…when it [storage] is not provided, it usually means that some other space becomes the receptacle for all the bulky, marginal things that people need to store.

A Pattern Language, Christopher Alexander

There was no way we were paying movers to move three laundry baskets, rusted tomato cages, quart cans of paint samples, or ten file drawers of files across the country from our house in Minneapolis to Chicago. So pre-move, we debulked and decluttered, recycled and shredded. In those ten file drawers I found copies of time sheets from a job I had held for nine months in 1996. I found a file of Winter and Spring solstice cards from Emily Autumn each featuring a portrait of her and a series of lop-eared rabbits—all of them named Ezekiel. In the portraits Emily and Ezekiel I, II, or III are wearing seasonal appropriate matching outfits: reindeer antlers, crocheted tulip bonnets, Santa hats. In the basement I found a tackle box with fishing lures that had never touched water, a rusted cast iron skillet, a set of food storage containers without lids, a shoebox of unlabeled cassette tapes that could contain interviews of attorneys at a law firm that had hired me to write firm bios, mixes of road trip music, or memories of Sicily in my grandmother’s broken English.

It all went. Into the dumpster, to the curb; we gave it away to friends or neighbors or charities. None of that crap was going with us.

We moved all our other crap, all the crap we had determined we couldn’t live without, to Chicago. We felt streamlined and righteous. We were lean and trim, without surplus or extraneous stuff.

We were so full of crap.

By the time we moved to Chicago, I had packed and unpacked a few boxes in a few different houses through a few moves. I was an old hand at organizing spices (sweet to savory), setting up the linen closet, and how to determine what stuff gets stored in the garage and what stuff lives in the basement.

There is something simultaneously appealing and repellant about having a place for all our stuff. “Where I put stuff” is a popular blog title for clutter consultant bloggers, and collectors and designers. Deceased comedian George Carlin has a bit about “finding a place for our stuff” and the anxiety provoked when our stuff is displaced. “Storage Wars” is a reality show on A&E about the business of buying the contents of repossessed storage lockers; about the abandonment of stuff.

There was a woman I worked with in Minneapolis who took all her stuff with her when she filed for divorce. She was staying with friends while she and her husband settled on the house and had put her stuff in a storage locker. Every Sunday morning, like a weekly therapy appointment, she’d take a cup of coffee and visit her stuff. She pulled coats and sweaters out of the storage unit, and put away shorts and tank tops. She visited the antique Persian rug, the rosewood box that held the dead dog’s ashes, the six boxes of her grandmother’s china marked FRAGILE, and the king-sized bedding set that cost as much as six months’ rent on the storage unit for the bed she didn’t sleep in anymore.

According to the trade group Self Storage Association, nearly 1 in 10 US households currently rent a self-storage unit. In the last two years, close to a million households have joined the ranks of storage renters, and there is now more than two billion square feet of rental storage space in the United States.

There is a myth we tell ourselves that our lives would be different if everything was in its place. If we knew where to find the car title, if the trellis netting and the garden pruner and trowel were together in the same place; if there were printed file labels on the files and the manila files were in hanging files and if the hanging files were hanging in a file cabinet that wasn’t too hideous looking and matched the other file cabinet and both file cabinets were accessible and not in the cold basement or in the dark closet and all the drawers could be easily pulled out and when a drawer was pulled out the file cabinet didn’t tip over. How retro, you’re thinking, right? What about electronic files? Scan the paper, convert it to a .pdf. Everything else already exists electronically or can be accessed electronically except the two-foot long mortgage documents, your daughter’s fourth grade report on the pyramids, the birthday card from your dead grandmother.

Disorder is equated with creativity, a messy desk, the sign of a creative mind; a cluttered kitchen counter anticipates a Moroccan stew and braised kale in coconut milk. Too much order and you get banality, too little and you get paralysis and cereal for dinner. Gaston Bachelard posited that where we put our stuff, “wardrobes with their shelves, desks with their drawers, and chests with their false bottoms” represent “intimate space,” and further that

Only an indigent soul would put just anything in a wardrobe. To put just anything just any way, in just any piece of furniture, is the mark of unusual weakness in the function of inhabiting. In the wardrobe there exists a center of order that protects the entire house against uncurbed disorder.

—from The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard

I confess to a longing for the intimacy of wardrobes and Globe Wernike bookcases, for rusty metal cabinets and green glass jars to protect me against “uncurbed disorder” and to store all my bulky, marginal things, all the stuff that follows me across country; that organizes my thinking but doesn’t relieve the regret that I didn’t scan and save at least one of the Emily Autumn and lop-eared Ezekiel portraits.

Four Loko has been needlessly demonized thanks to a number of news stories reporting the ill effects on numerous underage drinkers, particularly a story out of Washington state regarding nine students suffering from alcohol poisoning after a party where Four Loko was served. The problem with Four Loko, much like Sparks, JaegerBombs (and, I don’t know, ummm ,Goldschlager?) before it is not an issue of it being the Devil’s drink. It’s an issue of hovering “helicopter parents” unwilling to accept any degree of responsibility. Also, it’s a matter of America’s youth craving the forbidden. Alcohol for so many teens is THE apple in Garden. But before I really dive into who is at fault, let’s talk some more about Four Loko.

Four Loko tastes absolutely disgusting to my palate. I have had about four or five cans of it in my life, all in the past six months and all in party settings. I’ve tried fruit punch, grape, watermelon and lemonade. Without question lemonade is the best tasting of the flavors I’ve had; by no means should that be confused for it tasting “good”.

I have bought Four Loko with the explicit understanding (whilst sober) that I will be getting absolutely wasted that night. That, in some social instances, can be the point of drinking. Blowing some steam off. Tore up from the floor up. Et cetera. As I’ve gotten older, this urge has certainly calmed down, but it rears its ugly and urgent head every so often. And you can stop smirking, because I know that everyone out there** has the urge to get a lot silly on grandpa’s cough syrup from time to time. So anyway, Four Loko certainly will do that, if you’re willing to choke down the saccharine–sugary and diabetic to the point it’s reminiscent of one of Exley’s glucose infusions from “A Fan’s Notes”– concoction with a finish that evokes Malort and spoiled cough syrup.

The primary demographic for getting wasted is, of course, the underage college set. Liberated from the chains of mom and dad’s curfews and rules, free to drink and drink and drink and drink (and occasionally fornicate and even more occasionally study). Let’s face it, America’s college students, even those under 21, are an intentional bullseye for all booze companies. But let’s not blame Four Loko for getting college students or anyone else wasted. The cans of Four Loko, I will argue, are vastly superior to giggly sorority girls dumping many times the recommended serving of Malibu rum into an oversized plastic cup from say the dorm cafeteria and then mixing with a splash of [generic diet soda]. Four Loko too, is way smarter than a collection of college bros chugging shots of MGD on a Friday night to join the Century Club. Why? Because at least with Four Loko you’re getting exactly what it says on the can: 23.5 ounces. 12.5%.

With so many college (and high school) drinking situations, the problem is what and how much of what is going into any cocktail, or red, plastic cup. Say what you want about the serving size and alcohol by volume, but Four Loko is a controlled amount –and in my experiences many people choose to simply split one of the cans. This is advised, your stomach and GI will thank you for the limited amounts of sugary booze to breakdown. More to the point however, is the problem of college students not being so able to deal with their problems: alcohol-related, academic-related, it’s doesn’t matter.This generation of college students is not so fond of “complete independence.” No instead, we’re really looking at the face of America’s future: a baby boomer-reared, coddled generation of boys and girls in adults clothing. They are just as quick to whip out their whiz-bang iPhones and call Mom or Dad and complain about low grades than talk with an academic advisor.

Much has been already put to pen re: Helicopter Parents. But I will say this: Back the fuck up, parents. Your child needs to learn how to make decisions for his or herself. If they make the wrong decision, even if it involves downing four shots of Southern Comfort after already drinking for an entire day, so be it. If their “life experience” comes in the form of drinking a Four Loko or two, so be it. If it so happens to be them buying illegal drugs and going on a vision quest, so be it. Young adults are exactly that, adults who are young. Yes, they lack experiences. No, they aren’t going to listen to you. Yes, they’ll still beg you for “book money” and undeniably go ahead and blow it on recreational “fun.” And most importantly, they need to make their own choices, mistakes and “eureka” moments on their own.

Learning how to handle and condition yourself to social setting where booze will be available is part of the formal education that you get in college, or as an apprentice or whatever. Confoundingly an article was released on WebMD this past February citing “College-age drinkers who swill alcoholic energy-drink cocktails are three times more likely than alcohol-only drinkers to leave a bar drunk.” To which I say, “well, duh!” The people who point to such articles as this one –which cites studies from a University of Florida study on booze and caffeine– are missing the blooming point. College students and young adults that aren’t even in college want to get shit-hammered!! on booze and anything else they can get their grubby mitts on. Booze for so many American youths has been a taboo for their entire lives. Such a taboo that when a huge collection of teens and early 20-somethings congregate, they are finding a 21-year-old to buy them booze. Immediately. My first experience at college (after setting up my high-speed Ethernet connection) was going to a kegger. It was awesome. I was so giddy and thrilled to be around these people my age. Drinking, mingling, drinking more, mingling more, “Smoke weed? OK, my parents are 780 miles away.” It’s an endemic issue that is not going to go away just because parents complain to universities and the FDA bans caffeine from alcohol.

This week, sort of as a joke and sort of seriously, I bought a case of Four Loko from a corner store in my neighborhood. The manager was very friendly and very engaging when I asked him about buying more than just one can of the stuff. “Yes, of course you can, sir. Would you like to mix and match and take a whole case?” I said yes. He allowed me to pick and choose what flavors I wanted–lemonade dominated the pallet. As I was walking out of the store I realized, Four Loko in arm, that I hadn’t even been carded. Four Loko is one of the few alcoholic beverages I can remember ever encountering that aggressively slaps a “WE ID” button directly on the can. For everyone to see and yet this store manager didn’t even think to check and make sure I was 21. At first I took it as a simple compliment and courtesy but then I began to think: If he’s not carding me, who else is he not carding?

*Most 40 oz. are loaded with between 5% and 7.5% alcohol by volume. Four Loko at 23.5 ounces has a fairly high 12% abv and also packs 16.5 fewer ounces than a forty.

**I truly mean no disrespect or offense to recovering alcoholics. And if you suffer from a drinking problem, please get help.

Photo by Kyle James on Flickr

I would balk at this situation, if a recent conversation wasn’t still echoing through my head. A friend admitted that he felt like he was actually better friends with another friend online than off. He pointed out that offline they didn’t exchange more than two words, while online they would joke, and chat like best buddies. The same later friend admitted that he was more comfortable texting than using most other communication mediums. The possibility of texted-across-the- table conversations might not be so difficult to fathom after all.

Texting has become almost second nature for me. I’ve gotten to the point where I will send a text before I pick up the phone. It pisses me off that my mom won’t get texting capabilities on her phone, since sometimes I just want to send her a one or two line message, rather than having an entire conversation. But, what will I remember when she’s not around to talk in the dreaded far off future? The one-line text I sent her? Or the conversation we had while she was walking down the beach, breathlessly describing the sunset and giggling about everything and nothing. Energies are impossible to convey on a tiny screen.

Here is an example of the texting language from A Visit From the Goon Squad.

Next 2 myn. No mOr Ar/lyt

Cn u stp it?

Tryd

cn u  move?

Stuk

nyc, Lulu wrote, which confused Alex at first: the sarcasm seemed unlike her. Then he realized that she wasn’t saying “nice.” She was saying “New York City.”

Of course, I must also admit that—like a million other folks–I’ve become addicted to Facebook over the past few months. I will admit–and this is painful but true–that I check Facebook going on five times a day or more—and that’s without having a “smartphone.” I can’t imagine if I had a hot little Ipod touch burning holes in my pocket, allowing me instant access anytime I fancy it.

No, I do my obsessive social network checking (don’t even get me started on Twitter) by actually logging onto the good, old fashioned computer, booting up and checking my page first thing, last thing, and even in between, and in between the in betweens. Hell, I’m going to take a break from writing this paragraph to check my Facebook page, just to make sure no one has posted a new link to an old soul song, or some political rant, or maybe an update about the weather in their particular area. I am fully addicted to the social network (though I have yet to see the movie about the beginnings of Facebook starring my beloved “JT” otherwise known as Justin Timberlake as the infamous Sean Parker of Napster fame).

William Powers, author of Hamlet’s Blackberry: A Practical Philosophy for Building a Good Life in the Digital Age, makes me feel better about my urge to constantly check for updates. He explains that the constant drive back to the screen may be the result of “evolutionary programming,” since the human brain is wired to detect and respond to new stimuli. Back in the stone-age days, this ability protected us from the threat of predators in a dangerous world. Of course, the chances of a wooly mammoth trying to eat us for dinner now is nigh impossible, but our brains are still wired in the same way.

“Today the stimuli we receive from our environment are different—instead of wild animals lurking in the trees, we’re on alert for ringtones and new messages—but the biochemical effect is hypothetically the same. When your mobile lights up with a new call, you get, in the words of one scientist, a “dopamine squirt,”says Powers.

Dopamine squirt is a good way to put it. And puts a name to the need to constantly see what’s going on in the world of social networks. It’s just so easy to feel connected, but are we really connected? Powers argues that we need to make a conscious effort to create distance from screen time, through digital sabbaticals, and even nature jaunts away from the crowd. And we may have reached a crucial point in our technological development, where this becomes essential. Because what is next? Texting across the table rather than talking? I can’t get this scene from Egan’s novel out of my head, and for good reason.

… where there is a cleavage that is sharp, the thing and its outside are distinct entities—they function individually as wholes—but they do not function together as a larger whole. In this case the world is split … where there is ambiguous space between them, the two entities are individually entire, as before, but they are also entire together as a larger whole. In this case the world is whole. —Pattern 249 Ornament, from A Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander

The set design of Lisa D’Amour’s timely and darkly comedic play Detroit at Steppenwolf Theatre consists of the backyards of two houses. One house is brick, one clapboard. There are leaves in the gutters and a torn storm door screen at one house. The other has a stuttering sliding glass door and a cement pad patio that is pulling up from the edges. One house is lived in, the other has been vacant and is recently newly occupied. The grass is maybe a little more beat up at the brick house, but at first glance the differences between the two structures are not dramatic. The set is realistic and meticulously crafted. I saw the play with my niece who was visiting from St. Louis, “It looks like a street in your neighborhood,” she said about the set.

Between the two houses on stage is a literal split. At the onset of the play, the split is the sharp divide between neighbors, between the solidly middle class Mary and Ben with jobs and home owners’ insurance and Sharon and Kenny, recovering drug addicts, teetering on the edge, closer to falling into the divide.

According to the Woodstock Institute, which tracks housing developments in the region, since the height of the housing crisis in 2007, foreclosure filings in the Chicago region have risen 65 percent. Nearly 23,000 foreclosure filings were made in Chicago in 2010 and, in the first half of 2011, total foreclosure filings in the six-county region topped 39,200.

What do 39,200 housing foreclosures look like?

It looks like a street in your neighborhood—or my neighborhood. Maybe there is peeling paint, unkempt lawns, boarded up windows, or unattached gutters. It looks like burgers on the grill rather than steak, or at-home entertainment like a backyard barbeque rather than a night out. Or maybe there are no outward manifestations of the house’s private turmoil.

As the play unfolds on stage, the divide between houses, between couples, starts to be erased. What do an unemployed loan officer and a recovering drug addict have in common? Detroit forces the question upon us: how are we divided from our neighbors? How close to the edge are we all living?

Who among us is living so tight, so close to the divide of missed mortgage payments and Walmart wardrobes? Do you have money for vacations, to go out to eat, to see a movie? What about money for imported beer, dry cleaning, bulbs for naturalizing, a teak garden bench, hardcover books, public radio memberships, magazine subscriptions, lamb chops, strawberries out of season?

MARY
Why don’t you have any furniture in your house?

SHARON
Because we’re broke. Crazy broke. I mean I’m 34 years old and I still eat ramen noodles for dinner a lot.
(Detroit, Lisa D’Amour)

As we sit down to our ribeyes from Whole Foods and lemon ginger iced tea in our own backyard on our cement pad patio that is pulling up from the edges, the question is asked: how does our world and our neighbor’s world become whole?

On stage the split between the brick house and the clapboard house disappears in blazing dramatic theatrical fashion. Detroit exposes the separation between our neighbors and us and then erases it. Whether we see the difference—the neighbor picking up our discarded coffee table in the alley for their own living room—or the division is only played out in rising home foreclosure statistics—39,201, 39,202, 39,203—our world is split. What we see is about our perspective. Where are we standing when we look?

From my backyard I see realtor signs, a car with a flat tire, several articles of clothing hung over a chain link fence across the alley for the pickers, packaging for a 50-inch Samsung flat-panel TV, a plastic lawn chair, a bald-headed guy with an enormous mustache walking a basset hound and a beagle.

In Arizona false smoke alarm calls bring firefighters to foreclosed homes where nobody is living and signs of fire are not evident. Firefighters can’t enter the homes without the homeowner’s permission or clear sign of fire. The smoke detectors call out their crazy broke chorus until the batteries die, which can take days. It’s a sound from the split where any of us might live.

The changing world of the 1960s opened the door for strong political music. It could be heard everywhere. Bob Dylan recorded “Masters of War” in 1963. This was a gritty response to Eisenhower’s warning of the military-industrial complex. Five years later Eric Burdon’s “Sky Pilot” was released, this was the story of a military priest’s conflicting emotions of his place in the war. In 1969 Edwin Starr recorded a
tune called “War” this was a furious commentary on the futility of war and destruction it creates. In 1971 Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” shot up into the #2 position in the pop charts (#1 on the R&B charts.) This showed a significant change in the country’s atmosphere and soon radio became a new outlet for political expression.

Fiddlin’ Steve Ledford was born in North Carolina in 1906. He had recorded and played with traditional music icons Wade Mainer, Clyde Moody and Roy Hall in the 1930s and Bill Monroe in 1940. He spent half a year in New York recording for the American Recording Company then eventually returned to North Carolina in 1941 to raise cattle and hens. He continued to play music with family and friends until his death in 1980.

Fiddlin’ Steve, his brother Wayne and his nephew James played music together as the Ledford String Band and recorded a song in the fall of 1971. It was about the war’s effect on a loving mother and father, it was called “He’s Comin’ From Vietnam” it was a somber bluegrass tune about a father waiting for the return of his son at a train depot. The LP was released in 1972 on Rounder Records (#0008) under the title Ledford String Band.

Ledford String Band – “He’s Comin’ From Vietnam” (mp3)

In the first few lines, it seems that a Norman Rockwell type scene is about to unfold: a father in a suit and hat, anxiously waiting and searching for a sign of his uniformed boy. But that image quickly dissolves as the fiddle begins and the real story unfolds, “One morning when the office had opened, a man called old in years, stood by the express office showing signs of grief and fear. And when the clerk approached him, with trembling words he said, I’m waiting for my boy Sir, he’s comin’ home today. He’s comin’ home to mother, not comin’ as I am; he’s comin’ home in a casket Sir he’s comin’ from Vietnam.” The confused clerk thinks that the man is at the wrong office and begins to explain that the passenger pick-up is at the station across the way. Then the source of the confusion becomes clear, “You don’t understand me Sir, the old man quickly said. He’s comin’ not as a passenger but by express instead. And when the whistle pierced the air and the train came in on time, the old man rose in a brisk less pace and quickly rushed outside.”

Soon a coffin appears and the clerk begins to understand the father’s grief and fear. As the workers begin to lower his son’s casket down onto the platform it causes nervous reactions in the people at the station that have gathered to watch. He asks them to be careful and suggests that they are not sympathetic to how he feels, “Do not treat him roughly boy. He contained that barring jack, he went away as you boys are, this way he’s comin’ back. He broke his dear old mother’s heart when he left her alone and this is the way they all come back when they join the boys in blue.” The devastation the father feels is overwhelming and he blames his son for the mother’s despair. But here is a song that avoid politics all-together. This is not about discontent with the government; it is not about war or peace, it is not even about soldiers. This song is about the ones who are left at home while the killing and dying is conducted. It asks nothing and points no fingers. However it does remind us that the casualties of war are not always soldiers.

Wars are fought on many levels. In 2006 I attended the wake my dear friend Damon who killed himself after fighting in the Iraq war. I saw the faces of his mother and his father, I held his wife’s hand and when I looked across the room I saw family, friends and comrades. I did not hear arguments about Iraq. I did not see war protesters or supporters. I saw tears and pain in the eyes of us who were left behind. I saw the effect of combat at my own front door. We can not possibly comprehend the experiences of soldiers in combat nor can we imagine the confusion and paradoxes that can be found in every situation but surely the dead have something to teach us about our world.

I have listened to this record two dozen times in the last few days and I wonder if Fiddlin’ Steve knew this father. I wonder how this man from the mountains of North Carolina felt about the war in Vietnam and I wonder how this song would be interpreted today by the North Carolina Tea Party Patriots? It seems that today we are given conflicting information on how we should view our American war dead. For 18 years there was Pentagon ban on showing photographs of dead American soldiers in flag draped coffins. On one hand we are told that the dead are heroes, yet on the other hand we were not trusted to honor those heroes by viewing the hidden costs of war and being allowed to acknowledge their sacrifices. When you listen to this tune consider that by 1975, 58,230 boys were lost to the war, and 116,460 mothers and fathers never saw their sons alive again. Then consider that somewhere in this country today a family is waiting to pick up their boy at the station.

Let’s face it. The Oughts were as mediocre as it gets and we were just as mediocre. We either diddled away our time watching stupid people get famous or we learned not to care about two wars that have lasted longer than both world wars combined. Then, in 2008, we thought we might have rubber-banded out of the American cultural cesspool, only to get Obama’s first year, which might be described as the year GOP-1 learned to hate GOP-2. We doubled-down on Afghanistan and Iraq, bailed out one corporations after another and spent the year debating a bloated bad bill. Barack is Republican enough that Starting A War When Your Poll Numbers Suck might actually be in Barack’s political playbook for Year 2.

Looking for something positive to remember in the decade of the Oughts is like looking in your old toy box for stuff to donate only to realize that you had nothing but crappy toys that not even the most destitute child would want.

Thank goodness there’s the next decade to screw up. And I, for one, believe that Americans are desperately seeking a way to redefine individualism and freedom outside of the self-imposed boundaries of the past. We strive to build a post-racial society and yet, sublimated racism is everywhere because people are more afraid of being labeled racist than being racist. We try to define our individuality without corporations, but anything remotely new or interesting is co-opted by corporations seeking to market to those seeking to define themselves outside the corporation. That song from that new band your friend recommended turns into a jingle for a Cadillac commercial almost instantly. Try to be an original and you’re more likely to see Pitchfork D. Urban Outfitter in the mirror.

Despite it all, I’ve never been more optimistic that a cool and truly unexpected cultural movement is coming this decade. The Tens will shock our staid, bland, apathetic culture of reality shows and American Idols and make us anew. I don’t know what the Tens will be known for, but I’m sure it’ll be 1) awesome, 2) original, and 3) better than the Oughts. Culture always rubber-bands and I can’t wait.

Here are a few predictions of what this next decade will bring:

Political correctness will fade and being a little racist will be okay. I find the sublimated racism we’ve been subjected to thanks to political correctness more offensive than actual overt racism. We’ve become the “I’m not racist, but…” culture. I predict that in the Tens, being overtly bigoted will come back into vogue. It might even become charming and funny, like an endearing dwarf. It’ll be a reaction to all this fake tolerance and sublimated, politically correct racism that explodes into Teabagger Rallies and fistfights on public transportation.

We’ll stop whining that the corporations are winning because they’ve already won. Sorry Professor Chomsky, the game’s over – time to retire. We’ll all have to join the mothership at some point. But more and more people are already starting to find creative ways to live outside of the mothership, while being fed by it.

We’ll learn to treat our politicians the way they deserve to be treated: figureheads that exist solely to make the Huffington Post saucier. The government will never be able to solve all our problems. It may not be able to solve any of them. It may even make our problems worse. From Nancy Pelosi’s face to Michelle O’s arms to how-in-the-world-did-Eliot-Spitzer-score-a-Slate-column-faster-than-his-last-escort, the circus is just that: a circus. This will be perhaps the greatest aspect of this decade: we’ll finally realize that government is totally irrelevant piece of entertainment.

Photo by Flickr user Bah Humbug

It amazes me how much–for someone who professes to so anti-capitalist, anti-consumerism and anti-bourgeois culture– I struggle with the acts of consumption and spending.   I first threw off the shackles of cravings for Wet Seal bangles as a teenager, discovering the joy of thrift stores after a trip to the local Value Village yielded an entire new wardrobe for thirty dollars, one infinitely more interesting than the leggings and floral baby doll dresses I’d been coveting in the window of Contempo Casuals. Almost twenty years later, I remain engaged in a dizzy tango with both the (implanted) desires for material items and the knowledge that a life lived outside of the false strictures of capitalism is a more interesting life, indeed.

Two books have got me thinking about this topic , and have got me reinvisioning the possibilities of my own life outside of prescribed desires and assumptions. The first is one is The Art of Eating In: How I Learned to Stop Spending and Love the Stove.  Written by Cathy Erway, another entry in the long line of bloggers turned book writers, the book details the author’s two years of living in Brooklyn without ever eating out at a restaurant.

The whole blog to book phenomena has become quite the gimmick but there are some nicely surprising inspirations that I didn’t expect when I started reading. First, I love the detail with which Erway writes about food. She documents her meals and the experiences over the meals with loving attention to not only the food, but the context for the meals. There is a simplicity to her love for the act of preparing and eating good food that is endearing, one that I yearn to replicate. Second, Erway delves into the different ways to step out of the restaurant/eating out cycle by looking at urban foragers like “Wildman” Steve Brill–who gives tours of New York parks where fabulous edible plants grow like special treasures–as well as freegans who scour the streets of New York, finding incredible amounts of perfectly edible day-old bread, donuts and vegetables. Like the dumpster-diving punks that have been doing that shit for years, though I have never been brave enough to do that myself. It got me thinking about my own food consumption habits, and how the way we go about procuring and preparing our food can be a political act, not a new concept, but one I hadn’t given thought too in a while.  Also, choosing to prepare food at home can be step towards simplifying, and escaping the cycle of fast consumption without thought. I’ll never view my styrofoamed burrito takeout meals again after reading Erway’s study of the the incredible amount of waste that goes into these one-off meals, when you look at all of the extra napkins, plastic cups and utensils and paper bags. Inspired by the book, my husband and I are trying not to go out to eat for a month. We’re currently in our first week of cooking all meals at home. I won’t even talk about how many dishes I’ve done this week, but otherwise, it’s been pretty smooth. I’m actually using the slow cooker that was gathering dust under the kitchen counter for the past few years.

Another book that’s got me thinking about how much is enough is Voluntary Simplicity by Duane Elgin. Originally released in 1981, and revised “for the 21^st” century, the book is basically a manifesto about the reasons to live a life characterized by “ecological awareness, frugal consumption and personal growth.” It’s funny because many of the things that Elgin talks about are concepts that I’ve understood for years, especially since my early instruction in frugality and living outside of the mainstream inspired by the DIY/punk rock movements of the nineties, when it was cool to use and consume as little as possible (except for beer). Yet, I’ve seen those ideals fade among a large segment of the community as people grow older and take on mortgages and have kids. It’s like, what the hell happened? I know that many people have been able to maintain a life of conscious consumption and anti-capitalist ways of existing, and I would like to return to that fold. But I will need to do it in my own way, and in my own time, and by reading books that get me inspired to live in ways more aligned with my dreams and ideals.

Photo by Flickr user maureen_sill

BOOZE:

I recommend using swing top bottles (like old Grolsch bottles) if you have them, or mason jars, since they are usually easiest to find or most likely to be lying around your house.  If you are someone who brews beer, feel free to bottle them in any capable sterilized bottle.  You can sterilize bottles by adding 1 Tablespoon of bleach per gallon of water or Sanitabs if you have them available.  If you use bleach, rinse the containers thoroughly before using to avoid a chlorine taste.

Coquito (Puerto Rican Eggnog):
1 can of sweetened condensed milk
1 can of coconut milk
1 can of cream of coconut (not the same as creamed coconut, check the ingredients for sugar, there should be LOADS of it)
1 can of evaporated milk
1 egg
1 t. cinnamon
¼ t. nutmeg
1 t. vanilla
1½  c. Puerto Rican rum (i.e. Bacardi)

Blend all ingredients in a blender, pour into sterilized swing top bottles or Mason Jars, refrigerate until needed.  Any eggnog or coquito that contains more than 20% alcohol can be aged in a refrigerator if kept under 40 degrees Fahrenheit.  It is suggested you age it at least three weeks, but you can drink it right away or age it up to a year.  The alcohol reacts with the milk and egg proteins meaning the longer you age it, the better the texture and softer the taste of the alcohol.  Seriously, though, we have never complained while drinking young Coquito.

VEGAN VARIANT:
1 can of coconut milk
2 cans of cream of coconut
2 c. soymilk
1 T. cornstarch
1 t. cinnamon
¼ t. nutmeg
1 t. vanilla
1 ½ c. Puerto Rican rum

In a heavy bottomed saucepan heat the cornstarch and soymilk until thickened.  Remove from heat and blend together with remaining ingredients.  Pour into sterilized swing top bottles or Mason Jars and store in the refrigerator until needed.

Mulled Wine:
1 gallon of cheap wine
1 c. vodka
2 c. orange juice
1 c. muscovado or dark brown sugar
1 thumb sized piece of ginger, sliced
6 whole cloves
4 long cinnamon sticks (about 6 inches each)
4 whole star anise
1 T. of whole black peppercorns
½ t. of cayenne pepper

In a large stock pot combine all ingredients and heat just below a simmer for at least 10 minutes. Add vodka after removing from heat and bottle using sterilized swing top bottles or Mason Jars. If you jar this while hot you do not need to refrigerate. If this makes you uneasy feel free to refrigerate it until needed.

Mulled Cider:
1 gallon of unsweetened apple cider
2 c. bourbon
¼ c. muscovado or dark brown sugar
1 orange slice
6 whole cloves
4 long cinnamon sticks (about 6 inches each)
4 whole star anise
1 T. whole black peppercorns

In a large stock pot combine all ingredients and heat just below a simmer for at least 10 minutes. Add bourbon after removing from heat and bottle using sterilized swing top bottles or Mason Jars.  If you jar this while hot you do not need to refrigerate. If this makes you uneasy feel free to refrigerate it until needed.

TEA:

Lavender Tea Blend:
1 c. loose black tea (unflavored)
3 T. culinary grade lavender
1 T. rosehips
1 T. sweet orange

Combine ingredients in bowl and stir together.  Store in an air tight light-free container such as a tin, or in a plastic bag wrapped with paper.

Red Flower Tea Blend:
1 c. loose black tea (unflavored)
3 T. hibiscus blossoms
3 T. rosehips

Combine ingredients in bowl and stir together.  Store in an air tight light-free container such as a tin, or in a plastic bag wrapped with paper.

Bottled Chai Tea:
6 long cinnamon sticks
8 whole cloves
2 T. cardamom pods
¼ freshly cut ginger
2 T. whole black peppercorns
½ c. honey or to taste
1 c. black tea
1 gallon of water

In a large stock pot combine spices with water and honey and bring to a rolling boil for 5 minutes. Remove from heat and add tea.  Let steep another 5 minutes. Strain and bottle in swing top bottles or Mason Jars. Refrigerate until needed.

FOOD:

If you haven’t made fudge before, don’t be afraid, it is ridiculously easy and decadent enough that most people won’t make it for themselves. As with most recipes, the quality of your fudge relies heavily on the quality of your ingredients, in this case your chocolate.  Use high quality chocolate for good tasting fudge.

Dark Chocolate Fudge with Crystallized Ginger:
3 c. semisweet chocolate chips
1 can sweetened condensed milk (14 oz)
pinch of salt
1 c. chopped Crystallized Ginger
1 ½ t. vanilla extract

In a heavy saucepan, melt chocolate, sweetened condensed milk and salt over low heat stirring constantly.  Remove from heat and fold in chopped ginger and vanilla extract.  Pour into a foil or parchment lined 8″ square pan and spread evenly.  Chill until firm (about 2 hours).  Remove from pan (flipping it upside down and peeling back the foil or parchment), cut into squares and wrap portions well in wax paper.  Store at room temperature.

White Chocolate Fudge with Cranberries and Pistachios:
3 ½ c. white chocolate chips
1 can sweetened condensed milk (14 oz)
pinch of salt
½ c. dried sweetened cranberries
½ c. chopped unsalted pistachios

In a heavy saucepan, melt chocolate, sweetened condensed milk and salt over low heat stirring constantly.  Remove from heat and fold in chopped pistachios and cranberries.  Pour into a foil or parchment lined 8″ square pan and spread evenly.  Chill until firm (about 2 hours).  Remove from pan (flipping it upside down and peeling back the foil or parchment), cut into squares and wrap portions well in wax paper.  Store at room temperature.

Manjar:
1 can of sweetened condensed milk

If you are unfamiliar with the many names of milk caramel (dulce de leche), Manjar is the Chilean name given to this sugarbaby-like treat.  I learned how to make this at a very young age from my Papa’s family.  We use it on toast or on top of pieces of white cake like icing. Most people I know use it as an ice cream topping.  It is popular in many different cultures and made in a variety of ways with a variety of cooking times.  The easiest method is to boil a small can of sweetened condensed milk completely submerged in water for anywhere between an hour to 4 hours.  For a soft, lightly colored syrup boil the can for an hour, for stiff, dark-colored paste-like spread, boil close to 4.  Make sure you keep the can completely submerged in water or you risk a very sticky explosion.  You can boil as many cans as you like in one pot as long as they stay completely submerged, and if you use smaller cans you should cook them for a shorter amount of time, larger cans for a longer amount.  I recommend starting with 1 ½ hours and going from there.  To remove the can use tongs, dump into a sturdy sink, or just wait for the pot to get cool enough to remove them (this could take several hours).  Once the cans are cooled, you can apply your own decorative labels.

HOUSEHOLD:

Many health food stores (including chains like Whole Foods) have herb sections where you can buy essential oils and various different containers from tins to jars to bottles with spray tops.  Likely, wherever you find the essential oils to use for these recipes you will find containers you can use to package your gifts.  If not, ask a clerk in that section and they should be able to help you find something in your neighborhood.

Bath Salts:
Epsom Salts
essential Oils
jars, tins, or plastic bags

For every cup of bath salts add 10 drops of essential oil, mix in a large bowl before portioning.  Good quality oils are important, and I strongly recommend choosing a different fragrance over a different brand if you find the one you want is too expensive.  Vanilla and Sandalwood are often the most popular and most expensive, so try scents like Sweet Orange or Lavender instead.  For more complex recipes see this site.

Air Freshener:
1 c. distilled water
1 T. vodka or rubbing alcohol
10 drops of essential oil

bottle in a small, dark colored glass or aluminum spray bottles.

Glass Gem Magnets:
Glass gems
¼ inch strong magnets
magazine images
crazy glue or glue gun
Modge Podge or silicon glue

Cut out roughly circular images (a little smaller than the gems) from a magazine. Using modge podge or silicon glue, glue the images to the bottom of the glass gems and let them dry.  After they are completely dry, use a glue gun, crazy glue, or other industrial strength glue to apply the magnet to the back.  You can find glass gems at a floral shop, gaming shop, or craft supply store.  Make sure you buy clear unadorned gems, no shiny iridescent surfaces or they will obscure the image.  You can buy magnets at hardware stores, craft stores and some office supply shops.

Toy Magnets:
Small plastic toys
¼ inch strong magnets
glue gun or crazy glue

Go to a toy store or dollar store and pick out bags of small toys: plastic army men, plastic animals, floral arrangement birds, etc.  My favorites are rubber goldfish.  Using a hot glue gun or crazy glue, apply the magnet to the part you want to be the “backside”.  You might need to use wire cutters to trim off pieces of the toys that stop them from lying flat.

Maps and Pictures and Books on Tape:

The American Memory site run by The Library of Congress has a wealth of images. We spent months picking out maps and photographs to have printed for our family members this year.  Nearly all of them are copyright free, and while this project might seem quick and easy it’s surprisingly time consuming.  Here are a few quick tips:

1.     do your searches in the “gallery view” so you can quickly identify images vs. text or sound files.

2.     unless you have a converter, don’t bother with MrSID images, confine your picks to jpegs.

3.     make sure you adjust the file size to the DPI and image size you want to have printed before you take your file in

4.     search specific collections, such as Panoramic Photographs, Maps, Panoramic Maps, or Advertising

5.     check the copyright information, while most of them are public domain, some collections are not, and companies like Kinkos will refuse to print them if they suspect copyright infringement.

The Internet Archive, archive.org, is an excellent resource for books on tape.  While I’m generally not a fan of books on tape, tending to prefer the printed versions, I found myself completely entranced with the archives of public domain readings on this site.  There is everything from childlike readings of popular folk and fairytales, to authors reading their own works, to old radio programs.  So, even if you are not a fan of books on tape, chances are you have an Internet challenged loved one who does.  A great gift is a CD collection of various books on tape or old radio programs.  I recommend you start with these links:

Old Time Radio Programs

War of the Worlds, October 1938, Orson Welles

The Whistler

Dragnet

Or browse by subject

Audio Books for Children or Adults Who Act Like Them

Fairy Tales

Children’s Literature

Audio Book Classics

Charles Dickens

Joseph Conrad

Bronte Sisters

Jane Austin

Russian Classics

Edgar Allen Poe

Sun Tzu

General Philosophy

Audio Book Pulp

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Sherlock Holmes and other Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Jules Verne

Short Science Fiction Collection

Audio Book Cool Kids

William S. Burroughs

Allen Ginsberg

Jack Kerouac

e. e. cummings

T. S. Eliot

“Punk” Works

Last Minute Wrapping Paper:

Newspaper
Acrylic paint
Water

My housemate insisted I include my last minute giftwrap in this article because she thinks it’s adorable.  Make a mixture of white paint with a little bit of color and water.  You want it fairly runny or you will end up using a LOT of paint.  Find some old newspaper, preferably something with lots of images, and preferably not with totally depressing headlines… I mean, unless that’s your thing.  Laying it out flat in a stack, paint it quickly with watered down paint.  Hang it up to dry or lay it out flat in a place where animals or children won’t attack it.  You don’t have to use white paint, but I do because it washes out the print a little better and the pastel colors make the paper seem more cohesive.  Also, white paint is cheaper.

Join us as we break through the year’s rhetoric and double-speak as simply as we know how, and leave your own equations in the comments. For the historically minded, take a look at 2007’s edition.

Brigid Barry

Thrift shops > American Apparel
Why buy your ill-fitting 70s throwbacks from a misogynist who overcharges when you could buy them cheap and green from the used clothing store across the street?

Brigid Barry is a freelance copy editor based in San Francisco, CA. She is the Associate Editor of Is Greater Than and also writes short fiction and cultural analysis, and knits in her spare time.

Leland Cheuk

The Economy > The Price of Oil > The Popularity of Private Jets

2008 was a very bad year if you were a corrupt politician, Gordon Ramsey, a UK social services worker, a banker investing in oil futures, or a Republican. But 2008 was much worse if you were, say, a private jet company reliant on flying executives of Sean John or the Big Three automakers. Not only did the price of oil cause Diddy to swear off Cristal-loaded private jets early in 2008. The nose-diving economy caused private jets to become a political football when GM, Ford and Chrysler executives flew into Washington D.C. to ask for what ended up being a $14 billion bailout. I hope 2009 is friendlier to companies like Onesky and Privateair so we won’t have to bail them out in June. After all, it’s not their fault that we’re in the bind that we’re in.

Leland Cheuk is is a currently an MFA candidate at Lesley University’s Creative Writing program. His writing has appeared in MostlyFiction, Punk Planet, and other publications. Recently, one of his short stories was selected as finalist in the 2007 Washington Square Review Contest. He lives in San Francisco and is working on a novel.

Leilani Clark

Mushrooms > Anything made by humans

In Cormac McCarthy’s novel The Road mushrooms are the first organic matter to grow after the an apocalypse brings on nuclear winter. While humans fall into cannibalistic disarray, the fungi keep on trucking. Tenacious and communicative, mushrooms are key to a thriving natural ecosystem. They make a simple hike in the woods into an awesome treasure-hunt. In addition, they are damn good to eat.  In 2008, you could listen to mycillium guru Paul Stamets talking about the glorious power of toadstools on just about every media outlet–from books to radio to YouTube. We should pull up a chair, take notes and learn something new that just might save the world.

Leilani Clark has written for Clamor Magazine and the North Bay Bohemian. She loves free media and defending the working class. She writes about more then mushrooms at www.leilaniclark.com.

Paul M. Davis

Reason > Superstition

The election of 2008 wasn’t only a triumph for those of us who have watched the last eight years in horror as the imperial President attempted to drag this new century into the 17th. Indeed, it was a triumph of a reasoned, pro-science, pro-progress mentality over the superstitious beliefs of the Christian Evangelical crusaders. But it was also the year in which the reasonable majority appeared to wipe the collected mung out of its eyes and return to its senses. To wit, the Republican intellectual schism of August and September 2008, in which numerous vocal figures dismissed the party’s insane Evangelical wing in favor of critical thinking. It was also the year in which a realistic appreciation for regulated markets emerged out of the ruins of post-Friedmanite, neoconservative economic policy. It was a year for sober realism over faith in destructive myths, and even if the reality before us is fucked, it’s preferable to living a collective fantasy.

Paul M. Davis is the editor and publisher of Is Greater Than. His Is Greater Than blog is Attencion!

Whitney Dibo

Gail Collins > Maureen Dowd.

Thank god the New York Times finally landed a female columnist who can write coherent, if shrill, commentary. Collins’ editorials around the election season were hilariously poignant and spot-on, as opposed to Dowd (whose idea of a productive use of New York Times editorial space is to write imaginary conversations between famous people). And Collins doesn’t even have a glamour-shot picture, (almost no makeup – gasp!) a sharp contrast to Dowd’s vampy smirk.

Harry Potter > Twilight

As a child of the Potter generation, it seems painstakingly obvious that to even put the two fantasy novels in same league is treason so high even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wouldn’t dare do it. Harry Potter is to the Imaginatively Curious as Twilight is to the Sexually Frustrated. I mean – the apple on the cover? Come on.

Whitney Dibo is a freelance writer and also works in the Education Department of Steppenwolf Theatre Company. She graduated from the University of Michigan in 2007 with a degree in English and Political Science.

Levi Fuller

Elective democracy > Direct democracy
In Washington, as in many states, “The People” lately have a huge boner for legislating via initiative.  Every once in a while this ends up being a good thing:  Smart, active citizens can ban together and pass legislation that our elected officials are too afraid or busy to pass (witness our recent “Death with Dignity” initiative).  For the most part, however, it’s a complete, unalloyed disaster that has our legislature and courts scurrying to and fro trying to manage the repercussions.

The most egregious recent example of this “tyranny of the majority” is, of course, California’s Prop 8.  Millions of church dollars went to hammer home the message that “traditional marriage” needed defending from the loony left judges who wanted men to marry men and gerbils to marry ducks and kindergartners to be indoctrinated into the ways of homosexuality.  Another, smaller example from Seattle:  Our City Council recently passed a $.20 per-bag tax on grocery shopping bags to encourage people to get reusable bags and curb the ridiculous waste of resources that occurs all day every day in grocery stores.  This bill was much more moderate than San Francisco’s outright ban on plastic bags, but of course it was still too much for the American Chemistry Council, who banded together to get a recall of this simple, sensible bill on the ballot for next year.  For now, the status of bags in stores is in limbo, and every time I shop at Fred Meyer the checker automatically starts putting my item or items in a bag without even asking.  Elective democracy isn’t perfect, and the initiative process can be a useful tool of last resort, but there are times when we should just let our elected officials do the job we elected them to do.

Levi Fuller plays music, DJs on the Internet, curates a quarterly series of compilations, and generally runs himself ragged in Seattle. www.denimclature.com

Matt Gajewski

Buying fruit at red light-stalled intersections > Buying subprime mortgages at red light-stalled intersections

In previous years, the lane line-tiptoeing hawkers at US-1 and Bird Road near my home were all about subprime mortgages: “Hungry and homeless and need investors for asset-backed securities,” “Will disregard borrower’s past credit history 4 food.” But with the housing bubble bursting, the global economy collapsing, 2008 was the Year of Intersection Fruit: sweet-smelling guavas, succulent mangos, to-die-for tamarinds and tangerines and papayas; investors clearly voicing their preference of juicy, vitamin-rich produce over risky, subprime collateralized debt obligations. Let’s hope that 2009 will be no less delicious, and that our nation’s intersections will remain a cornucopia of discount, indigent-vended citrus for many years to come.

Matt Gajewski hosts Pure Imagination, a radio program featuring darkly comic short stories set to music on 90.5 WVUM in Miami, FL. Listen to past episodes at www.vangloria.net/pureimagination.

Narinda Heng

Real food > Bacon-wrapped, deep-fried, gravy-drowned novelties

While I can see the fun in chicken-fried bacon (and am in awe of the genius behind the bacon weave), real food that can be eaten every day (without giving you a heart attack at 40) is infinitely more interesting. The appearance of people like Michael Ruhlman, Michael Pollan, and Alice Waters in mainstream media advocating more sensible, healthful cooking shows that there is hope that we might be able to fit into last year’s skinny jeans someday.

Narinda Heng is planning to start 2009 unemployed. She’ll be writing at Long Cool Hallway and wherever else she can get a word in.

Rob Miller

Hysterical hyperbole > bland euphemism.
The following are exact quotations from ABC World News Tonight as they have described the economic apoplexy during the past couple of months.
At least as we all get closer to selling pencils out of tin cups (or would the modern day equivalent be flashdrives?), we can rest easy that we will be suitably entertained as we watch the news (even if we might be looking at the TV through an appliance store window like a Dickensian waif cuz our electricity was cut off).  But still….

Thus, in order of appearance:

• Troubling downturn
• Confidence is ebbing
• Contracting economy
• The Dow is losing ground
• Has the Bull market run out of steam
• Grim jobs report
• Panic on the trading floor
• Cascading job loss
• Might send investors heading for the ledge
• It was a bloodbath on Wall Street

See?  Isn’t that more fun?  When we started, you could feel your eyes go droopy with the musty, lifeless talk.  Shit, it’s like you’re in some Econ 101 lecture after spending all night proving you CAN play Quarter Bounce with tequila shots instead of beer.  But by the end of the list, you can almost SEE Chuck Norris starring in the movie version with guts and explosions and falling buildings and cars driving through plate glass windows.
It’s more warming than drinking after-shave lotion.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Rob Miller is the owner and founder of Bloodshot Records.

Laura Pearson

Supporting independent booksellers > Buying books on Amazon or at B&N or downloading digital files to your ebook reader. (Plus, talking all about your Kindle just sounds gross.) As we all know, it’s getting more difficult to be an independent anything, and there are oh so many reasons to support nearby, non-chain stores (e.g., Of $100 spent at a local business, $68 stays in the community; whereas at a national chain, only $43 of your $100 sticks around (www.indiebound.org)). Most importantly, in an age where virtual experience often supersedes the tangible, real-world stuff, the time has come to get in close proximity to actual pages… Bookshelves. Book smells. Or to put it in another, lamer way: In 2k9, acquire a spine.

Laura Pearson is a Chicago-based editor and writer. She has written music news stories, as well as book, zine, and comic reviews, but her favorite subject to write about is people who are both contributing to culture and creating culture.

Erica Phillips

The Beijing Olympics > everything else

The rest of the world got served by China this August. From the awesome spectacle of the opening ceremony, to the mod and exemplar facility architecture, and the over-coverage, obsessive interviews and photo opps. The 2008 Summer Olympic Games was the shiny and bedazzling thing that made us all forget everything else.

We forgot China’s human rights record and the Olympic torch parades through Tibet, when residents were not allowed in the streets unless they promised to yell “Go China” and nothing else. We forgot that NBC was making it censorship-level impossible to find Beijing youtube footage anywhere on the internet. We forgot about the diplomatic mess between Russia and US-backed new “democracy,” Georgia. We forgot about Pakistan and Iraq and Turkey and everything, because China stepped up and we were like “Woah, it might not be all about us anymore.”

Erica Phillips currently splits her time between an immigration law office and the Venus Zine headquarters. She is editor / publisher of globalhuman and has written a few things for Love, Chicago.

Chanda Prescod-Weinstein

Cloud Cult, Feel Good Ghosts (Tea-Partying Through Tornadoes) > Any other new music I heard this year (or last year)
I heard a lot of great music this year, including great new stuff from Sam Roberts and Malcolm Middleton, but I feel that this album really just is 2008. Taste this bit from “Hurricane and Fire Survival Guide”:

“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired
I’ll laugh my whole way through the hurricanes and fire
That’s why you don’t wanna bring me down.”

The first Black President of the US was elected. You just try and bring me down. I will laugh my way through hurricanes and fire.

Chanda Prescod-Weinstein is in the process of building a veritable cornucopia of degrees in physics and astronomy. The black hole of academia is a dark and dangerous place. In a perhaps related story, she also seems to be known as a trouble maker. Her Is Greater Than blog is Disordered Cosmologist Is >.

Elaina Ramer

1929 > 2008
None of the Wall Street dudes who were taking those huge bonuses from dying financial companies really lost much as the markets have crashed and, thus did not throw themselves out the windows of Manhattan skyscrapers. Bummer.

The Half Pint (8 oz.) > The Imperial Pint (20 oz.)
At some point a few years ago, I discovered that my fav local pub, the Poet and the Patriot, serves beer in 20 oz. glasses. I was delighted. This year I discovered that consuming more alcohol makes me neither healthier nor wealthier nor wiser and that the Poet also serves beer in 8 oz. glasses. If I’ve got to cut back, I’d rather sacrifice the quantity of my beverage rather than the quality.

The Wide Leg > The Skinny Leg
Just trust me; I’m right.

The Shoes > The Bicycle> The Public Transit > The Private Automobile
This is as much practicality as it is green washing. For those of us who live in urban areas, walking, cycling, and taking transit are things we do and things we could afford to do more often. Each of the things listed above are affected by the price of gas and the political situation (listed from least to most affected). But when gas hits $10/gallon and people are rioting in the streets, you’ll still have your boots and no one is going to set your bicycle on fire.

Elaina Ramer is a fashionista, bike messenger and radical economist living in Santa Cruz, CA. She completed most of a degree in Global Economics before she dropped out of college to pursue enjoying her youth. Elaina blogs about fashion and global politics at frugal and hep dot com.

Boaz Vilozny

pretty good > best
Let’s face it—it was nice being the world’s dominant nation for a while back in the 20th century, but who wants to deal with all the pressure? It’s high time we stepped back and let someone take over as superpower #1 while we get our own house in order. Any volunteers? China? India? Cuba? Anyone? What if we throw in Afghanistan and Iraq?

Boaz Vilozny is a native of Santa Cruz, California, where he is currently completing his doctoral research in organic chemistry at UCSC. When not busy thinking deep thoughts about molecular recognition, he spends time with his family, plays music, reads, and cooks.

This doesn’t mean these holidays have to be a complete blowout. There are plenty of DIY gift ideas floating around there that can allow you to treat your loved ones without having to resort to any more toxic loans. And thanks for the wonders of the Internet–you are still paying those DSL bills, right?–just about anyone can whip up some homemade holiday cheer that has no resemblance to those itchy knitted sweaters your grandmother used to make.

The DIY movement has reached critical mass online in recent years, with tons of sites offering tutorials and inspiration for gift items as far-flung as screen-printed T’s and knitted iPod cozies. Here’s are some of the best:

Curbly should be your first stop if you want to enter the world of DIY gift-giving. An online community for both pro crafters and wannabes, the site is full of inspiring ideas alongside incredibly helpful video tutorials for items such as art-nouveau birdhouses and old books that have been repurposed into small works of wall art. The site offers a robust discussion forum where crafters trade tips and talk shop, and the overall ethos of the site favors finding economical solutions to grandiose visions.

If Curbly is your first stop, make Instructables your second. A veritable clearinghouse for craft tutorials, if you can’t find the perfect homemade gift here, you’re probably not sold on this whole DIY thing to begin with. The wealth of tutorials on the site–ranging from classy homemade lamps to USB memory sticks encased in Lego bricks–is mind-boggling, and a bit overwhelming. Since the tutorials are user-submitted, their quality can vary, but user ratings allow you to quickly find the best submitters to the site.

Both an online magazine and quarterly print digest, Make magazine is like a virtual Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory to nerdy DIY’ers, with a preference for projects that are technical and eccentric. You’ll find tricks to make bizarre and wonderful devices out of typical off-the-shelf items, and if you have the will (and a bit of technical or engineering prowess), the magazine is full of ideas that will make the face of the plugged-in iconoclast in your life glow. Word of warning: the projects in Make are rarely for the faint of heart, and the materials of choice may end up being pricier than an off-the-shelf gift.

More accessible than Make–in both tone and project difficulty–is its sister publication, Craft. Craft offers tons of tutorials for homemade knitted gear, ornaments and what have you. Keep the Bedazzler in the box, though–the overriding aesthetic of Craft’s projects is cutesy, hip and urban. The site’s updated-daily blog serves as a fount of idea inspiration, displaying the most impressive DIY projects from around the web, and the tutorials are sure to help those who suffer from fumbling finger syndrome. Unfortunately, a subscription is required to view the tutorials, but they are hard to beat for sheer thoroughness and user-friendliness.

Still can’t find inspiration? Try craft discussion forum Craftster, or head over to the Holiday DIY Gift Ideas Flickr Pool, which includes hundreds of photos of homemade gifts by members of the Flickr community. And if you just can’t bring yourself to pull out the glue gun, or are just impossibly clumsy, you can always fake it and head over to Etsy, an eBay for crafters, to find a slew of affordable gifts by DIY mavens gone pro.

The only way I expected to hear Polisar’s voice again was in my own living room, maybe after buying an old record online somewhere. And yet, a few weeks ago, twenty years after last hearing "My Brother Thinks He’s a Banana," I was sitting in a coffee shop and I heard that voice. It was in the background, under the hiss of the espresso machine, but unmistakable. The song was as familiar to me as one sung in kindergarten, like the ABC’s. The teenage barista didn’t know who was singing, but we were listening to the soundtrack from "Juno." A quick Google search showed what I hoped — the song was "All I Want Is You," and it is from that very same record that was in constant rotation on our living room hi-fi.

[mp3] "All I Want Is You"

I downloaded the whole album for a mere eight bucks, and it was just as good as I remembered. Some of the songs were even funnier from the perspective of a "grown up" and a parent. Others seemed more edgy — even a little creepy. I convinced a friend to buy the album for his kids, but it was quickly banned in his home. It’s not hard to see why — lyrics about taking a little sister to the woods and tying her to a tree don’t sit well with parents. Others, such as "My Mommy Drives a Dumptruck," would seem to be in line with modern progressive values, until the song takes a turn for the absolutely ridiculous and, to some, offensive. I find it easier to overlook these slights to parental values when seen as part of the album’s overall tone of complete and unapologetic silliness. Children hear the gender-twisting "Mommy Drives a Dumptruck" just before "I Have a Dog and my Dog’s Name is Cat." For them it’s not progressive or postmodern — it’s just fun and funny. And good.

The simple tunes, carved out with a twelve string guitar and catchy melodies, come straight from the stripped down folk style pioneered by Pete Seeger and hipsterized by Bob Dylan. Those influences are apparent when listening to Polisar’s songs. His lyrics also have much in common with the innocently sinister poetry of Shel Silverstein. The guitar playing is nothing special, but provides the perfect platform for Polisar’s theatrical voice and expressive story-songs. The rhythm of each song is derived from the familiar "chung-chaka-chunk" heard in Johnny Cash’s "I Walk the Line," played either fast, medium or slow. And yet, after playing the album for several days straight on my laptop (On my wife’s insistence we burned a CD so our daughter could listen in her room), the songs haven’t grown old or any less hilarious.

Polisar seems to know exactly what kids want: good melodies, simple music, and lyrics they can relate to. To be sure, Ella doesn’t catch every phrase of every song. The brother who thinks he’s a banana, we are told, has read the Bhagavad Gita. But those details are overlooked. The unfortunate scenario in "My Brother Threw Up on my Stuffed Toy Bunny" is instantly recognizable to anyone in a family with children.

Will the classic recordings of Barry Louis Polisar be rediscovered as children’s music for our generation? Not likely. But for those who like their kid’s music raw and unrefined, these songs are a welcome alternative to the sweet, overproduced, unimaginative fare marketed for children. Even Raffi, who is always popular at our house, sounds like a Canadian milk-toast after listening to "My Brother Thinks He’s a Banana." And who knows? Maybe one day we’ll trust our kids enough to let them listen to songs that make us a little uncomfortable, which is probably how they feel when we listen to NPR. At the very least, the digitized version of Polisar’s record is a gaunlet thrown down for the twenty-first century. There is no excuse for lame children’s music.

At this time, I suspect the true genius of Barry Louis Polisar may be lost for a few generations. Parents who keep their toddlers on leashes are unlikely to see the educational benefit of the brief existential tune, "My Name is Hiram Lipschlitz and my Problem’s Pretty Clear." And the iPod generation, while temporarily infatuated with the sweet and unchallenging "All I Want is You," will not likely be making "One Day My Best Friend Barbara Turned Into a Frog" a staple on their playlist. Perhaps, however, Polisar’s legacy will be heard in other ways. For those of us inoculated in childhood with those irreverent songs, we know kid’s music doesn’t have to be boring, or dumbed down, or even safe. My own post-toddler anthem, "You’ve Got to Keep That Pee in Your Body," has quite a bit of Polisar influence, despite having been written before his rediscovery. The seed was sown long ago, with a scratchy record playing in our suburban townhouse.

At this point, my daughter has half the songs on the album memorized. When I played it for her for the very first time, she sat perfectly quiet beside the laptop with her hands in her lap. After the seventeen songs had finished, the play list instantly queued up the Beetle’s "Get Back." Ella sat upright and looked at me. "What is this? I want to hear the funny songs."

In recent years, however, gentrification has crept south of the Dan Ryan. Pilsen is the only the most recent battleground between the city’s move to gentrification and its ethnic and cultural heritage. Yet with a strong, vocal community, the encroaching high-class sprawl emerging from the University of Chicago’s shopping district has yet to overtake the neighborhood’s core cultural identity. There is perhaps no more immediate reminder of the cultural vitality of Pilsen’s Mexican community than its yearly Day of the Dead celebration. I attended the 29th annual celebration the night of Tuesday, November 3rd, and recorded an on-the-spot account of the revelries, and to observe how a community preserves its soul amid the encroachment of high-priced boutiques and yupster chains.

4:15pm. The events kick off at Dvorak Park. Kids run wild as they and their parents wait to have their faces painted with the customary Dia De Los Muertos skulls. People pay their respects at a Day of the Dead altar in the park’s assembly hall, but the mood is rarely somber–—instead, this is clearly a jubilant celebration of the cycle of life and death.

5:05pm. As more families and individuals filter in, break dancing kicks off in Dvorak Park’s west assembly hall. Amid paper mache skeletons and skulls and faux gravestones, everyone in attendance gathers to watch Breakers Calaca bring the Day of the Dead revelries into a contemporary setting.

5:30pm. It’s a refreshingly diverse turnout for the celebration. A huge swath of the community has turned out—–Mexican families, older white lefties whose bottle cap John Lennon glasses are offset by Day of the Dead face paint and regalia, even a handful of cuffed-jean youths gentrifiers. The only thing as adorable as the preteen kids from Pilsen’s Kidz Circus—who are performing feats of amazement, juggling and hula-hooping on a rolling wheel—are the surly Hispanic teenage punk rockers, scowling under Misfits-esque makeup in their Casualties shirts. This is the sort of old-school community get-together you just don’t find in contemporary suburban America.

6:10pm. Everyone streams out of the assembly halls to begin the parade around the neighborhood. Already running ten minutes late, event organizers are clearly stressing, begging through megaphones over the din of death whistles for marchers to line up behind the police pace car for the parade. After ten minutes of jubilant anarchy, the array of marchers, with giant skulls and Kidz Circus tricksters in tow, leave the park’s confines for the streets of Pilsen.

6:25pm. Marching up S. Morgan St., the parade is getting louder and larger, as pedestrians stop standing agape and join in. Onlookers blow their own death whistles out of windows and holler at marching friends and acquaintances, with the exception of an elderly Eastern European woman features, who looks on disapprovingly. Some people just hate fun.

6:35pm. Now we’re on W. 18th St, Pilsen’s equivalent to Main Street, and the energy is reaching a fever pitch. Under the wing of a circus mime, members of the Kidz Circus jump on the rolling wheel while their fellow would-be-carnies take on the city artery by unicycle. Disaster is narrowly averted when a clearly confused drunken old man fails to move for the oncoming circus wheel, but he’s quickly moved out of the way by event organizers, leaving a clear thoroughfare for the talented kids, who are clearly loving being center of the show.

6:50pm. The parade may have run late, but people quickly and orderly pile into Casa Aztlan, a community center on S. Racine, for Pan de Muerto (Bread of the Dead) and a performance of Panchita y La Muerte, a traditional Mexican folktale. It’s hard to get the energized crowd to quiet down—thankfully the megaphones aren’t resorted to this time, but in time the assembled mass mellows out. That is, except for the mohawked teen in his Casualties shirt, who is sitting in the back, and won’t be told to be silent, thank you very much. Still, enjoying some semblance of attention, the actors begin their performance, a bilingual presentation in which a woman attempts to fool her visitor, Death. Hijinks ensue, as you might expect, as the story humorously documents a concern as universal as the crowd that has assembled to watch the show. Old Chicago and New Chicago are both in attendance here, and there’s a sense of hope that one does not necessarily need to eclipse the other.

Carnival Cruise Lines simply wasn’t prepared to be embraced. With a wrecking ball in the background, and no food or games in site, 7000 people stood in the lot eating and throwing handfuls of free candy for 3 hours while they waited for the commercial to be shot and the piñata to be smashed. Murmurs of rioting rushed through the crowds as parents started to get nervous for their children, and with only one frustrated and aging man trying to control the crowd; people eventually rushed the piñata for a closer look. Immediately bringing in the police, the event coordinators tried to threaten the crowd saying “there is enough candy for everyone, but if you do not move back there will be no candy for anyone!”

The crowd was already stuffed on the boxes and bins of candy they left out and wanted to be a part of the action. The police (a handful on motorcycles) were only able to control the crowd for about 20 minutes, but as time wasted away they began ignoring the crowd and people’s impatience got the better of them. With no one watching but the same frustrated, shouting, aging man, and no barriers between them and the piñata everyone inched closer and closer, eventually causing them to cancel the event.

I first got a tattoo at age 18, and continued to get tattooed fairly often throughout my late teens and early 20s. I want to investigate how this happened to me, and in my work I often get into telling the story of my first tattoo and the reasons for it: sharing with my client and subconsciously reaching out to bond. As the story has been repeated it has been elaborated upon and refined. Being tattooed was always a pretty personal experience for me, and the first one set the tone.

I brought no friends along; I told no one; I asked no one’s opinion of what I should get: essentially it was exemplary of what I experience now as a tattoo artist. Often people bring friends with them, and often MANY friends. I have been surrounded by crowds of 5, of 8, of 10 even, and though most tattoo artists would not tolerate this kind of atmosphere, I do, since my power of concentration is strong.

In all my personal tattooing though, I would go to the shop solo. I felt extremely out of place and perhaps I did not want to share my discomfort with a friend. I would almost sneak in, be ignored by the guys working behind the counter, and peruse the portfolios with an unforgiving eye. However uncomfortable I was, I still knew what I was looking for.

I looked for a steady line, an artistic talent that extended beyond tattoo flash–basically someone with a rock-solid hand who would not alter my ideas in any way. I always had my own design, sandwiched in my sketchbook. In retrospect, I misused amazing artists. Both Doug Love and Holly Ellis were forced by me to do another artist’s work, to trace exactly the sculpted lines of another. However beautiful their portfolios were, I disregarded their own natural talent. I could not help it though. My artistic heroes had died fifty to one hundred years before, and I wanted to be emblazoned with the work of these dead men who had made me into an artist at the youngest age that I could remember.

With each tattoo I have felt more myself. For some, tattooing is a work of metamorphosis, of forgetting your old self and forging a new life, of commemoration of the self as a parent, of rebirth in some way. I have always felt that I was an illustrated person on the inside, and the more intricate and colorful I became the more I felt comfortable in my skin. Almost none my tattoos are governed by fads, and in this way I am outside a large part of the tattooed culture in America. I don’t say this as a way to feel superior–it’s just a fact.

The publication became a program of the Neighbor Lady Community Arts Project, an Oakland-based arts organization. As a result of the staff’s dedication and tendency to broaden—rather than narrow—its themes and content, Kitchen Sink quickly asserted itself as a bright, free-spirited magazine, or, as one journalist described it, a “zine that went to graduate school.” Via grass-roots involvement, various partnerships, and some well-attended parties, the staff worked to make Kitchen Sink more than just a magazine: It was ultimately a tribute to, and enabler of, dynamic community.

It’s these community-forging publications that leave a particularly noticeable void when they cease to exist. Lest the past tense has failed to give it away: Kitchen Sink no longer exists. It too was a casualty of a now-familiar set of factors: a decrease in ad revenue, dwindling subscription numbers, and the dissolution of the Independent Press Association (announced early last year). As you’ve probably read, this unholy trinity of causes has spelled the demise of many independent publications over the past year or so.

It makes one wonder what happens to the people who labored over these publications and the communities that sprang up around them. In some cases, staff members go on to explore other forms of publishing, e.g., blogs and online journals. Others spend time writing or researching different modes of print publishing, such as POD (print on demand). Undoubtedly, some people—especially those who’ve devoted decades of their lives to indie publishing—just need a break from it all.

I caught up with two former Kitchen Sink staffers who shared what they’ve been up to since the magazine ceased publication.

Jen Loy was a founding Editor in Chief at KS, as well as a writer and event coordinator. She was also coproprietor of Mama Buzz, a café and gallery (and former Kitchen Sink clubhouse) in downtown Oakland that has been credited for invigorating the city’s art scene and being a “nexus for all things artistic.” These days, Loy is taking it easy.

“I’m proudest of our success as a creative community,” she says of her friends and former coworkers at Kitchen Sink, describing how they’ve gone on to publish books of poetry and comics, do curatorial and design projects, and start journalism school. “As for me, I’ve learned to say ‘NO.’”

After Kitchen Sink folded, Loy sold Mama Buzz and moved to Richmond. She’s not far from Oakland and other KS alumni but decided to “purposefully withdraw” from collaborative, community-based publishing/art/writing projects.

“I’m currently focused on a professional publishing venture and specializing in health care and labor issues,” Loy says. “I’ve survived a few photography classes and have been challenged by a friend to write creatively again. I’ve written a few art and culture pieces for Bay Area publications, but mostly I’m saying ‘NO,’ which is new for me.”

Kaya Oakes is another KS staffer who’s busy working on individual writing and publishing projects. A former senior editor at the magazine, Oakes is currently writing a book about independent culture, which will be released by Henry Holt sometime in 2009.

When I contacted Oakes, she was about to dive into her chapter on independent publishing, so we discussed current ways of making indie media. Oakes affirmed that the web plays a vital, simplifying role in the way of publication and distribution. “The logistics of mag publishing are just ridiculous, and the cost is getting harder to bear unless people want to keep things very small,” she says. “Even with Kitchen Sink’s initial print run of only 2K, we had a really hard time paying the bills. When this increased to 10K, we were hopelessly in debt all the time.”

Oakes was also quick to add that print publications need to be supported and sustained, but perhaps they need to scale back a bit: “I do continue to believe in print media, of course, but I also think independent print media have to think micro these days to survive… I’m also a firm supporter of POD, which is going to be a method of survival for a lot of small presses.”

Both Loy and Oakes cited examples of indie publishers and publications that have inspired them lately: Ugly Duckling Presse, Action Books, and Flood Editions (all tiny literary presses); Make/Shift, a feminist magazine founded by Kitchen Sink staff writer Jessica Hoffman; Other, the project of another KS affiliate Charlie Anders; and Watchword, a literary journal published by Watchword Press.

Although Kitchen Sink has sunk, its hardworking staff members continue to pursue projects that will no doubt improve and enliven their communities; they’re just approaching them in perhaps quieter, more individual ways. As for her “Just Say No” phase, Loy says, “I predict this will last for about 12 months. And then, who knows? Maybe the world will be ready for another publishing project.”