After hearing a story about someone showing up to work drunk and stoned, I asked, "Has she ever had any problems with depression?" And my friend answered, "Well, I think she hides behind drugs and alcohol, but she's basically a happy person."
Good answer, and a silent rebuke to the interrogating nature of my question. We all have friends or acquaintances like this, people who are charming and warm and full of life, but who happen to always be opening a bottle of wine, can never say no to a joint, think of pills as friends. Maybe they don't get ahead in life as much as you know they could. If they could just stop drinking until four...then they'd be so great. I mean, look at how wonderful they are right now, crippled by this emotional defect. If only they could just face the world, and you sigh and shake your head.
Code: if they were perfect, they would be so much better.
The irrationality of this kind of assessment signals at something more insidious. It's easy to look at someone with a problem, an obvious one, and feel morally superior as a way to balance out feelings of jealousy, i.e. "Well, I could be charming too, if I had a two-bottle-a-day habit." "I could look great too, if I had a retail therapy addiction." Thinking this way is selfish, and yet we hide it under a veneer of concern. It's stealth hatred.
But the most stealth kind of thinking is when we turn this unkind logic against ourselves. I have another friend who is absolutely gorgeous. She looks like an Italian Scarlett Johansson and men love her. Yet her favorite talking points are self-critique of her body. After having spent most of her adult life weighing about 115 pounds, in the past few years she's gained another twenty. She's developed and pursued a taste for high calorie pleasures, like home-made ice cream and volcanic chocolate cake. Despite running eight miles at a time, going to dance classes, and doing pilates, she can't get the weight off. if only she could control her appetite, she'd be so much happier. If only she were perfect, she'd be so much better.
This lack of generosity hurts herself, and it hurts everyone else too. I am gently chiding her for nursing these thoughts. So let me be generous for her and set the world aright. It is a gift to be able to enjoy life - food included - so much that it brings pleasure to everyone else sitting at the table. In life, we need more people who can drink a beer and discern the beauty of the world in each sip, and fewer people who weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Obama and Brazilian Ethanol
Yesterday's New York Times featured a below-the-fold headline about how Obama feels about corn, energy, and Brazil. Obama supports protectionist tariffs against Brazilian sugar cane ethanol to protect corn ethanol producers in the United States. Placing prohibitive tariffs on the importation of sugar cane ethanol, although it is eight times more efficient than corn ethanol, is a matter of “energy security,” says Barack Obama. The Times article focused on Barack Obama's fealty to the corn ethanol lobby, and how those ties might lead him to support tariffs against Brazilian sugar cane ethanol.
While I was in traveling through the poor Northeast of Brazil last week, all I saw was miles and miles of sugarcane fields. At the edges of the greenery were people living in huts made out of palm leaves and garbage bags – tiny settlements called “Sem Terras” who fly under a unified flag. They are farmers without land, who wait patiently for the government to seize unproductive farms and redistribute the property in small plots. Meanwhile, they grow sugarcane on traffic islands. My travel companion remarked that these settlements would turn into favelas before the government would act.
I tend to be against protectionism and personally hate corn subsidies (U.S. corn subsidies, in creating vast oversupplies of corn, and thus the introduction of corn syrup into every food product we consume, have contributed to the obesity epidemic in our country.) Still, getting rid of the tariff stands to benefit even uglier agribusiness on the other side of the equator. Like the US, Brazil is no monolith but a class society with the ultra-rich separated by a vast gap from the millions of destitute. The economic windfall from sugarcane ethanol would benefit already super-rich landowners. It even stands to reason if sugar cane became more profitable, producers would become more efficient to respond to demand, and government would be even less likely to collectivize land. The Sem Terras would continue to wait, now for the boom in the Brazilian sugar cane industry to trickle down to their lives, their temporary settlements turning into slums in the meanwhile.
As for Obama, yes, special interests are bad. But perhaps this attitude about corn ethanol is just an acknowledgment that the US should produce its own energy, and not rely on a foreign oligarchy for it. After all, we've got our own that work just fine.
While I was in traveling through the poor Northeast of Brazil last week, all I saw was miles and miles of sugarcane fields. At the edges of the greenery were people living in huts made out of palm leaves and garbage bags – tiny settlements called “Sem Terras” who fly under a unified flag. They are farmers without land, who wait patiently for the government to seize unproductive farms and redistribute the property in small plots. Meanwhile, they grow sugarcane on traffic islands. My travel companion remarked that these settlements would turn into favelas before the government would act.
I tend to be against protectionism and personally hate corn subsidies (U.S. corn subsidies, in creating vast oversupplies of corn, and thus the introduction of corn syrup into every food product we consume, have contributed to the obesity epidemic in our country.) Still, getting rid of the tariff stands to benefit even uglier agribusiness on the other side of the equator. Like the US, Brazil is no monolith but a class society with the ultra-rich separated by a vast gap from the millions of destitute. The economic windfall from sugarcane ethanol would benefit already super-rich landowners. It even stands to reason if sugar cane became more profitable, producers would become more efficient to respond to demand, and government would be even less likely to collectivize land. The Sem Terras would continue to wait, now for the boom in the Brazilian sugar cane industry to trickle down to their lives, their temporary settlements turning into slums in the meanwhile.
As for Obama, yes, special interests are bad. But perhaps this attitude about corn ethanol is just an acknowledgment that the US should produce its own energy, and not rely on a foreign oligarchy for it. After all, we've got our own that work just fine.
Letters to a Young Pre-Law Student
An acquaintance from college emailed me yesterday, saying that he's considering going to law school, and wanted my advice. I ended up writing him an email twice the length of his about my thoughts on going to law school. I thought it was interesting, so here it is. I'd love to hear thoughts:
As for discussing law school, I'm not sure I'm the best candidate for it because I'm not practicing law. I liked Cardozo, and if you're interested in intellectual property, it's a great place to be. I loved my copyright professor. But personally, the experience left me with a desire to get out of the legal field. The law is an intellectually rewarding profession, but you deal in conflict all day long, or in the pre-emptive avoidance of conflict, which is arguably even more stressful on an existential level. You might be the kind of person who thrives on stress - if you are that kind of living paradox, then congratulations, you have found your dream profession. The other kind of person who succeeds in the law is one who finds the stress a worthwhile means to legitimately support a practical good. But let me be more specific. It's for someone who believes that life is really written in the details, and thus finds gratification in the small but concrete successes that the law's protections can provide. It's for someone who really believes that the difference between 90 days and 120 days in prison is worth fighting for, or that $500 is worth litigating for, even if it's going to disappear into the client's debt in a matter of minutes. If you're interested in doing corporate work, the differences will be in billions of dollars, and it's a different story. Then, you have the unique distinction of being a steward of the faceless and ever-hungry global economy.
In sum, I would do my "due diligence" before going to law school to make sure you have a dream that you realistically believe you can execute for your post-JD years. If you do this, you will love law school and the practice of law, because you will be able to take advantage of the many doors to power and influence that it opens.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
The Presets @ Music Hall of Williamsburg, 6/4/08
"The Presets? Who?" were what I was thinking last week when Joani exhibited her characteristic rabid excitement over her ticket to their upcoming show. But I'm in the habit of just showing up at shows when and where she tells me to (tonight, Music Hall of Williamsburg) and now I can tell you: they're two indie rockers from New Zealand who sound like Depeche Mode remixed for a night out at Studio B. Not really like Flight of the Conchords, I can and will still force the analogy – there were two of them...and they play music...and are from New Zealand...and were very good natured. [CORRECTION: The Presets are from Australia, per Bobsta's comment. So a forced analogy becomes a wrong analogy.]
The Presets distinguish themselves from the current dance music eighties revival by their use of a live drum set, which I wish they'd taken even more advantage of. They displayed their fair share of the passionate dial twisting and headbanging button pushing that's become a commonplace at these shows, so it was nice to see someone hit an object that vibrated in real time. Live drummers always have prima facie approval in my book, and I found the Presets' drummer nerdy and charming. He would gaze at the dancing crowd, looking like an MBA on his day off from the waist up, as if he couldn't believe he were up there. Still, he displayed fealty to the indie aesthetic with acid washed jeans and shoes so pointy they were probably Swedish. His friend the singer was looking more traditional in black ass squeezing jeans and Nikes with a neon swoosh. Joani gave props to his Lollapalooza shirt, but I wasn't trading on any late nineties nostalgia.
The crowd were having a great time on a Wednesday night – you know, since finals are over and summer internships haven't really heated up yet. I almost didn't get in because the show was sold out, and had to buy a ticket from someone selling outside. The crowd was animated: the hand pump, the jump-up-and-down, the shoulder shake, the hair swing, it was all there. A girl in Cheap Monday jeans leapt onstage and the singer led her in a twirl before security carried her off. At the end of the show, the singer thanked Brooklyn for "the awesome show." Joani, who is not a fan of the sincerity aesthetic, was dismissive, but I think a couple of hard working guys who put on a nice show ten thousand miles from where they live can say something is awesome without a citation from the irony police.
Afterwards, we deduced through the Aussie accents everywhere that the Presets are enormous down under. In fact, they sell out shows at venues where tickets go for triple what we paid (well, this part a nice tourist from Australia told Joani). Bruce the bouncer, whom I'd met while he was working the bonde do role show last month at Music Hall the Prequel (aka Bowery Ballroom), shared that he hadn't seen a show with such a great crowd. He then pulled me aside once Joani left the room, asked if he had a shot with her, and requested that I put in a good word. Maybe what bruce meant by “great crowd” was “crowd with cute girls like Joani.” Either way, a good place to be.
The Presets distinguish themselves from the current dance music eighties revival by their use of a live drum set, which I wish they'd taken even more advantage of. They displayed their fair share of the passionate dial twisting and headbanging button pushing that's become a commonplace at these shows, so it was nice to see someone hit an object that vibrated in real time. Live drummers always have prima facie approval in my book, and I found the Presets' drummer nerdy and charming. He would gaze at the dancing crowd, looking like an MBA on his day off from the waist up, as if he couldn't believe he were up there. Still, he displayed fealty to the indie aesthetic with acid washed jeans and shoes so pointy they were probably Swedish. His friend the singer was looking more traditional in black ass squeezing jeans and Nikes with a neon swoosh. Joani gave props to his Lollapalooza shirt, but I wasn't trading on any late nineties nostalgia.
The crowd were having a great time on a Wednesday night – you know, since finals are over and summer internships haven't really heated up yet. I almost didn't get in because the show was sold out, and had to buy a ticket from someone selling outside. The crowd was animated: the hand pump, the jump-up-and-down, the shoulder shake, the hair swing, it was all there. A girl in Cheap Monday jeans leapt onstage and the singer led her in a twirl before security carried her off. At the end of the show, the singer thanked Brooklyn for "the awesome show." Joani, who is not a fan of the sincerity aesthetic, was dismissive, but I think a couple of hard working guys who put on a nice show ten thousand miles from where they live can say something is awesome without a citation from the irony police.
Afterwards, we deduced through the Aussie accents everywhere that the Presets are enormous down under. In fact, they sell out shows at venues where tickets go for triple what we paid (well, this part a nice tourist from Australia told Joani). Bruce the bouncer, whom I'd met while he was working the bonde do role show last month at Music Hall the Prequel (aka Bowery Ballroom), shared that he hadn't seen a show with such a great crowd. He then pulled me aside once Joani left the room, asked if he had a shot with her, and requested that I put in a good word. Maybe what bruce meant by “great crowd” was “crowd with cute girls like Joani.” Either way, a good place to be.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
tennis
Yesterday the humidity was thick in New York. It jumped from the cold mornings of Spring, right to the handkerchief weather of late July. Storms were brewing overhead. The clear sky slipped into gray without your even noticing it. At six thirty in the evening, I walked over to Riverside Park, to find M hitting balls in the tennis courts. The humid air cushioned my steps, as the dusk began to fall in Morningside Heights. I don't know the neighborhood, so I didn't think I'd find him, but the courts were unmissable - at the foot of the wide avenue stairs at the park's entrance.
We hit some balls back and forth. I made contact and felt the vibration in the racket, saw the ball push itself over the net. Running back and forth, my muscles sensed the outlines of what could be an elegant pastime. The air changed and clouds covered the orange sunset over the Hudson. It began to rain fat splotches. Still, it was quiet. The sky still looked friendly, early summer, over Riverside Drive's pre-war buildings. The leaves on the trees swayed, not telling. We volleyed a little bit more, my barely making it over the net, then out of bounds, but M running for them anyway. I learned how to overhead serve. I wanted it to rain hard. The sky went gray, and I was in nature.
We packed up and walked down the park path towards 118th st. It was raining, but the air itself was wet. Nature was the storm, and I was an ant, beads forming on my hard abdomen as I waited and watched.
We hit some balls back and forth. I made contact and felt the vibration in the racket, saw the ball push itself over the net. Running back and forth, my muscles sensed the outlines of what could be an elegant pastime. The air changed and clouds covered the orange sunset over the Hudson. It began to rain fat splotches. Still, it was quiet. The sky still looked friendly, early summer, over Riverside Drive's pre-war buildings. The leaves on the trees swayed, not telling. We volleyed a little bit more, my barely making it over the net, then out of bounds, but M running for them anyway. I learned how to overhead serve. I wanted it to rain hard. The sky went gray, and I was in nature.
We packed up and walked down the park path towards 118th st. It was raining, but the air itself was wet. Nature was the storm, and I was an ant, beads forming on my hard abdomen as I waited and watched.
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