Tuesday, November 11, 2008
A Friendly Advertisement
Welcome to my warm-hearted collection of short fiction, and stuff that should be fiction, about my bicycle, life, etcetera. This blog is basically a glorious showcase of my life's work. It ranges from riding the train to building a closet to pointing out the flaws of Rutgers University in New Brunswick. Why, there's little I've left to do. And I've written it nearly all down. Fact is, I sometimes worry about running out of good meaty material before I die. That's what happened to Hemingway. Wound up writing bootleg Charlie Brown comic strips in Bermuda because all the good wars dried up. Since I don't want that to happen to me, I absolutely refuse to slow down with my wild, breakneck lifestyle. Why just the other day I was realizing the horrible ironies of televangelism... But you'll have to search through my many adventures to find out what I'm talking about. The point is, this is very exciting and adventurous stuff. It's so exciting you can't believe it. You just can't stand it it's so exotic. Why, if you bundled together fifty different species of tropical birds in a pillowcase and trained them all to sing "When the Saints Come Marching Home", that wouldn't compare to the delights you'll find while perusing My Shogun. So get started, and please feel free to make comments galore, since I've no other way of hearing from you, my beloved readers.
A Public Service Announcement
I have to take this math course before I can graduate next spring. It's almost the lowest level of math offered by the fine people here at Rutgers. Elementary Algebra - as if I was supposed to have learned this stuff before leaving the fifth grade. Anyway, it doesn't look good because I keep bombing my tests. It's not that I don't get the ideas, it's just that I can't seem to copy the problems onto my paper. Sometimes 6 turns into x. That's because when I think "six" I see the x. Sometimes 8 also turns into an x because there's an x in the middle of the 8. I also confuse plus and minus signs because there's a minus sign in a plus sign. There are many more that I haven't pinned down yet.
This is frustrating stuff because even though I know to a large extent what I'm doing wrong, I can't seem to slow down and focus hard enough to stop doing it. So I thought, that sounds like ADD. I called the psychological testing services here at Rugters to see if there was a test I could take.
Oh was there a test. "Let me break this down for you," said the grad student on duty, "because it's expensive. For $450, you can take the ADD test, but for only $250 you can take the ADHD test. Then there's the combined test, where we test for ADD and ADHD at the same time. There you're back up to $450."
Well, the clever pricing alone put a stop to my delusions of grandeur. But there's something strange about it still. Even if I had the money. It's not like you walk in and say, "hey there's something wrong with me can you help?" It's set up like they're selling a product.
I was telling my friend about all this and he warned me that insurance companies consider ADD a pre-existing mental illness. That means they can probably find loopholes to get out of paying for services should I ever need them. That is, of course, if I purchase my test results. I didn't fact-check that one. My assumption that my friend is right is probably tainted with bias. I'm really just imposing my belief that the insurance companies lack a certain pre-existing morality.
So, if you're struggling with a similar problem, there may be no actual resources.
This has been a public service announcement from the ADD Council.
This is frustrating stuff because even though I know to a large extent what I'm doing wrong, I can't seem to slow down and focus hard enough to stop doing it. So I thought, that sounds like ADD. I called the psychological testing services here at Rugters to see if there was a test I could take.
Oh was there a test. "Let me break this down for you," said the grad student on duty, "because it's expensive. For $450, you can take the ADD test, but for only $250 you can take the ADHD test. Then there's the combined test, where we test for ADD and ADHD at the same time. There you're back up to $450."
Well, the clever pricing alone put a stop to my delusions of grandeur. But there's something strange about it still. Even if I had the money. It's not like you walk in and say, "hey there's something wrong with me can you help?" It's set up like they're selling a product.
I was telling my friend about all this and he warned me that insurance companies consider ADD a pre-existing mental illness. That means they can probably find loopholes to get out of paying for services should I ever need them. That is, of course, if I purchase my test results. I didn't fact-check that one. My assumption that my friend is right is probably tainted with bias. I'm really just imposing my belief that the insurance companies lack a certain pre-existing morality.
So, if you're struggling with a similar problem, there may be no actual resources.
This has been a public service announcement from the ADD Council.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Relativism? What?
I don't know about you, but I've been hearing a lot about this thing called relativism lately. It sounds like a trendy thing to talk about and then avoid like the plague.
I happened to see a televangelist the other day. It was the day of the election and behind the speaker there were giant cardboard cutouts of the Democratic ass and the Republican elephant, implying a reasonably balanced perspective. At any rate, I thought it had to do with what was going on at that moment. I normally don't watch televangelists but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.
As usual the speaker was rather charismatic, delivering highly abstract messages in crisp 40-second sound bites. The perfect format for an in depth theological analysis. He was giving us an overview of the political landscape right now. He spread his arms apart to show the two sides, also making himself appear much bigger as he stretched the ability of his shirt to remain tucked neatly into his jeans. We were at war, he said. It was truth versus relativism.
I was hooked. Not only did I consider myself a member of the studio audience, I was already very familiar with the two sides, having been steeped in pop-evangelical-culture at youth group in Maine. Truth was obviously the side to be on. Relativism appeared sexy at first, but was quickly revealed to be a brain-fart. It was a philosophy that said something may be right for person A, and wrong for B. Therefore truth is relative. It's like this, the speaker said, Professor Fuzzyface comes into the classroom and hands out a multiple-choice test. Each question has four possible answers, but don't worry. None of them are wrong. That's relativism!
This drew quiet applause and knowing chuckles. Oh those relativists. We had all been avoiding them for years.
In reality, he asserted, it's not like that at all. Truth is absolute and tied to God. God is truth. The Bible is the only source of pure, unadulterated truth. It's got electrolytes.
Electrolytes.
It's not up to us to decide what's right and wrong. Oh no sir.
No sir.
There is a standard for measuring what is right and what is wrong. And that standard is the infallible word of God.
Husbands drew their wives closer and the wives leaned forward and nodded.
Marriage ought to be held to the absolute standard of the Bible. And the Bible says, cover to cover, that marriage is between one man and one woman! Couldn't be clearer.
Except, of course, for all the polygamy. But we all overlooked that minor detail because he was quickly making another much farther-reaching point. A point so big and manly and important that it made monogamy and polygamy look like identical twin sisters. It was a point that brought to light a view that was shearly opposed everything the bible stood for. This magnanimous point was that God hated to see the gays getting married. The speaker strode back and forth across the stage like a lion. You can't say that men marrying men is okay these days because... because... because, he whispered, truth is relative. No my friends, he roared, truth is not relative! The camera cut to a rear shot. You could see the battery pack for the wireless microphone tucked into the back of his jeans. This guy was high tech, yet resourceful. Smart enough to not draw attention to just how high tech and yet resourceful he was.
I think I would like to meet a relativist, briefly. A really prime candidate. One who actually does think that something we universally consider unthinkable here and now is actually okay and maybe even the right thing to do in a different land and a different time. I don't know... take genocide for example? I don't know of ANYONE who would even try to cobble together an argument that says, under these circumstances, it's okay to go ahead and wipe out an entire ethnicity, or race. The whole thing. Every man woman and child.
I'm being facetious. Of course I have met relativists. The speaker was one. He believed the Bible literally. That means that when an Israeli general ordered his men to kill children, it was okay for his men to do so. According to the general, this was God's will and that made it right. But if a soldier received that order today, even with the general's assurance that it was God's idea in the first place, I'm sure the speaker would object. I hope. If he would object, then that's relativism if I ever saw it. Am I wrong? It seems like the people who complain about relativism are generally predisposed to just that.
Or am I just picking low fruit?
I happened to see a televangelist the other day. It was the day of the election and behind the speaker there were giant cardboard cutouts of the Democratic ass and the Republican elephant, implying a reasonably balanced perspective. At any rate, I thought it had to do with what was going on at that moment. I normally don't watch televangelists but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt.
As usual the speaker was rather charismatic, delivering highly abstract messages in crisp 40-second sound bites. The perfect format for an in depth theological analysis. He was giving us an overview of the political landscape right now. He spread his arms apart to show the two sides, also making himself appear much bigger as he stretched the ability of his shirt to remain tucked neatly into his jeans. We were at war, he said. It was truth versus relativism.
I was hooked. Not only did I consider myself a member of the studio audience, I was already very familiar with the two sides, having been steeped in pop-evangelical-culture at youth group in Maine. Truth was obviously the side to be on. Relativism appeared sexy at first, but was quickly revealed to be a brain-fart. It was a philosophy that said something may be right for person A, and wrong for B. Therefore truth is relative. It's like this, the speaker said, Professor Fuzzyface comes into the classroom and hands out a multiple-choice test. Each question has four possible answers, but don't worry. None of them are wrong. That's relativism!
This drew quiet applause and knowing chuckles. Oh those relativists. We had all been avoiding them for years.
In reality, he asserted, it's not like that at all. Truth is absolute and tied to God. God is truth. The Bible is the only source of pure, unadulterated truth. It's got electrolytes.
Electrolytes.
It's not up to us to decide what's right and wrong. Oh no sir.
No sir.
There is a standard for measuring what is right and what is wrong. And that standard is the infallible word of God.
Husbands drew their wives closer and the wives leaned forward and nodded.
Marriage ought to be held to the absolute standard of the Bible. And the Bible says, cover to cover, that marriage is between one man and one woman! Couldn't be clearer.
Except, of course, for all the polygamy. But we all overlooked that minor detail because he was quickly making another much farther-reaching point. A point so big and manly and important that it made monogamy and polygamy look like identical twin sisters. It was a point that brought to light a view that was shearly opposed everything the bible stood for. This magnanimous point was that God hated to see the gays getting married. The speaker strode back and forth across the stage like a lion. You can't say that men marrying men is okay these days because... because... because, he whispered, truth is relative. No my friends, he roared, truth is not relative! The camera cut to a rear shot. You could see the battery pack for the wireless microphone tucked into the back of his jeans. This guy was high tech, yet resourceful. Smart enough to not draw attention to just how high tech and yet resourceful he was.
I think I would like to meet a relativist, briefly. A really prime candidate. One who actually does think that something we universally consider unthinkable here and now is actually okay and maybe even the right thing to do in a different land and a different time. I don't know... take genocide for example? I don't know of ANYONE who would even try to cobble together an argument that says, under these circumstances, it's okay to go ahead and wipe out an entire ethnicity, or race. The whole thing. Every man woman and child.
I'm being facetious. Of course I have met relativists. The speaker was one. He believed the Bible literally. That means that when an Israeli general ordered his men to kill children, it was okay for his men to do so. According to the general, this was God's will and that made it right. But if a soldier received that order today, even with the general's assurance that it was God's idea in the first place, I'm sure the speaker would object. I hope. If he would object, then that's relativism if I ever saw it. Am I wrong? It seems like the people who complain about relativism are generally predisposed to just that.
Or am I just picking low fruit?
Monday, October 13, 2008
The Egalitariate
Oscar considered his Hummer to be his inner sanctum. It was there he felt most in touch with the mysterious essence of his being. Every man must have a private sanctum, he thought. If they don't, they should get one.
He had had the windows tinted. All of them, even the front two and windshield were like a cop's sunglasses. He had to pay a fine of $250 in order to tint the front ones and the windshield, but he hardly cared. That was the price of two tanks of gas.
He took advantage of his privacy at this point to use his cell phone the way God intended: held to the ear and without fear of being pulled over.
"You got the job?" he said. "Terrific! Where? - Hold on." He was speaking with his soon-to-be-fiance, Nancy. He let the phone drop from his hand so he could grip the large steering wheel with both hands as his giant tires turned a stray dog into a squirt of jelly.
"Where? Seylene's?" He didn't know or recognize the place of business. "Of course, fantastic."
He planned to ask for her hand in marriage that very night at Terhune Orchard. Amidst the sleeping flocks of geese and millions of flashing green fireflies, he would kneel down and present his $30,000 diamond ring. It was the most beautiful thing he could think of.
He said goodbye and fell to rehearsing a small speech he had prepared for the event. "I want an egalitarian marriage. That's the plan here. The goal. Perfect equality between me and you. Husband and wife splitting - no sharing - everything, right down the middle. That includes income, childcare, everything." This speech always made him excited. How could she say no, he wondered. It was a sure thing.
Later that night, he found himself at the restaurant Pad Thai, instead of Terhune Orchard, as he had expected. The little ring box pressed relentlessly against his leg under the table.
"Thanks for coming here," said Nancy. She wore plastic flip flops from two years ago.
He adjusted his chair. "No problem."
"You're upset."
"Seylene's is a lingerie shop? You're selling lingerie?"
"Bras." She changed the way she was sitting in her seat before continuing. "It's very important for a woman to have a bra that fits. If she looks better, she feels better - what?"
He used the cloth napkin to wipe the dry corner of his mouth. "Nothing." He didn't like the fact that she was wearing the tight shorts that said Abercrombie and Fitch across her ass. He wondered if that's what she wore to work.
"I'm helping women to feel better. Besides, it's a lot more money. I can make, like, what I used to make in a day, in like, four hours!"
The waiter filled their glasses with ice water. Oscar raised his hand for attention. "Leave the pitcher, please." He turned back to Nancy. "You're promoting a feminine ideal."
"No I'm not!"
"Whatever." The light came through the leaves and the glass of the window so that they were part shadowed and part illuminated. The sun struck the window in such a way that nobody could see them from outside. The place was not very full. Not many people knew about Pad Thai, even though it was right there on Nassau Street.
"Have you ever heard the story of the overflowing tea?"
"No." The waiter had not brought them anything to much on. Nothing to whet their appetite. She pinched the hem of her shorts and tugged, straightening them down her legs.
He picked up the glass pitcher. "There's this student and a wise man. The student starts asking him all these questions but the wise man just sits there. Doesn't say a thing."
She looked at the pitcher. The sweat trickled down his knuckles and a drop hung from the bottom one. A prism.
"Finally the student says, 'Can you hear me?' and he says, 'Pour me some tea.'" He held the ring box tight in his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. "So she starts pouring," and he threaded the water from the pitcher to top off her already full glass, which quickly overfilled.
"What are you doing?"
"Soon the tea started to spill onto the table and onto the floor."
She looked around to see if people were staring. Nobody noticed. The water crept into her lap, soaked beneath her underwear. "Stop it, please!" She squirmed a little and sounded scared. "I don't...."
"And soon there was no more tea and the student asked, 'What's your point?' and the wise man said, 'When the cup is full, it cannot hold more. So it is with you. First you must empty yourself before you can receive knowledge.'"
She scooted away from the table.
"Now you're upset, babe. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I...." She took off her thick green sweater and laid it across her lap. "I don't feel well."
"Well that's just fine." He let go of the ring box and it remained slightly ajar. The hinge was slightly damaged.
"I'm sorry, I've been feeling bad all day. It must be my period."
"No, it's not your fault, hun. I'll make you something at home." They stood up and she tied her sweatshirt around her waist, hiding the wet spot.
The waiter approached them with his hands together. "You're leaving? Is everything okay?"
Oscar bit his lip and looked at Nancy's sweater. "Everything's fine. We're not feeling well is all." The waiter looked also.
They walked down the street and came to her car first. It was a Honda Civic. "I'll drive you to your car," she said.
"Thanks."
The seat was too far forward so he reached down to adjust it.
"It's broken," she said.
He spread his legs as wide as the car would allow and pushed himself into the seat. "Do you really need to go home? or can I show you something?" There was still time to make it to Terhune.
"I guess."
"I want to take you somewhere special tonight." The sun was below the buildings. It shined into their eyes as they came near the Municipal Parking Garage. "Pull over here. Wait for me."
He came out driving his Hummer and pulled up behind her, slowly. She was on the phone and didn't notice him there so he kept inching closer until he tapped the trunk with his bumper. This startled her and she pulled her phone away as if it had become a wasp. She put her car into gear and waited for him to back up. He laughed even though he didn't want to. He bit his lip, but laughed more.
He didn't move because she could easily pull into traffic by turning sharp and moving ahead. By now he had forgotten about Terhune.
She put her car back into park and got out. She walked slowly to his door and waited to be acknowledged. She had to look up and he knew she could not see him. He smiled and waited. She could not see the dog's blood on the passenger side fender, either.
She tapped the glass and he continued to smile. Then he put the phone to his ear and let the window down. He looked at her.
She didn't want to embarrass him so she made it sound like a joke. "You boxed me in, you dope."
He made his eyes big, like he was embarrassed and fumbled to put his vehicle into reverse while maintaining the phone on his cheek. He blocked his mouth from the receiver and whispered, "Sorry."
He had had the windows tinted. All of them, even the front two and windshield were like a cop's sunglasses. He had to pay a fine of $250 in order to tint the front ones and the windshield, but he hardly cared. That was the price of two tanks of gas.
He took advantage of his privacy at this point to use his cell phone the way God intended: held to the ear and without fear of being pulled over.
"You got the job?" he said. "Terrific! Where? - Hold on." He was speaking with his soon-to-be-fiance, Nancy. He let the phone drop from his hand so he could grip the large steering wheel with both hands as his giant tires turned a stray dog into a squirt of jelly.
"Where? Seylene's?" He didn't know or recognize the place of business. "Of course, fantastic."
He planned to ask for her hand in marriage that very night at Terhune Orchard. Amidst the sleeping flocks of geese and millions of flashing green fireflies, he would kneel down and present his $30,000 diamond ring. It was the most beautiful thing he could think of.
He said goodbye and fell to rehearsing a small speech he had prepared for the event. "I want an egalitarian marriage. That's the plan here. The goal. Perfect equality between me and you. Husband and wife splitting - no sharing - everything, right down the middle. That includes income, childcare, everything." This speech always made him excited. How could she say no, he wondered. It was a sure thing.
Later that night, he found himself at the restaurant Pad Thai, instead of Terhune Orchard, as he had expected. The little ring box pressed relentlessly against his leg under the table.
"Thanks for coming here," said Nancy. She wore plastic flip flops from two years ago.
He adjusted his chair. "No problem."
"You're upset."
"Seylene's is a lingerie shop? You're selling lingerie?"
"Bras." She changed the way she was sitting in her seat before continuing. "It's very important for a woman to have a bra that fits. If she looks better, she feels better - what?"
He used the cloth napkin to wipe the dry corner of his mouth. "Nothing." He didn't like the fact that she was wearing the tight shorts that said Abercrombie and Fitch across her ass. He wondered if that's what she wore to work.
"I'm helping women to feel better. Besides, it's a lot more money. I can make, like, what I used to make in a day, in like, four hours!"
The waiter filled their glasses with ice water. Oscar raised his hand for attention. "Leave the pitcher, please." He turned back to Nancy. "You're promoting a feminine ideal."
"No I'm not!"
"Whatever." The light came through the leaves and the glass of the window so that they were part shadowed and part illuminated. The sun struck the window in such a way that nobody could see them from outside. The place was not very full. Not many people knew about Pad Thai, even though it was right there on Nassau Street.
"Have you ever heard the story of the overflowing tea?"
"No." The waiter had not brought them anything to much on. Nothing to whet their appetite. She pinched the hem of her shorts and tugged, straightening them down her legs.
He picked up the glass pitcher. "There's this student and a wise man. The student starts asking him all these questions but the wise man just sits there. Doesn't say a thing."
She looked at the pitcher. The sweat trickled down his knuckles and a drop hung from the bottom one. A prism.
"Finally the student says, 'Can you hear me?' and he says, 'Pour me some tea.'" He held the ring box tight in his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. "So she starts pouring," and he threaded the water from the pitcher to top off her already full glass, which quickly overfilled.
"What are you doing?"
"Soon the tea started to spill onto the table and onto the floor."
She looked around to see if people were staring. Nobody noticed. The water crept into her lap, soaked beneath her underwear. "Stop it, please!" She squirmed a little and sounded scared. "I don't...."
"And soon there was no more tea and the student asked, 'What's your point?' and the wise man said, 'When the cup is full, it cannot hold more. So it is with you. First you must empty yourself before you can receive knowledge.'"
She scooted away from the table.
"Now you're upset, babe. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I...." She took off her thick green sweater and laid it across her lap. "I don't feel well."
"Well that's just fine." He let go of the ring box and it remained slightly ajar. The hinge was slightly damaged.
"I'm sorry, I've been feeling bad all day. It must be my period."
"No, it's not your fault, hun. I'll make you something at home." They stood up and she tied her sweatshirt around her waist, hiding the wet spot.
The waiter approached them with his hands together. "You're leaving? Is everything okay?"
Oscar bit his lip and looked at Nancy's sweater. "Everything's fine. We're not feeling well is all." The waiter looked also.
They walked down the street and came to her car first. It was a Honda Civic. "I'll drive you to your car," she said.
"Thanks."
The seat was too far forward so he reached down to adjust it.
"It's broken," she said.
He spread his legs as wide as the car would allow and pushed himself into the seat. "Do you really need to go home? or can I show you something?" There was still time to make it to Terhune.
"I guess."
"I want to take you somewhere special tonight." The sun was below the buildings. It shined into their eyes as they came near the Municipal Parking Garage. "Pull over here. Wait for me."
He came out driving his Hummer and pulled up behind her, slowly. She was on the phone and didn't notice him there so he kept inching closer until he tapped the trunk with his bumper. This startled her and she pulled her phone away as if it had become a wasp. She put her car into gear and waited for him to back up. He laughed even though he didn't want to. He bit his lip, but laughed more.
He didn't move because she could easily pull into traffic by turning sharp and moving ahead. By now he had forgotten about Terhune.
She put her car back into park and got out. She walked slowly to his door and waited to be acknowledged. She had to look up and he knew she could not see him. He smiled and waited. She could not see the dog's blood on the passenger side fender, either.
She tapped the glass and he continued to smile. Then he put the phone to his ear and let the window down. He looked at her.
She didn't want to embarrass him so she made it sound like a joke. "You boxed me in, you dope."
He made his eyes big, like he was embarrassed and fumbled to put his vehicle into reverse while maintaining the phone on his cheek. He blocked his mouth from the receiver and whispered, "Sorry."
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
At Long Last, The Missing And Half Complete American Studies Paper
In her horrible little novel, "Charlotte Temple", Rowson leans heavily on the tired convention of the moral. Her particular moral can be summed up as "you should seek to be wholly protected from the world by keeping yourself under the care of your family." The reason this might make sense within the story is because the main character, Charlotte, falls victim to a plot hatched by the opportunist Miss La Rue. Had Charlotte followed this moral more stringently, she would supposedly have fared much better than she actually did. From a contemporary perspective, this is hardly a worthwhile practice, but Rowson may be excused somewhat for her shortsightedness. After all, she wrote this during the Sentimentalist period, so we should not expect too much from her. One of the key markers of this period is a stout display of naivete by the main character. However, it is hard to imagine how this would be a good moral to follow during any period, whatsoever.
The moral appeals to what I will call a shelterist mentality. Charlotte should have sought the shelter of her family, particularly her father, instead of trusting her own supposedly inferior judgement. This kind of thinking presupposes that her own judgement is inherently worse than her parents', specifically, her father's. It seems rather intuitive that if she were to make that supposition, she would tend to see herself as an unintelligent individual. It would discourage her from facing any challenge whatsoever that is not first approved by her parents. And this essentially means that as long as she lives according to this moral, she will not face anything more challenging than her own loving father.
Yes, this might work, given one of two conditions are met. She either has to live in a hermetically sealed bubble, or her father has to be God. In a bubble, she would be totally safe, as long as she never stepped outside of the bubble. If her father were God... all bets would be off. In the real world, either of these conditions are seldom met. It turns out that there are in fact many Miss La Rue types out there. In order for the moral to be worth while, it would have to give us a clue as to how to deal with these kinds of people. Simply avoiding them would only be possible if we knew everything about them without going through the trouble of being duped by them in order to learn anything valuable about them them.
Rowson might respond that you don't need to know EVERYTHING about La Rue, just the important stuff, like whether or not she is trustworthy. You can get that information from other people you already trust. The best source for this would, of course, be your family. And the best family member would be, as always, the patriarch.
But, how does your family know whether or not its sources are trustworthy, which leads to questioning the structure of determining trustworthiness, which leads to a never ending loop of paranoia, ad infinitum? At some point someone has to be up to the challenge of dealing with La Rue.
Rowson would say to ignore all this nonsense, that the right person to deal with La Rue would be the patriarch,and that's all you need to worry about. And this works as a systematic approach because Charlotte is living in a fictional, patriarchal society. She will always have a patriarch there to protect her.
But when Rowson invokes the concept of "protecting" a proper translation would be something more like "thinking". Her father will do all the thinking for her until she is married off... then her husband will take it from there.
The moral is short sighted because in reality you can never be wholly
protected from the outside world, unless of course you were completely
isolated from it. Supposing this principle was known to her all along, I
assume she was at least trying to follow it, and was tricked into stepping
away from it. By adhering to this principle, as well as she knew how,
Charlotte was made especially susceptible to the wiles of such savory
characters as La Rue. In other words, we can try to follow the principle,
but it tends to make us vulnerable to being compromised - to compromising the very principle we are trying to follow. Again, it might work as long as there are no La Rues in the picture. But there are loads of them.
Therefore, it's a doomed principle.
I think this would parallel Uncle Tom's Cabin in the sense that the
principle Uncle Tom is adhering to is designed to keep him at bay. The
fact that he is working against his own interests is one thing, but when
Stowe presents it as a matter of fact, she is prescribing a certain moral
standard. Just as it is supposedly better for Uncle Tom to remain docile,
so too is it better for Charlotte to remain completely isolated from the
outside world. They follow the same shitty logic.
The moral appeals to what I will call a shelterist mentality. Charlotte should have sought the shelter of her family, particularly her father, instead of trusting her own supposedly inferior judgement. This kind of thinking presupposes that her own judgement is inherently worse than her parents', specifically, her father's. It seems rather intuitive that if she were to make that supposition, she would tend to see herself as an unintelligent individual. It would discourage her from facing any challenge whatsoever that is not first approved by her parents. And this essentially means that as long as she lives according to this moral, she will not face anything more challenging than her own loving father.
Yes, this might work, given one of two conditions are met. She either has to live in a hermetically sealed bubble, or her father has to be God. In a bubble, she would be totally safe, as long as she never stepped outside of the bubble. If her father were God... all bets would be off. In the real world, either of these conditions are seldom met. It turns out that there are in fact many Miss La Rue types out there. In order for the moral to be worth while, it would have to give us a clue as to how to deal with these kinds of people. Simply avoiding them would only be possible if we knew everything about them without going through the trouble of being duped by them in order to learn anything valuable about them them.
Rowson might respond that you don't need to know EVERYTHING about La Rue, just the important stuff, like whether or not she is trustworthy. You can get that information from other people you already trust. The best source for this would, of course, be your family. And the best family member would be, as always, the patriarch.
But, how does your family know whether or not its sources are trustworthy, which leads to questioning the structure of determining trustworthiness, which leads to a never ending loop of paranoia, ad infinitum? At some point someone has to be up to the challenge of dealing with La Rue.
Rowson would say to ignore all this nonsense, that the right person to deal with La Rue would be the patriarch,and that's all you need to worry about. And this works as a systematic approach because Charlotte is living in a fictional, patriarchal society. She will always have a patriarch there to protect her.
But when Rowson invokes the concept of "protecting" a proper translation would be something more like "thinking". Her father will do all the thinking for her until she is married off... then her husband will take it from there.
The moral is short sighted because in reality you can never be wholly
protected from the outside world, unless of course you were completely
isolated from it. Supposing this principle was known to her all along, I
assume she was at least trying to follow it, and was tricked into stepping
away from it. By adhering to this principle, as well as she knew how,
Charlotte was made especially susceptible to the wiles of such savory
characters as La Rue. In other words, we can try to follow the principle,
but it tends to make us vulnerable to being compromised - to compromising the very principle we are trying to follow. Again, it might work as long as there are no La Rues in the picture. But there are loads of them.
Therefore, it's a doomed principle.
I think this would parallel Uncle Tom's Cabin in the sense that the
principle Uncle Tom is adhering to is designed to keep him at bay. The
fact that he is working against his own interests is one thing, but when
Stowe presents it as a matter of fact, she is prescribing a certain moral
standard. Just as it is supposedly better for Uncle Tom to remain docile,
so too is it better for Charlotte to remain completely isolated from the
outside world. They follow the same shitty logic.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Germ Girl
Jan walked down the aisle. Her back pack bumped against some of the seats that she passed. She wondered if she was disrupting these passengers’ trips too much. She had spilled coffee into her backpack a few days ago. It smelled bad by now. The other passengers could probably smell it. They probably had a bad impression of her. The train moved like waves over bigger swells. She steadied up by grabbing the brown plastic handle on one of the seats. Thousands of germs bit on to her skin. She wanted to not use the hand any more until she washed it.
She sat down next to a boy wearing a black suit. She knew that it only looked black to her. In reality it was very dark blue. The boy probably did important business at a bank. He spoke into his little phone about another boy named Stew. Jan tried to ignore the boy’s side of the conversation because it was not her business. However, trying to ignore it only gave her super sonic hearing. Stew had screwed up the internal audit. The boy in the dark blue suit wasn’t going to take any heat for what Stew did. He would call Stew and get to the bottom of things.
The boy in the black suit calmed down and said goodbye. He hung up the phone and leaned back. He moved his arms and his head around. He folded up the little phone and set it carefully on the leather bag in his lap. He looked like he might be starting to have a heart attack. Jan knew CPR from long ago. In Girl Scouts they made her learn it on a dummy. She knew the mouth to mouth part. If the boy in the black suit needed it, she would have to go ahead and give it to him and not think about it. She should not have had to think about it. She thought about it anyway.
Heart attacks had nothing to do with obstructions in the throat. She could pound on his chest and use his little phone to call the 911 number. She would have to call information first to make sure. She would dial 411 first and speak to a computer about her city and state. Then to someone who sounded like a different computer. Then Jan’s voice would be recorded. Her recorded voice would bring a sterile ambulance. The sterile ambulance would take the boy away and make it okay again. Thinking about this made her start to calm down.
Soon the train hesitated. That meant it would stop soon. The boy collected his coat and briefcase. Jan let him get by. He left his little phone on the seat and Jan thought she had better reach it to him. She reached for it, but saw the part that had touched his face. She didn’t want to touch that. The boy headed down the aisle. When the train stopped, he stepped onto the platform. Jan saw him start to feel through his bag and his pockets. He looked at Jan through the window and she stared back at him, wondering if he could see through the glare. She did not think he could see her at all.
She sat down next to a boy wearing a black suit. She knew that it only looked black to her. In reality it was very dark blue. The boy probably did important business at a bank. He spoke into his little phone about another boy named Stew. Jan tried to ignore the boy’s side of the conversation because it was not her business. However, trying to ignore it only gave her super sonic hearing. Stew had screwed up the internal audit. The boy in the dark blue suit wasn’t going to take any heat for what Stew did. He would call Stew and get to the bottom of things.
The boy in the black suit calmed down and said goodbye. He hung up the phone and leaned back. He moved his arms and his head around. He folded up the little phone and set it carefully on the leather bag in his lap. He looked like he might be starting to have a heart attack. Jan knew CPR from long ago. In Girl Scouts they made her learn it on a dummy. She knew the mouth to mouth part. If the boy in the black suit needed it, she would have to go ahead and give it to him and not think about it. She should not have had to think about it. She thought about it anyway.
Heart attacks had nothing to do with obstructions in the throat. She could pound on his chest and use his little phone to call the 911 number. She would have to call information first to make sure. She would dial 411 first and speak to a computer about her city and state. Then to someone who sounded like a different computer. Then Jan’s voice would be recorded. Her recorded voice would bring a sterile ambulance. The sterile ambulance would take the boy away and make it okay again. Thinking about this made her start to calm down.
Soon the train hesitated. That meant it would stop soon. The boy collected his coat and briefcase. Jan let him get by. He left his little phone on the seat and Jan thought she had better reach it to him. She reached for it, but saw the part that had touched his face. She didn’t want to touch that. The boy headed down the aisle. When the train stopped, he stepped onto the platform. Jan saw him start to feel through his bag and his pockets. He looked at Jan through the window and she stared back at him, wondering if he could see through the glare. She did not think he could see her at all.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Courier
Dennis was this eager young guy trying to start his own business. He had made a pledge to himself to do anything it took to make his business successful. His business consisted of him delivering groceries by himself on his bicycle. The only problem, as far as his business went, was that even with the high gas prices, trucks could still do his job cheaper and faster.
Early on in the short life span of his business he gained one solid, reliable customer named Stanley. Stanley weighed some 1,200 pounds and by the time he and Dennis hooked up, he couldn't leave his bed. Dennis had to roll his bike right into the man's bedroom and line up the brown paper bags on T.V. trays that were all within arms reach for Stanley.
Stanley ate mostly Snickers bars and potato chips. He drank nothing but two liter bottles of Coke, almost in a single chug (not that Dennis ever witnessed these feats). Dennis found the man very mysterious because he never left any evidence of having consumed food. No candy bar wrappers. No empty potato chip bags. No scent of defecation in the room.
There was plenty of body odor though, in the room. Stuck on the third floor, and with no air conditioner, Stanley spent most of his time in a state of sweltering agony.
"Say Dennis?" he finally said one day. It was the first verbal communication he had ever initiated with Dennis. All his grocery lists were notes scribbled and left on one of the tables. "Could I pay you to put in that air conditioner, maybe, next time you come around?" His voice was amazingly soft and delicate, almost like a girl's voice. It sounded like he had saved his voice since he was five years old.
"Sure, man," said Dennis, hoisting the last paper bag into place. The temperature at that moment was 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Dennis had decided not to do or say anything, until now, about the heat because he did not want to risk embarrassing his best customer. In fact, he worried that Stanley would soon become his only customer, as nobody seemed to care for his service.
He certainly questioned the ethicacy of delivering so much junk food to such a fat man. But he only allowed that doubt to surface briefly from time to time. If he were to seriously consider stopping the practice, he would have had to abandon his work completely.
He believed that if the business could just take off he would be able to do all sorts of good things. Especially for all the Stanleys out there.
Of course he could have lifted the air conditioner into place. It wasn't very big, and he had installed similar units many times before. It would have taken him five minutes, but he decided to do it next time because he wanted to appear busy. As soon as the last bag was in place, he said thank you and asked if there was anything else he could do.
Stanley tightened his lips and indicated a second note on one of the tables. In the center of the note was scrawled:
Please discretely pick up Ms. Julie, from her front steps on the 500 block of South Street.
"Why don't you just call a cab?"
*
Stanley started to worry. It hadn't occurred to him to call a cab because he had forgotten all about them. Dennis was his only point of contact with the outside world. Before Dennis came along, it was his neighbor, Eve, who checked in on him every other day. She was 96 years old when she died the week before. The last thing she did before she croaked was navigate her electric scooter down to the sidewalk and return with one of Dennis's fliers. She set it on Stanley's stomach facing him so he could read it before she returned to her apartment where she thudded out of her scooter and made no more sounds.
Stanley felt incredibly stupid, having asked for such an unreasonable thing. He started breathing heavier than ever and the bottoms of his legs itched terribly. He had to pass gas quite terribly as well, but that would have certainly made things much more unbearable.
"Okay okay," said Dennis. "I was kidding."
*
Dennis could barely read the note and he tried to picture how Stanley could possibly reach the notebook (wherever he kept it) and how he could manage to write. It didn't seem like he could possibly see what he was writing.
What was he going to do with a prostitute anyway? he wondered. Julie sounded like a very blasé name for a prostitute. A little too good, almost girl next door good.
At what he thought was the appropriate block, based on his interpretation of the note, there was no girl named Julie waiting to be picked up on a bicycle. There was nobody at all on this block. If there had been anybody in sight, this block might not have filled him with so much dread and loathing. He was afraid to stay in this area, but in obedience to the pledge he had made to his fledgling business, he rode slowly up the sidewalk. This is bravery, he thought. I am very brave.
Then he heard a voice right next to his head say, "Excuse me, can you help me? Sir can you come here?"
Dennis froze because he expected to be struck in the head or shot. The voice came from behind the bars of a first story window. "I um, I need help, um, moving this T.V." said the voice. "It's really huge!" Dennis could not tell if the voice was male or female, which he found creepy.
"Can you please come inside?"
The living room was extremely small but also neat and sweet smelling. The owner of the voice moved to the center of the small room and sat almost in a yoga position, avoiding the love seat. It was a short little ugly man, wearing mascara and lipstick. His face was powdered pale and his fake mole was a little too big. He kept shifting around as if he had accidentally sat on a piece of glass, so he never quite struck the yoga position.
Dennis crossed and uncrossed his arms a few times, strategizing.
The man gave Dennis a flirtatious eye and quickly turned his head away. "It's in here," he said, climbing to his feet and then striding into the kitchen. He shot Dennis a direct eye contact look as he disappeared out of view. "I want to show you something, um, what did you say your name was?"
Dennis figured by now that there was no T.V.. Most accidents, he knew, took place in the kitchen, because of all the knives and he knew that if he were to scream due to being stabbed, nobody would much care out there in the ghost neighborhood. He did some nervous tapping with his foot. "Dennis," he said, trying to sound tough. "I didn't catch yours?"
The man cat walked out of the kitchen with his shirt already off. His chest was freshly waxed and from his back pocket he produced a business card with nothing on it but his name, number and a lavender scent. His name was Julio but as Dennis turned the card in the light, the o changed to an e and then back to an o.
Julio circled around behind him and ran his fingers across his shoulders.
"Julie?"
*
Stanley's place smelled like rotten meat. Dennis wondered if some raw bacon hadn't fallen out of reach several days ago. "You should have called a cab." The heat was like the inside of a microwave.
Of course Dennis had never delivered anything so healthy as raw bacon, which could only mean that Stanley must have died some time ago! This thought floated briefly through Dennis's mind, but it threatened to completely undermine his business agenda, forcing him to consider diversifying.
"Did somebody die in here?" Julio asked.
"He's in there," said Dennis. "He needs your help moving... a really huge air conditioner."
"You don't say." Julio sat in his yoga position with his legs crossed and his feet on top of his legs. "Can you hear that?" This time he was able to sit still.
Dennis could hear the footsteps of neighbors and a woman's voice scolding a kid or a man or a dog.
"What's dripping in there?"
"Air conditioner. Sometimes they condensate and leak all over the floor." Of course, he still hadn't installed it.
"Whatever it is, it's not my problem."
"Mine either, and I've got other jobs I need to take care of. I have responsibilities."
"I understand. I think I'll be leaving as well. This isn't what I signed up for."
Dennis squeezed his brake levers and slowly walked his bike out of the apartment.
Early on in the short life span of his business he gained one solid, reliable customer named Stanley. Stanley weighed some 1,200 pounds and by the time he and Dennis hooked up, he couldn't leave his bed. Dennis had to roll his bike right into the man's bedroom and line up the brown paper bags on T.V. trays that were all within arms reach for Stanley.
Stanley ate mostly Snickers bars and potato chips. He drank nothing but two liter bottles of Coke, almost in a single chug (not that Dennis ever witnessed these feats). Dennis found the man very mysterious because he never left any evidence of having consumed food. No candy bar wrappers. No empty potato chip bags. No scent of defecation in the room.
There was plenty of body odor though, in the room. Stuck on the third floor, and with no air conditioner, Stanley spent most of his time in a state of sweltering agony.
"Say Dennis?" he finally said one day. It was the first verbal communication he had ever initiated with Dennis. All his grocery lists were notes scribbled and left on one of the tables. "Could I pay you to put in that air conditioner, maybe, next time you come around?" His voice was amazingly soft and delicate, almost like a girl's voice. It sounded like he had saved his voice since he was five years old.
"Sure, man," said Dennis, hoisting the last paper bag into place. The temperature at that moment was 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Dennis had decided not to do or say anything, until now, about the heat because he did not want to risk embarrassing his best customer. In fact, he worried that Stanley would soon become his only customer, as nobody seemed to care for his service.
He certainly questioned the ethicacy of delivering so much junk food to such a fat man. But he only allowed that doubt to surface briefly from time to time. If he were to seriously consider stopping the practice, he would have had to abandon his work completely.
He believed that if the business could just take off he would be able to do all sorts of good things. Especially for all the Stanleys out there.
Of course he could have lifted the air conditioner into place. It wasn't very big, and he had installed similar units many times before. It would have taken him five minutes, but he decided to do it next time because he wanted to appear busy. As soon as the last bag was in place, he said thank you and asked if there was anything else he could do.
Stanley tightened his lips and indicated a second note on one of the tables. In the center of the note was scrawled:
Please discretely pick up Ms. Julie, from her front steps on the 500 block of South Street.
"Why don't you just call a cab?"
*
Stanley started to worry. It hadn't occurred to him to call a cab because he had forgotten all about them. Dennis was his only point of contact with the outside world. Before Dennis came along, it was his neighbor, Eve, who checked in on him every other day. She was 96 years old when she died the week before. The last thing she did before she croaked was navigate her electric scooter down to the sidewalk and return with one of Dennis's fliers. She set it on Stanley's stomach facing him so he could read it before she returned to her apartment where she thudded out of her scooter and made no more sounds.
Stanley felt incredibly stupid, having asked for such an unreasonable thing. He started breathing heavier than ever and the bottoms of his legs itched terribly. He had to pass gas quite terribly as well, but that would have certainly made things much more unbearable.
"Okay okay," said Dennis. "I was kidding."
*
Dennis could barely read the note and he tried to picture how Stanley could possibly reach the notebook (wherever he kept it) and how he could manage to write. It didn't seem like he could possibly see what he was writing.
What was he going to do with a prostitute anyway? he wondered. Julie sounded like a very blasé name for a prostitute. A little too good, almost girl next door good.
At what he thought was the appropriate block, based on his interpretation of the note, there was no girl named Julie waiting to be picked up on a bicycle. There was nobody at all on this block. If there had been anybody in sight, this block might not have filled him with so much dread and loathing. He was afraid to stay in this area, but in obedience to the pledge he had made to his fledgling business, he rode slowly up the sidewalk. This is bravery, he thought. I am very brave.
Then he heard a voice right next to his head say, "Excuse me, can you help me? Sir can you come here?"
Dennis froze because he expected to be struck in the head or shot. The voice came from behind the bars of a first story window. "I um, I need help, um, moving this T.V." said the voice. "It's really huge!" Dennis could not tell if the voice was male or female, which he found creepy.
"Can you please come inside?"
The living room was extremely small but also neat and sweet smelling. The owner of the voice moved to the center of the small room and sat almost in a yoga position, avoiding the love seat. It was a short little ugly man, wearing mascara and lipstick. His face was powdered pale and his fake mole was a little too big. He kept shifting around as if he had accidentally sat on a piece of glass, so he never quite struck the yoga position.
Dennis crossed and uncrossed his arms a few times, strategizing.
The man gave Dennis a flirtatious eye and quickly turned his head away. "It's in here," he said, climbing to his feet and then striding into the kitchen. He shot Dennis a direct eye contact look as he disappeared out of view. "I want to show you something, um, what did you say your name was?"
Dennis figured by now that there was no T.V.. Most accidents, he knew, took place in the kitchen, because of all the knives and he knew that if he were to scream due to being stabbed, nobody would much care out there in the ghost neighborhood. He did some nervous tapping with his foot. "Dennis," he said, trying to sound tough. "I didn't catch yours?"
The man cat walked out of the kitchen with his shirt already off. His chest was freshly waxed and from his back pocket he produced a business card with nothing on it but his name, number and a lavender scent. His name was Julio but as Dennis turned the card in the light, the o changed to an e and then back to an o.
Julio circled around behind him and ran his fingers across his shoulders.
"Julie?"
*
Stanley's place smelled like rotten meat. Dennis wondered if some raw bacon hadn't fallen out of reach several days ago. "You should have called a cab." The heat was like the inside of a microwave.
Of course Dennis had never delivered anything so healthy as raw bacon, which could only mean that Stanley must have died some time ago! This thought floated briefly through Dennis's mind, but it threatened to completely undermine his business agenda, forcing him to consider diversifying.
"Did somebody die in here?" Julio asked.
"He's in there," said Dennis. "He needs your help moving... a really huge air conditioner."
"You don't say." Julio sat in his yoga position with his legs crossed and his feet on top of his legs. "Can you hear that?" This time he was able to sit still.
Dennis could hear the footsteps of neighbors and a woman's voice scolding a kid or a man or a dog.
"What's dripping in there?"
"Air conditioner. Sometimes they condensate and leak all over the floor." Of course, he still hadn't installed it.
"Whatever it is, it's not my problem."
"Mine either, and I've got other jobs I need to take care of. I have responsibilities."
"I understand. I think I'll be leaving as well. This isn't what I signed up for."
Dennis squeezed his brake levers and slowly walked his bike out of the apartment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)