Paradox

The school semester has begun and I'm glad, and somewhat proud to inform you that I've enrolled myself in a "Religion in Western Society" course as part of a general elective obligation. Obviously, I could have chosen from a range of various programmes that fit my agenda but, knowing me, I prefer a challenge and I'm glad to say that it may well pay off. It's a packed lecture hall with little sign of Kippuhs or the oppressive Burkha. More fortuitously though, we will be focusing on the history of the big three rather than their teachings (however similar - they are fairly poor plagiarisms of one another). My heart did skip a beat once or twice I have to say when the professor claimed that the sap secreted by bushes in the dessert while Moses led the freed slaves was an indication of "God being close to them": made all the more remarkable - the lecturer is a devout Christian. I shall keep you well up to date on how things progress. Maybe even more surprising though was my disgust at another elective class: "Planetary Evolution and Human Development". How can a subject so profoundly interesting, with a wealth of fascinating science behind it, be taught by the most miserable, archaic, loathsome individual one could care to meet? Science will never prevail over superstition if it's educational forerunners are charismatically outdone by those of scripture's. It just goes to show how one's entire social map, and indeed, their future, can be formed or destroyed by the uselessness of their teachers. I took great pleasure in striking that class from my schedule.

Special Edition

Narrowly dodging a lighting bolt, not to be mistaken with Insane Bolt, I have found my computer amidst the flood-water. As I type, thunder is, literally, shaking my apartment. Again however, I'm provided with ample chillax time to comment on Time magazine's choice of front-cover from the past two weeks. Last week they adorned the cover with an eerily iconic, darkened profile shot of Barack Obama, entitled The Democrats: Special Edition. There I was tutting, as if to think that Time had forgotten all notions of journalistic integrity and had firmly taken sides. I was mistaken, as this week they had an equally artsy picture of John McCain emblazoned on the front, aptly entitled The Republicans: Special Edition. What I would point out, however, is that the Republican issue is noticeably lighter than the Democrats; perhaps suggesting some kind of party flimsiness, lacking in substance. I have yet to read either edition as I'm now completely inept. I have forgotten how to read, but I will do, and I will report.

Ramble Ramble

As monsoon season makes itself known here in Tucson, I'm forced indoors and, dutifully, I'll post; although, I haven't the faintest idea what about. Well, the Arizona swimming team is being introduced to the crowd tonight during the half-time at the football game. (By the way, if you ponder my opinion on American Football, fear not: it is a pitiful frolic, lamely disguised as a sport with all the veneer of relevance and excitement, when in fact, the games are tedious, indulgent, and, worst of all, far too long.) Allow me my take on the now-altered state of American politics. Whereas before I would gladly maintain my air of overlordship and quibble with the faults and favours of the election fore-runners, I have left my seat on the fence and concluded that Obama must win for the sake of this country. Obama is not necessarily any more fruitful when it comes to agreeable policy (indeed, he seems slightly too lenient when it comes to foreign affairs), but with the future of the United States in mind, in terms of their global reputation, dealing with their antique sense of social superiority, their broadmindedness, and undermining their overall system of backwardness, they would be doing themselves a huge injustice to vote McCain into power. Regardless of whether you fall for Obama's charms, you cannot denounce his ability to lull others into his vision and, in doing so, coax some sense of worthwhile national pride, above and beyond the superficial and overzealous national pride one finds at present. More to follow.

Blowing my own trumpet

If I wanted to, I never need post again after the flurry of excitement that inevitably surrounds yesterday's video. However, this blog runs on time, every time. Had I any money, I would employ somebody to update on my behalf. I have still to come across anyone quite so superior as myself, but my search will not be in vain, particularly as long as Christopher Hitchens is alive. Coincidentally, I read a rather warm quote from Joseph Heller regarding our academic hero. He writes, "I regret he has only one life, one mind, and one reputation to put at the service of my country." By the way, if you haven't read Catch-22 at least once you have thus-far wasted your life. Anyway, I shall digress for one meagre sentence and inform you that I have recently completed Halo 3 on the hardest setting. My younger readers will now be bowing, or perhap slowly dropping to one knee in beleaguered admiration. I shall respect the ignorance of my older readers by directing them to this video, which will introduce the notion of what I have just accomplished. And, to demonstrate that my time was not wholly irrelevantly fruitful, Bryan has written an article, as he does, for the Sunday Times about a particular diet that seems to be grabbing everyone's attention...

A Master of Escapism

Every word, every letter, individually checked and rechecked, written and rewritten, muddied through disuse. My word, dear reader, how long it has been! And yet, a reluctant few of you made the unacknowledged effort of checking back daily on the off chance that I may have sprouted from my cocoon sporting symmetrical wings of poetic beauty. How I have let you down through my own indulgence. I'm afraid, proud pilgrim, that my time at home caused me so much joy and prosperity that the potential to become angry all-but vanished completely. It would have been wrong to swim against the current that has made this blog internationally renowned and post when smiling gleefully in my nest of warm contentment. For this my beloved is solely to blame, though I'm sure you wouldn't wish to deny me the chance of recharging my batteries with a few weeks in the midst of rainy England. Indeed, I have once again returned to sunny Arizona with renewed enthusiasm for my blogging campaign, but I cannot shake the shame of leaving you for so long. Never fear, for just fifteen minutes into my routine catch-up on all things Hitchens (now referred to as my "Hitch-up") I have discovered this absolute gem for you. Who is to say your faith would go unrewarded? Enough self-indulgence. Time for the opposite.

A Beautiful Closer

Oh, reader! It is time - the first of my yearly quests is almost at an end! Tomorrow I will return to my humble abode in mainland Britain, leaving the overbearing heat of Arizona far behind me. It has been a fantastic journey, escorting you through my various opinions and thoughts, but the school year is complete and now it is time for a break. Yet, as I've said before, writing is no longer an option, but a compulsion, so expect the odd update from my perspective back home after I've acclimatised. I will be back mid-way through August when this blog will be back to full force, with months of pent-up frustration and gritty angst ready to explode from my fingertips. I shall leave you in the same vein as I began, with an article relevant to our times. The much-mentioned Ian McEwan has been the object of our praise many times over, but here I bring you a much shorter work of non-fiction, written for Christopher Hitchens' compendium, The Portable Atheist, but also published in The Guardian some time ago. I cannot possibly summarise the message of the piece, but the title is 'The Day of Judgement', reflecting on the current crescendo of our death-wish culture, manifesting itself in suicide bombings and the bringing on of the apocalypse for religious purposes. I've been meaning to bring this to you for some time, but today and now seems the perfect time to do so, befitting of the somber mood of this post. Early into McEwan's piece he eloquently reminds us: "we cannot know the date of our demise, but we know the date must fall within a certain window of biological possibility which, as we age, must progressively narrow to its closing point", beautifully paraphrased by Philip Larkin in his poem, 'Aubade':

... The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

Robert Mugabe and Nelson Mandela

Robert Mugabe is winning the race to become the world's most repugnant person. Indeed, he's even been knighted by the Queen (I hate to say I told you so) in 1994, after his period of mass murder between 1982 and 1987 where he was estimated to have killed roughly 10,000 people in Zimbabwe. If you haven't been affected by the news coverage of Mugabe's pillaging regime since the prospect of democratic liberation in March, when they held the largely-ignored general election, then you haven't been alive. Obviously, the question then arises: What should we do? The UN has proved ineffective as usual, and condemning words from our salient role model, Gordon Brown, has only acted as a platform for Mugabe to plump up middle-age rhetoric about white imperialism. Should we wish to flex our international muscles and demonstrate again that we will not be talked to in this way by sending in the troops, this would be met with another wave of smarmy criticism from the growing numbers of Iraq-opposers, yet, more pragmatically, we simply don't have the resources anyway. And so, we're left with what we like to do normally, because it's safe: write about it in our papers, which is ultimately futile. In this vein, the New Statesman fills its front cover with photographs of riled Zimbabweans, and Peter Hain declares it's "Time to confront Mugabe" - with what exactly he doesn't say. Although, he does conclude that the election should be monitored internationally and an exit plan must be formulated, but he doesn't say how, probably because it's near impossible to actually implement what he so heroically suggests.

What I propose is a direct and systematic plea to Africa's key political figures, importantly, those whom Mugabe respects, to denounce the blunders of Mugabe's regime and decry the violent brutalization of democratic advocates. Primarily, I call upon Nelson Mandela, a first-hand witness to the dirtied hand of white imperialism, but also a revolutionary statesman for South Africa who negotiated a multi-racial democracy (someone who Mugabe does respect). However, according to George Bizos, Mandela's solicitor during his time as the president of South Africa, Mandela's doctor has warned him not to undergo stressful activities. Scoff, dear reader, scoff. This lame-duck excuse is pitiful and an insight into racial tensions among even the most advanced African lands. In the words of Christopher Hitchens last Monday, "By his silence about what is happening in Zimbabwe, Mandela is making himself complicit in the pillage and murder of an entire nation, as well as the strangulation of an important African democracy." Mandela has the influence to potentially quell the devastation of one of Africa's most resource-rich countries, but instead he reverts to the keep-safe fence-sitters of the African National Congress and, until very recently, Thabo Mbeki. Furthermore, Mugabe has been a devout Roman Catholic since childhood, enough so to warrant an invite to the late Pope John Paul II's funeral in 2007, despite a ban on his presence at any EU nation from 2003 onwards. He was able to get around this little snag, claiming that he was on Vatican soil, therefore, not encroaching onto his prohibition. When will the Vatican and the Catholic Church start using their waning influence to the best possible degree by excoriating the loathsome actions of one of its "flock"? Yet again, the feeble-minded individuals anointing these positions of international authority fail to make just little impact on the lives of thousands of starving, terrified, debilitated men, women, and children in Zimbabwe.

On being 'Caucasian'

All of you will, in all likelihood, have been made at some point to fill in a survey where one of the defining questions is about ethnicity. If it were up to me, this would not feature at all as a categorising demographic limiter, lest we forget that "race" is a social construct (there is, in fact, the "Human" race, but that's about it). My white readers will, by the process of elimination, have probably been forced to select "Caucasian" as their colour/background, etc. Caucasian seems to have become synonymous with the word "white". Why? Perhaps this is a politically correct balancing act, where whites need to be viewed as something other than "white" in case we say we're being unfairly pigeon-holed on the basis of our skin tone. This is what separates those decrying racism as an act of prejudice, against those decrying racism as an institutionalized social trend. This, it appears to me, purports to those sensitive bed-wetters who wish not to "offend". Caucasians originally inhabited the blocks south-east of continental Europe: Russia through Turkey - Eurasia, defined predominantly during the 18th century. As far as I have traced, I have no direct descent from anywhere near that area; my ancestors stem from Northern Europe, Ireland, Italy, and India. Indeed, the language I speak does not inherit any of the Caucuses many dialects, apart from, arguably, the Arabic numerals that 60% of the world's population likewise employs. Nor do I buy into the Caucasian belief system - putting faith in Zeus and practicing and revering magic. The linkage seems to be more centered on the shape of one's skull than one's skin colour, and I may have a similar skull in terms of size and dimension, but why is the assumption made that I am, therefore, "Caucasian"? The next time you are left with this as your only option, with the typical parenthetical whimsicality: "(white)", leave the fucking question blank.

I've said it before and I'll say it again...

Hazel Blears is the most appalling women in the world.

Rip

It takes something, or someone, very special to better the original when covering a song. I can think of just one popular example, being Jeff Buckley's cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, but there are other lesser known examples, such as Biffy Clyro's cover of Rihanna's Umbrella, or Johnny Cash's cover of Nine Inch Nails' Hurt. And so, as Radiohead cart around the world in their tour bus, naturally avoiding flying at all costs, it comes as a wonderful surprise to see them upload a video of themselves playing an amazing acoustic version of Portishead's The Rip, off their album, Third, which, if you haven't already listened to, is incredible. Radiohead are not known for their covers by any stretch of the imagination. In the past, scarce recordings have surfaced, such as Carly Simon's Nobody does it Better (introduced as "the sexiest song ever written"), Can's The Thief, and even the Manic Street Preacher's classic If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next. They have never been a band to dwell on other bands' material, whether that be for respectful purposes or the wish to not be seen as fawning, but they have always been targets for cover versions themselves, recently made famous by that wanker, Prince, and other leechers like Alanis Morrisette and Jamie Cullum. Need I say any more, dear reader? Well yes. Radiohead have a strange knack of improving upon an original; not through stamping their mark all over it, but through careful consideration and due respect. I recommend the following links, which have all come in a flurry during 2008 after a career long (relative) silence on other bands' work: New Order's Ceremony; Bjork's Unravel; The Smiths' Headmaster's Ritual, and now, Portishead's The Rip.