issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:17 PM Page 1 Citizen Culture(Fourth Issue).ai 12/22/2004 12:25:09 PM
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the contents C i t i z e n C u l t u r e Number 4
6 12 38
features
FABLE EYEWITNESS 6 The Cathedral 34 by Pamela Taylor The Night of the 1,000 by Matthew Bonavita
NAIL BITER 12 MEMOIR The Truth that Dripped From the 38 The Bloody Road to Heaven Cartoonist’s Quill by James Tobin by Toiya Kristen Finley
SWEET IRONY PEANUT GALLERY CRITICS -FINE ART How I Learned to Stop Complaining and 16 52 MoMa Digested Love the Bunny by Molly Klais by Kristi Petersen
CCM INVESTIGATES SARCASTICALLY YOURS 30 The Sinister Soul of a New Machine 56 The Politics Beneath My Little Red Dress by Lucas Graves by Melissa Hart corrected.qxd 1/6/05 3:55 AM Page 2
the contents photo essays, interviews, and reviews
PORTFOLIO 46 Generations: A Different Breed of Paparazzo by Joseph Lawrence Vasile 70 BIG FISH I Freewheeling Movies and Rambling Interviews by Nichole Gleisner
73 FAST RISING FISH On the Outside Looking Deeply In Interview by Jonathon Scott Feit
MY TWO CENTS 81 Writers Shouldn’t Care What Editors Like by Jonathon Scott Feit 46
IMAGE ESSAY 83 Punc’t: Putting Punctuation in its Place Exhibition Conceived by David Schimmel of & Partners columns 94 ON ALIGHTER NOTE A Book by a Bird Interview by Jonathon Scott Feit SEXY TASTES 22 Sexual Gadgetry at Sensual Gramercy by Jen Karetnick
27 THIS AMERICAN LIFE A New Year’s Resolution: Banishing Bully Culture by Peter Rutenberg
44 PRISM The Sentimental Voyeur Manhattanite by Sasha Stiles
ON THE FENCE: THE RIGHT 62 by Ben Barron
ON THE FENCE: THE LEFT 65 by Ari Paul
70 TOOLS OF THE TRADE 78 In Defense of Good Fiction 2 Citizen Culture by Chris Zappone issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:18 PM Page 5
contributors
Ben Barron Davis, CA Ben Barron comes to Citizen Culture Magazine freshly graduated from UC Berkeley. He has served as news editor of two college publications, The Daily Californian and The California Patriot, receiving national recognition for his work. He has since written features and news reports for The Hayward Daily Review, The Oakland Tribune, and The Jewish Journal of Los Angeles.
Matthew Bonavita Brooklyn, NY Matthew Bonavita is a High School History Teacher and Dean in Brooklyn, NY. A lifelong resident of New York City, he holds a Masters Degree in History and co-owns a Mobile Dee Jay Company.
Toiya Kristen Finley Nashville, TN A retired professional student, Toiya Kristen Finley resides in her native Nashville, TN. Her work has appeared in NFG, Fortean Bureau, and Under Her Skin: How Girls Experience Race in America. She is the founder and former managing/fiction editor of Harpur Palate.
Nichole Gleisner Boston, MA Nichole Gleisner lives in Boston where she works for the Boston Herald. She also writes fiction and poetry.
Sasha Haines-Stiles New York, NY Sasha Haines-Stiles is newly returned to the U.S. from England, where she received her Master’s degree from Oxford in Twentieth Century Literature. She lives and writes in New York City.
Melissa Hart Eugene, OR Melissa Hart is a freelance writer living in Eugene, Oregon. She is the author of a memoir, The Assault of Laughter (Windstorm, 2005).
Jen Karetnick Miami Shores, FL Poet and freelance writer Jen Karetnick lives in Miami Shores, Florida. She is the features editor for The Wine News and a columnist for Rescue magazine and The Drexel Online Journal. Other work is forthcom- ing in North American Review, Blue Unicorn, Ocean Drive, and Women’s Health & Fitness.
Molly Klais New York, NY Molly Klais received her M.A. in history of art from University College London and her B.A. in history of art and French from the University of Michigan. Currently she works at an Upper East Side art gallery in New York City.
Ari Paul Chicago, IL Ari Paul has also written for Clamor, Creative Loafing, The Next American City, the Ann Arbor News, and Pulp Syndicate.
Kristi Petersen Danbury, CT Kristi Petersen’s work has appeared in several publications. Currently, she is moderator for the Pencils! Writing Workshop in Norwalk, Connecticut, and is pursuing a B.A. in Creative Writing and Literature at Burlington College in Vermont.
Peter Rutenberg Los Angeles, CA Peter Rutenberg is a conductor, composer, record producer and raconteur who has written about music, entertainment, travel, food, and less savory subjects, for radio and print, for over 25 years. He is founding director of Los Angeles Chamber Singers & Cappella and co-owner of the classical record label RCM.
Pamela Taylor Indianapolis, IN Pamela Taylor has been a freelance writer for the past 15 years. She is Secretary of the Islamic Writers Alliance and Board Member of the Progressive Muslim Union. She has a Masters of Theological Studies from Harvard Divinity School and currently resides in Indianapolis with her husband, four wonderful daugters,and a loving cat.
James Tobin Brookline, MA James Tobin is a writer from Waterford, Ireland who has lived in Boston since ‘86. He previously published a story on New York in The Boston Irish Reporter. "NYC turns my head to a radio atenna and an eccentric barrage of imagary sparks there demanding broadcast."
Chris Zappone New York, NY Chris Zappone lives in New York City....and doesnt' really mean to say more than that.
Addendum to Contributors’ Bios Page (issue #3):
Michael Kress Cambridge, MA Michael Kress is a freelance journalist who writes about religion and spirituality for newspapers, maga- zines, and websites. He also is the editor-in-chief of MyJewishLearning.com. issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:18 PM Page 6 C i t i z e n C u l t u r e magazine an imprint of the HUMAN/intelligence Creative Group, Inc. Citizen Culture Magazine aims to be a magazine journalism career launch pad for talented writers, photographers, critics and reviewers, poets and storytellers, as well as production-minded people who have professional skill but just need a foot in the industry’s door. Each month we aim to fill a niche by bringing excellent writing about a different general theme to a national audience of educated, socially involved men AND women aged 20-40.
The HUMAN/intelligence Creative Group, Inc. JONATHON SCOTT FEIT President & CEO, Editor-in-Chief IRFAN “SAM” SHABEER Vice President & COO, Publisher ROBERT FAVUZZA Chief Marketing & Finance Officer EVAN SANDERS Publisher Emeritus
Editorial Joelle Asaro-Berman Deputy Editor: Columns Kelly Brumleve Executive Editor Damien Power Associate Editor: Boston: Fence Section Michael Pullmann Associate Editor: New York City: Managing B. Theo Mazumdar Associate Editor: New York City: Submissions Dina Santorelli Associate Editor: New York City: Submissions R.M. Schneiderman Associate Editor: New York City: Academic
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Citizen Culture Magazine is dedicated to publishing the highest quality works by new and talented Contributors, fostering the free flow of ideas, no matter how controversial. Our editorial policy is to refrain, to the maximum degree possible, from editorial content, though we reserve the right to edit for length, style, and clarity. Therefore, the opinions herein expressed do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the HUMAN/intelligence Creative Group, Inc., Citizen Culture Magazine, its editors, publishers, advertisers, affiliates, agents, suppliers, or Contributors other than the work’s respective author. Neither the HUMAN/intelligence Creative Group nor Citizen Culture Magazine assumes any responsibility for unsolicited editorial or graphic material. All rights in unsolicited editorial and graphic material will be treated as intended and available for publication. Submission implies the availability of appropriate copyrights. Material will be subject to our unrestricted editorial rights and the policy stated above. Unsolicited materials selected for publication are purchased in their publishable format on the release date of the issue in which they feature. Design and content © 2004 by the HUMAN/intel- ligence Creative Group, Inc., except as otherwise credited. No portion of this magazine may be reproduced without expressed permission from the Publisher. Citizen Culture Magazine (ISSN 1553-2747) is distributed by Disticor Magazine Distribution Services, 695 Westney Road South, Suite 14, Ajax, Ontario L1S 6M9 Canada. Subscriptions in the U.S., $20.00 for 12 issues. “Citizen Culture Magazine” and the “CCM” logo are trademarks. All rights reserved. issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:18 PM Page 7
a note from the E-in-C
hat makes good fiction—besides the cigar and mojito (shown at left) that w worked best for Hemingway? As we review the past year—a globally newsworthy 2004—I am reminded that that oft-sought-after quality is believability, the same as which makes for effective political campaigns. Fantasy, comic book, and philosophy fans will cry out, “But what about suspension of disbelief?” To which I will coolly reply: “Even they [the fantasies, the comic books, the philosophies] must suit their genres.” In other words, readers, like constituents, have expectations—and authors, like politicians, are challenged to avoid staleness. For example, thinking closely to home, it might be easier to mass-market Citizen Culture Magazine if we stuffed ourselves into a pre-fitted mold and spun our wheels in the same old ruts. (But then again, we wouldn't want to, so we'll just take our sweet time growing.) Campaign promises and plotlines tend to follow like courses: slow at first, ramping up to fever, occa- sionally infused with a heart-racing surprise (thank you, Dr. Howard Dean!), locomoting toward an all- too-repetitive dénouement. Politicos often forget that the goal of democracy, like truly excellent fiction, is not to annoy one's audience into praying for an alternative. Longevity comes from delivering, enthralling, inspiring dreams of promise ahead-in the form of a successor or a sequel, as the case may be, rather than a replacement. Besides, real life tends to be more interesting. More complicated, more accidental, more reliant on faith (in whatever your object). Good fiction has a direction, though it might not be immediately clear-even to the author, as Stephen King points out in his master guide On Writing. By the end of an engaging tome, characters' colors have been revealed, perhaps some philosophical truism has been imparted, and you're raring to read more. In real life, though—and this is a good thing—neither political stances nor circumstances tend toward the black-and-white. The past year witnessed the flip-flop not only of campaign trail rhetoric, but also of expectations, as so many Blue Staters awoke on Wednesday the 3rd to find their votes outnumbered by Red Staters'. Dishearteningly, some feared the future (but then again, they do every time a lame-duck presidency commences) while others rejoiced. All should have been proud for the opportunity to watch democracy wag its omniscient finger and command, “Maybe next time, you'll vote too-now stop complaining.” So what's next for you, and me, this country, and world? By the time sit down to Citizen Culture Magazine's fourth issue-our cel- ebration of writing and having aged a year-another ball will have dropped over Times Square, New Year's resolutions will have (again) come and gone, and a cheery Dick Clark will still…somehow…be here. “This American Life” columnist Peter Rutenberg, in the second issue of Citizen Culture, lamented that there's “nothing new under the sun.” With hope for our collective future, I'll con- tinue believing otherwise: that each moment is the crux of our fascinating unwritten story, giddy with anticipation, just waiting to be penned.
Admiringly yours,
Jonathon Scott Feit, Editor-in-Chief on behalf of Citizen Culture Magazine
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The CATHEDRAL ~by Pamela Taylor Indianapolis, IN
he campus was beautiful, just what one would expect two religions other than their faith of ordination—one from a seminary. White stucco buildings, pristine monotheistic and one pantheistic. Abraham stands for diversi- against the grey-green foothills of the Diablo ty, for mutual understanding and respect. We believe that the t Mountains of Northern California and a flawless sky edifice of world peace lies on a bedrock of tolerance, knowledge, of cobalt, circled by a broad expanse of grass, basking respect and appreciation, and that it is the task of seminaries in the warmth of a brilliant sun. Beneath the spreading branch- everywhere to foster such qualities among the religious leaders es of an ancient elm, a trio of earnest, black-robed young men of tomorrow.” was engaged in an intent discussion, fingers and faces aug- David turned away and headed towards Gandhi Drive. He menting their arguments. On the other side of the green, a tur- hadn’t come to Abraham’s to listen to platitudes or canned baned sheikh, his beard as snowy as his robes, sat cross-legged speeches! on the ground, speaking with a circle of eager-faced students. A Gandhi Drive, a wide boulevard fronted by a pair of ever- rabbinical scholar strode by, muttering to himself in Hebrew. A green oaks, was located behind the library. As David turned tour guide, her red hair flaming in the afternoon sun, walked into the street, he was greeted by a lean minaret. The mosque backwards across the green, leading a gaggle of prospective stu- itself was a blaze of white tile embroidered with turquoise dents and their parents. Arabic script. Beside the mosque stood a red brick onion- David paused a moment, listening to her spiel. domed church, orthodox crosses gracing the points of its spires. “The Abraham Academy of Religious Studies was estab- Next was a pagoda, brilliant red and gold, encrusted with gold lished in 2127,” she recited. “It was the first of its breed, a pio- dragons and swathed in bright yellow banners. A stupa covered neer in the field of multi-cultural ordination. To this day, shrine. A plain, clapboard protestant church. An adobe Abraham Academy remains a leading institution, graduating sweathouse, tree limb ladder sticking out of the roof. over 600 ministers, rabbis, sheikhs, ayatollahs, shamans, He followed the street around a bend and took in a mod- lamas, maharishis, and priests—Catholic, Buddhist, Jainist, ernistic synagogue, a colonnaded gurdwara. And then he saw Shinto, Hindu, and Daoist—each year.” it. The cathedral! Stately, elegant, a marble monument to the David smirked. In other words, Abraham churned out glory of God, complete with flying buttresses and twin spires more religious leaders than any other school this side of the that must have been two hundred and fifty feet tall. The triple Atlantic. Even so, it had a reputation as one of the finest semi- front doors were massive, crowned by a magnificent pair of rose naries in the Western Hemisphere. windows. Above them hung a gargantuan alabaster crucifix. “As you may know,” the redhead went on, “Abraham is one Even from afar, David could see the cold, grey iron nails pierc- of the few seminaries that requires that all graduates minor in ing the stone palms and feet, pinning the statue to the wooden
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beams of the cross, rust from the iron running like blood across “Catholicism is Truth, the rest are only approximations the marble fingers and toes. Christ’s head lolled on His chest, thereof. Take Islam. Its belief in the One God is clearly reso- the thorns of His crown piercing the flesh of His shoulder, the nant with reality, but its rejection of God’s sacrifice of His only peace of death unable to wipe the agony of His torment from begotten Son leads to the central falsehood in Muslim theology: His blessed face. the concept that a human being is capable of earning salvation David dropped weakly to knees. A cold sweat broke on his on his or her own merits. The result is an outward similarity forehead. His breaths came fast and shallow. He had always between the two faiths—a similar dedication to God, the One heard the Abraham cathedral was magnificent, but nothing had and Only, and a similar set of morals—but when one considers prepared him for the reality. It was perfect! He folded his the spiritual implications, the fatal difference becomes clear.” hands to pray. He would have bowed his head, but he could not The essay had turned out longer than he thought it should be, tear his eyes from piercing gaze of those pale marble eyes. but it was a brilliant analysis, if he said so himself. Oh, Father in Heaven, he whispered. I have to come here! The last one had been the worst. Describe a personal expe- Have to pray here, study here, live here! Please, Dearest rience that you feel has changed your life direction. It had been Father, Dearest Son, let me come here. hard to choose. His first Eucharist, his first joining in the Blood The statue’s stone eyes stared into his, never wavering, and and the Body? The confessional in which he had learned that David could have sworn He was there, that He had heard his even priests were tempted by sin? The time God had spoken so words. David knew he absolutely had to get into Abraham clearly into his heart, telling him that he would become a priest Academy, that he could not exist except in the shadow of this himself? How could he pick one? It was too hard; they had all cathedral. And knew with a thrill of zeal and fervor that God been pivotal moments in his life. In the end he had ended up the Father and God the Son would answer his prayers. describing all three. Another long essay. At least the admis- sions staff would really know him well, would understand his sincerity and the level of his commitment. * With a swift prayer for success, David tapped the send David’s fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the keyboard, filling icon, and waited for the email daemon to confirm that the the air with a frenetic ticking, a release of nervous energy as he twelve pages—perhaps the twelve most important pages of his read over the essays he had just finished. The questions had entire life—had reached their destination. been difficult—not because he didn’t know the answers, but “There, by the Grace of God, go I,” he thought, chuckling at because he didn’t know which answers the admissions staff the quirky usage. He would make a good priest. would be looking for. Why do you want to pursue ordination? Because I want to help people. Because I want to lead them to Christ’s love and to * God’s salvation. Because God has called me to the priesthood. A chime at David’s hip alerted him to an urgent incoming Isn’t that what every aspirant would say? How could he explain message. He slipped his pocket computer from its holster and the passionate yearning, the consuming need he felt to share flipped it open, fumbling with the catch in his nervousness. It Truth, to witness God’s love for humankind, to bring others was the 15th of April after all. into the fold, to thwart the forces of darkness? How could he A new-message icon, bearing the Abraham address, make it clear that he had no choice but the priesthood? How flashed impatiently in the upper right hand corner of the did you explain a fiery drive to someone who had never been screen. The file was over 50 KB! A good sign! burned? “God, let it be, let it be,” David prayed silently, and then Why do you want to attend the Abraham Academy of tapped on the icon. Religious Studies? Because you have the most glorious cathe- “Congratulations, Mr. Kirkpatrick, Abraham Academy for dral in the world. That was surely not what the admissions offi- Religious Studies is pleased to inform you that you have been cer wanted to hear. So he made up platitudes about fine insti- accepted for admission,” he read. tutions, esteemed history, respected scholars, all of which were The pocketcom hit the grass only seconds before David’s true, but none of which spoke from his soul. None of which knees. would distinguish him from every other applicant. David grimaced, and then his fingers flew over the keys. * He couldn’t resist adding an extra paragraph. “Besides, the Abraham’s cathedral is a true masterpiece. The administrative offices of Abraham Academy faced the Such a testament to the Glory of God should be attended by broad central green. An imposing building styled after a Greek those who can truly appreciate it.” temple, its lintels were blazoned with foot high letters: “My If you could leave one legacy for the world, what would it effort should never be to undermine another’s faith but to make be? That one at least was easy enough. Spread Truth as far and him a better follower of his own faith.” A quote from the great as wide as I could, save as many souls as is humanly possible. Indian statesman Gandhi. He felt a twinge of conscience that he hadn’t addressed hunger David bounded up the steps two at a time, and made his or homelessness, poverty, child abuse, or domestic violence - way to the office of his Placement Officer, one Mr. Traiber, these were fundamental issues for Catholics—but the tribula- wearing a grin as wide as the straits of Gibraltar. He still had tions of the world were nothing compared to the Tribulation trouble believing he was truly going to be a student at Abraham sinners would suffer in the Hereafter. Academy. Choose two religions and discuss their similarities and dif- The secretary smiled encouragingly at him when he told ferences. That was easy, too. her his name and ushered him into Mr. Traiber’s office.
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David’s fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the keyboard, filling the air with a frenetic ticking, a release of nervous energy as he read over the essays he had just finished.
A dark-haired, slightly rounded man sat behind a wide wooden were to lead him to his dorm. desk. He stood and offered David a hand, shook his heartily. “Multicultural Appreciation. Interdenominational Ethics. “Welcome, Mr. Kirkpatrick,” he said warmly. Disapprobation Interdiction. Spiritual Reorientation.” “Hi… uh… Thanks!” David replied, unsure as to how for- “Spiritual Reorientation!” mal he should be. Mr. Traiber turned back to him, eyed him for a moment. “Just give me a moment to pull up your records.” “Yes. Spiritual Reorientation. Although I doubt it will do any Mr. Traiber turned to a mahogany file cabinet behind his good.” He seemed almost despondent. desk, flipped through the folders, pulled one out and scanned a “What?” David cried. If they thought he needed spiritual few pages. “Ah, yes… I see…Mm-hm… Yes, yes, quite clear.” improvement, why had they admitted him in the first place? The Placement Officer looked across at him. “It’s quite evident, Mr. Traiber regarded him steadily for a moment and then Mr. Kirkpatrick, that you belong in Stapleton Hall.” sighed. “I’m afraid, Mr. Kirkpatrick, that you have been party David couldn’t* remember any Stapleton Hall on the cam- to a deception. pus map he had been poring over ever since he had received the David jumped to his feet. The guards moved towards him, but acceptance letter. But no matter, he didn’t care where he lived Mr. Traiber waved them off. so long as he was here. “I never lied to you, I swear!” David averred. “I was com- Mr. Traiber leaned over, spoke into an intercom that lay pletely honest in my application.” on one corner of his desk. “I’m sure you were.” A grim smile played about Mr. “Ms. Garcia, would you please send in Connor and Traiber’s lips. “It is Abraham Academy that has not been total- Gomez?” ly upfront. And every other seminary currently in operation.” David heard the secretary respond in the affirmative and a David sank into the chair again. “I don’t understand,” he said. moment later two burly men came through a back door David “I wouldn’t expect you to,” the placement officer said. “Do hadn’t noticed before. Heavy guns hung from their belts, and you know who Sergio Stapleton was?” handcuffs, and nightsticks. “Um… no…” “Connor, Gomez, please escort Mr. Kirkpatrick here to “He was, perhaps, the greatest thinker of all times.” Mr. Stapleton Hall.” Traiber settled into his chair. “Sergio Stapleton looked at the The men nodded curtly. history of mankind and saw that all wars, all ethnic pogroms, “Yes sir,” the one on the left grunted. terrorism, colonialism, not to mention a great deal of oppres- “Um, Mr. Traiber, sir,” David spoke up. “About my class- sion, hatred, assault, murder, vandalism, have direct ties to es?” religion. And he realized that if the material wealth—the “No need to worry, Kirkpatrick,” the man answered, the human and economic resources consumed by the maintenance geniality gone from his tone. “Residents of Stapleton Hall have of defense forces, the lives and assets devoured in the prosecu- a set curriculum.” tion of warfare, the waste of personnel and property expended One of the men behind him gave a derisive snort. The in fighting crime—if all those resources could be directed to other grasped his elbow, tightly. alleviating hunger and poverty, the world would be a much bet- “Come with us,” he told David, pulling at his arm, nearly ter place, and human suffering would decrease exponentially. knocking him off the chair. This is nothing earth shattering. In fact, it’s rather obvious.” David resisted him, turned to the placement officer. “What makes Stapleton such a brilliant mind is that he “Uh, Mr. Traiber. I was hoping to take Catholic Theology realized that it is not religion in and of itself, but religious 107,” he said. “And… and Cross-Cultural Counseling.” extremism, religious bigotry and the demagoguery of zealous, “I’m afraid you won’t be taking those classes.” Mr. self-superior, intolerant clergymen that whip average people Traiber’s back was turned; he was filing David’s folder in a large into a frenzy of hatred, and goad governments into making war cabinet to one side of his desk. on their neighbors. And he realized that we had the perfect “What classes will I be taking?” David asked. He was con- solution, right in our hands.” fused, perplexed by the Mr. Traiber’s sudden disinterest, Mr. Traiber smiled, not a pleasant expression, but one that uneasy with the gruffness and weaponry of the two men who reminded David of a bully getting ready to punch his victim.
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“What is the solution?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer. of thinking that led to the Crusades, the Inquisition, the mar- “Seminaries.” The grimace widened. It was positively evil ginalization of the Native Americans, the Holocaust, the cleans- now. “It’s really a two-pronged attack. On the one hand, we ing of the Tutsis, the Bosnians, the Palestinians, the Tibetans, provide the spiritual leadership for most of the world’s popula- the terrorist acts of Bin Laden, O’Callahan, Krishnamurati, and, tion. And on the other, we have access to the zealots of the of course, the Biocide of ’73. I’m afraid you are a very danger- world, to the religious bigots. Stapleton convinced govern- ous man.” ments all over the world, and the UN, that seminaries should be David stared at Mr. Traiber, dazed. The man was so cool, regulated, that applicants should be carefully screened. Those so rational. He might have been talking about the weather or who are truly spiritual, who desire to make the world a better what he planned for dinner. Instead he was calmly telling place for all, a place of harmony, who understand that all reli- David that they were going to lock him away for… perhaps for- gions lead to God—those students would receive their educa- ever! tion, and would lead the world toward tolerance and peace. The “But what about my parents? They won’t stand for this!” other kind, the ones who think they have a corner on Truth, the “I’m afraid the government is prepared to put considerable ones who cannot stand the thought of people on the ‘wrong pressure on them to keep them silent. Especially if they want to path,’ who see sin and evil in anyone who does not accept his see you again.” understanding of the Divine, who believes his or her role is to David suddenly lunged towards the window. He had to get save people, to purify them, and this world, that kind of stu- out of here! dent—your kind of student, Mr. Kirkpatrick—receives a differ- One of the security guards dove after him, caught his ankle, ent sort of education. A reeducation, one might say.” brought him crashing to the floor. David kicked out with his David jumped up again, alarmed. “I don’t need re-educa- other foot, catching the man in the shoulder, but his grip was tion!” he croaked, his throat suddenly dry. unyielding. The second guard rushed up and cracked him over “Your type rarely thinks they do.” Mr. Traiber seemed the head with his nightstick. Black spots filled his vision and a saddened by the thought. He shook his head slowly. “Old John terrible headache spread out from the point of impact. Paul must be turning over in his grave. Haven’t you ever heard The guards grasped David roughly by the arms, hauled him to of Vatican II?” his feet. His knees were too weak to hold his weight, and he “I have,” David answered. Of course he had heard of sagged between them. Vatican II—the beginning of the end, as far as he was con- “Get him out of here,” Mr. Traiber said. cerned. Vaticans II, III, and IV had been a cascading sell-out to “Yes sir,” the guard replied, dragging him towards the theological relativism. It didn’t surprise him that the vast door. majority of Catholics had embraced the multi-culturalism of “Wait, you can’t do this!” David’s voice came out feeble, the documents. Most of them, as far as he was concerned, were weak. “It’s not fair!” slackers, willing to give lip service to the Truth but not much “Shut up,” Mr. Traiber grumbled as a guard poked him in more. the ribs with his nightstick. “Doesn’t it bother you that you are stuck in an ancient, “Please,” David whimpered. “Please, give me a chance.” iconoclastic paradigm? That the rest of your faith group long But they had already dragged him through the back door and he ago moved on?” was beyond Mr. Traiber’s hearing. David didn’t answer. Clearly Mr. Traiber hoped he would The security guards hustled him out a second door, into a recant his views on theological relativism. He wasn’t about to waiting electrocar. The ride to Stapleton Hall lasted several do that, but he was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t do hours. David looked out at scrubby live oak trees, gnarled sage- him any good to say so. brush plants, the occasional steer as the road wound up into the “Unfortunately, Mr. Kirkpatrick, until we are satisfied that desolate hills of the Diablo Mountains. At last the car turned you pose no threat to peace and harmony, you won’t be allowed into a narrow lane. David caught a glimpse of a plain sign— to… to graduate.” Stapleton Correctional Facility. “What!” David cried. The complex of buildings was immense—solid granite “I’m sorry, Mr. Kirkpatrick. You were admitted to walls, windows barred. It was encircled by two high fences, Stapleton Hall. Until you demonstrate that you have real toler- electrified by the looks of it, and topped with rolls of barrel wire. ance, real acceptance of people as they are, and of different reli- The car stopped at a small guard post. gions, I’m afraid you will have to remain there.” “Got another one for you,” the driver said to the man at the “But! But! That’s like prison.” post. He nodded. Mr. Traiber nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose it is a form of “Mr. Traiber just phoned us. Mr. Kirkpatrick, is it?” incarceration.” “Yeah. A tough cookie, watch out for him.” “But I’ve committed no crime! I’ve done nothing wrong!” “Thanks! We will.” “Perhaps you haven’t yet, but you would,” Mr. Traiber Two more guards had come out of the little building. They stated baldly. “If we gave you a chance. You would incite oth- opened the door and pulled David out. ers to bigotry, to intolerance, and that leads to crime, to suffer- “See ya’ Gomez, Connor,” they called as the electrocar ing. And so we are not going to allow you to do that.” pulled away. “There must be some mistake,” David stammered. “This “Please.” David pulled at a sleeve. “Please, you don’t need can’t be right!” to take me in there. I can change.” “No, Mr. Kirkpatrick. No mistake. Would you like to The man guffawed as he dragged David through the gap in review what you wrote in your essays? Classic 19th century the fence. missionary thought-patterns. Very destructive. Just the kind “That’s what they all say.”
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The Truth thatCartoonist’s Dripped from the Quill
~by Toiya Kristen Finley Nashville, TN
J propped his elbows on his pillow and angled the husband and father had already disappeared; they’d learned comic towards the dim bedside light. The muted the routine of loss. amber glow softened Chandler’s sharp inking, but the TJ didn’t read any further—not because he was bored characters’ bodies, in the style of Japanese animation, with the story or uninterested in Detective Green’s futile t still moved across the pages with their polished grace. attempt to catch Mordoff this time. But the young sister who Mordoff stalked a young black girl who was left to face the old shadows and lingering songs in the stared out her window and past the fire escape late at night. apartment arrested TJ. There was something familiar about He first noticed her as he walked by a liquor store, the night so her in Chandler’s delicate, almost fragile rendering: the slope of dark even the thugs hanging on the corner had gone home, her rounding shoulders revealing her resignation to whatever and the haunting lull of a spiritual drifted across the street life dared throw at her. from the shadows of the apartment building. Mordoff stared, TJ recognized her posture and the defiant attitude in his wide eyes suggesting innocence. He’d heard that song in her face. She observed everything, but there was always an midnight train yards, in cold cars as his mind phased between unspoken commentary. For a few months, sometimes as he dreams and delirium. It serenaded him, made him long for went to Alphabet City to visit AnimeCrunch, he had seen two unreachable places like Heaven and home. In those fevered girls walking alongside each other on their way home from daydreams, the face responsible for the song was always school. The resigned one was light as a peanut. The other girl foggy, the eyes were sad and determined, the mouth too with- was a faded sepia. But they were sisters, and they never talked ered for youthful voice. to each other, not that TJ saw. The resigned one stared down Walking past the liquor store that night, Mordoff saw the sidewalk with tight lips while her sister sang with a mocking the girl in the dark apartment window. The streetlight illumi- joy and amber eyes sparking flecks of grey. nated her face. She stared out, unaware of him, unaware of Now the resigned one walked home alone, her round the city below her, and gazed beyond miles of buildings. Her shoulders shrugging under the weight of her backpack. She’d eyes carried the weight of the songs haunting Mordoff in his stared TJ in the eye the few times he passed her on the street. visions. Sometimes he turned to watch her from behind, to catch the The next day, and the day after that, when the girl hasty strides of her long legs. Daring cars to let her cross, she’d didn’t come home, the mother and sister left to worry about step into the middle of the road and then disappear into the her absence grew comfortable in their quiet sorrow. Their apartment building across from the liquor store.
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TJ contemplated this rendering of her in Chandler’s after panel for the comic book corporate world. He was a local comic book, the penciled hatch-mark shadows of her chin and artist—26 year-old realtor by day—who self-published. TJ heavy ink tracings around her slight body. He wondered how trekked from Brooklyn to Manhattan every month to pick up Ned Chandler had captured her spirit when TJ had seen so Mordoff’s Murders from AnimeCrunch. He liked holding much of her and missed it. Chandler’s product in his hands. A little wider than digest- sized, staple-bound, coated pages feeling glossy on the bottom of his fingertips, Mordoff’s Murders wasn’t a slick little paper- * back like the Japanese manga translated into English, or the “So did you like it?” American superhero pulp. Mordoff borrowed from both and Expectant and reluctant pause from Ned, and TJ did- was gritty and real. n’t know how the accusation was going to leap from his mouth. “I thought you’d never get outta there.” Kat stood out- He’d practiced it before he called, made sure he didn’t come side AnimeCrunch eating fried rice out of a styrofoam take-out across too angry or crazed. But practicing didn’t mean anything box. “You said five minutes.” at performance time. TJ grabbed one of his sister’s egg rolls before she could “You know, I was beginning to worry when I didn’t object and took a bite. He watched bits of shell flake off and fall hear from you,” Ned said to fill in the gap. amidst melting lollipops and gum on the sidewalk. “I always “Naw, man. It wasn’t like have to look at the new videos.” that. I wanted to wait ’til the week- With an emphatic roll of end, when you weren’t busy.” the eyes, Kat stuck her hand on her “Soooo?” hip. “Well, let’s get down to the TJ imagined Chandler on train ’fore the crowd comes.” the other end, wondered how wide Congested already, his eyes would grow once he heard Avenue A produced a mass of TJ’s verdict. “Didn’t finish it.” sweaty bodies under the midday “That bad?” An embar- sun. No need to rush, TJ thought, rassed and uncomfortable laugh. ‘cause the subway was a zoo any- Ned sighed, and TJ let the silence way, no matter what time you want- spread. “Um,” Ned finally said, ed to ride. Another wave of people “where’d the story fail you?” squeezed between him and “Didn’t say that. It was AnimeCrunch’s entrance. A man in fascinating, like always, ’cept it was tweed slacks and a bright white too real for me this time. I know shirt with the cuff points ironed those girls, man.” into perfect v’s emerged from the “What do you mean?” crowd. He nestled the two small “You’ve seen them too. In boxes stacked under his chin and Alphabet City. They don’t live far reached for the door. He missed. from AnimeCrunch, right across “TJ, come on!” Kat stood from the liquor store, like in the at the corner, styrofoam take-out story. The singing one disap- box perched on one palm, the other peared—like in the story.” palm still planted on her hip. The Ned’s tone didn’t shade to glint of her sunglass lenses stung anger—he seemed more hurt than TJ’s eyes. anything else. “Come on, man. You He smiled. “Can’t you see know I don’t know what happened this man?” TJ grabbed the door, to that girl. You think I’d do some- and the man looked up. A smile thing to her and write about it?” spread across his face in slow recognition of TJ’s help, exposing “You said real people never made it to your pages. a top row of milky-clean teeth. Something happened to that family, and you must have been “Hey, Ned,” the manager called within the store. He watching real close to get the details right.” came up to the entrance and took one of the boxes. “Mordoff’s just a character. You jibed with me the TJ looked again at the man walking in the door. other day.” Tweed pants. Leather loafers with square toes. Sandy brown But that was before the girls on the page tugged at TJ’s hair cropped short above his ears. “Chandler?” TJ asked. memories, made him see what he hadn’t seen before. “If he’s “Oh, yeah,” the manager said, and he clapped Ned just a character, I hope you keep him that way.” Chandler’s shoulder. “TJ’s one of your biggest fans.” TJ grinned near the point of drooling despite his shot expectations. He thought Ned Chandler looked less prep * school. Less like a cubicle jockey. Less pasty. Ned Chandler charcoaled the world in a wash of greys. Ned laughed, deep throated and genuine. “You mean It’s what TJ liked most about that cat’s style—nothing too elab- I’ve got a fan?” orate, just simple inking around the important details. And “Come on, man. Are you kiddin’? Your work is tight.” Ned wasn’t one of those cartoonist slaves churning out panel He followed the men into the store and watched them create a
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space in one of the bins for the new issue of Mordoff. Ned absurd, but the eyes are so expressive. They capture something grabbed a stack and held if for a moment, rubbing his thumbs I can’t explain, and the only way I can do it is through my own over the covers. Then he put the stack in the bin and made sure drawings. I’ve begun to see the depths of whatever those emo- each copy lined up one behind the other. tions are in people walking down the street, in real life.” “I’m a little early with these,” Ned said, “but I’m espe- TJ understood because he had noticed the larger- cially excited with this one.” He handed TJ a copy. TJ started than-life emotions in those eyes too. He’d tried to explain it to to reach for his wallet, but Ned waved him off. “Have you Kat, but she refused to get it. Entire universes radiated on the eaten? Maybe we could grab a little lunch. I’d love to hear what eyes of anime characters. The eyes were full of light, and the you think about the series.” light coaxed emotions to the surface. What Kat didn’t under- The bell clanged above the entrance. Kat stood in the stand, and what TJ didn’t want to wrangle with, was that those doorway and eyed Ned and TJ standing over the bin. wide-eyed kids running around in anime exposed those emo- “This is the man,” TJ said pointing at Ned. Kat tions real-life people liked to hide. punched her hip out and rolled her eyes. Somehow, TJ told Ned, those exaggerated emotions captured the way people really were. He always believed the a man’s spirit was more real than his flesh. When the spirit * moved his arms, the body’s arms moved; when the spirit moved “She’s not too mad?” Ned asked. his legs, the body’s legs moved. So the spirit’s eyes looked “Naw,” TJ said. “She’d rather hang around the Sea through the body’s eyes, too. Somehow, TJ thought, anime eyes Port without me. I’ll just hop on the F-train and meet her later. came closer to revealing a spirit’s true feelings—not exaggerat- You know how girls are at malls.” ed, just undiluted. Once those feelings reached the flesh eyes, Ned smiled and licked barbecue sauce off the tips of the body too often tried to hide them, mute them or kill them his fingers. “So, where are you from, TJ? Definitely not here.” completely. TJ wondered if the Dirty South accent he tried to tame Ned blushed. “I’m glad you get it, TJ.” He took sever- made him seem less sophisticated. “Kissimmee, FL. It’s right al long drinks of ice water. outside Orlando.” “Where’d you get your story from, then?” TJ asked. “Now I know why you love comics so much. You lived “I am Mordoff in a way. Not Mordoff the killer, but next door to the Mouse,” Ned said. the guy who sees people in his daydreams or nightmares and “C’mon, man. I ain’t into the Mouse. How many times then sees them in real life on the subway. In Mordoff’s reality, can you redo a fairy tale? They just take the same basic design he sees these people as evil because they spring from omens, for all the heroes and heroines and dip ’em in cinnamon or but I can’t tell you how many characters I’ve created—never put chocolate. Kills me the way they do that, man. Anime on the to paper—who one day come into my office and wanna buy a other hand—” house from me. I just see them as characters manifested in real “So, you’re an otaku?” life.” “Nothin’ like that. I ain’t into buyin’ up all the DVDs. Mordoff always recognized the eyes first. When char- That’s too much, you know. Anime’s so clean. I like the detail. The character designers don’t forget what it was like when they were scrubs drawin’ shoelaces, and they make sure to keep that detail.” Ned nodded. “Actually, TJ, the Japanese love Disney. Where do you think the shojo and shonen styles came from?” TJ didn’t want to look dumb, but his ignorance had already surprised Ned. “‘Young girl’ and ‘Young boy’ gen- res. You know, the big eyes? Came from Disney.” “Ah,” TJ said. “Well, they made it their own. Why do you dig anime?” Ned chuckled and then took a sip of water. “Well, I probably like it less than you do. When I first saw it, I was just a little kid in the early 80’s. I didn’t know I was watch- ing Japanese cartoons back then. I just knew they were different from other car- toons because of the style—the big eyes, the colors. But the eyes, man. The eyes got to me, and they still do. Doesn’t matter what kind of anime it is—magical girl or mecha— whatever. Yeah, a lot of the shows over- exaggerate emotions, make them really
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acters came to life from his omens, Mordoff was struck by the “My sister’s not here.” The eyes, unblinking, grew eyes, almost paralyzed by the eyes—and so was Ned. “What if deeper shades of brown. The pupils, unmoving, fixated on TJ’s the world became a cartoon we created?” TJ said. face. “Exactly,” Ned said, “but you can’t tell the world every- “And your dad—is your dad alright?” thing you see.” “My father’s not here.” “But he’s okay? They’re both okay?” * “You’re comparing my life to a comic book?” * “Imani, who are you talking to?” The female voice TJ couldn’t explain why he was there. Ned wouldn’t write coming from the apartment didn’t shout a warning, more like a about real-life murders, but maybe he observed their after- weary signal of grave caution. TJ knew it was the mother who maths, the way families carried the weight of memories on their stared into the shadows and strained her ears for the ghosts of backs. So he said he saw people in his head and then saw them songs her daughter used to sing late at night. Imani was the in real life. False prophet. Emotional voyeur, latching on to the only family she had left. Why shouldn’t she be worried at the lives he witnessed, following them around until he bit into sound of his voice? them, fed off of them. “I didn’t mean nothin’ in coming over. I want your If Chandler’s representation was accurate, the family to be okay—wherever they are.” He told her how he had resigned girl lived up on the top floor. Covered in fine soot, the talked to Ned, how Ned confessed to watching her family, but as bricks of the apartment building were pocked and chipped, but she disappeared behind the door, Imani never took her eyes off inside, the checkered floors were newly mopped. TJ left tracks TJ. The light faded out of them as she went, and TJ hoped he’d from his soles on the tiles. Blaring TVs and mothers screaming shown her somebody still cared about what had happened to at kids bombarded his ears, but the top floor was quiet. TJ her. But whether Imani appreciated that or not, she had hidden breathed in the faint essence of tea, something fruity that per- it from him. To her, he was no different than Ned Chandler or meated the walls. Stale now, but TJ tasted spice on his tongue, the person who’d taken her father and sister. At least she made imagined a cup that had once been strong and hot. TJ feel that way. When he knocked, a young voice demanded to know who he was. He blushed. He should have known she would not * open for anybody. Not many visitors, he was sure. TJ mulled over all of the possible lies and felt her suspicion on the other The newest Mordoff’s Murders beckoned to TJ from the bin. side of the door. TJ’d sworn to himself he’d have nothing more to do with “You dropped some school work on the street yester- Chandler. But after Imani and her sister, he wondered who day. Seems kind of important. I didn’t know where you lived, Chandler’s latest victims were. Expecting the paper to burn the so I looked you up. Your address wasn’t on it or nothing, but I flesh off his fingers, TJ picked up a copy and flipped to a ran- figured you lived in this area.” He hesitated to break the ten- dom page. The boy staring up at him was a caricature of the sion, “Smells good out here. What kind of tea is that?” stars in kiddie anime, wide-eyed and naïve to the point of “That was my father’s tea.” A chocolate brown eye endangering themselves. His gaping smile and big eyes took up peered at him from beyond the door chain. The girl examined most of the room on the round face. The kid offered Mordoff TJ from the legs up, and after an unnerving silence, she came candy, and Mordoff followed him home. TJ cringed at his own outside of the apartment. As she stood in front of him, TJ could likeness on the page, shuddered to think he’d ever understood see that Chandler’s impressions of her were perfect, and Chandler’s visions phasing between dream and delirium. inspired by admiration. Shoulders slouched, all of her weight TJ didn’t mention it to Kat on the train ride home or shifted towards her left side, bending her left knee. Ready to say anything at dinner while his parents shifted under his pounce if she had to, but otherwise cautious. A shame Chandler unusual silence. He tried not to think too much about anything, had charcoaled her in blacks and greys. Her beauty belonged to let a frown expose him. Before he went to bed that night, TJ on the screen, deserved to be captured in heavy pastels—a curvy spit toothpaste into the sink, and when he raised his head, he and thin figure drawn in wispy strokes. Translated into anime, couldn’t escape his own eyes staring back at him in the mirror. she would be the girl always observing from a distance with On the universe of his pupils, he saw his parents and Kat, the muted eyes free of light, and you’d never be able to tell if she boys who played spades in the corner of the basketball court, were friend or foe. the homeless standing under the sign of the Edlunds’ deli glow- “So what did I lose?” she asked, and when TJ was ing neon bright, little girls tripping on their jump ropes, his own caught without an explanation, she frowned and turned wide-eyed counterpart mocking him in Mordoff. All of these towards the door. images faded when a negative of Imani and her sister walked “Please listen. I’m sorry, but this guy wrote about you home on the film of his corneas, Imani quiet and never giving and your sister in some comic book, and your sister disap- away too much. The friends and foes were becoming inter- peared after she was singing this spiritual in the window one changeable, indistinguishable, she’d told him. He heard it only night—in the comic book, that is, and I’ve seen you on the street now. before, you and your sister, and now she’s gone.” Her frown melted. Her lips stretched. Her hand twisted the doorknob, and her body froze. “I’m sorry, but I was worried. I didn’t know if this guy did something to you, knew about you. Where is your sister? She okay?”
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How I Learned To Stop Complaining And Love the Bunny
~by Kristi Petersen Danbury, CT issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:18 PM Page 19
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unny—that's my wife's name—falls in love with the thing at a tag sale. It’s one of those plastic lawn rabbits—you know, like the knee-high Santas with the holes in b the middles of their backs just wide enough for one of those frosted Christmas bulbs. You plug it in, and Santa’s cheeks glow peach-orange. Except this one’s a bunny, so I guess it’s for Easter, and when you plug it in the ears glow pig-pink. Noxious thought. “Please?” “You don’t like rabbit.” Once we went to a pot luck game dinner, and she refused to taste the rabbit stew. (We con- tributed potato chips and corn on the cob). “We had one just like it when I was a kid. Look.” She touches the plastic that forms the bunny’s blue coat. On the “elbow,” a small blur of white-yellow light bleeds through scratches. “Ours was even worn in the same spot!” Her brown eyes sparkle and plead beneath the brim of her gray flannel cap, the one with the hugging penguins on it. “Come on! It’s only fifty cents.” I have visions of it glowing as an embarrassing beacon of Midwestern tack on our front stoop. (Sigh.) But fifty cents it is, because she works at a zoo and loves animals, even plastic electric ones, and because it’s my week to pay for our night out. Besides, maybe I’ll get lucky, and the wiring’ll fry out. When she gets it home, she sets it on the kitchen counter next to the empty wine glasses from last night, a stack of plastic fish-shaped dishes and a spinach-encrusted pot from last week. “I need to clean him up. He’s pretty full of gunk,” she says, putting the headset for her cordless phone on her ear and pushing buttons on the hand unit. “Could you get the rest of the stuff out of the car, honey?” Like all the china dishes a dime each, the fake Japanese black orchids in a pink vase, the scarf peppered with cartoon-style colonial men, the butterfly candelabra and other stuff that is far more interesting and didn’t leer at me in the rearview mirror the entire ride home. “Suzi! I have to tell you about what I just got!” She squeals into the phone. She pulls dirty dishes from one side of the sink and clanks them in the other side and turns on the water. After she cleans behind its ears with cotton swabs and shines it with glass cleaner so it looks as new as a thirty-year-old electric Easter Bunny can look, we start the ritual of finding the place he would work best with our décor. I had never thought of an Easter Bunny as a year-round thing, especially in rooms with gilded-edge mirrors and velvet couches, eggplant-colored walls and Canadian Goose bookends on mahogany shelves. But when I say, ”I had thought we’d only leave him out a couple of weeks out of the year, at Easter,“ she gets that look on her face, the same one she got last year after the plumber gave her the esti- mate on repairing the upstairs john. And of course she wants my opinion on how it looks next to the leopard-print floor cush- ions or on the marble vanity in the guest bath. I suggest in the trash can, but she won’t hear of that. The thing’s sardonic grin brightens a little when she says, “Oh, don’t you just have such a sense of humor?” The project stops when she gets a phone call from her fashion-designer friend Maureen. She goes and sits on the bed with the phone on her ear and sips her wine like she always
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does, and I am glad to have a break from finding a home for stairs and notice something’s different about the cast of pale Demon Bunny (that’s what I’ve decided to call him). light on our wedding photo. Usually there is just the glow of her I settle in the overstuffed leather chair and flip chan- white veil and gown and both of our faces are dark. Tonight, I nels, and of course it’s right there, next to me. Staring. can see her smile, and there’s an expression of plastered joy, I hear the water in the kitchen sink running again, like a shampoo model in a magazine ad: “If you love the scent hear the bong-bang of heavy pots being pulled from their cabi- of green apple, try this!” nets. Making dinner. She’ll be awhile. Oh, the light’s different on that picture. It’s not just Classic movie channel. me. Damn I wish that thing would take its thin blue plastic I kick off my shoes at the top of the stairs. We don’t ass and walk away with disinterest— wear shoes up here since we got the new oriental rug. “It’s soft —Holiday Inn with Bing Crosby. A rather strange and reminds you of lion’s mane, doesn’t it? She had asked. “I choice for the beginning of August since everybody thinks this wouldn’t know,” I had said. is a Christmas film, which it isn’t really, and also because Our bedroom door. A crack open. That light. A Swiss August doesn’t have any holidays (well, at least not one Crosby cheese wedge on the floor… would find worth singing about—who ever heard of United …I push it open. It cries… Nations Day?) Bunny. On the bed, her toes pointed, pig-pink light Astaire is doing that dance with the firecrackers. At across her nipples… least, in the film, it’s July. —pig-pink light. I glance at Demon Bunny. “You like this?” I settle Demon Bunny. In the corner. A salivating circus back, and put my feet up on the ottoman. My bare heels stick to freak hungry for what lies beneath her silks— I really think that animals already went through a talking phase and they already figured out it doesn't make any dif- ference. It only adds to confusion. So they decided not to talk anymore. They figured they were better off.
it. We should close the windows and put on the air condition- “Won’t he just be the coolest nightlight?” ing. “It’s called Fourth of July. Not one of the holidays with “Not looking at us like that.” which you’re familiar. You’re away by then. This is when we eat She recoils, motions with her hand. “What do you “lots of dead cows we compress into patties and pig guts com- want me to do, turn him to the wall?” pressed into long tubes.” “Yeah, maybe.” Grin and watch me hump my wife. Hissing from the kitchen. Obviously my wife is mak- Well, rabbits are symbolic of fertility, aren’t they? ing something—oh, shit I hope it’s not those veggie burgers. I’d “Honey, that’s the last thing we need.” rather eat a whole box of Steak-Umms than those things. I have to admit, the carpet brings out the color of his Just when I think he should have a name—(Demon eyes. Bunny is too cliché, yet too strong, and it reminds me of movies and T.V. shows with talking dolls, killing dolls, possessed * dolls)—that smile starts to unsettle me. I turn him to face the wall. I wonder if his grin is still there, or if it actually vanishes I sit down to dinner, and Bunny sets the cordless phone down when people don’t look at him…snap crackle bang, bang…fire- next to her; I guess she’s afraid it will ring and she’ll miss a call. crackers…I’ll just close my eyes for a minute and listen to this I hate when she does that. We’ll be eating dinner, and she just dance sequence…I’ve seen it a hundred times anyway and I’ve has to take this call. I would love it if she’d let us get Caller ID never seen the end of this movie but I’ve always gotten at least like everyone else. Then maybe she’d be like my friends’ wives: this far and I’d love to see what’s on the other side of this num- a little more fickle about who she talks to, when. ber… She pushes the peas around on her plate. “You haven’t said anything about the new dishes.” She reaches for her can of * Diet Coke. * I lift my slab of dried-out London broil and peek …the TV is off. The smell of stale grease hangs thick in the air, underneath. Oh, these are new dishes. Maroon stripes with and I wish she would remember to put that heated oil air fresh- yellow cornflowers spattered all over them. Like the artists had ener in that makes the house smell like citrus. intended to draw imaginary spilled popcorn in the middle of it. I hear the gentle padding of her footsteps upstairs, and “They’re nice.” I sigh. I envision her slipping off her bra, preparing for me, trying to “You didn’t even notice. I got them at Joe’s estate sale, make it different than it had been last time. I climb the hall up the street.”
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“Joe?” “Ever wonder what Joe and his kids ate on these plates? I won- She scrapes some potatoes off her plate. “He died last year? der that sometimes about things. What they were in their past You know, in that Ferris Wheel accident at the fair where the lives before they came here.” bolts popped out?” I shrug. “No, not really.” I remember something like that. I try to picture Joe. “Like, were they pasta people? Real pasta or Chef Boy- Oh, yeah. He was the one who was always out watering his ar-Dee? Were they meat and potatoes, or did they eat a lot of bright pink geraniums in his socks and gray flannel shorts. He rice and beans? What kinds of things did they buy at the super- had three kids. Little girls, I think. They were always loud, and market?” She sets her can down on the table and plays with her he was always yelling at them to stop picking the forsythia. necklace, a gold American flag she’d probably picked up at “Oh, yeah. I remember that.” Goodwill for a quarter.
Silence. I know I’m annoying her, because I’m chewing my A crow caws outside. steak noisily. I always had trouble learning to chew with my We had agreed not to have children, but I look at the mouth closed, especially when it’s a piece of London broil, all two empty red vinyl chairs on either side of us and the old pink dried out and tough. I study Demon Bunny. He sits there, in
serving platter full of steak between us, and I think maybe that front of the empty plate I put in front of him, looking like the is why couples start families. Because there isn’t anything left only reason he can’t “dig in” is because I haven’t given him any to talk about except the fat neighbor and how he died. utensils. If I stare at the grin on his face long enough, I can I push myself back from the table. “You know what? I imagine his lips morphing and moving, asking me where his had a thought.” portion is. She just nods. She does not look up from her plate. Bunny has almost finished her meal. I can tell she’s “
“I’m pregnant.” “I thought we agreed not to have children.” “We did, yes.” “What is his name?” “It’s David,” she says. “The guy at work that you told me was gay?” I feel bad for the guy. Has she been telling everybody he’s gay?
I climb up the stairs and go into our bedroom, and hurrying. She probably wants to make a phone call. there he is, Demon Bunny. “Hey, there.” I say to him. I unplug I lean back and stretch. “Ever wonder if this bunny him from the wall and lift him into my arms. I notice there’s the had a past life, huh? Sittin’ on the front stoop, cryin’ ’cuz he crook where his shoulder meets his neck that still has a swath of couldn’t run to catch the ice cream man like the other kids?” dust on it, a spot that Bunny has missed. We’ll have to take care She stops in mid-chew and furrows her brow. “He’s an of that, I think. Easter decoration.” She swallows. “He wouldn’t be out on dis- I walk into the kitchen and pull out the chair next to play in summer.” me. Then she gets up, turns and puts her dish in the sink, Bunny drops her knife. “What are you doing?” knocks back the last of her Diet Coke and picks up her phone. I I heft him into the seat. “Oh, I just remembered, after wonder if there are any peas left on the stove, and toy with the dinner I have to go out and get him a new bulb, see if they make idea of giving some to Demon Bunny. You know—just a few. them anymore. We should have a spare in case he burns out. I just want to remember it’s an errand I have to do.” She seems satisfied with the answer. * “That’s better.” I settle back down and roll some peas She’s on the phone again. This time she’s talking about onto my fork, slide them into my mouth. “Now, I can eat.” Hamster Face, the woman at her office who Bunny claims had Bunny puts her fork down and studies him a moment. to have gotten married in the dark because she’s so ugly. It’s “You know, maybe that’s where we should put him. Right here, probably true, of course. There are lots of ugly people in the in the kitchen. We could get a baby chair or something from world, but I do feel bad for Hamster Face. Like, does she know one of those piles downstairs. Isn’t that a great idea? It would she’s hamster-faced? If she does, and she grew up that way, is be like a whimsical kid-thing.” She picks up her fork and knife it a self-esteem obstacle she’s had to overcome? Or, is she sim- and starts digging down into her meat again. ply ignorant? Does she think she’s pretty? Has she accepted She gets up, still chewing. “Here. We might as well her ugliness? make it complete.” She sets one of the new plates down in front Then I wonder what Bunny talks about all day at work. of him. Then she pulls out another, smaller one from the stack. Does she discuss Hamster Face with anyone else? “Here’s what the smaller size looks like. The set also came with When was the last time I had a conversation with her? a butter dish.” She sets her hands on her hips, surveys her A really great one, about the validity of short films and the lack work. “I like these dishes.” She opens another can of Diet Coke. of creativity in today’s film industry?
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This is how marriages start to decline. Can’t remem- terrible if his light went out. ber the last time I worried about or wanted to impress her. Like the refills on my after-shave. Let the last bottle shake empty, and now it sits there, collecting dust. Bunny dusts it * because it has a ship on the bottle and it matches the bathroom. …spider. There’s a spider on your arm… She still likes to lay me and asks for it more than most …no, it’s Bunny. Shaking me awake. women (at least according to my envious buds). Did I miss the rest of Holiday Inn again? But she doesn’t listen. She talks. “Wake up.” She says, and she makes me sit up, and I I hear the monotone bell of the phone as she hits the don’t even think to click off the T.V. or Demon Bunny, and I just “off” button on the keypad. follow her upstairs and lay down in our bed. She settles next to “Going out now,” she says. I hear her disconnect the me, smoothes the sheets. headset, cradle the cordless phone back on the unit. I can hear the T.V. downstairs, still playing, the Thud, thud, thud sounds albeit very faint. I won- thud up the stairs. “I’ll be back der what the movie channel has in a little while. You don’t on now. “I’m pregnant.” have to wait up.” Demon Bunny leers at me. What to do? Not like This means the illegal piranha she and I had anything will have to go. I can’t take the planned. I’m kind of bummed, risk of little squid-like fingers though. getting in there. What about The piranha’s tank softball? What’s that coaching needs a water change. thing I’ll have to do now? What Hanging out in the basement is that called? “I thought we full of sheets and old board agreed not to have children.” games—Bonanza (dusty) and “We did, yes.” Battlestar Galactica (dustier) “I thought you were on the —doesn’t appeal to me right pill.” now. I was supposed to do it She sits up. last night, what was I doing “Brad, listen. It’s—compli- last night anyway? cated.” Oh, Holiday Inn. On Something tells me there’s the black-and-white movie a third party involved in this, channel. Hey, maybe they’re and it isn’t Demon Bunny or the running it again now and I can piranha. finally see the end of it. “What is his name?” I turn on the TV and The sound of someone take off my sneakers and slamming a front door across socks; the backs of my feet the street carries through the stick to the ottoman again. open screen. Well, son of a bitch! It’s on “It’s David,” she says. again. But we’re back at It’s hot up here. Maybe we Lincoln’s Birthday, and how should get the fan down. “The many holidays is that from guy at work that you told me July? was gay?” (Quite a few.) “Yeah.” Boring, so boring I Duped? Is that why I’m have to sit through this again. mad? All I want to see is the end. I’d Not really, actually. It’s go out and rent it on video and more that I feel bad for the guy. watch it if we still had the VCR. Bunny took the old one away in Has she been telling everybody he’s gay? The shadows from a box, saying it was outdated. (Well, we did buy it in 1985, but the leaves on the trees outside scurry across the ceiling like bird then the technology was new, buttons were buttons, ‘solid state’ feet. was still the most important pair of words you could hot-glue in “Do you know whose it is? The kid?” silver letters on the front of something). So, I have to sit here A car breezes by on the street. It reminds me of this and watch it through to the other side. Again. Alone. movie I saw that took place in Queens or somewhere in the city, Well, I’m not alone, actually. Not if I count Demon but all of the houses had little lawns and porches, and I had Bunny. Bunny does; why couldn’t I? thought that was very strange. I tread up the stairs to the bedroom and unplug Demon Bunny grins in the corner. Demon Bunny, and for the first time I wonder if we even can get a replacement bulb for him or even if the one that’s in his back now is the original bulb. I’ll have to check into it. It would be *
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The next day Manzino comes over. He’s a train enthu- our bedroom, and there is Demon Bunny, sitting in the corner, siast; I met him at a workshop on track design once at the smiling at me as I climb into bed and pull the sheets over my Railway Museum. We’ve been friends ever since. I have an body. electric train set in the basement, so every year for Christmas he I stare at the ceiling. Something is wrong. buys me another addition to the small universe I’m building. Something’s—someone’s—missing. Demon Bunny’s not I’m trying to make a university in the middle of summer. Or turned on. maybe a big aquarium or a recreation of Coney Island. I’m not I toss back the sheets and heft myself over to the cor- interested in the classic towns. Everybody does those. ner, bend down and dig my fingers into the hole in the back to “So, you’re sure?” Manzino asks. flip the switch. He lights up, I go back to bed. I lay there, still, “I’m sure,” I say. The water level in the piranha’s tank and I look at him. “Goodnight,” I whisper. He just grins. is almost down to half. He’s a beautiful Red Belly, and his red bottom sparkles like the shimmer of an elegant cocktail dress under dim lighting on New Year’s Eve, that gauzy stuff. Bunny had a dress made out of that material. Had? I mean, has. It’s Narcissus & Echo just probably at the other guy’s place. by Gregg Mosson Click, whir. Manzino plays with my train set. “Oh, Baltimore, MD come on. What do you really need a wife for anyway?” He asks. I like this guy. He always sounds like he’s trying to sell me a There were too many fictions washing machine. “Did you know the little light on your and not enough people. caboose is out?” The whirring stops. I think I would like to feed the piranha a live frog today. There’s a bowl in the corner with the usual stock of goldfish, but I am in the mood to watch some- We were being bought and sold thing a little more interesting. according to our stories. “I mean, all she does is talk all the time, anyway, right? Oh, by the way, I thought that glowing Easter Bunny in the liv- Though I didn't know ing room was pretty cool, you know? I had one when I was a kid. Had the Santa too.” what I had in me, I glance over my shoulder at him, but am careful to have my fingers and everything clear of the fish tank. He’s toy- in-between tasks ing with my caboose. I notice the back of his deep maroon I couldn't stop telling. cardigan sweater has a threadbare hole in it. Maybe his cat slept on it. “I didn’t like it at first, but now I’m used to it. Except she keeps it up in the corner of the bedroom.” I resolved to end it “That’s kinky. Why is it in the living room?” as an accountant, “I dunno. Watching Holiday Inn, I guess.” “See, companions that don’t talk. Good idea.” The stashing myself whirring starts again. “I think I fixed this light.” Whir, whir. “I in the Bahamas, really think that animals already went through a talking phase and they already figured out it doesn’t make any difference. It only adds to confusion. So they decided not to talk anymore. breakfasting with They figured they were better off. So they run around naked indifferent partners— with their tongues hanging out all day. But if you look at their faces and into their eyes they have a real Old World look about but little 'r's them, like they’re very wise.” “Manzino?” absconded from my monologues, “Yeah?” I want to say, “It’s okay. I’ve actually come to think of stowed in cargo ships the little guy as my friend.” Instead, I say, “He’s plastic.” to Manhattan, “Even better. Plastic doesn’t crap.” leapt, dashed * down 8th Avenue, When Bunny leaves, I do not let her take Demon Bunny with her. I offer her a dollar—twice what I paid for it—to let me keep and with bravado him. She just looks at me funny, and says, “Keep your dollar, you want him that bad. You bought him anyway.” hailed taxis, And she closes the hatchback on the old station wagon and pulls out of the driveway, and the porch light on the house and took themselves across the street goes out. to publishers' offices. I could turn on the TV and probably try again to get the end of Holiday Inn, but then I decide I’m tired. I go up to
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S EXY TASTES Sexual Gadgetry at Sensual Gramercy
~by Jen Karetnick Miami Shores, FL
o this is the latest in my field," Chris informed the 'slightest touch' to put you over the edge." me one night over a bottle of Duckwalk Or, in more clinical speak, "The Slightest Touch® can ele- Chardonnay, unwrapping a battery pack the size vate a human female to a pre-orgasmic plateau," notes the “s ® and shape of a computer adapter that trailed written materials. "The Slightest Touch unit does not pro- long wires ending in two electrodes. Chris is a sex therapist, vide an orgasm. The woman, and/or her intimate partner, is partner of my longtime friend Karen, and I was staying at still required to provide some form of physical stimulation on their Greenwich Village apartment for a weekend of research her genitals to bring about single, multiple or sequential spiked with a good dose of revelry. "It's called The Slightest orgasms." The device had been developed for females dealing Touch®, because once you're hooked up to it, all you need is with sexual arousal problems, and also for those studying
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human sexual response: With The Slightest Touch® attached, from shaking as I take notes. I am jittery and heart-hammered, apparently, "a capable test subject can create single, multiple or as if waiting for a hit of acid to time-release its chemical bombs. deep vaginal orgasms, and demonstrations of female ejacula- 6:37: First sip of wine. As the grassy, key lime aromas tion as required by the clinician." and grapefruit and kiwi essences zing my palate, I feel a mild, Naturally I wanted to know, or feel, more. Just how slight a corresponding tingle. My imagination? Perhaps. touch a woman with a healthy (or maybe even healthier than It occurs to me that I don't know if there are any normal) appetite and an imagination prone to fantasy might 6:49: need? People often describe eating something delicious as an contraindications. I'm pretty sure the label will warn away orgasmic experience. Could a sensual thrill of the culinary kind pregnant women, but what else could this sexual equivalent of - say, the salt sting of caviar followed by the chill rush of premi- a pacemaker do to you? I fish for the booklet in my purse and um vodka—bring a supersensitive female to the Big Moment? am immediately alarmed—Prozac and other anti-depressants Chris couldn't answer yes or no. He'd only just been sent are on the no-no list. Oh wait, it's semantics: Women who take ® the gadget by the company and hadn't assessed it in a clinical Prozac should not purchase The Slightest Touch because it sense; some of his current patients, he felt, would be put off by can't help with sexual side effects of the medication. Another the aesthetics of getting wired for sex. Short of signing up as a section of the booklet is devoted to women who should not use test subject, I instead volunteered to help him out in a singular, the device at all, such as those who suffer from multiple sclero- speculative context. I was meeting Willis, my chef-buddy from sis, have malignant tumors, or pass out during or after sex. So Miami who relocated to New York to open the new Danny I'm still good. Meyer restaurants in the Modern Museum of Art, for dinner at 6:52: I celebrate my status with another sip of wine and Gramercy Tavern. What better place, and in what better com- am rewarded with an immediate, neural spark - but this could pany, to road-test The Slightest all be placebo effect, couldn't it? Touch® and possibly flesh out my 6:55: In some places, the booklet theory at the same time? After all, if seems oddly obfuscating or even the eats and drinks failed to bring me euphemistic. "Do not use in places to Nirvana, I still had Willis on hand where the relative humidity exceeds for a bit of electronically inspired 85%," it says, but the consequences of flirtation. doing so aren't clear. Does that mean Warmed up by an afternoon of an orgasm can become akin to elec- unmitigated shopping in one of my trocution? Guess that discounts tak- favorite discount designer stores, I ing The Slightest Touch® to the beach hit Gramercy about thirty minutes in Florida. And another strangely before our reservation. I slipped into worded caution: "The Slightest the ladies room, and the rest is docu- Touch® is not intended for use on mented history: people incapable of expressing their 6:30 p.m.: It's go time. I thoughts." Are we referring to the read the "quick start" instructions. mentally disabled, or folks who are I've already skipped the first step, simply non-verbal in bed? Does this which says to down a sports drink mean only moaners need apply? filled with electrolytes (such as 6:58: A bowl of candied, spiced Gatorade) twenty minutes before; a disclaimer reads that nuts is my first solid food experiment. Chili peppers and cinna- women who do not have trouble becoming aroused won't need mon, both of which I taste in the mix, are reputed aphrodisiacs. the extra assistance the electrolytes provide. Then I wash and Is the Big Moment at hand? Interestingly, the back of my neck dry the insides of my ankles, where the electrodes will attach to prickles when I pop a cashew into my mouth. I have less stimulate the pressure points that lie above the sural nerves, response with the walnuts. But my skin us starting to feel sensi- which will in turn send signals to my genitals that it's time to get tive all over. jiggy. After placing the electrodes, I plug in the wires and turn Willis and his girlfriend Ania arrive and I clue on the machine, slowly increasing the intensity of the current 7:01: until I feel a mild tingling in the skin where the silver dollar-size them in to my experiment. They note I look a bit flushed and ® circles are glued. By this time I have collected several alarmed bright-eyed. Ania compares The Slightest Touch to ecstasy glances from other visitors to the rest room. In today's world, a and I try to picture club kids illicitly wearing the units all over woman wiring herself in a public bathroom is somewhat cause South Beach. Nope, don't wanna go there. for alarm. Fortunately, nobody squeals on me, so I put the 7:10: We order a bottle of Txomin Etxaniz Txakoli, a device in my jacket pocket and make my way to the bar, taking Basque varietal none of us can pronounce. At this point, I am care not to trip on the insidious snakes that run up from the starting to believe that The Slightest Touch® is valid. I am defi- pegged hems of the pants that I had purchased earlier that nitely, for lack of a better word, horny. We declare Txomin afternoon. Etxaniz a "good nut wine" and I feel the urge to wiggle like an 6:35: I take the only available seat at the bar, next to a unsprayed dog. So not dignified. But I remain in doubt as to trailing plant that hangs on my arm like a bad date and under a whether or not food will lead me down the path to le petit mort. small flowering tree that drips dried petals into my hair. I order 7:30: Willis's dad Char joins us for dinner. Parental unit a glass of Drylands Sauvignon Blanc and try to stop my hands versus The Slightest Touch® unit. The former wins out and
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desire recedes. I turn up the volume and we sit down at a table still haven't attained my goal. The duck confit special of the in the tavern area. evening was delectable, and the fresh bacon was comparable to 7:45: The shape of copper salt and pepper mills seems the more familiar, fried bacon as a vibrator is to a dildo—it's suggestive to me. I can't resist running my hands over the just got that much more going on. My fish stew, scented with smooth, gleaming metal of pepper in particular. saffron and a red pepper rouille, was a masterpiece of subtle, juicy textures and standout flavors. I am now between the Another bottle of wine—this time a La Jalousie 7:55: proverbial, which in my state of mind suddenly seems figura- Savennières. At this point, the arousal has become both a con- tive, rock and hard place. One appetite has been eased, but the stant and a given. I've gotten used to the sensation. We order other is still looking for a cookie. appetizers and I resist the iced oysters on the half shell - too I discover that one of my electrodes has slipped cliché. Rabbit rillettes with olive tapenade, fennel, capers and 9:49: onion focaccia sounds like it might do the trick. My taste buds, off. The booklet warns against reconnecting while the unit is on, along with the rest of me, are primed. so I try to circumspectly reattach myself. I wonder if it is dan- gerous to pee while wearing this thing. 8:19: The appetizers arrive. The rabbit rillettes are We have decided on a cheese course for dessert heady and rich. Both the smoked paprika-rubbed quail and the 10:12: grilled baby octopus with shaved fennel, lemon and sweet pep- solely because of the name of one semi-soft cheese: Constant per caponata are decidedly succulent. But it is the most sensu- Bliss. It sums up my evening, in a way, and it's also a darn good ous of the starters, a silken chicken liver spread on crostini, that cheese. But it doesn't take me there, and flirting with Willis, my makes my cheekbones break out in a sweat. safe bet, in front of father and girlfriend is hardly an option. Maybe I should have gone with the predictable oysters after all. 8:45: The conversation has turned to the history of the We pay the check. I have to admit that my theo- Lower East Side. Willis and Char then begin discussing Henry 10:25: James. The global shape of the crystal wine glasses is mesmer- ry is bust. Char notices my wires for the first time and I tell him izing me. Nobody in the restaurant, including Char, notices the it's migraine therapy. He seems a bit taken aback but buys it, as wires. far as I know. 9:04: Inexplicably, we are discussing Victorian cod- 10:30: Back in the ladies' room, I disconnect myself pieces when the main courses arrive. I feel a bit like I'm on before wobbling back to Karen's place. The next morning, I am speed. Or perhaps I am just drunk at this point. My notes are set to fly out of JFK and head for home and, thankfully, my hus- becoming difficult to read - looking back, I can't decipher the band. For a minute or two, I contemplate "forgetting" to take ® name of the next bottle of wine, a Grenache, that we had The Slightest Touch out of my purse. My theory might not ordered. Something something Domaine de something de have panned out, but in the end, who needs food? I have a feel- ® Chaulé is as close as I can get. ing Jon and I can take The Slightest Touch at its literal inter- 9:25: Another problem: I am no longer hungry, and I pretation.
SEVEN SPOON by Olusola Akintunde
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T HIS AMERICAN LIFE
a new year’s resolution: banishing bully culture
~by Peter Rutenberg Los Angeles, CA
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ll I want for Christmas is your two front teeth. stopped bothering me after that, but his path to dereliction was I'm not really asking. I'm taking, and there's not already firmly laid out. He drifted in and out of my brother's “a a whole lot you can do about it, is there? You life with tales of his latest crimes and punishments, until he met sniveling, whiny-ass, dork of a runt. And tell a woman in rehab. She helped for a while, but the siren call of your dentist 'happy frickin' holidays' from me." the bottle offered greater comfort. I expect he is rotting some- That's Omega Male—the last person you'd ever want to where dark and dank-that is, if someone hasn't finally put him meet on the street, or the hallway in school for that matter. out of our crusted misery. He's a first class bully, and, as it turns out, he's dependent on My son had it much better at home. With education and your complicity as a victim for his reward. Who knew? He was- therapy, I saw to it that my father's mistakes were not repeated. n't born that way. He probably learned it as a toddler. You Even so, my wife and I were concerned to learn from the day- might have too. Some Terrible Twos are way worse than you care center that another boy was repeatedly attacking our son thought, but we'll change those diapers later. with blocks and toy hammers and that he was just sitting there, As someone who was bullied in grade school, and as a par- taking it. He wouldn't walk away. The other kid was eventual- ent of someone who was also bullied, I know something about ly removed and we forgot about it. Until our son reached fifth this subject. Odds are, you were either a bully, a victim, or a grade, that is. Repeating history, he too experienced a sudden guilty bystander at some point in your childhood. The bullying growth spurt and quickly took on an adult shape and size. syndrome is so pervasive in our culture that it's hard to avoid. There was a small cadre of boys who took great joy in calling It also takes all three types to tango—aggressors, marks, and that size to his attention at a rather relentless pace. They tor- eggers-on. If only we could learn to sit this one out. mented him daily, stealing his backpack, lunch, jacket, and self- There is some basic information about bullying to be aware esteem. He sank into the car each afternoon and withered in a of. First, it's the gift that keeps on giving. Research shows that pool of tears. His good heart never understood why he should victims of bullying never fully recover from the experience. be made to suffer. The school did nothing, which is statistical- Even mild or occasional bullying leads to lowered self-esteem ly par for the course. and a passel of compensating behaviors that, at the very least, A few years later at Hebrew School, my son experienced a can lower the trajectory of lifetime success, however that be reprise of harsh teasing from a diminutive kid I can only defined. Severe or frequent bullying, on the other hand, is trau- describe as an ankle biter. He started wanting to skip his les- matic and debilitating, leaving the victim in a state of engulfing sons. I asked what power this kid had over him, given that my paranoia and fear, and leading rather inescapably to loneliness, son was twice his size. He couldn't explain it. Pathos trumped depression, a host of other woes, and sometimes suicide. the humorous sight of them next to each other. After some Second, it's a gift that gives back to the giver. "Ricochets" introspection on his part and prompting on mine, he decided to might be a better term: bullies suffer more from their own anti- stand up for himself. Taking the kid aside before class one day, social behaviors in the long run than some of their victims, he politely and calmly suggested that if the kid wished to go on experiencing disruptive problems both with personal relation- living he would shut up. It worked, and my son regained a bit ships and at work in later life. As children, they miss out on of his self-respect. As a high-school senior, he chanced to meet developing certain key skills. As the window for that acquisi- the leader of the fifth-grade pack again on a football field. On tion closes, they become "differently oriented," which is just a opposing teams, mask to mask on the line, my son looked into nice way of saying "antisocial." In a way, they just keep trying his nemesis's eyes and through his mouthpiece spat, "You are to pull the square pegs of their unmet desires out of the round so dead." One fierce tackle was that worm's long-awaited come- holes of their victims' complicity, with escalating punishments uppance. He sat out the rest of the game in terror. for anyone they perceive to be standing in their way. In my much larger high school, the bottom-rungers My father was a bully who dispensed regular emotional weren't so lucky. By our tenth reunion, there were moments of and frequent physical abuse, so I was predisposed to the victim- silence to honor those who had checked out for good-those for ization syndrome I encountered at school. That would have whom the memories of incessant torture and aching rejection been enough to insure some rough days, had I not also had an had continued to be unbearable long after the assaults had early growth spurt. There's me, a head taller than everyone else waned. A lone survivor stood up during testimonials at our in all the fifth and sixth grade pictures. 20th. Teeth clenched and eyes tearing, he told the former bul- The school bully in question lived in a cramped apartment lies and bystanders alike about his life of undiminished agony. with his alcoholic parents a few blocks away. He befriended my Thick-throated shame choked the room. twin brother in first grade and was always around, always mak- Bullying exists in one form or another in almost all cul- ing trouble. The taunting, name-calling and jousting escalated, tures. It's so much a part of our own culture we may not even until one hormone-enraged day I finally reached my limit. register it as the scourge it really is. Bullying by individuals or Throwing him to the ground in a school-boy press in front of ad hoc groups (street corner toughs, for example) can be idio- our house, I punched and slapped him without mercy. He kept syncratic, deriving its impetus from the slightest and usually yelling to my brother to "get him off me" but my brother was too unintended stimulus by the victim, as in the 'loser' example paralyzed with laughter to help. above. Boys are the louder and less discreet proponents, so are The story was related to me years later. I was stunned to frequently thought of as the major perpetrators. Girls are just learn I had beaten the crap out that creep, and more so, because quieter and more insidious about it, but manage to do plenty of I had no recollection of it. I had gone temporarily insane. He damage to their (usually) female victims.
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T HIS AMERICAN LIFE
Institutional bullying comes in several shapes and sizes as well. ble for raising socially inept children. They make their child's Consider the English boarding school model with upper class- decisions for him (or her) and suppress any potential conflict, men dominating the younger boys at every turn, a practice flouting the development of necessary coping skills in the echoed in American university fraternity pledging and hazing. process. Children are instead taught to ignore their own Or the Japanese corporate model that exudes an extremely sub- instincts, wishes and opinions; in the face of imminent danger, tle pressure to conform—a societal norm in that culture—often they lack the urge to seek safety. with suicidal results. The upsurge of street gangs owes its Bullies appear to get an equally poor dose of parenting. growth to a particularly egregious form of bullying, in my opin- Aggressive behavior in children reaches its apex at age two, ion: they recruit victims and train them to be the next class of when they are developmentally ready to acquire verbal coping bullies. The recent film Mean Girls depicts the "relational" skills. If they are given the words to express themselves in a form of bullying that the unfairer sex is disposed to engage in: I non-threatening, consistent, and esteem-building way, the personally witnessed a malignant rivalry between two girl- Terrible Twos grow into Fabulous Fours—self-assured, verbally cliques that started in junior high school, flared considerably in competent, and able to negotiate for what they want on their high school, and was still audible in conversation at the most own behalf. If they are inadequately or inappropriately verbal- recent reunion. Bullying is a self-perpetuating and tenacious ized, if the disciplining is inconsistently or negligently applied, system. or if verbal or physical violence is taught instead-in point of fact It's also a team sport, with an aggressor, a victim, and even the failures are attributable to a combination thereof-the child an audience to show off to. Hence my earlier reference to what will become conditioned to take what he (or she) wants through research calls a "dependence on complicity." Hara Estroff aggression. Once on this track, it is virtually impossible to turn Marano, an editor at Psychology Today, applied the term back. The bully's repertoire of effective and socially-acceptable “dance [sic] macabre” to capture the role of complicity in the communication skills will be stunted for life. dirty process. Bullies can't get results if no one will “play” or The psychology of bullying is complex but the interested “do the dance” with them, so it's no coincidence that they reader should look to the pioneering study done in 1970 for actively search out likely marks-those who will not only let the Norwegian schools by Swedish psychologist Dan Olweus, as bullying begin, but allow it to continue unabated, or start up well as to an extended article in Psychology Today by Hara again at another time. In fact, it's partly the victims' and Estroff Marano entitled "Big Bad Bully." The latter concludes bystanders' reinforcement of the bully's behavior that perpetu- with a practical guide to coping for parents and children. ates the system. Looking back, I see now that I didn't do a particularly great What makes one such a mark? And what makes a bully? job of breaking the bully-victim cycle even for my own family, The seeds are sown at an early age: the thinking goes that such as hard as that might be to accomplish and as hard as I may victim children have not been taught to solve their own prob- have thought I tried. The good news is, I'm still trying. I didn't lems using acquired verbal and mental skills. They has not really want your two front teeth. At the dawn of 2005 let us all been given choices or the responsibility that comes along with do our parts to break the vicious American Bullying Culture. them. Consequently, when they are older and out in public Kids everywhere are counting on us. where such thinking and choosing are required, they are ill- equipped. Research says overprotective parents are responsi-
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The Sinister Soul of a New Machine ~by Lucas Graves New York, NY
s voters around the country make the switch to touch screens and computerized tallies, the state of the art in New York elections is sitting in a cin- derblock warehouse at the edge of midtown a Manhattan, overlooking the West Side Highway: 1,600 hulking grey lever machines, direct descen- dants of the 1892 original, laid out in endless Kafka-esque rows across three vast concrete floors. John P. O'Grady, the city's chief voting technician, unlocks a tall chain-link gate and walks into the mechanical maze. Backs off, innards exposed, the machines-Shoup 3.2's to be exact, last made in 1962-look like alien technology, artifacts from some alternate future of pneu- matic tubes and mechanized abacuses. issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:19 PM Page 33
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More than 7,000 Shoup 3.2’s sit in five warehouses around a half. the city, one in each borough. Most of the rest of the state votes The final twist in New York’s election reform saga is that on their equally antiquated cousins, the AVM Model 61. As the 40-year-old machines based on a century-old design work other states go digital, New York buys up their old lever pretty well. Fewer than five percent break down each election, machines for as little as $75 apiece to replenish its fleet of and then almost always because they were banged around in 20,000 aging behemoths. In the 2004 election, when 29 per- transit to a polling site. When something does go wrong, a tech- cent of the country will vote on computers and another 32 per- nician making $23,000 a year can usually fix it. cent will have their ballots scanned and counted by computers, Back in the West Side warehouse, O’Grady shows off New 95 percent of New York voters will still be pulling the crank on York City voting machine Number 72, bought in the early six- lever machines. ties. It’s in good shape, not even dented, as ready for the next “I get calls every other day from states that want to sell me election as the day it rolled onto the loading dock. “They’re their old machines,” O’Grady says. He supervises the 65 tech- mechanical,” he says simply. “They’re very reliable. My great- nicians who tend to the aging units: fixing them, testing them granddaughter could vote on this same machine.” and manually configuring the more than 300 “layouts”—differ- Still, it’s hard not to believe computers will be more reli- ent permutations of races and candidates and languages—the able than old Number 72 once the kinks are worked out. city’s 1,300 polling sites need for every election. O’Grady himself thinks so. But New York loses something else A century ago, machines not so different from these put when it kills off its mechanical dinosaurs: control. Though New York at the vanguard of the last great revolution in demo- O’Grady swears his “guys” will be just as busy taking care of the cratic technology. In 1892, the town of Lockport, N.Y., held the next generation of voting equipment, every tech in the building first election ever on a mechanical voting machine. In 1895 its knows that he or she won’t be the one poking around in the dig- inventor, Jacob H. Myers, founded the Automatic Voting ital guts of the new machines. The real work—the endless tin- Machines Company of Jamestown, N.Y., to mass-produce the kering in hundreds of thousands of lines of software code—will cutting-edge electoral devices that would, in his words, “protect take place in the sealed computer labs of companies like mechanically the voter from rascaldom, and make the process Diebold Election Systems and Sequoia Voting Systems, shield- of casting the ballot perfectly plain, simple, and secret.” His ed by trade secrecy, unintelligible to anyone outside the pro- lever voting machines swept the state, then the country; by the gramming priesthood. 1930s almost every major American city used AVMs or their “It’s privatizing the counting of the vote,” says State imitators. Senator Liz Krueger, a Democrat who represents most of But no longer. Federal reforms passed after the Florida Midtown and the Upper West Side. “When you take the leap debacle in 2000 make nearly $4 billion available to help replace into computer software, the board of elections is not really outdated lever machines and their reviled counterparts, the counting votes anymore. Sure, it’s signing a piece of paper cer- punch cards first adapted for voting in the 1960s. To qualify for tifying the vote, but the government is literally ceding responsi- Washington’s largesse, states are supposed to have electronic bility, and taking the word of private companies with propri- voting systems in place by the end of this year. New York, has etary software to count the votes of Americans in their elec- already gotten an extension until 2006, is one of only seven tions.” states that won’t have any new machines deployed in time for the 2004 presidential race. But no one doubts that in a few * short years the 800-pound metal beasts New York has voted on for decades will be history. On a rainy afternoon last July, in a packed hearing room in They may be missed, and not just by cranky Luddites. As downtown Manhattan, New York’s official election reform task electoral reform has stalled in New York, with half the state’s force got a lesson in modern-day vote tampering. Veteran pro- official task force disavowing its own upgrade plan after com- grammer Teresa Hommel, testifying on the need for an elec- plaints that Governor Pataki had hijacked the public process, toral paper trail, brought along a laptop running election soft- strange reports have been filtering in from states that moved ware rigged to favor one candidate—though it appeared to more speedily into the digital future. count votes accurately in a machine test. Members of the task The record so far is unsettling. In infamous Broward force passed it around, cracking jokes about voting twice while County, Florida, electronic voting machines showed 134 they registered their mock choices. The loser won, as planned. “undervotes”—ballots with no candidate selected—in a January “Democracy can’t survive if we let a bunch of people count election won by just 12 votes. In Fairfax County, Virginia, last our votes in secret behind closed doors,” Hommel told the task November, voters in three precincts complained that the “x” force. “A computer is the same as a bunch of people behind next to their candidate disappeared after a few seconds; tests of closed doors.” Hommel has no trouble believing that political one machine confirmed that about one of every hundred votes leaders would conspire with voting systems vendors to steal an for the candidate was erroneously counted against her, costing election. But the real danger, she claims, is far simpler: com- 2 percent of her ballots in a race she lost by 2.1 percent. In puters make mistakes, all the time. Muscogee County, Georgia, officials took a machine out of serv- “In our society there really is a divide between people who ice after widespread complaints that it registered “No” votes as know computers and know how hard it is to make them work, “Yes” in a sales tax measure, and in Boone County, Indiana, a and the people who just see the ones that do and think, ‘Oh, this vote-tabulating computer that wasn’t booted up properly tal- is easy,’” Hommel explained in a phone interview. “When you lied 140,000 votes in a county with only 19,000 eligible voters. go to an ATM [automatic teller machine], you don’t realize the At least ten states experimenting with digital democracy have tens of millions of dollars that went into it—the years of testing, reported snafus in real, live elections over just the past year and the hundreds of break-ins, the millions that were stolen before
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they got them to work.” signed by thousands of computer professionals. Besides, making a reliable voting machine is infinitely Even more surprising than this burst of activism from the trickier than making a reliable ATM, because the Constitution notoriously apolitical technology set is the fact that they all demands a secret ballot. The need for anonymity means pro- agree on one thing: If we must vote on computers, the only safe grammers can’t take any of the usual steps to make sure com- way is to record the vote on paper, show it to the voter, and then puters do their jobs right. “In an election, I can’t record any- check that tally against the machine’s. That’s verified voting: thing about your vote other than who you voted for,” explains We can only trust the computer completely if we don’t trust the Bo Lipari, an Ithaca software engineer and coordinator of New computer at all. Yorkers for Verifiable Voting. “You can’t have a transaction Naturally, the people who make voting machines don’t number, you can’t have a security camera, and you can’t give agree. “Lever machines are being held together by cannibaliz- somebody a receipt to take home, because then they could sell ing old parts. Touch-screen voting is much more secure and their vote.” much more accurate,” says Diebold spokesman David Bear. He Lipari’s and Hommel’s are just two voices in a mounting attributes criticism of electronic voting to fear of the unknown. chorus of computer experts who have all but given up their day “I think the reason people are questioning it is a lack of famil- jobs to campaign against the headlong rush into electronic vot- iarity,” Bear says. “The folks that are most supportive of touch ing. Another is Avi Rubin, the Johns Hopkins professor of com- screens are election officials, and people who’ve voted on them. puter science whose 2003 report damning the security of a Bear offers some evidence of the superiority of computer- Diebold system that Maryland was buying galvanized critics ized voting: a summary of California election data purporting to around the country. And Harvard research fellow Rebecca show that Diebold’s touch screen machines had fewer uncount- Mercuri, the computer security expert who coined the term able votes than optically scanned ballots, and a Connecticut “voter-verified paper trail.” And Stanford’s David Dill, who survey indicating that people like voting via touch screens. But grabbed headlines last year with a verified-voting petition since Bear’s most reliable response to doubters is that government is
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on the case. Over and over he cites the careful standards drawn trail unless either federal rules or state lawmakers require it. up by federal and state election officials, the rigorous certifica- “It’s a knotty, tough issue—there’s a body of people who think it tion process for new machines, the independent software is necessary, and a body of people who think it’s not,” says audits to which Diebold and other vendors must submit their Daghlian, the state elections spokesman. “If the requirement is code. not mandated, we probably will not mandate it as a board. “Something that isn’t taken into consideration by critics is Most of the professional people I speak to in this business, the that you can’t just look at the machine, you have to look at the people who run elections, they don’t want it. They think it’s not totality of the process and the checks and balances in that necessary.” process as administered by election officials,” Bear argues. The most extreme critics charge that Diebold et al. shun “The vendors are going to meet whatever requirements are vote verification because they’re dedicated to “delivering” elec- asked of them.” tions to the Republicans, in the unfortunate phrasing of State officials likewise defer to federal standards as the Diebold chief executive Wally O’Dell at a GOP fundraising final guarantee of secure voting. “In our mind these are not event in Ohio. A simpler explanation is that embattled voting state issues, they’re federal issues,” says Lee Daghlian, companies and overworked election officials are afraid of what spokesman for New York’s Board of Elections. He argues that the paper trail would show. once Washington sets standards for electronic voting, machine “I personally believe that the vendors and the election makers and state governments alike can begin to implement community know about the reliability problems of these them. machines. They know they lose votes and they fail,” Mercuri The recent history of election reform makes it hard to be says. “If we started comparing paper ballots to machines, sanguine about our federal chaperones, though. Almost as everyone would realize how failure-prone these machines are, soon as President Bush signed the Help America Vote Act and people would run away from them in droves.” (HAVA) in 2002 and the issue disappeared from TV screens, the new law ran aground on party conflict. The bipartisan com- mission intended to help states implement reforms didn’t form * for almost a year, meaning states didn’t have anywhere to sub- As Bush v. Gore established, states have ultimate authority mit the reform plans the law required. The delay also means over their electoral procedures—the federal government can the feds have barely started to work on crucial technical stan- only issue guidelines for fairness and equal access. So while the dards for new voting technology, even though many states have FEC’s eventual requirements could theoretically derail a state already started buying electronic machines to meet federal upgrade plan, states mostly have to decide for themselves what deadlines. makes a good electronic voting machine. In New York the chal- As a result, many of the thousands of voting machines sold lenge will prove especially difficult because of the state’s unusu- in the last two years meet 14-year-old standards that the al, antiquated “full-face” ballot requirement. Very few electron- Federal Election Commission itself abandoned six years ago. ic voting systems, and none of the latest touch-screen models, “It’s like buying a 2002 car with 1990 emissions standards,” can display every race at once. Such a policy—preserved main- says Mercuri. She adds that under current guidelines, old ly because it encourages party-line voting, according to good- designs never have to be re-certified to new standards, and that government types—could have protected New York from the anyway, most machines are never actually certified at all. dangers of digital voting. But the state has already committed “Imagine that Detroit could send a few cars to state inspectors, to scrapping its lever machines, though its HAVA task force and a few to federal inspectors, then they get to slap inspection failed to set any standards for replacing them. “It leaves the stickers on all of the cars,” Mercuri says. “That’s what we do boards of election out in the wilderness,” says Neil Rosenstein, with voting machines.” counsel for the New York Public Interest Research Group. “We’re beginning to see unequal implementation of HAVA in * different counties. * NYPIRG is part of a coalition of public-interest groups that Voting machine vendors could silence most critics by sim- has called for the state to devise public standards and then pick ply adding a printer to their sexy new touch-screen machines. a single voting machine to be used statewide. But time has run Or even just by re-jiggering them, since most voting machines out for task forces and public hearings. Now all eyes are on the already have printers installed, for reeling out system tests and legislature, where a pair of state assembly and senate voting electoral reports. reform measures must be reconciled, and especially on the gov- So why don’t they? ernor, who will control the critical details of New York’s elec- Diebold’s David Bear chooses his words very carefully. toral upgrade. Meanwhile, lobbyists for Diebold and Sequoia Printing a receipt would cost more, it would disadvantage blind have been plying their trade in Albany and even individual voters, and there are no standards for how it should work, he counties since HAVA became law. Critics fear the combination says. Still, he insists Diebold doesn’t oppose the idea. “But if of limited options, inadequate information and a tight time we do have them, it would be something new to the voting frame doesn’t bode well for election reform in the public inter- process,” Bear adds. “I’m not saying whether it’s good or bad, est. but if you were to mandate it, that would be something new.” Senator Krueger says what’s really at stake is voter confi- That isn’t really true—several states already require paper dence in our electoral process. “I fear that with just a few big trails for mandatory recounts, and many more are considering mistakes, people will stop voting, period—because they’ll do the them after recent electoral controversies. But Bear’s view has analysis that their vote doesn’t count, so why bother?” she says. plenty of support. New York probably won’t require a paper “And that’s the end of democracy.”
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TheNightof the1,000 A Protester’s Look at Day Two of the Republican National Convention 2004
~by Matthew Bonavita Brooklyn, NY
he morning broke clear and beautiful and as I bound- George W. Bush. With their funeral cards and picture in my ed out of bed I felt a spring in my step. It was breast pocket I made for Union Square Park in Manhattan, Tuesday, August 31, the second day of the Republican surely the epicenter of any protests. National Convention in New York, the first day I When I think about my country, my history, and my gov- t could get myself into the City to show my utter dis- ernment, I am overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions. dain for the current administration and their use of From pride to heartache, from love to fear, I suppose something my friends death in the World Trade Center as their re-election as complex and diverse as America should even engender deep- campaign. rooted anguish. Is it possible to love and distrust at the same As I dressed and got my bag together it crossed my mind time? Does despising and doubting my President make me a that there was a distinct possibility that I would not be coming bad American? home that night. My concerns are put to rest as I ascend the stairs of the Wallet…check. Money…check. Cell phone…check. Anti- subway into the beautiful 80-degree sun-drenched Square: I Bush shirt…check. But there was something missing: if I was am far from alone in my disillusionment, enveloped by a neigh- going to get arrested and stand up for what I held so dear, I borhood of comrades. Every kind of anti-Bush item made an needed to draw strength from my past. appearance, from “Bush-occhio” blow up dolls to tee shirts and Daniela Notaro, Robert Campbell, Ray Downey. I needed buttons to "Fuck Bush" rap songs, it was a potpourri of disgust them with me. Had it been them instead of me, they would be for the 43rd President and a pilgrimage for many. against this; they would protect my memory and the memory of Peter, from Michigan, had been unable to find a job out of 3,000 others. Shouldn't I do the same? After all, of all the high school, since General Motors moved many jobs to Mexico. courage shown in the last three years, had any come from me? He joined the Army to pay for college, but six years later, while I had to do this, if only to be able to look at their families again on reserve, his unit was called to Iraq, and though he served out without feeling ashamed. It is far from my understanding to his term, Pete had been recalled in August. He wasn't going know why they are gone, but I know it was not to help re-elect back.
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Jamal from Atlanta, was a political science major at "Whose streets? Our streets" led to "down with Bush" as Howard University, who decided to drive to New York so he the police diverted the crowd along East 15th street. A feeling of could have a say in course of his country’s next four years. dread suddenly came over me: we were excercizing our free- Mary from Seattle was a teacher (like me) who couldn’t dom of assembly, but we had no marching permit and were cor- afford to work only one job. Still, she took time off from wait- nered. The time had come; we were cut off on Lexington and ressing to fly east and protest. “Why don't they just hold the Park by New York's Finest in riot gear. convention in the pit at Ground Zero, the bastards." As I awaited my fate, my thoughts wandered. How would I had come just six miles on a subway—who was I to feel my business survive a busy weekend without me? How would righteous? These activists had bigger hearts and small bank my family react to my arrest? What would the Department of accounts than I. Education say when I called to give them the news? In short, I began to chicken out. After all of my tough talk, my good inten- * tions, my study of Thoreau, Ghandi and King, the moment of The day was filled with speeches and spontaneous chants, truth had come. and a bike protest embarked to a soundtrack of wild cheers. I wilted. The whole time, the protesters behaved and the police looked The police in their riot gear pushed closer and my mind on, bemused look. As the day drew into night we began to hear scrounged for a way out. I saw the looks on these officers, who sporadic reports of protesters being arrested. The mood in the didn't want to do this job; when most of my colleagues sat down park changed. Almost as if it was scripted, down Park Avenue in protest, I froze. came a rag-tag little band playing songs like "Bush has got to Suddenly, a hand touched my shoulder, and I heard go," and "we want our country back." As the crowd whipped "Matt." Turns out one of the officers in full riot gear was a into a frenzy on Park Avenue, I called a friend from my cell client. "What are you doing?" he asked. phone and told him that he would probably have to bail me out. I replied, "Bush sucks?" Then he pushed me out of the way
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onto Park Avenue: "Go, just get out of here." My feet carried me back into the park. A crowd was gathering, and I stood transfixed for the next three hours. Thoughts washed over me: Abraham Lincoln once called the United States "the last, best hope of Earth." We have carved out something in this world. After millions of years of war, hunger, corruption and the oppression of the weak, in America humans had a proud creation. Here we judge you by who you are, not by who your father was. Here is the place to build a home. Yet, looking across Park Avenue was looking back though history. Protesters versus police, government versus citizenry, faced off. These same police who run into collapsing towers and urban warzones were getting shafted with what many of them felt was a traitorous task assigned by a Republican mayor. The poor people battled it out on the streets while the Republicans sat at their convention halls talking about the day that changed us all. Kids and adults all over the city were arrested in droves, one thousand in all. They were doing what they felt was their obligation: sacrifice to protect their fellow Americans. Likewise the police—strong, honest, brave men and women—did their job reluctantly but dutifully. The two groups had more in common than they realized, but in the instant I the clash of our physical pro- tectors and our ideological ones. On the great battlefield of America the bravest citizens stood up for our way of life as best they knew how, only seemingly in opposition. They waited each other out on East 15 street. It was clear to me that night that our country was filled with courageous people, both Democrats and Republicans. They are willing to give of themselves—indeed, to give themselves— to ensure our safety and freedom. It was clear to me that that night that the only cowards were the ones writing instead of doing, and those sitting comfortably inside Madison Square Garden, forev- er talking about doing. issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:19 PM Page 39 issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:19 PM Page 40 issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:19 PM Page 41
Memoir The Bloody Road to HEAVEN Reflections on a New York Night
~by James Tobin Brookline, MA
ight was falling five days before St. Valentine’s Day and lage. In its glory days, had it made sleepy pastures rumble and great blood red hearts filled the shop windows. No, ruin? The fierce battleship had slept while her harbor blazed; they were more like wombs. Pulsing swollen wombs now I broke the silence and tried to engage Salvatore with the n flowing red, replacing lost children. Valentines had heavy flow of images pressing on my mind. That fuckin’ battle- come with a thorn this year; the thoughts of that day, when all ship is scary even if it’s a relic.” the concrete had come raining down, bled again. I was back in Salvatore answered, “Yeah, but she is a beaut’. You New York for the first time since the Towers of the World had can grab a tour during the day.” Clearly his mind was else- fallen. I went to New York five months after 9/11 to make my where. New York was Salvatore’s city, where he had lived own memories; my own pilgrimage, not the comforting face of through the madness of speculation since September. Aaron Brown. We would get drunk later on and women in the clubs— And so it was, that as I drifted down the highway, the flesh with a diamond sparkle mid belly or the eyes of nipples roar of traffic engulfed me. A tanker truck’s mighty Texaco Star beneath a gauzy dress—would turn our minds to the living blazed blood red and the driver’s painted muscle twitched of rather than the dead. But for now I dwelled in death’s space snakes and flames. Just one flick of his wrist, one jab of the and from it took cover as childhood’s waves washed over me, steering wheel and it would be smoke and metal and bones and those safe spaces to huddle against the grownup world. Heaven or Hell. High above the highway, the lampposts stood It was 9 PM when we reached Salvatore’s apartment, like headless crosses calling toward their American Calvary. two streets from Ground Zero. Ja Rule’s #1 hit was blaring on Slumped in the passenger seat of Salvatore’s car I the Saturday night radio… watched the city lights of New York blink through the pines, the Bitch, you know better, we live M-O-B sky gloved warmly in darkness. New York’s billion bulbs cast- Money over bitches, Murder, I-N-C clouds of golden light, pulling people down their magic way. I got two or three hoes for every V The 40-story housing projects no longer looked like And I keep them drugged up off that ecstasy Baldwin’s “rocks in the middle of a boiling sea.” The stain of day I moved to the beat. So did the commercials, their had washed away. Bathed in the twilight of evening, the build- sales cries just lyrics to feed the hungry beat. “Have you been to ings stood like shrines, each window reflective and gold. Yeats’ Mardi Gras,” they solicited. “The party where the most men get words echoed in that part of my mind usually reserved for laid? Catch the beat and fly down.” That would have been a church sermons’ echoes. “All changed, changed utterly: A ter- valuable opportunity in my hunter days. I felt the sweetness of rible beauty is born.” my thoughts as I drifted through millions of years. On Riverside Drive my eyes drifted over the Hudson From the corner of the 26th floor apartment, I fol- River. New York quivered over it like flame; above the water lowed the rise and fall of the Brooklyn Bridge and the golden were the silhouettes of barges loaded with the broken Towers. I streams of cars, curving, looping, dividing – spreading out to doused myself with the words of a poem my mother used to the end of the world, resembling cornfields in summer, millions recite: “Men may come and men may go/ but I’ll flow on forev- of yellow heads swirling in the wind. I surrendered the present er.” Dumb warplanes were kneeling toward the sky, longing to moment for the sweetness of childhood. In Ireland again, I was soar free. I was awoken from my drifting by the gray warship shivering in my sea of corn, laughing at my father’s roar, high above the highway. It was the size of an average Irish vil- “Young fella, where are you? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where
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are you?” And all the while, the hip-hop beat came flowing on. greatness flattened among keys and of late, a line of Thomas At midnight, we headed out into the city. A driver Carlyle’s written 160 years ago: “These Arabs, the Man waited downstairs to take us uptown. At the restaurant we min- Mahomet, and that one century—is it not as if a spark had fall- gled with the mobsters and the Hamlets. The Juliets sipped en, one spark, on a world of what seemed black and unnotice- Godfathers and Cosmopolitans at the bar. Three laughing able sand; but lo the sand proves explosive powder, blazes ladies shook their Spanish breasts for an olive man with silver heaven-high from Delhi to Grenada!” hair and a suit shining with riches. Lips quivering in prayer, a In the club’s salty smoke and perfumed sweetness I man pounded on the baby grand. A Harlem sweetie sang the pushed to the hip-hop sound. People moved without words, blues . The candle flames on our tables flickered blue and gold clapping, screaming and dancing while the glass chalices of and the soft pinch of alcohol numbed us while the deep voice of booze trembled on the tables. A bartender, his ponytail swing- her blues poured on. ing, stood on the bar, pouring vodka into happy girls’ mouths The band stopped too soon and threw me back to the below. Yellow trickles, slimy in the light, flowed down lips and world. We left the club and the eight of us split two yellow taxis necks and breasts pushed high. Girls drifted by in the tightness to Club Fun. I started singing “Take me down / To Paradise City of the moment and I became painfully hardFemale flesh / Where the grass is green / And the girls are pretty.” crushed against me as they jostled for their place under the flow of sweet burning vodka. Two Red Bulls and vodka for me, then the press of strangers and I charged into the night. The sweet * wings of alcohol lifted me into the misty blue. Images came flowing in with the New York winds. I As I left the club a man pointed to his car. “I take you, thought of the fallen priests hanging up their vestments, no problem. Come with me.” I sat in front, four in the back and stripped now of their pristine marble altars for the lambs they the rest of the party in a yellow cab behind. I was rolling—the had slaughtered. Old and worn, they slip into the front pages of driver caught my flow and upped the hip-hop beat. His home stained history. was Burma. Mine was “Ireland.” His hands drummed the Soon I was giving my arms to the cross. The bouncers steering wheel, Ireland and Burma sharing the wild streets of checked my pockets. What in my pockets might interest them? Paradise. At 40 miles an hour, red and yellow lights melted to The lines I had written in urgency across torn beer pads or magic green before our eyes. A flash of death flowed through some promotional postcard of a beautiful woman selling God- me midst the blaze of passing streets. I welcomed its violent knows-what? I only ever met her on the piercing of my pen. coming as if I had been waiting for it. This time the vision was a Also in my pockets were the pieces of Shakespeare’s terrifying fall with a siren-scream in my ears. Unbearable pain
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On Riverside Drive my eyes drifted over the Hudson River. New York quivered over it like flame; above the water were the silhouettes of barges loaded with the broken Towers.
exploded to peace, glass like falling rain, sweetly cutting me to the manholes. A glowing Chinese-scripted McDonalds ad lit the pieces. Alien voices cracking through some policeman’s radio way. The brushes of a yellow street cleaner hissed and danced speaking to streets bloodied with me. Soft and warm, strangers with the curb. When it had passed and faded away, the hissing pick me from the ground and I watched the red-tide wash over was replaced by a faint hum of a jackhammer trembling in the white sheets. Through the sirens, I heard my father shouting at night. The sound grew and grew out of the shadowy deep of my hunched over mother on my funeral morning. “You know buildings, grew out of the empty streets we walked on. The well that young fella is a half-baked lunatic. It’s a well-known dizzy whiff of a cigarette and the clip-clop of the silent woman fact he hasn’t seen the inside of a church since he left for at my side harbored me from fear. America.” * We raised our heads. Stadium lights lit a great big hole in the sky, bright as an Easter altar. I thought of the smoky * incense floating over coffins, candles weaving white and gold and the lilting words of a priest: “Ashes to ashes and dust to The cab arrived at the next bar, jolting me back into dust thou shalt return.” Dust particles waltzed in the beam of the moment. Soon I was chatting with a blonde at the bar on what seemed my last night on earth. Starved for laughter we ate lights—all that remained of the thousands of people who had each other’s words. Strange mysteries brought us together: she ridden high in the World Trade Center one breezy September was planning a trip to Ireland. “Ireland!” I shouted. “I grew up morning. That morning, the radio said, “clear skies, a breezy in Waterford. Let’s have another drink.” Under lazy tobacco high seventies today.” And the hum of a plane took no more clouds I snatched a Shakespeare line and cast it over her: “We notice than a bee humming over flowers of May. are such stuff as dreams are made on / And our little life / Is I thought of men and women holding hands, seeing rounded with a sleep.” for the last time the slow motion crawl of the insect-like traffic She tapped me into her cell phone. Her wary friend below before jumping out of 100-story windows to the concrete dragged her away and I smiled at her resistance but settled for plaza. Below the flag poles waited like spears. I remembered the a place in her cyber world. We left the bar—this time into silent terrifying thud of flesh and bone smashing to pulp. I was shiv- streets that reminded us the party was over. The shrunken ering in this jackhammer night imagining the blood that flowed group headed for home. down the walls before the towers crumbled. I tried to enter Ground Zero. The NYPD were Saint Peter blocking the gates. They had been there, too, when the * sons of Islam crashed through the Gates of Heaven. The pilots We five remaining revelers entered Salvatore’s apart- of martyrdom clenched their Holy Book, brown eyes hunting ment like worn hounds returning from a hunt. Soon two were the clouds. They were armed for that flight to Heaven. They had dozing to a song. The silence stretched on between us, first a little child aboard Flight 175 on her way to Disneyland. across the room, then across the city, and up the Hudson River, Heaven was here all right, with the wire mesh fence, out into the open wilderness past the houses and bars and cars holding the rag dolls, and fire engines, and finger-painted and radios. roses; the flapping prints said “DADDIE WE LOVE YOU” and I broke the silence. “Let’s go to Ground Zero.” Nobody the rain-melted words ran on lined 4th grader-paper. For a lost wanted to leave the warmth. With no response, I asked the child a teddy bear crouched all wet with rain. question “Do you think the spirit stays after somebody is Heaven was on CNN, where President Bush prayed snatched abruptly from this earth?” Gigi, the only woman left, with the rabbis and the priests and the Muslim clerics. said, “I’ll go with you.” Her acceptance drove me on. Everyone was crying and hugging and singing, “Glory, Glory The New York streets were silent as church. Beneath Hallelujah/His truth is marching on” while the girls and boys our feet, yesterday’s litter ran free and steam rose warm out of
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marched, cradling hands of bread to the altar. At eight years old As we walked on into the growing day we shared each I looked up to the Stations of the Cross. Heaven was Jesus’s other’s quiet. We walked into the opening market, the fish’s folded legs, nailed to the wood with his blood flowing free. Why diamond bellies glistening red, yellow and indigo. We walked was Heaven so violent? Or was it the road to Heaven that was on in the filling streets, walked and walked, being alive, and the violent? sun crept above the buildings again. Amid the hawking cries of In my mind echoed my father’s words; “I hope they vendors we drifted a whisper with the fire engine red L VE of don’t go too hard on those poor wretches in Afghanistan. Ah, New York waving. Manhattan rising bright neon in the sun- sure, they‘re all half-starved.” I imagined donkeys laden with shine and the laughing gulls crazy in flight from the sea. sacred cargo; someone’s home in the Afghan countryside blast- ed to Heaven, too. I thought of the Protestants attacking the Catholic schoolgirls in Ireland, for the Catholic bombs of yes- terday. I thought of the Jews and the Palestinians breaking each other’s bones for holy ground. And in India the Muslims and Hindus were building God’s temples with each other’s blood. Gigi and I turned and walked away. As I peered over my shoulder, I saw the brick church standing taller now, no longer veiled in the towers’ shadows. It had its own graveyard now, its own dead, and as we were swallowed back into the city I saw the helmeted gravediggers go to work.
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P RISM The Sentimental Voyeur Manhattenite
~by Sasha Stiles New York, NY
ixteen floors up in the air, I look across the street of this foreigner across the way, 26th Street could be an ocean, or and see a man, also sixteen floors up, watching a the mid-west. Eye-stuck to the pane as though it were a peep- basketball game on television. He is wearing a black hole, I read windows like biographies, or novels. tee-shirt and has dreadlocks. It is two in the morn- How provocatively story-bound and hallucinatory it is to s ing and his building is mostly dark. The bright live in a New York City apartment, whether in the glass-walled screen of his television stands out against the shadows of the ant farm of a new Chelsea hi-rise or in the bricked lung of a slow- sleeping city like the lit steeple of the Empire State Building, the breathing sleeper on the Upper East Side. My former New York neon sign splayed over a rooftop, the yellow star that is a plane abode was a railroad apartment off Lexington Avenue in the leaving town. Eighties, so long and largely bare that when my roommate left in My own building, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, faces its the morning or late at night, the footsteps would sound in steady sister high-rise with shivering glass exposing its anatomy at all sequence from end to end, far bedroom to front door. I could the crucial parts—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Ahead of it hear, too, the exertions of our neighbor, who I never met. By the sprawls the skyline of Manhattan, facile and fictive. It hangs its time he reached the fifth floor he would be panting softly, his uptown view against the night sky like a landscape, like a labored breathing coming into the apartment through the key- Cubist's dream. I begin counting the illuminated objects on my hole, through the papery inner wall. His voice was faint and horizon, but the windows of distant buildings are blinking, reve- muted and rare, but still the swollen vowels and syllabic latory one moment, then slammed shut against the night. emphases curled my ear toward them. People are in transit, throwing light switches on and off as proof My own pinched quarters comprised the dangling curl, the of comings and goings. People are hiding, home and awake fisted hand, of the apartment's thin arm. There were no win- behind their drawn shades. dows but one—narrow, the size of a mirror—that opened onto a My apartment is designed to showcase the view, and I take central courtyard shared by several buildings. That inward-gaz- full advantage, pressing my body bravely, full-length, against the ing was more like suburban nosiness. Cloaked by the solidity of glass, even in daylight. Sometimes in watching the private dra- bricked walls, far from the noise and freedom of the street, I mas unfold across the street I find myself staring into the distant would sit like a cat in a coil, peering out under the blind. Once at face of a fellow voyeur. In these moments we are citizens of the my window I came face to face with a man standing on the fire city, and each the citizen of a second, walled city—our build- escape, looking in. ings—with its own streets and intersections, its weighted cars Writer Phillip Lopate noted, “Few cities have inspired as driving us down and up the long central avenue. For all I know much great writing as New York.” As I gaze through my window,
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caught in the somehow adolescent thrall of Manhattan, I can sonifies in many ways that tenuous boundary between what has understand why writers gravitate toward it: it is easy here to already happened and what may. It is fiction, experience, possi- slide toward the figurative as a mode of simultaneously self-con- bility, a narrative hung on facts—the city as autobiography. scious and outward-reaching existence. Call it a vertical city, Over the recent weeks, months, and years, under the world's elevated, lofted, stacked and skyward, or a horizontal city, prone particularly intensive scrutiny of this country, I have tried to and prowling, short and startled. Its very architecture implies a look through a longer lens to come to grips with what it means to convergence of two temporalities, mobile and fictive, the one too live in a city that is emblematic and therefore representative of swift to pin down in profile, the other framed in collective mem- its nation and its globe, and of history in the making. New York ory, too painful to recall. It is not possible or enough to survive has always been a focus of attention, not just as a symbol of here self-contained, untouched, moving through your own life as America, but also as a place of historical import, a testament to though it were life anywhere. diversity, a visible, tangible paean to technological progress. Yet In this city, everything sits close together, everything delin- the multiculturalism and tolerance on display here are realities eated in crowded lines. Everything is observation and invention, most of the country (if not the world) has yet to discover. Maybe the city an enclave of writers and artists, of performers, from sil- they are mere untenable fantasies. It is not clear whether, sev- houettes in distant apartments to musicians in the street to ered from the continent by geography and ideology, this city can macho traders puffing themselves up on the AMEX. There is be both separate and ultimately influential. always an audience, an observer: you, your voyeur across the air- So I wonder: what is the fate of Manhattan? To be visited shaft, the driver of a car letting you cross in stand-still traffic, the and carried home in souvenirs, placed on shelves to accumulate doorman, an inquisitive taxi driver, the rest of the nation, the dust? To be lived through like a stage, then outgrown? To be rest of the world. beamed into households via cable or satellite, an hour-long pro- Of course, that's why so many of us are here, letting the jection of the city as façade? This place is more than a backdrop energy of the city course through our veins, making us feel big- for Hollywood productions and reality TV ventures, and more ger, tapped into something larger than ourselves. Life here has than a political badge. It deserves to be observed more meaning- the appeal of the unreal, even at its grittiest. Especially for the fully, for its millions of unique stories and not only for its milieu. young and in-transit in this city-moving swiftly from place to It is meant to be digested, bound like literature by its covers, east place, unburdened by furniture, blessed with the willingness to and west, and read by the world as the book of viable possibility. overlook-the city is an ideal hotel, the place to come to for the uncertainty, liberalisms and insomnia of young adult life. It per-
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portfolio GENERATIONS: A DIFFERENT BREED O PAPARA Marilyn Monroe
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D OF PARAZZO Cher
~by Joseph Lawrence Vasile Miami, FL
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portfolio Cyndi Lauper
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portfolio Madonna
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portfolio Deborah Gibson Johnny Depp, post-9/11
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peanut gallery critics-fine art
MOMA DIGESTED
~by Molly Klais New York, NY
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wenty dollars can buy you an oil change, a month's worth of morning coffees, a large pizza or a ticket to the new Museum of Modern Art. With the long- awaited opening of the renovated museum, I found t my excitement tempered by such un-democratically- priced tickets. In a society where The Man seems to continuous- ly beat out the little guy, a museum-that most public of institu- tions-has sunk to being defiantly in-your-face, not only about being run by the old boys, but , it appears, even being run for them. Art-world insiders know that weeklong exclusive viewings and cocktail parties happened before the museum's public opening. MoMA's first public Saturday was grandiose nonethe- less-as long as one didn't mind waiting in line for hours. And as important as the grand opening was, it's a shame that a variety of free events were not planned over multiple days for those who were unable to attend that first day. But the donors must be rewarded and entertained; without them, public art institutions in this country close. One wonders, what does one get in return for a hefty entrance fee? With this question in mind and twenty dollars in hand, I ventured into Yoshio Taniguchi's masterpiece. Stark, white, luminous, expansive-MoMA is everything a modern art museum should be. Taniguchi has achieved a miraculous bal- ance between positive and negative space, natural and artificial light, most visible from the upper levels. The non-chronological flow of traffic through the fourth and fifth floors is a welcome change from the museum's former layout. It enables the true non-linear nature of art history to be experienced. Picasso's and Pollock's galleries are nothing short of spec- tacular; they alone justify the new building. The nuances and progressions within each artist's body of work shine through, their importance is tangible in juxtaposition with the paintings by artists in adjacent galleries. Still, for a museum renowned for its modern collection, the emphases are askew: famed gems like Vincent van Gogh's The Starry Night are crammed into tiny wall spaces while James
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Rosenquist's F-111 is granted its demand for sixty feet of wall space. Although female artists tend to be underrepresented elsewhere, But bigger need not mean better-that the Rosenquist is extraordi- they dominate the contemporary portion of MoMA's photography narily long does not mean it deserves its allottment. MoMa's most gallery. The photographs that comprise Cindy Sherman's Untitled surprising and unsettling curatorial decision was to marginalize Film Stills collection elucidate her status as one of the medium's Henri Matisse's La Danse by hanging the painting in a stairwell, foremost contemporary artists is clear. Self-portraits by Ana thus perceptively relegating it to mere decoration. Mendieta and Gillian Wearing command attention. The museum's third floor houses a disjointed but well-chosen Still, the inclusion of works by artists also featured in the mod- collection of drawings and photography. The quality of the drawings ern galleries evinces a lack of cohesion in the contemporary rooms. prevents their classification as mere preparatory studies; many are Andy Warhol and Cy Twombly have been thrown in as fillers, inter- truly works of art that stand on their own merits. Particularly note- spersed among newer artists who have yet to fully establish them- worthy are Georges-Pierre Seurat's At the Concert Européen and selves. For example, Rachel Whiteread's Untitled (Room)-an early Juan Gris's Breakfast. Marcel Duchamp's Handmade Stereopticon-a rendition of the “cast space” for which she is renowned-is one of the mirror made of glass and wood, with a spiral scratched into the sur- few impressive pieces by a contemporary artist on the second floor. face, validate the relatively recent expansion of the category “draw- After several hours and the cost of a large, greasy pizza, all but the ings” beyond works in charcoal, pencil, and ink on paper. The dia- casual visitor realizes that magnificent as the individual works it logue between the drawings and their painted or sculpted neighbors houses may be, the building that encases the Museum of Modern on other floors unifies the collection and offers the visitor access into Art's is its best portrayal of contemporary art. the artists' production processes. C 55 CM issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:21 PM Page 58
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tudent Council, a first-period elective at my Southern California high school, symbolized pop- ularity, privilege, and prestige—and I lasted one semester. I sat among homecoming queens and s cheerleaders, quarterbacks and valedictorians who shot disparaging looks at my fishnet stock- The Politics ings and gold circle-skirt with fist-sized black polka dots. Meanwhile, Mr. Morello delivered his 7 a.m. motivational lec- ture. “You are the cream of the crop,” he’d say, trapping us Beneath My in the tractor-beam of his powerful gaze. “The best that the school has to offer.” He’d touch his fingertips together as if hoping to ignite sparks. “Now say it with me.” Twenty-nine students sat up at their desks and intoned the chant like zom- Little bies from an Ed Wood movie. “We are the cream of the crop. The best that the school has to offer.” Back then, trauma rendered me speechless. I’d watch mesmerized, as two fingertips of his left hand touched two knuckles on his right, thinking something was definitely off here. Mr. Morello lacked the first joints of his right ring and Red middle finger. “Accident in ‘Nam,” he’d say when pressed. “Some commie pinko’s prob’ly using my digits as earplugs.” Dress Student Council smacked of elitism. We were the best? What about the art students who spent twelve hours a day sketching and sculpting potential masterpieces, working night jobs with dreams of studying in Rome? What about the yearbook photographers inhaling volatile chemicals in the ~by Melissa Hart school darkroom as they struggled to develop focus and vision? How about the sprinters and shot-putters awake at 4:00 a.m. Eugene, OR for Saturday invitationals a hundred miles away while the “cream of the crop” slept off hangovers from the post-basket- ball game kegger? What made them lesser beings than the Council kids whose duties appeared to be spraypainting posters for the Sadie Hawkins dance and organizing ice cream socials? If Mr. Morello, hell-bent on creating semester after semester of separatist snobs, was the best my school had to offer, I wanted out. I quit Student Council with a “B—for lack of enthusiastic participation” and returned to the Drama Club, where at least people admitted to playing a part. * Politics is not my bag. The subject is unwieldy, dictated by rules I can’t comprehend. In high school Government, the teacher gave up trying to explain the electoral college to me. “So you’re telling me I’m supposed to register to vote, show up faithfully at my polling place on election day and mark my bal- lot, but my vote doesn’t really count?” I sputtered. “That’s correct,” my teacher replied. “But that’s totally bogus!” This was 1988, the year Oliver North was indicted on 16 felony counts for selling weapons to Iran and diverting funds to Nicaraguan Contra rebels. My stepmother gazed at the Colonel’s earnest brow and puppy-dog countenance on her issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:21 PM Page 59
kitchen TV. “Well, I don’t care what he’s done,” she said. “He looks so handsome in that uniform.” That was politics for you. A pair of brown eyes and a little charm trumped all sorts of bothersome deceptions. Nevertheless, I cast my first ballot as a high school senior with the belief that maybe—just maybe—my vote would do good. The commencement of the Reagan era eight years before coincided with my mother’s coming-out and my father’s successful lawsuit for custody of me and my siblings. Dad did- n’t discuss politics with us. I suspected, by virtue of his six-fig- ure income and a distrust of what he referred to as “hippie lib- erals like your mother,” that he was Republican. A conserva- tive doctrine served him well. With a new wife and a high- powered job to distract the court from his alcoholism, he made the case that my lesbian mother, existing below the poverty line as she struggled to earn her B.A., shouldn’t raise children. “They’ll have more opportunities with me,” he said. My mother went to court twice more, hoping to reclaim custody of her children. Both times, she was denied on the basis of her “alternative lifestyle.” “It’s the quality, not the quantity of our time together that counts,” she’d say, dropping us off on our father’s doorstep at the end of every other weekend—the only time she was allowed to see us. “You can’t let the turkeys get you down.” Her squared shoulders and resolute back contrasted starkly with my father, who sat hunkered and glowering at the dining room table. What makes a powerful man so angry? Is he afraid of losing all he believes he’s entitled to? My father’s superiority, so like Mr. Morello’s, inspired me to take a job registering Democrats to vote in the 1988 presidential election. Dan Cleary, a poli-sci grad student on summer break from Harvard, interviewed me for the position. “Oh, no, Melissa. This is how you give a handshake.” He clasped my palm in his. I gazed into his brown eyes and thrilled at his tenor voice. “For eight years, Ronald Reagan has waved a flag of oppression and injustice over all except his own cohorts,” he said. “We must return power to our tired, our poor, our huddled masses. It’s time for minorities to take a stand!” By minorities, he meant Michael Dukakis. Having spent a semester in Student Council, I suffered a moment of doubt that we could land our all-embracing Greek in the White House. But I was sick to death of dominating patriarchs. “Count me in!” I gripped Dan’s hand with renewed idealism. The job consisted of meeting him and his other recruits every morning for a twenty-minute pep talk in a chilly office building, then shouldering an ironing board and heading to a supermarket of my choice. “Why an ironing board?” I demanded. My stepmoth- er would iron my father’s dress shirts—five every Sunday night—religiously. I wanted nothing to do with such oppres- sion. “It’s a registration table.” Dan shrugged off his suit jacket and handed me a cardboard sign which commanded simply, VOTE! “You tape your sign to it, then adjust the iron-
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moment, my father had maintained an undisputed position as Speaker of the House with a firm “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Now, all at once, his constituency was growing up . . . and it was pissed. But he regained his composure and smiled with the bemusement afforded to those who know they have the win- ning candidate. “Shouldn’t you be wearing blue?” “Jeez, Dad. It doesn’t matter what I wear!” I drove off in a huff. That first day, I set up my ironing board at a super- market in the trendy section of Redondo Beach. This was no tepid warehouse redolent with fish odors and Barry Manilow muzac. The manager of this store piped Vivaldi through the speakers and made sure his employees waxed each apple indi- vidually. In the shade of a purple-flowering jacaranda tree, I taped my sign to the ironing board and affixed an American flag to my ballpoint pen. A tanned, blond woman in running shorts approached the door. I took a deep, bracing breath of ocean air. “Excuse me . . . are you registered to vote?” She faced me, manicured eyebrows arched. “I’m on the city council.” She delivered a parting shot from the sliding glass door, radiant in a blast of air conditioning. “I hope you’re not one of those Democrats!” An elderly man shuffled toward me, gripping a cane. ing board so people don’t have to bend over when they’re filling “Excuse me, sir.” I approached him with my clipboard. “Are out registration forms.” you registered to vote?” “Brilliant!” My coworkers murmured their admira- “Which side are you on?” His rheumy eyes assessed tion. I studied them—a young African American man with a mine. shaved head, an aging man in tie-dye, a white-haired woman “I have to register everyone,” I confessed, “but I’m sporting a peace sign on a silver chain, and a ponytailed blond particularly interested in registering Democrats.” girl in designer jeans and a tight Vassar t-shirt. We’d earn two At once, the cane flew in my face, threatening to dollars for every Democrat we registered to vote. By law, we had behead me. “You commie liberal!” he growled. “If you had to offer registration to Republicans and people from other par- your way, you’d take what little social security I’ve got and we’d ties, as well, but we wouldn’t get paid for them. all be speaking Russian. Or German. Or both!” “So the key is,” Dan said, “to debate with unregistered With no idea how to address this barrage of accusa- voters, and even Republicans, until you persuade them to regis- tions, I bid him Aufwiedersehen and approached my next ter Democrat.” potential client—a girl my age pushing a baby-stroller. “Hey, “Even Republicans?” Again, my coworkers you registered to vote?” exclaimed over his political savvy. She waved me away. “I did your job last month,” she “What if they know more about politics than I do?” said. “I can earn more money babysitting.” I’d passed my Government class, mostly because the teacher My first day of work, I learned about political demo- showed footage of World War II all semester, then offered an graphics. Women went out of their way to avoid speaking to open-book exam from a tome that left off with Richard Nixon. me, pretending fascination with the outdoor display of can- “What if I lose the debate?” taloupes or crossing over to the other door as soon as I made Dan glanced at my clinging red dress, which I’d paired eye contact. Most men rushed past, too, with an occasional with the fishnets. “You’ll have no problem, Melissa.” grunt or “I’m in a hurry.” But two types of males paused at my ironing board consistently—elderly gentlemen and those with- * out wedding rings. There was a retirement home nearby, and * residents walked over to the market for exercise and necessi- On a searing June day, I donned the red dress and hoisted the ties. These oldsters knew their politics, and the men in partic- ironing board into my gold Chevy Nova. “Where are you ular were itching to debate. “I remember that Republican, J. going?” My father confronted me in the driveway. Edgar Hoover,” spat one man as he filled out a form. “Chicken I looked a challenge over the ironing board. “I’m in every pot, my ass! What do you think?” he demanded. going to register Democrats to vote.” “About what?” I stepped backward, in case his He went as white as his starched collar. Up until this walker turned weapon.
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“About the Democrats! Think we got enough spunk to win this election? That Jimmy Carter was more trouble than he was worth—good foreign policy, but no spunk. We need someone with spunk, see?” My memory of Jimmy Carter was more a recollection of my little sister. At four, she years old, she stood on a table in the polling place as my mother cast her vote, shrieking “Carter is a peanut!” “Dukakis has spunk,” I stammered, uncomfortably aware that I knew nothing about my Democratic nominee except that his sister, Olympia, had impressed me with her feisty pragmaticism in Moonstruck. Idealism paired with naïveté helps nobody. My mother was naïve when she left my father, never dreaming she’d lose her children after trading Dad’s abuse for the love of a woman. Confronted by a homophobic court system, she wised up in a hurry and fought for her visitation rights. She kept us with her until the last legal minute every other Sunday night, and drove the ninety miles south midweek to take us to dinner. “I’m glad you’re registering Democrats, honey,” she said when I told her about my new job. “I’m more of a Socialist myself, but someone’s gotta get those turkeys out of office.” Following my first day of work, Dan tallied our regis- tration forms. “Marco—twelve Democrats, one Republican, two Libertarians. Sandra—fourteen Democrats, two Republicans, one Peace and Freedom. Way to go, Sandy!” Dan frowned. “You might want to lose the red dress. We whooped and applauded. “Melissa—two Democrats, two The manager from the Redondo Beach Vons called. She Green Party, ten Republicans.” thought you were a hooker.” I hadn’t bothered to check my forms as people handed them back, too intent on offering a firm handshake and a sin- cere “Thank you for preserving democracy!” Now, I shrank in * my seat. “Oops!” The next morning, I pulled on a pair of overalls and knotted a Dan asked me to stay after the rest of our cadre had red kerchief around my head, a modern-day Rosie the Riveter. departed. Momentarily, I allowed myself the fantasy that he I set off, ignoring the stuffed elephant that someone—my returned my adoration. Would he loosen his tie and make love father?—had placed on the dashboard of my Chevy, and headed to me on stacks of registration forms? Instead, he lowered for the proletariat part of town. The Green Apple Market was himself into a chair, brown eyes sober. “I’m mainly concerned a modest, lukewarm center of commerce with window-signs with your financial well-being,” he said. “You earned four dol- advertising six-packs of Budweiser for $2.50 and generic car- lars for eight hours of work.” tons of cigarettes. I cranked up my ironing board on pavement He was right. I didn’t get paid for registering that reeked of beer and approached a Latino man in coveralls. Republicans, much less those tenacious third-party defenders. “Con permiso, señor.” I struggled to recall my high The trouble lay in my choice of venue, I decided. Redondo school Spanish. “Register to Beach, with its crisp ocean breezes and crispier residents, vote . . . uh . . . votar?” would show up red on any election map. He squinted at my clipboard and shrugged an apology. “Tomorrow, I’ll go where our people shop,” I prom- “No comprendo.” ised Dan. “Hey, there’s a bar around the corner. Wanna grab a I looked down at the registration forms, all in English. Sam Adams?” Did we offer them in Spanish? I had no idea. He held up a hand. “Whoa, there. I have to main- A woman stepped off a city bus, trailing children. tain a professional relationship with my employees. No dating “Are you registered to vote?” I asked as her toddler clambered allowed.” onto the mechanical horse beside the soda machine and an Mortification washed over me. “I’m sorry!” older child clambered onto the toddler. “No worries.” Dan turned back to his paperwork, The woman rolled her eyes. “You think I have time to then looked up. “And Melissa, one more thing . . .” vote?” I paused in the doorway. Was he reconsidering? A trio of ragged men shuffled up, clutching 40-ounc- Would we marry and exchange political letters like John and ers. I assessed their grimy hands and toothless leers, then Abigail Adams, later to be immortalized in musical theater?
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proffered my flag-tipped pen. Democrats embraced all people, “Do you want to pay higher taxes, child? Are you regardless of gender, race, or blood alcohol content. “Are you crazy?” registered to vote?” “I have a boat docked in Marina del Rey. I’d love to One man, obviously the diplomat of the bunch, stag- take you for a ride.” gered up to me. “You’re in our spot,” he said, and promptly This last comment came from a man in his thirties, collapsed under my ironing board. with black curling hair and teeth so white I squinted. He intro- Cheerfully, I moved the board to the other door. duced himself as George Papadelis, Esquire. Today, I would disappoint neither Dan nor Michael Dukakis. A boat in Marina del Rey! Swiftly, I assessed the sit- But upon reviewing my forms that afternoon, I found I’d regis- uation. Papadelis. That was a Greek name. Greek, like tered only three voters. One Democrat, one Libertarian, and Dukakis! A sign from the gods. one person who’d filled in the blank under “Political Affiliation” “What say I whisk you away from all this asphalt, and with the words, “Beer Party!!!” we sail to Catalina?” he added. “After I register to vote, of The people I approached at the Green Apple avoided course.” my eyes, counting the food stamps in their hands or scanning Catalina! As he filled out his form, I considered the the parking lot for pennies before bolting past me into the mar- possibility. On the island, I could frolic blissfully unaware of ket. The presidential election appeared to be of little concern. presidential tracking polls, battleground states, and teeming “Reaganomics got me a room in a halfway house—crack addict political rallies. Yes! I thought. But the word stopped short of on one side, pimp on the other,” one man snarled. “Ain’t votin’ my lips, silenced by a sudden memory of Olympia Dukakis never again.” telling John Mahoney’s professor in Moonstruck to stop dating As I carried my ironing board past the panhandlers his students. “Don’t shit where you eat,” she’d said. toward my car, one of them called to the other. “Hey, Vern. I sighed. “I need to maintain a professional relation- How much you make today?” ship with my clients,” I said. “No dating allowed.” “Twelve bucks!” He jingled pockets full of quarters. “Suit yourself.” George Papadelis handed me his reg- The irony sent my spirits plummeting. Twelve bucks. istration form, sunlight gleaming off the silver ring on the third I’d made two. finger of his left hand. “You’re married?” I cried. * He shrugged. “Seven-year itch.” * I looked down at his registration form as he rocketed The next day was high school graduation. The day after that, I away in his Ferrari. returned to the upscale Vons. “Think like a politician,” Dan Republican. reminded me. “Use your charm and rhetoric to persuade the I packed up my ironing board late that evening— Republicans to switch sides and come on over to the party that determined to earn at least enough money for gas—and celebrates competence instead of ideology.” returned to the darkened office to find Dan holding hands with “Competence instead of ideology!” I repeated, my ponytailed blond coworker in her tight Vassar t-shirt. He attempting to emulate his rousing tone. was bending to kiss her when I walked in. “You got it, comrade!” Dan high-fived me and I “Dammit, Melissa, you’re not supposed to be here marched out of his office. Two minutes later, I marched back after hours!” he fumed, straightening his tie. in. “What about maintaining a professional relationship “Um . . . Dan? What exactly does ‘competence with your employees?” I retorted. instead of ideology’ mean?” Sandra rolled her eyes. “I’m from Vassar, dummy. He looked up from smoothing a Dukakis/Bentsen We’re Harvard’s sister school.” sticker across his briefcase. “Aren’t you going to college in Lord Acton, in an 1887 letter to Bishop Mandell September?” Creighton, wrote that “power tends to corrupt, and absolute “Yep! U.C. Santa Cruz. Go banana slugs!” power corrupts absolutely.” Registering voters taught me not “Oh. A state school.” I could see from Dan’s expres- to be naïve, but the only alternative appeared to be cynicism. sion—a mixture of panic and I handed Dan my stack of registration forms. “Six nausea—that he despaired over what my country had not done Republicans, one Democrat,” I said before he could examine for me in terms of basic education. But I headed off anyway to them. “I quit. And Dan . . .” I paused in the doorway, and he do something for my country with tenacity worthy of a looked at me wide-eyed. “Don’t shit where you eat.” Kennedy. As I drove off tearfully to fill out a job application at Back in Redondo Beach, the retired men set upon my the local cinema, I remembered the rest of Lord Acton’s quote. political ignorance like vultures. “Great men are almost always bad men.” “Reagan got our hostages out of Iran. How do you like them apples, missy?”
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From the Right ~by Ben Barron Davis, CA
Liberals lost the battle of the mind, so they have taken hey wore black in mourning, their jaws were their policies to agape, and tears streamed down more than a few of their cheeks. Normally abuzz with the the battleground t latest gossip, the students of King Hall, my soon-to-be alma mater, were eerily lifeless that day. They sat of the heart. around the television in the student lounge, hushed, watching for the latest news update. Despite their silence, the gloom and anger in many of their eyes spoke more about them – indeed, about much of our voting populace – than could any mundane conversation. * As the day went on, shock melted into the tired preached-before-the-choir jokes repeated ad nausea over the last four years. “You think Canadian law firms are hiring?” I heard one student ask. “Yeah, and Paris is sounding real nice right now,” the other replied, followed by a forced chuckle from both. Satisfied at their measured expression of dismay, the stu- dents smugly shuffled off to class. And throughout it all, nestled in the backdrop of the lounge were discussions of Bush the theocrat. You know, the intolerant, fanatical ignoramus elected
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by the religious nuts residing in those states irritably dubbed taxes, medicare, education and social security among those “red.” issues voters could choose from. The same goes for ABC and I have long believed that the best way to judge the player of a MSNBC, to name some others. game is not to watch his performance but to catch the moment The choice of placing an open-ended term like “moral he learns of its result. Now that the year-long election is over, values” in an exit poll is problematic to say the least. What pundits and laymen across our country have revealed just how exactly are moral values in the context of an election? Did peo- much their toothy smiles hid an irrational hatred of George W. ple believe President Bush was more likely to love his neighbor Bush. than John Kerry? The Pew Research Center conducted a poll Perhaps the best place to see it all laid out was the edi- more than a week after the election to determine what exactly torial pages of the New York Times. Opening the pages of the “moral values” meant to voters. Not surprisingly, no single “Gray Lady” in the few days following the election, I was choice received more than 29 percent of people’s answers. shocked at the extent to which the great minds of the liberal Those answers ranged from stances on gay marriage to abor- movement allowed self-restraint to unravel and irrationality to tion to stem cell policy. For the record, a mere 18 percent of stain the Time’s pages. them chose “religious values.” The truth is there is no such thing as “moral values” as a cohesive electoral issue. It is a conflation of various social * issues that tells us virtually nothing about voters. Some people Pure insight. chose “moral values” because of their views on gay marriage, Cue Paul Krugman, darling of the extreme left: which says nothing about their views on religion or abortion, “[Bush] is a radical – the leader of a coalition that deeply dis- and vice versa. It is a phrase so vague that the pundits must love likes America as it is. Part of that coalition wants…to break it to pieces – it gives them a chance to broaden their speculation down the barriers between church and state. And thanks to a on the psyche of the country. And by conflating numerous con- heavy turnout by evangelical Christians, Mr. Bush has four servative social issues into one quasi-issue, it gives them an more years to advance that radical agenda.” opening to allege that the religious right and opponents of abor- And, lastly, this from the usually deadpan, seemingly tion overruled the populace in putting George W. Bush in moderate Thomas Friedman: “My problem with the Christian power. Just ignore the fact that I could bundle liberal views of fundamentalists supporting Bush is not their spiritual energy taxation, health care, and social security into the quasi-issue or the fact that I am of a different faith. It is the way in which he “expanded government” and likely come to the absurd conclu- and they have used that religious energy to promote divisions sion that left-leaning issues dominated the election. and intolerance at home and abroad.” “Moral values” also gives pundits a red herring. Take a Taken alone, these words would lead one to envision look at exit polls and you’ll likely notice a startling finding – of an America where our president preaches fire and brimstone as those who said that terrorism was their most important issue cross-clutching southerners march into voting booths to sup- (CNN: 19 percent of voters), the vast majority of them voted for port their God-fearing liege. Yet look at the country around us, President Bush (86 percent). More people voted for President at the polls following the election, and it is clear that Dowd, Bush due to concern over the War on Terror than those who Krugman and Friedman coddle a distorted view of the voting voted for him because of “moral values.” While liberals prance populace west and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. about news shows bemoaning the Democrats’ lack of “values,” There is a serious flaw at the heart of the contention that they overlook – purposely or not – the very obvious fact that a George W. Bush was put in office by the religious right: most fair share of the voting populace viewed them as weak in the religious Protestants voted for President Bush, but that doesn’t War on Terror. mean that most Bush voters were religious Protestants. In fact, But let’s put aside statistics. They’re useful, but need- not only is this terrible logic, it simply is not the case. CNN exit less to say, they’re also pretty dull. Let’s look at the presidency polls from 2000 show that 54 percent of voters were Protestant, of George W. Bush and determine whether he really is a “radi- of whom 56 percent voted for President Bush. Now, I hope cal” seeking to eliminate the barrier between church and state. you’re sitting down, because you may be shocked at the tremen- People are quick to point out that the President uses religious dous increase in Protestant turnout time around. CNN shows terminology in his speeches – though many presidents have that in last month’s election, a whopping 54 percent of voters invoked God’s name and used the term “evil” in their speeches were Protestant, of whom a startling 59 percent voted for – but taking the old adage to heart, I am interested here in President Bush. Surely, this must be the “heavy turnout” Mr. actions, not words. What has President Bush done to connote Krugman spoke of, right? that his policies are driven by faith rather than by reason alone? Flip through the channels of talking heads on the news There are three such policies that come to mind. First, networks, and you’d hear a seemingly different story. This elec- there is Bush’s attempt to give federal funding to faith-based tion was about “moral values,” some said, often followed by charities, which played a large part in his first year as president. comments on the Democrat party “losing touch” with the Seeking to use faith-based organizations to help solve social ail- American heartland, whose voters did not support it in record ments like homelessness, Bush appointed John DiIulio, a for- numbers this time around. mer professor at the University of Pennsylvania, to head the True, exit polls showed that a slim plurality of voters program. DiIulio, however, resigned in August, 2001, after (CNN exit polls put it at 22 percent) said the most important nearly six months at the post, and the program was never rein- issue for them this election was “moral values.” Eighty percent stated. of them voted for President Bush. However, take a peek at exit Bush also grappled with the issue of stem cell research polls from past elections, and you’ll find no term nearly as in his first year – balancing the biotechnology industry’s strong vague as “moral values” ever listed. CNN’s 2000 exit poll listed support of the innovative field with the social conservative C 63 CM issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:21 PM Page 66
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mantra that life should be respected and not used for medical President Bush promised sweeping fiscal changes. Among research. In the end, President Bush compromised, granting them was the overhaul of social security as well as a simplifica- federal money to the study of those stem cells that had already tion of the tax system – perhaps leading to a flat tax or the abol- been extracted and letting private funding cover the rest. It ishment of the income tax. George W. Bush entered the White wasn’t the move John Kerry would have made, true, but it was House a businessman with a Harvard MBA, and he’s treating a compromise in conflict with the vocal evangelical opposition the presidency exactly as a businessman with a Harvard MBA to any such funding. would. The final issue is President Bush’s opposition to feder- al recognition of gay marriage, coupled by his insistence that Arianna Huffington related in a column the following individual states retain the right to determine the definition of excerpt of a speech made by James Carville, a central figure in marriage. That he seeks to allow states to define marriage is in John Kerry’s campaign, two weeks before last month’s vote: “If itself a compromise against the hardline religious position. But we can’t win this damn election with a Democratic Party more the real issue is whether or not gay marriage even qualifies as a unified than ever before, with us having raised as much money religious position. Religious and social conservatives may as the Republicans, with 55 percent of the country believing oppose gay marriage, but that certainly does not make it a con- we’re heading in the wrong direction, with our candidate hav- servative issue. Quite the contrary, the majority of Americans, ing won all three debates, and with our side being more pas- both left and right, oppose gay marriage. sionate about the outcome than theirs — if we can’t win this Take this last election, for example. Of the eleven one, then we can’t win sh**! And we need to completely rethink states that voted to ban gay marriage, one was Oregon – a liber- the Democratic Party.” al state to say the least. While John Kerry won the state by four When I read his words and think back on the despair points, the ban on gay marriage won by a margin of fourteen. painted across the faces of my peers on the morning of Nov. 3, President Bush won Arkansas by a margin of nine points, but the liberal mindset throughout the election becomes clear: they the ban on gay marriage won by fifty. Michigan: Kerry by three, firmly believed – not merely hoped – that George W. Bush was ban on gay marriage by eighteen. In each state that had the on his way to a resounding defeat. Scrambling for excuses in the choice of banning gay marriage, the margin voting against gay wake of their shock, they blame the voters of the religious right marriage was more than ten points higher than the margin for for Kerry’s defeat, implying that Karl Rove goaded the president – often nearly fifty points higher. Do you think a ban Republican base to the polls with trumped-up claims that Bush on abortion would receive nearly that many votes? CNN exit is the leader of “moral values.” polls show that only 16 percent of Americans would have voted Well, Mr. Carville is right. It is time the leaders of the to ban abortion. Democrat Party step back and rethink not only their movement These numbers indicate that gay marriage is not a reli- but the nation they strive to lead. Rather than cast blame on a gious issue, nor is it a conservative issue. It is a divisive fictional view of the American mindset, it is time they re-evalu- American issue, and most voters (75 percent, if you take CNN’s ated their stances on fiscal issues, not to mention their exit poll) believe that marriage should be reserved for unions approach to the War on Terror. The longer they delay, the more between a man and a woman. likely Congressional halls and the judiciary will become echo- The point is that those issues in which President chambers rather than places of true discourse on American pol- Bush’s religious views have marginally swayed his presidential icy. decisions occurred only at the very outset of his term, and they were certainly only peripheral issues at best. So what kind of president is Bush, if he is not the reli- gious fanatic as some would have us believe? Bush’s presidency has been defined by two issues: his fiscal policies and the War on Terror. The latter issue Bush stumbled onto. He campaigned in 2000 promising to reduce American intervention in the world, but quickly became swayed to the neoconservative cause after the attacks of Sept. 11. Bush is a fiscal president more than anything else. Throughout the 2000 election, he stumped across the nation WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA? preaching for smaller government and reduced taxation – hardly the keystone issues that stir the religious base. Exit polls across the board show that taxation was the most important issue for Bush’s supporters in 2000. And, though government If you would like to submit spending has increased, Bush has stood by his central pledge. Faced with a recession spurned by the bursting of the internet a new column idea bubble and the attacks of Sept. 11, Bush cut taxes by about $1.7 trillion over the course of his first term. As a result of those alleged “tax cuts for the rich,” incidentally, nearly 2.5 million jobs have been created since Aug. 2003 – new jobs that I prom- E-mail ise you ain’t going to the rich. We saw much of the same in the 2004 election. [email protected] Outside of his calls to continue the wars on terror and in Iraq,
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From the Left
~by Ari Paul Chicago, IL
rom a critical perspective, fiction does play a pro- found role in paving the course of history by pre- dicting events of the future and contributing to F society’s collective idea box. Morris Berman, noted historian and author of The Twilight of American Culture, sees a role for fiction in the mechanics of history. “Sometimes fiction can be terribly Fiction does not mimic prescient; it can know in advance in a strange sort of way what is about to occur,” he said. Primarily, according to Berman, fic- today’s reality, but it tion has “strange predictions.” might mimic What examples are there of such forecasts? Berman notes Don DeLillo’s Underworld. The novel suggests, accord- tomorrow’s. ing to Berman, that “somewhere in the mid-sixties, the U.S. came undone and we are now drifting without purpose…we What effect does fiction became rudderless,” which summarizes the thesis of Berman’s The Twilight of American Culture. But such a statement in a have on our society? novel is nothing too shocking, and it would be a coincidence if Could fiction have the DeLillo’s literature foretold that the U.S. would lose its path and if America actually did so. But the book’s cover makes the mes- power to inspire reality? sage all the more harrowing. The cover features a photograph of the World Trade Center covered in thick clouds with a shadowy bird that could easily be mistaken for a plane flying past the towers. It is Sept. 11 imagery displayed years before such an act had even been conceived, and corresponds to a story of the United States that now exists after that devastating Tuesday morning. This is not to say that DeLillo’s work in any way caused these events, or that a terrifying reality mimicked an eerie novel and its imagery. This example does, however, speak of the abil- ity our fiction writers have to see into the future of human events. Embedded in the American literary tradition are social observations that accurately document the political and cultur- al conditions of our society, and in turn, these observations can tell us what direction our country can go. Again, Berman finds another example, this time in
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film, The Siege, directed by Edward Zwick and written by name of preserving liberal democracy and universal human Lawrence Wright, “Arab terrorists blow up a school bus in rights. Brooklyn and then attack the FBI building, and then martial “A fascism in red, white, and blue,” Berman continues law is imposed on New York City.” The movie paints scenes not in his review, “That was Lewis’s fear, and West’s. And it is unlike the ones we saw on the news networks during and after Roth’s.” It was Zwick and Wright’s in The Siege, as well. When Bloody Tuesday. The state resorts to rounding up Arabs, and we amalgamate these artists’ fears and concerns about the movie shows Americans willing to accept this and other lim- America’s tyrannical dispositions and look at, for example, the itations on essential freedom. Berman added, “And there are recent reports of torture from Guantanamo Bay, we see that lines in that film that we then heard verbatim after 9-11.” these fears speak much truth about America’s ugly potential. When Berman talks about “strange predictions,” he is And when, for example, we can find books like In Defense of actually speaking about a great literary tradition in America of Internment by Michelle Malkin on Amazon.com, arguing that “whistle blowing” and warning the public about the threat of Arab-Americans be put in interment camps like Japanese- despotism. It is a tradition of reminding the nation that we, too, Americans in World War II, it is clear that the American public can fall victim to fear that breeds tyrannical regimes. “There is may be willing to abdicate its democratic power to a racist des- a solid tradition in American letters of novels like this,” Paul pot. (not the aforementioned Morris) Berman wrote of Philip Roth’s We have yet to see if this literary tradition has an effect The Plot Against America, a tale of a Nazi regime rising in on American politics. Will this great literary tradition stand idle World War II America. Berman recalls a literary tradition of while masses willfully accept the destruction of democracy? Or “phantasmagoric pictures of a United States whose every prom- do these writers actually attain something more substantial ise has been turned upside down — jeremiads about America’s than their literary acclaim? ability to transmute overnight into a fascist monstrosity. Jack Again, it cannot be asserted that any of these forecasts London wrote the earliest example that anyone still reads caused the events that seem to mimic these stories. “But there is today, I think: The Iron Heel, in 1907, from the period before an accumulated affect,” Morris Berman said, “that you get the word “fascism” even existed (though fascism was plainly enough people saying certain things, there is a critical mass, what London had in mind, in the form of a futuristic plutocrat- and people start thinking differently.” In short, fiction may not ic-Republican-trade union dictatorship).” Nathanial West have the ability to change reality directly, but it can, and does, would also follow in this tradition, and across the pond, George contribute to the general discourse of ideas. And that, in and of Orwell was also contributing to this section of English literature itself, is something profoundly influential. in Europe. Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, a For Paul Berman, American writers fear a tyranny ris- mediocre piece of literature, has been cited by literary critics as ing out of the bedrock of our constitutional democracy. “The an important catalyst to feminist enlightenment as well as civil genuinely scary prospect in America [is] a fascism that might rights activism. L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz draw on something more than immigrant peculiarities—a fas- was meant to be a populist testimony of the plight of the mid- cism thriving on the “patriot” legacies of the American western working class who were being exploited by the Revolution and the corn-ball kitsch of surly folk cultures from ‘Emerald City’ of the east coast. While these books did not give this or that region of the country,” he writes. This reality takes birth to any political reform directly, they did penetrate the the form of the Alien and Sedition Acts, a set of anti-free speech marketplace of ideas, encouraging many sectors of American and anti-immigrant laws that John Adams’s administration society to look at reality differently. enacted to protect America from the revolutionary government And thus we see the threat fiction poses to the status of France, to the detriment of Thomas Jefferson’s Republican quo. Due to the whistle blowing effect fiction has on public dis- Party, in 1798. The threat of tyranny also manifested in course, those in power who wish to keep things the way they are Franklin Roosevelt’s presidency, the most liberal of American hinders such an exchange of ideas. As Morris Berman noted, regimes, when Roosevelt forced all Japanese-Americans into “There’s a fear of anything that says things are different from interment camps during World War II for the sake of fighting what they are.” We have seen this fear in Nazi book burnings fascism and Japanese expansionism. Presidents Andrew and in the Soviet purging of dissident writers. And, unfortu- Johnson and Ulysses S. Grant led the reconstruction in the nately, we have seen it in America’s tradition of banning books South after the Civil War. While this policy, as the history books and keeping restrictions on the distribution of literature. tell us, was the triumph of freedom over the Confederate rebel- To be fair, attempts to ban books in the United States lion, reconstruction often resembled a heavy handed and are not often initiated by anti-Communist conspiracy theorists humiliating military occupation. or reactionary defenders of the aristocracy. The American What is unique about this history is not that the nation Library Association admits: “Books usually are challenged with is prone to autocratic and despotic measures. The eerie reality the best intentions—to protect others, frequently children, from is that these things were enacted allegedly to protect the nation, difficult ideas and information,” and that “parents challenge but more often for one political faction to restrain its opposi- materials more often than any other group.” According to data tion. compiled by the ALA, the primary reasons for challenging and And now it is clear that this tradition of American lit- banning certain books are that the books in question are “sexu- erature has already forewarned the nation that freedom-loving ally explicit,” contain “offensive language,” and are “unsuited to Americans, from the heartland to the big cities, would be all too age group.” willing to accept the fact that Arabs and Muslims are being In the same way that a well-intended crusade against rounded up and sent to Guantanamo Bay without due process. naughty thoughts leads to the bizarre censorship of ‘Where’s These practices are in violation of our own constitution and the Waldo?’ book-banning can also lead to a systematic control of Geneva Convention and yet they are carried out in the very fiction and political ideas. 66 Citizen Culture corrected.qxd 1/6/05 3:57 AM Page 19
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Anthony Comstock was instrumental in founding the legacy of puritanical protection in New York City in the late 1800’s when he started the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice, which soon became a major influence on the Federal Government. Eric Schlosser writes in Reefer Madness: In 1873 Congress passed a bill that made it a crime to send “obscene, lewd, or lascivious” materials through the mail…The Comstock Law, as it was soon called, also prohibited sending through the mail any information about sexual devices, birth control, or abortion.” While this crusade was initiated out of an urge to protect the public from impurity, it had other con- sequences. Schlosser continues, “Anthony Comstock also helped to suppress works by Aristophanes, Voltaire, Walt Whitman, Emile Zola, Honore Balzac, and Leo Tolstoy. George Bernard Shaw, in Comstock’s view, was an ‘Irish smut dealer.’” Today, the Comstock Law is gone but not forgotten. There are still bits from the Comstock era of vice-suppression embedded in other current federal codes on communication, according to Banned Books Online, a special project of the University of Pennsylvania Library. Furthermore, the U.S. PATRIOT Act, which has the “best intention” of fighting terror- ism, has the capabilities of controlling the distribution of litera- ture deemed unfit by the government just like under the Comstock Law. The American Civil Liberties Union reports that “part of the [U.S. PATRIOT] Act overrides existing state and federal privacy laws, allowing the FBI to investigate which books have been bought or borrowed by anyone it suspects of being a ter- rorist — an extremely broad and vague determination. Given America’s long history of barring various forms of expression through the Alien and Seditions Act, the Comstock Law, and the anti-Communist witch-hunts conducted by the House Committee on Un-American Activities, the provisions of the U.S. PATRIOT Act can lead the way into a new era of censor- ship. Agree? In the days of portable DVD players and Internet serv- ice on cellular phones, those who wish to stifle social progress Disagree? still see the media of fiction, and the libraries that harbor them, as a known threat. This shows how much influence literature, both fiction and non-fiction, has on our increasingly imagistic Or stuck on the Fence? and technological society. However, one should not necessarily expect the worst. Writers will keep writing and finding ways to disperse their ideas. There will be roadblocks erected and the urge to censor We want your subversive ideas will not die away. But the new technology of the 21st century will help artists get around the barriers of cen- impassioned responses! sorship, and readers, likewise, will also find ways around such barriers. Likewise, there is a ray of optimism that outshines the bleak historical record of America’s tradition of stifling creative voices. Along with America’s ironic tendency to use despotism to allegedly protect democracy, there is a tradition in America E-mailE-mail to preserve all of our democratic institutions. Because of this tradition, we are now free from the Communist witch-hunts, [email protected] the Alien and Seditions Act, etc. A patriotic tradition of dissent, and we’ll publish the most to which the American literary tradition contributes, cleanses us of our tyrannical errors over the course of history. So our thought-provoking. next generation of writers has the responsibility to keep the democratic tradition on track, and help put the U.S. PATRIOT Act and Guantanamo Bay into the waste bin of history.
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i freewheeling movies and rambling interviews
a frank discussion with Director David O. Russell
avid O. Russell is a man whose reputation precedes him. The accomplished director of Three Kings, Flirting with Disaster and Spanking the Monkey, his name often graces the list of Hollywood's most d compelling new filmmakers. As a result, his latest effort, I Huckabees, features an ensemble cast that culls its talent from the film industry's biggest names: Dustin Hoffman, Lily Tomlin, Isabelle Huppert, Naomi Watts, Jude Law, Mark ~by Nichole Gleisner Wahlberg and Jason Schwartzman. Despite all of his accolades, Russell's grandiose personali- Boston, MA ty, firebrand outspokenness and peculiar, hyper-charged work- ing style often land him on the New York Post's notorious Page Six and in other gossip columns. New York Times film critic Sharon Waxman, who initially secured Russell's permission to follow him on the set while he filmed Huckabees, wrote a lengthy and not particularly flattering article which Russell later denounced as having been written under false pretenses.
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The article delves into Russell's bizarre directing style: to let me finish.” And I said, “But you didn't let the election fin- Waxman writes that he drove seasoned professionals like ish.” That was my whole message and everybody was looking at Hoffman and Tomlin to mental and physical exhaustion, push- me like they wanted to kill me, including Mary Love [his assis- ing them to the point of tears in order to get the kind of emo- tant], and I said, “I gotta go. I'm giving a talk across campus tional response he desired. because I'm getting an honorary degree.” That was the best part Laden with epistemological jargon and hinging on quotid- because they thought I was just some dirt bag from the streets ian coincidence, I Huckabees often feels a crash-course in which they might still think…So there's my fun Amherst story. Indo-Tibetan philosophy, Jean Paul Sartre and the rest of the And then I went to the thing and the president [of the uni- dour French existentialists, crammed with a healthy dash of versity] says, “I hear you're already throwing bombs. What are post 9/11 life into a particle accelerator to find the essence of you doing? When Bill Cosby came here, he didn't cause any modern social life. It's no wonder, then, that critics have part- trouble.” ed into two seas of response: either they enjoyed its humorous romp or detested its incoherence and heavy-handed chatter. * How did you come up with the idea for I Huckabees? Nichole Gleisner spoke I wrote it for Jason with Russell in the hotel room [Schwartzman] after I saw where he was holed-up while Rushmore. It's Rushmore all promoting the movie. She growed-up. I knew that he reported that his frenetic energy would get to be a man which he extended from the film, that its hadn't gotten to do and when I pressing philosophical concerns saw Rushmore, I felt like he was candidly engaged him. ”Upon my brother. I just wanted to entering the room, he bound up meet him right away. We're from reclining on the bed, clad both half Italian, half Jewish. I in a gray suit which appears to wrote another movie for him be made from some wrinkle- and then I wrote this one resistant type of material, a because the first one didn't white shirt with red stripes rem- work out. iniscent of a candy cane and I had a dream in which I snazzy new kicks. Russell's ini- was being followed by a woman tial enthusiasm bowls you over detective but not for criminal and he immediately begins reasons, for metaphysical rea- grilling me on where I'm from sons. Do you ever write your and what school I went to. It dreams down? You do, and took a good few minutes to coax then you read them a few days him to sit down and answer later and it's like reading some- some of my questions.” one else's story and I was like, “Wow. Someone gave me a You went to Amherst great idea.” College…* And then I wrote for Mark [Wahlberg], the Dorchester Let me tell you a fun little story boy, because we are dear friends about Amherst College. It's a bit since Three Kings. I know him more stodgy than I am, so they deeply. The friendship between gave me an honorary degree Jason and him in the movie is there a couple of years ago. When I went to get the degree, really my friendship with Mark. You know, it's different, but it's you're supposed to give a talk, so mine was at about 3:00 p.m. - the same. I'm a middle class guy who went to college. Mark's Did you see the movie? That's good.-So my talk was about infin- the ghetto guy who went to jail and it's an unlikely friendship ity, which I learned from Robert Thurman, who happens to be but we are very close and I knew that he had vulnerabilities and Uma Thurman's dad, who was a teacher of mine at Amherst, comedy in him that had never been in a movie before and that's dealing with infinity and all of the ideas in the movie. an amazing thing for a director to have. But before the talk, I had heard that Antonin Scalia was going to be there [at Amherst] and that the secret conservative Wahlberg's character is a fireman preoccupied with existen- club was having a secret thing with him. So I found out where it tial* concerns and the use of petroleum. Since September 11, was and I went and there was like 20 people in a room with him, 2001, the firefighting profession has become heavily charged and there he was just standing right there and I was listening to with emotional significance. Did you write with that in mind? him talk and I wanted to confront him and talk to him, you know, but I was running out of time because I had to give my His character got deepened by 9/11 for me and his whole char- talk and I would hate to interrupt somebody. But then I realized acter is, in some sense, a response to 9/11. It's never mentioned that the medium was the message. So I stood up and I said, “I'm except once but all of the emotion and the comedy of his char- sorry to interrupt you,” and he said, “At least have the decency acter come from that.
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Jude Law plays a distinctly American character, a sales exec *for a Wal-mart style corporation, whose obsessed with climb- ing the corporate ladder and acquiring all of the gadgets of “the good life:” jet skis, a trophy girlfriend. Was it hard to translate to this “American [Corporate] Dream” to Law, an Englishman?
It's all about the eyes of others with [his] character - how Hollywood has pervaded our culture, with E! [Entertainment Television], with Instyle [Magazine]. It's all media and what you look like to others. How others want to look, wear what you're wearing. The jet skis were written [into the script] because it's a beef of mine. I don't like it when there are jet skis out in nature. We gave Jude Cigar Aficionado, FHM [magazines]. We inundated him in macho male culture. He speaks for a lot of male movie stars and studio executives. His whole persona is based on the guy who wants to control the room and tell the same story. You hear all the same story when you hang out with the alpha male. Naomi Watts has a very funny role in the film and it seems But we wanted to have some affection for him as well. He's like* a breakthrough for her as most of her recent roles in 21 so lovable, especially to women. He bet me $100 that I wouldn't Grams and We Don't Live Here Anymore have been so tragic. use the little throw-up scene ...He said, “You'll never use it.” You know the scene when he throws up into his hand? But [the She kept saying, “I'm not funny. Are you sure you want me in producers] said we don't have enough time [to get fake puke]. this movie?” I said, “Will you stop it?” But she plays it from But I said, “What if he just throws up a little bit?” So I won that drama which makes it funny. She just finished 21 Grams and bet and I'll have to get that money from him. she was happy to put on the bikinis and have some fun. And I I'll give it to you. You might need it someday. stand by everything her character says.
I enjoyed the film immensely but there were some critics in Was it ever hard to work with such a large ensemble cast? *the audience who were not as charmed. * Everybody was a ball to work with because they were all willing Were they turdy? to jump off the cliff. Dustin Hoffman had me over for three days to read the script aloud because he wanted to discuss every- Perhaps there were some groans from the jaded film critics… thing about it. He's into all these [philosophical] questions, as * Lily Tomlin is. If you had somebody in the movie that wasn't Keep your spirit, stay like Maureen Dowd. I read her, but I into talking about these things, it wouldn't have been that fun. think she's too sassy or too negative sometimes. Dustin also has great ways of getting performances out of Jason and other people. He does lots of neat things. Like when What else do you read? Jason yells at him, ``I told you to stay away from my work sit- * uation.'' I read Al Franken's book. I read Bob Thurman's book, Infinite Dustin says, [Russell doing a fairly convincing Hoffman Zen. All I ever read about is Zen. accent] “Well, Jason do you have a dog?'” And Jason says, You look like a fiction reader to me. Do you read Laurie “Yeah I have a dog.” And Dustin says, “Well, have you ever Moore and Alice Munro? She's amazing. yelled at your dog when she goes to the bathroom on the car- pet?” “Yeah.” “What do you say?” “I say, no, Zsa Zsa, no, don't go on the carpet.” (It's a beautiful little French Bulldog, Russell explains.) “So that's it, I'm your dog.” So then Jason did the scene just perfectly. * Did you read much French existentialism as well? Isabelle's character is a cocktail of Sartre, Zen and nihilism. The detectives are all from Robert Thurman's Indo-Tibetan thought and thus his character is modeled after him because he always wore the rumpled suits. I do that because I'm joking about [all of these metaphysical concepts] but I also take it seriously. Usually these ideas are in The Matrix or The Passion of the Christ. But I'm serious about them. Jason says the movie is a train that is driven very fast with the comedy and the music and the ideas are stowaways. I think that's a good description.
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fast-rising fish
On the Outside Looking Deeply In:
Interview with Elektra’s N ATASSIA M ALTHE
~by Jonathon Scott Feit New York, NY
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s a film aficionado, it's tempting to feel bad for an actress like Natassia Malthe; one is so used to seeing a attractive young starlets either typecast or merely cast aside. Generally, a modeling pictorial in Maxim does not a successful portrayal of talent make. But as Jonathon Feit discovered even over the phone, Natassia has fun breaking stereotypes and expectations-even those of her most obsessive fans, who think they know her all-too-well but have concocted (on the Internet, especially) an alternate persona for a thought- ful, humble, even camera-shy actor finally finding her Hollywood handholds. Though she's been portrayed in other magazines-most notably Maxim - as an exotic beauty dropped naturally into modeling (and from there, into acting), by her own admission Natassia has struggled and crafted her career piecemeal. January 2005 may well mark her breakout moment when she dons a sleek black leather catsuit to co-star as Typhoid Mary opposite Jennifer Garner in Elektra, The combination of Natassia's well-considered personal religiosity and her comic book fantasy character portrayal made for a uniquely profound discussion.
Your spread in Maxim from last year was a two-col- umn with a bunch of pictures of you.
Are you guys going to have picture of me, too?
Not like that! Did you want us to? roommate? No, not like that. I'm a little sick of seeing myself in lingerie and the same kind of makeup and curly hairdo. She's great. The way I got my roommate was insane. I thought to myself, "I need a frickin' roommate. I need to just move in Well, how would you rather see yourself? That's somewhere." Looked on Craigslist, saw an ad and said, "Oh, I'll where I was hoping we'd start. just call this one and see what happens." I called the number, heard the voice on the other end and thought, oh my god, Photo-wise, I like black and white, you know, with jeans on, a sounds like a smoker or an alcoholic. I was fantasizing about jean jacket and t-shirt. You know what I mean? this old, rundown apartment, and then I decided not to go, but then decided to go, because I'd already promised to go! So I Do you have a favorite picture of yourself? went. It was the first apartment I looked at, and we ended up hanging out for five hours and were best friends on the spot. I don't have a camera. I'm not a camera person. I love it when This woman happened to be in my fantasy, but it turns out that my friends take pictures, and when I get to go to their houses she doesn't smoke, and she doesn't drink. and see what we did last Christmas. That sort of thing. But I've never owned a camera. She just has a really deep voice?
Why not? Yeah. And she has the same blood type as me…
I don't know. There's something about taking a picture of the What blood type? past and then getting them, and then holding onto that past that I don't like doing. Blood type AB-minus. And she has the same numerology birth number. That's really philosophical for pictures. Which is? I know, I'm a very philosophical person. I overthink things. Everything is philosophy to me. Like, for example, finding a Five. roommate on the Internet, and that person becoming your best friend in the whole world. I think there is such a thing as divine And what is that? pattern. A divine order in a chaotic world. You always end up with these great people in your life…You know what I mean? It's the number of an adventurer. And she's a Cancer and I'm a Capricorn, which are like opposites, balanced. I do know what you mean. So how'd you find your
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Okay, so let me ask you a question: How into astrology, Like an out-of-body experience? numerology, alchemy-are you into that too? No, not an out-of-body experience. I mean, soul travel can get I've read the books. to that level with a lot of practice. But it can be as simple as get- ting an insight. If I sing the Hu for twenty minutes a day, I About alchemy? become a giggler. I start laughing during the day, and things that would normally bother me don't bother me. Yeah. I have friends who are highly into alchemy. One of my best friends is a biochemist. Because you're giggling?
And she turned you on to astrology, numerology, and No, it's the energy that makes you feel a lot of joy. You're get- all that? ting in touch with the light and sound. The light and sound are, in the Bible, what people called or talked about as the "blue No, I've always loved it. It started when I was about ten years star." It's also the Holy Spirit. The Bible says, "First came the old. I was reading astrology books. Every time I was supposed word, and then came the light." That basically means "the light to be doing my homework, I was reading astrology, numerolo- and the sound." It's a connection. That Hu word came from gy, and psychology books. It was all I read. Alla Hu. "Allelujah"-Hallelujah-came from the words Alla Hu. And "Hu-man"-human-actually means "God-Man." I had out-of-body experiences when I was young. So I searched for something that could explain why I had dif- ferent experiences that no one else could talk to me about. You know what, though, I was into astrology and numerology in my younger years, but I've grown out of that. Where did you learn all this?
I was going to ask you who wrote the text on your web- I've been into philosophy and religious historic stuff since I was site. very young. I had out-of-body experiences when I was young. So I searched for something that could explain why I had differ- It was this guy in the Philippines who does commercials ent experiences that there…he asked if he could do a website on me. At the time, I no one else could talk thought, who cares? Do whatever you want. to me about.
There is a section on there that reads: "So please allow Could you tell me me to remind you how lucky you are that she has taken about them? some time off her busy schedule just to shed some light on what lies beneath the killer looks and the track My first one that I record to beat." Have you heard that? recall very clearly was when I was four years No! (chuckles) old. I had first moved to Canada. I used to That's definitely on your official website. wet the bed and get in trouble for it. And I Oh my god. I think it was a from reporter over there who had used to think, why interviewed me and it was part of that article. I gotta change does this happen? that website. And every night, I would get out of my Well, it certainly sounds like you know what you're body, walk on the car- good at. So tell me about Hu. pet, see the light…it was realer than real. I Hu is kind of like the world "Ohm." Same principle. It's a would sit on the toilet, vibration, it's like a universal key. A secret key to open up the and then wake up in inner universes within yourself. And it actually elevates your my bed saying, "Shit-I did it again!" It was insane. I had other consciousness. It brings you out of your physical body and experiences where I moved back to Norway and wished myself allows you to go with the energy of the Hu to do something back to Canada. called "soul travel," which is an expansion of consciousness and the ability to move from your present state of consciousness to This is when you were in Norway? another state so that you are able to perceive your life from an objective point of view. Yeah. I had out-of-body experiences when I was four or five years old that I remember very well, and then it started again in
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Norway when I was about fifteen years old. money you had, or how much money you attained. After you die, you go to the place that is the sum of everything you did in And what happened? your life that was the right thing when it came to love. It's all about love. It's all about choosing that over power. I would be lying in my bed. I was into Osho at the time. Do you love what you're doing? Which is? I do to a certain extent. I guess I'm in acting because there's He was a guru guy from India…I would listen to these tapes, something I have to learn from it. It's a tough career, and there meditation tapes, and they would tell you how to visualize is a lot of hard work that goes behind it. something outside your body to be able to leave your body. And I started getting out-of-body experiences with these tech- Like what? Most people don't think about that. niques. And by the way, everyone has out-of-body experiences. Well, you've gotta work your ass off to get a job. And when you How do you know? get the job, it could be a great job, but as soon as that job is over, you have to work your ass off again to Because everyone has them in their get another. It's never a sure thing, sleep. it's not an everyday stability thing. It's emotionally very tiring and drain- So you believe your soul leaves ing. That's why a lot of actors turn to you when you sleep? pills and drugs, because that's how they cope. They have to cope with the It's not that the soul leaves you. I ethics of our business, too. word it differently. It's more like It's just cutthroat. It's very political. you go to another dimension…if you can imagine something, it exists. If Are you? you can imagine yourself successful in a job, that reality exists. If you No. I'm an actor on the other side can imagine heaven, it means that where I just have to sell my talent. somehow, that reality is manifest- ed. If there is a consciousness The write-ups I've seen about imagining anything, it will eventu- you make it seem like it was easy ally manifest, because the physical for you! The Maxim spread, for universe is a manifestation of some- instance, definitely makes it thing that has already happened. seem like you walked right in and they said, "You're hired." Were you brought up under a particular tradition? Are you crazy? I've been in the busi- Natassia (right) with Michelle Rodriguez and friend ness for seven years. I didn't work for My mother is Christian, and she's three years because I wasn't emotion- very spiritual. But there's a differ- ally ready for the business. I was going ence between doing something that has been conditioned for through things where I had to grow up…a transition from you to do and actually finding something in the physical world. teenage years to womanhood…and it was tougher than for most girls, maybe because I had moved to a foreign country where I It's like growing out of old pairs of shoes. I believe in past lives. had no family. And when I first got here, I couldn't fucking get I think it takes a lot of lifetime's to learn what I'm here to learn. a job, because I was still figuring out the town, figuring out the culture, figuring out a whole new way of life. How far along are you? How did you support yourself? There's no way of knowing exactly, but I think you can measure it by observing people's actions. I think politicians are souls I did modeling. That's why I got into it. I went to eight to twelve that are not that developed. I know they're not, because of their castings a day. It's a fucking full-time job. actions and the way they think. They should be the smartest motherfuckers, and very impressive in certain ways, but as far So what was your progression? as being evolved… I came from Norway, went to London for musical theatre That's actually a very old religion idea, in the Eastern school, moved back to Norway for dance school and college, traditions and Calvinism. back to London, and then I went for Christmas vacation in Canada, where I met an acting agent at a party. It's logic, really. When you die, you do not die with how many movies you made, or how famous you became, or how much Just by luck?
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No, it wasn't by luck. I always knew I wanted to do it. I am very progressive. I find my doorways to what I want to do. You have to be so open-minded, so when the door is there, you can see it and open it. If you are a person who's so set in your ways, you won't be able to see those opportunities or those doors. But luckily, I would see them, open them, and I would leave things behind and sacrifice them. I did a lot of bit parts. And I hate auditions. I just don't like walking into a room and boasting. It's a very uncomfortable area for me. It took me years to get over that. It's not about getting a job. It's about getting through the audition process, getting up and performing in front of peo- ple, and there are a lot of things that go into play. So when you get a big job, it is a reward for going through all those things. I think that every actor would agree to that.
Looking at your website, I was just thinking about how different what you're saying is from what people are saying about you. You've gotta work your ass off to get a job. And when you get the job, it could be a great job, but as soon as that job is over, you have to work your ass off again to get another.
When I look at movies about evil, good, bad, whatever, those Well, you know, people just put shit in their magazines to sell things are deluding your own mind and your own imagination. them. I think thoughts are extremely powerful. And people could be playing black thoughts on each other all day long. And those Tell me a little bit about Elektra. thoughts-the witches, the broom, you know-that are soiled with these aspects of your evil side could develop. It's very hard to Typhoid Mary [my character] is a schizophrenic, multiple-per- explain. Walt Disney talks about black magic. I remember sonality kind of girl. The character hasn't fully come out in the going to Disneyland and thinking, this doesn't seem like it's comic book. But they're showing her dark side in Elektra. from a positive force. It seems like it's a manipulative, dark Typhoid Mary is a sexy villain character, and she goes to kill force that's being worked through Disneyland into children. Elektra. But you'll have to see the movie to find out what hap- And it looks great on the outside, and it's "really really fun" and pens. all that stuff, but there is something dark about it, like the haunted house. There is a world out there that is filled with What do you think of superheroes, and of movies like entities and spirits, and that is putting that reality in some- Daredevil, Elektra, and even Star Wars-things intend- body's consciousness. ed to be fantasy? Do you think people in Hollywood go out of their way I think fantasy and what's intended to be fantasy are ways to get to find that dark side? through to people. And it can come out in the form of Tinkerbell, it can come out in the form of a wizard. A wizard, to No, I don't think people are aware of it at all. Nobody thinks me, is someone who knows a lot about black and white magic. about it, because they just accept our world as it is and just go There are spiritual aspects to these comic book lives or Walt along and kind of sleep through it. They become a product and Disney movies or whatever. I see these Disney movies and I a puppet to this reality. think that they're linked to the "lower axle" world. I don't think they're actually that positive for kids. When I watched Walt Do you know your destiny? Do you think you know Disney movies when I was young, I learned fear in a greater your destiny? Or, what would you want it to be, if way. If there was a witch, you'd feel the evil side of human there is that element of choice involved? nature through that. It's like planting scenes in a very young child. And there is good and bad that goes with that. People I know that I have things to work through, but I think that our say, "Oh, it's only a cartoon! It's fairy tales!" But these are destiny is to get through our personal needs and being more scenes that kids grow up with. like a vehicle for a higher power, the light and sound, God, whatever. I think our destiny and our journey is to become How did you overcome the fear? Were you immune to awakened so that we are having human experiences and under- it, and would that have to do with your religious ideas? standing who we really are.
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In Defense Of Good Fiction
~by Chris Zappone New York, NY
ou do love good fiction. You've read modern clas- We live in a world of con- sics with zeal. You have some favorite authors- although most are probably deceased. When finish- stant news, entertain- ing a good novel you're excited enough about it, you y almost feel the need to call up and tell a friend. ment and distraction. And yet new fiction is usually a task to read. Yet for all fiction's Like submitting yourself to the tyranny of another's imagina- tion. Instead of being invited in, entertained, enthralled, you're escapist potential, few made to wait patiently for the point of the narrative. The author makes few concessions to the reader who is just looking for a books today seek the arc good story. across disparate details Maybe you check out the fiction after everything else in a jour- nal or magazine. Maybe you leave it sitting unread. In either that is imperative for a case, at times you find yourself wondering what happened to un-self-conscious, entertaining, engaging fiction. Works like unified view of the world. the masters': Fitzgerald, Dos Passos, Steinbeck, Thomas Wolfe, Hemingway. Fiction that engaged the world and spoke to everyone. “The revolt against form and 'story' is, in one of its aspects, an effort to abolish the audience,” the poet and critic Malcolm Cowley wrote in 1978. Cowley, who came of age in the Lost Generation and lived long enough to watch fiction retreat into the universities, knew what he was talking about. Today, judging from literature's role in society, the revolt appears to have been successful. But it hasn't been confined to form and stories; it includes subject and scope, too. Readers today encounter fiction that matters little to the world in which we live. The result, of course, is that fiction has finished last in its popu- larity contest against “plug-in entertainment.” at least since the
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since the dawn of the television. Publisher's Weekly, the book writers, university writing programs look like the most sensible business's trade journal, has made plain that the mark of suc- and legitimate means to learn about the composing and pub- cess for a tome these days is the speed with which it is turned lishing processes. They end up effectively insulating young into a movie. Reprehensible is that the public-and more so, the writers from their failures (for better and for worse) by shifting authors-tolerate such a trend. the focus: it all becomes starts to seem like par for the course, But why shouldn't they? Many a writer, having grown and as such, deserves to be mastered. The system in place up during film's heyday, has adapted him- or her- self to the seems designed to validate a person's desire to be considered a moviegoer's sensibility rather than reader's. The irony, of “writer”-no matter how solid or porous the writing. course, is that will never be so subtle a communicator as litera- The products of every MFA program are far from uni- ture. The best writing's capacity to communicate a complex form. Yet when they encourage the sharing of writing among and meaningful story surpasses even the greatest film's. peers, they can create shared expectations-as well as shared The written word introduces ideas alongside emotions taboos-about writing's form and content. Peculiarities and per- alongside memory and logic. Reading is an active process, as sonal prejudices are sanded away, so that the quality of the opposed to an exercise in watching. Details and snippets per- writing left in their wake reads more smoothly but feels artifi- sist in the reader's memory, revealing their relevance over time. cial. Such fiction becomes its own genre: it is no longer private, Thus is literature the stealthy stimulant of the mind. It remains internal, shorn of worldliness, and small in intent as well as alive indefinitely in the imagination. delivery. Considering fiction specifically, it demands more from The teachers in these programs are often expert writ- the reader than, say, film, which unspools identically before ers whose names aren't household-famous, and they eschew every viewer's eyes. The encounter between reader and story is cramming rules down their students' throats. But pressure to a vital and multi-tiered imaginative act, occurring simultane- conform comes from fellow students, who are ultimately writ- ously on many levels-the emotional, psychological, linguistic, ing (at least subconsciously) for the audience sitting in the philosophical, and moral. Every additional dimension ensures nearby faculty lounge. The major problem with such an that fiction engages more intimately with the reader, more per- arrangement is that the work cannot be as messy, inconsistent, sonally. perhaps objectionable, and profoundly intimate as they need to be. Peers vetting one another's creative output is a sure-fire * way to bleed away a work's vitality. A sentence can be dissected and picked apart at the university Instead of confronting the real world or setting off on writing programs where a great many fiction authors today adventures whose outcomes they cannot fully foresee, writing learn their “craft” today. Pulsing at the core of every writing program graduate students enter the most staid and riskless program is the notion that people can refine their raw talent environments of the university. By contrast, American fiction and develop style and skill as eager students. used to be known for engaging the nation to tell the stories bub- Consider, for example, the University of Iowa's bling up out of its dynamic culture. The material safety and Writing Workshop: the “Philosophy” published on its Internet social isolation that universities offer steep writers in caution. website reads in part: They still the writer's soul. “Though we agree in part with the popular insistence that * writing cannot be taught, we exist and proceed on the assump- We live in a world of constant news, entertainment and distrac- tion that talent can be developed, and we see our possibilities tion. The ability to turn away from it, to recede into oneself - and limitations as a school in that light. If one can "learn" to into a world of story and character that is complete and deep- play the violin or to paint, one can "learn" to write, though no should be of greatest interest now. Yet for all fiction's escapist processes of externally induced training can ensure that one potential, few books today seek the arc across these disparate will do it well. details that is imperative for a unified view of the world. Writers craft either literary tours de force that tend to be at Accordingly, the fact that the Workshop can claim as once beautiful and overwrought, or worlds so lovingly shaped alumni nationally and internationally prominent poets, novel- by the author's own emotions that reader attention seems ists, and short story writers is, we believe, more the result of superfluous. Stylistic excesses obliterate plot while witty liter- what they brought here than of what they gained from us. We ary devices trample moral concerns. continue to look for the most promising talent in the country, in How did fiction get here? our conviction that writing cannot be taught but that writers The “getting published” industry (as distinguished can be encouraged.” from the publishing industry, in which it adoringly resides) To summarize: Writing can be taught, but writing well brings with it a world of conferences and seminars and one-day can't. The bigger names associated with our program brought classes and “boot camps” and celebrity editors for hire and their talent with them. And on second thought, writing can't be everything else other than the thankless, ennobling task of taught, but it can be encouraged. working on one's writing. When one of the most prestigious and oldest writing Such diversions undermine writers. They prey on authors' programs in the country admits it can't turn everyday people aspirations while commodifying the pursuit of publication. A into good writers you would think aspiring writers might avoid greater danger comes from the array of superfluous goals. such courses. Instead, they continue flocking to Iowa and They're detours and sidetracks from what should be the writer's Johns Hopkins and the many other university writing pro- central objective: getting read. A potential enrollee should ask, grams nationwide. For young people with the desire to become have the rise of the programs and classes coincided with a great
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period in literature? Of course not. The world's greatest fiction came about before fictions was even considered “craft.” The fault, however, can't just be laid at the feet of the MFA programs and how-to seminars. McCarthyism raised the specter of writers being called to account and punished for what they wrote. Although it's easy enough to be an active writer without being a Communist, students of history will remember that a writer didn't need to be guilty of communism in order to be blacklisted. Writers in the 1950s learned that writing about the wide world meant making value judgments about society, MISERY INDEX politics, economics and the world as they found it. Making By Alexander Levering Kern value judgments turned out to be a dangerous practice, as many Newton, MA blacklisted writers could attest. But elder writers didn't need to warn younger writers. The generation that came of age following the McCarthy Era, I hate reading which includes writers such as John Updike, kept their fiction personal. They kept the scope inward. Even supposedly anti- the contributors’ notes war war writers such as Kurt Vonnegut and Joseph Heller in all those big literary mags learned to critique power obliquely. The New Yorker-style he said story went from being one showcase of fiction among many, to the standard style for all: personal, insulated, unconcerned you know, the ones with the world at-large. with all those poets There has fiction since remained: in the pages of the who get published New Yorker, in the lounges of the creative writing programs, in in the big literary mags. one-day workshops given by unknown authors, in the small lit- erary journals. With the exception of the million copies Tom Wolfe sells of each novel he publishes (and yes, there's a lesson So why do you do it then? in his ability to connect with the larger public), fiction is not she said. exactly front and center in modern American cultural life. Not like movies. Not like TV. I don’t know But our culture is turning a corner. It is in a crisis. People are he said. looking for answers in ways and places they haven't for decades. They want to recognize themselves and their times in real world tales, sense that the moral and tangible are at stake. I suppose Add to this the clamor of our 24-hour Plug-In culture. the same reason The endless car chases, fiery explosions, the multi-media spe- I turn first cial effect extravaganzas. The endless spectacles begin to in the morning paper resemble each other; they numb our senses. As these two forces-the crisis and the numbing of our to the obituaries senses-bear down on us, creating an appetite for stories of and then to depth and engagement for this violent, beautiful world, we the want ads. desire again for vital fiction to thrive again. The only question is: will anyone want to write it?
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My Two Cents
determination “interesting enough for publication” is a func- tion of marketing rather than editorial. Someone, after all, WritersWriters Shouldn'tShouldn't must have thought the piece deserved to be written. It has been said that writers are arrogant by definition: they believe their notions warrant the testing of time. CareCare Thus it falls to Editors-in-Chief (or Managing Editors, Executive Editors, Editorial Directors or, by any other title, the arbiters of content) to straddle the line between lead editor and WhatWhat EditorsEditors LikeLike lead marketer in determining what will spark the most interest within a publication's niche audience. None, however, is infal- (Since Excellent Editors Don't Either) lible, despite their resignation to bear the weight of the decision whether or not to publish. Editors don't simply divvy up their red pens' workload: by fusing the objectives of author and pub- lication, they transcend both from interesting to fascinating, ~by Jonathon Scott Feit from good to excellent. New York, NY * To brashly condemn all less-than-perfect editing to the same heap by way of distinction, excellent editing is no gift, thankful- ly, and only barely a talent. No child is born with an innate and profound grasp of grammar, structure, and best-word choice, even though some people are raised with-and so often develop- a heightened capacity for languages, attention to details, and other left-brain functions. Excellent editing is, rather, a skill finely attuned; as such, it can be honed, stylized for method, and tailored to context. The latter characteristic is excellent editing's sine qua non-the quin- he old school journalistic standards of attribution tessential aspect without which it simply could not be “excel- and inquiry-Who?, What?, Where?, When?, Why?, lent.” Careful consideration of context breeds textual criticism and How?-are equally relevant for both magazine that respects and appreciates the intentions of both publication and newspaper writing. But while Sergeant Joe and author. It also negates any possibility of standardization, t Friday may have wanted “just the facts, Ma'am,” so that with attention and purpose, a Lewis Carroll or an e. e. and the New York Times concerns itself with “all the news that's cummings can bend language to his or her will. fit to print,” magazine journalism is free to be far more person- Borrowing the term that Stephen King uses throughout his al. News reporting is supposed to banish the author-as-individ- guidebook On Writing, the ability to obsess, simultaneously, ual; op-ed pieces are distinguished from news by the bias that is over the piece, the author, and the publication as a whole, is the their lifeblood. The utter impersonality of news reporting is a most important fixture of the editor's “toolkit.” The importance small price to pay for readers' confidence that writer's handi- of context of course inheres inconsistency; any attempt to work will only peek through the words where unavoidable (for delineate editorial rules per se would be hypocritical, because example, the selection of quotations). every genre, topic, and venue must be catered-to. Traditional journalistic standards ensure that literary jour- Editors, therefore, must be prepared for an awesome and nalism-however anecdotal or reflective-does not deteriorate too-often under-explicated responsibility when they sign up for into a public diary. Four of five “W”s ground writing in the their jobs. They should be armed with an intimidating com- Aristotelian Unities of time, place, and action. But Why? mand of language: how else will writers and higher-ups in the invites the individual in, places a soapbox at his feet and a bull- editorial ladder be able to instinctively trust their judgments? horn in her hand. Priorities while editing the “Why?” shift from They should dedicate at least a modicum-and ideally, an abun- the enforcement of objective rules like usage, style, length, clar- dance-of time and heart to getting-to-know their writers, pho- ity, and tone to subjective justification-in other words, in the tographers and artists, critics and reviewers, storytellers and editor's opinion, does anybody care? poets, so that when the background of each shines or leaks The unwary editor finds him- or her- self in the awkward through his or her work, the editor can identify and mitigate or position of having to guess whether a piece will be broadly highlight (as necessary) a piece's anecdotal quality. interesting, not just well-written. Is the investigative piece They should know their publication's tastes, styles, tones, sourced thoroughly and properly-but is it also timely? Does and objectives through-and-through, because excellent editing each anecdote and fictional tale have a vital and personally should not reveal the fingerprint of the editor: every excellent identifiable “hook”? Is the humor underlying the satire more editor is an extension of and a gateway into a particular publi- than mere idiosyncrasy; do tragic stories veritably bleed senti- cation. Yet the excellent editor feels no compulsion to infuse ment? him- or her- self into the work as it develops. Indeed, the oppo- Nowhere is the consideration “Do I like the piece?” A ten- site is true: the prime editorial concerns when tweaking a work person editorial staff may have at least that many opinions are the publication's interests, the author's intentions, and the regarding a piece's level of personal interest. And anyway, the objective standards of language.
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image essay punc’t
“En- and Em- Dashes” by Todd St. John C 83 CM issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:21 PM Page 84
image essay by Michael Bierut “Semicolon”
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image essay Punc’t putting punctuation in its place
It’s time we put punctuation where it belongs. Punctuation is lan- guage’s dirty little secret. It’s the tail that wags the dog. It’s the vast conspiracy of silly little marks that’s held meaning hostage for centuries. Well it’s time we rise up and Wght the oppression punctuation has lorded over our inalienable right to self-expres- sion. We should burn the apostrophe in eYgy. And trash the dash. We should take a stick to the caret, interrogate the question mark, and stop listening to what quotation marks have to say.
Punctuation needs to be dragged out of its ivory tower and made to suVer like the rest of us. Punctuation is either part of the problem or part of the solution, and brothers and sisters, from where I sit, it looks like the problem. So unite! Unshackle yourselves from the tyranny of the tilde. Tell the hyphen to take a hike. Let’s string up the colon by its little balls! It’s time to kick some asterisk!
Exhibition conceived by David Schimmel of & Partners New York, NY C 85 CM issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:22 PM Page 86
image essay “Comma” by Paula Scher by Woody Pirtle “Asterisk” by Chip Kidd “Hyphen”
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image essay by Seymour Chwast by David Schimmel “Parentheses” “Ampersand” c by Mirko Ili´ “At symbol”
“Colon” by Kent Hunter C 87 CM issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:22 PM Page 88
image essay by Carin Goldberg “Ellipsis”
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image essay
“Apostrophe” by Stefan Sagmeister and Matthias Erreanstberger
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image essay by Emily Oberman and Bonnie Siegler “Number/Pound Sign”
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image essay
“Question Mark” by Steff Geissbuhler
C 91 CM issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:23 PM Page 92 issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:23 PM Page 93 comingNEXT MONTH
THE TTRRAAVVEELL && LLEEIISSUURREE ISSUE
~ What it takes to bring the 2012 Olympics to New York City ~ Profile of a female boxing star, in time for Million Dollar Baby ~ The team that just can’t beat the Harlem Globetrotters + More of the unique interviews you expect from CCM! photo & art credits
P. 5: J.S. FEIT / CCM; P. 6: J. S. FEIT / CCM; P. 16: DANIEL BRUNNER / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 12: JEFF PIERSON / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 13: IZABELA HABUR / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 14: BRYCE KROLL / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 20: BOBBIE OSBORNE / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 22: LOUIS AGUINALDO / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 23: MATT EGGINTON / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 27: AMANDA ROHDE / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 29: ROBERTA OSBORNE / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 30: LISA MCDONALD / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 32: BOB DENELZEN / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 34: BEN THOMAS / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 35: PETER CHEN / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 36: TAYLOR RENFORTH / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 38: DANIELLE GRIEPP; P. 40: DANIELLE GRIEPP; P. 42: NATHAN BLANEY / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 44-45: KIM SOHEE / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 52-53: MATTHEW SEPTIMUS / COURTESY OF MOMA NEW YORK CITY; P. 54-55: DRAWING: ESTATE OF YVES TANGUY / SUCCESSIÓ MIRÓ / MAN RAY TRUST / ARTISTS RIGHTS SOCIETY (NEW YORK) / ADAGP (PARIS) / COURTESY OF MOMA NEW YORK CITY; CHAIR: COURTESY OF MOMA NEW YORK CITY; ROSES: COURTESY OF MOMA NEW YORK CITY; P. 56: THOMAS BROSTROM / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 58-59: EMANUELE GNANI / ISTOCKPHOTO; P. 70-72: CLAUDETTE BARIUS / COURTESY OF FOX SEARCHLIGHT; P. 73: COURTESY OF MARA LANE; P. 74: COURTESY OF JEFF RAYMOND / PYR; P. 75: COURTESY OF MARA LANE; P. 76: COURTESY OF NATASSIA MALTHE; P. 77: DOANE GREGORY / COURTESY OF 20TH CENTURY FOX; P. 83-91: COURTESY OF NINA PAPER AND & PARTNERS / PUNC'T; P. 93: DANIELLE GRIEPP P. 94: COURTESY OF ERIC UTNE. corrections from issue 3 THE PHOTO FOR ISSUE #3’S “LETTER TO THE E-IN-C” SHOULD BE CREDITED TO ALAN SOLLOF. THE UNCREDITED MODEL FEATURED IN THE PHOTO SPREAD FOR “THE GOLDEN CAGE”(PGS. 50-53) IS LINDA JOHNSON. issue 4.qxd 12/29/04 7:23 PM Page 94
on a lighter note
A Book by a Bird Gives New Meaning to “Literary Flights of Fancy”
nowing that I was to interview Eric Utne, who founded the magazine that bears his name and which has managed to become a cornerstone of some American communities while remaining vir- k tually unknown to others, inspired mental images of liberalism personified. I confess: I was a stereo- typer. But Cosmo Doogoood—bless his dovetailed heart—cured me my affliction! Utne Magazine—born The Utne Reader—is and has always been a free-spirited publication concerned with the “popular underground”; think of it as a twenty year-old blog in hard copy. To describe the ideological intentions of the maga- zine that his wife Nina now helms, Utne borrows the old German “Greens” party: “Neither left nor right but in front.” (It cannot help his centrist aspirations that Utne is published, uniquely, in Minneapolis, in the same state that saw a governor in a loud, Libertarian, former professional wrestler.) I expected a man who would be aptly described as “crunchy,” like the granola he would eat and the little leaves that would be stuck to his sweater from last tree he hugged. Perhaps someone disheveled, an unlikely executive taken by surprise when he long ago came upon an idea that others thought was good and necessary. Imagine my surprise when the first descriptor that popped to mind upon meeting Eric was patrician. Tall and serious, with a sense of humor that eventu- ally showed itself (over the course of an hour) to be wry and dry, Utne is the publishing world's equivalent of Seinfeld: the cre- gets a bad rap. But by press time, its 300+ pages had grown ative everyman who sees everyday life as an intellectual joke. into a compendium of facts, figures, quotes, and whole meals- In the context of Eric Utne, Cosmo Doogood's Urban for-thought to supersede the pristinely simple proverbs of Poor Almanac, a self-published update of Benjamin Franklin's alter Richard's Almanac. ego Poor Richard's Almanac, makes sense. Self-published is, it That original version was an annual publication produced turns out (at least for Utne, who hopes we'll take his humor for between 1732 and 1757, yet the urban update is decidedly 21st- a ride) something of a misnomer: sure, Utne scouted the writ- century. Like every almanac, it tabulates celestial events, ers, paid for the printing, and is making rounds-about the including sunrise and sunset times and the phases of the moon. country to promote the book. But its masthead credits Utne Nevertheless, the most intriguing element of Cosmo Doogood's only as the volume's editor, while Comso Dogood is listed as its Urban Almanac is its sheer variety of content. Following sixty- founder; what book has a “founder”? “Who is Cosmo five pages of reflection on the nature and meaning of city life, Doogood?” I asked with a genuine combination of confusion the book veers heavenward and becomes a New Age spiritual and curiosity. smorgasbord. Blurbs explore the United Nations' Literacy Day “Cosmo Doogood is a pigeon,” responded the father and and the naming of the bikini; tables and graphs document the namesake of Utne Magazine and its corresponding educational major American diet fads and the relationship between drink Institute, pictured above-right. “Cosmo Doogood is the nom de number and blood alcohol content. A daily calendar integrates plumage of the reincarnated spirit of Ben Franklin.” horoscopes with a lived-experience version of Buddhism's Eightfold Path. * Utne-Doogood's invitation to experiment and discover the personally resonant instead of the complacent mainstream is Cosmo Dogood's Urban Almanac is indeed—pardon the the essence of the Urban Almanac's tripartite motto: “Look pun—a strange bird. The tome is intended to mesh the up,” and place faith in astrology as well as the wonder of “tongue-in-cheek” with the “need to know,” according to Utne. nature's endless cycle. “Look out” to situate oneself in the nat- It originally started as a means by which to regain appreciation ural and social worlds. “Look in,” to know one's own body, for that scourge of clean clothed city dwelling, Columba (or mind, styles of living and working-plus in Cosmo's case, how to Columbia) livia—the common city pigeon—which Utne feels type with talons. ~ J.S.F.
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