So, I just read this article by Zillah Eisenstein on Common Dreams, and, to be honest,I found it so infuriating that I ended up just skimming it. I really don't even know how to articulate my own response or rebuttal to Eisenstein's "theory," and while there is much here that is intriguing and perhaps even rooted in truth, I think, on the whole, this particular piece of her writing is riddled with holes and fallacies. Here's an excerpt:
"Hillary’s preoccupation with white voters is a dead give-a-way of how she thinks about gender, and being a woman. Gender is white to her, like race is black. Bill and Hillary Clinton have thrown African-Americans to the wind because they thought they could play the gender card with its history of whiteness and win."
Uh...
I'm not so sure anyone can say that Clinton has "thrown African-Americans" to the wind. I mean, Blacks make up less than 13% of the population, and, depending on which poll you consult, anywhere from 85 - 93% of the Black vote is going to Obama. Is anyone taking Black voters to task for voting based solely on skin color? Or Obama, for courting the Black vote by relying on his "Blackness"? Who's raising that issue? I mean, Clinton's and Obama's voting records and political stances are way too similar to account for Obama getting 90% of the Black vote--there is no way to explain this except to say that many Blacks are voting for Obama simply because he's Black. Clinton is not getting 90% of the white votes or of women's votes anywhere.
Now, I do not mean to imply that Clinton should forgo courting the Black vote simply because she doesn't have a chance of getting it--though I actually think that's mostly true--I just think when talking about these issues, the way the voters are perceiving the candidates is just as important as the way the politicians are (supposedly) campaigning. I mean, the other huge elephant in the room, for me, is the fact that Obama is just as White as he is Black. I mean, jesus, people, his mother is fucking White! And he was raised, except for that four-year-stint in Jakarta, by his white grandparents in a mostly white town and attended a mostly white high school and then eventually landed at (mostly white) Harvard...
You know, there used to be this thing in the United States called the "rule of hypodescent," which was also known as the "one-drop rule." This rule is rooted in our illustrious colonial past and was used to determine the lineage of a mixed-race child. It states that even one drop of Black blood in your veins is enough to make you Black. 'Cause, you know, it's so potent and stuff. So, even if you looked white, even if you had to reach all the way back to your great-great-great grandpappy to find some Black blood in your ancestry, that "one drop" would be enough to make you Black. And, of course, being Black severely restricted your freedoms and limited your opportunities. So, naturally, any fair-minded, thinking person recognized this rule as the control mechanism that it was intended to be (control of Black people is inextricably linked to control of White women's sexuality, though that's another blog...).
Flash-forward to the 21st-fucking century, where people are gleefully clinging to this supposedly offensive and antiquated notion--Obama is touted as the "Black candidate" and everyone is talking about the possibility of the first "Black president" and ...
What the fuck?
Dude is Black AND White. Period.
Anyway.
So, you know, I was actually a Kucinich supporter, and then I leaned toward Edwards, before being forced to choose between Clinton and Obama. I took the tests at http://www.ontheissues.org/default.htm, and Clinton's voting record is more progressive and more in line with my own views than is Obama's. Also, my mom and grandma and I were all pretty stoked after Obama's speech at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, and I bought my grandma "The Audacity of Hope" as soon as I could get my hands on a copy.
Grandma read it, and then I read it, too.
Neither my grandma nor I were impressed. In fact, we found much of what Obama had to say very troubling. Paul Street's review pretty much reflects my own thoughts, and here are some excerpts:
"... Obama relates youthful discomfort with his college roommates' 'irresponsible' criticism of 'capitalism' and then confesses respect for Ronald Reagan's supposed success in embodying what Obama calls 'American's longing for order' (p. 31)."
"... Obama commends 'the need to raise money from economic elites to finance elections' for 'prevent[ing] Democrats...from straying too far from the center' and for marginalizing 'those within the Democratic Party who tend toward zealotry' (p. 38) and 'radical ideas' (like peace and justice)."
"Obama contends that defense of New Deal and Great Society programs is contrary to 'the changing circumstances of globalization' (p.38)."
"The American people, Obama argues, harbor only modest expectation of their government (p.7), reflecting little concern (by Obama's account) with traditional left goals of social justice and equality. There's no room in Obama's downsized image of popular 'hopes' for the citizenry's widespread disgust at savage socioeconomic inequity in the United States."
"... Obama praises the United States' founders for 'recognize[ing] that there were seeds of anarchy in the idea of individual freedom, an intoxicating danger in the idea of equality.' If 'everybody is truly free, without the constraints of birth or rank and an inherited social order,' Obama asks, then 'how can we ever hope to form a society that coheres?' (pp. 86-87).
I find that last quote particularly chilling, and it brings to mind a classroom debate at EMU that arose when the professor asked the class which they considered most important--freedom or equality... I guess that's another blog, too, though you can check out Eric Foner's The Story of American Freedom for a particularly rich account of how the idea of freedom in the United States has changed with the socio-economic times...
So yeah, Street is obviously no fan of Clinton, and, honestly, she has done and said things that make me cringe. But, again--I support her mostly because her voting record is more reflective of my own views than is Obama's--barely so, but still, enough to matter to me (it's on social issues where I diverge from Obama and am a bit closer to Clinton; economically, they're about the same for me). Still, I will admit right here, that if their voting records were the same and if I found them both just as likable and competent, then I would still vote for Clinton.
And yes--because she's a woman. Why the fuck not?
I just wouldn't vote for her only because she's a woman. But I am not above letting that fact tip the scale in her favor if all else were equal. But, all things are not equal, and, compared to Obama, I think Clinton's smarter and tougher and, honestly, I also think she's warmer and more real. I am sure that I will get lambasted for that statement. Whatever.
Also, I am one of those crazy people who actually think that Clinton's stint as First Lady actually does give her an edge--she was in the White House for eight fucking year as a very interested observer and sometimes-participant in political machinations, domestic and foreign. I cannot comprehend the self-delusion it takes to negate the importance of that experience. Finally, and this is a big one for me, I like Clinton's chances against McCain much better than I like Obama's chances.
I am cranky.
I think Clinton has been treated pretty viciously--by the media, by pundits, and by regular-joe citizens who just seem to boil with hatred for her. Still, the truth is, this election is incredibly disappointing, and though I claim a distinction can be made between Obama and Clinton, it really is fairly slim. So, I guess I am relying a lot on my gut, like I think a lot of voters are doing. And something in my guts is turned off by Obama's rhetoric, which seems either naive or coldly calculating--neither of which work for me. Also, there is something messianic about his campaign and his followers--all this "I am asking you to believe" and "join the movement" stuff--that makes me shudder. Finally, it seems as if Obama's campaign is rooted in symbolism and the idea of change more than in a concrete plan for leading the country.
I gotta go.
I leave you with this:
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Home Alone
So, I am home alone today, sick, and in bed. I’ve got the popping-ears, sore-throat, persistent-cough, cranky-pants kind-of-sickness that is probably best endured alone.
So, I’m in bed and have gathered some distractions: Salman Rushdie’s The Ground Beneath Her Feet; Kevin Sessums’s Mississippi Sissy; Cynthia Enloe’s The Curious Feminist; and, of course, my journal. I have also watched a few minutes of game motherfucking seven between the Celtics and the Cavaliers, though I have decided to DVR it because I am so grouchy and impatient that I cannot bear the commercials. While I was setting up the DVR, I noticed that I had not yet deleted Where Do the Children Play?, a documentary PBS showed a few weeks back. I’ve already watched it, and I thought it was really fascinating.
So, I’m watching it again.
And damn, it is fascinating.
It examines the decline of outdoor, unstructured play in the United States and compares the play-styles of urban, suburban, and rural kids. As the film opens, the camera follows two young kids--probably between 10 and 12-years-old--as they walk through a woods and comment on the flora and the fauna. As the girl shows the boy some flower or insect or something, the boy responds, "Oh, wow. Isn't that just beautiful?" And he says it all filled with wonder and delight. He then takes out his journal and draws, on the right side of the page, a picture of what he's seen; he next writes about the discovery on the left side of the page. While this is going on, a narrator shares some facts about children and their worlds; we learn that playspaces are on the decline in the United States and that the use of prescription meds in children is rising. The narrator also talks about how children are increasingly separated from nature, though the two kids we've been watching have obviously escaped that fate.
The narrator also provides a very quick, very brief history lesson about how the United States has morphed from a mostly rural nation to an almost entirely urban/suburban nation; I think I recall from my own history education that it was in 1920 that the urban population in the US first exceeded its rural population. Yes, yes, I know--history and history majors are devastatingly cool.
So, anyway, this documentary says a lot of stuff that we've all heard before about how electronic media saps kids' imaginations. The film doesn't play it quite that simplistically, though, and notes, for example, that kids who spend a lot of time using computers and playing video games tend to have better vocabularies and more knowledge about the world than do their less "tuned-in" counterparts. Still, the finer point about how kids no longer seem to have a "private relationship" with nature is certainly the heart of the film, and the filmmakers use a lot of interesting data and vignettes to illustrate this notion. The film focuses on several Michigan cities/communities, which is also pretty sweet. They include Beaver Island, Flint, Southwest Detroit, and Ann Arbor.
Penny Wilson, who is some sort of expert on play (an awesome gig!), makes forts with some Flint kids who have their little minds blown by the fact that they're actually being allowed some unstructured time in the classroom. Wilson talks about a lot of cool stuff, including the concept of "deep play," which is apparently the kind of play that helps children learn to take risks and contemplate their own mortality--like hanging upside down from monkey bars and trees and jumping off swings and stuff.
The piece about southwest Detroit was really cool--it focused on Oliver Wendell Holmes Elementary School and its surrounding neighborhood. The narrator compares this school, where 85% of the students walk to school each day, with Ann Arbor public schools, where a $200,000 grant was still not enough to get little Ann Arborites to walk to school ... Some of the reasons? The parents didn't think the kids would like it; one mom actually said that she feared walking to school would be boring for her daughter (I am not fucking kidding). Sara Aeschbach, Director of Community Education and Recreation in Ann Arbor, is interviewed, and you can see that she is just in utter dismay and disbelief as she talks about how they were only able to get one kid at Mitchell Elementary to walk to school and four or five kids from Bach.
The filmmakers make the point that urban settings, when poverty is not a factor, are actually "better for kids" than are suburbs. And in the piece on southwest Detroit, we see kids playing in parks and on sidewalks and porches, walking to corner stores, and, yes, walking to school. There is some talk of how suburban kids are probably shuttled to more structured activities--sports teams, music lessons, and civic/community participation events--than are urban kids, and there is this truly fascinating segment on an experiment carried out at Carnegie Melon, where suburban and urban kids were asked to construct, from cardboard and such, a replica of their neighborhoods and environments.
The kids were all given the same materials and instructions, yet the differences in method and outcome were starkly different. For example, the suburban kids worked alone, while the urban kids negotiated with each other and worked together. And the suburban kids buildings didn't have doors, interiors, or occupants, while the urban kids added doors that opened, windows, interiors, occupants, flower pots ... And their models featured schools and hospitals and public transportation. The suburban kids' models had no public spaces, except for a mall, and no pedestrians.
Author Richard Louv blames journalism and news media for helping to condition people to live in a constant state of fear and anxiety, which probably contributes to parents not letting their kids play outside and also to their efforts to structure every moment of their kid's lives. There seems to exist in the United States this unquestioned belief in an increasingly violent, dangerous outside world populated by bloodthirsty stangers. Louv challenges this notion by noting that, at least according to FBI statistics, stranger danger is, for the most part, a fucking myth. He notes that kidnapping and sex offences against children are ten-times more likely to be carried out by a relative or an acquaintance than by a stranger and also points out that children are at the highest risk for physical violence while at home. So, not only are children actually safer outside their homes than in them, but crimes against children of all ages have plunged in the last fifteen years.
Geez, suddenly I feel like I'm ranting. Just in time, I look up to see 15-year-old Ted Eyster, at home in Chelsea, Michigan, sitting cross-legged under a tree, near a pond, serene, still. Ted has been home-schooled up until now and has just recently entered public school. He talks about being dumbfounded by his classmates' shock at his ability to recognize an oak tree, and he is just so sweetly bewildered by their ignorance. He then talks about the spot where he's sitting, and he says, "... it’s one of those trees that you just see and fall in love with…"
And so, the documentary ends with this rather sweet, kind of hokey image of our young Ted, knower and lover of trees, and I am now off to choose between kung pao tofu or sesame tofu, because my girl is bringing me home nummies.
Awesome.
So, I’m in bed and have gathered some distractions: Salman Rushdie’s The Ground Beneath Her Feet; Kevin Sessums’s Mississippi Sissy; Cynthia Enloe’s The Curious Feminist; and, of course, my journal. I have also watched a few minutes of game motherfucking seven between the Celtics and the Cavaliers, though I have decided to DVR it because I am so grouchy and impatient that I cannot bear the commercials. While I was setting up the DVR, I noticed that I had not yet deleted Where Do the Children Play?, a documentary PBS showed a few weeks back. I’ve already watched it, and I thought it was really fascinating.
So, I’m watching it again.
And damn, it is fascinating.
It examines the decline of outdoor, unstructured play in the United States and compares the play-styles of urban, suburban, and rural kids. As the film opens, the camera follows two young kids--probably between 10 and 12-years-old--as they walk through a woods and comment on the flora and the fauna. As the girl shows the boy some flower or insect or something, the boy responds, "Oh, wow. Isn't that just beautiful?" And he says it all filled with wonder and delight. He then takes out his journal and draws, on the right side of the page, a picture of what he's seen; he next writes about the discovery on the left side of the page. While this is going on, a narrator shares some facts about children and their worlds; we learn that playspaces are on the decline in the United States and that the use of prescription meds in children is rising. The narrator also talks about how children are increasingly separated from nature, though the two kids we've been watching have obviously escaped that fate.
The narrator also provides a very quick, very brief history lesson about how the United States has morphed from a mostly rural nation to an almost entirely urban/suburban nation; I think I recall from my own history education that it was in 1920 that the urban population in the US first exceeded its rural population. Yes, yes, I know--history and history majors are devastatingly cool.
So, anyway, this documentary says a lot of stuff that we've all heard before about how electronic media saps kids' imaginations. The film doesn't play it quite that simplistically, though, and notes, for example, that kids who spend a lot of time using computers and playing video games tend to have better vocabularies and more knowledge about the world than do their less "tuned-in" counterparts. Still, the finer point about how kids no longer seem to have a "private relationship" with nature is certainly the heart of the film, and the filmmakers use a lot of interesting data and vignettes to illustrate this notion. The film focuses on several Michigan cities/communities, which is also pretty sweet. They include Beaver Island, Flint, Southwest Detroit, and Ann Arbor.
Penny Wilson, who is some sort of expert on play (an awesome gig!), makes forts with some Flint kids who have their little minds blown by the fact that they're actually being allowed some unstructured time in the classroom. Wilson talks about a lot of cool stuff, including the concept of "deep play," which is apparently the kind of play that helps children learn to take risks and contemplate their own mortality--like hanging upside down from monkey bars and trees and jumping off swings and stuff.
The piece about southwest Detroit was really cool--it focused on Oliver Wendell Holmes Elementary School and its surrounding neighborhood. The narrator compares this school, where 85% of the students walk to school each day, with Ann Arbor public schools, where a $200,000 grant was still not enough to get little Ann Arborites to walk to school ... Some of the reasons? The parents didn't think the kids would like it; one mom actually said that she feared walking to school would be boring for her daughter (I am not fucking kidding). Sara Aeschbach, Director of Community Education and Recreation in Ann Arbor, is interviewed, and you can see that she is just in utter dismay and disbelief as she talks about how they were only able to get one kid at Mitchell Elementary to walk to school and four or five kids from Bach.
The filmmakers make the point that urban settings, when poverty is not a factor, are actually "better for kids" than are suburbs. And in the piece on southwest Detroit, we see kids playing in parks and on sidewalks and porches, walking to corner stores, and, yes, walking to school. There is some talk of how suburban kids are probably shuttled to more structured activities--sports teams, music lessons, and civic/community participation events--than are urban kids, and there is this truly fascinating segment on an experiment carried out at Carnegie Melon, where suburban and urban kids were asked to construct, from cardboard and such, a replica of their neighborhoods and environments.
The kids were all given the same materials and instructions, yet the differences in method and outcome were starkly different. For example, the suburban kids worked alone, while the urban kids negotiated with each other and worked together. And the suburban kids buildings didn't have doors, interiors, or occupants, while the urban kids added doors that opened, windows, interiors, occupants, flower pots ... And their models featured schools and hospitals and public transportation. The suburban kids' models had no public spaces, except for a mall, and no pedestrians.
Author Richard Louv blames journalism and news media for helping to condition people to live in a constant state of fear and anxiety, which probably contributes to parents not letting their kids play outside and also to their efforts to structure every moment of their kid's lives. There seems to exist in the United States this unquestioned belief in an increasingly violent, dangerous outside world populated by bloodthirsty stangers. Louv challenges this notion by noting that, at least according to FBI statistics, stranger danger is, for the most part, a fucking myth. He notes that kidnapping and sex offences against children are ten-times more likely to be carried out by a relative or an acquaintance than by a stranger and also points out that children are at the highest risk for physical violence while at home. So, not only are children actually safer outside their homes than in them, but crimes against children of all ages have plunged in the last fifteen years.
Geez, suddenly I feel like I'm ranting. Just in time, I look up to see 15-year-old Ted Eyster, at home in Chelsea, Michigan, sitting cross-legged under a tree, near a pond, serene, still. Ted has been home-schooled up until now and has just recently entered public school. He talks about being dumbfounded by his classmates' shock at his ability to recognize an oak tree, and he is just so sweetly bewildered by their ignorance. He then talks about the spot where he's sitting, and he says, "... it’s one of those trees that you just see and fall in love with…"
And so, the documentary ends with this rather sweet, kind of hokey image of our young Ted, knower and lover of trees, and I am now off to choose between kung pao tofu or sesame tofu, because my girl is bringing me home nummies.
Awesome.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Far from Home
I moved to Detroit a little over a year ago. The move was sort of drawn out, spreading itself out over almost two months of packing and organizing and trips to the dumpster and trips to various goodwill sites to drop off things that I no longer needed or was no longer willing to move. All of this activity culminated with the final move, on Valentine's Day, 2007—a day that saw six or seven inches of snow fall, from morning to night; a wet, heavy, relentless snow.
What I mean is that there was no respite. The weather was so fucking awful—snowy and windy and bitter cold—that as I was unloading the truck, a stray dog jumped into its cab and refused to get out. She just sat there shaking, in the passenger seat, a soft whine coming from somewhere high in her throat. She looked at me with these maniacally bright eyes, terror and desperation leaping from her sockets. There was ice hanging from her fur, and the pads of her paws were cut up from the frozen ground she had been trudging across, alone and far from home.
What I mean is that as I look back on it now, that day was filled with the sort of blatant symbolism that makes me groan when I see it in movies: “Smack us in the fucking face,” I usually mumble, or sometimes I just wave my hand in front of my face, in a slapping notion.
Slap, slap.
Still, it’s not like I can really sort the symbolism out, even now, with hindsight, and it’s not like I was wearing blinders or anything then, metaphorical or other(brownie)wise.
What I mean is that the months leading up to that snowy Valentine’s Day were marked by much rumination and many late-night panics. I questioned my motives, my ability to make healthy decisions, the commitment of my lover (into whose home I would be moving), and her ability to make healthy decisions.
What I mean is that I had not undertaken this move lightly. Still, much of my trepidation centered on thoughts of my relationship and the possibility of it not working and what I would do if that happened (having moved to Detroit and away from my friends and all that was familiar).
What I mean is that I assumed that if my relationship stayed healthy and blossomed in all of the ways that I expected it to, then I would settle comfortably into Detroit while my lover and I settled into each other.
So, you know, fourteen months later, here I am: forced by a cruelly comic universe into remembering the vast landscape that lies between a relationship working well and not working at all; forced, too, into acknowledging that even if it had been all sunshine and somersaults for me and my girl, I would still find myself agonizingly far from home.
Type and delete type and delete
I cannot find the words to describe how lost and unmoored I feel, how deeply alienated, how sharply marked: by the poverty that surrounds me, by the bleak and desolate landscapes that are everywhere, by the limping dogs and feral cats … by the desperation, by the gnawing lack of everything that is everywhere, by the level of want, of need, of disquiet.
I feel a crushing heaviness in my chest, not just whenever I venture out into the city, but when I look out my windows, when I sit on my porch, when I walk in my backyard. I feel guilt and shame for wanting, so desperately, to escape this place.
I hate that I hate it here. I hate that all those things that charm me about this city are just not enough to offset all those things that drain me. But I have no community here, no friends who are five minutes away, no familiar stores and restaurants and parks, and no sense of home.
Speaking of things that need homes, we let the dog stay in the basement for a few nights while we located a shelter that we knew would not euthanize her. Elizabeth and I had four cats between us, and we were already dealing with the fact that we had to keep *them* segregated, and with all the chaos of my just having moved in, the basement was the only option for shelter for the dog. She was so grateful, at first, to be inside and out of the elements, that she barely made a peep. As days went by, however, I think it started to grate on her—the unfamiliar place, the cement floor and concrete-block walls, the loneliness (we visited her and took her outside, of course, but, for the most part, I guess she was forced into listening to life going on above her, and, I suppose, missing whatever life she used to have).
So, you know, I am *not* trying to say that Tani:Dog as Detroit:Basement or whatever.
Not really.
But, looking back, I feel a connection with her that I didn't at first recognize. And now I do see that I have gone astray, that I am lost, adrift. I feel as if life is happening somewhere else, as if it is muted, as if I am on the fringes of everything.
What I mean is that I don’t think I can make it work here, and I want to come home to Ypsilanti. And rest assured that I am under no illusions about Ypsilanti: almost everything that grates against me here in Detroit is present in Ypsi--poverty, burned out houses, crime, desperation. But somehow, perhaps simply because of the smaller scale, there is a warmth in Ypsilanti that I cannot locate here in the D.
This city has cast an icy spell over me, and I need thawing. A nice cuppa hot chocolate from Bombadill's would do the trick...
What I mean is that there was no respite. The weather was so fucking awful—snowy and windy and bitter cold—that as I was unloading the truck, a stray dog jumped into its cab and refused to get out. She just sat there shaking, in the passenger seat, a soft whine coming from somewhere high in her throat. She looked at me with these maniacally bright eyes, terror and desperation leaping from her sockets. There was ice hanging from her fur, and the pads of her paws were cut up from the frozen ground she had been trudging across, alone and far from home.
What I mean is that as I look back on it now, that day was filled with the sort of blatant symbolism that makes me groan when I see it in movies: “Smack us in the fucking face,” I usually mumble, or sometimes I just wave my hand in front of my face, in a slapping notion.
Slap, slap.
Still, it’s not like I can really sort the symbolism out, even now, with hindsight, and it’s not like I was wearing blinders or anything then, metaphorical or other(brownie)wise.
What I mean is that the months leading up to that snowy Valentine’s Day were marked by much rumination and many late-night panics. I questioned my motives, my ability to make healthy decisions, the commitment of my lover (into whose home I would be moving), and her ability to make healthy decisions.
What I mean is that I had not undertaken this move lightly. Still, much of my trepidation centered on thoughts of my relationship and the possibility of it not working and what I would do if that happened (having moved to Detroit and away from my friends and all that was familiar).
What I mean is that I assumed that if my relationship stayed healthy and blossomed in all of the ways that I expected it to, then I would settle comfortably into Detroit while my lover and I settled into each other.
So, you know, fourteen months later, here I am: forced by a cruelly comic universe into remembering the vast landscape that lies between a relationship working well and not working at all; forced, too, into acknowledging that even if it had been all sunshine and somersaults for me and my girl, I would still find myself agonizingly far from home.
Type and delete type and delete
I cannot find the words to describe how lost and unmoored I feel, how deeply alienated, how sharply marked: by the poverty that surrounds me, by the bleak and desolate landscapes that are everywhere, by the limping dogs and feral cats … by the desperation, by the gnawing lack of everything that is everywhere, by the level of want, of need, of disquiet.
I feel a crushing heaviness in my chest, not just whenever I venture out into the city, but when I look out my windows, when I sit on my porch, when I walk in my backyard. I feel guilt and shame for wanting, so desperately, to escape this place.
I hate that I hate it here. I hate that all those things that charm me about this city are just not enough to offset all those things that drain me. But I have no community here, no friends who are five minutes away, no familiar stores and restaurants and parks, and no sense of home.
Speaking of things that need homes, we let the dog stay in the basement for a few nights while we located a shelter that we knew would not euthanize her. Elizabeth and I had four cats between us, and we were already dealing with the fact that we had to keep *them* segregated, and with all the chaos of my just having moved in, the basement was the only option for shelter for the dog. She was so grateful, at first, to be inside and out of the elements, that she barely made a peep. As days went by, however, I think it started to grate on her—the unfamiliar place, the cement floor and concrete-block walls, the loneliness (we visited her and took her outside, of course, but, for the most part, I guess she was forced into listening to life going on above her, and, I suppose, missing whatever life she used to have).
So, you know, I am *not* trying to say that Tani:Dog as Detroit:Basement or whatever.
Not really.
But, looking back, I feel a connection with her that I didn't at first recognize. And now I do see that I have gone astray, that I am lost, adrift. I feel as if life is happening somewhere else, as if it is muted, as if I am on the fringes of everything.
What I mean is that I don’t think I can make it work here, and I want to come home to Ypsilanti. And rest assured that I am under no illusions about Ypsilanti: almost everything that grates against me here in Detroit is present in Ypsi--poverty, burned out houses, crime, desperation. But somehow, perhaps simply because of the smaller scale, there is a warmth in Ypsilanti that I cannot locate here in the D.
This city has cast an icy spell over me, and I need thawing. A nice cuppa hot chocolate from Bombadill's would do the trick...
Friday, April 11, 2008
Many Rivers to Cross
So, yeah, I watch American Idol. And yes, I even watched the two-and-a-half hour special, Idol Gives Back, which was on two nights ago and raised millions of dollars for various relief efforts and projects in Africa and here in the United States.
Yes, I watched, and yes, I was shaken by the heartbreaking stories that filled up my television screen, and yes, most definitely yes, I sat, quietly stunned, while Annie Lennox sat at a piano, alone on stage, and played and sang Jimmy Cliff's "Many Rivers to Cross."
Yes, I watched, and yes, I was shaken by the heartbreaking stories that filled up my television screen, and yes, most definitely yes, I sat, quietly stunned, while Annie Lennox sat at a piano, alone on stage, and played and sang Jimmy Cliff's "Many Rivers to Cross."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Browniewise
Well, this is tough--coming up with my first blog. For no good reason, I have decided to revisit the infamous "911" call made by an off-duty police officer who consumed marijuana brownies with his wife and then freaked the fuck out.
Here is the actual audio of the 911 call:
And here is an unbelievably funny video made using the actual audio. These people are fucking geniuses, and these are some of the funniest three or four minutes I have ever witnessed:
There is so much to love here, so much to just laugh uproariously at, but, for some reason, what really sticks in my head is the part of the actual call where the 911 operator is trying to determine how much weed these idiots ingested--after being told that the dude and his wife had made brownies with the weed, and after asking many times how much weed was used, the 911 operator finally says, "I mean browniewise--how many brownies did you have?"
I love this new way of measuring things--lengthwise, timewise, heightwise, weightwise, and, yes, browniewise.
I'll tell you something else--Brownie Wise is also the name of the woman who, in the 1950s, transformed Tupperware into the huge success that it became, by insisting that it be sold exclusively at home parties. This woman had a total handle on the possibilities of social networking decades ago, people. Earl Tupper made her a vice-president, and she made him millions of dollars. He soon fired her, for no good reason, and with little compensation. I learned all of this while watching the PBS American Experience documentary, "Tupperware!" which was freakin' awesome.
So, there it is. My first ever blog.
Treat me gently. And, if needbe, please send rescue...
Here is the actual audio of the 911 call:
And here is an unbelievably funny video made using the actual audio. These people are fucking geniuses, and these are some of the funniest three or four minutes I have ever witnessed:
There is so much to love here, so much to just laugh uproariously at, but, for some reason, what really sticks in my head is the part of the actual call where the 911 operator is trying to determine how much weed these idiots ingested--after being told that the dude and his wife had made brownies with the weed, and after asking many times how much weed was used, the 911 operator finally says, "I mean browniewise--how many brownies did you have?"
I love this new way of measuring things--lengthwise, timewise, heightwise, weightwise, and, yes, browniewise.
I'll tell you something else--Brownie Wise is also the name of the woman who, in the 1950s, transformed Tupperware into the huge success that it became, by insisting that it be sold exclusively at home parties. This woman had a total handle on the possibilities of social networking decades ago, people. Earl Tupper made her a vice-president, and she made him millions of dollars. He soon fired her, for no good reason, and with little compensation. I learned all of this while watching the PBS American Experience documentary, "Tupperware!" which was freakin' awesome.
So, there it is. My first ever blog.
Treat me gently. And, if needbe, please send rescue...
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