The Final Year

Oh my god food. I’m so loving real food. For five weeks I have subsisted on sugar-coated vended plastic. This morning I woke up and found ragged pointy ears on top of my head and a thick, hairless tail protruding from my backside. But it was not until I analyzed an overwhelming urge to crawl around in subway tunnels that I began to see my transformation for what it actually was. I am a rat. A foul, smelly, disgusting malfeasance that spends all day in a dirty burned-out concrete shell of a building. I sit for 18 hours in one place, then go home to sleep for a few precious winks, only to return again fouler, smellier, and more disgusting.
But today I found something magnificent. Something that will help me turn the tide on this plummetation to vermin status. It is called Mitsuwa. It is a Japanese Supermarket just a few blocks from school, hidden deftly inside a postmodern travesty of a strip-mall. It is not visible from the street, which probably accounts for its ability to remain authentic and unique. I cannot describe the joyous musical dance I performed when I walked through the front door to be confronted with piles and piles of plums. There were sweet plums and red plums and black plums and plumtarines and plunches and plumquots and plungoes and plugplants and pluccoli and plumkin noodle soup. Like a bald man in a wig factory I pranced about the produce section plucking juicy pitted pieces from the piles, planting them with panache in my portly plastic bag. I walked to the register and plunked the booty down with uncontained glee. The nice lady gave me a quizzical look, for not only was I a large rat carrying a bag of plums, but I was slowly but steadily transforming into a human right before her eyes. Her shock was not as complete as one might expect, however, and I was forced to assume that she had seen such a spectacle before (Perhaps each year around this time there is a stream of new, malnourished SCI_Arc students who have inevitably followed the scent of real food through the gleaming automatic sliding glass doors, arriving stupidly at the counter with a loaf of bread and bundle of carrots).
I am happy to report, by the way, that I am expecting a full recovery. As long as an increasingly common act of god does not wipe Mitsuwa off the map, I will eat fruit and sushi and vegetables as often as is necessary to rid myself of the pestilence that is vending machine food.

Recently I have been mulling over the origins and consequences of the American Dream. So often do we hear that phrase that it has been rendered almost meaningless. I realized this a few days ago and began trying to interpret its significance in American life. It is hard not to consider this cultural system when surrounded by the poorest of my fellow citizens. I now spend most of my day a few blocks from an area of Los Angeles called skid row. There enclaves of homeless attempt to eke out a living on the handouts of others more “fortunate” than they. Their plight is not the result of social class (as in, the naming of a hierarchical group from which one cannot ever leave) but of unfortunate circumstances over the course of their lifetime. I believe it is much more common for someone to fall to this position from one that is greater (albeit, perhaps, only slightly so), than to spend an entire lifetime in this state. What concerns me currently is not each individual’s story, but the general means by which they exist in this city.
I believe The American Dream has a huge impact on the psyche of Americans in general, subconsciously, and on the homeless population specifically. I also believe the definition of it has changed radically in the past 50 years. In the time of our grandparents, it was told to youngsters that through hard work and innovation, any citizen of this fine upstanding country could reach the lofty wonderland of large, poorly-suspended automobiles and push-button television sets. The key here is hard work and innovation. Thus if one mixes dedication, intelligence, and time together, the result is wealth, and the American Dream has been fulfilled. Unfortunately, this definition is no longer the first that comes to mind when the average American considers The Dream. No, now it is inexorably linked to the Lottery. The new definition of the American Dream stems not from the work part of the old definition, but simply the change for the financial better. Time is not a factor any more than hard work or dedication. One dollar down is all that is needed to change your life forever under this new definition.
Of course, anyone who has investigated the staggering improbability of the Lottery has an understanding of how much more unlikely it is to complete a successful American Dream under the new standards. Each dollar spent on the Lottery is a dollar not spent on food, clothing, shelter, or other Maslow imperative. Thus the American Dream, instead of creating stronger, smarter citizens, now tears at the fabric of our culture.
This shift in thinking could be blamed on the increasingly disenfranchised and pampered youth. It could also be the fault of our/their parents and their interest in materiality. Even the war generation, who returned to roost after surviving hell and were less concerned with the morality of excessive spending than being finally comfortable, could share a bit of the cause. However, I believe at least part of this new direction can be blamed on the entertainment industry.
This weekend I saw a movie called Serenity. It is a continuation of the tremendously popular show called Firefly (ok, perhaps not tremendously). The series follows the adventures of a small band of amusing people as they travel between dusty shanty towns and shady trading outposts on the outlying planets of a fictional solar system. In the movie, these nine intrepid beings take on the great armies of the unified central planets, and the violent cult of murderers that lie at the edge of space (Reavers). The end of the movie leaves in doubt the success of their venture, a take on the typical underdog story that sent me on this course of thought. I began to think about the vast number of movies, nay stories in general, that come out now concerning the triumph of the underdog over a great and seemingly indestructible foe. One could call it a David and Goliath story, but I prefer to reference the first such story I was keenly aware of, Die Hard. One Man against 20 ruthless terrorists, and yet that One Man triumphs to save the day and win the girl and get fame and fortune and be invited to meet the president and have a statue erected of him in the town square, etc etc. So prevalent are these stories that we cannot but begin to think of ourselves as underdogs, no matter what the situation. In the movies, the underdog always wins. In real life, the underdog rarely does. Yet we see him/her winning so often, that we have come to take our egregiously false view of the world for granted. We charge at danger, scoff at setbacks, and throw pies at, at, well, you get what I mean. And I believe the number of these underdog stories have increased over the years. It used to be that a Spartacus-like victory over prevailing forces was a rare gem in the movie business. After Star Wars cemented itself into our culture, however, these themes began to come out of the woodwork. It is now hard to watch a movie that is not about the weak triumphing over the strong. The other way around would simply not be entertaining. But the instant success of a triumphal battle that happens at the end of each of these stories is what has given us the idea that we can take our meager means and triumph over the strong arm of society, gaining wealth and fame with but a brief struggle, or in some cases not even that. We are then perplexed but not destroyed when we watch our own spectacular failure. The next time, we must not only succeed, but make up for our previous failings. When we fail again, it is twice as devastating as the first. This downward spiral cannot be broken without a distinct change in outlook, by putting greater value on what we have and less on what we do not. This is, of course, very difficult to do, and thus we are destroyed by the American Dream we hold so dear.
So, In short, I would like to say that you are a great person for reading this far. And to say that Firefly is a fantastic show, and you should get your hands on the DVD, watch all 13 episodes, then go see the movie. I promise it’ll be worth it.

No one has ever accused me of being cool. I mean that in the sense of ‘listening to all the “hippest” music’, ‘wearing all the “hottest” clothes’, ‘going to all the “best” places’, ‘thinking all the “coolest” things’ the way cool people do instinctively. For a while I thought it would simply be a matter of learning about these various lifestyles and then doing them myself. Voila, instant “cool”. Very quickly, however, I realized the inherent flaws of this mode of thinking. For one thing, I’ve never liked doing, saying, thinking, acting like everybody else. I believe most people feel that way. Second, I found that there were many different but equal interpretations of “cool,” and it was difficult to determine which one would be right for me. With each attempt at analysis, I came closer and closer to the conclusion that virtually everyone who was “cool” was simply good at doing what I was trying to do: find out what everyone else is doing and copy it. After finally accepting this not-so-profound generalism, I realized that I had to set out to redefine my definition of cool. I realized that what I was attempting to do was a sort of 1950s suburban high school version of being cool. Back then all that was required was sunglasses, a leather jacket, and a fast car. This still seemed true today, so that’s what I refer to as the false cool. On the other hand, I knew lots of people who would be ignored by the sunglasses and leather jacket set, but who were just amazing people, with tons of talent, intelligence, and kindness. This became my new definition of cool. While the other was limiting, this new one was open. While the other was as easy to attain as changing clothes, this new one required a passion for something. While the other was specific and measurable, the new one was ambiguous and not easily seen. It requires one to get beneath the surface and explore the unique interests and talents of each person. And best of all, it allowed a person to be themselves. Yes, this was a remarkable discovery for me, and I have embraced it wholly ever since.
Then I started graduate school. Never have I been so uncool in the eyes of my fellow students. I do not listen to the coolest music. I do not dress in the coolest clothes. I do not think the coolest things, or speak in the coolest manner, or have the coolest blase attitude. I have the temerity to not wear a faux-hawk, not drink organic coffee, enjoy the music of signed bands, and actually listen when people speak. At first I was amused. How could this group be so overwhelmingly similar in their attitude? I must be mistaken, thought I, and decided to simply apply my usual technique of getting to know each person so that I might understand them better. Unfortunately, it has always been a feature of sunglasses leather jacket cool to completely not care about other people. Thus my progress was halted almost immediately. “Why are you talking to me as if I were a human being?” I seemed to get in response to my questions. “You are so very uncool.” I fear the rising bitterness that this relentless response to my (increasingly timid) investigations has brought about in me. I do not want to be that guy. I am generally an upbeat person, and I hope this particular stage of my schooling will pass. I have to assume that at some point things will level out, and some of these slow learners will realize that there is more to being cool than sunglasses and leather jackets. For now, however, I must be content to here complain about how so very uncool they are.