We Got Served

I’ve been wanting to write about Occupy Wall Street (OWS) for a long time. First I wanted to do enough research that I wouldn’t end up writing something totally ignorant. But so many factors got us to the point of nationwide protests that there’s no way I could understand all of it. Despite my best efforts, this post may still be ignorant, but I promise you it’s not based on false assumptions.

I must first express my supreme disappointment that the occupation of Wall Street was not some spontaneous assembly of outraged Americans, but a gathering spurred by the Estonian-Canadian Kalle Lasn, editor of the subversive bi-monthly Adbusters, using this image:

This is what I meant in my last post about the power of visual art. This image is impossible to ignore. This, and a tactical email sent to Adbusters subscribers on July 13, got 1,000 people to Wall Street on Sept. 17. No essay, no matter how well-reasoned, could do that.

After a few weeks of reading and watching, I think I know why OWS hasn’t come out with any official demands, despite politicians’ demands that they come up with some. One, obviously, is the movement’s philosophical opposition to vertical organization, which disqualifies anyone from speaking for everyone. But also, there simply isn’t a way to communicate the political situation in America that would carry more weight than the unadorned truth. The facts about who holds power in our country – in practice, not theory ­– and how they use it is so outrageous that attempts to write or speak about it almost always dilute the message in needless words.

Without further ado, here is my dilution.

When OWS began, my first thought was that much of the rage seemed misdirected. Wall Street, I thought, should not be held responsible for the crash; its members were operating rationally within a system set up legally by the government.

The sheer greed that brought down the economy is off-putting, sure, but greed is a normal sentiment and I can forgive it. I can’t, however, forgive the creation of a system that rewards the greed of bankers, of investment managers, of credit raters, and of the politicians themselves. That the people we elected to represent us, whom we were supposed to be able to trust, built such a self-serving system is an injustice that should have us all in the streets.

The people who allowed this system to take form should be the targets of our rage.

The New York occupation of Zuccotti Park lasted two months before Mayor Bloomberg shut it down, stating that the situation at the park had become “intolerable” with respect to sanitation and safety. In response to the protesters who invoked their constitutional rights to assemble and protest, Bloomberg said, “The First Amendment protects speech. It does not protect the use of tents and sleeping bags to take over a public space.”

So. What we have is a First Amendment that does NOT protect the use of makeshift shelters to take over a public space, but DOES protect the use of money to make a democracy into a plutocracy. (Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission, holla!)

Who acts within the law can be objectively determined. But who acts within the bounds of moral righteousness is a tougher topic to tackle. At UC-Davis last Friday, police were filmed pepper-spraying a group of students who were seated on the cement. I can imagine how it escalated: the students were protesting, the police told them to leave, the students sat down in further protest, the police warned them that if they didn’t leave that force would be used, and when the students didn’t move, the police used force.

Within a legal framework, the police were right and the protesters were wrong. But what about a moral one? When enough politicians are so hypocritical that they have discredited the entire representative-democratic system, and we aren’t allowed to physically demonstrate our dissatisfaction with the outcome, what is the next option? How can we legally achieve justice when these are our laws?

The movement may be called Occupy Wall Street, but it’s not all about Wall Street. The blame, like the risk, needs to be distributed much wider. Here are some entities that have proved themselves either worthless, incompetent, or corrupt:

Presidents: President Richard Nixon, for removing the gold standard; President Ronald Reagan, for glorifying deregulation and appointing people to carry out the deregulatory agenda; President Bill Clinton, for approving the Financial Services Modernization Act (which allows companies to become too big to fail) and the Commodity Futures Modernization Act (which deregulated complex newfangled financial instruments); President Barack Obama, for not demanding criminal prosecution of the leaders of the firms that were committing obvious securities fraud, and for not making Elizabeth Warren head of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.

Congress: for being so easily seduced by lobbyists; for acting as if what they owe to constituents is proportional to the amount of money they donate.

The Federal Reserve: for a lot of things, but particularly for unnecessarily giving AIG’s counterparties 100 cents on the dollar in the bailout of AIG. (Auto companies, mainly GM, were bailed out as well, but for much less than 100 percent of their debts, and with conditions about overhauling management and business practices.)

Many Americans: for borrowing too much money. No explanation needed.

Banks: Investment banks, for reasons I won’t get into but which you can learn all about from a number of sources, some of which I will list at the end of this. But also regular consumer banks, for allowing people to lie about their credit on loan applications just so they could get another application on the books.

Credit rating agencies (Standard & Poor’s, Fitch, Moody’s): Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac still had AAA ratings within days of their takeover by the government; AIG, Lehman Brothers, and Bear Stearns were still rated AA within days of their collapse. These firms were literally out of cash long before then. But in the meantime, the credit rating agencies had taken away the very meaning of a AAA rating by issuing AAAs in excess (a 60% increase between 2000 and 2006); and by deliberately issuing fraudulent ratings, often in response to financial incentives. The ratings agencies took in profits as if they did something important and then, when confronted about their job performance, acted like they were dispensable. “[Credit ratings] do not speak to the market value of a security, the volatility of its price, or its suitability as an investment,” said Deven Sharma of Standard & Poor’s in a congressional hearing. So what did they give the world in exchange for all that money? Short-term profits for a few people, and long-term losses for the whole country. In short, socialized debt. Thanks, guys.

Securities & Exchange Commission: for not doing its job, which is to make sure that publicly traded companies act transparently.

A person goes to jail if he robs a bank. But he’s free and clear if he robs people in a way that can’t be easily explained, and is barely understood, and is done collectively, and is technically legal. He might even be allowed to resign with a 161-million-dollar severance package in tow. That happened. And that’s one of hundreds of small facts that, when taken together, make the protesters’ case for them. We hold these truths to be self-evident: that our government and body of law do not protect us like they used to. For some 30 years big businesses created Congresses to create legislation to create a country where money is power (just ask the CEOs and lobbyists) and power is money (just ask Congress). And the situation has grown intolerable. Just ask the 99 percent.

Learn more:
The Real AIG Scandal
by Eliot Spitzer
Inside Job by Charles Ferguson
Goldman Sachs..100 Cents on the Dollar by Shahien Nasiripour
The Woman Who Knew Too Much by Suzanna Andrews
Moody’s Analyst Breaks Silence by Henry Blodget
The SEC’s Next Challenge: Fixing the Ratings Agencies by Barbara Kiviat
American Theocracy by Kevin Phillips
Congress: Trading stock on inside information? by Steve Kroft
Mortgage Mess CEOs Defend Pay by David Ellis
Bank Lobby Plans Attack on Occupy Movement by Ben Johnson

Reflections on Red

Red starts out as the most pretentious play I’ve ever seen. An aging Mark Rothko, his back to the audience, is seated on a wooden chair in his New York studio, smoking a cigarette, blasting Bach, and gazing upon his latest work: a black and red mural he was commissioned to paint for the Four Seasons restaurant.

John Logan’s one-act play, on stage at the Goodman Theatre until October 23, is a psychodramatic saga of Rothko’s struggle with two things: the public’s ill-informed interest in his work; and the realization that he and his contemporaries, having achieved conventional success, must inevitably make room for the next generation of painters.

The cast of Red consists solely of Edward Gero as Rothko and Patrick Andrews as his young fictional assistant, Ken. The first hour of the 100-minute play is a series of passionate lectures by Rothko to Ken, lectures composed of a few genuinely thought-provoking lines (“Where’s the arbitration that separates what I like from what I respect?” is the artist’s criticism of a public he sees as too easily pleased), but mostly failed attempts at pithiness (“There is tragedy in every brushstroke”) that paint Rothko as a depressed egomaniac who wants desperately to be quoted.

All is forgiven at the climax of Red, when Ken calls Rothko out for being so pretentious. Rothko is the purest of the purists; pop art, poised to define the next generation, is cheap, vulgar, and void of integrity. Ken presses Rothko: Why does art have to be so damn serious? Where’s the joy? The humility? Soup cans may not be spiritually elevating but, as Ken points out, “at least Warhol gets the joke.”

Rothko leaves. Ken lights a cigarette, puts on a Coltrane record, and faces the audience. Part of the challenge of writing is knowing when to stop, and this would’ve made a great final image: the young artist confronting the world, in contrast with the reclusive old Rothko collapsing inward.

Red is primarily a play about authenticity. It is set in 1958-59, not longer after Rothko’s paintings were touted as good investments by the editors of Fortune. (This distinction did not sit well with Rothko, who took it as confirmation that his rise to fame was not the result of artistic communion with the public, but attributable to the herd mentality that catapults so many to conventional success.) Rothko is uneasy about the burgeoning relationship between art and consumption, which he blames in part for his friend Pollock’s suicide: “The Oldsmobile killed him. Not because it crashed, but because it existed. Why the fuck did Jackson Pollock have an Oldsmobile convertible?”

At the play’s end, Rothko calls architect Philip Johnson to announce that he is giving up the commission in order to protect his murals from the eyes of an undeserving public. To display the murals at the Four Seasons would be totally inappropriate, like placing a crucifix in a bar.

Red, though not perfect, is definitely worth seeing. It’s an accessible mash-up of theatre and abstract painting that is bound to provoke anyone who cares about art in the broad sense. I say “broad” because my own definition is centered on writing: essays, fiction, poetry, scripts, lyrics, ad copy, homilies, love letters, journal entries, instruction manuals, fine print. I love writing because it’s hard to bullshit. Visual art honors the enigmatic; writing makes a fool of it.

But after seeing Red, I can say that visual art is superior to writing in at least one major way: it can be imposed on people. A statue, a building, a graffiti tag can stop you in your place, mentally if not physically. But reading is an undertaking, one that is necessarily consensual. Before you can persuade someone with writing, you must persuade them to read.

Meanwhile, at the Back of the Bus

Saturday night on the bus around 10:30 p.m., I had the misfortune of sitting near a rather belligerent man. He was around 30 years old and dressed in a nice button-up shirt, distressed jeans, and those weird leather shoes that turn up at the toes.

I was also sitting near another man, probably around 30 as well. He was playing one of the new Lil Wayne songs out of his phone. The sound wasn’t pleasant, but the bus was conducting its typical symphony of cell phone conversations, coughing, swearing, other muffled music, engine roars and obnoxious laughter anyway. No one boards a Chicago bus for the ambiance. I, for one, just wanted a safe and inexpensive ride home.

But the well-dressed guy (whom I’ll call Lance) had different expectations. He turned to the guy with the phone (whom I’ll call Chris), and this conversation ensued:

LANCE: Do you have headphones for that?
CHRIS: No.
LANCE: Then could you kindly turn it off?
CHRIS: Why?
LANCE: Because I asked you kindly.
(Chris ignores the request.)
LANCE: All right, man. This is why I’m where I’m at, and you’re where you’re at.
(Chris ignores the statement.)
LANCE: Can you at least play some good music? Do you even know what good music is, with your walnut brain?
(Chris ignores the request.)
LANCE: This is why I’m where I’m at, and you’re where you’re at. Just know that.
(Lance fingers his expensive-looking watch.)

At this point I expected things to escalate, but they didn’t. Lance got off the bus a few minutes later to transfer to the blue line, which I’m guessing he took to some club in the West Loop where he macked on some honeys dumb enough to think he was anything resembling a good man.

With Lance gone, I felt the urge to talk to Chris, to tell him what a tool that guy was and that I was sorry about what had transpired. A comment like that could ruin a person’s night, and if I had to choose what to listen to, I’d take Lil Wayne over an ignorant verbal assault any night. But I decided against it, grateful for the luxury to remain an innocent bystander. I regret not speaking up.

At this point you may or may not have inferred that Lance is white and Chris is black. The “walnut brain” comment was repulsive, obviously, but Lance’s insistence that “this is why I’m where I’m at and you’re where you’re at” was almost more than I could bear.

Because “this” – Chris’ penchant for imposing his music on other people – is not why he is “where he is.” Far from it. Lance’s assumption that he and Chris are in two different places is an incredibly racist inference because in immediate reality, which is all we can see, they’re in the same place: a god-damned bus.

Stop the Inanity

“Our inventions are wont to be pretty toys, which distract our attention from serious things. They are but improved means to an unimproved end, an end which it was already but too easy to arrive at.”  – Henry David Thoreau, 1854

It was recently my good fortune to see Britney Spears live in concert. I was offered a ticket at the last second and, dead as I was from work, could not pass it up. I’ve considered Ms. Spears to be particularly fascinating since MTV aired “Britney: For the Record” (there’s a clip below), which documented her over 60 days, “living” and preparing for her 2008 Circus tour, the first since her much-publicized breakups and breakdowns over the previous months.

For my friends and I, the night of the concert started with a bus ride. We weren’t the only girls on the bus on our way to see Spears. Just the only brunettes. I spent a few minutes listening to the other girls’ conversation. “Oh my God, I haven’t been to Vegas in, like, two years,” one lamented. I got to thinking that this was going to be a very interesting night, from an anthropological standpoint if nothing else.

The start of Spears’ set was surprisingly climactic. A digital countdown had been displayed on the Jumbotrons for 45 minutes. And then this became the scene: thousands of people chanting in unison, “Five, four, three, two…” And then their screams are deafening, and then hundreds of phones are raised in the air to capture the moment of her impeccably staged arrival.

Spears is 12 years into her career and still packing arenas. No matter what you think of her music, you have to admit that that means something. Part of the reason, I think, is something akin to vicarious living. At the Chicago show, women in their twenties comprised at least three-fourths of the audience, and most of them were dressed, frankly, like hookers. It’s not like they were trying to pick up guys; there were hardly any straight guys there. But for most of them, tonight was the closest they could ever get to being Britney Spears. And so the United Center was packed with scantily clad women and girls, with all their eyes on Britney, the one who, for a decade, has led them to believe that this – the center of attention, an object of the collective gaze – is a desirable state of being.


I doubt much of Spears’ life (or message) is her own idea. She signed a record contract at 16, and since then, all her interactions with the world have been mediated by other people. Her father is her conservator. She has made him rich. She’s done that for a lot of people – people who recognize that, in spite of its carefree exterior, her generation is in the midst of a crisis that it’s desperate to transcend. And music is one way to transcend it. Temporarily.
A handful of women (Beyonce, Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Ke$ha, Rihanna, Pink, Nicki Minaj, and Britney Spears) are building careers that are variations on the same inane themes: stay young, get drunk, don’t think, just dance. If we all have really bad judgment, our mistakes will cancel each others’ out. Right?

The formula is incredibly simple. Love takes time – and we don’t have time. Finding meaning takes thought – and who wants to think? And so we settle for this:

You feel like paradise
And I need a vacation tonight

So, if I said I want your body now

Would you hold it against me?

–Britney Spears, “Hold It Against Me”

Pictures of last night
Ended up online
I’m screwed
Oh well
It’s a blacked out blur
But I’m pretty sure it ruled
Damn
-Katy Perry, “Last Friday Night”

We’re dancing like we’re dumb

Our bodies going numb

We’ll be forever young

You know we’re superstars

We are who we are

–Ke$ha, “We R Who We R”

I went out on the town a few nights ago and the scenes just stunned me, as they would any thinking person. In the interest of decency, I won’t try to describe them here. But the music of urban nightlife, I’ve observed, comes in two varieties: bass-heavy hip-hop designed to make men feel their virility, and treble-heavy synth-pop to make women feel their muliebrity.

This breed of pop music has become so accepted, expected, and commercially viable that it’s embarrassing. Particularly embarrassing if you consider it from the perspective of people living outside the modern world. Imagine arriving in the United States in 2011 from some other time and place, and finding this:

What would you think of us?

I’ll give this a title later

Last weekend I went back to Wisconsin to celebrate my grandparents’ 65th wedding anniversary, where I gave one of the first toasts of my life. I was feeling inspired and uninhibited, so when my aunt held up the mic and asked if anyone wanted to say anything, I went straight for it. I only spoke for a minute and it wasn’t particularly memorable. But this is what I meant to say.

I consider myself among the luckiest people I know – my parents and all four grandparents are not only still living, but still together, with 147 years of marriage between them.

Meanwhile, of the six guys I’ve dated in my life, four are children of divorce. I’m still not sure whether or not this information is relevant to their eligibility; the success or failure of their parents’ marriages is certainly not their responsibility.

But part of me believes that if my parents got divorced, I would be more likely to also get divorced, because there would be no contrary precedent. Mom and Dad, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think any of my ancestors have ever gotten divorced. Their marriages were bonds as immutable as the genes they gave rise to, and I don’t want to be the one to break that chain.

A few months ago I decided that, if I ever fell into mutual love, I would avoid the whole issue of marriage by suggesting a civil union. “Civil union” and “dissolution” – they weigh so much less than “marriage” and “divorce,” and I wanted to keep things light.

But at the anniversary party, I cracked somewhat. I saw that my grandparents’ marriage, while weighty, doesn’t weigh them down; it sits on the other side of the scale. And it elevates them.

What I felt when I took the microphone was a profound sense of gratitude to my family. They make the risk of marriage seem like one worth taking. And I know this is trite as hell, but it’s also true: Risks worth taking make life worth living.