Crenellated Flotsam

Someone, although I couldn’t tell you who, once famously said something profound about democracy being a bad form of government, but better than the rest. The more I see of this election process, the more wisdom I see in that, especially the “bad form” part.

It’s obvious whoever said that had a much broader range of experience than I’ve had. Other than electing government representatives who ignore me except when they’re courting my vote, I’m not sure I’ve seen very much democracy in action at all. Growing up I didn’t have much say in how my family was run, and no job I’ve ever held or heard of is in any way democratic. It’s always been more feudal, I think the term would be, than anything else, with rulers just telling me what to do.

After I moved out of my parents house and was living on my own, my home life was democratic, but only in the sense that there was only one vote on anything and that one my vote was mine. When I was in relationships, of course, there was still only one vote, but it was no longer mine. The women always have the trump card, all the power, and I have no argument with that.

Anyway, whoever said that famous quote about democracy must never have seen McCain and Palin’s supporters. There are lots of them, maybe a majority, but very few of these people show me much of anything that would lead me to believe that they should have a say in how anything important is decided. The world, now, and maybe for quite some time, has been too complicated for me to figure out, and I think I’m one of the bright ones. With so much going on, and so little of it black and white or easily reducible, common people just don’t stand a chance.

And, yet, we give them all votes.

In spite of their having invented democracy, or so I’ve heard, it’s just a shame that Plato’s elites never took hold. People who run things and make decisions should have skill sets that go beyond coaxing the electorate to think they’re the ones who can best represent them. Palin has a great stage presence and can give a whopper of a speech, but I don’t trust her judgment on anything I feel is important. Obama, also, gives great speeches, but at least he seems to have thought about what he’s saying instead of just telling us what we want to hear.

All I’m saying is that I’m not sure I wouldn’t be equally miserable living under some sort of meritocracy. I don’t think only white landowners should vote, but I also don’t think all these yahoos yelling USA! or scowling whenever the terms Bush, socialist, elitist, or liberal is tossed at them from instinctive reactions are the ones I want setting my future, either.

I’m not sure if another revolution will ever come, but I doubt I’ll be alive when it happens. In my life, sadly, only other stuff happens.

Things this political season have changed so much that I think it’s safe to say they’re exactly the same.

I’m not sure what it says about humanity, but one thing I’ve learned as we approach this election is that no matter what gets brought up by either side, no matter what incident gets mentioned by the press, no matter how any event or issue is spun by those running the campaigns, people immediately fall straight into line. It doesn’t matter if it’s Governor Sarah Palin appearing on Saturday Night Live or anything else, those in her party will proclaim it a success and those on the other side will call it lame.

I don’t even have to look at the source anymore. If someone discovers that Obama wrote a blurb for Ayers’ book, the right will see this as further evidence of something or other and the left will say “so what.”

I suspect the only reason these things get mentioned at all, anything from McCain’s association with Liddy to Obama’s 57 state comment, is to get each side’s supporters off their asses and into the voting booths. With the dismal turnout that we in America usually show, I think either side can win if they just get over three-fourths of their supporters out. Karl Rove was famous for this, not only in trying to get all the Republicans to vote, but for trying to depress the Democrats enough that they’d choose to sit home and cry rather than vote for Gore or Kerry.

No, I’m talking about voter suppression at the polls, or the sometimes questionable purging of registered voters, merely attempts to keep people at home. President Clinton, now, may be trying to do that by his repeated assertions that the election is in the bag for Obama, that it’s going to be a wipeout. His message strikes me as being close to “this thing is won, don’t bother showing up,” a message that would help his wife while also being one he can point to as showing his support for the Democrats.

Anyway, one thing I’m sure of is that whatever gets released will be pointed at by one side as being important while simultaneously subject to innocent explanations by the other. Anything may get “your” side out, get them riled up enough to vote, but very little of it adds anything to political discourse.

Then, again, if someone can proclaim “Country First!” while selecting a uniquely inept person to be his running mate, pretty much everything is possible.

Like a lot of people, I watched the presidential debates the other night. Unlike most of them, including the politicians, I spent a little time thinking about personal hygiene. Or, freshness.

If I were to be in one of these nationally televised debates and setting myself up to be judged by tens of millions of people who would decide my fate, before I went on onstage I think I’d want to take a shower. Not necessarily to get clean, but it might be refreshing and relaxing.

As soon as I thought that, I pictured myself telling my advisors and staff about it, that I needed to take a break and take a shower. This is something I can do now, without mentioning it to a soul, so right off the bat, that would be different. It would also be different that anyone would be interested in my wanting to take a shower.

That interest, among a ton of other, more important things, is what distinguishes me from these politicians. I thought about it some and realized that I can’t fathom what it would be like to have thousands of people wanting some of my time. Right now hardly anyone does, but if I were running for president, a team of secretaries couldn’t keep up with the demands on my time. Other politicians, media people, people wanting favors or thrusting wads of cash into my hand in hopes of future ones, tons of people wanting a piece of me, a chance to talk or listen to me, all of them would be asking for my attention.

I don’t think I could handle it.

About an hour ago I couldn’t remember the product of nine times nine. Worse, even after backing into it through arithmetic, the answer I got didn’t feel “right.” Eighty-one, the answer I arrived at, didn’t give me any sense of relief or satisfaction, such as I usually get when I remember the name of the submarine on the TV show Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

I don’t have any more need for multiplication than most people, and I have plenty of calculators and websites that could either figure it out or display the results for me, so getting the answer wasn’t the problem. The reason I was so scared is this is something I should know, inside out, whenever I need to.

I’m convinced my mind is going, is developing holes, and I see that as further evidence that I’m reaching the end.

If it took me a moment to recall the answer, or especially I reacted to the right answer with a sigh of relief, I wouldn’t be feeling so bad. But when I eventually figured it out, or remembered it, the void that met that answer disturbed me. The answer should have filled me with glee and joy, and it felt, instead, like foreign territory.

I’m struggling with remembering words, too, which doesn’t bode well for my attempts to actually finish some writing again. I’m scared because I know there isn’t simple solution, there isn’t any magic pill I can take to get my mind back, and I’m afraid that it’s going to grow worse and worse.

I can’t expect, and probably won’t seek, any medical help, because I’d feel foolish. Whatever is causing this is no doubt a result of my past, and I should have known better all along. I don’t want to burden anyone, and I won’t be happy watching myself deteriorate.

Maybe it was just a blip, a “one off,” and it’s silly for me to be concerned at all. Maybe that’s it.

No, I’m not going to write one and this gem of Ginsberg’s isn’t a sonnet, either, but I liked the alliteration for the title of this entry.

I wrote some poetry, of course, when I was young and filled with angst and self-loathing. While those remain, the poetry didn’t because I convinced myself I don’t have much talent in creating any. Still, I’ve always reserved a part of my life for poetry, one which I return to fairly frequently.

The thing about poetry is that it slows me down. Unlike the web pages that are so popular now, reading poetry takes time. You can’t skim poetry, can’t jump stanzas or skip to the end to see how it turns out. To appreciate poetry, you have to read every word, digest them, roll them across you mind and savor their selection and placement. Poetry, I believe, isn’t written to convey a thought or idea as much as a feeling or sensation. The poet, the ones I like, anyway, use words primarily as a means to create in my mind a particular attitude. The words are the instruments the poet uses to make my mind feel what she or he is feeling more than having strong intrinsic value.

“I’m feeling this,” the poet seems to be saying, “and by using these particular words, in this particular order, I can make you feel the same.”

Even though I no longer even try to write poetry, I still take the time to read it. Sometimes, it’s true, I have to force myself to take that time, but I always feel better after doing so. I cannot help but have my mind, attitude, and outlook changed by reading good poetry, and I can even study it and see how important words are. The choices the poet needs to make are far beyond my ability to mimic, but my appreciation for the language and how much fuller and richer it can be when handled well by someone who knows what he or she is doing gives me hope and inspiration.

You betcha, it does.

A couple of years ago, when Time magazine named me person of the year, I thought I’d reached my peak. I hadn’t done much that year that I recall, but evidently someone was keeping an eye on me and my doings, someone credible and responsible, and someone with pull at a major news magazine.

While they neglected to give me a free copy, which I considered the least they could do, especially considering how my election could only increase their sales, and I never bought one, I still hold that award proudly in my heart, if not on my bookshelf.

Until lately, I’ve admittedly been in a bit of a slump. My awards, and my esteem, to use a recently popular term, have cratered, but I was somewhat heartened to realize that no less a person than one of the candidates for president of the United States considers me one of the fundamentals of the nation’s economy.

That’s pretty impressive, too, by any measure. I had no idea I was so important, or, once again, even noticed by anyone who spent any time east of the Mississippi. The sad thing is, using me as a fundamental, doesn’t speak well for the economy or for the nation’s prospects.

Still, the recognition was well received by me, and the luster had only begun to fade when last night, on nationwide TV, another candidate, this time one for vice-president, looked straight at me and winked at me! More than once!

She’s mildly attractive, like some clerk at a drug store, but I’m pretty sure she’s making lots of money and, if her wink is to believed, she’s willing to share some of either of those things with me.

Maybe both.

If this summer is remembered for anything, it won’t be for my having another birthday, although that happened. The trillion dollars or so that has been lost on the world’s markets will soon be regained by those more capable than I, so that won’t be an issue for me, either. No, with any luck, I’ll remember this summer as one dedicated to French Onion Soup, which has become something of an obsession with me.

Like most things, it all started many years ago when I had it for the first time. My wife at the time and I went out to some nice French restaurant, just the two of us, and I think that was the first time I ever had it. That was the most memorable part of the meal for me, even though it was also my introduction to escargot.

Anyway, all though I’ve had it off and on in the intervening years, it’s only been the past couple of months that I’ve craved French onion soup. I can’t get enough of it, and that’s the problem.

It used to be that I could find Progresso French Onion soup even when I wasn’t looking for it. It was everywhere. Now, the markets I frequent don’t carry that variety, and I’ve had to try some others. Campbells has one, but it tastes funny to me, metallic, and only works in a pinch. I tried looking up recipes to make my own, but Alton Brown’s first step required purchasing a fifty dollar electric skillet, so that put me in a deep funk from which I’ve barely recovered.

If I had the money for fifty dollar electric skillets, I’d go out to eat.

This past weekend, on a whim, I thought I’d check out this Bristol Farms market, which I’d seen a few of around town. It’s like a Gelson’s, only, if this is possible, only more expensive. They carry a good selection of all many of the regular favorites, all at a hefty markup, and many other frightfully expensive goods as well. This Bristol Farms, I quickly concluded, is where rich folk go to get the good food that us masses can only ever hope to taste.

Still, I thought it might be worth it to check out their soup selection, if only to see if they had some of that soup I craved. They carry the Progressive brand, but not French Onion. They did, however, have some jar of French Onion soup with a cute calico cover and a health-inspiring name, but it looked to me more like gravy than soup. Not that there’s anything wrong with gravy, not if you have a biscuit laying around, but if there’s one thing I demand of French Onion soup it’s that it contains, you know, onions.

Pieces of onion. Fibrousy pieces of onion. Pieces you can chew. Chew, taste, and swallow.

They had another store name variety, for about six bucks I might add, that also lacked any particulate onion, and I passed on both of them. Is it too much to ask for onions in my onion soup? I did get some dried package, I think (I’ll have to check the cupboard, later), which I hope contains more than dried powdered onion dust.

The rich may very well eat better than you and I, but when it comes to French Onion Soup, it looks as if they may as well sip it through a straw.

It’s true that I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about myself, but that’s not to say that I don’t occasionally wander into other fascinating territories, such as what I do. Sadly, today is not such an excursion.

Back in 1985, before many of us were born, the world was quite a bit different in some crucial areas than it is now. For one, it was possible back then for an individual to create a Formula 1 team and compete against the big names, the well-known car manufacturers. Instead of the Ferrari, Toyota, Honda, Renault, Mercedes, BMW, and the like, successful teams carried the names of individuals such as Prost and Tyrell, people whose participation stemmed from love of motorsport and not just corporate profits.

Among them was a guy named Giancarlo Minardi, who is mostly famous for inspiring my dog’s name.

His little team was where many drivers got their start, but he couldn’t afford to go against McLaren and the others and the team was sold a few years ago to Red Bull Racing. Those Red Bull people have money out the gazoo, and have both a Red Bull Racing Team and the old Minardi team, now named Scuderia Toro Rosso.

And this morning, at Monza, a Toro Rosso driven by Sebastian Vettel won their first race, and was the youngest person ever to win a Formula 1 race, following up on yesterday’s record breaking youngest person to win pole.

So, that was good.

UCLA football, not so much, this weekend.

The other thing I’m tracking, the upcoming presidential election, isn’t giving me much joy, either, but between the three I was able to spend part of the weekend thinking about how things effect me nearly as much as I did thinking about myself.

Not that I ever gave it much thought, but …

17

Last night I took a break from sitting around, thinking about myself, and went out to hear some music and visit with some friends I hadn’t seen in awhile. Of course, I brought my mind with me, so it’s no surprise that I saw one thing that reminded me of another, and ended up wondering about the future.

Like happens at all such events, some of the bands performing had T-shirts, buttons, and CDs for sale. Between sets I glanced over the offerings and also thought about what some British music guy said on a TV program. He was an old guy, had been in the business for years, and was talking about how wherever he goes now people push CDs into his hands. They hope to get his interest, maybe have him sign them up for a contract, and propel themselves to a fulfilling and overflowing life of sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll.

One can hardly blame them.

His point, though, was that “back in the day,” it was pretty easy to distinguish between any old garage band and, um, a legitimate one. Since hardly anyone could afford record pressing equipment that costs tens of thousands of pounds (or dollars) and crank out records from their basement, damn near every band that had a record had been approved or accepted by someone. Now, anyone with a computer and a microphone can make a professional-looking CD, so you can no longer easily tell the difference. Those without access to recording studios, record labels, and, most importantly, some independent confirmation of their talent, on the surface look just the same as those whose talent has been recognized by someone who knows about such things.

This is not a bad thing, since it keeps the Man from ruling us all, but it does eliminate a vetting process, to use a term which is all the rage these days.

There’s a similar thing going on in all publishing. It used to be that someone in power had to like what you wrote before it could see print and receive distribution, but no longer. Nowadays, anyone can short-circuit the approval process and we are both richer and poorer because of it. Richer in that voices that were once silent can now be heard, and poorer because, with this level field, every voice can be heard, regardless of how idiotic.

Like Crenellated Flotsam, for instance.

Although I likely won’t be around, it will be interesting to see how this all sorts out. Instead of editors and publishers deciding what can be put out there or withheld, anyone who creates anything is now the sole voice in deciding if it’s fit for publication. Newspapers, magazines, TV networks, the entire media, look just the same on my computer as independent bloggers who get sole discretion over what they decide to say. Not only can these people say anything they want, they can do so as poorly as they want, and leave it up to the invisible hand of the free market to decide its worth.

Instead of being considered under any sort of notion of quality, popularity will decide value. The voices that many wish to hear will soldier on and be successful and, until a better metric is decided upon, will garner ad dollars.

No one but me has anything to do with the content of this site, and I’ll be the first to admit that it shows.