A Word of Advice to the Young

On the occasion of her graduation from high school, I provided a friend with some advice that I a) wish other people had given me or b) am really glad I heeded.

I read it to the assembled team of Ms. Stephanie, Joshua William Gelb, and Juddrigar Eccles Hardy VI, and they said that it should be compulsory advice for all recent graduates of high school. WHICH IS NICE OF THEM.

But in the interest of sharing it with upwards of four (4) more people, I decided to post it here.

-Study abroad. Just do it. There is no excuse to not do it. Just do it. For real. Pick someplace and go. It doesn’t matter where. Uzbekistan. Canada. Whatever.
-Do you have a meal-plan? Use the meal-plan. It will not seem as exciting as all of the one trillion amazing restaurants in Brooklyn, but when you don’t have it you will really, really miss it.
-Take art history. Let me repeat that, somewhat louder: TAKE ART HISTORY.
-Meet people. Meet as many people as possible. Hang out with them. Date them. Throw things at them. Whatever. There’s no better way to gain empathy than to just BE with lots and lots of different types of people. And empathy’s probably the greatest thing.
-Everybody you will be at school with was the star of their high school. They’re all going to be really good. YOU ARE ALSO REALLY GOOD. There’s a reason you’re there. Don’t forget this.
-It turns out cooking simple food is pretty simple. And will save you lots of money, which will suddenly become a thing you need to care about and also something you will HATE. Learn to cook some stuff. And cook it.
-You are going to live with people, which means you need to clean up after yourself. For real. I swear to the holy FSM I wish somebody had made this clear to me before I annoyed everyone I lived with for several years. You just CAN’T be a slob in shared space. People will want to stab you with spoons.
-Go. Watch. Theatre. See everything you can. While you’re a student it’s cheap as cheap. Go see everything.
-And every piece of art you see or experience, remember these three questions: What did you see? How did it make you feel? How did they do that?

So, there it is. Next time you start college, I expect you follow my every word.

$5 more!

Tack on $5 to The Monies. Yeah!

State of the Union

A Response to the State of the Union Address

Baloney. Or, in a more “adult” word: horseshit. You read that right. Horseshit. I said it.

Yeah, this is coming from the guy who gave hundreds of dollars to the Obama campaign, who drove to neighboring states to sign people up to vote for Obama, who wept on the morning when Obama was inaugurated, in surprise and pride and happiness and hope. Me. I’m still saying it. That speech was horseshit.

You’re probably surprised, at this point. You’re probably thinking of how much better it was than any speech Bush ever gave, how much more you agreed with it. Well, yeah, it was better than Bush’s State of the Union addresses, but so is having an eyebrow ring ripped out by your worst enemy while he’s murdering your mom. We don’t (we SHOULDN’T, at any rate) rate speeches by their comparisons to the particular brand of Horseshit W. spouted, else all other speeches look like West Wing season finales.

You know one of the things I hated most about President Bush? That his government held people in Guantanamo Bay indefinitely, without ever bringing charges, or bringing them to trial, or letting them go, or, you know, even telling them (or us) why they were there in the first place other than “THEY’RE EVIL BAD EVIL PEOPLE BAD SCARY OOOOO BAD!” You hated that too, right? We right-thinking people can agree that’s some medieval nonsense there. Heinous stuff, that.

Well, guess what? Last week, Barack Obama’s administration announced that fifty (50!) people will be held indefinitely in Guantanamo Bay prison, without being brought to trial. Ever. For real. Barack Obama. I’m not making this up, man. It’s in the paper and everything: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/22/us/22gitmo.html?hpw . President Hope and Change announced that he’s leaving people locked up in a prison he promised to close by now (it’s been more than a year, and the clock’s ticking) because “they are too difficult to prosecute but too dangerous to release”. Fifty people. Fifty actual human beings, whatever Hannity calls them.

So when I hear Obama, a man I campaigned my goddamn guts out for, say things like “Let’s reject the false choice between protecting our people and upholding our values” I know that he’s full of shit, because he’s already chosen.

When he says “In the end, it’s our ideals, our values that built America” I know that he’s full of shit, because in the end he does not abide by America’s values. And if he’s full of shit when he’s talking about what I hold most sacred — if he’s full of shit about this, when he promised to return the country to the rule of law that had been so mercilessly shredded by the previous administration — why would I believe anything else he says?

I don’t.

I’m not overlooking the positives. Of course it’s a good idea to aim to rid the world of nuclear weapons. Of course it’s a good idea to fight for equal pay for equal work. It’s nice to say that we’re going to invest in education, that we’re going to invest in social services, that we’re going to take care of our returning soldiers (I am interested in how we’ll perform all of these social services in the midst of a spending freeze, but I suppose we’ll get to that next year when the spending freeze is canceled because it’s unpopular. Sorry Conan O’Brien, I’m one of the cynical ones, now). Of course it’s good to excoriate the Democrats for being spineless, and to whip the Republicans for being obstructionist. Yes yes. All well and good.

But what really matters to you? You, reading this. What really matters to you? Having a job? Making sure the economy is strong? Being repaid for the bank bailout? Having a president who talks all purty? What about the fact — the FACT — that you now know your government is willing to defy everything that makes its Constitution worth more than just the parchment it’s penned on because bringing people to trial is “too difficult”. Imagine if Bush said that. Imagine how you’d feel.

And that ain’t all, kid. Obama ended his speech by praising the determination and generosity of America in helping Haiti through its time of trouble. And of course, the people who have donated money, who have gone to help Haiti, should be praised. But if our government, if our people, had given just a dime for every dollar we’ve given BEFORE the earthquake struck, Haiti wouldn’t have been so devastated. If we gave a nickel to Indonesia for every dollar we gave after the Tsunami, so much needless suffering could have been avoided. If instead of outpouring sympathy for New Orleans in the wake of Katrina, we had invested in its infrastructure beforehand, we would have saved actual lives. Not a word was spent talking about how to fix these problems before they start, save a high-speed train through Tampa and a campaign against childhood obesity. Whoop.

But this speech wasn’t about that. This speech was about the economy, and then also some other stuff to fill the time. Want to fix the economy? End the wars. Want to fix healthcare? End the wars. Want the money back to fix our educational system? End the wars. Want to fix the budget deficit? End the fucking wars. Stop spending our money and our children’s money on building bombs and paying mercenaries (sorry, “contractors”) and building pilotless drones to bomb people from the stratosphere so that we can protect our country and start making it a country truly worth fucking protecting. You can start by reclaiming at least a smidge of the moral right by either bringing our prisoners to trial or letting them go. They might be back on the “battlefield” (when the hell are we, 1918?) tomorrow. So what? What are we fighting for? For real: what are we fighting for?

So yeah. I’m all for changing the tone in Washington. But nut the fuck up, Obama. Do something.

When it comes to civil liberties, right now Barack Obama is George Bush with a rhetoric coach. It may sound pretty, but it’s still anti-constitutional, police-state, illegal imprisonment in a prison he promised to close. Until this changes, I don’t believe a goddamn word out of the man’s mouth. Call me strident if you wish. But I still believe in hope. Do something to make me think you deserve it.

Following What?

There’s nothing wrong with “next customer”. Nothing wrong at all. When I have waited in a long and snaky line, likely being needled to near death by some sort of saxophonic melody playing from invisible but perfectly-placed store speakers, and I have finally attained the position of FIRST IN LINE, the call of “next customer” fills me with a sense of elation: soon I shall be out of the establishment free to overhear other obnoxious noises not pre-canned for my shopping enjoyment.

Then what is the what is the cry of “following guest”. Is that for me? Are you repeating it, raising your hand and looking at me? “Following guest”? “FOLLOWING GUEST”? Expecting me, the FIRST IN LINE, to understand that you mean me? ME?

This dreaded sentence fragment contains two problematic words, which isn’t a lot, per se, unless you remember that there it only contains TWO WORDS to begin with.

Let’s start with “guest”. I know I know I know your charter or your mission statement or your managerial dictate says that each of your customers is a special and unique flower who should blah blah blah blah. You are not my host. You are receiving my custom. There’s an awesome word for one who is giving you custom, and it ain’t “guest”. If I’m your guest, give me my shit for free. Or at least lend it to me long-term and tell me I can get it back to you whenever, you don’t use it that much anyway.

But fine. “Guest” I can get over, even though it’s not what you mean, or an accurate reflection of our relationship. It’s fucking annoying, but fine. It’s the “following” that really tears it for me, because as far as I can tell “following guest” can mean one of two things, and neither of them means that the person who is first in line should step forward to the till to exchange currency for goods. Or at least not without more guidance.

Here’s one way it would work: “Would the following guest please step forward: David McGee.” Or “Would the following guest please come to the register: he who has attained the position of first in line.” Because “following” implies necessarily more information is coming, right? When used in that context? Or if no further information is coming, then the person you are calling forward is the person who is behind me in line, as that person is following me, and since I am first in line I’m NOT FOLLOWING ANYBODY. GAH.

Just call me the next customer, please. I’ll be less weirdly hostile when we make our exchange.

This has been Ridiculous Complaints With Your Host David McGee.

The Monies

Total amount of money I have found on the streets of New York City: $70

Amount I have immediately given away to someone who claimed to have just dropped it: $20

Amount I saw that person drop: $0

Number of bananas she purchased me afterward (not a euphemism): 3

Amount she spent on those bananas: $1

Number of times the fruit stand guy, who saw the whole thing transpire, had to hint and pry that she should totally buy the bananas for me: at least 3

Number of times she said “Somebody will pay him back down the road” before getting the hint that the fruit stand guy thought that SHE should pay me back: at least 2

Number of NYU ID Cards I have found on the street: 1

The given name on the lost card: Jamiesyn

Number of people I have met named Jamiesyn: Well, 1 now.

Anyhow, total amount of money I’m up just by walking around and staying vaguely alert: $51.

Or, to be totally honest: $50. And three bananas.

***UPDATE***

Found $5 positively hauling-bill down the street on an extremely blustery day. I’m now up to $55. And three bananas.

What Exactly Is An Underneath?

An actual sign on the DC Metro (or “subway” for we real Americans):

Danger: Do not touch electrical paddles protruding from underneath of train!

OK. Fine. I won’t. There’s no need to shout. I’m willing to follow your cryptic instructions. But first answer some questions:

A) What the hell is an electrical paddle? It actually sort of sounds fun. Are you sure we can’t touch them? One? Can we touch just one?

B) FROM UNDERNEATH OF? This is three prepositions in a row. Which is too many prepositions from above to around about write in a row. Unless… is “underneath” a noun? “I have to scratch my underneath, because it itches”? “Put that baby on the underneath of the blanket so it’s warm”? “Hey, Mister! Hands off the underneath! I’m married!”

No. No, I don’t think it is. Come on, DC Metro.

And most importantly C) If they’re so dangerous, could you maybe get them back underneath of the train? You think? Must they protrude? There’s got to be a better way, yeah? Yeah.

Still want an electrical paddle though. Bet I’d win at ping pong every time.

Secret Window

Once upon an ages ago, during that period of time known as “the hood of the child” (translated from the, um, Dutch), I read a book in which some siblings discovered a secret window in their home. EXCITING. This was not their usual home, but a summer home, or perhaps a new home. They had been into the home’s attic, and seen nothing out of the ordinary; but from outside, they espied a certain window, which may or may not have been of the stained-glass variety, in the vicinity of their attic. Through some investigation, they then discovered a boarded-up room within the attic, which room held some sort of cool mystery.

A couple of months ago, this memory, devoid of all defining details, popped into my head. I suddenly very much wanted to read the book again. I had set some time aside for writing, but I instead spent the time Internetting (from the verb “to Internet”, translated from the awesome) with various searches such as “children’s book secret window stained glass hidden room awesome memory childhood google please help me out”.

I did not find the book I was looking for. I did, however, realize the following truth: basically every children’s book ever written is about siblings discovering a secret window or a hidden room. For real. I found many, many, many* books that met the basic search criteria, but which were decidedly not the one I remembered.

But of the books I wasn’t looking for, two stood out as ones I’d actually like to read.

The first is The Diamond in the Window by Jane Langton, in which two siblings discover a secret window shaped like a keyhole that leads to a hidden room in their attic. Scratched on the inside of the window is a long poem; as the kids decipher it, they somehow learn about Thoreau and Emerson and Louisa May Alcott and the transcendentalist movement. Intriguing. Learning can be fun!

The second is The Steps up the Chimney by William Corlett, in which siblings discover a secret window in their chimney that leads to a hidden room in which they discover a time-travelling magician (?). Adventure ensues. This gets bonus points for taking place in Wales, where much good children’s literature takes place.

So while my searching found me some books I’d like to read, it entirely failed to find the one I meant to.

Somehow, just yesterday, I ended up at the Wikipedia page that lists The Boxcar Children books. Yes. It’s the magic of Internetting. Now, the only excuse I can come up with for not checking this list before is the age-old one: I am an idiot. Because I read many, many, many** Boxcar Children books as a yoot, which books contain a) siblings and b) mysteries. Of course, the target of my search was among them. The book I was thinking of is The Treehouse Mystery. The vague details I remembered were all right on… but compared to the other two books mentioned above, this one actually seems really boring. And now that I’ve found it, I have no desire to read it again.

I feel like there’s a lesson here, but I’m not entirely sure what it is.

*(many)

**(many many)

Remembering

In Speaker for the Dead, Orson Scott Card suggests a new type of post-life remembrance. Rather than being the subject of a white-washing eulogy, the deceased should be “spoken for”, in a Cromwellian warts-and-all type way. The speaker for the dead should speak not merely positively, but honestly; describing hopes, dreams, and aspirations, as well as foibles, failures, and flaws.

Michael Jackson died this week. Perhaps you’ve heard.

Immediately after his death, the eulogies began. And somewhat surprisingly, what I saw tended to focus on his rarely paralleled gifts as a performer, rather than on his past few decades of true batshit insanity (which tended to be glossed over with a mention, as if this did them justice). I saw also a second camp of eulogists, that denounced him as a pedophile, and pretty much nothing else worth mentioning.

Now, we don’t know if Michael Jackson ever broke the law during his strange, strange relationships with children. Certainly, whether the letter of the law was followed or not, those relationships were, in the parlance of our times, fucking weird. Grown-ass men sleeping in beds with boys who are not their own is passing strange, and creepy, and profoundly icky, and gross. My guess, for whatever it’s worth, is that he was damaged to the point where he honestly believed there was nothing wrong with his actions, because he honestly believed that he himself was also a little boy. This is not a defense, note. Honest belief is never an adequate defense.

But I am surprised by how few appraisals and obituaries I’ve seen that take both sides of the man into account. This may, admittedly, be because I have not been looking at enough appraisals and obituaries, and because those that I have read tend to be your Facebookian status updates and Twitterish 140 character shouts, which are not the world’s finest places to craft a coherent argument. But it seems that one group wants to ignore the insanity and focus on the art, and the other wants to focus on the art and ignore the insanity.

Is there room for both?

I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. Quite a bit. Do an artist’s non-artistic thoughts, opinions, doings, political alignments, felonies, &c. have anything to do, at the end of the metaphorical day, with an artist’s art? Just as a for-instance, Orson Scott Card, mentioned at the top of this essay, is a raging bigot. Does this in any way diminish the value and beauty of his Speaker for the Dead concept?

Does Michael Jackson’s creepy weirdness detract from the brilliance of Billie Jean?

Is art a “conversation” between artist and audience via the art, or a “conversation” between the art and the audience in which the artist is vestigial at best?

Is a blog post interesting if it just poses unanswerable questions?

Here is my appraisal: Michael Jackson was one of the strangest people to ever walk the face of the Earth. He was also one of the most talented. Each of these statements is true. His talent seems like it was at least partially the result of abuse. His weirdness seems to stem from the same root. I do not think his death is tragic; I do think that his life was. His performance added joy to the world, but I don’t believe he ever experienced any of it. His pain entertained us, whether we danced to his songs or laughed at his plastic surgery. He behaved inappropriately, dangerously, and criminally (baby over balcony, in any case) with children. He was a disturbed, sick, fucked-up human. And between now and the day I die, I will never be able to stop myself from dancing when Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough starts playing.

This is all true. So how will we remember? We get to decide now. Always.