The Littlest Conscientous Objector

I found this very fascinating clip on Yahoo today about a 10-year-old Arkansas boy who refused to stand for and recite the Pledge of Allegiance in his classroom on the grounds that there is not enough “liberty and justice for all” to support the Pledge. He cited the lack of marriage rights for gays and lesbians as his primary reason for refusing the Pledge. Here’s a clip from his CNN interview:

As one can imagine, this little boy’s stance has generated a lot of goodwill from activists and Americans who share his viewpoints. But I have yet to hear, say, Sean Hannity’s response (if any) to young Will Phillips, the impassioned and well-spoken lad.

However, my first instinct was to be cynical. After all, he did pull this stunt under the guard of a substitute teacher. Maybe he felt as though he was likely to get away with it more. Or perhaps, along with his righteous intent, figured that razzing a beleaguered sub would be an added bonus. On one hand, his parents should be commended on raising a thoughtful, studious and intellectually engaged young child. Plus, in the age of brattiness run amok, I can appreciate Will’s brand of mannered, superior insouciance. (I don’t abide smarting off to teachers, no matter how obnoxious or power-trippy they can be, but “With all due respect , Ma’am, you can go jump off a bridge” beats the heck out of, say, “Fuck you, Teacher-Bitch!”). On the other hand, however, in the age of Jon vs. Kate Plus 8, Balloon Boy Heene and Toddlers and Tiaras, I remain a bit skeptical when ever the media touts its Exceptional Child of The Week; I can’t help but to question the motives of the parent. For me, it’s easy to see something as innocuous as a child refusing to rise for the Pledge as some sort of publicity stunt.

It’s a sign of the times: Person + Child = Snake Oil Salesman.

But once my cooler, less snarky head prevailed, I began to appreciate Will Phillips for taking a decisive stand on an issue and to respect his parents for backing him up. I, for one, believe that perhaps after Will laid bare his objections to the Pledge that the substitute should simply have let the boy be. This is, after all, still America and the boy was well within his First Amendment Rights to speak (or rather, sit) freely. And, for what it’s worth, the little guy did issue a written apology for his saucy retort so…go, Will.

My only guess is that the sub was wholly afraid that the youngster was only a rogue imam away from starting the Arkansas cell of Al-Qaeda.

Cute Shit Alert!

This just makes me smile. I haven’t blogged for the past couple of months but I’ll be back in the swing of things soon…not like anyone reads it though.

Wake Up, Mr. West!

It’s been three whole days since the latest Kanye West misstep. This time his well-documented egoism, his poor sportsmanship and his inability to hold his liquor have taken him too far off of the reservation. He’s no longer an amusingly eccentric and self-centered “genius” but he is now a tortured, broken maniac. Wake up, Mr. West. No more passes.

His fans have got to be the most appreciative, long-suffering or perhaps most deluded of any artist’s, especially of any rapper’s, on the scene today. Whenever he gate-crashes, speaks out of turn, puts on a poor show or breaks into a petulant hissy fit, we’re willing to let it slide (check out this ABC News link for the rundown of West’s poor conduct rap sheet). But this time is different.

West’s previous breaches in etiquette were often on his own behalf– particularly when protesting an award he’d lost to another artist. But this time he waylaid another artist’s moment to shine–in this case it was country-pop darling Taylor Swift’s moment of triumph–for no apparent reason. He sprang onto the stage and ripped the mic from young Swift’s hand only to declare that Beyonce had the greatest video of all-time in “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)”.  He tarnished a moment that had absolutely nothing to do with him for no reason at all except that he felt like doing it. Perhaps that was why he did it: to insert himself into what would become the biggest moment of MTV’s 2009 Video Music Awards.

I was livid for at least 20 minutes and subsequently deleted his latest album 808s and Heartbreak from my Zune.  I can no longer be counted a fan of Kanye West.

This moment serves as a great and unfortunate sign post of the times in which we live; a supremely uncivil and savage time in which people feel entitled to “keep it real”, saying how they feel just because they feel it. Hurt feelings and sullied reputations, be damned! We live in an age in which everyone wants to be the newest, wickedest reality show villain. Everyone wants to become famous on the heels of his snarky, poorly written gossip blog ala Perez Hilton. The times they are a-changing as we speak…and not for the better.

I am ashamed that I didn’t cease to be a Kanye fan after his previous displays of bratty behavior. We as a society continue to reward achievement often at the expense of goodness, grace, decency and manners, even. We’ve become a nation that values winners over champions. Winners are those that do whatever it takes to come out on top, just for the sake of being at the top. These “winners” are people who ‘roid up in order to bring home the gold versus a “champion” who stays clean, feels the pain, works hard and plays fair, maybe netting a silver (or a bronze) when competing against the “winner”, an abominable, performance-enhanced beast. Winners are obsessed with accolades, happiness, attention and status while champions have the grace, the heart and the strength of character to be their best not for the carrot at the end of the race but out of passion for the race itself. Winners do everything for prizes. Champions fight for love.

I don’t think anyone can rightfully deny that Kanye West works hard but what is he even striving for? Why does he have to punctuate every “loss” or every perceived snub with a temper tantrum? Why does he always have to be the snot-nosed kid who pumps his fists and shouts “I win” at the end of the board game (or, more aptly, the punk who knocks over the game pieces and pouts whenever he loses)? Most people want recognition and respect when they do a great thing but why does Kanye West feel the need to rob others of their moments in the sun? What makes him entitled to behave in such a fashion? Was he reared to be such a sore loser? Seriously, Kanye…what is your deal, homey?

Maybe he needs to sit in the corner by himself until he learns to play nice with the other boys and girls.

Guitar Zero: The Courtney Love Hate Tour!

Smells Like a Courtney Love Lawsuit!

I’ve always liked Courtney Love. She’s a bit of a mess but I was a Hole fan in the 90s. But I have to call shenanigans on the latest Love-related dust-up. Love is now suing Activision, the publishers of the smash-hit Guitar Hero franchise, over the use of Kurt Cobain’s likeness as an avatar in the latest installment of the video game series. She took her frustrations to Twitter, claiming that she never signed off on the use of Cobain’s likeness and that there have been four breaches of a “very strict contract”.

According to her grammatically annoying Tweet (does no one proofread anymore?), when she was approached by Activision, she demanded that they produce another avatar just to “drag [her] heels” even though, apparently, she had no real interest in participating in Guitar Hero. As Angie Tempura would say…bitch, pleeze!

She concludes her ranting by declaring that she is not “Yoko fucking Ono!” I agree. She is not Yoko Ono; she’s Courtney Fucking Love–and right now she’s coming off a lot worse than Ono has lately, at least in my opinion. Ono has never been as beholden to pissed-off Beatles fans as Love has been to Nirvana-worshippers. Plus when it comes time to profit off of her dead husband’s legacy, Ono does so coolly, judiciously and without much noise.

A few other points:
1) If Love was so dead-set against this whole thing, why not just hang up on Activision immediately after inviting them to go fuck themselves? I can only assume that she was offered an ass-load of money that she accepted willingly but is now kicking up an image-conscious ruckus. Love has been a bit of a “sellout” for years. Why doesn’t she just own it already?

2) Am I the only one who’s getting really annoyed by the millionaire musicians who continue to bash Guitar Hero…especially those who do so while licensing their songs to the game (and accepting forklifts of cash in the process)? I understand that many rockers feel that Guitar Hero is bastardizing their craft. That is a very valid and lamentable caveat against GH. But if these guys hate it so much, they should be like Prince and Jimmy Page and refuse to license their songs. The Rolling Stone bassist Bill Wyman has expressed similar sentiments yet his band’s music has appeared in at least two music games (GH and the rival Rock Band). Such ranting just seems disingenuous if these real-life Guitar Heroes aren’t putting their money where their mouths are.

Stash It or Cash It: Mariah Carey 2K Albums (LONG POST ALERT)

Judging by my empty cupboards (completely bare except for a 12-pack o’ Ramen noodles), the time has come for yet another soul-searching Stash It or Cash It blog post, in which I mine my over-abundant CD collection for expendable yet slightly profitable goods. Hopefully I’ll find a few treasures worth selling at Wherehouse music (or for cherishing–but in this time between paychecks, I’m more keen on cashing in). As I rifle through my collection I stumble upon a Mariah Carey three-fer: her triumphant comeback of sorts The Emancipation of Mimi (2005), the serviceable though inferior Mimi retread E=MC2 (2008) and the pivotal yet impossible-to-remember Charmbracelet (2002).

I will start by saying that Mariah Carey holds a special place in my heart. She speaks to the part of me that’s eternally adolescent, poorly-adjusted and hopelessly insecure. Carey touches the Outcast Mixed-Race Girl in all of us who’s still finding her way and trying to belong. I love Mariah Carey. That said, I need to part ways with my colossal CD collection. Sacrifices must be made. Therefore, I take the opportunity to reflect on Ms. Carey (okay…Mrs. Nick Cannon) and what her music means to me.

Somehow fans began to take Mariah Carey for granted as the 2000s fell upon us. We eased away from her records to attend to a new crop of singers who boasted one name (Ashanti! Pink!), were former Mouseketeers (Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, the bushy-haired boy in NSync), or were of Latin heritage (Ricky Martin of Menudo  and an intriguingly tacky Fly Girl named Jennifer Lopez). If you were a teenager during Carey’s 90s heyday you may have taken a notion to attend college where the Butterfly singer was considered passe and, as a result, you started trolling Wuxtry Records or attending shows at the 50 Watt to learn what real music was.

We left her side for a moment, figuring that things would be okay. When we returned, however, things had changed. She was no longer Mariah Carey, the glorious capital-S Singer; she was now one of the Hyphenate, like the aforementioned Lopez: singer-slash-actress. Carey starred in a film called Glitter, a semi-biographical Cinderella tale that is not bad if you set aside all expectations and suspend all disbelief.  The film flopped.  September 11th 2001 occurred, a day that is not remembered for being the release date of the Glitter soundtrack. Rumors swirled of her deteriorating mental health and she wound up in a hospital, suffering from exhaustion.  So far, the New Millennium was not treating Carey so kindly.

Mariah Carey needed to return to her roots, to vent her frustrations and to turn a new page in her career. This brings me to the part of this post where I actually begin discussing her 2000s discography. With the exceptions of Glitter (which I borrowed from the library once, listened to and returned the next day) and her Greatest Hits album, I own all of her New Millennium catalog. I’ll start with her 2002 release Charmbracelet, a necessary yet ungainly album. There were a literal handful of songs that I liked. “You Had Your Chance” is a bouncy, candy-painted kiss-off song aimed at some lousy boyfriend. Not especially groundbreaking but it was one of the only two songs from this album to be put on repeat for at least 20 minutes–when I like a song I really like a song. The other playback-worthy track of this set is a little ditty called “Clown”, the most buzzed-about song of this album. Allegedly, this is a veiled attack against Eminem, the talented yet obnoxious Great White Hope of Hip-Hop whom MC may/may not have dated for a time.  This is not a great performance from Carey, marred by a flurry of catty, soft-spoken lyrics that don’t quite pack a satisfying punch. Unfortunately, the only joy derived from this song is in scanning the liner notes in search of clues about the alleged Mariah-Eminem affair.  With the exception of these two tracks Charmbracelet simply doesn’t contain as many gems as her other records. Fans know that this is Mariah’s Cathartic Album and that alone is reason enough to appreciate it for what it is. Who’d dare begrudge an artist the space to unburden her heart and soul on record? Charmbracelet was an important release for Carey but it’s an album that, Godblessit, I’m willing to part with.

In an age of instant stardom and rampant selective memory,  Mariah Carey’s Charmbracelet served as little reminder of her glory days and offered little reason for her continued relevancy in the music industry. She was no longer the monster hit-maker that she was only a few years before. People like Beyonce were ascending the pop music Everest. Shows like American Idol were cranking out Mariah Carey wannabes, all jockeying for her spot and possessed of two things that Carey no longer had: an instant and ravenous fan base and an easily exploitable naivete about the music business.  Carey was still a Grammy winner and a multi-platinum artist but the 90s had just ended and she had reached yet another crossroads. She needed to reclaim her top spot at all costs. Or perhaps she didn’t. But Carey has become notorious for her work ethic and her desire to please.  So she regrouped.

2005 saw the release of The Emancipation of Mimi, a return to form that featured all-star guests,  great songs and, of course, The Voice. Talk of Carey’s diminished vocal range was beginning to emerge and Mimi largely dispels such talk (among fans, at least–music critics, in keeping with a decade-long pastime of Mariah bashing, were less convinced). This album boasts collaborations with rapper/producer/mogul Jermaine Dupri, the tracks that, in my opinion, are the best of the album. The first single, “It’s Like That” features a springy 808 and piano-assisted groove, simple lyrics and au courant (for 2005, anyway) pop culture references in which the “purple is taking [her]higher” and she’s the lotion to lackluster ashy “chickens”.  It’s a fun, lighthearted song followed by the plaintive piano driven (and JD-produced) “We Belong Together,” which features one of Carey’s strongest vocals up to that point. As is the fashion nowadays, Carey’s vocals are augmented by Auto-Tune and filters, lending to the belief that MC’s pipes ain’t what they used to be. Either way, this is one of Mariah Carey’s strongest showings in years. She ably teams up with the Neptunes, en vogue hitmakers in ’05, for a few contemporary cuts but mostly hues closer to her Pop&B pedigree. This was the album that saw the return of Mariah Carey and, for me, is a keeper.

Ever the prolific and productive recording artist, Carey is now gearing up to release a new album, Memoirs of An Imperfect Angel. The first single “Obsessed” is another entry into the Eminem-Response Record sub-genre of pop music–actually this is a small subgenre as most of Em’s targets are beleaguered teeny-boppers who are, inexplicably, scared shitless of a near-40-year old still rapping about his prescription drug addictions, bad childhood and unfortunate love life…but I digress. “Obsessed” is  a frothy sort of non-song designed for massive radio play, video countdown over-saturation and rampant downloading. She hits back at Eminem, again allegedly, by calling him “delusional” and proclaiming that “you’re a mom and pop/ I’m a corporation.”  So far, I’m less-than-excited about the new album but I’m pretty sure that I’ll buy it anyway. This is Mariah Carey, after all.

My ambivalence about the upcoming Memoirs mirrors my similar feelings about Carey’s post-Mimi exercise, E=MC2 in 2008. Her lead single was a chirpy, fluffy number called “Touch My Body,” a come-hither coo that beseeches a lover to, you know, touch her body. The low point of the song comes with her imploring her suitor to not post their “flick on YouTube”.  I should have taken my initial disdain for this track as an indicator of what to expect from the this album–and should have stayed far away.  This track, unfortunately, exemplifies everything that’s gone askew with Carey’s career. While I can appreciate the drive to stay current, “Touch My Body” and every other record on E=MC2 are trying too hard to appeal to the teenyboppers and twentysomethings that she no longer is one of –the kids more likely to buy a Rihanna CD (or, rather, to download her album) than they are to dig into a Mariah record. Many of Mariah’s original fans tuned out when she shed her marriage to Tommy Mottola…and her clothes. So maybe there is a certain savvy and wisdom in courting a new generation of fans. But the main ingredient of her 90s Wonder Years has gone AWOL as the first decade of the 21st century draws to a close–her powerful voice.

We’ve finally hit upon the most troubling aspect of her 2000s output. I’ll preface this part of my posting with a nod to the fact that voices change with age: they peak in the mid 30s and lose range from then on. That is the unfortunate rub of making divadom your stock and trade. No one can be an octave-scaling goddess forever. Whitney Houston can’t do it. Aretha Franklin of today doesn’t hold a candle to the Aretha of the 60s through the 80s. I witnessed a performance by Etta James on Austin City Limits in which she didn’t even attempt to scale the heights of her classic “Tell Mama”. Voices change. That, of course, is not my growing frustration with Mariah Carey. She’s written very popular and memorable songs but she’s been accused of a certain vapidity. She’s been harangued for show boating at the expense of true soul. This becomes a problem if you are a singer known more for the sizzle instead of the steak. What happens when the sizzle starts to die down?

As much as I love Mariah Carey, she came to prominence on the heels of her spectacular voice…and little else. In her defense, of course, when you’ve got a one-in-a-million voice like hers you don’t need much else.  You don’t need much else but it’s nice to have for a rainy day. Carey’s still got a gorgeous voice when she’s using it to full effect but she hasn’t really been doing that for the past few years. Does she choose to play it safe? To coo to expensive, diverting beats, content to coast along with the diminished standards of today’s pop music? Has she truly lost The Voice? Who am I to say? E=MC2 typifies this problem with reliance upon Auto-Tune (again) on the T-Pain-featuring “Migrate,” a dumb song but one of the only ones from this album that I managed to enjoy. The other song I like is “Bye Bye”, a sweet ode to lost loved ones that, in my opinion, is hampered by its self-referential tone (“you never got a chance to see how good I done/ you never got to see me back at number one”).  But the other tracks strike the ear as so much pandering to the trends of the today’s fickle pop market. “Cruise Control” is a clunky reggae-ish mid tempo joint featuring a Bob Marley scion and Carey’s distracting attempt at Jamaican patois. “I’m That Chick” is amusing in that she, apparently, “do’z it naturally/hypnotize like Biggie,” a proclamation that rings as the least natural lyric of this entire album.

Mariah Carey is endlessly fascinating in that she will always be Mariah Carey, the most successful female recording artist of all time. She no longer has anything to prove to anyone–not her fans, not the industry, not the critics. She may not even have anything to prove to herself anymore. Perhaps that is the conceit that drives her albums these days. Gone are the days of sweeping ballads, big curly hair and concealed cleavage. We’ve got the Mariah Carey that Mariah’s always wanted to be–free to dress like a 14 year-old girl, free to release the hip-hop-tinged songs that she’s always wanted to, rich enough to not be pressured by financial gain when it comes to her music.  She’s apparently happily married and has everything she’s ever wanted. While fans like me wouldn’t mind her recording a standards album, she just wants to have fun.  Who wins, though? Is it wrong to expect a certain standard of Mariah or should we, as fans, just be happy to go along on her journey? This is a question I ask myself whenever I listen to E=MC2 and become irritated. Perhaps I should stash this record for posterity but somehow I don’t think it was created for me.

Charmbracelet: Cash It

The Emancipation of Mimi: Stash It

E=MC2: Cash It

Tracks Worth Saving: “Migrate”, “Bye Bye”

…And God Made Whitney Houston

I’m listening to Whitney Houston’s new single “I Look To You” from her highly anticipated new album of the same name. I am so happy that she’s back! Aren’t you?

Whitney Houston’s voice is transformed. It’s deeper, more subdued, more mature. It’s not the crystalline battering ram it once was. I can’t help but to hear shades of Nina Simone in its tonality, at least on this particular song.

The human voice is a fascinating and finite instrument. A singer’s longevity and professional viability is similar to that of a dancer or pro ballplayer. Age, wear and tear will always take their toll. It’s inevitable. I’ve read a few reviews of the new album bemoaning the decline of Houston’s instrument. I find such complaints to be unfounded at best, ageist and mean-spirited at worst. But this is America, after all, a nation that is increasingly incapable (and unwilling) to see the beauty in aging, the grace in growing older.

In my opinion, Houston now has the voice of a woman who has truly loved, lost, made a baby and made mistakes. Her voice is now more personable and, frankly, more human. On this particular song, her voice is not as coolly splendid and divine as it was in her 80s and 90s heyday. Her voice remains beautiful and strong, to be sure, but it is now grounded, reverent and wise. Whitney Houston may no longer be the octave-leaping goddess of yore (or she may still be–I have yet to hear the rest of the album) but she is still a capital-S singer, possessed of the musicality, the sophistication and stoicism that is sorely lacking among today’s pop music elite.

The God of Music doesn’t make singers like Whitney Houston anymore. Nobody–and I mean nobody–comes close to her…even now.

Stash It or Cash It?: My December–Kelly Clarkson

In my inaugural Stash It or Cash It? posting, I find it only fitting that it feature the 3rd album of the inaugural American Idol Kelly Clarkson. She was, and is, the most relatable of the American Idols. She’s in her mid-twenties and has the voice of an adult, full of power,  possessed of great range and rich with heart. Her repertoire is comprised of broken-hearted, wised-up and down-to-earth songs. It’s not music to dance to–no club-bangers here, thankfully. It’s music for people to drive home from work to or to road-trip off to Santa Fe to, teary-eyed and seething from a relationship gone south. Frankly, she appeals to folks–myself included–who haven’t the energy nor desire to participate in American Idol’s democratic process.

In the interest of full disclosure I will admit to having auditioned for a season of the show but, after being politely dismissed for not being “on Jordan Sparks’ level” my indifference to Idol masks my deep-seated heartbreak. It takes a special kind of performer to prevail through the rigors of an American Idol audition. The hours upon hours of waiting for your turn to belt in front of a jaded panel of producers (and maybe a few interns). Flinching amidst the myriad Jennifer Hudson and Beyonce wannabes preparing their renditions of Dreamgirls songs. Being hungry enough to eat overpriced stadium fries and then being chastised by some skinny, cigarette-smoking Kristen Chenowith-alike for doing so (“Potatoes make your throat close!”). Needless to say, I was not on that level. However I will do my best resist the urge to indulge in sour grapes.

But I’m rambling now so I’ll cut to the chase. Over the past several years Kelly Clarkson has become a post-American Idol in the following ways:

1) She has longevity. She has managed to build a career that no longer needs the AI prefix.  She’s developed a following among many non-Idolaters,  thanks to her blockbuster sophomore album Breakaway and her signature hit “Since U Been Gone”. I never got around to purchasing this album because my sister owned a copy but I really enjoyed that track and “Behind These Hazel Eyes”.

2) She’s fought the good fight. Her 2007 album My December represents her shedding of the Idol brand. It’s the record that Clive Davis didn’t want her to release for fear that it would misfire and break her momentum as heat-seeking pop missile. It’s also a record that Clarkson believed in and really needed to make.  Both were right even though, in my humble opinion, Clarkson was a bit more right than Davis.

In Davis’ defense, this record wasn’t exactly as commercial as her first two.  My December is darker, more sullen and lacking in the requisite pop hooks of this day and age.  That’s not to say that these songs are bad. They’re perfectly fine; they’re just…different. And Davis, like any record producer–legendary or not–is concerned more about hits than artistic growth and development. Who has time to nurture an artist’s whims in the New Millennium? But in Clarkson’s defense,there’s hardly any point in winning America’s heart on national television (and enduring the barbs of some tart-tongued British poove) if you can’t live a little. Okay…money’s a good perk but I’m a romantic; money isn’t everything. Shouldn’t the fruits of her labor include the freedom to record the bizarre yet enjoyable “Yeah”, the slightly clumsy “Maybe” or the home-recorded whisky-fueled lament “Chivas” (which I love to pieces–both the scotch and the song)?

3) Kelly Clarkson has talent…and balls. Of late, she’s embroiled in yet another controversy involving her latest album All I Ever Wanted. Her gripe this time is concerning her latest single “Already Gone” and its striking similarity to a maudlin Beyonce tune “Halo”. Coincidence? Who can say? Both songs were written by Ryan Tedder, one among several Tunemakers Du Jour.  To my ears, Tedder cannibalized himself, collected his Kelly Clarkson check and kept it moving. But what do I know? While this latest Clarkson scuffle strikes me as a bit of over-concern for her image (though I do believe she has a valid point) her fans won’t be swayed by any of this song-squabbling. In fact, people will hone in on what’s most important–her powerhouse pipes. This girl can sing like no one’s business and she’s got heart.  And to me, her remarkable gift is no more evident than on her unloved yet lovable My December. This one is a Stash-It.

Favorite Tracks: “Never Again”, “One Minute”, “Sober”, “Irvine” and the wait-for-it-after Track 13 bonus song “Chivas”

Love Is Not For Free (Language Alert!)

There is an article in the September edition of Glamour magazine about the phenomenon of young women who are pathologically willing to hook-up with strangers online for casual, faceless, highly suspect and risky sex. As if we needed further proof of the sorry state of modern society, here it is: more proof of the sorry state of modern society.

I know the saying–to each his own. But you don’t have to be Judy Jesus-Freak to know that there is something seriously wrong with this phenomenon. As I was reading this article, one of the interviewees said that she enjoyed being able to screw “without worrying about a commitment”.

What?

Women nowadays call this “empowering”. I call it “sad”. Yes, I’m unlucky in love as it were (without going too deeply into detail of my romantic  dysfunction) and I definitely feel like I’m cruising on the short bus through life. But I’d really rather be a spinster than roaming around as some walking wounded person tossing her body around for all takers–and still coming up empty-handed. But then again, I’m a prude. This Glamour article made mention of one such empowered online sex-seeker who is very careful as she uses condoms, spermicide, the pill and has regular HIV tests just to be, you know, safe.

Again: what?

It’s the equivalent of proclaiming “You can fuck me, just don’t touch me…and then take your fleas and go.”

Whatever happened to just having sex with the one you love or, if you don’t have one of those, letting your fingers (or the Rabbit, whatever) do the lovin’? This whole phenomenon is quite telling of everything that’s wrong with our society. So many people want something for nothing, the old Path of Least Resistance. People all over are shouting “I’m no good at relationships so I’ll settle for hookups. No muss, no fuss!”

It’s like that old Walk of Shame commercial (what were they advertising, again?) has taken over the country. Again, I’m kind of a prude and this commercial was actually kind of funny. But it strikes me as a laughing-to-keep-from-crying sort of thing. Does it really feel that great to saunter out of some stranger’s apartment (or wake up in your own bed to the lingering stench of another beer-addled soul, rumpled sheets…and nothing else)? But you be the judge. I can only speak for myself.

In theory, it all sounds great. Free Love! But love isn’t free, really. Neither should sex be, if you want my opinion (and I don’t mean that in the sense of a woman using her cooch as a slot machine or charging a literal admissions fee). But, to me, it should be about trust, honesty, communication, joy and, yes, love–I’m old-fashioned; kill me. Nowadays sex seems so vulgar, hostile, clinical and compulsory. I feel like I wasn’t made for these times.

Love isn’t free. Sure, love can be unconditional but it costs to love someone–to give and to take love. It costs time, it costs energy, space, words, emotion, ego, money, comfort, peace. You can give and receive love with no conditions (or with stipulations and expectations, if you prefer) but love costs everything–all of you. People want the perks–sex, companionship, the beer and skittles–without the price. But to me the ransom yet the reward of love is your humanity.

The state of love in this country has become, in a word, disheartening.

Poverty.

Today I’ve been reading about Atlanta and its eradication of its public housing projects. As an Atlanta resident, I wanted to know more about this initiative and learn about how it was going over (perhaps insert link to Yahoo’s video essay on the subject). After viewing an Associated Press Video Essay and reading this New York Times article online, I have to take a moment to ponder the implications, consequences and general feelings brought about by what’s going on.

As I perused the web for articles on the subject, my initial reaction to the plight of the displaced residents was blase at best, snide at worst.  No one gets a free lunch in this life, I thought.  It made me wonder why. Why do poor people allow their lives to unfold in this way? What could they be doing that perhaps they aren’t doing to allow their children and grandchildren to perpetuate the poverty cycle? Why fuck around and have babies when you’re busted-ass poor! Every virulent strain of the myth of meritocracy swirled around in my head until I managed to get the better of myself.

There are several valid criticisms of the Atlanta Housing Authority’s initiative to raze the projects and replace them with mixed-income housing that, in theory, could integrate former project residents into more upwardly-mobile and life-affirming environs. Many believe that this plan does not do enough to improve the standard of living for former residents. Others complain that the initiative is rooted more so in financial interests of developers and those who stand to profit from the gentrification of the surrounding areas. Others still maintain that the AHA’s plan is blatantly racist, as public housing residents tend to be overwhelmingly African-American, thus making the bulldozing and forced relocation of project residents a violation of the Fair Housing Act.

However, those in favor of (and those implementing) the CATALYST Program, as it’s called in Atlanta, cite evidence of an increased standard of living of those former residents living in mixed-income communities on government-subsidized rent. Better neighborhoods, increased health and productivity have been in the offing for some participants of this program. Both sides of the argument are compelling and are addressed in greater detail in this article in Creative Loafing, Atlanta’s alternative magazine. As such I want to write less about the finer points of the issue and think about this whole thing philosophically.

Anytime the question of poverty arises, it can be counted upon that people will bring their own personal baggage to the discussion panel. How does society treat those less fortunate? Is it fair? Should it be fair?

My knee-jerk reaction to any debate about poverty is that each person is responsible for his/her station in life. If a person is mired in poverty, who’s problem–nay, who’s fault–is that? This is a response that I’m a bit ashamed of but it’s deeply ingrained in me.  I grew up poor, without really acknowledging it. I can’t say that, as a child, I was unaware of it–kids see more than adults give them credit for. I knew there were things that I wanted that I couldn’t have because the money wasn’t there.  Things could have definitely been worse for us but still, they’d have maybe been better for me if I could have had that Casio keyboard I’d wanted as a kid or if I maybe had trendier clothes. But there was a difference for us. Our mother never used the p-word around us. She never made us feel that we were less-than because we had less stuff. In fact, she’d often say that we could have whatever we were willing to work for. She made sure we were bussed to higher-performing, better quality schools, nurtured a love for learning, reading and creativity in us that made us believe that there was more out there. She’d object to me referring to us as having been poor back in those days.

The point is that, though I was poor, I felt removed from it. Though I’m poor now I still feel removed from Poverty. I make less than $30,000 a year, I own no car, my credit has plummeted in the past several months and I’m in debt. I’m poor. Yet and still, my first response in reading articles about the poor in Atlanta draws disdain from me. Why? The answer is that I don’t know. Maybe I feel like it’s not my problem. I’m poor but not because I’m not working or because I’m uneducated so somehow I’m different.

I’m coming to believe, of course, that it is my problem–that it’s everyone’s problem. Some people question the point in eradicating poverty on the behalf of those who can’t eradicate it for themselves. There are still people who are not in favor of investing in the rebuilding and revitalization of New Orleans. There are many among us who don’t care what happens to countries in Africa; so many of their governments are under the thumb of corrupt Big Man dictators and their cronies–why should we take care of them if they can’t take care of ourselves?

I believe the answer to that question is because it’s right.

I’m thinking about this past series of the BBC sci-fi hit Torchwood. The premise of this season was an intriguing one for me. Aliens, known as the 456, have touched down in London wreaking havoc and mind control on its children and children around the globe.  It is revealed that the aliens want a tribute of 10% of the Earth’s children. Without it, the 456 will release a lethal virus, wiping out mankind. It’s a classic dilemma of the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few.  What’s the loss of several millions of children and grief of mothers worldwide if it saves the collective skins of the planet? That’s a hard question to ask and, to many, a hard demand to deny. The aspect of these episodes that I found most fascinating–and most chilling–was the closed-door cabal of government officials deciding upon  which children were expendable (none of theirs, naturally) and how to spin it to a petrified citizenry. Naturally, a consensus is reached that children from the lowest performing districts, with the least socially-viable communities would be sacrificed for the lives of others. A no-brainer. Who’ll miss the poor kids who won’t be doctors or lawyers but will most likely be inmates, pubcrawlers and general drains on a society (humanity) that can’t bear the cost of bearing that lot? Plausible. Pragmatic. But cold.

As I was watching this, it occurred to me that I wouldn’t want to be a part of a society, a race, that wouldn’t fight for the lives of every child–even those on the low end of the totem pole. Especially those on that end. We care because we have to. It’s what makes us human not robot or machine.

I’d imagine that many people believe that it is our duty as a society to bear up those who can’t–or perhaps, simply won’t, bear up themselves.  The thing many of us can’t agree on is how to do it. Some would favor the CATALYST program as it prods those in the projects to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and to make their own way, with a little nudge from the government. Others favor not demolishing public housing, something that people need in order to stave off homelessness and the break down of community, a collective of other disaffected folks who rely upon this housing to survive. Personally, I fall into the former camp but realize that it is not without its adverse and challenging side effects. It’s up to each of us–it’s our moral duty, I believe–to go forth and make our own way. Taking in hand the talents each of us have, we are obligated to be a fruitful as we can, even if we fail. I’ve only come to believe that very recently and I am ready to move forward. But I’m also becoming more ready to give to those who maybe have tried and failed already or who simply have yet to or cannot try. I don’t know how yet but I simply want to give. That’s the only thing I can think of to do about poverty.

Lo and Behold…

...lo

Ever heard of lo-fi?

This is nothing new to indie music devotees, punk enthusiasts or music snobs possessed of a violent disdain for anything Pro-Tools or auto-tune-assisted. But the lo-fi thing is new to me. This fertile and subversive genre of inventively or, ya know, cheaply recorded tunes has turned me around a bit. Seriously, you don’t have to be a studio rat or a computer whiz just to make music any more?! I won’t try to go into details on the history of this genre of music; I wouldn’t do it justice. I’ll simply post a link regarding the history of lo-fi right…here.

Thus, I’ve been scouring the web for information about DIY musicians and lo-fi practitioners. My interest in do-it-yourself music grew from the realization that if I were to follow my dream and create music the way I wanted to, I’d probably have to go indie…wayyyy indie.

I just turned 29 this past Monday so even if I wanted to be a pop star, at this stage in the game, it ain’t gonna happen. I didn’t want to spend the last year of my free-wheelin’ 20s trying to whittle myself down to a nub, glad-handing at Atlanta singer-songwriter networking “events” or scouring craigslist for hack beatmakers and cut-rate recording studios just so I could demo some stuff I wrote. I wanted to just do it. Not in an effort to be famous but just because I want to contribute. I’ve written songs that mean alot to me and I’ve learned about 13 guitar chords (6 of them I can actually use easily). I just want to sing out.

Lots of great artists come from a do-it-yourself tradition including Liz Phair, Ani DiFranco, M.I.A and, one of my new favorites, Kimya Dawson of The Moldy Peaches. This doesn’t begin to scratch the surface of lo-fi allstars…including the band actually called The Lo-Fi Allstars but I’m really excited that artists are reclaiming the music scene and doing things their way.  To me, it’s a great antidote to the overly polished and sickeningly clinical mainstream pop, rock, R&B and rap; the latter genre being, in my opinion, the chief culprit and contributor to the shabby state that music is in today (oh, but this rant is for another blog post altogether).

Phew! Cooling off now, here is a link to a snarky little page about the lo-fi aesthetic and how You,Too! can get as lo-tech as you please.