"Jack of all trades, Jill of none."

© 2002-2005 T Spae

10/31/05


Better to be a handyman than an artist anymore. Bassackwardian that I am, I do both. Unfortunately, the skills I bring to fix-it tend to be similar to those I wield as a creative worker -- a drive to make things, an eye for design, sense of the constraints and possibilities of mechanical and symbolic systems, a flair for improvisation -- which coupled with my general lack of big-gun expertise can get me into metaphorically-apt hot water on occasion, especially when my economic eyes get bigger than my experiential stomach.

A job I had last summer, installing a shower enclosure in the basement apartment of a friend's house down the street, had enough unpleasant possibilities bristling from it like a porcupine in a bad mood that I nearly turned it down at the outset, and perhaps I should have. But my client was enthusiastic about it and remarked that it was hard to find people willing to do these "little projects" and the next thing I knew I was counting a wad of advance cash and scheduling her in. Thus began an ordeal of smashed fingers and bad dreams which culminated, fortunately for me, in the successful completion of the work. It didn't help that the new tenants decided to move in two days early, necessitating my sidestepping Packing Boxes Innumerable in my efforts. Actually, I'm wrong -- the tenants were very helpful. It's just the boxes that weren't.

Somewhat chagrined at the complexity of the whole event, my client came by to hang out during one particularly trying moment, as I de- and re-sweated a pipe that refused to close up on my first try and sprayed discouragingly during the pressure test. Between dismembering, cleaning, roughing, fluxing and applying propane torch and solder to the rebel, we chatted of this and that, a diversion from the perversity of material things that is the burden of all who dare to don the mantle of Fix-it.

Inevitably, as in all human discussions, the conversation came round to absent acquaintances, in this case the former renter of the apartment who had made promises and reneged, then gotten crusty when reminded of them. My friend was a little disconsolate. Throughout her residency, the previous occupant had been cooperative and convivial, seemingly even a companion-in-arms, in contrast to the usual war that always seems to accrue between owner and ownee in real estate. 'Where did this bitch come from?" she wondered.

I proffered the usual garden-variety excuses: she was cranky, she was stressed by something else, she was secretly guilt-stricken. To my credit, I didn't blame her menstrual cycle. But another concept came to or through me as well.

There were three celebrated fountainheads of esoteric systems working in the early 20th century, Madam Blavatsky, Aleister Crowley and Gurdjieff. The esteemed Madam has long been revealed as a shameless charlatan, but the Theosophical Society based on her writings continues to flourish. Crowley's cartoonishly depraved reputation still serves to advertise both his genuine erudition and his iconoclastic views, especially among those easily impressed by the assumption of devilhood and Bestiality.

Gurdjieff, on the other hand, is far less notorious, though no less suspect in his own questionable blending of yoga, sufism and groovy dance moves. Arguably the most serious of the three, he functioned as a combination cheerleader and whipmaster to his devotees, enjoining them to give up all in the pursuit of the Great Work of self-illumination. Like his two contemporaries, he was a also well of esoteric ideas, more or less traditional or original depending on who you talk to and how much they've had to drink that day. One of his more interesting notions was his theory of self.

In our most naive moments, we think of people as units of personality -- a "character" with a single point of identity. That idea breaks down the minute we have to deal with someone's "mood," typically to be replaced by a multifunctional model in which a person "feels" different emotions or temperaments in the course of events. We can even imagine a person beset by conflicting desires, torn between choices serving different needs of their core self.

To Gurdjieff, all this talk of a core self was nonsense. In his view, personality was a mask, put on as a convenience to suit a given circumstance, with nothing whatsoever underneath. That this notion completely denies the necessity for self-development, given that there exists no self to develop, bothered him not at all -- like all gurus, he was happy to accept a universe riddled with contradictions and paradoxes. It's such a convenience when someone calls you on your bullshit.

But in talking to my friend about her friend, it struck me that Gurdjieff's idea was useful, if not completely true, in describing how we relate to each other. Personality may have some independent existence, but it chiefly appears in the reflection of another person's observation. Each of us is slightly different depending upon the company we keep, and the mask we wear over whatever face we may possess changes with the cast of the play we're in. Thus, each of us is in part our brother's keeper in that we all collude in one another's personalities, not in any influential or exemplary manner but innately.

All of which stands as yet another example of the more meat-and-potatos aspect of that prime old principle, We Are All Connected. Just because there may or may not be a big universal spooky-action-at-a-distance cosmic life force field doesn't imply that connection doesn't exist. It may be as mechanical as a handshake, as dumb and direct as breathing each other's breath and smelling each other's sweat, or as informal as precipitating each other's character, or lack thereof.

Which doesn't excuse crappy behavior on someone's part, o'course. Still, it's a much more reflective way to examine the momentary snoidery of someone you actually trust. Plus, it's a heck of a good diversion from the vagaries of earning a living. And isn't that what philosophy's good for anyways?


10/24/05



10/17/05


One of my e-correspondents, a woman who writes on feminist issues, is constantly accusing me of being female. Flattery will get you anywhere. She last based this notion on an interview she conducted among various men she knew, including myself, asking their views about feminism. The first question she asked was "Are you a feminist?" Apparently, of all the nifty swifty Sensitive New Age Guys she queried, I was the only one who answered the question "No."

I elaborated that I was incapable of being a real feminist because I lacked, nor was particularly interested in acquiring, a vagina, that I saw feminism as the entirely positive notion of women taking charge of their political and social role in society (the way, say, men do). The best I could do, I said, was be sympathetic with the principle of feminism and open to ideas promulgated by its rightful practitioners, bearers of the aforementioned orifice. All this with a lotta pseudobogus PC linguage that I didn't know I had in me. I never say "solidarity." Do I?

My friend replied that the very fact that I wouldn't try to wrap myself in the flag of feminism (Susan B Anthony on a field argent) made me more of a feminist than her other respondents, who to a righteous dude explained at great lengths their embrace of feminism in all its full flower. Well, if it isn't Ben Casey Meets Kildare (that's called a paradox) (kudos to Alan Sherman).

I promptly muddied the waters (AHM UH MAAYAN! DA DA DA DA) further by bringing up my old "99% chance I'm a woman" joke: in the Old Farmer's Almanac, I once read the factoid that 99% of men think the Three Stooges are funny, while 99% of women think they're stupid and violent. So much for probability.

All of this sillyness is just fun and games unless you're of the school (more of a university campus) of thought professing sexuality as a hardened physical characteristic, as rigorously and unbendingly set as, well, genitalia. That particular viewpoint encompasses a good sized chunk of the population, with concomitant popular sentiment and political clout in tow. Unfortunately it's at best blurry and at worst dead and deadly wrong.

Humans are possessed of specific read-in areas for arousal. Viewed ontologically, male and female equipment is strikingly similar, and produces strikingly similar responses when stimulated. While tastes in partners and mechanics vary preposterously, the physical stimulus and reaction tends to be gender-independent. Which is to say, turn 'em upside down and close your eyes and they all feel alike. Add in our innate capacity for inventiveness and the possibilities for mischief have no bounds.

This right here is where humans may in fact distinguish themselves from the rest of the filthy perverted animals of the world. I'd be prone to go out on a limb and baldly state that, as far as the plumbing and wiring goes, all human beings are naturally bisexual, physically and intellectually at least. We're all theoretically capable of equally enjoying one form or another of intimacy with either or both sexes. Barring insultingly intrusive multi-decade studies, there's no way to strain out which of the ten thousand most popular proclivities are innate and which culturally induced (ie, beat into receptive little heads from age zero).

So given that, what's with all the boomalay boom about tab A and slot B? Can't we let the poor little mortals grab what quickies they can before they all fall down? At the risk of straining a metaphor, or at least a metaphorical limb, I'd go even farther out and proclaim it to be a strictly political and economic matter.

Why, Herr Marx, whatever are you doing out here? Do you think this limb can hold us both?

In our culture -- in every human culture -- sex roles are political roles. It can hardly be otherwise. Warm bodies are the foundation of any political power (Mao's gun barrels are so much cylindrical sculpture without fingers on the triggers), and of economic health as well. By any measure, a populous tribe/region/country is a strong one. They don't have to be smart, just breathing. For everybody's sake, and that especially includes the ball-bearers at the top, heterosexuality isn't just a good idea, it's the law.

That's the warm and wonderful principle that leads to the form of governance most commonly presented in third world countries but beloved by the testicular everywhere: women as cattle. Shut up and spread 'em, bitch, we need the babies. Works great -- breed enough and you can engage in a friendly li'l bout of Whup Yer Neighbor, steal their land and trinkets -- oh yeah, and rape their women, too, which sets you up for a great little pyramid scheme, literally in many cases.

There's only one little glitch in this particular feedback loop, and we're faced with abundant examples of it night and day. The single greatest problem, perhaps ultimately the problem, facing humans is overpopulation. The success of the Kids Make Millions In Your Spare Time With Offspring program works itself out of a job right about the time the first famines hit. It;s a catch-22: either the group displays normal social animal concern for its members and weakens itself with social programs, leaving open to a hostile takeover by the boys next door, or it gets all Adam Smith on its own ass and breaks down into dog-eat-dog anarchy. In rare instances you can get both.

Ultimately, the only check on this good news bad news trap is in the hands, or more correctly crotches, of the people who actually produce Chaos TNG, women themselves. Any counter against power can only come from outside its structure -- fighting fire with marshmallows, as Robin Williams once said. Giving women control over their own ability to reproduce is the only action liable to break the cycle of mo' people mo' problems.

Damn straight I support feminism. I may not be a woman, but I ain't stupid.


10/10/05


One detail seems to leap out of almost any movie shot before 1970: everybody smokes. Cigarettes, cigars, pipes, hookahs even -- the set is positively foggy with the Red Man's Revenge. Lung cancer? Never heard of it. Emphysema? How'd'ya spell that? For lighting a conversation or a stick of dynamite, for flirting or calming down or being cool or just to have something to do with your hands, they've got a Lucky or a Marlborough or a whatnot ready to be smartly knocked out of the pack. Smoke 'em if you got 'em -- they ain't just for soldiers anymore.

Gazing now from the heights of our Surgeon General Report enlightenment, we can see this ubiquitous feature for the aberration that it was, a filthy, smelly habit that crawled out of the back room and overtook common sense and good breeding for fully 75 years before slowly fading back into the smoking lounges and boho alleys from whence it came.

Which ain't to say that tobacco is a bad or good thing per se. I've spent a fair part of my life breathing second hand smoke, from down at mommy's knee level on through many a hazy (but profitable) lounge or tavern. I'm more inclined to support a nicotine fiend's right to mess up his lungs than not, long as they've got good medical and don't blow it in my face. The way I hear it, some folks even enjoy it. Heck, I've taken pleasure from the occasional stinky cigar myself.

The mainstream, on the other hand, has pretty much turned sour as spoiled vinegar on the stuff, in opinions ranging from condescending tolerance to ragingly hostility, with the predictable result that smokers have circled the wagons and broken out the heavy artillery. Every new restriction or tax is met with howls of defiance that would do credit to the Blue Mountain Boys at Bull Run. I once saw a sign in a scrawny little restaurant slightly west of nowhere: "Notice: We smoke here. If you don't like it, get the hell out." Battle lines being drawn, b'gad.

The question before the house: is this just recidivistic diaper-wetting, fueled by sullen addictive obstinance, or is it patriotic defense of a God-given right against the encroaching forces of Big Bad Government?

Glad you asked. It's neither. The real addictive behavior here isn't the result of excess indulgence in nicotina, it's the inability to get free of a worldview.

Behavioral norms don't mutate easily -- they're born of self-healing systems of organization which meld into homeostatic wholes. Trying to change any one part simply excites the rest to suppress the incursion, perceiving any alteration as a threat. This defensiveness is the essence of cultural conservation, and is a definite survival trait, as four thousand years of mule-stubborn Judaic orthodoxy amply points out. Even in the face of an inevitable transformation, the old guard is always ready to dig in its heels and push back.

The Badass Smokers Brigade is barely the gleam on the tip of the iceberg of the American culture war. For a half a century, the West has enjoyed an unprecedented peace and prosperity, giving rise to a whole garden of flowery alternatives to the grim St. Louis Industrial Graytest Generation worldview that fostered the Great Depression and Bigass Wars and tried to turn worldwide combat into a permanent institution. During that time, despite brushfires and ideological squabbles, new theories of conflict resolution, novel notions of enterprise management, reconstituted principles of equality and tolerance all began chewing away at the old tried and true ways of rape, loot, pillage and lie about it in the history books.

In their prosperity and pride, progressives of every genotype waxed confident in their inevitable victory over the forces of bestial self-interest, training their rose-tinted telescopes on a time where humanity lived in peace and acceptance, treading lightly upon Mother Earth, sharing the blessings of enlightened blah blah blah. Danged hippies.

There is an Establishment in American society, a set of universal symbols of propriety and centrality, the kind of God-Flag-Mom-Apple-Pie commonality that the appropriately-named Norman Rockwell so ably portrayed in endless covers for that flagship of Average Joe publications, the Saturday Evening Post. In politics, the accepted standard reveals itself in pomp and circumstance, Hail to the Chief, standing ovations at every presidential address, the erstwhile respect shown to one another by opponents in Congress (the days of dragging your political opponents outside and horsewhipping them on the capitol steps are long behind us).

The immediate forerunners of the modern left, the New Dealers and Great Society politicians, were themselves part and parcel with this continuum. No matter how much they hated him, FDR's enemies closed ranks with him during WW II and afterwards, all the while playing their side of the political game and plotting to recapture control of the government.

Progressives believed that they had achieved some semblence of acceptance to that club, that they too were of the mainstream. But the grays weren't quite ready to die yet. Inevitably, push led to shove led to more push led to bloody-minded fundies electing elegant, smooth-talking sociopaths to office to bring back the storied past of guns, guts and God. L-word college professors and journalists and politicians blind-sided by this seemingly brain-dead backlash were stymied. How could this be happening? Weren't they the Wave of the Future?

Progressives howl that the neocon pollution is a cheat, a cynical manipulation of the gullible by the venal, a web of deceptions fueled by greed. But in truth, the new crew in Washington aren't leading the retreat from the social reforms of the 20th century, they're just riding the tiger and trying to hold on to its ears. The real force at work is the Bad Old Days trying to revert to their own model of normality. Unfortunately, that normality includes little features like institutionalized racism, sexism and the rank exploitation of the underclasses.

It's the American Way, bucko. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.


10/3/05


As a musician., I've spent my adult life doing anything and everything besides my chosen calling, from caregiving to secretary to food prep to laying railroad tracks (the old fashioned way, dude, by hand. In a junk yard. In New Orleans. In June. I lasted a day.)

Most of these jobs fell into the category of Soviet employment: they pretended to pay me and I pretended to work. And, like the Soviets, they never lasted. Some of them, like temp typing, were overtaken by the march of technology. Some I just outrgrew. But sheetrock work is one skill I picked up early on that refused to be downsized.

Since its invention around 1912 (can you believe it?), sheetrock has led the way in a convulsive revolution in how buildings get put together. Even as the industrial revolution revamped the prevailing paradigms of manufacturing, a series of innovations in the early 20th century gave rise to the Tickytacky Modern style of construction that we know today. Everything from standardized plumbing to 2x4 lumber put its big hobnail boot to the backside of the stodgy old trades, entreating them to wake up and smell the cocaine-laced java.

Of all the building specialties, probably none was more, um, impacted by this trend than plastering. It shared with painting a pretension towards artistry, but unlike painting it actually achieved it, strong silent immigrants in white overalls who could put up a ceiling flat as a strap and smooth as a baby's heinie in half a day or your $5 back. The skills peculiar to wall finishing were uncommonly difficult to master, making the men with the trowels royalty of the job site, with overhead to match.

And then came sheetrock. Prefab plaster walls. Nail em to the studs and mud em flat. Learn to work it in three days from a standing, even crawling start. It was the end of one era and the start, however truculently on the part of the plasterers, of another. More, it was the start of a new profession: the polymath construction worker, the handyman. More than any other advance, sheetrock broke the old mold of building specialties and paved (or drywalled) the way to where one guy could (in theory) entirely renovate a building without calling in a single hired gun, pneumatic or otherwise.

Enter yours truly, with mud pan. I've never been especially good at sheetrock, but I don't have to be. The essential talents for working the stuff are consistency and patience, not densely packed physical dexterity. Lucky clumsy me. While a few of my clients have been frustrated at my snail's pace progress (which is why I don't usually charge by the hour), nobody's ever crabbed at the end result. All I have to be is 10% fussier than the guy who's paying me and I'm home. My principle value added, apart from the aforementioned consistency and patience, is probably tolerance for the messiness and intrinsic health risks of the job, the former somewhat formidable (though mud washes off), the latter not so much (cough).

Last week I scored a quickie mud-and-texture job, and I tried to review all the nitty little faults I'd displayed in the past (undermudding, reluctance to sand) and strive to overcome them, with the result that I actually earned my usurious fee and the praise of the purchaser as well. Years of second-rate work finally starting to pay off. Maybe I actually know how to do this stuff after all, finally. High durn time -- I'm aboot ready to retire.

But whether it's given me a grunt labor side-livelihood or just distracted me from what I really do for a life, sheetrock and the attitudes behind it are a powerful force in the modern world, with impact far beyond a simple trades clown like me.

I live in a neighborhood that seems to have been targeted as the Next Big Bedroom. New construction is running wild all over. Up and down my street, houses are going up like mushrooms after a fall rain, bigass duplexes and McMansions choking the palates and stuffing the tummies of overwrought self-obsessed developers, snapped up like flies at a frogfest by ravenous homehunters. The market is boiling and shows no signs of blowing out anytime soon.

The irritating aspect of all this raging commerce is the unvarying blandness of the architecture, all of it slammed out in a faux-craftsman style that must have started out to be indicative of superior workmanship but which has long since degenerated into a lockstep marketing cue. Mind you, the stuff looks all right -- nothing wrong with extended eves and narrow siding. If they weren't all painted the same passionless shades of PC Beige (with contrasting earthtone trim), they might even achieve a modicum of individuality. Or not.

Back in the days of the specialistas, "craftsman" was a meaningful term, one that pretty clearly described the process involved in the execution of a building design. But while the New Hawtness designs of the current boom copy the look and feel of the old classic single-family dwellings of the early 1900's, it's an appearance about as authentic as Barbie's tits, cranked out by the numbers by assembly-line framers and finishers whose only real concern is to get it to spec and get paid, everything as cut and dried as, well, sheetrock.

More and more, Americans accept the notion of lifestyle as a commodity, something bought and paid for, uniform and consistent, not nurtured and cultivated. It's the difference between approaching each wall and ceiling of a home as a unique object, unified by the accretion of plaster individually applied, and measuring everything in units of four and eight feet, razorcut straight lines and seam disguise. And with the advance of sheetrock culture, we see with dazed discomfort the advance of sheetrock intolerance for individuality, the gray conformity of 50's suburbia raised to a principle of morality.

But don't look at me -- I didn't invent the stuff. I just work it.