Semeiotikos

Camp and Torture-Porn

2009-11-08T23:45:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, one of my colleagues asked if I'd heard of the term "torture porn." I hadn't. But it felt familiar, like I knew what it meant without needing explanation—and thought it an apt moniker for the type of film it describes. I'd watched bits of Hostel. I'd seen The Passion of the Christ. Watching James Caviezel get whipped— ripped open by a cat-o-nine-tails, front and center in the film frame— was tough. Even before searching out an actual definition, I contemplated what a juxtaposition of "torture" with "porn" would yield semantically: films that revel, maybe even erotically so, in the spectacle of torture. Such films would need to be more than horror, would need to be horrific in a way that crossed stylistic lines into, dare I say, a shockingly sublime place.

Later, I read David Edelstein's article (where he coined the term: here) and found myself agreeing with his take on films where "torture… cut deeper than mere gory spectacle." Surely— leaving aside nostalgia— the horror of Psycho was of a different breed than the horror of Saw. As Edelstein suggests, the difference is more than a matter of degree. He cuts to the heart of the matter with a probing question: "Fear supplants empathy and makes us all potential torturers, doesn’t it?" This question resonates with Stephen King's own take on horror movies (Edelstein references King's essay, too) as a release valve for our instinctual human craziness. We're all mental, King writes; it is only through social structure and entertainment-as-release that we can cope with the base human desires that rumble below the surface of civility. If we take these thoughts (fear, empathy and apathy, desire) and run them into the logical progression of modern horror cinema, then we find ourselves in an interesting place.

But, apparently—and not surprisingly—the term 'torture porn' hasn't exactly become a rallying point for horror enthusiasts. In fact, when I started writing what follows, I discovered the rather divisive nature of the term: Film critics misuse it; horror enthusiasts blame said critics for its misuse and would rather see the term jump the shark (or simply disappear) than have it muck up and censor works that might just be misunderstood art.

On the strictly fan side (evidence of why I put little-to-no faith in such sites), the first-ranking Urban Dictionary definition claims torture porn to be "an ignorant, degrading, condescending, judgmental and hypocritical phrase asserted by fuckwit Bible-thumpers and conservative critics." Clearly, this 'definition' is less descriptive than it is proscriptive. As such, it isn't much help in defining the term, but it does show the extent to which the term is not embraced by those who defend the types of films it has been used to define.

Brian Matus over at Fangoria bemoans, "the way “torture porn” has come to be used the last few years is (ironically) a perversion of its original usage." Matus claims the term "simply doesn't make sense when describing horror films that feature graphic depictions of torture. To the uninitiated, it sounds more like a subgenre of porn than a horror subgenre." With this in mind, it becomes pretty clear that the term is more troubling than insightful. Not surprising at all, true, but I hope below to recover it for a bit longer (at least to follow through on a few ideas).

Before I get to the rotting meat of my post, however, maybe we need to spend some time setting up the idea that these films (or, at least, their artistic objectives) are worth discussing. Unlike Don Kaye over on MSN Movies, I choose not to so quickly judge this subgenre: "From the spate of horror movies that have flooded the market over the past couple of years, it's obvious that many of the filmmakers behind them aren't too proud either." The implication here is twofold: Kaye delimits extreme horror films as shock for shock's sake; the invocation of pride is film critic double-speak for box office commensurability. No self-respecting (proud) filmmaker would ever cow to fan tastes for weekend bank.

While I confess I don't much care for these films-- and will likely never again see one on the big screen (The Passion of the Christ and Sin City having sated my appetite)-- that doesn't mean they have no value. And it's value that I'm searching out in this post.

What's notable is Kaye does more than Edelstein to link the two parts of the term together in a useful definition: Kaye admits that "'torture porn' has little to do with real pornography. There is virtually no sexual activity involved, although the victims are usually nude or partially nude." But, he continues, the juxtaposition that Edelstein invokes without deeply exploring "expresses the idea that its viewers are intensely, pruriently aroused by the sight of human bodies -- usually young, nubile ones, and quite often female -- getting torn into bloody chunks in the most awful ways imaginable." This is worth highlighting because it begins to unpack the connection-— however disturbing or useful—- between arousal and bodily mutilation, between desire and affect.

Kaye also lights upon another point that will help me draw connections between torture porn and camp: narrative. For Kaye, the problem with modern, extreme horror is that it seeks "disgust… rather than the hair-raising shiver of true fear." This is partly a confession of an old school horror fan who privileges narrative affectation over aesthetic value, suspense and story over spectacle. The unwitting dichotomy Kaye establishes here is one that places "true fear" hierarchically over "disgust." In the work of a narrative frame, the genesis of true fear is not in spectacle, but in something that builds from linear progression and climaxes. It's no wonder that Kaye resorts to focus on the lack of a sexualized, nubile female body instead of transgressive discourse prompted by non-narrative disgust. A naked body is only useful in horror if it's properly coded to adolescent sexual awakening (a la Friday the 13^th); as a site of disruptive disgust it is simply shocking and puerile.

What is betrayed here, at a basic level, is a classic move: Within the machinery of Hollywood (of which the film critic is a willing laborer), narrative is an essential focal point. That is, much of what does not work in Hollywood is a result of narrative failure. A good story always trumps deep aesthetic. A simple test of this is the most recent Harry Potter offering. The initial cut of the film offered up by the director was considered too challenging aesthetically; it was subsequently re-colored before being distributed. The complaint was that the style interfered with the story.

Kaye alludes to a similar transgression in regards to extreme horror, though he takes pains to chide a lack of story (character development) rather than an excess of style: "In just about all the movies described above, the characters are never developed enough to make us even feel much for them; they're simply straw men and women, set up to be sliced apart." The argument here is clear. Spectacle in torture porn supersedes story.

Here is an intersection with camp.

Matthew Tinkcom, in discussing the camp aesthetic of director Vincente Minnelli, notes that "early in his career Minnelli had already achieved a highly consolidated aesthetic vision in which the emphasis in his filmmaking was on a mis-en-scene that not only competed with the narrative but in fact could become the narrative." Counter to Kaye's valuation of narrative, Minnelli's films sought to transcend their narratives for something else. "The seriousness of the labor that Minnelli expended," Tinkcom insists, "suggests that camp manifests itself in what has more commonly been described as the high degree of visual stylistic integration" produced in these films. Camp labors clearly privileged "visual style over and above their narrative" (54).

The connection here is cemented by Kaye's notice that "most [torture porn films] shoot torture in a very visually exciting way." While he uses this phrase to set up a punch line ("helping the audience 'get off' on the pain"), it betrays what Kaye himself cannot deny: These films, despite their motive and seeming lack of value, are expertly crafted (labor). It is this craft—- or the critic's debasement of it—- that prompted Hostel director Eli Roth to fire back. Roth responded to Kaye's post with a letter that reads as mostly defensive posturing, but it does beg artistic integrity and intent: "I made the film I wanted the way I wanted, with risky subject matter and a superb cast." This, in conjunction with Kaye's reluctant admittance to a certain level of artistry, makes a potential case for my reading of torture porn as valuing style "over and above" narrative.

It remains, now, to figure out what we should do with this match up

II.

The opening bank robbery of F. Gary Gray's Set It Off made me think of torture-porn. A stretch, a random juxtaposition. A camp move, maybe. But here's what I'm thinking. Tinkcom writes, "one way of locating camp in the sphere of production is by finding the repeated incidents of narrative filmmaking that seem to depart from the more usual expectations of visual and acoustic form." It is these "incidents," moments of excess (work-as-play) within a larger sphere of film production (labor), that lead Tinkcom to proffer that "camp reveals itself as a luxuriance in the inefficiencies of capital's modes of production" (28).

Now much of Tinkcom's argument stems from a crucial moment that I am somewhat willfully disregarding here (the queer camp intellectual; I would like to spend some time talking about "crises of heterosexuality," but not here, not now). However, the culmination of these bits quoted here led to my reading of Set It Off's opening bank robbery as a camp moment.

The point at which violence explodes—- when the robbery goes wrong and the lead assailant shoots, point blank, his white female hostage—- is shocking. This shock is a result of our misled sympathy. The leading dialogue between teller and robber, at least by Hollywood convention, serves to attach our sympathies to both characters. This is a clever sleight of hand with opening sequence exposition—- and is rather affectively melodramatic. First, we're shocked. Second, we're pulled to an ironic distance by instances of slow motion, a move meant to invoke a certain pleasure in the violence (pleasure as a result of delay). It was this moment, where delay creates a moment of departure, that made me think of torture porn. This moment "cut deeper than mere gory spectacle." Edelstein notes, that torture porn is "so viciously nihilistic that the only point seems to be to force you to suspend moral judgments altogether." The scene in Set It Off is nowhere near the visceral horror of a Rob Zombie sequence, but there is something out of place in the melodramatic labor of the sequence; this something resonates in the juxtaposition of torture porn and camp. Trade "suspend moral judgments" with "[departure] from the more usual expectations of visual and acoustic form" and these moments share delight in spectacle. This delight in spectacle, through the production of camp (t-p), reveals "the crises of value coding under capital" (30).

What I'm trying to do here is trouble the value of film violence because it is, at its core, affective. Reading Tinkcom, I found myself juggling "labor" and "work-as-play" and how they connect to film violence production (and performance). At a very surface level, shooting a violence sequence is difficult, labor-intensive, and expensive. Why go through the trouble? Verisimilitude? In the case of torture-porn, verisimilitude isn't even a consideration—the sheer mise-en-viscera is too spectacular to be "real." No. So what gives? The guess I'd venture: Where queer camp intellectuals "find the opportunities to press the cinematic commodity into a new form of service that expresses their presence within the domain of production," straight horror intellectuals create frisson in violent spaces for the same reason (29

Taking up "spectacle" again, I'll end with moving from production to viewing. Tinkcom writes, "Camp, as theorized in the present account as a knowledge about capital's changeable and volatile attributes of value, can and does migrate to recipients outside the sphere of its production. This helps to explain the intense affiliation between camp and the notion of cult-viewing formations, to the degree that when recipients of the camp film discover its alternative visions of the modern world, they attach themselves to it with a devotion not typical of the usual cinematic fair."

This is worth mentioning because the function of camp as cult is productive of value. A cult audience revalues a work into camp. That is, the mutability of capital and value allows for audiences to make their own value through camp viewing. A critical and financial failure like Mariah Carey's Glitter becomes valuable through cult-viewing camp. This is also interesting in regards to labor and production. Tinkcom interprets Marx (a la Grundrisse): "Marx asserts that the political economy of capitalism is most forcefully conceived through the category of production; he then distinguishes each feature of economy… as a moment of production in order to illuminate how humans under capital are producing themselves and commodities" (6). Interesting.

Still further and finally, is that while camp and cult function on a much smaller scale (small groups working either within the larger framework of Hollywood or in subgenres separate and outside Hollywood), torture-porn functions primarily because it is large scale. Paranormal Activity and Saw VI were in the top ten box office earners this past weekend. What does this say about the value of spectacle? Hmm…

__________________

Kaye, Don. "Torture Porn: The Right Snuff?" MSN Movies. 9 November 2009 http://movies.msn.com/movies/torture/.

Edelstein, David. "Now Playing At Your Local Multiplex: Torture Porn." New York. 28 Jan. 2006. New York Magazine Online. 4 Nov. 2009 http://nymag.com/movies/features/15622/.

Matus, Brian. "The Problem with Torture Porn." Fangoria. 27 October 2009. 8 November 2009 http://www.fangoria.com/blogs/raising-hell/4461-the-problem-with-torture-porn.html.

Tinkcom, Matthew. Working Like A Homosexual: Camp, Capital, Cinema. Durham: Duke Univ. Press, 2002.

"Torture Porn." Urban Dictionary. 8 November 2009 http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=torture%20porn.

How to Make a Chinese Dumpling

2009-02-06T12:06:00.000-08:00

I've been fortunate. That's a simple but honest statement. It's also a good place to start: This past fall, I was introduced to a Chinese Anthropologist on loan from Beijing, courtesy of a Fulbright Scholarship. Yongjia came to North Carolina to teach for a year and while his grasp of English is better than some of my students, he was new to the U.S., and certainly new to rural North Carolina. My colleagues, my wife, and I have been doing our best to provide Yongjia with quintessentially American experiences. I've even tried to teach him how to drive a car.

This past weekend, in celebration of the Chinese New Year, Yongjia gave back. He taught us how to make dumplings.

The Thing About Food

Ingredients for dumpling wrappers:

Flour

Water

Ingredients for dumpling filling:

Ground pork

Cabbage

Celery

Green Onion

Oil

Soy Sauce

Chinese 13 Spice

Salt

Much of that "quintessentially American experiences" thing revolves around food. Food is the great barometer of culture. Sure, you can spot the usual cultural markers of a foreign locale—clothing, social custom, speech—but food is always the best way to immerse, to understand. And yeah, I spent six months living (and eating) in Naples, Italy, sampled local cuisine from Amalfi to Venice, but one of the first things I did after getting hired to teach in Lexington, North Carolina was tour the best of the Lexington-style barbeque joints. I’m still amazed that a mere 35 miles can translate to fundamentally different notions of cuisine. And damn that barbecue is good.

My dear friend Gerald (from Virtual Bourgeois) gave Yongjia—fresh (or not so fresh) off the plane—his first experience with drive-thru fast food. We later took him to a Chinese Buffet restaurant where I expected to uncover a dastardly plot—one where Americans were being fed inauthentic food under the cheap, flashy guise of "Chinese" food. Fortune cookies, after all, are nothing but a sweet lie!

Turns out, our little buffet place hits not that far from the mark, according to Yongjia.

But I needed more than that. As a self-professed foodie/chef, I wanted to learn how to make something authentic. When Yongjia mentioned that he was going to make dumplings for the New Year celebration, I jumped at the opportunity to assist.

As you might suspect, much of what I learned was really about process. Yongjia even mentioned that making dumplings doesn't involve much skill—or ancient Chinese secrets (har har)—but is mostly just a labor intensive undertaking. This was the same, fundamental lesson I learned working in a restaurant kitchen: It's all about prep and process.

A Late Start

First, make dough for dumpling wrappers (see below).

Finely chop equal cabbage and celery.

Finely chop green onions.

Combine vegetables with ground pork and seasonings.

The wife and I arrived at our host's after Yongjia had already started. What we found was this: Gerald was camped out by the sink hacking away at some celery with a cleaver. Yongjia was beginning to season some of the ground pork. In another bowl was a large mass of dough.

Spying Gerald's less than enthusiastic chopping, I took over and proceeded to chop the celery down to a fine (if not precise) mince. Half of this was tossed into another bowl. Yongjia then asked me to make short work of a small bunch of green onions. When these were done, half went into the bowl with the celery. The rest was reserved for later.

(My wife was spirited away by a spirited child and didn't rejoin the process until later.)

I should probably give a little more background about our host: One of our dear colleagues, a psychology instructor (doctor, animal psychology specialist), hosted our New Year celebration. This was the first time that my wife, Mandy, and I had been to Julie's house, and helping to make a big mess in her kitchen seemed like the most appropriate way to "make ourselves at home"!

Now, cooking in someone else's kitchen always presents problems for me (no offense to the hosts, of course, but I find it's like competing in the Tour De France on someone else's bike!), but since I wasn't running the show—and there was beer—we had no problems. Also, Julie's large kitchen island was a great work space for the dumpling assembly line that was about to be created.

Back to the cooking: It was after my chopping that I spied the cabbage. The cabbage, minced in the same fashion as the celery and green onion, had been soaking in water. Yongjia strained this, dumped it in with the pork and mixed it up. He added the celery and green onion and did the same.

In with the pork, cabbage, celery, and green onion went some oil, salt, and soy sauce. Yongjia commented that he liked more soy sauce—so I encouraged him "More! More!" The object (the hard part in a non-measured cooking experience) was to add the malty flavor of soy sauce while balancing the sodium/salt. We might have added a little more soy sauce and the dumplings would have been even better for it.

Let's talk about that phrase "non-measured cooking experience." I asked about recipe, about measurements, and Yongjia only offered rough proportions. That is, the recipe depends on the quantity—and the quantity depends on the intended outcome. We were making dumplings for a medium sized party (25-30 people). That translated, in Yongjia's chef-mind, to making roughly 200 dumplings. I'm used to cooking this way, so I think I've got the proportions down (though I will double check with Yongjia to be sure!).

For this size of a batch, Yongjia whipped up about 4 lbs of dough (we used most of a 5 lb bag of all-purpose flour; roughly 3 ½ lbs for initial dough and ½ lb to a 1 lb to mix in and roll out). He bought two packages of ground pork that I would weigh at about 2 ½ lbs. Vegetable-wise, we cut through a full head each of celery and cabbage, as well as a typical bunching of green onions.

The ratio of pork to vegetable mixture (cabbage, celery, green onion) was probably about 1:1. The ratio of cabbage to celery was also 1:1. Finally, green onion to celery was about 1:4. To get a better sense of the proportions, I'll add that I later learned that the separating of bowls (when first chopping) was to create two batches of filling. What we were looking at, in the end, was a mixture ratio that started with about 1 ¼ lbs of ground pork (one packet) to roughly 1 cup each of minced celery and cabbage, and about a quarter cup of green onion. If you were to start with half the amount of dough (roughly a 2 lb ball), then you'd get a nice sized batch of dumplings (100) for home use.

Okay, seasoning was done by sight and smell. Because you can't really taste a raw pork mixture, it's best to take a good whiff. Mandy and I smell everything when we cook. I tend to rely more on my smell than taste as I'm cooking. Like the soy sauce that I mentioned earlier, we could have used a pinch or two more of everything—and we would have ended up with a bit more aggressively spiced dumplings.

The "secret" ingredient is not so much a secret as it is a "no idea what the 13 different spices" are that comprise Chinese 13 spice. In the past, I've used Chinese 5 spice; Yongjia says that it will work as a substitute. The little purple package that Yongjia brought with him (from China) was marked only with Chinese characters and a picture of all the spices. I could spot the ginger, star anise, and a few others, but couldn't guess the rest! Suffice to say, the finished product had a pronounced anise flavor that was nice if a bit unexpected (given the dumplings I've had at Chinese restaurants). Yongjia also mentioned that there are some 500 different dumpling varieties available throughout China (and probably just as many more given the variety of region, personal and family taste).

About That Dough

Create a stiff dough with flour and water.

Let rest in warm, humid location.

Knead in more flour.

Because I missed the initial mixing, I have to rely on what I first saw and Yongjia's recounting of the process. When I first spied the dough, it looked like, well, dough. And a lot of it. The dough itself is just a simple, stiff mixture of water and flour. The initial mix involves creating a pretty stiff dough that then gets to rest in a warm and humid environment. Yongjia mentioned leaving the dough to rest in a warm place with a wet cloth over the bowl. The idea, I gather, is to give the dough time to relax a bit before working more flour into it.

This is all done by hand, of course. Yongjia told us that when dumplings are being made for an event (such as the New Year celebration), the women of the house turn the strenuous kneading task over to the men.

This is to make the men feel strong—and needed.

It might also bear mentioning now that this process of dumpling creation, in China, is very assembly line oriented. A task of making 200 dumplings becomes short work when the whole family is assigned a position in the line of making. Yongjia told us that when he was young, his assigned task was squashing out the dough with his palm. More about that later.

For now, I'll add that Yongjia's kneading technique was different from mine. I learned how to knead from my mother, who I’m sure learned from her mother. I think it's safe to say my technique is a traditionally western technique that goes something like this: Rest dough ball on work surface. Press into it with both hands, palms together. Use one hand to fold outside edge into the center and press in. Turn dough around to fold other end into the center and press in. Flip over dough and start again. And again. And again. I usually work myself into a nice syncopated rhythm.

Yongjia's technique was a little less "whole" dough oriented. That is, he would work small outside edges of the dough with both hands in a very rapid motion. It looked almost like he was tearing small pieces off of the outside edge—but that's not what he was doing. Using both hands, he would kind of hold the bulk of the dough in one hand and work the outside edge in one place, pressing, squeezing and pulling almost all at once—occasionally working in bits of flour as he moved around the edge, in a counter-clockwise motion.

In the end, it really doesn't matter which way one kneads. The object is to work in as much flour as you can to make a very dry, stiff dough. Because we were on a schedule, Yongjia felt like we rushed this part a bit and the dough could have used even more working (especially as we got closer to the end—and closer to the start of the party).

One final thing: We worked in batches. When we first broke out the dough for its finishing knead, Yongjia lifted the dough into the air and twisted it in half. This is a typical dough technique (if with a bit more of a flourish!): Work with only a portion of the dough at a time to make sure it doesn't dry out—and so you don't mis-judge the moisture content.

From Stiff Dough to Dumpling Discs

With hands, roll dough into long snake(s).

Portion and shape dough pieces into flat discs.

Roll discs with pin until thin at edges and slightly thicker in the middle.

Once the dough was to a good firmness and texture, Yongjia selected a portion and rolled it out into a long snake. The dough snake was about 1 inch thick when Yongjia grabbed the end of the snake, measured out a portion with his thumb, pointer and middle fingers and tore it off in a quick, horizontal motion. He then took the piece of dough and stood it up on the work surface (like a squat tower of dough). He repeated this motion, with lightening speed until the snake was gone.

To mimic this motion: Get a thick permanent marker. Hold it in one hand (not dominant). Take your other hand (dominant) and press the tip of the pen to the side of your middle finger, rest your pointer over the pen, and stick the tip of your thumb to the side of the pen. Slide your other hand up to meet the thumb. This is the general position for tearing off the dough pieces. Imagine that the pen is the dough and you're going to rip its head off!

Then, like Godzilla, Yongjia rampaged through the village of dough towers, squashing them all into flat discs.

There's a test here: If the dough is too sticky, then the dough pieces won't squash nicely and the breaking-off motion noted above doesn't happen as smoothly. The squashing process, though, still requires a lightly floured hand.

After the squashing comes the rolling.

Before the party, at work, Yongjia mentioned that he hadn't been able to find the right rolling tool. His description of what he was looking for amounted to a kind of dowel rod—not quite as thick as a traditional rolling pin. I called up an image on Google of a French rolling pin. He said that might work, so I brought him mine.

Yongjia rolled the squashed dough discs into thin, mostly round dumpling wrappers. Now, this is a point where I wasn't (initially) sure of the reason, but I'll write what I was told: The discs should be rolled out with a slight tapering, where the center of the disc is thicker than the edges. My inclination was to roll them out evenly, but this wasn't right by Yongjia's directions.

I guess it has to do with the sturdiness and evenness of the finished product. That is, the dough wrapper is closed around the filling, edges pressed together to form the final shape of the dumpling. When this happens, the edges get doubled up, leaving the overall thickness of the dumpling wrapper even. Also, the thicker middle ensures that the filling doesn't push its way through the bottom in assembly and cooking.

Further Down the Assembly Line

Place small amount of filling into center of disc.

Pinch ends together to form dumpling.

Okay, all parts at this point have been explained. Now comes assembly. At first, it wasn't an efficient line. My wife rejoined us while all of the above was happening, and she even did a bit of kneading of the dough. Her expertise, however, truly shined at the assembly phase. Here again, I'll tip a hat to our kitchen working. I usually do the grunt prep work (the chopping and kneading). She does the finishing. In that respect, she is the executive and I am the sous!

Anyway, when Yongjia began to assemble the dumplings, a few other party guests arrived, two of whom were the young girls of a colleague—both of whom are ardent followers of my wife. The eldest wanted to help. It was sweet, surely, but her presence slowed down the production line!

The basic assembly involved using chopsticks to grab a bit of the filling and dab it into the center of a waiting wrapper. Then the wrapper is pinched across the center, and then… this is where the magic fingers come into play. A certain technique, involving folding, pinching, turning, then more folding and pinching until… voila! A dumpling!

I am writing this with the expectation that my wife will chime in to comment on her technique. She was at the end of the line, closely watching Yongjia, and mastered the art of creating a perfect dumpling. I was at the front of the line, kneading the rest of the dough, rolling it out, creating the dough towers, squashing and then rolling them out. I did manage to make a few of the dumplings (mine turned out more like pierogi!)—and one of them, under the tutelage of my wife, I managed to make perfectly! I then promptly forgot how I'd done it and, well… Let's just say that, in the future, I will rely on my wife to assemble the dumplings!

To The Stove!

Set water to boil.

Boil large batches of dumplings for ten minutes.

Drain and serve.

So, we didn't quite finish the dumplings before the party started. Because guests were arriving (right into the center of our production) and wanted to assist, I stayed at the front of the line, my wife stayed at the end of the line, and Yongjia floated in the middle, managing those who joined and left, learning bits and pieces of the process as we brought it to a close.

Because there were so many dumplings, we had a hard time finding a place to store them before cooking. The finished dumplings need to be kept separated—otherwise, in the humid air of the kitchen, they might fuse together. We wound up with cookie sheets and serving platters of various shapes and sizes, loaded down with a hodge-podge of dumplings ranging from perfect to horrifying. Luckily, they all tasted good.

Now, when it came time to cook them, I think maybe Yongjia mis-stepped. It was certainly not his fault. Rather, I don't think he was used to cooking with a glass-top stove in a typical-American-kitchen-stock-pot. Our host's stockpot was certainly a good, 8-qt pot. But Yongjia's inclination was to dump as many as he could possibly fit into 8 quarts of boiling water—all to be cooked for about 10 minutes.

This didn't work so well for several reasons. Primary of them is the fact that glass-top stoves struggle to heat (and maintain a boil) when so loaded down. The results were fine, but I might have instead chosen to boil the dumplings in smaller batches. I am also tempted to try steaming them in small batches to keep the wrappers from soaking in too much water.

When the dumplings were fully cooked, Yongjia fished them out of the pot with a slotted spoon and dumped them onto waiting platters to be devoured. Again, if we'd not been under the gun to feed, I might have preferred to get them first into a colander and then onto a platter so that we wouldn't end up with soggy dumplings!

Maybe even toss them with a touch of oil to keep them separated…

To Dip Or Not To Dip

Mix soy sauce and vinegar to taste for dipping.

The finished products were most excellent. As is the case when I make dumplings for my version of chicken paprikash, or when I make pierogi or gnocchi, I can eat handfuls right out of the colander (or in this case right off the platter). But, dipping sauces are also part of the experience. Yongjia told us that the most basic, the most traditional dipping sauce is just a simple mixture (to taste) of soy sauce and vinegar. I'm reminded of the big (and often annoying) show of sauce-making at P.F. Chang's China Bistro. The combination of soy, vinegar, pepper oil, hot mustard, and chili paste would have been most scrumptious with our dumplings.

The wife and I took home a Ziploc bag full (after more beer, lots of fireworks, and a few pictures).

Mandy experimented with sauces, and we fried up the last of them (in a skillet with a bit of oil). I love them fried. The extra little crispy is my favorite!

The whole experience was great. Mandy and I will make another attempt on our own soon. I've already been thinking of how to streamline production!

Rite of Passage Subverted (Part Two)

2008-12-31T15:07:00.000-08:00

Back in July, I posted Rite of Passage Subverted (Part One). In it, I professed my deep admiration for Joss Whedon’s Buffy The Vampire Slayer. The point of the first post was to explain why I love the show. Part two, however, is a critical analysis of a specific episode. At the time of the first post, I’d fully intended to post part two within days or weeks. Here we are, close to the close of 2008 and I’m just now getting around to posting this second part…

Buffy’s Bout with “Helpless” –ness

Peter Barry, in Beginning Theory, writes, “culture… can be ‘read’ like a language… since culture is made up of many structural networks which carry significance and can be shown to operate in a systematic way. These networks operate through ‘codes’ as a system of signs; they can make statements, just as language does, and they can be read or decoded by the structuralist.”[1] Buffy’s life-threatening rite of passage in season three’s episode “Helpless,” then, can be read within the larger framework of postmodern American cultural rites of passage.

Let’s first look at the big picture: What is a rite of passage?

Simply put, "rites of passage are a category of rituals that mark the passage of a person through the life cycle, from one stage to another over time, from one role or social position to another." The purpose of these rites—aside from the variety with which they are enacted—is also pretty basic: "It is through rites of passage that people are able to contemplate, to formulate and reformulate, their ambivalent condition of animal and human."[2] From this we can conclude that, generally speaking, any rite of passage serves to mark a stage of psychological, sociological, and/or spiritual development—anything outside the basic biological fact of existence.

Taking this general context of human rites, we can drill down further into the meat of rites by turning to Joseph Campbell. According to Campbell, “rites of passage, which occupy such a prominent place in the life of a primitive society (ceremonials of birth, naming, puberty, marriage, burial, etc.), are distinguished by formal, and usually very severe, exercises of severance, where-by the mind is radically cut away from the attitudes, attachments, and life patterns of the stage being left behind.”[3]

When Campbell denotes “primitive society” and “very severe... exercises of severance” he is, of course, referring to cultures or societies that practiced or still practice severe (sacred) rites of passage—ones that don’t fit within the framework of our modern world.[4] As Jeremy Northcote notes, “such formal initiation ceremonies are not seen to be prevalent in advanced industrial societies.” If, as Northcote continues, current “status-marking events” neglect to truly serve passage for modern youth, leaving them “uncertain of their precise [social] status” and “lacking a clear transitional path,” then we are left questioning the very existence and continuance of modern rites.[5]

However, from a structuralist standpoint, any time we invoke the notion of a “rite of passage,” we are pulling from a pre-existing structure that has its foundation in exactly what Campbell tells us: rites serve as symbolic severance from a past condition or state of being.

In our postmodern world, we’ve kept the phrase but have watered down its meaning. We have swapped rites for events (to borrow Northcote’s choice of phrasing). For us, rites of passage are not necessarily sacred, and involve much less ritual and severity. When I’ve asked my students to describe their “rites of passage,” I’ve been met with either a generalized account of maturation, or a specific event, such as the obtaining of a driver’s license. These, by Campbell’s definition, aren’t very severe. They occur in a “transitional period,” but aren’t anchored by a community and/or religious structure, aren’t “definitive in marking a person’s assumption of adult status.[6] They allude to the essence of change but there is no sacred rite or ritual, so to speak.

The sense of the sacred also bears mentioning because most of what we continue to call rites of passage are attached to a liminal notion of the sacred. Take for instance baptism, which is necessarily sacred. This is a ritual most modern American Christians practice; it is a sacred rite. Yet, the sense of the sacred is questionable given the age of the child and the circumstances surrounding the baptism. The rite is observed primarily for the parents’ sake and merely involves a kind of sacred solemnity.[7] The symbolic severance is minimal.

What we’re left with, then are rites of passage that are divorced from severity and the sacred—in a sense their locus of meaning has been displaced. So, let’s call this a watering down of rites of passage, or playing dress-up. We have a structure of passage in place, but that structure functions much like dressing up on Halloween. When Americans observe Halloween, we dress in costumes and assume personae comparable with our outward appearances. The result is most entertaining and, from a visual standpoint, the effect is somewhat (anachronistically) convincing. But the reality of such exercises is far from the reality invoked. This is analogous to our modern rites of passage. A driver’s road test is certainly no match for a teenage ritual circumcision.

Here’s the problem: Our “dress-up” is more myth and nostalgia than reverence for and understanding of the past. Our invocation of rites of passage in dress-up fashion are ritual without significance. History and common sense should both tell us this is a bad combination.[8]

I raise all of these points as a precursor to discussing Buffy’s rite of passage in “Helpless” because I need to invoke the underlying structure of postmodern American rites in order to illustrate the significance of Buffy’s subversion: She, ultimately, refuses to play dress-up and dispels the charade. As a contemporary feminist hero, she not only completes the rite but breaks the tradition in the process.[9]

First, we must identify Buffy’s rite of passage. Though it is referred to as such in the episode, I’ll match it to Campbell’s definition: “rites of passage… are distinguished by formal, and usually very severe, exercises of severance, where-by the mind is radically cut away from the attitudes, attachments, and life patterns of the stage being left behind.”[10]

Formality

Buffy’s trial comes on her 18^th birthday and stems from a longstanding tradition for slayers. Each slayer, we are told, must be put to a test on her 18^th birthday—both to test her abilities and to mark her transition into adulthood. The test involves Buffy first being stripped of her “superpowers,” and second, being trapped in a house with a particularly virile vampire. Buffy passes her test if she successfully defeats the vampire. If she’s successful, her powers are restored and she officially comes of age as a slayer.

If she doesn’t succeed, she dies.

The formality of the ritual is witnessed as the episode unfolds. For the first time in the series history, we are introduced to the “Watcher’s Council,” the governing body of the slayer’s own watcher, Rupert Giles. Until now, the audience hasn’t been aware of the Council’s existence. The show has made passing reference to a “Slayer’s Handbook,” and we’ve been privy to a peek at Giles’s own training and history, but much of the watcher/slayer relationship has merely been alluded to. There’s a slayer; she has a watcher. That’s it.

With “Helpless,” we get more. In fact, a delegation from the Watcher’s Council is sent to Sunnydale to oversee the events. The delegation brings with them the vampire who will be the focus of Buffy’s test, and Quentin Travers (Harris Yulin), director of the Council, monitors the events. Travers is a stodgy, by-the-books talking head who quickly asserts his power over Giles, reminding Buffy’s watcher that his loyalty is to the Council.[11] In season two of the show, we learn that Giles is not as prim and proper as we’ve been led to believe—or at least, his own stodgy-ness is balanced by a dark past and a deep, fatherly love for Buffy. In “Helpless,” however, we see what we’ve come to know and feel about Giles usurped by Travers’s.

I mention this because the formal operation of Buffy’s ritual is established by this filling out of the origins and workings of the slayer/watcher relationship. By inserting this hierarchical order into the Buffyverse the writer of the episode, David Fury, alludes to what Joseph Campbell notes regarding the societal function of ritual: “All participate in the ceremonial according to rank and function. The whole society becomes visible to itself as an imperishable living unit. Generations of individuals pass, like anonymous cells from a living body; but the sustaining, timeless form remains.”[12] Prior to the arrival of Travers and his gang of Council cronies, Buffy and Giles seem to be operating outside the societal framework of Sunnydale. Actually, we are continually reminded that Buffy is ostensibly alone. Travers’s entrance signifies a reversion of this assumption. Buffy is not alone. In fact, the long line of slayers—though singular in their existence—is accompanied by an elaborate structural framework.

We see that—through Travers—the traditional relationship between slayer and watcher is modeled as a working relationship, of employee and supervisor (community elders to neophytes).[13] Travers even scolds Giles: “Your affection for your charge has rendered you incapable of clear and impartial judgment. You have a father's love for the child, and that is useless to the cause.” The “cause” is code for guiding principle. Much as a ritual might indicate a need to order (indoctrinate) a community, the “cause” of the Watcher’s Council is its reason for existence and, as such, motivates its actions. Buffy, then, is the initiate to the cause and her transition through this rite is crucial to the structure of the Buffyverse.

This is indicative of the main function of rites of passage: “In the extreme expression of the interdependence between the individual and his or her social group, the initiate is construed as a microcosm of society, and what is enacted by or upon the individual is thought to transform the collectivity.”[14] Buffy’s rite, then, is clearly enacted as a microcosmic experience that reinforces the general conceit of the show.

Severance

The ritual itself is particularly cruel—and, for my purposes here, wildly fitting to the definition of a traditional rite of passage. Buffy’s severance comes in the form of an injection which renders her Slayer powers ineffective. This gives the rite of passage a physical reality to match its need to “radically cut away from the attitudes, attachments, and life patterns of the stage being left behind.” The purpose of the rite is to signal Buffy’s transition into adulthood (slayerhood). By stripping her of her powers, she is physically cut away from the attitudes and attachments that she might be inclined to rely upon.

The physicality, when it comes to Buffy, is also representative of the necessary psychological severance. Buffy’s powers, we are led to believe, are at the core of what makes her the slayer. She is the slayer because she’s the one with the powers, the chosen one. Remove those powers (physical severance) and she ceases to be the slayer (psychological severance).

This clearly serves the purpose of the rite: “[Rites of passage] foster the arousal of self-conscious questioning… Individuals (as well as the society itself) may be moved to the edge of profound self-investigation and exploration.” In fact, the episode offers us plenty of evidence to reinforce this questioning of self. Buffy is, at first, somewhat relieved by the notion that she has become “normal” again. She has struggled for two years now to come to terms with her role in life—being denied a comfortable teenage existence—and now, stripped of her powers, she gets what she’s wanted.

This quickly changes, however. In a most revelatory respect, losing her powers shows Buffy just how much she has grown as a slayer—despite her protestations to the contrary. Faced with not being the slayer, she comes to appreciate her lot in life much more. Surely, and this is true of life in general, she wrestles with her identity throughout the course of her existence (a la the show), but this rite serves to mark her first major life transition.

It’s not that simple, though. The severity of Buffy’s rite goes beyond simply invoking self-reflection and passing a road test. We must keep in mind that the slayer’s superpowers even the playing field in regards to vampire and demon slaying. Buffy is not necessarily stronger than her victims; she has simply been vested with a power like theirs. Removing this power puts her on the level of regular humans—humans who are, nine times out of ten, easy prey.

Add to this that Buffy’s “test” involves a criminally insane vampire with mommy issues. The Watcher’s Council keeps said test subject, Kralik, heavily sedated, boxed up, and strapped down. Fighting a “regular” vampire without her powers might serve as test enough, but the Council takes the rite a step further, making this a most severe exercise in passage.

Now, it also bears mentioning that proof of this severity comes with the Council’s inability to contain its test subject.[15] Kralik’s ability to break free of his controlled environment proves regular humans are no match for his strength and cunning. In classic television fashion, though, Kralik chooses to play along with the test—even though he has killed and turned his captors.

One more point about severance: I’ve made much of the physicality of Buffy’s severance. It is, after all, the centerpiece of the ritual. A true slayer, if the rite be proved, should come out victorious even without her powers—because a “true” slayer is more than just her superpowers. I’ll return to that notion later, but for now, let me mention the additional psychological goodies: If the ritual was conducted without assistance from Giles, then my analysis might not be complete. Luckily for me, Whedon and Fury have made this rite about more than just empty, formal ritual.

Giles is the key facilitator. He is the one who injects Buffy, thereby disabling her.

This serves the ritual best because Giles is not just Buffy’s Watcher. Buffy is the slayer, the one with the powers, but her reliance on Giles assistance goes beyond that of employer and employee. Giles has become Buffy’s requisite father. As such, his role in the ritual multiplies the stakes: Buffy’s rite is ultimately invoked by her father. By injecting his daughter, Giles “radically” cuts Buffy “away from the attitudes, attachments, and life patterns of the stage being left behind.” Furthermore, by stepping aside to let the ritual commence, he is clearly detaching himself to let Buffy succeed or fail on her own.

I’ll add that Giles-as-father is reinforced by the pairing of his father-ness with Buffy’s biological father’s lack of father-ness. Prior to this episode, we’ve had evidence that Buffy’s real father, Hank Summers, is a deadbeat; this is substantiated in “Helpless” by a broken promise to take Buffy to an ice show for her birthday.[16] Here again, Buffy’s rite is doubled: She is separated from both of her fathers.

Since I’m talking about fathers, I might as well talk about mothers: Kralik’s “mommy issues” are an interesting addition to this episode. I’m not sure there is much more to talk about here, but it is curious that Kralik’s subversion of the initial plan winds up incorporating Buffy’s mother into the fray. Buffy is betrayed by her father(s) and must save her mother. Interesting.

Turnabout Is Fair Play

Buffy passes the test.

I’ve been intentionally cagey; All is not as I’ve made it seem.

In fact, what I find most brilliant about this episode is that it manages to take models of traditional rites of passage and turn them on their head: Giles breaks the integrity of the rite; Buffy rejects the resultant incorporation that is her reward for completing the ritual.

The quote from Travers that I used above is a key to breakdown: Giles spills the beans to Buffy. Because he is fatherly to her, he can’t bear to see the torment that his role in the ritual has caused her. Her self-reflection (most important to the rite) is what leads Giles to explain his role in stripping Buffy of her powers.

The integrity of the test is thus compromised.

But, as with Kralik’s deviation from—but continuance of—the test, Buffy still must perform. The stakes are heightened when we learn that Joyce Summers has been folded into the situation.

Now, where does this leave us? Buffy passes the test. Through her own cunning and sense of purpose, she is able to defeat Kralik. In the parting sequence of the episode, Travers smugly notes that Buffy has passed the test—but Giles has not. Giles is relieved of his duties as Watcher because he was unable to fulfill his role in the test.

But what about Buffy? Yes, she’s passed, but what does it mean?

Traditional rites of passage have a “fundamental tripartite form[…]: separation, transition, and incorporation.” The point is for the person “to be separated from one role” so that he/she can “be incorporated into a new one.”[17] The ritual, as outlined by the Council, is meant to transition a slayer from apprentice (or neophyte) to tradesman—employed and loyal to the Council. Buffy is separated from her childhood reliance on her Watcher so that she can be incorporated into the hierarchy of the Watcher’s Council.

Buffy’s response, of course is “Bite me.”

But where does this leave us? What has really changed? Has Buffy really become something different? Did the rite of passage succeed in transitioning Buffy from one stage to the next?

Let’s try to answer some of these questions.

True, Giles gets fired, and Buffy passes her test (regaining her powers and, later in the season, a new Watcher), but as Buffy herself tells Willow at the end of the episode: “You know, nothing is really going to change.” Giles will continue to serve as Buffy’s watcher, if not in an official capacity (he is later reinstated in season five), and the season will progress much like it began—much like any other season. Buffy is still a high school student, and she still relies on her friends and Watcher. So what has changed?

We could ask this of any rite of passage. Think about the tradition of Bar Mitzvah. In a completely empirical, reasonable way, very little real change occurs. Twelve and thirteen are the ages of Bar/Bat Mitzvah transition, and are meant to coincide with puberty. But, as we well know, puberty is not something that can truly be defined by age—and it certainly does not happen overnight. Not all children “come of age” biologically at the same time. As such, the arbitrariness of age is highlighted. We could easily say the same about Buffy’s rite of passage at eighteen.

On a purely practical level, then, we have to admit that while major events provoke change, those changes are not sudden or complete. In the case of a ritual, like a Bar Mitzvah, we have to concede that prior to and shortly after the ritual occurs little really changes. In the end, we go through the motions, have the party, and then continue on as before but slightly different.

In Buffy’s case, not much really changes in regards to her physical reality.

However, “physical” is the key.

Real change occurs not in grand dramatic moments but in successive, small events. In the case of Buffy’s ritual, the changes set in motion by her ritual are not immediately apparent—to her, or those around her—but something has indeed changed.

Let’s go back to the point of ritual. Surely the Council enacts this ritual not out of a sense of obligation or spiritual need. Tradition is a source, definitely, but that tradition springs from a very important place: Power. For the Council, this ritual represents an important turning point, a point at which indoctrination/initiation solidifies the relationship between Watcher and Slayer. Buffy’s ritual represents the point at which she becomes a company man. From the Council’s point of view, the ritual represents the point at which Buffy declares her allegiance to—and thereby submission to—the Council’s authority.

All of this leads to a rather enlightening notion (one that has already been touched upon above): “Whether or not rites of passage, or any ritual activity, is necessary to human existence is a debatable matter, yet rites of passage do provide for and fulfill at least one crucial task: that of inculcating a society’s rules and values to those who are to become its full-fledged members.”[18] When Travers and the boys waltz into town, their sole purpose is to inculcate Buffy. Their formality, the ritual’s severity, and even Giles’s firing, all serve to reinforce Buffy’s place in the world. Yes, she is the chosen one—but she must take orders from the council. And now, as an adult, she needn’t question her place in the food chain.

Buffy’s response (again): “Bite me.”

And that’s where the “rites subverted” really culminates. Buffy, as I’ve illustrated here, partakes in a very traditional, severe, ritual of severance, one designed to incorporate her into the power structure of the Watcher’s Council. Her teacher and father figure, Giles, partakes in the ritual, thereby validating it. She successfully completes the tasks set before her.

But she is not incorporated.

The tripartite formula of ritual is not fulfilled. The Council is successful in initiating Buffy’s separation; the process of the ritual—including Giles transgression of it—secures Buffy’s transition; the result is not incorporation but rather further separation.

Check. Rite subverted.

The Problem of Now

All of this leads me to a somewhat depressing conclusion: Advanced industrial societies are incapable of fulfilling the tripartite ritual of passage because the individual cannot be revered if incorporation is the goal. That is, modern status-marking events—such as obtaining drivers’ licenses and voting—have little to do with community establishment and reinforcement. By privileging the individual, we’ve lost the society.

Now, in the case of Buffy, we see the complications of this: Clearly, the establishment that she debunks is worth debunking. Travers’s masculine, even misogynistic, authority is not about establishing community (though he professes the value of the cause), but about order driven by a short-sighted patriarchal power structure. Buffy’s separation instead of incorporation is representative of the modern dilemma: How does one become an enlightened individual while remaining part of a community?

In “Helpless,” Buffy does the right thing by dismantling unnecessary tradition. This very notion is ultimately fulfilled by the conclusion of the series: Buffy not only debunks tradition but saves the world by establishing a new order out of the ruins of the old. As such, “Helpless” illustrates the transformative power of ritual while at the same time exposes the faults inherent in traditional power and social structures.

And that’s why I love this show.

[1] Peter Barry, Beginning Theory. Manchester Univ. Press, 1995. p. 47. Barry’s text is an excellent introduction to literary and cultural theory. Much of my analysis is a synthesis of structuralism, post-structuralism, and feminism.

[2] "Rites of Passage." Encyclopedia of Religion. Ed. Lindsay Jones. Vol. 11. 2^nd ed. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA, 2005. 7795-7796.

[3] Joseph Campbell, The Hero With A Thousand Faces. Princeton Univ. Press, 1973. p. 10.

[4] I use this phrase to encompass, in a general way, American culture as we experience it at the moment.

[5] Jeremy Northcote, “Nightclubbing and the Search for Identity: Making the Transition from Childhood to Adulthood in an Urban Milieu,” Journal of Youth Studies, February 2006, p. 1.

[6] Northcote, p. 1.

[7] Solemnity seems to have replaced our traditional sense of the sacred. Think about “moments of silence.” Silence now stands in for the sacred, and in a ritual baptism there is much ritual but little substance. I speak, of course, from personal experience…

[8] Take for instance the use of “nigger.” In discussion of diversity and tolerance in the classroom, I’ve talked about the danger of phrases like “My grandfather was a good guy, but he was a racist.” True, we are often confronted with such cultural paradoxes (anachronisms, even), but the danger lies in the subtle grafting: The good “racist,” and by extension the acceptable use of the word “nigger,” is a person (or word) without significance—or racist (nigger) under erasure. By invoking the phrase “rite of passage” in regards to a modern “rite” like a driver’s license test, we create a sociological misnomer: The severity of ritual circumcision is put in contrast to a silly driving test and now we have a misunderstanding that leads to colonization.

[9] Turning and turning again: Buffy’s rite, as I will discuss later, actually functions more like a traditional rite than those we’ve come to see as normal.

[10] Emphasis mine.

[11] It might bear mentioning that Travers represents a classic notion of masculine power. As the head of the council, he assumes a position above Buffy—even though she is clearly the one with the power. This relationship plays out, to some extent, in this episode, but is further explored later in the series.

[12] Campbell, Hero, p. 383.

[13] I seem to be drawn to a “work” model here. In drafting, I originally wrote “corporate” instead of “hierarchical.” Bears footnoting: Harkening back to Campbell, I’m reminded of his comments in The Power of Myth regarding societal power moves from church led to government led to economy led structures. If we take this as a viable concept, then my predilection to equate work with community (or church) seems like a reasonable thought.

[14] "Rites of Passage," p. 7796.

[15] I can’t help but note my desire to end “subject” with an “s” because both Kralik and Buffy don’t play by the rules!

[16] There’s even a sad note when Buffy receives only the gift of tickets from her father—and not his actual presence. Buffy heartbreakingly dances around the prospect of Giles taking her to the show, but his guilt clouds him from the offer.

[17] "Rites of Passage," p. 7797. This is analogous, too, with Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey cycle: departure—fulfillment—return.

[18] "Rites of Passage," p. 7798.

The Year That Was 2008: Best Music

2008-12-27T20:07:00.000-08:00

It should come as no surprise that my year has been marked by one simple fact: I’m getting old. Work has consumed most of my time this year, and what little was left got eaten up by my PH.D. applications: Whether I was studying (ineffectually) for the GRE, attempting to craft personal statements that struck a balance between “please take me” and “I am everything,” or trying to decide where in this great land of ours to drag my wife and kitties off to, I had little time for entertainment.

I have now successfully (I think) submitted five of my seven applications, and I can say with some surprise that I didn’t know just how much mental room this whole process has been taking up in my brain. I want this. I want this so much that the very prospect of failing to get in anywhere riddles me with doubt, fear, and a healthy dose of self-loathing.

All of which is to say that I’ve been so preoccupied that not even music has soothed this savage beast.

I say all of this, too, to explain (in part) why my list this year is a bit scatter-shot. True, every year has its challenges in regards to distilling the best sounds into a representative list, but this was the first year that I honestly share the “there wasn’t much good music” sentiment that my colleagues have begged to in previous years. This year I (halfheartedly) searched for that one album, that one new musical experience that enthralled me—the way, say, Red Devil Dawn did in 2003—but I don’t think it ever came. Sure, many of the albums on my list got heavy rotation, but not in the way Cease to Begin lodged itself in my brain last year and ever begged for one more listen.

In fact, I struggled with the number one spot this year. Last year, my top three all shared number one qualities—and the final decision came only after careful deliberation

This year, not so much. I actually flirted with the notion of forgoing a number one album altogether.

And so, this list represents what I was listening to in 2008, and it has some really excellent albums on it, but I haven’t approached this list with as much glee as I have in past years.

Since I knew this going in, the albums I’ve chosen represent a wide range of talents and moods—and the album in the top spot is one I may very well have disqualified in previous years. But I’ll get into that below.

I’ve listed down to ten, in traditional fashion, then followed up with a couple honorable mentions and other goodies. Enjoy!

Here we go.

10. Al Green – Lay It Down

Here’s the thing: I am too young to be a true Al Green fan. I fell in love with Al through a greatest hits Columbia House purchase many years ago. And, much like my love of John Lee Hooker, James Brown, Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, Sam & Dave, and Cab Calloway, my love of Al is founded in a vague appreciation of soul. I think I get it. And I love to spin it. But I’m not sure I can say more than that.

So, here we are, in 2008, and we get a new batch of songs from Al—and they’re good. “Lay it Down” has a groove that’s anchored by a walking bass line. “Just For Me” is a classic party jam; the la la la’s of “Stay With Me (By The Sea)” are classic soul notes. “Take Your Time” is one of the best tracks on the album and really helped me slow down and relax through all the tension of the year. And so, Al makes number ten. There’s not much new ground here, but in many ways this throwback was just the thing for 2008.

9. My Brightest Diamond – A Thousand Shark’s Teeth

Okay, so Al Green was all about the groove and good soul. This one’s all about mood and the dark regions of the mind. My Brightest Diamond made my list in 2006, and so the release of this one I anticipated. It did not disappoint. Shara Worden’s voice is haunting and far reaching—from the soft lilting of “If I Were Queen,” to the soaring crescendos of “Ice And The Storm.” Just as Al Green’s “Take Your Time” reminded me to relax, Worden’s repetition of “I want to shake myself and turn my heart inside out” ran through my head like a personal mantra, a reprimand. The tinkling tempo of “Apple” is deeply reminiscent of Bjork, but where Bjork has disappointed me of late, this hit the spot.

8. The Whigs – Mission Control

My first thought: There’s nothing new here. This is all derivative. And, to some extent, this is true. The first track smacks of Brain Drain era Ramones. Track two launches straight and unabashedly into The Clash. The first chords of track three sound so much like Foo Fighters that when Parker Gispert starts singing, I have to remind myself that it’s not Dave Grohl. By track four, I can’t help but wonder who’s going to get nicked next. But that’s okay. And, not surprisingly, the trip down memory lane nets the gem that is “Right Hand On My Heart,” the best track on the album. From here on out, it is what it is—and it’s damn entertaining.

7. Sigur Rós - Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust

Mandy and I bought a few CDs before hopping on the plane to Finland this summer. This was one of them. What comes after “Gobbledigook” doesn’t matter (well, that’s not true…). Hands down one of the best songs of the year. Earlier this year, Mandy brought home Screaming Masterpiece, a documentary about Icelandic music. We watched it and it was really fascinating. This led us to watch Heima. Really, one can’t help but be mesmerized by these guys. The whole indecipherable lyrics thing is ultimately about either a pre- or post-linguistic phase—filling in the space between head and heart with raw sound. Good stuff.

6. The Hold Steady – Stay Positive

Okay, given what I’ve already written, this one should be here for the title alone. This was most definitely a year for the imperative: Stay positive. Personal trauma aside, this was a rough year for the world (or at least the world I live in; rough might be too positive for the rest of the spinning orb), and while many of us are thankful and hopeful for the coming Obama administration, we’ve still got some climbing to do.

Of course, the title doesn’t necessarily reflect the imperative that it implies. That’s the point, I’m sure, but… True, this album is not Boys and Girls. No one expected it to be. It is, however, a good follow-up. “Sequestered In Memphis” is an excellent song, reminiscent of all that is good about Springsteen and the E Street band, and The Hold Steady for that matter. Good piano, good sing-along chorus. “Both Crosses” is also an excellent track—eerie guitar and poignant lyrics, a winning combination.

5. Flight Of The Conchords – Flight Of The Conchords

While this album has songs that were clearly from last year, it transcends the HBO show. Transcends, of course, may sound too fancy for an album of silly songs, but I stand by it. The production value here is excellent. “Foux Du Fafa” is laugh-out-loud hilarious, but it’s also quite beautiful and sonically deep. Take away the riff on faux French and you have a hot dance track. And that’s what makes the album work: It’s a perfect blend of satire and honest songwriting. I’ll add that I was surprised by the overall funkiness of the album. For a show about two guys making stripped down, awkward music, this offering is well rounded and downright groovy. “Business Time” was on my list of best tracks last year—and it still stands as a great song this year, on this album. Way to go Brett Jemaine! Quincy Jones would be so proud!

4. She & Him – Volume One

This is a novelty that works. M. Ward, who made my list in 2006, teamed up with actress Zooey Deschanel and made a lovely little throwback album. Some of the songs on here are downright jarring in their jingle-jangle attempt to recall Patsy Cline, but “Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?” is another of the great tracks of the year—it harnesses a manic energy that is infectious. The song’s video offers a fitting, repetitious bloodletting that is even more frightening couched in upbeat tempo and “do do do”s. I surprised myself with the heavy rotation of this one.

3. Aimee Mann – @#%&*! Smilers

On our way out of Finland, Michael burned a copy of this one for me and Mandy. He’d asked if I had it. I said no, thinking about how disappointed I’d been with The Forgotten Arm. But hey, a free CD is a free CD. And Lost In Space was so good. Surely I’d be entertained. Turned out to be worth the nicking. Last year, Brian gave up on Iron & Wine (or at least came to a ‘one trick pony’ conclusion). I defended The Sheperd’s Dog because I’d found something in it that I’d previously found lacking. To some extent, that’s what happened here with Smilers. I didn’t expect much from it; was not terribly impressed initially (except, of course, for “Freeway”); wound up loving it.

I’ll add that while I’ve mentioned some stand out songs so far, I think “Freeway” may just take top honors this year. Much like “Man O’ War” was 2006’s best song (for me at least), “Freeway” seems to epitomize 2008. Sure there were better songs—sonically and lyrically—but “Freeway” captures the essence of the year: “You got a lot of money but you can’t afford the freeway.” In a year that saw gas above four dollars a gallon, was there really a better line? I think back to the Hummer Mandy and I saw at a Hobby Lobby—with its “0 MPG” license plate and American eagle spare tire cover—and shake my head.

2. Vampire Weekend – Vampire Weekend

The question is, who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma? Yeah, that one line sold the album for me. If this hadn’t been such a strange year, then this one would probably be number one. Truth is, though, after the honeymoon phase, I haven’t really gotten back (in)to this. There is a certain jauntiness to the album that’s refreshing. “Mansard Roof” has got to be the biggest delight of the year—its off-kilter beat just the thing for playing croquet out on the lawn. And what was that about an Oxford comma? Literate alt-pop at its best. This is a spring/summer, roll the windows down, enjoy life kind of spinner.

Problem is, I don’t feel much like dancing these days.

Plus, there’s the age thing. I think I’m a bit put off by the fact that these guys are a bunch of Columbia kids oozing with pep and youth. Depressing, really…

1. Colin Meloy – Colin Meloy Sings Live!

And then there’s this one, number one and only. An album of mostly Decemberists songs. An album of one man and a guitar. I’m reminded of Ben Folds Live, the audacity of a one man show and all it represents. Good but a bit too self-involved, a bit too myopic. But that’s the joy here. This year, which has been so consumed by my own self-discovery, my own self-consumption, seems best summed up by an album that stands as a testament to the individual.

Don’t get me wrong: I have been—am—a proponent of the group. In the past, I’ve championed the band over the individual. But this year was really about self-salvation, about the individual’s response to the yawning of apocalypse. After all, we are alone. It is our loneliness that drives us into each other’s arms—but it is also our loneliness that calls out for solitary salvation, for one savior.

That’s it, you know. This was not only my self-involved year, but it was a year defined mostly by another man.

This was the year of Barack.

I guess that’s the root of my choice: Colin Meloy’s solitary stage performance reflects the year’s overall messianic predilection. I have to admit my own surprise at where this is going, where this has gone. This was a year where we looked to a man to save us. Funny how misleading that is, given the fact that it was votes of thousands, millions that really saved us. Funny how it all turns back around on us. We strive to be individuals while we seek comfort and safety in others. We long for the one god, one savior—knowing that we need more, that we need to take part in the making of salvation—but, but, but…

All this aside, I found much to admire in this recording—from classic Decemberists tracks to Morrissey and Shirley Collins, this one man show is more than the one man. I’m also reminded of the ‘74 Tom Waits’s gem of a live show that came out as Dime Store Novels, Volume 1. True, there are better recordings (of both Tom Waits and Colin Meloy songs), but I find great comfort in this stripped down format, one that makes clear the genius at the mic.

Honorable Mentions

Ra Ra Riot – The Rhum Line

This one deserved more time from me, and probably a place in the top ten. I listened to it quite a bit, and I am convinced it’s good. But it’s also caught up with some of my GRE mental baggage and I’ve had a hard time separating the two—which means I haven’t listened to it much in the last month or so.

It’s good because it feels familiar, but I need more time.

MGMT – Oracular Spectacular

This was an early 2008 treat that unfortunately didn’t hold up. Actually, it’s more the holes in it that kept it from the top ten: There are a handful of excellent tracks here, one in particular that makes my year end mix, but these highlights are caught between some bits and pieces I could do without. “Time To Pretend” is the one great track that will find its way onto many future mixes.

Best EP of the Year - Andrew Bird – Soldier On

“Sic of Elephants” is a great song. The rest of the EP is pretty damn good, too.

The Curious Case of the Failed

Here’s the thing, I’ve already mentioned that it’s been a strange year. Below, you will find albums that didn’t quite work for me. In some cases, it’s clearly due to a flawed construction—one that I’m not the only one to have picked up on. In others, it’s more me than anything else—more my cold, indifferent turn of head to a child pleading for affection.

Crooked Fingers – Forfeit/Fortune

Clearly the biggest disappointment for me this year—though I have to admit my desire to include it in the top ten despite its flaws. “What Never Comes” gave me hope, but the sharp turn into “Luisa’s Bones” made me cringe on my first listen through. The opening of “Phony Revolutions” was promising, but didn’t pay off. And then, well, that seems to be the case for the album. I love “Run, Lieutenant, Run” and the last two tracks, but… Is this one just undercooked? I think so.

Conor Oberst – Conor Oberst

I’ve tried to like this guy. There’s a charm and appeal to his voice and songs, but I can never quite buy into it. There was a time when Ryan Adams held sway in my musical soul, but his dogmatic persistence began to grate—to the point of his pooping of his own party. I get the same vibe from Oberst. And while I enjoy “I Don’t Want To Die (In The Hospital),” I can’t help but wonder if Paul Westerberg is getting royalties every time this kid opens his mouth.

Death Cab For Cutie – Narrow Stairs

Production-wise, it’s good. “I Will Possess Your Heart” gave me pre-purchase hope. But then I stopped giving a shit. Bottom line: Ben Gibblets has jumped the shark for me.

I wanted to like this album. It was time for some more Cutie. I mean, Benny boy took two spots (a la Postal Service and Cutie) on my 2003 list. Surely Narrow Stairs should have been a much needed balm this year?

It wasn’t. Again, this could just be because I’m a bitter old fart who has become his job, but I don’t think so. Two reasons: “Your New Twin Sized Bed” and “You Can Do Better Than Me.” What was once lyrical honesty replete with real suffering and empathetic open-heart-emo now comes off as creepy and lame. I mean, really, what’s with the beds? Didn’t we get enough of that on Plans?

Coldplay – Viva La Vida

I tried to like this one, too. I was surprised to find it in Michael’s CD player (recently reclaimed from Peugeot anti-theft silence) on the way to the Helsinki airport. I had to do a double-take. You see, I’d already decided I wasn’t into it. When we got back to Greensboro, I took Aimee Mann and Mandy took Viva La Vida. A few days later, Mandy commented that she was really digging it. I decided to give it another try. Was I missing something? Much like a wealth of this year’s offerings, I just couldn’t get there… I don’t really know why I couldn’t get into this one. Maybe it’s because Chris Martin sweats so much when he performs…

Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks – Real Emotional Trash

Pitchfork recently re-reviewed the re-release of Brighten The Corners. In ten years, it went from an 8.6 to an 8.7. I would like to think this a sign of the album’s sustainability. I remember when it came out and the cries from Pavement fandom that it was no Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain—or Slanted and Enchanted. But I liked it. In fact, I still think it’s probably my favorite Pavement album. You see, I was a late-comer to the Malkmus scene and the polish and shine that often mars a band’s last album helped clarify what it was that I enjoyed about the band: Malkmus’s ability to craft wonderfully catchy off-kilter tunes.

It’s what I love about indie rock: the place where irony bridges the gap between craft and disenchantment. Good indie rock is not just sloppy and disaffected; it’s art in spite of the anxiety of influence. It’s the all the best bits of postmodernism without resorting to Simpsons yellow (whatever that means).

All of which is to say that the jammy quality of Real Emotional Trash turns me off. Yeah, there’s good solid guitar crunch here, but I can get that anywhere. I want my Malkmus mocking Yule Brynner.

I’m Too Old To Keep Up With All This Shite

Two weeks ago, I did something I never thought I would do: I cancelled my eMusic subscription. This was the thing that was keeping me plugged in, my link to fresh new music. I had a good deal. I was grandfathered in—getting my 65 downloads a month for a steal of a price.

It was becoming a waste of money, though. I just couldn’t keep up. I’ve got so much stuff downloaded that I haven’t really listened to. I couldn’t justify keeping up the subscription—even though it was a really good deal.

So here’s a list of things I downloaded but didn’t really listen to. Yeah, there’s a few Pitchfork picks that I wish I hadn’t downloaded, but no Fiery Furnaces award this year:

British Sea Power – Do You Like Rock Music?
Okkervil River – The Stand Ins
The Lovely Sparrows – Bury The Cynics
The Mae Shi – Hlllyh
The Strugglers – The Latest Rights
Tapes n Tapes – Walk It Off
Tricky – Knowle West Boy
The Week That Was – The Week That Was
My Morning Jacket – Evil Urges

The Rogue Wave Award

Mates of State – Re-Arrange Us

Last year, I completely forgot there was a new Rogue Wave album—until I read about it in Brian’s list. Same goes for Mates of State this year. I wound up really digging Asleep At Heaven’s Gate. Here’s hoping the same will be true about Re-Arrange Us.

Two, Too Late Entries

Adele – 19

She was really good on SNL. Found out shortly before cancelling my eMusic subscription that I could get it through them. Did, but haven’t really listened to it yet.

Bon Iver – For Emma, Forever Ago

Was listening to Bob Boilen’s song picks of the year and discovered the great track “Skinny Love.” Downloaded the whole album, but haven’t gotten past “Skinny Love” yet.

Shoulda Coulda Woulda

Three I wanted to buy, but didn’t: Martha Wainright, I Know You’re Married But I’ve Got Feelings Too; Kanye West, 808s & Heartbreak; The Cure, 4:13 Dream.

The 2008 Mix Tape

1. Freeway – Aimee Mann
2. Lay It Down – Al Green
3. Lights Out For Darker Skies – British Sea Power
4. I Don’t Want To Die (In The Hospital) – Conor Oberst
5. What Never Comes – Crooked Fingers
6. I Will Possess Your Heart – Death Cab For Cutie
7. Time To Pretend – MGMT
8. Sequestered In Memphis
9. Lamb And The Lion – The Mae Shi
10. Inside A Boy – My Brightest Diamond
11. I’m Amazed – My Morning Jacket
12. Singer Songwriter – Okkervil River
13. You Cheated Me – Martha Wainright
14. Each Year – Ra Ra Riot
15. Why Do You Let Me Stay Here? – She & Him
16. Gobbledigook – Sigur Ros
17. Right Hand On My Heart – The Whigs
18. Sic Of Elephants – Andrew Bird
19. Skinny Love – Bon Iver
20. Chasing Pavements - Adele

The Queen of Curves is Dead

2008-12-12T09:34:00.000-08:00

Long Live the Queen!

The most photographed woman of the 1950’s died yesterday at the age of 85.

It’s been almost ten years since I first became (slightly) obsessed with pinup queen Bettie Page. True, the first time I saw images of her, I was “intrigued,” but I was a high school student (1992) and had plenty of other diversions to keep my starved, perverted brain occupied. It wasn’t until I was in graduate school that I “rediscovered” Page and began the critical inquiry that became what still stands as my most substantial piece of writing.

In 2001 I was—and I can say this with some certainty—one of (if not the) foremost scholars on Bettie Page. I knew everything there was to know about the pinup queen, and I had lots of educated opinions about her and her work to boot. While conducting my research, however, I became increasingly cynical about the Bettie Page subculture (mania) that began in the eighties and culminated with the release of Mary Harron’s biopic The Notorious Bettie Page. At first, I was happy to drone on about Page and her sordid life. But the more time she spent in the postmodern spotlight, the more I felt myself turning away. I stopped trolling ebay for memorabilia. I stopped searching for articles and news of Bettie’s whereabouts. I even missed the boat when Harron started production on her film.

I did get to see the film on the big screen, though, and I can say that, for an initiate, the film is a excellent place to start. It strikes a nice balance of the defining moments of Bettie’s life, though it does gloss over some of the important bits.

Anyway, all of this is to say that I cherish the time I spent with Bettie (never having met her, sadly), even though the last few years have taken me away from her. I will also say that, in this time of mourning, looking back over my writings, I am still proud of what I’ve done—and I still count Bettie as one of the great women in my life. Much will be written in the next few days, weeks, about the voluptuous, smart but ideologically trapped woman, but I doubt any of it will truly capture the enigma that was the queen of curves.

In remembrance of her passing, I’d like to share with you some excerpts from my masters’ thesis—primarily bits from my concluding chapter. My work, titled “‘The Girl Who Made Good Being Bad’: Bettie Page and American Postwar Ideology,” made a sweeping journey through Bettie’s life and matched it up with prevailing fifties cultural attitudes. I looked at Bettie’s photographs (pinups, cheesecake, and amateur camera club stills) and film loops (dancing and spanking) and connected them with postwar notions of sex and femininity.

You can find out the basics of Bettie’s life elsewhere. Simply Google “Bettie Page” and you’ll find a wealth of information that will be more or less accurate. I’ll also link you to an article by Richard Corliss that I’ve skimmed but not fully read (over on Time magazine’s website) Bondage Babe Bettie Page Dies at 85.

Time also has a nice sampling of images. The one I’ve included here, though, is my favorite. It represents everything that Bettie Page was—as artist Jim Silke has noted: curves, curves, curves…

Where It Began

I first stumbled onto fifties pin-up legend Bettie Page in the December 1992 issue of Playboy magazine. Her image stood out from the other glossy, air-brushed images; she was beautiful, with a voluptuous figure, black hair with sharp bangs and a bright, inviting smile. In the article accompanying the pictures, entitled “The Betty Boom,” comedian Buck Henry claims that Bettie’s smile “could break your heart” (122). But what intrigued me more than her looks was their ability to evoke nostalgia for an era I was born thirty years too late to experience. These images exuded a wholesomeness deeply rooted in a past American culture.

That sense of nostalgia was misleading, though.

Bettie Page was one of the most photographed models of the fifties, posing in everything from bathing suits to lingerie to nothing at all—and even bound, gagged and whipped in bondage photos. As I uncovered a wealth of images and film looks, I became somewhat obsessed with Bettie Page and how it was that 1950s culture, which I had always assumed was ultra-conservative, could produce sexually transgressive material that ranged from funny to bizarre to shocking. As I went searching for the answer to this puzzling question, I became increasingly cognizant of the inherent instabilities of postwar American culture and Bettie Page’s place in it.

The Problem With Revival

The Bettie Page revival can loosely be shuffled into the period between the early 1980s and mid- to late 1990s—over twenty years after Bettie Page disappeared, never to be photographed again. The “Betty Boom” culminated with the publication of several biographies, authorized and unauthorized, memoirs, and the recovery and reprinting of Bettie Page artifacts in The Betty Pages and Private Peeks. Her image, and subsequent style, infiltrated the pop scene not only through comics, art and written texts, but through fashion design as well. And her new fan base was not only decades younger than Miss Page, but included both men and women. Fashion photographer Ellen von Unwerth claims that Bettie’s photos are “so charming that everybody—women and men—likes them” (Essex and Swanson 270).

The revival, which was sparked first by artists like Robert Blue and Olivia, exploded with the emergence of Dave Stevens’s comic book, The Rocketeer. The comic book was a combination of “all his boyhood fantasies: nostalgia for a lost era, heroes, adventure, a man with a rocket who could fly—and a raven-haired girl named Bettie” (Essex and Swanson 249).

Stevens’s was one of the new admirers of Bettie Page—a group of loyal fans who were not old enough to remember the heyday of the model, who were either too young to purchase the men’s magazines that specialized in ‘cheesecake,’ or were not even born yet. Like all her new fans, Stevens did find something intriguing about Miss Page. In her authorized biography, Stevens’s claims that “there’s a timeless quality about her that gives her images a real currency even though they were shot some forty years ago” (250).

Stevens ordered some of Bettie’s film loops in the late seventies and began holding impromptu parties for his friends, showing his collection of loops with “a Cab Calloway soundtrack—the perfect jazz accompaniment to Bettie’s ‘wiggling.’” (249). The comic book artist’s obsession culminated with the production of a comic book devoted to Bettie Page: Bettie Page Comics. And in 1992, when Miss Page resurfaced after disappearing from the modeling scene in 1957, Stevens was one of the select few allowed into the aged queen’s presence (250-51).

Although her images have caused a certain amount of liberated dialogue about the variety of sex and redefinitions of deviance, Bettie Page was not a sexual pioneer. In fact, her appeal now is as dichotomous as it was in the fifties. On one side are men and women like Shalom Harlow, who are attracted to Bettie as a powerful, sexual liberator and dominatrix. Jim Silke suggests that “Bettie’s story is not the tale of an exploited woman. She was no victim. What you’re looking at is a proud, independent woman who went against the grain of her time, ignored the mockery and degrading rejection of polite society and remained true to herself” (51).

Or as Essex and Swanson conclude, “Bettie’s authenticity allowed her to transcend her time and make the transition from postwar pin-up girl to a modern symbol of female sexual independence. Modeling in the era of tease, she was solely an object of male desire. Her fans were exclusively men in search of a sexual fantasy—a forbidden sexual fantasy at that.” But, they further add, “today she is embraced by women as well as men” and Bettie “has become an enduring symbol of female independence and genuineness” (285). This praise of Bettie’s independence is typical of an anachronistic mindset and with the weight of my arguments here, seems if not dangerous, particularly limiting.

The other side of Bettie Page’s current appeal is far more dangerous, however.

If modern women and men find Bettie’s images liberating, neglecting the peculiar circumstances of postwar ideology, then I cannot claim that this is a bad thing. In fact, I applaud any attempts to reconstitute sexualized women in a positive, non-objectified way. But unfortunately, this is not the typical case.

The other faction of modern Bettie devotees—and I would imagine, the larger grouping—are drawn to her images in search of a nostalgic, throwback to a passive or contained femininity. Journalist Willie Morris claims that Bettie’s “body was of the Fifties, my fifties, full and opulent as the replenishing epoch itself, not the taut, slender, athletic silhouette of the Nineties models nor of today’s high-ballasted strippers with the silicone aspect” (68). Bettie Page’s voluptuous curves and wholesome smile are equated with the idyllic, wholesome quality of fifties media that David Halberstam notes (in The Fifties) as a reason for feelings of nostalgia. Bettie’s smile and curves are seductive in an era marked by post-feminist backlash. This backlash is frightening because it points to a cyclical repeating of history. Betty Friedan attributed the invention of the feminine mystique to a fear of ‘masculine’ women, women who posed a threat to puritanical views of women and their subservience to men. That fear manifested in placing a greater emphasis on female biology and sexuality—which, in turn, confined the definition of femininity and allowed for sexual objectification and the commodification of women as sex objects. Nostalgia, then, betrays similar fears and desires to return to this definition of femininity.

In the wake of feminism, American men in the late twentieth century, and into the twenty-first, have turned away from the supposed danger posed by redefining gender—a reaction that mirrors the creation of the feminine mystique. Turned off by militant feminism, career women, and even seemingly androgynous images of models, these men have found solace in postwar pinups like Bettie Page. But with a note of concern and warning, I must point to Friedan’s ironic insistence that men in the fifties got what they asked for and were not happy with it once they had it. By denying women the right to become individuals and locking them up in the home, the feminine mystique created mass sexual dysfunction. By denying the positive effects of feminism, and swimming in nostalgia, modern men are opening themselves to a similar outcome.

It is because of this repetition of history that I reserve particularly harsh criticism for Playboy. Under the guise of sexual revolution, Playboy made it possible to continue selling postwar femininity well into the latter half of the twentieth century. By using Marilyn Monroe to define the Playboy female aesthetic, Hugh Hefner solidified the type, the girl next door, and neatly packaged and set the standard for a legitimate female sex object. And in the decades that followed—with the rise of Playboy—women became subjected to that standard, even to the point of continued dysfunction. It would be impossible to count the number of women who have flipped through the pages of Hefner’s magazine—like postwar women who subscribed to the ideals in women’s magazines—and have been seduced by those images. The abundance of breast implants and plastic surgery, the scores of women searching for identity through the use of their bodies, the wannabe starlets, simply reinforce a continued preoccupation with the role of female sex object.

And while Hefner certainly did not invent the sex object, he capitalized on and successfully commodified female sex objects and helped confine women to the objectified, ‘female role’ that he proposed to destroy.

In the end, the difference between Bettie Page and the models that pack modern men’s magazines—Playboy included—is the very authenticity or ‘genuineness’ that Essex and Swanson claim is what makes her image enduring. Again, men disenchanted by the androgynous, post-feminist woman, or the overtly constructed, highly sexualized Playboy model or porn star, find a ‘genuineness’ in Bettie Page’s images that they perceive unavailable for purchase in America’s sex market. Bettie’s breasts are real, her curves are real, and her wholesome smile—abundantly documented in countless accounts—is real. While to some Bettie Page stands out as a ‘proud and independent woman,’ a beacon for powerful sexuality, to others she is a lost, true model of femininity that desperately needs to be recovered.

Both views, however, neglect to fully see Bettie Page, projecting their own needs and desires onto images that are decades old. Bettie Page was not liberated by her modeling, she was contained by it. And as a product of fifties femininity, her images do not represent a ‘true’ model of femininity, but rather the female role as defined by the feminine mystique.

The countless surviving images of Bettie Page continue to offer conflicting sexual discourse, but the real Bettie Page is gone.

And with that, I’ll end: I hope Bettie has found the peace she truly deserves.

She will be missed but not forgotten.

SOURCES

Dyer, Richard. Stars. London: BFI Publishing, 1998.

Essex, Karen and James L. Swanson. Bettie Page: The Life of a Pin-Up Legend. Los Angeles: General Publishing Group, 1998.

Foster, Richard. The Real Bettie Page: The Truth About The Queen of the Pinups. Secaucus: Citadel Press, 1999.

Friedan, Betty. The Feminine Mystique. New York: Laurel, 1983.

Friedman, David F. A Youth in Babylon : Confessions of a Trash-Film King. Buffalo: Prometheus Books, 1990.

Halberstam, David. The Fifties. New York: Fawcett Columbine, 1993.

Henry, Buck. “The Betty Boom.” Playboy December 1992: 122+.

Morris, Willie. “Women We Love: The Wild One.” Esquire August 1994: 68-9.

Schaefer, Eric. “Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!”: A History of Exploitation Films, 1919-1959. Durham: Duke University Press, 1999.

Silke, Jim. Bettie Page: Queen of Hearts. Milwaukie: Dark Horse Books, 1995.

Steinem, Gloria. Marilyn. New York: MJF Books, 1986.

Weyr, Thomas. Reaching for Paradise: The Playboy Vision of America. New York: Times Books, 1978.

Burn, Baby, Burn

2008-10-22T18:11:00.000-07:00

For Your Preservation

Earlier this week, I was driving home from work and heard a bit on NPR about a church burning porn (Florida Church Burns X-Rated Film Reels). The organization in question had purchased an old drive-in, and they were in the process of turning the site into a worship center.

During their renovations, they uncovered a stash of film reels.

Porn reels. Or so they say. I imagine (with some delight) the good pastor, maybe his wife and a few "investors" in attendance, loading up a stray reel and discovering something rather lewd. What were their reactions, I wonder?

Well, their actions were simple: They opted to take the reels and burn them in a ritual consecration of the site. Like Forrest Gump, they were making lemonade out of lemons. Well, it was more like a ceremonial biohazard concert of cheering do-gooders.

I wasn't the only listener bothered by this story. I do think, however, that I was one of the likely few to think about film preservation first.

Yes, let's burn our history, I thought. That's a really good idea.

Okay, so porn as history is a minority position. Certainly Behind the Green Door is not The Godfather. Or a Buster Keaton yarn. But certainly anything put to celluloid—in an era when it was either revolutionary or bold to do so—deserves saving. Think of Birth of A Nation. Certainly, it is hard to (and I certainly wouldn't) defend this piece of arcane racism, but had the church found a pristine copy of it, would they have set it ablaze, or would they have handed it over to film authorities instead?

And so here I am, defending classic porn.

Craig Schaefer introduces his treatise on exploitation cinema, "Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!", with a quote from Harry Martin: "So sinister, so subversive is this type of motion picture that organized producers of Hollywood have long since outlawed its manufacture entirely." Martin, Schaefer goes on to explain, was referring to a film his family was subjected to at a drive-in. This "slice of cinematic slime"? Smashing the Vice Trust, a film far removed from the category we have come to know as porn. The year? 1937.

And this is the point that has always confounded me: Each age thinks it faces horrors unbeknownst to the primitive world. Well, guess what. That's bullshit. Among the first photographs ever taken—in the age of daguerreotypes—were nude studies. In the brothels of the late nineteenth century, patrons would find books filled with suggestive photographs, catalogs of services provided.

Sex, despite our vanity, is nothing new.

Nor is the selling, photographing, or filming of it.

So here I find myself defending those poor, lewd reels. Here I find myself wondering what goodies were lost to the brash actions of the self-righteous. "Obviously," pastor Eldredge remarked to Melissa Block, "we knew the right thing to do would be to destroy it, and not let it ever be out on the market, so to speak." The good pastor's fear was that others might profit from, or be entertained by, something he and his congregation clearly felt was immoral and worthy of destruction.

I won't be so bold as to raise concerns about censorship, invoking Nazi book burning; rather, my concerns are more mundane. I simply wonder what the good pastor burned. Without doing any research whatsoever, I can guess that it was not the hard core porn that we have come to accept as the norm (in regards to porn, of course). These were no Jenna Jameson films. In all actuality, what the good pastor probably stumbled onto was either seventies mainstays like Deep Throat and The Devil In Miss Jones, or—the horror to film historians and theorists (surely there's someone besides me who is disturbed by this)—relatively tame exploitation classics.

Here's the thing, what happened here goes beyond a simple act of consecration, or a religiously motivated crusade. See, the history that many of us have forgotten is this: Most film venues—from the old neighborhood twin (that closed under multiplex pressure) to the weed infested drive-in—existed by showing a wide variety of films. What many modern film goers might be surprised to discover is that the viewing public of the fifties, sixties, and seventies had far better access to foreign films and bizarre tidbits than we presently do. While the internet has collapsed the space between, many of us will never be able to experience a foreign film on the big screen.

And yet, in 1953, the inhabitants of a small town in western North Carolina might very well have been able to catch a viewing of Strip-O-Rama, a burlesque film featuring a brief performance by pinup queen Bettie Page. Because these theaters needed to keep seats filled, they dipped into a large catalog of films. For a small price, a film house manager might be able to show foreign films in the day at reasonable cost and make a few bucks midday—before the big shows at night.

Interestingly enough, one of my mother's friends, when he was younger, used to run the projector at a drive-in. He remembers spooling out an exploitation staple: the sex-hygiene film. The theater managers were careful to apprise him of the ritual: Play the "Doctor" tape during intermission and be sure not to interrupt it because the audience might catch wind of the ruse. (1)

Getting back to the church ritual, I'll conjecture some more. The drive-in where the films were found is in Jacksonville, Florida. Jacksonville was definitely part of the exploitation circuit. Dave Friedman writes, in Youth In Babylon, of his role in the history of exploitation cinema and I recall that much of Friedman's productions were filmed in the great state of Florida. I don't have the book on hand at the moment, but I seem to recall that he criss-crossed the state for a decade (or more), making and selling his films.

Now, what little research I've done, nets that the films were 70s and 80s era, but… how do we know this for sure? The good pastor would likely have not taken the time to view all of the reels to determine their origin and worth, right? Would the good pastor have watched all of them?

I don't care to point fingers, but I am perplexed. The big issues at stake here are ones I won't address (What is porn? Why is it so bad? Why is it that representations of sex carry such baggage? What role does sex, and representations of sex, play in our modern condition?), but I did want to at least express my anxieties and thoughts. Surely burning anything is bad, right?

The Girl Who Made Good Being Bad

Back in 2001, I wrote, defended, and published my master's thesis. Bettie Page was my subject. And, to some extent, this posting has its seed in that writing. See, I discovered Bettie Page in Playboy (I am too young to have known her elsewhere), and I discovered exploitation cinema in graduate school. Dave Friedman's book (mentioned above) was a wonderful crash course in the genre that crossed carnival and celluloid. Ever since, I've been fascinated with the culture of bad.

Don't mistake me: "The culture of bad" is not that which is wrong, but simply that which is, well, bad. Anyone who has suffered through Blood Feast, or Color Me Blood Red will understand the difference. Bad cinema is just bad—bad acting, bad scripting, very poor production. All of these are qualities of exploitation cinema. The idea was not to create art, but to make money. And "exploitation" (for those uninitiated) refers not to the actors (or participants in the filming) but to the audience stupid enough to plunk down good money to see hours of crap. (Friedman's delight at raking in the dough of the duped, as recounted in Babylon, makes for infectious reading.)

Bettie Page's performances in burlesque films—like the above mentioned Strip-O-Rama—were simply horrible. In fact, these films are horrible, through and through. But despite their poor quality, I find them utterly fascinating. There's something magical about the ingenuity of trying to capture the raw variety of vaudeville and burlesque on film. Maybe, just maybe, if these films had employed better talent (better directors and writers, better production, etc.), they might have struck a deeper artistic chord. They didn't, but they might have.

And now we are living in world without the bawdiness burlesque, without the oddities of the carnival, or the virtuosity of vaudeville. True, burlesque shows are reappearing in urban centers of America, but do they compare? Or are they simply parroted parodies a la The Brady Bunch Movie? Good but forgettable fun.

I remember being surprised, when viewing Varietease (another pinnacle of burlesque cinema), that one of the most artful performances was a striptease performed by a transvestite. Schaefer writes about burlesque that this was not only a standard part of a burlesque show, but that these shows were often attended by married couples. Flash forward to the reactions we saw at the arrival of Brokeback Mountain, or the sad, horror of Boys Don't Cry, and I am flabbergasted by the thought that we've not made progress but rather backpedalled in our tolerance of deviant behavior.

All of this on the dawn of an election where conservativism is shopped out as the "old time religion."

Huh.

(1) - A classic "Sex Hygiene" exploitation experience (at a drive-in theater) involved being lured to the show with promises of lurid, adult material-- under the guise of sex education. The ruse would include either a hired "Doctor" who would "teach" and warn the crowd. Or, in many cases, the "Doctor" would simply be a recording. During intermission these tapes would play while hawkers circulated through the audience selling "sex manuals." The denouement of the film would usually be footage of a live birth. Like Disney World the exploitation experience was all about the merchandise.

"Florida Church Burns X-Rated Film Reels." All Things Considered. 20 Oct. 2008 NPR.org. {http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=95913049}

Schaefer, Eric. "Bold! Daring! Shocking! True!": A History Of Exploitation Films, 1919-1959. Durham: Duke Univ. Press, 1999.

A Boy And His Bass

2008-09-29T13:45:00.000-07:00

A MENAGERIE OF INSTRUMENTS

For the past couple years, I've had a not-so-secret longing. Like a guilty porn addict, I've been stealing glances at websites, lingering around the edges of eBay auctions, all the while knowing that I shouldn't.

I wanted a bass guitar.

In high school I was in a rock band (for more on that take a look at my last post), and I played bass guitar. When I went off to college, I stopped playing. For a time, I had my bass and rig in my apartment bedroom, and would occasionally plug up at low volumes and play with myself. But, as the last line implies, that wasn't enough, so I let it go.

I sold off my gear to my friend Brian (the rhythm guitarist for our band who switched to bass to play in a college punk trio), and that was the last of it.

Interestingly enough, in the intervening years (fifteen to be exact), I hadn't really longed to play again. Sure, I missed it, but I'd found lots of other things to occupy my time (mainly drinking). Then, a few years ago, I found myself on Musician's Friend dreaming about buying a really nice bass, one light-years better than my old fret-buzzing Washburn.

When I let my wife in on this re-ignited passion, I think she was at first amused. We talked about it, and out of that talk, I changed my mind. It went something like this:

Music is good.

Musical instruments are great to have.

Guitar players are sexy.

A bass guitar, while sexy when played in a band, isn't very practical.

Acoustic guitars are more practical because you don't need amps.

If I buy an acoustic guitar, I can learn to play that and be sexy.

So, my lusting after bass guitars turned to lusting after acoustic guitars. About a year and a half ago, I bought a beautiful (and beautifully priced) Takamine acoustic-electric guitar. My justification for the purchase was that it was the best of both worlds. If I got better, and needed to plug up, I could.

I went out to the Guitar Center in Greensboro and played a bunch of instruments—some clearly out of my price range, some clearly junk. I settled on the Takamine because it seduced me with its looks and electronics. It has a built-in tuner, which is nice since my ear is not perfect. It's good, mind you, but not perfect. (I can tell, "Hey, you're not in tune." But I have trouble dialing it in to perfection.)

And for about a week, I was sexy.

What I neglected to account for, though, that I couldn't really play. I knew three chords (G, C, E) and that was it. What I don't think I understood at the time was that learning to play (beyond Ramones songs), and learning to play complete songs, is hard and takes lots of practice.

See, I knew that. But I didn't let myself believe it because I wanted my toy. And, in my defense, I was a bass player. I certainly wasn't the best, but I wasn't bad. After playing in a band for several years, I'd acquired a knack for picking up songs and playing along with relative ease.

This is not the case with my acoustic. I'll say again, I've learned quite a bit in a year, but I'm still not above amateur farting around.

And amateur farting around is not that sexy.

Interestingly enough, the guitar didn't satisfy all that longing. I chalk that up to the fact that it takes real work and isn't just an easy toy. Cooking is good stress relief for me because I'm good at it, and it comes naturally. Music does not come as naturally...

It wasn't long before I was looking again.

This time?

Wait for it.

A Ukulele.

Yes, I started cruising eBay for ukuleles. I don't know why, but something about the instrument appealed to me. Maybe it was the ease it represented (only four strings!), or maybe it was the sound. Again, in my defense, it was mostly the sound. There's something very soothing about the tinkling, nylon-string sound of a ukulele.

So, for my birthday last year, I became convinced that I needed a ukulele. I bought one off of eBay. It was new and came with a little gig bag. I loved it immensely for many months. My wife even bought me a tuner for Christmas. I imagined myself sitting in my office at work, feet propped up on the desk, ukulele in hand, playing "Somewhere (Over The Rainbow)."

I still play it—and I was right, it is a bit easier to play—but like the guitar, mastering full length songs takes time and effort that I haven't invested.

And so…

I started looking at bass guitars again.

Then the wife and I went to Finland. My good friend Michael put me to work setting up band equipment for the reception. We did sound checks—wherein I got behind the drum kit and we played a few tunes. Then, at the reception proper, I "stole" the bride and ransomed her off for a performance of "Sweet Child O Mine." I jumped over on bass and Michael and I, several sheets to the wind, played what was the humorous highlight of the evening. I was congratulated by many a Fin that evening… and of course the wife saw me with bass in hand—and playing like I knew how—and I knew that a bass guitar would be in my not-too-distant-future.

But I'm a bad boy. Something else caught my eye in Finland. One of Michael's friends had a cajon—a plywood box with strings that sounds like a drum kit—and I became enamored of it.

See, I haven't mentioned the fact that I also have a drum set. Back in 1987, my parents—against their better judgment—bought me a drum set for my birthday (Ludwig Rockers that still sound good when dialed in). I've always loved playing drums—and like all musicians, fancy myself awesome on the skins. (Playing drums is the musical equivalent of kicking someone's ass. All men are quite convinced that they can kick everyone's ass, no matter size or agility. This is part of the guy code. Playing drums is the same. Every musician and/or wanna-be musician thinks he's John Bonham.)

But there's an impracticality to drumming that can't be avoided. They're too damn loud. So unless you've got a dedicated practice space where your neighbors won't call the cops, they are useless. My wife and I live in a townhouse. At one point, I had my kit set up in the garage, but since it's attached to my neighbor's garage, I never felt comfortable rocking out.

But a cajon… A cajon can be played inside the house with little fear of waking the neighbors.

So a couple months ago, I put my bass desires on hold yet again, and bought a cajon.

My wife was not happy. (Actually, she was okay with the cajon itself. It was the expensive case that pushed her over the edge!)

This lovely little toy came in handy when my friend Clark came over to jam. Several hours later, I felt invigorated by the joy of jamming. We banged out (the wife singing) a rockin' version of "Kokomo" and had a great time.

The next day my back was killing me. Hunched over on a wooden box for several hours is not good for a thirtysomething back. Actually, I was in pain for more than a week…

So here we are now. My birthday was little more than a week ago. And I wanted a bass guitar. Putting it off has only resulted in the acquiring of a menagerie of instruments. (In the back of my mind, I'm building a play room for our children, a place where they can explore music freely…)

For months now, I've been drooling over postings on eBay, drooling and hoping. Then it got worse: I started low-level bidding. You know that game, right? You bid and bid, driving prices up so someone else doesn't get a good deal-- all the while hoping that "oops!" you become the high bidder and accidentally win? Twice I did that-- and in the last minutes, I got out bid.

Well, the third time was the charm and I had to explain to the wife that I hadn't meant to, but...

THE DANGERS OF EBAY

On a Sunday night several weeks ago, my wife went to bed without me. She was too tired to stay up, and I had a loaf of bread baking in the oven. I tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and went back down stairs to wait for the bread.

Waiting for the bread just so happened to coincide with the end of an auction on a bass guitar.

Now, as I mentioned above, I'd been outbid before. And this time, as much as I wanted this particular bass, I was really hoping to be outbid again. It just wasn't the right time.

The bread finished baking, and I had about fifteen minutes to go on the auction.

Then it happened. I won.

The mixture of fear and excitement was enough to cause a spiral of events:

1. I couldn't sleep—and when I did finally fall asleep, I dreamed about bass guitars.

2. My anxiety at breaking the news to my wife spilled over into my day, and I was a nervous wreck all day.

3. Actually, that anxiety and guilt bubbled for an entire week—all heightened by the fact that my PayPal account was giving me a hard time.

4. By the time all was settled, my week was pretty much shot.

5. It just so happened that my birthday was at the end of that week.

Happy Birthday to me.

I'd gotten word on Wednesday that the bass had shipped. I didn't expect it to get here until Saturday or Monday. No big deal. The wife and I went over to my mom's Friday night for dinner and cake, and while we were there, my wife whispered to me that the bass had arrived (anything big and expensive gets shipped to her dad's shop so that the package doesn't disappear off our front stoop). I was all set to bolt ass out of my mom's to go get it.

I decided to be patient.

My wife made me blueberry pancakes for my birthday breakfast (hands down, the best part of the day!). We went out and did some shopping. All the while I was trying to be patient. I couldn't stop thinking about the bass. Oh, the bass. The bass that I'd never actually seen in person. I had no way of knowing yet if I'd gotten my money's worth. Finally, we went out to her dad's around 6:00 pm. At this point, I was freakin' bustin' at my seams.

We got over to her dad's and chatted for a bit. Then her dad went and got the package.

Now, at this point I wasn't planning on opening the package there. Because I wasn't sure if I'd gotten a lemon, I didn't want to have to smile pretty and look happy if it wasn't what I'd hoped for. But we talked a bit more. Remarked on the hack-job of packaging. I was getting impatient. Someone-- don't know who-- suggested opening it. So I thought, "All right."

My wife's father gets a knife and I start trying to open it. I didn't want to just jab into it-- didn't want to scratch anything. Anyway, I finally get the tape off and open up the bottom flaps (the guy I bought it from had "built" a box out of two separate boxes; I opened the body end first).

The first thing I see is a two-by-four.

A freakin' two-by-four with an orange spray-painted end. Then I see a little plastic guitar.

A couple boards and a plastic guitar.

I almost shat myself. As soon as I saw that two-by-four, I thought-- and said out loud-- "I've been had." I thought back to the last message the seller sent me. In it, he gave me a link to his MySpace page. I'd been there and saw an announcement that said something like "I'm off to Vegas!" I'd also checked on Friday to see if he had any other auctions going-- and he didn't. Nothing.

So there I was, on my birthday, staring at an eBay scam.

I didn't begin to suspect the truth until I looked up and saw that my wife's dad wasn't in the room.

He came back in carrying my bubble-wrapped bass with a sign hanging on it (which was actually the cut-out front of a gift-bag that read "You're a Rock Star!").

My father-in-law had opened up the package, slid out the bass and popped in the pieces of wood and the plastic toy guitar, then taped it back up. Later, he said he never would have tried it had the package not looked so slapped together-- he never would have been able to pass it off if it hadn't been so obviously "home packaged."

So I got two guitars last weekend. A bass and a little toy guitar. That puts me at four.

Man, I got punked.

An Instrumental Lesson

It was good, though. I can honestly say that I've never had that level of a prank pulled on me. The wife says this means that I am now truly part of the family. I have to admit, this is the kind of thing that my father would never have done. My father was not a gift giver or a prankster. He was the kind of guy who was funny as a result of his inherent goofiness. His laughter-- when genuine-- was amazing. I like to think I inherited that from him. Rearranging the lyrics of songs to reflect a base, scatological humor? That was my father's brand of humor. Planning and executing prank that push the boundaries of what is funny? That was not my father's style.

My father was a fan of Jon Belushi, not Andy Kaufman.

It was more than that, too. I grew up in a home where I got (pretty much) everything I ever wanted. All I had to do was justify my need (want). I got really good at doing that. Even now, I find myself devising and scheming (often subconsciously) to make what I want a reality. My justifications are like political rhetoric: Need front loaded on a network of ideas and contrivances susceptible to too much scrutiny—only that scrutiny usually comes after the fact, when the war has already started.

And so I'm a bad gift receiver. I admit that now. (I am sorry, dear.) I get what I want because I usually get things for myself (or engineer schemes of acquisition). I work hard to make it happen—regardless of the consequences. With my parents it became easy. Even now, my mother has trouble giving me gifts because of the precedents we've both set.

This makes it hard to surprise me (in giving, that is).

I'm going to have to get better at this. I don't want my kids to lose the value of gifting—both giving and receiving.

And that's what ultimately made me decide that I was thankful for the trick. I am ascribing a hint of O. Henry-ness to my father-in-law's ruse. He may not have meant to teach me a lesson (those are the best kind; surprised by knowledge), but I learned one.

There was true catharsis in that two-by-four.

I actually thought about walking over and hugging the man. I didn't, but I thought about it.

And now I'm done. I'm done with buying instruments (for awhile, at least).

Now I just need to engineer a scheme to get an amp…

Twenty-Five Albums For Twenty-Five Years #19

2008-09-26T12:58:00.000-07:00

This morning I was reading a combined review of Replacements re-releases, and decided it was time to return to my Twenty-Five Albums For Twenty-Five Years project. My last installment, #20, was posted almost a year ago. It’s high time for another. And this time, it’s the Replacements.

(For the back story: Twenty-Five Albums For Twenty-Five Years #25-23, #22, #21, #20)

19. Don’t Tell A Soul – The Replacements

As Mark Richardson mentions in his recent Pitchfork review, “For many, Don't Tell a Soul, with its slick production-- saxophones and violins were one thing, but synths?-- and generally muted tone spelled the end of the Replacements as we knew them.” This was not the case for me. Don’t Tell a Soul was my introduction to the Replacements.

Talent Show

It goes something like this. My brother played guitar. When he was in high school, he had band—he had the ripped up, bleached out jeans and Jon Bon Jovi perm. He had a purple guitar and a big ass guitar rig. His band, our last name, played a mixture of Rush-like prog and Ozzy-like metal. And for one shiny-but-embarrassing moment (for all of us), I was the lead singer. Somewhere at my mother’s house is a rapidly deteriorating VHS tape of our performance at the city fair’s Battle of the Bands. On this tape, you can hear a pre-pubescent me wailing away Ozzy (hitting the high notes but off-tempo), and slaughtering the lyrics to “Sweet Home Alabama.”

It’s safe to say we didn’t win.

Anyway, my brother graduated and went to college. He cut his hair and pretty much stopped playing.

Recognizing that my balls dropping and my inability to keep time would be the end of my singing career, I slid over to bass guitar and got a band of my own.

We had a complicated mythology which involved in-fighting and a change in line up. I was friends with (this is code for “in the Boy Scouts with”) our original drummer, and he was casual friends with two guys who played guitar (Brian and Michael). Somehow or other, we all wound up in my garage. From this meeting of minds, Fifth Wheel was born.

We had no clear vision and, aside from our lead guitarist (Michael), no real talent. Our furtive attempts to coalesce into some identifiable, cohesive sound were the epitome of lame. Basically, our practice sessions amounted to loud, cacophonous farting around. Attempts to cover hits of the day were met with little success.

Despite our lack of talent, our furtive attempts landed us in a similar situation to my earlier Battle of the Bands fiasco: We tried out for—and made it into—our high school’s talent show.

Our pièce de résistance? Guns ‘n Roses “Rocket Queen.” Instrumental, of course.

Shortly after we tried out and got on the slate, our drummer informed us that he would be out of town for the event. Faced with no drummer, we pulled in our friend Jeff (who is now a Naval flight officer) to cover on skins.

There’s video tape of our talent show performance, too—though I don’t know where it is.

It wasn’t long after that performance that we lost our first drummer to a difference of opinion. He thought he was awesome. We disagreed. He later went on to found a rival band (which we mocked incessantly), and Jeff came on as our official drummer. Surprisingly enough, with Jeff on the throne, we managed to find some direction, and our practice sessions netted some actual results, actual gigs. Those gigs reflected the general spotty-ness of our career—from our one real gig at a local music club, to an afternoon show at a day care (there’s video tape of this one, too).

We had an occasional singer who was older, cooler, and in college. Ron was not really invested in us. He had his own aspirations—and those included playing guitar. Our rhythm guitarist, Brian, later followed Ron out to Western, picked up bass and helped found the Western Carolina trio Minus Us.

All in all, Fifth Wheel was a grand experiment in teen angst. I’m proud (if also slightly embarrassed) of that band—and I’m also eternally thankful that we “came of age” musically at the same time that Nirvana and Pearl Jam were redefining music. There’s something poetic about a bunch of teenagers who couldn’t get laid banging out “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in a garage.

I also find it deeply fascinating that Paul Westerberg managed to write some of the most authentic (at least in my experience) lines in rock music (from Don’t Tell A Soul’s “Talent Show”): "It's the biggest thing in my life, I guess/ Look at us, we're nervous wrecks/ Hey, we go on next."

I did that.

Drivn’ n’ Cryin’

This little story of a bad high school rock band does more than illustrate a high point from Don’t Tell A Soul. See, Fifth Wheel’s music may not have been all that great, but the band was the center of my social world for those two or three years before I went off to college. Up until that point, I’d been a competitive swimmer and a Boy Scout. Both of those things fell into the background when I started playing bass. They were replaced with some of the strongest friendships I’ve ever had. I would even go so far as to suggest that my ability to maintain strong friendships now is a direct result of the bonding that happened in my garage.

Not only do I still keep in touch with my former band mates, but my wife and I flew to Finland this summer to take part in our lead guitarist’s wedding.

Anyway, my junior year in high school was marked both by being in a band and taking a television production class at the Weaver Center in Greensboro. Somehow, my friend Brian caught wind of the television production class and we managed to get enrolled in it. The result was that we carpooled out to Weaver at the end of each school day. Driving back and forth to Weaver with Brian, we talked mostly about girls, but we also listened to a lot of music. Since Brian was a year older than me, he fancied himself the worldlier in regards to music.

I should probably interject: I was fattened on Rush, Ozzy, and Styx. I had inherited my musical tastes from my parents and my older brother. This was all counter to the tastes of Michael and Brian, who were big fans of The Monkees and The Beatles, and only later branched out into harder stuff. We were all enamored with Guns ‘n Roses, of course, but there was always a sense that my tastes were bad because I’d taken part in the big hair metal extravagancies of the late eighties—a travesty along the lines of being a Reagan Republican in a Clinton jazz band.

I credit Brian for introducing me to Drivn’ n’ Cryin’ and The Replacements.

This is where Don’t Tell A Soul comes in. I don’t remember where he got it—though I suspect he heard “I’ll Be You” on WUAG, UNC-G’s radio station. All I remember is that he had a tape copy of the album and he played it for me on the way to Weaver one afternoon. I didn’t like it immediately, but I was forced to borrow the tape.

I mentioned that I was a swimmer. I was no Michael Phelps (clearly), but I was still practicing regularly. And when I got my license (and my brother’s car, since he was away at college), I started driving myself the half hour to and from practice. I did a lot of driving and a lot of (cryin’) listening.

Driving back and forth from Weaver, and from swim practice, I fell in love with Don’t Tell A Soul. Later, I discovered the whole Replacements back catalog (and even found that Please To Meet Me is my favorite Replacements album), but Don’t Tell A Soul stands at the front of my list of albums where my musical tastes began to change.

ROCK 'N' ROLL GHOST

Later, much later, Michael of Fifth Wheel and Finland fame sent me a copy of Nina Persson's A Camp. It's a great little album that's never been released (I think) in the states. Anyway, near the end of the collection is a cover of "Rock 'n' Roll Ghost." It's a slow, sultry version of the already slow, melancholic track from Don't Tell A Soul. I've always been wary of covers (as much as I love Luna, I'm not a big fan of their lackadaisical version of "Sweet Child O Mine"), but this one's spot on. And it reminded me of the highlights—of what I love most about Don't Tell A Soul.

As you can probably gather from what I've already written, I was a reforming head banger who's only "slow music" likes were power ballads a la "Mama, I’m Comin' Home." Don't Tell A Soul was like nothing I'd ever really liked before. That "generally muted tone" that Mark Richardson mentions in his review was new to me. And the more I listened, the more I liked it. I would argue that Don't Tell A Soul opened me up to later enjoy Luna and The Sundays. It also allowed me to look back on the eighties and admit that I actually liked (sonically speaking) the other side of the musical spectrum—the side that my staunch head-banger youth railed vehemently against. I could allow myself to enjoy "Safety Dance" and "Come On Eileen."

But it's more than that, I guess. Otherwise, I wouldn't have found myself so enthralled with the rest of the Replacements catalog. And I guess this is what really bears mentioning: Yes, Don't Tell A Soul was a departure (from my own tastes as much as the band's storied past), but it was steeped in what made the Replacements great even from day one: great songwriting.

Richardson notes this—that "the hearts of good songs" are "beating beneath the plastic exterior" of their production. And, despite the change in line up, the heart of the Replacements is still their—because Westerberg is still there.

Now, one need only look at Paul's solo career to see that the Replacements were certainly more than him—but his greatest gift is, and always was, a knack for great songwriting—both riff-writing and lyric writing. And despite the typically professed failings of Don't Tell A Soul, the songs are damn good. I'll admit that I, too, have real problems with "I Won't" and "Anywhere's Better Than Here," but all in all the good outweighs the bad.

I used to say that three people most influenced my sense of (and love for) language: George Carlin, Tom Waits, and Paul Westerberg. That list has grown since, but those three still stand there at the front. First came Carlin (for more about Carlin: The King Is Dead) and later came Waits. But in the middle, in those teen angst years when I was fumbling toward some sense of self as a social being and as a writer, I learned from Westerberg the art of humility in humor and pain, the art of dismantling a phrase not as Carlin had for laughs but for a deeper truth, the truth that caused cliché in the first place. Where Waits painted another picture—other warped and weary worlds built of hobos and cigarette smoke—Westerberg painted an existence that was very much like my own (except for the boozing and Midwest cold, of course).

PLEASE TO MEET ME

I'll add this last bit because I'm probably not going to have room for more than one Replacements album in my twenty-five. In the end, Don't Tell A Soul means more to my musical history than Please To Meet Me does—even if it isn't the better album.

And I guess I should explain that. Looking back at my other choices so far, there is a sense of sonic resonance, of completeness and cohesiveness. On a good album, a band's or artist's expression is summed up within the confines of the chosen songs, which collectively represent a theme, an idea or ideas closely matched. While Please To Meet Me is a solid album with few missteps, it doesn't gel like Don't Tell A Soul does. Hands down, "Can't Hardly Wait" and "Alex Chilton" are my favorite Replacements songs, but the landscape that starts with "Talent Show" and ends with "Darling One" is one more completely realized. Whether by intention or accident, Don't Tell A Soul represents a specific moment in musical time—both for me and for the music world—and as such, means more to me.

One last thing (a sad note): I bought my CD copy of Please To Meet Me used at B.B.'s Compact Discs in Greensboro. B.B.'s was a classic haunt of my high school years. Kids without much to do and little money, we would drive out to B.B.'s and listen to music. The great thing about B.B.'s was that you could listen to any CD in the store. All you had to do was wait for an open player.

I discovered a lot of new sounds in that store—though, sadly, I never really bought much there. (I do have a couple of Tom Waits Bootlegs that I got there—back when you could still get those kinds of things at certain record stores…)

Earlier this year, B.B.'s closed its doors. There's a possibility that it may open again (somewhere else in town and likely at a reduced size), but having seen all my favorite music stores drop like flies in the last decade, I'm not all that hopeful.

But back in 1993, I lucked upon a used copy of Please To Meet Me (I'd already worn my copy of a copy out at that point).

I still have the receipt for it.

Dirt In The Ground

2008-09-12T08:36:00.000-07:00

(I have not had time to finish part two of my previous blog. In the meantime, here's something else...)

I was a seventeen year old college freshman in 1992. I turned eighteen two months before the '92 election. At that time, I was, despite my protestations to the contrary, a typical college freshman. Yes, my parents embarrassed me. And yes, I was trying to be as unlike them as possible—except when it came to my political inclinations. For those, I trusted my father implicitly. My father was goofy as hell, but he was smart and paid attention to the world around him.

He was a fiscal conservative. He was one of the most liberal men I knew in his personal and spiritual ideologies, but when it came to money, he was a republican through and through.When good old Ross Perot came on the scene that year with his big money slant, my father (and by extension, my mother) was hooked. He was optimistic about the future, about the future of his money.I registered to vote as soon as I turned eighteen. I went down to the polls on Election Day and pulled those levers-- mostly at random, of course.

For the big ticket, I voted Perot.A funny thing happened later that night. As was usually the case, I had my dorm room door open. Music streamed through my hi-fi set-up (my Sony Discman running through the auxiliary input of an old Commodore 64 monitor that I was using as a television), and I was at my desk entrenched in a game of Mine Sweeper on my cobbled together computer, complete with amber screen monitor.

Then, I heard it. Shouting and whooping. I don't remember what this kid's name was, but I do remember that he was tall, had long dark hair, and was an asshole. The kind of guy that surely got a lot of action because he was semi-attractive and mean.

And there he was, stomping down the hall, yelling "Bush sucks! Clinton rules!"

Now, when I've recounted this story in the past, I've conflated my epiphanies. I usually tell people that in that moment, I realized that I had no business voting because it was little more than a football game to me—as it apparently was to those around me. I vowed never to vote again unless I was more prepared, more informed.

I came to those conclusions but not that night. That night I was simply struck by a simple revelation about the election: This is not a football game.

Later, I did begin to piece it all together. I didn't vote again until 2004. And even then, I will admit, I wasn't as informed as I should have been. I knew more than I did when I was eighteen, but only because I'd been listening to NPR (something my republican father loved and hated). I also knew that whatever I didn't know about John Kerry was balanced by what I did know about Bush.

All of this leads up to my current state of mind: Until now, I have never plastered any political stickers on my car. Until now, I'd never watched a political convention, nor listened to an entire speech given by any president, or presidential candidate.

My wife knew from the beginning that Obama was the right choice. For me, I wanted to play it safe. I wanted to make sure that I wasn't just voting like my wife. But I started to listen more attentively to Barack's words. My wife bought The Audacity of Hope and I read the first chapter (I keep meaning to read the rest of it) and thought, "Okay, this guy can write." I watched and listened. I paid more attention.

I watched Obama's acceptance speech. And you know what? You know why that whole Daily Show-Lion King bit is so funny?[1] Because it sums up how I felt, how I feel about Obama. Hope is a funny thing.

I remember being blown away by the openness of these lines, "These challenges are not all of government's making. But the failure to respond is a direct result of a broken politics in Washington and the failed policies of George W. Bush."[2]

It really was like Harry Potter saying "Voldermort." Obama named that which must not be named.

On that stage, Obama faced the darkness and confronted it.

And he didn't do it in a way that was mean-spirited, or sadly rote. What was so powerful about his speech was the fact that he faced the darkness and did not drag us down into fear as a result of it. In fact, I felt hopeful in that moment. That hope was reflected in his invocation of Dr. King: "'We cannot walk alone,' the preacher cried.' And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back.' America, we cannot turn back..."

This is optimistic realism. We're in a bad place. This is not all our fault, but we all have to work to fix it. Real work, hard work. But it can be done.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard about Sarah Palin the next morning. Pure pandering, pure (evil) genius. Imagine my horror listening to her speech. There was no hope in her words, only fear.[3] Only silly jokes and snide looks.

What's so bad about organizing communities?

And don't get me started about Giuliani. Here's the quote that made my ears bleed: "Because change is not a destination, just as hope is not a strategy." What does that even mean?!

Okay, so here it is: I am not passionate about politics and the world. I always just assumed that everything would work out fine around me and I could just go about my life without paying attention. That's the real moral of my little story. I'm too selfish (self-centered) to care that much about the fate of this nation.

Or at least I was.

This time around I do care. I have paid attention. And like some of my friends and colleagues, I too am being torn apart. I've been obsessed these past few weeks (after the elation of Obama's victory over Clinton, after the elation I felt from his speech was stomped on with arrogant ignorance by Sarah Palin, who delivered a speech she didn't even write)—obsessed with the possibility that we could be facing the biggest mistake this country has ever made. I hope and pray (and I don't pray much because I'm not sure exactly in what direction to pray) that the strategery clearly in-play at the moment will backfire. To some extent, it already has.

And so there it is.

I'll leave you with two quotes for those of us torn between optimism and pessimism:

"Hell's boiling over and heaven is full, / We're chained to the world and we've all got to pull."

- Tom Waits (from "Dirt In The Ground" on Bone Machine)

"This union may never be perfect, but generation after generation has shown that it can always be perfected."

- Barack Obama (from his "A More Perfect Union" speech)[4]

____

NOTES:

[1] The Daily Show put together a bio film of Obama that figured him as Simba from The Lion King. Watch it here: He Completes Us.
[2] For the full transcription of Obama's speech, go here: Barack Obama's Acceptance Speech.
[3] Palin's speech can be found here: Governor Palin at the RNC. To test my musings, simply count up the words in her speech that have negative connotations. How many times does she mention 'war,' 'fear,' etc?
[4] Full transcript of a brilliant speech: A More Perfect Union.

One more thing! Here is an excellent article about Barack Obama's economic ideology. Read it here: How Obama Reconciles Dueling Views on Economy.

Rite of Passage Subverted (Part One)

2008-07-30T09:29:00.000-07:00

Where It Began: Buffy Backstory

My next posting (after this one) will be a rumination on episode 46 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This episode, entitled "Helpless," comes from season three of Joss Whedon's magnum opus. The posting, "Rite of Passage Subverted: Buffy's Bout With 'Helpless'-ness," will discuss rites of passage, structuralism, and post-feminism in regards to a television show that altered the face of serialized television.

But, before we get to that, I thought I might offer some background. It occurs to me now, more than a year into "blogging," I have yet to write about a show that has occupied much of my time—watching, thinking, talking—in the last decade. I've been a big proponent of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer, both as fluff and high art, and while it has since become the subject of academic conferences here and abroad, I think there is still much to say about it.

First Things First

When I was first in college, some fifteen years ago, we had two movie theaters within walking distance of the campus. Both were "twins," a type of theater (a movie house with only two screens) that was already becoming extinct in the early nineties. In fact, the one where my roommate and I saw Buffy the Vampire Slayer, aptly named The Flick, went out of business about a year later. The last time my wife and I road tripped up to my alma mater, I was saddened but not entirely shocked to see that the other one, The Appalachian Twin, had closed its doors, too.

Both of these theaters showed second-run movies for the exorbitant price of 99 cents. I used to love calling The Appalachian Twin and listening to the recorded show times. At the end of every recording, the owner would say "All seats, all shows, 99 cent."

Anyway, for broke college students, these theaters were both a blessing and a curse. We were guaranteed cheap entertainment, but because the theaters were only twins, and because the movies were second-run and cheap, we didn't really have much quality to choose from. That was okay, of course, but it meant that I got to see some really good bad cinema. I remember bundling up, trekking out in blizzard like conditions (down and up through the valley that separated my dorm from the theater) to see Candyman. My floormates and I were the only ones in the theater. Our winter gear was strewn across the rows of seats like we were in front of a fire not a silver screen. I think the last movie I saw at The Flick was Hard Target. I also recall seeing both Mortal Kombat and Street Fighter at The Appalachian Twin.

To this day, I still shake my head and think, Poor Raul Julia.

All of this is to say that my roommate and I went into Buffy the Vampire Slayer with little or no expectations. We were not disappointed.

It's safe to say that we were not alone in our reactions to the film. Hell, the mastermind behind the script doesn't think any better of it. The Internet Movie Database mentions that "Joss Whedon was so frustrated by how much of his vision was being mishandled and how much of it was being rewritten that he eventually left the set during production and never came back."[1]

It's no wonder that I didn't actively seek out the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer until it was well into its second season. I'd heard the buzz, but I had trouble getting past that bad first impression.

All it took to change my mind, though, was one episode of the t.v. show.

I've since become a loyal subject of Whedon. In my office, I have a framed copy of the March 7, 2003 Entertainment Weekly cover that announced "Buffy Quits." On one of my bookcases, I have four alternate cover issues of Buffy Season Eight comics propped up against a shelf-full of Norton Anthologies. That same bookcase holds my copy—a Christmas present from my wife—of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Philosophy.

When my wife and I started dating, I tried—with little success—to be less overtly obsessed with the show (for fear I might scare her away). Surprisingly, though, I think she recognized in my passion a general proclivity to be passionate, and so she stuck with me.

Like Tom Waits, though, I knew I would have to spend some time selling her on the prospect of the show. (For more on the Tom Waits connection, take a gander at A Dream Realized: Tom Waits Live in Asheville.) Unlike Tom Waits, though, I figured Buffy would be a harder sell—especially since she had already formed a precursory opinion of the show. Like many, she had tried to watch the show in its first season and was less than impressed by its "monster of the week" format.

But, because she loves and trusts me, she was patient. It also helped that I didn't have cable at the time!

At first, I regaled her with my Buffy knowledge—endless quotes and observations. She then agreed to start at the beginning and watch all the episodes—with the caveat that we would stop if she couldn’t get into it. She almost didn't. If I remember correctly, she was ready to give up shortly before the end of the first season. It was with the last two episodes of season one that the show started to click for her—and by the end of the first episode of season two, she was hooked.

That first year of our relationship we watched all seven seasons of the show with a passion that almost matched our passion for each other. I don't think she will ever be a freak about the show like I am, but she certainly respects and loves it. The great thing about a great show is that you can come to love all its parts—even the ones that don't quite work. Buffy is certainly not a perfect show, but it still stands as one of the bravest, boldest shows ever aired on network television.

But why do I love it? You know, beyond just being good fun?

It's hard to say exactly. I could shop out the usual bits: Joss Whedon is a wonderfully witty writer with a knack for dialogue and blending the mundane with the deeply philosophical. But in the end, I can't help but think that a big part of why I love the show is that it was the right thing for the right time. I started watching the show before graduate school, but as I progressed through one of the darkest times in my life (dark and beautiful; graduate school was like an abusive boyfriend—wonderfully seductive and fun before the shit hit the fan), the show showed me things about life and myself that really resonated—and still do resonate.

Working on my master's thesis, I was deeply embroiled in feminism and representations of female sexuality. There was a nice juxtaposition between what I was writing about—Bettie Page and postwar sexuality—and what I was regularly watching. Bettie Page was a product of the feminine mystique; Buffy is a product of post-feminism. It might not be too much of a stretch to say that without Buffy my writing about Bettie may never have coalesced.

Later on, it was the DVD's. I spent some time living and working in Naples, Italy, but before I left the states, I had painstakingly videotaped every episode of the first five seasons off of FX. While I was in Naples, my mother would send new episodes to me. I was also in Italy when the first season was released on DVD. I ordered it from Amazon and began watching all over again.

Which brings me to my point: I was clearly already a big fan of the show, but Buffy was really the first television show that I was able to maintain a good relationship with well after it was off the air.[2] It was the first television show that I could mull over—through DVD's and DVD commentaries—without being left to the mercy of network schedules. Not only did watching the shows (again) on DVD help me pursue critical inquiry, but I was able to watch all the episodes unmolested. I remember watching "Something Blue" from season four on FX and thinking, "Wait a minute, there's something missing here." FX had cut pieces out of the episode to make it fit its timeslot and to jam in more commercials. With the DVD's I could watch the shows as they were intended—without those pesky, damn commercials!

I'll add one more thing about my love for the show: When I got back to the states, I started teaching part-time at the community college where I am presently employed. Because all colleges treat adjunct instructors with a certain amount of disdain (relying heavily on them but paying them as little as possible), I found myself sharing an office with a few other part time instructors. We had to share a computer that operated by a hand crank.

Anyway, it was in that office that I first met Gerald (from over at Virtual Bourgeois). Gerald and I spent more time talking about television, books and movies than we did actually working in that office.

I mention this because while I'd spent a fair amount of time discussing movies and books up until that point (graduate school was really one long conversation), I hadn't really spent all that much time discussing television. I don't know if that's true or not. Maybe it's more that the conversations I had with Gerald far surpassed any that I'd had prior to that time. We like the same stuff (mostly). And while I wouldn't say that we are like-minded—fearing that pat statement be mistaken for something akin to liking the same football team—we definitely understand each other's perspectives and agree on much.

My wife excepted, Gerald is my biggest sounding board (metaphorically and physically) for damn near everything.

I thank Buffy for that.

There Again…

The truth of the matter is that the love I have for Buffy is a misunderstood love. I can't tell you how many times I've found myself trying to jokingly explain away the magazine cover on my office wall. People don't get it. They ask me surface questions and mark me down as a geek, dork, or worse, perv.

That's the connecting line from the last bit to this bit: Until I met Gerald, I didn't have anyone to talk seriously with about the show. Until Gerald came along, I had to combat the jibes of the uninitiated.

It went something like this…

"You like Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Why?"

I give an intelligent, long-winded response.

"I know why you watch the show," the person responds, having not listened to a word I've said. "It's because you think Sarah Michelle Gellar is hot, right?"

Me, crestfallen.

You see, I was never in love with Buffy. I was never in love with the actress who played Buffy. I was not like Xander, harboring a love that was equal parts lust and God worship. And while I had a man-boy crush on Alyson Hannigan, I didn't watch the show just to ogle her. At least not after the first few episodes…

In fact, that's a conversation (probably one of the first) I've had with Gerald. Sarah Michelle Gellar has nothing to do with why we love Buffy. I will credit her with a great performance, but nothing else.

It's the show.

It's the whole production—from the creator, to the scripts, producers, actors, directors.

It's the love of a multi-faceted text that can be read from an entry-level of simple enjoyment right up to contemplation about life and death, of personal choices made in a cruel world, about the hero's journey, about not just good and evil but the nature of both, the joke of both, and the deeper truths that are so hard to find, keep, and protect.

"Uh huh. And the chicks are hot."

I'll end this portion with a funny story: A few months ago, tornadoes wound their way into the Guilford County area. We had weather the likes of which we hadn't seen in a good long while, if ever. All the local t.v. stations switched to coverage of the storm system. The wife and I sat on the couch watching for hours, truly anxious.

At one point, the storm(s) came really close to us. My mother, a ten minute drive across town, got hit pretty hard—golf ball hail covered the ground and power lines went down.

My wife jumped into action, getting things ready should we have to seek cover. She cleared out space in the closet under our first floor stairs—just enough room for the two of us and our two kitties. Then she started putting a few cherished items in the first floor bathroom.

What went into that bathroom? Irreplaceable things.

My wife went for her wedding dress.

I grabbed my copy of Buffy The Vampire Slayer – The Chosen Collection.

[1] Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Internet Movie Database. 28 May 2008. .
[2] The idea here is that while VHS had already allowed us to enjoy repeat viewing, television on DVD revolutionized the way we re-watched shows. To be able to watch a whole season without commercials (and sometimes with commentaries) freed freaks like me to digest and analyze in away that was just not possible (practical) prior to TV on DVD.

The King Is Dead: A Bit About George Carlin

2008-06-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

About twenty-five minutes into George Carlin's 1986 HBO special, Playin' With Your Head, the comic proclaims, "And why is it always the dead? What's this favoritism toward the dead? Fuck the dead." In the wake of Carlin's death, this quip seems an appropriate place to start. To tread the sentimental on this occasion would be oxymoronic, especially in light of Carlin's lifelong marriage to the irreverent.

But damn.

A Young Boy Learns His Dirty Words

I don't remember vividly. I only remember a fragment. I don't remember what I said, what prompted it, or any of a variety of solid, moment grounding details. All I remember is that when I was little—at some undetermined age—I said something inappropriate while visiting my grandparents in South Amboy, New Jersey. I was promptly hauled off to the bathroom in search of a bar of soap.

Yes, I've tasted the soap. And yes, it was due to dirty words.

This memory fragment is always accompanied by another, equally fuzzy, remembrance. I have an older brother and one day—it might be safe to assume it was in general vicinity to the other incident—he and his friend, Scotty, "taught" me a string of words and then sent me in search of my mother. Ever the dutiful younger sibling, I did as I was instructed. I found my mother in the kitchen and launched into a string of colorful language that prompted a very different response.

My mother laughed.

I consider these two incomplete remembrances to be touchstones in my life. I can't claim that these two events led me to a path of linguistic inquiry. It is never that simple. But I do think that my little sponge of a brain began to file these incongruities away for later use.

It is safe to say that my mother's reaction was typical for our house. My father was, like Ralphie's dad in A Christmas Story, an artist with profanity. I grew up with a(n) (un)healthy respect of these words, their use, and how context modified their meaning. Don't get me wrong, there were times when I heard things that made my ears burn, things no one, much less a young boy, should hear. But…

Laughter was no stranger in our house. My father loved Animal House and The Blues Brothers. I will never forget the sound of his laughter—in no small part because both my brother and I have inherited his penchant for deep, honest, loud laughter. My father's honest laughter, married with my mother's uncanny openness, made the development of my sense of humor as natural to my growth as learning to walk, speak, eat and shit.

Carlin Enters The Picture

Another incomplete memory bears repeating: I don't remember what year it was, only that I was an early teen. The family was trekking up to the lake. We got a copy of George Carlin's Carlin on Campus LP, and I painstakingly transferred it to cassette tape so we could listen to it in the car on the way up to the lake.

So, there we were: my father at the tiller, mom in the passenger seat, me and my brother in the back seat. All of us merrily listening to the "Incomplete List of Impolite Words," laughing ourselves to tears and snot.

Teenage boys, mom and pop, listening to tit and fart jokes.

That trip brought George Carlin into my life. I spent the next few years memorizing most of Carlin's albums—from What Am I Doing In New Jersey? to Playin' With Your Head. The family even got to see him live at the War Memorial Auditorium in Greensboro. My good friend Jeff Williams and I would trade cassettes on road trips with the Boy Scouts, later reciting the bits to each other to gales of knowing laughter.

Carlin was my gateway drug into real comedy.

He was also one of the biggest influences on my life—both personally and professionally.

From Road Trips and Cassettes to A Life of Language

As for the personal, Carlin is single-handedly responsible for more laughs than any one, any thing in my life. I would like to think that he not only instructed me in what is funny, but that all that laughter has added years onto my life!

As I mentioned in my Steve Martin post (Comedia Del Farte), I was fortunate to see Carlin live four times. I couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen the first time I saw him.

I really do wish I had taken better care of my memories…

As for the professional, I think my chosen path in life is due in no small part to Carlin. As a writer, and as a teacher of writing, the English language is my trade. I count Carlin top amongst those most influential in the foundation of my personal aesthetic. My writing, while not comedic in nature, is deeply influenced by Carlin's lifelong pursuit of semantic inconsistencies. Derrida may have founded the school of deconstruction, but Carlin was the first to put it to good—funny—use. And while that claim may be a bit preposterous, it is without a doubt true that Carlin's comedy opened the door to my own understanding of the fluid, often contradictory nature of human communication. I'm also convinced that Carlin provided me with a precursor to deconstruction as a tool of critical inquiry.

It's funny (to me at least), that I had been contemplating the nature of profanity, and the designation of "dirty words" long before I heard Carlin's most famous bit. In fact, it wasn't until I bought The Little David Years Box Set that I finally heard the bit. But it wasn't surprising. Carlin's other material had already introduced the ideas that led to the conclusion: "There are no bad words. Bad thoughts. Bad intentions. And words."

A few years ago, I mentioned to one of my colleagues that I've always wanted to play "Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television" in the classroom—to use it as a jumping off point for a conversation about language, audience and context. Lo and behold, this same colleague arranged to show Richard Pryor: Live In Concert to his film class, and invited me along for the discussion—where in, he played the bit so we could discuss it.

There is more to be said, discussed. But that's for future classes.

Maybe even a dissertation…

Eulogy Is Not A Dirty Word

Anyway, I point all of this out because I think Carlin's greatest contribution was not necessarily the laughs he evoked but the thoughts he provoked in regards to language. And while I will always be able to recite countless bits from his oeuvre, I will always be most thankful for how he brought me into the circle of the know—and showed me how to make my own observations and inquiries.

As a living human being, he will be missed.

His legacy of thought, however, will never be forgotten.

Mysteries Revisited (Part Two)

2008-05-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

Where Was I?

So part one of my post was all about the service, about the marriage ceremony. And I'll follow up with a few final observations:

As a writing teacher, I am constantly aware of my audience. I may not always heed or cater to my audience (clearly, my long blogs are not audience friendly), but I am always cognizant of all those people just beyond the edge of the stage.

When Mandy and I were planning our wedding, we tried to strike a balance between what we wanted and what our friends and family would enjoy, appreciate, etc. I mentioned in part one that we elicited some good hearty laughs during our service. That laughter was both an expression of communal understanding (a common release) and a nod to the audience.

We wanted the service to be meaningful to everyone. Whether or not this was the case, well… We can write to our audience with the best of intentions and they still may choose to watch American Idol instead.

I am confident, however, that for those involved, for those closest to us, we gave as good as we got.
I was/am still humbled by those who attended, participated. While we were planning, there were always questions, concerns, anxieties. We invite X amount of guests and we can expect X amount to actually attend. Will they? Will the church be big enough? Will there be enough food? Will they throw tomatoes at us? Will Benjamin Braddock try to stop the wedding? All these questions circled like vultures for months. Even after we got RSVP cards back, we still didn't know for sure that it would all come together and work.

There's that faith thing again.

In the end, everything went beautifully. The mood of our rehearsal was laid back and casual. We attribute much of the success of the service to our minister's ability to set the tone and follow through.

Our rehearsal dinner served as a close family gathering. And for all the little things that could have gone wrong, for all the little things that could have spiraled the entire event into chaos, we had people ready and willing to step in, assist and persist.

No one will ever, ever be able to say "It was her special day" about our wedding because it was our day. And that "our" stretches far beyond me and Mandy.

The church was packed but not uncomfortably so. The music was simple but affective. The service was meaningful. There were tears. There was laughter.

None of it would have worked had it not been for the love and support of our family and friends. My (our) gratitude will ever be renewed with each passing year's remembrance.
So, back to listening to that CD of the service. There's a good twenty minutes of piano before anything "happens." Our officiant chimes in with a "Greet the bride." Now, the recording was rudimentary. A kid from the church wired up the minister with a lavalier and all the audio comes from his neck. "Greet the bride," he announces. Mandy starts her trek down the aisle. And then, something I only vaguely recall happens. The minister leans over and says, "Pretty good looking."

He wasn't kidding.

Yeah. I'm glad we got that on the record.

It's Weddin' Food

For all my talk about ceremonies and spending more time, money, and energy planning everything but the ceremony, I love a good wedding reception. I come from the north where marriage is most often celebrated by stuffing stomachs past maximum capacity. A successful marriage for northerners is guaranteed by the amount of food you can get your revelers to ingest.

When we were planning, we agreed that a majority of our money would go toward two things: food and photographer. The photographer was important because we wanted to make sure that we would have a solid, artful record of the event. Since the day went by so quickly (the reception, in my mind, lasted fifteen minutes at the most), we wanted to make sure we had something to refer to, especially since so many people shared that day with us. I remember bouncing around so much for those fifteen minutes that I couldn't really see if anyone was actually enjoying the event. Looking back at those pictures now makes me all misty eyed. Money well spent.

The food, though, was paramount in making sure that we had a memorable and enjoyable reception. The wife and I love good food, and we sought out a caterer who would give us a variety of good eats. Interestingly enough, while Mandy had plates put before her on several occasions, she never really got to eat any of the food. I did…

In the end, we were happy with our decisions and the reception. The wife and I have been to several weddings in the last two years and, without sounding haughty or defensive, I can say that very few of them struck the balance that ours did. We've been to weddings that were more formal than ours. We've been to weddings where more money was clearly spent on "stuff." But…

Most of these weddings, in the end, didn't really make much sense. They were either driven too much by the bride or by the families of the couples. Or they lacked cohesion, a clear vision. Whether it was an out of place photographer, or a stretch Hummer, or more food than some countries have available for their entire populations, they didn't completely reflect the marriage of two people's desires and visions.

I hope they will all last. I hope that my overly critical eye is just that.

I hope I'm just being picky.

But…

I'll end with this (balance): Despite all of our best intentions, when Mandy asked a certain individual about the food at our reception, he responded, "It's weddin' food." This same individual was also a little disappointed that we didn't have any "Bud" to drink.

Fair enough.

Two Years And Counting…

So, two years in and I'm pretty damn happy. I couldn't ask for a better wife. I only wish we had more time to spend together—free of those pesky job responsibilities.

Yesterday, Mandy mentioned the whole "first two years are the hardest" tenet. If they are indeed the hardest, then I think we're in pretty good shape. I won't say that we haven't been tested (the glory and the mystery of life!). And I will note that I can see where couples might not make it past the two year mark. But we've made it through, we've persevered, and our love has not waned.

Again, I am reminded of the prescience of our ceremony, of these words in our "Prayer for the Couple":

We do not ask that they be kept from all sorrows and all trials; but we do ask that they may learn from these, and be stronger because of them.

Two years in and stronger than ever.

Happy anniversary to us indeed!

Mysteries Revisited: Marriage Two Years In (Part One)

2008-05-20T14:22:00.001-07:00

Back in March, I posted a lengthy rumination on marriage (Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Part Two). The impetus for that post was the hullabaloo around Eliot Spitzer's infidelity and the wave of anti-marriage sentiment that echoed in every facet of public discourse. I mentioned then, and remember now, that it bothered me that "marriage" as an institution was so easily denigrated. How, when every avenue threatens to lead us astray, am I supposed to remain true to the commitment I made to my darling wife?

Today is the second anniversary of my marriage.

And my answer to that question: Faith.

Where's the Mystery?

We had our wedding service recorded but, until today, I hadn't listened to it. I was there, after all. I know what was said! But listening to the service—that sacred moment when my wife and I made a commitment to each other before God, our family and friends—I was struck (again) by the prescience of it.

It brought me back to the planning, to sitting with the good reverend and taking time to decide what our service would be like. I am very thankful for that time—and for the fact that Mandy and I had such a good mentor who presented us with such good options.

Which brings me to something I've observed in the two years since: Not many people take the time to really plan the service portion of their weddings. True, they deliberate over colors and dresses, tuxedoes and wedding favors, food and beverages (to open bar or not to open bar). But when it comes to the actual service portion, many couples do the bare minimum. Or, rather, they defer to their officiants and are left with something that doesn't necessarily reflect the spirit of the couple and where that spirit intersects with the sacred.

We have to say these things before we can all go eat.

I vividly remember planning our service. Our officiant gave us a folder full of services he had performed in the past and asked us to read through them and decide how we wanted ours to go. He also stressed that these were simply guidelines. In the end, he would do (within reason) whatever we wanted. What we wound up with was a cut and paste job of his best bits.

Now, that may not sound very "sacred," but let me explain.

Don't mistake my dislike of most wedding ceremonies for a dislike of the traditional. There is a reason that tradition is part of this event. Sacred rituals invoke the ever-present; they tap into the constant that is human experience in the face of God. Rituals are performed to bring us into that moment that is neither the past, present, nor future. Sacred time sits outside profane time. As such, sacred rites must be observed, even if they are traditional—and a bit boring.

What I have issue with is what I perceive as a failing in other couples' services: Do they really understand/respect the ritual? Do they know why these things are said? Or are they just going through the motions?

This is my beef with all modern ritual. Ritual divorced of the sacred is empty observance. For my money, this is why we now have a man-child epidemic in this country: American men never come of age because they have no sacred rite of passage to manhood. There is a big difference between getting a driver's license and being circumcised at the age of ten without anesthetic while having salt thrown in your eyes.

American marriage ceremonies have lost their sense of the sacred and have, more or less, become ancillary to the reception. One need only look at the time of the ceremony (20 to 30 minutes) in relation to the typical reception (hours).

Okay. So, Mandy and I knew that our service would, more or less, follow the tradition. We wanted that. But we also wanted it to reflect us. It just so happened that some of those best bits I mentioned above hit the right chords for us. In fact, the wife and I had similar reactions to the pieces that we decided to use.

Paramount among them was a bit about mystery:

Mystery is the very nature of life itself: the mystery of creation, the mystery of life-sustaining forces, the mystery of growth, the mystery of order and disorder, the mystery of love. And yet we are called to live in the midst of mystery, to enter into the process of life, of growth, of creation, of love.

I remember reading this particular passage and thinking, "That's it. That's got to be in the service." As I listened to the recording of our service, I was again struck by the power of these statements. Our minister opened with this rumination on the mystery of life and love—and what an opener it was! Certainly, no marriage that begins with these ideas can ever be brought low by the mysteries that test our very nature and faith?!

Even now, I marvel at the truth in these words. Look at how the placement of the phrases puts "order and disorder" next to "the mystery of love." Love is the medium through which we mediate between order and chaos—without it, when order descends into disorder, the typical reaction is despair. Two years in, I can say that the forces of disorder, of chaos, have been ever present in our lives. Through our commitment to each other, love has kept us from the brink of despair.

We are called to live in the midst of mystery.

Thinking back over the last two years of my marriage, I must kneel before the truth of that statement and both rail against the mystery and be thankful for it!

So, in the end, the time and energy that Mandy and I put into our service was well worth it.

Promises, Promises

Okay, so anyone who attended our wedding likely remembers two things from the recitation of our personal promises:

Mine were really long.
Mandy promised to laugh at me.

Listening again, I'm glad to know that we were both able to provoke laughter from those in attendance. This speaks volumes about who we are as a couple.

I am also thankful for the fact that as time carries us away from that moment it feels no less present.

Listening to my darling wife recite her vows still conjures a wealth of happy tears.

Going back to that planning, I recall trying to trim down my vows. I knew they were long. I treated the writing of them like I treat writing poetry—whatever comes out in the process of consulting the muses is what I'm left with, be it short and sweet or long and complicated. When it comes to writing, I trust to my instincts and the process of revision. I took that famous Corinthians passage and ruminated on it through turns of phrasing.

The results were more than two pages long.

Over the course of several months I trimmed them down to something I could fit in my tuxedo jacket and still read without having to squint. I didn't have to listen to the service again to remember the moment when I flipped my page over and heard mumbles from the crowd. But it was my wedding and I was going to say what I wanted to say.

Both the wife and I intended—for our first anniversary—to have those vows framed. We haven't done that yet. Listening to them again reminds me that we need to have that done.

But…

My wife and I have, over the past two years, been to several weddings, and it's hard not to draw comparisons. Some chose to write personal promises; others stuck to the script. For many, that script was all that held the ceremony together and I've found myself wondering what these couples really think is the point behind it all.

Now, two years after my own vows were delivered, I don't have any doubt at all about the point of them.

Defending Chuck

2008-05-05T13:06:00.000-07:00

You're So Vain

Several weeks ago, my wife and I were watching television and she said,

"Wait a minute. Rewind that."

We have that fancy but outrageously expensive digital cable from Time Warner, so we can hit the rewind button on damn near everything.

I obliged.

We were watching The Big Bang Theory, a show that I initially didn't like. It's from the creator of another show that I initially didn't like, Two and a Half Men. I am, after all, an academic! Surely Two and a Half Men is a knock-off rehashing of low-ball comedy a la Married With Children and doesn't merit more than my disdain—especially since it stars Charlie Sheen!

It was almost by accident that I started watching Two and a Half Men. A few years back I read something about what the reality TV boom is doing to syndication. Faced with a glut of reality shows that really can be watched only once (if at all), what shows will be rerun in the space between 5:00pm and prime time? The joke was, as I recall, crap like Two and a Half Men.

So one night I watched. And I laughed. Typical, I said under my breath. But I laughed.

And then something interesting happened: I started watching the show regularly. At first, to my wife's dismay. But it wasn't long before she, too, became addicted.

My embarrassed love of the show turned to conviction: While the set-up is tried-and-true sitcom tom-foolery, it is smart tom-foolery. The jokes work because they play on classic comedic tropes, but there is definitely something more vibrating beneath the surface—an honesty one rarely finds in, well, tried-and-true-sitcom-tom-foolery.

Okay, rewind.

So, I rewound the episode and paused at the vanity card. Lo and behold, where most production companies place random life objects—pictures of pets, sonograms—or design esoteric inside jokes (Joss Whedon's Mutant Enemy springs to mind—Grr... Argh), there was a white card with lots of writing on it. Writing that would simply slip by unnoticed or unread unless someone took the time to record and/or stop the broadcast to read.

The one that my wife caught was #198. Interestingly enough, Lorre was apologizing, in his own special way (which is not apology so much as sardonic reprisal), for something he had written on the week's initial vanity card—a religious barb to which CBS took offense.

My wife promptly picked up the laptop and navigated her way to Lorre's website where anyone can access the two hundred plus vanity cards from all of Lorre's television shows, and where you can view the uncensored original #198.

Quickly perusing a random sample of them elicits two truths about Lorre: His intelligence manifests in sardonic wit; His natural inclination is toward bitterness. Both of these things are at the core of his writing—which speaks volumes for why his shows are so damn funny.

I did a little poking around and found "It Hurts To Laugh," an EW.com article by Lynette Rice. In it, Rice claims that Lorre is the "angriest man in television." She also notes EW's mostly-hate relationship with Lorre and his shows. Rice cites Gillian Flynn who claimed, in 2004, that Two and a Half Men "'ain't edgy' and has a 'nasty' take on the differences between men and women.'"

Lorre reluctantly talked to EW in 2006, saying "You're gonna get a lot of hate mail if you say you like this show…It's going to take a real act of courage to say this damn thing is funny.'' I would imagine Lorre wasn't surprised that Rice's article wound up civil and kind to him, but never went so far as to fully endorse Two and a Half Men. Even now, EW mentions the show's success with a wince: "Two And A Half Men continued its reign as the most watched sitcom on TV (sorry, The Office, No. 21, and 30 Rock, No. 44)."

But I guess that's to be expected. Didn't I start this whole thing with a certain amount of reluctance? And I like the show.

Back to the vanity card thing.

Lorre's been writing vanity cards long enough that his very first card reads, "Thank you for videotaping 'Dharma & Greg'." Oh yeah, people used to use VHS recorders to video tape television shows. Wow.

This is important, though, because it illustrates a fundamental facet of Lorre's character. He knew, going into this whole vanity card diatribe thing, that only a handful of people at the most would ever actually read the cards. Even now, with our new-fangled technology, a casual fan of the show might by-pass them altogether. Certainly, I had been watching the show for years (?) before taking the time to pause.

So what gives? Why would Lorre go through this much trouble?

I'm reminded of a scene from Stealing Beauty that I often pilfer for my writing classes. Liv Tyler soaks in a bathtub, a candle nearby, writing poetry on little scraps of paper. In melodramatic, Bertoluccian fashion—in a moment that could only exist in film—Tyler completes her verse and promptly sets it ablaze, burning the thought away almost as soon as it is formed.

This, I tell my students, is the beauty of writing. Sometimes performing the act itself is more important than what is actually written.

Anyway.

Lorre's initial vanity cards manifest as a cycle of beliefs that reflect his torment, a torment that I imagine springs from being an intelligent artist writing in a thankless medium. Television, despite the flashes of brilliance that appear from time to time, does not reward intelligence.

(In the background, I can here Joss Whedon and Tim Minear huff and grumble.)

But I might also argue that Two and a Half Men grew out of Lorre's vanity cards. That is, his ability to ruminate over his frustrations may have led him to write a show whose central conceit is frustration.[1]

Take a look at vanity card #109, the second to appear on Two and a Half Men. It reads like a mission statement.

And, for a show that is supposedly "low-brow," I find it gratifying that Lorre's primary assumption is "an intelligent audience." I'll refer back to my teaching: My number one mantra is "Know your audience." And while I spend much of my time trying to get my students to write to their audience(s), I also try to get them to dissect the assumptions made by authors of the texts they read.

What does the (any) writer want you to think?

All of this is to say that reading Lorre's proclamation ("We assume an intelligent audience") alters our very perception of his show. If we watch the show without knowing this (that we're supposed to think while watching), then we might assume that the intended audience is a pack of brain dead mutants fattened on tit and fart jokes. We are Frito in Idiocracy watching Ow! My Balls!

And certainly, Two and a Half Men appeals to such an audience.

But if the author of the text intends for his show a higher level of thinking, then it might do us good to turn our brains back on and look for more than fart jokes.

I can honestly say that there is more to this show than fart jokes. In fact, Two and a Half Men—like Seinfeld before it—is almost an anti-sitcom. Lorre works from within the sitcom formula to dismantle it and create something much more affective, more human.

It's funny that I should say that—that the show is human—given that vanity card #109 clearly states that the show will refuse to have any of the typical heart-string pulling moments we've come to expect in our sitcoms (Look at how Kelsey Grammer's Back to You has already—not a full season in yet—pulled some of these cheap punches).

But it is—more so because it does not tread on the kinds of set-ups we expect from sitcoms. Or rather, it starts with those but takes us to a much different place. The show is human because it remains true to its central conceit: Life is frustrating.

Wave of Humiliation

In Rice's article, when asked about American Idol, Lorre responds, ''Humiliating someone for being incompetent or untalented is not my idea of entertainment.'' This might seem a bit hypocritical since much of the "fun" in Jon Cryer's Alan Harper relies on his ineptitude. Think back to what I've already quoted: it ain't edgy; it's nasty.

Clearly we are meant to laugh at Alan's incompetence?

But that's misleading. Alan's continued humiliation is symptomatic of his inability to recognize that his problems originate from within: His world view does not match up with his reality. Alan believes in justice, love, and happiness. He continues to misstep as a result of this misalignment with the truth of the universe. Conversely, Charlie's reality is quite harmonious. That is, he recognizes the world for what it is, accepts it, and profits (mostly) from it. Charlie's humiliations are usually taken in stride—with a "sometimes you win; sometimes you lose" mentality. This is not to say that he is always happy, or that he isn't occasionally (repeatedly) punished. Rather, he accepts his fate and waits for the next good lay.

Both of these men represent opposing attitudes toward life: Seek to improve the world (idealism) or accept it for what it is (pragmatism). To be fair (or clearer), Alan's idealism is fostered in cynicism. But, his inability to find happiness is rooted in his idealist nature.

Or wait, what was it that Lorre says in vanity card #4?

Oh yeah, "I believe I'm growing skeptical of cynicism."

Where's the Beef?

The more I entrench myself in the show, the more I'm convinced that Flynn has it wrong: We are, at first, repulsed by the two leading men. One is a womanizing pig; the other is a mooch. But as dysfunctional as they are, they are nevertheless united in their love (though they would never admit it). Despite his protestations, and conventional (wrong) thinking, Charlie is clearly a "great" uncle to Jake. And though Alan is the world's biggest loser when it comes to women, he is a protective father. Jake will, of course, grow up to be as dysfunctional as his two male role models, but he will always be loved.

Charlie identifies with Jake because he is clearly a man-child with mommy issues. It should not come as a surprise that he most identifies with the children he encounters (they love his adolescent sense of humor; his "best" music is childish). What will come as a surprise is the notion that Charlie most identifies with children because he sees more in their innocence than lack of experience. The world of children is clearly better than the adult world. Charlie's decision to never grow up is one founded not necessarily in psychosis, but in choice. A simple, innocent life keeps the horrors of experience at bay.

Mind you, there is plenty evidence for psychosis…

I'll add, too, that Charlie's womanizing is not malicious. It is self-destructive but does not spring from misogyny. He doesn't have any respect for himself. Why should he treat women any differently? And he is often quick to point out that they get just as much out of his affairs as he does. True, there's no growth. But in the dystopia that is Malibu, how can one really grow?

And then there's Jake. He's not particularly bright, but he's an excellent gambler. And he is the epitome of the millennial. I won't dignify that last statement with clarification.

And let's face it: Angus T. Jones is a brilliant comedian.

The Elegant Universe

When I was explaining the charms of The Big Bang Theory to a colleague, she asked, "Why's it called 'The Big Bang Theory?'" I didn't have a good answer. I rattled something off about science and nerds. But of course, there's more to it than that. In fact, the title resonates with Lorre's penchant for doubling of meaning. Certainly, it is titled appropriately for its geek-derived humor. But the deeper meaning is this: The show's main conceit is sex—and how difficult it is to navigate the game of getting sex, love, and happiness. It is a theoretical treatise on man's pursuit of woman.

That's not all that deep (hence my continued use of parenthetical addendums), but it works for the show because theory and practice don't match up. Smart guys don't get hot chicks is the thesis of this show. Surely, the audience expects Leonard to eventually hook up with Penny. Sitcomdom dictates it. However, Lorre will likely resist this inevitability as long as he can. As well he should: If the two characters ever consummate, then a false "lesson" will be learned. Smart guys don't get hot chicks.

If smart guy gets hot chick, then the show will invalidate itself.

But here again, I think there's more to it than that. See, what I've noticed as the series continues (thankfully, we will get another season—because of the strike? hmm…) is that Penny is certainly not the dumb blonde that we were led to (or we presumed her to) be when the show started. Her acerbic wit and ability to shut Sheldon down is one of the highlights of the show. These two are the odd couple of the new millennium.

And there's something more there, too: The argument that Lorre's view of man/woman relationships "'ain't edgy'" but "'nasty'" might logically lead to the idea that Lorre's worldview is misogynistic.

But Penny. Penny is smart.

The title of Two and a Half Men also has double meaning, which should be obvious upon second look. It infers a question: We immediately assume that Jake is the "half" man, but is he really? Who is the "half" man? Cycle around the three and one can make a pretty good case for all of them. In fact, I would suggest that together they make two and a half men. In any given situation, they perform as whole or half.

I started down this path in an attempt to get to the humiliation thing. In the pilot episode of The Big Bang Theory, Leonard agrees to get some stuff from Penny's ex-boyfriend's apartment. The meat-head ex pantses Sheldon and Leonard. We see them walking up their sysiphusian stairs in tighty-whities. Certainly this is humiliation for audience gratification, no?

No. This is a "lesson" in social hierarchy. We laugh, but not at Sheldon and Leonard. We laugh at the situation. Actually, I take that back. We are laughing at Sheldon and Leonard. We laugh because they have tried to move out of their social station. This is naturalism through and through—which should come as no surprise since the show is ultimately about science, rationalism, humanism, and societal conventions. Social Darwinism.

The Jerusalem Duality

While Lorre might protest that there is no message, that no greater interpretation is expected of The Big Bang Theory, episode twelve is more than it first appears. In this particular episode, Sheldon is dethroned as grand-science-nerd-poobah by a fifteen year old North Korean. The episode spirals ever-downward as Sheldon tries to claim a different corner of the intellectual market (the title of the episode refers to his plan to recreate Jerusalem wholesale in the Mexican desert). But, in a brilliant turn, Dennis Kim, the North Korean prospect is "neutralized" by a fifteen year old blonde girl.

True to the overall tone of the show, this episode shows our geek heroes losing yet again, and as expected, order is eventually restored. The plot-premise is certainly not new. But I can't help but find an all too prescient allegory here. This episode is a biting dumb-show: It posits how the western world's fear of eastern dominance will be succinctly cut by the west's ability to destroy all that is promising in humanity through exploitation of base instincts. That Dennis Kim suffered to tunnel his way out of North Korea—only to be brought low by a blonde tart in hot pants says everything we need to know about the future of mankind.

And with that, I think I'm done.

SOURCES

Lorre, Chuck. "The Official Vanity Card Archives." Chuck Lorre Productions. 5 May 2008. <>.

Rice, Lynette. "It Hurts To Laugh." EW.com. 8 Dec. 2008. 5 May 2008 .

---. "The Ratings Report: 'Idol' rules (again)." Hollywood Insider Blog. 22 Apr. 2008. EW.com. 5 May 2008 .

[1] Rice's article discusses Lorre's frustrations in much greater detail—to the point that this statement is not really that accurate. My point, though, is that Lorre may very well be the kind of person who uses his writing as therapy. If his vanity cards serve as a release valve, then it might follow that this release allowed him to get to a point of creating a show that hits closer to home? Hmm…

All Hail The Aporia

2008-04-14T13:19:00.000-07:00

In The Beginning

Several months ago, after a lively panel discussion on postmodernism—a pet project of mine and my esteemed colleagues—I professed to my friend over at Virtual Bourgeois that "Poststructuralism saved my life."

"Actually," he replied. "You mean poststructuralism saves your life."

I thought of this exchange as I gleefully ingested Stanley Fish's most recent blog, "French Theory in America." Fish's comments, as usual, resonated with the doctrine I've espoused since first encountering Derrida in 1995. In fact, I found Dr. Fish's ruminations on deconstruction to reinforce (reaffirm) what I have been thinking for years—both in critical practice (peruse my back-catalog of posts and I think you'll see a lazy-not-dogmatic adherence to the topical tenets of deconstruction) and life (for my Facebook page, I noted quite slyly that I am "Occasionally Agnostic").

Okay, so I was a junior in college when I signed up for a Literary Criticism course. I wound up in a class that was populated almost entirely by graduate students. The course was by far the most challenging I have ever taken. Where I had been quite a slacker in most of my other courses, I buckled down in this one—determined that I would get it.

I did (or at least I think I did) get it. But I distinctly remember going to the final exam with a fever, convinced that I had made myself sick from working so hard. The course culminated in a major critical treatise on The Scarlet Letter, and I pulled a two day all-nighter to finish that paper. I remember taking a break to go see a movie at the cheapo theater half a block from my apartment. Something frivolous to reset my mind. It didn't work. I remember trying to sleep during those two days—I tried to trick my mind into thinking about anything else, preferably something dirty. But it never failed that, just as it was starting to work, Hester Prynne would slip back into my consciousness.

Far and away the hardest I've ever worked to get an A. I almost broke down in tears when I got my grades in the mail. When I went to see my professor the next semester, to pick up my graded paper, there was an awkward exchange—like a scene from an Edith Wharton novel. Decades past, lives devolved into disappointment. A brief, momentary flash of excitement in remembering a past interlude. Then a flood of embarrassment for such an open display of need. I don't think I ever actually talked to her again.

I should probably clarify: That was all me. I equate my theoretical "awakening" to some torrid affair, like Andrew McCarthy in Class. My life was never the same after that semester. And that is such a good, good thing. I discovered formalism, structuralism, new criticism, feminism, Marxism, and true critical inquiry. I went from being a little punk who liked to write silly poems, to an empathetic scholar with a clear agenda.

I recall brashly claiming to my professor, "I'm a feminist!"

She looked at me without blinking and replied, "You can't be a feminist because you're not a woman. You can be pro-feminist, but not a feminist."

I was embarrassed but not deterred. It should come as no surprise that my master's thesis is thick with feminism—in a good way.

But this piece is not about feminism. It's about poststructuralism.

As part of that class, I had to take on the challenge of presenting a "contemporary" theoretical approach to the rest of the class. I'm pretty sure that I rashly picked the hardest one of them all. In preparation, I launched into the "Poststructuralist theories" chapter of Raman Selden and Peter Widdowson's A Reader's Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory. It wasn't long before my head was swimming.

"Instead of viewing language as an impersonal system," I read, "[poststructuralists] regard it as always articulated with other systems and especially with subjective processes. This conception of language-in-use is summed up in the term 'discourse'."[1]

Looking up from the book suddenly, I noticed a little flutter at the edge of my vision, a slipping of light, a tick in perception, like the seams of reality were bulging and fraying—through the crack I could see to the other side just a little bit.

I wrestled with Barthes, Lacan and Kristeva. Then Derrida, de Man, and Foucault. O, it was a heady brew! But I pressed on because it was invigorating. I was determined to explain all this to my classmates. I had seen the face of God and I was so excited to show everyone else!

Okay, so this is a bit over-written (imagine that), but I did try hard to lead my classmates down that path. I won't say that none of them got it. But certainly their lives were not as affected as mine.

I guess that's to be expected.

Part of the problem of poststructuralism is what Stanley Fish addresses in his blog. Giving so much signifying power to language (read again the quote from Selden and Widdowson) means giving over control—and let's face it, most humans prefer to think they are masters of their own destinies, or that they are fated into existence by God. Both ways place a certain amount of agency and stability on existence that is located outside the individual. Poststructuralism strips away the machinery to expose the horrible mess we're in—ideologies improperly grafted onto theologies and scientific theories. All of everything couched in a communication system that is inherently flawed and constantly in flux.

It is no surprise that when the dress is lifted, most run away in fright!

But I will get to that part later.

For now, it's enough to say that I did not look into the face of poststructuralism and despair. Rather, I found something quite comforting: Words.

Words, Words, Words

After reading Dr. Fish's blog, Mina Demian questioned "Is there a level where deconstructionism could 'stop' and the knowledge gained or acquired could still be useful?"

My answer to this question—which I posed back when I first encountered poststructuralism—is Yes! And, well, No! As several other commentators mentioned, the point at which a "deconstruction" stops is a point of personal buy-in or short-sightedness. That is, what deconstruction theorists do is drill down to the points they wish to make and stop—and wait for someone else to come along and either refute or pick up the train of thought. The result is that unless the theorist or writer cleverly disguises his/her motives, any argument becomes self-defeating.

This is where that horrible "Think outside the box" phrase comes into play. Encouraging "outside of box thinking" necessarily implies that such a thing is possible. Implying that such a thing is possible supposes that thinking originates inside the box (because there has to be an "in" in order to go "out"). As such all thoughts originate inside the box—even those that are encouraged to form outside it.

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round.

So any and all theorists enter the circle at one point and leave at another. As such, stopping means leaving oneself open to the same scrutiny by which one began.

But at some point everyone has to stop.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I have to admit that I've gotten into that roundabout many a time myself (I'm in it right now…). I've followed the rabbit down the hole and gotten irrevocably stuck.

But, without sounding crass, isn't that the nature of existence? Aren't we finite beings playing with the infinite? We need to stop because we can't go on.

So, Mina, grab the magnifying lens and rush into the forest—run as fast as you can, and go go go until you've lost your pursuer. Then train that lens on something flammable, start the fire, and run back out. Hope no one ever figures out how you started the fire.

But clever metaphors aside, I am reminded of two things.

First is this quote from Kenneth Burke:

Imagine that you enter a parlor. You come late. When you arrive, others have long preceded you, and they are engaged in a heated discussion, a discussion too heated for them to pause and tell you exactly what it is about. In fact, the discussion had already begun long before any of them got there, so that no one present is qualified to retrace for you all the steps that had gone before. You listen for a while, until you decide that you have caught the tenor of the argument; then you put in your oar. Someone answers; you answer him; another comes to your defense; another aligns himself against you, to either the embarrassment or gratification of your opponent, depending upon the quality of your ally's assistance. However, the discussion is interminable. The hour grows late, you must depart. And you do depart, with the discussion still vigorously in progress.

We often intend so vigorously that we forget the point of the journey (a supposition that there is one, of course): the conversation (life). This is the story of humanity and we all play our parts, intentionally or unintentionally.

And so, when David L. Book chastises Dr. Fish, claiming that this is all "nothing but 'words, words, words,'' I have to gleefully shout: Exactly!

Ultimately, all of this is really just words, words, words. And that is exactly why it is all so damn important: Without communication, without discourse, we have nothing.

What deconstruction—what poststructuralism—does for us is draw into question the systems by which we communicate. It gives agency to the words and the unwieldy apparatus we attach to them.

We then deconstruct that apparatus to find the Emperor has no clothes!

Now, I’m not suggesting that deconstruction defeats all knowledge, science, and reason. Nor do I disagree with Dennis Boston (how clever) when he writes, "Words are not merely codes, using them is a behavior, and the behavior alters their meaning." The behavior that we exhibit, regardless of our native tongues, is—to greater and lesser degrees—contingent upon the language we use to explain and communicate that behavior.

The door swings both ways, so to speak.

One need only look at the differences between American English and British English to see this tableau in play. In fact, let's take the word "snog" and see how behavior alters its meaning.

In British English, "snog" means "kiss." This word is not used (much) in American English, and I would be so bold to suggest going up to a random stranger in middle America and suggest a little "snogging." The response to this word—its etymology still intact—would illustrate a variance in behavior dependent upon place and culture. Clearly behavior has the upper hand here.

But the word itself is not powerless divorced of its context. If you get slapped for suggesting a "snogging" in the woods, then the word has power even outside its original context. This draws attention to the intentionality of word choice. If I choose one word over another, it is likely because it better fits my message. In this instance, language shapes my message. I suggest a "snogging" instead of asking for a kiss. And, just as my snogging might show, my message is not dependent only on my behavior and my intentions. I might intend just to suggest a kiss behind a tree. My dear stranger might punch me in the crotch because he thinks I hope for more.

And so language does depend on behavior, but behavioral reactions are not static—just as language is not static. What we need to remember (and in our poststructural inquiry what we need to focus on) is that not all behavior and meaning is predestined (set in stone, reflected in a cave). And since language and action are not predestined, there's always room for interpretation and manipulation.

Even in the hardest of sciences a misplaced comma can cause a coma.

When Alan Belkin writes, "the whole idea that thought depends on language is just plain WRONG. Babies think, you can think in sounds (music) and in shapes and colors (visual art), and Steven Pinker’s latest book (The Stuff of Thought) makes a convincing case for thought as PRE-linguistic," he makes a good but misguided point. The question here is not that thought is POST-linguistic but that thoughts, divorced from communication systems (music and visual arts included), have no where to go until they are cast into a system. As such, something is always bound to get lost (in translation, har har) or misrepresented.

We are—despite our clearest thinking—left with the tools in our collective toolboxes.

What we gain from pursuit of poststructuralist thought is a determination to choose tools wisely. And hell, even delight in what we can create with them!

So (a long time coming) second is this comment to Dr. Fish from Carl Dietz:

“Enjoy” the wonderful dance floor we so eloquently call Language.

Stepping Off the Balcony

I have to remember that while poststructuralism saves my life, it is a punching bag for scientists and trenchant realists.[2] A trusted former professor of mine—a man who has spent much of his life both teaching and practicing critical theory—claims that much of what theorists do is "intellectual masturbation."

Let's face it, life saving is a far cry from dirty talk and masturbation, eh?

There is a deep division between the main disciplines of academia. This is nothing new. The insignificant arts lounge on one side, wine glasses in hand, and the important sciences work long fruitful hours in lab coats on the other. It should come as no surprise that the serious rationality that permeates math and science are, at least in regards to praise, the envy of good for nothing artists. We enjoy our wine but constantly strive to be taken seriously—to be patted on the back and told that we're just as important. Look how the social sciences clamor for validity by tacking a clean word (science) onto a dirty one (social)!

Good luck with that.

Stanley Fish more appropriately addresses the debates between these factions. However, his blog elicited a flood of rather peculiar comments like the one I've already quoted. Since I seem to side with Dr. Fish (I am not the Lorax; I do not speak for the Fish), I'd like to address some of the comments to his post for two reasons: the first doesn't really involve you (what was that about masturbation?); the second has to do with my profession. Because so many of the comments to Dr. Fish's blog show base line misunderstanding, I feel called to unpack his profligate prose in an attempt to save more lives than just my own!

Someone by the name "Duff," notes, "Alan Sokal invited those who think that the 'I' changes the reality of the 'it' to step off the balcony of his apartment on the 20th floor and see if gravity is a relative thing, a 'thing' affected by the consciousness of the thinker."

This is a typical response to the work of deconstructing. It is through lazy rhetoric that we can come to such lame jokes. Let's take a journey, shall we?

It is important to remember a key factor in what deconstruction is/does:

Language is the primary target or focus in deconstruction, not objective reality.

Let's look at that sentence again. What the theorist would say (in the guise of me, of course), is that "objective reality" is ultimately susceptible. The key word here is objective. Its use carries baggage, and this is where the theorist points and says, "Subjective language used to explain objective reality creates a paradox. There is no such thing as objective reality because there is no such thing as objective language."

Now, "Pip! Pip!" shouts "Duff" because he feels accosted. His whole methodology has just been shoveled off as subjective.

In his mind, the theorist has posited that rational science as we know it ceases to exist in a clever turn of phrase!

But that's because our dear "Duff" misinterprets the connection between the "words" and the "reality."

This is the formula that I image springs to "Duff"'s mind in response to my theorist's statements:

Objective Reality = Subjective Language + Reality

Because language is certainly not important, we can axe it:

Objective Reality = Subjective + Reality

And thus:

Objective Reality = Subjective Reality

Which finally becomes:

Reality = Subjective

Hard science as a means of determining reality is thrown into question.

Wait for it.

Uproar.

Or, to draw on Dr. Seuss again, everyone's dander is up!

But here's the thing: What the theorist is supposing is not the end of all reality and objectivity. That would necessitate relying on a logical fallacy. In fact, my formulas above are reasoned in fallacy.

Language is subjective. No one—even the 600 plus respondents to Dr. Fish's article—would disagree with that. As such, using language to codify scientific results leaves room for some interpretation. Let's call this "wiggle room."

That I would say "I do not think that I will die if I step off this balcony because I create my own reality," and then plummet to my death is just silly. It's like a Pollock joke for theorists.

No one—even the most obfuscating theorist—would take that bait. Why? Because this is not what these theorists are suggesting. Not even Stanley Fish, I think, would disagree: Deconstruction is not a means by which one determines his/her physical existence. It is not a religion that breeds reality bending fanaticism.

What is it then?

It's a critical apparatus that ultimately questions the space between the thing and the word. Fish writes, in regards to the French theorists agenda, "what was involved was less the rejection of the rationalist tradition than an interrogation of its key components."

Let me put it this way: The problem is our human tendency to extremes and lazy thinking. We tend to react to change (danger, bad news) by flipping to the other side. Or we take one idea and run it so thoroughly into the ground that we don't remember how we got to China. The rationalism of the Enlightenment begat a dogmatic addiction to rationality—which squeezed out any room to wiggle.

But there's always room to wiggle.

Here's what I mean by this. When I teach these things, I use two examples. The first is a melodramatic dropping of a book. I tell my students that what I'm not suggesting is that gravity doesn't exist.

I pick up a book and let it fall to the floor (loudly, I might add).

Language and social construction do not change this action. For effect, I usually give the book another good drop.

I then draw a tree on the board and ask them to identify the object. Because I'm not very good at drawing, it takes them a few minutes… but eventually they determine that what I've drawn is, in fact, a tree. To solidify this point, I write an equal sign next to my tree and then write the word "tree."

Now I discuss the nature of that tree—both in the conversational space where we all discuss our favorite trees to climb, etc., and the theoretical space. Here's where we talk Plato and Aristotle.

And then I erase the word "tree" and write a different one, like "car."

All of this is meant to set up the issue of words, meaning, and linguistic shifts. The tree is not a tree if we decide to call it a car. Silly as stepping off a balcony, I know, but the point is made—and, hopefully, taken.

Here's the point: Changing the moniker doesn't change the reality of the tree. If we all agree to call the tree a car, then we've effectively changed our reality (in regards to our communication system) without changing the actual thing (the object remains what it always was).

The language shifts and molds itself to purpose. It is the nature of language to do so. And that's a good thing because it allows our perceptions to adapt to our changing reality (or is it the other way around). Think about a child who sees a giant redwood tree for the first time. Has his reality not changed ever so slightly?

That we now blog instead of writing a letter to the editor does not mean that communication has been fundamentally altered—only that we now do this instead of this. This (blog) needed this (paper/letter) to get to this (communication). But the same basic needs have been satisfied regardless of what "this" is!

And yet… says the wily theorist… that's also the problem.

Let me give you another example. I love to cook and the wife and I recently bought a book called The Best Meat Recipes from the editors of Cook's Illustrated. In discussing pork, the book mentions the National Pork Board's decision in the 1980's to radically alter pork production. They worked to alter pig farming and make pork leaner. Nearly all pork consumed in the United States right now comes from pigs that are 75% leaner than they were prior to this shift in production techniques.

The book even mentions that people—like myself—who have only really eaten this leaner pork would find pork bred by older farming standards distasteful.

And I love ham.

Now, until I read this bit I had absolutely no idea that such a thing had occurred. I would venture to say that most of us had no idea. And, for my purposes here, most Americans under the age of 25 will have no idea.

Does this fundamentally change our existence? Well, clearly not, since had I not read it, I would be just fine. I would live out my days eating my trimmed down pork with glee.

But but but… in some small way it does reverberate, it does alter our existence. That is, something as fundamental as what we eat (those of us who eat pork, anyway) has been drastically altered without our knowledge.

What else, logic whispers, have we let slip past without our noticing?

I'm not trying to descend into conspiracy theory land, but the key here is that social construction does affect our perception of reality. What we argue about (here in this space between science and theory) is the extent to which reality is altered.

That is the nature of deconstruction.

Deconstruction picks apart language to shine a small light on the space between what we perceive and what is.

Because I am, after all, a trained literature scholar, I'll bring up Shakespeare and "ocular proof."

In A Midsummer Night's Dream, when Claudio is brought to spy on Hero, what he sees dictates his actions. He thinks he sees—and seeing is believing, remember—Hero getting it put to her by Balthasar. We the audience know this isn't the case, and all is revealed in the end (poor Hero!), but the point is made.

We trust our eyes too much.

And that's the ultimate aim of deconstruction: to question the apparatus (language, social convention) that holds our reality in place. It is not to suggest that gravity is just a perception. Rather, the deconstructionist questions how our perception of gravity affects the reality of it.

Or is it?

(That spiral of never ending erasure? Yep, here we go again…)

I'm going to defeat any good I may have done here by calling gravity into question. Or, at least, I am going to call the language in which it is couched into question.

I've shown the first part of Brian Greene's Nova special The Elegant Universe to my mythology classes in an effort to discuss creation myths. From this nicely constructed special, I draw my understanding of how the laws of gravity do not mesh with the laws of quantum mechanics. Each works, but they do not work when put together. Rather, they can't be put together.

The line I'm reminded of is "You can't have two separate everywheres," which is ultimately the problem of unifying the laws of quantum mechanics and the laws of gravity.

What's interesting here is that Brian Greene makes a point of saying that the laws of gravity suppose, in the "large scale," an "ordered" universe; quantum mechanics suppose, in the "small scale," a "strange and bizarre" universe ruled by probability and chaos.

Ultimately, these two sets of laws (science!) are set against each other. The terms of use to us are chaos and order. They are not my words, but Brian Greene's—a scientist's.

But but but… Did I mention that I have shown this segment to my mythology classes? Well, that's my point (the one I raise for debate in my classroom): Brian Greene's discussion of unification and string theory is science's recasting of creation myths using rational, scientific inquiry.[3]

Now, the end result, you may be thinking, is that the two are the same. That's the idea I present to my students: that string theory is a new (sexy) creation myth.

(Groans from the audience.)

But that's not exactly what I'm getting at here. Instead of drawing a debate about science and myth, let's look at the language. The language used is similar even if we can't agree that the concepts couched in the language are similar: God creates an ordered world out of chaos. The laws of gravity govern our ordered perception, while the laws of quantum mechanics govern chaos.

And so, what is questioned and dissected by the deconstructionist is not the science, but how the science is presented. In this case, in regards to The Elegant Universe, I am left to question—as theorist at play—whether or not the problem of unification is not one of language and not science. That is, have we written ourselves into a paradox because the language cannot—by its very nature—seek to contain infinite scientific reason in a finite way? Is it possible that the language cannot keep up with the science? Is it possible that forward momentum in science has pushed to the limits of language and, as such, left us without a way to explain how gravity and quantum mechanics operate together in our world view?

That's what deconstruction does. It questions the conversation about the subject, not the subject itself.

For that reason deconstruction is useless to scientists and trenchant realists.

Or is it?

(Here we go again…)

While scientists shake their heads in disdain, social theorists grapple with the fires and woes of human irrationality.

Social scientists and cultural theorists have the business of re-evaluating meaning in a meaningless world.

In our corner of the intellectual spectrum, deconstruction is deeply useful because it allows us to infinitely question our motives and actions. It keeps us guessing so that we don't sit still long enough to cause even more problems.

In the end, Dr. Fish's most prescient comment is this one:

All we lose (if we have been persuaded by the deconstructive critique, that is) is a certain rationalist faith that there will someday be a final word, a last description that takes the accurate measure of everything.

If this is the case, I think I will continue to find value in poststructuralism as a whole and deconstruction as a mode of inquiry. To borrow a phrase (again) from Kenneth Burke, I've decided to put in my oar.

Stop.

[1] p. 127. Selden and Widdowson. A Reader's Guide to Contemporary Literary Theory. 3rd ed. Univ. Press of Kentucky. 1993.
[2] I must always be mindful that blanket statements be endnoted if we're to do proper deconstruction. Not all scientists are trenchant realists. And not all trenchant realists care enough to mean theorists harm by suggesting we step off balconies!
[3] Yes, I know that string theory is not widely accepted.

Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Part Two

2008-03-26T13:04:00.001-07:00

Keeping the Faith: Marriage and Infidelity

I'm not ashamed to admit that Edward Norton's directorial debut, Keeping the Faith, is one of my favorite movies. This little diddy about a priest and a rabbi who fall in love with the same woman is just that: a sweet trifle about tolerance, friendship, and love.

Toward the end of the movie, father Brian Finn (Norton) goes to his elder, father Havel (a nice little cameo by Milos Foreman), for advice. Finn feels like he's betrayed god—that he should leave the priesthood because he fell in love with a woman. Foreman consoles him by saying, "I have been a priest for over 40 years, and I fell in love at least once every decade."

The point of this exchange is that priests make a higher commitment to God, but this commitment doesn't supplant their humanity. Turning away from a "normal" existence to face and serve god does not mean one (the self) ceases to exist. Rather, the challenge is to "keep the faith" in the face of temptation.

This scene is touching because it reinforces the idea that commitments are not immune from temptation but are, ultimately, worth adhering to (rejecting temptation) because they are lasting. What good is a commitment if it's not worth keeping?[1] To "fall in love at least once every decade" is momentary; to serve God is everlasting.

As a priest, father Finn gives up his right to fall in love, get married, and have sex with Jenna Elfman. He does this in order to serve God. This kind of sacrifice has meaning, has power. Why? Because God's love is deeply fulfilling, more so than the tenuous tremors of desire. True, love is not to be trifled with, but Finn has already committed himself to God—and so his love for Elfman's character is not (or would not be) true love. He has already given that to God.

Is marriage, then, not similar? In committing ourselves to our partners, do we not commit our true love to them? Anything that comes down the line after that is ultimately suspect, untrue.

The scene from Keeping the Faith further resonates because committing to a higher purpose is difficult. It requires a sacrifice—a self-sacrifice at that. I probably don't need to point out how most of us have issues with self-sacrifice…

But I will anyway: Bringing this down a few notches to the more mundane, I'll say that anyone who has made a New Year's resolution knows how hard it is to make a sacrifice. If it's so hard to commit to a new exercise schedule, or to stop eating pork, no wonder so many people have trouble remaining faithful in marriage!

Okay, so I just compared giving up pork for Lent to staying faithful to your spouse. I also implied that marriage requires a sacrifice. Some might take offense to that, but let me clarify: We make sacrifices when we choose to marry. Just as Father Finn gives up his right to follow through with his desires, those of us who are married sacrifice single life for the greater cause of a relationship. Most of these sacrifices, truth be told, might better be classified as simple trade-offs. In fact, many would prefer calling them "trade-offs" to sacrifices because "trade-off" makes marriage seem more like a business transaction. Like buying a car…

But in order for a real marriage to exist, a real sacrifice must occur. And it's the big one: self-sacrifice. Don’t get me wrong. Self-sacrifice doesn't negate remaining true to ourselves. We must (constantly) strive to maintain that balance.

So the tenor of my prose so far is riddled with "commitment" and "sacrifice." I even led this bit off by referencing a film about a priest and a rabbi…

What gives?

More than being bugged by the haphazard use of "whore" in lambasting Eliot Spitzer, I've been unnerved by the repercussions of his infidelity across marriage discourse. Since the incident, I have heard very, very little positive commentary regarding marriage and fidelity. Not only did we have the newly installed governor of New York shopping out his laundry list of infidelities, and the ex-governor of New Jersey letting us in on his ménage a trois, but NPR ran a few bits on how political sex scandals are nothing new, and I even caught part of an hour long radio show devoted to investigating the reasons behind public figures and their sexual foibles.

The most unsettling bit, though, came from Two Guys Named Chris on Rock 92. Deidre announced that of all her married friends, not a single couple had escaped the ravages of infidelity. Hearing this a 7:30 in the morning, after having climbed out of bed with my darling wife, I was horrified.

Is it really that hard to maintain fidelity in marriage?!

I spent the rest of that day mulling over the various marriages I've been privy to in my life… Suffice to say, the outlook was dim.

Why am I so shaken by all this? Well, I've been married for two years. I love my wife, and I recognize and accept—at my core—everything that I've pointed out above about sacrifice, commitment, faith and true love.

I've committed myself to my wife. I've made that sacrifice. She has, too.

But…

Will our marriage withstand the damaging cyclone of our treacherous, poisonous culture?

All signs point to "Yes."

But we certainly won't be able to find much refuge in the world around us…

Let me go back to these comments: "Self-sacrifice doesn't negate remaining true to ourselves. We must (constantly) strive to maintain that balance." It might be argued that social and political positions ravage relationships due to the stressors inherent in the jobs. The "self" in these positions is under constant barrage; having to maintain a public persona amidst the daily complications of any committed relationship must be daunting. Add to this the sheer logistics of public life: One would rarely, I imagine, have much "me time," or time for self-reflection/release.

But to counter this, I'm reminded of Joseph Campbell's discussion of the "tyrant-monster" in The Hero With A Thousand Faces:

The inflated ego of the tyrant is a curse to himself and his world—no matter how his affairs may seem to prosper. Self-terrorized, fear-haunted, alert at every hand to meet and battle back the anticipated aggressions of his environment, which are primarily the reflections of the uncontrollable impulses to acquisition within himself, the giant of self-achieved independence is the world's messenger of disaster, even though, in his mind, he may entertain himself with humane intentions.

Ultimately, Campbell points out, "the hero is the man of self-achieved submission."[2] Does this not sound like my earlier comments regarding self-sacrifice? Once committed to the higher cause (in my mind, I would rather call this a twinned spiritual transcendence/obeisance since our lives are a journey toward greater understanding and service), once set upon our hero quest, we must acknowledge/accept the loss of innocence—which here I will equate with accepting social responsibility in lieu of puerile pleasures.

I’m reminded, too, of a bit I saw on the news last night. An English professor (imagine that!) at Wake Forest University has just published a book about the value of unhappiness. Dr. Wilson's book, Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy, seems to come at a time when we might recoil in horror. After all, the world is falling apart around us! We need more more more happiness, not less!

But Wilson writes, "Everywhere I see advertisements offering even more happiness, happiness on land or by sea, in a car or under the stars. . . . It seems truly, perhaps more than ever before, an age of almost perfect contentment, a brave new world of persistent good fortune, joy without trouble, felicity with no penalty."

And that's the big lie.

Or at least the advertiser's dream: We huddle in scared masses after watching the nightly news and eat Papa John's pizza until we're sedated, or we lie in bed riddled with insomnia thinking about how we're going to face the next day, week, month—getting so frustrated that we eventually reach for the Ambien.

But it's all a carefully woven web of product placements. Actually, I take that back. It's a massive, unwieldy behemoth that threatens to suffocate us with paranoia! For the love of God, consume!

The end result is obvious: We don't know whether or not we're supposed to be happy, so we just amble through life hoping we get something right. Or we give up entirely and rely solely on the pleasure principle.

And that's how I'll cycle back to marriage and infidelity: The competing forces at work in all our lives threaten to dismantle our internal compasses. Right and wrong have been co-opted by multi-media conglomerates and Pizza Hut. Our free market capitalism moves ever closer to hegemonic monopoly. We can even buy church stickers for our cars, announcing to all passers-by that we're saved no matter what traffic laws we break.

And marriage? Let's face it, allowing gays to marry is the least of our worries in regards to maintaining sanctity in the institution. We've got voyeurism, exhibitionism, escort services, Internet porn, and a smorgasbord of pharmaceuticals to wrestle with.

In the end, we have ourselves to wrestle with.

And there you have it. Regardless of my whining and dithering, it all comes back to personal responsibility. Each of us decides. The only real roadblocks are ignorance and selfishness. If you're too stupid to break free (mentally/morally) from a dysfunctional, market-driven culture, then the odds are certainly not in your favor. If you are smart enough to recognize, "Hey wait a minute. Don't I have integrity?" and still choose transgression, well then. No need for me to continue.

I'll finish with a long quote from Joseph Campbell. Why? Because it all comes back to Campbell:

The unconscious sends all sorts of vapors, odd beings, terrors, and deluding images up into the mind—whether in dream, broad daylight, or insanity; for the human kingdom, beneath the floor of the comparatively neat little dwelling that we call our consciousness, goes down into unsuspected Aladdin caves. There not only jewels but also dangerous jinn abide: the inconvenient or resisted psychological powers that we have not thought or dared to integrate into our lives. And they may remain unsuspected, or, on the other hand, some chance word, the smell of a landscape, the taste of a cup of tea, or the glance of an eye may touch a magic spring, and then dangerous messengers begin to appear in the brain. These are dangerous because they threaten the fabric of the security into which we have built ourselves and our family. But they are fiendishly fascinating too, for they carry keys that open the whole realm of the desired and feared adventure of the discovery of the self. Destruction of the world that we have built and in which we live, and of ourselves within it; but then a wonderful reconstruction, of the bolder, cleaner, more spacious, and fully human life—that is the lure, the promise and terror, of these disturbing night visitants from the mythological realm that we carry within.

Okay. I can't end with that. Why? Because it seems that the bent of this entire blog is all toward sacrifice and blah blah blah. What about the fact that—hello—marriage isn't a bad thing!

All this stuff hinges on one key presupposition: That surely one cannot be happy in marriage. While we might not admit this so baldly, it is there (underneath the discarded clothes and bills). The idea is that somewhere down the road (a year from now, five, ten, thirty) being married to the same person just won't be fun (any more). And let's face it, that stuff I mentioned above about consumerism feeds on the notion that marriage is ultimately disappointing. We must have products in place to backfill our transgressions! "The wife will be upset about me going out with the boys, so I better buy her something shiny!"

I repeat: Is marriage so bad?!

I can say, from my own experiences, that the answer to that question is a resounding "NO!"

Why?!

Because the problems in my life and, conjointly, the problems in my wife's life, aren't inherent to or symptomatic of our relationship. "Happiness" is not the goal of life. Why should it be the goal of marriage? Think back to the points that Dr. Wilson makes in his book. Unhappiness and happiness are both essential to existence—married or otherwise.

As such, it is deeply problematic to blame marriage for something that is indicative of life in general! Frankly, after all this writing, I'm inclined to believe that it all boils down to this is: Marriage is an all too convenient scapegoat for unhappiness. It is not the cause, but it takes the blame.

I am not prepared to accept this blunder in regards to my own marriage. That may sound naïve, but what can I say, I love my wife. Happy or unhappy, that one fact will never change.

That felt good to say. Let me end with it: I love my wife.

[1] I'm reminded of America's "commitment" to Iraq. We presuppose that a commitment is made in good faith and is justified by all parties included. It logically follows that those parties would maintain the commitment in the face of conflict. However, navigating the unexpected complications (not all of which, in regards to my argument above, would classify as temptations) of any engagement/experience does not mean that the answer is "stay the course." Sometimes things change and even the best of commitments must adapt.

[2] Campbell also notes, "virtue is but the pedagogical prelude to the culminating insight, which goes beyond all pairs of opposites. Virtue quells the self-centered ego and makes the transpersonal centeredness possible; but when that has been achieved, what then of the pain or pleasure, vice or virtue, either of our own ego or of any other? Through all, the transcendent force is then perceived which lives in all, in all is wonderful, and is worthy, in all, of our profound obeisance." Clearly, there is a point at which our experiences may transcend traditional thinking. This is not, however, a reprieve or "get out of jail free" card for political officials. Rather, the self-centeredness inherent in being an official denotes less likelihood (potentially) of achieving a "culminating insight."

Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Addendum

2008-03-25T10:30:00.000-07:00

Before I post part two of this blog, I'd like to point out an interesting finding. After posting the first part, I decided to check my blog rating. Some months ago, my dear friend over at Virtual Bourgeois discovered a blog rating widget. Anyone can plug in a URL on Justsayhi.com's What's My Blog Rated? site and click Rate It! to run a simple word sampling test. What's My Blog Rated? then assigns a grade based on its database's evaluation of "bad" word frequency.

Virtual Bourgeois's rating? G.

Semeiotikos's rating? NC-17!

Now, I point this out because I was a bit shocked the first time I rated my site and discovered that it was/is so racy. It should not have been a surprise because I do tend to pepper my prose with profanity. After all, I consider myself a scholar of the English language—I even have a couple of degrees to justify that claim. And I've always been fascinated with the etymology of bad words and, well, bad culture. What can I say! I find the fringe more fascinating than the center…

But! Where does this widget providing site get its authority? Who determines which words are "bad"? It is safe to say that we might all agree that some word-offenders do merit attention.

However…

My rating was determined by these words (and yes, I repeat them with a huff of disdain!) and their frequency: 14 whores, 9 deaths, 6 shits, 5 hells, 3 farts, 2 shoots, and 1 pain.

Now, clearly from this breakdown, we can determine that the rating system hinges on the usual suspects (shit) and words relating or pertaining to violence (shoot). Makes sense.

But, does the occurrence of a word alone make it inappropriate?

Are there not appropriate uses for these words?

While I must profess my low moral character for farting so much, I can say that my use of words pertaining to violence and death is couched in discussing their complexities. My father's death, for instance, is a site of deep reflection and contemplation. I've referred to it on more than one occasion—and my analysis of Cormac McCarthy's The Road (Carry the Fire) trades heavily on issues that are universally human. I also have every intention of posting about the Coen brothers' dark, masterful take on McCarthy's No Country For Old Men. That posting will surely light up the rating monitor like a pinball machine!

Is such discussion off limits to anyone under 17? Hmm…

What got me here, now: All those "whores." Again I say, this should come as no surprise. I did mention that it is a "dirty little word." That was, after all, the point of my post.

But here's the thing: There are more instances of "pimp" in my previous post than there are "whore." 16 pimps (including "pimping"). Did the rating checker check for this word? No.

So, it is with some glee that I proclaim, "Aha! My point is proven yet again!"

Use of "pimp" = Okay (PG or, at the most, PG-13)

Use of "whore" = Bad (NC-17)

Hmm…

Thieves, Thieves, Tramps and Thieves: Part One

2008-03-24T13:37:00.000-07:00

Now that the Eliot Spitzer hullabaloo seems to have died down a bit, I want to talk about it. Frankly, the last few weeks have been damn near intolerable media-wise. And, frankly again, this is why I’m writing now: In spite of the media frenzy—pesky flies zig-zagging over steaming ordure—two things still rankle.

Let's take a look at the first one...

Hookers, Whores, and Roustabouts

Shame on you David Letterman.

I love this man. Of those guiding cultural forces in my life, I count him amongst the most influential. Though I would like to claim that I started watching Letterman earlier than I did, I have to admit that his switch to CBS was really the turning point—the point at which he became a staple in my nightly television diet. At one point, I cut out his charming mug (from the February 1993 cover of Rolling Stone) and taped it over the hole in my college apartment's bathroom door. Why? Because it was an appropriate place for that face, of course!

The interplay between his off-beat humor (canned hams raining from the sky) and his awkward-but-sharp and honest interviewing skills, mixed with the debacle of his NBC/CBS feud, really resonated with my growing sense of cynicism. My world view was nourished by Dave's television trials and tribulations.

Now I am a man.

Er, well, I should say that Dave's place in my life has receded. I've gone through long periods of not watching the Late Show. It was only after the wife and I sold our soles (har har) to Time Warner Cable and hooked up the DVR that we started taping Letterman (because we're too old to stay up past ten!). Months ago, I found myself refreshed by re-introducing Letterman to my television routine. With the aid of the DVR, I can even by-pass interviews that are less than stellar!

Anyway, when the Spitzer scandal broke, it broke hard on late night television. And since the Late Show tapes in New York, I should not have been surprised to find Dave's monologues and desk banter peppered with references to the scandal. Suffice to say, it got old pretty quickly.

Then it turned on me: Dave unabashedly tossed out those terms—"whore" and "hooker." Each time he used either term, I found myself inwardly cringing. To be fair to Dave, he's gained a certain level of tenure and has the right to say and do as he pleases. In fact, part of what I love about the man is his fearlessness (most brilliantly tipped with his "Oh no! We're Gonna Get Sued!" bit).

But the verve with which he ennunciated those words…

In the end, I don't know if it was Dave's rampant use that led to my hyper-sensitivity, but I found myself continually jarred by others' use (overuse) of those two words.

Why?

Part of it. No, I take that back. All of it has to do with my pro-feminist moral compass. It falls in line with that other pack of words we don't say for fear they will turn back the civil rights movement. While reclamation seeks to make lemonade out of lemons, I just don't think it works.

Words have power. And despite our efforts, that power is not something we can harness or dilute. While we can, through knowledge, experience, acceptance and forgiveness, adapt and amend our personal senses of words, we cannot do the same for the collective social consciousness.

It's like our computers. When we delete files, they disappear from our consciousness. But those files don't wholly disappear. Sure, a computer may at some point completely erase the deleted file if it needs the space, but there's no guarantee of that. In fact, as our computers come closer and closer to becoming infinite in their capacity, we risk ever truly removing information.

So it's still there. Those negative connotations of words still exist—to greater and lesser degrees—and, despite our best efforts we cannot eradicate them without smashing our collective (cultural/historical) hard drive.

This is the problem with words that we've tried to reclaim.

But this is not the problem with hookers and whores.

Why? Because unlike those reclaimed words, no one that I am aware of has tried to reclaim "hooker" or "whore." True, we see "whore" in certain contexts that seek to be positive (or at least the word is used consciously to identify a personality trait), but even these instances carry baggage: the derivation of the term supposes a sale of something. Even in an instance of the term's conscious application to entrepreneurial behavior there is an implied unscrupulousness.

Let's look at this interesting di(con)vergence.

Dictionary.com's first result (Random House Unabridged) for "whore" notes, "a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, usually for money." While we are not likely to disagree with this definition, I must point to the inclusion of "promiscuous" in the definition. Had this term not been included, we might be inclined to write off "whore" simply as an occupation like any other!

Discovering this meaning push, I jumped over to Merriam-Webster Online and found this: " a woman who engages in sexual acts for money." This definition leaves out "promiscuous," which might satisfy my hypothesis above, but adjacent to this first defining phrase is the synonym "prostitute." Merriam-Webster's "prostitute" has no refuge, as she is "a promiscuous or immoral woman." In this instance, this definition, we don't even have room for a midnight cowboy!

Now, I should probably point out that definition number two re-genders whore ("a man who engages in sexual acts for money"), but the damage is already done. I'll add that M-W's third definition removes economics and gender from the equation, noting that a whore is simply "a venal or unscrupulous person."

Even if we were to invert the definitions, as colloquial practice some hundred years hence may do, the evidence of the word's origins would still be present. And just as I borrowed unscrupulously from these dictionary providers, future wordsmiths might easily steal a backward glance…

But I'll say it again: The damage is already done.

My concern here is with the gender issue. Mind you, I'm not taking up the age-old argument (go read/see George Bernard Shaw's Mrs. Warren's Profession for that debate). Rather, I'm circling around issues of proper usage and reclamation: If we are to divorce "whore" from negative connotations, then we have to be cognizant of how those connotations are gendered and seek to remove those connotations.

We're not doing this. I have two examples: Hustle & Flow and Pimp My Ride. Both of these cultural artifacts seek to elevate and exonerate the "pimp." Terrence Howard's performance in Hustle & Flow is deeply affecting. While we are not likely to befriend his ho-hustler-turned-rhyme-hustler, we can absolve him (or we are asked to by the writer and director). Can we say the same for the women he pimps? True, we see the softer side of pimping, but…

Pimp My Ride isn't in the same aesthetic ballpark as Hustle & Flow, but in regards to exploring the word "pimp" and its place in the American lexicon, it is worth pointing out the connection. Pimping has gained enough vernacular momentum to be accepted on television. Pimp is not one of the seven words you can't say on television. And while MTV is a cable television station, it pervades the American cultural spectrum.

My next point should come as no surprise: A watered-down version of "pimping" has become socially acceptable (even Oscar-worthy), but "pimping" is inherently gender-biased. What logically follows is the notion that pimping is acceptable because it is masculine. Heirarchically speaking, then, this is thinly-veiled sublimation of the feminine. The pimp is a man. The whore answers to the pimp.*

But let's face "whore" is still a nasty little word.

All of this to say: It's one thing to deride Eliot Spitzer. It's another thing to call a whore a whore. Spitzer deserves the derision. He clearly should have known better. The prostitutes in this case are also not blameless. But what is ultimately problematic, is trading jokes on terms that infer gender bias. As an elected public official, Spitzer has shown more than just poor judgement. By patronizing a prostitution ring, he not only chose to fund the "world's oldest profession" but helped reinforce traditional gender roles that treat women as objects for purchase.

That bugs me.

* The supposition "pimp controls whore = man controls woman" does not leave much room for madams. I concede that my comments are based on 21^st century conceptions of the pimp/whore relationship. Arguably, this is not an issue: The late 20^th - early 21^st century attitude that begot Pimp My Ride is founded upon the gendered heirarchy I've noted above. A hold-over, maybe, from exploitation films?

Brothers Without Arms

2008-03-19T12:42:00.000-07:00

First, let me say this is the third blog I've attempted to write in the past three weeks. Hopefully, I will be able to complete this one—which, in turn, should motivate me to finish the others…

Family

Let's get a quote to start things off. Since I am feeling displaced at the moment, I did what I tell my students not to do: I went to Google, typed in "quotes family" and hit the first page that popped up. Three quotes down, I found this one:

"The family is a haven in a heartless world." The suspect site suspiciously notes "Attributed to Christopher Lasch." Okay then.

Without sounding too dour, I'm currently of the mind that this is the root of (or at least a contributor to) all our worldly woes:

Family is no longer a haven in an increasingly spiteful world.

This revelation comes on the heals of a voice message from my mother. She called to inform me of finally hearing from my truant brother.

Without getting into the details (because, frankly, the details simply obscure the root cause; they are not the illness but simply compounded symptoms), I'll just say that my brother a) is deeply, emotionally, scarred (the poet in me turns to tragedy and cries fatal flaw!) and b) has not come to terms with my father's death. These two facts have led him on an errant quest which threatens to tear apart our close-knit, haven-like immediate family.

In short, my brother—without the oedipal overtones and creepy uncle-turned-stepfather—is Hamlet. His actions are misguided by a spectre he puts more trust in than the concreteness of accepted loss. He chooses to react rashly without seeing the cause of his madness—trusting instead the passion of his grief in lieu of the passion he so erroneously stamped out of himself long ago.

Having been the voice of reason for most of his life, I have chosen to be silent in hopes that some greater force (not that of a poison'd sword, mind you!) shakes some goddamn sense into him.

But let me go back to that "haven" thing again. Frankly, I don't buy it. Without resorting to an ignorant sweep of hand, I am prone to believe that the American family has never been a haven. Having first been cobbled together by misfits, castaways, and opportunists, then bound together by some sense of nationalism born of proud necessity, and finally stamped with the hollow hope of manifest destiny, the American family is exactly what we should have always seen it as—hopelessly dysfunctional. It's no wonder greedy opportunists have hoodwinked us into a comatose clan fattened on fast food and clobbered into pharmaceutical and multimedia addiction.

In this late hour, we cast our hopes to bring "it" back—whatever "it" might be. We long for the strength of family. But the very nature of the American Dream denies us the respite of our former haven. How can we seek out our destinies, establish ourselves on the frontier, without sacrificing the thing that grounds and keeps us true?

We can't.

Within the larger context of the world, I am inclined to remove that modifier "American" and say that all families are, at their cores, dysfunctional. Mind you, I'm playing fast and loose with "dysfunctional" because the horrors of this world are perpetrated by the confines of social norms. We need them to establish order, but they chafe like an over-starched shirt, or an itchy underwear tag.

Family, then, becomes just that: An improperly sewn label. The more we seek to de(re)fine it, the harder it is to maintain.

But, at the very least, we should be able to maintain our own family's integrity? Our family is worth something, isn't it? So why do we allow our "selves" to resist the outstretched arms of our kith and kin?

Okay, settle down. My wife and I talked about this recently (we talk about family a lot), and I've come to the conclusion that she has more faith than I do. And, frankly, she has a right to her faith. Or should I say it comes from a true place. After all, despite my family's faltering, we've been re-establishing her family. To this point, then, we have been establishing our family. There's hope in there somewhere. I love that about her.

Brotherly Love

Let's go back to that horrid quotes page. I couldn't find anything I liked (or felt was particularly enlightening), but this will do. Besides, it's Twain so it's worth repeating!

"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years." – Mark Twain

This is not applicable to me or my brother. That is, my brother and I were united in our love for my father. There was a time (those seven years Twain mentions) when he was embarrassing as hell, but it was good-natured embarrassment. We accepted it, even relished it at times—as I am quite sure my father did. But there was never a loss of respect between us.

My father was a great man. Flawed, but great.

And see, that's where the trouble lies. Going back to Twain's comment, my brother always idolized my father. The tragedy was that for the better part of my brother's childhood, my father wasn't around much. When he was, he wasn't particularly loving and open. Both my brother and I understand that better now. The weight of work presses harder on a father than most sons are able to understand. We've both long since forgiven him for that.

But there's another running thread in our family that goes something like this: I was my father's favorite; my brother was my mother's favorite. My brother also thought, on his own, that they both loved me more than they did him.

I now know that the truth was, as my father got older, and settled down a bit himself, he recognized that it was important to be around more, to play a much more active part in our daily lives. Unfortunately for my brother, this happened a little too late. What my brother saw was a doting on me that he had not received.

There's also the bit about birth order. As the oldest, my brother has always assumed that he was a child of trial and error, where as I had the benefit of experienced parents.

I'll admit that there may be some truth in that. Except that, in some respects, I became the more independent sibling. As we got older, I became the more grounded, socially stable one (har har). There were times we played roles like a married couple. I was the wife who took care of him, and he was the free-to-be-an-idiot bread-winner.

But all of this makes some simple sense. What doesn't work, though, is the idolatry. As I got older, I began to see the fractures and age-worn lines in my parents' existence. It was still the best relationship I had encountered, but it was far from perfect.

I, as have ages before me, began to see my parents as people.

My brother has never made that realization. As such, my father has become an absent god to him. He pays his fealty through a misguided mimicry. The bottom line is that my brother both unconsciously and consciously has been trying to live his life like my father lived his.

This shouldn't be so shocking since this is the way of things, right? I mean, "A man knows when he is growing old because he begins to look like his father," says Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And here again, my brother and I do not differ all that much. I am sometimes shocked when my father's habits and mannerisms present themselves in my actions. Hell, this damn blog is probably akin to something he would have written many, many moons ago!

But it seems my brother is dead-set to repeat and not learn from my father's mistakes. Why? Is this some desperate attempt to further garner his attention, his approval?

Well, yes.

What was that about Hamlet and Oedipus again?!

Tying the disparate points of this post together, I'm inclined to think that the root of my brother's problems is that he suffers from the converse of the oedipal complex. I will, in my cultural-critic-not-psychologist way, admit that there is something to be said about the tensions inherent in child-parent relationships, especially in regards to competing for attention.

Where the classic complex is guided by a patricidal impulse mixed with mother love, my brother subconsciously battled a matricidal impulse while harboring father love. In my brother's mind, he was competing with my mother for his father's attention. I was there, too, but it was my mother he was in true competition with (since I was an afterthought). Where my mother was simply trying to play out her part in the traditional cycle of things, my brother rebelled into a state of self-consciousness and self-hatred. His matricidal impulse has manifested in subconscious woman-hating and conscious escapism.

With my father's death, my mother's presence is an affront and her presence is intolerable. He, of course, blames her for his death and she is a constant reminder of his absence. This smacks of the Electra complex. Only, his desire manifests in escaping not killing.

This is, of course, speculation which he would deny (and maybe rightly so). But it makes sense to me, at least as I try to understand his motives. The problem is that somewhere along the line my brother never made it to the next stage. The tell-tale signs are in his dogmatic insistence on denying, or at the least delaying, love and happiness.

Interestingly enough, I think this is part of the mimicry again: My father spent his entire life delaying his own satisfaction in order to privilege ours. Because my father was never able to truly realize his own happiness, my brother feels he must deny himself the same.

Wow. Okay, there's a lot of swirling around up there.

Let's try to salvage something here. I love my brother despite his faults. And I do believe (hope) that some catharsis will occur (or be sprung upon him!). Because all that stuff about matricide, blame, mimicking, dysfunction is really just that—stuff. I am sure that my father did not die an unhappy man. Did he go gently into that good night? Certainly not! But there was some peace. He did, after all, love us. And while he may have denied himself happiness and rest, he did take pride and comfort in the fruits of his labor.

His family was the most important thing to him and none of us can deny that.

So, in the end, I have to recant. We've lost our way a bit, mostly because our grieving at the loss of a mighty patriarch has not yet run its course.

But I have faith (there's that again, too) that all will be well and that our haven will be restored.

Roadkill

2008-02-07T11:35:00.000-08:00

I.

The year after my father died was pretty rough. Rougher than I thought it would be. After the initial implausibility wore off, things returned to general sense of normalcy—except for occasional, unexpected emotional meltdowns. My mother was fond of saying “I have good days and bad days.” As time went on, she had more good than bad days—but there was no way she could predict when one of those bad days would hit. Anything could trigger it—from simply waking up in the morning, to a bit of phrasing, a smell, or a picture. After the trigger, there was no telling how long the period of, well, mourning would last. She would just have to ride those moments out.

For me, it was less debilitating. I would tell myself this was because he was my father, not my husband. I hadn’t spent all my time with him—not in the way she had. She knew him as a person, as a mate. To me, he was just my father. To her, he was something much more. As a married man now, I get that. Big time.

When I taught mythology in the classroom, I would rationalize it as part of my hero’s journey: I was bound to lose my father and take his place in the cycle. This is the natural order of things.

But I was not immune to suffering. I was not apathetic.

One morning, my wife and I were on our way to work when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught site of a car in front of me as it clipped a kitten. I watched in dazed disbelief as this tiny patch of white and gray fur tumbled away into the median. My first thought was not one I was necessarily proud of: I’d hoped that my wife hadn’t seen the same thing I’d seen. She’s not as callous as I am. I could brush it off and pretend it had only been a piece of trash kicked up by the speed of spinning tires.

This was not the case.

What ensued might very well have been one of the most intense exchanges in our short time together. She pleaded, with growing intensity and passion, to turn around and go back. Her hope was that we could have done something—that we could have saved the kitten.

As I’m sure you might guess, my thoughts continued to be less empathetic: I insisted that nothing could be done. I even tried to pass it off as not having happened.

I did not turn around.

My wife was inconsolable. She cried and pleaded with me.

Why didn't I turn around?

I was, well, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was. I only know that the pleading of my wife was causing me tremendous anxiety and chest pains. I couldn’t get a handle on my breathing. If I remember correctly, I repeated several times “You have to stop.”

By this point, we were more than halfway to work. In my confused state of mind, I got off at an exit about ten minutes from work. It was the exit for my wife's father’s business. Not sure what I was doing, I pulled into the parking lot in front of her father’s shop and lost it.

I mean all of it. I don’t remember what I said. I said lots of things—amidst the gurgle of salty tears and spit. Exactly what I said, I can’t remember, but the general tone of my rambling was “There was nothing we could have done.”

There was nothing we could have done.

I must have scared my wife because the next thing I remembered was sitting in the passenger seat.

She drove us back home.

II.

I guess it was about a year and a half later, I was traveling on that same stretch of road—not quite to the point where that first incident happened—alone. By this point, my wife and I were no longer working at the same place and I was making the commute by myself.

A similar incident occurred. This time, I saw more than I had the first time.

Up ahead, I saw a dog meandering in the median. He was sniffing and moving at a pretty good but erratic clip. At one point, he darted toward the road but cut back. In front of me was a red VW Beetle, the driver of which I had already surmised oblivious. Sure enough, the dog made a run for it and what I saw was deeply disturbing. Beetle’s have a surprisingly high profile and while I couldn’t see the initial impact, I did watch (I didn’t look away) as the poor beast got caught in the undercarriage and was pulled for longer than I would imagine even the dimmest driver would manage.

When the driver finally did stop, the dog climbed frantically to his feet, bolted across the next lane of traffic (nearly getting hit again), and spun up the hill in front of a clean new office complex. I say spun because he was clearly injured and disoriented. The dog traveled in an ever-spiraling motion—like a Yeatsian gyre.

This time I at least made an effort to right the wrong. I didn’t turn around, but I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. They patched me through to Animal Rescue and I was assured someone was on his/her way.

Animal Rescue was better equipped to handle the situation than I would be, right? I imagined trying to wrestle a deeply injured dog—possibly hostile—into my little Civic and driving in search of respite.

III.

In my life, I’ve only ever—as far as I am aware—been the perpetrator of two acts of animal/car violence. My badge of shame: a turtle. A new driver at sixteen, I was barreling down the highway in my father’s big white Chevy Silverado when I spotted something in the road. I hit it shortly after I concluded it was a turtle. It would not have moved had I swerved, but I did not swerve. Since then, I’ve saved at least five turtles from potential flattening (myself almost flattened in the process).

The other incident was a bird. In this case, it was simply unavoidable. It dive-bombed my windshield and, well, I’m not sure what happened after that.

IV.

Ever since the incident with the kitten, I’ve been paying more attention to the frequency of roadkill. I’ve always been amazed at the sheer volume of it. I consider myself to be an active, attentive driver (except for that one moment of hesitation at sixteen). How is it that so many people cannot see the animals that cross their paths? Possum and deer. Those make a bit more sense. At night, on the highway, a random deer collision can be very unpredictable, especially since deer are very quick.

But hitting a dog or cat in broad daylight? Had the driver of that Beetle not seen what I had?

Then there’s the allusion, the follow-up questions.

Have I been seeing more dead animals lately?
Are there more now because of suburban sprawl, new highways, and diminishing resources?
Are drivers less attentive because of cell phones?

And the thought that keeps popping into my head every time I spot another carcass:

Are we all just roadkill?

Senseless violence. Inattentiveness. Apathy. More, more, more of everything.

I might ruin the implied purpose of my earlier prose, but my father’s death was not purposed.

There was nothing we could have done. Caught it sooner? Tried harder? We spent those months leading up to his death much like voyeurs of a horrible accident. We wanted to blame the doctors, the environment, corporate America, even ourselves. We wanted to stop time and pull him from the car before the crash.

Clearly, nothing could be done.

In a sense, the senselessness is easier to deal with when couched in clever analogies, allusions and metaphors. Mufasa holding Simba up to the cheering mass of jungle animals is heartwarming, refreshing because of its truth. The circle of life and all that jazz. I get that. Sitting here, with the comfort of my prose, I can write connecting lines from innocent beasts caught in car grills to the most tragic event of my life and be okay with it all.

But sometimes I have bad days.

They’re mostly good, though. I’m thankful for that.

Comedia Del Farte: Reflections on Born Standing Up

2008-01-17T18:19:00.001-08:00

I don't remember what year it was, only that I was an early teen. For a short stretch of years my family was regularly engaged in the operations of a church in my hometown and, despite my father's deep distrust of organized religion, we found ourselves trekking up to "Presbyterian Point" at the lake. We would spend a handful of days boating and swimming—and even, gasp, sitting around the fire singing "Kumbaya."

The year in question, we got a copy of George Carlin's Carlin on Campus LP, and I painstakingly transferred it to cassette tape so we could listen to it in the car on the way up to the lake.

Wait a minute. I also distinctly remember bringing my copy of Def Leppard's Hysteria. That means we're talking 1987-88.

So, there we were—my father at the tiller, mom in the passenger seat, fluctuating between yelling at my father for driving too fast and nodding off, me and my brother in the back seat.

Carlin brought us all together. We merrily listened to the "Incomplete List of Impolite Words" and laughed our asses off. Need I remind you that this was a family moment? Teenage boys, mom and pop, listening to tit and fart jokes. My family was not typical.

Or so I thought.

The Entertainment Weekly review for Steve Martin's Born Standing Up intrigued me and, in a post-holiday shopping trip—to Best Buy of all places—I picked up a copy. I just finished it (it's an unassuming, slender volume) and I'm really glad I had a chance to read it.

Where these two thoughts intersect: Martin opens the third chapter of his book with a comment about his family traveling back and forth between Los Angeles and Texas. "On these road trips," Martin writes, "I was introduced to comedy." True, Steve Martin's family listening to Amos and Andy is a far cry from my family listening to George Carlin, but there's a chord of deep resonance here. While my family was far from perfect, we all knew how to laugh. And while my father had little use for television or movies, when he got a hold of something he truly thought funny, his laughter could wake the neighbors.

It's no coincidence, then, that my brother and I can, with our inappropriate laughter, ruin movies for strangers. I'll add that I have also had the great fortune to find like-minded compatriots who are also artists of laughter. I still feel bad for the poor people who had to watch There's Something About Mary with me and my brother. Or the poor rednecks who sat in front of me and my friend Michael for Happy Gilmore. They kept turning around with looks that might make Don Rickles pause. Or even those in the theatre when, after three hours of special effects overload, the (arguably) most emotional scene of Peter Jackson's King Kong was defused by my friend Dana's roaring laughter.

Reading Martin's book reminded me that one of my first loves—as a burgeoning beast of a boy—was comedy. That trip brought George Carlin into my life. I spent the next few years memorizing most of Carlin's albums—from What Am I Doing In New Jersey? to Playin' With Your Head. The family even got to see him live at the War Memorial Auditorium in Greensboro (I've seen him live four times). My good friend Jeff Williams and I would trade cassettes on road trips with the Boy Scouts, later reciting the bits to each other to gales of knowing laughter.

Carlin was my gateway drug into real comedy. I have to admit, though, that I was a product of the eighties and wasn't entirely industrious or thorough in my pursuit of new, old, or relevant comedians. Like all guys my age, I laughed my ass off to Eddie Murphy's Delirious and Raw. And I have fond memories of gathering around the telly for Monty Python marathons. (I am most disappointed in my inability to mimic a British accent.)

And I can't forget SNL. My heart still aches for the loss of Phil Hartman.

But I also must admit to laughing at Gallagher and Tim Allen. Even now, too, I must shamefully confess that I know of Lenny Bruce but haven't ever actually listened to Bruce. And while my mother liked Cosby, and tolerated Murphy, she did not like Richard Pryor—and refused to let us watch or listen to him. Must have had something to do with all those references to mothers…

There again, reading Martin's book reminds me of how little I know about the history of stand-up, of performance comedy—of the influences of my influences. Such is the way of things I guess. My obsession with Carlin left little room for history lessons. I may rectify that now…

---

What I really appreciate about Born Standing Up is the honesty with which Martin recounts his decades worth of struggling (and his self-consciously cursory, anti-climactic description of his "success"; he mentions Sisyphus at one point, and that one mention colors everything before and after it—it's all about the journey and the process, not the end result). In that struggling is an acceptance of his short-comings. He does not consider himself a genius. He admits to being simply a man with a passion for comedy and performance, and a determination to do something original.

I mention all of this because I find doubt and self-consciousness my constant career companions. I know what I should be doing. I know what it should take. But it's not that easy—and there's a hollowness to the notion of "overnight success." What Martin's book reminds me of is the "work" in artwork.

That word is a pisser. Work. Martin clearly worked to attain his success. And what his book makes clear is that his work didn't necessarily pay off in the traditional sense. There is a tenuousness to his success. At any moment, he could have either given up, or missed the boat.

What it ultimately boils down: Persistence and passion. Or is it passion and persistence?

In the book, Martin talks about the countless ultimatums he gave himself, most notably his decision to quit if he didn't "make it" before his thirties. He did eventually get his break (or what he allowed himself to believe was his break). That moment, that "big break," was just enough to allow himself to continue. That break, though, wasn't exactly a breakthrough. It was simply a mile marker—one that signaled he'd gone past the halfway point so he might as well continue. It was enough of an affirmation of his persistence to keep him going. It was, if you will, that moment that Camus talks about. That moment at the top of the hill when Sisyphus pauses to look back before starting his task over again. "One must imagine Sisyphus happy," Camus writes.

One must imagine Steve happy.

One cannot do that, however, if there isn't some passion in the agency. And some genius, for that matter. See, I guess this is where I'm going with this. (The point most resonant in Martin's book.) Our country has managed to sell enough of its own myths to create a culture of shoulda-coulda-woulda's. As Tyler Durden says in Fight Club, we all want to be famous. But this is just the modern dilemma, the postmodern iteration of the American Dream. And, without resorting to name calling, this is the capitalist's dream. Keep the masses convinced that the odds are better than they are and, thereby, maintain a buying public.

This is the genius of American Idol. Tens of thousands of people turn out for a chance, a lottery ticket of fame. Yes, there's talent in these masses. Yes, there's determination (in spades) in these masses. But the two aren't guarantees. And it's clear, after how many seasons?, that there's not a secret formula, no perfect blend of talent and determination—and a little trumped up drama—to guarantee success. How many Idol hopefuls have been dropped from labels, dropped from the public eye? Really, who cares?

But the circus has come around again, and we've all bought our tickets. That's the genius.

What does any of this have to do with Steve Martin? Well, the man worked hard. The man was determined. And the man had (has) talent. But that wasn't enough. The planets had to align just the right way—just in time for all those other things to coalesce—in order for him to get noticed.

This notion should terrify anyone who seeks the life of an artist. And I mean terrify in the best possible sense! This is the crux of all human existence (except for poppin' out babies, of course): Life is meaningless. By which I mean it has no inherent value. Life only has meaning if we give it meaning, or find our own meaning in it. When the world falls apart around us, our only solace can be found within (this is where we might find god; not from without but from within). External reality is a book unread. Useless without a mind to open it.

And so, in the face of our own lives (success, failure, reprieve), we have to allow for a seeming contradiction: we have no control over our external reality; we have complete control over our perception of our reality.

Bottom line: We cannot expect the world to reward us for simply being who we are. Rather, we must constantly re-evaluate our lives and be guided by our passions—hoping all the while that we can find affirmation in ourselves.

Barring that, you can always trust a fart joke.