Plus, Subtract: Another Holiday Posting

Thanksgiving. It’s not my favorite holiday (that’s Halloween), and I don’t especially care for turkey. But there are a few pluses. It’s technically still fall, and in Seattle that means overcast, a vaporous layer of rain, and a moderate temperature (fueling my over-arching thesis that Seattle is a ‘moderate town’). I appreciate these fall-like symptoms because it encourages my apartment-loving self to stay in, stare out the window, and decompress after months of intense study. The staying-in is the second plus.

But this morning I went out. My coffee-maker broke months ago, so I depend on the half dozen cafes within three blocks to provide my quota of caffeine. Luckily, Tully’s doesn’t close for holidays. I feel bad for the girls working there, but pity isn’t the right word, not after passing the mentally handicapped men and women lined up outside my apartment, interrupted by a row of pigeons. This strip of 2nd Ave always makes me feel like a German forced to pass through the ghetto during the late 30s. I don’t feel so pompous about it though. Call me sentimental, but I feel bad. Guilty. And how do I make up for this on our one day of the year where we say ‘thank you’ more mechanically than the rest of the year? I gave a guy a PBR on my way home from the liquor store.

There is another plus. The city’s emptied. I imagine many went home to Eugene or Santa Cruz to see mom and dad. I don’t meet many people living in Seattle who are from Seattle, so that would account for the vacancy. There are others, though, and in Pioneer Square, there will be a line of others to get a free turkey dinner on a paper plate. I know it’s cliché to default to poverty as a topic on Thanksgiving, but it’s not a cliché when it’s so in your face. Even the bully seems to transcend his bullyness when he’s got your collar wrapped up in his fist. A bully, like poverty, is more easily identified from a distance. His swagger. Their dragging. But up close, it’s as real as the pile of vomit the pigeon was eating this morning on Virginia. It’s hard to be objective about a pile of vomit (gross!). And that probably contributes to my own increasingly hermetic lifestyle (that and the piles of papers I still haven’t graded): for all this city’s moderateness, there is a real slump in the equilibrium. And every time I leave my place, that slump stares at me and asks for change I don’t have. I could be a hard-ass about it, and think, “tough rocks.” The problem is, they are tough. Subtract a few variables from my life and I’d be out there with them. Saying ‘thank you’ with a little more desperation in my voice.

Placebo>Greece

I had to attend a funeral. Duty compelled me (this is pre-Kant). I was eighteen and Placebo was playing at Mississippi Nights, St. Louis, MO. My friends informed me of the lead-singer’s intoxicated state. I was jealous. I wanted to witness someone else’s transcendental exhaustion (on the road, I hear, is hard on the body). Instead, I witnessed lifelessness. Anonymous lifelessness. Death holds few revelations for me—or at least reveals few. I’ve looked, and I fear if there’s nothing, then there’s nothing. I’ve deduced the hell out of nothing, but the sum keeps coming up zero.

Placebo, on the other hand, is alive and well. I finally saw them perform. Too late. They were playing at The Metro, Chicago, and Dan Wren was still a house photographer—he got my girlfriend Sara and I in for free. At 22, I felt like the oldest person there. “When did the crowd become so young?” I wondered. Then my initial interest occurred to me: it’s always been this way.

In Greece they love Placebo. They play them in the grocery stores, on TV, in the cafes and the bars. The Greeks are impressed I know the words. I’m impressed they know the band. My experiences in Messolonghi (Μεσολογγίου) have always implied a lack of musical taste. But there’s a small bar on the island of Sifnos (Σίφνος) where the music is new, old, and good. Placebo is neither old nor new, and it’s not especially good either. But it’s better than I’d expect. What’s more interesting though is the age of the listener. They’re not kids. They’re adults. They bought that first album when I did. We were on the same plane for a moment. Ten years ago.

I wandered lonely as a Seattleite

On my way to class, I held my cup of coffee in my left so my palm covered the mouth. Otherwise the coffee mug would have filled with rain water. But rain in Seattle is not like rain in the Midwest. “When it rains, it pours,” they say; the weight of that statement evaporates once outside Missouri. In the Pacific Northwest, the saying should go, “when it rains, it dribbles, slightly.” The irony of the characterization has to do with my first question this morning: “What’s a cliché?” (their paper was filled with them), and “lo and behold,” I couldn’t think of one; I stood there, “dumb as a doorknob.”

The next question referred to my lesson from yesterday: How to think critically. I have never received a formal education on thinking critically; my entire education, in general, has been about thinking critically. But I never sat through a lesson on how to do it. In my department’s rubric, it says my students need this skill, but what book actually tells you how to do it? No one method exists; despite that, I have constructed a lesson on how to see the abstract meaning behind material objects. First we compile a list of abstract nouns; then, as a class, we come up with abstractions that correspond to five or six different corporeal things like a skyscraper, a book of Shakespeare, and a cruise ship. Unfortunately, as we ran out of time, I only briefly filled them in on how to transfer this process onto the page. So I explained:

When you’re writing your cultural study, you want to observe something around you in your everyday life. The important part is telling your reader what that observation means. For instance, this morning I was walking to class in the rain and thought, Seattleites don’t use umbrellas [they all nod their heads]. The problem is you can’t stand up straight when you walk in the rain (otherwise you’ll be blinded), so you have to stoop and walk—shielding your sight. So every Seattleite is walking hunched over like they’re melancholy or morose [I perform my sad Charlie Brown walk]. Therefore, one could deduce that because of their weather, Seattleites possess a natural, melancholic disposition, as opposed to the average Midwesterner who walks briskly, head-up high, and waving enthusiastically [I perform my George Bailey/typical character from Norton Wilder’s Our Town—both of which, of course, have horribly repressed undertones].

In this presentation, I wanted to show them how they can take a small, but significant cultural phenomenon and derive some abstract meaning from it. Not only that, but it kept my students well entertained.

What is interesting about the Seattleite, though, is his/her likeness to Wordsworth. Although the head is constantly pointed down—in that downward stare, the Wordsworthian ascends to the height of a cloud. From the sky he possesses a “bird’s eye view” of the minute things in the world, as if he actually remained on the ground, staring at the earth before his feet. The paradox points to small actions, but big ideas. I suppose the real question to be asked still: would a Seattleite write such boring poetry?

Out-of-place Gyros, Deja Vu, and This Particular Location.

Today I bought and ate a gyro from Main Street Gyros on Main St. These are my favorite gyros in America, so far. I’m not exactly sure what it is—it’s the seasoning—but they’re delicious; almost as good as the real Greek ones. The men working there are Greek and they listen to terrible Greek music, so the difference is slight.

What struck me about this particular gyro was its packaging. It came in a little bag made just for it—that’s not the striking part, although I am fascinated by particular packaging—and it said “Devanco Foods: Chicago’s Favorite.” At first this meant nothing to me, and then I looked around my apartment (I got it “to go”) and said, “I’m in Seattle, right?”

This anecdote points to a much larger problem. Over the holidays, I could never remember what city I was in, but I only traveled to Chicago, and onto St. Louis, and back in the course of two weeks. That should be enough time to readjust. But for me, something lags.

Today I experienced déjà vu in my apartment (in Seattle). Déjà vu may indicate, more so than anything else, a sense of dwelling. It means the mind has begun to project its future self in the present (or the past; T.S. Eliot help!). I never truly feel at home somewhere until I have experienced déjà vu because my mind has not seen itself in the same spot beyond its current station. It is the avowal of a future geographic space: me included! But when I don’t experience déjà vu, is that a disavowal of a future space, of a future me? Or is it the case that I refuse to commit to a space? Perhaps this is about commitment (God help me!). Commitment might mean the same thing tomorrow, and so why shouldn’t I experience déjà vu, when in fact, it’s not the future I’m experiencing at all, but what takes place every day.

And here, the gyro was supposed to break up my routine! I was just going to have a sandwich.

A Capital Proposal

In the last week I saw a lot of students protesting Israeli occupation in the Gaza Strip, but I didn’t hear any real solutions. These kids think a war that has been going on, even before World War II, is going to end because they held a little rally. We need real, concrete solutions for real problems. Not banners and chanting, or whatever they were doing. I’m sure the prime minister of Israel really appreciates the chalk-written messages all over campus, but telling him to get out of Gaza does not persuade.

So I would like to propose a solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Casinos. A few months ago, when things were unraveling once again in this region (it only happens every few months), Palestinians were firing rockets into the desert sand. This blatant disregard for prime real estate signifies the true issue at hand. These people are fighting over land when they have no concept of capitalizing on the land they already own. Casinos will bring the two nations together—the Palestinians will have jobs, and the Israelis will have something to do on a Friday night. Plus, all the proceeds can go towards (re)education (camps)! Everyone wins—except the people playing poker, of course. But that’s the whole idea; it’s fun to blow your kid’s college fund (he was going to defect anyway).

The Americans, though, are just as guilty for not taking advantage of foreign markets. Instead of bombing Afghanistan, we could have built casinos there. Under the guise of disenchanted expatriates, American investors could have established a whole new Las Vegas in the middle of an even more desolate dessert. It worked the first time! As opposed to farming opium, the locals could have exciting careers as blackjack dealers and cocktail waitresses.

Casinos have always provided for the United States when our ingenuity has run out. And casinos are that one entity where even when it’s forbidden it’s allowed (the casino boats in St. Louis, for example—can’t be illegal if it’s not on land!). The non-western world could benefit from casinos economically, as well as socially and politically. They could put martyrs’ faces on poker chips. Furthermore, no actual product is necessary. And capital is the easy part. Once Americans buy the dessert real-estate, the Afghans or whoever will have plenty of money for their glorious casino (that vicariously we will own). At least now those big fluorescent pyramids won’t look so out of context.

iPodland is Everywhere "i" Go

Two dramatic things occurred this week for me. I stopped listening, and simultaneously joined society. By that I mean I entered the world of iPod. The lack of emphasis on ‘i’ is interesting. It is as if Steve Jobs knew this invention would cause collectivization on a national scale. The name is interesting in this sense because of its connection to the German signifier; their word for “I” is ich; note the lower case ‘i’. The signified, the subject, me, is suddenly less important than the thing, or the uppercase “Pod.” Oddly enough, it’s the British economist Adam Smith who emphasizes the “product” over the “laborer,” or at least, "labor" over the "laborer" (see the first book of The Wealth of Nations). And Marx, the German economist, prioritizes the reverse.

The real trick here: Making people believe they are more of an individual by owning an iPod. You can personalize it. Choose your own color. Choose your own model. It is as if the music comes second. I especially gave into this (not really because it was a gift, but a gift that I love) with my own particular brand of irony because the back of my “Shuffle” has the inscription, and one of my personal favorite sayings: “I hate your iPod.” Yet I haven’t been able to leave the house without it.

So perhaps I have joined the rest of the group. But the reason I avoided the iPod in the first place has to do with the wall it creates between the listener and the world around her. To walk about with a song in your head, constantly, is to not walk around at all. You (un)become something that’s not really there. Like an apparition. The extra barrier separates the listener from the outside world, as if we weren’t disjointed enough. I have acquiesced, though, and here’s why. When I am at home, I can hear the crazy people of the world as if they were in my apartment with me. So I think it’s only fair that when I step outside into “their” world, I can effectively block them. This small inversion of inside and outside makes me calmer, which means I’m in the real world less—let’s be frank, iPodland is actually Imaginationland—and despite the fact this inversion betrays my usual customs, my resolution for 2009 is to be less real (who needs principles anyway?).

Can one be more detached? Seems paradoxical to me, and there lies the appeal: If I’m going to join the group, I will only commit myself if I am actually less apart of the group. By conforming to the role I should be playing, I have successfully tuned the rest of the population out. When students protested Israeli occupation in the Gaza Strip on Thursday, I didn’t have to hear them. But when I look at their angry, hopeful, energized eyes I think, I’m supposed to be there with them. But I'm not. But I am.


But I'm not.

Man's Search for Meaning

The problem with meaning, or meaningfulness, is it’s already recognized. In one’s search for meaning, the desire itself is meaningful. In the Richard Linklater film A Scanner Darkly (based on the Philip K. Dick novel), Freck decides rather than a cheap wine, to buy a “connoisseur” bottle to aid him in his suicide. He notes the type and the price. Before he swallows the pills and wine, he tries to “think of something meaningful, but could not.” However, Freck already decided on what is meaningful—a tasteful wine over a poor one. In the very act of thinking about what’s meaningful, Freck experiences it. And yet he misses it. His very preference constitutes meaning.

While we’re out there buying books about finding meaning (well, not me of course), the answer is in our hand at the bookstore. The meaning is in the act. Because I shop for books about “finding” meaning, the pursuit itself is something I value as meaningful. The book, then, is superfluous. That means more money for a cappuccino!

After Freck’s “death” he is forced to listen to his sins read out loud for an eternity. He remains thankful that he purchased a good wine. Because of his desire, the choice has meaning, it becomes memory—whereas the list of sins he has committed do not interest him. Although Freck’s previous sins may have been the results of desires, they lack meaning now. Meaning changes for the subject. What possessed meaning ten years ago—my favorite toy perhaps (okay, fifteen years ago), lacks meaning now. Meaning matures with us, and that’s one of the main reasons why we don’t see it. In other words, we live the meaningful everyday by our choices, our desires—except when we can’t afford them. As Freck lies in bed sighing at the sound of his sins, his “last” thought to himself is, “at least I got a good wine.”