woobiquity

lxv. Of dressing up and who we are

It's about time I mentioned my older cousin, Brian, who is the closest thing I have to a brother. Here we are in 1979.

They say a person's core personality traits are set by age five, and this photograph seems to bear that out. At five on the dot I have already figured out how to turn a superhero costume into a display of meekness, and at seven Brian wears his playfully devious pirate grin with an uncanny naturalness.

The pumpkin, probably my mother's handiwork (like my costume), is as happy as the day. No wonder the fact that Halloween is supposed to be a scary occasion later came as such an ungodly shock to my sheltered system.

lxiv. Of the calm that exudes from blue

On the afternoon of the day on which he would learn that he had lost his bid for re-election, George Bush spent an hour or so browsing in a fishing tackle shop in Texas. That may read like a line from work of fiction set in the near future, but in fact it could be a line from a newspaper report in the past, since the George Bush in question is the father of the man currently hoping to defy the world by gaining a second term.

On that day in 1992, rumors of the president's tackle-shopping detour quickly swept across the shields of forced smiles that the rank and file Bush supporters (mostly College Republicans) had erected outside voting sites across the nation, hoping to somehow swing the outcome through their heckling charms. How could he, they murmured, interpreting the act as an unthinkable surrender to the coming quietude of defeat.

Maybe they (ok, we) were right, but I reckon it was a lot more cathartic than just that, and in this election year when a lot more people than just the two ego-whipped candidates and a few die-hard college students are on the edges of our seats, I thought it wise to follow Poppy Bush's example and went in search of a moment of non-political respite.

Actually you might say the moment found me, the way these things usually do, since I was in Canary Wharf anyway, looking for something else altogether (photogenic scenery for a client's website, if you must know). As I wandered away from the chain-pub heart of Canary Wharf and into the quieter, more labyrinthine, riverside parts, I seemed to be following an invisible thread of blue objects. A blue gate, a blue car, blue-painted garden railings.

And when I saw the abandoned pub decked out in Yves Klein Blue (above), I thought maybe at last I had found nirvana but had to settle for the satisfaction that comes from an old truth reasserting itself.

And that for me was catharsis, only amplified when I looked back at the high-rises of the business quarter and saw them transformed through reflection of the clear October sky into an emerald city. Of course, any enduring sense of calm may depend on how blue the United States looks come Tuesday night, but there I go again...

lxiii. Of autumn leaves starting to fall

Or, in this case, to cling. Leaves stuck in grates along a riverfront parking garage at Canary Wharf, this afternoon:

lxii. Of colorful snapshots, in words mostly

Photographs are the popular way to document a vacation. I know that. But there are times, especially when there isn’t much new in the scenery itself, when a word is worth a thousand pictures. Take these, for example, gathered during my visit to North Carolina last week.

“I ain’t done this since Kennedy. If this one dies, that’s it!” — a gleeful one-armed woman with white, tightly permed hair, casting her ballot on the day the polls opened for early voting in Stokes County, NC. Until this year, she said, her late husband had always filled out her ballot for her. “He didn’t like for me to touch it in case I put marks in all the wrong places.”

“Toss salad” — a vegetable option on the lunch menu at Bob’s Restaurant in Madison, NC. (If you’re not British, this one may pass you by. Don’t worry. And enjoy your salad!)

“PRIEST for JUDGE” — a campaign poster currently on lawns and highway shoulders around Guilford County, NC. Okay...

“Well, it don’t mean shit right now” — NASCAR racer Dale Earnhardt Jr, expressing ambivalence about a fifth Talladega win compared to his famous father’s racing record. The on-air cuss word cost Earnhardt a $10,000 fine from NASCAR, which also docked him enough points to cost him this year's title.

“**** ***” — The undisclosed (and probably not that colorful) expletives addressed to a teacher by a high school student in Wilmington, NC, recently. The police were called, and the student was charged with disorderly conduct, a misdemeanor that carries a sentence of up to six months in jail. He's probably wishing hed said, "It's a free country!" and left it at that.

Oh, what the heck (heck! I said heck!), here’s a picture: October morning at Hanging Rock State Park, near Danbury, NC. Those are the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance, but you might have guessed that by the color.

lxi. Of fear and loathing in God's country

At a small-town First Baptist Church in North Carolina on a sunny October Sunday, the sermon is on the imminent downfall of America. Why? Because America has turned its back on God.

“Can you think of any examples of ways America has turned its back on God?” the preacher asks, more than rhetorically. “Taking the pledge of allegiance out of schools," says a woman in the congregation. The preacher politely concurs. “Any others?” “Hom-o-sex-u-alitee!” a man in the back volunteers.

“That’s exactly right,” the preacher says, launching into a love-the-sinner homily in the tone of patronizing knowingness unique to Southern churches. The congregation nods, its prejudices confirmed, its two-kids-two-cars way of life defended against the creeping rot of sin and otherness ('sin', you may recall, is the original blanket put-down; 'liberal' and 'terrorist' are mere copycats).

Nationalism and morality policing have long-since eclipsed simple salvation as the barbaric yawp of America’s evangelical churches, which persist in a bunker mentality despite four years of evangelical government and a national rate of churchgoing that is unparalleled in the developed world.

Church leaders here understand that politicians don’t mean jack compared to the popular culture, and that even with new drumsets and swish projectors, churches don't have the cultural persuasion that, say, television does. And what do you get on television? “Filth.”

The next day, I will turn on MTV and see two young men kissing in a shower on Real World. I'll presume this is the filth the preacher was talking about. Then I'll wonder whether that man in the back of the church who confidently condemned 10% of the population in a word will remember or conveniently forget his stand, 20 or 30 years from now when the dust has settled on America's gay debate and churches have moved on to some new fear factor.

But before any of that can happen, I have to get out of this church. And that means facing the preacher (a barrel-chested, bald man), who has blocked the door and is systematically doling out bear hugs to each of the departing faithful. My eyes dart to the corners, but there's no escaping it. "Glad you could be with us today" he says, slapping my back, and I limp off, gasping in the God-given air.

lx. Of art from the inner child (of a child)

Marla Olmstead is one of the hottest young artists in America. She is celebrated by the press, the darling of collectors. Her paintings sell for as much as $12,000 per canvas, and her work has been likened to Pollock and Monet. Her individual style is still maturing, but that stands to reason: she is four years old.

The line drawing at left is not by Marla. It's by Macy, my three-year-old niece. It's a deconstruction of her name (or a pre-construction anyway). There's a genius in it, too, I think, but perhaps it takes an uncle's eyes to see it.

And that may be just as well for Macy. Marla's brilliance may seem to prove the inner child theories dear to art therapists; her early success may warm our hearts, but something tells me Marla will need more than art therapy when she's old enough to realize that her youth was sold into commercial prodigy. Sometimes even for the pampered young, youth is elusive.

lix. Of the news coming at you

Day before yesterday I was on a train heading toward central London, reading a newspaper article about the Swiss Re Tower and how it's an architectural icon but a real estate flop. I looked up from my paper, and there was the tower itself, poking up through the south London sprawl. Ah, London! It's where it's at.

But that little coincidence was nothing compared to what happened yesterday. After flying into Newark, I bought a copy of the New York Times to find out how the vice presidential debates had gone. The Times' usual exhaustive coverage kept me occupied for much of the flight down to Greensboro, where my parents picked me up at the airport.

Ten minutes later, while we waited at a traffic light, John Edwards' motorcade passed in a blur of flashing blue lights and mirror-black SUVs. "WHOO-pee" said my dad (a Bush Republican). "Imagine having to live like that," said my mom. "It must be like being in prison." I said nothing, but knew the truth: the people inside that bubble -- Edwards, his wife, his daughter, his campaign staff -- are having the time of their lives.

Why? Because politics at that level is an exhilarating game, the ultimate game, not least because it is played out on such a large game board. From the air yesterday, Manhattan (the starting point) and DC (the finish line) were toylike, the way politicians must see them, particularly since the politicians themselves spend so much time in the air, crisscrossing what used to seem like a big country.

What seems big now, right now anyway, because it's coming at you from every direction (TV, newspapers, radio, internet, street corners) is the Election 2004. It's like Jaws in 3D but with more fear and suspense. In the bubble that is America, people are not having the time of their lives.

lviii. A decade gone; a decade started

The boy in this photo is 30 years old today. If he could see himself now, I suspect he would pull his funky paper hat down over his eyes (I was always shy of older boys back then). Likewise, I try to recollect this day in 1979, but the photo has outshined the vague memory. My kiddie kompatriates, forgotten all of them, look like people from another era.

But enough of that. "Old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new." Besides, it's margarita happy hour all night at La Perla; and life is good.

lvii. Of vibrant personalities (tee-shirts, too)

I don't know about you, but I like to surround myself with vibrant, interesting people. People who have something to say, so much so that they can quite naturally say something even while saying nothing at all. In another context, that must be what's known as 'photogenic'.

Here is one such person. Name: Stephen. Occupation: Music, music, music. Drink: G+T. Tee-shirt: red.

lvi. Of tasteful Christmas Poo

Just when the news reports of Aylesbury Council’s absurd Christmas decoration mix-up were fading from memory and it seemed the world was saved from Stressful Season visual triggers for at least another couple of weeks, Marks & Spencer moves in to destroy my illusion that there is, well, an autumn.

Christmas goods have been appearing on retailers' top shelves for weeks already, and that’s not in and of itself a problem. One can edit them from the view, like grafitti or the homeless. But in this case, I did a double take and in a split second the damage was done. Could it really be? Yes it was. Christmas Toilet Roll. And worse, not some trashy ha-ha-isn’t-this-ridiculous toilet roll either. No, luxury white toilet roll with a subtle pattern of silver mistletoe.

It occurs to me that this is a double joke, first because somewhere in Britain there is a middle class woman or gay man who will buy this for their loo because they think it’s tasteful; second because whoever in their family hates Christmas will get the chance to literally wipe their ass on it. I hoped M&S would have this gem in their online shop so I could show you, but they don’t. I guess they must consider it an impulse buy.