Paper money, Paper Tigers

A Political Rant

I have been spending a lot of my free time lately trying to wrap my mind around economics and trade policies. This isn’t as easy as economists make it sound. There is no empirical science to the process. In fact, that is the greatest lie that I have found about economics, it isn’t a black and white world. Now I know that most people understand that there are different theories about how an economy should work. The thing that I think eludes many of us is that within each theory is a theoretical framework that is itself based on even more theories.

For example: Many people are freaked out that we have a huge trade deficit with China. Being freaked out about the trade deficit is part of a theory of why that is something to freak out about. The thinking goes that America is losing manufacturing jobs and those are good jobs that we don’t want to lose. No one could argue that the loss of high paying jobs with benefits is a good thing. The reason that we have lost these jobs is because companies are going to places like China to produce goods at a cheaper cost. So those are the facts of the case. There is no disputing these as facts. Now we get to the theories on the matter; as a result of this, America will slowly devolve into a third world country as our dollar diminishes and our job market becomes more and more service and retail based (jobs that pay less with less benefits). Pat Buchanan points out in his book, “Where the Right Went Wrong” that this trade policy is tantamount to economic treason on the part of our government. He believes that America needs to manufacture it’s own goods and keep the jobs here as we did for two hundred years previously. This is all well and fine, but the fact is, Americans can’t afford stuff made by Americans anymore. The reason that companies went overseas is because they had to stay competitive with the stuff that was already coming in to our country from other countries. There is a belief that we can tariff those goods and force American companies to stay here. Ironically Adam Smith (Wealth of Nations) had an idea about what this would accomplish over two hundred years ago, this would simply hurt the poorest of Americans by making the simple commodities of life even more expensive, combined with the taxes we already pay this seems hardly to be in the interest of Americans and more in the interest of our debtors.

There is also a belief that there is only so much money and wealth in the world and that if another country is getting wealthier that that means another country will be getting poorer. Now the thing is, this may or may not be true. There are more factors in the mix of why America may be in some kind of financial trouble than just our trade arrangements with China. In fact, I’m starting to believe that China is a big distraction to the real problem. I don’t think that China is a threat to us, financially or otherwise. We are in debt to China for the goods that they give us. Think about that. Can China make us poor by giving stuff to us? We can refuse to continue in this way, we are not obligated to continue to take things on credit and China could quit thinking that we are good for it as well. The fact is, it is mutually beneficial. Maybe we should look at who raises the most stink about this stuff and look at their motivations. The Federal Reserve makes a lot of stink about it. I wonder why?

But I can’t go on and on and expect anyone to care. I think that what I’m trying to get to is the nature of money. China is not buying gold from us for our debt to them, they are buying money that is capable of becoming merely paper. China holding dollars and securities based on those dollars means that they are in effect buying our debt. This should make us happy because it means that the dollar that everyone is freaking out about is good enough for the Chinese. They must have a lot of confidence in the American dollar. They must think that we are doing something right. And we are. We are doing a lot of things wrong on the flipside and that is what we should be focusing on, not China.

I have been going through PJ O’Rourke’s book “On The Wealth of Nations” which is an overview on Adam Smith’s economic polemic “The Wealth of Nations”. I have been falling in love with the founding fathers and the pioneers of governmental and economic theory as it relates to a free country. We really don’t need to read much of today’s hacks unless they are rooted in these amazingly brilliant men. These old guys were really into freedom. They were really not into government doing much of anything. You see, almost across the board they had this notion that was started by a man named John Locke. Locke believed that people, all people had the sense to know what was beneficial to them. This notion evolved into the idea of “self interest rightly understood”. If left alone, people would do what was good for them, and in turn this would be good for the people around them. Simply put it works like this. If I’m poor and I want to eat, I realize I need to produce something that someone will want and trade with me, or I need to find someone to work for, and that means I need to have something they need in skills or brute strength. Pretty simple isn’t it? And then there is the notion of division of labor. If I want a loaf of bread I can raise the wheat, grind it, make a loaf and there you go. The loaf only took me about four months to make. But if we have some that raise the wheat, some that grind it and some that bake it, I can simply go to the store and have a loaf in about five minutes. We all get something out of it. This is called a free market. But the problem comes when there are those who produce nothing. Of course a merchant and a waitress produce nothing, but they are part of the process of trade. But politicians, bankers, and others of this sort really produce nothing. Their existence is necessary, but it should be limited not dominant. When the merchants and bankers get too much power they become dangerous, they become people who would make the general populace their slaves. Our labor will benefit them and not ourselves. The less a government messes with our freedom to make a living and own our property and do with it what we shall the better off we are. Adam Smith was livid about property rights because he grew up in a feudalist state in Scotland. He was appalled that all the land was kept by the wishes of people who had been dead for hundreds of years. He would be equally livid over someone telling someone that they can’t farm their land because of the future generations that need wet- lands. Either way, it is a tyranny of those that aren’t in possession of life in the here and now.

I was thinking about all of this and I wondered why so many artists are communist or at the least socialist in their thinking. Where is art if there isn’t any disposable income? Where is art if there is no middle class? I think we need to abolish the National Endowment of the Arts so that artists can get more clarity about how economics and art are related.
Yeah, I said it was a rant didn’t I?

Support Ron Paul and make a noise about him. We need someone like this guy now. Watch “Freedom to Fascism”. Read some books about our Constitution and our Founding Fathers. There is good reason to have pride in our heritage. I’m not saying that there weren’t mistakes, but man there has been some really good successes too. If modern political theory, foreign policy, economic foolishness, and Constitutional buggery are getting you down, just go back and find common sense again in the simple institutions that we started with.

On a Hot August Night

For some reason I haven't been in the mood to cook much lately. I think it's because it is hard to get my house cooled down after I cook. It's about 100 degrees all the time here this last two weeks. I almost died at least a dozen times. I walk around shirtless everywhere showing off my sweat slick barrel chest to all. Parents have asked me to put my shirt on as I was frightening their children. I just nod and show the top of my sweaty butt crack and they run away as well. Who needs to conceal a weapon in this heat? I actually almost died picking up a wall the other day. That's right, I said wall. I will put a picture of that up sometime. I have no time.
The other reason I might not be cooking is because I cook at a country club two nights a week. I don't think that is it though. I actually don't get to cook all that often. Usually I just stand around a sweat and watch the official certified and credentialed Chef cook. He talks a lot of B.S. and giggles to himself. But I don't really care. I don't like getting paid for doing nothing, but I am sweating so I figure there is some equity there.
So I'm not cooking at home a lot right now. I think it's the heat. I walk around my house in underwear and sometimes naked, I don't care what the neighbors think, it's hot damnit. Quit looking in my windows. Actually last night I saw a guy looking in my neighbor’s window at 2 am. He saw me sitting there in my undies staring at him and he ran away. I put on some shorts and knocked on my neighbor's door, his lights were still on. I don't really know this guy. In my hood, I keep to myself and ask the same of my neighbors. "Who is it!” He yelled. I could see through the screen that he was in his boxers, he ran to put on pants before answering the door. See it's that hot, no one wants to wear clothes, even the Goth kids are slimming down to black and white striped tights and leaving it at that. It's really disturbing.
So I'm not cooking, and I'm really not eating that much either. It's too hot to eat. It takes to much energy to process the food. I might die if I eat too much. When I do eat it's usually a cracker or a beer. Beer is food.
Last night I had Thai food. Hot food!! And it's true I felt cooler after my lips feel off.
Tonight I had Chinese take-out. Chinese take-out. We never say Bar-B-Que take-out we just get it to go. We never say Pizza Take-out. It's just one of those phrases like, "no little cinnamon gum" that just flows and we say it and that's that. So I'm eating my General chicken with my chopsticks and I've got my Crab Rangoon (there's no crab in this) and I squirt my duck sauce on the plate out of the clear pack with the cute panda on it. I'm looking at my meal and all the cool little boxes that the food comes in...And you know what? The Panda Bear with the Chinese characters coming out of his butt duck sauce and soy, the chopsticks with the red wrapper with the Chinese horoscope on it (I'm a cock, by the way), the cute little boxes that have the funky lettering that looks like someone wrote it with a stick and it says Thank You and Kari Out, all that stuff, get this, all of it, made in America. Not imported by some place in Jersey, nope, made in White Plains, NY. I mean we are importing Apple Juice from China, garlic from China (I think we are good at growing these things aren't we?) We import friggin' little stuffed Santas from China. But we make Chinese packaging and foodstuffs in White Plains? I bet the Chinese make a mean chopstick. I trust them with chopsticks. In fact, I want my chopsticks to come from China. Ok so that's the way I want it. Apple juice from Washington, and chopsticks from China. I guess I should be glad that we are still making something here. Maybe we should ship out chopsticks and little Panda packs to China. Take that! I want to visit White Plains, NY; I bet it is quite pastoral.

A Remembrance

I watch the bicycles. From my front porch I see them zip and glide by. When was the last time I rode a bike? When I was a kid, above all things, I loved to ride my bike. My neighborhood was a big loop. Not a part of a loop or a part of a block; it was just a random loop planted by a river. It expanded at the rate of a house a year, and we were on the 23rd year. Beyond it's barriers, that were my barriers until about nine, lay three regions. The ever so dangerous road to the "Falls". It is called the "Grand Falls" and I lived at "Grand Falls Plaza". The Falls were about a 1/2 mile away (more likely a 1/4 mile, but I was a kid). The road was a favorite speedway for the muscle-car-boys. Teenagers were so scary in the seventies, and early eighties. They seem so comical and unreal now. But then they seemed as alien as anything I had experienced. True I wasn't an adult, but most adults were friendly, and my parents were adults. We existed in two different worlds, but our relationship was friendly and generally peaceful. Teenagers on the hand, were completely unpredictable. At one time you looked up to them and wanted to be accepted by these adults-in-between. At another time you knew that they were a kind of dangerous that we were not ready for yet. I mean I climbed cliff faces that would have turned my parents white if they had seen me. I built boats and ventured onto the river, and later sank. I was a fairly courageous venturer. But there were places that these older kids were going that I didn't want to go to... yet. It seeemed that a lot of their adventures involved an element of menace. Not just physically dangerous; but socially malevolent. I remember all these guys making molotov cocktails and throwing them all over the rocks at the falls. There were flames everywhere. It was quite a sight. They were yelling and hooping and hollerin'. "Whoo-haw, Whoo-Wee." There was also broken glass all over the place. Where people went swimming and sun bathed during the day. Broken glass all over the rocks, and in all of the pools. That was I all I could think. Why would they do that? They even lived here and came here to swim. What kind of insanity is in my future? My God, what kind of monster was I going to become? The other border was the river. There was the "Low Water Bridge". Not that it probably should be capitalized. But when it is your borders as a kid there is always the capital letter landmarks of the area. We had many places that sounded vague to the outsider, but were clear to us as the capital places. Sure there were tons of puddles in our stomping grounds. But everyone knew a certain one to be known as "The Puddle". There was "The Fort", "The Castle", "The Cave", and many others lost to me now. So our low water bridge, was "The Low Water Bridge". The Bridge straddled Shoal Creek. Shoal Creek sometimes swelled enough to make the Bridge uncrossable. There were times in my life that briefly we were either it's captive, or repulsed from our very home and into my Grandparents. This rare variable made living there a little more enjoyable for me. Shoal Creek was the city's sewer. There weren't a lot of fish to be caught in it's brown waters. No one told us that we shouldn't, but we didn't spend any time in the Creek. I probably only actually swam in Shoal Creek about ten times in the five years that I lived but 200 Feet from it's shore. Sure I played near it, and on it (homemade boats, and rafts), but not much in it. It was clearly not pure water. Kid's aren't really all that stupid. Of course at some point I heard it was the waste recepticle of all the area treatment plants. It was just not all that inviting, you might say. Across the bridge was the older river neighborhood. A bunch of cabins and refurbished shacks. And of course beyond that was a hill, that you had to have your energy up for. It wasn't "The Hill" by the way. "The Hill" was what the road beyond "The Falls" was. That was quite a hill!! When it was icy in winter, it was just for sledding. You came around the back or you just climbed it. If you had the stamina to really go all the way to the top, you had a true ten to fifteen minute ride. Almost a whole 1/2 mile of sledding! The last bit was a bit tricky. Many a kid had a tale about biting it in the last turn of "The Hill". Some went through barb wire fences. Some jumped immense ditches and ended face first in the opposite bank. The key was to get the most speed without losing complete controll. By the way, this is only possible in the traditional sled. Tubing and paning resulted in shorter and more stop and start reentries. With the sled, in control, you could ride the whole thing out, on your belly, till the end. Now it is true that you could steer with your feet, but that was really less control than being just inches above the road. The third border was the road that ran parallel to Shoal Creek. This road was almost entirely uphill for a mile or so. And a lot of blind hills at that. It was really too far. Parents were nervous enough about my occasional treks to the Falls. I assured them that I took the dirt paths along the way. Mostly I did take the dirt road. But the road in the other direction was a different story. On one side the shoulder disappeared entirely and the drop off was intense. Up this way lay "Mother Nature's Crack". I don't know who first coined the term, but it is not my term. It is the term of the area. At least two generations know of this location as "Mother Nature's Crack". Despite the vulgar subtleties of this name, it was an accepted term by one and all. "Mother Nature's Crack" was also applied to an area right across the creek as well. I still believe the true "Crack" is on the west side. It certainly is the biggest crack. Basically we are talking about a large bluff of rock with a crack in it that allows you to climb up or down. It is actually quite strange the first time you descend into the crack. As you descend the ground becomes level with your head, until you are simply swallowed up by the crack. It is also a tight squeeze at times, so it feels somewhat intimate. Beyond the Good Mother's Crack lay more uphill riding. There is also the orgasmic final drop off point. But it is so extreme that the trip back is even more difficult. Along this route, one comes to "The Castle". "The Castle" was actually a castle. It was built out of local rock. So it was really pretty ugly. Even so, it was a castle and it had the same omnious legends surrounding it. The story was that a old lady lived there by herself. Her husband had died many years ago and she had since become rather unfond of humanity. It was because of this misanthropy that she kept two large Dobermans on the premises to keep out all tresspassers. That is of course, if you got past the iron gate. I never went beyond the gate. Honestly I was nervous just going to the gate. Such were the adventures that I had on my bike. After living in Grand Falls Plaza for five years, my family moved to a more remote locale. Then it was the mini-bike. Everyday after school I was on that thing. Living out in the country made the bike less credible as a thing of enjoyment. A bike on a crappy farm road made from creek gravel was more like work than play. In fact, even on the mini bike it wasn't all that great either. I always had white knuckles after the tense five minute ride. Gravel is unpleasant all the way around. It is either a grinding dirt wave that makes you feel that you are somehow going against a current, or it is a moving balance beam that must be carefully navigated. Even so, the mini bike could take me quicker and farther. It was still a physical activity to ride a mini-bike. Hell, I walked mine many miles over the years. Compare the notion of walking a bike for a mile that weighs roughly 15 pounds, and lugging a mini bike that weighed about 75 pounds around. Up hills, and thankly, down hills. Man,... you talk about an early course in anger managment. One minute you are buzzing by, feeling like the coolest kid in the world. Peolple wave and you wave and gun the engine. You're off and then the engine floods. But I sometimes didn't zip off as planned. Sometimes, I would just flood it and choke. If there was a hill I could just pop the clutch and almost suavely regain composure. If there wasn't a hill...well it wasn't pretty. End of cool beginning of embarassment. Sometimes pushing a fast as I can to, jump on, and pop the clutch. Many times just walking it down the street, passing past glory; in retreat. After the mini bike years came the car. Of course with the car you could go to a lot more places. You could haul people around. You could haul stuff around. And, well, the car is just so cool. In Joplin you don't see a lot of bikes. Cars are where it's at. You quickly forget about the hidden treasures of biking. The connection you have to the area. The places and people you notice when you are not locked up in metal isolation. You are easily wooed by the power of quick distances. But with quick distances come quicker comings and goings. Life speeds up. It feels so good going at a faster pace that you hardly notice that you don't have time for much of anything. Cars cost money. Money means a job. Job means you need a car, or you waste a lot of time coming and going to work. It becomes a vicious cycle. I'm not down on cars by the way. But cars bring a blessing and a curse. Time starts to become a master in the modern world. I asked my roommate to lend me one of his many bikes. He did. I have been biking around Portland. I have discovered a different city than I had known before. I see houses that I somehow missed before. I can go places that are a hassle in a car. I can ride along the river front. I can say hi to people. I can stop and stare without getting honked at. I think I'm going to buy a bike. Also I would like to say that next Fourth of July I'm on the bike for sure. Screw cars. I can ride from one family or block fireworks display to the next. I can watch the big downtown explosion up close without worrying about parking. So if anyone wants to come here on the fourth, that is the plan. Most of this story was set in the place where I spent most of my childhood. The house behind me was the Tallman's house. the Tallman's were actually quite tall. They had a boy named Randy that was in my grade. Randy wasn't allowed to play as much as some of the other kids. Randy was a little strange as well. For Halloween our Fifth Grade year, Randy dressed as a geisha girl. He was the only boy that I knew that dressed as a girl for Halloween. When we were in third grade Randy and I played together occasionally. One of his favorite games involved us pulling down our pants and making butt impressions in his sandbox. I don't remember what kind of game it was.

The Small Moments that define eternity Part 2

Today I had one of those moments that made me stop for a moment and enjoy the world in which I live. I said at one point that I was going to write about these kinds of events on a daily basis. I made a promise of a sort and broke it. Well my friend Robbie aka Rowboat called me on this so I’ve tried to make a mental note of things on a daily basis.
The fact is if you don’t write it down, these little things will simply disappear from your mind and your experience. I was once an ardent journal keeper and my journal was filled with this stuff. But laziness is a powerful foe in these matters. So I’m writing these little events to remember and hopefully to spark an interest in others doing so as well.

Which brings me to a little pet peeve I have been having lately. There is a lot of laziness out there. I know that people are reading and looking and so on and so forth. The question I have is why aren’t more people commenting? If we were sitting in a room together I think people would have a comment or two. It lends a lot to the “online community” building. It lends itself to discussion and people getting to know each other. Does it take a lot of time and effort to comment on a blog? Come on people; think how much time it takes me to write this dribble. It is also nice to know who is reading and what they think. Call it a writer’s need to hear from his audience. Ok, I’ve sounded off on that.

My friend Jerimy called and asked for some help moving a pool table that he had just got some great deal on. I will be honest; I didn’t want to help move a pool table. Pool tables are the heaviest thing in the world next to pianos and gold. I know I’m a big burly guy, but on the inside I’m really small. What I seem to be I’m not. I’m tough, I’m strong, but really I’m small. I will get in the grit with the best of men, but really I’m small. I also have developed this
obnoxious pulled shoulder that has been persistently painful for about four months now. Sometimes I just want to scream, I’m so tired of it. But men don’t talk about their aches and pains, men just “man up” and do the job.

I showed up a Jerimy’s house to find that the other help that had been enlisted was a guy in a back brace (he fell off of a roof drunk three months ago, being encased in plastic all summer long he had lost 35 pounds), a 14-year-old boy, some other guy and Jerimy. On the way to the house that had the pool table the other guy asked me how heavy I thought the thing might be. I said that I thought it depended on whether it was an antique or not. “Well if it is solid oak and really big I don’t know what we’re going to do” He nodded and seemed to care little about the details. “But you know I’ve seen pool tables that are pretty new being moved with professional equipment and a lot of effort at that”. He turned and looked at me with an expression of genuine dismay. “Pool table? He said it was an entertainment device, I thought he meant entertainment center or some shit”. “Man, he is going to owe me big time”. He turned up the country music and lit a cigarette. Turns out that this guy was Jerimy’s tenant. He was not happy at all. We get the house and some old guy lets us in and we go down to the basement. This guy’s basement is the coolest party pad ever. There is a bar, and a grill with an exhaust vent. We comment on how he must have had a lot of parties there. “No I never had a single party, not one time did I have friends over for a beer, in fact I’ve only played pool on that table a few times with my son”. There was sadness in his voice. “I was always too busy”.

We put the table on its side to take the legs off. Jerimy didn’t
bring a wrench or a ratchet. So we have to ask the old guy if he has one, fortunately he did. After we got the legs off we slid this monstrous thing to the door and then just stared at each other. The pissed off country guy says, “Fellas, I don’t think we have enough nuts here to do this thing”. I was in complete agreement. We were definitely undermanned and this thing was scary-heavy. The old guy stood and watched us and realized that our mutual resolve was fading; he suggested that we lay down some rugs on the threshold and slid the pool table as far as we could. I agreed with that and we did it. There was a lot of discussion going on about how to this and how to that. I finally decided that committee was not going to work and started telling people how it was going to be. Before I insisted otherwise, the consensus was to lift the table on its side, onto the tailgate and then lay it down. I saw true and pain and suffering in this option. It turned out that the pool table was exactly as wide as the bed, so I suggested we turn it back flat and have a guy on each corner and slide it in. Up to this point the old man just looked at us and shook his head. He was relieved, I think, that someone was willing to take charge and do something that wouldn’t kill us. I’m not trying to brag, that isn’t the point. The point is that after the votes are in, someone has to bang the gavel and pronounce judgment. I pronounced it and justice was served.

“What’s your name?” the old guy asked. I told him and he smiled and shook his head. “Spittin’ image of your dad”. I felt a sense of pride in that remark and hoped it ran deeper than my tell tale eyebrows. That is one cool thing about living back in Joplin I guess, you have some history. I asked him how he knew my Dad. He told me that he had gone to school with him and had actually been a year younger than my dad. What? This guy was an old man with white hair and everything. I mean he was spry but damn he was old. How can he be younger than my dad? My dad isn’t old, not that old. My mortality doesn’t really bother me as much as my parents. Being a single guy I think that I feel I need them more than most. They are my rock and anchor. But I will stop there.

So we had to turn the pool behemoth back to a flat position, which meant that two guys had to lift it from the ground while the other two just held it. The fourteen year old was full of beans and trying to prove his nuts so I let him and country guy do the lifting. I’m old enough to know that my nuts want to stay as intact as possible without a rupture. There was a lot of grunting and bursts of breath like in the Olympics when those guys almost blow out their innards picking up tons of weight. This thing was trying to kill us I swear. We got on the truck finally.

Back at Jerimy’s house there was more logistics in getting it off of the truck then I had foreseen, again lots of stupid lifting and grunting. We finally got it into Jerimy’s sunroom and set the damn thing up. Jerimy was grinning a lot and you could see that it was more than a pool table; it was the completion of the house. It is a major thing to have your own pool table! I would only mention in passing that you have to stick the end of your cue through the window if your shooting from the side, but hey that makes it more of a challenge right?

This is a public service?

This is a public service?
There is a run of ads out that our tax dollars paid for to keep kids off of drugs. This run is called "Above the influence". I think that that is as clever as they get and that isn't very clever. I really want to make a lot of money doing this stuff. I get to make a lot of taxpayer money, feel good, and become a part of a culture. The culture that I get to become a part of is the long running line of terrible and incidentally funny anti-drug ads. Someday VH-1, or some other network that loves to fill time slots with meaningless pop culture drivel, will put all these ads together and let different burnt out rock stars and burnt out comedians lampoon them.

The first of these ads in this history is almost as famous as the "I've fallen and I can't get up" ads. The ad I speak of is none other than the "This is your brain, (flash to shot of a frying pan, man breaks egg on the edge and drops the egg into the pan, eerily, you can hear the egg sizzle, ooooo)this is your brain on drugs". Of course the comedian Bill Hicks (not burnt out, just dead) has already relentlessly made fun of this ad. The punch line being "How dare you send a middle age alcoholic to tell me to not do drugs". The guy in the ad did seem like some drunken trucker who is angry at whoever he's talking to. He says, "Ok, I'm not gonna tell you this again, this is your brain, this is your brain on drugs". So the point is of course that drugs fry your brain like an egg in a pan. Yeah we get it. The question is, did anyone at all who saw the ad think to themselves, "I don't want my brain to fry like an egg, I'm never going to do drugs, that scares the shit out of me" And did anyone else say "Man I need to stop doing drugs, that is really profound". I haven't done any research on the matter, but I would say that it didn't have that effect. I bet it had no effect but a lot of people making fun of it. By the way, as funny and infamous as the "I've fallen and I can't get up" ads are, I know that they actually sold the product. You see it is funny to most of us. But the ad was not trying to sell to us, it knew it's target audience, and for that target audience they addressed a real fear. Older people are not as cynical towards ads as our generation is either. They didn't need it to be clever to get the point.

Don't get me wrong. It's a good sentiment. Drugs screw a lot of kids up. It is a good thing to try to get them to not do them. But these guys are just pissing in the wind on this. They are trying to be clever and they are totally out of touch with the brain of users and the brains of teens.

I don't watch television much, so I'm out of the loop, but I saw this ad from "Above the Influence" the other day. This girl is in a middle class kitchen getting milk or orange juice or something, suddenly her dog jumps on a stool next to her. Then the dog speaks, "I miss the times we used to spend with each other, I miss you before you started doing drugs" The girl looks sad (not shocked mind you) and the ad ends. Now that is a paraphrase. I've only seen the ad once. I understand what the underlying theme is: the girl or me as the viewer is losing the precious years of childhood to drug use, I get that. But I don't think that is how most drug users would view the ad. Let's say that this girl is real, and that she is doing drugs, how might this ad look in the real world.

Scene: Girl walks into kitchen. She has dark circles under her eyes. She is frantically looking for something to eat. Her dog jumps on the stool next to her. The dog begins to speak.

Dog: I miss you Sarah, I miss the way we played together, I miss the way you were before you started doing drugs.

Sarah drops the glass she is drinking from and shrinks back from the dog in sheer terror.

Sarah: Holy shit! You just talked! Holy shit!

Dog: Yes Sarah, I did, I wish you would stop doing drugs.

Sarah stares at the dog, slowly her terror turns to wonder and even delight

Sarah: Whoa this is like Dr. Doolittle man. I can hear my dog speaking this is awesome!

Dog: That's great, but I'm trying to tell you something important here, drugs are taking away your childhood, they are ruining your life.

Sarah: Yeah but I never heard you speak to me before I did drugs, this is awesome.

Dog: Umm, you're missing the point.

Sarah: So tell me, do dogs really see in only black and white? Why do you like eating horse turds, what is up with that?

Dog: Sarah, listen to me, you need to stop doing drugs

Sarah: If I stop doing drugs then I won't hear you speak anymore right?

Dog: Umm, I don't know...I just think that you need to play more and be a little girl.

Sarah: I don't want to play with you anymore; I've got a boyfriend and stuff. Hey I wonder if he can hear you too, he's on drugs.

Dog: Oh to hell with it.

Dog leaps down and runs away. Sarah picks up the phone and calls her boyfriend.

Sarah: Seth you got to get over here, I've got some good shit going on right now, my dog just spoke to me!

Dog yells from the other room.

Dog: Leave me alone.

Sarah: Come on this is awesome, come on tell me why you like eating turds, come on....

Scene fades out.

So that is how I saw it at least.

You know it isn't that hard to get this point across, it really isn't. I was watching Freaks and Geeks last night. I have never watched it before. That show is awesome. It is grounded in some reality about the teen years. This episode about Halloween had an underlying theme about growing up and losing some of your childhood. Now it wasn't addressing drugs, but it could have been used to. The girl in the show is struggling to find herself. Her mom is looking forward to them handing out candy to the Trick or Treaters together. The whole thing is some kind of mother /daughter bonding thing. The daughter doesn't want to hurt her mom's feelings, but she is drawn by the desire to go out and hang with the "freaks". At the last moment she ditches her mom and goes out. Mom is sad, but she soldiers on trying to be cheery and handing out cookies. In the car the girl finds out that the "freaks" want to raise a little hell, first they smash pumpkins, then they clobber mailboxes with a bat, then the egging begins. Accidentally she eggs her own brother and her conscience finally can't take anymore. She goes home and sees that Halloween for her whole family is ruined for one reason or another. Some part of her knows that the person she was in the car with the "freaks" isn't really her. She puts on the costume that her mom got for her and hands out candy with her mom for the remainder of the night. She hasn't found who she is, but at least she is around love. Now my synopsis may make it sound cornball, but it really wasn't it seemed like so many events that most of us can relate to. So make an ad with that same feel; the idea that you are leaving behind a childhood for something that doesn't fit. I can imagine the ad starting off with pictures of a little girl progressing into her teen years, maybe home movies. Then you cut to showing her in a park with her friends and she looks at the camera. No dialogue, just one sentence at the end. "Who are you becoming"? It is haunting and daunting. It won't affect all the kids, but I guarantee it will get few. Not all drug users are motivated by the same thing anyway. As a substitute I see so many girls that just want an identity. If they aren't smart, athletic, rich, naturally attractive, etc, they try to find something that brands them. The bad girl image is available to many as a result. But being a bad girl comes with a heavy price, you have to be bad and the ante is always going up.

My whole point is this. You can't hire ad wizards to get this message out. You have to have people who have been there, or who actually give a shit. I believe that love is the most important quality an artist must possess. You have to love your audience. Our culture is losing this. Most bands, writers, and creative people in general engage in lots of self-love, but they rarely project it out. If you can't cry for these kids that you want to help, you can't help them. Clever just won't cut it.

The Death of the Mix Tape

I still think of Meri Haynes every time I hear the Chameleons. She gave me something precious that I will never forget. In 1985 Meri gave me a mix tape called “Enos Rocks” (in loving tribute to the Dukes of Hazzard Deputy) Among all the great songs on the tape there was this song by a band I had never heard of before. At first the song didn’t really resonate with me. Over time the two songs on the tape by the Chameleons got their permanent hooks into me. I became a fanatic. For years I included the Chameleons on almost every mix tape that I made. Almost all of my friends love the Chameleons, a relatively obscure band from Manchester. And it all started with a lovingly made mix tape. The giver comes to mind every time that present is listened to.

With mix tapes, even if I wasn’t being introduced to a new band, it was likely I was hearing something from an album I didn’t have. I couldn’t afford to throw all my eggs in one basket and go out and buy every album by a band I liked. And what if the album sucked, my investment was gone. We were more cautious in our selection. I couldn’t just download a band’s entire career and pick and choose. There is also the other side of this. It wasn’t my pick; it was someone else’s pick. I was introduced to an album on their terms. I submitted to their version of things. I listened through their ears. Anyone will tell you it’s better to listen to new record with someone else. It’s like going to the movie or a concert with a friend; it’s always a lot more fun with someone else there.

Mix tapes were a form of communicating. The tapes that spoke to you were like letters. The truly fearless mix maker exposed himself to ridicule. It was less about appearing cool and more about being real. Using other people’s music to express something personal. You’re “essential” songs were not based on a genre, a demographic, it’s hipness, it’s hip- unhipness, or even hook appeal. They were essential because they spoke to you. They were essential to share. I rarely thought of merely trying to turn people on to new songs, that would lack some kind of reality to it. It would only be a better version of radio. Radio at its best still lacks the personal touch. Now I will admit that at times some mixes ended up in more than one hand. Sometimes you made something classic and the mix itself went beyond your personal vision at the time. You realized you had made a universally good mix just by its perfect ebb and flow. Of course you didn’t really try for these, but when they happened you found it hard to part with. But in most cases you did part with it. Like a letter it is of you, but imparted to someone else’s care. Thus a mix tape by a real person was a treasure, a one of a kind. People were actually very excited to hear a mix tape; they took a lot of time and effort. I still have dozens of mix tapes from my various friends. I occasionally pull them out and I am transported in a way that no single album can accomplish. Sometimes a friend will call me and tell me that they found a tape I made for them. They couldn’t resist calling and telling me this as soon as they could, a connection was reestablished. I usually ask for them to tell me the listing. Hearing the songs listed on a tape I made twenty years ago, takes me to another place in my life like a journal entry.

These things have died to another thing. I don’t know what it is, maybe Pod-casting. But the digital age interrupts the flow, increases the choices, and is easily made and copied. The fact is, sometimes I would hunt for months to obtain the records that I felt I needed. Loving music required patience and perseverance. Mix tapes could help you through the dry times. There was no source to hear many bands without the mix tape. We shared our collections in this way. It was the most ardent recommendation you could get. The mix tape gave voice to the articles we read. I can read an article about a band now and go and download and listen to them in the same hour. There is something very disposable about that. In the land of mythos, music has lost its treasured luster. More and more it becomes a product as readily visible as water. Every show on television is a potential hit-maker. Products are advertised with another product behind that. I am not trying to be too cynical. It isn’t as if there isn’t any good music coming out these days. It is just harder for me to get excited about it. We don’t rely on each other as much for discovery. It is just one more form of communication that we have lost in this modern age. We have lost mix tapes and drive-in movies. Hand written letters seem the next thing to go extinct. The things that bind us to another individual are fading.

Some might say that I’m being backward and need to progress and blindly embrace the new opportunity, simply because there is one. Some might say that going from live performance to records and records to tape has been reduction and a revelation equally. I would agree, but there is something very special about the tape. It made things readily available, if someone put forth the effort to make it available. It was as working class as you could get. My first “mix” tapes were just me recording my favorite songs off the radio. I made my own radio show. Power to the people y’all. I wasn’t to be excluded from concerts that a small town boy couldn’t see in any era. I wasn’t limited by the poor selection at local chain record stores. My friends and I could exchange the things that touched us. No one had hundreds of albums to choose from, just the ones that mattered enough to drop money on. You had an investment in the music. People shared their investments with each other.

I changed with the times because I value communication. Why make mix tapes for people that don’t have tape players? Still for some reason love e-mail just doesn’t have the same ring to it as love letters. If we completely abandon the personal for the impersonal and don’t balance it I fear there will be dire consequences. Could we possibly become a people who all have something to say with no one actually doing the listening anymore? Is there so much communication that it is ceasing to have as much value? Are we so intent on communicating that we communicate less in the end? Are we moving towards our own narcissistic Tower of Babel? I know I draw out the accusation of hypocrisy. I am using these same tools I’m criticizing. But maybe recognizing potential abuse is the key to respecting the options we have before us. There seems a line that we should draw internally so as not the prostitute the one we love. True communication requires effort no matter the format. If we cheapen our language and quality of what we say we are in grave danger of having nothing worth saying.


We become more accelerated as a culture by the year. There may be something on the horizon that I can’t see. There are new things that join groups together. I also like the opportunity to meet people that I might not meet. Communicate with people who wouldn’t write a letter, but can write at least three sentences now and then. I must admit it is still less intrusive than the telephone. I’m not saying there aren’t positive aspects. It seems a shame one must die for the other to survive. My biggest fear is that I somehow believe that constant instant gratification on any level is bad. I can see how much I am already addicted. I’m addicted to getting new music more than ever and it doesn’t require effort or even much expenditure. I don’t need someone to introduce me to anything. I can burn off all my friend’s CDs and pick out what I like. I can go online and sample everything in my own personal vacuum. Easy access to too many things makes us junkies. But a junkie no longer enjoys the original feeling of the drug. An alcoholic no longer appreciates wine. Restraint is needed to enjoy something for a long time. You see I value communication as something that is part of me being a person. Being personal is what makes us unique. If we reduce our greatest forms of communication to impersonal we will become enslaved or diminished.