Remembrance of Mischiefs Past

In May, I wrote about elitism. Last week, I wrote about my summer experiences with a bunch of privileged kids. With the following blog post, the trilogy will be complete and so will a chapter in my life.

The Sotomayor hearings this summer unfolded along with my summer camp experience with a bunch of privileged kids, who inherited republican genes of their rich parents. The funny thing was that the other mentors who populated the camp alongside me were liberals, who should espouse the E-word (empathy, not elitism) heartily.

Yet, there was no empathy in this summer camp. Probably because I went to a prep school and witnessed the entire power structure from the other side (compelling life experience?), I identified myself more closely with the highschoolers than with my fellow mentors. Thus began my eventful summer–I must vainly admit I was a mediocre mentor and a good friend to many highschoolers–and I tried to be a friend to them. (I was always partial to those who are on a learning curve as it is.)

A hardened veteran of a prep/boarding school, I assumed quite correctly that nothing in their behavior could shock me. Nothing did. Some genius once said the prep schools are where boys become men. If manhood revolves around breaking every single rule, then that saying is accurate. I won’t self-incriminate here by compiling a laundry list of what I (we) did in prep school, let it be duly noted that there were cigarettes taped under drawers, alcohol in cleansed lotion bottles and a bowl inside, now the creative part, a porcelain polar bear. [Some kid converted Meerschaum pipe that had been in his family for generations. Dieu Merci.]

So the bottomline this summer is that I was somewhat shocked to see them in the same spiral trap I was in pre-college years. I quit smoking and drinking a year ago, my belief (and those of my parents) being you have to do it once (or occasionally) while you were young. In the social, social world out there, you need to build tolerance to these substances and empathy to the others using them.

I don’t know how many people from my camp follows this blog (Vainly I will say more than two), but I will break that fourth barrier now, but directly addressing to you. Despite quite stressful obstacles you threw at me, I enjoyed working (and becoming friends) with you. Despite a hectic schedule, my recreational hours were made more complete by you all. There were times I felt overwhelmed and frustrated at all the administrative rigmarole (about which I ranted in my last post), but I knew I enjoyed your presence and you mine too.

I enjoyed helping you guys with your essays and homework. I enjoyed late night guitar renditions, hospital visits (*wink, wink*), 3 a.m. phone-calls and 7 a.m. wake-up calls, but not leftover food in the hallways. Every second was a memory. To say that I will miss someone whom I met eight weeks ago (and didn’t actually know) will be a gross overstatement. Some of you got to really know me, and good for you, but I don’t know your quirks, your personalities and your aspirations; as much as I would love to, there are 370 of you and only one me. Some of you are inspired by me (I am flattered), but you guys inspired me many times more; again, there are 370 of you–so full of angst, vibrancy, and rebelliousness. Oh, sweet old days. You made me feel old.

Life goes on for each and everyone of us, and again I truthfully concede that it is hard for me to remember and miss every single one of you. Yet, needless to say, I will remember this summer.

Thank you. Go on and have wonderful lives. I know I will.

Watching Potter

T for Terrible acting. (5/10)

His world has grown, so have his fans. A review of the latest movie and the latest hype.

I haven’t been to an opening day of a movie in such a long time. In a decision I now regret, I brought a ticket to see Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, just because I can. I went to the theatre like a hour early, and was still like the 30th person in line waiting. Not so bad, you might think, but read on…

Before me in the queue were this bunch of kids–from whose age I can ascertain that they were in their mother’s wombs when the first book came out in 1997. Such popularity of HP books is astounding, but I digress. The thing was that these kids were from some sort of school and their friends kept coming and coming, and taking position in the line (which is less of a line than a melee) before me and the others who were there before. To add insult to injury, their parents were there, and not only did they not say anything to their kids’ disruptive queuing behavior but they themselves skipped the line and took the position beside their kids. That was just distasteful.

Then, the doors opened and my anger cooled off for a few minutes … until the trailers came up. I hated most of them; I kinda enjoyed Hitchcock allusion in Steve Carrell’s Despicable Me but that is it. The biggest claps and cheers from the audience went to the trailer of Twilight sequel and some asinine movie about a man going atop Empire State Building into a fantasy world or something.

Truthfully speaking, the film didn’t really disappoint me. It was a visual experience–something the last five movies (which possible exception of the Philosopher’s Stone) weren’t. Every scene is so meticulously constructed, and so perfectly lit that it is as if I was in an actual theatre. Visual effects have come a long way since the first movie too–Half-Blood Prince was part Gotterdammerung, part L.A. Confidential visually.

Acting, on the other hand, sucked. The greatest of the British theatrical corps cannot compensate the shortcomings of the young cast, who were given silly lines and silly parts. Unnecessary romantic subplot ran through the movie, which did away with far more important storylines. Malfoy was given too much screen time as a malicious lingering creep, but his fixing the vanishing cabinet apparently involves putting one thing after another in it. Inclusion of Aragog pleasantly amazed me, but the entire background of Lord Voldemort’s family and his loveless birth was left out. Bill and Fleur de la Cour were absent, and Fenrir Greyback is reduced to almost a caricature. The detailed information on Horcruxes were also withheld, which means that the last two movies will have a lot of things to explain.

Jim Broadbent was not Horace Slughorn I imagined but his acting was superb. Helena Bonham Carter steals the show as she always does, and the abandoned Great Hall scene reminds me of the Lord of Rings (perhaps another reason to recruit Ian McKellan as Aberfoth Dumbledore). However, the ending was anticlimactic–entirely devoid of emotion. It failed to implant a sense of anticipation or anxiety in me. Half-Blood Prince has no future.

If you haven’t read the books, don’t go to see it. You can get  Stendhal’s syndrome from the visuals, but as a movie adaptation of a book, it sucked. And as a movie? Both the acting and dialogue were hollow, cheesy and irreverent. Despite a stellar supporting cast, grand cinematography and splendid visual offering, it can only get 5/10 from me.

Divorce and Conquer

Morally, legally, politically, and religiously we view marriage as a sacred institution. The right to divorce should equally be celebrated if not cherished. A look inside the failing marriage system.

Time magazine’s recent article extolling marriage as really gnawing me. It gave some insight into the benefits of two-parent ‘ideal’ families over broken homes (but avoiding pressing questions I will outline later) but it began quite charmingly with an anecdote. So here I am, and I am going to open this blog post with an anecdote too.

My grandparents were happily married for nearly 70 years. It was a marriage of love — it was not a marriage with passions, nor one of demands, but rather a marriage of understanding. How did they manage it? Distance. My grandfather spent most of his life at work; firstly a civil servant, then an elected official, and eventually a busy businessman, he was never there to question my grandmother’s judgment or interfere with her decisions. For the last fifty years of their marriage, they slept in different rooms–grandpa toiling until the very morning hours and grandma looking after their every-increasing family. They enjoyed their time together, but they enjoyed their privacy even more. They longed for each other in their time away from each other, and that cemented and kindled their love again and again.

It was an ideal marriage… and how all marriages suppose to be. In our superficial and self-centered world, we quickly ran out of love–even from our closest ones–because we demand it as a panacea for everything. In the age when a mouseclick can satisfy many of our needs, we became a demanding generation. In our selfishness, we forget to pay attention or respect to our partners and more importantly still we oft fail to concede our failures. We remedy our failing marriages with other pleasures, or discretions. We fail to see exit signs or signals that precede them.

Some say divorce is an easy way out. No, in fact, it is the right way out, and the only way out. We lingered around too long after our loves have exhausted. Our failures to see why our marriages have fallen apart is one reason, but the other reason comes from our environment and its mores. Why is every recession coupled with a spike in divorce rates for middle-class and upper-middle class families? Because a bust means they have less joint ownerships to divide; they have less income and less taxes to pay. Marriage has become our haven away from government interference in our lives rather than a testament to our loves.

Thus we became a society unnaturally limited and even motivated by marriage. Every social issue or moral outrage of the age–genealogy and lineage, virility and heterosexuality, financial security, premarital sex and abortion, ad nauseum–was tied to marriage. Currently, the Defense of Marriage Act, legalization of gay marriage, adoption rights, and even taxation are invariably linked to so-called ’sanctity of marriage’.

So let’s review. Marriage as an institution was a relic of hunter-gatherer society. The Greeks and the Romans required no law for marriage or divorce (except between different castes, where it was forbidden). Until the late Middle Ages, marriage, divorce and even adultery were deemed private affairs. ‘Courtly love’, sans marriage, was a guiding literary and poetic adventure. Then along came the Reformation and the Counter-Reformation. In 1545 the Council of Trent declared that a Roman Catholic marriage would be recognized only if the marriage ceremony was officiated by a priest with two witnesses. The days of marriage as an adventure were numbered after that.

Marriage and its far-reaching consequences are ridiculous. The idea that you gave away your freedom (to pursue other love interests, other partners, or just other recreation in general) for a measly signature of a piece of document just because it looks ‘official’ directly contradicts the principles of freedom and right to self-determination we espoused for three centuries. That a priest officiated our marriage should not mean a thing in the eye of law either; he is supposed to be sanctioned by God to perform marriage, so let God–not the state–judge us for our broken promises and broken marriages. If our marriages are ‘legal’ thanks to our religions, why do our divorces need to be affirmed by the state? If holding a man against his will is called ‘kidnapping’ or ‘enslavement’, doesn’t refusal to divorce also counts as such? Aren’t pre-nups just common sense and shouldn’t they be part of common law? And what assumptions are made in deeming two parents bound together in a luckless marriage is better for a child than a single parent?

No one actually answer these questions. They divert the attention away from the flaws of marriage itself to the flaws of divorce. Divorce courts, alimony, paternity suits, broken families etc. are not the results of divorce, but of the failure of marriage. Critics point out that more marriages are failing now because of our failing values. I don’t know about that. Our values, if anything, are shifting; birth control, feminism movement and parenthood outside of marriage–all of which contributed to marriage’s fall from grace–are not what I call ‘failing values’. We have reached a point where we no longer need to tie ourselves to a stronger, more capable person. We evolved thus far from Cro-Magnon hunters-gatherers.

Then how about our children? We were trained by centuries of folklore, literature and motion pictures to think that a stranger cannot be a good parent. From Hansel and Gretel to Parent Trap, we are exposed to this idea without any statistical proof. We came to live by it, but not it is time to grow out of it. Time magazine ended its article by saying that through our failing marriages we are sending a wrong example to our kids, which “is the generation who will be taking care of us when we are old”. Probably that same demanding, self-centered mentality is why some marriages just don’t work.

“To have and to hold” read the Common Prayer. Sometimes, we just need to let it slip.

Boom or Bust in Iran

Iran’s Ahmadinejad once called for a baby boom to double the country’s population to 120 million and ‘defeat’ the west. In the end, baby boom may just be a weapon to topple Iran’s theocracy.

I am not a subscriber to Carlyle’s Great Man theory. Socioeconomic factors–which coincidentally produced these great men–form and shape the great events. And sometimes we don’t even need a great men to helm the birth of a great event.

It is under this light that I view the ongoing struggle in Iran. It is not a battle amongst Khomeni or Moussavi or Ahmadinajed. It is a battle of ideas and concepts greater than these men. It is a battle between theocracy and its oppressed masses. It is a battle catalysted not by the Western media (as they alleged) but by an Iranian baby boom. Yes, you read it here first, a baby boom is going to topple the Iranian theocracy.

Baby Boom. It is a dangerous concept. A boomer is not born political but it usually matures into a highly political one. Consider the United States’ baby boom from the late 1940s to the early 60s. It led not only to social unrest of the 60s and the 70s but also to the stagflation and other economic problems of the 80s.

The youth are dreamers and idealizers. It was only logical that they were at the forefront of Woodstock and anti-Vietnam movements. When they reached an older age, an economy that couldn’t provide enough jobs for them went into a recession. This shockwave left by the post-WWII babyboom was not only felt in the United States but also reflected in the socioeconomic woes of many Western nations from the 60s to the 80s. The ‘68 Student Revolts in Paris and labor unrests in England leading to Thatcher years were a few example of this babyboom.

But Iran today do not mirror post-WWII Europe and America. Its boom is similar to the Romanian one that happened artificially in 1960s. Always known from repressing women, Romanian strongman Nicolae Ceausescu implemented harsh antiabortion measures in 1967. After this infamous decree, the total number of births doubled immediately. From 1966 to 1976, Rumania produced nearly 40% more babies than might otherwise have been expected. In 1972, there were twice as many children in kindergarten as the year before. In 1989, twice as many 22-year-olds were flooding into the labor force. As Ceausescu was unable to create jobs in the late 1980s as rapidly as mothers created babies in the late 1960s, a disenchanted demographic was born. In a communist country where jobs were everything, this spelled the doom for Ceausescu’s regime.

The Islamic Revolution and its misogynist stance in Iran brought forth a similar pattern. The country’s population grew from 35 million in 1979 to 65 million. Population growth peaked at 3.2% in 1986. Now, in a nation where the legal marriage age is nine, and where Islamic doctrine calls for more babies, at least 45% of the population is under 20 and 60% under 30.  (Prophet Mohammed said two things opposing birth control: that he was proud of those who had a large number of children and that he hoped that the number of Muslims would outnumber all other faiths by Doomsday).

Some birth control measures were implemented in the late 80s and 90s, but very little was done to provide education and employment to these boomers. Now, it is too late. The boomers have arrived; in 2007, unemployment was nearly 12%; now it is 20%–a steep rise considering Iran’s economy was free from much ramblings in the financial sector last fall.

In a study conducted in 2000 by a reformist mullah called Mohammad Ali Zam noted that 73% of Iranians (86% of students) did not say their daily prayers. It was a surprising secular turn for a country which had embraced a religious revolt only a generation ago. With these numbers and this modernism in mind, it is not surprising that the most news of the Iranian revolt arrived to us through Twitter and Facebook.

Iran’s theocracy may be able to survive this wave of unrest, but it will not outlive the babyboomers. This is always had to govern a nation this frustrated–especially if the disenchanted are the impressionable youth. But as we anxiously await and observe this dramatic denouement in Iran, we must also gear up for further climaxes in the region.

Approximately 70 percent of Saudis, Iraqis and Afghans are under 30. The Middle East witnessed an enormous babyboom as the oil prices peaked in the 70s. Whereas the mullahs in Iran had succeeded in reining the population growth by the 90s, other countries failed. They now need lebensraum, education, employment and energy resources. As these commodities become scarcer, we face a daunting challenge. We must help them or would risk losing these youth population to radicalism. Hamas, and Hezbollah both won democratic elections thanks to their populist approach directed towards the youth. Should we prevent such outbursts of vox populi? Do we have moral imperative to soften their tone?

By the sheer force of its numbers, the boomers remodel societies as they passed through them. Their effects are unpredictable. In hoping for change, the boomers usually meet their self-fulfilled prophecies. We must hope so in Iran and we must ensure that their hopes and dreams are for the society’s remodeling rather than its shattering.

Present Future in Iran

As punditry flares up and revolution falters in Iran, we look back to look into not forward.

If there is one thing that political scientists and analysts fear, it is unpredictability. It is like a Himalayan mountaineer fearing a blizzard—merely a job hazard. However, since we had tried so hard to present our field as a branch of science (with all these professional looking charts, pies and equilibrium diagrams), we try to predict obstinately in the face of political vicissitudes.

To ‘predict’ the unpredictable, we usually set up tree diagrams and probability charts to see the likelihood and ramifications of an event. We just don’t want to get off-guard. Last weeks’ events in Iran were interpreted thus—with analysts from left, right and centre unfolding the future of the Iranian people and pulling off that old phrase ‘domino effect’ from the dusty shelves.

The scene was highly reminiscent of the collapse of the Soviet Empire twenty years ago. The cataclysmic event was so unexpected that the political scientists had to resort to analyzing predictions of a Russian filmmaker. In the film, released in 1989, Gorbachev was overthrown in 1992. The Russian heartland is ruled by an ultra-nationalist military dictatorship, the Baltic republics by Catholic radicals, and Central Asia by fundamentalist emirates. Tanks patrol the streets of Moscow, and throughout the country a fearful, starving populace wreaks revenge on former Communist Party members, Jews and intellectuals. The film also predicted ethnic anarchy between 15 newly independent republics.

The implosion of the Soviet Union finally arrived, but the most dramatic of predictions didn’t materialize. Ethnic anarchy and fanatical nationalism never solidified. Although regional tyrants did seize power in Central Asian republics, religious radicalism also turned out to be a false prediction. The names of former Communist Party members were protected, once again showing the triumphant of common sense over wild imaginary predictions.

In the 1960s and the 1970s, the United States fought in Vietnam under the shadow of this ‘domino effect’. Analysts feared dominoes from Indonesia and the Philippines to Bangladesh and Burma would fall into the Soviet sphere of influence if the United States were to falter in Vietnam. And eventually falter it did, but dominoes did not fall. True, Laos and Cambodia were lost to the communists but interpreting Communism as a monolith, we didn’t see the killing fields of Pol Pot nor Chinese wars in Indochina in our crystal balls.

That is why last week’s predictions by neocons and liberals alike of Iran’s future may or may not hold. Neocons are gleeful that their bête noir, President Ahmedinajed is still there. Liberals want the cracks in the system to become chasms that could potentially become the regime’s doom. But are we missing the point? Are we missing any other possibilities?

That is why we need to take Iran’s new revolution at its face value. It is as big as the revolution that brought the ayatollahs to power and is a clarion call not only to the West but also to the ayatollahs and other regional leaders. Apart from that there is very little we can predict for the future. The action is now when it comes to Iran.

A window has opened briefly in Iran and in waiting for a better opportunity, we might be missing our chance. After all, future unfolds in mysterious ways. We could either be spectators in the future or the leaders and guides of the current situation. But in the world where mass hysteria sometimes trumps rational predictions, we should be acting now. Now more than ever.

The Tale of Two Deaths

Twin obituaries to a generation’s face, and its voice — by someone who doesn’t belong to that generation.

Yesterday, I started to write this obituary of Farrah Fawcett. For an actress who made her name during one season of a popular TV show, Farrah’s shadow was long and her stride bold. I didn’t have that iconic poster of hers, but her face itself was iconic–it was the imprimatur of a changing generation, the symbol of a shifting trend and perhaps the face of the 70s, 80s and even 90s.

Indeed, hers was the first face of an actress I remembered from my childhood, which is surprising because I grew up in the 90s. Maybe I saw her in reruns of Charlie’s Angels–I don’t remember–but both my parents were already remembering her with nostalgia and esteem by the 90s.

Public memory was more divided on another celebrity whose death delayed this obituary. Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, who died yesterday at the age of 50, was also a larger-than-life figure. To some, he was an unparalleled genius but to people in my immediate vicinity, it was a matter of secondary importance.

This summer, I am living and mentoring a dorm of highschool sophomores and juniors, who broke the news of MJ’s death to me. It was one of those “you know where you were when…” occasions. I checked online but no major network (CNN, BBC, NYT) has called it yet. Several gossip sites were already proclaiming his death, but it wasn’t on wikipedia yet. That didn’t prevent the highschoolers from ‘celebrating’ his death with his songs. Gathering from their words, Michael Jackson with his almost extraterrestrial transformation, his fantasy Neverland ranch, his molestation charges, his eccentricities was merely a caricature, a bete noir we all love to hate.

Then, there is the older generation. I am not talking about those born in 70s and 80s, to whom Jackson was the voice of the generation as much as Farrah Fawcett was its face. I am talking about even older generation–that of our parents, to whom Michael Jackson was an usurper–the usurper of that ‘rightful’ iconicity occupied by Sinatra, Elvis, and the Beatles. Sandwiched between these two generations, I personally showed very little liking for Michael Jackson’s music; when I reached the music-listening stage, his once unique cords and choreographies were already trite.

Inside the Actors Studio, James Lipton asks ten questions complied by the French philosopher Berhnard Pivot to every guest. The last question is, “If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?” Neither Farrah or Jackson appeared on the show, but both would be glad to hear ‘You did make a difference’ from the lips of the Almighty. That is what a lot of people were saying this morning, and afterall, Vox Populi, Vox Dei.

Up: Pixar’s Wonderful life

Their latest offering is part farcical, part tragic. It is a story only Pixar can make so appealing.

It is a long overdue movie from Pixar. They have conquered land, sea and space. Their latest hit—succinctly titled Up—soared into air and certainly lived up to the expectations. Although it didn’t break the milestones set by Wall-E, it reaffirms them. Wall-E is a pretty hard act to follow, but Up is 9/10, if Wall-E is 10/10.

Pixar loves to place familiar characters (superheroes, fishes, robots) in unfamiliar situation. Up is no different—it is a heartwarming story between a grandfather-figure and a little boy. However, instead of the little boy living vicariously through his older counterpart as we saw in countless movies like Princess Bride, it is the other way around: Carl Frederickson, a curmudgeonly square-figure modeled after Spencer Tracy lives vicariously through his long-dead wife, Ellie and a boy scout he inadvertently acquired.

Up probably is the least serious movie Pixar had made in a long time. Dogs that talked through collars, a man nearing his 150^th year living in an isolated corner of the world and a house uprooted and lifted by balloons. I personally didn’t like some of these aspects—and a lot of people in the theatre I went to were puzzled by them—but these aspects dim in comparison to Up’s overarching themes.

With its stunning visuals or silent grandeur, Wall-E beats Up, but Wall-E’s parable on love and environmentalism loses out to Up in the profundity of message … and Up makes its message within the first ten minutes too.

A musical number that chronicles Carl and Ellie’s lives is part elegiac, part allegorical. Up is about life—life we live in the shadows of our heroes, life haunted by our memories, life constrained by our ideals, desires and cravings. Like the house Carl so uncannily carries on his back like a snail carries its humble abode, our past life—Pixar noted—is sometimes a cherished memory and sometimes a daunting burden.

One of Carl’s cherished memories that will come back to haunt him was that of his and Ellie’s hero, explorer Charles Muntz. It is comedic when we saw a similar story in The Incredibles, but in Up, it is heartrending. Carl’s stoic, taciturn but cynical features betrays little of his disappointment but we who have lived through it realize the deep ramifications behind his facade.

That is why the story of Russell, whose familial situation was never fully explained, was simultaneously intriguing and tragic. It is oft said not to judge someone without knowing them fully, but in Up, Pixar showed us how we are not only a Greek chorus in the story but also unwitting participants. It is the story of our lives—maybe it is vicariousness without empathy, but in being vicarious, we become empathic too.

Well done Pixar. I won’t be amazed if Up is It is a Wonderful Life of tomorrow.

Don’t get that excited.

I am a social liberal, but this morning’s Sotomayor nomination riled me up. Firstly, the nomination continues the recent political trend to nominate judges who are far removed from the actual governing. The best courts had at least one legislator–Sandra Day O’Connor, Hugo Black, Abe Fortas, Earl Warren, etc.

The nomination of a female, colored supreme court justice is exciting, but concerning ourselves with racial debates vitiates the very relevance and impartiality of the highest court of the realm. It is false and presumptive to assume that a colored candidate should (blindly) advocate for that race. I am not saying Justice Sotomayor will favor Hispanics, but that is what the Hispanic community expects of her….and there are detrimental precedents too: Every time the name of an African American justice is mentioned, there are shrill calls, “Marshall, not Thomas,” indicating that the black community wants someone as vocal as Thurgood Marshall as if a justice of another calibre or reticence is not representative of their cause. Sotomayor’s nomination is already clouded by her decision in Ricci v. DeStefano, in which she threw out the results of a firefighter promotion exam in which no minorities qualified for promotions. This is not the impartiality we want at the supreme court, which is currently debating to overturn Sotomayor’s decision. It is not fixing history’s mistakes. It is a reverse discrimination.

Some say the president is saving political capital by nominating a moderate liberal for a seat vacated by similar moderate. However, some (by which, I mean, I) see a wasted opportunity–the presidency sadly is limited in length, scope and breadth. The next year, the Mid Terms will come and who knows whether the democrats will be able to maintain its filibuster-proof majority. With relatively young Roberts, Scalia and Thomas firmly in conservative docket (with Alito sitting with them more often than not), the Americans need more liberal voices to balance the court, just to service what William J. Brennan called the first rule of the Supreme Court (rulings by five of the nine justices).

The next big debate for the supreme court would be with the same sex marriages since states from New Hampshire to Iowa are seriously debating and changing the existing legislation. The supreme court must gear itself for at least one issue concerning DOMA or same sex marriage in next few years. It is a sad missed opportunity that the nominee is neither Kath Sullivan or Pamela Karlan–openly gay legal scholars no less distinguished than Sotomayor.

When Justice David H. Souter retired, New York Times ran an article noting (perhaps somewhat disparagingly) that Souter was no Warren or Brennan. Most of us will agree, and if Sotomayor got confirmed, we will have to face twenty years or so (just pray her diabetes don’t interfere) of moderation. In the face of modernity, such stagnancy can be fatal. Yes, the centre of the court will be well tended, but it is to be noted that she is no Antonin Scalia or Pamela S. Karlan.

Terra Australis Incognita

The Southern Unknown Land–that was how Australia was known (along with Botany Bay and New South Wales) collectively before some Scottish busybody (Governor Lachlan Macquarie) popularized the current name in the early nineteenth century. I knew that–but we know surprisingly little about Australia and Australians, except the fact of course that they have weird animals and even a weirder animal watcher.

So, I was surprised to find in a friend’s room a 300-page travel journal, written by Bill Bryson. I like Bill Bryson’s books but I couldn’t imagine why he (or my friend for that matter) would want to travel to Australia. Granted that they have great beaches and forests, so do a lot of other more hospitable places (it is just me but a place devoid of any poisonous creepycrawlies counts as a more hospitable place in my book). After a brief disagreement with my friend about the Ayers Rock (with him insisting upon the unpronounceable name of Uluru-Kata Tjuta–yes, some letters underlined no less), I opened Bryson’s book. 

It is called, “In a Sunburned Country”. It is excerpted here. It began with the usual Brysonian mumbo-jumbo about how little he knows about the place. Well, everything is funny and sightly amusing until this moment:

“[in 1997--that book was released in 1999, so a little outdated] scientists were seriously investigating the possibility that a mysterious seismic disturbance in the remote Australian outback almost four years earlier had been a nuclear explosion set off by members of the Japanese doomsday cult Aum Shinrikyo.” 

WTF? Someone set of an atom bomb in Australia and no one noticed it? Bryson continues: “Aum’s substantial holdings included a 500,000-acre desert property in Western Australia very near the site of the mystery event. There, authorities found a laboratory of unusual sophistication and focus, and evidence that cult members had been mining uranium. It separately emerged that Aum had recruited into its ranks two nuclear engineers from the former Soviet Union. The group’s avowed aim was the destruction of the world, and it appears that the event in the desert may have been a dry run for blowing up Tokyo.” 

I will probably buy the book for my summer reading (I can link the Amazon page of the book here, but I’d rather not, just because they won’t pay me) just to laugh at the Australians and the Japanese. But the, even after reading Bryson’s books on language, I still don’t understand why the Australians are plural and the Japanese not so–so I consider all my previous spendings on his books wasted.  

… and he comes from Des Moines, Iowa — which apart from being named after monks, also produced my college roommate (apparently they even share highschool alma mater) — which just proves my point that nothing important and nothing good come out of Iowa. 

Oh the Humanity!

To say I don’t pay much attention to modern ‘art’ is a gross understatement. In truth, I try to block modern ‘art’ from my system. Yet, in a strange reversal of fortunes, I found myself visiting not one but three modern art exhibitions in past few weeks. I had hoped to blog that my prejudice is washed away. In fact, the opposite just happened: my disdain is further cemented.

Above left the picture of a gallery marked ‘installation in progress’ in the MoMA. Judging from the quality of the other art on display in the MoMA (above right, a display of cardboard boxes), I will say the distinction is blurred between what is modern and what is left sloppily unfinished.

I was in the MoMA, the great citadel of modern art in New York, but I found less than a fifth of its collection interesting. I like impressionism, admire the efforts behind pointillism and accept cubism. However, as I descend into the lower levels of the MoMa, the level of art portrayed also diminished. I was confronted with monochrome or even blank canvases which looked eerily like an awful cutout from a Piet Mondrain. I was confronted with the canvases on which paint is dribbled (sometimes thanks to Jack the Dribbler himself) which would be a museum worthy piece only if it had been done by an orangutan.

When I was not making judgmental comments on the creativity (or lack thereof) of the modern artists, I was being assailed by modernist sculpture or performance art–folded or torn pieces of paper, bundles upon bundles of cardboard boxes, and one man’s sadistic efforts to cage himself. This Kafkaesque performance art (Hungerkunstler, anyone?), albeit not pointless, is nothing but a shameless, narcissistic and even a pathetic ploy of a failed artist.

Among the modern artists, Andy Warhol is someone whom I can at least accept (although with serious doubts about the man’s mental stability). That is why I went to de Young Museum in San Francisco yesterday to look at Andy Warhol exhibition. Although I can tolerate atrocious product placement in his work (Campbell’s soup cans, Coca-Cola, Brillo soaps), some work–especially those done in his Silver Factory, a den whose ‘creativity’ lies in it being covered by aluminium foil–totally baffles me. The work seems the handiwork of a bunch of fraternity pledges having the time of their life.

The worst, however, is John Cage’s Four Minute Thirty-Three Second recording–which is less modern art than not-even-elaborate con-trick. Yet, Warhol, Cage and others left behind a legacy–a legacy now cherished only by their successor modern artists whom, I believe, now includes a bunch of 5-year olds (or those with mental agility of a 5-year old) who probably spent as much time with their brushes as I with my toothbrush.

Yet, this morning, I saw the news that Vatican has been trying to bless modern art. This following Pope John Paul’s blessing of breakdancing a few years back, I wouldn’t say I am surprised. I am just disappointed in the humanity. I may just be a disgruntled snob but I believe a disgruntled or confused mob makes up a silent majority. I have a gut feeling that we, the silent majority, usually walk through these modern art gallery scorning privately, or laughing cynically or mocking shrilly at incongruent, incomprehensible, abhorrent modern art. Well, at least, I know I do.

An Elegy for Facebook

I remember the first days of facebook. We uploaded pictures; we poured our notes and pokes into it; we started chain letters, invited each other just to access countless useless applications. In short, we were introduced to this Brave New World of our lives. For an increasingly needy and attention-seeking society, Facebook provide a life where you can have friends (or their pale virtual selves) around you 24/7.

This Brave New World added a new flavor and a new layer to our lives. Universities and employers are checking their applicants’ facebook profiles. Someone was sacked because she candidly wrote she was bored at work on her facebook status. We post arrays of compromising pictures online, taking pride in those virtual Scarlet Letters. Yet, behind the facade of vicarious empathy or shallow outrage, our increasingly Schadenfreude society smiles at our collective ‘brainless’ acts and laughs at those misfortunes.

Then only last month, we realized our privacy was robbed away. Actually, more appropriate phrase will be that privacy withered—much like our money and 401(k)s. Facebook’s new terms of use is the wake-up call for many of us although many of us blithely ignored the warning signs. (I can draw endless but painful analogies to the financial crisis here, but I will spare you).

Web 2.0 sundered barriers. Instead of being six degrees away from someone, we are less than a mouseclick away. Yet, we don’t want to know about them. I don’t want to know what my less-than-popular nerdy friend from six grade math class is playing. You won’t probably want to know what your banker who is probably responsible for your toxic assets is having for lunch. But that is exactly what facebook’s latest trend, “25 things you don’t (want to) know about me” is conveying. [A friend of mine is declaring his Presidential ambitions on facebook, even naming the exact year when he will throw his hat into the ring. (If Ron Paul is dead by then, he will probably get a following over the webfolk--or as I like to call them "The Lost Generation"). But I digress.] And that is why we are immigrating to Twitter.

Yes, Twitter is ugly, and not user-friendly. It is a relic of a time where we had no iPhones and our investment portfolios looked good (oh, it seems such a long time ago). But we (I speak for myself while shamelessly invoking 2nd person again and again) like it—its minimalist approach appeals to Luddites and nerds alike. A 140-letter status bar plus a snippet of a profile picture is a synecdoche of facebook, and may even be the latter’s demise.

Just because we don’t want to know about what brand of toothpaste you use.

That Encounter, One Year On….

Yesterday, I learnt to my amazement (and subdued horror) that a friend of mine was celebrating his 1000th day together with his girlfriend. Yes, one followed by three zeros—it is not a typo. They have been together for a thousand days. By comparison, my longest relationship didn’t pass a 400-day circle. On the other hand, my shortest relationship lasted only three days (during a road trip) and ended bitterly.

As optimists will say, closing of one door signals the opening of another. It was true. As soon as I ended my shortest relationship, I embarked upon a new relationship that ultimately led to the greatest adventure I’ve ever had. It was a relationship that started with a chance encounter in one of the most improbable places to start a relationship—a theme park.

This month marks the first anniversary of that meeting. The girl I met would ultimately became my first (and hopefully last) long-distance partner, and the relationship itself was the best of my romances, and the worst of my romances, as Dickens will write. At its best, we shared so many things, at its worst, we had to bear a strenuous burdens of a long-distance relationship.

To cut a long story short, over the summer, we managed to erase the ‘long-distance’ appellation from our relationship, but our summer together ended with a classic parting of the ways moment. Now, it has been a year since our first encounter, and three months since our parting.

However, at the end of the day, love and relationships are similar to leprechauns’ gold. We try so hard to obtain one that we usually forget love is nothing but an illusion. As soon as the relationship is over, love turns into ash as a leprechaun’s gold would. But, memories linger on—the memories that you had  transient and ethereal love, as elusive as leprechauns’ gold, in your hands fill you with joy. That joy is more than a one-night stand can give you, less than a marriage can offer, but it is just the right amount for me.

In the Tivoli Gardens, a kiss…

After lunch we went to Tivoli Gardens. Though it is an amusement park, Kirsten and a lot of Danes call it a pleasure garden, which makes me flinch. It first opened in 1843 as “Tivoli & Vauxhall”, taking inspirations from the Jardin de Tivoli in Paris and the Vauxhall Gardens in London. The origin story, as recounted by Kirsten, was pretty funny. It was built to indulge the Danish people so that they would forget about the politics.

First built in those years when Europeans viewed the Near and the Far East as the depraved centre of exotica and erotica, Tivoli have various Oriental buildings, from theatres to fountains: the Nimb Building with its domes and minarets, Chinese-pagoda gardens, Moorish pavilions, the Hanging Gardens, and the Bubble Fountain. (The original park was burnt down in 1943—again a symbolic message by the Nazis to destroy the old regime—but it was rebuilt.)

We took many historical rides in the park: the world’s oldest wooden roller coaster, (Rutsjebanen or Bjerg Banen (Mountain Track), according to omniscient Wikipedia), the world’s tallest carousel, Himmelskibet, and a nice free-fall tower, which Wikipedia doesn’t name.

We missed the Tivoli Symphony, which displays its merits only in the morning and at noon, but we stayed in the gardens until midnight. Tiny lanterns and bulbs illuminate the park from gorgeous Hans Christian Anderson Castle to the Glass Hall, which shines like an alien spaceship. The park transforms itself from an amusement park to a fair ground—open-air theatres replaced souvenir shops and cafés; jugglers and magicians came out of nowhere to entertain. But I was treated to two surprises.

At Chinese Mime Theatre, I saw Italian Commedia dell’Arte, and its clichéd story of Cassander, Harlequin, Columbine and Pierrot. I saw that once in Venice, but the Danish version was not only more colorful but also more vivant. (As a side note, the Chinese Theatre has a marvelous mechanical peacock’s tail curtain) From a small boat on the Tivoli Lake, we admired the firework display (only put together on Saturdays). Under the sky blued and crimsoned with Catherine wheels, and Roman candles, we ended the day with a lovely kiss.

Post-Scriptum: the return was not so pleasant. We didn’t know that the trains back to Køge stop running at half-an-hour past midnight, so we had to take a taxi back.