Coming After Me

As I have said before, I am not an anarchist, but I am distrusting, even hateful, of large government and what it means for the liberties and freedoms for the citizens of a nation.
I have played the bass guitar since I was 13, and when I was 18 I bought a guitar and taught myself, albeit poorly.

Music, and writing, have always been my creative outlets. I’m not talented with physical aesthetics; I can’t paint or draw, or sculpt or build like an architect. But I’ve always written short stories and poems, and once I picked up an instrument I sometimes put my poems to the shitty melodies I create.

I am a huge nerd, and though I’ve graduated I still read economics books. One of my favorites is David Friedman’s The Machinery of Freedom, the anarcho-capitalist handbook of how a society could function without a government and solely on free-market economics. In it, there is a poem called “Paranoia,” and after re-reading it I was struck with a sudden burst of creativity.

A link to the poem is found here. The thing that really captures my attention is the idea of being followed, all the time, by a bodiless, omni-present entity run by man. It is made up of flesh and blood, of brains and minds working, but it all comes together in an idea called The State, from which there is no escape. An entity that decides your decisions and thinks your mind for you, that can tell you to whom you can associate, to what you can do to your own body, and can even conscript you and send you to fight a war you don’t believe in. And how sometimes we feel helpless against an entity you cannot fight because it exists, though not centrally in one man, but in many, all of whom “know more” or “know better” than you. An entity that no matter how much you ask, plead, beg, or fight against, will always be there, with its hand out asking you for more.

So, with those feelings, and the inspiration of the brilliant Dr. Friedman, I took the best parts of his own poem, put them in my words, and wrote this;

Coming After Me

Oh can’t you see, oh can’t you see?
I think there’s someone after me
He does not like the way I live, he just won’t let me be
He will not hear my talk of free speech, life, and liberty
Oh can’t you see, oh can’t you see?
I think the State is after me

Oh let me be, oh let me be
I ask, I cry out and I plead
But he still has some use for me, so he won’t let me leave
He won’t be satisfied until I’m begging on my knees
Oh let me be, oh let me be
I ask the State that’s after me

It ain’t for free, it ain’t for free
I’ve got a family to feed
His tax man comes ’round with his gun and takes all he can from me
He says I owe him for his lies, and I must pay a fee
It ain’t for free, it ain’t for free
I fund the State that’s after me

An M-16, an M-16
He conscripts me to distant seas
A gun strapped to my back as I spread his democracy
In sovereign foreign lands, I spread peace making others bleed
An M-16, my M-16
Kills for this State that’s after me

Oh can’t you see, oh can’t you see?
The State is coming after me
I spoke my mind, but my State wants to think my mind for me
They’re knocking at my door to erase my identity
But can’t you see, why can’t you see?
The State is not just after me

I have music to this too, and maybe sometime I can figure out a cheap way to record it and put it up on this blog. But for now, I think the words will do.

When all the punks come out tonight!

I am a huge fan of punk rock music. I started listening to it when I was 6. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of my dad driving me to school, or picking me up from karate, while we listened to Rancid, the Offspring, or the Ramones. In fact, for my day’s 50th birthday, Rancid came through Reno with Rise Against and Billy Talent, and I took him to the show.

Granted he sat in the stadium seats the whole night while I got my lip split in the mosh pit.

I grew up during the 90’s alternative and grunge era, but in the mid 90’s there was a heavy mainstream interest again in punk. Green Day put out Dookie, The Offspring released Smash, NOFX dropped Punk in Drublic. Not to mention Blink 182, Decendents, Bad Religion, and others who released ground breaking material that caught the public’s eye and re-introduced a world of misfit kids angry at the world and authority to a whole new generation of kids angry at the world and authority.

I grew up in the Bay Area, which was, and still is, home to one of the largest punk scenes left in the US. However, I now live in Reno, and while Reno does have a punk underground, it is not nearly at the level of the East Bay. We have our local bands like Sucka Punch, Melvin Makes Machine Guns, half of the Vampirates (the other half lives in Oregon), and of course local heroes who made it big (by punk standards), 7 Seconds.

But every once in a while, we get lucky and get a bigger band to come to town. I’ve already mentioned Rancid and Rise Against, but Against Me!, the Misfits, Flogging Molly, Foo Fighters (not really punk, but still awesome), Bouncing Souls, and The Addicts are just some of the bands who have rolled through and graced our shit town lately. Part of it is because Reno has a new, larger venue in the Knitting Factory, but also the owners of a local bar called The Alley (a real dive, but the coolest joint in town) have incredible connections and can pull those big name bands into town.

And of course, the Dropkick MF-ing Murphys have come through two times in the past three years.

As I said, I love punk rock, but I am also of Irish decent through my father’s blood, and I am fiercely proud of it. So when you put traditional Irish melodies and instruments together with the raw edge of loud as folk punk rock, add a Guinness and a shot of Jameson, and I’m in love.

Last night, the Murphy’s played a set in town. Originally, it was a festival called Punch Drunk Punk, featuring DKM, Alkaline Trio, Pennywise, and NOFX. I immediately bought my tickets. I begged my wife to come. She is my favorite person to go to shows with. She has stuck it out with me through the good and the bad shows, though I think they have mostly been good. But weird, she thought a punk concert was not the place for a 7-month pregnant woman. I told her she could sit in the stadium seats, but she was probably right in the end in not going. So I invited my brother in law instead. I was so excited, mostly for NOFX because I hadn’t seen them before, but then on Thursday before the show tragedy struck.

“Attention ticket holder. Your event, Punch Drunk Punk, has been cancelled.” Basically, the venue didn’t sell enough tickets, and one or more of the bands dropped out.

Do punks cry? This one almost did…

But every cloud has a silver lining, and the Murphy’s announced a new show, in a smaller venue, with one of my favorite bands Larry and His Flask. They are based out of Bend, Or, and started as a folk-punk band, kind of a hybrid of punk music, with a little hillbilly and country. But after a few line up changes, they added a mandolin and banjo player, and switched to acoustic instruments. If you haven’t heard of them, please look them up and support them. They are incredible.

But I digress. My brother in law, Christofer, was bummed about the show, but I promised the new one would be just as good. But I was wrong.

It was better. Inside the venue, as far as the eye could see, mohawks, studded jackets, mix-match clothes sewn together, an environment where alienated and isolated kids could all come together and, not feel like they did, but actually belong to something, even if its only for a few hours while the music plays.

For the first band, locals Sucka Punch, my brother in law didn’t really know what to do. He told me he had only been to a Luke Bryant concert before. I smiled, put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Fuck Luke Bryant.” By the end of their set, he was jumping up, flailing around, and screaming along like the rest of us, and kept going until the doors opened and we poured out onto the streets five hours later.

LAHF and the Murphy’s put on incredible performances as well. But the most wonderful part was watching a member of my family, one of my friends, get exposed to a culture he wouldn’t normally have experienced on his own. I watched as he moshed, as he put his arms around the people next to him, pulling them in close as they screamed together. Strangers, who didn’t know each others names, brought together by a shared excitement, feelings of being ostracized, and a love for the music pulsing into their ears, rushing through their veins as hearts beat in time to the song. It brought back memories of my first concerts, when I experienced the same feelings, the same angst, the same strangers who I connected with.

I guess in closing, as silly or sappy as it may sound, I’m truly glad for punk rock, and for the chance to share it with someone I love. I’ve been to country and rock concerts, but none give the same exhilaration, leave the same impressions, or from what I’ve seen, bring people together more than the snarls, the sneers, and the screams.

And I mean, what else is the alternative to listen to? Dub-step, bubble-gum pop, or Christian rock? Gross, disgusting, and no thank you.

Own the Air?

I realized that I was becoming a stuffy economist just recently, when I was listening to one of my NoFX CD’s. Their song “Eat the Meek,” decries the culture of mass-production/comsumption in which we live, and point out the dangers of us allowing everything to be commoditized. I don’t know why after years of not only listening to this song, but studying economics, that these lyrics didn’t synch in my mind, but a few weeks ago I was driving home from work and the two finally met.

“You know there’s always gonna be pedigree
One own the air, one pay to breathe”

And the first words out of my mouth were, “Good luck trying to establish sound and enforcable property rights for oxygen.”

And then I realized that I was becoming more like my father. And I openly wept.

However, it is an argument that I have heard from those who are anti-captialist and anti-market. I grew up in the Bay Area, known for being a very liberal demographic, and in discussion with peers and teachers I would be told that if we left markets and businesses up to their own devices, we would reach a point where we would have to pay for breathing. I understand the fear of allowing things in life to be avaliable for purchase and profit…but oxygen? Really? Arguments like these are based completely off of emotion, and what I believe to be a fundamental ignorance to basic economic and business principles. There is no way, on a large scale (I will explain later), for a person or entity to make oxygen a private good.

First off, what is a good? And how do economists’ classify them? A good is…well a good. It’s one of those things that you know what it is, but it’s difficult to explain. A word you use in conversation all the time, but when asked its meaning, you stutter and cannot articulate. A good, essentially, is anything consumable. This includes tangible and intangible items, free and for profit, and even services and ideas. The product of a factory line you buy at the store, a drink of water from the stream behind your house, a lawyer or even a social networking site.

In Economics, we place these goods into 4 categories; public, private, club, and common. They are all relatable in two regards; their excludability, and rivalry. By excludability, we mean that someone can be barred from consumption. By rivalry, we mean that one person’s consumption affects all other’s ability for consumption. In either case, the presence of exclusiveness or rivalry imply a finite amount of whatever good is being consumed.

A private good is any good which is both exclusive and rivalrous. My house is a private good. I can exclude your use of my house, and my consumption of the house and the land denies your ability to use the land for your own purposes. Most commodities fit into this category; food, clothing, consumer electronics, etc.

A club good is any good which is exclusive, but non-rivalrous. An example here is like a country club, or a lawyer’s services. My consumption of a country club memership does not take away from anyone elses, but the membership is exclusive in the fact that only paying members, or sometimes legacies, can join.

With private and club goods, there is an owner or group who has established clear property rights for their good or services. A product available only for purchase, an idea trademarked, a pool enclosed behind a gate, all establish property rights for their owners, and allow them to seek legal action against those who infringe on their property rights. The next two types of goods, common and public, do not have these clear property rights, because they are non-exclusive, or simply, nobody owns them, sonobody can take legal action against another party based on use.

A common good is any good that is non-exclusive, but rivalrous in consumption. The most famous example of this type of good is illustrated in a theory called “the tragedy of the commons.” There is a parcel of land in an agrarian society, where all the farmers are allowed to let their animals graze. However, because this parcel is free to the public and no one is barred from using it, there is no incentive for its users to limit their use of it despite the fact that the parcel is in a limited supply. In a large group, this is called the diffusion of responsibility; I will let my animals graze and take their fill, but it’s up to the other guy to limit their animals intake. If everyone thinks like that, then the land is soon over-grazed, and nothing is left to consume.

Lastly, a public good is any good that is non-exclusive and non-rivalrous. Oxygen falls under this type of good. Short of someone forcing their hands over your nose and mouth, there is no way to exclude anybody’s consumption of oxygen. Second, it is in limitless supply, therefore there is no rivalry in consumption. My breathing, no matter how deep or how often I breathe, does not affect anyone else’s ability to do the same.

Now earlier in this post, I said that oxygen, on a large scale, is impossible to be made a private good. I said on a large scale, because for the most part, people will not pay for something they can get for free. But, then again, some will. There is a subset of the aroma therapy industry that caters to consumer’s demand for “cleaner, fresher” oxygen. The first “offical” oxygen bar was opened in Toronto CAN in the mid 1990’s, and from there the fledgling industry spread, offering citizens a “richer” oxygen percentage than what we breath regularly from the atmosphere. They market it as a way to excape from breathing the particulate and polluted air from the industrialized world, and you can even pay for the oxygen to come with different scents.

Come. On.

I think it’s stupid, and someone who pays for what they can get for free (if you want to smell apples, then, I don’t know, why not cut up an apple and sniff?) may be at a questionable level of intelligence, but…damned if I won’t defend it. This is consumer demand. If people want to blow their money on oxygen bars, they should be able to. Breathing to live is a neccesity, but paying to breathe is a luxury.

In sum, it is impossible for there to be corporate take-over of the atmosphere. Zero. There would be no way to enforce it. You cannot fence off oxygen. You cannot build a room and hoard it all inside. You cannot have half of the populaiton put their hands on the throats of the other half and refuse to let them breathe until they pay.

Or maybe I shouldn’t take the song so seriously…

Helter Skelter

As I sit here writing this blog, my wife and I are watching a documentary on the Manson Family killings.

It was her choice for movie night.

We don’t share taste in music; I love punk and ska, and she loves stadium rock (or what I affectionately call butt rock) and rap. But we love the same movies, we read the same books, and we both have the same macabre fascination with serial killers. I look at her, and she is not just watching the screen, but taking it in. Her eyes are processing the images, and you can see how truly interested and intrigued by this awful, grisly tale of sex, drugs, racism, and death.

It was quite a relief when we first met, and our conversation turned to serial killers, as coversations with me often do. Most of the pretty girls I had met before were put off by my descriptions of the suits made of human flesh a la Ed Gein and altars of skulls courtesy Jeffrey Dahmer, but she waited patiently, attentive, and when I was done, she spilled a wealth of knowledge about cannibalism, H.H. Holmes, and being a dual English/History major, ritualistic murder in ancient cultures and tribes.

If there is such a thing as love at first sight…

We didn’t live together before we got married. But when we got our first place together, we had to merge our libraries and movie collections. We had two copies of Animal Farm, two copies of Fareneheit 451, three copies of Dracula (my personal favorite), two copies of Edward Scissorhands, two copies of the Lost Boys, two copies of Carrie, two copies of the Shining, and on and on and on…

Our music libraries, however, have not made the transition. I know she would just die if she had TSOL, Descendents, Bad Religion, and NoFX on her iTunes, and I would rather eat the barrel of a shotgun than admit that I have Journey, Jay-Z, Garth Brooks, and (gag me)…Aerosmith, on mine.

I admire my wife, for many reasons. But her taste in literature, and cinema, show a very intelligent and strong woman. Yes, she still likes the occasional stupid, childish thing like Twilight, but hey, I still unapologetically rock Green Day. She can not only read, but intelligently discuss the works of Dostoyevsky, Coleridge, and Blake. Her favorite movie is any with Marlon Brando, Jimmy Stewart, or Bing Crosby. She is the only one I know that can shut me down in a debate. She values her faith, her family, and her freedom above all other things. She is the one who dragged me kicking and screaming from under my rock, and stood by me as I transitioned from an introverted, melancholy boy into the man that she deserves to have. I once thought I would never get married, and she proved me wrong. She is the only woman I would trust to be the mother to my children…

…And for one of our first dates, she suggested that we see Inglorious Basterds. What a woman…