As a member of the male species, I enjoy a great many advantages. I have a great many more by dint of being me, but let's stick with the generalizations for today. As a guy, I make more money, have less grief (perhaps due in part to the idea that - unlike women - the world is my urinal, a topic which may be due a posting of its own someday), and I keep getting better and better. But for all that, I'm not sure that I'll ever be a man. I'm not sure such a thing exists as a "man," and - based on the state of the world today - aspiring to be called a "man" is aspiration to a veritable cesspit.
Of all the people that I've met in my life, there have only been boys of various ages and levels of capability. Older boys tend to play the games of life better, and ultimately even realize that it is just a game. In the past, I've jokingly said that the reason that frat boys are called "frat boys" is that there is no longer any such thing as a "fraternity man," but now, having thought about the matter, I wonder if there ever was such a thing. Where/Are the tacitly higher echelons simply better able to hide and/or escape allegations of drug use and date rape, a luxury that has been largely lost in the face of the modern media? Neither George W. nor any of his past adversaries warrants the moniker of "man;" if not for family money and mojo, either or all of George, John Kerry, and Al Gore would have spent their lives pumping gas in the mid-west, instead of vying to be elected King. The mind boggles as to the antics that Billie and Georgie undoubtedly got into behind the Ivy League palisades, but I don't doubt for a second that a great many incidents were hushed up that and a not a few co-eds sold silence dearly. They don't qualify as men now, in their 40s and 50s. Can you imagine Bill Clinton as a 20-year old upperclassman, born to money, power, and privilege, suddenly confronted with a new incoming class of 17 and 18 year old freshman girls? I'm sure I would have behaved no better in his position, but I'm also sure that he behaved no better than I would have.
And these are the "men" who were appointed to guide the free world. George W. ... ... ... Who I really need say no more about. And Bill, who didn't inhale, but who undoubtedly was rolling the chambermaids in the palace. Now, shall we perhaps try to get better results from the wife who was looking the other way while all that was going on? I'm sure that will work out much better. (Dear God. I know you're there. Please bring sense to all the women of the world who will vote for Hillary purely because she's a woman. Let them instead ask themselves 1) what is the difference between Hillary Clinton and the Bitch Goddess from their high-school senior class, who treated everyone on earth like dog shit except for when she needed their vote to be prom queen, and 2) would they want to be alone in a room for even five minutes with the man Hillary promised to love, honor, and cherish. Amen.)
Aside from the politicians, there are the Icons. Martin Sheen (who failed the University of Dayton entrance exam, but who plays the president on TV) is listened to as he challenges the policies set by Condoleeza Rice (Masters from Notre Dame, professor and Provost at Stanford, speaks five languages). What does this tell you about us? If society respects Ramón Gerardo Antonio Estévez (google it) as a "man" worth listening to, is being such a man even worth aspiring to? The world's last decent pop culture icon got five bullets in the chest (and I'll never forgive Chapman for missing Yoko; she was right there! Do us a favor, man!), and the only thing that set him apart was that he despised the transparency and lack of substance in pop culture every bit as much as he despised the transparency and lack of substance in political culture. A hypocrite, yes, but a hypocrite who hated everyone equally.
Per Marcus Aurelius, people are who they are: of each individual thing, ask what is its nature. What part is it of what whole? High society may promote excellent manners, but don't kid yourself about any modern royalty. The high society and wealthy people I know tend to be heavy users of prescription medication (which is occasionally even performed with the carte blanche of an acutal physician), as well as unfaithful husbands and poor or absentee fathers. Good guys, many of them. But not men. Per Marcus, they're the broken and misguided wheels of a broken and misguided social and political machine. What matter that they're made of gold? The pop culture icons are still worse; they lack even the manners and tact that give the well-born and well-raised the ability to at least pretend that everything is fine and as it should be.
Homo sapiens is doing swimmingly, but I honestly believe that "Man" may be extinct, assuming he ever existed. Was "man" given his last honest homage in Hamlet, Act I, Scene II, circa 1602? I think he may have been. And that even in that case, Junior's opinion of Senior was certainly not without bias.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Under The Weather
I've been ill - physically, I mean - for the last few days, something which I really don't like. On those occasions where I remain in bed all day save for food and bathroom, which occasions are not rare, I prefer to reserve for recreation, rather than for convalescence. Generally, I make it into the office no matter how ill I am, I just make it into the office even later than usual.
And my head-cold and sinus problems are complicated today by a bit of haze from Southern California, as the winds feeding the wildfires in that district have shifted in this direction. I recall the last time I experienced such hazes, I was in San Diego, and was likewise sleeping in until noon. I recall waking up around eight, noticing the reddish light coming through my blinds, and I wondered if we had come under some sort of nuclear assault. But then I noticed that my digital alarm clock was still working, and figured that, in the absence of any clear EMP damage, and without even the power being out, things really couldn't be so bad. So I turned over and went back to sleep until noon or so.
Then I packed up most of my worldly belongings and left for a two-month hiatus in Dallas. Perhaps I should try that tack again: quit my job and flee somewhere for a few days/weeks/months. If nothing else, it might get me out of the smoke...
And my head-cold and sinus problems are complicated today by a bit of haze from Southern California, as the winds feeding the wildfires in that district have shifted in this direction. I recall the last time I experienced such hazes, I was in San Diego, and was likewise sleeping in until noon. I recall waking up around eight, noticing the reddish light coming through my blinds, and I wondered if we had come under some sort of nuclear assault. But then I noticed that my digital alarm clock was still working, and figured that, in the absence of any clear EMP damage, and without even the power being out, things really couldn't be so bad. So I turned over and went back to sleep until noon or so.
Then I packed up most of my worldly belongings and left for a two-month hiatus in Dallas. Perhaps I should try that tack again: quit my job and flee somewhere for a few days/weeks/months. If nothing else, it might get me out of the smoke...
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
American Culture
Speaking to foreigners, as I often have lately, in the course of investigating lawsuits, I'm always reminded of a spiel that I received some years ago, from one such foreigner who disparaged America's lack of "culture." While I managed to refrain from commenting on her own nation's history of cultural class struggle/repression, ongoing exploitation of woman and social/religious minorities, and ongoing international strife based on nothing more than disagreements with neighbors over "culture," I did get to thinking about what of American society could properly hang under the moniker of "culture."
First and foremost, culture is something that is violently opposed by mainstream America. In almost every instance, "culture" arises from tradition or religion, both things that early Americans (and many Americans since) experienced primarily as rebels against the status quo, and ultimately fled from to reach the Fruited Plain. People set sail on the Mayflower because they were sick of being second-class citizens among the established "culture" of John Bull, thereby setting the ongoing precedent of flight hither by anyone who felt repressed, reviled, or even unappreciated in their native culture. So prevalent in this trend of American society that modern illegal immigrants need not fear deportation if they can legitimately call themselves political or cultural refugees seeking asylum: we don't send people home to cultures that "violate their rights." America is called a "melting pot" of culture, but the truth is that most people who step off the boat are eager primarily to be done with most of All Things Left Behind. Indeed, mainstream America endorses and - to a lesser degree - expects the New Arrivals' abandonment of such cultural mementos. Learn to speak English, have a cheeseburger, and try to earn enough to afford gas for your new Hummer. Let me sample your quaint dietary habits, but don't bring up anything else; you're an American now, and we don't deal with that shit.
So culture as a function of history, tradition, language, or religion - perhaps rightfully so - is neither present nor much tolerated among the majority of Americans. Within that vast class, smaller factions form to share nostalgically notable dates and events with fellows of similar abandoned cultural histories - Hanukkah, Lent, the Highland Games, or whatever - before melting back into the mainstream for the start of the work week. This type of culture is, indeed, lacking here in the Western Hemisphere.
Which leaves The Arts, where - truth be told - America dominates the world. American music and movies play EVERYWHERE, partially because of pure saturation of the marker, but primarily because American products are as good as it gets. If you want optics or machinery, buy German (with American products following closely). For cuisine and wine, it's France or Italy (again, closely followed by The States). Consumer electronics? The Japanese still lead the way (but are in danger of being overtaken by - you guessed it - the USA). But when it comes to entertainment, there is no question: BUY AMERICAN. The only other things we make nearly so well is weapons, perhaps the subject of a later posting.
The global proliferation of American entertainment pieces is a good thing and a bad thing, as movies and music convey both the best and the worst of American culture around the globe. Unfortunately, there are people who's primary exposure to America comes through David Hasselhoff, Michael Jackson, and (thankfully to a lesser degree) NWA. This invariably leads to international critics casting ill light on the artistic works and on the artists, and in many cases, the ill light is deserved: American "culture" would benefit vastly from 9mm brain hemorrhages to each of Brittney Spears, John Woo, Steven Segal, and Jerry Bruckheimer, and Allen Iverson, Rush Limbaugh, Louis Farakahn, and Simon Cowell deserve at least a thorough beating with a baseball bat.
But, like flowers rising from cow-patties - or rather like small diamonds among the rough boulders of higher budget works - there are some works of American art that are easily on par with the greatest works of human history. The character Hannibal Lecter (both in small print and on the big screen) is easily the most fascinating literatary creation of the last 100 years, and handily makes the all-time top 10, among such names as Hamlet, Genji, Dantes (not to be confused with Dante), Raskolnikov, and so forth. The modern byplay between Thomas Crown and Catherine Banning is every bit as engaging as the classic seductions of Cassanova. The movie Memento is an Aristotelian tragedy, and the brilliant twist is that main character Lawrence Shelby - who suffers from a disorder that renders his brain unable to store short-term memory - is tragic not because of the things that he forgets, but because of the things he remembers.
But even beyond the classic stereotypes, American arts have paved the way into new depths by, for example, taking the "shocking twist" to unprecedented levels. The most obvious such examples are easy to behold, but the implications are regrettably lost on all but students of the art: yes, Malcolm Crowe - who had more screen time than anyone else in the movie - died two minutes into the flick, but the underlying issues of human perception and self-delusion take much more thought.
So perhaps an easier to explain example: the movie Fight Club. Put aside the very interesting concepts of self discovery through self-destruction and the wage-slavery of modern man, forget the drama of the revelation of dichotomy, and consider this specific point: you never learn the main character's real name. The credits list Edward Norton as "Narrator." Now, from the context of the movie, if becomes very clear that his real name is NOT Tyler Durden, but you never really notice that, perhaps because his name is directly addressed in the movie: Marla Singer standing in the middle of the street, looking as his phone number and asking what his name is. Cornelius? Rupert? Any of the dumb names he uses every night?
But then a bus drives by in the foreground, and she's gone before we hear his answer.
Clearly, in retrospect, he told her at that moment that his name was Tyler Durden; that's the name she knows him by. At that moment, he told her his name was Tyler. Was Tyler - as a persona and as a character - born in that moment, as The Narrator tried to come up with something that would impress the girl he loved/hated? What about the rest of the movie, where the Narrator - who purports to despise her, is the persona that can be sensitive to her, but Tyler - who treats her like trash (I'll not go now into the issue of Marla's desire and/or need to be treated like trash) - is the persona that's peeling off the $1 bridesmaid's dress - which is itself symbolic of Marla's relationship with Tyler - and getting the sex on. And in yet another twist, Tyler - who treats Marla like trash - was the persona that saved Marla from the suicide that the Narrator was willing to let her slip into.
Don't tell me for a second that Fight Club is not worthy of the same level of literary analysis as Crime and Punishment, or Hamlet, or Madame Bovary. Don't disparage America's lack of culture to me because you need to have it explained to you, notwithstanding the fact that your children are feasting upon it. And if you want to argue about any of these points, that's fine, but I expect you to speak English while we're doing it.
First and foremost, culture is something that is violently opposed by mainstream America. In almost every instance, "culture" arises from tradition or religion, both things that early Americans (and many Americans since) experienced primarily as rebels against the status quo, and ultimately fled from to reach the Fruited Plain. People set sail on the Mayflower because they were sick of being second-class citizens among the established "culture" of John Bull, thereby setting the ongoing precedent of flight hither by anyone who felt repressed, reviled, or even unappreciated in their native culture. So prevalent in this trend of American society that modern illegal immigrants need not fear deportation if they can legitimately call themselves political or cultural refugees seeking asylum: we don't send people home to cultures that "violate their rights." America is called a "melting pot" of culture, but the truth is that most people who step off the boat are eager primarily to be done with most of All Things Left Behind. Indeed, mainstream America endorses and - to a lesser degree - expects the New Arrivals' abandonment of such cultural mementos. Learn to speak English, have a cheeseburger, and try to earn enough to afford gas for your new Hummer. Let me sample your quaint dietary habits, but don't bring up anything else; you're an American now, and we don't deal with that shit.
So culture as a function of history, tradition, language, or religion - perhaps rightfully so - is neither present nor much tolerated among the majority of Americans. Within that vast class, smaller factions form to share nostalgically notable dates and events with fellows of similar abandoned cultural histories - Hanukkah, Lent, the Highland Games, or whatever - before melting back into the mainstream for the start of the work week. This type of culture is, indeed, lacking here in the Western Hemisphere.
Which leaves The Arts, where - truth be told - America dominates the world. American music and movies play EVERYWHERE, partially because of pure saturation of the marker, but primarily because American products are as good as it gets. If you want optics or machinery, buy German (with American products following closely). For cuisine and wine, it's France or Italy (again, closely followed by The States). Consumer electronics? The Japanese still lead the way (but are in danger of being overtaken by - you guessed it - the USA). But when it comes to entertainment, there is no question: BUY AMERICAN. The only other things we make nearly so well is weapons, perhaps the subject of a later posting.
The global proliferation of American entertainment pieces is a good thing and a bad thing, as movies and music convey both the best and the worst of American culture around the globe. Unfortunately, there are people who's primary exposure to America comes through David Hasselhoff, Michael Jackson, and (thankfully to a lesser degree) NWA. This invariably leads to international critics casting ill light on the artistic works and on the artists, and in many cases, the ill light is deserved: American "culture" would benefit vastly from 9mm brain hemorrhages to each of Brittney Spears, John Woo, Steven Segal, and Jerry Bruckheimer, and Allen Iverson, Rush Limbaugh, Louis Farakahn, and Simon Cowell deserve at least a thorough beating with a baseball bat.
But, like flowers rising from cow-patties - or rather like small diamonds among the rough boulders of higher budget works - there are some works of American art that are easily on par with the greatest works of human history. The character Hannibal Lecter (both in small print and on the big screen) is easily the most fascinating literatary creation of the last 100 years, and handily makes the all-time top 10, among such names as Hamlet, Genji, Dantes (not to be confused with Dante), Raskolnikov, and so forth. The modern byplay between Thomas Crown and Catherine Banning is every bit as engaging as the classic seductions of Cassanova. The movie Memento is an Aristotelian tragedy, and the brilliant twist is that main character Lawrence Shelby - who suffers from a disorder that renders his brain unable to store short-term memory - is tragic not because of the things that he forgets, but because of the things he remembers.
But even beyond the classic stereotypes, American arts have paved the way into new depths by, for example, taking the "shocking twist" to unprecedented levels. The most obvious such examples are easy to behold, but the implications are regrettably lost on all but students of the art: yes, Malcolm Crowe - who had more screen time than anyone else in the movie - died two minutes into the flick, but the underlying issues of human perception and self-delusion take much more thought.
So perhaps an easier to explain example: the movie Fight Club. Put aside the very interesting concepts of self discovery through self-destruction and the wage-slavery of modern man, forget the drama of the revelation of dichotomy, and consider this specific point: you never learn the main character's real name. The credits list Edward Norton as "Narrator." Now, from the context of the movie, if becomes very clear that his real name is NOT Tyler Durden, but you never really notice that, perhaps because his name is directly addressed in the movie: Marla Singer standing in the middle of the street, looking as his phone number and asking what his name is. Cornelius? Rupert? Any of the dumb names he uses every night?
But then a bus drives by in the foreground, and she's gone before we hear his answer.
Clearly, in retrospect, he told her at that moment that his name was Tyler Durden; that's the name she knows him by. At that moment, he told her his name was Tyler. Was Tyler - as a persona and as a character - born in that moment, as The Narrator tried to come up with something that would impress the girl he loved/hated? What about the rest of the movie, where the Narrator - who purports to despise her, is the persona that can be sensitive to her, but Tyler - who treats her like trash (I'll not go now into the issue of Marla's desire and/or need to be treated like trash) - is the persona that's peeling off the $1 bridesmaid's dress - which is itself symbolic of Marla's relationship with Tyler - and getting the sex on. And in yet another twist, Tyler - who treats Marla like trash - was the persona that saved Marla from the suicide that the Narrator was willing to let her slip into.
Don't tell me for a second that Fight Club is not worthy of the same level of literary analysis as Crime and Punishment, or Hamlet, or Madame Bovary. Don't disparage America's lack of culture to me because you need to have it explained to you, notwithstanding the fact that your children are feasting upon it. And if you want to argue about any of these points, that's fine, but I expect you to speak English while we're doing it.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Hythloday Today
For those non poli-sci students, or anyone else who doesn't catch the allusion, Raphael Hythloday was born in 1516, from the mind of Sir/Saint Thomas More, roughly 20 years before that notable personage lost his head over his refusal to endorse his boss Henry's indulgence in the universal royal pastime of doing whatever the hell he pleased. Turns out that More's political sin of snubbing local, tangible interests in favor of distant theological concerns was a bad idea, especially where the local Snubee in Question (Anne Boleyn) had a brother, father, and an uncle on the panel of judges that tried and sentenced the Snubber. More was ultimately canonized (400 years after his head was removed from its lofty perch on the Tower) for his embodiment of the classic catholic virtue of blind obedience to the Pope, but the only real surprise in that equation is why it took so long for a pope to make Holy a man who was so perfectly immune to the dictates of common sense and self preservation. But all that is neither here nor there.
Hytholday sprang into being not only fully grown, but also with a notable history, not the least of which was his being among those abandoned by Amerigo Vespucchi in Brazil, circa 1501. After this unscheduled landfall, Hytholday spent several years wandering the world before finding his way to Calcutta and catching a ride home with a boatload of his Portuguese countrymen. Between his marooning and his homecoming, Hythloday passed five years in a land called Utopia, tales of which he would later relate. He and More hypothetically met in Antwerp, where More was on a political errand prior to his appointment as Chancellor, and where Hythloday appears to have been aimlessly pontificating, and drinking a great deal.
Personally, I'm not a believer in Utopia - nor in any other example of totalitarianism. Isms, in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an Ism, they should believe in themselves. I quote John Lennon: "I don't believe in the Beatles, I just believe in me." Pretty profound, when you consider he was the Walrus.
But whatever; More didn't believe in Utopia either. I do like Raphael Hythloday, and not just because the translation of his name from Greek is "Speaker of Nonsense." (I confess that is a selling point.) What I like most about Hythloday is his attitude. Here was a man, albeit fictional, from a good family, well off, highly educated, and a world traveler. Very astute, and with a noble heart, he could - as both More and Peter Giles observed - find himself a post advising any King, to the great benefit of both Hythloday and whatever kingdom that might be. There was just one problem: Hythloday just couldn't bring himself to give a shit.
I empathize with that.
As for blogging... Why not. It might be fun.
Hytholday sprang into being not only fully grown, but also with a notable history, not the least of which was his being among those abandoned by Amerigo Vespucchi in Brazil, circa 1501. After this unscheduled landfall, Hytholday spent several years wandering the world before finding his way to Calcutta and catching a ride home with a boatload of his Portuguese countrymen. Between his marooning and his homecoming, Hythloday passed five years in a land called Utopia, tales of which he would later relate. He and More hypothetically met in Antwerp, where More was on a political errand prior to his appointment as Chancellor, and where Hythloday appears to have been aimlessly pontificating, and drinking a great deal.
Personally, I'm not a believer in Utopia - nor in any other example of totalitarianism. Isms, in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an Ism, they should believe in themselves. I quote John Lennon: "I don't believe in the Beatles, I just believe in me." Pretty profound, when you consider he was the Walrus.
But whatever; More didn't believe in Utopia either. I do like Raphael Hythloday, and not just because the translation of his name from Greek is "Speaker of Nonsense." (I confess that is a selling point.) What I like most about Hythloday is his attitude. Here was a man, albeit fictional, from a good family, well off, highly educated, and a world traveler. Very astute, and with a noble heart, he could - as both More and Peter Giles observed - find himself a post advising any King, to the great benefit of both Hythloday and whatever kingdom that might be. There was just one problem: Hythloday just couldn't bring himself to give a shit.
I empathize with that.
As for blogging... Why not. It might be fun.
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