Yesterday, I drove an unusual way to get to the massage appointment.

Before I go any further, I have to say that I’ve always wanted a scooter. Like a Vespa or a Honda Helix. 250ccs of raw nerdiness, despite Lou Reed’s endorsement.

For a short while, I was really into Vespas. Not as in, ‘Gee, it’d be nice to have a Vespa,’ but as in, ‘I’ve done some research and it turns out that Vespas have cracking problems here and here, and the company started up just after World War Two, to fill the transportation gap left after wartime shortages, and ‘vespa’ is Italian for ‘wasp.” Because that’s how I am about these things.

So along the way to the massage, I saw this Helix in a driveway with a for sale sign on it. It was in really good shape. It was bright red. It had a for sale sign. I had to pause.

Then in my mind I went to a place where I had the scooter, and it was sitting in a garage, or in a driveway somewhere, covered with one of those canvas motorcycle covers. There it was, sitting all alone and unused. I saw myself get into the car instead of putting on my helmet and unwrapping the scooter. I saw myself wishing I knew how to fix the thing.

So I looked at the Helix, there in the driveway. I didn’t even bother to find out how much they were asking for it. I just drove on. I thought to myself, ‘My desire for a scooter comes from long, long ago. It’s rooted in a sort of gimme-gimme consumerism that is an unfortunate part of the culture in which I live. They want to be rid of it, too.’

Then I began thinking about other desires I should challenge in this way. What else is irrelevant in the here and now?

I came up with a few things. Some of them are a little more disturbing than I thought they’d be, and might be the subject of future ‘blogs.

Ultimately, I got around to thinking: I should just enjoy the scenery. Scooters are cool, but I have no need for one. I’ll still enjoy seeing people ride them.

And, just then… A guy on a scooter came zooming the other way on the street. It was an ancient Vespa which he had obviously put a great deal of work into customizing. It was bright orange, with black stripes on the rear cowling, making it look like a wasp. His helmet had two big compound eyes painted on it in glitter paint. It went by: BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzz…

Last night Charlie Rose did a whole episode about the new Matrix movie. He had Joel Silver and the three principal actors around his table, and then in another segment, media critics talking about the first movie.

A lot was made about the similarities between The Matrix and Star Wars, and also Terminator and Total Recall. And also the differences in the way these movies all resonate with the public.

Thinking about it today while sipping coffee, I realized that an important difference is the way the different movies approach community as a factor against oppression and illusion. Terminator and Total Recall have no real community involved. Star Wars has the rebel forces, and while they have their shit together, it’s not exactly clear what their rebellion is against. Other than the evil of ‘the dark side,’ of course.

In The Matrix, on the other hand, Neo has friends who seek him out, who have their shit together, and who can all trust each other, for the most part. Cypher’s betrayal is the exception that proves the rule.

And I think this is a big part of why the movie resonates so strongly. We all want for there to be people out there who know what’s going on, who can explain it to us, even if it’s painful to hear, and who will value our contribution to what they’re trying to do. Neo doesn’t (and can’t) save the world alone.

One of my favorite sequences is where Tank downloads jujitsu and kung fu into Neo’s brain. Neo opens his eyes and says, “I know kung fu!” Later on, Trinity needs to know how to fly a helicopter, so Tank downloads that knowledge into her. Instantaneous learning from your fellow man. Literacy in a post-literacy world. Just as someone in your community would teach you to, say, tie knots, in the world of The Matrix, your community’s wisdom exists in software that can be shot into your brain.

I could go off on a tangent about Neal Stephenson’s ‘Snow Crash’ and ‘Diamond Age,’ and his subtext of humans-as-computer-programs, but I have to go right now and let a friend turn off my brain and turn on my parasympathetic system and give me a massage. Not a software issue, but a hardware one.

And it’s nice to have a community where such work can occur.

Over last weekend I went up to Vancouver, BC, for UberJeanie’s birthday party, and also to see the BC Xangans.

I have to admit that I enjoyed wandering around Vancouver alone with Jeanie more than the party. But that has more to do with not dealing well with being a newcomer in a group of 20 people who all know each other than the quality of those people.

Vancouver’s a beautiful city, there is no doubt. I was thinking it was more like Seattle’s separated-at-birth identical twin, and in some ways it is, but there’s something much more immediate about it. Something provided by having an ominous mountain range as a backdrop, dense snowy clouds frosting their peaks, tinting that section of the sky a mean-spirited gray-green.

The city is much more connected, on a strange energetic level, to the Pacific ocean. Seattle seems far from the horizon of water; the Olympics stands in the way, in fact. Vancouver gets a much more direct infusion of Some Mysterious Oceanic Thing. Vancouver island isn’t as wide as the Olympic peninsula, I suppose.

There’s also an orderliness of mind, somehow. Maybe I was just wowed by how clean the SkyTrain was, but the city’s design and architecture lack most of the excess of American cultural waste. Somehow a fashion ad on a billboard in Vancouver seems like a request, while the same ad in Seattle would be a pounding demand in context. Can cleanliness make that big a difference in a person’s perception of advertising? If so, maybe we can get advertisers to start funding clean-up crews.

Anyway. I met some people I was eager to meet, even though I was too tongue-tied (and physically exhausted) to really even express this eagerness, much less have any kind of actual conversation. Maybe next time.

So I was listening to the music for today, ‘Limehouse Blues‘ by the Mills Brothers. It was recorded in 1934, and was written in 1922 by Philip Braham (music) and Douglas Furber (lyrics).

I’d heard this song before, but never really heard the lyrics. This time, however, I caught a line: ‘learn from those Chinkies/those real China blues.’ Political incorrectness aside, I wondered what the story behind the song was. So, being a child of the end of the twentieth century, I asked google.

It turns out that Limehouse was a section of London that ended up being that city’s Chinatown. Way back in the days of the Opium Wars, there weren’t a lot of Chinese folk in London, surprisingly enough. By the turn of the century, there were only 545 Chinese people in Britain, and in 1908 British seamen formed a picket at the East India Dock to keep Chinese sailors from trying to take their jobs. By 1914, 30 Chinese-run businesses had started up, specializing in laundry. They used the lime from the limehouse that gave the area its name. British racism also declared that Chinese were nothing but opium-addicted criminals. The Chinese were experiencing the resentment that all immigrant communities seem to experience.

I couldn’t find anything directly addressing the origins of the song, so I can only suppose that Furber was aware of the harsh plight of Chinese immigrants when, in 1922, he penned these lyrics:

Oh, Limehouse blues
I’ve the real Limehouse blues
Can’t seem to shake off
Those real China blues
Rings on your fingers
And tears for your crown
That is the story
Of old Chinatown

I can also see how the Limehouse district would be associated with opium addiction, so the ‘Limehouse blues’ would be euphemism for addiction craving. Can’t seem to shake ‘em off.

I wish I knew more about this song, so I could decide if it’s brilliant in the way it overlays the challenges facing the immigrants, the history of the Opium Wars, and the helplessness of opium addiction, or if it just perpetuates an offensive stereotype.

New FCC rulings could take C-SPAN off the air.

Check it out.

You know what makes me want to vomit?

This makes me want to vomit.

Report: Weapons Team To Leave Iraq
May 11, 2003

The group of scientists, computer experts and special forces troops leading the search for proof of outlawed weapons is preparing to go home empty handed, the Washington Post reported today.

The weapons may still be in the hands of Iraqi special units and could still be used against coalition forces there, the top U.S. military officer said Sunday.

Members of the 75th Exploitation Task Force found sites identified by Washington to be inaccurate, destroyed by looters, or both, the Post reports. The group is expected to leave next month.

The Bush administration cited the suspected presence of hundreds of tons of biological and chemical agents and evidence of an ongoing nuclear weapons program as the prime reason for launching the war against Iraq. [..]

–

Yes, folks. THERE WERE NO WMD.

Everything, from 1441 all the way through the invasion and occupation of Iraq. All of it was a lie.

Bush will blame the intel community, but that’s bullshit because the neoconservatives in the administration have been trying to get Iraq since, well, forever.

Bush will also blame the looters. And about 1 in 10 Americans will buy it, too, because they’re not clever enough to ask a simple question: If you knew the weapons where stored there, how irresponsible do you have to be to not make plans to secure the place?

Trogdor the Burninator!

A couple days ago, I decided to go to a fish and chips place in a neighborhood known as Juanita. Why it’s called Juanita, I don’t know. But what I did know was that it’s near St. Edward State Park.

St. Edward used to be a seminary, hence the name. The seminary buildings are still there, but they don’t get much use. They’re on top of a hill, surrounded by 300+ acres of urban wilderness, in what is one of the most expensive waterfront areas on Lake Washington.

I decided to go there first, so of course I never made it to the fish and chips place.

There’s a day-use fee of $5. I doubt anyone checks, but being a good citizen I paid at the self-service drop box.

The top of the path is a series of switchbacks winding through a couple of streambeds. This is across the lake from where I live; minus the suburbs, my neighborhood would look like this.



There’s a midpoint where you’re far enough under the tree canopy that not much evaporation occurs. You see really healthy moss like this, and can’t help but think, “Oh yeah. I live in a rainforest.”



Invasive ivy. Included because it’s a pretty picture.



Who do you think lives in there? These colors are pretty close to true… The moss really does glow like that.



Finally I get to the lake. I live on the other side of the frontmost ridge, though I’m not sure you’ll be able to distinguish that in the small image.



They say that state parks are where beggars and transients live, and St. Edward is no exception.

Just a note to point out that my friend Karen (she’s the one on the left) has just put the finishing touches on issue #5 of her ‘zine, pekopeko.

It’s a ‘zine about food (“..high- to low- to no-brow..”). Here’s the blurb she sent out:

In this issue:

The French Chef Takes the Cake by Kathleen Collins
It was the feeling of warmth and comfort Julia Child exuded that hooked me as a 4-year-old:
She was sloppy and folksy and exposed her blunders with whimsy.
[..]

I Made You, You Know It’s True by Mara Schwartz
As moms across America plied kids with veggies using various “children are starving in China” arguments, Mr. Potato Head flaunted the fact that our country just had soooo many potatoes,
we could use them as children’s toys.

Cooky Cooky Cooky Starts with “C” by Sara Bir
I didn’t want to eat the Cooky Cottage – I yearned to shrink down, jump into the Betty Crocker Cooky Book, and live in the cottage with the tiny chocolate dog in the green coconut yard as my pet.

My Fear of (Fake) Meats by Shauna Swartz
As a long-term vegetarian, I essentially keep kosher by default. But that doesn’t mean I can eat a veggie burger topped with fake bacon and soy cheese without serious psychological misgivings.
[..]

It’s distributed by LastGasp, and is available at independent (and some less-independent) comic, record, and bookstores.

Had a hell of a dream last night. Very vivid, full, complex. I can’t help but wonder about these dreams, because they’re full of the kind of vividness that’s overwhelming in waking time. Why do I not freak out within them the same way I freak out otherwise?

The specifics of the dream work this way:

A lot of complicated stuff happened, such that I found myself in a parking lot trying to get into my car. The car had been smashed, and most of it had been hauled away by scavengers. The door was there, and I was trying to unlock it, even though it wasn’t attached to anything. I was going through these motions because I was in denial of how bad the situation really was. I finally tossed the door aside and got in, though ‘hauled the pile of dashboard pieces over my lap’ might be a better way of stating it.

I was sad and about to weep. The car was parked in front of the walkway going to a big mansion of a house, and a family, all adults, came by. They were leaving the same place I had been, and they lived at the house. They offered to take me home.

A huge black limo pulled up. We all got in. I realized then that this was the Bush family. Jeb was driving, and Neil was talking to me. Barbara and various wives were with us, too. We were driving through Houston, but a sort of dream-Houston that only gets to be Houston by the slimmest of semantic threads.

Jeb would turn around and start talking, but Neil would cut him off and tell him to keep driving. Neil pointed out all the buildings his family had built as we drove by them. Then we got to a place that recurrs in my dreams from time to time. This time the slim semantic threads turned it into a huge memorial to the Bush family’s acheivements in Houston. The road turned into a track, like you’d find guiding a roller-coaster. This was Bush Theme Park (not Busch Gardens).

There was a giant amorphous statue of a man, labelled ‘Bush.’ It could have been any of the Bush men, and they all claimed it was them. Jeb turned around from driving to say, “That’s me..” and Neil cut him off again, “Of course it’s not. It’s me.” The women in the limo looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

The coaster/limo snaked through a canyon (there are no canyons on the entire Gulf coast, much less Houston). A lake at the bottom was bordered by spires of steel and glass. This is another recycled dream image, and finds its origin in sci-fi book cover art; my subconscious comes here often, only it’s usually me doing the driving. This time it was repurposed as some kind of Bush City, built on the political aspirations of the family.

They all looked at me, there in the limo, like I was supposed to do something, or say something. I never did make it home before I woke up.