LONG NIGHTS WITH THE ZENFO PRO: Defying Librarian Stereotypes, One RenFest-Hating Shot at a Time

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- For the record, nobody I hang out with on a regular basis ever calls me The ZenFo Pro.

Hell, I'm lucky if anybody I know even bothers to call me Jason.

The night this photo (at left) was taken, months ago, the women who requested I join them for one of just about every damned shot at a certain Oxford bar simply referred to me as that guy.

According to my staff, colleagues, and friends, there are several others floating around Oxford Fucking Ohio.

Some of the nicknames are flattering; some are probably meant to somehow piss me off.

To many folks, I'm known simply as The Librarian. I'm also known as The Cowboy, Tex, Boots, Drunken Master, Brokeback Librarian, The Motherfucking Asshole Who Slept with My Girlfriend / Ex-girlfriend / Friend's Girlfriend, Professor Punker, Old School, Peaches (no clue on that one), the Hot Librarian, The Chach Hunter, and, of course, That Weird Guy from the Library with the Blog.

But there's one nickname that only friends are allowed to call me here in Oxford, particularly in bars, taverns, or, well, wherever fine libations are served.

Church Lady.

Does the picture above make anybody think of church?

* * * *

Yes, Church Lady.

As in The Church Lady, a recurring Saturday Night Live character from the 80s and 90s.

A buddy of mine gave me that unusual nickname a few months back.

Whenever he thinks of librarians, or people who work in libraries, he usually thinks of Dana Carvey's legendary Bible-thumping, uptight, crotchety prude.

I'm sure the fact that my buddy thinks of Dana Carvey's character as being symbolic of the physical appearance of librarians just pisses the hell out of a lot of folks.

C'mon people. Lighten the fuck up.

Have you ever seen that stupid Librarian Action Figure? The outfits, stiff movements, and glasses are virtually identical. Who the fuck do you think most people think of when they hear the word Librarian? Winston Churchill? Cameron Diaz? Roger Clemens? Betty Paige?

Please.

Give Mr. Carvey's character 700 cats (20 of which are named after Jane Austen characters), a stack of genre fiction on the night stand and an overworked vibrator in a drawer, and, well, you've created the Perfect Librarian Stereotype...

* * * *

This morning, I had one of those oh-so-awkward run-ins with a woman I briefly dated (i.e., a fling) at the grocery store. She was back in town, helping a friend move.

She told me she'd dated another librarian, in the city she currently calls home, a few months ago. It didn't last long, apparently.

Jason, I never thought of you as a librarian. You're more like going home with a cop or a construction worker or something...

...Oh my God. He took me to a RenFest. A RenFest! And he recommended that I dress like an elf or hobbit or some shit. The dude was fucking weird, like serial killer nerd weird...

...I mean, you're weird but not like scary homeless guy weird...

You know, I've only been to one Renaissance Festival, ever.

I ended up puking in a porta-john for 20 minutes. I was seventeen. The bellyful of Thunderbird, combined with an overabundance of guys who reminded me of more obnoxious, armored versions of The Simpsons' Comic Book Guy, drove me to purge away a perfectly good afternoon.

I'm not knocking real-life Comic Book Guys here. Comic book conventions? I can deal with Comic Cons, no problem. Get me into a good debate about the DC Universe, about how Ted Kord was a much better Blue Beetle than either Dan Garrett or the new kid, and I'm set for an afternoon.

Hell, there are more hot women working in comic book stores than in most strip clubs. I quit collecting comic books because, well, I tend to get into quite a bit of trouble when there's a fangirl involved.

But RenFests? Nope. It's psychosomatic.

Fake broadswords and Highlander wannabes? Well, even writing about them now makes my stomach churn.

* * * *

So Friday night, a couple of friends of mine, including the guy who named me Church Lady, turned their garage into a concert venue, a celebration of Oxford Fucking Ohio's biggest holiday - the annual Running (Away) of the Local U. Kiddies.

Two local punk bands, no cover. Enough booze and cheap beer to deliver Boris Yeltsin unto Russian Alcoholic Valhalla in working-class style.

It reminded me of, well, my high school days - a bit of soothing balm for the ol' Quarter-Life Crisis. I'm fairly certain that I was the oldest guy at the party, actually.

With age comes a lower alcohol tolerance and, well, by midnight I was already nursing a pending hangover from earlier in the evening, dulling the pain with a second round of intoxication.

Let's put it this way. I'm going to be 29 next year. I've been attending impromptu garage rock-outs in college towns since I was 13 years old. It is probably not the best idea to leave me alone for too long near the keg.

One of the nasty little reminders that I'm, well, approaching the beginning of my fourth decade on this planet is the fact that my poor ears are a bit sensitive to prolonged concert-volume music. I've already sustained some hearing loss, thanks to my own years playing in various punk and hardcore bands back in the day, so I'm extra careful about spending too much time in small, reverberating pits o' sound.

At one point, I stepped out of the garage to let my ears rest and to get some fresh air. The bands were breathtaking, but the large crowd was downright suffocating.

A pair of intoxicated women huddled together against the building, arguing about whether to continue drinking my friends' free beer or move on to the next party.

I lit a cigarette. One of the women, mid-sentence, turned to me and asked if I'd be willing to bum her a cancer stick. I obliged and, well, being a bit too tipsy to be better behaved, I butted into their conversation. The smoking girl, my tobacco thief, seemed to appreciate the male attention.

"So do you live here?"

"Nope. But I know the hosts. Name's Jason, by the way."

"I'm _______.So what do you do? Do you go here?"

"Nope. I'm a librarian."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yep."

"Nuh-uh. Where?"

"______ Library."

"Nuh-uh. You're too young."

"How old do you think I am?"

"Um... 23?"

Bless you, my child. Nice to know that I won't be mistaken for a stupid librarian action figure anytime in the near future.

* * * *

I was almost willing to forgive the fact that one of her friends ended up puking all over me and one of the party's hosts.

Definitely not the kind of women I'd ever allow to call me Church Lady, much less allow the chance to develop their own pet names in more, er, intimate settings.

Ugh. Regurgitated corn and rum. My jeans were covered in the stuff. I simply scraped the kernels off with a stick and kept on going.

The smell reminded me of that RenFest porta-john. And I haven't even seen the bottom of a bottle of Thunderbird in more than a decade.

* * * *

I managed to make my way home by four o'clock in the morning. I grabbed a quick slice of cold pita bread from the fridge, put some Magic Sam on the stereo, and tossed my vomit-covered jeans in the shower to further ripen.

I stretched out, butt-naked on the bed, reading the same line from Ginsberg's "Howl" over and over until I finally crashed:

...they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy...

No, I wasn't thinking about something literary or snobbishly intelligent.

I was thinking about the Orioles being in second place in the American League East, despite going winless against Oakland and Boston last week. I was hoping, somewhere in my half-sober superstitious state, that somehow reading the line over and over, here in Ohio, would jinx Cleveland for the weekend series.

* * * *

I think I passed out at five or five-thirty. I awoke at 9:30, fight as a fiddle, with only the smell of corn and rum soup to remind me of the previous night.

The compact disc changer had played through all five CDs in the stereo - the sounds of Tom Waits, Nick Cave, the Wu-Tang Clan, KMFDM, and, of course, Magic Sam drifting through the apartment.

Well now ...

Isn't that special?

- # # # -

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: ...And then One Sunny Day in the Park, I Dreamt of Ex-Cons, Cheap Beer, and Life's Hard Lessons

"I wear my trousers rolled. Karma is a word. There goes Madrid."

- William S. Burroughs,
The Retreat Diaries, 1976.

"Me carrying a briefcase is like a hot dog wearing earrings."

- George "Sparky" Anderson,
legendary baseball manager, date unknown.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- She just stood there, staring.

Do you like Fox and the Hound 2? I like it.

I thought she was talking to someone else, so I ignored the disruption.

And then I felt a tiny, sandaled foot kick my shoulder. There would be no ignoring this little girl of maybe six or seven years old.

Hey mister, do you like Fox and the Hound 2? I watched it. My mom said I can watch it after church tomorrow. Do you like it?

I'd just finished lunch. I was sprawled out in the middle of Oxford's Martin Luther King Park, soaking up the April sun like some rodent-stuffed copperhead along a North Carolina highway, reading through the first few chapters of Edward Bunker's The Animal Factory.

Why, I've never seen it, chica. Saw the first one when I was your age, though.

You'd like it.

I probably would.

Whatcha reading?

A book.

Does it have horses in it? I like horses. Princesses? Whatcha reading? Is it good?

I looked up at the child. She stood there, tugging at her dress, waiting for an answer.

* * * *

The book had been recommended to me years ago, by the father of one of the kids I used to mentor back in California.

"Jack" was an ex-con who'd done hard time in places like San Quentin and Soledad. Hardened by more than three decades of life in and out of correctional facilities, Jack lived the life of a retired biker outlaw and every inch of his burly frame showed it.

"Jack's" body was covered with the indigo-and-black artwork of his criminal past. Iron crosses and skeletons were intermingled amongst the names of his former biker buddies and ex-girlfriends, the names of dead Chicanos and other murdered friends. He had an image of the mother of his youngest children tattooed across his chest - a large-breasted, devil-horned caricature of the only "Old Lady" he claimed to have ever loved.

He had his share of unintentional scars, too. Ones earned in prison yard wars and in countless bar fights. He lost his hearing to a gunshot, almost lost a lung to a knife fight.

"Jack" was, and still is, one of the most interesting ex-cons I've ever met. And I've met a lot of ex-cons.

Hell, I've even dated a few female ones, myself.

* * * *

I remember sitting in his half-rotten trailer, at the end of a Central Coast box canyon in the middle of fucking nowhere, drinking way too much warm beer and discussing his youngest son's potential.

Every once and a while, the fifty-ish ex-con's 19-year-old girlfriend, some runaway from some affluent Sacramento neighborhood, would walk into the room, topless, and sit on "Jack's" lap. She'd play with his beard and he'd play with her nipple rings. "Jack," however, remained completely focused on the conversation at hand.

Me? In all honesty, I was fascinated by the fact that this old man, built like a tanned Okie Buddha, teeth missing and scarred, had no problem whatsoever with his rather large-breasted girlfriend dancing around the house topless, with a stranger present.

I was pressing for him to talk his son into entering an alternative high school program, to get an education beyond tenth grade. "Joe" was bright, an avid reader of books, a kid who read the newspaper daily. He wrote beautiful poetry on just about anything that would hold ink.

But I'd hit a dead end. The kid had caught a case for shoplifting, made bail, and then disappeared. "Joe" was facing the possibility of returning to California's notorious juvenile corrections system for a fourth time. He'd quit writing because of his girlfriend, a meth addict. He'd quit reading, even quit joining me for weekly games of chess.

Jack was my last hope.

* * * *

"Joe" was running with a few of his former gang colleagues again, too.

Earlier, one of those gang members had tried to jump me as I left a bar one night. Thinking himself some pubescent assassin, the kid had followed me down a dark side street. He made the mistake of trying to rush me from behind - Helen Keller would've heard the sound of his baggy jeans flopping in the breeze.

That kid ended up with my boot dug into the back of his skull and with a "gat" (an empty beer bottle, improvised) pushed against his spine. The poor bastard wept into the asphalt, caught off-guard by the fact that, well, I wasn't the schoolboy nerd motherfucker he'd thought, that I wasn't going to tolerate a 16-year-old waving a knife at me in the parking lot of my own radio station.

When I smelled shit, indicating that I'd, well, made my point, I let the kid go. Didn't bother calling the cops.

The motivation behind the attempted assault?

Well, some folks just don't like people who try to keep good kids - kids who didn't catch the same breaks they did when they were little hoodlums - from becoming just another statistic in some state agency database.

* * * *

So I tracked down "Jack." "Joe" loved his father more than anything, more than life itself. And, from what I knew, he was the only person Joe looked up to, not only as a father, but as a bona fide badass - he had more than just the mere influence of a parent.

After "Joe's" mother died, the System, in its infinitely fucked-up bureaucratic wisdom, made "Jack's" children wards of the state. He wasn't in any position, as an ex-con on Disability and welfare, to raise his own children, according to that System.

Jack readily admitted that he couldn't raise them and, well, the life of a biker ain't pretty. But he did love his children - loved them more than life itself. He'd do whatever it took to insure that they lived a better life than he had.

Jack's influence over Joe's life was tremendous. He wrote numerous poems about the times his mom would drive him up to prison to visit "Pops," about watching his dad hunt for work after getting paroled, about seeing his dad cry when the social worker shipped the kids off to foster care and group homes, tearing a family apart for "their own good."

"Jack" and I sat in the kitchenette of his mobile home, talking for hours about everything under the sun. He was a good-natured man, highly intelligent, just like his son. And he himself had once thought about becoming a poet and, off and on, had even tried his hand at writing country music akin to that of his hero, Merle Haggard.

At one point, as we nursed our sixer of cheap beer, Jack decided he wanted to show me his most prized possession. He walked me out to a small shed behind the trailer.

The shed was padlocked, to keep his "outlaw buddies" from vandalizing his treasures during their occasional visits and subsequent drinking binges. Inside, rows of books lined the walls of "Jack's" own personal, makeshift library. A comfortable, half-busted couch and an old wire spool were the only other treasures "Jack" kept locked up in his vault.

While in prison, the ex-con explained, he'd learned to appreciate a good book. They kept him out of trouble, just like the pictures his kids drew for him helped him stay sane while in prison.

On the ceiling, stapled to the particle board, were all of his children's crayon drawings, the letters sent to him by relatives, and a picture of actor Danny Trejo.

Jack claimed to have met Trejo while the two of them were incarcerated together. The legendary Mexican-American thespian was another one of Jack's heroes, his muse for living a fairly straight edge life.

Trejo, a man who I've also met briefly, happens to be one of my favorite character actors.

Jack had built his library as a result of his having done so much hard time over the course of his adult life. Each time he'd complete a sentence or get early release, he'd leave with dozens of books. And each time, he'd return home, shove them under the bed, and forget about them. He'd screw up again, end up back doing more time. And then he'd remember his favorite reads and restart the twisted cycle, collecting whatever books he could find.

The last time Jack finished a sentence, he came home and didn't shove the books under the bed. Instead, he turned an old tool shed into his own personal monument to lifelong learning.

He'd hoped to leave the books to his children one day. Jack built his "library" as a way to encourage them to read, as a way to encourage himself to read, to make time for something so basic as the freedom to learn independently in a world without razor wire and armed guards.

* * * *

All of his children were avid readers, a thousand times more literate than I'll ever be. But "Joe" was Jack's pride and joy, his gifted one.

I could tell from his face, as I explained his son's return to the bad side of life, that each word out of my mouth caused him great pain.

There was, sadly, nothing Jack could do to help his own son. The two of them had gotten into a fistfight the last time they'd seen each other. Jack, drug-free for more than a decade, wouldn't let Joe's girlfriend smoke pot in the house nor let them fuck like rabbits in the guest room. Joe, who I learned was also using again, apparently swung first, only to have his father knock him out cold.

Jack told me, as we sat on his couch, not to worry about any further risk of gang retaliation. He gave me the number of some guy named Reggie, some really bad motherfucker I was supposed to call should I ever have another encounter. Fortunately, I never had a reason to call that number.

He also advised me to give up on his son. I'd done my best, he told me, but some kids just need to learn for themselves. Maybe going to jail, maybe doing some hard time of his own, would help him. One could only do so much.

We sat on that busted old couch for another couple of hours, talking. His girlfriend, still topless, kept bringing us more beer and, for some reason, giggling at the sight of two men getting drunk in a shed/library, discussing Walt Whitman, Alex Haley, and Sophocles' motherfuckin' Oedipus plays.

Fun night.

* * * *

So I gave up, walked away from a kid I'd spent so much time and energy trying to help.

I never saw "Joe" or "Jack" ever again.

But, according to rumor, "Joe" ended up going back into the juvenile system, ended up continuing his criminal career as an adult, working his way through the dozen or so correctional facilities that his father had done time in before him.

I sometimes wonder if Jack, the Prodigal Father, ever sends his son any good books to read.

* * * *

For some reason, I remembered "Jack's" book recommendation last week. Just popped into my head during a meeting at work, pulled from the asscrack of my memory like a cheap pair of underwear.

So I walked to work Saturday morning, located a copy of The Animal Factory in my library's collections, and set about finding a nice, quiet place to begin reading. I grabbed a bite to eat and headed to the nearest park.

Reading the first few chapters, I realized instantly why "Jack" had recommended it. Not only does Bunker do an amazing job of painting a vivid portrait of life in a hardcore California prison; he also uses fictionalized narrative to paint a portrait of life in the Q.

I guess having a former San Quentin inmate recommend a book by another former Q. inmate isn't necessarily a bad thing, really.

I can't help but wonder if "Jack's" son had read the book, if he would even be allowed to read such a book, while doing time...

* * * *

The little girl waited for my answers to her questions.

I didn't really have any to give. I stumbled over my words, not wanting to be accused of exposing some stranger's kid to vile sorts of things.

If I told her the title of the book, she'd have no frame of reference - that would lead to a child's questions about the subject matter, the reason I was reading such a book, and the like. She'd think of farm animals, of cute little piggies and books like Charlotte's Web.

And I don't do cop-out answers, either, those "you're too young to understand" kinds of answers to children's questions.

Once, a friend's teenage daughter asked me about why he and his girlfriend, one of her teachers, locked the door to the bedroom at night. Without thinking, I blurted out a rather haphazard explanation of the Art of Fucking Your Girlfriend - when you have a boisterous little girl who has no problem walking into, say, a bedroom without knocking.

The friend understood, even thought it was funny, especially given the fact that his daughter doesn't let him use the word "fuck" in the house. His girlfriend, however, was not amused.

No need for a repeat performance of that, especially here in Busted Ass Buckle of the Bible Belt, Ohio.

No matter how I dodged the question, the young child in the park asked more questions - harder questions. Like an angel of mercy, the girl's mother came for the child.

She apologized, said she hoped her daughter hadn't been too much of a pain in my You-Know-What. As the woman walked away with her daughter, I pondered the innocence behind the use of the phrase You-Know-What in polite conversation.

I wondered how an Ohio child would interpret my reading a book about life in one of the world's most violent prisons, how someone who knew a world where parents took them to church and let them watch movies like The Fox and the Hound 2 would comprehend such an act of literacy, right here in Oxford Fucking Ohio.

It's almost obscenity.

Hopefully, the girl will never have such a desire to read such a book for such a personal reason. The world needs more inquisitive children wandering through parks and asking questions, children who grow up innocent and intelligent, and fewer children who grow up to be hardened criminals.

It seems so simple, doesn't it?

- # # # -

AN EDUCATION COVERED IN BLOOD: Answering Questions That Shouldn't Need To Be Asked...

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

- Wilfred Owen, "Anthem for Doomed Youth," 1917

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) - It was an Amtrak operator who first discovered the girl's body, limp alongside the bed of the train tracks early Saturday morning.

The girl, according to what little is known, had been drunk and abandoned by friends to the unseasonably cold Ohio night. No one will ever know why, exactly, the 19-year-old was wandering the streets alone, why she was wandering the streets alone at night, about a mile from her campus dorm room.

Her blood alcohol level, according to local authorities, hovered somewhere near twice the legal limit, somewhere above 0.229 percent. Under Ohio law, 0.08 percent is considered legally impaired.

Her hands were covered in black exes and other bar markings, indicating that she was a minor. Though it's now known that she'd been drinking at a house party prior to hitting the Uptown district, it's highly unlikely that she didn't find some way of obtaining booze while at the bars.

The driver of the southbound CSX train didn't even realize that he'd hit anything when he was notified in nearby Hamilton. His locomotive had passed through Oxford 90 minutes prior to the Amtrak train.

Sometime in the next week, the family of a 19-year-old Speech Pathology major will bury their daughter in Strongsville, a suburban Cleveland city of almost 44,000 residents.

Beth was in her first year at the Local U. She'd transferred earlier in the year. Her Facebook profile picture was one of a smiling, happy girl, embracing some other smiling, happy girl.

I teared up up looking at the face of yet another dead college student.

* * * *

I've seen many dead college students over the course of my short life.

I've seen the gleeful face of a murdered Wyoming student plastered across the television screen, a young man executed for simply being open about his sexuality. At Cal Poly, as an undergrad and as a reporter, I covered the kidnappings, torture and deaths of two classmates.

And I still don't talk much about the shooting at Northern Colorado during my first ol' college try, the one where my friends and I sat in a dining hall and watched the CNN footage of a madman shooting from the windows until he was finally brought down by a police sniper.

Many people throw out completely jingoistic garbage about the College Experience.

Going to college is the only way to succeed in America, going to the right school can get you that dream job, or a college education will improve your life, help you make friends, help you grow into a responsible adult.

Those people, in their over-zealousness, often forget to explain the darker side. Maybe they don't know or maybe they just don't care.

Going to college, in the United States, can get you killed.

* * * *

In Blacksburg, they're mourning the loss of their fallen comrades, too. But it's not merely a young girl who wandered in front of a trail on a cold night, not merely an accident.

Thirty-three dead. Students and faculty, noted scholars and budding, bright young minds.

According to official accounts, there was only one gunman, one very angry, disturbed young man - he, too, is one of the dead students who will never see another graduation day.

Virginia Tech now joins a solemn club within higher education. Like Kent State and the University of Texas, like Jackson State and Cal State Fullerton, another university will bury its butchered scholars - its aspiring musicians, its writers, its poets and scientists.

No championship football season, no amount of Nobel Prizes or Rhodes Scholarships, will replace what that university lost on that cold Monday in April. None of those things have ever, after all, resurrected the dead.

A phantom stain will forever haunt its campus, the imaginary smell of blood hovering above its classrooms and dormitories. And no amount of scrubbing, no amount of vigils, memorials, or university committees will ever remove that, no amount of administrative or political whitewashing will ever erase that from the collective memory of those who survived.

* * * *

Already, the finger-pointing and politicization has begun about what happened in that quiet Appalachian town this week, the analysts and pundits spouting off about every scapegoat imaginable:

It's the guns. No wait! It's the meds the kid was taking, the failure of the psychologists. I've got it! It's another dangerous foreigner. No, no, no - listen to me! My causes are next! It's the lack of God in this country! We need prayer!

We need better campus police! It's the NeoCons, the Liberals, the President! The War in Iraq caused this! Let us protest...yes, a protest will save us!

Absalom, Absalom! Let us find answers quickly, my Countrymen! The pain is too much! Our children are dead, and we must assign blame...

And they will offer every theory imaginable, to sell their books, to move their causes forward, to maybe, possibly, legitimately do some good. But they will never provide any answers. And we'll all chose sides, divvy up our opinions like vultures along a roadside, picking and choosing theories based on how secure and comfortable they leave each of us feeling.

No one will ever know, truly, what went through a lonely South Korean kid's mind before he put a bullet through it, ending his rampage through Blacksburg.

And no one, here, in Oxford, will ever really know why that 19-year-old girl ended up in front of that CSX freight train, either.

Of course, her death won't make the national or international headlines. Death, in the press, is measured in terms of spent ammunition and body counts.

Ask the analysts.

* * * *

No one should even try to fool themselves into thinking that America's college campuses are the literal ivory towers they sometimes appear to be. There is no sanctuary from the cold reality of our world, not in Blacksburg and not in Oxford.

Senseless death is just as much a part of the college experience, for way too many campuses, as overpriced textbooks and cheap-tasting dining hall food. Estimates place alcohol-related campus fatalities at roughly 1,500 per year. According to the Centers for Disease Control, as many as 24,000 attempt suicide each year - the equivalent, roughly, of the entire campus population of the Local U., including faculty and staff - and another 1,100 succeed where the 24,000 thankfully failed.

We are, and will probably continue, to be a violent culture, societally schizophrenic in how we choose to look at how we live, and why we make the choices we do, and why certain things happen to good and bad people alike.

In America, on its pristine college campuses and in its libraries, through our literature and film, we fight a war as old as humanity itself, a war within ourselves, a war to both love and despise thy neighbor, a war to understand life and death from mortal coil.

Most importantly, we fight our own battles, daily, to simply find comfort in the answer to the Question Why?.

Our war, our wretched internal cultural war full of moral relativity and World Superpower pragmatism and self-pandering, never reaches its zenith and never will.

One cannot win any war against a mirror reflection, an inverse version of one's self, revealing all of the flaws one refuses, through ignorance or denial, to even acknowledge. There must first be acceptance of what answers lie beneath the glass, the things we fear or are afraid to admit to ourselves.

Why? questions are never answered simply by declaration. The why? questions must be thought about first, and then asked.

Why? questions, in Blacksburg and here, offer no easy answers. But the more we think about them, the more we ponder holistically, asking before answering, the more solutions to problems we may be able to unearth.

There are no experts of human nature better at answering these types of questions than ourselves, and that responsibility falls squarely on the shoulders of each and every one of us. It is our duty, as the living, to ask questions for the dead, to find education beyond Finals Weeks, nostalgic alumni memories, beyond everything and anything that could possibly be taught in a classroom.

That is what college students are supposed to learn in college - the ability to think, to ask, and to answer. They shouldn't have to learn, in a civilized world, how to lay wreaths on the headstones of peers, to look for shelter at the sound of gunshots.

Maybe, one day, we can live in a world, or can at least be able to send children to college, without worrying about that.

* * * *

What candles may be held to speed them all?

There aren't enough candles in all the world.

- # # # -

SO IT GOES: The Deeper One Digs into the Local Higher Education Underground, The More Dirt One Exposes to the Sky

We're terrible animals. I think that the Earth's immune system is trying to get rid of us, as well it should.

- KURT VONNEGUT (1922-2007),
From his appearance on The Daily Show, 2005

This should come as a shock no one, especially people who frequent this site, but Oxford Fucking Ohio has more than just a few problems when it comes to Local U. student behavior.

People throughout the region, those familiar with this area, know the reputation, or have heard tales from others about some of the downright nucking futs insanity this community experiences from, oh, late August through May each year.

I'm always fascinated when random strangers feel the need to walk up to me in a bar or at work, just to let me know how bad I apparently make Local U. students look, or how I should be ashamed to post what I do about my experiences in Oxford. It's happened twice in the past week.

Sure, the Local U.'s a Public Ivy, with several nationally recognized academic programs. It even produced a U.S. president - albeit one that only History teachers and Jeopardy! junkies seem to be able to remember.

And sure, the student body supposedly represents the best and brightest in the region. Local U. students often pride themselves in their work ethic. The rural environs surrounding the campus, its virtual isolation from the hustle and bustle of 21st century life, offers wonderful opportunities for dedicated students to concentrate on their studies with minimal disruption.

But in terms of behavior outside of the classroom? Off-campus?

* * * *

Just imagine taking some of the wealthiest 18-22 year-olds in the Midwest, the majority of whom seem to come from extremely sheltered backgrounds, and then setting them loose on a college town that offers very few extracurricular activities beyond binge drinking and substance abuse.

Now subtract several key factors that normally help regulate student behavior in most college towns. Outside of the town's full-time, non-student population, socioeconomic diversity is virtually nonexistent. The once healthy campus/community relationship has cooled to the point of almost outright animosity, thanks in part to a growing disparity between "Townie" living standards (where nearly one in five children and nearly one in 10 seniors live at or below the poverty line) and that of the students.

The once vibrant local music scene has only recently begun to show signs of resurrection, after almost a decades' worth of third-rate frat rock, shitty cover bands, and preppy gated- community- friendly folk performers. Major acts stop by maybe a handful of times year, the Local U.'s attempt to expose students to spoken word, hip-hop, musical theatre, and other performing arts. Many of the normal "College Radio," avant-garde types, the kinds of acts that filled the bars and clubs here throughout the 70s and 80s, no longer play this town because of its reputation as a potential career-killer.

And more and more faculty and staff are choosing to endure commutes from larger metropolitan areas. After-hours class meetings at local pubs and coffee shops, cookouts at faculty residences, and even the occasional impromptu late-night chat over grades, what many Higher Ed analysts call informal learning opportunities, have virtually ceased to exist in some academic disciplines.

Issues? Yeah, Oxford has issues with a capital I. A bloated cost of living, a shrinking middle-class population base, and the lack of sustainable cultural outlets are just the tip of the iceberg.

* * * *

We're not talking Animal House. We're talking Lord of the Flies here. Imagine 15,000 college kids roaming the streets, with only a handful of professional, mature adults to serve as role models.

The fact that I'm considered by some folks locally, because of this blog, to be a community leader scares the living shit out of me. Being the Dangerous Librarian? No problem. But to be considered one of the Old Farts because I have a friggin' blog and I'm old enough to legally drink? Now that's frightening.

The Local U. student culture seems to be moving closer to the day when its poor Piggys get brained with a rock, a frightening future where the idea of College Life becomes more akin to a Hitler Youth rally than the typical American undergrad experience, where conformity becomes the only fashion accessory legally allowed.

Imagine a college town where nights are ruled by a Gen Y version of Jack and the Choirboys, one where Oxford residents over the age of 30 generally lock themselves in their own homes after ten on the weekends, surrendering their community to the popped-collar J. Crew U. hordes bound for evenings filled with unreported sexual assaults and vomited wastes of perfectly good beer.

* * * *

Last week, a colleague made an interesting comment about this ol' blog. He jokingly expressed concern that I may one day have an Imus Moment. We had a good laugh over it, actually.

Anyone who works here long enough, who lives here long enough, knows that there's no need to wait for me to put something completely insane online for public consumption.

Why bother? The local web is already filled with Local U. versions of The Imus Moment.

I found an ex's blog a few months ago, while randomly Googling names out of boredom. On her blog, she discusses things such as her current drug-consumption habits, break-ups and fights that involve real names, and other things. I hit up MySpace and found that there are numerous students who feel the need to share tips on how to sneak into bars, which sororities are the sluttiest, and who document various criminal activities.

I've even been experimenting with FaceBook. You wouldn't believe how many folks post completely inappropriate images in public profiles, for the world to access. I found out that a woman who hit on me a few months back, a woman who claimed to be a 23-year-old grad student, was actually a 19-year-old with a great fake I.D.

Stephan!e? One of my fellow OxBloggers? Free Rad!cal Rightings is by far the best student Blogger site out there. She deals with socially conscious activism, her quest to graduate, and her inability to remember to do her taxes.

See, she's responsible with her online content. But there are others... dear lord, the others...

* * * *

And then, of course, there's the electronic Pandora's Box, that pesky YouTube/Google Video monster.

Ever wondered what life in Oxford actually looks like? Or what kinds of things go on here that I only skim over in posts, the kinds of worship found only in the Cathedral of the Local Higher Education Underground?

Take a look at what I found, what anybody can find, when looking for information on the local college scene:


THE UN-RECRUITMENT VIDEO:

TheU.Com, a company that specializes in producing videos that explore campus life, managed to capture just about negative stereotype associated with the Local U.

I should mention that this video has spawned several dorm room drinking games, including "Spot the Minority" and "Count the Pastel Polos."


GREEN BEER DAY AND STUPIDITY:

I probably get more negative feedback for calling Green Beer Day America's Dumbest College Tradition than I do from almost any other post.

My favorite IM this year? "Fukin faggot liberal. go eat you fukin tofu hippy . ill be fukin hotties at lotties on GBD."

I feel sorry for whatever hotties that guy was supposedly fukin. Wonder if he's one of the guys fighting at the end of this clip?


NANCY PELOSI & THE FIGHTIN' POLITICOS:

What happens when a Left-leaning student and a Right-leaning student have a disagreement while in Uptown Oxford after dark?

The answer has now been captured on film.

I have yet, however, to witness two students actually sustain an intellectual debate over just a few drinks in Uptown Oxford.

And who the hell yells Fuck Nancy Pelosi as a rallying cry, anyway?

* * * *

Welcome to Oxford Fucking Ohio, population 21,000, 15,000 of which are Local U. undergrads, bored shitless and prone to some of the strangest behaviors known to Man.

It's not their fault, really. Idle hands are indeed the tools of the Devil.

Actually, I think Beelzebub lives down the street. He's egging on a group of guys in an attempt to turn a friendly game of Edward Forty-Hands into the first-ever game of Double SoCo Hands. And I've heard Mephistopheles just applied for a liquor license, as he's planning on opening a college bar called Roofies Pub - it'd be a big hit with certain groups of guys.

Satan? He just started his first-ever Religious Right- influenced, emo/punk record label in some dorm room, signing bands with names like Jesus Built my Fauxhawk, The Falwell Five, and Sad Puppies Get the Girl to, like, Make Out with You.

And I'm pretty sure the Antichrist spends his days hanging out at the ZenFo Library, teaching courses on the Art of Facebook Stalking.

Dear God.

I'm actually starting to sound like a responsible, rational community leader.

I think I need a drink. And a cigarette. Maybe cyanide.

# # #

SO WHAT DOES POVERTY TASTE LIKE? A Sandwich, A Flashback, and Reflections on a Sadistic America

I've got a strong mind that doesn't have to be spoon-fed,
And I can read what doesn't have to be read...

-Revealed by the Prophet MC Serch, 3rd Bass,
From the epic poem, "Pop Goes the Weasel" [VIDEO],
Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-One, Anno Domini

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I stared down at my dinner plate, the startling revelation stripping me of my appetite as quickly as dysentery.

Before me lay a wonderful feast of a meal. The flatbread was moist and green with baked-in herbal goodness, the turkey covered in hummus and horseradish, the cheese sliced and fresh from the pre-sliced package.

I froze as I reached inside the bag of whitish, vitamin-filled seedlings, a strange sensation staying my hand from withdrawing the plant life.

* * * *

I flashed back to when I was a boy, back in rural Virginia, sitting on the porch of a childhood friend's family home, a four-room clapboard shack of a place, home to two parents, a grandmother, and five children.

You know, back in the ancient times, the Dark Ages. 1986, to be exact. Back when the cool kids wore red pleather jackets covered in zippers, while the rest of us waited for grunge to make our thrift-store flannel shirts cool again.

My friend and I sat on the porch, gnawing on leftover fried chicken and dry buttermilk biscuits smothered in melted WIC cheese. We split a warm can of Dr. Chek cola.

My friend's dad worked on a tobacco and soybean farm. Their entire family lived off maybe $500 a month. Without thinking twice about it, my friend's mother fed one more child than she could really afford to feed.

And it was one of the best meals I've ever had, sitting on that porch in Prince Edward County, Virginia, soaked in sweat from riding my bike all morning, savoring every bite taken as crickets chirped under the house, as the blacksnakes baked on the gravel county road.

I've dined in some of the finest restaurants in America. Emeril Lagasse's NOLA? I recommend the hickory-roasted duck. If you're ever in the Twin Cities, give the Loring Pasta Bar a try. Masa's is a must for any visit to San Francisco - great vegetarian menu. And the Tobacco Company's Escargot Rockefeller Stuffed Mushrooms remains the best example of Nouveau Southern cuisine to ever cross my lips.

But very few meals will ever top that one back in rural Virginia, the one given freely by a family that could barely afford to keep their electricity turned on or their rusted-out Olds Cutlass running.

* * * *

I slowly, cautiously, pulled a handful of sprouts from the package, careful not to waste even one sprig of the crisp, fresh greens.

Where I grew up, in red-clay poor Virginia, most people will never be able to afford such luxuries. Hell, there are folks who'll never see one lick of health insurance, will never have the opportunity to even complain about a dental plan. Think they're worried about additive-free food?

Right now, there are 14-year-old single moms who are the children of single moms that I went to school with, trying to split six bucks between diapers and food, trying to figure out the bullshit government assistance paperwork while (hopefully) trying to finish high school, too.

And I just whipped up a sandwich with a street value of more than eight bucks, one meal for one person.

Stupid fucking Conscience. Some nights, when I'm alone, it speaks the loudest.

* * * *

Back in the early 1980s, back before my mother went back to work after my sister was born, (my dad's factory job paid a whopping $800 per month, before taxes, which paid our portion of the farm expenses and kept food on the table), our family dinners consisted of cuisine that would send your average health nut running for the nearest treadmill.

Fatty, cheap pork chops, canned store-brand peas, and Top Ramen. Chopped Red Dye No. 4 colored wieners, stewed in pots full of generic, white-package Mac and Cheese.

My aunt made the world's best grilled WIC cheese and onion sandwiches, served with a dab of mustard and handfuls of deep-fried, trans-fat filled goodness from 99-cent family-size bags of cheese doodles. I had a distant relative who can make even the greasiest squirrel or gamiest opossum taste better than even the most expensive cuts of meat. The secret, of course, was in the sauce - Thrifty Made ketchup, a splash of vinegar, and about three pounds of salted lard and butter.

You know, it's a funny thing, poverty in America.

The United States is, in many ways, a sadistic society, a nation so twisted that its poorest citizens are made fat, and eventually killed, by a cornucopia of cheap foodstuff with barely enough nutritional value to be called food, while its wealthiest citizens are the only ones able to afford things like fresh produce, minimally-processed meats, and chemical-free cuisine.

Only in America do the poor get fat because they can't afford to eat like the rich. Only in America do the rich do terrible things to themselves to look famished, while the poorest folks are encouraged, through slick marketing and product placement, to Super-Size and Go-Large everything.

In other nations, poverty is marked by starvation or malnutrition. In the U.S.? poverty is measured, health-wise, in terms of morbid obesity and heart attacks.

* * * *

It wasn't the random flashback alone that disrupted my otherwise peaceful supper.

It was something that happened here in Oxford recently, while shopping at the local grocery store, that turned a simple meal and reflection into a painful, almost nauseating experience.

A group of young, affluent women - local undergraduates - had been shopping in the organic aisle next to me, buying some of the same foodstuff I was purchasing.

A very large woman (easily more than 500 pounds) was trying to make her way down the same aisle with a shopping cart full of all sorts of clearance and discounted items, mostly potato chips, soft drinks, fatty cuts of beef, and economy jars of mayonnaise and store-brand peanut butter. The woman had five young children with her, all overweight.

The clothes the family wore were old and stained, clearly hand-me-downs or yard sale finds. One of the kids, a cherubic blond boy, sported an Tupac Shakur tee-shirt from the mid-1990s, an adult shirt that stretched tight across his large preteen frame.

The woman seemed very self-conscious about her weight, as she was wider than her shopping cart, apologizing numerous times for having to pass through the usually not-so-tight aisle.

* * * *

After the woman passed, I returned to my shopping. The young, affluent, dangerously thin college students, however, were whispering and laughing to themselves.

"Can you believe somebody fucked that thing? Oh my God, if I looked like that, I'd shoot myself."

"Did you see that little boy? Like, talk about trailer trash."

"See Becky, I told you they had wiggers here. Fat ones."

It was the wigger comment that drove me to, well, force my way into their conversation. I'd had enough, really.

"Don't ya'll skinny-ass bitches have somewhere else to be? Seriously, you ain't all that, especially you with the buck teeth. You shouldn't talk. I didn't know Mr. Ed had a kid.

"And you? Who are you? I've seen better tits on goats. And what is that on your lip? You might want to wax that shit. You look like Hitler in drag..."

I lit 'em up. We're talking Old School snappin'. Haven't laid the verbal smackdown like that in years. Rusty, but I think each scathing remark was dead-on in terms of hitting its target.

Don't ever, EVER make fun of poor people around me. I was a big kid myself, too, and, well, being one of the very few white kids to graduate from a successfully integrated, ethnically diverse Brown v. Board public high school, I don't take kindly to the use of the word wigger.

The women just stood there, jaws maybe three inches from the floor. I thought one of the women was going to cry. I didn't care.

You see, people who view themselves as somehow perfect don't deal too well with the idea of imperfection. As long as there's an us and a them, there's aways a latent fear, some insult that tears deep into the psyche.

Why is it the self-described pretty people just can't take their own imperfections being exposed, but seem so quick to point out the imperfections of others? Do they not know it works both ways, that there's no such thing as perfect or universal prettiness?

* * * *

I managed to choke down my overpriced, homemade sandwich. Memories of my childhood and of recent experiences may have stripped my appetite, but my Conscience wouldn't let me walk away from it.

If you make a sandwich, even an eight-dollar sandwich, you'd better be willing to eat it, especially if you know what poverty really tastes like in Rural America.

Cause' I keep lookin' and huntin' just like a lion,
Let the suckas know that it's them that'll be dyin',
I show no remorse to the source of the tales,
And if they yell, then the hungry better battle...

- Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E., in the Temple of the Faith No More,
"Just Another Victim," [VIDEO],
From the Judgment Night talking picture soundtrack,
Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Three, Anno Domini

# # #

GOD LOVES INTELLECTUAL FREEDOM:An Easter Message from the ZenFo Pro

- CONTINUE READING -

THE OXFORD (FUCKING OHIO) DICTIONARY OF QUOTATIONS: Of Barbers, Your Mom as Deep Thought, and Other Strange Things...

Son, now don't be embarrassed when I say this, but I know Hamilton Hash Marks when I see 'em. Back in '38, before the war, my best girl at the time used to leave teeth marks all over my body when we'd go out for a malt and a movie. She had a hell of a bite, son, whoever she was.

- The ZenFo Pro Barber, who from now on
will be referred to as WWII Vet Yoda.

Er, yeah. The whole swearing off women thing
went out the window last weekend...

* * * *

I, like, ate this chick out for, like, five minutes, and she still wouldn't let me give her the bone, dog.

- Local U. undergrad on his cell, overheard while
walking home from the bars this weekend.

* * * *

Your mom's a college campus.

- Not-So-Chinese Philosopher Drinking Buddy,
sharing his Koan of Higher Education Understanding.

* * * *

WHITE GIRL TERRORISM.

- Graffiti common throughout Oxford, considered by many residents to be one of the dumbest examples of tagging ever shared with the world.

Now this is talent...

* * * *

I'm an educated gay man. I've never understood why people always seem shocked to learn that, yes, gay sex involves anal intercourse, or that straight people also enjoy it. What do they think happens when two gay men hop into bed together? We lay in bed, speaking with lisps and talking about fashion? Or that my partner and I cuddle while I'm grading papers? Please.

- Via offline IM, from a highly educated gay man.

* * * *

Baseball hates me. The feeling's mutual, really.

- Esteemed colleague, coding genius, and all-around nice guy, over way too many drinks last night.

* * * *

Look, sex is meant to be fun and talking dirty has existed since mankind first discovered that sex was fun. Women do it. Men do it. Advocating policies that discourage open, honest discussions reflective of all viewpoints boils down to advocating censorship. And censorship is much more harmful to college students than saying "fuck" on a blog...

- The ZenFo Pro, offline, as part of a panel discussion
at an undisclosed university months ago.
(Not going in the C.V., but thanks, ladies, for the invite.)

* * * *

If Jesus could carry the cross to His own execution, I think you all should be able to make it to class after Good Friday Mass...

- An instructor, reportedly reminding his students that the the Local U. is indeed a secular, state-funded institution, and, well, it's kinda dumb to argue with a former Catholic over canceling classes.

* * * *

Holy buttfuck assmonkeys! Dude, I just deleted my fucking paper!

- Local U. student, who apparently forgot
that good information management includes
backing up data constantly.

* * * *

I drink to make Oxford go away. Well, to make the Oxford guys go away, anyway.

- Local U. student, female.
Overheard at the grocery store.

* * * *

Hey, do you know what goes into a Jack and Coke? Like, whiskey or something?

- Not kidding.

* * * *

This is the best librarian blog out there, no question.

- Zydeco Fish, Toronto-based blogger,
who gets mad props for one of the the coolest compliments
I've ever received from a fellow AltLib blogger.

- # # # -

REVISED 4/8/07 - Heh, forgot that there are a lot of hot non-Library World bloggers who've given me equally cool reviews in the past, so I've changed my shout-out the ZF a bit to reflect that fact. - Jason

THE ZENFORMATION WIRE: Random Web Reviews for Random People

---

BOHEMIANS 2, PROSTITUTES 0:

---

WHORES & WHOREHOUSES...
[YOUTUBE VIDEO]

Miz BoheMia's Rhapsody

The Bay Area's most famous homesick Spain Dweller Goes Gonzo on European Sex Trade as only she can.

SPAIN (ZP) -- There are very few bloggers out there that can leave me speechless.

Homegirl MizzyB does it constantly.

I've been trying to leave a comment for days regarding this video, but I almost piss myself every time she says the word whores.

A few months ago, she began including video content on her blog, documenting her day-to-day life as a mother and wife to her very chill husband, known only as Loverboy.

The video clips, which Miz Bohemia hosts through YouTube, provide a unique, truly original look at the life of an ex-pat struggling to find a way back home to California, come to grips with various family issues, and, well, even exploring the world of dental repair and chickenpox in ways only a former Bay Area resident can.

Every once and a while, MizB posts a vid to her YouTube account that explores the cultural differences between her more progressive, multinational background and typical life in the small Spanish city she and her husband have been trying to escape for several months.

In her latest installment, she and Loverboy hit the streets of her city's industrial areas, seeking to document the region's legal, working class prostitutes. One part Blair Witch Project and part in-the-moment gonzo journalism, MizB and Loverboy cruise around town, camera in tow, capturing stark images of streetwalkers, brothels, and other elements of the Spanish sex trade.

The conversation between a husband and wife, impishly discussing ways to capture better angles and swapping dialog off-camera, is amazingly comical, pure improvisational genius.

It's actually one of the best reality vlog projects I've seen all year, and Miz Bohemia holds true to her blog reputation as one of the most brutally honest and open bloggers out there.

If Hunter S. Thompson hadn't sucked down live ammunition back in 2005, and happened to be a sexy free-spirited yoga instructor with an equally devilish husband, I'm sure this is the kind of stuff he'd define as true Gonzo.

---

FINE ARTS...THAT YOU SHOULDN'T VIEW AT WORK:

---

GWAR! :: THE OFFICIAL CYBER-FORTRESS OF YOUR LORDS AND MASTERS

Virginia's Legendary Demonic Spawn and How The Wisdom of Oderus Urungus Built One Sick and Twisted Librarian

RICHMOND, Va. (ZP) -- Okay. Cool story.

It was sometime back in high school, probably 1995 or 1996. Three friends and I, having decided that beautiful spring days in Virginia were meant for things more important than stupid AP History courses, ditched class to spend a few days hanging out in Richmond's Shockoe Slip and Shockoe Bottom districts with these girls we'd met at a music store.

We were, in all honesty, heavily intoxicated most of the time. We slept in my friend's rusted-out '77 Buick at night, spending a good portion of our time drinking way too much MD 20/20 and Colt 45 malt liquor. During the day, we'd wander the streets aimlessly. We spent a great deal of time hanging out on Monument Avenue, back before that butt-ugly Arthur Ashe sculpture was erected, the one where the tennis great seems to be beating a group of schoolchildren.

At one point, while grabbing some grub at one of Richmond's awesome greasy spoons (the place is probably a Starbucks or Blockbuster now, thanks to the recent infestation of Yuppie Scum), one of my buddies spotted this very un-GWAR-looking dude sitting at a table near ours.

Oh dude! Dude dude DUDE! I think that's Dave Brockie!

Oderus Urungus?

Naw, the guy from Death Piggy!

Oh shit! My cousin hooked me up with a mixtape with their shit. They were like the greatest Richmond Hardcore band ever!

And being young, stoned, and, well, stupid kids, we didn't realize that GWAR's lead vocalist and Death Piggy's lead vocalist were actually the same person. Before adopting the gruesome makeup and shocking stage antics, Brockie was already a local music legend.

The guy at the table was indeed the Legend himself, the No. 1 Scumdog of the Universe, in the flesh and sans gigantic rubber penis or other prosthetics. Oderus/Dave turned out to be one of the coolest cats, more than willing to discuss everything from GWAR's artistry to his being shocked that a bunch of high school kids from rural Southside Virgina actually knew about the Death Piggy days.

Didn't ask for an autograph. Figured the twenty minutes of conversation was worth much more than any signature. Still one of the coolest days of my life.

I've been a very bad librarian here in Oxford, in the very naked now, utilizing WorldCat's advanced search options to assist the youth of America in locating GWAR-related materials.

Not much out there, actually. Who'd a thunk it?

But check out GWAR's awesome web portal, one of the most creative (and nauseatingly original) band sites out there. Very interactive and fun.

And who doesn't love having to scroll over the fingers of a severed arm (image above) to access a web site's navigation controls?

---

MUSIC: KEEP ON RAPPING FOR THE FREE WORLD...

---

RAMALLAH UNDERGROUND
ARTIST COLLECTIVE

[RU MySpace Music Link]
Bringing the Palestinian Visual Arts and Urban Music Experience from the West Bank to the Western World

RAMALLAH, PALESTINE (ZP) -- I discovered this site a while back, through a friend. For those unaware, I'm a huge supporter of the global hip-hop phenomenon, as the medium serves as a positive, artistic outlet for many folks in impoverished and/or oppressive societies.

One song currently in heavy rotation in the ZenFo Pro apartment, for example, is the R.U.-produced Amputate [MP3], a rocksteady-driven collaboration between Palestinian emcee Boikutt and London-based hip-hop activists, The Unpeople.

And check out the stellar photography of collective member Mohanad. This photograph alone is worth a view or three thousand, capturing life in a region of the world that's been a war zone for almost a century. Or how about this photograph by Collective member Jana, depicting a grinning child in front of graffiti that reads Palestine = One Giant Concentration Camp?

Like the work of their American hip-hop forebears, The Ramallah Underground takes a simple formula and recreates it in their own image, the image of their culture and issues important to their community.

Now that's power. And that's the real spirit of hip-hop, too.

* * * *

Rap music was birthed in the ghettos and inner-cities of America's poorest communities and, like jazz in the 1960s, has become the beacon of hope and musical medium of choice for protest and expression worldwide.

Who needs the worthless mass-marketed, overpriced shit the American major labels are pushing in Moscow when there's the lyrical mastery of guys like Seryoga, who bumps out out the Post-Soviet beats? And Big Black Boots [check out the video for Opasno at YouTube] gets Slavic asses a-grindin' from Kiev to St. Petersburg.

Africa?

Tanzania still mourns the loss of the late Faza Nelly, a founding member of the legendary X Plastaz. Faza's last music video, completed right before he died in 2006, is probably one of the best examples of how rap music has evolved on the continent, a native-language testimonial on the true face of global poverty.

Or how about Ugandan emcee Tshila? Uganda needs strong, empowered women - all of Africa does. And if there's any one female emcee who embodies this, it'd probably be this Kampala native. If you are brave enough, feel free to watch this video clip.

I couldn't through it without tearing up. Tshila's brand of hope isn't the kind mass-marketed here in the States.

Honestly, listening to the ever-expanding world of hip-hop makes my own country's hip-hop scene look bad. Talk about a collapse of conscience. In 20 years' time, we've seen the mainstream subculture "evolve" from the message of acts like Public Enemy to the almost Amos 'n' Andy aesthetics of Crunk.

While American emcees spent much of last year trying to prove

their worth in Bling, stapling platinum fronts to their grills, and gloating over homes and cars worth more than the GDPs of some nations, Turkish emcee Jonturk was putting together one of the most powerful anti-war protest songs of all time (screenshot, right), an international collaboration that included everyone from Germany's Albino, Irish alt-rockers Cyclefly, Turkish compatriots Sirhot and Elnino, and Greek/Albanian rap act, the Microphone Snipers.

Jonturk and Co. had the downright cajones to create a video detailing just about every major human rights atrocity of the 20th and 21st century. Think Diddy would bother to put forth that kind of global effort, would risk pissing off those affluent neighbors in the Hamptons, the ones who own stock in the very companies that make the war profitable?

In many ways, the parent has become the child. And like many children in the Developed World, it chooses to stay blind to the bigger world around itself, enveloped in a world of self-absorption, too much comfort, and very little acceptance of responsibility.

That may be the enduring legacy of American hip-hop as a mainstream medium. Thank goodness for the rest of the world.

- REVISED April 3, 2007

(Left Sirhot, one of Turkey's big cheese emcees and producers,
out of the graph discussing Jonturk's Refuse, Resist, Say No clip.
Sorry about that.)
~ Jason

# # #