Violence: how does it work? Also cats (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH Opinion column)

I used to live with a cat.

His name is Simba, but I called him Cat for simplicity's sake. That was the role he played in my life, so it seemed silly to call him anything else.

Our relationship was mostly a healthy one. I'd pet him, he'd paw me in the face -- it wasn't my job to feed him or clean his poop-box, so to me he was just a furry, naked roommate who rubbed his butt on the couch and wasn't allowed to leave the house.

But life gets crazy and tense, and cats get annoying.

Sometimes it'd start with biting or clawing me as I waved colorful things in his face -- he was just playing, and I knew that -- but before I knew what was happening, I'd smacked him upside the head.

And sometimes I didn't even need that much provocation. Sleep deprivation and high levels of stress mean low pain tolerance and jumpy as hell. There were mornings when all it would take for me to fly off the handle was the slightest interruption.

He'd jump and tap me on the back like a toddler starting a game of tag and I'd hurl the closest notebook at him. He'd approach me, all of a sudden asking for attention, and instantly I'd retaliate -- pushing him away or gesturing violently until he'd leave me alone.

It's easy to dismiss -- he was never visibly injured or obviously afraid of me, but I knew I was doing something both wrong and irrational. And after hitting him, I'd immediately regret it.

Of course honest remorse doesn't excuse abusing another living, feeling animal. And earnestly repenting didn't stop me from doing it again.

But why? In no other situation am I anything that could be considered an angry or aggressive person. With Cat, however, I'd lash out without provocation or restraint.

Why? Because I can. I'm allowed to. Because my brain must know without my conscious go-ahead that there is nothing and no one to stop me.

I respect Cat as a fellow creature, equal to me in abstract terms; I even feel love for him; but I know he is weak, wholly in my power, a cuddly whipping boy on which to take out my momentary rage. I like play time with Cat, but this is not play time. Like the domineering older brother, I alone decide when it's play time.

That is a problem. I'm working through it, but let's leave my personal character out of the question for now. I might just be deflecting, but what's more concerning to me is what this implies about violence in general.

I can't help but wonder how this particular power dynamic must be replicated elsewhere. How much violence between siblings, spouses and nations must arise simply from this sense of control, this sense that one can act without fear of retribution?



http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/10/violence-how-does-it-work-also-cats

Seattle Styles Find Fans at the 506 (Chapelboro music review)

My favorite thing about concerts in small venues (and simultaneously my least favorite thing) is that awkward semi-circle of vacant space that sometimes materializes in front of the stage. It's like a bubble of audience hesitation, a buffer that persists until the opening band is finished wooing--although sometimes it isn't until the next band comes on that people have started to get over themselves.

It's up to the band--the dominant actor in this particular culturally-structured relationship--to put the audience at ease, smile, demonstrate an interest in how the audience is feeling, and maybe pick up the bill for dinner. An effective band can quickly build that sort of intimacy, drawing the audience closer in spite of themselves, provoking them into holding up their end of the social bargain--by which I mean cheering, for Christ's sake.

Then that uncomfortable void of fans and participation, left open as if everyone in the bar is waiting for the "real" fans to get there, finally fills in, thus creating space for something one might call "enthusiasm" to begin to take shape.

It's even worse when the "real fans" really are few, and the fans serving as crude substitutes all happen to be students here for a graded assignment. But I guess that's the college town curse?

It's Sunday Oct. 20th, and Local 506 is swarming with students coyly tapping their feet. The bartender eyes my ID warily, graciously nodding and letting her guard down once she decides it's trustworthy, mentally sorting me into the "in crowd," as opposed to the underage liabilities most of the bar is crowded with. The overpriced PBR tallboy isn't worth it, but it feels good to be trusted.

The lead singer of the Mercators, the first band of the night, is understandably bitter about the crowd. "I'm looking forward to the next two bands, as I'm sure you are," he says in a desperate attempt to fill silence between songs, which comes off as a sad attempt at angry irony. He glances quickly out into the crowd, searching for a hint of participatory feeling to grasp onto--several students look down as if to avoid his glare, dutifully scribbling observations onto notepads.

The Mercators are a straightforward, no-frills rock band from Durham, and they manage to put on a fine show. Perhaps they could've coaxed a slightly less studious audience out of its collective shell? Who knows? But it's Seattle-based psych rock band Rose Windows that really gets the crowd rolling--the 30-minute sound check somehow works to get everyone amped up and expectant, but on its face it still seems like a risky venture.

With all of eight band members on stage, however, I suppose a 30-minute sound check might be worth it. Rose Windows, once they finally get going, really get going. With their eerily layered harmonies, spastic instrumentation and creepy lyrics and attitude, their music takes you in like a '60s acid trip laced with hard rock rhythms and distorted bass guitar.

And after nearly an hour of coasting on Rose Windows' edgy melodies like a hippie trapped in a groovy industrial age, the final band takes the stage. The Moondoggies are another Seattle band, but stylistically they come from a far different place than Rose Windows. A colder one. Probably with mountains, too.

If Rose Windows are behind closed doors, sampling mind-altering substances and penning high-minded, introspective lyrics, the Moondoggies are piling in a van and coming down from snow-capped mountains, writing words on the run and building a sound out of what they found in the trunk--namely, fire tinder and two-by-fours of modern folk and electric blues.

But the weirdest part is that the Moondoggies and Rose Windows, despite the different paths taken, somehow get to the same place. It's clear from their sounds and attitudes that they come out of the same scene, which just gives the listeners some interesting extra context to consider as they're enjoying the distinct flavors.



http://chapelboro.com/lifestyle/arts-entertainment/seattle-styles-find-fans-at-the-506/

Taking Stock of Shakori (Chapelboro music review)

How on earth are you supposed to communicate an experience with writing anyway? In a neat list of events, chronologically ordered? In one-word sentences and eclectic artsy sentence fragments? In a rapid series of photo captions and hash tags? Personally, I prefer the anecdote.

We were looking for a fire to warm ourselves on Friday, the first night I spent at Shakori, when we stumbled upon what we thought must have been the community fire pit we'd heard so much about -- I've never been good at reading maps.

We lay down our blanket and settled in, immediately welcomed by the variety of people already around the fire. We casually chatted with a neighbor about the bands we'd heard that day and his future career working with alternative energy sources (after getting his foot in the door of the industry by way of the nuclear sector, naturally), and just generally enjoyed the fire, their company and the oddly Halloween-y decorations in the trees all around us.

After an hour of chips and salsa and an extensive late-night meal of potato soup served in Solo cups (all courtesy of our friends at the fire), we went back to our tent to get some sleep, despite the loudly roving packs of teenagers wandering and the bands of baby boomers playing Creedence Clearwater Revival covers at all hours of night. But it wasn't until we started settling in for the night that we realized we'd just inserted ourselves into a random family's fire circle -- the shared fire pit was on the whole other side of the festival.

Like many families at the Shakori Hills GrassRoots Festival, they've been going for years. For many young adults there, they are simply carrying on a tradition they've participated in since childhood. For them, Shakori and its semi-annual music festivals represent more than a chance to soak up some music and finally get some use out of your coozies -- it's a piece of their childhood.

That's the most striking thing about the festival: the shockingly wide range of ages and demographics. From kids climbing on train cars and getting their faces painted, to elderly hippies dancing in nothing but oversized overalls, there's something for everyone. (And sometimes a little too much.)

All I wanted to do was wander through and around and soak it all in. I'd settle in at the porch of the Coffee Barn, sipping some wonderful caffeine (of Larry's Beans, the Larry of which dropped in and actually did some roasting workshops over the weekend sa well), and then I'd just enjoy the drizzle and my neighbors' conversation.

I drifted by the poetry slam in progress and the festival-goers gathering in the meditative Peace Park, all the while letting the music mix and clash in the air. All at once I'd hear the drum circle back behind me, further into the woods, I'd hear something slow and brassy coming softly through the trees from the main stage, and I'd catch a funky blues riff on guitar or a long mandolin run soaring through the air from the field upwind. All those elements and more, countless characters all chatting and jamming on their respective styles and instruments, all blended together around and for me. Then I'd separate them and pick one to trace, like one chain of dazzling lights among many, tangled in a monstrous, lit-up ball of hectic seasonal tradition.

All that color, all that commotion, all that personality. It's a bit overwhelming, but it's something special.

The next Shakori Hills GrassRoots Festival of Music & Dance will be in April. Healthy traditions in progress are like sturdy old trains in motion: they're oddly majestic and nostalgic to watch roll by, but nothing compares to the feel of being on board yourself. Everything seems so much less finite when your only angle is from the inside out -- and I wouldn't have it any other way.



www.chapelboro.com/lifestyle/arts-entertainment/taking-stock-of-shakori/

Step back from the plate (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH opinion column)

 Rest assured, your mom meant well. But she might have been unwittingly throwing you into a self-destructive path to compulsive overeating. But hey! No harm, no foul -- only diabetes, heart disease and high cholesterol, right?

I'm exaggerating, but what's a little hyperbole among friends? Maybe I should explain before I start throwing punches, accusations and yo' mama jokes. Well, here we go:

Overeating is like having to fire somebody. When you first try it out, it sucks. It's gut-wrenching, time slows down, you start to tear up a little and you wish you could take everything back because what are they going to do now? Your stomach and your employee's adorable children all cry out for mercy, but you have to do it -- otherwise you don't get dessert.

After a few more times through, it gets easier. You gradually grow numb to the desperate, helpless whining of your unsettled stomach/suddenly unemployed underling. Enough gorging yourself or corporate downsizing and you'll stop feeling even the slightest twinge of guilt or bloated nausea. You even start enjoying it.

Allow me to illustrate: Once upon a time I was in Spain, living with a wonderfully grumpy lady who liked to make fun of my Spanish and regularly scold me for the way I dressed myself.

But when she wasn't busy making my study-abroad experience the amazing, life-changing, paradigm-rattling, blah yadda blah, multiculturalism, etc. experience that it was, she liked to make me and my roommates enormous meals of ham and/or mayonnaise and/or olive oil. (Spanish national diet in a greasy nutshell. Drenched in gazpacho.)

Naturally, she stuffed us like burritos -- which is odd, because few people in Spain even know what a burrito is. At first I was acutely aware of my appetite, wincing with every superfluous spoonful of lentils and fried pork I shoveled down my convulsive oropharynx, anxiously attempting to act with some semblance of courtesy for my host mother. (She really was great, I promise.)

It got easier later on, but I realized something had changed inside me once I left Spain and returned to the land of more reasonable portion sizes. (France. Not America by any means.)

Conditioned to turn off my satiation signals like silencing a phone, I found myself overeating by default. I would try to listen to my appetite and gauge my hunger, but it was like looking for gelatin in a ball pit -- by which I mean challenging, and a far bit more slimy and queasy than a needle in a haystack.

I've worked hard to strengthen that instinct again since, but I can't shake the feeling that training our children from birth to ignore these sorts of messages from their bodies might be a bad idea.

It's also funny that we manage to use global poverty ("There are children starving in Africa/Asia/the streets of any major city") to help inculcate bad eating habits and lay the lipidous groundwork for later binge eating and obesity.

But maybe funny isn't the right word.




http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/10/step-back-from-the-plate

Call me crazy, but then what? (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH column)

So we as a society see someone do something crazy, right? Crazy here meaning demonstrably irrational -- something we can't imagine ourselves doing, be it climbing a water tower, whispering madly to oneself about gophers, wearing clashing plaids or mass murder.

"Well, that's insane," we say to ourselves. "Totally senseless." We call it "crazy," and that's descriptive. It describes how alien the action is to us.

Then we look at the particular perpetrator of this act, and as with the act, we attempt to understand them -- not so much a conscious thing, but more of an automatic reaction where our brain sees something new and instinctively tries to wrap itself around it like white blood cells digesting a bacterial infection.

Failing to understand this person, we call him or her crazy. This is also descriptive -- we're noting that this particular person is in the habit of doing things we find to be eccentric, unnerving or horrifying in a conventional, logical or moral sense.

Here's where it gets tricky. Having bracketed off the actor and actions as "loony," our brain can simply stop trying to understand them. And then suddenly, "crazy" becomes more than descriptive. Now it's an explanation.

Now the "crazy" of the person is the reason and the origin of the "crazy" actions that we've been failing to comprehend. What'd they do? Oh my God, that's insane. Why'd they do it? Oh my God, it's because they're insane -- case closed, that's all there is to it.

This is misleading for a number of reasons. Also dangerous.

Up until now we've been using the word only to diagnose people and actions in terms of our particular view of the world. But this "crazy" can be easily conflated with the "crazy" that implies a professional medical diagnosis, which brings with it a greater sense of legitimacy.

But we might as well confuse the anecdotal and the medical crazies for now, because they're both a part of the same big fallacy.

We're assuming this irrational person is a closed system -- a little line segment of insanity unto itself that shares absolutely no points with any other ray, line or quadrilateral of earthly existence or humanity.

We can't even be parallel to the crazy line, because that would imply some sort of common trajectory, which is ridiculous because they're crazy and I don't know why.

And equipping ourselves with fancy medical terminology that attempts to do more than describe the crazy only perpetuates this problem. Oh, they have a disease -- chemicals in their brain made them do it.

But chemicals in our brain are responsible for everything we do. Every time I get angry you could simply ignore any of the possible causes of my anger and blame the chemicals in my brain -- and you'd be right!

But you'd be missing something. And it'd probably just make me angrier.



http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/09/col-0919

Go home America, you're drunk (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH Column)

Title credits fade. We open on a wide shot, panning across the bloody, urban desert. America is a rogue cop, fed up with the bureaucratic nonsense and moral decay of modern society. He hits the streets like a medieval cowboy, cruising through today's international wasteland, dealing out his own blend of backwoods, home-distillery justice. Vigilante justice, that is.

So look out Lex Luthor; watch out al-Assad, because when grizzled ex-detective America comes back out of retirement, no one is safe from his hairy, irrational bravado.

But wait! "Rogue cop" feels far too 20th century -- and a little too straightforward as far as moral logic is concerned. That's obviously America for some, but I'm not satisfied yet. Let's try that again.

America is a superhero (global superpower, right?). But not one of those infallible and covertly jingoistic heroes like Captain America or Superman -- although there's definitely something of America in both of them.

No, America is one of those morally ambiguous heroes, like Batman, the Punisher, the Boondock Saints or someone from the "Watchmen." (And who watches the Watchmen? Certainly not the U.N.)

But letting America be Batman is giving the nation far too much credit. Clever and resourceful? Maybe. Ignorant of laws and customs, here and abroad? Well, yeah. Vengeful and affluent? Most definitely.

But Batman is at least aware of his collateral damage -- not to mention subtle (don't make me laugh, CIA). He has the foresight to understand that his actions have consequences, and that people he hurts might get angry and try to hurt him back.

And then there's that not insignificant ethical factor about Batman's aversion to guns and murder. I can't think of many superheroes who'd feel all right with bombing the biological daylights out of Baghdad or indiscriminately killing with assault drones.

America is a caped crusader, fighting for principles more essential and basic than any codified set of "laws." It's funny though that "caped crusader" has "crusade" built right in, which is pretty much modern shorthand for "severely misplaced fervor based on a sense of one's own cultural or national superiority, easily giving rise to violent irrationality."

I should be clear: These are Americas of the past (I hope). Bruce Wayne isn't that bad a guy! And I'm not saying vigilante justice is always inherently wrong. (Lord knows we might've used some in Rwanda.)

But America the Exceptional is that crusty old vigilante who keeps dramatically faking his death just to unexpectedly and "reluctantly" come out of retirement again -- as soon as another foolish young cop or endangered nation-state comes along to draw him out of the manor and into the street of extralegal intervention one more time.

So let's get out of that manor on the hill and find a different route. We can participate in some round-table discussions and make Gotham a little brighter. But let's put away that cape and cowl for good.



http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/09/col-0905

Let's all go play spot the zebra (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH column)

On lazy afternoons, when I get bored of worrying about the future or forgetting to plan for it, I like to wander down lists of published scientific studies, just waiting until I'm surprised. I recommend it!

Of course a lot of them are just common sense. Do we really need science to confirm for us that confidence is attractive or peer pressure is effective? And that chocolate makes people happy? Well duh, that's why we eat it.

It's the surprise that's important. I want the weird ones that make me immediately skeptical or confused. I want the ones that come barreling in out of nowhere, making my interpretive schemata do a somersaulting belly flop in my prefrontal cortex.

Did you know ADHD in children has been linked to obesity later on? Also, crazy and creative people have eerily similar brains, and whiskey can be good for you! And by the way, every rise and fall of violent crime in the last half-century has been closely and strongly linked to changing rates of childhood lead exposure.

You see, as I'm learning, I don't want my new facts to just fit happily in with my view of the world like a toy poodle poking his head out of a pillowcase. I want to see them rip into my self-contained ideological paradigm like a dachshund trying to dig candy out of a Christmas stocking.

As humans, we're really good at interpreting everything in a way that conveniently leaves all our basic assumptions and prejudices intact.

Our worldviews come equipped with dense turtle shells for shielding themselves, for weathering the storm of new ideas. We're replete with defense mechanisms like a wealthy family in the suburbs, using fiberglass and cotton to insulate ourselves against different or contrary ways of thinking.

So exposing yourself to different ways of thinking is just a way of stretching and stress-testing your too-comfortable worldview. You can look up studies online or just find someone to debate with -- preferably someone you angrily disagree with.

(If your first instinct after they voice their opinion is to punch them, then it's going to be a productive discussion, assuming you don't punch them.)

It's like I'm taking my confirmation bias out for a walk. It nods a lot, shakes its head and tuts-tuts disparagingly, pees on a mailbox once or twice and then yips and drags me forward if it catches a whiff of anything about mental health or international terrorism.

Every now and then, however, a zebra nosedives out of the woods and gives my perspectival mutt the scare of its life.

Or what looked originally like a sedentary neighbor charges up and bites its tail off, and I'm left trying to patch up a bloody stump on my conceptual understanding of human society.

But it heals fast, and I'm better for it. And it's good for the heart! Not unlike whiskey, apparently.


http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/08/col-0822