Boy Boxes Bear – Collected Miscellanea

Essays and Other Orphaned Scribblings

Impressive lightning and thunder, but no rain yet.

It’s officially been 50 years since the Six-Day War, and I have occasion once again to think of Palestine.

I was asked recently about movies and Israeli actresses, specifically if I would see a movie with one in it. I thought immediately of Natalie Portman and quested for other names. The discussion migrated towards Wonder Woman and Gal Gadot. I didn’t see the terminus of the query’s line of intention until I’d arrived at it. Much of the analysis on the State of Israel and the state of Palestine–that I’ve come across, at least–has hewn closely to geopolitical implications. Personal narratives are rare roses in the desert. And present-day investigation of the state of affairs soars at thirty thousand feet in the air. From that height, it’s nearly impossible to see the Hebron I saw in 2013. Or the Bethlehem. Or the Nazareth. But most pieces are pitched at an unfortunately clinical register. Appropriate, I guess, for postmortems.

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America According to the Gospel of Originalism; Or Why I Never See Originalists In the Hood, Only in the Club

 

I. Oh, I Get It, You Biggie and He’s Puffy

On the last day of January 2017, the 45th President of the United States announced his pick for the vacant seat on the Supreme Court of the United States: Neil Gorsuch. Gorsuch comes factory-made for a seat on SCOTUS. This scion of conservative nobility, whose record has already faced scrutiny, can be counted on as a reliably Republican vote. The Scalia comparisons are facile—he is more a jurist’s jurist than his vituperatively Catholic predecessor/progenitor—but apt. His neoconfederate patterning fits the hole carved in the Republicans’ judicial vision by Scalia’s death.[1] The seat was an Originalist’s, so the argument goes that it should remain an Originalist’s, which thinking is completely in keeping with a party that has, ever since the passage of the Civil Rights Act, styled itself as the enemy of progress, a party for whom the Constitution is ringed by a picket fence. The people for whom its protections were meant are ensconced safely within while the rest of us fend for ourselves outside, forgotten, doing our best to avoid the lesser angels of America’s nature.

At its core, that is the province of Originalism as a method of interpreting the Constitution. The vintage Instagram filter, sepia-toned, nostalgic, ever the attempt to return to a better time. Law schools are where orignalist reasoning finds its greatest praise, and it should be no coincidence that one would be hard-pressed to find elsewhere a higher concentration of intellectual onanists.

The Supreme Court Bench is hardly the place for masturbation.

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The Beat That My Heart Skipped

When she speaks, it’s with a whisper and rasp, cocooned in unpracticed libido.

A night smoking shisha near Les Halles was how, like the majority of my close friendships, it had begun. We’d commiserated through classes together, this girl and I, and she’d grown so adept at noting my tics that she could tell when I was only pretending to understand something I’d heard her say. “T’as compris?” A pause. “Non, j’ai su.”

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Black and Blue

Present-mortems abound. Much has been written about the self-immolation of the Grand Old Party and its historical roots, some analyses tracing its causes back to the South’s making good on its threat of secession in the face of the resistance to slavery’s spread to newly acquired western territories, that sepia-toned era when the Republicans were the Party of Lincoln, before America’s Original Sin turned them into the Party of Calhoun. Blame Reagan (for winning). Blame Barry Goldwater (for losing). Blame George W. Bush (for being an idiot).

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Laquan McDonald

At some point last night, the Foodtown grocery at 148th and St. Nicholas caught fire.

The subway station entrance across from it is a few blocks from my apartment, and by the time I had passed that intersection this morning, the front window was gone and inside was nothing but bitumen.

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Why Are All the Androids So Pretty?

I. Tyger, Tyger! burning bright

If I were to build an android, I’d want it to have a face that I wouldn’t recognize.

The temptation is to give her the face of someone I know, make her and her face into a totem of remembrance, a gravemarker with cheekbones, a tombstone with spaces hollowed out for eyes. But she is not mine, or won’t be at least. I have to build her first.

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Where Two or Three Are Gathered

“It could have been my mother” was a common refrain bleeding down my Newsfeed in the aftermath of the Charleston massacre. It went beyond the murder of black Americans. It went beyond the violent desecration of a church. It went beyond the combination of those things. So far beyond that I wondered if I could say it as well. If it was a statement that belonged to me.

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State of the Union

The place where I watched my first sunset of the New Year is called Constitution Square.

Over the past few years, benches and a pathway have sprouted. Bounding the lot is a small plaza with a hair salon on one end, a massage parlor, an organic food spot, a gun store, a driver’s ed shingle and Ming Moon, our local Chinese restaurant. Further down the line is a bar and a group of sandwich shops. And across the lot from those, a dentist’s office next to a Century realty shop, a small community bank and a Weight Watchers gym. I was facing westward towards Main Street and since the sun had already fallen behind the naked tree branches and the tallest spires and roofs along that drag, I contented myself with tracking the orb’s progress via the slow un-gilding of the cumulo-strati above. I snuck in a small black menthol cigarillo given to me in a bout of rebellion by someone close a few days earlier.

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Deus ex Machina

The whine of a 56k modem signals for me the beginning of an age.

An awkward, rocky beginning of single landlines and “Get off the Internet; I’m tryna make a call!” Geocities webpages. Neon font. Crudely embedded images in Metallica tribute pages. At that point, DSL and cable modems belonged to households outside our tax bracket, so time spent on the Internet was precious, sometimes transgressive. The whine of a 56k modem will always be attached to an obsession with Dragonball Z, music videos with the aerial acrobatics of snowboarders set to Korn and Limp Bizkit, that time when Napster made mp3s fall from the cybernated heavens like manna for us Israelites. Occasionally, the Internet contained resources for research. A school project on Nord-Pas-de-Calais for French class. A slow-motion guide on how to kickflip into a backside 50-50 rail grind.

Back in the day, above all else, it felt like a gift. Read the rest of this entry »

The Plight of the Gentile, Or How to Deal with the Effects of Tear Gas

The pain will pass. When running against the wind, be sure to keep calm. Don’t touch your face. Do not rinse with water. Use Coca-Cola or milk instead to end the burning. If you are close enough to the police, they cannot use the tear gas on you. And in the event that you are without a gas mask, you can wrap a t-shirt around your nose and mouth and protect your eyes with goggles or something similar. The oblong teargas canisters are small enough that they can be hurled back at the shooter before too much gas is expelled. To properly douse them, be sure to arm yourself with a Poland Springs jug half-filled with water, and the canister that lands beside you, toss it inside, stand on the opening and wave away the remaining fumes as the device is extinguished. If there is fire nearby, toss the canister in the fire, and that too will neutralize it. Read the rest of this entry »