I have lived in 8 of the 50 states in the United States of America. I have visited 36 more. I have only 6 left to explore and then I can share an anecdote from the home state of any guest, at any cocktail party, from sea to shining sea. I am proud of what I know of this country, my glimpses through car windows, from school classrooms, inside McDonalds’ dining rooms. Others can define their patriotism in the flags and ribbons of abstract concepts; my connection is based on tangible memories of place and people.

Because I traveled so much as a child, my recollections are unapologetically nostalgic. I imagine that I am peering through my old red View-Master, clicking through disc after disc of snapshots, each state a new story, my perspectives changing with time. I marvel at the brightness and multi-dimensional quality, still fascinated that such tiny pictures can seem almost cinematic. In this way, my links to a handful of tiny dots on a map reference a deep sense of identity as part of this diverse and complex nation.   

What I see on my picture reels: 

A face smudged with powdered sugar, eating a basket of beignets in the French Quarter of New Orleans below a statue of Joan of Arc in full armor.

Listening to a cassette of Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman, riding my bike in the Phoenix twilight, the desert drained to grey, color seeping upwards across the sky.

Tripping in Birkenstocks sandals on the uneven sidewalks of Cambridge, the bricks jutting above the sand mortars.

An electronic dinosaur lurches forward, roaring in a park in Ogden, Utah, as twenty terrified children scatter like beads breaking from a cheap necklace.

Standing tip toe, grabbing the neck of a seven foot corn stalk in Iowa, pulling it down and yanking out the silk tassel, castrating the plant to alter the fruit. I look in one direction and see a row of corn bowed and scalped, in the other, a day’s worth of work with long yellow hair waiting.

On the way home from a camping trip in Michigan we stop to see the 55 ft. tall “Cross in the Woods” crucifix, the magnified gore of the dead Jesus overwhelms my five year old life. I run back to the car and hide behind the seat.

Saving up to buy a Prime Rib dinner for $6.95 on the Stardust side of the Las Vegas strip, years before they developed the Disney version down the street.

Biting into a loaf of sourdough bread at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.

Lying in a hammock on a patio in downtown Manhattan, staring at the lines of lights on the Brooklyn Bridge, imagining Stryron’s Nathan introducing Stingo to the literary greats of New York City.

In Juno, Alaska, wiping the rain from my eyes, squinting through the fog, trying to make out the outline of a glacier in the distance, having no idea what a glacier looks like.

And tonight in a suburb outside of Chicago, pirate fireworks from Indiana reverberate through the backyards, mere echoes of the more dangerous, more beautiful displays in the city.

1. Django — Modern Jazz Quartet
2. Tahquamenon Falls — Sufjan Stevens
3. Blue Stamp — Anderegg
4. Bells 1 — Born out of Moonshine
5. Suite No. 6 in D, Prélude, by J.S. Bach — Mstislav Rostropovich

So I spent last week and most of the week before that at a ten-day silent meditation retreat of the sort so ably chronicled by Lisa Tremain. I didn’t reread her piece before going, but reading it again now I’m struck by how similar many of our experiences were. The light outside the tent! The question of skipping the 4:30 a.m. sittings! The point in the meditation where your body dissolves into vibrating particles! (It’s the weirdest damn thing.)

And the bell! To wake you, call you to meditation, call you to meals, someone walked around with an amazing hand-beaten brass slab hanging from a leather strip (I wrote “leather thong” but figured it would draw snickers — a word lost to common use) and strike it with a mallet. It produced the most amazing, resonant, sustained tone. Problem was, you often heard it at the worst times: at four in the morning, or at the end of the lunch/break period just as you were beginning to drift off into a nap, or calling you to one of the sittings during which you weren’t supposed to move your legs or hands.

The whole point of vipassana meditation is to train your mind not to react with craving or aversion to whatever stimuli it meets. But that bell! How could I not love it and hate it at once, its tone beautiful but too loud. Its smooth vibes scraped my mind, which was raw and defenseless with exertion.

(By the way, Janie and Trixie: There’s a part of the meditation where you literally (for some values of “literally”) send good vibes to people. I sent you both some, and some to Obama. When the silence ended and we were allowed to talk to teach other, I found I was not the only one who worried that something might have happened to Obama in the ten days we were cut off from the news.)

In any case, a brief playlist with bells. The last piece is solo cello, I know, but it’s an astonishing recording that to me strongly evokes the call and response of church bells.

Download the files here.

As someone who’s a little death-obsessed, I’ve spent a fair amount of time contemplating the mourning process. I’ve wondered about its origins: is it a natural reaction (as some suggest is the case with many species) or a social construct? I’ve also thought about whom it serves: should it be a private or public affair? And most interesting to me, I’ve thought about whether there’s an appropriate amount of time that one should spend grieving one’s child, one’s parent, one’s spouse, and so on.

A few years ago the NY Times published an article that touched upon all the above facets of the grieving process while covering a story that was unfolding in my homeland, New Jersey. Needless to say, I was compelled.

According to the story, a conflict was brewing regarding roadside memorials: officials had raised concerns as to the number and volume (in flowers, stuffed animals, and other mourning material) of such tributes clogging the Garden State’s copious highways and byways. Ultimately at issue was the question of whether the memorials had become a public-health menace to those Jerseyans who were still among the living.

The officials argued that the overflowing memorials had not only become potentially distracting to motorists, but also that as flowers and stuffed animals decayed, they evolved into unsightly rubbish heaps – perfect nesting grounds for rats.

The big hurdle, of course, that the officials faced in cleaning up the memorials was that the crash sites had become, to the minds of the bereaved, sanctified; they were no longer merely points along public roadways, but also the locations of Johnny’s or Jill’s soul-departure. (Did I mention that NJ is a predominately Catholic – and therefore somewhat superstitious – state?)

“Why not really pinpoint the death-spots,” I wondered, “and claim the right to perpetually keep a wreath on as ambulance stretcher or hospital bed?” Sounds crazy, but that’s actually close to the lengths that some take when they claim the actual light-pole or tree that inflicted their loved ones’ final trauma. Graphic and tragic I know, but true nonetheless.

Anyway, given the boiling-over emotions, mourners won the day: Roadside tributes were to remain in perpetuity – at least this is how I remember the story concluding. And since I was just back home it seems that my memory is correct. While on my trip, I noticed more than a few points of soul-departure, some of which seemed less than fresh.

Besides the obvious reasons for finding the above story compelling, I find the refusal (or inability) to move past grief interesting because I can’t think of another subject or area in our culture – except maybe the Holocaust and 9/11 – that prompts the insistence that we “never forget.”

Really, when you think about it, we’ve forgotten about some pretty major shit like Bush the lesser lying to the world about Saddam’s WMD programs and ties to al Qaeda or his father’s illegal weapons aid to the Contra rebels. In fact, as a society we are so willing to forget that both Bushes won elections after these major fuck-ups! But I digress.

On to another type of memorial that I’ve probably spent too much time thinking about: the rear-window decal. For those not privy, here’s a sample:

When I moved to SoCal and first noticed similar testaments, I was a little disturbed, primarily because I wondered what mourners intended to do when selling their cars. Did they remove the decals, or did they expect the new drivers to keep the stickers in place? I assumed it was the former, but as illustrated the by the NJ story, people can be a little obsessive when it comes to dead loved ones.

After living here for a while and getting used to seeing the decal memorials, however, they started to seem (as public mourning goes) kind of healthy to me – like the length of time that the average person owns a car (what, 3-5 years?) is a normal length of time one should grieve. Still, it’s pretty sad when you see an “R.I.P. my beloved ______” decal on a total jalopy that’s spewing black smoke – not much dignity there. Should one call 1-800-EXHAUST and rat out someone who’s possibly on his way home from a funeral? Now that would be disrespectful.

It’s true that the length of time one grieves is a personal choice (if choice is the right word), but I do think there comes a time when grief becomes no longer about the dead but about the surviving; this is when mourning crosses the line into self-indulgence. And when the rest of the community is forced to stand at perpetual attention, (as in the NJ case) it becomes not only self-indulgence but selfishness as well.

In illustrating my point, I pose a simple question: do these people really think that our empathy has no expiration date? Answer: unless they are completely off their rockers, of course they don’t. And that’s why it’s selfish of them to make us act like we give a hoot when we obviously no longer do.

Returning to the mindset of the perpetual griever: I don’t see a vast difference between someone whose life is dedicated to never letting the memory of their departed fade and cultures that traditionally bury or burn widows along with their dead husbands. Am I too callous by suggesting that mourners move on? Maybe. Or maybe I just think they could use a little tough love, and a little less coddling.

Sadly, we think that Johnny, Bobby, or Jimmy shouldn’t have died. I’m sorry, and I know it’s painful to hear, but we all not only will, but should die – at least at some point. And those left behind should mourn for a time and move on.

The biggest problem as I see it is how we tend to view death – not as part of the natural life cycle, but as a failure. Given this, we often look for blame when someone dies. We point fingers at the medical community (for misdiagnosing or mistreating an illness), law enforcement (for not protecting us), family members (for not intervening), and so on. And if there is no one individual to blame, we hold the entire living population, including ourselves, responsible. Perhaps this is why we are so willing to foist our grief upon the unwitting populace – just a thought.

But in the meantime, it’s okay to move on. I promise. Your long gone loved one would have wanted it that way.

We’ll be discussing The Authoritarians by social psychologist Bob Altemeyer. It’s a quick, fascinating read, available for free as a PDF here; it even includes a handy test that tells you whether you’re a right-wing authoritarian follower, in case you’ve been wondering. Seriously, check it out before next Tuesday if you have a chance.

I grew up in a family that swears. When I was four years old, my grandmother (not much of a swearer, herself) asked me not to say “fuck” around my 18-year-old cousin, because he might be offended by it. I suspect that she would likely have been more embarrassed than he would have been offended, but this illustrates my upbringing.

As such, most of the danger of such words had been siphoned off from them by the time I was in elementary school. Without a taboo around it, swearing wasn’t as funny to me as it was to many people. It was a part of everyday family life, so hearing it in comedy routines or movies wasn’t really funny in itself.

George Carlin died last week, and in the wake of all the public mourning, I’ve been thinking a little bit about how taboos about profanity have changed over the course of my lifetime. I remember hearing Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television” routine (first performed and recorded in 1972) when I was a kid and laughing and laughing. The source of the humor for me, though, wasn’t in the forbidden words, and that’s the point of the routine, too. The humor lies in Carlin’s dissection of and rhapsodies on linguistics and philosophy.

Here’s the best available free video of it, which was linked to by many obituaries that didn’t themselves contain any of the words in question. This isn’t the original bit, but a follow-up and extension, from a few years later.

Can you imagine a comic getting arrested today for doing a stage routine using these words? That’s what happened to Carlin, though, on July 21, 1972 in Milwaukee. Later, a similar routine from his next record that aired on the radio was part of a case that went all the way to the Supreme Court. That’s how volatile those seven words were then. While some of the words are still unacceptable on broadcast television and radio (due to that Supreme Court case), you can hear all of them on YouTube, and many of them you can read in newspapers any day of the week.

I do remember very distinctly the first time I heard one of these words in a movie, and if I remember correctly, there was a great deal of hullabaloo about it at the time.

(Forgive the cheesy bumper from the video provider; it’s the best quality clip to be found on YouTube.)

Did you catch it? Right at the end? “Shiiiiiiiiii(t)!” The “t” is hardly even there. Isn’t it weird how 40 years later movies are so incredibly different when it comes to swearing? (Also, yes, Redford + Newman = dreamy good looks.)

All of five years old when I saw it in the theater, I remember thinking that it was a funny bit, primarily because people may have been offended by the use of an everyday word in an everyday manner. If you were jumping from such a height into a rocky stream, wouldn’t you say “Shit!”?

Just five years after Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid, swearing was getting more airtime in the movies and less ink in the papers. So much more was made of the notorious farting scene in Blazing Saddles than of this bit.

And if you remember this movie at all, you remember that it was perfectly okay for the characters (albeit the “bad guys”) to say the “n” word about a jillion times, but there are only a couple instances of “shit”. No “fucks” of any sort.

These days, we’ve got a Supreme Court Justice who has grinningly flicked his hand under his chin for a reporter’s camera, in the traditional “Sicilian fuck you” at citizens who would criticize his public expressions of his religion and its influence on his decisions. We’ve got a President who called a reporter a “major league asshole” within range of an open mic. We’ve got a Vice President who told a ranking opposition Senator to “fuck himself” on the Senate floor.

And . . . and . . . and we have newspapers, TV shows, blogs and much, much more that will report them all. Surely these weren’t the first instances of public figures using these words and gestures, but now we have a press that is much more liberal with, if not even obsessed by, finding and reporting public instances of “bad words”. Yes, there are some journalistic institutions, such as the Gray Lady herself, that still refuse to print “fuck” and “shit,” but many do. I find it hilarious that in the washingtonpost.com article linked to above, they included “fuck” but not “asshole”. Is that an instance of standards, or delicacy?

Television and radio are rife with the bleeping out of certain words, but in some ways I think this serves simply to highlight the profanity, like putting a patch over a perceived blemish that stands out even more. Nothing is really hidden from the audience at all, but we’re treated like children or easily offended idiots. No listener thinks, “Gee, I wonder what he said?”, because it’s just so clear. I’m more offended by leaving the utterances in and covering them up like this than I’m sure many people would be if they actually heard a guest on Letterman say “asshole”.

Occasionally, some instance will sneak through the ever-watchful eyes of the FCC, but more often we see them happen overseas. Check out, for instance, what Joan Rivers said recently on a British chat show, not knowing that there is no delay employed by the BBC to catch and bleep such words.

If it were perfectly legal for Rivers to say these words on the air in the US, I’m not sure how inspired she’d be to use them as much as she does. They’d lose their power; people wouldn’t be nearly as interested.

And this is where I start to turn a little bit and think about how censorship (of the self-imposed variety) might be a good thing. Rivers, clearly, simply speaks a few words that she uses all the time (as do I, dear reader). However, if she had just thought for a moment and forced herself to come up with something else — “petulant cretin,” for instance, or “vicious egotist” — perhaps she would have been able to express herself more clearly and precisely without relying on what amounts to a linguistic crutch.

Wouldn’t it have been amazing and wonderful to hear one of the hostesses of this show reply, “What particular variety of piece of fucking shit is he, Joan? Clarify it for us, please.” Of course, had Rivers resisted and used different terms, she wouldn’t have been so highly placed in the news cycle for about 24 hours.

A South Park episode from a few years ago famously had 162 instances of characters’ saying “shit” on the air, with a counter tallying them up in the corner for the viewers at home (and presumably the FCC). Here’s a condensed version.

Hearing it so many times over the course of a couple of minutes, one realizes that broken taboos eventually lose their power. As Randy, Stan’s dad says at the end of the show, “That word is getting kind of old. It’s not funny anymore.” To a degree, “shit” has lost its power because it’s so prevalent.

One of my favorite TV moments of the last decade has got to be this sketch from Mad TV, a hypothetical censored version of The Sopranos. The expunged words and actions become all the more funny and powerful for their absence, illustrating how much the original show relies on shock value.

I guess I’m just not entirely sure how positive a development the general loosening of restrictions on unacceptable language has been. On the one hand, it’s great that comedians don’t get thrown in jail for swearing (if even for a night; Carlin was released and never formally charged). On the other, it does seem to me that the general overuse of “profanity” has deteriorated many people’s ability to speak and think clearly. Moreover, bleeping words out on TV and radio is the worst kind of disingenuousness, a desire to have it both ways, a hedging of bets: “We get to say the words and capitalize on their power, but you don’t have to hear them and be offended.” Feh. A hearty “Fuck that,” I say.

And in the end, don’t we have much more important things to worry about than one entertainment industry person calling another a “piece of fucking shit”? How does this constitute news?

All that said, I think this is really funny.