MOMENTS IN TIME : JANUARY 1, 2000

A REFLECTION

Sometimes memories return to me with uncanny clarity. It is not just the clarity that strikes me. More often I wonder why certain memories return to me so long after the event. After all, of all the things I have experienced in my life, why would one day's details suddenly reemerge? What triggered it? And then a more vexing thought crosses my mind: As clear as my memory seems to me, perhaps reality was very different from what I remember? Who can say now? That is one reason why memory fascinates me so much. It is exquisitely subjective. It seems real, but only to ourselves.

I got up this morning and suddenly remembered December 31, 1999. On that day, I worked from morning to night and beyond. Back then, I was a 22-year-old kid with a "bowl haircut" and a jean jacket. I wore ripped $30 pants for days at a time. I was a college senior who memorized Nietzsche quotes without fully comprehending them. I basically had no money; my mother gave me about $20 a week to spend. So starting in 1997 I worked as a DJ to make a few extra bucks. Much to my good fortune, I met a much older guy named Joe who had been DJ'ing parties around the city for decades. He used to tell me stories about going home with women after disco parties in the 1970s. He was a Vietnam veteran and--to be kind--rather eccentric. He lived alone in a food-strewn apartment on 122nd Street brimming with records and 5 or 6 yappy Chihuahuas (one or two died over the years; but a few more were born, so I can't remember the exact number). Basically, the place was squalid. But somehow Joe kept getting gigs and holding his life together really well. He kept a zillion post-it notes all over his bedroom to remind him to do this and that each day--and he always got it done. For years, we worked really well together. He farmed me out to jobs he couldn't do and I gave him a cut of what I made. Plus we became really good friends.

Both Joe and I knew that New Year's Eve on Y2K would be a gangbuster night for DJ's. After all, everyone was partying that night. Some people thought the world was going to end. I knew it wouldn't. But it was an unprecedented atmosphere. And most importantly, entertainers like us were in demand that night. So we could charge huge fees and we knew people would pay. We could name our price for a change.

Joe wound up scheduling a $2000 job. At the same time, he booked me a job for $1800. We agreed I would get $1500. He would take a $300 commission. That seemed fair to me; in fact, I was thrilled. For a kid who wore torn pants and got $20 a week to spend, $1500 was a treasure trove. I could live the whole semester on that--and all for just one night's work.

I remember the job exactly. We did it in a brand new loft apartment on 21st Street near 6th Avenue. Some nouveau riche woman and her husband were throwing a party. Joe and I drove down to the apartment the morning before the gig to set up. Joe drove a virtually unroadworthy mid-80s Chevy station wagon. It had no muffler and a pretty disgusting, food-like crust clung like a glaze all over the interior. The car had roaches. And Joe stuffed in so many speakers, wires, amps and record crates into it that I was amazed the bumper didn't scrape the pavement as we drove. In short, despite all appearances, Joe was a master of limited space management. The cops never pulled the jalopy over, either.

I remember schlepping all our equipment two flights up to the apartment. The woman and her husband were frantically decorating the place and setting up long tables for the hors d'oeuvres. I had a few words with her. She said she liked hip-hop and R&B. I said that was great because "that was my specialty." She seemed to like me. She didn't seem to like Joe too much, though. After all, at first glance he looked really gruff and he spent his time hauling speakers and wires all over the place. He was always polite and even charming. But he just didn't look the part. Some customers really used to treat him badly, and that hurt me.

After we set up the equipment, Joe and I sat in the car for a few minutes and talked about the plan for the evening. I would show up at the gig and do my thing. He would go to his gig and do his. Then he would pick me up from my gig and I would give him his cut. We would drive back uptown together and call it a night around 4 AM. It was a good plan. We then went our separate ways.

I remember the party went very smoothly. I got to play the music I wanted. The crowd was easy and did not complain. My DJ station faced east; the crowd looked west out the windows over 6th Avenue. Joe set up the lights and I controlled them with a little hand console. It took a while for the alcohol to get the party moving; eventually it did. I started off playing 70s funk and rare grooves. That gave a nice ambiance to the early part. Later, people started asking me to play hip-hop and assorted Top Ten pop. I obliged. I remember one Asian chick kept asking me to play Lauren Hill's "That Thing" over and over again. That tune always generated a huge crowd response, so I waited to play it until the place was really hopping. I kept telling her "it was in the pipe." She never quarreled with me; she just kept going back to her friends and dancing.

Before midnight, nervous excitement came over the room. People started wondering aloud whether the world would end at 12:01. I remember people throwing their drinks and hooting in the minutes leading up to midnight. I also remember looking outside and seeing helicopters flying low over the city with spotlights on. There was a lot of honking and yelling on the street below. I could hear it even over the music. Finally, 12:01 came. Nothing happened. A huge cheer went up on the dancefloor. Then the party went into overdrive. "Hypnotize," "Walking on the Sun" and "Backstreet's Back" were particularly popular that night. Oh, and of course "Groove is in the Heart" and "It Takes Two" made everyone move, too, even otherwise respectable-looking bourgeois with jobs: I always laughed when I saw white bankers singing along to rap songs. But by that point at the party, the alcohol was guaranteed to make everyone dance, no matter what was playing. Even so, as a DJ, I felt like I had accomplished something. Lots of drunk, happy people profusely thanked me for "all the great tunes" as the evening approached its end. It was always a nice perk to get compliments, even if the partygoers were fall-down drunk and virtually incoherent.

At about 3 AM, Joe showed up from his party. People had already started to leave. Beer and broken plastic cups littered the dancefloor, along with squashed finger foods and dirty napkins. Everyone was shouting, hugging, hooting, caressing and laughing. The mood was very good. Almost all the food was gone and the wine was running low. Joe went over to the hostess and whispered to her. She then came over to me and told me it was OK to start wrapping up.

Within 30 minutes, almost everyone had left and I stopped the music. The house lights came up. Joe started breaking down the lights and sound equipment. I chatted with the hostess for a while. She complimented me in the highest terms, even though she was utterly shitfaced. I still felt like I had done a good job; for my part, I did not touch a drink that evening. I had a few Sprites and some ice water. Finally, the hostess pulled out an enormous wad of $20 bills and handed it to me. I thanked her. She went away and I started helping Joe move all our stuff downstairs. Meanwhile, the hostess and her husband started brushing trash off the floor with two big push brooms.

It took us a good 30 minutes to haul all our stuff downstairs. We loaded it into the car and--once again--got it all to fit. After that, Joe and I shook hands and congratulated each other on a job well done. I handed him his $300 commission. Then he headed back uptown and he dropped me off at my dorm on 114th Street and Riverside. I wished Joe a happy new year and thanked him for being so generous to me. He said no problem and drove off into the predawn darkness.

I went upstairs to my room on the fourth floor. There was no way I could sleep after the night's toils. It was about quarter to five in the morning, January 1, 2000. I walked over to my single-size mattress. I took the enormous cash wad from my pocket and laid all the money out on the bedspread. I was in awe: $1500 in cash, all for me. I never thought I could ever make that much in one night. It was unbelievable. What a way to start the new year, the new decade, the new millennium. I felt like life could not get any better than this. I even felt that time had suddenly stopped, as if I could never get older, that this moment would last forever. After all, it was the year 2000! To that point in my life--indeed, in everyone's life--it had always been the 20th Century. I couldn't really fathom that life would go on as it always did. On that night, time froze as I sat there ogling my massive money pile. For a few hours, I felt utterly invincible. I felt that I controlled time and that I would never age.

I was hungry. I went out to get some food at Tom's Diner. It was extremely quiet. All the partying was over. A few stragglers appeared here and there, but that was it. I saw a few "2000" party eyeglasses in a trash can. It was still dark. As I headed down Broadway, a New York Times truck pulled up and a man tossed out the morning edition. I bought one. It had an unforgettably bold headline: 1/1/00. Underneath, in typeface almost as big, was a headline saying that Russia's President Yeltsin had resigned. A new man, Putin, was taking over.

Wow, I thought, everything was looking up! It was a fresh new morning in a fresh new millennium. I had $1500 in cash and there was a new Russian President. One era ended. Another was dawning. Time stood still and I was in control.

Then I went to Tom's and ordered a shake and fries. I stayed there for a while. I let myself get tired. Finally, I headed back to my dorm to go to sleep. It was dawning. Time for bed. It was a good night.

I still have never made that much money in one night as I did on January 1, 2000. I think that's why I remember it so vividly. It felt really good.

Too bad life got harder after that. But on that night, I didn't think anything could ever go wrong.

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.

GAMBLING ON HAPPINESS : LOVE, KNOWLEDGE AND RISK

AN ESSAY

For three years, my close friend Joe Simeone composed an operatic adaptation to the 1952 play "Dial M For Murder." Last week, I attended an opening in which he presented several passages from his work. In brief, the opera follows the same intricate plot as the play: A man named Tony blackmails both his wealthy wife, Margot, and another man named Lesgate; Tony exploits the blackmail to entice Lesgate to murder his wife; the plan goes wrong and Margot kills Lesgate in self-defense; Tony manipulates the evidence to pin the murder on Margot; the police arrest Margot and she is sentenced to death; an enterprising police detective worries about the verdict and discovers that Tony orchestrated the result; Margot goes free and discovers her husband's betrayal.

Through the operatic form, Joe Simeone tells the story with a keener eye for emotion than plot. He did not compose an "operatic thriller;" he composed an opera. As such, he explores the emotional relationship between Tony and Margot with greater detail than the play. At the outset, Simeone tells us that Tony's and Margot's marriage was "loveless," but that Tony had recently begun to shower affections on his wife. To make that point, the opera begins with a sweeping aria in which Margot reveals that she has "rediscovered" her love for her husband. This is ironic, of course, because Tony has already betrayed her; he is even planning to kill her. During the aria, Margot sings a remarkable line: "It's a risk to believe love is real."

Margot may seem naïve for daring to believe that her devious husband actually loves her. But she is not alone. We all want love in our lives because love is a tantalizing pathway to happiness. Yet love is a troublesome thing because it cuts in two directions. We can love and we can be loved. Real happiness exists only when both elements find expression in a relationship. When only one person loves, the result is unrequited disappointment because the other does not return the feeling. And when only one person receives love, the result is awkward discomfort. Put another way, love only really "works" when there is no disparity between the emotions on both sides.

Sigmund Freud said as much. In Civilization and its Discontents, Freud explained that human beings generally "strive after happiness; they want to become happy and remain so." Civilization and its Discontents (Strachey, trans. p. 25). He went on to explain that happiness has both a "positive and negative aim," namely: "[the] absence of pain and unpleasure and the experiencing of strong feelings of pleasure." Id. Additionally, Freud noted that happiness cannot arise as long as unhappiness exists in a person's life. And unhappiness is "much less difficult to experience" than happiness. Id. at 26.

Freud identified three main sources for unhappiness: (1) our own bodies, which are doomed to aging, pain, discomfort and decay; (2) the external world, which can "rage against us with unimaginable forces of destruction;" and (3) our relations to other men. Civilization and its Discontents at p.26. He went on to say that unhappiness flowing from our "relations to other men" represents the worst possible unhappiness: It is the unhappiness of betrayal, deception, unfaithfulness, personal disappointment, spurned love, heartbreak, frustrated yearning and all the other bitter emotions that arise when our relations with others do not follow the path we wanted.

If so much unhappiness can flow from relationships with others, why do people bother with them? Freud posed the same question. He offered one surefire way to avoid "relationship unhappiness:" "Against the suffering which may come upon one from human relationships the readiest safeguard is voluntary isolation." Civilization and its Discontents at p. 27. He called this the "happiness of quietness." By eliminating a source for unhappiness, a person makes it easier to experience happiness.

But Freud acknowledged that "voluntary isolation" is not very satisfying. After all, mere freedom from unhappiness is nowhere near as fulfilling as experiencing positive happiness. For that reason, Freud explained that human beings constantly gamble on love to satisfy their "passionate striving for a positive fulfillment of happiness." Civilization and its Discontents at p. 32.

Put another way, freedom from unhappiness and pain is not enough. People want the ecstasy and joy that flows from real, positive happiness. And positive happiness flows most strongly from that most dangerous category: Relations with other men. Still, the potential emotional payout from love is so great that people all too willingly take their chances with it. Nonetheless, Freud warned: "The weak side of this technique is easy to see; otherwise no human being would have thought of abandoning this path to happiness for any other. It is that we are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love." Id. at 33.

Against this background, Margot sang more than she knew when she observed: "It's a risk to believe love is real." Love is an extremely dangerous risk. When a person dares to abandon himself to love, he makes himself "defenseless against suffering;" he even risks "helpless unhappiness" if he does not get the emotional payout he expects from the relationship. Worse, these unhappy results depend exclusively on "relations to other men." Specifically, the "love pathway to happiness" depends on how another person acts and feels. We humans are subjective creatures. We know only what we sense. Facts exist only to the extent that we manifest a subjective belief in their reliability. In that light, it is very difficult to gauge whether another person feels any emotion as we do, let alone love.

Beyond risk, love is about knowledge. Freud said that love has two components: Loving and being loved. We only feel love's joy when we know another person feels strongly about us, too. It is not enough to feel strongly about another person. Rather, love's intoxicating pleasure only really arises when we are satisfied that another person feels as strongly about us as we do about them.

But how do we know that? It is hard enough to know what exists in anyone else's mind. Yet when we risk our happiness on love, we force ourselves to decipher what another person feels and thinks. This is extremely difficult; in fact, it is nearly impossible. There is no way to know for certain whether another person loves us, because we cannot literally step into that person's mind. Rather, we must examine secondary facts to make inferences about the other person's beliefs. This is an imperfect method at best, but it is the only one we have. Even direct statements from our love interest are not definitive proof of what he feels. Humans are, after all, infamously dishonest.

In this light, it is easy to see that love is no easy thing. It does not just a risk; it demands some faith, too, because the facts necessary to establish love are unknowable.

Again, the question arises: With these thematic difficulties in mind, why bother with love? Consider just how much is at stake. By daring to love, a person opens himself to boundless unhappiness and pain flowing from "relations to other men." True, if his love pans out, he feels overwhelmingly positive emotions: That is the potential payout from the "risk." But in order to experience love, a person must satisfy himself that another person feels a certain way. It is impossible to certainly know what another person feels, so love actually involves a double risk: (1) Risking the relationship in the first place; and (2) Risking that a person will feel the way you expect. Disappointment can arise from either risk. There is nothing you can really do to stop it; you can't control how another person thinks or feels. In this sense, love is also a risk because a person must entrust his happiness to the subjective whim of another person over whom he has no control. And because human beings are notoriously untrustworthy and inconstant, it almost seems an unreasonable risk.

If love is so unreasonable, then why do so many people pursue it? The fact that human beings--like Margot--blindly risk love is testament to the assertion that reason does not rule us. If human beings were entirely rational, they would probably never love. After all, rational thinking involves balancing risks against benefits. A rational mind analyzes the potential pain that could result from a transaction and queries whether the potential pleasure is worth the chance. As Freud explained, love can yield immeasurable pain. And because that pain flows from forces largely beyond our control (i.e., the whims of others), it really makes no rational sense to take the risk. Although love offers a huge benefit in pleasure, a reasonable man would immediately see that it always presents an intolerable risk in pain. That risk would invariably outweigh the benefit in pleasure.

But we know that human beings live to love. They cast reason aside. They take the risk, even though it is unreasonable. Put simply, love's emotional payout in happiness is so intoxicating that it overwhelms human reason. Love's pleasure is so hypnotic that it submerges all potential pitfalls. Among those pitfalls is the dangerous need to place individual emotional well-being in the hands of another person--and that person is probably not trustworthy. Men ignore those risks when they love because it just feels so, so good. If reason held men in check, they would never allow themselves to remain blind to the dangers. But blind they remain; they dive headlong into the risks because it just feels so damn good.

"It's a risk to believe love is real." In one line, Margot expressed the timeless--yet perilously uncertain-- human quest for love. She hinted at the risks. She knew there was a danger. But love made her feel so good that she willingly blinded herself to it. She suspended her reason. Objectively, that might appear foolish. But we all have done it. And we probably always will. Love is never objective.

In short, we all desperately want positive happiness. We are not content with the "happiness of quietness." No, we crave "relations with other men." We gamble on positive happiness by playing familiar games. Those games are rarely reasonable. In fact, most are extremely dangerous.

Love is probably the most dangerous game of all: Enticing, risky, unknowable, unverifiable, tempestuous, fickle, maddening; yet offering pleasure beyond imagination. It is a recipe for unreasonable risk every time.

PRESIDENTS ARE BORING : WHATEVER HAPPENED TO INTERESTING RULERS LIKE FREDERICK THE GREAT?

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES

In centuries past, political leaders led much more interesting lives than they do today. They were not just politicians and party bosses. They were more than petty thugs and criminals. They did more with their time than merely sign legislation, negotiate treaties and give speeches. They had more freedom to be themselves, not the calculated personas we see in rulers today. In the past, rulers have not just been commercial administrators. They have been painters, singers, writers, sculptors, generals, conquerors, heroes, scientists, philosophers and theater lovers. But today, most political rulers have no outside interests: They are usually just devious lawyers and cutthroat business tycoons who crave reelection.

By American standards, Barack Obama may be "interesting." But he is still pretty staid compared to history's more well-rounded rulers. In brief, he's just another wealthy lawyer who wears a lapel pin and panders to business interests. Come to think of it, no American President has ever been very well-rounded. The office simply does not lend itself to flamboyance or rebelliousness. Perhaps that has something to do with Democracy: People in a Democracy want relatively boring "stewards" to manage their affairs. In the American Democracy, for instance, people want stability, not calamity. After all, you can't make money without stability. That explains why virtually every American President has been either a lawyer or business baron. Lawyers and business barons are "stable people." Boring as hell, generally, but stable. They don't invite calamity, at least intentionally.

By contrast, interesting people aren't usually very stable. And they court calamity. That's why American Presidents aren't very interesting. American Presidents just want to keep the economy going and get reelected. That might yield a comfortable existence, but it isn't very memorable.

But rulers like Frederick the Great of Prussia (1712-1786) are memorable. Frederick was no mere commercial orchestrator. He was a general, a conqueror and an arts patron. He invited French philosophers to stay with him in his palace and engaged in homoerotic banter with his all-male courtiers. He played the harpsichord and the flute. He carried on correspondence (in French) with Voltaire and wrote music in his spare time. He even penned marches for his army. About his wife, he said: "There can be neither love nor friendship between us." He never had children; his wife lived in her own castle and he visited her once a year for tea. And he even tried to flee his own country with his ostensibly gay lover when he was 18. His father caught them before they left. Then he forced his son to watch as he had his lover beheaded.

Now that is interesting. A man like that could never be President: Too interesting.

Yet Prussia became a major European power under Frederick's rule. Frederick might have been a composer, artist, general, philosopher and arts patron. But he also ran the country extremely well. He was interesting and well-rounded. He inspired faith in his people. His example shows that well-rounded rulers can be exceptional, despite the impulsion to be boring commercial orchestrators.

I find it significant that no one remembers Frederick for his commercial tact. In fact, no one ever thinks about commerce when they think about Frederick. They think about his military prowess, cultivation and Enlightenment. They think about the things that made him a well-rounded person, not his skill as a financier.

In a way, Frederick's example shows that great rulers transcend commerce. After all, people don't remember quiet bourgeois comfort. They remember unique personalities who vault beyond the banal concerns of prospering at business. They remember interesting people.

That is why most American Presidents are quite forgettable. They just aren't interesting. The only ones worth remembering did things beyond commercial management. Abraham Lincoln comes to mind. He saved the country from dissolution, led it through war and abolished slavery. He might not have been an artist or composer, but he spent his time attending to matters larger than commercial management. In America, that is memorable. After all, almost all the other Presidents did little but manage the economy. Like Frederick the Great, Lincoln transcended commerce. That is why he is the most memorable American President.

But even Lincoln was not as interesting as Frederick. Lincoln was just another lawyer in a long line of lawyers who became Presidents. An exceptional lawyer, to be sure, but nonetheless just another bourgeois. He was a creative statesman and even an amateur inventor, but still nothing like Frederick. America simply does not tolerate such colorfulness in its political rulers. They would never get elected in the first place. Can you imagine what the media would say if a Presidential candidate admitted he tried to flee the country with his gay lover? Or that he preferred to speak French? That would not go over too well in South Carolina. America just doesn’t like flamboyant originals in high office. Especially flamboyant originals who might be gay.

Instead, America likes mediocre career politicians in high office. America likes one-dimensional Washington insiders who know how to work the system just well enough to keep unemployment down and income up. It does not want men like Frederick the Great, or even Abraham Lincoln. Put simply, American democracy does not want leaders who rock the boat too much, even if rocking the boat improves things in the end. Well-rounded men might be brilliant, but they are risky. And commerce abhors risk.

It is no accident that someone killed Lincoln. That's what happens to American rulers when they get just a little too interesting for comfort. And that's a shame, because interesting people can lead Nations to incredible new heights.

A MOMENT TO RECOGNIZE MUSICAL BRILLIANCE

A SERIOUS AND COMPLETELY UN-IRONIC MESSAGE FROM OUR CULTURAL CORRESPONDENT

I think that John Mayer is not only the greatest Blues guitarist of all time, but also that he is the most intelligent, sexiest and most eloquent man ever to have lived. I further believe that Mr. Mayer's new album--"Battle Studies"--is the greatest musical work ever committed to a tangible medium. Finally, I believe that John Mayer's genius for the Blues stems from his challenging formative years as a wage laborer in suburban Connecticut, where he faced systematic racial discrimination, violence, heartbreak and emotional turmoil due to his socio-economic status in a segregated community.

Mr. J. Burton Panner
Senior Culture Critic
Reason, Commerce, Justice & Free Beer

SIC SEMPER VAGINAE PULCHRAE SUNT

MARCHING THROUGH NEW YORK

A REFLECTION

I don’t like confessing things. But I don’t mind “voluntarily sharing” my thoughts and impressions. When I do, I try my best to recall my own actions as accurately as I can. “Confessing,” on the other hand, implies that I must “tell the truth” to some fatherly authority or face unappetizing consequences. Confession is freighted with judgment; the listener judges and decides for himself whether you’re telling “the truth.” And if you do “confess the truth,” the listener has the power to approve or condemn it. In either case, the speaker is the weak party. I avoid such unfair power relationships whenever I can. That’s why I don’t “confess things.”

Even if I could use language to precisely convey what I did, thought or felt at a particular moment in time (a doubtful enterprise), I don’t like the idea that I must “tell the truth” or face negative consequences. I try to tell the truth because I have a conscience, not because some higher authority compels me to speak. Confessions require external pressure and even subservience; conscience, by contrast, comes from within. I try to be honest with myself; and that’s the only way I can accurately recall my impressions. I do my best to remember what I see and hear. I try to be honest when I recall those impressions. That is my truth; I don’t need to “confess it.” I simply honestly recall what I sensed. And sometimes I forget “the truth” completely. After all, there are too many details in life. You can only grasp a precious few.

Today I want to “voluntarily share” some impressions and thoughts. First, I like dancing. Some might call this a confession. I simply call it a preference. Dancing is not easy. We constantly face social pressures impelling us not to dance. Generally, no one really dances until they get drunk. But have you ever danced while perfectly sober? It’s liberating. It feels really good to move your body simply because you are personally exhilarated about something. Your spirits rise when you let your body move like that. After all, in “everyday life,” we accustom ourselves to holding our bodies in relatively few positions: sitting, standing, walking, lying down. Social custom expects us to hold our bodies in these positions: For example, no one dances at work. Yet when we move in “unexpected ways,” we break those customs. I find that fun. I like controlling my own body. It’s a welcome change.

Second, sometimes I dance when I walk the New York streets. Ever since I was a kid, I have loved walking in New York. I grew up in suburban, sleepy Connecticut. Not much moved on the Connecticut streets. But in New York, the streets burst with energy, even drama. There is always something to see; you rarely see the same thing twice. Put simply, New York moves. During my first years in New York, I used to get excited just to go outside and walk. I walked everywhere, just to feel the energy. I didn’t really have a destination. I just moved because it felt good to move around in such exciting surroundings. And because I felt so good during those walks, sometimes I would break out a dance step. Why the hell not? I felt good, so why not let my body show it? Even now—fourteen years later—I still sometimes feel giddy on the New York streets. True, they’ve changed a lot. But there are some things about New York that never change, like nonstop, vibrant movement on the streets.

I march, too. Just about everyone who walks alone in New York listens to music. Hip-hop started in New York. Hip-hop is basically funk music interspersed with spoken, rhythmic (hopefully) rhymes. Of course, it has changed profoundly since the 1980s; I really don’t like it anymore. But in essence, hip-hop is New York marching music. In the old days, it propelled you forward with attitude. Back then, a good hip-hop song made you want to get up and move with purpose, just the way you feel when you move through the New York streets. It makes you want to say: “Yeah, look at me. I’m in New York; what are you going to do about it?” Hip-hop beats are marching beats. You can dance to them as easily as you can keep in step with them.

Yet people think marching is old fashioned. It isn’t. In fact, marching influences all modern dance music. If you can move to a song, it most likely has a march beat in it somewhere. Soldiers march because marching boosts morale, just like dancing. Marching brings people together under a rhythmic, even hypnotic pulse, just as a great dance song does. Marching is also extremely “manly;” it oozes with masculine braggadocio. When soldiers march, they parade their physical discipline and strength. When people watch soldiers march, they admire their lockstep and smart uniforms. They hear the beat pulsating in the background. They hear hundreds of boots hit the ground as one. And they see the soldiers moving as one with the music, like an inexorable, proud machine. Meanwhile, the soldiers themselves feel strong and united under the music. They move together and they know they are powerful. There is something about a march beat that makes every listener confident and proud. Marches replicate the tempo of a brisk walk. A march beat makes the listener want to move with purpose. Dance beats do the same thing.

Dance beats are little more than embellished marches. Every great dance song is also a march. Listen to one. Can you walk briskly to it? If you can, it’s a march. Is there a bottom line drumbeat that propels you forward? If there is, it’s a march. All modern American dance music derives from marches. Funk, hip-hop and even electronica derive from New Orleans jazz. New Orleans jazz, in turn, took its snare/bass drumbeats from 19th Century military bands. Armies have always known that propulsive music makes soldiers feel strong and unified. Early jazz musicians took marches and made them “fun” as well as “unifying.” Marches have attitude; so does jazz. Marches make want you get up and move with confidence and purpose. So does jazz. And so do all the other funky genres that developed after jazz. They all trace their origins back to the military march. Dance music appeals to us for the same reason that marches appealed to our earliest ancestors. They both spring from a common root: Beats that inspire unifying, powerful movement.

I think about this legacy when I march through New York. It’s easier to move over long distances with a strong beat behind you. That’s why armies always had drummers to spur tired soldiers another mile down the road. Just as marches lifted soldiers’ spirits through movement in the past, dance music lifts our spirits today. Both marches and dance music target our bodies. They make us feel good because the music makes us move our bodies in more daring ways than usual. When we do, we feel confident. When we dance—just as when we march—we dare the world to look at us and we don’t mind. Both marches and dancing immunize us from the normalizing judgments of the outside world. In fact, if we dance or march with enough zeal, those normalizing judgments give way to admiration and even awe. After all, the public always respects a company of soldiers marching to a powerful beat. They might move their bodies in “uncustomary” ways, but they project such raw, confident strength that they inspire respect. Who wants to mess with soldiers who march well? The same goes for good dancing.

I march in New York because marching fits the city’s pulsating energy. In many ways, New York is one vast theater. Everyone knows that everyone else is looking at them, even if they try not to show it. Everyone is playacting on some level. Everyone wants to be special. Vanity is everywhere, even when unwarranted. But that’s what creates the city’s crackling energy. Everyone is striving for something and moving somewhere. Quite simply, everyone is marching.

I like contributing to that energy. That’s why I march in New York. I’m not afraid to say it. But no matter how strange this sounds, this is no confession. I am not at all ashamed to say that I march every day; I am proud that I can let music move me. When a march or a dance song triggers good feelings in my body, it makes me happy. That emotion is mine. No one else experiences it at that moment. Why feel ashamed for a happy moment? Leaving happiness to one side, I think it’s fair to say that it is better to feel confident than to feel insecure. Confident people dance because they don’t care what others think about them. They also march because marching inspires confidence. Put simply, if you can march, you can dance, too. It really doesn’t matter who’s drumming the beat, as long as it moves you.