Iceland: Sleeper Cell

On 14 April 2010, our world changed, thanks to the assholes up in Iceland. This small Northern European country, slightly larger than Kentucky, and appearing to sit at the kiddie table of Europe geographically, rose out of the ashes of their economic doldrums and took a giant shit on the rest of the continent, unleashing the feral beast Eyjafjallajokull (nicknamed "The Situation") and crippling Western Europe in a terrifying display of a new form of terrorism.

We should have seen this coming. The New Kid on the Block, being hazed into the Axis of Evil by Kim Jong Il and his goofy collection of fascist goons as we speak, is laughing at Western Europe from high atop the globe. While folks in this country worried about mild reforms to a broken healthcare system, millions of Wolf "The Dentist" Stansson's were "over there" in Iceland readying their hellish barrage of magmatic fury. Think about it: Tea Partiers (who are apparently better educated and more affluent than their idiotic viewpoints would suggest) were asleep at the switch. It's not some government takeover that they should have been worried about, nor the fact that the president was supposedly not born in the United States (he was a crafty toddler, forging documents and all), nor even the fact that the country will soon mandate that our elderly will be put to death in front of a screaming horde of liberals. No, they should have focused their anger on the creeping danger that is Iceland.

It all goes back to the warning signs present in the fanatical suicide statement, cleverly disguised as a children's movie, "D2: The Mighty Ducks", which gave perceptive viewers a glimpse into this dark dark world. Apparently, the deception traces its roots all the way back to the naming of the country. Think back to the pivotal scene, where Coach Gordon Bombay went for an ice cream with Icelandic beauty Maria and perfectly enumerated his, and in doing so, our complicity in this vast conspiracy.
Coach Bombay: "I thought Iceland was covered with ice"
Maria: "No, it is very green."
Coach Bombay: "I thought Greenland was green!"
Maria: "Greenland is covered with ice, and Iceland is really nice!" [Ed.: after divulging this state secret, Maria was sent to the Greenland Gulag, a vast shop of ghastly horrors, with its receding glaciers and such]
So it's true! The founders of Iceland had this evil plot in mind from the beginning, way back to naming the country. Indeed, the 1821 eruption was merely a dress rehearsal for the horror that was to come.

We've all flown in these years since 9/11. Airport security has increased and continues to do so with each failed tighty-whitey/shoe bombing, but the industry forges on, battered, but not deterred. This unlikely rogue state has taken a much broader tactic, employing the power of its natural resources for something other than hot spas and geothermal energy -- for terror. Thanks to this eruption, which can only be imagined with a sort of perverse sexual imagery ("erupt", "bulge", "pyroclastic flow"), Iceland has crippled Europe's airways and cost its economy millions, perhaps billions. Take that, terrorists!

Let this be a lesson for us all. Look not to poor, attention-hungry countries with fanatical dictators for the next foreign conflict. Let's look to the volcano states. It would be folly to ignore the slumbering beast patiently waiting the next ocean over. The 2004 Tsunami was just the first volley: the Pacific Ring of Fire is blessed with 2 advantages: 75% of active and dormant volcanoes on earth, and a badass name. Chile, Indonesia, and those bastards up in the Pacific Northwest are all a risk to our god-given right to freedom. Mark my words: Iceland is just the beginning of volcanic terrorism.  Axis of Evil, big whoop -- the real enemy is on the Discovery Channel...

Thanks, law school

For "continuously and systematically" stripping me of my ability to write a funny, topical, frivolous blog about the quirks of life I find amusing. I'll take another crack at it soon enough, I promise.

P1:"Tea?" P2:"Don't Tread On Me!" P1:"Huh?" P2:"Party!"

Preface: This is another DC-related post. And I'm writing it before midnight (and sober). As such, it is probably much less interesting (but waay more verbose) than last night's. But you be the judge, dear reader!


Kate and I decided to walk down the Mall today to go see an film at the National Museum of American History for the DC Environmental Film Festival. The film is called "A Road Not Taken." And while it's not the subject of this post, or at least only tangentially so, I'll do an DFW-esque footnote for the interested parties. (1)

From the house in NE on H street, we took the pretty walk down Maryland Ave. Down past blooming spring flowers, budding trees, and friendly neighbors stepping out into the glorious 75 degree sunlight. It's hard to beat DC in springtime.

We got to the east side of the Capitol, the side facing the Supreme Court, and began to see, amongst the usual tourist-looking tourists, tourists carrying flags with a coiled cobra on its face with the words, "Don't tread on me" printed ominously along the bottom. At first, I thought that it might be a walker's version of those Tazmanian Devil mudflaps that read, "Back Off!!" as a supposed warning to anyone with the temerity to tailgate a massive gas GUZZLER with Toby Keith (or even scarier, Glenn Beck) blaring out its windows. But the flag carriers seemed merrily unperturbed by the presence of large, sweaty Midwesterners "tailgating" them while huffing up Capitol Hill. With that option dashed, I was at a loss for explanation.

-- Wait, did I just say "option?" Like "public option?" No, couldn't be, that was gone months ago. But this line of thinking got me on the right track -- of course it was everybody's favorite group of uneducated dumbasses (sorry cast of Jersey Shore) -- the Tea Partiers!

As we began to walk down the Hill, we could see them massing around the front of the Capitol -- maybe 5k-10k strong. Fervent speakers started chants of, "Kill the Bill! Kill the Bill!" Kids had signs of their president made up (quite nicely?) with a Hitler mustache thrust into their clammy hands. Older citizens in wheelchairs (probably already recipients of public healthcare, but who's counting) were pushed by well-to-do angry, crazy people to hear Michelle "The Census Makes No Sens-us" Bachmann do her thang.

I am a supporter of the First Amendment and believe people are entitled to voice their opinions in public. It's what separates us from those "evildoers" that we're supposedly on the fast-track of becoming. But I'm also a supporter of critical thinking and curiosity in the minds of the masses. Take, for instance, climate change (wow, I'm going to get a lot of uncles mad with this post, aren't I?). I could just blindly believe that climate change is occurring after hearing commentators on the news (cable, of course -- and not those pansies at Fox; I'm talkin' MSNBC) scare me into thinking that polar bears are going to die. And, as the thinking goes, if I believe this blindly, I will eventually have to petition the FEDERAL Department of Carbon Security to turn on the lights at night. Somehow, blindly believing this "hoax" will lead me astray. But I read peer-reviewed reports on the science (socialist, I know -- public access to information and all). I worked with scientists who studied climate change. I formulated my own opinions based on the facts, not conjecture or a mouthy talking head. And I came to the conclusion that climate change is real. Humans are causing it. And the only way to stop it is to re-imagine our energy future (see footnote 1 and 2). But Tea Partiers just don't do this kind of critical analysis.

If they did, assuming they had that capacity, they would truly mount a populist revolution -- in direct opposition to what Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh tell them to believe. It's truly sad to hear (supposedly) nice Midwestern soccer moms say that this is the first time they've ever gotten involved in our government. It's sad because somehow the system has failed them. It's sad because unelected sensationalists on television get to tell them what to think under the guise of some organic populism really grounded in naked capitalism (hey, ratings = cash = wider audience = greater license on the truth and more scare-mongering).

The rush of anger these people are feeling is as inauthentic as the sweet soft drinks they guzzled (messily) as they watched Congresspeople (who are of a system they apparently hate only selectively) on the losing end of the eventual healthcare stick try to plant the seeds of anger for the next election. Their anger should be pointed at the obstructionists in Congress who, instead of playing the "Party of NO" should have been working with Democrats to construct an ideal package that would ensure that the long-term health of their constituents was taken care of in a way they approved. Instead now, the long-term health of their constituents will be ensured, but the Democrats who worked hardest to do this will be vilified and possibly unseated. Their anger is inauthentic because it's not really aimed at something tangible. People are scared of the government, but more so, they are scared of things they can't control.

This feeling of helplessness (brought on by a nasty case of the socialism espoused by our current Dictator President) is supposedly remedied by a strong dose of vague "freedom" or amorphous "liberty." But freedom from what?

It's a question that I'm not sure they could answer. And one I'm not going to try to answer. I love this country too much to become an apologist for this fake populist movement. I hope this is just a dream. I hope that people really do possess even nominal critical thinking skills so they don't have to rely on people who get paid to talk tell them what to think. It's a vicious cycle. The people who are actually paid to represent us risk being unseated by vaguely angry constituents who are so vaguely angry because it's what Glenn Beck tells them to be. This isn't a tea party. It's a dangerous experiment being conducted by untrained scientists on unknowing subjects. And it's bad for America.

(1) "A Road Not Taken" is an independent film celebrating its U.S. premiere at the DC Environmental Film Festival. Two Swiss artists followed the (tragic) history of the solar panels installed by President Jimmy Carter on the roof of the White House during the energy crisis in the late-70's. The panels were removed in the mid-80's by HIM (Reagan) in a defiant show of American hubris. I mean, who needs sissy solar panels when manly coal does just fine, thank you very much! The film's title was actually part of a speech Carter gave when he described the decision Americans would have to make regarding the future of energy. “In the year 2000 [ed: he said in 1979], the solar water heater behind me which is being dedicated today, will still be here, supplying cheap, efficient energy. [ed: it is not] A generation from now, this solar heater can either be a curiosity [ed: yep!], a museum piece [ed: uhuh!], an example of a road not taken [ed: sadly], or it can be just a small part of one of the greatest and most exciting adventures ever undertaken by the American people - harnessing the power of the sun to enrich our lives as we move away from our crippling dependence on foreign oil.” This sadly prophetic sentence, spoken by an unfairly maligned president, rings true today. It is a museum piece and a curiosity, not an example of truly American courage and sacrifice. Imagine where we would be had we took heed with the bitter truth, rather than electing a president running on a fuzzy version of some unrealistic American arrogance (Morning in America?). Thirty years of progress has been/is being impeded due to the short-sightedness of our politicians and the electorate. Imagine, for a minute, the computer in 1980. Does a large warehouse of "supercomputers" come to mind? With the computing capacity less than our cellphones? Now think of the computer in 2010...the laptop I'm writing this blog on has more power in sleep mode than those computers did going at full bore. Now, if you dare, think of the progress we could've made in our energy technologies with 30 years of innovation under our scientific belts. And not just cursory innovation, driven by "smart," incremental changes championed by the fossil industry now (ahem, clean coal?); but revolutionary innovation, driven by a greater need to do good by for our children and theirs. But we chose the easy road and now, unfortunately, President Carter's 30-year old language will haunt us and for those who ask, "Why?" What could we possibly answer?
(2) Luckily for us (Kate and I), if this were a Venn Diagram, the type of people going to an environmental film festival (us) would be a circle entirely separate from the type of people attending the Tea Party rally (them). Not even on the same page.

Dee See

There is a rich intensity to DC which is palpable only when you're actually there. Which I am now. It's intoxicating knowing that 90% of the people around you CARE about politics and policy. The other 10% are Midwestern tourists. Me included, although I guess I would be the shaded middle part of the Venn diagram. Definitely a different vibe than Minneapolis. But it's what is to be expected, I guess. I could see myself here when I graduate, but not so sure that I would want to establish roots here. In DC, the people are transient.

It's strange being back here. The people are basically the same, the house is the same, but it's still oddly different. I've made my own life since I lived here and so have all of my friends. So it's this weird nostalgic, making new memories sense I'm getting. Part of me is glad to be back, meeting up with friends and seeing the familiar sights. Another part of me is hesitant; thinking that the DC I have in my mind is painted in such a rosy sepia tone to it that it would be tragic to mess with. But I'm glad I visited again. Closure in many regards.

So this is it, I'm happy to be here, but will also be very happy to return to Minneapolis. It has all of the culture of DC but without the "rich intensity." Which probably suits me more.

Gold Soundz

I write a lot about music on this blog. Music and awkward situations. I love both. And this post has to do with music, but it's a special post. It's special because I have a wonderful announcement to make. Ready? Ok...

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #1: Pavement is coming to the Twin Cities this fall.
BIG ANNOUNCEMENT #2: I got tickets!!!

This is a big deal. Pavement hasn't been a band since I was in 7th grade. Of course, I was so oblivious in 1999. I mean, singing along to Will Smith and Limp Bizkit was what I called fun back then. In the past decade, I've matured in my musical taste and Stephen Malkmus, the lead singer of Pavement, has gone on and done some solo stuff. A lot of it is very good. But it'll never be Pavement. If REM is the Roger Clemens (undoubtedly best pitcher/band of his/their generation; a big splash followed by a long, steady career) of early indie rock, and the Pixies are Barry Bonds (heavy hitters, but internally conflicted), then Pavement are Ken Griffey Jr. -- effortlessly good. Pavement defined the erudite slacker model that bands today try so hard to emulate. Stream of consciousness lyrics coupled with guitar that weaves in and out and raw melody, that's Pavement. It's late so I'm done ranting, but here, have a look (and buy tickets!) for yourself:

Describe a time when you had to make a difficult decision...

If I had my druthers and didn't need to whore myself out for a job all the time, I'd definitely have a more pertinent story to tell interviewers. Sure, it always seems like a good idea to craftily relate a work conflict or some other tough decision regarding school or life in general. Keyword: seems.

"Well, there was this one time when my boss asked me to stay late on a Friday afternoon to get a grant proposal out the door. But, you see, I had Twins tickets and they were playing the Red Sox and I knew this cute girl who liked baseball and..." Shit! You just made yourself look like a flake with misguided priorities (although there is a strong argument to be made that cute date + baseball >> work but let's just assume that in this case, work gets dibs). If you go around saying stuff like that, you'll never get a job.

The question is an invitation to stick a foot in your mouth. Sure, you could tell a story about that time when you had to decide whether to go save the adorable child on the runaway train or the 100 inmates tied to the tracks, but for the other 99.999% of us, the best possible outcome to this question is to keep the asshole-level to an absolute minimum. Unless...

Unless, that is, you tell them about the actual last time you had to make a difficult decision. In my case, this happens on a weekly basis. As some of you know, I use a trip to the record store as an excuse for any number of unrelated tasks I'm trying to delay completing. Policy work to do? Policy is best done with a good record playing! Legal writing brief due? Legal writing is best done with a good record playing! You can see the pattern my brain continually follows. It's a good thing I don't have any other expensive habits besides elephant seal wrestling and buying vinyl.

Inevitably, I will set some arbitrary limit for myself before I enter. One new record and one used record. No, three used records and a new one only if I can't pass it up. Well, I could use two new records and maybe one used one if I can find a good deal. As you no doubt imagine, this rationale, skewed though it is, gets thrown out the window as soon as the old-attic-smell of a used record store enters my nostrils. I sometimes start to sweat in anticipation. Which isn't as big a deal as it sounds -- I sweat thinking about much more mundane things.

Today was the perfect example of the numerous difficult decisions I face once I put myself, the shark, into water red with chum. I'm discovering that Electric Fetus on Franklin and 4th consistently has the best selection of high-quality vinyl in town. Cheapo is good for volume, but there's a lot of chaff. Roadrunner and Treehouse are good, but for more obscure stuff. Shuga is filled even further to the brim with junk (although their online store seems much better). Electric Fetus went a long way in cementing its reputation with me today. I was about halfway through the "Used Vinyl" section and I had a one bona fide good find: Back in Black by AC/DC. A Chuck Berry album I had never heard of had me at about a 5/10 excitement level. I was content though. Then my day got suddenly more complicated.

I think it's an unstated rule amongst crate-diggers that you don't side up to a fellow digger. You give them space. Finding records is almost a symphony between you and the past. It's sacred. Normal people don't just side up to you while you're engaged in such a ritual. I hate it when it happens and I give many a dirty look when people do this to me. So this guy did this very thing just as I had eclipsed the halfway point of the used section. In fact, he began to move the whole columns of records down, mixing up the admittedly already mixed up organization. He was playing Lady Gaga over my Mozart. In a movie, the sound of the needle scratching a record would play and the music would stop.

The next part would also be in a movie. Just after the record sound, a chorus of angelic voices would start a rousing round of "Hallelujah!" The church version, not the Leonard Cohen version. This man was not butting into my personal space. Well he was, but it was for my benefit. He carried a box of fresh, used records and was shifting the line of used records down to accommodate the new arrivals. I always wondered when they refreshed their selection. I thought they might bring Brinks trucks in late at night and, under cover of armed guards, add the new selection while the rest of the city slept. But no, this was during the middle of the day in a busy store. And no one seemed to notice the glorious event happening right in front of their eyes!

As he finished his task and carried the empty box back to the place of boxes, we exchanged a knowing nod. Not a flamboyant Midwestern nod, but a muted hipster nod. At least his was a hipster nod, mine was probably more frantic, crazed even. For we both knew the ordeal I was about to enter.

Two whole columns, probably 100 records deep -- and it was all MINE. Like a logger surveying a tract of virgin timber, well...it moved a little. So I dug in. Like a dream, a cavalcade of records paraded in front of my wide (for an Asian) eyes, each calling out to me, louder than the last, "Take me home."

Miles Davis, Art Blakey, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Who, The Doors -- all the heavy-hitters were there. An original pressing of Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band v. a novelty album jacket version of Led Zeppelin III. How can a person choose? Keep in mind, at this unfortunate time, I felt like I had to make a decision. Though the records were only about $9 or $10 a piece, I must never forget that I am a student living off of the government. So I took a few over to the in-store record player, hoping that one would be so mangled as to remove it from consideration. All of my samples were pristine and to make matters worse, they all got exclamations of approval from one of the staff. As far as record store staff go, the aforementioned nod is a pretty big get for a customer like me. An actual verbal affirmation -- almost unheard of.

So I made my decision. I had to make a few hard cuts, Revolver by the Beatles (I own a reissue), some Art Blakey jazz (tough decision, but they are more common), and Led Zeppelin I (I still feel bad about leaving this little guy behind). But I did go home with Back in Black (AC/DC), Sgt. Pepper (The Beatles), and Led Zeppelin II & III. I also went home with the good story to tell interviewers; the way I see it, a story that makes you sound just a bit weird is better than one that inadvertently makes you look like an ass. My lesson of the day.

A Man, Conflicted

After watching the "Who('s) D(Th)at?" Saints take it to "da" Colts, I was struck by how emasculated I felt. Granted, this is not an uncommon feeling for me, but self-pity aside, I felt especially un-manly even after watching the biggest event in the manliest mainstream sporting universe. I'm starting to think that it was the commercials.

Commercial after commercial told me what it meant to be a man. And it doesn't take a Tim Tebow to tell me that I'm failing horribly.

Apparently, I need to stop expressing empathy or friendship, especially to women. Next time a friend asks me for help, I'm yelling "AFTER THE GAME!" Even if there's no game on. And if they ask me for help via fb post or gchat message, I'm pausing the game (TIVO, ftw), tracking them down, berating them for interrupting my manly activity, and ordering them to make me a flatbread low-cal organic manly, beer-enfused-bacon-cheese-MANLY sandwich. For free. Awesome.

And reading? Who needs reading?! Leave that to the Sedaris/Eggers/Vowell-reading, NPR (socialist, btw)-listening milquetoasts I see walking around with those froufy coffee drinks my girl likes to buy. Me? I'm a Folgers guy, through and through. I don't even have a coffee maker. I just stoke the fire, still smoldering in the hearth after last night's meat-stravaganza, boil some water (non-filtered, what?!) and pour that shit directly into the metal, ribbed coffee container. And I just drink it straight up. And then I throw the aluminum can into the trash -- you know, the trash container right next to that wimpy, Greenie recycling bin. Sometimes I miss, but that's what my girl is for, to pick up after me. Can't be bothered -- must apply wax to my DODGE CHARGER.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not some knuckle-dragging imbecile. That would be the wrong impression, bra. The wrong impression, indeed. The internet intrigues me. It is awesome. Basically, you look at the internet for things like funny videos of animals, pictures of awesome women, or sports scores. I have a few websites myself. But I only trust GoDaddy for my web hosting, domain name, and SSL certificates. I mean, really, advertising is best when it has bodacious babes like Danica "1-Career-Win" Patrick showing us her awesome curves all in the name of an obscure service industry! Awesome.

The Superbowl is an awesome way to get some tips on how to become a better, more awesome man. You get to eat some awesome food, drink some awesome beer (don't even get me started on Select 55 or MGD 64; in these eyes, it's a choice between either 55 or 64 reasons why drinking it makes you a non-man), and see some awesome sports. It's a once yearly opportunity to remind me why I shouldn't be friends (or respect?) women or be forced to read the New York Times or a good novel (does Maxim count?). The Superbowl reminds me of the proud few who have reached that Pinnacle of Modern Manhood and why I still have a long way to go to brush against their muddy boots...awesome.