Numerous studies and sciences flourished under the prosperity and eclectic integration of Islamic culture and civilization during the Abbasid Caliphate. Scholars, many of whom came from wealthy backgrounds, found themselves stimulated and encouraged by the world around them. With so little knowledge previously attained, so much was available for gain. Relative to the rest of the world at the time, Islam was in a veritable era of enlightenment. Many of those studying, researching, and experimenting in and around the cultural hub of Baghdad made advancements both specialized and generalized that shaped, and, in many cases, created, some of today’s most prominent and paramount schools and disciplines.
Two such scholars are Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi, an astronomer and mathematician, and Abū Yūsuf Yaʻqūb ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī, who, though he is most commonly cited for his philosophical treatises, was exceptionally studious and influential in seemingly every science he explored. Though there was little overlap in their specific endeavors, both worked to incorporate and learn from the Greek scholars of the past, who the Europeans had long-since disregarded and would not reinvestigate until the extent of their knowledge had already been tapped by Islamic civilization.
Abd al-Rahman al-Sufi, or, as he is known in the Western world, Azophi, was born on the seventh of December in the year 903, according to the Gregorian calendar. A Persian, Al-Sufi was raised and lived his entire life in the comfort of Emire Add ad-Daula’s court in Isfahan. Though he was an expert in both mathematics and astronomy, the former was more a facilitator of his successes in the latter, rather than a dedicated focus of its own.
Al-Sufi began his studies on the foundations laid by Ptolemy in his Mathematike Syntaxis (“The Mathematical Arrangement”), which was translated into Arabic under the Abbasids in 827. The translated work was titled Almagest, a corruption of the Greek word, megiste, meaning “greatest”. Al-Sufi was the first to attempt to relate Greek and Arabic astrology through star names and constellations (a difficult task due to marginal concurrence) in his most lasting and notable publication, Kitab al-Kawatib al-Thabit al-Musawwar (“Book of Fixed Stars”).
The book was a calculated documentation of the celestial globe, as written and illustrated in accordance with Greek and Arabic astronomy. In it, al-Sufi corrected many errors in Ptolemy’s data, particularly the brightness and magnitudes of various stars. He presented 1,018 stars by constellation, each depicted by two illustrations: one from outside (as it would appear in the context of space), and one from within the celestial globe (as it would appear from Earth). Several astral bodies debut in the book, among them the Omnicrum Velorum cluster and the Large Magellanic Cloud (al-Bakr, or “White Ox”), which he also noted was only visible from Southern Arabia, near the Strait of Babd al-Mandab. The work is also the first known documentation of the Andromeda Galaxy. Called “Little Cloud” and drawn near the mouth of the Arabic constellation, “Big Fish,” the galaxy is proved to’ve been discovered at least 648 years before the invention of the telescope enabled its premier in European science (it is speculated that Andromeda had actually been known by Isfahan astronomers even before 905).
Al-Sufi also wrote on and proposed many different uses and applications of the astrolabe, which had been appropriated into Islamic study by fellow mathematician and astronomer, Abu abdallah Muhammad ibn Ibrahim al-Fazari. He died on the 25th of May in the year 986.
To this day, Kitab al-Kawatib al-Thabit al-Musawwar is used to study and observe proper motions and long-period variables of the stars. Additionally, many of the star names assigned by al-Sufi are still used, though in their corrupted Western forms. Beyond these examples, the direct and indirect contributions and influence of al-Sufi’s work are difficult to quantify, but the significance of his highly-advanced celestial mapping is undeniable. Though it took the Europeans quite some time before they were able to accept his work into their own studies, it eventually provided them with access to two cultures’ worth of compiled astronomic calculation and study, surely catalyzing further progression and development. Acknowledging this, the astronomy community has paid respect by naming both a lunar crater (Azophi) and a minor planet (12621 Alsufi) after him.
Though he is most acclaimed for his philosophical treatises, Abū Yūsuf Yaʻqūb ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī, or Alkindus to the West, was a scholar of virtually established study of his day (astrology, astronomy, cosmology, chemistry, logic, mathematics, music, physics, psychology, and meteorology, among others). Descendent of the Kinda tribe originating in Najd, al-Kindī was born, raised, and received his early education in Kufa before moving to Baghdad, where he thenceforth found himself in steady employ of the caliphs to continue his research and teaching.
Al-Kindī was the first Muslim Peripatetic philosopher, drawing from separately from Aristotle and Plato’s teachings to introduce Greek and Hellenistic culture and philosophy to the Arab world. His most lasting work is On First Philosophy, in which he puts forth the introductory thought and insights that establish him as the first legitimate Muslim philosopher. Al-Kindī’s writing sees an obvious parallel between metaphysics (which, he said, is the knowledge of God) and theology. He describes God as an absolute one, composed of a solitary body, contrasted by the rest of existence, which, though possibly singular in a particular context, is invariably multiple in another. A flock of birds may only be one flock, but that one flock is comprised of multiple birds. The one God, however, is comprised solely of Himself. Additionally, al-Kindī writes of God as a Creator, and that the universe is of his deliberate action. Both of these theories were disputed by later Muslim philosophers, but their concepts have nonetheless withstood.
Other major focuses of al-Kindī’s philosophical writing included an epistemologic assertion of humanity’s limited perception relative to universal concepts and truths, an immaterial soul, journeying to the afterlife with the corporeal form as little more than vessel (much in cue with myriad other faiths and philosophies), and progressive validation and qualification of philosophers versus prophets and the disparity between their communication and projection of ideas.
Al-Kindī’s other advancements were as many as they were varied. Appointed to the House of Wisdom by the caliph, he contributed many translated texts to the progressive library. A cryptologist, he introduced Indian numerals to Islamic and Christian study and developed the frequency analysis method of solving ciphers. This mathematics familiarity, coupled with experience in medicine, enabled him to create a scale by which a medicine’s potency could be quantified, an invaluable step in pharmacology. A chemist, he was the first to debunk alchemy on the whole - in particular the potential transformation of crude materials into silver or gold - in his works, Warning Against the Deceptions of the Alchemists and Refutation of the Claim of Those Who Claim the Artificial Fabrication of Gold and Silver. He also was the first to isolate ethanol, contributing to its now countless uses. Al-Kindī compared and contrasted Aristotelian and Eclidian physics, particularly in the realm of optics, deeming Euclidian the more accurate of the two schools by his shared theory of light rays following a straight path, now accepted as fact. Adept with scent, he is credited as the father of the perfume industry. Pioneering experimental psychology, he revealed that sensation is proportionate to stimulus, studied dream theories and interpretation, and practiced mental and physical music therapy. Perhaps most curiously, al-Kindī also wrote the earliest known investigation of environmentalism and pollution, discussing resource contamination and improper waste disposal, insight that is all too relevant today.
While the afore list in no way fully encompasses the breadth and ripple of al-Kindī’s accomplishments, it is at least indicative of how immense his influence was and is to philosophy and the sciences. The importance of the isolation of alcohol and the quantification of medicinal effects alone are obvious in their significance, drastically progressing scientific and medical exploration. Al-Kindī’s philosophy is still studied in the modern context, and was continually present throughout the development of both Eastern and Western thought.
Because so little concentrated study and research had been done, and even less was readily documented and available, the era of the Abbasid Caliphate was prime for progress. Because many schools of knowledge were still in their infancy, becoming an expert and studying in several fields simultaneously was an entirely feasible task. This cooperative collaboration of intellectual wealth fostered a productive and enlightening era, conducive to the countless advancements and developments that have defined many modern practices.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Icarus Programme: Bearing Witness to the Glaringly Witless
The liberal agenda is of ubiquitous manifest in modern life. While scheming and conspiracy has long since found a home in the arts and what’s passing for education these days, such dangerous thinking has gained unprecedented influence in the sciences, engineering, and contemporary mechanics. There have always been fringe groups threatening the stability, structure, and stamina of these pursuits, but their exploits are foolishly disregarded and ignored as unthreatening. This negligent naivety not only allows for Lord-only-knows-what sorts of offenses and shenanigans to go about unchecked, but it practically welcomes the absurdities of talking monkeys and little green aliens into the realm of credible endeavor.
By far the most distressing of these studies is that of, as the United States Army has so over-dignified it, the Small Rocket Lift Device, or SRLD. Colloquially the “jetpack” or “rocket-belt,” the SRLD has been gradually gaining momentum in both fact and fairy-tale since its early introduction in 1920s and ‘30s pulp science-fiction. Frivolous stories, though plaguing in their own right, are one thing, but when both our government’s armed forces and aeronautics research and researchers are burning the American’s tax dollars in pursuing (and, in the case of aeronautics, actually utilizing) such obscene misappropriations of technology, it is the lackadaisical complacent who sits idly by, submissive to the stenched winds of change.
The most prevalent images of SRLDs are, as mentioned, rooted in indulgent, unrealistic fantasy worlds where, clearly, the Godfearing man is in dire minority. Not only are these preposterous universes wholly detrimental to our social attentiveness in their hedonist escapism, but their comprising characters and their milieux are given such a grandiose presentation in popular culture that what is or is not generally deemed socially acceptable is all but thrown out the window. Grown men floating around in any kind and color of form-fitting clothing with jet propulsion devices strapped to themselves, wielding fanciful retrofuturistic weaponry with one arm and clutching a helpless (hapless) young woman whose fallaciously buxom proportions are scarcely contained by mere wisps of silver space-fabric (likely a polyester) simply have no place in respectable mores. In this brand of storytelling, however, such perversions of idyllic humanity are heroic, even iconified.
Two such characters, though vastly different in their respective contexts (but, by no coincidence, similar in their cultural resonance), are Anthony “Buck” Rogers and Cliff Secord, or The Rocketeer.
Buck Rogers, though not always equipped with an SRLD, was first introduced to the American in 1928, behind the cover portrait of short-lived jetpacker, The Skylark of Space. So even when Rogers is more grounded in his transportation, the reader’s first impression of the flying man will linger. Immediately duping the dopes of opportunistic syndication, Rogers soon found himself illustrated in sequential narrative throughout the nation’s newspapers (also of no coincidence, the Tarzan comic strip debuted on the same day, revealing an obvious cooperation of both sci-fi and feral nudist radicals towards an anarchic world of levitating apemen). That the strip was so widely published alludes to the breadth of liberal power in mass-media at the time. That Rogers and his adventures in 25th Century heresy are still so widely published and admired alludes to the breadth of liberal power in mass-media now, not to mention its irrevocable influence on modern society. In fact, it is homage to Rogers and his ilk that spawned the hellion Rocketeer.
Unlike Rogers, whose use of SRLDs is inconsistent and situational, The Rocketeer is defined by his ability to jet through the sky, combating Nazis and mobsters under falsely American pretenses. While Secord’s antics may seem patriotic and just on the surface, a scrutinizing eye, well-founded in its American institutions of lawfulness and normalcy, sees the irresponsible acrobat for what he really is: an exhibitionist vigilante with no appreciation for the candor of identity our country was founded on. A flaunty golden helmet, red jacket, and heeled boots disguise the subversive, uneducated scofflaw as he leaches off the studied intellect of his supposed friend, Peabody. A deliberately unexplored personage, Peabody is the educated force of conservative reason, created solely for the writers to image as an uncool worrywart naysayer; reluctantly submitting and following, an undesirable contrast to the extravagant Rocketeer. It takes conspirators with the same reckless disregard for the American way of life as their “hero” to put forth such a publication into the hands of the American’s child.
Unfortunately, the liberal brainwash, though stymied by the enduring values of family, social responsibility, cultural integrity, and it-not-being-the-future, has had its successes. SRLDs are currently in various stages of production by companies the world over, the most notorious of which, Jet Pack International (Jet P.I.), is based in Denver, Colorado. Not surprisingly, Jet P.I. was founded by an avid skydiver who evidently did not think betting his God-given life against gravity alone was free-spirited enough. Why just fall in fluorescent colors when I could fall and possibly explode in fluorescent colors, he likely thought. In effort to conceal the shame that weights him for dismissing the gift (of life) he’s been given, Troy Widgery promotes his company with sports drinks (Jet P.I.’s sister company, Go Fast Sports & Beverage), the extreme sports buzz that dominates every caffeine-hyped early adolescent male, and the unfounded braggadocio so commonly displayed by the outlaws of recreational activity. Jet P.I. has begun marketing one of its models for sale in an obvious move against the lucrative bored-billionaire-playboy demographic. If left unchecked, broader assimilation will surely follow.
Perhaps even more terrifying than entire companies of subversives, however, is the isolationist personal pursuit of jetpackery. At present, one such citizen is known to’ve independently created a functioning SRLD. Gerard Martowlis is so thoroughly deceived by the likes of the aforementioned left propaganda that he’s dedicated vast sums of personal time and capital towards realizing the ridiculous flying contraption. Why he’s been so overthrown by this programmed compulsion is a sad and disgraceful psychology best left to its own speculative discourse, but its significance requires little explanation. The American’s integrity is taking a backseat to his fantasies, and the compromise of the individual’s contribution to productive and proper scientific advancement and development is no easy blow to withstand.
As the world’s most militaristically and aeronautically advanced nation, one would logically assume the United States of America would have developed a discerning eye for worthwhile expenditures of time and effort. And, oftentimes, one would be correct in this assumption. However, in this instance, we are again reminded of how deeply the liberal agenda permeates American soil, poisoning our empire at its very roots.
The United States Army has demonstrated an active interest in SRLDs since the late 1950s, over the years contracting several organizations to produce an actionable result to be used in the field by engineers and scouts. The obvious contradiction in intent being that the U.S. Army, the defenders of freedom, democracy, and capitalism, are devoting precious resources to devices that not only do not kill opponents of freedom, democracy, and capitalism, but in fact make its own ranks more vulnerable, elevated targets. Small ants on the horizon, huddled behind cover and blending in with the foliage, would be replaced by frolicking gnats, easily mapped in the enemy’s reticule by contrails and, soon after, entrails. It’s hard to say which would be more mutilated: the pilot or his dignity. Sources insist that funding these projects has ceased, but it is probable that these claims are merely disinformation.
While the long-term effects of this conniving impregnation of contemptible experimentation in playing God have yet to be seen, the damages done in these first eighty-some years do not bode well. Almost overnight the image of man has transformed from that of a contented, comfortable lot, pleased to spend his days at rest on the Lord’s grasses and knolls, to that of an insatiable and flamboyant purveyor of concepts so preternatural and perverse that the metallic fuchsias of his leotard practically prance their stain of skylust across the fibers of American morality. What remains are the smoldering ashes of a once-great nation, so thoroughly sapped by fantastical indulgences that its most brilliant minds and advancements, even its very culture and the arms that sheltered it, cannot extinguish the deceitful flames of a scoffed conspiracy.
By far the most distressing of these studies is that of, as the United States Army has so over-dignified it, the Small Rocket Lift Device, or SRLD. Colloquially the “jetpack” or “rocket-belt,” the SRLD has been gradually gaining momentum in both fact and fairy-tale since its early introduction in 1920s and ‘30s pulp science-fiction. Frivolous stories, though plaguing in their own right, are one thing, but when both our government’s armed forces and aeronautics research and researchers are burning the American’s tax dollars in pursuing (and, in the case of aeronautics, actually utilizing) such obscene misappropriations of technology, it is the lackadaisical complacent who sits idly by, submissive to the stenched winds of change.
The most prevalent images of SRLDs are, as mentioned, rooted in indulgent, unrealistic fantasy worlds where, clearly, the Godfearing man is in dire minority. Not only are these preposterous universes wholly detrimental to our social attentiveness in their hedonist escapism, but their comprising characters and their milieux are given such a grandiose presentation in popular culture that what is or is not generally deemed socially acceptable is all but thrown out the window. Grown men floating around in any kind and color of form-fitting clothing with jet propulsion devices strapped to themselves, wielding fanciful retrofuturistic weaponry with one arm and clutching a helpless (hapless) young woman whose fallaciously buxom proportions are scarcely contained by mere wisps of silver space-fabric (likely a polyester) simply have no place in respectable mores. In this brand of storytelling, however, such perversions of idyllic humanity are heroic, even iconified.
Two such characters, though vastly different in their respective contexts (but, by no coincidence, similar in their cultural resonance), are Anthony “Buck” Rogers and Cliff Secord, or The Rocketeer.
Buck Rogers, though not always equipped with an SRLD, was first introduced to the American in 1928, behind the cover portrait of short-lived jetpacker, The Skylark of Space. So even when Rogers is more grounded in his transportation, the reader’s first impression of the flying man will linger. Immediately duping the dopes of opportunistic syndication, Rogers soon found himself illustrated in sequential narrative throughout the nation’s newspapers (also of no coincidence, the Tarzan comic strip debuted on the same day, revealing an obvious cooperation of both sci-fi and feral nudist radicals towards an anarchic world of levitating apemen). That the strip was so widely published alludes to the breadth of liberal power in mass-media at the time. That Rogers and his adventures in 25th Century heresy are still so widely published and admired alludes to the breadth of liberal power in mass-media now, not to mention its irrevocable influence on modern society. In fact, it is homage to Rogers and his ilk that spawned the hellion Rocketeer.
Unlike Rogers, whose use of SRLDs is inconsistent and situational, The Rocketeer is defined by his ability to jet through the sky, combating Nazis and mobsters under falsely American pretenses. While Secord’s antics may seem patriotic and just on the surface, a scrutinizing eye, well-founded in its American institutions of lawfulness and normalcy, sees the irresponsible acrobat for what he really is: an exhibitionist vigilante with no appreciation for the candor of identity our country was founded on. A flaunty golden helmet, red jacket, and heeled boots disguise the subversive, uneducated scofflaw as he leaches off the studied intellect of his supposed friend, Peabody. A deliberately unexplored personage, Peabody is the educated force of conservative reason, created solely for the writers to image as an uncool worrywart naysayer; reluctantly submitting and following, an undesirable contrast to the extravagant Rocketeer. It takes conspirators with the same reckless disregard for the American way of life as their “hero” to put forth such a publication into the hands of the American’s child.
Unfortunately, the liberal brainwash, though stymied by the enduring values of family, social responsibility, cultural integrity, and it-not-being-the-future, has had its successes. SRLDs are currently in various stages of production by companies the world over, the most notorious of which, Jet Pack International (Jet P.I.), is based in Denver, Colorado. Not surprisingly, Jet P.I. was founded by an avid skydiver who evidently did not think betting his God-given life against gravity alone was free-spirited enough. Why just fall in fluorescent colors when I could fall and possibly explode in fluorescent colors, he likely thought. In effort to conceal the shame that weights him for dismissing the gift (of life) he’s been given, Troy Widgery promotes his company with sports drinks (Jet P.I.’s sister company, Go Fast Sports & Beverage), the extreme sports buzz that dominates every caffeine-hyped early adolescent male, and the unfounded braggadocio so commonly displayed by the outlaws of recreational activity. Jet P.I. has begun marketing one of its models for sale in an obvious move against the lucrative bored-billionaire-playboy demographic. If left unchecked, broader assimilation will surely follow.
Perhaps even more terrifying than entire companies of subversives, however, is the isolationist personal pursuit of jetpackery. At present, one such citizen is known to’ve independently created a functioning SRLD. Gerard Martowlis is so thoroughly deceived by the likes of the aforementioned left propaganda that he’s dedicated vast sums of personal time and capital towards realizing the ridiculous flying contraption. Why he’s been so overthrown by this programmed compulsion is a sad and disgraceful psychology best left to its own speculative discourse, but its significance requires little explanation. The American’s integrity is taking a backseat to his fantasies, and the compromise of the individual’s contribution to productive and proper scientific advancement and development is no easy blow to withstand.
As the world’s most militaristically and aeronautically advanced nation, one would logically assume the United States of America would have developed a discerning eye for worthwhile expenditures of time and effort. And, oftentimes, one would be correct in this assumption. However, in this instance, we are again reminded of how deeply the liberal agenda permeates American soil, poisoning our empire at its very roots.
The United States Army has demonstrated an active interest in SRLDs since the late 1950s, over the years contracting several organizations to produce an actionable result to be used in the field by engineers and scouts. The obvious contradiction in intent being that the U.S. Army, the defenders of freedom, democracy, and capitalism, are devoting precious resources to devices that not only do not kill opponents of freedom, democracy, and capitalism, but in fact make its own ranks more vulnerable, elevated targets. Small ants on the horizon, huddled behind cover and blending in with the foliage, would be replaced by frolicking gnats, easily mapped in the enemy’s reticule by contrails and, soon after, entrails. It’s hard to say which would be more mutilated: the pilot or his dignity. Sources insist that funding these projects has ceased, but it is probable that these claims are merely disinformation.
While the long-term effects of this conniving impregnation of contemptible experimentation in playing God have yet to be seen, the damages done in these first eighty-some years do not bode well. Almost overnight the image of man has transformed from that of a contented, comfortable lot, pleased to spend his days at rest on the Lord’s grasses and knolls, to that of an insatiable and flamboyant purveyor of concepts so preternatural and perverse that the metallic fuchsias of his leotard practically prance their stain of skylust across the fibers of American morality. What remains are the smoldering ashes of a once-great nation, so thoroughly sapped by fantastical indulgences that its most brilliant minds and advancements, even its very culture and the arms that sheltered it, cannot extinguish the deceitful flames of a scoffed conspiracy.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Davy Croquet
David Sunrise Allender wasn’t much. Just overweight enough to be made fun of for it, but not so much so that anyone would come to his defense and tell the other kids that their jeering was mean. Bad at sports, but had a decent punt, so was never last-pick. Not particularly smart, but Cs kept him above the special attention bracket. The handful of friends he had were of similar inconsequence, but were at least polarized by their academic failings or cliché social degeneracy. Really, David’s most notable trait was the silly middle name that his ex-hippy hashhead father had managed to convince his late-life baptism conservative mother to allow on the birth certificate. It’s hard to say how couples like that ever end up getting to the point of conception, but I’d guess it was either David’s dad trying to “enlighten” his mom, or her trying to rebel against some suburban family convention she’d been weighted by for so long by marrying the first man she could find whose dank patchouli stench overpowered her parents’ potpourri. In any case, the union was predictably short-lived, and David found himself in one of those preposterous court hearings where who a seven year-old boy chose to live with had as much legal weight as the parental credibility of either of his options. So Davy grew up a momma’s boy.
As with most people that find themselves in similarly bleak and unremarkable situations, Davy wasn’t very widely known. Which, on one hand, is too bad, because I’m sure he was just as interesting as any human can be when given the opportunity to explain his or herself. On the other hand, however, being popular in one’s mediocrity can foster a lasting humiliation I doubt someone like Davy would’ve had the strength or basic gusto of life to shrug off. I’m not about to claim to’ve been close to him, as people often do in effort to shake whatever irrational guilt they find themselves weighted with, but I did spend a fair amount of time with him. It was during these hangings-out that he would eagerly divulge as much of his life story as I had time to hear. Of course I didn’t think much about it then, but I’m relatively certain that almost anyone who gave him an afternoon was privy to similar confession. A highschool counselor’s menial psychology degree would probably credit Davy’s openness and sensitivity to the lack of a legitimate father figure in his life. In the three years we were acquainted, Davy mentioned speaking with his dad only a handful of times, maybe half of which were in person, and even then, deliberately fleeting.
I met Davy in a bland corporate bookstore through a mutual friend. Erica was nondescript in her own way, but enjoyed marginal social cushion leftover from her freshman year as a majorette. Most of her girlfriends had gone on to be cheerleaders, and she probably could’ve, but seemed to prefer a plainer agenda. I was never told how the two had met, but the complete lack of overlap in their friend circles pointed to forced seating assignments in a lab class or something. How the two first found themselves romantically entangled, I also do not know, but can only suspect it was under equally uncomfortable and awkward circumstances.
But entangled they were, and for that three months, I exchanged little more with Davy than nods or minimal salutations as we passed in the halls between classes. Unlike most adolescent relationships, the nature and details of theirs weren’t under the slightest scrutiny. No gossip whatsoever. And I always kind of admired that. More than likely it was just because neither of the two were hot topics on their own, so their sum was of little ripple, but even that is its own poetic cliché in the isolated satisfaction they seemed to find in one another’s company. But, considering how things eventually transpired, the affection may’ve been heavily lopsided.
Croquet is pretty hilarious. Of all the ninny games of upper white British society, why did croquet (and badminton) have to survive in tennis’s shadow? It was this, and how the game had managed to trot its way into our P.E. “curriculum”, that accounted for me being knee-deep in ponder when Davy trudged out of the gymnasium onto the field fifteen minutes after the rest of us. So quizzed was I by the absurdity of whacking wooden balls with wooden mallets through seemingly arbitrarily-placed metal goals that I didn’t notice that he was completely flushed until halfway through the period. Had we been playing soccer or basketball, a sweaty, red-faced Davy would’ve been no oddity, but that he was so physically defeated and that his brow was so furrowed by a game even a Lady could play was a point of curiosity among my teammate (we played in teams because the school could only afford so many wooden balls and wooden mallets and metal goals) and me.
Even though I was on casually friendly terms with him, it was a while before I gathered the nerve to intrude on Davy’s game and ask if he was feeling alright. Something told me his afternoon consternations were deeper set than my own (though that’s not to undermine the utter preposterousness of spending two weeks’ worth of P.E. on a game so akin to crochet, both in phonetics and debasement of pubescent masculinity). He shrugged off my inquiries and continued with the game, growing progressively more serious and competitive, eventually refusing to allow his teammate any turns, insisting that he would “Only fuck things up.” So we all backed off as much as possible, offering forfeit. Voice cracking, Davy insisted that we finish the game, because, he said, we never finish anything.
The more people you meet and experience the less surprised you find yourself when you see someone in a state alien to that which you’ve come to expect of them. At sixteen, however, it’s easy to forget that you and your closest friends aren’t the only ones knelt before the desperate whim of hormonal entropy. Davy was soft-spoken, agreeable, and passive. So when Davy was not soft-spoken, agreeable, and passive, I’d no idea how to approach or interact with him. The most I could muster were weak congratulatory remarks when he’d whack the wooden balls with the wooden mallet in a direction I guess must’ve been the right one. As his emotional condition further manifested itself, the game seemed to slow. The more his tears traced the runs from his sweat, the more carefully he plotted his angles. The more his nose ran onto his lip, the more deliberately he took his shots. When he’d reached his goal, or whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish in the game, he practically barked that he’d finish my team’s game for us. Fumbling for words, we gestured towards our balls in compliance, still trying to settle a balance between ignoring his throes and feigning understanding and commiseration.
Davy finished the game and almost immediately reverted to his demure self. His mom took a job somewhere in the Midwest six months later. We weren’t close enough to keep in touch.
Erica had broken up with him that afternoon in the break before our P.E. class. Supposedly he’d spent that fifteen minutes throwing up on the floor of the locker room, but everything was cleaned up by the time we went back in to change.
To attempt qualify something as impossibly intangible as real-life experience and revelation is not only tryingly trite, but also a little too assuming. It assumes that, because his parents got divorced, Davy lost faith in love, and so that, when he thought he’d found it, to lose it and have his doubts confirmed was exponentially more difficult than it would’ve otherwise been; than it was for Erica, whose parents were not divorced. It assumes that, because he was raised by, and held a close relationship with, a conservative single mother, he was overly sensitive and susceptible to an emotional dependency that most boys of his age were spared by a more prominent patriarch. While these are valid conclusions to draw, they’re too simple and easy. They seem to undermine everything else in Davy’s life that may’ve contributed to the importance of that game of croquet.
So maybe it’s more honest, or at least more encompassing, to evaluate how things don’t affect you. How they don’t change the way you see things. How they don’t distort or pervert your concepts and perceptions. How when Davy hanged himself in his mom’s house two years later and detailed the entire event and the croquet game in his suicide letter, it meant absolutely nothing to me.
As with most people that find themselves in similarly bleak and unremarkable situations, Davy wasn’t very widely known. Which, on one hand, is too bad, because I’m sure he was just as interesting as any human can be when given the opportunity to explain his or herself. On the other hand, however, being popular in one’s mediocrity can foster a lasting humiliation I doubt someone like Davy would’ve had the strength or basic gusto of life to shrug off. I’m not about to claim to’ve been close to him, as people often do in effort to shake whatever irrational guilt they find themselves weighted with, but I did spend a fair amount of time with him. It was during these hangings-out that he would eagerly divulge as much of his life story as I had time to hear. Of course I didn’t think much about it then, but I’m relatively certain that almost anyone who gave him an afternoon was privy to similar confession. A highschool counselor’s menial psychology degree would probably credit Davy’s openness and sensitivity to the lack of a legitimate father figure in his life. In the three years we were acquainted, Davy mentioned speaking with his dad only a handful of times, maybe half of which were in person, and even then, deliberately fleeting.
I met Davy in a bland corporate bookstore through a mutual friend. Erica was nondescript in her own way, but enjoyed marginal social cushion leftover from her freshman year as a majorette. Most of her girlfriends had gone on to be cheerleaders, and she probably could’ve, but seemed to prefer a plainer agenda. I was never told how the two had met, but the complete lack of overlap in their friend circles pointed to forced seating assignments in a lab class or something. How the two first found themselves romantically entangled, I also do not know, but can only suspect it was under equally uncomfortable and awkward circumstances.
But entangled they were, and for that three months, I exchanged little more with Davy than nods or minimal salutations as we passed in the halls between classes. Unlike most adolescent relationships, the nature and details of theirs weren’t under the slightest scrutiny. No gossip whatsoever. And I always kind of admired that. More than likely it was just because neither of the two were hot topics on their own, so their sum was of little ripple, but even that is its own poetic cliché in the isolated satisfaction they seemed to find in one another’s company. But, considering how things eventually transpired, the affection may’ve been heavily lopsided.
Croquet is pretty hilarious. Of all the ninny games of upper white British society, why did croquet (and badminton) have to survive in tennis’s shadow? It was this, and how the game had managed to trot its way into our P.E. “curriculum”, that accounted for me being knee-deep in ponder when Davy trudged out of the gymnasium onto the field fifteen minutes after the rest of us. So quizzed was I by the absurdity of whacking wooden balls with wooden mallets through seemingly arbitrarily-placed metal goals that I didn’t notice that he was completely flushed until halfway through the period. Had we been playing soccer or basketball, a sweaty, red-faced Davy would’ve been no oddity, but that he was so physically defeated and that his brow was so furrowed by a game even a Lady could play was a point of curiosity among my teammate (we played in teams because the school could only afford so many wooden balls and wooden mallets and metal goals) and me.
Even though I was on casually friendly terms with him, it was a while before I gathered the nerve to intrude on Davy’s game and ask if he was feeling alright. Something told me his afternoon consternations were deeper set than my own (though that’s not to undermine the utter preposterousness of spending two weeks’ worth of P.E. on a game so akin to crochet, both in phonetics and debasement of pubescent masculinity). He shrugged off my inquiries and continued with the game, growing progressively more serious and competitive, eventually refusing to allow his teammate any turns, insisting that he would “Only fuck things up.” So we all backed off as much as possible, offering forfeit. Voice cracking, Davy insisted that we finish the game, because, he said, we never finish anything.
The more people you meet and experience the less surprised you find yourself when you see someone in a state alien to that which you’ve come to expect of them. At sixteen, however, it’s easy to forget that you and your closest friends aren’t the only ones knelt before the desperate whim of hormonal entropy. Davy was soft-spoken, agreeable, and passive. So when Davy was not soft-spoken, agreeable, and passive, I’d no idea how to approach or interact with him. The most I could muster were weak congratulatory remarks when he’d whack the wooden balls with the wooden mallet in a direction I guess must’ve been the right one. As his emotional condition further manifested itself, the game seemed to slow. The more his tears traced the runs from his sweat, the more carefully he plotted his angles. The more his nose ran onto his lip, the more deliberately he took his shots. When he’d reached his goal, or whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish in the game, he practically barked that he’d finish my team’s game for us. Fumbling for words, we gestured towards our balls in compliance, still trying to settle a balance between ignoring his throes and feigning understanding and commiseration.
Davy finished the game and almost immediately reverted to his demure self. His mom took a job somewhere in the Midwest six months later. We weren’t close enough to keep in touch.
Erica had broken up with him that afternoon in the break before our P.E. class. Supposedly he’d spent that fifteen minutes throwing up on the floor of the locker room, but everything was cleaned up by the time we went back in to change.
To attempt qualify something as impossibly intangible as real-life experience and revelation is not only tryingly trite, but also a little too assuming. It assumes that, because his parents got divorced, Davy lost faith in love, and so that, when he thought he’d found it, to lose it and have his doubts confirmed was exponentially more difficult than it would’ve otherwise been; than it was for Erica, whose parents were not divorced. It assumes that, because he was raised by, and held a close relationship with, a conservative single mother, he was overly sensitive and susceptible to an emotional dependency that most boys of his age were spared by a more prominent patriarch. While these are valid conclusions to draw, they’re too simple and easy. They seem to undermine everything else in Davy’s life that may’ve contributed to the importance of that game of croquet.
So maybe it’s more honest, or at least more encompassing, to evaluate how things don’t affect you. How they don’t change the way you see things. How they don’t distort or pervert your concepts and perceptions. How when Davy hanged himself in his mom’s house two years later and detailed the entire event and the croquet game in his suicide letter, it meant absolutely nothing to me.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Fence
Beatrice Bella lives in a beautiful blue-sky ballroom, isolated from the world beyond her picket fence. Morn to Eve she lives a dream, dancing happily within her ivory boundary.
Until one grey night after she’s turned out the light, Beatrice glimpses a glancing Bandito Bonaparte, cresting his crown where the Sun’d settled down.
Though a fright at first sight, their love soon takes flight on the wings of a rosey-dusk bird.
Until one grey night after she’s turned out the light, Beatrice glimpses a glancing Bandito Bonaparte, cresting his crown where the Sun’d settled down.
Though a fright at first sight, their love soon takes flight on the wings of a rosey-dusk bird.
Huffy Life
But so anyway, I've got this thing for Huffys. I suppose it's kind of a new development, but only in the way that a forty-six year-old man realizing he's a homosexual after fourteen years in a loveless marriage is a new development. One of those things where like, yeah, all the signs were there, but fuck if he was ready to accept that his persistently flaccid phallus was his body's way of telling him that no, it's not the fact that her ass has dropped like an eighth grader's coinpurse, nor is it because her chest, at best, resembles oily flapjacks or seasoned whoopie cushions, but rather that yes, those fifteen minutes alone with his mildly-delayed step-uncle in the family cabin on his seventh Christmas were the most stimulating, passionate, and wholesomely alive moments of his life. You know?
I'll keep this relatively brief for now, but, if you will, come with me for a moment; let's brainstorm what we know about the Huffy. In later episodes, we'll further explore the intricate weavings that make up the Huffy loom that is our lives, but for this introductory glance, calling on our pasts and the Huffys that comprised them will be more than adequate.
I'll start.
When someone mentions Huffy, the first thing that invariably comes to mind is the damning word, "Husky." And really, that makes perfect sense. Of course there're the obvious linguistic similarities, which likely account for a portion of the association, but I'm convinced that the root of the matter is much more tangled in the myriad insecurities of my youth as a chubbly.
School shopping has become quite a thing for quite a few people these days. It's the opportunity to virtually reset your entire life, simply by doing what most Americans do best: consuming. So last year you were a youth-groupin' prude whose most daring article of clothing was the fruit punch-stained ESPIRIT tanktop your older cousin left in your room when she came to visit, even though she spent all of her time proving to your older brother's friends that, yes, she is from California and, yes, that's exactly what she means by that. Well here's your chance to shorten those skirts and tighten those shirts, because, frankly, if you're not fuckable, you're not lovable. Had all the kids that hate Hot Topic but buy all their clothes from Hot Topic already heard of every band of which you'd bought a shirt? Now's the time to scope out the mall delivery days to get the newest shirt for Anthony Green's newest band before those bleached-banged bastards can say "Translating The Name" five times fast.
But I digress.
What I'm getting at is, school shopping for me was much less a reinvention than it was the desperate plight to somehow fit into jeans that were no more than three sizes larger than my older brother's, if only because it'd give him marginally less to deride me with while squeezing my lovehandles in front of the mirror while I tried to brush my teeth. It was me trying to convince my dad that yes, those size 14s really did fit well and no, he didn't need to come out of the dressing room so he could test the waistband tension with his tailor's thumb. Those 14s? They weren't regular 14s. They weren't my brother's 10 Slims. No, they were 14 Husky.
Husky.
Fucking really? What middlesex parent given domain over Herberger's boys line honestly thought that was anything other than the most horrible thing they could do to some poor, chunky kid. Here, Randy, you're a little too big for the 14s, but instead of moving up to the not-humiliatingly-titled 16s, just wear these 14 Huskies. See? You're still wearing 14s like you were before we had to punch a new hole in your belt, but these ones are made specifically for your portly ponch. And if that wasn't good enough, the size is printed on the waistband label of the pants so all of your classmates won't have to spend five seconds thinking of another word for fat when they see your wedgied bubblebutt on pendulum while you gaspingly sloth around the kickball bases.
The least they could've done is call them 14 Fatfucks. Husky is what your aunt calls you at family dinners because she knows her sister-in-law, your mother, isn't going to take too kindly to her calling you chunky. Or how your dad's friends say you're growing into a "good, thick build." You're not going to announce a miscarriage and then, when the mother starts crying, pat her hand and say you'll double-check. Such blatant euphemisms are no less insulting and obvious at such a fragile age, if not more so.
Again, I digress. Though, maybe not. My most vivid association with that which is Huffy is, as I said, most certainly Husky. That which I've afore discussed swims in smooth suit with the ranks of the Huffy; sad, pathetic, embarrassing, shameful, and so undeniably American. A Huffy is a husky kid's bike. Whether either party knows it or not, they're a match made in Huffyven.
I really kind of lost it with this one.
I'll keep this relatively brief for now, but, if you will, come with me for a moment; let's brainstorm what we know about the Huffy. In later episodes, we'll further explore the intricate weavings that make up the Huffy loom that is our lives, but for this introductory glance, calling on our pasts and the Huffys that comprised them will be more than adequate.
I'll start.
When someone mentions Huffy, the first thing that invariably comes to mind is the damning word, "Husky." And really, that makes perfect sense. Of course there're the obvious linguistic similarities, which likely account for a portion of the association, but I'm convinced that the root of the matter is much more tangled in the myriad insecurities of my youth as a chubbly.
School shopping has become quite a thing for quite a few people these days. It's the opportunity to virtually reset your entire life, simply by doing what most Americans do best: consuming. So last year you were a youth-groupin' prude whose most daring article of clothing was the fruit punch-stained ESPIRIT tanktop your older cousin left in your room when she came to visit, even though she spent all of her time proving to your older brother's friends that, yes, she is from California and, yes, that's exactly what she means by that. Well here's your chance to shorten those skirts and tighten those shirts, because, frankly, if you're not fuckable, you're not lovable. Had all the kids that hate Hot Topic but buy all their clothes from Hot Topic already heard of every band of which you'd bought a shirt? Now's the time to scope out the mall delivery days to get the newest shirt for Anthony Green's newest band before those bleached-banged bastards can say "Translating The Name" five times fast.
But I digress.
What I'm getting at is, school shopping for me was much less a reinvention than it was the desperate plight to somehow fit into jeans that were no more than three sizes larger than my older brother's, if only because it'd give him marginally less to deride me with while squeezing my lovehandles in front of the mirror while I tried to brush my teeth. It was me trying to convince my dad that yes, those size 14s really did fit well and no, he didn't need to come out of the dressing room so he could test the waistband tension with his tailor's thumb. Those 14s? They weren't regular 14s. They weren't my brother's 10 Slims. No, they were 14 Husky.
Husky.
Fucking really? What middlesex parent given domain over Herberger's boys line honestly thought that was anything other than the most horrible thing they could do to some poor, chunky kid. Here, Randy, you're a little too big for the 14s, but instead of moving up to the not-humiliatingly-titled 16s, just wear these 14 Huskies. See? You're still wearing 14s like you were before we had to punch a new hole in your belt, but these ones are made specifically for your portly ponch. And if that wasn't good enough, the size is printed on the waistband label of the pants so all of your classmates won't have to spend five seconds thinking of another word for fat when they see your wedgied bubblebutt on pendulum while you gaspingly sloth around the kickball bases.
The least they could've done is call them 14 Fatfucks. Husky is what your aunt calls you at family dinners because she knows her sister-in-law, your mother, isn't going to take too kindly to her calling you chunky. Or how your dad's friends say you're growing into a "good, thick build." You're not going to announce a miscarriage and then, when the mother starts crying, pat her hand and say you'll double-check. Such blatant euphemisms are no less insulting and obvious at such a fragile age, if not more so.
Again, I digress. Though, maybe not. My most vivid association with that which is Huffy is, as I said, most certainly Husky. That which I've afore discussed swims in smooth suit with the ranks of the Huffy; sad, pathetic, embarrassing, shameful, and so undeniably American. A Huffy is a husky kid's bike. Whether either party knows it or not, they're a match made in Huffyven.
I really kind of lost it with this one.
The Sexual Statesman, or American History BF: Portly Bookishness in the Time of Cholera
In its most common context, it is the validity and legitimacy of existence of a so-called mythical beast and its legends and tails, its sightings and stories, that must be proven; fought for. While much of this is predictably inherent in the definition of a mythical beast, it should not be taken for granted, as history has shown time and time again, that much of yesterday’s mythos and phobos is today’s casual luncheon. Similarly, much of yesterday’s fact and truth are today’s fantasy and hilarity. However, all too often are accepted facts left unquestioned, uninvestigated. Oftentimes it is not the eyewitness accounts or grainy video footage that best proves or disproves a creature’s existence, but rather how said creature resonates and swells in its native culture.
Bigfoot; the Sasquatch. The great North American primate of 20th century lore; an immediate associate of cryptozoology and an eagerly debunked hoax. The beast’s impact in Americana is widespread and undeniable, inspiring films, sitcoms, campfire stories, and sexual libidos alike. In our modern age of hoaxing and dehoaxing and making something out of nothing and nothing out of something, the most sound rationale we can hope to develop lies in the investigation of reasoning. So why (what) then, with no conclusive evidence presented on either side, is Bigfoot still so strictly regarded as mythical? The answer lies in the American psyche. We the People are a bold and arrogant bunch, proudly able to exalt or defile on our collective whim, as we see fit. It is therefore perfectly logical (see what I did there?) that the concept of the unhuntable, unkillable, unfindable, untaintable (but definitely not unexploitable) pariah that is the Bigfoot would be less eagerly accepted than, say, the myriad undiscovered but unchallenging lurkers of the deep Davey Jones’. The throbbing masculinity of American heteroculture cannot possibly coexist with the truth of an ever-elusive and cleverer man-mongrel in its backyard. It is not a lack of evidence that stands in the way of Bigfoot’s legitimacy, as species have been accepted and believed from accounts far fewer and less directly documented. It is simply a psychological consequence of cultural insecurity.
It follows, then, that a mindstate convinced enough to “disprove” something without ample investigation, evidence, or reasoning could also “prove” something without ample investigation, evidence, or reasoning. From here stems the potentiality of the fallacy in the other BF: Benjamin Franklin (henceforth, let Bigfoot be BF+ and Benjamin Franklin be BF-). Possibly the most exalted of all American myths, the “fact” of Benjamin “The Dutiful Ambassador” Franklin’s existence holds little more substantial proof than does Bigfoot’s, arguably less. While there is videographic evidence of Bigfoot’s life, Franklin’s time within our dimensional plane is only supported by the mere ubiquity of his appearance in historical texts and documents. And nothing is subjective if not history, not to mention his supposed era’s penchant for fantastic indulgences (see: The Crucible).
To explore these suppositions, I’ve conducted an interview with a true all-American and Bigfoot non-believer. Following is the abridged dialogue with Matthew “12 Gauge” Tomljenovich, 22, native of Billings, Montana, United States of America, Earth.
When I say, “Benjamin Frankin,” what comes to mind?
“100 dollar bills. Kites. The Freemasons. The fact that he is the only person to be on money that wasn’t our president and it is on our highest currency. Interesting, huh?” Immediately we see the direct relationship between BF-‘s legacy and the very personal American financial chord, an undeniably positive association, as followed by the intrigue and fascination 12 Gauge solicits affirmation for.
Do you believe he actually existed?
“Yes, I would say he did.” This response was instantaneous, alluding to the depth which BF- permeates.
What does Benjamin Franklin mean to you?
“Capitalism. Innovation. Want me to say something more generic? Like he created electricity and is a great man of science.” Again, direct association with essential American ideologies. We also see a faith in BF-‘s godlike ability to literally create the abstract electricity, much like early folk of the Fertile Crescent (geographically, not anatomically) believed in their deity’s creation of all.
In what way does Benjamin Franklin’s legacy represent your American identity?
“His legacy created the identity. Sure, it’s changed a bit over the years, but his views were a big factor in shaping this country into what it is today.” 12 Gauge allows the changing of times to account for BF-‘s fallibility, much in the way the devoutly religious account for the absurdity of canonized creatures and miracles in the modern context.
Let’s go more personally with that. What traits of Benjamin Franklin do you yourself admire? Which would you like manifested in your day-to-day life?
“He was, of course, a ladies’ man. Umm. Obviously he was quite good at getting what he wanted. I mean, he got the rank of the hundred dollar bill. He took what he wanted, was a creative problem solver, and had many female partners. What more could you ask for? I mean, sounds like a good life to me.” This is, perhaps, the climax. Again we see BF- directly linked with American prosperity, but this time in juxtaposition with his prowess in the provocative, another key element in the United machismo. 12 Gauge’s final comment, on the surface, is a simple opinion, but its comparative nature suggests a subconscious, even denied, yearning for BF-‘s esteemed life. What is the fairytale for if not voyeur and vicarity?
If you would, compare and contrast Benjamin Franklin and Bigfoot.
“What?! Dude, I’m so tired right now. Bigfoot and Benjamin Franklin? Like seriously. I thought you were disproving James Dean. Well, not too much is known about Bigfoot. Well, neither about Benjamin either since it’s been so long. Bigfoot, all we have is stories and rumors.” 12 Gauge almost admits a parallel between the BFs, but quickly rejects it, asserting an entirely subjective difference between the validity of their recorded histories.
What do we have of Benjamin Franklin beyond stories and rumors?
“Didn’t he sign the Declaration of Independence?”
Couldn’t anyone have done that?
“True. As far as we know it could have been one man or more like a couple that signed a bunch of names to make it seem to the British that they were more powerful than they were. I mean they could have been bluffing. I would if I were trying to scare a higher and stronger opponent.” An admission! Tellingly followed by the rationale and acknowledgement of a likemindedness with the folk of the myth’s originating era that likely persuades his favor of BF-.
At this point, the conversation eroded into ribble-rabble.
Throughout the course of the interview, a tension is palpable. While drawing into question BF-‘s existence at an early stage precipitated this, it was crucial device in exposing the folkish faith and positive American associations that clause the BF- legend. It was necessary to get 12 Gauge off-guard; down to brass (no) ta(xation without representation)cks, as they say.
While there is yet no definitive way to determine whether or not either BF truly exists or existed, the striking contrast in their cultural resonance clearly signifies a disparity in potential truths. We see the two characters and what they represent in direct antithesis, both playing off the sensitivities of the American mind in different ways. It’s not surprising that he who embodies and edifies it is eagerly accepted as a truth, while he who undermines and invalidates it is hastily denied. Simply expressed, the possibility of a reality our cultural headspace has not allowed due investigation is undeniable. Perhaps a little humility would reveal much more. Coupling tangible evidence with investigative psychology, it is entirely feasible that the all-too prevalent American denial has veiled its people from the more founded of two speculations.
Bigfoot; the Sasquatch. The great North American primate of 20th century lore; an immediate associate of cryptozoology and an eagerly debunked hoax. The beast’s impact in Americana is widespread and undeniable, inspiring films, sitcoms, campfire stories, and sexual libidos alike. In our modern age of hoaxing and dehoaxing and making something out of nothing and nothing out of something, the most sound rationale we can hope to develop lies in the investigation of reasoning. So why (what) then, with no conclusive evidence presented on either side, is Bigfoot still so strictly regarded as mythical? The answer lies in the American psyche. We the People are a bold and arrogant bunch, proudly able to exalt or defile on our collective whim, as we see fit. It is therefore perfectly logical (see what I did there?) that the concept of the unhuntable, unkillable, unfindable, untaintable (but definitely not unexploitable) pariah that is the Bigfoot would be less eagerly accepted than, say, the myriad undiscovered but unchallenging lurkers of the deep Davey Jones’. The throbbing masculinity of American heteroculture cannot possibly coexist with the truth of an ever-elusive and cleverer man-mongrel in its backyard. It is not a lack of evidence that stands in the way of Bigfoot’s legitimacy, as species have been accepted and believed from accounts far fewer and less directly documented. It is simply a psychological consequence of cultural insecurity.
It follows, then, that a mindstate convinced enough to “disprove” something without ample investigation, evidence, or reasoning could also “prove” something without ample investigation, evidence, or reasoning. From here stems the potentiality of the fallacy in the other BF: Benjamin Franklin (henceforth, let Bigfoot be BF+ and Benjamin Franklin be BF-). Possibly the most exalted of all American myths, the “fact” of Benjamin “The Dutiful Ambassador” Franklin’s existence holds little more substantial proof than does Bigfoot’s, arguably less. While there is videographic evidence of Bigfoot’s life, Franklin’s time within our dimensional plane is only supported by the mere ubiquity of his appearance in historical texts and documents. And nothing is subjective if not history, not to mention his supposed era’s penchant for fantastic indulgences (see: The Crucible).
To explore these suppositions, I’ve conducted an interview with a true all-American and Bigfoot non-believer. Following is the abridged dialogue with Matthew “12 Gauge” Tomljenovich, 22, native of Billings, Montana, United States of America, Earth.
When I say, “Benjamin Frankin,” what comes to mind?
“100 dollar bills. Kites. The Freemasons. The fact that he is the only person to be on money that wasn’t our president and it is on our highest currency. Interesting, huh?” Immediately we see the direct relationship between BF-‘s legacy and the very personal American financial chord, an undeniably positive association, as followed by the intrigue and fascination 12 Gauge solicits affirmation for.
Do you believe he actually existed?
“Yes, I would say he did.” This response was instantaneous, alluding to the depth which BF- permeates.
What does Benjamin Franklin mean to you?
“Capitalism. Innovation. Want me to say something more generic? Like he created electricity and is a great man of science.” Again, direct association with essential American ideologies. We also see a faith in BF-‘s godlike ability to literally create the abstract electricity, much like early folk of the Fertile Crescent (geographically, not anatomically) believed in their deity’s creation of all.
In what way does Benjamin Franklin’s legacy represent your American identity?
“His legacy created the identity. Sure, it’s changed a bit over the years, but his views were a big factor in shaping this country into what it is today.” 12 Gauge allows the changing of times to account for BF-‘s fallibility, much in the way the devoutly religious account for the absurdity of canonized creatures and miracles in the modern context.
Let’s go more personally with that. What traits of Benjamin Franklin do you yourself admire? Which would you like manifested in your day-to-day life?
“He was, of course, a ladies’ man. Umm. Obviously he was quite good at getting what he wanted. I mean, he got the rank of the hundred dollar bill. He took what he wanted, was a creative problem solver, and had many female partners. What more could you ask for? I mean, sounds like a good life to me.” This is, perhaps, the climax. Again we see BF- directly linked with American prosperity, but this time in juxtaposition with his prowess in the provocative, another key element in the United machismo. 12 Gauge’s final comment, on the surface, is a simple opinion, but its comparative nature suggests a subconscious, even denied, yearning for BF-‘s esteemed life. What is the fairytale for if not voyeur and vicarity?
If you would, compare and contrast Benjamin Franklin and Bigfoot.
“What?! Dude, I’m so tired right now. Bigfoot and Benjamin Franklin? Like seriously. I thought you were disproving James Dean. Well, not too much is known about Bigfoot. Well, neither about Benjamin either since it’s been so long. Bigfoot, all we have is stories and rumors.” 12 Gauge almost admits a parallel between the BFs, but quickly rejects it, asserting an entirely subjective difference between the validity of their recorded histories.
What do we have of Benjamin Franklin beyond stories and rumors?
“Didn’t he sign the Declaration of Independence?”
Couldn’t anyone have done that?
“True. As far as we know it could have been one man or more like a couple that signed a bunch of names to make it seem to the British that they were more powerful than they were. I mean they could have been bluffing. I would if I were trying to scare a higher and stronger opponent.” An admission! Tellingly followed by the rationale and acknowledgement of a likemindedness with the folk of the myth’s originating era that likely persuades his favor of BF-.
At this point, the conversation eroded into ribble-rabble.
Throughout the course of the interview, a tension is palpable. While drawing into question BF-‘s existence at an early stage precipitated this, it was crucial device in exposing the folkish faith and positive American associations that clause the BF- legend. It was necessary to get 12 Gauge off-guard; down to brass (no) ta(xation without representation)cks, as they say.
While there is yet no definitive way to determine whether or not either BF truly exists or existed, the striking contrast in their cultural resonance clearly signifies a disparity in potential truths. We see the two characters and what they represent in direct antithesis, both playing off the sensitivities of the American mind in different ways. It’s not surprising that he who embodies and edifies it is eagerly accepted as a truth, while he who undermines and invalidates it is hastily denied. Simply expressed, the possibility of a reality our cultural headspace has not allowed due investigation is undeniable. Perhaps a little humility would reveal much more. Coupling tangible evidence with investigative psychology, it is entirely feasible that the all-too prevalent American denial has veiled its people from the more founded of two speculations.
Re:
The ad reads:
I have some muscovy males, white pekin and colored (mix) ducks, sex unknown at this time. $10 a piece or deal for more. Two young female peacocks, $45 each. Two female kids and a neutered male. Girls are dehorned. $75 each.
I responded:
Hey..
I'm interested in the kids you're selling (bold move, throwing them up on Craigslist like that, by the way), but have some questions.
Were the females' horns birth defects (or, as I like to refer to them, birth blessings), or were they body-mod implants? I'm open-minded and all, but I think things like that should wait until the person is at least old enough to understand the consequences of such radical decisions (obviously the dehorning is indicative of regretting such a hasty decision).
Why was the male neutered, and are you sure that's the appropriate term for the process? I'm no doctor, but it sounds so detached (get it?) to say it that way. Don't get me wrong; I well understand the benefits of raising a boy as a eunuch. Not only can you bypass the entire pubescent awkwardness, but his trained voice could make the angels weep. I'm just curious about your choice.
Are the kids housebroken, or have you been raising them with your animals? Neither answer would be a dealbreaker for me, I'd just like to know in advance whether I should convert my office to a bedroom or just fix up the old hutch in the backyard.
Have you named them? Is there anything they're accustomed to being called? Again, not a dealbreaker, but I quite enjoy naming everything I own after myself. I've found that doing so is self-validating on two levels: It provides a sense of accomplishment, as if you've just discovered a new land and are so christening it that any who come after know darn well who came before, and it offers a boost in sexual confidence, especially when it comes to kids, hearing three shrill and lively voices screaming out your name to tell on your name for treating your name poorly. If only my ex had such enthusiasm.
And finally, why are you trying to sell these kids? I'd understand if you were selling them so that you could keep the animals, as I've heard myriad stories of horrific cross-breeding mishaps, but that not being the case, I can't seem to figure it out. I don't mean to be intrusive, so don't feel the need to answer this question if it's too personal.
After all, one man's trash is another man's treasure, right?
Thank you,
..will baker
EDIT: I have received a reply in a very bold, very large font.
Why is it bold to put up baby goats (KIDS) are what baby goats are called, (which I think you have no knowledge of) on craigs list? They are not trash. I am not obligated to sell them to just anyone, which I would not do. I chose who would be right. Don't you have better things to do with your time than to write emails on subjects you know nothing about?
A truly hilarious way to start the day. Thank you, Jill Frick. Yes, Frick. And, this being my fun, I of course needed the last word.
will: +1, Jill: 0.
I've been doing this sort of thing off and on, but I think I might make a periodical of it, editing and amending each post as I receive replies. I'm just that much of an ass.
EDIT: Another reply. I think I'll let her have this one.
I think not. You have a very sick sense of humor. No wonder you have an EX. Bother someone else.
Pegacorn/Unasus
From the beaches of Bermuda to the heights of Himalaya, never with such candor was a beauty more grander than the blessing of a gander from astride the beautiful Pegacorn. Golden mane a-frolic in the friscalating dusk-light; an ambrosia, hairy and extraordinary. A hundred hands below, the sad city weeps in woe, hailing hymnals to the heavens to hearken their hearts' burning for which they've been yearning. And so full of love and of splendor is our Unasus so tender, as under the gracious beat of his wings the loneliest skyscraper sings and sparked is the fire of the polis desire. Sharing his joy and his light with a majestic and magickal might, a whinny doth peal in flight, "I'm the Sky-Stallion, y'all, and to all a goodnight."
Wells FuckYougo.
4 April 2009
To whom it may concern,
Recently, when going over my online account statements, I noticed that I’d been receiving an $11.99 charge to my checking account every month from a Wells Fargo organization. Having no idea what the charge could’ve been from, I called the Wells Fargo customer service number to investigate. The representative informed me that the charge was being issued by a Wells Fargo travel organization that I was supposedly subscribed to. I asked if she’d transfer my call to one of their representatives, so she placed me on hold to do so.
What followed was a complete hour of insipid, aurally-nauseating on-hold music. I apologize for any tonal hostility, but you can imagine how hearing the same painfully awful song repeated over and over and over and over while I awkwardly wedged my not-expensive-or-in-any-way-indicative-of-its-owner-having-extra-money-to-drop-on-ridiculous-travel-memberships cellphone between jaw and shoulder, waiting to speak with someone who could explain to me why I’d received over a hundred dollars in charges for something I’ve never even heard of has done nothing for my disposition. I resolved to hang up exactly at the one hour mark on my phone.
Roughly two hours later, I called back. I held for approximately ten minutes this time. Nowhere near an hour, but still ten minutes longer than most folk would care to wait to be told why their bank has been taking money from them. I was connected with Jamie, who was duly courteous and patient with my teetering temperament. She informed me that I’d been subscribed to this travel service for over a year (I’m still not sure exactly how long), and that I had signed up through a mail promotion that offered an .mp3 player as incentive. She said that the offer included one free month of service, after which it was upon me to make the call to cancel my subscription.
I don’t need to tell you how sneaky and obviously conniving that is, because, well, I know that’s precisely the way you wanted it. If you were to, say, have a representative of yours (which, considering my long hold period, seem to be quite lacking in ranks) make a simple phone call at the end of the free month’s service, asking if your loyal and too-busy-with-other-things-like-living-their-life customer would like to continue or cancel their subscription, the latter would so outweigh the former that your clever scheme would hardly prove to be the profitable venture you’d plotted. And that simply would not make good business sense, right?
But the thing is, I did not fill out your survey, and I did not send it in, and I did not receive an .mp3 player as “My free gift for trying out your service [sic]”. I have received numerous offers of the nature, despite my requests that all my banking documents be sent electronically, and’ve promptly discarded them in a wasteful fashion akin to that of their delivery. Of this I am most certain. How your offices have concluded the contrary is unbeknownst to me. Perhaps, when filing, one of your employees accidentally clicked “Yes” instead of “No”? Or a third party somehow intercepted my unwanted mail and took advantage of your lax verification process, getting a “free gift” for his time and minimal effort? Ultimately, all that matters is that I played no part in the subscribing to the service for which I’ve been regularly billed.
Jamie assured me that she would refund the most recent charge to my account, but that any further crediting would require a letter to your offices. So here it is. Consider this a formal request that the remaining charges (of which there are plenty) be refunded to the account to which they were applied. With haste, if at all possible. I ask this on the grounds of my being completely unawares to everything from my unwanted (and, as you’ll surely find, unused) subscription to the Wells Fargo travel agency or organization or whatever it may be. Frankly, I’m rather unsettled by the fact that such significant changes can be made to my account without ample verification of identity and/or intent.
I thank you for your timely assistance and resolution of this matter.
Regards,
William M. Baker
To whom it may concern,
Recently, when going over my online account statements, I noticed that I’d been receiving an $11.99 charge to my checking account every month from a Wells Fargo organization. Having no idea what the charge could’ve been from, I called the Wells Fargo customer service number to investigate. The representative informed me that the charge was being issued by a Wells Fargo travel organization that I was supposedly subscribed to. I asked if she’d transfer my call to one of their representatives, so she placed me on hold to do so.
What followed was a complete hour of insipid, aurally-nauseating on-hold music. I apologize for any tonal hostility, but you can imagine how hearing the same painfully awful song repeated over and over and over and over while I awkwardly wedged my not-expensive-or-in-any-way-indicative-of-its-owner-having-extra-money-to-drop-on-ridiculous-travel-memberships cellphone between jaw and shoulder, waiting to speak with someone who could explain to me why I’d received over a hundred dollars in charges for something I’ve never even heard of has done nothing for my disposition. I resolved to hang up exactly at the one hour mark on my phone.
Roughly two hours later, I called back. I held for approximately ten minutes this time. Nowhere near an hour, but still ten minutes longer than most folk would care to wait to be told why their bank has been taking money from them. I was connected with Jamie, who was duly courteous and patient with my teetering temperament. She informed me that I’d been subscribed to this travel service for over a year (I’m still not sure exactly how long), and that I had signed up through a mail promotion that offered an .mp3 player as incentive. She said that the offer included one free month of service, after which it was upon me to make the call to cancel my subscription.
I don’t need to tell you how sneaky and obviously conniving that is, because, well, I know that’s precisely the way you wanted it. If you were to, say, have a representative of yours (which, considering my long hold period, seem to be quite lacking in ranks) make a simple phone call at the end of the free month’s service, asking if your loyal and too-busy-with-other-things-like-living-their-life customer would like to continue or cancel their subscription, the latter would so outweigh the former that your clever scheme would hardly prove to be the profitable venture you’d plotted. And that simply would not make good business sense, right?
But the thing is, I did not fill out your survey, and I did not send it in, and I did not receive an .mp3 player as “My free gift for trying out your service [sic]”. I have received numerous offers of the nature, despite my requests that all my banking documents be sent electronically, and’ve promptly discarded them in a wasteful fashion akin to that of their delivery. Of this I am most certain. How your offices have concluded the contrary is unbeknownst to me. Perhaps, when filing, one of your employees accidentally clicked “Yes” instead of “No”? Or a third party somehow intercepted my unwanted mail and took advantage of your lax verification process, getting a “free gift” for his time and minimal effort? Ultimately, all that matters is that I played no part in the subscribing to the service for which I’ve been regularly billed.
Jamie assured me that she would refund the most recent charge to my account, but that any further crediting would require a letter to your offices. So here it is. Consider this a formal request that the remaining charges (of which there are plenty) be refunded to the account to which they were applied. With haste, if at all possible. I ask this on the grounds of my being completely unawares to everything from my unwanted (and, as you’ll surely find, unused) subscription to the Wells Fargo travel agency or organization or whatever it may be. Frankly, I’m rather unsettled by the fact that such significant changes can be made to my account without ample verification of identity and/or intent.
I thank you for your timely assistance and resolution of this matter.
Regards,
William M. Baker
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