This Blog is Stolen Property

Saturday, March 17, 2007

I Guess It's Got Moxie?

There was a big anti-war protest in Washington today. I couldn't get down to D.C., but I picked up a flyer at a coffee shop because there are often smaller local protests when there's something big going on in Washington.

And as disturbed as I am by the Schopenhaurian stadium mentality of mass protests, I also kind of like them. I find the chanting soothing.

Plus, of course, the whole trying to stop the war thing.

Well, this flyer was hilarious. Across the top it said: "STOP THE WAR." So far, so good, right?

Then, around the border of the flyer was written:

Money for AIDS
Stop sexism and rape
Bring troops home
Help the homeless
End racism
Education funding
Stop Global WARMING

Ok, is it just me, or is this maybe a teensy bit ambitious for a single march?

I had a hard time explaining to the very earnest young barista why I was laughing about helping the homeless. Which is not, of course, a laughing matter. As her adorably stern look reminded me.

Worst. Product. Ever.

My bus stop is right by a florist's shop. I peeked in the window today and saw a display of mylar balloons.

There were balloons for birthdays and balloons for sick people and balloons for anniversaries.

And there was one balloon that had a large bouquet of cartoon roses pictured on it. It read: "I'M SORRY."

Now, as much as I think that giving flowers is a pretty lame, mechanical way to apologize, giving a child's plaything with a PICTURE of the flowers you didn't buy is just deeply deeply stupid.

What kind of person buys a balloon to say he's sorry?

The kind who doesn't care if he ever has sex again, I guess.

Second worst product: I bought some soap the other day. It was the liquid kind. It was sort of orangish, pretty innocuous looking. To the extent I thought about what it might smell like, I probably assumed that it was citrusy.

It was NOT citrusy. It was--I am not kidding--Patchouli scented. Ugh--who is this being marketed toward? The Patchouli-wearing crowd and the soap-using crowd aren't precisely coterminus.

just sayin'.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

War is Peace; Freedom is Slavery; Elections are Democracy

We've all heard the story about the 1960 debates between the Presidential candidates and how those who listened on the radio thought that Nixon won, but those who watched on television thought that the much dreamier Kennedy had won.

This anecdote gets pressed into all kinds of ideological service. Nixon apologists use it. Critics of our culture's obsession with youth and beauty use it.

What's startling to me is the realization that I cannot remember (and can scarcely imagine) a time when debates had an autonomous reality. It was once the case that electoral campaigns were waged and the media recorded them. The reporters, cameramen, and, later, the tv crews used to follow the campaign. Literally. They were structurally secondary to the reality of the debates or stump speeches.

This relationship has been inverted. Campaign activities are now held for the cameras, organized around when and where the media can cover it.

This inversion is neither incidental nor trivial. It follows the logic of what the late Jean Baudrillard called "hyperreality," wherein we mistake symbols for reality and begin to live in a world of signification that is severed from any signified. The relationship between election campaigns and participatory democracy is dangerously attenuated. The referential structure is weighted so heavily toward the sign that it becomes almost exclusively self-referential. The campaigns bear as much relationship to democracy as reality tv does to reality. It is pure representation--it is its own simulacral flickerings that are made re-present, not a preexisting reality.

I think it is no coincidence that this inversion of the reality/representation model has been attended by an increase in the length of the campaign "season." Rather than "perpetual war," we have "prepetual elections." These perpetual elections tap into what we believe is the narrative of our nation: that of democratic choice. But this meta-narrative is reproduced for us so insistently as to consume any meaning it might ever have had. It has become merely its own legitimation discourse.

Rather than engaging in a process of self-determining governance, we are fetishizing the construction of symbols that offer us a substitution for reality to distract us from how power is being wielded.

Rest in Peace, Jean Baudrillard. 1929-2007.

Monday, March 12, 2007

My Life in E-Mail

Regarding an essay that is due on THURSDAY:

Hey Feemus,
Can I email you my paper? Can I get it to you on Wednesday? What is the deadline if I turn it in on Wednesday?

thanks,
Eager Student


I'm puzzled, but I don't care if she turns it in a day early. I respond thusly:

Dear Eager,
If you don't wish to turn in your paper in class on Thursday, you may put it in my mailbox. I do prefer a hard copy.

best,
Feemus


You'd think that would suffice, no? No.

Hey Feemus,
I just asked because some teachers are really strict about handing in a paper after the material has been covered in class. So I just wanted to check. Is it ok if I hand it in during class?

Eager


Sweet Fancy Moses. I've NEVER heard of anyone being "strict" about this sort of thing. Maybe in a math class? But surely one class is not going to exhaust the things that can be said about Milton. And it's not like I'm not going to remember what I said. And besides, unless she were actually writing her paper DURING class, the paper wouldn't even BE written after the material was "covered."

And if I cared about this, doesn't it stand to reason that I would have said so??

Seriously, have you ever heard of any teacher being "strict" about this kind of nonsense?

So I reply:

Dear Eager,
I have no such policy. You may turn your paper in after class [and here I refrain from adding: "just like everyfuckingone else who can read the syllabus and doesn't pester me with these timewasting missives." I am a model of restraint].

best,
Feemus


One would think this would be the end, right? Not a chance.

Hey Feemus,
Ok. Can I turn it in on Friday then?

Eager


I am frankly bewildered. This is positively the most Byzantine and counterintuitive way that I have EVER seen someone ask for an extension.

Dear Eager,
I no longer care when, where, or how you turn in your paper. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. In class, in my mailbox, via email. It no longer matters. I have lost the will to read it. Even a sense of morbid curiosity is not enough to sustain my interest in anything that you write. Nor will a sense of professional obligation compel me to do so. You win. I have decided that your will receive a B in the course. Whether or not you choose to turn in any work is entirely up to you. I am entirely past caring.

with kindest regards,
A Beaten Man

Whoo hoo!!

I have a cousin in the Army who's been deployed to Iraq three times. They've been stalling his retirement. The whole thing sucks ass. He served in the Gulf War, in Bosnia, Korea. You name a shithole, he's been there.


BUT I just found out that he's sustained a minor injury and will be coming home for good. No chance of redeployment.

As I rejoice, I realize that this means that someone else's family member will be risking their life and missing their kids grow up for an unjust and ill-planned war.

But I can't help being happy. Welcome home!!!

Hell, I've even forgotten about my self-flagellating shoe dilemma.

Oh, damn. I just reminded myself.

Gotta Look Sharp? Commodify Your Dissent!

This album cover haunted me in the '80s.

I know how ridiculous that sounds.

It was the shoes in particular that haunted me. They filled me (and still do) with simultaneous longing and revulsion.

It was the '80s and I officially hated fashion. These silly shoes seemed to represent all that is silly about fashion. They're ostentatious and look decidedly pinchy.

But the longing was still there.

The longing wasn't for the shoes, exactly. Rather, I wanted to be the guy who could wear shoes like that. If I wore those shoes, I would just feel ludicrous. I would be so self-conscious about my hipster footwear that any coolness they achieved would be offset by intense awkwardness.

I know that's a lot of emotional process for just one photo. It's a miracle I could listen to the album.

I've been thinking about shoes and fashion this week. My last pair of Chuck Taylor All-Stars are undeniably wornout. During my teens, Chucks were the anti-fashion fashion statement. I wasn't too attuned to irony, I guess, in the '80s.

The Chucker habit carried on well into adulthood. Even as I figured out the irony of having a "punk uniform" I kept buying them. Even as they became the official footwear of absolutely everyone, from punks to rappers to tweener girls, I kept buying them. They're comfortable and familiar.

But when Nike bought them, I vowed never to buy another sweat-shop manufactured pair again.

My last pair is threadbare.

And now I need shoes. What am I going to do?

I realize now that, after all these years, that I might as well have worn Joe Jackson's silly white shoes for all my soi disant fashion-hating. It turns out I've been a commodity fetishizer all along.

Sigh.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

Chapter 31, In Which David Brooks Gets Pre-Empted

Usually if I am blogging angrily on a Sunday morning, it's because of some idiot column by David Brooks in the Sunday Times. Sunday posts often have titles like "David Brooks is a Tool." But today, Harold Bloom has the honor of being an even bigger tool than David Brooks. No mean feat.

Harold Bloom, for those of you who haven't had the displeasure, is a professor of English at Yale who did some interesting work a few decades ago but has in the past 20 years settled into the role of a reactionary crank. He now writes books for a non-scholarly audience (a good thing) in which he tries to make everyone who isn't a professor of English at an Ivy League university feel stupid (a very very bad thing). His pomposity and general douchebagginess is plentifully in evidence in book titles such as How to Read and Why. Blech.

I was talking to my sister on the phone yesterday and she asked me if I had seen an article on Bloom in Newsweek. She related the jist of it to me. Bloom listed his top five books that everyone should read. They were: all of Shakespeare, The Divine Comedy, The Iliad, Don Quixote, and The Canterbury Tales.

He insisted that one should read Dante in Italian. He mentioned nothing about reading Cervantes or Homer in the original. I'm guessing that that's because Dr. Bloom knows Italian but doesn't know Spanish or Greek. Fair enough, but it's entirely emblematic of his schtick: he takes whatever is the case for him and makes it prescriptive. Whatever is right for Bloom is right for the world.

I remember an interview a few years ago in which he stated that there are only four American novelists still writing who are any good: Philip Roth, Don Delillo, Thomas Pynchon, and Cormac McCarthy. Now, I wouldn't disagree with any of these authors. But surely there must be more novelists of literary merit out there. There are more things in the literary landscape, Dr. Bloom, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

His breathtaking arrogance can be seen in his response to the interviewer's question about what books he hasn't read. Bloom answered (I am not making this up): "I cannot think of a major work I have not ingested."

So, whatever Dr. Bloom has "ingested" is perforce "major" and everything else isn't. This is nonsense upon stilts. Everyone who reads literature for a living is continually struck by how much they have NOT read, and may never get to read. Everyone who is not a total tool, that is. People are always muttering about how their German isn't good enough to read Holderlin or how they may never get to Turgenev. It's just how it is.

But Bloom is making an industry of himself by pretending that this isn't the case. He gets called to do these interviews because his haughty erudition taps into a particular stereotype about literary academics. His are fear tactics. Browbeat the students/readers for their ignorance and then drop bits of portable knowledge that soothe the anxieties you have roused. What a tool.

One can see these tactics in his ongoing tirade against the Harry Potter books. He calls their remarkable sales an index of our culture's "descent into subliteracy." That is such a lot of elitist hogwash, and it entirely obscures historical reality. We are a MORE literate society than we've ever been. And there's nothing wrong with the Harry Potter books (and most academics wouldn't say there is). Are they the equivalent of Alice in Wonderland? Perhaps not. Compared to Carroll, Rowlings prose is thin and tends slightly toward the cliche. BUT, the books are fun and thoughtful and quite elegantly plotted.

And they have helped spike enrollment in Latin classes, which covers many sins in my opinion.

Harold Bloom is a bit of a punchline in the profession and it irks me to no end that, with his pompous pronouncements and his supercillious sniffery, he gets turned into its prophet.

Move over, Mr. Brooks.