Check out the trailers for Peter Pan, the DVD, from the young talents at Santa Barbara High School:
1. In a Time of War starring Jenna!
2. A Face at the Window
(Apparently Blogspot doesn't allow Adobe Flash videos.)
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
At the Corner of Ruin and Grace
When I first moved to Santa Barbara, I was struck by how pretty everything looks all the time, too pretty for my east coast blue collar blood. The line from "Orange Juice Blues" kept haunting me: "I'm tired of everything being beautiful, beautiful." So I went on a mission to find grit in Santa Barbara.
I couldn't find any, at least not Anglo grit. I found sleaze, both working class and upper crust, but that ain't no authentic, dare to do the right thing, unconcerned by dirty finger nails, do the hard work of the world, grit. The closest thing I could find was stylized designer grit, created from the clean pretty drafting tables of clean pretty minds, whose rebellion from stucco walls and red-tile roofs created coffee shops, bars, or restaurants where graduate students and ex-graduate students like me could drink four-dollar coffees or five-dollar beers and feel the authenticity of bared brick and ductwork, pre-distressed furniture, and the atmosphere of antique Coke bottles and old license plates. Had I moved to a new state or a new state of being?
After a year or two in town, a bit slowly, really, I discovered the venerable concert series, Sings Like Hell. Producer Peggy Jones and her hellions have succeeded in introducing grit into the dreamy prettiness of Santa Barbara far better than most, certainly far better than I. Within the beautiful, beautiful Lobero opera house, they stage some of the best musical acts in town, specializing in the graduates of--and those still enrolled in--the school of non-commercial knocks. Heavily flavored by the Austin scene, Sings Like Hell offers singer-songwriters who are more familiar with loud bars a chance to perform for a sit-down audience in an acoustically designed venue. The tag line of the series is "The best music you've never heard," and indeed the best shows not starring Richard Thompson are the ones by unknown surprises. Anyone familiar with Sings Like Hell knows all this.
A couple weekends ago, a great example of grit in paradise came to Hell. Eliza Gilkyson was born in Hollywood to folk-singing DAR cultural elite, but she must have used her silverish spoon to feed on large
doses of unrefined life. 
Her songs celebrate a scar-studded, mistake-wizened, regret-free history of seeking truth, heat, and marrow from the acid Sixties through the current era of consumerist delusions. Tall, thin, and still attractively hip, she wears a guitar as naturally as any grizzled rocker. Her voice reaches the ache of longing as readily as it belts Bush-bashing blues. ("I'm from Texas," she said in the intro to 'Man of God,' "and we're still missing our village idiot.")
The grittiest thing about her is that she keeps improving as a songwriter and performer even as she pushes 60. Five or six years ago she warmed up the audience in Hell, a performance memorable mostly for her stand-up comedy between likable songs. A headliner this time, Gilkyson's hit her confident stride. She regaled us plenty with her wit, but settled in the second half of her set into moving us with her artistry, her songwriting, her lyrics. I was especially impressed by glimpses of what I think are unreleased songs, including the great line for locating grit, at "the corner of ruin and grace."
I couldn't find any, at least not Anglo grit. I found sleaze, both working class and upper crust, but that ain't no authentic, dare to do the right thing, unconcerned by dirty finger nails, do the hard work of the world, grit. The closest thing I could find was stylized designer grit, created from the clean pretty drafting tables of clean pretty minds, whose rebellion from stucco walls and red-tile roofs created coffee shops, bars, or restaurants where graduate students and ex-graduate students like me could drink four-dollar coffees or five-dollar beers and feel the authenticity of bared brick and ductwork, pre-distressed furniture, and the atmosphere of antique Coke bottles and old license plates. Had I moved to a new state or a new state of being?
After a year or two in town, a bit slowly, really, I discovered the venerable concert series, Sings Like Hell. Producer Peggy Jones and her hellions have succeeded in introducing grit into the dreamy prettiness of Santa Barbara far better than most, certainly far better than I. Within the beautiful, beautiful Lobero opera house, they stage some of the best musical acts in town, specializing in the graduates of--and those still enrolled in--the school of non-commercial knocks. Heavily flavored by the Austin scene, Sings Like Hell offers singer-songwriters who are more familiar with loud bars a chance to perform for a sit-down audience in an acoustically designed venue. The tag line of the series is "The best music you've never heard," and indeed the best shows not starring Richard Thompson are the ones by unknown surprises. Anyone familiar with Sings Like Hell knows all this.
A couple weekends ago, a great example of grit in paradise came to Hell. Eliza Gilkyson was born in Hollywood to folk-singing DAR cultural elite, but she must have used her silverish spoon to feed on large
doses of unrefined life. Her songs celebrate a scar-studded, mistake-wizened, regret-free history of seeking truth, heat, and marrow from the acid Sixties through the current era of consumerist delusions. Tall, thin, and still attractively hip, she wears a guitar as naturally as any grizzled rocker. Her voice reaches the ache of longing as readily as it belts Bush-bashing blues. ("I'm from Texas," she said in the intro to 'Man of God,' "and we're still missing our village idiot.")The grittiest thing about her is that she keeps improving as a songwriter and performer even as she pushes 60. Five or six years ago she warmed up the audience in Hell, a performance memorable mostly for her stand-up comedy between likable songs. A headliner this time, Gilkyson's hit her confident stride. She regaled us plenty with her wit, but settled in the second half of her set into moving us with her artistry, her songwriting, her lyrics. I was especially impressed by glimpses of what I think are unreleased songs, including the great line for locating grit, at "the corner of ruin and grace."
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Candidate of Choice
Dale Francisco ran for Santa Barbara City Council as a pro-choice candidate; that is, he wants public policy to support private transportation. In short, he's a car guy, and he doesn't want Santa Barbara in the business of encouraging people to walk, bike, or ride public transit. People have chosen cars, he reasons, and government should respect that choice. Now that Francisco has beaten the odds and Brian Barnwell for a seat on the City Council, I'm compelled to make a few common-sense points to help ensure that his argument to support cars in the 21st century doesn't gain traction in Santa Barbara public policy.
First, people's personal choices are defined by public choices. Calling the choice to own and drive a car simply a matter of "personal" choice ignores the public choice to invest enormous resources in roads and parking and suburban sprawl. The infrastructure is set up for cars. That I and nearly every adult in Santa Barbara chooses to own and drive a car is possible only because of tax-supported infrastructure. How many of us would invest tens of thousands of dollars in personal transportation if roads were unpaved and parking non-existent? How many would choose public transportation if enough money were invested in it to make it more convenient than cars?
Second, the public choice to invest in personal transportation has never been a simple matter of democracy in action, never a simple reflection of Americans love affair with the automobile. Powerful corporations with vast sums of money at stake, notably General Motors, pursued calculated policies to cripple public transportation, eliminate competition, and leave people with no other option but to purchase a car. Los Angeles is probably the most tragic result of this effort. Blessed in the first half of the twentieth century with the largest streetcar system in the world, boasting a per capita ridership exceeding current-day San Francisco and New York, LA now famously suffers from the horrors of auto-dystopia: asphalt jungles, traffic nightmares, vacant downtown, smog, endless commutes--and on and on.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the choice to invest public money in personal transportation, which may have made some sense in the first half of the twentieth century, makes no sense today. The Average Man has pointed out to Dale Francisco the green reasons for public transportation, which I think are obvious and I fully support. I'd also like to point to the, dare I say, emotional benefits of public transportation. For sure, cars can be fun and, perhaps more so than any other commodity, bring real pleasure. But maybe getting out of our cars and interacting with our neighbors is even more fun. As Francisco himself has said, "I originally came to Santa Barbara partly because this is one of the world's best places for biking and hiking, and because it has a walkable downtown. If I never had to drive a car, I'd be delighted." Well, then, why not support public policy that fosters the choice for such car-less joy?
First, people's personal choices are defined by public choices. Calling the choice to own and drive a car simply a matter of "personal" choice ignores the public choice to invest enormous resources in roads and parking and suburban sprawl. The infrastructure is set up for cars. That I and nearly every adult in Santa Barbara chooses to own and drive a car is possible only because of tax-supported infrastructure. How many of us would invest tens of thousands of dollars in personal transportation if roads were unpaved and parking non-existent? How many would choose public transportation if enough money were invested in it to make it more convenient than cars?
Second, the public choice to invest in personal transportation has never been a simple matter of democracy in action, never a simple reflection of Americans love affair with the automobile. Powerful corporations with vast sums of money at stake, notably General Motors, pursued calculated policies to cripple public transportation, eliminate competition, and leave people with no other option but to purchase a car. Los Angeles is probably the most tragic result of this effort. Blessed in the first half of the twentieth century with the largest streetcar system in the world, boasting a per capita ridership exceeding current-day San Francisco and New York, LA now famously suffers from the horrors of auto-dystopia: asphalt jungles, traffic nightmares, vacant downtown, smog, endless commutes--and on and on.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the choice to invest public money in personal transportation, which may have made some sense in the first half of the twentieth century, makes no sense today. The Average Man has pointed out to Dale Francisco the green reasons for public transportation, which I think are obvious and I fully support. I'd also like to point to the, dare I say, emotional benefits of public transportation. For sure, cars can be fun and, perhaps more so than any other commodity, bring real pleasure. But maybe getting out of our cars and interacting with our neighbors is even more fun. As Francisco himself has said, "I originally came to Santa Barbara partly because this is one of the world's best places for biking and hiking, and because it has a walkable downtown. If I never had to drive a car, I'd be delighted." Well, then, why not support public policy that fosters the choice for such car-less joy?
Friday, September 7, 2007
Warner Warning
The widely reported $120 margarita at the San Ysidro ranch got me thinking again about Ty Warner's effect on the quality of life in Santa Barbara. Walking by Ty Warner's various sea-front properties in Montecito last spring, I witnessed an army of laborers building, renovating, beautifying. Some might point out how many jobs "Ty" is creating, how much money he's pumping into the local economy (though I wonder how much of the reported hundreds of million actually stays in the local economy and how much goes to imported luxury items and materials). But to me, the significant fact is that so much capital and so much human labor, skilled and unskilled, lower class and lower middle class, is being devoted to the exclusive benefit of rich people.
Consider the local Warner properties, not including his multi-lot bluff-top estate, and not including the cost of actual purchase, only the renovation cost:
- Biltmore Hotel, recently renovated for a cool $240 million (for 233 rooms). Rooms "start at $550" a night.
- San Ysidro Ranch, recently renovated for $130 million (for 40 cottages and suites), plus an additional $25 million for the Stonehouse restaurant. Accommodations available for $800-$4,000 a night.
- Coral Casino, currently completing a $35 million renovation. Enrollment fees more than $20,000, plus monthly and other fees.
- Montecito Country Club, renovation plans in the works, with Jack Nicklaus designing the golf course. Membership, $10,000 plus fees.
- Sandpiper Golf Course, $124-$144 for a round of golf.
- Rancho San Marcos, currently a relative upper-middle-class bargain at $65-$85 for a round of golf, though changes are expected.
Ty Warner epitomizes the worst of contemporary capitalism. He makes a fortune selling frivolous beanie babies to kids and crazed collectors, then invests that fortune in luxurious playpens for the rich and super-rich. His idea of public spirit, his contribution to making the world a better place, begins with personal aesthetics and ends with public relations, little more than individual aggrandizement with an impoverished sense of larger purpose.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Fun Facts
George has tagged me, kicked my can, captured my flag; and since I can neither hide nor dodge, I'll play. So, eight more or less fun facts about me. Allee alle incomefree.
1. My grandfather died in 1934 as the second most powerful man in Boston, the Mayor's chauffeur, through whom funnelled all the party patronage. His political acumen died with him, since the only political accomplishment that his twelve children and 66 grandchildren have been able to muster is to stay out of jail (mostly).
2. An example of staying out of jail, or the confession of an eco-terrorist: Back when I was fifteen (so the statute of limitation has long run out, me hopes), a couple of friends and I were pissed off that a developer was destroying the woods we had grown up playing in. He was a very modest developer, probably just a contractor with a hefty loan and small profit margin, a total project of maybe ten houses. But he and his minions were bulldozing the trees, building tract homes, paving paradise for profit. The kicker was that he was building among the standard seven-room capes a fifteen-room colonial for himself. It was like the Lord's house surrounded by his serf cottages.
We weren't going to let him get away with it. We sabotaged his bulldozer, cutting wires, pouring dirt into openings for gas and oil. We slit open bags of plaster and emptied them on the wet ground. We even left notes, expressing our ecological rage in words and letters cut from magazines. In those notes we called ourselves the Green Mountain Boys. On the second or third night-time raid, a couple of guys were waiting for us, and suddenly the blue lights of a cop car came around the corner. We ran like hell, through the paths in the woods we knew too well. They never caught us, but they did put an end to eco-acts of the Green Mountain Boys.
3. I used to dive off cliffs of the Red Rock sort, up to fifty feet and higher, until I got to be 18 and conscious enough to realize I should be scared. And so I was, and so I stopped. From then on I only bragged about my daring-do without daring to do.
4. I once screamed at a power hitter in Fenway Park to bunt. And he bunted.
5. I lived the first 40 years of my life on the 42nd parallel, from Boston to Amherst to Binghamton to Ames (B-A-B-A). Then I moved to Santa Baba.
6. I met Robin swing dancing. On the same date a year later, we got married. Robin wore the same dress.
7. I played on a pick-up basketball team in Robb Gym that won by a shut-out, 11-zip. With a collective experience of over a hundred years of playing pick-up ball and tens of thousands of games, none of us had ever witnessed it before.
8. The only things in life I like to be bitter are coffee, beer, and, in small doses, truth.
1. My grandfather died in 1934 as the second most powerful man in Boston, the Mayor's chauffeur, through whom funnelled all the party patronage. His political acumen died with him, since the only political accomplishment that his twelve children and 66 grandchildren have been able to muster is to stay out of jail (mostly).
2. An example of staying out of jail, or the confession of an eco-terrorist: Back when I was fifteen (so the statute of limitation has long run out, me hopes), a couple of friends and I were pissed off that a developer was destroying the woods we had grown up playing in. He was a very modest developer, probably just a contractor with a hefty loan and small profit margin, a total project of maybe ten houses. But he and his minions were bulldozing the trees, building tract homes, paving paradise for profit. The kicker was that he was building among the standard seven-room capes a fifteen-room colonial for himself. It was like the Lord's house surrounded by his serf cottages.
We weren't going to let him get away with it. We sabotaged his bulldozer, cutting wires, pouring dirt into openings for gas and oil. We slit open bags of plaster and emptied them on the wet ground. We even left notes, expressing our ecological rage in words and letters cut from magazines. In those notes we called ourselves the Green Mountain Boys. On the second or third night-time raid, a couple of guys were waiting for us, and suddenly the blue lights of a cop car came around the corner. We ran like hell, through the paths in the woods we knew too well. They never caught us, but they did put an end to eco-acts of the Green Mountain Boys.
3. I used to dive off cliffs of the Red Rock sort, up to fifty feet and higher, until I got to be 18 and conscious enough to realize I should be scared. And so I was, and so I stopped. From then on I only bragged about my daring-do without daring to do.
4. I once screamed at a power hitter in Fenway Park to bunt. And he bunted.
5. I lived the first 40 years of my life on the 42nd parallel, from Boston to Amherst to Binghamton to Ames (B-A-B-A). Then I moved to Santa Baba.
6. I met Robin swing dancing. On the same date a year later, we got married. Robin wore the same dress.
7. I played on a pick-up basketball team in Robb Gym that won by a shut-out, 11-zip. With a collective experience of over a hundred years of playing pick-up ball and tens of thousands of games, none of us had ever witnessed it before.
8. The only things in life I like to be bitter are coffee, beer, and, in small doses, truth.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Peak Oil and Hope
Of all the cries of doom that shake the souls of environmentalists like me, peak oil is the most apocalyptic. It is inevitable and irrefutable. Someday, maybe someday soon, the supply of oil will no longer keep up with the demand. When that happens, it will begin the end of the world as we know it. The nightmare scenarios are frightening.
But the peak oil apocalypse is also--I'm coming to think, slowly, cautiously, after struggling through depression--full of hope. In fact, by writing this little piece I have convinced myself. Peak oil is our environmental salvation!
I first heard the words "peak oil" at a Community Environmental Council (CEC) event. Two guys were working the crowd like high-tech entrepreneurs in a room full of venture capitalists. Since I didn't really know anyone there, they found me an easy audience. They told me all about the likelihood of war, famine, global anarchy. They told me that the oil companies, see, know all about peak oil, and so do their political lackeys in the Bush administration. Why else would they go to war in the middle east? They told me that Wall Street wizards, see, know all about it and are in a panic to protect their wealth somehow, even profit from the catastrophe somehow. They wanted to know, see, what Santa Barbara was doing to prepare, where we would get our food, our water, our livelihoods. In short, these guys could have come straight from that oracle of peak oil, the rapturous web site for zealots (WAIT! DON'T CLICK THAT LINK unless you are prepared to be depressed for days. Are you ready? Can you handle the truth?) L.A.O.T.C.
I listened to these guys, but I was paying attention to other things, mostly to my unfamiliar surroundings. The event took place at a very nice estate, very pleasant, very understated. All the people were very nice, very well-meaning, very wealthy. Since I'm just a blue-collar boy with too much education, I couldn't help thinking, "I want me some of this elegance, this importance, this charm." I don't need no bluff-top estate. I don't need to be Founder, top donor, or President of the Board. But I want my stake, my claim, my place. In short, I promptly forgot about peak oil.
In this way I think I'm pretty typical. For most of us, our worldly desires, worthy or otherwise, cloud the apocalyptic realities. We can't be living everyday as a response to ecological alarm bells. As even evangelicals waiting in rapture for the Millennium profess: Prepare for the apocalypse, but live your life.
I have no illusions about this ostrich attitude. Forgetting about the realities of peak oil is not helpful, only necessary as a coping strategy. Equally necessary is lifting our heads out of the compelling sands of our lives and taking a look at the approach of doom. For this clear, heartless, rational vision, however, we need more than the tragedy of doom and forgetting. To face the realities of the future, we need more than reason. We need hope.
This need for hope is why the peak oil apocalypse is special. It portends an apocalypse in the precise religious and etymological sense of the word, that is, as a revelation. Peak oil reveals to us exactly what, as environmentalists, we most want: a world without oil. Instead of preventing global warming or preventing pollution or preventing the depletion of aquifers (etc. etc.), the peak oil apocalypse is a positive vision. It gives us, as inevitable and irrefutable, a world without oil. Amen.
Okay, so there's that transition period of war, famine, and global anarchy between now and then; our way of life will be destroyed, most of us will die, yaddah yaddah yaddah. Or maybe not. There are other, more gradual scenarios. As unlikely as it sounds, we may actually generate leadership that manages an orderly transition to the post-oil economy. We can work toward that goal. Solidify the grassroots! Ride your bike! Go solar! Eat slow and local! Exercise your entrepreneurial energy for innovative change. Support the CEC's Fossil Free by '33 initiative! Keep your eyes on the prize: A world without oil.
More specifically, peak oil heralds a world in which local, communal bonds will develop. Even James Howard Kunstler's Long Emergency allows for the hope of more human closeness. Bill McKibben says that, even as physical life gets harder, we'll be happier.
If I look at the politcal and economic situation rationally, I see no reason to believe that we can create an orderly transition to a post-oil economy. But hope isn't about reason. It's about faith.
Keep the faith! World without oil! Hallelujah!
But the peak oil apocalypse is also--I'm coming to think, slowly, cautiously, after struggling through depression--full of hope. In fact, by writing this little piece I have convinced myself. Peak oil is our environmental salvation!
I first heard the words "peak oil" at a Community Environmental Council (CEC) event. Two guys were working the crowd like high-tech entrepreneurs in a room full of venture capitalists. Since I didn't really know anyone there, they found me an easy audience. They told me all about the likelihood of war, famine, global anarchy. They told me that the oil companies, see, know all about peak oil, and so do their political lackeys in the Bush administration. Why else would they go to war in the middle east? They told me that Wall Street wizards, see, know all about it and are in a panic to protect their wealth somehow, even profit from the catastrophe somehow. They wanted to know, see, what Santa Barbara was doing to prepare, where we would get our food, our water, our livelihoods. In short, these guys could have come straight from that oracle of peak oil, the rapturous web site for zealots (WAIT! DON'T CLICK THAT LINK unless you are prepared to be depressed for days. Are you ready? Can you handle the truth?) L.A.O.T.C.
I listened to these guys, but I was paying attention to other things, mostly to my unfamiliar surroundings. The event took place at a very nice estate, very pleasant, very understated. All the people were very nice, very well-meaning, very wealthy. Since I'm just a blue-collar boy with too much education, I couldn't help thinking, "I want me some of this elegance, this importance, this charm." I don't need no bluff-top estate. I don't need to be Founder, top donor, or President of the Board. But I want my stake, my claim, my place. In short, I promptly forgot about peak oil.
In this way I think I'm pretty typical. For most of us, our worldly desires, worthy or otherwise, cloud the apocalyptic realities. We can't be living everyday as a response to ecological alarm bells. As even evangelicals waiting in rapture for the Millennium profess: Prepare for the apocalypse, but live your life.
I have no illusions about this ostrich attitude. Forgetting about the realities of peak oil is not helpful, only necessary as a coping strategy. Equally necessary is lifting our heads out of the compelling sands of our lives and taking a look at the approach of doom. For this clear, heartless, rational vision, however, we need more than the tragedy of doom and forgetting. To face the realities of the future, we need more than reason. We need hope.
This need for hope is why the peak oil apocalypse is special. It portends an apocalypse in the precise religious and etymological sense of the word, that is, as a revelation. Peak oil reveals to us exactly what, as environmentalists, we most want: a world without oil. Instead of preventing global warming or preventing pollution or preventing the depletion of aquifers (etc. etc.), the peak oil apocalypse is a positive vision. It gives us, as inevitable and irrefutable, a world without oil. Amen.
Okay, so there's that transition period of war, famine, and global anarchy between now and then; our way of life will be destroyed, most of us will die, yaddah yaddah yaddah. Or maybe not. There are other, more gradual scenarios. As unlikely as it sounds, we may actually generate leadership that manages an orderly transition to the post-oil economy. We can work toward that goal. Solidify the grassroots! Ride your bike! Go solar! Eat slow and local! Exercise your entrepreneurial energy for innovative change. Support the CEC's Fossil Free by '33 initiative! Keep your eyes on the prize: A world without oil.
More specifically, peak oil heralds a world in which local, communal bonds will develop. Even James Howard Kunstler's Long Emergency allows for the hope of more human closeness. Bill McKibben says that, even as physical life gets harder, we'll be happier.
If I look at the politcal and economic situation rationally, I see no reason to believe that we can create an orderly transition to a post-oil economy. But hope isn't about reason. It's about faith.
Keep the faith! World without oil! Hallelujah!
Monday, May 28, 2007
Berkeley's Brainy Bums
A homeless guy came up to me on Telegraph Street and said, "You look distinguished."
"Thanks," I said. "So do you."
"Yeah," he sighed. "But I fell asleep in the middle of it."
"Thanks," I said. "So do you."
"Yeah," he sighed. "But I fell asleep in the middle of it."
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Revival
I saw Paul Hawken last night. He led a revival meeting for those of us who believe in social justice and environmental sanity. He gave us a gently rousing sermon about the multitudes of the righteous across the globe who share our belief. He gave us hope that we, the meek and righteous, shall inherit the earth from the evil powers of oil, endless consumption, and Wall Street concentrations of wealth. He confirmed for us that our love for each other and for the planet is the way, the truth, and the life. He inspired us to keep the faith in our good works. We are legion; together, we shall overcome.
My mocking tone, here, fails to protect me from the truth of this insight: The many movements worldwide to save the planet and its people from the apocalypse amount to a religious movement. It springs from the same human spirit that inspires all the great religions: our purpose and salvation in a world going to hell is love, faith, hope, and community. We have new stories for our age, stories based in science and reason rather than myth and mysticism; we have replaced faith in an all-knowing god with our faith in the collective human knowledge and wisdom of science and reason. But our emotional and spiritual experience is, perhaps, much the same as with a religion.
In other words, we respond emotionally and spiritually to these stories in a variety of what could be called religious ways. We have the old-testament style fire and brimstone prophets of global and globalized doom, who inspire righteous indignation against the oil-loving infidels. We have the prophets of piety, who counsel that individual adherence to a set of environmental and social commandments (mostly amounting to ascetic practices of organic, solar-powered, and free trade consumption) will counter the momentum of oil-fueled globalized misery. And we have prophets of hope like Hawken and Bill McKibben, whose gospels spread the word of goodness in the world and its people.
Perhaps we shouldn't be scared of this characterization of the movements of social justice and environmentalism as religious in nature. We can give up archaic superstition in favor of reason, the Law of the Father in favor of reasoned debates, and concentrations of power in hierarchical institutions of established religion in favor of the diverse and decentralized practices of millions of people. But why should we give up the emotional and spiritual stuff of religion--the faith, the hope, the fear, the indignation, and, above all, the love? Humans do not live by reason alone. Indeed, faith, hope, fear, indignation, and love are far more powerful than reason, certainly historically, certainly personally, and certainly politically. Why abandon such power? Why cede it to those who believe in superstition, the laws of a long dead god, and blind obedience to centralized authority?
The name of Hawken's book is Blessed Unrest. Hallelujah! Amen.
My mocking tone, here, fails to protect me from the truth of this insight: The many movements worldwide to save the planet and its people from the apocalypse amount to a religious movement. It springs from the same human spirit that inspires all the great religions: our purpose and salvation in a world going to hell is love, faith, hope, and community. We have new stories for our age, stories based in science and reason rather than myth and mysticism; we have replaced faith in an all-knowing god with our faith in the collective human knowledge and wisdom of science and reason. But our emotional and spiritual experience is, perhaps, much the same as with a religion.
In other words, we respond emotionally and spiritually to these stories in a variety of what could be called religious ways. We have the old-testament style fire and brimstone prophets of global and globalized doom, who inspire righteous indignation against the oil-loving infidels. We have the prophets of piety, who counsel that individual adherence to a set of environmental and social commandments (mostly amounting to ascetic practices of organic, solar-powered, and free trade consumption) will counter the momentum of oil-fueled globalized misery. And we have prophets of hope like Hawken and Bill McKibben, whose gospels spread the word of goodness in the world and its people.
Perhaps we shouldn't be scared of this characterization of the movements of social justice and environmentalism as religious in nature. We can give up archaic superstition in favor of reason, the Law of the Father in favor of reasoned debates, and concentrations of power in hierarchical institutions of established religion in favor of the diverse and decentralized practices of millions of people. But why should we give up the emotional and spiritual stuff of religion--the faith, the hope, the fear, the indignation, and, above all, the love? Humans do not live by reason alone. Indeed, faith, hope, fear, indignation, and love are far more powerful than reason, certainly historically, certainly personally, and certainly politically. Why abandon such power? Why cede it to those who believe in superstition, the laws of a long dead god, and blind obedience to centralized authority?
The name of Hawken's book is Blessed Unrest. Hallelujah! Amen.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Future Fridays: The End of Endless Growth?
I have to recommend Bill McKibben's Deep Economy. I am surprised by how much I like it. It's perhaps not much different than a lot of environmental books, and it didn't tell me anything, beyond specific examples, that I haven't been thinking about since the 70s. But McKibben is fun for me because he rekindles my sense of the future as a project--not idealism or optimism or even hope, just local, green stuff to do because 1) local and green is the right way to go and 2) because, who knows, it might work. In other words, the book manages to take the alternative piety out of environmentalism--neither the fire and brimstone alarms of global warning prophets nor the sanctimonious saintliness of tree-hugging messiahs. Rather, the book lays out the basic framework of what's wrong and the pragmatic everyday things people around the world are doing to better their lives and communities.
McKibben lays out quite readably and sanely the familiar basic problem:
McKibben's most prominent, most pressing, and most promising example is agriculture. Currently, we are ruining the planet with a "poisonous brew" of petroleum fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides, genetically modified seeds, and heavy gas-powered machinery that produce monocultural crops to travel thousands of miles in the global economy. Industrial agriculture: 1) depends entirely on a dwindling supply of oil; 2) wreaks havoc on ecosystems, human health, and global temperatures; and continues to dislocate farmers from the land, disenfranchising them, and sending them to urban slums and shanty towns in search of work. To counter this historically brief two-hundred year trend, McKibben points to dozens of innovative, technically advanced, and above all local agricultural practices that people everywhere are turning to.
McKibben lays out quite readably and sanely the familiar basic problem:
- Passing the peak of oil supplies means the end of the industrial economy as we've know it for two hundred years.
- The global warming caused by the oil economy is coming and will change things, no one knows how much.
- The globalization of the oil economy leads to vast inequities and an overworked and highly stressed population in this country, even more enormous social and ecological problems for countries developing on the U.S. model exported through the IMF and the World Bank, and points without question at the unsustainability of fossil fuel industrialization.
McKibben's most prominent, most pressing, and most promising example is agriculture. Currently, we are ruining the planet with a "poisonous brew" of petroleum fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides, genetically modified seeds, and heavy gas-powered machinery that produce monocultural crops to travel thousands of miles in the global economy. Industrial agriculture: 1) depends entirely on a dwindling supply of oil; 2) wreaks havoc on ecosystems, human health, and global temperatures; and continues to dislocate farmers from the land, disenfranchising them, and sending them to urban slums and shanty towns in search of work. To counter this historically brief two-hundred year trend, McKibben points to dozens of innovative, technically advanced, and above all local agricultural practices that people everywhere are turning to.
- In the U.S, for example, where the process of industrializing agricultural is most complete, local farmers markets are nonetheless growing fast, making possible a livelihood from the land for increasing numbers of local farmers. It also strengthens community, as folks become more aware of each other and the sources of the food we eat. Who doesn't like the farmers market? It's way more fun than the generic grocery store. The food is better and healthier. And local agriculture is better for the community and better for the planet.
- In other, developing countries, McKibben points to dozens of indigenous, local practices that tend toward the small, local, and sustainable. Often as innovative and technically marvelous as they are low-investment, practices like "biogas" heating or raising chickens in cages above fish ponds (so that the chicken shit fertilizes the water grass that the fish eat) may not even show up in the GNP, but they provide food and livelihoods for local folks. And the local folks are healthier and happier, working within their communities and in charge of their futures.
Wall Street over Main Street
Proof that current public policies favor the rich over the rest of us: An article in the Boston Globe reports, "Last spring, 20 of the 36 valedictorians from Boston's public high schools were confronted with the stark reality that, after all their hard work, they did not have the money to go to college. This year, the number stands to rise." The authors go on to note the disturbing trend in which financial aid is increasingly based on merit rather than need, thus sending more and more money to private school types who need it least.
Since 1993, the number of wealthy students (top quarter of incomes) receiving aid at private colleges has grown at more than five times the rate of the number of needy students (bottom quarter of income).
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Hedge Hogs
Robert Kuttner talks about the most visible and dangerous development in contemporary capitalism, the hedge fund, that unregulated engine of the rich to create outrageous personal wealth while endangering the economic lives of everyone else and, indeed, the entire financial system.
Beyond the risk of a crash, hedge funds and private equity operators are driving the wrong brand of capitalism. Theirs is a capitalism of windfall returns for financial engineers, and less security and income for workaday Americans. Hedge fund capitalism also signals that real entrepreneurship -- patiently nurturing a new idea and building a company of managers and employees -- is for suckers.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Même
FOODOLOGY
Q. What is your salad dressing of choice?
A. Olive oil and balsamic (or, rather, faux balsamic, since I was told that true Balsamic vinegar from Modena in Italy is aged over 100 years and costs about that)
Q. What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
A. Closed.
Q. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
A. I think about restaurants the way my dad used to think about food: it's all good, unless it's bad.
Q. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
A. I shoot for 20%, but can't vouch for my math
Q. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick off of?
A. Give me each day my daily bread, just make it good
Q. What is your favorite type of gum?
A. Plaque-free
TECHNOLOGY
Q. What is your wallpaper on your computer?
A. Generic
Q. How many televisions are in your house?
A. Zip these days, and I don't miss it at all. Then again, the Sox will be playing the Yankees next weekend.
BIOLOGY
Q. What’s your best feature?
A. My gender.
Q. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
A. My hipness.
Q. Which of your five senses do you think is keenest?
A. Touch.
Q. When was the last time you had a cavity?
A. Where?
Q. What is the heaviest item you lifted last?
A. My responsiblities.
Q. Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
A. By the bottle.
BULLSHITOLOGY
Q. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
A. Absolutely not. Death's certainty yet unknowability is essential to the human condition.
Q. Is love for real?
A. Love is real, various, ubiquitous, rare, essential, God, all you need.... It's the human equivalent of the connection that makes a flock of doves change direction all in the same precise instant.
Q. If you could change your first name, what would you change it to?
A. Dunno
Q. What color do you think looks best on you?
A. Black and white.
Q. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
A. Only on purpose.
Q. Have you ever saved someone’s life?
A. Every time my daughters got near water before they could swim.
Q. Has someone ever saved yours?
A. When I was a twelve-year-old boy, I bounced a basketball from the sidewalk into a busy street and without thinking reached down to get it. This lady driving a red Pontiac slammed on her brakes, swerved to miss me, swerved back to avoid a head-on collision with cars coming the other way, saving my life, hers, and several others with some fancy-ass driving. Her car ended up broadside on the street and, like me, unscratched. My savior--pretty, dark hair, thirties--rolled down her window and said to me, "You asshole!"
DAREOLOGY
Q. Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000?
A. You wouldn't even need to bring clothes to my jail cell.
Q. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
A. Where?
Q. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
A. I have a feeling the originator of this même is a twelve year old boy.
Q. Would you never blog again for $50,000?
A. Would I still get to complete mêmes?
Q. Would you pose nude in a magazine for $250,000?
A. This one seems a bigger dilemma for women. We boys have no problems, except imagining getting paid for it.
Q. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1,000?
A. Is this a même for measuring masochism?
Q. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
A. Or sadism? It's an S/M même from the mind of a twelve-year old boy.
Q. Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000?
A. For that kind of money, I could watch the Sox in a very posh pub.
Q. Give up MySpace forever for $30,000?
A. Do you mean, my space?
DUMBOLOGY
Q: What is in your left pocket?
A. The usual.
Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
A. I actually laughed.
Q: Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
A. Yes.
Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?
A. I've sat through a rain shower, a baby shower, and a wedding shower, but generally stand for a meteor shower.
Q: Could you live with roommates?
A. Could they live with me?
Q: How many pairs of flip-flops do you own?
A. No pairs, only flip-flop, flip-flop
Q: Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
A. I have more of a drive-in history with cops.
Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
A. Young again. A twelve year old boy.
LASTOLOGY
Q: Friend you talked to?
A. My best friend, Robin.
Q: Last person you called?
A. My older daughter.
RANDOMOLOGY
Q: First place you went this morning?
A. To pee.
Q: What can you not wait to do?
A. When ya gotta go, ya gotta go.
Q: What’s the last movie you saw?
A. Volver, perhaps as good as a movie can get when it has no remotely likeable male characters.
Q: Are you a friendly person?
A. I did this même, didn't I?
Q. What is your salad dressing of choice?
A. Olive oil and balsamic (or, rather, faux balsamic, since I was told that true Balsamic vinegar from Modena in Italy is aged over 100 years and costs about that)
Q. What is your favorite fast food restaurant?
A. Closed.
Q. What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
A. I think about restaurants the way my dad used to think about food: it's all good, unless it's bad.
Q. On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?
A. I shoot for 20%, but can't vouch for my math
Q. What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick off of?
A. Give me each day my daily bread, just make it good
Q. What is your favorite type of gum?
A. Plaque-free
TECHNOLOGY
Q. What is your wallpaper on your computer?
A. Generic
Q. How many televisions are in your house?
A. Zip these days, and I don't miss it at all. Then again, the Sox will be playing the Yankees next weekend.
BIOLOGY
Q. What’s your best feature?
A. My gender.
Q. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
A. My hipness.
Q. Which of your five senses do you think is keenest?
A. Touch.
Q. When was the last time you had a cavity?
A. Where?
Q. What is the heaviest item you lifted last?
A. My responsiblities.
Q. Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
A. By the bottle.
BULLSHITOLOGY
Q. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
A. Absolutely not. Death's certainty yet unknowability is essential to the human condition.
Q. Is love for real?
A. Love is real, various, ubiquitous, rare, essential, God, all you need.... It's the human equivalent of the connection that makes a flock of doves change direction all in the same precise instant.
Q. If you could change your first name, what would you change it to?
A. Dunno
Q. What color do you think looks best on you?
A. Black and white.
Q. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?
A. Only on purpose.
Q. Have you ever saved someone’s life?
A. Every time my daughters got near water before they could swim.
Q. Has someone ever saved yours?
A. When I was a twelve-year-old boy, I bounced a basketball from the sidewalk into a busy street and without thinking reached down to get it. This lady driving a red Pontiac slammed on her brakes, swerved to miss me, swerved back to avoid a head-on collision with cars coming the other way, saving my life, hers, and several others with some fancy-ass driving. Her car ended up broadside on the street and, like me, unscratched. My savior--pretty, dark hair, thirties--rolled down her window and said to me, "You asshole!"
DAREOLOGY
Q. Would you walk naked for a half mile down a public street for $100,000?
A. You wouldn't even need to bring clothes to my jail cell.
Q. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
A. Where?
Q. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
A. I have a feeling the originator of this même is a twelve year old boy.
Q. Would you never blog again for $50,000?
A. Would I still get to complete mêmes?
Q. Would you pose nude in a magazine for $250,000?
A. This one seems a bigger dilemma for women. We boys have no problems, except imagining getting paid for it.
Q. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1,000?
A. Is this a même for measuring masochism?
Q. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
A. Or sadism? It's an S/M même from the mind of a twelve-year old boy.
Q. Would you give up watching television for a year for $25,000?
A. For that kind of money, I could watch the Sox in a very posh pub.
Q. Give up MySpace forever for $30,000?
A. Do you mean, my space?
DUMBOLOGY
Q: What is in your left pocket?
A. The usual.
Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
A. I actually laughed.
Q: Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
A. Yes.
Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?
A. I've sat through a rain shower, a baby shower, and a wedding shower, but generally stand for a meteor shower.
Q: Could you live with roommates?
A. Could they live with me?
Q: How many pairs of flip-flops do you own?
A. No pairs, only flip-flop, flip-flop
Q: Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
A. I have more of a drive-in history with cops.
Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
A. Young again. A twelve year old boy.
LASTOLOGY
Q: Friend you talked to?
A. My best friend, Robin.
Q: Last person you called?
A. My older daughter.
RANDOMOLOGY
Q: First place you went this morning?
A. To pee.
Q: What can you not wait to do?
A. When ya gotta go, ya gotta go.
Q: What’s the last movie you saw?
A. Volver, perhaps as good as a movie can get when it has no remotely likeable male characters.
Q: Are you a friendly person?
A. I did this même, didn't I?
Friday, April 6, 2007
Warner Warning
Walking by Ty Warner's various sea-front properties in Montecito last week, I witnessed an army of laborers building, renovating, beautifying. An economic apologist might piously point out how many jobs "Ty" is creating, how much money he's pumping into the local economy (though I wonder how much of the reported hundreds of million actually stays in the local economy and how much goes to imported luxuary items and materials). But to me, the significant fact is that so much capital and so much human labor, skilled and unskilled, lower class and lower middle class, is being devoted to the exclusive benefit of rich people.
Consider the Warner properties, not including his multi-lot bluff-top estate, and not including the cost of actual purchase:
Ty Warner epitomizes the worst of contemporary capitalism. He makes a fortune selling frivolous beanie babies to kids and crazed collectors, then invests that fortune in luxurious playpens for the rich and super-rich. His idea of public spirit, his contribution to making the world a better place, begins with personal aesthetics and ends with public relations. The saddest part is that he is typical, more successful than the run-of-the-mill millionaire, but still playing the same game of individual aggrandizement with little or no sense of larger purpose.
Consider the Warner properties, not including his multi-lot bluff-top estate, and not including the cost of actual purchase:
- Biltmore Hotel, recently renovated for a cool $240 million (for 233 rooms). Rooms "start at $550" a night.
- San Ysidro Ranch, recently renovated for $130 million (for 40 cottages and suites), plus an additional $25 million for the Stonehouse restaurant. Accommodations available for $800-$4,000 a night.
- Coral Casino, currently undergoing a $35 million renovation. Membership cost unavailable on the Internet.
- Montecito Country Club, renovation plans in the works, with Jack Nicklaus designing the golf course. Membership, $10,000.
- Sandpiper Golf Course, $124-$144 for a round of golf.
- Rancho San Marcos, currently a relative upper-middle-class bargain at $65-$85 for a round of golf, though changes are expected.
Ty Warner epitomizes the worst of contemporary capitalism. He makes a fortune selling frivolous beanie babies to kids and crazed collectors, then invests that fortune in luxurious playpens for the rich and super-rich. His idea of public spirit, his contribution to making the world a better place, begins with personal aesthetics and ends with public relations. The saddest part is that he is typical, more successful than the run-of-the-mill millionaire, but still playing the same game of individual aggrandizement with little or no sense of larger purpose.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Digital Death
Writing about art and immortality in his book, Ancient Mesopotamia, Stephen Bertman writes:
We labor under an illusion if we assume our present age will be better remembered than antiquity. The average life expectancy of magnetic tapes, audio or video, is only 10 years; of optical disks, 5o; of archival quality microfilm, but a 100. In fact, average-quality CD-ROMs become unreadable or unreliable after only five years. Advances in technology, moreover, make older computer hardware and software obsolete; and as they grow obsolete, their data becomes unintelligible. Meanwhile, the film that recorded the images of the past is already crumbling; according to UNESCO, "three-quarters of the films which were made worldwide before 1950 have already disappeared." Thus our so-called Age of Information may be known to the future as an age of missing information.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Building Mortality
The great thing about construction projects, especially renovation projects, is that they strongly suggest mortality.
I've been rebuilding a bathroom over the last couple of weeks. Carpentry, plastering, tiling, painting, minor plumbing, and more than I 've wanted of industrial strength cleaning. I've scratched knuckles, raised blisters, plastered my hair, sanded joint compound dust into every crevice of myself and the place, lost the ability to smell paint, and felt the sting of industrial solvents in my nightmares.
And I've loved it. The bathroom looks great. I couldn't be prouder of myself, my skill, my capacity to improve the world. I want to show off my accomplishments to all family, friends, landlords, and anyone else willing to admire my work.
Yet renovation, by its very nature, is also humbling. With every hammer swing and brush stroke, I know that I am replacing the fruits of someone else's proud labor. Thus I know--even as I aspire for my work to last, to be a monument to my skill and labor and accomplishment--that my excellent work will fade, crumble, disappear.
Indeed, I'm inspired--in my tiny tiny way--by the great builders in history, most especially the Great Pyramid of Giza, the oldest by far of any of the ancient Wonders of the Mediterranean World and the only one surviving. Built by untold thousands of slaves over a period of twenty years, the pyramid must represent some astronomical percentage of Pharonic Egypt's GNP. I also wonder how many slaves died in its construction. Nevertheless, it is remarkable. Built with the most amazing mathematical and engineering skill, after 45 centuries it still less shows than 0.1% error in symmetrical dimensions, and the interior blocks of stone weighing several tons each are so perfectly placed that a playing card will still not fit between any two stones.
Yet even the Great Pyramid, the oldest and best monument to immortality in the history of the planet, is in fact a testament to mortality. Today it stands in defiance of time, but still shows the effects of time: it has lost its smooth stone exterior; ten feet of its tip has eroded away; its original purpose as a monument/tomb/symbol of religious and political power probably lasted centuries, perhaps millennia, but the place was thoroughly looted by the time Alexander the Great conquered Egypt in the 4th century BC. Like the tortoise that lives for centuries compared to the insect that lives for hours, the pyramid has a much longer life span than any other building, but still a mortal lifespan.
Tones of tragedy thus accompany the doomed effort to create something that endures. Yet, if we accept this fact of life from the outset, then building something to last offers a challenge, plus the fun and satisfaction of meeting that challenge with all the skills we can muster, all our energy to do our best with the meagre tools and talents we have, to at least improve over what was there before, to create a better world. Embracing the tragedy of unavaoidable failure yet doing our best to refute it is the joy of mortality.
I've been rebuilding a bathroom over the last couple of weeks. Carpentry, plastering, tiling, painting, minor plumbing, and more than I 've wanted of industrial strength cleaning. I've scratched knuckles, raised blisters, plastered my hair, sanded joint compound dust into every crevice of myself and the place, lost the ability to smell paint, and felt the sting of industrial solvents in my nightmares.
And I've loved it. The bathroom looks great. I couldn't be prouder of myself, my skill, my capacity to improve the world. I want to show off my accomplishments to all family, friends, landlords, and anyone else willing to admire my work.
Yet renovation, by its very nature, is also humbling. With every hammer swing and brush stroke, I know that I am replacing the fruits of someone else's proud labor. Thus I know--even as I aspire for my work to last, to be a monument to my skill and labor and accomplishment--that my excellent work will fade, crumble, disappear.
Indeed, I'm inspired--in my tiny tiny way--by the great builders in history, most especially the Great Pyramid of Giza, the oldest by far of any of the ancient Wonders of the Mediterranean World and the only one surviving. Built by untold thousands of slaves over a period of twenty years, the pyramid must represent some astronomical percentage of Pharonic Egypt's GNP. I also wonder how many slaves died in its construction. Nevertheless, it is remarkable. Built with the most amazing mathematical and engineering skill, after 45 centuries it still less shows than 0.1% error in symmetrical dimensions, and the interior blocks of stone weighing several tons each are so perfectly placed that a playing card will still not fit between any two stones.
Yet even the Great Pyramid, the oldest and best monument to immortality in the history of the planet, is in fact a testament to mortality. Today it stands in defiance of time, but still shows the effects of time: it has lost its smooth stone exterior; ten feet of its tip has eroded away; its original purpose as a monument/tomb/symbol of religious and political power probably lasted centuries, perhaps millennia, but the place was thoroughly looted by the time Alexander the Great conquered Egypt in the 4th century BC. Like the tortoise that lives for centuries compared to the insect that lives for hours, the pyramid has a much longer life span than any other building, but still a mortal lifespan.
Tones of tragedy thus accompany the doomed effort to create something that endures. Yet, if we accept this fact of life from the outset, then building something to last offers a challenge, plus the fun and satisfaction of meeting that challenge with all the skills we can muster, all our energy to do our best with the meagre tools and talents we have, to at least improve over what was there before, to create a better world. Embracing the tragedy of unavaoidable failure yet doing our best to refute it is the joy of mortality.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
"Into Great Silence"
Some part of my Irish Catholic soul must be attracted to the priesthood. Not that I'm religious, or a believer, or even particularly moral, God knows (if He exists). Still, I'm attracted by the practice of contemplating God, or rather its secular equivalent. If I can translate God from religion to secular philosophy according to the tenet that God is life, then contemplating God means contemplating life.
This attraction is probably the result of some foreign influence, since it is so un-American, against the cultural compulsion to DO: achieve, build, earn, consume. Or perhaps it's just a sickness, a brooding nature, an affinity for cloud nine (as my father used to tell me), in other words, a poor excuse for not DOING. Although, I must say, I DO plenty of building, achieving, consuming, never enough of course (especially earning), but plenty. Nevertheless, I'm better, happier, when I contemplate the purpose and meaning of being alive. I indulge those moments outside of everyday experience that nonetheless define everyday experience. Perhaps it's akin to a pursuit of grace.
No doubt this pursuit attracted me the other night to the west coast premier of Into Great Silence, a German film by Philip Grönig about a monastery in the French Alps famous for its monks' vow of silence. From the website:
As advertised, the film, like life in the monastery, is remarkably spare, silent, almost completely uneventful: no musical score, virtually no dialogue; no plot, no drama, no climax. Indeed, in a three hour film, almost nothing happens. The film is one prolonged--two minutes or more--artsy camera shot after another, of the beautiful monastery and its alpine setting; of monks praying, ringing the bells to signal praying, or doing some simple daily chore like cutting celery; of monks passing each other in silence. The only structure is this cycle of daily life, repeated again and again, through the seasons, throughout the monk's life, from initiate to blind old age, minimizing doing and maximizing contemplation of God's meaning. Nothing changes or develops other than this unhurried, repetitive, distraction-less approach to God.
Not exactly a formula for a Hollywood blockbuster.
Yet the audience was maybe 500 in the college lecture hall and still well over 400 after three hours, most of us still awake, though quiet, subdued, perhaps transported, as was the film's intent, into the experience of the monastery, monastic life, contemplation. The three hours were not spellbinding. My attention wandered, settling at times on my "to do" consciousness, my plans for after the movie, my appetites. Still, I cycled back inexorably to the film and its silent, unhurried, inexorable pursuit of grace. By the end, I felt that this pursuit was also mine. The tiniest part of that grace mine.
I am certainly not apt to contemplate Christ as the path to God's grace, but rather to pursue grace by contemplating my own acts of doing and how they contribute or not to my purpose, meaning, and happiness in this pathless existence. Or perhaps I'll contemplate the meaning of the acts of human beings, today or in history. Maybe I'll contemplate a film or other work of art. Above all, I'll contemplate the people close to me, especially the uncanny, sometimes overwhelming presence of a loved one. I also struggle, forget, screw up, get lost in my projects and appetites and distractions. I'm no monk. When I return to the contemplation of life, however, I take to it as naturally as a monk to prayer.
This attraction is probably the result of some foreign influence, since it is so un-American, against the cultural compulsion to DO: achieve, build, earn, consume. Or perhaps it's just a sickness, a brooding nature, an affinity for cloud nine (as my father used to tell me), in other words, a poor excuse for not DOING. Although, I must say, I DO plenty of building, achieving, consuming, never enough of course (especially earning), but plenty. Nevertheless, I'm better, happier, when I contemplate the purpose and meaning of being alive. I indulge those moments outside of everyday experience that nonetheless define everyday experience. Perhaps it's akin to a pursuit of grace.
No doubt this pursuit attracted me the other night to the west coast premier of Into Great Silence, a German film by Philip Grönig about a monastery in the French Alps famous for its monks' vow of silence. From the website:
Silence. Repetition. Rhythm. The film is an austere, next to silent meditation on monastic life in a very pure form. No music except the chants in the monastery, no interviews, no commentaries, no extra material.
Changing of time, seasons, and the ever repeated elements of the day, of the prayer. A film to become a monastery, rather than depict one. A film about awareness, absolute presence, and the life of men who devoted their lifetimes to god in the purest form. Contemplation. An object in time.
As advertised, the film, like life in the monastery, is remarkably spare, silent, almost completely uneventful: no musical score, virtually no dialogue; no plot, no drama, no climax. Indeed, in a three hour film, almost nothing happens. The film is one prolonged--two minutes or more--artsy camera shot after another, of the beautiful monastery and its alpine setting; of monks praying, ringing the bells to signal praying, or doing some simple daily chore like cutting celery; of monks passing each other in silence. The only structure is this cycle of daily life, repeated again and again, through the seasons, throughout the monk's life, from initiate to blind old age, minimizing doing and maximizing contemplation of God's meaning. Nothing changes or develops other than this unhurried, repetitive, distraction-less approach to God.
Not exactly a formula for a Hollywood blockbuster.
Yet the audience was maybe 500 in the college lecture hall and still well over 400 after three hours, most of us still awake, though quiet, subdued, perhaps transported, as was the film's intent, into the experience of the monastery, monastic life, contemplation. The three hours were not spellbinding. My attention wandered, settling at times on my "to do" consciousness, my plans for after the movie, my appetites. Still, I cycled back inexorably to the film and its silent, unhurried, inexorable pursuit of grace. By the end, I felt that this pursuit was also mine. The tiniest part of that grace mine.
I am certainly not apt to contemplate Christ as the path to God's grace, but rather to pursue grace by contemplating my own acts of doing and how they contribute or not to my purpose, meaning, and happiness in this pathless existence. Or perhaps I'll contemplate the meaning of the acts of human beings, today or in history. Maybe I'll contemplate a film or other work of art. Above all, I'll contemplate the people close to me, especially the uncanny, sometimes overwhelming presence of a loved one. I also struggle, forget, screw up, get lost in my projects and appetites and distractions. I'm no monk. When I return to the contemplation of life, however, I take to it as naturally as a monk to prayer.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Paradise Blues
When I first moved to Santa Barbara, I was struck by how pretty everything looks all the time, which left me feeling like I had moved into a dream. It's a very pretty dream, but maybe, at least at first, at least for my east coast blue collar blood, maybe a little too pretty, too dreamy. The line from "Orange Juice Blues" kept haunting me: "I'm tired of everything being beautiful, beautiful." So I went on a mission to find grit in Santa Barbara.
I couldn't find any, at least not Anglo grit. I found sleaze, both working class and upper crust, but that ain't no authentic, dare to do the right thing, unconcerned by dirty finger nails, do the hard work of the world, grit. The closest thing I could find was stylized designer grit, created from the clean pretty drafting tables of clean pretty minds, whose rebellion from stucco walls and red-tile roofs created coffee shops, bars, or restaurants where graduate students and ex-graduate students like me could drink three-dollar coffees or four-dollar beers and feel the authenticity of bared brick and ductwork, pre-distressed furniture, and the atmosphere of antique Coke bottles and old license plates. Had I moved to a new state or a new state of being?
After a year or two in town, a bit slowly, really, I discovered the venerable concert series, Sings Like Hell. Producer Peggy Jones and her hellions have succeeded in introducing grit into the dreamy prettiness of Santa Barbara far better than most, certainly far better than I. Within the beautiful, beautiful Lobero opera house, they stage some of the best musical acts in town, specializing in the graduates of--and those still enrolled in--the school of non-commercial knocks. Heavily flavored by the Austin scene, Sings Like Hell offers singer-songwiters who are more familiar with loud bars a chance to perform for a sit-down audience in an acoustically designed venue. The tag line of the series is "The best music you've never heard," and indeed the best shows not starring Richard Thompson are the ones by unknown surprises. Anyone familiar with Sings Like Hell knows all this.
Last month, for example, Brett Dennen, unknown to me and everyone I know, debuted at Sings Like Hell as the headline act, even though he had been billed as the warm-up. Tall, baby-faced, vaguely androgynous, with a big mop of red hair, he came on stage, plugged in an acoustic guitar with a big peace sticker on it, and made himself comfortable by kicking off his flip-flops and propelling himself around stage with his toes. A distinct "what in hell" buzz went through the crowd. Then the music started, energetic, subtely sophisticated, smartly arranged. Then he started to sing, distinctive voice, raspy and melodic, pouring out passion and remarkably mature for a 26 year old lyrics about struggling for love and peace and meaning in our consumer culture. Singing like Hell in the Lobero. Grit in paradise. We loved it.
I couldn't find any, at least not Anglo grit. I found sleaze, both working class and upper crust, but that ain't no authentic, dare to do the right thing, unconcerned by dirty finger nails, do the hard work of the world, grit. The closest thing I could find was stylized designer grit, created from the clean pretty drafting tables of clean pretty minds, whose rebellion from stucco walls and red-tile roofs created coffee shops, bars, or restaurants where graduate students and ex-graduate students like me could drink three-dollar coffees or four-dollar beers and feel the authenticity of bared brick and ductwork, pre-distressed furniture, and the atmosphere of antique Coke bottles and old license plates. Had I moved to a new state or a new state of being?
After a year or two in town, a bit slowly, really, I discovered the venerable concert series, Sings Like Hell. Producer Peggy Jones and her hellions have succeeded in introducing grit into the dreamy prettiness of Santa Barbara far better than most, certainly far better than I. Within the beautiful, beautiful Lobero opera house, they stage some of the best musical acts in town, specializing in the graduates of--and those still enrolled in--the school of non-commercial knocks. Heavily flavored by the Austin scene, Sings Like Hell offers singer-songwiters who are more familiar with loud bars a chance to perform for a sit-down audience in an acoustically designed venue. The tag line of the series is "The best music you've never heard," and indeed the best shows not starring Richard Thompson are the ones by unknown surprises. Anyone familiar with Sings Like Hell knows all this.
Last month, for example, Brett Dennen, unknown to me and everyone I know, debuted at Sings Like Hell as the headline act, even though he had been billed as the warm-up. Tall, baby-faced, vaguely androgynous, with a big mop of red hair, he came on stage, plugged in an acoustic guitar with a big peace sticker on it, and made himself comfortable by kicking off his flip-flops and propelling himself around stage with his toes. A distinct "what in hell" buzz went through the crowd. Then the music started, energetic, subtely sophisticated, smartly arranged. Then he started to sing, distinctive voice, raspy and melodic, pouring out passion and remarkably mature for a 26 year old lyrics about struggling for love and peace and meaning in our consumer culture. Singing like Hell in the Lobero. Grit in paradise. We loved it.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Car Talk/Car Walk (with apologies to Click and Clack)
I bought a new car today, well, eight years old but new to me. A practical, four-cylinder, best-selling car in America, and nearly 100,000 miles into its life, but it's the nicest car I've ever owned--by far. Leather seats, keyless entry, power sun roof, smooth, so quiet I can actually hear the CD player, it feels downright luxurious. In fact, the car comes as close as I've ever known to giving me that well-advertised oh-what-a-feeling because I now drive a car that expresses my American roads identity.
Yet I still feel a lack. Is it the same disappointment I learned as a child when the toy's reality did not match its TV euphoria? Or would I feel more sated if it were brand new and featured a hybrid engine? or better yet, bio-diesel?
Yet I still feel a lack. Is it the same disappointment I learned as a child when the toy's reality did not match its TV euphoria? Or would I feel more sated if it were brand new and featured a hybrid engine? or better yet, bio-diesel?
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Perils of Alternative Piety, or It's Not Easy Being Green
Last week I attended a talk that came down to the same lament such talks by teachers seem always to produce: Students don't reason. They read a book, watch a television show, listen to music, but fail to analyze, synthesize, evaluate. It's an understandable lament for teachers, since our job is to teach students to reason. Still, it's an odd, self-serving, even kind of stupid lament. Students do not live by reason alone. Duh! Who does? Who wants to?
I've been thinking about the limits of reason in connection to issues discussed at Fuller and Fuller and some of the links on that site. These issues involve the struggle against consumer culture, global warming, corporate monoculture in agribusiness, sweatshop exploitation--in short, the good fight to live green and save the planet. The difficulty in being green is not only, as Queen Whackamole says, that "Awareness and education have a tough battle to fight against convenience," not only the tough practical struggle to live green in a world organized by very ungreen principles. But it's also difficult being green because being green means living by rational principles, and it is emotionally difficult to be so rational all the time.
For example, Queen Whackamole (and some good folks at Compact) struggles against shopping, because, even though stuff in stores is useless, excessive, ecologically ruinous, and functionally exploitative, shopping is not a rational experience, but an emotional one. It somehow brings comfort, relieves stress, or otherwise engages a non-rational part of ourselves. The same can be said for many of our most compelling or useless or destructive lifestyle choices--food, alcohol, sex, movies, sports, poker, cigarettes, drugs, screaming at the top of our lungs. What we do is often not rational, but rather connected to desire and the unconscious.
So what is the emotional tenor of acting rationally according to green principles? Unfortunately, too often we experience being green as what we should do, the rules of the super ego. We feel we are being good, a short step from pious, perilously close to self-righteous. And what is the greatest pleasure for many of us--especially, perhaps, for those of us who used to be altar boys--in this complex of rules for desire? Transgression, of course. And when the principles we are supposed to follow but instead transgress are green principles, well, reason and desire do not exactly come together to save the planet.
I can offer no solution to the perils of alternative piety. I want to save the world, too, but I don't believe saintliness is a viable model for psychic health or social change. What I like about Queen Whackamole's effort to look for an alternative to retail therapy is that she opens, and leaves open, the question about the emotional difficulty of being green.
I've been thinking about the limits of reason in connection to issues discussed at Fuller and Fuller and some of the links on that site. These issues involve the struggle against consumer culture, global warming, corporate monoculture in agribusiness, sweatshop exploitation--in short, the good fight to live green and save the planet. The difficulty in being green is not only, as Queen Whackamole says, that "Awareness and education have a tough battle to fight against convenience," not only the tough practical struggle to live green in a world organized by very ungreen principles. But it's also difficult being green because being green means living by rational principles, and it is emotionally difficult to be so rational all the time.
For example, Queen Whackamole (and some good folks at Compact) struggles against shopping, because, even though stuff in stores is useless, excessive, ecologically ruinous, and functionally exploitative, shopping is not a rational experience, but an emotional one. It somehow brings comfort, relieves stress, or otherwise engages a non-rational part of ourselves. The same can be said for many of our most compelling or useless or destructive lifestyle choices--food, alcohol, sex, movies, sports, poker, cigarettes, drugs, screaming at the top of our lungs. What we do is often not rational, but rather connected to desire and the unconscious.
So what is the emotional tenor of acting rationally according to green principles? Unfortunately, too often we experience being green as what we should do, the rules of the super ego. We feel we are being good, a short step from pious, perilously close to self-righteous. And what is the greatest pleasure for many of us--especially, perhaps, for those of us who used to be altar boys--in this complex of rules for desire? Transgression, of course. And when the principles we are supposed to follow but instead transgress are green principles, well, reason and desire do not exactly come together to save the planet.
I can offer no solution to the perils of alternative piety. I want to save the world, too, but I don't believe saintliness is a viable model for psychic health or social change. What I like about Queen Whackamole's effort to look for an alternative to retail therapy is that she opens, and leaves open, the question about the emotional difficulty of being green.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Innocence Lost
I've been memed, which feels like losing my blogging innocence. I was under the blissful fetal impression that blogging was all about me, my thoughts, my observations, my preferences, me me me. The meme, despite its name, commands me with the authority of Mt. Sinai: Thou Shallt Blog About These Seven Issues That Interest Others. It doesn't even help that the issues are all about my thoughts, observations, preferences, me me me. I'm devastated to learn that I have to write about what interests others, that I have to respond to others, even be responsible to others. Blogging isn't the Eden of solipsism I imagined.
- Name a book that you want to share so much that you keep giving away copies: I teach, so I inflict my bookish preferences upon others for a living. I've learned through much hardship to avoid inflictions upon friends and family. Occasionally my passion for a book blinds me to previous hardships, and I venture an infliction. I've had a few that were less than disastrous. For a long while, it was Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon, because she thinks so profoundly through literature. More recently, I've been pressing Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, especially to those turned off by the fanfare he received when the book came out, which bears no relation to the smart, insightful, and fun romp through postmodern America. Lately it's been Robert Reich's books.
- Name a piece of music that changed the way you listen to music: Once upon a time in Austria, I went to a beautiful Renaissance palace, to a small ornate, acoustically perfect room, for an intimate performance of Mozart music by a quartet of accomplished international classical musicians. The setting couldn't have been more ideal, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. 'Twas then I decided it was ok to dislike classical music, which has made it possible for me to like it more.
- Name a film you can watch again and again without fatigue: I thought it might be the Animaniacs' Who's on Stage routine, but I found the YouTube clip fatiguing. If "without fatigue" means every year or two, at the top of a long list (that prominently features Hitchcock) might be Scorcese's two comedies, After Hours and King of Comedy. They both play out Scorcese's exploration of class conflict in comic terms, and they hold up remarkably well.
- Name a performer for whom you suspend all disbelief: I'm a sucker for suspension of disbelief, so it's easier to talk about performers who re-instate my disbelief. Somehow they all seem to make their way into my disbelief while I'm standing in supermarket checkout lines.
- Name a work of art you'd like to live with: The Patricia Chidlaw nightscape hanging in my friends' living room.
- Name a work of fiction which has penetrated your real life: For years people have been telling me that I look like a well-known actor. They mean it as a compliment and frequently tell me, when I scowl in response, that it's a good thing, that there are worse things in the world. I suppose so, but I've mainly found it embarassing, even kind of insulting. It doesn't help that the actor has made a career as the guy in a chick flick. So not only am I obscured by people's celebrity fantasies, I'm doubly obscured by the Hollywood fantasies of men packaged for female consumption. Yuch! At least my mother tells me, "you're much better looking."
- Name a punch line that always makes you laugh: "Mine! Mine! Mine!"
Monday, January 8, 2007
Beards, Barbers, and Santa Barbarians
We share an inherited trait among the males in my family that enables us to extrapolate from the barest of facts to insights into great human truths. We call it McQing, though the women in the family have a less noble name for it. In our defence, my brother has pointed out to his girlfriend that McQing is far more interesting than saying the simple truth, which is, usually, "I dunno." The girlfriend wasn't convinced, which is to say, she is now the ex-girlfriend.
So, as I was shaving this morning, I thought I remembered reading somewhere that clean-shaven men were the mark of western civilization since the time of the Greeks. The others, the ones with beards and no barbers, were the barbarians. Thus, even in its inception, civilization was defined by men becoming more like women, that is, less hairy. This path led eventually to Paris, that most civilized and most feminine of places, where all wine and food are exquisite, love rules all relationships in and out of marriage, and all the gargoyles match.
In North America, where men tamed the west and women civilized western men, the most civilized place is 100 miles west of Los Angeles, in Santa Barbara, which is, in the same pattern as Paris, a most feminine place, where streets and beaches are clean, poverty is well-hidden, and mayors, newspaper mavens, and billionaires are all (or mostly) women. The city patron saint is also, of course, female, which makes us not barbarians but civilized Santa Barbarians.
After finishing my shave, I wondered whether these thoughts on beards and barbarians crossed that murky line from memory to McQing. And since the women in the family have actively encouraged this epistemic skepticism, I've learned to distrust my memory and its logical implications. I did some actual research on the history of shaving. Sure enough, the Greeks, notably Alexander the Great himself, popularized clean shaven faces to distinguish Greeks from barbarians. But he did so only because beards provide too easy a handle during hand-to-hand combat. A clean shaven face, it turns out, did figure in the advance of Western civilization, because it enabled a more effective form of brutality.
What does this say about the smooth-faced mayors and mavens of Santa Barbara? "I dunno."
So, as I was shaving this morning, I thought I remembered reading somewhere that clean-shaven men were the mark of western civilization since the time of the Greeks. The others, the ones with beards and no barbers, were the barbarians. Thus, even in its inception, civilization was defined by men becoming more like women, that is, less hairy. This path led eventually to Paris, that most civilized and most feminine of places, where all wine and food are exquisite, love rules all relationships in and out of marriage, and all the gargoyles match.
In North America, where men tamed the west and women civilized western men, the most civilized place is 100 miles west of Los Angeles, in Santa Barbara, which is, in the same pattern as Paris, a most feminine place, where streets and beaches are clean, poverty is well-hidden, and mayors, newspaper mavens, and billionaires are all (or mostly) women. The city patron saint is also, of course, female, which makes us not barbarians but civilized Santa Barbarians.
After finishing my shave, I wondered whether these thoughts on beards and barbarians crossed that murky line from memory to McQing. And since the women in the family have actively encouraged this epistemic skepticism, I've learned to distrust my memory and its logical implications. I did some actual research on the history of shaving. Sure enough, the Greeks, notably Alexander the Great himself, popularized clean shaven faces to distinguish Greeks from barbarians. But he did so only because beards provide too easy a handle during hand-to-hand combat. A clean shaven face, it turns out, did figure in the advance of Western civilization, because it enabled a more effective form of brutality.
What does this say about the smooth-faced mayors and mavens of Santa Barbara? "I dunno."
Thursday, January 4, 2007
Lil' Slow Food Cafe
I only recently learned of the "slow food" movement, which advocates sanity in eating locally, organically, communally. Some quick research placed it as the spark of a wider, green, progressive, vaguely luddite "slow movement" aimed at the "time poverty" and attendant high stress of twenty-first century high-tech globalized capitalism. While I've long lamented the 350 more hours a year Americans work than Europeans or Japanese, and long avoided that path, I'm clearly a little slow in catching up to the slow movement, but grateful for a movement dedicated to allowing me to catch up. Or is it dedicated to slowing life down to catch up to me?
I've also been quite slow coming to the blogosphere. I started reading my friend George's blog and, after several slow months of contemplation, decided blogging might be a way to slow life down, wallow in its particularities, ponder their significance. After more slow months of procrastination, I started this effort to engage more fully in my own mortality before it expires. I even contemplated stealing a title I saw in Arizona: Lil' Slow Food Cafe.
I especially like the paradox, at least in my slow mind, of a slow blog. The blogosphere is all about instant opinions, extemporaneous keyboarding, hyperlinks at hyperspeed, minds as nimble and quick as a Gameboy joystick. But at its core, it's a movement of reading and writing, a rhythm also so slow.
I've also been quite slow coming to the blogosphere. I started reading my friend George's blog and, after several slow months of contemplation, decided blogging might be a way to slow life down, wallow in its particularities, ponder their significance. After more slow months of procrastination, I started this effort to engage more fully in my own mortality before it expires. I even contemplated stealing a title I saw in Arizona: Lil' Slow Food Cafe.
I especially like the paradox, at least in my slow mind, of a slow blog. The blogosphere is all about instant opinions, extemporaneous keyboarding, hyperlinks at hyperspeed, minds as nimble and quick as a Gameboy joystick. But at its core, it's a movement of reading and writing, a rhythm also so slow.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Grand Canyon Tease
Clothed in clouds and snow, the Canyon gave only fleeting glimpses on the first day, much more than on a postcard perfect day.
The snow and clouds were themselves so beautiful, and so different from all the postcards and stories, I wasn't even looking at the Canyon. And when I did, its mostly cloudy striptease revealed a distant misty butte, a switchback trail disappearing into the shrouded depths, a mirage triangle of white water far below. I was ready.
The next day, the sun shone brightly on the endless hues of red rock, and the shadows changed the view as I watched. Then the majesty, the outer space beauty, and, especially with all the slippery snow around, the vertiginous danger of the Grand Canyon played their chords in my chest. Awesome indeed.
The snow and clouds were themselves so beautiful, and so different from all the postcards and stories, I wasn't even looking at the Canyon. And when I did, its mostly cloudy striptease revealed a distant misty butte, a switchback trail disappearing into the shrouded depths, a mirage triangle of white water far below. I was ready.
The next day, the sun shone brightly on the endless hues of red rock, and the shadows changed the view as I watched. Then the majesty, the outer space beauty, and, especially with all the slippery snow around, the vertiginous danger of the Grand Canyon played their chords in my chest. Awesome indeed.
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