Filed under: Emergency, Failure, General Musings, Government, Politics, Predictions, Preparedness, Society
Why, yes I did!
OK, this is basically S&L Crisis, Part II: Revenge of the Greedoids. You, and me, and every other US taxpayer are now on the hook for trillions of dollars of bailout money. Why? Deregulation and unwise real estate lending.
That was Sept. 7. And someone in the comments at UTI called me on it, saying that I was grossly overstating the case.
$2 Trillion
Total Fed lending topped $2 trillion for the first time last week and has risen by 140 percent, or $1.172 trillion, in the seven weeks since Fed governors relaxed the collateral standards on Sept. 14. The difference includes a $788 billion increase in loans to banks through the Fed and $474 billion in other lending, mostly through the central bank’s purchase of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac bonds.
OK, I’m not just posting this because I want to say “I told you so.” Rather, take a look at this opening passage from a long piece in today’s Washington Post:
The financial world was fixated on Capitol Hill as Congress battled over the Bush administration’s request for a $700 billion bailout of the banking industry. In the midst of this late-September drama, the Treasury Department issued a five-sentence notice that attracted almost no public attention.
But corporate tax lawyers quickly realized the enormous implications of the document: Administration officials had just given American banks a windfall of as much as $140 billion.
The sweeping change to two decades of tax policy escaped the notice of lawmakers for several days, as they remained consumed with the controversial bailout bill. When they found out, some legislators were furious. Some congressional staff members have privately concluded that the notice was illegal. But they have worried that saying so publicly could unravel several recent bank mergers made possible by the change and send the economy into an even deeper tailspin.
“Did the Treasury Department have the authority to do this? I think almost every tax expert would agree that the answer is no,” said George K. Yin, the former chief of staff of the Joint Committee on Taxation, the nonpartisan congressional authority on taxes. “They basically repealed a 22-year-old law that Congress passed as a backdoor way of providing aid to banks.”
OK, it’s a long piece, so let me summarize: This provision of the tax law limited tax shelters which would arise during a merger of large banks. For over two decades conservative economists and lobbyists for the banks wanted to repeal this law, which would make mergers more attractive (and thereby push consolidation of the banking/financial industry). But Congress – even a number of Republican stalwarts such as Sen. Chuck Grassley of Iowa – refused to budge on this. So, under cover of the financial crisis, Sec. Paulson just got rid of it by fiat – had it murdered quietly in the night. The result was to make a number of the mergers which occurred in September and October more likely, because the tax liabilities for the resulting larger banks would be much smaller.
This may have actually been a good move in terms of helping to save the financial industry, but it was very bad governance. And that gets me to the point of this post: when I said that the US taxpayer was on the hook for trillions of dollars of our tax money, I was saying so because I understood all too well the prevailing attitude of the Bush administration: “Ignore the law. Trust us, we know what is best. And yes, you will pay for it, whether you like it or not.”
When we have seen the actions and behaviour of the Bush administration in action for almost 8 years, it was fairly easy to conclude that they would use the panic in the financial markets to do just whatever the hell they wanted, and that the initial sums being talked about were likely just the tip of the spear about to skewer the American taxpayer. As I said, these actions may actually have been the right ones – when you come across a car crash, you don’t worry about breaking into someone’s vehicle, you just get the people away from the burning car. But given the ineptitude and crass violation of law demonstrated by the current administration, it was also fairly easy to predict that even if they got through the crisis there would be all kinds of extraneous extra-legal stuff happening to further their own goals and please their friends.
Damn, sometimes I just hate being right.
Jim Downey
(Cross posted to UTI.)
Part Four: Interlude.
Some random notes and reflections while sitting in the hotel bar under a large stained-glass window, sipping beer, enjoying some peace and quiet while Alix is off to a rehearsal.
* * *
First, a note about that window, which says a lot about Buenos Aires. It’s actually a long series of window panels, along the front of the hotel on one side, off of the entrance. And outside the actual window is a very stout, very businesslike grid of steel bars.
You will see some variation of those bars everywhere. I mean, everywhere. Even the nicest parts of the city have this kind of security, which in the US is usually only found in high-crime areas. It is hard to tell if it is due to crime, or whether it is a precaution against social breakdown such as has occured many times in the history of the country. Regardless, security is a big deal here, though not so blatant as to draw the notice of most of the rest of the people in our party. It is usually behind the scene, just out of casual sight. The steel bars I mentioned. There’s also plenty of solid locks and security cameras. And lots of guards, both private and actual police. I’d mentioned previously that the “Federal Police” were common on the streets, and they are. But they also seem to function almost as attached security in many locations. You see them positioned in front of nice hotels, banks, and businesses – usually the same ones, in the same locations, on the several days I have been here and exploring the immediate business area around our hotel. I do know that the same cop has been outside the entrance to our hotel since we arrived. He doesn’t seem to interact at all with the guests, and has looked past me completely when I have tried to make eye contact with him. But he is on very friendly, almost joking, terms with the staff. I don’t know whether this is some kind of formal arrangement, or just a form of low-level graft, with the cop taking a payoff from the hotel management to provide a presence. But, it seems to work.
* * *
The whole pace of life is different here, and I understand this will be even more noticeable once we get out of the busy city. Here, the locals will have breakfast at about 9:00. As with any other meal, it is leisurely. So business gets started sometime after. The hours posted may say a shop opens at 10:00, but that seems to be little more than a fiction – almost no place was actually open and doing business by then, most not by 10:30. Lunch starts sometime after 1:00, and will run at least a couple of hours, though the shops here usually seem to be open during that time. They usually have a light meal, something along the lines of “tea”, with sweets, perhaps a thin sandwich (and by thin I mean basically mashed, the local preference being ham & cheese with the inevitable white bread, but pressed flat and toasted). No one even thinks about dinner until 9:00 or so, and as I noted earlier most restaurants don’t open their doors for dinner until 8:00 or 8:30.
This is not to say that people eat heavily, or constantly, at each of these meals. Rather they just seem to take their time, encouraging conversation. It is quite civilized, but takes a real adjustment. Even the wait-staff functions comfortably according to these rules, taking their time about bringing orders, in absolutely no hurry to rush you off. They will not bring the bill until you specifically ask for it – and then in their own good time.
* * *
The local beer – or, should I say, the National Beer – is Quilmes. Named after the city near Beunos Aires where it was first brewed by German immigrants. It isn’t at all bad, really. A crisp lager, about on a par with some of the better mass-produced American beers (which is to say, relatively light and low in alcohol). I have seen in a store that the brand also makes a Bock and a Stout, though none of the restaurants I’ve been to seem to carry these. Dark beer in general – “robusto” in Spanish – doesn’t seem to be very popular in the city. Last night when I popped out to get some dinner, I stopped in to an upscale wine shop nearby, which also carries hard liquor. Argentina does have a respectable wine industry, as I mentioned, and this was reflected in their wide selection of national labels, mostly of the Marbeck (Merlot) varietal. I can’t drink more than a half glass of full bodied red wine (triggers migraines), but I have also had some of the local whites and those are all quite good.
There in the shop I did ask about local hard liquor. It seems that other than some very low end whiskey and vodka, there really isn’t anything produced in Argentina. A shame, really. They did have a small selection of local liqueurs, most of which is based on the national addiction to dulche de leche.
* * *
I’m not kidding about the Argentines being addicted to that stuff. You find it everywhere. There’s always great vats of the stuff at every breakfast layout, used as we would use jam or even butter for toast or rolls. It goes into most cakes and pastries, and it is actually hard to find a candy sold in the country which *doesn’t* have dulche de leche in it. It’s added to fruit cocktail. It is one of the common flavors of ice cream. It goes into coffee and tea. Cookies with a thick version of the stuff sandwiched inside are very popular.
It is good, though cloying to my palate. About as sweet as honey, but with an intense milk caramel flavor it imparts to everything it touches. As popular and prevalent as it is, you’d expect this to be a nation of diabetics.
* * *
Jim Downey
Filed under: Augmented Reality, Comics, Humor, Paleo-Future, Predictions, Science, Science Fiction, Society, tech
An excellent Three Panel Soul strip.
Another travelogue later.
Jim Downey
Part Three: The Kitty Cats of Death.
Friday started out with me feeling the psychic pressure of being in close proximity with so many extroverts for so long. We had an early breakfast in the hotel with the entire crowd, since everyone was going on an excursion together this morning and the buses were to load at 8:00. Meaning a bit of a fight to get service, since even under these circumstances the Argentine default is to leave people to have a leisurely meal, no rushing about to refill coffee cups or any such nonsense. Somehow, we managed.
On the buses a bit after 8:00. Another brilliant and beautiful spring day – just perfect for a nice jaunt through a cemetery.
Say what?
Yeah, Cementerio de la Recoleta – where all the beautiful people of Argentina go to spend the afterlife. No, I’m not kidding. Our guide took great pleasure in explaining all about the place, and how as far as most Argentines are concerned, it doesn’t matter where you came from, or what you did, so long as you are buried in the right place.
Here’s a Spanish language site with a lot more photos of the place. It really is quite amazing, in a very surreal way. Incredible art & architecture to the some six thousand mausoleums – ranging from pseudo Baroque to Art Deco. Elaborately carved doors, stunningly beautiful statues, glorious & glowing stained glass – you’ll find it all there in the cemetery. Most of the dead people there live better than the vast majority of the still walking population in Buenos Aires, and the amount of wealth splashed about the place seems almost obscene when you find yourself driving through/past the shantytowns around the city. And the cemetery has far and away the best sidewalks in the entire city.
One other thing it also has is cats. While stray dogs rule supreme throughout the rest of the country, here in the quiet of the necropolis, it is cats who reign. Domestic housecats. Er, make that domestic mausoleumcats. They’re everywhere. Everywhere. In twos and threes. Solo and in small packs, clustered around bowls of food, milk, and water that locals leave for them. Silent, serene, more than a little eerie.
I was, honestly, glad to get out of the place. No, cemeteries don’t bother me. And I love cats. I even appreciate good art in almost all forms. But this fetishization – this status competition of which family has the best location and grandest burial for their dead – was creepy. Such ostentation strikes me as being more about the glory of the living than the memory of the dead.
Anyway, we left. Back on the buses. Through the city. Through suburbs. Through more suburbs, all on surface streets, stopping at every light, looking around into the houses and businesses. Easily feels like it could be just about any major American city, in the nice part of town. Plenty of car dealers. And boat dealers. And fast-food places. Our guide (not ‘Ferguson’) explains that these are all the rich parts of the city, desireable because of the proximity to the river.
The river? Actually, the estuary Rio de la Plata. But they call it a river, and take pride that it is so wide. No, I am not kidding. Yes, it is wide – some 30 miles where it starts at the juncture of two other major rivers, to almost 140 miles at the boundary of the Atlantic. And a big chunk of this estuary forms a huge delta, interlaced with numerous small navigable passages, creating countless small islands just a few feet above the water level. Most of this delta is, by treaty, a nature preserve, but one large section of it close to Buenos Aires is settled, more or less permanently.
And I can see why. It is a beautiful, peaceful, place. It would be a great place to hide from the world. And relatively inexpensive – a decent sized hunk of an island, big enough for a nice little vacation home and a bit of yard, a garden – will go for $30,000 to $100,000, depending on the quality of the house and how remote the location. We got out onto the river in a couple of decent sized tour boats, and for almost an hour made our way through some of the larger channels, finally arriving at the Restaurante Gato Blanco (“White Cat”). Charming. And good food. We sat out on the deck, watching other patrons arrive by boat (and their boats taken away by valet service – when you have seating for some 250 people, and are only accessible by boat, this is an issue), enjoying the breeze and the food.
Once done eating, while the others sat and chatted, I wandered off behind the restaurant to explore a bit. The whole place was dead-flat level, and lush, the soil somewhat springy and very very rich. Even though it was still early spring, there were already many trees and flowers in bloom, with both butterflies and bees feeding at the flowers. The island was very much like a park, an old park in a quiet part of town, showing signs of love and age and much use.
We got back on the boats that brought us, made our way back to the Tigre Fluvial Station. From there the group split, with the choristers heading off for a workshop rehearsal, the rest of us back to the hotels. Our friend ML and I dropped off stuff, then headed out for some shopping, swimming against the human tide. Got back and spent some time relaxing.
It had been arranged that we would all go off to have dinner with some local families, in small groups of six to eight. It would be a chance to spend time with some of the residents in their homes, getting to know one another and learn a bit about how a typical family lived. Alix was looking forward to it, but I just decided that I couldn’t face more time with people – I was worn ragged by all the contact I had had over the past several days. So when she got back from the workshop, I let her know I was going to beg off the dinner. It was a shame, really, because she had a great time (along with the others), and I probably would have as well. But my ‘extrovert batteries’ were just dead, and I needed to spend some time alone in peace and quiet in order to recharge enough for other things coming up. She went, I popped out to a local street vendor and got a sandwich, and then retired to the room where I relaxed and did some reading. It helped.
Jim Downey
Filed under: Comics, Google, Government, Humor, Politics, Predictions, Society
That quote from Havelock Ellis somewhat captures my mood this morning. The Onion‘s take on the election results captures another aspect of how I feel: we had to see things descend to the point where we were ready to make a significant change.
I am too old, too cynical, (and this morning too hungover), to think that the election of Barack Obama means that everything is going to be perfect in the coming months and years. Nor do I believe that our politicians will be able to completely resist the urge to return to type and put their own power above the needs of the nation. The mindset of “screw the other guy” is just too entrenched.
But I have just enough optimism – yes, just enough Hope – to think that we may be lucky enough to see real progress. Obama may be able to get enough pols to do the right thing enough times, even if it isn’t in their immediate self-interest. It will come in fits and starts, and, as the mixed results of yesterday’s elections show, there will be significant setbacks. But building little by little, moving ahead bit by bit, will be like the only solution I know to escaping depression: one step at a time, just putting one foot in front of the other and walking towards the light.
We’ll see. For now, this xkcd strip resonates:
Jim Downey
(Cross posted to UTI.)
Fuck. I didn’t think I’d live to see this.
Not just eloquent, but he writes his own stuff. Gotta respect that.
Jim Downey
Then go vote. As I told a friend earlier, doing that will make you part of something historic.
More later.
Jim Downey
Filed under: Argentina, Humor, Mark Twain, N. Am. Welsh Choir, Patagonia, Society, Travel
Part Two: Home, home of the strays.
On Thursday the 16th, Alix was going to be busy with some choir-related rehearsals, so I opted for one of the excursions available to non-choir members of the tour which left at 8:00 local time. As a result, I was up and going early.
Went downstairs into the hotel’s dining area for breakfast (included in the room price). It was actually quite a nice spread, and showed that they cater to Americans and Europeans – in addition to various cereals and breakfast breads, juices and yoghurt, there was was a wide selection of German style cold meats and cheeses, fresh fruits and fruit cocktail, even US style bacon and scrambled eggs. But there were local items as well – something like a quiche or fritatta which was egg-based, with a crusty top and a base of peas – and that was quite good. There was also something like a beef stew – chunks of beef in a brown sauce, a side dish of potatoes and carrots you could add as you wished. This was fantastic. The coffee was also excellent, even though Argentina is not a coffee-producing country, and is available almost everywhere throughout the day, served in small cups similar to (but not as strong as) a Turkish coffee or espresso.
A side note, which I should have mentioned in the previous travelogue: you will hear a lot of hype about the quality of Argentine beef, and of the popularity of both asados and parrilladas. Believe every word of it. Seriously – I lived in Iowa for some 15 years, and thought I knew what top-quality meat was. The Argentine beef we had while on the trip was even better, every single time, without exception. Little wonder that the Argentine diet is very heavy on beef. The stuff is just phenomenal. The Wikipedia article on Argentine Cuisine overall is very accurate from my experience. In fact, I had to make a conscious decision partway through the trip to cut way back on the amount of food I was eating, since I was feeling overly stuffed all the time.
Anyway, I had a nice breakfast, then got on the tour bus for the trip over to La Plata. The bus was nice – all the buses we had were nice – but when you spend about 217 hours a day on one for weeks on end, you get sick of the damned things. And this is was my first experience with the tour guide I shall henceforth call “Ferguson”.
Ferguson was a nice enough sort, but seemingly could not shut up. I don’t mean that he carried on a rambling discription of all the things we saw, and all the places we went. No, he would repeat himself about a dozen times on any given little factoid, each time trying some new formulation to the English which almost but not quite meant the same thing as the previous version, always in a sing-song sort of voice that I came to loathe. And over the course of the dozen permutations he would range from a simple verifiable fact to almost its exact opposite – as though he were a one man game of ‘telephone’. It got to the point where most of the tour members just did their best to ignore whatever he said, which was a tad problematic given that often he was our only source for information as to scheduling, upcoming events we need to prepare for, et cetera. I just got in the habit of listening to the *first* thing he said, which was usually reasonably close to the truth, and then tried to tune out all subsequent “clarifications”. When I say henceforth that Ferguson said this or that, understand that this is what I mean and I am cutting out the 12 to 14 other versions I usually got from the man.
Anyway, we got on the bus to La Plata, located to the east of the Buenos Aires city center about twenty minutes, on the south shore of the Rio La Plata. The ride took us from the concentrated urban area of our hotels through a variety of suburbs, which ranged from American/European style areas to startlingly apocalyptic shanty towns. Seriously – vast swathes of land where the housing consisted of little more than packing materials, boardered by places where it was difficult to discern whether the high rises were going up or coming down. In the merely marginal areas there was some semblence of regular (unpaved) streets and a power grid, with large black plastic tanks of water on the rooftops. In the poorer sections, even this much civilization was undetectable.
Officially, the population of greater Buenos Aires is about 13 million. Unoffiicially, most people estimate it is somewhere between 16 and 18 million. Those who live in the shantytowns are about as unofficial as possible, and the source for the discrepency.
And everywhere – throughout the entire country – there are stray dogs. You don’t notice that many right in the downtown area, though there are some. But you get outside of there, and you see more. Lots more. Dogs who are clearly homeless, who shy away from most humans, but search for kindness, looking from person to person for someone who will notice them. They live off whatever scraps they can find, whatever bits are handed over. They are so prevelant that it has become common custom across the entire country to construct elevated baskets for holding garbarge, some four or five feet off the ground. One of our other tour guides later in the trip said that the Argentines loved dogs, and so were happy to see them everywhere like this. But the haunted and degraded nature of the strays said otherwise to me, as did the signs in many places which warn of feeding the dogs. These are not signs of love, leastways as I understand it.
La Plata was a designed city, not an organic one. It’s nice enough, in the slightly shabby way that seems typical of most of the country. The drivers there, as in Buenos Aires and the other large towns we visited, were universally insane, and considered things like lane markings and traffic signs to be little more than suggestions. I did ask Ferguson how “right of way” is determined in the mix of four-way and six-way intersections, since nothing was obvious. He looked at me like the question made no sense, then shrugged and said that the biggest vehicle went first, of course. But I saw no accidents, so if it works for them and I don’t have to drive in it, more power to them.
It was a beautify, clear and sunny day, a touch cool but not at all bad. We got out of the bus in front of the neogothic Cathedral, which Ferguson explained is the fourth largest in the world by some measure or another. It was impressive, but did not stand up to the great cathedrals in Europe in my mind. Across the large plaza in front of the Cathedral was the City Hall. Ferguson said we could go there for a bathroom break. We did – there seemed to be little else to see there at the time, since the City Council was in session and the bulk of the building off limits to tourists.
Out front of the City Hall there was some kind of demonstration going on. We watched from in front of the building for a while, trying to figure out what it was all about. Ferguson explained that one of the government agencies, responsible for certifying taxes, had set up a roadblock. Seems that they pull in cars, and then search their database to see whether the drivers are current on various taxes due. If not, the driver can settle up right there. Or have their car impounded until arrangements are made. Imagine, if you will, a combination of the IRS and the DMV, with immediate police powers thrown in for good measure. Little wonder that people were objecting. Interesting to watch them at it – a bunch of cars had stopped, blocking access to the roadblock (a roadblock of the roadblock, if you will). Then people poured out of their cars and swamped the tax-checkers. Bullhorns were produced. Radio and TV crews attended. Ferguson said that it was typical.
We left, headed over to the Museo de La Plata – one of the largest Natural History museums in South America, with over 2 million artifacts relating to the continent. It is a classic 19th century style museum, and in its heyday must have been quite the thing. While the collection is still very impressive, it is clear that the exhibits are badly dated and funds for upkeep have been lacking. Even so, it was worth wandering through, and is certainly still a major destination for area schoolchildren, who were thronging the place.
On our way back we took a slight detour through a riverfront/park area which Ferguson called ‘Puerto Sur’. I am not entirely sure where this area actually is, since I have been unable to find it online. Suffice it to say that it is one of the many neighborhoods of the city, not far from the city center and adjacent to the Rio Plata, which serves as something of a park and amusement area.
Got back to the hotel early afternoon. I dropped off my bag, and went out for a bit of a stroll, stopping at one of the little sidewalk places for something akin to an Argentine gyro – a wrap with some delicious strips of beef, a few veggies and a sauce thrown in for good measure. Swung back by the hotel and connected with a friend who was joining the tour a day late, due to airline hassles. Since Alix was not yet back from her rehearsals, the two of us went out again into the madness of the city – she wanted to see a bit of it, I wanted to pick up a small English-Spanish dictionary (I was already gaining some confidence with my survival Spanish, wanted more than the simple phrasebook I had could offer).
On both trips out encountered large, wandering protests – huge things which incorporated sound cars, puppets, kettle drums, banners, and no small number of Federal Police on the sidelines, keeping a close eye on developments. It was unclear exactly what was the focus of the protest was – there were banners and chants about the usual topics of internationalization, native people’s rights, farming, banking. This recent NPR news item talked about recent protests in Buenos Aires, so that may have been the catalyst for what I saw. Such street protests are part of the culture of Buenos Aires, and so long as things are peaceful, not to be missed. Of course, they can turn violent with little warning (to outsiders, anyway), so you take your chances. I kept my eye on the cops, and so long as they seemed calm, I wasn’t too worried.
Again returned to the hotel, and met up with Alix. Our friend ML decided to go clean up a bit, take a nap and unpack, so Alix and I went down to the “English Style Pub” (well, more or less . . .) in the hotel for drinks and to chat with other members of the tour. Discovered that service, as most things related to time/scheduling in Argentina, was very . . . um, casual. Relaxed. Unhurried. As noted on Wikitravel:
Time
Argentinians generally take a relaxed attitude towards time. This can be unsettling to visitors from North America and non-Latin parts of Europe where punctuality is highly valued. You should expect that your Argentine contacts will be at least 10 to 15 minutes late for any appointment. Tardiness of 30 to 45 minutes is not unusual. This is considered normal in Argentina and does not signify any lack of respect for the relationship. Of course, this does not apply to business meetings.
If you are invited to a dinner or party at, say 9 PM, it does not mean that you should be present at 9 PM, but instead that you should not arrive before 9 PM. You’ll be welcomed anytime afterwards. Arriving to a party 2-3 hours late is normally OK and sometimes expected.
This attitude extends to any scheduled activity in Argentina. Plays, concerts usually get going around half an hour after their scheduled times. Long distance buses leave on time. As in any busy city around the world, short-distance public transportation like city buses and the subway do not even bother with time estimates; they arrive when they arrive. Factor these elements into your calculations of how long things will take.
Unannounced bus or train departures ahead of the schedule are not uncommon, especially in big cities. This is normally not a problem, as in general no one will expect you to be on time anyway.
Yup, that’s about right. For someone such as myself who considers punctuality a sign of respect, it took some getting used to.
Eventually, ML joined us again, and we hooked up with another tour member to wander down the street to an Italian place which had a good reputation. As it was only 8:30 when we got there, the place was empty – but they were happy to seat us, and our waiter went out of his way to make us feel welcome. It was one of the best meals I’ve ever had, and we took a full two hours to enjoy it, the Argentina way. Antipasto, main meal, nice dessert, drinks and coffee – an excellent meal. All told, even with a generous gratuity, it came to about $27 per person – a meal I would easily expect to pay $100 per person for in the US, if I could find one of similar quality. Sated, we wandered back to the hotel and crashed.
Jim Downey
While I am on vacation, I’m having some old posts from my archives queued up for your enjoyment. If you’re interested in following the progress of the tour, a friend of mine has set up a blog and the Choir will be posting pix and text as things go.
Jim Downey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Published in “Legacy Online” October, 2003
The Hunger Artist
the man in the box There was a man hanging in a plexiglass box over the Thames in London when I was there last month. A man who was starving himself.
David Blaine‘s recent spectacle didn’t get a lot of attention here in the States, so you may not have heard about it, though the completion of his 44 day fast was covered by NPR yesterday morning. But it captured the imagination of just about everyone in the UK, and was one of the most common topics of conversation I had with people during our two week vacation. The fact that Blaine is an American probably had something to do with this, but even so, the progress of his fast was covered regularly and extensively by all the news outlets. Reports of the analysis of his urine (done by independent labs, with the strictest security), and what it meant about his medical condition was standard fare in the papers, discussion with leading doctors about the dangers he faced the longer he fasted was a the subject of morning programs on the television. Everyone speculated about whether he was somehow cheating, how long he could last, what it meant.
I don’t know where Blaine got the idea for his fast. But Franz Kafka wrote a short-story titled “A Hunger Artist” which seems to be a template for what Blaine did. In it, the Hunger Artist would perform for 40 days to the increasing interest and agitation of the crowds, his manager selling tickets to those who wished to view the performance. If Blaine didn’t know about this story, he should have.
So, the question is, is it art? It was a performance, certainly, and I suppose that in one sense this means it was art. It was an interesting conceptual piece, a mechanism for grabbing the attention and imagination of an entire nation, so that is a kind of art. (Remember, I considered my “Paint the Moon” project of two years ago to be a piece of conceptual/performance art with the same critieria.) But in one way I don’t want it to be art. Blaine lost almost one-third of his body mass during his fast, and may well have caused permanent damage to his heart and kidneys. Would that then mean that any kind of public mutilation could be considered art? Certainly some people would pay to come and see it. People already have, actually, since this sort of ‘performance’ has already been done in some venues. So, how far do we take this? Blaine (intentionally or not) staged a real version of a Kafka short story. Could someone else stage a real version of that scene in a recent Hannibal Lecter movie where one character dines on the brain of another, while that other person is still alive? How about staging a real version of Salvador Dali’s 1936 painting “Autumnal Cannibalism” in which two figures are eating one another? Would that be art?
Filed under: Society
While I am on vacation, I’m having some old posts from my archives queued up for your enjoyment. If you’re interested in following the progress of the tour, a friend of mine has set up a blog and the Choir will be posting pix and text as things go.
Jim Downey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
circa 1993
The Mayor of Main Street
One afternoon The Mayor of Main Street stood outside one of his favorite bars and handed out $1 bills to anyone who would take them. He had a big roll of bills, and he would peel one off with a snap, holding it out, offering it like some religious tract or advertisement to the flow of people walking by.
He looks homeless, with his dishevelled clothes, long beard, and gap-toothed grin. Which is why many people probably thought that there was some angle, some sort of scam to his generosity. He had his funny striped knit hat pulled down far over his high forehead, and his big eyes, bright blue with neither anger nor pleading, are a little unearthly, a little frightening in their intensity to people who aren’t used to seeing the eyes of the ragged men who live in the margins of College Town. But he’s not homeless, though he spends a lot of time with the street people. He has a family he seems to get along with, people who care for him. He’s just a little confused, turned inward by one too many explosions in the war, too fond of drink in all of its forms.
On this day he was just in a good mood, having had an early start, celebrating the fine weather and the company of a drinking buddy who had since staggered off. He had evidently decided to share his good mood with others by passing out dollar bills.
Usually he doesn’t talk much, just mumbles to himself, his long fingers working at some unseen puzzle, or running along the hem of his t-shirt where it hangs out of his jeans. Sometimes he’ll stop and tear a poster off one of the kiosks, because something on it appeals to him, and he’ll fold it carefully, putting it into an overstuffed pocket, taking it out every few paces to unfold and enjoy anew. Other times he’ll play for hours with a feather or fetish he has found on Main Street, conducting symphonies only he can hear, painting the sky and the sides of building with pigments only he can see. But on this fine day he stood there, back against the brick wall, inviting people to step up and have a dollar, just ’cause.
Some of the students, usually hulking suburban lads, stopped by and accepted the offer, figuring a buck is a buck. Others, more street-savvy or just timid, ignored him, eyes cast down, the same way they usually walk by the rattled cups of desperation. A group of Asian students formed on the sidewalk across the street, looking at him, trying to make sense of the scene and his rambling dialog. They stood there, arms folded, puffing madly on cigarettes, comparing notes on this little bit of theatre, completely baffled by the lanky American.
Eventually, the manager of the bar came out and tried to persuade him to put his money away, to save it for food and drink with friends later. The Mayor considered the wisdom of this, but his belly was full, his thirst satiated. The Mayor gave him a dollar, and told him that he didn’t know about later, but right now he needed to give away these crisp green bills, since that was the job he had to do. The manager didn’t push the issue. The Mayor is a regular there, usually behaves himself well, and even helps to ride herd on some of the street people that he hangs around with. That’s why he’s called The Mayor.
Someone else called the police, who stopped by and chatted with The Mayor. They all know him, from countless discussions over College Town’s open container ordinance. But there is no law against giving away money, and even though they couldn’t accept his generosity there was no real reason to stop him from being generous to others. Before they left, they warned him to be careful of the roll of bills, because not all his friends were really his friends. He told them that was why he was giving the money away, so that everybody could be his friend, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about it.
Eventually he finished the job to his satisfaction, and wandered down the street to check on his constituents, a warm autumn breeze playing with his beard.
Communion Of Dreams 