Ugh...
Have you ever read an interview and wondered how on earth someone of such questionable intelligence and charisma could come across as such a fluid and flawless speaker of the English language? Obviously, writers need to edit conversations to what closely resembles a coherent progression of question to question and answer to answer. No one expects or wants to see all the numerous pauses, "you knows," "I means," "ughs," and all the other unsightly flourishes that litter everyone's speech, even the most articulate amongst us. Even President Bush's most ardent supporters have to concede that his speech is nowhere near as flawless as portrayed in newspaper and magazine interviews. It's impossible for someone with such a notorious track record of verbal gaffes to come across as a "great communicator."
Which leads me to the following. In what has to be one of the most heavily edited texts ever assembled, Terry Gross, NPR stalwart and nemesis to those with a need for something other than an overblown cerebral interviewing style, has a book coming out featuring interviews from her show,Fresh Air . All I Did Was Ask : Conversations with Writers, Actors, Musicians, and Artists is the unintentionally funny title of her collection. Anyone familiar with me and my ongoing hostility and bitter dislike for Terry Gross knows exactly why I find this collection to be so stunningly funny. The book is listed at 384 pages, but if the publisher hadn't heavily edited these interviews, the book would probably rival Bill Clinton's memoir in length and might even surpass that tome. Include all of Gross' painful pauses and idiotic meanderings in an effort to sound curious and interested, and we're looking at the War and Peace of interview collections.
Gross and her inability to sound as if she even prepares for her interviews, is the main reason that I can't stand NPR for long stretches of time. Why? It's too painful even when they interview supposedly educated people. To really illustrate this point, listen to the BBC. In one segment, an interview with a writer from the Los Angeles Times about her recent time in Iraq. Embarrasing is the only word I can think of that adequately describes the interview. Embarrassing for American newspapers and newsmakers in general. I've never heard such a mangled mess. Broken speech from someone who traffics in the English language is a painfully harsh reminder about how lackadaisical our society has become with regards to speech, grammar and adequate usage. The next segement, though, featured a British commenatator, and the language was, of course, flawless. What's that tell you?
Gross thinks she can conduct an thought provoking interview by mimicing the off-the-cuff style of Charlie Rose. She's mistaken. Rose, who obviously knows who he is going to interview beforehand and is familiar with their work, comes off as being genuinely interested in his subjects, even if, in reality, he might not be all that interested. Gross comes off as a student who forgot to study for an exam and is trying to wing it. Her interviews seem to originate from a whole different planet, one not familar with standards of practice for conducting a professional interview. The fact that a book could even be cobbled together from her meandering interviews is a testament to the abilities of a good editor. Otherwise, she'd come off as the the poorly prepared interviewer she really is and continues to be.
My Own Personal 6 a.m. A vast wasteland where word bombs explode with ferocity and provoke rage, sadness, and glee.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Monday, September 20, 2004
Hard or Soft?
Laura Miller's The Last Word column entitled Paperback Writer broaches the subject of why publishers feel the need to issue every book they publish in the more expensive hardcover format rather than in the much more affordable paperback or trade paperback format. One recent book, David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, reverses the trend by having simultaneous hard and softcover versions issued.
Several aspects of the novel may have led the publisher to issue the two versions at the same time. One, the book is extremely popular in Europe, where it has already been nominated for the Booker Prize. The norm in Europe, though, which always seems much more sensible than the norm in the United States, is for publishers to issue what's termed a "paperback original" for many published works. I know this sounds like heresy and the machinations of "old Europe," but doesn't that make a little more sense? Miller mentions that writers dream of holding their book in hardcover format in their hands, not some crummy softcover. I guess there's some validity to that sentiment, but the fact is that the work itself is what matters, right? Who cares how it's packaged?
As an aside, I personally always liked the depiction of a writer in the Beatles song "Paperback Writer." There's just something really appealing about the idea of writing books for a living, and the song captures that perfectly. To me, it also sounds like the writer depicted isn't just some hack who churns out rubbish, as evidenced by his "thousand pages, give or take a few." He's much more literary, but with ideas to spare.
The second aspect of Mitchell's novel that may have been more appealing for paperback format is the format of the novel itself. It's not typical of a standard narrative, and that seems to be the trend for books to be published in simultaneous formats. Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves is another novel that was published in duel formats. Again, the novel wasn't typical with its changing fonts and other visual effects.
Ultimately, Miller advocates this type of nonstandard practice as a means to attract readers, especially younger ones who typically can't afford the prices for hardcover books. It also might encourage publishers to take a chance on writers who produce works that aren't typically formatted. However, writers shouldn't feel the need to abandon the narrative structure in favor of dazzling effects. If writers need to be reminded that the work itself is what matters regardless of format, publishers need to likewise be reminded that without readers who are willing and able to take a chance on reasonably priced books, then they're out of business as well.
Laura Miller's The Last Word column entitled Paperback Writer broaches the subject of why publishers feel the need to issue every book they publish in the more expensive hardcover format rather than in the much more affordable paperback or trade paperback format. One recent book, David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, reverses the trend by having simultaneous hard and softcover versions issued.
Several aspects of the novel may have led the publisher to issue the two versions at the same time. One, the book is extremely popular in Europe, where it has already been nominated for the Booker Prize. The norm in Europe, though, which always seems much more sensible than the norm in the United States, is for publishers to issue what's termed a "paperback original" for many published works. I know this sounds like heresy and the machinations of "old Europe," but doesn't that make a little more sense? Miller mentions that writers dream of holding their book in hardcover format in their hands, not some crummy softcover. I guess there's some validity to that sentiment, but the fact is that the work itself is what matters, right? Who cares how it's packaged?
As an aside, I personally always liked the depiction of a writer in the Beatles song "Paperback Writer." There's just something really appealing about the idea of writing books for a living, and the song captures that perfectly. To me, it also sounds like the writer depicted isn't just some hack who churns out rubbish, as evidenced by his "thousand pages, give or take a few." He's much more literary, but with ideas to spare.
The second aspect of Mitchell's novel that may have been more appealing for paperback format is the format of the novel itself. It's not typical of a standard narrative, and that seems to be the trend for books to be published in simultaneous formats. Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves is another novel that was published in duel formats. Again, the novel wasn't typical with its changing fonts and other visual effects.
Ultimately, Miller advocates this type of nonstandard practice as a means to attract readers, especially younger ones who typically can't afford the prices for hardcover books. It also might encourage publishers to take a chance on writers who produce works that aren't typically formatted. However, writers shouldn't feel the need to abandon the narrative structure in favor of dazzling effects. If writers need to be reminded that the work itself is what matters regardless of format, publishers need to likewise be reminded that without readers who are willing and able to take a chance on reasonably priced books, then they're out of business as well.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
Too Clever?
One of the most alarming trends in writing today is the emergence of a style of writing so overly filled with pop-culture references and soaked in its own overblown sense or irony and "pat myself on the back for being oh so clever smarminess" that the actual subjects of the text are lost in the mishmash. Two books, Sore Winners by John Powers, which focuses on life in the era of Bush, and Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman, a collection of previously published material that surveys the pop-culture landscape in a sort of scatter-gun approach, are two recent examples of this type of writing.
When writers produce works that are dense in language, absent of traditional narrative, and focusing primarily on larger ideas and concepts, critics often point out that the author does this intentionally in an effort to stymie the readers and make them fell lost, confused, and without any real clue as to what is taking place or what they're supposed to derive from these lanugos passages. In many ways both Powers and Klosterman operate in the same manner but with fluffier prose and inane references. The approach is different, but the intention is still the same: only people who are "with it" will "get" your work.
The problem with this type of writing is that there's never any room for breathing easier and dropping the pretense of trying to be "cool." Much like writing that struggles to chronicle the mundane aspects of narrative flow that just can't be avoided or spruced up significantly, these types of books are always "on." Every sentence is tinged with the above characteristics. Writers unfamiliar with the concept of overkill thrive in this fashion.
Klosterman is the worst of the two offenders, and I must confess that I couldn't stomach his work. A few sentences were enough to turn me off from consuming an entire book of his uncharismatic hodge-podge of forced Real World allusions, and his inability to just stick to the subject at hand without tangential excursions into media-soaked miasma. Klosterman is one of those writers, much in the same vein as Dave Eggers, who just happens to be everywhere right now. Where Eggers used a book as a springboard into journal and magazine writing, Klosterman apparently writes for every magazine that's willing to print his long-winded escapades into whatever pop moment that catches his fancy. Overkill is too kind a word for this type of over saturation of print. Klosterman seems like he's trying to ape the style of David Sedaris but he can't quite come up with the memorable, entertaining language that makes Sedaris such a better writer.
Powers, on the other hand, seems to know a little about maintaining his focus. Occasional references will be mentioned during passages about Bush, Cheney, or Ashcroft, but you still know what he's talking about. He seems to indulge more in references as adjectives and not just name dropping filler. Klosterman does the same, but he's nowhere near as skilled at keeping it to a minimum and splurges on the latter more than using the former with reservation.
The most troubling problem with this pop-culture reference as adjective writing is that it's destined to be dated. This leads me to wonder whether writers today are even concerned about the staying power of their work. However many years from now, mentioning Survivor or American Idol will most likely be greeted with a blank stare or bewilderment. Or, most likely, the books will languish on the shelves, unread, unnoticed, and totally without cache.
One of the most alarming trends in writing today is the emergence of a style of writing so overly filled with pop-culture references and soaked in its own overblown sense or irony and "pat myself on the back for being oh so clever smarminess" that the actual subjects of the text are lost in the mishmash. Two books, Sore Winners by John Powers, which focuses on life in the era of Bush, and Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman, a collection of previously published material that surveys the pop-culture landscape in a sort of scatter-gun approach, are two recent examples of this type of writing.
When writers produce works that are dense in language, absent of traditional narrative, and focusing primarily on larger ideas and concepts, critics often point out that the author does this intentionally in an effort to stymie the readers and make them fell lost, confused, and without any real clue as to what is taking place or what they're supposed to derive from these lanugos passages. In many ways both Powers and Klosterman operate in the same manner but with fluffier prose and inane references. The approach is different, but the intention is still the same: only people who are "with it" will "get" your work.
The problem with this type of writing is that there's never any room for breathing easier and dropping the pretense of trying to be "cool." Much like writing that struggles to chronicle the mundane aspects of narrative flow that just can't be avoided or spruced up significantly, these types of books are always "on." Every sentence is tinged with the above characteristics. Writers unfamiliar with the concept of overkill thrive in this fashion.
Klosterman is the worst of the two offenders, and I must confess that I couldn't stomach his work. A few sentences were enough to turn me off from consuming an entire book of his uncharismatic hodge-podge of forced Real World allusions, and his inability to just stick to the subject at hand without tangential excursions into media-soaked miasma. Klosterman is one of those writers, much in the same vein as Dave Eggers, who just happens to be everywhere right now. Where Eggers used a book as a springboard into journal and magazine writing, Klosterman apparently writes for every magazine that's willing to print his long-winded escapades into whatever pop moment that catches his fancy. Overkill is too kind a word for this type of over saturation of print. Klosterman seems like he's trying to ape the style of David Sedaris but he can't quite come up with the memorable, entertaining language that makes Sedaris such a better writer.
Powers, on the other hand, seems to know a little about maintaining his focus. Occasional references will be mentioned during passages about Bush, Cheney, or Ashcroft, but you still know what he's talking about. He seems to indulge more in references as adjectives and not just name dropping filler. Klosterman does the same, but he's nowhere near as skilled at keeping it to a minimum and splurges on the latter more than using the former with reservation.
The most troubling problem with this pop-culture reference as adjective writing is that it's destined to be dated. This leads me to wonder whether writers today are even concerned about the staying power of their work. However many years from now, mentioning Survivor or American Idol will most likely be greeted with a blank stare or bewilderment. Or, most likely, the books will languish on the shelves, unread, unnoticed, and totally without cache.
Monday, August 30, 2004
On Hiatus?
Frequently, I've written about my inability to think of a topic worthy of discussion on this site. Again, unfortunately, I'm consumed with this decided blank space where any ideas worth exploring and that legitimately hold my interest seem few and far between. What to right about is a mantra that I'm sure most writers experience, and that's one of my main criticisms of blog culture in general. People who can post on a daily basis and produce work that is even remotely within the confines grammatical sense and interest are amazing. Setting aside the issue of a writer's merit or skill and just focusing on the ability to grab ahold of a subject worth exploring can, and often does, drain the life out of a writer. This is why I think I'll be going on hiatus for awhile until I encounter something worth writing about, which I'm sure with all that occurs in this beaming metropolis won't be long.
Frequently, I've written about my inability to think of a topic worthy of discussion on this site. Again, unfortunately, I'm consumed with this decided blank space where any ideas worth exploring and that legitimately hold my interest seem few and far between. What to right about is a mantra that I'm sure most writers experience, and that's one of my main criticisms of blog culture in general. People who can post on a daily basis and produce work that is even remotely within the confines grammatical sense and interest are amazing. Setting aside the issue of a writer's merit or skill and just focusing on the ability to grab ahold of a subject worth exploring can, and often does, drain the life out of a writer. This is why I think I'll be going on hiatus for awhile until I encounter something worth writing about, which I'm sure with all that occurs in this beaming metropolis won't be long.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Understanding Evil
I'll admit up front that my memory is terrible when it comes to remembering facts, dates, names, or any of the other trappings of historical events. I attribute a lot of this to the fact that I read books too fast with little effort made on my part to remember key aspects that might, in the long run, broaden my knowledge. What inevitably happens is that I'm incapable of accurately citing anything unless I've encountered it on numerous occasions, or enough of an impression has been made on me that I know I don't want to forget this information. So, what comes out of my mouth when trying to discuss anything about something I've read or seen recently is a jumbled recreation that I know is just flat out wrong or, at the very least, somewhat misguided. Unless I have the material in front of me enabling me to quote directly from it, then there's a good chance that I'll mangle the facts.
This brings me to the current topic of my reading, the origins of the Holocaust. I realized that I know next to nothing about the actual process involved in Hitler's decision to implement the Final Solution. I feel, and I'm sure most would agree, that this is simply too important to ignore. We all need to understand how this came to be in order to prevent it from ever happening again. Some might argue that it is happening in Sudan, and that the legal wrangling over the definition of genocide is little more than a bureaucratic nightmare, but that discussion should wait.
Two books, Christopher Browning's The Origins of the Final Solution: The Evolution of Nazi Jewish Policy, September 1939-March 1942 (Comprehensive History of the Holocaust Series) and Richard Rhodes' Masters of Death: The SS-Einsatzgruppen and the Invention of the Holocaust, the former which I've finished and the latter which I'm currently reading, paint a terrifying portrait of life in Europe during World War II. The unimaginable cruelty inflicted upon so many people, primarily Jews, is unfathomable on any scale, and the brutality in which the Final Solution was carried out is beyond comprehension in many ways. This leads me to my current dilemma regarding this type of reading.
Encountered in these books, especially Rhodes', are descriptions of mass executions that are gut-wrenching in their vividness and mind-numbing in their sheer brutality. The numbers are staggering, and the prime number, six million, is so far beyond anyone's ability to comprehend, let alone visualize, that it's nearly unbelievable. What I worry about is not so much about those who deny that the Holocaust actually occurred. Those types of people, while dangerous, are easily dismissed as conspiracy driven lunatics with a anti-Semitic belief system so deeply entrenched in their psyches that no amount of evidence no matter how convincing will sway their beliefs. No, what I worry about is that when one encounters numbers on a page detailing various massacres that occurred all over German occupied Europe and Russia that the numbers become just that, numbers and nothing more. Becoming desensitized to violence is a chilling aspect of modern culture, and I guess it should come as no surprise that those who are desensitized to actual depictions, real or otherwise, of violence then the mind's ability to comprehend implied violence would likewise deteriorate as well. It's sad and troubling, but this subject seems too important to allow that to happen.
Another troubling aspect of immersing one's self in literature devoted to atrocities, especially the Holocaust, is that one seems to encounter in every published account a description of the events committed that trumps that last in stomach-churning disgust. It appears to me that the Nazis committed just about every atrocity upon another human being that one could possibly imagine. This is troubling for many reasons the chief among them that I would hope that the need to keep this subject relevant for all isn't predicated on the necessity to describe actions that defy imagination. In other words, historians shouldn't have to rely on the public's willingness to be offended only if they are legitimately disgusted by descriptions. The numbers should be enough, but sometimes they aren't. A prime example how this type of mindset is subtly shifting is the outrage surrounding the Abu Ghraib scandal only really surfaced after the pictures were made available. The written words weren't enough to warrant outrage and immediate need for investigation.
This brings me back to my memory issue. I want to remember this material. I feel like I need to remember this material, but I'm afraid I can't. I know that what's being described in these books is something that we, as a society, need to understand. Hatred on this scale, and the accompanying evil associated with it, cannot occur again in our lifetimes. I know deep down that my outrage will always be present. I'll never forget that this occurred, but I worry about others who might forget for the very reasons discussed above. How do we remedy this?
I'll admit up front that my memory is terrible when it comes to remembering facts, dates, names, or any of the other trappings of historical events. I attribute a lot of this to the fact that I read books too fast with little effort made on my part to remember key aspects that might, in the long run, broaden my knowledge. What inevitably happens is that I'm incapable of accurately citing anything unless I've encountered it on numerous occasions, or enough of an impression has been made on me that I know I don't want to forget this information. So, what comes out of my mouth when trying to discuss anything about something I've read or seen recently is a jumbled recreation that I know is just flat out wrong or, at the very least, somewhat misguided. Unless I have the material in front of me enabling me to quote directly from it, then there's a good chance that I'll mangle the facts.
This brings me to the current topic of my reading, the origins of the Holocaust. I realized that I know next to nothing about the actual process involved in Hitler's decision to implement the Final Solution. I feel, and I'm sure most would agree, that this is simply too important to ignore. We all need to understand how this came to be in order to prevent it from ever happening again. Some might argue that it is happening in Sudan, and that the legal wrangling over the definition of genocide is little more than a bureaucratic nightmare, but that discussion should wait.
Two books, Christopher Browning's The Origins of the Final Solution: The Evolution of Nazi Jewish Policy, September 1939-March 1942 (Comprehensive History of the Holocaust Series) and Richard Rhodes' Masters of Death: The SS-Einsatzgruppen and the Invention of the Holocaust, the former which I've finished and the latter which I'm currently reading, paint a terrifying portrait of life in Europe during World War II. The unimaginable cruelty inflicted upon so many people, primarily Jews, is unfathomable on any scale, and the brutality in which the Final Solution was carried out is beyond comprehension in many ways. This leads me to my current dilemma regarding this type of reading.
Encountered in these books, especially Rhodes', are descriptions of mass executions that are gut-wrenching in their vividness and mind-numbing in their sheer brutality. The numbers are staggering, and the prime number, six million, is so far beyond anyone's ability to comprehend, let alone visualize, that it's nearly unbelievable. What I worry about is not so much about those who deny that the Holocaust actually occurred. Those types of people, while dangerous, are easily dismissed as conspiracy driven lunatics with a anti-Semitic belief system so deeply entrenched in their psyches that no amount of evidence no matter how convincing will sway their beliefs. No, what I worry about is that when one encounters numbers on a page detailing various massacres that occurred all over German occupied Europe and Russia that the numbers become just that, numbers and nothing more. Becoming desensitized to violence is a chilling aspect of modern culture, and I guess it should come as no surprise that those who are desensitized to actual depictions, real or otherwise, of violence then the mind's ability to comprehend implied violence would likewise deteriorate as well. It's sad and troubling, but this subject seems too important to allow that to happen.
Another troubling aspect of immersing one's self in literature devoted to atrocities, especially the Holocaust, is that one seems to encounter in every published account a description of the events committed that trumps that last in stomach-churning disgust. It appears to me that the Nazis committed just about every atrocity upon another human being that one could possibly imagine. This is troubling for many reasons the chief among them that I would hope that the need to keep this subject relevant for all isn't predicated on the necessity to describe actions that defy imagination. In other words, historians shouldn't have to rely on the public's willingness to be offended only if they are legitimately disgusted by descriptions. The numbers should be enough, but sometimes they aren't. A prime example how this type of mindset is subtly shifting is the outrage surrounding the Abu Ghraib scandal only really surfaced after the pictures were made available. The written words weren't enough to warrant outrage and immediate need for investigation.
This brings me back to my memory issue. I want to remember this material. I feel like I need to remember this material, but I'm afraid I can't. I know that what's being described in these books is something that we, as a society, need to understand. Hatred on this scale, and the accompanying evil associated with it, cannot occur again in our lifetimes. I know deep down that my outrage will always be present. I'll never forget that this occurred, but I worry about others who might forget for the very reasons discussed above. How do we remedy this?
Saturday, August 07, 2004
B(u)y the Book (an addendum)
After addressing the issue of publishing in my last posting, I came upon the following passage in an article from the July 19, 2004 issue of Newsweek addressing the recent revelation that the number of readers has declined by 14% from 1992-2002. The seemingly blatant contradictions in operating procedure by the publishing industry are addressed as follows:
Oddly, publishers have responded to the decline in readers by publishing far more titles for people not to read. Two decades ago the number of new
books published annually hovered around 60,000, then climbed more than 100,000 in the early '90s. Last year saw a record 164,609 new titles. "Forty years ago, you used to worry that a good book would not be published," says Dan Frank, editor in chief of Pantheon Books. "Now everything is being published, and a lot of good books are being overlooked."
Frank also suggests that publishers need to be "more discriminating about what they print." As a business model, it seems rather ridiculous to feel that it's a wise move to generate more product if demand is at an all time low. Again, I don't know all the intricacies of the publishing industry, but something seems to be amiss when books are being produced at such an awesome clip that a good portion of them are relegated to remainder tables and massive clearance sales.
It's also likely that, even with the record number of titles being produced, some real gems are being overlooked in favor of total duds, but the figure above is astounding, incomprehensible. Print is anything but dead.
Monday, August 02, 2004
B(u)y the Book
Normally, anyone who likes books in general or likes buying books in particular would be overjoyed to see a sign proclaiming "Huge Book Sale." However, years of experience have taught me one thing when it comes to expectations regarding such beckoning heralds: be ready to be disappointed. I realize this isn't the way in which most people would approach such a beacon of commerce, but, like I said, I've grown accustomed to being let down in more ways than one.
The store, one of the many defunct Phar-Mor drugstore/grocerystore/entertainment complexes in the Erie region, now sports a yellow banner hanging over the partial lettering of another failed venture, which obscured by the sign remains a mystery, that practically shouts of a book sale beyond comprehension. As one approaches the entrance, other signs plastered on the windows promise savings upwards of 80%! So far, so good. Walk in to the store, and what you're greeted with are tables of books, thankfully arranged by subject, that stretches towards the back wall. In my experience, it seems that no matter how many books a seller might be trying to unload, they inevitably choose a space much too large for their wares, thus only really occupying a small fraction of the space available. This was no different. From the radio tuned to a terrible local station, to the unceasing wattage of the florescent lighting against the equally luminous white floors, the entire enterprise screams of desperation, or flea market. All of this hits you before you even get a chance to look at any of the books.
As one might expect, the books in any sale that promises such huge savings are nothing more than the smattering of recognizable titles littered amongst the enormous amount of books so unfamiliar that they might as well originate from a foreign country. There are tons of books of all kinds here. Fiction, history, children's, cookbooks, technology, etc. Any category imaginable is represented here, and, for the most part, by texts that have little or no name value. Sure, you see books by authors you know, Henry Kissenger seemed to occupy a nice section, and some titles you recognize, Pynchon‘s Mason & Dixon, but, all in all, it really amounts to little more than publisher's remains and bookstore remainders that couldn't be sold for anywhere near the cover price, and, thusly, they are relegated to a status that seems befitting for only those books that are downright awful and tremendous flops. Books that crazily demanded upwards of $30 in price are now yours for the taking at about $6. A sad comment to say the least. Another frustrating aspect of any type of mass liquidation sale that inevitably rears its ugly head, are those moments when you recognize a title that you do in fact own, but, in all likelihood paid full price for. This likely thought racing through your head, as it did with mine when I saw the above mentioned Pynchon book, “Why did I pay full price for that when it came out in, what was it 1997, when I could have waited seven years and bought it for $7?”
This leads me to question a lot of conceptions I have about the publishing industry. Where do all these books come from? Why were they printed in the first place? If all this dribble can be mass-marketed, then why is it so hard to be published? All of these can most likely be answered easily by publishing executives, and I'm sure there's more than meets the eye when it comes to costs, revenues, and profits for publishing. However, it's maddening to see tons of books, namely the fiction, by authors you've never heard of and titles you've never seen on any bestseller list selling for even the modest sum of $6 when so many other good books, i.e. books that you'd love to see for 80% off, are gathering dust on so many bookstore shelves.
So, what it comes down to is that it's not so much that these books are most likely shit, which I'm pretty confident in labeling them as, it's the idea that books that you want to buy are never for sale like this. Books that cost well over $10 and upwards of $30 languish on the shelves. Books I, and I assume many others, would gladly pay $6 a piece for. The same copy of a coveted book sits forever on the shelf of a local bookstore because no one in their right mind would pay the cover price for a tattered, used looking book. Why isn't this book sent to the limbo of the massive book sale? Is it any wonder that used book sales are soaring on sites like Amazon?
Publishers just don't seem to get it. Articles come out and proclaim that people aren’t reading as much as they were before, but what do you expect when so many factors come into play? Two reasons for the decline of reading that I think are important are as follows. First, you have the high prices that, even if discounted heavily, are still enormous that essentially preclude many people from building up personal libraries. Second, you have libraries that seem to be more concerned with encouraging patrons to use the library for every other purpose other than checking out books. The internet, movies, and cds have replaced the book as the main reason for people to frequent their libraries. I realize you can't force people to read books, but why not try to make them your focal point instead of internet access? Finally, for all the doom and gloom predicted by publishers, isn't it funny how they always seem to make out with the timely release of a book like Clinton's My Life or another installment in the unending Harry Potter franchise? My sympathy wanes and my cause for concern at the unnerving decline in readership subsumes.
The other issue is the simple reaffirmation of my previous claims of publishing, or, to echo Dale Peck's assessment of writing today, most, if not all if it is terrible. I will argue with Peck on the issue of the writers he chooses to skewer, but I do think writers today are producing works that, if not total failures, are at least so far beyond below par that they seem to be written by amateurish fans. Book sales like these serve notice to people that we, as publishers and likewise consumers, aren't able to distinguish between the good, the bad, and the horrific. I would think, if anything, the only good that can come out of sales like these would be that aspiring writers may feel a little more optimistic in their chances when they see the works that do make it through. I doubt, though, than anyone wishes to see their books sold for 80% off, but being published and sold at a discount and not published at all is really no choice at all.
Normally, anyone who likes books in general or likes buying books in particular would be overjoyed to see a sign proclaiming "Huge Book Sale." However, years of experience have taught me one thing when it comes to expectations regarding such beckoning heralds: be ready to be disappointed. I realize this isn't the way in which most people would approach such a beacon of commerce, but, like I said, I've grown accustomed to being let down in more ways than one.
The store, one of the many defunct Phar-Mor drugstore/grocerystore/entertainment complexes in the Erie region, now sports a yellow banner hanging over the partial lettering of another failed venture, which obscured by the sign remains a mystery, that practically shouts of a book sale beyond comprehension. As one approaches the entrance, other signs plastered on the windows promise savings upwards of 80%! So far, so good. Walk in to the store, and what you're greeted with are tables of books, thankfully arranged by subject, that stretches towards the back wall. In my experience, it seems that no matter how many books a seller might be trying to unload, they inevitably choose a space much too large for their wares, thus only really occupying a small fraction of the space available. This was no different. From the radio tuned to a terrible local station, to the unceasing wattage of the florescent lighting against the equally luminous white floors, the entire enterprise screams of desperation, or flea market. All of this hits you before you even get a chance to look at any of the books.
As one might expect, the books in any sale that promises such huge savings are nothing more than the smattering of recognizable titles littered amongst the enormous amount of books so unfamiliar that they might as well originate from a foreign country. There are tons of books of all kinds here. Fiction, history, children's, cookbooks, technology, etc. Any category imaginable is represented here, and, for the most part, by texts that have little or no name value. Sure, you see books by authors you know, Henry Kissenger seemed to occupy a nice section, and some titles you recognize, Pynchon‘s Mason & Dixon, but, all in all, it really amounts to little more than publisher's remains and bookstore remainders that couldn't be sold for anywhere near the cover price, and, thusly, they are relegated to a status that seems befitting for only those books that are downright awful and tremendous flops. Books that crazily demanded upwards of $30 in price are now yours for the taking at about $6. A sad comment to say the least. Another frustrating aspect of any type of mass liquidation sale that inevitably rears its ugly head, are those moments when you recognize a title that you do in fact own, but, in all likelihood paid full price for. This likely thought racing through your head, as it did with mine when I saw the above mentioned Pynchon book, “Why did I pay full price for that when it came out in, what was it 1997, when I could have waited seven years and bought it for $7?”
This leads me to question a lot of conceptions I have about the publishing industry. Where do all these books come from? Why were they printed in the first place? If all this dribble can be mass-marketed, then why is it so hard to be published? All of these can most likely be answered easily by publishing executives, and I'm sure there's more than meets the eye when it comes to costs, revenues, and profits for publishing. However, it's maddening to see tons of books, namely the fiction, by authors you've never heard of and titles you've never seen on any bestseller list selling for even the modest sum of $6 when so many other good books, i.e. books that you'd love to see for 80% off, are gathering dust on so many bookstore shelves.
So, what it comes down to is that it's not so much that these books are most likely shit, which I'm pretty confident in labeling them as, it's the idea that books that you want to buy are never for sale like this. Books that cost well over $10 and upwards of $30 languish on the shelves. Books I, and I assume many others, would gladly pay $6 a piece for. The same copy of a coveted book sits forever on the shelf of a local bookstore because no one in their right mind would pay the cover price for a tattered, used looking book. Why isn't this book sent to the limbo of the massive book sale? Is it any wonder that used book sales are soaring on sites like Amazon?
Publishers just don't seem to get it. Articles come out and proclaim that people aren’t reading as much as they were before, but what do you expect when so many factors come into play? Two reasons for the decline of reading that I think are important are as follows. First, you have the high prices that, even if discounted heavily, are still enormous that essentially preclude many people from building up personal libraries. Second, you have libraries that seem to be more concerned with encouraging patrons to use the library for every other purpose other than checking out books. The internet, movies, and cds have replaced the book as the main reason for people to frequent their libraries. I realize you can't force people to read books, but why not try to make them your focal point instead of internet access? Finally, for all the doom and gloom predicted by publishers, isn't it funny how they always seem to make out with the timely release of a book like Clinton's My Life or another installment in the unending Harry Potter franchise? My sympathy wanes and my cause for concern at the unnerving decline in readership subsumes.
The other issue is the simple reaffirmation of my previous claims of publishing, or, to echo Dale Peck's assessment of writing today, most, if not all if it is terrible. I will argue with Peck on the issue of the writers he chooses to skewer, but I do think writers today are producing works that, if not total failures, are at least so far beyond below par that they seem to be written by amateurish fans. Book sales like these serve notice to people that we, as publishers and likewise consumers, aren't able to distinguish between the good, the bad, and the horrific. I would think, if anything, the only good that can come out of sales like these would be that aspiring writers may feel a little more optimistic in their chances when they see the works that do make it through. I doubt, though, than anyone wishes to see their books sold for 80% off, but being published and sold at a discount and not published at all is really no choice at all.
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
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:
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.
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.
Friday, July 09, 2004
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.
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.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
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
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
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
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.
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".
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".
Thursday, May 27, 2004
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
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.
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.
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.
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