I'm Pretty Sure NOBODY Can Relate To Her.

There's a fine line we seldom cross as adults, a mental roadblock that prevents us from reinvesting in our youthful, creative nature. I don't know why this is so, but I'm very well aware that the moment I leave my house, there is a never ending set of brutal processes that attempt to break my imagination and shove me into a world that is largely unsatisfying in its rigid conformity.

The irony is that as children, the power of our imaginative beings is quite easily mastered. We make believe fantastic new worlds, conceive imaginary friends, and create on levels so fantastically unreal...that it only seems natural we'd culturally foster this profusely creative genius and make it a part of our daily adult routine.

Yet, this is not the case. Somewhere down the line, there's a reality we've created, some social construct that not only prevents us from utilizing our creative ways, but rewards the homogenization of ourselves into society at large. Maybe this is what "maturity" and "adulthood" means, but sometimes when I sit in my office with its huge, gray fake-walls and surf the internet for my creative contemporaries, it strikes me as unfair that we've built a staunchly uncreative society that panders to the dumbest of our mental and physical needs.



My official title is that of Chief Communications Officer, but this in itself is just a creative way of labeling what I do. My primary job responsibility is simple and straightforward: I've been hired to imagine up new, engaging ways to communicate content and ideas - content that can sometimes appear dull and ideas that can sometimes seem boring. On the most part this job comes easy to me, but like all vocations, there are days I look at my workload and think to myself Oh man. How am I going to make all this stuff look awesome and amazing?

While the above question is internal and personal, on some level it's the primary lament of every creative soul on the face of this planet: How do we create in a world that is so eager to dismiss its creative energy?

Maybe this is just me, but when I watch iconic television advertisements like Carl's Jr.'s Kim Kardashian spot, all I can think of are two things:

1. It doesn't matter who you hire to eat lettuce...salads will NEVER be sexy.
   
2. There's got to be a better way.

Read more

You Say Potato, I Say Potatoe. (Or: This Is The Post Where I Meld Passion With The Passionate)

After reading a rather infuriating interview today, featuring Cardinal Barragan (the Pope's former chief Health Care spokesman) stating blanketly and quite assuredly that "Transsexuals and homosexuals WILL NOT enter into the Kingdom of God, and I do not say this, but Saint Paul does"...well, I was more than prepared to blog my little heart out, railing against the organized monster that is currently being heralded as modern Catholicism. Normally, I attempt to keep this blog of mine as far away from polarizing religious content as possible, but over the past six months, the methodology these trusted, ordained, high-level Cardinals have utilized to twist Scripture and spew non-loving, non-accepting, anti-Jesus sentiments is simply unacceptable...and riles a repulsion and anger within me that begets my literary voice. Or more realistically, a blog post.

I just can't stand it. Not only is Barragan preaching the very essentials of hatred and intolerance, but the scripture he's referencing is vague, at best...and further perpetuates the myth that these very human and fallible clergyman are actually the living, breathing voice of God.

Anyway, I was all steamed and peeved, ready to unleash the beast, up until thirty minutes ago when I stumbled across one of the most amazing and utterly fascinating pictures of all time.
Yes, that is Tyra Banks, one of the most annoying and befuddling class-B celebrities to land her own daytime talk show, being assaulted by a couple of rabid Sesame Streeters. Of course, it goes without saying that I don't condone any serious type of sexual harassment, puppetry or otherwise...but if you look closely, Cookie Monster is totally grabbing a little piece toosh. And loving every minute of it.

If this snapshot teaches me anything, it sermonizes that tonight is simply not a night for keenly-placed anger. Tonight is a night for indulgence and extravagance, married only by a sense of euphoric, sensual exhilaration.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go find my girlfriend and show her what Cookie Monster just taught me.

Read more

On Fighting The Good Fight

These past couple of months, it seems I can't go anywhere without being bombarded by a series of harsh, dissenting opinions, each heavily critiquing the general purpose and overall integrity of the self-publishing Internet. The general argument is that with the advent of social medias, we as human beings can't help but plaster the web with an overabundance of our narcissism. Blogger. You Tube. Facebook. Twitter. It's all just a masturbatory tribute to our egos, an unbroken exercise in self-aggrandizing futility.

For the most part, these laments come from the technologically incompetent, those old stable horses that can't understand - let alone appreciate - the ides of change. The way information is communally traded over the Internet without restraint or qualification...well, it's a slap to those who've spent their entire lives believing that true legitimacy comes only when your idea is being backed by some organized, professional publication. Like a newspaper. Or paperback publisher. Or movie studio. Or record label.

Yet these past few months, its hasn't been the old or inexperienced who have been crying the loudest. For me, Autumn 2009 has been filled with an exponentially growing movement of casual Internet dwellers who are backlashing against the World Wide Web...and particularly the machines of social medias. These folk are different than the above complainers for they have directly experienced the transformative nature of the Web 2.0, enjoyed it as a novelty, and have now gotten bored and moved on. Palahniukian in nature, these voices hiss out one forceful Tyler Durden anthem in unison: You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile. Their notions are based in the fact that most of us are unimportant and irrelevant to advancing Earth's shared collective of creative thought...and as such, if most of us are inconsequential, is it really necessary to give ourselves blogs and twitter feeds just to hear ourselves talk?

In this much, I can't help but agree. There's nothing special here in this blog of mine, nothing engaging or relevant enough to substantially impact anyone, anywhere. This soapbox of mine is quite little and negligible...and there are plenty of other authors out there, whom when stacked up to me, can compose more compelling, well-written compositions in their sleep.

Yet for the past fortnight, I've been obsessed with Nichole 337 and her personalized YouTube channel, a showcase of dreadfully popular country and teen-pop songs, covered by Nichole herself. As you can probably tell from her various youtube clips scattered throughout this post, Nichole has none of the conventional attributes that make for a popular, engaging singer. Her voice is horridly tragic, matched only by the ferocity of her homeliness. She has no timing or scale...and features a mismatched pitch that, if harnessed correctly, could very likely kill a small pigeon mid-flight. Granted, the art of critique is a subjectively nominal beast, but I think we can all agree that Nichole is an obvious train wreck. She's an empty-bodied, singing disaster.

But that's not the point. The point isn't that Nichole is a bad singer. The point isn't that Nichole will never breach conventional music standards and win a Grammy. The point isn't that Nichole is irrelevant in the grand scheme of humanity's creative process. The point isn't that Nichole and her voice are not beautiful and unique snowflakes. Those statements are all very obvious...and understood by even Nichole herself when she states on her own channel: I sing for a hobby NOT a career.

The point I'm trying to make here is that Nichole truly IS the same decaying organic matter as everyone else. She's just another insignificant schmuck, practicing her passions and sharing it with the world in spite of its glaring frivolity and trifling unimportance.

Let's be real here. Odds are, regardless of our attempts to be memorable, in 200 years nobody will recall any of us as the individuals we are today. Odds are nobody will remember us, period. And all our private legacies that we plan to leave behind for the world to enjoy and debate? Well, unless we're a Hemingway, Einsten, or Joplin, all our hard-pressed merits will quickly blend into a sea of endless transmissions and ideas, indistinguishable from its peers and counterparts. Sure it sounds like a grim and depressing reality...but it's as true and faithful as humility itself.

The trick though is to rejoice regardless of these facts. The trick is to keep on singing.

Keep on singing. I think of that thought every time I go to Nichole's page, which has been quite often these past few days. I hear her godawful voice and it makes me smile, mainly because I realize that social medias are not a passing technology, but instead a nurturing field; a quaint and easily-accessible venue that makes it okay for us to be heard in this highly globalized world...despite our very apparent flaws and sense of averageness.

Life is not always about advancing society or making this world a better place. Sometimes life is simply about being. Being ourselves and sharing our lack of perfection with whomever is willing to listen. And it is in this concept and this concept alone why I am thankful for being alive and unimportant this Thanksgiving.

Read more

Oh. My. Goodness.

Dear Pop Culture Gods,

Honestly. Does it get any more acute than this?

I really don't think so.

Read more

Race & Racism in The D: Part 4 - Who I Am Via What I'm Not

We live in a strange and wondrously balanced world, filled with as much beauty and love as there is forced anger and unadulterated hatred.

A few days ago, I started a mini-blog series about Race & Racism. To Read my prior entries on the subject, please go here


Race shall forever confuse me.

I grew up the owner of two purebred Indian parents, both born and raised in India before immigrating to America in the early 1960's. For eighteen years, I'd the fullness of living in Livonia, Michigan, the whitest of all white suburban towns (96% of its 100,000+ population are Caucasian, while only .01% are Asian). A minority amongst even the minorities, I spent most of my post-adolescence drifting around Michigan and Colorado until 2005, when I ultimately found a sense of peace in the gritty backdrop of urban Detroit (where once again, out of nearly 1,000,000 citizens, less than one percent of them were Asian.)

Because there are not too many Asians running around the metro-Detroit area, everywhere I go, everywhere I've lived, my racial identity has been viewed as an unique sort of specialty; a novelty, at best. Even though there are not too many Suneil's here in Detroit, I'm still grouped into a box and classified...and then intently judged based on that classification. Laymen like to say my race is Indian, but for categorical reasons, the Western World has shoved me into the very ubiquitous “Asian” label. Anyone from Bangladesh, Cambodia, China, India, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Pakistan, the Philippine Islands, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and even Vietnam is an Asian...which confuses me even further, seeing I've been to both Thailand and India...and there are little-to-no shared traits either of those countries share.

I think I don't understand race mainly because it isn't clearly definable. For years, post-modernists have freely argued the defining characteristics of race...and I've still yet to get a straight awnser. What makes an Asian man “Asian”? What makes me, Suneil Singh, an Asian? It surely isn't based on any phenotypic or genotypic traits. Is it because my parents are from Asia? That sounds like a poor reason to be part of any race, let alone propagate a myth.

It becomes even more confusing when you throw in social misjudgments and misperceptions. My physical attributes don't easily prove my race...and while living in Detroit, I've had people assume I was African, Middle Eastern, Caucasian, and even Hispanic. Whenever people guess incorrectly, I shrug my shoulders and think to myself Keep guessing. This game is so useful to you getting to know me.

I own this old, affable dog named Smokey. When folk meet Smokey for the first time, they normally ask me what type of dog he is. I reply that he's a lazy and smelly pooch, a mutt whose need for attention and trash is so overpowering that there's little one can do but come to accept Smokey for who he is. Most people aren't content with my response and counter with no, but what TYPE of dog is he?

Dude, I just told you what type of dog he was. Are you really going to be enlightened by the knowledge that he's a Malamute Mix? Is that going to physically change any aspect of him whatsoever? Is it even going to change your interpretation of him? He's forevermore going to be lazy and smelly, regardless of labels. He is what he is.

Race is not real by fact. The only reason its still alive today is because we breathe life into it and give it importance. And sadly, that itself begs the question: will we ever not be totally and completely obsessed with our racial origins?

I'm not Asian nor do I even understand what it means to be part of that race. Does Asian mean I like ice cream? Does it mean I like going to the bars? Does Asian mean that I've a wicked sense of humor? Does it mean, I'm well-read? What can you possibly learn from categorizing me as an Asian? My race doesn't give me any comfort or enlightenment. Does it give you anything?

If you want to get to know me, ask me a real question. If you want to criticize me as a human being then criticize me on something that exists. Make me feel it. Talk to me about something that matters. Talk to me about me.

Read more

Race & Racism In the D: Part 3 - The Conversation

We live in a strange and wondrously balanced world, filled with as much beauty and love as there is forced anger and unadulterated hatred.

A few days ago, I started a mini-blog series about Race & Racism. Part 1 dealt with a Detroit blogger, Push Nevhada and his historically-based experiences writing about the Black Bottom, or the Eastside of Detroit. (To read it, go here.) Part 2 dealt with my Black Bottom experiences (to read that go here). Part 3 deals with Push and my interaction.

For someone like Push, a man who wrote such an engaging and thoughtful piece on the Black Bottom, it strikes me as alarming that the below conversation came to pass...and more importantly, that it denigrated into name calling with such speed and haste. It all really just started with a simple, innocent comment:

White Collar Boy (Me): Interesting take. For over two years, I worked at a Black-run community center in the middle of the Black Bottom. It was sadly as corrupt and unnecessary to the resurgence of that neighborhood as the Lafayette Park initiative.

I wonder what you, the reader, infers about my comment. Is it harmful? Is it offensive? What do you think?

Here's Push's reply, sent to me privately via e-mail.

Push Nevahda: So, there are no Indian-run community centers that are corrupt, and/or in sad state of affairs, Mr. White Boy? There is absolutely no corruption, despair, and sadness among YOUR people in INDIAN communities, Mr. White Boy? Indians are perfect human beings who govern perfect communities? Calcutta is not one of the most impoverished, neglected, diseased, places on the planet? Why did you feel the need to racialize your comment (by stating that the community center was "black-run")? What was the point in that? So, black resurgence is "unnecessary as the Lafayette Park intiative"? How so?

Whoa. So regardless of intent, I definitely struck a sensitive chord. Here was my response, trying to salvage the discussion.

White Collar Boy (Me): Some observations, none of them made out of anger:

• Why didn't you post your response to me as a blog comment instead of directly e-mailing me? We could've had some rather enlightening discourse in front of everyone. Instead you made this very one-on-one.
• Why did you call me Mr. White Boy instead of Mr. White Collar Boy?
• Why did you immediately take a hugely defensive stance to my two sentence comment? It wasn't made to offend, which begs the follow-up question...when reading it, did you ever consider that I wasn't trying to offend or start a negatively-laced argument?
• This one is just more for me than anything else...was your e-mail to me an immediate reaction to reading my comment...or was it something timed and carefully written out?

Let me explain my perspective: You or someone you know sent me a friend request on facebook. I normally don't accept friend requests from strangers...but when I looked at your profile, I noticed we shared some same interests...so I actually took the time to check out your YouTube videos, your main website, and then your blog. Your blog entry on the Black Bottom was interesting and insightful.

For me, blogs are normally one-way mediums for the author to share their experiences/information on a topic. If the author allows blog comments, he/she is freely eliciting personal responses from the general public based on that particular topic. I have very specific experiences that came from me working to help better the Black Bottom community. Over two years, I raised over two million dollars for that community...and it was wholly frustrating to watch as my coworkers greed, alcoholism, and general disdain for the community they promised to serve overtook why we were all working there in the first place. It was a horrible time in my life, and I came out of the experience feeling like I'd accomplished nearly nothing...and maybe even more importantly, that I'd lost two years of my life. Two years where I would've been doing something better for the city.

That's my experience. You can get angry at my experience. You can try to diminish my experience by explaining the deficiencies of other culture's. All that is mute though, because my experience is true. It's not based on myth or falsehoods. You'll never be able to prove my experience wrong because it's mine and I know for a fact that it actually happened.

Lastly, I contextualized my comment as a "black-run" center because:

• It was a black-run community center.
• You had already racialized the discussion by referencing the positivity that pre-1950's black-run businesses had on the community.
• You had already racialized the discussion by making a couple extremely indirect links to how arab and non-black businesses had taken over in the ruined and impoverished area.
• I felt you never addressed all the facets of the 21st century, black-owned businesses and community centers.

I made the comment not to deride the notion of twenty-first century black-run businesses. (Remember, I actually raised money for one). I made the comment because outside of the individual pimp scenario you wrote about, I felt you didn't properly address the portion of black-run businesses/community centers that were poorly-run. The poverty pimps. I commented because you had left out MY experience, my perspective. This is an important discussion we're having here on misplaced frustration and misperception. I implore you to comment publicly on your blog with your first comment and then I'll post this one back. You should feel free to respond via another blog comment after I've posted mine. Hopefully, if your blog garners enough blog hits, people will grow to understand both our perspectives. In the end, that's what we're all trying to accomplish here, right?

Okay, now with all that being said to clarify my statement, do you think I meant harm or offense by it?

Push Nevahda: You're not looking for any enlightenment, Mr. White Boy. You and I both know that so I dont even wana play that game. You took one negative, inner-city experience, racialized, and allowed it to define your "experience" as well as an entire peoples - that is your implicit message. So, enough with the "enlightenment" joke. You never answered my questions so I wont bother with yours. I responded directly to your email rather than the blog because I wanted you to get my message immediately. As for me being angry, LOL!, typical "white boy"response whenever he's called on his bullshit, racist comments. And, since you call yourself "white boy", I called you on your anti-black statements - no matter how well cloaked you thought they were. Have a good day, Mr. White Boy.

I responded by posting all our back-and-forth comments on his blog...which promptly made him delete his entire post, I'm assuming out of fear that he didn't want his readers to see his more racially-insensitive side.

I don't really have a point to these last three blogs. They are what they...and at best, are meant to stimulate discussion or debate.

Tomorrow I'll touch on some of the finer points of this interaction and how race and racism has affected my life...but for now, I'll leave you all with the same question that prompted me to start these blogs in the first place:

Am I really that out of touch with popular culture? When did it become evil or bad to be White?

Read more

Race & Racism In The D: Part 2 - My Two Years In The Black Bottom.

We live in a strange and wondrously balanced world, filled with as much beauty and love as there is forced anger and unadulterated hatred.

Yesterday I started a mini-blog series about Race & Racism. Part 1 dealt with a Detroit blogger, Push Nehvada and his historically-based experiences writing about the Black Bottom, or the Eastside of Detroit. (To read it, go here.) Part 2 deals with my Black Bottom experiences.


In the winter of 2007, this blog of mine caught on fire. At the time, The Years Keep Passing Me By was being hosted on MySpace...and under the dimly lit spotlight of bad social networking, some highly-influential MySpacer decided to recommend my caustic sense of humor as essential reading. Actually, I don't know if that's true or not, but it's the only reason that makes sense, because literally overnight my readership skyrocketed. Like into the thousands. It was a pivotal moment in my blogging noncareer...and out of fear and confusion, I took that pivotal moment, cradled it in my hands for several hours, and then wholeheartedly rejected all my new found fame.

My rejection was full and carefully plotted out...and within ten days, I'd switched hosts, transferred my blog to Blogger.com, created a new web address, and restarted from scratch. I knew a large percentage of my newer readers weren't vested enough in my writing to actually make the transition with me...and as such, after switching sites, my blog went from a nerve-racking 2300+ hits per day down to a much more manageable 17.

I admit it, I took the easy road. I just couldn't handle all the responsibility that came with being a semi-semi-popular e-author. When your blog is being read, it means you're being watched. And trust me, when you're being watched, it means means BE VERY, VERY CAREFUL WITH WHAT YOU SAY. I simply didn't want to take on that kind of exposure, so I opted to leave it all behind on MySpace.

I don't regret that decision, not for a single second.

When my blog gained popularity, I was forced to make some stingy decisions regarding "being careful with that you say". I abhor treading lightly for the sake of treading lightly, but back in 2007, two subjects quickly rose to the top of the list as topics that deserved the respect of not being talked about negatively in public. One was my girlfriend, the other, my workplace. My thoughts were that both Melanie and Work demanded a sense of loyalty, loyalty surely broken if I ever referenced them on this blog in any degree of ill will. Especially with work. Back in '07, I'd taken on a significant role at a nonprofit located in the middle of the Black Bottom...and had literally sworn to uphold my CEO's vision of the organization. (Yes, literally. I earned my Ghetto Pass and all.) The mere notion of talking badly about my work came across as counterproductive...and as such, I felt my blog's subject matter needed to be adjusted.

As the months passed, the above ideology outgrew the confines of this blog...and the idea of keeping my mouth shut in public quickly became a personal motto. Protect and preserve at all costs. As witnessed in my more emo blog posts these past few months, not feeling the freedom to publicly express myself concerning my personal issues with Melanie heavily contributed to the growing rupture in our relationship, one that culminated in our break-up...but with work, I never spoke openly about how protecting and preserving at all costs completely disenfranchised me from my work ethic and overall mentally stability. Outside a few select friends, nobody knows about the two years of Hell I spent working at Franklin-Wright Settlements (FWS). My time spent there was embarrassing and undermining to any social cause...and even though I saw so much illegal and immoral activity being generated at FWS, I put the organization first and kept my mouth quiet. God before country, right?

It's extremely difficult discussing what happened over at FWS. I really don't even know where to begin. Essentially for the two years, I watched as my leaders bilked over $2,000,000 in donations and funding, running sub par programs and then falsifying documents/outcomes so it would appear to look like FWS was operating flawlessly. In short, FWS lied...and out of fear and confusion that I wouldn't find gainful employment in an urban city with a 26% unemployment rate, I sat there with my head down and eyes shut as my bosses took the general public's hard earned money and squandered it through vices of greed, self-indulgence, and general corruption.

Seriously. None of our programs ever ran up to code. None of them. And nobody cared.

During my tenure at FWS I was ordered to fictionalize only one document, but it was a rather important report, one that has kept me from sleeping comfortably for these past three months. (i.e. Unless I'm intoxicated and pass out, I usually can't go longer than three-to-four hours without running into a nightmare or mini-panic attack). FWS should've justifiably lost half a million dollars, half its operating budget, but I was informed to lie publicly for the good of the organization ("for the good of our jobs" as my CEO quaintly put it)...and so I not-so-blindly followed orders and helped scam the United Way out of a lot of money.

I remember that day quite clearly. On June 10th, 2009 I was ordered to fabricate lies...and on June 11th, I bulked up my resume and formulated the groundwork that transitioned me into my new job at the Girl Scouts. I just couldn't be a part of it all anymore. We were supposed to be helping...and instead we were stealing.

My time at Franklin-Wright is something I don't ever want to remember, but for the life of me, I can't seem to forget. My nightmares are constant and constantly overbearing, my guilt equally as overwhelming. Part of me wants to just shove all this darkness into a deep and well-secured closet, maybe move forward with my life...but alas, that's easier said than done. I got into this line of work because I heard a higher calling to help out the communities who needed it the most. In the end, I wasted two years of my life, party to a workforce that did exactly the opposite. It was a debilitating body blow, if ever there was one.

I'm hoping the leaves turn this Autumn...and that they turn quickly. I'm ecstatic to be currently working for an outstandingly, ethical nonprofit. I'm even more content working closely with a CEO who not only hears the same higher calling that I hear, but at many times, puts it above her own personal wants and desires. Yet even with all that, my experience with FWS has wholly disillusioned me to the system of nonprofits in general. I've seen the sadder sides of philanthropy first hand; the modern day Poverty Pimps and all their wicked, wicked ways. I'm secure in my faith that I don't work for the dark side anymore, but nonetheless, it's made me ever so cautious whenever I donate my money to a worthy cause. Nonprofits are as prone to malefaction and wrongdoing as for-profit corporations.

I can't relate my FWS experience to any other experience out there. It's far from the norm or standard...and I sincerely doubt I'll ever encounter such casual inequity in the workplace ever again. I do know that these experiences shall stand by my side, forever haunting me as I blaze my path through Southeast Michigan.

This is my two years in the Black Bottom.

Read more