Interesting times in the world, don't ya think?
I had been entertaining the idea of doing a mock 25 things about me on this blog and it seems some commenters have beaten me to the punch.
Truthfully, I don't really mind the 25 things phenomenon. It's an interesting way to get to know the people on facebook whom you may not be all that good of friends with in the first place. And some of the "things" I've read have been revealing, honest and interesting. (Aside: Is it possible to correctly judge someone based on their choices for the 25 things? Is it possible that your 25 things says a lot about who you are?)
Even more interesting is how quickly it spread. And how media, from Slate to Salon to ABC to USA Today, etc., (I'm not going to link; too lazy) have covered it. You'd have to be locked in a dark hole not to have heard of it.
Of course, I'm never going to actually post my 25 on facebook and tag the 25 people. Not my style. Never has been. (And maybe I'm just afraid that it does say a lot about who you are, and maybe I'm too chicken to find out.)
Ah what the fuck. Here it goes.
1. I try to live a Godly life and always seem to fall short.
2. In high school, some of my friends liked to go cow tipping. I liked to order my steak rare and throw it on the ground.
3. I attended a concert freshman year and got too close to the speakers. Since then, I hear ringing in my ears. At all times. It's worse the quieter it is. (It's called tinnitus.)
4. I try to run every day. Nine times out of ten it's away from someone, like police officers or over-zealous panhandlers. But every once in awhile, I run toward something. Just the other day I found myself next to an extremely attractive woman on an elevator in an apartment building. I let her out first, then bent down to tie my shoe. I looked up and she was gone. So I ran outside, then darted through the parking lot, and caught her getting into a blue Jetta. She took off and I chased, waving my arms and screaming, "Wait!" She must have seen me because she stopped, and I finally caught up. By this time I was sure I was in love. She rolled her window down, and I leaned on the car, breathing heavily. I barely had time to utter a word when I got a second look at her face. Ehhh. Not as attractive as I thought. I asked her if she wanted to buy a timeshare in Canada. Great deal, I said. She didn't seem interested. I kicked her bumper and told her she was an ungrateful slut who deserved nothing but the worst things in life. She drove off. I'm pretty sure I still miss her.
5. When I was little, I broke my arm when I fell off the monkey bars.
6. I am insatiable, but also require very little to be content.
7. Growing up, I had an imaginary friend named Mr. Henley, who looked just like one of my gym teachers. Oddly enough, they had the same name and a shared fondness for molestation.
8. I've never once had a sip of tap water, or milk that came from a nonhuman.
9. I shouldn't be here today. I should be dead. But luckily, May 4, 2003 was not my day to go. On that fateful morning, I was at the bank, waiting for the next available teller. In front of me was a little old lady who smelled of pecans and old people. She decided to turn and initiate conversation. I don't remember what she said, because all I could think was Jesus! Shut the fuck up lady, I don't care. Just then a pair of armed men in ski masks burst through the door and ordered us all to sit facing the far wall. I figured, hey, maybe I'll be on the news. But the damn old lady kept whimpering. She was really killing my buzz. I sent a text to my buddy Ricky. He quickly called me back, and my phone blew up. Damn 50 Cent ring tone. One of the armed men came over and demanded to know, whose phone was it? I made not a sound, and moved not an inch. I did, however, nod in the direction of the whimpering old lady. I waited out the rest of the robbery in drunken bliss.
10. Twenty-five doesn't seem to be enough! Damnit I just wasted one.
11. I'm offering great deals on time shares in Canada. Inquire within. (I'm not sure what that last part means, but it sounds spiritual.)
12. Since third grade I've been hoarding fool's gold, in hopes that one day it will be as rare as a virgin hooker, and then I will be rich.
13. Skipping this one, like they do with tall buildings.
14. I'm trying to broaden my horizons. I'm learning a new phrase in 80 different languages.
Pode arranhar as minhas costas?
15. I'm understanding if you don't share my sense of humor. I just don't want to talk to you.
16. I feel like I used to each fish sticks a lot more than I do now. Is there a fish stick shortage?
17. Seriously, when I find the person who puked in my closet that night I got really wasted, I'm going to kick his ass.
18. That fateful morning, my text to Rickey read as follows: "getin robbed, call me so I can get old lady killed".
19. I wore a kilt to my prom and everyone laughed. Then I pulled my kilt up to moon them and they laughed even harder. Years later I realized I forgot to take out my anal beads.
20. Cheerios, like most prescription drugs, are good for your heart. That's why I crush them up and snort 'em. I have a terrible habits and a terrible diet! Get to work saving me Cheerios!
21. Some guy, according to the movie Donnie Darko, said that "cellar door" was the most beautiful phrase in the English language. For my 2 cents, I think it's "finger fucking."
22. Sometimes I giggle to myself when I fart.
23. My pin number is 058699. Try to come rob me, I dare you. I'm right here. Come on, motherfucker, show me something!
24. Sweet mother-of-mary-baby-jesus-lord-hallelujah-christ-almighty-satan's-little-helper this has been a complete waste of time.
25. It's all about the B E N J A M I N S.
Also, I find that I'm very, very attracted to soccer boys.
Damn I might do a new one of these every week. What's next facebook!? Bring it on!
Showing posts with label me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label me. Show all posts
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
When I wake up, it's too sunny out; I squint
Today John Updike died, and crassly, that seems like as good a reason I need to start blogging again. I gave my mother a list of about 30 authors whose books I wouldn't mind getting for Christmas. Updike was on there, and I guess he was extra-available on eBay, because I ended up getting like 10 of his books. They've sat, unread, alongside the other novels I got this year. Only a few - the short-story collections - have been cracked open.
Irrelevant, I know.
As to why I haven't been blogging (or reading) there is probably an easy, five-word answer (guesses allowed). But I'll opt for the more complex one.
The excuse-maker in me wants to blame conditions. Last semester, I was around a computer anywhere from 8-15 hours a day, or more. I did, on average, probably 2 hours of actual work, and maybe 2 more hours of work combined with toggling between Facebook, YouTube, texting, staring, reading stuff I wanted to read, etc.
That left a lot of damn free time spent on the computer. Very conducive to blogging. And when I knew I had to read some really boring stuff, I felt like I could cheat the system by reading something I wanted to, because at least I was reading! (It's often too easy to delude myself). This, very conducive to reading.
This semester, I'm not in school, and I have an easy job that doesn't require much, if any, brain activity (though late nights are required). It's hard for me to drag myself to the computer now, because no news is good news these days. I rarely find the energy or desire to want to sit in this uncomfortable chair and tap out something hopefully worth reading.
Don't get me wrong - I have plenty of time on my hands. This Monday, I had no plans, so I did nothing. I was just following what was on my Stephen Colbert Desk Calendar. It was blank; I was blank. The whole damn day.
But enough excuses! I've often thought of this blog as something of a conversation, maybe one that I should be having in real life, or that is simply impossible in real life. (Obligatory: What is "real" anyway?).
Anyway, for the few of you who have kept checking often and found nothing, I'm sorry. Consider it one of those long, awkward silences that I surely would have broken up with a loud, obvious comment. And to those who used to check often, but don't, 'cuz damn if I'll be burned again... Look, I know you're at work. And bored. I'm probably sleeping. I know you'd like something to do to get through the day. I'll try to make up for the lost time.
Irrelevant, I know.
As to why I haven't been blogging (or reading) there is probably an easy, five-word answer (guesses allowed). But I'll opt for the more complex one.
The excuse-maker in me wants to blame conditions. Last semester, I was around a computer anywhere from 8-15 hours a day, or more. I did, on average, probably 2 hours of actual work, and maybe 2 more hours of work combined with toggling between Facebook, YouTube, texting, staring, reading stuff I wanted to read, etc.
That left a lot of damn free time spent on the computer. Very conducive to blogging. And when I knew I had to read some really boring stuff, I felt like I could cheat the system by reading something I wanted to, because at least I was reading! (It's often too easy to delude myself). This, very conducive to reading.
This semester, I'm not in school, and I have an easy job that doesn't require much, if any, brain activity (though late nights are required). It's hard for me to drag myself to the computer now, because no news is good news these days. I rarely find the energy or desire to want to sit in this uncomfortable chair and tap out something hopefully worth reading.
Don't get me wrong - I have plenty of time on my hands. This Monday, I had no plans, so I did nothing. I was just following what was on my Stephen Colbert Desk Calendar. It was blank; I was blank. The whole damn day.
But enough excuses! I've often thought of this blog as something of a conversation, maybe one that I should be having in real life, or that is simply impossible in real life. (Obligatory: What is "real" anyway?).
Anyway, for the few of you who have kept checking often and found nothing, I'm sorry. Consider it one of those long, awkward silences that I surely would have broken up with a loud, obvious comment. And to those who used to check often, but don't, 'cuz damn if I'll be burned again... Look, I know you're at work. And bored. I'm probably sleeping. I know you'd like something to do to get through the day. I'll try to make up for the lost time.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
On graduation, or...
...Why I don't have successful chit-chat
As most readers of this blog already know (I salute you, loyal readers!) I recently graduated from the University of South Carolina.
Some have begun to ask me, "What's it like?" or "How do you feel?"
I usually answer: "Weird," "Interesting," "Scary" or "I don't know" - then sort-of stare at the person as I ponder my future and they generally get creeped out.
While all those answers are basically true (the last being the closest) I think the picture has started to become clearer.
What's it like to graduate?
It's confusing. It's lonely. It's disorienting. In it's infinite freedom it feels shockingly constricting. With the options full and vast, the lack of small choices and a set purpose is like the floor dropping out from underneath you and the walls moving away yet you cannot move. You don't fall when the floor moves away, you're merely suspended there, with guilt and fear that maybe you should fall, or that you can at any moment.
I think when I came to college there was some unconscious feeling that I would begin to be defined by my time there and that, at the End, that far away thing, there would be something tangible. Not a degree or a job but a tangible person, an identity and maybe even a direction.
I'm sure that over the years I've ruled out a few things; I've come to know I am not this type of person or I'm not going to be interested in this or that. But I don't know that I've been able to, in a sense, learn enough about myself to get an idea of who I'm going to be. That to look ahead to the next 15 years and where I'll be is to look back at the past 4 years and where they've gone. You begin to wonder if artificially significant events like a graduation will be a turning point, just like the artificially significant event of going off to college. School is that weird time where you spend all your time accomplishing things so that you can accomplish more things in the future. And a recent graduation affords you the ability to be suspended in time between your old life as a youngster and your new life as an adult. There's an inherent inconsonance there.
I think it's why my instinct is to run back to school. The safe place; the place I've known since I began knowing.
It's a weird, interesting and scary time.
(And imagine if I hoisted all of this self-absorbed existential nonsense on an innocent passer-by?)
As most readers of this blog already know (I salute you, loyal readers!) I recently graduated from the University of South Carolina.
Some have begun to ask me, "What's it like?" or "How do you feel?"
I usually answer: "Weird," "Interesting," "Scary" or "I don't know" - then sort-of stare at the person as I ponder my future and they generally get creeped out.
While all those answers are basically true (the last being the closest) I think the picture has started to become clearer.
What's it like to graduate?
It's confusing. It's lonely. It's disorienting. In it's infinite freedom it feels shockingly constricting. With the options full and vast, the lack of small choices and a set purpose is like the floor dropping out from underneath you and the walls moving away yet you cannot move. You don't fall when the floor moves away, you're merely suspended there, with guilt and fear that maybe you should fall, or that you can at any moment.
I think when I came to college there was some unconscious feeling that I would begin to be defined by my time there and that, at the End, that far away thing, there would be something tangible. Not a degree or a job but a tangible person, an identity and maybe even a direction.
I'm sure that over the years I've ruled out a few things; I've come to know I am not this type of person or I'm not going to be interested in this or that. But I don't know that I've been able to, in a sense, learn enough about myself to get an idea of who I'm going to be. That to look ahead to the next 15 years and where I'll be is to look back at the past 4 years and where they've gone. You begin to wonder if artificially significant events like a graduation will be a turning point, just like the artificially significant event of going off to college. School is that weird time where you spend all your time accomplishing things so that you can accomplish more things in the future. And a recent graduation affords you the ability to be suspended in time between your old life as a youngster and your new life as an adult. There's an inherent inconsonance there.
I think it's why my instinct is to run back to school. The safe place; the place I've known since I began knowing.
It's a weird, interesting and scary time.
(And imagine if I hoisted all of this self-absorbed existential nonsense on an innocent passer-by?)
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Sounds of the city
As I've mentioned before, I have a bit of a hearing problem. By that I mean, when I went to get my hearing tested about two years ago, the reaction was basically: Holy fuck you can't hear, I'd look into hearing aids.
To which I said, "Hell, no; I'm 20 years old, I'm not getting a hearing aid like some goddamn old person."
So I soldier on.
Anyway I bring that up to tell you a quick story. For a long while, when I was stuck at a red light or cruising through Columbia I would always hear this rhythmic sound, like someone ritualistically banging on a cowbell, but more forceful, and with impeccable timing. Over and over I'd hear this sound, having no idea what it was, or where it came from.
Like many confused souls, I made up my own conclusion. I thought it had something to do with construction. There is always something being constructed in Columbia, so I thought this was like some cement mixer or some way to break down concrete that I don't even know about. I almost was at the point where I was going to accost a construction worker and ask him what the hell that noise was.
Then I figured it out. It's the Walk/Don't Walk things on the side of the streets. They go off when you're supposed to walk, or when you're not supposed to walk, I'm not sure which. It's for blind people, I assume. For years I had no idea. And then one day, not too long ago, I just figured it out somehow. Maybe it was a "good" hearing day (I have those). Now that I know the origin, it is so shockingly obvious that I'm quite embarrassed.
It's like the time I finally put together that George Rogers Blvd. is named after George Rogers (although there was no disability excuse for that, unless you count obliviousness).
And I'm worried, too. How many other sounds do I hear that I completely misplace? I know I can't hear when people talk, sometimes. Most of my friends know about this, and gently chide me about it. But how many other noises out there have I completely mistook for something else? It's scary. Makes me want to get a hearing aid.
Not going to do that, though.
To which I said, "Hell, no; I'm 20 years old, I'm not getting a hearing aid like some goddamn old person."
So I soldier on.
Anyway I bring that up to tell you a quick story. For a long while, when I was stuck at a red light or cruising through Columbia I would always hear this rhythmic sound, like someone ritualistically banging on a cowbell, but more forceful, and with impeccable timing. Over and over I'd hear this sound, having no idea what it was, or where it came from.
Like many confused souls, I made up my own conclusion. I thought it had something to do with construction. There is always something being constructed in Columbia, so I thought this was like some cement mixer or some way to break down concrete that I don't even know about. I almost was at the point where I was going to accost a construction worker and ask him what the hell that noise was.
Then I figured it out. It's the Walk/Don't Walk things on the side of the streets. They go off when you're supposed to walk, or when you're not supposed to walk, I'm not sure which. It's for blind people, I assume. For years I had no idea. And then one day, not too long ago, I just figured it out somehow. Maybe it was a "good" hearing day (I have those). Now that I know the origin, it is so shockingly obvious that I'm quite embarrassed.
It's like the time I finally put together that George Rogers Blvd. is named after George Rogers (although there was no disability excuse for that, unless you count obliviousness).
And I'm worried, too. How many other sounds do I hear that I completely misplace? I know I can't hear when people talk, sometimes. Most of my friends know about this, and gently chide me about it. But how many other noises out there have I completely mistook for something else? It's scary. Makes me want to get a hearing aid.
Not going to do that, though.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
In case of boredom, click links
Some time ago, I was in a class called "Magazine Writing" (I think that's what it was called).
The whole deal was if the shit you wrote was good they'd post it to the Web site, called "Cyberhemia." I'm posting the link because some friends of I Hate... are featured, so you can browse if you'd like.
Two of my essays are up there:
One is on YouTube, and how videos are getting small and grainy, and if there is a possibility of art in such a medium. The theme of the course was "arts and entertainment," which I wasn't thrilled about, but I did my best all things considered.
Another one was on Heath Ledger's death, and the reaction to it. I'm pretty sure I was way off the topic the professor wanted me to write about. But, whatever, I think it stands on its own.
The real reason for this post is that for the final essay we were supposed to "immerse" ourselves in a given topic and write a heavily researched piece on it. I was lucky enough to have gotten the Monterey Pop Festival. I think my professor was a bit of a Hippie back in the day, or at least he's a big liberal.
Anyway I wrote the damn thing in the library and e-mailed it in. I was tired and grumpy and confused and just generally having one of those days. But I thought what I wrote was pretty good: funny, interesting, personal. But I never had a copy on my computer. And the professor never graded me on it or gave me any feedback. I did get an A in the class, though. But the essay I turned in was so downright crazy I wanted to see what he had to say.
OK so, way too much intro, but I thought the stage had to be set. I found the essay going through my e-mail's "Sent mail" folder (for a completely unrelated reason). So I thought I'd post it here for your enjoyment. Read it, if you'd like, and post a comment, please. I've made only two minor edits.
I suppose it could be simple enough. Tell the story of the Monterey International Pop Festival, the three-day 1967 event in San Francisco that introduced future legends like Jimi Hendrix and The Who to widespread American audiences. More than 200,000 people attended the Festival in Monterey, Calif., less than 100 miles down the coast from San Francisco, the Hippie capital of the world. But my concern is that all research and immersion aside, I will still not be able to beat the Festival’s Wikipedia page for tone and accuracy. If I take a straightforward approach, give the who, what, where and why of the event as it has been told in the media, what good will that possibly bring? So indulge me, as I write about the drug-infused “Summer of Love,” because I’m going to take a trip of my own.
How can I tell this story better than someone who was there, at the Festival, or at least alive during that time and can testify to the general air that hung over the country? Because in order to fully understand the Monterey Festival, and its importance, you have to consider the Sixties, the Hippies, the Vietnam War and what they all mean in the 21st century.
I know what I think about those things I’ve just listed. I know what most of the media thinks – they’re of that generation and look back upon the free love age with nostalgia and fondness afforded to them by their cushy jobs and pension plans. But what about Americans at large and American culture? As the Baby Boomers start to retire and their ability to shape the conventional narrative expires, what legacy will they have left?
“Monterey – a celebration of youthful naiveté,” writes Grace Slick, of Jefferson Airplane, one of the headline acts in the Festival. “A last desperate whoop of careless freedom,” before the Draft took the men off to Vietnam, writes Glenys Roberts, an attendee, 40 years later in the (UK) Daily Mail. She credits Janis Joplin as the high point. But by 1970, Janis Joplin was dead. So were Jimi Hendrix and Otis Redding, a soul legend. I’ve never known the hope of the Sixties without knowing that, yeah, drugs are probably bad for you, that people died, that the extreme nature of the era probably led to Nixon, Jimmy Carter and, worst yet, the Reagan Conservative Revolution.
So let’s get the established facts out of the way. The music was undoubtedly incredible. I love listening to the rock from this era. Turbulent times lead to great art. Oddly, the media was much more critical of the music when it came out than they are now. And while some like to set up Monterey as the precursor to Woodstock, or a more pure version untainted by mainstream acceptance, the music for both events was essentially the same. Craig McGregor writes in the Times: “The cruelest paradox of the Woodstock nation is that it has been liberated, primarily, by the black race from which it has borrowed its music, dance, language, style and much of its sense of brotherhood – but that so far it has done little to free those who freed it.” Grace Slick would blame others: “For a couple of years in the late sixties, no matter what was going on in the world, our generation happily assumed that with love and education we could change outdated social systems. One huge thing that we missed, 90% of the population is genetically imbued with sub mediocre reasoning skills. No matter how much you hug them or read to them, there’s no correcting stupid.”
Monterey lives on, most likely, because it was recorded and turned into a documentary by director D.A. Pennebaker. It’s sort-of a cool thing to know about when you’re high and talking about great music. “Yea, man,” one might say, “That’s where Hendrix and The Who and Janis Joplin came to America.” Then you'll look up Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit on YouTube and maybe type in “Hendrix Monterey” and call up his performance.
Roberts writes that the Festival “celebrated a genuine new pacifist streak among the young which gathered such momentum that, eight years later, it led to the end of the Vietnam War.” Eight years? Is she really proud of that? Nixon ended the war; do you think he was a crowning achievement of the flower-power movement? She is quick to hedge her fascination with the event – crowing about the dangers of psychedelic drugs as she giddily recalls Timothy Leary telling kids to “turn on, tune in and drop out.” The same crowd that tells me on a near daily basis to apply for internships and work my rear end off so I can get a good job looks back upon their lazy, drug-filled youth with such reverence that the hypocrisy is palpable. We’ve had the fun, they say, we’ve had the craziness, now settle into your pre-packaged, mainstream Main Street existence. And then these same people wonder why we want to hang around the house until we’re 26, or 29, or even later. We’ve largely missed out on the youthful naiveté that you rub in our faces with your superior music and revolution – even one that largely failed.
The supposed “counterculture” that the Hippies thrust upon America is treated with such reverence by the media that I have to be a little suspicious. It seems the Boomers have been writing the rules for a long time now. Newsweek said it best, when it marked the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love: “The fact is, we're paying a lot more attention to those long-ago months now than we did back then, when they were actually happening… The boomer nostalgia machinery has been running full tilt.” The article goes on to say that it’s difficult to impose coherence on an inherently unruly time. I, for one, am still quite confused how to process it all. And in the meantime, I’ll have my own youthful college rebellion.
I’m rambling now. I haven’t had much sleep. I procrastinated, but I always do that. This may not make much sense. I may not get the grade I want. I know I’m not supposed to discuss grades in a paper, I don’t think, but this is going to be graded, so why not address it? I’ve used too many questions. But that’s all I can come up with. I know I could have done this straightforward, quoted the thirty or so articles I’ve read, and done a good job. But it would have been something that someone else could have done much better. I can only make this unique if I give my own perspective. I’ve been up all night. I had to work late. I couldn’t sleep. I think I’m addicted to the Food Network. I think I’ll have a nap now.
The whole deal was if the shit you wrote was good they'd post it to the Web site, called "Cyberhemia." I'm posting the link because some friends of I Hate... are featured, so you can browse if you'd like.
Two of my essays are up there:
One is on YouTube, and how videos are getting small and grainy, and if there is a possibility of art in such a medium. The theme of the course was "arts and entertainment," which I wasn't thrilled about, but I did my best all things considered.
Another one was on Heath Ledger's death, and the reaction to it. I'm pretty sure I was way off the topic the professor wanted me to write about. But, whatever, I think it stands on its own.
The real reason for this post is that for the final essay we were supposed to "immerse" ourselves in a given topic and write a heavily researched piece on it. I was lucky enough to have gotten the Monterey Pop Festival. I think my professor was a bit of a Hippie back in the day, or at least he's a big liberal.
Anyway I wrote the damn thing in the library and e-mailed it in. I was tired and grumpy and confused and just generally having one of those days. But I thought what I wrote was pretty good: funny, interesting, personal. But I never had a copy on my computer. And the professor never graded me on it or gave me any feedback. I did get an A in the class, though. But the essay I turned in was so downright crazy I wanted to see what he had to say.
OK so, way too much intro, but I thought the stage had to be set. I found the essay going through my e-mail's "Sent mail" folder (for a completely unrelated reason). So I thought I'd post it here for your enjoyment. Read it, if you'd like, and post a comment, please. I've made only two minor edits.
Jimi Lit the Guitar on Fire, By the Way
I suppose it could be simple enough. Tell the story of the Monterey International Pop Festival, the three-day 1967 event in San Francisco that introduced future legends like Jimi Hendrix and The Who to widespread American audiences. More than 200,000 people attended the Festival in Monterey, Calif., less than 100 miles down the coast from San Francisco, the Hippie capital of the world. But my concern is that all research and immersion aside, I will still not be able to beat the Festival’s Wikipedia page for tone and accuracy. If I take a straightforward approach, give the who, what, where and why of the event as it has been told in the media, what good will that possibly bring? So indulge me, as I write about the drug-infused “Summer of Love,” because I’m going to take a trip of my own.
How can I tell this story better than someone who was there, at the Festival, or at least alive during that time and can testify to the general air that hung over the country? Because in order to fully understand the Monterey Festival, and its importance, you have to consider the Sixties, the Hippies, the Vietnam War and what they all mean in the 21st century.
I know what I think about those things I’ve just listed. I know what most of the media thinks – they’re of that generation and look back upon the free love age with nostalgia and fondness afforded to them by their cushy jobs and pension plans. But what about Americans at large and American culture? As the Baby Boomers start to retire and their ability to shape the conventional narrative expires, what legacy will they have left?
“Monterey – a celebration of youthful naiveté,” writes Grace Slick, of Jefferson Airplane, one of the headline acts in the Festival. “A last desperate whoop of careless freedom,” before the Draft took the men off to Vietnam, writes Glenys Roberts, an attendee, 40 years later in the (UK) Daily Mail. She credits Janis Joplin as the high point. But by 1970, Janis Joplin was dead. So were Jimi Hendrix and Otis Redding, a soul legend. I’ve never known the hope of the Sixties without knowing that, yeah, drugs are probably bad for you, that people died, that the extreme nature of the era probably led to Nixon, Jimmy Carter and, worst yet, the Reagan Conservative Revolution.
So let’s get the established facts out of the way. The music was undoubtedly incredible. I love listening to the rock from this era. Turbulent times lead to great art. Oddly, the media was much more critical of the music when it came out than they are now. And while some like to set up Monterey as the precursor to Woodstock, or a more pure version untainted by mainstream acceptance, the music for both events was essentially the same. Craig McGregor writes in the Times: “The cruelest paradox of the Woodstock nation is that it has been liberated, primarily, by the black race from which it has borrowed its music, dance, language, style and much of its sense of brotherhood – but that so far it has done little to free those who freed it.” Grace Slick would blame others: “For a couple of years in the late sixties, no matter what was going on in the world, our generation happily assumed that with love and education we could change outdated social systems. One huge thing that we missed, 90% of the population is genetically imbued with sub mediocre reasoning skills. No matter how much you hug them or read to them, there’s no correcting stupid.”
Monterey lives on, most likely, because it was recorded and turned into a documentary by director D.A. Pennebaker. It’s sort-of a cool thing to know about when you’re high and talking about great music. “Yea, man,” one might say, “That’s where Hendrix and The Who and Janis Joplin came to America.” Then you'll look up Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit on YouTube and maybe type in “Hendrix Monterey” and call up his performance.
Roberts writes that the Festival “celebrated a genuine new pacifist streak among the young which gathered such momentum that, eight years later, it led to the end of the Vietnam War.” Eight years? Is she really proud of that? Nixon ended the war; do you think he was a crowning achievement of the flower-power movement? She is quick to hedge her fascination with the event – crowing about the dangers of psychedelic drugs as she giddily recalls Timothy Leary telling kids to “turn on, tune in and drop out.” The same crowd that tells me on a near daily basis to apply for internships and work my rear end off so I can get a good job looks back upon their lazy, drug-filled youth with such reverence that the hypocrisy is palpable. We’ve had the fun, they say, we’ve had the craziness, now settle into your pre-packaged, mainstream Main Street existence. And then these same people wonder why we want to hang around the house until we’re 26, or 29, or even later. We’ve largely missed out on the youthful naiveté that you rub in our faces with your superior music and revolution – even one that largely failed.
The supposed “counterculture” that the Hippies thrust upon America is treated with such reverence by the media that I have to be a little suspicious. It seems the Boomers have been writing the rules for a long time now. Newsweek said it best, when it marked the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love: “The fact is, we're paying a lot more attention to those long-ago months now than we did back then, when they were actually happening… The boomer nostalgia machinery has been running full tilt.” The article goes on to say that it’s difficult to impose coherence on an inherently unruly time. I, for one, am still quite confused how to process it all. And in the meantime, I’ll have my own youthful college rebellion.
I’m rambling now. I haven’t had much sleep. I procrastinated, but I always do that. This may not make much sense. I may not get the grade I want. I know I’m not supposed to discuss grades in a paper, I don’t think, but this is going to be graded, so why not address it? I’ve used too many questions. But that’s all I can come up with. I know I could have done this straightforward, quoted the thirty or so articles I’ve read, and done a good job. But it would have been something that someone else could have done much better. I can only make this unique if I give my own perspective. I’ve been up all night. I had to work late. I couldn’t sleep. I think I’m addicted to the Food Network. I think I’ll have a nap now.
-Steve Yusko, 5/7/2008
UPDATE: In case this isn't abundantly clear, I think the professor for this class thought I was an ass-hole. And he was probably right.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Why I'm angry all the time and in most of these posts...
I don't know.
And fuck you for asking.
In other news, I thought I'd post the Web site for the paper I've been work at for the past semester.
There are some good stories on there, including one giving background on Olympic-sensation Michael Phelps' visit to Columbia.
Check 'em out if you're bored.
ALSO: Check out the comments of the Clemson-Carolina post. Some good discussion going on there.
And fuck you for asking.
In other news, I thought I'd post the Web site for the paper I've been work at for the past semester.
There are some good stories on there, including one giving background on Olympic-sensation Michael Phelps' visit to Columbia.
Check 'em out if you're bored.
ALSO: Check out the comments of the Clemson-Carolina post. Some good discussion going on there.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Further readings...
It is with apprehension that I do this, as nothing on this blog identifies me by my full name.
So this is like an admission of who I am, which isn't worrisome now, as only a handful of people visit this blog regularly. And, uh, it can be quite vulgar and brutally honest on here. Anyway I'm always nervous putting things out there on the internet.
But, honestly, what the hell. Might as go for it.
So here are a couple links to stories I've written for other publications:
This story will be published in a print edition of the Carolina Reporter, online for the Carolina Reporter and on the Web site of the School of Journalism and Mass Communications, where the previous link leads.
I could write another 1,000 words or so on how nervous I was interviewing Kristol before the speech. It was just me, a reporter from The State, Kristol and the Dean of my college in a room. Maybe I'll tell that story another day. (Like, after I graduate; or, after I have the damn diploma in my hand).
But anyway I wanted to give my impressions of the event. My original plan was to sort of list the (many) grievances that left-leaning folks have against Kristol. But he surprised me with his honesty and straightforwardness (and intelligence - some have said he's a lightweight intellectually. I disagree. He may not be able to predict things worth a damn but he's no dummy). Maybe I was just overmatched, but I came away with much respect for the man, even if I disagree with him. The article as reported is meant to be my honest assessment of the lecture...not just what happened, but how it felt to be there. I hope it's worth reading.
Next is an article on Krystal Webber, who worked for Joe Biden's Senate re-election campaign.
It's a short Q&A. I was impressed with Ms. Webber, who was funny and engaging, but also a little more "on message" than when I had last spoken with her. It was interesting how quickly she grew up while working for a high profile Senator. (Not to imply she wasn't grown up before, but when you are around politics a lot you understand the importance of being "on message," and it's a difficult thing to do without completely losing your personality. Ms. Webber had no trouble at all, and I think she has a bright future.)
She posted the article on Facebook, which I take to mean she liked it. That's good. She got a bunch of positive comments on it from friends and family. I wanted to do exactly that: showcase a USC student who we should all be proud of because of her impressive accomplishments.
That's all the self-aggrandizing I'll do for now.
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