Don't do milk. Stay in drugs. Drink your school.
So I was watching this story on ABC News about Ritalin abuse. Apparently teens are abusing Ritalin for its stimulant properties. Say it ain't so!
The ABC News story claimed "[t]hese stimulants help an estimated 4 million children [with ADHD] remain focused on learning, and allows [sic] them to get ahead in school." In addition to reading like Ciba-Geigy ad copy instead of journalism, the 4 million estimate is probably low. This story in Mothering claims the total number of kids on Ritalin and other ADHD drugs is more like 7 million. The National Institute of Mental Health's ADHD FAQ's estimate that as much as 3 to 5 percent of school-age children have ADHD. All of which got me to thinking.
If 3 to 5 percent of school age children — somewhere in the neighborhood of 1 in 20 to 1 in 33 kids — can't stay focused in school and have to be "sedated" with powerful psychoactive drugs, maybe the problem's not the kids. Maybe it's the subject matter. Maybe it's the classroom. Maybe it's the school. Maybe it's the society. Maybe it's the culture. Maybe it's capitalism. Maybe ...
Maybe I don't know why this never occurred to me before. I knew doctors overprescribed all kinds of drugs, but I guess I didn't realize they were doping up millions of kids just so they could sit still. So they don't disturb the other 95 to 97 percent of the kids, who, apparently, can repress their natural human-child instincts to get up and walk around and talk and interact and explore and learn in ways other than the strictly proscribed methods offered in a traditional school setting.
I've never been diagnosed with ADHD, but I've never been accused of being sedate either. I got into more than my share of trouble in grammar school by just being a kid. It didn't help that I was incredibly precocious. This resulted in my skipping third grade, which helped some, but I was still a troublemaker. I would constantly get failing grades in "conduct." (Do they even have that anymore? What a fucking joke.) But I wasn't a bad kid. Yet. (That came later.) All I really wanted to do was learn and play and be a fucking kid. That was when I was young and naive, before I realized that the only things we really learn in elementary school and middle school and high school is how to sit still for eight hours at a time, so we'll be nice and docile when we enter the work force, and we'll be able to sit still for eight hours at a time there, too.
So just say no to drugs. And school. And milk. And have a great weekend. ßßß
Exact Whereabouts (and Mailing Address) of Aforementioned "Shadowy Cabal" Located
This is some of the scariest shit I've ever read.
I was kinda half-kidding when I claimed last week that the U.S. was "run by a shadowy cabal of scary old evil white guys." Turns out I was righter than I'd ever imagined.
The cabal in question is called The Project for the New American Century (PNAC). In their own words, they are
a non-profit educational organization dedicated to a few fundamental propositions: that American leadership is good both for America and for the world; that such leadership requires military strength, diplomatic energy and commitment to moral principle; and that too few political leaders today are making the case for global leadership.
"Amerian leadership is good both for America and for the world?" Why, because we're doing such a good job here at home? Maybe the PNAC should leave the security of their ivory-tower think-tank offices or gated communitities and drive around the slums of D.C. and see for themselves how successful American leadership is. Or ask the people of Colombia or Chile or Nicaragua or the Congo or Cambodia how our leadership has worked for them. But right, fine. Some imperialist Amerikkkan kooks have a snazzy-looking website. Right? Nah, it's a little spookier than that.
Guardian columnist Jonathan Freedland said it way better than I could, so I will presume to copy and paste his words here:
Its acolytes speak of "full spectrum dominance", meaning American invincibility in every field of warfare - land, sea, air and space - and a world in which no two nations' relationship with each other will be more important than their relationship with the US. There will be no place on earth, or the heavens for that matter, where Washington's writ does not run supreme. To that end, a ring of US military bases should surround China, with liberation of the People's Republic considered the ultimate prize. As one enthusiast puts it concisely: "After Baghdad, Beijing."
If this sounds like the harmless delusions of an eccentric fringe, think again. The founder members of the project, launched in 1997 as a Republican assault on the Clinton presidency, form a rollcall of today's Bush inner circle. Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, Jeb Bush, Richard Perle - they're all there. So too is Zalmay Khalilzad, now the White House's "special envoy and ambassador-at-large for free Iraqis".
Cheney. Rumsfeld. Wolfowitz. Bush. Perle. Steve Forbes. William J. Bennett. Dan Quayle (*rimshot!*). These cats and others got together in 1997 to form the PNAC to challenge the foreign policy of the Clinton administration and carry out their vision of worldwide American imperialism. Way back in the last century — 1997! — these old white dudes were talking about finishing the job that Bush the Elder started but couldn't complete in 1991: getting rid of Saddam.
This five-year-old letter to then-President Clinton could just as easily have been excerpted from a recent Rumsfeld press briefing. "The only acceptable strategy is one that eliminates the possibility that Iraq will be able to use or threaten to use weapons of mass destruction. ... it means removing Saddam Hussein and his regime from power. That now needs to become the aim of American foreign policy."
All they needed was a tenuous excuse to throw down with Iraq. So they must have seen the September 11 terror attacks as their e-ticket to wage war. But they couldn't even do that right. They waited too long. They didn't establish a real, credible link between al Qaeda and Saddam. They drastically overestimated the rest of the world's willingness to endorse their wacky windmill-tilting. Hell, they had six-plus years and couldn't even come up with a cogent plan of what to do in Iraq after the war. Nope, they blew it.
But it's too late to turn back now, I guess. They've played their hand. Troops are "flowed," as I heard Rummy say yesterday. We're committed. Pretty much because the PNAC said so. They're ready to sacrifice the lives of half a million Iraqis to achieve their aims of "promoting American leadership around the world."
Are you? ßßß
If You're Not Outraged, You're a Fucking Idiot
Is it possible that the entire world is premenstrual all at once?
I swear to Christ, it seems that everyone I come into contact with is on edge. Everything I say I mistinterpreted, misconstrued, or misapprehended. Of course, as my good buddy Dr. Phil might say, *I* am the common denominator in all of these interactions, so there's a distinct possibility that the problem could be all mine. I'll look into that and get back to you.
So work has been ungodly slow of late, allowing me way too much time to read lefty/progressive/anarchist/radical stuff on the Web. It's brought me to one conclusion: there's no way to win this war on Iraq. News flash, right? Here are some quick bullet points.
Just sayin'. ßßß
Move into My Airspace
The Scheme show on Saturday was pure rock 'n' roll theater. We hit the stage at 10, tore through our set of 8 songs, and then, on the last note of the last song, Denny, stage right guitarist, introduced the headstock of his Telecaster to the bridge of singer Simon's nose. There was blood EVERYWHERE. You know how those facial cuts bleed (just ask any pro wrestler). I'll post pictures just as soon as they're available. Jesus, it was gnarly. Simon wasn't really any worse for it, though. He's a trooper. And so the legend begins. ...
I added a bunch of new linky things to the "edutainment" section in the right bar. This new list more accurately reflects my Web surfing habits, and will make it easier for me to reach the sites I visit daily (if not oftener). Feel free to peruse them and, you know, click them and what have you.
Good buddy Gene rolled through on Saturday to troubleshoot my dead home computer. Prognosis? A deceased power supply. I will try to kill two birds at once by getting both a replacement power supply and a bunch more RAM when I visit CompUSA this afternoon. Woo-hoo. This rock-star life is almost too exciting some days.
True confessions time: I fucking LOVE Dr. Phil. Don't get me wrong: I can't stand Oprah or any other Lifetime/Oxygen/PAX-type pap, but Phil is the man. He dispenses bullshit-free, commonsense advice to people who really need it, he calls them on their shit, and he generally puts the smack down. If you're not down with Phil or have never watched because you think you're too cool for that, I challenge you to check it out. Tonight's episode, Moochers, sounds especially enticing. Don't miss it. ßßß
The Past Comes A-Haunting
Note to self: Stay away from any and all nightclubs this weekend. Oh, wait. I can't. I'm playing this Saturday night. You should totally come! The only pyrotechnics will be courtesy of Denny Donovan and Peter Martin, our fretboard-burning axe-slingers. And the only brawls will be courtesy of, well, shit, it's Oakland, so it could be courtesy of anyone.
So that Great White thing is crazy, huh? My mom's so cute. She called me this morning to make sure I didn't know anyone in the band. The conversation went something like this.
Mom: You didn't know anyone in Great White, did you?
Me: No, mom. They're a goofy hair band from the '80s.
Mom: What's a hair band?
Me: You know, those metal bands from the '80s with the big hair and stuff.
Mom: You mean ... like those bands you used to like?
Me: (chuckling) No, mom. They wear makeup and have huge girl hair and stuff.
Mom: (without a trace of irony or sarcasm) You mean like you used to do?
Me: (pissed) No, mom. They're way prettier than me.
Mom: Oh. OK.
And ... scene. ßßß
Source Tags and Codes
I went home after work last night and pressed the power button on my computer. But nothing happened.
Nada. Zilch. Zero. No flicker, no pop, no blue screen of death. Nothing. I checked the breaker, I checked the cable, I checked the plug. It was none of those things. I was (and am) officially at a loss.
I don't deal with these kinds of situations well at all. I'm the kind of inveterate tinkerer who will continue to bash his head against the hypothetical wall until he fixes the broke thing or breaks it worse, to the point where further tinkering is impossible. But when nothing happens, I'm kind of at a loss. I ripped the housing off the thing, removed the on/off switch, removed the leads, and touched 'em together, and still nothing. I guess I'm going to have to submit to the worst indignity of all: admitting defeat and taking it somewhere to have someone else (gasp!) fix it. Oh, the horra.
So I got on the elevator at work this morning, and noticed that the guy standing next to me was wearing a brand-new pair of Gap khakis. How did I know he was wearing a brand-new pair of Gap khakis? Well, mainly because he had neglected to remove the sizing sticker from the leg of said pants. It read "31/32" several times over, down the right leg of his trousers. Of course I wasn't going to let him risk further embarrassment at the hands of his coworkers. Thinking about him going about his business Minnie Pearl-style was more than I could bear.
I was all set to tell him about his oversight when three more people piled on to the elevator. And I just couldn't bring myself to point out his gaffe in the presence of others, even though it would most likely spare him additional agony. I choked. I couldn't do it. I failed him.
Besides, it was kinda funny. ßßß
These Are Your Good Times
Two posts in two days. I must be buttah, cuz I'm on a fucking roll. Wheeeeeeeee.
The band (yes, there's only the one actual band at the moment, if you don't count the myriad imaginary side projects) has a show on Saturday. We'll be rocking the Stork Club at or around 10 PM. You can come if you want. It will be our only hometown gig before we head off to fabulous Austin, Texas to whore ourselves out at South by Southwest. There's also talk of a big industry circle-jerk showcase deal next month at the Viper Room, of all places. Oh, and we also got props on the Scout, which is sweet. Let the bidding war begin. I need a new car.
In other news, there is no other news. I'm at work, and yet there is no work to do. Which is pretty awesome, but I don't need to tell you that. I'm getting paid to write my weblog and surf indymedia. Power to the people.
The only other even vaguely interesting development in my life — and then only vaguely interesting to me and Tracy — is that we got season tickets for the Giants! Well, some season tickets: 20 games, to be exact. We're splitting two different 20-game packages with another couple, so we'll get to attend about a quarter of the Giants home games this season, which is fucking spectacular. What did I do to deserve a woman who loves baseball as much — nay, more — than I do? No idea. But I very well may be the luckiest man alive.
Go Giants! ßßß
Let's Call the Whole Thing Off
I didn't get out to join the protests this weekend, but I was heartened to hear (on NPR, where else) that the current antiwar (pro-peace?) movement is the largest antiwar movement ever to form before a war had begun. Which you'd think would count for something with our president. You know, millions of his constituents turn out to protest his proposed course of action in Iraq? You'd think that might carry some weight with him. But you'd be wrong.
Which is why representative democracy isn't. It isn't representative, and it isn't democracy. Misnomers really don't get any wronger, do they?
Let's take the first part of the term. Webster's says representative is
1: serving to represent
2: a standing or acting for another especially through delegated authority b: of, based on, or constituting a government in which the many are represented by persons chosen from among them usually by election
3: serving as a typical or characteristic example.
So our elected officials (the few) are supposed to represent us (the many) chosen from among them (Yeah, right. Does anyone in your neighborhood look like Henry Hyde or Ted Kennedy or Nancy Pelosi? No one 'round these parts do.) usually (but not always, and certainly not in the case of G.W. Bush) by election. But the reality is that neither you nor I nor anyone like us has a say in who gets "elected" to any national office to "represent" us. It's all about the machine, man. About which white Anglo-Saxon protestant Ivy League candidate tests best in the 33-48 focus group demographics in fucking Peoria. Our choice, in essence, is whether we want to delude ourselves into thinking that standing in line to cast a ballot in some election will actually mean something. Hint: it won't.
So that leaves us with democracy, which the almighty Webster's tells us is:
1 a: government by the people; especially: rule of the majority b: a government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodically held free elections
2: a political unit that has a democratic government
3 capitalized: the principles and policies of the Democratic party in the U.S.
4: the common people especially when constituting the source of political authority
5: the absence of hereditary or arbitrary class distinctions or privileges
Let's break this down point by point.
1. Government by the people. A government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them. You're joking, right? We (the people) no longer have even the illusion of power. The country is, indeed, run by a shadowy cabal of scary old evil white guys, just like in your worst nightmares, and there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it.
2. A political unit that has a democratic government. If we don't have government by the people as in 1. above, we can't very well have a democratic government, right? Right.
3. Not exactly germane to our discussion, is it? (Aside: the two-party system isn't, either.)
4. The common people especially when constituting the source of political authority. Can we be a democracy if we've been stripped of our political authority?
5. The absence of hereditary or arbitrary class distinctions or privileges. This one may be the richest of all. While we may not have an inbred, anachronistic, and embarrassing royal bloodline like Great Britain, you'd be hard-pressed to argue that we don't have both hereditary and arbitrary class distinctions and priveleges. When a functionally illiterate substance-abusing felon National Guard deserter can get elected president cuz his Pappy said so, I'd say we have some pretty heavy hereditary priveleges in place.
So. Representative democracy isn't. And even our lunkheaded president gets that. When asked if the millions of people demonstrating against his war in Iraq would sway him, he basically said no fucking way. "[I]t's like deciding, 'Well I'm going to decide policy based up on a focus group,'" he said.
Sadly, no trace of irony was detected. ßßß
Gung Hay Fat Choy
I had a whole thing written, but it was boring and sucked. Hold on, I'm startin' agin.
Me and a coworker were talking yesterday, in a roundabout fashion, and in not-so-many words, about karma. Not official Buddhist-type karma, but more the John Lennon instant-variety karma. The old "what comes around et c." adage sorta karma. We eventually decided that more often than not, shit evens out. That dovetailed into a discussion of what the newish year would hold in store for each of us. She said that she and her husband had had a phenomenal year this past year (I assumed she meant 2002, but she could just as well have meant the lunar Year of the Horse, which ended just two weeks ago), and that she was concerned that the new year (be it lunar or solar, Ram or '03, it isn't really germane to the discussion, just work with me here, people, and try and keep up) would suck.
I said that if (big IF) the comes around v. goes around symmetry held, my new year would be fucking stellar. Which got me to thinking about this year so far. And so far, it's been pretty fucking stellar. That thought invariably (and not at all usefully) leads to considering a corollary of that cosmic karma law, which can be stated thusly: if last year had to be so fucked up for this year to be that good, was it worth it?
Which, of course, as I've already said, is pointless and dumb and does nothing but distract one from driving and eating french fries. That is, if one is driving and eating french fries, as I was. Because it's not like you have a choice. Because shit just happens. That's what it does. It happens. And trying to figure out whether or not it evens out or not may be a natural human trait, trying to impose order on chaos and make sense out of nonsense and all, but it's still dumb and can get you killed if you're deep in thought while driving and reaching into the backseat for more fries. ßßß
Please join me in my quest to eliminate small talk.
Small talk sucks. I bristle at it whenever I hear it. You know it's not important, because its very name tells you it isn't: it's small talk. It's a huge waste of time. You know, time? The one commodity that none of us can ever have enough of? So what the fuck are we doing wasting it?
I heard the most amazing thing on This American Life on Sunday. One woman's quest to eliminate small talk with The Rundown. (You can listen to the show using your evil, parasitic, spyware-infested RealPlayer by clicking here. Fast forward about seven minutes or so to get to the rundown feature.)
She (she will only be referred to here as "she" because the TAL website doesn't credit her by name, and I refuse to download RealPlayer in order to listen and do the necessary research) defines small talk as "the conversation we're supposed to be having" and the rundown as "the conversation we want to have." She played a portion of a recorded rundown conversation in which she asked a ticket-taker at the movies what he had had for breakfast. From there she leapt to asking him if he was in love with his significant other, and how many virgins he had slept with. In about 60 seconds, this woman (she) came away with more information about a complete stranger than I know about many of my closest friends. It was inspiring.
The whole concept of the rundown is based on the assumption that people want to be asked questions and want to talk about themselves. I know that this is true for me, but I guess I always suspected that that was because I'm a narcissist. Turns out that maybe it's a natural human trait. So if people want to talk about themselves and want to share themselves with others, why oh why do we talk about the weather or the NBA All-Star game or the stock market or any of that trivial, meaningless, insignificant, petty bullshit?
Either because a. we're scared, or 2. we didn't know any better. So now you know better. So listen to the damn show, and take the four principles of the rundown to heart. Because now you have no excuse. Unless, of course, you're scared. ßßß
It's that question of trying to be immortal.
A week between updates? Lame, friends. Totally lame. But I do have a sort of a plausible excuse.
Last week me and the boys in the band traveled down to the cultural and moral wasteland that is L.A. to meet with a entertainment lawyer (how's that for oxymoronic?!?). Things went really, really well. The upshot is basically this: we're close to inking a deal with a fine and reputable indie label. Terms and shit are still being hashed out among the various parties, but things are looking very promising. The label in question has even invited us to display our rock wares at Ye Olde Southe by Southweste Festivall. I can't fucking wait.
See, all I've ever, ever wanted was to be a rock star. Actually, that's not quite true. When I thought about my career trajectory, I usually didn't think "rock star" in the Motley Crue The Dirt sense. But all I've ever wanted to do was play music. Ever.
But being that we live in a late-capitalist situation here, my singleminded desire to rock has inevitably caused me problems. There was the time my 9th grade English teacher implored me to write about something — anything — other than music. Then when college time was approaching, my folks insisted that I get a "real" education before discussing the possibility of attending Berklee or some other shredder school. (Like an English Lit. degree is any more bankable than a B.A. in bass, anyway.)
I've even tried to quit playing music, to no avail. I've sold off almost all my gear on a couple of different occasions, but I've never quite been able to cut the ties. I tried the professional track, and immersed myself in a stupid and unfulfilling but high-paying job for two years. What did I get for my troubles? A debilitating case of depression and a backlog of song ideas. Oh, and some moeny. That part was cool. But every time I'd get ready to bail, some other opportunity would present itself.
Like with the Scheme. I wasn't really looking for a band, but that's when the perfect gig found me. Two ex-hardcore kids (check) from the East Coast (check) looking for an overplaying bassist (check). After some false starts, we find two more ex-hardcore kids from the East Coast fresh out of a bad band situation, ready to head off in a new direction (uh huh). So here we are. Poised on the brink of something. Of what, I don't know exactly, but it's exciting and terrifying and heady and wonderful and oh god I'm scared to death. But I wouldn't trade it for the world. After all, it's all I've ever, ever wanted. ßßß
Backaches and Earthquakes
So my backpiece is finally done. Almost.
I sat for two more hours on Saturday night, and Scott finished all the principal tattooing. So basically everything you see here is fully rendered and shaded and colored. (This would be so much easier if I could just get it together to take and post pictures, I know, but I just can't seem to. Get it together, that is.)
There is still some backgroundy stuff to be done — the little color bursts and shadows and other stuff that make Scott's work so deep and rich and incredible, but with the way my back feels right now — like I've been attacked by a pack of dogs that shoot bees out of their mouths when they bark — I can't conceive of making another appointment to be tattooed, much less paying for the privelege. Nope. Right now I think I'll bask in the warm, scabby glow of being mostly done.
We had an "earthquake swarm" in the East Bay on Sunday morning. I've only experienced one other earthquake in the dozen years we've lived out here, but my experience of this one was almost identical to the first.
I'm sitting on the couch, watching TV, minding my own business. Couch starts to shimmy like someone's shaking it, windows rattle a little bit. Brain eventually realizes that the likely cause of this is earthquake. Brain sends a message to mouth to ask Tracy if she felt it. She says no. Brain is left wondering whether it was an earthquake after all, or maybe just too much strong coffee.
Change stations to find a news program to confirm or deny existence of earthquake. Eventually earthquake is corroborated. I feel special and priveleged to live in California. Turn the TV back to Fairly Oddparents and continue to brazenly consume more coffee than is prudent. Rock on. ßßß
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
