From LTDM (Letters to Dead Masters): "#39"

            John,
        

         The “Revenge” girl is sitting halfway across the Grind. She’s reading a large tome that I don’t recognize. Funny thing about her; before I was the enemy, I couldn’t meet her; once, sitting outside, she was sitting facing me and I tried. She appeared to be catatonic. Writers, I have noticed, are often socially defunct. I could sit staring fixedly at this girl (she is, I’m guessing, early twenties) for an hour, and she would force herself not to react. That’s another level of Philly consciousness: complete cynicism augmented by debilitating cowardice. If I haven’t become completely cynical in response, it’s because Philly’s complexes offer compensations. I don’t have to worry about “Revenge” girl actually taking substantial revenge, whereas in New York or L.A. I might actually get crucified. I also don’t have to worry that she’s a literary threat— she’s already fallen into an underling circle from which there is no easy escape. Dealing with Philly artists is like dealing with mannequins— peaceful work, even if the subtext crammed beneath the surface is hatred (or revenge).

          The Grind is packed, and they have Transformer playing over the PA. I decided to vote today, just to thwart my own intuitions about American party politics. The first intuition is that the two-party system no longer works. The second is that unless someone forcibly changes things, the current discontented stasis will be interminable. Between these two intuitions is the sense that feelings of individual empowerment are at an all-time low. I not only don’t feel politically empowered, I had to hold an internal debate as to whether or not to vote. The two parties are maintained in a plutocratic manner, and America itself is (or has become) a plutocracy. Since the two parties, as Chomsky says, are not all that different, what constitutes effective action on an individual basis? But I bit the bullet and voted Democrat as usual. There was a gas station near the neighborhood where I grew up that used to hang a banner which read “if you don’t vote, don’t complain.” Reverse this and you have “if you vote, you can complain.” And then comes the pivotal question— if you complain, who listens? If the answer is no one, what’s the point of voting? The evidence points to the fact that those turning real political wheels do not, in fact, listen to individual complaints, so the whole common morality angle crumbles almost instantly. Which leads to another intriguing Philly angle: this is one of the most resolutely Democratic cities in the country. For all their knavishness, Philadelphians are as bullish about voting liberal as they are about anything else. So on a day like this, I do feel some solidarity with those around me. Where political consciousness is concerned, I’m as static as I can be; I’ve been thinking the same thoughts since I was eighteen. Surround us with disciplined freedom.

             On a more mundane level, Kris has dyed her hair black. You’re up, Ted. But she’s shying away from Goth apparel to do the straightforward indie thing. We’re now officially on speaking terms— one of us has to up the ante. “Revenge” is scribbling in a notebook, and I notice something new about her— she’s wearing a ring shaped like an owl’s head. The owl’s eyes are faux rubies. Is this a fashion miss? As I get ready to pick up and move on, I realize I made some faulty fashion decisions in my twenties, too. Mesh shirts, dog collars, Celtic crosses, polyester; I was always going around in circles. “Revenge” may not realize that two hundred years ago, the owl was a symbol for death. And, as not everyone realizes, the owl is a rather stupid (and melancholy) bird.

              Speaking of stupid birds, all this fashion posturing has now put me in a mood to reminisce about my adolescence. Did I think I was handsome? Sort of. It didn’t really dawn on me until my mid-to-late twenties, relatively recently, and with the help of Trish, Tob, Heather, and others, that, in a manner of speaking, I have it. I’m a good-looking dude. CHS was always going so far out of its way to put the hotness crown on somebody else’s head, that I remained spooked against my own attractiveness for an extra decade. Even with Kathy, Jena, the rest standing in attendance. What I’ve noticed is not, I would say, mostly niggling, but not too wonderful either. Confucius said, The world will never let a good-looking woman starve. Or was it Plotinus? The problem is that good-looking men incur enough resentment that the world will gladly let them starve. A good-looking man brought to his knees is always a fun one for the plebes of the world. My version of the male beauty syndrome is a not-really-in-attendance one. I don’t think about my looks that much. So, rather than making obnoxious, posturing fashion choices, I make no choices at all. I just wear whatever. Trish was not above making posturing fashion moves. Her reaction to an extended number of years living in West Philadelphia— walking around wearing an African woman’s enormous, oddly shaped head-wrap, as though she entertained visions of herself as Erykah Badu— received a mixed response. I was blown away by her guts, which could be construed here as foolishness. Tob and I were much more peas in a pod. Two underdressed schlumps. The years she was a rock star didn’t change that for Tob. I don’t know. All that’s really worth saying about being a beauty is that it depends on something else— whether you have a brain at your disposal, too. If you do, personal beauty becomes something you carry around, like a set of keys— important, but not determinative. And, having never walked around aping P. Diddy, I at least have Trish beat on one front. 

               White, 

                    Adam