The War on People


What I find so viciously awful about the war in Iraq is the (not always) unspoken, but palpable attitudes held by many Americans that by virtue of having been born in the Middle East, these people are somehow complicit in their own demise. At best, perhaps, it’s too much for us to handle, and it’s comforting to think that maybe when a bomb in Tikrit kills thirty people, they all sort of deserved it somehow. We certainly would feel differently if a bomb went off in Zurich. Or Boston.

At the beginning of the war in/on Iraq, Bush said “…the United States has no quarrel with the Iraqi people. Our quarrel is with Iraq’s dictator…” Out of millions of Iraqis, we really just hated this one dude. But we couldn’t just kill him. Political assassinations are illegal under international law, so in order for us to get rid of Saddam Hussein, the one person in Iraq with whom we supposedly had a quarrel, we unfortunately had to kill a whole bunch of other people along with him in order to make it legal. Depending on how you define legal—and you should really define it the way you would cast a film. Could you picture Harrison Ford playing Walter White? Would that work for you? Could you imagine the United States killing a bunch of people in a Middle Eastern country? Does that seem plausible?

Bush clarified, our quarrel was with “…Iraqi’s dictator, and his aggression.” But when was his aggression his, and when was it someone else’s? The idea was that Saddam Hussein radiated aggression like a brilliant, angry sun, and by snuffing him out, peace would fall across the land. He was the Wicked Witch of the Middle East.

Now, many years later, Saddam Hussein is dead, and militants are rounding up Iraqi soldiers, tying their hands behind their backs, pushing them into ditches, gunning them down, and posting photos of the massacred bodies on Twitter. Nobody really knows how many have been killed, but guesses range from hundreds to thousands. Maybe by killing Hussein, we only unleashed his aggression where it filled the atmosphere, raining hatred and anger down on everyone’s heads. Maybe we should have held Hussein in a cage, figured out a way to harness his aggression as a renewable energy source.

By the way, I recommend Paul Chappell’s Peaceful Revolution.

The Bad Plus

In my ongoing quest for interesting, artful, emotive instrumental music that isn’t jazz (my deep love for jazz is not all encompassing), I’ve stumbled across The Bad Plus. I feel like this is the sort of band I should feel embarrassed to never have heard of.

This is what happens when exceptionally talented musicians play art rock, and the results are fantastic.

For the Love of Lucifer

In case you missed it, last night there was supposed to be a “Black Mass” at Harvard, and it really worked out perfectly. The Christians got to express moral indignation, to march through the streets in the name of all that is holy and righteous, the Black Mass was moved to a tourist bar, and the “Satanists” (does that mean anything?) got some much-desired attention.

Sadly, the Black Mass was not to include a blood-soaked orgy, which I think would have been appropriate, or at least entertaining, or at least worth marching for or against. Maybe a viewing of Eyes Wide Shut at least? After these evil, wicked devil worshippers relocated to the Hong Kong Lounge in downtown Boston, an anonymous waiter told the Globe they appeared to mostly be sitting around, drinking. And alcohol is evil, we know that.

Nothing like this has ever happened at Yale.

The biggest problem with Satanism is that they appear to have a very agreeable belief system. According to their website, they believe in compassion, empathy, justice, science, personal responsibility, noble actions, and so on. But they clearly don’t believe in is savvy marketing.

Was the Church of Hitler already taken?

I want to like these people. Maybe it’s because I root for the underdogs, or maybe it’s that statue planned for an Oklahoma courthouse lawn. Brilliant! Or maybe I do find they have an interesting spin on Christian mythology.

But did these people decide they wanted to practice compassion, reason, justice, and so on, and conclude there were no pre-existing options?

Satanists claim to have been “demonized,” but that seems rather backwards. You literally chose the image of a demon to represent your belief system. Please don’t try to claim that you were here first, and then these Christians came along and maligned you. You co-opted their thing, not the other way around.

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I may collect information about you, your computer, your web browser, your dreams, your nagging memories of youthful offenses (both personal and criminal), the depth with which you “fucking love science” (whether you fucking love the act of testing a hypothesis with controlled experiments and submitting the results to peer reviewed journals; or whether you merely fucking love photographs of nebulae, which is a perfectly fine thing to fucking love), whether you are anti-biotic or pro-biotic, whether you smoke marijuana casually or formally, your age, your aegis, your algae, your agoraphobia, your afghan hound, your afghan sweater, your afghan hound’s sweater, your vital signs, your traffic signs, your signs of being too old to understand what’s on your television, your tolerance for nihilistic philosophy and the egregiously ineligible bachelors who espouse it, your smug sense of superiority and/or your humble sense of inferiority, your attitudes toward various breakfast cereals (whether they conjure nostalgic feelings of childhood, or corporate rage), your worst nightmare, your best nightmare, your nightmares that could improve with minor edits, your gross inadequacies, your delightful supremacies, your fatal flaw, your natal awe, your mediocre Jack Nicholson impression, your tragic confluence of emotional uncertainty with physical prowess, your shopping habits, your nun habits, your cartoon rabbits, your inalienable rights, your alien laser fights, your vestiges, your vesicles, your vespers, your vestiaries, your wanton lust, your won ton lust, your horoscope, your periscope, and anything related and/or unrelated to your lasting and/or fleeting hope of finding and/or ruining true and/or false love.

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Paris & London

I finally assembled this footage I took of a trip to Paris and London four years ago. I would have liked to spend a lot of time putting the music together, but I can’t allow myself to get sucked into that wormhole. So, here it is.



I’m not sure why I jumped at the chance to buy a collection of rejection letters, which is sort of like buying a box of bloody razorblades. Do I just delight in pain? The thing about being a writer, or trying to be a writer, is coming to terms with your pathetic insignificance in the literary universe. You are not even one glittering star in an infinite cosmos—you are more like dark matter, that invisible stuff that is pushing the universe farther and farther apart, and until recently, nobody even knew you were there. The saying “You can’t please all the people all the time” is completely useless in the literary universe. More often, you can’t please anybody, ever. And this question about who you’re writing for, this is also silly. You’re writing for one person, in this case, Lee Klein, who is the editor of the online journal,, which—and I’m just saying this to be mean—does not appear to have had a design update since 1998. Writing for Lee Klein, and people like Lee Klein, is depressing, frustrating, and awful. They are fickle, weird, fussy, and if this book is to be believed, they read your submissions half-drunk and sleep deprived. Klein, at the very least though, has taken it upon himself to write back, and to write back honestly, possibly with some equal frustration, and probably with a lot of genuine kindness. Or brutal kindness, which is perhaps what I was hoping to find in this collection of his rejection letters, and I think I found it. Klein’s rejection letters are half notes on style (or even half-notes on style), and half ramblings on what he did that day, and what the weather is like, which at times feels kind of self-absorbed, but after a while you get the feeling that Klein is really just like anyone—a frustrated voice searching for an audience, any audience. I’m tempted to submit to Eyeshot in the hopes of receiving one of these rejections myself, or maybe just to annoy him. Anyway, if you like writing about writing, I recommend this.

Happy Birthday, WWW

While a student at Berklee, I attended a presentation by a couple of entrepreneurs from California who were demonstrating this service called IUMA, the Internet Underground Musical Archive. For a hundred dollars, you could mail them a cassette tape, they would encode it digitally, and make it available for download off this thing called the World Wide Web.

I don’t remember the exact year. 1875?

There were 70-pound CRT monitors that cooked their beige plastic shells to a burnt-cheese brown. And operating systems that crashed every other mouse-click. Dialup modems that screeched like some crazy robotic bats (or something). With enterprise and idiocy, we fell in love with these new, ridiculous things.

(People think of technology as being very clean, but I can tell you as a pro, it is caked with dust, filled with dead bugs and mouse droppings; it is cracked, and tangled in crude, babbling logic.)

When I graduated, I came very, very close to convincing the school to hire me as their first web designer. At the time, the web looked like this. It’s hard to believe how impressed we were. But we were. God bless those silly people of the past, I love them and miss them.