The last time I purchased fireworks was July 4, 1991. My daughter Katie was 3, and we were all in mourning after the death of our beloved shih tzu, Solo, who just fell over dead earlier that week. Now, I know I’m in the minority here, but I don’t think it’s right to bury dead pets. Only humans bury their dead, and I don’t need to remind you of how weird they are. It’s not Nature’s way. You should take the departed companions out to the country and let them decompose naturally. Of course, when I suggested this, you can imagine the groans of shock and dismay. So we gave him an unnatural burial in the back yard. Nature was on my side however, because something, some woodland varmint, kept digging his body back up. Full Story »

Michael Jackson’s death is having a strange resonance for me.  The feeling I have is like the sound a spring reverb used to make when you bumped into somebody’s guitar amp.

I haven’t been able to work out for myself what it means yet. Of course it’s still early.

I keep hearing Patrick Star’s voice: there’s this Sponge Bob episode where Patrick cries in despair, “Why does this keep happening!?” And Sponge Bob says in a resigned, measured tone, “I - don’t - know.”

It’s like that, if you know what I mean, which I doubt.

Here’s some random information I’m sorting through:

Full Story »

Well, I didn’t expect my return to Scroguedom after six months would be in the form of a personal screed, and on domestic topics no less (as in “household”). However, as the feminist mantra of the 1970s claimed, “the personal is political,” a statement as salient today as it was then.

I’d like to be writing about clean energy or debating health care policy. I wish I could add something astute to the discussion about the future of democracy in Iran. But to do so would mean investing the time to follow these issues closely enough to have something worthwhile to add. And then there’s the time needed to actually write something. I’ve already got four or five unfinished posts languishing on my laptop.

Yet, in the words of my 14-year-old son this morning, who is angry at my asking him to pitch in around the house prior to the arrival of weekend guests, and who can’t understand why I won’t just drop everything to pick him up from the lake with his friends later today, I don’t have a “real job” — so why can’t I be like a good stay-at-home mom and craft my life exclusively around his? Full Story »

by Phil Rockstroh

Even as President Barrack Obama waxed eloquent in Cairo, Egypt, on the moral imperatives of the community of nations, public opinion polls released in the United States revealed that, by a substantial percentage, its citizens believe torture is an acceptable option for interrogation of suspects deemed terrorists by various US governmental agencies. In addition, other polls show a majority of the American public hold the opinion that the all-American theme park of state torture, located at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, should remain open for business and continue to welcome guests from around the globe, taking them for the ride of their lives through the dark id of the American psyche.

These revelations should not come as a shock. Torture, official secrecy, and other sundry apparatus and accouterments of the national security state are about the only viable enterprises remaining in this declining nation. Full Story »

There is much you need to know to wisely direct your life. At some point, an event may occur that you cannot personally witness. Suppose the consequences of the event affect you — without first-hand knowledge of the event, will you be aware of it? Will you be able to react to it?

You will want to know what happened. You may not immediately want to know what someone else thinks or feels about what happened. That may come later. You first want someone to tell you clearly and with minimal subjectivity what happened with no opinion or impression attached.

You live in a second-hand world. You need someone to observe the world first-hand when you cannot. Who will you trust to faithfully do that for you?
Full Story »

Marshall County, Tennessee has four inches of top soil that rests upon 4000 cubic miles of limestone. It’s not exactly God’s Country if you own a plow. The Dad grows tomatoes. That’s all he grows, and when his tomato plants go out, he declares immediate and total war on all critters, toddlers, birds and insects that dare intrude upon Tomato Land. He plants according to the Farmer’s Almanac signs, waters his tomato plants twice a day, prays over the tender shoots, covers them if the temperature drops below 45, and patiently waits for a harvest. Last year was The Dad’s best crop ever. He picked 27 tomatoes from the vine. Because The Dad doesn’t like tomatoes, he gave them all away.

I don’t garden. I don’t even know if that’s a verb. Scooting on my knees in the mud, covered by a huge floppy hat, armed with a rusty pair of pruning shears and hanging out in the elements with the snakes and bees and wasps and spiders for company reminds me of boot camp. Full Story »

Final part in a series…filed from home….

I say goodbye to China with a ride in a taxicab.

I’ve been grading papers and need a break, so I leave my hotel room and catch a cab out front. I show the driver the card I have, furnished by the hotel, that has a list of popular tourist spots printed on it in English and Chinese. I point to the line for Tiananmen Square. The driver nods, and off we go.

The “I honk, you move” rules of driving fascinate me. The roads are bedlam, but my driver seems so unperturbed that I can’t help but relax.

I take in the surroundings as we go. Beijing, on the whole, is not a beautiful city, and it doesn’t have the cosmopolitan flair of Shanghai, but in my short time here, I’ve grown to love it nonetheless. As in Washington D.C., there’s always a museum to visit, a park to stroll through, a site to see.

The cabbie drops me near Mao’s Tomb. I pass through the security checkpoint uneventfully. In some closed-off part of the tomb’s grounds, I hear soldiers drilling. Their boots clomp loudly on the pavement.

I take more photos and jot down more notes. After a few minutes of scribbling, a pair of high school students approach to ask what I’m up to. “I’m trying to write down as much as I can so I don’t forget this place,” I tell them. Full Story »

Part fourteen in a fifteen-part series

“You have never been to China until you’ve climbed the Great Wall,” Chairman Mao once declared.

By that definition, the twelve days we’ve spent in the country thus far don’t qualify.

I can see Mao’s point, though: it would not feel like a trip to China unless we visited the Great Wall. We’ve all been looking forward to the chance to finally see it, and now that we’re nearly done with our trip, the Great Wall feels a bit like the grand finale.

The most visited section of the Great Wall is called the Badaling, about fifty miles northwest of Beijing. We’re going to a slightly less touristy section, about forty miles from the city, called the Juyong Pass (also called the Juyongguan Pass).

“Wait’ll you see this place,” my colleague, Carl Case, says. “You’ll see why it’s a little less touristy.” Full Story »

Part thirteen in a series

We eat like emperors—literally.

White’s Grand Courtyard could not get any more yellow: yellow seat covers embroidered with blue and black dragons, yellow tablecloths, yellow picture frames and decorative panels and window valences. A yellow throne sits at the center of the room for the prince. Two golden cranes flank the throne, each holding a yellow-stemmed red rose in its beak.

Red columns entwined by ornamental gold floral patterns rise up from a red marble floor to a ceiling painted with elaborate dragon and phoenix designs. The dominant colors are green, blue, and white, but the dragons and phoenixes and the trim are all gold.

Yellow is the color of the emperor, and once upon a time, no one but the royal family could use it.

The restaurant tries to recreate the atmosphere of the royal dining room from the Qing Dynasty era, from 1644-1912. Petunia and begonia-bedecked gardens fill the courtyards around the dining room. In back, tables sit around a pool teeming with large schools of koi, and a small dining pagoda sits on a land bridge that straddles the pond.

It is, by far, our most lavish dining experience in a country that has been filled with fantastic dining experiences. Full Story »

By Jennifer Angliss

When I was a kid, I listened to the “Free to Be… You and Me” album incessantly. We had it on vinyl (not 8-track!) and I probably came close to wearing it out. At the time, I didn’t really care for the track “William’s Doll”. The chorus of “A doll! A doll! William wants a doll!” grated on my nerves–actually, it still does. But the song tells a story that I think is really important. William is a 5 year old boy who wants a doll. Unfortunately, everyone seems to think that this is a terrible thing for a little boy to want. His dad gets him all sorts of sports equipment instead, which he also enjoys, but he still craves that doll. Finally, Grandma hears about this and gives him a doll. Full Story »

Part twelve in a series

“Tiananmen” means “Gate of Heavenly Peace.” Ironic, then, that most Americans know it, if at all, as a scene of violence and bloodshed.

photo by Jeff Widener, A.P.

June 4 marks the 20th anniversary of the Chinese government’s violent crackdown on protestors who’d gathered in Tiananmen Square. The incident made headlines across the world, and the image of a lone protestor blocking a line of tanks proved especially powerful.

The protesters had camped out in the square since the April death of a pro-reform Communist Party official, Hu Yaobang. By June 4, after a great deal of international attention that embarrassed the Chinese government, tanks and troops rolled in and started cracking skulls.

Western news outlets reported yesterday and today (June 3 and 4) that no media would be allowed near Tiananmen Square on June 4th. Soldiers and uniformed and plainclothes police stood at attention everywhere in the square this morning, and visitors were being searched.

But visitors to Tiananmen Square are always searched. Full Story »

Part eleven in a series

“China is more capitalistic than any capitalist country.”

Amy, an employee at a jewelry booth
in Beijing’s pearl market, strings
together a strand of pearls after
striking a bargain with a shopper.

Roger Perkins of Cooper Industries told us that early on our trip. You’d have to see it to believe it, perhaps—but I’ve seen that firsthand several times on the trip, most dramatically at the silk and pearl markets. It happens on the scale of global companies, too.

“China is pragmatic,” says John Chen of Prometric, a company that specializes in testing and surveying. “When it wants to be capitalistic, it’s capitalistic. When it wants to be communist, it’ll be communist.

Chen likens China’s approach to situational management: different situations require different management approaches.

China needs the influx of cash that capitalism provides in order to continue to fuel its burgeoning economy. But at times, the country’s top-down dictatorial style allows things to get done that otherwise couldn’t happen in a democracy.

“India, for instance, is the most democratic country in the world,” Chen points out by way of example. “Everything gets debated to death and nothing ever gets done.”
Full Story »

“A TOP TEN LIST? Really? Are you fucking kidding me, Cargo? You do not appear to have the qualifications to make such a list, what with your lack of tooth gaps and, well, jeez. I mean, you? A Top Ten list? Gawd. You must be out of mate–OW!”

No.

As the American Dream™ continues to gnaw on every last bit of exposed flesh it can pick from our flailing limbs, it will no doubt, for many of us, also eat those debt-strangled, rapidly depreciating havens of dirty secrets, personal failure and indoor allergens known as parcels of real estate.

It will eventually, after a judicial process, a waiting period and probably more judicial processes, send a henchman or three to, at long last, relieve you of the burdens of homeownership and shelter.

But, come on. People in any line of work are nonetheless good, hard-working people too! They know just as well as anybody that remembers what it’s like to be employed in recent memory that work sucks and is hard, and comic relief can get us through even the toughest of times.

Accordingly, when the Evicto Man comes to summon you to your shiny new life as a spent munition in America’s War on Prosperity, here are the:

TOP TEN ADVISORIES FOR YOUR FRIENDLY FORECLOSURE EVICTION REPRESENTATIVE!

Full Story »

Over the past nearly four years, nearly 2,600 posts have appeared on Scholars & Rogues, almost all researched and written by the 15 folks whose names appear on our writers’ bio page. S&R writers have devoted thousands of hours to the task of filling this space.

These are skilled people with diverse interests and even more diverse points of view. Three are college professors. Also writing for S&R have been or are an Hispanic activist from Texas; a foreign affairs writer who specializes in nuclear deproliferation issues and civilian casualties resulting from armed conflict; a gay staff cartoonist; a management consultant specializing in organizational behavior whose clients include 20 percent of the Fortune 500; an ex-pat South African economist; three experts in popular culture; a former director of the Berkeley Stage Company and statistical demographer for the U.S. Census Bureau; a professional stage actor; two stay-at-moms; a photographer; and occasional guest columnists.

However, we all share one trait: We are volunteers. We don’t get paid. We have other lives, other responsibilities, other people dependent on us to make a living. As business models go, ours sucks. Modest ad income and passing the hat means S&R remains a labor of love. But can love be a sustaining force for the online medium in the absence of profit?
Full Story »

Part ten in a series

Walking into the Beijing Silk Market is like walking into a combat zone. Shopping is a full-contact sport.

My colleague, Darwin King, negotiates a price for
silk scarves at Beijing’s Silk Market.

The Silk Market sits on Chang’an Street near the city’s diplomatic district. Six stories tall, the building is crammed chock-full-o every stereotypical Chinese product you could imagine: imitation Rolexes, fake Nikes, real silk, clothes, clothes, clothes, and cheap Chinese souvenirs.

Different floors feature different merchandise, crammed in stalls not much bigger than 10×12, although it’s amazing to see just how much stuff gets crammed into each little crammed stall. Ask for a particular size of style you don’t see on display and a salesperson will pry into some surprising cranny to pull out the goods you want.

Each stall comes with two salespeople—usually young women—although some stalls have three, some stalls have one. Personal selling is the modus operandi.

“Silk?” one of them asks as I walk by. “Silk scarf?” I wave my hand “No, thanks.” She shifts gear. “Fan? Chinese fan?”

I pass by, but the girl at the next stall is already ready for me. “Shirts? You need shirts? Silk shirts.”

As a Westerner, I have a target painted on my forehead. Full Story »

Part nine in a series

Nothing says “China” quite like a panda.

It’s no wonder, then, that the Chinese have used these famous black-and-white faces as emissaries around the world. There’s even a term for it: “panda diplomacy.”

Over the years, some 100 pandas have been sent to foreign countries as ambassadors of good will. Currently, around twenty-five countries host pandas, including four zoos in the United States.

I get to see them up close and personal, on their home turf. Full Story »

Part eight in a series

Chairman Mao looks a little waxy these days.

It isn’t for lack of trying. The Chinese government has gone to great pains to keep him looking fresh—at least as fresh as a guy who’s been dead since 1976 can look.

Just as the Russians have Lenin on display in Moscow, the Chinese have Mao on display in Beijing. Those Communists, it seems, love their embalmed leaders. (I wonder if Castro is making similar plans.)

Mao Zedong—or, as Americans learn it, Mao Tse-Tung—served as leader of the Communist army during the Chinese civil war of the 1930s, and then became leader of the entire country when the Communists eventually won in 1949. He served as chairman until his death in 1976.

And that’s when the legend of Mao took off. Full Story »

My students, colleagues, and I have been forming an impression of the Chinese during our trip to China these past ten-plus days. But what do the Chinese think of Americans?

Full Story »

Part seven in a series

If Shanghai was New York City, then Beijing is Los Angeles. The city sprawls over some nineteen thousand square kilometers—all of which is clouded in smog.

The heavy traffic, smog, and city sprawl make
Beijing feel like L.A.

Beijing lacks the glistening skyscrapers of glass and steel that proudly advertise Shanghai’s modernity. Instead of building up, Beijing has built out. The city radiates outward in a series of rings with beltways, called ring roads, circling around.

Smack dab in the middle, where a typical city center might rise skyward, sits the Forbidden City, the former palace of the emperor back in the days when China still had one.

In that regard, Beijing might be more like Washington, D.C. than L.A. Full Story »

Part six in a series

Wu Tao stands at the front of the bus, microphone in hand, radiating charm.

Wu “Harry” Tao (right) talks with St. Bonaventure
professors Carl Case (left) and Darwin King at the
Winter Palace in Xi’an.

As our group rides around Xi’an, Wu Tao serves as our tourguide. He stands in the bus’s center aisle and regales us with stories about the city’s past. He wears a dark t-shirt with a big numeral “8” on it—which has made him easy to find in a crowd—jeans, a pair of open-toed sandals, and a million-yuan smile.

When he points something out to us and tells us its name, he carefully repeats it and even spells it out for us to ensure we can follow him.

Tao is his given name while Wu is his family name, but Chinese custom puts the family name first, then the given name: Wu Toa.

Like many Chinese, Wu Tao has an American name, too: Harry. “Like Harry Potter,” he says with good-natured amusement. A lot of things appear to amuse him. He smiles freely and chuckles often.

The students are wild about him. Full Story »