Occupy the Living Room

Don’t get me started.

            That’s the worst thing you can do. Give me that little opening, and that’s it, you’re done. Cooked - boerwors on the braai pit, chicken over the charcoal.

            I don’t know how many times I’d told her that. And after all that she still let me in.

            We were watching the World Cup on tv.

            “Do you know how much Messi makes?”

            That was enough for me.

            “The extreme wealth of some people is obscene. What do they do to deserve all that luxury? Does what they contribute really justify so much money being funnelled into them, sponging it all up?” I said. It was a question but I wasn’t very interested in an answer. “I don’t think so. You can’t tell me that the contributions to society or community or whatever entity beyond their own little egos you might think of, that actors or athletes or celebrities or CEO’s or lawyers or politicians or whoever you care to name, merit the mountains of rewards that are bestowed upon them!”

            I took a long pull off the beer. Outside a couple of cars had pulled up in front of my place and the occupants had piled out to piss in the street and throw their empties into the weeds that lined the sidewalks. House music blasted from the open car doors sounding like a wrecking yard.

            I lived on a little side street of a major byway. People were forever pulling on in to take a breather, apparently - eat a sandwich, have a drink, smoke a joint, engage in a lover’s quarrel after an all night party, make a call on the cell, or just have a little party like these assholes were doing at that moment.

            “I like freedom to do as I please as much as anyone, but I propose that we impose a threshold. Beyond that threshold, you can accumulate no more wealth. That’s it! You’re done! We’ll allow for a range of affluence, from the poor to the slightly well-off, but no one gets to be filthy rich, hogging everything for themselves…Marx was right, but that didn’t work, so this is the least we can do.”

            “Who decides on the threshold?”

            “Either by referendum, or a consensus of the wise.”

            Even I had to laugh at that.

            With a few slams of their silver doors and some stupid toots off their tuned hooters along with violent prodding of their surrogate genitals the sudden party was over and it was quiet again. Before the revving sound of their ripping through the gears had subsided a gaggle of souls scuffed up the street from Beaufort, singing in a spontaneous harmony. They sang well, a joy ringing through the night.

            “We’ll call it capped capitalism. This much and no more!” I demonstrated the level of the threshold with my hand.

            “But who decides?”

            “Yes, that’s tough. Who decides? Someone has to. There’s no doubt that there has to be some coercion. People will not do this voluntarily. That was the moment for Che, when he went from being an idealist to a murderer. People will not do this voluntarily. Fuck!”

            She leaned my way to kiss me, but I passed it off.

            “But we can’t let this continue, this rape of the people, this crap! Suffering these useless parasites sucking every ounce of resource to sooth their precious egos!”

            Since the kiss didn’t work, she handed me my beer. I took a huge hit. A drunken soul was stumbling down the street toward Beaufort, shouting gibberish. His footsteps scraped the street like shovels against a resistant soil. I listened to him, and in that moment felt a clean kinship.

No Title

Walking down the street I saw a sign that said ‘Live Jazz’. It was like an oasis after crossing dune after dune of desert. I went on in.

            There were three tables that housed people and two waiters stood by the bar.

            I walked up to the bartender.

            “I’ll have a Red Tail Ale and a shot of Jack Daniel’s. Where’s the band?”

            “They left. They’re not here anymore.”

            He walked off to get my drinks.

            Over at the three tables the people laughed, caught in their bubble. The rest of the room was dark.

            “Eighteen bucks.” said the bartender as he clunked my drinks onto the bar.

            “Phew…” I wasn’t used to prices like that. I looked out the window into the night. “Does Billie work here anymore?”

            “No, she’s gone.”

            “Monk?”

            “Gone.”

            “Miles?”

            “Gone.”

            “Look, last time I was in here all these people were here…Duke, Rahsaan, Wayne, Tony, Sonny, Bird, Art…what’s up?”

            “Gone.”

            He shrugged his shoulders and padded off along the planks.

            I was quick to down the Jack and chug my beer. I slammed the glasses down onto the oak and rose to leave, knocking over the stool. At least there’d be one other casualty from this tragedy.

            Outside on the street I took a deep breath of the winter air. Lights were being doused behind me, one by one.

            I looked off down the street in the direction I needed to go and it was even darker down there.

US and UN

Watching the Colbert Repor(t) some weeks ago there was a telling exchange and revelation when Colbert, acting in character of the conservative who is staunch in condemnation of the UN as an agent for global domination and subjugation of America, is countered by the statement from Susan Rice, US Permanent Representative to the UN, that ‘The UN can’t even issue a press report without the US’ approval.’

            A chilling affirmation of what very many countries around the globe have been claiming for a very long time.

            I have not heard any commentator or satirist pick up on this outlandish statement.

            That’s even more chilling.

More Baseball

In many of my moments of baseball reverie I have been struck by the vitriolic hatred that Barry Bonds elicits from a legion of followers of the game. I find it to be a mystery and an abominable contradiction. Surely, on any objective assessment, Bonds was one of the very greatest players of all time. Why all the hatred?

            The early stages of this hatred almost surely arose from Bond’s disdain for sports writers. Look at it from his point of view: a gaggle of gossip hacks that are completely unable to do the thing about which they write, and therefore essentially don’t know what they are talking about, continually pester one with dumb questions and rude probes into one’s personal life. What does an intelligent person do? Well, avoid them, of course. But then, this is not what ‘celebrities’ are supposed to do. Celebrities are supposed to kiss ass to ensure that the fan’s asses get out there on the seats and that further endorsements and investment opportunities continue to flow one’s way, not to mention so that writers can brag that they’re best buds with Barry.

            I like it that Bonds didn’t care. It shows style.

            But the sports writers were offended. Their little egos were wounded and with typical small-minded bitterness they bit back. Imagine these people – hangers-on, talentless wannabes loitering around the locker rooms of nubile young men in jockstraps. But their venality and toxic envy reaches a lot of people.

            Strike one against Bonds.

            Almost no one will feel comfortable if I raise the race issue, but I must. Barry Bonds is a black man, but then again, so are Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, and many other revered baseball players. But Bonds was different. He demanded a respect beyond what the accommodating Aaron or Mays merely hinted at. He was an ‘uppity nigger’.

            Strike two against Bonds.

            Finally, there is the steroids dilemma. The demonization of Bonds over steroid use is of course, only an excuse. ‘Now we can finally nail him’ is the cry from the self-righteous and phony patriots who seem to think that baseball is an expression of an essential American spirit, and not a bloody monstrous entertainment business. I feel certain that few of these pious souls were not thrilled to see Barry blast homer after homer into McCovey Cove.

            That’s entertainment folks!

            Consider basketball players. How many people approach 7 feet tall? They might be considered freaks of nature. But this is not a problem, or considered ‘unfair’.

            McGwire, Sosa, Rodriguez, even Clemens…none of them are as hated as much as Bonds, even though they used as well; as did innumerable others lacking the talent of a Bonds, and for whom steroids could not suffice to transform them into superstars.

            Of course, even Aaron stated that he doubted steroids could have any effect on hand-eye coordination, and no one seems to consider Bond’s experience as a factor in his later batting performance, such as the exquisite patience in judging when to swing at a ball he developed in the ‘steroid years’. One can probably state that he was powered up enough to hit an extra 50 to 75 homers over his career due to steroids.

            Big deal. Should there be an asterisk next to those two records? Most likely.

            Arrogance. Funny concept. Self-confidence is generally considered to be a good thing. Be careful if you’re a public figure, I guess.

            Strike three against Bonds.

            Well, I say vote him into the Hall of Fame at the very first opportunity.

            As for steroids, let’s legalize them, and regulate them so that the entertainers have equal opportunity and are safe and remain healthy, as we sit back and watch a feast of physical wonders cross our screens.              

Ecology

For some time now I've been bothered about something. Hell, I'm always bothered about something, there's always some aspect of life with humanity that gets my goat. So it's nothing new and no surprise.
But I keep hearing these tags put on certain people who have a yearning for the natural world, such as poets, politicians, sociologists, activists of some sort of stripe...that they are 'ecologists'. There's a certain poet in Grahamstown, here in South Africa, where I am now, who has been called an 'ecologist'. There are many others, in many other places.
These people have a love for nature, and a drive to understand it. That is a very good thing.
But they are in no way ecologists.
Ecology is a science.
To do ecology one must formulate hypotheses, collect data, publish in peer-reviewed journals, present at scientific conferences.
One may quibble with the literal meaning of the word - study of the house - but to call oneself, or think of oneself, or consider anyone else, who does not engage in the processes outlined above, an ecologist...is an insult to the people who are really trying to understand the natural world.
It's good to have all these naturalists and environmentalists roaming about. But let's not call them ecologists.

Gettin' Happy

There is a gradient of accent as one moves from New York outward through the suburbs. It’s a gradient that reflects an economic and educational gradient, as the more well-off search for their little havens further away from the sordid pulse of the city. The rich sneer and street snap of the New Yorker becomes attenuated until finally all trace of regional accent is lost in the robotic and dulcet tones of TV Land.

            I grew up where the ebb and flow of the gradient mixed accents, like an estuarine blend of salt and fresh water, though the concentration of amorphic TV language had become predominant.

            We were in Romo’s Deli & Chop Shop one day, looking to steal something. It didn’t matter a lot what we would steal. The important thing was to get away with it.

            I was fingering a little packet of bubblegum and baseball cards, wondering if I really wanted Claude Osteen in my collection. He was on that great pitching staff of the LA Dodgers, but he wasn’t the best of them.

            I had the best collection of baseball cards in the neighbourhood. In fact, when I bequeathed it to my friend Adam Hines’ little brother Vin, he became a made man.

            “Hey, whatcha doin’?”

            Fritz was at my elbow, smelling like onions from a White Diamond ratburger.

            “You really wanna steal bubblegum?”

            “I’m thinking about the baseball cards.”

            “You and your fricking baseball cards. What’s with that shit?”

            “I like baseball.”

            “Yeah, but you like the Dodgers! Where’s your patriotism? You should like the Yankees!”

            I looked at him as if he was a mosquito singing Verdi. Apparently he wasn’t aware of the full force of Koufax.

            “Look, there’s some bottles of sherry over in the back corner.”

            I looked and sure enough, there were four or five brown bottles of cooking sherry with tan labels sitting on a dusty shelf, next to the wooden matches.

            “You want to drink that shit?” I asked.

            “Yeah, we take it back down to the park and get a little happy.”

            If only my parents could see me now, I thought.

            “Alright, I’ll go ask Romo about these baseball cards and you can stick a bottle under your armpit. Just walk out. I’ll meet you at the train station.” I said.

            The trouble was, as Fritz was sidling out through the front door the bottle of sherry slipped out of his armpit and would have broken onto the sidewalk if he hadn’t executed an acrobatic rescue.

            “Hey!” shouted Romo. “What da fuck ya doin’?” He ran toward the door.

            Fritz was off like a cheetah.

            “I don’t know that guy.” I said to Romo.

            “Fuck you, muddafucka!”

           

            Later on, down at the park, we got a little happy.

Spit

Let me start by saying that I love baseball, and have followed it closely most of my life. Not only did I play the game as often as I could as a kid, but I dreamed away my days in school immersed in the imaginary stats of an imaginary season of batting and pitching. By the end of the day I had batted .387 with 49 homers and 135 RBIs, but also had a 23-6 W-L record, a 1.89 ERA and had 256 SOs. I played Little League, sandlot hardball and softball in parks and on streets, stoopball, and stickball.

            I have been a baseball junkie in my time.

            But I have a problem with it lately, and this is it:

            What is it with baseball players and spitting?

            Watching a baseball game these days is like watching a gaggle of clams with legs. Spit, spit…spit, spit. Everybody does it. Even the managers and coaches do it. Even the bloody umpires do it. I keep watching hoping to see at least one single player refrain from spitting all over the show.

            It doesn’t happen. They all do it. Is it a requirement to get drafted?

            ‘What’s his spit like?’ the manager asked the scout.

            ‘Got a real good stream, good projection.’

            ‘How often?’

            ‘After almost every play.’

            ‘Sign him.’

            Can you imagine if basketball players did this? Football players?

            For one reason or another I haven’t seen a lot of baseball for awhile, partly due to 8 years living in South Africa. I got seriously into cricket there, a game vaguely similar to baseball. If cricket players sent sprays of greasy saliva all over the pitch they’d be booed off the field.

            I’ve been watching other sports with an eye to the spit. It’s understandable that athletes in indoor sports don’t spit all over their playing pitches…things could get slippery. But there’s nothing really stopping athletes in many outdoor sports from the…practice...or is it posture? The rugby World Cup is happening right now and I’ve looked for the spit. With minor exceptions I haven’t seen it. I look for it in soccer players and seem to miss good examples. I see no evidence of it in track and field. Tennis? I don’t think so.

            Maybe baseball players just have too much time on their hands (but that’s true of cricket players as well). There is a lot of tension and suspense as the innings build up. One must work one’s gums.

            Has it always been this way? I can’t seem to remember. I remember some guys back in the day with their tobacco chaw, and their salvos of brown gunge leaping from their lips. But I don’t remember the extent and pervasiveness of spitting I’m seeing in baseball now. Maybe it didn’t bother me then. I seem to remember doing a bit of spitting myself on the little league diamonds, imitating some big league player or other, I suppose.

            Bad model, that. Ugly crap. Saying that it’s a necessary consequence of some imagined need to chew some sort of sticky substance to calm the nerves won’t cut it. Somebody of authority really needs to impress upon these overpaid bozos that they are on national tv, up-close and personal.

            My wife is South African and loves sport and though she wants to enjoy baseball she can’t seem to penetrate the wall of spit. It’s sad, because it’s such a lovely game.

            Though I don’t like this word I have to use it because it fits perfectly; all this spitting is simply repulsive. Please stop.

A View from a Returning Expatriate

When during a phone interview connecting me to my potential colleagues in South Africa nine years ago, I stated that I had no passport, they just about gasped in astonishment. Such a thing is impossible for an academic in that and in most other countries. But it’s emblematic of life in these United States. The US is mired in a blinkered insularity that makes it and its people something of the village idiots to other folk around the planet. The perception that nothing that really counts happens outside the US is so pervasive that anyone who has seen first-hand the falsity of that perception, and experienced the consequences of it upon trying to re-integrate into America, may be forgiven for succumbing to a feeling of hopeless, helpless, frustration and rage.

            God help the immigrants.

            It’s pretty well accepted that the average American’s knowledge of geography is, well; let’s be blunt: piss-poor (When we told a waiter that we were from South Africa, East London to be precise, he enthusiastically bonded with us by telling us he had a friend in Djbouti, which was ‘near there, near Madagascar’.). But the problem ramifies into many levels of what should be routine, or at least humane, administrative tasks.

            Here are a couple of examples.

            There are any number of reasons to fill out online forms – job applications, credit applications, cell phone applications – you name it. Doing this for a US entity is often an exercise in futility if your current or last employer or place of residence is outside the US. The option to select such an outlandish reality simply does not exist. It is not provided for, as if such people do not exist. There are ways around this, of course, but more than once I have been thwarted in completing an application or some other form because my details were not accepted. I didn’t exist. My reality was not provided for.

            This may seem trivial, this business of thwarted form-filling, but I see it as being symbolic.

            Upon returning to the US after 8 years in South Africa I tried to open up a credit card account with a major bank. My application was denied because my credit history was deemed to be too sparse. I was advised to open up credit lines from one money lender or the other. In South Africa I had bought and sold a house and paid off the loan, had a continuous 5 year history of paying rent in full and on time, had paid off a car, had a credit card paid in full – all evidence of good credit. None of it counted. This history didn’t exist to the US bank. It’s as if the globe consists of the wide and bustling US with the rest of the landmasses blanked out, as if nothing ever happens in them, at least that matters to the commerce of individuals in the US.

            It’s interesting to watch tv news here, interesting because it’s so boring - in a fascinating world - but interesting to observe how little news from around the world is reported – except where the US is involved. What’s happening in other countries simply doesn’t matter to the American people, and the powers that be would rather keep it that way. It’s useful to have the people happy in their own little playpen and not looking outside at what the other kiddies are doing - or having done to them - in their name.

            My South African wife has been in the US for a month and said the other day that she felt isolated. By that she meant: isolated from the rest of the world. 

            This insularity of life in the US is almost understandable. In explaining why I didn’t have a passport to my South African colleagues, I stated that I simply didn’t need one. Everything I needed I could find in the US, and the conferences I attended were all typically in the US. It’s a big, well-endowed country. It’s all happening here. But this comes with a cost.

            The cost is not just the perception of the American people held around the world that we are kind of cute but a bit obnoxious and naïve overgrown children. This is the 21^st century we are in, and more and more the problems we face are global problems. It simply will no longer do to look inward, to be ignorant of causes and effects elsewhere in the world, to be careless of causes and effects elsewhere in the world, to be ever more protectionist, drawing the covered wagons round us. Such behaviour will incur a very large cost even in the short-term, never mind the long-run (it already has). We need to work and live with the people of the planet. Become people of the planet, in fact. It’s gratifying that our current President actually is such a person, and appalling that he has been vilified for being so.

            Even the concept of patriotism needs to be refined. Patriotism is a concept that has generally been used as a divisive mechanism. It’s useful in uniting one group of people but has the inevitable consequence of dividing humanity into ‘them’ and ‘us’. This is why patriotism is drummed across the land in times of war, of course. But to the extent that patriotism depends on the patriot feeling superior to ‘them’, it’s a false concept. If one’s sense of self-esteem depends on feeling superior to others, rather than gratified by one’s own accomplishments in and of themselves, then one can be said to be deluded, diseased in a way.

           The US is by no means alone in displaying some of these traits, but it’s exaggerated here, almost a caricature at times, in spite of any ‘what abouts’ one might call forth. I look forward to a United States that does not suffer such delusions, and sees uniting the global community in mutual respect and mutual curiosity as an important goal. A time when striving toward that goal is not seen to be un-American.

            A time when an expat or foreign national can find their country on the bloody drop-down menu.

Who would have thunk it?

Title comes from a Greg Brown song, but only a very short while ago I would have scoffed at the idea of having a blog. After all, this is completely unfiltered writing, unfettered by any aspect of peer-review...I have a problem with that. But let me join the club, if for no other reason than to get a few more people exposed to my writing...the kind that I often devote a bit more thought to than I would to a blog. Who knows? I will post spontaneous things here as well as things from the near and maybe even far past. I have 4 books of fiction that are available at http://www.lulu.com/, soon to be on Amazon. I'm working on a new novel, and I wouldn't be too surprised if I decide to publish one or two collections of poetry before I bite the dust. I have so many of them that I may need the help of an editor for that little exercise, however. I've been published here and there; I guess if you google me out you'll find out a few juicy tidbits.
That's all for now, but remember, 4 books of economical and honest prose at http://www.lulu.com/. Search my name, or for the titles: Cat Came Back and Other Stories, Two Trains Running, God Awful Acres, and Stockboy.