Me, Don't Fail Me Now

“It so happens that idealism enough for anyone is not made of perfumed pink clouds. It is the law! It is the U.S. Constitution.” – Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country

For the first time in my brief post-undergraduate career, I have gotten a job – admittedly a non-paying position – without having to bullshit. I simply found the organization through some good people and just told the truth. By all forms of measurement, I have zero experience with the work I am about to begin – outside of high school phone-a-thons and few other ephemeral activities, I have no fundraising experience; I have never worked in or around an orphanage; and I have only one and with great regret changed the diaper (and that was for my niece whom I love, though a little less after the experience). And yet, I am stuck here for six months having promised the highly capable and extremely admirable “Mama” of the Ubuhle Babantwana Care Center in the township of Mfuleni, a formidable yet instantly endearing woman named Pumla Gigi, that I am here to be her support as we work together to establish a sustainable home for children.

With zero sentimentality and a mind flooded with anxiety for the possibility that I will prove entirely incompetent in this task, I know that my idealism will have to serve me loyally during these coming months. Hope I don’t screw it up.

I Arrive in Cape Town

I have now spent a full two days in Cape Town, South Africa. Upon arriving, after a long day’s journey into the South African sunset, my one checked bag deciding to take the scenic route and catch up with me later, I had managed (even though I had been bumped onto a later flight from Johannesburg) to catch the last embers of dusk fade behind Table Mountain. I have never been to Africa before and the sight was as portentous as any I could have hoped for. I was tired, vicariously smelly from the man I had sat next to on the 15 hour leg from Washington D.C., and I had no distinct idea what the next six months would entail. I still don’t, but the peripheries are beginning to show signs of focus.

I now am the first “Project Liaison” for the newly established non-profit organization, CHOSA (short for Children of South Africa). After one has worn the same clothes for 72 hours, one’s humility has surfaced and taken form – a sort of exoskeleton of open-minded and smelly shame. And after today, having spent 10 hours touring three of CHOSA’s orphanages and visiting four nearby townships (poor communities of blacks and coloreds (not of the outdated American vernacular, but those of dark skin and mixed heritage) created during the mid-twentieth Century when these races were exiled from the city), I would not have wanted to be dressed in any other exoskeleton.

I have witnessed poverty when traveling to Thailand, China, and the Ukraine. Most of it troubling, some disheartening, but few have awakened such a sense of pathos. This was mainly due to the children that welcomed me literally with open arms. At our first stop (I was led around magnanimously by one of the founders of CHOSA) I opened the door to our 1990 Toyota and no sooner was the can of juice in my hand snatched by a little boy and two of his companions climbed into the car on top of my lap. Of course, having been wearing the same underwear for three days who was I to rob the boy of his new drink? Within minutes my arms were filled with two little boys, no older than 6 or 7, each treating me like the best climbing tree they had just found. They pretty much had me at hello.

Random Ideas for Public Consumption: Part Two

As in the first post in this series, Random Ideas for Public Consumption: Part One, I offer to anyone who wants these ideas. Use them as you will. I don't mind.

1. General Life Rule: When someone says that they are addicted to chocolate, they are actually not addicted.

2. The Dyslexic Palm-Reader: A story, documentary, mockumentary, or whatever concerning the sometimes sad, yet often ribald consequences of those who habitually and unwittingly (optional) rely on the advice of The Dyslexic Palm-Reader.

3. Not My Best: A search engine that runs on alternative fuel. Think about it.

Mtv and Growing Old Before My Time

On my occasional returns to my home in Boston, I tend to fall back into old habits -- checking the fridge too often, eating the same subs from the same old pizza places all of which go by a first name in the possessive (Bill's, Danny's, Mark's, Peter's, etc.), and endless stints on the couch -- some of these activities are comforting reminders of my formative years and others are upsetting revelations at how much has remained the same while I have been away (growing, presumably).

The most upsetting moments occur in front of the television, which I haven't watched habitually since high school, specifically when my fingers unconsciously click through my old favorite channels: Mtv, Vh1, ESPN, NESN, E! and the rest. Each time I stop on Mtv -- perhaps pausing to see what mindless countdown show is airing (maybe if I keep watching, I'll find out who received the most Staralicious Makeover) or who has been the most recent victim of a Punking (who the hell gave this Kutcher guy a show?) -- my heart and ears long for those hours-long chunks of music videos that used to occupy the daily program schedule. I return with a Proustian rush to John Sencio and his "Rude Awakening"; to Kennedy and that killer Gen-X attitude; to Dr. Dre (the very chubby one) and Ed Lover on "Yo Mtv Raps", "The Headbanger's Ball" and the first beach house.

"Those were the days," I think to myself, when torn flannel shirts flowed like wine and the people on "The Real World" were actually real -- had jobs and lives of their own. I remember being in 5th grade and sitting for hours with paper and pen at the ready, writing down the songs and bands that I liked; Mtv was a fixture in my musical exploration. I even witnessed the first airing of the video for "Smells Like Teen Spirit." True Story. At thoughts like these, however, as each memory takes on a nostalgic air, I begin to question the validity of this retrospection and of my perspective on the years between then and now.

In my mind, the popular music of the era was of distinct quality. Grunge was the new movement in Rock and Roll; Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains (my least favorite of the bunch) were all over the tube. Other types of bands were there as well: Guns N' Roses with their epic trilogy of "Don't Cry", "Estranged", and "November Rain"; a solo Tom Petty gave us "Mary Jane's Last Dance" and "Free Fallin'"; Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic, The Chronic and Get a Grip were nothing to scoff at either; even one or two hit wonders like Ugly Kid Joe, 4 Non Blonds, and The Spin Doctors provided quality filler. All this leads me to wonder, "Are these just misty, water-colored memories, stripped of the poorer examples of this era's music"? Did I just lose touch with whatever the kids started listening to when TRL got huge? Is this the inevitable disenchantment suffered by all Mtv viewers after the age of 15? Have I, at 24 years old, grown old before my time?

Without argument, Mtv has done away with its bread and butter, the music video -- a gradual trend away from large timeslots (which don't fair as well in share ratings and thus advertising dollars) and into neat, half-hour shows like "The Real World" and all its bastard offspring. While the channel has continued to produce and promote pop idols like Britney Spears, Boy Bands, et al., I have to contend that the overall quality of these products suffers within the new system. Even Jack Black, in a Rolling Stone interview before hosting last years VMA awards, questioned the basic need for such awards, because he couldn't remember the last time he even watched a video on Mtv.

There is a very real possibility that I could go on and on about this, but I won't. I would love to hear from my small readership on this issue and possibly gain a little slice of solace in our commiseration. Until then, I gotta get back to the tube and "True Life" is aaaaaaaaaaaawwesome.

On a More Personal Note...

I just have to admit that I cannot look at this picture without laughing. The giraffe just looks so knowing; it's eerie and yet completely hilarious.