Phantom Lamb

I was walking home late on Tuesday night after several hours ensconced in Columbia's Butler Library trying to keep up with my weekly reading assignments. The weather turned just a touch cooler than the mid-60s we've been having, I had a familiarly heavy pack on my back, and I was deeply distracted by wandering thoughts and the ready companion of my cheap-o mp3 player.

For just a moment, I forgot where I was.

I knew I was going to my lodging, and I knew it was just a few blocks away, and the streets all looked vaguely familiar, but what I lost was my sense of place in these surroundings. Like the sudden feeling of falling you have sometimes when you're drifting off to sleep? I had identity vertigo.

Distracted (as I mentioned before), my brain quickly assembled the most likely solution: I was traveling. I was comfortably making my way through a foreign land only slowly becoming more familiar. I had my next destination, a non-empty stomach, music and my core necessities on my back. I was good to go.

But it was just a fleeting moment. I was shaken out of my mumblings (this time grappling with the concept of structuralism) by the realization that I wasn't in Europe. I wasn't even in a strange city; I was home.

I understand that people always on the move (rock bands, for example), often have difficulty keeping track of where they are, sometimes to humerous or tragic consequences.
"Thank you Cleveland, and Good night" "You're in Michigan, Asshole."
In their defense, each seedy dive bar a band plays looks basically like the previous one, and by driving all day they don't get to see what makes each stop potentially unique.

But I'm no doped-out Fender Master. I spent 2 months in Europe, the first significant travel of my life, and have been out of the traveling mode for sometime. So why did it pop up as the most likely scenario?

Music certainly played a part. Same basic rig, same tunes. But there was something else.

I can't put my finger on it (if you still come to this blog for anything - especially answers - you should know better by now), but I got an... impression.

I saw something around the corner (of my mind!) that reminded me of what it was like being abroad. I glanced a metaphorical companion that I could only identify with my solo travels, and so I assumed that I must still be traveling.

We'll see if this concept persists - and I'd love to hear from those of your with more travel experience - but for now I'm going to process this via personification.

I think I'm being stalked by The Lamb. He's half-invisible, but I'm going to keep my eyes (and mind) open to see if I can track down a few more of his wet footprints.

I'll let you know.

Weber (on the trail of the Lamb)

Cons-itions and Trans-clusions

As proposed at the beginning of this blog, the purpose of "Weber on the Lamb" was to convey the experiences and reactions of a young man (me) adrift in life and wandering about the Continent. It began at an odd moment in my as-yet short life, at the end of my 4 (arguably 8) years of progressive promotion and entrenchment in San Antonio, but before I began my new life as a grad student in New York. A time of transition - what my fellow Classicists would call a "Liminal Zone." It was a snapshot in .hmtl not of who I was at this particular time, but of how I reacted to the very alien situations and environments in which I placed myself.

I felt something like a 17th century scientist. "substance A combined with substance B made the concoction turn Red.... but I wonder what will happed if we substitute C for B and add heat?"

BOOM!

I put myself "out there," in harms way, or at least at risk of a little adventure. I found some, and let quite a bit more pass me by. In this way, I cannot claim boisterously to have "lived every second" or "drank the last drop," but I existed exactly as the person am I would when thrust into such circumstances. I got just a little crazy, I got more than a little dorky, and I was often enough a standard American tourist.

It was a great trip, and this blog (and the responsibility of having even a small readership) in many ways made the trip more meaningful than it would have been otherwise.

so thank you once again.

With the trip over, the continuing usefulness or honesty of this blog is seriously in question. No, actually it's not. It's seriously and certainly over. In a romantic sense, I will probably always be "on the lamb." It's something in my character that I quite enjoy - a certain curiosity to examine grand issues from an amateur perspective, and a non-kosher relishing of my own foibles.

But in the strict sense, this blog has now accomplished what it set out to do. The plot arc is complete, the objective achieved, and it's now time to put it to rest before it gets dragged out through metaphorical justification and principal milquetoastification.

"So long blog, it's time for you to go the way of 'Ole Yeller."
"I don't have rabies, do I?"
"This might actually hurt you more than it's gonna hurt me."

BANG.

As for the rest of you, those listening in on this hypothetical dialogue between a rational adult male and his pet blog, fear not. If this is the kind of drivel you enjoy reading, there's a sequel available. I won't claim the kind of instant brilliance that you can expect from, say, Hamlet 2, but you can follow my continuing adventures now that I'm de-lambed and onto new things in New York.

the new blog, "The Lame Texpatriot" can be found here, and includes its own justification of purpose, etc.

I may drop back in on this forum from time to time, as opportunity and occasion place me once again in a traveling mode. But for now, let's turn out the lights, this party's over.

Weber (off the lamb)

Mother F$*#& of Reinvention

The great thing about quitting your job, leaving your apartment, and driving more than halfway across one of the largest countries on earth is that, theoretically, you get to start over.

Now sure, starting over is never easy. You still have to learn all the new street names, acclimate yourself to the weather, and adjust to whatever new schedule or regimen you're embarking on. And then there's the meeting of strange new peoples...

But what's killing me is not the fresh new re-invention, but the total absence of carry-over experience, authority or history. Apparently I didn't pack the right stuff into our enormous 16 foot moving van, because now that I'm here in New York, there are a few things I wish I brought with me.

Like some damn respect.

While I am in a new city embarking on a radically different career path, I am essentially (no, exactly) the same person I was when I left San Antonio. As much as I loved my Eurotrip this summer, and it did a TON to help me see the who-I-am-and-what-I'm-doing details, I don't feel like it changed me in any appreciable way (except the skinniness and bad haircut - you win some, and...).

So here I am trying to be the same Ryan Weber I was in San Antonio, only now I happen to be in New York. I want to put on nicer shoes (and eventually a wool coat) and just be the same person, but it doesn't work that way.

In coming here, I have basically no academic background to commend me. I graduated from Trinity, and since then have barely cracked a book in 4 years. I'm clever, but I'm not brilliant, and in the area in which I've chosen to study I can claim to be competent, but not even very well-informed.

But what about all that other stuff? All the stuff I have actually been doing for the past 4+ years? Shouldn't all that experience be worth something?

Apparently not. Case is point - the Columbia radio station.
WKCR is a venerable jazz institution, with a long and hallowed tradition. Among the staff are some of the most knowledgeable of any college jazz DJs, but this impressive pedigree has generated the myth that anyone working at WKCR is an "authority," and by correlation anyone who hasn't worked at WKCR cannot be.

So what do you do when you're dealing with someone who may not recognize (or even negate) your demonstrated experience?

the result is that I am left explaining to a 20 year old (as politely as I can) why after 8 years of jazz radio experience I probably don't need her to show me how to work a record needle. The explanation being unsatisfactory (or ignored - I've never worked a WKCR turntable) she just shows me a second time.

Am I just whining? I feel like it. But there is something deeper to grab onto here.

I feel like with every year that goes by, I achieve a greater appreciation for the wisdom, or at least the experience of my elders. Not all my elders, and not on every subject. I'm still young enough to believe that my opinions - based on "modern" ideas and "progressive" concepts - are still the best, but I'm in that late 20s phase when I can at least acknowledge that those older than I might have a good, wise reason to hold the beliefs they do, even if I disagree.

Does this just continue, more and more respect for the views of elders, until you're the oldest one left standing? Is there a sweet spot, when you stop thinking your ideas are best, and just submit to the wisdom of others before becoming the wisest yourself? And if the eldest are the wisest, why do we marginalize them in society by putting them in isolated communities and generally disregarding what they have to say? I'm not on the AARP payroll, and I get that wisdom and age are not universally linked, but what of it?

Anyway, I figure that I've got a few small areas in which I have specific, practical, valuable experience. They are Radio, Swing Dancing, and Camping. That's it.

And if that's not good enough to get me some measure of respect or appreciation in the realms of, let's say, radio, swing, or camping, then what's the point?

I've only been in New York 3 weeks, and even I can admit that what I'm really dealing with here involves demonstrated ability, respect, and a degree of trust, none of which can ever be instantly conveyed.

So I just need to pay my dues, keep the chip off my shoulder, and remember that I'm not special.

But that doesn't mean I can't explore some deeper issues of personal identity while venting about it on my blog.

Right?

Weber (on the rant)

Theory Schmeary and Why Feminism isn't (always) the Answer

What is it about the hallowed halls of Academia that seems so... ridiculously academic? Here I don't mean learned (by which I really mean well-read), though of course all the professors are. I also don't mean smart, because the assumption that Ivy League prof's are bright is neither a myth nor a surprise. What I'm grappling with is the extreme specialization within academia of questions which are of great interest and importance to other academics, but which wander well outside the conceptuality (or practical usefulness) of everyday people.

I won't go so far as to suggest that such nuanced issues as the theory of history, or even the theory of theoretical thought are without value (as I'm sure many non-academics would insist), but I'm still new enough to the Academy to feel awkward accepting these mental gymnastics as a goal unto themselves.

The theory of all this... theory, is that it is important, incredibly important, but perhaps not to the everyday man. Instead, the relevance of these deep and probing issues is to guide the semi-academic, the people who interact with both academic materials and everyday issues. They aren't expected to advance academics, nor to do practical things, but they are the ones who join the two independent worlds together through advising, etc. Sure, this is a small group of people, but the point is that they're the influential ones.

As for the Academics, they pursue academic questions out of curiousity and a lack of satisfactory answers. That their solutions, or more often new questions, result in improved understanding of practical issues by the semi-academic is of little if any consequence to the academic, even though it is very important to the larger society as a whole. Essentially, this is how individual brilliance/intellect becomes social progress.

SO, here I am, descending into academia and absolutely SQUIRMING at the process. Since I represent about 1 of the 30 people in my particular program, all of my classes are full of students from other programs. Some of them are very academic (Language & Culture, Philology, etc.) while others are shockingly practical (International Security, Business Economics). But so far all of my classes have had one thing in common: Feminists.

Now let me be clear, these aren't feminists in the 1960s conception of the term. They bear neither the scars of "liberated" personal appearance nor the benefits of a righteous cause. I'm talking about proponents of Feminists Analysis, put simply that everything worth studying should be studied from a "feminist" perspective. The argument is that every other structure of analysis is inherently masculine, and so this academic counter-point should have equal weight in every course.

I'm not questioning the validity of Feminist Analysis, nor its unique ability to provide insight on certain issues. We're studying Iraqi Literature, for example, and the contributions of women authors. Yep, Feminist approach is going to be very helpful there. We're studying modernization of traditional societies in Turkey and Iran. I'll bet the emergence of feminism will be of interest there too. But where is a "woman's perspective" different than a man's on a subject like text vs context in classical readings? How will it help us to view the works of Machiavelli through a feminist lens?

I'm a young academic, so I guess I'll figure this all out soon, but for now I'm just annoyed. Even the classes where "Feminism" is a formal part of the course curriculum, someone (yes, always a woman) has inevitably raised her hand and asked the professor if we shouldn't "give greater consideration to the Feminist Perspective on the material." Sister, your revolution started 40 years ago. That means the prof's you're dealing with now are the ones who accepted or even promoted the relevance of Feminist thought, not the oppressing establishment. If it's relevant to the material to which they've devoted their life, I think they'll include it.

So Chill.

On a structural note, I believe this blog has now exceeded the mission of it's title. With the new apartment established and a sedentary life slowly coming together in New York, I think it's fair to assert that I am no longer "On the Lamb" except by the most metaphorical of stretches. I do plan to keep blogging about life in New York, Columbia, side adventures, and other not-so-deep thoughts, but I'm stuck on one key issue: a title. And without a title, how can I start a new blog?

So now it's on you. Please post your suggestions and help me bypass the current mental block.

Thanks.

Weber (on the fence)

Rhymes with Keeno Luhrmanadze

Benefits of living in NYC:

1) Ridiculously easy public transportation.
2) Inflated sense of cultural importance.
3) More cool stuff to do than is ever possible to appreciate.
4) Relative proximity to important/powerful people.

All of these get blown out of proportion by people living here, but in each there is some grain of truth that does make New York (here used synonymously with Manhattan) pretty special. Not better than elsewhere, certainly not best, but admittedly special. Not sure how the effects or awareness of all this changes over time (I am now officially a 1-week New Yorker), but I got my first taste of #4 yesterday and it was pretty interesting.

Nino Burjanadze is a former president, and until recently, also Prime Minister of the Republic of Georgia (the one with mountains, not the right-wing secessionist dixie-mongers). She gave a lecture at Columbia's Harrimon Institute of Foreign Affairs, and by virtue of my shiny new student ID, I got to go.

I've been following the recent conflict in Georgia with considerable interest. Not sure why I'm so fixated on it, but it has something to do with my summer education on the realities of the Soviet empire and its legacies.

So when I heard about the lecture, of course I had to attend. Unfortunately, this rapt attention wasn't quite enough to get me out of my tendency for mild tardiness, so by 11 minutes after the lecture should have started, I hopped into an elevator with 8 other people. And we only pressed one button - 15, top floor. Apparently, we were all late for the same lecture.

When the car stopped on just the 12th floor, we all groaned at this extra 15 seconds of delay. We're New Yorkers, right? We've got places to go... Then things got confusing.

Have you ever been assaulted by Papparrazi? Stepped out of a car only to be flooded by bright flashes, a crush of humanity, and a half dozen microphones thrust at you like obscene ice cream cones from a suspicious-looking stranger? Well, neither have I, but the scene that greeted me as the reflective chrome doors slid open on the 12th floor was as close as I hope to get. Video crews were setup, practically pointing into the elevator, and the several crouching photographers certainly covered any angles the larger lenses left to the imagination. As if this wasn't dazzling enough, we had only a second to process it before two very large square men in dark suits pushed into the elevator to carve a nitche for two young ladies in smart suits and one late middle-aged woman in a black and white checkered jacket.

As the doors slid closed, I heard a better-informed grad student to my right whisper, "that's her." Still recovering from the dazzle of a moment ago, I jovially shot back, at an equally inaudible level, "at least we're not late."

The ensuing lecture/press conference was equally ludicrous. They planned to hold it in a room built for maybe 20 people, and so part-way through the introduction, with about 100 people still lined up outside, they elected to transition the whole affair (microphones, chairs, banners) to another room. It was like a CNN-day parade.

Things eventually got settled, my brush with regional political fame passed, and for those that are especially interested, here are some of the interesting points regarding the Georgian side of the conflict that I was able to walk away with:

Mrs. Burjanadze is of the opinion that the recent conflict is not an isolated event, and instead illustrates a dramatic new policy for the Russian Federation in regard to ensuring its influence and political (as well as economic) dominance among former Soviet Republics.

She further emphasized that the "break-away" regions of South Ossetia and Abkhazia are indisputable territories of the Republic of Georgia, and have been such since before the establishment of the Soviet Union. And further, that there exists no historical bias or ethnic tension between Georgians and Ossetians, an assertion that is not true of the Abkhaz (who engaged in ethnic cleansing of Georgians in their territory during a brief conflict in 1992-93).

Another interesting comment was that there was no such thing as a "greater Ossetia," and that the term South Ossetia is intentionally misleading to suggest that Georgia is maliciously diving a common people. Mrs. Burjanandze points out that the S. and North Ossetians are separated by some of the least-passable mountains of the Caucus, severly limiting cultural exchange. Further, she points out that North Ossetians have been restricted to the Russian language and continuing Russification efforts of their culture, while Ossetians in the South are permitted to continue speaking and teaching their language and other cultural traditions without interference from the Georgian state.

As to the most interesting and important question of the day, Why on August 7 the government of Georgia decided to assault Russian fortifications in South Ossetia and thereby ignite the imbalanced Russian response, she made one good point, and one obvious dodge. She asserted that the attack was not without provocation or context, claiming that since mid-July the Russians had stepped up their occasional cross-border shellings and made dramatic diplomatic maneuvers by creating "special relationships" between Russian President Medvedyev and the leaders of the Ossetian and Abkhaz breakaway governments, comparable to the Russian President having a secret meeting with leaders of the Alaskan Independence party. How this went all the way to a planned Georgian offensive, and on the eve of the opening of the Olympics, was not illuminated. Instead, she said, "Now is not the time to concern ourselves with these questions, not while Russian soldiers continue to occupy Georgian territory and call for regime change...Once this crisis is resolved, then wil be the time to ask such questions." Of course, the question of who threw the first punch, and what the hell they were thinking, is pretty relevant before other countries decide where to throw their weight. Nice dodge, though.

the key problem with negotiations between Georgia and Russia, as I see it, is that Georgia is willing to make any normal concessions (land, money, promises), but what Russia wants are total intagibles (retribution for independent Kosovo, reversal of West-leaning former Soviet states, etc). In short, Georgia can't give Russia anything it wants, but Russia can get everything it wants by taking it from (or out on) Georgia.

And that's where Mrs. Burjanadze had a very interesting (and deviously multi-sided) suggestion. Ostensibly, part of Russia's motivation in pursuing the Georgian conflict so aggressively was the recent bid by Georgia to become part of NATO as well as the EU. The EU is one thing, but NATO is still, largely, anti-Russian in its purpose. Georgia wants to be part of this organization so that if Russia ever does attack (again) the other NATO members will be legally obliged to intervene (militarily, not just diplomatically). The inital bid was turned down, and so Russia considered itself free to act.

Mrs. Burjanadze now suggests that since Russia is not responsive to any other incentives for peace, perhaps reconsidering the NATO membership would be an appropriate counter-measure for the negotiations. In other words, if Russia won't take any of the carrots on the table, why not put a klashnikov down and see what happens. This would be brilliant for the Georgians - if Russia steps back, they might not lose huge chunks of their territory and would only accept their current non-NATO position, while if Russia refuses, they get the NATO membership they wanted anyway. It's a bold move, one that might even trigger a further Russian offensive, though it would be harder to justify this time around.

Still, these are interesting times, and provocative comments.

I miss breakfast tacos, air conditioning, and all my friends in Texas, but feeling like I'm hovering near the pulse of international relations is pretty darn exciting. Even in an elevator.

Weber (on the Lamb?)

The Lamb goes Home

Oh sweet nectar of Civilization. I'm not sure when my world officially became addicted to internet, but I do know that the 24/7 availability of unlimited free internet is my new official definition of home-sweet-home. Sad, right?

I spent 2 months traveling around Europe; borrowing, stealing, or occasionally paying for internet access via sneaky wi-fi or the more blatant internet cafes.

I then came "home" to San Antonio to collect myself, flew back out again to New York (resuming the travel mentality), then back to SA. The transition, from away-from-home traveler to truly homeless occurred exactly 3 days before I left San Antonio. That's when, for a variety of silly reasons, the internet access just stopped.

It was like having the rug pulled out from under me, or the door locked behind me. You can never go home again, eh? Well, once the internet vacates the residence, I can't hardly stay home either. How's them for tough apples?

Road trips are road trips - I love them for the time they afford for thinking, watching the countryside, etc. One thing they don't allow for is communication, internet chief among that list.

And if the imbalance caused by being on the road (as well as the lamb) isn't enough, the odd uncertainty of finally landing in a place, in this case our new Manhattan apartment, and remaining unsettled, off-kilter, and unsure, is not my favorite.

We spent more than a week in New York without internet (this isn't quite true - I had some limited access on campus after a few days of abstinence, while shelley was left entirely without despite her best efforts).

And now - The Return of Internet. my precious.

No major revelations here, just musing on how happy I am to be back on-line in a permanent manner, and humored by how momentous the occasion hits me.

If you're terribly curious to see how the move transpired, check out the Google Map link for the "SA to NY road trip" or the new "New York Photo Album" link to the left.

By the Way, some other recent occurances:

Classes started on Tuesday. I'm enrolled in "Constitutionalism, Ataturk & Reza Shah," "Theory and Methods of Scholarship in the Middle East and Asia," "Culture & Power in Iraqi Literature," and "Cultural Development & Nation Building in Central Asia." Yeah, they love those big titles.

I also have a campus job (as yet un-started) working with a professor in the Middle Eastern Languages & Cultures department, and no word yet on the Columbia Swing Dancing or Radio (WKCR) involvement.

Finally, now that I'm finally settled in (and web connected) I think it's fair to say that for the most part, the metaphor I've grossly constructed as "the Lamb" is nearing an end. The point of the Lamb was the transition, the travel, new experiences, and open curiosity. And while I certainly intend to continue many of these traits and the lessons I've learned in the pursuit thereof, it may be time for another forced metaphor, and a new blog to accommodate it.

Stay tuned.

Weber (on the Lamb)

My week in 8 bullet points

Things I've been doing while I haven't been updating this blog as I promised I would:

* Completed 2000 mile road trip.
* Drove 16' Moving Van across Manhattan.
* Moved a half-full van into a 2nd story elevator apt (not so tough).
* Built supposedly-clever cheap furniture... with modifications.
* Attended several various Columbia Orientation Events.
* Setup E-mail, Internet, Utilities, Insurance, Vaccinations, Student Account.
* Got Columbia University ID card.
* Registered for classes (actually, just faked it - This place is 90% add/drop after classes start).

Obviously, with all the road time I've had to think, and all the crazy stuff I've had to keep up with, there's a lot on my mind, and I want to share it with you, but so long as I'm scraping my blog time from the remaining scraps of registration, etc. this is going to stay all-too-brief.

When I don't need to mooch internet time at the library (my apt is sans-internet for the next week), and when I don't need every second of web-time for more pressing matters, I promise, more to come.

Actually, I'm already leaning heavily toward a new blog incarnation (the "Lamb" motif still fits as almost everything in my world still maintains a sense of transition and flight, but as things settle down I'll need a new mis-quote), and let's face it, the Facebook phenomenon is probably something not even I can avoid forever.

So for now, please allow me to be a horrid blogger with jittery nerves and a ridiculously over-crowded apartment of cardboard boxes and half-assembled Ikea.

Soon enough I'll just be another grad student with a part-time job, and then I should have all the time in the world.

That is how it works, right?

Weber (on the Lamb)

Radio, the Road, and the Right

8 hours down, 25 hours to go. This is a cross-country road trip with little if any time for enjoyable sight-seeing, friend visits, or any of the other pleasantries that make such things worth doing. It's just me, Shelley, and a 16 foot long Penske moving van less than half full of almost our every possession.

Things I love about road trips are:
1) The scenery: and its parallels with local cultural identity
2) The abject freedom represented by the one-man:one-highway situation ("I can drive anywhere i want and there's nothing anyone can do to stop me")
3) Time to Think: uninterrupted and plentiful

SO in light of all that, this whole process of moving from San Antonio to New York isn't half bad - I certainly do have plenty of time to think and abundant scenery to enjoy (ok, looking forward to getting out of the empty prarie eventually), but oddly after a summer of nothing but travel, the prospect of covering 2,000+ miles in 4 days seems exhausting.

On top of everything else, there's this blog. Now don't get me wrong, I love sharing the (mis)adventures and mindless curiosities with you all, but the amount of time I have to think versus the limited (or non-existant) internet access and time to take advantage of such between 12hour drives makes for a very frustrating scenario.

While traveling I usually just pop in one of my many favorite CDs and glide down the road to a familiar tune, but recently I've become interested in radio-hopping around the FM dial to see what's happening in the areas I pass. Most common are generic rock or country music stations, followed by the rare unique music station, and then there's talk radio - NPR is a favorite and standardized nation-wide, but the real gem for me is conservative/religious talk radio. Don't jump to conclusions - life "on the road" has brought me no closer to Jesus than life "on the lamb," but I've always said that the best way to understand an adversary is to actually listen to what's influencing them. So I listen to a variety of different programs, usually named after the especially outspoken and boisterously self-righteous host. Sometimes I hear interesting, intelligent comments from people who happen to hold a different opinion than I do on major social issues, but most often I just witness (aurally) the continued propogation of lies, slander and sensationalism with little basis in any facts recorded outside a leather-bound NIV.

I take it as much as I can, but when I start to notice myself talking back at the little petulant voices, it's time for more music or the moderating voice of NPR. I know many conservatives consider this news source to be unabashedly liberal, and I'm willing to allow that the people who work at NPR, by and large, skew just a little left-of-center, as do the majority of college-educated, middle-income, city-dwelling Americans. However, I take great offense at the charge that a left-learning journalist must therefore produce left-leaning journalism, and while I do believe TV media has failed us all by making this falsity fact (Fox gets credit for first making partisan journalism profitable) I know it doesn't necessarily need to be so.

Any event, after a few minutes of balanced perspective and actual news reporting (as opposed to war-mongering editorialising and evangelical political prostelitizing), I still need a few more minutes of music before I re-embark on my exploration of the Right (though technically Left) end of the radio dial. And I can't even get started on AM.

This is just me venting, and like I said, there's too much time to record all the relevant thought processes I had on an 8 hour drive so far, but some items for us to all consider (while I keep driving and suffering the conservative-goes-caustic rhetoric):

1) Boy Scouting's lingering exclusion of homosexuals may remain legal as a private organization, but how much longer can they maintain the moral argument given the increasing public face of model citizens who happen to be gay (and the obvious bigotry of the homosexual-child molester association upon which they base their defense)?

2) How can the absolutist approach to anti-abortion principles (all life is sacred) ignore this same principle in the support of foreign wars, the death penalty, etc?

3) What is it about marriage that needs protecting from homosexuals? I understand that legally most churches have the right to refuse to conduct ceremonies, but I never can understand how John and John getting married in California directly affects (and threatens) Bill and Sue getting married in Mississippi? If Bill and Sue wind up divorced 3 years later (as 50% of hetero-marriages do), aren't they doing more to damage the prestige and sanctity of marriage without the Johns' help?

4) How does an American christian maintain the illusion that they are a persecuted minority? I agree, the majority of America may not be as radical as the fringes, but at most the two sides (religious and secular) are equally matched, and to claim that being forced to compromise is equivalent to full-scale persecution is the kind of irrational rhetoric that accomplishes nothing but radicalizing otherwise moderate elements, and what's to be benefitted by that?


These are all huge issues (for conservatives) in America today, and I don't have any answers whatsoever. if you do, please post them up for our collective benefit. Remember, I'm not asking you what you think about these issues, I'm asking how (as a secular American) I can expect to have a civil discourse with a staunch conservative who holds as fact so many assumptions I believe to be largely ficticious.

Where do we find common ground, and how do you reason with someone who's core belief is that rationalism is an inadequate system of logic?

Long post, not very well-formed, but something for me to keep thinking about as I roll down I-40 on my way to Nashville.

Best wishes from the road, and hopefully once I get settled in I can think more, write (less) more often, and maybe come up with a more clever on-going blog project.

-Weber (on the lamb)

Quick Update (in a NY minute)

Just a boring logistical update here folks.

I've been in New York for three days now, and I am living at warp speed. In three days I have not only researched, visited, and laid claim to an apartment (without a broker and the enormous accompanying fees), I pushed through an apartment application, filed 3 different loan applications, got a last-minute offer of university housing, canceled my earlier apartment agreement (before signing the lease or making the downpayment) and am now in the process of collecting the necessary paperwork to sign a Columbia University lease, get the keys, and move-in by Monday.

Amidst all of that I did just a touch of swing dancing, a ton of walking, and even got to hang out with my friend Becky "Face" Mateer, who just happened to be in New York as part of her huge 10+ state end-of-summer roadtrip with her bf Michael (NYC was the overnight between Virginia Beach, VA and Boston, MA).

On top of all this, I've been shuffling paperwork, faxes, e-mails and scans back and forth between me (in NY), my mother (in Oklahoma), Shelley (in San Antonio) and Shelley's dad (in The Woodlands). It doesn't help that on top of all this, Davey is moving out of our apartment this weekend, and Shelley is conducting a garage sale of all the things we can't afford to bring to NY.

Busy times, and I'd like to say that I wouldn't have it different, but honestly this is a bit much. I'm raging all day like a 9-to-5 job, and all I want to do is start graduate school. Classes don't start until Sept 2, orientation isn't even until Aug 26, but I'm already punching in extra time, so where did my summer go?

Three more days in NYC should be more relaxed, then I'm back to San Antonio for just (barely) enough time to pack an apartment into a moving van and drive cross-country (approx 1,950 miles) up to Oklahoma, an overnight in Nashville, and then onward to the Big Apple.

Busy, busy, but that's why my blogging is lagging (in both constancy and quality).

Please forgive, please be patient, and please continue having a wonderful summer as long as you can.

Weber (on the lamb and exhausted)

Home is where the (???) is

I arrived in San Antonio, a city I've only recently come to regard unequivocably as "home," late Wednesday, August 6. by August 12 I was on a plane for New York City. After more than 2 months traveling abroad with only the barest connections to the center of my known Weber-verse, I was thrust back into the thick of things and now back out again. Some observations I had follow I'm sure a very tired pattern for those more accustomed to regular travel, but they are all new and mysterious to me, so I shall relate them:

It feels immediately, and contradictarily, exhilirating to be back in a place I recognize and feel comfortable; and at the same time I'm hit with a very serious wave of almost paralyzing depression about the boringness of returning to the same-old-same-old. I look around and
my heart really does leap at the familiarity of mundane neighborhood landmarks, while at the same time I can't quite except that my "adventures" are over. By night time i'm sitting in my apartment, bags untouched, barely distrubing anything in my house, and collapsing into the same wasteful, irrelevant habits I fled from in the first place. I watch useless, crappy television, i play mindlessly on my computer, i consume horrid, unnatural snacks. In fairness, i hadn't
gotten to do any of these things for sometime, so maybe i was entitled, right?

but what's the use in living life more deliberately, in focusing on entertainment of substance, in avoiding opulence, sloth and gluttony when i allow myself such dalliances? I know that fundamentally changing a lifestyle is no easy matter, and cold turkey is rarely the most-prescribed option, but doesn't it seem like a logical, honest, serious conviction might stand up better against not even active temptation, but merely the first potential of such temptation? In other words, i had no junk TV all summer, and I didn't miss it. Honestly, i know this is hard to believe, but if i never saw another episode of Battlestar Galactica (much less another CSI, Friends, or the biggest Loser) I would be ok with that. but no! I caved. Davey (my roommate) can't even be held responsible - i didn't come home to a turned on TV calling me with its siren song, I had to pick up the remote.

Ok, I'm not really this hard on myself. the food and TV issues will resolve themselves when I get to New York - where I won't have cable or expendable income - but it raises very interesting questions for me about why we live the way we live in the places we live. Put another way, how much control does our environment exercise over out habits, even our personality, and to what degree can we resist this after habits and patterns are formed?

First, let me say that while i am not a unique specimen on this subject, there are some special people, or special moments, who do arise out of such long-standing doldrums as if effortlessly, thus rendering a broader application of my reaction moot. Still, for me it holds true - no matter my conviction or the logic to back it, changing things in a life i've established is nigh impossible without assistance from outside factors. is this just personal weakness? maybe. then again, none of the changes i've tried to make have been all that drastic, and certainly none were motivated by anything more than an impulse (no doctor told me to stop watching bad movies or i'd
die. I don't have waterworlditis). but it doesn't bode well for the prospect of "settling down." It also loads an enormous amount of responsibility to my first few months in New York. I want to take my studies seriously, i want to watch good cinema, i want to read more books, to stay in touch with my friends, to go to the gym.... but i believe that if i don't build all of this into the habits i create in my new apartment, they may never happen. And what about the apartment
itself? i'm signing papers on monday, and while i'm happy with the place i have, what about it (size, location, etc) will play a determining role in "who i am" while in new york?

these are all questions without answers (and not very interesting questions for anyone but myself at that), because ultimately there's no way to know, and only time will tell. but i'm just...
frustrated.... by the inevitability of it all. shouldn't i have more control over at least my inner will and satisfaction? I guess i do, i mean, obviously i do because who else could, but while the scary
prospect of being an individual among 10 million other individuals in a seething hive of humanity hasn't yet caused me pause, the daunting task of re-inventing myself (in small detail, anyway) along the blueprints i set up in Europe is a heavy weight.

then again, so was finding an apartment in manhattan, and that worked out ok so far. we'll just see how it all develops, and i'll try to think of much more interesting things to share with you in the turbulent days ahead.

Weber (on the lamb)

Too Lazy to be Busy, or Vice Versa?

well, I'm back in The States, at Home, etc. and I'm not sure if I'm "settling in" well or not. Some bad habits have resumed almost immediately (I actually caught myself watching Transformers on HBO when I had theoretically resolved to stop watching bad, worthless crap and substitute it with good, interesting Cinema). Otherwise, my overall productivity seems to be on a rapid decline as well, but I'm willing to blame that on the heat. I'm just not sure how much can get done when it's over 100 degrees (38 to my Euro buddies).

Anyhoo, I tried to come up with a much more poetic way to say this, and perhaps I'll keep working on it, but for now just let it be known that "the lamb," as I have misappropriated the term, is not officially over, and as such I will be continuing this blog in some form or fashion for at least the immediate future.

It's an easy rouse to pull when I'm still traveling, setting off to live out of my backpack for another week in New York as I hunt down an apartment, setup loans, and confirm all my other boring pre-enrollment paperwork. The subsequent return to San Antonio, whirlwind house packing, and final 3-day road trip literally across half the continental United States should provide adequate fodder for more trials, tribulations, and fraudulent deep thoughts. We're talking 1950+ miles, which is approximately equivalent to driving from Lisbon to Warsaw.

Then the whole process of settling into the New York life style will, I'm sure, provide its own moments of hilarity and humility (though rest assured nothing too drastic - this is a city that understands the concept of public toilets).

So yes, keep checking in if you so desire, and I'll try to keep my camera handy, my eyes open, and my mind wandering down paths of interest to a greater audience than just myself.

For the record, it does feel a little good to be home, but I do wish I was still traveling. I love my friends, I love San Antonio, and I love breakfast Tacos, but I won't lie - I wasn't "ready" to come back, I wasn't tired of traveling, of nomadism, of noisy hostels or unintelligible road signs. I could have stayed in Europe much longer, in fact perhaps indefinitely. And while that's not in the cards (and truth be told, eventually I'd want to travel elsewhere - the Caucus seems quite lively all of a sudden), I'm consoling myself by trying to keep some of the attitude and mystery of being "on the lamb" with me as I further traverse the upcoming changes and adventures ahead.

This blog is one mechanism by which I keep myself on course, distant from the complacence that otherwise settles in, so by reading it you're not just keeping up on what I'm doing, you're keeping me up on my toes.

So thanks, and please stay in touch.

Weber (on the lamb)

Friendship in LCD

One of my great flaws is a serious partiality for sentimentality in media. Certain movies, songs, etc. really catch me with their sticky, saccarine melodrama. On the downside, this results in that ever-so-annoying, "this movie/song really speaks to me" reaction, but on the plus side it means that even the lamest pop drivel can serve as a catalyst for much more interesting, substantial flights of self-discovery.

Take for example the song, "all my friends," by the band LCD Soundsystem from their latest album, Sounds of Silver. (audio link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDRLW748j68. there is a music video, but it's half as long, thus missing several good bits)

This is no pop mega-hit, but within certain circles it found national attention, and I happen to dabble in one such circle. I slapped it on my mp3 player as a last minute addition before leaving in May, and it has become one of my most-listened-to tunes (on par with Dracula, just ahead of Sufjan Stevens, and just behind the Mountain Goats).

It starts, disappointingly, with what as a jazz fan I must describe as a rather sorry piano riff, but the overall song structure continues to build from this in a slow progression so that the song is one long, continuous, uphill journey toward something more and more... defiant, resolved, upbeat, but also melancholy. It's a song about traveling, maybe, leaving, time and the ruin it brings on the things we value in the present. It's about friends, as the title suggests, and I won't ascribe much more brilliance to the song than I do to most other chart-toppers, but in my repeatedly listenings I found many triggers, quick lyrics together with the music that kept setting my mind in motion. I don't pretend to know what the song is actually "about," but here are a few excerpts and the reactions they prompted while I was somewhere over the frigid North Atlantic.

"It comes apart, the way it does in bad films."
A big theme in this song (for me) is the disintegration of social groups. The diaspora of friends and loved ones that occurs over time, but most noticeably in the post-college years. Our closest associates move hundreds, thousands of miles away, and while Facebook and Skype have made this easier to deal with, the absence is still unavoidable and we drift apart, emotionally as well as geographically. We're still friends, close friends, but paradoxically we only act like it when we're thrust back into proximity. Like a bad film, the irrationality of these "plot holes" is unavoidable, but we ignore it to enjoy the greater whole, the picture for its message, not the gritty celuloid details. It's a hard thing for me to deal with. I had some good friends when I was younger, and I'm quite pleased to say that I still think fondly of them all, look them up when I'm in the same state, and bore my girlfriend with tales of our adolescent adventures and manifold nicknames. But college. I really came out of my shell in college, and I was blessed to do so surrounded by (or because of) an especially wonderful cluster of individuals. After college a few stayed in San Antonio, about half went to Austin, and just a few ventured further out. With each successive year, one or two more has continued thier outbound trajectory, and now it's my turn to blast off. The excitement of New York (and the close friends I have there) cannot temper the utter remorse I have in leaving behind my friends.

"Where are your friends tonight?"
This effectively serves as the chorus, and picks up where the earlier verse left off. It's such a profoundly sad question. If you're friends were near at hand, this question would be unnecessary. But they aren't. It's a challenge, a rhetorical insult. Where are your friends tonight? Do you even know? The answer is that they're not here, they aren't with you (possibly even when you need them). I have friends who move and I don't know about it. On more than one occasion I've e-mailed someone to see if they wanted to hang out, only to discover they moved out of state, even out of country. I dial phone numbers that are disconnected. How many numbers in my phone give me the false sense that I could reach someone if I wanted to? How many friends could I have lost completely without even knowing it? I just changed e-mail addresses, which is not helping me feel secure about finding even people I consider very close.
You're reading this, my very personal blog, and I have no idea where you are tonight. I might not even know when the last time was we spoke, and that makes it hard for me to pretend that I'm still being the type of friend I want to be; that we're as close as I remember.

"To Tell the Truth, this could be the last time... So here we go, Like a Sales Force Into the Night"
the first part just re-hashes the earlier sentiments of loss and finality. But what about that closing image? A sales force (business, capitalism) rallying forth courageously into the black abyss of night. Salesmen have a lot of bad stereotypes, most of them deserved, but can we consider what might be good about them? Tenacious, persistent, patient, cunning? I like the image of a dozen, maybe even a hundred, plaid-suited mid-40s career salesmen with winning smiles and widening bald spots charging out of the office; their cell phones and sales charts thrust nobly forward and their briefcases and sample bags clutched to their side as shields. They pour out of the elevator like huns, they wash through the lobby as a deluge and out into the vacant parking lot where even the pale street lights and vast emptiness don't dilute their passioned, single-minded charge into the unknown future, the challenge laid before them. Is this an attitude we can apply? Can we look at the obstacles ahead in our lives and the casualties of lost friends we'll suffer with such determination? I don't know if I can, but I guess I'm going to find out, and that scares me.

"It's the Memory of our Betters that is Keeping us on our Feet"
Friendship is a very dangerous prospect. The people we get to know, the people we get close to, care about, admire and respect. These people have more influence on us than perhaps anyone else in our entire lives. They aren't sages, they aren't licensed counselors or even amateur social strategists. They're just our buddies, and odds are they're as confused and messed up as we are. At its worst, this can lead us into all manner of debacles and pitfalls. How do we recognize a bad action when it's presented to us by someone we consider a good friend? On the upside, the opposite can occur as well. In the very best of times, our friends drive us to be someone better than perhaps we would have been otherwise. I know on many occasions I've worked harder, been more patient, more open-minded, more positive because I recognized that my friends needed that of me. If left to my own devices, I spiral down into petulance, lassitude, sloth. It's the responsibility I have to my friends that often keeps me going.

"I wouldn't trade one stupid decision for another 5 years of life"
Now this is interesting. I see what he's going for, the whole youthful no-regrets, live-life-to-the-fullest-and-never-look-back vibe. But I don't agree, and more to the point I'm not sure the lyricist even believes this. Don't get me wrong - I Love stupid decisions. I think stupid decisions are one of the primary motivators for us to keep growing as people, but I also know a lot of my stupid decisions have been just that - stupid, wasteful, uneventful, uninspiring. I wouldn't mind trade many of them for a used toothbrush, much less 5 whole years. 5 years to make more stupid decisions, or even to make better choices.
What bugs me is that the song writer isn't some starry-eyed punk 16 year old who's convinced life ends at 30 so who cares about 5 more years. He's an adult and he knows better, but stuck this lyric in to appeal to his fan base, to seem cool, or maybe just to fit the rhyme scheme. The audacity of it, the bold-faced lie of his counter-wisdom assertion, just drives me crazy. Maybe there are a few stupid decisions I wouldn't trade for anything, but those are the exception, not the rule.

"If I could see all my friends tonight."
This is the counter-point to the chorus, injected as a rebuttal near the end of the song. It's an incomplete conditional phrase. If _____ then... what? There is no answer, there isn't something that seeing all his friends tonight would actually solve, but we're talking about the impression here - the impression that if he could just see all his friends again, somehow everything would be better. But he can't. It's impossible. It will never be possible again.
Over time it becomes more and more difficult to gather our friends together. Maybe we travel to see them, but still we get one or two nights, spent with one or two friends, and then poof, we're back into the isolation, patting ourselves on the back for "staying in touch" with someone we formerly shared our life with for hours every day. That's life, we grow apart and we lose some of the naive grandeur of our earlier friendships. Best-Friends-Forever is not a concept that translates well into college, and maybe college friendships don't translate into the real world. I'm no culture warrior - I'm not trying to start a revolution here - but I can still say, for the record, that this unavoidable and unreconcilable distancing of time, like icebergs sheered off of glaciers, sucks. It just sucks.


As a quick testament to all those people who have helped me become a better person, kept me sane, or put up with my oddities, I'd like to offer this minor tribute: a list of the people I call friend, new and old, close and distant. It's not complete, and for that I must apologize, please don't take offense.

Davey, Shelley, Mom & Dad, Brad and Duff, Lani, Lenneville, Keeler, Face, Livia, Danielle, Kristin, K-Lee, Ragnar, Em, Jordan, Kimi, Laura, Mike, Paul, Galen, Lyz, Manny, Prado-Fleeger and all the KRTU crew, Jordan and Jayme, Willy and Cam, Radu, Walker, Jules, Tiffany, Jo, Holly, Chapa, Thrasher, Jarny, Jeremy, Jerm La-Z, Kate, Alisha, Reavis, Critter, Stolio, BenG, Veronica, Sarah, Kinniborough, Jay and Micah, Mary T and Rev Tev, Dr's. Christ, Burton, and Huesca, Patty McMillan, Marcus, Amy, Dan, Larissa, Palandri, George, Mr's. Henzel and Meyers, Jacob Andrew Armstrong and Doug Young, Ben, Tao, Ruth, Brandi, Quentin, Marta, Andrew, Matt Murphy, Cody Cundiff, and an innumerable cast of family, acquaintances, instructors and even a few strangers.

thanks.
Weber (on the Lamb)

Cool as a Cucumber

Why does it seem that the 9th year of our life was so much more important than our 23rd?  

I don't know that this is always true - in fact an original purpose of my current trip was to disprove it, to show that you can teach an old(er) dog new tricks - but it certainly does seem that we learn so much when we're young, but by the time we reach adulthood (whenever we feel comfortable adopting the terminology, from 18 to 45) we suddenly have so much left to learn, and a great difficulty assimilating and internalizing these lessons.

We learn a lot as kids, but despite the wealth of our worldly ignorance, we think we know everything.  As we get older, we begin to understand how much we don't know, and simultaneously it becomes more difficult for us to make headway against the immense abyss of everything that's left to learn.

Take for example Cucumbers and Zuccini.

or Zuccini and Cucumbers.

Either is the same to me, for until 5 days ago I never actually knew the difference.

Strange isn't it?  Staggering, even?  I took honors courses in school, scored well on my entrance exams, got a degree Cum Laude, and was accepted into an acclaimed graduate school, and yet I never learned the difference between two simple items of produce.

Ignorance could be explained by inexperience - for example I do not to this day know the difference between a Guava and a Passion Fruit.  Perhaps I should, but I've never eaten either of these (in their natural form), so voila: inexperience excuses all.

And it's not mental dyslexia either.  Whenever I try to descibe a woman's open bottom-half garment, I call it a dress, and whenever referring to a full-body version, I call it a skirt.  I know the difference, but my brain just switches them.

Not so with Zuccini and Cucumbers!  I'm not a big fan of either, but I have been eating them (grudgingly) all my life in various salads and casseroles, without any idea what I was munching upon or how to tell the difference.  

I was in Amberg, having a bizarre German steak dish served to me on a tree stump (no joke) and I made a comment about the Cucumbers.  This is an on-going joke with Shelley and I, who often asks me to name the little green circles in my food.  I always just pick one, and say it in such a way that it sounds like I'm hamming it up.  This works excellently (and I recommend it to others) for if you are correct it sounds like you know how obvious the answer is, and if incorrect, it sounds like you're having a lark by giving the (obviously) wrong answer intentionally.  Use it wisely.

I guessed wrong (50/50 odds) but rather than let it slide, I revisited the situation with her later when we were alone.  "Shel, what is the difference between a Zuccini and a Cucumber?"

she didn't look at me like I'm an idiot - we've been dating too long for this sort of thing to surprise her - but instead she started giving me the same answer she would if asked the same question in her 2nd grade classroom.

"A Zuccini is a green vegetable from the same family as the squash, so it's thicker on one end, with a very thick stalk at the top.  A Cucumber is long and the same thickness with rounded ends and a little stem like pickles, which are made from them."

She then confessed some embarrassment about having to explain such a thing (and in such a way) to her 27 year old boyfriend.

And this got me really thinking.  First, it got me thinking about solving this green-veggie virtigo of mine once and for all.  I asked her to list off the foods each was commonly served in.  Cucumbers in salad, with yogurt, tahini, etc.  Zuccini in casseroles, pasta, whatever.  I brilliantly surmised that Cucumbers are almost always served raw, while Zuccini seem to always need cooking, and I triumphantly proclaimed, "Cool as a Cucumber, Zap the Zuccini."

this earned me a 'no duh' look, but my brain was already onto my second thought process, "who chooses what we learn when we're young, and how do we go about correcting the things we learned wrong, or never learned at all?"

The answers could lead to all manner of interesting analysis about generational racism, cultist society, and the awesome power of parents/educational institutions.  For me, I was stuck on the simplest of issues: vocabulary.

I'll bet 99% of everything we learn is from observation.  Probably more.  Probably 99.9999% of things we learn not by someone telling us, reading in a book, or even figuring out through trial and error.  We just listen, watch, and slowly assemble the vocabulary and mechanism of our world around us.

There are obvious exceptions:

"Don't touch that, it's hot."  (I touched it - lesson learned)

"the Word of the Day is 'Ubiquitous'...."  (6th grade english - quiz every friday)

"Thou Shalt Not Kill."  (rather old book - divine justice implied)

But when was I 'supposed' to learn the difference between Zuccini and Cucumbers?  That wasn't in 4th grade math, 12th grade economics, or even 8th grade sex ex.  And don't ask a university professor for the basics; they're great people, but half of them can't tie their shoelaces any better than a 10 year old (here only used to demonstrate that great minds are not always the best source of support for abjectly simple issues).

And if I wasn't supposed to learn it at school, or sunday school, or boy scouts, or youth group, or... soccer practice, then what?  Is it the parents' burden to supply us with words for every random item, concept, ideal, feeling, situation, synonym, antonym and pseudonym which we can experience as we traverse our lives?  How much does the human vocabulary grow after the age of 18, and how useful are the nuanced terminologies we pick up to impress our friends (and blog readers) anyway?

This thought process starts to amble its way into my months-long confrontation with language and being an english speaker in a diverse world forced to adapt to english limitations.  I have no conclusions, only sympathy, confusion, and a touch of guilt-by-association, but I'll save that for another time.  At least being back in London affords me the chance to not be constantly (and unintentionally) reminded of my own mono-lingual inadequacies.

Language is something best learned young, and while it's not the whole of what I'm trying to say, it is at the heart of it:  communication.  How do we communicate to another person what we think, or how we feel, if somewhere in our past, perhaps somewhere in everyone's past, the perfect concept got skipped.  How does a color-blind person describe "green" to a blind man?  Or, to be less dramatic, what is love to someone who knew abuse?  What is the point of talking these things out when, ultimately, we're using a different language.  Not french or even flemish, but we all use the words associated with the concepts we know, but these are not absolute.  You say Tomato, as the story goes, Egg Plant to Aubergine, Ciao, Nyet, and Goooooooal.  International concepts, some understood internationally, but for each of us a unique personal definition which we can only assume holds true for others, but which in point of fact may not.

the Irony of you reading all these scribblings as I try to vomit my thoughts out onto the world wide web, as a method of staying in communication, is not lost on me one bit.  For this is the language that binds us, not the words we have in common, but the assumptions we must all make in the spaces between letters.  "He said 'vomit' so that must imply he feels ______ about his writing."  "why 'flemish,' did he want to go to Belgium and not have time?"

And you are correct to do so, to read the unwritten text just as we do with body language, voice intonation, and everything else.  But these are all communications as well, and at some point we learned them, or didn't learn them, and so we must admit that even these we read through the lens of assumption.  I giggle when I get embarrassed, and I get excited when faced with fiascos, both of which are easy to misread.

And I'm nothing special.  You can all tell me stories, hundreds of them, and I hope you do, about the times when someone misunderstood you to hilarious effect.  Simple word slips to Romantic misdirections, the genre of comedy seems to be all about the breakdown of communication, with Tragedy not far behind.  

So I just learned how to identify a cucumber, and if I'm lucky tomorrow I'll learn something else I should have figured out years ago.  maybe it will be practical and useful (the conversion of lbs to kilograms), or perhaps metaphysical (I will visit Tate Modern).  But probably not.  For the same obstacle haunts me now that did 20 years ago when I never learned about the big Z and C issue:  I wasn't really paying attention.  Because it's hard, and I already know so much, and who cares anyway, right?

who cares, it's just vegetables, and feelings, and life and people.  And it's all too much to ask, and we keep trying half-heartedly, and we don't understand each other but we pretend that we do.  We live in such a way that others won't know we don't understand, and we're all willing to give each other the benefit of the doubt even though we know better, because who wants to live in a world where nobody understands you?

I've said my piece, and it means very little, but I appreciate you taking the journey with me.

Weber (on the Lamb)

(Another) Quick Update

Traveling with a partner as many, many upsides, but one downside of being in the romantic town of gay Paris with someone who you are romantically attached to is that it doesn't afford a whole lot of time for sitting in some dark little internet cafe and wasting away the hours in a hunched over position.

So anyway, Shelley and I spent 3 days in Paris after traveling from Amberg and it was great.  We knew there wouldn't be enough time to do "everything" (there never is) so we drew up a list of the must-dos and accomplished plus a couple late editions.  The one thing we didn't do was relax, but in this we were probably more traditionally touristy than we've been otherwise.

So our recommended 3-day Paris tour (for people who like architecture and exercise) includes:

The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysee, Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame, Sacre Coeur, the Pantheon, Institute du Monde Arabe, The Catacombs, and various gardens and memorials along the way. 

We saw a lot, we talked a bit, and I have several new blogs to post... but where's the time to write them all?  

I'll be getting them up as time warrants as we now close out our time on the Lamb in London with my brother and sister (in law) Duff and Larissa.  A little sight-seeing, a lot more relaxing, and several pints.  Good times.

see you all again soon, and stay tuned for more posts to come, as well as updated picasa photos, google maps, yadda yadda, you know how this works.

Weber (on the lamb)

A Non-Theological Review of Fate (and our ability to do anything about it)

As stated in the title, this is not about Religion. I've been round and round with the Christian concepts of Predestination, the conflict of Free Will in a universe created by an Omniscient God, and all of Neitzsche's fun theorums about a malevolent overlord. I'm talking about personal fate, the degree to which we can (or cannot) affect the course of our own lives. Big concept, Right? Well I haven't had much time to think intentionally about things recently, but there are a lot of riddles rattling around in my skull while I'm out busying myself with other details, and sometimes it just takes the right trigger to coalesce into coherence. In this case, it was a utter train Fiasco on the way out of Prague. here's the short version.

Get on a train. Pull out of station. Train Stops to switch engines. Engines break down. No problem, we'll get another. Back to the station, wait 90 minutes. Wait, all engines stopped working? It's ok, just wait another 70 minutes. What, the entire train station stopped working? No, the entire Prague rail system is suffering major electrical problems, stranding all trains at all 4 Prague stations. Oh shit. What now? Wait 20 minutes. now, get on a bus. If we get out of Prague one stop, the trains can still go, right? Sure. What's everyone else doing (from all trains at all stations?) the same thing? Super. New station, new Train, new destination, no seats. At least we're moving in the right direction, we'll get this all sorted out in Germany. Bingo.

During all of this, especially the long waits followed by the slow trickle of information disseminated (exclusively in Czech) by the train conductors, Shelley was in a bad situation. Not only is she still only a few days out of the states, where things seem to make more sense, or at least are adequately explained and planned for, but this is also her first train trip. Ever. So she wants to know what's going on, she wants to know what the plan is, and she wants to know why I'm not doing anything about it.

Now this sounds a bit harsh, so let me say that she was not in any way out of bounds in these requests. These were rational questions, and in fact what little information I did know was due to her going around and asking the few Czech-to-German-to-English speakers who could translate all the hubub. So in short, she was doing all that could be done, and I was sitting there like a lump on a log. And Why? Because I've been thinking a lot about situations beyond our control, and a FUBAR like this one - full shut down of the entire West-bound train traffic out of Prague - was not something I could solve, circumvent, or in any way defray. It was a unnatural disaster, we were caught in the middle of it, and my plan was to weather the storm as best I could, and eventually see what options arose. I resigned myself (ourselves in this case, which is where the friction came from) to being in a situation in which I had no control, not even much hope of control, and no better choice tha tto wait and see.

And this got me thinking about Communism.

Not actual Communism - not the theory of worker solidarity, the renaissance of the proletariat, communal resources, or hypothetical universal equality - but specifically Stalinism. The awesome scope, inflexibility, seriousness, and finality of the 1940s and early 1950s in Russia, Central Asia and Eastern Europe through the evolving sphere of Soviet ideology and influence.
Why? Many of my travels have been through former "occupied" Communist states (Estonia, Poland, Hungary, Czech, Serbia, East Berlin), and many of these had monuments, exhibits and museums dedicated either to the repressive conquest of Sovietism, or the long (and eventually successful) stuggle to overthrow it.
In addition to this, I've spent many hours investigating remnants and memorials concerning the Holocaust (concentration camps, synagogues, abandoned Jewish Quarters, etc), and while for political or religious reasons it may be uncouth to lump these two world events together, the ideology and socialogical concept of totalitarianism, xenophobia, dehumanism, anti-intellectualism, bigotry, and subjectivism these both exemplified fuses them together irrevocably in my mind. The scope doesn't hurt either. Anytime you talk about mass murder on a scale of millions so large, you aren't even sure what the final count was (between 10-100 million in the case of the original Soviet purges), it's hard not to classify it with other multi-million-member-murder clubs.
Finally, I must admit that a big motivator of this thought process is a book I'm reading by the respected (and unfortunately dead) Polish world journalist Rysard Kapuscinski, in which he travel-logues his journeys through the Soviet Republics in the 1960s and again in the turbulent years of 1989-1993, discussing not large political theorems, but hte eyewitness accounts and memoirs from people he met along the way, describing both their current dispositions and past conditions. He throws in a good chunk of his own cutting observations and analysis to produce a very good read called Imperium, and I strongly recommend it.

So picture this: It's 1939, or 42, or 48, or 51, and you're living in a not-so-small city in Poland, or Hungary, or the Ukraine, or Trajikistan. You're learning Russian, you're learning not to ask questions, you're probably very very hungry, and no matter how you go about living your life (quietly obedient, secretly subversive, enthusiastically Soviet), there is always a chance, a pretty decent one in fact, that any given night you could be forcibly taken captive and sent (with your entire family) by train or foot on a journey of thousands, tens of thousands, or kilometers to a work camp in Siberia. There, after perhaps a year of traveling, you would live out a miserable existence until cold, hunger, torture or fatigue finally killed you, and if you're a 20-30 something man, that means you'll be the last to die of your entire family - unless you look cunning or slightly angry, in which case you'll be the first.

the state is all-powerful, it cannot be resisted, and it is all-knowing thanks to the fearful reports and gossip provided by your friends, neighbors, and even family members. you could escape - maybe into the woods during a march, or off into the tundra at a train stop - but that's just a small act of destiny, choosing your method of suicide, not actual salvation.

So what do you do? What could you possibly do? Ask the hurricane to stop? Take a step to the left so the Tornado doesn't hit you? Put on SPF 50 underneath Vesuvius?

or wait and see? Bide your time, suffer your humiliations, the death of your pride and many acquaintances, all the evils you can endure because someday, maybe, just maybe it will be different.

Fight! you say? "Tis Always Nobler to Fight." To the death. This Far and No Farther. Remember the Alamo. Et cetera, et cetera. But where would that put us today? Eastern Europe suffered a population loss of... 20-30% maybe more? Obviously this was not a mechanism that balked at volume. Nazism was obsessed with efficiency, if it took 3 days to kill and cremate 1200 people, that wasn't good enough, so rather than build more inefficient crematoriums, they went back to the drawing board and redesigned their systems. The Soviets just made more bullets, or devised cheaper, less evidenciary methods. Hunger, starvation, exposure. these leave very little evidence to be destroyed later, and almost no blue prints to vilify the accused. If 10,000 people revolt, a good Soviet kills the top 1,000 organizers, and sends 9,000 people to the camps. If 100,000 people revolt, kill 10,000. In my experience, simple math is key to totalitarianism.

It's hard - no, it's chilling, to the bone, to contemplate the scenario in which millions - Hundreds of Millions - of people found themselves confronted. It has been said that Communism is one of the greatest (here meaning most ambitious) experiments in human history. I'll say that it's one of the most fascinating. A moral Litmus test (Fight the evil and die, or condone it and perhaps live another day, another week) in which no one can pass, implemented on a grand scale across the largest country on Earth and every diverse landscape and culture that it borders.

So I don't know much about Communism, living under Stalin or how it compares to the ages of Kruschev, Brezhnev, or today, an dI don't know abou tht ehard moral choices, irrational charges and instantaneous death, but for a few long hours at the Praha Smichov train station I glanced what it is to be the subject of forces beyond your control, to be stuck in the current for lack of a better option, to feel grudgingly... European? A serf, the reality of my fate no business of my own. and I didn't much like it, but I'm willing to wager that whatever sense I usually operate under that convinces me this is not my situation as well, that I do control my life, my fate, my deathe ror even my transportation destination, that this is most likely an illusion as well, and the greatest luxury I enjoy as an American (aside from Mountain Dew that tastes the way nature intended) is th eability to keep up the charade. I can drive my car where I want, live in the city I choose, say what I want in the appropriate circumstances (No "Fire" in the Theatre, you see), etc.

And that's good enough. This is freedom as much as it can be guaranteed by the powers of men - that it will not be systematically oppressed by men. And so in asking so little - the absence of aggressive repression - we ask too much, for such a state is historically so rare, and even today is not guaranteed or even readily available but for a small percentage of this globe's surface. In fact, spin a globe, close your eyes, and see where your finger stops. It is with only this much destiny that each of us are born into our fate, and with only this much control that we will depart it. I was not born under Stalin, nor did I fall under his influence at any time during my still-young life, but I didn't have any say in that; I can't take any credit and I can't feel anything but guilt for getting such an easy bill while millions - bordering on billions - of others got stuck with a tab too heavy for me to imagine.

And that's fate: it's not about religion, and it's not about Free Will or cosmic luck. It's just fate (for my uncle Marc, "location, location, location"), and you can thank your lucky stars or curse the day of your birth, and it won't matter one stick.

Is this depressing? That depends. not if you have a good fate. And if you have a bad one? Well, you can moan about it, you can check out early, or you can resign yourself to the course of things beyond your control and see if things ever get better. But just don't count on it, because that Could be depressing.

Cheers and all that.

Weber (on the Lamb)

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Florenc (metro stop)

I bumped into someone I knew yesterday in downtown Prague. Yeah, seriously, what are the odds? Well, first, let me say that the odds of finding someone who knows you is very small, while the odds of finding someone you know are actually not so bad.

Think about this. You've met people all your life, but how many of them actually remember you, or what you look like now 5-10-20 years later? How many of them could spot you on a crowded street in Prague wearing lord knows what and looking a bit confused? Now think of all the people you know. Not just friends and family, I'm talking about presidents, luminaries, actors... Ah yes, actors, those people we get to watch from every angle and in a variety of costumes over a series of years. How hard would it be to spot one of them? In a pair of cargo shorts, a long-sleeve blue T and a silly blue bandana. How hard when they have just a touch of white scruff and a pair of wire-rim glasses? Not so tough when you're only as far apart as their traditional close-up shot.

And that's how I met Tim Robbins.

A word about Tim.
Not only is he in four movies I consider masterpieces (for different reasons): Shawshank Redemption, High Fidelity, Hudsucker Proxy, Cradle Will Rock, he also happens to be a good friend of my beloved John Cusack, and is credited with "discovering" Jack Black and giving him his first movie role.

He's also an avid member of the Green Party, "partner" of Susan Sarandon, and he's been on the Colbert Report (and if you saw that episode, you know how awesome that is).

And I was standing there, pretending to look equally confused at my map while he did the same, both of us lost Americans on St. Wencelas street in Prague. I could have said something, "Hiya Tim..." but what would have been the point? I know who he is, he doesn't know anything about me, and other than a slap on the back, what could I gain from such a ploy? A photo op? I'll pass. It doesn't hurt that 2 seconds after I confirm the ID and move off, another American stumbles up, "... uh, excuse me, are you Tim Robbins...?"

SO there's my brush with celebrity in Prague. It's not the first time I've seen a celebrity, and it won't be the last. Tim Robbins probably isn't even the most exciting person I've gotten to "witness" (though given my current fascination with the novel High Fidelity, it's plenty relevant). I'm not one to worship celebrities (ok, except John Stewart, underneath whose feet bloom the fragrant golden blossoms of all that is worth hoping for), so why get all excited about this? I dunno, because it's out of the ordinary.

And there's a point in that. I'm traveling Europe, I spend almost every night in a different bed, a different city, a different country. I speak no languages, I am a foreigner, alone and among thousands, out on the dynamic journey I call the Lamb. And yet even this, after an adequate amount of time can assume a certain mantle of normality. How do I know this? Because I did get excited about seeing Tim Robbins. If you're sky diving, and you happen to see Airforce One in the distance, you don't get excited about the proximity. you make damn sure to stay focused on the dive, because that's exciting enough not to get distracted by stupid things like celebrity.

So I'm getting settled, getting accustomed, getting... restless? with all this moving around. A few more weeks of fun with Shelley should be a great way to zap my attention back on key, and after that a whirlwind move up to New York, new challenges, new people. I'll keep myself busy for awhile, and maybe I won't ruin my shorts if I pass Mr. Stewart in a bagel store. Or maybe I will. Sure would get his attention.

Anyway, that's the story of me and Tim Robbins, both equals, both lost in Prague. He of course eventually found his ridiculously posh hotel, and I found my way back to my hovel/hostel. Equal for one moment, but of course, I'm the only one who will remember it, so "equal" here is tenuous at best.

Celebrity, it's not just an American fascination, but maybe we do take it too far? Maybe? you think?

But come on, Tim Robbins... he was "Merlin" in Top Gun! He was the Public TV gangleader in Anchorman!

what's not to get excited about?

Weber (on the Lamb)

More (quick) Updates

I still have more big and boring posts to put up, but I just wanted to quickly mention that I have now added more photos (with captions) to the Picasa album, and added a new Google Map of my various sites in Berlin.

If you are Really curious.

Also, I wanted to somehow commemorate today as the official 2 month mark for my time in Europe. No big deal really, but it just struck me today how long I ve been gone and how accustomed I ve become to this style of living.

Very odd, and I m sure there s much to further analyze here, but lets take a rain check on that one. Thanks for bearing with me for 2 months and you should expect a bit of a reprieve these next 2 weeks as I get to spend time with Shelley who is joining me in Prague. I will still post, but her company will keep them much more... brief, which I think will be good for all of us.

Weber (on the lamb)

Truth in Architecture

I wish I knew more about Architecture. Actually, I wish I just knew more in general, but let's start with the specifics. Architecture seems to me especially interesting as it combines elements of mathematics and aesthetics in the very precise implementation of advanced engineering and three-dimensional sculpture all with an inverse scale of practicality and beauty, with generic square office buildings on one end, and uselessly radical curvaceous art museums on the other.
Now I'm not suggesting that I actually want to become an architect, to understand the respective stress values of common and uncommon construction materials or the principles of urban planning or mass population ergonomics.
Yuck.
But I would like to look at a building of a particular design and understand one or two things about why it is the way that it is. I'm at a stage in my travels when it's becoming apparent that not only do I not have the answers to the questions that confront me, I don't even have the tools, the vocabulary, the language, in which to go about searching for the answers. This isn't a new situation, just a final realization that no matter how many museums I visit or how bright I might think I am, some things are just beyond my conceptual grasp, and no amount of raw thinking is going to change that. It's a bit depressing actually, I'd really rather believe that if I spent long enough, I could come up with the answer to anything, like how to understand the prevalent anti-German hatred I keep seeing, or the rationale behind lingering racism in a post-Holocaust Europe.

At least with Architecture I have a chance - my eyes still work. Gothic vs. Classical. Catholic vs Orthodox traditions. Old, New, Old trying to look New and New trying to look Old. Spires, domes, towers, buttresses, minarets and steeples. Gotcha. So I'm an amateur, and not much of one at that, but I like to think I have at least a handle on basic structures and forms. I can from memory or imagination draw several different examples of Churches, or maybe two or three types of Mosques, but what's really stumping me is annoyingly simple. Try this exercise with me. Close your eyes. Ok, Not yet smartass. Read to the end of the paragraph then close your eyes. Now I want you to picture a synagogue. In your head. From memory or imagination, I don't care, but if you've already got a tab open for Wikipedia I will kill you.

Now draw it. Yeah, you're not getting off the hook that easily. Draw whatever you want, the main worship room, the Torah Ark, the table, the building's facade, whatever.

How's that coming?

OK, maybe you're more clever than I, and if put to the test, sure, I could come up with something. I went many times to Temple B'Nai Israel with my friend Davey while growing up, but to be honest, I don't recall much about it that made it stand apart from any other 1970s era semi-New Age small office buildings (sorry Davey).

So what the hell does a synagogue look like? Well, you might think Eastern Europe would be a good place to find out, and you'd be somewhat correct.

While taking a walking tour of Subotica, Serbia, we passed a large run-down building of red and yellow brick with a distinct, glossy green and yellow tiled roof. It was incredible, but didn't have any of the markings I'd come to know to look for in a church, a mosque, a train station, a town square, an armoury, or any other building of public use. So I asked the tour guide, "Hey, what's this?"
He managed not to look at me like I was the stupidest person he'd ever met, and instead replied almost politely, "well, it's a synagogue, of course. see the 6-sided stars?"

And you know what, I had seen those, but in my brain Judiasm used a 6-sided star comprised of two equal inverted triangles (the Star of David). This was like an asterix (*) six points thrust acutely away from each other, and apparently it also had Jewish connotations.

But what else, oh tour guide master? What else marks this as a synagogue? "Nothing, that's Hungarian architecture, and this is the only synagogue in the world with that style of roof."

Great, progress. I just happened upon a synagogue that is unique, that's no help in understanding the basic forms.

So I went to Budapest, and cleverly booked a hostel just around the corner from the second largest synagogue in the world (first is in New York - sorry Jerusalem). the Dohany Synagogue (literally, "Great Synagogue") is truly a marvel wrapped inside a conundrum, or the other way around, to abuse a phrase. When I first walked past I was struck first by how cool it looked, and immediately thereafter by the fact that I had no reference point within which to place it. It's like when you taste something for the first time that has no similarity to anything else you've ever tasted before. Imagine eating shrimp after growing up on a diet of beef and potatoes. It's good, but your brain kicks into hyperdrive trying to categorize it. Sure, it's meaty, but also fishy, and a little sweet, but not, you know, sugar sweet, more like... fruit? No that's not right...

So there I stood, blessedly with my mouth closed, looking at this magnificent structure I couldn't categorize, and I thought, "OK, so This is what a synagogue looks like." And I started taking it all in. The bricks, the floor plan, the two black spheres on top of the towers with gold hebrew lettering around their equators, even the horseshoes-turned clover pattern on the windows. Surely it all had meaning in some ancient, Jewish connection to mysticism or practicality.

The experience demanded a return and a more thorough inspection, so my companion Marta and I kicked in for the full tour (go go gadget student discount), and I prepared for an education.

Well I got one all right. We're about 30 seconds into the tour when the guide essentially says, "Hey, notice all this bizarre architecture? Well I'm gonna tell you really interesting, useful stuff about it, but you should just know that it isn't actually Jewish in origin at all."

That's right, another red herring (is this the right phrase? I'm an Okie, so marine metaphors have always confused me). It wasn't an archetype of Jewish architecture, in fact it was brilliantly designed by a German Catholic to accommodate the religios needs of the local Jewish community while incorporating as many Christian and Muslim elements as possible to better assimilate the structure into the fabric of Budapest. Catholic pews, Orthodox pulpits, even a full pipe organ, to go along with the baroque chandeliers and Moorish floor tiles.

so where does this leave me? Well first, I must strongly recommend that you visit the Dohany Synagogue if ever you are in Budapest. It's freakin awesome, and I wish I could tell you that all synagogues were somehow similar to its brilliant and unique synthesis. But otherwise, essentially at a dead end. There are other synagogues in Budapest, and I walked past them, but they have practically nothing in common either.

From this I can draw all sorts of conclusions, about the necessity of minority Jewish cultures in Europe to blend in, but that doesn't hold water, for if it did Yiddish and other outward delineations would have been phased out as well. I can think and think, but I can't find the answer. maybe one of you knows the answer, maybe most of you think you know the answer. For me, the basic question of synagogue architecture is my unicorn. Maybe the answer isn't even out there at all, or maybe it's stalking behind me and poking me with its horn when I'm not looking. I don't know, but with the vast amount of things I just don't know, I very much doubt it will be the last unicorn I need to hunt down, and I would certainly feel a lot better if I could start with getting one or two of those frisky fellows mounted on the wall. Apologies to my Unicorn-Loving readers, but I do have family members engaged in taxidermy, and I think the prospect of mounting a one-point doe is something they'd be into.

So happy hunting to all of you on your various quests for knowledge, send in your comments on Jewish architecture or the futility of any great quest for understanding, and otherwise I'll look forward to seeing you all again soon enough wherever the Lamb takes me.

Weber

(Please note: I will be posting pictures soon. My hostel CPU doesn't like USB drives, but when I hit an internet cafe I'll get up several visuals to illustrate my points)