Inge, Delmon Young, Crap.

I’m not sure if it’s correct or normal to be bent-out-of-shape over a ballplayer being released, but I am. I loved Brandon Inge, which is coming as a surprise to anyone I’ve spoken to over the past year. It’s likely I was telling you how much I wanted him gone. I admit. But now that he’s gone, it’s hard to believe. In many ways, the guy was a face of Detroit. Hardworking, passionate, devoted to the area, etc. Well, we wish him luck.

UPDATE: Delmon Young is still in custody of NYPD on allegations of a hate-crime. Apparently he cussed out a Jew last night in Midtown Manhattan. Nice work, buddy. Give the world another reason to make fun of Detroit. Sure, Delmon is from California, and he doesn’t represent Detroit, but we all know how people like to pin things on the innocent. In this case, wait for Yankee’s fans to be extra salty tonight as the Tigers take the field in the Bronx.

Seriously, Delmon. Get your shit together, or get the f*** out. Detroit doesn’t need another Charles Rogers. We’ve already got a bunch of pothead Lions to worry about. The last thing we need is an anti-semite knocking panhandlers down in Manhattan. Get your crap together. This team has money, and would be happy to fill your spot with someone who doesn’t require getting wasted and pushing Jews around.

I’m not better because I’m a man, but I’m also not worse.

My girlfriend in college was a strong woman. She let me know when I was objectifying her, or when my masculine naivety  became too much. I was lucky for her experience. The man I became, after knowing her, was less domineering, and more willing to listen. I’m still a stubborn ass, but I know how to treat a woman like a human being. I’ve worked my ass off for that. Some women don’t like a man who knows how to treat a woman; I won’t spend any time talking about them, here.

We’ve all been discriminated against. You all have. If you’re rolling your eyes, you need to work on your compassion.

Once, I asked for help getting a job (a letter) from a female professor, and she made it clear that her help was much better given to a female student, never explaining why my background or credentials were less potent. This sort of dismissal has happened before, at colleges I attended or worked at, in line at the DOT, vying for a parking spot, applying for office jobs, etc. But, I’m not going to pretend that racism/sexism doesn’t go both ways. I know. I’m at fault, too. My strength is that I try to see through it, and let go of it. My time is better spent finding a way to treat everyone as equals, rather than trying to find a way to bash the other sex or race. This bashing can be backhanded, passive-aggressive, or up-front. This is a problem.

Sometimes it seems like the eyes are off the prize, when it comes to women’s issues. I am sympathetic, until the feminism turns to man-hating. Sometimes I feel like I’m punished because I have pendulous genitalia, or a beard. I can understand why. Forever, men have sat in the high-chair and told everyone what to do. In the last hundred years, women have grabbed back some of the power/importance they deserve, and there’s a lot more work to be done. Women can’t do it on their own; men need to look back, and recognize the past. Men need to let go of some of it. Men need to know they can still be masculine without being misogynist pieces of filth. Stop.

I am going to say something many men will disagree with, be startled by, or simply dismiss: Men think women owe them something more than they’ve already received. Men are wounded by women, or so they think. Men bury their emotions, for months, years, forever. This is a problem. Couple buried-male-emotion with an already dominant psyche, and you get the last thousand years. You get history as it is. All men.

Men are wounded as women are wounded, but men bury the pain. Some of them never return to it- never learn about it, never find a way around it, or out of it. They harbor it. It makes them who they are. They find a way to be gentlemen and go on with their lives. But, the problem is, they don’t. Burying it makes it worse.

In grade-school kickball, I picked the fat boy over the athletic girl, last. When I worked at Subway in the 90s, I didn’t like being bossed around by my female boss, but when the male boss bossed me around, I didn’t mind. Now, I’m editor of a magazine, and I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times I had two final submissions – one by a male, and one by a woman. My choice was simple: choose the male. Why? Because something buried inside me said What did she ever do for me? How dare she? The man must have worked harder! Luckily, I am able to catch myself before this inherent ignorance takes over, and I’m proud to say Pigeon Town boasts a good balance of female and male writers/photographers. Don’t let me muddy my point in phallocentric egotism, though: men are unable to relinquish much of their working/playing lives to women. It’s sad. It needs to change.

I want women to be better represented, in everything, and that means 50%. No less and no more. Women should have more seats in the House, should be President, should be half-in-charge of everything. I’m tired of men being in charge of everything. There’s a reason for two sexes. It’s time we all agree on that.

I have a lot more to say on this. I look forward extending this, and perhaps creating a dialogue.

 

Top News Stories Being Kept Quiet

Below is a list of news the mainstream media have found in their best interests to skim over. What’s more important to them is the continued barrage of race-baiting, and yellow-journalism. Turn on your TV, you won’t be hearing about any of this, and if you do, it’s most definitely spun into cotton-candy news.

Julie Fletcher/Associated Press
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Rob Knevels – Concealed Camera Holder

Rob Knevels was holding a camera when I met him, and has been holding a camera for the last ten years, or so. A cheap Sony camera, another cheap Sony camera, a cheap video camera. There was one 35mm in there, a few loaned cameras, and a few thousand phone-pictures. There was an 8mm video camera on loan from the local university; it didn’t make it back in good shape.

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His eye goes where yours doesn’t. His eye is like an ear, or a fingertip. Put him behind a lens and what you get is what your imagination has begged for.

Knevels doesn’t have an MFA in photography, or any collegiate background in fine arts, but if you added up the hours he spent behind a lens, you could give him a handful of honorary degrees. He has thousands of hours of footage.

I get it, most filmers have a lot of footage, but most filmers don’t have the kind of footage Rob Knevels has. Most people take time to set up their shots, to observe their surroundings, to understand the light, to expound upon given aesthetics. Rob Knevels does not. He points and shoots.

His strength? He points and shoots all the time. He points and shoots more than most. He is the constant apprentice. And, through this perseverance, he accumulated more usable footage than he knows what to do with.

In the last three years, he’s travleled with Kelley Stoltz, Echo and the Bunnymen, and been behind the scenes at a handful of noted performances.  Here is a list of his must-see footage:

2012 in past and present tense

The Mayans didn’t say the world would end. Their calendar ended. Orson Welles didn’t mean to scare everyone but he sure as hell did. Michael Jordan was great. So was the great wall. They vilified the ocean. A hole was being made in the sky, at the top of the Earth. The old men at the tailor sat confused, waiting for their clothes to be tailored. The men stand in line for specific validations: $4.99 for a pair of shoes, a twenty-dollar haircut, dandruff on the lapel, the sweaty, semeny, cheeseburgery smell of college dorms.

We find the world’s smallest chameleon. Half a fingernail wide with tiny bulging eyes. Back then, we were looking for the correct recipe for fried chicken, dinosaur bones in the sand, certain mountains. The emperor wears a suit – an awkward pink tie. For hundreds of years the Pope’s mitre looks like a penis. Relevance on the line, the Presidents wore wiry mustaches. Stern grins capture the man’s heart - distract the women from their pies and hosiery.

I am not sure which side I’m on. There are basketball courts and dump trucks lining the avenue. There was the sun inside of man. The tree falls and there is only the sound it made. When they excavated silence from a cave, we are waiting in the future to rename it uniqueness. There is a pause and an error – the donkey and cart moved over the dry hills. Next Christmas they will give each other framed photographs of Christmases past.