The Black Community

About a month or two ago, it was a rainy day, so I put out an umbrella stand at work. One of my coworkers walked by and said something about an umbrellaellaella, which I attributed to tourette's. Someone else walked by and said the same thing, and since you can't get tourette's from sharing the same glass, I asked what they were talking about. This was my introduction to the music of Rihanna. I still haven't heard the song, and I don't care. I actually knew who she was from my daily reading of dlisted.com, where she is known as Alien Princess RiRi. So when I heard about her getting beaten by her boyfriend, all I knew was that she sang a song that would probably annoy me, and that she looks like a Caribbean "7 of 9."

ABC.COM published a story about the reaction of the "Black Community" to RiRi's incident. I can't be certain, but I don't think I ever received any membership information on joining the Black Community. I have no idea where the Black Community Centre is, and I've never been invited to any Black Community Meetings. Is there a Black Community Rep. Theater Company? How about the Black Community Credit Union? If I get a ticket, can I do Black Community Service?

I find it hard to believe that the writers at ABC news would be so obtuse as to think that all Black people share common experiences, values, morals, etcetera. If Anna Kournikova got beaten, would they ask the Russian Community about their view of domestic violence? If Skeletor- I mean Marc Anthony beat up J-Lo... if J-Lo beat up Marc Anthony, would ABC talk to leaders in the Puerto Rican Community? What about Britney Spears? If K-Fed had smacked her, would the reporters head down to the Trailer Park Community?

Beyond the fact that an all inclusive Black Community doesn't exist, who nominated nothing but raspy voiced pastors with questionable verbiage, and friends of Oprah to be the only spokespeople? If those are the leaders of the Black Community, then I'm glad I don't have a membership.

Danzon

When I was pre-pubescent, I would watch Teletunes every Sunday morning with my brother. We spent hours over recordings of our favorite videos, learning dance moves from Malcom McLaren's "Buffalo Gals," and every move made by Prince and Michael Jackson. While other kids played kickball and four square at recess, I practiced breakdancing. I really loved dancing, and when I got older, I could be seen every Thursday at Club America, and when that closed,  I spent Sundays at Synergy, and Tuesdays at the Snake Pit. Somewhere in between, I would put on my purple Cross-Colours jeans and go raving. Everywhere I went, I owned the dance floor, and everyone I danced with owned it as well. I wouldn't go near a dance floor unless everyone there was there to own the dance floor. No drinks allowed, and if you weren't dancing, and I mean shaking your ass, you were pushed to the side.

Tonight, I went to a dance party. I don't dance much anymore, but I got an invitation, which included an open bar and free food. Global financial retardation doesn't allow me to pass up "free" much anymore, so, despite my better judgement, I went. I say "despite my better judgement," because I found out it was a hippy party. I've gotten beyond the idea of hippies being mildly retarded kids with bad hygiene and even worse fashion sense, and grown to understand that modern hippies are pretentious would be artist-types who lack common sense and refuse to see the world for what it is. There's other stuff involved in their misguided communal psyche, but that is irrelevant to this particular post.

Simple fact of the matter is- hippies can't dance. This was the 5th anniversary of some Burning Man polyester bell bottom and sparkly feather boa b.s. that should have inspired serious freakiness, yet was the same "party like it's 1969" craptasticness that pervades San Francisco. Whatever it was that passed for dancing looked more like a bunch of people that needed to pee. Everyone shifted their weight from one foot to the other in a semblance of rhythm to the umptsee-umptsee fuckery coming out the speakers. I couple of women were really trying, but they looked more like they were allowing the spirit of the goddess to inspire their limbs to undulate in a manner evocative of femininity and sexual spirit-awakening while grounded to the earth mother sensuous Gaia Venus water air thing.

I didn't care about looking cool when I was in their place; I cared about tearing up the floor. I wanted to see everyone else tearing up the floor, and we knew we had done our jobs when we didn't know if we were covered in my sweat, your sweat, or the condensation dripping off of the ceiling. Another thing- people can't dance and drink at the same time. The two are mutually exclusive. If you are really dancing, you can't hold on to a drink. If you are really drinking, you can't dance. I'm not saying dancers must be straight edge, I'm just saying drinks have no place on a dance floor- or hippies. 

No, Your Enemy

I've been reading a book lately that has a cast of anti-heroes as protagonists. It reminded me of when I was a kid, and I had gone to a movie with my mom. We went to movies almost every week while I was in grade school, and this one was some ultra-violent post apocalyptic bubblegum that I don't even remember. What stuck in my mind, was the two of us getting in the car, and her asking if I thought I could ever kill anyone. Not the kind of mother-son conversation one is likely to forget. So there I was, 11 or so years old, and my mom is telling me how if there were any people trying to hurt me or anyone else in our family, she was pretty sure she would be capable of killing them. I imagine that would be true of most mothers, but it isn't something that is often discussed.

There are always going to be subtleties in morality. Your vices are my verses, vice versa and versa vice. Take the Israeli offensive going on right now. Opinion is likely split among those who support Israel, those who are outraged, and those that don't care because it isn't happening to them. This is a conflict that has, in one way or another, been going on for over a hundred years. There is no way of saying which side is right and which is wrong. How can there be any sense of morality in this situation?

On a more basic level, everyone has been through times when it was seemingly appropriate to be dishonest, cruel, or just plain wrong, but for the "right" reasons. What, though, are the "right" reasons? I'm inclined to think there are no "right" reasons, just as much as there are no "wrong" reasons. What it comes down to, is that everything is justifiable in one way or another. Not that I'm planning to do a Marquis de Sade and explore every possible depravity, I'm just saying that I can't judge anyone's actions, and no one can judge mine. Each of us has a biased perspective of our own worlds, where each of us are rulers of our domains. For instance, I don't have any interest in having a 9 to 5, coming home to a wife and kids for a night of TV and the occasional weekend getaway/ yearly trip Disneyworld. Some would say that not propagating the species is wrong, sinful, and just plain weird. I would say that there are enough people on the planet, and enough unwanted babies being born to fill all of Angelina Jolie's needs.

If there are no morals then there is no good or bad, just subjective levels of freedom. This is the true nature of anarchy. Say "anarchy," and most people will have visions of Mad Max style living, but anarchy just means, "one should do what one thinks is right at that moment in time." That is about the same thing as "do what thou wilt shall be the only law," the motto of Alistair Crowley, who cribbed the idea from Francois Rabelais (who was a Benedictine Monk, so let's skip over the satanic thing for now). There is an assumption that anarchy would lead to increased "criminal" behavior, but if there aren't laws, there can't be crime.

...OK, that was the flippant answer, the real one is that one is responsible for one's own behavior. Hopefully, as part of that responsibility, one is making decisions informed and infused with love of others and the self. We are a fallible race, so of course not everyone will be looking out for everyone or even anyone else, but that will happen whether or not there are laws in place to redress the minority of truly evil spirited people. There are not many Lex Luthors in the world- people who plan and act out ways to prey on others. Most crimes are crimes of opportunity, committed during a moment of desperation in the perpetrator and weakness in the victim. No, I'm not saying that the victim is asking for it, I'm saying that predators prey on the most vulnerable: it may be the hungry cheetah in the Serengeti who attacks the gazelle that wanders off alone, or it may be the crack addict that attacks the drunk who wanders off into a dark alley. The people in the center of the bell curve don't have much to worry about. No matter what laws are in place, or who is in charge, things don't really change for those being governed.

...but I won't grow a ponytail

I've been geeking out pretty heavily lately. Photoshop is something that I like to fool around with, and I've been doing it for years without any real purpose. Now I feel like my experience is growing into a skill I could actually do something with. I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition, what are you going to do about it? To further my skills, I've been entering Photoshop contests online (where else?).

I told you- GEEK

I Smell A Rant

My friend, "The Old Man," sent me an email today. It was an op-ed piece from the NY Times about some bourgeois twit (Stanley Fish) with two houses complaining about AT&T's poor customer service and lack of staff capable of speaking with proper grammar.

Really?

Really.

Considering the state of the world today, and in a pulpit with a congregation of millions, he wasted time with an "oh poor me" story? He even had the platinum-plated cojones to admit that he would probably offend the logic of a good portion of his readers with his inane-festering-boil-on-the-butt-of-a-grown-man-in-Pampers-crying-because-he-had-to-take-the-silver-spoon-out-of-his-mouth-while-he-flipped-his-legs-over-his-head-to-satisfy-himself (slapdick douche named Stanley Fish) of a blubberfest.

I have friends who have had their hours cut at work from 40 to 16. They don't know how long their savings will cover things like transportation, heat, rent, or food, and this slapdick douche is whining about being on hold because the phone company doesn't have all the services he wants at his second home and all the staff he spoke with didn't have a grasp of syntax that met his standards.

Blow your nose on your sleeve, Stanley Fish Slapdick Douche, because I won't even give you dirt so you can farmer's blow while you cry an ocean of Fiji Water tears, you sorry sad sack of smug.

Sure, I cringe at the redundancy of "Where you at?" The... ellipse... was... designed... to... give... the... reader... a... cue... to... pause... 

The. Period. Was. Not.

"Having" or "getting" are plenty enough on their own; no need to "have got" as well.

I could go on, but I have already reached the point where I understand that language is fluid. I'm sure in the 17th century the educated-and-unemployed class were decrying the death of "thou" in common use, so nothing has really changed except... change. I don't tell people not end their sentences with prepositions anymore. Too many people today don't read books, or know who Descartes was, or understand the point of higher level mathematics for me to judge any one individual.

On the other hand, there is something out there in word land that makes my back itch in the one spot that I can't reach: improper antonyms.

I read an article yesterday about the Israeli offensive (pun intended) that started last week. The author was describing the general ebb and flow of tension throughout the years, claiming that violence would "escalate and then eventually de-escalate."

DE-ESCALATE?!?!? Not descend, ebb, fall, gravitate, lower, return to normal levels, not even chill out, but de-escalate.

I was in the BART station this evening, when an announcement was made about using caution when boarding and off-boarding. Not exiting, disembarking, leaving, getting off the godblessamericadamn train, but off-boarding.

Don't tell me, when a plane is about to take off, they'll start saying "final de-exiting call for flight 1518." Or when someone asks about the weather, the response will be, "it's an ex-dark, moon challenged, uncrappy, not-night!" "You look de-relaxed, why not un-stand yourself on that chair?"

Deity maledictive mass of XY chromosomed bovine excrement.

The Association for the Preservation of Unusual Activities*

This past week, I have felt an underlying, pervasive sense of Donny-ness. I am, to an extent, out of my element. I am good at an awful lot of stuff. Some things useful, some pointless, and some that are entirely beside the point. The one thing that I'm probably best at, is figuring out how to do stuff.

Now I'm faced with a thing that I can't quite wrap my mind around. I've heard (and even witnessed) one person meet a complete stranger, comment to said stranger regarding the stranger's intelligence/wit/attractivocity/inebriation/etcetera, and after a favorable response, say something to the effect of, "Let's ____ (have dinner, see a movie, go for a drink, spin 'round in circles) some time." Then, within a few days (or hours) of this brief conversation, the two people involved actually do whatever mundane activity they have agreed upon. This, to me, is mind boggling.

If I want a to see a movie- I go, unless it happens to be something that someone else I know will particularly enjoy. Why would I want I want to sit in the dark staring at shadows and light with someone, and not know if that person enjoys  those particular patterns of shadows and light? If this is someone I don't know, I don't want to be distracted by menus, previews, or breathtaking views.

I need a certain level of guaranteed, uninterrupted interactivity in a controlled setting. Something out of the ordinary enough that it won't be replicated by or with anyone else, but not so unusual as to be off-putting. Can I possibly be more clinical, intellectual and detached?

Yes, absolutely. However, this carefully crafted facade would shatter into millions of tiny reflective pieces. Each piece would, in turn, be it's own mini-big bang, releasing untold and incalculable amounts of energy into the known universe, turning into the unknown and unknowable universe, enabling children all over the globe to eat massive quantities of Snicker bars without getting a sugar high, and everything that Crispin Glover said would start to make sense.

In all abstract theoretical seriousness, dating- in the traditional sense- is totally lost on me. It isn't lost on me that the activities which I call mundane are those that allow two people to interact at the simplest of levels- the "getting to know you" stage. If two people can't enjoy each other while doing something average, they probably don't have what it takes to last romantically. I get that, but...

I'm going to pull a Palin and get back to you

Synchronicity 3

Some say deja vu is really a form of prescience. Others say it is fate, destiny, past lives remembered or whatever godishness to which one may subscribe. I like the idea of it being a sign to let me know I'm on the right path. A couple of days ago, I saw a note from my old friend K (aka B), who lives in the same state as my old flame R. 'Old Flame' is a misnomer. She is past, present and future. That once in a lifetime soul that bonds and intertwines and even from thousands of miles away, never leaves.

So after seeing the note from K, I googled R, just like I've done a thousand times in the past 5-6 years, and got one of those reunion.com hits, which claimed to have recent contact info, but wants 700 billion dollars to give it away. Please feel free to assume that I did not provide credit card information. If that was the extent of it, I would think nothing more, but right after, I went to meet some friends at a bar, and R's favorite Tom Waits song was playing. Someone (I think it was Dr. Who) once said that if two separate events that are somehow related happen concurrently, pay attention.

Event number three: My phone rang, and for once, I considered answering it. I pulled it out of my pocket, looked at the incoming number, and nearly had a Daffy Duck style seizure. It was an unknown call from area code 505. My thumbs were shaking as I flipped open the phone and said 'hello.'

"Did you know that the factory warranty on your vehicle has almost expired!"

My superhero power will be the ability to reach through phone lines, cell transmissions, space, time, and recording devices in order to squeeze entire tubes of super glue between the butt cheeks of robocall telemarketers.