"Be Careful, It's Dangerous" - Answers.com Creative Writing Challenge entry

The Federales pulled my brother and me over on Mexican Highway 1, just south of Tijuana, in a rented truck packed with insects, arachnids, and a violent toucan. We were accused of illegal wildlife trafficking. The insects were stacked in the back of the truck in clear plastic containers and the bird was in a rusty cage. We had just left Dr. Raoul Sirentas’s research facility after responding to his advertisement in the Los Angeles Times. He’d sold us his insects.

Dr. Sirentas was an entomologist who had developed a tragic case of melissophobia after accidentally drinking a bee that had drowned in his sugared coffee. The bee’s corpse, upon coming into contact with his throat, stung his tonsil. Sadly, in the following weeks his melissophobia snowballed into entomophobia, and soon Dr. Sirentas couldn’t get within a football field of his insect-filled laboratory without convulsing with fear. Eventually, he stopped going altogether and the Mexican government was forced to abrogate his research grant. In order to feed his wife and kids, Dr. Sirentas decided to sell his beloved, but feared, insect collection.

Around the same time five-hundred miles away, my brother’s bookie, Chuck, called my brother and offered him a tip on the fifth race at Santa Anita in exchange for a payout he owed him, quid pro quo. My brother accepted and Chuck told him about Yo-Yo Dude, a filly from Belize.

“She’s a surefire winner,” Chuck said. “I also like Rice Crispies and Prozac in that race.”

“Those are horses?” My brother asked.

“Yup,” Chuck said. “For all intents and purposes, racehorses are warm-blooded brand names.”

Twenty minutes later, my brother won $5,962 on a trifecta.

The next morning, as we ate a perfunctory breakfast in the apartment we shared, I read an article in Time about insect breeders who supply wealthy European socialites with exotic insects. Apparently, rare insects are a sign of prestige in certain social circles, and rich Europeans like to show-off their collections to other rich Europeans.

Shortly after reading the article in Time, we stumbled across Dr. Sirentas’s advertisement in the newspaper, offering his entire inventory of insects and arachnids for $4,000. It included tarantulas, African honey bees, brown recluse spiders, Mojave beetles, fire ants, and more. We viewed this - the article, the advertisement, and my brother’s recent windfall - as a can't miss money-making opportunity. So we rented a truck and on a quixotic whim headed south toward Dr. Sirentas's home in Corvalis, Mexico.

When we arrived, the transaction was quick. We forked over the money and loaded the insects into the truck. In no time, we were careening back toward the United States with our cargo and a toucan my brother purchased from a roadside vendor. As we were leaving the vendor's stand, the man said, "be careful, it's dangerous." We thought he was talking about the road.

At 2 A.M., just when we could see the glow of Tijuana through the desert’s ubiquitous quarter-moon darkness, I noticed flashing lights coming up from behind us. Soon they were directly on our bumper, and an amplified voice ordered us to pull over. I cautiously applied the breaks and we rolled to a stop.

Two uniformed men exited their car and approached our truck; they had pistols in their holsters. One asked in Spanish if we were Americans. I tried to answer the question in his native tongue, but instead of saying “Si, Es verdad…Yes, that's true,” I said “Si, Es verde…Yes, it's green.”

“You’re an idiot,” my brother said.

The Federales ordered us out of the truck and onto the ground. They opened up the back and inspected our haul. I could hear them talking to each other, amazed as they shined their flashlights into each container. When they came upon the toucan, one of the officers unlocked the cage; immediately, the toucan attacked him, stabbing him in the eye with his banana-sized beak.

Cursing us, the Federales sped off for medical help, kicking up a plume of dust. The injured officer screamed as their car disappeared into the night. My brother and I got up and quickly shut the truck’s back door. The toucan was still loose inside.

Two hours later we were in a hotel parking lot in San Ysidro. When we opened the back of the truck, we discovered that the toucan had smashed each plastic container and eaten every last insect.

One-hundred miles to the south, Dr. Sirentas laid in his bed, sobbing.

The Wilco/VW pseudo-controversy

Art-folk rock from the Midwest. Automobiles from Deutschland. Together in thirty seconds of television.

It's common knowledge by now, but I'll set the stage anyway. Wilco has licensed a portion of their new album, Sky Blue Sky, to Volkswagen. The songs will appear in a series of commercials designed to sell cars, and supposedly increase the band’s listenership. According to Wilco Headquarters, “with the commercial radio airplay route getting more difficult for many bands (including Wilco); we see this as another way to get the music out there.”

The statement came as a response to the inevitable “sell out” allegations that raged on the message boards at viachicago.org, a fansite, and in blogs elsewhere. In the initial post on the subject at viachicago, the author declared “I would understand if the band all drove VWs and really, just like, really loved their cars—but I doubt that is the case. This was a crass, marketing decision.” Regardless of Wilco’s tact(lessness), the end goal of their relationship with VW is greenbacks and Benjamins. This is obvious.

In defense of the band, loyalists responded with disregard for even the idea of selling out: “So what? They have a few fucking songs in commercials. Why does that get your panties in a bunch?” Others countered by citing Wilco’s stance against Warner Bros. when the record company wanted to alter/reshape Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, the band’s critically acclaimed fourth album. Jeff Tweedy’s brother-in-law even got involved on his blog, Jew Eat Yet:

"It saddens me that these people seem to believe that the VW campaign will somehow affect Wilco's future activities or Jeff's commitment to his songwriting. From the outcries I’ve seen on several sites, you’d think Wilco had licensed “She’s a Jar” to sell Kraft mayonnaise, “Nothing’s Ever Gonna Stand In My Way” to hawk Viagra, or “I’m the Man Who Loves You” to promote the North American Man-Boy Love Association."

Danny Miller (Tweedy’s brother-in-law) seems to imply that what matters in the idea of “selling out” is the type of product with which art is used to sell. He also seems to be saying that if there’s a literal connection between song and product (She’s a Jar, mayo – NEGSIMW, Viagra) then it’s worse. That’s nonsensical. The whole controversy of “selling out” is about receiving money in order to sell a product. It doesn’t matter what company they choose to license the songs to or what product the songs are used to sell. As long as they ink a deal with a for-profit corporation, people will be up in arms. And Miller’s other personal assertions that Jeff Tweedy is truly dedicated to the music (he claims to know this BECAUSE he’s his brother-in-law) is beside the point. At the heart of “selling out” is the contentious relationship between business and art. We, the listeners, accept that the means by which art is produced and disseminated in a capitalist system requires payment. Thus we purchase music from corporations, small and large. There’s a certain purity in that transaction. As soon as we fork over the money, the “business” element fades into the background and the “art” takes over. But now, when we purchase an album like Sky Blue Sky, that product is by proxy associated with another product, and we have to endure the resurgence of the “business” element. Instead of a single transaction, the music tries to get us to purchase something else. Right now, the music on Sky Blue Sky is not just “art,” it’s an advertising tool. Understandably, some people are pissed. Others could give a shit.

In 2006, Brooklyn musician Tim Fite released his third album, Over The Counter Culture, gratis on his website and his Myspace page. This was a conscious decision similar to Wilco’s decision to stream Yankee Hotel Foxtrot after being dumped by Reprise in 2002. The only difference is that Fite has a record deal with the independent label ANTI-, and they wanted to release the album in stores across American; but Fite, who wrote the album as a response to the commercialism dominating hip hop and other genres, felt that it would’ve been hypocritical.

In what has become small scale mythology, Fite supposedly decided to record OTCC after seeing Sean Combs at the MTV Music Awards, where the rapper-mogul ended his acceptance speech by saying “don’t get mad, get money.” In an interview with The Boys ‘N Bagels, Fite said about Combs’ exclamation:

"It sounded so true. It made so much sense. I liked it. I wanted to respond - Get Money! - Get Money! - Get Money! But as quickly as it had started, it was over. Mr. Combs plugged his new record, and the commercials came on - a car ad with a hip-hop beat - Vitamin Water by 50 Cent - Dirty South Ring Tones - The Game: Sneakers by Reebok - “Don’t Get Mad...Spend Money...Don’t Get Mad...Spend Money...Don’t Get Mad...Spend Money!” I slammed my last three quarters into the laundry maching. I am mad. Fuck money.

It is experiences like this that provoked me to record Over The Counter Culture. Experiences where I saw hip-hop culture (or any revolutionary sub-culture for that matter) being co-opted by commercialism and tricked out in an effort to disguise the hidden agenda of economic, intellectual and spiritual degradation that we have come to know fondly as popular culture."

What this “hidden agenda…of degradation” is, exactly, Fite doesn’t define. What Fife does make explicit is that, in his opinion, the merger of “business” and “art” has weakened art’s revolutionary qualities and consequently affirmed the status quo. Unfortunately, Wilco’s not thinking in those terms. It seems that after twenty years of making music Tweedy has decided “fuck it, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

But does it matter? Would Wilco be better off if they adopted Fite’s anti-consumerism ideology? Would they be better off if they didn’t want to line their pockets with greenbacks and Benjamins?

In the early 1990s, The Flaming Lips appeared in an episode of Beverly Hills 90210. A brouhaha similar to the Wilco-VW situation occurred and fans and critics alike hurled accusations of selling out at Wayne Coyne and company. At this point, as we near the completion of the first decade of the 21st century, does anyone remember The Flaming Lips for their appearance on that show? Is the Peach Pit their legacy? Did their career suffer?

No.

So what matters then?

I’ll let Dave Eggers, who has been oft-accused of selling out himself, bring it home:

"What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things that are true and will stand. What matters is that the Flaming Lips's [Wilco’s] new album is ravishing and I've listened to it a thousand times already, sometimes for days on end, and it enriches me and makes me want to save people. What matters is that it will stand forever, long after any narrow-hearted curmudgeons have forgotten their appearance on goddamn 90210 [VW commercials]. What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who's up and who's down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say…It is a fuckload of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes."

With the VW advertisements, Wilco has said yes to an increased listenership, a new way of marketing records, and thousands of dollars. The move is worth it if one person discovers Wilco’s music via the advertisements. The move is worth it if they give even a portion of that money to charity. The move is worth it if in some small way these advertisements facilitate another Wilco album.

That's what really matters.