The Power of Libraries

Roger Ebert recently posted his updated list of the ten greatest films of all time (with thanks to John Gruber’s Daring Fireball for the link).  Obviously, Ebert is an acknowledged expert on film, and it would take a pile of chutzpah to disagree with him, however, cinema is not math.  There is no one correct answer, and there is room for interpretation and disagreement.  My visceral reaction to some of his selections convinced me to write a response to the list, which is forthcoming.  In preparation for writing that post, I decided to re-watch the films on his list, as well several other films which I may suggest as alternatives for such a list.  In the case of two of the films on his list, I will be watching them for the first time.  Luckily, I already own copies of five of the films on Ebert’s top ten list, as well as several of my own possible choices.  It was my plan to catch the others on Netflix.

I happily pay my eight dollars monthly for Netflix streaming.  My wife and I use Netflix for two primary purposes: first, to regulate what our children watch on television; second, to catch up on previous seasons of both current and old television shows that we either follow or would like to follow.  For movies, however, Netflix’s streaming options  leave a lot to be desired.  While I understand the greed and shortsightedness of the Hollywood studios that has led them to starve Netflix of premium content, including recently released films, it is actually the dearth of quality older films that vexes me.  I could not find any of the films on Ebert’s list, for which I do not already own a copy, on Netflix.

This brought me to my local library.  Luckily, I live in a part of the world where education and literacy are highly prized.  My local library is, to use the modern vernacular, pimped out with free public wifi, large collections of DVDs and CDs, ebook lending, an enormous children’s department, and most importantly, a lending network consisting of dozens of surrounding town libraries and numerous local university libraries, including Harvard and Tufts.

Even though my local library only owned a DVD copy of one of the six films I wanted to watch, the librarian was able to request and reserve the other DVDs from libraries around the region.  As each DVD arrives at my local library, and is checked in by the librarians, an email is automatically sent to me to inform me that my reservation is available for pickup.  Over the next ten days I will receive and watch what Roger Ebert considers to be five of the greatest films of all time.

This is merely a personal, niche example of what a free public library means to the intellectual development of the local citizenry.  It encourages and inspires public discussion and debate.  Minds wiser than mine can calculate the annual cost of funding all the public libraries in the United States, but I am confident that it is a drop in the metaphorical bucket compared to the annual cost of the defense budget, oil subsidies, or Bush tax cuts for the 1%.  Perhaps there is no clearer example the moral failure of American leadership over the last generation than the fact that the brilliant institution that is my local library has to make up budget shortages with bi-annual used book sales.

Giving Up The Stupid

Recently, a blogger on tech website The Verge by the name of Paul Miller (not to be confused with eclectic rock god Steve Miller or angry creator of bleak comic books Frank Miller) made a public declaration of his intention to give up the internet for a whole year.  This, despite his acknowledgement that he himself declared the internet one of the top five inventions in human history, is designed to allow him to get some sort of bird’s eye view of the internet and its effects on society, without actually interacting with it.  This seems odd to me, especially considering his job, for which I assume he gets paid, is to publish, to the internet, articles on technology, most of which are connected to the internet.

Harry C. Marks, a well-respected tech blogger and self-declared pundit, has humorously excruciated Mr. Miller and his pledge, and exposed it for the hit-whore publicity stunt that it is.  I dare not tread where Mr. Marks has so brilliantly led, lest I embarrass myself in comparison.  On the other hand, what if I examine Mr. Miller’s clumsy attempt at social commentary in a more serious vein, and use the concept for something more positive.

There is something to be said for engaging in a ‘fast’ from an idea or object.  All three major monotheistic religions, as well as several others, encourage their adherents to engage in fasting at certain points in the calendar year.  Within the last week, I began a private, quiet sabbatical from playing “Bejeweled”, a highly addictive game offered recently as Starbucks’ free “App of the Week”.  I knew I had been playing the game too much when I realized that I was dreaming about descending columns of exploding gemstones.

I am now convinced to extend this concept to something far more insidious than a highly addictive game.  Something that truly has had a negative impact on my life, and, as I have observed, on the lives of countless millions of my fellow Americans.  Something that has not just made lives uncomfortable, but has been actively used to make our collective lives less safe, less secure, and less prosperous.  I am speaking, of course, about The Stupid.

The Stupid can be observed any time a self-obsessed blowhard spews a witch’s brew of talking points, unimportant or unrelated ‘facts’, half-truths, and downright lies.  A recent, and persistent, example of The Stupid is the “birther” controversy.  The birthers assert that there is no definitive proof that President Barack Obama was born in the United States, insist that he was born in Kenya, and claim that he is therefore not a US citizen, and as such, not eligible to hold the office of the presidency.  They cling to this irrational belief despite several salient facts, most especially that both the White House and the State of Hawaii have made public Mr. Obama’s birth certificate, which clearly indicates that he was, in fact, born in 1961 in the Sate of Hawaii.  They also ignore the Constitution and United States Code which state that the child of a US citizen is also a US citizen.  As such, Mr. Obama, as the child of Stanley Ann Dunham, a US citizen born and raised in Wichita, Kansas, would be a US citizen no matter where in the world he was born, even Kenya.

This example, and many others, have convinced me to give up The Stupid for the next year, and I encourage others to join me in this self-cleansing.  As of midnight tonight the chief purveyors of The Stupid, including by not limited to Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, O’Reilly, Hannity, & the rest of Fox News, Ann Coulter, Lyndon LaRouche, white supremacists of all varieties, Islamic fundamentalists, PETA, and the government of North Korea, no longer exist for me.  The Stupid has no place in my life, and I no longer respond to it.

Wish me luck.

Happy Anniversary

Fifteen years, laughter,
Tears, two children born, hands held,
Two souls now as one

The other side of writing, part 2

Here is a project I wrote based on my experiences working as a tutor and driving instructor in the beautiful city of Santa Clarita, CA.  In my work, I visited the homes of the good people of Santa Clarita, and for some reason, the parents of my students felt they could open up to me and say hateful things about their fellow humans.  Rather than accept their words into my brain, I wrote them down, and then spewed them back out into this lovely short film.  I submitted this film to an anthropological film festival, and received an honorable mention.  Apparently, they thought it was a parody of a real estate sales video.

Please don't blame my wonderful friends who portrayed these reprehensible people for the words they are uttering.

Nine hundred ninety nine cranes

Nine hundred ninety
nine cranes wait anxiously for
the final flutter

Improbable Poetry at the Roller Palace

This past Wednesday evening, I read my new poem, "The Fever Dream of the Driving Instructor," at the most recent Improbable Places Poetry Tour stop: The Roller Palace in Beverly, Massachusetts.  The theme for the evening was "moving in circles."  While the theme and the venue inspired me to write a poem of which I am very proud, I cannot say that either did anything for my roller skating skills.

I came to the Roller Palace straight from work, so I was still dressed in my business attire: dress shoes, slacks, button-up shirt, and an argyle sweater.  Not exactly roller skating gear.  I wisely refrained from donning skates during the readings, but was convinced by a very beautiful woman (my wife) to lace up during the free skate afterwards.

I was able, through sheer force of will, to stay upright, avoiding a calamitous, and possibly hilarious, tumble, while dredging up long-forgotten memories of roller skating excursions in middle school.  I even managed to skate several feet forward at a time without hugging the wall.  Eventually, the effort involved defeated me, and I blissfully removed the skates, and invited my beaming bride out of a late dinner.

As for the poetry, it was a very successful evening.  My wife read a poem, which is really good.  It was her first time ever reading her poetry in public.  For those of you who know her, that may come as a surprise.  Several of the other poets were really good.  I have a personal preference to hear poems with a comedic tone, which is may surprise anyone who has read my more serious poems on this blog, as well as poems which have a lot of concrete imagery, since it is easier for me to visualize what the poet intended.

Professional poet & college professor January O'Neil closed the evening with a new work, which you can find in this post in her blog, Poet Mom, along with several pictures and her commentary on the evening.  I encourage you to follow her blog, as it is a favorite of mine.  She is also the director of the Massachusetts Poetry Festival, which will be in Salem, April 20-22.  May be I'll see you there, or at the next stop on the Tour.

The Fever Dream of the Driving Instructor

A long straight trip down a winding, circular

road to where I started from, I move in ever

decreasing circles, smooth right turn after

smooth right turn, an eight hour trip in my

desiccated mind through the thoughtscape of

flashing neon signposts and befeathered and

besequined showgirls kicklining down a

deserted highway, the heat draining the

moisture from my unprotected skin, a

right arm salt flat, arm hairs cracking and

breaking and plummeting out of sight, the

hot stale air rife with limestone flavor

caking my swollen tongue.  Four hours now,

the rattle and shake of an economy car on a

luxury road lulls me into an unsuspecting

stupor while a nervous teenager natters on about

Jesus and how her sister is going to

hell for kissing her boyfriend.  My eyes

stick in their eyesockets as my hair

creaks, plastered to my red shrieking

forehead, so I turn to look at her execute

another right turn, six hours now

driving in circles.  An unfettered

imagining escapes the desert

prison of my dehydrated brain, and

oozes to the surface, daring me to

seize the wheel and aim the exhausted

vehicle over the curb through the glinting

barrier into the dusty rock strewn

expanse the map lies to call a

river.  I could have been by the bay by now, the

faintest hint of grapes drifting south on the

wind from luxurious hills.  I could have been in

Spanish language lands surrounded by prim

gingham prostitutes, shadow wearing pimps, and

revelrous sailors seeking to stain their

white uniforms with glorious adventure.

Eight hours now and I have ended where I

begun, the protesting display wheezing

horrified red photons to report one hundred

sixteen, and not a drop of shade to be drunk.