Category Archives: Ramblings, ravings

A question about Latin

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First of all, I’m not anything like a Latin scholar. I took several years of Ancient Greek in college, but never Latin. However, I’ve been reading the most wonderful book about language in general called The Power of Babel: A Natural History of Language by John McWhorter, and from that I’ve been learning some things about how languages work. So when a buddy of mine emailed me a question about the Latin text of a song, wanting to know why it’s spelling kept changing so much, I was able to answer him with just a little bit of on-line research.

 

Here is his question:
This text (in Latin) is from the Roman Catholic Requiem Mass:


Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis,

“May everlasting light shine upon them, O Lord, with thy saints in eternity, for thou art merciful. Grant them eternal rest, O Lord, and may everlasting light shine upon them.”

In this text there are these words: aeternum and aeternam.

What’s the difference(s)?

If you could explain it to me in a more plain English…I and particularly my wife would appreciate it very much.
 

Here is my answer:

I’m not all that good at Latin, but I think I know enough to answer this particular question.

The word Aeternus is the Latin adjective that means eternal, or without end. In fact, the word eternal in English is a direct descendant from aeternus. If you say them both fast, they sound similar.

As to why the word aeternus is spelled three different ways (aeterna, aeternum, and aeternam) in the same paragraph, that takes a bit to explain.

See, in many languages, like English, the way you tell what the words are doing in a sentence is by their order. Usually the order is subject, verb, object, although some languages do their order differently.

Take the sentence:  The girl ate a sandwich.

The subject (the person doing the action) is the girl. The verb (the action) is ate, and the object (the thing being acted upon, in this case, being ate) is the sandwich. When you read this sentence you know it is about a girl, eating a sandwich.

But what happens if you rearrange the word order? What if you write: A sandwich ate the girl.

Uh, oh. Those are the same words, but it means something completely different from the first sentence, at least in English.

As it happens there are some other languages, like Latin and Greek, that solve this word order problem differently. What Latin and Greek do is add a suffix to the end of the words so the listener (or reader) knows what is being done to who, regardless of the word order. So in Latin you could write:

The girl ate a sandwich.
A sandwich ate the girl
Ate the girl a sandwich.
A sandwich the girl ate.

And they would all mean the same thing (a girl eating a sandwich) as long as you used the proper suffixes for each of the words. In each case girl would get the subject suffix, ate would get the subject suffix as well (so you know its the girl doing the action), and sandwich would get the object suffix.
This is a neat trick for a language. Among other things it makes it easy to write long epic poems because the author is free of the limitations of word order when writing. They can rearrange the words to work best (in terms of rhyme and meter) without worrying about word order. But its also a bit of a pain for non-native speakers because you have to memorize all the proper suffixes so you can follow what is going on.

Another thing Latin and Greek do, they add a suffix the end of their adjectives so the listener can tell what nouns they are modifying. Other languages, like English, uses word order to accomplish the same thing. So in English if I write:

 

The pretty girl owns a car

You would know that the word pretty applies to the girl.  Change the sentence to:

 

The girl owns a pretty car

And now its the car that is pretty, not the girl. But again, like we saw before, in Latin and Greek you can rearrange the word order all you want, as long as the proper suffix is placed on the adjective so that the word pretty matches the ending of its subject.

One more thing, before we dig into the sentence. Many times in a language, an adjective will be so handy that eventually it starts to get used as a noun. Most languages have a way of taking adjectives and converting them into nouns for just this reason. Usually by changing their spelling. As it happens English does this the same way Latin and Greek do, by adding a suffix to the end of the adjective. Thus the adjective happy, because the noun happiness, by putting –ness on the end. In the same way forgetful becomes forgetfulness.

As you can probably guess, Latin and Greek not only adds a suffix, but they also change the spelling of it to indicate what they are modifying. Roughly the same thing as English, just slightly more complicated.

So now, lets go back to that Latin sentence.

Lux aeterna luceat eis, Domine, cum sanctis tuis in aeternum, quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis.

The first use of Aeternus comes at the beginning with aeterna. Here its an adjective modifying the noun Lux (or light) which also happens to be the subject of the sentence, hence the –a ending.  The second time the word shows up as aeternum with the –um suffix. This suffix tells us the word is now a noun. So, instead of the adjective, eternal, it is the noun meaning eternalness. The third time the word shows up, aeternam, its back to the adjective form, only this time its modifying the object of the sentence instead of the subject like above. In this case its modifying the word requiem, meaning rest. Thus the –am ending.

So the same adjective, used three different ways. Once modifying the subject, once as a noun, and once modifying the object.

There’s more to it than this, but I think this gives you a good idea of why the word is spelled so differently.

The inadvertent racist

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I am not the hero of this story. Not even close. But its a true story all the same. This really happened.

I was coming home from work.
I was standing on the Expo line platform at La Cienega and Jefferson. The station there is elevated a good 30-40 feet above the traffic below. It offers a nice view of the lights of Culver City, especially at night. Its also a short block away from a Sees Candy factory/shop. When the wind is right you can smell them making chocolates.

A young african-American man approached me and stood nearby.
He looked to be in his late 20s. My height. Well groomed. He had on slacks, a long-sleeve button down shirt, and a tie. A coat as well, but I can’t recall exactly what kind. Not a suit jacket, more like a trench coat or a rain coat. It was dark, and cold (what people on the East Coast would call cool). The elevated station not only offers a excellent view, but it also exposes you to the on-shore breeze, the Pacific Ocean being only a few miles away. It was cold enough people were wearing gloves, stamping their feet, moving around, and standing instead of sitting on the concrete benches. So we stood.

I was dressed like a person of privilege.
I don’t recall exactly what I was wearing, but this is how I dress for work. Jeans and a fitted t-shirt. On warmed days, tan dockers, but more than likely it was jeans. The t-shirt was colored, and might have been long-sleeved. I buy them at Target because they’re cheap, and because they look good on me. I was probably wearing my skating jacket which is bicycling jacket: comfortable, lightweight, stuffs into a small pouch, is 100% synthetic, and is amazingly warm. The jacket looks like something a cyclist would wear on a windy day because that is precisely why it was made. It was a gift from my in-laws, is the perfect coat for anything but a serious downpour, and is easily hauled around in my back-pack.

All this to say I was dressed like a person who doesn’t give a damn about how they dress. That’s because I don’t. My day job is being an artist, a pixel-pusher, a photoshop expert. A great job for people who like to dress like they don’t give a damn. My outfit has evolved to this point as being the perfect blend of comfort, ease of use while skating, and just professional enough to give the appearance of confidence. As such my outfit is strictly utilitarian; clothes I put on to accomplish the task at hand, and nothing more. The uniform of a slightly socially awkward artist.

But its also important to point out I dress this way because I don’t have to dress better. No one expects me to prove my worth based on my dress. Quite the opposite in fact. No one has ever questioned my value to society based solely upon my clothing. Or at least not since I was in college. And it would be considered rude for someone to do so. Its not something I ever have to worry about.

We started talking.
Possibly because he was friendly, but more than likely because I like to talk to strangers. I try not to be too pushy, but almost anyone will engage in casual conversation. “Sure is cold tonight,” that sort of thing.

I asked what he did for a living.
I do this with everyone. Its a great way to get a stranger to talk about something they’re comfortable with. Since I collect stories, like some people collect butterflies, I use this question, among others, as a method of exploration; a way to dig deeper. Everybody has good stories tucked inside somewhere, and I am shameless in my hunt for them. Up until a friend posted something on Facebook, I didn’t realize that asking someone this particular question has another meaning in the black community.

He told me to “guess.”
I thought this a funny response, a bit like a girl who is flirting with you might want you to guess her age. Only we were definitely not flirting. So I looked at his outfit, at the way he carried himself, noted the other passengers (remember I ride the train and busses all the time, so I’m familiar with the clientele), and took a wild guess.

“Are you a security guard?” I asked.

“I work in a bank,” he said. “As a loan officer.”

He may have said something more about his job. He may have not actually been a loan officer. I don’t recall. All I remember is that he worked in a bank, and not just as a teller.

He was angry after that.
Not sneering angry, not growling angry, not “ball up a fist and punch someone” angry. Nothing so overt. It was more subtle than that. More of a “slight tightening of the jaw” angry.  That, and he all but stopped talking with me.

I won’t pretend to be the most observant guy in the room, but I can tell when someone is done talking with you. They turn a shoulder. Ignore the next question. Don’t say or waive goodbye. They are done. Period. And this guy was done.

He walked far away to another entrance to get on the train.
That is to say, he made it very clear he wasn’t going to sit near me. Now I talk to people all the time on the bus and train, like I mentioned before, so I’ve learned a thing or two. I knew our conversation was over, and I had a pretty good sense the man was angry at me, but at the time what I didn’t get was why. I didn’t know if I had done or said something wrong, or if he was over-reacting. He didn’t have any of the signs of mental illness (I know, I talk to those kind of people all the time), and there was nothing about the conversation that I could see that would make someone upset. Sure I had guessed wrong at his occupation, but so what? I mean he asked me to guess. He could have just told me what he did, and we could have gone on from there. Hell, I would have loved to talk to him about his job. I’ve never worked in a bank, and I could easy have asked a hundred questions. Everything from, “do you still keep banker’s hours,” to “do you get any play with the ladies?”

He probably went home thinking, “what a racist asshole.”
He probably was right.

So that’s the story. Now, I’m going to turn the conversation over, and try to present it from his point of view. He was coming home from work. He was dressed well, dressed better than 95% of the people at the station. He works in Culver CIty which could mean anything, but probably meant he worked at a bank in the nice part of town–and the nice part of Culver CIty could give Beverly Hills a run for its money. He stood for his train, and was approached by an old white guy who dressed like a bum. They talked for a bit, and then the old gut started pestering him about his job.

I’m going to stop here for a moment because I want to talk about this specific topic. Its worth mentioning because its possible the white people in the room might not get all that is going on here. I know I didn’t at the time, so feel free to go to school on my mistake.

There are rules about how society functions. These rules are not written down, nor are they in a real sense enforced, yet they do exist, and they do come into play in public. For instance, if you are out in public late in the morning on a school day, and you see a couple of pre-teens out on the street, you will probably note them, especially if you are a parent. A child out of school sticks out. If you’re a teacher, you will probably say something to them. Anything from, “How’s if going,” to “Aren’t you suppose to be in school?” If you know the kids personally, you definitely will say something to them. “Billy Jones. Does your mother know you aren’t in school?”

There are two things to this example that are important. The first is that perfect strangers in public, who normally do not talk to each other, will speak out at kids who they think should be in school (whether they need to be in school or not, as my friends who have have home-schooled their kids will tell you). Its a social function. A protection. The social equivalent of white blood cells attaching themselves to a virus. Its not done to attack the kid as much as to preserve a perceived order; in this case having kids in school where they belong.

The second important thing about this example is that the person speaking will do so from a perceived place of authority. A kid on the street on a school day will not be enough for most people to overcome their natural inclination to not speak to strangers. But if that person is a parent, they will have more of an emotional stake in the issue, especially if they have kids near that age. They understand deeply what a kid out of school means. For a teacher, this is doubly true. They have first hand experience with kids and their motivations. They also have, what my sister (a long standing middle school science teacher) calls “the voice”. In others words, they know how to be effective. And if the stranger actually knows one of the children and their family, they will almost certainly say something.

In each of these cases, the person doing the talking is doing so from a place of authority. They know something, or feel something and are compelled to act. They do this from a place of privilege. This is what privilege means, having a raised point in a social experience.

So this social system, this method by which people of privilege speak out in public to correct a perceived flaw, also happens to be the very same method by which racism is carried out, and perceived racial divides are maintained. The equivalent of weeding in the racist garden.

I think most of my readers can imagine themselves in the dim dark past, out in a small town somewhere deep in the south, and see how white strangers might have have asked a black person what they were doing out on the street in the middle of the day. Especially during the time of slavery, where free blacks were as rare as kids not needing to be in school. This is what I like to think of as “safe” racism. Its somewhere deep in the past, doesn’t involve us, and doesn’t match or present social context. I mean, after all, no one today would ask a black person what they are doing out on the streets, right?

Well yes and no. You see, I don’t see white people doing anything of the sort, and as a general rule they don’t. But what they actually do is not all that different from it. If you’re like me, you probably won’t notice until its pointed out to you, but these kinds of things often still go on. All you have to do is ask enough people of color. They’ll tell you.

Go to a university and see how often the black students are asked, “are you here on scholarship?” compared to how often the white students are asked. Go around your neighborhood, especially a nice neighborhood, and see how many times a black person is asked, “do you live around here?” compared to a white person. Or go on a public train platform and see how many black men are asked, “what do you do for a living?” compared to the white men. If you are white, and confronted with these questions it doesn’t bother you because the questions will be few and far between, and the answers do not reflect poorly on you. But what if you got asked these things all of the time? What does it mean when every white person you see, even the well meaning ones, ask you the same questions over and over? And why these particular questions?

Are these questions just a part of the friendly banter between strangers in public, or are they analogous to the, “aren’t you supposed to be in school?”? If you’ve only experienced these questions once or twice, I’d guess the former, but if you hear them more often, they start to look an awful lot like the latter.

Which is how I accidentally ended up a racist. See I wasn’t trying to subtly tell this young man he didn’t belong in my world of white privilege, I was genuinely curious what he did for a living. Only its hard to tell sometimes the polite question from the pointed, and intent–as any competent trial lawyer will tell you–is damn hard to prove, and easy to mistake. Asking a young black man if he has a job (which is probably how he took my question) is no joke. The unemployment rate for men of color, especially young men, is incredibly high. Only a few short times since the 1960s has it dropped below twice as high as white unemployment. I’ll say it again. The average is more than twice as high.

So if I had had to work twice as hard to find a good job, and then was bugged about it by someone who looked as if he had been handed their job on a silver platter, I can imagine I would be a little bit testy. Because men, especially young men, often measure their self-worth by their jobs and the money they make, this is a topic that is rife for misunderstanding and hurt feelings. Few things can make a man feel insecure faster than questioning his financial virility. This is true for men of any color.

Since that day I’ve learned to by more circumspect. I’ve learned that if someone talks about their work as being “a little of this and a little of that,” what they are really saying is either they’re unemployed, or they don’t want to talk about their work. Older men tend to be more sanguine about this, then the younger ones. They’ve found other ways to measure their own value to society instead of, or in addition to, making money. But it wasn’t until my friend posted something on facebook the other day that I realized I needed to find a different topic to bring up, or find a more socially acceptable way of asking. That, or I needed to acknowledge that my current style of questioning could end up with me being labeled a racist asshole. Again.

Aztecs react to…

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Trevor and I went for a walk tonight, and because its its favorite topic right now, we talked about military tactics in history. He’s been playing the Total War game series, which allows you to general various armies and go head-to-head with them or to fight against the A.I. At some point we started talking about the Native Americans in general and specifically about the Aztecs. Most people understand that when the Aztecs ran across Cortes they simply did not have the military technology to compete. But what most people do understand is they didn’t have the right ideas either. Cortez and the Spanish not only had a huge weapon advantage over the Aztecs, but the also had an idea advantage.

For instance the Aztec fought a kind warfare that was significantly different form the Spanish. They didn’t even have the same goals. Aztecs fought wars to gain people for sacrifices. To them killing was completely secondary, and killing too much actually counter productive. So a typical Aztec victorious battle would mean ganging up on a neighboring tribe, killing enough of them so they quit, picking 10-20 people of that tribe for sacrifice, and making sure you got 20 more people each year.

Now counter this against the Spanish. Their idea of a victorious battle would start with killing so many of the other guys that you either were to exhausted to kill any more, or they ran away. For them, killing was the goal. It was why you went to war. And a vanquished enemy didn’t just pay you tribute every year, you went and took EVERYTHING from him.

Mind you, the Aztecs were not stupid. Not even primitive. They just had never come across certain ideas about war and warfare before, and it was their inexperience with these ideas that proved to be so fatal. Well that and small pox.

Anyway, it was while we were talking about this, about the native American Indians having the largest WTF experience in history, that Trevor suggested he’d like to see the look on the Aztecs faces when they got charged for the first time by Egyptian chariots.

And that’s when he came up with the idea for a tv show: Aztecs React To…. Every week the Aztecs face a new enemy. Every week its pretty much the same results, Well not quite. The Aztecs really did kick ass, for armies in their area. Pound for pound they were certainly tough.

So we went from Aztecs React To Egyptian Chariots, to
Aztecs React To A Roman fighting square, to
Aztecs React To Napoleon’s Army, to
Aztecs React To modern day U.S. Marines, to
Aztecs React To the 50 cal machine gun, to
Aztecs React To the M1 Abrams tank, to
Aztecs React To Apache Helicopters, to

I think you can see where this was going. Soon it was time for bed.

What you wake up to…

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We used to wake up each morning to NPR. Not by choice, more by default. But hearing people talk in the morning was never Teri’s idea of a good time so when the cats in their play one day switched the clock radio from FM to AM we didn’t mind much when the next morning we woke to classical music.

But classical music, at least here in America, is its own weird little animal. Its 300 year old pop music, completely stripped of all its one time more raucous meanings, condensed from a wider amalgam of styles over several centuries, and sweetened by nostalgia to the point of being almost ironically romantic. There is nothing new to classical music, the fences are very well maintained over there. Its the music equivalent of a once proud tiger with a deep voice and massive territory, reduced to a gaunt beast at the zoo who meeuwes pitifully like a kitten as he paces back and forth over the same strip of dirt waiting with a royal pique for the keepers to bring him his next meal.

And the accent they use when the DJs talk is hilarious. Its the closest one will hear to a posh accent in American English. To quote Fitzgerald, it is the “sound of money.”  Old money, at least, or perhaps the sound of new money attempting to usurp on the mantel of the old. And when they do a pledge drive, like KUSC is doing now, the accent gets even better. Imagine seeing the musical Oliver only hearing it done in a posh accent instead of cockney. One simply does not beg well with a posh accent. Its too ironic.

Occasionally, the station play some more modern classical pieces, especially on Friday. Modern in this case meaning music about 100 year old. These songs, which are far more fresh to the ear, and far more energetic, are the classical equivalent of punk. After listening to the dulcet tones of Beethoven and Mozart every morning at 6:15, Berlioz or Stravinsky comes across like Joey Ramone belting it out in his droning voice after just hearing the boy-band bubblegum pop of the early Beetles.

All of which makes me wonder, as I get older, why I appreciate punk rock like I never did before? Is this some form of maturity, and if so, wouldn’t that be ironic? Maturing enough to appreciate punk, now that is a funny thought.

So what it is that you wake up to in the morning?

The Trouble with Miley Cyrus

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{edited to add another point}

Well the MTV Music Awards happened again, and sure enough a show designed to generate publicity has done so. This time it seems like every single person in America is talking about Miley Cyrus’ performance. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve run across this meme on the news and on Facebook, and almost always its the same thing; Miley has tarnished her image. Miley was gross or disgusting. Miley is a slut.

This post is to accurately describe the problem with Miley Cyrus, and how to fix it.

If you had a problem with Miley Cyrus’ performance on MTV, here’s what you need to do. Get up from your computer, go to your nearest bathroom, stand in front of a mirror, and look at yourself. Behold, this is Miley Cyrus’ problem. Not her. You!

“But wait,” you say. Didn’t you see her dance? Don’t you now how inappropriate this is? On national TV?

Yes I saw the dance. No it was not inappropriate (at least in that context), and yes it was on TV. I know you think I’m crazy right now, so let me make this clear for you, hopefully in a language you will understand.

1) It’s a fucking Free Country. This is American, God Damn It. We stand for freedom. No one died. No crime was committed. Even if you think her act was vulgar and tasteless (both of which may well be true) she still has the freedom to do it. So fucking get over yourself.

And along those lines, no one put a gun to your head and made you watch her performance. So please don’t cry about something you volunteered to experience.

2) Standing in front of a camera and doing stupid shit is how Miley makes money. Seriously. She’s an actor. What do you think actors do? They do stupid shit to make money. So why was this “stupid” different from any of the other stupid things she’s done? It isn’t and it wasn’t.

3) But she tarnished her image. Oh boo-hoo. I can’t believe I have to says this because its so fucking obvious, but here goes: This is a girl who made her fame by playing a character who lied all the time about her “real” life. Think about it. You think young Miley Cyrus was all sweetness and light? Really? Cause she she made her fame playing a person who lied. Constantly. About her real life. How do you know it was an act? What do you really know about her? I can tell you, damn near nothing. I can promise you there is almost nothing about this girl that didn’t come from a press release or a court, and of the two I’d say the court is only slightly more reliable.

Whatever you may think about Miley I can guarantee you that you have no idea, none, if she was ever a moral person. The Miley Cyrus that makes the press is just as much an act as any other character she has portrayed. Perhaps even more so. If you think actors who portray nice people are themselves nice, then you must believe that Mark Hamill (Luke Skywalker) has special powers called the Force that he used to stir his coffee and shit, and Harrison Ford knows how to fly a spaceship. You don’t? Yeah, I don’t either. But I still think Carrie Fisher was a real princess.

And on that note… how long did you think she was going to carry on the goody-two-shoes act? Really? Did you think she was going to be playing the same sweet innocent girl at 60? She’s obviously ready to move on, has been for a while. Isn’t it time you moved on with her?

4) It was art. I know some of you may not know this, but art is designed to rock the boat, to poke holes in our collective culture, bringing light to the dark underbelly of our collective crap. And judging by the response to her performance Miley did an excellent job of rocking the boat. But what’s important here is not if it was art, it was, but what you should do about it.

What do you do with art you don’t like? Now that’s a good question. After all not everyone is going to like every piece of art. Some of it is bound to be too profane, too vulgar, or simply too boring. The obvious response would be to hate it, or despise it. both of which really do not work. Hating something that is designed to make you angry at it only means you’re following its script. That would be stupid. Instead, the way you treat art you don’t like is to ignore it. There’s nothing worse you can do to a piece of art designed to “shock” than to ignore it.

5) It was an act. I know this is going to surprise some of you, but Miley Cyrus gets paid to do shit like this. Its her job. and you know what, she is fucking good at her job, at least judging by her income. Damn, I wish I had half of her lifetime earnings, and she’s not even 21 yet.

Moreover, this was an act put together by a huge group of people. Costumers, hair dressers, professional choreographers, directors, producers, etc, etc. And yes, even the lowly publicists where involved. Did you know Miley Cyrus has a paid publicist to go over everything she does to control her image? Shocking, eh? Still think she was wrong?

Also, they practiced this show. Rehearsed it over and over. There was very little of Miley being “free and open” on that stage. She was doing what she was directed to do. You know, like an actor.

Mind you, even though Miley is paid to dance around on stage like a stripper, she may not do everything she is paid to do very well. She might be an especially bad dancer, say, or perhaps not always sing on key. So what? Neither one of these things are important to her performance, and slight imperfections are common on performance shows like this. Moreover, none of her fans really care. OMG! Its Miley! She’s pretty! Usually that is enough.

Which brings us to my last point….

6) She gets paid to be famous. There’s this word in the English language: Notorious. Miley Cyrus is notorious. This word notorious used to have a negative connotation to it. It carried a feeling of scandal, of dark smoky bars, and deeds better left unsaid. But guess what, that shit doesn’t apply to Miley Cyrus. Wanna know why? Well the long answer has to do with the loss of our shame-based culture, but the short answer is fame. Fame works. Fame causes people to notice, and fame has absolutely no moral component. Whether the person did something morally benevolent, or heinous, fame doesn’t care. It only cares if you notice. If you say anything.

Wanna know what this means? Every time you post something on Facebook about how terrible Miley Cyrus is, you increase her fame. Every time you talk about Miley to your family or you co-workers, you increase her fame. And when you increase Miley Cyrus’s fame, you increase her net worth, you increase her standing in pop culture, you make more money for her. So yeah, your every complaint equals pennies in her bank account.

So please, complain all you want about what a tramp she is, because I’m pretty sure she’s sitting at home, looking over the internet, and smiling. Maybe she’s rubbing her hands and cackling gleefully. I don’t know.

Which is why I say the problem with Miley, isn’t with Miley. Its with you. If you don’t like her behavior, then for God’s sake be smart enough not to pay her. Otherwise you come close to looking like a fool, and that girl whom you think a stupid slut has just put one over on your tired self-rightous ass.

Me, I think Miley is adult enough to make her own decisions (and pay the consequences), is a young woman (which means she’s going to make some mistakes about her sexuality), and is a fucking genius when it comes to manipulating the media.  My hope is that the rest of us catch up to her.

Dead Crow/Fight Club

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Passed a dead crow today on the way into work. It was just a lump in the road, a dark lump, brownish grey with a splattering of darker feathers on top. The bottom of a crow’s feathers are not very black, more of a dark gray. It was sitting in the road at the corner of Wilshire and Fairfax, a little lump in the road about the size of a salad plate right at the intersection of the two crosswalks. The man in a suit who had been talking to the bus driver the whole way down Fairfax, stepped on the crow in his fancy leather shoes before I could warn him. I don’t think he even noticed.

I was reading Fight Club on the way into work today, and it shows.

On Raising Wolves

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When I meet people I often tell them I was raised by wolves. I do this as a way to excuse my sometimes pointed comments. This sentence is delivered like a joke, and often get a laugh. Usually the laugh is followed by a look of recognition, as the other meaning starts to sink in. I was raised by wolves.

I was thinking of this as I was listening to my son play with a friend this morning. The friend stayed the night, which was a first for our son. Teri and I were both a bit nervous, needlessly so as it turned out. His friend is easy to deal with, good at grasping his own needs (for a 12 year-old), and gracious with adults. The friend is also smart and verbally gifted, like our boy. Listening to them play, really more like riffing on each other, is an interesting peek into that strange time of growth called pre-adolescense.

As I listen to them casually trade verbal barbs so pointed and sharp that they would considered terribly rude if spoken among strangers, I am reminded of tiger cubs playing. Each swat and bite a cute and playful treat, yet at the same time this  behavior will eventually lead into something terrible. Fully grown tigers bite and swat with lethal force. Once they hit a certain age, there is absolutely nothing cute or charming in them.

The same can be said, of course, for wolves and their cubs.

Teri and I, because we are adults and mindful of the pain our words can inflict, are forever warning Trevor. “Find a nicer tone, son.” “These are your friends, be nicer to them.” or “Do you think you could have said that is a nicer way?” We say these things because we know from painful experience how amazing sharp and deadly harsh words from an adult can be. But Trevor is not an adult. He lives in a different world.

In middle school tough words are an art form, and being quick with a quip is a valuable skill. This is his world. There is where he lives. Boys and girls at this age are verbally vicious, yet at the same time their words are usually completely ineffective. Stand on a corner as middle school kids get out of school and you’ll hear insult after insult, sometimes repetitively, sometimes with whole groups of kids ganging up on one another. But the funny thing is all these harsh words seem to have little effect. Kids will gleefully insult each other, and then turn around and talk about their favorite video game, exactly as if nothing untoward was said. Its as if middle school kids survive by having a thicker skin than adults. Or perhaps, like the bites of young tiger cubs, the verbal skills which as an adult will prove to be lethal, are  playful and largely ineffective because they are still so young.

And that is what he is. So young, yet at times so adult. One day his words are going to carry far more weight. Like that tiger cub’s bite, they will mysteriously transform from playful to lethal. I don’t envy him this transition. It was not a easy path for me, nor was it for Teri. But its also a part of growing up.

I wonder if tiger cubs have a similar experience, if they wake up one day and say to themselves, “Holy shit. I just bit a hole in my sister’s face! How’d that happen?”

I know Trevor will eventually have this experience. I can only hope that when he does his behavior will be easier to monitor because he’s learned at an earlier age to be more compassionate for his friends, and more mindful of his words. Then again, if he doesn’t, he can always retort, “I’m sorry, I was raised by wolves.”

The irony is, from his lips it will be just as true.

On Death and Mourning

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Death comes to your home like an unannounced guest and always stays long after you’re ready for it to go.

I came up with this idea many years ago. Perhaps its even a quote from somebody else. I don’t know, but it captures the feeling I have in dealing with loss and mourning.

In my head, death is always personified as a she, not an it. This is not, at least I hope, some latent misogyny, rather a reflection of how much Santa Muerte has infected my mind and my writing. I think we need a patron saint for death. Like love, death is a valuable thing to our culture and society. It changes things in ways that is difficult to understand up until you go through it. Its a bit like sex in that regard. There are some things in which words do not do justice to the experience.

One thing I can say for sure, as a man I didn’t fully understand manhood up until the point we buried my father and my father-in-law. After they died, every major decision I’ve made feels like performing a dangerous routine without a safety net. I have this sense of, “Oh shit. I could really fuck this up, and I don’t have anyone to call for backup.” It is both terrifying, and in some weird way, freeing.  I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but at the same time I know deep in my bones that it is necessary. As necessary as breathing.

The Value of an English Major

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A friend of mine on face book posted this opinion piece from the NY Times Sunday Review on the loss of the English major in education. Below is my response.

I guess I’m more pragmatic about the topic. I’ve always thought writing well, and reading well, should carry its own reward, and I believe it does, regardless of ones avocation. If this is true, then I’m pretty sure we’ll start to see previous business majors sheepishly come back to school willing to do the hard work of learning to write, even if it is based on the desire to give themselves a leg up on the competition.

There is a corollary to this point, which is also important; that is if writing well and reading well are not a virtue, then they should go the way of the buggy whip. I also believe this to be true. Seriously, if you can write like a pro, and still cannot explain the value of writing to our culture at large, either you’ve over estimated your wiring skills or its value.

As I alluded to above, I think the “real” reason we’re seeing a drop in English majors is because learning to write is hard work. Most people would rather take an easier path, and they will up until they discover that easy and fast doesn’t always equate with best. Some day these skimmers of “internet facts” these believers in a Cliffs Notes education will come across an enemy who has taken the time to read “The Prince”, or pretty much anything of Shakespeare, and will happily eviscerate those poor souls (with words alone, one hopes) who thought skimming a good replacement for deep thought. Yes, the pen is mightier than the sword, bitch, and I keep mine sharp.

I’ve always thought the proper reason for an English degree–although I guess it applies to the whole of the humanities–was for someone who still did not know what they wanted to be when they grow up. This is not intended to be a slight, even today at the tender age of 50 I am not sure of what I want to be when I grow up. There is a genuine need for people to learn in university the skills they will use to discover themselves and the world.

Doctor for Death

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I had a dream last night in which I was a doctor and was hired as a specialist to help people smoothly transition towards their death. Sort of a death therapist with a heavy background in medicine and the effects of various medications on a dyeing person.

Obviously this is not what I do in real life, but it was a fascinating idea all the same.

There must be a point in which the complexity of medical care, especially for the elderly, becomes too difficult for the patient to comprehend. Heck, we’re already at this point, so much so that the standard rule for our family is to not let anyone be in the hospital without another adult in the room Add in other complications associated with end of life issues, and the complex becomes chaotic. Now add in the various emotional responses of all the family members, and the financial implications if a large estate is involved, and you get a rich heady stew. Rich enough to last several television seasons worth of solutions, for instance.