Monday, June 29, 2009
Dragonfly on Top of Western Haiku
If I could be a
dragonfly in LA I'd
sell my camera.
In honor of William Wadsworth inventor of the Western haiku, who explains it this way:
Just as haiku conventionally invoke nature and leave out the lyric "I," a Western Haiku (my invention) must invoke an urban environment and be as self-centered as possible, preferably with an "I" in each of the three lines. Any other way the true haiku is subverted, besides the three line and 5-7-5 syllable construction, is welcome in a Western Haiku. -- from today's Poetry Speaks calendar
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Affordable Environmentally-Friendly Desert Home
Don't wait to get your bid in for this cozy, affordable environmentally-friendly desert home.
Constructed entirely of natural materials with no added chemicals, this desert beauty, built in the early Southern California utilitarian style, is the perfect home for the budget conscious.
Say goodbye to utility bills as this home features all natural lighting, solar heating, and wind-powered cooling.
Enjoy cooking in the handy outdoor fire pit with ample free fuel available nearby.
Natural springs just footsteps* away offer plumbing-free access to water to meet your family's drinking and bathing needs.
All natural landscaping with surrounding heavy brush cover means you'll never waste water flushing a toilet again.
Yes, friends, they just aren't building homes like this any more.
So don't wait, don't delay another minute, act today, right now, right away, before time runs out and it's too late and you miss this opportunity of a lifetime.
Supplies are limited!
* your footsteps may vary
Monday, June 22, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
News Under the Republicans and the Democrats
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Grass Eating Boys: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised
It seems hard for Americans to understand that not everybody in the world wants their lifestyle.
Cut throat competition in the marketplace.
Office politics and vicious gossip in the workplace.
The 24/7 rat race.
Long commutes and longer hours.
The pursuit of money, which turns out to not be the same thing as the pursuit of happiness.
The trivial pursuit of the trendiest fashion, the hottest car and the coolest gadget.
Even some Americans opt out as the Beats and the Hippies did in the 1950s and 1960s when the beast of capitalism slipped the leash.
Now in Japan come Grass Eating Boys as profiled in a Slate article Peggy pointed out to me the other day.
It seems a significant number -- up to 75% in one survey -- of Japanese men in their 20s and 30s are opting out of their country's knockoff of American capitalism.
Raised by parents, who bought into it by working 24/7 for Toyota and Honda and Sony, these boys were left home alone.
They stayed in their rooms and played video games. They found a new world on the World Wide Web. They did not develop any interest in sex.
This latter seems to be what Japanese culture watchers worry about the most.
The consumers gone wild boom in the 1980s, followed by the recession and lost decade of the 1990s, produced a generation of young men who show little interest in the traditional values of capitalist society.
They have lost interest in going to college, getting a good job, marrying the woman of their dreams, buying a house, and raising 1.6 children.
They watched their hard working, dressed for success fathers strap on "the heart attack machine" that Bob Dylan warned them about.
The Grass Eating Boys are saying thanks but no thanks to that lifestyle.
These sons of the bourgeoisie also reject the more ancient Japanese macho culture of the Samurai.
Growing up solitary, only sons in empty houses where parents were otherwise engaged, the Grass Eating Boys are leading a silent and virtually invisible rebellion.
This revolution will not be televised. There is nothing to see.
The Grass Eating Boys do not gather in groups to protest the way things are.
They are simply walking away, quietly walking their own way.
They are home gardeners and vegetarians, thus the Grass Eating Boys nickname.
They like to go for hikes and photograph Zen temples.
They are a living critique of the American illusion that the American Dream can be exported, or that it is even a dream worth following.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
What Would Thoreau Twitter?
"Our inventions are wont to be pretty toys, which detract our attention from serious things. They are but improved means to an unimproved end, an end which it was already but too easily arrived at ... We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate." -- Henry David Thoreau, Economy, WALDEN: Or Life in the Woods, first published Aug. 9, 1854
There's an old saying that if 40 million people believe in a dumb idea, it's still a dumb idea.
While I am generally fond of new technology, Twitter is a dumb idea no matter how many users it attracts.
After being bombarded by Twitter hype, I went out and looked at the Website for it.
It turns out to be a very simple idea, dumb but simple, which is probably why it is attractive to so many people.
The Twitter user is asked to answer a single question: What are you doing?
While the user answers in a manner similar to email or instant messaging, there is a 140-character maximum, so it avoids the run-on brain dumps that are the bane of email and IM.
There is a video cartoon on the Twitter home page that explains how it works. A skeptical cartoon character first discovers that a friend, who is also a cartoon character, loves baseball. This leads to some kind of epiphany for the skeptical cartoon character.
All this convinced me that Twitter is an ideal means of communication if you happen to be a cartoon character.
However.
For human beings it would seem to be one more trivial pursuit to distract ourselves.
Other examples in the Twitter cartoon suggest that you could let your friends know that you are mowing the lawn or out having coffee.
What are you doing?
Drinking an iced mocha.
What are you doing?
Mowing the lawn.
Certainly drinking an iced mocha or mowing the lawn are noble pursuits but do they deserve to be memorialized on Twitter?
Human nature being what it is, there are probably more intriguing Twitters as day turns into night.
What are you doing?
I'm drunk in this bar and somebody is putting the moves on me.
What are you doing?
I'm letting the grass grow to see if the neighbors complain.
That would not be so noble but might be more interesting.
You might even get true crime stories on Twitter.
Imagine if Lizzie Borden had had Twitter.
What are you doing?
I've taken an axe and given my mother 40 whacks.
And Lizzie's father might also have used Twitter.
What are you doing?
Lizzie's gone postal. I'm dialing 911.
Oh dear.
I also wonder if after the Twitter hype cycle peaks, people won't get tired of answering the incessant question that would border on boorish behavior if a human being was constantly asking it.
What are you doing?
None of your damn business!
As HAL learned in 2001 A Space Odyssey there is a limit to what flawed human beings will put up with from a computer.
So there may be a Twitter backlash.
The self-absorption of the 1980s ME generation led to the slang retort: "Get over yourself."
Some similar fate may yet befall the narcissists of 2009 when they discover that their friends no longer care what the hell they are doing because they are too wrapped up in what they are doing.
At that point, it may be best to follow a more old fashioned methodology.
Get a puppy, who will be infinitely fascinated with whatever you are doing.
But remember we live in an imperfect world, so although you believe your own special self is absolutely fabulous and unbelievably interesting, eventually even your puppy will get bored and fall asleep on you.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Zen & The Art of Doing Dishes
Lesson from the Guru
It may not be the most important lesson
my guru taught me that I can pass on
But after every meal at the monastery
he did something that's very ordinary.
The guru didn't always grant our wishes.
Instead he went in and washed the dishes.
After the meditation and doing the chants
if you don't do the dishes you draw ants.
Students worry about reaching Nirvana or not.
The guru showed us that little things mean a lot.
Enlightenment may be the student's ultimate goal
but be sure you don't leave behind a dirty bowl.
You can wear robes, be a snake charmer
but an unwashed cup is still bad karma.
- Rich Seeley
Monday, June 8, 2009
Forget the Whales! Save the Rich!
ACTIVATE SATIRE DETECTION SOFTWARE BEFORE READING
"The very rich are different from us," F. Scott Fitzgerald famously said to Ernest Hemingway.
"Yeah," Hemingway replied. "They have more money."
Susan Molinari, the former Republican Congress member and now a lobbyist in Washington, was on the cable news the other day weeping and gnashing her teeth over President Obama's plans to tax rich people.
In the worst recession since World War II with almost 10 percent of working people unemployed, the Republicans are launching a lobbying campaign to save the rich?
Suddenly the rich are an endangered species?
Forget the whales.
Save the rich!
They are the true downtrodden in this recession because they might finally be forced to -- gasp! -- pay taxes.
If they can't hide their income using corporations based on obscure Caribbean islands they will surely perish.
If Congress won't uphold the Bush tax cuts for them then the rich are doomed!
Who is going to buy all those new made-in-China Hummers if the rich are taxed out of existence?
Why if President Obama has his way the rich might end up being treated like everybody else. Then where will we be?
Of course, there's the rich and then there's the RICH.
During last summer's Presidential campaign, Republican nominee John McCain was asked how much money you needed to have to be considered rich. His answer was $600 million. That about what McCain's wife, the beer distributorship heiress, is worth. McCain, who made his money the old fashioned way by marrying into it, was apparently trying to distance himself from then candidate Obama, who has only made a few million in book royalties and therefore is still a working stiff by McCain's standards.
But what about the Billionaires who consider $600 million chump change?
Rumors are floating around the Web of a bizarre meeting of the SUPER RICH, who are apparently trying to figure out where they stand in this economic mess:
The mysterious, media-blackout meeting was called by Warren Buffett, CEO of Berkshire-Hathaway; Bill Gates, co-founder of Microsoft; and David Rockefeller Jr., chairman of Rockefeller Financial Services.
In addition to Gates, Buffett and Rockefeller, the attendees included Oprah Winfrey, George Soros, Ted Turner, and New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, among others.
Before you can say "conspiracy theory," you might wonder if Gates, worth $57 billion, and Buffet, worth $37 billion, aren't looking to cut a deal with the Democrats who seem intent on sacrificing the rich to the budget gods.
Sure let them tax those losers with a mere $600 million as long as they spare the billionaires.
This is class warfare on an unprecedented level.
The mere rich versus the SUPER RICH.
It could lead to a new version of Whack-a-Mole called "Who Wants to Beat a Millionaire."
Members of the middle class (those with less than $600 million according to the McCain standard) are advised to stay indoors during this phase of the upper class warfare.
Meanwhile reality bites: If only one class of rich people can survive, guess who it is going to be?
Forget the whales.
Forget the rich.
Save the billionaires!
F. Scott Fitzgerald & the Last of the Booze
The Typist's Tale is a feature story on The Los Angeles Times website today about Frances Kroll Ring, the last person to work with F. Scott Fitzgerald during the last months of his life as he struggled to write one last novel, The Last Tycoon.
Ring, who is now 92, had a distinguished career of her own as the long-time editor of Westways magazine.
But in 1939 as a 22-year-old, who had just arrived in Los Angeles from New York, she got a temp job as typist for the famous novelist.
Fitzgerald, while only in his early 40s, was already seriously ill with the disease that would kill him.
When Ring met him, he was recovering from a booze cruise to Cuba with his wife Zelda, who after the trip had to be institutionalized in what in those days was called an asylum.
Ring recalls that Fitzgerald conducted the job interview from bed in his Encino, California home. He was too weak and perhaps too drunk to get up.
At one point during that interview, he asked her to open a bureau drawer where she expected to find folded shirts. Instead, she found neatly stacked bottles of gin.
She surmised that this was a test. Fitzgerald wanted her to know what she was getting into and the nature of the demons he was struggling against.
Fitzgerald never finished the novel Ring typed for him. He died of a heart attack in December 1940. He was 44.
Tender Is the Night, Fitzgerald's last completed novel, published in 1933,is an autobiographical account of the author's descent into the bottle.
Dick Diver, the Fitzgerald character, is a famous psychiatrist who is part owner of a clinic that treats wealthy mental patients including those who a century ago were diagnosed as dipsomaniacs.
Set in Europe in the 1920s, the story begins with Dick as the hero of French beach parties attended by the rich and famous. The wine flows like wine usually does at such events and it all seems like so much summer fun in the sun.
But as the story progresses so does Dick's drinking and its characteristic self-destructiveness.
In Italy, Dick gets drunk and causes a scene. Taken to a police station, he is about to be released more or less with a warning. But walking out the door, he insists on decking a police officer, which leads to his being severely beaten and jailed.
This is said to be based on an incident from Fitzgerald's own misadventures.
Throughout the book there are keen insights into the pitfalls of the drinking life although the author was powerless to apply them to his real life.
Fitzgerald appears to have known exactly what he was doing wrong but was unable to learn from the lessons he was teaching.
This is the irony of Dr. Dick Diver.
Late in the novel, the psychiatrist's drinking has reached the point where his patients and their families are complaining to Franz, the doctor who is his partner in the clinic practice.
The confrontation between Dick and Franz is a blending of the drunk's denial that anything is wrong and a kindly and almost timid psychiatrist's attempt to get at the truth without stating the obvious.
Despite incidents including the drunken brawl at the police station, Dick tells Franz: "You must know I'm the last man to abuse liquor."
Franz replies: "Dick, I know well that you are a temperate, well-balanced man, even though we do not entirely agree on the subject of alcohol. But a time has come--Dick, I must say frankly that I have been aware several times that you have had a drink when it was not the moment to have one."
This classic understatement begins a conversation that ends with Franz buying out Dick's share of the clinic, and sending him packing.
It is followed by the unraveling of Dick's marriage, and his once famously promising medical career.
Unlike popular fiction and biographies of today, Tender Is the Night does not end with an uplifting recovery.
For all his obvious flaws, Fitzgerald was too honest to work up a happy ending for himself.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
SoCal Myths: The Great Dodger in the Sky
Storm clouds over Mt. San Jacinto, June 3, 2009. Photos by Rich Seeley
Rain is so rare at this time of year that records were broken in Palmdale, Sandberg and Camarillo, where there had been zero precipitation on June 3 in all the years that the National Weather Service had been keeping records, the Oxnard office reported. -- from today's Los Angeles Times.
Grandma Saveraid lured my mother to Los Angeles at the end of World War II by writing her letters claiming "it only rains here at night."
My mother was living in Nebraska at the time and this sounded too good to be true.
And like everything else that sounds too good to be true, it was.
Eventually, my mother, who spent most of the rest of her life in Southern California, found out that it does occasionally rain here during the day.
But it mostly rains during just two months -- February and March -- all year. Dodger baseball games are rarely rained out because it almost never rains here during baseball season -- April through October.
So while Grandma's "it only rains here at night" was a bit of a stretch, it is true that there are very few rainy days in Southern California.
The fact that California has a unique climate when compared to the rest of the country and much of the world, causes meteorologists based back East to make strange statements on national television.
Sometime in September, when the fire season begins here, a guy on the Atlanta-based Weather Channel will say: "It's been five months since they've had any measurable rain in the Los Angeles area and by now they desperately need it in the fire-prone foothills."
Of course, anybody who had lived here for more than a year or two knows that it ain't going to rain in September. Except for a few little drizzles it isn't likely to rain here until February, if then.
Except right now because the high and low pressure areas are out of kilter off the Pacific Coast, we are getting freaky weather this June.
Yesterday and last night it actually did rain in Southern California.
But it still didn't rain out the Dodgers home game, which they won thanks to a great pitching performance by Chad Billingsley, and the benevolence of a local deity known as The Great Dodger in the Sky.
The Great Dodger in the Sky is supposed to protect us against rain outs. Among the other deities this is called nice work if you can get it.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Allen Ginsberg: 'Die when you die'
My "Poetry Speaks" calendar reminds me that today is the birthday of Allen Ginsberg, who died in 1997.
I remember going to see Ginsberg read and sing his poems at McCabe's Guitar Shop in Santa Monica in 1982 with my friend Lisa, who died in 1989.
Lisa was even then fighting the cancer that would eventually kill her.
Most of our friends in L.A. went to movies or dance clubs or rock concerts on Friday and Saturday nights.
But Lisa and I went to poetry readings. We were especially drawn to the aging -- even then -- Beatnik poets.
A few months after we went to see Allen Ginsberg at McCabe's, we drove down to Laguna Beach to see Gary Snyder, a Zen Beatnik survivor still living and writing today at 79.
Every time we went to hear a poet the occasion had the importance of maybe being the last time.
As far as I know, that Friday night in 1982 was the last time Lisa ever saw Allen Ginsberg.
Despite his reputation for being the outrageous hero of the hippies, Ginsberg was impossibly gentle and charming and funny in person.
Lisa was fond of him because he was the kind of Jewish uncle she wished she'd had if she'd had better luck in relatives when she was growing up in Queens. A happy Buddhist convert rather than the dour Reds of her 1950s childhood.
The little bio on my Poetry Speaks calendar recounts Ginsberg's conversion: "After years of dabbling in various narcotic substances, a trip to India proved life-changing for Ginsberg. His exposure to Indian culture introduced him to meditation, a mode of mind expansion that replaced his former drug habit."
By the time Lisa and I saw him at McCabe's, Ginsberg was practicing Tibetan Buddhism at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado. He had taken on the happy outlook of the Dalai Lama. He was funny in a spiritual way.
That night, playing a harmonium usually associated with Hindu chants, Ginsberg performed his country western version of the Buddha's Four Nobel Truths. (You can see a video of his Gospel Nobel Truths on YouTube.)
The song is all about not taking your suffering too seriously and accepting life and death and everything in between.
The last verse says:
Talk when you talk
Cry when you cry
Lie down, you'll lie down
Die when you die
Lisa, in her gallows humor way, thought that was very funny.
It reminded her that although she was dying, as every one is eventually, there was no need to get ahead of herself.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The Virtue of Sitting & Doing Nothing
It is better to see God in everything than to try and figure it out.
- Neem Karoli Baba
Sitting & working.
Sitting & texting.
Sitting & figuring.
Sitting & talking.
Sitting & eating.
Sitting & drinking.
Sitting & waiting.
Sitting & worrying.
Sitting on the phone.
Sitting up straight.
Sitting pretty.
Sitting duck.
Sitting in the catbird seat.
Sitting on the edge of your seat.
But sitting & doing nothing?
There is a virtue in just sitting.
And doing nothing.
Now when Buddhists talk about sitting they usually mean some kind of insight meditation practice, which can be a good thing but it does take some effort.
But another good sitting practice, which has the virtue of being easier, is just sitting quietly doing nothing.
There's no need to wrap your legs into the Lotus position. You can sit on a park bench or in a chair or on the grass.
Just sit out in nature and watch the birds and butterflies.
Or watch the clouds go by.
If there are no clouds or this seems too active, sit and watch the rocks.
If the rocks prove too distracting, close your eyes.
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