Answers to the End of the World: PART 1

Yu Hong, Witnesses of the Rise, 2000


In celebration of Blogtrack's first birthday, I'm answering questions sent in by loyal readers with a high tolerance for douchery. For past month, the questions and comments have rolled in, and they'll be addressed in this exclusive two-part special.
I'd also like to thank those without whom this blog never would have made it into virtual reality:
Kelly, who urged me to further extrapolate on my disturbing views of the world for her enjoyment, and my mom, who, upon realizing she gave birth to a loud-mouthed megalomaniac, suggested a blog as a proper receptacle for my gratuitous unfounded opinions. Here's thanking her and hoping that she doesn't read this.

And now, the answers to a nation's most pressing questions.

does every artist living in a post-9/11 world have to acknowledge/understand 9/11 in their art?
"Post-9/11 world" means post-American security world, or post-American as the most popular kid in the class world. Some of the other kids apparently hate us, and others feel bad for us, and others don't care. If anything, we (Americans) are a little less sure of our place in the world, our place in America and even if our government is actively hostile toward us. 9/11 neatly bisected the country into opposite sides, so we're told, and although we complain about it, we actually love it. Can flip on the TV and either feel like Jon Stewart of O'Reilly gets us. Everything we do is a political statement. As people in their early 20s, we can can eat meat, get married or drive a car or not, and either choice is probably an indicator of how we vote.
I think acknowledging or understanding 9/11 in one's art is inevitable, as our entire country, and our entire world is now directly or indirectly defined by that event.

what's the deal with sleeping around?
Ahem. Certainly not something I know much about. But: when there are no rules, no one wins. So why does it seem like people still lose?
On the other hand, why the hell not? We're all just people, and we all want the same thing. Someone very wise once said "it's all about communication." Hurt feelings are not a good idea. ahem.

if i told you i liked electronica and folk music, what face-melting tracks would you put on my mix-tape?
"Sweet Love For Planet Earth" by the Fuck Buttons followed by "The Weight", "Carey" by Joni Mitchell and "Boyz" by MIA, "Loud Pipes" by Ratatat, "Helpless", "Baby's On Fire" by Brian Eno and "I'm Sensitive by Jewel." And that's just side A.
Your pants will be off before that tape comes close to flipping. And Neil Young protects against hurt feelings.

how the fuck are you pulling off that denim vest?
Stephen Hawking couldn't begin to guess.
Seriously.
But here's a hint: I apply it every morning with sweat from the back of Bruce Springsteen's neck, straight from the back of that '68 Chevy rolling down those hot New Jersey nights circa the Nixon administration.

is obama the man we've been waiting for? (and what do you think about the slew of hollywood movies coming out about superheroes that are actually watchable?)
I like this question, because, yes, I really do think he is what be have been waiting for because we truly believe he is. I haven't seen the country this excited since the Kennedys were alive and running. We all know that he won't save the day just by showing up, but he'll be the first president chosen by a new America. I think the blood of the America that quietly but truly cares about things, or desperately and angrily wants to see change, has been boiling long enough that it will win this election. We are sick of war and money, and know we have enough to enjoy life and want to, and that's what we believe Obama will let us do.
As far as superhero movies that are watchable.... The Dark Knight filled my quota for probably the rest of my life. I'd like to see more original ideas on the screen, smaller movies that respond to the world in it's current state rather than some re-heated idea by Hollywood from some white guy post-WWII. I really liked Tropic Thunder, but there was nothing near ANY sort of role for a woman, perhaps besides Tom Cruise's assistant who appeared for almost three seconds. For such a slyly intriguing film that attempts to serve Hollywood's own embarrassing tendencies back to it, it would have been nice to expose the sexism synonymous with Major Motion Pictures (unless Ben Stiller is ahead of the curve and purposefully excluded females from the film to make just that point and to see who would notice. Might be giving him too much credit, but I never would've thought he'd pull off a scathing meta-orgy of Hollywoodian ridiculosity ). I realize that some films are unavoidably male-centric, but the willingness with which we accept this is pretty startling.
Related: Barack is Harvey Dent. Obviously.

olympics: douchey excuse for hyperconsumption/NBC to jerk itself off on pro-america slobber OR a troubled world being united through athletic prowess/forced to accept china's fucked-upness as our collective capitalist creation and maybe an opportunity to rearrange our priorities?
The world is too small for the Olympics now. It's like shaking hands every so often with the people you share a house with. It's like we used to all be neighbors who got together once a month but now we're sharing in a living room and getting sick of looking at each other's faces. America and China both think the other one spends too much time in the bathroom and each thinks the other is using their expensive lotion.
It would nice if the Olympics were an opportunity to get together with your family in a respectful way and define what you are, what you're not, and how you can be a better person, but like most families, everyone just wants to show everyone else up. Conceptually, on a wide scale, the Olympics fall short of achieving any sense of global unity and understanding. We're all too happy to go to our rooms at the end of the day and knock on each other's door when we need to borrow a sweater.
And christ, the triumph of the American spirit is any advertisers wet dream. Global unity is conveniently sponsored by Visa while we celebrate universal triumph in a country that's killing its minorities and protesters? I think skeptics are justified and cynics are vindicated in this case.

...and what's the deal with china?
Contemporary chinese art at SFMOMA! Like that one artist who said: "Buddhism is a good dream, but it's just a dream." And the curator who wrote: "In modern China, young women are nothing more than tourists in their own dreams." IE: THIS (globalization, a nation that's sold it's soul for a flat screen and a spot at America's dinner table of excess and doom) is a bad idea!
Now we know that Tinanmen Square is a long national nightmare that no one can wake up from. There seems to be more class disparity than we can ever imagine: part of the country is turning their kids into the world's best divers, some of them are CEOs, and the rest are either being displaced by the government for damns and mines or making our electronics. Maybe they'll have a French Revolution-style uprising in a few years: the proletariat versus the ruling class. Either way, it's obvious they can't power the train they're fueling with myopic blend of capitalism and oppression forever.

...brian eno?
Genius. Friends with David Byrne, the one reason U2 is anything more than Modern English or Bow Wow Wow. Someone can that man's DNA. It's worth everything.

when can we get a fucking coffee machine?
GOOD GOD NOT SOON ENOUGH

Breaking: College Grad Identifies Path to Success, Wisdom and Happiness

Ah, college grads. There may not be a creature on earth who so perfectly embodies the delicate balance of idealism and self-righteousness as the Recent College Graduate, and every May the air is filled with the stench of the self-satisfaction mixed with fear. Since I wore that little hat almost a whole week ago, I have the right to glibly bombard you with my views on the world and life, because I now know almost everything there is worth knowing (just a little more Kerouac, and that almost will be effectively taken care of). Before that whole "real world" thing (a cultural construct if there ever was one) mars the clarity with which I am currently able to view the world, here is a list of personal insights and cultural observations I've culled over the last few years of expensive summer camp, which was actually really worth it (thanks, Mom and Dad!). Before I started, I never would've known what I still don't know (which completely goes against what I just said about knowing everything, but that's the beauty of being young and impressionable. Or something.)*

Finally, the wisdom the world has been waiting for:

WHAT I LEARNED IN COLLEGE

1. Wow, the world sure is fucked up.
(a) Your reality is being controlled by a small cabal of very rich and very old white men.
(b) You're a corporate target.
(c) The natural world is being destroyed.
(d) Global wealth is more uneven than it's ever been.
(e) The cheap energy sources that have built our incredibly decadent lifestyles are close to collapsing.
In fact, just about everything that COULD go wrong actually IS! So, you, college student/grad/mom/dad/shamed American, must forget everything you know and start over. Everything THEY (yes, there is a they) tell you is wrong, you can't buy your way out of this one, and your patriotic/religious paraphernalia does not guarantee you a place in heaven.
2. You CAN! almost learn how to think about maybe starting to change it a little bit.
(a) Moral superiority is not a bad thing, and that myth is only perpetuated by the selfish and lazy.
3. You don't actually have to read the boring assignments, especially if you don't care about your grades. And a lot of the reading is really interesting, especially if you don't care about your grades.
(a) If you ever experience the carpet of reality being pulled out from under you and grow suspicious of all that exists and doesn't exist in the entire world, you're doing alright.
4. The world does not end if you get a C or a D or an F. Nothing you do for a grade will ever affect anyone else's life, so stop boring everyone with your complaining.
(a) Some people will graduate with honors. Some won't. Everyone keeps breathing. A lot of people with very good grades will go on to make a lot of money, or not make a lot of money, or have a lot of fun, or do great things. A lot of people with not very good grades will go on to make a lot of money, or not make a lot of money, or have a lot of fun, or do great things.
5. Awkwardness will ensue. Embrace it.
(a) Everyone is so self-conscious that no one has time to worry about what you're doing, wearing or listening to.
6. Selling a really great anthology of world literature for $19 is a mistake.
(a) reading is still a better idea than Wii.
7. Nothing is so important that you can't skip it for something spontaneous and fun.
8. You can take about three fundamental ideas and apply them to every paper you ever write. (eg the world bank is evil, nothing is true, almost every classic text you read is patriarchally informed, etc.)
9. Women are in charge in male/female relationships (obviously). No one can deny that. Women, use it without taking advantage it. Men, don't be jerks.
10. Your major probably doesn't really matter, so pick one that's fundamental to your becoming a person, or it's going to be a long four years. If you don't have actual academic interests (or want to major in business/ neoclassical economics), don't go to college and give your spot to someone else.
11. A lot of people are huge tools. Avoid them so you don't have to worry about it.
(a) But you can make fun of them when you need to feel better about yourself.
(b) Also, a lot of people who seem like tools actually aren't. Don't judge people until after you know them.
12. You definitely won't regret any time you spend with friends. Actually, the only regret I have is that I didn't meet more people (ie hot smart dudes). Your 4.0 will never make you laugh or listen to your stories, and won't keep in touch after you graduate.
13. Mainstream media is for the old and dead, as are moderation and greatest hits albums (obviously).
14. The sixties might've been cool, but they're over and partially responsible for the quagmire of bullshit our generation has to wade through (see #1). If we learn to celebrate and loathe the time we're living in, we can understand and fix it.
15. Facebook is our generation's most brilliant form of effective corporate mind-control. Think before you offer all your personal information (see #1 (a) and (b)).
16. In spite of the self-indulgent practices and beliefs that college allows and encourages, you are actually very far from being the center of the world.
16. This list wouldn't be complete without the cliche (but valuable) things you always hear: don't be afraid to talk in class, try stuff that seems scary or stupid or weird, if you're not living on the edge you're taking up too much room, allow yourself to remain open to all views (especially the ones that confirm your own so you can win arguments against Republicans and make them feel dumb).
17. It's impossible to make a mistake (except for #6).
18. Most importantly, don't let anyone tell you what to do. Doing what anyone tells you to is quickest way to ending up miserable.
(a) For the record, the list is is merely meant as a suggestion.

Also, college is pretty cool, but I'm fairly certain that it doesn't actually have to be the "best four years of your life!!!11" You should actually make sure it's not, because who wants life after 22 to be a sixty year denouement?

*Disclaimer: contributing to the pompous tone of this list is that I'm currently in a coffee shop attempting to justify my existence. Oh, and I didn't get honors so I feel bad about myself. J/k!!111

Feliz Ano Nuevo

Photo: M. Rivlin

2008 improbably commenced with Gallo (la cerveza nacional) jubilant "Feliz Ano"s and fireworks in Guatemala City, a place surprising to anyone who thinks they know what our neighbor to the south is like; it's Belize City poor compared to Miami but Miami compared to poor Belize City.
The first of the year brought us via chicken bus to Antigua, a beautiful city full of Spanish colonial architecture, people, food and fire cracker debris from the celebrations of the previous night. The line at the ATM was long, and armed guards stood outside of it. At night, we saw two little girls ride around on their pink trikes in the park under trees lit with christmas lights. A delightful Frida Kahlo- themed restaurant (with arguably the best nachos of the trip) was full of Europeans, some drawing on eyebrows and moustaches with a burnt cork. The next day, we ducked into some art galleries, followed by massive groups of French tourists. Amongst the traditional/indigenous-themed pieces, one memorable painting featured a round-faced blonde woman with beady eyes and a double chin. The city soon disappeared under fog as we boarded an arctic overnight bus to Flores; a B slasher movie played in Spanish, and I was shaken awake by an over-zealous stewardess (bus attendant?). We finally arrived at the Belizean border in the morning, boarded another bus full of loud tourists and soon stepped out into San Ignacio, our former home that ceased to exist the second we returned. The city was not as if we had never left, but as if we had never been there; it seemed foreign and desolate under a white sky. The next day, we stared out at the city from the top of a 1500 year-old temple... and then laid by a resort pool until happy hour. Our loud neighbors at the six-dollar a night hotel were brutally American, and Jessica Simpson played on our other side; we'd traveled two-thousand miles to lie awake in a dorm.
Another dark morning; another bus ride. The 5 o'clock to Belize City was quiet and dark, then quiet and cloudy; the sun came out for a few minutes before retreating again. Caye Caulker was under a huge cloud, but Tina's Hostel has a vibes garden so all was right on the tropical island. A few games of cards and pineapple and rums later, we were talking loudly about God in front of polite Europeans, who hopefully weren't as disgusted as they should've been. Sunday night on a rainy tropical island is trivia night at the Canadian-owned sports bar, where the Red Wings/ Blackhawks game blasted from a big screen. Our partners were a young couple from Seattle, who days before had eloped in Las Vegas. One phrase sums up this pair, who did nothing less than reaffirm our faith in post-college existence: engagement puppy. The intellectual prowess of Mr. and Ms. Dreamy and four almost-college graduates led to third place in the competition, which meant $20 BZE off of our bar tab. Panty rippers, pink pussies and a huge crush on the newlyweds ensued.
Monday was finally sunny; we floated in turquoise before catching the ferry to the mainland, wondering if we'd ever be here again, as the threat of student loans and the grind loom ever nearer, as did our departing water taxi. Our bus from Belize City was filled with reggaeton and insufferable American college girls; one demanded that the Belizean man next to her move to another seat, and we imagined inflicting physical violence, or at least affecting British accents.
Our igloo on wheels pulled into Playa del Carmen at around 5 am; we stood clueless in the dark street wondering where to turn next when three muchachos approached us. They asked in Spanish if we wanted to come home with them; we laughed until they asked again, and followed Poncho, Victor and The One With Creative Facial hair back to an apartment complex a few blocks away. Before we walked through the sliding glass door, it became apparent that there were numerous bodies sprawled on few beds in the one-room apartment; sooner than we could say "Mexican sex trade" Poncho was pulling up a mattress and telling us where to sleep. I vowed not to take my eyes off of our stuff; five hours later, the room was filled with light, and our things were exactly as we'd left them. We thanked our generous freegan (?) hosts and headed through town toward the beach.
O America, when will you leave your demands, flab, haircuts at home? "Senorita! Senorita!" from a large gringa, chasing down the waitress for another bucket of beer interrupted a peaceful sleep on the beach as well as any delusions of pristinity, hell, decency, we had about this place. Round Americans rolled along the stretch of beach, cracking each other up and applying zinc oxide to their extremities. Cruise ships littered the horizon; all of the Midwest, Jersey and Alabama was in the sand. Good god. If I see another pale fleshy body with tribal tattoos... Trying to repress knowledge of the sewage content in the waves, we splashed around, remembering that it was eighty degrees, sunny, and January, and the end of our adventure was looming near.
Friends of friends met us that night for "feliz hora" at a restaurant on the main street and we contentedly savored margaritas and a song from a troubadour. It had become clear by this point that although it is in Mexico thus requiring a passport to get there, Playa del Carmen is Florida; happy tourists sipped at Starbucks and lurked in Converse and Birkenstock stores, NFL ponchos hung in windows along with the feared, the loathed, the inescapable Corona Bikini. Mariachis in traditional dress played to tourists at Italian restaurants; Baudrillard is alive and well.
All hyperreality aside, we soon found ourselves naked in deceptively shallow water feet away from a crowded outdoor nightclub, and the stars were very bright above the dark water.
After a complimentary breakfast the next morning courtesy of our quaint hostel, it was Cancun or bust. We couldn't wait to flash the world and after unsuccessfully searching for the Girls Gone Wild crew, we hopped into a cab and paid by the skin of our pesos. It had long since become painfully clear that further than 5 miles from the border, Belizean currency is worth a smirk from the banker and not much else. We were broke, tired and dirty as we checked into the most luxurious surroundings we'd had access to in what seemed like a long while. Our amazingly clean cuarto, courtesy of mi madre, came equipped with a real working shower that we had all to ourselves (!), two huge beds with clean sheets (!), a flat screen and a fridge (!!!). Cracked open our single can of frijoles, cut our tomatoes with the lid, and made the greatest comida those last few pesos could buy. Spent the afternoon lounging by the scenic pool and waiting for kind old people to buy us sundries (no such luck; but the 7-11 just stroll on the highway from the hotel had beer and candy bars), and reading Hunter S. Thompson's own Yucatan adventure circa 1970 in The Great Shark Hunt, in which his cohort bitterly complains about the development of the area by foreign (gringo) businesses. The escapade culminates with them eating copious amounts of most known recreational drugs to avoid the risk of carrying them through customs, and paranoiac hilarity ensues. Highly recommended.
The next morning we were off to the airport ourselves (sans drugs). A word of advice to all those thinking of planning a Central American adventure: leaving the countries themselves requires a great deal of money, especially if you've already spent all your cash on nachos and heady jewelry. Make sure you fly with an airline that includes such taxes ($23! US!) in the price of your flight, and you will be the envy of all your penniless comrades (Continental does this, or the guy at the ticket counter took pity on me). Also, never enter the boundaries of this region without a healthy supply of Valium. Unless you enjoy loud, dark, cold busses, a runny nose and a murderous Danny Glover dubbed in Spanish, you'll need heavy sedation.
After Starbucks (on IOU) and hugs with las amigas, I feared we'd never be this young again. Sitting next to a German duo on the plane (at least we didn't have to make small talk) and continuing with the Thompson, I fell into a true mourning of his death, almost three years after the fact. To enter 2008 without this man, and without any other nationally recognized artist that embodies the spirit and integrity that he did is truly a tragedy.
Newark meant a passport stamp and Katie Couric's enlarged, illuminated face spinning on the baggage claim; I was (almost) home. Able to exchange $40 BZE for $11.70 at about 50% its actual worth, I happily purchased the NYT. Thursday Styles and a crisp ten is my birthright. News of Tom Cruise's scientological weirdness sat alongside talk of caucuses and wars. (Men don't like Hillary because she's too emotional, women don't like her because she's not emotional enough. Everyone wants change. Whatever that means.)
Dunkin Donuts awaited, courtesy of the Carlisle Group, who makes sure that our weapons are as fresh as our coffee, and then onto a(nother) bus, this time with mi hermana hermosa, a Scandinavian princess in a toggle coat, a Nueva Hampshire, where our padre waited for us.

Spent the next two days transfixed by the endless stream of boobs and bombs charging from the T.V., as well as the cereal, bed and SUV available at my disposal. Classes started a few days later and the coffee flows like wine as reading is assigned, its completion believed to be a meaningful task.
Thanks, America. You are debilitating convenience.
Except (especially?) when Elsewhere.




"Some people write their novels and others roll high enough to live them and some fools try to do both."
-- Hunter S. Thompson

November To-Do

c Mick Rock


November: a short month that is already five days shorter than it was five days ago, and apparently full of rain, sez Axl. Here are some completely unsolicited tips on how to make this month another one full of bad intentions, unfulfilled dreams, and wasted time.

1. Quit caffeine/irony addictions
2. Become Zen Buddhist
3. Take down the IMF and World Bank (this means giving up weekly "browsing" trip to Wal-Mart--except to buy Zen rock garden)
4. Sell all sell-able belongings and give the money away (or spend it on plane ticket/jewelry/cheap drinks in developing tropical nations)
5. Finally start that amphetamine addiction you've been contemplating for awhile-- gain time and self-respect!
6. Cash in on American birthright by getting paid to be a self-indulgent ingrate (start with a book deal based on blog)
7. Hone knowledge of post-modern theory/Brooklyn underground experimental music scene/ 1960s French cinema to impress friends and enemies
8. Confess undying love for at least six people
9. Figure out why people are still racist idiots (interesting read)
10. Free self from the confines of space and time
11. Adrian Brody's body

All The Terror In the World

Humanity is at risk, says the UN, due to our lack of action on environmental problems that will flood/starve/thirst/heat us out of our HummersTacobellMacVisawwwCashbackVotingboothsNewShoes.

No idea how to respond to this: sincere fear (oh.my.god.) or ironic relief (well, goddamn, the world sucks anyway, put us out of our Two and a Half Men). All I can say is that we are inheriting a strange world. People always talk about the damn commies in the 50s or something and how they could have destroyed the world. Who the hell cares? They didn't. Stop crying, McCarthy.

Since then, in what some would call an ironic little twist, we've all united for the destruction of all being-kind (and by WE, I of course mean the heirs to the throne the World Bank has constructed with the flesh and bones of "developing" nations. WE, those few, proud, Western White people with lots of money, lots of confidence!, lots of teeth and God's blessing). How did we get here? Here's a theory that draws on Freudian subconscious and probably some other dead white guy who believed we all just really want the end: what if the insane level of capitalism we all devour/choke on was really constructed as a quick way out? Could those European leaders at Breton Woods have seen the chaos Man can wreak on His own self, and figured, either consciously or subconsciously, that large-scale globalization and its resulting CO2 emissions and repressed self-loathing was the most efficient bullet to our collective temple, the quickest way to that big mall in Heaven? But that's giving Truman, et al way to much credit. Closer to the truth is far less Romantic; it lacks the drama of Capitalist-as-Christ/Satan. This is a lazy Satan, a Christ who would rather shop. The rapidly deteriorating world in which we now exist was founded on the very real, and realized, belief that Whoever Dies With the Most Toys Wins.


"Capital, now in its imperialist stage, will only disappear with an ecological solution of production (and of consumption) which will constitute the only possible elimination of the outdated structures of dominance, aggressiveness, competitiveness, and absolutism in order to replace them with those of cooperation and equality between individuals (thus between the sexes) and of the species with the environment."
- Francoise d'Eaubonne

One Nation Under Foreign Produced Crap

In the interest of full disclosure: I'm writing this in the middle of a lake. After drinking three Labbatt Blues. While being paid to do so. No, I haven't bought an island villa with the cash I rake in from this self-indulgent little wankfest of weblogginess; I work in retail. Right now I sit on a ferry, in a gift shop, next to a cash register full of green paper that people handed me in exchange for T-shirts made from bleached and dyed cotton and assembled by Malaysian toddlers. (All while listening to Animal Collective and ignoring prospective customers, my right, my duty to do so boiling over with each Baudrillard quote I absorb: "[Americans] are themselves simulation in its most developed state, but they have no language in which to describe it, since they themselves are the model. As a result, they are the ideal material for an analysis of all the possible variants of the modern world. No more and no less in fact than were primitive societies in their day. The same mythical and analytic excitement that made us look towards those earlier societies today impels us to look in the direction of America. With the same passion and the same prejudices.")
The image of impoverished children being exploited to satisfy our insatiable glut for souvenirs (artifacts, made objects to remember our lives by) is horrifying (unless of course you take into account that 13 cents a day is more than they'd be making otherwise!). But there's a sickening element to the flip side of this exchange that often remains off the radar. And is arguably the the driving force behind all the terror in the world.
Three girls, about seven or eight years old, all dressed in various shades of pink, all with long hair and all covered in sparkles, came up to exchange their parents' money for various cheaply made toys manufactured somewhere in Asia. One child decided not to buy a squishy dino, then shouted to her mother, "I want to spend my money!" Her mother responded quietly, "You'll be able to spend your money on the other side." (of the ferry's landing.)
Here we have a twisted little route of goods production and consumption: people produce cheap crap on the other side of the world, make no money doing so and wonder what the hell those Americans are going to do with a stuffed duck in a raincoat that looks like an alligator. Little kid sees said good, wants it, begs parent for it, gets it, then subconsciously wonders what the hell she will do with a duck dressed like an alligator, and wonders why it fails to complete her life.
Nonetheless, the stuffed duck incident repeats itself throughout the child's life, who then grows into a person and believes that material goods pave the road to happiness. That appetite fuels the production source, by which many more lives will be consumed in the pursuit of production.
Bottom line: any parent who wouldn't want their kid working in a sweatshop shouldn't purchase stuff produced in one, and further, any parent who doesn't want their kid growing up to be a vacant human being shouldn't buy them worthless crap to shut them up.
(And admittedly, anyone who finds the whole process repulsive probably shouldn't get paid to be part of the problem. But hey, hypocrisy is one of the most inevitable trappings of modern American life, a beautifully complex sequence of instant gratification and the following sense of anticlimactic disappointment.)