The Importance of G.I. Joe

I grew up in a farmhouse in the 1980s. It was on a gravel road, surrounded for miles on every side by corn or soybean fields. We lived two miles from the school, where I had 17 classmates, and 10 miles from the town of Fort Dodge, Iowa. Water was supplied to the house from a shallow well, and if it didn’t rain for a few months, we would run out. My parents, brother, sister and I raised various animals and tended a large garden. I loathed all chores other than burning the trash in a rusty old oil drum, but chores were not optional. Fortunately, during the school year, I only did chores before school and on weekends.

After school, I ran from the school bus down the driveway and through the house to my parents’ bedroom, where I could watch G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero on a 13” black and white television. Maybe because it was a UHF and not a VHF channel, this was the only of our two televisions that picked up FOX, even though it only had a stick antennae protruding out of the back while the other one was attached to a huge antennae on the roof. The only thing in the world better than the G.I. Joe cartoon was the Hasbro G.I. Joe toyline.

The first G.I Joe figure I got was the COBRA ninja known as Stormshadow. I was a shy kid, but I was so excited about this toy that I decided to participate in “show-and-tell” at school for the first time, to explain things such as: All of the G.I. Joe characters had code-names sort of like super heroes, and they all came with a file card description of their rank, abilities, personalities and real name… unless it was “Classified” or “Unknown.” The cool thing about the G.I. Joe action figures themselves was that the elbows and knees bent, the torso swiveled and you could attach a backpack onto them, making them far superior to Star Wars toys. The unimpressed reaction of my classmates to this incredible toy made me acutely aware that I had just voluntarily embarrassed myself; thus ending my public speaking career. It was 1984 and I was in second grade.

I received an allowance for chores (one to two dollars per week) and saved my money and also the “flag points” on the back of every box in order to buy more G.I. Joe action figures and vehicles. After getting Stormshadow, I spent what felt like forever saving up enough money to buy the “Dragonfly” helicopter that came with a Texas rancher code-named Wild Bill. It was $15.99.

Before I discovered G.I. Joe, I played “cowboys & Indians,” and had always understood that it was about Native Americans protecting their land from invaders unabashedly destroying it, so I didn’t trust Wild Bill. I pretended that he was a double agent. As my toy collection increased, I would continue to rearrange which figures were considered good guys; after all, this was my universe to manipulate as I pleased. For the most part, the actual good guys were drab and suspiciously homogenous, whereas the bad guys were a random hodge-podge of interesting characters that didn’t get along. One notable exception to this was Spirit, although now I realize it is sort of weird they gave the Native American a red loin cloth instead of military issue garb. (The G.I. Joe comic story arc would reveal that Stormshadow was in fact a good guy acting as a spy within the COBRA organization, and Hasbro re-released him with an outfit and gear that I liked even more than the original one.)

I had a bunch of Star Wars toys, but I never played Star Wars. They were mostly used as cannon fodder and substitutes for Joes I didn’t have. I used Luke Skywalker in Duke’s role and put Princess Leia on the bad side to be The Baroness. It was already 1985 before I purchased my next Joes: Tomax and Xamot. They were bankers, so they were obviously evil. The leader of COBRA was supposedly the egomaniac Emperor Serpentor, but I just couldn’t take an adult who dressed up in a snake suit and drove a hovercraft chariot very seriously. As a clone long before Jurassic Park, Serpentor was ahead of his time. (Remember, these were the days before there were clones in Star Wars- there was only a throw-away, non-descript mention of “the Clone Wars.”) It did not escape me that this made Serpentor expendable, because if he was killed, he could just be re-cloned. I also owned Darth Vader and Emperor Palpatine, but to me, Tomax and Xamot were the ones running COBRA from behind the scenes, funding and pulling the strings of the terrorists.

Speaking of ahead of its time, according to the cartoon’s theme song, “G.I. Joe is the codename for America's daring, highly-trained special mission force. Its purpose: to defend human freedom against COBRA- a ruthless, terrorist organization determined to rule the world.” Outside of G.I. Joe, there was literally no mention of terrorists in America in the ‘80s; the bad guys were generally considered to be the U.S.S.R.

I did not like playing indoor recess or P.E. with the other kids, so I frequently spent that time hiding alone under the bleachers in the gymnasium playing with the Star Wars and G.I. Joe toys I had smuggled in my pockets. I got caught once, in Kindergarten, by the P.E. teacher who spanked me in front of the class after I refused to answer his absurd question, “What are you doing under the bleachers?” After that, I mostly stuck to only hiding behind the bleachers when they were folded closed. Nobody looked for me there, because no adult could fathom that I could actually fit behind them. Eventually I did outgrow that spot, but then I figured out if I volunteered to fetch the rubber balls and then didn’t shut the door to the supply closet all the way, I could sneak back in there after delivering the balls. I did this for years until one day a P.E. instructor (not the same one who spanked me) walked in on me in there during recess. When the teacher that was supposed to be in charge of supervising the kids at recess couldn’t explain how I had gotten out of her sight, I knew I wasn’t getting in trouble.

This is why, when Zandar was introduced in 1986, he immediately became my second favorite character. He lived in the swamp and his specialty was hiding. He had a twin sister who was basically a method actress assassin and a creepy older brother, a “master of disguise,” who was also the leader of a biker gang and looked like a member of K.I.S.S. when he wasn’t wearing his mask. (The siblings’ skin turned blue when left in the sun.) In my recreation, the older brother remained a bad guy while the twins were good guys.

I drew topographic maps transforming my bedroom into G.I. Joe terrain, conceived original plots and wrote scripts for the figures. I sent in for the Steel Brigade character that came with a personalized bio card. I completed the two “Live the Adventure” code-breaking assignments and sent them in to get certificates and patches. I read several of the G.I. Joe comics, but they conflicted with my G.I. Joe universe, so I preferred reading Marvel comics. Two movies from 1985 that informed my G.I. Joe playing were Rambo: First Blood Part II and Witness, but mostly I just used my imagination.

My favorite figures- Stormshadow, Zandar, Zarana, Snake Eyes, Beach Head and Mainframe- became a splinter group headquartered at the Dagobah tree fort. G.I. Joe would contact them with special missions and they would consult with Yoda and Obi Wan Kenobi and decide whether the mission was aligned with their code of striving for equality and justice. So they would carry out assignments like retrieving hostages and using money from Tomax and Xamot’s bank to feed starving children in Africa while the main regiment of G.I. Joes would have to do stuff like assassinate Serpentor or bomb the COBRA Hoth base themselves. This splinter group did not work alongside the other G.I. Joes, but they would often be assisted by the Ewoks. The official military’s stance on the Ewoks was that they didn’t exist. They also denied that there was a group of mutant bounty hunters led by Jabba the Hut living on an island used for nuclear testing.

Adults tentatively tolerated but frowned upon G.I. Joe. It was too violent. Sure, yeah, okay, whatever. The fact is, these toys were allowing me to manipulate, explore and ponder the world of adults with the pace, creativity and naïveté of the child I was. G.I. Joe taught me the importance of well-coordinated and communicated teamwork, but also that sometimes you have to go it alone. It allowed me to play through all kinds of ethical dilemmas and ponder the balance of justice through violence and justice through peace. As I got older, I began to understand the probability of surviving one dangerous, top-secret mission, let alone several per week. When you enact battle scenarios on a daily basis for years on end, you begin to ponder: If the bad guys were the ones who wanted to take over the world and the good guys were the ones in charge, how could the good guys have come to power without having first been the bad guys? Didn’t the bad guys simply want what the good guys had? As a kid, the terrorists I controlled never attacked without reason; that would have been a waste of time and resources. If G.I. Joe wanted to defeat COBRA, they had to learn to think like COBRA without underestimating them. Alternatively, instead of defeating them, they could learn to work together by finding common goals.

Because of G.I. Joe, I had things figured out by sixth grade that few adults seem to understand even to this day… and knowing is half the battle.

The Importance of Regret

I don’t understand why people are frequently insisting, “I don’t have any regrets.” Maybe others intend it as a polite social convention, like saying, “I’m fine. Everything’s perfect!” Maybe it’s a prudent way of avoiding the inevitable follow-up questions to admitting regrets. But I’m a literally-minded person who doesn’t get the point of saying things that are untrue.

Personally, not a day goes by where I don’t say or do something I regret. I’m constantly wishing I had given a better explanation, been more patient or empathetic, demonstrated more concentration, thought things through before acting or put forth more effort. I have big regrets too: ties with friends that I caused to be severed, work that I failed at, skills I should’ve acquired, relationships that I imprudently pursued, relationships that I ruined and places I shouldn’t have gone. I feel like I could list a thousand regrets before pausing to think. At the same time, I am also very grateful to have never made a truly idiotic move that got someone injured or arrested or whatnot. I am able to keep the perspective that the things I regret are relatively minor. Perhaps the most important aspect of making mistakes is minimizing the gravity of the consequences.

I dwell on regrets, too. Just yesterday I was thinking about the time I threw a vacuum cleaner part into the street and forgot to pick it up. That happened at least five years ago.

Often we say we regret doing something but then behave the same way the next time a similar situation arises. Sometimes we don’t regret what we did but regret getting caught. True regret involves understanding the direct consequences of your actions and wishing they had been different than what they were. I think they have to be specific actions, but maybe not. People will say things like, “That’s five years of my life I regret,” and that seems terrible to me. I realize that a regrettable decision on one day can lead to five years (or more) of turmoil, but if you regret the actions of one day and then the next day you regret those actions as well to a degree that you now have two days full of regret, it seems to me you really need to examine the choices you are making in life. Not everything is a mistake; forgetting the brilliant ideas and wonderful times just because there were lousy parts seems an unjust and unnecessary punishment to inflict on ones self.

Many things happen due to misfortune that no decision could have avoided. For example, someone might say, “I regret going to work that day because that’s the day I got into an accident.” That demonstrates a lack of perspective because there’s absolutely no correlation between the action and the consequence. This is the type of regret that there’s no point in having or pondering. Once self-pity is eliminated as an option, there is often nothing left but to accept your fate. It doesn’t make any sense to regret being born, because you weren’t given an alternative option.

I am of the opinion that criticism provides information to learn from while praise is essentially vapid. My main method for learning is by messing up. I’ve never been able or willing to take anyone’s word for anything. Anything everyone else says always seems nonsense to me until I discover for myself that they were right. I am a slow but thorough learner. I sometimes regret being stubborn, but I more often regret taking another’s advice instead of doing the research myself.

When we make a mistake affecting another, the first thing we are taught as children to do is apologize. As adults, we find apologizing excruciatingly difficult. We don’t want others to accurately accuse us of doing things we shouldn’t have done. We would much rather eschew responsibility, shift blame and make excuses. We do these things even when all another wants is an apology, because, ironically, we demand apologies all the time. We think that our shortcomings are justified: we boast of our phobias, using them to relinquish ourselves of duty, instead of using the opportunity to strive to overcome them. At the same time, we find the shortcomings of others ridiculous and inexcusable. We wonder why others are so inept at doing things we would never do ourselves. This is because we live in a society where we are wired to find opponents to destroy instead of relationships to build.

Some people are afraid of making mistakes. I really only have that problem when it concerns social interaction. Because of this, I have been forced (unless I wanted to become a crazy person) to ignore and overcome fear most days of my life. I suppose that is why I consider being afraid something to embrace instead of avoid. I’d rather regret doing something that I thought was the right thing to do than not doing something for fear of failure. Most of the time, I am over-confident and when I blow it am startled by the result, even when it should have been expected.

There’s a quote attributed to Theodore Roosevelt that goes something like, “The only man who makes no mistakes is the man who never does anything.” People will mull over decisions even when there is literally no way of anticipating the outcome. I’ve witnessed others become completely overwhelmed by something as benign as choosing from a menu even though the only guaranteed way of knowing whether you like a dish or not is by eating it. One can either fight through this fear of the unknown or remain in a small, familiar world. For many, expanding knowledge and experience is less important than avoiding regrets, complications, embarrassment or disrespect.

Life can quickly become unbearable without maintaining our senses of humor and beauty. Your existence might be the most important thing there is, but you just can’t take it too seriously. Playing the “Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda” game gets tedious really fast. It’s prudent to remember that perceiving past mistakes is due to having gained an improved perspective- and improvement is a good thing. Hindsight is a bit like knowing the answer after it is given to you; it’s a lot easier than knowing the answer before it’s revealed but feels like you should have known it all along. It also gives the false impression that we know what the outcome would have been had we altered the past. The fact is we don’t actually know what might have happened had we done things differently.

I played football in seventh and eighth grades. Our team was terrible; we never won a game. There were twelve kids on the team, so another kid and I only had to participate in every other play. My job on offense was to go in from the sideline, relay the next play the coach had given me to the quarterback and then fill in as the weak-side tight-end. For two years, every single play was a running play. The other teams figured this out and would simply rush the quarterback at the snap, bowling over me in the process. Over at the sideline, I mentioned to the coach that the quarterback should throw me a quick screen pass. He decided that wasn’t a good idea. One time, just one time, I wish I had gone into the huddle and told the quarterback to throw me a screen pass, ignoring whichever running play the coach had given me.

Even this example begs the unanswerable question: is it more beneficial to have lived a life having called an audible or to have determined (without concrete evidence) that an audible should have been called? That’s the beauty of regret; it can be a powerful motivator and catalyst for change. If I were to go back and fix a mistake from early in life, when would I have learned to not make that mistake on a subsequent occasion? Another way of addressing the issue is realizing the incalculable influence of our assumptions on our behaviors. Would my distrust of authoritarian demands be as strong today had I opposed them back then, or has the assumption that I should have acted to change the situation been necessary for building my character? (Perhaps I’d watched enough Twilight Zone that it wouldn’t have made a difference either way.)

“Time and tide wait for no man.” There is nothing more calming than watching the ocean, I think in part because it conveys the realization that there is nothing you can do but watch it. In its presence, we are but another grain of sand. The waves are relentlessly unconcerned with where they will land, and both build and destroy with impartiality and impunity. We are not the ocean, but neither are we the sand, for the sand does not care what becomes of itself. Insurmountable obstacles and regrets notwithstanding, we must persevere through life or it loses all meaning. For many, being better off than others is good enough, but basing your successes on the relative suffering of others is demented.

Trying to change the past begs questions; working to change the future finds answers. Nobody likes to make mistakes, but too many people refuse to admit them. When we don’t acknowledge when we’ve goofed and then work towards improving our future behaviors, we remain stuck making the same mistakes over again and wondering why bad things keep happening to us. The only two ways of not having any regrets are by lacking self-awareness or being perfect. Admitting regrets demands humility and courage; qualities underrepresented and undervalued in our society.

The Importance of Elliott Smith

When I was an audio engineer, I had a subscription to Tape Op magazine. Around 2000, I read an interview with Elliott Smith which intrigued me enough to listen to his latest album. I didn’t like it. Another whiny white male, I thought.

I blaming my reaction on Coldplay, who had just come out with a terrible song called “Yellow,” that was wildly popular for some reason. The lyrics are stupid, trite and unironically nonsensical. Here’s a sample:

I swam across

I jumped across for you

Oh what a thing to do

'Cause you were all yellow

I drew a line

I drew a line for you

Oh what a thing to do

And it was all yellow

I take issue with people and things that are disingenuous. Males have established a long tradition of trying to get in girls’ pants by telling girls what they think they want to hear that really annoys me. The annoying part is that girls actually fall for that crap. So did he jump or did he swim? Obviously he’s flat out lying. When a guy is trying to woo you and instead accidentally calls you a coward and then gives an ultimatum, which he admits is cowardly on his part, my advice is to run away from him. But what do I know. I suppose being a songwriter with no grasp of language doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person.

Another thing I don’t understand is chronic depression. What are so many people so sad about? Obviously there are a lot of bad things in life, but they are either within our ability to change or they aren’t, so your options in life are to be confident you can change and hopeful others will. See? There you go- I was just able to solve everybody’s problems with one sentence. With that attitude, it is understandable why white males sobbing over their presumably posh lives tend to annoy me. I am usually a very rational and objective thinker, so I tend to be incredulous that people can’t just get over their petty selves and strive on.

A few years after first dismissing Elliott Smith I heard him again, after moving in with a roommate whose two favorite musicians were Smith and Syd Barrett. I didn’t get the appeal of Barrett when I first heard him either, but just last year I was challenged to listen to the debut Pink Floyd album. I’ve never liked Pink Floyd- pretentious drivel is what I’d call it. “Piper at the Gates of Dawn” was actually pretty good, though, which caused me to revisit Syd Barrett and find him much more interesting than I’d remembered. It was through this circuitous route that I decided to give Elliott Smith another try.

Smith’s style fits snugly between late Beatles and John Lennon solo. He probably spent a lot of time listening to Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks (1975). He doesn’t seem to be someone with an extensive musical library, but rather someone who has spent a lot of time shut up alone writing, rewriting and practicing. And that’s the thing about Elliott Smith- after listening to his music, you automatically assume you know everything about the guy. It’s funny to realize that, perhaps, he’s never broken up with a girl he loves; it’s just a topic he enjoys writing songs about. Smith’s songs are so utterly heartfelt, personal and convincing the proposal that they could be just stories seems preposterous.

I’ve had my heart broken by my fair share of girls, but would like to think I’ve never whined about it as much as this guy. In fact, I hope nobody’s taken a break up as hard as Elliott Smith. Holy Christ, dude, get it together. He alternatively blames self for his own inadequacies and spews anger towards his ex. Running together the lyrics from “I Didn’t Understand” and “A Question Mark,” both from XO (1998), makes it pretty obvious that Smith has some maladaptive coping strategies:

Thought you'd be looking for the next in line to love

Then ignore, put out, and put away

And so you'd soon be leaving me alone like I'm supposed to be

Tonight, tomorrow, and every day

There's nothing here that you'll miss

I can guarantee you this is a cloud of smoke

Trying to occupy space

What a fucking joke

What a fucking joke

I waited for a bus to separate the both of us

And take me off, far away from you

'Cause my feelings never change a bit

I always feel like shit

I don't know why, I guess that I just do

You once talked to me about love

And you painted pictures of a Never-Never land

And I could have gone to that place

But I didn't understand

I didn't understand

I didn't understand

…

I got a question mark

You got a need to always take some shot in the dark

I don't have to make pretend the picture I'm in is totally clear

You think that all things have a way they ought to appear

'Cause you know you know you know you know 

You know you know you know you know

You know I don't

I dream

Don't know what you mean

Panic called you out and took you in

Giving you an easy game and letting you win

Giving back a little hatred now to the world

'Cause it treated you bad

'Cause you couldn't keep the great unknown from making you mad

'Cause you know you know you know you know

You know you know you know you know

You know I don't

I dream

Don't know what you mean

Said your final word, but honesty and love could have kept us together

One day you'll see it's worth it after all

If you ever want to say you're sorry you can give me a call

Even though the subject matter and instrumentation are the same, these two songs have completely different vibes- one is a cappella and the other features a full band, including a peppy baritone sax. It’s almost as if he’s cursed to keep writing on the same topics despite his uncanny ability to write songs that don’t sound derivative. Smith is not oblivious to how extreme his inability to let go and move on comes across. He not only perceives this, but responds to this criticism in a couple songs, including “Southern Belle,” from Elliott Smith (1995):

Killing a southern belle

Is all you know how to do

That, and give other people hell

It's what they expect from you too

But I wouldn't have you how you want

I don't want to walk around

I don't even want to breathe

I live in a southern town

Where all you can do is grit your teeth

But I wouldn't have you how you want

How come you're not ashamed of what you are?

And sorry that you're the one she got?

Ain't nobody looking now

Nobody nothing's said

No one's about to shout

Nobody's seeing red

But I wouldn't have you how you want

You're killing a southern belle

Killing a southern belle

Killing a southern belle

Smith tends to drown his vocals in either a sea of close harmonic overdubs or a Leslie organ speaker, giving the impression he must be uncomfortable with the sound of his own voice. One wonders whether he is insecure with his talents or in revealing the subject matter. Wrapping the words into this almost surreal cloud forces the listener not only to want to understand the lyrics but pay close attention in order to do so. In the end, the vocal effect provides an honest, distressed and soul-bearing atmosphere that effectively creates contrast on the rare occasion he reveals his actual naked, lonely voice.

The production sensibility is one way in which Smith informs the audience that the words must be personally meaningful. Another is by the unembellished frankness of the lyrics themselves.

"Clementine" from Elliott Smith

They're waking you up to close the bar

The street's wet, you can tell by the sound of the cars

The bartender's singing "Clementine"

While he's turning around the Open sign

"Dreadful sorry, Clementine"

Though you're still her man

It seems a long time gone

Maybe the whole thing's wrong

What if she thinks so but just didn't say so?

You drank yourself into slow-mo

Made an angel in the snow

You did anything to pass the time

And keep that song out of your mind

"Oh my darling

Oh my darling

Oh my darling Clementine

Dreadful sorry, Clementine"

This song in particular reads to me very much like a Charles Bukowski poem. Bukowski is the type of poet who can convince you the only solace in life is at a horse race, even though you’ve never been to a racetrack. One thing Bukowski is masterful at is putting details into poems that wouldn’t really make sense to be there unless they were true, and this is a concept that Smith also exploits. But while Bukowski is resolute and defiant, Elliott Smith is obsessed with missed opportunities and unfulfilled potential. He is a staunch pessimist.

“No Name No. 5” from Figure 8 (2000)

Got bitten fingernails and a head full of the past

And everybody's gone at last

Sweet, sweet smile that's fading fast

'Cause everybody's gone at last

Don't get upset about it

No not anymore

There's nothing wrong that wasn't wrong before

Had a second alone with a chance let pass

And everybody's gone at last

Well I hope you're not waiting

Waiting 'round for me

'Cause I'm not going anywhere, obviously

Got a broken heart and your name on my cast

And everybody's gone at last

Everybody's gone at last

I, on the other hand, am an optimist. Some might think I’m not because I tend to be overly critical, but that is precisely because I seek out the best of the best. I am wired to value productivity, and neither negativity nor dwelling on the past are useful. I dislike time-wasting and have never understood procrastinators. I’m easily amused and can entertain myself effortlessly. I'm a pretty normal guy. I don’t have much in common with Elliott Smith.

Figure 8 would be Smith’s final studio album. The first track from it makes us acutely aware that his mental issues may be far worse than we imagine:

"Son of Sam"

Something's happening, don't speak too soon

I told the boss off and made my move

Got nowhere to go

Son of Sam, son of the shining path, the clouded mind

The couple killer each and every time

I'm not uncomfortable, feeling weird

Lonely leered, options disappeared

But I know what to do

Son of Sam, son of a doctor's touch, a nurse's love

Acting under orders from above

King for a day!

Son of Sam, son of the shining path, the clouded mind

The couple killer running out of time

Shiva opens her arms now to make sure I don't get too far

I may talk in my sleep tonight 'cause I don't know what I am

I'm a little like you, more like Son of Sam

This song, which is played in a haunting minor key and includes disorienting bridges, is downright frightening, and I don’t quite know what to make of it. I like to read about serial killers because their mindset is fascinatingly unfamiliar. This distinguishes "Son of Sam" from perhaps my favorite Elliott Smith song, "Between The Bars," from either/or (1997). In this song, he makes the first person character a sort of tragic, desperate wanna-be hero trying to save the wrong person and making unkeepable and ill-advised promises.

Drink up baby, stay up all night

With the things you could do

You won't but you might

The potential you'll be

That you'll never see

The promises you'll only make

Drink up with me now

And forget all about

The pressure of days

Do what I say

And I'll make you okay

And drive them away

The images stuck in your head

People you've been before

That you don't want around anymore

That push and shove and won't bend to your will

I'll keep them still

Drink up baby, look at the stars

I'll kiss you again between the bars

Where I'm seeing you there

With your hands in the air

Waiting to finally be caught

Drink up one more time

And I'll make you mine

Keep you apart

Deep in my heart

Separate from the rest

Where I like you the best

And keep the things you forgot

The people you've been before

That you don't want around anymore

That push and shove and won't bend to your will

I'll keep them still

I like this song because, unlike most of Smith’s work, I can actually relate to it. I bring this up specifically because I think one of the most wonderful things about art is also something we need to be wary of- we tend to embrace art we can relate to and reject art we can’t. And that’s why Elliott Smith is important- he is a veritable window into mental illness. He acts as a voice for millions of people battling depression especially and mental diseases in general. Despite the fact that I have a BA in psychology and have dated a couple crazies, I don’t know much about mental illness. As un-hip as it is to admit it, I’m relatively sane. While those of us that don’t struggle with these issues tend to imagine them not dissimilar to how we feel upon finding expired milk in the fridge, Elliott Smith tells us how it really feels- and we should all be taking notes and learning from him for the betterment of human kind.

People who feel like Elliott Smith have lost access to perspective. Programs utilizing psychologists, psychiatrists and social workers trained to help these people regain an undistorted viewpoint are severely under-funded in America. In fact, our mental health care system ranks last among first world countries. In many ways, we have simply written off mental illness as an inevitable and unavoidable part of our culture. As a result, millions suffering from mental illness end up becoming homeless, abused or violent.

Elliott Smith died from two stab wounds to the chest on October 21st, 2003. They were probably self-inflicted.

“Oh Well, Okay" from XO

Here's the silhouette, the face always turned away

The bleeding color gone to black, dying like a day

Couldn't figure out what made you so unhappy

Shook your head to say no, no, no

And stopped for a spell

And stayed that way

Oh well, okay

I got pictures, I just don't see it anymore

Climbing hour upon hour through a total bore

With the one I keep, where it never fades

In the safety of a pitch-black mind

An airless cell that blocks the day

Oh well, okay

If you get a feeling next time you see me

Do me a favor and let me know

'Cause it's hard to tell

It's hard to say

Oh well, okay

Oh well, okay

Oh well, okay

The Importance of Tattoos

Some consider tattoos a waste of money, and in many ways they are. I consider things like big houses, fancy vehicles and jewelry a waste of money, but I don’t have those things. I have tattoos. I believe tattoos offer something beyond the feelings of identity and pride that we Americans seek in the things we buy. I don’t know whether tattoos offer anything that justifies the expense, but I think there’s an unfair juxtaposition between the perceptions of having a sports car and getting tattooed- whereas one is lauded for indicating success, the other is derided for demonstrating a lack of judgment.

At the root of this issue is a significant misunderstanding among the uninitiated as to why people get tattooed. This in turn means there are vastly different reasons why people get their first tattoo and why they get their second one. I’m not going to pretend I know the myriad of reasons why people get tattooed; my intention is to use my subjective experiences with tattoos to attempt to give non-tattooed people a fuller perspective on tattoos than what American culture generally provides.


Part I: The First Tat
Most people want their first tattoo to be some object that is personally significant and meaningful. They usually want it to be small and hide-able. On the other hand, first timers who get large tats or tats in visible areas are likely either tattoo artists themselves or want to impress others; the latter might fit the stereotype of being socially defiant or in a gang. Personally, I’ve always thought tattoos were cool. The great philosopher Immanuel Kant recommended not trying to decipher human motivations because they are far too abstract.

First-timers figure it’ll probably hurt a bit. How getting tattooed actually feels depends on size, density, placement and, most importantly, mental state, and can run the gamut from ticklish to excruciating, but generally feels like a combination of being burned and scratched. Tats are generally created in three passes: hard lines, greyscale shading and then color- with color sometimes including several passes. There can be another pass of line detailing over the top of all that. Multiple passes over the same area of skin during a one-session tat can be a bitch. The process is accompanied by an endorphin rush that peaks after about an hour and a half to two hours and crashes around three and a half to four hours. Therefore, tats that take less than an hour can act as teasers where you end up wishing the experience had taken longer. (If you think a tattoo lasting less than an hour is extremely painful, I’d kindly suggest you are a wuss.) Tats lasting longer than four hours require either a high pain threshold or a strong mental attitude toward overcoming the pain.

One’s own reaction to their first tattoo is either extreme pride or extreme shame; the basic thought in both cases being, “I can’t believe I did that!” Those experiencing pride will be the ones wearing a cut of clothing specifically chosen to show-off their tattoo, even if it is a bad one, which a normal outfit would have covered up. Wondering why another is not ashamed of their tattoo that you would NEVER get reveals your character to be wanting, not theirs. Our species could benefit from being a lot less judgmental and feeling a lot less shame.

These days, it seems like there’s a tattoo parlor on every street corner, but even now, on most days an artist that you don’t have to make an appointment with is either a novice or had a cancellation (which is very common). In the old days, you’d choose your tattoo from a set of “flash” or drawings the tattoo artist had displayed. Sometimes these were designs from the artist themselves, and sometimes they were cribbed or purchased from another tattoo artist. Today, everybody wants a “custom” tattoo. This causes two problems- you may be asking for something that that tattoo artist doesn’t know how to render in tattoo form and your idea might be stupid. I recommend considering any tattoo idea from the perspective of how you’d react to it if you saw it as flash advertised by a tattoo artist. Great t-shirt ideas do not always make good tattoos.

Artists tend to have photograph examples of pieces they’ve done and enjoyed doing. The best thing to do is find a portfolio with images you appreciate, and ask for something that you want done in that artist’s style. Tattoo placement is another important factor that the artist will likely understand the repercussions of better than the canvas. People may not realize that tattoo artists will generally ask questions like, “What do you do for a living?” and desire for a third-party reaction of, “Oh my god, who did that?” to be akin to that of a museum patron and not a homicide investigator. Tattoos should be thought of as collaborations, with the person holding the gun being the technical and artistic expert.

If you have some friend coercing or shaming you into getting a tattoo, that person is a douchebag that you should stop associating with. If you want “Believe” written on your ankle, you don’t need an artist with a six month waiting list. You do, however, want to see examples of lettering from the artist and need to make sure it gets spelled correctly. Another thing to be mindful of is to make sure an artist hasn’t accidentally mirrored an image when making the stencil- which can be especially confusing when you’re looking at the image in a mirror.

For the first few days, a new tattoo will feel like a sunburn; then it’ll start to peel and itch. Closely follow the artist’s recommended two week aftercare program- unless you want a splotchy, faded or infected tat. (On a back piece, assistance in applying cream/lotion during this time is essential.) Applying sunscreen is NOT the same as keeping it out of direct sunlight. One thing that is often not articulated is that if you apply pressure to a fresh tat, it will stick to and transfer itself to fabric. If this happens, you have to soak the fabric with water before gently removing it from your skin.


Part II: The Repeat Customer
The experience of getting a tattoo offers an acute, heightened awareness of one’s own body unlike anything else. The nervous system is a fascinating thing, with different parts of the body sending different interpretations of the same sensation to the brain. If you’re not watching, it is often impossible to guess exactly which part of a tattoo is being worked on. Adapting to the sensation of being jabbed with rapidly-vibrating needles is a skill that can be improved upon over time. Not only are coping strategies acquired, but your body builds up a tolerance to the pain. As you become accustomed to getting tattooed, future sittings hurt less. It still hurts, though.

The best way to deal with the pain is to accept it. Compared to the pain of having your limbs ripped off by horses or getting punched by Brock Lesner, it’s really not that big of a deal. When an artist is really digging in with a fifteen needle bar, I remind myself that’s the feeling of progress. You can also focus on appreciating the warmth of the tattoo gun, thinking of it as a localized heating device. Your body tends to want to go into fight-or-flight mode, but if you fight or struggle against it, not wanting it to hurt, you won’t be able to stay relaxed and your body will start to twitch, tighten and flinch. Distracting your mind (choosing the “flight” response) by thinking of anything and everything you can also works to make the experience less painful, but only in spurts. How you deal with pain reveals character. Tattoos not only demonstrate but also teach discipline, commitment and humility. This is why people go back for more. It is no wonder they are popular within organizations that value loyalty.

Eventually, it doesn’t matter to the wearer whether his tattoos are visible to others. These tattoos are not necessarily there for others to notice or comment upon. People will ask, “What’s that say?” and I’ll have no idea what their talking about because, in general, I don’t think about or notice my own tattoos any more than, for example, my own ears. When I see another’s tattoo, I might think, Wow, that’s small, but only an idiot would actually share their opinion of another’s tat as if it mattered. (Perhaps the strangest comment I’ve gotten from another upon seeing one of my tattoos has been, “Did you get bored one day or something?” I can’t relate to thinking of a tattoo as being something done on a whim.) The arms are the least painful area to get tattooed and the neck is the most painful, so those are incentives to get those areas done; reasons that have nothing to do with being socially defiant or a gang-banger. (For the curious, the shin, ribs and clavicle are the most painful areas I’ve had tattooed.)

Everyone with a tattoo participated in its creation. The shape and skin tone of your unique body irreplicably contribute to the finished piece. The final product becomes a literal part of its owner that can be felt for the rest of their lives. (Tats itch in cold weather.) Repeat customers understand that tattoos are a medium through which artists can express themselves. We respect and trust the tattoo artist fully. After the first, it is realized the meaning and symbolism of the tattoo runs deeper than whatever object it happens to be. Only a tattoo virgin would see someone with roses on their arm and declare, “You must really like roses!” What a tattoo is of is almost beside the point.

America is a country with a lot of spoiled brats- whites especially- getting through life by avoiding any experience that involves discomfort and pain. This strategy makes us vulnerable and unprepared when the inevitable illness, disease or confrontation occurs. Tattooing offers a safe and beautiful way of experiencing and overcoming pain, and leaves us with a permanent reminder of that achievement. There is nothing more dangerous than a culture that condones conformity, homogeneity, passivity and painlessness while rejecting individualism. Intolerance is the single greatest threat to humankind. When we eschew our ability to have personal experiences and preferences, we increase the risk of being stripped of those privileges. We should not be speaking disparagingly about the barbarism of tattoos but instead lauding them for being an essential part of a progressive civilization. Tattoos are art, and without art, life is meaningless.

The Importance of Jay Adams

Growing up in rural Iowa in the early 1980s, I was really into superheroes. I ran around the farmstead where I lived imagining super powers for myself and using them to defeat invisible bad guys. Around fourth grade I discovered Marvel comic books through a classmate, and soon couldn’t get enough of them. J.J. had inherited piles of 1970s era comic books from his older brothers that he doled out to three or four of us at school. I would sometimes sleep over at J.J.’s house over the weekends, where he would grab stacks of magazines from his brothers’ bedrooms for me to pick and choose from. Amongst the comic books were other magazines from the same era, including Mad (which I didn’t understand at all), Rolling Stone (which I had been led to believe was Satanic) and Skateboarder. The only thing I knew about skateboarding was that it had been invented by Marty McFly. Flipping through the pages of Skateboarder to see what it was all about, I came across this picture:

I was enthralled and confused. Somehow, this wasn’t a picture of a kid falling down. It was only after imagining the photo as a comic book drawing that I realized I’d seen that pose before- from Spider-Man. The incidental old man seemingly sinking into the pavement in the distance provided the perfect contrast to this death-defying kid. The only photograph I had seen with this combination of grace, skill and determination was a poster of Dr. J our principal had hanging in his office. I had to find out who this person was.

The picture was from a series of articles by Craig Stecyk III about a group of skateboarders in southern California called the Z-Boys. Stecyk was the graphic artist at Zephr surfboard shop, which was located in the rough slums of South Santa Monica known as Dogtown. Instead of rainbows and sun rays, Stecyk put graffiti-influenced designs onto surfboards handmade by Jeff Ho and sold them to the hoodlums from both South Santa Monica and Venice who surfed a cove containing the remains of an abandoned amusement park and frequently broke their boards on the pier pylons they maneuvered through.

When the waves died down, some of the surfers practiced their surf moves on skateboards. The owners of the shop promoted themselves by organizing first a surfing team and, in 1974, a skateboard team, to participate in competitions. Skip Engblom, co-owner of the Zephyr shop, set up a practice schedule for the members to follow. They slalomed down a street near the shop, skated at local school playgrounds with sloping concrete banks and in whatever abandoned and empty swimming pools they could find around town.

The signature style of the Z-Boys, as the skateboarders on Zephr Skate Team were called, was to emulate surfers by staying crouched low to the ground; not shying away from touching it. Stacy Peralta and Tony Alva would eventually move on from this group to become the first famous skateboarders. Although their hand dragging style did not ever wholly catch on, the Z-Boys changed the focus of the sport toward riding bowls, performing vertical jumps (Alva is generally credited with completing the first aerial) and street skating. Beyond these seminal contributions, there was one other essential thing that transformed the hobby of skateboarding into a multi-billion dollar industry, and that contribution came not from Peralta or Alva but rather another one of the original Z-Boys- Jay Adams.

Skateboarding had been a fad in the early ‘60s, but the thrill of standing on a piece of wood with wheels attached had quickly worn off, especially after parents started organizing to ban skateboards for being dangerous. But in 1973, a new type of wheel was invented that greatly increased the skateboard’s maneuverability and durability, and because of that, by 1975, growing interest had convinced organizers to hold the first national skateboarding competition of that decade. The chosen location for the event was in Del Mar, California, conveniently located just two hours from Dogtown.

Freestyle refers to skateboarding on flat ground. The Z-Boys didn’t do freestyle. Today, nobody except Rodney Mullen does freestyle, and even he mostly does street skating now. Back then, freestyle skateboarding was nothing other than a gymnastics routine with a prop, like what gymnasts still do today with ribbons, rubber balls and hula hoops. At Del Mar, freestyle was not only the main event, but the only event other than downhill slalom.

In 1975, Jay Adams was fourteen years-old but small enough to pass for younger. Like many of the other Z-Boys, he had flowing blonde hair. He was the first of the Z-Boys to compete, doing freestyle. The Zephyr Skate Team wore matching outfits, so everyone in attendance expected him to set the tone for the entire team. The first thing he did was ride his board across the platform at top speed and then slide by planting his hands behind him to keep from flying off the edge. The Z-Boys called this a “Bert,” which they had named after surfer Larry Bertlemann, who would often run his hands in the water as he surfed and was the biggest stylistic influence on the Z-Boys. Of course, nobody outside of the team would have even considered this a trick.

Then, in what was presumably an attempt to emulate something he had just seen from another competitor, he tried standing up straight while riding backward on one end of the board- and promptly fell on his ass.

At this point, the cameraman filming the event for posterity actually turns away in disappointment… but Jay Adams gets back on the board and skates backwards again- this time his way. Crouched down, he grabs the board on either side and angrily hops up and down.

And with that outburst, skateboarding is changed forever.

It is the perfect embodiment of the old way of skateboarding being replaced. Because it is so completely unintentional, it is beyond what anybody could have scripted. For the rest of the brief routine, he stays so close to the ground it’s difficult to differentiate whether he’s sliding on the board or on the ground- in actuality he’s simultaneously doing a little of both. He ends by jumping off the end of the platform.

Jay Adams had dared to thrust aggression into a sport where simply demonstrating balance and acrobatic prowess had been the only point. Suddenly, skateboarding had attitude, and not just any attitude- it had Jay Adam’s attitude. Whereas Peralta was a mild-mannered and disciplined pretty boy and Alva came across as a self-centered prick, being a skateboarder would come to mean being raw, brazen, authentic, flawed and stubbornly determined regardless of ability or success. Adams was comparable to Janis Joplin or John Coltrane in not overtly seeking to innovate but doing so anyway by being obsessed with finding their voice. But if you’re going to compare him to a musician, it would surely be Iggy Pop, whose band The Stooges had broken up the year before but whose legend and popularity were continuing to grow. Adams embodied, and because of him, skateboarding represented what would become known as punk.

The competitors other than the Z-Boys hated Jay’s performance. Adams wasn’t particularly thrilled by it either. His reaction to anybody else’s opinion about his skating tended to vacillate between anger, indifference and disgust, which was proof that he was not a caricature, persona or act. He probably decided right then that competitive skateboarding was bullshit.

After Del Mar, sponsors came crawling out of the woodwork to capitalize on the allure of the Z-Boys, and the Zephyr Skate Team soon dissolved as the members ran after money and fame. Adams didn’t go anywhere, but instead became part of a team organized by his abusive step-father. The next few decades would not be good ones for Adams.

The Bones Brigade videos would herald a new preferred media for being able to watch skateboarders from afar, but there really was something special about imagining what might be possible from trying to decipher a still photo. There are three photographs from my childhood that even as an adult my mind wanders back to: a National Geographic cover of a Afghan woman with haunted green eyes, a lone man standing in front of a row of tanks at Tiananmen Square and Jay Adams slaloming down a hill.

Well, that’s sort of true. When I was in high school, I went searching for the picture of Jay Adams that had inspired me so many years prior, and found this one instead:

Now, I think of both photographs like one of those holograms where you see different poses when you look at it from different angles.

For those of you still wondering what’s the big deal about some rebellious kid bouncing up and down on a skateboard, let me try and frame it another way. Without Jay Adams, this picture certainly wouldn’t have the same connotations, and probably wouldn’t even exist:

Jay Adams: Born, February 3, 1961; Died, August 15, 2014

Likes vs. Dislikes

“Most of the luxuries, and many of the so called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.” –from Walden, by Henry David Thoreau, as are all italicized quotes throughout.


I once took one of those internet quizzes testing how high maintenance I was and got 0%. The quiz summary of that result began, “You seem to be a pretty boring person.” It is true- I am kind of boring. I don’t really enjoy small-talk or gossip and avoid drama. In fact, I get bored by others fussing over nonsense. I prefer for things to remain calm and serene. Simple things closely inspected are boring only when they are blatantly plagiarized or derivative; the rest is boring only to those who desire for things to be obvious. The feeling of boredom belongs to those lacking both imagination and drive; those complaining of being bored end up trying to entertain themselves with hackneyed imitation.

The majority in our society are addicted to external distraction. To fulfill that desire, we become obsessed with finding flaws, which are blamed for causing us stress, frustration and disappointment. Everybody wants to find the defect but nobody wants to be it, so taking responsibility without having a scapegoat is avoided. For every person who does something, there are a thousand proclaiming how it should have been done. People will do almost anything to not have to do almost anything- it boggles my mind that anyone would rather eat processed food than learn to cook. We remain inside our climate-regulated shelters, except for when we must quickly move to our climate-regulated vehicles to transport ourselves to another climate-regulated shelter, all the while discussing the weather with enthusiastic aplomb. When something goes awry with either shelter or transportation, we find another to fix it as quickly as possible, and complain about the expense. “The nation itself, with all its so-called internal improvements, which, by the way, are all external and superficial, is just such an unwieldy and overgrown establishment, cluttered with furniture and tripped up by its own traps, ruined by luxury and heedless expense, by want of calculation and a worthy aim, as the million households in the land; and the only cure for it, as for them, is in a rigid economy, a stern and more than Spartan simplicity of life and elevation of purpose.”

Our adeptness at being distracted causes us to accumulate a disproportionate number of aversions. We rile against absurdly mundane things like tall grass, weeds, displaced rocks, dirt patches, insects, rodents and dust. We act as if we would prefer to be sealed in a hyperbaric chamber were it not for the inability to fit our possessions into it. Symmetrical apples, matching plates and color-coordinated clothes are insisted upon while individuality, diversity and candor are ridiculed, condemned and shunned. “Our life is frittered away by detail.” The goal, it seems, is to keep the world as homogenous, regulated and saccharine as possible. Anything which catches our attention is considered offensive, and must be eliminated, with the implied goal that perhaps one day everything- and everyone- can be ignored. But that day will never come, simply because it would deny us the satisfaction of pointing at something and declaring, “That is why I suffer.”

Thoreau said, “My greatest skill has been to want but little.” He explored an alternative method for enabling us to have everything we want, which began by breaking things down to understand what we truly need and how those needs can be most efficiently procured. He then sought to fully appreciate the beauty in what those basic necessities provided, so that everything we could ever want could be found in having only what we need. ”I wanted to live deep and suck out the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that are not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life to a corner and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.” Thoreau sussed out what was essential so that he could disregard the superfluous and explore that which was unencumbered, undiluted and undistracted in order to emulate and embody those traits. Instead of pursuing cosmetic blemishlessness, he aimed to do the right thing.

Mental or physical illness or disability, war and oppressive overlords inescapably complicate things by adding a variable to decisions that must be prioritized. A safe and healthy person, however, is free to choose from a vast number of options. The preferences of a healthy person are, too often, devoid of grounded intention and instead influenced by things like lethargy, mania, etiquette, custom or nostalgia. These whims are then presented so as to feign being the most logical choice. We look down upon those who fail to convincingly emulate and reflect the prevailing cultural customs while deriding all other customs as being ignorant and absurd. We distort the importance of tradition until it becomes more sacred than life itself.

We allow others to do not only our thinking but also our work for us, admiring our own cleverness in being able to reap the rewards of their labor without considering that we are robbing ourselves of opportunities to learn, improve and excel. We expect, depend upon and demand that there will always be someone around to help us, or that there will always be someone to work for and obey, because either way we have someone to blame for whatever fails to impress. While we could be spreading good deeds in private, we instead purchase extravagances that proclaim to all our ability to waste, because excess proves success. “Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only.” We hope that others look upon our things with admiration while nervously trying to avoid their inevitable deterioration.

A dichotomy can be created between likes and dislikes so that we can see which outweighs the other.
Sometimes we like sleep more than we dislike being late. Sometimes we dislike doing dishes more than we like clean counters. Sometimes we dislike confrontation more than we like being honest. Sometimes we like surfing the internet more than we like reading or writing. Sometimes we dislike weeding more than we dislike weeds. Our values are revealed by our actions.

I, like most, find it much easier to complain than praise. To counter negativity, I endeavor to find one thing I can appreciate and then passionately learn about it, so that my focus remains on something constructive or positive. “To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust. It is to solve some of the problems of life, not only theoretically, but practically.” When you are truly dedicated to improving at a craft, you won’t let anything distract you from it; there are no excuses. Success and failure are equal parts of the process. It is not the thing but rather our chosen reaction to it that dictates how we feel. “The thrills of joy and thrills of pain are indistinguishable.” Our chosen reactions shape our habitual, instinctual, immediate ones, and if we can learn to control those, we have conquered ourselves and become the rulers of our own existence.

My whole approach to living has been extremely influenced by the writings of Thoreau, whom I first learned about in second or third grade through a children’s book called My Side of the Mountain, by Jean Craighead George, about a boy living alone in the wilderness. I have always been quite fond of being in nature. I highly value the ability to survive alone in the wild, and therefore appreciate anything relating to that task, including being independent, resourceful, durable, adaptable and long-suffering. These days, I get outdoors by playing a lot of disc golf, a sport in which players wander around in the woods and grass throwing over-engineered Frisbees around the trees. I like playing disc golf more than I dislike being tired, playing poorly or bugs. “Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the track by every nutshell and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails.”

Happiness is not difficult to attain. I think a lot of people resist happiness because it’s, you know, boring. In America, we are taught that happiness is won through demonstrating dominance by acquiring assets, acceptance or obedience. Contentment and satisfaction are considered lazy. We want spectacle. We want war. We run through the forest, avoiding the trees, in hopes of finding the enchanted castle. What splendor, elegance, mystery or charm, pray tell, could any castle possibly have that surpasses that of a forest? The most opulent restaurant in the world cannot make food taste better than that which can be collected in the wild by a wandering nomad and cooked over an open fire pit. We are so well trained at wanting more that the concept of wanting nothing except to appreciate what we already have seems absurd. “Most of the stone a nation hammers goes toward its tomb only. It buries itself alive. As for the Pyramids, there is nothing to wonder at them so much as the fact that so many men could be found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to drowned in the Nile, and then given his body to the dogs.”

Nobody on their death bed reminisces about the day a slow driver in front of them that made them late for work. A lot of things that really annoy us just aren’t important at all, and yet we give them our utmost energy and attention. When we are able to step back and take the time to consider what is really important, we find now, the present, unfolding from the future and disappearing into the past, staring back. Only after letting go of distractions, annoyances and imperfections can we go about living the life that is in front of us. “When he has obtained those things which are necessary to life, there is another alternative than to obtain the superfluities; and that is, to adventure on life now, his vacation from humbler toil having commenced.”

Fishbone/Identity

"There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better for worse as his portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on the plot of ground which is given him to till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. It is not without pre-established harmony, this sculpture in the memory."
-from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self Reliance


I arrived at the site of the all-day music festival early and looked around for a spot to claim for a hacky-sack circle where I could wait until my friends arrived. Hearing my name, I looked down and saw two girls sitting in the grass, making sideways glances at each other. Suddenly I seemed to be sitting next to one of the girls looking up at a nineteen year-old kid with shoulder-length hair parted down the middle, a goatee, blue-tinted circle-cut sunglasses and a distressed Levi jean jacket over a black Miles Davis t-shirt. “Hey, what are you doing here?” he dumbly asked, avoiding eye contact by looking at his shuffling feet.

Perspective shifted itself back to its normal state as Sarah answered, “Soothing Syrup of course.” Disoriented and confused, I struggled to remember that Phil, the drummer, and she were both music majors. “Yeah, Measure and House of Large Sizes are going to be good, too,” I responded in a ridiculous attempt at one-upmanship. Not much was said after that, and I wandered away, pondering what had just happened, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and proud.

It was the first time I’d seen Sarah since January, when I’d awkwardly brought her flowers in a failed attempt to apologize for not having spoken to her over Christmas break, during which I had been helping my dad build a house in Missouri that was several years removed from having a telephone installed. I thought back to the late nights the semester before, watching Kids in the Hall, Mystery Science Theater 3000, Monty Python’s Flying Circus and whatever British comedy was playing on PBS. I sometimes still glanced at the rock I had kicked across campus between our dorms, which was still stashed outside the door of Dancer Hall, and realized if I was still making that trek I’d play keepy-uppy with my hacky-sack instead. Then again, I would have probably never learned how to play hacky-sack if we hadn’t broken up, because I would have never gotten bored enough to work up the courage to knock on Brad and John Paul’s dorm room door. One can only sit alone listening to the first two Zeppelin albums, Van Morrison’s “Moondance” and “Tupelo Honey” and John Coltrane’s “Kind of Blue” and “A Love Supreme” hoping for the phone to ring for about a month, it turns out.

It was now April 27th; in two weeks my second year of college would be over.

Brad, JP, Erin and Jacie finally arrived, along with three of their friends from Iowa City whom I’d never met. We started up a hacky-sack circle and the Iowa City guys were good, one of them amazingly so. I tried to copy his moves and failed miserably. After about an hour, the Iowa City crew got tired of playing and wandered off in search of other entertainment, taking the others with them. I couldn’t fathom this at all, thinking if I was as good as them I would never want to stop playing.

I spent the rest of the afternoon coercing people, including the Soothing Syrup members after their set, into playing hacky-sack while the music festival bands played in the background. The headlining band was Fishbone, who I’d never heard of. Since it was getting too dark to continue hacky-sacking, I got right in the middle of the mosh pit. This was something I’d never done before, and being someone who generally doesn’t like crowds, was surprised to find the experience exhilarating- for a while at least. I couldn’t really decide whether I liked the band or not. Most everybody else seemed to be loving them, and the band members were certainly not lacking in confidence. During at least one song, the singer stuck his mic out so that enthusiastic crowd-members could pretend they knew what they were supposed to be singing.

When the show ended, I finally found my friends and followed them back to Brad and JP’s room. I learned that, while I had continued playing hacky-sack, they had been hanging out with the Fishbone members. “You should have asked if they wanted to play hacky-sack,” I offered.

The dorm room was even busier than usual, and included two girls I’d never met on Brad’s bed in the corner giggling at each other while prattling off rap lyrics. I found them utterly obnoxious. I sat next to Brad as he repeatedly asked, “Who are these girls on my bed?” while rolling his head and chuckling to himself. I tried to reenact the occurrence from that morning and see myself from the girls on Brad’s bed’s perspective, but couldn’t, so I pondered it instead.

I wondered whether, even after all these months, my bond with Sarah was such that I could empathically enter into her mind. I quickly realized I had no idea what she was thinking or doing, especially after the months that had passed. In fact, I had been struck in that early morning moment by an awareness that I had completely changed since I’d last seen her. I hadn’t seen myself from another’s point of view- I had seen how I guessed I looked from another’s point of view. It was like watching a movie with someone and spending the whole time guessing what they thought of it. Or, if you knew what they thought of it, trying to attain that same feeling. Either way, the influence of company on a movie being viewed is undeniable, but in the end, everyone watches their own movie. A fondness for Monty Python, which had been cultivated by Sarah, was part of my identity now, even though I’d sort of forgotten about it. “Does anybody like Monty Python?” I asked aloud, starting a chain of conversation that I didn’t bother to follow because it was beside the point. They didn’t know Monty Python like I knew Monty Python.

An acquaintance from a few doors down was fiddling with something on the sink just to my left. He took a bill from his wallet, rolled it up and held it to his nose as the other end traced a line on the counter framing the sink. That was something I’d never witnessed before, and it was startlingly disgusting.

I was struck by a profound awareness of the present. I understood that everybody else was experiencing a reality that I couldn’t step into, and that I was experiencing a reality that only existed because of this encounter with others. I sat on the couch and absorbed everything, finally realizing my existence was a gestalt of the choices I’d made from the options I’d been given, and as such, it was of utmost importance that my choices were a reflection of my own convictions, standards, goals and desires. If my choices were based upon what I thought another would have me do, my being, which is all I could really ever own in this world, would dissolve into nothingness. "What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This rule, equally arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between greatness and meanness. It is the harder because you will always find those who think they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude." -Ibid.

I had to laugh at myself. While surrounded by chaos, here I was- remaining focused on some mental philosophical exercise. Why did I take everything so seriously? But that wasn’t it, exactly. I was only earnest about things that excited me. Half-heartedness was not in my psyche. I desired to excel at whatever I endeavored, not solely in the eyes of others, but also not solely in my own estimation. One thing I had learned from drumming was that I had thought I was really good at it as long as I had never paid attention to other drummers. Like drumming, hacky-sack gave immediate personal and public feedback regarding ones prowess at the improvisational and technical execution required, but unlike drummers, people who played hacky-sack were generally not dickheads. Hacky-sack also demonstrated that I wasn’t as un-athletic as my high school experience of sports had led me to believe. The thing I’d learned I appreciated about sport was its effectiveness at illustrating the maxim, “talk is cheap.” Unlike life, sport has a built-in measure of objective success.

In some class during college, I read an analysis of the myth of Narcissus that determined the vain hunter, after falling in love with what he thought was somebody else swimming in a river, needn’t die after refusing to take his eyes off his reflection or commit suicide after realizing the futility of loving something he couldn’t have, as the story is commonly told. Instead, he could evolve by incorporating his newly learned ability to judge himself objectively in all his contributions to the external world. After all, genuine self-awareness can be attained only after contemplating how our selves, including our actions, would be viewed by a neutral observer.

In another class, aesthetics, we spent one period with an artist and art professor analyzing his own paintings. The rest of the class was appalled at how much he loved the work he produced. I, on the other hand, was inspired to produce work I loved as much. "A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise shall give him no peace." -Ibid.

Confident, informed and independent people are useless to those with something inferior to sell. The only thing a truly self-reliant person needs others for is friendship, and that isn’t a sellable commodity. Competition, not cooperation, drives capitalism. Winning is lauded at any cost, and is defined by our ability to convince others we’re better than they are. In its demand for us to try and impress it, society tries to beat the integrity out of us. The important thing is not the validity of our claims but our ability to convince others they are valid. Because of the “Halo Effect,” the phenomenon which causes us to trust those we find attractive, outward beauty becomes crucial in this effort. To keep the individual powerless, our culture stresses an absurd notion that when we look at ourselves, we shouldn’t like what we see. It convinces us to conform by teaching us to loathe ourselves. The ignorant and vulnerable are easily manipulated, and so we are raised to look for and obsess over our flaws, weaknesses and imperfections while revering an unrealistic ideal. We survive by pointing blaming fingers while eschewing responsibility, which only deepens our guilt. In the end, power is split between those fitting society’s definition of beauty and those most willing to destroy the self-confidence of the masses.

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
-from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass


April 27th, 1996 remains a seminal part of my life. I wouldn’t trade that day of playing hacky-sack for anything. I’d only have a couple years of hacky-sack playing left before it would become impossible to find anybody to play with. In five years, I’d end up meeting up with Fishbone at a recording studio in San Francisco where I was working as an intern, but there was nothing memorable about that occasion. Today, one of those girls on Brad’s bed I contemplated from the couch and futilely tried to switch minds with remains one of my oldest, dearest and closest friends.

Why Christians Should Support Gay Marriage in America

There are several places in the Bible that state homosexual sex is wrong. The New Testament characterizes marriage as a union of a man and a woman. For these reasons and others, it is reasonable to concede that Christianity was founded with the premise that marriage between gay people within the Christian Church was not an accepted concept. Therefore, it is understandable for a Christian pastor or priest to refuse to authorize or bless the union of a gay couple in a Christian ceremony. After all, the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America prevents the government from interfering with religious practices. What the scriptures do not address, however, is the situation as it pertains to marriage recognized, not by the Christian Church, but by a contemporary, secular government.

In addition to, or, as part of protecting everybody’s right to practice whichever religion they choose, the First Amendment explicitly states that any one specific religion’s beliefs cannot be taken into consideration when making federal laws. “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion….” The First Amendment is not a suggestion, but is itself a federal law. Jesus Christ indicated that both government laws and God’s should be followed, even though he trusted neither tax collectors nor religious leaders. When asked if taxes should be paid, he replied, “Give back to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.” (Matthew 22:21)

Within Christianity, it is understood that a marriage is a union recognized and sanctified by God. Our government, on the contrary, recognizes marriage as a legally binding contract between two people which can be used to gain things like tax benefits, inheritance rights, child custody rights and immigration privileges. These are two distinct roles that we umbrella under the same term. To determine whether a Christian should desire for the legal form of marriage to include homosexuals, we can, and must, ponder Jesus’ teachings.

The longest transcription we have of Jesus’ teachings is known as the Sermon on the Mount, found in Matthew, chapters 5-7. A second, similar sermon is found in Luke, chapter 6. These are the most concrete and clear directives from Jesus to be found in the Bible. In these speeches, Jesus demonstrates that there is a distinction between earthly and heavenly values. One major theme is to treat non-followers as brethren even while living according to standards beyond those of non-followers. In fact, treating those who oppose you with love is precisely one way of upholding these higher standards. Jesus clarifies that these high standards should not be demanded, or even expected, of others. He gives several examples that if another chooses evil, it should be met with love.

Most are familiar with Jesus’ command to not judge. Luke 6:37 reads, “Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” The severity of this command becomes evident when it is cross-referenced with Matthew 6:15: “If you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.” Jesus is not concerned with the decisions of those uninterested in following him, not because he doesn’t love them, but because he is uninterested in earthly pursuits, gains and rituals. This is why he says to a man who wanted to bury his father instead of getting on a boat with him, “Follow me, and let the dead bury their own dead.” (Matthew 8:22) Jesus sole focus is on being holy himself.

Jesus recognizes earthly laws cannot reflect heavenly values. God judges that which mankind cannot see; even our thoughts. When asked by a group of religious leaders and teachers if an adulteress should be stoned according to Jewish law, Jesus replies, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” (John 8:7) This compels the group to leave, and then Jesus, left alone with the woman, does something extraordinary. According to his own criteria, Jesus could have stoned the adulteress himself, but he instead measures her against those who had just left- and deems her equal to them. “Jesus straightened up and asked her, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’ ‘No one, sir,’ she said. ‘Then neither do I condemn you,’ Jesus declared. ‘Go now and leave your life of sin.’” (John 8:10-11) The Bible does not indicate whether Jesus' advice was taken.

Critics will argue that Jesus’ statement in Matthew 7:6 to not give that which is sacred to dogs is proof that homosexuals should not be allowed to marry. The first rebuttal to this is that the scriptures make clear that God condemns all sin equally, so if it is interpreted that marriage, as a sacred thing, should not be given to those who are not Christians, it follows that ALL marriage involving non-Christians should not be allowed. James 2:8-13 says, “If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’ you are doing right. But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. For he who said, ‘You shall not commit adultery,’ also said, ‘You shall not murder.’ If you do not commit adultery but do commit murder, you have become a lawbreaker. Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment.” Again, we see a clear separation between earthly judgment and heavenly judgment, and that our earthly judgments should be tempered with both mercy and neighborly love, leaning in favor of giving freedom. It is precisely this kind of sacred wisdom that Jesus is suggesting only his followers can understand in Matthew 7:6. His followers should not bother attempting to impose the high standards they should hold themselves to on non-followers.

The only type of marriage the Bible explicitly condemns is re-marriage after a divorce, unless the divorce was because of unfaithfulness (Matthew 19:11). This is why, in the church where I grew up, my pastor once refused to perform the ceremony of a divorcé who wanted to remarry. That pastor probably shared his belief that God would not consider such a marriage sacred. The cultural reality, however, is that he could not say, “You can’t get married,” because in fact, that couple could have walked straight to the courthouse– or any number of other churches– and received a legal document binding them to laws and privileges pertaining to marriage as recognized, though not by God, by the lesser authority operating as the United States of America. In Matthew 19:8, Jesus explains that divorce itself was only allowed as a concession to placate human weakness. This exemplifies Jesus’ understanding that earthly laws, specifically those pertaining to marriage, are necessarily an imperfect compromise.

The sanctity of marriage is completely independent from the earthly laws governing it. Man has no authority to decide what is sacred. It is God, not man, who decides whether a marriage will be recognized and blessed by Him, and God’s judgment waits in heaven. It is understandable that a church, which should seek to reflect God’s laws as closely as possible, would refuse to perform a gay marriage ceremony. For the same reasons, that church could also justifiably refuse to remarry someone who had been divorced, all non-believers and even a person wearing a wedding dress made of a fiber blend (Leviticus 19:19)

The righteous person described and demonstrated by Jesus is loving, generous and humble; not worrying about the things of this world but instead focusing on and striving toward inner perfection. Jesus compared false teachers to wolves in sheep’s clothing and thorn bushes offering fruit (Matthew 7:15-16), and was criticized for associating with and befriending sinners: “The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” (Matthew 11:19) Kindness toward sinners is always the right course of action while insolence is always the wrong one. The life of a Christian should focus not on demonstrating one’s own virtues, but on charitably giving of oneself to others, meeting their needs and even wants. “And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well.” (Matthew 5:40)

While marriage as described in the Bible is an opportunity offered by the church, marriage described by governmental law is something else entirely. While it is against the fallible, earthly laws of America to take Jesus’ opinion under consideration when making laws, singling out homosexuals by restricting them of rights given to every other American citizen is inconsistent with Jesus’ teachings. Homosexuals should be treated the same as every sinner, which includes all of us. “Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.” (1 John 4:7-8)

But what do I know; I'm an atheist.

Some Thoughts on the Real World by One Who Glimpsed It and Fled

Kenyon College Commencement, May 20, 1990
Speaker: Bill Watterson

I have a recurring dream about Kenyon. In it, I'm walking to the post office on the way to my first class at the start of the school year. Suddenly it occurs to me that I don't have my schedule memorized, and I'm not sure which classes I'm taking, or where exactly I'm supposed to be going. As I walk up the steps to the post office, I realize I don't have my box key, and in fact, I can't remember what my box number is. I'm certain that everyone I know has written me a letter, but I can't get them. I get more flustered and annoyed by the minute. I head back to Middle Path, racking my brains and asking myself, "How many more years until I graduate? Wait, didn't I graduate already? How old AM I?" Then I wake up.

Experience is food for the brain. And four years at Kenyon is a rich meal. I suppose it should be no surprise that your brains will probably burp up Kenyon for a long time. And I think the reason I keep having the dream is because its central image is a metaphor for a good part of life: that is, not knowing where you're going or what you're doing.

I graduated exactly ten years ago. That doesn't give me a great deal of experience to speak from, but I'm emboldened by the fact that I can't remember a bit of MY commencement, and I trust that in half an hour, you won't remember of yours either.

In the middle of my sophomore year at Kenyon, I decided to paint a copy of Michelangelo's "Creation of Adam" from the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling of my dorm room. By standing on a chair, I could reach the ceiling, and I taped off a section, made a grid, and started to copy the picture from my art history book. Working with your arm over your head is hard work, so a few of my more ingenious friends rigged up a scaffold for me by stacking two chairs on my bed, and laying the table from the hall lounge across the chairs and over to the top of my closet. By climbing up onto my bed and up the chairs, I could hoist myself onto the table, and lie in relative comfort two feet under my painting. My roommate would then hand up my paints, and I could work for several hours at a stretch. The picture took me months to do, and in fact, I didn't finish the work until very near the end of the school year. I wasn't much of a painter then, but what the work lacked in color sense and technical flourish, it gained in the incongruity of having a High Renaissance masterpiece in a college dorm that had the unmistakable odor of old beer cans and older laundry. The painting lent an air of cosmic grandeur to my room, and it seemed to put life into a larger perspective. Those boring, flowery English poets didn't seem quite so important, when right above my head God was transmitting the spark of life to man.

My friends and I liked the finished painting so much in fact, that we decided I should ask permission to do it. As you might expect, the housing director was curious to know why I wanted to paint this elaborate picture on my ceiling a few weeks before school let out. Well, you don't get to be a sophomore at Kenyon without learning how to fabricate ideas you never had, but I guess it was obvious that my idea was being proposed retroactively. It ended up that I was allowed to paint the picture, so long as I painted over it and returned the ceiling to normal at the end of the year. And that's what I did. Despite the futility of the whole episode, my fondest memories of college are times like these, where things were done out of some inexplicable inner imperative, rather than because the work was demanded. Clearly, I never spent as much time or work on any authorized art project, or any poli-sci paper, as I spent on this one act of vandalism.

It's surprising how hard we'll work when the work is done just for ourselves. And with all due respect to John Stuart Mill, maybe utilitarianism is overrated. If I've learned one thing from being a cartoonist, it's how important playing is to creativity and happiness. My job is essentially to come up with 365 ideas a year. If you ever want to find out just how uninteresting you really are, get a job where the quality and frequency of your thoughts determine your livelihood. I've found that the only way I can keep writing every day, year after year, is to let my mind wander into new territories. To do that, I've had to cultivate a kind of mental playfulness.

We're not really taught how to recreate constructively. We need to do more than find diversions; we need to restore and expand ourselves. Our idea of relaxing is all too often to plop down in front of the television set and let its pandering idiocy liquefy our brains. Shutting off the thought process is not rejuvenating; the mind is like a car battery- it recharges by running.

You may be surprised to find how quickly daily routine and the demands of “just getting by” absorb your waking hours. You may be surprised to find how quickly you start to see your politics and religion become matters of habit rather than thought and inquiry. You may be surprised to find how quickly you start to see your life in terms of other people's expectations rather than issues. You may be surprised to find out how quickly reading a good book sounds like a luxury.

At school, new ideas are thrust at you every day. Out in the world, you'll have to find the inner motivation to search for new ideas on your own. With any luck at all, you'll never need to take an idea and squeeze a punchline out of it, but as bright, creative people, you'll be called upon to generate ideas and solutions all your lives. Letting your mind play is the best way to solve problems. For me, it's been liberating to put myself in the mind of a fictitious six year-old each day, and rediscover my own curiosity. I've been amazed at how one ideas leads to others if I allow my mind to play and wander. I know a lot about dinosaurs now, and the information has helped me out of quite a few deadlines.

A playful mind is inquisitive, and learning is fun. If you indulge your natural curiosity and retain a sense of fun in new experience, I think you'll find it functions as a sort of shock absorber for the bumpy road ahead.

So, what's it like in the real world? Well, the food is better, but beyond that, I don't recommend it. I don't look back on my first few years out of school with much affection, and if I could have talked to you six months ago, I'd have encouraged you all to flunk some classes and postpone this moment as long as possible. But now it's too late. Unfortunately, that was all the advice I really had. When I was sitting where you are, I was one of the lucky few who had a cushy job waiting for me. I'd drawn political cartoons for the Collegian for four years, and the Cincinnati Post had hired me as an editorial cartoonist. All my friends were either dreading the infamous first year of law school, or despondent about their chances of convincing anyone that a history degree had any real application outside of academia.

Boy, was I smug.

As it turned out, my editor instantly regretted his decision to hire me. By the end of the summer, I'd been given notice; by the beginning of winter, I was in an unemployment line; and by the end of my first year away from Kenyon, I was broke and living with my parents again. You can imagine how upset my dad was when he learned that Kenyon doesn't give refunds.

Watching my career explode on the lauchpad caused some soul searching. I eventually admitted that I didn't have what it takes to be a good political cartoonist, that is, an interest in politics, and I returned to my firs love, comic strips. For years I got nothing but rejection letters, and I was forced to accept a real job. A REAL job is a job you hate. I designed car ads and grocery ads in the windowless basement of a convenience store, and I hated every single minute of the 4-1/2 million minutes I worked there. My fellow prisoners at work were basically concerned about how to punch the time clock at the perfect second where they would earn another 20 cents without doing any work for it. It was incredible: after every break, the entire staff would stand around in the garage where the time clock was, and wait for that last click. And after my used car needed the head gasket replaced twice, I waited in the garage too.

It's funny how at Kenyon, you take for granted that the people around you think about more than the last episode of Dynasty. I guess that's what it means to be in an ivory tower.

Anyway, after a few months at this job, I was starved for some life of the mind that, during my lunch break, I used to read those poli-sci books that I'd somehow never quite finished when I was here. Some of those books were actually kind of interesting. It was a rude shock to see just how empty and robotic life can be when you don't care about what you're doing, and the only reason you're there is to pay the bills. Thoreau said, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." That's one of those dumb cocktail quotations that will strike fear in your heart as you get older. Actually, I was leading a life of loud desperation.

When it seemed I would be writing about "Midnite Madness Sale-abrations" for the rest of my life, a friend used to console me that cream always rises to the top. I used to think, so do people who throw themselves into the sea.

I tell you all this because it's worth recognizing that there is no such thing as an overnight success. You will do well to cultivate the resources in yourself that bring you happiness outside of success or failure. The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. At that time, we turn around and say, yes, this is obviously where I was going all along. It's a good idea to try to enjoy the scenery on the detours, because you'll probably take a few.

I still haven't drawn the strip as long as it took me to get the job. To endure five years of rejection to get a job requires either a faith in oneself that borders on delusion, or a love of the work. I loved the work.
Drawing comic strips for five years without pay drove home the point that the fun of cartooning wasn't in the money; it was in the work. This turned out to be an important realization when my break finally came.

Like many people, I found that what I was chasing wasn't what I caught. I've wanted to be a cartoonist since I was old enough to read cartoons, and I never really thought about cartoons as being a business. It never occurred to me that a comic strip I created would be at the mercy of a bloodsucking corporate parasite called a syndicate, and that I'd be faced with countless ethical decisions masquerading as simple business decisions. To make a business decision, you don't need much philosophy; all you need is greed, and maybe a little knowledge of how the game works.

As my comic strip became popular, the pressure to capitalize on that popularity increased to the point where I was spending almost as much time screaming at executives as drawing. Cartoon merchandising is a $12 billion dollar a year industry and the syndicate understandably wanted apiece of that pie. But the more I though about what they wanted to do with my creation, the more inconsistent it seemed with the reasons I draw cartoons. Selling out is usually more a matter of buying in. Sell out, and you're really buying into someone else's system of values, rules and rewards.

The so-called "opportunity" I faced would have meant giving up my individual voice for that of a money-grubbing corporation. It would have meant my purpose in writing was to sell things, not say things. My pride in craft would be sacrificed to the efficiency of mass production and the work of assistants. Authorship would become committee decision. Creativity would become work for pay. Art would turn into commerce. In short, money was supposed to supply all the meaning I'd need. What the syndicate wanted to do, in other words, was turn my comic strip into everything calculated, empty and robotic that I hated about my old job. They would turn my characters into television hucksters and T-shirt sloganeers and deprive me of characters that actually expressed my own thoughts. On those terms, I found the offer easy to refuse. Unfortunately, the syndicate also found my refusal easy to refuse, and we've been fighting for over three years now. Such is American business, I guess, where the desire for obscene profit mutes any discussion of conscience.

You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if we don't discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we will live passively and unfulfilled. Sooner or later, we are all asked to compromise ourselves and the things we care about. We define ourselves by our actions. With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world who we are. Think about what you want out of this life, and recognize that there are many kinds of success.

Many of you will be going on to law school, business school, medical school, or other graduate work, and you can expect the kind of starting salary that, with luck, will allow you to pay off your own tuition debts within your own lifetime. But having an enviable career is one thing, and being a happy person is another.

Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it's to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential-as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth. You'll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you're doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you'll hear about them. To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed, and I think you'll be happier for the trouble.

Reading those turgid philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job, but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it's going to come in handy all the time. I think you'll find that Kenyon touched a deep part of you. These have been formative years. Chances are, at least of your roommates has taught you everything ugly about human nature you ever wanted to know. With luck, you've also had a class that transmitted a spark of insight or interest you'd never had before. Cultivate that interest, and you may find a deeper meaning in your life that feeds your soul and spirit. Your preparation for the real world is not in the answers you've learned, but in the questions you've learned how to ask yourself.

Graduating from Kenyon, I suspect you'll find yourselves quite well prepared indeed. I wish you all fulfillment and happiness. Congratulations on your achievement.