BIG Hiatus This Time

I haven't been blogging for the past 6 weeks because I've been writing for a magazine, Barcelona Metropolitan, that actually pays. It's been piecemeal in getting started with these guys, but suddenly I've got 7 articles due for them and more on the way. And there's just not enough time to do other things. Also, I've been thinking that if I'm going to have any success with this blogging business, I got to specialize in something. Otherwise, people just won't come in numbers.

If there's anybody out there who still follows this blog and would like to see what I've been up to, here are some of my latest articles, tailored to the magazine. Some are okay, some might be boring unless you live in Barcelona.

I'll be back soon, probably.

Society - Obsessed With Guilt

Ten years ago, when I lived in Korea, a friend shared with me his observations about the differences between Occidental and Oriental cultures. One of the most important, he noted from his experiences working with various corporations, is that in the West, when there is a problem of some kind, the first thing people do is try and establish who is to blame for the problem. In the East, the first thing they do is try and fix the problem. In general, people have faith that the one responsible will not only be aware of their culpability, but will also be conscious that others will be aware of it too. And it wasn't until my Asian friend pointed this out to me that --in my experiences over there-- I recognized it to be true.

That's not the case in Europe and the Americas. An anecdotal example of this happened to me just this past Friday at work. I showed up on my day off in order to collect some papers and prepare a fax that needed to be sent for my visa application. Unfortunately, my boss, who never works on Fridays, had failed to leave two very important papers. I informed the secretary of the problem, adding that it was urgent that this fax be sent out that very day. And, instead of looking through the files to find the necessary papers, she began asking me why I didn't make sure the boss had left the papers for me.

Feeling somewhat on the defensive, I mentioned the list of three items I'd given the boss, that it was very clear and that it was she who had only provided one of these items. "Yes, but why didn't you make sure of this yesterday?" the boss' right-hand woman insisted. It went back and forth like this for a long minute: Me claiming that I had done what was necessary and her asking the same question over and over.

It was aggravating, and I took a long breath to keep my cool. This was going nowhere, so I decided to change tack. I pointed out that whatever happened --or failed to happen-- the previous day was in the past and not relevant now. More important was the fact that these papers are missing and that we needed them at that very moment. "This is what we should be thinking about now," I added with finality.

She blinked, somewhat disconcerted. Then, after a pause, she said, "Yes, but why didn't you take care of this yesterday?"

Now, I'm a passionate man, but I recognize that in difficult moments this passion can cause me to act like a prick. So, experience has taught me to curb my reflexes and not go on the attack. At least, that is, when I want or need something from my nemesis. Thankfully I was able to suppress whatever words were clawing to escape my throat. But in moments like these, when that surge of anger and adrenaline make my face burn and my eyes rattle, when the room itself seems to tremble, it's impossible for me to be completely silent. A quick mental calculation chose a self-effacing yet sarcastic response: "Because I'm stupid. Okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

I thought it was benign enough. But she didn't. The end result was an emotional rant from an unstable secretary, no aid in securing the papers, and a wasted 6 months of aggravating preparation for this moment. Not only that, but my boss runs the risk of paying a €30,000 fine for having an undocumented employee. This is what happens when irrelevant pursuits get the best of us.

Perhaps it's all the Judeo-Christian crap that is our inheritance, this Jonathon Edwards bullshit that invests so much importance on culpability. But, criminy, what a senseless waste of thought and energy. One could say that the secretary where I work is a jerk, or was just in a bad mood or whatever. But if you think about it, she behaved very typically for people in Europe and the Americas. If she were a person who had behaved in the opposite manner, by leaping on the problem and trying to solve it rather than establishing who was responsible for the mess, she would be remarkable for having an enlightened character. Yet, in the East, such enlightenment is more the rule than the exception.

We have a lot to learn over here.

Author's Note - Another Hiatus

A week has passed without any posts. Sorry about that. A baby with high fever from a throat infection plus an article past its deadline made for a prioritizing decision to put the blog on hold.

Actually, it was kind of nice to step back from it. I started wondering if this is something I really need or want to do on a daily basis. The original idea was to improve my writing by meeting a daily deadline and, hopefully, generate a little extra income through this AdSense NonSense. The former has come to fruition, for sure. Three months of steady writing has taught me how to cut out the bullshit that fills the work of an aspiring and amateurish writer. And I'm sure that three more months will improve my technique far more. So, at least in that respect, there's a reason to continue.

As far as generating revenue, I see that the most successful blogs are either by writers who already have a fan base established (Rude Pundit) or by bloggers who have a near-obsessive specialization in their content (Mind Hacks). Unfortunately I'm a nobody --in the grand scheme of writers and readers-- and my interests are far too varied to be content with just a single theme; an anthropology professor impressed that idea into my malleable young mind at university when he came in to class the first day and said iconically, "Specialization leads to extinction."

This, I suppose, could partially explain how I could arrive at my 40th journey around the sun without having altered my quality of life much from when I was 25. It's good to stay young, sure. But it sucks to be poor. Thus, I wonder how much time I should continue to invest in the blogosphere when I can be free-lancing articles that pay --however boring they may be at times.

It does feel on occasion like I'm flying, when I get going on something that unleashes a modicum of passion but that, also, most magazines wouldn't want to publish; and it's nice when my Statcounter soars to 140+ hits in a single day. But it's a lot of work, too. And gratification, while it may put a smile on my face, doesn't pay for a decent vacation --which, if memory serves me correctly, puts an even greater smile on my face.

Oy vey. What to do. Guess I'll just keep pegging away at it, without expecting any ka-ching! to come of it. Perhaps I'm just feeling a tad cynical today. Half a bottle of absinthe can really dry out the happy hormones one day later. Hoo-boy.

Personal Essay - Gay Magnet?

Occasionally in life, there are moments of clarity which have a bracing effect similar to opening all the windows in a stuffy house and filling it with brisk, cool air. The mind clears suddenly and you literally feel the fresh blood flowing through your brain. I had just such a moment last evening, coming home on the train, when I was faced with the stark realization that it must really suck to be a woman.

Now, before I elaborate, I think it's important to go a little into the backstory. Just over a week ago, I made a drastic change in my appearance by going from fairly long hair to scalp-hugging short. No small part in this decision was the fact that chicks just don't check me out like they used to. Sure, there's the sense of identity which marks a long-haired person --free spirit, artistic type, independent, out of the main-stream-- and there's also the tactile pleasure of a healthy mane. But, a man who lives with his ex-girlfriend and their 2-year old child really needs to maximize his possibilities if he's going to swim in the stream of free coitus.

So, since the lines in my face have closed all doors to the kind of hippy university girls who once waltzed with me to various dark niches, I decided to go with a clean, professional and fiscally responsible look. . . . In order to get laid, in case that wasn't clear. However, my strategy seems to have backfired on me.

Last night on the train, I opened my eyes and glanced around. My vision panned across the eyes of an attentive man. I continued to scan my environment, instinctively glancing back to see if the other guy had broken his stare. But he hadn't. I looked away again, thinking, What's up with this guy? Unwillingly, I looked back. Still staring. What the fuck?! Oh, christ, yea. He's gay. Now he thinks I'm gay ... and coquettish. I just don't like being stared at, and --try as I might-- I couldn't stop peeking back periodically. And of course, he misread my interest. The compliment would have been flattering maybe; but to be honest, this guy seemed to be way too hard up. Even if I was gay, I wouldn't want to get together with such a desperate loser.

I started staring out the window across the aisle. While watching points of light float past, my eyes focussed on the reflection in the window. There was another man who seemed to be watching me. Or maybe, I considered, he was doing the same thing as I. But, if he was watching me --and I was watching a point directly behind his reflection-- then, he must be thinking that I'm staring into his eyes. My eyes jumped over onto the owner of the reflection before I could pull them back. Then, emboldened, he turned his head and faced me directly, eliminating any doubts. Oh, shit, I thought, before turning to look out the other window.

And now he kept staring. Granted, this guy was a bit more stylish and on the ball than the other, in some ineffably suave sort of way. But he was still a dude. Now, I don't make any judgements on where people eat, I just know what I prefer. Yet, ironically, here I was, a hungry man with a feast before me and no stomache for the food that was offered. Both these guys were in my field of vision unless I looked down or away. Their eyes burned into me like lasers, making me feel like I was being scanned by two horny Terminator robots. It's unfortunate they can't see each other, I thought. Because if somehow they could just start staring at each other, everybody would come out a winner.

I began to curse my hair-stylist, thinking that she'd given me a gay haircut. It wasn't the first time that a man has shown interest in me, but for some reason this was the first time outside of a gay club that I was so popular. I looked at myself reflected in the window and preened, not caring anymore if I appeared coy. She had left me with echos of Freddie Mercury. The only thing missing was the frou frou mustache. Damn.

Then suddenly it dawned on me: This is what women experience on a constant basis. Thus, my prefatory statement. What torture, having to go through life, negotiating eye-contact and enduring the tight-lipped, predatorial gazes of men. It's like having a spotlight glaring in your face. I'm sure many women must learn to love it, like little ballarinas pirhouetting on the stage. But I wonder what percentage of them must absolutely despise it. I really felt like giving the finger to these two guys. With both hands, criss-crossing my arms while flashing a Billy Idol sneer.

It struck me suddenly that I wasn't so different than them; I often can't help focussing on attractive women and wonder if their uncomfortable glances signal an interest in squishing it. A forgotten memory came just then, of me sitting in a pub in Edinburgh, chatting with some friends, when a woman walked by the table. An attractive, ballsy Scot. Our eyes met. Without even thinking about it, I turned around to check her out from behind and found myself raising my eyes into her furious expression. She gave me the finger and mouthed, Fuck you, before spinning on her heel. It hardly seemed reasonable to me at the time. It's just what guys do. But sitting on the train, I realized that, if I'd been born a woman, sooner or later I would have done exactly the same thing.

And so it was, with great loathing, I found myself rising to my feet as the train pulled into my station. Squeezing through scrunched knees, I stepped out into the aisle, gazing blankly at nothing at all, knowing the inevitable conclusion to this scene. I walked the length of the wagon, feeling two pairs of eyes burning into my backside. And I thought, From this day forward, I will stop checking out women's asses. Then I wondered how I was going to fill up the time.

Rant - Stinking Flu

You know what sucks about having the flu? It's like a time machine that automatically takes you back to the days when you were a kid and people took good care of you and coddled you and didn't make you feel guilty about laying out on the sofa and watching crap tv. It's an oddly pleasant memory that makes you realize immediately those days are gone forever.

When you're older, nobody cuts you any slack. Your partner gets pissed off that you don't help out around the house; your boss indirectly makes you feel guilty for taking a day off --and maybe even insists that you get a doctor's note, when all you really need is rest; your kid still needs looking after; and even your own conscience hounds you about all the things that need seeing to. (That's the super-ego working overtime, right?)

Anyway, that's my long explanation about why I'm not posting anything decent today. You got a problem with it? Get in line.

Culture - A Crappy Catalan Christmas

Okay, it’s been three days now and I thought I’d get over this. But I can’t get it out of my head: The image of my two-year old son beating on a log until it shits out gifts.

It’s a tradition here in Catalunya, a region which seems to have an unhealthy obsession with crap, especially when it comes to Christmas and religion. As if it weren’t enough to hear daily throughout the year, ¡Me cago en dios!, an epithet which translates directly as “I shit on God.” No Nativity scene is complete here without the Caganer, a figurine who squats behind the manger, Joseph and Mary, the animals and Three Wise Guys while his bare ass hovers proudly over a tiny, brown swirly of crap.

I’ve lived here long enough that most things seem normal to me, but this is the first year that I’ve had direct experience with the Caga Tió, or The Shit Dude. Essentially it’s a log with a face and hat on one end, propped up by two sticks which –with a little imagination—could be construed as legs. A blanket is thrown over his back-side and food is set out for him on the days leading up to Christmas. This, in order to plenish his bowels. Then, on Christmas day, the whole family gathers around and they beat on him with wooden spoons, mallets, and whatever violent sundry can be found around the house.

Meanwhile, they sing a song:

Shit, dude! Shit lots of candy!

Shit some wine and cookies!

Whether you shit or not,

I’m going to hit you with my stick!

After each refrain, they march in a parade around the house while some sneaky member of the family tosses gifts under the blanket. When the children return, all the adults begin to say, Let’s see if the dude has crapped. Look what the dude has crapped out! Ohh, what nice crap! Then it’s back to the song and parade and more gifts.

You know, I’m really not too uptight when it comes to language and my child, but something about this just doesn’t sit right with me. I guess it’s not so much the words as it is the focus on defecation and coprophagy by proxy.

But who am I to argue with tradition? In the same way that one can never really pinpoint the origins of obsessive-compulsive acts, cultural traditions inevitably guard their own secrets. Some say that it began in the Pyrenees and spread down from the mountains. My in-laws, who never miss an opportunity to describe their hardships during the Civil War, explained to me about 5 or 12 times over dinner that they had to beat on just an ordinary Tió, with no face, legs or hat. In the face of such determination to eat the crap from a log, I doubt that I will ever be able to dissuade my son from participating in this deviant ritual.

But all told, I don’t suppose it’s quite so bad in comparison to a tradition in which I grew up, in which every Sunday I was forced to eat the flesh and drink the blood of some long-dead guy who had been beaten to a pulp and executed in a brutal and excruciating manner. So, really it’s all just a matter of perspective. On the one hand, coprophagy. On the other, cannibalism. It’s so hard to judge.

Update - Damn, I Won

A few days ago I posted on the topic of my newfound fear of winning the lottery. And I'm sorry to say that I won. I hit for 120€. So now I'm faced with some vital decisions. Really, I want to make this money work for me, but I'm not sure if I should invest it in something secure or venture into real estate. I suppose I'll need an accountant now. I'm not even sure how to begin deciding on one of those. That's a whole ball of wax right there. But I guess it must be done. Fortune oblige and all.

Please, no emails requesting donations to charity or funding for a performance art space.

Personal Essay - Lotophobia

Tomorrow is the drawing for the Spanish Christmas Lottery, and like approximately two-thirds of the Iberian population, I’m already planning on how I will manage this substantial change in my personal economy. As the day has drawn closer my revelries have grown less sporadic and far more elaborate, so much so that last night I suffered a bout of nausea just dealing with all the headaches that my sudden and imaginary fortune will bring.

I came to the conclusion that perhaps I would be better off if by some remote chance I shouldn’t win tomorrow. After all, I have zero experience in handling sums of money larger than the purchase of some domestic electronic device. What would I do with it? What kinds of things would I be forced to learn? How do I know that I could trust other people whom I would charge with the management of my hard-played fortune?

That’s when I imagined my reaction to winning. I don’t think I would jump up and down screaming. Rather, I would probably become very scared and withdraw to my bed for a number of days, with the winning ticket tucked back in the closet and filling a space immensely beyond its proper dimensions. Somewhat like a chunk of plutonium.

It occurs to me that most people, when they buy a lottery ticket, are buying a piece of hope, a commodity that is infinitely valuable in a society that rarely offers more than currency for our labors. But I, on the other hand, just now realize that I have bought 15 pieces of fear. Man, that is wack.

So, I suppose it will be with relief when I face the inevitable tomorrow, and fail to come into my millions. Still, there’s a one in six chance of hitting something in this special draw. While millions might be a little stressful to handle, I think I could make do with 500,000. Maybe a little more.

Rant - Cracking Under The Barrage

Sometimes I wish I had a firehose, like riot cops, so that I could just spray it around me in a circle as I struggle through the city.

Every day I take a crowded metro to work and have to push my way through bodies just to disembark. At my destination there are always a couple of guys at the top of the escalator, slowing down the crowd as they hand out free “newspapers,” which are light on news and heavy on ads. They block the escalator, shoving their rags in my face and I burst through them like Henry Rollins in an angst-laden music video. Often they’re accompanied by a man named Professor Ali who hands out flyers offering his services as a professional psychic. He actually goes so far as to shove his flyers, unsuccessfully, into my clenched fists. I get across the street and there’s an old gypsy woman in a shawl who steps in my path with her hand raised and pleading for a donation in a sing-song voice.

Her intrusive technique is similar to another beggar who prowls the metro on my return trip. He never fails to shock me by shoving a scabrous stump between my face and the pages of my book. Walking the sidewalk to my apartment, I’m often confronted by people with clipboards who want to tell me about some “amazing offer” they have for a travel agency or in the Mormon Church.

I get home and the phone starts ringing. It’s somebody wanting me to change telephone or internet providers. While I’m sitting down to lunch, the doorbell rings. It’s somebody else with a clipboard and a bright, irritating smile. After lunch, it’s back to the street and metro for more of the same.

Speckled throughout my day, I’m inundated with a barrage of disorienting advertisements in the form of posters which practically scream out for attention, video screens in the metro selling some product and the incessant abuse of television spots. Like the beggars who invade your psyche with a visual appeal to your conscience, or the chipper door-to-door and telephone salesmen who invade your home, these ads are scientifically designed to get in your head visually or through the use of jingles. Even on Sundays, there’s a man who sets up a large electronic keyboard which pours forth a cacaphony even though he plays with just one finger.

And it’s driving me fucking crazy. Somehow, what we consider to be rude behaviour is considered acceptable when it plies the interests of Capitalism. (Even the beggars where I live are part of an organization that provides training, transport and coordination.) For some reason it’s okay to be pushy and offensive, as long as you don’t do it within your own monkeysphere.

And why is that? I mean, what if I stood in front of the elevator doors in my apartment building and blocked my neighbours, asking them for financial assistance or forcing them to take some paper that sells my services? Maybe I could ring their doorbells at dinner time and try to sell them something. I could plaster posters up in the lobby, stand there with a guitar and sing obnoxious jingles. How long do you think I would last in my building before somebody gave me a royal ass-kicking? Yet we accept this horrible behaviour from complete strangers.

You know, I like money, I like having things. And I recognize that the economy depends on the buying, selling and promotion of things. But every day, I feel more and more that Capitalism is just so stinking obnoxious.

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Personal Essay - Forty Orbits

I hardly ever make a big deal out of my birthday. No blowouts with friends, no parties. Perhaps this antipathy shares its source with my natural aversion to the sound of applause. Nor will I make much of it today, even though I have just completed 40 journeys around the sun. Most likely I’ll go see a comedian in a pub with a friend or two, just to break up my routine. But no celebrations. I’ve made no effort to remind anybody of the day’s significance because there’s really nothing significant about it, much less the arbitrary importance given to a mulitple of ten. I suppose that some time during the evening, after a few drinks, I may mention something; but then again, I may not. We’ll see.

It hasn’t always been that way. I used to see the importance of making one day special for myself, using it like others do as a form of blackmail that my intimates should be kind to me. But over time, I came to view such kindness as hollow compared to the spontaneous, non-obligatory kind. Thus was my transformation to cynicus natalis.

Nevertheless, I do have to acknowledge that there have been moments in my life when I’ve found the universe to be somewhat magical, and many of those moments have coincided with various birthdays. Very often, these episodes involved affectionate priestesses from the Cult of Woman, their appearance as sudden and iconic as a lady appearing out of a cake, but without the cake. In the interest of good taste and decency, it will suffice to say here simply that the events I refer to had a resemblance to the supernatural and –on at least one occasion—the superhuman. It could be that the perceiver –namely I—was more apt to project mystique into the events, but their effect was no less appreciated for that. I suppose that what I’m trying to say is: Nothing beats a birthday gift from The Gods. And I sure hope I haven’t jinxed myself this evening by mentioning this here.

Perhaps it’s through some reflection of society, but –despite any distaste I may have for premeditated fanfare—a part of me feels that today should be marked by some novel act. Thus, I have started a blog, and a passing curiosity has of this moment been amplified into actual participation. The main reason why can be summarized by a quote from the character Sir Randolph Nettleby, played by James Mason in The Shooting Party. As he writes away in his journal, his grandson asks him what he’s writing. “Oh, just my thoughts,” he mutters. When the boy asks him why he writes them down, Nettleby answers, “To save myself the trouble of sharing them with others.” I paraphrase. It’s been 20 years since I saw the film.

That’s another strange thing. The idea that it could have been 20 years since I experienced some thing significant enough to remember in a mature and pertinent conversation, something other than a crisis involving a certain sibling or toy. It doesn’t seem long ago at all that 20 years ago was before I was born, part of a time when people looked and behaved like the actors on Dragnet, people so alien that they were virtually of a separate species than me. But now, that same yardstick reaches back only to a time when I was still an adult, however rudimentary. The equivalent measure touches an era when I ineptly fumbled with the fairer sex and was inherently incapable of managing any responsibility, a stage of life in which I was not much different than I am now.

Somehow, I am not what I expected to be at this age, though in all my imaginings, I never really dedicated any thought toward the future. Sure, there have been dreams, expectations, but nothing that really involved any concrete plans. Still, instinctively, I envisioned myself a little wiser and not so wracked by insecurity and doubt. In many ways, it’s good that I haven’t stepped into the pipe-puffing tweed world that I subconsciously anticipated. I like that I don’t feel that I have all the answers, that my outlook is fresh and only slightly wizened. I like that I’m shamelessly inquisitive and can talk comfortably with people of all ages, especially the youth, who find me accessible and, on occasion, even sexually attractive. Yet, I look around me at what other people do and wonder if perhaps I’m going about things the wrong way.

Inevitably and reluctantly, my thoughts drift toward the future. If the next ten years pass as rapidly –or most likely, more rapidly—than the past ten, I will soon be puttering about in an aggrieved state imposed upon me by a withering mortality and sagging genitals. All of my friends –who tread a traditional, more conservative path—will have made their final mortgage payments while I, at 50, will still be making sojourns to the shoe store with my mother. Given my current trajectory, in ten years I see myself sitting on a park bench trying to entice college girls to partake in excellent marijuana and a cheap but cheerful bottle of merlot while at the same time scolding their ignorance of Iggy Pop or the Violent Femmes. In some respects, it sounds pretty good.

However, if I should choose to avoid this demise, drastic action is called for. What form this action would take, I don’t know. Perhaps I might finally invest my energies in some sort of business enterprise, one which doesn’t require any form of fiscal or moral responsibility. I could become a lobbyist or a drug-dealer, for example. Perhaps an extortionist or some sort of charlatan, such as an executive in the advertising or entertainment industry. Before making any decision, it seems that more study and market research are in order.

Whether these concerns are invoked by the official advent of middle-age or by a recent transition to fatherhood, I cannot say. Without a doubt, the greatest thing in my life at the moment is my son. At two and a half years old he’s remarkably easy and extraordinarily reasonable. And though his original nature has little to do with me, I can’t help but feel that, at least in one respect, I’m doing something well. But, as most every parent feels, I’m sure, it’s not enough to be merely a patient friend and adviser. It’s for him, and only for him, that I presently worry about material stability.

Thus are the thoughts that drift through my head today. While true that some people feel the need to be depressed on their fortieth birthday, I can’t help but be indifferent. In East Asia, a baby is one year old at birth, zero being an impossible age. Depending on your cultural perspective, I’m actually forty-one. If I were going to be depressed, it should have been a year ago. Also in East Asia, old age is seen as a venerable state of wisdom. Far from entertaining maudlin reflections, they actually rejoice at the elevation in status, much like Americans do at 18, when they’re old enough to vote and die overseas in the interests of the military-industrial complex.

A very wise friend once convinced me that the only thing you can truly control is your attitude. But fortunately I don’t really need to draw on that advice today. Because, in all honesty, when I ask myself, What does it mean to be forty? The answer is easy. Nothing at all.