"I S.O.S. Across the Universe"

Got back in to New York earlier today, and even though I didn't have to, I went in to work. Well, first I got a haircut- all decked out in the shiny purple dress shirt purchased from Wal-Mart (I know, I'm sorry). I'm really glad I did go in to work today, because of the really interesting project I get to work on- one mostly of my own doing, hopefully it will lead somewhere.

What I really wanted today was to go to the Earl Greyhound Show in Chinatown that started at 7pm. I was randomly perusing the internet the other day when I stumbled on the fact that they were headlining the MEANY Fest Finals. They did an in-store when I worked at Vintage Vinyl, and by all accounts it was amazing. Of course, I had an exam that day which meant that I couldn't come. And to make matters worse, my co-workers band was opening up for them, but it was at a 21+ spot when I was only 19. So I had to be content with playing their cd over and over again for the next two years- which I did. Besides Wolfmother, there hasn't really been any new rock bands that I actually liked; to me Earl Greyhound was like a rock and roll reedemer or something. And I just knew that I was going to see them today.

Only one problem, the same problem that I always have. Who can I get to go with me? The list isn't too long- most of my coworkers didn't come in today. They had the right idea, staying warm inside their homes, inside their beds, taking the rest of the week off. Can't be a girl. There's no guys left at work. And I'm not exactly hurting for space in my New York rolodex. My only friends don't listen to Brooklyn based inter-racial modern glam rock. And even if they did find Earl Greyhound interesting (which is a very good possibility) they'd have to get through the sounds of a bunch of unsigned bands vying for a chance to get on an indie tour bus. And while that sounds like an interesting night to me, no matter how crappy/white/punk the bands sound, I'm not sure I can say the same for anyone else. And I'm not going alone, not this time, don't have the energy to go it alone today.

So instead I came home, to eat bread, cheese, and tomato soup, say hi to a cold bottle of Sam Adams, and rewatch Season 1 of The Wire. I'm already tired because I didn't get any sleep last night so Sam'll put me to bed pretty quickly. It doesn't come close to seeing my favorite rock band while sipping on a Leffe or some other imported glass bottle beer. But there is something comforting about being home when it's cold outside. Hopefully they'll play another New York show soon.

Rent to Own

I'm a truly blessed young man. There are plenty of reasons for me to be thankful, but one of the best is that I pay an incredibly low amount to rent an apartment in Astoria. I'm ever thankful that I have such a good friend who helped me out in this situation.
The thing is, I love renting, love being a renter, and I want to rent until I have children. I really don't understand why so many young people think that they should buy a home/condo while they're still in school and really have no idea whether or not they're going to stay in a certain place. I'm not against owning a home per se. I know that when I'm older I'll own a home; I want to have a family and the woman I eventually marry will almost certainly want us to have a place of our own. While, for planet Earth's sake I think apartment living is better- I don't think I'll be able to convince what ever girl wants to marry me of that.

What I hate is when people tell me that renting (right now!) is not good because I am just throwing my money away. I hate hearing that because it's something that bankers tell buyers to lock them into 30 years of interest and principal payments. Renting is definitely not throwing money away; it's paying for someone to provide a service, namely shelter. Last time I checked, shelter was pretty high up on the list of "things needed to survive." I give someone part of my check so that I have a place to lay my head down. And in addition, if I need something fixed or shoveled or fumigated, my landlord has to do it. I go downstairs to the super and he takes care of my problem. I don't see anything wrong with the arrangement. I have other things I want to do on the weekends besides fixing up my house, at least while I'm young. I live in New York for God sakes, but even if I lived in Mississippi I wouldn't even think about buying a house. I don't want to worry about keeping it up. You can call it lazy, and I wouldn't argue with you. But, in addition, I don't feel like going through all the transaction costs if I have to leave. I'm young, with no family, no career path set in stone. If I'm trying to up and leave if I get a nice offer somewhere else, I don't want to worry about having to sell. I'll just make my job pay for me breaking the lease.

"But, but, you're not building up equity!" Yes, when you rent instead of taking out a loan to eventually own one day, you are not building up equity in the property. But who says that I'm looking for my shelter to turn into an investment? There were plenty of causes to the current financial crisis that we're in right now, but one of them is the mindset that turns houses into a short-term investment, a quick opportunity to make a buck, instead of shelter.

Let me explain. Looking at your house as an investment instead of a form of shelter drives up the price of housing, particularly when it is seen as a short-term investment. How come? Because you/other buyers will be willing to pay more for the house if you think that you can sell it for a nice return in a few short years. When this becomes standard practice, you get the unprecedented run-up in housing prices that preceded our countries current predicament. You get people flipping their house or multiple houses to make a quick dollar. You also get people buying homes that they cannot afford (with the guidance of mortgage broker with incredible teaser rates and no money down) because they just know that even if they cannot keep up with the mortgage payments, they'll be able to sell the house for more than what they paid for it, pay off the banker, and keep a nice tidy sum for themselves.

The title "subprime mortgage crisis" makes people believe that it was just a bunch of broke ass Black and Hispanic folks with no jobs, stumbling into a bank on their way to the liquor store, and walking out with an 8,000 square foot McMansion in Arizona. Subprime just means that the rate you pay is above the prime rate; the rate that people with pristine credit receive when they want to take out a loan. You can make $500,000 a year and get a subprime mortgage- it all depends on your credit history AND the type of house you buy. A person making $500,000 who buys a 50 million dollar home.. well, if they got past the broker/loan officer (which in that environment, who knows), would be paying an obscene rate on their purchase. Which is why you saw the greatest defaults in wealthy areas and why the default rates overall for income categories were the same. The symbol of the subprime mess wasn't so much a poor person trying to buy their first home as it was a middle-class/upper middle-class professional trying to buy their second. With an assist from the mortagage broker, who told that person that they were getting a risk-free return when they purchase the house. But as we all know, the higher the return the higher its associated risk- and it was a risk that the financial institutions concealed or just did not pay attention to. For some more reading on this subject go here and here.

That's not to say that everyone or even most people who purchase houses straight out of college shouldn't. I'm just saying, what other reason would I purchase a house other than to try and get a good return when I inevitably sell it. I don't need a house right now, I don't have any kids and the chance that I will be living in New York when I finally settle down is pretty slim. (again leaving out the fact that on my salary I couldn't afford to by a house in NY). My principles dictate that I treat shelter as shelter and when it comes to investing, I'll put my money in a nice index fund.

Free Write Vol. 2

Up late again- a couple of chores to take care of and I'm expecting to call a young lady in an hour or so. Made myself some coffee- both to keep me up and because I love the taste. Jamaica Mountain Blue for those that are interested, although I'm mad because I made it too watery after making it perfectly this morning. Watery like the sludge I use to drink at Kroger a little bit before I got off at night. It gets you through midnight, got me to my next job handling packages for 6 hours straight for 9.50 an hour.

At night, I always have my most vivid thoughts. Perhaps it's mostly because I'm tired. You know how right before you go to sleep your brain starts to rearrange your thoughts into something coherent and the images of the day drift aimlessly across your head, slowing your mind down to a soothing slumber- making your eyes slide shut gracefully. I guess that's what it is, my mind is beginning to make that transformation. It's getting everything in order so I can think pragmatic thoughts during working hours, leave the idealism for the section of the day that naturally contains our most outlandish dreams.

But there's something else too, something more than just the biological effects of my brain's preparation to shut down. Something special about this place on the outskirts of Nashville. Something special about being at home that makes me think, makes me want to write. I don't get this feeling while I'm in New York, there are too many sounds and lights. My sense are naturally attracted to them- they feed my head with all kinds of information. If I were to think like I am right now, my mind would be overloaded.

So it has to be the night time quiet that does it for me. A place and time where I can be alone with my thoughts I remember first moving here, the nights were endless, they dragged on for centuries. As time slowed down, my awareness, of myself, of certain sensations began to heighten. And I felt compelled to describe them in some fashion. But not just in my head, they couldn't just stay bottled up, bouncing around like carbon molecules in a shaken up soda can. So I write, try my best to describe what exactly is going on in my head as I stay up late, when my senses are at their most raw.

Like how tranquil the sound of a dishwasher is as it switches cycles, from "pots and pans" to "normal wash." If you're far enough away it sounds like the gentle sloshing of waves of seawater against the side of a boat.
Or how sensual it feels drinking a warm cup of coffee at night. I guess it reminds me of long road trips and late nights that turn into early mornings sitting at the far table (or if I'm lucky, a booth) in my favorite diner with a certain someone, waiting for the best pancakes in town.
And finally, there's the soothing feeling that my body gets as I finish the last dishes in the sink, the water still warm and smooth from the suds. I've always been self-conscious about having soft hands. They conceal the fact that I've actually done "man's" work before, while telling the story of how I've been an inside thinking man all of my life. But right now it doesn't particularly matter. You ever notice how the temperature of your extremities affects your entire body? I guess that's just what I really love. Being warm.

Innocent as a Glance

From August 5th, 2008


Nothing is ever as good as it looks, or sounds.. or at the very least, as good as it's made out to be. For some reason, that thought popped into my head as I stole glances at the absolutely stunning woman sitting across from me on the subway on my way to work. She was holding a Coach bag tight to her stomach and had very nice (and presumably expensive) designer shades resting on top of her straightened black hair. She didn't look like she was going to work, she may have been kept nice by her man although I didn't see her wearing a ring. Anyway, she was the type of beautiful woman who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would always be the best looking person in every room, restaurant, or subway car she entered. The weird thing is that, sometimes, when I look over at her she seems to be looking up at me, our eyes will meet for a fraction of a second (most likely she knew that I and every man was looking at her, she probably thought it was funny how I tried my hardest not to).

Now, I'm certainly not wanting for a good woman, I have one of the best around, beautiful, intelligent, considerate, loving, I could add on a lot of adjectives, but I'd probably need a thesaurus to make sure I hit everything. Besides, I'm a little young for this woman anyway... I've just very recently entered full-fledged manhood; guessing from her demeanor and her style, she's had a grown woman's attitude for at least ten years.

The thing is though, that even if I didn't have a girlfriend, even if the woman on the subway didn't care about age, or we were the same age, and even if she found me the least bit attractive (and could forget that she had two or three inches of height on me), chances are we would not be a good match. There is a good chance that she is not particularly or even the least bit interesting. More than that, there is a fair chance that all things consider, she's an asshole that beats her children (although with a figure like that I doubt she has any). In fact, there is a 50% chance that she's below average bed. And the funny part is, I know all of this as I am looking at her. These are not thoughts that form after the fact, they're formulated simultaneously.

It's amazing really the sheer power that a woman's physical features can have over how our brain operates. In some ways, it's simply advertising, and some people are just blessed with better marketing directors than others. In this case, I'm not really talking about sexual attraction, because it's easy to get past that. And it's certainly not about looking for or wanting anyone. Because at some point, the actual action, physically turning your head and affixing your eyes on a beautiful woman becomes automatic. The decision is made at least at the subconscious level or maybe even at the genetic one. Usually, when it happens, I'm not thinking about anything at all, but I'll still find my eyes transfixed.

In order to truly love a woman, a man has to love all women. It's something I say from time to time, I figure that I've heard it somewhere before and adopted it for my own, but for the life of me I cannot find where it came from. As much as I'd like to attribute it to myself, attaching it to my name for all eternity, I cannot believe I came up with it. Unfortunately, I'm not smart enough to have had a truly original thought before, and if I did, it was almost certainly wrong; the truly smart people would have thought it up already if it wasn't.

But it does have some truth to it, I think. In order to truly love a woman, a man has to love all women. Maybe that's the reason that even during my most asexual moments, I still pause to enjoy that which I see. This could be my inner chauvinist (or my inner excuse maker), and I've covered my thoughts on this before, but the extent to which I can feel masculine is in part determined by the femininity of my biological opposite. Is it right? Does it have to be that way? Probably not, but it's the best way I can explain myself for now.
I've always contended that women are God's most perfect creation explicitly, maybe my body and mind is responding to it implicitly as well. In order for me to appreciate my ladies form, for instance, her lovely shape, there has to be some kind of appreciation for the subtle and dramatic curves of all women. To acknowledge the way that she cares for me and brings out the best in me, there has to be some kind of acknowledgment of a woman's role as caretaker, whether it is forced upon her or innate in her biology. The way she dresses, her ability to make me feel like my thoughts are important even if, at that moment, she doesn't care about what I have to say. You put it all together and much more and you get why I am attracted to her. What is also unquestionable though is that I am thoroughly and completely attracted to the qualities that equate to femininity in general, whether they be physical or cultural. It would take an artist of Apollo's stature to do their form any kind of justice, a worship screed the caliber of David's Psalms to pay homage to their bodies correctly, and they still couldn't incorporate the mental and emotional aspects. But it's also that appreciation, unfortunately, that has the ability to lead me down paths I logically would never think about taking. Even if it's as innocent as a fleeting glance.

Brief Note

Most of the next few posts will be drafts that I never got around to finishing. One of the benefits of being in Nashville until the 30th is that I have plenty of time to write. Not that I'll use it effectively or anything, but knowing that I have the opportunity is important.

Brooklyn Play Review

(From December 7th)

It was cold outside yesterday, it even snowed a little bit, but it quickly melted into rain the moment it touched the ground. Only the cars parked down Bedford and Broadway kept the snowflakes intact; they built up on the windshields and the roofs and started to look like the bottom of a freezer. The rest of us got cold windy rain, and there's no type of weather/precipitation mix I hate more than cold windy rain (although I suppose that you can't have hot snow). It's just that combination, misery with the ability to slip at any time that makes it particularly grating. But this time, as I walked outside it was almost pleasant, refreshing really; it was so hot in the WAH Center's makeshift theater on the 3rd floor, all the people moving around, the hot stage lights.
But I kept my jacket on anyway, I've always done that, I never want to get too comfortable in a place where I have no right being comfortable, besides I'm gonna just put it back on again anyway. Truth is that I felt as comfortable as I possibly could, given the circumstances. Imagine, sitting there, in all of your untrendyness, mixed up with the hipsters and Black bohos, with their deep understanding of the inner workings of Chekov, their impeccable appreciation of modern kinds of art, and their, their scarves. I didn't do a scientific survey, but there was at least a 2.5 to 1 ratio of scarves to people at this event (it would have been higher but I considerably dragged down the mean). True it was cold outside, but scarves more than anything else, represent for me the essence of the Williamsburg Hipster- I bet if it were 86 degrees outside the ratio would have stayed more or less the same.
I don't know why I rode out all the way to Brooklyn to see five 15 minute plays that used Chekov as an inspiration. Obstensibly, it's because I wanted to support a fellow JWJer, and that's true. We're not really friends, just acquaintances really; I think he was a little surprised when I showed up. Also, I knew that if I were to go, I'd be going alone. That's kind of how all these things work out for me. As a formality, I invited my co-workers, but really I sometimes like to go to these kind of things alone. In the good instances, it's not loneliness but supreme tranquility.

The train ride is the hardest part. The ride going to Brooklyn wasn't bad, I had a stop along the way (Lincoln Center, Frost/Nixon, crowded house) which broke up the sometimes excitement, sometimes monotony of being on the train. Going to the WAH Center was the first time I ever took the J-train. It's actually quite beautiful, especially as you emerge above ground going across the Williamsburg bridge and you look at the little yellow dots cascading down the high-rises, and you recognize the daunting, dirty beauty of the East River. I got off at the Marcy Avenue stop; in a brazen display of appropriate lameness I switched my iPod over to Jay-Z, crossing the avenue with absolute impunity. The walk to Bedford Avenue was longer than I expected from how the numbers were set up west of Marcy Avenue; one thing I hate about New York is that their numbering system is all out of whack in parts. In the city, for instance, instead of having the same avenue be the center from which all of the numbers are arranged, the centers are on different avenues, and that's just stupid.

The plays: I enjoyed the set as a whole. The brevity of each play means that you have to pay attention really carefully, you might miss the entire point otherwise. The first one was undoubtedly the weakest of the three- it was called Bear 2.0 and it was about a lady whose husband just died and he's trying to get into his laptop in order to see whether or not he was having an affair. While she's trying to open the computer at a coffee shop, a computer geek comes by and tells her that he was supposed to meet her husband there because he had some property of his. After he helps her with the laptop and some terse conversations, she decides she needs to move on.
The play only had two actors, but I just did not feel their chemistry, although I think that it mostly had to do with the script. The actress who played the widow was good, not classically pretty, but artsy cute with short hair and a black dress. The geek was a caricature of a computer nerd, and he overacted his part a little bit. The conclusion was a little trite- you could see it coming from the stratosphere. Overall- a B- for the actors, C+ for the script/plot

Biggest Break: On second thought, I might have liked this one even less, even though the performances were slightly better. It's about a late 20-something guy who lives with his mother, who he treats like shit. His father just died and, over a joint, he discusses with his friend how to best use the money left for him. They decide to start a record label, but as they are congratulating each other, his father's friend, lawyer, and business partner, comes upstairs to discuss the terms of the will. Instead of being able to get the money immediately, the son's share of the will is contingent on him working in the business for 10 years. The play ends with
Again, the acting was only okay. The mother, who only has bit parts, has the battered wife syndrome down pretty good. The friend is probably the best of all the actors, but he also benefits from having a much easier part to play. The "stoner friend" part almost guarantees laughs, and he gets them with his timely quips. The main character has it much harder as he has to be both a decent straight man for his "stoner friend" and an emotionally sympathetic character during the climax. He certainly tries, but he doesn't have the chops and comes off as unconvincing in both. The father's friend is much better, tempering his forcefulness while being the ironic bearer of bad/good news. The climactic scene, where the business partner confronts the son, falls flat though, simply because the son cannot carry his weight. The script and plot are okay, nothing special but I don't think they hindered the actors performances. Overall, the actors get a B- and the script/plot get a B-.

Philodendron: Now, this is what I came here for. This was also a play with two actors, but they were older than the actors in Bear 2.0, and their chemistry is incredible. The play is about a couple who are in the process of separating. There are a few items left in the living room, and they've decided to take turns in picking through the objects. It's really about the process of a relationship breaking down, the flickering hope of reconciliation, and arguments that always seem to end up exactly where they started. The plot is easy to identify with, which puts it right in the wheelhouse of any seasoned actors. The script is very well written- the dialogue is specific enough for it to be identified with a single relationship, but the themes themselves are all too common. And the actors are by far the best of the evening. The man, who at first did not agree to the separation, in time slowly grows to appreciate what it will mean for him. The woman, who is the one who wanted to separate has the opposite transformation. But the way they cross paths, the way that they ultimately develop, and the way that the man leaves that one final time, leaving his wife with the philodendron in her hand- wow!. What's most important though is that throughout the entire play, the love between them is still palpable. It's at times both smoldering and playful- you can tell that they truly worked on how exactly to make their interactions believable. The joy of the night really. The actors get an A and the plot/script gets an A- (because the actual plot played it a little safe).

Gone With the Masha: Well, actually, this was the real reason I came out. This was the play that my fellow JWJer wrote, and it was the second best one of the night. A man comes into a bank with a business idea for pre-rundown condos, for middle class professional people who have hit bottom and are too pathetic to do anything to fix their lives. As expected, the two loan officers (a woman who is the senior and her male employee) think it is a preposterous idea and tell him to leave. The senior is called into a meeting with her superiors and the business man is left with the subordinate loan officer. The subordinate then starts to talk about how miserable he is, how he lost his job as a doctor for medical malpractice, and how he would love to get a job with the business man. He then professes his love for his senior, saying if he got a different job she'd love him. They're interrupted by the senior coming back in with her mascara running under her eyes- she did not get a promotion she was hoping for and starts to go ballistic, as the subordinate tries to comfort her. The two loan officers quickly descend into pathetic shells, yelling, screaming, crying, and confessing to the business man. The lady even tries to sexually accost the business man. The play ends with the business man running for his life out of the bank as the two loan officers finally contain themselves.
The actors, particularly the subordinate loan officer has great comedic timing, particularly his physical humor. The ensemble as a whole though generates a lot of laughs- a great amount of that credit goes to the writer (my associate) because of the point he was trying to prove about people and the facades in which they hide their true selves. The business man makes an excellent transition from being the guy who provides the laughs in the first half, to being the only sane individual in the second, although most of his responsibilities in the second half is being a horrified on-looker trying in vain to grab his stuff to go. The lady also makes a transformation- although she is far more compelling as the Glen Close/Cruella De Ville boss in the first half than she is as the Glen Close/Fatal Attraction/screeching banshee that she is in the second. Philodendron is the most thought-provoking and best written play of the set, but this was definitely the most enjoyable. Actors A-, script/plot A

Fin de Circle: The final play and truth be told I was a little out of it by then. I hadn't eaten in a little while, and I mostly just listened to my stomach rumbling. The play took place sometime during Reagan's first term (1983 or 1984) and was about a family divided over a town's decision to take down a nativity scene in the town square. What it's actually about, though, is the obliviousness of the heads of the family to what is actually going on inside their household. As the mother, grandfather, and grandmother fret over the nativity scene, the daughter and her boyfriend are having sex, the brother is gay and services his sisters boyfriend, and the maid brilliantly discusses the political ramifications of the town's decision. It's all a little over the top, which would be fine, except I do not think the writer or director made the commitment to make it a true comedy- so they're kind of stuck in between making a serious play and making a comedy and achieve neither. Two actors do particularly well though- the grandfather and the drop dead gorgeous maid (she wore won of those Fame style sweaters that showed her shoulder). Overall, the actors get a B and the script/plot a B.

News Round-Up

News Round-Up: This is my second one of these. Basically, I link to some stories and give my reactions. Because I am long-winded and like to meander, my commentary delves off into other topics that are loosely based on the article. Enjoy!


Fed Cuts Rates to Range of 0-.25%

Yeah, of course it was coming. The Fed has been very aggressive in cutting rates, it's the 10th time in 15 months. With the economy lagging, I know that everyone wants to make money cheaper. To keep from a deflationary cycle, it's probably the best we can do in the short term. Now that the Fed is out of it's primary hammer, what other, more subtle tools are they going to use to continue to stimulate demand? I mean, the rate cuts haven't been working; maybe we just have to take the castor oil for a little while. Maybe it will push Americans to take a long hard look at putting back some of the better regulations from Glass-Steagal. Maybe it will also make us question what kind of society we truly want- what is the best way to maintain a democracy with increasing economic inequality?
I truly need to reconcile my general liberal-ness with my more austere "monetarist" side. I'm a man of the people, didn't come from a lot of money, but I'm actually pretty conservative when it comes to monetary policy. I know that easy money helps to stimulate demand, and during these times, we'll do whatever it takes in that regard. But maybe lighting a fire under the special American brand of consumerism (you're doing your patriotic duty by shopping) is not what we need. People that know me know that I'm not big into fashion, or gadgets, or electronics, or keeping up with the Jonses in general. I spend money on my hobbies and gifts for other people- the cost of money can go up and I'll still find a way to enjoy myself- still be able to save some money. I guess what I'm saying is that consumerism is an easy way to create jobs- but is it the best or most equitable way?
The fiscal policies that I'd implement don't feel quite right in my head sometimes- progressive income taxation (not to Swedish levels but more than what it is right now) with a hard/sound money policy. The more I read, the more I think I come from German stock- I really like their policies (not to mention their excellent craftmanship, union density, delicious beers, delectable chocolate, and wonderful strategy games). I'm still trying to create a framework that combines the ordo-liberalism of German origin with a free trade regime that benefits developing nations. God I wish I was smarter!


Dick Cheney Says He's Done Well

I guess, he meant done well for himself, because even Dick Cheney can't think that Dick Cheney has done well for the country. Dick Cheney is a caraicture of the evil politician. I remember one time while I was working at Vintage Vinyl, me and a coworker (one of the few coworkers that I could talk about politics with) were talking about Dick Cheney. I called Dick Cheney evil, and he stopped dead in his tracks and told me that we should not call someone evil just because we have a policy dispute with them. At the time I demured, I figured he was right. That was back in 2005. Now though? Who can read this article, who can see that interview and not say that Cheney is evil. Aruging whether or not torture should be exacted on human beings is NOT a policy dispute- it comes down to the very moral fabric of our society.
People sometimes highlight abortion as a similar dispute- but it's not. In the case, there is a legitimate scientific dispute about whether or not a ball of cells is a person or not (for the record, I am pro-choice until the time that a fetus can survive outside the womb 22 weeks is the youngest on record. I'm extremely uneasy about abortion outside the first trimester though).
But there is no dispute about the humanity of the people we have imprisoned. Regardless of what they've done- I do not believe that we should torture, anyone, under any circumstances. And that's doesn't even take into account the fact that confessions from torture are not even reliable.

NATO Must Be More Than Military Force

Yeah it really should be. On the foreign policy "Millman Chart" I am a cross between Alexander Hamilton and Woodrow Wilson. I guess the marriage can be explained like this- I think that ultimately we need a realistic international approach to foster our international values. If I were President- I'd use my chief diplomat (Sec of State) to act as Hamilton/the bad cop, and I'd use my pulpit to act like Wilson/the good cop (without the blatant racism). Tactically speaking, being Hamilton just makes sense.
Which is why I think that NATO is acting foolishly when it tries to recruit Georgia and Ukraine into NATO. And it is foolish to add missile defense near the Caspian. We're not going to get attacked by Russia! Repeat, we are not going to get attacked by Russia. We need to be worrying about loose nukes, and working with Russia would be a perfect display of the potential for a Hamilton/Wilson marriage. The Hamilton side is that we do not want the loose nukes to fall in the hands of terrorists and we want to shore up our relationship with a resurgent Russia. The Wilson side is the message it will send about our commitment to disarmament.
NATO has to have a clear poltical perspective, and the ever growing divorce between the values of the US and the values of the EU is going to take a heavy toll on the viability of this military alliance going forward. Although, then again, I'm not totally against NATO disbanding and being replaced with something with more clearly defined internationalist aims, and one that does not carry the Cold War baggage (which would help Russia save at least a little face when we inevitably start to build up in its former satellites).
The troubles facing us in Afghanistan call for such a reform.


Army Riots Escalate Zimbabwe Crisis

And that right there is the problem when your legitimacy from the military. What happens when they don't get paid? At this point, Mugabe has to go, and I'm actually for whatever it takes to get him out. The African Union's troops are stretched incredibly thin though; Darfur and Somalia are taking up pretty much all of their manpower. Mugabe has accused the Movement for Democratic Change, the opposition party, of working with Britain to oust him. I for one applaud that- at some point (when there is legitimate and honest reasoning) we have to say fuck all of this sovereinity stuff. Now, I don't think British troops should land- a multi-lateral peacekeeping force has to.
I say this again, but I think that Africa would benefit the most from severely beefed up regional governance. That, along with a forgiveness of debt (all of it), allowances for tariffs for key national industries, and a unilateral reduction of trade barriers by the developed world would also be needed. Changes by the IMF and World Bank, and Africa would be WIDE open for development. The problem, of course, is internal political stability, which I think would be helped by the regional outlook. It would be great if I could just fiat all of this. Man I miss debate.

Joint Default Improbability
(The link actually goes to a different story about the forced selling of insured muni-bonds which made their yields higher than uninsured bonds, the article I've written about is only in the print edition)

Finally, a story from work. Right now, municipal bonds with insurance have higher yields and higher reset rates than municipal bonds that are uninsured. The turmoil in the municipal bond insurance industry has fostered this, but it's an incredibly stupid market reaction, and the illiquidity of the muni market is the culprit. Even after the monoline insurers were downgraded from their AAA ratings, they still add enhancement to the underlying credit of the issuer. Why would having insurance, even "crappy" insurance make u less credit worthy?
Right now, rating agencies use the "credit substitution" method, which means that they just subsitute the rating of the insurer or letter of credit provider for the rating of the issuer. That just strikes me as an incredibly lazy way to give ratings. What this article is arguing for is using the joint default probability, the probability of both the issuer and the insurer defaulting on their principal and interest payments. The correlation between the two events would also need to be taken into account. It has already happened in one case, but the commentator is arguing that it should be the industry practice.
Ultimately I think two things would come out of this. First, there would be a proliferation of insurers, which would lower the cost of obtaining bond insurance. There would need to be some kind of specific regulation that say insurers must be rated at least A1. But more monoline insurers would be a good thing, I think, if we want to lower the cost of borrowing for poor hospitals. Thorough inspections of the balance sheets of these insurers would also need to take place. Downgrades for the AAA monolines were warranted long before they were actually downgraded and that should not happen again.
Second, it would open up the tax exempt market for weaker credits (like safety net hospitals). AAA insurers wouldn't touch some of the weaker credits because they would not be able to maintain their AAA rating- the default risk was too large. But an A insurer? They would be able to take on some of the weaker underlying credits while still maintaining their rating. I could see a day where the stronger credits would get insurance for basically nothing, just because it would help insurers book of business when it came time for the rating agencies to audit them. Overtime, this would also have the effect of closing the spreads not between ratings, but between issuers.

Finding Buck O'Neil

*The title of this post comes from Finding Buck McHenry, a children's book about the janitor of this middle school who may or may not be a former Negro League ballplayer.

As I've said before in this space, one of my favorite writers, both in newsprint and on the internet is Joe Posnanski, a sportswriter for the Kansas City Star (crazy how the star has both him and Jason Whitlock). From the moment I discovered his blog, it has become a daily read for me. Days that he's posted something are good ones, right up there with days that I get home in time to watch the Jim Lehrer NewsHour. I just know that I will get a chance to read a 5,000 word masterpiece on such diverse topics as the Hall of Fame credentials of Rickey Henderson, the trials, tribulations, and incredible foilibles of the Kansas City Royals, or the topic today, the fight over appointing a new Executive Director for the Negro League Baseball Museum. Days that he hasn't posted, there's just a twinge of disappointment; I almost feel betrayed.

Anyway, even though I've been reading his blog for the better part of a year now, I still hadn't gotten a chance to read his first book, "The Soul of Baseball: A Road Trip Through Buck O'Neil's America." Every time I'd go to the library in St. Louis, I'd check whether or not it was on the shelf, but inevitably it was always checked out, or it was transported to some far corner of the city that I did not have the inclination to drive to. When I came to New York, I would always tell myself to check when I made my way over to the library, but for some reason I'd always forget, and I'd end up checking out some book on economic policy or the history of labor corruption. This last time though- as I was perusing the biographies I remembered. It felt like the light knocking down Saul of Tarsus off his horse as I weaved my way through the smooth brown bookshelves- "I gotta check out Joe Posnanski." I scooted quietly over to the computer to make sure that it was in stock. Luck was with me that evening after work ladies and gentleman, because sure enough, there was a copy, right in that very Midtown Manhattan library. Unable to run, but fearful that someone else would pick up the book first, I race-walked over to the baseball section, bent down just a little bit, and grabbed the book, and headed back down the elevator to the self-check out line (to hell with interaction I wanted to go home and read my book).

For those of you who do not know- Buck O'Neil was a remarkable man. The easiest way for you to tell is by looking at the title, without even really knowing the man, is by looking at the title of his autobiography, "I Was Right On Time." If you just examined his life you'd think it was actually an ironic title- from a strictly objective point of view, his life was marked entirely by NOT being on time. O'Neil was a Negro League baseball player, played for the old Kansas City Monarchs, and he had stories about all the greats. The list of players he played with or against is staggering- the absolute who's who of Negro League legends: Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson, Cool Papa Bell, Hilton Smith, Double Duty Radcliffe, Judy Johnson, Turkey Stearnes, the list goes on. By all accounts, including his own, he was a pretty good player, a slick-fielding, line drive smashing first baseman, a one-time batting champion. There aren't too many players like that now- Doug Mientekewicz (sp cuz I'm too lazy to look it up right now) had the defense part, but wasn't nearly a good enough hitter. I guess Mark Grace is probably the best fit from recent history- good hitter with good/great defensive skills and little power. That type of player was much more common in the past.

Anyway, it was clear that while O'Neil was a very good player, he was not of Hall of Fame quality. But the things he did after his playing career, well that's a different story. He was a successful manager for the Kansas City Monarchs, the first Black coach in the the major leagues (he probably would have been the first Black manager, but the league wasn't ready for that). He was the scout who "discovered" Lou Brock, Billy Williams, Oscar Gamble, and Ernie Banks. But his most lasting legacy, the one that turned him in to a legend, the one that should have given him a unanimous selection into the Hall of Fame, was his tireless work for the Negro Leagues, going all across the country to contribute to the memory of these men who would have otherwise been forgotten. The Negro League Museum would simply not exist if it was not for him. More than anything else, he wanted people to know how it truly was. The hardships yes, but more importantly, the joy. He didn't want to be pitied, he didn't want the story of the league to be all sorrow, of only terrible bus rides, discrimination, and little money. But he also did not want the Bingo's Traveling All-Stars treatment either, where the Negro Leagues were little more than mid-century minstrel shows. As Buck said, he got to eat at some of the best restaurants in the country, except they happened to be Black resturants. He got to stay at some of the best hotels in the country as well, they just happened to be Black hotels. He wanted everyone to remember that the men who played were MEN, not sad stories of "What Might Have Been," or cariactured Step & Fetch-It style clowns. The fact that he kept the memory of the Negro League alive and that he worked to transform that memory into something different from those two polar extremes surely gives him more credence to the Hall of Fame then that joker Bowie Kuhn, the single worst Commissioner in the history of organized baseball (as Posnanski said, every quote from him is like a "molatov cocktail of stupidity.") In my mind the line for entrance into the Hall of Fame (for those who can only be voted in by the Veterans Committee I mean) starts with Ron Santo, Marvin Miller, and Buck O'Neil. It's a damn shame that he didn't get a chance to experience his induction while he was alive. It's not black eye on the HOF, black eyes eventually fade. This is more like a gunshot that paralyzes from the waist down, something from which the Hall can never truly recover. I remember how angry I was when they didn't vote him in that one last time- it hurt my heart, even though I didn't know the man except through videos and other peoples accounts. After reading the book, the anger and sadness welled up in me again. The one consolation was that I got to read once again the uproar that resounded across the country after the vote, and to realize again how beloved he was.

I've had the good fortune in life to have never met my childhood, intellectual, or spiritual heroes. I've heard and read about too many occasions where someone gets a chance to meet their heroes and they end up being absolute assholes. And really, why wouldn't you expect them to. Shit, I've been around people who become arrogant jerks for winning their neighborhood bowling league, why should we expect people who've actually accomplished something to act any differently? From all accounts though, Buck O'Neil was a beautiful man, a modern day saint. But even saints can be unsufferable sometimes; Buck O'Neil just happened to be a saint you'd also want to hang out with. He always had a kind word for everybody, even at the age of 94 he would still sign autographs until his hands would start to shake. He was endlessly devoted to his wife (who died of cancer in 1997) and friends. He was constantly reading, constantly observing, had an educated opinion on a broad range of topics. Old Black people who lived before the Civil Rights movement are capable of only eliciting pity, the kind that inner city Black students get today. Their opinion on anything but how hard it was/is to be Black is not sought after; I bet many people don't think they have an opinion on anything at all. And if they do, it's almost certainly discounted. Buck shattered that kind of thinking.

His life was filled with plenty of hardship though. He wasn't able to go to high school in his hometown of Sarasota because there was no high school there for Black people. There was the everyday racism that was not exclusive to, but certainly culminated in, his not being able to play in the Major Leagues because of what he called his "beautiful tan." And finally, there's the denial that followed him all the way to the end of his life, the denial of entry into the Baseball Hall of Fame. After dedicating his life to the game, being a central figure in Ken Burns incredible documentary (where so many people were introduced to him), being THE catalyst for the Negro League Baseball Museum in Kansas City, as well as the catalyst for the election of many of the best Negro League players. He carried around a list of men who he actively campaigned for to get into the Hall of Fame, and he never once campaigned on his own behalf, saying quite simply that the men he was campaigning for were better at baseball than him.

He wasn't a mark though, his forgiveness came unencumbered by any kind of resentment, but it wasn't a thoughtless forgiveness, Buck had no use for martyrdom. And although he had pragmatic reasons for forgiveness (paraphrasing a quote from him, he said that he did not want to die of hate and bitterness in his heart), it wasn't calculating enough to chalk it up to pure pragmatism. It's really hard to find a word that manages to balance the two, because Buck O'Neil was too real for innocence or purity but also too real to for callous deception. The best I can tell, from reading the books, listening to him speak (on TV) and other accounts of him was that he truly understood men, their motivations, their abilities, their ability to make mistakes or live up to your wildest dreams. And with that understanding, he accepted men and the world for what it was, stripped of its complexities and pretensions. He was truly a remarkable man, so I suggest you read both "The Soul of Baseball," and "I Was Right On Time," to get a true idea of who Buck O'Neil really was.

An Accounting Lesson

At work waiting for my boss again (what else is new?)

Last night I was flying back to New York after attending my sisters college graduation in Nashville. I'm sitting in my seat, reading a book about Boss Tweed and Tammany Hall, when I hear two people in back of me talking about the prospects of a Big 3 bailout. Always interested in listening to the informed thoughts of my fellow traveler, my ears perk up, and although I'm still interested in the "honest" graft of George Washington Plunkit, I'm even more interested in eavesdropping on an economic conversation.

I really shouldn't call it a conversation, it was more like a lecture. The gray-haired Southern gentleman with the charming Tennessee accent was doing most of the listening, and the middle-aged Jewish lady from the Upper East Side was doing most of the talking. It was mostly cliches she was spouting, nothing particularly profound, but then again you wouldn't expect any seering revelations in the coach section of a two hour flight. The gray-haired gentleman mostly just nodded, chiming his agreement ("See, that's what I thought") when the lady paused to seek affirmation. He stared at her intently as she talked about the UAW needing to make more concessions, impressed by her incredible wealth of knowledge almost as much as he was impressed by her wrinkle strewn but blemish free face. She wasn't a looker- but then again neither was he. He leaned over the seat in between them, resting his elbow on the armrest.

She continued on, towards reductions in CEO pay (she was much less adamant about that) and then to the start of the entire mess, the sub-prime mortgages and mortgage-backed securities. The lady even provided a useful anecdote- her idiot cousin who made $18,000 a year got herself a $400,000 house at 1% which then reset to some obscene rate after a year.
"I mean there was fault with the banks (she means mortgage lenders) too, don't get me wrong. But you shouldn't take out a $400,000 loan if you only make $18,000 a year. If people would just be honest on their applications. Besides, it's not like the people who get foreclosed are homeless. They just have to rent, that's all. What's so wrong with renting? I rented for the first... 10 years of my life. There's nothing wrong with renting."

"And then you get to the other problem," she said as the plane skidded on the runway. "This whole, mark-to-market accounting thing."
"Yeah, I heard about that," the gray-haired gentleman said. I was beginning to think that he'd forgotten how to talk. By this time he was probably just figuring out how he could propose before we got the gate.
"Yeah, see we have to get rid of this whole thing because it's not fair. These companies, when they buy the securities, they're not allowed to mark them up when they make money. But when they lose money, they have to take these... these huge write-offs and then they need new capital. See, that's what mark-to-market is. And, and we get in this mess."
By this time we were at the gate and walking to get off the plane. I turned around, with a smirk on my face, while the gray-haired man ate up every single word. They ended up walking off the plane together, all the way to the baggage claim. I got in a taxi before them, but I'm pretty sure they probably got in the same cab and had passionate old people sex in his hotel room.

And oh Jesus Christ in heaven was she wrong. She couldn't have been more wrong if she'd said that the capital of France was Vishnu. I wanted to correct her so bad- but it was quite clear she was running some serious "sound real educated" type game and I have a strict no-cock-block platform. Furthermore, I am proud to say that I'm quite ethical when it comes to that rule.

Then again, she was pretty egregious with her error, so to all you readers I'll give you a quick accounting lesson. The lady made the mistake of mixing up "mark-to-market" accounting with "lower of cost or market" accounting. In current accounting standards, "mark-to-market" is used for things like trading securities while "lower of cost or market" is used for things like inventory. "Mark-to-market" is what it sounds like, you write the asset up or down depending on its value in the marketplace, or if there is not a mature marketplace (as in the case of many OTC derivatives) some reasonable estimate of its fair value. "Lower of cost or market" is valuing something at its purchase price until you sell it, unless the price you can reasonably sell it for is less than the price you paid for it, in which case you write it down to the lower price.

It all comes down to a question of the assets purpose and the primary business of the company. The purpose of trading securities is to take advantage of increases in their value, in fluctuations in the market, at which point you sell them. The purpose of your inventory is to also make you money- but not through increases on the stock market, but through sales to your customers. (Not to mention the question of whether or not you'd have to mark it to the primary/supplier market or the secondary/end user market) Accounting is all about painting a realistic picture of your company, so it needs to be able to adjust for different asset purposes.
Let's say you own a grocery store, and you have a bunch of milk. Under the current system for inventory you keep the milk on your books at the price you bought it for, and then when you sell it you put it on your books as net income. If you had to mark it to market, you'd have to mark to the current price of milk in the primary market. You could make or lose money on commodities fluctuations even if that's not the purpose of your inventory, the purpose is to sell to your customers so they can put some liquid on their cereal. The value of trading securities is completely tied to those fluctuations.
The point is that, the companies that owned these mortgage backed securities DID get to participate in the upside, because every time the price of these securities increased they could put it on the books, and, if they were classified as trading securities, the increases flowed through as Net Income. In many cases, they were far too exuberant in pricing these assets, which led them to have to take massive write downs. Using LOCOM, while not painting the real picture, would have made the writedowns much smaller since they would not have marked the securities up as much.
If you have any questions on the different types of accounting treatments... post them on the bottom I guess. I hope this was as fun for you as it was for me.

Cause for Celebration

In a week I'd like to have back (along with a day in September), any good news is cause for celebration. Three of my predictions this week have all been accurate.

First, I predicted that Jesse Jackson Jr. would be Senate Candidate 5 in the FBI Probe/Affadavit. Although, really, that's not too hard a prediction, I mean his father is the ultimate player in "pay-to-play"

Second, I predicted that the reason Blagojevich kept talking about money on the wiretap was because he needed money to pay his lawyers, who is on the hook for more than 500K to. With all the mess he was in even prior to this, he probably needed some good attorneys on permanent retainer.

Finally, I predicted (right here in this very blog) that Frank Langella would need to start clearing mantle space for his slew of upcoming awards. Well, he was just nominated for the Golden Globe for Best Actor (which I think he will win unless that damn Brad Pitt steals it from him). The Oscars await.

Just sayin.

A Blues Kind of Morning

"Well I'm so worried, I don't know where to go."

Slept on the floor last night, but really I didn't fall asleep until early morning. Just me and a blanket and a bright red feather pillow placed carefully on under my back to keep my company. Well, there's the glass table on my left side too- but I think at this point even it's disappointed in me. I mean, I ran out of Windex and had to use.. pff.. all purpose cleaner to wipe it down when I cleaned this past Sunday. The streaks looked like they were left by a monster truck during a drag race. But no bother- there's always next Sunday.
The curtains are wide open, forgot to shut them last night, there were certainly more pressing concerns that occupied my mind. The dreary sky beamed in through the windows- if a sunny sky wakes you up by gently caressing you on the cheek, a dreary sky backhand slaps you across the mouth, telling you to "wake the fuck up, it's time to live with what you did." Oh how it stings so much more when you wake up in the morning and the first thing on your mind are the tunes you cried to sleep to. And cry I did- something I haven't done since I was 13- since I slept on that shag carpeted floor and fleas use to bite me up and down my arm and I cried like a baby because tomorrow I'd have to go to school with the same mustard-stained pants I wore the day before.
I didn't want to go to work, didn't have the energy to get up and fight through the sting in my stomach, a mix of nausea and that sharp pang, that Bernard Hopkins-style punch that hits you in the gut everytime you... remember? See, because you can forget for a little bit, while you're engrossed in data sets and spreadsheets, while you have conversations with your coworkers and you walk to lunch bunched together like ducks in flight formation. It's easy to forget when you allow something else to crowd into your mind. And then- you see something, hear something maybe, and its right back in that boxing ring and your memory has you in a corner and its pounding away at your lower torso and your chest and your face. And your heart.....
But get up I must, get up I got to. Too late to get there on time, but early enough where I can still be productive. Yeah, you got it, you can get through. Take it one day at a time, shoot one minute- your wounds are raw but they'll heal. Take a shower, iron your clothes, pack up your bag, step outside with some kind of authority, walk proud. And it works, you feel like you can, almost, just about.
And then the hit comes as you're putting on your haphazardly ironed shirt- the corner man inside your head is yelling "You put your guard down, son!" Slowly, you crumple back on to the sticky black leather couch, and all you want to do is take off your clothes, sit in your t-shirt and underwear, drink a case of beer and listenin to Howlin' Wolf, drinking until you can moan in the moonlight, in the daylight, and the twilight too.
Step outside my building, a strange mix of a day. 60 and raining, worried about slipping so I step gingerly, deliberately on to the slick concrete. I've never been this deliberate walking before, staring down intently on the ground, counting steps to myself, listening to the lovely sound of worn-in work shoes purposefully hitting the sidewalk. Anything to keep from getting hit again, occupy your mind, let everyone pass you by. At that moment, I'm probably the slowest person in the history of New York. My walk to the train station takes twice as long- every step I dangle on the precipice of self-induced agony. I step lightly to not fall over the edge.
On the train, no more walking- there to collect my thoughts. What to do, what to do? I pull out a book, "The Soul of Baseball," a most comforting book, just the right mix of upliftment and intellectual engagement. The train ride goes smoothly. At Queensboro Plaza I get up so an older Chinese lady can sit down- I wrap my hand around the pole between the two doors. Just standing and reading- it looks like I won this round.
"There's nothing like New York lonely." Just one of the gems that Buck O'Neill spouts in the first few pages of the book. Doesn't he know the truth. There ain't nothing like being lonely here, although it happens quite often. Movies and plays, sporting events, parks. All there for the taking, but even when they're free it comes at a price, the price of silence. But many times I was deliberate about it- a choice I made rather than one forced upon me. One that I am proud of and only a little bit difficult. Yeah, there's nothing like being lonely in New York.
Ain't nothing to do but sip apple cider at my desk and look over data, letting the soothing calm trickle down in to my stomach. My body warms up and between the spreadsheets, all I can think is that maybe I deserve the next hit that comes my way. The pain only lasts for a moment, maybe this time I'll be ready for it.

Foreign News Round-Up

I'm going to try and do this once a week. Pick three foreign news stories and post them here and try to put in my point of view. Like most Americans, I am sadly under-educated on what's going on inside other countries. I have a long way to go, but hopefully this is a start. The hyperlinked article for the title is something interesting I read a while ago and is connected to the last foreign news article.

*Riots in Greece Over Teen Shooting:

Crazy that youth in Greece would get this worked up over the shooting of one 16 year old by the cops. That sounds a little callous- what I mean is that I guess it's not a common enough occurrence for it to be something to riot over. I'm not up on the latest on Greek crime or Greek police- but I don't know whether the youth outrage over the shooting death of a fellow teen is great (shows they are involved and will not stand for random shootings) or terrible (not all of the facts are known, was it a completely random shooting, was a group of teens really attacking police). I mean, even the Rodney King riots only took place after the police were acquitted.

*Kenyan Prime Minister Raila Odinga says that foreign troops must go into Zimbabwe

The most important part of the article for me is when Odinga rails against other AU leaders for treating Mugabe with "kid gloves." I don't know how other liberals feel, but I always have trouble with reconciling my humanitarian impulses with my thoughts on respecting national sovereignty. On the one hand, I think that humanitarian missions are in our best interests, particularly in the prevention of genocide and mass suffering. On the other hand, national sovereignty counts for something, and it's pretty easy to stuff things like future Iraq wars under the guise of humanitarian efforts rather than self-interested aggression. That's why I think we must act to strengthen global institutions. I don't know if it is within the rights of any STATE to unilaterally disregard national sovereignty without opening up their borders to attack, but what about an international body with real teeth? This isn't a fleshed out idea of course, just a starting point. I actually want to work towards a world where national boundaries are a bit more porous, to a world with more of a European Union, federalist type structure. I think that the East African Union is a great idea, at the very least regionalism is needed to solve to going concerns that our globe faces.

Between Darfur and Somalia the AU's troops are stretched thin, so the troops would either have to be from African nations or some amalgamation with UN or European troops. It seems that the power-sharing is just not going to work- Mugabe needs to go.

*Thai Opposition Set to Form New Government

I must admit that I'm always fascinated by parliamentary governments. Something about a vote of no confidence always gets my juices flowing. I think the US should consider a parliamentary style government, with a President head of state and Prime Minister head of government. Some critics say that we'd never get anything done under a parliamentary style government (especially if we went to some kind of proportional representation). To that I say.. well, we don't really get too much done now. Mostly this is just my grass is greener outlook I guess.

I read somewhere that instead of fostering a greater democracy the growing Thai middle class actually wants more autocracy. Weak democracies mean that the elected official pretty much has the run of things after elections are over. No institution has the power or credibility to stand up to these elected officials who destroy civil liberties and preach nationalism and populism to the poor, so long as they follow their leader uncritically. Well, there is one force that does have the power... the military. To many in the middle class, there's not much difference between military rule and the rule of their corrupt elected officials, both suppress civil liberties, but at least the military officers come from middle class or elite backgrounds and are not as beholden to the votes of rural poor as the elected official is.
And that's part of what it comes down to. I think it's comical to call the people in the middle truly "middle class," simply because they are socioeconomically speaking sandwiched between the super-rich elite and the large number of rural poor. The rural poor makes up a much much much larger percentage of the population, the middle class is not a middle class but a lower elite, and acting as a lower elite, they want a leader who is beholden to them. Not saying that they're not right about their opposition to these corrupt elected leaders. It's just that, I don't think the motives are as pure as we're made to believe.

The President is Our Daddy-King

Just got back from seeing Frost/Nixon. Overall, a very good film, I think that Frank Langella did a masterful job as Nixon. If I were him I'd really start making sure that the mantle above my fireplace had plenty of space and was adequately reinforced, there's gonna be some heavy hardware coming his way during award season. I mean, pretty much everything is lined up for him to win a Best Supporting Actor Oscar/Golden Globe/etc. He plays a larger than life figure, a disgraced former President who still captures the American imagination enough to warrant a film more than 30 years after his resignation. There's always danger in playing a famous person in a movie- but you're definitely well compensated for the risk if you play the part well. Then too, the film's director (Ron Howard) is well liked, and the movie was released in December, making it close enough to the ceremony where nominators will remember it, but far enough away that the Academy doesn't look like they're nominating it just because it's fresh in their minds. Like I said, Frank Langella should get some space on his mantle ready.

As I was watching the movie, what I thought about most though was not the acting or the storyline or even about how good a job the casting director did on picking the person who played the young Diane Sawyer, but frankly, about how quaint the entire movie seemed. I obviously was not alive during those fateful years, I had no clue what it feels like to have your naivete about how the federal government and the office of the president and all government worked smashed into a million tiny pieces-tiny saddened and betrayed pieces. It's not that the anger and betrayal that people felt wasn't justified; it was completely justified. It's just that, well, what did they expect out of a president?
I never really thought about how seminal a moment Watergate really was until the start of the movie. I'd studied Watergate to some degree, it had always permeated pop and political culture
I was talking to my girlfriend earlier, about how American society views the office of the President, as some kind of daddy-king figure, only better than a daddy-king because you get to participate in the process to choose him. (Think about how different your life would be if you got to choose your father?) I think that it was true back then and it's true today. Except, before Watergate, the American people at-large saw their daddy-king in the way that a child does. He was a protector, he always acted in our best interest, always on the straight and narrow. He was wise and carried the burden of representing the American people with grace and dignity and a strength that the world admired. As children, the American people may not have been privy to the conversations held in the Oval Office/master bedroom, but rest assured that the coversations our parents (daddy-king plus his trusted advisers) had were only in the best interests of the country. After Watergate, the American people as a collective saw the President the way a teenager would see his father. We recognize that our daddy-king isn't perfect or even particularly good- he might be a jerk, he might drink too much and wiretap his political enemies for his own personal gain. The cynicism the American people developed after Watergate prepared us to expect the worst (or at least the pretty bad) when it came to a presidential administration. What it did not prepare us for (since I still do not think the American people are politically adult yet) is to confront our very views of what a President is. We still see the daddy-king even if we do not use him as our moral North Star. Like a teenager trying and failing to rebel, we secretly still cower in front of him, so to speak. It still highlights the worst of our own Machiavellian impulses, we truly want someone to lie to us because we like the image. The image of Jack Bauer and "24", of our President making those tough decisions that may not be "ethical" or "humanitarian" or even really "legal," but that in the end keep us warm and safe in our beds and the terrorists at bay. Nixon may have been ridiculed when he said that "When the President does it, it's not illegal," but I think he ultimately got the last laugh. Only it was subsequent Presidents who benefited.

Nixon's specific crime that he resigned for was the cover-up of the scandal of Watergate, but he did a lot of other things too. Wiretaps of reporters, trying to destroy the careers of his political enemies, the escalation of the Vietnam War, going in to Cambodia, his strange relationships with mobsters and the Teamsters, the list could go on. But when I say that much of what he did seems quaint, I think it's because of everything that has happened during the Bush administration. The NSA's warrantless domestic wiretapping program that is much larger than Nixon's, the granting of immunity to all of the telecommunications companies that spied on us since before 9/11, the fabrication of evidence in making the case for the Iraq War, the abhorrent use and (more importantly) systemization of a torture regime that violates the Geneva Conventions and completely destroyed any moral authority the US had left, the political firings in the Justice Department, the mind bogglingly incompetent response to Hurrican Katrina, and his utter expansion of the power of the executive branch of our government. The systemization of a torture regime, under the incredibly Orwellian euphemism "enhanced interrogation techniques," by itself is worse than anything the Nixon administration did. The fact that our populace has by and large has acquiesed to these actions, acted as if they were legitimate actions instead of the decay of our system of checks and balances; well, the office of the President really did get the last laugh. All them, Reagan, Bush I (who I think has been our most honorable president since Reagan, and he was a former CIA director!), Clinton, Bush, and now Obama should thank Nixon for the power he grabbed for them.

Update* Speaking of executive secrecy, Glenn Greenwald has an excellent (as usual) article on Matt Miller's (from the "liberal" Center for American Progress) bewildering assertion that Obama should have his aides sign confidentiality agreements so that they won't disclose the inner workings of the administration until well after Obama is out of office. What????? This ain't a some criminal enterprise, Obama's not runnin a dope and coke operation out of the Oval Office. He's an elected official, the highest elected official; him and all of his aides are putting taxpayer dollars in their direct deposit checking accounts. The man campaigned on change and one of those changes was a more transparent administration. Those aides damn well better disclose, that's one of the things we're paying them for. Basically Miller wants to run a Stop Snitchin campaign in the district- funny how once the Dems get back in power all the executive abuses suddenly become okay.

Why I Buy Music (From a Record Store)

I walked up 30th Avenue in the bitter cold all the way to Steinway before I saw the hole in the wall they called Sound City, the record store I found on the internet in desperate search of a place where I could buy music. It was a little disappointing, sliding through that door only to see an establishment the size of a living room, holding only a handful of racks of records and cds. VHS and cassette tapes were also present, sitting forlornly on the floor. This isn't a record store, I thought to myself, as the bells on top of the door chimed to signal that the mid November cold had indeed been shut out. Vintage Vinyl (where I worked for more than two years) now that was a record store. It was gigantic, one of the last behemoths from a bygone era, filled to the breaking point with all kinds of music and dvds and music memorabilia. I guess that's the closest I'll ever get to knowing how the last T. Rex must have felt when those furry four-legged live-birthing animals started to take over. After lamenting for a bit about the gradual demise of the neighborhood record stores, I dove right in to the pitiful jazz and blues collection, hoping to find something worth purchasing.

So far New York has been 0-for-2 in the record store department. The first one I visited was in Williamsburg, my first foray into the hipster capital of the planet, gentrified to the point of being a parody (it was also the sight of the biggest burger mishap in my 22 year history, a story for another day). I know it's foolish to expect New York to have a record store even approaching the size of Vintage Vinyl. Space is too valuable in this city, and a record store in todays environment would never sell enough merchandise to justify the square footage used. But still, one of the things I miss about St. Louis is knowing for damn sure that I could walk into Vintage and know that I could find something to buy, something that would catch my interest, an absurdist French film from the Criterion Collection, a hip-hop album from the All Natural label in Chicago, a classic rock album on vinyl that I should have had a long time ago.

It's silly really, because there are so many options for a music lover like me today; in many ways this is the golden age for people who love music. In addition to going to the ever dwindling number of record stores, I can download music at will from Limewire (and don't get it twisted I will download the HELL out of a hot single or any artist that has no business making albums). I can order music on iTunes, I can buy the tangible product on Amazon or eBay. I can create my own personal radio station at Pandora or watch all the mid-90's music videos on Youtube. If people in the 1970's had this plethora of options, I honestly think that they're heads would have spontaneously combusted.
But nothing is 100% good, and the ability to get music from a myraid of sources means that there is less opportunity for interaction with other people in the music buying experience. Don't get me wrong, I revel in the fact that the greedy SonyBMG's of the world are slowly but surely getting their comeuppance. I also understand that in order to get that comeuppance, the record stores which acted as gatekeepers for their collective monopoly had to be considerably scaled down. I shed exactly zero tears for the demise of Sam Goody or Tower Records- and only a few for even the demise of the independent store. Like the man at Sound City told me, "I'm not bitter." How can you be? Times change because technology changes it; people always gravitate to that which is cheaper and easier- the definition of convenient. Music is meant to be heard and any way that helps for the greatest variety of music to be heard by the greatest number of people is fine.

For me though it boils down to being able to fulfill a combination of experiences. Buying music off of the internet satisfies my need for something tangible, satisfies the combination of touch, sight, sound, and smell which helps to create my visceral experience of listening to music. Where it fails is my need for instant gratification- even with expedited shipping it takes time for it to arrive, too much time. Buying from iTunes or downloading off the internet has the opposite problem. The gratification is even more instant, I don't have to brave the New York cold, I only have to make sure that my internet connection is working and that I have the stamina to reach my desktop in the living room. But there's nothing to touch, except sticky keys, headphones, and my rundown yet still sleek, black and silver ipod.

While sight is definitely the most magical of our senses, it's that combination with touch that truly helps to inform reality, and more importantly, physicality. I miss my girlfriend; and when I say that I want to see her, I don't literally just want to see her. What I mean is that I want to experience her physicality, not just sexually, but her very presence in my vicinity. Maybe that's how I can best describe it. Music on iTunes, music that I downloaded off LimeWire, it has no true presence. It's only announcement that it is in fact real, is the computer on which it is stored before I transfer it to my iPod. But a computer does a lot of other things too; music loses its own special place and becomes just one of many functions of my 5year old HP. On the iPod it becomes just a jumbled mass with no differentiation except for the intangible folders that they are stored in.

For better or worse, the music I play on a cd or record has presence. The crates that take up too much space in the back of our kitchen nook constantly remind me. When I want to play I record, true I have to go through a process rather than just pushing a button (and making sure that it has enough battery power). And it's true that I cannot shuffle my records, if I want to hear another artists I have to take the record off, put it back in its sleeve (most of the time), and then put another record on, making sure the stylus is just right. It's the price you pay for physicality of the smooth dust filled vinyl or the glossy liner notes inside the cd case- the feeling you get when you want to put on that Sonny Rollins and Sonny Stitt record to accompany that dinner you took precious time to make. It's the price you pay for the ability to be mesmerized by the dusky moonlight orange color of the record case and the picture of Rollins and Stitt playing somewhere way far out of their minds. It's almost religious sometimes, when it's done right it's like you're performing a sacrament and it's always gratifying.

After accounting for the ability to touch and my inability to wait, there's finally the ability to interact. The physicality of the actually piece of music extends to the presence of those who can give me information or advice. I mean, there are is an innumerable amount of websites which can give you advice about what type of music you may like; shoot Amazon does a much better job of that then say a random record store clerk. But it's not just strictly about the information, it's also about the interaction no matter how fleeting it is. Let's be real, you don't ever really get to know the clerk who is ringing up your cds (or tomatoes or a large flatscreen tv)- but the ability to make small talk, and the tiny chance that you may in fact make a friend, or at the very least an acquaintance is nice in and of itself. And buying music is just a bit different than buying something like tomatoes or even a flatscreen. Buying music by its nature fosters some kind of connection, because behind each discreet unit there's an interesting reason for the buy- a reason beyond "I'm hungry," or "I want to be able to see the game from the outer edges of the solar system." The opportunities just present themselves so much more readily, because music lends itself to deep opinions and endless comparisons in ways that other buying options do not. From there, the road to other topics is pretty straightforward.
The man from Sound City and I talked about Howlin' Wolf and Miles Davis, our childhood dreams of being musicians, our current jobs, books we were reading, he even let me borrow one before I left. It was pretty lame, one of those simplistic self-help books that try and pass themselves off as deep and end up selling 2 million copies. But it's the thought that counts. And when I walk in, he calls me Mr. Rodriguez (still a weird experience for me) and gives me long-winded explanations for his recommendations or the reason behind why a certain cd hasn't come in. Then he'll go back to yelling at some guy on the phone or telling some aging hip-hop connosseiur that his Ludacris special order hasn't come in yet. The experience is hilarious, the walk is tiring, and Sound City guy can be mildly annoying at times. It's something I come back to every week, and while I'll keep buying music from a record store for as long as they're still open.

**Add-on**: As an ending aside, I think that the record industry should go to a two tier kind of model. Eventually, it might be forced upon them if they want to stay viable. There are plenty of artists who make hot songs that have absolutely no business making an album. None. They just do not have the talent, inclination, or the stable of producers to make an album worth listening to, and so, quite simply, they shouldn't. Only two kinds of artist should make an album: Superstars who the record company is willing to put all kinds of money behind in order for them to succeed, and really talented artists who have the creativity necessary to make varied songs around a central theme. What ends up happening with these other people- the ones who put out a hot single or two and then have to rush back to the studio to make an album- is that their entire album sounds like a crappier version of the single, and nobody wants to buy that. Not on iTunes and definitely not in a store. So instead they should just be singles artists, putting out hot songs when the inspiration comes, until they prove themselves worthy of making an album. There's nothing wrong with singles artists- James Brown was a singles artists for most of his career and he's one of the top 5-10 music artists in modern history.

Live Blogging- Sketches of Spain

I wanted to try something different with this post. I recently bought a bunch of albums from a small record store and decided to record the immediate thoughts I had listening to them, a kind of live-blogging for albums. Because my cd player does not have elapsed time on it, I'm just going to type without any kind of timestamp. I know, it kind of dilutes the experience of live-blogging, but I swear I typed all of this as I was listening. So.. here goes nothing.

Context: Sitting on my bed finishing a presentation for work while drinking Leffe, a smooth blond Belgian Beer.

Some background:

Concierto de Aranjuez (adagio): I have to admit (even though it's blasphemous) that during his Gil Evans period, I find Miles' horn to be, at times, far too piercing. It feels like my ear drum is being punctured with every note. I much prefer him in the lower register, it just feels so much warmer. Right now it just reminds me of a gnat. Towards the middle he makes a seamless transition from sadness to something far more... I guess grand is the right word. This is jazz at its most orchestral, something I tend not to associate with the era of small band jazz. I guess it has to do with the ensemble that Evans put together. Man his arrangements are amazing.

Will O the Wisp: The first thing that comes to my mind- playfully scary. If Miles at the beginning of Concierto is a gnat, right here he's a graceful dragonfly, darting between his backing horns (the french horn in particular is daunting in this piece). The songs called Will O the Wisp and it feels just right, like a reed in the lake moving gently in the wind.

The Pan Piper: The start is Miles at his most annoying living in the upper register and rarely coming back down to earth. But as much as I'm annoyed by some of the sounds, I also find this to be Miles at his most compelling. It sounds like a bad dream out of Fantasia or the playing of the Pied Piper gone horribly wrong. I was introduced to this song from a British compilation, Blues Miles, a mood compilation of sorts as it contains a bunch of songs from different periods in Miles' career. I had just started getting into jazz and it was the first time I'd HEARD Miles Davis. Like Woody Harrelson, I'd listened to Miles a few times, but this time I was Wesley Snipes and I heard him like he heard Jimi. And really, I've only heard Miles more clearly on one other occasion. First week in January, Sunday morning after a night of partying and big swigs of Jim Beam, I went to work with an epic hangover, and the sounds of the 42 minute monster Zimbabwe, from the album Pangaea punctuated every step I took.
But man the smoothness returns, and it takes me back to hot summers in Milwaukee, the kind of hot where the sweat becomes a string of beads across your forehead and upper lip. My mom use to work late nights at JC Penneys, so at night me and my brother, when we weren't fighting or watching crappy shows on the WB, would sit at the kitchen table and talk about life while listening to Miles Davis. My mom use to keep a jug of red wine on the table and we use to get the nice small glasses out of the cabinet and mix the wine with pepsi and ice. Made us feel like two grown men at a smoke filled jazz club. Man were we corny, but it was such a good time in my life, and Pan Piper takes me back there.

Saeta: A march! For some reason, I think of Verdi's Aida when I hear this. Genuinely happy, on an album thats mostly somber and reflective. I feel triumphant just listening to it, if I made a mixtape for my entrance music, this would definitely be the jazz entry.

Solea: And right back to sad, then an even swifter transition to exuberant. Man does the Davis/Evans combo know how to jerk you around. I can't quite call it a musical rollercoaster, because there is never a doubt where the tone lies or where they eventually want to take you. This song loses a bit of steam towards the end, Miles seems to be meandering a bit. Maybe he's a bit tired from all of the work he's put in earlier? The backing band seems to follow him as well; they're solid but that's not saying much on an album that's been so much more than that.

Song of Our Country: Not included on the original, but it's here and I'm grateful. It would have been a shame if the album ended with Solea, because it would not have done Sketches of Spain justice. Miles sounds drunk here, but much more purposeful, like the last few minutes of a workout, he knows the end is coming and he wants the finale to be exciting. He turns in some incredibly fast and skillful runs, with the trombone placing some fills where Miles gives him space. My last impression is that, damn Evans put together a group worthy of playing with Miles. They give him time to shine throughout, and especially on this song, while not completely fading into the background.

The last two songs are replays of Concierto. I've never been much of a completist, so I don't particularly care about the alternate takes on jazz reissues (the alternates on Tiajuana Moods being one of the exceptions). A lot of it has to do with the fact that, though I fancy otherwise, I'm just not as sophisticated a jazz listener as I want to be. Mostly I'm caught in a supreme no man's land- I know just enough to be uninformed. I can appreciate some of the subtleties of the different takes (one of them used a different producer for Concierto) but I'd be lying if I said that I noticed them without listening to each track back to back repeatedly.
Part one is a little more mild, the main theme just a tad slower. Best of all though, Miles is playing exactly where I want him, in the lower and middle registers with only a few forays into piercing gnat territory. Part two is just a replay of Concierto's ending, and I honestly, I have no clue what to say about it.

To me this is the most ambitious of the three Evans/Davis sets, because they try to interpret pieces in a jazz format that do not immediately fit. There's not much of an opportunity to really cook as in more mainstream jazz. Many people have said that this is one of Miles most accessible albums, some calling it "elevated elevator music" but I only think that's partially correct. For someone with an inclination about what jazz is supposed to be, this is nowhere near as accessible as Birth of Cool or Miles Ahead or Kind of Blue. For someone who is looking for a gateway from classical to jazz or something light to chew on before digging into the something like hardbop, then maybe they're right. Out of all the Evans/Davis sets, I think both Miles Ahead and Porgy and Bess are easier to listen to, and, in my opinion, they're both better as well. Not to say that SoS isn't great, basically any Miles in this period qualifies as such. Sketches of Spain is definitely still worthy of a buy and repeated listens, especially if you enjoy some of the lighter and yet in some ways more challenging work.

Thanks for reading and tell me what you think!

*Edit- After reading a lot of reviews, it seems that most people love Solea, while it was my least favorite track on the album. I'll have to take another listen to it. But I guess it's worth noting that my favorite songs were all of the short variety, maybe I just don't have the attention span for some of the long-form cuts. Maybe with repeated listens my favorites will switch.

My Two Guys

I got a whole list of blogs that I love to read, but there are three that really stand above the rest. For me, Glenn Greenwald, Andrew Sullivan, and Joe Posnanski are daily reads (just so they do not feel left out, Ta-Nehisi Coates and the staff at the Hardball Times are also on the top of my list)- Sullivan's posts are short vignettes about his thoughts and daily news that he posts multiple times a day. Glenn Greenwald and Posnanski are longer, so there are (sad) days where they have not updated. Greenwald, though, is more focused and scholarly, he is after all a constitutional lawyer. Posnanski's blog is how I'd like mine to be- meandering with plenty of parentheticals (he calls them posterisks). Anyway, they are all quite thought-provoking and very insightful. Many of the ideas I get from my posts are directly as a result of writing that they have done.

Not to slight Joe or anything but this post today is about the other two, Sullivan and Greenwald. They are separated on the ideological spectrum, one is a small government conservative, one is an unabashed liberal, but both been incredibly outspoken on the failures of the Bush Administration, particularly the expansion of presidential power, the domestic spying regime, and the general incompentence which has accompanied this administrations response to everything. (sidenote, I think that eventually we could have a political party, which is a combination of the best of libertarianism and progressive liberalism, I want to write about that combo later) But what I think is most commendable is their continued vigilance on the subject of torture.
I don't think people still understand the gravity of what Bush/Cheney authorized during the past 8 years. WE TORTURED! Say it to yourself: the United States of America tortured people! We have to repudiate this every chance we get. This is NOT just another policy dispute- it gets to the very fabric of who we want to be as a country. I don't understand why there is not more outrage in our media and in the populace as a whole.

People talk about how Barack Obama should not prosecute the people who authorized these atrocities, that it would be too political, that the right wing would skewer him. While I think that Obama's consensus governing style and willingness to listen to dissent is going to work for our country in the long-term. But for the health of our country I also think that we must repudiate to the maximum extent, the policies of this administration. If that means a Truth Commission then so be it, but we've already let these monsters sully our reputation, are we going to let them get away with it too? If we do, it not only means that we've allowed torturers to go free, but we also say out loud that those in power are above the law.

Comin' Out Hard

I don't remember actually meeting my mother's father for the first time, but I do remember the environment. It was winter time, it was probably 1990 but it may have been 89. We walked up what seemed like an enormous flight of dark brown stairs. My memory tells me that the stairs were a little chipped, but honestly, it was too dark to see anything but the steps outline, which, along with my mother's hand, guided my little feet up the stairs. There was no light inside the actual stairwell, it was illuminated from a source inside the apartment. The light was off-yellow, a brownish yellow, like the bulb had been stained by almost constant cigarette smoke, it made everything seem old. Looking back, it reminds me of a 70's blaxploitation movie. And that's where the memory ends. It's always me walking up the stairs with my mother, and presumably the rest of my siblings, never reaching the top, just endlessly climbing towards the smoke yellow light.

I figured out that the memory was from visiting my grandfather through deductive reasoning. The door we entered into was one on the side of a store and the stairs led to a single, slightly rundown apartment. My grandfather was the only person in my family that lived above a store, in this case a liquor store. Therefore, it must have been him. And even though I don't remember actually meeting him, the memory itself gave me a sense of fear and a sense of strength, but mostly fear.

I got a chance for a do-over meeting when I was 10. He still lived above a liquor store, not sure if it was the same one, at the very least the staircase was the same. We got to the top and there he was, sitting on a white chair facing the doorway, a trucker hat on his head and his grainy tv screen turned to the news. His coffee table was filled with bills, letters, a VFW magazine and stacks of road maps. I guessed correctly that he'd been a trucker in his former life, and a retired veteran in his current one. But I really noticed was him physically. He was huge, well over six feet tall, broad shoulders, long limbs. (why the hell am I so short? oh, yeah). And more importantly, he was hilarious. He reeked of alcohol and cursed more than any person I'd ever met. Crotchety wouldn't even begin to describe him; the bitterness that he had at the world came out in expletive form. If Guiliani spoke with a noun, verb, and 9/11, my grandfather was a noun, maybe a verb, and motherfucka. I would later learn that his bitterness was almost entirely justifiable, but at the time I just thought that he was the Black, cursing incarnation of Statler and Waldorf always hating on everything, always making jokes, and always being extraordinarily ornery.

But if my grandfather was funny, it was my uncle who lived with him in that small liquor store apartment that was cool. He was light-hearted, taking the brunt of my grandfather's curses but more than keeping up in his comebacks. He was big too, not as tall as my grandfather, but even more broad shouldered. There was this confidence that just exuded from him, that, especially for a 10 year old boy, was inspiring. I couldn't wait until I became a man. Man- besides my father and my brother I had never really interacted with any males in my family before. All of my closest relatives were women. My uncle was definitely excited to see his little nehpews for the first time also, because he asked my mother if he could take us out to Lake Michigan the next day. Now, my mother knew her brother, she knew what kind of guy he was, but she let us go out with him anyway. Then again, my mother also my brother and I ride to go get a puppy with this old white guy who lived in our trailer park who we'd literally just met. He said that there were free puppies at some other trailer park, we pleaded with her, and she let us go. My mom was truly one of the last of the old school parents.

Anyway, the next day we got inside my uncles ancient big bodied Oldsmobile, and all of my thoughts about his coolness are confirmed. He warns us as he puts the car into drive that he doesn't listen to the kind of rap we listen to, this being 1996, the beginning of the shiny suit era, he meant Mase and Puff Daddy. He pops in his tape, the only one he listens to the entire day, and instead of heavily sampled rap about having a bunch of money and writing checks, I hear stories of Armed Robbery, niggas gettin merked with 9 millimeters, pimps pimpin out a multitude of ho's. Here me and my brother were, two black nerds from South Carolina, riding around in a big-body hoopty. I didn't learn until later that it was Eightball and MJG's critically acclaimed debut "Comin' Out Hard" that we were listening to, all I know is that I felt hard just listening to it.
Before we head to the lake though, my uncle tells us that he has to make a couple stops, make his rounds. We pull up to this brick apartment complex near a small park, and my uncle quickly jumps out. He tells us to wait in the car while he does his business. A lady greets him at the front door and takes him upstairs. Me and my brother are silent, only Eightball is speaking "Mr Big, Mr Big, they call him Mr. Big." We must have waited like twenty minutes for him to get finished, the lady hands my uncle a key as he walks out the door, I guess for easier access. He's grinnin' as we drive off, headed for the highway.
We're doing something over the speed limit, the tape already having started over, gun shots fill my ears. A nice looking lady in sunglasses speeds past us on a black motorcycle. "Hey poo-poo, what's good?" my uncle yells out the window. He leans over to check out how her ass looks propped up by the seat of the bike. He lokos around just in time to see another lady on the passengers side of the car to our right. He greets her outrageously- "I LOVE BIG TITTIES!" I think she blushes a little. So that's how you get women.
We pull off onto an exit and head to the gas station. I thought we'd run out of gas, turns out the gauge is just broken. We wait in the car again, he comes back with a pack of Newports and a can of beer, Old Milwaukee I think. I'm only certain about the Newports. We get back on the freeway; me and my brother are hoping that we'd finally get to the lake. Now, I'd seen plenty of people drive and smoke, and I'd even heard of people drinking and driving. My uncle, with unmistakable talent, drank, smoked, and drove all at the same time. He had the Newport in one hand, the can of Old Milwaukee in the other. Having run out of hands, he proceeded to drive with his knee, down the freeway, doing ninety. As me and my petrified brother are clinging to our seats, saying one last Our Father, he jokes "Man, I shouldn't be doing this... I don't even have a license right now!"
At least we were headed to the lake now. Except we weren't. I gotta make a few more stops man, and then we'll get to the lake, he told us. While we were driving to, I don't know where, he told us stories. About his time in LA, becoming a Crip, going to prison for armed robbery. The worst story was what they did to this one guy when they found out he was in prison for raping little kids (it involves a broken off broomstick). He talked about his (now ex) wife (who to this day I never met) and his dogs, my mind tell me they were either boxers or pit bulls. He loved those dogs, and the bitch (his wife) had put them down to spite him. Just because he was a little reckless, just for a little thing like cheating on her a couple times and not coming home for a month. Was that so wrong? I looked down and my brother did the same. We really didn't have a concept of infidelity besides the fact that it was indeed wrong.

We never made it to Lake Michigan that day. Me and my brother watched my uncle literally get the keys to a woman's place a little while after he met her. We drove around the hood as he'd randomly yell at women- try and talk to ones that were definitely under 18. We made stops at corner stores, at one of our cousins houses, at my uncle's friends house (we didn't get to go in there either). And when all the stops were over, as the sun was going down, and we FINALLY drove to the east side to go to the Lake, his car broke down. Wouldn't even begin to turn over. So we had to walk; all the way back to my grandfather's tiny apartment above the liquor store on 5th street.

Is it inately male to admire another man who just doesn't give a fuck? That has to explain my fascination with my uncle when I first met him. He was larger than authority, larger than life. Every single thing that my mother told me was wrong, he did, with absolutely no regard. It's wrong to drink and drive: my uncle drank beer after beer driving down the freewayt. It's wrong to drive without a license: I'm not sure he's ever even had a valid drivers license, and honestly, he shouldn't have one. He was ALWAYS strapped- (although I didn't see one that day, ever time I've seen him since he's had a gun on him). He cheated on his wife with reckless abandon, not even pretending to have discretion.
And he got women- by the barrel, it was awe-inspring to watch. My uncles a good-looking guy, but not that good-looking. He doesn't dress nicely, he never really has a steady job. He's damn near or already 50 and still lives with his father. But women flock to him. When I started high school, he'd give me nice watches to wear to school, he had a drawer full of them, all given to him by women. Other things inside that drawer- a large number of house keys, another gun, and an assortment of prophylactics. When I lived with my grandfather the summer before high school he had ladies always blowing up my grandfather's phone. For someone trying to be cool it was quite a lesson. A bad one for someone eventually trying to find a nice girl, but a lesson that I took to heart. The choices my uncle made was never really an option for me, but it did influence how I thought about women and "relationships" at least for a little while.
I'm 12 years older now, most of the things I thought were cool back then are just sad now. I definitely don't want to be him, but I can't lie and say that occasionaly that lifestyle isn't attractive. There's a fleeting moment, where going to the office, reading books, taking care of responsibilities, just isn't enough. I wanna ride shottie with my uncle listening to Eightball and MJG and feeling more powerful than I actually am.