Get a Life

Get a life! That’s a very cool sort of MTV thing to say. What kind of life am I supposed to get? Do you mean one like yours? How do you define a life and where do you get one? Do they come in nacho cheese flavor? Can you interchange them like the front plates of cell phones? Do people who care about what the fuck their cell phones look like have a life?

I think what people, the MTV-90201 people mean when they say “get a life” is a life like Hollywood people must have. A cool life endorsing products and posing for magazine covers. A life of dating movie stars and TV personalities until you break up and talk about how painful it all was on Oprah. A life of uncontrolled substance abuse and repeated failures at rehab. Did Jim Morrison have a life right before he stopped having a life? Does an Academy Award winner have more of a life than the losers? In their acceptance speeches do they say ‘get a fucking life’ to the runners up? I would. I think that if I had a life I’d be fairly smug about it.

Is it improper to tell the guest of honor at a funeral to get a life? Is it vulgar to shout ‘get a life’ at the top of your lungs while driving by a cemetery? Those things are a lot of fun, especially when combined with drinking, but I wasn’t too familiar with the new ‘get a life’ etiquette so I stopped doing them. I don't mind; it gives me more time for prayer.

Is driving your kids to soccer practice every night a life? Is working 9 to 5 every day until you retire and then fighting off life-threatening illnesses like a kid playing Space Invaders until one finally gets you, it that a life?

Does the fact that you have read this far indicate a lack of a life on your part? If that is true it certainly doesn’t say much for the author, because unless this is being read by a third grade class I probably have spent more time writing this no life project than you have reading it.

I read someone question their ‘life’ because they were on the internet with many windows going at once. My “life’ has about ten windows open at this minute. At least dorking-out on the internet isn’t dangerous to you and the other fifty people who live in your building. At this moment I am writing this piece, listening to the Mariners on the radio, pecking a few notes on the piano, and (the danger) using three gas burners on my stove to cook everything in my refrigerator. That’s kind of like juggling with a tennis ball, a live weasel, an apple, and a running chainsaw.

If you can buy a life can I get anything on a trade-in for the one I have?

What if There Was a Mall and Nobody Came?

Is there life beyond consumerism?

It’s not that I don’t like “stuff.” I am writing this on my new Sony Vaio laptop. My apartment is cluttered with boy toys: a racing and a mountain bike, a heap of hiking, camping, and climbing gear, a shit load of books, and tons of CD’s. I’m not really anti “stuff” but I just don’t think a perpetual pursuit of “stuff” has ever made anyone happy or made them feel satisfied. Does Donald Trump look like a happy guy or a douche bag to you?

I can go weeks without ever buying anything besides food and booze, you know, the essentials. I like clothes. I like to look good but I find that I don’t have the energy to shop and would much rather spend my time doing other things. When I do break down and go to Nordstrom’s for clothing I spend about as much time inside as I can swim under water in one breath.

When I see dudes that dress extremely fashionably I secretly laugh at their willingness to waste countless hours shopping. Today’s fashion usually means stuff we will be laughing at tomorrow. I prefer clothes that wouldn’t have been noticeably out of place (nor hip either) for the past sixty years or so. Women and shopping is a whole other thing that I don’t understand at all. I’ll leave that for the women to sort out.

You would think that there must come a point for every person when he decides he has enough stuff. Perhaps many people never reach this point because financial restrictions prevent their acquiring all of the stuff they covet. I am talking about people with limitless resources. Surely people like rock stars, professional athletes, and movie stars must get sick of buying shit. They have enough money to buy everything and anything. Even a kid let loose in a candy store will get sick and throw up eventually.

I don’t have limitless resources but I decided a long time ago that I have plenty of stuff and buying more, simply for the sake of buying it, was a losing proposition. This isn’t to say that I don’t ever buy new stuff; I just look long and hard at anything before buying it. I ask myself several times if I really need it or can I live without it? Usually I decide on the latter and that ends it.

Unfortunately, most of the things in life that I most want cannot be purchased. It would be easier if learning to play the piano or being a better writer could be purchased with U.S. currency. These things certainly aren’t free, they just can’t be bought.

So I suppose we are all materialistic to one degree or another, somewhere between a shaolin monk and the rapper du jour (I was going to give the name of a specific rapper but realized that I don’t know one). From what little I have seen of the current rap, or hip hop culture, they represent the polar opposite of moderation: not just jewelry but pounds of gold hanging from their necks, not just a hot woman but scores of 'bitches(?)', a parking lot full of cars, not a house but a palace. Their message seems to be a simple one: if you are going to go overboard on capitalism then go really overboard. If you are going in for conspicuous consumption then you may as well go all the way.

Are there any rappers out there that preach minimalism? What a great message that would be to youth. They could show the rapper driving around in one of those little Primus electric cars taking his recyclable garbage to the recycling center with just one woman in the seat next to him and no gold. A rapper with good taste? Impossible? Stranger things have happened.

I certainly don't mean to single out rappers; I see no evidence of rich people showing anything resembling restraint or simply saying, "I have enough." I can already hear someone telling me, "You're just jealous because you ain't (sic) rich." I got news for you: I already make more than I can spend. This doesn't mean that I am rich or that I wouldn't want to have more money. Money can mean a sort of freedom. Not freedom from work. You have to work, that is as essential as eating and sleeping. To me it simply means freedom from compromise.

On a Clear Day You Can See Applebee's

or: I SPIT ON YOUR TRADEMARK

Walk out your door and take a look around. Is there anything, natural or man-made, that is pleasing to the eye? If you live in America, especially suburban America, the view is probably one of an endless string of strip-malls and franchise businesses. For the past 30 years it has become increasingly more difficult, if not impossible, to tell the difference between Des Moines and Duluth.

People talk as if these Weblogs are the new journalism, a heroic new forum for ideas. I see them as the moral equivalent of bumper stickers. I can write a little bit more than the average bumper sticker but if I write too much I will lose the reader raised on the short staccato bursts of information portioned out by TV. This theme of franchise America is a large one best addressed in book form so I will focus on a single point. This is today’s bumper sticker. I would actually reach more people with a sticker but at least I don’t have to worry about somebody disagreeing with me and keying my car.

Take a look at the artwork inside of franchise businesses. They try so hard to be inoffensive that they are highly offensive. At their best franchises display reproductions of impressionist masterpieces, as if Van Gough’s Café de Nuit is somehow appropriate for the décor of a Jack in the Box. At their worst corporations hang robotic, machine-made, computer-generated abstractions on the walls. They seem as uncomfortable with bare walls as they are of inspiring thought or eliciting any remotely human response. The horror of these wall fillers is that it isn’t a result of corporate bad taste. Taste is subjective and what anyone considers bad is at least excusable. This is a deliberate anti-aesthetic policy .

Franchise corporations deliberately remove any semblance of charm from their businesses for the same reason that TV removes any sort of real controversy from the content of their programming. The anti-aesthetic and the anti-intellectual bias of big business is part of a process to ritualize every aspect of our lives. Ritual is devoid of thought and the absence of thought means the absence of dissent. I grew up catholic and I couldn’t tell you what any of the prayers meant that I recited every week. There was no thought, thought was not only unwelcomed but strongly discouraged. Your responsibilty was to learn your place and remain there. The creation of ritual is like arranging the furniture in a familiar manner so that the blind can navigate that geography without seeing. Move things around and all hell breaks loose.

MacDonald’s et al could just as easily have original art on the walls of their burger joints. There are thousands of artists in Seattle dying to sell their work. They could probably do this at less cost than the current system of using pseudo-art. Would it adversely affect business? I couldn’t say and I don’t think anyone could. The very thought of unleashing the public’s imagination must scare the shit out of the guys in the stockholders’ meeting. If we let them have their way every facet of life will be copyrighted and trademarked.

The fact that the music of Mozart and Bach, the novels of Dickens, and the poetry of Homer are public property must keep a lot of corporate lawyers awake at night with worry and dread. "Miss Jenkins, get this Mozart fellow on the phone. I have an idea for a Dorritos ad." If they can’t copyright it for themselves I’m sure they would prefer it to be destroyed. They already use this stuff to sell their products but they can’t own it. Where's the fun in not owning something? It's positively un-American, it's communist.

I'm sure people will say that I just don't understand big business. They would be right, 100% right. I don't understand why anyone would actively, with hearty ambition, work towards building a world that isn't worth living in.

Behind the Tortilla Curtain

Now that we don't talk about the iron curtain (for you post-communist era folks that's what we called the invisible barrier between the West and communist Europe and the USSR, now Russia—I suddenly feel old)). I guess people no longer use the phrase 'tortilla curtain' when referring to the invisible barrier that separates us from our neighbors to the South.

For those of you who have never been to Mexico let me say that they do eat a load of tortillas. They eat tortillas at every meal. They eat tortillas with everything. They eat tortillas by themselves. Got it? I’ll move on.

Since we don't have much in the way of a national cuisine in America we have the luxury of picking and choosing amongst those of lots of other nations. It would be hard to imagine us saying, "Honey, do you feel like Mexican food tonight?" every night but nobody seems to mind down here.

I like the way they bring out a bunch of bowls of condiments for your meal: at least two types of salsa, chopped onions, cilantro, fresh oregano, and limes--lots of limes. I saw this kid take a lime press and squeeze the juice of two limes on his bag of potato chips and then splash on about two shot glasses of Tabasco sauce. My kind of kid. They put lime in beer, of course, another thing we already knew about the cool people here. They also put lime juice on most meats and on all antiojitos or tortilla dishes.

Eating is really fun here and, even though you eat Mexican food every fucking night, there are a lot of choices. I find it hard to decide between having a meal in a rather formal restaurant and trying some of the stuff being sold around the market. I will settle on a restaurant if they have pozole on the menu. Pozole is a soup or stew of hominy and whatever else they want to throw in.

This dish can be found all over Mexico. Pozole is the chili of Mexico. That is exactly what it is. It can be good or bad, it can be terrible or fantastic. That is just one of those questions you have to be ready to answer. You have to be willing to walk into five or six restaurants and just order Pozole and a bottle of Carte Blanca. I was going to put this into parenthesis but it is too big a point. In the previous sentence I mentioned Carta Blanca, which is a Mexican beer. I take for granted that almost all adult Americans recognize this aspect of popular Mexican culture. We know much more about our neighbors to the south than we think. It is never too late to learn more.

POZOLE EL JAROCHO

In honor of Hugo Huesca, from Veracruz Mexico, who has taught me so much about the cooking of his country.

2 16 oz cans of hominy
1 16 oz can of tomatoes
1 chayote squash (peeled and diced)
1 small can chipotle peppers in adobo
1 onion (diced)
2 fresh jalapeño peppers (stems removed and diced)
1 small garlic clove (pressed and diced)
1 12oz can of chicken or vegetable stock (or water)
A few sprigs of fresh cilantro
Some sort of dead animal, either a pig or a cow . Kill it somehow and tear off its skin and then call Martha Stewart for the rest of the gory details. She actually made it look like fun on her show. (for vegetarians either use both meats or skip).

Add tomato, half of the onion, jalapeños, and garlic to a food processor. The chipotle peppers usually come in a small can but just add a couple peppers and some of the adobo sauce as too much will make the dish too smoky. Liquefy this and put it in a soup pan. Add the stock or water and simmer with the chayote pieces.

Brown the meat in oil and add to the pot along with a bit of the cilantro and the rest of the onion. When the chayote is tender (about 15 minutes) add the hominy and simmer a few more minutes. I use a few dashes of Worcestershire sauce and salt and pepper. Garnish with cilantro and tortilla chips.

Go crazy from there. About the only rules to this dish, if they were going to have a big international Chili/Pozole cook-off, would be that you must make it with hominy. I’m sure there is some yuppie restaurant up in el Norte that serves pozole with seared ahi and kiwi relish. I don’t mean to trash yuppie restaurants. Criticize them all you want but without them we’d still be eating weenies and beans.

more thoughts on trying to be funny in a foreign language and culture

Just before I sat down to write today I stopped off at a little café, as has been my habit the past three days, to get a cup of coffee to go. As I was waiting for them to make it three clowns walked by the place (clowns are everywhere here, some sort of festival). I told the young girls working there that I was afraid of clowns. When they asked why I told them that when I was little I went to the circus and one killed my family. An old joke, I know. Not only didn’t they get it but I think I frightened them. I had to tell them it was a joke, which sort of took the fun out of it. Maybe they find it funny now. Dark humor isn't very big here so if you want to make it in the world of Mexican stand-up stick with hitting people in the head with coal shovels, dropping your pants, and other Benny Hill stuff.

My joke when I go to a restaurant is to ask the server in a very conspiratorial tone, as if I were asking for whiskey during prohibition, if at all possible, if it's not too much trouble, could I get tortillas with whatever it is I am ordering. That is about as obvious as asking for your meal to be served on a plate. I’m the only one who gets my joke, which is pretty much the story of my life.

Mexican Like Me

MEXICAN LIKE ME

I once dated a girl who became critical of me and my life plans (imagine that). She said something like, “Why is your biggest goal in life to be a spic?” She was right to a certain degree; I would like to be Mexican when I grow up. I hurled a worse epithet at her, much viler than spic. I said that her biggest goal in life was to be a soccer mom. She is probably sitting in her mini-van listening to Neil Diamond and waiting to pick up her 2.3 (a farm accident?) kids. She’ll probably meet her hubby at Chili’s© for dinner. They will probably stop by Blockbuster© to pick up a video. They’ll probably rent their favorite movie to see again, Sister Act (sorry, but that is one horse that can’t be too dead or beaten too much, that goes for Miss Goldberg, as well).

If you did a search on GOOGLE for ‘white woman’ her name would probably pop up first. I’m sure being white isn’t the worst way to spend your entire life but you don’t have to rub it in by buying a mini-van and going to fucking Chili’s. I have been white almost my entire life and I just get really, really bored with it sometimes.

I went to see the excellent Mexican film Y Tu Mamá También yesterday and I was feeling nostalgic for that country. There are a couple scenes in the movie in which the central characters are having beers in these crappy Mexican cantinas. I have been in hundreds of Mexican cantinas but I was envious of their ability to blend in, the way I suppose I blend in when I walk into a bar here in Seattle. I want to be like the Mexicans in the movie. Although I speak Spanish well I have light skin and light brown hair and no matter how much I work to extinguish my gringo accent I still look like a gringo. I will always be the gringo who thinks he’s Mexican. People get a kick when I say, “Tengo alma latina.” (My soul is latin)

It is hard for me to be funny in Spanish because I am not completely bilingual. Something that gives me a tremendous sense of achievement is when I can make a joke in Spanish to my Mexican friends. The jokes that get the biggest laughs for me generally concern “La Migra” or some other law enforcement entity. For many Mexican immigrants this is a factor of everyday life, so humor is as good a way to deal with it as any. A guy we know named Ramón had a little run-in with the law (immigration papers) and for weeks afterward I got big laughs with this play on words, “¿Donde está Ramón, en la casa o la cárcel?” (Where’s Ramon, at his pad or the pokey?) I guess you had to be there with a gut full of Negra Modelo’s to laugh, but I made a funny in Spanish.

I lack a fluency in popular Mexican culture to be really funny in Spanish. I try to keep up. I also read several French publications in an effort to stay up on that culture that I love even more. It is funny that I do my best to avoid popular culture here in the USA but I seek it out in other countries. I like the Algerian Raï singer Cheb Mami and I spend a lot of time on kazaa.com downloading popular Greek music. In the immortal words of JFK “Ich bin ein fuzzy little foreigner.”