Being an English graduate, I thought it was high time I offered some textual analysis to the untold millions who read this blog every day. My liberal arts degree, however, makes me a pretentious bastard almost by default, so instead of talking about Chaucer or Blake, I've decided to bang on about a little-known hip hop artist.
The little-known hip hop artist in question goes by the name of Sage Francis. Originating in Rhode Island, he belongs to the sub-genre known as slam poetry. From what I can tell, slam is a form of hip hop that shares common ground with beat poetry, although it could also just be another name for quality American rap.
Francis alternates between introspection and political commentary; sometimes on the same record, at other times devoting an entire album to one or the other. Album titles tend to reflect this; for example, A Healthy Distrust is his most politicised offering to date, while Personal Journals is almost entirely a work of self-analysis.
An example from the latter album is Runaways, a hymn for children who are lost in any sense of the word. It evokes the image of a faceless drifter, always looking for home, but being unable to find it: " I kind of look familiar, my name is on the tip of your tongue / The lost look on my face makes you play dumb / Say something colloquial, / I need to get my bearings and a feel for where I'm at". The album leaks painful emotion, although there's always a cynical undercurrent: "Yeah, if these walls could talk, they wouldn't shut the fuck up."
Over on the political side, we have Makeshift Patriot, an almost unheard-of song that is perhaps Francis's greates single achievement. Released in October 2001 (note the date), it assumes the voice of a reporter covering 9/11 to expose how the media abuses tragedy. The lyrics are almost a half-and-half mix of historical reconstruction and political insight. Lines like "The hospitals are overwhelmed. / Volunteers need to go the hell home. / Moment of silence for firefighters were interrupted by cell phones" mingle with observations such as "We'll tell you who to pump your fist at / And whose boot is right to kiss. / We don't know who the enemy is yet... but he looks like this."
Francis can be whimsical too. Check out Bridle, a song about a serious subject that nonetheless revels in word-painting: "He's pullin' on the rains, the bridle, the shower, the storm, / The maze, the high tower, clouds are at war…" He's also capable of pushing the boundaries of bad taste: "All for the sake of military recruitment / It felt like Kent State the way they targeted the students."
Perhaps the man's greatest single talent is for mixed metaphors - a device that's normally both accidental and annoying, but manages to be neither in Francis's lyrics. This should become apparent in the excerpt below, but here's a couple of examples: "He sold his own shirt off his back for cheap exposure"; "My pedestal was too tall to climb off / In fact, that's the reason for the high horse." Wordplay in general is a constant pleasure when listening to his records: "I freedom-kiss the French for their political dissent."
I guess what I'm trying to say is this: listen to Sage Francis's music. Even those who dislike rap should at least give it a try - the man single-handedly got me back into hip hop after years of being disillusioned by Dr Dre and pissed off with Fifty Cent. You can look him up on YouTube, or here: http://www.strangefamousrecords.com/index.php?main_page=page&id=16 .
I'm going to finish this with an excerpt from Slow Down Ghandi, a song that is very much a liberal call-to-arms. I've chosen the middle section because it's possibly the longest moment of sustained lyrical brilliance I've ever come across - and also one of the best arguments for lyrics being a form of poetry. I'm having to ad-lib the punctuation, and I'm quoting more or less from memory, so please forgive any mistakes. Anyway: ladies and gentlemen, for your delectation... Mr Sage Francis.
Slow Down Ghandi (exerpt) - Sage Francis
...Now it's whistle-blowers versus the pistol-holders.
Case dismissed.
They'll lock you up and throw away the key witness.
Justice is the will of a judge - check his chest density;
It leaves much room for error, and the rest left to destiny.
The West Memphis Three lost paradise,
Now it's death penalty vs suicidal tendencies.
All I wanted was a fucking Pepsi.
Institution. Making you think you're crazy is a billion-dollar industry.
If they could see sanity in a bottle they'd be charging for compressed air.
They're marketing healthcare.
They demonised welfare. Middle class eliminated.
Rich get richer till the poor get educated.
But some of y'all haven't grown into your face yet,
And your face doesn't quite match your head.
And I'm waiting for a brain to fill the dead space that's left -
You're all "Give me ethnicity or give me dreads."
Trustafundian rebel, without a cause for alarm,
Because when push comes to shove
You'll jump into your forefather's arms.
He's a banker: you're part of the system.
Off come the dreadlocks, in comes the income
The briefcase - the freebase.
The sickness - the sympton.
When the cameras start rolling, stay the fuck out of the picture, pilgrim!
The briefcase - the freebase.
The sickness - the sympton.
When the cameras start rolling...
Slow down, Ghandi. You're killing 'em.
Saturday 28 June 2008
Friday 27 June 2008
Is beauty in the tie of the beholder?
It's a strange phenomenon, especially in the face of people who say things like "opposites attract", but it generally seems to hold true: we are attracted to people who dress like us.
Why is this? There are a number of possibilities. Being too lazy to research any relevant studies, I am going to use the one example available to myself - me - while exploring them. So I apologise in advance if this well-meant article meanders off into the realm of self-indulgence.
Anyway: some kind of physical profile is probably in order. At time of writing, I have long hair and a short beard (hence my pretensions of Vikingosity), and tend to dress fairly casually if given the option. Insofar as people are attracted to me at all, they tend to be similarly casual. Occasionally their attire will lean slightly towards the gothic, or toe the line of being preppy, but they never seem to occupy a completely different sartorial slot to myself (and no, this is not a polite way of saying I am only attractive to ugly women; I suspect it's rare for me to be the looker in any romantic or sexual coupling). Similarly, while I can find celebrities - who are to all intents and purposes fictional from my point of view - to be attractive regardless of the niche their clothing represents, I tend to dismiss real-life women who don't share similarities of style with myself.
There are some interesting points that come out of this. One is that we - or, at least, I - don't always fancy people that we might be expected to. I'm thinking about a certain type of woman at the moment; a type that we would all recognise immediately, but that seems to lack a label. Nobody should be without a brand in this day and age, so I shall invent one for them. I dub them Picture Perfects.
Everyone knows a few Picture Perfects. They tend to be blonde, slim without being skinny, extremely pretty and possessors of a tan that is at least not obviously fake. Their dress sense can perhaps best be described as well-appointed, and their make-up is expertly applied to accentuate their features. This isn't sarcasm, by the way. These women are almost objectively gorgeous.
They don't fancy me, of course. That's hardly surprising; compared to them, I'm a slob. But here's the thing: I don't fancy them either. And that's bizarre: in the hierarchy of attractiveness, they are obviously a class or two above me. Their company and acceptance is something I should logically strive towards. I should at the very least fulfil the old stereotype of desiring what I cannot have. But I don't. And if I feel this way, I'm willing to assume that other people do, to.
So: why not? Why am I not attracted to undeniably beautiful girls? I'm inclined to think that our old friend tribalism comes into play here. In love, as in everything else, we are attracted to people similar to ourselves. Freud, were he alive and whiling away his inexplicably lengthy existence by reading this blog, would not doubt agree with me.
I also suspect that a form of sartorial fishing is going on here. It's a lot easier to decide what to wear than who to be attracted to. Resultingly, were are surely likely to adjust our personal look to suit those that we wish to woo. Prejudice undoubtedly plays a part: we tend to make assumptions about people we consider to be unlike us, generally negative ones. In honesty, this all seems to go back to tribalism again...
Of course, I could be confusing cause with symptom. If I assume that Picture Perfects won't be attracted to me, I'm unlikely to ever find out if they are - especially as they are almost certainly the kind of women who prefer men to make the first move. And such an assumption might also prevent me from finding them attractive in the first place - believing them to be unobtainable, I might write them off automatically. This could be the same logic that prevents me, apparently uniquely in the world of straight men, from nurturing a pointless attraction to lesbians.
To those who don't know me, and a fair few who do, this might all sound like whinging; an attempt to rationalise my non-Alpha position in the pecking order. But that would miss the point. Why should I care? I don't want Picture Perfects, or townies, or vamps, to want me, because I don't want them. I fancy girls who wear dreadlocks or comfortable jeans or those weird gypsy hairband things that look cool for some reason. And, wonderfully, from time to time one of those girls will reciprocate.
See? I warned you this would get self indulgent. Best to quit while I'm behind, so I'll end the most superficial of my blogs yet with these equally superficial words: I may not know much about women, but I know what I like.
Why is this? There are a number of possibilities. Being too lazy to research any relevant studies, I am going to use the one example available to myself - me - while exploring them. So I apologise in advance if this well-meant article meanders off into the realm of self-indulgence.
Anyway: some kind of physical profile is probably in order. At time of writing, I have long hair and a short beard (hence my pretensions of Vikingosity), and tend to dress fairly casually if given the option. Insofar as people are attracted to me at all, they tend to be similarly casual. Occasionally their attire will lean slightly towards the gothic, or toe the line of being preppy, but they never seem to occupy a completely different sartorial slot to myself (and no, this is not a polite way of saying I am only attractive to ugly women; I suspect it's rare for me to be the looker in any romantic or sexual coupling). Similarly, while I can find celebrities - who are to all intents and purposes fictional from my point of view - to be attractive regardless of the niche their clothing represents, I tend to dismiss real-life women who don't share similarities of style with myself.
There are some interesting points that come out of this. One is that we - or, at least, I - don't always fancy people that we might be expected to. I'm thinking about a certain type of woman at the moment; a type that we would all recognise immediately, but that seems to lack a label. Nobody should be without a brand in this day and age, so I shall invent one for them. I dub them Picture Perfects.
Everyone knows a few Picture Perfects. They tend to be blonde, slim without being skinny, extremely pretty and possessors of a tan that is at least not obviously fake. Their dress sense can perhaps best be described as well-appointed, and their make-up is expertly applied to accentuate their features. This isn't sarcasm, by the way. These women are almost objectively gorgeous.
They don't fancy me, of course. That's hardly surprising; compared to them, I'm a slob. But here's the thing: I don't fancy them either. And that's bizarre: in the hierarchy of attractiveness, they are obviously a class or two above me. Their company and acceptance is something I should logically strive towards. I should at the very least fulfil the old stereotype of desiring what I cannot have. But I don't. And if I feel this way, I'm willing to assume that other people do, to.
So: why not? Why am I not attracted to undeniably beautiful girls? I'm inclined to think that our old friend tribalism comes into play here. In love, as in everything else, we are attracted to people similar to ourselves. Freud, were he alive and whiling away his inexplicably lengthy existence by reading this blog, would not doubt agree with me.
I also suspect that a form of sartorial fishing is going on here. It's a lot easier to decide what to wear than who to be attracted to. Resultingly, were are surely likely to adjust our personal look to suit those that we wish to woo. Prejudice undoubtedly plays a part: we tend to make assumptions about people we consider to be unlike us, generally negative ones. In honesty, this all seems to go back to tribalism again...
Of course, I could be confusing cause with symptom. If I assume that Picture Perfects won't be attracted to me, I'm unlikely to ever find out if they are - especially as they are almost certainly the kind of women who prefer men to make the first move. And such an assumption might also prevent me from finding them attractive in the first place - believing them to be unobtainable, I might write them off automatically. This could be the same logic that prevents me, apparently uniquely in the world of straight men, from nurturing a pointless attraction to lesbians.
To those who don't know me, and a fair few who do, this might all sound like whinging; an attempt to rationalise my non-Alpha position in the pecking order. But that would miss the point. Why should I care? I don't want Picture Perfects, or townies, or vamps, to want me, because I don't want them. I fancy girls who wear dreadlocks or comfortable jeans or those weird gypsy hairband things that look cool for some reason. And, wonderfully, from time to time one of those girls will reciprocate.
See? I warned you this would get self indulgent. Best to quit while I'm behind, so I'll end the most superficial of my blogs yet with these equally superficial words: I may not know much about women, but I know what I like.
Saturday 21 June 2008
Keep on votin'
So the Irish have rejected the Lisbon Treaty. The debate has now shifted to what we need to do next - if, indeed, anything should be done at all.
The EU's reaction, and the resulting counter-reaction, have exposed yet another flaw in the idea of the referenda system as democratic perfection. Europe's bigwigs are considering a number of options - to carry on without Ireland or any other states that do not ratify the Treaty; to try to convince the Irish to change their minds in a later vote, possibly by changing the treaty to favour that country a little better; or to just write the whole thing off as dead in the water. Of the above, any choice other than the third would make a lot of Europhobes red in the face with righteous indignation. I am encountering the phrase "when will they realise that no means no?" on web forums, in the papers, on Newsnight. The suggestion is that a second vote, or a Lisbon Treaty that excludes Ireland, would now be undemocratic. This is an oversimplification which has passed into the territory of being simply wrong. When a member of the public expresses this opinion, it's understandable, as the reality is a little counter-intuitive. When it's used by a politician or the media, it's downright dishonest.
There are a number of obvious flaws to the 'no means no' argument, the most obvious being that it's a little shaky to declare a vote over a European issue that less than 1% of the European population is entitled to participate in as democratic. It is democratic for Ireland, not for Europe. But more to the point: while the right of the Irish public to a referendum over such matters is written into their constitution, there seems to be no framework for when or how often such referenda can be called. Eurosceptics are angry that, in theory in least, there is nothing to prevent the powers that be calling an election on Lisbon every few weeks until they get what they want, and such anger is understandable enough. But it's equally as ludicrous to suggest - as the "no means no" line seems to - that the vote on 13/06/08 must now stand for all time. The idea that it should in any way disallow Lisbon to be ratified with Ireland excluded is nothing less than insane.
Furthermore, it's apparent that a lot of the Irish voted against Lisbon not because they disagreed with it in principle, but because they didn't understand it. "If you don't know, vote no" has become a popular slogan, even if it is inherently contradictory: if you don't know about an issue, surely the logical solution is either to educate yourself beforehand or abstain, rather than screw up the figures for people who actually care about the outcome. It seems possible, even likely, that the Irish would be in favour of Lisbon were it properly explained to them, or perhaps with a few clarifications to ensure that Ireland's position on abortion, for example, could not be overruled by the EU.
A vote in which ignorance plays such a major contributing factor - disinformation seemed to be the word of the day for the No campaigners, with some people thinking that the Lisbon Treaty would ban families from having more than two children, and others believing that a Yes vote would be a vote to reinstate the death penalty - is not a victory for democracy, but rather puts democracy to shame. It is a rather good demonstration of the fact that the electorate cannot be expected to digest and understand a legal document that runs to over two hundred pages, and a further reason to argue as I have earlier ("Is This Democracy?", below) that a preferable system is for the people to periodically decide who they want to make such decisions rather than voting on every single decision separately.
If countries such as Ireland are going to have these votes enshrined in their constitution, some regulatory factors are probably a good idea. Perhaps there could be an annual vote, on a set day of each year, when any proposed changes to the constitution can be approved or discarded. But without set rules - and without the ridiculous idea that a one-off vote can decide on an issue for all eternity, even after the voters are all dead - then "no" does not mean "no", but only "not yet".
The EU's reaction, and the resulting counter-reaction, have exposed yet another flaw in the idea of the referenda system as democratic perfection. Europe's bigwigs are considering a number of options - to carry on without Ireland or any other states that do not ratify the Treaty; to try to convince the Irish to change their minds in a later vote, possibly by changing the treaty to favour that country a little better; or to just write the whole thing off as dead in the water. Of the above, any choice other than the third would make a lot of Europhobes red in the face with righteous indignation. I am encountering the phrase "when will they realise that no means no?" on web forums, in the papers, on Newsnight. The suggestion is that a second vote, or a Lisbon Treaty that excludes Ireland, would now be undemocratic. This is an oversimplification which has passed into the territory of being simply wrong. When a member of the public expresses this opinion, it's understandable, as the reality is a little counter-intuitive. When it's used by a politician or the media, it's downright dishonest.
There are a number of obvious flaws to the 'no means no' argument, the most obvious being that it's a little shaky to declare a vote over a European issue that less than 1% of the European population is entitled to participate in as democratic. It is democratic for Ireland, not for Europe. But more to the point: while the right of the Irish public to a referendum over such matters is written into their constitution, there seems to be no framework for when or how often such referenda can be called. Eurosceptics are angry that, in theory in least, there is nothing to prevent the powers that be calling an election on Lisbon every few weeks until they get what they want, and such anger is understandable enough. But it's equally as ludicrous to suggest - as the "no means no" line seems to - that the vote on 13/06/08 must now stand for all time. The idea that it should in any way disallow Lisbon to be ratified with Ireland excluded is nothing less than insane.
Furthermore, it's apparent that a lot of the Irish voted against Lisbon not because they disagreed with it in principle, but because they didn't understand it. "If you don't know, vote no" has become a popular slogan, even if it is inherently contradictory: if you don't know about an issue, surely the logical solution is either to educate yourself beforehand or abstain, rather than screw up the figures for people who actually care about the outcome. It seems possible, even likely, that the Irish would be in favour of Lisbon were it properly explained to them, or perhaps with a few clarifications to ensure that Ireland's position on abortion, for example, could not be overruled by the EU.
A vote in which ignorance plays such a major contributing factor - disinformation seemed to be the word of the day for the No campaigners, with some people thinking that the Lisbon Treaty would ban families from having more than two children, and others believing that a Yes vote would be a vote to reinstate the death penalty - is not a victory for democracy, but rather puts democracy to shame. It is a rather good demonstration of the fact that the electorate cannot be expected to digest and understand a legal document that runs to over two hundred pages, and a further reason to argue as I have earlier ("Is This Democracy?", below) that a preferable system is for the people to periodically decide who they want to make such decisions rather than voting on every single decision separately.
If countries such as Ireland are going to have these votes enshrined in their constitution, some regulatory factors are probably a good idea. Perhaps there could be an annual vote, on a set day of each year, when any proposed changes to the constitution can be approved or discarded. But without set rules - and without the ridiculous idea that a one-off vote can decide on an issue for all eternity, even after the voters are all dead - then "no" does not mean "no", but only "not yet".
Sunday 15 June 2008
Losing the thread
I am writing this now for one reason, and one reason only: Facebook is, characteristically enough, refusing to load on my computer.
I feel cut off, ostracised, betrayed. I can't communicate. It's akin to losing your voice, only less of a shock, as it happens at least every three days. I'm one of those people who doesn't use Facebook for its social networking abilities. Instead, I primarily use it to argue with strangers. For some reason, this makes my inability to log on even more frustrating.
Facebook, along with sites of a similar nature, has become one of the most recent addictive substances of modern society. This is far from being a big deal: a new narcotic appears almost every week. Computer games, sudoku, happy-slapping (sorry): our civilisation gets hooked on things novel at an alarming rate. But this one is actually strong enough to give me withdrawal symptoms. I'm not normally inclined that way - unlike about half of the population, I'm capable of going 24 hours sans mobile phone without hyperventilating - so why, when I have so many better things to do with my time, do I feel so angered by my estrangement from this one online service?
In part, it's down to social instinct. I know people on there; people I can only distinguish by a name, a photograph and a writing style, but to whose defence I feel compelled to leap to if necessary, often before discerning whether or not they actually deserve it. More importantly, I have enemies. I have productive and not-so-productive arguments going with half a dozen of them, and while I'm unable to contribute, they're given the last word by default. I need to pontificate, goddamnit!
To be honest, though, the above explanation seems like a smokescreen; something you believe wholeheartedly, but is nevertheless untrue. I suspect Facebook is a symptom of a deeper illness: the desire to make your mark. Why else would my reaction, on finding myself unable to post in beloved forums such as Government + Religion = Disaster, be to instantly start blogging instead? It smells of intellectual narcissism: I must have my say, people must be aware of my existence, they must listen to me, to me, to me.
It has to be said that this is nothing new, and certainly nothing to do with the information age. I may have a mild dependency issue with online communication, but it's normal to feel the need to interact with other people; in fact, anyone who doesn't is generally branded a sociopath. Despite its ubiquitousness in the modern world, the internet is capable of creating a certain stigma. If I met someone over the net, and subsequently started going out with them, I would probably find this embarrassing to admit to other people, even though there is no logical difference between finding love at work and finding love on Myspace.
[Note: while writing this, I've noticed that Facebook has actually managed to do its job properly and is now welcoming me with open arms. Too late. I've been sidetracked.]
Human beings need to be heard, to stand up and be counted. They often try to achieve this in spectacularly ineffective ways - when I argue with bigots and libertarians and Abba fans on Facebook, as when I write on this blog that nobody reads, I am clearly crying in the wilderness. Perhaps such things serve a similar function to dreams, or to talking to yourself: the audience, fictional or otherwise, is simply a device that allows you to marshal your own thoughts.
Or maybe I'm over-thinking it. This is something I'm used to doing, and I've been prevented from doing it. If I went down my local pub, only for it to tell me that it was suffering from an internal runtime error and could not process my request for a pint at this time, I'd be equally annoyed. But it remains that communicating online has become as normal as communicating in your home or workplace or bus stop, even if people on Facebook tend to refer to offline conversations as occurring in "the real world". We've been presented with an entire new dimension of existence, and - true to form - it's irritating us already.
I feel cut off, ostracised, betrayed. I can't communicate. It's akin to losing your voice, only less of a shock, as it happens at least every three days. I'm one of those people who doesn't use Facebook for its social networking abilities. Instead, I primarily use it to argue with strangers. For some reason, this makes my inability to log on even more frustrating.
Facebook, along with sites of a similar nature, has become one of the most recent addictive substances of modern society. This is far from being a big deal: a new narcotic appears almost every week. Computer games, sudoku, happy-slapping (sorry): our civilisation gets hooked on things novel at an alarming rate. But this one is actually strong enough to give me withdrawal symptoms. I'm not normally inclined that way - unlike about half of the population, I'm capable of going 24 hours sans mobile phone without hyperventilating - so why, when I have so many better things to do with my time, do I feel so angered by my estrangement from this one online service?
In part, it's down to social instinct. I know people on there; people I can only distinguish by a name, a photograph and a writing style, but to whose defence I feel compelled to leap to if necessary, often before discerning whether or not they actually deserve it. More importantly, I have enemies. I have productive and not-so-productive arguments going with half a dozen of them, and while I'm unable to contribute, they're given the last word by default. I need to pontificate, goddamnit!
To be honest, though, the above explanation seems like a smokescreen; something you believe wholeheartedly, but is nevertheless untrue. I suspect Facebook is a symptom of a deeper illness: the desire to make your mark. Why else would my reaction, on finding myself unable to post in beloved forums such as Government + Religion = Disaster, be to instantly start blogging instead? It smells of intellectual narcissism: I must have my say, people must be aware of my existence, they must listen to me, to me, to me.
It has to be said that this is nothing new, and certainly nothing to do with the information age. I may have a mild dependency issue with online communication, but it's normal to feel the need to interact with other people; in fact, anyone who doesn't is generally branded a sociopath. Despite its ubiquitousness in the modern world, the internet is capable of creating a certain stigma. If I met someone over the net, and subsequently started going out with them, I would probably find this embarrassing to admit to other people, even though there is no logical difference between finding love at work and finding love on Myspace.
[Note: while writing this, I've noticed that Facebook has actually managed to do its job properly and is now welcoming me with open arms. Too late. I've been sidetracked.]
Human beings need to be heard, to stand up and be counted. They often try to achieve this in spectacularly ineffective ways - when I argue with bigots and libertarians and Abba fans on Facebook, as when I write on this blog that nobody reads, I am clearly crying in the wilderness. Perhaps such things serve a similar function to dreams, or to talking to yourself: the audience, fictional or otherwise, is simply a device that allows you to marshal your own thoughts.
Or maybe I'm over-thinking it. This is something I'm used to doing, and I've been prevented from doing it. If I went down my local pub, only for it to tell me that it was suffering from an internal runtime error and could not process my request for a pint at this time, I'd be equally annoyed. But it remains that communicating online has become as normal as communicating in your home or workplace or bus stop, even if people on Facebook tend to refer to offline conversations as occurring in "the real world". We've been presented with an entire new dimension of existence, and - true to form - it's irritating us already.
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