Outis

foto karina villalobos

This past Saturday, I attended a baseball game between the Oakland A’s and the Montreal Expos. The A’s won, 4 to 5.

Outside the A’s stadium, the United States Army had set up two kiosks to attract new recruits. They had a humvee, fresh-faced recruiters and a flashy banner with the current Army slogan: “An Army of One.”

Inside the stadium, during the singing of the Star-Spangled Banner, the announcer proclaimed that the flag would be carried by Army soldiers just recently returned from Iraq.

The song began. But I could not sing. I was mortified. To be honest, I was ashamed.

As a child, I loved singing the national anthem. Last year, when my wife became a U.S. citizen, I cried as I sang it along with the several thousand citizens, some newly minted, in attendance.

I am not a “pure” pacifist. I do not believe that the U.S. — or any other liberal democracy — should always refrain from the use of force to protect liberal democracies elsewhere in the world.

Why, then, was I — am I — deeply ashamed to be an American?

One word: trust.

Trust is a two-way street. Today, President Bush deflected criticisms that his administration concocted evidence that Saddam Hussein possessed and was on the brink of using weapons of mass destruction by announcing that, either way, the Iraqi people are now free.

Yet, by admitting even the implication that his administration did not trust us with the true objectives of the invasion and occupation of Iraq, the President and his supporters have disallowed the possibility that we should trust him, in return. Thus, the very condition of freedom — trust — is destroyed.

If not our president, then, who should we trust?

To whom do we pledge allegiance? To the flag?

At the end of the day, the flag is a symbol, meaningful only because of our belief in what it represents. A belief in equality and liberty. Without this belief, the pledge of allegiance becomes meaningless. If the pledge of allegiance is empty, what of patriotism?

Outside the stadium, two young men walked past me. They were talking about their test results. It is June, early summer. At first, I assumed they were talking about their college aspirations. Then I overheard one of them say: “I would do better in chemical weapons.”

These boys were not bound for Yale. They were considering joining the “Army of One.” Only, it’s not an army of one — it’s an army of 260 million. As in, our army. But, in these times, they are only being asked to pledge allegiance to themselves — not to the Constitution and certainly not to us.

At least, that’s what the propaganda, er, advertising campaign claims.

Two weeks ago, General Shinseki resigned as the Army Chief of Staff, noting that “the Army has always understood the primacy of civilian control.” He was then replaced by a former commander of special operations.

We are in the midst of a crisis of faith. Honesty vs. deception. Paternalism vs. egalitarianism. Fascism vs. democracy.

Our last president was nearly impeached for lying to the American people about having oral sex with an intern. What if the war just fought — pardon, the peace being fought — was the result of a series of claims that also hinge on what the meaning of the word “is” is. As in: “Is” Saddam Hussein a threat to the United States? Well, technically he “was,” and, so, therefore he “is.”

In previous generations, when a U.S. soldier died in the line of duty it was called a sacrifice for the common good. What is the meaning of the “common” good at a time when the President, a citizen, is unwilling to level with his fellow citizens over matters of life and death?

Or, are we to believe that every one of us is a potential terrorist? Is that what the right to bear arms is about?

So much for the conservative ideology of individual freedoms and individual responsibility.

If 9/11 has elevated the elitism of the Republican establishment to a condition of acceptable national security policy, the traditional strength of the conservative ideology on matters of social welfare is bogus.

The next time you hear a conservative carrying on about individual responsibility, ask them if they support the right to vote on matters of life and death.

Simply put: the president cannot assert his belief in the responsibilities of the individual, on the one hand, in order to eliminate “social” programs, and then, on the other hand, determine that the individual American citizen is unworthy of the administration’s moral and political calculations as to the value of an American life.

If the average American citizen is not intelligent or trustworthy enough to get a straight answer on why we should “invest” hundreds of billions of dollars to invade and occupy Iraq, then we should not allow the average citizen to vote.

Let’s tear up our voter registration cards and go back to life as it was lived prior to the War of Independence in 1776 — as subjects to King George.

Let’s abolish general elections. Then, the Republican party can take the estimated $200 million it will raise over the next year to re-elect Bush and invest those funds in much more rewarding enterprises than the bankrupt American democracy.

Sure, this is just “crazy talk.” But, there’s a lot of that going around these days.

The Armed Forces has announced that, for the first time, returning soldiers will be forced to undergo psychological therapy before being discharged into the general population.

Perhaps, they should offer some of that there free, tax-paid psychological counseling to the electorate, as well. With a little Prozac and some soft-spoken advice about putting my fate in Daddy’s hands, I’m sure I could get through the national anthem without flinching.

This week’s entry must be as short as it will be delirious. It is not often that, at my ripe age of almost-30, I spend 36 consecutive hours awake and working, mostly in front a series of distinctly different computers.

Yet, when the work is good and challenging, I lose myself in the process, like a rower in the stream.

After hours at a steady clip, the resistance of the water is just enough to make one wonder: am I rowing or is the water rowing me?

Surface tension is like that — it pushes as it pulls.

So, in that spirit, what are the things that push me? A List of a Few of My Favorite Things, briefly annotated not for reasons of persuasion but, rather, simple clarification.

Law & Order, TV series, 1989-1993.

These are the early years. I was fortunate enough to have received a DVD “box-set” of the first season of Law & Order episodes this very weekend. Just in time for a marathon design session that lasted through the night. Number of episodes viewed during that time? 12. Surprises? The one episode I had not seen previously seemed to drag the longest. The others flickered past, shortened to a mere 45 minutes with the absence of television commercials.

Yes, the absence of commercials. I missed them, that punctuation of everyday life without which we would lose the ability to tell standard time. Who would have thought that I would miss them? Missing you. Like the Deserts miss Hussein.

The fluttering, pulsating bass sounds that Steve Reich makes in “Music for 18 Musicians.”
I have no idea how he does it. It just sounds like the earth is breathing — through me.

Espresso.
This is the real “black gold.” Rich and syrupy, slightly gritty like the fertile loam that Toni Morrison describes in the pivotal love scene of her novel “Sula.” I could have coffee every hour, on the hour, if served as a demitasse of espresso. And the intoxication. Who would have thought that such a humble concoction of dried, roasted, ground and pressed beans could correct the pitch of one’s own nervous system, like a rubber bar suddenly becoming a perfect tuning fork. Funny that Google should remind me that the world’s best tuning fork is a watch, a timepiece, a clock. With espresso, time does not accelerate. Rather, we join its infinitesimal dance.

Fried eggs.
What other food is transformed, so effortlessly from viscous liquid to a complex layering of both liquid, crunchy and meaty textures — and I only mean the whites, let alone the yolk. The running yolk. The yielding yolk. The premature ejaculation yolk. The yolk that keeps on giving. The yolk that leaves a fine, almost silky coating around congrí, that black bean and rice dish that only a fried egg could possibly improve. (Here’s one for the history buffs: if the Spanish/Cuban world can celebrate Muslim-Christian solidarity and harmony in one of our best — and simplest — rice and bean dishes, what troubles are left to solve other than making sure everyone has, at least, a plate of congrí to eat every night for the entirety of their lives?)

The rasping, musical sounds of a small dog’s fingernails as he trots along wooden floors.
I have to admit, the last thing I expected to remember this year, in this city, was a sound I did not even know I had heard before. But, of course, I had. In Cuba, as a child, in my grandmother’s apartment in El Bedado, Habana. The sound of her dog’s nails on a hard floor. “Pitusa” was that companion’s name. “Cicciolini” is ours. Long live the skinny dogs with the spritely steps and ever playful disposition.

Kraftwerk, “Computer World”

I don’t care how much or what has been written about this band and this album. For me, this is our century’s contribution to the musical content of the Enlightenment project. It is pop music. It is rap music. It is electronic music. It is folk music. It is serious and sarcastic, optimistic and cynical. It is a cipher and an open book. It rocks and soothes. If I were older, I would cross out the above statements and replace this entry with equally ecstatic prose on jazz or blues. But, for me, those were 20th century responses to 19th century questions. After World War II, rock may have defined popular culture but Kraftwerk have done much the same, if at a distance, for the lengthy transition that is now called the post-Cold War era. And that, I guess, is the age to which I belong.

The heat.

Controversial in times of plenitude. Indisputable in its absence. Heat is possibility, opportunity. If chickens are hatched by lamps, so, too, are good ideas harvested by a warmth that permeates the air until our very lungs are filled with the energy of solar radiation. Sure, people lose their heads. But what they gain is their composure.

Winter coats for summer folks.

Whenever technical apparel, outdoor clothing, became fashionable, courtesy of the grafting of skiing/mountaneering gear to hip hop and the music of poverty (50 Cent, Get Rich Or Die Tryin), they also became cross-cultural emblems for making do with less.

White, rich people, purposefully go to the mountains, where it’s cold, and where there are big trees covered in cold wet water, also called snow, in order to have an exhiliariting rush of gravity.

They can be said to be “roughing it.” What with their utility vehicle and their survival gear-turned-fashion. Now, they’re not the only ones who like to take a spill.

Poor, often colorific peoples, also “enjoy” the “ride” of gravity — what gets high, must come down. But, they may experience that sense of loss of control — “Whee, I’m being taken away” — in terms that are far more absolute and lasting. Let’s put it this way: You can walk away from a ski resort. You ain’t walking away from no prison.

So, how about that. One piece of clothing: a $600, high-tech skiing jacket, a “nature’s flak” jacket, tested in places that are inhospitable to man, becomes a shared symbol, a status symbol, of resourcefulness in the face of overwhelming adversity.

For a few fans of the $600 ski jacket, adversity is pronounced “Mt. Kiliminjaro.” For the many, many other fans of the same jacket, modeled with a different cut, adversity is pronounced: “Hey. Hey-Hey. Baby I Got Your Money, Don’t You Worree. Don’t You Worree. I said Hey.”

ed. note: One year later, Frank Rich nominates a credible American hero in The New York Times: Spider-Man 2.

Next year, on September 11th, the Republican National Convention will already be well on its way have just ended in New York City.

It is painfully obvious that this choice of locale will allow the RNC to exploit the backdrop of a terrorist act — an attack that took the lives of several thousand New Yorkers, many of them immigrants, some of them residents rather than citizens — to advance the unholy alliance of fundamentalist and mainstream interests that have coalesced in that party over the last few years.

At that convention, as happened during the invasion and occupation of Iraq, the current administration and its backers will be engaged in the wholesale manufacture and selling of heroes — branded, of course, as exemplars of Republican values, if not, literally, as Republican candidates.

As for the worth of these values, it is logical that they fluctuate. But, then, if we take it for granted that the meaning of Republican or Democrat will drift here and there, on semantic and propagandistic waves, the ebb and flow of compromise and opportunism that defines any political system, what of the value and the meaning of a “hero?”

Over the last two years, the word “hero,” its meaning in both a contemporary and historical context, has become a hotly contested term. Just as the meanings of “person of interest,” “detainee,” “homeland,” “terrorist” and “patriot” — to name only a few — have been frozen, thawed, cooked and frozen again, to serve the changing needs of political leaders who rule by dictate rather than through debate, so, too, has the meaning of “hero” been transformed.

In particular, I am thinking of how firefighters, for example, were rightly celebrated as heroes in the wake of their sacrifices during the September 11th attacks. Yet, today, because of budget cuts in New York State, cuts that are largely due to the current administration’s callous disregard for most domestic concerns, there are firehouses closing throughout New York and, indeed, the rest of the nation.

I am also thinking about the ongoing conversation concerning the so-called “Saving of Private Lynch” and about the recently celebrated “country” music song “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue (The Angry American).”

All of which makes me wonder: what kind of a real, American hero does our polity need right now?

During the Reagan era, when the president called the United States a “Shining City on a Hill” and our enemies were, simply put, “the Evil Empire,” heroes came in two flavors, ironic and iconic: “The Greatest American Hero” and “Rambo: First Blood, pt II,” for example.

If you belive that human life is sacred, that blood should only be shed as a last resort, in an act of self-defense rather than, say, a “pre-emptive attack” designed to function, possibly, as a future defensive action, then an ironic hero, or, at least, one with moral complexity fits your bill.

Examples of complex heroes abound in American history. George Washington, Captain Ahab, Abraham Lincoln, Tom Sawyer, Benjamin Franklin — these were all multi-dimenstional figures, whether represented in historical or fictional accounts. In fact, even Christianity, the most popular religious tradition in the United States, espouses a complex God in the form of a mysterious trinity — one in three, three in one — and a God made mortal, a God, who, in a moment of doubt (!) asks “Why hast thou forsaken me?“

Even our most famous warriors, it should be noted, such as the figure of Ulysses, have been afforded — and retained — a conscience through the continuous retelling of their stories, over the last two thousand years.

It is no surprise, then, that the bloodlust of “Rambo” was justified by the trials and tribulations of its protagonist, John Rambo, as explained by the first film of that series: “First Blood.” The very title of the movies tells its tale: a hero who must defend himself after his enemies draw “first blood.” For those of you who have not seen this movie, I strongly recommend it for its vivid depiction of a disillusioned Vietnam veteran and his allegorical descent into a distinctly American Hell.

So, then, back to my question: what of today’s heroes?

I do not have an answer. But, I do have the makings of one.

Last Friday night, while driving home, I heard a commercial for Bud Light beer that, most likely, changed my life, forever.

Produced by the Chicago office of DDB, a global advertising agency, this radio spot extolled the virtues of a roller-skating man in tight shorts. The commercial dubbed him a “Real American Genius.” It was a brilliantly executed if narrowly designed joke. Still intrigued and impressed, I hit Google for its context.

What I found, eventually, was this:

http://www.smittystavern.com/bud/

Archived on this page are over three dozen radio spots, all produced by DDB for Anheuser-Busch & Co. Nearly all of them are awesome works of comedy and, perhaps, cathartic political commentary.

This is Bruce Springsteen meets Jack Handey.

For starters, I would recommend:

• Mr. Bowling Shoe Giver Outer (”Red, white and blue”)
• Mr. Driving Range Ball Picker Upper (”Gunning for you”)
• Mr. Bass Plaque Maker (”What have you done?”)
• Mr. Chinese Food Delivery Guy (”That’s 10%”)
• Mr. Losing Locker Room Reporter (”Some millionaire dropped the ball”)
• Mr. Giant Taco Salad Inventor (”Deep fried crunchy bowl”)

I present them to you both for your delight and, perhaps, as testament to the subtlety and resilience of American humor and culture, despite the best (or worst) efforts of the current administration and its political backers.

postscript
Who is my hero?

At the moment, it’s Paul Krugman. Here’s his New York Times column for this week.

Taking a longer view, I would nominate my uncle, Julio Márquez, who, for decades, worked in an Anheuser-Busch factory in Tampa, Florida. On his blue-collar salary, he managed to save enough money to bring all five of his siblings over to the United States from Cuba.

Were it not for the double-edged sword that is alcohol and family, as well as the less than savory way his former employer disposed of him after years of consistent service, I would gladly say “This Bud’s for you.”

Oh, and, when I was five years old and still lived in Cuba, this very same uncle Julio visited us, bringing me a special present. His gift? A brown leather belt decorated with scenes from the pages of Superman.