I'm feeling a little buzzed, so i'll give you a topic...
Campaign finance- is it unconstitutional? or should we be approaching the problem from a different angle?
To give a crash course of why campaign finance is somewhat ruining America (among other countries) is that it gives unnecessary leverage to those with heaping piles of money. Politicians need to get elected so they campaign to get their name out--nothing wrong with that. They need money to campaign and so businesses that feel a particular politician will support their interests will donate money to said politician to try and help get him elected. When that particular politician gets elected, he is then (unofficially) obligated to 'pay back' the contributor(s) in 'favors'. These favors can be anything from subsidy support to endorsement of a particular policy.
Where this can go awry is when a politician takes the 'obligation' he has to pay back his contributors as a higher priority than that of the people that really matter- eg the ones that voted his ass into the position. This is why we have enormous tobacco subsidies rather than a useful healthcare system (among other things) and why most financial banks have a firm grip on most of Washington's balls.
This cant be fixed by taxing the rich more than any other person (i'm referring to percentages not monetary amounts). if there is one thing i definitely will support on the right-wing politics, its that one cannot 'take'. No matter how one looks at it, under the current economic system we enable wealth to be made. Sadly, even immorally. However, it is legal. That is the problem. The correction is not to take what is rightfully theirs (because it is, we allowed it to happen/it was a legitimate loophole in the system/etc), and to take what is rightfully a possession of someone else is stealing. Plain and simple. Taxation is not stealing merely for the fact that it is legalized. so what could be a solution?
Set limits on campaign finance so the politicians cant dig themselves in too deep, therein enabling our policy-makers to do what we elected them to do? Sadly, campaign finance falls under the territory of free speech. Anyone is allowed to spend any amount of money they wish in any way they wish (dont get technical on me people, you know what i mean), and support anyone they wish with said money. One cannot argue against one of the founding pillars of our constitution.
So, we must argue with another piece of our constitution! Though Campaign finance(CF) falls under free speech, there is another way around it. Essentially, CF is what enables those with more money more leverage in the political realm. In essence, a loophole in the free speech argument allows a kind of plutocracy. the problem is not necessarily the money, but the leverage itself.
We must then, create a way in which we dont not assail anothers' rights, yet regain the leverage we are guaranteed by our democracy. In the way, i believe that we should find a way to give the people more leverage over the elected candidates. To put it simply, every elected official (congress, senate, executive) should be subject to a much easier form of ejection/impeachment. It is, after all, a very foundational piece of our national constitution that if a regime no longer serves the interests of the people, it is in the peoples right to remove that regime and replace it with another that is more suitable (look it up, its there!).
Obviously, as the position of authority gets higher, it will be more difficult to impeach. But in terms of congress and senate officials, an annual 'review' should be instated, and if certain policies are not being worked at hard enough, or enabled when it is clear that they could have been (essentially, if the official is not serving the interests of the majority but that of the plutocracy/campaign finance chaps) then they should be easily removed from their position. Probably by another vote-popular movement.
As for who would replace the official, I'm sure if a popular movement were mobilized to remove an official, a person within that movement would be more than capable of filling the position. If not, there could be any number of mechanism for replacement--a runner up of the elections (if favored by majority of course) for example.
There are other options of course. But as for an option that respects the idea of privacy as well as democracy, the way to go seems to be to find a way to increase the political leverage of the people. Preferably, the increase must be at least equal to the influence of the ones financing the politicians. In this way, the politicians will no longer be fully swayed by the rewards of serving the lobbies (for example). They will also be swayed by the fact that if they do no do as their electors wish, they can be removed from their office at the tip of the hat.
It doesn't hurt every now and then to remind our leadership that they still need to fear their people....
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
This is a Mind Dump
So its been a while. blah blah blah. Enough small talk. I've only got a little bit of time, but I've got a get my head around this somehow. So lets get right to it.
For some reason, even though there was a seemingly near-criminal investigation into the financial world post-crisis, there is no one in prison.
oh, my bad, ONE guy is in prison.
and probably just because SOMEONE had to go. Someone had to feed the masses rage-hunger
Without going into too much detail, there is an ABUSRD amount of evidence to put quite a few people in prison from anything from money laundering, to fraud and embezzlement--among other things. But all we (the public) got for being blatantly used and taken advantage of was one man.
I only need to illustrate the absurdity of this using one simple parallel. In trading, one cannot trade with oneself. there must be at least two people involved for it to be a 'trade'. So why, if our economy was demolished by financial securities TRADING, is there only one man behind bars?
would i be satisfied if they threw another guy in and called it a day? Of course not. That would just mean one less thing for me to be furious about.
These men are in fact criminals. There are precedents for this. I cannot take out a student loan and spend most of it in a casino rather than on books and food. However, a bunch of financial bankers can take OUR money and use it for a 'pseudo-casino'.
The fact that this occurred, was exposed, and yet there has been essentially no consequences for the actions of the few bankers is painful. Clearly, the finance boys have a diamond studded collar around the dogs in the government, and a firm grip on their balls.
Or I'm sorry, there is no negative coercion going on. Consider this is DC men we're talking about, its definitely positive coercion. And by positive coercion i mean that the men and women that are supposed to be representing the interests of the people of the United States and paying off their debts at the expensive of ours.
I'll leave my angry views on campaign finance for another post, but in short, the reason practically nothing gets done in terms of policy is because lobbies pay for elected officials campaigning to get elected. If/when the official gets elected, that money spent on annoying plastic signs and commercials needs to be paid back. Not in money, necessarily, but in favors. Favors, or government backing of certain areas, protection from foreign markets, etc.
Or in the case of said financial sector, we bail them out when they lose it all on the roulette table. Why? look how much money those guys are making--if Goldman Sachs decides to support say....Obama, the amount of other lobbies he needs to ask for campaign financing is very very low.
the problem becomes when Goldman Sachs loses a few hundred billion performing illegal activities.Because then our elected official (in this case Obama) is very strongly obligated to repay Goldman Sachs for the oodles of money he cost them to get elected.
Was there ever a real debate about the bailout for the banks? I strongly doubt it. in fact, i think the 'debates' were just a show to make it seem we were not being swindled.
To make matters even more atrocious, for the second time this year, the US government has avoided a government meltdown at the very last minute.
What seems all too convenient for me, is that the US credit rating is no longer a AAA rating. Even with the debt ceiling increased, its no longer AAA. its not in a BAD rating, but its not the flawless rating we've had since, practically, our formation. These potential 'meltdowns' our government keeps having has been weakening the credit rating and thereby making our financial assets not a guaranteed solid investment. THe flip side of that coin is that if one trades them on the, oh i dunno, financial market that Goldman Sachs (among others) got in trouble with in 2008, they essentially become more valuable. mainly more valuable in that they are more risky, therefore the spreads are larger, and therefore, there is more money to be made.
Which according to a report by Keiser Report (financial publication), thats exactly what theyve been doing.
For me, it seems pretty obvious that the government is tossing more than just a bone to the financial market. Its beginning to look like they're tossing them the entire roast. Our roast. I'm alright if politicians want to pay their debts. But when they start paying their debts and making them a priority over ours, i think there should be some serious consequences.
It astounds me that the title of our politicians is still technically 'civil servant'. In my opinion, 'civil servants' should be like they were throughout the rest of history. You get paid to compensate for participating in government (but not the highest wage, nor the lowest), and you are a SERVANT or the people. A representative. Neither of those titles can afford half the things a politician makes.Nor should they.
ARGH.Lets just vote them all out, make campaign finance limits, and start fixing whats wrong with this country.
Thats my rant. If you bitch enough or provide a good enough argument i'll give you evidence to back my harsh words above.
Call this the last straw for me. If i can find a way to get even ONE more of these to answer for this catastrophe i'll consider my life to have fulfilled something great.
For now, my next goal is simple. Have the words 'Masters in Finance Law" printed (among others) on my final degree.
For some reason, even though there was a seemingly near-criminal investigation into the financial world post-crisis, there is no one in prison.
oh, my bad, ONE guy is in prison.
and probably just because SOMEONE had to go. Someone had to feed the masses rage-hunger
Without going into too much detail, there is an ABUSRD amount of evidence to put quite a few people in prison from anything from money laundering, to fraud and embezzlement--among other things. But all we (the public) got for being blatantly used and taken advantage of was one man.
I only need to illustrate the absurdity of this using one simple parallel. In trading, one cannot trade with oneself. there must be at least two people involved for it to be a 'trade'. So why, if our economy was demolished by financial securities TRADING, is there only one man behind bars?
would i be satisfied if they threw another guy in and called it a day? Of course not. That would just mean one less thing for me to be furious about.
These men are in fact criminals. There are precedents for this. I cannot take out a student loan and spend most of it in a casino rather than on books and food. However, a bunch of financial bankers can take OUR money and use it for a 'pseudo-casino'.
The fact that this occurred, was exposed, and yet there has been essentially no consequences for the actions of the few bankers is painful. Clearly, the finance boys have a diamond studded collar around the dogs in the government, and a firm grip on their balls.
Or I'm sorry, there is no negative coercion going on. Consider this is DC men we're talking about, its definitely positive coercion. And by positive coercion i mean that the men and women that are supposed to be representing the interests of the people of the United States and paying off their debts at the expensive of ours.
I'll leave my angry views on campaign finance for another post, but in short, the reason practically nothing gets done in terms of policy is because lobbies pay for elected officials campaigning to get elected. If/when the official gets elected, that money spent on annoying plastic signs and commercials needs to be paid back. Not in money, necessarily, but in favors. Favors, or government backing of certain areas, protection from foreign markets, etc.
Or in the case of said financial sector, we bail them out when they lose it all on the roulette table. Why? look how much money those guys are making--if Goldman Sachs decides to support say....Obama, the amount of other lobbies he needs to ask for campaign financing is very very low.
the problem becomes when Goldman Sachs loses a few hundred billion performing illegal activities.Because then our elected official (in this case Obama) is very strongly obligated to repay Goldman Sachs for the oodles of money he cost them to get elected.
Was there ever a real debate about the bailout for the banks? I strongly doubt it. in fact, i think the 'debates' were just a show to make it seem we were not being swindled.
To make matters even more atrocious, for the second time this year, the US government has avoided a government meltdown at the very last minute.
What seems all too convenient for me, is that the US credit rating is no longer a AAA rating. Even with the debt ceiling increased, its no longer AAA. its not in a BAD rating, but its not the flawless rating we've had since, practically, our formation. These potential 'meltdowns' our government keeps having has been weakening the credit rating and thereby making our financial assets not a guaranteed solid investment. THe flip side of that coin is that if one trades them on the, oh i dunno, financial market that Goldman Sachs (among others) got in trouble with in 2008, they essentially become more valuable. mainly more valuable in that they are more risky, therefore the spreads are larger, and therefore, there is more money to be made.
Which according to a report by Keiser Report (financial publication), thats exactly what theyve been doing.
For me, it seems pretty obvious that the government is tossing more than just a bone to the financial market. Its beginning to look like they're tossing them the entire roast. Our roast. I'm alright if politicians want to pay their debts. But when they start paying their debts and making them a priority over ours, i think there should be some serious consequences.
It astounds me that the title of our politicians is still technically 'civil servant'. In my opinion, 'civil servants' should be like they were throughout the rest of history. You get paid to compensate for participating in government (but not the highest wage, nor the lowest), and you are a SERVANT or the people. A representative. Neither of those titles can afford half the things a politician makes.Nor should they.
ARGH.Lets just vote them all out, make campaign finance limits, and start fixing whats wrong with this country.
Thats my rant. If you bitch enough or provide a good enough argument i'll give you evidence to back my harsh words above.
Call this the last straw for me. If i can find a way to get even ONE more of these to answer for this catastrophe i'll consider my life to have fulfilled something great.
For now, my next goal is simple. Have the words 'Masters in Finance Law" printed (among others) on my final degree.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
NEW SERIES: THE LOST ENTRIES vol.1
MONTHS after the last post, I realized that i once again have that special kind of time on my hands, where its enough to do something in my interest, yet too late at night to do anything fun (and too early in the week to drink- boo). So I decided rather than write completely new material, i would dig through the ol' documents folder, and edit up some of the pieces from my Wellington adventures that never made it up here. There aren't that many, but there are enough to make it look like im still active on this thing. Therefore, Enjoy the first of these little reflections
MIDDLE EAST IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC
Walking down a street running parallel to the drunkard highway of Wellington, I found myself still holding my gaze toward the skyline, reading every sign for every restaurant, shop, and stall that stood along the line. Eventually I read a single word that I immediately recognized as foreign to the English language, and yet familiar to me. ‘Habebie’ shone out in red lettering on a white background, and flanked by the signature green tree of Lebanon. With my vast knowledge of Arabic- an entire semester!- I felt it would be kind of me to venture into the quaint eatery, and at least deliver the casual, ‘marhaba’ to it’s kind owner.
Little did I know that this would be the first of my encounters involving insider deals based on foundational foreign language vocabulary. After my probably butchered Arabic greeting, the man behind the front desk began to entreat my friendly approach by responding in a slower-paced Arabic. Of course, I had no idea what he was saying and had to inform him that English- tragically- would be far more productive mode of communication.
Nassar, one of the co-owners of Habebie, began to inquire as to how I knew Arabic. A brief reply soon gave way to an incredible dialogue of exchanged histories. After I explained how I got to the lovely city of Wellington, I politely asked him of his journey to the remote island country.
With the glorious sounds of sizzling oil and heating consumables emanating from the kitchen, Nasser began to tell me how his brother had asked him to help him with his restaurant venture in New Zealand’s capital city. From Lebanon he moved to the other side of the world in search of a life away from the complexities and conflict in the Middle East. His epic of hard work and travel soon gave way to the terrible realization of immigration reality. New Zealand, Nasser admitted, was a beautiful place. But the country was small, ‘you begin to know everyone. It’s just like a really big village. Its too small.’
As if on queue with the smells wafting from the kitchen, Nasser slowly transitioned into a sentimental nostalgic monologue of how he truly missed his homeland- how he wished he could return to his beautiful home, but was unable to because he just couldn’t make enough money at this restaurant.
This speech was not just some little pleasantry I got to experience. This was a reality check for myself, and my current situation. I had been filing my head for years with ideas that New Zealand was the ultimate goal, the finish line, where I belonged. But would I also, in finally deciding to come here and start a life, be trapped within its sapphire borders, forever struggling to return to what I realized all to late was my home?
Before I could entertain the thoughts for any real amount of time, Nasser asked me, without any reserve, ‘So are you going to eat anything or what?’
Sadly, I had already indulged in a dinner at a semi-commercial Thai joint up the road on Cuba. I told him simply that I would come back the next day, roughly the same time, and he could cook anything for me- the most exotic, his favorite, something no one ever ordered, whatever he felt like making- and I would eat it gladly, and pay for it. He agreed to these terms, we made a brief farewell and I departed to the local ‘watering hole’ for the evening.
Skipping to the next day, I walked in, the place a bustling mess of restaurant chaos- a thing of beauty, something akin to the many moving parts of a machine; a storm of seemingly disorderly pieces that all collaborate toward a single goal. I stood a good twenty feet away form the front desk, beginning to believe that maybe tonight was not the best night to have Nasser prepare me a personal meal of a yet undetermined size. My doubts were cast like dust as soon as Nasser noticed me. His brow was damp, and he had the fatigued face of a chef that hasn’t quite yet hit the ‘runner’s high’ of a busy night. Despite this state, he turned to the head waiter, said a few inaudible words, and then pointed me to the small two-seater table by the window. It was reserved for me.
The waiter, also Lebanese, told me it would be a few minutes but the food would be out in good time. I exclaimed as best I could that he could take his time- the fact that he remembered and reserved a table for our deal was more than enough courtesy. In the meantime, I pulled out my notebook and began scrawling a few notes down (as you do) when one is overwhelmed.
Before I could retreat into my inner thoughts for too long, the food was placed before me. I must have said something right, for the service was at a level beyond what I thought I deserved. Within twenty minutes of my seating I had before me a feast of both the foreign and the familiar.
Upon the porcelain vessel rested a collage of meats= chicken, beef, and lamb. They were each spiced to perfection, varying only slightly between their respective flavors and all carrying their distinct flavors as well as a slight bit of spice that gave it a pleasurable heat, but didn’t interfere with the overall flavor of the meal.
Bordering the mound of protein was a mountain of rice, and a crater of hummus filled with a lake of olive oil. With a basket of flatbread all to myself I made quick work of the hummus, and left the rice to be a delicious partner for the meats. In the corner rested a festive looking green and red, ‘salad’ of perceivably tomato and parsley. Later I learned this was called Tabouleh, and to me, this was a culinary masterpiece.
It was parsley, and tomato, and some other seasonings and spices. One could pick out the distinct taste of parsley in the dish. Let’s be real on this; parsley is NOT that great to eat. The taste, when combined with other herbs/spices can be used for good. If it is left on its own, however, the best use of parsley is already filled by its (in my opinion highly likely) not-so-distant cousin, cyanide. Somehow, the inventor of this dish- as well as anyone who makes it- has found a way to use this bitter-ass herb to flaunt their skill. In making Tabouleh, the chef essentially says to their diner, ‘I’m going to serve you one of the most awful plants on the face of this earth, enable you to taste it and recognize the terrible herb, but will then make you enjoy it and possibly want more.
Needless to say, I was impressed- thoroughly.
As if it weren’t enough, I still had a meatball-esque sausage dish in the corner. Imagine meatloaf that had the same wonderful, exploding flavor of spicy Italian sausage, and rolled into meatballs. You now have a general idea of what I tasted. Add that to all of the above (and a glass of CabSauv), and you’re on your way to the essential Habebie experience.
My devastated plates were removed, the water refilled, and soon after the check was placed before me. I thought to myself, ‘don’t bother looking at the bill- its worth anything he might charge.’ But, of course, being raised by a once-financial consultant, my conscience couldn’t bare blindly signing a bill.
It was enough already. Meeting Nasser, and having him tell me his life story would have been enough to make this experience unforgettable. But then he remembered our deal, then he reserved a table for me, then he cooked the amazing meal despite the bustle of his restaurant obligations. Looking at the check, I knew I found someone I would remember forever. Forty percent of my final bill was removed. There are no words. There is just a lifted wine glass, mentally or physically, every time I see well-made tabouleh, taste homemade hummus, or encounter the Lebanese culture.
Strangely, I also think of Nasser and the Habebie restaurant anytime I think of New Zealand. In all of its beauty, through mountains, blue waters, clean air, amazing views, New Zealand can apparently still be an inescapable land where (just like in the US) grand dreams can fall to mediocre and disillusioned pieces. The way I found myself coping with this devil’s-advocate-illustration toward my own desires of immigrating was strangely defeatist. I still believe that nothing but good could come of my permanent stay, and if I felt some tinge of regret at the loss of mobility, at least I would be trapped- not in some undesirable, jaded land- but in a land of exquisite beauty.
Being trapped in paradise; shielded form the serious troubles of the world, left only to enjoy the best things in life, and yet in exchange doomed to sacrifice ties to the past and the old country- New Zealand is beginning to sound like an Asimov novel…
MIDDLE EAST IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC
Walking down a street running parallel to the drunkard highway of Wellington, I found myself still holding my gaze toward the skyline, reading every sign for every restaurant, shop, and stall that stood along the line. Eventually I read a single word that I immediately recognized as foreign to the English language, and yet familiar to me. ‘Habebie’ shone out in red lettering on a white background, and flanked by the signature green tree of Lebanon. With my vast knowledge of Arabic- an entire semester!- I felt it would be kind of me to venture into the quaint eatery, and at least deliver the casual, ‘marhaba’ to it’s kind owner.
Little did I know that this would be the first of my encounters involving insider deals based on foundational foreign language vocabulary. After my probably butchered Arabic greeting, the man behind the front desk began to entreat my friendly approach by responding in a slower-paced Arabic. Of course, I had no idea what he was saying and had to inform him that English- tragically- would be far more productive mode of communication.
Nassar, one of the co-owners of Habebie, began to inquire as to how I knew Arabic. A brief reply soon gave way to an incredible dialogue of exchanged histories. After I explained how I got to the lovely city of Wellington, I politely asked him of his journey to the remote island country.
With the glorious sounds of sizzling oil and heating consumables emanating from the kitchen, Nasser began to tell me how his brother had asked him to help him with his restaurant venture in New Zealand’s capital city. From Lebanon he moved to the other side of the world in search of a life away from the complexities and conflict in the Middle East. His epic of hard work and travel soon gave way to the terrible realization of immigration reality. New Zealand, Nasser admitted, was a beautiful place. But the country was small, ‘you begin to know everyone. It’s just like a really big village. Its too small.’
As if on queue with the smells wafting from the kitchen, Nasser slowly transitioned into a sentimental nostalgic monologue of how he truly missed his homeland- how he wished he could return to his beautiful home, but was unable to because he just couldn’t make enough money at this restaurant.
This speech was not just some little pleasantry I got to experience. This was a reality check for myself, and my current situation. I had been filing my head for years with ideas that New Zealand was the ultimate goal, the finish line, where I belonged. But would I also, in finally deciding to come here and start a life, be trapped within its sapphire borders, forever struggling to return to what I realized all to late was my home?
Before I could entertain the thoughts for any real amount of time, Nasser asked me, without any reserve, ‘So are you going to eat anything or what?’
Sadly, I had already indulged in a dinner at a semi-commercial Thai joint up the road on Cuba. I told him simply that I would come back the next day, roughly the same time, and he could cook anything for me- the most exotic, his favorite, something no one ever ordered, whatever he felt like making- and I would eat it gladly, and pay for it. He agreed to these terms, we made a brief farewell and I departed to the local ‘watering hole’ for the evening.
Skipping to the next day, I walked in, the place a bustling mess of restaurant chaos- a thing of beauty, something akin to the many moving parts of a machine; a storm of seemingly disorderly pieces that all collaborate toward a single goal. I stood a good twenty feet away form the front desk, beginning to believe that maybe tonight was not the best night to have Nasser prepare me a personal meal of a yet undetermined size. My doubts were cast like dust as soon as Nasser noticed me. His brow was damp, and he had the fatigued face of a chef that hasn’t quite yet hit the ‘runner’s high’ of a busy night. Despite this state, he turned to the head waiter, said a few inaudible words, and then pointed me to the small two-seater table by the window. It was reserved for me.
The waiter, also Lebanese, told me it would be a few minutes but the food would be out in good time. I exclaimed as best I could that he could take his time- the fact that he remembered and reserved a table for our deal was more than enough courtesy. In the meantime, I pulled out my notebook and began scrawling a few notes down (as you do) when one is overwhelmed.
Before I could retreat into my inner thoughts for too long, the food was placed before me. I must have said something right, for the service was at a level beyond what I thought I deserved. Within twenty minutes of my seating I had before me a feast of both the foreign and the familiar.
Upon the porcelain vessel rested a collage of meats= chicken, beef, and lamb. They were each spiced to perfection, varying only slightly between their respective flavors and all carrying their distinct flavors as well as a slight bit of spice that gave it a pleasurable heat, but didn’t interfere with the overall flavor of the meal.
Bordering the mound of protein was a mountain of rice, and a crater of hummus filled with a lake of olive oil. With a basket of flatbread all to myself I made quick work of the hummus, and left the rice to be a delicious partner for the meats. In the corner rested a festive looking green and red, ‘salad’ of perceivably tomato and parsley. Later I learned this was called Tabouleh, and to me, this was a culinary masterpiece.
It was parsley, and tomato, and some other seasonings and spices. One could pick out the distinct taste of parsley in the dish. Let’s be real on this; parsley is NOT that great to eat. The taste, when combined with other herbs/spices can be used for good. If it is left on its own, however, the best use of parsley is already filled by its (in my opinion highly likely) not-so-distant cousin, cyanide. Somehow, the inventor of this dish- as well as anyone who makes it- has found a way to use this bitter-ass herb to flaunt their skill. In making Tabouleh, the chef essentially says to their diner, ‘I’m going to serve you one of the most awful plants on the face of this earth, enable you to taste it and recognize the terrible herb, but will then make you enjoy it and possibly want more.
Needless to say, I was impressed- thoroughly.
As if it weren’t enough, I still had a meatball-esque sausage dish in the corner. Imagine meatloaf that had the same wonderful, exploding flavor of spicy Italian sausage, and rolled into meatballs. You now have a general idea of what I tasted. Add that to all of the above (and a glass of CabSauv), and you’re on your way to the essential Habebie experience.
My devastated plates were removed, the water refilled, and soon after the check was placed before me. I thought to myself, ‘don’t bother looking at the bill- its worth anything he might charge.’ But, of course, being raised by a once-financial consultant, my conscience couldn’t bare blindly signing a bill.
It was enough already. Meeting Nasser, and having him tell me his life story would have been enough to make this experience unforgettable. But then he remembered our deal, then he reserved a table for me, then he cooked the amazing meal despite the bustle of his restaurant obligations. Looking at the check, I knew I found someone I would remember forever. Forty percent of my final bill was removed. There are no words. There is just a lifted wine glass, mentally or physically, every time I see well-made tabouleh, taste homemade hummus, or encounter the Lebanese culture.
Strangely, I also think of Nasser and the Habebie restaurant anytime I think of New Zealand. In all of its beauty, through mountains, blue waters, clean air, amazing views, New Zealand can apparently still be an inescapable land where (just like in the US) grand dreams can fall to mediocre and disillusioned pieces. The way I found myself coping with this devil’s-advocate-illustration toward my own desires of immigrating was strangely defeatist. I still believe that nothing but good could come of my permanent stay, and if I felt some tinge of regret at the loss of mobility, at least I would be trapped- not in some undesirable, jaded land- but in a land of exquisite beauty.
Being trapped in paradise; shielded form the serious troubles of the world, left only to enjoy the best things in life, and yet in exchange doomed to sacrifice ties to the past and the old country- New Zealand is beginning to sound like an Asimov novel…
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Gastronomic Poetry
It was now Tuesday. I’m not fully convinced on what it was that did it. It may have been that I watched the Brad Pitt special of Oprah the day before (conceding to a brand of American television and culture that I try not to think about on a daily basis), or if it was the need to actually know how much money I owed the credit card company. Shame and financial worry aside, I somehow rolled my lazy ass out of my wonderfully comfortable bed and down the steep hills to downtown Wellington once again.
By the time I neared the library, laptop in hand, I was feeling pretty good about my decision. I had forgotten about Brad’s home life, and was looking forward to checking up on things back home as well as conducting a little bit of business for my return. I grabbed the usual obnoxiously large International Law book that I always intended to read more of, and signed into the Internet, immediately rendering any intentions of furthering my self-attained law knowledge a thing of the past.
While the once painfully expensive book gained dust behind the screen, I began to feel bits of hunger coming on. Nearly six o’clock and all I’d eaten all day was my routine breakfast of European-style bread with Brie. I let the taste buds wander in thought as to what they desired most in this culinary paradise; Irish food needed a break, Korean was done, Indian was eaten the last visit. I considered the Lebanese restaurant again when it suddenly flashed back to my memory. Yes! Down on the corner near the top of pedestrian Cuba Street; a modest looking French bistro. That settled it. I may have been conversing with friends 16,000 miles away, but there is no time for shenanigans; this man is hungry.
A short walk away and I’m greeted by a French-speaking maître de inside Le Metropolitain. Promptly seated, I’m given a drink menu. I thought to myself, I’ve been fiscally responsible lately, I believe a little binge on “class” is in order. I saw an unfamiliar drink at the top of the “aperitifs” section and felt obligated to order it. The Rinquinequine was delivered with bread and olive oil in tow. It was described in the menu as a the “perfect drink to start off a meal.” The only item I would add would be the words “during summer.” It maintained the personality of a light white wine, but contained a timid peach taste that really seemed perfect for a summer meal eaten on a warm sunny day. Served over ice, it really was the perfect afore-meal indulgence.
After I came to the conclusion that the lemon peel in the drink was just for show, I ordered the braised lamb as the main course. I’m in New Zealand. I feel it would be wrong not to try lamb at least once on the trip (or twice for those actually keeping count). The lamb shank arrived, beautifully displayed, among carrots and potatoes, sitting in a paper-thin pool of dark brown sauce. The sauce itself was ever so slightly sweet, not overpowering the taste of the lamb, but complimenting it perfectly: adding flavor, yet keeping the lamb’s inimitable taste the main event on the plate. It was prepared flawlessly- cooked the whole way through yet juicy and tender enough to cut with a fork (even if cutting is actually mashing).
The accompaniments to the generous portion of meat were equally enjoyable. The seasoned baby potatoes were a perfect side with the sauce, the carrots were cooked, yet maintained the perfect amount of crunch. Two cloves of roasted garlic also sat among the vegetables. I must have had it written on my face my philosophy that garlic is something of which there can never be too much. However, after sampling all the parts of the meal, I had no use for it. Everything was perfect the way it had been prepared.
I still had room after the main plate, and my “class” binge could still go on. Tort de jour it was. A plum tort with French vanilla ice cream on the side was to be the finale of the meal. A work of art was placed before me. A yellow cake with a reserved amount of a deep purple filling and topped with chopped almonds, flanked by a lone scoop of ice cream, sitting among a river of plum sauce, all lightly dusted with powdered sugar. After the first bite, I was completely content paying a lot for this meal. Hell, I would have paid at least fifteen bucks just for the dessert alone! The buttery tort was so moist it nearly melted in the mouth, and the plum filling was brilliantly sweet, but tasted wholly natural, adding a pang of guiltlessness to the undeniably diet-crushing dessert.
I left the defeated dessert along with the paid check sitting on the mahogany table, and headed home. I was the perfect kind of full and couldn’t help reminiscing over the event that had just occurred. A meal of such proportions isn’t just a meal, after all, and its not just due to the food-It’s everything in the restaurant. It was the maitre de asking me, “how many?” in French, it was the glass walls overlooking the streets, it was the close proximity seating, and it was the dining room that proclaimed loudly, “Yes, I am inadequate to suite large groups of evening guests, but this is all I need.” Because what that says to me is, what I have to serve you is well worth the wait and the little inconveniences.
If you were to ask me why French cuisine is my favorite to cook, or why it is one of the few I will consistently enjoy at a slow pace, my answer will mirror some of their most phenomenal dishes. I heard it said once that the Scottish eat to live, and the French live to eat. If a culture can find a sure-fire, flawless way to make something taste inconceivably delicious from less than five simple ingredients, ingredients that can be found in virtually any kitchen at any time, they are most assuredly masters of the art. I give the French a lot of shit, and on a fairly consistent basis, but I am near the point where I may take offense if you insult their cooking. Credit is given to the Italians for their renaissance art; the Greeks, basic philosophy and mathematics. So why not give credit where it is undoubtedly due?
To the French, I salute you. Because, lets be honest, god-dammit, you know what you’re doing in the kitchen, and I cant think of many things more respectable and honorable than that. A votre santé les recettes Francais, a votre santé.
By the time I neared the library, laptop in hand, I was feeling pretty good about my decision. I had forgotten about Brad’s home life, and was looking forward to checking up on things back home as well as conducting a little bit of business for my return. I grabbed the usual obnoxiously large International Law book that I always intended to read more of, and signed into the Internet, immediately rendering any intentions of furthering my self-attained law knowledge a thing of the past.
While the once painfully expensive book gained dust behind the screen, I began to feel bits of hunger coming on. Nearly six o’clock and all I’d eaten all day was my routine breakfast of European-style bread with Brie. I let the taste buds wander in thought as to what they desired most in this culinary paradise; Irish food needed a break, Korean was done, Indian was eaten the last visit. I considered the Lebanese restaurant again when it suddenly flashed back to my memory. Yes! Down on the corner near the top of pedestrian Cuba Street; a modest looking French bistro. That settled it. I may have been conversing with friends 16,000 miles away, but there is no time for shenanigans; this man is hungry.
A short walk away and I’m greeted by a French-speaking maître de inside Le Metropolitain. Promptly seated, I’m given a drink menu. I thought to myself, I’ve been fiscally responsible lately, I believe a little binge on “class” is in order. I saw an unfamiliar drink at the top of the “aperitifs” section and felt obligated to order it. The Rinquinequine was delivered with bread and olive oil in tow. It was described in the menu as a the “perfect drink to start off a meal.” The only item I would add would be the words “during summer.” It maintained the personality of a light white wine, but contained a timid peach taste that really seemed perfect for a summer meal eaten on a warm sunny day. Served over ice, it really was the perfect afore-meal indulgence.
After I came to the conclusion that the lemon peel in the drink was just for show, I ordered the braised lamb as the main course. I’m in New Zealand. I feel it would be wrong not to try lamb at least once on the trip (or twice for those actually keeping count). The lamb shank arrived, beautifully displayed, among carrots and potatoes, sitting in a paper-thin pool of dark brown sauce. The sauce itself was ever so slightly sweet, not overpowering the taste of the lamb, but complimenting it perfectly: adding flavor, yet keeping the lamb’s inimitable taste the main event on the plate. It was prepared flawlessly- cooked the whole way through yet juicy and tender enough to cut with a fork (even if cutting is actually mashing).
The accompaniments to the generous portion of meat were equally enjoyable. The seasoned baby potatoes were a perfect side with the sauce, the carrots were cooked, yet maintained the perfect amount of crunch. Two cloves of roasted garlic also sat among the vegetables. I must have had it written on my face my philosophy that garlic is something of which there can never be too much. However, after sampling all the parts of the meal, I had no use for it. Everything was perfect the way it had been prepared.
I still had room after the main plate, and my “class” binge could still go on. Tort de jour it was. A plum tort with French vanilla ice cream on the side was to be the finale of the meal. A work of art was placed before me. A yellow cake with a reserved amount of a deep purple filling and topped with chopped almonds, flanked by a lone scoop of ice cream, sitting among a river of plum sauce, all lightly dusted with powdered sugar. After the first bite, I was completely content paying a lot for this meal. Hell, I would have paid at least fifteen bucks just for the dessert alone! The buttery tort was so moist it nearly melted in the mouth, and the plum filling was brilliantly sweet, but tasted wholly natural, adding a pang of guiltlessness to the undeniably diet-crushing dessert.
I left the defeated dessert along with the paid check sitting on the mahogany table, and headed home. I was the perfect kind of full and couldn’t help reminiscing over the event that had just occurred. A meal of such proportions isn’t just a meal, after all, and its not just due to the food-It’s everything in the restaurant. It was the maitre de asking me, “how many?” in French, it was the glass walls overlooking the streets, it was the close proximity seating, and it was the dining room that proclaimed loudly, “Yes, I am inadequate to suite large groups of evening guests, but this is all I need.” Because what that says to me is, what I have to serve you is well worth the wait and the little inconveniences.
If you were to ask me why French cuisine is my favorite to cook, or why it is one of the few I will consistently enjoy at a slow pace, my answer will mirror some of their most phenomenal dishes. I heard it said once that the Scottish eat to live, and the French live to eat. If a culture can find a sure-fire, flawless way to make something taste inconceivably delicious from less than five simple ingredients, ingredients that can be found in virtually any kitchen at any time, they are most assuredly masters of the art. I give the French a lot of shit, and on a fairly consistent basis, but I am near the point where I may take offense if you insult their cooking. Credit is given to the Italians for their renaissance art; the Greeks, basic philosophy and mathematics. So why not give credit where it is undoubtedly due?
To the French, I salute you. Because, lets be honest, god-dammit, you know what you’re doing in the kitchen, and I cant think of many things more respectable and honorable than that. A votre santé les recettes Francais, a votre santé.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
A Welcome Return
This should have been posted two days ago. No internet
It’s finally here. After two years of waiting, labor, and pining, I’ve made my imminent return to the capital of New Zealand: Wellington. As the plane began its descent the surrounding mountains and crystal waters began to refinish and restore the mental image I had kept stored in my mind for so long, too long. Just like a carpenter to an antique table, the perfect flawless image was whole and beautiful once again, no longer handicapped by the jading effects of photographs. Everything looked just how I had left it. But how did I leave it, really?
My previous visit left me a menial two days of life in the kiwi capital, so really, how much was there for me to remember? I remembered the views, of course; the museum, Nomad’s Capital hostel, the “movie-trailer” experience I had of Cuba Street, as well as the ferry. That’s about it. As the wonderfully friendly shuttle driver made his way to the hostel, I truly began to realize that I had no idea who this mysterious Wellington really was. Suddenly, I was stricken with a quick burst of nervousness. Where was I? My god, this place IS actually foreign to me!
This changed everything. My original plan had been to spend a day in Wellington to get acclimated to the time difference, then trek a quick and recklessly planned path stretching 260 miles toward the town of Rotorua. It would have been a fantastic tribute to Christopher McCandless (a personal role model of mine), as well as been fairly humbling (side effects including significant weight loss and wanting to eat every little thing that breathes). Philosophical revelations aside, I began to entertain the idea that I should begin an immediate affair with this unknown city to which I had previously pronounced my love. What did I miss? What am I missing now? What could I have done that I was too naively touristy to do? Anthony Bourdain forgive me!
I’m now worried, self-conscious of my life’s travel track record, and ashamed of my cautious 18 year old, inexperienced choices. What else is there to do but to throw back a few of the Old Reliable? Definition: Guinness draught. I roughly recalled a fun Irish pub on Cuba Street, and made my way through the breezy streets, quite proud of my recollection of the city layout after two years time. The brick walkway appeared, and I knew I was in the right. Suddenly the sounds of the Pogues/Dubliners collaboration single “The Irish Rover” flowed gently to my ears. “Every little memory has a song,” sang Ted Leo, and this memory was of good friends, good times, and home. God bless the Irish culture.
The floorboards creaked under my feet, confirming the pub as a legitimate Irish product. “A Guinness, please,” I say to the barkeep.
“Sorry, no Guinness here.”
Legitimate? Perhaps I spoke too soon.
“An Irish pub with no Guinness? What is this?”
After a brief explanation I was informed that the manager didn’t believe in sporting Guinness that was made in New Zealand, it wasn’t fair. It was like lying to the customer, he preached. Brawn be gone-That is a man among men! So Murphy’s Stout, he said, “is made in New Zealand and its like Guinness, its also cheaper.” I appreciate a man looking after my wallet, and so I obliged.
Murphy’s Irish stout, what is there to say? Looks like Guinness, smells like Guinness, therefore must be Guinness right? I won’t play anyone, nor can I lie about it due to my drinking history starting on Ireland’s pride. One can definitely tell Murphy’s is not Guinness, but being $1.50 cheaper per pint, I was strangely alright with it. Murphy’s still gave me the thick, filling, homey taste of Guinness that makes one feel like you just finished a meal. I seemed to have found a fine replacement, at least while in New Zealand.
As I’m enjoying my new Irish friend in a glass, the bartender inquires if I will be playing poker. A brief exchange, and I can’t refuse the offer. Buy a beer get $250 worth of poker credit, $1000 credit gets you $1000 in chips, play until you’re out, no real money gambled. I decided to give the game another go, even though the last time I took part in a friendly poker game my inner card shark seemed to be off devouring some helpless white trash beach bum to the sounds of John Williams.
When you’re hungry, you tend to not think as clearly, and since intense cards, breeds intense appetite, I was pretty much destined to make a fool of myself. Irish pub? Shepherds pie is the hunger medicine of choice. After a few bites into the delicious classic I heard a fellow player say, “you’re up Shepherd.” Problem#1- I actually responded to him. Problem #2- sixteen hours into my five month stay in New Zealand and already I am, once again, being affiliated with the wool-laden mammals. Not just by my friends anymore, but by strangers, New Zealand strangers at that. Being half Scottish and obsessed with the little country down under, one can imagine, and expect, the sheep jokes that arise. But come on, give me a chance to escape, just for while? Please??
Regardless of bestiality jokes, I redeemed myself by placing 5th in the National Pub Poker League preliminaries. Don’t applaud me just yet; it’s not that big of a deal. The word “national” has a way of making things sound big, important, and commendable. In this case, “national” means the inclusion of the entire country, but no one knows about it except for a few pubs in one city. So come the following Monday, I’m off to the big boy tables to prove my worth against the other card playing beer lovers. And thus begins the series of events that eventually snowballs into a chaotic maelstrom of people, places, and even a smidge of drama. Ah, it’s just like home. Only ten times more beautiful, and this time I can actually enjoy my drinks at restaurants.
Let the journey commence
It’s finally here. After two years of waiting, labor, and pining, I’ve made my imminent return to the capital of New Zealand: Wellington. As the plane began its descent the surrounding mountains and crystal waters began to refinish and restore the mental image I had kept stored in my mind for so long, too long. Just like a carpenter to an antique table, the perfect flawless image was whole and beautiful once again, no longer handicapped by the jading effects of photographs. Everything looked just how I had left it. But how did I leave it, really?
My previous visit left me a menial two days of life in the kiwi capital, so really, how much was there for me to remember? I remembered the views, of course; the museum, Nomad’s Capital hostel, the “movie-trailer” experience I had of Cuba Street, as well as the ferry. That’s about it. As the wonderfully friendly shuttle driver made his way to the hostel, I truly began to realize that I had no idea who this mysterious Wellington really was. Suddenly, I was stricken with a quick burst of nervousness. Where was I? My god, this place IS actually foreign to me!
This changed everything. My original plan had been to spend a day in Wellington to get acclimated to the time difference, then trek a quick and recklessly planned path stretching 260 miles toward the town of Rotorua. It would have been a fantastic tribute to Christopher McCandless (a personal role model of mine), as well as been fairly humbling (side effects including significant weight loss and wanting to eat every little thing that breathes). Philosophical revelations aside, I began to entertain the idea that I should begin an immediate affair with this unknown city to which I had previously pronounced my love. What did I miss? What am I missing now? What could I have done that I was too naively touristy to do? Anthony Bourdain forgive me!
I’m now worried, self-conscious of my life’s travel track record, and ashamed of my cautious 18 year old, inexperienced choices. What else is there to do but to throw back a few of the Old Reliable? Definition: Guinness draught. I roughly recalled a fun Irish pub on Cuba Street, and made my way through the breezy streets, quite proud of my recollection of the city layout after two years time. The brick walkway appeared, and I knew I was in the right. Suddenly the sounds of the Pogues/Dubliners collaboration single “The Irish Rover” flowed gently to my ears. “Every little memory has a song,” sang Ted Leo, and this memory was of good friends, good times, and home. God bless the Irish culture.
The floorboards creaked under my feet, confirming the pub as a legitimate Irish product. “A Guinness, please,” I say to the barkeep.
“Sorry, no Guinness here.”
Legitimate? Perhaps I spoke too soon.
“An Irish pub with no Guinness? What is this?”
After a brief explanation I was informed that the manager didn’t believe in sporting Guinness that was made in New Zealand, it wasn’t fair. It was like lying to the customer, he preached. Brawn be gone-That is a man among men! So Murphy’s Stout, he said, “is made in New Zealand and its like Guinness, its also cheaper.” I appreciate a man looking after my wallet, and so I obliged.
Murphy’s Irish stout, what is there to say? Looks like Guinness, smells like Guinness, therefore must be Guinness right? I won’t play anyone, nor can I lie about it due to my drinking history starting on Ireland’s pride. One can definitely tell Murphy’s is not Guinness, but being $1.50 cheaper per pint, I was strangely alright with it. Murphy’s still gave me the thick, filling, homey taste of Guinness that makes one feel like you just finished a meal. I seemed to have found a fine replacement, at least while in New Zealand.
As I’m enjoying my new Irish friend in a glass, the bartender inquires if I will be playing poker. A brief exchange, and I can’t refuse the offer. Buy a beer get $250 worth of poker credit, $1000 credit gets you $1000 in chips, play until you’re out, no real money gambled. I decided to give the game another go, even though the last time I took part in a friendly poker game my inner card shark seemed to be off devouring some helpless white trash beach bum to the sounds of John Williams.
When you’re hungry, you tend to not think as clearly, and since intense cards, breeds intense appetite, I was pretty much destined to make a fool of myself. Irish pub? Shepherds pie is the hunger medicine of choice. After a few bites into the delicious classic I heard a fellow player say, “you’re up Shepherd.” Problem#1- I actually responded to him. Problem #2- sixteen hours into my five month stay in New Zealand and already I am, once again, being affiliated with the wool-laden mammals. Not just by my friends anymore, but by strangers, New Zealand strangers at that. Being half Scottish and obsessed with the little country down under, one can imagine, and expect, the sheep jokes that arise. But come on, give me a chance to escape, just for while? Please??
Regardless of bestiality jokes, I redeemed myself by placing 5th in the National Pub Poker League preliminaries. Don’t applaud me just yet; it’s not that big of a deal. The word “national” has a way of making things sound big, important, and commendable. In this case, “national” means the inclusion of the entire country, but no one knows about it except for a few pubs in one city. So come the following Monday, I’m off to the big boy tables to prove my worth against the other card playing beer lovers. And thus begins the series of events that eventually snowballs into a chaotic maelstrom of people, places, and even a smidge of drama. Ah, it’s just like home. Only ten times more beautiful, and this time I can actually enjoy my drinks at restaurants.
Let the journey commence
Monday, January 19, 2009
All the Hype Your Money Can Buy
Okay, lets get straight to it. There is a significant amount of hubub going on in the DC area, and with good purpose. There's a lot of big, historic change going on in the management department which is, needless to say, worth giving at least a few moments of one's attention. I truly believe this. People who don't plan on watching at least Mr. Obama's speech on the 20th (because of political reasons), I desire only to say, stop moping and get on with life. There are two things that I believe are our civic duty as self-respecting Americans: Listen to the President (Google definition: "to hear with intention." Therefore, hear what he says, not particularly DO what he says), and Support our soldiers abroad (if anything like the reaction to the soldiers after Vietnam occurs again I may have to disown the American public).
Digressing beliefs aside, there is something that is rubbing me wrong about DC right now. Not DC as much as the people that will be there tomorrow. Let me repeat myself, this year's inauguration is a significant historical event. This does not however give an excuse for some Americans to lose their minds and behave out of hand. I'm not talking about some frat bros painting their bodies, and spelling out O-B-A-M-A on a range of pasty white bodies. I may let that pass. What I'm referring to, is people who are too caught up in the hype to realize that, just like 90% of people who claim to be Decemberists fans, a powerful, nearly invisible force has hidden the tiny man behind a thick curtian.
That powerful force is the media; and the curtain, the hype. No one can deny that the media has an incredible amount of power today, especially in the US. I'm not condemning the media for what it does or what it leaves out, though I will admit, I used to lean very strongly in that direction. I will make the claim that media is biased, and that saying otherwise is naiive and a sign of ignorance. Pulling the aid of Google again, BIAS is defined as, "a partiality that prevents objective consideration of an issue or situation." Omniscience would be the only way the media could be unbiased; to be able to cover every single tiny particle of an event. This is, of course, impossible. The partialities that hinder truth, are even (will he say it) occasionally intentional. Controversial, I know, but lets be honest- Fox News network is very Conservative affiliated, and the New York Times is so Left it could almost be considered "sinister" (props to you scholars who got that).
But it wasn't just the NYT or Fox that got me angry at the American public's weak state, it was every medium; magazines, radio, commercials. These "trusted" news sources took a man, who is still a man mind you ( no matter how resourceful he is), and made him into something much, much larger. I actually feel genuinely concerned for Mr. Obama. How in the world can a man live up to the lofty expectations that the media claims he will fulfill? And how badly will the American public lambast him if/when he doesn't meet their expectations? I give him my support, and my best wishes, as well as my belief that he could do a lot of good, but I feel very strongly that he will not accomplish much more than half of what he claims, and I know for a fact that many people will not be forgiving of this "failure".
So am I mad at people for getting angry at Obama? Yes. But what else? There are people driving hundreds of miles, for hundreds of hours just so they can be in DC. They will not see Obama in person at all throughout their stay, but they will be there. This is what frustrates me. I have two friends who will be in DC tomorrow watching Obama speak in person. When they said to me, "Josh, we're going to be at the inauguration in DC!" I was happy for them and excited that they got to take part in such an event. However, over the past few weeks, I've heard from numerous people that same phrase, but it means something completely different. It means instead, "we're going to be(in a warm room, watching it on tv) in DC!" Why is this frustrating? You can do that at home. "But why not go the extra length, Josh?" Barack Obama is the president of the United States, and you are the American public who elected him. Barack Obama is NOT (insert favorite movie star or band), and you are NOT his groupies who worship him because its "the thing" or because "politics is hip now."
Though that's a thought. I will give Obama and the media that. Even though the media has built Obama into a half truth (we shall see if he remains half or becomes more or less), they have gotten people into politics again, which is something this country needed. America got a wakeup call when they realized that the government wasn't doing what they wanted it to do. I like to think sometimes that people like myself, who told those who kept bitching to shut up and vote rather than whine, had something to do with it. I'm sure we got a few people to the polls, but I must bow out to the popularity of the Bush administration, as well as the media for the voter turnout. Even though some people across the coutnry are still lining up, buying obscure wines from Lancaster, Pennsylvania (regardless of taste!) for the sole reason that it's what's being served at the party afterwards, I really hope that the greater majority of the people going to DC just to be apart of the group find something more while they're there. Whether it's renewed nationalism, the realization that their vote has power, or if its just a celebration of the departure of Dubya, as long as they find a better reason to be in the Nation's capital than just to say, "I was there," I whole-heartedly respect that.
I will be watching the Inauguration speech tomrrow, and I will be watching Mr. Obama closely because I don't know the commander-in-chief as well as I'd like, and I need to, even if his speeches are written by someone else. If Obama did nothing but improve our International reputation, i'd be satisfied. I'm sick of being stereotyped as a "Bush" American abroad and I think a little reputation boost should be in the perscription. How about good old America that actually solves problems? It's getting old watching Sarkozy act out a diplomatic version of Sisyphus, anyhow. Up goes the diplomatic treaty from Georgia, down it comes with the artillary shells from Russia. He does try so hard. I hope he can cook. The French cuisine is much better than their diplomatic ambitions.
Digressing beliefs aside, there is something that is rubbing me wrong about DC right now. Not DC as much as the people that will be there tomorrow. Let me repeat myself, this year's inauguration is a significant historical event. This does not however give an excuse for some Americans to lose their minds and behave out of hand. I'm not talking about some frat bros painting their bodies, and spelling out O-B-A-M-A on a range of pasty white bodies. I may let that pass. What I'm referring to, is people who are too caught up in the hype to realize that, just like 90% of people who claim to be Decemberists fans, a powerful, nearly invisible force has hidden the tiny man behind a thick curtian.
That powerful force is the media; and the curtain, the hype. No one can deny that the media has an incredible amount of power today, especially in the US. I'm not condemning the media for what it does or what it leaves out, though I will admit, I used to lean very strongly in that direction. I will make the claim that media is biased, and that saying otherwise is naiive and a sign of ignorance. Pulling the aid of Google again, BIAS is defined as, "a partiality that prevents objective consideration of an issue or situation." Omniscience would be the only way the media could be unbiased; to be able to cover every single tiny particle of an event. This is, of course, impossible. The partialities that hinder truth, are even (will he say it) occasionally intentional. Controversial, I know, but lets be honest- Fox News network is very Conservative affiliated, and the New York Times is so Left it could almost be considered "sinister" (props to you scholars who got that).
But it wasn't just the NYT or Fox that got me angry at the American public's weak state, it was every medium; magazines, radio, commercials. These "trusted" news sources took a man, who is still a man mind you ( no matter how resourceful he is), and made him into something much, much larger. I actually feel genuinely concerned for Mr. Obama. How in the world can a man live up to the lofty expectations that the media claims he will fulfill? And how badly will the American public lambast him if/when he doesn't meet their expectations? I give him my support, and my best wishes, as well as my belief that he could do a lot of good, but I feel very strongly that he will not accomplish much more than half of what he claims, and I know for a fact that many people will not be forgiving of this "failure".
So am I mad at people for getting angry at Obama? Yes. But what else? There are people driving hundreds of miles, for hundreds of hours just so they can be in DC. They will not see Obama in person at all throughout their stay, but they will be there. This is what frustrates me. I have two friends who will be in DC tomorrow watching Obama speak in person. When they said to me, "Josh, we're going to be at the inauguration in DC!" I was happy for them and excited that they got to take part in such an event. However, over the past few weeks, I've heard from numerous people that same phrase, but it means something completely different. It means instead, "we're going to be(in a warm room, watching it on tv) in DC!" Why is this frustrating? You can do that at home. "But why not go the extra length, Josh?" Barack Obama is the president of the United States, and you are the American public who elected him. Barack Obama is NOT (insert favorite movie star or band), and you are NOT his groupies who worship him because its "the thing" or because "politics is hip now."
Though that's a thought. I will give Obama and the media that. Even though the media has built Obama into a half truth (we shall see if he remains half or becomes more or less), they have gotten people into politics again, which is something this country needed. America got a wakeup call when they realized that the government wasn't doing what they wanted it to do. I like to think sometimes that people like myself, who told those who kept bitching to shut up and vote rather than whine, had something to do with it. I'm sure we got a few people to the polls, but I must bow out to the popularity of the Bush administration, as well as the media for the voter turnout. Even though some people across the coutnry are still lining up, buying obscure wines from Lancaster, Pennsylvania (regardless of taste!) for the sole reason that it's what's being served at the party afterwards, I really hope that the greater majority of the people going to DC just to be apart of the group find something more while they're there. Whether it's renewed nationalism, the realization that their vote has power, or if its just a celebration of the departure of Dubya, as long as they find a better reason to be in the Nation's capital than just to say, "I was there," I whole-heartedly respect that.
I will be watching the Inauguration speech tomrrow, and I will be watching Mr. Obama closely because I don't know the commander-in-chief as well as I'd like, and I need to, even if his speeches are written by someone else. If Obama did nothing but improve our International reputation, i'd be satisfied. I'm sick of being stereotyped as a "Bush" American abroad and I think a little reputation boost should be in the perscription. How about good old America that actually solves problems? It's getting old watching Sarkozy act out a diplomatic version of Sisyphus, anyhow. Up goes the diplomatic treaty from Georgia, down it comes with the artillary shells from Russia. He does try so hard. I hope he can cook. The French cuisine is much better than their diplomatic ambitions.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Not in the Mood. -er, rather, the "State"
How does one start something of this nature? Putting thoughts into a public realm for, not necessarily the first time, but this time with the intention to commit. By commit, I mean that I may write something every month. I would call that commitment, at least to something as menial as a blog. Heaven forbid I let the lonely old scoundrel who accidentally stumbles onto an out of date blog become terse with my lack of committal!
I'm starting to believe I should stop while I'm ahead, at least for now. The pain medication takes my mind in all different places, and seems to do only so much for the pounding in my jaw. Ironic, considering that I've gotten identical results from drinking a bottle of tequila. Mmm! Nothing like the taste of cheap liquor with a hint of pine from your buddy's coffee table.
I'm starting to believe I should stop while I'm ahead, at least for now. The pain medication takes my mind in all different places, and seems to do only so much for the pounding in my jaw. Ironic, considering that I've gotten identical results from drinking a bottle of tequila. Mmm! Nothing like the taste of cheap liquor with a hint of pine from your buddy's coffee table.
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