UNCOMFORTABLE SUBJECTS : PRIVATE RACISM

A REFLECTION ON RACE IN AMERICA

I want to take some time to mention what I'm planning to write over the next few days. I think it's especially important to lay out my intentions this time because I am about to venture into very difficult territory.

Whenever I set out on a new intellectual endeavor, I always think of my mentor: Friedrich Nietzsche. In this instance, I think about the title to one of his aphorism collections: Uncontemporary Observations. Nietzsche did not care whether he wrote about subjects that ruffled traditional feathers. He purposely contradicted the expectations of the "the present" and "contemporary" society. His ideas at times recapitulated themes from distant history. At other times, they foretold the future. In either case, he was not "contemporary." To the contrary, he purposely defied "contemporary."

Writers face constant pressure to be contemporary. After all, you can't be successful if you don't write to meet present expectations. Yet no one ever evolves without taking daring chances; and writers are no exception. By accident, I find myself in early 21st Century America: A strange, confusing, conflicted, changing civilization. There are certain subjects that we simply do not talk about, or at least we do not voice certain sentiments about them in public. It is irrelevant what we privately think about these "taboo" subjects. We just never voice what we really believe. Sometimes our beliefs are not even conscious.

Race is among those subjects. Personally, race is an obsession of mine. It frequently inspires my writing because it is so maddeningly relevant. Yet there are certain things we simply do not say about it, no matter how often we think them.

Race has played a pivotal role in American civilization from our earliest history. Through race, we have seen just how low American civilization can fall. Through race, we see our principles challenged. All our grand rhetoric about equality, dignity and fairness falls flat when applied to the American experience with race. It is no surprise that much of my satire involves racial realities in the United States. After all, when we honestly view race in America, we see several different Nations living in one. And they aren't all equal, no matter what the law says.

But I struggle with my own conflicts about race. In my writing and in my public expressions, I vociferously advocate equality. I believe that everyone in this country--no matter their origins--should have equal legal opportunities and a fair shot at success. I truly believe that. It is only just. We cannot claim to live in a just society if some people do not have the same chances for success simply because of their ancestry in a certain country or a certain continent.

Yet even in saying this I feel myself a hypocrite. In fact, I come close to a confession when I say that I am a racist. But we all are. Americans simply do not understand that racism comes in many shades. Some are overt, but most are extraordinarily subtle. Everyone in the United States is a racist in their own fashion; you do not have to be David Duke to be a racist. Rather, every American--including declared liberals--harbors deep-rooted cultural expectations about the "ways" of different ethnic groups. Every American believes on some level that people in other ethnic groups are "different" and "act differently" than they do "because that's the way they are." They do not necessarily mean it in a malicious way; but it is ever-present. And it is racism.

We are racists the moment we say: "Two guys and a black guy entered the room." I was raised with these distinctions. I also grew up in a distinct cultural background (southeastern Connecticut; and as the biological product of hardworking Northern European Protestant descendants). Both by nature and by operation of economic forces, that cultural background was racially exclusive. For the longest time, I never thought I was racist. How could I be? After all, I always learned that it was "bad to be a racist" and that I wasn't a racist because I did not publicly say bad things about people in other ethnic groups. But my own family--the same family that taught me these abstract lessons about race with the best possible intentions--cultivated a set of cultural values in me that made me completely dissociate myself from other races. Those values also made me intuitively judgmental toward anyone who did not share them. And on a subconscious level, I began to believe that my values were normal, while others were not. That was racist.

Racism is everywhere in the United States. It is on everyone's mind all the time. And it is intensely private. When white people eat at a restaurant and a black beggar enters the restaurant, I challenge everyone sitting there to say that they do not harbor certain negative assumptions about black people: "Why doesn't he work? Why do they beg? Why are they all so poor? They're all like that..." they think. They might be ferocious liberals and believe in equality. But in that cultural situation, I challenge them all to say that they do not make immediate judgments about black people in their own private minds. And it is not their fault: It is simply a function of their own cultural backgrounds reacting to another cultural background.

America elected Barack Obama. But that does not mean we are not beyond racism. My "uncontemporary observation" on this subject is that EVERYONE IS A RACIST. It is just a question of degree. We may bear no conscious ill-will toward other ethnic groups. Yet when we make even the most subtle assumptions about them, we are racists. Even disadvantaged ethnic groups engage in racism. I challenge any black person to say he harbors no assumptions about white people when placed in a social situation with them: "He's not going to be fair with me. He's not going to treat me right. He's going to condescend to me. He's going to exploit me. He's going to disrespect me. He's going to fire me because I'm black. That's what they all do. White people are mean and will hurt me any chance they get." Racism goes in both directions--all the time.

Overcoming racism is about more than turning to the law for superficial equalization. Overcoming racism is a mammoth cultural endeavor; and we are nowhere near achieving it. Until we truly harbor no assumptions or expectations about "how other ethnic groups act," and until we truly do not think "How typical" when someone from a particular ethnic group acts in a particular way, we are racists. Yet we do these things all the time without even knowing it. We are merely giving expression to the combined weight of our respective cultural heritages. Heritage bears down upon us in America as in no other country on earth. Nowhere on earth have so many disparate cultural traditions been thrown in with one another. And nowhere else has such burning intolerance arisen when those traditions clash.

Let me be clear for the record. I live my life to avoid racism in all things. But I am still as racist as every other American because I cannot honestly say that I do not occasionally make negative assumptions about other ethnic groups in difficult situations. In this sense, we are all racists. When a black youth wearing a doo rag, low pants, a crooked hat and gangster-style sports garb acts rowdy with his friends on a subway train, I intuitively think: "He is up to no good. He's going to cause a scene." I wish I didn't. But I do. I tell myself I shouldn't think it. I challenge any white person from my cultural background to claim the very same thoughts do not flash in his mind in the same situation.

I have no solutions to the racism problem. The best we can do is to forbear as much as we possibly can in our external behavior. We must try to understand one another as best we can for the sake of order and coexistence. It is relatively easy never to "act like a racist" or "say racist things" in public. It is easy not to be David Duke. But it is not so easy to truly drive racist thoughts from our minds in pressing circumstances.

I wish we weren't all racists. I really, really do. But we would all be dishonest if we said we weren't. And I will immediately call anyone a hypocrite who denies his own racism. Racism is not just the overt hatred we hear about in groups like the KKK. Racism is also about unconscious economic segregation. Living in a part of town that no black person can afford is racist, too. Supporting an economic system that perpetuates racial inequalities is racist, too. After all, why do most wealthy white people live in areas that black people cannot afford? Because they won't have to be around black people. When black people are around, it's a "bad neighborhood." Even using the term "bad neighborhood" is racism. It is no coincidence that "bad neighborhoods" are always the poor, black areas. And it is racist to assume the poor, bad areas are always black. Yet people who claim not to be racist use the term "bad neighborhood" all the time.

Consider a white real estate broker who thinks he is not a racist. He says to his client: "You don't want to live above 96th Street. That's a bad neighborhood." Why? Because black people mostly live there. How can that not reflect deeply entrenched, racist assumptions about black people? Think about how often we use terms like "bad neighborhood." They are racist. And most barely comprehend why.

Racism in the United States is exquisitely subtle. It is the inevitable byproduct of placing so many cultural backgrounds in close proximity to one another, along with the natural human propensity to resent those who are different. As such, racism is everywhere. I know it's not popular to say. But that does not mean we cannot honestly grapple with it. Is it terrible? Of course it is. But there are lots of terrible things about American life; and in my view it makes more sense to call a spade a spade than to pretend it's not.

This is my uncontemporary observation for the day.

POLITENESS AND SMALL TALK

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES

I am a very polite person. Even when it makes sense not to be polite, I am polite. It is almost reflexive for me to be polite. In my early life, I learned always to be polite. My mother always said: "Be polite! Say thank you! Do not ask for more!" My mother had another name for this institutionalized politeness: "Good manners."

I did not have a choice. I had to be polite. On the other hand, I grew up in suburban Connecticut. People were not out to get me; in fact, most people were extremely nice. Why not be polite to nice people? They deserved it; they meant me no harm. I didn't mind being polite. In the process, I learned to respect everyone I met. They never hurt me, so it was only fair for me respect them.

But things changed as I got older. Once I graduated from college and started living in the commercial world, I quickly found that not everyone was as nice as they were in my Connecticut childhood. To the contrary, I discovered that most people were dishonest scoundrels who would sooner backstab you than help you up if you slipped on a banana peel. In fact, they would probably even laugh if they saw you fall. Even if they weren't malicious, I found most people flaky and unreliable. If someone told me they "would call me again some time," in almost every case they did not.

Yet I was always polite with these people. I shouldn't have been, but I was. After all, it was reflexive. It was a vestige from my idyllic childhood. I smiled with them, said thank you, made small talk. I even did favors for some. Then I received nothing in return. Many even took advantage of my politeness and gained from it.

Slowly, I realized that it made no sense to be polite all the time. Most people exploited it. And almost no one appreciated it. In fact, it seemed that impolite people succeeded much more frequently than polite people. Impolite people ran right over the polite people and got away with everything. What good did smiling and thanking do? Not much.

Still, I was determined not to become just another impolite ogre on the New York streets. I simply learned to be more wary about according respect to everyone I met. I adopted a new rule: Be polite with exceptions. I used my intuition about whether someone deserved my respect. I tried to sense whether someone was worth respecting, or whether they were just another self-interested shark in the water. Sometimes it was obvious to me that someone was a self-interested shark. So I wasn't polite to them. They had nothing ethically in common with me. So there was no need to be polite. Why be polite with someone who would just as soon leave you dead in a gutter? That is just stupid--and servile, too.

I developed a real suspicion toward new acquaintances. Eventually, I could detect immediately whether someone was a complete selfish asshole or whether they were worth further emotional investment. In some settings, I was polite no matter what, as when I interacted with sales staff and other pathetic commercial pawns who obviously meant me no harm. But in all other settings, I kept my guard.

Recently, for instance, I walked back into my building after taking my dog for a stroll. I got on the elevator. A moment later, a very smily, well-dressed woman with a leather portfolio and an expensive cell phone joined me, along with some bewildered looking adolescent who wore his hat backwards. She was clearly a real estate agent showing apartments to this little punk, who probably had just graduated from college and whose dad was definitely paying the rent.

As soon as the doors closed, this insufferable woman opened her mouth. "What a cute little dog! What's his name? What's the breed? This is a nice building, isn't it? The elevator is very nice. It is very convenient. The lighting is good. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH."

I was about ready to vomit. I couldn't help but notice the Cartier bracelet on the agent's wrist as she spewed forth her endless, dishonest pleasantries. I knew instantly that she was just talking to keep things on an even keel with her client. After all, no one likes awkward silence. So she filled the air with condescending blather. "It's a wonderful building! You like it here, don't you? It's such a great location, isn't it? There's a grocery store right downstairs, you know," she told me, as if I didn't know there was a grocery store in my own goddamn neighborhood.

"Yes, there sure is," I said, without a smile. I consciously said it impolitely. "And my dog is a she."

"Oh, wonderful," she responded without missing a beat; and without really registering what I said. God forbid any silence should intervene to make her client feel uncomfortable. For his part, the youth-soaked client just stood there staring at the floor indicator as the elevator rose. He was wearing shower shoes, shorts and looked like a smug, boring-ass moron. On weekdays, he probably put on a suit and shlepped to some skyscraper to type emails for one of his dad's friends. Worse, he probably even felt important for it. I could see it immediately.

Thankfully, client and professional stepped off the elevator two floors below mine. They went about their business. The agent kept chatting the whole time. The client bumbled along a step or two behind. He was probably thinking about going out later that night. She mentioned something about a trash compactor as they faded from earshot.

I thought about how impolite I had been with this woman. It didn't bother me at all. Why should I have been polite to her? What did she mean to me? Would she have helped me with anything? And why was she even talking to me in the first place? To provide confirmation for her silence-destroying questions? She was using me as an instrument to avoid awkwardness with her client and talking to me as if I knew nothing about my own building. I knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to seal the deal with this little brat by appearing "friendly" and glib with everyone she encountered along the way. I was just a bump along the road to her commission. That's what bothered me.

Why should I have respected this woman? Why should I have been polite? I do not award politeness to people in situations like this. I do not respect people who ingratiate in order to fill their own pockets. So I do not smile or act nice. Now, that does not mean I am an impolite person. Quite the contrary; it simply means I am judicious with my natural politeness. It also means that I resort to impoliteness with people who deserve to be treated impolitely. Don't be fooled: They are out there. And it is actually worse to treat them politely.

I have been walked over too often for being polite. That is why I now know when to be polite, and when not to be. Believe it or not, it is undignified--and very weak--to invariably be polite with everyone you meet. On the whole, people don't deserve it. So you need to learn when it works to be polite, and when it doesn't.

ON THE IMPORTANCE OF AVOIDING MASSIVE CRANIAL DAMAGE TO CAREER SUCCESS IN THE UNITED STATES

TOP NOTCH CAREER TIPS

By : Ms. Vanessa H. Breaker, M.S., University of Texas (Facilities Management); Founder and Chairperson, Help-U-Advance, Inc., a Career Management Consulting Bureau (Houston, TX); Author, You Can Do It : A 10-Step Formula to Achieve Wealth, Success, Money (And Yes, Love, Too); Owner, several real estate tracts in central Texas; Married; Cowboys fan.

Recently, a college graduate came into my office and asked: "How will I ever get a job in this economy? How will I ever pay my own rent?"

I can understand his frustration. By all accounts, times are very hard out there. For people just starting out in the world, life looks intimidating. No one is hiring. No one even gets an interview. And without a job, you can't pay your rent.

But success is possible. It is possible to defy the odds and live the American dream. Anyone can learn how to be successful. There is a recipe for success: You can learn it. Successful people all behave in a similar way. They all have similar habits. By learning those behaviors and acquiring those habits, you can be successful, too. And when you achieve success, you not only get the job, you get the promotion, the raise, the bonus and the beautiful wife, too! Doesn't that sound nice? You bet it does.

So what are successful behaviors and habits? Well, let us begin by stressing that success is a lifestyle. Success is not a hobby; it is a discipline. You must eat, drink and breathe success. You cannot tolerate failure. And you must be tough: This is a race; no one hires the runner-up.

Living success begins at an early age. Successful people get on the track to success when they are children. They understand what they want from life and they commit themselves to excellence. To that end, stable households produce more successful people than broken ones. After all, a child will not develop the basic skills needed to get good grades and work hard if he or she suffers parental sexual abuse and beatings every day. Those challenges make doing math homework difficult. And kids who fail math won't go to Harvard. In that light, a peaceful home is essential to growing up successful: It allows the focus needed to "home in" on success.

Successful people do not give in to distractions. To achieve success, it is necessary to "stay on track." That means working hard, getting good grades, going to bed early, taking instructions seriously and remembering your place. Yet it is easy to forget these rules when peers goad you to go dancing on Friday night, or when you'd rather watch television shows all evening than do your homework. Put simply, distractions surround us every day. And they threaten to derail us from the success track. To resist distractions, you must simply say: "I want to be successful. I will avoid these distractions." It is about mind over matter: Forget the video games: Think about the accounting job you want.

Education is essential to success in America. In bare outline, success means getting a good job at a good company, making good money and owning property. Yet good companies do not give good jobs to just anyone; they only give them to good people with good educations from good schools. In that light, success requires that you get a good education at a good school. That, in turn, requires that you live successfully without distractions. Only children who live appropriately during childhood will get into the schools needed to get good jobs. It is not so much about learning as it is about showing: Firms want to see good grades from good schools. As long as you get into a good school and show the good grades, you will get a shot at the good jobs. It does not matter whether you remember what you learned. And you will stand no chance at all if you don’t get into a good school: Good grades from bad schools will not impress good companies.

Still, successful living means more than just getting good grades. Once you actually get a job, it is essential to observe successful habits. Successful people keep their jobs because they know what is expected. That means they understand their employer's mission and loyally advance it. They also observe decorum by dressing appropriately, speaking respectfully and refraining from all distractions while carrying on the employer's business. In this sense, successful living is all about acting appropriately on the job: Loyal workers advance far. Ultimately, they rise through the ranks. Good companies love loyal workers who suppress their own interests to earn profits for them. Self-sacrifice is a hallmark of successful living: And it is rewarded.

Intangible factors also influence career success. For better or for worse, birth has much to do with success. Wealthy children stand a better chance to live stable early lives. That, in turn, prepares them to "get on the success track" without distraction. Additionally, powerful parents who attended good schools can assure that their children, too, attend those schools. Wealthy parents can also pay large tuitions and urge employers to hire their children. In some cases, wealthy parents are the employers; and they naturally award jobs to their own blood. In this light, the importance of fortunate birth cannot be overstated. Although it is impossible to "learn" how to be related to powerful people, blood is a sure way to get a big head start in the success race.

Still, success is never guaranteed, even for people who enjoy all the advantages. After all, even a minor mishap along the path to success can sink an entire life. A student may develop a drug addiction, ruining his semester grades and costing him a job at a banking firm. A junior associate might have a relationship dispute and perform poorly at work. A promising employee might fall in love and show up late for work. A woman might give birth, requiring her to put off career focus. Put simply, things can happen in life. And they can easily knock a person off the "success track." Just one distraction can unravel a lifetime of work.

And that is to say nothing about the danger of massive cranial injuries. In the above examples, otherwise successful people gave in to distractions through some fault. In other cases, otherwise successful people might fail to achieve success simply because something massively damages their cranium.

Consider, for example, a first-class legal scholar who has done everything right. He has been born into a good family, his father was successful, he had a stable childhood, he followed instructions, he went to bed early, he dressed appropriately, he got into first-class schools and got first-class grades his whole life. He even landed a job at a first-class law firm and the managing partner said: "He is bound to be successful because he has successful habits." He worked hard his whole life and had every reason to expect success. But he amounted to nothing because someone shot him in the forehead with a .38 caliber revolver. This example proves that massive cranial injury can ruin even the most successful lives.

Consider, too, a respected office manager with an excellent salary. This man did everything for his company. He gave up personal relationships to make sure his employer profited. He worked nights and weekends as he advanced up the company ladder. Through his childhood, he followed instructions and did everything he was supposed to do. He never rocked the boat; people called him a square, but it never bothered him because he achieved success. But one day on his way to work he tripped over a piece of fruit and fell into the street, where a concrete mixing truck rolled over his head. Once again, massive cranial injury derailed an otherwise successful life.

These examples say nothing about all the potentially successful people who suffer massive cranial injury prior to achieving success. What about the countless young people who study hard for exams, refrain from drugs, avoid peer pressure and go to bed early, only to be shot in the head with rifles? What about the super interns who give up everything for the company and win glowing reviews from supervisors, only to have their brains dashed out by falling cinder blocks?

No matter the circumstances, these examples teach a clear lesson: Avoiding massive cranial injury is a crucial step on the road to success in the United States. While it is essential to learn positive behaviors to achieve success, it is also vital to avoid being fatally struck in the head while practicing those behaviors. After all, a lifetime of hard work, study, high birth and promise can be instantly destroyed by a single bullet to the brain. That is why the most successful people absorb this lesson: You must not only live successfully; you must also avoid massive cranial injury at all costs.

Massive cranial injury is a worse threat to success than distraction or inappropriate workplace behavior. After all, it is possible to rally from distraction or an office faux pas. But it is not possible to rally from having your skull crushed by a concrete mixing truck. A person's career can recover from an embarrassing extramarital affair or a "C+" on an exam. But it cannot recover from a pointblank shotgun blast to the face.

In all these cases, the lesson emerges: The real key to success in America is to avoid massive cranial injury. After all, no person who suffers massive cranial injury will ever achieve success. And any success he has achieved up to that point instantly vanishes. To that extent, massive cranial injury is the worst thing that can happen to a promising career. Interview mistakes, bad resumes, lackluster university performance and even drug abuse do not threaten careers as much as being brutally slammed in the head with a baseball bat.

You can fix a resume. But you can't fix a shattered cranium. And people with shattered craniums do not get promoted or hired.

In conclusion, if you wish to achieve success in America, remember what is important: Avoid massive cranial injury first. The rest is just details. Because even the best career habits can vanish the moment someone cracks your head open.

WHY I WRITE ABOUT TIME

A REFLECTION

In recent weeks, my writing pace has slowed. I am thankful for that. It has allowed me to look back over my work and reflect on what is important to me. No one likes change, but I welcome this one.

I write thematically. Last week, I looked over several old pieces and started to think about the themes that occupy me most. I asked myself: "Why do I write about these things? Why are they important to me? Is it apparent why they are important?" Perhaps it is apparent why I write about reason, dignity, evidence, law, power, money, death, fairness, equality and happiness. Perhaps it isn't. Perhaps people think it's just because I am a hermit who writes whatever he thinks on a certain day.

But that would be incorrect. Common threads unite all my themes. Those threads bind all my pieces together. Taken together, they present an overall philosophy about our existence. I am a consummate individualist: I never surrender who I am. I do not like to follow, but neither am I a zealous leader. I am not presumptuous enough for that. If my ideas gain traction, it is by quiet assent, not by compulsion or advocacy. In the end, I am a voice against all the forces in our society that subvert individual creativity and value. I criticize commerce because commerce is antithetical to both. I do not like forces that instrumentalize human beings or reduce them to purposes. I do not like convention. That is why I write satire, too. Normality makes me laugh--hard.

Among the threads that unite my work is a respect for time. I write about time in many ways. But in the end I admonish my readers to remember that time is vital because it is all we have. Without time, we cannot cultivate our interests or expand our personalities. Nor can we experience joy or feel good about ourselves. Yet so many forces compete for our time. When we lose our time to some competing interest, we lose the opportunity to live for ourselves. That is one reason why I am so critical of employment: Employment robs our best time and leaves nothing for us. It purports to "compensate" us for the robbery with a paycheck. But what good is pay (even really poor pay) if you can't spend it until your best time is gone? We have just a limited time to experience positive emotions before we die. If we give up our time in unpleasant ways, we never get it back to spend it pleasantly. We have only one shot at joy.

My views about time have changed significantly over the years. Before my father died in 2006, I had a very dismissive attitude about time: I always thought I would have more. I did not mind working for 14 hours a day in an office because I knew there would be time to enjoy myself later in life. I had smug assumptions; I thought life would just wait for me as I slaved away, wasting my time. I thought for sure that I would have at least 25 more years with my mother and father. I thought they could wait until I put in all that work, so it wouldn't hurt if I skipped seeing them for Christmas. I thought they would understand if I had to work a weekend.

But all those smug assumptions came crashing down when my father died. He died without any warning. In January 2006, he was a healthy 58-year-old who ran half-marathons every year. Then he developed pancreatic cancer. By June 2006, he was dead. And I had skipped his birthday every year for five years before that because I had no idea that he could die. I was focused on my "traditional career program." I did not respect time. And I suffered for it.

Thankfully, I learned my lesson. Only after living with death did I start to respect time. It made me rue the choices I had made in my life. I did not care about "success" any more. After all, what good does "success" do when you can suddenly just die at any moment like my Dad? Who cares whether you get a certain job or own a home? It's all meaningless; it can all end before you know it. Recognizing how fast life can end makes you respect time. And it makes you start spending your time more wisely, too.

Within six months after my father's death, I resigned my job at the law firm. It came to nauseate me. It probably would have nauseated me even if my father had not died. But after experiencing his death, I simply could not bear the pettiness of law practice. I could not bear hearing people whine and bicker about money. I could not bear the infighting about filing papers, sharing copy costs, managing calendars and setting docket dates. And I could not bear the ceaseless criticism about "not moving fast enough" to make profits on cases. It all seemed utterly, utterly meaningless. I did not care in the least. After all, what difference did all this make? I could just die suddenly like my father; what good what profits and docket dates do then?

When my father lay dying, he was not thinking about success, careers or money. He was thinking about his own existence. He was thinking about the fact that his time was running out; and whether he had spent it well.

I took that lesson to heart: Was I spending my time well? Or was I wasting it in a chase after meaningless rewards? I concluded that I was wasting it. I began living in the awareness of death; and that made me treasure my life. I started savoring my time. I resented anyone and anything that impinged on my time; for how was I to know whether I would be here tomorrow? I wanted to be master of my own time, because time gave me my chance to live. Obviously, this did not make me a good candidate for employment. So I had to adjust my approach to supporting myself.

I contented myself with making just enough money to feed and house myself. And I did so in a way that did not rob my time and dignity. Since then, I have been happier with my lot. For the most part, I am master of my time. That brings its own rewards.

I never forget what happened to my father. It tempers me whenever I feel the impulse to get into the "success race." I reflect on how little time I have to relish my life. Then I think how much time I will have to yield in order to achieve "career success." That is to say nothing about the sacrifices in dignity, ethics and happiness I would have to make to achieve it. Finally, I think: "Even if I do achieve 'career success,' what will I feel? What good will it do? What if I simply die on the way? When I lay dying, what will I think about how I've spent my time? Will I regret all the days and nights I toiled in an office fighting for a company's profit?"

These thoughts comfort me. They assure me that I have made the right decision for my life. Having said that, I know not everyone will make the same decision. My views about time reflect my experiences. They work for me because I live in the awareness of death. My respect for time intertwines with my respect for death. After all, life--with all the joy and misery it can write upon our bodies--hangs by a thread. It can end instantly. And life is time: There is our time, then there is death.

That is a pretty good impulsion to spend our time well. Because once it's over, we're over, too.

That is why I write about time: It is the tragic, ever-diminishing coating that encapsulates us all. When we waste it, we waste ourselves. So I choose not to intentionally waste it on anything that does not bring me joy.

A LITTLE ENCOURAGEMENT FROM NIETZSCHE

A REFLECTION

Sometimes I wonder what all my writing will lead to. I never intended to make a career from my writing. People tell me: "Go write a book." But then they say: "You need to have a story that people will like, etc., etc." In other words, to be a successful writer I need to stop wandering and get focused. If I want a bestseller, I need to Grishamize.

If you read my blog, you know I'm no John Grisham. I simply write what occurs to me. But my writing is thematically consistent. An identifiable core runs through everything I write here. I think it's possible to glean my life philosophy from the topics I choose to discuss. That might not be a recipe for bestselling commercial writing. But what have I ever cared about commerce? If anything, I recoil from it. I'm an Aristotelean in that regard: Philosophy and commerce just don't mix.

Still, it's a lonely road sometimes. I look at authors who achieve commercial success and wonder why no one ever notices me. Maybe I am just too weak or too preoccupied to promote myself. On the other hand, I know that most Americans really don't care about--or care to think about--the issues I typically address in my writing. So my commercial non-viability is really twofold: (1) I do not promote; and (2) My substance is largely unpalatable.

To be clear, I am not complaining. It is exciting to write only about things that stimulate me. For the longest time, I lived life without commenting on it. Commentary simmered in my mind all the time; work just never gave me a chance to write it all down. This blog has given me the chance I always craved. It has transformed me. So even if this blog does not pay me in U.S. dollars, it pays me in emotional satisfaction. If I die tomorrow, people would know who I am. My voice would not be lost. This blog is as much a testament as it is a forum.

I always find inspiration and encouragement when I need them most. Yesterday, I sat thinking about the fact that no one will ever read what I write, at least not in my lifetime. It frustrated me a little bit. I even thought about my philosophical archetype, Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche never achieved commercial success in life, either. His books barely sold a thousand copies. When he was 45, he lost his mind and never recovered. He died young. I don't think I'm losing my mind yet, but I identify with what happened to Nietzsche: I am defiantly proud of the fact that I am anti-commercial; but it nonetheless hurts to know I will likely never receive wide recognition.

So I felt a little down yesterday. It was cold, gray, windy and rainy outside. I reflected on how poor I am. I can barely pay my rent. In fact, this month I can't even pay it at all. I need to budget out my money to buy food. Plus I need to care for Steve, who is incapacitated. It pretty much sucks. I still experience joy these days. But it only peeks through like tiny patches of blue sky on a very cloudy day.

I decided to crack open Nietzsche's Human, All-too Human. I paged through the aphorisms. I stumbled on this one: "121. A Vow--I do not want to read any more authors about whom people say: 'He set out to write a book.' Rather, I only want to read authors whose thoughts became a book by accident."

Is this me? It sure sounds like it. I just write my thoughts. I never set out to write a book. I simply allow myself to pour out impressions on things that fascinate me or incite me. There is consistency in my thoughts. But they do not reflect a conscious plan to "write a book" in the conventional sense. Could they "accidentally" become a book? Perhaps. As a whole, I like to think that this blog resembles a collection of Nietzschean impressions. Nietzsche's unconventional thoughts transformed into books. Perhaps mine can too.

That was encouraging. Without even trying, I fit into the category of "authors" whom Nietzsche might have wanted to read. I am not one of those authors who "set out to write a book." I do not sketch plots or try to cram my writing into a conventional format that people like. I am not John Grisham. John Grisham's thoughts do not become a book "by accident." No, when he sits down to write, he knows what book it's going in. He's just fleshing out the formula he laid down before he starting writing.

I'm glad I stumbled on Nietzsche's aphorism when I did. I was feeling low and worthless. I was losing hope. But after discovering that Nietzsche, too, faced similar struggles in his time, I felt encouraged to face mine. I felt freshly secure in my writing. It did not bother me that I am not a bestseller. Rather, I felt hope that perhaps one day--like Nietzsche--my thoughts would "accidentally" transform into a book. That thought brightened me, even if the "book" appears after I die. I do not really value my life too much anyway. I would rather have people remember my thoughts than my "too too solid flesh." As the Germans say: "Wer schreibt, der bleibt" : "He who writes remains."

I blog because it is the only way for me to publish without editorial control or commercial pressure. Nietzsche wrote longhand and hoarded his writings in his desk. He found a publisher who printed a few editions. I can publish over the internet, even if my audience is small. At least it's something. And I will continue. That is my vow.

CONTRACTS OR CONSCIENCE? AN ETHICAL DILEMMA

AN ESSAY

During my first year in law school, I struggled to learn the endless verbal formulas and doctrines that apparently made the law a flawless machine. I did not have time to reflect on the law's theoretical weaknesses or its cynical role in maintaining power structures in our society. No, I was more worried about learning all the recipe-like elements for particular torts, contract defenses and crimes. I spent my time memorizing lists and hoping I would remember them for the exam.

It was a stressful time for me. It probably did not need to be, but I made it so. It likely had something to do with all the other stressed-out, high-striving, perspiring people around me. Put yourself in a room full of panicked people and chances are you'll soon feel panicked, too.

Despite all the stress and anxiety, however, I remember certain moments with great clarity. Now that several years have passed since law school, I understand these moments in a new way. At the outset I must confess that--in hindsight--I was never really law school material. I might have studied it well; but it was difficult for me--and almost unnatural--to suspend my creative powers for three long years. True, I always retained my satirical mistrust for power. But in law school, I had to suppress my bitter urge to laugh for long enough to get through the rigid curriculum.

I'm glad I managed it then, because there's no way I could have managed it today. I've returned to Nietzsche. I have reverted to my nature. I am--to use a Shakespearean phrase--a "satirical rogue." Yes, an analytical satirical rogue to be sure; but a rogue nonetheless. I have trouble taking anything too seriously, especially so-called "authorities." I have a socially-dangerous ability to see through pretense and to sniff out unfairness. I am not very discreet either. I call spades spades. I don't even whisper. I listen to my conscience and I speak my mind. These are not admirable characteristics for those who wish to make partner at a law firm.

Having returned to my natural habitat over the last few years, I now analyze my law school memories in a way that affirms my identity. Here's a good example: I was sitting in our first-year contracts class. Our professor had stumped everyone. It was some hypothetical problem about some guy who made a promise to another then broke it. The question was whether the aggrieved person could sue the other for breach of contract. The professor asked what legal rule justified recovery in the case. Several uneasy moments passed. About 90 twentysomethings sat there staring at their laptops in an effort not to be noticed.

Finally, I raised my hand and said: "Well, he made a promise and broke it." The professor sneered at my response. I will never forget the look on her face. Then she said: "So what if you break your promise? What does that have to do with anything."

At the time, I did not think too much about the professor's response. I was too worried about memorizing legal recipes. But over time, I have come to see this moment as a perfect illustration for the proposition that law and ethics virtually exclude each other. And I have also come to see this moment as an expression of my own character. It should have alerted me that I was ethically uneasy with the law. After all, in my heart I care whether I tell the truth. If I make a promise, my heart hurts if I break it. Yet my heart does not concern the law. The law deals only in extrinsic indicia, not ethical worries. The law is about empirically observable factors, not the pangs of conscience. When I raised my hand in that class, I showed my nature: At that early time in my law school career, I thought the law and ethics overlapped. I could not have known at the time that they do not.

From an ethical perspective, a promise is a promise. You fulfill it because it is the "right thing to do." You do not hem, haw, qualify, vacillate or renege. You do what you say because it bothers your heart if you do not. If you have a conscience, it hurts to break a promise. Then again, if you are unethical, it does not bother you to break a promise. Your heart does not torture you for the decision. You just move on; you break your word as necessary to suit present circumstances. That may be realpolitik. It may even be legal. But it is not ethical. Ethics is internal; it is about the heart and intuitive feelings. By contrast, law is external; it has nothing to do with the heart. Detective Alonzo, Denzel Washington's unscrupulously corrupt (and successful) character in Training Day (2001), put the distinction best when he told his ethically troubled partner: "It ain't what you know. It's what you can prove."

In ethics, you know. In the law, you prove.

From a legal perspective, there are mere promises and there are contracts. Contrary to popular belief, contracts are not necessarily imposing-looking official documents that you sign. You can assent to a contract without ever seeing a paper. Rather, contracts are legally-enforceable promises, whether written or not. To make a promise legally enforceable, it must meet certain objective elements. A "promise in the wind" might trigger an ethical responsibility to honor it. But unless the promise meets technical legal elements, you cannot go to court to force the other guy to honor his word.

Contracts serve commerce. They support our economic system. They give assurance to business people that others will adhere to their promises. As such, the law only enforces promises that arise in "bargained-for exchange." The law calls this "consideration." In theory, this means that both sides haggle over a deal. Each side benefits and suffers detriment in equal measure. One party parts with money. That is detriment. The other party gains the money. That is benefit. But to get the money, one party must do something. That is detriment. The other party receives something desirable from the activity. That is benefit.

This is what makes a promise enforceable at law: Bargaining. Exchange. Haggling. Negotiation. Dickering. It is commercial. It is not gratuitous. In fact, gifts are not contracts. Quite the contrary: If only one party in a transaction receives benefit without a bargain, there is no contract. A kid can't sue his father if his father simply tells him he'll buy him an Xbox, then he breaks his word.

I mention all this to show that contracts are strictly technical. As such, the heart plays no part in their formation or performance. Put another way, ethics exerts no influence on contracts, even if it exerts influence on individuals who make promises. In fact, sometimes it makes more economic sense to break a contract than to keep performing it. For example, if a farmer promises to sell corn to a wholesaler at $1 a pound for a year, but then the price of corn suddenly rises to $10 a pound, it makes more sense to break the contract than keep performing it at a loss. After all, the law only provides a remedy for the contract price. In this case, the farmer could easily break the promise to sell for $1, pay the wholesaler $1 damages, then sell his corn at $10 a pound for a huge profit.

It might be unethical to break promises, but in circumstances like these, money talks and ethics walks. From the law's perspective, it makes more sense to break a promise than continue performing at a loss. The law actually encourages this unethical result. This demonstrates once again that contracts exist to support our free market economic system, not ethical imperatives.

In our free market economic system, people want to profit from their bargains. If they make a deal, they want their money. Contracts provide them with a weapon to either force compliance with the bargain or force the bad party to pay the expected profit. That is why contracts exist: To ensure that commercial men make their profits. They protect expectations. And contract law is completely indifferent to ethical considerations if they cut against those expectations.

Despite the law's requirements, sometimes ethical considerations wield very strong influence on individual people. And sometimes the imperative to tell the truth is not the only ethical conundrum that intervenes to interrupt a contract.

In the movie, Ray (2004), for example, Ray Charles makes a contract to play several concerts in racially segregated Georgia during the early 1960s. While he leads his band into a concert hall, protestors clamor that he is ethically wrong to support an unjust social custom. At first, Ray says that he has a contract with the promoters to do the show. But then he stops and thinks. Finally, he says: "No, no, they're right. Everybody get back on the bus. We're not doing any more shows at segregated venues." The promoter gets furious and says: "You have a contract to do these shows! I'll sue your black ass for this, Ray, and I'll win!"

Ray had profound ethical qualms about performing a contract that indirectly supported racial segregation. His conscience compelled him to refuse to perform it. But from a legal perspective, the promoter was right: He would win the case against Ray. Contract law cares nothing for ethics; if you make an enforceable contract and you refuse to perform it, it is no excuse to say: "I had an ethical problem with the subject matter." As admirable as that sentiment may be, it would not save you from paying full damages to the other party in a contract case. In this light, contract law once again supports commercial expectations, not ethical imperatives. It even supports commercial expectations when those commercial expectations perpetuate fundamental injustice. As long as there is a bargained-for exchange, the show must go on. Ethics is no excuse.

In hindsight, Ray could have avoided the problem altogether if he had raised his ethical objection prior to making the contract. Ethics can dissuade a person from entering into bargains that implicate ethical problems. But once made, ethics cannot excuse performance.

Still, this is hypertechnical rubbish. Conscience does not always materialize on cue. Sometimes our ethical sensibilities only awake once a contract begins. Perhaps it is not possible to foresee ethical difficulties in a contract until after we strike the deal. Yet the law does not see it that way. Once you make a deal, you are stuck with it, no matter what your conscience says about it. You might be able to shed your obligations by pleading some other, legal, defense. But neither ethics nor conscience is on the list of acceptable legal defenses.

And why should they be? Contracts are about commercial expectations. What does conscience have to do with those? The most successful commercial men easily escape all these issues by adopting a simple tactic: Just don't have a conscience.

Without a conscience, life is easy. You just follow the rules in the contract and go with the flow.

JOHN MAYER IS A FUCKIN' ASSHOLE, PURE AND SIMPLE

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES - FOR THE THROAT

I've never liked John Mayer. I always branded his music vacuous, unimpressive, pretentious, lightweight, bourgeois-pleasing, chart-serving rubbish. And I knew from day one that he was no reclusive "shy boy" type. I knew that was all just a lady-luring façade. As the tabloids now routinely report, Mayer is no "in-bed-by-10" sort of dude. He's more an "in-bed-with-10-chicks-by-10-the-next-morning" sort of dude. So all that whispery, faux romantic, breathy, oh-I'm-so-sweet, honey-dipped, bedhead lyricizing all amounts to a big stinking heap of hypocritical bullshit.

Having written my opening paragraph, you can see I have a bias against him. I won't conceal that.

But I'm not writing today to player-hate John Mayer. After all, there are plenty of men out there who would want to be in John Mayer's lady-killing shoes right this minute. They sling dirt at him just because they are envious. To be clear, I'm not envious. There are other things about John Mayer beyond romantic prowess that really repel me. The kiss-and-tell womanizing and the ignorant suburban pretentiousness pale in comparison to his much more substantial misconceptions about social realities in the United States.

Many others have already written about Mayer's recent interview in Playboy magazine. I will recount it in order to show that John Mayer is just an opaque asshole, pure and simple.

During the interview, Mayer fielded this question: "If you didn't know you, would you think you're a douche bag?" In response, Mayer said: "It's like I come on very strong. I am a very…I'm just very. V-E-R-Y. And if you can't handle very, then I'm a douche bag. But I think the world needs a little very. That's why black people love me."

Wait a minute. Just wait a goddamn minute. Black people love you? What the hell is going on here? What is this white man from Fairfield County, Connecticut talking about? Does he really think that African-Americans in any way identify with him? Isn't it enough that he copied their musical forms and passed them off as his own? I suppose John Mayer thinks--as many breathtakingly naïve white hipsters do--that it is "cool to be black." And somehow his imitation of black musical forms entitles him to adoration from those "cool black people." In other words, Mayer thinks that being "loved by black people" means you're "cool."

This is beyond embarrassing. It is insulting.

John Mayer's cultural experience could not be more different from the average black American's cultural experience. John Mayer grew up in Connecticut's wealthiest county. I know what it's like there: I grew up three counties over: Most people's biggest worry is whether to buy a new Range Rover or a Volvo. And there aren't many black people around, I can tell you that.

Mayer's parents were comfortable bourgeois. He went to college. He didn't even go into debt for it. He never wanted for anything. He did not suffer discrimination or abuse. His biggest challenge was dealing with suburban angst, for which he took Xanax pills. He achieved remarkable commercial success by copying blues musicians, even though nothing in his background even remotely compares to what original bluesmen endured in the segregated South a hundred years ago. Sure, maybe John Mayer's "baby left him (ie, Jennifer Aniston, Jessica Simpson, etc.)." But that transitory woe hardly compares him to 1920s black musicians, who not only lamented losing their girlfriends, but also struggled to escape lynch mobs and scrape a living working on a railroad in Arkansas or something. Put simply, John Mayer doesn't know shit about the blues with his well-situated Connecticut ass.

Yet it doesn't end here--not even close. Mayer went on to say that black people love him so much that they gave him a "hood pass." In the Playboy interview, he clarified what he meant: "And by the way, it's sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass…[] I said, 'I can't really have a hood pass. I've never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, 'We're full.'"

Oh no he didn't. Oh yes he did. He said it. He not only said it. He said it publicly. This is the same guy who claims that "black people love him." Well, from John Mayer's perspective, I suppose it really doesn't matter. He gets to be cool like a black guy without the attendant complications, like being turned away from restaurants because you're black. Nope, he doesn't need to worry about that. On stage, he can be a brother. But off stage, he can just be another rich white cocksucker from Fairfield. Oh, double standards… how very convenient they can be when they work for you.

Inconsistencies bother me in any intellectual endeavor. True, it is hard to escape inconsistencies in life. We are all wracked with contradiction and conflict. I have my own contradictions. But the smugness in John Mayer's strikingly inconsistent positions about race really makes my blood boil. After all, Mayer has made his career imitating black musical forms. He owes African-American culture everything for his success. If it weren't for soul, R&B and the blues, he wouldn't have anything to play. He styles himself "just another black guy." He relishes adoration from black audiences. He touts his "hood pass." But then he turns around and remarks that he never has to suffer the same social handicaps as his black "heroes." And he likes it that way.

Worse, in the Playboy interview, he even said: "My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I've got a Benetton heart and a fuckin' David Duke cock."

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think many black people would "love" any white man who favorably mentions David Duke in any context. And this is the maddening thing about John Mayer's racial inconsistencies. On the one hand, he owes black Americans everything and "loves" them. On the other hand, he uses the term "white supremacist" to describe his sexual life. Now, everyone is entitled to their sexual tastes. But favorably invoking white supremacy in any context is a bit problematic for a man who claims that black people love him. And it is even more troubling for a man who has made a fantastic career commandeering black musical forms. My conclusion: Once again, John Mayer is just an asshole, plain and simple.

John Mayer swiftly apologized for his statements--in a bite-sized Twitter sentence, no less. He explained that "he should not have used the word" during the interview, remarking that it is impossible to "intellectualize it." Yet Mayer missed the point. The fact that he used the word "nigger" in the Playboy interview is only symptomatic of a much larger issue, namely, his simplistic and self-contradicting positions about race in the United States. John Mayer needs to understand this more than most white Americans, because John Mayer makes his money imitating black music. While many white Americans routinely get away with casual racism, Mayer cannot. He cannot have it both ways. He cannot both be a hood hero and a white supremacist. Despite his contention that "black people love him," he coarsely generalizes about black Americans just as much as the most ignorant white teenage rap wannabe: They're "cool." They're "hip." It's "cool to have a hood pass."

And once again, he does not end there with the generalizations. First, he said that "black people love him" because he is "very." That puzzled the interviewer. But a little interpretation makes clear that Mayer was just stereotyping. "Very" is an adverb that means "more than usual." There is "black," and there is "very black." It intensifies the adjective. John Mayer said that "black people love him" because he is "very." Very what? Simply "very," meaning "living intensely, excessively, recklessly, thoughtlessly, frolickingly." In other words, living "more than usual." Mayer's statement, then, implies that all black Americans live this way; and that's why they love him. He lives "very." He lives "black." This is gross stereotyping.

I am not going out on a limb here. John Mayer truly feels this way. Consider what he said later in the interview: "What is being black? It's making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that's seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you'll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude's."

So now John Mayer--a wealthy white Connecticut suburbanite--is an authority on the meaning of black identity in America? This is so stunningly condescending it's funny. But then you realize it's not funny at all, because this guy actually believes he understands black Americans because he can imitate their guitar-playing. It is simply ludicrous for John Mayer to even suggest he knows a thing about the "collective struggle of black America," let alone to compare his "struggle" (whatever that is… maybe bagging some dancer chick on tour) to "one black dude's."

No matter what he says, John Mayer has not faced struggle in his life. Worrying whether a song about pillows makes the Pop Top 10 does not qualify as a "struggle." By contrast, battling to overcome the pernicious historical legacy of slavery--all the while contending with rampant poverty, educational inequality, discriminatory treatment, unequal housing, violence, broken homes and crime --is a "struggle."

John Mayer is no hero. He's an arrogant, self-righteous, fake, low-frequency imitator who knows nothing about racial realities in the United States. That really bothers me. Every American must come to terms with racism. Our Nation's racial conflict will never end; it stains the land. But there is a way to address it respectfully and a way to address it irresponsibly. John Mayer not only addresses it irresponsibly; he also profits from it. Then he gloats about how wonderful it is to be white and rich in America. So he gets the best of both worlds: Cool like a black guy; privileged like a white guy. Plus he gets all the white chicks and never has to wait for a table in a trendy restaurant.

All this makes him a straight-up asshole in my book.

And this is not slander. This is just an opinion about a nauseating public figure. But it really doesn't matter, because you can't slander anyone with truth.

STOP THE EVIL CHICKEN BUTCHERS : EQUAL CHICKEN RIGHTS NOW

THE CHICKENS SPEAK

By : Mr. Woodrow D. Beakman, L.L.M., a Chicken; Escapee, Selma (Alabama) Poultry Processing Plant; Formerly Known as a "Grade D Fryer - Strong Style;" Self-taught in English and Human Communication; Avian; Honorary Master's Degree Holder in Human Rights Law, Georgetown University Law Center, Washington, D.C. (2008); Author, "Fried Chicken Holocaust : America is a Death House for Birds Everywhere" (Forthcoming, HarperCollins™ 2010).

America is a great Nation because it respects life. It fights for dignity and freedom abroad. It believes that all living creatures have a right to exist. America trusts life because it knows that life represents potential greatness for all. Life is good. It is worth saving. In short, America stands up for life.

Yet America has failed to stand up for life when it comes to chickens. To the contrary, America has committed heinous crimes against chickens everywhere. In every State, America allows men to ruthlessly imprison, mistreat, pluck, murder, slaughter, dismember, disembowel and process helpless chickens on an industrial scale. Worse, America even encourages bloodthirsty criminals to butcher chickens in the name of "commercial advancement."

This is an outrage against life and dignity. As chickens, we demand that America cease its genocidal campaign against us at once. We may be chickens. But we are people, too. We deserve to live just as much as a brain-dead human child or an endangered humpback whale. We refuse to allow our brethren to die in poultry slaughterhouses so that greedy profiteers can sell our breasts, thighs, wings and gullets. We refuse to allow our mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers to end their existence beer-basted and fried at the bottom of some God-forsaken Styrofoam bucket. Put simply, we demand that America respect all life--including chicken life.

Why does America refuse to see us? Indeed, America seems almost willfully blind concerning our daily ordeals. Rather than express outrage over our horrific treatment, Americans actually praise the men who orchestrate our slaughter. Just last week, for example, the Wall Street Journal ran a piece analyzing the "highly successful business model" employed by two notorious chicken butchers: Harlan David "Colonel" Sanders and his protégé Dave Thomas. According to the Journal, these two "entrepreneurs" devised an "exemplary food processing and delivery system," in addition to creating "a shrewd marketing scheme designed to maximize consumer interest in chicken meals." As a result, said the Journal, "Sanders and Thomas stand as giants in the business community." In conclusion: "Every food service entrepreneur should study the Sanders/Thomas Method well."

Giants in the business community? Exemplary food processing and delivery systems? Sanders/Thomas Method? Does the Journal even understand what made these men "giants?" Does any American really understand what methods made these men "successful?"

Sanders and Thomas are not heroes. Rather, they are evil chicken butchers who scorn life. They achieved their "success" by purposely breeding, corralling, beheading, gutting and packaging millions of innocent chickens. Yet Americans celebrate these butchers every day, not just in the Wall Street Journal, but also in rundown chicken shacks from coast to coast. Every day, Americans sing praises to Sanders and Thomas as they greedily feast on the flesh of our kin.

This is not dignity. This is not respect for life. This is genocide.

According to international law, "genocide" means the intentional killing of any identifiable ethnic, national, racial or religious group because of animus against that group. Chickens are a racial group. Our genetic combinations result in a unique racial identity. Racially, we are chickens. And because villains like Sanders and Thomas hunt us down and kill us because we are racially chicken, that makes them genocidal mass murderers, not entrepreneurs.

America should think long and hard about glorifying these killers. It should think about its principles. After all, America prosecuted Nazi war criminals for genocide after World War II. It prosecuted Slobodan Milosevic for "ethnic cleansing" in Yugoslavia. It even investigated Iraqi officials who allegedly killed minorities in that country. Hollywood superstars have lobbied for aid to Darfur, where ethnic groups make war on each other.

In short, America says it cares about stopping genocide. Why, then, does it call "Colonel" Sanders an "entrepreneur" rather than a chicken-slaughtering thug? America says it recoils from systematic, racially-motivated killings worldwide. Why, then, can it not see that chickens endure racially-motivated killing every single day? Chicken genocide proceeds on an unimaginable scale. Only 400,000 Rwandans perished in that country's genocide. Yet billions of chickens have been left writhing to die in grime-covered barrels since America took a liking to "Original Recipe" hot wings. And that's just in America. Other countries like to eat us, too. China, for instance, does not just violate human rights. It massively violates chicken rights, too. Put simply, no human genocide in history can compare to the intentional butchery chickens have suffered.

Chickens deserve to live the American dream. They deserve a chance to live in peace, prosper, propagate and find some happiness before they die. America guarantees that dream to all humans who live in its borders. It also says that all life is valuable. If that is true, why does America condemn chickens to systematic exploitation, pain and death? What about a young chicken's dream? Don't chickens get a chance to go to school, find love, work at a job and go to the movies on weekends? Don’t chickens get a chance to raise children and find meaning in life? Humans do. Why not chickens? We are living, breathing creatures, too. We have cells and brains. Our brains may not be as large as men's brains. But that is no reason to pluck us alive, cut our throats, batter us, fry us and feed us to a Little League team along with Grape Soda and potato salad.

We are more valuable than vegetables. We are living, breathing avians, not plants. We are not inanimate turnips or cabbage heads. Put simply, it is morally wrong for America to discriminate against us because we have feathers and small brains. We have webbed feet and gizzards. So what? America says it values diversity. Yet it kills us because we have gizzards and humans do not. America can benefit from all life, including creatures with gizzards. The fact that we have gizzards does not make us inferior. We are no less alive than a college professor or a superstar athlete. We all breathe the same air. We all give birth to young. True, we lay eggs and humans pop children out alive. But our distinctive reproductive methods are no reason to slaughter us and eat us; they are part of "who we are."

Federal law and the United States Constitution prohibit discrimination based upon reproductive capacity. It is no answer, then, to say that "chickens deserve differential treatment" simply because they lay eggs. In a word, America says it values equality. Like humans, we are "living things." Viewed in that light, we are equal. We demand EQUALITY NOW.

But this debate is not just about the law. This debate is about America's conscience. After all, how can America continue preaching about equality, dignity and "respect for life" when it condemns an entire segment of its living population to industrialized slaughter? How can America maintain its moral rectitude when it sets aside an entire segment of its living population to be greedily eaten along with sweet-n-sour sauce, cole slaw and biscuits? And how can it maintain its respect for individual autonomy when it refuses to allow chickens to form their own identities?

Every chicken is special. We refuse to be labeled "Grade A Fryers," "Finger-Lickin' Drumsticks," "Nuggets" or "Dark Meat Specials." We are unique individuals with thoughts, dreams and desires. America exists to allow every living individual to reach his maximal potential in all things. America exists to protect everyone's right to live. In that light, we demand that America live up to its principles. It must stop praising chicken butchers like "Colonel" Sanders and Dave Thomas. It must stop dooming our relatives to frozen death in microwave dinner boxes. In short, how is it American to allow a human to go to college and prosper, while allowing a chicken to live a wretched existence before being thrown into a steel plucking machine?

It is time to stand up for what is right. It is time to stand up for life. Chickens have so much to contribute to American life. We do not just exist to die and fill human stomachs. We do not just exist to peck around farmyards and cluck. No, we are living, breathing creatures. We can achieve great things. And if America cares about stopping genocide, it can start by bringing men like Sanders and Thomas to justice, not calling them "successful food industry entrepreneurs."

There is nothing "entrepreneurial" about mass murder. As chickens in a Republic that values diversity in all living things, we demand a voice. We refuse to be exterminated, chopped up, bagged and drowned in barbecue sauce any longer.

That is not our destiny. And that is no way to treat an entire race in America.

MOMENTS I'M NOT PROUD OF

A REFLECTION

We remember moments in life. It is hard to remember particular days, or even particular eras in our lives. But certain moments inscribe themselves in us with uncanny detail. I think that's interesting, because moments are much shorter than days or eras.

On the other hand, it makes sense that we remember moments because they are sensory. Memory is little more than "stored sense" that fades over time. In a particular moment, we see, hear, feel or taste particular things. Sometimes our senses leave an impression. Most times, they do not. After all, we need to sense to survive; we can't possibly remember every little thing we sense. No, we only remember moments that are, well, worth remembering.

I have a lot of really good memories. My good memories generally fall into two categories: Moments when I felt inwardly good about a situation without external recognition; and moments when I overcame some external obstacle or achieved some popular reward.

I can give examples. First, I remember a night in November 1994 when my best friend and I frolicked shirtless through a school field in rural Connecticut. No one was there but us. The moon was shining. We laughed and screamed all night. We fell in the grass and just looked up at the stars. I talked about whatever came in my head and everything I said just seemed to be right. It was unusually warm for that time of year. Then we got into my car and just went home.

That was a "good memory" that did not involve any external recognition. I remember the things I saw, heard and felt. No one else witnessed what my friend and I did that night; yet it remains a cherished memory. I did not win any accolades for it. I just remember feeling so, so good. And I can relate that feeling to the things I saw, heard and felt that night in 1994.

Second, I remember several days in January 2004, during my first year in law school. I had just taken my first law exams and I was extremely nervous. I felt as if my entire future depended on how I did on those tests. For the previous four months, I had worked harder than at any other time in my life to that point.

New York Law School published exam results through a computer system. Every day, I nervously logged in to my account to see whether they had posted my results. I had to type in an ID code to access my information. There was always a brief delay between the time I entered my code and the time the webpage came up. I always held my breath during that moment. I remember that my heart even raced. I remember that I perspired a lot then, too. I remember feeling droplets of sweat fall from the top of my armpit onto my side.

After about a week of nervous checking, I finally saw results. I had gotten mostly A's on my exams and wound up with a Grade Point Average of 3.79, which placed me in the Top 10 of my class of 400. I felt a bizarre mix of relief, exultation and new confidence. Professors and friends congratulated me after the yearly rankings went public. I relished my success. It felt really good. I had overcome a huge barrier and received external praise for it.

Unlike the nocturnal moment in the field with my boyhood friend, this was a "good memory" that depended exclusively on official judgments. It was still "good," but for entirely different reasons. And I remember it differently, too.

But I am not ashamed to admit that I remember bad experiences as much as I remember good ones. In fact, I think I have learned more about myself by reliving my less-than-heroic moments and understanding why they were so bad. Our failures defines us as much--if not more--than our successes. After all, just as we can succeed in many ways, so too can we fail in many ways. We can fail externally, as through school grades or critical condemnation for "poor work." Others can tell us we have failed to reach an "acceptable" standard, and that feels bad. Or we can fail internally, as when we lose our composure or sacrifice our beliefs. We don't need other people to tell us we've failed when we fail internally.

I have suffered both kinds of failure. But I find external failure much easier to bear than internal failure. After all, you can always blame your judge or your critic if you fail externally. Maybe they just didn't like you. Maybe the test was unfair. It's easier to justify external failure.

But you can't run from yourself: When you fail internally, you've failed to meet your own standards. And you can't point your finger at some test-grader or theater critic for that.

I'm far, far, far from perfect. I have failed so much in life. In most cases, I can move beyond my failures. But I never forget them. I try to learn from them. Still, they sting me when I recall them, especially when I failed myself.

Here's a moment I'm not proud of. Last October, my partner, Steve, went to the hospital after suffering an acute manic episode. For several weeks before that, his condition had steadily worsened. He did not sleep for 60 hours straight at one point. He constantly busied himself with "tasks;" he woke me from bed every 15 minutes every night to help him re-clean the apartment or find some random webpage. He drew up long, detailed lists every day and tried to accomplish every little thing on the list, like buying a gurtel at some far-away store he found on the internet. He became angry when he did not complete everything on the list each day. Then he became hostile and profligate. He picked fights with random people on the street. He spent thousands on useless things, like Christmas ornaments and big rolls of fancy platinum ribbons for Thank You cards.

By the time Steve went to the hospital, I was ready to strangle him. Yet this was the man I had loved for ten years. I could not believe I was feeling the way I was. But I was so exhausted and so emotionally battered that I just wanted relief; and it seemed the only way to find relief was to cast him off. I felt better when I recognized that he had a serious disease. I tried not to take his abuse personally. The words still hurt, though. I was happy that he got the medical attention he needed. I was even happier to get a three-week break alone to rebuild my mental constitution.

I remember feeling somewhat disappointed when the doctor called to tell me that Steve was ready to come home. I felt a swirling mix of fear, resentment, childish selfishness and fatigue. I did not want to endure the same problems that arose when Steve fell ill. I didn't want to be woken up again every 15 minutes. Plus, I felt as if I had just caught my breath after a grueling bout, and now I would have to grit my teeth and start fighting all over again. Still, I tried to put on my most positive face when I went to pick Steve up at the hospital. I could not deny that I still loved him. I thought: "Maybe he'll be better now." I allowed myself to hope, even though my overall mood was dark and frustrated.

Steve was in surprisingly good shape when I brought him home. His doctors had found the medication he needed to achieve emotional stability, and he was on the path to a "new normalcy." I was glad to see that. We even went out to lunch late that afternoon. Steve moved very slowly. His eyes looked exhausted and glazed over. He was heavily medicated. One medication made him drool and he had to wear a bib. I had to help him walk from place to place. He used a cane because he was unsteady on his feet. Naturally, all these things aroused my pity. Steve cut a pathetic picture now. It hurt me deeply.

And I still felt past resentments. My temper was short. I was in no mood for any additional challenges. But sure enough, while we walked home from the restaurant, a challenge arose. As we crossed 4th Avenue at 12th Street, we tried to hail a cab. When the cabbie saw Steve's cane, he made a dismissive gesture and said: "No, no, no," then drove off. That made me angry. It also cost us time; the light was about to change. Steve was too slow to make it across 4th Avenue before the oncoming traffic got a green signal. It was around 5 o'clock. As we passed in front of a guy on a motorcycle, the horns started blowing. The guy on the motorcycle rolled his eyes at me and Steve as if to say: "Get going, will you?"

It touched a nerve. I completely lost my temper. I stopped right in the middle of the street and said: "What the fuck are you looking at? Can't you see I'm trying to help this man?" In the meantime, Steve made his way to the other side of the street. But I stayed. My voice rose and my heart pounded hard. I continued yelling. I remember saying: "So you think you're special because you're wearing that fucking hat, huh?" As I stood there cursing, the traffic started moving at full speed all around me. I was so enraged that I did not even recognize how much danger I faced. The guy on the motorcycle didn't say a word. He just smiled at me and shook his head as if to say: "What a fucking nut." He drove right past me. Another guy in a car almost rolled over my right foot. I remember feeling the tire graze the front of my sneaker. I was too livid to comprehend what was going on.

Ultimately we got a cab and headed home. Steve told me that my voice changed and that my eyes had bulged while I was out yelling in the street. After a few minutes, the adrenaline passed from my body and I started to feel extremely bad about what had just happened. I felt that I had made a fool of myself. Steve just shook his head. I tried to explain that I lost my temper because I was upset that people were so insensitive about his condition. That was partially true; I was also just really angry about having him back in the house again. Thankfully, the subsequent weeks proved that anger moot; Steve never went manic again.

I recount that story because it's a moment I'm not proud of. I take pride in my reason. I like to feel that I can coolly handle any situation with dignity. But on that day in October 2009, I completely abandoned my reason and fell headlong into dangerous emotion. Make no mistake: I do not flee from emotion; in most situations, I even relish it. But extreme emotion is dangerous. It undermines everything. I felt uncontrollable rage that day. It was as if I stepped from my own skin and became a wild beast. In addition, I reproached myself for the petty selfishness I felt that whole day. I knew that selfishness fanned my underlying anger, and that anger exploded into fury. That was out of character for me. I failed myself.

Still, I learned a lot from that moment. I learned that human reason hangs by a thread. Despite all our claims to rational intelligence and equanimity, pressures can drive the human mind straight back to animal depths in an instant. It is just a question of circumstance, mood and stimulus. After all, we are but sensory creatures. Sense might lead to science and discovery. But it can also lead to wrath and destruction.

Having said all this, I can still find some justification for my outburst. I truly feel anger toward people who are callous about Steve. I won't deny that. I love Steve. He is handicapped; it is obvious. When people look at him funny or rush him on the street, it really bothers me. For the most part, he stays indoors now because he knows that he can't handle the barbarians outside.

Most people just don't understand. I can't expect them to, either. But that doesn't stop me from feeling anger about it. I wish I didn't. I'm not proud of it. Yet I can learn a lot about others--and myself--when I reflect on it.

NATIONAL BROTHERHOOD OF NO-GOOD SCOUNDRELS, DISHONORABLE PRICKS, LOW-DOWN PUNKS AND PLAIN LOUSY SONOFABITCHES WHO NEVER CALL YOU BACK

POLITICAL PARTIES FOR A CHANGING WORLD

By : Dr. U. B. van Flucken, Ph. D., Yale University (Behavioral Science); Former Fashion and Women's Issues Editor, Men's Health Magazine (2003-2007); Fellow, The National Favorable Results Society (Washington, D.C. Chapter); Author, "Say What You Need To Say : A Beginner's Guide to Getting What You Want from People " (Doubleday Press : New York 1999); Semi-Professional Water Polo Competitor (Greater Northeast Elite Sports Network) (1989-present).

No matter where you turn in this country, people tell you that it is bad to be a scoundrel. They say that it is wrong to lie, exaggerate, deceive, betray, backstab and abuse people's trust. They say it is wrong to borrow money without paying it back. And they even say it is wrong to two-time on your girlfriend.

But these folks just don't know how to be a no-good scoundrel. Contrary to all the propaganda, there is nothing wrong at all with being a no-good, morally-destitute scoundrel. You just have to know how to play your cards right. In fact, great people know how to be great scoundrels. And they become great because they know how to disguise who they really are: Scoundrels.

I started the National Brotherhood of No-Good Scoundrels, Dishonorable Pricks, Low-Down Punks and Plain Lousy Sonofabitches Who Never Call You Back for a simple reason: To show Americans how vital we really are. Since founding the organization, I have struggled to demonstrate that honorable responsibility is not the pathway to success. To the contrary, it is my mission to show that only a dishonorable scoundrel can prevail in this world. And it is not a hard job: If you know how to be a low-down, dishonorable punk and not get caught, there is nothing you cannot accomplish.

Success is all about image. When you're a successful scoundrel, no one knows just how big a scoundrel you really are. If they did, they'd ostracize you and no one would want to talk to you. Scoundrels need people; you can't be successful without them. But real scoundrels know how to control their image. They don’t let people get the right idea about them. They carefully monitor how people perceive them, then skillfully play one unsuspecting idiot off the other to gain all the advantages. Contrary to all the rhetoric, scoundrels aren't haphazard bums. They know exactly what they're doing at all times.

Not everyone has the guts to be an unrepentant, conniving knave. Most people buy into the propaganda and try to live honorable, "decent" lives. A lot of good that does: They wind up working loser jobs for bad pay, then skulking around with their wives and boring children for years on end. Sure, they might get some inward satisfaction from "treating people with respect" and "telling the truth, no matter what."

But at what cost! Wouldn't it be so much better to twist a few arms and tell a few tall tales here and there to really get what you want? Wouldn't life be so much more rewarding if you played some putz like a fiddle, then refused to call him back when he needed you? Why not? As long as you make sure that the guy isn't important for your advancement later, screw him. Tell him what he wants to hear. Inflate yourself. Get what you need from him. Then just forget about him and move on to the next sucker. Remember: Life is a ladder with human rungs. You need to keep moving up if you want to get to the top.

Dishonor, manipulation and double-dealing bring untold rewards. Still, a skillful rogue must make sure he does not generate the wrong impression. Good scoundrels effortlessly master disguises. You can't just trample on people and expect them to take it. Rather, a skillful rogue knows how to totally screw a person over without them knowing until it is too late--if ever. Scoundrels like us only got a bad reputation because some jerk tried to be clever and got caught in the act. And scoundrels only get caught when they are not paying attention to what they are doing. In that sense, true scoundrels are not scoundrels at all: They are virtuosos who know how to spin a story and exploit the hell out of people without anyone ever catching on. That takes skill--not everyone can hack it.

Life is tough enough without worrying about whether you're responsible or ethical. Everyone wants the same things: Money, success, happiness, women, recognition. You know, the usual stuff. Everyone is chasing after the same rewards. It is hard to win even without rules. That is why it amazes me that people insist on "honest dealing," "telling the truth" and "propriety" in their quest for success. That's like tying a boulder to your leg before swimming the English Channel: It greatly impedes your chances to succeed. In fact, it will probably sink you long before you even come close to your goal.

But scoundrels don't bother with boulders. They dress for success. They think about where they want to go and just do it. They do not distract themselves with abstractions. They don't overthink issues; they just deliver results. To that end, it makes no sense to respect everyone. In fact, most people on the road to success are hopeful scoundrels, too, and why would you respect someone who is trying to hoodwink you? No, a skillful rogue simply acts like he respects his fellows, when in truth he knows what they are: Just another low-down sonofabitch determined to block his advance up the ladder. To be a successful scoundrel, you must hold certain assumptions about your fellow man. And that means you expect to be deceived, deluded, used, abused, tossed away, manipulated and forgotten. It’s all part of the ball game: You need a tough heart to keep playing.

Great scoundrels don't get discouraged. They seek out weakness and capitalize on it. Sure, they know that people are out to use them, but they use others before they can be used. And in the off chance that someone actually trusts them, all the better. Clever scoundrels always come out ahead.

In this light, it is inconceivable why society holds us in such contempt. We are the go-getters. On the other hand, we recognize that no-good scoundrels, dishonorable pricks, low-down punks and plain lousy sonofabitches occupy the highest positions in our society. We run the banks. We run the Senate. We run the stock exchange. We run the insurance companies. We control everything. And the beauty of it is that no one knows we are scoundrels--or, if they found out, there's nothing they could do about it. People only ridicule us when we commit some faux pas that blows our cover. Great scoundrels, however, are extremely discreet. They don't make faux pas: They screw everyone else over their whole lives and no one ever notices.

For that reason, all the social criticism against scoundrels makes no difference to a truly dishonorable punk. A masterfully rotten scoundrel never makes a mistake to invite rebuke. He just keeps moving over people until he quietly reaches his goal.

We prefer it that way. The moralists and ethicists can whine all they want about "irresponsibility." They are only talking about amateur scoundrels. Little do the moralists know that professional scoundrels are the ones paying them to do their little jobs. Little do the ethicists know that professional scoundrels are the ones who own the printing companies that publish their little books. Undiscovered, virtuoso scoundrels run this world--and no one will ever know the difference. That's exactly how we like it.

So what is our secret? If being a scoundrel is so advantageous, why do so many people refuse to follow our path? We wish we could provide specific advice in this regard. The most we can say is to put yourself above others, keep your eyes on the prize and do what you need to do to get it. Don’t slow yourself down with categorical loyalties, philosophical principles or--God forbid--conscientious worries.

In a word, a great scoundrel is a great actor. He can play any part. But he must remain believable. In fact, a scoundrel has failed when the world calls him one. Great scoundrels appear to be everything, even if they are nothing. They seem to be friends with everyone, when in truth they have none. In the scoundrel's world, it's all about presentation. It doesn’t matter if there's really nothing there. Very few people ever really look to see if there is, anyway.

So if you really want to be scoundrel, start thinking about your image. Stop thinking about dignity and worth. Stop thinking about honesty, unless it would help to be honest in a particular situation. For a scoundrel, the truth is never absolute. It is just a tool. Mark that and you will go far.

Tread softly. Flatter. Connive. Ingratiate. Betray. Lie. Win.

Be a no-good scoundrel. Because good never got anyone what they wanted. And there's nothing wrong with getting what you want.