That's My Shit

Every now and then something comes along that just restores your faith in the great human project. Actually, I think I felt like that for some other reason lately, but I plum forget what it was.

I can hardly contain my glee about two new products hitting shelves this spring: Cowpots and Biobags.

Cowpots are biodegradable pots. You start seeds in them, and once they're grown you put the whole thing in the ground; no transplant shock. Wa, you're thinking. We already have those. They're called peat pots and they're not that rad.

But behold the Cowpot! It's made from (yeah) cowpats. A renewable resource, unlike those mysterious peat bogs I'm told to feel guilty about. And then, too: it's fertilizer! Now that's the kind of ingenuity that makes me proud to be an American. I think I maybe felt proud to be an American for some other reason lately, but damned if I can remember what it was.

Biobags are compostable plastic bags. You heard right, my friend. Compostable plastic bags, made (some alchemical way) from corn.

You take one of these bags, you put it in your compost pail, you fill the pail just like a trash can, and when the time comes to empty it into the compost it's not a household saga involving black sludge and fruitfly larvae. I have a package of them under my sink right now and every time I review that fact it blows my mind.

Compostable plastic bags! They go right in the compost! That's the coolest thing since what's his name. (Chazack. No. That's a Hebrew word meaning "be strong.") I mean, it starts with compost pails, but imagine the potential! I almost paid a grip of money to order a hundred pack of these little miracles online, but then I saw them just waiting for me, pretty as can be, in the household supplies aisle of Berkeley Bowl.

Goddamn. It's a new day.

(Chazack, Barack: you just might win this.)

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Obama's Real Platform

Barack Obama can be hard to see. He doesn't have a simple rallying-cry cause and his campaign is often derided as so much hazy inspiration. The more complicated truth is that he is running a meta-campaign that's about more than just The Issues. He has intelligently-considered, progressive stands on The Issues. (Here they are.) But his campaign, as I see it, revolves around two larger questions: What kind of politics do we want to have? And, who are we as a nation?


What kind of politics do we want to have?
Compared to war, to poverty, to global warming, this sounds like a trivial question. (To paraphrase John Edwards, how many kids does this help?) In fact, it is anything but trivial. Washington does not lack for policies and plans. The affliction to which so many of these policies succumb is the dread "partisan gridlock," the stepchild of a particular destructive style of politics. That would be the Nixonian, Clintonian, Rovian style: lie, double-talk, squirm out of blame on technicalities, destroy enemies, eschew ethics, break laws and grant pardons, be secretive, tout American democracy in word and resemble a banana republic dictator in deed. The ugly mess of the last seven years is as much the result of dirty politics as right-wing principles.


Who are we as a nation?
Are we a nation of overprivileged, overfed assholes who bully the less fortunate, hog the world’s resources and leave messes in our wake? Are we really what the Bush administration makes us appear to be? This is not only a question of “our image abroad.” It also pertains to our self-image. It determines both our actions as a country and our views of one another. Must we have perpetual shadow enemies on the other side of the political color wheel and define ourselves in opposition to the easily-disdained Other?

Obama thinks that kind of polarity diminishes all parties, and I agree. If coming of age in the Bush era has taught me anything, it has taught me that. Obama has a compelling vision of national cohesion, and I admire it. It’s a vision that he, himself representing a multiplicity of cultures, is uniquely suited to midwife into reality.

If George Bush is the cowboy conquering the natives, Barack Obama is the melting pot personified. With him at the helm, we would instantly shed the Nation of Assholes image and instead tap into a prouder American legacy: the nation of immigrants with big dreams. Individual, imperfect, bearing the various scars of so many historical wounds, different from each other in every possible way, but inextricably bound together.

“Out of many, we are one.”

When Obama spoke these words in sonorous baritone after his landslide win in the racially-fraught South Carolina primary, I cried. Critics and cynics can write off his "pretty speeches," but you can't speak with that kind of power and resonance without really having the goods. He doesn't just give his audiences the candy they want, either. At Martin Luther King's old church, he chided black America for failing to embrace "our gay brothers and sisters." No one cheered. But he still said it.

* * *

Maybe it's time we called into question the idea of defining candidates foremostly by their stands on Issues. Is that even what presidencies are based on? Have an agenda in the campaign, enact it in office? Did Bush run on starting wars and racking up debt? Character matters because in the end, that’s all we’ve really got. Candidates can say anything in a campaign; it might bear no relation to how they govern. (Remember, "uniter, not divider"?) Times and issues change. Real character is the only sturdy campaign promise.

Obama is not pure as the driven snow. I know about Rezko and “present” votes and leaving the butter out. But I think his effort to engage in a politics of integrity is genuine. (Ironically, because he is pegged as the idealist candidate, he is lambasted for every “You’re likable enough”-type slip, while Clinton's Machiavellian tactics are forgiven as tough politics that Obama “better get used to.”)

And, by the way, he has the progressive bona fides and he's proud of them. He worked as an organizer on the South Side of Chicago. He squandered his Harvard law degree on civil rights work. Many on the left are suspicious of the fact that he doesn’t jump in front of every conservative he sees and say, “Let’s fight!” He is not perpetually antagonistic like Edwards or Kucinich, and apparently some find his geniality disappointing.

Me, I’m just sick of it all. I'm sad about our national downward spiral. I'm weary of the bullshit artistry and the vitriol and the pitting of teams against one another. I don’t care about winning every argument. I want good things to actually happen.

Speech at Ebenezer Baptist, 1/20/08



South Carolina Victory Speech, 1/26/08

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People Who Are Not Black...

Introducing a delightful new parlor game! To play now, just scroll past my blabbering.

In honor of tomorrow's South Carolina primary, where black voters appear ready to embrace the Obamanomenon, let's take a little walk down memory lane.

Almost exactly a year ago, self-described pundit Debra Dickerson wrote a thoughtful piece for Salon about Obama and race. Her take on what Obama represents for both black and white Americans was carefully reasoned and insightful.

Until this:

"Since the issue was always framed as a battle between gender and race...I didn't have the heart (or the stomach) to point out the obvious: Obama isn't black. " (My emboldening.)

She went on:

"'Black,' in our political and social reality, means those descended from West African slaves. Voluntary immigrants of African descent (even those descended from West Indian slaves) are just that, voluntary immigrants of African descent... "

Stephen Colbert had Dickerson on soon after the article and its attendant flap. "It sounds to me like you are judging blackness not on the color of someone's skin, but on the content of their character," said Colbert. "Which I think realizes Dr. King's dream in a very special way."

Now, in fairness, I understand what Dickerson was driving at: Obama's heritage makes him very different from most African Americans. (She seems to want to imply that he has no baggage; I would submit that he has different baggage, including the kind that riles Dickerson.) It should also be noted that exactly half of what makes Obama different from other African Americans is that he's also white. So, perhaps Dickerson could have said he's of mixed racial descent or his ancestors were not slaves in this country or he's a newer member of the American black community or he's a brother by another mother...

But to call him "not black"?

Taking this assertion to its many logical conclusions makes for a delightful parlor game. I call it


People Who Are Not Black
(If Barack Obama Is Not Black)

WORLD LEADER TYPES
Nelson Mandela (South Africa)
Kofi Annan (Ghana)

HIP HOP PIONEERS
Slick Rick (England)
Afrika Bambaataa (Caribbean somewhere)
Grandmaster Flash (Barbados)
DJ Kool Herc (Jamaica)


Did you know hip hop was founded not by black people, but voluntary immigrants of African descent?

HOTTIES THE BLACK COMMUNITY HAD BEST HANG ON TO
John Amaechi (England/Nigeria)
Karrine "Superhead" Steffans (St. Thomas)
Idris Elba (England/Sierra Leone/Ghana)

Is Dickerson ready to banish eye candy Stringer Bell?


TWO OF MY FAVE ENTERTAINMENT REPORTERS
Sal Masekela [+ his jazzman, pops, of course] (South Africa)
Lola Ogunnaike (Nigeria)

PEOPLE I KNOW
My Riverside extended fam Zaid, Russom, Astena, Dibora, Helen and Raquel (Eritrea)
Elementary school chums Gian (Trinidad) and Brona (Ireland/Guyana)
Garden class hero Dylan (Belize)

Which cutie planting tomatoes is black and which isn't?

CELEBRATED AUTHORS
Zadie Smith (England/Jamaica)
Claude McKay (Jamaica)
Jamaica Kincaid (no, not Jamaica: Antigua)

SERIOUSLY, THESE PEOPLE AREN'T BLACK?
Marcus Garvey (Jamaica)
Biggie Smalls (Jamaica)

Maybe his murder case will be solved now that he's not black!

MORE MISC MUSIC CELEBS
Rihanna (Barbados)

Seal (England/Nigeria)
Sean Kingston (Jamaica)
Akon (Senegal)

Marleys, all (Jamaica)
Wyclef Jean (Haiti)

CNN INTERNATIONAL ANCHORS ON WHOM MY BOYFRIEND HAS CRUSH
Isha Sesay (England/Sierra Leone)

He does have a point.

All those guys hanging out at Oakland cafes (Ethiopia/Eritrea)
Population of African continent (Africa)
Non-American diaspora of African descent (all countries outside U.S. and Africa)


OH YEAH, AND...
Barack Obama (Kenya/Kansas white folks)


Who'd I forget?


Research assistance by Crimson & Associates.

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Who I'm Worshiping Now

I've oft been accused of fickle hero worship. Of course that's hogwash. Anyway, here's


WHO I'M WORSHIPING NOW
THE MEDIA EDITION


Can you name all six?



1. Shrill, sexist and weak on the life philosophy,
but he nails the Clinton connivery every time.



2. The guys go on to starring roles
while she holds it down Gilda Radner-style.



3. "Those of us who have struggled to get our minds around the notion that a man who looks like Barack Obama could be the next president of the United States can no longer take easy refuge in the disappointments of history."




4. Rural Life makes great election-coverage detox.




5. Somehow: sexy?




6. "Her argument against Obama now boils down to an argument against idealism, which is probably the lowest and most unlikely point to which any Clinton could sink."





See, it was still about Obama. I warned you, fair reader.

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I Got a Crush On...

Okay, I admit it. Reluctantly.

It's irrational, and probably unjustified. Which, I suppose, is what makes it a crush.

He voted for the border fence. He pussed out on that Iran vote. His health care plan was described by one expert (=activist I know) as "terrible." My expert did note, however, that his plan was "no worse than the other two."

So, okay. No worse than the other two is a start. If he's no worse than the other two on Issues, and has that early war opposition going for him, perhaps I can rationalize this by explaining why he wins the other event, Character.

First, this out of the way: Hillary Clinton is a politicobot and we all know it. What's more, I don't appreciate being a pawn in whatever sick hold-my-hand-through-Lewinsky-and-I'll-make-you-president pact this pair has going. Don't drag us into your twisted marriage.

The Clintons act like they get to appoint presidents. And I love how Bill Clinton, having apparently promised this appointment, can't quite seem to follow through. He keeps accidentally (subconsciously?) sabotaging her campaign with his little unscripted Bubba moments.

Oh, but she's a woman? You have to be kidding me. This is some great feminist victory, for the first female president to be a former first lady installed by her husband's political machine? I wash my hands of it.

This too: John Edwards is a weasel. His "populist message" is so much focus-grouped branding bullshit, and he has conveniently shifted that brand from "defender of the poor" to "defender of the middle class"--which, really, could mean anything. Freaking Lou Dobbs thinks he's "defending the middle class."

And however much I might agree that evil corporations are pulling the marionette strings of America, etc, this message is hardly fresh and exciting. Or even utmostly important, considering the many crucial questions we face about war, immigration, global warming, gay rights. He could have done this pseudo-populist shtick in any decade of the 20th century. Come on: this guy's clearly full of shit.

Great, that's out of the way.

Now: Character. This is quite a squirmy topic. I was raised in the kind of old-school lefty household in which Issues mattered and "character" was pretty much considered a made-up concept. (Needless to say, this posed problems beyond politics, but we shan't dally down that road.) My belief was, you vote for the guy whose positions are most correct. Period.

If I start talking about character, it seems inevitable that I'll spew crap like, Character is something you can't really explain, you just have to see it, hear it, feel it. Crap that calls into question one's seriousness and understanding of politics. That makes one sound like the kind of dumbshit who subconsciously chooses a candidate based on the symmetry of his teeth.

But...I must. Because he's got it. It's there in his biography, his experience (if Hillary Clinton hasn't trademarked that word yet.) It's there in his voice, which I could SO listen to for four to eight years.

Barack Obama is the realness.

I trust that he is not running for the presidency just to satisfy narcissistic urges, and that's a rare treat in and of itself. I trust him to show insight, integrity, and good judgment. I trust him to deliberate presidential decisions with probity. Scandalous and shameful though it may be, I think these things matter.



Philosopher-king.


And I relate to him. The other candidates seem to be from another planet (in Kucinich's case, Mars) never mind another generation.

I've only read one of the eight thousand biographies of Abraham Lincoln, and I've gleaned what I know about Obama from sources other than his memoirs (dreading that their politiciany tone would crush my crush), but I do see similarities between the two. They faced outward challenges and internal struggles as young men and they grappled, learning complex lessons that go beyond mere policy. Obama strikes me as capable of becoming a Lincolnesque philospher-king.

Notice I said "capable." He also seems capable of avoiding decisions so as not to disappoint any constituency. Those people-pleasing tendencies I talked about in an old post are a serious hazard. Then again, he also also seems capable of admitting mistakes (preferably using the phrase "bone-headed"), which is everyone's new favorite thing after seven years of Bush.

I never thought I would agree with Andrew Sullivan on anything--well, other than, "I like men"--but his article in the December Atlantic made an excellent point: Obama could help us "get beyond the symbolic battles of the Boomer generation and face today’s actual problems." Amen.

Would Joe Biden care to be his running mate?

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Always Got the Hind Tit

BOOK REVIEW
Little Heathens




Just when this blog was aching for some white and WASPy subject matter, here comes Little Heathens: Hard Times and High Spirits on an Iowa Farm During the Great Depression, a memoir penned by my new imaginary grandma, Mildred Armstrong Kalish.

Little Heathens is deeply cute. And when I say something is cute, by no means am I calling it trivial or cloying. I take my cuteness quite seriously. This book is cute as in wholesome, heart-warming and earnest. It made me feel like I was curled up beside a fire eating fresh-baked cookies in a fuzzy bathrobe with a kitten in my lap.

Speaking of kittens, here's how Kalish and her younger sister bundled up on cold winter nights:

After placing a thick featherbed on the mattress, we covered it with a heavy flannel double-length blanket, which we tucked in at the foot of the bed, creating a snug sack...After donning our heavy wool nighties, we hopped into bed and pulled the blankets and quilts completely over our heads, then snuggled together like two spoons. We were permitted one or two kittens, which would find us on their own and snuggle at our feet near the warm stones.

Permitted one or two kittens. To think, I permit myself one or two kittens regularly.

Harsh Iowa winters are only the beginning. Kalish and her siblings and cousins--the "little heathens" of the title--survive endless chores, lash-enforced rules, a scarcity of modern medicine and mind-boggling levels of thrift. (Scrape insides of eggshells with your finger so as not to miss any precious egg whites.) Kalish's family leaps high hurdles to fulfill basic needs. Just to get dinner on the table, the pig has to be slaughtered, the water pumped, the wood gathered, the fire started, the eggs collected, the vegetables picked, the bread baked.

Oh yeah, and it's the Great Depression.

But the book is written from a child's perspective, and it's really about the best kind of kid stuff: running ecstatically through a rainstorm, picking sun-warmed strawberries, inhaling the sweet smell of a lamb's fur, and tagging along after the Big Kids. The Little Kids, among whom eighty-four year-old Kalish counts herself, are always "getting the hind tit." (Among barnyard litters, the runts settle for the less milky, rearward mammary glands.)

The country pleasures in this book are made all the sweeter by the fact that you get to read with curiosity about the frigid outhouses and entire tedious days spent on laundry without having to experience either.

After one Iowa winter too many, Kalish eventually moved to California. "I prefer to sit by an open fire and listen to Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra sing songs about the ice and the cold and the snow," she writes, "rather than experiencing them firsthand."

Likewise, Little Heathens is the best way to experience, secondhand, childhood on an Iowa farm during the Great Depression.

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Superhead, Meet Supercleb

BOOK REVIEW
Confessions of a Video Vixen



Got a chick named Super-head
She give super-head
Just moved in the buildin, even gave the super head
Jadakiss, "Blood Pressure"

So begins the story of the most hated woman in hip hop. Well, not with the super getting head, but with Ja Rule and his Murder Inc. compatriots re-gifting the nickname Jadakiss had originally bestowed on the generous lady friend in the song.

Karrine Steffans, hip hop groupie, "video vixen" was the recipient.

I was finally able to get my grubby little hands on her 2005 memoir sans the shame of having to admit I was buying it (great Hannukkah present, Bri, thanks!) and devoured it within seventeen hours of arrival. That the book discussed the respective endowments of Shaq and Vin Diesel had nothing to do with my reading pace.

Want the rest of the list? Kool G Rap, Ice T, Ja Rule, Irv Gotti, "Papa" (=Method Man, according to Crim & Assoc.), Puffy, Ray J, Fred Durst (random!), Xzibit, DMX, Bobby Brown, Jay-Z, Dr. Dre, Usher, probably hundreds of unnamed athletes and music industry execs.

Sup, you could do with some editing. Of those, only Method Man, Vin Diesel and maybe Xzibit actually seem sexy when you think about it. And when you read about it.

Don't read this book unless you're prepared to have a big shit taken on your sexual fantasies about rappers. Kool G Rap beats her, Irv Gotti pimps her. Most of the rest take their fellatio apportionment with bizarre matter-of-factness, buy her some shit and move on.

And she doles out the apportionments in kind, with skillful efficiency. There are actual torrid affairs with a few of the aforementioned, but what takes place with most is a weird, sterile transaction in which both parties seem to know they have to do this, so they get on with it, already. The more famous the man, the less pleasant the sex: witness her mediocre fifteen minutes with Puffy (p. 149), gross baths in Shaq's copious sweat (p. 144) and grimy, late-night hotel encounter with Dr. Dre before he started working out (p. 115).

But the book never really tries to explain why. Readers get to see her being cruelly abused as a child and raped at age thirteen; we generally gather that she has a great gaping void which must be filled with famous cock. She does explain that, through all of it, she is miserable, addicted to fame, money and drugs.

But with her standing right there at the crossroads of so many fascinating social forces--race, fame, sex, gender, hip hop--I couldn't help wanting her to apply more of that fellatistic ambition to her writing, to give me not just the wheres and the hows and what they ordered from room service, but the WHY DID YOU DO THIS?

Maybe it's unfair of me to expect so much in the way of analytical skills from Sup. Although she does reclaim her by-then-shameful nickname at the end of the book's journey, explaining that in England "superhead" means something like "brainiac."

Gripes aside, I like Sup. She certainly does keep it real. It's no fun having the great army of hip hop ready to kill you with its bare hands. She broke the unspoken code and infuriated rappers and their followings, which says a lot about who the code hurt and helped in the first place.

They didn't see it coming, which is kind of delicious. You just get the feeling that all those guys thought they were in the warm mouth of a pleasure robot, not a living woman who just might fuck and tell.

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