A Short Look At Society

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Manic depression, world wide panic, the world has fallen off its rocker. People always say how the worlds gone mad, but truthfully it’s the people that’s gone Looney. This morning I heard a news broadcast about a couple in Florida who paid one hundred and twenty five thousand dollars to have a dog cloned, a dog cloned for one hundred and twenty five thousand dollars! The old saying goes “ If you got it, Flaunt it.” but to me that’s more of a waste. I’m not a person who really watches the news. The only events I’m exposed to, is what I see during the ten minutes before weather on the ones and with in that time frame a lot of bullsh*t is dished out.

Sensitivity has become a plague amongst the people. Everyone must watch his or her tongue in order not to offend, but everything offends. If you say you love the Jews than people say you must hate the blacks. If you support gay marriage than you don’t love god. If you buy Pepsi than your discriminating against Sprite. Own a cat and your racist against dogs. People waste a majority of their life’s wrapped up in this sh*t. Whether as the accuser or the accused, but at the end of the day who really gives a f*ck. Is a person’s preference really going to make an impact on my life. So what if you like cats or Jews or homosexuals or Pepsi. The truth is I couldn’t care less.

The Art of War

the-art-of-war

The moving images of the governments’ aspiration being depicted from coast to coast. Justified are the premises, no matter what side the station picks. We never stop to think why their isn’t a third opinion on nightly sets that say that there is another way. Flames are just a prop in the pictures, illuminating results of the fireworks of overzealous engines atop the pyramids. Not seen as human anymore; and shouldn’t be if you alter the reasoning. The people lost are marginalized because their lives needed to be forgotten to bring peace… only to the power’s state of mind. The Gaza Strip is just another in the long line of “it’s sad it has to be this way, but it is.”

The media’s role in the apathy of the nation can’t be measured, but it can be felt. If a war is ongoing, it starts off as the breaking story. But as days pass, it is pushed to the back burner of these too-influential nightly melting pots. So as the frequency of the story lessens, the importance of it does too. On one hand, it is depressing. Who wants to see stories of death and destruction everyday, all the time? On the back of that same hand, the news always seems to be depressing. The top story on the 10 o’clock news is always a shooting, a local scandal, or something shady going on in a hood near you. These nightly programs probably give viewers the feeling that the world is a dangerous place because of evil people roaming every corner; not because of establishments voted into their positions. But the way that wars just fade into the background make it seem like there is nothing we can do about them. Persistent, but not something you need to know about. They will always be there. They are the backdrop to an ever changing danger, always lurking, that isn’t really changing at all. It is all fear. The thought that the big picture is explosions in hotel lobbies and nuclear threats, and the possibilities closer to you that are just as bleak create this sense of hopelessness. They say that they are here to inform. That is their function. But not to a point where we are moved to take action, but one to where we are too resigned to the fact that our obstacles are immovable objects. And we are not an irresistible force. Just bystanders. The news is depressing.

We are stuck at a crossroads that we come to every time our soldiers go off to battle. You always hear phrases like “Americans wouldn’t stand for this” or “We are a nation made up of the best people.” Not saying that that isn’t true, but I have to ask why do we stand for it? GITMO is still open and I don’t think many would be yelling out if our President elect didn’t make closing it one of his top priorities (fortunately he has.) We have more important things to think about. You can probably count on one hand the amount of full weeks we haven’t been involved in a military conflict in the past 50 years. There is a faction of this country that is wildly nationalistic; who believe that what we do is right because we are doing it. But there are a lot more of us that can think past the 50 stars and look at a situation objectively. I don’t think most people want war, but I think that 95% of us are ok with it. It’s the way it is, the way it was, and (no one
ever talks about this, but I think in the back of our minds we believe it’s) the way it always will be.

We’re stuck. But only if we choose to be. People get all choked up and annoyed about fiction, imagine if someone showed us images of what was going on in Gaza right now. And not the bombs going off from miles away, but the photos of children sitting next to their dead parents. Or a family lying in the rubble of their formerly standing home. We would be outraged. Incensed. Calling our congress men and woman, telling them to stop letting these wars be funded with our tax dollars. Crying because we see the similarities and could imagine that being us. If they are going to be biased, they should bombard us with this truth until we have no alternative to turn to. Force us to make it stop, as if those families were our own.

Or we would be a little frightened. Mostly indifferent. Use to it. Would change the channel to something entertaining. Not seeing ourselves in their shoes and basically strengthening our “Sucks for them” attitude. When did we become indifferent about lives? I’m thinking when we became indifferent about life. We don’t have control, we have powerlessness. We don’t have any way to stop wars but we have full power over the remote. We don’t make our paths, we accept our fate. That way, hopefully, if we stay out of destiny’s way it will bless us in the end. They bombard us with the trivial and shield us from the finality of our silence. Are they protecting us? Is this the way? Is that their purpose?

I watch the moving lips, of supposed analysts going back and forth all night about two sides of the same coin. Like there is only a right and a wrong to every situation and the television personalities, that happen to give you the events of the day, present to you very neatly. Conservative versus liberal. Right, left. The grand old or the fresh new. All the moving images. They’re hypnotizing. Almost make you forget how human you are; and how that separates none of us. And how that doesn’t include your party, country or anything that is reason enough to justify the deaths. There’s another way, even if they don’t speak its name. Guns must be drawn. But they won’t change if we don’t want them to. And we don’t need them to if we just started remembering what our priorities would be if they weren’t told to us.

All the moving images. They stand as a microcosm for life; saying so little about who we are but so much about who we have been. Their opinions aren’t what’s bothersome, the problem is the amount that they offer. And how those two viewpoints support one idea about the only thing that matters when going to war: Can any gain really make this worth it? Connect to the cable box and you’ll see that it’s ok because… it’s just the norm. It makes me wonder: what is it’s function? And what are they working towards? I think we’d be better off imitating art.

A Chivalrous Less World

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Three nights ago the heavens rained upon us in New York city, taking breaks but not fully shutting off their showers until Saturday morning. In the mist of one of these storms while making my way home from work. I fell upon this young woman who unfortunately lacked an umbrella during the down fall. She walked past me, her jacket trenched and hood so out weighed with water it concealed her face. I called to her and offered to share my umbrella. She accepted but seemed shock at the offer. We continued to walk up the block together, chatting along the way until finally stopping in front of her building, she thanked me and said “ I thought chivalry was dead in the world” I replied to her with a smile “ No, it’s only on life support.” we both laughed and went our separate ways but my mind began to turn from the comment, seeing how it was not the first time that I have heard it.

The gears in my brain began to twist and the obvious came to me, chivalry really is dead or at least dieing in the world. To hold a door is to be courteous, to offer your jacket is to be chivalrous, to carry a bag, to offer a light, to assist a damsel in distress, well maybe distress is an intense word, but to offer your services as a gentlemen, acts like these have become too few in the world.

Critical Mass Cyclist Assaulted by NYPD

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Thanks to individuals with video cameras, like this tourist in Times Square last summer, we can bear witness to the world.

You don’t even have to be on a bike in NYC to see this kind of unrighteousness. I was shocked when I first moved here, but now I know that you ALWAYS have to advocate for yourself. One cop stopped me on Houston for no reason. He just saw me on a bike and wanted to ask me where I was going. I felt like he was going to ask me out on a date. Another common thing I’ve witnessed constantly: cops spittin’ game to flirty girls.

I also have a summons now for riding about 10 ft on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. I live on a busy one way, but the cops still suggested that instead of riding on the sidewalk, I should ride against traffic. Yeah. What’s more baffling is that there were about four of them posted right there in front of the bodega, “on patrol,” and I’m thinking, “YO, you’re across the street from Marcy Projects and you don’t have anything better to do than to give me a petty summons for cruisin on an empty sidewalk? I guarantee someone’s there’s a carjack happening right now.” Sure enough, one week later my neighbor is jumped and beat down near Myrtle-Willoughby by 6 guys, knocked out for nearly half an hour, bleeding internally, while they walk right in to my building and steal all their valuables right across the hall. Where were you then Mr. Officer? I know–mere chance, indeed. But when the kid finally came to take the report, my confidence in his competence rapidly deflated.

Most of the cops that I’ve seen (like those directing traffic) hate their job so much that you can clearly see an emotional recklessness unleashed in their gestures and yelling throughout the day. Many of them are just kids, yet they don’t have to be in order to show their insecurities. They are no different from your average worn unstable and aggravated New Yorker, they just tend to have a more destructive outlet of power when they put on their cowboy costumes.

The point is not to arbitrarily hate on cops or just anyone of authority. Rather, it is to require accountability of injustice. I believe there are people in power with integrity, self-control, and a decent set of ethics. Even though we can answer “Obama” to every drama as much as we like, we know that it is our responsibility to advocate for ourselves and each other. We are all we’ve got. And you don’t need to pick up a gun to start a revolution. The only piece you need is your voice. You’ve heard before that “your word is your weapon.” But your every action is your affirmation. Let it be known.

Matter

matter

So, I’m trying this thing where I turn one thing into another, right before my eyes. Or squinting, wide shut, blinded, whatever it takes. Because I was on my way to work the other day and I was thinking: (sorry if this is an over simplification of something truly complex, but I’ve never been too good at science, so I have to brake things all the way down for it to make sense to me) if we and everything around us are made up of atoms and atoms alone (at our core) then everything is just the same. It’s the same atoms in different forms. So what makes the same atoms into different things? Why are my atoms me and those atoms over there making up a billboard? The only answer that I reckon makes sense is that it is all in our perceptions. We perceive what is and what isn’t and our perceptions are the only things that make anything different from something else. Because if you go blind, an object is different to you than if you can see it. The only way that isn’t true is if you trust someone with sight to tell you differently. And that’s the same with all your senses. It’s created in your head by the resources you have at that moment. We happen to trust our eyes the most, but if there was no such thing as sight, we wouldn’t be iffy about what objects were; we would use our other senses and be definite about it. So is anything really what we make it out to be, or is everything just silly putty (aka empty atoms) that we make into something? I haven’t seen it in a few years, but I think that’s kinda what The Matrix was getting at (the world is a hologram).

So I say all this to ask, why can’t we make whatever we want into… whatever we want? Our brain must be doing a whole lot of work to create all that is, so why not work it a little harder so it can paint the picture we’ve always wanted it to be? Well, I answer, because you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. We’ve seen it this way forever; all of us have been programmed to see things the way they are currently and that’s a nearly impossible thing to change by now. But my rebuttal is that it isn’t too late if you think it all matters. If I think it is important enough, and all true, then I shouldn’t be afraid to try to break it all down to build it back up again. What have I got to lose except time that I’d probably be wasting anyway? But if you don’t truly believe it, then it can’t happen because your mind isn’t allowing the unimaginable. I guess this is what The Secret was getting at, but brought about all the skepticism for its vagueness. I might bring about a different kind of skepticism because this doesn’t make any kind of sense. Like I’m shroom trippin’ for the first time and I actually believe that the shit I saw was real. But once again, I have nothing to lose. I’m talking about reversing the laws of gravity; not having a need for excuses like the one of human nature; waking up a dream so it can take its rightful place as king; having my cake and eating it too. Even when I’m the one saying, I’m having a hard time believing it myself. The notion that we can melt the walls and replace them with every possibility is killing me. If I’m wrong, I’ll just chalk it up as another delirious daydream. But I hope I’m talking about reality, and my conception of it not just being a fallacy. Because I’m figuring that it’s all just matter. Why not take control of it?
I hope a physicist doesn’t come and poo all over this sporadic parade. More importantly, I hope I’m on the right track, because that would mean there is a place for dreamers on this earth and all the hope wasn’t kept in vain. And if I’m at all on to something, this raises more questions like: Do humans need a better depiction of themselves, or even a blank slate? Are we less predictable than inexplicable, more everything than entity? If we can create whatever we want with the right amount of skill and an abundance of imagination, does that mean that, in our own right, we’re all gods? I don’t know. But I think… I’ll save that for a next blog.

Cities & Impossibilities

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In the city of Fabiola, the armature alternately dissolves and integrates. Its light evaporates as a rope soaks up kerosene to burn within the lamp’s bulbous chimney glass. It brightens with the food of more rope.

The sky is a blueprint that dangles contrails. They seamlessly disintegrate into the solid blue that masks the stars. The funeral pyres remain for mulch. No cars run off the pipeline. Can’t you see? Not through the particulate matter, like that which covers the nightness.

In this particular matter, in the township of Fabs, light switches remain a mystery–dissociated from their antiquated uses. Historians and archaeologists sit around the conversation pit; drinking hot clover madhu; playing with “Scrabble” tiles on a “Monopoly” board. None of the original intentions or rules that govern, like that of the light switch, were retained, recorded, or deciphered. The principal spirit or goal, however, has been preserved: to play a game. As long as these professionals have something on the table with which they could occupy their eyes and many dexterous fingers while employing the muscles attached to their fine lips, then they could keep the criticism of outsiders at bay for a time. After all, there are no other inhabitants of Fabiola, who express any expertise on the origins of monopoly, much less the meaning of scrabble letters with numbers on them. Some have a faint notion that they might pertain to something called the “Periodic Table.” But periods, whether related to time and punctuation, or elements and chemistry, are generally beyond the concerns of common folk. They would rather enforce their faith that the conversation pit figures are engaged in crafting important plans for Fabiola’s future. Perhaps literacy and cultivation practices will be taught or ways to detect mines in the “no-colonization field.”

Fabiola is rich. She lacks a lot of the elements typical to a traditional city. Most notably, she lacks hatred. Her inhabitants know neither the meaning of this word, nor the implications it has in alternate dimensions. For the reader, examples might include: rape, diseased blankets, starvation of nutrients, decimation of species, and ego hunger. Due to the absence of hate, there is also little comprehension of fear. Many outsiders might accuse this township to be of little consequence–accomplishing nothing. On the contrary, they manage to maintain healthy levels of body heat, fat, and water.
They survive on little food and darkness. Their chief nutrients hail from clean air and stillness. They use and revere their legs so highly that artisans sculpted and dedicated public sites to pieces of substantial and muscularly articulated columns of legs. One popular site is located at the center of the town square where the townsfolk surround the celebrated appendages and dance before sunrise every morning. Then they stretch out on the cobblestones to roll around massaging their fleshy and fabulously-used proteins. Shortly after, they soak their feet in a nearby stream and gaze at the continuous morphing of their faces reflected. The deeper they peer, the more rocks appear and the sense of cold and wet passes and charges the electricity of their skins. Thus, forgetting all about their limbs.

Cowboy Hats

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Today was a beautiful day 61 degrees with a slight breeze. So i figured I would go and play a little early morning basketball to clear my mind. After basketball I’m feeling good right… I get into my neighborhood and hear someone playing some loud music in their car with a whole bunch of bass. Wow, I don’t hear much of that on this side of town. So as i take a closer look the guy has on a cowboy hat, brown leather boots, a big ass belt buckle, and some tight Wranglers. I’m not saying there is anything wrong with his attire however i just expected someone with some hip-hop gear on since the choice of his music was Lil Wayne “So Paid”. Lil Wayne’s appeal is apparently crossing over, or shall we call it alternative hip-hop? We should all take this opportunity to embrace multiple genres of music. I’ve learned my lesson, “Cowboy Hats” and tight jeans are no longer exclusively associated with Country Music.

On Poets and Poetry

Why am I poet? Because I write poetry. A better question to ask is then, why do I write poetry? This is much more complicated. As long as we allow a place for poetry in our culture, then the place for poets is safe. But if poetry is threatened, and poetry disappears, the poet becomes in Soviet jargon, “social parasite.” Therefore we can see that what justifies the poet’s existence is not their being a poet, in upholding some sort of essential poet-ness, but rather in producing a certain kind of work, a poem. All the stereotypes and clichés we might have of how poets exist and what they look like are such because only one thing makes a poet, and that is the poem.

The poet must also remember the poem is a creation which lies between music and prose. It is able to contain discrete meaning through words, but at the same time it is dependent on the impression of each word and how they interact with the ones before it. There can be no useless and unconnected parts of a poem, there should be no tangents if possible. In prose this can occur but in poetry economy of words is key.

It is the work which defines one as a poet. The poet of course supplies the raw labor necessary for the poem to be formed and become part of reality, but knowing anything about the poet is irrelevant. It might spur certain interpretations and can be helpful know, especially for those who want write poetry themselves, but the poem can stand on its own without the help of the poet’s personality. Anonymous troubadours and bards have handed us down poems that are still part of the Western cannon such as Beowulf. The identity of Homer is such a mystery that we might consider the Iliad and the Odyssey to be part of this tradition as well. These poems are lucky in a way not to be burdened with a real authorship, for then they can be appreciated on their own without reference to a body of work or the aura that well known poets carry around themselves and tends to blind the critical eye when appraising their work.

The poet should feel liberated by this humility towards the importance of the work. It allows the poet freedom from worry about being original and outside of tradition; nor that they have to develop and remain faithful to some sort of “voice.” Instead the poet becomes a craftsman, a maker, and less of a personality. It must be remembered though, he or she can still aspire to the transcends responsibilities David Citino identifies in “The Eye of the Poet,” to be a visionary or a namer of the nameless.

Most important for the poet is the liberation from the voice. A poet who focuses on the work and lets the work speak through him or her, is freed from that search which often preoccupies younger poets. The poet must be like a charismatic preacher, able to speak in tongues, adapting to every poem and willing to write the same poem in more than one way, to examine thoughts of heartbreak in the sonnet form and in free verse, through a rambling style or one that is more reserved.

T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock might be an extension of his own thoughts on the nature of fleeting time, but the character is not a confession. Instead Eliot conceived of the poem’s subject and found a voice who could speak amply on it. Prufrock was much older than Eliot was when he wrote the poem, and one who was far more experienced in the world of one night stand, “in cheap hotels.” Eliot’s masterpiece, “The Wasteland” also shows the freedom and creativity to be gained by finding out different voices which can challenge the author. He speaks as both the blind prophet Tiresias and as a tarot card reader. He turns from rhymed verse to every-day speech. It should be noted that the original title of the work embraced this principle, “He Do the Police in Different Voices.”

Like an actor finding a character within, the poet works to find the voice. But it is still one voice out of many, not a unitary way of engaging the universe and the culture in dialogue. Even if the world is of one mind, as poet Li Young Lee would have it, still this mind must have its various ways of speaking to itself so that it might proceed to greater understanding and the poet accomplishes this not only for the society at large but also personally when they try to speak in different voices through their work. Poetry when done this way then opens up different ways of seeing and helps the poet speak for those who might not otherwise be able to.

However poetry, as T.S. Eliot might have it, is not a refuge from the self. The progress of a poet need not be a “extinction of personality.” Instead poetry should broaden the personality of the poet, it should help the poet to find him or herself in many places, times, and minds and if done properly can also send the reader there as well. Of course no poet can speak in an infinite number of ways, but they are severely limited if they can only use one.

The problem of speaking in one voice comes through especially with the more confessional poetry that details the obsessions and past crimes of the poet. Many good poems have been and can be written from the subject matter of the writer’s life and their experiences, but simply being honest about the past does not make a poem good. The principle that the work is more important than the poet still applies. The facts add nothing by themselves. Rather they must conform to the flow and the music of the words. The poem is not a database, it is a window and sometimes through a window we do not see everything, either because we can’t or we choose not to. If details have to be left out to help the poem along and keep it from being weighed down, then so be it.

The problem of writing with a personal voice is that it makes editing harder because it feels as if the poet is compromising themselves. Instead of worrying about the work and the craft, the voice takes center stage and limiting it in any way appears to the poet to be a form of self-censorship. If the work is the central focus it will determine already what is necessary and what is not and the poet merely has to trust his or her intuition about the poem.

Politics s not suited for poetry. The bad political decisions of poets should alone prove (e.g. Pound) this but the substance of poetry itself is also problematic. A political poem should understand that it can only treat political concerns in either a direct way or an indirect one. The middle ground of naming names and –isms fails because it reads off a list of details and trivializes contemporary positions and politicians. It uses too much metaphor to describe something that is best argued for in real terms.

However, there can be good political poems. A successful political poetry must either elevate political struggle to pure myth in a dualistic world of diametrically opposed camps or it must be discrete. In the first case it would frame Bush in Iraq as a crusader, going with that as a theme and sticking seriously to it. It would make a commitment to viewing events in that way and then would develop honestly from that point rather than starting with facts and trying to dress them up with a little flourish.

In the second method, the discrete way, the poet is writing about the effect of something terrible and letting this create a passion for solving the problem. A poem about the problems of capitalism would talk about the concerns of miners and their terrible working conditions in order to then inspire an inquiry into why this is going on and lead the reader to further action. But the poem does not preach any solution, it tells about the problem. In addition a political poem could operate by critiquing the language used in politics. It can show the absurd corruption of a word like freedom used to defend tyranny and oppression, or justice used to cover up injustice. This approach goes back to the practical role of the poem, to critique language and how it is used.

If poetry is going to become read again and become popular, it must avoid confessionalism, confrontationism, and esotericism. The work must not be compromised by the poet’s personality as much as possible. The read cannot be treated as the enemy and poetry should not be a shibboleth to separate the educated and uneducated. Attention must turn to the poem and what the poem is supposed to achieve, this sounds simple but many poets have ignored it. All too often they understand what they are trying to achieve but forget they are working with a poem and not an essay or a treatise. They have a limited space and have to select their words carefully.

Of course all great future poems have the potential to be exempt from these rules. It is such works that the rules themselves are built around. They help to define poetry and what the perfect synthesis of word and sound can be. These rules are based on the combined cannon of such works and on the possibilities they open up, but also on the things they tend to do in common.

Self Protection

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I knew better but still went along with it. Trapped in lust, my logic was over come by my member. It stood there arose and not in terms for negotiations, as I was in no position to argue.
It was a long two months since I was in this position. Two legs spread wide apart exposing their glory. This place I’ve been countless times before. A body I knew better than my own had now been compromised. About two months or so from this day me and the one that laid before me had thrown a six year relationship to the wind with the famous ’If it was meant to be, than it will be.’ quote attached. In that time she had linked up with another, experimenting sexually without the use of contraceptives. The relationship faded after a mere two weeks, and with here body sexually tense. She called on a guaranteed orgasm.
She smelled good. The aroma from here vagina filled my lungs, allowing me to exhale a pleasurable sigh. That sigh was also one of caution. I wanted this, I was also horny myself, and I thought this may be the glue to fix this rip between us. I also thought of her contracting something from someone, a worry that was of my first concern ever since she told me of the encounters. Questions where placed upon her long before this curve ball had arisen. I mentioned a STD test and she chuckled saying she was fine. From there on I didn’t stress the matter, I just told myself that if she wanted to rekindle our relationship, than I would see to it that she got tested before anything. This oath meant nothing now. A moan jumped out into the air as my tongue lay upon here clitoris, her moans becoming louder, hands pressed against my head. My conscious yelled at me, but her moans where louder, my penis tightened and the worries where long forgotten. After two consecutive rounds. I clothed myself, freshened up and proceeded to open the front door, as I made my into the November night the worries began to follow.
Standing at the bus stop a psychotic itch took over my groin area. Hugging my genitals. I thought it may just be a frame of mind maybe I was playing tricks on myself thinking to much of the matter. My bus ride began and concluded and the itch still lingered, greatly penetrating along the shaft and ball connect. I got home hopped in the shower and felt for any bumps, there where none but the itch continued. I stood in the shower for a moment, after I was done and turned up the hot water letting it drop along my genitals. I gave off a sigh of relieve, exposing myself more to the scorching hot water. After that I clothed myself and got ready for bed. The itch still bothered me for a couple of days until finally subsiding. I called my ex and told her of what happened again, she blew it off directing the source of the problem towards me as she always has and removing herself from the equation. I got tested and waited. Waiting on my nerves for the results it came back negative. I was fine, but the scare was very real. I found myself thinking of the events and wondering if I would have done it again. Yes, I thought to myself but only for her. That’s when I came to the realization that love really does make you stupid and that no one should stop you from using a condom. All of a sudden those commercials and after school specials came to me and they all made perfect since. If everyone would take the precaution to protect themselves, than at the same time will be protecting each other. Use a latex save a life. Words I truly live by.

American Airlines – Flying Low Class

flying low class

You may be thinking low class hummm that’s an interesting title. When flying you may think that you purchased a “coach” ticket. But with American Airlines it should be considered “Low Class”.    It all started when I was checking my bags, can you believe it’s $15 for each bag?! So for two bags round trip that’s $60.00 in the hole!! I’m boarding the old school S80 airplane; of course passing by “First Class” thinking I’d like to have some elbow room too!

Ok now we take off with in a fully loaded underpowered plane. 15 minutes later I’m thinking ok “honey roasted peanut time” is coming, it should makeup for sitting in the “Low Class” section. But these days those lovely peanuts will cost ya $3 – $4 for a “Snack Pack”. And oh do you want a drink with that, how about some free water?

So I’m convinced that the old Coach is the new Low Class!!