Powder Clegg

October 21, 2015

PowderClegg Episode #2: Vulgus Mob and Danimal Planet

December 17, 2014

The Last Christmas Pageant

The Majestic Theatre in Ventura looks like it might have been nice, once. Like people might have put on pearls and slinky black dresses to watch artists performing in their prime. No longer. The royal blue walls speckled with stars had faded, leaving behind the unnatural, ethereal turquoise of an alien sky. The golden stars still shone bright, but the trim of the same hue was so caked with years of paint over paint over paint that the molding had lost its crown in an indistinct dripping mass. The carpets were worn and smeared with some reddish gunk, likely the excretion of those roving bands of crust-punks. It was hard to imagine that this place could occupy the same world as GladWrap, touch-screen terminals, and carpet cleaner. Absurd that such conveniences, such marks of a civilization preoccupied with cleanliness and sterility could possibly have any relevance here, where the walls were falling down and the people were rising up.

And they were, in their own way, by their own rubric. They'd studded their jackets, dyed and spiked their hair into tall rooster spikes, into mohawk ridges and devil locks. Their Docs were laced tight and high, ready to be put to use, it seemed, but the end they sought was unclear, uncertain, and apparently violent. They loved and fought in equal measure, and with broad unflinching smiles they carried hard knives on their hips. Brandishing daggers between their teeth. We were here to see the Adicts. A Christmas Pageant. The last one.

Or so it was easy to imagine. The setting stripped bare and suffering, the crowd a hazy violent crew of cholos and crust-punks and women with cigarette burns on their wrists. This was a window to our future, it seemed. The world we had created, we were creating with every crushed cigarette butt and every shotglass we slammed empty to the beer catch. A debauched misery reveling in its own destruction taken bite by bite and fuck by fuck.

Monkey appeared first as a decadent Santa Claus, lean and small with a cringle-crinkled cape, an unnatural scarlet that aped bloodlust but communicated instead the simple, demented ecstasy of a neon sign from the Red Light District. There was a smile and a smirk and a venom-tooth bite rolled into one, and he was shooting ribbons out his fingers, kicking balloons to the hungry crowd. His opening was ecstatic, that Monkey droog smile ear to ear. I didn't dance, I didn't mosh. I just watched.

Next he appeared as a glam Frosty the Snowman, complete with a mylar carrot nose and extravagant top hat, white suit and more false treasures to throw to the crowd. I parted with my date and moved to the mosh pit, a strangely orderly throng of punks roving in orbit, shoving and cutting and swinging their fists at nothing in particular, violence to no end but the end itself. I was safe there, I felt, able to stake my claim and let off steam and be a man. Be a woman. Be a person. In this realm there was no sex, just sexuality, raw and unmediated by simple man-made contrivances like gender and sex roles.

Monkey donned his last ensemble, a white sweatsuit hung with applique ornaments and a frilly lace collar. It was so strange to see this man, the smirking, coy, lascivious Monkey, this time small and spry and dried and wrinkled, parading around the stage in a remnants of a culture long dead, clothed in the old traditions and tropes like skinned game, tanned and stripped of their animus. This was the Christmas pageant, the last Christmas pageant, before the fall. Or, as I mused as I sipped my Lagunitas and considered the stash in Dan's jumper cable bag, the first pageant after the fall, in this new recreated land that'd sprung forth from the seeds planted long ago when we thought that apple trees would grow here.

We'd held onto the old traditions, the old tropes, but they meant nothing in this new world we were creating, piece by piece. We knew the endings, but we didn't know the story. We knew the costumes but couldn't fathom the plot. We knew the chorus, but had forgotten the verse, the last verse, the one that mattered. So we put on the costumes of the bygone era and danced the known dances, hoping that some warmth of the past would reach us here in the disconnected future. We waited, we spoke the spells, we praised the old totems, but our god did not arrive.

And maybe that's how we wanted it. Maybe we wanted nothing more than to pervert the old, to bend it to our new deranged purposes, to dement the past and leash it to our own fetishes and the subversive rhymes and rhythms of a new logic, unhinged and beautifully incomplete. We wanted to show it for the sham that it was. The White Christmas drenched in racism, the Santa Baby won't you fulfill my every consumer capitalist impulse, the Rudolph dreamed up by Macy's to sell microwave ovens and cable-knit sweaters. Stripped down and laid bare, were these tropes more or less fulfilling than the ones dreamed up by department stores and hawkish neoconservative Red Scare witchhunters? Did they mean any less, or any more?

There was a tiny gem in each incantation, a purity found there, in the dirty glamour of the Majestic Theatre. It pretended not at all, and won the world for want of purpose. Viva la Revolution, dressed up in Gramma's jazzercise togs, vampire teeth protruding from Santa's haunting grin, a washed up Frosty, all performing our own deficiencies and celebrating our fall from grace. This was the Christmas Pageant of our Apocalypse, and the Celebration of our Rebirth.

November 12, 2014

The Homeless Bill of Rights: Reclaiming Our Public Square

In cities across America, it’s becoming harder to keep a roof over your head. In Detroit, banks are foreclosing on “undesirable” black, brown, and poor residents, and their homes are being sold to affluent white buyers for peanuts. In New York City, Mayor de Blasio’s new housing plan is designed to allow pricey apartments to rent next to more affordable units, which will give gentrification in those neighborhoods a major shot in the arm. Meanwhile, income inequality surges and social welfare programs are slashed in the name of a balanced budget. Thousands of new homeless people are on the streets, mostly in large metropolitan areas like New York City and L.A. In many cities across America, business and municipal groups have responded by supporting the criminalization of behaviors part-and-parcel to a life lived on the street. Those homeless who live in urban areas face harassment from police officers for sitting, sleeping, and panhandling in public spaces. The number of cities in the U.S. where it is illegal to sleep in a parked car has more than doubled in the past three years. Meanwhile, a 90-year-old Florida man faces jail time for distributing food to the homeless in Fort Lauderdale. By criminalizing homelessness, we are funneling thousands of Americans out of public view and into the American prison system.

In an effort to stem this assault on homeless people, social justice groups have developed a relatively novel tactic designed to alleviate homelessness: the Homeless Bill of Rights. The Homeless Bill of Rights (HBR) defends the rights of people to sit and eat in public, sleep in legally parked cars, exchange food, and access 24-hour hygienic facilities. In essence, the HBR aims to decriminalize the daily necessities of homeless life. Knocked down but not out by the defeat of California AB 5 at the hands of the Appropriations Committee earlier this year, over 125 social justice organizations such as the American Civil Liberties Union and the Western Regional Advocacy Project are working to develop a new bill, which they hope will be up for debate in Oregon, Colorado, and California by January 2015.

Thus far, proponents of the bill have cast the HBR as a stopgap measure to protect the homeless from excessive incarceration. However, there’s a broader issue at stake here than simply keeping homeless people out of jail, and it’s worth defending on its own merits: how we define and control our public spaces. By attempting to expunge the homeless from the public square, those business and municipal leaders who oppose the HBR want to cherrypick what kinds of people get to occupy our parks and sidewalks, and only those with money to spend are invited to the party.

Opponents of the bill argue that we should be trying to eliminate homelessness rather than legalize the behaviors that stem from it. The problem is, groups that oppose the HBR are not trying to alleviate homelessness. Instead, these municipal and business groups regularly oppose social welfare programs and homeless support networks. They aren’t interested in spending public funds on helping the homeless; it’s much easier and more convenient to unsee the homeless by trampling their right to occupy public spaces. Tellingly, when AB 5 was first up for discussion in 2013, the Sacramento Bee quoted local Sheriff McGinness speaking of the homeless, “Do you want to see people living like that? I don’t.” When they say, “I don’t want to see homelessness,” they mean to say, “I don’t want to see the homeless.”

The preferences of the corporate structures that oppose the HBR are not humanitarian; they’re aesthetic and deeply economic. Corporate groups don’t want to see the homeless living on the street because it’s bad for business. It upsets the aesthetics of consumption. Capitalism works because corporations, businesses, and the politicians they buy are able to present the public with advertisements that stoke our hunger for bigger, better, faster, more, all the while shielding our eyes from the real human cost of consumption and convenience. It’s bad advertising for capitalism if homeless people are panhandling outside Nordstrom. Our experience of seeing homeless people changes the way we spend money, and the corporate structure has a lot to gain by cleaning up our commercial landscape.

The goal of the corporate structure is to increase profits. Those corporate groups will lobby against homeless rights if removing non-spenders from public spaces will make them more money. In restricting the use of public spaces to those with money to spend, these groups will convert our public places – where we might gather with friends, get some fresh air, or exchange ideas - into simple conduits connecting nodes of commerce. By redefining public spaces for the benefit of business, they are redefining the public itself such that it is no longer defined by community, but by whether or not you have money to spend. If you don’t want to buy anything, or if you simply can’t, you’re not welcome. The message from the corporate structure is clear: This land is your land, if you can ante up and pay the price of admission.

Opponents of the HBR want to redefine our public spaces and how we think of ourselves as part of a community to optimize profits. By tapping into this deceitful ulterior motive, supporters of the HBR can open up the discussion surrounding the HBR and start to consider how policies that attack the most destitute members of our community will change how we all gain membership in our communities and how we all get to use our public spaces. As such, it’s not enough to see the HBR as a stopgap measure, as simply a way to prevent homeless people from getting thrown in jail. We need to view the HBR as a way to retain control over how we as members of the public define our public spaces and how we define ourselves as a community. By allowing the criminalization of homelessness, we cede those decisions to business interests, and thereby allow ourselves to be defined by our ability to spend money. It’s not enough to speak of the HBR as a stopgap measure. It must be our rallying cry.

November 7, 2014

A Day in a Million

I woke up in my leather jacket. It'd started to get cold at night, but I hadn't turned the heater on. I hadn't made it that far. My eyes itched. I got up from the chair and looked out the window, then at the jumpy red numbers on my alarm clock. 6:48. I took off my boots and stumbled as I pulled my jeans down. I had a new bruise. I set the alarm and texted Robert, could he call me on his way to work? I was tired and paranoid and just a little sweaty.

I hit the snooze at 9 and turned on Democracy Now with Amy Goodman. Something about fast-tracking a piece of legislation that would make it illegal for the government to give preference to American made goods when buying office supplies, I was focused on the claw marks on my eggshell. I ate two because I didn't like the idea of spending $10 on eggs every week. I cut a slice of bread and smoothed a fork-full of peanut butter on top, grabbed the salt and pinched it over the slice, then over the eggs before burning them. I pressed my coffee, took a swig of molasses, then of apple cider vinegar, and mixed a spoonful of vitamin powder with potato starch and water. I would wash the dishes later. I needed to journal, I needed to read the news, one thing at a time. I put on the Specials and tried to focus. I had a tour today. At 11? Or 11:15? A corporate group, Nike, Jerry wrote on Facebook. I stayed my fingers before typing, and liked the post instead. I smiled grimly.

A corporate group, probably a bunch of 50-something white men, so I'd wear my high heeled leather boots. Couldn't hurt. I was out the door.

When I rode up on Bill, I saw Gen and Robert racing across Helena pulling out Segways. I threw down the kickstand and ran to help. Gen looked good. Those legs of his that had become scrawny towards the end had transformed into her beautifully slender things. Robert looked like a criminal with his reflective aviators. I turned and saw Iver, with that shit-eating grin that always makes me smile, springing lightly from the Segway with his polo and plaid shorts. Jerry was focused on the computer, but he joked that gag smile and I knew everything was okay with him. For now. Robert made a joke about wearing an anti-sweatshop pin, and I laughed. Robert got it. Gen made a girlish comment about my boots, she was so sweet. He'd been sweet, too, but it was different. There was a golden light beneath her skin. You could read relief in every sigh, beneath every flutter. We were trying to figure out where we were all going to train when Robert said Debby was on her way. Fuck. When Debby opens, we can't park Segways against Debby's storefront, it's a huge pain in the ass. Oh well, we'd make it work. She was opening two hours early? Why today, when we have 20 guys from Nike on the way. We moved the cones out. It was fine.

They all came in, and I was surprised, honestly. A whole mix of people, mostly young, a few older dudes, all colors and shapes and sizes. They looked athletic, if some of them were overweight. It made sense they worked for Nike. I distributed radios and helmets to every last one, and I did a really good job with that. I called everyone over and broke up the groups into seven, seven, and six. I'm impressed with how far I've come; I'm much more confident now. We did the training. Dionna, Jams, Maya, Irene, Jackie, Kayley, Ruth. Yikes, maybe the heels weren't such a good idea. I marveled at their skins. I was so used to looking at chunky old white people hands in this job. We did the training, no real problems, and Iver did a bang-up job shepherding them up the ramp for hill practice. We were off.

No much interesting happened on the tour. They fuckin' LOVED it when I talked about the history of Little Black Sambo and I say, "So I guess that's how we handle racism in America, we just pretend it isn't there!" I say that line kind of like I'm saying a spell. This is probably terrible to say, but people of color always love it when this goofy blonde chick says something bold about race. I kinda went on autopilot a lot, and I let Robert decide when we should turn around. They needed to be back early. We got back, everyone loved it, and we each got a $113 corporate tip. Awesome. We hung out at the shop for a while. We were all very pleased that the whole thing had gone so smoothly. We were lucky to get good riders. Robert and I walked to the bus stop to take the fifty cent trolley up town to the Rabobank so he'd have money to treat me to a glass of wine somewhere. He was so sweet. We talked about indiscreet things in unsubtle ways until we rolled by the Habit Burger and I saw the beautiful brick bench hidden behind black chainlink fencing, about waist high. I'd read an article the day before in the Santa Barbara Review, written by Sharon Bryne, about the homelessness issue on State Street. She'd recommended hiring private cops to be tasked specifically to the harassment of homeless people panhandling on State Street. It'd made me mad; I'd just finished writing an article yesterday about the criminalization of the homeless, and I was planning on sending it off to a few media outlets later that day. I knew a lot about it, but Robert insisted that in front of the Habit, yeah, those guys were pretty vicious. I wasn't convinced, and we fell silent. We got off the trolley at Cabrillo and walked up to the Rabobank. (Yeah, that's right, it's pronounced "rob a bank".) I grabbed a cup of coffee inside, black, and we shared it and a cigarette as we walked to Roy.

We were the only ones there, so we meekly asked the woman in the kitchen if they were open. The last time I'd come here, it was very different. Night. It was a cool bar for cool people who wear scarves with their dinner jackets and jeans. I remember feeling like these were my people, not those neck-tattooed knuckleheads at Whiskey Richard's. But I loved them, and these people seemed cold and uninteresting. We had a glass of house white each, it was chardonnay. I went out to share a cigarette, and I became aware of my intake. I handed it back to Robert and inside we finished our glasses. I texted Ben Titcomb, who'd serendipitously entered my Santa Barbara life a month before, and kissed Robert on the cheek as he left for Ralph's.

Did I want to spend the fifty cents on a trolley ride back to the Segway shop to retrieve my helmet and jacket? Nah, I felt like being cheap. Instead, I walked by Just Play Music, went back, and spent $35.69 on a couple records. Penny-wise, pound-foolish. I browsed the whole vinyl section. They didn't have any Thin Lizzy, I wasn't willing to pay $37 for the Battle of Los Angeles, and I still don't feel like I absolutely need the White Stripes on Vinyl. I forgot to look for Nirvana. The guy at the checkout, situated on a platform two feet above the floor, the employees used to intimidate me. But they're really nice guys. I thought about trying to flirt, but how do you do that again? He told me he'd just got back from lunch, but I didn't know what to do with that information.

I felt really cool walking down the street in black high heeled leather motorcycle boots, the Cramps' Stay Sick chick facing the street, Alice Cooper's Billion Dollar Babies towards the storefronts. I saw Black Michael from work, and within three minutes he'd managed to find a way to both piss me off and secretly make me feel like an idiot at the same time, as he always does, so I walked away. He'd asked if I was going to Bike Moves. Hm.

I passed by World of Magic, all sad and closed, at the corner of Gutierrez and State, and I wondered if they just kept all the unsold costumes for next year, or if they got all new stuff and sold the leftovers on eBay. It was already 3:16 by the time I got back to the shop, so I was relieved to see that Jerry hadn't left yet. I'd totally forgotten that we'd stopped running the 4:00 Beach Tour post day light savings. A kid came in asking about a tour, and I scooted out to avoid being pulled into another commitment today.

Robert had asked if I could pick up some weed for him from Eric, and I'd agreed. He gave me two twenties, then put one back in his billfold. I didn't mind doing it, but I didn't really like the drive to Robert's; you had to go around that roundabout, and it'd felt a little shaky on my bike last time. I texted Eric and asked if I could swing by his place for a twenty, and he said Ryan wouldn't be over until 5 or 6. I saw that he'd responded to my texts earlier. What, I'd fallen asleep in my chair? Was I reading or smoking? No, I didn't look foolish dancing last night, it was cool. I remembered a lot of flailing from last night.

I went back to my place and made some lunch, peanut butter sandwich it was. Someone - I think Zacki given the cadence of the note he left - had brought home some expired La Brea bread for the house, and I'd tucked a loaf away. I could eat anywhere from seven to ten meals from that bread. I was excited, and now my peanut butter could have a meal buddy. I put on my Cramps record, god it was good. I texted Anna and made tentative plans to go to the beach someday this weekend, and to make burritos early in the week. It's hard making plans when you work on-call. Then I started researching how to submit my article on the Homeless Bill of Rights, and I got worried. Lots of sites didn't accept unsolicited manuscripts, some had really strict guidelines and requirements, others seemed downright friendly. As I scrolled down to the bar at the bottom trying to find the Contact Us option, I realized how many people out there were writing, and I felt scared. There were so many of them. How could I make a difference? I felt so ashamed when I saw that the New Yorker was not currently accepting submissions. How could I have even thought they'd be interested in something I have to say? I felt stupid. But I gave my piece one last polishing, rooted out two-too-many typos, and sent it off to the friendly sites - the Atlantic and Jacobin Magazine - and gave myself a big hug. I felt so fulfilled. I felt in control. I felt so good, I even emailed Matt Kettmann and asked if he'd be interested in my writing a rebuttal to Sharon Bryne's horseshit piece, basing it off my finished work. I attached my article and sent it. It was a bold move, but I think he might go for it.

I jotted down some notes in my journal, making a quick list of tasks to be completed, and tried to make them work. I realized I probably wouldn't have the energy to go to the Verizon store to try to get my tablet keyboard fixed, which felt like defeat I managed to fuck around with it enough to make it work, so it turned out just fine in the end. Okay. So I needed to get coffee at Trader Joe's, sandpaper from San Andres Hardware, weed from Eric's, I needed to transport said bud to Robert's (he'd offered to throw me $5 if I delivered), and I needed to go to the gym. I checked to make sure San Andres Hardware didn't have weird hours - then I'd have to go to the Ace which was harder to get to and wasn't as much of a "small business" - and was out the door.

It was dark now, and my goggles were scratched, so I had to squint to protect my eyes from the wind through my helmet. God, I loved riding. I loved everything about it. Yikes, already 31 miles since my last fill-up. It was hard to see with the glare at Carrillo and San Andres, but I got to the hardware store safely. I said hello to the old man of ambiguous race behind the counter and walked back to where I figured the sandpaper would be, but it wasn't there. They'd moved things around. I felt all the grits of sandpaper and decided on a piece of brick red 150. It cost $1.99, but with tax it was $2.15, so I had to give the nice man three dollar bills, which felt like a lot just then. But I need the paper so I could finish up the little round chess pieces I'd cut from dowels the day before in my woodworking class. I was going to woodburn little symbols from Norse mythology. The pawns would be helmets, the rook would be a longboat, the knight a wolf and the bishop a raven. The Queen was Freya, her King Odin. I thought it was a cool idea. I exited the parking lot on Micheltorena and noticed a big line of neighborhood families in front on the West Side Medical Clinic. The sign said "Luces Gratis", but I didn't know what that meant. Would it be something interesting for an investigative journalism piece? No, but I should look into that labor dispute sign outside the Santa Barbara Inn. I crossed over the bridge and realized I hadn't been this way in a long time. How in the world had I made it up this thing every morning on a bicycle when I worked at Renaud's and then Harry's. Fuck that plaza, is all I have to say. I waited for too long trying to turn left onto Bath and zigzagged up to de la Vina. As I passed the hospital, I saw a very tidy couple. The woman wore heels and a beige pencil skirt, and the man, who was tall, wore slacks. Why were they out so late? Well, I guess it must have been around 5:30 already. I wondered whether Ryan visited Eric yet. I hoped the couple worked there. I didn't want them to be visitors.

At Trader Joe's I pulled up next to a beautiful yellow Harley with a little sissy bar, a Mexican blanket, bandanas, and a little metal pouch. It was gorgeous. A Sportster. An orange fleck helmet hung from the high-swinging handlebars. I took a risk and left my helmet with my bike. I wouldn't be long.

I walked in and immediately it occurred to me that I could just ask River how to submit pieces to the Huffington Post. I stopped short to start a text, and I realized someone was walking directly behind me. I felt like an ass and stepped aside. I made a bee-line to the coffee in the back, noticed the free sample stand was serving an Italian meat dish, and grabbed a can of Honduran roast. I walked over to the grinder and a man asked me if I rode. He was pale and thin with charcoal colored hair, graceful and dangerous. He had tattoos all over, one next to his right eye, and a big black swatch on his right forearm that told the story of one mistake, if not two. It looked good though, like the appeal of a naughty schoolboy who refuses to use his eraser. We talked about bikes, about his old Harley rebuild, and he asked if he could go take a look at my bike. I said yes, but make it quick, I have to check out. Outside I found him by my bike. He said it made his bike look tiny, but I insisted it was just the gas tank, not the engine, that was big. He invited me to a ride with a bunch of people from Mooseknuckle, that shop behind the Uptown Lounge that Mark the owner of Golden Eagle Tattoo had started about six or seven months back, so I got his number. I probably won't ride with them anytime soon, though. I mean, I just barely tackled the 154 yesterday.

Eric had promised that Ryan would be by before 7, at the latest, and it was just after 6. I went to pass a slow car in the right lane, so when the light turned red at Mission I was in the wrong lane to make the right hand turn down Arrellaga. Damn. I looked over to Derf's and saw a familiar trio. I checked for renegade bicycles and swooped left into a precarious spot near the handicap spot. Somehow I didn't anticipate a problem. Kit and Ryan were happy to see me, as they always are. They are incredible friends, and I really should do more for them. I jumped off and they insisted that I should get a shot with them. I talked them down to a beer, and they seemed satisfied. I had some time to kill before 7. They introduced me to Billy, who has always been to me that guy at Whiskey Richard's with the joker card tattoo on his left delt. We went inside and I said hi to Diana, who was very sweet, as always. They didn't have any PBR, so I went with a Sierra Nevada and made sure Diana knew to pour me water shots. Kit was eager to hear about my Halloween, so we sat down and talked while Ryan (different Ryan) and Billy stumbled around by the window. I told her the show was amazing, but that it ended pretty mellow, so we talked about her upcoming trip to Hawaii. Kit and Ryan go all the time. They're so mysterious to me.

Okay, so a year and a half ago Kit was introduced to me as Alyssa. Ryan and Alyssa. Waiting Around to Die. We met at Punk on Vinyl back when Eric and I were just considering each other, and we fell in love instantly. I loved Alyssa's style, her boyish clothes, her arms ripped with muscle and the forelock that she compulsively pulled to the side. But the best part was that we could talk about Foucault. She and Ryan were smart cookies, and way too cool for this town. They read books. They thought about things, big ideas, scary ideas. They were artists. They were junkies and drunks. They were romantic.

Ryan was just a big fucking teddy bear. The innocence of a child was locked away in his brow, guarded oily blond hair splashed with light blues and greens and a stud in his cheek. His smiles were real, but so was his anger, his frustration, his pain. He was so soft, his hugs so rich against that belly he always stretched tight with ribbed fabric.

I didn't understand their dynamic until I realized that Alyssa liked to be called Kit, and that Ryan actually did use the masculine pronoun with him. Somehow the scars on Ryan's arms made sense. A feel bad because, even though I now know that is Kit is a he, he will always feel to me, deep down, like a woman. And I know that that's selfish of me. But Kit embraced his ambiguity. He said he was a hermaphrodite, intersex, and a trans boy all in the same breath. He was a sadist and used a strap-on. I think he was Peter Pan.

Halfway through my beer, Ryan pulled me aside. He was wearing that beautifully horrendous pink flamingo tank top, and he was hammered. I didn't mind, he was fun, and he was sweet, and he cared about me. What more could I ask for? We all loved each other. He was bummed, though. He felt abandonned in this town, like he didn't have any friends anymore, no one who would stick their necks out for him. No one who was loyal. "There's no punk rock in this town," he said to me. "Punk rock is about supporting marginalized groups, it's about being loyal to the outcasts, the people who need it most. There's nothing punk rock about this town." He felt snubbed that Snakefist hadn't asked them to open for them at their Halloween show. I tried to explain that it was a special event, that it was a Halloween show, that they were doing Misfits covers. It wasn't a regular night. But he wouldn't have it. I understood that he felt alone. Whiskey Richard's had booked them only once since the change in ownership, since Dan got promoted to GM. And that was because the Maheekats had refused to play without them. They were cool people, and they got it. They understood what Waiting Around to Die was going through, and they knew it would happen to them soon, too, if someone didn't stick up for them. See, Waiting Around to Die isn't exactly complimentary to the new image of Whiskey Richard's. Ryan is bi and into trans people, Kit is...Kit, they play experimental songs with real lyrics. And Whiskey's wants to start pulling from Sandbar's ilk. Ryan and Kit were getting pushed out, and not enough people were sticking up for them. They felt burned, and Ryan had told Chris to go make it on MTV. Ouch.

Kit was more measured in his approach. He was used to being the outcast, and he didn't expect anything more or anything less. He didn't like drama or gossip, and he kept his expectations low. I was worried. I said to him, "Do you think all those punk rockers meant it? When they wrote love songs? Does anyone feel the way I feel?" I was scared. I felt so much, and so readily. It was there, like the light from the flick of a match. But what if I was the only one who really had these feelings? What if I was alone, what if I never find someone I can open up to and give my whole self to, without fear of losing them? What if I never get to love someone the way I want to love them? I felt like a scab rubbed raw. Kit hugged me and told me I was not alone. He said I should try trans women.

I said my goodbyes and left to Eric's. It was 6:44, but I didn't mind hanging out a bit. As I pulled up I heard Olivia yell down from Phil's window. She gave a lengthy "woot" like she was stripping for Girls Gone Wild as she waved a bong out the window. Christ. Inside, Adrian was over, sprawled on the bed like a recumbent Venus. He always dressed so well, mostly because he worked with the elderly at Casa D'Orinda and needed to look put together. His real job was to tell clean jokes all day and go buy porn for old dudes. He had a dangerous streak though, and was an amazing BMX biker. I was impressed, anyway. We were supposed to have a bonfire on the beach tonight, but we hadn't really discussed the plan that much, so we let it die. We'd try for a time next week. Adrian was always full of light, and even his scorn was a slow burn. He was active. He liked nature and new experiences. Magic gave an ugly meow, then a coo, and came over to receive his petting. Eric and I hugged. We'd transitioned remarkably well from tired lovers to good friends. There was no awkwardness left, just the warmth of people who know each other very well. I handed him the twenty dollars from Robert as Ryan (the one who deals) knocked on the door.

Just then my phone buzzed. A text from Ryan (the one who doesn't). He was upset, and while I was pretty sure autocorrect was in overdrive, he was obviously hurt that I hadn't said goodbye to him at Derf's. Fuck. I hadn't. I'd just really needed to get out of there, and both Ryan and Kit were on their way to being way too wasted to reason with. I cut and run, but I probably should have gone inside to say goodbye to Ryan. By the time I could fire off a quick apology, Ryan (the one who deals) was already gone. I felt bad for not saying hi. I didn't understand how we could spend all day waiting for him, then he'd be gone in a flash. Where was he spending his time? Did he really have that many clients, that he could be that efficient and still be scrambling to the next destination? I wondered was his day was like.

Adrian and Eric assured me that I shouldn't worry about Ryan (the one who doesn't), and I calmed down. I tossed a few used headphone baggies to Eric so he could fill them with goods of another sort, and he gave me a twenty for Eric. Adrian left quickly thereafter, so it was just Eric and myself. And Magic, who'd gouged my face within fifteen minutes of my being there. We talked about music, about the albums I bought, and I mentioned Chris from Mooseknuckle. He cautioned against riding with them, that I should probably get more experience on the freeway before riding in a group of twenty people. It made sense. Eric always had good advice. He'd been around the block enough to know when to use caution, and he cared enough about me to tell it to me straight. I appreciated it. But I needed to go.

Eric invited me out to dinner before he had to go to work, but I said I needed to deliver the weed before Robert turned into a pumpkin. I rode out to Anacapa then down to Haley, across to Milpas and down to the roundabout where I took Carpenteria Street to Salinas. From there it was just a left on Salinas and a quick right to Clifton. Robert's house kind of weirded me out. With its dark hued wooden shingles, it looked out of place in California, like it should be a in pine grove in northern New Hampshire. There were lots of outcropping buildings, and the whole place struck me like a compound. I called Robert, but he didn't pick up. Fuck. I called again. Then again. I texted. What to do. I called once more, but his phone had died. There was nothing else to do. I wanted that $5. I went up to the front door and thought better of it. I knew Robert lived in a room out back, and I also knew that Ruth, who rented the room to Robert, had a baby. So I went to the gate on the side that led to the back of the house. A caribeener held the latch in place, so with a furtive glace to the windows facing the back yard, I squeezed the lever to remove the beener, undid the latch, and entered the backyard.

In my defense, this kind of thing should be perfectly normal and acceptable behavior. I wouldn't think twice of doing this in New Hampshire, and everyone has a fucking gun in New Hampshire. I stepped lightly on the stones in the walkway and called out softly, "Robert?" Dogs barked. The whole yard went insane. A wiry older woman came out of a shed in the back and demanded who I was through my profuse apologies. I ran to the gate. I said that I was Robert's friend, and she told me I should go to the front door for that. With no further instructions, I saw the woman hump through the yard to the house, so I followed around the front. This situation was absolutely harrowing. This place was scary. They had a lot of shit on their porch. I knew Ruth, and I loved Robert, but something in the air gave me the creeps. I waited.

Then Ruth appeared, and Robert behind. I heaved a sigh of relief as he came to the door. He was drunk. I slipped a baggy into his pocket as he lit a cigarette and put another in my mouth. I gave it back to him, but he responded by putting his lit cigarette in my mouth. I took a long drag and gave it back to him. He smiled and we walked to the sidewalk. I apologized for the scene I'd caused, and while he didn't seem upset about the whole affair, he did think it was a bit strange that I'd actually entered the backyard. We sat on the stone wall outside the house, and he lay down to put his head in my lap.

I started my engine as gently as I could and snaked back down the hill towards the ocean. I wanted to go along the water. It was a beautiful night, calm and cool, so I went up State Street. And who did I see but Michael, riding tall in the Bike Moves lineup, on a bicycle at least six feet tall. He called out, "Mariah!" so I revved by engine and kicked my leg out. Chase was with him too. As I passed I heard him say, "Hey, it's Mariah!" I turned down Canon Perdido to the gym.

It was a delt day, which is my favorite day. The group is relatively small, so I get to do a bunch of small exercises that really fatigue me, and I feel the results almost immediately. There are lots of possible variations on the different core elements of a good delt workout, so I never get bored. I looked at the men at the gym. There was one other woman tonight. I've never wanted to be with someone I've seen at the gym. No gym crushes, ever. Not at the 24 Hour Fitness, anyway. I don't think I could talk to these men. But that's terrible, isn't it? I went back out to my bike, hopped on, and rode away back home. As I passed over the tracks heading back to the ocean, I saw the Bike Moves people coming back from the wharf. And there was Michael. This time I put on more of a show, waving as much as I dared and revving hard before turning onto Cabrillo. I rode down Castillo and snaked onto Montecito then only Rancheria and found the perfect spot just outside my house. Tonight for dinner, I made brussel sprouts and onions.

Today I felt part of something. I felt integrated into the fabric of life here. I know a lot of interesting people in this town, and I'm grateful for each and every connection.

October 24, 2014

Homelessness as a Political Act

It was a slow night at Whiskey Richard's. It was a Sunday, and by 8 the Happy Hour bands had packed up and moved on. A few regulars slouched at the bar, and half the crowd from Golden Eagle tattoo sat on the tall padded stools chain smoking on the patio. As the wind changed coming in from the coast, the smoke of a bummed Marlboro burned my nostrils as I talked to the security guard. A man limped up, emerging from the threshold of an abandonned storefront next door. His hair was long and thin, eyes glazed, his jaw a mess. He asked to come in.

"Are you gonna buy something today?"
"Well, yeah, sure...." He fumbled in the pocket of his dirty green jacket and pulled out a few coins, a shred of paper - definitely nonlegal tender - and a paper clip. God only knows where Leigh'd found a paperclip, I thought to myself as I watched the scene unfold. He was coming up short, and running out of time. He looked out from behind a pair of glittery pink child's sunglasses, longingly, "M-my friend's in there, he'll spot me." He took a step forward, but the guard blocked the way. He had to leave. Leigh slunk away. Leigh didn't want trouble, and certainly didn't want anyone to call the police. But the guard was bluffing, too - cops weren't good for business, and while under 21s rarely tried to get into the local rock and roll dive, there was plenty of coke to find in the single stall women's bathroom.

I asked the guard why he'd turned Leigh away. It wasn't busy, and Leigh was harmless.

"He won't buy anything," was the simple answer.

It's true that Whiskey's had had issues with the homeless population that haunts lower State Street in the past. They sometimes got rowdy, they didn't typically understand personal boundaries - particularly when it came to the female patrons - and they frequently brought in drugs. But the real issue the homeless population presented was aesthetic. Whiskey's didn't want homeless people coming through the bar not because they posed a threat to the safety of the patrons and the workers, but because by their very existence they posed a threat to consumerism.

An hour and a half drive south in LA, advocates united under the Western Regional Advocacy Project (WRAP) are waging a war for the rights of the homeless. Their goal is to establish a homeless bill of rights, aimed at preventing the criminalization of the everyday activities of the homeless population in quickly gentrifying Downtown LA. The modest rights of being able to eat in public, to occupy a legally parked vehicle, to access 24-hour public hygiene facilities, to simply rest and move about freely in public spaces. These are rights that we should all care about, and they are closely tied to first amendment rights of free assembly. But they are particularly vital to the survival, safety, and comfort of the homeless.

The activists associated with WRAP are clear that the homelessness bill of rights is not a long-term solution to homelessness. The real solutions will come through assuring better access to mental health care, education, and affordable housing. But so long as capitalism creates homelessness - which is always will - we must protect the rights of society's least fortunate and most invisible from criminalization. That much seems clear. Still, WRAP and other activist groups are fighting for the homelessness bill of rights as though it is the battle and not the war. I would like to suggest that fighting for the rights of the homeless as they are homeless is a more radical fight, and perhaps an equally important step in dismantling oppressive capitalist structures as ensuring that as few people as possible become homeless.

Let's reframe the issue of homelessness. Let's not focus on all those cold and hopeless nights spent in the crosshairs of danger. Let's forget about the hunger and the neglect, the beaten up cardboard signs and the bags filled with sorted sundries and beer cans. Let's forget about the threat of sexual assault and the random violence of drunken frat boys and cops who are just doing their jobs. Let's forget, for a moment, about the end game where there are no more homeless people. Let's look at the good that they do, the good that they prove, and why we're so scared of them. Because it is not humanity and empathy that drives our legal treatment of the homeless; it is the fear that they conjure in us.

What does that fear look like? As a woman, part of that fear comes from the threat of physical sexual violence. But the prominence of random sexual violence perpetuated against women walking home from the bars late at night is a tired boogeyman, isn't it? We're much more likely to be attacked by people we know and love and trust. So rest easy, ladies. Leigh might make a crude comment about the length of your dress now and then, but he's much less likely to rape you than that douchebag Ryan with the popped collar pumping e-credits into the TouchTunes station over there by the pool tables so he can play the latest dance-pop bullshit. That doesn't make Leigh's lewd comment okay, but it means that we're looking in the wrong place.

Our fear is not logical, it's visceral. It's not about how they smell - why have we chosen the corporate odors of cleaning products mixed with the tears of indigenous Amazonians over the natural scents of activity, the outdoors, and paper-bag booze? - and it's not about mental illness (we don't mind mental illness unless we have to see it). The difference is that they don't live by our rules. And our number one rule? You've got to buy something.

In a business context, for example with the case of the Whiskey Richard's security guard, this way of thinking almost makes sense. Bars exist to make money for their owners. While everyone wants to think they exist out of pure altruism on the part of the owners, that they're basically clubhouses for likeminded individuals and charitable venues for struggling rockers, bars are businesses. If you don't have any money to spend, you don't really have any business going there.

But this way of thinking has infected the whole of the public realm, not just the domain of private business. In a capitalist system, you only count if you can spend money. Indeed, even by moderate leftists this fact has become clear. Watch any mainstream documentary about how to change the world, and it all points to the uselessness of the vote and the importance of knowing where your money goes. Spending money wisely for goods that are sustainably and humanely harvested, fabricated, and sold is the most direct impact we can have on our governing system. And it's the closest thing to direct democracy most of us can fathom. In order to exercise your freedom within this capitalist system, in order to engage in politics, to cast your vote and attain any measure of republican freedom, you have to spend money. If you don't have money to spend, we've got no use for you.

How's that for a poll tax?

It's a cruel logic that keeps Leigh out of Whiskey Richard's. But the stipulation that homeless people should not just be kept out of places of business, but also off our public streets, points to a poisoning of the entire public sphere with the ravenous demands of capitalism. The homeless population seems to threaten our entire political-economic system. The threat, it seems, is that the very presence of a homeless population means that we are not capable of spending our money in the same ways. If the first rule of our faux-democratic-capitalist system is that you have to spend money, the second rule is that you can't feel guilty about it. Homeless populations don't just refrain from spending money, they influence the way that money is spent by forcing out business. And I say good for them.

Waged on the field of visual politics, homeless people wage a war every day against the essentialization of capitalism both by exposing the ravages of a system that only cares about the few who have and by presenting an alternative lifestyle. Capitalism is allowed to persist due to a grand smoke and mirrors show enacted by news outlets and advertising firms. By saturating our landscape with images of better-thans and hope-to-bes and biggest-brightest-newest-hottests, we are taught dissatisfaction with our norm, and we are painted a picture of the grandeur that awaits us once we have bought and consumed the poisoned apple of consumerism. Take a walk through an international airport, where there is literally no unmarketable space, and you'll see what I mean. We are not allowed to see those less fortunate. We are only shown society's highlight reel. Incidentally, keeping individuals' self-esteems low is a great way to get them to spend more. When we see those who have been thrown under the bus, we spend less. While most will not be seduced to join the ranks of the homeless as a lifestyle choice, in Southern California it's not unheard of. Unfortunately, most of the young vagabonds who choose a life on the street come from privilege, quickly succumb to needle abuse, and are generally dickheads to those who are homeless not by choice. Still, the visual impact of alternative lifestyles might be a potent force in convincing people that we need not work and spend and possess to be happy.

That's why homelessness is being criminalized. The homeless are not neutral forces in the war against capitalism. They aren't simply nonentities. Nor are they simply a threat to the businesses they might steer patrons away from. They reveal the holes in our perfect little consumerist society, and they present an alternative. Because the homeless are active members of a fight against capitalism, they are perceived as a threat by business-heeled politicians and their very existence must be criminalized.

Theirs is a silent protest, a quiet if sometimes colorful affront to our entrenched capitalism norms. As such, we should start to consider the attack on the right of homeless people to exist publicly as tantamount to an assault on the first amendment right to free assembly in public places. The charitable, socialist-minded goals of limiting instances of homelessness is important, but it might be wise to shift our orientation towards the issue of homeless rights. Limiting homelessness, not the fight for homeless rights, is not the stop-gap measure. The broader issue must be the legalization of existence outside the capitalism paradigm, the legalization, in essence, of the slow creeping demonstration being enacted by hundreds of thousands of Leighs across the country.

August 24, 2014

The Only Invention that Will Save the World

The Segway was introduced to the world in 2001 by New Hampshire inventor Dean Kamen. Kamen did not invent the Segway as a recreational device, or as an alternative to a car or bicycle. He had a very different goal. His idea was simple: change the way that people with disabilities interact by changing the way that they move. His was a modest aim, but golden at the core. He created a self-balancing device suitable for use by any and all who could stand up, but couldn't get around all that easily. Kamen gave disabled people a way to move with fluidity and ease, to interact with others while meeting their gaze, level to level. Without overstating the case, Kamen helped restore dignity to thousands.

I am an able-bodied person. I ride a Segway every day. It's not my main mode of transportation, nor do I ride recreationally. It's my job. I give guided tours of Santa Barbara every day. While riding on a Segway. As one friend put it to me, I get paid to ride around on a magic carpet all day. It's the best gig in town.

But I'm not the one who needs a Segway. And those thousands who have come through our doors to spend hundreds of dollars to ride around town with their families and soak up the sights? They don't need them either. I've met the people who need them, and they don't look a thing like our clientele.

I was riding by the post office on day on an errand for Jerry, and I saw a homeless woman kneeling down beside her broken wheelchair. She called out for help, so I parked my Segway and walked over to see what I could do. The front right wheel of her chair had nearly broken off, and it was missing a bolt. I told her it looked like she needed some new hardware, and she asked where the nearest hardware store was. I looked at her. I'd seen her around before, lots of times, actually. She usually hung out on State Street. The guys at Whiskey Richard's called her a bitch, but damn I'd be mean too if my feet were as swollen as hers. Her crew-neck sweatshirt smelled like vomit and her hair was a knotted mess. I told her the closest place I knew of was Home Improvement on Gutierrez and Olive. It may as well have been in another country. "How am I supposed to get there?" she yelled at me, her voice shrill with frustration.

And I failed this poor woman, like so many had in the past, I'm sure. I asked if there was someone she could call, she said no. I didn't have my wallet on me, and I needed to get back to work. I like to think that if I did have my wallet I would've given her some money for a cab ride and the new hardware, but I never got that far. And who knows, would a cab have stopped for her? Would the driver have helped get her wheelchair in the trunk? Or would she ride without it and risk it being stolen, would she be able to find a ride back to the post office? I mounted my Segway with too much grace and left her there, gliding off on my fancy futuristic wheelchair. I delivered the envelope as instructed, a task so much less important than the one that had been offered to me.

I'm a good person. I think about the world around me and the other creatures that inhabit it. I try not to buy things made in China, and I rarely shop at Ralph's. I'm a vegetarian, and I vote for the little guy, unless it's really important that a Democrat win. I bought a rawhide bone for a homeless guy's dog the other day, even though I walked off without too much conversation, which probably would've been more meaningful to him. I try to notice people. But I couldn't forget about that woman with the broken wheelchair and what it must have sounded like, that gentle whir of the Segway zooming off into the distance, far away from her.

Segways cost around $6,500 a piece. Once you've got it, it costs very little to maintain. You can go 25 miles on a 6 hour charge. They're expensive, but they're not unreasonable.

But it doesn't really matter how great a product is if it can't get to the people who need it most. And those cute little European families who come out on tour? They don't need Segways. Steve Wozniak, the co-founder of Apple, has a goddamn polo team. Steve Wozniak doesn't need a Segway. The woman with the broken wheelchair needs a Segway. She's the one who needs it most.

More broadly, it doesn't matter what we invent, what nifty new things we come up with, if the only people who can afford them are those who don't need them. Somewhere along the line, we stopped distributing goods based on need, and we started distributing goods based on demand. Only the people who shout the loudest have a chance to get their demands met. And nothing shouts louder than money.

None of the inventions of the world will save us if we do not first adopt an inclusive, need-based approach to the distribution of goods and services. Before we design the next iPad, the next HD TV, even the next water filtration system, let's first work on designing a better economy, one that gets those amazing new toys and inventions to the people who need them. Only that invention will save the world.

August 21, 2014

A Lesson in Historiography: A Year as a Segway Tour Guide

As we pass the mouth of the bird refuge, the smell of sulphur so potent moments before subsides. I hear the gentle whirring of the Segways' tiny motor, but check back over my shoulder to make sure no one's fallen. Seven helmets bob up and down cheerfully, and I'm grateful for that. There was that time I took out a group of nine with Iver and it took me just a little longer than it should have to realize we'd lost half our group. I continued. "After Andree's death, her younger sister Huguette was never really quite the same. She became a recluse, married very briefly, but never had any kids, and mostly just stayed tucked away in one of her many mansions across the U.S. - ooh, watch out for that bump - but she spent most of her time here at Bellosgaurdo." I pause, taking a moment to think about the time. Shit, we're already at fifteen minutes after the hour. (It doesn't matter what hour it is because all the beach tours start on the hour.) I forget where I am. Fuck. Did I already tell the dolls? If I accidentally skip a section, it'll be obvious that I've been on autopilot since I desperately tried to see if the lions were out at that dingy little spot by the back of the zoo. But if I end up repeating some of my speech, it'll be obvious just how I've memorized it to a tee. I've gotten better at minimizing my use of "um", that terrible filler I'm so accustomed to sprinkling throughout speeches and conversations and job interviews. It's better simply to pause, but silence terrifies me. I remember where I left off. "Huguette also developed a number of bizarre tendencies. She kept a doll collection, which is creepy enough if you're over the age of six, but she took it to the next level by treating these dolls as though they were people. She would actually buy these dolls first class plane tickets and fly them around the world. All I can imagine is a cabin full of little dolls, with their tiny glasses of champagne, and miniature copies of SkyMall." I start to tell them about how Huguette kept empty mansions all over the country, but we reach the "big scary intersection" of Cabrillo and Channel Drive, so I need to stop the narrative and assure everyone that we have the right of way, but that we should also do our best to avoid death. A little bit of dark humor goes a long way with this tour, with an Asian family and a very sweet Norwegian couple, and I think that maybe I'm laying it on a little thick.

I think back to who I was, sitting in that big modern classroom on the basement floor of the North Academic Building, arms in a diamond on the table, craned-neck over my spiral-bound notebook. Or was I still using binders then? Binders had served me well in high school, when teachers gave handouts and distributed marked tests to be carefully filed behind that last divider tab, but they didn't make sense for college, where nothing was given to you. You had to take it. Christ, or at least that's what I thought back then. I didn't yet know what it meant to have to take. I probably still don't know. It was the spring semester of my sophomore year, and I was taking a class on historiography. Most people taking the class were trying to fulfill a credit for their history major. I had no intention of majoring in history; it'd just sounded interesting. "The Study of History? Sign me up!" I'd thought. It was a hard class, and I didn't understand the readings, and the professor didn't like me, I could tell. He knew I was a fraud. But I tried, goddamnit. We were in the middle of a heated debate. We didn't know yet, but this was the crucible moment, the climactic moment of the whole course, and - as I later told the professor at a cocktail party - the precise moment when I decided I would never be a history major. The question was, quite plainly, is there any use to study of history? We all knew that history was written by the winners, by the takers, that it was always read through the lens of the modern day, and that - horrifyingly - the past really only exists only in the imagination. There were some of us who resisted, who hid behind those simplified scientific laws of cause and effect, and claimed that just as cause creates effect, effects can be used as proof of cause. We pretended that each moment in history could be, with the right attention and the right minds, transcribed into the written word and stored in some enormous library, as though the problem with history was no larger problem than the matter of human error. Like we could just predict that there would always be a certain consistent percentage of error, and that it could be quantified, and that cleared over the years. We believed in history; it was humans we doubted. But even there, with a few generations of removal, we could still see past the bullshit to what really happened, right?

It didn't take me long as a Segway tour guide to understand how hopeless "good" history is. As a student, I was a consumer of the history of others, and like any consumer I had no idea where this product came from, yet still believed what I saw on the packaging. When I became a Segway tour guide, I became producer and distributor of history. It was like pulling aside the curtain, going through that employees only swinging door hidden mysteriously at the back of the grocery store, like getting a tour of the factory. Yes, like pulling back the curtain. When I started working at Segway, I didn't know any more about Santa Barbara's history other than what was provided in the packet Jerry gave me on my first day. I picked up some stuff from other tour guides, read some books from the local library, and slowly began to build my repertoire. And to be honest, I've forgotten where most of my information has come from. I started to streamline my tour, embellishing here, exaggerating there, making my story more interesting and dramatic and pulling Santa Barbara's rich history into the center of every tale. I knew that Huguette Clarke was a crazy old rich lady, and I knew she had a doll collection, but the bit about her buying them plane tickets around the world? My co-worker, Jamie, told a story about her flying them first class at their initial purchase, but "flying them around the world"? I mean it to sound like she sent them on vacation, without outright lying. And who knows where Jamie got his information; we all know he made up half of what he said. I still remember Jerry's face when I repeated the story about painting Andree's face on all those dolls.

So, how can we characterize the story I told about Huguette? While it's not history with a capital H, I bet more people listened to my tour in the past year than read anything by von Ranke. I play an active role in distributing information. But I'm not just the messenger. By interacting with the information that I gather, process, and retell, I am also the creator, the transformer, the destroyer.

Of course, in that classroom at Williams College, I'd never stopped to think that perhaps humans had created history. It would be months before I understood what the professor had meant, and all I remember from that conversation is feeling small and helpless and scared and robbed. I felt duped. But, then, I'd been an ideologue, and I was more dedicated to the maintenance of my firmly-held opinions than to my daily hygienic rituals. Not much has changed, but I've learned to be humble. Back then I wanted to believe that history meant something, that it carried with it the power of change, that truth hid behind all those human imperfections.

The truth is, history is useful. Just not in the way we think.