Craigslist: The Capulet

Romance is dead.  Or is it?

In this post-Ally McBeal era the existence of romance is questionable.  Chocolate and roses are no longer a part of standard wooing practices.  In the fight against sexism, chivalry is often offensive.  Even John Hughes' high school lovelorn films of the 1980s are somewhat out of date.  So, America, maybe we've lost our swagger or our charming traits have changed.  Perhaps our modern-day Casanova is simply someone who responds to a text message in a timely manner.

But don't write off our cold-hearted generation just yet.  There are still star-crossed hopefuls awaiting their Romeo.

Since the 1930s, lovelorn Shakespeare fans have been sending their romantic wishes to Juliet Capulet, arguably the most lovesick leading lady in history via her hometown of  Verona, Italy.  These letters consist of hopeful poems and dreams, expressing love found, lost or gone awry.  The messages are basically proclamations or prayers to the universe, aiming to reunite lovers.

This phenomenon was recently depicted in the 2010 film Letters to Juliet.  I have not seen the film, but have frequented Verona and know of Club di Giulietta, the Italian organization that receives and responds to the optimistic notes.  It's no match-making company, but the respondents typically give advice to the mainly American writers from the dame Capulet's perspective.

The trend is dependant upon fate, something that has steadily lost its ground in pop-culture over the past few decades.  Some consider soul mates to made from a checklist rather than found.  Doctor? Check. Funny? Check. Good dancer? Check.  So, soul mate? Sure.  My bachelorette friend McKenzie plans on having a Hawaiian wedding for her second marriage, yet she hasn't even found a fiance for her first.  With examples like these many would consider romance to really be dead, so why are there still those losers writing to a fictional teenage girl from the 16th century?

These twitterpated dreamers have taken advantage of a network at home sending there love into the cyperworld.  Yes, Missed Connections from Craigslist.org is promoting the idea of fate and love.  Everyday hundreds of users write about love found, lost or gone awry to an anonymous network hoping that someone will recognize their description and respond with suggestions, advice or more often than not, the real life Romeo they've called for.

Here is an example from a post entitled "Things I never got to say" written by a poster who calls themselves Babybear:

"...your soul still haunts me and drives me to remember many good times.  I know you may never read this but I love you."

If Babybear's former lover read this bit of poetry, they could email the address embedded in the post.  Otherwise, it is just a fraction of a broken heart sent out for the universe to absorb.

Below is an excerpt from a post called "Stupid Socks":

"I left the spare key on the table
Never really thought I'd be able to say
I never want to see you again
I lost my whole life and a dear friend."

Sappy, sentimental with a touch of pathetic, but nonetheless, the lonely and broken hearted are bearing their cyber-souls for the world to read, while anxious for a response.

Craigslist is one of the ultimate internet tools of today, from job/apartment hunting to acting as an online yard sale.  But could romance moderator be added to that list?  Of course.  In a way, Craisglist is working as Shakespeare's self-sacrificing heroine by providing a platform for those desperate, distraught and in-love.  And it's comforting to know that even today, lovers are still believing in poetic justice.

Treat the Cause, Not the Symptom

This past Monday Carlos González Gutiérrez, the Consul General of Mexico to Sacramento, addressed the students of Sacramento State.  The Consul's speech was groggily welcomed by the half-awake audience, but it didn't stray from serious topics.  The most severe subject Gutiérrez spoke of was, as he stated, "the battle against narco-terrorism."

Critics claim that the Mexican government has only increased violence in their actions against the powerful drug lords.  The Consul himself acknowledged that over 28,000 people have died due to drug violence since 2006 when Mexico President Felipe Calderon took the firm stance eliminate the narcotic industry.  But even with the casualties, Gutiérrez said that there was no other way to take down the drug business without waging war.  In a round about way, he said the Mexican government had no other choice but to fight dirty.

As an outsider, it is easy to criticize either side.  Drug lords are spreading violence, terror and obviously narcotics throughout their own state and internationally.  The government is using some of the same tactics to try to stop them.  I will agree the drug industry must be stopped, but do two wrongs make it right?  Is there an alternative solution?  Or have we even clearly defined the problem?

It is easier for me to think of this issue on a smaller scale.  The best comparison I can make is to my very own home county of Humboldt, in northern California.  Humboldt County is a large yet isolated region that houses the furthest west point in the greater 48.  Once known for its lumber and fishing, now the depressed area has one claim to fame: weed.  From sea to shining sea you'll find dedicated potheads who praise the magic of the HumCo. herbs, but as a honest and homegrown honey, I promise you the marijuana culture of Humboldt County goes much deeper than just hippies getting high.

On paper, the economy of Humboldt isn't just depressed; it's suicidal.  The unemployment rate was over 9% before the recession hit.  The public schools are crumbling (believe me, I'm a product of them).  Hopelessness should hang over the community like a blanket of fog.

But there's still hope.  It comes every harvest season.

In reality, Humboldt County is oozing with money.  It's seen every five blocks when a some guy with blond dreadlocks gets out of a brand-new Ford 350 he  bought with cash.  It's seen in the boutique stores that sell $200 jeans (a new meaning to laundered clothing.)  It's seen when your friend's out-of-work parents offer to take you to Hawaii.   Like Mexico, Humboldt County has a tight hold on illegitimate business.

Obviously, the violence in Humboldt isn't anywhere close to the terrors occurring in Mexico, but that's not to say it doesn't exist.  Every year people go missing and more often homicides are being traced to drug deals/robberies gone wrong.  The local politicians (the non-growers at least) are encouraging the police and state entities like CAMP to tighten down on the cultivation and trade.  But like Mexico, the problem just gets worse.

I propose that tackling either issue head on is the worst way to fight drugs.  Cultivators/dealers will only get smarter and try their hardest to stay one step ahead of the authorities.  Also, they will give everything they have as it is their livelihood, and has often been passed down for generations.  Many will not be budged by violence.

What should be addressed are the factors surrounding the drug culture; why the drug business flourished there in the first place.  The poor schools, struggling economy--the shaky system in general must be reconstructed so that a strong community/country can thrive.

While discussing the issue with my classmate he simplified the dilemma with a common cliche: "It's treating the symptom, not the cause."

He's right.  Fighting the drug lords won't find a lasting solution.  Before security is found, the entire system needs a revolution.

Phlagleblast: A Drag Without the SWAG

America: land of the free...stuff.

Americans love giveaways.  From free shipping and handling to complimentary breakfast, there's no feeling like getting something for nothing.  It just comes natural in the good ol' U.S. of A.

The commodity-crazed culture was in full effect Wednesday afternoon at Sacramento State's 11th Annual Phlagleblast, a celebration almost as ambiguous as its name.  To summarize the confusing affair, it was an event aimed to familiarize students with the layout and functions of the University Union.  The Union houses an array of restaurants, entertainment facilities and offices all at the students' disposal.  I'd assume hosting an open house of the building would be straightforward, considering it purpose is obvious.  But the jungle-themed gathering was a over the top and excessive, without dutifully accomplishing its goal.

As students entered the doors of the building they were given a blank card, mapping out the different participating booths.  Booths were set up throughout the three levels including the game room, women's health services, and even Mellow Me Out, the in-house salon.  Participants who successfully visited the plethora of pit stops and obtained a stamp from the booth's operator were given the chance to turn in their completed card to the Information Desk for a raffle.  The prizes were top of the line: an iPod, Xbox 360, and even a brand new bike.  Seems like enough bait to get frenzied freshmen in the house?

Just to help their odds, organizers stepped up their generosity. 

The coordinators of Phlagleblast employed one of the most common tactics to reel bodies into the door: free stuff, also known as SWAG, stuff we all get.  SWAG is a promotion tool utilized by vendors at conventions and trade shows.  Pens, t-shirts, bumper stickers and coffee cups alike are mementos for consumers to cherish after the festival has finished in hopes to keep the business branded in their mind.  Every time they go to write a check or have a cup of joe, the company name/logo will consciously and subconsciously secure its spot in their brain cells.  This strategy is successful corporate marketing, but what does it have to do with getting to know your college multi-purpose building?

I was there to observe the scene/chaos and had no intention on participating, but I saw the grand prize bike.  Just one day prior my bike and was stolen out of my apartment building and I thought perhaps the stars were aligning.  Plus, I'm American and I like free stuff.

My journey began slowly collecting stamps and awaiting information from each booth's facilitators.  After the first stamp I paused for a moment anticipating some type of spiel explaining the particular section, but no fun facts were thrown my way.  I did, however, receive a pen.  Weird, I thought.  I didn't even have to pretend to listen.  All I had to do was show up and I the free token was mine.

With each stop the SWAG continued to swell.  Eventually my handfuls of lanyards, highlighters and sticky notes were overflowing in my arms, but I received a free laundry bag just in time.  And I wasn't the only swagger; hundreds of students were undergoing the free stuff rush.

"It's like trick or treating!" a girl screamed, running up the stairs.

It was like Halloween, but I felt like I didn't even need a costume for the candy. 

Within 20 minutes my card was completed and turned in for the raffle.  I continued on to class trying to shove a gallon of SWAG in my backpack while deciphering what exactly had occurred.  I came, walked around, and got some enough pens to last the rest of the semester. 

Did I learn anything?  Besides the location of the elevators, not much.  Really though, Phlagleblast was just like a pack of hyenas going stir-crazy over the endless amount of dead gazelle carcasses.  Or a bunch of feral college students fervent for freebies.

There Goes The Neighborhood...

The tragic unfolding of this past weekend's Second Saturday has put the fate of the monthly art festival at stake.  The Midtown midnight shooting at Streets of London Pub left one man dead and three others injured.  With the crowds and crime scene cleared away, the debate for the future of the once peaceful gathering will now commence.

Second Saturday started many years ago in the Del Paso Heights district before migrating to Midtown.  Originally, the evening out catered to the art crowd, with street vendors, musicians and gourmet food.  But within the last few years the event has become more like a frat party than a wine and cheese sampling.  The crowd has multiplied, especially for those young and intoxicated.  Traffic is chaotic, businesses are experiencing increased shoplifting and bar fights are not few and far between.

After a grizzly turnout and unruly scene for the summer's events, the City of Sacramento decided to beef up the police force for September's event.  Normally 21 officers are designated to the scene, but that was increased to 26.  But even the little effort did not stop the disaster.

With hundreds gathered both in and around the Midtown pub, Victor Hugo Perez Zavala, 24, was fatally shot with police posted just feet away.  One would suspect that the murderer would be easily caught within the large crowd and officers standing by, but the killer got away.  

The death of Zalvala is the second murder in the Midtown area so far in 2010.  To put it in perspective, the murder total for all of 2009 was zero.  The increase in crime is making Midtown residents question the monthly tradition, with some rallying together to shut it down.

But those living in Midtown are not the only ones with a say.  We must not forget the ethically and socially responsible business owner.  Many Midtown businesses depend on the profits from the Second Saturday event.  Some entrepreneurs call it "rent day" as a business can make over their entire month's rent in just a few hours.  With the tough economy, Second Saturday is vital for struggling shops.  To eliminate the entire event would put a major financial strain on some Midtown staples, and perhaps even put some out of business.

But a shooting?  Are we really going to let someone die for increased sales?

Of course we can't blame the death of a man on an event that is aimed to bring the community together. But the fatality cannot simply be brushed under the rug.  If Second Saturday is not shut down or at least put on hold for a while, many Midtown residents, including myself, may be looking elsewhere to live.  At the same time, if Second Saturday does cease to exist some Midtown businesses may fade to black simultaneously.  Since the combination of residents and business create the unique, urban area, the fate of the entire neighborhood is truly what is at stake.

Will there be a Second Saturday in October 2010? The debate over the next few weeks is sure to be an interesting one. 

The Sake of Slam Poetry

Every Wednesday night hundreds flock to the Starry Plough Pub in South Berkeley.  The venue is crammed with artists, college students, and hipsters of all ages anxious to be part of the weekly tradition.  No, they're not seeking the coveted seats for a concert or a renowned happy hour.  They are there for a poetry slam.

Poetry?  Like snapping beatniks and bongos?  Cigarettes and black berets?  Well, not exactly.  Though traces of the 1960s beatnik style still linger in some places, poetry readings have been modernized.  The technique that is rapidly gaining popularity throughout the nation, and arguably the world, is that of the poetry slam. 

The term poetry slam represents both a style and a format.  Slammers all have their own approach to the spoken word art form, but they generally use the same fast-paced rhythm while utilizing rhyme schemes.  The most unifying trait of the craft is the topic of the poem itself has a central theme, whether political or personal, outright or hidden.  The poet is aiming not just to grab the audience's attention, but to make a thought-provoking point, within a tight, three minute time limit.

Where a poetry slam differs from a basic poetry reading is that is it competitive.  Typically judges are selected at random from the crowd and evaluate poets for their content, relevance and stage presence.  Other rules vary from venue to venue but at the end of the night, one poet goes home with the top title.

Most literary elitists shudder when they hear the term poetry slam.  Criticisms include that the poems are full of cliches and that rhyming is childish.  Poet Paul Vermeersch adamantly opposed the slam style in his blog Rant: Why I hate slam poetry, in which he stated, "The idea... is that the flailing, stylized vocals will be interesting enough on their own that no one will notice how bad the actual writing is."

The writing of top slam poem does differ dramatically from a prized page poem.  Though the quality of a slam piece may seem simple and lackluster on paper, does it conclude the art form must be thrown out altogether?

Susan B.A. Somers-Willet defends the poetry slam in her article Can slam poetry matter?

"The serious critic must cease treating the slam as a literary novelty or oddity and recognize it for what it is: a movement which combines (and at times exploits) the literary, the performative, and the social potential of verse, and which does so with the audience as its judge and guide," said Somers-Willet.

What Somers-Willet calls the "social potential of the verse" is what gives slam poetry its momentum.  Slam gives performers the opportunity to make a case for important issues and hopefully get an emotional rise out of the audience.  The experience creates a space for intellectual enlightenment while being entertaining.  It is progressive, passionate, and fills an artistic gap within our culture.

Nonetheless, critics can argue over the quality and literary merit of the slam for days on end, but the vital aspect for all lovers of literature to recognize is that people are actually paying attention to poetry again.  By altering a literary art that typically flies under the radar, slam is helping to bring poetry to the mainstream while opening many minds along the way.

The Hostility of Philosophy

For a philosophy student, the classroom is equivalent to a battlefield.  Students are soldiers, some decorated with prerequisites and scars of arguments past, some fresh sophomores in unfamiliar territory.  Every semester future lawyers, politicians, theologists and professors dig themselves into deep, desk-made trenches and prepare for the course-long battle.  The weaponry is the single uniting aspect of the obscure major.  You must be armed with a sharp tongue and a strong will to have any chance of survival or a passing grade.

That being said, the first day of school is a war zone before the first shot is fired.   

As a somewhat experienced philosophical combatant, I know that seat placement is crucial to success.  You want to sit with like-minded comrades while being able to easily face your opponents.  But unfortunately due to the chaos known as Sacramento State parking, I arrived to my Philosophy of Law class just in time to get the last remaining seat.  Sitting front and center, I was in a terrible position to establish allies or assess potential challengers.

After roll, it didn't take long for the first grenade to detonate.  The professor briefly mentioned the current Manhattan controversy of building an Islamic Community Center near Ground Zero, and arms instantly shot up like bullets.  

As each student was given their soap box, veins popped out of necks and sweat furiously dripped from foreheads.  We sat on the edges of our seats and eagerly interrupted each other.  

I rapidly turned my head from side to side trying to keep up with the argument, but with my bad seat, I became a little dizzy.  Finally I turned around to face the scene and saw the classroom from an onlooker's perspective.  I saw a group of young passionate people attacking one another for the sake of attacking.  I questioned that maybe we were not all passionate about religious freedom or New York real estate; maybe we were just passionate about proving someone wrong.  

 

A short forty five minutes later the professor held up a white flag and insisted that we go over the syllabus. For the remainder of the class, students sat with their arms crossed and scowls securely in place. 

I left the classroom in a cloud of confusion.  For the first time I was unsure about my choice of study.  I didn't want to spend my parents' money just so I could fight with my classmates and become more hardheaded.  I knew that if I tried, I would never be a casualty of the philosophy department, but did I really want to perfect my stubbornness?  

My scholastic day wasn't over yet.  I still had Philosophy of Language to go.

I got to my second class early, finding the perfect seat in the back and next to a familiar face from the previous class.  I shared my thoughts about being suddenly uneasy towards philosophy.  My peer responded with some enlightening words.

"Being stubborn is what makes us who we are," he said.  "We become philosophy students not because we want to prove someone wrong, but because we want to figure out what's right."

The light bulb quickly flashed above my head.  Yes, a philosophy classroom is often brutal, ugly and emotional, but  the search for truth usually is.  I realized I wasn't drawn to this major so I could make enemies, but so I could find more people like me: people who fight tooth and nail for their opinions and never cease fire.  

I know now my studies will always be an uphill battle, but at least I know what I'm fighting for.