Notes From the Midwest

Coulterland - Beginning Principles

2009-01-05T11:37:00.000-08:00

Note: This will be a multi-part post, since as I continue to write it I find that A. I'm quite tickled by the notion, and B.--not unrelatedly--I find myself writing a lot more than I originally intended. So I'll be breaking this into bite-sized chunks for easy consumption. And hey, if all goes well, I smell a book deal!

The question one must ask of any philosophy or political position is "Quo vadit?" (One must ask this question in Latin in order to seem, you know, smart.) That is, "Where is it going/does it go?" Aristotle bases much of his philosophy on the concept of functions--that is, everything that exists has a function, and to understand that thing, one must understand its telos, its end--the telos of an acorn is to grow into an oak, for example, just as the telos of an egg is to become a bird, the telos of fire is to consume its fuel, etc. (The challenge of the philosopher, of course, lies in determining whether a possible telos is in fact the true telos. And naturally, if you're not an Aristotelian, you don't believe that things have proper functions, and that they just are, or are not, and meaning cannot be ascribed to either state. Thank you, F. Nietzsche, but we'll stick with Aristotle for now.) So--

The question I ask myself is this: What does the ideal world of the neocons actually look like? That is, if we are to take their moral, social, and economic positions at face value--dicey, I know, but their readers certainly seem to--and give them, as it were, the three wishes of the genie in the bottle, then what would a world in which all of their positions were fulfilled be like to live in? The test of any philosophy is its results when it is given every chance to succeed--thus we know that Leninism/Maoism is crap, because the nations that embraced it/them were, in the end, substantially worse off as a result. Too, though, we know that complete and utter 'free-market-capitalism' is a terrible idea, as it tends to lead to things like the Belgian Congo (the very epitome of market-driven, aggressively profit-intensive labor relations.) So--

Let us, then, picture a world in which Coulter, Limbaugh, Scarborough, Ingraham, Hannity, Liddy, O'Reilly, D'Souza, Goldberg, Savage--my God there are a lot of them--et al. get exactly what they want: the death of liberalism. Complete and utter. No voice of dissent or disagreement with/from their neocon values. Would this be a dystopia, and if so, what would be its character? What would it be like, in short, to live in the neocon America? For only by imagining total victory for their positions can we test their value. (And if it sounds like I'm indulging in one of those Alternate Universe scenarios in which the South won the Civil War or the Nazis WWII, well, yes, I am, but I do not plan to make this either a cheap Orwellian knock-off, nor a reductio ad absurdum. I want to imagine a world in which these people are happy and content--where things are, as Limbaugh would say, the Way Things Ought To Be. So, like the Bear in the song, let us go over the mountain, and see what we can see.

First, let's be clear about one or two things; even though I've sworn not to go all 1984 on their collective asses, this imagined nation will, by definition, be totalitarian. One political party, one perspective on social issues--that's what 'totalitarianism' means, go ahead and look it up. Since the word inevitably has a negative connotation, let me concede that A. an all-liberal world would be equally totalitarian, and B. since we are imagining an ideal world, we will imagine that everyone in this world agrees whole-heartedly with the neocons, because of course, if they are self-evidently correct (as they claim), then the ideal would be universal recognition thereof. So we need not imagine 're-education camps' or such easy stuff of nightmares. Everyone just woke up one morning and said, "You know what? I agree with absolutely everything I read in Let Freedom Ring, Treason, and The No-Spin Zone." I will moreover vow that I will strive to avoid satire or cheap-shots--those aspects of life, if any, that would be better under the neocon banner, will be acknowledged, and those aspects of life unchanged or changed without disruptive significance will likewise be noted. My attempt is to see what The Good World of these people looks like, and clearly, they do not see it as any kind of dystopia, so I will veer away from that temptation. So--

Well, start by eliminating the extraneous. Literally--let's examine the rest of the world before we look at things down home.

Geopolitically, I'm at a bit of a loss to visualize this world. I think that the only way the neocons can get their way is either for us to conquer the entire planet--shades of Randy Newman's satirical vision of every country the whole world 'round being just another American town--or else we would have to seal our borders entirely, and go into full-blown isolationist mode. It would have to be one or the other; the Neocon vision is not one of half-measures--their unwillingness to compromise is part of what distinguishes them as a philosophy. As I do not think that world conquest is practicable, I'm going to go with the isolationist perspective. Global trade will, of course, still be necessary, but inasmuch as we can rely on multinationals to handle such trade in a way that supports and develops, rather than undermines, geopolitical stability (per the neocons, mind you), we need not worry about international embroglios or dust-ups; Blackwater will handle such things, and our military can do what it's supposed to do--stay at home and guard our borders. Call it the Monroe Doctrine 2.0: The XTreme Edition.

The poorer nations of the world would probably suffer as a result of this new world order, inasmuch as outfits like Nike would, absent any government oversight or finger-wagging from the State Department, almost certainly engage in truly horrifying labor practices overseas. (Please see earlier note about the Belgian Congo.) But, as the neocons point out, such labor practices would be occurring under the auspices of the countries in which they took place, and therefore the blame for any such atrocities would have to fall squarely on the shoulders of local government. Bribery of said governments by the multinationals would allow these horrific labor practices--all right, all right, let's just call it 'slavery'--to continue, but inasmuch as our own rebellion and achievement of democracy ought to be the model for all subjugated peoples to rise up and achieve self-representation, well, we can't be responsible for a bunch of babies who won't grow a pair and stage their own Battle of Lexington. In short, Not Our Problem. Our responsibility as Americans is solely to ourselves as Americans; other nations must shift for themselves. Just as we do not ask them for aid, neither should we be compelled to give it. (Slashing the living shit out of the federal budget for a few years will, of course, enable us to pay off those pesky loans from China, and then it's a strict diet of self-sutained economic development. No more going to that well for us!) In short, a metaphorical wall has gone up around the nation (a literal one on our southern border), and we just don't get out to see the neighbors. Not a problem--we've got all we need right here at home. If you are, as we are, the greatest country in the world--in history--then why worry about anyplace else? People in Heaven don't take vacations.

So what's life like at home? Tune in tomorrow.

Long Overdue

2008-12-10T16:06:00.000-08:00

Every snarling misanthrope and general curmudgeon should, at some point in his life, make a stab at his own version of Gilbert's "Little List" song from The Mikado. (Gilbert himself updated the lyrics as some became outdated and better ideas occurred to him, so there's a long-standing recognition that it's OK to do so. Well, that and, let's face it, the original lyrics include the word "nigger"--so seriously, we pretty much have to change them or else every boarding school production in America will be guilty of a hate crime.) Anyway, here's mine:

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,
I've got a little list — I've got a little list
Of society offenders who might well be underground,
And who never would be missed — who never would be missed!

There’s the people who bring infants onto overcrowded planes
All drivers who start signaling just after changing lanes
The shirtless man at football games who’s painted like a clown
The people who climb Everest and have to be helped down
And that scourge of all talk radio - the redneck jingoist -
I don’t think he’ll be missed—I’m sure he’ll not be missed!

I’ve got ‘em on the list – I’ve got ‘em on the list;
And they’ll none of ‘em be missed – they’ll none of ‘em be missed.

All college academics who write books that no one reads -
The gender theorist – I’ve got her on the list!
All those who think that Sarah Palin’s “what this country needs” -
And the 'vampire' novelist – I don't think she'll be missed!
The women who “drop everything” for “Oprah” and “The View”;
Men quoting Monty Python, “Battlestar,” and “Doctor Who”;
All those who not understand that “Warcraft”'s just a game.
All people who “despise L.A.” but live there just the same;
And those who do not bathe because they’re “eco-activist”--
I don’t think they’ll be missed—I’m sure they’ll not be missed!

I’ve got ‘em on the list – I’ve got ‘em on the list;
And they’ll none of ‘em be missed – they’ll none of ‘em be missed.

There's the starlets flashing cameras as they step from car to curb,
And the tabloid journalist – I’m sure he’ll not be missed.
All those who use emoticons and “backpack” as a verb;
They’d none of ‘em be missed, they’d none of ‘em be missed!
All talking heads with empty minds and mouths that fill the screen;
All debutantes who pitch a fit about their sweet sixteen;
All those who sit in coffee shops with laptops all ablaze;
All those who leave their cell-phones on at movies and at plays;
And baby boomer hippies who continue to exist -
They’d none of them be missed – they’d none of them be missed!

I’ve got ‘em on the list – I’ve got ‘em on the list;
And they’ll none of ‘em be missed – they’ll none of ‘em be missed.

Necessity Fulfilled

2008-12-07T13:19:00.000-08:00

In debating the existence of God, philosophers must inevitably deal with what I call The Moment of Frustrated Necessity. That is, moments where one is decisively certain that something should be happening, but is not. I have returned from such a moment. Clearly, in a just universe ruled over by an all-knowing Creator, the following is what should have happened:

I am at the local market, and find myself in the frozen foods aisle, looking for (shocking, this) frozen foods, specifically strawberries and peaches. None is immediately evident, and I pause, brow furrowed, to try to place myself in the mind of the corporate manager who organized this place. Fruits are not vegetables, and therefore "Frozen Vegetables" seems a poor bet. Nor are they "Novelties"--Hmm. As I shift my weight back on one foot so as to tap the other in thought (yes, I actually do this), I am involuntarily aware of the song that is playing over the muzak.

It is "Let It Snow," though it is no version of this song I have ever encountered, and for good reason. This is not the bouncy, vivace piece popularized by such as Bing Crosby and Dean Martin. Oh no--this is "Let It Snow" re-interpreted as, as far as I can tell, a porn-movie torch-song. Drippingly ballad-slow, throat-heavy vocals that might be Michael Bolton, or at least someone trying to be him--a sickening ambition if ever there was one.

Mere transcription cannot do justice to the merciless cruelty of what I'm hearing; the singer sounds like he's trying to fake the sounds of a man trying to hold back an orgasm, and thus merely sounds life-threateningly constipated. Try to wrap your brain around it: "Oh-the-weather...(three-second pause)...outside...(three-second pause)...is-frightful...(ten-second pause)...But-the-fire (three-second pause)...is-so...(three second pause)...delightful..."

I pause. I look around at the people shuffling past me--my disbelief is both confirmed and dispelled: they hear it too. Everyone hears it. And everyone either hunkers his head down a bit more, like someone trying to ride out a bitter blast of stinging rain, or else meets the eyes of a total stranger to exchange a little "Sucks, huh?" shrug of broken-spirited comradery.

I listen for a few more moments: "Oh-it-doesn't...(three-second pause)...show-signs...(three second pause)...of-stopping...(ten second pause)...and-I've-brought...(three second pause)...some-corn...(three second pause)...for-popping..."

No. No. This cannot stand. This cannot be allowed. I cannot live in a world in which this is allowed to happen. I drop my basket with an audible clatter, drawing the stares of the rest of the store.

"I'll just be a minute," I announce, generally, and then stride off, disappearing around an aisle and out of sight. Somewhere, there's the sound of a far-off door opening and closing, and then steps that fade into the distance.

The singer continues, and this is the transcript of what follows: "Oh-the-fire...(three-second pause)...is-slowly...(three-second pause)...dying...(ten-second pause)...And-my-dear...(three-second pause)...we're-still...(three-second pause)...goodb--hurk! (Dull thud and the sound of the microphone tumbling to the floor, several seconds of scuffling, then something heavy hits something less heavy) AAAAAAAH! Oh, God, you broke my--AAAAAAH! AAAAAAAH! Oh Jesus God, help me! Somebody help--he's got a--(A sound similar to the snap of kindling)--AAAAAAAAH! Christ! Christ! Holy Christ--that was my--why are you--AAAAAAAH! My God, you can't put that--it won't go in my--you can't---AAAAAAAAAH!! Jesus Jesus JESUS PULL IT OUT PULL IT OUT PULL IT OUT--(gasp)--Oh, God, thank you, thank--AAAAAAHHH NO NOT DEEPER NOT DEEPER AHHHHHHHH!!!! SOMEBODY PLEASE STOP HIM--he's putting--KEROSENE!!! THERE'S KEROSENE EVERYWHERE!!! PLEASE SOMEBODY DO SOME--(The scratch of a match, and a fwoomp--a lot a screaming follows. Then, the low sounds of someone trying feebly to crawl to saftey. Then, the unmistakable growl of a power tool. The voice that speaks now is thick and clogged, as if speaking through a chunky milkshake.) Oh no, no, no, no--NOOOOO--AAAAAAAH!!! Not my eyes! NOT MY EYES! NOT MY--AAAAAAAAH!!! (Several more seconds of screams, then sudden silence, then a wet gurgling sound that goes for about a minute. Then--)

My voice: (clearly out of breath) Be just a second, folks.

(Then, a moment later, the sounds of Nat King Cole singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." The store below gives a round of cheerful applause, and everyone goes back about their evening. When I return to the scene, peeling off a bloody tarp to reveal my own unstained clothes, I'm greeted with pats on the back and a sweet "Thank you, dear" from the old lady in the dairy section.)

That needs to happen.

A Very Belated Response To WALL*E

2008-12-05T12:42:00.000-08:00

To be sure, this commentary is no longer current, since I'm only just now getting around to watching the damned thing at home, and not in the theater as God and Pixar (same thing?) intended. But better late than never, said the chemotherapist to the corpse, so here goes:

I was disappointed.

Wonderfully.

Allow me to explain. I watched the first ten minutes, then hit pause, and watched them again. Because I wasn't sure that what I had just seen, I had in fact just seen.

But I had. What I'd seen, if ended right then and there, would have been one of that rarest of things: a perfect work of art. The ten minute sequence that discovers Wall*E in total isolation (cockroach excepted), post-apocalypse, gathering seemingly random bits of junk and then returning to his crib to sort it out--his befuddlement over the cataloguing of the spork was sharp, but the poignancy of the tool-bucket full of cigarette lighters was better--and then watching the video of Hello Dolly! as a means of reminding himself of (though he's never known it directly), a world in which all these things had a place and a meaning that somehow gives them value and meaning in the present, despite the fact that they've been lost--the parallel between the accumulation of crap by the paper-thin WalMart company that led to the apocalypse, and the accumulation of that same crap by an innocent mind, which transforms it from crap into totems of uncomprehending nostalgia--that, folks, is so brilliant that I'm still getting goosebumps.

It's art, folks--it stands up to that kind of academic nit-picking in which I and my fellow ivory-tower inhabitants specialize. I could do a Heideggerian reading of those ten minutes. And a Marxist reading. I could use Camus's vision of Sisyphus to explain WALL*E's devotion to his clearly endless/pointless task. Don Quixote is in there, and Robinson Crusoe, and we can work our way all the way up to A Canticle for Leibowitz and Blade Runner if you like that post-modern stuff. Because there's Duchamp in there, too--just as a urinal seen in the right context is art, so too is a spork. Warhol? Mass production moving first into satire, then camp, then back into the objectivation of an image to the point of naive appreciation. It's there--it's a dense, brilliant, perfect piece of film. Like Salieri's description of Mozart's music in Amadeus: "Displace one note and there would be diminishment. Displace one phrase and the structure would fall."

Which is where the disappointment comes in. Because I said to myself, "Dude" (I call myself 'Dude' in the delusion that I am, in my heart of hearts, easygoing and fun to be with--I'm not), "Dude,"I said, says I, "there's no way they're going to be able to keep this up." And of course I was right. Many moments came close to that opening 10 minutes--the space dance, the simple ability of robots to hold hands--suggesting that on some level, the humans who created them couldn't bear to give a creation the burden of awareness without the compensatory ability to feel connective joy--indeed, much of the movie is a beautiful illustration of the concept of "Only connect"--E.M. Forster took most of his greatest novel to make that point!--but no, it couldn't sustain it. It never dipped below the very very good--and such 'low' moments were rare. But it didn't hold on to that gem-like perfection, and that meant that there was a letdown when it failed to do so.

I'm not complaining, really. Perfection is such a rare, rare thing in art, and sustained perfection is damn near impossible. Dickens never wrote a perfect novel. Shakespeare? Please--Hamlet is one of the greatest achievements by any human being, and it's way imperfect. So few things are. Paradise Lost, yes. Heart of Darkness, yes. I think I could make cases for Turn of the Screw and Salinger's Nine Stories. But most works of genius are works that achieve flashes of insight that lift you out of yourself for a few minutes, then plunk you back down again. Such was Wall*E. And you know what? S'OK. Because that puts it in the company of Citizen Kane and Seven Samurai and The Rules of the Game and Casablanca. If the worst thing you can say of a work of art was that you only glimpsed perfection therein, um--that's a pretty fucking amazing work of art. Which this movie is. Plus, of course, it had robots.*

*I still prefer The Incredibles, mind you, because that had robots and Samuel L. Jackson. Case closed.

Do Not Buy This Book

2008-12-03T10:41:00.000-08:00

I'm torn between so many impulses: nausea, of course, and tears are right up there. Laughter, to be sure, but so many kinds of laughter, from the low cynical chuckle accompanied a "what can you do?" shake of the head, to the high-pitched chest-heaving kind that one usually associates with the phrase "neighbors have described the suspect as quiet and well-mannered." But enough coyness; here's why:

http://regent.gospelcom.net/rcp/authors/dennisdanielson/

Let us be clear: someone has "translated" Paradise Lost into "English." And others have looked at this and deemed it appropriate: http://fish.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/11/30/paradise-lost-in-prose/?ref=opinion. The attitude seems to be "Well, if it's something that makes the book easy and thus available to readers, why, more power to it!" And "It's not a 'translation,' per se; it's an interpretation that enables the original!"

With all due respect: Bull. Shit.

Allow me to offer an analogy: A conductor produces a performance of Beethoven's Ninth that eliminates everything but the strings and percussion, claiming that this streamlined version, inasmuch as it is easier for the ear to follow, will open up the work to listeners who aren't quite musically experienced enough to listen to the original. He'd be howled from the podium, pursued by a shower of rotten fruit, and rightly so.

This is the ugly side of a society that believes that "All men are created equal" means "No one is better than me about anything ever"--that thinks that the quick path to stardom created by a few weeks on American Idol is a better, sexier way to greatness than pulling one's tired ass from low-rent venue from year to year until enough character and compexity is created to make the breakthrough legitimate. There is somehow the notion that things that are "hard" are never legitimately so, but are designed to be so in order to exclude you. That works of genius ought not to demand effort from us in order to appreciate them. To repeat: Bull. Shit.

Let me suggest something radical: if you can't read Paradise Lost, then you shouldn't read Paradise Lost. If you have to work at it--if you have to take a college course, or refer to the annotations, or struggle--then good. It should be a struggle. Most things worth doing require effort. This is particularly so of artists, and especially of poets. Shakespeare is hard. Chaucer is hard. Jonson and Spencer and Browning are hard. They're not hard because they "use all that-there fancy-talk"--they're hard because they're hard. Genius is hard--try reading Newton's Principia if you doubt me. Complexity of meaning requires our minds to occupy more than one place at the same time, which they can--but not without effort. So the notion that making Milton 'easier' is a legitimate enterprise is offensive and the kind of thing that makes democracies devolve into dictatorships. (Read Plato's Republic, if you doubt me--oh wait, that's hard, too.)

Look, I'm willing to compromise when it's another language--me, I can't read Greek, and yet Homer and Aeschylus and Sophocles have changed my life--I don't have enough Spanish to read Cervantes, and I'd be a poorer soul without Don Quixote. If you need a bridge to cross the gulf between nations, I'll let it go. But English is our language; it's the language that defines how we think, what we feel, who we are. And Milton, with the sole exceptions of Shakespeare and Samuel Johnson, has done more to enable the language to achieve heights and nuances of meaning--and has thus enabled us to achieve those qualities in ourselves. To suggest, then, that Milton needs to be dumbed-down--and that is exactly what this 'translation' is, let's not kid ourselves--means that we need to be dumbed-down--that we are too little in our thoughts and feelings to achieve Milton's level. We are not smaller than we were in his time--let's not allow ourselves to be self-crippled by demanding less than an honest effort. To do otherwise is to bitch and moan about how it's not fair that we're fat even though we're not willing to eat less or exercise. Effort is the only means to achievement--anything that life hands you is essentially hollow, which is why the children of the rich either go out and do something with their lives (FDR, JFK, Churchill) or degenerate into self-medicating gargoyles (anyone until 50 with the last name 'Hilton.')

Milton's poem is, among many many other things, about language itself--he tells us that he will attempt to "justify the ways of God to Man," and do so in the language of poetry. But much of the poem is given over to the inadequacy of any language to convey the meaning of the absolute or the divinely obscure--that humanity's frustration is that what we perceive and what it means and how we account for it in speech and action is just own great big godawful mess, and that the only individual who says what he means and means what he says is God, and that's what makes him God.

And yet the poem isn't about despair; it's about struggling against our linguistic inadequacies--about pushing against the limits of words to achieve something approximating the ability to say something--to really say it. For such a poem to be render user-friendly for them what ain't got the book-larnin' is sickening. It's a poem about how hard it is to understand things, and how we have to try all the same--and to corrupt that by making it 'easy' to understand is just...well, words fail me. (Which is kind of the point.) Shame on everyone who touched this slab of pitch and pretended they weren't defiled thereby, and shame on you if you support it.

In in particular, shame on Fish. Goddammit, Stanley, you know better. And if you don't, go back a reread the original, because you've forgotten why you got into this job in the first place.

A Tale of Two Warehouses

2008-08-21T10:58:00.000-07:00

Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--I was stranded by the schedule of a friend with a car in a place with virtually nothing to recommend it apart from the fact that it got plenty of sun and seemed to have the necessary amount of oxygen to sustain life. Having nothing better to do, I wandered in to the only building in the vicinity. I was motivated by the same kind of perverse fascination that leads one to kick over a rotten log--I'd never been inside a Walmart Supercenter before, and I'd heard such horror stories.

My reaction was not what I expected. I wasn't appalled or amused. Instead, after about 10 minutes, I realized, with dismay, that I was clearly sliding into another depressive episode--that hopeless, grim anxiety began to descend upon me with a decisive weight, and I knew I was in for a rough day, week, month--who knew how long? Unhappy (as one might expect), I walked out quickly, deciding that I would let the sun shine on my face and at least get some Vitamin D in my system.

And five minutes after leaving the place, I was no longer feeling depressed.

Curious, I went back in, armed with the expectation of the experimental. And sure enough, about 10 minutes later, the depressive feelings returned. Knowing now that they were probably environmental, I suppressed them and stayed and tried to puzzle out my reaction to this place.

It didn't take long to interpret. I had been inside a massive (no, make that massive--the italics really are necessary, given the subject) open space, filled semi-literally to the rafters with puchaseable items, all of them at rock-bottom prices. And I hadn't seen a single thing that I'd even consider buying. Not even the least little bit did I want any of it.

I saw junk food--too much of it--and soda--again, too much of it--and bathroom accessories and lawn furniture and decorative items that I couldn't imagine looking tasteful in any setting. I saw lotions and hair-dye and toys that were nothing but souvenirs from the latest movie. I saw music made by artists who had to be studio-sweetened beyond recognition, and DVD collections of terrible mid-70s sitcoms. I saw clothes designed to catch the attention, but not to please it. I saw dozens of TVs with nothing on them worth watching. I saw rugs in patterns that distracted the eye unpleasantly. I saw so many things made of that shiny plastic that they use to make beach balls, that leaves its smell and a kind of after-touch of slickness on one's skin. And none of it--but none of it, was something that could be described as "necessary." It was all just so profoundly, overwhelmingly available that unless you really looked closely, or stood far back, you wouldn't notice that none of it was remotely appealing.

And yes, I saw the people shopping. And yes, they were fat. All of them--even and especially their many children. And when they moved, I thought of the scene in Dawn of the Dead where the zombies return to the mall where they spent so much time in life, unable even in death to break the habits of shuffling from store to store.

I don't mean to be a snob--and I don't think that in this instance, I'm being one. What I was seeing was something that actually made me think that the goddamned hippies who fulminate against American consumerism might actually have a point, and if there's anything I hate, it's conceding the validity of the opinions of the fuzzy-minded left. What I saw in that store was the fall of Rome--the point at which we as a nation have moved beyond satiety to the point at which there is no new thing under the sun, and all we can do is purchase more of what we already have, or eat more after our stomachs tell us we're full. It was, in short, an exercise in the nihilism that comes when studying the long view of history.

But--

Then something else happened, and it enables me to take a step further back and maybe not end on quite so sour a note.

A few months later, I went to a Costco.

And far from being depressed, I was giddy. Yes, again there was too much of everything, at rock bottom prices. Yes, the TVs still had nothing on them. And yes, many--though not nearly as many--of the people there were very, very fat. But somehow there was a briskness to it all, a lack of pretence and a winning sense that we were here for things we actually needed--that the food here was generally not junk, but simply large portions of staples. (Well, and condiments. But for Americans, condiments are a staple. It's a cultural quirk I've made my peace with.) The latest books were available, but also good editions of an eclectic mix of classics. The children's section focused on educational DVDs and software. There was a sense, in the men and women who were handing out samples, that the idea of this place was an attempt at quality, and not just quantity. We were offered fish as well as frozen pizza, fruit juice as well as spinach dip. The key difference with WalMart was the sense that we were being offered variety not just of product but of quality; yes, we could buy cheap, but we could also buy relatively dear, and get good value all the same. Wine and fresh bread, cheeses from all corners of the globe--it was a marketplace in the oldest sense of the word.

It was, in short, a vision of the success of America--a place where the openness of our society, the welcoming attitude to other places and people enable us to reap the benefits of their best, rather than just their cheapest. Where the product was more important than the brand. And while it was, in a sense, only a vision--after all, Costco sells a lot of the same stuff as WalMart--the difference between them isn't all that stark--it was nevertheless a sense of what was right about our desire and ability to lead pleasurable lives without crippling ourselves through work or debt to do so.

So maybe Rome will fall. But I'm not so sure that's it's time, just yet. Remember that the clash between Athens and Sparta should have been completely one-sided--Sparta's society was devoted entirely to the warrior ethos, while Athens was devoted to commerce and art. It should have been the jocks kicking the asses of the drama club. But against all logic, Athens not only held its own, but prevailed. (Temporarily. Then they engaged in an unprovoked war of imperial expansion and--OK, I'm getting depressed again.) Point is, we may be Athens as well as Rome. And our time may not yet be here. Just visit Costco, and you'll see.

Plus which, they have Cuisinarts on sale for, like, less than $75! I mean: dude!

Death of the Script

2008-08-13T10:53:00.001-07:00

There have been, for about six or seven years now (I know, I'm ever-so-cutting-edge), rumblings in the Cultural Commentary Community about the end of scripted television. Ever since Survivor took to the airwaves and showed the world that Reality TV was ready for prime-time (ready to make the leap from the smaller audiences of Cops and The Real World, in short), folks've been bitching about how, given the low cost and high ratings of such shows, scripted television was a dinosaur, a dodo, a Yangtze river dolphin (too soon on that last one?) And while reports of the death of S.T. may be greatly exaggerated (gotta go for that Twain reference), there is no doubt an element of truth therein. True, there've been backlashes--oh, how we all remember the gorgeous conflagration that ensued as a result of Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire?--but even as one game show (Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?--did anyone ever get that that was a Cole Porter reference?) gives way to another (Deal or No Deal) and one 'contest' show segues into the next (The Apprentice becoming Project Runway and/or Top Chef), we're seeing a continual feed of such stuff gobbling up more and more airtime, to the apparent delight of viewers--Dancing With The Stars has got 'em glued to their seats, folks, despite the fact that there are two things wrong with that title, and "With" and "The" don't count.

So why the decline of S.T.? Is it just cost, or the fact that, more recently, the writers' strike forced networks to devote even more time to R.T.? Perhaps.

But it could be that S.T. sucks, and that it has sucked more and more over the past decade.

Allow me to explain--a 'tip-of-the-iceberg' moment of epiphany occurred to me while watching Mad Men the other night. Now I adore Mad Men, but there's been something a bit 'off' about that show for me--as good as it is, I couldn't quite lose myself in it--there was something distant, something off-putting, and suddenly in the middle of the show, one of the characters makes a reference to The Twilight Zone. And I got it--Mad Men is a show that tries to be smart. That is produced by men and women who self-consciously are being "intelligent." And while it and they often--even usually--succeed, the effort shows. But think now about the brilliance of The Twilight Zone; the difference between the two shows is clear: Mad Men tries to be smart, and often is--The Twilight Zone is just smart. No effort, no self-consciousness, no "bringing to television what it and the audience need"--it's just written by smart people (Rod Serling might have to go on a relatively short list of the 20th-century's creative geniuses for what he accomplished in the infant medium of television) who instinctive assume that smart people will watch and get it.

Now think about all the "good" television you've watched in your life. The Sopranos. House. We could go way back and talk about Hill Street Blues and Cheers. And what do they all have in common? Effort. Obvious, patent, can't-miss-it-once-you-realize-it's-there effort. Self-consciousness is the death of creativity. It's the death of engagement, of emotional investment, of catharsis. It's the death of inspiration, in short, and the more and more we go on into the new millennium, the more it becomes apparent that trying to be smart gives a show a very short shelf-life. Dramas care more about being "important" and "groundbreaking" than about being competently, cleanly written. Comedies care more about being "clever" than actually, you know, funny. Television hasn't gotten dumber, folks--it's gotten desperate. Smart people have become too aware of what they're doing, and now, like people who think about breathing, and walking, they can't do it naturally. Watch S.T., folks--pick a show, any show, and I bet you my lunch money* you'll see pretty soon how labored it is. How the effort shows.

We're seeing them sweat. And that's the point at which disenchantment sets in.

And I'm sorry to say that if history is anything to go by, this loss is irreversible.

Again, I open the floor to those who wish to offer shows that do not show such strain. But I'm dubious...

*As I do not eat lunch, this is an extremely safe bet for me.

A Very Short List Indeed

2008-08-05T13:22:00.001-07:00

I've been puzzling over it, and I've come to the conclusion that women are much better suited to movie-going than men. While it's true that certain movies are indeed "guy" movies, and that no woman will ever know or understand the true joy of watching Die Hard (sorry, ladies, but you really need a Y-chromosome to really get that movie; also true of The Godfather, Animal House, and anything starring Clint Eastwood--with the exception of Paint Your Wagon--that you can have--), I think that movies are generally emotional experiences, designed to produce not thought or reflection, but catharsis. Which means, more often than not, crying. And men don't get to cry. We just don't. It's a stereotype because it's true, folks. A woman in tears is an object of sympathy and offered solace. A man in tears is an object of avoidance and derision. (The only men who apparently feel free to weep are, unsurprisingly, very 'out' homosexuals, and I wonder if it's that kind of behavior, rather than their bedroom shenanigans, that freaks out straight men so much.) Why this taboo exists is self-evident enough to those who pay attention to Darwin, Levi-Strauss, Freud, and others of that ilk. (See also: Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, and Raymond Chandler. Philip Marlowe does not cry.) So women get to cry at movies, and men don't. Simple enough, and I seem to be reinventing the wheel here.

Except--

There are movies where men not only get to cry--they're supposed to. Where tears are utterly and completely required. Where one steps through the looking glass into a world where a man who doesn't cry is mocked and shunned. Let's take a look, shall we?

Brian's Song. Pretty much the Rosetta Stone of "You Are A Man And You Will Cry" movies. It retains all of its power to turn die-hard, tough-as-nails, spitting, swearing, beer-drinking, bar-fighting he-men into blubbering piles of sentiment so hapless that their pet dogs lose all respect for them. Watch this: "It's fourth and eight, and they won't let me punt." Every man who's seen this movie is now tearing up, and trying poorly to hide the fact. Poke him in the back and make fun of him, and watch him get angry and defensive. Something about the A.E. Houseman-esque athelete dying young manages to reach into our guts and twist 'em sharply.

And for many years, really, Brian's Song was it. You could cry at that, but not at anything else. Why? Well, first, because men can't cry at anything happy in a movie. Women can cry at the end of, say, Pride & Prejudice when Darcy finally breaks down and tells Elizabeth he still loves her. And men will turn to their snivelling dates and ask, "Why are you crying? It's good that this just happened!" So even moments when you'd think it'd be OK to cry--like when Rick decides he'd rather stay and fight the good fight rather than wheedling Ilsa into staying, you don't cry, because he's being a man about it. Which is a good thing. No crying. Ratso Rizzo dying on the bus? No crying. No, he didn't make it to Florida, but he died in hope. No crying. Maybe--maybe you could cry at Old Yeller getting whacked. A little. But because the kid himself volunteered to do it, you knew he was just nutting up and taking the final step into manhood. So not really able to cry openly, even there.

And then something remarkable happened to my generation. Field of Dreams. And I'll never forget the moment when, on the weekend after it opened, a few of my manlier friends and I were gathered for a smoke-and-joke and somebody mentioned that he'd seen the movie, and we all acknowledged that we'd seen it too--and then the bravest one of us (not I) said: "I don't know--something about that ending--something about a guy getting to play catch with his dad--I don't know what happened, but..." And he started to tear up. And normally that would've been the point at which we tar-and-feathered him. Only no. Because we all met each other's eyes, and just said variations on "Yeah...yeah, it was really...Yeah." Inarticulate, but dude, we'd wept--all of us, and it was OK that we had.

So I'm pondering about these two movies--the only two I can think of that men can cry at--both are about death, both are about the loss of a loved one, both are about the loss of a male loved one. And both are framed by the "manly" ethos of sports. Is it the athletics that make them permissably weepable? Perhaps. But I think it's more to do with the one kind of love that men are allowed to be sappy about--the love that we admit to when we're drunk and it's last call, and we swing our arms over the neck of the guy sitting next to us--"You and me, man--you and me." It's that dumb, instinctive passion that dull-witted writers call "bonding," but which is something far less structured, far more atavistic. It's not friendship--it's not brotherhood. It's love--the kind of love that Plato insisted could only exist between members of the same sex, who could genuinely understand each other on that primal, "I occupy the same biological structure as you." It's a love that we never talk about, or much think about. And it's something that matters more to us than--sorry, ladies--virtually the women in our lives. And so we instinctively know that when we weep at these movies, we're admitting to a secret that only we share--that love, and how much it means to us.

Something like that. It's late and I'm still tired from the move, and I still don't have furniture so my legs are cramping.

But something like that. Brian Piccolo dies, and too soon. A father returns from the grave in a form that his son can openly love. The connection is there.

I'm sincerely wracking my brains for other movies it's OK to cry at. Any help out there? I want to develop this theory further, as it seems to be a key to an important aspect of the male psyche...

New Beginnings

2008-08-05T07:11:00.000-07:00

This morning finds me waking up in a new city, anticipating a new job, and thinking much about this blog I've been neglecting so terribly. It strikes me that I perhaps ought to either reinvest myself in it a bit, or else quit altogether. Since quitting seems both easy and comfortable, it's clearly the wrong choice--one should pursue challenges, always, especially those that require exercise and discipline.

But I'm inclined to change the tenor of the blog a bit. For one thing: no more politics, or at least, no more direct commentary on policy--political opinion should be based on research and reflection, and while I've plenty of the latter, I've little enough of the former. Plus, if I'm going to fulminate, it ought to be about something that you can't find in spades elsewhere. (By the way, if you do want first-rate political commentary, check out ginandtacos.com - great stuff, smart guy, he's going places.)

Looking back over my work, it strikes me that the stuff of mine that was most interesting and most fun to write was cultural stuff--pop cultural, mostly, but you work with what's handed to you. So I'm thinking of turning this blog over into a primarily cultural-commentary-based venue. Mind you, this too will be limited; I freely admit that I'm aware only dimly of most contemporary music--I'm aware of, say, 50 Cent in the way that I'm aware of the planet Neptune--I know he exists, but I've never seen him. Rap eludes me for the same reason punk eluded me; for me, music is escapism, not expressionism--I want to forget my anger and frustration, not embrace/celebrate it. Sorry, Violent Femmes, I just can't; just leave me alone with my complete Beatles anthology, and be on your way.

So this, I think, will be the 'tone' and framework of the blog from hereon--commentary on film, television, 'trends', and the various instances of the signpost that indicate where our society is headed. And lest this seem trivial, remember: Thomas Carlyle--probably the greatest English philosopher of the 19th century (unless you're into utilitarianism--then it's John Stuart Mill)--wrote a compellingly fascinating faux-analysis of the philosophy of clothes, arguing both sincerely and ironically that fashion was as indicative of civilization as art, architecture, or military achievement. If it's good enough for Carlyle, it's good enough for me.

Let's see what happens.

Well, This Is Interesting

2008-06-12T21:34:00.001-07:00

I'd always believed that near-death experiences came in two varieties: the ones where death jumps out in front of you, and the ones where it creeps up from behind. Example: facing a bullet that misses you is the first kind. Finding out that the flight you just missed went down over the Rockies is the second.

The first is probably the scarier, since it usually requires you to jump out the way of your doom, and relying on your own feeble instincts and talents to survive usually only serves to remind you just how feeble they are. On the other hand, you did manage to pull your act together well enough to live to tell the tale, so there's at least one self-administered pat on the back due you, I'd say.

The second kind is insidious and subtle--rather than your jumping out of the way, it basically depends on Death deciding, quite randomly, that mmmmmno, not today, today I'm going to take someone else. Which maybe explains why we don't talk about the second kind during barroom exchanges of life-stories; they're essentially extended illustrations of your own impotence, and who the hell wants to tell a story in which s/he is the inert non-victim of circumstance.

Despite this collective silence, I think that most of us have had the second kind more than a few times; in fact, I suspect that we've had more such experiences than we know about--who knows how many times we've come frighteningly close to getting smeared across the business end of a semi while looking the wrong way? Plenty, I'll bet. But that's the up-side to the second kind of death: the oblivious quality to it. You don't see it coming, so you're impotent, but unaware. Whereas with the first kind, you've got the terror, but you get to feel like a hero.

There is, as it turns out, a third kind.

My thoughts turn to such morbidity because over the past few days, I've been under a persistent threat of injury and/or death, all thanks to weather conditions that have turned the local TV stations into a 24-hour fright-fest of interrupted programming and Doppler radar images that seem to be turning colors I've never seen before. The storms that have been freight-training across the state have caused the local river (a not-insubstantial one) to flood, and in some cases, flash-flood, and more rain is on the way, making the threat increase exponentially all the time. Simultaneously, we've had hail that ranges from golf-ball to baseball sized (impressive work, God!), and, of course, tornadoes. Several times. So I'm placed in the comic position of being told to get down into the basement (the people on the TV were really quite insistent about this, and since the 'live shot' they used to show their viewers just how dangerous this situation is is a shot of a street not five blocks away from me, I'm inclined to take their word for it), but that in the event of flash-flooding, I should for God's sake get to higher ground and avoid basements at all cost.

Basically, I'm fucked either way. And while I could shrug it off the first couple of days, it's getting on to about a week now. And it's threatening to continue well past the weekend. My nerves are getting dicey, to be honest--and, judging by the frayed appearance of the meteorologists on the aforementioned local stations, I'm not alone in this.

Problem is, I don't get to be oblivious (hard to be when the house is blinding white by lightning so close you can smell the ozone, then shaking so hard you can hear the cutlery doing the boogie-woogie in the next room), and I don't get to be heroic--because tornados and flash-floods are going to be Rock to my Scissors every time; there's just no standing up to them. Essentially, I'm being told to sit here and wait for Zeus to decide when or if he's had enough. And I'd feel like more of a wuss if it weren't for the fact that my neighbors keep coming out onto their porches during the few breaks in the deluge and giving each other what are very obviously "thank God we're still alive" hugs. I do not need this...

OK, LOOK...

2008-05-20T15:51:00.000-07:00

...haven't posted in awhile, don't care, won't apologize, but this needs to be said or my brain will sizzle in my skull like a steak on a skillet: Can that f*cking, f*cking, f*cking Sex And The City movie open and then run its miserable, carcinogenic course, and die, die, die, die, die, DIE?!

Please, I'm begging the universe to make this whole thing over. It was a stupid, stupid show, which in and of itself I don't have a problem with--looked at through the cold lens of maturity and logic, all television shows run the gamut from Just Plain Stupid (yes, even the good ones--I'll say it, and be done with it: even The Simpsons is stupid--any show that depends on plots that depend on characters behaving in endless cycles of the same self-humiliating behavior is stupid, and that's all of them, folks) to Oh My God This Is The Most Screamingly Stupid Thing That The Cosmos Must Have Puked Up After A Night Of Binge Drinking (I'm looking in your direction, Desperate Housewives). (I know what you're thinking--"But American Idol and Deal or No Deal are way stupider than that!"--and indeed they are, but 'talent'/game-based shows aren't 'television'--they're freak shows with the added pathos that the participants don't know they're freaks--it's like watching Lobster Boy confusedly trying to figure out why people keep staring at him.)

My problem with that f*cking show (and the fact that that phrase is a pun just boils my blood) is that it's not, as most shows are, quietly content to be stupid. (No one complains or even much notices the stupidity of good shows because the producers are under no illusions about Making Something Important--they mostly just want to be funny/entertaining, and at that they're often pretty efficient.) No, no--it's HBO. And therefore Important. And based on the We're Going To Jam This Down Your Throat Like You're Our Prison Bitch assault that this show keeps making: Wear this! Drink this! Care about this!--I can only assume that women out there are, and this is something that moves past the point of hilarity into horror, buying into it.

I realize I'm not saying anything new with this. Rants against Sex and the City are so common (and so spittle-fleckedly vitriolic) that, for a while, I was willing to actually defend the show as being 'not that bad, for Christ's sake!' But that's over. I just can't take it anymore. I hit the saturation point this afternoon, and I realize that I'm tired of playing advocate for this particular she-devil. Because apparently a whoooooooole lotta women really need this show to continue to tell them what to value and how to view their lives, and given the two-dimensional shallow stupidity of this show (not to mention the fact that why am I the only one who notices that none of these fictional women actually has any taste--the clothes f*cking suck and the booze might as well be garnished with lollypops), this is a very, very bad thing indeed.

I realize that I cannot stop this from happening. But I would like to fast-forward through the next month like it's a commercial on TiVo. Which, come to think of it, it is--a commercial for a life of idiocy and emotional retardation celebrated as liberation and style. I want out. And what's worse is that if it's a hit, you just f*cking know they're going to start planning an Entourage movie, next to which Sex and the City looks like a serialized version of Citizen Kane. I hate my own species...

We're Doomed. Again.

2008-04-06T13:39:00.000-07:00

Oh, shit:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/06/washington/06patch.html?hp

OK, class, any guesses as to what happens when companies know that they can avoid being sued by simply getting the stamp-of-approval of government agencies that are incredibly susceptible to interference from lobbyists (in the form of bribes/kickbacks) and elected officials (in the form of threats/kickbacks), both Executive and Legislative, who are themselves thoroughly and completely in the pocket of said companies? Any ideas as to what companies will do when told, after writing a check, that they're legally bullet-proof? Anyone? Yes, I see a hand in the back. Your answer? "Things that would make Lex Luthor throw up"? Yes, that is correct.

Look for the next generation of thalidomide babies, coming soon to a town near you!

Lest anyone think that electing Bush didn't incur long-standing disastrous consequences for the lives of Americans, one really need look no further than a Supreme Court that now has a nice, clean slam-dunk on cases like this one.

History Lessons

2008-03-27T21:01:00.000-07:00

It's either post, or grade, so you know which one I'm gonna choose.

The blessing/curse of having a solid grasp of Western history is that, when tempted to drop one's face into one's hands and moan gutterally that "It's never ever been this bad before," one can always remember that Caligula made his horse a senator and nobody said 'boo,' and--within living memory of his lunatic reign--the same populace allowed themselves to be ruled by Nero, who thought it was super-cool to dress up like a wild animal and mutilate the genitals of bound prisoners. So just remember: it's always been this bad.

Read Thucydides, and read about a nation-state so arrogant that they entered into a treasury-depleting war-of-choice in which they totally overestimated their ability to quell the forces in the nation they invaded and ended up destroying themselves.

Read about Savanarola, who ruled according to blind religious faith in Florence, and came a serious cropper as a result.

Just read, people. Seriously--pick up a book and read it. Herodotus, Livy, Plutarch--these guys will really help you put your life in perspective.

I've been truly bitter as to the reaction to Obama's speech. Sickened by the bigotry--both racial and intellectual--that it's provoked. I could despair. But then I remember: when Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address, people hated it. They thought it was a flat, insipid bucket of bathwater. And they hated him, too--they hated him, and they hated Kennedy, and they hated King--and when all three men were killed, people in this country celebrated. There have always been and will always be evil men and women who hate those who call them on their bigotry and bullshit, and make no mistake, that's who's making the noise about Obama these days. But history reminds us, too, that Lincoln and King are the ones who, in the long run, won. I do not, needless to say, expect that Obama will meet with a similarly grisly end. But when the ignorati turn up their noses at his message like it's the dog's breakfast--well, "filths savor but themselves," as Shakespeare puts it. History has a dustheap, and those who fight against the progress of tolerance and enlightenment invariably wind up there. When he's dead, Sean Hannity will be forgotten, just like Walter Winchell was, just like Joe McCarthy was. We'll remember him as we remember them, as an embarassing joke--we'll look back on him and Coulter and Brit Hume and John Gibson and we'll have the same kind of half-amused, half-creeped-out shudder that we get when we see 'Negro figurine' memorabilia. Just another bit of stupid sludge that time and the slow pace of collective wisdom will flush and forget.

We'll remember the speech, though.

On an autobiographical note, I've been offered a tenure track job, somewhere else in the Midwest. I'm thinking it over.

That F***er.

2008-03-19T14:53:00.000-07:00

So, I watched The Speech. You know the one:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/18/us/politics/18text-obama.html?em&ex=1206072000&en=ee9b37a72e4cff50&ei=5087%0A

I am, as most who know me will confirm, a rather skeptical fellow. I view the world with a cocked head that sees and a ready grimace that comments on its hypocrisy, folly, cruelty, and greed--all those things that Holden Caulfield instinctively (though witlessly) calls "phony" and that Brick eloquently (though repressedly homosexually) calls "mendacity."

I know that it's there--that lying, slithering viciousness that makes the philosophies of Machiavelli, Hobbes, and Nietzsche appear solidly footed.

I watched the speech.

I tried to be skeptical--I succeeded for awhile.

But by the time he got to that Ashley story, I was a tear-streaked mess. (That little bitch better exist by the way--if she's a figment of Obama's rhetoric, somebody's getting nut-punched. I do not like being moved to tears by getting punked.)

I hate that he can do this to me--I hate the degree to which a stranger has this kind of power over me. I'm just so goddamned comfortable being skeptical-to-the-point-of-cynical. It's so easy, so clear-thinking, so smart. I hate that someone can, with nothing more than a clear command of American history and the English language and a solid occupation of the moral high-ground, make me soft-skinned and wide-eyed and wanting to believe that this guy's the real thing. I hate that, because such faith is too easy to crush--such desire is too easy to be disappointed.

I hate that he can't--he just can't--be what he seems: smart and dignified and not about to snivel a retraction he doesn't believe in and more interested in forcing issues than smoothing them over. I hate that he seems too much to be a man I want to follow with optimism and purpose, and my intelligence and experience tells me that No, He Isn't--He Can't Be--No One Is.

I hate it.

I don't care.

He's got my vote.

As If Pedophilia Wasn't Bad Enough

2008-03-17T11:07:00.000-07:00

Lest anyone wonder why Catholicism gets less and less respect as a religion these days--let's face it, if it wasn't for that birth-control ban, their numbers would be plummeting even faster than those of Episcopalians--I'm talking to you, my white-bread brethren! Breed more! Breed faster! Less golf and cocktails, more baby-making! Take/give one for the team, or you're going to have to start letting Mormons into the country clubs, which means lectures in the lounge about how you shouldn't be drinking real coffee or having ancillary sexual encounters with the help!--anyway, where was I? Oh, yes: Catholics, and why picking a comically Teutonic high pontiff is just one of a series of bone-headed P.R. moves designed, it seems, to bring the 2K-year-old structure down in a resounding crash--I give you this:

http://thelede.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/03/10/seven-more-sins-thanks-to-vatican/

I really have few words for this one, except that clearly they had much better writers when they came up with the first seven. In case you hadn't noticed, "Excessive Wealth" isn't a state of mind/desire--it's a result of...wait for it...Greed. Which, last time I checked, was already a Deadly Sin. And isn't Drug Abuse a derivative of Sloth--or Lust, I suppose, if the drug in question is Viagra! (Ba-dump-bum! A Viagra joke! How topical!) Polluting the environment: Greed + Pride. Bioethical no-nos: Pride. (Didn't any of these people read Frankenstein?) All these acts (rather than desires/frames of mind, which is what the original list was designed to address) can be traced back to the original list, rendering this list...well, pointless and silly and and an incredibly lame attempt to appear 'trendy,' which works about as well as Carol Channing doing a cover of "Gangster's Paradise."

In short, there is no new thing under the sun, here, and it seems instead designed to A. reiterate canonically questionable positions they seem desperate to shore up, and B. present choke-inducing instances of hypocrisy. Last I checked, everybody from Archibishops up could easily be accused of Excessive Wealth--and the Church's policies on birth control and abortion help mightily to Create Poverty. As for Polluting the Environment, so long as James Dobson is allowed access to media outlets, I think we can call hypocrisy on that one, too.

In even shorter short, these people are acting very, very silly, indeed, and once again proving that the bigger the religion, the more its unqualified middle and upper management make bad decisions that just brings down the street cred of the institution. Which is good entertainment news for the rest of us, especially as Scientology seems finally to be entering into the "can't make a smart move to save its life" phase. (See, this is why Judaism maintains its exclusive, 'boutique' status--it's achieved a perfectly sustainable size to maintain product integrity, and knows not to expand beyond that point. One would almost suspect that its management has made a point of ensuring that its members are well-versed in matters of media and advertisement...Nah.)

Yellow

2008-03-11T17:06:00.000-07:00

As someone who's been flying a lot lately, let me ask: If the Threat Level is always elevated--that is, if it's always Yellow, as indeed it has been for well over a year--then doesn't that level become, by definition, not elevated, as it is now the standard, rather than a heightened state? I mean, if it's always 90 degrees, isn't 90 degrees the average temperature, rather than 'hotter than normal'? "Elevated" seems to fall into the category of Starbuck's use of "Tall," namely "a word that we're going to use in whimsical defiance of its actual meaning." Given the definition of "Guarded"--which means "a general risk of terrorist attacks," and no, I'm not sure what 'general' means--is there any significant distinction between the two? And isn't warning people that the danger is higher right now the equivalent of crying wolf? And at what point can I stop asking rhetorical questions and just accept the fact that "three-ounce containers in a plastic bag" is the way of the world from now on? Answer: Now.

Not Yet Back, Not Yet Whole

2008-03-10T11:32:00.000-07:00

This will be mostly bitching and moaning, so if you're having a trying day, please skip it, because otherwise you'll be doing a lot of eye-rolling while muttering "Cry me a fucking river, drama queen." And you would probably be right to do so. That said:

February was a cruel month--lot of travel, lot of stress, lot of rejection--and I learned a lot, though not much of it was pleasant. I've got another campus visit in a couple of days, and then, finally, thank God, spring break. I'm reminded, of course, even at times like this, that others have a much harder row to hoe--I tell myself that, and generally it works to staunch the flow of morbidity. Next to violence, self-pity is probably the most distasteful 'natural' impulse human beings have--stemming as it does from a fundamental selfishness that makes perfect sense on an evolutionary level, but which has none of the acceptable atavistic hallmarks of survival. One doesn't do better or accomplish more as a result of self-pity--it doesn't feed lizard-brain-wired needs like gluttony or laziness or lust. It just acts to advertise one's sense of self-selection as the Most Important Person In The Room, without doing anything positive to justify it.

I remind myself of this, and I shut the hell up. It's not easy, of course--I realize, in my rare moments of genuine self-objectivity, that I'm an appallingly selfish person--but I do try--I may be narcissistic, but I'm not solipsistic. Other people exist, and, Nietzsche be damned, they really do generally matter more than I do. Than we do. Because...well, there's more of them, for one thing. But for another, other people are often quite easy to help--quite easy to guide and assist and soothe. And if we can't do that for ourselves--I sure as hell can't--then doing it for others is, I think, a small way of reminding ourselves that, at the very least, our own problems a. aren't that bad, and b. may have solutions. Which brings us back to the fact that It's All About Me, I admit. But hey, I've figured out a way to be a narcissist and a decent person. So that's something, right?

But--

I made a decision early on not to talk about the break-up of my marriage here, and I'll stand by that decision. To do otherwise would be tasteless, embarassing, and even if it were neither of these things, creepy and unfair. So I will not do so, except to say--and this is more 'aftermath' than 'event,' which is how I justify saying this: such experiences wound you in many different ways. Some you recover from. Some you recover from eventually. Some you don't. Ever. I'm just beginning to realize that last part. And it's become a sore tooth I can't stop jabbing. But I have to. Just hasn't happened yet, and combined with a cycle of professional rejections, it leaves me...uncommunicative. Hence the long silences.

Here's hoping for better days.

Cyprus Nights

2008-02-25T09:34:00.000-08:00

So, yeah, I couldn't resist sneaking into an internet cafe and posting from the birthplace of Aphrodite. Not that I have too much to say other than that I'm here, and that there are many many cats in this city. (Nicosia--or Lefkovia, depending on whether you're giving the Latinate or the Greek version of the name--people seem to use them interchangably, which was plenty confusing at first.) Yes, I've eaten lamb sliced off a skewer, and yogurt that I can only describe as a reason to emigrate here. Seriously, it was that good. The flavor of the city is very Western Europe, on the whole--though I've not ventured beyond the mid-city border into Turkish territory--why, I know you're wondering, on Earth not? Dunno--something about signs posting UN warnings and informing me that cameras are going to get me into serious trouble that just...puts me off.

I arrived here semi-zombified, and haven't quite recovered--ah, jet-lag, you're twice as sweet to those of us with a proclivity for biochemical depression. Though there's been little to be depressed about--the place is quite lovely--as I say, Western Europe shows here--the Venetian roots and the British occupation are in evidence, and it's not as if the Ottomans didn't know how to run a city. Oh, and there's a wee bit of Greek culture, too. Just a little. Alas, the fucking museums are all closed on Mondays, because, of course, they knew that that was the only day I'd be available. Bastards. Plus they drive on the left side of the street. Damn you, Britain, and your wrong-headed automotive imperialism! (Though I suppose until we in the U.S. shape up and go metric, we've no right to complain. Still.)

Arrived in time to drive by about eighty press conference--there was a national election, and they've got a new...head...guy. (Seriously, I don't know--President? PM? Anyone? Anyone? The TV stations are mostly in Greek, and all I know is the stuff waiters in restaurants shout when they break dishes!) Apparently, according to the BBC--OK, so I'm grateful for a little cultural imperialism there--he's a genuine Communist, but that his election is generally quite popular here and abroad, as he's made it his first order of business to reunite the country--kind of the flip-side of Raul Castro's 'election,' after which he promised There Would Be No Changes--the Cypriot's much more the Obama voice of audacious hope. So, here's hoping.

There are, to reiterate, many many cats here. All feral, presumably, but clean, sun-drunk, and quite happy-looking. (A healthy pigeon population probably keeps them well-fed.) I've been meowed at and stared at from parks, atop walls, from balustrades, and roof-tops. Cute little things.

No public transportation; you either walk, or drive. Alas for environmentalists, it seems that people here choose the latter. Which leads to parking jobs that can best be called hilarious--there are no sidewalks in Nicosia--only places where people walk around over-the-curb parked cars. This has to be illegal, yet no one cares.

My interview is tomorrow morning; I'm still a little spacey, and worried that I'll be so then, which is not good.

I left for Cyprus thinking that if I didn't love it, I wouldn't consider staying. I'm considering staying. Which means, fate being what it is (see "hell-bitch with an ugly sense of humor"), they won't offer me the job.

Off To The Far Side Of The World

2008-02-22T20:18:00.000-08:00

Starting tomorrow ca. noonish, when the van picks me up and whisks me off to the nearest super-major airport, I'll be in transit for the better part of a day, winding up on a Mediterranean island for one day of recovery from jet-lag and then a job interview. I am, as to be expected, nervous. Yet also, not. This job, I want. It would mean challenges and difficulties and lots of displacedness-induced angst, and yet...yeah, I want this job. So wish me luck. Should be back on Wednesday next, but travel in an uncertain universe being what it is, who can say?

(Low Menacing Growl)

2008-02-21T08:34:00.000-08:00

Heard from one of my potential hirees this morning; it seems that at the point at which they were about to make a decision, the university administration informed them that the funding for the position was no longer available. Which means that there suddenly was no job for me to get or lose. Poof--all gone! The committee fell over themselves apologizing--and it truly isn't their fault--they wanted to hire somebody. But someone among the higher-ups made a last-minute call that reduced the past few months to a waste of time and (amusingly enough) money--searches are expensive. Alas for me and for the kind folks at the department.

The problem with profanity--needless to say, I've been cursing under my breath quite a bit today--is that the best sounding words are the most offensive. Take "c*cks*cker." The sound of it is just perfect--that Teutonic bite to it is a magnificent means of expressing a bitten-off chunk of anger. But you just insulted a large number of gay men by suggesting that a perfectly harmless practice of theirs is vile. Similarly, "c*nt"--well, we won't go there--it's a good sound, but a terrible word. "F*ck" is OK, but it's more of a bark than a curse. "Sh*t" sounds petulant. And one can't go with "D*mn" without sounding like a 19th-century English gentleman who's just lost the fox's trail mid-hunt. Profanity is difficult. Which, at a time like this, it shouldn't be. Consarnit.

Mission Unaccomplished

2008-02-20T09:12:00.001-08:00

Back today from an-occasionally-literally-disorienting trip to New Orleans for a campus visit. (That's a 'final job interview,' for those of you not hip to the academic lingo.) Flew in Monday night, ran a gauntlet of meetings and interviews with various solemn worthies, taught a 'sample class' on Othello (that was genuinely fun, I admit), and flew out late afternoon on Tuesday--so I really didn't have much time for anything else. I cannot tell you what the French Quarter is really like, though I will bet you that one leaves it with a true appreciation for the nuances of the varieties of beer vomit.

But I did notice something that I take home with me. (Apart from that awesome 'drunken Cajun salt-and-pepper shaker' I picked up in the gift shop--that is so going with my good china!) And that was this: People there talk about Katrina. A lot. Only natural that they would, to me--they're introducing me to a city I might very well move to, and they want me to know the Real Deal--but they never call it "the Hurricane." They call it "the flood." Because, as more than one person pointed out, "the storm didn't do this to us--the levees did." They are painfully, angrily aware of two things: One, this didn't have to happen--that enough people had been saying for long enough that these levees would not hold, and Two, in the wake of its failure, the government has been cruelly negligent. New Orleans is an angry city--and it's a good, clean anger that's actually brought them together, in the same way that hating an enemy in a time of war will unite a nation. And coming back, I was a little angry, too--it's infectious, and I'm prone to that disease, as you all know.

It wasn't the storm, it was the flood. It wasn't a natural disaster--it was a man-made one. They know this--and they know that people outside have forgotten.

And they're clear-eyed and angry about it.

Good.

Perversely Hypnotic

2008-02-17T13:33:00.000-08:00

Johnathon Swift once stated that "satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own." Truer words, and all that, as Bertie Wooster would say.

I thought of that aphorism when I stumbled across this site: http://jezebel.com/gossip/crap-email-from-a-dude/.

It's probably relatively work-safe, but wait 'til you get home, because you're going to want to spend a few hours there--especially if you're a straight guy with even the smallest capacity for self-reflection. Oh, it won't be a pleasant experience--quite the contrary. Enlightenment is rarely gratifying; it usually takes the form of being confronted with what a total ass you've been. And this site is a doozy of an enlightener.

In all the times that women have told me--and men around me--that "we just don't get it," I've been inclined, I admit it, to think of that as a cop-out. That rather that explaining what it is we don't get, they simply throw up their hands and bail, as if they were faced with the task of teaching particle physics to special needs kids. But most of the men I've known have been, most of the time, capable of high-level-cognitive processing; we're not dumb, ladies--that's just something you tell yourselves so that the fact that we don't care about the same things that you do becomes our problem rather than yours.

But--

That said--

I began to read these letters, and realized that Oh My Sweet Lord They Might Have A Point After All. Because the letters here aren't written by knuckle-draggers. (Their high-level of grammatical errors notwithstanding.) They're actually the product of effort and thought and an attempt at verbal nuance/precision. Which makes them all the scarier. To return to the analogy of the special needs kids--hey, it's not like I'm afraid of pissing them off, as I'm pretty sure I can outrun them, and they always fall for the "It Was My Evil Twin" excuse--when said kid attempts to produce a 'pretty picture' and instead produces a godawful smear of random colors blending into muck brown, you still admire the effort and the creative impulse. The kid in question shouldn't know better, and is judged accordingly. But when a grown man who holds down a job and ties his own shoes and manages a stock portfolio does the same thing--well, then it's equal parts creepy and sad.

And what I realize in reading these letters is that when guys try to talk about their feelings or explain their behavior--this is how we sound. Self-important, condescending, and so completely un-self-aware that you just...curdle. And it's not just some of us--it's all of us. We all sound like this. Because...I think...we just can't get it. Maybe it's the limitations of English, maybe it's the way we're taught to use it, maybe it's our egos, maybe it's our insecurities--and yes, "All Of The Above" is probably the right answer--but when a man tries to explain himself, he invariably ends up trying to justify himself. Which makes him defensive and controlling. Which makes him, well--these guys.

And the only thing that consoles me is the fact that the only thing worse that being such an awful creature, is being forced to spend your life with one. Sorry, ladies--we really didn't know. And sorry, too, that our knowing will not fix the problem.

Murder

2008-02-15T07:58:00.001-08:00

There are really only two responses to what happened yesterday--grief and rage. Because I'm a WASP male with a geneology dominated by Irish, Polish, and German, I don't do grief, so rage is all I've got. Because I teach students the same age--because I teach the same people that this murderous, hell-bound thing killed, I take it a little more personally than I perhaps have a right to. I'm not saying that I get it in ways that others don't--I'm removed enough from the place and the event that I can't claim any such thing. But here I am in southern Wisconsin, which is uncomfortably close to Northern Illinois. People on this campus knew people on that campus. And so how can I not look at my own kids this day and not see them as potential victims?

I'm supposed, according to Good Solid Judeo-Christian principles, to forgive. I don't. I can't. (Again, I don't say this with some kind of macho swagger that shows how much I really really care. Just a fact, nothing more.) Young people, for all their foolishness, and shallowness, and stupidity, are really quite wonderful. They--there's no other word for it, so sorry about this--they glow. They hum. There's all this energy and hope and frustration and the excited impatience of knowing that their lives are waiting for them, and they still think of those lives the way kids think about unopened presents on Christmas morning. They live in ways and in degrees that I watch and envy--they have, all of them, so much to give and to do, and no, most of them don't--most of them slack, and party, and fall asleep in class, and wait 'til the night before the paper is due to get started. But that's part of their charm--they're finally free to live according to their own body clocks, their own impulses, their own values. And sure, some of those values are a bit laughable, in retrospect--but only in retrospect. In many ways, this is the most free they've been since before kindergarden--and the most free they'll ever be. I love them; I truly do. Even the ones who drive me mad, even the ones who ignore me--I love them all.

And I hate him. To take away that life, that joy--can there be anything so selfishly, stupidly hateful? There isn't even the comfort of yesterday's butchery being 'senseless'--it isn't. Someone was in pain, and decided to hurt others--not so his pain would end--a simple suicide would have solved that, and earned my sympathy and sober attention--but so that they would hurt, too. As if their pain and horror and loss would somehow make his justified or tolerable or right. That's the face of evil, folks. That's Iago. That's Satan. It's cheap, and small, and contemptible. And I hate him for it.

I've rambled. So be it. Somehow coherence and polish seem inapt in the face of such viciousness.

February 14th

2008-02-14T12:49:00.000-08:00

Henry Ford once said "Exercise is bunk. If you are healthy, you do not need it. If you are sick, you should not take it." Then he probably added something about how it was Jewish conspiracy, but never mind that.

I think the same thing about Valentine's Day. If you're in a couple, you don't need it. If you're not, it's only food for morbidity. Look, in the same way that "every day is Children's Day," every day that a happy couple is together is Their Day. And if it isn't--if they need a day to remind them of how lucky they are, well, that's what anniversaries are for, right? For the rest of us, Valentine's Day is a day of gloom, rash declarations of insincere affection, and a whole lotta drinking as a result of both. It's a poorly conceived holiday because it celebrates that which those who have cause to be celebratory, are already celebrating. And those who don't, can't. So f*** it, and those who perpetrate it--it's not 'phony,' or 'commercial,' or even 'cruel'--it's just a bad idea, ill-conceived from the get-go. Can we please let it go the way of Flag and/or Columbus Day? Please?

(OK, enough from me--go eat your chocolate, all you happy snugglebunnies out there. And yes, feel a little bit smug about the rest of us on the outside looking in. It's only human nature.)

Strike's Over!

2008-02-13T08:29:00.000-08:00

And not a moment too soon. Another week without Grey's Anatomy and I'd've been climbing bell-towers with my trusty Red Rider. But seriously, folks--what's remarkable is how little I've missed what these guys had to offer--one realizes that television, for instance, is a habit rather than a pleasure. I mean, did any of us actually miss all those lost episodes of SNL? I think not--lame, one-notion sketches about, oh, I don't know, Obama and Hillary trying to be awkwardly polite to each other and failing. Haha! That was mildly, if obviously funny for, like 18.7 seconds! What're you going to do with the remaining five minutes? Oh, I see--recycle the joke. Lovely. And while I'm picking on poor SNL a bit, let me suggest that there's a larger concept at play: all shows are like SNL sketches. There's a reason why so many first seasons (Heroes, Lost, Alias, etc.) rock, only to have subsequent seasons suck, and suck hard--the precipitous decline can be blamed essentially on a fundamental frustration on our part with what we realize is a poorly conceived recycling of the same shit.

Look, 'twas ever thus--I'm not saying anything new, here. We all knew that Rod Serling is going to twist things around in the last five minutes of The Twilight Zone. We all knew that Perry Mason was going to get his client off, and that Columbo was going to nail the B-list celebrity bad guy. We definitely knew that the castaways were never going to leave that damn island. (Incidentally, has anyone pointed out that M. Night Shyamalan is a very very very poor man's Rod Serling, minus, you know, the remarkable social commentary and progressive politics? Seriously--go rewatch that show--Serling was the man when it came to civil rights, the environment, post-war paranoia and conformity--just a buttoned-down version of Lenny Bruce with a talent for the fantastic. Anyway--)

So, strike's off. And while it means that Daily Show and Colbert can depend less on interviews--though they've had some remarkably good ones in the interim--both men come to the table well prepared and have shown a truly remarkable willingness to let the other guy talk without giving an inch--seriously, Colbert and Stewart would each of them be able to segue rather seamlessly into 'real' news if they wanted to. But why would they want to?--and I'm glad about that return to a scripted format--am I really all that happy beyond this? No. I just haven't missed the writers.

Mind you, I'm truly unimportant in this respect. ("And in every other," you say, and fuck you, too, pal.) That is, I'm not, never have been, and never will be the intended audience of the workers of the WGA. Businesspeople themselves, they're looking to market their goods to the widest possible audience, and--oh, the wackiness of Adam Smith--that means that they actually have to exclude some consumers in order to get the largest possible number. So we on each side of the bell curve--look, I've got a freakin' Ph.D. from a top-twenty program, I'm one of the smarties, 'mkay?--get to go chase our amusements elsewhere. And writers, aiming solidly for the middle, produce...well, have you ever tried to watch a sitcom on ABC? Try it sometime--but remember, it's like the first time you drop acid--have a friend nearby who stays clean and can help you through the rough spots.

So I'm glad they're back--I'm glad that they got something for their efforts. And yeah, I'll still tune in to catch the occasional episode of House and 30 Rock. But in the long run: meh.