Saturday, July 05, 2003
We Eat Your Children
We Eat Your Children ... That's the title of a Camper Van Beethoven song. I think it's a parody of We Are the World but when you're a 36-year-old female without children, it's sometimes how you feel when you're around a group of mothers. You don't fit in, you don't speak the language, you've got too much freedom and it's scary. Granted, our friends who are mothers and fathers do not think Dave and I the ugly childless types who gripe about loud, dirty kids ruining our quiet evenings in restaurants.
But those who don't know us well often look skeptical when we answer "No," to the question: "how many children do you have?" Note the way this question is constructed. People don't ask "do you have kids?" when they find out we've been married 13 years. They ask, "how many?"
This question was posed to me at least a half dozen times last week because I started a new job. People look for ways to make connections and find common ground. For women in their 30s, the most obvious way seems to be by talking about children and motherhood. Makes sense but it also makes for awkward silences when they find out I'm one of "those." My stock answer to all the mothers I work with is "No, but we have two dogs." Some venture into risky territory and ask me if we're ever going to have kids. I answer politely. I tell them I love kids and I respect parents, especially parents who work. This is true. So true that I sometimes feel guilty for being tired at work when nothing kept me up other than the dogs re-arranging themselves on our floor. Others just stare and make their judgements. Still others sigh exhaustedly and say "there are days I wish I didn't have any either. You must have so much freedom."
Yes. And no. I certainly believe my life is less demanding than a mother who is caring for a son or daughter. Teaching our dogs to sit and walk properly on a leash is in no way comparable to showing a child how to tie their shoelaces for the first time or teaching them to sound out words. However...
I'm not lounging around all day watching soap operas either. Our choice (and I say "our" because it was a mutual decision) to remain childless has come with some trade-offs. My circle of women friends began dwindling around age 30 because most of my women friends became mothers and didn't have time for happy hours, late dinners, lunches, or shopping excursions for less-than-sensible shoes. I understood. And I didn't push. I didn't whine. But I also felt my fair share of rejection. I knew they weren't rejecting me, they were rejecting my life choice - we were in separate camps. I was in the childless camp and they were in the mommy camp. I still talk to most of them but our talk is so much different now. I can't talk mother-talk with any sense of authority or credibility which keeps our conversations to subjects like work, our past history together, or how they spent their day with kids. We don't go as deep as we used to. Now, before any mother reading this goes flying off the handle and says I'm being narrow-minded, let me repeat: I love children and I respect parents and parenthood. It's a colossal job and I admire anyone with the guts to do it.
Dave and I also make a conscious effort to give back to the community we live in whether it's through volunteering, playing music, writing fiction, taking care of a neighbor, rescuing two dogs from abusive homes. It's our little way of saying We DO NOT Eat Your Children.
There's a lot more I could say on this topic and may do so in future posts. For now, check out these links if you're considering remaining childless by choice.
Childless By Choice
Childless By Choice: A Feminist Anthology
But those who don't know us well often look skeptical when we answer "No," to the question: "how many children do you have?" Note the way this question is constructed. People don't ask "do you have kids?" when they find out we've been married 13 years. They ask, "how many?"
This question was posed to me at least a half dozen times last week because I started a new job. People look for ways to make connections and find common ground. For women in their 30s, the most obvious way seems to be by talking about children and motherhood. Makes sense but it also makes for awkward silences when they find out I'm one of "those." My stock answer to all the mothers I work with is "No, but we have two dogs." Some venture into risky territory and ask me if we're ever going to have kids. I answer politely. I tell them I love kids and I respect parents, especially parents who work. This is true. So true that I sometimes feel guilty for being tired at work when nothing kept me up other than the dogs re-arranging themselves on our floor. Others just stare and make their judgements. Still others sigh exhaustedly and say "there are days I wish I didn't have any either. You must have so much freedom."
Yes. And no. I certainly believe my life is less demanding than a mother who is caring for a son or daughter. Teaching our dogs to sit and walk properly on a leash is in no way comparable to showing a child how to tie their shoelaces for the first time or teaching them to sound out words. However...
I'm not lounging around all day watching soap operas either. Our choice (and I say "our" because it was a mutual decision) to remain childless has come with some trade-offs. My circle of women friends began dwindling around age 30 because most of my women friends became mothers and didn't have time for happy hours, late dinners, lunches, or shopping excursions for less-than-sensible shoes. I understood. And I didn't push. I didn't whine. But I also felt my fair share of rejection. I knew they weren't rejecting me, they were rejecting my life choice - we were in separate camps. I was in the childless camp and they were in the mommy camp. I still talk to most of them but our talk is so much different now. I can't talk mother-talk with any sense of authority or credibility which keeps our conversations to subjects like work, our past history together, or how they spent their day with kids. We don't go as deep as we used to. Now, before any mother reading this goes flying off the handle and says I'm being narrow-minded, let me repeat: I love children and I respect parents and parenthood. It's a colossal job and I admire anyone with the guts to do it.
Dave and I also make a conscious effort to give back to the community we live in whether it's through volunteering, playing music, writing fiction, taking care of a neighbor, rescuing two dogs from abusive homes. It's our little way of saying We DO NOT Eat Your Children.
There's a lot more I could say on this topic and may do so in future posts. For now, check out these links if you're considering remaining childless by choice.
Childless By Choice
Childless By Choice: A Feminist Anthology
Rock and roll ain't noise pollution
I am a musician. My parents tell me I started banging on pots and pans before I can even remember. I started drumming at 7, joined my first band in high school, and have not been out of a band for the past 17 years. I tell you this not to try to impress but to provide context.
Music has provided me with countless moments of ecstatic joy and surreal fun. Many of my close friends are fellow musicians, and some of my favorite memories are from being on stage or in a dark, damp basement practice space. Music has also taken me through a forest full of pain and struggle. My biggest conflict has been trying to balance my career, or some semblance of one, with music. I've never let my musical aspirations interfere with my work; I have too strong of a work ethic for that. But it has kept me from focusing on one path or another, and I've turned down promotions and positions that would've given me more responsibility and left less time and energy for musical endeavors. Amy has done the same because of her writing. Many of our friends are reasonably comfortable financially, we are not. We all have to make difficult choices once life's decisions become more important than whose dorm room to drink in. We're comfortable with those choices.
Yes, I could walk away from music and ease the struggle. But that's not so easy to do when there's an internal drive -- a drive as strong as hunger or the yearning to have kids -- that alternately pushes and drags me along. Locking up a schizophrenic doesn't stop the voices in his head; quitting won't make the songs in my head go away. I don't know how to deal with that yet. I wrestle with it every day.
Please know I'm not seeking sympathy. I'm only providing context for a piece I'm about to suggest that you read. And maybe, to get more people to understand some of the difficulty associated with being an artist in today's society. It's not easy to feel compelled to create art in a world where style triumphs over substance, where Britney sells 1000 times more records than Richard Thompson, where a brilliant and well-intentioned songwriter like Steve Earle is heavily criticized for writing a song from the perspective of John Walker, the "American Taliban." You do what you can to get by. You consign it to the category of hobby and work on it while you can. Or you go for it and try to make a living doing what you love, hoping that the long hours, struggle, and attendant poverty don't destroy your family, your relationships, yourself.
Making a living as a musician is especially difficult. I'll write more about that later, but the crux is that it means long hours on the road (often with bandmates you don't especially like), sleeping on floors or in cheap motels (or on floors of cheap motels), playing to small audiences in dingy, smoky clubs, driving 1000 miles only to find that the promoter didn't promote and the booker didn't book and you're now playing to four people who actually came to see a death metal band. Robbie Fulks, a brilliant singer/songwriter from Chicago, has a brutally frank read on the realities of the road. It's a long way from Aerosmith and the Ritz Carlton and mobs of Paris Hilton lookalikes.
With all that said, I'll point you to Tommy Womack. Tommy is a very talented singer, songwriter, and guitarist, and most would consider him a successful artist in the Americana world. Government Cheese, his former band, toured relentlessly in the mid-80s on the Midwestern college circuit. Tommy became a solo artist in the early 90s and released a few records on small, respected labels, including Checkered Past, home to critically acclaimed artists such as the Ass Ponys, 16 Horsepower, and The Silos. He's written and recorded with legendary folkie John Prine and roots rock pioneer Jason Ringenberg. He published two books and became a father. I don't know him personally, but I've met him and know he's considered a good, friendly, respected man in the industry.
With all that said, please read his latest column on his website. Read it and then send good thoughts his way the next time you stop to pray or meditate. And, without sounding too heavy-handed, like Sting making a pronouncement from on high, think about what kind of society we've created, where the honest desire to work hard to produce art brings a man to the point of collapse.
np: Spoon - Kill The Moonlight
Music has provided me with countless moments of ecstatic joy and surreal fun. Many of my close friends are fellow musicians, and some of my favorite memories are from being on stage or in a dark, damp basement practice space. Music has also taken me through a forest full of pain and struggle. My biggest conflict has been trying to balance my career, or some semblance of one, with music. I've never let my musical aspirations interfere with my work; I have too strong of a work ethic for that. But it has kept me from focusing on one path or another, and I've turned down promotions and positions that would've given me more responsibility and left less time and energy for musical endeavors. Amy has done the same because of her writing. Many of our friends are reasonably comfortable financially, we are not. We all have to make difficult choices once life's decisions become more important than whose dorm room to drink in. We're comfortable with those choices.
Yes, I could walk away from music and ease the struggle. But that's not so easy to do when there's an internal drive -- a drive as strong as hunger or the yearning to have kids -- that alternately pushes and drags me along. Locking up a schizophrenic doesn't stop the voices in his head; quitting won't make the songs in my head go away. I don't know how to deal with that yet. I wrestle with it every day.
Please know I'm not seeking sympathy. I'm only providing context for a piece I'm about to suggest that you read. And maybe, to get more people to understand some of the difficulty associated with being an artist in today's society. It's not easy to feel compelled to create art in a world where style triumphs over substance, where Britney sells 1000 times more records than Richard Thompson, where a brilliant and well-intentioned songwriter like Steve Earle is heavily criticized for writing a song from the perspective of John Walker, the "American Taliban." You do what you can to get by. You consign it to the category of hobby and work on it while you can. Or you go for it and try to make a living doing what you love, hoping that the long hours, struggle, and attendant poverty don't destroy your family, your relationships, yourself.
Making a living as a musician is especially difficult. I'll write more about that later, but the crux is that it means long hours on the road (often with bandmates you don't especially like), sleeping on floors or in cheap motels (or on floors of cheap motels), playing to small audiences in dingy, smoky clubs, driving 1000 miles only to find that the promoter didn't promote and the booker didn't book and you're now playing to four people who actually came to see a death metal band. Robbie Fulks, a brilliant singer/songwriter from Chicago, has a brutally frank read on the realities of the road. It's a long way from Aerosmith and the Ritz Carlton and mobs of Paris Hilton lookalikes.
With all that said, I'll point you to Tommy Womack. Tommy is a very talented singer, songwriter, and guitarist, and most would consider him a successful artist in the Americana world. Government Cheese, his former band, toured relentlessly in the mid-80s on the Midwestern college circuit. Tommy became a solo artist in the early 90s and released a few records on small, respected labels, including Checkered Past, home to critically acclaimed artists such as the Ass Ponys, 16 Horsepower, and The Silos. He's written and recorded with legendary folkie John Prine and roots rock pioneer Jason Ringenberg. He published two books and became a father. I don't know him personally, but I've met him and know he's considered a good, friendly, respected man in the industry.
With all that said, please read his latest column on his website. Read it and then send good thoughts his way the next time you stop to pray or meditate. And, without sounding too heavy-handed, like Sting making a pronouncement from on high, think about what kind of society we've created, where the honest desire to work hard to produce art brings a man to the point of collapse.
np: Spoon - Kill The Moonlight
Friday, July 04, 2003
Things to do in Cincy when you're comatose
Hey Amy, I can be frivolous as well. Here's today's society report:
I’m sitting at the RFN outdoor annex high above Rattlesnake Cove wondering how I can possibly begin to convey what happened last night last night at the private party I attended at Cincinnati’s newest and hippest club, Club Clau. The party was hosted by Larry Flint and Jenna Jameson, who were in town on a fourth of July Freedom tour.
In reality, of course, they’re here to annoy those who desperately just want them to go away, which is about 80% of Cincinnati included the puritanical annointed stooges of the Republican Party who call themselves the local government.
Subsequent to local appearances, Flint, James and 500 friends, including porno stars and starlets retired to Club Clau for a fourth of July free for all. A brass pole was put in the center of the dance floor and things got nasty. Beautiful people got trashed and clothes came off, there were overt displays of lesbian love on the dance floor and mass copulation in the VIP room. Sperm flowed like champagne.
Or not. Those who imagined themselves to be the true celebs made a beeline from the back door to the VIP room and never showed their faces to the masses. The crowds was equally divided between industry types studiously looking bored and locals trying look cool and unimpressed. The whole thing had a vibe of failed expectation. All and all, it wasn’t half as much fun as hanging with your boys in the local pub.
I did, however, meet a number of interesting people, including renowned photographer Gary Lee Boas. Boas, fresh from exhibits in Paris and Amsterdam, began his career as an obsessed fan shooting celebs with a Brownie camera, and, in the intervening years, has built a solid international career as a photographer. Check out his work here and here.
I’m sitting at the RFN outdoor annex high above Rattlesnake Cove wondering how I can possibly begin to convey what happened last night last night at the private party I attended at Cincinnati’s newest and hippest club, Club Clau. The party was hosted by Larry Flint and Jenna Jameson, who were in town on a fourth of July Freedom tour.
In reality, of course, they’re here to annoy those who desperately just want them to go away, which is about 80% of Cincinnati included the puritanical annointed stooges of the Republican Party who call themselves the local government.
Subsequent to local appearances, Flint, James and 500 friends, including porno stars and starlets retired to Club Clau for a fourth of July free for all. A brass pole was put in the center of the dance floor and things got nasty. Beautiful people got trashed and clothes came off, there were overt displays of lesbian love on the dance floor and mass copulation in the VIP room. Sperm flowed like champagne.
Or not. Those who imagined themselves to be the true celebs made a beeline from the back door to the VIP room and never showed their faces to the masses. The crowds was equally divided between industry types studiously looking bored and locals trying look cool and unimpressed. The whole thing had a vibe of failed expectation. All and all, it wasn’t half as much fun as hanging with your boys in the local pub.
I did, however, meet a number of interesting people, including renowned photographer Gary Lee Boas. Boas, fresh from exhibits in Paris and Amsterdam, began his career as an obsessed fan shooting celebs with a Brownie camera, and, in the intervening years, has built a solid international career as a photographer. Check out his work here and here.
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Things I Like Today
While Dave and Michael play the roles Serious-Political-Philosophical Blogger, I thought I'd step in with some lighter commentary. Here are 10 random things to like today:
* Big hair, not the 80s camero-hair variety but the kind you want to run your fingers through. You couldn't do that with 80s big hair -- too much hairspray
* Tigerlilies, tall and fire-orange, bending with the wind
* Freckles, preferably small, sunkissed ones running across the bridge of your nose
* Surfing the net at work when you're supposed to be working but knowing that no one is really working because it's a holiday weekend in about two hours and the office is only half-full with other people pretending to work
* Red licorice
* Finding a penny on the sidewalk
* Your driver's license photo - on any given day, you KNOW you look so much better than that picture
* Sweating. Yes, sweating. It's summer and it's what we do when we're alive
* Floaty pens - the cheap kind you get at souvenir shops that never write well but it's fun to turn them up and down and watch the little objects move inside it
* A surpise kiss on the neck from someone you love - heck, it can even be your dog, cat, or iguana as long as it's a surpise
* Big hair, not the 80s camero-hair variety but the kind you want to run your fingers through. You couldn't do that with 80s big hair -- too much hairspray
* Tigerlilies, tall and fire-orange, bending with the wind
* Freckles, preferably small, sunkissed ones running across the bridge of your nose
* Surfing the net at work when you're supposed to be working but knowing that no one is really working because it's a holiday weekend in about two hours and the office is only half-full with other people pretending to work
* Red licorice
* Finding a penny on the sidewalk
* Your driver's license photo - on any given day, you KNOW you look so much better than that picture
* Sweating. Yes, sweating. It's summer and it's what we do when we're alive
* Floaty pens - the cheap kind you get at souvenir shops that never write well but it's fun to turn them up and down and watch the little objects move inside it
* A surpise kiss on the neck from someone you love - heck, it can even be your dog, cat, or iguana as long as it's a surpise
Tell me why, baby, why?
Why the President of the United States is a complete moron: "Bring 'em on."
Why democracy is dead: "The contest among the Democrats was arguably eclipsed by President Bush, who raised $34.2 million in the second quarter of this year, more than all his Democratic opponents combined. What is more, Mr. Bush raised most of it, $21.7 million, in 14 fund-raisers attended by the president, his wife, and Vice President Dick Cheney from June 17-30. A mailing drew $4.5 million." (From the NY Times.)
Why rock and roll is not dead (opens MP3 file).
Why good rock and roll journalism is not dead.
Final score: Roll & Roll 2, Democracy 0. Stick around for star of the game. (Any rebroadcast or retransmission without the expression written consent of Major League Baseball and the Cincinnati Reds is expressly prohibited.)
np: You Am I - #4 Record
Why democracy is dead: "The contest among the Democrats was arguably eclipsed by President Bush, who raised $34.2 million in the second quarter of this year, more than all his Democratic opponents combined. What is more, Mr. Bush raised most of it, $21.7 million, in 14 fund-raisers attended by the president, his wife, and Vice President Dick Cheney from June 17-30. A mailing drew $4.5 million." (From the NY Times.)
Why rock and roll is not dead (opens MP3 file).
Why good rock and roll journalism is not dead.
Final score: Roll & Roll 2, Democracy 0. Stick around for star of the game. (Any rebroadcast or retransmission without the expression written consent of Major League Baseball and the Cincinnati Reds is expressly prohibited.)
np: You Am I - #4 Record
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
You're The Inspiration (At Least it's not Barry Manilow)
The web is a wonderful thing when it works. The best of sites condense a baffling array of information into some form of useful order; or, present a new way of seeing a world made redundant by an unimaginative and reductionist media.
All too often, the breadth and capacity of the web is forgotten. Even though, for better or worse, one can find virtually anything on the web (and Dave is constantly proving to how much I don’t want to see) we find ourselves running in the same narrow circles.
We forget how much there is available to us. For instance, today I was assigned a story on outsider art by one of the local alternative papers. I don’t know much about art, and even less about outsider art; but, with a little work and inspiration from my little sister, the art maven, I’m quickly up to speed and the world, in no time, is a bigger, more colorful place- these sites are a perfect example of how the web can allow us to see anew. To color your world (wow, a Chicago hook, just when you least expected it), look here.
For an example of how the web can make information manageable while making our lives easier, check out Cincymusic.com. Great writing by our friend Sean Rhiney and others, as well as one touch listings for all local shows and bands, and, for a limited time, at no additional cost, a recent piece I did about a great local band The Faux Frenchmen.
And while you're at it, have a lovely damn day.
All too often, the breadth and capacity of the web is forgotten. Even though, for better or worse, one can find virtually anything on the web (and Dave is constantly proving to how much I don’t want to see) we find ourselves running in the same narrow circles.
We forget how much there is available to us. For instance, today I was assigned a story on outsider art by one of the local alternative papers. I don’t know much about art, and even less about outsider art; but, with a little work and inspiration from my little sister, the art maven, I’m quickly up to speed and the world, in no time, is a bigger, more colorful place- these sites are a perfect example of how the web can allow us to see anew. To color your world (wow, a Chicago hook, just when you least expected it), look here.
For an example of how the web can make information manageable while making our lives easier, check out Cincymusic.com. Great writing by our friend Sean Rhiney and others, as well as one touch listings for all local shows and bands, and, for a limited time, at no additional cost, a recent piece I did about a great local band The Faux Frenchmen.
And while you're at it, have a lovely damn day.
Liberal media bias (see "Fairy, Tooth").
The mainstream media is biased toward liberal ideas and candidates. This we know to be true, much like we know that most welfare recipients are black females who drive Cadillacs and have 13 kids (so to get more welfare dollars, of course). We know that Clinton -- or at least his wife -- was a socialist and that the American Dream is real, that any of us can make a million dollars some day. We know that the 9/11 terrorists were Iraqis and that WMD will soon be found and that President Bush doesn't lie to us. We know these things.
How to consider, then, the different treatment accorded Democratic candidate Howard Dean and then-candidate George W. Bush on Meet The Press? Dean appeared on MTP two weeks ago and found host Tim Russert (who I've always thought to be a pompous ass) in a combative mood. He hammered Dean on specifics, even when Dean stated he would defer to his hired experts for certain kinds of information. Salon does a great job contrasting Dean's appearance with Dubya's:
Dean: "Russert continued to press Dean hard, including a pop quiz question about how many men and women currently serve in the military. When Dean said he did not now the exact number, Russert shot back: "As commander in chief, you should know that." Dean estimated there were between 1 and 2 million men and women in active duty; according to the Pentagon, there are 1.4 million."
Bush: "But travel back in time to 1999 when Russert had a far more civil sit-down with then-candidate Bush. (Russert: "Can kids avoid sex?" Bush: "I hope so. I think so.") Russert even agreed to leave his NBC studio and to travel to Bush's home in Austin to conduct the interview, thereby giving the Texas governor a sort of home-field advantage. For nearly 60 minutes the two men talked about key issues, but Russert never tried to pin him down the way he did Dean. For instance, the host let pass candidate Bush's implausible notion that he had no opinion on the politically sensitive topic of whether South Carolina should fly the Confederate flag."
Read The Daily Howler for a good take on this. Also, check out an excellent article in Salon that constrasts the Meet The Press appearances, as well as the differences in the way the media treated Al Gore's exaggerations vs. Bush's. Wouldn't you say that exaggerating (or lying) about Weapons of Mass Destruction is a little more serious than misconstruing the facts about a Florida grade school girl with no desk? (Remember, you can sign up for a one-day free pass to view any article at Salon.)
How to consider, then, the different treatment accorded Democratic candidate Howard Dean and then-candidate George W. Bush on Meet The Press? Dean appeared on MTP two weeks ago and found host Tim Russert (who I've always thought to be a pompous ass) in a combative mood. He hammered Dean on specifics, even when Dean stated he would defer to his hired experts for certain kinds of information. Salon does a great job contrasting Dean's appearance with Dubya's:
Dean: "Russert continued to press Dean hard, including a pop quiz question about how many men and women currently serve in the military. When Dean said he did not now the exact number, Russert shot back: "As commander in chief, you should know that." Dean estimated there were between 1 and 2 million men and women in active duty; according to the Pentagon, there are 1.4 million."
Bush: "But travel back in time to 1999 when Russert had a far more civil sit-down with then-candidate Bush. (Russert: "Can kids avoid sex?" Bush: "I hope so. I think so.") Russert even agreed to leave his NBC studio and to travel to Bush's home in Austin to conduct the interview, thereby giving the Texas governor a sort of home-field advantage. For nearly 60 minutes the two men talked about key issues, but Russert never tried to pin him down the way he did Dean. For instance, the host let pass candidate Bush's implausible notion that he had no opinion on the politically sensitive topic of whether South Carolina should fly the Confederate flag."
Read The Daily Howler for a good take on this. Also, check out an excellent article in Salon that constrasts the Meet The Press appearances, as well as the differences in the way the media treated Al Gore's exaggerations vs. Bush's. Wouldn't you say that exaggerating (or lying) about Weapons of Mass Destruction is a little more serious than misconstruing the facts about a Florida grade school girl with no desk? (Remember, you can sign up for a one-day free pass to view any article at Salon.)
Monday, June 30, 2003
Pragmatic Commie Sluts in Heat
Upon her return from Bloomington, MS Purcell was kind enough to share with me, a number of fiction writing exercises. One such exercise was to go to my library, select a green book, turn to page 52 and use the eighth line as the start of a one page story. Turns out the first green text I saw was my old First Amendment Text from Law school. Below, in bold is the eighth line, what follows is the story which flowed from same. FWIW, if you have an interest in writing, I found this exercise pretty useful. Except that I went long. That hardly ever happens.
Scales recruited new members into the party, and promoted and advanced the education of selected young party members in the theory of communism to be undertaken at select schools.
Given her difficult upbringing, Scales was not a romantic. The scars on her arms and the ancient burn marks did not allow her to believe that any theory could save the world; nor that communism would lead to some rapid universal transformation or enlightenment; nor even that communism was superior to other political theories. No, the beatings she had received from her father and the love withheld by her mother, did not allow her the luxuries of fairy tales, or to believe in salvation through political theory, let alone the gossamer web of lies or emotions called love and/ or religion. Rather, Scales believed only in hard practical realities as concrete as the belt buckle which left the small triangular scar above her right cheek.
Which is not to say that Scales did not have beliefs. She knew certain things to be true beyond cavil. She knew it was better to be at the top, than the bottom; that it was better to control that to be controlled; that it was better to rule than be ruled. She knew control of even the slightest situations was critical, thus if it was necessary to travel somewhere, she drove and never let another drive. She was certain that have enough cash that her bills were paid a month in advance, so that she would not have to contemplate, let alone suffer, the assistance of a man. She could fix nearly any machine.
Scales, accordingly, did not believe in transformation or transcendence, rather she could only place her faith in those beliefs which held some sort or real,, or practical promise. That is, she could only believe in those beliefs, those persons, those organizations which held the very real promise of transforming her from ruled to ruler, which would take her to the top.
Thus Scales believed in communism. She believed that, given the current state of the world, and given the current state of her world, that communism, could take her to where she wanted to go. She knew, rationally, intellectually, that communism was a shell game, a set of inherent contradictions, a house of cards waiting to fall. Yet, she also knew, from what she heard from the knots of people on the street, from the atmosphere of explosive anger which lingered just above the hot summer city streets, that people were angry and wanted change.
She knew that people who did not have a place to live, that waited in city parks for the church doors to open with their offerings of weak coffee, thin sandwiches and bloated prayer, were not bound to be patient people; they were not likely to be motivated by beliefs which held no relevance to their hunger, which did not speak to their anger. Scales believed that these people would be more likely to believe communism than any other political theory then in vogue, because communism offered them a piece a pie, sooner rather than later.
Scale’s dogmatic approach to political theory also extended to her beliefs in the expression and implementation of political theory. For instance she knew that it took actual people to implement any theory, and that people would only join a cause, sacrifice for the cause, if they perceived that a short term sacrifice would lead to a greater reward.
Scales also understood that her movement though the ranks, her ascendancy to the top depended upon putting others beneath her. It neither mattered, in terms of implementation or actualization of theory, why people joined, it only, rather, mattered that they did join and ultimately contributed. Scales also realized that the party had little with which to entice recruits.
Thus Scales was left to entice new members, but without means to do so, or almost without means. For it was true, Scales realized one Sunday morning, shortly after an old drunk man, an emaciated man with a wild white mane and brown paper bag of fortified wine had leered at her, had made rude suggestions, that she could offer her body. She knew from past experience, and lovers, that her body was desired by men and women. She did not hesitate, subsequent to this realization, to go to work.
Scales recruited new members into the party, and promoted and advanced the education of selected young party members in the theory of communism to be undertaken at select schools.
Given her difficult upbringing, Scales was not a romantic. The scars on her arms and the ancient burn marks did not allow her to believe that any theory could save the world; nor that communism would lead to some rapid universal transformation or enlightenment; nor even that communism was superior to other political theories. No, the beatings she had received from her father and the love withheld by her mother, did not allow her the luxuries of fairy tales, or to believe in salvation through political theory, let alone the gossamer web of lies or emotions called love and/ or religion. Rather, Scales believed only in hard practical realities as concrete as the belt buckle which left the small triangular scar above her right cheek.
Which is not to say that Scales did not have beliefs. She knew certain things to be true beyond cavil. She knew it was better to be at the top, than the bottom; that it was better to control that to be controlled; that it was better to rule than be ruled. She knew control of even the slightest situations was critical, thus if it was necessary to travel somewhere, she drove and never let another drive. She was certain that have enough cash that her bills were paid a month in advance, so that she would not have to contemplate, let alone suffer, the assistance of a man. She could fix nearly any machine.
Scales, accordingly, did not believe in transformation or transcendence, rather she could only place her faith in those beliefs which held some sort or real,, or practical promise. That is, she could only believe in those beliefs, those persons, those organizations which held the very real promise of transforming her from ruled to ruler, which would take her to the top.
Thus Scales believed in communism. She believed that, given the current state of the world, and given the current state of her world, that communism, could take her to where she wanted to go. She knew, rationally, intellectually, that communism was a shell game, a set of inherent contradictions, a house of cards waiting to fall. Yet, she also knew, from what she heard from the knots of people on the street, from the atmosphere of explosive anger which lingered just above the hot summer city streets, that people were angry and wanted change.
She knew that people who did not have a place to live, that waited in city parks for the church doors to open with their offerings of weak coffee, thin sandwiches and bloated prayer, were not bound to be patient people; they were not likely to be motivated by beliefs which held no relevance to their hunger, which did not speak to their anger. Scales believed that these people would be more likely to believe communism than any other political theory then in vogue, because communism offered them a piece a pie, sooner rather than later.
Scale’s dogmatic approach to political theory also extended to her beliefs in the expression and implementation of political theory. For instance she knew that it took actual people to implement any theory, and that people would only join a cause, sacrifice for the cause, if they perceived that a short term sacrifice would lead to a greater reward.
Scales also understood that her movement though the ranks, her ascendancy to the top depended upon putting others beneath her. It neither mattered, in terms of implementation or actualization of theory, why people joined, it only, rather, mattered that they did join and ultimately contributed. Scales also realized that the party had little with which to entice recruits.
Thus Scales was left to entice new members, but without means to do so, or almost without means. For it was true, Scales realized one Sunday morning, shortly after an old drunk man, an emaciated man with a wild white mane and brown paper bag of fortified wine had leered at her, had made rude suggestions, that she could offer her body. She knew from past experience, and lovers, that her body was desired by men and women. She did not hesitate, subsequent to this realization, to go to work.
Gays & Republicans. Liz Phair revisited.
They rally 'round the family with a pocketful of shells. - Rage Against The Machine - "Bulls On Parade"
Bill Frist (R-Tenn) sees the future and he doesn't like it. The Senate majority leader envisions a world where gays and lesbians not only can't be prosecuted for having sex, but, gasp, actually might be able to legally marry. The seemingly unstoppable march of the Homosexual Agenda. Bill Frist is a man of principle and says that the Supreme Court's decision on gay sex threatens to make ours homes places where criminal behavior is condoned. (You were taught that gay sex leads to kiddie porn and then, inexorably, to heroin addiction and a fondness for negroes, weren't you?) Naturally then, Sen. Bill Frist supports a proposed constitutional amendment to ban homosexual marriage in the United States. You see, our problems are not poverty, the most corrupt presidential administration in decades, failed leadership (both Republican and Democratic), crumbling educational systems, and so on. The real scourge is two people of the same sex who want to love each other and live like most American couples.
Do these narrow-minded bastards even know any gays or lesbians? I'm sure they don't. It's sickening. The Reps are the party who want to keep government out of your homes....UNLESS you happen to be gay or of foreign descent or a possible threat to the US or....
In all Phairness: on a different note, our pal Dave Davis chimes in with a thought-provoking response on the new Liz Phair record. Dave is a mastering engineer and an adjunct professor of electronic media at University of Cincinnati and is one of the most thoughtful fellows we know.
np: Television - (self-titled)
Bill Frist (R-Tenn) sees the future and he doesn't like it. The Senate majority leader envisions a world where gays and lesbians not only can't be prosecuted for having sex, but, gasp, actually might be able to legally marry. The seemingly unstoppable march of the Homosexual Agenda. Bill Frist is a man of principle and says that the Supreme Court's decision on gay sex threatens to make ours homes places where criminal behavior is condoned. (You were taught that gay sex leads to kiddie porn and then, inexorably, to heroin addiction and a fondness for negroes, weren't you?) Naturally then, Sen. Bill Frist supports a proposed constitutional amendment to ban homosexual marriage in the United States. You see, our problems are not poverty, the most corrupt presidential administration in decades, failed leadership (both Republican and Democratic), crumbling educational systems, and so on. The real scourge is two people of the same sex who want to love each other and live like most American couples.Do these narrow-minded bastards even know any gays or lesbians? I'm sure they don't. It's sickening. The Reps are the party who want to keep government out of your homes....UNLESS you happen to be gay or of foreign descent or a possible threat to the US or....
In all Phairness: on a different note, our pal Dave Davis chimes in with a thought-provoking response on the new Liz Phair record. Dave is a mastering engineer and an adjunct professor of electronic media at University of Cincinnati and is one of the most thoughtful fellows we know.
np: Television - (self-titled)
