Not All Credit Hours Are Created Equal

A short opinion doc created for J636 class at the University of Kansas. Created by Clayton Ashley, Alec Tilson, and Kristen Grimmer.

Hey, students — this holiday season, celebrate by volunteering!

It's the time for giving.

But for students, scrapped for time and cash, it can be challenging to find ways and means to give back to the larger community.

And some service organizations have been burnt by the crazy college lifestyle — students commit to volunteering but then fail to follow through, said Lori Johns, director of Lawrence's Roger Hill Volunteer Center.

But Johns is hopeful that more students will find unique and specially tailored opportunities to give their time and talents for good causes. Short-term, community-organized events such as a day of raking leaves or cleaning food pantries are good options for the civic-minded but low on availability, she said.

Many students, including freshman Lindsay Holtvedt, choose Jubilee Cafe, a food kitchen for the homeless and precariously housed, as an occasional giveback to the greater Lawrence community.

Holtvedt says that she got involved after hearing about it from a friend and now attends every week, satisfied with — and willing to get up early for — the fuzzy feeling she gets by providing a hot breakfast to those in need.

College students should take opportunities like Jubilee Cafe to volunteer. There's the selfish reasons — showing well-rounded-ness on post-grad applications, the good feelings boost that certainly doesn't hurt in times of stress — but more importantly, there's the demonstration of the selfless.

We owe it to the communities that take us in, at least temporarily, to try to leave them nicer than we found them.

So this holiday season, consider stepping up. Resources to find a good fit for you here in Lawrence are plentiful — and the saints who run these organizations can always use an extra pair of (young) hands.

Playing with a different sex

Where did all the cool genderqueer music go?



I am not as hip as I used to be.

Perhaps I never was (strike that, I know I never was), but I at least had an “in” with cool, indie, college-radio tunes as a DJ and reviewer for what was used to be an institution of cool – in a cold, snobbish-but-smart way. It’s not what it used to be, either, but it remains one of the best college radio stations in the country.

Regardless, I say this to caveat my eventual point with the following: Perhaps I’m just out of the loop.

Perhaps I’m out of the loop as to what the cool kids are listening to these days, but from my perspective, I can’t help but be sad to see the death of genderqueer in the alternative music scene.

Where are the Stephin Merritts? Is there no legacy to Riot Grrrl? What ever happened to those oh-so-cute gender benders of twee? Poly Styrene, sadly, is literally dead.

Perhaps it’s as I’ve seen posited elsewhere that the battle is over — in an age in which our greatest trash pop culture hero blends boundaries, it’s no longer cool & 'alt' to be weird.

I'd like to take the more positive slant that the alt scene, like the wider world, truly is different these days — that culture is nearing a post-gender existence in which we no longer need a hetero-appearing man to sing a lovesong to his boy walking down the street because, well, acceptance is overall high.

Pitchfork (not exactly a bastion of cultural capital at the moment, but I enjoyed this piece) recently took this stance, slightly, with Riot Grrrl, opening an extended essay with an anecdote on girls too young to have been alive to see the release of Pussy Whipped (full disclosure: I was 5) enjoying proto-all-girl-group Dum Dum Girls. Enjoying and, we should note, reveling in the "coolness" of both their rocker status and unabashed (would ballsy be too weird an adjective? no) femininity.

I'd like to say this "is it even a big deal anymore?" is where we are not just with feminism but also with the related vein of overt gender-bending as a stick in the eye to the normative. But that's not the case.

The genderqueer issue brings up a larger one in alternative music today. Instead of subcultures and scenes, we're beyond fractured into a million tiny blogs, with a lack of sharing between them that stunts the kind of swapping growth that always used to exist in the music underground.

There is no culture of rebellion, because there is no one culture to rebel against.

I'm assured the genderqueer tunes are out there, but they're more about niche markets related to identity than the they are about the quality of music. (Translation: It's a lot of club music, which is fine, just not my thing.)

I realize fully that at 23 and having never been a scenester, I'm not qualified, really, to make this sweeping damnation. But it's hard not to feel that, outside of a few covers here and there, the true stars of the field don't have the courage or interest (cajones?) to do it.

And though I stick to my guns like the grumpy old spinster I'll always be that alt music has declined in originality and quality since the late 1990s, I'm happy with what I think is part of the "problem": It really isn't shocking to be androgynous anymore. Where did all the cool genderqueer music go? Good heavens, I might have to be optimistic and say it's a victim of its own success.

Just don't mind me when I still sneak off to disconnect with the big scary interwebs to enjoy my Au Pairs 45s.

cross-posted: needmorefriends

Paradise never

Paradise Now: 2005; 90 minutes; Oscar-nominated; PG-13; dir: Hany Abu-Assad; star: Lubna Azabal, Ali Suliman, Kais Nashif; available on Netflix disc, Netflix streaming & YouTube

Paradise Now is an extremely good film. Full stop.

It's not just a good film that explores — and, even more notably, unpackages — highly troubling political issues. (Though it is that, too.) It's not just an exotic work put together impressively on a teensy budget; it's not just a good film made by, for and about Palestinians. (Though it is, of course, that, too.)

The reason Paradise Now gets away with its explosive subject matter is that it is just an extremely good film — emotionally true, artfully written and shot, deeply human. Paradise Now is an extremely good film that seeks to understand, but neither condone nor condemn, suicide terrorism. It's a gutsy subject matter, to say the least, but it's extreme success is its approach. The approach is carried out so dutifully well, it transcends politics and becomes high art.

It's best summed up, thankfully, in the words of director Hany Abu-Assad, as told to the New York Times in 2005:

"As a filmmaker, you cannot be led by political issues. You just look at it as a story, and you give it the form of a film."

In this film, we watch two friends, Said and Khaled, over the course of two days as they learn they've been selected for a suicide mission. We watch them prepare, record martyr tapes and embark on their journey into Tel Aviv.

When their cover is blown (again, I apologize for the unavoidable metaphor/pun) just across the border, Said (Kais Nashif) becomes separated from Kahled (Ali Suliman), who ditches with their handlers back into the West Bank.

To share rest of the plot, I'm afraid, would be to give only spoilers. And the film's too good to give away — if you can divorce the very human side of you that rightfully condemns the plans of these two young men, the emotional tension that develops between them and the amazing well-acted, powerful female lead, Suha Azzam (Lubna Azabal), becomes genuinely heartbreaking.

SOPA and the future of Internet freedom

America is about to commit a self inflicted wound of historic proportions in the form of a massively over-reaching Internet copyright bill. Known as Protect-IP in the senate and SOPA (Stop Online Piracy Act) in the house, the law is ostensibly designed to fight copyright infringers on the Internet. What it'll actually end up doing is crippling creative freedom and innovation on the Internet and ultimately bring China-style censorship to the Internet.

The main concern about the bill is its total disregard for the concept of 'innocent until proven guilty'. If an IP holder suspects your website contains 'infringing content' (which could be anything from honest to goodness piracy or 1st amendment protected parody) they can ask your advertising services and payment processors (like Paypal) to stop doing business with you. They can also have you stricken from search engines like Google. But the scariest part of the bill is that it can force ISPs to remove your website from the Internet entirely using DNS filtering. This type of filtering (which is used in the Great Firewall of China) isn't a targeted form of censorship: it won't just block the offending video or page. Instead, your whole website can get blocked for one infraction.

If your website relies on user generated content (like Youtube) or allows users to comment and post media (like Facebook), you can be held responsible for 'not doing enough to prevent piracy'. Your whole website could be blocked because a single user keeps posting pirated content.

Problems like these already happen on a smaller scale due to the Digital Millenium Copyright Act, but this law would open the flood gates to abusive claims of copyright infringement. The next Youtube or Facebook would never even get a chance on an Internet like the one this law envisions.

Copyright isn't the only possible ramification of this law. Because the law also applies to those who simply 'facilitate' piracy, like the anonymity software Tor, the law could also threaten human rights. Software like Tor already helped countless rebels in the Arab Spring hide their communications from oppressive governments. Sure, it probably helps a few pirates too. The question becomes, would hurting a few pirates really be enough justification to take such an important tool away from those who fight against totalitarian oppression?

The tables are stacked in favor of the bill passing, but some very influential and important technology and Internet companies are fighting hard to prevent its passage. Already more members of congress are souring on the bill, but the fight to save the Internet is far from over. You can help by letting your congressional representatives know you're against this bill. The Internet's future may depend on it.

When we all lose control

1979 was the best year in the history of alternative music. It was the zenith of postpunk, the genre most important to the independent music being produced today. It was the year of Unknown Pleasures.

Control, released in 2007, is a film – biopic? maybe – by first-time filmmaker Anton Corbijn – rock photographer? maybe – about the man behind and full of Unknown Pleasures, Joy Division frontman Ian Curtis.

It’s not a film for non-fans. There’s no path within it to access the band’s importance if you don’t already know it, no reason for your heart to skip a beat at mention of The Factory if you didn’t grow up, like me, sustaining yourself in all the dark joys of its output.

But it does depict, honestly, the extremely rapid rise and fall of a man, Ian Curtis.

This is a man who was, briefly, a social worker. This is a man who was, briefly, a husband and father. This is a man who was, briefly, an epileptic, crippled by the fear he may become worse – that he may, in no uncertain terms, lose control. This is a man, who, out of nowhere, presumably, and quite literally, changed the face of rock ‘n’ roll.

In Control, Curtis comes off as a bit of a psychopath in the jump-cut scenes of his early days and courtship with soon-to-be wife Debbie, who, to my amazement after watching, had quite a large role in its production. It’s jarring, even if I divorce the part of myself that’s a fan of Joy Division (and its later incarnation, New Order, admittedly) and cuddle up to the part that just wants to watch a good movie – one that’s tragic, sure, but tragically beautiful. Instead what I get in Control is an archetype of miscreant man – selfish adulterer trapped in his own head.

I glorify Curtis, I know, because I love his music. And what Control gives, in its beautiful and stark black and white, to its credit, is a portrait of how he actually was – a flawed, talented, Wordsworth-loving human being, never a rock star. And it is for the best, ultimately, for Hollywood needs another glorified depiction of mental illness like all its audience members need a hole in the head.

But would it be so much to ask of a piece of art independent of its subject matter to have an appeal to its main focus – an emotional relatability behind the pathos to which Curtis eventually succumbs? I guess for Corbijn – ironically a fanboy before such a thing existed – it is. Instead what we get is a portrait of a man growing up to become more and more of a child.

We see Curtis get high with a friend, we see Curtis apply makeup and listen to his hero, Bowie; we see Curtis review the album art for Joy Division’s debut, which we learn he paid £400 to record, right before he told Debbie “let’s have a baby.” We see Curtis, apparently in London for the first time, spit out a mid-bridge section of the game-changing, life-altering, all-the-superlatives-you-could-think-of closer to Unknown Pleasures, “I Remember Nothing.”

We don’t see, quite, how he goes from bare-chested record consumer in his parents’ Greater Manchester flat in 1973 to the great contributor to modern rock (and pop, for god’s sake, let’s just admit it – Peter “Hooky” Hook’s bass contribution is everywhere). Again, if we don’t yet know why we should give a shit about the life of Ian Curtis, we get no clues.

We do see the beginning of the end of Curtis as a man: The epilepsy he was so afraid to surrender to, the affair with Belgian hobby-journalist Annik Honore (the extremely beautiful and extremely promising – where has she been since 2007? – Alexandra Maria Lara), the “Love Will Tear Us Apart” lyrics set to the resounding themes of divorce and death.

I guess Control isn’t a biopic. It’s a film about Curtis’ suicide.

Curtis hanged himself in May 1980, in the house – where Control, amazingly, actually filmed – he occupied with his very much estranged wife and baby daughter, at age 23, no older than I am today.

What Control gets right is the music. And I don’t just say that as a fan of Joy Division, I say that as a fan of rock music. The concert material, which makes up the bulk of Control and its most moving moments, a bit sadly, is all actually recorded live, by the actors. It would have been easy to film syncing, but, amazingly, the actors picked up the instruments and recorded the material raw. The result is that we see a group of pretenders actually join up in the togetherness that, despite whatever flaw that ultimately tears them apart, joins a band as a group of humans seeking love. It’s to Corbijn’s credit that he allowed this to happen – it wasn’t originally intended – and to the actors’ credit that it saved an otherwise mediocre film.

Sam Riley gets Curtis right – as much as I’m annoyed with the writing of an ultimately selfish and unlovable man, Riley devotes all his emotion and physicality to depict the fitful (in more ways than one) man. Again, he is as he is – as he was. The singer-at-his-heart Riley gives a performance that’s as wonderfully claustrophobic, acidic and tragically beautiful as Curtis’ music, throwing his gangly frame into a performance that outshines the equally annoyingly passive victim, the better-known Samantha Morton as his absurdly suffering wife.

We, as an audience, are most on Curtis’ side as Riley awkwardly dances to his music and belts out, winningly, the lyrics we see in the most touching moments of Control we see he gives so, so, so much to deliver.

Mortison, as is fated, it seems, does ultimately give the most human performance in screaming, at the very end of Control, the "Can anybody help me?!" with her baby daughter, after Curtis' death, extolling the visceral grief of suicide and helplessness.

Knowing as we do how the film will end, I’ll argue its most poignant moment comes as bassist Peter Hook (played wonderfully sarcastic by the equally promising Joe Anderson) teases the fragile Curtis following an epileptic fit that forces him prematurely off stage.

“Right, who won the fight, then, Ian or Ian?” He says of the “fight” of Curtis’ seizure.

That’s not all the options. When genius enters the bloody struggle to make art, it’s only ever the audience that wins.

Occupy Wall Street

I think it is safe to say, if you don't live in New York City, you may have no idea what the Occupy Wall Street movement is about. Even with all of the stories published by the New York Times or the Washington Post, or those that run on the evening news, it's been very unclear as to what the goal of this movement is.

Finally, CNN posted a great video today that helps clear things up. But why has it taken this long? Is it because the journalists themselves are unclear as to what the purpose of the movement is? Are journalists so busy covering the protests and the evictions from parks that they have missed the point?

I think this could be the case. Many times journalists get wrapped up in what's happening right now, that they don't publish stories dealing with anything deeper than the action. I wonder if this is because many journalists who are covering the story are either pressed for time to get it done, or because they are trying to be objective?

I think it's important for journalists to remain objective no matter what story they're covering, but I also think that sometimes what you are given to put in your story may seem like information to bias the audience. That's where good, old fashioned reporting comes in. I'd like to see more than just "what's happening now", I want to hear some expert opinions, responses from more than just the local government, and a good analysis or commentary. And I'd like this to be more than just a blip on a back page. If something like Occupy Wall Street is happening, do your job and tell me what the heck it is and what these people want.

CNN Video