So, the song of the trip for a few of us has to be the Black Eyed Peas song “Boom Boom Pow.” There’s really nothing to the lyrics that has any sort of meaning about the trip, it’s just that we always seem to dance like crazy when the song comes on. On a couple different occasions, Rashina and Cory have been split up in different cars while driving around one of the cities. I’ve been on both sides of the coin, where we will get a text from Rashina with only a radio station number, to which we switch to it and are exploded with the sounds of the song. Really, we heard it in the car one day while driving, and none of us had danced in a while, and so that became our theme song without us really knowing it. It was fantastic. Really this song kind of demonstrates our incredible wanting for dancing all throughout the trip.
The song itself was only a song for part of the group. Not really everyone joined in, which is the essence of what Whitman is saying in his poem. Not everyone had to. Many other people’s songs were really in speaking about life, about pop culture, about religion, about the trip, about friendships…and this ran the gamut of the class. All of us were pretty different and had different interests, each singing different songs and granting different perspectives. A grand American experiment.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
# 3 – Americans’ relationships to celebrities
It seems, at this very second, that many celebrities are celebrated so much more after they die. Take Elvis for instance. At Graceland, you fail to see mention of his drug habits or the tragic story of how he died, but you do hear of Elvis the lover, the musician, the philanthropist, who bought about a dozen Cadillacs for different friends and family members. In the same instance, at the Clinton Library in Little Rock, even though Clinton is still alive, you hear of all the glories of his presidency, the human rights goals attained during his time, and plenty of funny stories of the greatness of his and Hillary’s relationship. You hear nothing of scandal, nothing of Lewinsky, nothing of impeachment. The same is with Michael Jackson… the saint, the pop god, not the one who has been the butt of jokes for years concerning child molestation.
It seems there’s this odd pressure to look back in only joy on certain times in our lives and other’s lives. We can’t express regret really. It’s unfashionable… and undesirable. We feel bad saying anything negative at a funeral, so it doesn’t happen. It’s like what Death Cab for Cutie singer Ben Gibbard says in his song “Styrofoam plates” in reference to a bad father who passed away… “Just because he was a bastard in life don’t mean he wasn’t a bastard in death.”
Getting back to celebrities in America, it seems that we have a multiplicity of opinions, in general, when we judge their actions in the world while they are alive. However, there seems to really be one prevailing opinion when they die – heroification. It’s great to celebrate someone’s contributions to the world but probably another to deify them.
It seems there’s this odd pressure to look back in only joy on certain times in our lives and other’s lives. We can’t express regret really. It’s unfashionable… and undesirable. We feel bad saying anything negative at a funeral, so it doesn’t happen. It’s like what Death Cab for Cutie singer Ben Gibbard says in his song “Styrofoam plates” in reference to a bad father who passed away… “Just because he was a bastard in life don’t mean he wasn’t a bastard in death.”
Getting back to celebrities in America, it seems that we have a multiplicity of opinions, in general, when we judge their actions in the world while they are alive. However, there seems to really be one prevailing opinion when they die – heroification. It’s great to celebrate someone’s contributions to the world but probably another to deify them.
# 2 – Fineman’s Argument of the Role of Faith
In Fineman’s book Thirteen American Arguments, he writes a chapter called the Role of Faith, which details some of the messy situations of faith, politics, and social change in the last hundred or so years. He starts off with our native Tennessee, in light of the Scopes Monkey Trial, Oak Ridge National Laboratories, and the stronghold of the Southern Baptist Convention, and shows how it birthed the political career of Bill Frist, a politician who has had to do a lot of pleasing of many camps on relations and roles of faith in the culture. In the recent years, since Jerry Falwell and other evangelicals started bringing politics into the center stage of their faith practices, and vice versa, even more dichotomies have been created, such as single-issue politics (Democrats=pro-abortion=unchristian) where sides are taken on the basis of one “moral” issue. Somehow the Republican party became joined with the Christian right, G-d him/her/itself apparently became a Republican, and holy war on culture began to be waged.
This makes us think of what role faith has in shaping our culture. I will use two examples from our travels to illustrate this argument going on today. In Salt Lake City, most of the population claim to be Mormons, which has tremendous implications on local and state laws, the arguments and politicians that reside in that area, and the types of communities that are formed. When we went to the LGBT Film Festival in Salt Lake City, many community members claim to have been openly discriminated against when looking or jobs and by police. This is interesting in light of the LDS Church giving somewhere between 11 to 13 million dollars towards the gay marriage vote of Proposition 8 in the state of California, against the legalization of gay marriage.
Another example comes from our experience at a town market in Portland, Oregon, where a group of young Christians were singing worship songs on an elevated walkway area in efforts to share their faith with the rest of the group. Rashina, Cory, and I asked them if we could ask them a few questions, leaning toward what it means to be an American, etc. They told us quickly without us really having to ask. It turns out they were all from the former Soviet Union and had moved to Portland within the last fifteen years after experiencing much religious discrimination in their home country. The youth minister told me repeatedly that the American people had lost their way, that this country was founded by Christians, and that every early American president was a Christian, and that God wanted to take this country back for Christianity. As nice as all this sounds (and as good as it is to argue about this), the reality is that this really is not true. Somewhere along the way, this man was sold a false story of the founding of America, which affects very much how he resides and conducts himself in this country. His plan, his mission, is to take the Bible to the larger picture and to bring God back to the people of this country.
It’s easy for people to get squeamish, as I often do, to this sort of chatter. I know I did in Chicago when I was told by a very, very hairy man that the reason I am not a Christian is because my parents were perverts and that God is not a loving God, as he shoved the Book in my face, asking me to pull out verses and prove to him God meant love to disparate communities and not hellfire and brimstone. Thus, we have the sandbox mentality, the brick wall mentality of keeping people out, of making ourselves feel better. I mean sociologists aren’t free of this either. In a sense, we all, as citizens, and all, as sociologists, are a bit evangelical. We feel we have keen ideas of equality and hope that we wish to spread to all people, to aid the ones in the gutter, and to create success stories. We have conferences just as every other community, create plans of action, and express hope for a progressive future.
Altruism. What unites us. In and out of our arguments. We all, generally, seem to want what is best for ourselves, our community, and our country. This is why we argue and this is why we keep this machine going. It’s rather brilliant actually.
This makes us think of what role faith has in shaping our culture. I will use two examples from our travels to illustrate this argument going on today. In Salt Lake City, most of the population claim to be Mormons, which has tremendous implications on local and state laws, the arguments and politicians that reside in that area, and the types of communities that are formed. When we went to the LGBT Film Festival in Salt Lake City, many community members claim to have been openly discriminated against when looking or jobs and by police. This is interesting in light of the LDS Church giving somewhere between 11 to 13 million dollars towards the gay marriage vote of Proposition 8 in the state of California, against the legalization of gay marriage.
Another example comes from our experience at a town market in Portland, Oregon, where a group of young Christians were singing worship songs on an elevated walkway area in efforts to share their faith with the rest of the group. Rashina, Cory, and I asked them if we could ask them a few questions, leaning toward what it means to be an American, etc. They told us quickly without us really having to ask. It turns out they were all from the former Soviet Union and had moved to Portland within the last fifteen years after experiencing much religious discrimination in their home country. The youth minister told me repeatedly that the American people had lost their way, that this country was founded by Christians, and that every early American president was a Christian, and that God wanted to take this country back for Christianity. As nice as all this sounds (and as good as it is to argue about this), the reality is that this really is not true. Somewhere along the way, this man was sold a false story of the founding of America, which affects very much how he resides and conducts himself in this country. His plan, his mission, is to take the Bible to the larger picture and to bring God back to the people of this country.
It’s easy for people to get squeamish, as I often do, to this sort of chatter. I know I did in Chicago when I was told by a very, very hairy man that the reason I am not a Christian is because my parents were perverts and that God is not a loving God, as he shoved the Book in my face, asking me to pull out verses and prove to him God meant love to disparate communities and not hellfire and brimstone. Thus, we have the sandbox mentality, the brick wall mentality of keeping people out, of making ourselves feel better. I mean sociologists aren’t free of this either. In a sense, we all, as citizens, and all, as sociologists, are a bit evangelical. We feel we have keen ideas of equality and hope that we wish to spread to all people, to aid the ones in the gutter, and to create success stories. We have conferences just as every other community, create plans of action, and express hope for a progressive future.
Altruism. What unites us. In and out of our arguments. We all, generally, seem to want what is best for ourselves, our community, and our country. This is why we argue and this is why we keep this machine going. It’s rather brilliant actually.
#1-Nashville
# 1 – Nashville
I saw quite a few things in Nashville that surprised me. It was rather ridiculous, actually. I had never really noticed the amount of crap in the shops down on Broadway. We passed some flag shops (chiefly rebel flags) and went into some other Nashville tourist shops. Many of the items present to represent the city of Nashville, the state of Tennessee, and the South in general were mainly in reference to country music, overalls, buckteeth, and whiskey. It makes me think of the random tourist who arrives in Nashville (from a hometown of, say, Akron, Ohio, Portland, Oregon, or upstate New York) wearing spurs, a cowboy hat, and a giant belt buckle inscribed with some symbol of Southern pride. If you think this is preposterous, well, haha, it is, but it honestly happens about every other week in town.
One of the main aspects of this class is to look at the image a city (whether by the Chamber of Commerce or elsewhere) presents of itself and sells to consumers (e.g, tourists). What we find in Nashville is what sells to tourists as opposed to what Nashville is in actuality. I remember running into a guy from rural Oregon who bought 3 bairs of snakeskin boots for about $600 and thought he was getting a steal. Emphatically, he was kicking his heels around, proud of his investment, with the overtones of Heineken pouring off his presence.
The reason I am seeing this now is that the space of the locals and the tourists are so clearly defined in Nashville, as with many major cities. There are places in Nashville that tourists simply do not go to, unless they have friends in town, like most of East Nashville, anything in Hillsboro Village other than Pancake Pantry, and Elliston Place (with the exception of Exit-In). With this difference of space, there is a lack of sharing and a lack of knowledge for both parties, creating rifts in the relationships between locals and tourists. Locals can see Nashvillians as either dumb rednecks or perhaps exotic musicians, where we can see tourists as ignorant and as a means to make money. Neither of these assessments of the other are adequate, in my opinion. This, however, seems to be one of the negative effects of mass tourism and commoditization of local culture. Where the locals often benefit financially, they are crippled in culture-sharing and mutual understanding.
I saw quite a few things in Nashville that surprised me. It was rather ridiculous, actually. I had never really noticed the amount of crap in the shops down on Broadway. We passed some flag shops (chiefly rebel flags) and went into some other Nashville tourist shops. Many of the items present to represent the city of Nashville, the state of Tennessee, and the South in general were mainly in reference to country music, overalls, buckteeth, and whiskey. It makes me think of the random tourist who arrives in Nashville (from a hometown of, say, Akron, Ohio, Portland, Oregon, or upstate New York) wearing spurs, a cowboy hat, and a giant belt buckle inscribed with some symbol of Southern pride. If you think this is preposterous, well, haha, it is, but it honestly happens about every other week in town.
One of the main aspects of this class is to look at the image a city (whether by the Chamber of Commerce or elsewhere) presents of itself and sells to consumers (e.g, tourists). What we find in Nashville is what sells to tourists as opposed to what Nashville is in actuality. I remember running into a guy from rural Oregon who bought 3 bairs of snakeskin boots for about $600 and thought he was getting a steal. Emphatically, he was kicking his heels around, proud of his investment, with the overtones of Heineken pouring off his presence.
The reason I am seeing this now is that the space of the locals and the tourists are so clearly defined in Nashville, as with many major cities. There are places in Nashville that tourists simply do not go to, unless they have friends in town, like most of East Nashville, anything in Hillsboro Village other than Pancake Pantry, and Elliston Place (with the exception of Exit-In). With this difference of space, there is a lack of sharing and a lack of knowledge for both parties, creating rifts in the relationships between locals and tourists. Locals can see Nashvillians as either dumb rednecks or perhaps exotic musicians, where we can see tourists as ignorant and as a means to make money. Neither of these assessments of the other are adequate, in my opinion. This, however, seems to be one of the negative effects of mass tourism and commoditization of local culture. Where the locals often benefit financially, they are crippled in culture-sharing and mutual understanding.
Crescent City
A peaceful day in the Redwood Forest, absolutely.
As our cars inched their way amidst the sea of gigantic redwood trees, I could not help but feel a sense of refreshment, some semblance of natural serenity.
The mind I possess can not let me own this moment without some ounce of analysis. Yes, the 19th century poets, the Walt Whitmans, painted a poetic picture of nature as a place to return to the self and to gain insight, peace, and wisdom. Romantic and true in some points.
At the same time, some one years ago decided to mark off this certain area as a national park, build these roads, these trails, through their own forest to let me have access to these trees, and these perceived slices of solitude.
In an organizational manner, the poets and the state have unknowingly worked together to create and facilitate these places – dare I say, opiates – of society.
I’m fighting my cynicism and learning to know that I, growing up a mere thirty-minute drive from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, thoroughly enjoy these natural places to go – for bonding with a friend or a relative, for learning more about myself, or for romantic getaways with a girlfriend. Yes, these experiences are packaged, in different colors and with different bows than Vegas and Disneyland, but my [our] humanity is no less in tact. There’s really no way to escape this consumer society we find ourselves in, even at the places that meant for us to escape it.
So, the question is: do we decide to completely withdraw from this society, or do we decide to tailor this already-forward-moving consumption machine to create some different, more spiritual, transcendent, and emotive spaces? As enticing as the former option seems to me (and to a lot of cults), the most practical, possibly the most meaningful option is the latter: to change a system, one must become a part of that system. The middle ground of postmodern conversation, favored by Habermas, seems to be the best table where we can sit.
The world does not need another hippie living in a tree, yelling at politicians, to promote ecological responsibility. The world does not need another talking head, whether on Fox News or MSNBC, spouting propagandist bullshit about the war in Iraq, Proposition 8, or the Presidency. The only people affected by these speakers seem to be the ones who already agree with them in the first place: the talking head, the politician, the pastor, the hippie, the student.
So, what do we need? My answer is someone to revamp some of the systems. How Jesus exposed the hypocrisy of rabbis in Judaism let the new President shed light not only on the endorsements, awards, and bright records of those in his office, but also their lies, inadequacies, and privileging…. A Christian, like Donald Miller, to apologize for the Crusades, for the holy wars of politics, and for not showing true love to the homosexual community.
As the sun was setting in Crescent City, a burnt orange tinged my eyes and painted my clothes while I bathed in heavy wind. Atop a rock face, with a great friend at my side, I turned into a mountain goat for a number of minutes and hopped around from rock to rock, in ecstasy of the environment, the moment, and the breeze.
Perhaps G-d speaks through the wind, only to say nothing audibly but give you a feeling that life is something to cherish, to embrace, and to contemplate. The wonder in itself is enough for me to be content.
Ecstasy. Thought. Prayer. All from the Wind.
As our cars inched their way amidst the sea of gigantic redwood trees, I could not help but feel a sense of refreshment, some semblance of natural serenity.
The mind I possess can not let me own this moment without some ounce of analysis. Yes, the 19th century poets, the Walt Whitmans, painted a poetic picture of nature as a place to return to the self and to gain insight, peace, and wisdom. Romantic and true in some points.
At the same time, some one years ago decided to mark off this certain area as a national park, build these roads, these trails, through their own forest to let me have access to these trees, and these perceived slices of solitude.
In an organizational manner, the poets and the state have unknowingly worked together to create and facilitate these places – dare I say, opiates – of society.
I’m fighting my cynicism and learning to know that I, growing up a mere thirty-minute drive from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, thoroughly enjoy these natural places to go – for bonding with a friend or a relative, for learning more about myself, or for romantic getaways with a girlfriend. Yes, these experiences are packaged, in different colors and with different bows than Vegas and Disneyland, but my [our] humanity is no less in tact. There’s really no way to escape this consumer society we find ourselves in, even at the places that meant for us to escape it.
So, the question is: do we decide to completely withdraw from this society, or do we decide to tailor this already-forward-moving consumption machine to create some different, more spiritual, transcendent, and emotive spaces? As enticing as the former option seems to me (and to a lot of cults), the most practical, possibly the most meaningful option is the latter: to change a system, one must become a part of that system. The middle ground of postmodern conversation, favored by Habermas, seems to be the best table where we can sit.
The world does not need another hippie living in a tree, yelling at politicians, to promote ecological responsibility. The world does not need another talking head, whether on Fox News or MSNBC, spouting propagandist bullshit about the war in Iraq, Proposition 8, or the Presidency. The only people affected by these speakers seem to be the ones who already agree with them in the first place: the talking head, the politician, the pastor, the hippie, the student.
So, what do we need? My answer is someone to revamp some of the systems. How Jesus exposed the hypocrisy of rabbis in Judaism let the new President shed light not only on the endorsements, awards, and bright records of those in his office, but also their lies, inadequacies, and privileging…. A Christian, like Donald Miller, to apologize for the Crusades, for the holy wars of politics, and for not showing true love to the homosexual community.
As the sun was setting in Crescent City, a burnt orange tinged my eyes and painted my clothes while I bathed in heavy wind. Atop a rock face, with a great friend at my side, I turned into a mountain goat for a number of minutes and hopped around from rock to rock, in ecstasy of the environment, the moment, and the breeze.
Perhaps G-d speaks through the wind, only to say nothing audibly but give you a feeling that life is something to cherish, to embrace, and to contemplate. The wonder in itself is enough for me to be content.
Ecstasy. Thought. Prayer. All from the Wind.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Vegas!
Las Vegas
We started the day off in Las Vegas meeting with a senior member of their tourism board, part of the Las Vegas Convention Center. For about an hour, we discussed how the government goes about selling its city to tourists, the numerous successes of their marketing and branding campaigns, and the effects of the economy on Las Vegas’s tourists and locals. We learned a lot, from their annual cost of advertising to the fact that they are 2nd only to Google in the successes of their branding, especially with “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” After the meeting, our host showed us around many parts of the convention center, where a beauty/cosmetics show was going on. An older guy with about a 2-inch gap of no-hair on his arm tried to sell me some Nair. Tons of people everywhere were getting makeovers, testing out eyeliners, and sifting through mounds and mounds of diet pills, hosiery, and blush.
From here, we ate some lunch and ventured over to old Las Vegas, where many of the original casinos and current local hangouts are around. In the near vicinity to this strip away from The Strip, is your general assortment of things you find in nearly every major city – your liquor stores, quick cash marts, and parking garages. Since this is where not a ton of tourists usually go, the prostitute phone numbers reside in five-box sets, with your own assortment to choose from – petite teens or luscious Latinas – much different from the more personal touch of the [often] immigrant populations wearing shirts that read “GIRLS TO YOU IN 20 MINUTES” who flip cards from hand to hand and try to give them to you, quickly bursting your modern American personal bubble, literally and symbolically. Even if someone was interested, I could apply Goffman’s backstage and front stage illustration or even Cooley’s looking glass self to show that, even if someone was interested, chances are they would not take a card in the middle of a crowded street – rather they would find an alley, a porn store, the Internet, or a strip club.
The rest of the evening was spent walking the strip, enjoying the sites and sounds of the area as much as we could, learning that we really did not even need to visit New York any more, after visiting the Strip’s famed hotel. Matter of fact, we no longer need to go to Paris, or even Venice. Thank you Vegas – nay, Walt Disney – for making this dream come true. I say this in sarcasm with a hint of understanding to realize that not everyone will make it to these places. It just makes me doubt a bit about what we’re trying to do as people, giving a bit more weight to Baudrillard’s idea of a permanent Disneyland and a consumer society. Disney had much altruism in wanting to bring the corners of the world to the local, the American people, as a means of education, entertainment, family bonding, and, well, to make a profit (perhaps not in that order of importance, but who knows?).
Applying Baudrillard’s theme of hyperreality, of design and humanity in all the inanimate objects, policies, and means of conducting ourselves that we look to for guidance, stability, control, and meaning, this place is an obvious comparison. That’s the beauty of the juxtaposition of the day’s events – meeting one of the head thinktanks in producing exactly what it is that Las Vegas, well, is, experiencing the heart and matter of his production, beautifully laid out for us to enjoy, romanticize, and deify. I saw an elderly couple cuddling alongside the dancing fountains of the Bellagio, a situation I can look at one of two ways (or really a hybrid, which I prefer): a) the cog in a machine, the deaf, dumb, and blind consumer with a romantic moment produced time and time again by the Hollywood and Hallmark; b) a couple enjoying their time together and sharing a moment through which they can grow closer in their relationship. I’m going to go with a mixture – yes, this fountain cuddle moment produced for their (and our) consumption, but their humanity is still intact…including the ability to love.
We started the day off in Las Vegas meeting with a senior member of their tourism board, part of the Las Vegas Convention Center. For about an hour, we discussed how the government goes about selling its city to tourists, the numerous successes of their marketing and branding campaigns, and the effects of the economy on Las Vegas’s tourists and locals. We learned a lot, from their annual cost of advertising to the fact that they are 2nd only to Google in the successes of their branding, especially with “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” After the meeting, our host showed us around many parts of the convention center, where a beauty/cosmetics show was going on. An older guy with about a 2-inch gap of no-hair on his arm tried to sell me some Nair. Tons of people everywhere were getting makeovers, testing out eyeliners, and sifting through mounds and mounds of diet pills, hosiery, and blush.
From here, we ate some lunch and ventured over to old Las Vegas, where many of the original casinos and current local hangouts are around. In the near vicinity to this strip away from The Strip, is your general assortment of things you find in nearly every major city – your liquor stores, quick cash marts, and parking garages. Since this is where not a ton of tourists usually go, the prostitute phone numbers reside in five-box sets, with your own assortment to choose from – petite teens or luscious Latinas – much different from the more personal touch of the [often] immigrant populations wearing shirts that read “GIRLS TO YOU IN 20 MINUTES” who flip cards from hand to hand and try to give them to you, quickly bursting your modern American personal bubble, literally and symbolically. Even if someone was interested, I could apply Goffman’s backstage and front stage illustration or even Cooley’s looking glass self to show that, even if someone was interested, chances are they would not take a card in the middle of a crowded street – rather they would find an alley, a porn store, the Internet, or a strip club.
The rest of the evening was spent walking the strip, enjoying the sites and sounds of the area as much as we could, learning that we really did not even need to visit New York any more, after visiting the Strip’s famed hotel. Matter of fact, we no longer need to go to Paris, or even Venice. Thank you Vegas – nay, Walt Disney – for making this dream come true. I say this in sarcasm with a hint of understanding to realize that not everyone will make it to these places. It just makes me doubt a bit about what we’re trying to do as people, giving a bit more weight to Baudrillard’s idea of a permanent Disneyland and a consumer society. Disney had much altruism in wanting to bring the corners of the world to the local, the American people, as a means of education, entertainment, family bonding, and, well, to make a profit (perhaps not in that order of importance, but who knows?).
Applying Baudrillard’s theme of hyperreality, of design and humanity in all the inanimate objects, policies, and means of conducting ourselves that we look to for guidance, stability, control, and meaning, this place is an obvious comparison. That’s the beauty of the juxtaposition of the day’s events – meeting one of the head thinktanks in producing exactly what it is that Las Vegas, well, is, experiencing the heart and matter of his production, beautifully laid out for us to enjoy, romanticize, and deify. I saw an elderly couple cuddling alongside the dancing fountains of the Bellagio, a situation I can look at one of two ways (or really a hybrid, which I prefer): a) the cog in a machine, the deaf, dumb, and blind consumer with a romantic moment produced time and time again by the Hollywood and Hallmark; b) a couple enjoying their time together and sharing a moment through which they can grow closer in their relationship. I’m going to go with a mixture – yes, this fountain cuddle moment produced for their (and our) consumption, but their humanity is still intact…including the ability to love.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
San Francisco, Sushi, & Commodified Kerouac
Our day in San Francisco was off to a rather late start from a bus malfunction during the middle of the night, which ended up us driving around 30 mph about 3 hours to get back to East Los Angeles County to get the bus fixed. We spent a bit of time there (while most of us were sleeping of course) to get the bus fixed and then we continued on our drive up the 5, which we arrived in San Francisco around noon or so. We hopped over the airport where we jumped on the BART and headed into town to grab lunch. We hopped out of the station, hustled up the stairs, and were greeted by bright sunshine juxtaposing a rather hard-edge part of town, where the symbols around us were fast food marts, cigarette ads, and a beautiful array of people who either ignored the 12 of us or looked at us as a bunch of aliens (and rightly so). [The sun does shine on all of us, though. Doesn’t it?]
As we passed through the neighborhood, heading up a few blocks towards the famous Castro District, we found what we have been finding in many cities (e.g., the difference along the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, Redondo Beach, and Long Beach): large demographic, setting shifts in close proximities to one another.
We split up for lunch in the Castro District, which beautifully greeted us with rainbow flags and people on the move, electrifying the air with optimism and zest for life (in stark contrast to the pace and emotion of the streets near my home). Rashina and I nestled into the a booth along the side wall about halfway back in a small sushi place across the street from the Castro Theatre. Shortly after deciding to split the Veggie Sushi special, we were greeted with two bowls of soup… and no spoons. After looking at each other for a few seconds, eye-balling the table and the floor for silverware, we glanced at a gentleman sitting next to us, mouthing to one another to ask him about our current utensil predicament. Finally, I looked over, and said, “Excuse me, sir, sorry to bother you, but do we just drink this soup straight out of the bowl?” With a polite, warm laugh, he said yes and asked where we were from.
This is always one of the best moments in a day, when one of the two of us will glance at each other to see who will start the “40 states” spread. Rashina did the honors and we were launched into a half-hour discussion of life, love, gay rights, and America with a gentleman we had just had met (which really, to me, is one of the many gems of traveling to new places and meeting people unlike myself). He was a professor at a university in nearby Oakland, a two-session (four year) Peace Corps alum who had spent most of his life overseas, and nearly all of his time in America working with refugees who are trying to land softly. He said he did not really identify with America all that much, even though he was an American citizen, chiefly because he had spent so much time overseas.
In the midst of the discussion, we ended up sharing our cool experience at LGBT film festival the previous week in Salt Lake City, and how there was a huge population uniting in Utah to support gay rights. As a gay man, he said he was encouraged by our enthusiasm and wanted us to know that we, too, could play an active role in helping to further gay rights wherever we wanted. I know the situations are different, but it made me think about the Civil Rights Movement a bit, and our experience in Little Rock at the “Little Rock 9” museum, where sympathetic whites in the school would quietly voice their support to the African-American students, but never would actually take a public stand (inside or outside the school) to help others gain a more free and healthy perspective on what equality really is. In a sense, this is the call I’m beginning to see that we have as people of our generation. There is a group of Americans that are openly being discriminated against and deprived of rights on personal, governmental, and economic levels. I have been asked when discussing this with friends and family, “Now, doesn’t this community have ‘their’ own voice to speak with?” My answer is yes, absolutely. However, another one never hurt. Being from the Bible Belt and a former Christian, I could use that connection to that community to help certain conservative friends come to see the light about the need for advancement of LGBT rights in this country. Sadly, many of those friends have been bombarded so much with single-issue politics that the beauty of the gay community gets muddled in the false belief of standing up for the family, God’s design of marriage, or whatever other trite “principle” to keep others out of their sandbox. [I harken back to the elementary school playground mentality of some (namely the loudest) Evangelicals, who believe their favor rests in a higher being who supposedly preaches love for all and feel like they have a claim to some sort of truth, when, in reality, they are bastardizing and possibly even making angry that Divinity who they are trying to aid (if She/He/It/They exist in the first place). The end result of the playground mentality is a desire to feel better about oneself through blind allegiance, not to biblical teachings, but to hierarchical language and a keen non-understanding of personhood.] I love my Evangelical friends for their passion, but am saddened by their being misled – trading love and understanding for exclusion and false claims to purity.
Getting back to the day, we parted with our new friend after the enjoyable conversation, with a current issue of a local LGBT newspaper as a parting gift, to rendevous with our group back at the Castro Theatre. We walked through the Financial District to City Lights Bookstore, the famed spot of many writers and figures from the Beat Generation. As I walked up the stairs into the poetry room (which had a number of racks solely devoted to the Beats, with what seemed like a thousand copies of Ginsberg’s Howl, I could not shed away what seemed like four-feet-tall Mickey Mouse ears on top of my head. As a local poet sat writing and reading in the corner by a window bellowing a soft white, a light scoff of the eye came down across mine, the double layer of curiosity and outright annoyance I have experienced countless times when sitting in the middle of two miles of dead-stopped Florida, Alabama, and Louisiana tags, as I have tried to get to work the past five winters on Ski Mountain Road at Ober Gatlinburg – though the difference there is my curiosity stemmed from the hopes of a cute tourist girl that I might be able to “teach” how to ski later on in the day. The space of the Poetry Room was beautiful, though I was not able to stay long – not unless I lived in the area for a number of months or years. I sat down and read a little Whitman and little Ginsberg, half-expecting a euphoric “ah ha!” poetic moment of insight and inspiration, which I quickly stopped as the weight of those ears slipped down over my eyes upon me bowing my head to read Howl.
We made our way to the Beat Museum, greeted by this goofy ass character with an oversized, pointy mustache and a purple zootsuit. I didn’t know whether to laugh in his face or punch him when he asked us (as he unloaded his early 90s model Jeep Cherokee) to come to his show later that night, which was being held in the lobby of the Beat Museum (by this time he was inside, standing behind a microphone and in close proximity to a stand up bass). A more acceptable figure approached us, a staff member of the museum with a sweet Mohawk, and asked us if we wanted to take a look around the museum. We did for a while and then exited – as all great places do, I assume – through the damn gift shop (which encompassed most of the lobby, edging right on up to our goofy man in the purple suit). Sadly, what caught my eyes were not copies of Beat literature (not even sure if they had any), but commodified Beatness, or commercialized rebellion. “Stop bitching and start a revolution!” read a black tee shirt with scratchy writing, with books of hippie lingo, Grateful Dead bears, and witty political statement buttons seeking me out on every shelf. At one instance, I picked up a five-dollar “Fuck Hate” poster. In my consciousness, it gave me the feeling of “sticking it to the man” or defying my parents or whatever you want to call it. The longer I held it though, the less powerful the commodity, the statement, became to me. By the end of about ten minutes, I was sick of looking at the thing. It would have been fun to hang on the wall in my apartment, next to my poster of the members of Sigur Ros naked (from the cover of their most recent album - Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, which I would recommend for anyone…. Here’s me drinking a Pepsi, me smiling, NOW GO BUY ONE) to freak out some of my conservative friends or parents (when they visit town). Buying that poster would have made me no more or less rebellious. It probably would have been worse if I bought the damn thing, because I would believe myself to be more subversive, contemplative, somehow more unique. Thus, the beauty [insert: tragedy] of commodified culture.
Bet Kerouac’s rolling in his grave. At least I hope so.
As we passed through the neighborhood, heading up a few blocks towards the famous Castro District, we found what we have been finding in many cities (e.g., the difference along the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, Redondo Beach, and Long Beach): large demographic, setting shifts in close proximities to one another.
We split up for lunch in the Castro District, which beautifully greeted us with rainbow flags and people on the move, electrifying the air with optimism and zest for life (in stark contrast to the pace and emotion of the streets near my home). Rashina and I nestled into the a booth along the side wall about halfway back in a small sushi place across the street from the Castro Theatre. Shortly after deciding to split the Veggie Sushi special, we were greeted with two bowls of soup… and no spoons. After looking at each other for a few seconds, eye-balling the table and the floor for silverware, we glanced at a gentleman sitting next to us, mouthing to one another to ask him about our current utensil predicament. Finally, I looked over, and said, “Excuse me, sir, sorry to bother you, but do we just drink this soup straight out of the bowl?” With a polite, warm laugh, he said yes and asked where we were from.
This is always one of the best moments in a day, when one of the two of us will glance at each other to see who will start the “40 states” spread. Rashina did the honors and we were launched into a half-hour discussion of life, love, gay rights, and America with a gentleman we had just had met (which really, to me, is one of the many gems of traveling to new places and meeting people unlike myself). He was a professor at a university in nearby Oakland, a two-session (four year) Peace Corps alum who had spent most of his life overseas, and nearly all of his time in America working with refugees who are trying to land softly. He said he did not really identify with America all that much, even though he was an American citizen, chiefly because he had spent so much time overseas.
In the midst of the discussion, we ended up sharing our cool experience at LGBT film festival the previous week in Salt Lake City, and how there was a huge population uniting in Utah to support gay rights. As a gay man, he said he was encouraged by our enthusiasm and wanted us to know that we, too, could play an active role in helping to further gay rights wherever we wanted. I know the situations are different, but it made me think about the Civil Rights Movement a bit, and our experience in Little Rock at the “Little Rock 9” museum, where sympathetic whites in the school would quietly voice their support to the African-American students, but never would actually take a public stand (inside or outside the school) to help others gain a more free and healthy perspective on what equality really is. In a sense, this is the call I’m beginning to see that we have as people of our generation. There is a group of Americans that are openly being discriminated against and deprived of rights on personal, governmental, and economic levels. I have been asked when discussing this with friends and family, “Now, doesn’t this community have ‘their’ own voice to speak with?” My answer is yes, absolutely. However, another one never hurt. Being from the Bible Belt and a former Christian, I could use that connection to that community to help certain conservative friends come to see the light about the need for advancement of LGBT rights in this country. Sadly, many of those friends have been bombarded so much with single-issue politics that the beauty of the gay community gets muddled in the false belief of standing up for the family, God’s design of marriage, or whatever other trite “principle” to keep others out of their sandbox. [I harken back to the elementary school playground mentality of some (namely the loudest) Evangelicals, who believe their favor rests in a higher being who supposedly preaches love for all and feel like they have a claim to some sort of truth, when, in reality, they are bastardizing and possibly even making angry that Divinity who they are trying to aid (if She/He/It/They exist in the first place). The end result of the playground mentality is a desire to feel better about oneself through blind allegiance, not to biblical teachings, but to hierarchical language and a keen non-understanding of personhood.] I love my Evangelical friends for their passion, but am saddened by their being misled – trading love and understanding for exclusion and false claims to purity.
Getting back to the day, we parted with our new friend after the enjoyable conversation, with a current issue of a local LGBT newspaper as a parting gift, to rendevous with our group back at the Castro Theatre. We walked through the Financial District to City Lights Bookstore, the famed spot of many writers and figures from the Beat Generation. As I walked up the stairs into the poetry room (which had a number of racks solely devoted to the Beats, with what seemed like a thousand copies of Ginsberg’s Howl, I could not shed away what seemed like four-feet-tall Mickey Mouse ears on top of my head. As a local poet sat writing and reading in the corner by a window bellowing a soft white, a light scoff of the eye came down across mine, the double layer of curiosity and outright annoyance I have experienced countless times when sitting in the middle of two miles of dead-stopped Florida, Alabama, and Louisiana tags, as I have tried to get to work the past five winters on Ski Mountain Road at Ober Gatlinburg – though the difference there is my curiosity stemmed from the hopes of a cute tourist girl that I might be able to “teach” how to ski later on in the day. The space of the Poetry Room was beautiful, though I was not able to stay long – not unless I lived in the area for a number of months or years. I sat down and read a little Whitman and little Ginsberg, half-expecting a euphoric “ah ha!” poetic moment of insight and inspiration, which I quickly stopped as the weight of those ears slipped down over my eyes upon me bowing my head to read Howl.
We made our way to the Beat Museum, greeted by this goofy ass character with an oversized, pointy mustache and a purple zootsuit. I didn’t know whether to laugh in his face or punch him when he asked us (as he unloaded his early 90s model Jeep Cherokee) to come to his show later that night, which was being held in the lobby of the Beat Museum (by this time he was inside, standing behind a microphone and in close proximity to a stand up bass). A more acceptable figure approached us, a staff member of the museum with a sweet Mohawk, and asked us if we wanted to take a look around the museum. We did for a while and then exited – as all great places do, I assume – through the damn gift shop (which encompassed most of the lobby, edging right on up to our goofy man in the purple suit). Sadly, what caught my eyes were not copies of Beat literature (not even sure if they had any), but commodified Beatness, or commercialized rebellion. “Stop bitching and start a revolution!” read a black tee shirt with scratchy writing, with books of hippie lingo, Grateful Dead bears, and witty political statement buttons seeking me out on every shelf. At one instance, I picked up a five-dollar “Fuck Hate” poster. In my consciousness, it gave me the feeling of “sticking it to the man” or defying my parents or whatever you want to call it. The longer I held it though, the less powerful the commodity, the statement, became to me. By the end of about ten minutes, I was sick of looking at the thing. It would have been fun to hang on the wall in my apartment, next to my poster of the members of Sigur Ros naked (from the cover of their most recent album - Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, which I would recommend for anyone…. Here’s me drinking a Pepsi, me smiling, NOW GO BUY ONE) to freak out some of my conservative friends or parents (when they visit town). Buying that poster would have made me no more or less rebellious. It probably would have been worse if I bought the damn thing, because I would believe myself to be more subversive, contemplative, somehow more unique. Thus, the beauty [insert: tragedy] of commodified culture.
Bet Kerouac’s rolling in his grave. At least I hope so.
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