TheLastManInAmerica

Judgment’s not tomorrow

It’s today, yes now it’s here

But no, it isn’t Jesus

Take a look at all your peers

      “Best For You”- Bad Religion (1987) 

                 Don Imus…Don Imus, keep your mouth shut! No, I don’t have a problem with what you’ve said, no matter how ambiguous your recent comments may have been. No, I want you to shut up for your sake! You’re an old man and you should know that freedom of speech doesn’t exist when speaking about race. Just so long as you’re white, that is. Stop the presses! Am I a racist? Or am I just an open-eyed individual, appalled at the double standard lobbied against his race? 

            The comment Imus made that led to his firing turned into such an overblown circus that it was silly. It was mere fodder for people like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson who have nothing better to do than cry racism at the very utterance of the word “black”. I can recall the New York Times’ front page photo of all the African-American members of that ladies basketball team. But what I can’t recall is if there were any curly-haired white ladies from the organization framed up in that picture. After all, “nappy-headed” does mean someone with tangled hair.

            His second bout as social pariah finds him giving a “Well, there you go,” when learning a football player who has been arrested six times in the past five years (at most) is black, as if affirming his original belief. But honestly, how many times do you hear about Peyton Manning, Brandon Stokely or John Lynch being arrested? It is these thugged-out “gangstas” who always wind up in trouble with the law, not just in football but all sports. Does it make it right for him to generalize in such a way?  Definitely not, but if a black man were to have the same reaction when learning an incestuous set of cousins were white and southern, no one would bat an eye.

            If the black community wants to be mad at someone it should be themselves for allowing their race to be painted in such a way. Is that another racist jab?! You tell me; the Rap (not Hip-Hop) genre of music is dominated by young, black men, whose central themes to their songs are gang-banging, drug dealing and womanizing. This type of behavior should be deplored; yet Rap continues to be a major force within the world of music, granted it is White America that buys the majority of CDs. All the same, if blacks wanted to be shown in a better light than how people like Don Imus might view them, these “artists” would be social rejects and given the same treatment as Imus himself. Instead people like Bill Cosby are called “Uncle Toms” when voicing a dissenting opinion of these performers.

            But I digress; the real matter here is that whites must walk on eggshells when it comes to race. Some of my favorite stand-up comics (Eddie Murphy, Dave Chapelle, and Richard Pryor), are black, but the jokes they make about whites, if reversed, would incite mass protests outside of theaters, demanding an explanation of how they could allow such an act to be performed by a racist. But the fact is, I, and everyone else who laughs at their jokes, laugh because they’re true, however, if taken in the wrong context, they’d be called “stereotypes”.

            The truth is we all must grow thicker skin. Not everyone is a racist and comments that are construed as such can most often be attributed an honest err in judgment or, at worst, a slight jab meant as a goof, with no real harm intended. Until we realize this, we are doomed to an endless tension of recycled frustrations that one day could cause rifts beyond repair. And, with that said, I’m going to bang my sister while watching NASCAR…

No one’s frightened of playing it

Everyone’s saying it

Flowing more freely than wine

     “I, Me, Mine”-The Beatles (1970) 

                In the sporting world, highlight reels are dominated by the efforts of an individual on any given play during a game. Some are game changing plays that swing the momentum in D-Day-like fashion; others are career or historical milestones reached by the player; rarely do they showcase the accomplishments of a team. So it’s no wonder why more and more athletes become enamored with themselves, creating a world in which they exist in a one man highlight reel, impoverishing the ideals of sportsmanship and turning such noble events as sports into scenes of wanton, dissipation, meant to sell a few more jerseys so they can bolster their case for more money come contract time.

            I love sports, most notably football, and have often marveled at the achievements of players like Brett Favre, Marvin Harrison and Peyton Manning who, throughout the course of their careers, have managed to produce gaudy numbers without it reflecting on how they conduct themselves on, or off the field of play. These players have remained committed to the success of their teams, players who play through adversity, who are willing to restructure their contracts to make room for more talent. These are players who do all they can to help their teams win. Then there are those who, in spite of their talents, make some change the channel whenever they come on. Their willfully, self-centered displays paint them as characters who don’t care if the are on a winning team as long as they get due time in the spotlight and a hefty contract to boot. Names need not be mentioned but there actions are well known. These players wear non-sensible placards on their jerseys, put on absurd showings in the end-zone and call out teammates at press conferences and coaches on the sidelines if they don’t get the ball enough.

            Their lack of team spirit is exemplarily displayed when it’s time to sign a new contract. These players “hold out” for the terms they believe suitable. When you think that the average player earns somewhere around $1mil for a few months of actual on-site work (not to discredit the effort put in during the off-season), the terms they deem acceptable are most likely superfluous. If they don’t get the right deal, they’ll shop around and if they’re lucky, they’ll have a suitcase full of highlight footage of them debasing themselves for a spot on SportsCenter.

            There are children and young people out there who idolize not just football players, but all kinds of sports figures. What kind of message is sent to them if all they see on sports news shows is this surge of sanctimoniousness? One example that can be given is that of Maurice Clarette, a stud running back out of Ohio State., who, a few years ago, at the age of nineteen, deemed himself ready for the gauntlet of professional football. Dropping out of college, he failed to make the cut of any pro team and has since landed himself in prison.

            The point is: these are SPORTS. Sports are games that children play for fun and mild competition. Like art, it is the love of doing it that should come first; money and notoriety should come afterwards. If you aren’t having fun getting paid millions of dollars for what kids spend their whole summers doing for free, then go home! You aren’t doing yourself, your team or “your” game any good by hanging around.       

Hey, you

Is there something worth aspiring to?

And can it be found in a record store?

Well, it’s not there anymore

      “You Don’t Belong”- Bad Religion (2002) 

                “Rock is dead”. This saying has been regurgitated and debated for some time now. It seems to me that it is not so much a question of whether it is dead or not, but when and how it died and if it can be resurrected.

            Some people believe that rock met its maker at the end of the sixties; others say it died with Lennon. I don’t believe this. Indeed, the face of rock n’ roll was changed after these events but its lifeblood, artistic integrity, had not yet been lost. The deathblow came in the nineties, with the rise of
Seattle as the music capital of the world. The early years of this decade saw the last real world-wide music phenomenon with the overnight ascension of bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam to stardom virtually unmatched since the Beatles. But things had definitely changed in these thirty years. Even though there were numerous leeches around, who capitalized on the staggering success of the Beatles, the early nineties was an orgy, with executives and bands screwing and sucking for every drop they could manage to get out of this new movement. I don’t believe there was a “sound” that came out of
Seattle (you can’t say Nirvana and
Alice in Chains or Soundgarden and Mudhoney sounded the same) but for some reason, throngs were able to attach themselves, like barnacles, to the idea that there was. It became such a tangled heap of bodies and limbs, all reaching for the same thing that it became nearly impossible to discern the artists from the imposters, which is what happens now.

            I find it very appropriate that Kurt Cobain’s publishing was called “The End of Music” because when the wave he was part of crested and receded into the ocean, we were left with the destruction that occurred when it came ashore. Marketing executives had succeeded in taking away the honesty and humility that was the real catalyst of the “Seattle Scene” (hell, they managed to sell flannel shirts for eighty bucks a pop because they were associated with the music), and ever since then, whenever something “new” finds its way to the masses, it is followed by a rush of clones, engineered by disembodied voices in conference rooms and their henchmen working as producers in the studios, who had to go to college to understand what music sounds like. It’s now more about the next “new look” as opposed to the next “new sound” (after all, the latter can be taken care of in post-production).

            This exists in every genre of music. At the end of the nineties, the onslaught of boy bands and teeny-bopper starlets were fine examples of this, if these acts can indeed be considered music. The emergence of Southern Rap saw countless acts follow the “Crunk” fashion; the same is true of “Emo” and “Indie” bands that gave rise to an entire army of pale, skinny kids who finally realized that there are others out there as sad and as lame as them. Some last longer than others but eventually the fickle masses grow tired of the novelty and the fat cats have to round up the ext generation of guitar swinging pretentious hacks. Music today exists to sells clothes, plain and simple. I don’t condone it, but if you happen to catch the seventeen minutes during the day when MTV shows music videos, you’ll understand what I mean.

            The only hope for getting back to honest music lies in cutting out the middle man. Luckily, this can be accomplished and for a while now, musicians have been shouldering this burden. With the ability to record, mix and edit your material in the home and file sharing to spread it around, we’re getting closer to doing away with corporate meddling in this art form. Unfortunately, this self-sufficient way of creating music is still in the larval stage but if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that music is trendy and soon we’ll see scores following suit and doing making the music they want to make. Sure it will still be trendy, but at least it will be honest.                

“These walls can a have strange affect on a man.”

                    Morgan Freeman in “The Shawshank Redemption”             

 And so Morgan Freeman’s character, Red, explained how prison and prisoner sometimes come together in a twisted sort of Stockholm Syndrome. At the time the story of Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption took place, this was a scary thought and it’s easy to understand why. In those days being a prisoner meant losing your freedom; it meant being locked in a cold, dark cage with only books and thoughts and a leering hulk of a cellmate to keep you company. As it is today, being a prisoner almost means having more freedoms that the law-abiding citizen.

            There was a time when, if convicted of a crime, a criminal repaid their debt to society through hard labor that helped to improve the community which they chose to live outside of. Back breaking work done in skin searing heat, digging ditches and building roads; this is where the convict made his amends. After all, the bank robber, the rapist and the murderer have all taken something as part of their crimes. And when thought of in that context, is even the hardest of labor a satisfying recompense?

            Today, we seem more intent on giving to the prisoner as opposed to them giving back to us. They enjoy luxuries on the inside that some people on the outside don’t have the means to afford. In cells that more often resemble college dorms, all across the country inmates are allowed television sets with cable, paid for by means of yours and my tax dollars, respectively. Convicts also enjoy internet access without their bills jumping from $24.99 to $59.99 after the first three months; not to mention those pesky installation/cancellation charges! Once again, this service is complements of you and me.

            So where is the dissuasion from becoming a criminal? It’s almost as if you’d strive to get caught! I, personally, can choose either to get up at 3 A.M  every morning and hop a bus for thirty miles where, upon arrival, I work for eight hours to hop a bus back, making it home in time to eat and go to bed; or I can go on a meth-fueled rampage, raping and pillaging like a Nordic warrior then, once caught, be shipped off to my rent-free room where I enjoy free, prepared food, watch Maury Povich by day and the Sopranos by night, log on to ESPN.com to check the daily scores and whine that the biggest inconvenience is a cold, metal-rimmed toilet.

            It’s not even as if daily life changes that much for criminals. Any casual watcher of the History Channel or MSNBC has probably seen a special on gangs behind bars and how federal detention centers become battlegrounds for gangs to wage war. Even leaders of gangs are able to communicate with those on the outside, ordering hits and continuing to run operations while in jail. Instead of being chained together, tarring sun-scorched pavement, criminals have stumbled into a perverted twilight zone where up is down, black is white and accommodation is found for breaking the law. Lesson learned: Crime Pays.          

Say you want a revolution?

We better get it on right away!

                                                               “Power to The People”-John Lennon (1971) 

Everyday it seems the story is repeated: “Gas prices hit another record high!” If you watch the evening news or read the daily headlines this is nothing new. But what is news is the everyday American’s willingness to be violated in such a way. As billionaire oil tycoons lube up the price of gas, John Q. Public bends over submissively to take it in the nether regions, without so much as a gasp or groan. But I suppose the average citizen has been worked over so well and so often by the rich in this decade that these areas have expanded to accommodate such poundings.

            An oil company turns %60 percent profits in consecutive years while gas prices reach record highs every afternoon. Yet, despite all this, Americans shrug it off with a, “Meh, what are you going to do?” Despite the fact that some families have to choose between milk or fuel (often times choosing the latter), presidents and CEOs of these companies keep raking it in. And you ask why? Because you are such a submissive, spineless slut that would rather take out your frustrations on your neighbor, who suffers just the same, by stealing their gas! Indeed, “What are you going to do?

            Two-hundred-some-odd years ago, a group of people rebelled against the price the British had put on tea by hijacking a boat load of it and dumping it intoBoston
Harbor. Not that tea is as valuable a commodity as gasoline is today, but the point is these people stood up and let their oppressors know what they thought of their avarice. This is the kind of display that is needed today. Now, dumping a tanker full of oil into any body of water is probably the wrong thing to do; but something needs to happen to let these pimps know what is thought of their ways.

Gas prices are expected to reach $5 in this area soon and who knows if it will ever come down! If you work for minimum wage you can’t purchase a gallon and a half for an hour’s work at these rates! How much longer can people shrug it off as a minor financial inconvenience before lashing out?  When will gas stations become literal battle grounds where citizens take on totalitarian oppression instituted by the multi-billion dollar a-year corporations who have made them slaves to a product, essentially no different than really old compost?

It is only a mater of time. Unless this freight train runs out of steam, or coal, or solar power for that matter, it will happen. We have been bent too far and it is high time we break! Whether we discover alternate means to facilitate transportation or if we have to sell our homes to finance  the daily drive to work; one way or another we are witnessing the end of a world with oil. Hopefully we run out of patience before money.  

In my alley, round the corner

There’s a wino with feathered shoulders

And a spirit giving head for crack

He’ll never want it back

 ”Stranger Than Fiction”- Bad Religion (1994) 

I believe it’s a fair statement to say, “I work in the seediest neighborhood in
Seattle.”  I’m sure people would disagree, claiming to know numerous spots that are worse off because they stumbled through at the wrong time of day en route to their squash game. But, this much is certain, any of these places would definitely need to be staked up against my neighborhood before it could be declared “victor”.

I’ve worked at the corner of Western and
Bell for nearly two years and in this time I’ve witnessed more vulgar, violent and voracious acts of debasement than most will ever see. A 50 year-old woman, strung out to the point of looking eighty, beaten senseless by a man half her age, while she grasps at his leg as it were the last lifesaver on a sinking ship wile screaming “Give me my money!”; men and women alike, scouring one of the scummiest alleys on hands and knees, searching for an elusive treasure, which in their minds, is hidden in plain sight; a recycle container whose bottom has been filled with by a tub of discarded hypodermics, swiped from a local clinic; sordid liaisons behind dumpsters where young women fellate men sucking on burnt tubes of glass; all this and the most cases of human excrement exposed to the wind since Neanderthal Man hunted ancient Germany. What would cause a “normal” person to vomit at first blush is such common place to us that it is cast off with a shrug for those of us who’ve been around it this long.

The common link here is The Fix. All of these vile acts are the result of those who cast it all asunder in their quest to catch the Pink Dragon. And ever since an article was published, criticizing police who may have roughed up a drug dealer, things have gotten worse. The “Paddy Wagon” patrols that used to reel in so many dealers and junkies alike are all but a memory. And I know there are some who think that’s good; that these people have a problem and that you shouldn’t lock them up because of it. They believe that habits are brought on by their station in life; that poverty has forced them to a drug addled existence. Have they ever considered that perhaps their station in life has been brought on by their habits; that their drug addled existence has force them to poverty? It’s time to stop alleviating people of their responsibilities to themselves.

You can’t help someone that doesn’t want to be helped, that much we know. But with the throngs of people I see everyday, the pulsating congregation at the corner of Western Ave and Bell St, it’s clear these people don’t want to get better; these people have made their bed and are content to lay in it, though it may be a concrete slab, as long as they can continue the Chase, that’s all they need. So where does that leave us, the employed who get up everyday and go to work in order to support our habits and while pushing our way through this sea of living dead?

If you can’t help those who don’t want it, you’re left with few solutions…well, one really. And that’s throwing their dried-out, scaly hides behind bars. But then we’re back to that familiar impasse of seeming injustice that comes with locking up addicts. As I said above we need to quit alleviating people of the responsibilities of self-preservation.  So I say put the burden on them! Let them finally choose between a “life of hopping from alley to alley and jail to jail or a Life of living clean and sober. Any junkie given the choice between rehab or jail will undoubtedly choose the former, even in jest. Perhaps with the stipulation of harder punishment for relapse or even by accident, such as the person in the midst of a charade to skirt responsibility, useful knowledge could be obtained with which these people could better themselves and society. Hell, rehab or jail, the working junkie’s going to pay for it anyways. Would it work? I don’t know. But I do know whatever’s being done now doesn’t.    

As a young man, still figuring out  who he is inside (not gay, just an individual), who I am is often the manifestation of a maelstrom of conflicting ideas, of which I don’t fully comprehend or even recognize as such. I view the people of this country, who cling to their religions (politics, culture, non-profit organizations or the big R itself) with such fervor, all believing they’ve got the Answer, with the conviction that “if you’re not with me then you’re my enemy” and I feel like I am a microcosm of this culture,  struggling to find the Answer to this cruel, mind-shredding riddle called “Life”. That being said, I’m often a conduit of feelings and frustrations that need to be vented before reaching critical mass and erupting in a violent expulsion of years of pent-up, purposeful energy. I am the Last Man in America.