You Should Read This Tom Friedman

The audience was very small. It consisted of introductory journalism students who were promised extra credit and a few middle-agers who really were concerned about the topic of the lecture: global inequality. The small auditorium could not have been half-full though, and the speaker looked a little too fidgety to diagnose the problems with our world.

The orator was an older Indian man with strongly parted grey hair and nervously roving eyes. He wore an orange dress shirt and a black vest, and he seemed uncomfortable with the idea that all of us were on hand to see him. He reminded our American high school sensibilities of the kid who has all the answers but is too afraid to opine over the whirr of the lights.

Everyone in the audience quickly erased these thoughts when P. Sainath finally got to the podium. The rural affairs editor of one of India’s largest English-language papers did not come all this way for nothing. Sainath gripped the front of the podium tightly and passionately decried the gross injustices of globalization.

These were not the fanatical ravings of a flat-world idealist, though. Sainath made his name as a journalist by studying the plight of rural India closer than any scholar who cheers the free market from comfortable chairs in buildings with running water. He trotted out more stats than you could write down to show just how unequal liberalization makes the world. Consider:

India is 8th in the world in number of billionaires, but 127th in human development.
India’s per capita income is lower than Nicaragua’s.
India’s rural families are eating, on average, 100 kg less food per year than they did 10 years ago.

But stats are never enough, and Sainath is a captivating speaker. When he tells the continuing story of Indian farmers who would rather commit suicide than live in debt, the room is completely without noise. Yet, Sainath also has the peculiarly Indian gift of digression and wry humor, and the people in the audience nod their heads and laugh often.

Sainath summed up the purpose of his lecture right away. Talking about the fact that stock markets everywhere boomed following the Tsunami, he said, “There’s often a direct link between the misery of the many and the profits of the few.” It was a startling but simple realization, one illuminated by the history of the world. And it flies in the face of everything we hear in America about globalization. Common sense usually does.

World economics is, without a doubt, the area of world politics Americans know the least about. We live in a corporate fantasy world where the free market makes free competition because that’s the vision of capitalism that has been hammered into our heads from birth. We’ve been taught that the world is the survival of the fittest, a fiercely independant world where the best wins. And if you want to bitch and moan about unfairness, it’s probably just because you lost.

That’s what made Sainath’s speech disconcerting in a way. It was so inspiring to see this man of the people punch out global institutions with common sense arrows, but the diseases of the world seem irreversible.

In fact, most college students seem dedicated to further perpetuating this system. I’m not pulling the ol’ liberal arts pothead bitches about those damn corporate clones in training over at the b-school. I’m talking about all of us: journalism students who are ready and willing to manufacture news, engineering students who are learning to do the next ludicrously massive project, and p.r. students who will keep the powerful in power. Could we make any changes even if we wanted to?

Sainath thinks we can. He ended his speech by telling the story of a party given by the Roman emperor Nero which was lit by burning criminals at the stake. Not one of us, he said, would want to be Nero’s guest. I think we still have the choice.

ACL Fest

This past weekend I had the privilege of attending the sixth annual Austin City Limits Music Festival, delivered by AT&T. Featuring Gnarls Barkley, Van Morrison, String Cheese Incident, The Flaming Lips, and Tom Petty among many others, ACL fest seems worth the $140 three-day pass every time. Actually, with food and water, the festival is worth the $160 you shell out every time. I mean, taking into account the price of the ticket, food and water, parking, and drugs, the $200 is always worth it.

Yes, it’s mostly just a massive money trap set to great music and dust flying everywhere. It really is a lot of fun, though. You’re always too wiped out to even think of going out during the nights, so it becomes a type of lost weekend, three days where the rest of the world is more distant than the friend who you misplaced somewhere near the food vendors.

But it’s really only a cheap imitation anyways. The music festival as it was created is gone forever. In the modern world, marketing companies put them together, and though you might still be free to use drugs within the friendly confines of the park, the likelihood of a massive hippie orgy is extremely small.

That’s not the only difference. These days, I think there are many more old people at the music festival than there ever should be. Let’s be honest: our parents’ generation is infuriating. In the course of their lifetimes, they’ve proven that the sixties were nothing more than bullshit, a fad that they all picked up. Almost every campus activist from that time now revels in hearing their favorite tunes in commercials for the various corporations they make more powerful everyday.

And while they’re singing along, they vote for Bush and start the same unwinnable wars that they claimed to hate when they were our age. The threat of terrorism has been sold to them as effectively as Viagra.

That’s why one should feel fortunate to be able to enjoy a music festival. So many people our age have been made to do the dirty work from our parents’ wish to make the whole goddamn world safe for democracy, or rather, safe for the gas guzzlers we have to drive at 100 mph. The soldiers and the youth of the countries they invade do not have the opportunity to take a lost weekend. They might never smoke a bowl in their entire lives!

In his address in last Monday’s 9-11 celebratory warning, Bush claimed that it is our generation who will be the foot soldiers in this perpetual War on Terror. Fortunately for us, we’re uber-consumers, not army officers. We’re really the generation that has consolidated the uncoolness of politics and intellectualism.

The kids who are growing up today are only making things worse. They claim to love Gnarls Barkley, yet their presence at the concert was as disconcerting as their lack of energy for any song they haven’t heard 10,000 times.

The main difference between music festivals today and the authentic ones, then, is the lack of purely political excitement surrounding them. There’s nothing rebellious about a place where high school parents permit their sons and daughters to go.

By far the best location of ACL fest is the world tent, otherwise known as the Washington Mutual stage. You can actually get close to the performers without getting there 5 hours beforehand, and you’ll find yourself being moved by the radically-different sounds of international cooperation. At the Oliver Mtukudzi and the Black Spirits concert, I joyously shared a fat joint with everyone around me, and I danced back and forth without a care in the world.

All of this begs the question: are we going to make anything any better? Are we going to start wars and demonize people and keep the hegemonic order? Well, I’d be surprised if we didn’t, but we’ve got plenty of time to actually feel good about ourselves. We might as well enjoy a sticky, grubby weekend.

Letter to a fellow baller

I made an insensitive remark the other day. I didn’t do it on purpose, but after I said what I said it was obvious that I left room for misinterpretation.

Let me explain. I was playing basketball in Gregory Gym the other night, when a black guy on the other team stole the ball and broke for his team’s basket. I had an angle, and I was able to keep him from making his layup. But, he had about five inches of height on me, and he just kept tipping the ball way above my reach. When he finally tipped it in, I smiled and said, “Damn, I can’t get up there with you in the trees.” He laughed when I said that, but I soon realized that I had, in effect, called him a monkey. Of course, I would have only bumbled whitely if I had tried to clarify what I said, so I played the whole rest of the game not knowing whether or not he took offense. Since I might never talk to this guy again, I guess I’ll never know. If our paths do cross, though, I’m going to whip out this letter and point it in his direction. I feel the need to apologize and explain myself:

Dear friend,

Do you remember me? We played basketball the other day in Gregory, and I was the goofy looking kid who wore spectacles and a sick And1 headband. I also have a tendency to crash the boards, and at one point, you illustrated how much easier this game is for you by playing volleyball at another altitude.

I’m writing because I just wanted to apologize for what I said after you got that tip in. I meant to make a joke emphasizing the fact that you are five inches taller than me, but I’m afraid it came out wrong. I’m afraid that you thought I was playing up the jungle stereotype that so many white racists have used over the years, and I’m sorry.

On the other hand, you may not have been offended. You never said anything about it, and I didn’t pick up any hints that you were angry. I just have a rather terminal case of what is called white liberal guilt as a result of the continuing oppression of minorities in this country. Therefore, this whole letter is little more than a self-serving, conscience-clearing activity on my part, but I think a few things need to be said about America’s races.

Today, we white people act as if racism died in the South quite a few years ago, when in fact all statistics indicate that our society is getting less and less equal. We get defensive at the suggestion that there is any difference between the races, wishing and pretending that we are all the same instead of celebrating human diversity. White people have never been pulled over for no reason, have rarely been the only individual of their race in any situation, and have seldom understood just how much we’ve messed up the world. And yet, we think we can speak intelligently about the complexities of being black in this country because we’ve heard the latest Jay-Z song.

Anyways, I just felt the need to tell you all this because I think all whites need to accept just how much damage we’ve done and continue to do so before any real gains are made. It is white America that has always refused to cast down its bucket, and it is white America that will continue its apartheid until it does so. That’s why I owe you an apology.

HD Quality World

This past Sunday, I had the privilege of eating mushrooms for the second time in my life. An old roommie and I ate the shrooms at my house before we set out down Johnson Creek trail, which led us to the walking/running path at Town Lake. For what could have been two hours or two days, we laughed our asses off as we enjoyed the dazzling psychological journey that is a trip. The following is a record I kept of the experience in a little red notebook. I’ve added extra words in some places to keep it coherent, but it is predominately what I wrote down at the time, screaming capital letters included.

About to eat 2.3 g. Just ate 2.3 g. Looked like two twisted Halloween trees. Going to be like an amusement park ride-everyone gets a ride, only the ride is different for all.

Going down the Johnson Creek trail. Sat down by the old wind mill, smoking a spliff and a J. Joint starting to get very hard to hold up. Laughing because we know it started. Sitting in the middle of trees between two battlefields of traffic. I don’t want to stand up, really.

Less words are more, don’t wanna talk. “You can just toss it,” I say about the roach. Seeing HD quality life, the world is coming through clearly. The thought of any movement is irrelevant. Ben says, “I’m a little light in the loafers.”

Small sick stomach feeling on edge of mind. Couldn’t comprehend vomiting.

The tunnel echoes. A huge spider sits in the middle of its web. It’s so huge that it looks like a toy. If we wanted to clear this tunnel of spiders, we could eliminate all of them. A lot of responsibility comes with the power to destroy.

Spray paint looks like it’s breathing on the sidewalk. Do not forget the extreme paint or anything about this experience.

Scream and wave arms at cars passing by at 100 mph, they don’t stop. It’s a good thing I’m not in trouble.

It feels good to hit myself. Don’t have time not valid. Run down the parkway to the trail. People like to hear what we have to say. Don’t hesitate to say something.

Laughing, we think the water cooler scene is funny, but we can’t say why. We made it to the lake. The geese are calling my name. There’s a huge vine-like branch. It’s so damn hard to keep a discussion going or finish a sentence. We need a guide.

Sitting at a picnic table near a pool. Closing your eyes is not anywhere near as good as having them open. How much we like cheese has us going crazy. I feel like lying down somewhere and thinking. You need an excuse for NOT laughing. Drugs are amazing.

We were thinking about the decision, the choice of who we are. Whenever I make a decision, I question whether it’s right. Go with it.

Walking back home. Ben is sweating buckets and constantly sucking camelback. That guy is thirsty! Artists spray painting tunnel wall. Don’t feel like letting us admire their work. Just want to go about their business. That’s all you can expect from anyone. You have to defend your choice, but you shouldn’t be defensive. Ran from the front of trail-finally home.

When you write instead of talk, you can get through one whole thought without cracking up. When you write on this type of notebook paper, you get worried about whether or not your writing crosses the center line. YOU DON”T HAVE TO worry whether you go across. YOU CAN DO WHATEVER YOU WANT.

The problem with writing is that it cuts you off from the world like a vegetarian. But everyone should be cut off from this world in his own way. It’s exactly like that amusement park ride-life is exactly like an amusement park. Every ride is your own ride and you don’t have to describe it. But when you can find the words, people seem to enjoy it. But they have to go about their business, and YOU HAVE TO SHUT UP sometimes.

Wanting to do things is what makes life so interesting. You have to want to do something, and it seems like you enjoy writing more than anything else. Though you’d get paid for it, you’d do it anyway. That’s going about your business. THAT’S your fucking business.