A WEEK WITH WISE BLOOD

I’ve been reading this book called Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor.  I started liking Flanner O’ Connor in early college, because I liked a story I read in class called “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” All of her writing is about redemption and sin. She is the epitome of the Southern Gothic. In that story I read in college, and many times thereafter, there is a family who has had car trouble and broke down on a deserted country rode. Previously, we are told that there is a murderer on the lose. And then of course the murderer and his friends show up on the old country rode and slowly kill the whole family. Each character reacts differently as he/she watches their family members die, but one character pleads with the murderer, asking him to consider that if he tried he could still be a good man. The title of the story ultimately becomes clear when he does not repent and does not become a good man–and thus a good man is indeed hard to find.

So anyway, this book I am reading by the same author shares a lot of the same themes, of course, as her other work. In this book, a really creepy “southern gothic” guy starts a religion called the church without christ. He meets this vagabond kid who eventually steals this dead body of a child or maybe just a small person from a museum.  Perhaps the dead shriveled body of the child is their embodiment or manifestation of Christ. I’m still reading, but should be done by the end of the week. I’ll let you know then how this creepy southern gothic novel ends.

WILLIE NELSON ON A TUESDAY NIGHT

Last night I went to see Willie Nelson play at The National. I’ve never been to a concert like that before, in part because they tend to be very expensive and in part because I’m not usually all that interested in that type of music. Or so I thought. Most everyone was over 40, lots over 50, and it was packed, and everyone was singing along and swaying in their seats. So I was watching him and I was thinking about what a cool old guy he is.  He has been performing those songs for so long, and he is still so passionate about it. He made eye contact with people in the audience and he just seemed genuinely happy. He seemed so relaxed on that gigantic stage with 1500 people staring at him. I guess he has some practice. At the end of the concert, he gave his famous red bandanna to a random lady standing up front, and then he signed autographs for at least 15 minutes. He didn’t have to do that, and I thought it was really cool that he did. I’m not some huge Willie Nelson fan at all, but since I can go see concerts there for free, I figured I would. Turns out it was a very memorable event.

WAITING TO DRINK COFFEE ON SATURDAY

It’s Saturday morning and coffee is an important part of my Saturday morning ritual.  I’ve asked everyone I know. Usually I stay up pretty late on weekends, but last night I went to bed around midnight and found myself awake this morning by 9. I’m not sure what to do with all this extra time in my day, so I thought I’d call some people and see if they wanted to have coffee. Alas, none of my friends are awake at this early hour, and so I sit here, typing this blog, waiting for someone to wake up and drink coffee with me.

Freedom of Speech?

So lately I have been wondering if freedom of speech should be an absolute. I mean, is there a line that should not be crossed? Surely no, I have always believed. I am totally opposed to censorship, and I think all art should be available to all viewers at all times. Here is why. Let’s look at Huckleberry Finn, for example. Are we not able as educated people to read this novel from a historical perspective.  If we say that children should not read Huck Finn because it is a racist work, then what other books should not be read–those that offend woman, homosexuals, Jews, Muslims? What about books that encourage revolution or anarchy? So thus we must not ever prohibit freedom of speech and expression for fear that the one restriction would be a precedent for many more. And quickly, censorship would be out of control, and out of our hands.

This week I was doing a show for a band called M.O.D. This stands for Method of Destruction. They are a punk thrash band from the 80’s with a very outspoken singer by the name of Billy Milano. Keep in mind this was once a very well known band, originally called S.O.D and comprised of current members plus a member of Anthrax. So it is Monday, two days before the show, and I get a call from the owner of the venue telling me that he has received two complaints from people about M.O.D performing. Two people have accused the band of being racist and having racist song lyrics. The owner wants to know do I know anything about this? He doesn’t want a racist band playing at his club. Now I don’t always like or even know much about some of the bands I book, and certainly I don’t know any of the lyrics to this band’s songs. I have no clue if this guy is a racist. So I tell the owner the truth: No, I don’t know anything about that. No, I would never ever even consider promoting a racist band. And I ask him what he would like me to do. We agree that I will look into it.

A quick google search reveals first, that Billy Milano seems to be a pretty caring dude. He supports the SPCA and is quite outspoken about animal cruelty and other social issues. From what I read in this cursory glance, he seems to have strong political views, some of which I don’t agree with, but who cares–it is not racist.

So then I google the lyrics to the song in question. And there it is–the N word–in bold print right in front of me. The song is a political statement in which he opposes spending money to feed the hungry in foreign countries when we have starving people right here in America. The album is called MOD for USA.  Now think about the 80’s, if you are old enough to remember that time, and this was an era when aid to Africa was a popular ideology encouraged and promoted by music festivals and politicians alike. The song is clearly a response to that movement. And all the other songs on the album are political as well. But as I read them, I realize that the whole album is likely a big joke. It seems satirical. But still, that doesn’t make it okay, not to my mind at least.  Why on earth is it necessary to say that word? The song would be far more influential without it. And the song has nothing to do with racism.

Should I cancel his performance because I find that word offensive, because much of the Black staff at the venue would clearly find it offensive, because the audience may be offended? If I cancel it, I will have to pay him anyway. It is a contracted show. But what if I censor his performance, then where do I draw the line? I think about all the Christian oriented bands that I have booked, bands who come in preaching pro-life sentiments. I don’t agree with that at all; in fact, I personally find that extremely offensive. But I don’t tell them what they can and can not say. What if a band makes sexist or anti-semetic comments. I am Jewish, and I would find that offensive. Should I tell them they can not play? What about all the bands that stand on stage and tell girls to take off their clothes and bands that refer to women as whores? If I censor Billy Milano, should I not also censor everyone else?

For a few minutes I consider talking to Billy, reasoning with him. But realistically, I don’t see myself telling him he can’t play this one song, his most famous song it turns out. Plus, if I bring it up, even if he agrees to not play it, which I don’t think he will agree to, my bringing it up will probably intensify the problem. In all reality, he will probably stand on stage and talk shit about me, then play the song anyway.

So here you see my dilemma.  My original question resurfaces: When it comes to freedom of speech, is there a line that should not be crossed. I am curious what other people would do in my position. Please comment!

Cliche’s and Contrived Social Gatherings

I never want to turn forty and I hate cliches–and this is how those two ideas come together. I have a friend, a work friend, who just turned forty years old. But he looks and definitely acts very young. I don’t see him as any older than me, most of the time. So he and his wife, whose birthdays are both close together, decided to have a party in Norfolk this past Friday to celebrate this occassion. The theme was “Boggie Nights” and appropriate retire was requested. Ugh, I thought, as I read the invitation. You must be fucking kidding me. So, this meant that not only did I have to spend the entire last two weeks trying to think of the right present, but also, I had to find some 70’s clothes–so this was really gonna cost me some time, and some money. And I would have to drive to Norfolk. Eventually I made my way to this cute little vintage store on Robinson St. called Halycion, or something like that. The woman who owns the store is awesome and showed me a whole bunch of outfits I could wear. But I didn’t want to be overly decked out, one because manbe no one else would be, and two, becuase I thought I might want to go out after the party. We finally agreed on a fire engine red pair of bellbottoms with the oh so awesome 1970’s high waste that comes up just below your bellybutton. These pants, in conjunction with a cute black tank top and super high platform shoes, made just the right outfit. And the lady in the store is really fantastic. We had a great conversation about Iron and Wine. If you ever need vintage clothing, check out this store. But back to my story.

All this work and the party, which was at the Granby St theatre in Norfolk, was so contrived it was cliche. When I turn forty, and I am not looking forward to that at all, I think I will just have dinner with friends. I hate contrived social situations. I don’t want to deck out some fancy theatre with disco balls and strobe lights and then buy everyone I know beer and food all night and spend the whole night justifying why certain people came and other didn’t. And make my so called friends listen to disco! Never. Not fun. Generic. Cliche. And that is why I don’t ever want to turn forty, and if I do, I’d rather not disco.

But this topic begs a more profound question. At what point do you lose sight of what is cliche? And will you be aware of it? I would like to say yes, i will be aware of it, but of course the answer is no–you will not know, or maybe you just wont’ care. It’s hard to imagine getting older when in your head you still feel young. Often, I am tempted to say 23, when someone asks me my age. I can’t control getting older, but I certainly hope I can control how I celebrate it.

A PREDICAMENT AT 9AM

So this morning I went to teach my 9am class. It was early and rainy and everyone was no doubt tired. When I got to class, I learned through my very honest students that only six of the 16 enrolled had read the essay called A Fourth State of Matter for homework. At first I was shocked. I told them to read the essay several times. I mean, having been a student myself for many years and it was not all that long ago, I never went to a class without reading my homework, especially a course in which all we did was discuss the readings. After the shock wore off, which took only a few seconds, I realized I was faced with quite a predicament as a teacher.

Here is my predicament: Should I try to have a discussion as I normally do with a group of people who have not read the essay being discussed? Or should I just cancel class, thereby punishing those six students who had done their work and who deserved the chance to learn. Now talking to a group of people who have no clue what you are talking about is not fun. I have tried it. I know. And canceling class right then just isn’t fair to everyone. Hmmm. So I considered other options. I could make everyone write an essay about the essay they read for homework, thereby rewarding those who read and giving failing grades to those who did not. But there are two problems with this course of action: one, I have to grade them all when I still have forty papers to grade from the last assignment,s o thereby really I punish myself; and two, when the class is done writing, I am still going to be standing there talking to an audience who has no clue what I am talking about, so this approach in only punishment and does not really solve a problem. Are there other options of which I am not aware?

So like any good arguer, I considered the counter argument. Many of these students who were unprepared today are generally good students who are usually totally prepared for class. Things happen. Sometimes work does not get done. Yes, this is true, but look what happens in a course like this if the students do not contribute their fair share. They know they have a responsibility to read before class, I thought. What if the professor came to your class and said, oops, sorry, I forgot to prepare for class today. I guess I will just sit here quietly and listen. I considered saying that, but saved it until now instead.

I believe that attendance in any class means that you are both present and prepared. And I don’t think that this is a surprise to anyone who has been in my class. It says so on the syllabus and I try to make this implicit all the time by the way that the course is grounded in discussion. This is not some random theory of attendance. I really believe this to be in everyone’s best interest–both students and my own.

So I told those students who had not read that they could leave, and I counted them absent–since attendance means being present and prepared. And the other six students and I sat around and talked about the awesome essay that the rest of the class will probably never read.

So do you think my reaction understandable and fair?

Reading and Yoga: A Likely Combination?

Reading and Yoga. So far in my life, these are the only two healthy ways I have found to force relaxation. And yes, I have to force it. I am terrible at relaxing. I never do it, and really, I don’t know how–at least not in any health conscious way. But that is a different story. Reading helps me to focus my mind. When I feel overwhelmed and stressed out and like my mind is all over the place with worries, I read. I read a novel or a story or a magazine article and force my brain to pay attention to what I am doing. This way, I lose track of whatever is stressing me out, at least temporarily. If you are like me and reading has this affect on you, then I’m sure you know exactly what I mean here, or maybe you don’t.
Yoga is the other activity that I use to force myself to relax. Sadly, I rarely go anymore. I discovered it a few years back and went religiously for some time, but then just gave it up completely, ironically, because of lack of time. Pretty sad that I can’t find time to relax. I do go the gym a lot, at least a few times a week, and this has a similar effect on me, but not quite as intense. Every time I go to the gym I walk by the yoga studio, which is inclusive in my membership, and I think about how I should grab a schedule of classes and start going again. I feel equally determined to begin again each time I walk by, but alas, I have not so far. But I love to swim laps and then go sit in the jacuzzi and/or sauna. It feels like a miniature oasis to me and I feel so good when I leave. Swimming seems like the most healthy exercise to me, both for your body and your mind. I love being in and under the water. When I was growing up in Va Beach, I would swim in the ocean almost every day. And even now, whenever I go home to visit, that is the first thing I do. I love to dive under the waves and feel the current rush over my body. But eventually I come up from under the wave or I leave the gym or I the novel is over, and it is back to life as I know it.

Congratulate Me

You should all congratulate me because I finally, officially, sold Empire! So this is life without a restaurant. Hmm. I don’t really feel any different. It’s like on your birthday when you expect to “feel” older, but really it is just another day.

There has never been a day since I was 15 years old that I haven’t worked in a restaurant in one capacity or another. The sale was very anticlimactic, though. I had been listening to our lawyers argue for days, right down until the last couple minutes before we signed the contracts. And then I got my check, took it to the bank, they gave me a receipt–and it was over. Just like that. Three years is finally finished.

Overall, I am pretty relieved and happy about it. But there is a small part of me that is very sad at the same time. I’ve never been good at quitting jobs. Well, that is not true. Once I quit this job I hated in Va Beach at some pancake place when I was 15 or 16 and I really hated this job and the people who owned the place and worked there, so when I was walking out in the middle of my shift, I yelled as loud as I could, “I’m tired of picking fucking cockroaches out of all the food. You can’t make me serve bug food to people anymore.” Yes, I was really immature, and that was a really bad thing to do. But it is kind of funny, now, I think, maybe. But overall, I am usually really sad when I quit a job because most of the restaurant jobs I have had I have kept for a long time and made many close friends at them. And when I quit those jobs, I always feel like I am ending a huge part of my life that I won’t be able to experience in the same way ever again. In a strange way, I am always very aware of things happening right as I experience them, whereas I think other people might need more time to reflect before feeling much about anything. I don’t know. You never know how other people think or really feel.

But selling a restaurant, yea, that sucked. I feel like I imagine people feel when they get divorced. It’s been a very trying experience and not one I ever want to repeat.

This posting is all over the place. I’m going to see Sick of It All play tonight and need to get ready to go.

MY THOUGHTS ON FOOTBALL AND POLITICS

A few days ago, I went to eat lunch at Banditos. It was Sunday, and it was close to 3pm. Thinking that this would be a reasonable time to try to have a peaceful meal at Banditos, and knowing that I would never go there when it was busy, I was shocked when we got inside and realized that the place was packed. Why was it packed on a Sunday at 3pm? Apparently, the answer is football. And everywhere I looked around this whole restaurant, all I could see was this horrid game. Worse yet, there were nearly 100 people, mostly guys, drinking pitchers of budweiser and screaming and yelling at the tv–their fists violently thrown in the air every couple minutes the entire time I was there. Now, I have no problem with the pitchers of beer, although I would prefer to never taste Budweiser ever again, but I absolutely detest Football, and all that is associated with it. I admit I’m not a big fan of any sports, but I can watch them all, all that is, except, American football–which I have always believed is the epitome of everything wrong with this country.

So when I came across this article last week, I thought it was interesting. This is from the New York Times. Have a look.

Electoral politics as sport By James Carroll The Boston Globe January 14, 2008

OVER THE NEXT three weeks, America will be in thrall to its cult of masculinity. Weekends will be defined by the NFL playoffs, culminating in the Super Bowl Feb. 3. What remains of the nation’s attention, after football, will be seized by
presidential politics, leading up to the decisive primaries on Super Tuesday, Feb. 5. The first process is a celebration of a peculiar notion of manliness, while the second is a prisoner of it.

It does not take an anthropologist to understand that professional football occupies its central place in the American imagination as a sublimation of violence. That may be its main virtue. Indeed, games in which males draw up lines on fields and
then contest those lines with balls date to the dawn of history, when such activities took the place of actual combat. Struggles between tribes were ritualized with primitive games, sometimes to the death. The first balls may have been decapitated
heads.

Our bullet-shaped pigskin amounts to moral progress, but the unconscious appeal of such sport still consists in its character as regulated mayhem. The fact that the symbols of the National Football League amount to self-parody - the martial and
animal names of teams, outsized body armor, fight songs, victory dances, rhetoric like “bomb” and “blitz” - does not take away from their character as aggrandizements of the warrior ethos.

In America, football is a last preserve of “manhood.” Boys embrace it as a rare rite of passage that is not generally available to girls, and men value it, both as players and spectators, as one remaining source of gender bonding that has withstood
the pressures of the feminist revolution.

Indeed, football players remain the beau ideal for girls who hope only to be some guy’s trophy. And football, with its culture of unashamed physicality, butt slapping, and hugging, offers release from the otherwise too-threatening impulses of the
homoerotic.

Unlike baseball, where patience and deftness reign supreme, or basketball, where the graceful feint outscores the brutal confrontation every time, football is all about hitting and taking down. It celebrates virility in its crudest form, with brawn
as the ground of excellence. All of this is at the service of a violence that can be openly enjoyed because, in the end, no one dies and, with luck, no one is really hurt.

But violence is uniquely the point of this game, and it reveals a lot about the United States both that no event competes with the Super Bowl as a festival of national cohesion, and that no other nation has “American football” (as opposed to
profoundly non-violent soccer) at the center of culture.

Electoral politics comes to climax in this same period, but in this primary season politics does not so much parody the cult of manliness, as try to break free from it. The stakes in the race for US president are mortal, and people will die, and
will get hurt - perhaps by the hundreds of thousands - if the wrong runner wins. Candidates reveal themselves, and their idea of the voting public, by what they emphasize.

In this uncertain time, Americans are thought to be wanting “toughness” in their leader, above all. Belligerence, readiness for war, contempt for tribal aliens (aka immigrants), cruelty toward miscreants, intolerance of nuance - such are the
professed virtues of candidates. But the cult of virility is reduced to the absurd by the clack of television and radio pundits - mostly, but not entirely, male - who sustain a testosterone-fed feedback loop around which violence cycles both as
America’s greatest threat and best solution.

John McCain’s ascendancy slides along the grooves of this preoccupation because his warrior credentials - and impulses - are unimpeachable. Mitt Romney is Clark Kent, saving us from migrant workers. Mike Huckabee began to win by donning the costume
of a hunter, flourishing a gun. Rudy Giuliani is the cop who will do whatever it takes, whatever “it” is. Republicans instinctively bang the manhood drum, and if that is the music America wants, Republicans cannot lose.

The Democratic problem is that the cult of masculinity is always reactionary, and no liberal Democrat can authentically indulge it. Hillary Clinton thwarts the manliness ethos just by being a woman, even if obliged to pass its test. John Edwards
features the visceral rage of the warrior class, while defining it as working class. Barack Obama politely declines to play the game, which may, in this season, be the real toughness.

All of which is to say, in both contexts, “Go Patriots.”

James Carroll’s column appears regularly in the Globe. © Copyright 2008 The New York Times Company

Dirty Richmond Snow

I love when it snows, but I hate the dirty Richmond slush that usually follows. The streets are so dirty that when the snow accumulates it looks beautiful because it covers up the mess, but when it begins to melt, all the dirt is absorbed and the snow turns gray and gross. I didn’t believe it was going to really snow last night when I went to sleep, but this morning when I woke up I could see through the shades in my bedroom that darkness outside that comes only with a snowy forecast. Even though I knew there was no way it was possible, I called the inclement weather line to see if school was closed. If this is your first snow with VCU, you might not yet know that we very rarely close. I think it may have something to do with the difficulty associated with closing MCV since it is a hospital. Anyway, I was hoping a certain meeting this afternoon might be cancelled, but alas, it is not even snowing now so there is no hope of that happening.

I’ve spent the morning get everyone’s links to their blogs in order. I know a few didn’t work. If you read this, please double check your really quickly and let me know if for whatever reason it is not functional.

Let’s all cross our fingers and hope that it snows around 3:30 this afternoon, just before my meeting and just enough for it to get postponed!