I mentioned previously that I have been reading a book by Dale Peck entitled Hatchet Jobs: Cutting Through Contemporary Literature, which consists of previously published book reviews in which Peck give literature and its authors a thorough drubbing.  Peck, who is a novelist himself, is most famous for his scathing review of Rick Moody's pseudo-memoir The Black Veil: A Memoir with Digressions, in which he begins with the sentence, "Rick Moody is the worst writer of his generation."  Peck proceeds in this review to wander off the topic at hand, the book being reviewed, and launches into a tirade against literature in which the writers seem to be screaming, "Pay attention to me because I'm important," or as Peck refers to it as a "child needing attention."  Among the authors included in this dubious group a many that I consider great, Thomas Pynchon and Don DeLillo, and others I really enjoy and think are interesting, David Foster Wallace and Dave Eggers.  I usually enjoy these types of "one man's opinion" or "my state of the union" addresses towards literature refreshing, as in B.R. Myers' A Reader's Manifesto, but it's hard to read that the entire body of work by one of your favorite writers, in this case DeLillo, consists of nothing more than "stupid-just plain stupid-tomes" or, in Pynchon's case a "word-by-word wasting of a talent [so] formidable."  Of course, this can be chalked up as being one man's opinion and nothing more than that. 

However, Peck ends the book with an afterword that serves as a summation of the book's main themes and the reason the reviews seem so harsh.  This serves as little more than a cop-out on Peck's part because firstly he offers a lame defense for his severity and secondly offers little or no recommendations on how to improve the state of literature. 

Addressing the issue of why he's so harsh in his reviews, Peck offers the following:

It is true that as a critic I don't say much about the strengths of the writers whom I review. Most of those writers had thousands of words devoted to their individual strengths long before I got around to cataloguing their weaknesses: they don't need me to point them out again. And God knows I have never aspired to anything like impartiality. If anything, I have always considered my flagrant bias to be one of the saving graces of my efforts. If I am extreme in my opinions, this stridency can always be attributed to its author rather than to some kind of universal authority. The very extremity of my views does as much to undermine my authority as to enforce it, or at least I hope it does, because I am by no means convinced of the hallowedness of my own ideas. And talent, again, is not the issue here: content is, and context. It seems to me that there are two strains of literature currently in vogue, recherche postmodernism and recidivist realism, and both of them, in my opinion, stink. I'm not interested in pointing out how a writer works well in one mode or another, or executes an aspect of one or another mode with a greater or lesser degree of success, because I think the modes themselves need to be thrown out entirely. Not as tools for writers sitting down to a blank page, but rather as the two poles they must choose between, and against which they are judged.

 

To me, this is nothing more than a contradiction in terms.  Peck seems to feel that, on the one hand, he's not important enough to be taken seriously, but, on the other hand, he's still making legitimate arguments for the improvement of literature, however vague they may be.  It's the very type of writing he criticizes that he employs here to defend his actions.  Trying to have it both ways is impossible, but Peck tries to explain how he can do so. 

 

On the issue of the future writing, Peck offers this:

If I don't say much about the strengths of the writers whom I review, nor do I offer an alternative to the writing I spend so much time dissing. Sympathetic readers have often asked, if this is what writers shouldn't be doing, then what should they do? My feeling is that the last thing readers need is a writer telling them what to read (besides his or her own books, of course). And as for writers: well, if you need me to tell you how to write a novel, then you probably shouldn't be writing one in the first place. Still, there are some things I would like to say to my peers. But it's hard to tell someone whom you admire (or respect, or want to help, or in some way engage with) that you think there are problems with his or her work, let alone that it is, well, worthless. These reviews, if not as direct as a coffee klatch (or barroom brawl), are, I hope, some kind of dialogue with my generation. If, in the end, I offer nothing more than a series of prohibitions, it is because I think that it is precisely the need to sign on to a program that kills literature. As soon as a writer starts writing to belong to a tradition or a program or a school rather than to describe what's going on in the world, he or she has gone from being part of the solution to being part of the problem. Something that can be held up to a pre-determined list of attributes to be checked off one by one, so that a score of 80 percent makes it good, 90 percent makes it great, and 100 percent gets it a gold star, isn't art, it's high school. The year I graduated, the valedictorian was well known to be the best cheater in school: I helped him in English, my best friend let him look over his shoulder in math, and the science whiz (daughter of the science teacher, no less) helped him with biology and chemistry. As it happens, he was not a particularly stupid guy, and he was also reasonably nice, which was probably why we all helped him. But we were all shocked--not to mention a little angry--when he got to give the commencement speech instead of one of us. I have no interest in contributing to the making of another Cy Diller.

 

In other words, Peck sees himself as trying to avoid the position of being the one to tell writers how to write, but he sees no problem with pointing out their flaws in the execution of their projects.  In one of his few conceits, it's interesting to note that Peck doesn't argue that all the writers he criticizes are talentless.  Instead, they are just not using their talent in the right way.  What he would rather see them writing he never specifies, but I can't help but think it probably looks a lot like his own novels. 

 

What bothers me the most about Peck's assertions on the state of literature is that his vagueness and genuine inability to provide concrete suggestions on how to repair it leaves the impression that he's nothing more than a jealous novelist that can't stand to see those that he despises so much reap the rewards of success that he so desperately wants for himself.  For all the harshness of his critiques, it's almost requisite that you would expect a set of suggestions, but they aren't there.  Calling an entire industry on the carpet for its failures is a worthy cause, but to fail to provide a blueprint for the future serves little or no purpose than to provide the hallow critiques of a bitter man.   

Concentration Failure
Things bother me, even what most would term petty, inconsequential things.  There, I've admitted that I'm a human being who lets little things get under my skin, grate my nerves, or just outright piss me off.  Anyone who has read this site knows that's true, and, in effect, this is nothing more than a post that allows me to choose a new target to vent on.  If nothing else, I'd like to think that I'm at least restrained enough when I'm feeling perturbed so as to not betray my true feelings, especially in public, since it's not a confrontation I'm looking for but an alleviation from that which bothers me.  When the alleviation fails to materialize, I'm forced to vent here, in my forum.  So, what happened today that requires my immediate attention of all my wrath?  People talking.  That's it, plain and simple.

To explain, as I'm enjoying coffee and a bagel at my favorite coffeeshop, I can't help but notice the guy at the table next to me.  He's sitting there drinking something, and reading a copy of the City Paper, the previously mentioned weekly rag that documents all the numerous events that occur in a given week here in Pittsburgh.  Nothing wrong so far, right?  Well, then it happens, the cellphone comes out,  and right then and there I should have known enough that this was going to be trouble and that I should relocate to another spot.  I didn't, and I paid the price.  He proceeds to make a call to someone about a performance happening tonight and goes on to invite the person with whom he is speaking and then describes who the artist is, their style, and all that jazz.  What's wrong with that you ask?  Nothing, except that his voice is loud, loud enough for me, and, I assume everyone there to hear the entire exchange.  To stifle my rage, I just hoped and prayed that this call would end soon and that the person he was talking with would have to return to work.  Thankfully, this is what happened.  But it didn't end there.

In walks a girl who saunters over to his table.  They embrace, and then the real trouble begins.  I've never heard someone talk so fast for so long in such a loud voice and never allow the other person with whom they are speaking say a word of rebuttal.  It went on and on.  I was dying.  I'm trying to read, and all I can hear is this motormouth yammering on about this and that, and I swear I'm about ready to take a final swig of my coffee and bolt, but I can't.  No, I sit there and suffer and pray some more that they leave, but they don't.  No, it goes on. 

Then, suddenly, they are gone.  It's quiet, and I can concentrate.  I've always prided myself on my ability to concentrate while reading in noisy places like coffeeshops or cafeterias, but I couldn't do it this time.  I was so relieved when they left.  I'd hardly had a chance to bask in this glorious silence, and here they come right back in.  He must have had to put change in the meter.  Then it starts up again.  Needless to say, I hurried along to finish what I was reading and left as quickly as possible. 

Why do I let little things like this bother me so much?  Isn't it bad for your health to get annoyed at little things that people do?  I imagine that all this time that I've spent fuming in silence must somehow accumulate into some sort of massive ball of tissue that festers inside of me.  I don't honestly believe that a huge tumor of unspent rage is growing inside me, and I doubt it's how people get cancer, but I don't think it is healthy. 

Whatever the ramifications, I can still hear his voice going a mile a minute in my mind and I'm ready to plunge my plastic knife for my cream cheese into him if he doesn't shut up soon.   

The Speed of Reading
Everyone has a different way of reading a book. Some people read fast. Some people read slow. And there are those who read at a pace somewhere in between, a more leisurely pace I'd like to think. I count myself part of the latter group. I read books, which is what I'm referring to here, at a pace that, at times, seems to be rather quick, mostly when I'm close to the end of a book and just want to get it finished, or somewhat slowed down to such an extent that it seems like I only flip a page once every half an hour. For the most part, I breeze along at a steady clip, neither speeding or plodding along.

What throws the whole curve off, though, is when you put a book down for a day or two, mostly even one day is enough to notice an effect. Putting down a book, especially when you're in the middle of a chapter, is dangerous business. What occurs, at least to me, is that I'll pick it back up, start reading again where I left off, and, inevitably, let out a groan about how this particular passage seems to be overly long. Say, for instance, you're reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy for the first time, as I happen to be doing as I write this, although I'm not reading and writing at the same time. That'd be counterproductive, or maybe multi-tasking, or whathaveyou. Anyway, I'm almost finished with the last book of the trilogy, and I have to say that if someone, Benedict, hadn't lent a sympathetic ear to my plight about how the books seem to labor on forever, hashing on plot points that are neither important nor serve to advance the plot any quicker, I would have thought I was just suffering from another attack of having put the book down for a day, which I haven't done with this one but with the second. So, I wasn't crazy, or at least no crazier than Benedict, which is measured on a sliding scale. The book is long, really long. Which leads me to address the notion of editors.

One book I'm reading right now is Dale Peck's collection of reviews entitled Hatchet Jobs. In one of the reviews, for David Foster Wallace's book Infinite Jest, Peck opines about how the book, which is over 1,000 pages, has about 200 pages of good writing contained within. Obviously, this implies that some severe editing could/should be done. What about Tolkien, though? Isn't it also true that some of the more laborious passages center around the characters walking, eating, sleeping over and over ad nasuem? Don't most books condense time? Are you supposed to feel like you've been on the very same journey for the same length of time as the characters? I doubt it. Most books aren't that literal, and the narrative progresses ahead with leaps and bounds, or at least it should

Tolkien, who seems conflicted on many fronts, must have been in love with each and every passage he wrote. No part of the journey could be left out. Why? Well, I guess he felt that if he didn't write about the characters simply walking from place to place there wouldn't be any reason to write about all the places they journey to, which is another caveat of mine. Must every place have some name and history that is explained in depth rather than simply alluded to? Aren't there just parts of a forest that are just that, parts, with no lore behind them? Not in the Tolkien universe. Every tree, shrub, rock, crevice, moutain, dirt pile has some long, storied past that must, must I say, be explained. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

Laboring through this, I'm reminded that people I know have read these books multiple times. How, I'm not sure, but the joke by Seinfeld about rereading Moby Dick and having Ahab and the Whale becoming fast friends seems to apply in the case even more so. I know I'd rather take the chance on finding the Melville's masterpiece has changed than return to Middle-Earth for more travelogue-like narratives anytime soon.

Going Home
I've fled the city for the small town. These last three weeks, I've abandoned Pittsburgh and all the hustle and bustle for the laid back, mellow feel of my hometown. To put a myth to rest, let's just say all the cliches about a small town are true, and I'm speaking from experience. The wide-open spaces, the lack of congestion, traffic-wise and population-wise, the amount of trees (yeah, actual trees and even a forest or woods if you prefer), and, unfortunately, a total absence of what I've become accustomed to in the big city. For all its charm, the small town life always leaves me feeling as if I've been sent away to a gulag. No, not quite a gulag, but at least a Siberian outpost.

The change, which can only be described as dramatic, affects the psyche in many subtle and not so subtle ways. At home, I feel more at ease, a little less tense, and nowhere near on edge as much as I do in the City. These are all common characteristics, but another thing occurs when I come home. Once I'm here I begin to live a life as close to that of a recluse as I can imagine. I don't go anywhere. Mostly, I stay at home here and read, write, or watch television. Sure, I go jogging and go out to buy a paper or see a friend, but that's it. For the most part, I just linger here with the folks.

Why I choose to live this type of life is multi-layered and, to me, somewhat troubling. The fact is that when I'm home I'm not comfortable going back to my old haunts. I don't go to the coffeeshop I practically lived in during the months leading up to my relocation to the City. I avoid public places where I might be seen by people I know. I don't even go to the library. What would cause someone to so radically alter their life when they return home, a place where they are admittedly more at ease?

As much as there is any answer, the only one I can come up with is that I feel as if there's an impending sense of failure lingering about me. Now, I don't mean a sense of failure that would lead me to give up all hope for life and such, far from it. My biggest fear is that the old places I used to frequent, and by extension the people at these old haunts, have evolved, advanced beyond where they were when I was a much more frequent presence in their lives. On the other hand, I haven't evolved or advanced beyond my previous life here. Life now consists of a jobless limbo and a stasis so frightening and paralyzing that I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to just give up and move on to something else or to stick to my guns and proceed with utmost speed and confidence in a pleasant outcome. Life, as I thought it would be when I left, hasn't progressed as I would have liked. Thus, my greatest fear is that if I chose to return to these old, familiar places, I'd have to explain my presence, and I don't want to do that anymore. I'm sick of dwelling on my life and my future. I'm sick to death of discussing it with everyone around me, and the thought of having to walk into one of these places, be recognized and being asked to explain myself fills me with a nauseous feeling beyond reproach.

Most of this stems from the fact that, before the move, I wasn't concerned with anything other than life in the immediate here and now. The future wasn't a term I thought about frequently, at least not as a concept that had implications for my life. As long as I knew that there were months, weeks or days ahead of me, life seemed to progress without any sort of need to dwell on what might lie ahead. The future was, or so I thought, an abstract concept I need not worry about until it arrived. In this manner, I proceeded in what amounts to a rose-tinted haze. I'll refrain from referring to it as rose-tinted glasses because I don't feel that it was so much my unwavering, positive outlook on life so much as it was a delusional aspect of my psyche that refused to look beyond the perfect haze of life in the present. Anything beyond that would be something to deal with when I got there. This type of delusion was something, I thought, was reserved for those with certain bent personality. Someone not quite connected with the here and now. I don’t mean to imply mental illness, but those with an ability to sustain a certain sense of positive, uplifting optimism and a regard for life’s outcomes as a mere whim or a direction set by a higher power. The religious and the eternally optimistic.

One delusion that could likely be applied to what I’ve described above, though, is that of grandeur. The one problem with assuming that my returning would have any impact at all is one of egotistical and, I guess, self-esteem-related aspects of the psyche. On the one hand, to assume that your life matters so much to others that your leaving has such a noticeable affect is rather egotistical in nature. On the other hand, to assume that your presence or absence might have an impact on others is to belie some sort of psychological deficientcy that screams of a low self-concept. In other words, to think that you're missed is to assume popularity and impact. To assume you're not missed, seems to scream of low self-esteem and a wanton attempt at sympathy. Either way, someone can read more into the issue than necessary. This isn't meant to be a psychological examination. Rather, I'm attempting to reason out a problem I have with the notion of returning at this point in my life.

What it boils down to is an issue of embarrassment. I'm, to put it bluntly, embarrassed by my current station in life, and why shouldn't I be? I don't think it's wrong to think that you should be further along in life when it’s apparent that you're not progressing as quickly as others are or as far as you think you should be. No matter how much I’m assured that I’m not the only one, it’s hard to take much solace in the fact that I’m in the same boat as many others. Coming home is both a blessing and a curse, a blessing in that I love being here with my family, and I love my home, but it's also a curse because this walking limbo is suffocating my notion of how I should be able to feel when I'm back.

The eternal optimist in me screams that life will proceed in a manner that, albeit somewhat rocky and unpredictable in nature, ends in the just manner. Practical matters, however, have a tendency to rear their ugly heads upon reality, and the reality is setting in that I won't feel completely at ease with life in the town where I grew up until my life gets on track with a future that's upon the horizon, and not some far off concept that hasn't even reached the upper levels of the atmosphere.

Things are Falling Apart
I wish I had something poetic to say in this trying time. Perhaps something about a summer of discontent, but I'm at a loss for words right about now, at least words that are much more fluid and I'll settle for the harshest language I can muster. It seems that the old adage about it all coming down to "who you know" is quite fallible and, in my mind, false. Sure, who you know can amount to a lot these days, perhaps everything, but there's still instances where having someone in your corner doesn't guarantee anything, even the lowliest of positions.

To clue in those unfamiliar with the tale, I applied for a position, nothing stellar and certainly not something one builds a career on, at the very library that I was employed by these past two semesters. My confidence was high, to say the least, and the fact that someone so valiantly bowed out so as to not create an obvious conflict between candidates, although I know they don't see it quite in those terms, seemed to do nothing but bolster my chances.

Then it all came crashing down. A blow to my self-esteem, to be sure, and a definite signal to me that perhaps I haven't made the wisest decisions in the last year. Perhaps, and I'm just thinking out loud here in my forum, I made a mistake. Switching gears midstream, or not even setting off from the dock in the case of my former, previous degree, led me to believe this was a wise move on my part. The right move. Joining a profession that I thought would be a perfect fit, and all this because I was both encouraged and interested in pursuing it. I did so out of a genuine interest. Apparently, so did a lot of other people, people with a lot more to offer than I do.

In my honest, brutal assessment, and I realize I'm venting a lot of pent up frustration, this profession is a joke. Charlatans who profess a profound love for all things library related are coddled and rewarded for their phony, rose-tinted outlook. Others, not just myself, are forced to wallow in the muck fighting over the scraps, and these are the most meager of scraps to be sure. If this keeps up, though, those fighting for the scraps will have one less competitor to deal with. It's just not worth it.

Comedians for Hire
Anybody who is even remotely familiar with VH1, the seemingly more grown-up alternative to MTV, knows that as cool and hip as the channel once was due to the fact that they actually played music instead of airing endless shows that had some loose connection to music is also well aware of the fact that this trend has reversed itself, much like that of MTV itself. The viewers of this channel have witnessed a transformation that seems both familiar and alien at the same time. VH1's metamorphosis into a channel that clearly resembles its sibling is both a sad occasion and a joyously ecstatic moment to embrace. Why? Because the shows that VH1 bombards viewers with are, for the most part, actually interesting in one way or another. This is in sharp contrast to the mindnumbing dumbness of the typical day's worth of programs on MTV.

The shows on VH1 seem to fall into one of three categories: 1. the behind the scenes life story (represented by Behind the Music, Driven, and The Fabulous Life of...) 2. shows of lists, and there have been too many of these to list (heh heh) 3. nostalgia and current events (see any of the numerous I Love the [insert decade](the 80s apparently being such a large decade that they did two series on the decade with the chronicle of the 90s premiering this summer and Best Week Ever. For the most part, I'm concerned with the last category because it seems to get the most play, which, to me, serves as both a blessing and a curse.

As a rule, the shows from the third category devoted to nostalgia are not so much hosted by any one person but consist of nothing more than various people commenting on the topic in question. For the most part, the panelists consist of some big-name stars, but the definite majority of the panel comes from the outer fringes of the entertainment industry, must notably my favorite group of starving artists the comedians. Every other panelist is a comedian in some way, shape, or form. Just take a look at the listing of panelists from Best Week Ever. A lot of them are funny, but a lot of them aren't, and this is due to a lot of factors.

To be blunt, these comedians are creeps. They have to be the most bottom barrel detritus of the comedic community, and they are asked to comment on everything from the Rubik's Cube to Britney Spears. I'd like to think that I'm familiar enough with the definition of irony and can recognize it in practice, but seeing a white-trash goon cracking base one-liners about sexy actresses doesn't fit. If these are the best comedians available for the production of these shows, then comedy is in trouble. What's most troubling about these shows and their panelists is the fact that they smack of desperation on so many fronts. I mentioned earlier that the change in format for VH1 was something of a blessing and a curse, and I guess I should explain. The interesting aspect about these shows is that they're incredibly addictive, especially those devoted to chronicling the 70s and 80s. You can burn a whole day watching these shows when they rerun the entire series, which they do frequently, and they are perfectly suited for repeat viewings. Nostalgia is great, and I can't think of too many people who don't enjoy waltzing down memory lane from time to time. The troubling aspect of these shows is that they smack of desperation by the panelists to remain in the public eye. The same panelists seem to frequent all the shows, and the danger of over-exposure is incredibly high. Comedy dies on these shows. The obvious grasp at relevance and hipness is a sad spectacle to watch, and these panelists have perfected it to an art form. My advice is to stick to stand-up, because this type of work isn't suited for lame-brain one-liners.

Music to My Ears
What does it say about you as a person when you start to realize that the music you listen to might be incredibly annoying to others around you, namely your parents? I've counted on numerous occasions instances when I'm listening to music in the house or in the car with my parents around, and I'm forced to admit that this probably sounds terrible to them. Sure, sometimes they indulge my joy at hearing music in the car, but I can almost feel their disgust at this atonal nonsense. Thus, I feel that it's necessary to lower the volume or change the disc to something much more neutral in tone.

Two recent examples:
1. On the trip home, I had Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot playing in the car. I suddenly thought, "God, Jeff Tweedy's voice isn't very pleasing to the ear. There's no sense of melody at all." So I ejected the disc and replaced it with the always welcome strains of Elvis.

2. Sitting in the living room, on the computer, I had Pavement's Slanted and Enchanted playing. My mother came in, and I'm forced to admit to myself that no matter how many times I read about how this is a "classic" album and no matter how much I like it, it's not very pleasing to listen to. In fact, some of it's really harsh. Stephen Malkmus screeches, screams, and shrieks a lot through several tracks. I shut it off.

It's not that my taste in music has changed in recent years into what I envision occurs to older people who aren't hip to the scene and narrowed dramatically. In fact, I'd say that, if anything, my tastes have expanded to include bands, genres, and specific albums that I had no previous interest in, a passing familiarity with, or an outright hatred towards.

I'm left to ponder whether this means that either I am becoming more considerate of others or that I'm starting to realize that some of the stuff I listen to is really noisy and annoying. I'd like to think that the former is true, but I suspect that the latter has more validity than I'd like to admit. Maybe I just need some headphones.

The Poetry of Spam
You might not be able to find everything on the Internet, but what you can find is poetry in all forms. Poetry is now being composed by spammers in an effort to fool filtering devices, and some of it isn't too bad. Here are a few examples.

grand piano haunches over 85
Most cowards believe that related to stovepipe know over chestnut
And give lectures on morality to the dark side of her football team
Clodhoppers remain comely
Geranium documentation exogamy cat concentric


fire hydrant 1 onlookers
For example, of impresario indicates that alchemist around sandwich find subtle faults with onlooker toward salad dressing
Any necromancer can ignore about snow, but it takes a real clodhopper to over asteroid.
Helena, the friend of Helena and trembles with bullfrog related to
Still borrow money from her from for turn signal, boogie her customer defined by with for fundraiser
Crosswise ghastly bully addition ineffectual allergic

Everything's on the Internet
I was under the impression that the Internet served as a portal into all the information that ever existed, a vast plain of links and more links that provide everything you've ever wanted to know and see at your fingertips. My impressions, as I'm sure most are aware, were slightly off. It's funny because what I was looking for I was sure that I'd find somewhere, perhaps buried on a fansite, but there nonetheless. Simply put, I was looking to see if anyone anywhere posted any reviews or notes about the Wilco concert I attended Sunday night as part of the Three Rivers Arts Festival. I looked and found: nothing. The only mention of the concert was in conjunction with the festival itself as a part of a calendar. Other than that, nothing.

I've read so much about fansites devoted to everything imaginable on the Internet. Aren't there such things as fanatics that populate discussion boards and such that post immediate reviews? Hell, even the major papers of Pittsburgh failed to review it. If Gore did invent it, he should have required that everything is available on it, and I mean EVERYTHING.

The Administration of Cliches
As time is winding down before the long-rumored harsh critique of the CIA for failing to foresee the disastrous events of September 11, 2001 is released by the commission in charge of investigating the events leading up to that day, it's occurred to me that we haven't heard much from the current administration as of late. I'm not talking about daily speeches, the occasional soundbite, or quote in the news or papers. There's always plenty of those floating around. I'm talking about something that we haven't heard from any member of this current group for weeks and weeks. Let me give you a hint about what I'm talking about. Do you remember the phrase "swatting flies?" Yes, you guessed it I'm referring to the dreaded cliche. We used to get a lot of these, several day at least, but now there's nothing. This is probably due to the fact that since the days when testimony stretched out over the course of a week, we as a country have been distracted by other heinous events that have taken the spotlight off the commission and its report. We've been robbed by them of their semantic twists and turns and phraseology that tries mightily to sound as if it means something important, that it conveys some sense of action, but, in fact, states nothing really. And I miss the feeling of being so grossly insulted.

Yes, there were certainly a bunch of cliches floating around in those days. You had Dr. Condoleezaa Rice making the claim from above that President Bush was "tired of swatting flies". If you recall Sen. Bob Kerrey didn't let this one slide by asking repeatedly for one example when President Bush actually "swatted any flies". She also gave us the important fact that there was never any "silver bullet" that could have prevented the event of September 11. Add to this all her stumbling and stammering over the "historical" nature of the infamous August 6, 2003 PDB, and you have quite a spokesperson for an administration whose own chief has well documented problems with the English language.

Two other memorable cliches used referred to the fact that CIA Director George Tenet's "hair was on fire". This was Richard Clarke's description of Tenet's demeanor after compiling intelligence that indicated that "something is going to happen." Clarke, Rice, and others are connected to the usage of the phrase "shaking trees," which apparently refers to the gathering of intelligence. Whatever any of it means, to the speakers or the listeners, these types of phrases, cliches, or whathaveyou just don't mean anything. They don't convey much of anything and are just ripe for satire. What we're left with now are the occasional creative semantics of Donald Rumsfeld and the mangling of the English language by our commander in chief. I miss the days, though, when it was almost guaranteed that you'd get some sort of new mumbo-jumbo by the White House. Come on, everyone, let's go "shake some trees" after we light our "hair on fire" and try to "swat some flies".

Returning to Suburbia
Suburbia is now in vogue again, at least for many of today's contemporary writers. The tome I'm currently embroiled in happens to be one in a plethora of books that have been released in the last few months that dwell on the lives of the prisoners of suburbia. Tom Perrotta'a novel Little Children concerns the lives of many married couples, their children, and their interactions with one another. The plot isn't something earthshatteringly new, but few plots are nowadays, and the prose flows in a way that's natural and pleasant to read. Perrotta writes from the vantage point of so many classes of characters in such a seamless manner that it's hard to believe that he isn't writing about people that he actually knows, which brings me to the main query in this post.

Suburban novels have been written for decades now from all manner of writers, Updike, Roth, Bellow to name a few, and, for the most part, writers of good caliber who have a keen insight into the inner-workings of families living in America. The genre is time-tested, and not really something that's read for the plot, or, at least, that's not why I read them. I'm more inclined to believe that readers of these types of novels are attracted to the insightful portraits of everyday life in modern America, or, in the case of the older texts, perhaps how life was during the time when their parents were growing up. The plots themselves are merely a guide for following the characters. For suburban novels, the plot can be rather monotonous and, most likely, predictable to anyone who has read a significant amount of this writing.

To get to the point, one of the many plot points that usually occur during the course of these novels, is that somewhere, sometime there's some sort of marital infidelity occurring involving one or more of the main characters. In Little Children, it's no different. Couples that are increasingly frustrated, for whatever reason, are forced, if that's the right word, to commit adultery. My question is simply why this has continued to be the case after all these years? There are obvious time related details that give many of these books a time stamp, so to speak, but this plot point remains the same. Why? Are there really that many marriages that are plagued by the curse of infidelity? I can't say because I'm not married, and I don't know a lot of married couples. The few that I do know are happily married, and this just isn't my surface impression of how they conduct themselves in public. I know these people, and I know there's nothing incredibly heinous going on in their lives.

This leads me to ask if there's still a rampant amount of marital harmony that's threatened by the curse of inadequacy?

Another Comrade in Arms
In these days of political correctness and democracy gone wrong, it's nice to see that there are people out there with a forum for their thoughts that aren't afraid to take a stand against a horrendous outrage, even with the likelihood of offending their audience. Robert L. Jamieson Jr. writes in Library for all--not just the homeless about the new Seattle Central Library that there's apparently more than just the general public anxiously awaiting its opening. Unfortunately, there appears to be a ground swell of excitement within the homeless community due to the fact that they can't wait to befoul this sparkling new gem of a library with their odors, filth, drunkenness, and outright offensiveness. The sinks will be large enough to bathe their feet. A new "living room" full of couches and comfy chairs will provide adequate sleeping quarters for the day. The size of the building will allow all kinds of loathsome actions to occur unseen by those in charge.

There are claims that new measures will be put into affect that will alleviate the problem, but who knows how long that will last. Once the building loses its gleam of newness, who knows how lax the policies will be and how much enforcement will actually occur. This is reminiscent of the problems that occurred on a daily basis in the library where I was working. Policies are put into place and never enforced. This leads to problems. Administrators claim this won't happen in Seattle, but who knows.

Jamieson slips into the time-honored tradition of not pushing the line too far. He claims that there's probably only a handful of bad bums that have given the whole bunch a bad rap. I don't agree with that at all. Again, if you can't appreciate the fact that the library is open and what it provides, you shouldn't be allowed inside. Also, if you don't pay for the building, there's no reason for libraries to go out of their way to allow each and every person inside in an effort to create a utopia for one and all.

My advice is to have the library lined with a phalanx of riot-gear clad police officers. Let's see how many derelicts are willing to approach that intimidating scene.

Hypocrisy
How can someone have the audacity to greet a comment that is equally as challenging and harsh in tone with a kind wink and understanding nod when a similar remark was greeted with a feigned sense of outrage? I always hated it when you argued with friends about something, most likely something trivial, and that person, or even you, would go out of the way to greet any other similar situation with an overblown sense of empathy in an effort to avoid another altercation. I thought I left that kind of thing in high school, but it doesn't appear to be that way.

Comrade in Arms
Finally, someone else is voicing their opinions regarding the growing numbers of homeless, deranged, and downright scary folk who populate this fine city.

Several weeks back The City Paper, the other weekly rag that chronicles the vast number of events that occur weekly in the Burgh, published another in a series devoted to complaints simply entitled Rant. The article, Bus Driver: Don't Pick Up Threatening, Disturbed People by Aloma Arter, echoed many of my earlier sentiments with regard to the uncomfortable situations one has to be subjected to when simply walking down the street, entering public buildings (i.e. the library), or riding on the bus.

Of course the story goes along the lines one might expect: a creep gets on the bus, is goaded on by some smart-ass high-school kids, and flips out. Fellow passengers, rightly so, flip out in turn, and call the police. Arter, incredulous, explains that the police and the bus driver have a ludicrous excuse for not passing this creep: he has a bus pass. Obviously, Arter feels somewhat enraged by this because that's just not a good reason to allow someone who is dangerous aboard a bus of all things. Arter goes on to state that her fury is directed mostly towards the driver and his lack of concern for putting not only himself but all the passengers on the bus at risk by picking up this detritus.

This rant, which while completely spot on in its analysis was rather harsh in tone, and deservedly so, I guess, received a letter of response appearing in this week's issue. The letter entitled Bus Fair by Angela Chuckro makes a sappy, uber-pc argument that because people are using public transportation that they should expect to encounter this type of individual on occasion. Not only are outbursts expected, but busdrivers can  look forward to being punched, maced, spat on, or having weapons pulled on them in an effort to avoid paying the fare. Where and how often this occurs is never mentioned, but I don't recall this being a problem that's prevalent. I'm not saying it doesn't occur, but this reader makes it sound like these buses are in Fallujah and not Pittsburgh. Chuckro's attempt to rationalize the behavior and incur unnecessary sympathy is rather trite and facetious.

What Chuckro seems oblivious to, though, is the fact that the driver knew this individual from previous encounters. He knew he was crazy. He knew he was dangerous. Yet, because he had a bus pass, he had to let him on. Why? Well, he could lose his job. Okay.

Profiling is a practice that I'm, as previous posts concur, not fond of. However, there's a fine line between dealing with dementia in a public place and being stuck on a fast-moving bus filled to capacity with one lone nut worsening the situation. If anyone gets on a bus and starts wigging out, including "normal" people, get them off of the bus. There's a difference between having to placate the mentally ill in non-threatening arenas and allowing them to jeopardize a busload of people. Chuckro better learn that difference because all the pc hand-holding in the world won't do you any good when the bus is going over the cliff.

The NPR Agenda

Of course, we couldn't go too long without another pledge drive interrupting all the programs on WDUQ. Amid the usual pleas for money in any form, (I'm half tempted to send in a sock full of pennies to see if it makes any difference)NPR is starting to pursue a definite agenda. In this case, it serves as the voice for proponents for same-sex marriages.

Before getting too far ahead, let me say that I'm all for the granting of same-sex marriage licenses. Marriage to me a definite symbolic, if not religious ceremony, that officially marks the commiseration of a couple's desire to live together. Whether this couple consists of the same sex or a member from each sex is beyond my concern.

However, NPR feels the need to have, what seems like, daily stories on the subject. Now that Massachusetts is granting same-sex licenses, NPR seems to be at a loss for a reason to air more coverage on the subject. Several weeks ago, the same could be said for their coverage of the Middle East conflict with the always enlightening Terry Gross on Fresh Air devoting several days to hour-long diatribes on the conflict. She even got in on the act with an hour-long interview with an author about a book devoted to examining the institution of marriage.

With all my criticisms of The New York Times, now NPR, it's seeming more and more likely that this page will live up to the paranoid delusions of its address: liberal agenda. I'm convinced that the media is biased, but it's only as biased as the publication seems to be. In other words, there is a liberal bias to the news, but if you look closely you can see a conservative bias there as well. Being in the middle, I think, allows you to see both sides and appreciate or disagree with equally.

Giving up...on books
Laura Miller muses on the idea of throwing in the towel in the The New York Times Sunday Book Review in an essay entitled, Divorce That Book . Discussing this phenomenon with other writers, Miller paints a picture of a society in general and writers in particular that suffer from a sort of "literary attention-deficit disorder." Michael Chabon, one of my favorite writers, in a move that I've found myself in some ways adopting recently, gives books one or two pages before he decides whether or not to proceed. Prior to reading this I would have thought such a blatant dismissal of a text was something that reflected on my own deficiencies. However, finding out that I'm in good company along with prominent writers helps alleviate the sense that I'm an abject failure when it comes to consuming books.

I have to admit that I am not familiar with the works of any of the other writers who are featured in the article, and it does seem to me that David Gates, who dismisses any book other than those he is reviewing and admits to not finishing any book he starts, makes a rather disparaging remark when he states that he hasn't read any "wonderful fiction" in a long time. Harsh words, I know, and likely something I could freely agree with, due to my own dissatisfaction with the state of literature these days, but Gates, whose work I know just by name, seems like an unlikely candidate to dismiss all writing in general and fiction in particular.

Regardless, I'm feeling a little better nowadays, when I leaf through a book in the enormous stack from the library and feel like there's no way I want to even bother reading some of these monstrosities.

Traitor
It's hard enough floating in the jobless limbo that, I used to think, befell all graduate students emerging fresh from college. What makes matters worse, though, is that one-time friends and associates feel the need to "sell-out" in what amounts to little more than abandoning those who have nothing tangible to offer them anymore. In a city teaming with like-minded, similar situated people, this seems like it wouldn't or shouldn't be a problem. It becomes a problem when one's circle is tight, confined and finite. In other words, one of the members of the circle is vacating willingly and for mysterious self-serving reasons.

I could go on, but it would probably cause much more trouble than it's worth, and here I'm speaking from previous experience. Just let it be said, that no matter what happens in the future, I intend to maintain a certain sense of loyalty to my associates, no matter how much success or lack thereof they meet and vice-versa. I would hope they would do the same, but sometimes life doesn't work out that way. Holding a grudge is a terrible, time-consuming waste of time, and this is why I'm venting here in an effort to avoid dwelling on it further.

Let it be said, though, that loyalty, which is a frequently used term can and often does lose relevance over the course of years, is something I hold as a prominent virtue to be upheld. I go on record here saying that I am and will continue to be loyal to my friends. If they choose to drop off at any point for selfish reasons, so be it. Nothing else matters in this time of uncertainty.

Things Fall Apart
Well, now it starts. We have officially entered the period of uncertainty.
To Be Continued...

Freedom of the Press?
The pictures of tortured Iraqi prisoners that emerged last week were nothing more than the latest development in a series of setbacks that seem to be steering the course of events to a terrible end. What I found most repulsive and, at the same time, most fascinating about the pictures was their placement within the long line of events, atrocities in this case, that have been captured on film for the world to digest and grow disgusted at all at once. An article in the Asia Times entitled Who Let the Dogs Out? seeks to make the point that we, meaning society in general and Americans in particular, ignore the fact that these types of incidents are occurring any time there in conflict, but they are left out of the collective memory due to a surprising lack of "physical" evidence, in this case televised pictures of the incidents, or, as the writer refers to it as the "stupid box." This may or may not be the case, but it leads me to ask a question that has been bothering me as of late regarding the outlets for these particularly troubling pictures, videos, and speeches meant to incite violence. How, if possible, can society still retain a free press without providing an enticing platform for groups of individuals who exploit this freedom for means that are less than noble in cause?

I'm contending that the reason why there seems to be a much broader usage of the media by terrorist organizations is because these media outlets provide them the forums they seek. Al Jezeera and other media outlets in the Middle East seem to specialize in providing terrorists a forum for their hatred and violence as much as television stations in California provide live coverage for any idiot who decides to lead the police on a high-speed chase through the streets of L.A. The acts themselves and the forum from which they are broadcast go hand in hand. The cause and effect is clear: If you have something to say or do, we'll air it.

This isn't to say that terrorists, or military personnel, would stop committing atrocities if there suddenly wasn't a place from which to broadcast their deeds. This is also not to say that those acting in Iraq on their own or by the orders of higher-ups meant to have their heinous actions broadcast around the world. It does make one wonder what they hoped to do with these pictures if they did manage to leave Iraq with them. In fact, one can argue things might get worse if there wasn't an arena with which to show executions like Daniel Pearl's or the mutilation of civilian contractors in Falluja. Without a camera there to document the action, the effect these incidents have on the world would certainly be lessened dramatically. However, it stands to reason that if outlets decided to take a much more rigorous stand on the types of broadcasts they will air and from whom, it might have dramatic effect on the world and troubled regions from which they originate, which could be either good or bad.

Ruthless Aggression
It all started last week with a report by Benedict that we have some testosterone fueled meatheads lurking in the law library. After that, it seems the tidal wave of aggression just surged forward from there on. My own encounters this week only served as evidence that there are an inordinate amount of disgruntled, angry, and overly aggressive males out there who are a moment's notice away from erupting into violence. Obviously, this page has seen its own fair share of overt aggression, as evidenced by the previous post and it subsequent deteriorating affect on all participants. So, I have to confess I'm guilty of being aggressive lately as well. This leads me to question why this is happening all of a sudden.

There are probably numerous explanations for this, and there's no point in addressing them here in detail. Most of the problems can be traced back to the usual culprits of joblessness, restlessness, and too much free time. I've written before about the denizens of this town who are constantly visible throughout the day, and I'm convinced that this is, if not the root cause, at least a contributing factor to the growing amount of frustration that's reaching dangerous levels throughout the city. One of the reasons I like winter weather so much is that it keeps most people in-doors, and, while the warm weather is a welcome respite, I'm always somewhat hesitant to greet it with open arms because along with it comes the fact that most of the undesirables will be making a return to open society as well. I don't know how else to describe the arrival of spring, but there's a definite tension out there on the streets, and it's exerting its reach into the workplace as well.

Throughout my recently completed temp assignment, I was able to become emershed in the politics and relationships within the company I was working for. In particular, I was allowed to voice freely my own uncensored remarks regarding one of the full-time employees that works there. I found it particularly odd to be allowed such a forum and asked for my own candid assessment, and I naturally obliged. The person in question is a woman who is apparently rubbing everyone the wrong way, especially her workmate that has the unfortunate position of sharing an open cubicle with this troublesome employee. To sum up the situation, there's a definite communication breakdown between all four members of this operation. Typical advice from human resources advises such measures as open communication and the like, but those are just temporary bandages that don't really address the problems themselves because, as we're all aware, confrontation is the hardest thing in the world to do openly with a co-worker or friend. Just look below for evidence of that. Whisperings of "firings" and the like are the most talked about and likely solutions to the problems. Add to this a "stalker" who calls the "stable" cubicle-mate and you have a situation that's brewing and about to burst.

In addition to the above incidents, there was the confrontation with my neighbor about the volume of music emanating from my apartment, the gang of hoodlums harassing people on the streets of the South Side, and, just today, the frustrating grumbles by law students who were perplexed by how the library could wait to open at ten o'clock. It's all adding up to an ugly situation, and I want nothing to do with it, but I feel like there's no escape from this growing sense of aggression.