Before I fully absorb and understand, or more likely misunderstand, the theory of “metamodernism,” I declare the arrival of Patamodernism!
With all due disrespect to Alfred Jarry and his progeny, I assert that Patamodernism is to Modernism as Pataphysics is to Physics: a step far up and beyond that to which Metamodernism (and Metaphysics) might ever aspire. Patamodernism Ducet!
Today I served my last day of jury duty.
On call all this week, I finally had to appear this afternoon, as part of a pool of prospective jurors for a gang murder trial expected to start in May and last for six weeks, into the end of June.
That schedule conflicts with my planned — and already paid for — trip to Paris with my daughters, which qualifies as a hardship under California law. So I was excused. And, since I expect to be living out of the U.S. in the very near future, I can anticipate being unavailable for future jury service.
Don’t get me wrong: I acknowledge the civic duty of jury service, and take it quite seriously. I have served on three juries since 1986, all of them drunk driving trials. If I was called for another such trial I would complain and disqualify myself, as I see them as a waste of time and money.
So, farewell jury duty! It’s been, well, interesting. I’ve done my time, thank you very much.
To all the producers, promoters, record company executives, musicians, bands, indies and what not hoping and praying that sending bands out on tour and allowing live streaming of their shows will somehow eventually pay off in sales of said music: It works.
So far, since I first watched live YouTube streams of assorted bands playing Coachella in 2014, I have purchased CDs or MP3s or both of:
- Dum Dum Girls, and Kristin Kontrol, formerly Dee Dee Penny of said Girls
- Hans Zimmer (soundtracks)
- Lana del Rey
- The War On Drugs
- and more I’ll remember later. . .
And, by the way, I no longer rip streams. If I like your music, I buy it.
Are algorithms getting dumber? Maybe we don’t need to worry about them so much, after all.
Seriously, Amazon’s recommendations have gotten worse over the years. Why are you trying to sell me another phone nearly identical to the one I just bought? Really? Why do you try to sell me — on Facebook! — the same phone I just bought. Really? You know I already bought it! And Facebook recommends “friends” with whom I have no known connection. They must be desperate!
What, are we auditioning for Mechanical Turk, with all the “I am not a robot” “Click every square with a street sign/bus/car”? Are we tuning Google image identification algorithms? I want my $0.05 per click!!!
If I still lived in Los Angeles (it’s been almost 43 years), you can bet I would be at the LA Times Festival of Books the weekend of April 21-22. But I don’t, and I won’t, as tempting as it is.
Instead, I will look forward to the 2019 edition of Montpellier’s Comédie du Livre. Last year, I missed it by a week, this year by about three weeks, but next year, hell yes.
The Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), signed into existence by Richard Milhous Nixon hisself, is no longer in the business of protecting the environment.
I’ve been telling my kids for several years, whenever they’ll listen to me briefly ranting, that the smog over Los Angeles, and the rancid brown muck that was the harbor in San Pedro, were not cleaned up out of the goodness of oil companies’ hearts. No one ever voluntarily cut their output of pollutants if it cost them a dollar. It all happened because the state and federal governments made them do it, and made not doing it cost dollars.
The free market does not produce clean air and water; it’s not profitable.
So how do we make Donny and his buddy Pruitt get back in the business of protecting the environment? Maybe it has to cost them, deep deep in their pockets, to not do it.
From time to time, the question is asked: What book changed your life?
In a public forum, my answer might be:
- Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s A Coney Island of the Mind
- Allen Ginsberg’s Howl
- T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land
But in private, my honest answer is: a little self-published book by a psychiatrist from Palo Alto whose name I forget (Gerald Hill, I Googled it), but the book was Divorced Father. It was published earlier in the year in which Warren’s mother left. At a time when I thought I might never see my son again, that I would have to give up my house and move somewhere, anywhere, else, that I would have to pick up the pieces and start my life over, this book convinced me that the most important thing for me to do was to commit to being father to my son. To suck it up, face the in-laws up and down the street, to hang on to the house and provide him a home, as much as it hurt, as difficult as it was, day by day.
It was the best decision I ever made, and that book helped me make it.
The final line of Bridge on the River Kwai – “Madness! Madness … madness!”
Hope is not a strategy.
Thoughts and prayers are not a solution.
Donny, Paul, Marco. . . what are you going to do about the madness?
P.S. Fuck the NRA.
Only a fascist would call a lack of adulation treason.