The big red elephant in the room
On the way home tonight, I passed a pickup truck that carried a giant picture of former President Jimmy Carter with a word balloon that read, “Bet you don’t think I’m the worst president now, do you?”
The driver, an elderly white gentleman, hunched over the steering wheel looking ahead with pure hatred in his eyes. Granted, I saw the Carter placard first and that might have colored my perception of him.
But I wondered what had motivated this man to hate President Barack Obama so much that he wanted everyone he passed to know that hatred. Upon further thought, I realized that question summed up all my feelings toward the GOP. For a group that prides itself on smaller government and less intervention, they appear sickened when anyone doesn’t share their views.
After last week’s Iowa caucuses, I watched all the Republican candidates give their speeches. They have their differences, sure, and I don’t purport they all look and talk the same. But they all speak of a specific set of American values they believe will save this country from economic despair and moral collapse. A set of values, mind you, which I do not share but have no problem allowing others to believe in.
Unlike Republicans, I am not under the illusion that every citizen of this country should or could conform to my personal beliefs and way of life. They believe that since they’re against a woman’s right to choose and same-sex marriage, then everyone should be. I find that downright un-American.
The Republicans seem to think a liberal agenda is being shoved down their throats and their way of life is threatened. But it isn’t. No rational person thinks same-sex marriage would force all marriage to be same-sex or that it would be mandatory to befriend the homosexual community.
I believe in equality, and something isn’t equal if it isn’t granted to everyone. What a person chooses to do in their own home and community is up to them, and the government should protect that right as long as those activities don’t create unnecessary hardship or danger to others. A person’s reproductive and marital choices should be up to them, and no one else. That’s what it means to be an American. Your life. Your decision.
Believe it or not, I’m an independent. I don’t think President Obama walks on water and has never made a mistake. He’s made plenty. But I think his biggest mistake is trying to preside over a country that doesn’t exist, a country where rationale and compromise settles disputes.
He envisions a land whose citizens see healthcare as something akin to law enforcement or fire prevention, a service we all buy into because we want us all to be protected equally. Personally, I support what the GOP has deemed Obamacare, because I’m willing to pay more taxes so someone I don’t know doesn’t die of a curable disease. But hey, I’m weird.
Still, I get why my fellow Americans on the far right are against universal healthcare. It’s a case where they are forced to help people who don’t share their way of life. And I see why such a mandate infuriates them. It’s the way they’ve made me feel for years.
But during President George W. Bush’s two-term soiree of squashing civil rights and scientific research, I didn’t paper my car with snide remarks or cartoons. I decided to get informed, to vote and to make sure I knew something about the man leading my country. In fact, I owe Bush for contributing to the social conscious person I am today.
That’s what I suggest for my brothers and sisters on the other side. If the survival of your way of life is so important to you, give us a reason to respect it. Show us you’re not an angry old man perched over a steering wheel, hating all those who are different.
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It was the best of times
I used 2011 to flirt with the bottom. I let my fingers play with the grime around the edges of life.
It wasn’t a person, a political party, a corporation or a location that nearly done me in, it was how I allowed those things to get inside. But I beat them, nonetheless.
Instead of snubbing my nose at conformity again, I’d like to reflect on the last year as it putters out. Like many, I try to see the closing of a calendar year as an opportunity for change. I want that change to come quickly and quietly without much effort. Hold your laughter.
I started the year by packing up my house in anticipation for a move to Seattle, Washington. I made the necessary arrangements to leave my employer and started scoping out neighborhoods in my new city. But as circumstances and bad decisions put that move on an indefinite hold, I didn’t have a reason to make future plans.
So I didn’t. I squandered time and money, staring at unwritten pages and unread books. I drew little faces in the dust atop of boxes and checked off calendar items I didn’t attend. I didn’t even have the life I was trying to escape.
Sitting there, twiddling my thumbs, I realized the year’s lack of productivity had a longer history than I’d care to admit. My mental ledger had ten years worth of sad stories and forgotten loves.
So I had to burn the tales and let the mistakes go. I had to accept what I could do and whom I could do it for. The delusions of grandeur and adventure had kept me from moving, from getting up. My juvenile notions of what my life should be had chained me to inactivity.
So I said, to hell with that.
I didn’t have a moment of clarity, didn’t find new meaning in the world or my past experiences. I just let it go. I let all the rejection slips and failed relationships dissipate. I sat down to the blank screen and said fuck you I got this.
I’ve been a writer since I learned to read, since the pages yelled at me to join them. The half-written novels and screenplays, that so many have heard about, weren’t kept down by my ex-wife or by the cubicle the bastards made me work at. No one’s read them because I didn’t have the balls to finish them.
This was the year I manned up and started writing for keeps. It saw the start of this blog, my first freelance magazine pieces published in three years and a nearly finished screenplay I started with a co-writer. The bullshit ended.
I’m not the seventeen-year-old kid who wants to drink in San Francisco anymore. I put the Kerouac and Thompson books in storage and set a daily word count of my own.
I spoke with a friend recently about what it meant to be present, to actually notice your day. Not to look for zen understanding, but to listen to the guy behind the counter, to your family, to why you’re really in that bad mood. We paused and then laughed, because we immediately figured out what could go and what could stay.
For me, the present is writing and spending time with those who survived the last ten years with me. I don’t pine for anything I can’t solve with hard work behind the desk. Perhaps next year will be better, maybe it’ll be worse. I don’t think about it much anymore.
Today’s a good day. I hit the word count. Happy New Year, folks.
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Stuck in the middle with me
Ever get rejected by a bunch of outsiders? Or laughed at by those stylish, or not so stylish, group of iconoclasts who pride themselves on having a unique set of standards unseen at the tables of popularity?
Ever been too primp for the middle class, yet not posh enough for the jet-setters? Anyone ever say you were smart in the wrong way?
Mark Twain may have said “whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to reform,” but even the great American writer must have felt a bit of flattery when the masses tempted him with an invite.
Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about faltering self-esteem. Most of those who know me would describe me as disagreeable, and I insist all the best people are. But as I limp into the last year of my twenties, I’ve started to wonder how far the reach of social dependence will extend.
What most interests me are how those labeled ugly and stupid by others, who pat me on the back for not following the herd, turn around and shun my reluctance to engage in substance abuse or promiscuity. Does it take one to know one, only if the subject at hand is a vice?
As I’ve said elsewhere, I place a lot of credence in evolutionary tendencies. I know humans flock together for survival. But doesn’t evolution have an intrinsic need to change over time? Why have we done everything we can to stymie that need? Is even the greatest despair worth it if we can share or inflict it on others?
Most people will take no part in such inquiry. They bemoan my insistent interest in why they do what they do. But I refuse to take part in something when I’m ignorant of it. I have no desire to make a friend or take a lover for the mere sake of completing an expected action.
This is why I see art, in whatever medium, as the only valid form of companionship or communication. The books on my shelves do not contain a hidden clause demanding my acceptance. They exist whether I want them to or not, and I am free to embrace their meanings or leave them for the dust bunnies.
Perhaps the examined life is a solitary one, devoid of the casual interactions so many depend on. I have tried to lead the life of a beatnik, a goth, a newspaperman and many others. But in the end, these deviances have left me little except story material. I’m stuck with my questions and myself.
And while I’ll never rival a great mind such as Twain, I can find solace with this friend from a hundred years ago. After all, he also said, “be respectful to your superiors, if you have any.”
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By hook or by book
I’m driving around mid-morning, and I can’t find the street. I pull into turn after turn hoping to find the right one. Looking at the scribbled directions on my notebook, I take my eyes off the road.
Then I dart into a parking lot, to avoid hitting the car in front of me, and I see it. It’s hidden, not for the casual onlooker, and I found it by accident.
It’s a used and rare bookshop.
This one’s Dog-Eared Pages in Phoenix, but this discovery could be used for any of my favorites. It might be the smell of old paper. It might be the ornate lettering poking out between the stacks. But it’s probably the chase that gets me.
With a number of bookstores, both corporate and independent, getting the ax from digital sales, a once thriving book market is trying to keep afloat in the Phoenix area.
Melanie Tighe, a self-published author and co-owner of Dog-Eared, says the real book lover isn’t satisfied with giant chain stores. “Used bookstores can weather and survive if they [sell] online, but they need the mom and pop feel as well.”
Tighe’s shop is a converted dance studio. When you walk on the wooden floors, everyone knows where you are. If you’re reading in the back, everyone can see you in the mirrors. It’s a place for the outed bibliophile to strut their stuff.
Located on 32nd Street south of Bell Road, it opened three years ago and the shop has survived because it offers a meeting of the minds for kids, the retired and other writers, says Tighe.
But the real appeal, to me anyway, is skirting the predictable recommendations on Amazon and finding the answer to a question I never thought to ask.
“The joy of collecting is finding a thing you didn’t know about,” says Sam Hessel, an owner of By the Book, L.C., which has offered an eclectic mix, including signed and illustrated children’s books, for seventeen years in Phoenix.
Like the hodge-podge of neighboring businesses on Camelback Road, west of 12th Street, Hessel’s store defies the typical section headings we’ve all followed like zombies at Barnes and Noble or Target. “We look for books people can’t locate elsewhere,” he says.
Unlike modern social networks, the relationship fostered between booksellers is a word-of-mouth locomotive that removes the competitive edge.
Richard Murian, who owns Alcuin Books in Scottsdale, says he doesn’t worry about stocking an enormous store because he knows quality sellers like Hessel who he can refer people to.
Certain stores will outlast the downturn in book buying because “they are a reflection of the owner,” Murian says.
Like its owner, Alcuin brings seriousness to the otherwise tourist-driven and alcohol soaked downtown on Scottsdale Road, between Fifth and Third Ave. It has a few pulp favorites from Edgar Rice Burroughs, like most of the stores, but it also offers books printed in the 1400s.
While I might not always have the cash to pickup an historical treatise, I can occasionally turn off the smart phone and wander into the past.
Much like the suit of armor in Dog-Eared’s backroom, which looks like the chivalrous icon is shrugging his shoulders, I can enjoy the old-fashioned even if the mainstream wants to keep it hidden.
Check out www.dogearedpagesusedbooks.com, www.bythebooklc.com and www.alcuinbooks.com. Or call the Valley Independent Booksellers Association at 480-967-4729 to find a bookseller.
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Off Without a Hitch
Christopher Hitchens died Thursday.
He was a superbly intelligent writer and masterful debater who possessed a truly unique wit. Most importantly, he was a freethinker who tirelessly fought to debunk the greatest threats to the human mind: supernatural faith and religion.
“If you want to get good people to do bad things, you need religion,” he said.
His influence reached out through essays, book reviews, introductions and lively debates. He inspired everyone who heard him to do something.
Yet, Hitchens didn’t entertain followers or groupies the way a pastor did. Because he didn’t have followers, he had readers and listeners.
I stopped believing in god long before I discovered Hitchens. I didn’t have the maturity to develop a cohesive argument, but by the age of ten I knew the man at the pulpit only told lies. I didn’t feel religion was a bad thing, I knew it was.
I didn’t need Hitchens to convince me, I needed him to arm me.
I could see how religion turned able minded human beings into slaves who were afraid of their own thoughts, and I needed to know how to fight it. I needed to know how to look at religion’s effect through the lens of history, culture and politics.
That’s where Hitchens came in. Because unlike the faithful, who mistakenly believe the burden of proof lies at the atheist’s feet, he came prepared. He wouldn’t accept laziness or ignorance as an excuse for anything.
He knew their texts better than they did. And, more importantly, he knew the origins of their texts better than they did.
He taught me being angry isn’t enough. I would hope Hitchens would agree a true freethinker doesn’t hate those in power, he or she examines why they’re in power in the first place.
Like his forerunner Thomas Paine, Hitchens knew government and religion could not peacefully coexist. Until his dying day, he used his words to propagate a world in which the likes of Mitt Romney or Rick Perry would be held to task for disobeying the First Amendment of the United States Constitution to garner votes.
Despite what a tea party historian might tell you, the founders didn’t want religion to have a voice in government. They knew first hand how a tyrannical leader, who thought god supported his candidacy, could extend his reach.
Hitchens left a world that has yet to accept this. We still need his fervor present in the pages of our magazines and on our bookshelves, but nature’s free will ran its course.
We don’t all have the intelligence or fortitude to articulate these thoughts as well as he did. We can’t all pull forth the quotes and opinions of a hundred men like we could a name out of a hat.
But we can work toward a world where the freethinker is the most respected of all. And we can never forget Christopher Hitchens.
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Write to Hell
If you know anything about me, you know I’m a writer. You also know I won’t shut up about it.
But then I started asking why, again. And then I started thinking about addictions. The good ones. The ones that give you more thrill than kill. Writing is mine.
We always want more. Nothing is ever good enough. Whether it’s personal or professional, it’s rare to see a satisfied person. Usually that means we strive for unattainable goals or we self-harm because of a false sense of failure.
I’ve been trying to make a serious go at writing for more than ten years. I’ve had poems, columns and news articles published in a wide array of publications. Still feels like I’ve done nothing. Still feels like I’m at the beginning.
Between trying to pay the bills with corporate gigs or putting the dream on hold for others, the goal always appears as a dim figure in the dark. Something I’m not sure is actually there.
But I have to keep looking. Writing is the only thing that makes me happy. It’s the only gal who won’t leave, no matter what names you call her.
I’ve decided to throw my hat into the ring of crime and horror fiction. I have a couple screenplays in the early stages and a novel pretty well mapped out. But will talking about it do any good? Is part of the process getting the thoughts out into the air or is it just a distraction from sitting down and getting the job done?
Don’t ask me. Not even the good addictions make much sense. We all need something to blather on about while we’re forced to eat across from a person. I figure it should be about something I want to improve upon.
And so I work the story out while my poor friends and dinner guests feign an interest. And I try to do the same for them. But secretly I’m looking for story potential. Looking for things to put into the prose. Writing will always be top dog.
Would I give up a relationship for a piece of writing? You bet. That might not have always been true, but when you finally find your voice, it consumes you. It becomes the only thing you put your energy into and the only thing you’ll never be finished with.
This is my addiction. It has no fix, and I’m better for it. What’s yours?
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You give me Valley Fever
I live in Arizona and angry people surround me. Their bumper stickers belittle each other. Their opinion pages scream about so and so’s laziness, or so and so’s corruption. They appear determined to exemplify and exasperate all the divisions that plague America.
But why? Sure we live in troubled times and deep political division, but I’ve always thought of Arizona as the second-chance state. Most of its residents either escaped the high property costs and weather of the east coast or the economic uncertainty of Mexico. It is everyone’s default choice. The where else am I supposed to go state.
So why do we all hate each other? Wouldn’t it make us all happier if we tried to sustain a welcoming atmosphere that bonded us all? According to the evidence, we just don’t care. Anyone I’ve met who is happy in this state is happy in spite of life not because of it.
Much like Los Angeles, the big brother we emulate, you can almost make out visible racial and economic dividers in the Valley of the Sun. If you live in North Phoenix or Scottsdale, you likely think cities such as Mesa or Tempe are cesspools of crime and racial impurity. If you live somewhere such as the West Valley you’re not likely to think of someone with money as someone who earned it.
I’m not attempting to rest my entire argument on hyperbole. I know these types of problems are not unique to Arizona or to this time in history. And yet, other cities I visit at least allow me to meet people in the middle. I’ve actually had coffee with strangers whose political and religious affiliations remained a mystery well into the second hour of our conversation. Places where people don’t wear their hatred on their sleeves.
Recently, I’ve noticed my own opinions on such matters have begun to border on the extreme. I’m just as guilty as the rest of you. I don’t feel comfortable in any public place, outside of bookstores where people rarely speak. I don’t want to meet new people like I did a few years ago. I just don’t want to be here.
While the purpose of this column is to try and maintain an optimist’s view on areas that need change, I am at a loss here. I hesitated even to write this one. I feel like my options are sell out to the cliques of my area or spend life as a shut-in. Sure, I can try saving the money to move, but is escape the only option? Is there no point in hoping for change?
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Does the term geek chic make you gag? Do the poorly colored Superman tattoos on the arms of jocks piss you off? If you consider yourself a nerd or a geek, then they should. There’s a reason certain genres and stories exist within a subculture. And the mainstream’s bastardization of what you hold dear shouldn’t make you want to conform.
As a comic book collector, I’ve had to endure years of other collectors yearning for society to embrace the brightly colored misfits that carried them through childhood. When a comic character’s big budget film rules the box office or if the New York Times profiles one of its eccentric creators, they light up like a fat girl who gets asked to dance at prom.
As comic book movies have grown in popularity in the last decade, these fanatics have deluded themselves into thinking this will translate into comic book sales. And when sales continue to fall, they spring into action. Meaning they endlessly complain on the interwebs to other fans who already agree with them.
Comic book sales are down because they appeal to a niche audience and they are expensive. What was once a cheap child’s medium now requires about $100 a month. You’re not going to hook a Robert Downey Jr. fan when they realize the character they enjoyed in a two-hour movie is spread among twenty titles and following his story will consume most, if not all, of their free time.
But this is OK. Comic books are not for everyone. Niche might mean weird, but it doesn’t mean hopeless and alone. Calm down fanboys.
I don’t think comic books make people weird. I think weird people like comic books. They’re filled with strange situations including parallel earths, revolving doors of death, and people clad in fetish outfits beating up other people in fetish outfits. If your Mom thought they were cool, then they wouldn’t be cool.
Look at the X-Men. It’s an entire series about people no one likes. Do you see Wolverine crying because mainstream society thinks he’s odd? No. He’s crying because the woman he loves has died and been resurrected too many times.
Again, it is those evolutionary impulses that compel us to join, to be a part of something. Instinctively we want all our preferences to be shared so they have a higher chance of survival. But in the long-term, conforming to the acceptable version of what you enjoy will not ensure its success.
So I implore you to not ask your friends about what comic to give to your girlfriend or what comic would make a good movie. Enjoy your comic books, or whichever subculture you immerse yourself in, and have the balls to stand alone. Weirdos make better friends anyway.
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Please love Mii
In his recent New York Times opinion article “You Love your iPhone. Literally,” Martin Lindstrom described a study that said, “The subjects’ brains responded to the sound of their phones as they would respond to the presence or proximity of a girlfriend, boyfriend or family member.” This seemed to reinforce my own theory that we don’t have the future glimpsed in science fiction because we simply don’t want it.
Like most things I write about, this all started with a complaint. It often disturbs me that we evolved over billions of years from single-celled organisms and we mostly use our technological advances to ask our friends, “can you believe it’s Monday, AGAIN?” Not only did I pine for the jetpacks and space colony utopias shown in pulp magazines from the early 20th century, but now what little this century could offer did nothing but remind me of the progress yet to be made.
But I didn’t want to spiral into a depressive post-modern loop of self-importance. So instead of looking down on those needy Facebook friends who required daily affirmation, I started to think about how humans create technology to mirror the world as it exists instead of what they hope it to become.
With the recent passing of Apple co-founder Steve Jobs, many in the media are reflecting on how he revolutionized the way we interact. Whether it’s how we buy music or talk to our friends, there is no doubt we will know his name for generations. But I think the real reason we sing his praises, along with those of Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg, is that he gave us more of what we already had.
For evolutionary and survival purposes, humans need to be selfish. We need to communicate with and work in groups to get what we want. And I think even if what we want as individuals prevents society as a whole from evolving, we won’t hesitate for a second.
This leads many to search for satisfaction in things such as drugs and religion. The positive flipside to this evolutionary need allows us to maintain friendships and create families. But it explains why no one worries over the absence of a flying car or teleportation device. Neither would provide that neural nicotine that makes one feel loved.
It is why we’ll never make actual progress in the fight against global warming or use something as amazing as the internet to reach new heights of consciousness. Unless an immediate selfish reason presents itself, we will continue to invent things that allow us to stay the same.
Accepting this has allowed me to better understand the never-ending flurry of birthday photos and relationship status updates that litter the news feed. I’ve come to understand not everyone is on some manic ego-trip. They’re just trying to feel human, to connect in a world fragmented by technologies that forced us into our private caves.
Perhaps next time you notice a friend or colleague texting or posting a barrage of seemingly mundane updates, you should take the hint and spend some real time with them. It might make you feel good.
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to be or not to believe
I’m an atheist, and I’m angry. But contrary to popular belief, those two classifications can be mutually exclusive.
For years, I’ve tried to engage the faithful in an open discourse regarding why they believe and what good it serves. I’ve always thought of humanity as an evolving force, both physically and philosophically, and I could not fathom why so many clung to an ideology that limited the parameters of life.
But few wanted to compare notes, and even fewer answered my query with anything other than hostility. So I had a new question, why wouldn’t they even listen?
Until one day, a man with an unshakable faith, who I otherwise respected, asked me a question: do atheists believe in forgiveness?
It felt like he asked me whether I breathed, loved or was even human. Despite my initial offense, I finally realized why they found me so easy to dismiss. I didn’t matter to the god-minded because I represented some alien entity, a foreign thing they could not bring themselves to care about.
Perhaps some would have an interest in converting me or condemning me, but none would consider respecting me. They are too eager to demonize those that reject faith and embrace logic to consider a point of action contrary to their own.
It is not rare for an atheist’s question to be labeled angry or insane upon arrival. Mainstream society has been twisted by insecurities and its inherent instinct to survive, no matter the cost. We’ve all stopped listening. We’ve all prepared our rebuttals before an argument is made.
Which brings me to the point of this exercise. I want my opinions heard, and I want to understand why so many found these opinions distasteful. I’ll admit to my own vanity. I am seeking a better way to communicate so I can distribute my ideas in a more effective, even commercial, manner. But I’m hoping this endeavor will introduce me to others seeking to connect.
I’m a futurist, and I believe we can reconcile the difference between standing up for what you believe in and not allowing what you believe in to impugn the rights of others.
My background is in daily and feature journalism. I’ve interviewed a variety of people including politicians, police officers, environmentalists, activists and community leaders trying to help strays. They all based their actions on what they perceived as threats from those around them. But reactionary tactics will not build the future.
I entered journalism after I read Transmetropolitan by Warren Ellis, a satirical story about news reporting in a dystopian future. Its protagonist, the columnist Spider Jerusalem, publishes his distaste of society’s ills in the aptly titled I Hate it Here. This fictional mouthpiece spews his criticisms in the hope they will force others to evolve.
While I’ve taken a cue from his passion, I realize the real world needs a more forward-thinking approach. Whether it’s issues of faith, technology or interpersonal relationships, I see everyone around me drowning in confusion. I see us not only limiting the parameters of our own lives but of society as a whole. We’ve put our heels to the future because of our perceptions of the past.
I intend to use this space to show I’m not angry because I hate it here. I’m angry because I love it here, and we can do better.
My name is Michael Famiglietti: Writer. Editor. Optimist. It’s a pleasure to meet you.
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