A Biblical Interpretation of Increasing Income Inequality

A satirical & sarcastic piece

In one lecture for a sociology class, our professor, David Halle, played a clip of Santana's "Maria Maria" because it contained lyrics that he felt are expressive par excellence of a popular sentiment: that "as the rich are getting richer, the poor are getting poorer." He then proceeded to show us graphs, articles and essays to demonstrate the validity and accuracy of this claim. 

An infographic showing the trend reffered to in this piece

Among other things, he showed us how the marginal income gains of the top 10 or 15% of income earners far outstripped the gains of (or even possibly losses) of the bottom 20% of income earners from the 1980s to the present, and how the ratio of C.E.O to Employee income increased from about a dozen:1 in the 1950s or so to hundreds:1 in the present day¹.

It must be obvious that I do not recall the exact details of the data from the class. My apologies, professor. But the details are not particularly relevant.

 

This propensity for divergent financial incomes, however, is definite and the evidence for it as a general trend, especially in the face of burgeoning neo-liberal economic doctrine, is incontrovertible. The only disputable aspects to quibble about focus on the minutiae of details and the methodology used to procure the data².

Clearly, wealth and income are being consolidated into the hands of the few, into the firm grasp of the notorious top 1% of wealthiest Americans and top 1% of income earners, whereas from below we face the diminution and gradual dissolution of the American middle class, a group of people that have money just slipping out of their, out of our, fingers. Obviously this is a problem, requiring immediate deliberation and action. We must dispatch the most intelligent of thinkers to ponder solutions to this.

Conservative American thinkers, the neo-liberal economists, believe in supply-side economics, which, briefly stated, provides incentives, in the form of tax breaks and reduced regulations, to suppliers or producers so that they will invest in our economy and the community, which will consequently provide jobs and therefore income for others.

That seems sensible enough until you ask yourself, if given these incentives, are they absolutely certain to invest? How can we be sure they will not use the tax breaks to invest elsewhere? How can we be sure the reduced regulations do not cause more harm in comparison to the benefit derived from them?

A large majority of these thinkers do not or will not consider this; they believe in its functionality so firmly it is unquestionable in their minds. When one encounters the dogma of these thinkers, it assumes an almost religious attitude, an obstinate, unwavering faith that it will work without fail.  Where does this religious fervor come from?

So they proceed to demand tax-breaks for the wealthiest, reductions in the inheritance tax, lowered capital-gains taxes and so on and so on.

When you think about these particular taxation policies in a different way, in layman’s terms, the logic behind them almost seems to defy common sense. It seems to be a strain of thought tantamount to saying “I’m going to make you richer by giving them more money! You get it?” Meanwhile, we’re all left scratching our heads trying to understand.

If this is how it seems to be in layman’s terms, then it makes you question why a considerable number of Christian conservatives vigorously support these policies. Am I missing a piece of the puzzle? Does the clockwork of my mind have a cog jammed or a screw loose?

Then, when I was thumbing through the bible as I do every now and then, I came upon The Beatitudes, and the puzzle piece issued forth, illuminated so brightly that it unjammed the cogs of my mind and tightened the screws of my intellect.

¹And seeing the multitudes, Jesus went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him:  ²And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,  ³Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  ⁴Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.  ⁵Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.  ⁶Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

Matthew 5:1-6

²⁰And he [Jesus] lifted up his eyes on his disciples, and said, Blessed be ye poor: for yours is the kingdom of God.  ²¹Blessed are ye that hunger now: for ye shall be filled. Blessed are ye that weep now: for ye shall laugh.  ²³Rejoice ye in that day, and leap for joy: for, behold, your reward is great in heaven:

 Luke 6:20-21,23

All of the pieces of the puzzle coalesced into place to form an accurate picture of the truth. These people, this top 1% or 10% of the wealthiest, are hoarding all the money and riches so that the rest shall be without, so that the rest shall be meek, hungry, and poor in spirit so as to inherit the earth and reach the kingdom of heaven.

Preventing economic progress for the middle and lower classes is, in fact, the ultimate pursuit to maximize enrollment in God’s Kingdom. If our economy could be characterized as a rising tide that lifts all boats then this would entail that we would all be richer to some extent, which would subsequently reduce our chances of admission into heaven. After all, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God (Matthew 19:24). Conversely, when we approach the pearly gates poor and malnourished our likelihood of entry increases by about 300% at least. 

When viewed in this light, cuts to medicare and social security and other programs to help the poor to make possible tax cuts to the wealthiest make perfect, surreal, spiritual sense. These are policies oriented toward the actualization of the supreme goal of heaven for the most, hell for the few. 

In this supposed zero-sum game, those who earn more at the expense of the rest are therefore making a spiritual sacrifice for our gain. The next time you or anyone complains about how corrupt CEOs arrive to congressional hearings in private multimillion dollar jets, or about how some pay $500,000 plus just to transport their horses from one mansion to another, remember that they do so for our sake.  

In this regard, their self-sacrifice makes the wealthy emerge as the holiest of all of us. We ought to praise them as saviors for they are striving to save our souls from eternal damnation by stripping us of riches in this life. So do not let anyone fan the flames of class consciousness. Learn to push away all inclinations to class warfare. Instead, pity the rich for they have received their consolation in this life (Luke 6:24), but will suffer in the next.

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[1] And by "the present day," I mean the present day when I took the class back in 2008, prior to the start of the Great Recession. Certainly these income gaps has widened since September of ’08.

[2] http://www.politifact.com/truth-o-meter/article/2011/jul/06/it-true-rich-are-getting-richer/

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 William Shakespeare: Sonnet 146

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Feeding these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

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I, Too, Sing The Body Electric

A piece about electronic music¹, working out, and how it all relates to the soul

O my body!

I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of
the soul, (and that they are the soul).

The thin red jellies within you, or within me—the bones, and the marrow in the bones,

The exquisite realization of health;

O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of the Soul,

O I say now these are the Soul!

–Walt Whitman, I Sing The Body Electric²

Yo te traigo música con electromagnetos

Para que muevas todo el esqueleto,

Música hecha con buena onda

Para que brinquen como popcorn de microondas.

–Calle 13, Electro Movimiento

I.

Electronica moves me …almost literally… like nothing else can. I plug my headphones into my iPod, put on my workout playlist, move to it, exercise to it. The music on that playlist gets me moving and keeps me going. Is it Hypnotism? Sit me in a chair, put that music on, and observe as I inevitably bob my head back and forth. Usually I would start dancing in my chair, but that privilege is reserved solely for moments of loneliness, for I have shame, in spite of what Yenny may say to the contrary. Jacqueline knows what I mean.

At the gym, doubtless I’ll have earbuds in my ears, wires down the side of my neck. That music! Ah, it gives me a strong impetus to continue as if the pounding rhythm demands another pushup, another lunge, another repetition, another step, lest my so called journey of a thousand miles end then and there if I throw in the towel.

Electronica is a sorcerer that galvanizes me; a mild dose of steroids injected in me; an emergency unleashing adrenaline in me; a defibrillator shocking and restoring the pulse in me. It is the fitness trainer I can’t afford yelling at me to get a few more reps in.

Numerous times have I tried working out to other types of music or to no music at all but to no avail, as if only Electronica can summon the energy to rise out of me. What is so special about it?   

Miguel, a first lieutenant in the army, tells me he has to memorize cadences to shout out while running with the rest of his platoon. He says calling cadences helps during runs. It forces you to regulate your breathing –a must, otherwise you’ll get winded and end prematurely, panting on the side of the road or the treadmill …in defeat. I’m not sure if it’s a man thing, but I’m not very fond of ending prematurely, panting in defeat.

What about for those not in the army, no fellow runners at their sides? Electronica to the rescue. No need for cadences to regulate breathing and pace. Breathing gets tied to the BEAT. Inhalation, exhalation are each chained to their appropriate musical bar. Each rep or step or whatever latches on to the BEAT when it has to.

Electronica, loud as it is, washes away whirring sounds from treadmills, ellipticals, stationary bikes, and clanging sounds from all sorts of resistance training machines.³ But above all else, ah, the joy of it. Electronica mitigates the “choriness” of the gym. It distracts me when I need to ignore the pain or helps me zone in when I need to focus on the burn. Varied as my beloved electronica is, it breaks the monotony of the exercise routine.

In my mind, electronica has become so powerfully associated with movement, so intertwined with bodily exertion of some kind that I have become one of Pavlov’s dogs to it. They hear the bell and salivate; I hear the music and innervate… then perspire. My physician has actually denied me access to this music during periods of illness and fatigue for fear that my inability to resist exercising will wreck my recovery.⁴

The primary pitfall for those wishing to maintain the workout routine is MOTIVATION, or rather the lack thereof. Rarely do I face that problem now. My motivation comes in through my ears, vibrates my mind and body, and radiates out through my limbs. Yes, conditioning is truly a powerful psychological tool.

O, friends, many feats have I accomplished whilst possessed by electronica that were once to me naught but unrealistic, out-of-reach goals:

A cursory set of examples:

• Surpassing the previous pushups-in-one-set record of 23 with 30 pushups while listening to “Rombo” by the Bloody Beetroots & Congorock. (1.15.11)
• Reducing my previous 3 mile run time from 35 minutes down to 29:50 while listening to “Christian Dior Denim Flow” & “Power (Remix)” both by Kanye West.  (3.31.11)
• Running a mile in 7 minutes, 46 seconds mile while listening to Lady Gaga’s “Judas” & “Just Dance.”  (4.25.11)
• Oh, and, of course, losing 70+lbs., listening to Electronica during virtually every workout.

I really do owe electronica my gratitude.

If “Music is the soundtrack of your life⁵” then

Electronica is the soundtrack to my weightloss, the score to my improving fitness.

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[1] A note on the term: I use Electronica as an umbrella term to include actual electronica as well as hip-hop, rap, reggaetón, pop, house, electro, techno, etc., the common element among them being their use of electronic musical instruments and electronic technology in their production. E.g. music from, but not limited to: Lady Gaga, Kanye West, Black Eyed Peas, The Bloody Beetroots, Justice, Prodigy, Calle 13. I do realize I use the term “Electronica” very loosely. I’m not the type that dwells on categorizations and sub-categorizations.

[2] I took some artistic license and rearranged the lines of this poem.

[3] I just have to remind myself to take it easy with the volume. With all this loudness pounding my ears, I hope I don’t end up deaf at 50.

[4] Not really. I deny it to myself. Dr. Bir would probably tell me to avoid it though if it would make me want to work out that bad.

[5] Dick Clark

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II.

But not everyone is a fan. Some dismiss Electronica as too inorganic, too manufactured, too mindless, too shallow to carry any significant meaning. They claim it has no soul.  It is as if somehow the synthesizers, sequencers, drum machines, samplers, etc. have eviscerated Electronica of its connection to the human spirit.

In defense of Electronica, I call my first witness to the stand. What does Lady Gaga say?

“People believe that electronic music is soulless… and it’s not, and you know why it’s not? Because the soul that I feel from my fucking beautiful fans at my show cannot be a lie. It can’t. I’ve never in my life seen the intensity in their faces. I mean, they blood-suck and kill to be together. I mean, there’s glitter and there’s sweat, and they’re dancing and there’s hair bows and they believe in it so much. And it’s real. In those moments it’s real. They bring my music to life.”

–Lady Gaga

Amen, Gaga! She speaks against the charge leveled against her genre, invoking the soul her fans display effusively at her concerts. They believe in it so much and they make it real. Well said.

This argument that any type of music has no soul ought to be laid to rest here and now. All music has soul insofar as it nourishes the soul of the person that listens to it. The lyrical content/subject matter then is irrelevant, but the connection people have to the music, that is of paramount importance. 

Electronica is not just rhythmic noise without anything substantial to say. It says something if you are receptive to it. If the music has no relevance in your life, do not indict it and say it has no soul. If it does not speak to you that does not mean it does not speak.

Lady Gaga’s music speaks directly to her fans.

As a matter of fact, Lady Gaga speaks to me as if she were my personal trainer:

Whoo! Let’s go!

Half Psychotic, Sick hypnotic

got my blueprint its symphonic.
Half Psychotic, sick hypnotic

got my blueprint electronic.

Go! Use your muscle, carve it out,

work it, hustle!
I got it, just stay close enough to get it
Don't slow! Drive it, Clean it, Lysol, Bleed it,
Spend the last dough (I got it)
In your Pocko (I got it)

Just dance!

Lady Gaga encourages me and I run harder, better, faster, stronger. I work out and sweat to her music. It provides the inspiration and I give it exertion. It gives me life and I give it life in return. Symbiosis! So long as I have ears to hear and lungs to breathe, so long live her songs and they give life to me. The music, its message, its mood resonate within me. Doubtless, I’m not the only one that feels this way. I point to exhibit A!

Exhibit A

Exhibit A (Again, from a different point of view)

Ah, behold! Everyone united behind a pounding bass, an electronic pulse! Collective effervescence at its finest! Vivacity true and unrestrained! Vim and vigor! Music reverberating throughout the crowd! How can you deny that soul?

Still, others will persist and argue not against the content, but argue against the medium or the mood. They will say how can anything that is so loud, festive and layered have any soul? Or, how can anything made electronically have any soul?

Does soulful music only express pain? Is lonely introspection alone qualified for soul? What about accompanied jubilation? Do Beethoven’s solo piano sonatas carry more soul than his symphonies? Is there no soul in elaboration? Is there no soul in joy? Isn’t the soul expressed alike in joy and in sorrow?

Sure, a vocal performance backed by a single instrument like the piano feels more intimate than a fully produced song with dozens of people involved in its performance. But that doesn’t mean the latter can’t have soul. A critic for Rolling Stone, Rob Sheffield, says that Lady Gaga’s most recent album has a lot of excess, but adds that this “excess just amps up the emotion in the song. …That’s the achievement of Born this way: The more excessive Gaga gets, the more honest she sounds.” I wholeheartedly agree, Mr. Sheffield.

Is electronica less soulful merely because it is impossible to create unplugged? The technology behind it all renders it inorganic and unnatural? The whole apparatus of music is inorganic, then, in that sense. When was the last time you went and plucked guitar strings out of a tree? The only truly primordial musical instrument is the human voice. All others required our ingenuity to discover them and our technology to create them.

This idea that music heavily layered and produced in a studio through electronic technology is “soulless” is not a standalone idea; it is one caught in the current of a deeper sentiment –that electricity and technology in general are soulless, that they are impediments, obstructions to the expression of our true natures.

III.

Why is everyone so anti-electricity anyway?

A friend of mine once lost her phone and said, “I feel so naked without my phone. That’s wrong, huh, that I’m so tied to my phone?” I said, “What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s so unnatural for people to be soooo tied to technology and all this electrical shit. It’s like I feel naked without it!”

“Well, clothes are technological too. Wouldn’t you feel so naked without your clothes too?”

What she says reveals a strain of thought that demands immediate rebuttal and refutation- that electricity is unnatural, it is inorganic, therefore against our nature.

It was the natural evolution of man to discover electricity, its utility, to harness and manipulate it. Electricity is a collective experience, an advantage handed down from one generation to the next.

We are homo sapiens, a species that knows, distinct from other species above else by our ability to use our knowledge to our advantage- our brains are our primary defining feature!

“Humans have a highly developed brain, capable of abstract reasoning, language, introspection, and problem solving. This mental capability, combined with an erect body carriage that frees the hands for manipulating objects, has allowed humans to make far greater use of tools than any other living species on Earth. Other higher-level thought processes of humans, such as self-awareness, rationality, and sapience are considered to be defining features of what constitutes a "person".”

Discovering electricity is not outside our nature then. On the contrary, it is precisely in our nature to utilize it as a tool. We would be primates without our tools and knowledge.  

What is more, any one that has ever taken a biology class can tell you: Electricity is IN US.

The body moves only by electronic communication between the brain and the limbs through

synapses and axons. ELECTRICITY IS OUR MOVING FORCE- It is what makes our actions and behaviors possible. All hitherto performed actions would not be possible without electricity then. Our whole lives would be impossible without it, so maybe we shouldn’t hate it so much.

IV.

Exercising has really remodeled my body –70 pounds lost and counting.

Every minute physical change in my body is a testament to my experience.

There’s inches around the waist lost,

double chin made single, veins more visible, muscles enlarged.

Written on my limbs is the history of my experience.

There are muscles flexed, tendons stretched;

neurons, axons, synapses all coordinated in orchestrated movement.

There’s breathing, inhaling, exhaling.

There’s endurance there, sweat, a heartbeat, a pulse. 

There’s pain there; satisfaction at overcoming it.

There’s previous defeats transformed into success.

There is STRENGTH… of body, of mind.

And of soul.

You can tell a lot about a person just by looking at them.

A Caveat before you confront me with this, the little saying: never judge a book by its cover –of course, I am not advocating trying to assess the content of a person’s moral character based solely on appearance. That’s just stupid. Good and Evil come to us in all fitness levels, as Cruella de Vil and Ursula have shown us.

But it is not wrong to collect information based on a person’s appearance. The body has an infinity of detail that can divulge so much about the person. Someone looking at me a few years ago would have been able to easily discern a propensity to indulge and a lack of exercise. And clearly they wouldn’t have been wrong.

Teachers instruct students to analyze literature, to break it down to discover its themes. Why not use those context clues learned in English to analyze the themes of the body and attempt to interpret them?

Look at someone with impressive musculature and you would not be foolish to connotatively guess or presume pride in that body. Anyone looking at me back then would be able to see my obesity and take an educated guess and read insecurity. And these guesses tend to be right. However, do not take that educated guess as 100% truth because it is after all, ipso facto, only a guess. If the soul is a ten-story house, the body is a first floor window into what the entire house looks like. It reveals a lot, yes, but only glimpses into the whole.

Anyone looking at my body the way it used to look, reading insecurity, indulgence, will have glimpsed an aspect of my soul –But just that, only a glimpse into the all of my soul.

V.  

And what is my soul?

The soul is memory. It is history. It grows, is nurtured by my behavior, my actions. It is a collection of experiences, a culmination of the past, all made possible by this body and its electricity.

Numerous faiths conceive of the body as an impediment, a hindrance to whatever spiritual end -heaven, nirvana, enlightenment, etc., as if the body imprisons the soul; mundane biological needs and desires forming the bars of that incarceration.

I have no theological clout whatsoever to dispute these religious claims, but, on the face of it, I am inclined to disagree. The body is not the enemy of the soul, but an element of the soul, a part of it. 

This body, the incubator of the soul, has history written all over it. It gives details to the contents of that soul. These stretch-marks all over my body are tattooed on the incorporeal soul. Blemishes and beauty alike are recorded on it; they are written there; they form a part of my physical/spiritual experience. They are part of my history, have helped construct what I am and who I am. I cannot deny them.

The body and the soul are not separate entities, but more like different aspects of the same thing. They are not opposing forces. One is more like a reflection of the other.

Walt Whitman saw this and he sings the body electric.

I, too, sing the body electric and praise the body electronica. Its indefatigable rhythms and pulses have revolutionized my body and helped alter the content of my soul.

VI.

So Dance. Alors on Danse! Go out there and Pump up the jam. Work out, exercise, be active and enjoy the music. Working out does the body good and it’ll do the soul some good too.

Writing this piece has been somewhat difficult because I get this insatiable urge to go work out as I listen to the music that inspires this essay. I am literally bobbing my head, dancing in my chair, as I type, listening to Congorock’s “Babylon.”

I think I’ll go work out now. 

Self-portrait 3.31.11 in my garage after running

I know that, based on all my talk about exercise, this photo of me must be disappointing, for I am not an impressive specimen displaying awe-inspiring musculature. But, people, I am a work in progress. Wait for the forthcoming self-portrait a few years from now, and when you see that, you’ll be singing a different tune.

LIST OF SONGS MENTIONED:

• Calle 13- Electro Movimiento
• Bloody Beetroots ft. Congorock- ROMBO
• Kanye West – Christian Dior Denim Flow
• Kanye West – Power (Remix)
• Lady Gaga – Just Dance (Ft. Colby Odonis)
• Lady Gaga – Judas
• Kanye West –Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
• Congorock- Babylon
• Stromae- Alors on Danse
• Technotronic- Pump up the Jam

Yenny from the City of Angels

The city of my dreams and the woman of my dreams

On my fascination with Los Angeles, a small gesture of gratitude for Yenny, and ruminations on fate and destiny

I.

From the introduction to Spike Lee’s Summer of Sam, Jimmy Breslin:

“Hello Ladies & Gentlemen, boys and girls, my name is Jimmy Breslin. I’m a writer. I write about New York, the city of my birth, where I’ve lived and worked all my life, the city that I love and hate both equally. …There are 8 million stories in the naked city and this is one of them.”

Four of my favorite film directors –Woody Allen, Spike Lee, Darren Aronofsky, and Martin Scorcese– all incorporate heavy homage to their beloved New York City in their films. And I love that. They take the city they have a strong, personal connection to and express that admiration through the setting for their films.

I am picturing Isaac and Mary talking in front of the Queensboro bridge in Manhattan, Mookie delivering a pizza in Bed-Stuy in Do the Right Thing, Harry approaching Marion on a Coney Island pier in Requiem for a Dream, Travis driving his cab around Manhattan in Taxi Driver.

I used to daydream that if I were to become a big time movie director, I would praise Los Angeles and honor it the way these directors honor NYC. With each passing moment, however, the certainty that I’ll never become a film director slowly seeps in, and I realize I must take recourse in other actions, through other ways. This is the best way that I can honor my favorite city, Los Angeles: through my meager ability to write and type.

II.

When I was about 9 years old or so, my brother, my mom and I went grocery shopping one particular night. On the ride back home, we got hit by a car while crossing the corner of Cedar and Foothill. To this day, it isn’t clear who ran the red light, whether my brother did or whether the other driver did. I’ll give my brother the benefit of the doubt.

My brother and I were lucky and got out unharmed. Unfortunately, my mom received back and shoulder injuries. As a result of some sort of private settlement that I didn’t understand as a 7 year old and still don’t understand to this day, my family got free treatment at a chiropractor in El Monte, some 45 miles away from my house in Rialto, CA.

My brother and my mom would pick me up at school, and we would all make the trip to El Monte. To get there, we would take the 10 West, then, to avoid the weekday traffic, the 57 North, and finally the 210 west. The first time we made the trip, along the 57 North, I looked westward and saw, against the sunset, the silhouette of the downtown Los Angeles skyline But I didn’t know what it was. 

An approximation of what I saw as a child on on Google Streetview. Click on it to see it zoom in.

I thought I saw mountains shaped like perfect, little rectangular blocks. I asked my brother what it was that I saw, and he told me that they were buildings, that they were the skyscrapers of L.A. I thought he was playing with me.  “Yeah… right,” I thought to myself. I’d been told enough of these lies and experienced enough pranks to swallow that without any skepticism. After finding out gullible was actually in the dictionary, I vowed to never again fall for shit like that. I was like Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.

Once I expressed my skepticism out loud, my brother told me he would prove it to me one day. And he did. He drove me through the heart of downtown L.A. on the 101 and the 110 and I saw the skyscrapers up close and personal and was able to confirm them as actual buildings. I looked up at them with the sort of awe and reverence that only a child can muster. I really couldn’t believe buildings that tall, that colossal could exist. It was magical. I declared it then and there: Los Angeles, I’m yours.

The details surrounding these events are somewhat fuzzy to me now. The impressions, however, are strongly imprinted on me. To this day, I love that Los Angeles Skyline. I take almost every opportunity I get to stare at it for at least a few seconds. To be honest with you, I could stare at it for hours.

III.

When I was about 10 or 11, I started my very own private photo album, which only I could add photos to. I stole the contact sheets that my brother printed for a black and white photography class he took, and I cut out my favorite thumbnail photos and arranged them to fit into my little amateur photo album. Next to portraits of my family are photos of those L.A. skyscrapers that my brother took. Images of the city ranked up there among pictures of my family as part of my favorite photos. Can’t you just see my childhood fascination with Los Angeles in these images?

The Top 4 Thumbnails are photos of Los Angeles. The rest are photos of my family.

IV.

As fate would have it, I ended up attending UCLA when I was 18.

The first time I ate in the Hedrick dining hall, I sat alone by the windows facing eastward and ate while looking at the skyscrapers basking in the orange/pinkish glow of the setting sun. I stayed there for about an hour just by myself, pensively watching the cityscape transition from daylight to twilight, watching it with admiration…

….as well as with anxiety.

My first quarter at UCLA, I was a little afraid of taking the train back home to Rialto. And by a little I mean very. I figured out the bus and subway route to Union Station, and I would take the Metrolink back home.  I was much too scared to stray from the path, to deviate from my calculated route even slightly. Hell, just staying on the path had me a little petrified.

That fear, or really anxiety, was, I believe, a trait naturally derived from being raised in my family. My family never really traveled much. The aforementioned trips to El Monte, a trip to Disneyland, and a few dozen trips up to the San Bernardino Mountains were the exceptions. Other than these, my family pretty much stayed within a 20 to 30 mile radius of my house. And, as a result, I never really developed a desire to travel and explore. As a matter of fact, when I was a teenager, imagining my future, I unquestionably assumed I would be living and working around this area that I was raised in, living near or even with my family.

So as I had dinner in Hedrick, I looked out at Los Angeles, which loomed larger than life, and admired the view, but I also felt a knot in my stomach. The decision to attend UCLA was pretty difficult for me for that reason. I was so scared of leaving home that I almost chose to attend UCR instead. Seriously, UCR instead of UCLA –the fact that this was considered might give you a hint as to how scary leaving home felt to me.

But after being at UCLA for a while, I slowly started to feel a little more comfortable with exploring. I went with a few friends to Chinatown. I went with a large group to Hollywood. But I still had a lot of anxiety about traveling. And I didn’t do much of it.

Then Yenny came into my life. And everything changed.

V.

I consider myself a relatively cultured person. I read lots of different kinds of literature, watch lots of classic & foreign films with my film buff brother, listen to a wide variety of music. I took art history classes and read through pretty much all of Gardner’s Art Throughout The Ages. I research different religions and philosophy. I watch a lot of TV shows and play a few video games. I immerse myself in all sorts of culture.

But Yenny introduced me to an aspect of culture that I never cultivated.

I don’t know what the proper label for this kind of culture would be. Geographical?

Yenny and I were mere acquaintances our first year of college. I started to hang out with her more often, and very often, during second year. My first trip with Yenny was a trip to Santa Monica. Nick came with us. He had broken up with his high school girlfriend, was feeling quite crestfallen, and the three of us decided, what the hell, let’s go to the beach spontaneously. For more than a year, I had lived within 5 or 6 miles of the beach, without even once considering going there. I finally went when Yenny suggested it (in fact, my whole life, I lived a good 60 miles away from the beach and I went twice or thrice period).

Here are 3 photos I took of Yenny on that first trip to Santa Monica. 

Witnessing the grandeur of the Pacific, seemingly infinite upon the horizon, I realized I had been missing valuable life experiences. And Yenny helped me recognize that.

That first little adventure to Santa Monica is incredibly important to me, and Santa Monica is now one of my favorite places on earth. I even asked my friend, Shasha to make a painting of it for me because that picturesque pier is one of my favorite images. It’s etched on my mind, engraved into my memories.

VI.

On May 18^th, 2007 Yenny and I started our romantic relationship, and afterwards, she took me all over Los Angeles.

Yenny from the City of Angels became my tour guide.

Yenny and I went to all of these places and had the time of our lives:

1. Griffith Park & Griffith Observatory
2. Los Angeles Union Station
3. Grand Central Market
4. Callejones, a.k.a. Fashion District
5. The Los Angeles Central Library
6. The J. Paul Getty Museum
7. The Getty Villa
8. LACMA
9. Exposition Park, Museum of Natural History, Rose Garden, & California Science Center
10. La Plazita Olvera
11. China Town
12. Korea Town
13. Little Tokyo
14. The Korean Friendship Bell in San Pedro
15. Dodger Stadium
16. Hollywood BLVD, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, & The Walk of Fame
17. The Hollowood Bowl
18. The Hollywood Sign
19. Redondo Beach
20. Long Beach Marina- to visit Brittany on The Carnival Cruise line
21. Santa Monica
22. Venice Beach
23. Dockweiler Beach
24. The Sunset Strip
25. SONY Pictures Studios in Culver City
26. DISNEYLAND!
27. 24 Hour Fitness in Downtown L.A. 

At Griffith Observatory

At the Getty Villa

At the California Science Center

At Santa Monica

At Venice Beach

We’ve eaten at

28. Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles
29. Philippe’s
30. Mel’s Drive In
31. Katsuya

These are places that we still have yet to visit:

1. Walt Disney Concert Hall
2. Staples Center
3. Angels Flight
4. Pershing Square
5. LA Coliseum
6. MOCA
7. The La Brea Tar Pits
8. Watts Towers
9. Pink’s Hot Dogs
10. El Matador Beach

VII.

It’s amusing to me when people use this phrase to express overwhelming emotions: “Words cannot express the [insert inexpressible emotion –joy/pain/amazement/etc…] I am feeling...” and then follow by trying to describe what they feel. Why would you announce that something cannot be done and then try to do that something right after? I would love it if someone started a speech that way and then just stopped talking after that.

Really, though, you cannot blame them for using that as an introductory statement. Sometimes it is completely apropos…

Words cannot express how I feel about Los Angeles. Los Angeles is a remarkable city full of history, culture, beauty…

Hypocrisy anyone? My meager ability to write is utterly inadequate for the purpose of expressing my fascination with and admiration for the City of Angels. All I can say is Los Angeles is fucking great!

This city is a lot of fun. Then again, it helps a lot to have good company, especially from someone like Yenny, who introduces me to her favorite places with a sense of adventure and a charming spirit.

VIII.

And now the dénouement of sorts, the crux in terms of a personal & philosophical point:

There’s a scene in The Matrix where Morpheus asks, “Do you believe in fate, Neo?”

Neo says, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life.”

Morpheus says to him, “I know exactly what you mean.”

I agree with you both, Morpheus and Neo. I don’t like that idea either.  

I can’t recall a time when my intellect was more disgusted than when I first learned about Calvinism in school. The idea that God foreordains salvation for some and not for others seemed incredibly unfair to me and even my young mind was able to recognize the conflict with the concept of freewill. You would be surprised to find that your mind can vomit within itself.

After Romeo slays Tybalt in Romeo & Juliet, he exclaims “O, I am fortune’s fool!” What a terrible thing to be. I refuse to think that I or anyone could be fortune’s fool. I am not a plaything of (the) God(s). I refuse to think that anything is predestined. I do not believe in fate or destiny that way.

However, there may be something subversive working to erode my resistance to these ideas…

As I was being raised in Rialto, cloistered, hardly traveling outside the parameters of a certain domain, Yenny was busy being raised in Torrance, traveling all over Los Angeles and other parts of the world. As a child, I developed an inexplicable attraction to the city of Los Angeles, and as a young adult I moved to Los Angeles and there I met and fell in love with a girl who adored the city equally, probably even more so than me. Yenny, born in Boyle Heights, my blue jean baby, my L.A. Lady, my lucky little lady in the city of light, she loves Los Angeles with a fervent passion.

And… of all the schools, in all the towns, in all the world, she just had to go to mine.

The greater Los Angeles area has about 17 or 18 million people, and Yenny and I managed to meet up. Cliché time: is it kismet? Was this part of some deity’s will? O ye gods of statistical analysis, what is the probability that a child with a fascination for the city of Los Angeles, with an inchoate, suppressed desire to travel will meet and fall for someone with a fascination for that same city, with a fully realized desire to travel nourished by her family’s upbringing?

As a child I always wanted to sightsee in and around Los Angeles, but my family just liked to pass by. What a coincidence that I meet a girl who wants to take someone sight seeing around Los Angeles? Is it possible some oracle prophesied this? Was this meant to be?

This may seem a bit of a stretch based merely on the aforementioned, but there is so much more that we have in common or are compatible with.

And I have to speculate that God himself

Did make us into corresponding shapes like

Puzzle pieces from the clay. ¹

Hmmm….

Maybe there’s something to this destiny thing after all.

Who knows?

IX.

Apart from the enrichment that came from augmenting my store of culture, the trips all over Los Angeles have swelled the mystic chords of my memory; have gotten me in touch with the better angels of my nature. 

He only is rich who owns the day. ²

Traveling with Yenny has taught me that I should spurn material possessions, perishable and transient as they tend to be, in exchange for the experience of the moment, which, though ostensibly transient, actually lives on in the memory and is everlastingly imprinted on the soul.

Yenny is my companion, and the city I lived in, she’s my companion too. Yenny and I plan to travel in the future to other great cities like New York, Chicago, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Mexico City, Paris, London, etc… But we will always love the city that introduced us to each other and that helped our love flourish.

There are some 4 or 5 million stories in the City of Angels and this was one of them.

Yenny & Me marching for the rights of immigrants in Downtown, May 1st, 2010

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[1] The Postal Service –Such Great Heights

[2] –Ralph Waldo Emerson

Griffith Observatory At Night

Griffith Observatory at night, from Chris Camargo's photoblog: Welcome to Los Angeles

An attempt¹ at a sonnet²

Come join me, let us stand and gaze from here

the distant twinkle of the city lights.

The sky is never ample pure and clear

to see the brilliance of the stars these nights.

'Tis hard to see them through this urban smog

and city lights so strong they cloud the skies;

they do create a thickness and a fog

that limit reach and depth of gazing eyes.

Though oft' I've heard our lights cannot compare

With splendor true of heavenly bodies,

I cannot wish to stars that are not there

hence will I now entreat and pray to these.

So let the stars in all their glory be

for mine are here, pray they suffice for me.

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[1] My poem fails to fit the meter for a Shakespearean sonnet on one or two or three (or more?) of the lines. 

[2] Note: This poem was only slightly inspired by B.O.B.’s Airplanes. The primary influence is the view from Griffith Observatory and the smog in L.A.

Can I Name Your Children, Please?

A piece about an idiosyncrasy of mine

I don’t know why, but I am obsessed with naming things… and by things I mean people and pets. Haha. Probably because naming someone is one way to really express your creativity in a very permanent way. When I meet these people with names like John Smith, Mary Johnson, Michael Williams, I always think to myself, “Wow, your parents suck.”  I feel bad for these people. Everybody Google searches their name, right? Imagine googling your name when you are John Smith… Good luck wading through all of those results (A thousand apologies if I offend you because your name is John Smith, but don’t complain to me. Go to your parents).  

If you ask me if I believe in fate or destiny, more often than not, I will give you a flat, quick no. But not when it comes to names. If you name your kid something stupid… your kid is going to come out stupid. This tautology, as I see it, ought to be named after me unless it’s named after someone else already. Mauro’s first law. Better yet:  Mauro’s Razor¹. Fuck you, Occam (or Ockham) (Damn, Hanlon never gets any love). Mauro’s Razor isn’t a guarantee, mind you, but a tendency. =D

On that note, I will never name a child of mine Pancho. I hear that researchers in the Latin Americas have discovered that naming a boy Pancho increases his chances of having cirrhosis of the liver at age 35 by about 90%.² That is to say, Pancho, I believe, is a common name for a drunkard, and I’m not excited about having alcoholic babies.

The corollary to Mauro’s razor: If you name your child something epic, the child will come out epic… hopefully. The other is- if you name your child something common, your child will come out alright. Uncommon name? Umm, I read an article that says men with uncommon or unpopular names are more likely to end up as criminals³. Yikes.

The problem with all of this, of course, is the subjective nature of it all. What sounds epic to some sounds stupid to others and vice versa. The first example that comes to my mind right now is Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin naming their daughter Apple. Apple Martin. That’s one letter away from an alcoholic drink there. Hmm, who knows? Maybe Apple and some random Pancho will hook up one day and have rambunctious anal.

Back in 9^th grade, a friend of mine, Luis Diaz, took the letters of my first and last name to create a new name for me, a secret name. So he took Mauro and contorted it thus: take the last syllable and put it first, take the first syllable and put it last, and then flip the u to make an n; you get “Roman.” Then he took my last name Fernandez and created Derez. I don’t really know how he got that. So my secret name was Roman Derez. It sounded epic to my ears as soon as I heard it.

That same year I read Dante’s Inferno. Notice anything about that? Dante’s. Not Alighieri’s Inferno. Dante’s. Who wrote The Great Gatsby? F. Scott Fitzgerald.  What’s that guy’s first name? I don’t even know. I had to look it up. Francis. That’s it. Samuel Clemens? Who the fuck is that? MARK TWAIN, ah, I know him. Pseudonym. In short, authors do cool shit with their names. 

As the year progressed, I became filled with delusions of grandeur. If I became a famous novelist, poet and/or philosopher I would change my name to Mauro Roman Derez Fernandez. But I would chop off the Mauro Fernandez when I published my works, just to be cool like the aforementioned authors. I pictured students getting excited about reading and talking amongst themselves. One hands a book to another and says, “Oh, man, if you like Shakespeare, you’ll like this… Have you read the works of Roman Derez?! They’re monumental! This novel managed to win the Pulitzer Prize and the movie that was based on it won best adapted screenplay at the academy awards!” Yes, I am a bit of a nerd for picturing that. I admit it.

As it turns out, the day my overreaching ambition eventually confronted my actual ability/talent to write, my delusions of grandeur died (or did they?). I decided: perhaps my progeny will do better. So I figured that I could name my first-born son Roman Derez Fernandez and hope he becomes a great writer. I can be one of those disgusting parents that lives vicariously through his or her kids. Why not? Maybe I can star in my own reality show. I doubt it can compete with Toddlers and Tiaras though. Oh wow, I lost my senses for a bit there. I started to think that my last name was Heene. Anyway, back to the matter at hand.

Thenceforth I started to imagine what names I would give my children, and thus my obsession began.

THE CHALLENGE: come up with a name that sounds pleasant, is somewhat common, but not too common, and that preferably sounds more epic than stupid. And make sure that your kids can google their name without having to wade through a shit ton of results. For me, I add the extra challenge: a name that is easy to pronounce in English and Spanish. Oh yes, let us not forget the last criterion –name them something that won’t land them in jail. That’s pretty important.

For girls, I think names that end with “ia” are particularly euphonious. Victoria, Sophia, Anastasia, Julia. Maria? Way too common… sorry. How many Maria Fernandez’s are there in the world? Probably too many to count. (Grammar question: How do you pluralize my last name? Fernandezes? Or Fernandez’s?)  

Every now and then I find these names, and I make sure to bookmark them in my mind because they sound so lovely to me. E.g. Aurora. Miriam –I heard this one in The Prince of Egypt. Some names sound so wonderful, but I feel like they won’t sit right as first names. I bet they can work as middle names, though. For instance, Tzipora (Zipporah) –I saw this name in Schindler’s List and in The Prince of Egypt and loved it –I really need to stop watching that movie before I end up having Jethro and Moses as sons, huh? Sephora –the Greek version of Tzipora sounds great to me. Hopefully that cosmetics company hasn’t ruined this name.  

So far this is my favorite combination: Anastasia Sephora. You can call her Anna for short. Sophia Theresa Fernandez-Urquilla would be nice too. She’ll have fun initialing on forms. Get it?⁴

I wish I could have 20 children so I could name them all. It’s fun for me to think of possible names for them. But 20 children? Sounds like another possibility for me to star in quality reality TV programming. Oh, wait, that’s already being done⁵. Maybe I can have 20 children total from multiple women? Haha. I joke with Yenny telling her that I will have an affair with a white woman in the future and name the son I have with her Emerson. I think that name sounds really strong and respectable: Emerson Fernandez. However, since I’m not planning on having affairs, and Yenny and I only want a few kids, can I name your children? Please?

 

A few months ago, I was trying to convince my pregnant sister to name her son Alonzo. She chose the name Julian. I tried to push Julian Alonzo on her. She didn’t go with it. So now her son is just plain old Julian Davis. Wouldn’t it have been better as Julian Alonzo Davis? Maybe I can pull off Julian Alonzo Fernandez in the future. Or maybe just Alonzo Fernandez. 

As I learned from my sister, people generally won’t let you name their children, so I’m sure your answer to my title question is a quick, but loud “NO.” Shit, I don’t even know if I’ll have any say in the naming of my own children. I have to consult with Yenny first …or do I? I’ll just name my own kids and satiate the residual naming urges on my pets. I hope to one day have a toy dog named either Aristotle or Aristophanes. I have no idea why. It just sounds funny to me. Damn, I just realized I don’t want that many pets. I don’t want to be crazy pet-guy with 20 pets, a smelly house, and piss stains all over the carpet.

*Sigh* I guess I’ll just have to learn to live with this frustration. Nomenclatural frustration, I’ll call it. I will name this frustration that.

The End

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A quick afterthought:

Guillermo used to be on my list of preferred boys names but I keep seeing these damn ads on YouTube for Verizon’s 4GLT-whatever-the-fuck product, where this guy says “It turns Guillermo into super Guillermo!” Yeah, they killed that name for me… bastards.

And another:

Yenny may like that I want to demonstrate our mutual love of Japanese culture by giving one of our daughters Sakura (Cherry Blossom) as a middle name.

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[1] I am aware that “razor” is not applicable to this type of pseudo-philosophical concept.

[2] Not True. I made this up completely.

[3] http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1874955,00.html

[4] S.T.F.U.

[5] Actually it’s 19 Kids & Counting. Two TLC reality TV references in one essay… Yeah, I need to get a life. Maybe I can squeeze in a reference to Jon & Kate Plus 8 …