COLLEGE

Let us look at some obvious truths. The worldwide economy blows, with more people needing to share in smaller returns. Skilled, educated workers are needed to keep in competition for this slice of pie. More pie equals more power, influence, perks, and prestige. Therefore, in a time of recession (and near-collapse of some countries' economic foundations), it would seem to be in this country's best interest to have a ready supply of skilled and educated workers to support itself and remain standing as a world leader.

"College tuition and fees, adjusted for inflation, rose 439 percent from 1982 to 2007."

http://www.cnn.com/2008/LIVING/personal/12/03/college.costs/index.html

Here is an obvious response: DEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

FOUR HUNDRED THIRTY-NINE PERCENT?????? Oh, do please explain to me how that in any way, shape, or form that can be justified. College is essentially one person who knows more about something yabbering to a bunch of other people who want to listen enough to pay to listen. That does not seem to be a commodity that needs to stratospherically rise, far past the already-insane inflation rates of medical, housing, and food costs. So what is it? You've got people, buildings, books, technology, and pretty much professional sports teams. Other than the need to keep up with computer crap, what makes colleges keep pushing the tuition rates past what people are ever going to be able to afford? What good does this do? Is there some agenda? What am I missing here?

We are not just talking about the ridiculously expensive Harvards and Yales here. Getting a bachelor's degree from a modest state school can easily put a graduate in debt for tens of thousands of dollars past any grants and scholarships and family contributions. How should a person feel about attending college these days when the only sure outcome seems to be crushing debt and the very serious worry of being able to find a job no matter what? What on earth kind of message are we sending to anyone, young or old, who wants to better themselves through education? Oh, yes, yes, please do, your country needs a educated population now more than ever, but SORRY CHARLIE if you can't afford it. GOOD LUCK TO YOU.

I will say that college is not for everyone, and never was. Some people are not intellectually suited, or it simply isn't their thing, or the opportunity was just not there. That is fine. Many people do extremely well in life with a basic education. Just because you didn't go to college doesn't mean you aren't smart or able to learn things and be an important contributor, not at all. But, dammit, it is harder and harder and harder to get a job, any job, without a college degree; that is just a fact. The worst is when you have someone who wants so badly to go to school, wants to have the experience of learning new things, broadening their world, and simply cannot make the money come together to do it, and spends a lifetime wondering, "what if?" This will happen more and more as college costs seem to have no cap, and people have to tighten their belts to get by.

Information as luxury. I find that obscene, and obscenely short-sighted.

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SHOP

Today I helped out at the kids' school Holiday Store. It is very cute and such. The school orders all kinds of little trinkets from some China import place plus adds in a few homemade things from the older students, decorates the library, and parents send the kids in with a modest amount of money to do their family gift shopping. The 4th and 5th grade kids help the littler ones with selecting gifts for all the people on their lists, and also run the cash register and help bag the presents. The profit made goes to help fund week-long school trips for the older kids. I like it because I see lots of people focused on good lessons: kindness to others, managing time and money, independence.

There weren't enough student helpers to assist the kindergarteners that came in during my shift, so I took a couple of lovely little girls around the tables to assist them in their shopping while they gripped their money envelopes in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. I can imagine how daunting it is for them, at five years old, not much taller than the tables, to see all these presents and goodies and things and having to decide what what WHAT to buy! It is also incredibly hard for them sometimes to resist buying thing for themselves, of course, but I am so charmed with how earnest they are in trying to get something for their families. As always, the conversations are the best thing about it all:

Me: So, Emma, you have five dollars to spend on your mom. What do you think she would like?
Emma: Well, I know I can't buy her a new coat.
Me: That is right. Maybe we can find something else she likes. I'm sure we can.
Emma: How much is this? (holds up a tiny jeweled toe ring that surely cost.000000001 of a cent to make and package)
Me: That is sixty-five cents.
Emma: I'll take that. My dad will think she has pretty toes with that and not so gross of feet.
Me. Ah. Well, good.

Ashley: My grandpa likes golf, is there anything here with golf?
Me: Hmm...I don't see anything, Ashley. What about cars? Here is a mousepad with a car on it.
Ashley: He is a bad driver.

Emma: I can't find anything for my dad! I can't give him a pink pen!
Me: No, I agree. No pink pens. What about this ornament? You could write "DAD" on it.
Emma: You have really good ideas.
Me: Thank you, Emma!

Emma and Ashley finished up, albeit last in their class because I liked talking with them, and they seemed to be having a good time. They all got a cookie to eat on their way back to class, pleased with what they had accomplished. As Emma's dad admires his wife's fancy toe while he hangs his DAD ornament on the family Christmas tree and Ashley's grandpa hopefully does not drive his '89 Olds through their picture window, I hope their families are as pleased and proud of them as I was.

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MULTITASKER

That is me. I am Multitasker. There is conflicting research as to whether or not this is a good thing. I can see both sides to the argument, and I guess I have to look a little harder into exactly why and how I prefer doing several things at once instead of something singular.

When I was a teenager it used to irritate my parents to no end to knock on my bedroom door (they were polite like that) and find me on my bed doing homework or reading with both the TV and the radio/stereo on, and sometimes also on the phone. I would look up from my book, and the dialogue would go something like this:

Mom: You can’t get anything done like this.
Me: Oh, yes I can. This is how I work best!
Mom: It is a cacophony in here. You cannot possibly concentrate. Why must you have all this noise?
Me: I am concentrating just fine, see? (Shows page of scribbles) I get my work done. This is what I LIKE!
Mom: The TV and the radio?
Me: I hear them separately.
Mom: (Frowns, shakes head)
Me: Heh.

OR

Dad: Jesus Christ, turn it down!
Me: (Frowns, shakes head)
Dad: I can hear this shit all the way down the hall!
Me: (Silent glare)
Dad: Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in school?
Me: (Sheepish grin)

Well, thirty years or so later I guess I have come to figure that I just have this busy kind of mind that needs a pile of crap to do. I am not a hyper person; I can sit as immobile as a 14-dollar Buddha statue from Target for hours on end. But I don’t like just doing one thing. I start to either drift from boredom or get kind of nervous and flake off. I can sometimes get terribly into one thing, like a book, but still feel more comfortable with the TV or some music playing. If I am on the computer, I have maybe ten tabs on my browser open, typically:

1. Message board
2. Diarrhea Island
3. Email
4. Google, Endless, Endless Google
5. YouTube
6. MySpace
7. ShareMiner
8. Rapidshare
9. CNN.com
10. Something shopping, music, travel, school, medical related

Stuff and things, typey type type. Oh, not to mention iTunes and Photoshop and iPhoto and Word. My computer is quite entertaining and fills up my need for WORDS AND PICTURES AND SOUNDS quite efficiently.

I find that even when I am doing stuff around the house, I need to be doing a bunch of stuff at the same time to feel properly working. Laundry, dishes, making a pot of coffee, paying bills, staring at piles of paper and wishing them away, feeding the dog, ALL NOW.

So, do I do a good job at these things, or does my multitasking diminish my efforts? Well, I think both. I do a good job, but sometimes take longer when I jump from thing to thing. It is what it is. In reality I probably do a sucky job at everything, but consistently sucky across tasks. Bah.

Here’s what else I know: when I finally go to sleep, I need DEAD QUIET, DEAD BLACK. Not too hot, not too cold, two pillows thankyouverymuch. No light no noise no nothin’. Even the light from the alarm clock is too much. Maybe that is the flipside to all the frenzy of the day – I am absolute everything, or absolute nothing. But this is generally all internal, you would never know it to see me. It is in my head, this running around and thinking and planning and thinking more and listening and watching and compiling. I have to give myself something to do do do.

I wonder how this will change when I am really old. Maybe my multitasking will consist of writing complaining cranky letters, petting the dog, making soup-for-one, calling my Bolivian grandchildren in unreasonable Spanish, watching 3D rebroadcasts of "Alternative Nation," and shaking my fist at loud morning garbage trucks. Sounds pretty sweet, really.

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BWEESNESS

The music business riles me. It always has; business surrounding art makes me wary and irritable. But I just don't know what is going to happen now. How on earth does any musician make a living any more? The digital age has crushed the traditional music business into dust, and I don't think that is such a bad thing, but how can it be reinvented to serve the musicians and the public?

Unless you are already a monster-sized musical commodity, you ain't making any money off of albums. The second it gets out, there's a zillion download links for free all over the internet. The record companies can get the links killed, and do, but never all of them. It is a losing battle when you have content that now can so easily be perfectly replicated and passed on in mere minutes. No amount of spiteful shit lawsuits from the RIAA are going to make a damn bit of difference, no amount of lame buggy copy-protection. Someone will always be one step ahead now, always. Sometimes I wonder if it is karma for the shady way so many record companies ran their businesses for so long. But in the end, the artist suffers, then and now.

So, if you cannot expect to make money off your recordings because it is impossible to control the amount of copies that will be freely distributed no matter what you do, you have to think differently as a musician. One way to make bucks, big bucks sometimes, is to license your songs for ringtones, commercials, movies, videogames, whatever. Of course the chances that your song will be picked to be in an iTunes commercial, therefore ensuring its commercial success is minuscule, as everyone and his grandma has a band. His Grandma would be a good band name. What's left is merchandising and money from touring. But there are costs with that as well, unless you are traveling and sleeping in a van and setting up your own equipment and eating Campbell's soup cold from the can in the van on top of your guitar case.

I think about what I would do if I were a musician today, determined to be able to afford Progresso soup in a tour bus sitting on a padded bench seat. What is it that is important about being a musician? I guess that is different for everyone. I think, for me anyway, it would be about being heard, putting what you do just out there and seeing what happens. I guess I would make any of my songs available free, put out the digital hat if someone wanted to toss me a few bucks for them, try to book a lot of gigs, and keep my day job with its insurance and 401K and hope for the best.

I will watch with great interest how the industry finally comes to terms with HELLO! REALITY! and how musicians keep going despite it all. I see good things in musicians delivering music now with no middleman, taking more responsibility for shaping their careers.

Ray Davies again gets the last word, from 1970:

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WHOLE

It's hard to know what to say sometimes.

Across the world, another useless monstrous terrorist attack in India, hundreds dead too in African riots. Here, people shopping for the holidays under a sky so dark it seems like night, runners padding by with their dogs, cartoons chattering away on the TV. How do I explain that it is all part of the same thing? How do I convince anyone that there is good, more good than bad? How do I believe it myself?

Just gotta keep trying.

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YOKO

COME ON NOW.

JUST COME ON.

THE HELL.

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PEARL

As Sarah cheerily drew back the curtains, the afternoon sunlight burst into their room, going from almost pitch black to bright day, causing her to squint. She looked out the window and down to the street, and saw a woman in the crosswalk pushing a bright red stroller.

“Peter! What is your daughter’s name?” She realized suddenly, that she didn’t know it, thought it odd that she didn’t. She remembered that he had mentioned in passing about a month ago that it was the child’s 1st birthday. Sarah turned from the window and looked at him, faced away from her, adjusting his belt, head down. He waited a few seconds before answering.

“Pearl.”

Oh, Sarah thought, how cute. Sort of old-fashioned and unlikely, but still cute. She walked over to the desk and picked up her watch and put it on her wrist. “I suppose she is walking now, yes?” Peter did not say anything, a longer pause, then spoke, even more into his chest.

“I don’t know.”

Sarah stopped to look at his face and try to catch his eye. He did not look over. “What? You don’t know?” she asked, confused. This was strange. He just stood there, didn’t move to put his shirt on, just stood for some time.

“My wife gave her up for adoption when she was born.” He walked to the chair where his blue shirt was, picked it up, held it in his hands.

Sarah reeled back a bit, her mind spinning. “What? What??? She gave her up?? What are you saying? Why?”

He slid his shirt on, stiffly, spoke plainly, quietly. “She didn’t want her.”

Sarah plopped down in the desk chair, trying to process what Peter was saying. “So…you are telling me that she got pregnant, decided to have the baby but didn’t want a baby, and gave her up. Is that right??”

“Yes.”

She paused, took a breath. “Well, what about you? Didn’t you want her??”

Peter didn’t speak again for a time, buttoned his shirt, tucked it into his pants. He finally looked at Sarah, his eyes bright and focused hard on her face. “She didn’t want her.” He turned away again, point made.

Sarah sat, feeling heavy and tired suddenly and thought for a few minutes. “When did you see Pearl last?”

Peter sat on the edge of the bed and put on his socks, then shoes. “On her fourth or fifth day of life.”

What an odd way to say that, Sarah thought. She stared at him, realizing for the first time how little she knew about him, unsettled by the idea, saddened, thinking.

She rose, slipped on her heels, gathered up her purse. “OK?” she nodded at him, and he gave her a small, quick smile back.

They walked out of the room and made their way down to the hotel parking garage and as always, kissed each other on the cheek and gave a single hand squeeze before heading off to their separate cars, Sarah’s heels click-clacking off the echoing concrete.

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STARMAKER

A couple of days ago I got in the latest issue of Rolling Stone magazine, and there on the cover is Britney Spears, smiling, flat-stomached, and belly-ringed. Now, I could complain bitterly that Ms. Spears has absolutely no business being on the cover of what is purported to be a serious music magazine. She is a music commodity, not a music talent. But Rolling Stone stays in business by selling magazines, and Britney and her drama sells, still. The gist of the article I think is that (oh shock) fame is a bitch, be careful what you ask for, etc.

Perhaps it is a bit too obvious to suggest she retire from public life if she doesn’t care for the glare of the spotlight. Yes, perhaps just a touch too practical. She surely has enough money, does not need to work, could easily retire to the depths of small-town Louisiana, raise her children, and be easily enough forgotten. But, no, a cover shot on Rolling Stone is the plan of action. I do not disagree with Ms. Spears that the public is relentless in stalking her, judging her; it isn’t fair, or cool, or right. But that’s the deal now, and when you know it, hate it, but still choose to play, well, quit whining.

It got me thinking about the psychological need for and ramifications of fame. Not attention, not praise – fame. Ray Davies wrote a project in 1974 called “Starmaker” that ended up as both a Kinks album (“Soap Opera”) and a television play in the UK. It takes a rather quirky look at the effects of this need on one man. The story begins as Norman, our Everyman Rock Star, is getting up and ready to go to work at his stultifying desk job in a bland office block somewhere, so he can “research” his next great musical project. He is arrogant, egotistical, condescending, ready to explore the lives of the “Ordinary People” by becoming one of them, but only until he has enough detail to begin his eagerly-awaited project.

His wife sees to his needs, supports his grand plans, gazes at him in awe and adoration. But as the story progresses, cracks appear. She gets irritable, angry, sad, frustrated with him. When she finally has had enough and complains, Norman says to her, “Do you think that I would live here, with you, in this squalor, if it wasn’t for my work?” She then reveals to us, and to him, that he is no rock star; he really is normal dull Norman with the desk job, and his fantasies of fame are a lie. She will no longer play along, as it is clear Norman has lost touch with reality completely. As he accepts that he must stop his double life and returns to be “A Face In The Crowd,” there is both a sense of great melancholy and a worrisome undercurrent of mental illness, unresolved.

As a creative work, I don’t feel Ray Davies fully succeeded with the Starmaker project, as the story seems more locked in his head than fully fleshed out for the listener. I wonder how much of it was personal. He had gone through a traumatic divorce the year before from his young wife, who had been a fan before the Kinks hit the big time in 1964. She knew Ray before he was famous, saw him through profound changes, pressure, breakdowns, and triumphs. I don’t doubt that she said to him at some point, “Just who do you think you are?” as the wife in Starmaker did to Norman. Was he able to answer her?

Who are you? Who, who? Does fame change your very DNA? Is there little left of the person that was? Is it so addictive that it cannot be cast aside once you have it, even at the cost of every single real person in your life? Whom do you trust when those people have had enough?

I see the cover shot, and I see the cost, continued.

Well, enjoy Ray Davies in his underwear, in any case.

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INDEFENSIBLE

Why did I eat a McRib sandwich today, WHY? WHY?

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THANKSGIVING

Clara stared at the big white bowl of creamy mashed potatoes in front of her, They looked so tasty, she thought, all swirly and hot with a big pat of sunny yellow butter melting rivers into the fluff. She thought she would like to put her face right into the bowl and just eat them right up. The ceramic bowl reminded her of the one her own mother used; she could almost feel the ridges on the side, the heft of it, carrying it with oven mitts to the table. Her mother had made the best mashed potatoes, with a ricer, when people took the time to do such things. Clara could smell the richness of the potatoes, along with the brown gravy, almost burnt, the juicy turkey, the sausage stuffing, the tang of the cranberry sauce, the orange sweetness of the yams, crusty and caramelized. She knew it was a good meal, good food today, different of course. How she wanted to just poke a finger into those beautiful, perfect potatoes and lick her finger, quickly, before the hot burnt her skin. A cloud in a bowl, on a table of white.

***********************************


“Clara? Clara, honey, do you want some turkey? It’s so good!” Adele bent over Clara, offering up a forkful of meat, after carefully cutting it into tiny pieces. Clara just stared ahead, blue eyes bright but fixed. Adele sighed, and spoke sadly to the shift supervisor, who was standing a few feet away adjusting a crooked “Happy Thanksgiving” sign on the wall. “Kathleen, she just doesn’t want anything today, I guess.”

“Oh, well, Adele, you tried. Maybe she just isn’t hungry now. Dennis can save her plate for later.” Kathleen stepped back, and looked at the sign with her hands on her hips. Good enough.

Adele unlocked the wheels of Clara’s wheelchair, and carefully pulled her back from the table and slowly pushed her down the hall to the dayroom. The Macy’s parade was on the television, a big Thanksgiving turkey balloon floating in the sky there, bound to earth by strings and human hands.

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JEANS 3

Another good run at Marshall's today. I found my favorite pair, the Guess Skinny Starlet, and went down another size. This caused me to grin wildly in the fitting room. I also grinned wildly to try on another pair, a different brand with what I am quite sure is the World's Shortest Zipper. It appears to be 1" long. HA HA. NONE MORE SHORT.

While I was in the fitting room, grinning, I overheard two women talking in accents I could not quite place, switching back and forth from English to the other language:

Woman 1: I like everything comfortable. I don't want anything tight. Why? What for?
Woman 2: Oh, yes, yes, I know what you mean. I hate anything tight around my waist, it gives me gas.
Woman 1: I should be uncomfortable? No, ting ting ting ting tang clack bing clack bong ting.
Woman 2: Oh, ting ting ting bip boop baahhh bip ting ting, yes.
Woman 1: What is the size of that?
Woman 2: It says ting ting clack ting clack.
Woman 1: I want bigger. Not so loose now. Where is that bip bip bing ting clack ding dong ting? I saw it yesterday, it was so pretty color, but I think someone buy it.
Woman 2: Oh, that is too bad. Bing ting ting clack?

They were gone by the time I exited with my garments, so I never saw the women. I hope they found colorful, comfortable, pretty clothes that did not give them gas.

The only real disappointment was the Nonna wasn't there again at the fitting room. Maybe she got deported, and is somewhere in Moscow, scowling and teasing her hair. I even brought my camera this time. Oh, well.

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NO 2

The chance that I will listen to Guns 'N Roses "Chinese Democracy" album is currently the tiniest unit of measurement known, which is the yocto, at 10^-24 or 1 septillionth.

The More You Know.

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ANTICHRISTMAS

I have been whining and carping about this for years, but this year I am totally sticking to it: I AM REVOLTING AGAINST CHRISTMAS. People, I have HAD IT. Well, last year I had also HAD IT, but this year I have even more HAD IT. And it's not like I am any Scrooge or such; I really like the idea of Christmas, provided it has nothing do to with any actual religious notions. I like the Christmas of quiet charity and goodwill and thoughtfulness and immodest decorations. I like Christmas stockings and hot cocoa and Vince Guaraldi and the smell of fresh pine needles.

But what Christmas reality has been for me for the last umptibillion years is a burdensome solo slog of massive present buying, the baking of a store's worth of holiday treats to be given to umptibillion teachers, neighbors, friends, and service providers, and presents on top of that. Hundreds of dollars in tip money. One hundred Christmas cards designed, written, addressed, and sent. Just the right thing for everyone, every time.

I AM TIRED.

It doesn't feel right anymore. Nobody needs a goddamn thing, it is all just more STUFFFFFFFFFFFFFF that is played with or used a couple of times and forgotten. There is no real Christmas spirit behind it all; just a Festival of MORE MORE MORE.

I want to STOP STOP STOP.

But how? It's not like I want to abandon Christmas, but I simply have to gear it way down. It makes me hate December and get crabby and overloaded and I don't want to feel that way anymore. And no, I am not going to be getting any help with any of that. I have already told the kids they should make their lists and think very very hard about what is really important to them, because it is simply going to be less this year. I would SO rather take them somewhere for an experience, some kind of travel, than buy another pink plastic toy or Super Mario Crack Den Playtime Wii game.

So we will see. My resolve is strong now, and I think it is the right thing to do. Last year I broke down on Christmas Eve Day and went on a buying frenzy because I thought the kids didn't have enough. I was wrong. They are, and have actually always been, very easy to please and they really are genuinely happy with anything they get. They are not greedy. It has more been me and the rest of the family that uses presents to get their smiles and giddy joy, trying to give them magic, a memorable Christmas. But one toy and gift bonanza melts into another, year after year. There really isn't anything memorable about any of them.

It is up to me to figure out what exactly I want to do. Watch this space.

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DICK

My youngest child is in the process of learning how to read. Tonight she read from a big book of Dick And Jane stories, as did her two older brothers when they learned to read. My mother, who is almost 82, also read Dick And Jane stories and still has her 1st grader primer. The stories are of course extremely basic but cleverly constructed to build reading strengths from one story to the next, which is why they work so well. There is a logic to the simplicity of them. The illustrations, although dated, are charming and lively.

When I first saw a Dick and Jane book, I thought that they were in Special Ed. I honestly thought they were slow children. I was absolutely confused as to why kids read the stories; they seemed almost cruelly paced. Dick, Jane, Sally, and Spot spent their days either confused or giggling, while telling each other to LOOK, LOOK! Look at what, a scorpion crawling across Sally's face? Damn, you dummies, brush it off already, quit with the LOOK, LOOK shit! I didn't get it at all.

Well, LOOK, LOOK. Dick And Jane and Friends are still going strong in 2008, and I am writing on a site called Diarrhea Island. Who is slow NOW, eh?

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UNGRATEFUL

You wanna know something that irritates the HELL out of me? THE GRATEFUL DEAD. This band AGITATES ME A WHOLE LOT. I'm not even kidding, if I hear them for even a few seconds I start to get mad and get a headache and throw my hands up in the air and my mouth drops and my head shakes and I go MY GOD! I can't help it. THEY OFFEND ME.

Yes, I know Jerry Garcia is dead. Yes, he seems like he was a pleasant man with a good sense of humor. BUT JESUS CHRIST. How can someone have so consistently played a guitar with so little musicality? It sounds like someone let a rat run free on the fretboard. Not only that, but all the members of the band sound like they were in separate rooms from each other, utterly unconcerned with being in the same key or tempo. The singing sounds like Bobby Brady's cracking pubescent voice pushed through a leaky bellows, and the whole effort put together, every song in the SAME MEANDERING SHUFFLE PACE, is SO WEAK that it HURTS ME.

ANSWER ME. How can you play this kind of music for FOUR HOURS AT A TIME? Do they sleep in the middle? I am actually serious. An advertisement for JUST SAY NO.

I cannot tolerate The Grateful Dead. Thank you.

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