Confessions of a Starving Artist

“A man’s character is his fate.”  ~ Heraclitus

So I was sitting around last night when someone tipped me off to the fact that Miss South Carolina had made a bit of a faux-pas on stage at the Miss America competition.  Of course, being the slave to celebrity gossip that I am, I lunged at the chance to see one of the undeserving elite fall on their botoxed face.  The incident was complete lunacy, and if you haven’t seen it I’m sure that your reaction will be similar to mine: jaw dropped until the very last second of her answer followed closely by an explosion of disbelieving laughter and disgust.  Still, I’m not surprised… not really.  I’ve been marking the slow decline in the culture of our youth into the realm of materialism, sexploitation, and irrelevancies for sometime now.  Say what you will about Generation X - at least counter-culture is a culture.  Youth today is a cultural void.

Anyway, that’s not the point.  There was a showing of Miss SC clip to some people who were over at the house last night.  One of them said that his friend had turned him onto something similar.  So we checked it out; in which I present to you Exibt A, Exibt B, and Exibt C.  I know, its a lot to watch, and unfortunately, if you can’t watch them, you the rest of this probably won’t make too much sense.

As I watched these clips, all of which are fairly similar, I noticed a feeling coming over the room at a considerable degree of speed.  It wasn’t one of anger at the Aussies, nor was one of laughter or amusement.  Rather, it was a mixed bag of shame, disgust, and confusion.  After the third one was completed, my small computer room was dead silent for a few seconds when one of the guys quietly said, “I don’t want to watch this anymore.”  These are ‘the rough men’ that George Orwell talked about, men who have seen things that a vast majority of our society deems as inhumane as a way of earning a paycheck in the name of protecting said squeamish populace and it’s rights, and they avert their eyes from this.  As some of you who read this post may for whatever reason fall in line with the people in those clips, I will ask you outright - what does such a response mean?  No, seriously.  Don’t read any further until you’ve answered that question.  The fact that you are willing to gloss over it could speak volumes to your charaacter. 

To me it means that our eroding culture as Americans is more horrific than, say, seeing the carnage of war first hand.  And to soldiers, why shouldn’t it?  We could very easily find ourselves among the bodies one day, and for what?  In the name of an America that is represented by those people?  It turns my stomach. 

But I get it, this isn’t all of us.  If we wanted too we could send a camera to Australia or Great Britain or Canada or wherever and given enough time make a similar video.  But I would warrant that it would take a considerably longer time whereas these guys seemingly didn’t have to leave a single street corner.  … and who’s to say that we could even find the right continent (just kidding).

When I was stationed in Korea and dated a girl from Nova Scotia, she had two friends from Australia, and when they heard that we were dating, they stopped talking to me… because I was an American.  I had never experienced national prejudice before that.  I was one of those ugly Americans who was unwittingly spoon-fed propaganda that we were the beacon of light for much of the world and that everybody loved (or feared) us.  It was a bit of a reality check.  And I guess that its nice to see that somewhere in Korea there is probably still a young GI that is getting the same treatment from the international school teachers.  Nicer still that his own countrymen are giving the world all the ammunition that they need to perpetuate the stigma.

“Give a man enough rope, and he’ll hang himself”  ~ American Proverb

Michael Vick is going down.  For the count.  For anyone of my faithful readers who is unfamiliar with this NFL football scandal, I’ll do my best to bring you up to speed, though it is curiously possible that I will leave out some details.  Feel free, as I am sure that some of you will, to correct me.  Michael Vick, the 27-year-old quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons, was arrested on 25 April when police found 66 dogs in brutal conditions at his Virginia estate while there on a drug raid.  Vick is changed with several felony offenses centering around an illegal dog fighting ring, which he is said to have financed, hosted, and used as a gambling circuit.

Today, Michael Vick has announced for the first time that he will plead guilty to charges of federal conspiracy as to avoid the further changes of dog fighting, illegal gambling, etc. that would follow should the trial and investigation go further.  The fine is expected to be 250K, and carries a sentence of a year to eighteen months, however it is much more likely that Vick will only see six to eight.  At greater stake is the quarterback’s future as an NFL player.  The NFL has suspended Vick indefinitely following the trial, and they have reserved the right to have his suspension take effect after his jail sentence is complete.  Moreover, the Falcons are thinking about releasing Vick from his ten-year 130 million dollar contract for breach of the document.  Vick has already lost six lucrative endorsement and sponsorship contracts as well as having his sports card pulled from packs and official jerseys made unavailable for sale.

What prompts this subject (besides my NFL research as I get ready to give you all my NFL season preview) is that I thought until this morning that “dog fighting” was some sort of slang for some greater crime, perhaps drugs or something gang related.  Surely not something as simple as pitting two dogs against each other would be cause to ruin a man’s career, send him to jail, and cost him millions and millions of dollars.  As it turns out, here in America, the land of gunfighters and cowboys, the space race and independence; it is.

I’m not saying that what Michael Vick did was in some manner correct or that dog fighting is some sort of inherent American right; it’s not.  Further, (and remember this before you post a comment) I agree with everything that this man is getting as it stands with all the circumstance of our society.  What I am saying is that perhaps the label of ‘felony’ is a bit much.  But I’ll get into it.

So this morning class was awash with this story.  Not really because any of us give two-shits about Michael Vick.  I thought that the guy was an overly-talented thug when he was drafted, I thought he was an overly-talented thug when he was playing, and I still think that he is an overly-talented thug whose incarceration and subsequent removal from the NFL is a good thing.  Let it be a lesson to all those who within this league that think they don’t need to stop being from da ‘hood even when they make a few million.  But I digress…  More pointedly, the raid was initiated on his house originally to look for drugs because he had attempted to board an airplane with marijuana in a water bottle.  I guess he thought that even though federal aviation laws now prohibit liquids from being carried on planes that they would let him go because he’s Michael Vick.  Idiot.  Further, his brother is currently serving time for drug possession, so it’s all good in the family.  Are we surprised that this guy is less than a role-model for kids?  I’m not, that’s how they roll in Hot-lanta.

But this isn’t about being a role-model, and while I would like to think that all professional athletes might realize that in some way and to each athlete there is some child (or adult) who looks up to them as, well, a model for behavior, I know that this cannot be the case for each player as every person, even millionaire athletes, are people too.  If this was the case, Dennis Rodman would be in jail on principal (and rightly so), but so would Charles Barkley for remarks in the ‘92 play-offs and Bobby Knight… for being Bobby Knight.  It understandable though.  The NFL, MLB, NHL, and NBA should all hold their NCAA counterparts to higher standards of moral and ethical teaching for young athletes; perhaps repercussionary measures should be taken on Virginia Tech, I don’t know.  But when you look at where an athlete comes from both in college athletic programs and university life, it’s often trademark as too who the bad apples are in comparison as to where the bad apple tree is planted.  But this has only a little too do with the point of this post.

As I said, this is, at its core, about gambling and dog fighting.  Gambling?  Well, gambling is part of American history and lifestyle, period.  And dog fighting?  Dog fighting, to me, is not a crime.  Perhaps distasteful and a bit macabre, but not worthy of criminal nature.  There are cultures throughout history that value the mortal combat of both animals and humans.  One of which is American history, lest us not forget!  But I’ll let that sleeping dog lie, (no pun intended, I swear…) though I did not this morning… but to the point of animals fighting to the death for sport, one must realize that it’s still done all over the world.  Popular is Arabia is the cobra verses the scorpion, something often done on the streets of bazaars and local suqs and always open to immediate gambling.  In the same vein, in Afghanistan, there is an equestrial game played not unlike polo, but there are no sticks and the ball is replaced with the carcass of a freshly slain goat.  In Japan, there is, of course, the siammese fighting fish rings; legal and gambled on.  And in Spain the practice of bullfighting is globally known!  Heck, in the Yukon there was dog fighting within our own history, though brutal.  All the world over, there are countless examples, but the one I’ll look at the hardest to make my point is that of our neighbor Mexico: cockfighting.

Cockfighting is an elegant sport, and has a bit of a following here in the southern US, mainly Louisiana and Mississippi Delta region.  In that arena, cocks are raised from birth to be fighters, fed special diets, exercised regularly, and in all honestly, live better than some of you treat your own pets!  Inevitably, they die in the ring, and are disposed of, while perhaps not ceremoniously, but appropriately: they are often consumed in fire; not to be eaten.  Personally, I see this as civilized.  Some of you may balk, but consider how we treat poultry in this country?  Have you ever seen a chicken farm?  Hens roosting together so tight that they must shit on each other and are often infected with one or more cases of gangrene.  In cases too extreme, limbs are removed, but the chicken is allowed to continue to feed a gluttonous amount of steroid-saturated grains, some of which are made from very bone marrow of their fellow fowl!  Only at the end are they slaughtered in mass for our consumption.  Now I ask you this: in drawing a lot that condemns one to death, would you prefer the life of a warrior or one of cattle?

To be sure, these were not the circumstances that surrounded Michael Vick and his dog fighting ring.  Many of the dogs were abused, and kept in horrible living conditions.  Also certain unsettling items were found in his home that are common in dog fighting.  They included a ‘rape stand’ that holds aggressive dogs in place for mating and a ‘breakstick’ used to pry open a dog’s mouth.  Furthermore, Vick himself has been accused of brutally executing dogs that either did not fight well, were not growing at the proper rate, or lost too many fights by electrocution, hanging, and drowning.  This is not a question of the civility of dogfighting, but rather it is a clear case of psychiatric evaluation.  However, it is shown that dog fighting, unlike cockfighting, can be undertaken with a minimal chance of the dog being killed; it is not necessary in most cases.  It occurs to me that in an optimal scenario, dog fighting would not be so different than UFC or Pride Fighting.  So while I am not defending Vick at all, I have posed the question to myself and now to you, if more humane treatment of the dogs was undertaken, would it still be a federal offense?  Should it be?  I don’t claim to have an answer, but it is worth thinking about.  Especially when millions of dollars could be on the line!

I guess what I keep coming back to is that this is America… or at least some joking reflection of itself.  This is the country that has produced rough men since its inception, and like it or not, that is our national identity.  In a way, I can look at this whole thing as a massive tragedy with Michael Vick as our protagonist.  I’m not sure as to when America outlawed dog fighting but I can promise you it was in this century.  And I could venture a guess as to why such legislation was brought about, but I’m sure that you can make similar guesses as well.  Regardless, it will stay illegal in practice because we as a culture are far to soft and sensitive to stomach anything of the sort.  Our grandfather’s used to slip across the boarder to drink high-boles, gamble, drink, and screw.  Now we only head south of the Rio Grande to visit our cheap summer homes and get readily available prescription (and non) drugs.  Our grandfathers were stronger and had a greater sense of America then us.  We only sense comfort and ourselves. 

Sorry, got on my soap box there… but back to Vick.  The man is a million-dollar fool.  If he was so set on having a dog fighting ring for his own personal gain or even entertainment, then he had enough money to move it to a country that allowed such a sport with relative ease.  Too bad he lacked the creativity to do so.  But you have to acknowledge the fact that Vick is also loved by millions of fans, many of him protest for his release as I type.  In a current poll, more people support Michael Vick’s case than approve of the President.  So Atlanta, the NFL, and the USA lose a reluctant role-model.  For what?  Because there was something he liked that The Land of the Free did not allow, even though he ‘technically’ did not hurt a single living ‘person’?  What if we weren’t so squeamish about the more “Draconian” side of our history?  What if dog fighting was legal, but regulated, perhaps even ritualized?  Humanitized?  It is doubtful that Michael Vick would have attempted any of this… but I’m willing to bet that he would have had a front row seat for Friday Night Fights!

Lastly and overarching, what cripples an athlete sometimes causes me to think, is the penalty equal to the crime or is there a higher standard by the very nature of their being a held to a similar one.  This is a paradox, I know, but if the average man commits this same crime he doesn’t lose millions or his future?  Does a higher standard equate to different rules with greater penalties?  It would seem so.  As a military officer, I understand that I am held to a higher and different code of conduct and laws.  But ironically, as the same people who support this higher standard for professional offenders say, he’s just an over-paid athlete.

“How much money did you give that guy? A wiseguy never pays for his drinks.”  ~ Lefty Donnie Brasco

In this forum, I’m sure that some of you have come to notice that from time to time, I issue forth some fairly original and board-sweeping statements on gender, politics, national identity, etc.  Well, I will start off this post with something a bit more conclusive and scientific as to defend one of my more ‘quirky’ traits, which is forthcoming.  With that said, I present to you this: it is a well known and documented fact that women love handbags.  Most any man will tell you that they have dated (or married) several women in their breath of experience who have, nay, required an assortment of purses, tote bags, and all designs of feminine accouterment on the basis of accessorizing.  Any women will prove this by a forceful examining her debit/credit card over the last three months:  I guarantee that she’s purchased a new one.  …Better yet, check your debit/credit card boys.

What?!  I can feel your eyes from here, ladies…  I’m not making this stuff up!  I’m just regurgitating what several famous researchers have found before me.

The point being is that as a male who has a touch of a fashion sense (I don’t think I’d go so far as to call myself a ‘metrosexual’ anymore, though once that may have been warranted), I sympathize with you, ladies, to a degree.  That is because I too have more than one wallet in my possession.  Though I don’t need to defend myself on this matter, I will now do so anyway.  Gentlemen, the days of the six inch, scoliosis-inducing wallet bulging from your back pocket are gone.  First of all, we are not chicks; we don’t need all the shit that is in that bulbrous monster boiling from your ass like cancerous goiter.  Honestly, the ironed-in Coppenhagen dripcan-circle is sexy enough.  Examine your necessities - you need your cash, your drivers licence for the ‘if and when’ you’re going to be pulled over, your debit/credit card, your sexiest picture of your girlfriend (or mother if your girlfriend isn’t sexy), and that is it!  You don’t need your “buy thirteen cups of coffee get the next one free card” in your wallet, rather, stow that bad boy in your truck or have that cute coffee girl hold it for you… and if the bitch doesn’t, then stop getting coffee from her because if she won’t hold your card, then their is a solid chance she won’t sleep with you!  You don’t need your “VIP member shopping card”; get the smaller version and hang it on your Camel cigarette key chain next to your Homer Simpson bottle-cap opener and your GNC gold members ID that has long since expired..  And finally, you don’t need to save every damn fast food game card that gets thrown at you.  We all know that McDonald’s will eventually run that be-damned Monopoly game in its Super Sized meals again… and we all also know that even if you save Parks Place for a full year, you’ll still never find Boardwalk regardless of how many double-quarter pounders with cheese you gleefully endure.

That being said, wallets have become extremely thin and chic.  With only a few moving parts and a new one costing less then twenty bones, who’s to give me guff about have three.  And you know what, so what?  I’d rather have some guy say, dude, did you change from a black leather wallet to a white and tan stripped wallet because you’re now wearing lighter summer colors; than have some guy say, dude, is that your Spiderman velcro wallet?  I had one just like it when I was in the 8th grade!

I guess what I’m trying to say is that for the last month, none of this has really mattered because I’ve been seemingly broke as Arizona Cardinals’ pitching staff.  I do this to myself about three times a year.  I get a little crazy with my money, and I get too wrapped up in things that I should ‘buy’ to improve my surroundings rather than inversting time in things that I should ‘do’ to improve my surroundings.  But its like a big carnivorous circle of life - once I get to that point where I don’t like looking at my bank account, I take a step back from it and remember how it is to live off tuna fish, ramen noodles, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches… by living off tuna fish, ramen noodles, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  It’s very Buddhist in feeling: cleanses the spirit as well as the colon.

But hey, its not like I haven’t made an large recent purchases to necessitate this deluted lifestyle.  I got some new CDs that haven’t been fully appreciated.  I have a very full wine rack that needs significant depreciation.  I have a back yard that always needs work.  I have a pool that needs cleaning, and I got two more months of 100 degree weather to earn my Mr. Clean bald head and bronze tan!  I got a new book to read, and I got a few new/used DVDs to watch in the comfort of my bedroom.  And finally, I got a brand new 46″ LCD 1080p television with a brand new oak entertainment center!… but that doesn’t help matters because I don’t have an HDDVD player yet… hmmph.  Anyway, you get the idea.

Yup, we’re bringing it all back to college living here at the Guttersnake residence.  Feels good, feels young.  Maybe I’ll have the boys over, cook some cheap steaks with A-1, light some tiki torches, and just for kicks we’ll drink some Natty-Lite from the can… …   You know, even if I was stone broke, I don’t think that drinking NASCAR beer would sound like fun ever again.  I guess you can’t go back… but here’s to trying!

“Our lives are what our thoughts create.”  ~ James Allen

Don’t you hate it when you think you’ve done a near perfect job at something only to find out that there exists a considerable error in some calculation of planning, and what’s worse, it may often be the case that this error is of the most basic of steps.  A good example of this might be the do-it-yourself carpenter who makes a wine rack in his garage only to find out as he is on his second coat of varnish that he mistakenly reversed the specific measurements of the first and second shelves.  Another good example would the new pool owner who in an attempt to save money, does not bring a water sample to the pool store because he thinks it will cost him an arm and a leg, only to find out its free and taking it early may have saved him the trouble of draining two-thirds of the pool in an effort to dilute its dense chemical nature with fresh water.  However, I prefer the example of the man who goes to the beach, plans and has a great day with his girl, only to come home to find that he neglected to put sunscreen on his right shoulder and right shoulder only.

True, all of these examples are me.  I never claimed to be perfect in execution, just theory.  But the later of the example came from yesterday’s little adventure down to Wrightsville Beach in Wilmington, NC.  A good day all around, to be sure.  Wrightsville Beach is not unlike the Sugarloaf USA, the ski resort that I grew up near the base of.  They both easily qualify as a commanding retreat that marks them as what one might call ‘professional grade’; however, once one gets a bit more accustomed to their surroundings, one begins to see the subtle scratches in the glossy venire of the surface.  Wrightsville is besmirched by a weak pseudo-surfer culture, cloisters of hideously rich teeny-boppers, overweight college sorority chicks and frat boys who are spoiled by their proximity to such a paradise, leather skinned locals who seemingly work nights as their days are spent endlessly sleeping on the sand, and nuevo-retirees enjoying the quasi-relaxing view of the sea amid the rampant commercialism, fundamentalist tourist propaganda, and skimpy bikinis intertwined with low-riding board shorts (…must be a new fashion to for guys to show off their shrone public hair line and be-grinning ass crack).  If they filmed any part of Girls Gone Wild here, then it is entirely possible in my mind that we never landed on the moon and the whole thing was shot in a Hollywood studio.

Still, its a good time.  For me at least, because what I am looking for in relaxation falls much further into the levels of what my father would refer to as ‘Americana’ and less into some fake Californian fascism.  I need to see what the average man, regardless of color or creed or income, is up too on his vacation, if for nothing more than to remind my grandchildren about the timeless follies of youth, the grand insanity of America at the turn of the century, or maybe just what the beaches looked like before the polar icecaps melted.  Who knows what the future holds?  Nonetheless, seeing such parade of humanity from beneath the shielding tint of my aging Smith sunglasses is more relaxing that a rainy day in front of the TV.  And it usually provides more drama as well.

There is plenty of time for meditation when given the silence (relative) of a crowded tourist beach.  So does the ride there and back again, which happens to be about an hour and a half.  Of course, running story-board ideas to myself in my mind is a popular past time, but I try to keep them rather condensed unless I have pen and paper to capture certain thoughts.  Political meanderings crop up from time to time as does wild considerations about my professional future, both wide-eyed and realistic.  Sometimes I try to make ‘to do’ lists in my head, but that’s often as effective as herding cats.  And occasionally something just completely bananas pops in and won’t leave for annoying periods of time.

It was on such an occasion that my new companion, Rene, asked me what my car’s name was.  Now, some of you, constant readers, will claim that you don’t have a name for your car.  This can only be from one of two reasons: either you haven’t thought of it yet, or you’re a communist.  For my part, I just have been incapable of naming my car anything that seems fitting.  For those of you who don’t know I drive a pristine, black, 2002 Ford Thunderbird convertible.  Naming this unique car has been a nightmare.  All I have been able to come up with was a clever lincence plate, which just recently expired forcing me to get North Carolina tags.  The story of me at the NCDMV may just be forth coming.  Nevertheless, back to the story, I told Rene that I didn’t really have a name for it yet, but I had an idea for a new licence plate: NOIR.  For those of you who don’t parler, that means ‘black’ in French.  I thought it was clever.  Rene giggled and said that if that was taken maybe I could use “RED”.  I was struck by the subtle intellect of such a thing.  The car, while completely black with deep tinted windows and near silver chrome rims and highlights also has red leather interior… which no one can see!  And the puzzling nature of an entirely black car with a plate reading “RED” was comedic genius!  And thus, regardless of whether or not this plate is taken, my car is now named “Red”.

The encounter forced me to erase many of the day and week’s earlier musings.  The metaphor was a hard one to miss.  The unseen interior of a thing as daily used as my automobile had been overlooked when considering this, one of the most trivially contemplated aspects of my chinsy pop-culture extension of self.  What else could be close to me that answered obvious questions?  Or perhaps, the lesson is that one must not only be inside of a problem, but aware of his surroundings once oriented on the task at hand in order to see the solution to a seemingly unrelated task.  Regardless, I have set myself to a review of current situations in my affairs.  Already, it is interesting what a different perspective offers, even if it truly changes little.  I wonder if just opening one’s self to the admission of fault is as good as continual review… at least for a time.  For what its worth, I wish I could have had this minor revelation on the way down rather than on the way home.  Some review of tasks at hand might have made me realize that I completely neglected to put SPF 15 on my right shoulder and saved me some unnecessary discomfort!