Taqwacore

I don't read too many important things anymore. If you ask me what that means, I can give you any number of actual descriptions, but none of them will really do the job. The only way I can really put it is this visceral feeling I rarely get when I'm reading something and can tell, particularly towards the last few pages, that what I'm reading is going to be important for the rest of my life. 

Michael Muhammad Knight's "the Taqwacores" is one of those books. The book is about the home of a number of different practitioners of Islam, all of whom fall under the "punk" label (secular skinheads, rude boys, riot grrrls, punks, everything), told through the eyes of a kid who struggles to make sense of his religion and the way his friends force him to ask questions of it. Taqwacore is hard to describe, but basically it is the rejection of the mainstream of Islam, the mainstream of American youth culture, and trying to find what you want from both and what you can give back to both. The book isn't easy to penetrate, as it doesn't really allow a reader who isn't a little familiar with Islam to catch up, but it's got an engaging story that pulls you tight like a string. Well, until the book forces that emotional string to snap.

But, the part that got me most is the research I did behind the author. Michael Muhammad Knight is not who you'd expect him to be. Or at least who I'd expect him to be. According to a NY Times article, Knight grew up Irish Catholic and converted to Islam as a teenager. I won't lie, my gut instinct was initially a little angry. What did this guy, this outsider have to bring to the religion, the culture, the movement, that one of us couldn't? Once my momentary assholishness faded, I realized that Knight is exactly who I want taking a lens to the American-Islamic experience. Here's a guy who found Islam during a crucial time in his life and studied it, pored over it, and did all of this before it was considered deep. Here's a guy who, for all intents and purposes, probably put up with more shit to learn about the religion and practice it than I ever would. He wrote an amazing story about the many different cultural voices vying for dominance within young Americans. 

And then there's me. I've never associated myself too closely to my dad's culture or religion. Long story short, dad is Iranian (born and raised) and is a non-practicing Muslim. I've never seen him pray or anything like that, but he avoids pork pretty earnestly and has some of the cultural biases. I've been to Iran. I've been to mosques and surrounded myself by people who do practice. I've seen the beauty and hatred of the religion firsthand and for the longest time I've been unable to compromise my actual feelings for the religion and my proverbial white liberal guilt. Taqwacores has helped me bridge that gap with not only Islam, but my feelings towards all religion. Muhammad did have sex with a child. Islam is a patriarchal, misogynistic force that can damage a country's views towards women and their freedom. Martyrdom is a repulsive idea that has been in the hands of lesser, evil men for far too long. But, there is still beauty and righteousness found within Islam. The meaning behind the name itself, the submission of ones self to god/their higher power, blows me over every time I think about it. The five pillars. The pilgrimage. The people. And especially Taqwacores.

Vampire Slaying With Girls

So...Buffy doesn't suck. There, I said it. I'm man enough to admit when I'm wrong. I'm so man that I'll say it twice. 

Buffy the Vampire Slayer does not suck.

As much as a month ago, you would probably catch me laughing derisively, as I so often am wont to do, at this show. But that was then and this is now. I'm on the third season and I won't lie, it's had its ups and downs. Quite a lot of downs actually. Most of the first season. A lot of the stand-alones that aren't tied to the larger plot. And of course, the dreaded Miss Cleo--Kendra. Or as my friend Stephen says, KenDRA da vampear sleeerahbluh. Man, she could not die fast enough.

But, amongst this is a show about a woman who is sexy, but not a sex object, who is strong and never an overt damsel in distress, and most importantly, to me at least, a woman that is funny. Certainly the predecessor for a show (not plural because there's only been two that I can think of) Veronica Mars, Buffy is quippy, sarcastic, and genuinely funny. Too often in movies, comics, and tv do writers forget that yes, girls can be funny too. I don't think it's part of a scheme to make men think they're funnier then women, but I do think it's a bit of a problem. I hate playing the boy feminist, but it seems to me that there are so few role models left for any of us, why take a few more away from women when you choose to make them sexy instead of funny?

This one's a short one, mostly because I want to get back to Buffy, but also because this is a whole big honker of a conversation that kind of needs a second person to speak to. So, internet, this is one of the times where your anonymity isn't conducive to having a conversation. Sorry. I'll schedule mimosas and brunch for later to make up for it.

Sticking With Your Lie

Lies are something I've never had trouble telling. No-no, put that eyebrow back down, this isn't what you think it is. I can't tell the "I'm rich and drive a Porsche" lie that apparently is what guys do in NYC when they want to hit on a girl, but in a "no, that was a great guitar solo. You sure do sound just like Jimmy Page. And you've only been playing for two weeks? Wow!" sort of way. The good kind of lies, when necessary, are something I think can be the nicest thing you can do for someone. Regrettably, I have let a few not so nice ones get away from me. There's one lie that I told in high school that I am not able to forgive myself for. 

I used to have a friend who I always had a peculiar relationship with. Throughout middle school and high school, he seemed a free-wheeler, loose, charismatic kid who was much cooler than me. It's like he came straight out of the Steve Miller Band's "the Joker". And he had experienced a whole world that I couldn't help but feel like I was looking in at. Whether it was insecurity, inaction, or fear of getting in trouble, I just couldn't keep up with him. I wasn't just missing the pitch, I was missing the whole game. I just wasn't who I wanted to be and, like many sixteen year olds, I did not know how to fix it other than to whine to whomever would listen to me.

So I told a lie about someone that genuinely liked me, but that I was too afraid to admit that I liked back (yet was fine with incriminating. Sixteen year old me didn't understand irony, although I guess you could argue that I still don't). It wasn't the kind that is used to insult someone, even though it probably is insulting to the other person, but rather something that was supposed to give me the same kind of gravitas that my friend had. Something that made me look cool.

I don't remember exactly how it happened. I wish I could recall who I told first, although I'm pretty sure I can narrow it down to one of two people. The stupid thing is that it wasn't premeditated. If I had taken the time to actually think about what I was about to say, I would have kicked myself for such douche baggery. But as it was coming out of my mouth I didn't think it was detrimental to anyone. I didn't think about what would happen if it got out. All I can safely say is that I know that it was motivated by the aforementioned feeling of inadequacy. Pretty immediately, I knew the jig was up. Once I said it, I'd knew I'd never be able to tell the truth. I had to stick with the lie.  

Like any good lie, it was one that was rife for gossip and drunken-storytelling. The story got around through my small circle of friends and for a while I was asked to give the details of what happened. It was amusing and easy to tell and for a long time I was asked to. Or it was brought up when a bunch of us were together and someone wanted to tease me (I used to, and I guess I still do, embarrass easy). To my knowledge it never got back to her. Well, rather I hope it never got back to her and I've convinced myself that it couldn't have gotten back to her.

This isn't something I'm proud of. I can safely say this may be the worst thing I've ever done and am remorseful whenever it crosses my mind. And you'd imagine with this Catholic guilt of mine(given to me by a very Catholic family, even though I've not particularly Christian or religious anymore) that I'd tell the truth. That I'd apologize to her. But I can't. I hate to admit it, but I'm not bigger than my shame. And I can't bring myself to do anything to help myself. In my own sad sack way, until I can apologize to her directly, this is me trying to make amends and apologize. Or to selfishly make myself feel better. I'm not really sure which.

So much for wanting to look cool.

You Will Never Be Eric Clapton (and That's Okay Because You're Already Eric Clapton)

By all accounts, Eric Clapton is a certifiable blues rock god. Clapton's that sports figure who everyone knows, everyone sort of likes, and everyone always ends up rooting for whenever the ball's in his hands and time is running out. That is, of course, if you like him.

Chuck Klosterman, a favorite writer of mine, once described Clapton as "(arguably) the most overrated rock musician of all time; [Clapton]'s a talented, boring guitar player and he's a workmanlike, boring vocalist". Now the thing is, Chuck isn't wrong. Clapton is definitely all of those things. But what I think Chuck misses about the foundation for why people dig Clapton like they do is that even though we're not Eric Clapton, we could be. 

Generally, people live mediocre lives. This is something better writers have expounded upon, and it's not really the point of what I'm trying to get at, so I'll leave it to you to find out why people would say such a thing. Suffice it to say, as much as we're the hero of our own story, that story is never that exciting, even to us. And, in large part, that's how I feel about Clapton's music. For the most part, it's mediocre. It's boring. Like every day of the week, each song kind of sounds like the one that came before it. But, what draws us to Clapton are those moments of utter revolutionary sound. Those moments where Clapton transcends all he should be and becomes something worth truly listening to. 

On Clapton's Unplugged album (an odd choice, I know) there are no less than seven different songs that have these little moments in them that make me obsessive about listening to them again. Maybe the nature of a small, intimate live recording tugs at me, but it is on tracks like "Lonely Stranger" that Clapton surprises, disarming even the most hardened of cynics. And aside from Clapton perfecting and spoiling the art of slowing-down-a-really-fast-song in "Layla"for anyone else (something that, when other artists use, has never made me wonder if the original was somehow not as good as the cover). In a number of these songs, Clapton reminds you of why people liked him in the first place and why naysayers should say nay a little less. This feeling is about as fleeting as my enjoyment after thirty seconds of hearing any Fionna Apple song.

The reason, I think, people love Eric Clapton isn't because of these songs. Sure, Unplugged is, in my mind, a classic album (even if it does have "Tears in Heaven" on it), but that's not what gets people. What gets people is that we can be like Clapton too. From our mediocre lives we can derive greatness. Sure, there are people out there who would find even our most boring days exciting, but they aren't the people we're after in the first place and in the second place, we all want that American dream. Whether it's monetary richness or social richness, we want to feel like we have more to offer (and thereby more to gain). And with Clapton, this pretty mediocre and seemingly uninteresting guy has lived a hell of a life; been in no less than four legendary bands, had a prosperous solo career, befriended a Beatle, stole that Beatle's wife (writing "Layla", "Bell-Bottom Blues", and "Wonderful Tonight" about her and making it okay for guys around the world to continue trying to write beautiful music to get into the hearts of unattainable women), and has continued to be relevant to a number of people. The reason we love Eric Clapton is because he raises the ultimate question for us as a society; if this mediocre guy could do it, why can't we?

The Harold or How I Spend All of My Waking Time...

If you've never been to the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater on 26th Street, you're doing yourself a real disservice. I've only laughed harder twice in my life; once when I saw Stephen Lynch and Mitch Hedburg perform life and another when I was heavily intoxicated. The players were tremendously talented and it boggled my mind how quickly they jumped from funny to funnier. It was a venerable acrobatic act, each of them tumbling without tripping over one another.

Pretentious wordplay aside, I've been obsessing with how to implement the Harold into a script. For my purposes, it's an introduction followed by a series of story beats, leading different situations or characters through different paths, leading to a third act climax where all characters/storylines intertwine. Think Seinfeld, only without all the har-di-har.

I have a script right now that I've been trying to crack (the Mistakes, if you must know) and it was around halfway done before I learned about the Harold. Now? I'm absolutely nowhere. I'm pouring over all my notes for the issue, trying to see how the pieces of the puzzle fit. Originally, the first moment was really the beginning of the last moment. And the challenge here is, how do you show the reader your entire hand upfront while still keeping it fresh for the rest of the story?

This is what I obsess about when I should be doing law school stuff. This is what my life becomes when I'm allowed to get inside my own head. 

I couldn't ask for anything better.

Straight from Living Wednesday to Wednesday...

I'm all over the internets ma!

http://acmecomics.com/node/524

“Why do you read Spider-Man?”

It was an innocent enough question to the casual eye, but this particular friend has a habit of challenging me in a manner that usually ends with everything I know being turned on its head. That and as a comic fan, you always get the occasionally cynical question asking if they even still make comics. So when he asked me this, I quickly guarded myself.

“I relate to him. Spidey is us. He’s the everyman.”

“No, he isn’t you. He’s who you want to be. You want to be the average guy who has this extraordinary life, the gorgeous wife, and amazing friends all to fill the hours of the day. You aren’t Spider-Man, your sixteen year old imagination is Spider-Man.”

It’s hard to argue with your friend when he’s much, much smarter than you, but I tried anyways. I told him how he was wrong, and it was this aspect, the fact that he was the average guy confronted with all of these remarkably non-average adversities and triumphs. That we live within each loss and each victory. That just as we breathe life into him, he gives it back to us. That he was us, but we just didn’t know it yet.

I was wrong though and clinging to any straw that was in eyesight. 

As much as I hate to admit it, my friend was right. Not right enough for me to ever tell him, but right enough for me to admit to you. He’s right because I do want to be Spider-Man. Why wouldn’t I? Sure, with great power comes great responsibility, but with super powers comes everything most comic fans, and most people in general, could ever want; the ability to save the day. 

The current zeitgeist is that of gloom and doom. I don’t have to tell you that people are hurting all across the country right now (but I guess I will anyways) and the end doesn’t seem in sight. People are losing their homes, their retirements, and those in charge are getting caught asleep at the wheel. Would-be Presidents are, for the most part, reduced to the same old game of saying how much meaner one of them is than the other. And the sinking feeling that I’ve gathered from people is that no one feels like they can do anything to change it. No one has control of their own destiny. We’re in a hole with no way out. We’re under tons of rubble with no spider-strength to get us out of it.

But, thankfully, Spider-Man is still there. And when I say Spider-Man I mean comics at large. Sure, Anti-Life has its hooks deep into the DC universe and the Skrulls seem like they’ve got one last trick up their sleeve during their not-so-Secret Invasion, but comics provide a stability that we’re looking for in our lives. No matter how bad things get, how bleak the horizon looks, you can look forward to knowing that the heroes and (if you’re an indie reader like myself) Scott Pilgrim’s of the world are going to beat the six evil boyfriends and win the girl. So keep buying comics. Comics are better than they’ve ever been and if there was ever a time to put that Starbucks coffee money back in your pocket, this is it. Because at the end of the day you are Spider-Man. Every single one of you. You just don’t know it yet.

Why Does Yoshimi Get to Battle All the Pink Robots?

I told you I'd changed baby. 

I went to a panel/Q&A today about this non-profit group's work in attempts to what basically amounts to a multi-pronged approach to dealing with Pakistan's infrastructural problems, from energy issues to governmental issues, in a manner that puts force on the backburner and focuses primarily on aiding and recomposing institutions that are already in place.

Get all that? Good. Me neither.

The main thing I walked away with from this panel was how much smarter these people were than I am. Now before you start saying, "no, Raph, c'mon, you're not dumb," bear in mind that I never said I was dumb. I don't think I am. I hope I'm not at least. But, when I say these people were incredibly intelligent, thoughtful, and articulate, so much so that they made me look like a babbling man-child, I hope you can appreciate how intelligent these cats had to be. These were real intellectual heavyweights and they could just about blow down the doors of the conference room with their analysis of what the heart of the issue was with our alleged partners in peace. 

And as I sat there, listening, I was completely captured by what they had to say. I was absolutely under their spell because they were speaking my language. This wasn't mental masturbation that a lot of law school professors fall in to, this was the stuff that you'd want to talk about in higher institutions. How women and education were the silver bullets of the Middle East. The truth behind what the Pakistani people hold dear (and, to that end, how similar they are to you and I). How little we appreciate the fact that we have regular, running electricity that doesn't run the risk of running out periodically throughout the day. But no, it wasn't enough to talk about the problem. They had recommendations on how to fix them. They had ideas. They were brimming with ideas and laid a few out for us. Sure, they were vague, but what's the point of recommending 1.8 billion when Congress would only put aside a portion of it, if any? These guys were acting. They were doing. They were putting themselves out there in places of the world that are not completely safe and where Americans aren't free to walk as they may (yes, Pakistan is a relatively safe country in many of its areas and I am playing into some misconceptions. However, when you hear the horror stories, it puts things in a different light).

During all this, I had one of those fleeting moments where I wonder if this is what I was meant to do. Both, if I was meant to be in law school and if I was meant to be like those folks up at the table. They were changing things and had the resumes and acumen to back it up. It's early in the game for me, but even then you're still looking to the future and wondering if you have the chops to do what it takes. 

Will I feel this way in the morning? I don't know. Most days I have no idea who I'm going to be, let alone who I want to be. I just know that what I'm doing right now isn't enough. Whether if it's with my writing or my career, it's not enough. I have the ambition to do more. I want to be more.

For now though, I guess I just have to wait.