I was standing on a pitch black area of beach with a pack of Wrigley’s chewing gum in my hand, watching the confrontation between Mark and the toothy Jamaican man and feeling increasingly nervous. The man’s face was inching closer throughout the conversation, his voice getting louder. I glimpsed at his hands in case they concealed a weapon. I looked longingly toward the part of the beach 100 yards ahead, well-lit and sure to have security guards on patrol. I wished we were standing up there.
“If I don’t get money, how am I supposed to feed my children?” The man said. He had told us earlier in the conversation, when things had seemed more friendly, that he had come down from the mountains to sell a random selection of goods on the beach. He couldn’t go home without enough tourist cash to feed his three kids. His boy was 13 he said as he gestured the boy’s height with a hand wavering around his neck line. He had been with his woman for 14 years, unmarried but happy. Mark held the cigar awkwardly. We had asked for none of this stuff, but had them pushed into our hands anyway. It had seemed like a gift.
“I want you to have this,” the man had said, pushing the cigar into Mark’s hand and the chewing gum into mine. “Oh, thank you very much,” we said. What a friendly man. What a nice thing to do, to offer us little gifts for visiting Jamaica.
“Do you need rolling papers?” he said. The terrible mistake had been to tell the guy that yes, we needed rolling papers. Now he had something on us: he was providing a service rather than being a nuisance and a charity case.
Rolling papers (which we later discovered didn’t work – the sticky edge was completely useless), a “Jamaican cigar” and a pack of chewing gum. These weren’t gifts. The man asked for 500 Jamaican dollars (about eight bucks) and Mark had paid him kindly, just to help out, when really this horde would have cost us a quarter of the price anywhere else. Plus, we hadn’t wanted any of it. The man seemed thankful at first. He knew he was getting more money out of us than was necessary or fair. We thought it was the end and continued our walk to find dinner. The plague had been brief and was over.
But on the way back, after ironically realizing that we had – in fact – given away our dinner money and only had 300 Jamaican left, the man approached us again in the dark patch. He squinted at Mark’s face and I thought he would offer a salutation of appreciation, but he was angry.
“How much did I tell you?” he asked.
“You said 500 Jamaican.”
“Do you have to lean in close when people speak?”
We didn’t understand. Mark asked him what he meant. He repeated the question, which we realised was passive-aggressively sarcastic, and then said: “I said THREE 500s. You only gave me one. So I came looking for you.”
Oh shit. This was not good. He was lying, of course, but we were in that dark patch of beach again. No use calling for help with a glance at security or walking away to safety. We wouldn’t get far, and who knows what this guy was on or how far he was willing to go. He was asking for $23 for a cigar, papers and chewing gum. It must have been a dry day.
“I saw you open your wallet with all your money down there,” he said.
Damn! We had been checking to see if there was enough money for dinner. He had obviously spotted an opportunity and thought he’d milk our stupid, tourist asses for all we had.
“We’ve only got 300 J,” Mark said.
“That’s all you got?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have more money in your hotel room?”
Damn, damn, damn. Now what? But Mark was thinking on his feet.
“We’re going home tomorrow, so no, this is the last of it.” He handed over three 100-dollar bills. I was getting teary with anger, but it was a smart move. The guy took it and left us to walk sullenly back to our room.
I was angry. What a failed evening! We were left hungry and pissed off, while that guy had abused us for responding in a friendly way and wanting to help him out. It was the only moment during the whole week that I wanted to go home, where there were no hustlers and we were safe.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Short Story: Guitar, Gum, Papers
Poem: Oh, That I Were a Man
Oh, that I were a man and could be
A thinker of great things, I could see
The universe in existential glory,
History in form of linear story,
Politics in terms of how to vote,
Passion and upon whom I should dote.
I could sit hours away with only Brandy
Thinking of what tool would be handy
To mend a shoe, though worn in appearance,
Allowing my toes much room for clearance.
I would smoke cigars - and enjoy the taste,
I would never think about my waist
When portioning the meat on my plate
Or whether the evening had grown too late.
When taking a stroll around the garden
I could allow my mind some pardon
And place its troubled thoughts to rest
Thinking of nothing - my, that would be best.
If only my mind could see a line
From start to finish with some time
Left over to smoke, drink and eat
Without the reminder of my feet
Itching to finish sewing,
Or aid my rose bed growing,
Or awaiting a tender touch,
To prove I am loved much.
Instead, I cannot help but feel,
And feel I must, for it is how I deal,
With matters ranging from the mundane
To thoughts on the brink of the insane,
All tangled in a web of doubt -
For I cannot pick one out
And place it on the page for solving –
The thought keeps on dissolving.
And while I ponder some new drama
The men have donned their armour
And have set to work the beast,
The reward – a midnight feast.
Poem: The Silence of a Morning
There were daffodils in the springtime,
Dewy ground, the smell of real green,
The sun reflected in wet eyes
Of a road seldom used.
Slumbering dark behind windows,
The sleepy whispers of morning,
Rousing dawn from sleep,
To Paint the watercolor of day.
No children’s noises, or
Mechanical sounds, other
Than the door hinge that Mr Brown
Will fix today.
He carries a bucket, wears Wellington
Boots, treads carefully along the stone path
That he laid, brick by brick, last summer.
Now the straight lines are caressed
By a twinkling mass of yellow,
And the sun is enticing the flowers
To dance into the cracks.
Mr Brown kneels, elbow to knee,
And takes his gloved hand to the throat
Of a straggling weed.
There is no hope for the lonely;
No matter how tirelessly he works to keep them straight,
The path was built too late.
They had already decided to wander.
The vine curls around his finger,
And a sad smile rests gently in the mists
And shades of morning.
Short Story: Memories, Part II
Where does a story begin? This is something that all authors, writers, dreamers and poets grapple with. Does it begin with birth? Or does it begin with the present? I carried the laundry up the stairs in a big, black sack. I threw it onto the bedroom floor thinking that all the clothes inside will have creased before I take the time to fold them and put them away. I’ve spent the day reading, drinking coffee and trying to push all other worries out of my mind by convincing myself that they can all be dealt with tomorrow. But tomorrow comes so quickly when there are things to do.
A memory: mum used to make us milkshakes by filling a pint glass with ice cream, pouring on milk, and stirring it all together with a fork. The glass would steam with cold, and the milk would squelch as she tried not to spill the concoction over the sides of the glass. They were delicious. Much more ice cream would go into the milk shake than would be served in a bowl, so we often opted for the milk shake. We would always buy Neapolitan ice cream (three stripes of brown, red and white) and the chocolate would always be devoured first, which made me wonder why we didn’t just buy chocolate.
A memory: There was a certain point in the trail through the woods that always smelled really bad, like rotting bitterness. Mum told us that it was probably a dead animal, but it smelled like that for years and we never found any animal.
A memory: One time I bought a pack of “joke” stickers, which included a trail of ants and burn marks, and I put the burn marks on the kitchen counters. I completely forgot about them, but when I remembered and asked mum if she had noticed them, she told me that she had been soaking the burn marks with wet flannels in the hope that they would clean off.
A memory: I don’t remember much from the last house. I only remember darkness, the smell of unclean skin and must. Mum glued one of my paintings on the hallway wall with wallpaper paste and I was angry. I think it was her way of showing me that she approved of my art, despite criticizing it for being too “scary”. Did I ever ask her bout her life?
A memory: I ate a lot of boiled eggs (maybe 12?) at a picnic in High Wycombe with mum, dad and Katy. It’s the only picnic I remember us having. Mum told me that I would get constipated, but I don’t remember if I did or not.
A memory of my dad: I sprayed perfume on his pillow once and he got really angry because he wouldn’t be able to sleep on it. The smell would be too strong and he was allergic to all the chemicals.
A memory of my dad: Dad got really drunk and was going to become “blood brothers” with mum’s friend Don. So Katy, mum and I collaborated and stole his knife. We hid it beside the chest of drawers in our bedroom and found it there years later.
A memory of dad: He came back from America with a big suitcase of presents. He was still half asleep in bed when I asked him if I could start opening them. He said yes, and I opened a long, stick shaped package (I still remember the intrigue) which turned out to be a twirling stick with bubbles and sparkles inside and long, shiny, rainbow ribbons on either end. I loved it.
What does it mean that I remember these things instead of something else? How does my brain choose one memory over another?
Short Story: Memories
Inside the car, boarded up by metal and glass, radiator circulating like warm breath in the morning of their tiny bedroom at home, she thought the saddest thought of all. It was the thought that they would never truly be alone. No matter how small and impenetrable the space. She had so much more to fight against than opening doors and cracked windows. There was a space that she could only feel, inside his head, filled with memories that she could never see. He could leave her and go there whenever he wanted, and she would only feel alone without knowing it. This was not a space she could protect herself from, like at seven years old when she would build a fort against the comforting solidity of the bedroom wall and stay there, for hours, feeling safe in the darkness. She could not feel safe like that anymore, even though she tried by sleeping against the wall and bundling the covers up tightly beside her like a trench of cushioning warmth. Still, there he lay, entombed by his memories.
That there had been a before, a long-term love, a routine, was shocking to the very core. The more she thought about it, the more unanswered questions drove her insane. There was no way to take control or understand; she could only speculate for hours, imagining their lips together, their Sunday mornings in bed, laughing. It was the most painful daydream she could muster, and she replayed it over and over until she had to stop and remember to breathe. She recalled reading Sigmund Freud at seventeen, one passage in particular that she used now to explain herself. The baby throws his pacifier out of the crib, and cries. But when the pacifier is returned, the baby throws it out again. And again. The subconscious is teaching itself to endure pain. In order to deal with the prospect of losing something so essential, the mind prepares itself for injury by simulating heartbreak. Like a fire drill. When the real pain comes, the mind is prepared and can follow a routine course of action. Without this simulation, chaos ensues. The body can shutdown, the limbs go numb, the mouth dry; darkness encases the eyes in a faint. This is always what happens when a human being is faced with death. There is no way for the mind to prepare for death, which is why dreams about dying always stop on the brink and never lead into the abyss. The abyss is empty; there is no knowledge because there can be no experience. But for every other eventuality, the mind must prepare by testing scenarios and building a safe place to retreat to.
There is one scenario that she plays over again in her head. She has finished the work day early, and comes home, unlocking the door quietly, slipping inside to see an ajar bedroom door, hearing him moaning, hearing someone else moaning with him. She pushes the door wide and the bed frames the naked bodies, enmeshed, gleaming with sweat. His hair is ruffled, and the covers are splayed on the floor. Skin glows golden, shining, stretched across white sheets. He looks up at her, it registers on his face, wide-eyed and open-mouthed from a kiss, twisted into shock. His bottom lip is red and moist.
Here she stands, in her mind, playing the moment over ten times before she turns and leaves. She walks calmly out of the apartment, into the hallway, out of the front door, onto the steps. He calls her name, she turns and sees his face before she falls down the metal staircase, thumping into a crushing crescendo, into darkness. She stands again, staring from above at her twisted limbs and closed eyes.
Now she cannot breathe, and the space inside the car has shrivelled into a tight grip, hot and suffocating.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
One belongs to Dr. Stephen Trudeau, a psychologist and longtime biker with a passion for scenic highways. The other belongs to his 9-year-old son, Devin, a fourth-grader who loves math and riding to school with his dad. But instead of traveling on the back of his dad's bike, Devin rides alongside, in the comfort and safety of a shiny red sidecar. Father and son are among the 140 members of the SoCal Sidecar Club, and both will be donning their matching helmets to ride into Los Angeles' Griffith Park next weekend for an annual rally celebrating the legacy of their favorite pastime. "I rarely see another sidecar motorcycle," said Thousand Oaks resident Trudeau. "So it's great to get together with other enthusiasts and admire the different uniqueness of the machines."
Two red helmets sit side by side on the seat of a motorcycle.
The Griffith Park Sidecar Rally, being held Oct. 19, has been a hub for sidecar enthusiasts and curious spectators for 37 years. According to Louis Vanderveen, president of the SoCal Sidecar Club, thousands of attendees come from around the country - some even from Europe - for the event.
"It is one of the largest sidecar-only rallies anywhere in the world," said Vanderveen. "It is also the oldest and longest running."
Spectators show up to admire 200 types of sidecars, all as unique and colorful as their owners.
Vanderveen's own sidecar is sparkling white, decorated with a Union Jack that recalls the first era of the sidecar, in early 20 th-century Britain.
The economic hardship of two world wars boosted the popularity of this cheap and simple mode of transportation, and the sidecar quickly became an asset to civilians and military alike.
Because sidecars allowed soldiers room to operate a machine gun without eliminating the efficiency of a motorcycle, they quickly became a global military trend. Meanwhile, the economic efficiency of the sidecar motorcycle sparked a cultural phenomenon across Europe.
A half-century later, economic concerns are again a reason for downsizing by a wheel or two. But for many sidecar enthusiasts, their three-wheel drives, which start at about $2,000, allow for something much more important.
Trudeau had been riding motorcycles for most of his life, but two years ago he upgraded to a gleaming red sidecar motorcycle as a way of fusing one aspect of his life with another.
"Devin was born with cerebral palsy, and that was why we got the sidecar," said Trudeau. "I've always been a motorcycle enthusiast, but I wouldn't be able to share that with him - he wouldn't be able to ride on the back. So the sidecar was a natural evolution for us."
Father and son ride with the club once a month along the scenic routes of Southern California, to places such as Santa Barbara and Ojai, as well as on weekend camping trips together.
"We ride because we just like to enjoy it and spend time together and watch the scenery," said Trudeau. "It's a much more relaxed way of riding."
Vanderveen also bought a sidecar so he could share the motorcycling experience with others. As task-force leader for the fundraising program Ride for Kids, Vanderveen organizes charity events to raise money for the Pediatric Brain Tumor Foundation and to give children affected by brain tumors a chance to ride in a sidecar at the nationwide events.
Because most manufacturers customize their sidecars, modern versions have come a long way since the first boxy attachments of the early 1900 s.
Not only are there more safety features available, but the ride is smoother and more comfortable. From simple attachments to semi-luxurious two-seater cabins, sidecars have transitioned from a practical accessory to a unique personal statement.
Doug Bingham, founder of the Griffith Park Sidecar Rally, has an enclosed wooden sidecar with two seats and plenty of legroom - all hand-built. His company, Side Strider Inc., has been creating custom sidecars since 1969 for a global market, and many of the creations are designed to be comfortable and spacious enough for long-distance traveling.
Bingham also started the SoCal Sidecar Club as a means for three-wheelers to get together on a regular basis.
"We go on monthly rides and arrange trips to motorcycle museums and private collections around Southern California," said Bingham. "It's a community as well as a hobby."
The club is now run by Vanderveen, who says members come from all walks of life, spanning age ranges and reasons for riding.
"Everybody loves a sidecar," said Vanderveen. "You never go anywhere without drawing all sorts of attention. Car drivers will give the 'thumbs-up' and truckers will honk their horns. Besides having a very practical function, sidecars are just plain cool."
Read More...Monday, September 29, 2008
Little Britain USA: Class, Culture and Dignity?
The premier of Little Britain USA Sunday night marks the inevitable transition of Britain’s leading comedy sketch show onto American televisions. In Britain, the show has been running for five years and is a cultural phenomenon. Books, coffee mugs, t-shirts, you name it. Everyone in the show’s homeland has received a Little Britain Christmas gift since the first season’s debut in September 2003. Catch-phrases are plastered on everything, and the streets sing with imitation.
What made the show such a success was its unbridled parodying of people-types in the U.K. The show spoke aloud what everyone else was witnessing in day-to-day life, from the “Chav” persona of Vicky Pollard—a teenage girl with a fondness for sports brand clothing, shop-lifting, smoking, binge-drinking and pregnancy—to the ancient socialites in charge of judging village events like jam-making or cake-baking—one of whom is plagued by bigotry and vomits on anyone who isn’t white or heterosexual. These were caricatures, with a high level of disgustingness thrown in, but they evoked the real-life counterparts in a way that allowed Britain to acknowledge them together.
The show’s tag line, “Class, Culture and Dignity” is, of course, a little British sarcasm. Little Britain USA lives up to the British show’s reputation for being crude, lewd and rude. But the show’s fondness for coarse, unrestrained sketches may be its downfall in the U.S. While the British public watched LB move from parody to perversity over five years, Americans are getting the rawest deal. This season’s Little Britain USA is the result of five years of broaching and breaking boundaries. The sketches are shocking, even for someone who owns the first few seasons on DVD and would consider herself an addict gone cold turkey since moving to the U.S.
Vicky Pollard: Proud mother of six, photo courtesy of the BBC
Many of the characters have been invented to parody American stereotypes—the gun-clinging cop, the brownie-guide going to camp, the muscle-bound gym-goer—but each with a hard-to-swallow outrageousness factor that makes it difficult to appreciate what the characters represent. The cop has more than an obsession with guns; it’s an erotic fascination that comes to a climax right before our eyes. The young brownie guide can’t help but spurt out references to Internet pornography as she waves goodbye to her mother and leaves for camp. The “gym buddies” sketch involves a couple of grotesque body suits, heaped with muscle and overshadowing the miniature body part beneath it all, bikini-line shaving, and sex simulation in a very precarious position for a public gym locker.
The sketches that remain funny without the involvement of bodily fluids include the Weight Watchers equivalent “Fat Fighters” and its team leader Marjorie Dawes. Her unabashed anti-“fatty” mentality is not only hypocritical, but hilarious. This week, Rosie O’Donnell had to defend her sexuality and size as two independent facets, after Dawes asked: “Are you a lesbian because you’re fat, or are you fat because you’re a lesbian?”
And then there is Carol Beer, the most unhelpful receptionist of all time, who instead of answering questions will cough in your face and tell you, “Computer says no.” Vicky Pollard, the classic Little Britain character, also returns this season to go to boot camp, and Lou and his wheel-chair bound friend Andy go to a preacher for healing.
But many of my favorite sketches seem to have disappeared, perhaps because the producers deemed them un-translatable to an American audience: The strange Scottish hotel owner who speaks only in riddles and plays the pipe-whistle; Mr Mann, the annoying customer who is always looking for something unattainably specific (like a picture of a disappointed horse) or unhelpfully broad (like a book); or Mr Cleaves, a teacher at Kelsey Grammar School who sets ridiculously unachievable goals for his students (e.g.: “find the square root of Popeye” or “divide Henry VIII by Edward II”).
These were the more Monty Python-esque pieces in terms of outright silliness, and it’s a shame to see them exchanged for the cruder sketches. Still, I’ll be watching avidly to see how many different ways Matt Lucas and David Walliams can both annoy and charm America with their candid displays of “Class, Culture and Dignity” as they take Little Britain to big U.S.A.
Read More...Friday, September 26, 2008
Welfare Policy, Leg-up Versus Hand-Out
At some point soon after the very beginning of man, a Neanderthal tripped and fell over a misplaced mammoth bone onto the cave floor. Some of his buddies laughed. Some ignored him. But one of them grunted over and put out his hand. This was the moment we started talking about welfare policy. When the fallen Neanderthal refused to get up, that was the moment we started complaining about it.
Since then, governments around the world have tried, reformed, and tried again with various welfare philosophies. Some prefer the "leg up" method, where aid is a stepping stone to self-sufficiency (the Neanderthal learns how to get up from the cave floor himself, after a little instruction), and others employ the "hand out" method, where welfare is a wall of dependency to lean on in hard times (the Neanderthal has a fake arm installed in his cave to use in case of slippages).
In Germany, the method is one of social karma. If you've put a lot into the system, through work or education, then you can get a lot out of it. France prefers the concept of "mutual responsibility". Sweden puts its money where its mouth is, paying 50 percent of its wages to advocate "social equality". Britain has a bad reputation for giving away too much too easily, and America for giving too little too late.
According to the Budget for Fiscal Year 2008, Historical Tables, the U.S. Spent $354.3 billion on means-tested entitlements in 2006. That figure includes a long list of different types of aid:
"Medicaid, food stamps, family support assistance (AFDC), supplemental security income (SSI), child nutrition programs, refundable portions of earned income tax credits (EITC and HITC) and child tax credit, welfare contingency fund, child care entitlement to States, temporary assistance to needy families, foster care and adoption assistance, State children's health insurance and veterans pensions".
It sounds like a lot of money, services, and philosophies, but how does welfare policy really apply to those in need of help? What does it mean to be living in a "hand-out" versus a "leg-up" system?
Thanks to a helpful calculator on the U.K. Government's welfare website, I can figure out exactly what I would receive if I was unemployed and living in the United Kingdom. Every two weeks, I would pick up a government check for £47.95 (approximately $84) in Jobseekers Allowance. As long as I remained unemployed, I would get a 100 percent reduction on the property fees owed to the government, known as Council Tax, and live rent free in government property. Even if I wanted to work, as long as I pitched in less than 16 hours a week, I would still receive my unemployment benefits.
If I were to add an infant to the mix, not only would I be moved to bigger accommodation (a 2-3 bedroom house), but I would receive £18.80 (approximately $33) a week in Child Benefits and £1393.46 (approximately $2438) a year in Child Tax Credit - more if I had a husband, civil partner or if the child's father was also living in the house, unemployed.
So, I would make a total of £93.54, or $170 a week without working. Or I could supplement that with 16 hours of work and double my income. To top it all off, health care is completely free, including dental care until the age of 19, and then unemployed or low-income families have their bills subsidized by the government.
In the U.K., you don't have to go it alone if you find yourself in financial trouble: The government will act as a safety net. But the biggest downside is that it pays to do nothing. In fact, the way the system works, most single parents wouldn't be able to match their government income if they worked full-time. Not only would they lose time with their children and have to spend their wages on child care, but they wouldn't be able to pay the bills. Working at minimum wage 40 hours a week would provide £30 more income than government welfare benefits. That "extra" income equivalates to one day of child care. The result of this dramatic system flaw is that most mothers, especially single mothers, have to wait until their children are old enough to go to school before they can go back to work.
It's not as easy to find out what benefits you are eligible for in the United States. The questionnaire is more probing for a start; it requires ethnicity, professional experience and marriage history. I also have to tell them whether or not I have ever worked for the government or have end-stage renal disease. And then the pages take ten minutes to load.
Have you run away from home or are thinking about running away from home? Do you need disaster relief funds? Are you a victim of domestic violence, torture or trafficking? It gets harder. One minute you're trying to find out what money the government can give you, and the next you're taking an exam about yourself. I choose "general declining economic conditions" as the reason for not having a job: No, it's nothing to do with September 11th or having my parents killed by a "President declared disaster" (as opposed to a "declared President disaster?"). No, I don't live on a farm, have any family in the military or come from Native American heritage.
Finally, with question 72 complete, I discover that I am eligible for 29 separate sources of welfare. After reviewing the choices, it becomes clear that some of them are not going to work. A competitive grant for research "that joins biology with computer science" for example, is not something I would consider myself "eligible" for. I can get Food Stamps. If I had children, they could get milk on school days and food in the summer. I can line up at certain health centers and try to get medical aid. I can get help with my electricity bill and I might even be able to get a loan. Nowhere in any of this is the government giving me a check. Nowhere are they handing me an income and saying "this one is on us". Nowhere can I depend upon a solid government cash flow while I'm down and out.
That's the very real difference between the U.S. and the U.K. in terms of welfare policy. Britain, which has come to be known as "The Welfare State", is criticized as being too lenient, too ready to hand out money first and ask questions later. The government is the sole welfare provider and charities throw a few pennies into the bucket now and then.
America, on the other hand, forces people to jump through loops even to find out what help is available. There is little unity in the welfare system, which isn't really a system at all but more of a fragmented selection of charities who might receive government grants and incentives to keep them going. The only "umbrella" government welfare system in the U.S. is reserved for people old enough to access social security. Everyone else is encouraged not to rely on their government but rather find their own way.
Both systems have their evils. Ideally, government dependence means national solidarity, just as independence means self-sufficiency. But "dependence" can also mean inescapable reliance, and "independence" can render many people lost and alone.
(The Huffington Post, Sep 26,08)
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
David Foster Wallace, A Literary Genius who Changed Fiction Forever
Perhaps it was inevitable that the strange curse suffered by so many great writers should strike so close to home— at least, as close as my coffee table, where Infinite Jest resides, or my desk, stacked with books of David Foster Wallace’s short stories. Even my memo board is filled with words given to me by D.F.W, scribbled on post-it notes: “You‘ve got to discipline yourself to talk out of the part of you that loves the thing, loves what you‘re working on. Maybe that just plain loves.”
News of his suicide came as a shock. He hanged himself on Friday, Sep 12, 2008 at his home in Claremont, California. He was 46, a professor of creative writing at Pomona College, and a literary revolutionist.
I had hoped one day to meet this man and glean some of his genius through even the briefest of conversations. I watched in awe of as even Charlie Rose couldn’t keep up. Now he is to become what all my other mentors are: words on pages, tinted by the knowledge of a tragic end. Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Sylvia Plath… David Foster Wallace, or “D.F.W.” as he is affectionately referred to by his cult following. Lives weighed down by words in an endless struggle to articulate meaning and find release.
My fascination with David Foster Wallace began in 2006 when I bought his short story collection Brief Interviews with Hideous Men on a literary whim. I opened the book at random in Borders and began reading a story written in second person about a boy assessing the progression of puberty on his thirteenth birthday (”You have seven hairs in your left armpit now. Twelve in your right. Hard dangerous spirals of brittle black hair. Crunchy, animal hair.”) I was confused by the content and astonished by the writing. It made no sense. It was offensive. It was perfect. Foster Wallace could mesh Hemingway-esque terseness with aggressive, arrogant verbosity like no other.
“Death is Not the End,” another story in the collection, is a three-page sentence. Many of the other stories are structured as Q&As, the questions not really questions at all, but independent statements that are as equally confusing as the “answers” accompanying them. “A Radically condensed History of Post-Industrial Life” is just a short paragraph and yet an entire story, heavy with silent sadness and irony.
Foster Wallace was as obsessively unconventional in all his writing as James Joyce was with “Ulysses,” but what Joyce spent years trying to achieve through thorough planning and execution, Foster-Wallace did with an ease that only those with a supernatural level of intelligence can access. The only author able to surpass David Foster Wallace was David Foster Wallace.
To everyone else in the literary world, this was very annoying. Zadie Smith captured a universal sentiment after reading Foster-Wallace’s 1989 collection Girl with Curious Hair, saying: “He’s in a different time-space continuum from the rest of us… Goddamn him.”
He didn’t write the kind of books that people take on vacation, read by the fire on a cold winter’s night or discuss in book groups. His fiction was purposefully difficult. He wanted to make people squirm. He wanted to make his readers work really, really hard for it. But if they did, it would all be worthwhile. If they made the effort to engage, analyze and sweat their way through the pages, they would level-up onto a new plane and be somewhere nearer (although, still very far away from) where Foster-Wallace himself was standing and peering down at the world with a calculator in hand. He was passionate about mathematics, and complicated numeric digressions often pervade his writing. Sometimes it progresses into incomprehensible equations that look more like algebra than narrative. His writing is, above all, an open-ended calculation.
Or else, it is one never-ending footnote that spirals into a story different from the one it squeezes off the page. Or a collection of dictionary definitions, backward chronology, free-association, fragmentation; everything that makes meaning difficult to grasp. Any object he can find to throw in the reader’s way, he does, turning each event into an obstacle course.
This is “serious art”, and as D.F.W. once said: “Serious art is more apt to make you uncomfortable, or to force you to work hard to access its pleasures, the same way that in real life true pleasure is usually a by-product of hard work and discomfort.”
But why put his reader through all this effort, when the author could so easily hand them the plot and meaning in a neatly wrapped bundle? One possible clue is revealed in his essay “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction” (Review of Contemporary Fiction, 1993), in which Foster-Wallace explains that television has replaced fiction as the medium for access to an unknown world. “Television’s greatest minute-by-minute appeal is that it engages without demanding,” wrote Foster-Wallace. In a land of television-watchers, art becomes passive and the world over-familiarized. So D.F.W took it upon himself to switch the balance, re-claim “uncomfortable” art and de-familiarize the world.
He was hated. He made people furious. He ignited a hardcore set of “anti-fans” who accused him of pointlessness, impenetrable arrogance and wasting paper. Nowhere in my long chain of literature-lovers is there someone who has completed the one thousand-plus pages of Infinite Jest, nor have I met anyone who knows of anyone who has. There is, however, someone who was so offended by its presence that they used it as toilet paper (and it lasted six months).
To the critics: say what you will about David Foster Wallace, but the man dedicated his life to the “high art” of fiction. He poured his genius into words, sculpted meaning into a form of literary electricity, and wrote long and hard without intellectual restraint. For a short life, his works span infinity. All we can do is try to catch up.
In his own words—a sampling of D.F.W.:
“People read fiction the way relatives of the kidnapped listen to the captive’s voice on the captor-held phone: paying attention, natch, to what the victim says, but absolutely hanging on the pitch, quaver, and hue of what’s said, reading a code born of intimacy for interlinear clues about condition, location, and the likelihood of safe return…”—“Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way” (“Girl with Curious Hair”, 1989)
“Fiction-writing is lonely in a way most people misunderstand. It’s yourself you have to be estranged from, really, to work.”
“Fiction is about what it is to be a human being.”
“I had a teacher I liked who used to say good fiction’s job was to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.”
“I guess a big part of serious fiction’s purpose is to give the reader, who like all of us is sort of marooned in her own skull, to give her imaginative access to other selves. Since an ineluctable part of being a human self is suffering, part of what we humans come to art for is an experience of suffering… We all suffer alone in the real world; true empathy’s impossible. But if a piece of fiction can allow us imaginatively to identify with characters’ pain, we might then also more easily conceive of others identifying with our own. This is nourishing, redemptive; we become less alone inside. It might be just that simple.”—(An Interview with David Foster Wallace, Larry McCaffery, the Review of Contemporary Fiction, 1993)
“Serious art… is more apt to make you uncomfortable, or to force you to work hard to access its pleasures, the same way that in real life true pleasure is usually a by-product of hard work and discomfort.”
“You‘ve got to discipline yourself to talk out of the part of you that loves the thing, loves what you‘re working on. Maybe that just plain loves.”
“Sometimes things do happen. Even in reality. In real realism. It’s a myth that truth is stranger than fiction. Actually they’re about equally strange.” —(“Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way”, from the Girl with Curious Hair collection)
“The preceding generation of cripplingly self-conscious writers, obsessed with their own interpretation, would mention at this point, just as we’re possibly getting somewhere, that the story is getting anywhere.”—(“Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way”, from the Girl with Curious Hair collection)
“Hell hath no fury like a coolly received postmodernist.”—(“Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way”, from the Girl with Curious Hair collection)
“Kissing someone is actually sucking on a long tube the other end of which is full of excrement.”—(“Here and There”, from the Girl with Curious Hair collection)
“I became in myself axiom, language, and formation rule, and seemed to glow filament-white with a righteous fire.”—(“Here and There”, from the Girl with Curious Hair collection)
“Things become bad. I now have a haircut the shadow of which scares me.”—(“Here and There”, from the Girl with Curious Hair collection)
“I’m afraid of absolutely everything there is.”
“Then welcome.”—(The end of “Here and There”.)
Read More...“And here’s what I did.”—(The last sentence of “Girl with Curious Hair”.)
Brits Back Obama, Remain Skeptical of U.S. Politics
British Prime Minister Gordon Brown backs Obama. Russell Brand (we think, but he didn't make himself too clear on this one at the VMAs...) is also in the Obama Camp. Now a BBC poll shows that the majority of the world, given the chance, would stamp their hopes next to Obama's name on the ballot. But do Brits back Obama wholeheartedly, or because there seems no better option?
Judging by the furious debate being held on the Facebook group I created called "What the Rest of the World thinks of America," Obama and McCain are no more than a hair's width apart.
"This election is more symbolic than anything else," said Dave Roe, a graduate from my alma mater (The University of Kent) with a degree in politics. "The election of the first black president would be nothing short of radical, and if you are reading the British media it seems as if he is going to walk it. Read between the lines, however, and this is going to be close; Obama is seen as too intellectual and McCain knows how to play the Washington game."
The results of a BBC survey released last week suggest that presidential candidate Sen. Barack Obama is the preferred candidate internationally. The poll spanned 22 countries and surveyed 22,500 people to discover that global sentiment leans in Obama's favor by a four-to-one margin, with 46 percent of participants saying that Obama would improve America's relationship with the rest of the world if he took office, compared to 20 percent who believed the same of Republican Sen. John McCain. All 22 countries were dominated by a pro-Obama sentiment, but four out of ten survey participants remained undecided.
That's 40 percent of the world not being able to choose between two of the most politically opposed candidates America has ever seen. These guys are the definition of polar opposites: young versus old, liberal versus conservative, rookie versus veteran... Or so it seems.
The presidential decision, as one of my friends described it, is akin to choosing between Coke and Diet Coke at McDonalds. It really doesn't make a difference either way, because neither candidate will be able to make any dramatic changes in America. Many Brits believe that there is one thing and one thing only that controls ebb and flow in the White House, regardless of who sits in the Oval Office: it's that dirty word again...OIL.
"Resources are scarce, and it's not irresponsible of Bush or McCain to secure them for their own citizens," said John Bakie, a Kent graduate in history and politics. "Oil has peaked, and it is only going to become more expensive and more difficult to obtain in the future. You may think [Washington's] attempts to secure oil in the Middle East are a waste of cash, but really they need to secure [oil] because if they don't then Russia or China will eventually."
Faced with the pressure of two competing super-powers, no president can resist the battle for oil, regardless of experience, race or views on the Iraq war.
"[Obama and McCain] are both guilty of taking part in the back-scratching culture of U.S. politics," said Roe. "It's just that Obama has been doing it for fewer years so it's easy to paint him as this kind of idealist."
And now is no time for ideals.
"Long-term of course the U.S. needs to reduce its dependency on oil," said Bakie. "But it takes time and money to develop these technologies, and given a recession is upon the western world, both time and money are also scarce. We are moving towards a trilateral age, and the three powers of the world (the U.S., Russia and China) will all be aiming to secure the world's remaining resources for themselves, and it's quite reasonable to see why they would."
So, what happens when the oil runs out? According to these Englishmen, governments don't peer far enough into the future to care.
"None of this is sustainable in the long-term," said Bakie about the oil rush. "But governments aren't long-term, and the people who run them now will be dead in 30 years. But that's another problem altogether..."
Despite growing apathy in for either candidate, Brits are leaning toward Obama. Prime Minister Gordon Brown praised Obama's political mentality in a piece he wrote for Parliamentary Monitor magazine, stating that the Democrats were "generating the ideas to help people through more difficult times." It was an unusual move for a British government head. Prime Ministers in the past have favored a more neutral approach to presidential politics by declining to state a preference and staying safely behind party lines.
Unlike Russell Brand, who declared his Obama-love in a manner much less tactful than the British P.M. While hosting the MTV Video Music awards, the British comedian ignited a frenzy of complaints by pleading for America to elect Obama "on behalf of the world," calling President Bush a "retarded cowboy" and no doubt successfully managing to embarrass both the British public and Democrats everywhere.
But despite Brown's backing, a nine percent lead in a BBC world service poll, and Russell Brand's ruined career, the Obama campaign has suffered some setbacks recently. A number of polls indicated a lead for McCain after the Republican convention, and critics attributed a renewed urgency in Obama's recent public appearances to the explosion of support for vice-presidential candidate, Gov. Sarah Palin. The Democrats will be pleased to know that Palin isn't going over so well in the U.K.
"I think McCain's election would be a bad time for America," said Daniel Clarke, who graduated from the University of Kent with a degree in Biomedical Science. "Put aside any problems you have with him, and think [about the] very real chance that [Gov. Sarah] Palin could become president. Now there's a headache for the world: an evangelical, pro-life, pro-guns "hockey mum" commander-in-chief who wants creationism taught in schools and Alaska to be independent."
It's refreshing to virtually hop across the Atlantic and get a bird's eye view of what my generation is thinking about the presidential campaign. Many thanks to the twenty-something British intelligentsia and their unbridled pessimism.
N.B: The conversation has since spiraled out of control into discussions of "dying superpowers" and the end of world (2012 apparently).
(the Huffington Post, Sep 15, 2008)
Holy Matrimony! From Gotham City to Goths, Weddings with a Twist
At "Wayne Manor" in
For another couple, Castle Green in
In
Every couple wants to create something unique with their wedding plans. They all want a perfect fusion of elegance and romance, as well as an event that will be memorable for everyone.
But it's hard to take something old and make it new. 
Given that society has been staging the same show for hundreds of years, isn't it time to shake it up a little?
Tiffani Sullivan of Untamed Bride encourages couples to let loose their imaginations and plan from the heart.
"You don't have to plan your wedding the way every single person does," said Sullivan. "It's not necessary anymore. You have to go with your heart and do what's true to you."
Wedding-planning season kicks off each fall with a host of bridal shows. On Thursday, the Hollywood Underground Bridal Show will offer an "alternative" twist - custom-made dresses catwalked by ghostly models with white hair, all staged in a graffiti-covered underground parking lot at the heart of the Hollywood Strip.
For couples looking for something a little different from the norm, edgy bridal shows are a good place to start. It also helps to live in a city renowned for quirkiness and perversity, where the bride can carry a light-sabre and the groom can don a Darth Vader costume.
Sullivan's alternative wedding company organizes themed weddings for atypical brides and grooms. Her clientele includes sci-fi buffs, comic-book nerds, Goths, rockabillies, dog lovers and horror movie fanatics, all looking for a way to fuse romantic passion with a passion for the strange.
It's not always an easy task.
"The Batman wedding was a little bit difficult because the bride didn't want costumes, and the groom wanted a Batman-themed wedding," said Sullivan, who coordinated the wedding for KROQ (106.7 FM) DJ Ralph Garman. "What we ended up doing was compromising with a Bruce Wayne theme, which was very elegant."
Instead of costumes, the wedding party went for classic chic, with the groomsmen in black tuxedos and the bridesmaids wearing white gloves. A Batman symbol was projected on the wall, and a '60s-style Batmobile - with an Adam West look-alike in the driver's seat - was the wedding car.
It sounds like a lot of work, but Sullivan says themed weddings take the same amount of time to plan as traditional ones and can cost much less.
"It turns out that you can actually find more budget-friendly vendors and facilities if you look to the more unique properties," said Sullivan, who has organized weddings in Hollywood-style movie studios, historical mansions and private estates across
Not that brides are necessarily looking to save money. Despite the lagging economy, local wedding planners say brides aren't budging when it comes to their big day.
"Families have been saving for this their whole lives," said Kathy Recchia, a
Recchia said the average wedding she plans costs $40,000 to $60,000. If her clients cut back at all, she said, it's on smaller items. They might go with a DJ instead of a band, or chicken instead of steak.
"They figure out what's important to them, what's a deal breaker to them," she says. "No matter what the economy, people are finding ways to pay for it."
Of course, for the bride, the primary focus often is the wedding dress - and a unique one at that.
Vintage is an upcoming trend in bridal wear, and custom-made gowns are the surest way to walk down the aisle in style without looking like a "cookie-cutter" bride.
Designer Deborah La Franchi takes her clients to the
"That's really what they're paying for when they hire me to design a dress," said La Franchi. "It's that one-on-one service from a designer who is creating a gown just for them."
After establishing herself as a costume designer, La Franchi decided to partner her theatrical expertise with the bridal fashion industry.
"Designing a bridal gown isn't that much different from designing for a theatrical production," said La Franchi. "You're still designing for a setting, whether it's a beach or a cathedral."
Among La Franchi's dramatic bridal designs are Elizabethan and medieval dresses, as well as colored gowns.
"Color is becoming a very popular thing for wedding gowns," said La Franchi. "The traditional white gown was started by Queen
La Franchi's most recent designs include a light pink wedding dress and an ivory gown made from Italian silk, patterned with vegetable dye.
"Every bride wants something different," said La Franchi, who is featuring her 2009 designs at the bridal runway show on Thursday. In true alternative style, the show will fuse edgy with artistic by incorporating an art gallery and casino gaming area into the fashion event.
Meanwhile, Sullivan is busy planning for a Tim Burton-themed wedding, transforming a Catholic mission in
"If you really want it to stand out, maybe with a diverse hobby that you want to represent, you don't have to be afraid," said Sullivan. "It will still be very elegant - and you can use tradition as a guideline - but let's have some fun."
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Never Losing Faith in America
My mother never lost faith in America. When she was pregnant with me, trying to decide whether or not the baby should be born in her homeland or her new world, the final decision was sealed because Bruce Springstein's "Born the USA" was still blaring throughout Baltimore in 1985.
Although she took me back to England where we both would have the support of her large and extended family, she never stopped believing that my home was destined to be the U.S.A. Our houses in England were decorated with American flags, we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and we were just about the only family who celebrated Independence day. Sometimes it was just a swift prayer for America in the evening, others, we'd celebrate with a day-vacation.
America was a land very close to my heart before I even knew what it was really like. Since moving to Los Angeles in July 2007, a year after my mother had passed away from her ongoing heart condition, my relationship with the States has been rocky, but never blemished with doubt. There are things that I hate, and so much that I love. Some days I am depressed with the huge problems that penetrate American political and social systems, and other days I am enthralled by Los Angeles and exhilerated by the vast opportunities in this country.
Tonight, I am proud to be an American. As Barack Obama takes the stage, I will be hoping, wishing and praying for America, as most of the nation and the world will be. As cynical as I am, I believe that things are about to take a huge turn in America. The 80,000 people at the Democratic National Convention also believe. The millions of Obama supports across the nation also believe. Because those of us who are proud to be Americans know that the great power held within this country is the power of the people. When the states unite, the force is unstoppable. It beat an English imperialist force in the 1700s, and it beat this English girl into submission before she even knew what hit her.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Earthquaking Los Angeles: Doorframes, desks or departure?
The floor shakes, the walls shake, the desk that you're sitting at shakes, as if the whole world is on a roller coaster. The feeling of powerlessness is overwhelming. There is nowhere to run away to and nothing to do but wait, breath abated. Around the office the staff laugh nervously to one another while edging their way toward the sanctity of a door frame. The first instinct is to run outside and be in the open air, but nature controls, overwhelms the landscape and there is no escape.
5.4 magnitude earthquake hits Los Angeles. Not as bad as it could be. Just the earth letting off steam. We haven't had one for a while, so this was long-past due. In the long run, it is better to see lots of small-to-medium quakes rock Southern California that to add fuel for “the big one”. This is part of living in Los Angeles – one major liability undercuts the way of life here and threatens to throw the whole system into chaos. Cell phones shut down, the gas and water get turned off, everyone gets a little humbler for the day.
Magnitude
5.4 - moment magnitude (Mw)
Time
Tuesday, July 29, 2008 at 11:42:15 AM (PDT)
Tuesday, July 29, 2008 at 18:42:15 (UTC)
Distance from
Chino Hills, CA - 4 km (3 miles) WSW (240 degrees)
Diamond Bar, CA - 7 km (5 miles) SE (135 degrees)
Yorba Linda, CA - 8 km (5 miles) NNE (16 degrees)
Pomona, CA - 12 km (7 miles) S (184 degrees)
Los Angeles Civic Center, CA - 46 km (28 miles) ESE (104 degrees)
Coordinates
33 deg. 57.3 min. N (33.955N), 117 deg. 45.9 min. W (117.765W)
Depth
13.6 km (8.5 miles)
What to do in an earthquake (according to FEMA):
If indoors:
- DROP to the ground; take COVER by getting under a sturdy table or other piece of furniture; and HOLD ON on until the shaking stops. If there isn’t a table or desk near you, cover your face and head with your arms and crouch in an inside corner of the building. So basically, there is no choice. If you're at work or on a date, you are going to have to make a decision to look silly, or die. Or you can play the office game: see who can last the longest without squealing fearfully and crawling under the table.
- Stay away from glass, windows, outside doors and walls, and anything that could fall, such as lighting fixtures or furniture. Do not take shelter under the chandelier.
- Stay in bed if you are there when the earthquake strikes. Hold on and protect your head with a pillow, unless you are under a heavy light fixture that could fall. In that case, move to the nearest safe place. Cover your head with the pillow and you've got the perfect excuse to sleep all day. In fact, why not use fear of earthquakes as an excuse more often?
- Use a doorway for shelter only if it is in close proximity to you and if you know it is a strongly supported, load-bearing doorway. FEMA-approved doorways display a sign that reads: "Stand under me, I'll protect you" - with the approved earthquake smiley face.
- Stay inside until shaking stops and it is safe to go outside. Research has shown that most injuries occur when people inside buildings attempt to move to a different location inside the building or try to leave. No more running-outside-screaming. That's too '80s.
- Be aware that the electricity may go out or the sprinkler systems or fire alarms may turn on. Impromptu party time.
- DO NOT use the elevators. What?! It's the apocolypse and we've got to take the stairs?!
If outdoors:
- Stay there. OK. Random standing around...slightly awkward. At least put your arms out as if steadying yourself or commanding the earth to steady. Look around authoritatively.
- Move away from buildings, streetlights, and utility wires. And roads and paths and air. And grass.
- Once in the open, stay there until the shaking stops. The greatest danger exists directly outside buildings, at exits, and alongside exterior walls. Many of the 120 fatalities from the 1933 Long Beach earthquake occurred when people ran outside of buildings only to be killed by falling debris from collapsing walls. Ground movement during an earthquake is seldom the direct cause of death or injury. Most earthquake-related casualties result from collapsing walls, flying glass, and falling objects/chandeliers.
If in a moving vehicle:
- Stop as quickly as safety permits and stay in the vehicle. Avoid stopping near or under buildings, trees, overpasses, and utility wires. Or on roads. This will not be a problem if you are in under-developed parts of Africa and not leaving the parking lot at Ralphs.
- Proceed cautiously once the earthquake has stopped. Avoid roads, bridges, or ramps that might have been damaged by the earthquake. Bear in mind that everything around you may contain concealed damage that will consume your car as soon as you disturb it.
If trapped under debris:
- Do not light a match. No matter how badly you need a cigarette right now.
- Do not move about or kick up dust. Do not play the "kick-up-dust" game to relieve bordeom while trapped. Do not play pictionary or any other games that may cause arguments between trapees.
- Cover your mouth with a handkerchief or clothing. Good. I'm glad we all still carry hankerchiefs.
- Tap on a pipe or wall so rescuers can locate you. Use a whistle if one is available. Shout only as a last resort. Shouting can cause you to inhale dangerous amounts of dust. Whatever you do, do not scream "help me". As rational as this seems, it may kill you and therefore have the opposite effect desired.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Sex and the City the Movie: 5 million out of 10
All things considered, this review is not an exaggeration. The concept of a movie based on a four-year-old sitcom would usually be destined for failure; but SATC defies the disappointing, gold-digging, shameless cliche-clinging of sitcom franchises and immediately becomes a feel-good classic. Joining the ranks of Pretty Woman, The Bodyguard, Dirty Dancing, Ghost and Sleepless in Seattle, the movie captures all the joy and pain of an immortal romance.
"I think every woman in Los Angeles is in this theater today," commented a thirty-something woman in the restroom after the movie. The theme of the day was "fabulous", with the almost-all female audience donning dresses and high heels for the big event. This wasn't a premier or an A-list screening, but for every woman in the audience it was a special event. It has been four years of wilderness since the final episode that left so many women feeling warm and satisfied, wiping their mascara-stained faces and smiling at their girlfriends with a nostalgic glow of contentment. However, it has not been four years without Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha. It has been four years of re-watching the SATC DVD box set. And the movie was the best episode ever made, stretched wonderfully into 2 and a half delicious hours. Finally, the SATC generation was given its cake... and we ate the whole thing.
The moral of the story (...because there always is one) underlies every single exploration Carrie has ever made. At first, she thinks it is "love". But one thing that has been clear all along is that it is easy to fall in and out of love, to complain about love, to search for and give up on it, to relish and shun it, to philosophize and to compromise; love is not "never having to say you're sorry", like Samantha and Carrie in "Cover Girl" (Season 5, episode 4), but being able to say "I forgive you". Love is tough. It takes work. But when all is said and done... the most difficult task is not ending a relationship, but fighting for one. Carrie and the girls can weather the "for better", but what about the "for worse?" When do you flee, and when do you fight?
Girls are good at complaining about their friends' relationships; it's easy to hate Big and throw him out like dirty dishwater... but just because the fairytale has a few hiccups, doesn't mean it can't have a happily-ever-after.
Sex and the City has seen a generation of women through the good times and the bad times. Every woman in the audience today has felt a connection with the characters throughout the six seasons, and with each other. Today it transcended the silver screen and overflowed into the street. It walked home with them. It took them out to lunch. It encouraged them to order Cosmopolitans and feel sexy in their high heels.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
GTA IV: Most Brazenly Violent Game Out-Violences Itself
Rockstar is the balls of the video game industry. Since its inception by the characteristically red-headed Scot, Dave Jones, in 1997, the game has taken the brunt of the debate over video game violence. And it's no wonder. What GTA did was take every imaginable suppressed human inclination toward violent actions and give them a space to play. If you ever imagined snipering people, stealing a car or running over pedestrians, this game gave you a place to run wild. And even if you had never imagined doing those things, you would after playing the game.
The critics believed that such wild imaginings would have practical repercussions - people would start pulling each other out of their cars and playing chicken with the police on the highway. Anyone exposed to this level of unrestrained, primitive, illogical street warfare would immediately become a sociopath. There is no evidence for such extreme thinking, and although we should admit that - for some unknown reason - playing GTA actually has a cathartic effect that both terrifies and excites the average, law-abiding citizen, it isn't a cult that will end with mass suicide. At least, there is no way of knowing that it will.
Still, despite being blamed by almost every parent and psychologist in the country for violent-inclinations in the human race, the makers of GTA have boldly chosen to ignore the disgruntled and take the game's concept to the most extreme level imaginable. It's almost as if they're inside the subconscious of the average gamer, and have been listening to all the terrible, scary thoughts that are quickly beaten down by the socially-installed conscience. If the social superhero is the super-ego, making sure that humans stay away from acting on their primitive desires by making them feel bad for even thinking about it, then GTA is the arch enemy trying to completely disrupt that plan.
If you ever played any of the GTA games and thought "my favorite part about this isn't really even the missions, it's the unrestrained killing-of-people" then don't think Rockstar wasn't listening. If you spent hours hunting the streets for pedestrians to run over, or secretly wished to see a little more blood... then Christmas has come early. April 29th, to be exact.
I consider myself to be a relatively stable human being. I know that I won't ever go about the streets murdering people or stealing cars, but if you think that you may be influenced - or pushed beyond the psychological boundaries that keep you in check - by GTA IV, then think about sticking to Mario. In fact, proof of psychological stability would be a damn sight better than whipping out your driving license to purchase a copy of the game. It might silence the horde who are about to go crazy over the newest, improved version of total-chaos-to-the-human-race, who are afraid that the things on the screen will immediately begin jumping out onto the streets and into their kids playgrounds . I can't say what people will do, but it seems like there's enough violence in the world for it not to notice another edition of GTA.
http://www.mahalo.com/GTA_IV_Leaked
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Curtis Richardson: 13-year-old, Shot Dead in Gang Territory
This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.
Read More...Thursday, April 3, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
101 Freeway Death: The Romeo and Juliet of Hollywood?
Early Sunday morning, police responded to an emergency call involving an attempted suicide. When officers arrived at the address on the 1800 block of Cordova St., they found Virginia Castillo, 19, had hanged herself. She was taken to hospital and died at 5:48 am. According to reports, Castillo had been arguing with her boyfriend, Marlon Gordillo Sical, 20, and had attempted suicide after Sical had run away. Three hours later, Sical too was dead, and what remained of his Sedan littered the freeway and silenced the busy road in sad memorial.Police were investigating another freeway shooting in Long Beach when the incident occurred; part of a strain of freeway shootings involving road rage.
This story sounds like a Shakespearean tragedy; a Romeo and Juliet of Hollywood. What could have moved this young couple to such extremes?
Also, why is everyone shooting each other on the freeway?
Some experts say that weather has a correlation to crime. In warm weather, crime rates go up. It's a pretty insignificant correlation; as if sunshine makes people crazy.
The more accurate explanation is the simplest. Los Angeles is a difficult place to live. The divide between the rich and the poor leaves one half bitter and the other half scared. The tension is as clear as the transience and superficiality of the city. Nothing lasts. Not even the people. They either move up, into the hills, or down, into the dirt. There is no in between, no comfort in limbo. There is Compton, and there is Beverly Hills, and both are perpetuated by the stereotypes that live in the mind of Angelenos. This is a tough place to call home. As Jack Kerouac wrote: "L.A is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities."
Lonely. Brutal.
A fight for survival on a physical and spiritual level.
In a city of extremes, life and death are executed extremely. There is so much drama, and so little solace.
Dedicated to Virginia Castillo and Marlon Gordillo Sical. May they rest in peace.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Shootings in Hollywood
My bedroom window overlooks the Sunset Boulevard off-ramp where the man was shot and killed on Wednesday. On Tuesday night, as I was lying in bed, I heard two shots. Police sirens followed, and it was reported in the morning that one man was killed and the two suspects fled on foot. Residents tried to administer first aid to the man, but were unsuccessful. Last night I heard two gunshots again, fired sequentially as if two rounds were pumped from the same gun. It was the same type of shooting that I had heard on Tuesday. However, this time I heard no sirens. I am waiting for the police to contact me for more information about last night's gunfire. The LAPD confirmed that no name has been released for the man killed on Tuesday night. There are no media reports. The LA Times homicide blog has not been updated with his information. Initial television reports, from ABC, claimed that the man was thought to have been homeless.
Outside my apartment is a long strip of land that runs along the freeway. Many homeless people live and sleep in this area, and some residents in the apartment building have suggested that they are stealing laundry from our laundry room. The garbage cans outside are often scavenged, and sometimes I can hear people going through them at night. However, I have always found the homeless people in our area to be friendly and not at all aggressive or threatening. They seem to keep themselves to themselves, sleeping on the embankment at Sunset/Wilton or inside the doors of the church on Wilton.I don't think of this area as "rough", and aside from one experience that made me feel uncomfortable involving a man running across the street at night to tell my boyfriend I should be walking on the inside of the street for protection... I have never been deterred from walking home at night.
But hearing gunshots before you go to sleep at night might be the last straw for my naivety. Twice in one week. I only hope that no-one was killed last night, and that this won't become a regular event.
