Narcissism

August 22, 2020

Pentwater, Michigan

     It's pretty hard to ignore what a doofus our president is.  His limited vocabulary and inarticulate ramblings and repetitions, employing the comparatively few words he does know, strike the reasonable listener each time they hear the guy talk (which for me is as seldom as possible).  But because he's the president and because before that he was in the world of high finance, he is sometimes also credited with a deeper overall knowledge of things than he has.  After all, we think, how could he have made, and lost, all those millions of dollars if he didn't have at least a little sense?
   
     And there's no punch line to follow that rhetorical question.  He does indeed have some sense, some knowledge that others don't have, and the ability to make things happen.  There's a certain grim charisma to the guy.  Whether he's the lackey of the right wing, or its leader, makes almost no difference--he is certainly carrying out the Republican agenda with, for them, admirable alacrity.  For anyone who doesn't already know it, the Republican agenda is, and has been for many years, the following:  to promote the interests of big business at pretty much any cost.  That's it!   But you say, it can't be that simple.  What about racism and white supremacy? what about pandering to the ignorant and superstitious religious people? what about keeping the attention of the country focused on illegal immigrants and slant-eyed foreigners?  Well, duh, as they say.  These things all promote capitalism, which needs to exploit the permanent underclasses and the profoundly ignorant among us in order to survive.  First of all, get us all worshiping and drooling over the doings of the wealthy (like Trump, Bloomberg, Musk, Bezos, Zuckerberg, etc.), so that we not only expect them to be our saviors but also assume that their morality is superior to ours, and that therefore their ability to lead us is greater.  This isn't anything new in this country, of course.  Despite the "aw shucks" personae of several of our most prominent presidents, it was the patricians of the colonies--Washington and Jefferson, for instance--who led the revolution, and to whom was given the initial power.  Why?  Because they were wealthy, and thus inherently superior to the rest of us. 

     But there's that niggling psychological aspect to Trump's personality, which the left-of-center media keeps harping on, and which they say separates him from the garden variety rapacious and soulless Republican.  He's also a narcissist.  Democrats say so.  His bitter psychologist niece says so.  Various eminent psychiatrists say so.  And even some of his fellow Republicans are saying it, lest they be tainted by the Trump legacy after he's gone.

     So, is Trump a narcissist, in the clinical sense?  In the latest version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the DSM-5, which is the American Psychiatric Association's attempt to create a sort of  Oxford English Dictionary of craziness, "narcissistic personality disorder" is defined to include 9 characteristics, of which a certified narcissist should possess at least 5.  Let's take a look at these criteria as they apply to Donald Trump:

          1.  A grandiose sense of self-importance;  (check)
          2.  A preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love;  (check)
          3.  A belief that he or she is special and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people or institutions;  (definitely the first part, but possibly not the second part, since he surrounds himself with idiots and ass-kissers, and his idea of a high-status person is Jeffrey Epstein and his idea of a high-status institution is a golf course)
          4.  A need for excessive admiration;  (check)
          5.  A sense of entitlement;  (check)
          6.  Interpersonally exploitive behavior;  (check)
          7.  A lack of empathy;  (check)
          8.  Envy of others or a belief that others are envious of him or her;  (check)
          9.  A demonstration of arrogant and haughty behaviors or attitudes.  (check)

So, the guy really aces this test.  He needed a 5, but he got at least an 8 1/2.  So why isn't he bragging about this score, like he bragged about passing his cognitive ability test?

     Why indeed.  Really, it's an easy and cheap shot to call Trump a narcissist and leave it at that, as if he is the only narcissist who treads the polished marble halls of our nation's capital, or who has ever occupied the White House.  So the guy's a narcissist, what of it?  First off, none of his faithful give a shit, because narcissism is a four-syllable word and they don't understand it.  And as for his handlers, the capitalists whom he serves, they couldn't care less either, because he gets things done for them--lowering taxes, deregulating every damned thing he can, and generally, to the best of his ability, making it easier for them to make a buck.

      I realize I'm pretty much preaching to choir.  But here, ladies and gentlemen, is a truth that we might not wish to hear.  Having a president who is a consummate, textbook narcissist just might be the very thing this country deserves.  Just as individuals can have narcissistic personalities, so, I believe, can nations be narcissistic.  As a nation, no matter who the president happens to be, we in the U.S. are convinced that we are the Greatest Country on Earth, and that our president is not only the Leader of the Free World, but the Most Powerful Person in the World.  Maybe that's because of all the nukes we have, but I suspect that it's at least as much from our being utterly convinced that we are, as countries go, the cat's meow.  Outside the warm context of our own feeling of self-worth, all this might sound a little like the pronouncements of the Wizard of Oz behind the curtain, but we repeat these "truths" ad nauseam, even when we're criticizing the president or ourselves as a country, e.g., the United States should know better than to ignore climate change, because we are, after all, the Greatest Country on Earth; our president should be a better person, because he is the Leader of the Free World.  Even when we are forced to face our systemic police brutality and racism, we say, This is No Way for the Greatest Nation in the World to Behave.  And by the way, no matter who the president or would-be president is, "God Bless the United States of America."  Man am I sick of  hearing that benediction.  There was a time, even in my lifetime, when presidents didn't end every speech they made with those seven vapid words--words which, for all their supposed neutrality, scream out that we are God's Chosen People, despite how far off the track we may have strayed.   

     But just to be certain about our national narcissism, let's look at those nine DSM-5 criteria again, and apply them to the good old U. S. of A. as a country:

          1.  A grandiose sense of self-importance.  Well, if you have to think twice about that one, you haven't been paying any attention at all.

          2.  A preoccupation with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love.    If there's anything we fantasize about, in fact and fiction, it's our success and beauty as a country.                      3.  A belief that he or she (or in this case, it) is special and unique and can only be understood by, or should associate with, other special or high-status people or institutions.  This defines us perfectly as a nation, and we make it a point to ally ourselves most closely with the other countries we deem to be powerful enough and most like ourselves in racial, economic, and imperialistic outlook.  To hell with wasting our time with little weak Third World countries--what would be the percentage in that?
          4.  A need for excessive admiration.  Let's face it, if we don't get our asses kissed by other countries, we're just not happy with them, and are liable to send in a few troops to teach them a lesson. 
          5.  A sense of entitlement.  Ahem, yes, to every damn thing there is, from food, fuel, fortunes, and fun to media, music, medicine, and munitions.
          6.  Interpersonally exploitive behavior.  Hmmm.  Have we ever tried to interfere in the internal affairs of other countries, or tried to rape them of their natural resources? 
          7.  A lack of empathy.  Well, it's pretty hard to be empathetic with other countries when you're The Greatest Country on the Face of the Earth, and in the History of the Universe.  What's to empathize with?
          8.  Envy of others or a belief that others are envious of him or her (or it).  We absolutely know that the rest of the world just wishes it could be us.

          9.  A demonstration of arrogant and haughty behaviors or attitudes.  See all of the above.

     So wow!! For absolute narcissism the United States as a nation scores even higher than our current president does as a person!  And aren't we proud of ourselves and our precious every-man-for-himself, gun-toting-libertarian, pay-as-little-tax-as-we-can "perfect" democracy?  You bet we are.  Just look at all the people who want to get in!  If we were so bad, why would they want to?  Well maybe it's because we are simply less bad than some of our global neighbors.  But that doesn't make us better than all of them.  Unlike many other countries, we don't offer universal health care, free or cheap higher education, decent worker benefits or vacations or leave time.  Nor do we provide safety from guns and brutal police.  We're like that one house on the block where the parents are affluent and don't give a shit what their kids do as long as they do it in the house.  Of course the other kids want to come over, especially if their own parents have lots of rules, even ones that are good for them.  And in the case of the kids whose parents abuse them and don't give them enough to eat, or are constantly fighting, yes, our house might well be the better choice.  But it's not because we're a more responsible house, just a less restricted one.  In the long run, we don't really take care of our guests, we just let them in.  And when it's time for us to kick ass in our house, watch out!  
   
     Let's not ever forget that we weren't founded by real revolutionaries--not ones who wanted to completely transform society or create a utopia to replace a dictatorship.  We were founded by men who were tired of paying taxes--men who didn't mind owning other people, or at least condoning the practice in others, and who certainly didn't mind annihilating the people who were here before we came.  "A more perfect union" my ass.

     But, you might be saying, aren't all countries narcissistic?  Don't they all believe they are the greatest group of people ever assembled by God in one place?  Some are, but not all of them.  The Danish, for example, may love their little peninsula and their way of life, but they know they're not the absolute shit, on a worldwide level.  Togo, I'm pretty sure, has a healthy sense of its own comparative lack of importance on the world stage.  Vietnam wants to run itself and its people and secure its own borders from foreign invasion, but it doesn't want to rule the world.  Even the French, for all their arrogance and general lack of interest in anything non-French, aren't, strictly speaking, narcissistic.  They're very much in love with themselves, to be sure, but they don't give a shit whether the rest of the world loves them, because, after all, the opinions of anyone non-French don't count for much.

     Narcissism in individual human beings, like sociopathy, is incurable and irremediable, except by death.  A leopard can't change its spots, or a zebra its stripes.  Donald Trump will be exactly the way he is until he is no more.  But it's worth bearing in mind that countries can transform themselves, or be transformed by external circumstances, without necessarily dying.  With sufficient changes in leadership, and sometimes after receiving a pretty stiff dose of humiliation, countries can abruptly or gradually change.  Germany is a good example from recent history.  Even our mother country, Great Britain, is coming to understand that it's not the be-all and end-all it once thought it was.  This could happen to us, and in some measure it is beginning to, in a curiously ironic way, even while we're being piloted by the worst narcissist in the history of our national leadership.  After all, under Trump we've pretty much reverted to a kind of pre-20th century isolationism, internal capitalistic rapacity, and brutal social Darwinism.  But what might help us to get over ourselves even faster would be some genuine humility at the top, engendered by the humiliation we have experienced worldwide during the past four years.  We're going to have to bow our heads in order to re-enter the family of nations.  That would be a good thing.

     May it happen soon.

    

   

The Black Death

                                                      

August 11, 2020

Pentwater, Michigan

[I am in the middle of my annual viewing of the five Final Destination movies, and it occurred to me that I already wrote a post about them, back in 2012.  I re-read it this afternoon and decided to republish it, since it seems to resonate even more today than it did then.  If you haven't watched the movies in question, you should.  But in any case, here, with a few minor revisions, is The Black Death.]

     Some time back I mentioned the Final Destination movies.  I’ve just finished watching the most recent of them, Final Destination 5.  Twice, in fact, so I could see some of the most absurdly gruesome splatter scenes again.  This series follows a predictable formula that goes like this: at the beginning of each movie one of the principal characters has a premonition of a disaster in which a number of people die in spectacular ways.  In the first one it was a plane crashing on takeoff; the second featured a ridiculously complicated multi-vehicle freeway accident; in the third a roller coaster malfunctioned; and in the fourth the disaster took place at a stock car race where several cars went flying off the track and into the stands, which fell apart, but not before tires and miscellaneous car parts decapitated, crushed, and impaled people.  In Final Destination 5 we have the collapse of a suspension bridge due to high winds (similar to the real event that happened at the Tacoma Narrows in Washington back in 1940) while a busload of young business types are on their way to a management retreat.

     After having the premonition in each movie, the prescient person “wakes up” just in time to warn others of what lies in their very near future if they don’t leave the airplane, or highway, or roller coaster, or auto race, or bridge.  Of course no one believes that person, who nevertheless bolts from the danger spot.  A few of his or her friends leave, too, just to see what’s wrong with their seemingly crazy companion.  Then in short order the real disaster happens and dozens of people die, leaving only this handful of lucky survivors--the one who had the vision and the ones who went along out of curiosity or concern.  They watch in awe and horror as people get burned, sliced in half, have their heads crushed like cantaloupes, and so on.  Then they retreat, usually to the police station, to regroup and ponder their good fortune while grieving for those who didn’t make it.  The cops in these movies are serious but fairly nice and nonviolent, in an imaginary pre-modern way.  They don't pull their guns, and they don't even automatically suspect the token Black person in each group of survivors.  After some skeptical questioning, they scratch their collective heads, try to figure out if they can arrest anybody, and ultimately let the survivors go. 

     But here’s the thing.  Death has been cheated, and Death is not happy.  Why, I don’t know, since eventually Death gets everybody, right?  Death in these movies seems rather peevish and lacking in the patience that ought to come quite naturally after so many eons of grimly and steadily reaping its harvest.  What’s a few decades of life, more or less, where existential certainty is concerned?  Anyway, Death is angry, we’re told, and it continues to stalk the survivors throughout the movie, taking them out one by one in a series of bizarre and imaginative misfortunes that more often than not require simultaneous failures of multiple mechanical and electrical systems and ask the viewer to forget that the circuit breaker and ground fault interrupter were ever invented.  In several of the movies, Death’s relentless plan, and its insistence on gathering the succession of superficially lucky youngsters to its fold, is explained by a mysterious Black man.  Usually he’s the local coroner, a person who apparently is quite well acquainted with Death in a professional capacity.

     I mention the fact that the coroner is Black because in this movie and in the rest of the series there are few other Black people, but they tend to have a closer connection with Death, or at least a better understanding of the reason things are happening, than the white upper middle class teenagers or twenty-somethings who form the backbone of the cast, and who tend to take solace from the horror of their situation in trips to each other's houses, where they philosophically drink and talk and ultimately decide to live for today.  Cinematically speaking, in general, it seems, when it comes to helping clueless people to understand the deepest of realities, it’s necessary for a person of color to do the explaining.  

     The use of an African American character as the link between the world of insouciant white good fortune and the dark void of the unknown is part of a long tradition in the movies, which have consistently employed those of duskier hue to unite us with the most primitive and basic elements of human existence—fear, lust, privation, and death.  One Black person, skillfully utilized, can do the duty of all of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, including the pale rider.  Call it the economy of tokenism.

     In the 1930s, when cinema made no attempt at subtlety or fairness in racial matters (as if it does now), the Black seer was often the comical minstrel-show Negro whose big eyes glowed white and whose nappy hair stood on end as he saw a ghost, while the more suave Caucasians laughed at him and saw nothing.  Black folks, it was understood, had a greater tendency to believe in the supernatural, in part perhaps because of their more "primitive" roots, and in part because there weren't a whole hell of a lot of earthly delights available to them, comparatively speaking.  Sometimes the person with the enhanced vision of the inherent ignorance of the wealthy and carefree was somebody’s maid or wet nurse, with a bandanna tied over her hair, shaking her heavy head at the foolishness of the white folks and saying, “mmm, mmm, mmm” in a resigned singsong voice.  Half comic relief and half Greek chorus, the darkies would generally tend to be right about the fact that something was wrong.  Later, as we began to strive for cinematic and social "realism," we played on another image, that of the sexual threat inherent in the Black presence--sweaty muscular men and women grinding the night away on the sawdust floors of juke joints, drinking to excess, smoking dope, and gyrating in primitive ways that no decent, respectable W.A.S.P. would countenance.  In any event, the Black folk were always a degree or two closer to the basic truth of things, even if they appeared to be merely shucking and jiving and clowning.  They knew, down in their jungle souls, what was important, and it wasn’t martinis and starched collars and briefcases, believe you me. 

     Lest we think that the age of Buckwheat and Mammy and Mandingo is gone, however, we should take a look at the more recent past, and for that matter, the present.  There is, and has been for some time, a stock character in American drama known as the Magic Negro.  He or she is often a servant (what else?) or sometimes a sidekick or petty criminal, who seems to appear out of nowhere to help the white protagonist out of a jam with a combination of common sense and street smarts, and if all else fails, by laying down his life for the hero. If nothing else, this created jobs for black actors, sad as they might be.  At the TV level, think of Jack Benny’s manservant Rochester, of Starsky and Hutch’s underworld pal Huggy Bear, or of Maude's maid Florida.  In the movies there are too many to list, but you’ll easily recall them.  I’ll let serious students and critics of the genre, like Spike Lee, expound on this phenomenon and will only mention it here.  Then again, often the Black person in a movie is the first to die, or be killed by the alien, or get sucked out of the airplane.  Why?  First, because he’s expendable and frequently has no mate, due to the still-heavily-enforced cinematic anti-miscegenation rule which dictates, in contravention of reality, that a Black man shall not have a white woman, only a Black or Hispanic woman, unless of course that Black man is already a criminal.  (Here I should mention that this rule is not necessarily imposed without the complicity of both races; I once saw a woman on a documentary dedicated to Denzel Washington—an actor who fairly scrupulously adheres to the black-to-black, or at least black-to-brown, rule in his movies—rather pettishly claim him, as an African American, as “ours,” which was particularly odd because the woman who was making the claim was only about one-sixteenth less white than my own mother.)  Another reason Black people die first is that generally the protagonists are all white, and the nonwhites are just there for variety.  I will say, in defense of the Final Destination series, that one of the young upwardly-mobile survivors characters is always Black, and although he doesn’t have a love interest like some of the whites do, he does manage to outlive several of the other hapless characters.  That's progress.  You might say “big deal,” but in a sense it is just that.

   

     And let’s not forget the miscellaneous voodoo priestesses, or the spirit mediums (Whoopi Goldberg in Ghost); or the other persons with the supernatural powers (Scatman Crothers in The Shining and the Black guy who could see ghosts just like the little kid could in Stir of Echoes).  Where there is something going on beyond the pale, so to speak, you can count on a Black person being there to personify it or at least explain it.  It’s scary Mother Africa calling us all back to our pre-civilized roots.

     But in Final Destination the Black man, the scary coroner, is the messenger of Death itself, and he is still there at the end after the kids have all perished horribly, reminding us of our scant mortality.  Also--and this can’t be overstated--the Black character is there to remind us of our Great National Sin, the institution of slavery, for which we all must pay and pay, both now and in the afterlife.  The very subject I’m discussing here would have little meaning outside of that sub-context.  Put a Black man in a Dutch or Swedish movie and people would just say, "Hmm, an African.  Izhn't dat veerd?"  But our national Black guy, our messenger of Death, was there when this country made its original bargain with the Devil, to exist half slave and half free, and he’s here now to help us pay the Faustian price.  He'll be there shaking his head grimly and loading bodies into the back of his van when we’ve all been sliced in half by flying lawnmower blades, beheaded by shards of glass, immolated by carelessly stored chemicals, impaled by malfunctioning airbags and broken pieces of PVC pipe, and fried to a crisp in tanning booths gone haywire.

     Call him the Black Death.  

Well,

July 27, 2020

Pentwater, Michigan

     I started writing this about a month ago, then got sidetracked by...nothing, really, except the everyday rhythms of my isolated existence, which isn't so bad, and not as isolated as all that.  Just safer, and with a mask.  Anyway, it's time to finish.
   
     Well, what's a poor blogger to do?  The shit that's happening, on a purely objective level, beats anything I could say about it.  And that's not even including the social media spins and distortions, the yammering by the all news channels, left and right, and the ostensibly more objective reporting in newspapers, assuming anyone reads those any more.  It's a world turned upside down, and it didn't just happen when the virus started, or when the demonstrations against police brutality started.

     Nobody knows, of course, how it's all going to play out.  The virus has made a surge in the wake of the obviously ill-advised loosening of the social restrictions put in place a couple of months ago, led by no advice or bad advice from the top of the government.  Will individual states finally unite to enforce the wearing of masks in public, probably the simplest, cheapest, and most effective way, along with social distancing, to limit its spread?   Or will right-wingers, bored students, and "fun-seekers" simply ignore its existence and take their chances, putting millions more in danger.  Who the fuck knows?

     One thing I do know is that the demonstrations in the cities have begun to die down and become nothing but background noise and political talking points, all in just a few weeks' time.  That's what always happens, because very little substantive change will come about from them.  Sure, statues will come down and flags will change, which is great, but the disappearance of these painful and ugly symbolic reminders of the past in which we fought a civil war over white supremacy as an avowed national purpose will not erase the reality of ongoing modern white supremacy--politically, economically, and socially.  People always forget these paroxysms of social outrage at the institutionalization of racism, and it rises and falls in waves.  In the words of the Italian political philosopher Antonio Gramsci, "History teaches, but has no pupils."

     We may take a few more timid steps toward improving our system of organized urban police brutality, but ultimately, nothing will be done to improve the lot of African Americans, because they are stuck in a kind of perpetual neutral gear when it comes to progress, and they're stuck at the bottom of the ladder.  Let me repeat that:  Black people (today the word "Black" is capitalized--again--as a weak token of respect) are STUCK AT THE BOTTOM OF THE LADDER.  And when I say Black people, I mean hometown, born in the USA, descendants of enslaved people.  New people come into the country, get discriminated against, work their asses off, and start climbing that ladder.  It usually takes a generation or two or three, but it happens.  Irish, Jews, Central Americans, Asians, East Africans--you name the group, they've always improved their lot after a few years of tough going.  But not the African Americans, no matter how hard they work.  They just stay down on the bottom rung and get stepped over by others.  Every single time.  Right now the LAPD has at least as many Latin cops as white ones, and they're still just as brutal to Blacks as they ever were, and Blacks are still as unrepresented as they ever were.

     This is awfully pessimistic, you might be saying.  Haven't we made some progress since, say, the 1950s?  Well, yes we have, of course.  We got one decent, liberal, socially-committed Black justice on the Supreme Court, in Thurgood Marshall.  That was progress.  Then he died and was replaced by Clarence Thomas (because after all there can't be more than one Black person on the Court), a guy so conservative as to make most of his white fellow-conservatives look like progressives.  And in the 1960s we got Black people on television playing characters other than maids and butlers and buffoons.  We got Bill Cosby as a spy, and Cicely Tyson as a social worker's secretary, and Diahann Carrol as a nurse (still somebody's handmaiden, but what the hell), and a few other decent parts for Black actors.  Then, as their presence became greater and more accepted, there arose another, more obvious role choice for Black actors, namely, being criminals.  Suddenly in the 1970s parts for Black pimps, drug dealers, drug users, prostitutes, thieves, and smooth con artists became plentiful, and continue to be plentiful up to the present day.  Hence, thugs as role models for all you Black boys and girls growing up out there in TV land.  Hollywood said, in effect, "Here, Black people, here are your parts, come and get them," as if scattering dollar bills over a manure pile.  Then, over the next several decades, there were a few Black cops, often bent, and a few Black laborers, and of course there was the Cosby show (with him, ironically, as an obstetrician), and Denzel Washington as a doctor on St. Elsewhere.  But there was also the "reality" show Bad Boys, which featured cops taking down shirtless brothers trying to escape out the back windows.  And there was that absolute gem of a situation comedy, Good Times, where a family of Black people in the Chicago ghetto was headed by a long-suffering, eye-rolling matriarchal mammy and a feckless put-upon semi-bread-winning dad, but whose lead actor was the goofy shucking and jiving son J. J., thus reducing a show ostensibly about the realities of Black folks struggling in a white world into an updated version of Amos and Andy.  Oh, and let's not forget the succession of shows starring Black boy/men with medical conditions that kept them little and cute and harmless, while being adopted by wealthy white people.  And who could forget the Black version of Archie Bunker embodied by George Jefferson?  Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander, lest we have to suffer with the burden of thinking that only white men are bigots.  All that added up to what white America really wanted to see--white altruism mixed with Black hopelessness, venality, and clownishness.

     Okay, you say, but what about Sesame Street and The Electric Company, two shows aimed at young kids that sought to present Black people as positive instructors and role models.  Yes, you're right, they were good.  But eventually they were replaced by cartoons (among them the notoriously self-abnegating Fat Albert), because, after all, how much positivity about Black people can our culture endure without an offsetting adjustment?

     Fine, you answer, but didn't we finally elect a Black man as president--not once, but twice?  Yes we did.  His skin was brown, sure enough.  However, he was not the descendant of slaves, no sir.  His father was a Nigerian graduate student who eventually went to Harvard then back to Africa, leaving his son to be raised by others, just as we would expect any Black man to do.  His mother, who raised him, was as white as my mother was.  We elected him because, well, it was time to get that issue out of the way, and, more importantly, because he could talk white to the whites, and with a little bit of studied slang, could talk Black to the Blacks.  But would we ever elect a Jesse Jackson or a John Lewis?  Would we elect a take-no-prisoners Stacy Abrams?  Hell, no, not in my lifetime.  Too Black.  And following hard on the Obama years came the horrifying "offsetting adjustment" I mentioned above.  Very soon, mark my words, the Democratic vice presidential candidate will be Kamala Harris, a woman who does indeed look pretty brown.  But she ain't no Maxine Waters, no ma'am.  She's the child of college professors, and she scrambled up from the mean streets of Berkeley, no less.  Her mom is east Indian, for Christ's sake, and her dad is from Jamaica--probably the descendant of slaves, to be sure, but not OUR kind of slaves--you know, the ones who picked cotton for the massa down in Alabama.

     Oh, and let's not forget the movies of the 21st century--the Century of Enlightenment.  Here Hollywood has made some adjustments, agreeing, probably reluctantly, to give the Black folks some movies of their own, that might just teach whitey a thing or two.  Take Selma, about the historic and terrible civil rights march over the Edmund Pettis Bridge, featuring the late John Lewis and Martin Luther King, Jr.  Out of all the American black actors available, and no doubt willing and able to take the part of King, who do they pick?  A god damned Brit--an Afro-English child of the empire named David Oyelowo.  And there are numerous other examples of this, where Africans or British blacks get the parts that should, by rights, go to African Americans.  Coming soon to a theater (or movie channel) near you will be a biopic of Aretha Franklin, starring the lovely-voiced songbird Cynthia Erivo, handpicked by Ms. Franklin to play her.  Is she from Detroit?  Is she from Atlanta or LA?  No, she's from London, and had to learn to talk like an African American, not for this part, mind you, but for the part of Harriet Tubman, which she also played.  Sweet Jesus.  Because, after all, there are no African American women out there who can sing and who need work in the movies.  Hell no.

     Are you beginning to get the picture?  No matter how fucking hard American Blacks try, they will always lose out to someone else.  In education, in employment, in stature as political representatives.  Only in basketball and football and music do we allow them to exist, for our amusement.  When whites eventually become a numerical minority in this country, probably in this century, it will not be African Americans who are in the majority.  In all likelihood there will be no outright majority of any one group, but Latins and Asians will, if they choose to coalesce politically, be the dominant force.    And African Americans will be right where they are today, taking shit, shoveling shit, eating shit.  Do you think the Latins or Asians are going to treat them any better than the whites have just because the whites aren't in the majority?   Will they give a shit about them, any more than the Cubans or Puerto Ricans care about their Black citizens, or the Latin cops of LA care about the Black folks there, except as convenient moving targets?  And consider this: when this tipping of the ethnic balance happens, which group--the Asians, the Latins, or the whites--do you think will (still) have most of the money and the real power? 

     I've cherry-picked the evidence I've used here, but I challenge you to contradict it with anything  hopeful to the contrary.  There's a new book out by Frank B. Wilderson III, an autobiography called Afropessimism, in which he articulates this view, only on a worldwide basis, and with lots of personal information and suffering I'm not competent to convey.  I'm going to read it, and if I need to modify this post, I will do so.

     Until then, folks, don't get your hopes up,.

Dignity

May 17, 2020

Pentwater, Michigan

     For a number of years I have observed a phenomenon for which, at this point, I can think of no clever descriptive name.  It often occurs on highway signs dedicating particular stretches of roadway to the memory of some person--sometimes a public official like a mayor, or equally often a fallen police officer.  Another place it happens, even more often, is in newspaper obituaries.  What is this phenomenon? you ask.  It's when a person's nickname is put in parentheses or quotation marks after his name, for instance, "William (Bill) Anderson," or "The Officer Gerald 'Jerry' Bevilaqua Memorial Interchange."  These aren't real names I've seen, but you get the idea.  Occasionally in obituaries the nickname is of an affectionate grandfatherly or grandmotherly type, e.g., "Miriam (Nana) Feldman," but usually it's just the regular nickname for that person's first name.

     You might be asking, "Well, what's wrong with that?"  If so, I'm glad you asked, and I'll tell you.  First of all, what is so difficult about figuring out that a person we all called Bill might really be named William?  Is that so counter-intuitive that you have to put "Bill" after the name William?  I think not.  Some people call me Pete, and some call me Peter, and some probably call me other things, but when my obituary is published I require only one first name to be used, namely, the one I was given when I was born.  Those who knew me as Pete will figure it out with no problem at all.  Now, if your name is Prajeet Singh, but the people who came into your 7-Eleven all knew you as Bobby, I can understand using the nickname in the obit.  But not Michael "Mike" Sullivan, or Edward "Eddie" Lopez, or Arthur "Art" Johnson.  That's just silly.  But look at your local newspaper obituaries and I guarantee you'll see it every day.  I do look at the obituaries daily, in part to be sure my own name doesn't appear there, in some Twilight Zone-ish way, and also to be sure that most people in the listings are still older than me.

     Not using nicknames needlessly is a matter of dignity, as far as I'm concerned, at both ends.  How stupid do people think we are if we can't recognize a person's obituary when their full name is spelled out, without having to have their nickname added for good measure?  Aren't pretty much all Jimmys, Bobs, and Maggies really Jameses, Roberts, and Margarets?  And if we knew Elizabeth as Betty, it should come as no surprise to us that her full given name is used in her death notice.  What good does it do anyone to put nicknames in an obituary or on a memorial road sign?   Does it make the person less dead, somehow, or more human?  Does it warm the now-cold corpse?  Nicknames and diminutives are friendly familiar things people call one another among themselves, when they're living, whether on the playground, or playing pool or watching the game or maybe even for that person's entire life, but they are not the person's full name, usually, and everybody knows or should know that.  They don't convey the full dignity of your name, or the full seriousness of your death.  When it comes time to put your name on a highway sign honoring you for your greatness, or sacrifice, or on a notice observing your passing, let the full gravitas of your given name, or at least the name you have chosen for yourself, be the means by which you are designated.  (If you're Kirk Douglas, you might want to be known as Kirk Douglas, not as Issur Danielovich, for instance.)

     God help you if you were given a stupid name out of the gate, like Moon Unit or Dweezil or Rumer or Scout.  That was just smirking self-centeredness on your parents' part.  I can't help you there, and I can only hope they didn't humiliate you in other ways in an attempt to show how clever they thought they were.  Your dignity was stolen at birth.  There are parts of the country where diminutives are given names, particularly down south.  Billy Bob Thornton, who's from Arkansas, was apparently born William Robert Thornton, and chooses to be called Billy Bob.  Okay, good for him.  But many people in the rural parts of the country are given names like Billy Bob and Johnny and Scooter and Jimmy by their mamas and daddies.  This is due to what I like to call the phenomenon of diminished expectations.  Some people are born so low and to such ignorant people that from their very births they are expected to grow up to be just Aw Shucks good old boys.  In fact the operative word there is "boys."  For many people nicknames, as common as they are, fade away in adulthood as people become more mature, or remain strictly within families or among friends.  But in some parts of the country people are expected to be, and to behave like, boys throughout their lives.  With respect to African Americans, it's more of an order than a suggestion or expectation.  There the imposition of diminutive nicknames from birth has a more sinister side than the mere lack of ambition for the child on the part of the parent: it has been a way of keeping the man a boy for life.  If your given name is Willie, who will be surprised if you fail to soar to great heights, and instead remain somebody's boy--their janitor, their bellhop, their servant?  Louis Daniel Armstrong, the immortal cornet player and jazz singer, referred to himself as Louis (pronounced Lewis), not Louie, I think for very good and obvious reasons.  However, practically no one else did.  He once said, "All white folks call me Louie."  Armstrong was a man who valued his dignity, and who struggled every day of his life with the question he asked in one of his own songs, "What did I do to be so black and blue?"  If your given name bespeaks some measure of dignity or elevation--Charles, Lamont, Marcellus--or even if it's sort of made up, like LeBron, or Draymond, or Kentavious, then the world may take you seriously, even if you weren't born a Winthorp, with a silver spoon in your mouth. 

     Dignity.  It's okay to stand up at the funeral and say, "You know, Jimmy was always there for me," but for Christ's sake put the name James on the man's tombstone.  That was one of the few things I didn't care for about Jimmy Carter, the president.  He wanted to be inaugurated as "Jimmy," even though his given name was James Earl Carter, Jr.  (I'm pretty sure they didn't let that happen.)  Why would he want such a thing?  Because it would make him look more humble and folksy than a Georgia farmer already is?  All this desire did was to start him off behind the eight ball of executive dignity, and it went pretty much downhill from there.  See, you can give away your dignity, in large pieces or small ones, but when you do it's very difficult to reclaim it.  After the patrician George Herbert Walker Bush projectile vomited at the dinner table in Japan, a piece of his dignity stayed on the floor with the puke, never to be reclaimed.  Every time Gerald Ford stumbled getting off his plane, a little bit of dignity remained on the tarmac.  The current president had squandered whatever dignity he ever had many years before he became the cross between Mussolini and a windup monkey that he is today.

     Dignity.  Sometimes it's all you have left when life is over.  Keep it intact.     

Random Thoughts

April 24, 2020

Cathedral City, California

     First, let me get this out and off my chest.  I'm sick and tired of Elon Musk and his car company and his silly space ideas and his big proposed bullshit solutions to big problems, solutions that never materialize.  Most of all, I'm tired of seeing his weird face plastered all over the news.  He looks like he's from another planet, so maybe he should just go back home, already.  Those of you who don't live in California probably don't see as much of him as I do, because he's based out here and he and his Tesla company are the darlings of local industry.  But I'm reasonably sure you see more of him than is warranted by anything he actually does.  I mean, come on!  Electric cars?  They were around before the internal combustion engine caught on.  Nothing new by way of technology there, folks.    Well, I'm glad we had this little talk.  Now on to some other more important things.

     Like many of you, I've been cautiously venturing out to the grocery store on occasion, to lay in provisions, like they used to say in the cowboy TV shows.  "Where's your paw, Mark?"  "He went into town to get provisions."  This would be a once-a-month kind of thing, with the Rifleman, or Hoss Cartwright, or whoever, going to the mercantile store and buying a wagon load of flour, some sorghum (whatever the hell that is), hard tack biscuits, bacon, and lard.  You know, the stuff you need for everyday eating.  Well, like the pioneers of old, I foray every two weeks or so into my local mercantile, namely Walmart, to get a shitload of stuff.  On each successive trip I notice new virus-prevention safety measures in place, making me wonder why many of them weren't in place a month or more ago.  Yesterday I went, and for the first time I didn't see a single person without a mask.  Great.  Some people wore them sulkily, as if they were children who were only following the rules because they HAD to, but most wore them dutifully and with some hope that they'd do some good.  There are also now, in theory at least, one-way aisles, to reduce the amount of passing too closely with carts.  The signage in this regard is rather subtle, even wimpy, with little one-foot squares on the floor at the beginning of each aisle indicating whether you should not enter, in red, or "walk this way" green signs with arrows.  (These latter got me to singing "Walk This Way" by Aerosmith over and over in my head as I strolled the aisles.)  The thing is, people who grocery shop are not looking at the floor all that much, because, let's face it, the groceries are not on the floor.  The more observant and better-informed-in-advance among us did notice the directional signs, but many--perhaps a third or more--did not, and simply wandered up and down the aisles irrespective of whether they were going the right way or not.  Once a woman in front of me chewed somebody out for this, but for the most part the failure to observe the directional signs went unnoticed, or at least only silently noticed, as we all concentrated on our tasks at hand, and some of us on keeping the hell away from other people.  Even the staff didn't try to enforce the directional signs.  In fact, our friendly Walmart customer service crew seemed to be the least observant of any of the rules; though they all wore masks, they continued to gather together closely in little tete-a-tetes as if the mere fact of wearing masks made them invulnerable and immune.  Or maybe they're just being fatalistic, considering the inherent danger of their low-paid, no future jobs.  Like coal miners of old.  But talk about setting bad examples for the shopping public, particularly because where I shop is under what you might call a triple edict:  a local Palm Springs municipal order to wear masks and keep at least 6 feet away from anyone else; a Riverside County fiat to do the same; and a social distancing order of a similar nature from the California state governor, suggesting masks but not ordering them. 

     These trips to the store have been, as I say, an adventure on a par with Chuck Connors taking the wagon into town through Indian territory.  (This latter comment is not completely a joke, since a good portion of the land in the City of Palm Springs, perhaps half of it, is in fact owned by the Agua Caliente band of Cahuilla Indians, and rented to the local white man, including possibly the land on which Walmart is situated.)  As an observer of the human condition, I have been noticing, for several shopping trips during the virus crisis, that grocery shoppers are a singularly preoccupied lot.  I've only noticed this because I'm on alert, otherwise I'd be just as preoccupied.  Shoppers are on a mission, hunting and gathering, and tend to get lost in thought or mystified while looking for something high on a shelf.  For many, if not most, shoppers, this general approach to shopping has not abated much at all.  It's as if most people are incapable of the potentially life-saving multi-tasking required of them in these times.  One of course wants to buy groceries, as always.  But one also ought to want to be mindful of others, and to steer clear of them.  Not so, at least for the majority of folks.  They just get lost in their little worlds, as they always have done when grocery shopping.  Think about it: when was the last time anybody at a grocery store gave a shit about anybody else except in the most perfunctory way?  Sure, you try not to run into anybody or kick any children, but otherwise, it's every shopper for him- or herself. and the devil take the hindmost.  Today we're in a unique situation where we are being asked to take not only our own health and safety into consideration, but simultaneously the health and safety of others.  It's as if someone asked us to make sure the people driving next to us had their seat belts fastened.  Absurd, right?  Who gives a shit about the person next to you on the road, as long as they don't hit you.

     Now we're being asked to stay away from each other not just to make sure we don't get sick, but to make sure they don't get sick from us, unbeknownst to us.  This latter half of the equation has proved to be too much for many--Republicans in particular, who by definition are not good at empathizing with or caring about anyone else, otherwise they wouldn't be Republicans.  In fact, this characteristic of Republicans (by which of course I mean Trump supporters) has been their hallmark lately, as they hide behind a perverted interpretation of the First Amendment to protest stay-at-home orders and get out and go back to doing what they feel like doing.   Well shit, we'd all like to get back to doing what we feel like doing--going to restaurants, walking closely beside others, not wearing masks.  But some of us, who appreciate the concept of the common good, have decided to subordinate our immediate desires to that good.  Right wingers, led by the example set by their leader, are not only heedless and ignorant of the concept of the public good, but also apparently incapable of thinking of anyone but themselves.  Government of the selfish, by the selfish, and for the selfish is their credo as they careen down the highway of destiny.  Can you imagine anyone during the middle ages parading down the streets proclaiming their RIGHT to get the bubonic plague, or to give it to someone else?  People would have thought they were crazy.  They barely understood the disease, or the germ theory of disease, in anything like the way we understand it today, but one thing everyone knew was that they sure as fuck didn't want to get it, and if they could help it, they didn't want to give it to anyone else.

     Well, that's Republicans for you.  As someone once said, you can't argue with stupid. 

       

Finding It

April 15, 2020

Cathedral City, California

     The other day my daughter Katie said, "During this time, instead of losing it ... I think I'll find it."

     She may have meant this as a joke, or perhaps as a bit of self-reassurance.  Or maybe both.  But the statement carries with it the seeds of inspiration.  It would be pretty easy to lose it, as they say, during this period of forced self-isolation.  The initial chaos of sudden confinement settles into routine, and routines give way to monotony, and monotony begins to fray nerves and to magnify the tiny bumps of daily life, so that like the Princess and the Pea we become conscious of ordinarily imperceptible irritants.  In this regard I feel fortunate.  I've put my pickiness on hold out of necessity.  And I am particularly lucky that I get along with my wife quite well, and that she's put her pickiness on hold too.

     I am not by nature either a Princess or a Polyanna.  I think I'm what you might call very cautiously optimistic.  It seems to be the best overall approach to the world, for me at least.  For some it might not be enough positivity.  For others it might be silly, given the grim realities of life, especially now, but really, any time.  After all, life ends in death for all of us, but we spend those lives either ignoring that fact or postponing thinking about it, or making up fairy tales about an afterlife.

     With regard to the current virus crisis, I try to keep a balance between full awareness of the knowledge of the harsh likelihoods of the immediate future and the rather intriguing and encouraging pieces of information that daily make themselves known--things like medical device manufacturing, drug testing, statistical analysis of trends including the prediction of the rising and flattening of the curves of the disease.  There are also the uncountable instances of human kindness and bravery--indispensable public servants staying on the job, health care workers overextending themselves for the sake of others, grocery store employees continuing to work what in the very best of times must be pretty shitty jobs.  And then there are those who exemplify human stupidity and shortsightedness--people congregating outside shoulder to shoulder, certain types of stores staying open for no good reason, preachers holding live church services, people thinking that because they feel pretty good they should be able to act as if nothing's going on.  And that's not even counting the almost supernatural ignorance, selfishness, and mendacity of the man who is supposed to be leading the country.

     Finding it, so to speak, has become a pastime with me during my isolation.  I'd already been using the usual streaming services for movies and other television entertainment, as well as online versions of magazines and local and national newspapers.  But I've found some really interesting statistical websites for use in tracking the virus throughout the world, thanks mostly to my wife.  For some, these detailed statistics might be too much information about an unpleasant situation.  For others, who are not accustomed to using the internet for research or verification purposes, but only for exchanging vapid social pleasantries and believing everything they're told, such real statistical information might be inaccessible, given their limited outlooks and imaginations.  For me, it's a sort of tonic that, if taken in moderation, helps me to understand things as they change.  Italy's curve is beginning to flatten, slowly, for example.  They had the lowest daily death count today since a month ago.  China is doing pretty damned well, too.  The U.S. now accounts for almost 40% of all active cases of the virus worldwide.  Bulgaria, for some reason, is doing pretty well, probably because nobody gives a shit about it and they don't go there.  Closer to home, the Coachella Valley death count has been pretty stable, and pretty low, for a couple of weeks.  Maybe that will change, and maybe not.  Tune in tomorrow.  All of these things provide me with grist for the mill in my mind that tries to make rational sense of the situation without getting too optimistic or too pessimistic.

     The people for whom I condescend to feel most sorry these days are not those who get their "news" from Facebook (God help them), but those who rely on, and keep their television sets tuned to, 24-hour TV news services for their information, even the more "liberal" ones like CNN and MSNBC, because as watchers they must live with the constant "breaking news" harangues from the talking heads who really have very little to talk about on the busiest days, and must stretch it out into endless hours of palaver.  The same thing happens when you read the newspapers, with their meaningless "human interest" stories about "one town's struggle," and all that horseshit, but at least you can just turn the page of a newspaper.  But that's not the worst part:  all of these TV news services put the ugly face of the president in front of us on a daily basis, often for long stretches at a time.  Sure, it's often to criticize him afterwards, but the truth is that he gets so much free publicity from the news that after a while people get used to seeing him.  That's the worst part--getting used to seeing him.  It's like turning on the History Channel and seeing Hitler and Nazis all the time.  That simply isn't healthy for the human mind, even if the shows end with their demise and that of the Third Reich.  It regularizes evil, and dulls us to images of evil.  The same goes with pictures of Trump.  If you hate the guy, seeing him too often will make you get used to him, and you shouldn't get used to someone or something you hate--it's just not healthy, because eventually you'll lose your perspective and start relying on the regular consumption of the images of the person or thing you hate.  That's why churches don't put pictures of Satan up everywhere, for crying out loud.  It doesn't make sense.  Sure, everyone knows about Satan, but they don't have to see pictures of him all the time to understand that he's evil.  If they put images or stained glass windows of him everywhere, pretty soon people would start worshiping him, because, let's face it, he's a lot more interesting-looking than Jesus is, even in his nude homoerotic agony on the cross.  The same thing has happened in reverse to viewers of Fox News with respect to Alexandria Ocasio Cortez, the socialist congresswoman from New York City.  They hate her so much that they publish stories about her almost every day, whereas the Democrats and their followers have adopted a ho-hum attitude toward her.  Yeah, they say, let her be the voice of the left wing of the party, but after all, she's a freshman with practically no power, and not even old enough to run for president, so just let her talk.  Meanwhile, I guarantee you, if you want to know anything about AOC, as she's known, you have to go to Fox News, where they love to hate her so much that she's developed almost a cult revulsion following.  It doesn't hurt that she's easy on the eyes (just imagine if Trump were that attractive what a mess we'd be in), because one thing Fox News knows better than any other network is that cute women attract viewers, which is why the average Fox News person on air is an attractive blonde.  I will bet you dollars to donuts that the die-hard Fox News male watchers are sitting in their recliners jacking off to AOC just as much as they are to any of the rest of them.

     But aside from the news, with the help of friends I've found such things as a website containing tens of thousands of books whose copyrights are expired, just ready for easy streaming onto my laptop.  And of course if one wishes to pay money, there are endless more recent books as well.  Since I am a devotee of 19th century British and American fiction I am in hog heaven, reading Conan Doyle, Balzac, Dreiser, and others.  Once you scrunch the pages down to the width of a book page, they're pretty easy to read. 

     Another thing I've found is an increased need to communicate with my friends and an excuse to do so.  Also, I have found an interest in my extended family that is more than abstract.  For some this might have been the way of things before this crisis, but for me, as a person naturally prone to isolate, it was not.  Somehow enforced isolation brings with it more of a tendency to reach out than the regular shutting out of the world did before. 

     And to put a final point on all this, I have found small pleasures in small things, like birdsong and flowering bushes and small animals and various types of weather, that somehow never made much difference to me before.  "Glory be to God for dappled things" as Gerard Manley Hopkins said.

     All of this might emanate from a kind of semi-mad stir craziness that will fade away when the virus does.  That remains to be seen.  I hope not, because I've found some pretty good things.   

Home, For Now

March 29, 2020

Cathedral City, California

     The RV park where we're staying is pretty nice, as these things go.  Last year we stayed at a place that was much more redolent of trailer park than RV park, if you know what I mean.  There were permanent residents, as there are here, but many of them had converted their small pull-behind trailers into tiny houses, complete with little plastic picket fences, lawn trolls, and Japanese lanterns.  These were, for the most part, people who couldn't afford to live anywhere else and who would have decorated their lawns like that even if they lived in regular houses, replete with year-round Christmas lights.  From the open screen doors of their dwellings came the jagged coughs of elderly smokers and the rough baritones of whiskey-voiced women.  Life had ridden most of those folks hard and put them away wet, and what they had to show for it was a trailer and a few square yards of crappy living space.  To be sure, there were a number of spaces there for transient vacationers such as ourselves, but the atmosphere was, shall we say, mixed.

     This year's dwelling place is a cut or two above that.  As I said, there are a few year-rounders, but all of them, and the majority of the rest of the occupants, have large nearly-new class A motor homes or spacious fifth wheels of the sleek variety, often exceeding 40 feet in length, with three or four sliders.  Having attended several annual RV shows at the Pomona Fairplex in LA County, I know that the class A's of that size often cost over $250,000 new, and the fifth wheels about half that.  Our modest 2006 32-foot class A looks perfectly respectable, but somewhat small and doughty, by comparison.  And we bought it when it was 11 years old, so it cost less than one of the overpowered four-door pickup trucks that seem to be the vehicle of choice for pulling a fifth wheel.

     Perhaps half the denizens of this park hail from Canada, and mostly from British Columbia.  A fair number of the park dwellers, and the Canadians, are male gay couples.  However, in light of the acceleration of the coronavirus epidemic, most of the Canadians cleared out at least a week ago, heading for an uncertain border crossing and what they assume will be a 14-day quarantine once they get home.  The mass migration of the Canadians, like that of the painted lady butterflies hereabouts or the monarchs over in the California central coast, was to be expected anyway, but not for another month or so.  Entomologists might say, "Well, the Canadians are a little early this year."  These Canadians are restricted to no more than 182 days (I think) per year in the U.S., and if they overstay their welcome here in the land of the free, they risk being prohibited from re-entering for up to five years.  And worse yet, from their point of view, if they stay for a half year or more they will be subject to U.S. and, I presume, California income taxes.  Despite their unfettered leisure time and apparent affluence, which permits them, despite the comparative weakness of the Canadian dollar, to spend their time in quarter-million-dollar RVs, and travel back and forth to California (not to mention for some of them the Mexican Pacific resort areas), they seem to regard the whole subject of the virus and forced social distancing (which they don't observe very well, considering that most of them are in a vulnerable demographic group), as something of a joke, and really, more of an annoyance than anything else.  Perhaps it's in their national character to act mildly annoyed and bemused by just about everything, as a sort of antidote to what they may justly regard as the U.S. tendency toward shrill hysteria.  I don't know. 

     Fortunately for most of them, the weather in the Vancouver area, where they are principally from, is comparatively mild in April.  There is a couple from Ontario still here, and they're not going anywhere just yet, for obvious reasons.  That leaves a smattering of U.S. folks, mostly from places like Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and South Dakota, from whence, like us, they've come to miss out on winter.  And the year-rounders I mentioned.  It's rare to see a motor home from east of the Mississippi, or from south of the Mason-Dixon line.  Folks out there go to Florida or just stay where they are. 

     And speaking of staying where you are, we are doing just that.  The virus situation is unfolding and unforgiving and changing so rapidly that it's not even worth going into detail about it here.  You can read the newspapers or the online stuff, and anything I say now will be at least partly obsolete tomorrow.  We're staying in and taking walks around the sparsely populated park and doing lots of reading and some TV streaming, which in truth is what we were doing anyway, except that now there's no going out for sushi and Thai and Mexican and to the movies.  I go out every ten days or so to the grocery store and take all the precautions I can short of wearing a hazmat suit.  This is life for most of us around the world, so I'm not telling you anything.  And if it's not life for you, then you're a fucking fool, and a dangerous one at that, unless you have the misfortune of being a healthcare worker, grocery store employee, or cop or firefighter, in which case I wish you the best and urge you, in the case of the cops, not to shoot anybody.

The City of Dank

March 7, 2020

Cathedral City, California

     It seems that Cathedral City, our home away from home this winter, has been freely zoned for marijuana dispensaries, and contains more of them than the other towns here in the Coachella Valley.  The Coachella Valley, for those of you who aren't familiar with it, is the Southern California desert lowland in which Palm Springs is located at the northwestern end, followed, heading southeastward, by Cathedral City, Rancho Mirage, Palm Desert, Indian Wells, La Quinta, and Indio, then more southward through Coachella, Thermal, and Mecca, to the Salton Sea.  The area is about 45 miles long altogether and an average of fifteen miles from north to south, bounded more or less by Interstate 10 on the north and California 111 on the south.  It ranges from just under 500 feet above sea level at Palm Springs to 272 feet below sea level on the surface of the Salton Sea.  But altitude is not really important to the issue of marijuana sales, except perhaps in terms of how high one must get in order to be as high as the folks in, say, Denver.

     The legal recreational marijuana industry, here in California as in the other states where it exists, has given rise to a unique set of commercial nuances.  Business names and logos are important, just as they are in fast food or tax preparation, for instance.  Places must be easily recognized for what they are, and labeled in such a way that they will attract the intended clientele.  That clientele can vary.  Of course there are the everyday stoners who just want to get high, who I'm sure make up the bulk of the customer base of any marijuana dispensary, just as everyday or regular drinkers, as differentiated from those who take a drink only on special occasions, keep the alcoholic beverage sales industry going.  But there are also the folks who consider marijuana something more (or perhaps less) than a THC delivery system--those who believe in the curative, sedative, and restorative qualities of the noble weed.  Of course, now that recreational marijuana use is legal across the board in a number of jurisdictions and trending more that way, much of the bullshit, quasi-bullshit, and sincere beliefs that fostered the prescription-only medical marijuana industry, such as its anti-nausea qualities, its ability to relieve pain, its calming effects, and the various real or imagined magical qualities of hemp in all its forms, may be dispensed with as pretexts for its legality.  No longer do ardent users have to try to persuade legislatures of the inherent goodness of weed, like children trying to convince their parents that joining the circus would be a good thing because it will enable them to broaden their horizons.  Here again the analogy to alcohol is strong.  Even during Prohibition, pharmacies were permitted to dispense alcohol for medicinal purposes, many of which were believed to be similar to those of marijuana--it can calm you down, it can relieve pain, it makes other medicine go down better, etc.  In the 19th century and before, alcohol was just about the only reliable medicine, along with opiates, available to the general public, and furthermore was one of the only safe things to drink, besides boiling-hot tea and coffee, from the standpoint of being free of waterborne pathogens, such as cholera.  For that reason, the consumption of beer and wine were considered downright healthful, and laudanum, which was opium dissolved in alcohol, was a sure-fire winner, and generally thought to be good for what ailed you, from tuberculosis to migraines to menstrual pain.  Addictive as hell as it turned out, but as long as it was cheap and legally available, not so terrible in the minds of the public.

     All of which brings us back to Cathedral City and its many marijuana dispensaries, often including on-premises consumption lounges.  Although I have not partaken of this earthly delight for many years, since back when it was illegal everywhere in this country and far less potent that it is today, I remain fascinated by the existence of the thriving legal dope-selling industry as it begins its life--something I never thought I'd see.  Within a few blocks, or at most a mile, of where we're situated, there are several dozen such emporiums, and their names are often fanciful, and probably more varied than the products they sell.  One place advertises on a billboard, "Smoke it, Eat it, Drink it, Enjoy it."  Green crosses frequently signal dope shops, just as in Europe the green cross is the universal sign of a pharmacy.  Here are some of the names of the places I pass nearly every day:  Mother Earth's Farmacy, Cathedral Green, Atomic Budz, House of Lucidity, and The Vault.  A little further out, but still in Cathedral City, one can find Dank DePot, Green Cross Pharma, West Coast Cannabis Club, Iguana Collective Dispensary, The OG Collective, and more.  But by far my favorite, by name, is The City of Dank, a place situated nearby in a tiny strip mall, together with a Philly cheese steak restaurant and the Show Girls Gentleman's Club.

     During the many years I have been out of the marijuana consuming game, so to speak, the terminology has changed.  We used to call it grass, or weed, or dope, or reefer, or (not very often) pot.  And if it was strong, we'd simply say it was "good" or "righteous" or maybe "killer."  A marijuana cigarette was a joint, and a pipe was a bong.  Types might include Acapulco Gold, something with the word "red" in it, I think, and most often just weed of unknown origin.  Much of it was filled with seeds and stems, and flower buds were a rare treat.  My memory is, understandably, foggy about any more details than that.  But suffice it to day, things were a bit simpler.  And as with anything else, one falls out of the loop, jargonwise, quite quickly if one does not keep up.

     Today, as with the marketing of alcoholic beverages, there is, if anything, an excess of choices, nuances, and sales pitches for marijuana.  Does it give you a body high, a head high, a creative high, or a combination thereof?  Is it relaxing or is it downright shit kicking and hallucinogenic?  In the world of alcohol, the simple drinking of a beer, a beverage with very little alcohol, something that should take about a minute and a half followed in a few more minutes by the need to urinate and another beer, has become a Big Fucking Deal, far beyond the rather lowly status of such a pedestrian potable.  There are craft beers and specialty beers and fruity beers of all kinds, and the bulletin boards of bars and restaurants will list them all, including their relatively puny alcohol contents, for the serious and "discerning" consumer.  To be sure, there have always been different types of beer--lager, Pilsener, porter, and stout, to name a few--but the act of selecting one or the other, and the absurd snobbery associated therewith, has never before been elevated to such complicated heights.  Even the act of putting a slice of citrus fruit in the neck of a beer bottle would once have been considered an irksome hindrance to ready access to the contents of the container.  Wine and wine loving was always a more complicated thing, since it was inherently something to complement food, or to come before or after a meal, so taste and flavor and quality meant more.  The only kinds of food beer pairs well with, really, are, besides salty snacks, pizza and maybe burgers and dogs and fried chicken.  Beyond that, the purpose of beer is or should be to give you something to drink a lot of over a fairly long time, at a comparatively low price.  There are exceptions, but most folks don't usually buy 24 bottles of wine or a dozen liters of whiskey to consume during the course of an evening with a few friends watching the Super Bowl.  And you don't order a glass of whiskey to wash down a beer.  It's the other way around.

     Anyway, the name City of Dank intrigued me, and thanks to the miracle of the internet I was able to ascertain that the word "dank," as an adjective and sometimes a noun, denotes particularly strong and high quality marijuana.  When I looked up City of Dank on Google, I of course saw the name of the place I'm referring to here in Cathedral City, along with (you gotta love it) Yelp reviews.  But I also discovered that there's a song called "The City of Dank," by a Houston-based hiphop group called SPM, or South Park Mexican.  The chorus of this ditty goes, in part,

          Well I come from the City of Dank,
          Where n*****s shoot hop, snort, and smoke crank.
          Where anything's possible and nothin' fa sho'
          High off Khadafi mixed with blow.

The exact meaning of "Khadafi" in this context was more difficult to discover than was the meaning of "dank," which seems to be pretty well known.  As with the etymology of any term that has no obvious linguistic origins, whether it's reported in the Oxford English Dictionary or an online urban or slang dictionary, the meaning is usually teased out by citations to its first known use, or to a few different such occurrences.  As far as I can tell, after some research, "Khadafi" denotes a drug (probably heroin) whose effect may also be to make you as crazy as the late Libyan Colonel Muamar Khadafi, who was indeed known for his craziness.  Mix it with cocaine (blow), and well, I suppose anything's possible, as the song says.

     I'm a hopeless old fogey by South Park Mexican standards, I admit, but it seems pretty obvious to me that the words from "The City of Dank" cited above point with a certain measure of pride to the profligate consumption of a variety of very strong drugs within its eponymous earthly paradise, and not of the kind sold over the counter at your average Cathedral City legal dope house.  As such, it's difficult for me to understand why that name would be a good ambassadorial invitation into the place, especially considering that one of the glowing online reviews of the City of Dank had its proprietor gushing about how wonderful it was to see an old woman come in and obtain what she needed in order to be able to play, pain free, with her grandchildren.  Again analogizing to alcohol, imagine calling a bar The Stagger On Inn, or a liquor store A Drunkard's Dream.  Now, there are bars and there are bars, as we all know, from elegant cocktail lounges to buckets of blood, but as a marijuana dispensary, the City of Dank doesn't strike me as your mother's, or grandmother's, kind of place.  More likely, its patrons go in to get as fucked up as possible, then wander out to consume a Philly cheese steak sandwich or two, and then maybe repair to Show Girls to gaze at naked pole dancers and sip on overpriced craft beers.

     Early in the evenings, at the corner of Perez Road and Cathedral Canyon Drive, just a block or two from where we stay, we began to notice a rank smell rising up from the dry desert floor.  At first it reminded me of skunk cabbage, or perhaps of a skunk itself.  But I realized that skunk cabbage favors wet areas, not the arid arroyos here in the northwestern Sonoran Desert, and also that skunks aren't very common hereabouts, and certainly not at the same time every evening.  So it dawned on me that the smell was the powerful Stank of the Dank, emanating from the collective exhaust systems of the consumption lounges of Mother Earth's Farmacy, Cathedral Green, the House of Lucidity, Atomic Budz, and yes, the City of Dank.

It's What It's

February 19, 2020

Cathedral City, California

     Do you ever wonder about contractions?  I find myself thinking about them a great deal of the time, which might tell you something about me and my priorities.  I don’t know.

     I recently re-watched a movie from a few years back, True Grit, starring Jeff Bridges among others.  It was a remake of the 1960s John Wayne movie, probably no more True than the first one, but with a little more Grit added by the Coen Brothers.  One of the things I noticed about the dialogue was the almost complete absence of the contractions we take for granted in regular speech.  First I thought that perhaps this was a mistaken idea by the Coens of how people talked during the last quarter or so of the 19th Century, or just a stylistic flourish to make the speech patterns of these rough-shod frontier folks more quaint and rhetorically appealing, as if all of them, from the proper church lady to the uneducated outlaw, had attended to their manner of speaking under the tutelage of some stern pedagogue wielding a hickory switch.  But just today I learned that the Coen Brothers had been true to the dialog from the novel on which the movies were based, by a writer named Charles Portis, who just died.  So it was the invention of the writer, and not of the Coen Brothers.  Jeff Bridges, as Rooster Cogburn, drunk by the campfire, says, speaking of the malefactor Tom Chaney, "If he is not in a shallow grave, somewhere between here and Fort Smith, he is gone.... The trail is cold, if ever there was one!  I am a foolish old man who has been drawn into a wild goose chase by a harpy in trousers--and a nincompoop!"  It's a fine piece of monologue, both funny and stilted, and devoid of contractions, which is as good a way to keep the attention of the audience as any, I suppose.  But what such dialogue accomplishes in terms of arresting and charming cadences it surrenders in verisimilitude.

     When one reads an old novel--say, one written in the middle of the 19^th Century--one does notice that contractions were not as prevalent in narrative and expository prose as they’re likely to be today.  Still, there is evidence that they were in as common usage then as they are now, based on the dialogue in those same novels.  Perhaps the particular contractions are different—shan’t, for instance, for shall not, or mustn’t, for must not, or daren’t for dare not, or be-n't for is not—but they were being used all the time in ordinary conversation among people both high-born and lowly.  Even Shakespeare, four hundred years ago, used contractions constantly, favoring words like 'tis for it is, and that's for that is.  Hamlet, in his famous soliloquy alone, uses no fewer than eight contractions.  True, some of those were for the sake of making his speech fit into the framework of iambic pentameter, but still, they were used, and I'm sure quite common among everyday speakers of the language. 

     Curiously, "ain’t" was perfectly acceptable until fairly recently, and was used by duchesses and blacksmiths alike.  I don’t know precisely when it became declasse, but anyone my age or younger knows that it’s considered substandard usage now, marking and indeed stigmatizing the uneducated as certainly as anything they might wear, eat, dwell in, or vote for.  That’s a pity too, since ain’t is one of the most versatile contractions around, standing for is not, are not, am not, and probably a few other word combinations I can’t think of now.

     Notwithstanding the True Grit take on the olden days, the history and course of any language illustrates the tendency of the people who speak it to make it flow more quickly, rather than less so, and to convey more meaning with fewer words, rather than with more.  Call it efficiency, or if you're a snob call it laziness.  If you're a linguist, call it elision.  There's an almost gravitational movement in the direction of scrunching words together rather than drawing them out.  Instead of saying "God be with you" every time we part from one another, we say "goodbye."  That one's so old that no one remembers when it was otherwise, but it certainly was at one time.      

     We now convey more with short words like "like" in combination with the verb to be than ever before.  "He was like, oh my god, and I was like, duh!" could be more eloquently written, but not with so few words:  "He expressed surprise at what I told him, and I responded that he should not be surprised at all."  Of course the president wouldn't use such argot in a speech (okay, maybe this president would, but real presidents wouldn't).  My point is that all this word compression, as well as the tendency to use the smallest and simplest words, and to give them more meaning, in place of more complex or multi-syllabic ones, is a natural linguistic tendency in everyday speech.

     Still, there is something more arresting or hortatory in speech that does not use contractions.  It somehow begs to be understood more and taken more seriously.  Great orations, from Lincoln's Gettysburg Address to the inaugural addresses of presidents, seldom contain contractions.  At some level, in spite of the more relaxed forms our everyday speech takes, we value contractions less than we do their more drawn out counterparts.  When God gave Moses the stone tablets, the commandments started with Thou Shalt and Thou Shalt Not, rather than the simpler Don't, even though the first written use of the word "don't" is thought to have occurred around the time of the King James translation of the Bible.  It just seemed more official serious, like your mother standing with her hands on her hips and saying, "You WILL clean your room before you go out to play."  Even now, if you were to day "Don't move," it wouldn't carry quite the same force as "Do not move," would it?

     So besides compressing the language, contractions seem to round off its sharper and more commanding edges.  Even so, the frequency with which we use them in more or less official writing is gradually increasing.  How do I know this? you might ask.  Well, how's this:  on older typewriters, such as the manual one on which I learned to type back in eighth grade, the apostrophe, that indispensable component of the contraction, was located on the upper case of the "8" up on the number row, keeping company with the open and closed parentheses, the ampersand, the dollar sign, and other lesser figures.  Today, it has graduated to the middle row, just to the right of the colon and semicolon key, within easy reach of your right little finger, and in the lower case, to boot.  That shows you that somebody saw the need to put that sucker somewhere more convenient, if you ask me.

     Well, I don't quite know where I'm going with this, or quite how to end it.  It's just something I had on my mind.  Like everything in language, contractions follow their own path of progress, with or without our approval.  Ultimately, it's what it's. 

Tattoo You

January 29, 2020

Cathedral City, California

     Like many people over a certain age I have been watching the proliferation of tattoos among the general public with a mixture of perplexity and grim amusement.  Here's where my age really shows.  When I was growing up the only people I knew who had tattoos were veterans of World War II or Korea, and they were all men.  Usually the tattoos were fairly small and confined to the forearm or upper arm, and focused, subject-wise, on emblems of the military, like eagles or anchors or occasionally mottoes of some kind--Semper Fi, etc.  They would sometimes be a bit more fanciful than that, but not often.  An in-law of mine had acquired a skull with a dagger being driven through it on his upper arm, which he had gotten in the Philippines in 1946.  Our neighbor across the street, who had been in the Navy, had a tattoo of Betty Boop wearing a bra top and a grass skirt.  He claimed that his Betty had originally been naked, but his post-war wife had made him add the clothing.  That was about as risque and imaginative as things got where I came from.  Women most definitely did not have tattoos, at least not any of the women I ever knew, since I did not frequent New Orleans brothels as a kid growing up in the suburbs of Oakland County, Michigan, nor did I ever travel with the circus or know any Maori warriors.  I'm sure jailhouse tattoos existed back then, and that military veterans weren't the only people who got tattoos--there were bikers and other free spirits and degenerates who no doubt had them too.  But as a rule, people didn't have tattoos unless they had had some sort of rather intense experience to go with them.  Tattoos were, if you will, souvenirs of various of life's vicissitudes--warfare, confinement, degradation, solidarity, or utter depravity.  People who had been through nothing of the sort, meaning almost everyone, didn't see the point in having indelible ink on their skin for the rest of their lives, to commemorate things like, say, graduation cum laude from college, or employment at General Motors, or for losing a loved one, or for being a parent for crying out loud.

     It need hardly be said that things are different now.  Today it seems difficult for most folks to find a reason not to get a tattoo.  I chalk this current tendency up to several things.  (You'll notice that the none of the reasons I shall enumerate for the rise in tattoos are positive ones, betraying the fact that I do not view this phenomenon in a very favorable light.)  The first is simple conformism.  People see other people getting tattoos, and they want them too, just as they want to wear certain clothing or hair styles.  This is a characteristic of human behavior that is far older than tattooing, of course.  And it has analogues in the behavior of other animal species, such as lemmings.  The difference between wearing one's hair a certain fashionable way, or having a particular pair of shoes, on the one hand, and getting a tattoo, on the other hand, is or should be obvious to all concerned.  The hair grows out, the shoes can be replaced, but the tattoo will be there until the day you die unless you undergo painful surgery to remove it.  Very few people at the age of forty would wear their hair as they did when they were twenty, nor would they wear the same clothes.  People my children's age look back on photos of themselves from the 1980s and laugh at the big, overstyled and overcurled way they wore their hair, or how they tucked their leggings into their socks and affected the "preppy" look that was best embodied in the character of Ferris Bueller's sister.  My adult children wish to continue to follow fashion, to some degree, and these things just aren't fashionable any more, at their age or any other.  They understand that decisions made in adolescence are almost invariably, well, adolescent, and inherently transitory.  Life has a way of doing that to us.  We start smoking as teenagers, to be cool, and then we get addicted to nicotine, and spend the rest of our lives, sometimes successfully, and sometimes not, trying to kick the habit.  But at least it's possible to do so.  Yet somehow, in a sort of  movement of mass hysteria, teenagers and young adults are getting tattooed, thereby committing the most indelible nonlethal act of youthful indiscretion possible.  And that includes three of my four children, sadly.  True, when they are old and tattooed, they will have plenty of company.  But whatever profound or whimsical or deep meanings the tattoos once had will have gone, and only the blue will remain on their wrinkled skin, looking like irregularly-shaped bruises.  Most of our youthful indiscretions, if they are kept to ourselves, can accompany us to the grave without being noticed by others; but tattoos begotten in the prime of our lives will stay until the last, bearing mute testimony to whatever foolishness led us to get them in the first place.  Meanwhile in a generation or two tattoos will have fallen out of fashion, and will come to represent the hopelessly outdated practices of an older, misguided generation.  The main problem, besides the obvious disfiguring and embarrassing one, is that unless the tattooed people die the day after they get the tattoos, they will almost invariably live to regret them.

     The second reason people get tattoos, slightly more nuanced than the first, is that in general, people lack specific ideas and ideals around which to focus their existences, so they think that by putting some designs on their skin they have sort of joined a club, which I suppose they have done in a way.  The Club of Nincompoops.  They are thereby one with those other folks who have tattoos.  Never mind what the tattoos are, and how varied and unfocused are their messages.  The important thing is that they have ink, like everybody else (or at least everybody else within their narrow frames of reference).  I have occasion to go to a day spa hot spring from time to time, and thus have a chance to see many partially-clothed people of all ages and sizes.  Lacking any common focus for their tattoos, they tend to choose fancy dragon-like designs or collections of Chinese characters--things they saw on others that they sort of liked--or swirly cursive renditions of their children's names and dates of birth, or the dates of death of their close relatives, friends, or who knows who.  Some folks go for large lettering of the names of their wives or girlfriends, or photo-like renditions of their nearest and dearest, without regard to whether they will be so near and so dear in a few years, or will, with the inevitability of gravity, even vaguely resemble those individuals by the time their skin has loosened and sagged.  (I knew a guy about two decades ago who loved Jimi Hendrix, so he got his face tattooed on his arm.  The problem was that it didn't look all that much like Jimi Hendrix, and more like some unnamed Native American.  So he constantly had to explain what the tattoo was.  Well, at least he saw the error of his ways more or less immediately.)  Most tattoos tend to be intensely personal in nature, doubtless reflecting the person's mood and frame of mind at the time they got the tattoos, but without regard for what their mood will be in a few years.  If the people are fat, the tattoos tend to draw attention to the vast expanses of flesh they possess, like the over-sized canvasses of the neoclassical painters of the French Napoleonic period, on which the tattoo artist has to work.  If the people are good-looking--muscular men or women possessed of smooth curvaceous and otherwise unblemished skin, the tattoos mar the fine natural landscapes of their bodies, like random stains on a beautiful piece of fabric or gashes of graffiti on architecturally attractive buildings.  Tattoos enhance natural ugliness and besmirch natural beauty.  And there is essentially no area of the body that is immune from tattoos, from head to foot.

     The third reason for tattoos flows from the second one.  Because most people are socially and morally unfocused, and tend to spend a great deal of their time watching violent cartoon-like and comic book-inspired movies and reading garbage on their smart phones, they have become inured to depictions of extreme absurdity and vulgarity.  Thus they are unable to differentiate the comic book realm from the realm of reality, and are unable to recognize the foolishness of what they see.  Besides that, they're high or stoned much of the time.  They have so much sensory input from all sides, that it's almost as if they are in anti-sensory deprivation chambers, filled not with silence and lack of sensation, but instead with too much meaningless white noise and chaos.  Thus almost devoid of anything that could possibly shock them or wake them up, they come to crave the pain of getting the tattoo itself, and care less what the ink says than what the process of getting it does to them in terms of sharply focused sensory input.  Tattoos in this context are the equivalent of beating your head against the wall, because it feels so good when you stop.  This pain consideration often divides the tattooed people from the untattooed people.  Those who do not particularly like pain, and have found enough in life to stimulate them in more focused ways, tend not to get tattoos.  These latter folks are, not coincidentally, on the whole more intelligent and better educated, too.

      Another reason for tattoos, perhaps wrapped in the tendrils of the previous ones, is narcissism.  The social media and recent technologies have instilled in practically everyone who uses them a sense of preoccupation with themselves in a way that was never before possible except among the insane or insufferable.  Facebook says to the world, "Here's what I think, where I am, what I'm eating or enjoying, and what amuses me or pisses me off," whether anyone is interested or not.  Twitter says, "This is what I'm thinking RIGHT NOW, in 280 characters or less," whether anyone is interested or not.  Instagram says, "Here's what I look like RIGHT NOW, as I'm in the act of saying or doing whatever I feel like saying or doing," whether anyone is interested or not.  (This very blog, I'll admit, is an instance of the social media, except that it's much less accessible, which is why I have about eight followers, instead of 11,000, which in turn is why the things I say won't have much of an effect on others.)  All this wasn't possible a generation ago, and so people didn't assume that anyone necessarily gave a rat's ass about their innermost thoughts and opinions, or what they look like while acting foolish at any given moment, which, in point of fact, most people don't.  This was a good thing, because it tended to keep people's egos in check, not to mention allowing people time to think about what they might say and do, and often wisely to decide not to say and do those things.  Ah, the lost art of impulse control.  Tattoos precisely reflect the narcissism and lack of impulse control created and fostered by the social media, only in a much more indelible way.  They say, in a way nothing else can do, LOOK AT ME (and see what a fool I am).

     The next reason for tattoos is akin to body dysmorphia.  That's the condition in which people completely lose sight of the objective realities of their bodies.  They become obsessed with self-perceived flaws, often leading them to diet excessively and unhealthily, or to get plastic surgeries that end up going right past mildly corrective and into freakishly disfiguring.  Yet they do not realize how ugly they look, with their fish lips and taut skin and outlandishly high cheeks.  As it occurs in tattooing, it is what causes people to get more and more tattoos, thinking that if one tattoo looks good (to them or a few other similarly tattooed people) then additional ones will look even better.  Eventually they're covered with tattoos in a way that would make a freak in the employ of P. T. Barnum positively green with envy.  It is akin to the phenomenon in a certain society of stretching the lips and putting plates in them until they stick out half a foot or so, and calling that beauty.  Almost everyone from outside that society can see how absurd that is, and regards it as ugly and disfiguring.  Except, that is, for that small group.  In a few years, millions and millions of people are going to be looking at the tattooed people of today and shaking their heads, wondering what they were (or more likely weren't) thinking.   

   The last reason for the great proliferation of tattoos, and surely the most important one, is a sort of corollary to all the rest of them, or more accurately the overarching reason for them, and that is stupidity.  The abundance of pure unadulterated idiocy among humans is staggering, and nowhere is it more evident or inexcusable than in tattoos.  People look back to the Middle Ages and say that folks were really ignorant.  And in terms of technological knowledge we certainly have come a long way since then.  But at the core of our beings we are still as ingenuous and superstitious and just plain toe-stubbingly doltish as we were when we dragged our knuckles on the ground.  There are many more of us on the planet, and we're healthier on the whole and better able to get around.  But we're just as benighted as ever.  And nowhere is our inherent stupidity more in evidence than in the phenomenon of tattooing.  Where once (and sometimes now as well) tattoos were the symbols of a comparatively narrow shared experience, like being in war, or prison, or a gang, today they are evidence of nothing much at all, except the silliness of wanting to be like others, without regard to the consequences.

     What's to be done?  Well, nobody asked me for my opinion, but I think that this thing, as I've suggested, will just have to play itself out, going the way of the powdered wig, the wing collar, and the tie-dyed t-shirt.  All things must come to an end, eventually.  In the meantime, it seems to me that with what we know about the human body, not to mention chemistry, someone could come up with a tattooing process, or an ink, that naturally fades and goes away completely after, say, five to seven years.  How goddamned difficult could that be?   We already know that some tattoo ink colors naturally fade more quickly than others.  If all tattoos had a comparatively short life, tattoo artists could stay in business, and people could, after coming to their senses, go back to having the skin they were born with.  Hell, under those circumstances, I might even get a tattoo.  Maybe one that says, "Stupid for a day."