Semantics in the Sino-American Relationship

"Watch yer mouth, son!"

Next week, when President Obama arrives in Beijing, he will represent a nation that maintains "positive, cooperative and comprehensive" ties with the Middle Kingdom (the official jointly-agreed-upon characterization in Beijing and the Beltway).

This is in marked difference to the Nixon-era "tacit allies [against the Soviet Union]" and the George W. Bush-era "strategic competitors." Bush had also described the relationship as "candid," but Beijing has shied away from suggestions that the two powers might criticize each other publicly.

Don't rush to cynicism—this Confucian-inspired attitude reflects the existential importance of face-saving and respect between two mutually-dependent behemoths. He is recorded in the Analects 2,500 years ago as explaining the importance of language to statecraft:

There must be no arbitrariness in what is said. This matters above all things. If names are not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things. If language is not in accordance with the truth of things, affairs cannot be carried to success.

What words will President Obama, known above all things for his rhetorical flourishes, use next week? Town hall-style meetings have presented the administration with some of its toughest domestic criticism over fiscal policy and health care reform. What happens 7,000 miles away, when he faces a hot seat in a heavily mediated town hall with students in Shanghai? And what of his steps through the ancient tradition of Forbidden City diplomacy in Beijing, where slight breaches of nuanced ritual have lost many a foreign emissary life and limb?

Perhaps Obama was a little too candid with his words as a young senator in Illinois:

They're neither our enemy, nor our friend. They're competitors.

Ouch.

According to Orville Schell, China specialist with the Asia Society's Center on U.S.-China Relations, "We Americans don't do ritual very well. We don't take it seriously. For the Chinese, it is all-important."

Perhaps it would be indeed be prudent to parse our words toward a "strategic competitor" which holds $1 trillion in American debt; which is our most important trading partner; which maintains a nuclear stockpile of hundreds and the world's largest army; which maintains intimate ties with trouble spots North Korea, Pakistan, Iran and Sudan; which has held crucial veto power on the U.N. Security Council since 1979; and which may likely eclipse us in economic and geostrategic power within our lifetimes.


The Gossip, by Norman Rockwell

Little known fact: It is official U.S. policy since President Nixon signed the Shanghai Communique in 1972 that Taiwan is actually part of the People's Republic of China. There are only 22 (mostly tiny) countries that diplomatically recognize Taiwan as a separate nation—the United States is not one of them. The "Taiwanese Embassy" in the United States is officially known as the "Taipei Economic and Cultural Representative Office in the United States," even though its web domain is "www.taiwanembassy.org/US." Taiwan, which self-identifies as the "Republic of China," is known widely as "Chinese Taipei" in international sporting events (like the 2008 Beijing Olympics) and some international organizations, per People's Republic of China pressure.

From Wikipedia:

Both sides agree to use the English name "Chinese Taipei". This is possible because of the ambiguity of the English word "Chinese". In 1979, the International Olympic Committee passed a resolution in Nagoya, Japan, restoring the rights of the Chinese Olympic Committee within the IOC, meanwhile renaming the Taipei-based Olympic Committee "Chinese Taipei Olympic Committee". Since then, and until 1989 the PRC translated "Chinese Taipei" as "Zhongguo Taipei" (simplified Chinese: 中国台北, traditional Chinese: 中國臺北, hanyu pinyin: Zhōngguó Táiběi), connoting that Taipei is a part of the Chinese state. By contrast, the Republic of China government translated it as "Zhonghua Taipei" (traditional Chinese: 中華台北 or 中華臺北, Hanyu Pinyin: Zhōnghuá Táiběi) in Chinese, which references the term "China" as the cultural or ethnic entity, rather than the state.

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"If names are not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things..."

Last Words from Death Penalty Inmates

John Allen Muhammad, AKA "The DC Sniper," who was put to death today in Virginia by lethal injection. He declined a last statement. I remember ducking behind the pumps while gassing my car during his three-week-long 2002 shooting spree—I was legitimately afraid. We all were. The murders were so random, disembodied violence aimed at the most normal moments in our daily routines. Family members of the ten victims crammed into a small viewing room in the execution chamber of Greensville Correctional Center in Jarratt, Virginia...

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This post expresses no opinion about the death penalty—because I have none. It merely tries to humanize one of the many heavy and complex matters that have become mere "issues" in the 24-hour news cycle.

These last statements from death row inmates, on the verge of execution, are posted on the Texas Department of Criminal Justice website here.

Yes I do. I know ya'lls pain, believe me I shed plenty of tears behind Carlos. Carlos was my friend. I didn't murder him. This what is happening right now is an injustice. This doesn't solve anything. This will not bring back Carlos. Ya'll fought real hard here to prove my innocence. This is only the beginning. I love each and everyone dearly. Dre My queen. I love you. Yaws, Junie I love yall. Stay strong, continue to fight. They are fixing to pump my veins with a lethal drug the American Veterinary Association won't even allow to be used on dogs. I say I am worse off than a dog. They want to kill me for this; I am not the man that did this. Fight on. I will see ya'll again. That's all I can say. -Reginald Blanton, Executed October 27, 2009

On 4/13/2000 in San Antonio, Blanton and one co-defendant shot and killed a 20 year old Hispanic male in his apartment. Blanton took jewelry from the victim which was later pawned for $79. He was 18. He was executed 10 years later, at the age of 28.

The Polunsky dungeon should be compared with the Death Row Community as existing not living. Why do I say this, the Death Row is full of isolated hearts and suppressed minds. We are filled with love looking for affection and a way to understand. I am a Death Row resident of the Polunsky dungeon. Why does my heart ache. We want pleasure love and satisfaction. It. The walls of darkness crushed in on me. Life without meaning is life without purpose. But the solace within the Polunsky dungeon, the unforgivesness within society, the church Pastors and Christians. It is terrifying. Does anyone care or who I am. Can you feel me people. The Polunsky dungeon is what I call the pit of hopelessness. The terrfying thing is the US is the only place, country that is the only civilized country that is free that says it will stop murder and enable justice. I ask each of you to lift up your voices to demand an end to the Death Penalty. If we live, we live to the Lord. If we die we die to the Lord. Christ rose again, in Jesus name. Bye Aunt Helen, Luise, Joanna and to all the rest of yall. You may proceed Warden. [began singing] -Johnny Johnson, Executed February 2, 2009

What did he do? Here's the report. (Hint: He's a less-than-ideal voice for the anti-death penalty lobby).

Is the mic on? My only statement is that no cases have ever tried have been error free. Those are my words. No cases are error free. You may proceed Warden. -Dale Devon Scheanette, Executed February 10, 2009

On 12/24/1996, in Arlington, Texas, Scheanette sexually assaulted and strangled a 22 year old black female, resulting in her death.

Yes, nothing I can say can change the past. I am asking for forgiveness. Saying sorry is not going to change anything. I hope one day you can find peace. I am sorry for all of the pain that I have caused you for all those years. There is nothing else I can say, that can help you.

Mija, I love you. Sis, Cynthia, and Sandy, keep on going and it will be O.K. I am sorry to put you through this as well. I can't change the past. I hope you find peace and know that I love you. I am sorry. I am sorry and I can't change it. -David Martinez, Executed February 10, 2009

Mr. Martinez was charged with beating his wife and their 14-year-old son to death with a baseball bat.

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...led into the chamber in denim and flip-flops, John Allen Muhammad was injected with a series of lethal drugs beginning at 9:06 p.m. and he was pronounced dead at 9:11 p.m. Bob Meyers, whose brother, Dean H. Meyers, 53, was gunned down Oct. 9 at a Prince William County gas station said, "There are no winners here. We are not celebrating. It was a sad day for everyone."

Love as a Verb

On the Dao, "Loving" over "Love," and the Gerundal Nature of Happiness...

The entire venerable canon of 5,000 years worth of Chinese religious philosophy could be reduced to a single syllable—

Dao (道)

Translators have had trouble with this word. They usually translate 道 into English as "the Way."

The confusion stems from the fact that in Mandarin Chinese there is no distinction between nouns, verbs, adverbs, etc. as there are in most Indo-European languages. The same word often means a ____ (noun), to ____ (verb), ____-ing (gerund), ____-ingly (adverb), etc.


The same written character 道, for example, means variously:

direction / way / road / path / principle / truth / morality / reason / skill / method / Dao (of Daoism) / to say / to speak / to talk / classifier for long thin stretches, rivers, roads etc / province of Korea (do 도)/ former province of Japan (dō)

The Daoist concept of Dao is neither noun, nor verb, nor adjective--but something that both encompasses and transcends grammatical category. Translating it into English as the abstract noun "the Way," however, tends to give precedence of the noun over the active verb aspects of 道. A more accurate, but ungainly, translation might be "Way-ing." The verbification of nouns in a gerundal "-ing" is the closest that English gets to this "active noun" state.

OK, so what?

Consider the following cliche:

"Love conquers all."

Everyone who reads this with the jaundiced eye of the early 21st Century (half-)knows it's a farce. With divorce rates pushing 60%, financial disaster and unemployment putting strains on relationships, and a Millennial Generation putting off marriage later and later, love clearly doesn't conquer all.

In the phrase "Love conquers all," the word "Love" serves as a subject noun. "Conquers" is the verb, and "all" the direct object of the verb. "Love" is an abstract noun, meaning it's meaning is already elusive, yet universalized. There is only one Love, and yet we are all expected to approach it from individual, subjective angles in the messy realm of romantic reality.

The abstract noun "Love" has been written about endlessly over the eons, and yet who can really explain it to the uninitiated? Like most abstract nouns ("courage," "integrity," "good," "evil," "hope," "change"), "Love" is impossible to codify. We approach the Platonic Form of Love from very divergent angles, all the while unsure whether such an objective and eternal Platonic Form of Love exists. Does Evil exist? Does Good exist? We wonder.

Furthermore, our contemporary ideas of Love and romantic marriage are actually quite new. It was only in the last two centuries that young Western people set out on the journey of finding "the One." You would look for a perfect match, for "compatibility," and then enter a long courtship (designed to reveal or disprove said compatibility), before sealing the deal with marriage. Keep in mind that this approach was compatible with the dominant 18th and 19th Century zeitgeist of rational progress, of the perfectibility of human life through applied reason. Dating/courtship was/is as a "scientific trial," with Love as the "hypothesis," and having weathered the double-blind trials of dating, Love would transition through Theory to Law (marriage).


"Cindy, we've been 'hooking up' for some months now. I'd like to take it to the next level—and ask you out on a date."

Since then, we've been a bit disappointed by this naive faith in the transcendental potential of pure, scientific reason. As well, we've had a rather severe hangover from the 19th Century iteration of romantic marriage. High divorce rates, rampant adultery, and a multibillion-dollar marriage therapy and self-help industry portend this restiveness.

We now "shop" to "purchase" the perfect mate, just as we'd compare the labels of cereal boxes in the supermarket. Just as the salesmen in an electronic store assures us that we'll get years of bliss out of our "state-of-the-art" flatscreen television (which is immediately woefully obsolete the minute it exists the showroom), so too does the modern Romance Establishment assure us that with enough (expensive) dating, an (expensive) extravagant enough wedding, further consumer purchases of (expensive) gifts for holidays, and (expensive) couples therapy sessions, we'll be happy perpetually. If it doesn't work out, it's because you purchased a lemon. Divorce—despite its heavy emotional and financial toll—is the answer. Don't worry though, there are (expensive) lawyers for that.



Now, there's even talk of the "starter marriage," with planned obsolescence contained in its very design. Laboring under the rusted illusion of "till death do we part," we instead lease-to-buy. Nobody has ever achieved eternal bliss from a consumer purchase at the mall, and we're all quite accustomed to "shopper's guilt." Why then, do we think applying the same logic to Love will assure eternal romantic bliss? Why do we so quickly ignore the other (true) cliche that "marriage takes work"? Why do we believe in the shocking improbable notion that "the perfect match" exists, that we will find that match out of 6.96 billion people in a romantically active window of 5-15 years (despite limits of time and geographic distance), and that initial match will effortlessly weather the seasons of one's life without any maintenance?

Even the man who loves his vintage 1970 Dodge Charger has to (and loves to) spend hours maintaining it in the garage every weekend. This is known in the common parlance as a "labor of love." This vintage auto enthusiast loves his car, labors out of love to maintain it, and remains ever-in-love with its well-oiled engine. Let us not disregard this man's sincere affection for this object. His is the same love a gardener feels for his garden or an artist for his canvas. His relationship to his car is categorically different to the recent-purchaser-of-the-top-of-the-line-flatscreen's. And, in his approach, we get closer to the idea of the Dao of Loving.


Loving—hard!

Let's consider that we've asked the wrong question about Love. We may never know what "Love" is (if it exists as such), but most of us are quite familiar with what "loving" is, what it is "to love." We know it when we experience it.

So, let us amend the aforementioned cliche to this:

"Loving conquers all."

Again, we return to that magic "-ing"—the gerund. The gerund is both abstract noun and verb. It is both active and static. It is both existent and emerging. The gerund is a process. Dare we say the gerund is the true nature of "the Way?"

If "Love" fails more often than not to overcome the more mundane challenges of personal finance, career, day-to-day dispute, cultural difference, friends and extended family, perhaps it is "loving" that is really the panacea for our ills of loneliness and strife?

The dictionary defines "loving" as the following:

feeling or showing love / warmly affectionate / fond [ex: loving glances]

"Loving" is both a adjectival result ("warmly affectionate" and "fond") and a verbal means ("feeling or showing love"). When you are "loving," therefore, you become "loving." What paradoxical magic!

For a concrete example of what Loving looks like day-to-day, consult this excellent piece in The New York Times Magazine on the Obamas's marriage.
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I hope you've loved this post, readers, because I've loved writing it.

Living With SAUCE!

"The Sauce." This is what I call it. But the idea of it has always existed...

And perhaps the best explication for it was penned over two millenia ago, from a man far wiser than I. Known as "Laozi" (literally "the old master"), the identity of this anonymous sage remains clouded in mystery. Even so, his work, the Dao De Jing, continues to be the most beloved export of Chinese thought, having been translated into forty versions in English alone. I will therefore lean on him heavily for this little Sauce-themed essay.

So what is this Sauce? And what is its usefulness for successful (saucy) living?

Closely related to Luke Skywalker's Force, Austin Power's Mojo, Rhonda Byrne's Secret or Laozi's Dao--the Sauce is a source, the soil from which all else grows. Till and cultivate the Sauce, and allow fields to spring from it. Succeeding with the Sauce means succeeding effortlessly.



Success with Sauce means not aiming directly for the reward. There is no victory in sport without practice. There is no practice without the love of the game. The love of the game, therefore, is what brings victory. In Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers, he talks of excellence in anything as taking 10,000 hours of practice. Anyone who's endured music lessons against their will knows that the far-off specter of concert pianist-dom is not enough to carry you through 10,000 grueling and repetitive sessions with a dictatorial tutor. Having the Sauce means loving the 10,000 hours you spend on your passion, without thought of ambition—and then reaping success anyway. You can't fake it, either. A hack simply won't last those 10,000 hours.

Therefore the sage accomplishes things by doing nothing.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 2:11)

Friendship with Sauce means investing in your companions—as an investment in yourself. Friendship as competition is a race to the bottom. Friendship without cooperation is a wretched scramble over the scraps of life. Your friends and family are your assets, and the more you consider them and treat them that way, the more valuable assets they become.

The sage does not hoard,
The more he uses on behalf of others,
The more he has himself.
And the more he gives to others,
The more comes back to him.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 81:7-11)

Loving with Sauce means not aiming to get the girl/boy. The object of your desire is best seduced, rather than pursued. And what is the most attractive quality in another person? Passion—someone who's doing something. True love is two sets of eyes on the same star.

In being acted upon, it is harmed;
And in being grasped, it is lost.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 29:5-6)

Leading with Sauce means a soft touch. It means standing aside and allowing the potential energies of your team to become kinetic. It means applying just as much force as is needed—no more, no less. The leader neither neglects, nor burdens his team.

This man of wisdom
Concerns himself with under-acting
And applies the lesson
Of the word unspoken,
That all the ten thousand things may come forth
Without his direction,
Live through their lives
Without his possession,
And act of themselves
Unbeholden to him.
To the work he completes
He lays down no claim.
And this has everything to do
With why his claim always holds true.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 2:12-25)

Leadership with Sauce is also humble. It can afford to be, because credit comes readily when it is neither demanded nor yearned for. When the leader gives credit easily, the led loose nothing in praising.

Possess little so as to acquire;
To possess much is to be perplexed.
Therefore the sage, by embracing the One,
Becomes a model for the world.
By not showing himself,
He becomes illustrious.
By not being self-important,
He becomes prominent.
By not being given to self-praise,
He is given credit.
By not promoting himself,
He endures for long.
If one wants to be ahead of the people,
One must, in using one's person, remain behind them.
Therefore the world finds joy in praising him, without wearying of it.
And because he contends with no one,
There is no one in the world who can contend with him.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 22:5-13; 66:12-15)

Entrepreneurship with Sauce means allowing oneself to be empty. What substance does the entrepreneur add? Nothing! The entrepreneur merely provides the crux where things meet. The entrepreneur invites things together, so that they are rendered greater than the sum of their parts. He is the host, not the party. The entrepreneur finds that everything that is needed already exists. He merely provides a setting for them to fill.

Thirty spokes conjoin in one hub,
there being nothing in between,
the cart is useful.
Clay is molded to form a vessel;
there being nothing inside,
the vessel is useful.
Doors and windows are carved out to make a room:
there being nothing within,
the room is useful.
Thus, with something one gets advantage,
While in nothing one gets usefulness.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 11:1-11)

Society with Sauce means nurturing a community. Before a community exists, its members have existed. The social entrepreneur merely unites and nurtures them. He does not interfere. He is the catalyst, but allows the reaction to occur as it will.

Give life to things, rear them,
Give them life but without possessing them,
Perform without obligating,
Preside without controlling:
Such is the meaning of "hidden power."

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 10:13-17)

Vision with Sauce means standing back to see what's in front of you. The finest artist merely recreates what is there. Preconceived notions stymie creativity, blind you to new opportunities and prevent vital retooling of ideas once implemented. Having vision means listening to different perspectives from different people.

For your vision to reach all quarters
Must you not be unknowing?

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 10:11-12)

Sustainability with Sauce means prioritizing endurance over power. A bicep trained only in anaerobic exercise with have greater strength, but will exhaust itself completely within minutes. The marathon runner's sinewy musculature, on the other hand, can hold enough metabolic fuel for over 20 miles. The 1990s witnessed countless flash-in-the-pan dot-coms—initially impressive, but ephemeral. Those that survived found that persistence was far more important than intelligence. The social ills of our time are deep and profound, and cannot be cured by band-aid solutions. Thomas Edison's cliche "Success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration” still holds.

Hence the strong and true keep commitment,
Stay with the kernel that's real,
And shun flowery adornment.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 38:28-31)

How can it be that the Sauce is the secret to happiness, friendship, love, success, innovation, sustainability and societal betterment? The Sauce is itself the inexhaustible source of all positive outcomes. Positivity breeds positivity. Trust breeds trust. Love breeds love. Success breeds success. There is no limit to the iterative power of this dynamic, once it is set into motion. You can Pay it Forward forever...

Aim for the common Means—not the End—and you too with be Living with Sauce.

The Dao is empty.
It may be used without every being exhausted.
Fathomless, it seems to be the ancestor of all things.

(Laozi, Dao De Jing, 10:1-11)

On Pineapples and Philosophy

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Of Busboys and Poets

From the continuing series, Articles My Editor Eviscerates Beyond All Reasonable Limits, or Else Won't Print At All...

Derrick Weston Brown pulls back his shoulder-length dreadlocks, clears his throat and introduces the U Street Poetry Jam: “Attention attention, the mic is now, and ever shall be open…Next up to the mic is you and you and you…” Freestylers, classical pianists, and artists heed his summons. A hushed audience of diverse faces follows the stage, overlooked by sepia portraits of Gandhi, Duke Ellington, and Ralph Nader. This is the Langston Room, the soul of the massive restaurant, bar, coffee shop and events space known as Busboys and Poets.

* * *

In 2005, Anas "Andy" Shallal, an Iraqi-American “artist, activist and restaurateur,” opened Busboys and Poets, hoping to establish a meeting place that would conjure the unique legacy of Washington, DC's U Street corridor, once known as “Black Broadway.”

A haven to haven to black musicians, entertainers and entrepreneurs in the 1950’s, U Street was immolated by the violent race riots following Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination. For an entire generation, the community was a ruin, and King’s legacy seemed burned to ashes with it.

“In the 1980s, this community was devastated by Reaganomics and crack cocaine,” said Law, “the transformation since has been incredible.” Like many other native residents, he experienced firsthand the double-edged effect of gentrification: “We had to move out to Maryland because it got so expensive, but I can still feel something special when I walk around this neighborhood.”

“Andy rooted this place in societal justice,” Maurice Chase, a Busboys manager, said of it’s founder. There are no titles among the management, and everything is decided by consensus. The staff files through the sofas and comfy chairs of the “community space,” displaying tattoos and piercings. After explaining the “biodynamic wine” and vegan desert selections featured on the menu, my Mohawked server Akon pointed to a series of murals he’d painted on the wall behind us. Between courses, I pursued the socially aware books in the in-house library run by the non-profit Teaching for Change.

And what of the name? It is in tribute to Langston Hughes, who was working as a busboy at the Wardman Park Hotel in the 1930s, when he slipped three of his poems to a patron. The guest was famous wordsmith Vachel Lindsay, who proclaimed in the papers the next day his discovery of a “Negro busboy poet.” The rest is history.

My own Salvadorian busboy Juan demurred on offering me any of his creative wares. However, Derrick Weston Brown, Busboys’ “poet-in-residence,” can be found in a corner of the library, scribbling prose, travel plans, and booking schedules in three Moleskin notebooks.

“Busboys is a community space for events that just happens to have food,” said Brown, “It’s like everybody’s living room.” Indeed, patrons come to find their muse, not for outstanding dining. Heavy in social awareness, the food and drink is regrettably rather light on quality.

You don’t find yourself minding, though—you’re steeped in a truly a magical space. The neighborhood’s recent flowering may draw upon a segregated past, but it looks forward to an idealistic future. Perhaps nowhere else can you find such an easy mingling of the many tribes of the District. “On election day, this place was packed every different type of person you can imagine—homeless people, professionals, college students—all silently watching the TV,” said Chase, “They were all unified.”

And whither the politicians whom they watched? “Politicians try to stay away from political spaces,” said Law. Though the president famously favors Ben’s Chili Bowl up the street, you’d be hard-pressed to spot any lawmakers or their staff here. “I can only think of one time I saw many conservatives here,” said Chase, adding, “This is a big spot for gays and lesbians.”

Busboys demonstrates too that a truly communal space is a promise, not a guarantee. “Last Saturday, the Beltway Atheists came in just as the Washington Catholic Archdiocese was hosting an event on atheism in the Langston Room,” said Law, “I tried so hard to get them together, but it didn’t work out.”

Here, Martin Luther King’s dream resonates still. On inauguration day, the streets outside erupted with an outpouring of hope. A pillar of the neighborhood for four years now, Busboys and Poets is holding an Obama-age America to its word—can you make your hope a reality over the next four?

* * *

It’s Thursday night again, and Brown smiles widely behind a microphone: “Calling all virgins to the mic. No sacrifices on this here stage. It’s all about gentleness and we will be gentle. The mic is now open…”

Rahm Emanuel: Spotted Eating Fish

From the syndicated series of Stuff My Editor Won't Print, Vol. 1:

The scene is familiar to Georgetown residents. Black SUV--with or without police escort--parallel parks in front of Cafe Milano, Morton's Steakhouse, Clyde's of Georgetown, etc. Secret Service scouts the place, and then the power meal begins. The neighborhood prides itself on being imperiously nonplussed by all this bother.

Rahm Emanuel has a Bonapartian air about him, from his diminutive size to the larger-than-life intensity whirring through his stride. Even so, few in the Euro-cool interior of Georgetown's Hook restaurant were aware that they were rubbing blazers with one of the most influential men in the Free World. "Oh, comeon, that's Rahm Emanuel--he's controversial," one diner cajoled his blank-eyed companions.

Dave Chappelle's frequent visits make a much bigger scene. The last time the comedian dined at Hook, it was with comedian Anthony Brown and a "Sheikh Ahmed"--leaving a $5,000 tab and the distinct impression among management that they'd taken a mid-course break to "hot-box" the Sheikh's freshly-bought Mercedes SLK. ("I'm rich, bitch!")

Rahm is a stoic, taking decaf over Dom Pérignon.

"I want to see this economy producing things again, investing in things again," Rahm proclaimed over a plate of pan-seared Barramundi. Indeed, so too would Hook's Executive Chef Jonathan Seningen. Since 2006, the Maryland Eastern Shore native has been leading Hook to the vanguard of the sustainable seafood trend, sourcing his fish and produce from local farmers and fishermen in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania (Rahm's Barramundi, native to Australia, was sourced from an environmentally-friendly fish farm in western Massachusetts). Right across M Street, Clyde's of Georgetown has been partnering with local farmers since the 1970s. Hook's menu changes every day to reflect whatever sustainable fish are in season and available (so far, over 100 different varieties), and both restaurants offer a constantly-changing assortment of seasonal offerings. No word yet whether Michelle Obama's White House victory tomatoes will make it into Rahm's next meal.

Secret Service Agent Cliff Johnson kept one eye on his mark, the other on his Blackberry, and his fork in a plate of less fancy, but still "sustainable," popcorn shrimp from Hook-owned Tackle Box. When asked who Rahm's two companions were, he shrugged: "I have no idea, my Blackberry just says 'dinner with Steve,'" adding, "Obama's shuffled his cabinet so much in the past month, you'll have to catch me in four years before I can remember them all." He then turned back to deliver more war stories to his giddy audience of sous chef and manager.

At 9:30, Rahm apologized to "Steve" and his companion for having to leave early, and was escorted by his head-taller security detail back into the night-black SUV from whence he came--to get on making this economy produce things again.

Life as a Succession of Tweets

Okay, okay, so maybe we're headed down a road toward mindless, self-obsessed lives where every event is reduced to words and camera angles...

(Or tweets)

...Every moment imagined through the lens of a cinematographer...

(Or through your Facebook Newsfeed)

...Every funny or sad remark scribbled down for sale at the first opportunity...

(Which present themselves often, since you have both Twitter and Facebook Mobile on your Blackberry or iPhone)

...A world Socrates couldn't imagine, where people would examine their lives, but only in terms of movie and paperback potential. Where a story no longer follows as a result of an experience. Now the experience happens in order to generate a story. Sort of like when you suggest: 'Lets not but say we did.' The story--the product you can sell--becomes more important than the actual event.

These excerpts are pulled from Chuck Palahniuk's (Fight Club) collection of true stories Stranger than Fiction, specifically from the article "You Are Here." He's cast his lens on the hopeful masses at the Midwest Writers Conference (or Writers of Southern California Conference or the Georgia State Writers Conference) trying to hawk off their painful/inspiring stories to book publishers-slash-movie producers. This was the 1990s' brand of narcissism.

Now we have Twitter. As easy as it was back then to produce a "best of" NFL highlights of your life, "organizing and making all that flotsam and jetsam make sense," now it's even easier.

The last five years of your life (assuming you were an early-adopter) have been chronologically sorted for you on Facebook--you can scroll through the photos like a researcher flipping through reams of microfilm. You can look back on your bygone youth, and sigh with a bittersweet mix of nostalgic longing ("Besides, all our best adventures seem to be behind us.")

Everyone else can too. In a few minutes, I can keep pressing "next" until I've digested your entire life story, 1,000 words at a time. Bam! I know you as fast as it takes to scan your "About Me" section ("...loves Pulp Fiction and Winston Churchill quotes--me too!")

But not so fast! Recall that everything here has been packaged for the marketplace. Yes, this is not a profile page of 21-year-old John Doe, it is John Doe™. If John is savvy, he's framed his page to achieve a desired brand image, with maximum market penetration. If John is really savvy, he knows that pictures make the cyber-man. If John is really really savvy, he knows that it never happened if its not snapped and uploaded by his peer paparazzi the next day. So what does John Doe do?

Now the experience happens in order to generate a story.

John consciously pushes for that optimal crazy-sexy-cool moment, captured with impeccable timing (or luck) by a Sony Cyber-shot®. And that moment, that experience, is transformed into a profile picture. It is a highlight. It is a hot commodity now in the Economy of Attention. It was the whole purpose of the experience in the first place. Will it go viral? Will John get his 15 seconds of fame (15 minutes being a tad bit ambitious in the age of 140-word character limits).

If the ploy is successful, John will get the attention he craves. To what end? Perhaps in the beginning it was to enhance his actual, flesh-and-blood social life. These days, though, its an end in itself. Why get laid when all you need is to have everyone think you're getting laid? These days, one's social life apotheosizes to the level of Facebook hyperreality, or reality by proxy.

Hyperreality tricks consciousness into detaching from any real emotional engagement, instead opting for artificial simulation, and endless reproductions of fundamentally empty appearance. It is the simulation of something which never really existed. - Jean Baudrillard

Facebook is all appearance, a fast-food social life. No matter how many Facebook status updates, wall posts, messages, pokes, comments, or counter-comments you ingest, you aren't sustained. You don't get that essential holistic effect achieved by a good lunchtime conversation, or a hug, (or actually getting laid).

Twittering then is fast-food self-expression. Doubtless, each medium has its own elegant forms of mastery, and the inguistic economy of the "tweet" no doubt challenges the writer (viz haikus). However, the sheer volume and ease of Twitter publishing cheapens the output. Even worse, the medium is invading our everyday speech and thought.

When people start to think and communicate in texts and tweets over exchange and expression, well... it will be the sort of revolution that won't be televised, but it will be archived (on Ashburn- and Santa Clara-based internet servers).

Romantic Comedies: Porn for Women

I've been saying this for years:

"Romantic Comedies are Making Kids Miserable"

I will address the narrative fallacies of the romantic comedy genre, but first let me first shortly examine its male equivalent--pornography (slightly NSFW)...

Young men, from early adolescence on, are socialized for years on a steady diet of pornography, rendered easily accessible today via the internet. The imagery and archetypal mythology of pornography is tied inextricably to the male's sexuality, through years of Pavlovian conditioning. Each exposure is rewarded with orgasm, just as the experimental chimp is rewarded with banana when a certain button is hit. This, over time, forges robust connection between the pleasure-impulse and the particular semiotics of pornographic film. This must obviously color young mens' impressions of their female companions and of their sexuality, with predictable results.

The (often-cretinous) male lead in a porn plot is rapaciously pursued by one of the Cum-Craving Sluts! The sex act is decontextualized, and rendered as a predictable given, once an appealing young woman-object enters the orbit of the male lead (and by projection, the viewer). Erotic display, foreplay, and oral sex are rendered primarily for his benefit, and theatrical orgasmic gesticulations will erupt immediately from the woman-object without any obvious connection to actual pleasure or orgasms experienced by her. Her role is to project signals of the process of orgasm with suitable duration and intensity for him to achieve the event of his own orgasm. The sexual solipsism is breached only by occasional encouragements mechanically projected by the woman-object (usually along the lines of "Oh yeah, f*ck me harder!"). Since the characters usually enter the scene as strangers, and leave as such, there is little, if any room, for mutual sexual communication and exploration. Nor is this desirable.

Focus is given at the climactic moment to the male orgasm, emphasized by the visual emphasis of the "cumshot." Most often, orgasm is experienced by the male lead as a completely isolated experience, him having "pulled out" prior to ejaculation, and usually seizing the erotic reigns at the climactic moment (literally) with his own hands. The male does not touch the woman-object at the crescendo of orgasm, except by the propulsion of his ejaculate onto her supplicate body as a violent projectile.

Thus, the male lead subject seizes agency as the cause of his own orgasm. Never is he vulnerable or beholden to the woman-object. He has given, but "owes" for nothing (having facilitated his own orgasm). There is no post-coital embrace. The scene ends abruptly. The sex act remains decontextualized, an event unmoored from past or future. There are no consequences--emotional, spiritual, or physical--for either participant.

* * *

Nothing new; straight out of anti-porn feminist theory. What is less acknowledged is the malicious role the romantic comedy genre plays upon the romantic development of the adolescent female. As with porn, archetypal characters are presented as unrealistic stereotypes, designed to cheaply salve the audience's emotional impulses more than to reflect accurately real-life experience.

The male archetypal subject in porn is actively pursued by his fantasy woman-object, so too is the female romantic comedy archetypal subject wooed without obvious cause or merit. Her desirability is a given. The test of his worthiness is what grants the plot its narrative tension. He must along atone for his faults, labor against fate, and summon his sincerity for them to live happily ever after. Her agency is reduced to passive observation and judgment of his behavior. Her character is amoral, since it is not her redemption, but his which is a necessary prerequisite for romantic realization. The female lead is thus shorn of moral agency, and thus responsibility.

This leads to the Little Princess Complex--pretty girls can do no wrong. Also, it presupposes the Boys Will Be Boys Complex--cute boys are boisterous by nature, but ultimately endearing in their incorrigibility. The Little Princes Complex dehumanizes the female in two ways: by reducing her to her mere aesthetic value as a romantic object, and by absolving her of the need and ability for moral responsibility. The Boys Will Be Boys Complex grants the male more space for moral agency, characterization, and humanity, but still reduces him in an essential way.

Firstly, he is guilty until proven innocent, and cannot hold his female jury to the same standard applied to him. Secondly, in the end his moral conduct is immaterial. In a temporal twist on Christian mythology, his salvation is found in her grace. He must prove his love for her, more than he must prove his uprightness, and then she will extend her grace to him. Happily ever after...

History does not exist for the characters in romantic comedies. All actions are forgiven once tension has served its narrative purpose, and all morality and practicality are sublimated to the teleology of Plot. The characters are prisons of our agenda for them: love or else! Their romantic connection is not born of mutual empathy or inner experience, but rather of a narrative fait accompli. Their duty is not of romantic edification, but rather to reconcile themselves to the fate rendered to them. This presupposes of course that the pairing was "natural" all along.

Certainly, sticking one's head in the ground to glaring deficiencies in the connections born of modern romance--characterized often by capriciously random encounters or mere convenience--does not offer promise as a long-term romantic strategy. Furthermore, the implication that only one party with have to "work at it" is bound to lead to heartache and resentment. Lastly, the alluring conception of human beings as emotional tabula rasas--impervious to past slights and patient in the wake of pain--is dangerously naive.

Most perilous, however, is the tragic-ironic place where the two media--porn and romantic comedy--meet. Their messages are diametrically opposed. Each partner will expect his/her opposite to play supplicant. Neither acknowledges their own personal moral responsibility. Furthermore, the two media divorce the two concepts of romance and sex into gendered spheres. Each becomes the total dominion of its respective gender. Sex belongs to men and is defined by them. Romance to women. Incongruity characterizes both. The connection between sex and romance is broken, and the different but complimentary roles played by the two genders in each sphere is disregarded in favor of a schizophrenic dualism.

With a whole generation of young men coming up convinced that the only proper connection with a woman is "doggy-style," and with their female peers wondering why their boyfriends don't take the night-flight from Paris just to ask how they're feeling, it's little wonder that...

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus

BONUS! Free yourself from the grip of The Porn Machine (via N+1)

Yoga, Official Mystic Activity of Late Capitalism

yo⋅ga [yoh-guh] - noun: A ritual and regimen involving svelte blonds in stretchy black pants, tank tops, and roll-up rubber mats. It emphasizes breathing and flexibility. Great for stress. Everybody who does it seems skinny. Involves vague feelings of eco-consciousness, too.

Yep, lots of sex appeal in yoga.

I'll go out on a limb here and argue that the majority of yoga enthusiasts in trendy urban neighborhoods have never heard of the concept of Hatha Yoga--or of Yogi Swatmarama, its 15th Century originator. This is what most Westerners think of as "yoga." Yogi Swatmarama originally conceived of his physical regimen as a preparation for long periods of meditation, "a stairway to the heights of Raja Yoga" (enlightenment through meditation). In other words, "yoga" (as commonly mis-understood) is a means to a means to an end. It prepares the body in order to make possible the meditation that will itself make possible the eventual enlightenment.

Non-believers doing yoga to get skinny is kind of like appropriating the bend-and-kneel Islamic prayer to tone your buns and a thighs.


"Allaahu Akbar! Feel the burn!"

Ok fine, say our bendy patrons of lulumon atheltica ("a yoga-inspired athletic apparel company with over 100 locations in Canada, the United States, Australia and Hong Kong"), maybe our interests veer more towards the yuppie than the yogic. What's the harm? You can loose weight, "increase your range of motion," and purge all the stresses of modern living!

Here's the thing--all you mystical weekend warriors looking to get "Stronger, Better, Wiser, Lighter! ☮"--you have wrapped your pliable thighs in a tight embrace of the very source of your angst and malaise.

Yes, the moment you debited a hundred dollars to your Visa for that 100% recycled post-consumer content yoga mat, you lost it. When you entered that air-conditioned, hermetically-sealed, Windex-scrubbed glass box of a yoga studio, you lost it. When you looked around you and meditated either on how super-skinny you already are, or should be, you lost it. When you strutted your way to be seen purchasing an organic açaí protein smoothy, you lost it. And when you told all your friends how yoga has totally changed your life, you did so wafting a subtle air of faux humility barely able to cloud the self-righteous avarice of the fab yogic elect--and you lost it.

But now, after an hour of heavy breathing and narcissism, cells bathed in oxygen and antioxidants, you're feeling pretty good. These days, you simply have to come back every week, or every other day, to "decompress."

And you might be addicted to therapy. Or maybe even heroin, too.


"For the love of God, I neeeed to perform the down dog pose!"

After each respective dosage of therapy, yoga or heroin, you'll feel pretty good (in the case of the latter two, you'll feel pretty slim, too). But then after a while, the Crisis creeps back into your life. Sobriety makes you feel frazzled again. Threadbare. Stressed. So, you head back to the studio to sweat a little--to wash out your soul like you wash your clothes. But there is no solution, only maintenance.

Oh ye bendy Seekers, realize that yoga is the new Opium of the Masses! That old-time religion was just too involving, it turns out. Plus, it didn't do much for those embarrassing love handles. So why not distill some Hindu wisdom, containing the highest possible concentration of marketable content? A 90 Proof shot of spirituality. A high-potency multivitamin for the soul.

In shooting up just enough therapy into your beleaguered veins, you've perpetuated your spiritual demise. In making a creeping madness "manageable," you've assured the insanity's ultimate success. All that stress that you pursue yoga to expurgate is normalized and its ultimate cause ignored. It is responded to like a routine hunger easily satiated by a nice lunch.

Even worse, you've intensified the Crisis by becoming even more of a consumer--of yoga, its image (spiritual skinniness!), and related "essentials" (Nike Dri-Fit™ high-performance tank!). But your life remains, as in the suburban dystopia of Revolutionary Road, filled with "hopeless emptiness." An existential drift sweetened just enough with an relentless torrent of consumer items and experiences, of which yoga is just another example. By cheapening yoga with consumerist commodification, you've vexed another route of potential escape (what the old-time Yogis called moksha) for yourself and others.

The word "yoga" was derived from the Sandskrit yuj, meaning "to control." Ask yourself, the next time you are standing in line for salads with a flock of other identically-attired Yuppie Yoginis, just who is controlling whom?