Inside Looking Out

The sad thing about consumerism at the top, ie: American consumerism - is that it carries the weight of veracity. That is, we luxuriate under the grand illusion that afflicted the bio-racists, such as Binet, of colonialism's heyday: That rationalism, hard science, logic, and economics were proof of western (subtext/subliminally, white) culture being superior.

On the obvious level, well... there's just too many examples of how gross we are as a consumer society. I remember I saw an aerial shot of an industrial sized cattle and hog farm, which had huge swaths of brown running out of them.

Yes folks, they were rivers of crap. Shit rivers.

For those of you who aren't aware of the implications of this kind of food production, take my word for it: it's bad news on several fronts and all of them having to do with the environment, your health and animal cruelty.

Yes, we Amerikkans are the fattest, grossest, most wasteful and consuming-est... and as was true in "The Mysterious Orient" a fat kid was a sign of posterity.

Which serves as a weird prolegomena to this chain of events:

1. An article which appeared in Jezebel;

2. A solicited response of a Woman of Color by an editor at Racialicious; and,

3. My response below.

While I think the original Jezebel article speaks to all of the naive aspects of Amerikkkan culture/peeps, the thing that leaps out to me is Sarah's admitted ignorance; "I was not into interna'tl politics at ALL..." [sic] But there's a catch; she takes the usual colonialist's way out and places the onus on the Other: "I started wondering about Islam and why people hated the U.S. so much." Typical.

It reminds me of the time when a white gal asked Malcolm if there was anything she as a white person could do, and he hurt her by saying "No." While Malcolm wishes later he hadn't told her that, he then makes a very valid point: white peeps, instead of attempting to understand the Other, should FIRST understand themselves.

As the cliche' goes, there's two sides to every story, and as Rashomon points out, sometimes more. This means understanding history outside of the usual pablum we are fed via the US conglomerated news media. A good place to understanding why any Other peeps hate us is to look at ourselves, our foreign policies of invasion, installation, and yes, terror. Think about Korea, Japan, Vietnam, El Salvador, guns for hostages trading with Iran, the Janus-faced creation of Saddam and then his lynching... and that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Yes, uncle scam LOVES to fuck with Others and then open his eyes wide and ask with upturned palms, "WHY do 'they' hate us?"

This is the main problem I have with Aaminah. Additionally, unless one is being entertaining or funny, I've grown a thick skin toward peeps who have to qualify their responses with a level of physicality. So she pukes because of Jezebel's transgression. Ok, you are sickened, literally, by such ignorance and flaunting of power. But unless you get white people in power to turn the mirror of reflection on themselves and away from the microscope of examining the Other, you can't possibly expect white people in power to "get it."

Empathy and self-reflection; two huge things missing in Amerikkkan consciousness. And yes, it all comes full circle folks. Remember our reality, those comfy two-car garages, our lattes and Sunday strolls on Malibu Beach or the barrio/ghetto where even mainstream news media is ignored, but yet the blaring spam of corporate consumerism is heard loud and clear? That's our psychological blanky, and we're like big babies, being fed pablum while told, "THIS is the life."

It isn't. It's OUR life. Rife with all of the Stepford Wives and their manicured lawns that reach their fingers into our brains and massage it - CONSTANTLY. And with that comfort comes the assurance that what we are doing must be right, otherwise things wouldn't be so good. What's dumbya's big tagline; "They hate our freedom."

Freedom to do what? Buy a $10 sweatshirt at Wal-Mart (China's largest consumer and therefore instigator of mass pollution. Take a look at Beijing's air sometime - it's disgusting) and feel like you got a deal while being blisffuly unaware that some Chinese person worked like a machine cranking those out in a sweat shop for a dime?

Wasn't it dumbya who said in 9/11's aftermath, "Go out shopping?"

This is why I say, Marx got it wrong. Religion isn't the opiate of the masses, it's that rectangular piece of plastic with "Mastercard" on it.

Aaminah concludes by saying that rags like Jezebel can't be expected to incorporate Other views. Well, news bulletin: YEAH. But by not calling them or even Sarah (whom she kinda lets off the hook) out to turn that reflection back on themselves, she misses the opportunity to get white peeps to do the most important thing in life: look at yourself. Clarification: pointing out their prejudice is fine, but relating it to the overall terrain of mass media and how they are no different from, say, the major broadcast networks in that regard.

The thing is not being surprised, or shocked, or even sickened. Ok, you can get sick, but to make that the lead in to your piece instead of calling out whites for their lack of self-understanding misses the boat. In so doing, you've made your revulsion the theme. It's like balling out a kid for leaving his computer on while his room's a mess. So ignorant white peeps, like little kids, don't wanna hear it, and keep on "leaving their rooms a mess."

So keep telling them their room's a mess.

That's your job, to point out their pathology, and not to stop until they get it, not to make it about you, and your revulsion, your shock. Is it tiring/wearying/a pain in the ass? Of course. But, seriously, who gives a flying fuck about your shock (or mine for that matter?) when powerful old white men are running amuck and giving Others plenty of reasons to hate us ... ? I mean, c'mon, check out Exxon-Mobil's profits over the past two years - records for any corporations in our entire history. (Save for Walmart who rose to number one this year, but Exxon-Mobil was right behind them) Think there's some connections to be made here?

It's like what Don Piri Thomas said his dad told him when he was a boy; that before attempting to smell other peep's caca (bullshit) that he should first start with himself and realize that he had plenty of his own.

The Triumphant Sun

That unmistakable major tone that distinguishes greater from lesser poets. -Andre Breton on Aime Cesaire Those who've helped me find my way out of the various fogs in my life are owed a debt that can never be repaid. All I can do is pay homage and be thankful for having found them. So it is with Aime Cesaire, a titan of a being if ever there was one. His passing not only removes a true voice against oppression, but marks the end of an era for me. The last of the classic Surrealists, it was through Breton that I first discovered Cesaire, first, in his poetry, then in his diatribe Discourse on Colonialism, which pre-dated Fanon's later, more well-known works. But what I appreciated so much about Cesaire was his insightfulness, the way he'd analyze the colonial dynamic down to the interpersonal level, down to the way one spoke. In the French colonized Carribean, that meant an ongoing war between Patois and French, which I talked about in an earlier post that cites Euzhan Palcy's, Sugarcane Alley. By the way, Palcy made a doc on Cesaire which I was lucky to see at the Pan-African Film Fest several years ago. It's good, and quite a thrill to see the man himself.

As the story goes, Breton was on a layover in Martinique and in a haberdashery when he picked up a copy of Tropiques, edited by Cesaire, and began to read one of his poems. Immediately struck by the Surrealist techniques, Breton hunted Cesaire down. Cesaire would confirm his allegiance to Surrealism, not only in technique in art, but the morality of the "movement." It's easy to take pot shots at Breton these days, and in certain snobbified circles, it's of a fashion. I myself have plenty of problems with the man, and the many "ex-communications" throughout Surrealism's stormy existence (Ernst, Desnos, Aragon...) attest to this fact. And as problematic as it is for a privileged, white Frenchman to bestow the seal of approval upon a black colonial, he also staunchly praised him to the skies and brought Cesaire to the attention of those who could take his voice to the ends of the earth. Cesaire's intransigent spirit was like a giant pillar that runs to the core of the earth. When like so many other leftists, he joined the French CP, he soon became disillussioned with their ability to answer the colonial question, but specifically, the black question. Negritude. Like Ellison's nameless Invisible Man, the CP would fall short and prompt a great riposte, his ascerbic, Letter to Maurice Thorez, the then CP head. I try and communicate to Renee that you have to get your head and heart right. That means having an intellect that's armed to the teeth, but the spirit to fire rockets. To not be a pussy doesn't mean acting hard, it means being hard. The kids in the barrio have it all wrong; it's not their fault, because what do you expect from a situation like that? Which is why Dr. Huey P. Newton's observation that the best Panthers were always the brothers off the corner, the hustlers, gangstas, fucking degenerates, because once politicized, they became fierce enemies of oppression. Were there problems in that scenario as well, like sexism and homophobia? Of course. That's a fact. But that doesn't invalidate the revolution that overcomes a person in shedding that "old skin." After all, don't those things also exist in boardrooms and any other echelon of power? Or worse, amongst priests who pray on young people? And so Cesaire spoke to and for "those who don't even speak proper French." This my favorite poem that I cited last year. Aime Cesaire is dead. Long live Aime Cesaire. 

JUDGMENT OF THE LIGHT

Transfixing muscles and blood devouring all eyes this intense bright mass of foliage crowning with truth our usual lights a ray a spray from the triumphant sun by means of which justice will be done and every arrogance washed away Household vessels and human flesh slip away into the thick neck of the waves silences by way of contrast have begun to exert the most substantial pressures

Around the circumference of the circle among public activities along the riverbanks the flame stands solitary and splendid in its upright judgment

Step Up

Today, Fish and I went to a spoken word event by the Step Up Women's Network. Normally, I don't go in for these things, but I've been looking for a program that Renee can plug into, and since Step Up works with girls of color, from "under-served communities," all the better.

As expected, their pieces were melodramatic - I don't consider that mean, but truthful. They were unpolished, at best. That may be due to any number of factors, but it's evident that they need a director to step in, or money, or...

That said, I really enjoyed myself. It was good to see these brown girls had found a resource, that they'd been validated in some way. And what their performances lacked in polish, they more than made up for in their charm, and in fact, their stumbling, forgetting of lines, stage fright... all added to the effect. They were, dare I say, all very cute.

But it never fails - amongst all of the voices, one stood out: Cristina Zamora. Afterword, the girls had a meet and greet, and we connected. Cristina, courtesy of South Central, came from the typical South Central scenario, but the eagerness in her eyes, and most of all, the open-mindedness with which she would listen when I spoke, were only confirmation that programs such as these, no matter how embattled they may be, are ultimately worth it if they can pull a young person out of La Vida Loca.

Cristina read "Always Running" by my homeboy, Luis. Hopefully there will be a connection there as well.

She dreams of being an architect, and I told her that if that's the dream, she's in a world class city for architecture. She loves to draw, and it made me think about myself as a boy, how, deep in the hood, art was always there, saving me a million times over.

The Degenerate's Diary: And the Devil said, "Let there be Vegas, Baby..."

In Vegas, they’ll bet on anything. One casino was ready to let me bet on whether I’d win or lose there.
-Anonymous

As I've chronicled here, I'm a degenerate in the same way reformed alcoholics say they are still alkies. I'm sure I would have been skinned alive under Stalin for any number of things, but if it's one thing that chaps my ass about this country is its rampant hypocrisy.

Take gambling.

I've been mulling over the thesis for a long rant about "gambling and life." It goes from the concrete to the theoretical and back fairly easily, for example:

1. All investing is gambling - no exceptions. Whether you're buying a house, government bonds or 100 shares of Sirius, don't fool yourself - it's GAMBLING.

2. The reality is that every one gambles, every day. For example, if you drive, you're gambling that someone in oncoming traffic doesn't have a death wish and, a'la Chris Walken in Annie Hall, just plow head on into you.

Then I get discouraged and think, "nah," cuz in the end it just comes off as more of my curmudgeonly ranting, which of course, it is.

But goddamn me, I love gambling. It's just so much fucking fun. The patron saint of degenerates, Artie (Lange) once put it so on point: "If you're bored, just put a couple bills down on whatever game's on. It's instant fun."

Now, part of the blame must be shared with pops, for I'm the son of a degenerate. Hunter S. Thompson said: "For a loser, Vegas is the meanest town on earth." And Vegas was mean to pops.

One of the bennies of LA is not only that it's one of poker's capitols, but it's a hop-skip to sin city. In fact, LA's Vegas' #1 cash cow. There was talk at least a decade ago about putting a bullet train between us and them, but the nimby-ists ("not in my back yard") won out. In some ways, I'm glad...

Anyway, one of my earliest memories was of driving there with my parents before the strip was the happening place. I'll never forget driving onto Fremont and seeing the big neon cowboy with his arm cocked, saying, "Howdy, partner". The place had an instant fascination for me mixed with foreboding, and that's a psychically volatile concoction.

Pops pulls over to the curb (can't do that now) and leans on the door: "Wait here." He disappears into the Golden Nugget. About an hour later he comes back, climbs in and doesn't say a word, but I know something's wrong.

Pops was not only a degenerate, but he suffered from one of the most lethal forms of dilettantism: gambling. Although I never talked to him about it when I got older, I'd wager he never even understood the raw basics of gambling.

It's that basic lack of understanding that has made guys like Steve Wynn billionaires. It's rather nauseating, when you think about it: Vegas is founded upon the principle of extracting money from the uninformed. Those who catch on are excluded, like card counters in blackjack. (Poker's an exception because you're not playing against the house, which makes its money on the rake)

I've never been to Amsterdam, but it is of course legendary to Libertines. But I have a hard time imagining how Amsterdam, or any place for that matter, could top Vegas. It ain't called sin city for nothin'.
===================================

A weekend in Vegas without gambling and drinking is just like being a born-again Christian.
-Artie Lange

There is always a sneer in Las Vegas. The mountains around it sneer. The desert sneers. And arrogant in the middle of its wide valley, dominating those diligent sprawling suburbs, the downtown city sneers like anything.
-Jan Morris

Someone asked me why women don't gamble as much as men do, and I gave the commonsensical reply that we don't have as much money. That was a true and incomplete answer. In fact, women's total instinct for gambling is satisfied by marriage.
-Gloria Steinem

A man's gotta make at least one bet a day, else he could be walking around lucky and never know it.
-Jim Jones

The urge to gamble is so universal and its practice so pleasurable that I assume it must be evil.
-Heywood Broun

I've been on such a losing streak that if I had been around I would have taken General Custer and given points.
-Joe. E. Lewis

It's a corny old gag about Las Vegas, the temporal city if there ever was one, trying to camouflage the hours and retard the dawn, when everybody knows that if you're feeling lucky you're really feeling time in its rawest form, and if you're not feeling lucky, they've got a clock at the bus station.
-Michael Herr

Italians come to ruin most generally in three ways, women, gambling, and farming. My family chose the slowest one.
-Pope John XXIII

Man, I really like Vegas.
-Elvis Presley

Life is a gamble at terrible odds, if it were a bet, you would not take it.
-Tom Stoppard

Don't gamble; take all your savings and buy some good stock and hold it till it goes up. If it doesn't go up, don't buy it.
-Will Rogers

Vegas means comedy, tragedy, happiness and sadness all at the same time.
-Artie Lange

Timeless

As a wishful musician in my mis-spent youth, I was lucky to come up in an era radically different than what Renee is currently in. The 70's was a breeding ground for so many groundbreaking movements, where even jazz was undergoing a major overhaul what with the "children of Miles" - the fusionists - cranking their amps to 11.

So it was that in 1975 I stumbled across an artifact now known as an album that called my name: "The Tony Bennett and Bill Evans Album."

I've always been a fan of stripped down music, exemplified in rock by the traditional guitar, bass and drums configuration. It's simple and yet, because of technology, can fill an arena. But this album is different and almost wholly unique in that it showcases two supreme artists performing standards - voice and piano.

I was aware of Tony Bennett but til then never a fan; Evans, one of Miles' kids, I knew of through musician friends and Miles, the most obvious being "Kind of Blue." (The album I had playing when Renee was born. Cliche', I know, but it was interesting when one day I was playing "Freddie Freeloader" when she was only about 6 and she stopped in her tracks and said, "Hey Daddy, I know this song.")

From the very first notes of "Young and Foolish" I was hooked. This album brings it, folks, and goes to that realm where there is no "classic" or "modern" category. It transcends.

Another of Miles' kids, the late great Tony Williams, was one of the greatest artists I was lucky enough to see perform - several times! I can remember reading an interview with him at that time, and they asked him what was grabbing his attention, and he mentioned the Bennett and Evans album. I can remember him saying something like, "It's extremely musical."

I was lucky enough to see Bennett last year, and like with Etta James, his voice has lost it's range, he's very old now. But the richness, the timbre are still there. It's still a great instrument, the one ole' Blue Eyes himself said was the best in the business.

Bennett's at the height of his powers here, rich, powerful, perfect phrasing, total control... he lays it all out. When you think about all these jerkoffs on "American Idol" that amounts to nothing more than karaoke with marketing, it's really hilarious. If you know nothing about technique, try this sometime; listen to those kids, whether they're singing or spittin'rap, and listen to their intake, when they inhale. I pointed it out to Renee once by saying that he (I think it was one of the generic so-called gangsta rappers) sounded like a wounded seal.

By contrast, you can barely hear Bennett inhale and most of the time it's silent.

This is the perfect album to have a romantic meal by. (Well, the truth is there are some melancholy songs like "Some Other Time" and "We'll be Together Again," but just put it on low enough so that s/he can't clearly discern the lyrics.)

If you want music unadorned by flash bulbs and red carpets but infused with that certain something that lets you know that indeed, there is beauty in life, then look no further. It's sublime.



ps: Carmen McRae has an extremely rare album of just her singing accompanying herself on piano that's bad too.

My Sista Maloy

With the dearth of good Asian/APA writers, it's about time I wrote about a bad Asian sista; you can click through to her old blog above, but her new blog is subscription only.

Besides being smart, what I appreciate about Maloy is that she brings an Asian national perspective that is rarely within the realm of Asian Pacific American (APA) consciousness. It was evident when I first began reading her posts on colonialism. And as someone who has historically had to fetch deconstruction on colonialism/post-colonialism from outside of the Asian/APA circle, more often than not from black intellectuals (like Cesaire, CLR James and Fanon, and others such as Don Bustany, Said, Zinn, and the Surrealists), she was a breath of fresh air.

And as I've said before that Michael Moore's work, despite it's polemical nature, is insightful. But it's a rare feat when someone can take serious subjects and make them funny and entertaining. Comedians such as Bruce, Carlin and Rock do this, and Moore really hit the bull's eye with Sicko. Maloy's entertainment factor isn't always on because sometimes she's just being straight serious, but generally her blog's smart, and she's really entertaining.

Did I (just) mention entertaining? Mix parts of Amy Winehouse train wreck, good writer, up to snuff colonial deconstruction and fashionista. Oh, and goldsmith.

Now, watching Renee grow up has been fascinating. She's acutely aware of how lame APAs are, how they worship at the feet of all things that only sink one deeper into "the system" and fog the mirror of self-reflection. There's a real price paid in that worship, and one of them is the utter lack of strong role models available to her as an Asian woman. They simply don't exist.

And here's something many of you might not know; for a good part of her life, Renee has spent significant amounts of it in Hawaii, which is dominated by Asian/Pacific Islander culture. Well, "dominated" in spite of being overrun by white culture, if that makes any sense. Also, my father was born there, and I've relatives who call it home.

So I turned her on to Maloy a while back, and she was an instant fan, as I suspected she would be. It's funny, but Renee and I can be out eating and catching up, and we often bring up Maloy's latest take, and we're off to the races, using it as a touchstone for analogical and analytical discussions about everything from music to colonialism to the sorry state of APAs.

It's weird how I live in a city rife with Asian nationals and Americans, but I feel outside of the circle. There's a fundamental rift between us and it's always been there. Perhaps it has something to do with me having been raised in a Chicano culture, I don't know, but I've always been at odds with "them." I mention that rift because while Maloy and I have never met in person, I feel much more at home with her ideas than the sterile nothingness of APA politics and art. (In fairness, there are some very talented APA comedians who I wish would get a shot. Honestly, there are some funny suckas out there)

A while back I wrote to Maloy and we've corresponded a few times, and despite her sometimes curmudgeonly blog demeanor, she comes across as really sweet on an interpersonal level. She even helped Renee once with a life situation, and for that I'm thankful. Hey you remember being 16, right?

But I guess among the things I really appreciate is her honesty and forthrightness. She pulls no punches. And as someone who endures a goodly amount of passive-aggressive behavior in his life, she's a welcome change.

So here's a raised glass to you, Sista Maloy, on the other side of the world.

Stay up!