[Originally published in the Long Beach Union (student paper at Long Beach State), in my bi-weekly column called...]
Another Useless Column
Recently I was informed by a rather boisterous individual on campus that I’m going to hell. I’m so relieved to have that situation resolved.
Despite my inevitable damnation, I continue my education. Why? There seems no contingency for avoiding fire and brimstone by flashing a bachelor’s degree at the time of death. But maybe there’s part of the Bible that addresses education that doesn’t get much attention.
Clearly, something pertaining to this mortal coil drives this quest for knowledge. (Okay, that presumes I’m learning anything here; as I near the end of my collegiate journey, I do wonder how much I would have just figured out on my own, for thousands less.)
Preparation for a career? I think not. This isn’t a trade school, it’s a university (says so in the name; I checked). Sure, the law of averages states that some people will acquire skills or knowledge her germane to how they earn a living. But no classes are offered in looking busy in a cubicle, or carrying heavy trays of food (well, we’ve already got that down), so I must conclude the focus of the university is somewhere else.
Like all institutions—prison, for instance—this place primarily prepares a person for the environment of the institution.
At least criminals have the sense to commit more crimes after release, so they can return to a place where they fit in. College students emerge from academia and have to acclimate to a world where being able to identify the finer points of abstract expressionism counts much less than being able to get a jammed piece of paper out of the copier.
Professors are the exception. They never had to leave. Were it not for administrators making their lives difficult, they’d be eternally blissful.
So if it’s not the score points with the Guy Upstairs or get a job, what does that leave? Advanced studies in sociology—er, socializing. Yes, getting dates! Meeting interesting people, or at least people who are interesting after several beers. It’s all kind of a big singles bar with midterms.
Is learning worthwhile as an end unto itself? Will the experiences afforded me at this university have benefits in ways that cannot be fully articulated but are nonetheless valuable? Is my dog getting enough cheese in its diet?
The sad thing is this: I bet when I get to hell, life will not have prepared me for it. Not that it should.
Monday, November 04, 1996
Monday, October 21, 1996
AUC: Don’t take my word for it…
[Originally published in the Long Beach Union (student paper at Long Beach State), in my bi-weekly column called...]
Another Useless Column
Why does so much depend on a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens? For the non-lit majors, that is an allusion to a poem by William Carlos Williams (actually, that is the poem, turned from statement to question) published in 1923.
Why does this poem continue to be anthologized year after year? Yes, it’s a good poem. And it’s short. And there are no capital letters in it. But is it the be-all, end-all of poetry? Apparently, it is. And who am I to disagree?
Still, I wonder if it might be what I call inherited exaltation. That is, are the works that comprise the canon of literature, in part, considered so because at some point someone convinced a bunch of people that these works were great? From then on, all the scholars in the field have been trained, from grade school through college, to accept that Corpus of Works Believed by Scholars To Be Great, and thus they pass this, well, propaganda along to their students.
I could argue that the respected works of literature are merely those that have captured the attention of someone in an influential position, not necessarily those that are “the best,” whatever that means. But this ain’t no term paper, so I won’t.
To quote Paul Williams’ “Rainbow Connection”: “Somebody thought of it/And someone believed it/Look what it’s done so far.”
This applies to virtually every field out there: art, film, science, music, etc. Particularly music. One person’s Milli Vanilli is another’s Mozart. No, really. Who’s to say that Rob and Fab won’t be revered a century from now? It’s no crazier than thinking the sun orbits the earth. (Come to think of it, I have always just taken Copernicus’ word for it about heliocentricity. Hmm…)
Oscar Wilde stated, “All art is quite useless,” and by that definition, there’s a lot out there that must be art. Wilde’s argument was that the only reason to create something that serves no function (art) is to admire it intensely. And one must surely admire a poem, to discuss it at length. Granted, far more people are admiring Madonna having a baby.
So will it ever be a matter of life and death as to why so much depends on a red wheelbarrow? In a world of oppression and inequality, rampant with war and famine, should anybody care?
Perhaps the only way to be happy is to take a completely insignificant thing and turn it into something very important in your life. Distract yourself from realizing what an utter quagmire of hopelessness your life really is, whether through admiring poetry or “Entertainment Tonight.”
My opinion about the wheelbarrow? Heck, I don’t know. Sure, I could write a lengthy essay about it; I can’t let a lack of knowledge stop me. Of course, knowing is not actually relevant to poetry: it’s a matter of having a supportable interpretation. Or even an insupportable one. Or wearing support hose while interpreting poetry.
But I’m not trying to convince anyone of anything, so what does it matter?
Doug admires this column intensely.
[* or at least I did admire it in 1996 when I wrote it, pretty much on spot to make a deadline]
Another Useless Column
Why does so much depend on a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens? For the non-lit majors, that is an allusion to a poem by William Carlos Williams (actually, that is the poem, turned from statement to question) published in 1923.
Why does this poem continue to be anthologized year after year? Yes, it’s a good poem. And it’s short. And there are no capital letters in it. But is it the be-all, end-all of poetry? Apparently, it is. And who am I to disagree?
Still, I wonder if it might be what I call inherited exaltation. That is, are the works that comprise the canon of literature, in part, considered so because at some point someone convinced a bunch of people that these works were great? From then on, all the scholars in the field have been trained, from grade school through college, to accept that Corpus of Works Believed by Scholars To Be Great, and thus they pass this, well, propaganda along to their students.
I could argue that the respected works of literature are merely those that have captured the attention of someone in an influential position, not necessarily those that are “the best,” whatever that means. But this ain’t no term paper, so I won’t.
To quote Paul Williams’ “Rainbow Connection”: “Somebody thought of it/And someone believed it/Look what it’s done so far.”
This applies to virtually every field out there: art, film, science, music, etc. Particularly music. One person’s Milli Vanilli is another’s Mozart. No, really. Who’s to say that Rob and Fab won’t be revered a century from now? It’s no crazier than thinking the sun orbits the earth. (Come to think of it, I have always just taken Copernicus’ word for it about heliocentricity. Hmm…)
Oscar Wilde stated, “All art is quite useless,” and by that definition, there’s a lot out there that must be art. Wilde’s argument was that the only reason to create something that serves no function (art) is to admire it intensely. And one must surely admire a poem, to discuss it at length. Granted, far more people are admiring Madonna having a baby.
So will it ever be a matter of life and death as to why so much depends on a red wheelbarrow? In a world of oppression and inequality, rampant with war and famine, should anybody care?
Perhaps the only way to be happy is to take a completely insignificant thing and turn it into something very important in your life. Distract yourself from realizing what an utter quagmire of hopelessness your life really is, whether through admiring poetry or “Entertainment Tonight.”
My opinion about the wheelbarrow? Heck, I don’t know. Sure, I could write a lengthy essay about it; I can’t let a lack of knowledge stop me. Of course, knowing is not actually relevant to poetry: it’s a matter of having a supportable interpretation. Or even an insupportable one. Or wearing support hose while interpreting poetry.
But I’m not trying to convince anyone of anything, so what does it matter?
Doug admires this column intensely.
[* or at least I did admire it in 1996 when I wrote it, pretty much on spot to make a deadline]
Monday, October 14, 1996
AUC: Number of the beast
[Originally published in the Long Beach Union (student paper at Long Beach State), in my bi-weekly column called...]
Another Useless Column
My girlfriend is in Scotland until December, which means my long distance phone bill has skyrocketed.
That’s not the problem.
Until I got the hang of dialing overseas, I was reaching some form of “operator assistance.” And doing so, I got on a list. Then one evening, someone called me on behalf of my long distance company.
She was quick to point out that she wasn’t trying to sell me anything; she merely wanted to ask me a few questions. Checking my English-to-phone solicitor/surveyor-translator, I realized I’d be occupied a while.
Usually, I don’t have time for these people, say no thanks, and hang up. But she sounded like a nice enough person, so I figured “What the heck?”
She proceeded to have me rate my satisfaction with various aspects of the call I’d made (on a 10-point scale) and I started making up numbers. I even threw in an occasional “not applicable” to keep things interesting. Toward the end of the call, I had an opportunity to comment on how AT&T could improve my service. “Well,” I replied, “they could stop having people like you call me.”
There’s just something about someone calling me at home—whether to try to get me to buy something, tell me about a candidate or ask me questions—that irks me. Telemarketing, in its various forms, is pure evil, plain and simple. Therefore, the individuals making these calls are minions of the beast master, at least while they’re at work.
That’s not to say they’re bad people otherwise. I realize what great money is to be made in such a field. Of course, the child pornography market is rather lucrative, I understand. But you don’t see as many ads for those openings, more of a word-of-mouth kind of thing.
I expect that telemarketers get a fair amount of hang-ups, rude comments, and general unpleasantness directed toward them while going about their unholy duties. But here’s the thing: I’m sure they develop a tolerance for it. Perhaps they enjoy it, as some enjoy various other twisted forms of masochism.
So if you really want to fight the forces of darkness, don’t merely tell these souls to perform anatomically-challenging acts upon themselves, keep them on the line. Lull them into a false sense of security. Don’t buy anything, of course. Just waste their time. The longer they talk to you, the fewer others they’ll bother. It’s a small but important step toward ridding the world of this plague, a modest gesture in consideration of your fellow humans.
Right now, of course, a lot of energy is directed toward hounding us in our homes about the upcoming election. Now, is how we’re going to vote any of their damn business? Of course not.
So here’s the key to the success of this plan: lie. If you’re voting “yes,” say “no.” If you’re a Republican, say you’re voting Peace and Freedom. Be as inconsistent as possible in your answers. Once we can corrupt the information collected by these demons, it will be of no use to their masters. And what then?
Life will be… perfect. Well, once December rolls around.
Another Useless Column
My girlfriend is in Scotland until December, which means my long distance phone bill has skyrocketed.
That’s not the problem.
Until I got the hang of dialing overseas, I was reaching some form of “operator assistance.” And doing so, I got on a list. Then one evening, someone called me on behalf of my long distance company.
She was quick to point out that she wasn’t trying to sell me anything; she merely wanted to ask me a few questions. Checking my English-to-phone solicitor/surveyor-translator, I realized I’d be occupied a while.
Usually, I don’t have time for these people, say no thanks, and hang up. But she sounded like a nice enough person, so I figured “What the heck?”
She proceeded to have me rate my satisfaction with various aspects of the call I’d made (on a 10-point scale) and I started making up numbers. I even threw in an occasional “not applicable” to keep things interesting. Toward the end of the call, I had an opportunity to comment on how AT&T could improve my service. “Well,” I replied, “they could stop having people like you call me.”
There’s just something about someone calling me at home—whether to try to get me to buy something, tell me about a candidate or ask me questions—that irks me. Telemarketing, in its various forms, is pure evil, plain and simple. Therefore, the individuals making these calls are minions of the beast master, at least while they’re at work.
That’s not to say they’re bad people otherwise. I realize what great money is to be made in such a field. Of course, the child pornography market is rather lucrative, I understand. But you don’t see as many ads for those openings, more of a word-of-mouth kind of thing.
I expect that telemarketers get a fair amount of hang-ups, rude comments, and general unpleasantness directed toward them while going about their unholy duties. But here’s the thing: I’m sure they develop a tolerance for it. Perhaps they enjoy it, as some enjoy various other twisted forms of masochism.
So if you really want to fight the forces of darkness, don’t merely tell these souls to perform anatomically-challenging acts upon themselves, keep them on the line. Lull them into a false sense of security. Don’t buy anything, of course. Just waste their time. The longer they talk to you, the fewer others they’ll bother. It’s a small but important step toward ridding the world of this plague, a modest gesture in consideration of your fellow humans.
Right now, of course, a lot of energy is directed toward hounding us in our homes about the upcoming election. Now, is how we’re going to vote any of their damn business? Of course not.
So here’s the key to the success of this plan: lie. If you’re voting “yes,” say “no.” If you’re a Republican, say you’re voting Peace and Freedom. Be as inconsistent as possible in your answers. Once we can corrupt the information collected by these demons, it will be of no use to their masters. And what then?
Life will be… perfect. Well, once December rolls around.
Monday, September 30, 1996
AUC: You say you want a revolution? Well…
[Originally published in the Long Beach Union (student paper at Long Beach State), in my bi-weekly column called...]
Another Useless Column
Last Tuesday was the fifth-annual Buy Nothing Day, as organized by the Media Foundation, publishers of Adbusters magazine. You probably bought something.
Don’t feel bad. I did.
The idea behind Buy Nothing Day is to remind the capitalist establishment that it is we, the consumers, who buy their products, and without us, they are nothing. Much as their clever advertising tries to turn us into sheep with checkbooks, we ultimately have the power. If we all refrain from spending for a 24-hour period, The Powers That Be would notice.
Well, maybe. I mean, in theory this is true. In theory, communism works.
It is said that the people united will never be defeated. But I have a hard time getting a group of my friends to agree on a restaurant. And these people like each other. How are we to get a whole society to agree on anything, much less a direction for our future?
Every journey begins with the first step. But which way? Will we like it when we get there? And does the cable system there carry Comedy Central?
Besides, isn’t that the job of The Powers That Be, that elite minority to whom we have abdicated control of our lives? Sure, every four years or so they throw us a bone and let us think that we have some influence. A delightful amusement for them, no doubt, and we get to feel we’ve contributed.
They’ve set up quite a situation: whom to believe? Every statistic can be manipulated. Every “fact” can be refuted. Every Snickers is packed with peanuts. So much for reason. We follow whomever has the least offensive agenda. Or the cutest butt. On second thought, it’s probably the butt thing.
It’s sort of like playing Risk: the easiest way to win is to let the other players fight it out, then roll over their decimated armies with your culminated forces. We bicker amongst ourselves (or more accurately, we stop bickering and wallow in apathy after contemplating our lackluster choices) and the status quo is maintained. It’s insidiously ingenious.
But back to uniting the masses. Idealistic notions of equality, like labor unions and communist rule, get perverted. Take, for example, when Homer Simpson was elected union president:
The problem, again, is people. We can envision Utopia, but by our selfish nature, we are a poor choice to lead ourselves there. Unfortunately, until we get another species to take control, like the dolphins, we are our only option.
Scary, I know.
In the end, despite our best efforts of the Media Foundation, we probably are sheep with checkbooks. (And admit it: when you read the explanation of Buy Nothing Day, you wondered what the Media Foundation hoped to gain from it, didn’t you? Everybody has an angle, right? Is there such a thing as philanthropy in a capitalist society? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?)
Personally, I hope to be a clever sheep, keeping The Powers That Be guessing. If they’re going to fool me, I’m going to make them develop new ways of doing it. Capriciousness is our trump card, kids.
Remember: the sheep united can “bah” really loud at night and keep the shepherds from getting a good night’s sleep.
Another Useless Column
Last Tuesday was the fifth-annual Buy Nothing Day, as organized by the Media Foundation, publishers of Adbusters magazine. You probably bought something.
Don’t feel bad. I did.
The idea behind Buy Nothing Day is to remind the capitalist establishment that it is we, the consumers, who buy their products, and without us, they are nothing. Much as their clever advertising tries to turn us into sheep with checkbooks, we ultimately have the power. If we all refrain from spending for a 24-hour period, The Powers That Be would notice.
Well, maybe. I mean, in theory this is true. In theory, communism works.
It is said that the people united will never be defeated. But I have a hard time getting a group of my friends to agree on a restaurant. And these people like each other. How are we to get a whole society to agree on anything, much less a direction for our future?
Every journey begins with the first step. But which way? Will we like it when we get there? And does the cable system there carry Comedy Central?
Besides, isn’t that the job of The Powers That Be, that elite minority to whom we have abdicated control of our lives? Sure, every four years or so they throw us a bone and let us think that we have some influence. A delightful amusement for them, no doubt, and we get to feel we’ve contributed.
They’ve set up quite a situation: whom to believe? Every statistic can be manipulated. Every “fact” can be refuted. Every Snickers is packed with peanuts. So much for reason. We follow whomever has the least offensive agenda. Or the cutest butt. On second thought, it’s probably the butt thing.
It’s sort of like playing Risk: the easiest way to win is to let the other players fight it out, then roll over their decimated armies with your culminated forces. We bicker amongst ourselves (or more accurately, we stop bickering and wallow in apathy after contemplating our lackluster choices) and the status quo is maintained. It’s insidiously ingenious.
But back to uniting the masses. Idealistic notions of equality, like labor unions and communist rule, get perverted. Take, for example, when Homer Simpson was elected union president:
Homer: “Say, how much does this job pay?”Perhaps Marx and Engels should have had better foresight, or a proper lack of faith in humanity, and abandoned hopes of worldwide revolution. If I could go back in time, I might suggest they start small and try the agree-on-a-restaurant thing first.
Carl: “Nothing.”
Homer: “D’oh!”
Carl: “Unless you’re crooked.”
Homer: “Woo-hoo!”
The problem, again, is people. We can envision Utopia, but by our selfish nature, we are a poor choice to lead ourselves there. Unfortunately, until we get another species to take control, like the dolphins, we are our only option.
Scary, I know.
In the end, despite our best efforts of the Media Foundation, we probably are sheep with checkbooks. (And admit it: when you read the explanation of Buy Nothing Day, you wondered what the Media Foundation hoped to gain from it, didn’t you? Everybody has an angle, right? Is there such a thing as philanthropy in a capitalist society? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?)
Personally, I hope to be a clever sheep, keeping The Powers That Be guessing. If they’re going to fool me, I’m going to make them develop new ways of doing it. Capriciousness is our trump card, kids.
Remember: the sheep united can “bah” really loud at night and keep the shepherds from getting a good night’s sleep.
Monday, September 23, 1996
Grunion: Coming soon to the Student Union
[The following appeared on the Grunion (satire page of the Long Beach Union, student paper at Long Beach State), September 23, 1996]
[click on the image to bring up a somewhat clearer image--if you dare!]
[or maybe click here to see a flickr posting that might be even more legible]
[click on the image to bring up a somewhat clearer image--if you dare!][or maybe click here to see a flickr posting that might be even more legible]
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