The Breaking Time

No more smiles: Virginia DMV demands "neutral expression"

The usual feeling of oppressive bureaucracy one often encounters in the DMV apparently isn't enough for Virginia. That august commonwealth has now decided to ban smiles:

Few places in Virginia are as draining to the soul and as numbing to the buttocks as the branch offices of the Department of Motor Vehicles. And yet, until recently, smiling was still permitted there.

No more. As part of the DMV's effort to develop super-secure driver's licenses and foolproof identification cards, the agency has issued a smile ban, directing customers to adopt a "neutral expression" in their portraits, thereby extinguishing whatever happiness comes with finally hearing one's number called.

The driver's license photo, it seems, is destined to look like a mug shot.

Scowls and frowns are also banned. I'm reminded of a poster seen in the evil brain-draining Harmony House asylum in Grant Morrison's The Invisibles. On that poster, schematic faces both happy and sad are emblazoned with BAD, while a dead, neutral expression is tagged GOOD. Strange timing, to read that the day before I read this.

There are, however, practical reasons for the ban. No smiling makes the peons easier to track:

DMV officials say the smile ban is for a good cause. The agency would like to develop a facial recognition system that could compare customers' photographs over time to prevent fraud and identity theft. "The technology works best when the images are similar," said DMV spokeswoman Pam Goheen. "To prepare for the possibility of future security enhancements, we're asking customers to maintain a neutral expression."

At a Manassas DMV branch yesterday, that translated to a simple directive: "Don't smile."

That's exactly what a DMV attendant told Manassas resident Maria Quispe when she sat down against the white backdrop and attempted to look happy for the photo she would be carrying around for much of the next eight years.

"Say cheese," said her stepdaughter, Alexandra Lopez.

"No cheese today," the DMV attendant said.

The shutter clicked, and the attendant consulted a computer monitor, then shook her head disapprovingly.

Quispe's teeth had been visible. Strike one. "Your mouth was open," the attendant said.

Quispe's second attempt turned out sufficiently dull. "It's going to be so ugly," Quispe said afterward. "This is like being in the Army!"

When asked how DMV employees are able to determine when customers might be smiling too much, Goheen explained that the process is automated. Naturally, the new software is programmed to reject attempts at exuberance or human warmth. "It will send an error message if it detects a non-neutral expression," she said.

Oh brave new world, I couldn't make you up if I tried.

Poems for Friday: Song of Myself

Limitless, by Nad Wolinska

Oh Walt Whitman. I have an eternal soft spot for the long-winded bastard, who managed to bridge the aerial and visceral so well. Reading him you can feel sensations almost too dense and powerful for the language to express. It's energizing stuff, especially in this time.

Personally, I never hope we lose the optimism he describes here, a love of the world because and in spite of all its stink, blood and sweat. The following is a reminder all of us can use:

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now,

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge

Always the procreant urge of the world

The rest (or part of it, the whole poem's gigantic), below the fold.

Quite a bitter pill to take: "embitterment" as mental illness

Yes, this is a convenient excuse to post this picture

It seems that bitterness, or "post-traumatic embitterment disorder" might now be qualified as a mental illness:

You know them. I know them. And, increasingly, psychiatrists know them. People who feel they have been wronged by someone and are so bitter they can barely function other than to ruminate about their circumstances.

This behavior is so common -- and so deeply destructive -- that some psychiatrists are urging it be identified as a mental illness under the name post-traumatic embitterment disorder. The behavior was discussed before an enthusiastic audience last week at a meeting of the American Psychiatric Assn. in San Francisco.

The disorder is modeled after post-traumatic stress disorder because it too is a response to a trauma that endures. People with PTSD are left fearful and anxious. Embittered people are left seething for revenge.

"They feel the world has treated them unfairly. It's one step more complex than anger. They're angry plus helpless," says Dr. Michael Linden, a German psychiatrist who named the behavior.

Embittered people are typically good people who have worked hard at something important, such as a job, relationship or activity, Linden says. When something unexpectedly awful happens -- they don't get the promotion, their spouse files for divorce or they fail to make the Olympic team -- a profound sense of injustice overtakes them. Instead of dealing with the loss with the help of family and friends, they cannot let go of the feeling of being victimized. Almost immediately after the traumatic event, they become angry, pessimistic, aggressive, hopeless haters.

Oh my, where to start with this one. Bitterness is a human emotion, just like anger, or having nightmares after a particularly traumatic incident. Yes, it's possible for this emotion (like love or acceptance for that matter) to be taken too far, and combined with other factors, may play a role in some individuals' mental illness. Refusing to let go of a break-up, for example, is obviously unhealthy.

But it's no coincidence that the number of bitter people might be increasing, as a declining economy and cultural breakdown create many, many people who did everything they were supposed to in life and still got the shit end. One might say they have reason to be bitter. Good reason, in fact.

So the obvious answer is to tell them to get over it, accept it (and if they still can't pay their bills?), go on docilely with their lives. If not, they're mentally ill. Conveniently, being in a recession, the psychiatric establishment's got similarly good reason to find some new disorders to treat.

There's an excellent sociological term for this trend, it's called the medicalization of deviance. 

Basically, increasingly diagnosing non-normal mental traits as illness makes it easier and easier to punish behavior outside the norm (deviance). Like increasingly ornate laws, the more mental illnesses you've got on the books, especially for fairly common, understandable behavior gives established powers more ways to crack down on or punish said deviants.

Take the trend far enough and you've got a lovely little thing I call Somatopia.

Besides, revenge gets short shrift. Let's say that you got screwed over by an abominable health care system in a way that led to financial devastation and the illness or death of a loved one. Filing a lawsuit or joining a political cause that seeks to overhaul that system and punish those who run it is an act of vengeance, yes. It's also a perfectly constructive response.

Every social change begins with a refusal to let go of anger. We need that, properly directed, in this time more than any other.

Personally, the major point in my life where I grappled with bitterness bears testament that vengeance has its part to play. During my college years, I was shafted in office politics by the clique that ran the student newspaper, who had little tolerance for dissenting opinions. It was a hard hit, and combined with other problems in my life, fostered feelings of bitterness and anger.

So I thought about what had gone wrong, why it was wrong and did everything in my power to take the editor's spot the next year. While this was very helpful to my own ambitions, I would be lying if I said it didn't also serve as a blatant middle finger to those that threw me out. A desire to "settle the score" in that case drove me to become a more assertive person and better journalist, as well as gaining the power to run things in a different way. After that, it was far easier to let go of bitterness and put the original incident behind me.

Would acceptance have made my life better? 

It is no sign of health to be well-adjusted to a sick society.

-J. Krishnamurti

(Via our friends at Grinding)

Canadian Governor General devours raw seal heart

No, it's not fiction. Above is video of Canadian Governor General Michaelle Jean chowing down pieces of the raw heart of a freshly slaughtered seal, while children (our future, remember) watch with glee.

How does it taste? "Absolutely delicious."

This has apparently caused some controversy in our northern neighbors, with animal rights activists attacking Jean in extremely harsh terms. She did the gesture in conscious solidarity with the Inuit seal hunt, so I don't think the controversy's unintentional.

It's telling that respect for other cultures -- and a perfectly sustainable, efficient way of getting meat -- ends when their practices are tarred with words like "blood lust," "barbaric" and "neanderthal" (way to be culturally enlightened, PETA). In other words, when "they" gross us out. 

It reminds me of more than one person I've encountered that extols agricultural living while managing to despise anyone who actually dwells in a rural area.

On a side note, I'm hungry. And I want to visit Canada again. Toronto, it's been too long.

(via Wonkette)

The Sexting revelation: Yes, teenagers have sex

Well, there's one take that says sexually explicit images or phone texts are a TERRIFYING NEW TREND among The Young. Armed with handy guides labelled with the "things every parent should know" heading, it might just be possible to save the next generation from their descent into utter and complete decadence.  

That's one take. Here's another:

Every generation, parents and educators are shocked (shocked, I tell you) to discover that at some point during their teenage years, their daughters and sons will start having sex. Yes, sex. Some of them, dear gentle suffering Christ, may even turn out to be a little kinky. 

This is an entirely new development, of course, unprecedented in human history. Certainly nothing like it ever happened in their parents' time. 

Nah, son, in our innocent days, it was all booze, sodomy and pot-driven threeso... I mean, sock hops. Yeah. Sock hops and abstinence. And don't you f'in forget it, you little bastard.

What? A rational conversation about the very real pleasures and pitfalls of one life's thorniest yet most rewarding aspects? Fuck that shit. Let's get some generational amnesia. Then we'll panic. A lot. Caitlin Flanagan's got bills to pay!

Yup, that'll work.

Also, it's a good bet that anyone texting FMLTWIA or IAYM is probably already totally lost, purity-wise. Just a thought.

The war over Prop 8: Get mad, then get organized

The California Supreme Court ruled today that Proposition 8 -- the repulsive gay marriage ban state voters passed last November -- is constitutional. 

The silver lining was that the ruling keeps 18,000 marriages legal. I can't deny that it would have been great to see the law -- a humans rights infringement analogous to the miscegenation laws of old -- struck down.

But that shouldn't be the focus. The focus now, for anyone ready to topple this affront to basic human love, should be on winning. Californians of all stripes should be angry. Damn angry. They should promptly channel that anger into getting organized and burying Proposition 8 in a landslide next Election Day.

Politics isn't magic. In the case of Proposition 8, the pro-gay marriage side botched things badly last year, resembling Churchill's old quote about "an army of lions led by asses." 

Their fundamentalist opponents, especially the Mormon Church, struck early and organized rapidly. At some level, I think they knew that the demographics of the state and the tide of history were against them, so they worked constantly to bring out every voter they could still muster, spread disinformation and ran slick ad campaigns.

On the other side, the anti-Prop 8 side had huge advantages: some of the most affluent, gay-friendly populations in a state with a long history of activism. Add in the number of young voters coming out for Obama's campaign and a well-led effort should have stomped the fundamentalists into the ground. Badly.

Instead the anti-Prop 8 leaders took month-long vacations, snubbed minority leaders and actively discourage get out the vote efforts. That's not how you win political fights. Ever.

Fighting in the courts is fine and even necessary. A great many strides in civil rights have begun there, but it's time to stop looking at "win a court case" as an end instead of a means. 

The biggest insurer of minority racial rights isn't the written law, it's the fact that open racism has become widely reviled. That's how you win: by shifting the culture so the other side is out of the debate entirely. A resounding repeal of Prop 8 would send a powerful message. As gay marriage bans around the country are hemorrhaging support, the time is nigh.

So California, the path there should now look something like this. 

1) Organize relentlessly.

2) Exile the previous No on 8 leadership to Botswana.

3) Call in every favor, every possible donor, look for as many splits in your opponents' demographics as possible and see if you can't sheave some of them off.

4) Repeat step 1.

5) Next November, give the bigots a beating they'll tell their grandchildren about.

Sound good?

Memorial Day, 2009

Bodies of federal soldiers, killed near McPherson woods. Gettysburg, 1863. Photo by Timothy H. O'Sullivan

Go to war as you would to a funeral.

The Tao te Ching

A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

War is delightful to those who have no experience of it.

Erasmus

It's Memorial Day, a holiday for some of us. Like many, its meaning has faded over time, now becoming mostly another reason to take the day off work, have a cookout and buy something on sale.

The one shadow of its original meaning that remains is in the occasional ceremony or paean to the military dead. The more nationalistic types strut out to remind us of supposedly lost virtue, of sacrifices that today's generations have in some magical way proved themselves unworthy of. These -- most of them never in war themselves -- chide us, wishing for the simple, strong-sinewed reverence of yesteryear. Myth then -- and myth now, when there's growing legions of old soldiers in their 20s, back home with heads packed full of nightmares.

Memorial Day should never be simple, because death and violence can never be simple.

Human beings have been slaughtering each other since before we can remember. It's a paradox, always, that we can create so much and yet rend each other apart with such readiness. 

The end of war has always been around the corner, waiting for a sky-opening messiah or vaunted Reason to suddenly overtake heads of state. Don't hold your breath.

There are many dead soldiers who fought for something right, for a good cause, who lost their lives in pushing the world just an inch towards a better place. But many perished because of mistakes and ignorance. Because a politician wanted a fucking legacy. If any question why we died, tell them, because our fathers lied. 

A true memorial has to own them all.

I'm not a pacifist, I don't think I ever will be, but every war is a failure, even the necessary ones. It's the rot spreading so far that there's no better medicine than to amputate. Every death is a tragedy, greater because it's not going to stop anytime soon. Did you really believe that this war would end wars?

The farther in time the more we sanitize the blood. We think of the Spirit of '76 because no one alive now remembers Bunker Hill screams. We reduce the Civil War to costume drama and ethical debates, easier than to dwell on grapeshot shredding packed bodies and the reek of burning farms.

Memorial Day's not important because we need a cleaned-up story of pride to paper over our differences, it's important because the hard memories are the ones we have to keep alive. Every death had a story, something left behind, uncreated and unborn. Smashing that into painted caricatures makes it easier to unleash the next bloodbath, and insures it will not be a desperate last resort, but an eager, psychotic first.

Every war we make an easy one is more than a lie. It is a betrayal. Here's to hard memories -- and the day we finally stop making more of them.

Heading out for the weekend; wee, apocalypse!

Starting tomorrow, I'll be out of town for the weekend due to work (and also some much-needed relaxation). Be well everyone, be deviant, have fun.

And don't worry too much about the future. Take your lesson from Shiny, Shiny, one of the cheeriest songs ever written about the end of the world. The world of tomorrow is destined to be overrun by stripey, dreadlock-wearing hobos with a love of red chastity belts and pool cues. 

Our valiant Gothic political leaders will strive to save us, playing long games of chess with the Storm Crow of the Apocalypse in an attempt to stave off inevitable doom.

They'll fail of course, but we'll all be too busy dancing wildly and screaming about the Marquis de Sade to care. Huzzah!

(a tip o' the hat to Mer for introducing me to this song)

Poems for Friday: Words of Advice for Young People

Going through the Kathy Acker-William Burroughs interview got my own mind on the old curmudgeon again. I've always liked this piece. A lot. Raising the next generation right is of course of vital importance. 

Here are Burroughs' words of wisdom:

People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people.

Well here are a few simple admonitions for young and old.

Never interfere in a boy-and-girl fight.

Beware of whores who say they don't want money.

The hell they don't.

What they mean is they want more money. 

Much more.

If you're doing business with a religious son-of-a-bitch,

Get it in writing.

His word isn't worth shit.

Not with the good lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal.

Avoid fuck-ups.

We all know the type.

Anything they have anything to do with,

No matter how good it sounds,

Turns into a disaster.

Do not offer sympathy to the mentally ill.

Tell them firmly:

I am not paid to listen to this drivel.

You are a terminal boob.

Now some of you may encounter the Devil's Bargain,

If you get that far.

Any old soul is worth saving,

At least to a priest,

But not every soul is worth buying.

So you can take the offer as a compliment.

He tries the easy ones first.
ou know like money,

All the money there is.

But who wants to be the richest guy in some cemetery?

Money won't buy.

Not much left to spend it on, eh gramps?

Getting too old to cut the mustard.

Well time hits the hardest blows.

Especially below the belt.

How's a young body grab you?

Like three card monte, like pea under the shell,

Now you see it, now you don't.

Haven't you forgotten something, gramps?

In order to feel something,

You've got to be there.

You have to be eighteen.

You're not eighteen.

You are seventy-eight.

Old fool sold his soul for a strap-on.

Well they always try the easiest ones first.

How about an honorable bargain?

You always wanted to be a doctor,

Well now's your chance.

Why don't you become a great healer

And benefit humanity?

What's wrong with that?

Just about everything.

Just about everything.

There are no honorable bargains

Involving exchange

Of qualitative merchandise

Like souls

For quantitative merchandise

Like time and money.

So piss off Satan

And don't take me for dumber than I look.

An old junk pusher told me -

Watch whose money you pick up.

The Chair Leg of Truth: Transmetropolitan and objectivity

It's about giving something back to these bastards, there people who we somehow let run our goddamn lives for us. Giving them a taste of what it means to be us. Every law that curbs my basic human freedoms; every lie about the things I care for, every crime committed against me by their politics -- that's what makes me get up and hound these fuckers, and I'll do that until he day I die, or until my brain dries up or something.

That's what we achieve, we show them they're accountable. We show them that just as they try to herd us back into cages of quiet mediocrity, we can chase them back to fucking hell with the truth.

It's the Journalism of Attachment, It's caring about the world you report on. Some people say that's bad journalism. That there should be a detached, cold, unbiased view of the world in our news media.

And if that's what you want, there are security cameras everywhere that you could watch tapes of.

I want to see humans talking about human life, personally. I want to see people who give a shit about the world. I want to see Possessed Journalists! Yes!

-Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan

I recently finished the entire run of Warren Ellis' brilliant Transmetropolitan, and the above passage in particular struck me (about the head and shoulders, repeatedly). 

Transmetropolitan will always occupy a special place in my heart, mainly because I read the first volume several years ago at a really nasty time, a time when I was seriously considering quitting journalism. The story snapped me out of that really, really quickly. In addition to being a damn good tale, the entire work is a reminder of why journalism is vitally, beautifully important.

The last few years in particular have done much damage to the old image of the Objective Journalist, mainly because those who proclaimed themselves as such failed, time and again, in the primary duty of all journalism: find out the truth and tell others about it.

They deserve to be kicked around for that, but there's more to Objectivity than meets the eye. What follows is my scattershot defense of the old bitch, and why journalism needs her just as much as it needs Spider's demon-possessed truth hounds.