For those of you who read my blog entitled Redevelop This, you might be interested to read this article, another in the New York Times, this time from George Vecsey- really a sequel to the article whose link I posted in my column yesterday.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/09/sports/football/09vecsey.html?ref=sports
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
REDEVELOP THIS
I've been having a nice little email get-to-know-you with a journalist at MLB.com, the online home of Major League Baseball. Yes, for those of you who don't know me, I am a rather large baseball fan- figuratively, that is. Because of this, I sometimes find myself reading inane articles in the wee hours about this hitter's thumb and that pitcher's stint on the disabled list due to heightened levels of anxiety (that actually is quite an interesting phenomenon- could be tomorrow's column). While none of this consumption of sports reporting moves me forward in my spiritual evolution as a human being, occasionally I happen on an article that is actually pertinent to issues that do have real meaning for me and many others in America today.
The article in question was not exactly of that ilk; its pertinence rested in its ignorance of some of those issues. The writer, a Mr.Barry Bloom, gushed over the new Minnesota ballpark, Target Field. He spoke of how it would be a boon for the community, of the pleasure it would give the fans. Clearly, in this man's eyes, everything had been gained and nothing lost: "thriving communities, thriving franchises, happy fans."
Not quite, Baz. I sent him an email asking for clarification on exactly who he was referring to when he used the term 'community'. Certainly not the thousands of poor and working class residents who were relocated, or more accurately kicked out, to make way for the new stadium. Nor was he probably referring to the millions of people who may have benefited from the new schools, parks, health clinics and community centers that could have been built with all that public money. In all likelihood, Barry was probably referring to the super-rich corporations that received those funds to build the stadium and the sports owners and private vendors who will fatten their already bloated pockets by feeding and entertaining the mostly well-off people who can manage to buy a ticket and a bag of peanuts at the glitzy new stadium without jeopardizing next month's rent payment.
It's always fascinating to me how when local governments and the corporate media talk of 'transforming' a depressed urban area, it almost always results not in transformation, but destruction. Historical buildings tumble, poor residents with roots in the neighbourhood going back generations are kicked out and a new, 'vibrant' neighbourhood springs up. If you're not sure what I mean, I'll give you some reliable indicators: fancy, boutique hotels for the 'public', costing 200 a night and up. Brand new chain restaurants in shining malls and along paved promenades, offering 'local' flavours. Hey, an Applebys Caesar Salad made in Minneapolis is kinda local, after all. Brand new cookie-cutter apartment buildings offering 'local' housing. I love that- if you throw the word 'housing' at the end of a headline announcing the construction of a new apartment block offering million-dollar condos as part of an urban 'redevelopment', most people will believe something good is happening for the community.
It is. For a tiny percentage of the community, if you believe that word covers the entire population, not just the wealthy. I read a different kind of article today. If you vote, and especially if you're a fan of your local sports team, I strongly recommend its reading. Especially you, Barry:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/08/sports/08stadium.html?_r=1&hp
These public-private projects do not help the community at large. There's no reason why people should have to spend enormous amounts of money on houses in prosperous neighbourhoods the moment they have kids, just so that child can go to a decent school. Enough with the insanity. Until we have good schools and hospitals in every neighbourhood, and health care for every person that doesn't bankrupt them, and decent public housing for people to live in and parks for children to play in, enough with the brand spanking new stadiums.
To borrow an old Arabic phrase, our priorities are ass-up and tits-backward. Vote for leaders who tell sports owners that if they want a new toy that prints loads of brand new money for themselves and their buddies, that's wonderful. But they can build it without our help.
Pictures, from top:
The new stadium for the Arizona Cardinals, 67% of which was publicly financed.
The old and the new. The new Giants-Jets stadium, being built on public land, replacing the old one, which
the people of New Jersey are still paying back, with $100 million dollars still owed.
The article in question was not exactly of that ilk; its pertinence rested in its ignorance of some of those issues. The writer, a Mr.Barry Bloom, gushed over the new Minnesota ballpark, Target Field. He spoke of how it would be a boon for the community, of the pleasure it would give the fans. Clearly, in this man's eyes, everything had been gained and nothing lost: "thriving communities, thriving franchises, happy fans."
Not quite, Baz. I sent him an email asking for clarification on exactly who he was referring to when he used the term 'community'. Certainly not the thousands of poor and working class residents who were relocated, or more accurately kicked out, to make way for the new stadium. Nor was he probably referring to the millions of people who may have benefited from the new schools, parks, health clinics and community centers that could have been built with all that public money. In all likelihood, Barry was probably referring to the super-rich corporations that received those funds to build the stadium and the sports owners and private vendors who will fatten their already bloated pockets by feeding and entertaining the mostly well-off people who can manage to buy a ticket and a bag of peanuts at the glitzy new stadium without jeopardizing next month's rent payment.It's always fascinating to me how when local governments and the corporate media talk of 'transforming' a depressed urban area, it almost always results not in transformation, but destruction. Historical buildings tumble, poor residents with roots in the neighbourhood going back generations are kicked out and a new, 'vibrant' neighbourhood springs up. If you're not sure what I mean, I'll give you some reliable indicators: fancy, boutique hotels for the 'public', costing 200 a night and up. Brand new chain restaurants in shining malls and along paved promenades, offering 'local' flavours. Hey, an Applebys Caesar Salad made in Minneapolis is kinda local, after all. Brand new cookie-cutter apartment buildings offering 'local' housing. I love that- if you throw the word 'housing' at the end of a headline announcing the construction of a new apartment block offering million-dollar condos as part of an urban 'redevelopment', most people will believe something good is happening for the community.
It is. For a tiny percentage of the community, if you believe that word covers the entire population, not just the wealthy. I read a different kind of article today. If you vote, and especially if you're a fan of your local sports team, I strongly recommend its reading. Especially you, Barry:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/08/sports/08stadium.html?_r=1&hp
To borrow an old Arabic phrase, our priorities are ass-up and tits-backward. Vote for leaders who tell sports owners that if they want a new toy that prints loads of brand new money for themselves and their buddies, that's wonderful. But they can build it without our help.
Pictures, from top:
The new stadium for the Arizona Cardinals, 67% of which was publicly financed.
The old and the new. The new Giants-Jets stadium, being built on public land, replacing the old one, which
the people of New Jersey are still paying back, with $100 million dollars still owed.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
FRIENDS
In his book, A New Earth, Eckhart Tolle talks about how ducks manage conflict. After two ducks have come together in a physical confrontation, he says, they both retreat to a safe distance, rise up in the water and shake their wings violently, thereby releasing all the residues of energy that have remained in their bodies as a result of the fight. Having done so, the ducks continue on as before, having regained their inner equilibrium.
If only the psychic and energetic upheavals caused by human conflict and confrontation could be surrendered as easily. Yet, with much work and a commitment to living without inner conflict (which means being willing to work through outer conflicts), they can be. Obviously it's harder for us- we are blessed and burdened with long memories, active imaginations and well-developed egos, which is all the more reason for us to find ways to move beyond the mostly petty disputes and judgements which crowd our thoughts and disturb our inner peace.
I have had the experience of driving and becoming irritated with another person on the road, blasting my horn and sounding off to myself, only to discover that the other driver was a friend of mine. How amusing it is to watch both of us go from a state of anger and bilious annoyance to laughter and joyful embarrassment upon recognizing our friend in the other car. This begs the question: how is it possible to be so ready to fight a war and then transform into gestures of love in the next instant? In moments like these it's very clear to me that our feelings about the people around us are a result of how we perceive them.
On a global scale, this is critical to understand for obvious reasons. But more personally, I have noticed in myself that I am less likely to venture out into the world with a sense of joy and freedom when I am perceiving that world as a hostile place, full of 'enemies' and dislikable people who are ready to judge me harshly. Yet those same people can seem lovable and approachable depending on my outlook and mood that day. As an actor I have experienced enormous anxiety and reluctance to go onstage one night and a hyperactive eagerness and giddy joy to step out in front of an audience the next. All that changed was my feelings about the people and the environment I was moving into.
We all have goals. We all need to move in the world and make contact with others, whether it be in a supermarket checkout line or in collaboration with others, working together on the most meaningful projects in our lives. When we find a way to wish others well and extend love to them in whatever minute forms that might take, we will surely begin to feel that others are doing the same for us. All of us know the joy of basking in the loving embrace of our friends, knowing that we can be who we are and be fully accepted. The more often we're able to project that feeling with no thought as to how it will be returned, the more our world will grow and the more its abundance will be able to flow in.
If only the psychic and energetic upheavals caused by human conflict and confrontation could be surrendered as easily. Yet, with much work and a commitment to living without inner conflict (which means being willing to work through outer conflicts), they can be. Obviously it's harder for us- we are blessed and burdened with long memories, active imaginations and well-developed egos, which is all the more reason for us to find ways to move beyond the mostly petty disputes and judgements which crowd our thoughts and disturb our inner peace.
I have had the experience of driving and becoming irritated with another person on the road, blasting my horn and sounding off to myself, only to discover that the other driver was a friend of mine. How amusing it is to watch both of us go from a state of anger and bilious annoyance to laughter and joyful embarrassment upon recognizing our friend in the other car. This begs the question: how is it possible to be so ready to fight a war and then transform into gestures of love in the next instant? In moments like these it's very clear to me that our feelings about the people around us are a result of how we perceive them.
On a global scale, this is critical to understand for obvious reasons. But more personally, I have noticed in myself that I am less likely to venture out into the world with a sense of joy and freedom when I am perceiving that world as a hostile place, full of 'enemies' and dislikable people who are ready to judge me harshly. Yet those same people can seem lovable and approachable depending on my outlook and mood that day. As an actor I have experienced enormous anxiety and reluctance to go onstage one night and a hyperactive eagerness and giddy joy to step out in front of an audience the next. All that changed was my feelings about the people and the environment I was moving into.
We all have goals. We all need to move in the world and make contact with others, whether it be in a supermarket checkout line or in collaboration with others, working together on the most meaningful projects in our lives. When we find a way to wish others well and extend love to them in whatever minute forms that might take, we will surely begin to feel that others are doing the same for us. All of us know the joy of basking in the loving embrace of our friends, knowing that we can be who we are and be fully accepted. The more often we're able to project that feeling with no thought as to how it will be returned, the more our world will grow and the more its abundance will be able to flow in.
Monday, August 23, 2010
DIMINISHING RETURNS
I happened to be in my car a little more than I care to last Friday, but it turned out to be a pleasing experience: I was able to listen to Film Week on KPCC, the Los Angeles arm of National Public Radio.
I'm not a film review enthusiast; sometimes I might glance at a New York Times review when conflicted over what to see. Most of the time I end up being in agreement with the majority of their critics. But usually I prefer to go my own way when it comes to sizing up the latest films on offer. Having said that, Film Week is an excellent movie review show, as humourous as it is insightful and sometimes veering off the beaten track to explore deeper issues outside of the quality of the films in question that particular week. I was on hand to hear one of those discussions, held by Wade Major and Tim Cogshell, two critics for KPCC among other media outlets and hosted by Larry Mantle, the excellent host of Air Talk, the daily program which features Film Week.
The entire show was once again entertaining enough (the link to the entire podcast is at the bottom of this column), but the part of the discussion that caught my attention began when one of the gentlemen said what I and, I'm confident, many others have been thinking and feeling since the mid-90s:
"They don't make movies for adults anymore."
What proceeded was a conversation centered on the current studio system, the lowering of the average moviegoer's IQ and the completely irrational and incongruous ways in which studios assess profitability in the film industry. It was an exchange that, for me, couldn't have been more timely.
Recently my partner Victoria and I sat down to watch Kramer vs Kramer again. Although we'd seen it before, these movies never seem to lose their dramatic suspense. As we sat there, watching Dustin Hoffmann take us to the edge of the psychological and emotional cliff in trying desperately to keep his life together and hold onto his son, it occurred to me to ask the question: what are the recent equivalents of this kind of film, that is to say a film made on a medium-sized budget, with star actors of the highest quality, that not only was superb cinema but also highly profitable? I remember going to the movies in the 80s and early 90s and going down the list under the heading, 'now showing': there would be the requisite big-budget action/adventure films of course, in addition to the obligatory small child/teen movies. But in between, the meat in the sandwich, would be several movies made for... you guessed it... adults. These films were not adult films by nature of their genre; they took many forms. They were adult in tone and substance. And their rating confirmed that. Ever noticed how rare it is to see an MA or R rating these days? The reason will be known to most of you: studio execs are playing it safe, wanting the beloved 13-to-25 demographic to be able to see as many of their movies as possible.
Although the people in that age group may consume the most stuff, they also, as a generality, have the shortest attention spans and the most superficial interest in the human condition. Movies used to tell us about that condition, but no longer in the vast majority of cases, which makes perfect sense: as we continue to focus more and more of our precious attention and resources on acquiring things, on the constant drowning out of our inner silence and feelings by the monotonous intellectual and spiritual junk food we now accept as 'entertainment', we find ourselves less empathetic, less fascinated by our and others' inner lives, and more interested in the superficiality of reality TV and the latest electronic toy which will give us that sense of self we lost somewhere along the way.
As a result, studios have to jump through more and more technological hoops to get these 13-to-25s, with their microscopic attention span, to the cinema. A vapid, paper-thin story containing loads of meaningless computer-generated images used to suffice. But, like all toys, the public grew weary of that. Now 3D has arrived and presto, every other big-budget movie can be 'enjoyed' through a pair of disposable plastic glasses.
Which seems just about spot on, given the disposable nature of most Hollywood films in 2010. And yet the numbers don't add up. As the gentlemen discussed on NPR last Friday, the average big-budget Hollywood film costs around 150 million dollars right now, and needs to make around 300 million to be able to call itself remotely profitable. Most of the movies which make a return of this amount are hailed as 'hits' by desperate, self-congratulatory studios in their press releases, while that rare species, the low budget movie that costs 1 million and makes back 5, is barely mentioned.
Which seems more sustainable? The so-called 'blockbusters' have gigantic marketing campaigns which make us believe that they are not only commercially successful but also relevant. Yet the reality is that many of them, proportionate to budget, are pathetic under-achievers and awful to boot, further alienating their core audience and guaranteeing that the rest of us will continue to spend our dollars elsewhere.
That truism is borne out in the numbers: this summer has been one of the worst for Hollywood in recent memory. Iron Man 2, Shrek 3, Sex & The City 2 (see a pattern here?), Robin Hood, Clash of The Titans and the embarrassing Prince of Persia all under-performed and, given their enormous budgets, will not make much money for their respective studios, most of whom passed on Slumdog Millionaire, a film made for 15 million dollars and is now into the many hundreds of millions in profits.
Clearly, not all films will succeed as Slumdog did. But what the people making movies in Hollywood need to understand is that they don't have to. Like many other elements in our global society today, Hollywood needs to downsize. The lust for movies that generate billion-dollar profits is creating a failed system for all concerned, evident in empty cinemas across the country. There are legions of us who love going to the movies and are ready to go tonight if films tailored to an adult mind and heart are made. It is an astonishing and sad indictment of our film industry that, for most people, the term 'adult film' only means pornography. I would suggest that the schlockfests mentioned in the preceding paragraph are much closer to pornography than their makers might care to admit- the pornography of glorified violence and token sex devoid of all authentic passion and/or tenderness.
So it's time to vote for change. Boycott movies that you know offer nothing. Don't be seduced into thinking that you 'have' to go see the next blockbuster because it's a 'big-screen' movie. There's only one criterion to satisfy in order to be called a big-screen movie: that it's good. That it affords us a communal experience that makes us more alive, not more listless and indifferent to the world. We all need to make a concerted effort to see good American films when they emerge, like the lovely Mother and Child, starring a radiant Annette Bening, wrinkles and all. This beautiful, engaging film cost 7 million dollars and so far has made half its budget back worldwide. Not much to inspire the creation of more films of its type and yet consider the untold hordes of moviegoers who were completely unaware of its existence and gifts; it is both sad and encouraging to know that if only a tiny fraction of this enormous group had seen a film like Mother & Child, it would have been a highly profitable commercial and artistic venture.
So vote with your abstinence and your engagement and never be afraid to be the party pooper who says in a loud voice, amidst all the gush and hyperbole, that the latest cinematic Emperor is, in point of fact, stark naked.
Peter Finch said it best: "I'm mad as hell! And I'm not going to take this anymore!"
Network.
A hugely profitable film for adults. In brilliant 2-D. Go figure.
http://www.scpr.org/programs/airtalk/2010/08/20/filmweek-the-switch-lottery-ticket-nanny-mcphee-re/
Pictures, from top: Kramer vs Kramer, Columbia Pictures, 1979.
Annette Bening in Mother & Child, Sony Pictures Classics, 2009.
Peter Finch in Network, MGM Pictures, 1976.
I'm not a film review enthusiast; sometimes I might glance at a New York Times review when conflicted over what to see. Most of the time I end up being in agreement with the majority of their critics. But usually I prefer to go my own way when it comes to sizing up the latest films on offer. Having said that, Film Week is an excellent movie review show, as humourous as it is insightful and sometimes veering off the beaten track to explore deeper issues outside of the quality of the films in question that particular week. I was on hand to hear one of those discussions, held by Wade Major and Tim Cogshell, two critics for KPCC among other media outlets and hosted by Larry Mantle, the excellent host of Air Talk, the daily program which features Film Week.
The entire show was once again entertaining enough (the link to the entire podcast is at the bottom of this column), but the part of the discussion that caught my attention began when one of the gentlemen said what I and, I'm confident, many others have been thinking and feeling since the mid-90s:
"They don't make movies for adults anymore."
What proceeded was a conversation centered on the current studio system, the lowering of the average moviegoer's IQ and the completely irrational and incongruous ways in which studios assess profitability in the film industry. It was an exchange that, for me, couldn't have been more timely.
Although the people in that age group may consume the most stuff, they also, as a generality, have the shortest attention spans and the most superficial interest in the human condition. Movies used to tell us about that condition, but no longer in the vast majority of cases, which makes perfect sense: as we continue to focus more and more of our precious attention and resources on acquiring things, on the constant drowning out of our inner silence and feelings by the monotonous intellectual and spiritual junk food we now accept as 'entertainment', we find ourselves less empathetic, less fascinated by our and others' inner lives, and more interested in the superficiality of reality TV and the latest electronic toy which will give us that sense of self we lost somewhere along the way.
As a result, studios have to jump through more and more technological hoops to get these 13-to-25s, with their microscopic attention span, to the cinema. A vapid, paper-thin story containing loads of meaningless computer-generated images used to suffice. But, like all toys, the public grew weary of that. Now 3D has arrived and presto, every other big-budget movie can be 'enjoyed' through a pair of disposable plastic glasses.
Which seems just about spot on, given the disposable nature of most Hollywood films in 2010. And yet the numbers don't add up. As the gentlemen discussed on NPR last Friday, the average big-budget Hollywood film costs around 150 million dollars right now, and needs to make around 300 million to be able to call itself remotely profitable. Most of the movies which make a return of this amount are hailed as 'hits' by desperate, self-congratulatory studios in their press releases, while that rare species, the low budget movie that costs 1 million and makes back 5, is barely mentioned.
Which seems more sustainable? The so-called 'blockbusters' have gigantic marketing campaigns which make us believe that they are not only commercially successful but also relevant. Yet the reality is that many of them, proportionate to budget, are pathetic under-achievers and awful to boot, further alienating their core audience and guaranteeing that the rest of us will continue to spend our dollars elsewhere.
That truism is borne out in the numbers: this summer has been one of the worst for Hollywood in recent memory. Iron Man 2, Shrek 3, Sex & The City 2 (see a pattern here?), Robin Hood, Clash of The Titans and the embarrassing Prince of Persia all under-performed and, given their enormous budgets, will not make much money for their respective studios, most of whom passed on Slumdog Millionaire, a film made for 15 million dollars and is now into the many hundreds of millions in profits.
Clearly, not all films will succeed as Slumdog did. But what the people making movies in Hollywood need to understand is that they don't have to. Like many other elements in our global society today, Hollywood needs to downsize. The lust for movies that generate billion-dollar profits is creating a failed system for all concerned, evident in empty cinemas across the country. There are legions of us who love going to the movies and are ready to go tonight if films tailored to an adult mind and heart are made. It is an astonishing and sad indictment of our film industry that, for most people, the term 'adult film' only means pornography. I would suggest that the schlockfests mentioned in the preceding paragraph are much closer to pornography than their makers might care to admit- the pornography of glorified violence and token sex devoid of all authentic passion and/or tenderness.
So it's time to vote for change. Boycott movies that you know offer nothing. Don't be seduced into thinking that you 'have' to go see the next blockbuster because it's a 'big-screen' movie. There's only one criterion to satisfy in order to be called a big-screen movie: that it's good. That it affords us a communal experience that makes us more alive, not more listless and indifferent to the world. We all need to make a concerted effort to see good American films when they emerge, like the lovely Mother and Child, starring a radiant Annette Bening, wrinkles and all. This beautiful, engaging film cost 7 million dollars and so far has made half its budget back worldwide. Not much to inspire the creation of more films of its type and yet consider the untold hordes of moviegoers who were completely unaware of its existence and gifts; it is both sad and encouraging to know that if only a tiny fraction of this enormous group had seen a film like Mother & Child, it would have been a highly profitable commercial and artistic venture.So vote with your abstinence and your engagement and never be afraid to be the party pooper who says in a loud voice, amidst all the gush and hyperbole, that the latest cinematic Emperor is, in point of fact, stark naked.
Peter Finch said it best: "I'm mad as hell! And I'm not going to take this anymore!"
Network.
A hugely profitable film for adults. In brilliant 2-D. Go figure.
http://www.scpr.org/programs/airtalk/2010/08/20/filmweek-the-switch-lottery-ticket-nanny-mcphee-re/
Pictures, from top: Kramer vs Kramer, Columbia Pictures, 1979.
Annette Bening in Mother & Child, Sony Pictures Classics, 2009.
Peter Finch in Network, MGM Pictures, 1976.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
THE CASE FOR GRILLED HAM & CHEESE
Despite the constant upward surge of inflation and the continuing devaluation of the mighty dollar, there is still a lot one can do with ninety three clams these days.
Like almost filling up your gas tank, for starters. Or buying two grapefruits and a box of rice crackers at Whole Foods. Even better, you could make a donation to Meg Whitman's gubernatorial campaign: she's spent a hundred million so far and is still in a dead heat with a guy who's spent... about ninety three clams, but she has to save the three billion she's got left in her savings account for her failed presidential run in 2012, so you'd really be helping the dame out.
Just a few examples. But there are other ways to blow ninety three bucks and last night, cloaked by a soothing Pacific breeze, with hope in our hearts and a rumblin' in our tummies, Victoria and I walked through the doors of Planet Raw, a supposedly trendy, all-vegan "eatery" (all who use that word in the absence of jest should be publicly flogged in the town square) in Santa Monica, a beachside neighbourhood here in LA.
I must preface what is to come with a qualification: we weren't expecting miracles. Years ago, I happened upon the perfect approach to maximize one's enjoyment (if that's possible) of this kind of culinary fare:
Keep your expectations very low.
How low? Well, it's surprisingly simple: expect that everything will taste like perfectly seasoned dirt, and work your way up from there. You'd be shocked by how pleasant vegan food can be when you don't assume it will be in any way satisfying. Heavens to betsy, last time Victoria and I ate at a vegan restaurant, we found some of the food to be almost decent. A stunner in anyone's book.
So it was in this state of passive acceptance together with girded loins and bored, pessimistic taste buds that we were seated at a table at Planet Raw, a strange moniker which could also have served as the name of a bondage club, which I think is perfectly appropriate, given the sadomasochism inherent in eating this kind of food on a regular basis.
The menu began with a full-page dissertation on the benefits of eating raw, organic food, the positive environmental effects, the geo-political and sociological ramifications and other facts and proclamations of global import. I understood the strategy; it was as if the owners were saying hey, the food you are about to consume may end up on the pavement outside at the end of the evening, but at least you'll be saving the world. It felt like the culinary equivalent of telling your friend that the blind date you're setting them up with has a great personality.
With sinking hopes, we surveyed the menu. It promised the world: gluten-free spaghetti and 'meat' balls, warm lasagna (warmth seems to be a huge draw in the raw world) and my favourite, a bacon western double burger. Who needs meat, dairy and flour when you have these treats? Hope returned; my taste buds stood on tiptoes; Victoria and I looked across the table at one another and afforded ourselves a smile, the leering grin of diners anticipating dizzying, euphoric satiety.
After what seemed like an hour (although the waiters here didn't offer cow, they seemed to enjoy moving like them), our young aspiring model showed up, asking us if we were ready. You bet we were. I ordered the spaghetti and meatballs with a straight face, while Victoria went for the cheezy kelp noodles, after an appetizer of guacamole and chips.
We waited. Wheezing, dessicated homo sapiens surrounded us, proudly devouring their morally superior food, casting suspicious glances at us between wooden forkfuls of high-priced, designer roughage. They can smell our meat breath, I told Victoria. Nevertheless, we felt safe; these people could barely lift a water glass to their pallid faces without fainting.
Tectonic plates heaved. Continents shifted. Finally our guacamole arrived with what this establishment so cavalierly referred to as 'chips'. These small bricklets came in two varieties: one was a seeded cracker of some sort, which passed as edible. The other? No amount of hypnotherapy could have prepared me for this waking nightmare. The last time I had seen objects like this was when I tried to dig through the wall of a Tijuana jail cell- I'm sure these moistureless nuggets now gracing my plate had the same properties as those I had hidden from the guards on my way out to jettison them in the exercise yard. Concrete is vegan, as far as I know. I never escaped from that Mexican prison. I won't digress any further, except to say that forced sodomy on a grand scale was looking pretty good right now when faced with inserting one of these things into my gob.
But I did. Victoria stared, seemingly entranced by the horror show playing out on my sheet-white face. This was not taste; this was anti-taste, all the evil in the world pumped into one mortifying bite. I calmly placed the rest of the thing down on the plate, slowly took a sip of water and exhaled, a tiny sob escaping my offended lips. Victoria, having dodged a bullet, instead reached for the seeded crackers which, once buried under guacamole, were mildly acceptable.
Appetizer attempted, we sat back in our seats, already exhausted. We were like the boxer who returns to his corner after a bruising first round, his former feeling of invincibility suddenly transformed into doubt, introspection and, worst of all, fear. Heaven knew what awaited us.
Finally, the main course emerged. As soon as the plates hit the table, we knew that this meal could only have been constructed in Hell. My 'spaghetti in marinara sauce', as described on the soapbox disguised as a menu, was a sham, the greatest of hoaxes. Forget Nazi propaganda, forget Mao's 'Cultural Revolution', forget "I did not have sexual relations with that woman", forget even "mission accomplished"... this was The Greatest Lie, trying to pass itself off as dinner. I imagined a bunch of wise guys from The Sopranos showing up here, ignorant of the kind of restaurant they were walking into, and ordering the spaghetti and meatballs. Tony would take one bite, calmly put his fork down, politely pay the check and tell the guys that they were leaving. An hour later they would return to the scene, baseball bats in hand, and the next day Planet Raw would be a steak house.
Victoria wasn't doing much better. Her 'cheesy kelp noodles' were a modern disaster, right up there with the Greek economy and Kelsey Grammar's Macbeth. Victoria's face reminded me of my father's when we went to see A Night At The Museum. This was disassociation in its purest form, taught to young federal agents to prepare them for torture and interrogation. Victoria had disappeared, only her body remaining, shovelling the food into her mouth as her mind thought of puppies, tropical paradises and harems containing attractive men who cooked and cleaned.
I snapped my fingers, startling her back to our miserable shared reality. It was time to get the hell out of here, and based on the evening's experience I knew we had to start Project Runway on preparing our check now if we hoped to get out anytime soon. I hailed him and told him we were done. He asked if we wanted to box anything up to take with us. We told him we'd love to but were going to a party. He said he understood completely. I gave him my card and he left, saying he'd be right back.
That of course was 'right back' in vegan language, which we now knew meant at least ten minutes, during which time Victoria and I were able to each go to the bathroom and weep quietly, all the while nursing an ever-increasing hunger that would not quit. I dreamt of rare steaks topped with melted cheese and then layered on top with more steak, which was lovingly covered with steak-flavoured cheese. Not to be.
I returned to our table and there the total lay, winking at me: $93.20. We had spent ninety three American greenbacks on this fiasco. I saw the manager standing by the door, ready to bid us good night. Rage boiled inside me, courtesy of this con merchant and the people who employed him. It was time to burst the bubble, to pull the curtain back on this operation and say what most of this customers had to be thinking, that this was highway robbery and it had to stop. Now.
We headed for the door. He shook my mind, gave me a winning smile and asked how everything had been for us that evening.
I looked him right in the eye.
Stared deep into his burning soul.
"Delicious."
Picture: A standard entree at Planet Raw.
Like almost filling up your gas tank, for starters. Or buying two grapefruits and a box of rice crackers at Whole Foods. Even better, you could make a donation to Meg Whitman's gubernatorial campaign: she's spent a hundred million so far and is still in a dead heat with a guy who's spent... about ninety three clams, but she has to save the three billion she's got left in her savings account for her failed presidential run in 2012, so you'd really be helping the dame out.
Just a few examples. But there are other ways to blow ninety three bucks and last night, cloaked by a soothing Pacific breeze, with hope in our hearts and a rumblin' in our tummies, Victoria and I walked through the doors of Planet Raw, a supposedly trendy, all-vegan "eatery" (all who use that word in the absence of jest should be publicly flogged in the town square) in Santa Monica, a beachside neighbourhood here in LA.
I must preface what is to come with a qualification: we weren't expecting miracles. Years ago, I happened upon the perfect approach to maximize one's enjoyment (if that's possible) of this kind of culinary fare:
Keep your expectations very low.
How low? Well, it's surprisingly simple: expect that everything will taste like perfectly seasoned dirt, and work your way up from there. You'd be shocked by how pleasant vegan food can be when you don't assume it will be in any way satisfying. Heavens to betsy, last time Victoria and I ate at a vegan restaurant, we found some of the food to be almost decent. A stunner in anyone's book.
So it was in this state of passive acceptance together with girded loins and bored, pessimistic taste buds that we were seated at a table at Planet Raw, a strange moniker which could also have served as the name of a bondage club, which I think is perfectly appropriate, given the sadomasochism inherent in eating this kind of food on a regular basis.
The menu began with a full-page dissertation on the benefits of eating raw, organic food, the positive environmental effects, the geo-political and sociological ramifications and other facts and proclamations of global import. I understood the strategy; it was as if the owners were saying hey, the food you are about to consume may end up on the pavement outside at the end of the evening, but at least you'll be saving the world. It felt like the culinary equivalent of telling your friend that the blind date you're setting them up with has a great personality.
With sinking hopes, we surveyed the menu. It promised the world: gluten-free spaghetti and 'meat' balls, warm lasagna (warmth seems to be a huge draw in the raw world) and my favourite, a bacon western double burger. Who needs meat, dairy and flour when you have these treats? Hope returned; my taste buds stood on tiptoes; Victoria and I looked across the table at one another and afforded ourselves a smile, the leering grin of diners anticipating dizzying, euphoric satiety.
After what seemed like an hour (although the waiters here didn't offer cow, they seemed to enjoy moving like them), our young aspiring model showed up, asking us if we were ready. You bet we were. I ordered the spaghetti and meatballs with a straight face, while Victoria went for the cheezy kelp noodles, after an appetizer of guacamole and chips.
We waited. Wheezing, dessicated homo sapiens surrounded us, proudly devouring their morally superior food, casting suspicious glances at us between wooden forkfuls of high-priced, designer roughage. They can smell our meat breath, I told Victoria. Nevertheless, we felt safe; these people could barely lift a water glass to their pallid faces without fainting.
Tectonic plates heaved. Continents shifted. Finally our guacamole arrived with what this establishment so cavalierly referred to as 'chips'. These small bricklets came in two varieties: one was a seeded cracker of some sort, which passed as edible. The other? No amount of hypnotherapy could have prepared me for this waking nightmare. The last time I had seen objects like this was when I tried to dig through the wall of a Tijuana jail cell- I'm sure these moistureless nuggets now gracing my plate had the same properties as those I had hidden from the guards on my way out to jettison them in the exercise yard. Concrete is vegan, as far as I know. I never escaped from that Mexican prison. I won't digress any further, except to say that forced sodomy on a grand scale was looking pretty good right now when faced with inserting one of these things into my gob.
Appetizer attempted, we sat back in our seats, already exhausted. We were like the boxer who returns to his corner after a bruising first round, his former feeling of invincibility suddenly transformed into doubt, introspection and, worst of all, fear. Heaven knew what awaited us.
Finally, the main course emerged. As soon as the plates hit the table, we knew that this meal could only have been constructed in Hell. My 'spaghetti in marinara sauce', as described on the soapbox disguised as a menu, was a sham, the greatest of hoaxes. Forget Nazi propaganda, forget Mao's 'Cultural Revolution', forget "I did not have sexual relations with that woman", forget even "mission accomplished"... this was The Greatest Lie, trying to pass itself off as dinner. I imagined a bunch of wise guys from The Sopranos showing up here, ignorant of the kind of restaurant they were walking into, and ordering the spaghetti and meatballs. Tony would take one bite, calmly put his fork down, politely pay the check and tell the guys that they were leaving. An hour later they would return to the scene, baseball bats in hand, and the next day Planet Raw would be a steak house.
Victoria wasn't doing much better. Her 'cheesy kelp noodles' were a modern disaster, right up there with the Greek economy and Kelsey Grammar's Macbeth. Victoria's face reminded me of my father's when we went to see A Night At The Museum. This was disassociation in its purest form, taught to young federal agents to prepare them for torture and interrogation. Victoria had disappeared, only her body remaining, shovelling the food into her mouth as her mind thought of puppies, tropical paradises and harems containing attractive men who cooked and cleaned.
I snapped my fingers, startling her back to our miserable shared reality. It was time to get the hell out of here, and based on the evening's experience I knew we had to start Project Runway on preparing our check now if we hoped to get out anytime soon. I hailed him and told him we were done. He asked if we wanted to box anything up to take with us. We told him we'd love to but were going to a party. He said he understood completely. I gave him my card and he left, saying he'd be right back.
That of course was 'right back' in vegan language, which we now knew meant at least ten minutes, during which time Victoria and I were able to each go to the bathroom and weep quietly, all the while nursing an ever-increasing hunger that would not quit. I dreamt of rare steaks topped with melted cheese and then layered on top with more steak, which was lovingly covered with steak-flavoured cheese. Not to be.
I returned to our table and there the total lay, winking at me: $93.20. We had spent ninety three American greenbacks on this fiasco. I saw the manager standing by the door, ready to bid us good night. Rage boiled inside me, courtesy of this con merchant and the people who employed him. It was time to burst the bubble, to pull the curtain back on this operation and say what most of this customers had to be thinking, that this was highway robbery and it had to stop. Now.
We headed for the door. He shook my mind, gave me a winning smile and asked how everything had been for us that evening.
I looked him right in the eye.
Stared deep into his burning soul.
"Delicious."
Picture: A standard entree at Planet Raw.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
THE YAWNING VOID
Yes folks, I'm back. Kind of.
My self-imposed sabbatical at an end, it's time to once again put my proverbial ear to the ground that is this American life; time to check the country's pulse; time to jettison asinine, redundant cliches.
What an introduction. My own writing suddenly reminds me of all those hack comedians who, stupefied upon entering the stage to a lukewarm, indifferent audience, revert to that most tired refrain, "anyone here from outta town?"
The comparison is apt, people. For I truly am, in this moment, the archetype reborn, remade: I am the writer with nothing to say.
How did I reach this point? Shouldn't all of your encouragements, your compliments, your positive feedback have driven me on to even greater heights? Did I not bound out of bed this morning and head for this computer like a vulture might swoop in on a carcass, ready to resume my role as literary watchman for the unwashed masses (for those of you who do occasionally wash, let that go by; for my English readers, don't even think of trying to protest)?
Sadly, the only carcass left in the room is me. It's extremely hard to write scathing political comment, brilliantly witty satire or profound, insightful thoughts on the self and its development when your mind's a blank.
But the problem's causes, its roots, must be investigated. How did this happen? How did I turn into the blog-o-sphere's (new term- feel free to co-opt it) version of Jimmy Fallon? How did I become such a blimbo?
Is it possible that my loved one, my Lady, the jewel in my crown, Queen Victoria, has so entrenched herself in my consciousness as my Muse that, in her recent absence, I have lost all creative facility? The woman left town a week ago; my blog went untouched for the entire time. This has to be the answer, an answer that exposes me for the fool that I am. She returns tonight; if I had only waited until this evening to reconnect with the globe via this column, I could have written something masterful, a bronzed edifice for our time. I see it now: Victoria spots me waiting at the security exit; she leaps into my arms; I drive her home and bring in her nine bags; she flops on the couch, turns on her favourite sitcom (whatever tired, dated comedic retread which happens to be on in that moment) and demands food and liquid refreshment; I hurriedly acquiesce, terrified of her disapproval; she eats dinner, tosses the gnarled bones at me and orders me to carry her to bed. My hopes rise, but alas, she is asleep before I've put her down. I am deliciously close to violating her in her slumber when the possibility strikes me of being asked to cook more food if she wakes; I leave her be and rush to my computer, filled with the creative impulse and the desire to write. Art ensues.
That is how it could, and would, have gone if I'd waited. But no. I had to show up this morning and admit my incompetence to all of you.
Which is why I'm thinking of retiring. I can't be dependent on the whims of a rapacious, salacious Muse who demands three 5-star meals each day. I'm going for the scorched earth policy; if I can't do this on my own, I'm not going to do it at all. Let's see how long this world keeps on turning without the likes of me. Where are you going to turn for your daily intellectual nourishment, huh? Not the newspaper; no one reads those anymore. Books? Useless, anachronistic piles of papyrus, waiting to be murdered by the digital age. And speaking of that age, maybe you think you'll just move seamlessly, effortlessly to another blog? Don't kid yourself- you're way too loyal to ever go behind my retired back. Let's face it: you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall.
So I suppose I'll keep going. Victoria will disembark and everything will return to normal. Ideas will find their way back to my addled brain. Once again, I'll be able to attempt the creation of graceful sentences, with middling results. Politicians, Christopher Nolan and the creators of Dancing With The Stars will once again cower, seeking shelter. Universal equanimity will return.
But not for me. Victoria just called. I made the mistake of asking her if she'd be hungry after her flight this evening. The response was savagely immediate:
"Cornish game hen, freshly captured and roasted, ladled with a garlic and rosemary au jus, and served with sauteed baby carrots, potatoes au gratin and freshly picked spring greens tossed in a red wine and raspberry vinaigrette."
A few problems here. I haven't seen any Cornish hens in the gardens of my apartment building for weeks. I don't have a ladle. And it ain't spring. Not to mention the au jus and au gratin portions of the request. Anytime Victoria italicizes words like that over the phone, I know I'm in trouble. It means, "buddy, make this happen or else." Eerie.
So there it is. If you see another post in a couple of days, it means the hens were found, slaughtered and given the thumbs up by my Muse.
If another post doesn't show up, what can I tell you. Go buy a newspaper.
Victoria's dinner in pictures, from top:
Baby carrots.
The Hen, of the Cornish variety.
Patooties Gratin.
What the...? Oh for frick's sake, I said "jus"...
My self-imposed sabbatical at an end, it's time to once again put my proverbial ear to the ground that is this American life; time to check the country's pulse; time to jettison asinine, redundant cliches.
What an introduction. My own writing suddenly reminds me of all those hack comedians who, stupefied upon entering the stage to a lukewarm, indifferent audience, revert to that most tired refrain, "anyone here from outta town?"
The comparison is apt, people. For I truly am, in this moment, the archetype reborn, remade: I am the writer with nothing to say.
Sadly, the only carcass left in the room is me. It's extremely hard to write scathing political comment, brilliantly witty satire or profound, insightful thoughts on the self and its development when your mind's a blank.
But the problem's causes, its roots, must be investigated. How did this happen? How did I turn into the blog-o-sphere's (new term- feel free to co-opt it) version of Jimmy Fallon? How did I become such a blimbo?
Is it possible that my loved one, my Lady, the jewel in my crown, Queen Victoria, has so entrenched herself in my consciousness as my Muse that, in her recent absence, I have lost all creative facility? The woman left town a week ago; my blog went untouched for the entire time. This has to be the answer, an answer that exposes me for the fool that I am. She returns tonight; if I had only waited until this evening to reconnect with the globe via this column, I could have written something masterful, a bronzed edifice for our time. I see it now: Victoria spots me waiting at the security exit; she leaps into my arms; I drive her home and bring in her nine bags; she flops on the couch, turns on her favourite sitcom (whatever tired, dated comedic retread which happens to be on in that moment) and demands food and liquid refreshment; I hurriedly acquiesce, terrified of her disapproval; she eats dinner, tosses the gnarled bones at me and orders me to carry her to bed. My hopes rise, but alas, she is asleep before I've put her down. I am deliciously close to violating her in her slumber when the possibility strikes me of being asked to cook more food if she wakes; I leave her be and rush to my computer, filled with the creative impulse and the desire to write. Art ensues.That is how it could, and would, have gone if I'd waited. But no. I had to show up this morning and admit my incompetence to all of you.
So I suppose I'll keep going. Victoria will disembark and everything will return to normal. Ideas will find their way back to my addled brain. Once again, I'll be able to attempt the creation of graceful sentences, with middling results. Politicians, Christopher Nolan and the creators of Dancing With The Stars will once again cower, seeking shelter. Universal equanimity will return.
But not for me. Victoria just called. I made the mistake of asking her if she'd be hungry after her flight this evening. The response was savagely immediate:
"Cornish game hen, freshly captured and roasted, ladled with a garlic and rosemary au jus, and served with sauteed baby carrots, potatoes au gratin and freshly picked spring greens tossed in a red wine and raspberry vinaigrette."
A few problems here. I haven't seen any Cornish hens in the gardens of my apartment building for weeks. I don't have a ladle. And it ain't spring. Not to mention the au jus and au gratin portions of the request. Anytime Victoria italicizes words like that over the phone, I know I'm in trouble. It means, "buddy, make this happen or else." Eerie.
So there it is. If you see another post in a couple of days, it means the hens were found, slaughtered and given the thumbs up by my Muse.
If another post doesn't show up, what can I tell you. Go buy a newspaper.
Victoria's dinner in pictures, from top:
Baby carrots.
The Hen, of the Cornish variety.
Patooties Gratin.
What the...? Oh for frick's sake, I said "jus"...
Friday, August 6, 2010
DESPERATE TIMES
The Obama Administration's Labor Department has been releasing unemployment numbers that have been consistently troubling and considered poor news for the US economy: according to the most recent data, the official unemployment rate released by the Department stands at 9.6%, which is its way of saying that 9.6% of the 'labour force' is currently out of work.
Somewhere along the line, someone decided we needed another team of superheroes to root for, so they coined the term labour force. I imagine millions of people, resumes at the ready, eager to charge out into the world and get employed!, briefcases, tool kits and aprons being their weapons of choice.
The reality is just a tad more prosaic. If we all want to practice a little more integrity and intellectual honesty in thinking about and dealing with the unemployment crisis that is going on right now all over this supposedly First World nation, then we have to survey the landscape without blinders and accept the situation as it is.
The labour 'force' is not really a force at all. It's something more akin to a large, inert mass. The only reason that Mr.Obama and his administration can bandy about numbers like '9.6 percent' is because that number does not include the vast, slumbering army of human beings who are no longer looking for work. If those people were included in the great Force, what would the national unemployment rate look like?
The National Jobs For All Coalition has published research showing that if those who have ceased to search for work were included in the unemployment figures, in addition to those who only work part time because they are unable to find full time work, the official unemployment rate would be 18.2 percent, almost double the current figure. To put it another way, instead of saying that 14.6 million people are unable to find gainful employment, we would have to raise that number to 29.1 million.
Those extra millions that are not usually included in the official numbers fall into a relatively new category: 'hidden unemployment'. It is astonishing to consider that, even with the uncounted now being counted, we are still not taking into account the millions of people who have full time work yet are not paid a living wage, have no job benefits and work in horrible conditions. But that is for another day. The number of real unemployed is disastrous enough.
So why are these people not included in job statistics? Why does President Obama not address the situation, compassionate as he is, preferring instead to talk of an 'improving economy' that is slowly 'adding jobs'?
The obvious, and clearly correct, answer is political considerations. Of course the President has to paint as rosy a picture as possible in order to stay in power. But to truly see the scope of the problem, one must see the pattern that has emerged in the rhetoric and focus of all political leaders for many decades now. The issue of poverty in the United States has not and will not be spoken of, not in any kind of authentic, meaningful way. The main cause of that poverty, the ability to find consistent work paying a living wage, would therefore also be off the table.
Economists like John Maynard Keynes, together with FDR among others, believed in the idea of Full Employment, a term we never hear anymore, either from our political leaders or the corporate media that currently monopolizes our air waves. Although full employment was never close to being achieved, it was a unifying idea that had support for a time, and policies were enacted in an attempt to bring the American society, so devastated by unemployment during the Depression, closer to that reality. That idea has long since been eradicated from all political consciousness and what we have left is an acceptance of a society where tens of millions and counting will never find meaningful work with a wage that gives them the opportunity for an improving quality of life through decent living conditions and a high quality education for them or their children.
We now hear politicians talk of the problems within the job market being 'cyclical'. The cynical ignorance inherent in this kind of thinking and rhetoric is breathtaking. Anybody who has witnessed the massive, systematic laying off of our blue collar workforce over the last thirty years by hugely profitable companies knows of the great lie being told to us. Anyone who was watching closely while politicians, bought by multinational corporations, allowed for the exploitation of foreign workers and the termination of local ones in the name of 'free trade agreements' would also be aware of the reality. Finally, any citizen who wanders through the streets of US cities, witnessing the staggering number of the homeless and indolent in addition to the vast wastelands of Third World neighbourhoods would also have trouble believing that high unemployment was 'cyclical'.
It's time to accept the fact that large scale poverty and unemployment here in the US is not cyclical, it is structural. What do we do with the millions of under-educated people who want to work? Can we educate and 'retrain' them all? Of course not. How do we replace the gigantic portion of manufacturing, agricultural and other blue collar jobs that are never coming back? Will we continue to be content to allow that mass of 'insignificants' to remain hidden? Simply ignore the problem until it is pushing against our back gate, clamouring to get in?
We need new ideas and a new political consciousness that tells the true story of this country in this moment. It will require a massive downgrading of our defense spending. It will require a huge tax hike on the stock market, with buyers and sellers paying a tax on every transaction. It will mean that polluters will pay for every molecule of carbon they pump into our atmosphere, as well as all of us paying into the public fund every time we fill up our cars, until we get so sick and tired of paying for gas that we start to vote for improved public transportation systems, systems that will hire hundreds of thousands of people. It will mean that our governments federal, state and local start to think about ways to hire people that improve the conditions on this planet, from environmental cleanup and protection to being paid an effective wage in order to effectively teach more of our children and adults.
But let's begin with seeing the problem as it is. Realism does not have to mean pessimism. Write to your local congressperson, senator, city council. If you believe that your political leaders need to make a good faith attempt to solve these problems, or at least raise consciousness about them, tell them so.
I believe Barack Obama to be a compassionate force for good. But he also needs to know that he can't take my support for granted. We need to be on the lookout for political leaders who don't accept a band-aid, an aspirin and a good lie down as solutions to chronic social problems that have this country and a large part of its populace on its knees.
Picture: Cutbacks on essential infrastructure, such as street lights. Read this sad and disturbing article in
today's New York Times.
Somewhere along the line, someone decided we needed another team of superheroes to root for, so they coined the term labour force. I imagine millions of people, resumes at the ready, eager to charge out into the world and get employed!, briefcases, tool kits and aprons being their weapons of choice.
The reality is just a tad more prosaic. If we all want to practice a little more integrity and intellectual honesty in thinking about and dealing with the unemployment crisis that is going on right now all over this supposedly First World nation, then we have to survey the landscape without blinders and accept the situation as it is.
The labour 'force' is not really a force at all. It's something more akin to a large, inert mass. The only reason that Mr.Obama and his administration can bandy about numbers like '9.6 percent' is because that number does not include the vast, slumbering army of human beings who are no longer looking for work. If those people were included in the great Force, what would the national unemployment rate look like?
The National Jobs For All Coalition has published research showing that if those who have ceased to search for work were included in the unemployment figures, in addition to those who only work part time because they are unable to find full time work, the official unemployment rate would be 18.2 percent, almost double the current figure. To put it another way, instead of saying that 14.6 million people are unable to find gainful employment, we would have to raise that number to 29.1 million.
Those extra millions that are not usually included in the official numbers fall into a relatively new category: 'hidden unemployment'. It is astonishing to consider that, even with the uncounted now being counted, we are still not taking into account the millions of people who have full time work yet are not paid a living wage, have no job benefits and work in horrible conditions. But that is for another day. The number of real unemployed is disastrous enough.
So why are these people not included in job statistics? Why does President Obama not address the situation, compassionate as he is, preferring instead to talk of an 'improving economy' that is slowly 'adding jobs'?
The obvious, and clearly correct, answer is political considerations. Of course the President has to paint as rosy a picture as possible in order to stay in power. But to truly see the scope of the problem, one must see the pattern that has emerged in the rhetoric and focus of all political leaders for many decades now. The issue of poverty in the United States has not and will not be spoken of, not in any kind of authentic, meaningful way. The main cause of that poverty, the ability to find consistent work paying a living wage, would therefore also be off the table.
Economists like John Maynard Keynes, together with FDR among others, believed in the idea of Full Employment, a term we never hear anymore, either from our political leaders or the corporate media that currently monopolizes our air waves. Although full employment was never close to being achieved, it was a unifying idea that had support for a time, and policies were enacted in an attempt to bring the American society, so devastated by unemployment during the Depression, closer to that reality. That idea has long since been eradicated from all political consciousness and what we have left is an acceptance of a society where tens of millions and counting will never find meaningful work with a wage that gives them the opportunity for an improving quality of life through decent living conditions and a high quality education for them or their children.
It's time to accept the fact that large scale poverty and unemployment here in the US is not cyclical, it is structural. What do we do with the millions of under-educated people who want to work? Can we educate and 'retrain' them all? Of course not. How do we replace the gigantic portion of manufacturing, agricultural and other blue collar jobs that are never coming back? Will we continue to be content to allow that mass of 'insignificants' to remain hidden? Simply ignore the problem until it is pushing against our back gate, clamouring to get in?
We need new ideas and a new political consciousness that tells the true story of this country in this moment. It will require a massive downgrading of our defense spending. It will require a huge tax hike on the stock market, with buyers and sellers paying a tax on every transaction. It will mean that polluters will pay for every molecule of carbon they pump into our atmosphere, as well as all of us paying into the public fund every time we fill up our cars, until we get so sick and tired of paying for gas that we start to vote for improved public transportation systems, systems that will hire hundreds of thousands of people. It will mean that our governments federal, state and local start to think about ways to hire people that improve the conditions on this planet, from environmental cleanup and protection to being paid an effective wage in order to effectively teach more of our children and adults.
But let's begin with seeing the problem as it is. Realism does not have to mean pessimism. Write to your local congressperson, senator, city council. If you believe that your political leaders need to make a good faith attempt to solve these problems, or at least raise consciousness about them, tell them so.
I believe Barack Obama to be a compassionate force for good. But he also needs to know that he can't take my support for granted. We need to be on the lookout for political leaders who don't accept a band-aid, an aspirin and a good lie down as solutions to chronic social problems that have this country and a large part of its populace on its knees.
Picture: Cutbacks on essential infrastructure, such as street lights. Read this sad and disturbing article in
today's New York Times.
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