Past Ideals Now Present

Throw it all away; that thing you thought you knew - to know that the more you know the less you know. return to basics, base concepts elevated beyond our own. Listen. Who will you hear? George .... Washington; "I have already intimated to you the danger of parties in the state, with particular reference to the founding of them on geographical discrimination." Foresaw the foresworn. Civil War carried through today - the day of embedded parties, partly due to inaction. Abdication of that thrown upon which each of us sits - of the people dies as the people retreat, defeat branded as a bar code. Freedom of consumerism - the new ism of identity - marcher to stores, boars to the trough. "But these are unprecedented and unusual times" - so may they always be. The pendulum swing shoots us forward failing to see the new day dawn. Let us raise a wail for "real progress ... real justice ... real equality" - of equanimity, Buddhist style. Revile revisited, then gone, released while reason remains. Look to the past to become the future.

How to Make an Historical Epic

Hello, my name is SB and I am an historical epic addict. This is truly a sad thing to be as it is but rarely that a good one comes along, and then more often than not, only in the form of the director's cut. As an overly interested spectator, and a person hoping one day to work on the production end of such a film, I have been creating, over the years, the criteria necessary for a successful historical epic. And so I shall share it with you now. A historical epic, to be worthy of the name must include most of the following; (a) a moral and often unwilling leader (the man who does not crave power will be the least likely to misuse it when it is given to him) and one possessing convincing charisma, (b) a villain with at least a modicum of intelligence of wily wit who possesses all of those traits - greed, desire for power, lack of concern for the human condition - that make him the opposite of the protagonist, (c) a theme which goes beyond the stories of the character themselves, speaking to the human condition and, if the film is to be truly great, creating a parallel between then and now so that we may draw from it some greater sense of enlightenment about the times we now live in, (d) approximately three fights, each revealing important information about the characters, whether it be tactical skill, betrayal, surviving against all odds, a willingness to surrender riches and power in order to save human lives, (e) a driving motivation for the protagonist which comes prior to the cause for which he will later be fighting, such as the death of the woman that he loved (this is always a good motivator and shows that even a man who seems barbaric in battle has a soft, loving side), (f) a suitable number of characters that we like need to die, not everyone can live when they're cleaving each other with battle axes and the like, and it is often good if the protagonist himself dies at the end, as in christ dying for our sins - the martyr's achievements go down in history, (g) standard british should typically be used as this makes up for the fact that often the characters that we are watching would actually be speaking a different language, or would be speaking in a way that would not allow for the eloquence with which the script writers would like their characters to speak, and besides, when things are said in british they just sound more epic, (h) no expense should be spared when it comes to production design for, no matter how great everything else is, if the film does not look epic, then it won't be - costume the characters correctly, do not make them look too pretty (people didn't bathe so much in the past and don't forget it, also, when on a long journey without a caravan it is unlikely that people would be able to shave everyday or keep a neat and closely sheared beard), that is except for the women, for, unless they are warriors themselves, they should have such beauty as would drive men into battle and create such deep love as is necessary in an epic, (i) and lastly don't cast Colin Farrel as the lead or kill Lancelot before he can betray Arthur with his love for Gwenefyar. 

Some of the above listed need no further illustration. For the others, I will broaden their definitions and provide examples. Clearly, the leader, or protagonist of an historical epic must be spot on, or all else is for not. Simply casting a man who is pretty is not enough. In fact, generally the leader should not be pretty as a warrior should be manly. The only exception to this that I can proffer is the unexpected success of Orlando Bloom in the role of Balian in Kingdom of Heaven (though I did notice that the production designers went to a great deal of effort to make him often look dirty and we careful to put him in the least feminine clothing they could).  Men such as Mel Gibson or Russel Crowe are more generally the desired type. While the leader should look savage in battle, he also must be able to show depth of emotion, an almost innocence which can make one believe that he seeks only to do the right and does not want for power. Mel Gibson's baby blues looking up at his betrayer The Bruce are, to my mind, the quintessential illustration of this. Generally, he must love some woman, often one who dies at the outset of the film, as with Wallace's wife, Maximus' wife, and Balian's wife (Braveheart, Gladiator, and Kingdom of heaven respectively). At some later point in the film another woman must arise who will be a help and inspiration to the leader, and there must be some sense of romance between them. Finally, he must have a good voice for yelling in order to muster legions without sounding like a fool.

And here, for today, I will leave off, with greater expansion to come.

Lay the Past to Rest

Almost imperceptible, like something not quite seen, the car pulls up. There is a face in the driver's seat that is familiar. Eerily so. It is a remembrance, half lost in the land of dreams. The woman, no longer a girl, sitting on a small wall stands, straightens her plain black sundress, throws an old army backpack over her right shoulder and steps towards the vehicle. Sliding into the seat she feels like she has done this a thousand times before, and yet, never. There is a brief embrace shared between the two, so platonic that it seems unfitting for two who have shared intimacies for years. Pleasantly, but without much luster, the woman asks perfunctory questions. He answers, but does not ask any of her. Giving directions in between banalities she carries the conversation, unsure why she bothers. A part of her is still standing on the receding sidewalk, while the other lies in years past. Nothing but a shell now shares the space of this metallic tomb. They move as wraiths, part of no world. It is a convergence; the landscape of her childhood and present, a place new and unknown to him, two people who's time has passed.

Too many memories in one moment. The space flashing by the outside of their ghost ship belongs to her, to thoughts of her father and mother, of life before college, of daily life and things to come. These clash with those that they hold together, from a place and time so distant that they seem not to belong to this world. Always she has loved to play the tour guide to visiting friends. But not now. Now she wants to hold the worlds apart for fear their collision might eradicate one and split her in two never to again become whole. As the day passes they exist in nothingness. And she knows now, completely, that college and the life that it held for her is over. That her life has become memories. And the to survive she must let them slip into the recesses, to be pulled out only for special occasions. They are no longer the people they were then. She is not so innocent and naive. Oh that she were. She is no longer the fantasy he had once called her. The girl who sent shivers down his spine when she walked into the room. They no longer turn in assignments to be graded.

The change is what it is. The inevitable. Her only fear is that this day, this day that signifies the end of something forever, will steal the past. Take away those happy, exciting, memories. At one point he tells her he has never seen her happier. She thinks that he does not know her at all. After all, it has been a year since last they lay eyes and hands on one another. Time had not stood so still for her as it had for him. She who had moved across the country, departing from all that there had been for her, which even then was no more. He had lived still surrounded y his friends, in the same place, her still a reality to him. But he was no more than a ghost to her.

And so, as they sat at the conclusion of their stolen say he tried to make the past the present. But she was not moved. All that she desired was the end of this forgery. Wished that he would slip back into the memory from whence he had come and stay there locked safely, forever unchanging. She told him that the door to her was closed. He took it in, and smiling sadly at her said, so it's really over then. He had not until that moment fully grasped this truth and it struck him like a dagger in the heart. I'll go then.

And so he went. Forever out of her life and into her mind, to be kept forever and for always, unchanging.

What is Morality

We try to qualify too many actions as moral, rendering the word meaningless. Not all charges of man need be, or indeed can be, viewed in terms of morality. We do not need, for example, to qualify a standing army in terms of morality. It falls under the category of realistic and pragmatic. A standing army is neither moral nor immoral, but amoral. Of a dimension outside of morality. A consideration of moral issues arises when we decide to use the army, to send them into action. Morality enters as a discussion of whether the army will be used in a pragmatic, less immoral, or fully immoral manner. Individual soldiers may, as well, act with more or less immorality, depending on how they treat those who they capture and the innocent civilians which they come upon. It is better, I think, in matters of war to leave any claims of morality out of the picture and instead only strive to not be overly immoral, to flout morality the least. 

If a side believes themselves to be in the moral right the consequences can be grave. The world is not black and white as those who seek power would like all to believe. Just because one country executes immoral actions it does not necessarily follow that their enemies are moral. Only radicals hold that is our enemy is immoral, the we must be moral, fighting the hand of evil with our goodness and propriety. Just because terrorists are immoral, it does not follow that torturing them is moral. Just because Hitler was immoral, it does not follow that the bombing of Germany and the shooting of German troops was moral - pragmatic, necessary, and inevitably beneficial to the world, yes. But moral, no. One should have only to read All Quiet on the Western Front to come to that conclusion. The story follows a German youth who, like so many Americans, was drafted into the military, set out in a field where his choice was to kill or be killed, pumped full of some vague sense of national loyalty and propaganda inspired patriotism. Shooting such a boy is not moral. But it may, sadly, be or seem necessary, at least in our present world.

I have recently begun a book entitled "Nuclear Ethics". It was the oxymoronic title which drew me to it. Using nuclear weapons has and never will be ethical. I do not denounce Truman for his decision to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. It ended a World War and saved net lives. But it was not ethical nor moral. Killing innocent people never can be. If we were able to shift out perspectives to understand that all war, all killing is immoral, I believe there would be a great deal less war. It is when we imbue war with the virtue of morality that we find ourselves entrenched in violence. 

Perpetrating immoral actions does not necessarily make a man evil, a word too well used in todays "enlightened" age. In Buddhism one who does wrong action is not deemed evil, but unskillful. As we are all of this earth, we are all unskillful to various degrees. So long as we seek to enhance and better ourselves we are moving in the right direction. The maintenance of nuclear weapons by the United States and other countries cannot be called moral, I do not care how talented at rhetoric you are. It may be called instead understandable, as we as a nation and world have not yet moved beyond hate, fear, pettiness, and most importantly greed for power, for economic gain. And so it is. But we will never move beyond these vices so long as we use the morality to disguise them. Call them what they are. Without the power of morality to back up wars, to condone violence against others, we would not, I think, be so motivated to perpetrate these.

Universality and Morality

Morality has become that which justifies immorality; "we are a moral nation, thus that which we do is moral." But who governs morality? Who defines it? And who's morality are we talking about anyways? Ideally in a democracy, the people are the governors of morality. How, though, can such governance be carried out hen the government, often in collusion with the media, provides false information, forgoes crucial details, or censors? All too often critical information is uncovered long after the fact, and is considered no longer worthy of the front page (though of course it is, as knowing the past fortifies against future mistakes, or so the hope is). 

No one wishes to believe themselves or their nation monstrous. Particularly when people feel powerless to make change (or even get the actual president elect into office) they are want to ignore reality, to look the other way and manage as best they can to live their own lives. Living a single life is hard enough, but doing that successfully and making world change is, granted, a tall order. It is not surprising that we wish to give ourselves allowances not given to others. If, just because you are you, you were given immunity from getting parking tickets or moving violations, I imagine that you wouldn't, out of a sense of morality, give them to yourself. That is our nation. Due to out preponderance we can, regardless of world outcries, avoid punitive action, as we have all to often done. 

With the growth and increased power of the neo-conservative Republican party what we are made to believe is patriotism is actually nationalism. And a nationalist does not question. He cannot ever think his nation to be in the wrong, let alone make any statements along those lines. His nation need not adhere to the rules by which other nations must. He is narrow-minded and dangerous. He is an isolationist. While this modality of thought is desired by a government hungry for power (as is the present) and simple for those unwilling to look beyond their front porch, it is one of the most volatile. The nationalist's lack of empathy breeds destruction. The world is no longer vast, convenient for isolationism. whether America, or more specifically her government (for I find many Americans not so narrow minded as the leaders) wishes is or not this is a globalized world.

In one respect, the neo-conservatives are correct - what the world needs more that anything is morality, just not their "morality". We need to embrace the concept of universality, whereby rules apply equally to all. What rules we wish to set is up to us. Will it be that massive bombings and ground assaults are justified as a result of terrorism. If so, the Nicaraguans would be justified in an assault, or assaults on America as pay back for years of American terrorism carried out in that country. Not a pleasant thought. What about all of the innocent Americans that would be killed? What about all of the innocent Afghanies? The fact that this, our nation, is built on beautiful doctrines does not make us sacrosanct. If we do not uphold our doctrines, even advance them, and look on all humanity as one, as in the same shrinking boat, then that boat will sink and us along with it. I love America to much to see that happen. 

The Awful, No Good, Really Bad Day

If you figure that there are 365 days in a year and that the average person lives to 60 (I bear no responsibility if this is not the actual, census charted number, but it seems like a fair stab), a human life consists of approximately 21,900 days. Some of them are bound to be bad. Adds the spice to life. Today was one of those days when even those who do not believe in fate or karma have to second guess themselves.

I rose to a loud siren at just shy of seven am. Laboriously descending from my loft bed, pushing the Transformer sheets back into place I made for the window. The section of North Hollywood in which I reside has had more than a healthy amount of police activity of late. It began a month ago with the blockage by police of half a residential chunk by my boyfriend's house, which is under two minutes from my own. When he inquired as to when he might be permitted to retire to his house the cop said, "As long as it takes the bad guy". This was not terribly helpful, but at least it was something. A week or so later a SWAT team of disturbingly large numbers busted into the house to his abode's right at 7am, hauling of several of the residents and towing a few of the always new cars parked out front. Not enough days later, as my boyfriend and I relaxed to the mind warping oddities of Being John Malcovich we heard a voice over a loud speaker commanding the tenants of the house next to his, this time to the left. Curious, but not wanting to emerge onto the stoop should a lively spray of gunfire slaughter us, we rounded the back of the house, finally peering over a thick cement brick wall which we declared to be appropriately bullet proof. Filling the street were about ten cop cars (at least it wasn't the SWAT this time). Several men stood by their cars, looking ready, while repeating the orders to "come out with your hands up". Their pleas were not being answered so they brought in the big guns - the cop copter, circling above, shining its eerie light downwards. This was our cue to return to the house. There we sat for a nerve raising ten minutes as the lights shown not only on the neighbors, but into our windows. Looking out a side window we saw the cops exit the side of the neighbor's house, guns unholstered. They meant business. Finally their target was apprehended, and they departed. Less than a week later my street, a main street, was blocked for two blocks, occupied by at least thirty cop cars, plus some motorcycle police. The choppers were circling.

 And so it was with trepidation that I peered out of my window this morning. Down the street were parked three fire engines, one police car, and an ambulance. Just a house call, I thought to myself. In a daze I moved, zombie like into the kitchen, beginning the morning routine of coffee brewing. This done, work began. But it could not continue for long. Every twenty minutes or so I was seized by an urgent need to pee (I am sorry if this is too much information, but there are few things worse, at least in the category of minor, non-life threatening inconveniences than a constant need to pee). This urgent and consistent need was complicated by cramping. On this point I will not go into more depth (female problems). I am a woman and hate even thinking about this inconvenience dealt by nature as a cruel and constant joke, so I am sure it is of no interest to you. Let me just say that in a lifetime it is a 5,120 day joke. I'm not laughing. 

This irked me most because I had a great deal of work to do this day. Taking a break at around noon for lunch I prepared two veggie tacos. Sitting to eat and enjoy a little reading on the Pacific Crest Trail I lifted the first taco. Immediately the always sturdy multigrain tortilla split like a giant fault, releasing the entire contents, veggies and dressing alike, onto my lap. This is why I try not to shower before lunch. It just saves time. After much ado with a washcloth, paper towel, and fire hose, I returned to my seat, with the look of someone who has survived a hurricane. Hungrier now I lifted the second taco. It must have been a one for two deal, for the second split immediately, dropping another load onto my soggy facade. At this point I gave up on the tacos, washed myself once more, and poured a pile of veggies onto my plate, excavating them with a fork and knife. Much safer. 

In early afternoon my boyfriend called, requesting a number for a chair company who's services we needed for a fundraiser we are throwing this Wednesday (not to corrupt my blog, but it is at 7:30 pm at 4414 West 2nd Street, L.A. to raise money for a Ride for Arthritis which we are doing in September from San Francisco to Santa Monica). Look as I might in the annals of my gmail account I could not find the email containing the information. How could I not find it? Gmail is the most orderly, helpful email service I have ever encountered. It took me about an hour to finally uncover the information, delaying my work which was in need of attention. Would no pieces fall into place today?

At four I left my apartment heading to Monkspace, the location of the fundraiser, to meet my boyfriend, make important planning decisions, and hit up local stores for donations of food and drink. Two cars almost merged into me en route and I had to swerve to avoid the entire front section of a car that another driver had evidently felt no need for. We viewed the space without event. No unseen suspended platform holding bricks or an anvil fell on my head, no sirens sounded, and no dynamite went off. I felt more relaxed, my stress evaporated due to my boyfriend's elevated level. I fell into the role of re-assurer, absolving me of stress. My bad day was over. Not. Upon exiting the building I was bombed with the largest blob, no that is an understated term, the most immense outpourings of a bird's anus, that I have ever witnessed, much less encountered. Being crapped upon is no new experience for me. The first in my recollection occurred in elementary school. It was Halloween and I was dressed as Zorro (I went in my youth, generally, as male heros to me - Peter Pan, Zorro, a bloodied baseball player. My younger years were prior to the creation of Lara Croft, Resident Evil, Kill Bill or Underworld, plus a variety of other movies and video games which feature female action heros). Sitting beneath an overhang, prepared to take a happy bite of bagel and cream cheese (no hohs or twinkies in my lunch sacks) I was interrupted by the splat of a large, and improbably white bird excretion on my shoulder. Let me just say, white is the only stain that black cannot combat. In the following years I was defecated upon twice by poultry while ascending trees. Exploring Old City, Philadelphia while in college I was twice marked. So this situation is not new. But of all my encounters this was the worst. It was more like twenty birds had crapped on me at once, instead of one. The warm, and surprisingly watery, downpour immeshed itself in my hair, waterfalled down my back, passing under the neckline of my tank top, went down my arms, into my bag, and generally everywhere. I stood, too stunned for words. There was so much that at first I looked upwards, assuming that some inconsiderate citizen had tossed a pot of hot water or other beverage out the window. It must be so, for not only was I covered, but so was the sidewalk around me, which had caught the overspray. But no. It was bird shit, no getting around it. Angry as I was not sure what else to be I went into pouty mode, or the most pouty I can get, which compared to most women is not very. Around every annoying corner for me there is always a joke or proud retelling of the story. Not much gets me down for very long. There just isn't time - only 21,900 days. Immediately, before the joke phase came, I announced to my boyfriend that I was going home, that I needed to shower. He was upset and wanted to me to accompany him to the stores we needed to visit. No, I said. Always wonderful and understanding, he said that it was no problem if I went home, that he understood, though he wished I could go with him. Warmed as always by his kindness (I'm not really into sweet and cute as a general matter, but when it comes to him my resolve is generally melted) I gave in, saying I would go with him. So we went, did what we came for, and I returned home for a much needed scrubbing. 

Cleansed, no longer resembling a port a potty, I grabbed my bike, heading for the grocery store. I was wearing a re-appropriated pair of my boyfriend's old jeans which I had covered in sharpy drawn artwork and sewed up in the more showy regions in which they had ripped. Namely, the crotch area, from almost to the belt line down to nearly the knee. Well, you have presumed the upshot of all of this, I am sure. Exiting the grocery store towards Walgreens I lifted my leg to mount the steel frame and heard an unwelcome noise. My apparently not so handy seem work (though I blame it on the cheap ass thread that Rite Aid sells) had split in the fashion of my tacos. Unlike the previous night when I had sported them for the first time, I was not wearing a pair of bike shorts underneath. Instead I had made the unfortunate decision of dawning a not so subtle neon pink thong. Great. Stretching my shirt to its maximum length, and somewhat beyond I entered Walgreend, hurriedly transacting my business, and the departing. To my chagrin it was not yet dark. The light had reached that moment when the most prominent colors are those which are bright or neon. Biking home, pumping my legs, constantly willing my shirt to extend several inches in length, there was nothing inconspicuous about my thong. Indeed the entire front of my glowing crotch was exceedingly apparent, beckoning, without my willing, to passersby. Suddenly the four miles back to my home seemed an infinity. I know that this is L.A., where the bearing of skin is a pre-requisite for residence, but this was ridiculous. As strangers on the sidewalk gawked at me I wanted to squeeze the breaks, go over to them and explain the preposterous situation. That this was not, in fact, an intentional fashion statement. We would all have a good laugh about this, and I would return home, feeling not ridiculous in the least. But I did not stop, powering fast as I could to get back. This was and was not productive. While each urgent push on the pedal moved me closer to home, it also increased the span of exposed flesh and thong. No way to win.

Finally, though not soon enough, I unlocked my door, falling inside. After emptying my bag I dove into my room. Hotter than hell in here, I thought to myself, though thought was not necessary as the sweat pouring down my face was evidence enough. Our air conditioning (a.k.a. window unit, which apparently cools well according to my fairly new roommate and  long time tenant of this abode, though I would not know as it has not worked since I moved in several months ago) has not puttered into activity in the time that I have resided here. Upon my arrival, notably before the heat spell that will not depart hit the Valley, a family of birds took up residence in the window unit, rendering it inactive. I tell you, birds hate me. I believe it has something to do with the fact that I have not yet paid them homage. Presently I have a lare rattlesnake tattooed on the bottom half of my back. Arching above it reads, Transformation. the rest of the tattoo has not been finished. It will bear the word "Transcendence" in a straight line above the present text, crowned by "Transparency" arching in the opposite direction below an eagle. Yes, I am a mythology geek, or, if you would prefer, you can just dub me "enlightened". But I have not yet emblazoned the king of the birds on my back and, frankly, I think they're just a bit pissed. So our air conditioning unit has been rendered useless by the bird inhabitants which we were unwilling to deport. We have patiently waited for the eggs to hatch and grow to a resectable size so as they might embark on a journey leading them far away from us. Personally, due to my virtue in allowing these birds to live while I suffered through 103 degree heat waves, which made my room, sauna-like in its ability to absorb heat, approximately 110 degrees, the whole time paying $700 for this roasting, I felt that the bird community owed me some respect. But no. I had to return to a hot room, made so by my kindness to the birds having been shit upon by a bird earlier in the day.

And so my day moved towards its end. Towards the time that I begin reading, work on my comic book, or if I feel that I have something to say, whether interesting or not, turn to my blog. And so here I am, writing to you, my two or less readers. One day I will compile this into a book and then I'll have thousands of readers. Yeah, right, but here's to dreaming. Anyways the day was wonderfully awful. When fate transpires against me in such an obvious way I can't help but feeling a little special. Like I was chosen. And so, when I retire tonight to my loft bed and transformer sheets I will sleep well, happy in thought that there are, at minimum, 21,900 days in a life and I have already used up most of my proportionately alloted bad days. 

Waylay Your Fears

Tonight I went on an adventure. This is the first night jaunt of sorts which I have endeavored since returning to Los Angeles from my semi-home of Philadelphia. While pedaling down the darkened streets, flashlight tied in a home cooked fashion to the rear of my bike, I wondered why this might be. Why had it taken the better part of a year for me to get back on the streets? For ADD to take its midnight hold urging me not to go for a snack or to recline, mind numb in front of a movie? For me to venture into the darker regions of the city that I now (and in a way always have) called my own? 

The first thought to enter my mind was that I had lost my mentor, who has been mentioned in a previous article. He was the one to initiate me into the exciting, the parallel dimension of treating one's surroundings as a playground of sorts. To go out into the night on quests, whether they be to climb buildings, bike until dawn, explore abandoned warehouses, and on one perhaps misguided but monumentally fun occasion extract all of the dough from a trash can behind a major soft pretzel maker and laden it onto passing vehicles, one another, and any object, animate or not, unfortunate enough to be in out way. But he was only my beginning. We had, for all intensive purposes, parted ways approximately a year before I left Philadelphia, and yet my adventures had not ceased, whether alone or with whichever brave soul I could drag along.

So was it that I felt safer in Philly? Though it is impossible at a later date to ever capture verbatim what one was thinking at some point in the past, I find it hard to believe that this was the case. By the time February 2008 had rolled around, Philly had already reached and passed its one hundredth homicide. That's not precisely the place that one might take a stroll in past the hour of, say, five pm, without an entourage and several lead pipes. Maybe it was just that I was young and immensely stupid, the two generally going hand in hand. But the thing is, I am still young and immensely stupid. Granted, at the time that I began my nighttime wanderings I was familiar with the city, in and out, and conveniently located in its midst (the safer region of the city - its really the North, South, and West that you have to worry about, though not the east as it does not really exist due to the fact the Delaware river cuts the city abruptly short). Though I grew up in L.A. I did not really. The beach cities are not "the city" such as it exists. Other than to sneak in a few smokes while still in high school away from the scrutiny of my parents, I never ventured far from the house after dark without two tons of metal encasing me. Outside of visits to museums or plays I never traversed much of the rest of the greater Los Angeles area, and never went there at night, other than a few misguided trips to underage clubs at the urging of friends (these almost always were a bust as I would find myself watching as greasy, cheap cologne drenched pubescent boys wishing to be men, scraggly hair poking forth from their cheeks, hit on my friends, leaving me to watch watch and chug red bulls, as I was always the designated driver). So Los Angeles, in the way that Philly was, has never been wholly familiar to me. And so I resolved that this must be part of the cause of my uneasiness to strap on a pack, toss in a bottle of water, and take off on my bike much in the way John Muir did with a nap  sack, a loaf of bread, and a bit of cheese as he took off into the wilderness. 

Separate, or stemming from this fact (I am not sure which) were a number of other factors which came to me as I chained my bike to a lamp post, walked a short distance out of the laser like beams of the lights, and expertly (if I may say so myself) jumped a fence landing on a closed off path next to a section of the L.A. river (such as it is). I had spotted, while passing in my car a few days earlier, a sign on a fence reading "No Trespassing". These words have, at least in recent years, had the obverse effect on me. They say, "There is something to be explored here" and "Before concurring with what is written here, take a look. If all does not go well, then you will know that the sign was indeed justified." It is, perhaps, a bit ironic that I am the person that I have become. It is as children that we are supposed to be wonderfully incognizant of rules, untroubled by limitations. Yet it was as a child, and not an adult, that I was so. On the walks that my father and I used to take around our neighborhood we would constantly pass new architectural erections, it was that kind of era and that kind of neighborhood - bigger, better, more expensive, if you can fill every last square inch of the entire lot with immense, expensive and unnecessary materials then no one can say you haven't lived up to the Jones'. My father would always entice me to join him in an exploration of the unfinished structure, collecting a few washers for souvenirs as we went. I would always hold back, point out that the sign said "Do Not Trespass", and worry that some busy body neighbor would call the police (it was that type of neighborhood as well) and that the police would then come and shoot us. At the ripe age of 7 I was not prepared to die and did not much want my father to die. After much coaxing he would get me to squeeze through the gap in the fence that was somehow always present, as if beckoning, and to ascend up into the structure. Without exception I would love it; the exposed piping and wiring, the washers like coins strewn about, chalk writing on the walls indicating measurements and placement, stairs without railings. It was in these adventures that my present urges reside, or so any shrink would most likely tell you. But it was wonderful. And so, in the spirit of my Dad, "No Trespassing" signs have become invites, though in a more diverse and intense way than they ever were to him. Thus it was that several days after seeing the signs, tonight in fact, I found myself landing on the darkened path that had been shut off to the public. 

A dim and spooky scene spread out before me. To my left, over another fence, and a ten or so foot cement drop down lay the L.A. river, trickling in an ardent, but humble manner, such as a man who knows he will never reach great heights of success but knows that he must trudge on regardless, head held high. To my right, from the direction I had come were now shrouded lights, the fence I had recently showed did no good of keeping anyone out, and a semi steep embankment which I had just traversed, sustaining only one off kilter moment. Ahead lay a dim lit path. The thought crossed my mind that I probably should have brought my flashlight, but it was too late at this point. Onward. That is the only word appropriate for an adventure. It is hard to imagine a man ascending Everest, as he is on the brink of the destination saying, "Now if only I had my ...." It just ruins the flow. Adventure is about ad-libbing, about not having everything and making it anyways, stronger, prouder of your accomplishment. Besides, flashlights shut off the world around you. They force your eyes to adapt sight only to a small region of the greater picture. Yes, my gaze was dimmed, but it was not contained in a limited perimeter. 

And so I took a walk. Slowly, lightly, in the nature of a man tracking an animal, I moved forward. Maintaining alertness I kept both the pit below and to the left of me, and the shrubby area to my right in periphery at all times. It was some relief that between me and either section stood a fence. Granted these were not fences of any magnitude as it had taken me virtually no effort to gracefully clamber over one of them, but they would at least buy me some time should anyone decide to come at me from the opposite side of either. It was the the hidden elements in the dark haze of the path before and now behind me that gave me the most worry. If I were suddenly to stumble upon someone, what would I do? Unlike in Philly, I am unfamiliar with the homeless population of L.A. Without doubt, the homeless of the city of our founders were deranged, odd, and not people you would wish to poke with a stick (I mean no offense here, I gave a good amount of money to the homeless in Philly, bought some of them sandwiches, and was always rewarded with ungratefulness), but I never felt that they would do me any harm. Here, I do not know. Squalor can drive men to inhuman acts. Several times I saw to my right, on the opposite side of the fence, bundled up tarps which seemed to be concealing rather sizable bulks. These sightings would send prickles up my spine, not so much of fear, but of readiness. What I would so in my ready state I was not sure. Based on the accessories I had brought, a backpack containing cigarettes, lighter, ID card should I die and need to be identified, bike lock (though not a u lock which is a weapon of some merit), and a bottle of water the most sensible course of action in the event that one of those tarps contained a well hidden and live body would be to run. But none of them seemed to move and dead bodies were of no real concern to me as any hazard they might have posed has been dealt with already, so I carried on. reaching the end of the path, as it inclined upwards towards a road I stopped, and, feeling fairly confident that this section was safe, turned my interests to how one might get down into the river section itself. Walking back towards my initial entrance at a more luxurious pace I considered busting out my climbing gear on my next visit and repelling into the "river". Perhaps a bit unnecessary, but hey, why should the action stars get to do all the cool shit? It was at about this point that I heard a faint, but definite cough to my now left (previous right). I saw nothing, squinting into the darkness, and did not take the time to remain for closer examination. Quickening my pace and attempting to make no noise I made more noise than I had made in the entirety of the walk so far, accidently kicking pine cones that had not previously been there, stepping on crunchy leaves that had apparently blown in since I had just passed this way, though there was no wind. After about one hundred yards and nothing glimpsed in my multiple backwards glances I concluded that the cough had most likely come from a sleeping man, blissfully unaware of my presence. Prickles subsided I returned to figuring out a way to get down to the sludgy, polluted, trickle below. Making the walk extraneous, it was at the place I had first entered that I found my path. Here the sludge passed under a cement bridge, creating a dirt archway overhead with a fence. The tunnel underneath took two paths, divided by a cement center (if any of you have ever seen Terminator Two you know what I'm talking about). This center tapered down from the overhead pass at a palatable angle. One had only to overcome the fence, brace, and then shimmy down the wedge divider. Excellent. Tonight, however, was not that night. This was a reconnaissance mission. When on a quest it is crucial to remember the purpose, and to remain true to that. In this was you avoid injury, mistakes, and danger, due to unpreparedness. 

Goal achieved and plans already brewing in my mind for the following night, I hooked one foot into the dilapidated chain link fence and thrust my weight over. A sudden, sharp, and not altogether uninvited sting invaded the upper area of my right leg just bellow the buttocks. Upon landing I turned to examine the wound. It wasn't much. My pants had suffered more than anything else, now torn with a great gap. How early nineties. Underneath was a small scratch, but nothing to worry about. I wished it had been more. There is nothing better than an adventure wound. Lacking any blood to marvel at I tied the hole closed with the errant ends and proceeded back to my bike. Re-entering the lights I realized that all of the fear had gone. Or at most of it. There was still the threat of cops. Cops in L.A. freak the hell out of me. They are not Philly cops who understand that there are bigger fish to fry than a couple of people who feel constrained by society and need to have a little thrill now and then, achieving this by climbing buildings or clambering over fences to get a view of something most people like to ignore, the L.A. river. Philly cops are in fact wonderful this way. It is like one has transported back to the 1940s when people were much more forgiving and not every citizen was like to be  a terrorist. In all of my climbs and trespasses I was only once stopped by the Philly cops. This was on the bridge that traverses the Delaware river, spanning from Philly to New Jersey (why anyone wants to fully cross this bridge I have never been sure). We were ascending the pillar-esque elements of the fantastic construction of the bridge. Before we had achieved quite 30 feet of height flashing light appeared below and a voice crackled over the loud speaker directing us to leave our elevated status and return to the earth. As the obliging citizens we were and are, we descended with no fuss. The cops did not frisk us, they did not pull guns or speak to us as subhumans as L.A. cops seem prone to do, but asked us politely to sit on the curb. Obligingly we did so. A few moments later a cop approached us, sympathetic in every way, almost apologetic. Sadly he said "You can't climb this. It's federal property. Climbing, or in any way subverting federal property is a federal offense. It's a precaution against terrorists, that sort of thing." He knew we weren't terrorists. We knew we weren't terrorists. The situation was ridiculous. Thankfully Philly employs the type of cops that can function outside of rote protocol and figure out situations for themselves. I am not sure if the Los Angeles police department has the same ability. Within minutes we were released with not so much a warning, as a request to never climb the bridge again and to steer clear of federal property. No problem. Plenty of other fish to fry.

So perhaps my greatest fear in my quest this night was not miscreants, but the police. And isn't that a sad story. Okay, that's not precisely true. The other fear which superceded cops and returned them to good guy status was that of gangs. I am sure that to some degree Philly has gangs, though I never chanced upon them or saw any coverage in the local press such as to cause any great worry. I know, from general knowledge and from the brilliant though depressing mock documentary Gang Tapes, that L.A. gangs often tag on the cement bounds of the L.A. river. The prospect of happening upon them in action was not a positive one. In all honesty I do not know what would happen to me in such a situation. I am a fellow bomber, though not tagger as most gang members are. For those who do not know the difference, there is not art to tagging, it is the ugly, unartistic scrawl that one sees on freeway overpasses, clearly nothing more than the spray paint equivalent of a male dog's piss. Bombing is the art. It's Banksy making political statements in Israel, not negative, just asking people to examine truth. It's leaves falling, stenciled on a city wall where no nature exists. It's murals. So I am, and am not, a compatriot. But I am not daunting, clearly engaged in an illegal activity myself, and unarmed. Would any of this make a difference, appeal to some semblance of humanity within? I don't know. And I would prefer not to find out, though the upshot would make a great indie film. 

Pressing the pedal on my bike in a forward movement I re-engaged momentum, once again taking off into the night. Somehow identifying fears makes them subside. It is the old fairy tale or myth, as in Rumplestiltskin or the young prince who would become the Buddha meeting the sticky monster (this story was later adapted as Brair Rabbit). In these stories the hero or heroine must discover the name of the monster or midget, as it were, facing them. Once accomplished the creature holds no fear for them. This is "giving due recognition to the monster; dealing with it, and then giving it its place". (Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth). Indeed, in these stories the "monster" is a power within the hero heretofore unrecognized. It is one's own demon and, " our demons unrecognized are our own limitations which shut us off from the realization of the ubiquity of the spirit." (Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth) I had named my fears, long trapped within, and thrown them off. This is not to suggest that there are not real fears in taking off into the night in a place such as L.A., simply that the fears which plagued me were not the right ones. They were interior or over exaggerated. One needs to be cautious when going outside of the box, or in a not so metaphorical sense, the bounds of their apartment or home at dubious hours of the night, no doubt. But in order to achieve liberation, to live fully one must risk danger, not unwarranted danger, but danger none the less. The danger I go out into may not be of the kind that most people wish to deal with, which is fine. But I think that it is important to take risk, not just emotional, or business, but physical. This we are lacking in modern society. People take risks via computer simulation, not action. They sit on their sofas or in theaters popping food while watching Jason Stathom do awesome shit that they wish they could do but are unwilling to do the work to achieve. As outdoor activity among Americans declines, the number of action films skyrockets. This is not a coincidence. We want to be active. We want to do cool shit. We all can. So the next time you are watching an action film, turn it off and book a trip to go repelling, or better yet, join your local rock climbing gym, or, if you are a California resident join the Sierra Club, which is cheap and has a plentiful list of hikes, backpacking trips, climbs, training classes, and the like. Lets get that adventurous spirit that created this country back!

In an Effort to Make the Biking World a Better Place

Please join me today in an effort to make the bike path and the world of biking in general a better place. Henceforth it is illegal to ride anywhere but to the far left of a bike lane unless in the act of passing. If this is followed there should be no or little need for an biker to veer, haphazardly, usually when another bike is approaching from the other direction, into the neighboring lane. All those who ride as if in a state of delirious derangement, apparently suffering from heat stroke, in the very center of a lane with a wobble and waver such that they consume the entire lane - that is very illegal. Until further notice couples wishing to ride next to one another at .03 miles per hour must instead find a parking lot to ride around in circles together. A test, akin to that given to check for drunk drivers, will hitherto be administered to all those wishing to ride either on a bike path or road. If a rider cannot satisfactorily ride in a straight line or start their bike from a stopped position without the wheel wobbling in all directions (typically smack into the rider, car, or innocent bystander closest to them) will not be permitted to ride without training wheels and must confine their activities to carparks or large, vacant cement areas. Biking the wrong direction down the side of a road - that is the most illegal of all as these are usually the stupidest and least capable riders to begin with, and imperil other riders. Anyone who stops their bike in the middle of a path to sip water, wait for the rest of their party, or just to stare at nothing is fare game for any riders behind him. While it is nice that some people feel the desire to lug whole houses behind them with children, mammals, and everything one might ever need in the event of a nuclear detonation, this is not longer allowed as it impedes all other bikers on the trail. Henceforth any city with a bike path will build secondary bike paths for all morons (see above list). 

Pedestrians can help too. Any pedestrian who crosses a bike path without looking may be hit. Bonus points will be awarded for teenagers and any person who decides not only to cross without looking, but to then stop halfway across and empty sand from their shoes or some other activity which could easily be carried out after a crossing is completed. The only individuals who have the right of way regardless of whether they have looked or not are elderly people clearly past remembering what a bike path is, and small children. Any person who heckles a passing biker may summarily be beaten with a U lock. Should any walkers be taking up almost the entirety of a lane when there is a perfectly pleasant path running parallel just for walkers, any rider passing them is free to give them a smack on the butt. 

And now, a note to cars for those places where bikers must use a street. Any driver who purposefully sandwiches a biker will immediately have his or her license suspended, and if any harm other than annoyance befalls the biker, the driver will be sentenced to a minimum of five months in jail. If a biker is properly using turning signals and drivers pay them no heed, causing the biker to be unable to use the road as they should, that driver will have their car taken away and be able to transport themselves by bike only for the following year. In leu of continuing I will say just one more thing - SHARE THE ROAD.

Thank you for taking the time with me today to make the world a better place for bikers.

Creationist Dinosaurs

Driving east on the 10 en route from the sublime emptiness of Joshua Tree National Park, back to the sea of metallic machines and smog so thick you can chew it, a party of dinosaurs rose up in the distance. To be precise, there were two, both with a pallor suggesting the aftermath of a disagreeable meal, frozen in place as if victims of the white witch. I was simultaneously gratified and disturbed by their presence. I had traversed this almost entirely vacant stretch of the 10 at least two dozen times and somehow managed to bypass the most arresting and curious element of the landscape. So it was fortunate that on this occasion I was riding shotgun with a partner at the wheel. Indeed, it was he who spotted the Jurassic giants. 

On spying them he let out an excited cry, which seemed a touch overenthusiastic, even for such an awesome and rare (unless you are driving through Colorado) sight. "Wizard!" was the single, breathless word he uttered. "Wizard!" Clearly missing the reference and a piece of childhood for people of my age I responded, not unkindly, "What?" In an even more ecstatic and breathless outpouring he rejoined, "Wizard!" (which I found a touch redundant and unhelpful). "The movie. They're in the movie! Man, but are the guys gonna be jealous. Let's pull over!"

Not one to turn down any eccentricity of architecture, I concurred. And so we were to be found, moments later, jacket clad, standing below the behemoths in what was apparently a wind tunnel (the windmills should have been a clue). As all tourists are obliged to do, we pulled out cameras, orchestrated ourselves in a multitude of interesting positions - underneath claws, on top of toes, beneath bellies, in mouths - and then attended the gift shop. It was there that I had the first inkling that something was not quite as it should be.

In an effort to make the lifeless cement gigantors worth more than a couple of snapshots, the dinosaurs' owner had located a shop in the belly of the beast, a.k.a. the bracheosaurus. The stairs, marching upward through the creature's tail, sported glass covered display cases on both sides. Inside were the usual - fossils, maps, plastic figurines, geodes. Having seen such displays upwards of 1,000 times in my 23 years I paid them scant attention and proceeded to the stomach and intestinal region. 

As per the usual, the shop was packed with plastic toys, shop encasing "fossilized" insects, shirts in colors only tourists go for, like moths to a flame, magnets, and then that array of toys which has nothing to do with the overall exhibit such as miniature men in medieval gear riding stallions with those legs that never seem to stay quite straight. While I am in many ways still a child and enamored of toys, I was not overly interested in the spread and was about to tune my surroundings out when, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a display of shirts sporting the catch phrase "By design, not by Chance" written beneath the feet of a T-Rex. This was a shirt suggesting either that natural selection is a little savvier than generally supposed or a billboard for intelligent design. My suspicions pointed to the latter. And if so this was something to get excited about, not because I am a creationist Christian or anything of the like, but because it was so wholly different, so wonderfully novel. This was a dinosaur gift shop like none I had previously encountered. My explorative impulse renewed I pressed on, pawing through everything in the store. Moments later I came upon a display of truly wonderful shoes, my particular favorite of which was fashioned after the face of a T-Rex, a piercing yellow eyeball on each side. While the graphics intrigued me, it was the quote on the box which really tickled my fancy, "I believe that one day the Darwinian myth will be ranked the greatest deceit in the history of science." - Soren Lovtrup. My previous suspicions were now confirmed beyond doubt. These idols were not dedications to Darwin, but offerings to God, representations of his creative genius! On the verge of an almost hysterical giddiness I all but ran about the shop, turning over every box, peering under every product to read what was written there. Every passage was highly rewarding, consisting of quotes from Bible passages, information for a duped world. 

I simply had to know who the curators of such a bizarre anomaly were. Mustering my courage I approached the blond, middle aged, overly spunky lady behind the counter. "I'm curious, may I ask who owns this, uh, establishment?" Turning on a recording that she must be entreated to rehash a thousand times a day she answered. Apparently the creatures' initial creator and proprietor was a man who had aided in the design and construction of Knotts Berry Farm. Looking at the modern architectural landscape, where there's nothing that can be built which cannot be torn down, he wanted to find a place where he could build something that would last. Selecting a remote region in the Mohave desert he used left overs from the freeways being built at that time (rebar and cement primarily) and constructed his mammoths. A devoted darwinist he dedicated them to evolution and evolution was promoted in the gift shop. Upon his death his pets passed to his son who turned around and sold it to (this is my favorite part) a group of creationist Christians. Oh, but how the old man must be turning in his grave. Since then it has become a place for the promotion of not just intelligent design, but creationism. "We have evolutionary biologists come in from time to time," the women said as she came to the close of her tale, "and they try to argue with us, but you just can't really argue with the truth. That's what we're doing here, we're getting out the truth, dispelling the lies." Brilliant.

I was so taken with the surreal bizarro world that I had entered that I found no choice but to make two small purchases. The first was one of the afore mentioned shirts. I figured that it would come in handy as a conversation starter in bars and would give me a bearing on the number of creationist and anti-creationists out there by the number of people who applauded me or threw rocks at me. Part way through this initial purchase I saw on the edge of the counter a book entitled "Refuting Evolution: A response to the national academy of sciences' teaching about evolution and the nature of science". I mean, how could I refuse. Pleased with my booty my partner and I headed back down the stairs, this time peering into each display case. Therein were maps not of any real world, but of the Flood, the Garden of Eden, and other important but metaphorical locations. Exiting the tail and stepping back into reality, I found myself thoroughly pleased with the experience, reinvigorated, and pleased to live in a country where such things as creationist dinosaurs exist.

On Being A Kid

There is an issue which has been long weighing on my mind. Why is it that adults pick the one vegetable that a child does not like and then force them to eat it? Perhaps because I am not myself a parent, it is simply impossible for me to grasp the deep underpinnings of the parental psyche. But, really, why. Growing up I was more inclined towards vegetables than most of my peers. I happily devoured caesar salads, ate carrots, was one of the few individuals on earth to actually enjoy brussel sprouts (preferably raw), along with a slew of other little regarded veggies such as turnips. Indeed turnips were a staple snack which appeared consistently in lunches packed by my mother, that is, until I entered third grade when our lovely principal suggested that we should all be packing our own lunches ( I believe my mother may have been the only one to take her up on that suggestion, and quite gleefully). But no matter. There are quite a lot of advantages to packing your own lunch as a child. I never pulled from the depths of my pale any edible which I had not pre-approved. 

But I digress. Vegetables. I would have, and did, eat almost any vegetable delivered to my plate my the parental units, just thankful that I lived in a post frozen vegetable age when fresh produce had come back into vogue. Yet, despite my willingness to eat almost anything green, orange, or squash, my parents repeatedly pronged asparagus onto my unwilling plate. Again and again I would remind them that I not only did not like asparagus, but found that it motivated what was inside me, to come out. I even suggested that while they savored their green spears of death, I might dine upon a miniature tree, or perhaps some of those brussel sprouts. But to no avail. They seemed serenely, pathologically devoted to me eating those asparagus (or asparagi, I am a little hazy on the plural). 

Dutifully, for at that age I was obligingly dutiful, still holding the belief that though I might not understand the acts or motivations of my parents they must be right, privileged to some knowledge that I had not yet acquired, I would eat the asparagus, gulping a gallon of milk after each treacherous bite. Then, fatefully one night I was dining at a friend's house. My friend's parents seemed, like mine, to have the pathological desire to have their children eat asparagus. And so the little green spikes of grossness appeared on my plate. Now, I had been raised properly, in the fashion where it is rude to not eat something proffered to you by those who have willingly watered and fed you. And so I realized that not only would I have to consume that which was staring up at me, but I would have to do it gracefully. And then the revelation occurred. I watched as each member of the family spooned, from a pretty little dish on the table, a doblette of mayonnaise onto their plate. They then proceeded, in the case of the adults only lightly, and in the case of the kids with a clear desire to drown, to put the asparagus into the mayonnaise and only then lift it to their lips. Brilliant. Why had I not thought of this earlier? In my house we ate mayo with artichoke, but it had never occurred to me to transfer that practice to the deadly asparagus. Needless to sat I ate two times the weight of the asparagus before me in mayo. Quite happily in fact. In retrospect the amount of fat conveyed to my sleek intestinal system from the mayo far outweighed the benefits of the vegetable. But no matter. My upchuck reflex had been thwarted. From then on I masked every unsavory bite of asparagus with tubs of mayo, regardless of the fact that if a vegetable more to my taste had been proffered I would have had a much healthier meal. And so I reveled in my small victory in the endless skirmish between kids and parents. A small victory for kid world.

Play more

Risk. That's something that you don't see enough of. Fear squashes risk, or the ability to do take that step, that leap beyond your comfort zone. I've been thinking a lot lately about why we are so afraid. About how we create those zones. And then, as with most ideas, brilliant or not, it came to me in moment - it's the absence of play. 

As a child there are no barriers, no moral or social qualms that stop us. Walking down the street, a child who spies an awesome tree will climb it. Doesn't matter if people are oddly peering at them or if their parents, in fear for the child's life, are yelling at them to come down. It's a tree. It's cool. Climb it. Straight forward. When we get to adulthood that all changes. When I walk down the street and see an imminently climbable tree my first thought is, tree that I would like to climb. But then the clutter arrives, none of it, by the way, having to do with physical fear. First there is the worry that others walking down the street, or passers by in cars will think that I am crazy or deranged. Then the thought comes, well, I could combat that by seeming to be in pursuit of a cat caught in high branches (though this does not hold up for those close to me who can clearly see that no cat is present). Then I worry about the owner of the tree, which in and of itself is a bizarre concept - I mean, come on, it's a tree. But I worry that they will suddenly appear on the scene angry either because they are worried about their insurance or because they think that I might damage a branch or two in my ascent. By the time I have run through all of these scenarios the tree suddenly doesn't seem as freeing as it did a moment before. 

This is a shame and speaks to a larger issue. The death of play. Perhaps this issue is so prescient for me because for one wonderful, unforgettable year, between my 20th and 21st birthday all of the qualms, social impediments, and worries that I had acquired over my life until that time disappeared. And I owe it to one person who in this regard should be a role model to all of us. My friend Peter Parker (well, actually Brodhead, but Parker was a more suited name which he adopted for himself). He showed me what it was like to be a kid again. To go out and climb irregardless of rules, laws, the perceptions of others. They meant nothing to him. And in his presence I acquired that, not irreverence, for that has a negative connotation, but freedom. We climbed buildings, billboards, the Philadelphia Art Museum, playground structures (though in a more advanced way than most children). We rode our bikes around the city like kids biking around their neighborhoods. We danced at clubs like no one was watching or judging. It was the most freeing, exhilarating year of my life, and I miss it. I have found, subsequent to our knowing of each other, that I have a difficult time replicating that nonchalant heir on my own. 

Over the years that have followed I have tried to pinpoint what it was, what made us (and still does, I suspect, him) so free. So unperterbed by society. What it was that we were doing, exactly. And then, as I said, it hit me. We were playing. We were re-experiencing what it was to be children. To see something big and want to surmount it. This playfulness fed into other aspects of my life, making every moment more enjoyable and increasing my creativity. It changed the whole landscape of the world. Made everything amazing. The world was once again meant to be interacted with fully, not just passed by or observed. It was an interactive landscape and we were interacting. 

When you create a society so full of rules, legal, social, cultural, that you bind the creativity of its citizens you do them a great disservice. I do not mean to imply anarchy by any measure. All I mean is that we've boxed ourselves in. We've pushed ourselves to be too adult. To stiff. Yes, there are more strains and responsibilities as one gets older, but doesn't that just mean we need to play more, to counterbalance all of it, all the stress, the unhappiness with work? Indeed, there would be less unhappiness with work if there was more play going on there. It wouldn't even be a complete loss for the company (as some, fairly decent companies like Google have learned). Play spawns creativity. And how could it not? Put people on bean bags in a colorful space with toys, balls to squeeze, a trampoline to jump on, big sheets of paper to draw on and lots of markers and how can something creative not come of it? If I may say the worst design of all time if the cubicle. Not only does it shut individuals off from the world which would and should inspire them, but it shuts them off from other individuals. And I think we all know by now, the greatest creativity occurs when people come together. It may be chaotic, but as Bruce Moa says in his manifesto (and by the way if you haven't read it, please do), "Collaborate. The space between people working together is filled with conflict, friction, strife, exhilaration, delight, and vast creative potential." In that space so much can occur, and play is best done with others. Have fun in all moments, and, again, as Bruce Moa (a genius in his own right) says, "Laugh. People visiting the studio often comment on how much we laugh. Since I've become aware of this, I use it as a barometer of how comfortably we are expressing ourselves."  Fun breeds results.

So I suppose that the point of all of this for those of you still reading is that we need to make a concerted effort (though don't strain yourself too much for that would defeat the point) to play more. To laugh more. To climb more trees despite the opinions of those on the periphery. 

Economic Event Horizon

America decries the labor shift to third world countries; worries that work-minded immigrants will impede our economy, cut down n jobs for "true" Americans. Based on our present structure these may be cause for concern. But the problem is not these changes, it's our inability to change, to adapt to a world where past models must be surpassed. Luckily we already posses all the faculties for forward movement. They're in us, literally. Intellect is our most viable economic good - it never dries up, the more of it [people] the better, "it offers not diminishing returns, but increasing returns." (Rise of the Creative Class; Richard Florida).

The concept of intellect as a central and essential element of economy falls under what is called the New Growth Theory. Intellectual property is here at the economic forefront. The shift towards this model has begun, as evidenced by the ever massive number of arguments and litigations regarding the ownership of ideas. While these are inarguably important (credit should be given where due), they create risk by impeding creativity. Lawrence Lessing, a Stanford University law professor has argued that, "our penchant for overprotecting and overlitigating intellectual property may well serve to constrain and limit the creative impulse." (Rise of the Creative Class; Richard Florida). Creativity seems best to flourish where ownership is not an issue, or less so one. Bloggers, youtube posters, factory workers all put forth creativity that may (or may not) be attributed to them, but, regardless, is not "owned" in a patent or copyright sense. These three categories may seem disjointed. They are not. Bloggers blog to put their ideas into the world. Most create not for money, but for the sake of creating, to generate ideas, or share ideas that could have an impact. To stimulate their own minds. People, whether individually or as a group, create pieces explicitly for Youtube with no expectancy of monetary return. It is about the act of creation and existence of a venue in which to share creativity's results, an important impetus for creativity. Financial feedback may not be forthcoming, but views and comments are. The factory similarly creates a venue for creativity. Filled with individuals with specific knowledge it is the perfect place for an outpouring of ideas. Rote production is a model of the past. Many factories now seek individuals who are apt problem solvers and are interested not only in a paycheck, but in a place to put forth their thoughts. When factory work becomes creative, you know that there is a shift in the winds. Marx was correct, though in a way he did not realize, when he said that workers would control the means of production. We are the means of production - our intellect - and it's all ours.

Elements of acceptance, of moving beyond our outmoded economic model are underway. Open source opens the boundaries of intellectual property, acknowledges and utilizes the notion that while one mind or a closed group is good, the many are better. A passive form of open source that has become familiar to most is Wikipedia. The idea involves multiple individuals building an informational database. Each person adds information of which they have special knowledge. No one person knows it all. It is the collection that creates the contents of a massive, multi-layered encyclopedia. Similarly there are design-oriented open-source sites. These function in various ways. A designer can post a finished design, with directions for construction, allowing any individual to use the design, no money down, or ever owed to the creator. To another end a designer can post a concept or partially planned product. Others can then help evolve the concept utilizing their specific expertise, be they an engineer, interior designer, house wife, garbage man, barista, and so it goes. No single person owns the design. It is the brainchild of all and better for it, created from multiple perspectives. Realizing the potential of such a model makes what we presently have seem crippled.

Despite the unlimited possibilities presented by this model and other like it, they bring forth many questions and unknowns. How are individuals compensated for their work? As we live in a world of corporations how do we begin such a massive shift? How are returns on products distributed? If government form follows economic model, how does such a shift affect the future political landscape? If democracy and capitalism are linked (and this is assuming that they are), does a model more closely linked to open source lead to ... socialism or an altered or more true form of democracy? These are big questions and they are the ones that we need to be asking, not  out of the fear that our present model isn't succeeding, but because of the positive possibilities for the future if we allow ourselves to evolve. To open up to new ways of working. To accept the fact that we have not hit our zenith, that this is not the only was to be, nor all that we can be.

Awaken Always Anew

To dance and sing in a rain of falling stars. Bear all heavenward, heavenly - heaven is spread among us. The all is now, a moment captured of eternity, eternally revolving, rotating radians rendering this beautiful immensity of existence. Extrapolating emotions emanating from with each - each of us a Buddha being, bearing the weight of the world, worries, worn, shorn dreams depressing transcendence. To transcend, ascend, amend broken hearts spread thin, thirsty for love. Bastardly bombardments, brandishing hate. Mates murdering each other's joy. Remorseful rumors ruminate, creep out of lips clenched, entrenched behaviors burdening change, championed by habitual habits. Open your eyes. Awaken out of sorrow-filled sleep, where sheep with fangs devour souls. Awaken always anew.

Homage to DP

This moral majority for morbidity espousing, captivating capitalistic impulse. Obsessors of oppression creating, captivating ... no one - the derivation of the problem. Circling cyclone of catastrophe down. Up. Uppers. High. Caffeinated consumers consuming, consummating the sacred marriage of capitalistic morality. Flouters. Flouting modernity, the child of traditionalism. Traditionalistic trespassers traipsing, eliminating the past. A past. Who's past? Mine? Yours? Theirs. The they that are. Are leading a culture so morally mandated, castrated by a yesteryear of non-existence. Norman Rockwell weeps for a world he never knew, yet made. Man made facade, a wad of gum, stuck under a desk, a pest, but reality. Children are not perfect. But imperfection drives creation -ism, isn't mandated by the government, but church, all caught in a lurch. Morality 101. But do you dare compare some liberal replacement. Defacement of religion? Do we prey on those who pray to God. Who's God. Under this star strangled banner of conformity. We trust in God. god. God the almighty who smites like Zeus' thunder bolts. A colt. A country. 200 years. A mere blip, a snip of the cosmos coming cosmically to some clueless Cambrian explosion. A paradigm paradoxically occurring peripherally. The mainstream monotony marching mundanely towards ... the mundane. Counter culture coerced, perverted purposely. Perplexed creators standing by their morals, running contrary to culture - counter culture becomes the norm. Abstract abstractions lining walls pervert the call of poverty and indignation. Become the markers of the wealthy. Sixty dollar shoes shamelessly lining walls of malls. Artistic aspirations apprehended. Extended beyond the gutter to displace the commonplace. The race begins. No one wins. No mistake, what is at stake, your soul. Religion 101. Consuming consumers - correlating expenditure with loyalty - the royalty live on where morals go to die.

A Little Bit of Awe

I have always enjoyed the argument by anti-evolutionists that the fact that we are gentetically very similar to apes is proof of nothing. At a DNA level, we're close relatives of daisies as well. They're right of course. But, lost in the attempt to win the argument on either side we're all missing the point - how truly astounding it is that all life on Earth is so similar! Genetically all living beings (things depending on how you like to categorize various forms of life) are almost exactly the same! Wow!

Now, whether that is because a God created everything (because hey, if you've got a formula that works, why not use it for everything?), or because DNA is really an alien entity that came to Earth and has disguised itself inside all living things doesn't really matter. The matter is what matters. How can you help but feel magnificently connected to a world that shares your genetic structure? I think some awe is in order, just a little.

Humanity may forever question how we got here. And why not - it makes the world more interesting. But the truth is, we'll never know. That is not the province of the living. Our quest is the proverbial game of the more you know, the more you realize you don't know. I have my theories, you have yours. So let's just all place nice and jointly appreciate the majesty of it all.

Contemporary Comics Communicate

With a massive majority of mainstream media over taken by a select group of vested interests who is left to challenge society's tenets? To pose the tough question? Expose unattractive realities? Shine light on the bigger issues, when the direct approach has been thwarted by a degenerate political and media landscape? An entity cannot correct itself. That's what a teacher once told me. To solve a problem you must step back, out of the arena. Look from the outside in. Adopt shoes outside the fray.

Who or what better to assume the role of commentator on this, our modern state of affairs, than a medium that those who need to be challenged have historically attempted to thwart. To discredit. To condemn for perversity, a dearth of morals, triteness. To call out as having a negative impact on society. To embody all that they (politicians and media pundits alike) now do. I speak, of course, of comic books.

The comic books I speak of are not just  penny pamphlets meant to entertain. They provide a venue for vocalizing concerns. Since the 1950s, the so called "golden age" of comics, the medium has evolved. Perhaps duress forced it to mature. After all, moralistic politicians have never really been comic book enthusiasts. They have been the opposite. In an effort to cut the sudden abundance of comics in the early 1950s the Senate Subcommitee on Juvenile Delinquency (yes, there really is a group of mostly white haired men who haven't been young in more than half a century who sit around deliberating on why kids are loud, annoying, and seemingly crazy) called an investigation into the comic book industry. Remember, teenagers were still a new phenomenon (and this a frightening force ... wait, they still are, but I guess we'll just have to find solace in the fact that one day they will become one of us) as the term had only been generated in the 1940s. Old people were scared. Society was changing. Comic books were the scapegoat. And they had not even yet become all that they would be.

Leading the charge was Senator Estes Kefauver, who began his career as a lawyer and gained publicity via senate hearings on juvenile delinquency in relation to sex and violence in the mass media. On the back of his notoriety he twice attempted to attain the Democratic Presidential nomination, and twice failed. In his quest for the root of delinquency (which we are sill looking for today), he turned his attention to the comic book industry. I mean, why not? To begin his mission he sent a seven question survey to the judges of juvenile and family courts. Had juvenile delinquency increased between 1945 and 1950? Who or what was the instigator? About half of the questions followed this general format. The others, well ... In a court of law the others would, I believe, fall into the category of "leading questions"; (5) Do you believe that there is any relationship between reading crime comic books and juvenile delinquency? (6) Please specifically give statistics and if possible, state specific cases of juvenile crime which you believe can be traced to reading crime comic books (7) Do you believe that juvenile delinquency would decrease if crime comic books were not readily available to children? Will someone please reread me the definition of subjective?

So that was the beginning. The beginning of the temporal end. A beginning with no foundation in reality. But, then. politicians have never much needed that. Approximately "sixty percent felt there was no relationship between comic books and juvenile delinquency, and almost seventy percent felt that banning crime comics would have little effect on delinquency." (www.crimeboss.com/history03-1.html; excerpt from Seal of Approval: The History of the Comics Code) And so, comics became the enemy. Special committees were formed, witnesses were called. Even the Post Office was brought in (I mean, who knew that they did anything but make you wait in long lines, treat you like an idiot when you ask how many stamps should go on an extra large envelope, and send priority mail vis Macedonia?). To the Post Office was given a list of comic book titles, not to mention publishers, authors, and artists (I must say for a country that claims to hoist up the individual we do a great job of cutting down our creatives via blacklists). The goal in all of this was a circuitous method of censorship. It was nothing new, "Postal regulations were sometimes used as a censorship tool by the federal government." (www.crimeboss.com/history-1.html; excerpt from Seal of Approval: The History of the Comics Code) It failed. So the hearings began. Witnesses - PHDed men marinating in their own morality exhibiting slides. pulling from them the minutest of the miniscule. In the shadow of one character's face was found, when turned upside down and squinted at, a representation of a female's unmentionable part (I must say that such observation seem to tell more about the type of person who might find such representations than the artist who made a randomly shaped shadow - depending on who's eyes you peer through, everything is sexual and evil).  I suppose the shadow was somewhat suspect, but then again, anything remotely cylindrical or shaft-like can appear phallic - thanks to Freud's influence. This is what I term paranoia of the privates. They're everywhere!!!

Anyways, without further lingering on the issue (you can read more detailed reports on the hearings in your spare time, which I highly recommend if you are desirous of a good giggle) I will tell you that the upshot of all this pressure caused the industry to fall into a latent period of "self-regulation". There was a sudden dissipation of violent crime comics and an influx of Dinsney-esque, cute furry animal -filled ones, along with comicized (I here invoke the right to create new words that sound more pertinent than any in existence) versions of literary masterpieces. With all resolved and the spotlight shifted to more important matters, like communism, the comic book fell from its golden thrown, fell away from mainstream notice.

But not forever. The day would come when comics would reassert themselves. When they would become a modern mythology. The true golden age of comics. And this time, they would truly deserve their thrown.

That day has come. There is a contingency of comic book authors who speak to us in allegory, in metaphor. Who create worlds that are our own, and yet not. Worlds where the politicians and media are as we know them to be. Where people react realistically. To these worlds they add superheroes, as in Marvel's Civil War series, or J. Michael Straczynski's (creator of Babylon 5) Rising Stars. Or they create conflicts as allegories to those in which we are now entrenched, such as Brian Wood's Channel Zero, Jenny One, and DMZ, or Jonathan Hickman's The Nightly News. Nowhere have I seen more literate, poignant, realistic (and yes, I respect the irony of the usage of this word in relation to comics) exploration of our modern political, media, and social situation. They are not pretty. Not fantasy worlds to escape into. If you are looking for an out in the brilliantly illustrated pages of these books none will be found.

For those of you unfamiliar with the depth and complexity of many modern comics I will let you in on how they are all the things that I say they are (and remember, this is not all comics, yes there are still zombie comics that do not transcend their genre, but then who doesn't like a good zombie riot, and action comics, etc that are just meant to be fun ... these are not bad, but they are not what I am talking about - after all every genre has its kings). Civil War surrounds a conflict over a registration act for superheroes, by which all are charged to reveal their identities and, in essence, become government agents. Tony Stark, aka Iron Man, represents the superheroes for the act, and metaphorically the military industrial complex. Captain America, dear to all of our hearts, leads the opposition. He represents freedom. True freedom. Not some twisted definition of freedom warped by rhetoric. The two clash. Cicilians are injured. Friends kill friends. Both sides are told. The series, initiated by an overview story that reveals to the reader the general story of the war, is then explored in depth in the personal story of each individual involved. There is an X-men civil war, and Iron Man, Captain America, Spiderman, The Punisher, Young Avengers, and so the list goes on and on, versions of Civil War. Each reveals a different perspective. Allows empathy. Blurs the line between right and wrong as in real life. Rising Stars arises from a similar premise. Due to a strange anomaly 113 children are born with super powers. The government seeks to regulate them. To test them. To treat them not as children, but as lab rats. They are normal kids psychologically speaking, prone to the same disturbances, moral weaknesses. They grow up in a world that fears them and that they fear. As in civil war a conflict is generated which leads them to fight one another. Who the good guys are, or are not, becomes vague. To amend for their wrongs the remaining "specials" as they are called, begin a quest to make the world a better place. And they do. They're actions are the actions that would lead to a better world. But they do not make the corporations, military, or government happy. None of these entities really wish peace - where's the money in peace? So these entities seek to destroy man's salvation. And so the story goes on - I wouldn't want to spoil it!

To the non-super comics of relevance I will turn first to Brian Wood, my first love in the comic book realm. DMZ, his most successful and still running series, depicts a landscape after another civil war in America. New York (where our story takes place) has become a demilitarized zone (hence the comic's name). Matty Roth, the primary character, is an undercover journalist who has gone in to tell the true story. Of course he cannot remain above the fray and becomes more involved than he meant to be. It is an illustration of modern warfare, of distinctions between civilian and criminal blurred, of the real story never getting out, of cover-ups, and lies. Jonathan Hickman's The Nightly News is an even more direct assault on the modern media establishment, literally. A cult sets out to assassinate media pundits - and does. As a graphic designer, Hickman is very attached to charts and graphs, and inserts real statistics into his stories, breakdowns of the conglomeratization of  media, the use of ritalin and anti-depressants in America. These enhance the reality of his story. He too, like any good storyteller, looks in from both vantages, does not glorify either side. 

These are the stories that need to be told today. They confront serious issues in a serious time. Beginning with the publication of the Watchmen in the 1980s, a not so positive look at the psychology of the superhero which made the New York Times best seller list, the face of comics changed. They are not here to simply entertain us. Comics are a medium to be respected in their own right. If you are older, and past your comic book years, dispense with the mental image of comics you carry from your childhood. Pick up one of those books here referenced and take a gander. Don't trust my opinion, form your own. To those my age who think that comic books live in the realm f geeks take note, they do not. They are for everyone, and there is nothing embarrassing about reading a comic book - you have no idea how many dates I've gotten from reading a comic in a bar, how many friends I've made from reading them. Comic books are no longer a joke. They broach relevant issues and deserve the renewal of interest that they have gained due to the surge in comic books films due to better CGI. But don't stop at the movies, which I grant you are fun. They but scratch the surface of the depth that exists in many modern comics. But don't believe me. Run, don't walk to your nearest comic book establishment and read! "The world will read again!" (Vanilla Sky; Tom Cruise)

The Pants of Freedom

America in 2008 is a great place to live because I can wear pants. That's right. Be they tight, loose, sweat material, or pleather. I can wear them all. This is one of the freedoms that not only makes me inordinately happy that I was born in this day and age, but that I was born in this country. I've heard that they have pants elsewhere. And indubitably they do. Though not everywhere. At least, they are not everywhere accessible to women.

Getting lost in the problems of the big picture can distort our reality. Shape it into something negative. Finding joy in the small can reinstate our faith in today. We are free in so many uplifting ways. I don't have to wear twenty pounds of undergarments to be socially acceptable. Can choose from a world's worth of food variety within the vicinity of my home. Can look the way I choose, and as we live in a PC world, no one can be mean to me, because I'll just sue them. Sweat material is in now so I can go for as long as I want without putting on real clothes. 

I am blessed with the ability to order over a hundred different types of coffee drinks, fried foods, and varieties of slurpy. I can walk down the street without ever worrying about being stoned. I'll takes annoying hoots and hollers from construction workers over that any day. If my date is a jerk I can throw a glass of water in his face, pretending like I'm in the movies. Or show affection in public. For that matter, I can show my face in public. 

Seemingly unimportant freedoms have merit. Add up to create a greater landscape of freedom. It does not stop at these. In the words of Peter, Paul, and Mary (and other folk artists since they all seem to sing the same songs) "Let freedom ring". I would add, and let it grow. Freedom is not stagnant - it should forever be increasing. So speak up when you see it contract and open it back up. Nurture freedom and one another. Revel in your good luck. Wear pants.

The Futility of Arguing Bias

Spin goes both ways. There are brilliant contortion artists on both sides. Though this may come as a shock, the same source can be used to prove either a liberal or conservative bias. The other day my intelligence was insulted when a liberal happy peer of mine told me, with the indignation and certainty that only young people are capable of, that the film the 300 was clear proof of a conservative bias that has crept into historically liberal Hollywood. This jumping off point will serve as my "proof" that you can use the same source to prove two opposing ideologies. 

As you may not be familiar with the film, I will illustrate the scene and then make my point. Dramatically opening, sans credits, with a dutch style forced perspective shot of a bed of skulls a voice over informs the viewer that the Spartans (the heroes of the film) inspect every male newborn. If the child is deformed or weak, he is cast over the cliff to sure demise. A warrior nation cannot have weak links. Well, the film is clearly promoting abortion, specifically partial birth abortion (something that any doctor will tell you does not exist, but which Ann Coulter will adamantly say does). Only at this state of development (already on the way out), could a mother know that her child was deformed, or in some way not satisfactory. The opening scene validates the barbaric, immoral practice of playing God in determining a baby's right to life.

Now, let's be liberal. Faced with what he considers an imminent threat, the Spartan king overrides Sparta's senate by mobilizing an army and marching on the Persians. Sound familiar? The Spartan king is Bush (no, duh?). He decided, based on false evidence, such as the claim that British intelligence and our own intelligence believed that Sudam Heussien had secured uranium or, my favorite, that our enemies are "evil", to go to war without the backing of the United Nations. The 300 promotes a warhawk ruler's right to toss democracy to the wayside for what he believes is right. Ruler knows best.

Schizophrenic shift - conservative time. To garner support for her husband's war efforts the queen offers herself to a senate leader. Morality flouter. Blinded by their cult-like dedication to Clinton, liberals have to condone any sexual promiscuity. Even worse, when accused of her act in the senate, she denies it! Well, kind of. Evasive response to direct questions seem to cut it for liberals. 

Liberal. After a treacherous mountain jaunt, the Spartan 300 arrive at the Hot Gates. Here they will makes their initial stand against the Persians. And wouldn't you know, the Persians show up with turbans, "unchristian" piercings, and dark skin! The enemy is comprised souly of blacks and arabs. I find it suspicious too. We all know that the Republicans are racists who hate the blacks and are just biding their time until they can reinstate segregation or polish them off by arming every white toddler. And don't even get me started about the Arabs. Conservative hatred for Arabs is on its way to reinstating the camp system utilized to round up the Japanese in world war two. I could continue, but you get the point. I'd like to mention that the film is based on Frank Miller's graphic novel 300 (and don't even get me started on how comic books are warping our youth, causing mass violence and dementia), which is based on an ancient legend (reminder, legends are exaggerated versions of real events). So some, probably slightly less glorious, version of he story actually happened. Spartans fought Persians. Now I could be wrong, but I'm guessing they had no idea that one day, way, way off in the future, there would be a country called the United States who would be at war with people in the Middle East. They were not fighting so that we could mutilate their story. To say that that story was articulated to support any partisan position is preposterous. So is the obsession with bias.  

In the Now

Nostalgia is so tempting, so comforting to sink into. It has already happened. There are no unexpected twists or turns. Even bad moments distort into something safe. That's the danger. The present will never be as the past. The future will never be as this moment. All life is change. Idolizing some past version of ourselves, of our lives, stunts forward progression. Creates an image that can never again be achieved. Life was so good then .... I looked so good then ... these are dangerous utterances. Life will be good again. But it will be so in a different way. No two moments exist as clones. Both backward and forward looking remove us from the now. Show times that can never again exist, build scenarios and thus expectations for times that have not yet come. Goals are positive to have, but when a future life is constructed so that if it does not end up being built to exact prior specifications happiness is unobtainable, then happiness will be unobtainable. So live in the moment. Take the associated risks. Create a wonderful future without thinking about it. Just do it by living the now to the fullest. Go get 'em.

The Apocalypse Will Not Come From Without, But From Within

Do you ever wonder if we fantasize in film and fiction about the apocalypse from without because we know that it will come from within? All responsibility is removed if some alien nation or natural disaster is the cause of our demise. We should be so lucky for such an end. But we will not be so absolved. 

To be sure global warming poses a threat to the survival of this planet, and thus by extension ourselves. But that's not what I want to talk about. It is the insidious, the small, that eats at us. The unapparent plagues. We are a diseased world for which the only cure is ourselves. Our oppressor and savior. We destroy ourselves a little every day by negligence and short term views. It is as Neitzsche said, "Man, full of emptiness and torn apart with homesickness for the desert has had to create from within himself an adventure, a torture chamber, an unsafe and hazardeous wilderness - this fool, this prisoner, consumed with longing and despair, became the inventor of bad conscience." We've got a lot of that today, bad conscience. 

 Our greatest oppressor is our link to the material, the external. Inherent in this is the danger that if that outside element by which we define ourselves disappears, we have nothing. No way to define ourselves. If I am beautiful, and allow that to dictate my interactions, serve as a measure of my self worth, I am left with nothing at the end of the day. Beauty fades. Either in the long run with age, or in a split second in a car crash. Vanity may build as a by product for it is nothing more than fear of losing beauty. I become so afraid that beauty will vanish that I become consumed by it, translating as an obsession with my own looks. The origin of bad thoughts is fear and we live in a culture of fear. Inescapable fear. Not even the line at the grocery store is safe.

If freedom is the freedom from harm, then we are not free at all. Post Freud I think we all agree that harm does not have to be bodily. Screaming at you as you stand, innocently in the grocery store line are at least 20 magazines, more than 2/3 of those present preaching of weight loss plans, how so and so lost x amount, the new diet. It's nauseating. I almost become compelled to leave my cart and run for the fresh air outside - there's my diet plan. 

I'm focusing for the moment on looks because I find it to be one of our more insidious attachments to the exterior. Without even realizing it can creep up on you. One day you might wake up and realize how it has begun to define your relationships. How many of the interactions you have happen because you're attractive. At that moment fear overcomes you. What if it were suddenly gone? How do I detach from it? Who could I really count on to be there if I didn't look like this? Would I be a better person? Would I be a happier, healthier person? Just look at the things that we do to ourselves: surgery, eating disorders, dyes. How can the person not get lost in that jumble. 

This disease is the culmination of our achievement. It is the torture chamber that we have created for ourselves because our energies are no longer focused on pure survival. Somehow it is hard to imagine people's of the third world worrying if their food is nonfat, or taking out the only tiny loan they can get, which could allow them t create a new life, and spend it on breasts. No, the heart of this disease is the property of "developed" nations. As always, I think we need a little change in diction here. 

We are handcuffed to far more in the exterior than just looks - there's money (fear of it's loss or lack of leads to greed, which leads to ... and so it goes), objects, success. These all cut us off from happiness. They are hinderers. Road blocks. As the Dali Lama says, the ultimate goal is happiness. When we are happy it doesn't matter if our breasts are smaller than some super model, if we aren't as thin as someone else, or as tall and muscular (yes, this conversation includes men - they get surgical enhancements to, such as calf and peck enlargers). It is easy to get lost in the fray, in the jungle of advertisements, media, drug companies that tell us we are not as we should be, we are not the ultimate versions of ourselves. The only problem is that this "ultimate version" has everything but a soul. Women, it is no longer the men who are turning us into Stepford wives - we're doing it to ourselves. If you think that you need to do that in order to find love, then let me tell you, there is no real love at the end of that journey. 

We are a nation that promotes individualism - believes in personal responsibility. I will not argue that it is partly the fault of each of us who let this culture tear us down, that let ourselves become unkind, self-involved people. It is also the fault of the individuals who hold the positions that create a culture of fear for their compatriots. But the fault goes beyond the individual. To the first group - a lifetime of 3,000 advertisements a day all telling you that you need something, aren't good enough, should be like this, wear a person down. They distract them from the real. To the second, people need jobs and may not yet be at a personal point of realization that would allow them to have the ideals to quit their job. So it is to us as a society that the responsibility falls. We must limit corporations - really examine what freedom means, and not allow them to impede ours. You may here argue that the corporation also has the right to be free. It doesn't. In no case does something, a non-living entity, have a right greater than people, than individuals. A corporation is not an individual, whatever the legal jargon may say. It does not feel, breathe, or have morals. It's interests never, and I mean never, outweigh those of real people. 

We can't do anything about some unforeseen (well by all of us but a select few) alien invasion that wipes us out. We can do something about our own annihilation. Annihilation of body and spirit. We are obsessed with what we aren't, not with what we are. Let's change that.