears and vanishes in the course of three weeks. I am tempted here to conjecture that Black Rock City ceases to be American in its commitment to politely disappear without a trace, but no, I decide, that’s not it at all. The dismantling of the city is merely the final stage of the immolation; the judicious and complete destruction of what you worked so hard to create mere days earlier. It seems harsh, tragic even. But it is thus that the frontier is restored to spotlessness for the next guy.

III. Viva Patriarchy

Seemingly everywhere you went, there was the bicyclist towing the papa bear in the Radio Flyer wagon, in turn towing a train of his identical progeny in individual wagons of their own. Once again, the supposed exponents of hedonism and depravity proved to be dedicated to the rugged preservation of family values. Inter-species families, granted, but families nonetheless. Like all good children, the bears maintained strict silence and a single file.

IV: From Ralph Waldo to "Where’s Waldo?"

The former, as I’ve remembered in rare intervals of humility, once made some crack to the effect that “Every man is my superior in some way, and in that, I learn of him." Here on the playa, that proves true in an evolutionary sense as well. My fellow man boasts retractable claws, opposable toes, prehensile tails, compound eyes, fangs, wings, you name it. In the case of one fellow man’s 17-year-old stepbrother, there is a handsome pair of tighty-whities to match said wings. Take note, less enlightened adolescents: enough of this artificial bifurcation of “truth” and “dare”. If I’ve learned one thing today, it’s that they’re the same damn thing. Deal.

While discovering humanity in its localized whole is a modest task, locating a particular representative is anything but. One is almost resigned after the first few futile attempts to place all trust in chance, whose providence is certain, though it may lack attention to all the items on the wish list. Knowing only the coordinates of her camp, I set out in search of a refugee from the gone world. Approaching the first cluster of people in the general vicinity, I ask if they’ve seen a person of that name.

“What does she look like?”
“Umm ... she’s beautiful?”

Well, that really narrows it down. If I’ve been paying attention, though, I’ll realize that I’ve already found her over and over. Take heart. All of this is, to put it mildly, statistically improbable.

“Life is good, be it stubbornly long, or suddenly
A mortal splendor.”

- Robinson Jeffers, “Shine, Perishing Republic”

For my patriotic cohort, the burning of the eponymous Man is best witnessed in a manner consistent with the American dream: from a folding lawn chair. The mood is difficult to qualify; imagine celebrating every holiday at once. Of course, there is also something unmistakably funerary about the whole spectacle, but the ensuing celebration is not the “celebration of life” that’s come to be the euphemism of choice for the grieving. There is no discrete before and after; we have always been mourning and we have always been celebrating. The truth is, we’re all on fire, albeit some of us at more comfortable temperatures than others.

Like so many extraordinary events, Burning Man ultimately lays bare what we’ve always known: that there is no moment like the present, and it’s always better with the ones you love. Did I have to travel 700 miles and hasten the melting of the polar ice caps as much as I did to realize that? Probably not. But that’s a question for another time. Right now, I need to go take care of the big bunny outside. Care to join me?

"Live and don't learn. That's us."

2006-08-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

So, as everyone knows, last Friday marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of my heralded arrival on this planet. I say “heralded” because it was announced in the Monterey County Herald. Well, that, and the fact that I’m an egomaniac. Hence, I decided that my birthday blog entry would depart from the past few months’ tradition of blissful silence, and instead showcase the wisdom I’ve gleaned from a quarter century of gleefully doing what I want, when I want, in the manner I deem appropriate. Coincidentally, this is a really short entry by my standards.

Things I Done Learned:

Attitude makes a big difference. When I went on a long weekend to Jewish summer camp in the sixth grade, I was resolved to hate it before I even arrived. I could have started with an open mind – and risked waiting until Day 2 or 3 to really make those counselors earn their money.

There are an almost infinite number of beer bottles in the world, but you have at most a couple dozen teeth. Save them for special occasions, such as when your birthday falls on a Friday.

You have only two choices: you can be yourself, or you can be a second-rate version of someone else - including yourself. You can’t, however, be someone else.

When people say “If I were you”, they really mean “If you were me”.

There are few things wrong with your personal life that a weekend at the lake won’t fix, or at least obscure for the time being.

It’s almost impossible to conceive of a more profound attachment than the present one.

Playing an unorthodox role doesn’t change the fact that it’s only a role.

It’s tempting to get wrapped up in what you’d do differently if you had it to do all over again. But you do have it to do all over again – just in less time and with more cynicism.

And, finally, being sexy is a full-time job, and there ain’t no vacation or overtime.

Only In America

2006-06-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

I.

Last weekend, I was waiting for the bus on Van Ness & Greenwich. The Sf Muni, especially on the weekend, does not come "every 15 minutes" but rather when it damn well feels like it. As I dug my heels in for a protracted faceoff with my watch, a young woman approached me, initiating this feverish exchange:

Young Woman: "Excuse me, does the bus come here?"

Me: "Allegedly."

Young Woman: "I'm sorry, do you speak English?"

II.

Due to the NBA finals, I have been watching much more television than usual - although, to be fair, any television at all is much more than usual. One of the commercials that seems to really be making the rounds is for Cialis, an ED drug that promises to work up to four hours. At the end of the commercial, they admit that side effects may include an upset stomach, headaches, and a sore back. Seems obvious enough to me. My only question is, what happens to the guy taking it?

Kicking Ass and Faking Names

2006-06-09T08:54:00.000-07:00

Misunderstandings, the more I think about it, really make the world go ‘round. Whether it’s the classic SNL Emily Litella routines about “presidential erections” and the like, or your typical Middle East religious riot, misunderstanding can always be counted on to add some color to life’s drab landscape. My father, a criminal attorney of some notoriety, is apt to describe a client as having been the victim of “a small misunderstanding about 70 kilos of cocaine”. Who could argue with that?

Easily among the most misunderstood of concepts is networking, a topic which, if it’s of scant interest to some of you, it might well be because of how it’s been misconstrued. Keith Ferrazzi writes in his modern classic Never Eat Alone about those unfortunate “networkers” who return from a conference bragging about all the “contacts” they’ve made – in reality, nothing more than a stack of business cards of people they met in passing. As Keith explains, these aren’t contacts, but merely a list of people you can now cold-call.

While the Internet has been widely touted for redefining the way we do things, I find it’s equally effective at allowing us to repeat old mistakes. Look on any social networking site, and you’ll find people who shamelessly amass names – call them contacts, friends, connections – until you wonder if it’s possible they’ve even met a tenth of those people. The only networking site I find professionally useful, LinkedIn, expressly discourages this type of aggrandizement, and that is why it’s (for the most part) effective. People only feel comfortable making referrals for, or requesting introduction through, people they trust. A revolutionary concept, no?

Of course, it was only a matter of time until the business card collectors invaded LinkedIn as well. LinkedIn displays the number of connections each user has, and to an extent it’s a good barometer of a person’s commitment to getting the most out of the service. Someone with one connection probably joined at the behest of a friend, forgot about it, and hasn’t gotten much value from it since. To be fair, in some professions and geographic areas, it’s not terribly useful. On the other hand, 25,000 connections suggests a separate form of indifference to the site’s goals. I get invitations to connect from these people all the time.

It’s funny when a message from someone you’ve never met begins “Since you’re a person I trust…” I end up accepting these invitations, because I’m a nice guy and I’ve learned the hard way more than once that I can’t afford to brush anyone off. But I seriously question the value of this practice when I notice that I’m connected to someone through someone I’d feel totally uncomfortable asking for an introduction. Not surprisingly, these trusted "colleagues" I’ve never met never seem to contact me again.

Perhaps to discourage blatant connection-padding, LinkedIn no longer displays the number of a user’s connections when it tops 500 – in that case there is only an icon that reads “500 +”. When I see that icon on the profile of someone I've never heard of who's just requested me, I have to wonder how many of their other "connections" are in the same boat. Frankly, I think it’s a perfect response. The connection-mongers, however, are not happy, and they’ve banded together to do something about it – namely, establishing their own wiki. Read their stirring manifesto:

Why MyLink500? LinkedIn no longer displays the number of connections for top networkers. Anyone with over 500 connections carries a notation only of "500+" connections, whether they have 501, 5,000, or 25,000 connections. This policy is an insult to top networkers who take pride in the care and development of their networks and evangelism of LinkedIn. This page is dedicated to these proud networkers.

Funny – I consider diluting the value of LinkedIn by making a mockery of its guidelines to be sort of insulting itself. I’ve never been that great at mathematical reasoning, so I’ll pose the question to you all: is an insult of an insult a compliment?

(Ironically, this nonsense is hosted by PBwiki, the co-creation of my good friend Ramit Sethi. It was Ramit who, in May of 2005, turned me on to Never Eat Alone. Thanks again, pal!)

Forgotten But Not Gone

2006-06-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

So, as everyone knows, I didn’t write a blame thing for the past two months. Why? The truth is, there were a lot of factors. The Final Four, incidentally, sucked. Three total blowouts. Then I was dog-sitting. Then Desert Trip 2006. Consequently, I was too happy. Then I was too sad. I was too busy. Then my schedule opened up completely and I lost all sense of urgency and time management. Ultimately, the blog became one of those old friends you’ve forgotten to call for so long you’re afraid to try again, because it will never be the same and he’ll never forgive you for your failure to care. But who does?

Apparently, at least two of you. One of whom is Guru Khalsa, who frequently bombards me with whispered exhortations to quit my job, grow my hair out, and above all, write more. Thanks, pal. The other remains anonymous and left only this comment:

gabe, it's been almost a month. please write.

Simple, poignant, direct. I wish I could do half so well. And, having felt quite the same way of late, I decided to embrace that crack I saw on someone’s Nalgene sticker about being the change you wish to see in the world. I’m back. Let’s get down with this jazz music.

Last night, I attended satsang with Adyashanti, the spiritual teacher and funnyman known in my circle as the Bliss Bunny. I dragged a few friends along, always a dicey proposition. To keep things interesting, one was raised a devout atheist, the other a devout Catholic. The air was thick and stifling in the normally comfortable Unity Church of Palo Alto, the epicenter of I’m OK/you’re OK spirituality in the South Bay, prompting Adyashanti himself to remark, “I know it’s only a concept, but could someone try to adjust the air conditioning?”

After we got over that zinger, we were treated to a fairly enlightening discourse on the ultimate dimension of being, followed by Q&A, during which, as always, people with no discernible questions to ask droned on interminably, lulling us into a stupor worthy of spontaneous awakening. Afterwards, I was asked why I’m attracted to Adyashanti’s teachings, which emphasize freedom from struggle over freedom through struggle, and urge making peace with the unknown. My first reaction was, “Well, it runs counter to everything I tend to believe and do…”, which, on its own is probably not a great rationale.

We’ve all heard some brand of nonsense about the struggle within, but I’m starting to believe it. I’ve always been at odds with my own nature, and have found my greatest rewards in doing things I don’t like to do initially. My friend Bill Stewart, who is at least six decades older than me, says that you should get up every morning and do something you don’t want to do – and, I’m guessing, merely getting up doesn’t count. I never would have thought, for instance, that a former recluse and sociopath like myself would end up in headhunting, one of the most networking-heavy of all professions. I used to be afraid to call my close friends, let alone cold-call an executive I’d never met. But a funny thing happened along the way – the connecting process stopped being painful and is now something I truly enjoy.

So, I think, the internal struggle is not a journey in itself, but one stage. Doing something you hate as a discrete task can be rewarding. Making a career of it, maybe not so much. Ask someone who knows. They’re everywhere, and there are far too many of them. For more on this unfortunate phenomenon, check out the writings of my good friend Ian. I justify my ocean swimming by claiming that the water is so cold, you feel warm as a result. It’s taken some getting used to, but the truth is, it’s also almost ten degrees warmer than it was in January when I first donned the red cap favored by the mighty South End Rowing Club, where I often enjoy a post-nautical sauna. In other words, if it sucks the entire time with no noticeable improvement, something’s wrong.

It kind of reminds me of the time my friend Suzanne took me to a Buddhist meditation service. I was poked, prodded, and admonished by the presiding monk to sit correctly, face correctly, and fold my hands correctly. At first, I was highly annoyed; later, I began to think that there might be considerable rewards in embracing rigid discipline until it no longer seems difficult. The next morning, I woke up with the worst lower backache of my life, and concluded, “Fuck that guy”, which I generally believe these days as well.

Setting aside the spiritual realm for a moment, though, I think there’s something more fundamental about the internal struggle: personal contradictions are enjoyable, and inherently humorous. Joseph Heller , for instance, constructed almost an entire book out of sentences such as “Dunbar loved shooting skeet because he hated every minute of it and the time passed so slowly.” Or consider the Facebook profile of a good friend of mine, a talented mechanical engineer and a sensitive, empathetic, and loving person, who shall remain anonymous.

Interests:
nra, shooting guns, kickin it at the lake, drinking miller high life, pornography, smoking meth at the pismo dunes and kickin it there, underwater basket weaving, kickin it with the michigan militia

On second thought, as the cliché goes, it’s funny because it’s true. We’re from Carmel Valley, after all.

Nostalgia for the Present Moment

2006-03-31T00:32:00.000-08:00

Shaking my head at what was left of my bracket, I remarked to myself that irrationality is a beautiful thing. If it didn’t land George Mason University in the field of 64 to begin with, it’s certainly kept them, as the man said, free and clean. Thanks in large part to these patriotic gentlemen, the average seed of teams in this year’s Final Four is a whopping 5.0. But that’s just the average. Those of you who know basketball would point out that the actual 5’s were mostly eliminated by the 12’s long ago. However, for Florida, UCLA, LSU, and George Mason, basketball’s pinnacle and holy shrine awaits, appropriately enough, on April 1.

More so than the championship game itself, the Final Four as a whole is a thing of majesty. I think that many NCAA hoops fans would acknowledge that whoever wins the whole thing is really of secondary concern. These four teams represent the best America has to offer, from the redwood forests to the Gulf Stream waters. Everybody sing along now. The fact that three of the four teams come from the Southeast and one from the not entirely beloved confines of Los Angeles is of small import. The Final Four transcends geography. It transcends logic. It transcends just about everything – except, of course, alliteration. Until now, these four teams belonged to the people. Today they belong, like Lincoln, to the ages.

2006’s Final Four is an odyssey yet to be sung. Reflecting on the last half-decade of NCAA tournament glory, however, is like a visit to the things in the back of my refrigerator. Their time has passed, but an indescribable fondness remains. The memories, man. The crazy, sweet memories.

For starters, you always pulled for Duke to lose. This much was certain, and, legend had it, the day they fell in the first round to a sixteenth seed, Dick Vitale’s hair would grow back and time would be reversed. It always happened if you hung on for the daylight long enough – except in 2001, when the daylight never came. After jumping out to a 22 point lead in the first half of the semifinals, Maryland seemed on the verge of redeeming themselves for having eliminated Stanford the week before. Alas, it would be one more year.

And 2002 certainly had its share of moments. For instance, Duke lost – and in the sweet 16, on a missed free throw followed by a missed putback, against accidental tourist Jared Jeffries and an Indiana squad so white and Midwestern that corn would sprout from the earth at the softest whisper of the name Dane Fife. Third place finisher Oklahoma had some great ballplayers as well, guys like Aaron McGhee and Hollis Price for whom the question of ever suiting up for the NBA game was almost an insult to the legend they forged in college. In the end, though, the turtles won. It was 1989 all over again, only Splinter was renamed Gary Williams and even more grizzled than the original.

There’s no sense going in sequence, though. It’s not so much the chronology or the history that matters as the seconds and tenths of a second of tournaments past, just so there would be time to inbound or hoist a final three. Hakim Warrick’s block as Kansas sank into the gloaming. Mateen Cleaves wielding the Claw without a thought for the NBDL. Marvin O’Connor of St. Joseph’s fouling out with 37 points, to a standing ovation. Casey Calvary, a Gonzaga forward for the common man. The “Fighting Wadoods” of East Tennessee State. And lest I forget, what in God’s name is Dick Bennett doing here?

But finally, and perhaps ultimately, this pronouncement from the redoubtable Lee Lightfoot as Arizona outlasted Illinois to advance to the Final Four, buoyed by the infectious spirit of a forward listed at 6’6”, 240 lbs, and every last bit of it Afro:

“Eugene Edgerson ... is the MVP of everything.”

May I Just Say...

2006-03-09T14:31:00.000-08:00

This basketball season was a fucking joke, and an insult to the selfless and heroic service of Chris Hernandez. Trent Johnson has shown us all season long that he doesn't belong as a coach in a major conference (and the Pac-10 has been rapidly losing its claim to that distinction the past few years).

I'm not going to say anything else except this: Other angry young alumni (and angry old ones as well) are invited to join me in withholding donations to Stanford until we have an administration that doesn't feel a successful basketball program is inconsistent with the goals of a great university.

The Human League

2006-02-01T09:22:00.000-08:00

One of the regrettable sports clichés to which I’ve grown the numbest would have to be “human highlight reel”, especially during these last two years of witnessing USC tailback Reggie Bush run roughshod around almost everything in his way. It’s no accident. Great athletes, for better or worse, find their life’s work distilled into snippets of film, moments of grace and impossibility bookended by close-ups of their protagonist waving to his adoring faithful and walking off the field in exalted resignation. Sport has always been as much theater as athletic showcase; as Bill Shakespeare once put it, “They have their exits and their entrances/And one man in his time plays many parts.” Heroism arrives by varieties and degrees, as does decrepitude; Prince Hal becomes Henry V, and perhaps an early – or at least timely - departure is all that stands in the way of one’s descent into incapacity and irrelevance. Falstaff, for all we know, simply hung around too long.

I’ve often wondered how my own highlight reel might appear. Would I look handsome, dashing, fluid under the microscope of film? My first temptation is to imagine my most glorious (and vainglorious) moments from Carmel Valley mud football immortalized onscreen: flattening five or six people en route to a long touchdown run up the middle, or perhaps flying off a corner blitz to notch a sack on fourth-and-long. I think I know what would happen, however. The camera, rather than rendering us more powerful, begs attention to our myriad failings. You never look as fast as you feel – in fact, you rarely are as fast as you feel. In that sense, the stopwatch is merely a more esoteric sort of camera. For most people, the truly magical moments become mundane when stepping out of their skins and into the nosebleed seats of objectivity. Why is it that so many would rather watch professional sports than their own unfolding lives? Safety in numbers, I suppose – mass agreement that something is worth exercising not only attention, but passion as well.

Drifting away from my athletic fantasies, and recognizing that I am, at best, a sandlot hero, I ponder expanding my definition of the highlight reel. It strikes me that romance might provide an equally fitting arena for the heroic and spectacular, while playing to a somewhat fairer audience. Here, too, I have the consolation of any number or scenes of my choosing. I can see myself now, transfixed by momentary passions into so many time capsules. I might be making an extravagant and unexpected gift, or composing the sort of sonnet that comes along only once or twice an attachment. I could offer up a rippling shoulder on which to take comfort, or say, believably, that something is OK that clearly isn’t. Whether at my most stoic or most quixotic, it’s an image that’s as practiced as it is conjured up for the climactic scenes that cry out for such material. And, inevitably, somebody is going to say “You’re too serious”, or “It happened too suddenly” or “Her butt’s too big anyway.” And you – if you’re me, anyway – mutter “Philistines!”, completely missing this sad fact: aesthetics are only half the story.

I’ve always been a great believer in the aesthetic and narrative value of life. I like gaudy entrances, drawn-out climaxes, poignant exits, and all the cringing, breath-holding, and uproarious laughter in between. Forgetting these things, though (to the extent we can), it might be wise to re-examine the perception of something as simple as sports. In many cases – basketball being a prime example – we discover that we have lost in precious fundamentals what we have gained in momentary flashes of excitement. Look askance at a game of football, for instance, and you’ll see that, as often as not, it’s the solid, unspectacular movements, in totality, that win the game. While we might like to think of the three, four, and five-yard pickups as simply filling in the blanks between the Big Plays, they are frequently the routine, and the spectacular the interruption. Woody Allen remarked, famously, that ninety percent of success is just showing up. His glibness, however, belies the fact that there may be considerable honor in doing so, when taking into account the thousand temptations not to. Similarly, I recall a musical number from a Berenstain Bears animated Valentine’s special I watched in 1987, which declared that “sometimes love is just being there”. And, as anyone who’s ever been in love will tell you, being there can be everything.

Perhaps our perspective errs not in the concept of the human highlight reel, but where we place the emphasis. Perhaps what would prove most morally instructive would not be a human highlight reel, but rather a human highlight reel. These are scenes that scarcely rate a mention, and yet they fairly populate our days. In one, you might angle carefully around a car parked in the middle of the road with its flashers on, elegantly anticipating the reaction of the oncoming traffic. In another, a wry joke might distract your distraught friend just long enough to reclaim his day. In the midst of your bathtime reverie, you find you have dispensed just enough body wash to create a satisfying lather, while judiciously avoiding great excess. Your favorite song from high school comes on the radio unexpectedly, and, against all expectations, you choke up. And, unfailingly, you start to feel like a person again.

Feeling like a person is dependent on many different factors, some more, some less essential than one’s choice of bubble bath. We tend to focus on the visible parts of the spectrum, leaving on either side the invisible elements of our existence. On one side are the meaningless things that we know to be meaningless. On the other are the sobering thoughts. Nature has had, for instance, about six billion years to screw things up, and yet here we are. Your body requires twelve million complex chemical reactions to correctly happen every second, and yet happen they do, for the time being. If your life seems to be lacking at all in excitement, take comfort. Thus far, you are the highlight of the evolutionary process. Now, with your permission, I'm going to sit back and enjoy.

Parisites Like Us

2006-01-28T14:22:00.000-08:00

While moving into my new environs in North Beach, I was lucky enough to uncover an old journal I thought was lost forever, documenting my backpacking trip through Europe in August-September of 2002 with Noah Barish, Andreas Baer, and Bret Ballou. Since I haven't really done anything besides headhunt like a madman since the last entry, I offer, instead of an update, a window on the not-so-distant yet heretofore ignored past.

...Typically, I slept in the latest, then we embarked for Montmartre, Sacre-Coeur, and a lengthy period of Waiting For Ballou in front of Gare du Nord. So much about this country disgusts me, namely the hygiene, constant smoking, pay toilets, Eurotrash bedecked in black shrink-wrap T-shirts, and at the same time there is a sense of culture, or at least history. As Andreas said at Notre Dame, “So much stuff happened here”, which is quickly becoming the in-joke of the entire trip.

...We headed for the Tour Eiffel, storm clouds gathering ominously. Once there, we were caught in a downpour so emphatic the whole street was like looking through an aquarium.

…From the prix fixe menu, I selected potage de legumes (a lot like Mom’s, surprisingly), lapin a la moutarde, and tartes aux abrigots. After dinner, we sat down to red wine on the stone wall, drinking the night away like real Bohemians in the red glow of passing riverboat lights.

…Stefan, I thought, shuddering. I still can’t believe his grinning, sinister presence has been extinguished. We progressed slowly out of the hostel, making a few stops on the way into Paris proper.

…The Louvre is far too massive to form a cohesive impression of it, So I consider it bit by bit. The Italian masters are all well and good, but you can only look at so many creepy babies and swooning Virgin Mary’s before they all start looking the same. Noah and Andreas removed their shoes in the mass confusion of the Mona Lisa room, and shuffled around successfully in vagabond style, like young Ulysses, before being busted by the museum’s gendarmerie…We made a forced march to Room 77 to observe my favorite painting, Gericault’s “The Raft of the Medusa”, where I posed with dying histrionics for latest in a long series of photos mimicking the attitude of the painting in the background.

The most important event of the day was that Andreas and I committed to sitting on at least one bench in each room of the museum. At times, mainly around the home décor exhibits, this activity superseded our appreciation of the art itself. I fell a few rooms behind and had to frantically catch up to Andreas, sweeping through each room and swooping low over the bench like an eagle catching fish, just long enough for my buttocks to touch down on the cushions. And that, friends, is my defining moment in the world’s greatest museum.

…We passed a million brasseries before finally deciding we’d found one authentic enough for a last night in Paris. Andreas made his own way, opting for a hot dog over Parisian fare. He also eschewed the sleeper car, the cheap bastard. I was privileged to observe this exchange:

Andreas: “Uhhhh….Merci! Merci! Je would like, um, (gestures frantically to the hot dogs).”
Vendor: “Un hot-dog?”
Andreas: “Yes! Oon hot-dog!”

I might be the world’s worst ambassador for America, but I get respect from the waiters here.

…The sleeper car consists of six beds, factory-farm style. Thankfully, only Bret, Noah, and me inside. After much internal debate, I opted for the bottom bunk, which I had not been assigned. After an all-too-brief chapter of Kavalier & Clay, we popped the lights, and I fell asleep surprisingly fast, bathed in the noise of the rails, the sleepcase Mom had sewed so dutifully, and my own nakedness. Pillow surprisingly ample for train issue.

End Age Discrimination In Your Relationships!

2006-01-09T13:13:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with my good friend Henry. Henry embodies what I want to accomplish. He’s been married to his beautiful wife Marcia for three years, and hearing him talk, you’d think they were still on their honeymoon. He recently sold off his real estate company to spend more time on charitable work. He’s planning an African safari, works out every day, and keeps a close watch over the art world. And yet, some of my contemporaries think it’s funny that I enjoy hanging out with him so much. I can only assume this is because Henry is 86.

Relationship-building is a hot topic these days, and many of my friends are getting right in step. Still, it amazes me how few people my age (24) are cultivating friendships with much older folks. I’m not talking about being guilt-tripped into calling Grandma on her birthday, or occasionally helping an elderly neighbor unload his groceries. I’m talking about older people that you call on frequently, confide in, invite to your parties, email the latest good joke – in other words, treat like any of your regular friends. Why, you ask? Well, it’s a nice thing to do. But for those of you who remain unconvinced, let me list some advantages:

Older folks wield more influence. It’s no accident that, at 46, Bill Clinton was considered extremely young to be President. Although this is changing with the rise of young ultra-entrepreneurs, business, industry, and politics remain largely the province of the over-50 crowd. And it makes perfect sense: Older people have more experience, more eminence in their fields, and, perhaps most importantly, have been building their networks for longer. Who wouldn’t want to join a circle that’s been expanding and improving for twice as long as you’ve been alive?

Older folks can show you how it’s done. The older you get, the more responsibilities you have (well, unless you’re a certain uncle of mine, but that’s another story). Marriage, parenthood, your own parents’ aging – these are all challenges they don’t teach you how to face in school. And how could they? You don’t have to go it alone, though. Your older friends have been there, and are usually only too happy to pass on the benefit of their experiences and insights.

Older folks know how to have fun. Seriously. Although they often grew up in less permissive times, chances are your older friends bent a few rules in their day. They can teach you how to short-sheet a bed, and other age-old but ageless pranks. They know dirty jokes you’ve never heard, and they learned how to be bad boys from the likes of Humphrey Bogart and Errol Flynn. Who were they? Listen up.

Older folks have great stories. My friend Howard served in the B-25 squadron that inspired Catch-22, and you have to figure the wits he developed there made him the crafty poker player he is now. My friend Myles grew up in integration-era Mississippi, forging the democratic ideals he volunteers for today. My friend Taelen went to the same school as I did, forty years earlier, and knows a thing or two about stirring up trouble there – and getting away with it

Older folks can improve your karma. I’m sure that when I’m gray, I’ll want younger people around to keep me energized, share new ideas, and hear my stories. If I am so fortunate, I can’t help thinking it will have been because, having once been a young person who made friends with older people, I understand how an older person can befriend younger people.

There is much for us to share with each other as human beings. Why limit ourselves by spending 99% of our time with those born the same decade we were? I move we end age discrimination not only in the workplace, but in our relationships – and start enjoying all the tremendous gifts we can offer one another, young and old.

Ding-Dong, The Witch Is Dead!

2006-01-08T17:09:00.000-08:00

It’s a bit out of date, but I thought I might weigh in on Wednesday’s classic Rose Bowl. I am not going to attempt to hide my glee, though I must admit I never thought I’d find myself cheering this wildly for Texas in anything. It is true that the shirts that were removed at game’s end included my own. Although my previous post bore the headline “it’s as big as the promise, the promise of a coming day”, I spoke too soon. After what was mostly a miserable year for sports, the bad guys finally got what was coming to them. And how.

The real story of the game as USC’s utter ineptitude in containing Vince Young. That he was going to run early and often came as no surprise to anyone – except, apparently, the USC defense. It was a spectacle worthy of the great Hollywood epics – the parting of the Red Sea over and over again. USC’s “defense” ought to be taken out and whipped as a disgrace to the memory of previous units. Granted, you don’t replace a unit that includes Mike Patterson, Shaun Cody, Lofa Tatupu, Matt Grootegoed, and Jason Leach all at once, but I’ve seldom seen a defense demonstrate such a serious lack of pride. This is not, of course, meant to take anything away from Young, who was nothing short of miraculous on the biggest stage of his life. Now, when he says he needs to meet with his pastor, it’s to pray he’s not playing behind the Texans’ offensive line next year.

Honorable mention should go to tight end David Thomas, who went over the middle several times to preserve the Horns’ comeback bid, including an incredible sideways diving catch on one of their most critical drives. A reliable and fearless receiver who doesn’t get enough credit for his hand in shaping one of the comebacks of the century.

Most of all, it was great to see the wind vacate the sails of the obnoxious parade of sycophants and bandwagon-jumpers that has swelled USC’s already despicable fan base. Much has been made, for instance, of Matt Leinart’s friendship with Nick Lachey, the former Mr. Jessica Simpson. It’s a great country indeed when the golden-boy quarterback’s prestige is increased by hanging out with a mediocrity whose only claim to fame was having been married to one of the most vapid celebrities of our time. How about Spike Lee, former New York Knicks eyesore, and his late-season bid to catch the USC fan-cam? On the other hand, given the state of his directing career, whatever works, right?

What’s most disappointing is the people who root for USC because “you have to support the Pac-10”. This is wrong on so many levels. Ignoring the fact that the school is the right hand of Satan, it’s just stupid. I should suspend my bitter rivalry because they happen to be from my conference? As Voltaire was rumored to have said, “Le fuck that”. I don’t hate a team all year long and then turn around and support them because the prestige of the league is on the line. Does it somehow enhance the reputation of my school? Maybe if our games had been a little bit closer, but not really. Everyone knows that the Pac-10 is a second-rate league with no defense and one team that dominates the other ones, and the best way to change that perception is to have some of our other schools win every once in a while.

I actually talked to Stanford alumni this week who were rooting for USC in the Rose Bowl. To those unnamed people, you deserve to be stripped of your diplomas.

It's As Big As The Promise, The Promise Of A Comin' Day

2005-12-25T11:54:00.000-08:00

1.

Last night, after drinking a glass of port, I came up with another one of my patented Fearless Policy Initiatives (FPI’s). The boys and I were talking some campaign finance reform: how it’s desperately needed, but no one wants to be seen squashing the free-enterprise-run-amok that is the electoral system. It’s a fine line. I think the average American feels an innate sympathy for racketeering, and for meaningful change to come about, the voter must feel that he himself, not some abstract concept of fair play, is being defrauded by the current system. This is the essence of Tom DeLay’s defense: I did it for you, guys. Screw the rules – you’re more important.

This is why the neoconservative doctrine has such innate appeal. Its message is exactly that. We don’t need to abide by international convention to launch a war, if it’s to protect our own. If your ass was on the line, would you rather I fussed around with rules and regulations, or dropped bombs until you were out of harm’s way? This why my older friends bought me beer when I was underage: my happiness was more important tan the rule of law. Well, that, and the exponentially higher likelihood that I would sing the periodic table once properly shitfaced.

Hence, any attempt at campaign finance reform must 1) empower the individual voter in a direct and tangible manner, 2) give the politicians themselves a forum for unfettered honesty, and 3) at least create the illusion that on the whole, freedom is being increased and not curtailed. As I so often do, I devised a system that satisfies all three major criteria, while remaining wildly advantageous to people like me, from whose gifts the voting public has been sheltered for much too long.

What I am proposing is this: All candidates are entitled to whatever campaign materials, endorsements, or promotions can fit onto their bare buttocks. This is a brilliant idea on many levels. For one, it would favor candidates with larger buttocks and lesser inhibitions. It would also make a brilliant instantiation of the vague but deeply felt notion that the longer a campaign goes on, the lower the candidates will sink. No one would want to be the first guy to bare all of his ass, but it would certainly prove expedient. And for those of us less gifted in the volume department, it would become as much an eating contest as a political one.

Finally, Americans would be treated to honest and uncompromised campaigning, while focusing on the part of a politician we all suspect is being bared to us as it is, albeit in subtler ways. The electorate would be given a chance to call the bluff of the elected. I firmly believe that the measure of service is how low one is willing to stoop for the benefit of others. I mean, we all loved the teachers who volunteered for the dunk tank, right? This would be a simple way to find out just how much your vote means to your would-be representative. Of course, it would also advance a premise that all of my campaigns have ridden, however discreetly I implied it: All other things being equal, shouldn’t your leader have an amazing ass?

2.

To those of my readers who celebrate Christmas, may it be a joyous one, and may you have enough friends and family that you aren’t compelled to read this miserable blog for your peace on earth/good will to men fix. To everyone else, ditto. To my Jewish supporters, may the theaters and Chinese restaurants be open early and late today. And, finally, to Sarah Silverman, in case you’re reading, I’m still single.

Twilight of the Gods

2005-11-28T23:14:00.000-08:00

Five days ago, I announced the annual Thanksgiving Mud Football Classic for Friday at 2:00 PM. They say bad news travels like wildfire, but in this case it was sweet gospel that swept through town with blazing urgency. Navigating the hordes of Carmel High alumni thronging the local dives Wednesday night, the tension was palpable. Danger was more than just a posted sign. I don’t know if it would be fair to say that a table was prepared before me in the presence of mine enemies, but at least two Sierra Nevadas were. I smiled grimly at friend and foe alike, and slept soundly the next two nights, having made my peace.

Inevitably, at times like this, I recall the anecdote about the prisoner who, chided by his guards for dawdling en route to the gallows, quipped “Nothing will happen until I get there.” Evidently, thirty other people were thinking the same thing – in other words, the CVMFL enjoyed by far the best turnout in its nearly seven-year history. The result was a defensive coordinator’s dream and a tailback’s worst nightmare. The score at the water break, after which half of the players excused themselves, was a piddling five touchdowns to four (extra points are not yet attempted in the CVMFL). For the record, my team lost the first series and won the second, albeit in totally different types of games.

If I learned one thing from the fallout from the season preview, it was that I could not attempt to pay adequate tribute to all the athletes who participated, nor could I have foreseen who would emerge from the shadows of obscurity and decrepitude to reclaim his lineage. Nor, I should say, did everyone live up to the threats he made against your humble narrator for his crimes of omission. In any case, I am not naming names. Instead, I wish to salute every player on the field Friday, to a man. Whether it was the ability to kick mud in the face of an opponent at a crucial juncture, or a well-placed jab in the eye socket en route to a two-yard pickup for the first down, you all contributed something ineffable. We can look forward to the Christmas Classic knowing that the legacy of the kings is secure. As Brother Scott Manke put it, we left it all on the field. And there, where we laid that strange, dark burden down, shall we take it up again.

I have a few fond (and self-serving) moments from the game: recovering my own onside kick, coming off a corner blitz for one of the most vicious sacks of my career, and watching time and again as our defensive backs came up with the ball after the Flatliners forced a bad throw with our relentless pressure. Although very few of them came on offense, there were too many great plays made by both teams to enumerate here. Instead, I am going to request that everyone add his own in the comments section. Anything that you feel is worthy of publicity, feel free to write down. The battle to spread democracy to our planet has come right home to this blog.

(Cue bugles and drums).

Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay

2005-11-23T02:04:00.000-08:00

More than a few of you (well, OK, that isn’t true) have noticed that the content on this site has been pretty pitiful lately, and I don’t have much to say in my defense except that, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I have actually been busy enough to forget to blog. New city, new job…but more on that later. The important thing is, I’m back in action. As Mo’Nique put it in the underappreciated Snoop Dogg vehicle Soul Plane, “It’s time to get straight down with the get-down!” But where to start?

I. Well, this one is easy enough: The annual Thanksgiving Mud Football Classic will be this Friday, 2 PM, at Carmel Middle School. I am predicting one of the best games in the history of the league, and I can tell you right now that we can look forward to a stunning comeback from one of the sport’s all-time greats. Who could it be? There’s only one way to find out. Names have been named. Shit has been talked. Brother has looked into the face of brother and discovered the reflection of his own searing hatred. Nothing else remains to be done until kickoff.

II. Over the past few weeks, I have begun an exciting new chapter in the ever-expanding account of my dirty life and times. After months of flirtation and intrigue, I turned headhunter, signing with Goodwyn/Powell LLC of San Francisco – or, as I like to call us, the Pirates of 208 Utah St. The job is simple enough, to describe it: we get retained to find the perfect executive for a new company, and then we make a concerted effort to steal that person away from his or her unwitting and hapless current employer. We are the Samuels of Silicon Valley, anointing the kings of the age – or, at the very least, directors of business development. If any of this sounds shallow, ruthless, or like a waste of my talents, don’t worry, it probably is. I’m not naïve enough to think this will be my life’s calling, but, in the meantime I don’t mind admitting that it’s pretty damn sweet.

The reasons for this are numerous. One of them, of course, is being able to share an office with Shams, an Australian shepherd known for drinking beer, noticing hot moms at Starbucks, and terrifying a certain no-good cat out of its life. Whenever things get too stuffy, I begin prancing through the suite with an elongated gait, and Shams hops to attention. After all, there’s a big world out there to conquer. Another major plus is my “boss”, Brother Peterson Conway VIII, who in the course of my first day on the job set up a number of secret email accounts for me with obscene user names, ordered us quadruple Laphroaigs at the Big Four, and compelled me to indulge in an ocean swim at around 9:00 PM. I haven’t swum that fast since May of 2000. I haven’t felt that small coming out of the water since, oh, about 1988. Finally, I would be remiss if I did not admit that I get a vindictive pleasure from the fact that I am now in a position to capriciously select and dismiss people from companies like McKinsey, where I couldn’t get a job last year. Not to mention doing it all while wearing jeans.

III. Random reflections from life in the big city:

The menus at the Indian fast food joints that grace San Francisco (Pakwan, Shalimar, and of course Naan & Curry are three perennial favorites) include some fabulous uses of the English language. Viz. “Lamb curry with dominant taste of tomato”. Amen, brother. I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

One slight drawback to the cozy feel that makes San Francisco special: 795,000 people, 4 empty parking spaces. I suppose I’m not the first one to notice this.

I work not too far away from a mural honoring O.J. Simpson, who grew up in Potrero Hill and starred at San Francisco City College before taking his talents to USC. The neighborhood is no longer the uniformly rough place it was then, having attracted its share of startups, home furnishings, and import showplaces. Nevertheless, there is still a local strongman who maintains order in the streets surrounding our building, and used needles can be found by the pallets of junkies who sleep in the stretch of parking spaces under the freeway.

Even after all these years and the iconoclasm that has characterized most of them, nothing seems to epitomize northern California quite like the Golden Gate. Beautiful, vast – and expensive as hell.

A stampede of cockroaches across a restaurant floor isn’t necessarily a bad sign, especially to someone like me who sets so much store by authenticity. However, it isn’t necessarily a good one, either.

IV. Contents of my latest hand-burned mix CD, “Headhunting Music”.

1. Geto Boys, “Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta”
2. Dr. John, “Qualified”
3. Glen Campbell, “Rhinestone Cowboy”
4. Gogol Bordello, “Occurrence on the Border (Hopping On A Pogo Gypsy Stick)”
5. Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, “Constipation Blues”
6. Tenacious D, “Fuck her Gently”
7. Warren Zevon, “Gorilla, You’re A Desperado”
8. Loudon Wainwright III, “The Swimming Song”
9. Johnny Cash, “Wanted Man”
10. Big Tymers, “No No”
11. Terror Squad, “Rude Boy Salute”
12. Crosby, Stills, & Nash, “Southern Cross”
13. Phil Collins, “Jesus, He Knows Me”
14. Randy Newman, “Short People” (Got No Reason To Live)
15. David Lindley & El Rayo-X, “Tiki Torches At Twilight”

Word.

Special Teams, Indeed

2005-11-04T14:48:00.000-08:00

From 1987 through 2004, Frank Beamer’s Virginia Tech football teams blocked a total of 105 kicks in 213 games. That’s almost one block for every two games – something it takes some teams an entire season to accomplish (or not, in many cases). Beamer’s secret is, in fact, no secret at all. His special teams employ as many starters as possible, both offensive and defensive, in an effort to get the best athletes on the field. When the best athletes for the job do not happen to be starters, they are given the call. The result? Top ten teams year after year. Using the best talent available at each position - what a revolutionary concept.

It has often been said that we are living in a talent economy. Unlike my father and grandfather, no one ever told me to become a doctor, lawyer, or accountant. Instead, my parents, teachers, and mentors all said to do what I was best at. After a woeful attempt at learning computer programming my sophomore year of college, I decided that all other things being equal, talent and passion beat guilt and struggle every time. As a fearless communicator and writer, I’ve had jobs in editing, marketing, and headhunting. As a bumbling, incompetent, uncommitted programmer, I would have lasted two seconds if I’d even finagled a job at all. As a result, I’m a great believer in the talent economy.

Not everyone is, though. Last April, I got a call about an entry-level position with a sports marketing firm. Now, I’m a sports nut with a jones for relationship-building. I took the first slot available and the very next day I walked into their office, located in a slick commercial building next door to a major tobacco company. The interviewer was young, probably not yet thirty, and swore freely. He asked me two questions: 1) Tell me about a time you took on a leadership role, and 2) Rate your interpersonal skills on a scale of 1-10. For the first, I related my experiences as the anchor of my four-man kayak team, and answered a confident “10” for the second. The interviewer said “Great, that’s the interview – can you start next week?” I was shocked. I replied that I could not, but I left with an unsure feeling.

Perhaps I had just closed a door on myself unnecessarily. After all, I’d been looking for a new job for several months, without luck. Then it hit me: They’re more desperate than I am! How did it get this way, I wondered, if they were, as they claimed, an expanding company with a rock-solid customer base? My hunch is it’s an ingrained habit: when you make a practice of seeking anyone at all, and on short notice, anyone at all is exactly what you get. Maybe that’s how a company claiming to serve the sports markets of Oakland and San Francisco ended up in a small, depressing town in the no-man’s-land between San Jose and Sacramento.

Entry-level positions are the special teams of the professional world. They are taken for granted, and, at many firms, the least amount of care goes into filling them. For many people, they are more about not screwing up than distinguishing oneself, although a few folks do every year in almost every company. Too often, however, entry-level people are considered replaceable. Those sports marketers clearly believed that – I couldn’t name you one friend of mine with a college degree and decent grades who wouldn’t have landed that job provided he or she had bathed that day and put on clean clothes.

It sounds silly to say that the best companies are those that hire the best people – but the whole truth is that they don’t only do this for their best jobs, but for all of them. Frank Beamer has proved that even at invisible positions, talent proves to be anything but. Of course, football is different from the corporate world. While the star linebacker can also handle kickoff coverage, the CEO can’t take extra time and double as junior analyst. But star linebackers are born from kickoff coverage all the time. Similarly, a junior analyst candidate might prove, on closer inspection, to have “CEO” written all over him. The company that hires for an entry-level position with the goal of only filling that position has already lost the talent war. The question is not whether you can afford to invest the resources to hire top talent at the entry level. It’s whether you can afford not to.

Indian Summer of an Uncle

2005-10-21T16:45:00.000-07:00

"Gambler tried to be a family man, though it didn't suit his style..." - Warren Zevon

I've always striven to be an avuncular figure, having benefited from many such people myself. One of the beauties of uncledom is that it probably affords the greatest opportunity for corruption of minors, while requiring the least convincing credentials as a relative. In recent months, I have been blazing new territory as an uncle, not of the cigar-smoking and racetrack-frequenting but the diaper-changing and baby-rocking brand.

If this sounds unusual, let me begin by reassuring you all that my brother, despite a thriving practice as a heterosexual, has not sired any offspring. Rather, I have been named uncle on an honorary basis, this being the best kind. Since July, I have enjoyed an exalted position with seven-month-old Molly Zander Franklin, she of the very big hair. Then, a few minutes after midnight on Wednesday, Oct 12, the world welcomed one of its newest constituents, Sage Beryl Tarozzi Melton, who checked in at a robust 8 lbs 6 oz. I had the pleasure of visiting this charming individual yesterday evening, although I had a devil of a time getting Uncle Pete (Conway VIII) to relinquish her for even a moment.

Sage's parents, Forrest (an earth scientist) and Kristine (a dancer), have teamed up on a number of ventures before, and have always hit a home run. It was no surprise, then, that their latest and most important contribution should be so stupendous. In days of yore, momentous events required that the poets of the age chip in with an occasional poem, and while I have always shrugged off the title of "poet", thinking it rather akin to "bum", I did hazard a sonnet in honor of Ms. Melton. It is slightly sweeter in sentiment than my usual fare, but give the kid a break - she's less than ten days old.

Sonnet

for Sage Beryl Tarozzi Melton

It's almost something of a magic trick,
A mystery sublime on which to pore,
This strange and wonderful arithmetic:
How love combined with love makes something more.

The glint of glass, the headiest of scents
And greenery enough for woodland elves;
You fashioned her of precious elements –
A leaf, a stone. And something of yourselves.

She'll grow to love the mountains and the sea
And revel in the wild and the wet.
She'll dance above the bounds of gravity,
And teach the gasping clouds to pirouette.

Look upward now. A harvest moon's agleam.
Bid sleep goodbye – and welcome in your dream.

Into the Abyss

2005-10-13T01:59:00.000-07:00

Darling, the seasons are changing
See now, the leaves, how they die
Love needs no reason for ending
Come kiss your baby goodbye.

- Kris Kristofferson

That chill some of you may have noticed in the air could be a metaphor for your own crumbling relationships, but I would prefer to think that it is simply the advent of autumn. Of course, this subtle metamorphosis is not without its own attendant catastrophes, not the least of which is the return of the Carmel Valley Mud Football League (CVMFL) to the hallowed fields of Carmel Middle School. For those of you who don’t know, this is the greatest sporting event around – if you’re as shamelessly provincial as me, that is. In the interests of my readers’ continuing education, I am pleased to offer the First Ever Carmel Valley Mud Football League Season Preview, or, for short, the FECVM…ahh, fuck it. Let’s get down to the essentials.

History:

The CVMFL had its humble origins on the grass fields of Tularcitos Elementary School in the winter of 1999. In those days, it was known as the Tularcitos Football Association, or TFA. Games were often played 5 on 5, and the style of play was largely defined by aggressive passing, vicious open-field tackling, and frequent trick plays involving wedgies. Original members included Josh and Matt Brown, Gueren White, Brian Stromberg, Adrian diMambro, Sabian Ford, and the Baer Brothers, whose father Wolfgang distinguished himself by competing in a game. The hammering he received from then-linebacker Gabe “The Kosher Butcher” Rosen led to the institution of a new rule, which required that all players must suck during their first game or they will not be invited back. This rule was taken to extremes by several people, but their identities are immaterial.

In late 2000, in the interests of expanding the game to include more town kids, contests were held on the front field of Carmel Middle School after rainstorms. The field’s large patches of mud, slick grass, and variable elevation put a premium on special teams play, as numerous kickoff returns went for touchdowns. Over the next few years, the game witnessed a number of changes. Increased participation led to more defined roles for the players. The old “five-alligator” format was abandoned in favor of designated offensive and defensive linemen. Offensive play-calling took on even more prominence, as quarterbacks found themselves with more weapons to choose from. Finally, although some purists decried it as “no fun”, the running game became an indispensable part of the offense.

Currently:

Many of us have moved on to bigger places, but none of us have grown up. As long as we keep coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, the CVMFL ain’t going nowhere. The cartilage in my knee, on the other hand…

As it comes time to start thinking about what this season might bring, I now offer you a list of names to keep an eye on, as well as some developing plotlines.

Andreas Baer: The biggest of the brothers, Andreas’ friendly personality belies his deadliness on the football field. With his size and hands, any ball he catches over the middle has the chance to go all the way. On defense he has the brawn to man any of the line positions, and the speed to drop back in coverage. He projects as an outside rush linebacker, but don’t be too quick to pigeonhole him. It’ll be your ass that pays. Only question: Is he mean enough?

Beau Baer: Beau is one of the great enigmas of the league, an unstoppable offensive force who has the tendency to disappear from too many plays. With Beau, there is always a lingering sense that he knows something you don’t, and he thrives on the uneasiness created by his unique approach to the tight end position. He has also added the bulk to shift over to guard or tackle, as needed. On defense, you never know which Beau you will get – but the same could be said for life in general.

Adam Canepa: A threat at quarterback, receiver, and safety, Canepa’s greatest strength might be his unflappable confidence and resilience. You can sack him three plays in a row, but on fourth, he will bury you with a bullet over the middle or a long dash down the sideline. With above-average strength, he is capable of taking a pounding – or giving one.

Marc Chaney: Marc is a true deep threat. His crisp route-running and sure hands have made many a quarterback look better than he really ought to. Chaney is especially adept in traffic, and the old adage that what goes up, must come down could well be amended to include the phrase “into Marc Chaney’s hands”.

Niyago Fields: The premier passer in the game, Niyago’s 220-lb frame allows him to plow through the competition time and again. Blessed with a great feel for the game and a lightning-quick release, he can do it all, beating teams with his legs, his arm, and his head. A player-coach in the mold of Bill Russell, his teams rally around him whenever they are in trouble.

Conrad Harder: One of the CVMFL’s Young Turks, Conrad is a former nose tackle making the unorthodox transition to middle linebacker. His game is not a flashy one, but his mistakes are few, and his durability over the course of a long season is unquestionable – no small asset in this league. Also a servieable guard or tackle.

Jacob Hendrix: Despite the numerous accusations he has weathered that he’s a girl (all of them originating with his stepfather Greg), Jake comes to play. No laggard himself, this former track standout boasts 4.4 speed, as well as an emerging sense of the game. A dangerous addition at either tailback or slot receiver, he is also learning to go wide. When that happens, watch out.

Helgi Jonsson: The craziest man in the league, bar none, “Hella” Helgi serves as the rush end on the defensive front known as the Flatliners, along with left end Gabe Rosen and nose tackle Tom Logan. Relentless in both his pursuit of the quarterback and his blatant disregard for basic human decency, this sociopath of a defensive lineman combines the exploitation of the Thai sex trade with the berserker mentality of his Viking forebears.

Jon Jonsson: “America’s Most Gorgeous Male Model” flashes an equally handsome game, using his 4.3 speed as a two-way threat. The only question concerning his game must be, “Who will get him the ball?” An ace at either cornerback or free safety, Jonsson can be counted on to score nearly as many points on interception returns and fumble recoveries as he will on catches.

Brooks Klassen: A transplanted Alabaman, Klassen makes up for in shit-talking what he lacks in charisma or honor. Don’t be surprised, however, to find him under center – and do not discount his abilities.

Lee Lightfoot: Blessed with above-average height and hair, Lightfoot is a serviceable receiver. He may not always get the most looks, but those he gets, he capitalizes on. His true skill, however, is on special teams, both the return and coverage units. He has been called a dirty player numerous times, but if he is playing dirty for your team, you really can’t complain.

Tom Logan: Although he is nominally a nose tackle, Logan goes far beyond simply taking up space. Incredibly strong, he holds his ground against even the strongest interior linemen, dominating the line of scrimmage. A gifted pass rusher, he also has a penchant for the forced fumble and the batted-down pass. With more angry exes than the rest of the league combined, he has developed unparalleled powers of anticipation.

Reese MacDonald: A converted lacrosse player, MacDonald is still learning the ropes at outside linebacker. With his frame, however, he has exciting potential, and don’t be surprised if this is the year that he learns to leverage his considerable assets and stop getting run over in the open field.

Eric Reid: “Weed”, as he uncharitably called, is a quarterback who relies on steadiness, leadership, and versatility. Although not a rocket-armed pocket passer or lightning-quick scrambler, he displays deceptive speed, even for a white quarterback. Reid does all of the little things well, which adds up to a very valuable player.

Evan “Kraken” Rosen: As flashy and flamboyant as his brother is grim-faced and gravel-voiced, Evan is emblematic of the new generation of CVMFL stars. Lanky and flexible, with limbs like a Slinky, he is known for his acrobatic grabs and his synergy with quarterback Fields. Always more interested in the past in looking pretty than getting down and dirty, Rosen promises this is the year he starts corralling running backs and receivers the way he does the long ball.

Gabe Rosen: This icon of football's early, brutal origins is nearly unblockable as a pass rusher, and unstoppable as a rushing fullback. Boasting increased speed and stamina and carrying ten fewer pounds than last season, look for the man once called “Deadly Force” to flash an all-around presence on defense, occasionally dropping back into coverage to take advantage of the bad throws forced by his fellow defensive linemen. Also a player-coach, Rosen’s defensive schemes keep opposing coordinators on their toes, and opposing players on their backs.

Russel Wolter: An old-school center. Physical, nasty, and big, Wolter directs movement from the game's epicenter. Able to play any position on the offensive line, Russel may not have finished school, but he definitely finishes his blocks, rarely missing an assignment. Proven to play through pain, he is also a valuable defensive tackle. It's almost impossible to believe he was ever a vegan.

Burning Questions:

What old-timers will return for a long-overdue comeback performance? And will we even recognize them?

Will this be the year that the sophistication of the blocking schemes finally catches up with that of the pass rush? For that matter, will run blocking become a priority in its own right?

Will the bad blood between the Rosen brothers result in a contest for the ages, or ultimately prove a distraction to their respective teams?

Will Andreas finally put to rest lingering questions concerning his sexuality, and, if so, will anyone notice?

Will the success of the quick-strike, short-passing scheme, a huge factor in a come-from-behind victory engineered by Niyago Fields, result in a more efficient overall game, with fewer game-changing interceptions? Or will the wildness native to the CVMFL win out in the end?

Will any phantom Canepa brothers emerge from behind Adam?

Who will be this year’s star you’ve never heard of?

Has anyone read this far? If so, I owe you one of Mom’s famous brownies. Talk to me later.

I Am Fucking Insane

2005-10-11T23:14:00.000-07:00

I don’t actually have anything to say right now that would justify an entire post, so I will once again resort to that cop-out of all cop-outs, the grab bag. Comb through carefully, because you never know what you’ll find. You might be disgusted, you might be mildly amused, you might even learn something. Well, OK, I’m lying about that last one.

What is with basketball players reaching out for their teammates’ hands after bricking the free throw? Hello, Sparky. You fucked up. This practice, not namby-pamby liberalism, is responsible for this new America in which no one is allowed to feel like a failure, even if he is one.

Check out Raw-B's latest musical gem, produced by the inimitable Sean Donnelly for Double Chin Productions.

Memo to Harry Reid: Now is not a time to be making nice. When your president nominates his barber for the Supreme Court, you start piling on. I don’t care if Harriet Miers signed a promise to protect Roe in her own blood. The Democrats don’t need another apologist. They need an attack dog with a collar made of razor wire.

Today, I went scuba diving with “Iron” Mike Guardino. The great thing about scuba diving is that you get to compete with nature on her own terms. Fins? Got ‘em. Breathing underwater? You guessed it. The only difference? After about forty-five minutes, I will be back on dry land enjoying a hot shower and an ice-cold beer, while you, my marine friend, will remain blinking vapidly. On the other hand, I guess we’ll both be happy.

Hopefully the fish aren’t talking to each other. After a twelve-year absence or so, I made my triumphant re-entry into the pantheon of exalted anglers, catching four rainbow trout Saturday in a remote, possibly nameless alpine location. Because Professor Logan set the itinerary, of course, we spent three times as many hours driving as we did fishing. My catch got the classic treatment: brown butter, Carmel Valley-grown thyme and tarragon, Meyer lemon from Richard Rosen Orchards, and a tall glass of Coca-Cola on the side.

People are idiots. I was at Carmel Valley Coffee Roasting Company the other day, and ran into a fellow I knew from the old days (in fact, this guy was banned from the Ocean Avenue location). He asked what I was up to, so I showed him the website for the gentleman I represent. He got visibly distressed, and began lecturing me about how dangerous it was to do business with Arabs, and how they all hate Jews, and support terror, and dress badly. I informed him that Mr. Sethi was, in fact, a Punjabi Sikh. He was familiar with neither the national origin nor the religion. This did not, however, stop him from laughing in my face when I suggested that the current administration was pursuing a dangerous and uneducated course in the Middle East. He also insisted to me that the deficit does not actually affect you or me. I should probably have beaten him senseless. Instead, I went and bought some Spanish wine. Hopefully this is not a preview of my political career, where decisive action must take precedence over my depressants hobby.

Finally, I should mention that Friday’s gumbo was my finest ever, and Myles L. Williams is the greatest man to ever walk the earth.

Keep The Change, You Filthy Animal

2005-09-30T01:46:00.000-07:00

Now, as some of you recall, I pledged last month to run for Congress in the near future. That dream will begin to take slightly more shape this weekend, when the annual convention of the Ancient and Honorable Society of Buckeye kicks off in Palo Colorado Canyon. Participants in this noble experiment, ongoing for over fifty years, will include attorney Richard A. Rosen, my infamous Uncle Myles, and a certain congressman from District 17, whose brain I fully intend to pick as soon as a sufficient stupor sets in. This is part of an overall scheme on my part, under a working title of “Rosen & the Will to Power”. Sooner or later, the legendary Sam Farr will be forced to bring the ship into shore, and, when that happens, I fully intend to take over the reins. Unless, of course, it doesn’t happen soon enough, in which case I will shift my base of operations to more opportune pastures. I am a firm believer in the American system, up to and including the ancient and honorable practice of carpetbagging. However, this system, like any under the sun, has its limitations. Hence, I will make this pledge right now to you, my loyal future constituents: If they don’t elect me, I will take power.

Speaking of taking power, we’re all talking about Tom DeLay, who, in the “better late than never” department, just got indicted. Comrade DeLay displayed the crisis-management skills typically associated with his party in a Fox News exclusive, mounting an impassioned defense that began “I was first investigated in 1993…” Stirring stuff, that. “Friends, Romans, countrymen”, “Four score and seven years ago”, and now, a new pillar in the pantheon of public appeal. After a lengthy catalogue of “what” and “how”, DeLay worked his way around to the much more difficult “why”. As he movingly explained, “Texans deserved a Republican majority”, which is why he was compelled to break the law. Over and over again. This seems like a pretty weak justification, on the surface of things, but consider this statement literally for a minute. Texans voted Ann Richards out and replaced her with a guy who managed to lose money on an energy concern in their corrupt state. Of course they deserve a Republican majority. I deserve my own In N Out Burger right in my backyard, but thus far, I have observed the local zoning ordinances.

Somewhat less observant, on the other hand, are John Kerry and Bill Clinton, who, at a time when 60% of Americans oppose the Iraq war and Bush’s approval ratings have finally dipped into batting average territory, think that Democratic leadership means lauding the “progress” in the Iraq war and minor, nitpicking criticisms of the means by which it was begun, respectively. At a time when the only surge being experienced by any ranking Democrat is on Harry Reid’s EKG, two of the party’s faces, for better or worse, are exhibiting a curious case of political Stockholm syndrome. Kerry, as we know, is completely inept at differentiating his platform from that of the Republican party. Chuck Hagel, a Nebraska Republican, no less, has been more outspoken in his criticism of the war than Kerry. I would have expected better, however, from Bill, who learned the hard way, time and again, that there is nothing to be gained by going along with the latest assault on due process. In this case, of course, he’s also going along with his wife, who believes that re-election in one of the most liberal states in the Union hinges on being the last person to admit this war was a bigger mistake than my last three kids.

The Democratic party, especially in the Senate, has displayed such pathetic vision that it seems like a better bet at this point to rebuild from the ground up than to attempt to wring any sort of leadership out of the stooges currently in office. The problem, of course, is that old politicians don’t die, for the most part, until they’re no longer old politicians, but simply old people. But what’s more realistic – overhauling the platform, or overhauling the personnel? As difficult as it is believe, Americans really do want change. Look at California. We don’t care who’s in office, so long as he’s new. Gray Davis isn’t tough enough on Big Energy? We’ll elect Big Energy, for a change! Because you’re kidding yourself if you think the recall stunt was anything less. The important thing to remember is, it’s change. Never mind from what. The country as a whole is no different. Eight nightmarish years of peace and prosperity, and we elect a new president and a new party to clean up this town called America. Or did we? Well, we came close enough for that to be a matter of some controversy. But, like I say, if they don’t elect me, I’ll just take power.

The rest of you, however, might put some thought into taking it back.

Degustation

2005-09-27T23:48:00.000-07:00

Last night I was privileged to go to Monday night dinner at Cachagua’s General Store, where Valley legend Michael Jones whips up the best of local cuisine at bargain prices. Cachagua is not on everyone’s radar, but this is a gourmet treat, and a fair reward for braving the wild boar, charging deer, and crossfire from rival meth producers that makes Carmel Valley Road a venue fit for Luke Skywalker’s landspeeder. There is always a sizeable and eclectic crowd, mostly locals, but beginning to be infiltrated somewhat by the Mercedes SUV-driving crowd. It is locals, however, who get the majority of the love to be had at the General Store, judging by the terrific wines my cohort enjoyed last night, compliments of the chef. Last week, I called to add a few people to our reservation. I was asked who was at our table, and recounted a few names. The proprietor replied, “Oh, you mean the wine fuckheads!” This is why I love the Valley.

I have become, of late, an avid reader of the Cachagua Store blog, located here. Besides being remarkably entertaining, Mr. Jones reserves ample wrath for the corrupt practices of many local dining establishments, some of who hollow out their stuffed potatoes days in advance, or prepare everything in the same rarely-changed deep fat fryer. Reading the righteous indignations of a true chef had caused me to spend more time thinking about what really constitutes good food, and what I have done to advance the cause. My guacamole, of course, is beyond reproach, especially since the addition of a minor wrinkle in the recipe that has revolutionized the product as we know it. Obviously, I cannot divulge that here, but if you are interested (and willing to part with your firstborn) get in touch with me and we can work something out.

In totality, I’m not sure how accomplished I am as a chef, although chances are you can ask any of my ex-wives and get a glowing report. It might be the only glowing report in which I figure prominently, but, as Eddie Murphy put it in “The Nutty Professor”, “We do what we can.” Certainly, I have a ways to go, but I believe I have grasped one essential truth already: the food should never have to compete with the chef for attention. Just as the great Zen masters to not seek self-glorification, but rather facilitate the journeys of others towards the truth, I believe the great chefs strive to facilitate a journey towards true flavor. Cute hybrids and garish novelty pairings might grab the front pages of some lesser food sections, but innovation for its own sake cannot improve the art and science of cuisine in the long run.

Food is, at its very essence, a sexual experience. Most things are – especially for those of us whose minds have been in the gutter so long that the gutter has started charging rent. This puts the chef in a unique position. In his great poem “Tor House”, Robinson Jeffers writes “my fingers have the art to make stone love stone”. It is no different for chefs, who according to the graces of their art, are the catalysts for unions of every variety, from the sadomasochistic to the truly vanilla. In so doing, they may channel Yente, the matchmaker from Fiddler On The Roof, a subtle conjurer with age-old methods, or reflect instead the hard-sell ethos of Iceberg Slim, “America’s Pimp Laureate”. Ultimately, of course, you can’t force love. With the right Cab, though, you can come damn close.

Walk Through the Bottomland

2005-09-22T23:01:00.000-07:00

Alright, enough spirituality, earnest reflection, and fond reminiscence. It's time to reconnect ourselves with one of the founding principles of this once-proud blog: sports and the hysteria that inevitably surrounds them. Sure, there are a lot of different kinds, like badminton and waterskiing, but there is really only one that matters at this time of year: college football. When I transferred to Stanford some years ago, I thought to myself "Finally! Football again!", and on the way over to the home opener, I downed a standard-sized bottle of Manischewitz Blackberry, a special seasonal wine well beyond the ken of most of you proletariat types. At the insistence of Comrade Wellington, I then downed a second, and attempted to go out for a pass. Shortly thereafter, I found myself swaying to the rhythm, in a manner of speaking, of the Stanford Band, with a cardinal-colored pair of underwear on my head as a sort of turban. Stanford beat Arizona State 51-28 that night. As I've so often observed, with a sad smile and faint shake of my head, "oh, the way we were!"

But, as Mr. Dylan memoraby put it, I was so much older then. Now, I am young again, having regained a childlike sense of wonder. Childlike, that is, if children are known to utter the sorts of words and phrases I did Saturday night, when Stanford lost their 2005 home opener to U.C. Davis, 20-17. Davis, while a fine team, is in the process of transition from Division II to Division 1-AA. As if that weren't enough of an indignity, Davis is quarterbacked by Jon Grant, formerly of Pacific Grove high, and winner of multiple Shoe Games against my alma mater Carmel. In the face of the many world-shattering events going on these days, it is difficult for me to claim this really means much - but, within the context of the game, this is unquestionably the worst thing to ever happen in the once-proud history of Stanford Football.

Clearly, a lot of it had to do with sloppy execution and lackluster effort. The offensive line, in particular, couldn't block a popup ad at this stage in their evolution. However, consider the plays called by Coach Walt Harris, which were as conservative - and low yield - as a government bond. Harris has apologized repeatedly since Saturday night. I think the players ought to apologize, without question, especially the linemen who allowed Trent Edwards, the quarterback on whom the Cardinal's hopes squarely rest, to sustain a terrifying injury to his throwing hand. The coach, however, is in a slightly different position. He has no bearing on the actual execution of the gameplan. He can, however, decide on the plays and the personnel involved. If a coach calls the best plays possible and his team is simply outplayed, he has nothing to apologize for. However, this loss was clearly divine punishment for, among other things, Harris being (uncharacteristically, I should add) such a fucking wimp.

Whither Harris, then? This is not the NBA's Eastern Conference, where coaches are routinely fired two games into the season, and, as Harris cracked, you can't get new players off the waiver wire. I am not going to say that Harris deserves to be fired for this. I am simply going to indulge in one of my favorite techniques: contradistinction. Now, some of you may recall Mike Price, the wildly successful Wazzu coach who was named to replace Dennis Franchione at Alabama. Following an evening in which a few strippers performed in his motel room in Pensacola, Florida, Price was relieved of his duties, without ever having even coached a single game. Although Price had not committed any crime, his firing was justified by many because he had "embarrassed his school". This begs the question: what would embarrass you more: your coach having a belated bachelor party, or your Pac-10 program losing to a team that was Division II when most of its starters were freshmen? And look who lost his job.

There is a lesson to be learned from all of this, however, and it isn't just "Christ, do we suck". Never, ever schedule an opponent from a lesser division. As a major conference program, you just don't "win" these kinds of games in any true sense. If you clobber 'em, you look like a bully. If you win narrowly, it'll give everyone an aneurysm. And if you're one of the pioneering teams that manages to lose one of these kangaroo-court setups, you might as well tattoo "Wait til next year!" on your foreheads and go home and bring on the warm milk. Actually, make that "next decade". There is simply nothing to be gained - kind of like running behind a certain Stanford right tackle. But wait, you argue - can't these games serve as valuable tune-ups? Horseshit. You get good through good competition. This is not to take away anything from U.C. Davis, who were clearly good competition. However, now is as good a time as any to invoke Jeremiah 12:5: "If you have run with the footmen and they have wearied you, how will you contend with the horses?"

Only a Lad

2005-09-16T03:20:00.000-07:00

It is definitely autumn again, a season that, the older I get, the better I like. And, indeed, there is much to like - the chill in the air that will soon mean a fire in the long-dormant fireplace, the epic pageantry of college football, the gradual ripening of the persimmons and pomegranates in my yard, and the reassuring knowledge that, while I am not, many young people are back in school by now. It seems like all the kids who I still tend to think of as being perpetually little are applying to college now, if they're not already there. For many of them, this is the biggest decision of their lives thus far, against a backdrop of their biggest aspirations and anxieties.

I often think about the lessons I've learned since I was a senior in high school, of which there are at least several. Usually, I hold by Willie Nelson's doctrine - "wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then." Songs of experience aside, of course, I have my doubts about what good certain lessons are without having to learn them yourself. It pains us to see our younger siblings, and, eventually, our children and grandchildren making the same mistakes we did, when we feel so strongly that they don't have to. But, of course, they so often do, and it is no coincidence that, granting that we all make mistakes, it is supremely satisfying to claim that, if you had it to do over again, you wouldn't change a thing. Personally, I suspect everyone who says this is lying, even if just a little bit.

Looking back, though, I wouldn't have changed much. Things worked out pretty well for the Dude. But I'm still astounded by how rigid my views once were, and by what different criteria I evaluated my college experience coming and going. It was all that I hoped for, and none of what I expected. And so, I think of all those kids applying to college right now, and what I'd tell them if they asked me about it. So far, they haven't. Smart kids. But, nevertheless:

Why Do You Want To Get In To A “Good” College?

April 4th, 2000, is a day I remember vividly. The first chatter could be heard at 7:20 in the morning in our chilly A.P. Biology lab. “Yeah, I got in. Don’t think I’ll go, though.” “Me too, I dunno, I want someplace chiller”. You fools, I remember thinking. You’ve been given the greatest gift in the world and you’re going to throw it away to become beach bums? The school in question was U.C. Berkeley, on which my adolescent hopes and dreams squarely rested. Berkeley was not simply my goal, it was my destiny, James Earl Jones voice and all.

I was not accepted to Berkeley. With much resignation, I packed my bags for U.C. Santa Barbara, where I had been awarded a regents’ scholarship, vowing to defect to more prestigious pastures as soon as I could. With a chip on my shoulder too big for even the largest tub of salsa, I buckled down, earning a 4.0 for three straight quarters, and eyeing a new dangling carrot: Stanford. Three of my high school classmates were there now, and their stories (which were seemingly confirmed by my weekend visit) were tantalizing: diversity to match Berkeley, and privilege, opportunity, and tradition to dwarf it. This became my guiding light, my reason to overcome my natural inertia. Of course, it did occur to me that by looking so far ahead I was compromising my present experience – but that was no matter, I told myself. “What if you get there and don’t like it either?”, someone asked. “Won’t happen”, I replied, and rewrote my admissions essay for the fifth time.

I transferred to Stanford September 21st, 2001, confident that, here at last, I would achieve academic excellence, meet my future wife, and leave in June 2004 with my dream job. These, after all, were the benchmarks by which one judged the college experience; anything less and my parents would be ill-rewarded for their investment. Of course, I was going to enjoy myself, too, as long as I was at it. Fast forward a couple years, and you’d find me dozing in the third-quarter French class that I, like my apathetic friend Mike, had put off until now, but needed in order to graduate. I retained an enviable GPA, although I privately felt shame at how easily it had been earned, due to grade inflation, even if I had done fine work regardless. The idea of a future wife now seemed cruelly ironic, for reasons I won’t elaborate on. As for a job, I was grateful that the few classes I needed towards my masters’ degree would stave off that eventuality.

Thankfully, the fog lifted. I realized that, while my major might not have been the toughest, I had (for the most part) performed earnestly, on top of which I could unquestionably write. True, I didn’t have a plush job in consulting or I-banking lined up, but, I reasoned, I didn’t want to, and the challenge of finding something more unusual and rewarding might be a healthy one. There would be brilliant and attractive women outside of Stanford – and how! Finally, I was leaving with a collection of friends who had absolutely lived up to – and far exceeded -my loftiest expectations. So, if you’ve been reading along, that was why I wanted to go to this college, and this is why I’m glad I went to that college. Now why do you want to get into the college of your choice?

Maybe you don’t even really want to, and it’s your parents who want you to. If that’s the case, I’ll refer you to Ric Masten, the poet who spoke (wonderfully) at my brother’s high school graduation. He elicited his first of many gasps from the audience with the admonition “If you’re just being sent to college...don’t go.”

Maybe you want the prestige. You wouldn’t be entirely wrong, either. I knew, cynically or not, that my creative writing degree from Stanford would pull more weight with some people than the same thing from UCSB. Whether those were necessarily the folks I cared about impressing is another matter, but it would be a lie to deny that it opened many doors. And, to a certain extent, this fact is often reflected in the price tag.

Maybe you feel that the people will be better. If this is the case, let me say that the concept of some people being “better” is a hateful one, even if I once believed in it. On the other hand, there is a certain talent pool that comes with the “name schools”. If I had gone elsewhere, it’s conceivable that my friends would have included a top NFL pick whose true talent was the violin, a Marshall Scholarship-winning archaeologist, or the brilliant entrepreneur I now work with, but it’s undeniably less likely.

Maybe you think that this is the kind of place where you can truly be happy. If so, I hope that it isn’t the only one, because it is also the kind of place where you can be truly unhappy. And this goes for just about anywhere you can think of. Of course, some of the happiest times of my life were spent at Stanford – but it’s important to remember they aren’t the only years of my life.

Maybe you’re attracted by the combination of strong academics and vibrant student life, the chance to live in a unique part of the country, being far from (or close to) home, the bustling city life, the quiet seclusion, the diverse student body, the unmatched library resources, the undergraduate research opportunities, the athletics, the thriving counterculture, or just the way you felt when you set foot on the campus. Amen.

They say that “wherever you go, there you are”, and I think the key word is “you”, not “there” – in other words, the person, not the place. From the first tentative draft of your personal statement to the morning of graduation and well beyond, so much of it will be up to you – and, it must be acknowledged, so much of it will be beyond your control. I don’t know you, but as of this, the fall of your senior year of high school, chances are neither of us knows just where you’ll be next year. What I can say, with any certainty, is work hard, and good luck.

Of Time and the River

2005-09-14T00:13:00.000-07:00

I recently returned from a weekend of backpacking in Yosemite, with three true icons of my masculine consciousness - Forrest Melton, John West, and Richard "Chard" Lake. Being around large rocks and humming rivers generally causes me to reflect a little on the passage of time. As cliche as that sounds, it's worth considering every now and then. Part of it is about constancy. This is why I love rocks - the music I listened to when I was thirteen now seems nihilistic and juvenile, the girls at whose feet I worshipped when I was seventeen turned out to be kind of mean, and the Beat Generation no longer moves me in quite the same way. But El Capitan, Half Dome, and Glacier Point are still as majestic now as then. I've been coming to Yosemite for twenty years - long enough, perhaps, to put the "semite" back in Yosemite. It doesn't get any less special. As Johnny Cash once put it in "Hit The Road And Go", a song extolling travel as a panacea for heartbreak, "There's magic in the mountains/And music in the valleys down below..."

The other part, of course, is change. As I was leaving Glacier Point, one camera-pointing tourist said to her husband, "We should take a picture of you with Half Dome in the background every year, and see if you can notice any changes." At the time, I didn't think much of it. They had the look of Yosemite Valley dilettantes - the type who probably didn't venture off the paths with iron handrails. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized there was something to her idea. We measure ourselves against seemingly constant things. Of course, Half Dome and El Capitan are themselves temporary. What isn't? That is not something I will attempt to answer here. We have the rest of our lives to strive for that, whatever form we imagine it to take. Spirituality teaches us to love the eternal, the infinite, the intangible, and this is extraordinarily difficult. So we love the tiny, the vulnerable, and the temporary, and we take comfort, some of us, in the idea that something greater than ourselves shares our love. That is compassion. Courage, on the other hand, we satisfy by loving the great and terrible - mountains, oceans, deserts, things that might not be infinite, but might as well be as far as us mere mortal schleps are concerned.

William Wordsworth was probably correct when he made that crack about how the world is too much with us. I think, however, that you have to get wrapped up in the world to a certain extent. This is why I am Jewish. We might have a heaven. Details are pretty sketchy on that subject. In the meantime, we set a lot of store in government, agriculture, temple blueprints, food, and lovemaking. As for alternative views, I think of my crazy religious aunt, who dismisses most people's passions and amusements as "worldly". Sometimes, I wonder if she really tastes what she eats. If so, does she want to? Some of you would agree that a lot of us could use more spirituality and less materialism in our lives. I certainly could. I think, however, that in the complete absence of the material, the spiritual becomes meaningless. For this reason, I think that people who worship the sun, moon, and stars are closer to monotheistic piety than they are typically given credit for. They are worshipping, after all, the highest powers they know. If their God is not my own, their prayers certainly are.

Of course Yosemite is worldly, and as such temporary. The same is true of people. But without Yosemite and all its sensual glories, God has a little bit less of a resume. And without people, for all their obtuseness, God probably has a somewhat more limited audience.

* * * * * * * * *

Now that the deep thoughts are out of the way, some highlights. Although the trip featured the esprit de corps and meaningful conversations I've come to expect from such inestimable travelmates, what set this one apart was the incredible wildlife we saw in just one day on the Panorama Trail. First, a large, mature grouse strutted fearlessly over to where we had stopped by the river below Illilouette Falls, prompting Chard to ask if anyone felt like chicken for dinner. A mile later, a red-tailed hawk circled overhead, looking very much like Robinson Jeffers described him. A few hundred yards from Nevada Falls, a bobcat paused right off the trail, and the crowd of onlookers it amassed hardly seemed to make much difference. A few minutes later, a rattlesnake brooded on the steep bank above the path. In the late afternoon, whispers of a mama bear and two cubs circulated down the well-traveled route up to Half Dome, and sure enough, there they were. Finally, as the four of us came down the mountain in hastening darkness, another bear, only a silhouette, could be seen moving between the trees. Whose woods these are I think I know.

The wildlife, however, is only part of the story, notable for its richness. The people are another part, and I would be remiss if I did not pay them some tribute as well.

Mark Twain once remarked that "We have not the reverent feeling for the rainbow that the savage has, because we know how it is made." Forrest, with his graduate degree in earth systems, offers a moving counterpoint to Twain, who was rarely less than 100% correct. To watch Forrest on the trail is to watch reverence in action, tempered with both boyishness and age-old wisdom that belie his thirty-one years.

John, in voice and action, is the picture of steadiness. It is hard to think of John without thinking of the cable car he built to bring people and supplies across the Merced River to his cabin after floods destroyed the old bridge. Swiftly and surely, John sees it through, a modern-day Western pioneer pulling his way across the great divide, one armfull of rope at a time.

As for Chard, he is every one of the ancients rolled into one. He is a warrior, if his shoulders are any indication. He is a sage, judging by the coat of silver on his chest. He intones with the gravitas of a great tribal chief one moment, and plays on his recorder like the subtlest of tricksters the next. Here, there is no contradiction - only human wholeness.

And then there is me, your humble narrator. But I don't really have much to say on that subject. Ask one of the other guys.

Brother To A Prince, Fellow To A Beggar

2005-09-04T21:00:00.000-07:00

As we enjoyed a pleasant lunch (or, in my case, a pleasant cola) at a sidewalk cafe, my friend asked me what it was that interested me so much about Afghanistan after all - a pretty reasonable question on her part given the four or five volumes on the subject in my bookbag. Examining this sort of thing often shames me, as I vocalize one half of the answer - that it seems like about the most dangerous place you could be at any given moment - and decline to vocalize the other half - namely, that I have always embraced an almost eminent degree of caution in my own affairs. I was the only one of my friends not to learn how to skateboard. I went to school two hours from my hometown. I've never even tried yogurt. But, armed with a volume of Kipling and a modest trickle of the Highlands' better stuff, I become the Captain Kirk of the armchair, boldly imagining things in broad detail that were once vague and fuzzy concepts. And, to tell you the truth, I sometimes hate myself for it. I have friends who are traveling the world, teaching English and meeting exotic and beautiful people, not knowing where they will be a few months from now, and relishing the uncertainty like a gooey and mysterious dessert obscured by a low-hanging mist of chocolate sauce. Me? I just want a satisfying career and an Australian shepherd.

The question at hand, however, took me back in time almost six years, to the glory days of water polo. It would have been about mid-October, 1999. I was sitting on the deck at Bellarmine College Prep's lavish aquatics center, thumbing through what was, even at that time, and old favorite: Kipling's "The Man Who Would Be King". My recently acquired friend descried the book and sidled over to take a look, revealing that he too was a big fan, and especially of this, perhaps the master's finest tale of adventure. For the uninitiated, I will not endeavor to give away the story and all its pleasures and intrigues, except to say it concerns two opportunistic loafers who affect a variety of disguises on their way deep into the tribal zone of the Hindu Kush. Through a few ingenious machinations and some firearms wholesaling, one of the two comes to be regarded as a divine king, the other his right-hand man. As the village toughs rally around the charismatic con man and his co-conspirator, the game begins to go to their heads, and it becomes a fair question to ask who is really being fooled.

The fellow to my left was, as I have mentioned, a newly acquired friend, but I had a feeling that he would prove to be a trustworthy one. What followed was an extraordinarily frank exchange of aspirations and fears, the upshot of which was a personal compact forged in the sort of Speedo-clad brotherhood only water polo players can understand. Now, we both had goals of the more prosaic type, beginning with admission into the college of our choice. If neither of us made it there, we agreed, we would have no recourse but to turn our backs on the American dream and set out for the tribal zone, where we would set ourselves up as divine rulers in the manner of Pop Kipling's loafers, incidentally named Daniel Dravot and Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan. We shook on it, and there the matter rested for a period of some six months.

In the meantime, we grew up, as schoolboys must do if they are not resourceful enough to avoid it. We discovered new passions - distance running, scuba diving, Falun Gong, and, for one of us more than the other, sickening acts of total insanity. We both went on the Carmel High Desert Trip, and on the tail end of it fell for a pair of beautiful girls who were a lot better than either of us, respectively, deserved at the time. By this time, we had received what we thought was the bad news on our college admissions, and, knowing no more about Afghanistan than that an ominous and poorly understood force called the Taliban was destroying Buddha statues and making things extraordinarily hot for practitioners of free enterprise, we tacitly let the dream die - no small failing for blustery types like us. But, as e.e. cummings might have put it, "...only the snow can begin to explain/how children are apt to forget to remember."

Months turned into years. We both carved out niches for ourselves at our respective institutions, foregathering at Christmas and Easter to compare notes, each one with some idea how the other one spent his time. In his mind, I was a model student, well on the way to a Ph.D; in my mind, his school's tradition of secret societies in lieu of Greek life had furnished him with a frenzied cult of followers awaiting his every command. It was not until the very beginning of our senior year that I was able to visit him in his natural habitat with school in session. Although my professorial pipe dreams would ultimately prove to be just that, I was more or less accurate in my picture of his life. He was a figure of no small notoriety on campus, the acknowledged commander of its most extreme Society, which, as its president pro tem informed me, was "not a frat, but a gang." He had worn a variety of disguises on his ascent of this dangerous hierarchy. One was mere respectability. Another was a full-length duck suit, complete with feathers from head to toe, inside of which he had terrorized his fellow students during the rites of spring. His academic records suggested a pre-eminent loafer. I, however, knew just how hard he had worked for his lordship of that night that falls, like an angel stripped of its wings, over the borderlands of L.A. and Orange County.

I arrived at my friend's house around 9:30 PM. I do not recall exactly how I appeared, but I almost certainly was wearing a tanktop. A pair of platinum blondes greeted me at the door with ceremonial kisses. He had seen to that. Inside, a crowd of young men teemed about, many of them rapping along to the Big Tymers' "# 1 Stunna" with the reverence one reserves for an anthem. Into this assembly burst my friend. Despite the overcrowding in the room, a path cleared before his feet. As I walked around introducing myself, I could not help noticing that the same courtesy was paid to me. I tried to act as though I were used to it, or knew why. My friend took me aside and began pointing in various directions. The young man in the Society ballcap by the refrigerator was a recent initiate, something of a personal slave to my friend, who oversaw all induction rituals. The enormous fellow who now came in the kitchen door had been made to walk on hot coals for the moral instruction of the rest of his cohort. This, too, had been my friend's idea. He laid a comradely, but in some way paternal, hand on my shoulder. "Before I took over, these guys were complete animals", he assured me. "I wouldn't have been surprised to learn they made blood sacrifices." I asked what had changed. He smiled, with the faintest note of sadness. "Not a goddamn thing", he replied, in the same instant giving me to understand that this was somehow for the better.

Following the muster of the Society, we set out to a nearby house for a mixer of some kind. When the opportunity was there, my friend would give me the background on various women in the room, many of whom were soon introduced to me. The content of these briefings was often quite horrifying. I asked about the girl in the neon green shirt with beads in her hair, standing clear across the room.

"She's different. Very cool, very high standards. If you don't have a lot to offer, don't bother talking to her." Clearly, a mandate was being issued. I did my best to meet it with the courage I felt I was receiving, as so often happened, like a transfusion from him to me.

On that subject, there is very little to say. I conducted myself with ample honor for the remainder of the evening, falling asleep on the couch, arm in arm with the girl in the neon green shirt, a few of the beads in her hair now resting on my cheek. In the morning, she left, and, after a wordless, muffled goodbye, I went back to sleep, waking up some time later on sunlit linoleum soaked in what must have been an inch and a half of warm beer. A few minutes later, my friend walked out, and observed that we should both be very proud of ourselves. All, he assured me, was right with the world, at least this remote corner of it. I needn't worry about cleaning the place up, he explained; there were pledges of his who would attend to that task when they arose themselves. But all I could think about was how he, and, by courtesy, I, had become pretenders to a savage's throne after all.

Jew-lysses

2005-08-23T13:22:00.000-07:00

I have received a few comments to the effect that content on this site has gotten infrequent, and I apologize. But, as Henry Ford once quipped, "You can't build a reputation on what you're going to do." No one has said anything about what commentary is there getting stale yet, but in anticipation of that horror, I am introducing an entirely new kind of post: a cross-section of my thoughts throughout a possible day in my life, some real, some imagined. My inner monologue is in italics; external verbalizations in regular type. And yes, I realize that my promises to not make this blog a boring and self-obsessed run-through of my days has been completely despoiled of any meaning it once possessed. Enjoy.

8:00 AM: Gabe dresses for a business meeting.

You know, it’s important to have the right number of colors represented in both your cloth goods and leather goods, but there’s a real art to metallic accessories, as well. I mean, I could have easily picked a black belt, black shoes, and a black wristband, or had contrasting monochromatic pants and very busy shirt, but I could have just as easily gotten away without silver buckle and silver timepiece. If I can just make it clear enough without trying too hard that this is not something I labor at, but just what comes naturally to me, people will actively work to make me a success. I believe that. And it’s crazy. But it’s really that simple.

10:37 AM: Gabe reflects in the inner sanctum of a prominent attorney.

Someone hung this the wrong way, but that’s cool. I can correct that without anybody noticing. Hmm. The gaps between the door and the wall a bit thinner than I would like – they should be wide enough that you have some sense what’s going on outside, but not so wide that you could be seen. And the noise level – it’s so quiet you could become self-conscious - if you weren't beyond embarrassment like I am. I wouldn’t do that to you, personally. But you have the right amount of room, and that’s important – you’re not too cozy, but you don’t feel like you’re sitting in the observation deck of the Death Star watching whole solar systems drift by. And you get some sunlight. You know, it’s a mixed bag, but where else are you getting paid three hundred bucks an hour to go to the bathroom? This must be how a racehorse feels.

12:10 PM: Gabe considers himself in the mirror.

What the hell are you doing, man?

2:42 PM: Gabe looks out the window at a magnificent German short-haired pointer.

I want to have one of those dogs – no, two of them, and take them running some desolate place where we’re the only things for miles around, and if I can just run fast enough, there will be classical music to herald my arrival, punctuated by the faintest possible dog barks in the background. And you don’t even know where I’m running to, or what I’m running from. All I that matters is that I keep running.

6:27 PM: Gabe picks his younger brother up at the airport, and is so demoralized from sitting in traffic that he is at first helpless to demand that his brother pick a different CD to listen to. However, he is not too demoralized to suspend judgment.

What is the crap? You know, I feel pretty bad admitting this, but I hate world music. It’s not that I don’t want to like it, either. Just the opposite – I really wanted to get down to the groove of international brotherhood and multi-instrument mayhem, to shake my ass right out of my seat and my white privilege right out my ass. Y’all feel me? But the problem is, I just don’t think that highly of the rest of the world. I mean, you’ve got these primitive, primitive people, blowing into some fakakta river-reed, banging spoons on rocks, or plucking some stringed instrument made out of water buffalo guts, for fuck’s sake. No distortion, no synth, no overdubbing, no nothing. I just think we can plain do better than that, you know? And sure, I know world unity is a worthy ideal, worth sacrificing my auditory comfort, in theory. But in reality, there’s just no way I’m gonna spend $18.99 on a CD of that stuff. That will be all, Evan.

8:34 PM: Gabe takes his sweet time to answer his cell phone.

I was so sheepish and awed about finally having a cell phone, even after three years, that each call I got was like a present I put off opening in order to build my excitement: I’d put off checking my caller ID til the third and fourth ring, simultaneously convincing the other person, or so I thought, that I was a prestigious and occupied guy, and to get me on the phone could damn well take a few rings, and would be worth every second left hanging. The funny thing is, these days I think that I should answer my phone as early as possible, now that my philosophy is to try to make things convenient for others, and shamelessly win customers that way. Sometimes, I don’t even look at the caller ID, because everyone gets the same invigorating greeting from me, and you can take that all the way to the your local branch of the following participating banks. Everyone knows a cell phone is a personal phone, not listed in the telephone directory, and if you’re calling this number, you must be very important to me indeed. Glad to have you. But the really funny thing is, you know how a call on the cell phone used to be cause for celebration? You know, increasingly, the same could be said of a call on your landline. Especially if it’s before 9 PM. Have some courtesy, folks. Yep, 9:00 is the cutoff.

9:12 PM: Gabe has a conversation with an aged relative, and does not have the heart to inform her he has been single for quite a while now.

God, this is great. I’m telling a complete and utter lie, and not only is it going to be almost certainly consequence-free, but it will actually improve this lady's emotional well-being. So what if the company I work for doesn’t really exist? What’s she going to do, learn how to use the Internet? Oh, Christ. She’s going to say “yep, you betcha” for the third time in the past forty-five seconds. May I never live to get this predictable. Shit, there she goes again. What, do you just get to be a certain age and the same garbage is meaningful over and over? I wonder what she’s doing right now. I mean, she lives alone, but she’s 76. Yes, yes, I swear we’re doing fine. I mean, I’m great, she’s great, we’re just great together, you know? Yes, of course I’m thinking about it, but why rush a good thing, you know? I absolutely agree. It’s what holds us together. Oh, definitely. Well, the thing is, you could visit us, but she’s on a, um, retreat right now. No, she’s fine, it’s just something she likes to do from time to time for herself. Yes, of course I’ll call her.

11:45: Gabe relaxes in his easy chair and resumes reading Reaping the Whirlwind: The Taliban Movement in Afghanistan.

Hizb-I Islami? Hizb-I Wahdat? Najibullha...Nakibullah...Sibghatolla? God, this is driving me crazy. Who can keep up with this shit? No wonder everyone over there seems to be a crazed warlord. Ok, Ok...Wow. I never knew that. Well what did you think would happen? You made a pact with a historically devious faction, you get what you deserve. How amazing would it be to fuck in a tent with shells bursting overhead, just consumed by the urgency of it all? If you got hit by shrapnel, would you keep thrusting, or seek better shelter? … Man, do any of those people realize how flaming this all is? These guys are like Adam West and Burt Ward. What do you suppose happened to that girl from the cover of National Geographic – you know, the one with the really green eyes? Is she still alive. Some of these mullahs are pretty fucking grizzled. I wonder how they’d fare in a poker game. You know, this guy seems pretty with it, pretty moderate, I hope his faction wins out, but if I’ve learned anything from the last thirty pages, it’s that everyone disappoints you sooner or later. And I’m going to try my hardest to make her see that’s just not the case with me.

1:19 AM: Gabe helps himself to a chocolate chip cookie and his bedtime glass of port, and reflects on what he has just read.

Yeah, so what if they all said the same thing? Couldn’t it mean just a little bit more coming from me, for fuck’s sake? Couldn’t things be different this once? I’m not saying perfect…just different.

1:43 AM: Gabe contemplates retiring for the night, and turns off the bedside lamp.

At some point, maybe you just have to find a cave to go crawl around in until you can’t anymore.

Unbridled Narcissism

2005-08-22T00:46:00.000-07:00

I.

Well, this has indeed been a long day. I was up at 4:00 AM in order to be at the Concours d'Elegance, perhaps the world's premier classic car exposition, by 5:30. As volunteer experiences go, this is a good one: a minimum of heavy lifting, plenty of credulous people to have fun with, tickets redeemable for a spicy Bloody Mary, and of course many of the finest show cars you'll ever see. They're not just for show, though; driving is a prerequisite, and any car that isn't road-worthy is disqualified. Some of these delicate-looking Mr. Toad contraptions can really haul ass, too, even if there's a little guy inside shoveling coal as fast as he can. I mean, how else could the engine compartment be 12 feet long?

Some random thoughts from today:

1. Why is it that people with a lot of money tend to buy the smallest stuff they can find? Think about it: it's well known that the more expensive the restaurant, the smaller the portions. And it's no accident that one buys truffles by the ounce. I bet there's stuff so expensive that it's commonly sold by the gram, even.

The reason I ask is that I saw a lot of absurdly dressed women, presumably the car owners or their wives or family, standing about their cars with dogs that fit in their purses, dogs that could be mistaken for cats, or dogs that perched on their shoulder like a pirate's parrot. These animals are overbred, pathetic, and emit glass-breakingly high-pitched shrieks. On the other hand, the same probably goes for a lot of their masters.

2. What is it about these events that attracts every loafers-sans-socks-wearing guy with a bad ponytail in the entire nation? Is Steven Seagal making a big comeback? Also noticed: many Fabio-inspired quasi-mullets, about a dozen Randy Quaid-in-"Kingpin" haircuts, numerous guys with shitty ponytails who are half bald on top to boot, several Joan Rivers lookalikes, and every mustache known to man. These ran the gamut from works of art that effortlessly transported me back to the 1920s to the dangerously close-cropped suspected pervert hanging out next to my table.

3. In olden times, one often purchased a luxury car in the form of a wheelbase and engine, but the bodywork itself, not only the cabin, was entrusted to a master coach-builder and tailored to a customer's fondest specifications. Hence, styling as a whole, exterior as well as interior, was a custom affair in many early autos. This leads me to conclude one thing: that some people were really rich back in the day.

4. Pebble Beach may no longer exclude Jews officially, but it's definitely not bending over backwards to accomodate them. Viz. multiple mayonnaise-based salads, mortifying abundance of white bread, and pronounced absence of slivovitz from the drink stands. Shrimp, I love; ham, I can work around, but come on, people.

5. Being around all this wealth and power has cemented a goal that's been slowly creeping into the forefront of my consciousness as a result of repeated exhortations from the guys in my men's club. As soon as I am old and rich enough, I am running for Congress. The Democratic party needs someone who knows what he stands for, will be tough on terror, can appeal to everyday Americans, and looks fabulous in a suit. Actually, any one of those things on its own would be much better than they're doing now. Consider this an early announcement of candidacy. Also, I understand that Sam Farr holds District 17 for life, so if you belong to a district with shakier leadership, please let me know, and I could be coming to your town. And if you're a drug dealer, prostitute, transvestite, or otherwise incriminating personage, please start exercising your right to be heard by your representative. Preferably in an extremely personal manner and either on camera or via secret tape recording. I need all the help I can get, folks.

II.

"A River Runs Through It" is quite possibly the single finest movie made during the 1990s. If you haven't seen it, rent immediately; if you have, relive the magic.

III.

I got myself into a completely Larry David situation, and I actually have an idea for a quick fix that would make it astronomically worse if the truth were uncovered. Obviously, I can't provide details here, but if you get in touch with me individually we can probably work something out

IV.

On Saturday the 13th, for the first time ever, my home played host to all three (count 'em) of my honorary uncles at once. Charlie Franklin, Myles Williams, and Scott Nisbet, I salute you. Whether your influence was one of salutary neglect during my moments of indulgence, or involved active efforts to make me a less responsible citizen, it has been much appreciated. And to Miss Molly, my honorary niece, I may never get to teach you how to smoke cigars at the age of fourteen, as a certain uncle did for me, but you have an absurdly thick hair for a five-month-old baby, and in that respect, I have taught you well. Go get 'em, kid.

He Might Be A Sumbitch, But He's Our Sumbitch

2005-08-11T01:45:00.000-07:00

Yes, folks, as of 10:19 AM, it is my birthday. I am not so vain as to suppose this is a matter of any great import to more than a select few, but, as the same could be said of this humble blog, I felt I would let it be known. Dispensing with the usual disclaimers I make about how this is not meant to be a forum for my emotions, which have their proper outlet in gambling, grain alcohol, and mob rule, I will say only this: I have the finest friends and family I could ask for, and it is my goal that today I will celebrate you all rather than selfishly hope that you will celebrate me. As such, no further gifts are necessary.

Unless, of course, you have a good bottle of port or some of those fierce Wyoming-style fireworks.

The Fashion Police

2005-08-02T18:50:00.000-07:00

I recently took a stroll down memory lane, which is pretty hard to avoid doing when you live among the many ghosts of your sordid past like I do. However, even within the fraught and liminal space that is Carmel Valley, I managed to revisit the true sanctum sanctorum of my misspent youth. The place where I watched the Berenstain Bears paddle their canoe past a haunted bog, thick with alligators. The place where I researched fighter jets and their weaponry, against the day I might have occasion to use one to resolve a schoolyard dispute. The place where I was able to read about sex in Cosmo or Redbook before we had the Internet. In other words, the Carmel Valley Library.

During the Harry Potter fracas of the last week or two, I was repeatedly accused of having lost my childlike sense of imagination, of being an old grouch, of hating kids, and many other charges that are all absolutely correct, and to which I say "Yeah. So?" However, even I am not beyond a little reconsideration (unless you ask my parade of ex-wives). And for some reason I had recently had a flashback of a book that had strongly affected me as a kid, Katherine Paterson's Bridge to Terabithia. So, I set out to the library to see if this gem of the late 80's was as meaningful to me now, having experienced a few losses of my own along with the obvious innocence and wonder. And, as it turned out, it was. Perhaps even more so.

Before I could reach the children's book room, I had to wait out one of the library's weekly storytimes, when the very young foregather to be read and sung to by kindly adults, occasionally my mother. It being about four o'clock, I had to wade through the storytime crowd and the older grade-school kids as well, and as a result, I experienced another flashback - or so I thought - as powerful as that concerning Bridge. E.A. Robinson probably said it best in his poem "The Wandering Jew":

A dawning on the dust of years
Had shaped with an elusive light
Mirages of remembered scenes
That were no longer for the sight.

However, this turned out to be very true and physically immediate indeed. And what did it consist of? A kid with a foot-long rat tail. A kid with a foot-long, braided rat tail. A kid with both a rat tail AND a bowl cut, all at the same time. It was like 1987 all over again. But in Carmel Valley, we have no sense of retro. As we were, we are. But what could these kids have known? If Confederate flags were considered cool by high schoolers a few years ago (and my trusty source tells me they were), what might enthrall a lad of eight or nine? Clearly, they knew not what they did.

And then, today, I was speaking with someone, and her thirteen year old kid came into the room sporting that rarest of species - the bowl cut where the bowl half isn't much longer than the short half. My first impulse was to snicker. But then I suddenly recalled that crack that someone (Edmund Burke?) once made about how, for evil to triumph, all that must happen is for good men to do nothing. And believe me, if his creepy religious fanatic of a mother hadn't been right there, there would have been nothing stopping me from laying a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder and saying, in a knowing but kind voice, "Son, you are entering an age that is awkward for all of us, during which it will be all you can manage for girls to not vomit on you outright, much less like you. Why make it harder than it needs to be? I.E., by having a haircut that makes you look, as my Mom used to say, like someone's butt?"

But, as any parent knows, sometimes you have to let people make their own mistakes. And sometimes, it feels better to snicker than to lend a helping hand.

Shine, Perishing Republic

2005-07-27T22:34:00.000-07:00

I.

I knew I had come to the wrong place when the instructor intoned that "in the old days a sonnet meant fourteen lines of iambic pentameter, usually with three quatrains and a couplet, but now any fourteen-line poem is a sonnet." This was not uttered in the same tone with which I often note that nowadays, anything, it seems, can be a poem.

For those of you who care about such matters (and I fervently hope that you do), we are witnessing a great reactionary crisis in the world of poetry. Formal, metrical, rhyming, and otherwise traditional verse has, as Pop Kipling might have said, "passed to the further side". A glance at the poetic currents being loosed at my alma mater would certainly corroborate this suspicion - the last formal poem I heard read in a Stanford auditorium managed to sneak past the gatekeepers of high culture only because it was a paean to the leather men of San Francisco in the early 1980's. Formal poetry has acquired a stigma that only a few years ago was reserved for imperialism or eugenics, having fallen from the sad dustbin of quaintness (insulting enough) to eminently less touchable depths. Formalism is now, it seems, a vote for neoconservatism. Indeed, clinging to its rare pleasures has likely made among its protectors stranger bedfellows than, for instance, the New Criterion and your humble narrator. (Although its politics are sometimes hard for me to stomach, you should really do yourself the favor of examining this challenging but often courageous and incisive magazine).

The New Criterion has notably advanced, in recent issues, the criticism of Adam Kirsch, of whom The Nation's John Palattella complains, "As prolific as Kirsch is, he is not expansive in his taste. His tirades...against the enduring influence of the experimental strains of poetic Modernism on contemporary American poetry marks him as the intellectual offspring of the New Formalists, a small group of poets and critics--among them Brad Leithauser, Timothy Steele and Dana Gioia (Bush's head of the National Endowment for the Arts)- whose essays and poems in defense of traditional formal conventions were championed by The New Criterion during the 1980s." The implication is not hard to grasp - formalism is as superannuated and backwards an approach as any being made in the current political arena. What if, however, the old, dead white men were not entirely wrong about something for once?

I could wax on and off about the merits of structure, the sublime pleasures of uniform syllabic count, the kinship present-day formalists share with the great geniuses of ancient Greece and Rome, but I won't. Instead, let me share with you the wisdom of noted non-critic Beau Michael Baer of Carmel Valley, who argues for the superiority of formal poetry thusly: "Well, let's say there are two girls, OK? And they both have great personalities. Except one of them is gorgeous, and the other one is, um, not. Which one do you prefer? See, that's why I prefer poems that rhyme." For this, Beau, who has long shrugged off the mantle of cultural authority with his famous false modesty and aw-shucks folk wisdom, earns the prize for Best Analogy Ever.

II.

The crippling prejudice against metrical verse in today's universities is, in a strange way, about entitlement. No one wants to work hard at anything anymore, and poetry is a perfect example of this. My own mentor, the remarkable John Ridland, permitted his students to do a free choice poem once a week, but only after demonstrating competence in that week's assigned form. Elsewhere, the wayward children of the workshop are not blessed with such fatherly discipline. It is taken for granted, perversely, that the old were wrong and the young are right. The result is, more often than not, a sort of poetic terrorism, in which the only beauty to be gleaned is the beauty of destruction of the sacred institutions of others. One's own puerile and violent inclinations are the only justification needed, and the twisted rhetoric of modern "poetics" helps to obscure this ugly truth.

If this sounds eerilie familiar, it should. We are living in a world where the headlines are being made by spoiled children - as The New Criterion's Stefan Beck aptly noted in a recent entry (7/14) in the magazine's weblog, Arma Virumque. Without resorting to finger-pointing hysteria, I wish to purport that the syndrome manifested annoyingly by the anti-formal revolution in American poetry shares a pathogenic lineage with the recent explosion of terrorists nurtured not in the crucibles of Afghanistan but in the halls of often English-speaking privilege. As David Pryce-Jones, quoted by Beck, writes in The New Republic,

"[s]even British Muslims have been captured in Afghanistan and detained in Guantánamo. Several British Muslims have attempted suicide-bombing missions in Israel, at least one successfully, and others have been reportedly killed fighting with Abu Musab Zarqawi in Iraq. Omar Sheik, responsible for beheading Daniel Pearl in Pakistan, was born and educated in Britain, a student of the London School of Economics, no less. Those recruited to Islamism are not the poor and disinherited, but, on the contrary, those whose intelligence and social advancement allow them to submit to the luxury of an identity crisis."

Even more obviously, one thinks of John Walker Lindh, the Marin County youth whose search for meaning led him to joining the Taliban, and, of course Osama bin Laden, the screwup son of a billionaire who bought credibility with the disaffected by being photographed with the mujahideen and whose apocalyptic worldview was given shape and polish by a wealthy doctor, Ayman al-Zawahri, who has spent more time blaming the West for his decaying culture than practicing anything so prosaic as medicine.

This is where free verse and terrorism cross paths: they offer a ready-made scapegoat (U.S. imperialism/Zionism/Jews; tyrannical and outmoded literary techniques) for lazy and childish minds, who would rather destroy than create, and have found a reactionary ideology ready-made to their hands. The anti-formalist (and, it should be noted, this does not include all composers of free verse, but rather those who trumpet it as a political revolution) and the terrorist are, according to their proclivities, born with an entitled sense of grievance against the dual imprisonment of Western civilization and traditional poetics. What the now-ignored poetic genius E. A. Robinson might have termed "the question that has held us heretofore without an answer" ("The Valley of the Shadow") must be "Where do we go from here?" In thus inquiring, we find revealed the true nihilism of both movements. Terrorism is not about achieving political goals, it is about settling for self-immolation because dignity and purpose were too hard to come by. On a milder level, the same can be said of the anti-formalists - rabidly vocal about what they are not, but painfully unsure of just what - and who- they really are.

Now, let us return for the moment to Pryce-Jones' statement, "Those recruited to Islamism are not the poor and disinherited, but, on the contrary, those whose intelligence and social advancement allow them to submit to the luxury of an identity crisis." Interestingly, if you take away the clause "Those recruited to Islam", you are left with a fairly accurate portrayal of the modern-day intelligentsia, who have, it should be noted, ingeniously packaged their version of anarchy as a populist response to centuries of metrical tyranny. Bob Mezey lamented in his excellent introduction to the Selected Poetry of E.A. Robinson that a recent American laureate claimed, "Accentual-syllabics were the principal means by which the educated classes of Europe mystified their utterances, and called them poetry" - as though there could be a more democratic means of disseminating poetry than rhyme and meter, the essential tools of the oral tradition by which songs make their way into the popular consciousness. Indeed, Dana Gioia himself notes, ""Poetry is not a branch of analytical philosophy. It is a primal, holistic kind of human communication."

So what of communication, then? What is most noxious is that the mendicant philosophy of a privileged few has attracted an army of dupes swayed by the easy answers of a teaching that demands no achievement, only rage. In other words, it's ok, honey. Go blow something up. I need scarcely cite any one example to demonstrate the effect this is having in the Middle East; I argue that those who by all accounts should know better are leading the few remaining students of American poetry down similarly specious paths. At how many other universities, I wonder, are impressionable youths being taught that a sonnet no longer must obey the least little rule? In both cases, unsurprisingly, such malfeasance is touted as an act of intellectual liberation.

The modern French Revolution being waged against formalism has not merely resulted in a poverty of style, however, but one of content as well. In accordance with its destructive qualities, recent poetic anarchy has also allowed us to witness the triumph of the confessional, banal, and absurdly esoteric. For, after all, the "scholars" promulgating both free verse and terrorism most often have, underneath their raging beards, nothing constructive to say. It is no accident that it is chiefly democracy that produces human progress. It is likewise no accident that it is primarily formalists such as Gioia who are advocating a return to the truly instructive power of narrative, for which form must be, to borrow a favorite metaphor, both queen and servant. The self-indulgence of a fatted few must give way to real, tangible substance - as Gioia puts it, "The recent return to narrative... represents perhaps the surest evidence that Modernism is now an irretrievably dead period style, despite the cosmetic expertise of the embalmers of academe who naively believe in an eternal avant- garde" - whether or not that eternity includes seventy-two virgins.

Fallout

2005-07-21T22:27:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, that certainly got a big weight off my chest - not to mention an intriguing mini-barrage of hate mail (this circulated within a Harry Potter group, so they tend to address me in the third person). At the risk of being wildly narcissistic, I include below some of the choicer comments. Names have been omitted, because some of these folks, as I learned later, are genuinely nice people, who, like everyone, have their own forgivable faults.

* * * * * * * * * * *

EL..... I FEEL SORRY FOR THE HARRY POTTER HATER, HE MUST HAVE HAD A HORRIBLE
CHILDHOOD WHO CARES WHAT THE NEWSPAPERS ARE SAYING ABOUT THE BOOK THAT IS
NOT THE POINT AND COMPARING IT TO A HAPPY MEAL HAS THIS POOR LAD HAD A
CHANCE TO BE HAPPY I DON'T THINK SO WE SHOULD BUY HIM ALL THE HARRY POTTER
BOOKS FOR HIS NEXT B-DAY OR X-MAS WHAT EVER COMES FIRST.HE NEED TO LEARN THE
IMPORTANCE OF USING ONES IMAGINATION.

And the email that started it all (thanks to Robby Wellington for alerting the Law Offices of Lawrence E. Biegel to my piddling little blog - as though productivity and morale weren't low enough already. Yes, Larry, I still love you):

Um....I have to say Gabe Rosen is a FOOL!!!!! I am sending this out
immediately to all my Harry Potter book friends and be prepared for some
HORRIBLE things to be said about your dear old buddy Gabe! Although... he
did entertain me with his burning insults of a book series I so dearly love.
Honestly, I make fun of all the media of it, and I was anti Harry Potter
until I picked up the first book and couldn't put it down. They really are
VERY good books...I just finished the fifth one last night (a week behind
schedule) and cried and cried (shocking I know) through the last two
chapters. For people with exceptional intelligence such as you and Gabe
Rosen...they might not be too challenging...but me with my public school
education...f-ing LOVE it! Tell Gabe to F off!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wow. Instant controversy. Who do I attack next? Well, hopefully no one real. Anyway, it's been a great day. May it all continue.

In other news, some thoughts:

1. Today, while receiving Iraqi PM-elect Ibrahim Al-Jafaari, Iranian Ayatollah Khameini, "Supreme Leader of the Islamic Revolution", applauded Iraqi progress towards a post-Baathist (read; Shiite) state and declared that "Zionists are probably involved in planning" the recent rash of suicide bombings in Iraq. First of all, the Islamic Revolution was 26 years ago. What kind of self-respecting "revolution" turns into a fuddy-duddy establishment? I mean, this isn't even the same nutcase Ayatollah Khameini as before - excuse me, Khomeini. As for the Zionist conspiracy claim, anyone with this much imagination is clearly miscast as a radical cleric. I think he should be heeding his true calling - writing the fantasy novel that will challenge Harry Potter once and for all.

2. Lakers GM Mitch Kupchak is, on the other hand, plenty insane enough for Ayatollah-hood. After drafting the fat, lazy 17 year old Andrew Bynum with the 10th overall pick, he's gone and dealt Chucky Atkins and Caron Butler (both coming off career years) for Kwame Brown, the biggest bust since they nailed Al Capone for tax evasion. Could someone please stop this deranged lunatic before he deals Lamar Odom for Darko Milicic? Or did that already happen?

3. I really like grilled trout, with a sprig of rosemary and several lemons stuffed down its middle. Serve with a Bernardus sauvignon blanc, and you are indeed grillin'.

The Summer Of Our Discontent

2005-07-18T14:51:00.000-07:00

Dammit, folks, it's my least favorite time of the year again. Why, you ask? Isn't Papa Rosen one of the world's principle avatars of watermelons, crawfish hunting, long nights on the porch with a fine cigar, reading voluminous and thought-provoking literature, drinking delightful, fruit-laden wines, and chasing after recent high-school graduates? Well, yes, after a fashion. When I say "least favorite time of the year", I'm not referring to a specific season. Rather, I'm referring to whenever a new Harry Potter book comes out.

It's Day 3 of the latest installment of mass hysteria, and there are no signs of a letup. Yesterday, the cover story on my local "newspaper", the Monterey Herald's, Living section proclaimed Harry Potter to be "the new generation's Bob Dylan." This is wrong on so many levels I don't even know where to begin, but, as I wrote to the Herald's editor within seconds of reading it, "to call him 'the muse of the new generation, its Bob Dylan" is like saying Britney Spears is the new Eleanor Roosevelt." Of course, the Herald merely reprinted this gem, as it usually does - this time from the Washington Post.

Today's Living section featured, in stark contrast...more Harry Potter. I am not electing to italicize the name, because it is really not a book, but an industry similar to McDonald's Happy Meal toys. The only problem is, unlike children's meals, you don't have to be below a certain age to purchase one. This brings me to my first gripe about this phenomenon: why is it that half the people buying these "books" are forty-five or older? And why aren't they embarrassed about it? Nowhere is the infantilization of our culture exemplified better than by the legions of "children at heart" reading this potboiler (or should I say cauldron?) for eight-year-olds.

And why does the media feel obligated to give these books so much free promotion? That's really what it amounts to - viewed from a distance, the lavish color illustrations invariably accompanying the countless tired articles on this "phenomenon" are indistinguishable from advertising. Maybe the success of the first book or two was based on some type of innovation and spread organically. But since the late 90's, the press has given Harry Potter more free advertising than any book in history, creating a reputation faster than any book could realistically do on its own merits. At this point, J.K. Rowling's publishers need not set aside any promotional budget, because the so-called "news" media has taken care of that for them.

Also disturbing is the lack of any critical insight whatsoever to temper the atmosphere of unabashed celebration. Nowhere in this equation does the ominous concept of literary merit enter in. Even "reviews" of the book are written as though the reader were automatically a die-hard fan, and the writing is judged only in relation to its predecessors in the series, as opposed to any meaningful contradistinction opposite a truly gifted "fantasy" writer such as Philip Pullman - who, sadly, is now being marketed as a sort of sidebar to Harry.

People often defend this menace by pointing out that at least it's getting kids to read. Well, no one bought that argument when I was caught distributing paperback porno novels to my fellow seventh-graders at All Saints' Episcopal Day School, and I don't buy it now. This line of reasoning may be correct, so far as it goes, but it does not tell all - namely, that Harry Potter books are getting kids to read...more Harry Potter books. One girl gleefully reported how she has read "each book at least fifteen times" - as though this were something to be proud of! What if she had read it once or twice, and had fourteen wonderful and different books left over for the other times? Of course, kids are known to have one-track minds, and little perspective on the cruel brevity of life. What is even less excusable is that for many adults, Harry Potter is their only foray into literature.

I'm not going to say more, except to mention that at times like these, I am even more than usually grateful for Rudyard Kipling, who taught that English boyhood is essentially grim and solitary, and that any magic that can be derived from it must originate in violent and cruel pranks against one's contemporaries.

Summer BBQ Series, Part II

2005-07-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

Folks, as I write this, I am sitting in Justin Kuczynski's living room in Boulder, Colorado, awaiting the rising of the other kids. A dip in temperature last night allowed us to dine al fresco and enjoy some fine barbecued chicken, brats, and summer squash, eggplant, and (gasp!) tofu. And I have to hand it to Vince - the tofu was acceptable, although I doubt I will be made a convert anytime soon. Anyway, I promised barbecue recipes for my constituents a while back, and, after the initial success of Chicken Legs Zevon (sure to be appearing soon at a barbecue near you), I offer for your dining pleasure the secrets of my Carne Asada.

This dish is distinguished by the use of skirt steak, which is, in my opinion, the perfect cut of beef: chewy without being difficult, richly flavorful, not too fatty, and really easy to cut. In addition, perhaps because of the structure of its fibers, it absorbs marinades really well. My marinade gives you a really tangy piece of meat, and also softens it a bit as it soaks.

Ingredients:

2 skirt steaks (up to 4 lbs total - Costco sells them in convenient packages).
1 dozen fat, juicy limes
1 bottle tequila (Cuervo will work for the marinade, though I won't be drinking it again anytime soon)
Crushed garlic to taste (at least 2 tablespoons)
1 red onion, diced finely
Red pepper flakes
1 bottle Corona or similar beer
Salt & pepper to taste
1 splash tropical fruit juice (I like Kern's Guava Nectar)
Finely chopped cilantro
Dash of hot sauce (habanero salsas work well)

Squeeze every last drop out of the limes, into a quart-sized bowl. Add tequila - I usually do about 3:2 juice:tequila, but some folks might prefer 2:1, or even 1:1. Stir the crushed garlic throughout. Dice the onion as fine as possible, and stir into the liquid. (If you have a juicer, just run the onion through it and add the resulting juice to the mix). Add a few pinches of red pepper flakes, depending on taste. Open a Corona, and toss a few splashes into the mix as well. Add a similar splash of tropical fruit juice. Then, a dash of hot sauce, by way of contrast. Salt and pepper the meat directly, to taste, then rub on the chopped cilantro. Place meat in double Ziploc bags with the marinade, and turn every hour to ensure even soaking. For best results soak 6+ hours, but even a couple hours in the mix will do wonders for your skirt steak.

Grill the steaks on medium heat for about 6 minute a side (you'll have to adjust this depending on your grill - mine runs rather hot). Carne Asada is great anywhere from rare to medium, but please don't overcook it - nothing is less satisfying than dry Carne Asada, like they serve at that crap Mexican place near Noah Barron's house.

Slice meat however large you like it, and serve with soft corn tortillas and fresh guacamole. I find nothing complements this meal like an ice-cold Coke, but be sure you also have beer on hand. Actually, that goes for just about any barbecue. Enjoy!

Carry On, Jeeves

2005-07-08T20:08:00.000-07:00

Regarding the cowardly, though unsurprising, atrocities committed against our British friends, Andrew Sullivan reflects thusly:

"Here's one cultural difference between Brits and Americans. Brits regard the best response to outrage to carry on as if nothing has happened. Yes, they will fight back. But first, they will just carry on as normal. Right now, a million kettles are boiling. "Is that the best you can do?" will be a typical response. Stoicism is not an American virtue. Apart from a sense of humor, it is the ultimate British one."

There is a lot of value in this concept. At the risk of sounding jejune, I want to direct you to one of many lessons afforded by a brief perusal of Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas: "He couldn't stop Christmas from coming. It came." This is all the more apropos in light of the fact that if it were up to al Qaeda, Christmas would indeed stop coming - as would Chanukah, New Year's, and, for that matter, the 22nd century - not to mention the remainder of the 21st.

I've always been a proponent of getting even rather than getting mad. Granted, I've never had to personally brook such contingencies as terror attacks, but, as I frequently remark, I don't get headaches - I give them. In that vein, I think we would do well to examine our own American response to terrorist attacks. I think we'd find that stoicism was not the first quality that leapt to mind. And, in one sense, that is a good thing up to a point. On September 11, the U.S. wept, and much of the world wept with us. And, obviously, things like air travel had to be halted. Such was the inevitable cost of such a blow to our infrastructure.

But fast forward a few months and you'll notice that we squandered the world's sympathy by refusing to move on contructively - not that we should place sympathy at such a premium either, mind you. Regardless of other people's opinions, however, and more importantly, I think it was ironically quite damaging to our own morale when we trotted out that WTC flag during the Winter Olympics - you know, the one where the US never does so hot. Or at my alma mater Carmel High School's graduation, when one valedictorian used the phrase "in light of September 11th" no less than nine times in his address. Or at Stanford Class Day 2004, when Prof. Terry Karl told my graduating class that our time in college was defined by two things, one of them being 9/11 (the other, absurdly, being the Abu Ghraib prison abuses!). This made me angry. If my college experience was defined by something I merely observed, it was Nick Robinson hitting a running 35-footer to beat Arizona at the buzzer. But I digress.

So how would I have dealt with 9/11? I don't claim to have all the answers but here are a few pointers: Round up al Qaeda suspects without fanfare (see "(Don't) Flaunt It If You've Got It" from a few weeks ago) and tickle them until they cough up some information. Revamp airline security. Give every undocumented foreign national with no discernible reason to be in this country til the count of ten to vacate the premises. Finish cleaning up Afghanistan - the country that actually attacked us most directly (granted, a very difficult undertaking - but who knows what could have been accomplished had we remained focused?). Then, turn our attention on the country that financed it all - our bosom friends in Saudi Arabia.

Above all, though, I would have mandated business as usual except where business as usual constituted a security lapse. Take a tip from the Britons - stiff upper lip and all that. Brace for more attacks. They are coming. But there are not - as of this writing - enough Islamic militants to destroy our way of life if we resolutely maintain it. And, if I am proved wrong, may we fight the menace of Islamist fascism with every last rock every last one of us can hurl - and every dollar we can withhold.

That is the final part of my argument, and the final amendment to "business as usual". Let's stop doing business with Saudi Arabia and other supporters of terror, and see how they like it. We must sap them of our biggest vulnerability - our money. In short, consider, as Kipling so wisely put it, "If we have parley with the foe, the load our sons must bear."

Piñata

2005-07-01T02:29:00.000-07:00

There isn't really a theme to this post, because I don't feel that strongly about anything at the moment, so I will instead characterize it as a piñata of sorts: I hit myself in the head, and this is the grab bag that came out.

1. Recent findings in literature: I am a big advocate of books on tape, especially for those of you who, like me, drive a lot. A spectacularly entertaining, as well as absolutely chilling find was George Crile's Charlie Wilson's War, the story of the rogueish (and rogue) Texan congressman who, through a series of ingenious maneuvers and brazen violations of the law, was more responsible than any other American for the CIA's funding of the Afghan Mujahideen in their war against the Soviets. Throughout this real-life Bond movie, it is easy to overlook, as Wilson did, that these guys were about the last people Americans should like to arm long-term. The book accomplishes a great moderation of hindsight, however, only mentioning Osama bin Laden in the final pages.

Another valuable book, also nonfiction, is Keith Ferrazzi's Never Eat Alone. Ferrazzi breaks down traditional notions of the sterile "professional relationship", instead arguing for a uniform technique whereby professional colleagues may be approached in the same manner as friends - not by sacrificing professionalism, but through generosity, expressed interest, empathy, and, yes, even the sharing of vulnerabilities. I am usually extremely skeptical of books geared towards changing your life, but this one is for real, and the testimonials you'll find are often entertaining as well as inspiring. Check out Ferrazzi's blog as well.

2. Want a juicy, delicious dessert that is kind of like peach pie with no added fat or sugar? Take a peach and cut it in halves. Sprinkle each half with cinnamon, and bake, skin side down, at 400 degrees until the skin blisters and the juice starts to bubble out of the cavity. Let it cool a bit and eat, savoring the globules of hot juice as they run down your cheeks.

3. Email a beloved old teacher of yours, or call, or write the old fashioned way, to let him or her know how much you stil value the education you received. Especially if you're post-grad, and have some perspective on such matters that wasn't always there.

4. I will be heading toward Boulder, Colorado on July 5th, and staying with the redoubtable Justin Kuczynski until the 11th or so. Accompanying me will be Laura Ward and Vince Dorie. This reflects a long-cherished dream of finally journeying to the land immortalized by John Denver, one of my true musical heroes. Not to mention a week of 100% Justin.

5. This Sunday is the birthday of Nik Baer, one of my oldest and closest friends. He had hoped to celebrate in Carmel Valley, but it looks as though he will still be at the Stanford clinic then. Knowing Nik, he probably does not want any attention focused on him other than the usual "Happy Birthday". However, I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge, if only for my own peace of mind, that he is one of the most remarkable, unselfish, and inspiring people you could hope to know, and, for those of you who have not yet met him, you are in for a very rare treat when the time comes.

6. By popular decree, I pledge to make gumbo soon, possibly even the week after I return from Colorado. Those of you in the Valley, take note; those of you not in the Valley, do what you can to amend that situation by the time I whip out the Uncle Ben's and start ladling out the greatest dish of my spiritual homeland.

7. A new poem - something I will not often post in the besotted bordello of cyberspace, but which, for whatever reason, I am moved to include below.

"Brevity"

He went without a second thought
But, of a first, left evidence:
He tied it with a sailor's knot,
The paper thick, the ribbon dense;
He chose a safe and secret spot,
Told someone, and he got him hence,
And left it "for an epitaph".
A photograph? A photograph.

The NBA Draft Made Easy

2005-06-23T21:22:00.000-07:00

Now that the lamest NBA Finals in history have concluded with a characteristically low score, it is time to look ahead to Tuesday's NBA draft. Of course, there are a lot of candidates floating around, few of them decidely superior, and the middle-to-late first round could feature more nasty surprises than Asia SF to the uninitiated. Speaking of SF's, SF Marvin Williams, UNC's pogo-stick 6th man, has begun to really cause people to question whether Andrew Bogut, the national player of the year who averaged almost twice as many points and rebounds as Williams, is the consensus #1 pick for the Bucks, who have been quietly suffering their own version of chronic wasting disease out in the hinterlands. The word is that the Bucks will take the player most immediately ready to contribute (Bogut), leaving Williams to fall (and how!) to the Hawks.

Now, when Robinson Jeffers wrote Give Your Heart To The Hawks, he could not have known how right he'd be. To "heart", let us also add: point guard, shooting guard, power forward, and center. The Hawks, you see, never met a small forward they didn't like. After staking the franchise on the lovable but solid-at-best Al Harrington, they decided that 3 is indeed company in last year's draft, taking Josh Childress, arguably the greatest college basketball player of all time, followed closely by Josh Smith. Childress was stuck out of place at the 2, but played a very nice de facto 3 in the second half of the season, while Smith outshone the higher pick early on but never really proved to be more than a dunk/rebound/block kind of player (a tremendous shock, I know).

So, whither the Hawk's #2 overall pick? Conventional wisdom suggests that these perennial Emmy award winners will pick the one thing they have too much of already - which leaves #3 pick-holders Portland in a tight spot. No strangers to boneheaded picks (viz. Sebastian Telfair and Travis Outlaw) in recent years, the Blazers could select the best overall player, undersized but sparkling point guard Chris Paul. But they have already invested the point guard position in Telfair. So what do they do? They could bypass this conflict entirely and select Gerald Green, the prep schooler already being touted as a young T-Mac (wait, I thought T-Mac was a young T-Mac). They could pick Paul, and admit they goofed on Telfair. Or they could play the two side by side in a bid for the Shortest Backcourt This Side of the WNBA. (Of course, given the chemistry masterstroke of playing Zach Randolph and Shareef Abdur-Rahim side by side, it's not inconceivable).

Now, there is one outcome that no one is discussing. What if - and I am only saying what if - Atlanta does something smart for once, and picks Chris Paul, the floor general they so desperately need? And what if, with such grace shed upon them, Portland snatches the previously unthinkable Marvin Williams, a perfect complement to the menacing Randolph at the other forward spot? I know, I know: When you're Top 2, you're Top 2. But bear with me on this. Portland gets their man, and perhaps even deals Darius "I'm Gonna Average 9 and 5 The Rest of My Life" Miles to some really desperate and optimistic team. Think about it: #2 picks the best available player for their needs, and #3 does likewise. At #4, New Orleans nabs the obvious pick, Illinois PG Deron Williams. And everyone's happy. Well, everyone, that is, except the teams picking 5th-30th. But, like my dad says every time I piss off the wrong people, fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

Because the rest of this draft is certainly looking like a hearty one.

{Don't} Flaunt It If You've Got It

2005-06-23T00:12:00.000-07:00

Tonight, Dad and I had the rare pleasure of foregathering for dinner all by ourselves, without such distractions as my wild-eyed radical of a brother or my charming and vivacious Mom. Hence, the conversation very quickly turned to the Middle East and a host of related things that make for unpleasant but animated discussion. Now, for those of you who care to remember, a few weeks ago I published a jeremiad of sorts concerning the Newsweek/Koran/Swirlie allegations, and the right of the press to make these sorts of things known to the general public. However, I felt I wouldn't be sufficiently balanced if I didn't acknowledge that sometimes, information needs to be kept secret for the sake of the war effort. The only problem is, that information, at least the kind that gets me madder than John Bolton sans moustache-wax, isn't being leaked by rogue and disaffected members of the press. Rather, it is being gleefully trumpeted by representatives of the U.S. government in their so-called War on Terror.

I am speaking, of course, about something we see every few months: some high-ranking al Qaeda operative, usually with a mean five o' clock shadow, is smoked out of a safe house in Karachi or Islamabad, and, after a protracted gun battle, is proudly taken to an undisclosed location and paraded around a fair amount beforehand. Some of the more high-visibility captures include Abu Zubaydah, a Palestinian and bin laden's former Operations Chief; Ramzi Binalshibh, the "20th Hijacker", and 9/11 operational mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Great, you say. But believe me when I say that I would be happier not knowing any of this.

Al Qaeda operates on a principal of replaceable parts. Indeed, when running a martyrdom racket, you have to be able to replace people. Osama bin Laden himself has even issued statements to the effect that al Qaeda is not really about him - though his capture would certainly dim the morale of his followers, perhaps sufficiently enough to be worth publicizing (of course, I do not want to bring myself to think of the political ramifications of this, should G.W. Bush manage to take credit for it). The de-centralized nature of the organization means that no one, indeed no single cell, is irreplaceable. That being said, there do exist certain "stars" within the organization, and the abovementioned captives certainly fit the bill. These are the organizational and oeprational geniuses, the guys who recruit in tough territories and establish cells where others failed. They are also flashpoints for communication and intelligence between cells.

Now, let's say we catch one of these guys, and say nothing. Depending on the nature of the capture - how many are killed, how many escape - it is conceivable that the rest of al Qaeda won't know whether their missing comrade is dead, captured, or cut off. Plans that rested with him must be adjusted. And, most importantly, information known only to him and perhaps a few others might be squeezed out. In fact, the government could announce that he has been killed - especially in the event that he actually talks. (I will not get into the ethics of torture debate here, but we'd be fools to think it isn't happening). One intriguing possibility might be to provide a suspect who has cracked with the means of contacting members of an at-large cell, under close watch from his captors of course - in other words, to have a suspect actively lead intelligence to active and free members. I don't know how realistic this is, but the point in all of this is that it could proceed with greater ease and (duh) secrecy if we didn't feel the need to prop every capture for the world media.

Now, what is happening when we do announce captures? For one, it emboldens those left behind in the raid to prove that less is more - that al Qaeda can operate even more brazenly without its top brass. For another, it allows free operatives to plan around the loss of personnel, to scrap certain courses of action, and even to consider the possibility that the person might be talking - although, frankly, I have little idea how many of these guys have started to sing under prodding at their undisclosed locations. Looking over the pros and cons, I can't really find any good reason to announce the capture of top al Qaeda figures other than to glorify the War on Terror - and a very costly glorification it may prove to be.

So why is the government so quick to give away the element of mystery surrounding such missing persons when all it accomplishes is a slight morale boost? My theory is that they have precious little else to show for this expensive war, and the American people instinctually like to identify villains. Furthermore, it would require educational - and cerebral - efforts currently unthinkable in this country to disabuse citizens of their belief that these public captures mean we're any safer. Of course, the more al Qaeda members behind bars, the better - but not if we give away the game before anyone has had a chance to learn anything.

Of course, in the event that bin Laden himself is captured, the policy might merit reconsideration, because he is such a lionized figure among his followers, and because his continued freedom has been cause for many to thumb their noses at the U.S. Of course, there is also the question of how involved he is in al Qaeda's day to day operations - and if he has the ability to continue to issue communiques across the globe, my hunch is that the answer is "very". Not that I'd expect to get much information out of him, though. We could try all we liked, but, given the build-up he has received as the evil to end all evils, it would almost be a disappointment to his mythology if bin Laden talked to the CIA. My belief remains that the best we could get from him would be his head on a stake. But don't strain yourself holding out for that contingency.

It Could Happen

2005-06-20T23:35:00.000-07:00

I think that having listened exclusively to The Band my entire senior year of college might finally be taking its psychological toll. The other night, I dreamed that I had become a million-selling singer overnight, having just recorded a cover of "Up On Cripple Creek". Problem was, though, I still sounded like me, which is to say awful. Maybe the fact that, in the alternate reality of my dreams, the American public's tastes have sunk so low as to make me a chart-topper could portend a similar cultural skid in real life.

One thing I've always found in my dreams is that I can't enjoy things, even major wish fulfillments. For instance, a dozen times in the past year I have dreamed that I am finally a San Francisco 49er, but my shoes keep getting tied together whenever I play. In this case, I was unable to enjoy my fame and fortune due to embarrassment, and the lingering knowledge that, even if I sounded fine to everyone else, I knew I couldn't carry a tune. What really intensified my self-mortification was that I'd also cut a music video, consisting solely of me, from the chest up, singing "Cripple Creek" in the shower with no instruments. Only I would ever consider this a wise career move.

The result of all this was that I went to Ohio to hide out until the uproar died down. Well, as The Band themselves once sang, "look out Cleveland, storm is coming through..."

Laisser Les Bon Temps Rouler

2005-06-19T22:28:00.000-07:00

Once again, I will be breaking format to report personal goings-on. (Ok, maybe there isn't too much of a format any more, nowadays). Last night I was fortunate enough to go to La Selva Beach, south of Santa Cruz, where the redoubtable and lovely Danielle Rinderknecht was hosting a Summer Soul-stice at her residence. A fine time was had by all, and it was especially a pleasure to renew my culinary partnership with noted carnivore Lucy Goodnough to season some small animals for the grill, ably manned by Lee H. Lightfoot (judging by the hours he put in slaving over the hot metal, I guess that the "H" stands for Hephaestus). However, the point of this post is not to emphasize my glamorous lifestyle, but to offer some handy-dandy cooking tips for my readership.

Folks, summer is barbecue time, and those of you who are less than fully alive to this essential truth had better shape up or just pledge allegiance to Osama right now, because there is no middle ground on this issue. I am committed to making this the summer of fire and meat, and in view of this I will share a series of recipes. This week, we're having Chicken Legs Zevon, a tribute to my favorite bard of headless machine gunners and werewolves with a taste for Chinese.

Chicken Legs Zevon:
(Note that measurements will be in the Cajun standard format. This is easier than it sounds - just use enough to cover your meat).

- A bunch of chicken legs (I can eat at least five myself, when prepared this way).
- A shitload of Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning.
- Paprika
- a tol'able amount of Cayenne Pepper
- Thyme
- Maple syrup
- Olive oil
- 1 ice-cold beer (medium to dark, but no weak sauce)
- Ketchup
- Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce
- Red wine vinegar
- Garlic

Begin by mixing equal parts maple syrup and olive oil. Yes, it sounds weird - just trust me. Lightly baste the chicken legs with this mixture. The oil will burn off; the syrup will seep into the skin for a pleasing sweetness.

Take the shitload of Tony's, and add paprika til it's a shade or two darker. Add cayenne to taste - you don't want to cater to the wimps (not that you know any, but, all the same, you have nothing to prove. It will be spicy enough. Then, add thyme to taste - I do it until the spice mixture aquires a faint greenish tint.

Rub the spice mixture thoroughly over the chicken legs until they are well caked with the stuff. Grill them until the skin is crispy and blistered, almost blackened.

While chicken is grilling, make a sauce of 2 parts ketchup to 1 part Lea & Perrin's. Add vinegar and garlic to taste. Heat over medium. At this point, you should be sweating in anticipation. Crack open an ice cold beer, and toss a few splashes into the sauce before refreshing yourself. Let the sauce come to a simmer, and remove from heat after ten minutes, stirring to prevent skin from forming. At this point, you can either baste the legs in the sauce before they're done cooking, or let folks do their own when you take them off.

Note: In a rush to experience the magic, your guests will shove the still-smoking legs into their mouths before it's quite safe. Keep plenty of ice-cold beer on hand as an extinguisher.

Next time: The secrets of Carne Asada.

Look Homeward, Angel

2005-06-12T02:23:00.000-07:00

It has been a tacit agreement with myself throughout the brief tenure of this blog that I would not indulge in any personal, emotional reflection. My thoughts, insights, and spontaneous, off the cuff tirades I offer to the poor schleps who would partake; my feelings I prefer to keep to myself. However, I can't help but give voice to how I feel tonight: sad, yet fully aware of how blessed I have been these past four years. You see, tonight I drove Praveen, one of the true constants of my college experience, to the airport, where he will depart for his ancestral homeland of Kentucky, followed by a summer of biking through Europe and then grad school at Penn.

Now, it's not like I'm saying goodbye to a girlfriend. No, in some ways it's worse. My girlfriends have always served to detract from my sanity, while Praveen singlehandedly preserved it on many occasions. And, indeed, if anyone has ever addressed you as "grundle grinch", you had better hope that person is not your girlfriend. But all that aside, I am left to gape and exclaim, "What a guy." Praveen is more than a friend; he is a conspirator in every sense of the word. From being the meanest members of the 6th Man club, to infecting the rest of Stanford with phrases we learned on BET, to living in a vegetarian co-op and ruining it for everyone else, Praveen has always been there. He'd be first in line for best man at my next wedding, if our tastes weren't so similar that I couldn't safely let him within a hundred yards of my wife. Just kidding, pal.

I will cut it out with the emotional indulgences now, but I would like to leave you with the image of the drive to the airport. We stopped at In N Out Burger, a restaurant sadly underrepresented in Pennsylvania. I had a triple meat; Praveen had grilled cheese, but insisted on paying for mine, beef and all. The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band's Greatest Hits, a perennial selection, was playing, and the Jew from Carmel Valley, California and the Hindu from Lexington, Kentucky sang along vigorously to the more than vaguely Christian "Will The Circle Be Unbroken?" - "There's a better world a-waiting/In the sky, Lord, in the sky." I can't really say much about that. But I will say it's already a better world because of folks like Praveen, who, if he should chance to read this, would probably object to so much unqualified praise. So, for the sake of balance, your jump shot is a disgrace to humanity.

Five years of Praveen, four of them characterized by our unwavering dedication to the principles of brotherhood, cooperation, and Ebonics. And yet, Stanford is still standing.

Only in America.

A Camp X-Ray Fantasy

2005-06-10T01:41:00.000-07:00

What if Guantanamo detainees had re-written The Big Lebowski? Well, for one thing, they might actually have tended to agree with Walter's characterization of Saddam Hussein as "that camel fucker in Iraq". (As over 50% of the voting public failed to grasp, Saddam, the secular dictator, was not widely admired by advocates of theocracy).

More importantly, though, consider the dialogue that could have been:

Walter: Thaaat's right, Dude, they pee on your fucking Koran.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2005-06-10T01:07:00.000-07:00

It recently came up, as a result of a conversation I had with the redoubtable Andy Aymeloglu, that, as I had predicted, the Spurs-Pistons series (which I did sneak a shameful peek at today, in defiance of my earlier edict against me watching it) is a complete punishment to look at. By the way, the sports-minded among you should definitely read up on Andy's thoughts at http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=aaymeloglu. I say this both because it's true, and also in the hopes that Andy will elect to forgive me the promise I made to name my firstborn after him in exchange for after-midnight help in CS 106A sophomore year. Comrade Aymeloglu asks, "84-69? C'mon, what kind of score is that?" My thoughts exactly - and that is why I did not (for the most part) watch the game.

What we've been hearing all week from the basketball pundits is that this will, contrary to popular despiar, be a fan's series after all - a marketer's nightmare, but some great pure basketball. The truth is, though, this series, or, more accurately, my fears about it, have caused me to question whether, in fact, we want the game to be played "the way it was meant to be played". Now, there is some common ground. We're all sick of guys coming in with no jump shot, of 6'11" guys who can't even pull off a drop step when it would really help. These are the types of fundamentals we can agree upon. But I think we're all finding out that teams that defend every possession to the fullest of their ability make the game a complete misery. The fact is, if everyone got his man, there would be no - or many fewer - game-saving threes, no silky floaters in the lane just when you really needed it. (Of course, a lot of this has to do with the officiating, and the tendency of the refs to go all-or-nothing on certain types of fouls, particularly offensive fouls away from the basket).

The point is, though, basketball the right way is just no damn fun at all. I mean, who among us wouldn't like to have every game resemble the Lakers-Celtics dance marathons of the mid to late 80s, when each team could be expected to chip in 115-120 points a night? I'm biased, of course - I quite literally learned to swear watching these games as a four, five, and six year old whose yearly family reunions in L.A. managed to coincide with the Finals during the height of Showtime. The fact is, we like glamour. It's nothing to do with having no Shaq or Kobe in the Finals. Well, OK, it's everything to do with having no Shaq in the finals. No one is naive enough to pretend otherwise.

Personally, I wouldn't mind it if Kobe never sniffed that hallowed event again (although preferably he would languish on another team than my beloved Lakers). But in an era devoid of game-changing centers, Shaq lends an ineluctable aura of excitement. (OK, I know Tim Duncan is effectively a center half the time, but he's boring, and, as we have seen, boring is bad). Hence, I propose a Shaq inclusion clause: If Shaq is not, somehow, on a team playing for the NBA title prior to the start of the series, he will be temporarily released from his contractual obligations and inserted into the action - signing one, and, if events warrant, two ten-day contracts. I think the sheer fun of Shaq signing a ten-day contract would be worth the absurdity all on its own. More importantly, though, the rules would be changed so that possession of Shaq would alternate. As a result, gaining home team advantage would pale in comparison to the merits of gaining Shaq-team advantage. Finally, Shaq would win a whole slew of titles, and we could effectively relive the days when guys like Mikan and Russell manhandled an entire league on their way to absolute domination.

I mean, it's only fair, right?

Shades of Stupidity

2005-06-08T21:36:00.000-07:00

By now, everyone has read what is surely the most notable of recent "who cares now?" revelations - namely, that Kerry's grades while at Yale weren't really any better than those of the much-maligned intellect to whom he conceded the 2004 election. Conservatives are having a field day, liberals are affecting disdain, and assorted others are struggling (or not) to care. Grades, of course, are near and dear to my heart - but not because mine have always been perfect. Indeed, I have all the admiration in the world for folks whose grades belied their intelligence, yet still managed to outshine those who toed the line. In my own modest case, I graduated 13th in my high school class - surely the lowest-ranked student to attend an elite university, not to mention a traditionally unlucky number. Mind you, I went to a small high school, and not a top-heavy one either - the difference between one and thirteen in terms of accomplishment could be aptly analogized to the same difference in the NBA Draft lottery.

Of course, it's college grades that are at issue here, and on this score, I have some inside information, albeit hearsay. My friend Joey's father was a classmate of Bush's at Yale, and remarked that he was a C student - however, he seemed to coast easily into those C's in an era when C represented the average payoff for the average effort, and mere coasting often translated to worse grades. I've always suspected Bush was not as stupid as liberals would have him, nor even as stupid as he himself lets on. I don't want to get started on a rant about the current anti-intellectual craze in this country, but suffice it to say that we are not, at present, a nation that reveres books (regardless of how much of the Newsweek allegations you believe).

I still think it's fair to characterize Bush as a cowboy, whose advisors, many of them intellectuals of a far superior echelon to most of the folks who voted the whole menagerie into office, have really re-defined conservatism by their any-means-necessary approach. Regarding the Iraq war, no one is pretending that our course of action is expedient. Rather, the rallying cry is "freedom" - freedom, it seems, from the shackles of pragmatism. The point is that we are not talking about good, safe ideas anymore - we are talking about neo-Platonic ideologies, about bridging an immense gap between the way things are and the way things ought to be. In an ideal world, wanting to spread democracy one country at a time to one imaginary grateful populace at a time would mean a year here, a year there - not a disjointed and wildly problematic campaign that has arguably rendered us less safe than ever before. But, again, we're not talking about good ideas, we're talking about good ideologies. In other words, when Bush & Co. do something you or I might regard as "rash", or even "stupid", they know exactly what they are doing.

Of course, it's easy to have been less than one's intellectual best in college. I mean, how many of you can honestly say that you gave it your all during those four (or five, or six) years? What matters is how dumb you are now. Remember, as the newfangled saw goes, youth only happens once, but immaturity is forever. Take my dad - he spent most of college engaged in civil disobedience and free love. He did not graduate with honors. However, he is as smart and hard-working at 57 as you will find. That's what interests me - who's doing smart things now. I mean, Bush got a free pass from the Right for the cocaine and drunk driving. I say we give Kerry a free pass for having enjoyed mediocre grades at his Ivy League institution, much as a more historically recognized JFK did at Harvard. As Johnny Cash says, "I made straight A's in love."

Displeasure

2005-06-06T21:32:00.000-07:00

So, the Pistons were basically handed the series, as they enjoyed both an injured Shaq and an injured Dwyane Wade. Those of you who can stand it, get ready for the most miserable NBA Finals of your entire lives. You'll have to tell me about it, though, because there is no reason for me to watch. I have adopted some pretty absurd causes in my day when my A-list teams were not in the Finals (viz. 2003 New Jersey Nets), but there is really no reason for me to prefer either of these low-scoring morasses of basketball. And I think it's really going to be bad enough that drinking and gambling won't be able to cast a positive light.

In Watermelon Sugar

2005-06-06T00:55:00.000-07:00

One of the advantages to emerge from being both sick and at my parents' house this weekend was the chance to unearth some of the paperback books my dad must have enjoyed when he was not far from my own age. This afternoon, I sat out on the deck, wrapped in blankets in the manner of the sanatorium inmates in The Magic Mountain, and read Richard Brautigan's In Watermelon Sugar, a work of confusing but nonetheless astonishing beauty. Its basic premise - a world where the sun shines a different color each day as the stage for a simple fable of love and betrayal - almost caused me to dismiss the book out of hand. Indeed, there is a general miasma of wackness about it - at the rational level. However, I am always hoping to be moved irrationally, and this one did the trick. Eight hours later, I still feel elsewhere, and although I rarely issue such a dictum, I say, to the three of you who are likely to read this, go out and get a copy post-haste. You will be both a sadder and happier person as a result.

A Sophomore, But Hopefully Not Sophomoric, Effort

2005-06-03T19:19:00.000-07:00

Well, it seems that almost two months have gone by since I started this blog, and in fact I have not done a damn thing about it since my initial post promising quality thoughts - quality, not quantity, mind you. However, since I am under the weather, and the shot of Everclear I ingested earlier this afternoon didn't help matters as much as I expected it to, I feel it is time to hit the keypad again, hopefully on a more regular basis from here on out. Of course, a lot of things have happened since the last posting, and I am loathe to report old news, but I will share two reflections: my brief brush with enlightenment Tuesday, and my thoughts on the Newsweek Koran-flushing debacle.

I. Tuesday marked the day tickets went on sale for the Dalai Lama's appearance at Stanford this November. Good son that I am, I agreed to help obtain tickets for my dad's friend, and was treated to the most staggeringly inefficient line I have ever had the displeasure to encounter. As I was reflecting on my aggravation, it suddenly dawned on me that Buddhism taught the transcendence of everyday frustrations such as this one, and I held out my hand, as if to say, "Wow, would ya look at that!" At that time, a bird took a shit on my outstretched hand. Surely, the Buddha smiles for good reason.

II. What the Newsweek affair reveals, more than anything else, is how little the verifiable truth has to do with the actual controversy. While tragic, the fallout of this outbreak of finger-pointing hysteria is extremely instructive. Namely, it has served to clarify some of the real anxieties surrounding the right and left, respectively, in the war on terror.

I'll begin with those on the right. Roger Kimball, chief contributor to The New Criterion's Arma Virumque weblog, notes (in comparing the U.S. media of today to that of WWII) "The press then was on our side. Whose side are they on now? I wonder." Dennis Prager (my distant cousin) notes, "While American news media were just as interested in scoops in 1944 as they are now, they also had a belief that when America was at war, publishing information injurious to America and especially to its troops was unthinkable." What is most interesting is that Prager prefaces that comment by positing that "If an American interrogator of Japanese prisoners desecrated the most sacred Japanese symbols during World War II, it is inconceivable that any American media would have published this information."

Note, if you will, that Prager does not hypothesize a false report. What I assert is that the Newsweek report did not anger so many people because it was unsubstantiated. Nor, even, is the real issue seventeen dead riot victims. Rather, what is inconceivable to so many is that the press could publish information that is damaging to America's reputation at all. This is hardly a secret, of course. Conservatives across the nation are boiling over at a media they perceive to be nothing less than traitorous. Frankly, I find this rhetoric highly disturbing. I believe that in this case, there was not much to be gained by exposing such an incident, and that, in the grand scheme of grievances against the U.S., this one ranks pretty low on the totem pole. However, we need not look too far back to find so many of the same people calling the expose of the Abu Ghraib prisoner abuses an act of treason - an attitude that is jingoistic at best and at its worst highly dangerous. Should their be no accountability for what is done within our military? Would Americans have been better off not knowing what went on under the banner of freedom and democracy? The adaptation of the press as a state-sanctioned mouthpiece smacks to me of nascent fascism - and while I would not join some of my liberal colleagues in accusing the United States of turning into a fascist entity, it is impossible to ignore the significance of the trend towards stern reprisals against the press.

The fact is that the news media, however short they may fall of achieving it, ostensibly are responsible for truthful reporting of the news that affects us. They are not responsible for propaganda - though they may certainly serve as a vehicle for it. Neither, then, are they responsible for covering things up in a paternalistic fashion. The best-known exception to this, of course, is when something is withheld - a victim or witness' name, in most cases - in the interest of protecting individual safety. Well, so the argument goes, seventeen dead people - and countless more who were merely injured - might constitute a violation of safety.

What I wish to ask the millions of people who are wholly comfortable blaming Newsweek for the murderous and animalistic actions of rioting Afghans is, suppose Mr. Bush had given a speech affirming our commitment to achieving democracy or defeating terrorism, and a bunch of people launched into a deadly riot? Suppose Bush had issued, as he so often has, a direct challenge to the assorted evildoers to 'come and get us', so to speak? Would anyone on the right blame Bush for the ensuing carnage? No, and well they shouldn't. I could probably find any number of Bush speeches, were I so inclined, that would qualify as incendiary - to trigger-happy Islamist radicals itching for the least excuse to draw a bloodbath. Dennis Prager asks, and quite correctly, "Did any Buddhists riot and murder when the Taliban Muslims blew up the irreplaceable giant Buddhist statues in Afghanistan?...Did any Christians riot and murder...when all Christian services and even the wearing of a cross were banned in Saudi Arabia?"

Of course not. And this is the great failure of the fringe but vocal element of the American left that suggests we treat the Islamist enemy as people with legitimate complaints expressing them through legitimate means. In defending Newsweek's decision, liberals are forced to point out the most obvious truism, that no one made the Afghan rioters kill anyone. Yet, this is precisely the perspective lacking from the debate in the left camp, where one routinely is bombarded, for instance, with the fallacy that Palestinians are "forced" to commit suicide bombings. The image of the Koran being flushed down the toilet is, to be sure, a terrible act of disrespect, and can be called incendiary due to its sheer blatantness. However, taste can ony account for so much of the controversy. It is too easy to point to the Newsweek story and find an example of egregious and inflammatory editorial oversight. What is not easy is to come to terms with the fact that when it comes to appalling the sensibilities - and I use the word extremely loosely - of people like tha Afghan rioters, the means of rhetoric is largely arbitrary. Someone who will kill over the perceived desecration of the Koran does not need that Koran to be flushed down the toilet. The existence of the U.S. itself, let alone as a presence in Muslim land, is ammunition enough for these people. In other words, we cannot win by playing nice.

Whether there is anything to be gained by publishing reports such as this one is debatable. There is, of course, the intrinsic value of knowing what is going on. Is this worth seventeen lives? I am not arguing that the article is what cost those lives, but the questiuon must be asked. From a utilitarian standpoint, the article was a poor idea - even if no one had died, the magazine's integrity was terribly compromised - and, if the editor had even the faintest notion of what might ensue, he might have been well advised to do otherwise - not out of pressure but simply out of common sense.

However, the impact of Newsweek's editorial decision pales in comparison to the impact of our decision to be a military presence in the Middle East. I do not suggest that decision is wholly without just cause. What I do suggest is that there is a tremendous amount of sacrifice involved - both for the U.S. war effort, and the efforts of the press, however noble or short-sighted, to keep the government honest. It may be that no good emerges from the Newsweek saga, that we are left to reckon the terrible cost of abstract knowledge that someone, somewhere, may or may not have desecrated a holy book. In instances such as the Abu Ghraib abuses, the great hope is that the free press forces us to reckon the cost of justice - if indeed justice is ever served as a result of the ugly, necessary truth being told.

Good Lord

2005-04-04T17:21:00.000-07:00

So, I caved in to the pressure to finally start my own blog. The theme for this year seems to be doing things I never thought myself capable of. To wit: shaving my sideburns off, learning to enjoy eggplant, asparagus, and raw tomatoes, and adopting my father's fondness for books on tape as well as his view that salt is a beverage. Then, we have the following: being done with Stanford, living in a dead house, lacking long-term employment, and continuing to go to EBF every Wednesday. Makes one think a bit, that. The big shocker: I'm not so different. Big shocker - like my friend says, girls take shits too. The way I justify this, of course, is by "being the best I can be...considering" (credit the cult classic "The Red Green Show" for this gem of a mantra). So, I will pledge to my faithful, if imaginary readership that this blog will be a clearinghouse for quality - quality thoughts, quality ranting, quality sports analysis, and what dreams may come.