Respect

People always talk about earning things. Money, fame, power, respect. All of these things are earned, not given. Saying something like this seems to also say that you believe that it is only through your efforts to prove yourself worthy of some thing or accolade that anything is ever achieved.

There is so much negativity attached to being given anything.

Even so, I wonder if it wouldn't be more accurate, and quite honestly beneficial to humankind on the whole, to say that everything is given and that it's in how we exercise our choice to accept or deny what's given that shows the true nature of the exchange. You can accept something with grace and humility, or you can accept something with hubris and self-entitlement. You can deny that same thing in similar fashions.

For instance, I would say that love, whether accepted or denied with grace and humility, engenders respect and creates a bond. That same feeling denied out of pride or to serve some selfish interest creates turmoil and plants a seed of distrust.

On the other side of this is the giving. We are all constantly giving to each other, intentionally or not, and this very premise - giving of yourself - is what makes you most likely to graciously accept or deny what the world offers you.

This is what I think about while I'm driving home after having a beer and watching a few bands play ...

On point

There's no reason struggle with why The Daily Show always seems so poignant in its remarks about politics and the world. It happens because they don't pull punches. They don't bother with appeasement of any party. They do this because, as many of us know and even some of the greatest philosophers have written - humor is often where you find the truth.


In the clip below, John Oliver and Jon Stewart have one of the more expository conversations about the war in Afghanistan ever produced for television ...

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
The Unwinnable War in Afghanistan
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Life and trials

"I have always sought to be understood and, while I was taken to task by critics or colleagues, I thought they were right, assuming I had not been clear enough to be understood. This assumption allowed me to work my whole life without hatred and even without bitterness toward criticism, regardless of its source. I counted solely on the clarity of expression of my work to gain my ends. Hatred, rancor, and the spirit of vengeance are useless baggage to the artist. His road is difficult enough for him to cleanse his soul of everything which could make it more so." -Henri Matisse

I try to use that quote every day as a guide, but sometimes I question whether it is possible for the intentions behind our actions to speak louder than the voice of *public opinion*. Obviously this question doesn't really matter to Matisse where it concerns his work, but how far does that go when applied to life? Can you simply ignore the input of critics and colleagues at every turn, hoping at some point to be clear enough to convince them all of your worth?

The clearest example of this question that I can give here, and this is only because it's the one I used the last time I talked about this with anyone, is one of a Playboy model ... hear me out.

There's a stereotype at work here - the one of the woman who agrees to have herself photographed in seductive poses, with not so much as a thread keeping ones imagination at bay, because she feels that it will empower women, that it somehow proves some sort of dominion the female form has over a man's brain. Maybe that's true. Maybe.

Something tells me that an overwhelming percentage of the men who look at the pictures when they're published simply won't care. They will objectify her and they will assign her value based on their imaginary ideals for her. Her opinion as to what the photos represent never even enters their minds. So, at this point, have her intentions been trumped by public opinion, or do they matter so long as she chooses to apply worth to them?

It's not her fault. Maybe pornography is just not the best place for a woman to assert herself and attempt to prove, well, anything. Or, maybe, by the standards of Henry Matisse, she should just keep trying, becoming more and more focused on the clarity of her statement with each pass. Of course, in my example, this puts her out of a job thereby eliminating her ability to continue to make an impact ... kind of like the snake that's eating itself ... Ouroboros.

Well, I'm not sure any of this makes sense, but I gave it a shot. It's a little late to get in to edits at this point.

Not a true story ...

I have a journal ... one with a leather cover and real paper inside. It's different than my blog because it doesn't contain anything silly. Mostly, it's fictional stories I make up that in some way express something that's going on in my life. Currently, there are a few things going on that aren't that great. Overall, things are pretty good, but these two things in particular pretty much suck and there's nothing I can do about either, as far as I can tell. Anyway, I wouldn't normally post this kind of thing on here, but I was looking through things I've written and it's pretty much all I've got going on that's worth writing about. This, just to wrap up the opening here, is a bit of fiction I wrote a few months ago ...

Two questions come to mind as I stare at the concrete walls of this basement:

1) How did I get here?
2) Did I mean 'here' the basement, or 'here' the father of two with number three on the way?

I left college ten years ago ready to take on the Scylla and Charybdis themselves if they stood in my way. Now, there were car payments, billable hours and a sea of commitment splayed about me leaving no sight of the modern hero's conquests.

I could leave today. Sure, I could. The wife, kids, cars - eventually they would all be okay without me and I would be off. Things would be exactly the way my twenty-one year old imagination had prepared for. Alas, even that 30 year old scotch waiting for me at home couldn't convince me that this was actually true. It's not that I don't love my wife and my children - I do, really.

You know what I fucking hate? (aside from the fact that I'm not allowed to say fuck out loud anymore) My Toyota Camry ... fucking hate that thing. Don't get me wrong, it's a solid car, but that's just it. Where's my rusty old Ford Bronco? Sold it to a kid on his way to college to help pay for the first house, that's where. It's worn seats, rumbling engine emitting ozone chocking black smoke with every rev ... no airbags, no seat belts, nothing to keep you safe from the trials of the world around you ... This was all now in the hands of some kid who probably didn't get it; he probably never will.

I got it, once. Now look at me. Staring at a concrete wall in what is (potentially) house number two. Its rough, pocked, gray face reflecting back at me blankly as though it were trying to say, "You think you've got it bad. I could've been a sidewalk. You know, where children laugh and play? They write on you with chalk and skid their bike tires across you, leaving impermanent reminders of the happiness of a carefree life. Impermanent, but more meaningful than what I have." And now I'm personifying walls to express my deepest thoughts ... real nice.

This wall, in its longer-than-necessary eulogy for its lost purpose in life, brought forth one key point: despite my lament for my burdens in life, it's not as if I'm trapped under a house. I've made neither enough mistakes, nor enough promises to prevent myself from breaking these shackles.

As I walked up the stairs to the house's main floor, I decided two things:

1) I still hate my car, and
2) There's no way in hell we're getting a house with a basement.

Losing your top ...

I'm not sure who, if anyone remembers the story of Tiffany Shepherd, a Florida schoolteacher who lost her job for posing in a bikini while on a fishing trip. I know I didn't until I read the most recent news: she's given up her search for another teaching job in favor of a career as a movie star. Oh, well, they're really just porno's. Go you, Tiffany!

I'm not opposed to people working in pornography, if they choose to do so. I wouldn't support the decision either, but it's just not my place to pontificate on the subject. However, in reading the article I noticed that it was the captain of the fishing boat involved in the scandal, Gil Coombes, who first suggested that being in porn was a good move, letting Tiffany know in his expert opinion that "she'd never get a teaching job again." Let's write out a time line:

1. Tiffany is a teacher.
2. Tiffany goes on a boat in a bikini.
3. Tiffany poses for pictures (probably taken by Gil or at least by his suggestion) in said bikini.
4. Tiffany loses job.
5. Tiffany fails to secure another teaching job, even at prisons.
6. Tiffany is told by Gil that no one would hire her again and that porn would pay the bills.

It's frightening how easy it is to frame this story as one of an evil man systematically taking away the hope of this woman and replacing it with exploitation. This seems even more true when you see quotes from Tiffany like this:

I'm not particularly proud of it. To be honest, I hate it. I'm an educated woman, but I never thought it would come to this. No one gets brought up thinking they'll be a floozy.

Well, Tiffany, at least you're famous now ... right?