Painting

I created a new painting recently...actually the first week I was in Skaneateles. But, I just made some touch ups on it and it looks better.

I really shouldn't upload this photo, though, because it's from my camera-phone and I don't have Photoshop on my laptop anymore (I had to use a website called Picnik). Oh well, I'll replace it with a better photo later.

Just started a new one tonight, too, which is bigger and is going to be rad. I hope. Anyways, enjoy.

"Propaganda 1"

Judgment

I had a thought today, in fact just a moment ago, which I am uncharacteristically going to try to flesh out in text rather than simply transfer a fully-formed thought from my brain.

As voluntaryism defines both my political and moral ideology, I am about as socially liberal as it is possible to be. In fact, my personal sentiments take this a step farther in that I believe our judgments built upon our own man-made constructs and categorizations distract us not only from the equal humanity in all of us, but also from the beautiful individuality within each person. I'm appalled by both the superficial notion of compulsory "diversity" and the more traditional institutions of racism, segregation, and assimilation. The mindsets that promote either are on opposite sides of the field, but are in reality playing for the same team. Both serve to divide us as human beings.

Without getting into a whole bunch of scientific talk that I don't know about, I think we'll all agree that there are at least two phases of judgment. The first is the subconscious or semi-conscious judgment, based on your experiences, upbringing, opinions of others (regarding someone or something), initial sensory stimuli, and probably a myriad of other things. The second is your conscious judgment, based upon empirical evidence - personal interaction. In many ways the two overlap, but I like to think that we allow ourselves to let one drive.

For example, several years ago I deliberately conditioned myself to judge people based on my personal interaction with them (or at least observation of them). However, there is an undeniable part of everyone's psyche that summarizes their accumulated knowledge of people that have certain characteristics. The memory operates via association, so you would expect this to be no exception. In my experience, it is the amount that we consciously suppress this impulse as it influences our judgment that makes the difference. Simply put, regardless of preconcieved notions, a stranger should begin with ten points, with only the ability to lose them in the interaction, rather than beginning with no points, and having the ability to gain some.

The critical point is that the groups that we have segmented people into - which to some degree is natural - do not "do" anything that is not central to the definition that we have for them. So, it would be accurate to say that all christians worship Jesus Christ and muslims Allah, or that all "black people" have darker skin than "white people" (I'm not sure this would necessarily be true for "african-americans," in the objective sense of the term). You could say that all gay men and lesbian women are attracted to members of their own respective sexes.

Now, let's test out some of the more insidious stereotypes. Not all muslims advocate violence toward westerners. Some do. Not all catholic priests molest children. Some do. It would certainly be unfair to the peaceful, decent members of these groups to be attacked (verbally, or sometimes physically) for the evil deeds of other members among these groups. With so much faith in democracy, surely some would think that if it were somehow proven that the majority of members of such a group routinely engaged in some unsavory activity that has nothing to do with the group they belong to, that surely all could be condemned. This would again be wrong. Some people seem to think that committing crimes can be inherent in an otherwise peaceful "group," and they ignore the human nature and difference of perspective at the root, demonizing the group as subhuman monsters.

This calls for three large clarifications -

First, if the "group" is by definition objectively immoral, the aforementioned does not necessarily apply. For example, the KKK is by definition an immoral organization. This is not up for debate. They admittedly advocate discrimination against other members of society.

Second, my religious examples actually complicate this whole issue, because there are certain implications in many religious texts that are up for interpretation, which is one reason I don't engage in (organized) religious belief.

Third, and most importantly, it is how we respond to the judgments we make that lends any real importance to what I'm trying (read: struggling) to explain. It would seem to me an entirely acceptable response to abstain from attending catholic masses given evidence that any number of children have been molested by priests. So would avoiding a reportedly dangerous area (more on this later).

There are many examples of the reverse throughout history - internment of Japanese Americans during WWII, vandalization and acts of violence against mosques and American muslims after 9/11. If your judgment leads you to aggressive force against someone you don't know...you're probably doing something wrong.

One of the reasons why government is so sinister is that it attempts, at least visibly, to spread around accountability in a way that deteriorates this dynamic. Thus, when individuals in the military perpetuate a horrific crime against humanity, not only were they enabled to do so by being systematically dehumanized in training, but they are just "following orders," although in some cases acts of extreme violence can emerge from the "mob mentality," catalyzed by the ever-present idea that it's "us vs. them" (see my blog: The Perils of Collectivism). On up the ladder, the general was just acting on "solid intelligence," and so on. Not to mention that war in and of itself is baffling to even the most casual scrutinizer, and for good reason, but that's a separate article (hint: self-interest meets enormously disproportionate power structure).

Believe it or not, I didn't get to the point of my initial thought, but it's lucidity has faded. Hopefully this article is not too tangential - I know it's kind of sloppy. Forgive me.

Update!

Well, it's been...a long time. I really have to wrestle myself down and strap my wrists to the keyboard to make myself write. The problem is, I have a lot of subject matter, but I moll it over in my head so thoroughly, that when the time comes to write it, I'm already worn out on the subject.

But enough of that. I am currently residing in Skaneateles, New York. Every day I wake up, get ready for work, and by the time I'm out the door (inevitably a few minutes late already), I see my car windshield, and realize that I'm going to be later. For some odd reason it's impossible for me to remember this simple fact.

Fortunately, I live less than a mile from my work, so when my car battery committed suicide about a month ago, I could walk to work in only moderate discomfort. In fact, I rather enjoyed the walk - I would listen to Gogol Bordello in the morning and evening travel, and imagine that I am in some bizarre tundra in Ukraine, rather than a hibernating village in upstate New York.

This quarter has been an alarming lesson in my own willpower. After my car began working, I wanted to continue walking because of the enjoyment I derived from it. However, the convenience of the car almost always wins. I bought an expensive keyboard and brought along painting materials because I'm tired of wasting time in the ways that I normally do, and thought it might be beneficial to hone some skills. I would spend hours banging away at the keyboard, and finished an entire painting in one night...before my internet and cable starting working.

When I arrived in Skaneateles, I had an apartment set up already. It is one of those corporate housing-type arrangements, which, upon first encounter, looks identical to a hotel room. I immediately shifted around some of the furniture, hid all the brochures, and consumed the complimentary foodstuffs. Three weeks later, I recieved a note on my door that made it very clear that the landlord was not pleased with the way I was treating the apartment. I found this pretty surprising, considering the state of the apartment was about one tenth of the deterioration factor that I allowed to plague some of my previous residences. Apparently, my stray reciepts and papers were interfering with their dusting though, so I resolved the problem.

Overall, living by myself for the first time has been quite what I expected. I absolutely love it, and absolutely hate it. I'm pretty sure my life has never been less exciting, which was something to be excited about in and of itself, initially. I have time for reading, writing, and artistic endeavors, and I can do precisely what I want at any given time. Had I things to do on what I like to call "the outside world," this setup would be ideal. Home has never been the kind of reprieve that I've always heard it should be, although living with only my roommate in Cincinnati is pretty damn close, because we tend to share a wavelength.

Before this, there was Seattle, which was fine, but I lived with two other guys in what was essentially in student housing with apparently paper-thin walls. The noise alone would have kept me awake but it didn't help that I slept on a box spring for half of the quarter.

California wasn't bad, but an unstable, pill-popping roommate made for a nerve-racking experience.

In Atlanta, I lived with a guy who called the cops without telling me because he thought I was smoking weed in my room (I wasn't). He also habitually turned the thermostat to like fifty degrees in the height of summer. After moving out of there, I shacked up with a guy who lost all sense of ...sense when alcohol touched his lips, and his "girlfriend" down the hall would come ring the doorbell at all hours of the night and start crying and wailing as soon as she entered the apartment. Naturally, I spent many undue wakeful hours on my oversized bean-bag.

In Rhode Island, I lived with an utter sociopath who could not understand the concept of being alone for a moment.

Every time in between I lived in Cincinnati with five other guys in a filthy, dilapitated and chronically loud apartment.

Of course, before that I was living with the parents, who are perhaps the worst roommates of all.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled that I was able to live at all of these places. I revel in discomfort and a certain amount of chaos, if merely for the learning experience it inevitably brings. But as far as homes go, these don't exactly describe the quintessential elements. Which brings us back to my original point, which is, as an apartment, this place kicks ass. As a lifestyle, not so much. If you think I'm just being dramatic, consider this: There is not a single bar in town. No shitty little pool hall, no bowling alley, no seedy local haunt. The village consists essentially of one intersection, and there is no foot traffic to speak of at any given point. Oh well.

I spent a weekend (and change) in Canada, two weeks after my arrival here. Myself and two other co-workers spent four days working overnight to put up displays in a newly opened Wal-Mart. I can say unequivocally that this was the least rewarding work I have ever done, but considering the overtime I was paid for it, I'm ecstatic I was able to do it.

I was later employed to take down a similar display at a place called Mack Studios in Auburn, New York. While we were taking immense custom pieces of Plastic, Cintra, and Aluminum and throwing them into makeshift dumpsters, I asked a co-worker how long the display had been up in the Target store it was designed for. He replied, "Oh, this one has been up forever...probably about five months."

This statement confirmed the sick feeling I had in my stomach while I was installing the Wal-Mart displays. Not only was all of this stuff transient and virtually meaningless, but it would be carted off to a landfill in a matter of months. This was only one store, and this does not even consider the enormous amount of plastic garbage that these meaningless displays would help to sell. We were in the cosmetics aisle of all places, too. If anything can make a person with any semblance of a conscience question his or her profession, it's putting up wasteful and meaningless displays to sell wasteful and meaningless packages full of wasteful and meaningless product. The whole process has no real value. Of course, you could argue with me over the value of makeup, but regardless I think my point is clear.

It feels absolutely stupid that I should have to deliver a caveat to explain my position, but I am not, historically speaking, an eco-crusader. But this profession (industrial design), really makes you consider your impact on the earth. You don't even have to care about nature to be concerned about it - the sheer volume of garbage with no intrinsic value that we generate is mind-boggling. Just the other day I was working on a product that would be licensed with Disney characters. My fellow designers told me that there is typically about a three day turnover for projects like this one. I couldn't help but consider the irony that this "bang-it-out" job would produce MASS QUANTITIES of stuff that in likely a matter of months would be discarded and replaced with something new.

Unfortunately it is a fantasy to think that if I didn't participate that it wouldn't happen. The environmental crises we face parallel that of the political, in that our own individual efforts are overrun by the madding crowd. It is no wonder why the political machine is referred to as just that. It's like a locomotive, either hop on, or get the hell out of the way. Sure, I could protest the government in a way that makes sense to me, and end up in jail, or have physical harm visited upon me. Likewise, I could protest the manufacturing industry, and end up penniless.

Basically, I have narrowed my life goals into two options, dictated by not only my political and social ideology, but also by my own nature. My first option is to try to find a consultancy that shares my concerns and only designs products that have real value, as well as submitting to the force and violence of the government as much as I need to in order to survive, while attempting to slowly convince people of it's evils. My second option is to make some money and tour the world until I find a place that speaks to my heart and is devoid of all the soul-crushing consumerism that becomes more and more offensive every year.

Even as I write this, in the back of my head I can picture myself doing what is "reasonable," which is to find the least offensive job...eventually, and traveling the world as a tourist. I believe that if I don't get out of the states while I am young, preferably in a less-than-responsible manner, I will be stuck here, and fall into the rut known as life. It seems that so many people had wild aspirations as a youth, but abandon them as they become more of a "realist." Well, it seems the door is closing on the era where Americans have the means and the privilege to travel the world - though I've been wrong before - but I certainly don't want to be another bitter xenophobic man sitting in an armchair somewhere talking petty politics to his disinterested progeny.

Skate Deck Design

Enjoy this skate deck I designed for a competition while I was in Seattle. Unfortunately, I missed the deadline. The tiny picture that this page can display doesn't really do it justice.

Seattle, Greensburg, Kansas City, and Cincinnati

My roommate and I just hooked up the internet in our new apartment in Cincinnati, so I can finally throw a new post on here.

Leaving Seattle was an ordeal. I was working my ass off to try to prepare for a presentation that summarized all of the work I had done at T-Mobile, while simultaneously trying to get ready to fly to Greensburg, Kansas on Monday. I found out that my roommate, Evan, was in Greensburg to help rebuild the town, which had been destroyed by a massive tornado. Given my construction background, and figuring it might make sense for us to drive to Cincy together, I decided to join him for a few days to help out.

But first, I had to get out of Seattle. After recieving some duffels in the mail from my parents, I stuffed them full of my clothes: some dirty, some clean, but all smelling funny afterwards. I packed another bag with general stuff, and a backpack with my computer, some clothes changes, and toiletries. The remaining stuff I had no idea what to do with, but fortunately a friend offered to hang onto them and send them once I had arrived in Cincinnati.

Next, I had to put my car in storage. I was originally going to drive it across the country, but my parents suggested I keep it there as they would be in the area sometime in the near future. I don't really know why, but I didn't ask questions - Two cross-country trips in one year is enough for me (I had driven to and from L.A. in the winter for a co-op at K-Swiss). I found a place next to the Ballard bridge, and drove over and stored the car. I found a bus stop right next to the bridge, and waited for the bus. As usual, it did not come at the time it was supposed to, and I had just turned to begin walking when I heard it approach. I waved my arms like an idiot, but it just passed me. The driver gave me some kind of hand signal I didn't know how to interpret. This was the last of many moments with Seattle public transit that pissed me off. It was a beautiful day though, and I was hungover, so I decided just to walk home.

I stopped for some much-needed food at some place called China Box or something like that, and then continued along what I guess is Lake Union. Since I was in no hurry, I walked through Gasworks Park, which looks like something out of a steampunk illustration. In the picnic area there was what I think was a man in a ridiculous dress sitting behind a microphone while sound equipment was being set up and people stood around smoking weed.

I continued on through Fremont and paused at Troll street. After some inner deliberation based on the hill I would have to walk up, I decided to walk to the place where the bridge over my head met the earth, where there is a gigantic statue of a troll emerging from the ground below the bridge. It actually might have freaked me out if I didn't know it was there...and if it was night.

Eventually I made it home. Some people run miles and miles every day, but for me, it was a damn long walk, and hot.

After a successful presentation on Monday, and then another for the VP, I hopped into the car of a very helpful friend, and headed to SeaTac for the flight to Kansas at 2:45. The flights were pretty nice, actually. The first one had comfy seats and the second one had a bunch of characters on board. No upset babies to speak of.

Evan greeted me at the airport by pissing in the urinal next to mine without a word. We walked out of the airport, and then remembered that I didn't have my bags. After correcting that situation, we drove to Greensburg and had a beer in a small gazebo in "volunteer village." The sleeping arrangements were shipping containers divided into four sections which each contained two bunk beds.

I spent three days there, working from 8 to 5 on homes - painting, siding, and insulating. The community had come a long way since the initial tornado. My previous experience with construction had been with my dad, which I was paid for, and hated, although I'm glad that I now have that knowledge. I loved working in Greensburg, the days were beautiful and the meals were free.

On our last night there, we went into a town called Pratt to watch Kansas State play Louisville. We enjoyed some casual beers and greasy food until some of the locals started ordering rounds of Patron. After four rounds and two pitchers, we decided it might be time to leave. As we paid our bills the waitress informed us that Evan and I were the only ones who had been drinking Patron. The rest were taking shots of water...a novel trick. A fireman from Jersey who had been working with us drove us home.

I fell out of my bed that night, which I had been fearing the entire time.

The next day we worked until lunch and then prepared for the drive home. As a measure of courtesy to each other, we showered in the portable trailers that housed the bathrooms and showers. The showers had a button that you would have to press every two minutes or so to continue a very powerful and direct stream of hot water. The first time I used the shower, I wasn't prepared, and I delivered a straight shot like a pressure washer straight to the worst possible area of the body to recieve a straight shot like a pressure washer.

Evan and I spent the night in Kansas City, in an area called Westport, which was surprisingly awesome. We did a little bar hop, beginning at an outdoor patio with a live band, and ending at a place wedged between two buildings that served PBR tall-boys and played hardcore punk music.

We reached Cincy on friday night. As usual for this time of year, Clifton was a mess of noise and drunkards, which is always exciting. The next day was devoted to Oktoberfest and UC v. Miami.

Now, classes are about to start and everything is about to get a lot lamer.

Overworked!

The blame for my lack of new material here can be placed squarely on the abundance of material that I'm tackling at work. I even worked on a Sunday for Christ's sake (pun optional)! Tomorrow is my last day at T-Mobile, and in an act of masochistic ambition, I agreed to present a great deal of work, including a presentation of everything that I've done over the course of my internship, and the culmination of my personal project, which has involved fashioning up some intricate prototypes.

This has been an incredible internship - I've made friends, gotten paid to take classes in 3D Modeling, learned how to use a 3D Printer, and spent four days in New York essentially just roaming about and partying. Not to mention that Seattle is pretty nice, too.

I'm trying to decide whether to fly or drive to join Evan in Kansas to help rebuild some homes for Tornado victims. I really don't know if I'm ready for another cross-country drive. I am ready to move into my nice, new apartment in Cincy, though...and I wan't to get the rest of this damn schooling out of the way. I should probably register for some classes first...

I participated in a free poker tournament last night. This served two purposes. One, it reminded me how much I like playing poker. Two, it reminded me how god-awful I am at it. You just can't go to one of these things without running into some asshole who actually knows what he's doing.

It's just about midnight now. Here's to the weekend.

The Perils of Collectivism

“USA! USA! USA! USA!” The crowd being addressed by John McCain at tonight’s convention deliberately drowns out interruptions from a group of protesters known as Code Pink. A photo montage and voice over explains to viewers at home what “country first” means.

These expressions of nationalistic pride may seem harmless, and are, in and of themselves, in fact quite benign. However, it is within the mindset that drives these somewhat meaningless chants and platitudes – and many like them throughout history – that dwells a dangerous tendency. It is the idea that the needs and desires of the group supercede that of the individual – a justification for the abuse, manipulation, and disregard of human life.

The following stories serve to illustrate my point, as sort of microcosms for the violence that can emerge from collectivism, or group-think. They are, by nature, to a lesser degree, and without clearly stated goals, but it is the human capacity and the behaviorial paradigm that I am attempting to highlight.

Critical Mass, an effort to call attention to the bicyclists’ road rights, took place in July of this year in Seattle. The event consists of a massive group of bicyclists riding on main streets, and generally having a good time. Unfortunately, after the event this year, many local cycling advocates are concerned that the event does more harm than good for relations between cyclists and motorists – primarily because of violence that occurred between one driver and a group of Critical Mass riders.

The aggressor is not clear – a cyclist who was hit by the car claims that the driver, angry and impatient that the traffic was blocked, pulled into the group of riders. The driver, on the other hand, claims that when he attempted to safely pull into traffic, the cyclists swarmed the car and began to rock it, saying that they meant to tip it. The driver stated that he revved the engine without realizing it was in gear.

Regardless of the source of fault, what occurred next is relatively clear. According to The Seattle Times,

"[The driver] was mobbed by the cyclists, who shattered his windshield and rear window, dented the sides of his car, slashed his tires and tore off his driver's side mirror. As he stepped out of the Subaru, someone smashed something hard across the back of his head. He later learned it was likely a bike lock. Doctors stapled the wound closed.”

“[The driver] said he thinks at least some of the Critical Mass riders were looking for a fight: ‘They were obviously equipped and intending to get in confrontations with motorists.’”

Occurrences like these are not terribly frequent, but certainly not unheard of. We are all familiar with the term “mob mentality.” The individual, when engaged in a group, feels empowered and compelled to do things that he/she would not do on his/her own. This is not only true exclusively with regard to violence, but it is violence that requires the most profound suspension of ethical qualms. Thus, the degree to which an individual can be transformed in this context is exemplified most abjectly in violent or destructive deeds.

We are also familiar with the concept of the provocation of violence. We have been raised to look for one source of culpability. One must only look as far as a kindergarten classroom to hear the words “he/she started it!” Most human beings are reasonable enough to at least superficially seek justification for acts of violence – the juiced-up and obnoxious guy at the bar with the flirtatious girlfriend, the rioters in the wake of a tragedy, and, as seen at St. Paul’s recent GOP convention, opportunistic protesters.

“ST. PAUL, Minn. - Protesters attacked delegates, smashed windows, punctured car tires and threw bottles Monday, a violent counterpoint to an otherwise peaceful anti-war march at the Republican National Convention. Police wielding pepper spray arrested at least 56 people…

…Members of the Connecticut delegation said they were attacked by protesters when they got off their bus near the Xcel Center, KMSP-TV reported. Delegate Rob Simmons told the station that a group of protesters came toward his delegation and tried to rip the credentials off their necks and sprayed them with a toxic substance that burned their eyes and stained their clothes.”

Amy Forliti, Sept. 1

Associated Press

I am not one to defend (riot) police, as they are often at least as if not more guilty of the same type of crime. Perhaps not with regard to property destruction, but certainly in seizing on an opportunity to use violence and force in what might have been peaceful assembly, sometimes not even bothering in provocation. However, it would to me seem foolish to assume that these ‘protesters’ did not arrive with the intention to behave this way.

For some reason, however, it tends to go unnoticed that this phenomenon can be accurately extrapolated to include much larger populations, and much loftier goals. In the case of nationalism, it often manifests itself in asserting the “higher ground,” that there is a greater cause, that the ends justify the means. Though the variables may differ, the behavior is the same, as is too often the outcome for those who intervene or are targeted, in much more atrocious terms, of course.

Obviously, there is nothing inherently wrong with associating with like-minded individuals, or grouping together to accomplish something beyond the capacity of an individual. Indeed, many things in life necessitate this. It is when the group comes together to accomplish something that violates your personal morals that you must ask yourself, “would I be doing this if I were on my own, and would I like others to do the same to me?” Perhaps more importantly, “is being a member of this group, or society, or nation, something that I should take pride in?” After all, many of the greatest crimes against humanity have been perpetrated to the sound of thunderous ovation.