At The Level Of A Gun

I recently stated that the true enemy of hatred is public discourse. I stand by that, but when civility takes a back seat to impassioned attacks on others, the forum of discussion becomes a breeding ground for contempt and violence. Well intentioned debate walks a fine line between productive compromise and useless mudslinging, and if we ignore the former and cross over to the latter the problems we set out to solve only intensify.

It is at this point that I am obligated to address the recent tragedy in Tuscon. While I do not believe that the incendiary rhetoric of Sarah Palin or Sharon Angle inspired the murder of six people and attempted assassination of Representative Giffords, calling for "second amendment solutions" to problems in government certainly does not carry the connotation of peaceful cooperation and bipartisan compromise. There have been an overwhelming number of pieces in the media recently calling for an end to hostile speech in politics and on the home front, but they all simply repeat each other. Each one ends with the prediction that such politesse is only temporary, and sooner or later we will revert to the old tone of hostility.

I'm not advocating changing the tone of the debate. As much as I oppose hate speech on principle, it's important that it plays a role in society precisely so we can understand how futile it is to employ it. While a well penned essay can certainly sway opinions and inspire acts of both good and violence, the place where we must truly focus our energy is in cutting off the resources that enable people to carry out such acts of carnage. There is absolutely no credible reason to own an assault rifle in the United States, except perhaps for investment purposes. The threat of an oppressive government in the United States requiring deposition by armed insurrection is not only remote, but were such an instance to occur the fact that people believe they could go toe to toe with the world's only military super power armed with an assault rifle and high capacity magazines is laughable.

Even those who advocate that gun ownership is effective for personal and home defense are woefully mistaken. More people are killed or injured by their own gowns than are those against whom they would intend to use them. In fact, gun violence in the 20th century claimed more lives than World Wars I, II, the Korean War, The Vietnam War and the Gulf War combined. Yet for some inexplicable reason the NRA and Congress seem to have it in their heads (or rather their pockets) that more people owning lethal weapons makes the country a safer place. I have absolutely no idea how this is logical. I have never heard of an instance in my lifetime where a deranged gunman was stopped from committing murder by an armed civilian. Had I heard such a story, my immediate reaction would have been relief that such a person was stopped quickly followed by terror that there seems to be a large number of people with concealed weapons walking the streets. Even a man located near the scene of Representative Giffords' assassination carrying a concealed weapon admitted to having almost shot an innocent bystander after he tackled the alleged shooter to the ground, mistaking him for the perpetrator rather than the victim.

If we want to make this country a safer place, the answer is not to tone down the volume. Nobody every won a battle by sitting quietly. An argument certainly, but silence in the heat of conflict is tantamount to acceptance of defeat. Disabling the systems that enable true terror is the only foolproof way to ensure that we can resume the work of dismantling hatred and bigotry without the looming threat of violent solutions formed at the level of a gun.

I am a horrendously indecisive person. You might not think so by the way I write, but that's only because writing is the alternate universe in which I am a confident, witty, commanding person (actually, I'm fairly witty in the real world too, but here my humor is honed and edited to my exacting standards. Speaking is so unpolished; everything you say is a first draft). Every time I go shopping, whether it be for clothes, groceries or home appliances, I am entrenched in a constant battle with myself as to whether or not a) I genuinely need to purchase this item b) this item is too expensive or c) there is a cheaper alternative of comparable quality. I can spend hours browsing a minimal selection of socks, forcibly differentiating between the subtleties of midnight blue with cream toes and black with white accents (for the record, the latter option is preferable).

Perhaps the most challenging thing on which I must render a decision is the title of my entries. Too often I find the titles that drift to the forefront of my cerebral cortex are insanely hokey and have the ring of teen lit mediocrity. "Wisdom in Sandwiches" still haunts me to this day, and it's precisely that kind of Ibsen quality sludge that causes me to so frequently abstain from naming my publications. However there is one title with which I'm still wrestling, and it happens to be the title of this blog.

When I broke the promise to myself that I would never start blogging, I had to prove that I was the exception. I wouldn't try to pretend I was unique, I wouldn't profess to have unimaginable terrors in my life that my parents couldn't possibly understand, and above all I would never make arrogant claims to omniscience. A personal mantra that all young people should take to heart is one of my favorite quotes from Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, who penned, "I am not young enough to know everything". I must remain steadfast in the knowledge that the world has not yet sufficiently kicked my ass enough times for me to claim credibility.

In order to show that I was no ordinary blogger, I fashioned a name for my page that I was sure was neither cliche nor predictable (pretentious is another matter). I would not be "Just Another Nobody", or "Confessions of a 19 Year Old Kid". Such titles are for adolescents who count themselves alone in the number of people who believe them to be crafty and prodigiously skilled writers. In fact, those of you who read my first introductory post (which I have since deleted as I realized in retrospect that it wasn't worthy of publication in USA Today, let alone on my blog) know that the origins of "Tortured Letters From A Sidewalk Cafe" is neither depressing nor an attempt at invoking emotional depth. I actually chose it from a line in a David Sedaris novel, a comedic piece whose imagery struck me as both intriguing and darkly whimsical.

However, as my indecisiveness rears its ugly head, I'm forced to acknowledge that out of context, the name of this blog looks like the title of a poem from a misguided yet average youth whose parents have recently gone through a routine albeit slightly complicated divorce. If I ever post a poem on this blog, do not read any further. Ever since the death of T.S Eliot, poetry is a sure indicator that a human being is in decline. Take heart and know that no matter how much the contents of my works may stand at odds with the title of the electronic anthology that binds them together, I will never torture you with a letter from a sidewalk cafe.    

I Judge (and so do you!)

For some inexplicable reason, theme parks seem to be haven for the poorly dressed. No, I take that back; if they were havens the poorly dressed people who frequent them would stay there, giving my eyes a much needed respite. Such was the visual torture to which I was subjected on my recent vacation to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Long seen by my sister and I as a sacred pilgrimage, my Hajj for Harry was punctuated all too frequently by visions of a barrage of bros, plaid shorts fused disgustingly with striped shirts to form an ensemble so heinous I can hardly recount it here without forcibly suppressing my gag reflex.

This must be some twisted joke, I told myself as I strolled along the faux cobbled streets of not Hogsmeade. Maybe they used up all their good clothes for holiday parties and haven't had time to wash them. Maybe it's a consort of students from the local school for the blind. Perhaps they're foreign guests unfamiliar with our customs. Sadly only the latter part of my self delusional musing turned out to be true. It's remarkable, but the last place one would expect to find a global cultural exchange seems to be its ironic epicenter. Every few steps I caught snatches of a different language, French, Spanish, Chinese and something that sounded disturbingly like a gargling Italian opera singer.

But this can't be; I thought indignantly. How could these Europeans be so hideously dressed? I had seen first hand back at school that everyone but me owns a Burberry scarf, and as Montreal is one of North America's more European cities, with a large number of McGill students hailing  from the continent, I was wrought with confusion at seeing these unfortunately clad tourists.

On the bright side, I told myself, at least I'm a shoo in for best dressed. My new found stylistic superiority did wonders to improve my mood, and I fell back on my favorite pastime, judging people. Now before you close your browser window, let me explain my abrasive frankness when it comes to critiquing. Everyone, without exception, makes judgments. Hundreds of judgments on a daily, perhaps hourly basis. You may not be conscious of it, but each time you make a choice, you are judging that the choice you make is the superior option to the alternative. When you think to yourself, my goodness he/she is gorgeous! You are judging a person's appearance, albeit in a positive manner. So I ask those of you who take issue with my criticisms, what harm is there in acknowledging a universal human characteristic?

"Well, my mother told me if you don't have anything nice to say don't say it at all!" you reply in a breathy, confrontational tone. Your mother is a kindhearted fool. Undoubtedly she means well and is a sweet lady (as most mothers are), but she fails to grasp the long term harm that is inflicted by withholding judgment. When emotions and thoughts are stored away, forcibly detained by our oral musculature and good manners, they fester. Like an anaerobic bacterium, these thoughts multiply and infect your psyche, breeding contempt and distorting your original discomfort into genuine hatred. The best way to avoid this is to vent your frustrations as soon as possible and in a constructive way. "But Daniel!" you triumphantly exclaim, "Your harsh critiques are anything but constructive. Look at your degrading syntax!" Au contraire confused reader. What my syntax lacks in politesse it makes up for in originality. Constructive criticism does not, by definition, have to be kind, and by my count venting one's feelings through creative writing is an activity in the construction of detailed observation. By starting a conservation or expressing your opinions to what I certainly hope in my case is an attentive audience, one removes the veil that shields hatred from it's true arena of defeat, public discourse.

In fact, now that I think about it, a theme park is the perfect vehicle for public discourse. It's a veritable display of dysfunctional families, overwhelming joy, crushing defeat and vomiting. What's more universal than that? Perhaps we could resolve controversial issues with greater ease if we were to turn what is now a circus of catcalling and hyper-partisanship into a thrilling thematic venue of the human character. After all, who wants an exit wound from bitter infighting when you can exit through the gift shop?

Ever since people have discovered the crushing nonexistence of Santa Claus, they feel that they must take it upon themselves to personally and unequivocally kill the notion of an obese senior citizen slipping down chimneys to deliver presents to billions of children the world over in the span of roughly eight hours.

As an atheist who was raised in a Jewish household whose patriarch is a professor of psychology, I feel that this behavior is a petty form of self validation and schadenfreude in order to compensate for the crushing sadness that engulfed these newly converted infidels when they were children. There had to be some way to justify the sheer idiocy of sitting next to a fire pit with milk and cookies, waiting for a knick knack bearing home invader to appear. Ergo, many self proclaimed hilariously ingenious people both young and old have done a 180 and now mock the lunacy of the idea of Santa Claus in order to save face and scrounge a few laughs.

These arguments start out logically enough. How is it even possible, assuming that one manages to amass a team of flying reindeer, to fly all over the world and deliver presents in less than 24 hours? Of course, that's simply ridiculous. Even further, the idea that one man alone could do it is insane, it would require a team of at least 600! Oh absolutely, a veritable army of Santas. And then to think that a person of such girth could conceivably squeeze himself down the standard dimensions of a chimney, and the fact that millions of people don't have chimneys! Yes, the global housing spectrum is quite wide. Plus how would there be enough room in the sled for billions of presents, varying in size and shape? It does seem inconsistent with the laws of physics.

All of these assertions creep into yule time conversations, and what's remarkable is that each person who makes these arguments believes himself to be the first. It's painful really, seeing the bright eyed and expectant looks that appear on the visages of these would be comedians, anxiously waiting for a laugh, a congratulatory "I've never heard that one before! That's brilliant!" Of course I begrudgingly oblige, giving them an amused chuckle so as to let them save face but at the same time convey my impatience and annoyance with their banal holiday tidbits. It's astonishing that people view these supposedly comical tirades as necessary. Convincing people that Santa Claus is a figment of our imagination reinforced by scheming holiday card companies is much like trying to convince the public that Meryl Streep is a phenomenal actress. Yes, we know.

Therefore, I am instituting a reflexive moratorium on denunciations of Santa Claus. No longer shall I be subjected to unfunny and cliched rants from people desperate for an admiring audience. Instead, let's encourage people to put their persuasive skills to good use and convince people of the nonexistence of more important things, like Creationism. Not only is the idea of a world less than 6,000 years old laughable, but efforts put towards converting the philistines who profess such bullshit are far more appreciated this holiday season than denouncing Kris Kringle.

My lobby is much like a cross between a public park and the throne room on Mount Olympus. On the one hand, you are free to sit, people watch, and read to your hearts content, but should decide to sit in my throne, the two faux Victorian, gold and black upholstered slightly worn Pier 1 Imports loungers set up across from each other to serve as chair and footrest closest to the fireplace, I will unleash upon you a furious, unholy wrath in order to demonstrate my theocratic superiority and supreme dominance. I rule this lobby with an iron fist, commanding the circle of chairs that serve as both study space and respite from the constant stress of classes and exams. Though you may not know it, all who pas into the realm of the red fleurs de lys patterned carpet fall under my immediate jurisdiction.  I am supreme author of the Book of Lobby. Each day I decide who shall sit in a gold chair, who shall occupy the black with gold lattice detail, who shall have use of the recessed floor outlets, who shall perish by fire and who by water. My unspoken word is law, and those who fail to abide by it are sinners in the eyes of a vengeful French Major.

I have yet to determine the fate of the young girl sitting to my left. Foolishly, she took it upon herself to repose in my throne, and seeing it unfit in its current position, angle it away from the cast iron glass topped table. Yet her thievery knows no bounds. As if to mock me, she has gone so far as to affix her computer to an outlet (thankfully her ignorance extends far enough to cloak her eyes from the one beneath her chair, which I promptly put to use), ensuring her unbounded reign, not constricted by such petty obstacles as battery life. As I sit in an identical setup not four feet to the right, I cannot help but seethe with righteous anger and stinging embarrassment, the amble cushioning beneath my extremities doing little to mitigate the pain of exile.

I try to understand what might have possessed this girl to usurp my seat of power. Why, with a love seat, two couches and a plethora of other chairs at her disposal, did she chose my sacred altar? Surely she cannot be attuned to its innumerable secrets. Only a soul with my unparalleled cunning and distinct knack for creature comforts could have discovered the wonders of such a chair. With her stylishly clunky earphones so often preferred by the B- crowd, marginally outdated frames and colorless gray sweatshirt, this woman obviously lacks the necessary brainpower to exploit the myriad bounties that this lobby nook provides.

Yes, that is surely the case. Clearly she stumbled upon my sacred chamber of productivity and liberal elitist snark by accident, unaware of her grave error. Tapping away on a graphing calculator while simultaneously perusing a website of such little consequence that it fails to capture my interest, I give her a quelling glare of purest venom, the kind reserved for people who murder puppies and Newt Gingrich. Apparently unaffected, she continues her work, undoubtedly negating the effects of her worth ethic by dousing her ear drums in indie hipster tunes, where atonal is the new perfect pitch.

I resolve to keep a closer watch on the unassuming scholars who venture into my lobby. Should you be reading this, be forewarned that in the future, my mercy will not extend itself so generously, so tread carefully and know that you are here at the bequest of an all seeing, people watching French Major with no qualms in outting you in a semi-anonymous fashion. Save face, save my space.

I am by no means a music fanatic. Don't get me wrong, I love listening to music on long car rides, or while cooking, and I've been known to play the violin on occasion, but I do not espouse the notion that I can't go a day without my iPod, as many of my friends do. No, I much prefer the soothing voices of Rene Montagne, Steve Inskeep and Robert Seagull, the vanguards of public radio whose objective journalism provides a soothing backdrop to my aforementioned activities.

That being said, when I do chose to eschew 91.5 FM in favor of something more melodic, I, like everyone else, have specific preferences in the type of music which I enjoy. My tastes are eclectic, but by and large I enjoy any music that is not heavy metal or played at the Grand Ole Opry. Janis Joplin, John Mayer, Edith Piaf, The Beatles, Diana Krall and Michael Jackson are just a few of the varied names and that appear on my play lists.

As I have mentioned before, the Utopian lobby of my dorm is home to a black grand piano, its shine matted with wear but in excellent shape nonetheless. Everyday without fail, there is someone who takes it upon himself to give a performance of what largely consists of classical tunes. These expositions are fueled by both a genuine desire to practice and a somewhat egotistical urge to demonstrate their talent at the black and white keys. For the most part I am grateful for such displays of talent and musical prodigy. While I revel in the ambient noise of hushed conversations, the computerized beeps of the turnstile and the clink of knives and forks from the cafeteria below, a subtle change of ambiance is appreciated.

However, it is important to note that, much like the court jesters of medieval Europe, providing entertainment in my lobby is a privilege, subject to revocation at my discretion. If you should find your fingers lacking in dexterity, your sense of rhythm marred by the unpredictable hustle and flow of dorm traffic, do not attempt to wrestle a ballad from the 88 keys diametrically opposed in tone and shade. Such insolent behavior serves only to anger and distract me from my work, and as you are here at my unspoken bequest, be considerate of my eardrums lest they doth protest too much to your hideous rendition of "Heart and Soul".

Such was the case earlier today, when as I perused a book while sipping my usual coffee, a friend of a friend approached the piano, audience in tow. As she began to play, I was put at ease by her skilled command of the instrument. She was clearly a talented pianist, and her performance was a pleasant addition to my lobby. My approval was premature however, as soon after she began her medley she added a layer of dissonant, nasal vocals, the kind which sounds nice when coupled with a jazz quartet but sounds screechy and amateurish when applied to more mainstream musical standards.

While my first instinct was anger at this atonal recital, I was also impressed (albeit reluctantly) by the girl's audacity to provide vocal accompaniment to her song selections. Her second tune was far better suited to her mezzo-soprano-aren't-my-nasal-congestion-and-sudden-dynamic-changes-charming tone, as she belted out Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" for all it was worth, a spectacle that would have been much more impressive had everyone and their mother not already done a version of the song on a. American Idol, b. A mediocre solo album. Still, I was willing to concede that I was mistaken, but I stand by my assertion that she did not have a universal set of pipes. Future performances would require an exhaustive review of her set list and hand written approval before she took to the proverbial stage and public forum that is my lobby.

Sitting in relative silence as I compose this entry, I wonder who will be next to brave the piano in an attempt to garner attention and, unbeknown to them, my silent praise and approval. If you are unsure as to whether or not your melodic offerings are worthy of reverberating through the hallowed halls of my lobby, look behind you as I lounge splayed across two unnecessarily embroidered and moderately tacky armchairs. An indulging smile or small nod is all you need to secure a spot in the annals of willing entertainers who venture into my kingdom, lusting to launch themselves to musical prominence.      

Furious. Irate. Livid. None of these adjectives can begin to describe the inexpressible rage that overtook me yesterday evening. Having left my academic accouterements in the capable hands of my friend Megan, I returned from my one hour Glee watching hiatus to resume studying for an impending exam the following morning. Choosing instead to set up camp in the games room adjacent to my beloved study nook, I went to retrieve my book bag and return to my haven of productivity.

Upon arrival, I discovered the unthinkable. My corner had been usurped by a horde of viscous, simple-minded bimbos hellbent on crushing my spirit and ruining my prospects of success. One of them, their ring leader, had been sitting next to me earlier that very same day.

I recalled her plain Jane appearance and ubiquitous MacBook Pro. As I settled into my routine of plugging my laptop into the secret outlet hidden in the floor, I recall her surprise and delight to discover a means of indefinitely powering her computer to prolong her stint in my beloved lobby. After jokingly (but not so jokingly) swearing her to secrecy, I resumed work on my research paper, oblivious to the approaching horrific injustice that was to drive me into exile.

As this scene played itself out in my minds eye, rendering me incapable of rational thought, I became enraged. How dare these girls use my lobby. They were not worthy to bask in the welcoming glow of the incandescent bulbs, to repose in the faux Victorian chairs. What was worse was seeing the plain faced brunette making use of my secret outlet. That rancorous, shameless bitch! Did she not know the power of this space, the consequences she threatened to incur by exposing its greatest secrets to the dorm? Clearly she was unaware of her cruel idiocy, and rather than seek direct confrontation with a gaggle of potentially murderous college aged females, I retreated a few paces to the more exposed and outlet-less corner of the lobby, the one not so acoustically oriented so as to filter out the unnecessary ambient noise.

This relocation was the rough equivalent of moving from Manhattan's Central Park West to the Lower East Side. I traded opulent luxury and unparalleled convenience for heavy pedestrian traffic, exceptionally loud outbursts and the smell of illicit drugs wafting through the air. I hung my head in defeat, but vowed a triumphant return. Like Christ, I would return to my kingdom upon a cloud of glory, though in lieu of a glorious condensation of water molecules I would make my triumphant homecoming in a pair of sheepskin slippers and a beige cable knit sweater. I would not lower myself to begging for acceptance in the realm that I am now convinced is my birthright. "Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven" I thought to myself, quoting Lucifer's infamous mantra from Milton's Paradise Lost.

And so I waited. I was determined to see their occupation crumble like ancient Rome falling at the hands of Germanic invaders, driven to surrender by a combination of needing to sleep and overall boredom. I endured less than ten minutes of torturous noise and stupidity, the latter of which manifested itself in the form of a girl hopelessly trying to memorize a French vocabulary list, before I conceded defeat. My retreat was hasty and a severe blow to my regime, but I knew there would be copious opportunities to retake my throne.

I returned today to find my corner deserted save for one girl, typing away absentmindedly on her laptop and no doubt contemplating whether her productivity would flourish in a change of venue. I approached cautiously and set up my post as quickly as possible. Fumbling with my charger, she helpfully pointed my towards my usual outlet. It took me a moment to process this advice. Her knowledge of the outlet's existence suddenly registered and confirmed my worst fears about the circulation of my realm's secrets at exponential speed. This was unacceptable, treasonous and severely disheartening.

From that point on I vowed to guard with extreme ferocity the wonders of my study space, a veritable Eden in a dorm swamped with the inherent sin of man. Constant vigilance and a keen eye would be my indispensable weapons against my witless peers, those fools who dare tread on hallowed ground, unfit for this paradise.