Normally I spend countless hours carefully handcrafting the articles you read on NoChance (or at least keeping the whip hovering over the heads of the Malaysian children I have working for me) but some urgent matters have come to the forefront which demand my immediate attention. A writer’s work is never done…sigh.
*Some reader mail: For those of you who may have missed it, NoChancer Heather from the great state of Texas (a.k.a. Mexico part 2) had a follow-up question to the tattoo article. Here’s the essence of the response:
"I think I would have to add one obnoxious question to your list though... this is the one that gets me themost. "So, what does it mean?" I probably asked you that about your first one way back in the day, but I have become much more older, wiser and more tattooed since then, so I'll just skip the apology. Also, I have no problem with friends asking me this, but strangers... WTF! To me asking what the tattoo means or why I chose the ones I did is fine from friends but from perfect strangers it seems like a very personal question. It is along the lines of "so, what kind of person are you, anyway?" or"do you believe in god?"
Preach on sister! In order to address the “what does it mean” dilemma we have to consider both sides of the question. On the one hand, it’s like asking “what’s art?” one of those questions posed to hopelessly enthusiastic freshman in humanities classes (oh the good old days). Tattoos can be intensely personal and symbolic, or simply serve the same aesthetic function as a Rothko painting. In the spirit of full disclosure, all the tattoos on my sleeve are taken directly from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. The large flaming-headed demon on my forearm is named dharmamahakalapala, and for those scoring at home my spellcheck just has an aneurysm. He’s the guardian spirit of the Dharma (the Bible of Buddhism) and also the protector of the East. Plus he looks badass. So basically he’s the badass guardian of words that come from the East, rather appropriate for yours truly, no?
On the other hand, some tattoos are stupid and meaningless; don’t be afraid to think so. When I lived in San Diego, I knew I guy who had an enormous crying clown tattooed on his leg. What could have possibly been the story there!? “My dad was a circus clown who died one morning in a terrible pie accident, so I got this tattoo to memorialize him?” “I love clowns, but I hate happiness, so I got this crying clown tattoo to properly express the paradox that is my soul?” It wasn’t just a tattoo, it was his entire leg. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times, people are stupid. You read this column, so you’re obviously at the apex of intelligence. Use your best judgement; if it feels appropriate, ask someone about the meaning of their tattoo, you just may get a fascinating story. And if they have a huge crying clown make a mental note, and then rush home and write me so NoChanceNation can collectively mock them. I love reader mail!
* On a completely different note…there’s no way to say this without sounding like the epitome of LA, so I’m just going to go for it. I met someone famous, actually infamous would be the proper term. That’s right, I met Mike Tyson. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life. There is an endless parade of minor celebrities in my gym desperately working the elliptical machine like their career depended on it (I’m looking at you cast of Real World/Road Rules Challenge), but a bonafide celebrity is rare. The sequence of events was completely ordinary; I’m walking to the squat rack, the large black man in front of turns around, his face is tattooed, and it was Mike Tyson. Sometimes you see a celebrity and there’s that moment of “Is that? Could it be? Oh my God it is.” This was not one of those moments. This was more like the type of “Sweet Jesus that’s Mike Tyson” moment that gazelles must feel right before they spot a lion creeping towards the watering hole. It was all I could do not to pee my pants. He was surprisingly calm, like he was on serious psychological medication calm, but I was ready to run at any moment. He could have pulled a trident out of his gym bag and speared Jeff Goldblum and I wouldn’t have been surprised. We were essentially face to face when he asked me something in such a soft voice I had to ask him to say it again.
“How are you?” asked the former heavyweight champion of the world.
“Um, I’m fine, how are you,” I responded numbly. It would later dawn on me that this was an extraordinarily dangerous question to ask someone who once bit another man’s ear off, but it only seemed polite at the time.
“I’m wonderful, just wonderful,” lisped Iron Mike, “it’s important to be wonderful, are you wonderful.”
“Um, yeah, sure, I’m wonderful,” I responded. At his point every moment I was still alive was a wonderful moment.
“Good, I want you to be wonderful,” said Mike as he walked away to do some sit-ups.
That was it. Nothing spectacular, but I can legitimately say I’ve never been so terrified of another human being in my life. My heart was racing for an hour afterwards. And one last bit of tattoo advice, someone with their face tattooed has officially announced that they have no chance of joining the normal world, not even for a moment. Mike Tyson is so far outside the normal world he makes Flava Flav look like Tom Hanks. I’m not sure that analogy technically makes sense, but you get the idea.
I’ll post a more worldy relevant article next week, that is if Tyson hasn’t hunted me down and eaten my unborn children. That’s basically a direct quote, he actually threatened another boxer with such a fate during a pre-fight press conference. God, I feel so blessed just to be alive right now. Until we meet again…
NoChancer Headlines
Friday, March 9, 2007
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Ink You Very Much
Here at NoChance we’re committed to not only entertaining you with tales of Hollywood happenings and removed organs, but we also strive to provide our readers with thoughtful and balanced information. And when I say “we”, I mean myself, and the magical elves that sneak into my room late at night to write articles. I firmly believe that knowledge is peace, and that the more we know about each other the better the world will be. Also, a lot of people make me angry when they ask me stupid questions, and that needs to stop. So in the spirit of inclusion and harmony I present:
The Average Person’s Guide to Dealing with Tattooed People
In this handy-dandy little guide I’ll answer some frequently asked questions and review some protocol for dealing with those who are tattooed. The first step is to figure out where you belong. Are you a tattooed person?
Do you have a small turtle inked on your ankle from a spring break in Mexico? Then no, you’re not, and there are probably some embarrassing videos of you on the Internet. Do you have barbwire around your bicep? Then no, you’re not, and steroids have shrunken your testicles to the size of raisins. If neither of these scenarios describes you, than congratulations, you’ve done something right with your life.
Still not sure where you fit? If you’re routinely asked about your tattoos by strangers, than you are, and if not, than you just might be annoying the bejeezus out of others (like say, Nathan Richards Slavik). I’ll also try to let you in on a little bit of inside information that you can use to ridicule people who think they’re cool because of their lame tattoos. Think of this like a public service announcement, I’m in negotiations with Al Gore to do a documentary.
Question 1: “Did it hurt”?
Jesus Christ on a bicycle! Yes it hurts! When you’re tattooed a needle (which can range from the size of a highlighter to a pin) repeatedly punctures the layers of skin directly below the surface. That’s not pleasant. Some parts of the body hurt worse than others, the general rule is the more skin you can pinch the more it will hurt. For example, the inside of your arm hurts far more than the outside. The next time you see a “barb-wire around the bicep” guy, check to see if the ink extends completely around his arm. If the ink is incomplete than he’s a wuss who’s obviously overcompensating for something. Feel free to share your observations with him.
Also parts of the body that don’t have much protection at all (ribs, elbows, collarbone, etc.) are routinely the worst. It’s not so much that the pain is excruciating, as you have to overcome your instincts. When a needle is being driven into your elbow every nerve in your body wants to jump away, it’s exhausting to stay still. That punk kid on the bus who thinks he’s hardcore because of the star tattoo on his arm (that conveniently goes around his elbow but not directly on it)? Call his mom, he’s probably late for piano lessons.
Question 2: “Who did your tattoos? Can you hook me up?”
This is like walking up to grizzled crackhead and asking, “Where’d you get that crack? Can you hook me up?” If you don’t already have a dealer than a true crackhead isn’t going to point you to the good stuff, and he’s certainly not going to share his own stash. Tattooing is a unique art form in that it involves a contract between two people: you need the artist to get tattooed, and the artist needs your skin/canvas to practice his/her art. It’s a partnership. Most tattoo shops operate under the partnership principle. If you bring an artist a piece that they can be genuinely excited about or that you worked on together, the tattoo’s price will be minimal. Artists make their money by overcharging people who bring them typical and boring tattoos (hello sorority girl with flower tattoo). Just like I imagine a crack dealer would take one look at me, assume I have no real idea about the market price of a crack rock, and charge me double. You’d be surprised how useful crack can be in various analogies.
Question 3: “Can I see your tattoos?”
This is by far the most innocuous but most aggravating question, and I hear it all the time. I now routinely cover my tattoos in unfamiliar situations. The demand is a very abrupt invasion of my personal space, yet if I were to say, “No, you can’t look at my tattoos,” people would think I’m a jerk. In other contexts you can’t just approach strangers and ask them to show you their bodies. Here’s the best analogy I can come up with, and no it doesn’t involve narcotics. It actually involves imagining myself as a woman (I think my mother may be starting to get worried.)
Let’s say you decide to really get in shape, and you work out every day. After a while you start looking pretty good. Sure enough, summer comes along and you think “you know, I usually wear one piece bathing suits, but this summer I’m feeling so cinfudent about myself I’m gonna wear a bikini.” If a friend or family member were to compliment you on the new look, you’d feel pretty good, but that doesn’t mean you want every guy on the beach coming up to you and asking to see your breasts. Think about that the next time you’re tempted to talk to someone about their ink. And if you’re the type of person who just routinely asks people to expose themselves anyway, there’s nothing I can do. May I recommend a barb-wire tattoo.
I hope this little tutorial has taught you how to deal better with tattooed people, or given you ammunition to more effectively mock them. You know, either one. Because here at NoChance we’re determined to change the world, one convoluted, rambling, barely read article at a time.
The Average Person’s Guide to Dealing with Tattooed People
In this handy-dandy little guide I’ll answer some frequently asked questions and review some protocol for dealing with those who are tattooed. The first step is to figure out where you belong. Are you a tattooed person?
Do you have a small turtle inked on your ankle from a spring break in Mexico? Then no, you’re not, and there are probably some embarrassing videos of you on the Internet. Do you have barbwire around your bicep? Then no, you’re not, and steroids have shrunken your testicles to the size of raisins. If neither of these scenarios describes you, than congratulations, you’ve done something right with your life.
Still not sure where you fit? If you’re routinely asked about your tattoos by strangers, than you are, and if not, than you just might be annoying the bejeezus out of others (like say, Nathan Richards Slavik). I’ll also try to let you in on a little bit of inside information that you can use to ridicule people who think they’re cool because of their lame tattoos. Think of this like a public service announcement, I’m in negotiations with Al Gore to do a documentary.
Question 1: “Did it hurt”?
Jesus Christ on a bicycle! Yes it hurts! When you’re tattooed a needle (which can range from the size of a highlighter to a pin) repeatedly punctures the layers of skin directly below the surface. That’s not pleasant. Some parts of the body hurt worse than others, the general rule is the more skin you can pinch the more it will hurt. For example, the inside of your arm hurts far more than the outside. The next time you see a “barb-wire around the bicep” guy, check to see if the ink extends completely around his arm. If the ink is incomplete than he’s a wuss who’s obviously overcompensating for something. Feel free to share your observations with him.
Also parts of the body that don’t have much protection at all (ribs, elbows, collarbone, etc.) are routinely the worst. It’s not so much that the pain is excruciating, as you have to overcome your instincts. When a needle is being driven into your elbow every nerve in your body wants to jump away, it’s exhausting to stay still. That punk kid on the bus who thinks he’s hardcore because of the star tattoo on his arm (that conveniently goes around his elbow but not directly on it)? Call his mom, he’s probably late for piano lessons.
Question 2: “Who did your tattoos? Can you hook me up?”
This is like walking up to grizzled crackhead and asking, “Where’d you get that crack? Can you hook me up?” If you don’t already have a dealer than a true crackhead isn’t going to point you to the good stuff, and he’s certainly not going to share his own stash. Tattooing is a unique art form in that it involves a contract between two people: you need the artist to get tattooed, and the artist needs your skin/canvas to practice his/her art. It’s a partnership. Most tattoo shops operate under the partnership principle. If you bring an artist a piece that they can be genuinely excited about or that you worked on together, the tattoo’s price will be minimal. Artists make their money by overcharging people who bring them typical and boring tattoos (hello sorority girl with flower tattoo). Just like I imagine a crack dealer would take one look at me, assume I have no real idea about the market price of a crack rock, and charge me double. You’d be surprised how useful crack can be in various analogies.
Question 3: “Can I see your tattoos?”
This is by far the most innocuous but most aggravating question, and I hear it all the time. I now routinely cover my tattoos in unfamiliar situations. The demand is a very abrupt invasion of my personal space, yet if I were to say, “No, you can’t look at my tattoos,” people would think I’m a jerk. In other contexts you can’t just approach strangers and ask them to show you their bodies. Here’s the best analogy I can come up with, and no it doesn’t involve narcotics. It actually involves imagining myself as a woman (I think my mother may be starting to get worried.)
Let’s say you decide to really get in shape, and you work out every day. After a while you start looking pretty good. Sure enough, summer comes along and you think “you know, I usually wear one piece bathing suits, but this summer I’m feeling so cinfudent about myself I’m gonna wear a bikini.” If a friend or family member were to compliment you on the new look, you’d feel pretty good, but that doesn’t mean you want every guy on the beach coming up to you and asking to see your breasts. Think about that the next time you’re tempted to talk to someone about their ink. And if you’re the type of person who just routinely asks people to expose themselves anyway, there’s nothing I can do. May I recommend a barb-wire tattoo.
I hope this little tutorial has taught you how to deal better with tattooed people, or given you ammunition to more effectively mock them. You know, either one. Because here at NoChance we’re determined to change the world, one convoluted, rambling, barely read article at a time.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
My Appendix and Me; a tragic love story
I’m missing an organ…well I wouldn’t say I’m missing it (thank you, I’ll be here all week, tip your waitress). For 24 years my appendix was a fully functioning member of the Nathan’s body family, and then it decided to pursue other opportunities. It was completely unexpected. I mean sure, we had our ups and downs, but what relationship doesn’t? It’s true my appendix never really did anything for me, he was more or less a stowaway, but sometimes late at night I wish we were still together. Not only do I miss the way he would snuggle against my (anatomy), but my life’s become much more complicated since we went our separate ways. This, this is our story.
ACT I: The Beginning of the End:
It all started so innocently. The girlfriend and I were an enjoying an afternoon out on the town when I started to get a stomachache, nothing special. A couple hours later it was worse, but I had promised my lady an elegant dinner (a.k.a. California Pizza Kitchen) and I wasn’t going to back down. Over the course of our culinary delight the pain had progressed to “stitch in your side after running” proportions, and I had to admit I was feeling sick. I went home, laid on the couch, and figured some alka-seltzer and 7-UP would do the job. It didn’t. The pain got sharper, and by midnight it felt like an angry dwarf was stabbing me with a pencil. Finally, I had no choice; I was headed to the hospital. I put on some sweatpants, woke up the girlfriend, and we were off. By the way, if you ever see me outside my apartment in sweatpants, that means I’m in trouble. Please, alert the proper authorities.
ACT II: In Which Our Differences Become Irreconcilable
I live in West Hollywood, which means I checked into the Max Factor wing of Cedar Sinai hospital. It was good to know that even though I might die, Max Factor would ensure the proper hue of blush would be applied to my still warm corpse. Waiting with us in the emergency room was a guy in a silk shirt who had busted his hand in a bar fight, accompanied by his hyperventilating girlfriend. “But look,” she’d beg the nurse” he’s bleeding! He’s gonna die!” I prayed the nurse would shove some Valium down her throat so we could all enjoy the fluorescent/antiseptic ambience of the waiting room in peace. After a brief exam I was shown to my room, or at least a gurney in the corner of the room, and told to wait. A doctor telling you to wait is like Hitler telling Stalin he won’t invade; deep down you know things are going to end horribly, but there’s nothing you can do but hang on and hope for the best.
(Let me pause to remind you that I’m telling you this in the spirit of cooperation. If a metaphorical angry dwarf starts stabbing you in the side with a pencil, this info is going to come in handy. If a literal angry dwarf starts stabbing you with a pencil, you’re out of luck. I doubt even the police can help you. Now, back to the hospital).
I had three major problems with the examination/surgery process:
1)The Happy Face Pain Scale – A nurse will ask you to rate your pain, from 1 to 10, and show you an accompanying range of sad/happy faces, just in cause you’re numerically illiterate. Simple right? No. They say “On a scale of one to ten, one being nothing and ten being the worst pain you can imagine, how bad is it?” Well, I have a pretty good imagination. My side hurt, but I’d imagine being slowly burned alive would be considerably worse, and getting shot in the hand’s probably not pleasant…by the time I was done imagining I had to rate my appendix a five. Big mistake, a five gets you ignored. I should have acted like the hyperventilating girlfriend in the waiting room; “Ten, Jesus Christ on a bicycle it’s a ten! Everything’s getting dark…momma I feel so cold.” Then maybe I wouldn’t have had to wait another eight hours before surgery.
2) The Impossible Task – The nurse makes it very clear that food and liquids are forbidden, then gives you a cup to pee in. I’ll give you a second to think about that. It’s just not gonna happen, it’s a simple input-output problem. Then the nurse glares at you and your empty cup like you’re holding out on her. Well maybe if you’d give me some goddamn water, we could talk business.
3) Um, Possibly, Maybe – The truth is no one knows why your appendix bursts, and more importantly if your appendix is the problem until they open you up.
The doctors will say, “Well, here’s the deal. It could be your appendix, in which case we’ll just cut it out. Or maybe it’s not, in which case we’ll spin a giant wheel, see which organ it points to, and cut that out. Ok? Just sign here, and here, and here.” An appendectomy forces you to give the green light to doctors who openly admit that they have no idea what’s going on. Oh, and if they don’t do anything you’ll die. Fantastic. This is really working out well for me.
Needless to say the surgery went fine and my appendix got the heck out of dodge. I’d go into more detail, but I was in a morphine haze for the next two days. For more details, check with the saintly girlfriend. She spent that time sleeping in chairs, dealing with a constantly rotating stream of Philippina nurses, and making sure my hospital gown didn’t reveal anything too sultry.
Act III: The Aftermath
They handed me the bill on the way out of the Versace recovery center. I had turned down a delicious breakfast of orange juice concentrate and a buttered roll, so factoring in those savings, the bill came out to a svelte $18,000 (or as I preferred to think about it, a million bazillion dollars). There was literally no way I could pay it. Unless I sold my organs on the black market, that would be ironic. Then, like a knight in shining armor, lung cancer came to my rescue. That’s right, lung cancer is my new best friend. About five years ago the State of California lead a class action lawsuit against Phillip Morris, everyone’s favorite maker of cigarettes and macaroni and cheese. Phillip Morris lost (those damn activist judges!) and was ordered to pay millions into a fund to cover healthcare costs for state residents. The bureaucracy involved in applying is a special circle of hell, but after four months of paperwork, Phillip Morris picked up the tab. God bless em. I went straight to the corner store and bought a pack, saluted, and threw the cigarettes in the trash. It’s times like these that I’m reminded of the words of Geronimo, the famous Indian warrior: “America is a crazy person.”
I wonder where my appendix is now. I like to think it made it out to Mexico, found a little resort town, started a carpentry business, and leads a simple happy life. If you’re ever traveling and see him, do me a favor; tell him I miss him, but I’m fine without him. I got the scars to prove it.
ACT I: The Beginning of the End:
It all started so innocently. The girlfriend and I were an enjoying an afternoon out on the town when I started to get a stomachache, nothing special. A couple hours later it was worse, but I had promised my lady an elegant dinner (a.k.a. California Pizza Kitchen) and I wasn’t going to back down. Over the course of our culinary delight the pain had progressed to “stitch in your side after running” proportions, and I had to admit I was feeling sick. I went home, laid on the couch, and figured some alka-seltzer and 7-UP would do the job. It didn’t. The pain got sharper, and by midnight it felt like an angry dwarf was stabbing me with a pencil. Finally, I had no choice; I was headed to the hospital. I put on some sweatpants, woke up the girlfriend, and we were off. By the way, if you ever see me outside my apartment in sweatpants, that means I’m in trouble. Please, alert the proper authorities.
ACT II: In Which Our Differences Become Irreconcilable
I live in West Hollywood, which means I checked into the Max Factor wing of Cedar Sinai hospital. It was good to know that even though I might die, Max Factor would ensure the proper hue of blush would be applied to my still warm corpse. Waiting with us in the emergency room was a guy in a silk shirt who had busted his hand in a bar fight, accompanied by his hyperventilating girlfriend. “But look,” she’d beg the nurse” he’s bleeding! He’s gonna die!” I prayed the nurse would shove some Valium down her throat so we could all enjoy the fluorescent/antiseptic ambience of the waiting room in peace. After a brief exam I was shown to my room, or at least a gurney in the corner of the room, and told to wait. A doctor telling you to wait is like Hitler telling Stalin he won’t invade; deep down you know things are going to end horribly, but there’s nothing you can do but hang on and hope for the best.
(Let me pause to remind you that I’m telling you this in the spirit of cooperation. If a metaphorical angry dwarf starts stabbing you in the side with a pencil, this info is going to come in handy. If a literal angry dwarf starts stabbing you with a pencil, you’re out of luck. I doubt even the police can help you. Now, back to the hospital).
I had three major problems with the examination/surgery process:
1)The Happy Face Pain Scale – A nurse will ask you to rate your pain, from 1 to 10, and show you an accompanying range of sad/happy faces, just in cause you’re numerically illiterate. Simple right? No. They say “On a scale of one to ten, one being nothing and ten being the worst pain you can imagine, how bad is it?” Well, I have a pretty good imagination. My side hurt, but I’d imagine being slowly burned alive would be considerably worse, and getting shot in the hand’s probably not pleasant…by the time I was done imagining I had to rate my appendix a five. Big mistake, a five gets you ignored. I should have acted like the hyperventilating girlfriend in the waiting room; “Ten, Jesus Christ on a bicycle it’s a ten! Everything’s getting dark…momma I feel so cold.” Then maybe I wouldn’t have had to wait another eight hours before surgery.
2) The Impossible Task – The nurse makes it very clear that food and liquids are forbidden, then gives you a cup to pee in. I’ll give you a second to think about that. It’s just not gonna happen, it’s a simple input-output problem. Then the nurse glares at you and your empty cup like you’re holding out on her. Well maybe if you’d give me some goddamn water, we could talk business.
3) Um, Possibly, Maybe – The truth is no one knows why your appendix bursts, and more importantly if your appendix is the problem until they open you up.
The doctors will say, “Well, here’s the deal. It could be your appendix, in which case we’ll just cut it out. Or maybe it’s not, in which case we’ll spin a giant wheel, see which organ it points to, and cut that out. Ok? Just sign here, and here, and here.” An appendectomy forces you to give the green light to doctors who openly admit that they have no idea what’s going on. Oh, and if they don’t do anything you’ll die. Fantastic. This is really working out well for me.
Needless to say the surgery went fine and my appendix got the heck out of dodge. I’d go into more detail, but I was in a morphine haze for the next two days. For more details, check with the saintly girlfriend. She spent that time sleeping in chairs, dealing with a constantly rotating stream of Philippina nurses, and making sure my hospital gown didn’t reveal anything too sultry.
Act III: The Aftermath
They handed me the bill on the way out of the Versace recovery center. I had turned down a delicious breakfast of orange juice concentrate and a buttered roll, so factoring in those savings, the bill came out to a svelte $18,000 (or as I preferred to think about it, a million bazillion dollars). There was literally no way I could pay it. Unless I sold my organs on the black market, that would be ironic. Then, like a knight in shining armor, lung cancer came to my rescue. That’s right, lung cancer is my new best friend. About five years ago the State of California lead a class action lawsuit against Phillip Morris, everyone’s favorite maker of cigarettes and macaroni and cheese. Phillip Morris lost (those damn activist judges!) and was ordered to pay millions into a fund to cover healthcare costs for state residents. The bureaucracy involved in applying is a special circle of hell, but after four months of paperwork, Phillip Morris picked up the tab. God bless em. I went straight to the corner store and bought a pack, saluted, and threw the cigarettes in the trash. It’s times like these that I’m reminded of the words of Geronimo, the famous Indian warrior: “America is a crazy person.”
I wonder where my appendix is now. I like to think it made it out to Mexico, found a little resort town, started a carpentry business, and leads a simple happy life. If you’re ever traveling and see him, do me a favor; tell him I miss him, but I’m fine without him. I got the scars to prove it.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Big Brother Is Listening
Spend some time with me, and chances are you’ll notice I’m not paying attention to what you’re saying. Please understand, it’s not that I don’t value your company; if that were true I would have already devised an elaborate system of avoiding you. You see, I suffer from an as yet undiagnosed case of Auditory ADD (if everyone else is making up their own little diseases, than I can too).
My sickness causes me to listen to every conversation in earshot. More accurately, I’m a chronic eavesdropper. Letting off some steam about your boss on the train ride home? I couldn’t agree more, he was more relaxed when he was drinking. Talking to a friend about your boyfriend’s habit of keeping his socks on during intimate moments? Please, go on. Telling your mother that you’ve realized all that tuition money was probably a waste? I got every word. The explosion of cell-phones have only made me sicker, people will talk about anything in public now. But every so often I hear something so fantastic, so unexpected, so absolutely stupid, that I have to write it down. Looking back over my notes, here are some personal favorites.
The Scenario: I’m eating lunch in a café at UCLA. A group of engineering students behind me are talking about whatever they talk about. I’m barely paying attention and very much focused on my crossword when I hear…
The Line: “You know, sometimes I wish I lived in the time of wizards and hobbits.”
The Reaction: It took me a second to realize the full implication of this statement. I hate to break it to you my magic card-playing friend, but there never was a time “of wizard and hobbits.” You seem to have crossed a very important line. “I wish I could play polo on the back of a stegosaurus” is an infinitely more plausible scenario than the one you’ve laid out. I considered saying something, and then pictured him casting a fire spell on me while tossing his cup of barley soup at my head. I held my tongue.
The Scenario: I’m standing in line waiting to order breakfast. The woman in front of me has been contemplating the menu like it’s the DaVinci Code. When it’s her turn she approaches, glances at the board above the cashier, and asks…
The Line: “So, is this your menu?”
The Analysis: No amount of sarcasm could possibly be enough: No, this isn’t our menu. This is a menu from another restaurant we’ve traded with. You’re gonna have to go there and read our menu, then come back here and tell me what you want. It’s just something we do to infuriate our customers. Also our menu is in Sanskrit, so you’re probably going to want to get an interpreter, or enroll in a four-year university. Next!
The Scenario: On the train home, late night. Not only is this guy talking on his cell phone, but the train is pretty empty, so by process of elimination I’m listening to every word. He’s not very interesting, babbling about some vacation plans, when he says…
The Line: “There’s no way I’m going back to Seattle, not after what happened with the zoo thing.”
The Analysis: What!? What’s the zoo thing!? Jesus Christ on a bicycle tell me what happened at the Seattle zoo! My mind was racing with possibilities. Did one of the animals attack him? Maybe he attacked one of the animals. Maybe a llama spit at him and he got the ornery beast in a headlock before being attacked by a whole llama gang. I don’t blame him, I wouldn’t want to go back to a zoo where I was viciously beaten by a pack of furious llamas. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him what happened. Not because I would have to admit I’d been eavesdropping, but because I figured the real story couldn’t be as good as the one in my head. I was right, to this day many a waiting room hour has been spent contemplating just what can go wrong at a zoo.
The Scenario: I’m at a meeting at work, this was during my catering days. We’re all sitting there listening to the manager lay out the complications of chocolate fountains, when there’s a sharp bang, followed by a voice behind me whispering…
The Line: “I think I just staple-gunned my finger.”
The Analysis: What do you mean you think you staple-gunned your finger? Look at your finger. Is there a staple sticking out of it? If so, then you probably shouldn’t have been pretending like the staple gun was a real gun. Or at least made sure all your appendages were safely out of the way. For the record the speaker of this particular line was a good friend, and when I turned around to inquire about said stapled finger, he replied “Christ, it feels like there’s a lightning bolt in my finger.” This is why I like him so much.
Looking back at this list, I’m pretty happy with my disease, it certainly makes the world a more entertaining place. I’m not really sure what other people do when they’re waiting in line for things, no cell phone game is half as engrossing as the pearls of wisdom that come out of the mouths of your fellow human beings. I know I must have said a few over the years, I hope someone was around to record my best moments.
I’m sure everyone has some personal favorites, moments that have stuck with them throughout the years. Feel free to share, we can do a sort of almanac of overheard conversation. And if for some reason you can’t think of anything, then I highly recommend taking a little more time to examine your environment. After all, if you’re not listening to other people, I’m probably listening to you.
My sickness causes me to listen to every conversation in earshot. More accurately, I’m a chronic eavesdropper. Letting off some steam about your boss on the train ride home? I couldn’t agree more, he was more relaxed when he was drinking. Talking to a friend about your boyfriend’s habit of keeping his socks on during intimate moments? Please, go on. Telling your mother that you’ve realized all that tuition money was probably a waste? I got every word. The explosion of cell-phones have only made me sicker, people will talk about anything in public now. But every so often I hear something so fantastic, so unexpected, so absolutely stupid, that I have to write it down. Looking back over my notes, here are some personal favorites.
The Scenario: I’m eating lunch in a café at UCLA. A group of engineering students behind me are talking about whatever they talk about. I’m barely paying attention and very much focused on my crossword when I hear…
The Line: “You know, sometimes I wish I lived in the time of wizards and hobbits.”
The Reaction: It took me a second to realize the full implication of this statement. I hate to break it to you my magic card-playing friend, but there never was a time “of wizard and hobbits.” You seem to have crossed a very important line. “I wish I could play polo on the back of a stegosaurus” is an infinitely more plausible scenario than the one you’ve laid out. I considered saying something, and then pictured him casting a fire spell on me while tossing his cup of barley soup at my head. I held my tongue.
The Scenario: I’m standing in line waiting to order breakfast. The woman in front of me has been contemplating the menu like it’s the DaVinci Code. When it’s her turn she approaches, glances at the board above the cashier, and asks…
The Line: “So, is this your menu?”
The Analysis: No amount of sarcasm could possibly be enough: No, this isn’t our menu. This is a menu from another restaurant we’ve traded with. You’re gonna have to go there and read our menu, then come back here and tell me what you want. It’s just something we do to infuriate our customers. Also our menu is in Sanskrit, so you’re probably going to want to get an interpreter, or enroll in a four-year university. Next!
The Scenario: On the train home, late night. Not only is this guy talking on his cell phone, but the train is pretty empty, so by process of elimination I’m listening to every word. He’s not very interesting, babbling about some vacation plans, when he says…
The Line: “There’s no way I’m going back to Seattle, not after what happened with the zoo thing.”
The Analysis: What!? What’s the zoo thing!? Jesus Christ on a bicycle tell me what happened at the Seattle zoo! My mind was racing with possibilities. Did one of the animals attack him? Maybe he attacked one of the animals. Maybe a llama spit at him and he got the ornery beast in a headlock before being attacked by a whole llama gang. I don’t blame him, I wouldn’t want to go back to a zoo where I was viciously beaten by a pack of furious llamas. In the end, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him what happened. Not because I would have to admit I’d been eavesdropping, but because I figured the real story couldn’t be as good as the one in my head. I was right, to this day many a waiting room hour has been spent contemplating just what can go wrong at a zoo.
The Scenario: I’m at a meeting at work, this was during my catering days. We’re all sitting there listening to the manager lay out the complications of chocolate fountains, when there’s a sharp bang, followed by a voice behind me whispering…
The Line: “I think I just staple-gunned my finger.”
The Analysis: What do you mean you think you staple-gunned your finger? Look at your finger. Is there a staple sticking out of it? If so, then you probably shouldn’t have been pretending like the staple gun was a real gun. Or at least made sure all your appendages were safely out of the way. For the record the speaker of this particular line was a good friend, and when I turned around to inquire about said stapled finger, he replied “Christ, it feels like there’s a lightning bolt in my finger.” This is why I like him so much.
Looking back at this list, I’m pretty happy with my disease, it certainly makes the world a more entertaining place. I’m not really sure what other people do when they’re waiting in line for things, no cell phone game is half as engrossing as the pearls of wisdom that come out of the mouths of your fellow human beings. I know I must have said a few over the years, I hope someone was around to record my best moments.
I’m sure everyone has some personal favorites, moments that have stuck with them throughout the years. Feel free to share, we can do a sort of almanac of overheard conversation. And if for some reason you can’t think of anything, then I highly recommend taking a little more time to examine your environment. After all, if you’re not listening to other people, I’m probably listening to you.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Whitey to the Rescue
This is what it was meant to be. Outside the movie premier a hundred or so people talked and waited for the doors to open. They were Black, White, Latino, Philippino, and every other imaginable ethnicity (I of course held it down for the Slovaks). There were teenagers in white t-s and a middle age couple wearing sandals and socks. Everyone was distinctly different but united by love for a culture. We were all there to see Byron Hurt’s new documentary “Hip-Hop; Beyond the Beats.” Hurt spent five years making the documentary examining the link between masculinity and hip-hop. Here are the two basic formulas at work in Hurt’s documentary:
car + gun + video girls + acting hard = rap video.
material wealth + violence + misogyny + acting hard = being a man
It’s the formula that gets played out over and over, and over, and over again on MTV, BET, and whatever HOT/JAMN/POWER radio station is in your area. Jim Jones just came on the radio while I was writing that last sentence. I rest my case. Ballin! If hip-hop is dead, as Nas claims, then the above two formulas killed it, and hip-hop’s resurrection depends on a solution.
A panel featuring Hurt, Talib Kweli, M1 of Dead Prez, Yo-Yo, and the VP of BET stayed after the film to answer questions and try to come a step closer to an answer. They all said some amazing and revealing things, which produced a series of epiphanies in my little brain. More than epiphanies, they were revelations. I figured out the answer, I figured out how to fix hip-hop. Without further ado the answer is…white people. That’s right, we did it again. Hip-hop was cold and we handed it some smallpox blankets. White people are what’s wrong with hip-hop, and we hold the tools to fixing it. I know that my revelation is deeply problematic and simplistic on many levels, but I’m going to someone haphazardly put them aside because that’s what a revelation is, a parting of the clouds in a moment of absolute clarity. It’s time to stop debating and cut to the chase. To borrow a TI phrase, this is real talk. Follow me for a moment:
1) Hip-hop is a business. Capitalism is the most powerful force in the world (sorry love). Money determines what gets on the airwaves, who gets signed, and who gets paid. Artists quickly learn that if they want to follow the money, they better follow the formula. This point was hammered home during Hurt’s documentary. The VP of BET also made this point; his message – if you buy it, we’ll start playing it. If De La Soul sold 10 million albums they’d be on as much as 50. CREAM.
2) As Mos Def said, “Hip-hop is us. It’s going where we’re going.” If we want to see more Mos Def and less Jibbs, we need to start buying copies of Black on Both Sides and stop buying Jibbs Featuring Jibbs, an album that could have been alternately titled Me Like Shiny Things.
3) White people buy more hip-hop than anyone. As Jadakiss pointed out in an interview during the movie, “You’re first 700,000 [albums sold] is black, after that it’s all white folks.” I’m not sure how much sociology Jada knows, but he sure as hell knows his album sales.
In the end it’s simple mathematics. White people are the ones who want to see black men shooting each other, white people are the ones who want to hear about black men dealing drugs, and white people want to see black women shake their “Tipdrill.” There’s no doubt that there’s an element of truth to the hardness of black urban life, the question is why is this hardness is so exaggerated and so disproportionately represented. In 1993 NWA and Kwame were both on the top ten, there was simply more room for different voices. Then white people found hip-hop in droves (I include myself here) and the market changed. White people wanted to hear 50 rap about being shot nine times like they wanted to see Schwarenagger shoot alien predators. For most of us it’s entertainment, plain and simple. But for people who actually live in the environments that get rapped about (AKA non-whites) the repercussions of violent and material imagery are only too real. It’s not only our fault, and not only out solution, but simply as a market perspective if white people started being more responsible about how we consumed hip-hop, we would change the game drasticly.
I’m not saying that hip-hop is solely responsible for the problems of the ghetto, eliminating poverty’s would go a lot further, but I can’t eliminate poverty. I can’t give everyone healthcare; I can’t even give myself healthcare. But I can turn off the radio when Jibbs comes on, and I can pick up the new Lupe Fiasco and leave The Massacre on the shelf. For those of us who listen to hip-hop regularly this will be easier said then done. Lord knows I’m far from perfect. I blasted Rick Ross’s Hustlin as loud as anyone, and I watched The Whisper Song video more times than I should admit. I’m just trying to figure out why I turn up my stereo when a three hundred pound black man (300’s probably a little svelte for Mr. Ross) from Miami raps about selling coke, and why I don’t change the channel when some girls in booty shorts start shakin. Come on white people, it’s the least we can do. We’ve fucked up enough; let’s try to leave hip-hop intact.
Byron Hurt’s HIP-HOP: Beyond Beats and Rhymes will air nationally on the Emmy-award winning PBS series Independent Lens on Tuesday February 20th at 10:00 PM. Check local listings.
car + gun + video girls + acting hard = rap video.
material wealth + violence + misogyny + acting hard = being a man
It’s the formula that gets played out over and over, and over, and over again on MTV, BET, and whatever HOT/JAMN/POWER radio station is in your area. Jim Jones just came on the radio while I was writing that last sentence. I rest my case. Ballin! If hip-hop is dead, as Nas claims, then the above two formulas killed it, and hip-hop’s resurrection depends on a solution.
A panel featuring Hurt, Talib Kweli, M1 of Dead Prez, Yo-Yo, and the VP of BET stayed after the film to answer questions and try to come a step closer to an answer. They all said some amazing and revealing things, which produced a series of epiphanies in my little brain. More than epiphanies, they were revelations. I figured out the answer, I figured out how to fix hip-hop. Without further ado the answer is…white people. That’s right, we did it again. Hip-hop was cold and we handed it some smallpox blankets. White people are what’s wrong with hip-hop, and we hold the tools to fixing it. I know that my revelation is deeply problematic and simplistic on many levels, but I’m going to someone haphazardly put them aside because that’s what a revelation is, a parting of the clouds in a moment of absolute clarity. It’s time to stop debating and cut to the chase. To borrow a TI phrase, this is real talk. Follow me for a moment:
1) Hip-hop is a business. Capitalism is the most powerful force in the world (sorry love). Money determines what gets on the airwaves, who gets signed, and who gets paid. Artists quickly learn that if they want to follow the money, they better follow the formula. This point was hammered home during Hurt’s documentary. The VP of BET also made this point; his message – if you buy it, we’ll start playing it. If De La Soul sold 10 million albums they’d be on as much as 50. CREAM.
2) As Mos Def said, “Hip-hop is us. It’s going where we’re going.” If we want to see more Mos Def and less Jibbs, we need to start buying copies of Black on Both Sides and stop buying Jibbs Featuring Jibbs, an album that could have been alternately titled Me Like Shiny Things.
3) White people buy more hip-hop than anyone. As Jadakiss pointed out in an interview during the movie, “You’re first 700,000 [albums sold] is black, after that it’s all white folks.” I’m not sure how much sociology Jada knows, but he sure as hell knows his album sales.
In the end it’s simple mathematics. White people are the ones who want to see black men shooting each other, white people are the ones who want to hear about black men dealing drugs, and white people want to see black women shake their “Tipdrill.” There’s no doubt that there’s an element of truth to the hardness of black urban life, the question is why is this hardness is so exaggerated and so disproportionately represented. In 1993 NWA and Kwame were both on the top ten, there was simply more room for different voices. Then white people found hip-hop in droves (I include myself here) and the market changed. White people wanted to hear 50 rap about being shot nine times like they wanted to see Schwarenagger shoot alien predators. For most of us it’s entertainment, plain and simple. But for people who actually live in the environments that get rapped about (AKA non-whites) the repercussions of violent and material imagery are only too real. It’s not only our fault, and not only out solution, but simply as a market perspective if white people started being more responsible about how we consumed hip-hop, we would change the game drasticly.
I’m not saying that hip-hop is solely responsible for the problems of the ghetto, eliminating poverty’s would go a lot further, but I can’t eliminate poverty. I can’t give everyone healthcare; I can’t even give myself healthcare. But I can turn off the radio when Jibbs comes on, and I can pick up the new Lupe Fiasco and leave The Massacre on the shelf. For those of us who listen to hip-hop regularly this will be easier said then done. Lord knows I’m far from perfect. I blasted Rick Ross’s Hustlin as loud as anyone, and I watched The Whisper Song video more times than I should admit. I’m just trying to figure out why I turn up my stereo when a three hundred pound black man (300’s probably a little svelte for Mr. Ross) from Miami raps about selling coke, and why I don’t change the channel when some girls in booty shorts start shakin. Come on white people, it’s the least we can do. We’ve fucked up enough; let’s try to leave hip-hop intact.
Byron Hurt’s HIP-HOP: Beyond Beats and Rhymes will air nationally on the Emmy-award winning PBS series Independent Lens on Tuesday February 20th at 10:00 PM. Check local listings.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Where For Art Thou Romeo?
Last week my printer threw off its inky shackles and rebelled. The mutiny was crushing in its totality and in a matter of hours I had been reduced to the type of pathetic man that has conversations with inanimate objects.
“Come on baby, I just need a few pages, just a few…you know what, forget it! You think there aren’t other printers in the world that would love to produce my work! Sorry, I didn’t mean that, you know I love you.”
Concerned for my mental health, and more likely knowing just how technically incompetent I am, my girlfriend subtly handed me the phone and the tech support number. I went to the kitchen for some Reese’s reinforcements and dialed.
It started as all tech calls do. A recorded woman led me through a seemingly endless labyrinth of options, and then ignored whatever button I pressed. I know some focus group found her soothing, but I would rather talk to a machine. The idea that another person, even if it’s only their detached voice, was putting me through this torment was terrible. I expect pity from a fellow human, only a machine could be so callous as to make me enter my 27 digit service code four times. By the time I was connected to someone with an actual working cardiovascular system, I’d plowed through a king size package of Reese’s cups. When I get diabetes, I’m suing Dell.
I don’t know how many people there are in India named Romeo, but there can’t be many, and it was a small dose of pleasure to know that I may have been talking to the only one. More than likely his bosses at the tech support center had told him to pick a Western sounding name, and Romeo was born. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shared a cubicle with John Wayne and Ringo. Romeo was going to help me with my printer, and for the next hour we would spend a considerable amount of time listening to each other breathe.
It was an emotionally draining experience. After replacing the ink cartridge for the third time under Romeo’s guidance, I could feel the old fury building up inside. I had better things to do than talk to someone a world away who I could barely understand…and then Romeo would prompt the latest attempt at printing with a ridiculously enthusiastic yet heartfelt “Ok now, here we go with it!” and the tension would ease. It wasn’t hard for me to picture Romeo at moments like these. I wondered if he had a wife, a girlfriend? Who did he go home to at night? For some reason I became convinced he was wearing navy blue slacks. As a child, what did he think his future would hold? It probably didn’t include answering phones. Or maybe this is what he had worked for, a steady job that allowed him to buy all the books he wanted. Alone in his apartment he would surround himself with Shakespeare and escape to the world of that other more famous Romeo. Perhaps he fantasized about dying with the same type of romantic tragedy as his namesake. This is how my mind works. This is why I can’t fix a printer.
I tried everything he told me, every last restart and paper feed, but nothing worked. My printer no longer wanted to have anything to do with me, it had packed its suitcase and left. It wasn’t easy to figure out my warranty number, I couldn’t understand Romeo’s unsure English and I was hopelessly unorganized, but after much wrangling the proper forms had been filled out. That’s when Romeo noticed my address.
“West Hollywood? So you are near Hollywood then?” he asked excitedly.
“Well, yeah. I live right there, pretty close,” I replied.
Romeo paused for a moment, I pictured him closing his eyes. “Oh, it must be very beautiful then, ok? Many movie stars, oh.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him Hollywood is mostly made up of unemployed actors and homeless people. Out of my window I can see the Hollywood sign, and a KFC.
“Well, yes, it’s very beautiful,” I said, “You see famous people sometimes, and there’s palm trees along the roads. Maybe someday you can see it for yourself.”
“Oh no, no, I am on the other side of the globe,” murmured Romeo. He said it like a confession, as if I didn’t already know.
“You never know,” I responded, “someday you could be driving down Hollywood in a nice car. Even the movie stars would turn their heads to see who it is. It’s sunny everyday, you’d buy sunglasses to wear, it’d be great. Who knows? Maybe someday, huh.”
At that moment I really felt like Romeo and I were friends, and I wanted to give him some daydream to help him make it through endless hours of answering phones. I wanted to give him some small escape, a tunnel out of the monotony of his day. For a small moment I felt the vast expanse of the world open up and I wondered at the ability to talk to someone across the globe, to be able to share in their dreams if only for a second. All my previous technical anger was gone, I didn’t care about my printer, in fact I was a little glad its breakdown had brought me closer to someone I would have never talked to otherwise. I suddenly wanted to go have a drink with Romeo and listen to him reminisce about the day I called his office and inspired him to leave it all and somehow, someway, make it to Hollywood.
“No,” announced Romeo “that will never happen for me. Thank you for calling Dell, ok?”
It was over that quickly. The world was small again, just me, my apartment, and a malfunctioning printer. I kept the phone next to my ear for a moment, not wanting to hang up, but the connection was dead, if there had ever been a connection at all
“Come on baby, I just need a few pages, just a few…you know what, forget it! You think there aren’t other printers in the world that would love to produce my work! Sorry, I didn’t mean that, you know I love you.”
Concerned for my mental health, and more likely knowing just how technically incompetent I am, my girlfriend subtly handed me the phone and the tech support number. I went to the kitchen for some Reese’s reinforcements and dialed.
It started as all tech calls do. A recorded woman led me through a seemingly endless labyrinth of options, and then ignored whatever button I pressed. I know some focus group found her soothing, but I would rather talk to a machine. The idea that another person, even if it’s only their detached voice, was putting me through this torment was terrible. I expect pity from a fellow human, only a machine could be so callous as to make me enter my 27 digit service code four times. By the time I was connected to someone with an actual working cardiovascular system, I’d plowed through a king size package of Reese’s cups. When I get diabetes, I’m suing Dell.
I don’t know how many people there are in India named Romeo, but there can’t be many, and it was a small dose of pleasure to know that I may have been talking to the only one. More than likely his bosses at the tech support center had told him to pick a Western sounding name, and Romeo was born. I wouldn’t be surprised if he shared a cubicle with John Wayne and Ringo. Romeo was going to help me with my printer, and for the next hour we would spend a considerable amount of time listening to each other breathe.
It was an emotionally draining experience. After replacing the ink cartridge for the third time under Romeo’s guidance, I could feel the old fury building up inside. I had better things to do than talk to someone a world away who I could barely understand…and then Romeo would prompt the latest attempt at printing with a ridiculously enthusiastic yet heartfelt “Ok now, here we go with it!” and the tension would ease. It wasn’t hard for me to picture Romeo at moments like these. I wondered if he had a wife, a girlfriend? Who did he go home to at night? For some reason I became convinced he was wearing navy blue slacks. As a child, what did he think his future would hold? It probably didn’t include answering phones. Or maybe this is what he had worked for, a steady job that allowed him to buy all the books he wanted. Alone in his apartment he would surround himself with Shakespeare and escape to the world of that other more famous Romeo. Perhaps he fantasized about dying with the same type of romantic tragedy as his namesake. This is how my mind works. This is why I can’t fix a printer.
I tried everything he told me, every last restart and paper feed, but nothing worked. My printer no longer wanted to have anything to do with me, it had packed its suitcase and left. It wasn’t easy to figure out my warranty number, I couldn’t understand Romeo’s unsure English and I was hopelessly unorganized, but after much wrangling the proper forms had been filled out. That’s when Romeo noticed my address.
“West Hollywood? So you are near Hollywood then?” he asked excitedly.
“Well, yeah. I live right there, pretty close,” I replied.
Romeo paused for a moment, I pictured him closing his eyes. “Oh, it must be very beautiful then, ok? Many movie stars, oh.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him Hollywood is mostly made up of unemployed actors and homeless people. Out of my window I can see the Hollywood sign, and a KFC.
“Well, yes, it’s very beautiful,” I said, “You see famous people sometimes, and there’s palm trees along the roads. Maybe someday you can see it for yourself.”
“Oh no, no, I am on the other side of the globe,” murmured Romeo. He said it like a confession, as if I didn’t already know.
“You never know,” I responded, “someday you could be driving down Hollywood in a nice car. Even the movie stars would turn their heads to see who it is. It’s sunny everyday, you’d buy sunglasses to wear, it’d be great. Who knows? Maybe someday, huh.”
At that moment I really felt like Romeo and I were friends, and I wanted to give him some daydream to help him make it through endless hours of answering phones. I wanted to give him some small escape, a tunnel out of the monotony of his day. For a small moment I felt the vast expanse of the world open up and I wondered at the ability to talk to someone across the globe, to be able to share in their dreams if only for a second. All my previous technical anger was gone, I didn’t care about my printer, in fact I was a little glad its breakdown had brought me closer to someone I would have never talked to otherwise. I suddenly wanted to go have a drink with Romeo and listen to him reminisce about the day I called his office and inspired him to leave it all and somehow, someway, make it to Hollywood.
“No,” announced Romeo “that will never happen for me. Thank you for calling Dell, ok?”
It was over that quickly. The world was small again, just me, my apartment, and a malfunctioning printer. I kept the phone next to my ear for a moment, not wanting to hang up, but the connection was dead, if there had ever been a connection at all
Friday, January 26, 2007
The California Dream
Last night I had the California Dream. In my dream I woke to a sun drenched sky and the sound of ocean waves echoing in the distance. As I sat down to breakfast a cool breeze slipped through an open window. When I rose and looked out onto the street below I saw children playing a game of pickup football, calling timeout for the occasional car. In my dream the world was beautiful, safe, and quiet. In my dream I was in Oceanside, California.
Oceanside is a small town approximately 35 miles north of San Diego that has been filled with thousands of people looking for their own version of the California dream. Now, before I’m accused of wide-eyed optimism, Oceanside is not heaven (unless heaven has an unemployment rate), but for residents like Mike DeLeo it’s the closest thing to it they’ve ever found.
“I work inLos Angeles and have been commuting for eighteen years, not because I couldn’t afford to live in LA, but I enjoy the quality of life,” wrote DeLeo in a recent letter to the city council, a letter he was compelled to write because he fears his beloved Oceanside home is in serious danger.
Unfortunately residents have good reason to fear that their dream of peace will be taken from them in a cloud of construction and noise, and the culprit will not be some monolithic oil company or faceless governmental bureaucracy, but that most beloved of American institutions, professional football.
For the past several years the San Diego Chargers have been conducting ongoing negotiations with the City of San Diego to enable them to rebuild their aging and outdated home, Qualcomm Stadium. The Chargers, owned by Alex Spanos, wants the city to grant him approximately sixty acres of public land for free, upon which he plans to build not only a 450 million dollar stadium but also residential and commercial complexes. The city, perhaps learning a lesson from other metropolises that doled out millions in public benefits to professional teams and are still waiting for the benefits they were promised to manifest, has largely resisted Spanos’ demands. In frustration the Chargers have officially stopped negotiations and have turned their attention to other smaller towns in the surrounding area, towns which may be more easily taken with lavish promises of development. In short, towns like Oceanside.
There is no doubt that football, from the Friday night-lights of high schools to internationally known professional teams, serves as a common bond for a large percentage of America. There’s a reason more people watch the Super Bowl than the President’s State of the Union Address. But make no mistake, football is also a business, and beneath the images of courage and teamwork lay a foundation of dollar signs. Spanos and his Chargers have enjoyed recent success on the field, but in the boardroom they remain relative failures. Last year Forbes magazine valued the team at $731 million, ranking them near the bottom of the NFL, and Spanos blames their finacial shortcoming largely on an outdated stadium. For Spanos the equation is simple: new stadium equals more money.
Nothing is as simple as black and white, and the Chargers are not an evil empire only interested in increasing their checking accounts. It is true that the both the teams and its players, most notably NFL MVP LaDainian Tomlinson, have used their resources to help the San Diego community and public schools. The team makes a concerted effort to engage in charity activity and according the team website, “The San Diego Chargers have been a proud partner with the San Diego community for more than 40 years. The Team and its players annually contribute time and resources to make San Diego County one of the best places in the country to live and work.”
In the coming months the measure of the Chargers dedication to the people of San Diego will be truly tested. It’s one thing to put together a blood drive or textbook donation, quite another to truly listen to the voices of communities when millions of dollars are on the line. Because it’s not just game day that concerns the residents of Oceanside, it’s the thousands of cars and the resulting smog pouring into the town. It’s the never-ending passing of trailer trucks on their way to put up or break down that night’s rock concert. It’s the end of a town that according to city press releases prides itself on being “a thriving community that provides all the conveniences of a modern city without the disadvantages.” If the San Diego Chargers build their proposed stadium Oceanside residents will know only too well every disadvantage a major city has to offer.
Mike DeLeo ended his letter by writing, “I hear some council members say Oceanside is a jewel, after working in Los Angeles they are so right. So why do they want to destroy it with crowds and traffic? What happened to enjoying life?”
Unfortunately for DeLeo and his fellow residents some people measure the goodness of life by the strength of their family and community, and for some happiness is measured by the size of their wallets. Here’s hoping that Spanos and the Charger’s truly measure up and let Oceanside keep dreaming in peace.
Oceanside is a small town approximately 35 miles north of San Diego that has been filled with thousands of people looking for their own version of the California dream. Now, before I’m accused of wide-eyed optimism, Oceanside is not heaven (unless heaven has an unemployment rate), but for residents like Mike DeLeo it’s the closest thing to it they’ve ever found.
“I work inLos Angeles and have been commuting for eighteen years, not because I couldn’t afford to live in LA, but I enjoy the quality of life,” wrote DeLeo in a recent letter to the city council, a letter he was compelled to write because he fears his beloved Oceanside home is in serious danger.
Unfortunately residents have good reason to fear that their dream of peace will be taken from them in a cloud of construction and noise, and the culprit will not be some monolithic oil company or faceless governmental bureaucracy, but that most beloved of American institutions, professional football.
For the past several years the San Diego Chargers have been conducting ongoing negotiations with the City of San Diego to enable them to rebuild their aging and outdated home, Qualcomm Stadium. The Chargers, owned by Alex Spanos, wants the city to grant him approximately sixty acres of public land for free, upon which he plans to build not only a 450 million dollar stadium but also residential and commercial complexes. The city, perhaps learning a lesson from other metropolises that doled out millions in public benefits to professional teams and are still waiting for the benefits they were promised to manifest, has largely resisted Spanos’ demands. In frustration the Chargers have officially stopped negotiations and have turned their attention to other smaller towns in the surrounding area, towns which may be more easily taken with lavish promises of development. In short, towns like Oceanside.
There is no doubt that football, from the Friday night-lights of high schools to internationally known professional teams, serves as a common bond for a large percentage of America. There’s a reason more people watch the Super Bowl than the President’s State of the Union Address. But make no mistake, football is also a business, and beneath the images of courage and teamwork lay a foundation of dollar signs. Spanos and his Chargers have enjoyed recent success on the field, but in the boardroom they remain relative failures. Last year Forbes magazine valued the team at $731 million, ranking them near the bottom of the NFL, and Spanos blames their finacial shortcoming largely on an outdated stadium. For Spanos the equation is simple: new stadium equals more money.
Nothing is as simple as black and white, and the Chargers are not an evil empire only interested in increasing their checking accounts. It is true that the both the teams and its players, most notably NFL MVP LaDainian Tomlinson, have used their resources to help the San Diego community and public schools. The team makes a concerted effort to engage in charity activity and according the team website, “The San Diego Chargers have been a proud partner with the San Diego community for more than 40 years. The Team and its players annually contribute time and resources to make San Diego County one of the best places in the country to live and work.”
In the coming months the measure of the Chargers dedication to the people of San Diego will be truly tested. It’s one thing to put together a blood drive or textbook donation, quite another to truly listen to the voices of communities when millions of dollars are on the line. Because it’s not just game day that concerns the residents of Oceanside, it’s the thousands of cars and the resulting smog pouring into the town. It’s the never-ending passing of trailer trucks on their way to put up or break down that night’s rock concert. It’s the end of a town that according to city press releases prides itself on being “a thriving community that provides all the conveniences of a modern city without the disadvantages.” If the San Diego Chargers build their proposed stadium Oceanside residents will know only too well every disadvantage a major city has to offer.
Mike DeLeo ended his letter by writing, “I hear some council members say Oceanside is a jewel, after working in Los Angeles they are so right. So why do they want to destroy it with crowds and traffic? What happened to enjoying life?”
Unfortunately for DeLeo and his fellow residents some people measure the goodness of life by the strength of their family and community, and for some happiness is measured by the size of their wallets. Here’s hoping that Spanos and the Charger’s truly measure up and let Oceanside keep dreaming in peace.
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