Saturday, January 31, 2004
"If the radiance of a thousand suns were burst at once in the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One...I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."- Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer, "Godfather" of the atom bomb, quoting the Hindu epic Mahabarata after seeing it detonated at Alamogordo, New Mexico in 1945
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Conspiracy Theory (Another Update)
In yet another update to my long range study of temperature inversions here at business, I've yet again encountered another coffeeshop that, you guessed it, has a fan blowing which makes it incredibly cold in the building. As in my initial post and in the first update, again an establishment, this time the dreaded, at least in Benedict's eyes, Starbucks has entered the pantheon of coffeeshops (Again, is it necessary to exclaim that these places sell coffee, and thus should be warm as well?) that are cold. Now, I'm not sure what this says about the company at large, but it seems to me that you would want to have a place be warm in the winter, a point I've made previously. Having said that, it appears as if my theory has encountered some proof that refutes the idea that this is done in an effort to keep smokers warm, since neither of the last two establishments permit smoking on the premises. So, what can we conclude from this? I'm not sure. Are owners just trying to cut down on the heating costs? If so, how can you explain a Starbucks that's one of the smaller ones being forced to take this measure? I don't have any answers, but I do have questions, such as why my feet are cold, why my neck is cold, why can't I take off my jacket.......????
In yet another update to my long range study of temperature inversions here at business, I've yet again encountered another coffeeshop that, you guessed it, has a fan blowing which makes it incredibly cold in the building. As in my initial post and in the first update, again an establishment, this time the dreaded, at least in Benedict's eyes, Starbucks has entered the pantheon of coffeeshops (Again, is it necessary to exclaim that these places sell coffee, and thus should be warm as well?) that are cold. Now, I'm not sure what this says about the company at large, but it seems to me that you would want to have a place be warm in the winter, a point I've made previously. Having said that, it appears as if my theory has encountered some proof that refutes the idea that this is done in an effort to keep smokers warm, since neither of the last two establishments permit smoking on the premises. So, what can we conclude from this? I'm not sure. Are owners just trying to cut down on the heating costs? If so, how can you explain a Starbucks that's one of the smaller ones being forced to take this measure? I don't have any answers, but I do have questions, such as why my feet are cold, why my neck is cold, why can't I take off my jacket.......????
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Separation Anxiety
I've been suffering from what I'll call separation anxiety towards friends and loved ones as of late. Now, I've gone through this spell plenty of times in my life, much to numerous to recall, and I can recall times in which I haven't had these spells when one assumes that I would. It all started with my roommate's declaration the other day that he was planning on (1) to take a trip to Germany in the summer (2) look for a job there (3) quit his current job to do so (4) move out of our current location, the last of which would be accomplished if all the other three events were met with success. Also, the last of which would primarily depend on whether (1) I find a decent job in the area (2) we decide to get another (i.e. better) place to live.
So, why do I feel so upset by this? Well, it's odd, and I can't help but notice that I'm much more easily upset by thinking about being left alone than by being in some sort of desperate straits myself. Financial concerns, for the most part, don't trouble me much. Employment doesn't bother me much. But the notion that all the people I've come to know in the last year are going to be, at some point, moving on in their lives depresses me beyond belief.
I know that we can't live in a sense of stasis that never fluctuates in some manner or another, but the idea of the constant is reassuring to me, as I'm sure it is to everyone, and I feel that the loss from that alone is enough to send me spiraling down, if I may be so dramatic. Having said that, I realize that there are worse things that can happen in life, and I know that when the time comes, I most likely won't be as traumatized as I'm letting on in this post. The fact remains, though, that I feel a sense of despair infringing upon my psyche that I don't want there in any way, shape, or form.
What this leads me to do, though, is question whether or not this is a natural impulse and whether or not it's, in so many words, a phase that I'll grow out of eventually as my years pass? I don't believe so, unless there's some sort of drastic change in my life, such as a very stable job and all the accoutrements that come along with that.
I guess what I feel the worst about is being cheated out of something that I've just started to enjoy, that being life here in Pittsburgh. I confess that for all the minor, and I do mean minor, inconveniences and bothersome traits about this town, I do like it a lot. I like being here. I like living here, and I don't want to leave any time soon, but I also don't want anyone else to leave, either. I want it all to remain the same, and the saddest thing about that is that I know it can't. I'll have to learn to live with that, but I don't know how I will.
I've been suffering from what I'll call separation anxiety towards friends and loved ones as of late. Now, I've gone through this spell plenty of times in my life, much to numerous to recall, and I can recall times in which I haven't had these spells when one assumes that I would. It all started with my roommate's declaration the other day that he was planning on (1) to take a trip to Germany in the summer (2) look for a job there (3) quit his current job to do so (4) move out of our current location, the last of which would be accomplished if all the other three events were met with success. Also, the last of which would primarily depend on whether (1) I find a decent job in the area (2) we decide to get another (i.e. better) place to live.
So, why do I feel so upset by this? Well, it's odd, and I can't help but notice that I'm much more easily upset by thinking about being left alone than by being in some sort of desperate straits myself. Financial concerns, for the most part, don't trouble me much. Employment doesn't bother me much. But the notion that all the people I've come to know in the last year are going to be, at some point, moving on in their lives depresses me beyond belief.
I know that we can't live in a sense of stasis that never fluctuates in some manner or another, but the idea of the constant is reassuring to me, as I'm sure it is to everyone, and I feel that the loss from that alone is enough to send me spiraling down, if I may be so dramatic. Having said that, I realize that there are worse things that can happen in life, and I know that when the time comes, I most likely won't be as traumatized as I'm letting on in this post. The fact remains, though, that I feel a sense of despair infringing upon my psyche that I don't want there in any way, shape, or form.
What this leads me to do, though, is question whether or not this is a natural impulse and whether or not it's, in so many words, a phase that I'll grow out of eventually as my years pass? I don't believe so, unless there's some sort of drastic change in my life, such as a very stable job and all the accoutrements that come along with that.
I guess what I feel the worst about is being cheated out of something that I've just started to enjoy, that being life here in Pittsburgh. I confess that for all the minor, and I do mean minor, inconveniences and bothersome traits about this town, I do like it a lot. I like being here. I like living here, and I don't want to leave any time soon, but I also don't want anyone else to leave, either. I want it all to remain the same, and the saddest thing about that is that I know it can't. I'll have to learn to live with that, but I don't know how I will.
Saturday, January 24, 2004
A Writer's Dilemma
I have a problem as a writer. No, it has nothing to do with having nothing to say. It's about sharing work with people I know. Now, I realize this sounds strange coming from a writer of a publicly mounted blog, but it's not about the entries I make on here. As most everyone knows, I, along with many others, keep these entries at least private enough in nature so as to not betray any real confidences or identities of those individuals I'm speaking about. Also, it's easy to see that I go to some lengths to keep any pertinent facts about myself concealed from the masses, which in and of itself sounds awful self-congratulatory in that it's highly unlikely that more than two or three people read this forum regularly. Regardless, you get my drift.
What I'm faced with now, though, is the request by two frequent commenters, and friends of mine, on this site to share with them some of my other writing, specifically some poetry I've amassed over the years. Now, when asked about it, I had absolutely no qualms about sharing them, especially the select packet that I gave a classmate at my undergraduate school to read. It's these select poems that I feel are the best representations of what I write about, and I've earmarked them as the ones that I'll be giving to these individuals. However, I'm troubled by this, not because I'm afraid of criticism, but because the very nature of a good portion of these poems are made up in all regards. Very little, perhaps none, of the passages I've written are directly applicable to my own life and experiences, which leads me to the quandary I'm in presently.
Why I'm bothered by this aspect is due to the fact that I know these people, and I know them well enough and vice-versa that it will not be easy for them to read these poems without any sort of detachment that differentiates the writer from the product. I would like to believe that writing is an accurate portrayal of one's personality, at least in many cases, but in this instance, these works don't fit into that same category of work. I realize that some writers are nowhere near the type of personality that they portray in their works, but others are incredibly embodied in their creations. They are physical manifestations of their words. It sounds odd, and maybe a bit pretentious, but that's the way I see writers and their writing.
Now, how do I resolve this situation? It's odd that I would feel so strongly about this because as an undergrad I read most, if not all, of these at a coffeeshop open-mic to people that I knew just as well, if not moreso in some instances. Nothing was ever said at this point and time, and I really don't expect anything to be said now, but I have mixed emotions about it nonetheless.
One reason I can think of is that most of the writing is old, many years old, which may or may not say anything to anyone. Work can persist the tests of time, but when I read these works I still feel some sense of pride in them, but I also feel some sense of detachment and distance from the, as if they're from someone else entirely. I know that I wrote these works, and I don't want to imply that I'm going through some sort of crisis regarding age, and creative drives. I think many people, especially other writers, can relate to this notion, a sort of mishmash of nostalgia and mid-life crisis if you will.
I'm resolved and committed at this point to sharing this work, and I won't renig on that, but I'm curious as to what will come of it. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm more curious than worried about the ramifications of what might occur, perhaps nothing but also perhaps something.
I have a problem as a writer. No, it has nothing to do with having nothing to say. It's about sharing work with people I know. Now, I realize this sounds strange coming from a writer of a publicly mounted blog, but it's not about the entries I make on here. As most everyone knows, I, along with many others, keep these entries at least private enough in nature so as to not betray any real confidences or identities of those individuals I'm speaking about. Also, it's easy to see that I go to some lengths to keep any pertinent facts about myself concealed from the masses, which in and of itself sounds awful self-congratulatory in that it's highly unlikely that more than two or three people read this forum regularly. Regardless, you get my drift.
What I'm faced with now, though, is the request by two frequent commenters, and friends of mine, on this site to share with them some of my other writing, specifically some poetry I've amassed over the years. Now, when asked about it, I had absolutely no qualms about sharing them, especially the select packet that I gave a classmate at my undergraduate school to read. It's these select poems that I feel are the best representations of what I write about, and I've earmarked them as the ones that I'll be giving to these individuals. However, I'm troubled by this, not because I'm afraid of criticism, but because the very nature of a good portion of these poems are made up in all regards. Very little, perhaps none, of the passages I've written are directly applicable to my own life and experiences, which leads me to the quandary I'm in presently.
Why I'm bothered by this aspect is due to the fact that I know these people, and I know them well enough and vice-versa that it will not be easy for them to read these poems without any sort of detachment that differentiates the writer from the product. I would like to believe that writing is an accurate portrayal of one's personality, at least in many cases, but in this instance, these works don't fit into that same category of work. I realize that some writers are nowhere near the type of personality that they portray in their works, but others are incredibly embodied in their creations. They are physical manifestations of their words. It sounds odd, and maybe a bit pretentious, but that's the way I see writers and their writing.
Now, how do I resolve this situation? It's odd that I would feel so strongly about this because as an undergrad I read most, if not all, of these at a coffeeshop open-mic to people that I knew just as well, if not moreso in some instances. Nothing was ever said at this point and time, and I really don't expect anything to be said now, but I have mixed emotions about it nonetheless.
One reason I can think of is that most of the writing is old, many years old, which may or may not say anything to anyone. Work can persist the tests of time, but when I read these works I still feel some sense of pride in them, but I also feel some sense of detachment and distance from the, as if they're from someone else entirely. I know that I wrote these works, and I don't want to imply that I'm going through some sort of crisis regarding age, and creative drives. I think many people, especially other writers, can relate to this notion, a sort of mishmash of nostalgia and mid-life crisis if you will.
I'm resolved and committed at this point to sharing this work, and I won't renig on that, but I'm curious as to what will come of it. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm more curious than worried about the ramifications of what might occur, perhaps nothing but also perhaps something.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Conspiracy Theory (An Update)
Well, apparently, the inability to heat establishments that serve the public is a trend that's spreading. Here at another establishment, this is both a coffeeshop and a bakery, the cold air that permeates the place is beyond belief. But in what must be one of the disgusting attempts to make customers feel uncomfortable, this place goes one step further, they close the bathrooms for long periods of time. What type of immoral human being does this? The fact that this place allows free refills on their coffee might explain this, but it's a display of arrogance and unchecked aggression against the customers that will not be stood for. All out war is on the horizon. Hear me, brothers in arms! Rise up and take back control. This will not stand.
Well, apparently, the inability to heat establishments that serve the public is a trend that's spreading. Here at another establishment, this is both a coffeeshop and a bakery, the cold air that permeates the place is beyond belief. But in what must be one of the disgusting attempts to make customers feel uncomfortable, this place goes one step further, they close the bathrooms for long periods of time. What type of immoral human being does this? The fact that this place allows free refills on their coffee might explain this, but it's a display of arrogance and unchecked aggression against the customers that will not be stood for. All out war is on the horizon. Hear me, brothers in arms! Rise up and take back control. This will not stand.
Anthology Hatred
I hate anthologies. I really can't stand them, and I've figured out why. It's because one they're a total scam by the publishing industry to pre-package a ton of previously published material in the form of a new book and two the stuff is available elsewhere, or most of it is anyway. I've had in my possession two anthologies of work, one is the "best" political writing of 2003 and on is a collection of the "best" non-required reading of 2002. Perusing these books has led me to the conclusion that these texts are nothing more than an attempt to exploit the buying public for the suckers the publishers perceive them to be. Most, if not all, the materials in these texts are either available in their proper format as books or they are articles that I can download (heh heh) from the databases here at the university that I still have access to. Anthologies are a joke, and this is a call for everyone to boycott them from now on.
I hate anthologies. I really can't stand them, and I've figured out why. It's because one they're a total scam by the publishing industry to pre-package a ton of previously published material in the form of a new book and two the stuff is available elsewhere, or most of it is anyway. I've had in my possession two anthologies of work, one is the "best" political writing of 2003 and on is a collection of the "best" non-required reading of 2002. Perusing these books has led me to the conclusion that these texts are nothing more than an attempt to exploit the buying public for the suckers the publishers perceive them to be. Most, if not all, the materials in these texts are either available in their proper format as books or they are articles that I can download (heh heh) from the databases here at the university that I still have access to. Anthologies are a joke, and this is a call for everyone to boycott them from now on.
Two Traits
Over the past few days, I've become publicly aware of several traits of mine that are both noticeable and exploitable to others. Neither of these traits have any real significance in the long term, but they could, I guess.
First off, let's deal with one that has bothered me for many years, that being my slow eating. Now, this has never been quite as severe as I have been led to believe, but the other night, I was publicly called on it by a total stranger. In the midst of a nice, late meal at my favorite diner with Benedict, the waitress came by, in one of her infrequent visits to our table I might add, and said, "God, you eat slow." Personally, I believe that, to use one of Benedict's terms, waitresses in this joint can get a little "punchy" after a certain hour. This is understandable due to the very nature of the twenty-four hour all-night diner, which, I assure you, attracts a very wide array of personalities. For example, we encountered on this very evening three distinct personalities in our vicinity: a drunken goon proclaiming his political beliefs, a group of punks in every sense of the word who peppered their speech with "fuckin" in every possible instance, and, finally, a worker who helped himself, as witnessed by Benedict, to more than one piece of pie from their cabinet. This is a typical representation of the types of people who populate this place at late hours.
Back to the "slow eating" accusation. Why is this a bad thing? I've been heckled about this by a wide array of acquaintances as being a bad thing, as far back as high school where lunch is timed to a finite amount. Is it, though? I don't think so, but others apparently do. My theory is that people are in such a hurry these days to complete tasks, most of which they believe to be unnecessary to life, and eating becomes entangled in this hurrisome habit. What they do with their time after they hurry up and complete the necessary tasks is beyond me.
Is it really that hard to slow down and enjoy things? I don't want to imply that I believe that each and every meal might be my last, so I really take my time eating. I just like to enjoy my meal at a slow pace. Why? Well, I like to TASTE my food. I see others eating so fast, and I'm disgusted. How can you possibly even taste whatever you're eating if you're chewing so fast and swallowing without any sort of momentary pause? I'm not eating slowly because I think I'll lose weight by doing so; although, this is a viable reason for doing so.
Of course, there are certain difficulties encountered with being slow. The very nature of the being labeled "slow" in any respect conjures up notions of being totally defective in many ways, including, but not limited to, intellectual capacity. Of course, maybe I'm reading too much into the constant comments about eating slowly. Do people believe I have diminished mental abilities because it takes me forty-five minutes to eat a sandwich? I doubt it, since I can think of many other things I could do that would lead people to believe I'm "dumb" that are more overt in nature. I try to avoid these, as we all do, but they happen sometimes. I'm sure there's someone out there who thinks I'm not the "sharpest knife in the drawer," but that's unavoidable in a day and age when you might make tons of first impressions on any given day. But this leads me to the disturbing, in my mind other trait that I possess that I'm disturbed by.
I can't remember things. I really can't. I can't remember names when they've just been told to me. I can't remember movies that I've seen. I can't remember, and this is the most disappointing to me, books that I've read. And I can't remember facts that would allow me to tell others. For instance, speaking with Benedict the other night, in fact the same night I was labeled a "slow eater," I tried to tell him about a specific section of a book I was reading. Guess what? I totally mangled it. It wasn't right. Some of it was, but not all of it. How lame is that? That's like mangling a joke, but this is worse.
I've noticed that I've gotten worse about this over the years, especially with books. I read books, but then I can't remember a single thing about them. It doesn't matter if they're fiction or non-fiction, but for obvious reasons, the non-fiction titles contain much more facts to be digested, which would be much more beneficial to my overall knowledge. For example, I just finished a book about the history of the Republican Party (I know, it's ironic that I'd be reading that considering this is called "Liberal Agenda"), but I don't remember tons of facts about that book. In fact, I remember very little of it. I've read many, many books about the so-called "liberal media" and most of them repeat various facts and anecdotes, but I can't remember them enough to recite them word for word. What gives?
Now, my one and only theory that might explain this defect, is that, unlike eating, I read too fast. In an effort to finish books quickly, so I can either return them or, more likely, check out more, I feel like I might be reading a lot faster than necessary. This isn't the library's fault, obviously, since someone else might want these books, and if I wanted it that badly, I'd just buy it. What I do know is that I know what I like. I can recall which books were worth my time and which ones weren't. I wish I could reverse this trend, but I don't think I can. In fact, I don't think I want to change either of these traits. I like eating slowly and reading quickly. It might not do me much good to do either, but I don't know what can be done to alter this in the least. Any suggestions would be welcome, but I can't say I'll remember them later.
Over the past few days, I've become publicly aware of several traits of mine that are both noticeable and exploitable to others. Neither of these traits have any real significance in the long term, but they could, I guess.
First off, let's deal with one that has bothered me for many years, that being my slow eating. Now, this has never been quite as severe as I have been led to believe, but the other night, I was publicly called on it by a total stranger. In the midst of a nice, late meal at my favorite diner with Benedict, the waitress came by, in one of her infrequent visits to our table I might add, and said, "God, you eat slow." Personally, I believe that, to use one of Benedict's terms, waitresses in this joint can get a little "punchy" after a certain hour. This is understandable due to the very nature of the twenty-four hour all-night diner, which, I assure you, attracts a very wide array of personalities. For example, we encountered on this very evening three distinct personalities in our vicinity: a drunken goon proclaiming his political beliefs, a group of punks in every sense of the word who peppered their speech with "fuckin" in every possible instance, and, finally, a worker who helped himself, as witnessed by Benedict, to more than one piece of pie from their cabinet. This is a typical representation of the types of people who populate this place at late hours.
Back to the "slow eating" accusation. Why is this a bad thing? I've been heckled about this by a wide array of acquaintances as being a bad thing, as far back as high school where lunch is timed to a finite amount. Is it, though? I don't think so, but others apparently do. My theory is that people are in such a hurry these days to complete tasks, most of which they believe to be unnecessary to life, and eating becomes entangled in this hurrisome habit. What they do with their time after they hurry up and complete the necessary tasks is beyond me.
Is it really that hard to slow down and enjoy things? I don't want to imply that I believe that each and every meal might be my last, so I really take my time eating. I just like to enjoy my meal at a slow pace. Why? Well, I like to TASTE my food. I see others eating so fast, and I'm disgusted. How can you possibly even taste whatever you're eating if you're chewing so fast and swallowing without any sort of momentary pause? I'm not eating slowly because I think I'll lose weight by doing so; although, this is a viable reason for doing so.
Of course, there are certain difficulties encountered with being slow. The very nature of the being labeled "slow" in any respect conjures up notions of being totally defective in many ways, including, but not limited to, intellectual capacity. Of course, maybe I'm reading too much into the constant comments about eating slowly. Do people believe I have diminished mental abilities because it takes me forty-five minutes to eat a sandwich? I doubt it, since I can think of many other things I could do that would lead people to believe I'm "dumb" that are more overt in nature. I try to avoid these, as we all do, but they happen sometimes. I'm sure there's someone out there who thinks I'm not the "sharpest knife in the drawer," but that's unavoidable in a day and age when you might make tons of first impressions on any given day. But this leads me to the disturbing, in my mind other trait that I possess that I'm disturbed by.
I can't remember things. I really can't. I can't remember names when they've just been told to me. I can't remember movies that I've seen. I can't remember, and this is the most disappointing to me, books that I've read. And I can't remember facts that would allow me to tell others. For instance, speaking with Benedict the other night, in fact the same night I was labeled a "slow eater," I tried to tell him about a specific section of a book I was reading. Guess what? I totally mangled it. It wasn't right. Some of it was, but not all of it. How lame is that? That's like mangling a joke, but this is worse.
I've noticed that I've gotten worse about this over the years, especially with books. I read books, but then I can't remember a single thing about them. It doesn't matter if they're fiction or non-fiction, but for obvious reasons, the non-fiction titles contain much more facts to be digested, which would be much more beneficial to my overall knowledge. For example, I just finished a book about the history of the Republican Party (I know, it's ironic that I'd be reading that considering this is called "Liberal Agenda"), but I don't remember tons of facts about that book. In fact, I remember very little of it. I've read many, many books about the so-called "liberal media" and most of them repeat various facts and anecdotes, but I can't remember them enough to recite them word for word. What gives?
Now, my one and only theory that might explain this defect, is that, unlike eating, I read too fast. In an effort to finish books quickly, so I can either return them or, more likely, check out more, I feel like I might be reading a lot faster than necessary. This isn't the library's fault, obviously, since someone else might want these books, and if I wanted it that badly, I'd just buy it. What I do know is that I know what I like. I can recall which books were worth my time and which ones weren't. I wish I could reverse this trend, but I don't think I can. In fact, I don't think I want to change either of these traits. I like eating slowly and reading quickly. It might not do me much good to do either, but I don't know what can be done to alter this in the least. Any suggestions would be welcome, but I can't say I'll remember them later.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Dictionary Series Four
chausible-an outer ecclesiastical vestment in the form of a wide sleeveless cloak or mantle that slips over the wearer's head but remains open at the sides, the color of which varies with either the season or the occasion, worn by the celebrant at eucharistic services in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches and some churches of the Anglican Communion.
chausible-an outer ecclesiastical vestment in the form of a wide sleeveless cloak or mantle that slips over the wearer's head but remains open at the sides, the color of which varies with either the season or the occasion, worn by the celebrant at eucharistic services in the Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodox churches and some churches of the Anglican Communion.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Saturday, January 17, 2004
Dictionary Series One
In a new series, I'm devoting one entry to whatever word the dictionary by the desk here at work is on. I'm not going to touch the thing, so I'll let nature take its course. First one:
dual-rotation propeller-an assembly of two airplane propellers mounted one behind the other on coaxial shafts and rotating in opposing directions
In a new series, I'm devoting one entry to whatever word the dictionary by the desk here at work is on. I'm not going to touch the thing, so I'll let nature take its course. First one:
dual-rotation propeller-an assembly of two airplane propellers mounted one behind the other on coaxial shafts and rotating in opposing directions
Conspiracy Theory
I have to admit that I'm a sucker for conspiracy theories. I don't know what it is, but I'm so intrigued by the entire gamut of theories out there that try to explain such events as 9/11, Princess Di's death, ufos, the New World Order, etc. that I could spend days looking at websites, reading books, watching documentaries on these subjects and not bother to consume anything else. For the most part, it's easy to discern from these outlandish claims that there's really no basis for truth in them, but I find them entertaining, and I'm amazed, sometimes, at the amounts of effort the writers put into their works. It's really no easy task to come up with a book-length screed or a highly developed website devoted to revealing all the insidious plots that control our daily lives. A good portion of these theories are dismissive for many reasons, but some have some credence and could be true or at least they are plausible.
Now, to reveal my own inner crackpot, I feel it's necessary to lay out a conspiracy theory of my own. My favorite, and I think it's safe to say that it's also Benedict's, coffeeshop here in Pittsburgh has, in the last few months, expanded to another storefront that was vacant next door. What the owners did, welcomely, was divide the two sections into smoking and non-smoking. For as much as I like the atmosphere in this place, I have to admit I hated the smoking. In fact, I purposely tried to sit closer to the doors because there the opening and closing as customers entered would bring in a breath, literally, of fresh air. If I could find a perch in one of the window seats, I'd take that as well since that afforded me the opportunity not only to escape the smoky haze but also allow me to watch the foot traffic along bustling Carson Street, and, in what may come as a surprise considering the recent span of frigid weather, the traffic never seems to dissipate. In fact, it's pretty constant all the time.
To get to my point, what I've noticed as of late, though, is the fact that the side I most frequent, the non-smoking side, is cold, sometimes cold beyond belief, regardless of where you position yourself in its confines. Now, as far as I know, and perhaps things have changed, the very fact that the inside of a building is the inside of a building should insure that it's warmer than the outside. However, this place seems to be the exception to the rule. Isn't it fair to assume that when I go inside a coffeeshop (Umm, what is coffee synonymous with for me? Perhaps warmth.) where they are making warm beverages, it will also me warm? But no, it's not. It's cold. A breeze continuously hits me in the face. My neck gets cold. I feel cold even while I'm drinking coffee. Is it really necessary to have to wear my stoking cap indoors? Hell, I'm tempted to put my jacket on as well and put the hood up. Coffeeshop=cold. That's not right no matter how you look at it. If I wanted to keep my winter apparel on, I'd get my coffee to go and stand out side by a flaming dumpster.
What the explanation for this? Well, I know they do have heat in there because as you walk around you can feel the heat from the vents coming down from the ceiling. So, it does work, which means it's not broken. What's odd, though, is they have the ceiling fans running constantly in there. When it was a smoking section this made sense because it circulated the air around. Makes sense, right? Well, now, I assume that they run these in some half-hearted effort to force the warm air to the floor, for as we all know warm air rises, at least in most places that don't defy the laws of physics and the natural order of things in the world. My thinking is that this does little in terms of actually spreading out the heat. In fact, I think this is one of the main causes of the coldness in there. Remember that constant breeze I mentioned? So, this is one possible cause, and to confirm that the existence of such a phenomenon isn't confined to one place, where I'm composing this very post, is below another vent, and cold air is coming down on me. I'm also reminded of the time when my favorite coffeeshop in my hometown had no heat in their downstairs area. That was quite possibly the coldest room I'd ever been in that wasn't cold due to lack of, say, windows and a roof. Which leads me to believe that this heatless phenomenon plagues coffeeshops in general.
However, I feel that it's cold for another reason, one much more sinister than just a fan running constantly. I believe, get ready, that most of the heat has been rerouted to the other side, the side where, guess what, smoking is allowed. Now, I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I have a strong suspicion that this place caters to smokers and, in fact, prefers them over non-smokers, a little reverse bias if you will. I think that the bias extends to the fact that they earmarked the new side for smoking, and I think the fact that before the official designated signs were actually raised the "regulars" already staked a claim to the "new" side sealed the fate of which side was going to be what. My theory is that in some odd crusade to reclaim smoker's rights that the owners of this establishment had the heat rerouted to make sure that "their" people were warm and comfortable. These "regulars" operate with more than a tad notion of the "cooler than thou" philosophy of life, and, although, it's nowhere near segregation, it's pretty goddamned close.
So, yesterday, in an effort to locate a warm area in this place, I thought I'd try the old standby, the window-seat, which was occupied for the last several months with a Christmas tree. I set up shop, on a wobbly table no less, and the girl brought me my bagel. What she said, though, left me feeling, not quite warm, but different. She said, "Oh, you found the one warm spot." Well, that warmth lasted all of about twenty minutes. Soon, I put my stocking cap on, guzzled by lukewarm coffee, it apparently affects that now too, and made a hasty exit to the warmth of a day that started out in the single digits and didn't go above the mid-twenties if it got out of the teens.
I have to admit that I'm a sucker for conspiracy theories. I don't know what it is, but I'm so intrigued by the entire gamut of theories out there that try to explain such events as 9/11, Princess Di's death, ufos, the New World Order, etc. that I could spend days looking at websites, reading books, watching documentaries on these subjects and not bother to consume anything else. For the most part, it's easy to discern from these outlandish claims that there's really no basis for truth in them, but I find them entertaining, and I'm amazed, sometimes, at the amounts of effort the writers put into their works. It's really no easy task to come up with a book-length screed or a highly developed website devoted to revealing all the insidious plots that control our daily lives. A good portion of these theories are dismissive for many reasons, but some have some credence and could be true or at least they are plausible.
Now, to reveal my own inner crackpot, I feel it's necessary to lay out a conspiracy theory of my own. My favorite, and I think it's safe to say that it's also Benedict's, coffeeshop here in Pittsburgh has, in the last few months, expanded to another storefront that was vacant next door. What the owners did, welcomely, was divide the two sections into smoking and non-smoking. For as much as I like the atmosphere in this place, I have to admit I hated the smoking. In fact, I purposely tried to sit closer to the doors because there the opening and closing as customers entered would bring in a breath, literally, of fresh air. If I could find a perch in one of the window seats, I'd take that as well since that afforded me the opportunity not only to escape the smoky haze but also allow me to watch the foot traffic along bustling Carson Street, and, in what may come as a surprise considering the recent span of frigid weather, the traffic never seems to dissipate. In fact, it's pretty constant all the time.
To get to my point, what I've noticed as of late, though, is the fact that the side I most frequent, the non-smoking side, is cold, sometimes cold beyond belief, regardless of where you position yourself in its confines. Now, as far as I know, and perhaps things have changed, the very fact that the inside of a building is the inside of a building should insure that it's warmer than the outside. However, this place seems to be the exception to the rule. Isn't it fair to assume that when I go inside a coffeeshop (Umm, what is coffee synonymous with for me? Perhaps warmth.) where they are making warm beverages, it will also me warm? But no, it's not. It's cold. A breeze continuously hits me in the face. My neck gets cold. I feel cold even while I'm drinking coffee. Is it really necessary to have to wear my stoking cap indoors? Hell, I'm tempted to put my jacket on as well and put the hood up. Coffeeshop=cold. That's not right no matter how you look at it. If I wanted to keep my winter apparel on, I'd get my coffee to go and stand out side by a flaming dumpster.
What the explanation for this? Well, I know they do have heat in there because as you walk around you can feel the heat from the vents coming down from the ceiling. So, it does work, which means it's not broken. What's odd, though, is they have the ceiling fans running constantly in there. When it was a smoking section this made sense because it circulated the air around. Makes sense, right? Well, now, I assume that they run these in some half-hearted effort to force the warm air to the floor, for as we all know warm air rises, at least in most places that don't defy the laws of physics and the natural order of things in the world. My thinking is that this does little in terms of actually spreading out the heat. In fact, I think this is one of the main causes of the coldness in there. Remember that constant breeze I mentioned? So, this is one possible cause, and to confirm that the existence of such a phenomenon isn't confined to one place, where I'm composing this very post, is below another vent, and cold air is coming down on me. I'm also reminded of the time when my favorite coffeeshop in my hometown had no heat in their downstairs area. That was quite possibly the coldest room I'd ever been in that wasn't cold due to lack of, say, windows and a roof. Which leads me to believe that this heatless phenomenon plagues coffeeshops in general.
However, I feel that it's cold for another reason, one much more sinister than just a fan running constantly. I believe, get ready, that most of the heat has been rerouted to the other side, the side where, guess what, smoking is allowed. Now, I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I have a strong suspicion that this place caters to smokers and, in fact, prefers them over non-smokers, a little reverse bias if you will. I think that the bias extends to the fact that they earmarked the new side for smoking, and I think the fact that before the official designated signs were actually raised the "regulars" already staked a claim to the "new" side sealed the fate of which side was going to be what. My theory is that in some odd crusade to reclaim smoker's rights that the owners of this establishment had the heat rerouted to make sure that "their" people were warm and comfortable. These "regulars" operate with more than a tad notion of the "cooler than thou" philosophy of life, and, although, it's nowhere near segregation, it's pretty goddamned close.
So, yesterday, in an effort to locate a warm area in this place, I thought I'd try the old standby, the window-seat, which was occupied for the last several months with a Christmas tree. I set up shop, on a wobbly table no less, and the girl brought me my bagel. What she said, though, left me feeling, not quite warm, but different. She said, "Oh, you found the one warm spot." Well, that warmth lasted all of about twenty minutes. Soon, I put my stocking cap on, guzzled by lukewarm coffee, it apparently affects that now too, and made a hasty exit to the warmth of a day that started out in the single digits and didn't go above the mid-twenties if it got out of the teens.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Writers
Just as a way to fulfill my own curiosity, I'd like to know, much like Benedict, which writers are the best, favorite, etc? To give my initial list, of five fiction writers, I'll confine it to naming the writer and their, in my mind, essential book.
Thomas Pynchon Gravity's Rainbow
Philip Roth The Human Stain
Don DeLillo White Noise
Michael Chabon Wonder Boys
Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian, or The Evening Redness in the West
Just as a way to fulfill my own curiosity, I'd like to know, much like Benedict, which writers are the best, favorite, etc? To give my initial list, of five fiction writers, I'll confine it to naming the writer and their, in my mind, essential book.
Thomas Pynchon Gravity's Rainbow
Philip Roth The Human Stain
Don DeLillo White Noise
Michael Chabon Wonder Boys
Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian, or The Evening Redness in the West
Smells like Teen Spirit
After reading the article linked below regarding the blog phenomenon, it became apparent to me that teenagers are using the format just as I mentioned previously, as a sort of online diary that chronicles events in their lives for all to see. I'm not here to harp on that point further, but what I am intrigued, or is it disturbed, by is the notion that teenagers operate by a set of guidelines that's both very closed-minded and open-minded at the same time. For instance, in the course of the article the author continuously points out to those subjects that were willing to speak about their writing that there's a certain understated contradiction within their entire ideologies regarding these blogs. Important events, or at least those events perceived by the authors as being important, are chronicled on these blogs. Repeatedly, it's pointed out, though, that a good portion of these events are rather personal in nature. Posts are deleted with a frequency that seems to belittle the actual point of keeping an online journal. The very act of publicly posting one's thoughts is greeted with strong reactions of either embarrassment or outright shame when the possibility arises that another person, perhaps those who are the very subjects of the post, might be able to read the entries, specifically I'm referring to the teen who wrote about a girl he liked but then deleted the post because of the possibility that she might read it, thus making the revelation little more than an artifact in his mind.
This type of thought process speaks volumes not only with regards to the teenagers who are creating these blogs, but about society itself. One of the main problems with blogs, as I mentioned previously, is the fact that the format is that of the traditional diary, and, obviously as this article points out, teenagers are some of the biggest proponents of this notion. However, problems arise when it becomes apparent that the lines between private inner feelings and the need to post publicly about one's ruminations on life are blurred to the point of illegibility. Retractions on blogs are easy enough, but it's disturbing, to me at least, to contemplate a writer's ability to go back and erase the past after it's become apparent that the work has been published and seen by all.
In fact, I'm reminded of the recent re-publication of a Joyce Carol Oates novel,A Garden of Earthly Delights, by the Modern Library which has glaring alterations to the text. Something about this strikes me as being not particularly kosher. I realize that altering a novel is a far cry from altering the revelations posted on an online blog, but the idea is still the same. Should something that's already in print or online be altered if the true intention is that either the product is finished or the forum is decidedly public in nature?
I realize that my original rant on the subject was merely devoted to the actual quality of the work being posted on the web, and I still cling to the notion that the majority of it is rather base in nature and poor in quality. I will, however, concede the idea that for a teenager with few outlets in life this type of forum is necessary and most likely welcome as a way to express one's self. However, not only are they contributing to the glut of unreadable text on the internet, they are also playing fast and loose with a set of rules that are continuously deteriorating to the point of non-existence. First, it's the loss of quality and grammar, and now it's the loss of the line between public and private. A distinction needs to be made.
Writers who Rewrite; Publishers who Replace
After reading the article linked below regarding the blog phenomenon, it became apparent to me that teenagers are using the format just as I mentioned previously, as a sort of online diary that chronicles events in their lives for all to see. I'm not here to harp on that point further, but what I am intrigued, or is it disturbed, by is the notion that teenagers operate by a set of guidelines that's both very closed-minded and open-minded at the same time. For instance, in the course of the article the author continuously points out to those subjects that were willing to speak about their writing that there's a certain understated contradiction within their entire ideologies regarding these blogs. Important events, or at least those events perceived by the authors as being important, are chronicled on these blogs. Repeatedly, it's pointed out, though, that a good portion of these events are rather personal in nature. Posts are deleted with a frequency that seems to belittle the actual point of keeping an online journal. The very act of publicly posting one's thoughts is greeted with strong reactions of either embarrassment or outright shame when the possibility arises that another person, perhaps those who are the very subjects of the post, might be able to read the entries, specifically I'm referring to the teen who wrote about a girl he liked but then deleted the post because of the possibility that she might read it, thus making the revelation little more than an artifact in his mind.
This type of thought process speaks volumes not only with regards to the teenagers who are creating these blogs, but about society itself. One of the main problems with blogs, as I mentioned previously, is the fact that the format is that of the traditional diary, and, obviously as this article points out, teenagers are some of the biggest proponents of this notion. However, problems arise when it becomes apparent that the lines between private inner feelings and the need to post publicly about one's ruminations on life are blurred to the point of illegibility. Retractions on blogs are easy enough, but it's disturbing, to me at least, to contemplate a writer's ability to go back and erase the past after it's become apparent that the work has been published and seen by all.
In fact, I'm reminded of the recent re-publication of a Joyce Carol Oates novel,A Garden of Earthly Delights, by the Modern Library which has glaring alterations to the text. Something about this strikes me as being not particularly kosher. I realize that altering a novel is a far cry from altering the revelations posted on an online blog, but the idea is still the same. Should something that's already in print or online be altered if the true intention is that either the product is finished or the forum is decidedly public in nature?
I realize that my original rant on the subject was merely devoted to the actual quality of the work being posted on the web, and I still cling to the notion that the majority of it is rather base in nature and poor in quality. I will, however, concede the idea that for a teenager with few outlets in life this type of forum is necessary and most likely welcome as a way to express one's self. However, not only are they contributing to the glut of unreadable text on the internet, they are also playing fast and loose with a set of rules that are continuously deteriorating to the point of non-existence. First, it's the loss of quality and grammar, and now it's the loss of the line between public and private. A distinction needs to be made.
Writers who Rewrite; Publishers who Replace
Sunday, January 11, 2004
Here's a couple links to articles devoted to subjects that I've addressed in this forum:
Writer's Block
Blogs
Both are from The New York Times website, so you need to log in to read them.
Writer's Block
Blogs
Both are from The New York Times website, so you need to log in to read them.
Finding a Voice: Post 9/11 Fiction
Over the last few years, my consumption of contemporary fiction has plummeted significantly. In fact, I can name only three fiction titles that I've read in the last year, Nicholson Baker's Box of Matches, Douglas Coupland's Hey, Nostradamus!, and Chuck Palahniuk's Diary, the latter two were less than stellar, but the former was strong as usual from Baker. What I've been wondering as of late, though, is whether or not a lot of contemporary writers are afflicted with a syndrome I call the loss of a voice. Perhaps, I've thought, this is due to the fact that the events of September 11, 2001, while extremely traumatic and inescapable, have tainted the thought processes of the writers of fiction who now feel lost without any real voice with regards to ideas and concepts. It seems plausible, to me at least, that in the now cliched phrase "post-9-11 America" writers are faced with now writing about a world that's much different than it was "before". However, the plethora of titles released on a yearly basis seems to disprove my theory altogether.
To finer tune my point, I guess it would be better to state that writers of a certain higher-brow literature seem to feel lost in the world. Philip Roth, for example, hasn't produced anything recently other than a slim novella and nothing regarding the themes of a changed American landscape. Don DeLillo addressed 9/11 in an essay for Harper's, but then released a terrible novella of his own that harks back to the style of 70's metafiction. A poor concept that attempts to address issues that aren't relevant anymore. John Updike, arguably the greatest modern writer, produced a story for the New Yorker that was, in essence, a dramatization of the events aboard United Flight 93. I'm sure the story itself was incredibly well written, as most of Updike's writings are, but it seems to me to be a somewhat unoriginal concept, a fitting tribute perhaps, but not the type of story that can truly showcase his talents as an observer of human nature.
I've always clung to the notion that writers are, if nothing else, adaptable to a situation that drastically alters our way of life. They are, perhaps, the best observers of the human condition, and are able to put these observations within the context of a narrative that portrays the changes but not in an overly obvious manner. It's true that some writers aren't capable of adapting to society's changes even though they still see themselves as reporters on the human condition, Tom Wolfe for example. However, this is not to say that a lot of writers aren't more than capable of defining and better portraying the effects of national trauma on the lives of the masses. Writers throughout the 20th century, notably Mailer, Wolfe (pre- Bonfire of the Vanities, Thompson, et al, have been able to accurately capture those moments in their writings and portray the effects on society, particularly Vietnam, Watergate, and the 60s. What is it about 9/11, though, that has writers today at a loss on how to examine life.
To get to my point, I think that writers are blocking their output unjustly due to a need to be relevant and grandiose in nature. I believe that most writing that tries too hard to pay tribute and portray mixed emotions often comes off as sounding trite and forced, see any anthology of writing solely devoted to 9/11 (The idea of reading poetry that is centered around 9/11 is less than appealing). Writers, especially good ones, are more than capable of addressing the effects of a national trauma to the collective psyche, but it seems that they are suffering from a sense of writer's block that prohibits them from doing so.
Here's two links, one to a discussion board with a thread devoted to this very topic (Why they're talking about fiction on a gardening discussion board is beyond me) and another portraying a writer's struggle to complete a book nearly finished when 9/11 occurred.
Post 9/11 Fiction
9/11 Writer's Block
Over the last few years, my consumption of contemporary fiction has plummeted significantly. In fact, I can name only three fiction titles that I've read in the last year, Nicholson Baker's Box of Matches, Douglas Coupland's Hey, Nostradamus!, and Chuck Palahniuk's Diary, the latter two were less than stellar, but the former was strong as usual from Baker. What I've been wondering as of late, though, is whether or not a lot of contemporary writers are afflicted with a syndrome I call the loss of a voice. Perhaps, I've thought, this is due to the fact that the events of September 11, 2001, while extremely traumatic and inescapable, have tainted the thought processes of the writers of fiction who now feel lost without any real voice with regards to ideas and concepts. It seems plausible, to me at least, that in the now cliched phrase "post-9-11 America" writers are faced with now writing about a world that's much different than it was "before". However, the plethora of titles released on a yearly basis seems to disprove my theory altogether.
To finer tune my point, I guess it would be better to state that writers of a certain higher-brow literature seem to feel lost in the world. Philip Roth, for example, hasn't produced anything recently other than a slim novella and nothing regarding the themes of a changed American landscape. Don DeLillo addressed 9/11 in an essay for Harper's, but then released a terrible novella of his own that harks back to the style of 70's metafiction. A poor concept that attempts to address issues that aren't relevant anymore. John Updike, arguably the greatest modern writer, produced a story for the New Yorker that was, in essence, a dramatization of the events aboard United Flight 93. I'm sure the story itself was incredibly well written, as most of Updike's writings are, but it seems to me to be a somewhat unoriginal concept, a fitting tribute perhaps, but not the type of story that can truly showcase his talents as an observer of human nature.
I've always clung to the notion that writers are, if nothing else, adaptable to a situation that drastically alters our way of life. They are, perhaps, the best observers of the human condition, and are able to put these observations within the context of a narrative that portrays the changes but not in an overly obvious manner. It's true that some writers aren't capable of adapting to society's changes even though they still see themselves as reporters on the human condition, Tom Wolfe for example. However, this is not to say that a lot of writers aren't more than capable of defining and better portraying the effects of national trauma on the lives of the masses. Writers throughout the 20th century, notably Mailer, Wolfe (pre- Bonfire of the Vanities, Thompson, et al, have been able to accurately capture those moments in their writings and portray the effects on society, particularly Vietnam, Watergate, and the 60s. What is it about 9/11, though, that has writers today at a loss on how to examine life.
To get to my point, I think that writers are blocking their output unjustly due to a need to be relevant and grandiose in nature. I believe that most writing that tries too hard to pay tribute and portray mixed emotions often comes off as sounding trite and forced, see any anthology of writing solely devoted to 9/11 (The idea of reading poetry that is centered around 9/11 is less than appealing). Writers, especially good ones, are more than capable of addressing the effects of a national trauma to the collective psyche, but it seems that they are suffering from a sense of writer's block that prohibits them from doing so.
Here's two links, one to a discussion board with a thread devoted to this very topic (Why they're talking about fiction on a gardening discussion board is beyond me) and another portraying a writer's struggle to complete a book nearly finished when 9/11 occurred.
Post 9/11 Fiction
9/11 Writer's Block
Sunday, January 04, 2004
"Next week, class, we'll be reading the collected works of the Marquis de Sade."
In one of those moments where you can hardly believe your eyes, I was taken aback as I was reading today's Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. In the "City & Region" section on the front page, an article entitled "Of Choice and Content" is prominently featured detailing the seemingly unending saga of what materials are appropriate to be taught in our schools, specifically books in English classes.
Mostly everyone is familiar with the routine components of these types of articles. A school in the community is presently involved in a dispute with a parent or group of parents (However, I would argue that the offended individuals are mostly just that, lone parents with an ax to grind or a need to stir up the community over a trivial matter.) over the content of a particular book, story, poem, etc. Anti-censorship groups, ACLU and NCTE, come to the defense of the material. The book is usually removed, sometimes returned, and eventually the saga dissolves into obscurity. What this article featured that others usually overlook is the fact that students are not forced to read the offensive materials if parents object and alternate assignments are offered to take their place. This is all fine and good, and I think that it's easier to appease a parent by offering an alternate assignment rather than creating waves that will unnecessarily embroil the school in a protracted fight for the rights of their teachers to groom their students at the expense of exposing them to potentially offensive materials. It just makes good sense to avoid the hassle.
However, I can see the issue from both sides, and both sides, as much as it pains me, make their fair share of legitimate points. I can understand parents not wanting their children to read certain materials. The issue becomes problematic when they decide that not only should their children not be exposed to the materials but other parents children should not be as well. This is where parents are crossing a line that I'm not comfortable with, and I would assume that there are others who wish to voice their own opinions on the matter and are not in need of being aided by others in the raising of their children. Choices made on your behalf by others seems out of whack to me with how we should be operating.
On the other hand, it really sickens me to see the ACLU or NCTE spokespersons voice the standard party line with regards to how unethical censorship is and how this is just another step towards total censorship of all materials. Maybe I'm being harsh, but this seems to be unnecessarily paranoid in the face of a matter so trivial. When defending materials that are offensive, these groups point out that sometimes these passages are taken out of context and cannot be seen as such. You need to see the whole picture. Sure, I realize there are books that have themes that may be objectionable to some, but they are integral to the main thrust of the content. However, there are books with passages that are truly not appropriate, in my eyes, for high-school age readers that are not at all important for the relevance of the text to be apparent to everyone.
What it comes down to, though, is that both sides need to compromise with regards to the amount of latitude given and that which is restrained. This is easier said than done, but it's something they need to strive for.
Reading this article, though, I'm reminded of my own encounter with censorship, which I still disagree with to this day. As a student-teacher, I was teaching a class of tenth-grade academic English students. For one of my assignments, I wanted the class to read John Updike's story "A & P," a rather short-story that details the final day of the unnamed narrator as he quits his job at the local supermarket in protest over the treatment of three bikini-clad girls in the store. The only references to the girls that could be construed as being somewhat racy are those that refer to their "cans" and the descriptions of their nubile breasts. Hardly the most graphic descriptions around and nothing compared to the normal everyday language used by students. I wasn't, in the end, allowed to use the story after the teacher I was assigned with read the story and showed it to other teachers who taught higher level classes. It wasn't "appropriate" for this or any of the grade levels in the school. Odd, I thought, and rather enraged had to settle for a rather tame story by Kurt Vonnegut that was in the school approved text. I couldn't believe it because I was assuming that these students were mature enough to handle something this "racy" in their English class. How are they supposed to mature as students if we concentrate on only censoring ourselves and teaching them sterilized stories without any references to real life? That's what "A & P" was supposed to do, but it was not to be in this school.
Finally, this brings me back to the real reason for writing this post. Accompanying the article mentioned above is a picture that doesn't appear in the electronic version linked to above. It shows a stack of books, presumably among them are some of the most objected to texts, and includes Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The caption beneath reads as follows: These titles, long considered staples in American school literary education, are under attack for containing "questionable" material and may be removed from the curricula of some local school districts. What's striking about this is that among these "staples" of books, at the very bottom of the pile is American Psycho. I don't know if ironic is the proper adjective to apply here or not. I'll leave that for you to decide.
In one of those moments where you can hardly believe your eyes, I was taken aback as I was reading today's Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. In the "City & Region" section on the front page, an article entitled "Of Choice and Content" is prominently featured detailing the seemingly unending saga of what materials are appropriate to be taught in our schools, specifically books in English classes.
Mostly everyone is familiar with the routine components of these types of articles. A school in the community is presently involved in a dispute with a parent or group of parents (However, I would argue that the offended individuals are mostly just that, lone parents with an ax to grind or a need to stir up the community over a trivial matter.) over the content of a particular book, story, poem, etc. Anti-censorship groups, ACLU and NCTE, come to the defense of the material. The book is usually removed, sometimes returned, and eventually the saga dissolves into obscurity. What this article featured that others usually overlook is the fact that students are not forced to read the offensive materials if parents object and alternate assignments are offered to take their place. This is all fine and good, and I think that it's easier to appease a parent by offering an alternate assignment rather than creating waves that will unnecessarily embroil the school in a protracted fight for the rights of their teachers to groom their students at the expense of exposing them to potentially offensive materials. It just makes good sense to avoid the hassle.
However, I can see the issue from both sides, and both sides, as much as it pains me, make their fair share of legitimate points. I can understand parents not wanting their children to read certain materials. The issue becomes problematic when they decide that not only should their children not be exposed to the materials but other parents children should not be as well. This is where parents are crossing a line that I'm not comfortable with, and I would assume that there are others who wish to voice their own opinions on the matter and are not in need of being aided by others in the raising of their children. Choices made on your behalf by others seems out of whack to me with how we should be operating.
On the other hand, it really sickens me to see the ACLU or NCTE spokespersons voice the standard party line with regards to how unethical censorship is and how this is just another step towards total censorship of all materials. Maybe I'm being harsh, but this seems to be unnecessarily paranoid in the face of a matter so trivial. When defending materials that are offensive, these groups point out that sometimes these passages are taken out of context and cannot be seen as such. You need to see the whole picture. Sure, I realize there are books that have themes that may be objectionable to some, but they are integral to the main thrust of the content. However, there are books with passages that are truly not appropriate, in my eyes, for high-school age readers that are not at all important for the relevance of the text to be apparent to everyone.
What it comes down to, though, is that both sides need to compromise with regards to the amount of latitude given and that which is restrained. This is easier said than done, but it's something they need to strive for.
Reading this article, though, I'm reminded of my own encounter with censorship, which I still disagree with to this day. As a student-teacher, I was teaching a class of tenth-grade academic English students. For one of my assignments, I wanted the class to read John Updike's story "A & P," a rather short-story that details the final day of the unnamed narrator as he quits his job at the local supermarket in protest over the treatment of three bikini-clad girls in the store. The only references to the girls that could be construed as being somewhat racy are those that refer to their "cans" and the descriptions of their nubile breasts. Hardly the most graphic descriptions around and nothing compared to the normal everyday language used by students. I wasn't, in the end, allowed to use the story after the teacher I was assigned with read the story and showed it to other teachers who taught higher level classes. It wasn't "appropriate" for this or any of the grade levels in the school. Odd, I thought, and rather enraged had to settle for a rather tame story by Kurt Vonnegut that was in the school approved text. I couldn't believe it because I was assuming that these students were mature enough to handle something this "racy" in their English class. How are they supposed to mature as students if we concentrate on only censoring ourselves and teaching them sterilized stories without any references to real life? That's what "A & P" was supposed to do, but it was not to be in this school.
Finally, this brings me back to the real reason for writing this post. Accompanying the article mentioned above is a picture that doesn't appear in the electronic version linked to above. It shows a stack of books, presumably among them are some of the most objected to texts, and includes Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The caption beneath reads as follows: These titles, long considered staples in American school literary education, are under attack for containing "questionable" material and may be removed from the curricula of some local school districts. What's striking about this is that among these "staples" of books, at the very bottom of the pile is American Psycho. I don't know if ironic is the proper adjective to apply here or not. I'll leave that for you to decide.
Friday, January 02, 2004
Random Fuzz
Vacations, especially those extended breaks from reality one has after a semester is over and another is beginning, are strangely comforting and alarming at the same time. I feel somewhat relaxed, plenty relaxed in fact since I'm enjoying a nice California Merlot, which I'm pleasantly surprised doesn't taste all that bad. What's particularly alarming, and not all that much so, is the notion that I'm going to be returning to the fair city of Pittsburgh with very little in way of responsibilities. No schoolwork. No real deadlines. Nothing, really, except that little job, a rather miniscule one, but a job nonetheless. Most of the time I feel rather sublime in this notion that real responsibilities are a ways off, or at least far enough on the horizon that I can risk making this a little more relaxing than I really ought to.
Responsibility demands a lot out of an individual. I wasn't born with this trait, and I don't think it's something that you can teach yourself to be on a whim. Rather, I operate on the notion, as I referred to previously, that "everything's going to be okay". Maybe it will and maybe it won't. I really don't care.
Vacations, especially those extended breaks from reality one has after a semester is over and another is beginning, are strangely comforting and alarming at the same time. I feel somewhat relaxed, plenty relaxed in fact since I'm enjoying a nice California Merlot, which I'm pleasantly surprised doesn't taste all that bad. What's particularly alarming, and not all that much so, is the notion that I'm going to be returning to the fair city of Pittsburgh with very little in way of responsibilities. No schoolwork. No real deadlines. Nothing, really, except that little job, a rather miniscule one, but a job nonetheless. Most of the time I feel rather sublime in this notion that real responsibilities are a ways off, or at least far enough on the horizon that I can risk making this a little more relaxing than I really ought to.
Responsibility demands a lot out of an individual. I wasn't born with this trait, and I don't think it's something that you can teach yourself to be on a whim. Rather, I operate on the notion, as I referred to previously, that "everything's going to be okay". Maybe it will and maybe it won't. I really don't care.
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