Last week, at NYC’s Museum of Modern Art, I saw something odd. Actually, to be clear, I saw about three hundred odd things, but those were just the exhibits. The MOMA boasts an impressive collection of the absurd and the meaningless, most of which evaporated from my memory the instant I turned away. The thing that stuck with me was Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Not the painting, although it’s as amazing in person as you’d expect. What caught my eye were the people viewing the painting. Like you would assume, Starry Night boasted the largest cluster of on-lookers, being the most famous of the works there. Many were standing and drinking it in, quiet and reverential. Many weren’t however, and this is what interested me.

Approximately half of the viewers of Starry Night were taking pictures of it. Most were using their cell phones, a couple were using high end cameras, and one guy was video taping it. I watched more than one person see the painting from across the room, ready their camera as they walked over, and begin immediately snapping photos without ever once just looking at the damn thing. For the life of me, I can’t understand this behavior.

You and I have no doubt seen Starry Night a hundred different times in scores of different venues. If you google it right this second, you’ll find it in a hundred different shapes and sizes, from desktop hi-res wallpaper to cell phone background. In fact, nobody on this planet needs to be within five thousand miles of NYC to appreciate the mystery and majesty of the painting. The only reason to make the pilgrimage is to stand in its presence and be awed that something so beautiful could be so real. What, then, would possess hundreds of people to snap inferior pictures of it? None of them took pictures of themselves with the painting, which I could have understood. No, most simply collected the image through a view screen and moved on to the abominable Duchamp around the corner.

Elsewhere in NYC, I attended the 9/11 Memorial. I have to confess I didn’t want to go. Not because 9/11 doesn’t mean anything to me, but because it means quite a bit to me. I don’t like to see the pictures and the names of the dead. I don’t like to think about the first responders who died doing their jobs. It gives me this weird survivor’s guilt even though I was five thousand miles away when it happened. It still makes me angry, makes my teeth clench and my fists bunch up into smoldering coals of impotent rage. So, I guess that’s why I went: to pay my respects, to sacrifice my own comfort for my fellow Americans who were slain.

For those who haven’t seen it, the memorial consists of two enormous square waterfalls that plummet a hundred feet into a pool that drains into an ominous, tomb-like hole in the center. It’s both understated and poignant. Around the rim of the waterfalls, the names of the dead are etched into the barrier. While I was there, I shared the space with hundreds and hundreds of people from every state and numerous countries. Part of me was comforted seeing so many people from so many distant places coming together to remember the dead. But, part of me was perturbed.

On all sides of each of the waterfalls, people were taking pictures next to the names of the dead. Not solemn pictures either... Whole groups were posing, smiling, and laughing as they took pictures of themselves on the very spot where 3000 people were incinerated, obliterated, erased. I watched them and I just wanted to scream Are you fucking kidding me? This was hallowed ground. This wasn’t some Revolutionary War era burial site, these people died eleven goddamn years ago! Seven year olds who lost mommy and daddy in the attacks are now graduating with two empty seats at the ceremony, and these people are posing for vacation photos?

Of course, this is part and parcel of the Starry Night problem: for some reason, people are less and less willing to let something significant move them and instead are obsessed with capturing some imperfect and inferior copy. In fact, my issue with the 9/11 Memorial paparazzi is even the inverse of those at the MOMA. I could understand photographing the haunting splendor of the memorial as some sort of aid to recall for your later years. I could understand being so moved and challenged that a photo would serve as some sort of talisman against the slow fade of memory. But smiling and posing next to the names of murdered innocents? What exactly does this do for them? Are they going to make some vacation slide show later set to Eve 6’s “Open Road Song” and point out to their Facebook friends how much fun they had at Ground Zero?

I know every writer in the last hundred years has probably scowled out some dire pencraft regarding our hyper-visual culture. That being the case, it would be presumptuous of me not to follow suit. Have we become so enslaved to liquid crystal display that actual experience plays second fiddle now? Have we atrophied our memory muscles so much that the only way to let big moments live forever is to encase them in the Jurassic Park amber of a jpg? Have we traded our eyes, noses, and ears for a viewscreen and a Flickr account?

To be fair, I have my own Flickr account and I’ve been known to take plenty of pictures on vacations. But, it’s always been to show people who aren’t there some approximation of what I see and what’s moving me. I mostly take nature and landscape photos to show my friends and family back home how beautiful Austin, TX or Ogunquit, ME or Rhinebeck, NY can be. I would never in a million years send them a blurry cell phone shot of Starry Night though, because they can see it far better already. I would never send them one of me smiling in front of the 9/11 Memorial because it’s personal and moving and quite frankly, it’s like posing for a picture during a church service. The most important thing I could do would be to tell them personally that they need to see the 9/11 Memorial for themselves and let the experience do the talking.

Of course, I wonder if I’m just being a prematurely curmudgeonly 29 year old. I wonder if I’m just being judgmental and fussy in regards to how different people enjoy their vacations. Perhaps it’s some mark of pride to record themselves at or around famous landmarks and works of art. Perhaps many people don’t set out to experience certain things in the way that I find most compelling. And yet, I can’t help but feel sad for someone who was so close to one of the most important paintings ever painted and who couldn’t put down the camera for thirty seconds and just inhale it. If pictures really made the experience worthwhile, a hundred people have taken far better photos than these viewers ever could and uploaded them already. If pictures really captured the solemnity and gravity of the 9/11 Memorial, there are hundreds of photos and videos online that are much more professionally done. My great fear is that we’ve become a people who require these cheap cardboard cutouts to remind of us of the excellent, the transcendant, and the sublime.

Probably the main difference between going to prison and staying at a Howard Johnson’s is that prison is the more social activity. It also has an arguably better breakfast provided. I realize that criticizing a cheap motel is pawing at some pretty low-hanging fruit, but there’s a reason for it that I’ll get to. First things first however: in order to set the stage, know that I recently stayed at the St. Michael’s Plaza nee Howard Johnson’s Motel in Austin, TX off I-35. It’s under new management (thus the new name), but it’s the same ol’ Howard you’d expect.

I think it was in the process of being remodeled because, while the lobby was very open with polished tiles and comfy chairs, many of the doorways in the halls appeared to be missing a door frame. If this was a post-modern Santa Monica luxury hotel, I would assume that to be an aesthetic choice, but here I think the doors simply lacked frames. The vending machines were in varying stages of efficacy. For example, the downstairs ice machine offered up its crystalline contents with the gusto of an Arctic ice storm, while the upstairs machine was far more effective at making a hollow grinding noise while air and despair tumbled from its plastic gullet. As far as the continental breakfast is concerned, that appellation is only accurate insofar as it indeed did not give me diarrhea.

Obviously I’m painting quite the dim picture of this motel and I’m sure a Howard Johnson’s executive would be pulling his hair out reading it. Well, let not your heart be troubled, Toby from Marketing, the previous was necessary to set up the following: I did not choose my stay at the Howard Johnson’s for aesthetic purposes. This is my 4th trip to Austin in the last year trying to get a job. I’ve spent well over $2500 hunting this elusive employment and although I live comfortably, this is still a sting to my wallet. Thus, my decision making tree basically begins and ends with matters pecuniary. Put simply, I’m trying to save some cash.

It’s important to examine motives for doing simple things from time to time. My motive for purchasing lodging at all while in Austin is/was threefold: 1) Sleeping in a bed is more comfortable than sleeping in a car. 2) Having my personal effects secured in a locked room is arguably safer than having it sprawled on the back seat of a rental. and 3) I’m a man who likes unfettered access to both a toilet and a hot shower. You'll notice some entries missing from that list: A) Organic, locally-grown vegan cuisine prepared by master chef Arcturus Rimbeau. B) Tasteful murals depicting the journey of the region’s indigenous peoples, or C) A sculpture garden famous for its breathtakingly phallic art installations.

Put in this framework, I have something to say that may seem slightly peculiar: St. Michael’s Plaza nee Howard Johnson’s Motel performed its functions admirably. In fact, I have no complaints about my stay there. For the meager sum of about $45 dollars a night, I was given a comfortable king-sized bed with a surfeit of plump pillows. I was also provided with a working toilet and as much toilet paper as I could use. The shower dispensed steaming hot water with Christian generosity and the wafers of moisturizing soaps provided left me feeling immaculate. The perimeter boasted a fairly robust array of security cameras and my valuables never once felt in peril within my room. The cable television and generous room refrigerator were mere icing on a solidly built cake of urban inncraft.

You’ve now spent approximately 600 words reading about a motel and may be asking yourself whether I have a point or whether the manager of the Howard Johnson’s slipped me a hundo to praise the establishment. For the record, no hundos were slipped. Rather, my stay at the HJM made me consider the method by which I rate things. I was contemplating how I would rate my stay and my first thought was that, if I’m rating it against all lodgings I’ve ever been in, I’d give it 2 out of 5. But I realized, that’s not fair. I didn’t bed down at the HJM for the same reason I stayed at the Rex in San Francisco or the Rubens in London. How is it fair to compare Howard to Rex? If I rated my stay at Howard based on places I’ve stayed with similar motives, I’d probably give it a 4 out of 5 stars.

The thing is, motives are huge. If I’m interested in beautiful art, a crystal hammer would be a great thing. If I’m building a house, it’d be worthless. Sometimes I think we try to compare everything (and everyone) to everything (and everyone) else without regard to the purpose we have in engaging with those things in the first place. Comparing a 16oz steak to a microwave pizza would be stupid. Comparing Coke Zero to 18 year scotch would be insane. Just because things are in the same category does not mean they are in the same class.

I sometimes wonder if a large portion of our unhappiness or dissatisfaction with life comes as a result of unfair comparison. I wonder if we don’t make victims of ourselves doing this. Some of us are not built to be superstars. Some of us are not capable of being amazing. And that’s okay. The world does not need an ocean of superstars. It needs a lot of normal people doing normal boring things because the machinery of life is boring. It’s eating, sleeping, pooping, and driving. Our world is made better because a lot of people are paid to stand behind counters and wait for customers. There is no shame in that. In fact, it’s beautiful. Someone who can do a boring job well is far more important than many who can do an exciting job adequately. Maybe it’s time to stop judging ourselves against all of our compatriots and instead resolve to be the best goddamn whatever-we-are we can be. The world doesn’t need us to be broadly exceptional, it just needs us to be our best.

This past weekend, I didn't really wish anyone a happy Easter. Not unless they started it. It had nothing to do with the agnosticism I've written about elsewhere. It's mainly because I'm not sure who's celebrating it and who isn't. I realize that might be a slightly fatuous observation, but it's the truth. Even as a devout Christian teenager, I was always interested in finding out which kids were Jewish or Muslim so I could wish them their happy respective holidays (the Jehovah's Witness kids were the easiest to accommodate, incidentally). I realized early on it was a really easy way to make someone think you give more than one tenth of a crap about them.

I'd always considered my attitude "inclusive", but in 2012, I realize I must be wrong about that. Having the unmitigated temerity to try and wish someone a happy holiday is in fact a crime against society I've learned. How else to do you explain the bleaching of the public lexicon when it comes to celebration. Schools don't have Christmas Break anymore, they have Winter Break. Easter and Good Friday have been replaced with a tepid affirmations of Spring. Halloween gets lumped into a Harvest/Fall mush and some schools have even tried to do away with St. Patrick's day. It's not just schools either; any business trying to appear "festive" seems forced at sneer-point to choose the blandest, most non-specific banner possible.

I understand the reasoning: America is a beautiful blend of varied cultures and the ruling class ought no longer assume everyone wants to hear all about their favored holidays. Many wonderful Americans celebrate Eid and Purim and Zartosht No-Diso and Yukka Nu Hii and other things I had to find on Wikipedia. In the modern age, it's considered good etiquette not to exclude these Americans with a brash admonishment to have a happy Christian holiday. The days of White Christian chauvinism are long past in America and we're arguably better for it. Like I said, I like to make people feel recognized.

The thing is, I was wished a happy Easter against my will several times this weekend (I was also wished a happy Passover by a six year old on Saturday evening - a swing and a miss, kid!). I'm sure those who saw a white guy with Christian tattoos on his wrists assumed that was a safe bet, even though I don't actually celebrate the holiday anymore. Of course, I wasn't irritated by this and I wished them a happy Easter (and Passover) back. This is partly because I don't have it in my DNA to get irritated by something like that, but it's mostly because I realized something: they aren't really asking me to celebrate their holiday.

It occurs to me that for anyone who celebrates any sort of holiday, those days are generally looked forward to and enjoyed. These are feast days, celebration days, family days. Sure, some holidays have a morose history, but even the days of mourning are spent with friends and family connecting either to the Divine or to the love that binds them together. These are the Good Times, where memories are made and where intimacy is generated (and sometimes tested). So, when someone wishes me a happy specific holiday, they aren't actually inviting me to celebrate what they believe. They are inviting me to be happy with them. They are telling me that this is a good day and they'd like for me to have a good day too. I truly believe that even the most entitled and oblivious of Christians is not asking me to venerate Christ but rather including me in the joy they feel when they do. That's pretty cool.

Even if you're a militant atheist of the most Dawkinsian stripe, don't you feel the spirit of joy that permeates the winter holidays? Does it occur to you that not only do religious people decorate the interior of their homes for their families, they also put up lights and tinsel on the outside to include you in their revelry? For even the most fundamentalist Muslim living in America, do you not feel a sense of camaraderie walking into a public square transformed from bland commercial feeding trough into a festive glittering grinspace? I remember being invited to a Muslim wedding and loving every minute of the ceremony. It was a culture quiet alien to me with customs I couldn't relate to. But I didn't need to; I was there to be happy with my friends who were happy. Isn't that the real American spirit: the idea of bringing your personal joy to share with the rest of us? The color and the creed and the culture are just details: we're here to have a good time together.

Beyond that, I had another thought this weekend as well: I have a social obligation to try and make these holiday days as happy as possible for the celebrants. Sometimes I get the feeling that the modern citizen is constantly on the lookout for something to aggrieve him or her. Sometimes it seems as if we're hunting for some way to feel excluded, marginalized, or ignored so we can jump up and pound our chest and demand satisfaction. I don't want to be like that. I don't want to watch millions of people openly celebrate Easter and Passover and feel that this excludes me. Instead, I'd rather be on the lookout for ways I can aid in their celebration. In a sense, it means I'm included, regardless of my personal belief. Yet, it's not about me. It's about a group of people being happy, and that's a precious commodity in this world.

I'm at kind of a weird crossroads in my intellectual life right now. Some years ago, I made a conscious decision to stop shooting information through the prism of my factory-installed software and to do my very best to be open to the wide world of data available to me. This resulted in a molasses cascade of opinion modification that started with controversial theological ideas and culminated in my emergence as a pro-choice, pro-gay agnostic (though broadly theistic and appreciative of religion generally). Even so, I tend to vote center-right, as my economic and governmental opinions haven't changed much. The main change is that I no longer have a political identity ("I am a Republican!"), rather I simply have political patterns ("I tend to vote Republican, except I voted against Prop 8 and for marijuana legalization").

Much of my personal evolution has been the result of meeting and befriending a wide swath of humanity over the years. It's hard to chant "Murderer!" outside of a Planned Parenthood when you have a friend who's made that difficult choice due to catastrophes of life beyond her control. It's hard to rail against gay marriage when you have dear gay friends whose love puts some of your married friends to shame. It's hard to get angsty over a mosque being built when you've been to a Muslim wedding and seen the way your Muslim friends care for the poor in their communities. Each new friend I've made has helped polish away some of my less socially generous opinions and made me, for lack of a better term, a bit more "progressive".

I completely understand why people are left-wing: it feels pretty good. My forays into progressivism always feel awesome because, on the micro level, it generally means I'm making people around me of varied minority status feel respected and empowered. Empowering your friends and loved ones is a great thing and addictive as hell. Not only that, but Leftism is an ideology steeped in grace. It forgives a multitude of sins and is famous for its readiness to say "Hey, mistakes were made, but who could blame you? You were dealt a bad hand. Don't sweat it." Again, this feels really good to say to people who are struggling with the consequences of bad behavior. However, this is where the crossroads comes in: I think I've run out of progressivity.

I struggle with two impulses that, no matter how diverse my friends nor how well-read I am, remain unwavering. First, I think on the whole, it's better to err on the side of consequence than clemency as a matter of public policy. Second, and perhaps most troubling to my progressive friends, I'm not one bit sorry for my white male privilege. I say I "struggle" because, if you cut my mind in half, you can tell by the rings in what direction my ideals have been trending. You can see the scorch marks from the Great Religion Fires and the crystalline glitter embedded the year my heart first embraced a gay friend as a brother. Any first year mental dendrology student would predict total Leftification by the age of 30. Yet, I've experienced a complete loss of ideological inertia lately and, frankly, it's a bit jarring.

On the first point, as a police officer, I can attest to you how powerful a consequence can be. I'll never forget the night we stopped four out-of-city gang members driving through town and towed their car. As the car was being lifted onto the tow truck, one gangster turned to the other, elbowed him, and said "Man, I told you not to drive through this city. We never get away with shit out here." And I never saw members from that gang again. For all the college-level arguments about poverty and social oppression forcing poor young men into gangs and how they need compassionate father figures instead of punishment, I'd much rather protect the innocent citizens from gang violence by driving the gangsters out with aggressive enforcement. In the same vein, I've met many a reformed criminal who told me they were simply tired of the midnight raids, the prison food, and the constant paranoia of criminality. Those who have transcended antisocial lifestyles have, in my experience, credited societal consequences far more than societal grace (and, in fact, it's the small-scale personal graces that spoke to them far more than a lenient judge or apathetic legislature).

More generally, I have a driving instinct for the efficacy of punishment and ramification. This is not an instinct born from a soft-handed lily white life of bland inaction. On the contrary, this is born from a deep understanding of the fact that I personally have been dragged kicking and screaming into decency by a brawny gang of consequences. Some people learn from the example of others. I'm wired to be one of those others. I've had to crater some relationships to learn how to be a good friend and lover. I've had to lose a job and the respect of my very wonderful boss to learn how to be a professional employee. I've had to stain and scar myself to learn how to live a life I can be eventually proud of. So, when I see predators violate the social contract and then hear well-meaning people say, "This calls for compassion and a loving touch!", I admit, I bristle. Not because I wasn't ever shown mercy, but because I couldn't learn from mercy until I learned from justice. Mercy is for your senior year; you have to pass Justice first before you can understand it.

My second struggle is the one that may stick in a few throats. I can only hope I've built up some rhetorical goodwill in the preceding and that you'll hear me out. I've noticed the word "privilege" being thrown around in casual online discourse on an increasing basis in the last five or so years. I'm sure it's been in academic circles since the 1960's, but I've just recently started to hear it with regularity. Generally, it enters discourse precisely when a person of privilege is disagreeing with a person of less privilege. Arguments are made on both sides, and then the less privileged person fires back with a "Yeah but you're just arguing from a position of privilege!" and the argument grinds to a halt. How can one argue against such a charge? Here's my problem: Accusations of privilege are irrelevant to forward-looking policy concerns. They only matter if you're looking backwards, not ahead to the future.

I'm not going to sit here and argue that, as a White Straight Male, I haven't dined at a veritable banquet of privilege harvested from a millennium of minority maltreatment. I'm also not going to argue that those who aren't part of the above holy trinity haven't had to eat a massive historical shit sandwich over the years. The problem is that, personally, I haven't conspired in any of that. I was born in 1983. I wasn't even able to vote until 2001. I had nothing to do with the rotten deeds of my ancestors and the atrocities of my tribe. In the grand scheme of history, I just got here and I'm still looking for a place to park. So, in the same way that stereotypes annoy those of oft-mocked groups, holding me accountable for the sins of my fathers gets under my skin. I had no control over the family I was born to or when and where that took place. As such, I'm not sorry for what I was born with. I'm not ashamed that I, through no fault of my own, won the genetic lottery. Let's agree that I won't hold your family tree against you and you won't hold mine against me. Let's live in the now.

The real problem, however, is that I have yet to see the concept of privilege deployed for any other reason than to stop an exchange of ideas. I'm certain scholastic types engage the topic much more evenhandedly, but I only ever see it used to shut people up. It's generally used to deduct ten credibility points from privileged people and make them lose a turn. I find that ludicrous. Yes, sometimes white straight men make terrible arguments and advocate for awful things. However, sometimes non-white non-straight non-men make equally terrible arguments and advocate for equally awful things. When it comes to discerning truth, privilege is a neon flashing red herring. Instead of worrying about the history and origin of your opponent, worry about whether they are actually making a logical argument for something. The future needs the best arguments from all of us, not just the people who got dealt a raw hand historically.

I recognize that the above puts me at significant odds with many brilliant and virtuous thinkers, and I accept that. Obviously, it's easy for me to handwave privilege away. However, I'm less interested in trying to change someone's mind with a blog post of all godforsaken things than I am in trying to bring you into my mind a little bit. I'm more interested in the fact that these two points are basically the only major things that seem to hold me back from being an entirely different political being. In the political world, it can be tempting to think we act a certain way because we have many ideas guiding us, when sometimes it can be just one very powerful notion. What I'd really like is for others to find the places where they deviate from their own defaults, if only to find a little grace and common ground with each other. None of us is 100% our label. There are pro-gay Republicans and anti-abortion Democrats and all manner of crossover in the American arena. Only, it seems that we keep feeling the need to not only join a team, but to become loud warriors for that team. Honestly, I'd rather be a warrior for an idea than a party. I want to do battle in defense of ideas like personal responsibility, individualism, Capitalism, and tolerance. And, in all seriousness, I'd rather do battle with those who dislike those ideas individually than with someone who simply identifies as a Democrat and seeks to defeat anything that runs counter to the tribe. This goes for the other side as well. Political parties should be uneasy coalitions of idealists, not iron-clad politicults.

More than anything, I'm just tired of the anger. From everyone. I've tried to express myself in such a way that my dear reader can dispute it with the vigor of a freight train but won't find themselves enraged at me. The rage in our discourse is unhealthy, sure, but more than that, it's boring. My generation has no tolerance for tedium and the state of media in this age has managed to turn outrage and offense into the height of staleness. Everyone has been scandalized, everyone is furious, and it's frankly uninteresting. For my left-leaning friends, you've read my journey and you see why I can't come closer to you politically. You see my respect for you and I hope that you'll remember that next time you find yourself ready to fire shots across the bow. And for my right-leaning friends, you see how tenuous the connection we have sometimes and I hope you intuit that there are people like me on the other side clinging to ideas they just can't put aside. You persuade no one with vitriol. My advice to everyone is to chill the hell out. Nobody cares that you've collapsed onto your fainting couch in distress. We're all just trying to pay the bills and find someone to make out with. Be idealistic, be persuasive, but above all, be nice, you big oaf.

Today, I took yet another report of a stolen "Fixie" bicycle. For those not in the know, Fixies are the hot new fad in the young adult bicycle world. They are fixed-gear racing bikes (whatever that means) characterized by their vivid, customizable colors. In other words, they go real fast and look freakin' sweet. Like all things that are freakin' sweet, the price can run pretty high - $200-$500, give or take. I know professional grade bikes can run much higher, but in the (poor) community I work in, the market for Fixies seems to be casual teen and twenty-something riders - people not known for their McDuckian vaults of wealth.

Fixies are emblematic of something I've observed frequently in this line of work: the poor are equally conspicuous consumers compared to the wealthy. The term conspicuous consumption comes from a book that, by now, is a household name and surely one of the most memorable books from our childhood: Thorstein Veblen's Theory of the Leisure Class, written in 1899. In the book, Veblen uses the term to refer a behavioral characteristic in the wealthy where they spend their wealth on things meant to be seen or meant to confer higher social status. The economic landscape has changed much since 1899, however, and that behavior has trickled down to even the lowest of the low classes.

It's not just flashy bicycles that I see my poor community flaunting amongst each other. Another popular lookatme in my city are Dr. Dre's Beat Headphones. These are large, stylish headphones with a distinctive design on the earpiece. They don't have much more audio quality than other brands at half the price, and you can spend the same amount ($100-$200) on a pair of ugly but flawless audio quality studio headphones. The only reason to buy Beats is to be seen wearing cool-looking headphones (which I don't deny is a legitimate goal). A pair of Beats goes really well with your brand new iPod (costing twice as much as comparable MP3 players) or your brand new iPhone or HTC Evo (both of which can do the same things as phones a third of their price). For the ladies, you'll want to stow those items in your Coach or Louis Vuitton handbag, which cost approximately ten times as much as equally stylish and functional purses. For men, simply shove them in the pocket of your $300 True Religion jeans (because they won't fit in a $20 pair from Anchor Blue!). Make sure the entire ensemble matches the 27 inch chrome rims on your Escalade!

In all seriousness, I don't begrudge anyone, rich or poor, from wanting to partake in the finer things in life when legally possible. I'm not myself immune to the impulse, even if my taste for flare lies elsewhere (booze). I'm proud to live in a country where the homeless have cell phones, the poor have flat-screen TVs, and middle class fellas like myself can have a glass of 21 year old scotch and pretend we're hedge fund managers. I may have practical objections to someone on food stamps purchasing an Affliction t-shirt, but at some level it's really not my business when people make short-sighted financial decisions. I'm just glad I've never done that...

*ahem*

The problem with conspicuous consumption in poor communities should be obvious: poor communities tend to be high crime communities. Why a teenager in my city would want to be seen walking down the street bedecked in $500 worth of luxury accountrements is beyond me. And yet, for the six and a half years I've been doing this job, not a day goes by that we're not taking reports of people having their iPods, iPhones, Beats, gold chains, GPS nav systems, or their tricked out cars with chrome rims stolen. For the packs of gangsters prowling about, monetary gain is as easy as pulling a knife on some kid broadcasting how much expensive crap he owns.

There's another issue that I find interesting. The whole practice of conspicuous consumption comes from the idea that displaying your wealth will garner the respect and admiration of your peers, much like peacocks poofing up to attract mates. My (admittedly anecdotal) experience serving the community that I do seems to show that this isn't happening. People who have very little aren't impressed by a poor peer flashing a luxury item. At best, this is met with polite envy. At worst, hostility. More than once, I've heard statements like this in the aftermath of a fight: "He thinks I give a shit he showed up in a nice car wearing 7's? Fuck that guy."

It makes sense when you think about it. I think those who have very little expect rich people to have flashy wealth and aren't particularly perturbed when the world works as it should. However, when a fellow struggler suddenly flaunts a little bling, it's irritating. It stands to reason that our distant envy of what the super rich have amplifies into something much more grating when someone at our own level struts around in things we can't have. "Me and him aren't that different, why does he get the nice gear or cool car?" In some ways, I think conspicuous consumption is poorer communities is even that much more confrontational because of what money means when you're struggling to keep your head above water. For myself in the middle class, a monetary hit here or an unexpected expense there is a mild obstacle to navigate. For the poor and very poor, it can be the difference between getting enough to eat, or having the gas to get to work. When I see my peers "waste" money on a luxury, I just shake my head. When a desperate person sees their peers "waste" money, it borders on the atrocious.

This may again sound like I'm denigrating the poor consumer, but on the contrary, I see legitimacy in the practice for this reason: those fighting tooth and nail to just get by need "wins" more than probably anyone else. In my interactions with low income communities, I've seen how just one or two setbacks can set off a chain reaction of loss and devastation. Those of us blessed with wealth or benefactors can weather storms and ride out hard times, but for those hanging by a thread, even a slight breeze can whisper certain death. So, it makes sense to me that a social win such as a conspicuous luxury can be invigorating to an otherwise beaten down soul. Everyone needs to have their mental or psychic energy reserves replenished every now and again. I have the luxury of a beautiful environment, frequent quiet time, and material comforts that act as a salve on my spirit when it's weary. For the person who has to work seven days a week and come home to a depressed community, where is their respite? Where is their renewal?

Perhaps for those in the low income class, partaking in those conspicuous luxuries is a way to feel like their struggle and sacrifice means something. We all know intellectually that putting food on the table and clothes on the kids is the real reward, but there is no glory in being a steady provider. Nobody worships or even looks twice at the manual laborer walking home from his 60th hour at work. Mankind, and men in particular, need glory, need admiration, need to be praised. Never underestimate the resurrection a person can undergo when you look upon their works, nod your head, and say "Nice job". If they can't have any of those things, they at least need to be noticed, and conspicuous consumption accomplishes that, even if the people noticing don't end up respecting them more for it. Since we aren't praising (and are barely noticing) our gardeners, busboys, janitors, gas station attendants, fry cooks, car washers, maids, servers, street sweepers, toll booth clerks, taxi drivers, drywallers, tree trimmers, concrete pourers, or others in the aprestigious class, we probably ought to refrain from judging them when they finance a brand new Mustang all to hell. Let's just be thankful that their convertible or their flat screen gives them enough psychic energy so that we can pay them peanuts to yank a Lovecraftian horror out of our toilet for us lest we sully our precious crystalline fingernails. We wouldn't want to accidentally smudge the BWM we can't afford, now would we...