Tuesday, November 2, 2010

A tricky treat from Washington OR "..just another rally monkey..."

“What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?”—Nick Lowe

The epigraph above is one of those quotes/taglines that came out of my generation (don’t care about actual dates—if you danced to it at a high school mixer, party, or nightclub, it passes) that needs a lot of heavy rotation with respect to what follows below.

I forget who said something about happiness being calamity viewed at leisure (Santayana?), but it is probably safe to say they probably would have felt the same if they were attendees at the Rally to Restore Sanity And/Or Fear. It was only after we arrived home on Sunday Night, taking the long slow cruise down Seventh, through the West Village and the remains of the Halloween Parade, that the TiVO would tell me how much fun I was having.

At three blocks from the stage, you could hear about three-quarters of what was going on and see nothing. The only Jumbotron repeaters were at the second block. We could see bits of it, but only if I held my video camera overhead, rotating the screen down. And that was only effective as long as—at arm’s length, mind you—I held it in the exact, precise position to get the secondary image.

What I got from the home viewing was pretty much what I remembered from those snatches. The signs were, as touted elsewhere (like HuffPost), all gems; MadAve/Superbowl-airtime, slogan-level good. (Wish I could’ve written them down but, see above.) The costumes (where you could see them) were also fine—like standard New York parade-level: not commercially-reproduced and with as much attention to concept and presentation as to execution. The peak, down at the bottom of the entertainment well, was the Cat Stevens/Ozzy song-duel (a pan-cultural tribal tradition from Inuits to Amerinds to pygmies to streetcorner soul circa 1955) that was solved by the advent of the O’Jays bringing “The Love Train.” Even in that place, which was the National Mall turned into a gigantic mosh pit, people sang along or hummed, and shook their hips to Sweet Philly Soul.

The only other salient point of the experience, that I can bear witness to and make any sense of, was the crowd itself. Woodstock was half a million over three days. This was half that in three hours. And not spread out over the rolling hills of Bethel, NY but packed into those few acres between the Capitol and the Washington Monument. Anywhere you wanted to go there—anywhere!—you had to squeeeeeze and oooooze. The best way was to hold onto your sugar’s hand and press gently, preferably with a humorous aside to the sides through which you sidled and slid. But here’s the kicker: it was much the same in Woodstock as—in my experience—nary was heard a discouraging word, nor even did anyone cop an attitude.

Here’s the telling detail. The Mall is a flat, straight piece of ground, but off by the National Gallery are an allele of trees, just high enough and sturdy enough to support about two-to-four people on the bottom branches. That’s where a bunch of younger guys decided to become birds for an afternoon. And every time a newcomer would try to shinny up one, there would be a rising tide of “whoooo”, as if for an aerialist at a circus, ending in a cheer and applause when they made a successful perch…and sounding a cartoonish “aawwww” when they missed at their attempt. You just can’t avoid comparison to that old stage announcement, “It’s a free concert… But that doesn’t mean free from responsibility… That person next to you’s your brother and you’d damn well better remember that, but we got it, right there—" And yes, it does sound hideously naïve in 2010…it just wasn’t on Saturday. In the spirit of co-operation, in its broadest sense, you did manage to get along without hurting anybody’s feelings, invading their “space” or depriving them of rights. The big kicker was this was EXACTLY STEWART’S CONCLUDING MESSAGE—a/k/a “the zipper merge”.

And no, I did not know that particular traffic pattern for entering the Lincoln or Holland Tunnels had such a specific designation that it could acquire its own neologism, unless it is some tech term in the people-moving industry. I got it from one of the pundits circling the event’s scent like internet vultures, picking off the weak prey among the conceptual herd of ideas. This guy (though from HuffPost) was very much akin to the rest; the tone of the media being almost unilaterally harsh. Across the board, the pundits (even the one’s I thought were the good guys) have laid into him for being too left and not left enough—which means he was doing his job right.

I haven’t mentioned Colbert because he is the perfect foil and, therein, they are one and the same--a team. They may not be the present version of Hope and Crosby or even Abbott and Costello, but they are, again, about all we have close to that. What it is, however, goes way beyond comedy. In point of fact, I was beginning to think of Mark Twain, but even moreso a figure from the past only known to unredeemable fans of the ancients: Will Rogers.

Rogers was an Oklahoman of Cherokee descent who found fame as a cowboy performer (doing riding and rope tricks at rodeos) and got into vaudeville at a time when a horse could be a co-star. In 1915, he got into Ziegfield’s Midnight Frolics, and then graduated to the Follies in 1916. It was then, when he went Broadway, that he began to cross from home-spun, folksy, twangy vignetting into political satire. If you don’t know him, you know his quotes: “I don’t belong to an organized political party. I’m a Democrat.” “I don’t know any jokes. I just watch Congress and report the facts.” And, of course, the one on his tombstone: “I never met a man I didn’t like.”

FYI, I herewith freely copy a couple of bits from the Wikipedia article on him. (I have that right: I actually contributed $50 to their organization.)

Rogers thought all campaigning was bunk. To prove the point he mounted a mock campaign in 1928 for the presidency. His only vehicle was the pages of Life, a weekly humor magazine. Rogers ran as the "bunkless candidate" of the Anti-Bunk Party. His only campaign promise was that, if elected, he would resign. Every week, from Memorial Day through Election Day, Rogers caricatured the farcical humors of grave campaign politics. On election day he declared victory and resigned.
Asked what issues would motivate voters? Prohibition: "What's on your hip is bound to be on your mind" (July 26).
Asked if there should be presidential debates? Yes: "Joint debate--in any joint you name" (August 9).
How about appeals to the common man? Easy: "You can't make any commoner appeal than I can" (August 16).
What does the farmer need? Obvious: "He needs a punch in the jaw if he believes that either of the parties cares a damn about him after the election" (August 23).
Can voters be fooled? Darn tootin': "Of all the bunk handed out during a campaign the biggest one of all is to try and compliment the knowledge of the voter" (September 21).
What about a candidate's image? Ballyhoo: "I hope there is some sane people who will appreciate dignity and not showmanship in their choice for the presidency" (October 5).
What of ugly campaign rumors? Don't worry: "The things they whisper aren't as bad as what they say out loud" (October 12)

If that doesn’t sound familiar, you are in no need of a primer on the events of today but might want to subscribe to Modern Troglodyte magazine for decorating tips on curved stone walls.

So, to close, two points of comparison: both are unfailingly honest and both preach nothing more than good humor,civility and common sense.

Now as for the epigraph? A vast number of the pundits were excoriating Stewart for his skewering of them, and a lot mocking him for both presenting lukewarm comedy and open shtick before lapsing into sincerity and compassion (one step above the last refuge of a scoundrel—a/k/a: patriotism); basically for the values delineated above. He is also of the generation just after the Boomers, that juncture where New Wave met Old School, not necessarily of either; like he may have (like a lot of other guys I knew) found Patti Smith because Bruce Springsteen wrote a song for her. As for Nick’s tune, which was really an Elvis Costello anthem, that was another of those strange hybrids: crafted by a cusp hippie, recorded by aggressive arriviste and placed among his sneers and jeers like a flower among a bunch of roadside IEDs. (Which is why it could cross-over rearranged as a saxophone instrumental on the soundtrack album of Whitney Houston’s sole movie role, and thus making Lowe so independently wealthy on publishing that he could retire, more or less.)

Nevertheless, Stewart is solidly ID’ed with Generation X. Starting in the ‘70s and made in the ‘80s, playing a lot of bad gigs--from his early MTV misfires down to his abortive movie career—he took a while to find a niche. And if you saw any of his earlier talk show formats, tried over the course of the ‘90s, you’d say that he wasn’t going anywhere.

But he did get here. And, as much as any Borscht Belt tumbler, glad-handing and working the tables in a Catskills resort, whatever he picked up, he used. Over the years, he’s dropped enough hints to the fact that he remembers ‘60s television as well as, if not better, than a lot of his elders, and probably was no less into some flavors of the Psychedelic associated with them—at any rate, associated more with them than him. (The drug jokes aside; that belongs to any post-Vietnam graduating class.) Yes, he may have wanted to ride “The Peace Train” but is most definitely associated with a ticket for the “Crazy Train”. Which makes it funny (-odd, not funny-ha-ha) to have a rally about sanity.

Humor is universally associated with The Edge—manifest in contradictions, sharp juxtaposition, and high relief contrasts that cause the vital cognitive dissonance which demonstrates the distance between the real and the ideal, resolving into sudden, shocking truths that explode into laughter. It is only found in the middle of the road, today, if you have corporate backing and are named Leno. So then, to come from the extremes towards the center makes you a sitting duck for both.

Generally speaking, “Peace Love and Understanding” falls into the category of banality. On this basis alone, it is simple to make the argument that proceedings were less Comedy Central and more like Comedy Peripheral. Hence, the use of it here: to ask the musical question and to answer it without music. (Well, any audible.) “What’s so funny…?”—well, apparently, for a lot of commentators, not a lot. Period. Yet, that’s what happens when you take OTHER kinds of chances. Not the “will-it-offend-you-if-I’m-racist/homophobic/pro-life-gun-Tea/sexist-ageist-etc-ist?”, but the more dreaded “moonbeam-warmy-fuzzy/Deadhead-wavydance/therapist-office-vulnerable”. You wear your heart on your sleeve and you’re begging to have someone accessorize you. And if you fail to entertain to everyone’s satisfaction, you’ve failed all.

And this is where angels fear to tread—but not anyone who’s been heckled at the Improv. The one thing that stand-up’s have over the rest of us are bullet-proof hides. That which can’t be deflected by an ad-lib or a short retort can be chalked up to a learning experience, and later incorporated into the routine. If you followed the meteoric career of Bill Hicks, you saw the whole package—and the High Wire act as well. Like George Carlin, he could have gotten away with conformity, and, like almost every other male with an HBO hour, dick jokes. But he went for his own. And, after the news of his impeding demise, he let the guard down enough to show his ultimate humanity as well—and was still funny...if not quite as hilarious.

Which is part of the present case. It may be speculated that, for a lot of the critics, they might also have the teeniest, tiniest bit of resentment for someone who made such a leap of faith to embrace the glory, rather than stick with the shtick. It requires the desire to overcome everyone’s natural instinct to protect a safe and secure sinecure and step up to that dizzy precipice where the moral imperative takes over from self-preservation. Some have done it in the past, and Edward R. Murrow somehow comes to mind, who would only qualify as the driest of dry wits in any political climate, anywhere. But his act was bold if only because it was a direct mission to speak truth to an entrenched and physically dangerous power structure. I used to compare Olberman to him but have had cause to admire that worthy more for his taste and erudition than courage; it’s no sweat to bang out derogatory commentary on villains. Stewart’s a different animal however. Unlike a lot of pundits, he resisted the urge to go for the easy kill, and looked for the greater good.

So what was Rally, really? In form and substance, a pageant and a USO tour in one, but, as well, a much older form of quasi-entertainment: an allegory. Right. Don't mistake this as some sort of excuse for the whole shebang: this was entertaining the troops, and in a format that could be suitable for any home, sure. Then again, you don't make huge assertions on broad concepts out of one-liners; it takes a long time for most people to get into the overarching scheme. For a person who hates the sanctimonious, I confess to a juvenile astonishment when NET produced a one-hour, updated version of the medieval morality play "Everyman" (with David Hemmings as the pilgrim) way back when. It was then that I knew it wasn't wrong to look to theater to teach as well as amuse. Further, this is something I learned in my first high school forensics class: charm, flatter, lead, seduce, then--slam it home, which takes a little time. Real basic stuff to present a position, but one not employed much these days when a soundbite is the medium of choice. I'm sure that Aesop was more popular than Homer, and, yeah, no one ever accused Bob Hope of being avant-garde, or expected a parade down Main Street to be equal to NYC at Halloween, but it can happen. And it happened here.

Once more into the Wiki…
One of Will Rogers' most famous lines, "I have never yet met a man that I didn't like," was part of a longer quotation and it originally referred to Leon Trotsky:
"I bet you if I had met him and had a chat with him, I would have found him a very interesting and human fellow, for I never yet met a man that I didn't like. When you meet people, no matter what opinion you might have formed about them beforehand, why, after you meet them and see their angle and their personality, why, you can see a lot of good in all of them.”

This is why even though I like Rachel Maddow less that Keith, I love her genuine passion to engage in civil discourse with those whom she has a diametrical opposition. Someday, I’d like to meet one of those guys who likes to say “My country right or wrong” and see what he thinks about the entire quote. I really would. Despite the fact that that’s not likely to happen unless we can talk to each other, a situation that the present climate is not exactly conducive to, I still have hope.

It could happen.

And, in the interim, I still enjoy that song as a New Wave anthem, and the last gasp of flower power.

But I can’t stop humming “Love Train”, and that’s fine too.

Monday, October 18, 2010

...how i spent my summer staycation, part 3...

And now, on a lighter note...

This one comes in under the heading of the Surrealism of Modern Day Life.

As part and parcel of the stay-at-home vacay must, perforce, involve a lot of old B&W movies on the big HD Plasma screen, possibly the greatest tech innovation since the bread slicer. However, if one wishes to archive said old B&W movies for later viewing (a/k/a "time-shifting", the first Supreme Court decision to be influenced by an amicus brief from H.G. Wells, and you can view it here, or just about anywhere on the web, but I prefer the case stated in purely legal terms because it is sooo much kinkier to think of the Nine in their august robes, playing around with precedent and antecedent as if wondering whether the Eloi and Moorlocks will still be using them tomorrow...)

Eschewing the standard complaints about any customer's relationship with Time-Warner cable, we pick it up with my last consult with the telephone person. After the usual unplug/replug/reboot routine, she asked me the question which we all know as the default penultimate "goodbye" line: Is there anything else I can help you with today?

The subtext of the projected conversation would be: "Of course not. My signal strength is rarely up to snuff, the TiVO-like box drops recordings and interruptions of service ruin movies regularly. What else could you do? Cut my rates until you get up to speed."

But we live in a polite society and so, to be polite, I made the archest query as unaggressive as possible. "Well, I was wondering if anyone could tell me why I get these little jaggies all over my screen--not constantly, but in clusters. So? Any ideas?"

And that's when I encountered Zombie Satellite Galaxy 15.

"Lady... you're joking? Right?" "..." "No?" "..." No kidding!" "..." "Really?" "..." (Just to put you in proximity to my phone to overhear this exchange.)

This is not anime; this is the world of Intelsat communications. You can read all you want about it from the link here but the reason it caught my imagination is first, that monikker. This is stuff to conjure with. It should be a song by The Fleshtones, or Shonen Knife, yes. More, Japanese magna, absolutely, and new project by Yamamoto or something. I mean, can't you see it circling the globe?--this dreadful sphere of dark menace, a black "x" over every navigation light, the solar panels broken and twisted as the sails of the Flying Dutchman? Following its set route of horror, every approach to other relayers causing them to flee in fear and confusion? Yes, it sounds like the worst sort of cheap melodrama; and I simply adore it.

Second, was a flash on an episode of "Max Headroom". Largely forgotten now, in 1985 (?) it was a spin-off from an early, and very successful ad campaign for MTV itself. Not to go into great detail, suffice it to say that it was, honestly, the first cyberpunk (well, 'lite') sci-fi TV show (have there been others?) and on a major channel, not basic cable. So the opening scene of one episode had the crusading telereporter (with the virus-like alter ego of Max) covering the annual Fall of Satellites. See, this was "20 minutes into the Future" (as the tag-line went, chronicling events something like 10 years to come) and it had become so easy to put up satellites, when they went bad, the most cost-efficient thing to do was to bring them down from orbit in a spectacular crash-&-burn display to shame the Perseid meteor showers. I ask you to go to the above link and regard the halo of extraterrestrial extras encircling our sphere and marvel at how such a cloud could so effectively mimmick our earliest conceptions of sub-atomic nucleii.

Which I would have suggested to the Time Warner operator, but, knowing their idea of efficiency, they'd probably send out mixed signals anyways and bring down my carrier right in the middle of "The Daily Show." So I dropped the subject and drifted off into a reverie about the movie I would have Joe Meek produce for me, "The Circuits of the Living Dead vs. Telstar..."

Sunday, October 17, 2010

...how i spent my summer staycation, part 2...

Even if you go to stroll in the sand but once, and that once being on Staten Island,if you take along a bit of text to relax with, it qualifies as a "beach read". Which, believe it or not, has become a subject for argument and, to wit, this entry.

So then, blogging (a subject explored heretofore...somewhere in heretofore) notwithstanding, the Electronic Lifestyle has become the gravity center of our Gutenberg Galaxy (and yes, I know: "Stop with the McLuhan refs all the time! We get it! You think the guy walks on water!") and not just in the obvious (like Facebook, natch--in which I must steadfastly decline to participate--and porn--which is always a novel experience--and Youtube, tho' not that much different from the former two and perhaps even a logical extension of them) ways.

(That should be enough parenthetical inclusions for one sentence. And this dispatch, I think.)

At some point or other, the whole issue of Darwin's theory will be addressed, and what it specifically means to the physiognomy and "mindset" of the species. But at this juncture, it seems appropriate to bring up as this entire entry is going to be limited to three items only, and open news items as well so there will be online links--YES! LINKS!--to their origins. Why? Well, because it worked for Darwin...is not enough justification, but a nice co-incidence. But more, because triangulation, in the traditional X, Y, and Z axises, is the natural method for locating anything in space and time, more or less, and applying the same to the social environment is a no less-viable model. This is one thing I have learned from all the science writing I've been soaking up for the past few years: we may think "about" subjects but we think "with" models. So, the reason I apply this model is that, while the subjects are actually all part of the Electronic Lifestyle, each one is part of a different "media". Hence the continued "Marshal arts" stuff.

First up, a device. No, not the ubiquitous phone/PDA variety, but Kindle. The way to tell that something in on the crest of a wave is when you, as I did, start noticing them more and more on metropolitan public transportation: subways and buses. When I got one, it was just before the price reduction, so I attribute the almost overnight blossoming of them--out of bookbags, purses, pockets, etc.--to their descent to the level of impulse-purchase affordability. So, now they are now everywhere, like a sunny spring after a wet winter in Death Valley, and in a similar profusion of colors, covers and configs.

However, there is also a meaning behind this: people who own them are reading more than they used to. The article referenced here [LINK ALERT!] is merely a confirmation of other observations as noted below, but it needs to be cited for two very distinct and dissimilar reasons: the first is germane to this particular entry; the second I will get to in a subsequent missive. For now, the only observation worth quoting is that in a Marketing and Research Resources study of 1,200 e-reader owners, 40% said they now read more than they did with printed matter, with the remaining 58% staying about the same. How significant is this? Depends upon the totality of your grasp of its implications. The 40% are simply saying "more", not how much more or what more. And, as well, the other 60% simply register no change, without being asked to distinguished if there is a difference between what they read on their device from that which they read in print, such as periodicals or website entries in any greater number, and not segmented into print/electronic media categories. This would be a much more interesting bit of data, but the subject of the article is limited to e-books only.

Owing to a near-total antipathy and well-nigh aversion towards possessions, I found the idea of a digital book something close to the perfect solution. Now, being a rather economically-minded individual, I did not especially want to give bookoo bucks to amazon.com to build up my library. So, the other convenience is that there are enough online sources--such as the Gutenberg Project (see! relevant!) (ok, so one more aside, everybody needs some slack) (ok, so that's two, and this make three, so STOP THE MINDLESS PROLIFERATION OF REDUCTIO AD ABSURDUM MISE EN SCENE GOING ON LIKE HIV IN A T-CELL-LESS CIRCULATORY SYSTEM!!!!!) (Really, it was a ridiculous restriction from the giddy-up...)

Where was I?

Oh yes. Also, Google has out-of-copyright volumes in a variety of formats (.azw, .mobi, .etc, etc.) and there's a few net-based fan-blogs such as this [LINK ALERT!] one which uses the legal fiction of sending "reviewer" copies (which isn't really such a canard, at least here, as I expect to make further commentary on same at some point in the future). Further, after MUCH experimentation, found some free apps out there to convert files from one system to another. [TIP...not parenth--nevermind. Kindle likes .txt files. They are the simplest there are and can be created by scanning in books through an OCR program. And, if you have B&W pictures as part of the package, or charts or graphs, opening the same through a web-based app, like Firefox, and saving the whole as .html or .htm, is an ideal setup for an app called Kindle Creator which turns it into a very nice volume-sans-volume.]

The point of this is to point out that any prejudice towards e-books as being too limited is ludicrous.

But that's not fromm whence the major objections stem. Friends of long-standing and recent acquaintances, when informed of my choice of new media, have had reactions from raised eyebrows and wrinkled noses to expressions of disbelief and downright disgust. The accompanying statements are, as you would suspect, along these lines.

a) Oh no, I like to [curl up in bed, settle back in the armchair, linger at the coffee shop over--fill in your favorite furniture/ideal locale] and I just couldn't with a _______.


b) I just like the [feel of the weight, turn of the page, smell of the paper, PLUS: the endpapers, the binding, the covers, etc.] and its just so [cold and antiseptic, impersonal--as in the same font for everything--and it changes the text and uses buttons, etc.] and it would change the reading experience too much for me.


c) I like having a wall full of them, just to stare at, and then go over and pull one off the shelf, like getting re-acquainted with an old friend, or making a new one.

There are other responses, of course, but they are all pretty much variations on these themes. And it must be acknowledged that they are all valid aesthetic/ethic choices which cannot be disputed. Yet none of them addresses the essence of the reading experience, at its core:

d) The interpretation of symbolic representations of bound morphemes (the substance of spoken words) into complete and easily assimilable units of data to be transfered to an individual's consciousness to entertain or inform and hence, perhaps, lighten one's burden of life or illuminate a particular aspect of same.

Admittedly, that's pretty clinical, and it is supposed to be. Like Darwinian theory, it comes down to just a few basic laws that, when stripped of all the hoo-hah whipped up by mouth-foaming mysticism and religious rant cant, amounts to something as easy to understand as physics or geometry. When you read a book, it can be a), b) and c) individually and severally, but nonetheless: you would not be reading it if d) wasn't at the end of it.

My friends are not, as a rule, neo-Luddites into smashing machines for taking away that which was precious and permanent and replacing it with that which is disposable and transitory. And yes, it is easy to delete files from the Kindle. And easy to add them: click & drag. Does this take anything away from the writing though? This is not the dispute: it is the media.

I then pose the question of exactly WHEN it became an issue? Ah! There's the rub. And another LINK ALERT! OLDNEWSFLASH: "By the end of antiquity, between the 2nd century and 4th century, the codex had replaced the scroll..."

Ok. So drift back with me to, oh--say, the court of the Emperor Constantine. So, here we are at the Dardanelles, the crossroads of Europe and Asia, somewhere between 306 and 337AD. You just get told: we're scrapping the Roman Gods and going with Christianity.
Oh. Well, fine by me; never liked all those burnt offerings...though will miss some of the paeans, like Virgil, sure.
Don't worry about him; we're going to keep him on as a pagan saint, and he'll turn up later in Dante as a rehab. Oh, and we're getting rid of scrolls and going with codexes.
Now wait a minute! Or a quarter-inch on my sundial, at least. I like my scrolls! I like the way the papyrus curls. I like the way it crackles and gets all tawny after a while. I even like the knobs on the end! And my whole library is full of circular pipes! How am I going to fit these...boxes...in? These 'bound-volumes'...they're just a fad! No, no. That's fine for the kids, but not me!

(Yes. I rather liked that bit too.)

Old habits die hard. What's worse, however, is old furniture, it would appear. But resistance to change should be for things of value--not objects of value. Yes, after the apocalypse (or the Rapture, if you number yourself among the descendants of the people Constantine converted in his big HRE upgrade to State Religion 2.0) you can't read a Kindle: no power. Right. Didn't see many people in "Mad Max" or "Beyond the Thunderdome" really ensconced in Cattalus or Voltaire, did you? And how many hardbacks did you see dad shlepping along with son on "The Road"? Reading, then, is truly a luxury of civilization (and reading cartoons, where representations of the Prophet are concerned, only of Western civilization.) The argument for the permanence of printed matter is logical only insofar as you have a public with the leisure for study of the material. Or, as I believe Oscar Wilde put it so well: Giving a man a book is an impertinence, unless you also give him the time to read it.

There is an alternative, however. I am reminded of a favorite book of my youth, "Farenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury, making the case for him being one of the finest allegorists of our day but most certainly one of the ABC's of science fiction (Asimov and Clarke being the other two way back when). The "Book People" were forced to give up physical volumes and commit their most beloved work to memory; in essence, turning themselves into biological equivalents of e-readers. This was then, and remains today, an utterly beautiful concept. Yes, they DID love their covers/paper/bindings/endpapers/ink/fonts, but once they were forced to make a choice, they opted for containing the KNOWLEDGE OF THE TEXT. As in sex--carnal knowledge of. As in...it fucks with your head to think of a book about books being destroyed to keep them meaning can you keep this book by memorizing it to repeat back to others and, if so, does that violate Bradbury's copyright?

I could go on and on but really this is enough. Thesis stated, logical reasoning, proofs and supports. And a few yucks on the side.

That is all said to say this: Darwin.

Yup. Natural selection and adaptation. That's all it is. Put them together, make it in plain speech and it sounds like this: the world of reading has changed, and changed more than once. It has evolved. Sometimes you make a choice to resist; sometimes you go with the flow. If it doesn't matter to you how you do it, have no particular aesthetic barriers or prejudices, then as long as it enters through the eye, in the medium of sentences (unless its poetry), its fine.

But if you need to get all tactile on my ass, fine. Get yourself a crimson Louis Vuitton faux-alligator wraparound. Yes: an accessory after-the-fact artifact!

Monday, October 11, 2010

...how i spent my summer staycation, part 1...

The diarist impulse once more moves the figurative quill with a will of it own. So many points of entry have no significance yet pan out much better than one imagined; even Proust's was pretty mundane, if highly effective, in summoning up events of 30 or 40 years past. The choice then is as much "The Lady or The Tiger", yes? You think you are taking the best path when the option was merely chance.

But when chance is the only thing that breaks the logjam of Indifference, and its non-differentiation from Indolence, and its close relation Idleness, you take the first thing that falls in your path.

Hence an object that fixes a date is best. The National Organization of Women has received a lot of bad press over the years for being arch and uncompromising with respect to equality in rights and parity in wages. This is no worse than the "Extremism in defense of Liberty..." argument. Perhaps their approach to sexism--seeking to censure it in the culture as a whole--has become a bit too broad (no pun intended), but that's at least kept the other issues in the news.

When our longtime pals Shirley and Joanie decided they couldn't wait for New York to change its laws, they opted for Massachussets' more same-sex-friendly legislation and chose this Independence Day weekend meeting to make the celebration big-time. And what better way for lifetime supporter/members to show solidarity than to have it in the main hotel ballroom of the conference? The rest of the holiday was just so much butter-cream icing on the cake with the little twin dutch-girl Hummel-type figurines adorning the triple-layer confection. (Query: when they bring it out after the first slice, how is it that the original shape was round and all the divisions are square, of the same proportions and none showing evidence of a wedge? is there actually a second one done in breadpans? Do they throw out the V-shaped cuts?) The national chairwoman congratulated them as this was the first time NOW had hosted a wedding, bringing this up to a near State-wedding category--if you rate Feminism up there with other big "isms" of the 20th century.

Rather not dwell on the whole issue of rights here as it takes away so much from the occasion itself. Remember? This is the 4th of July. In Boston. The home of the original Tea Party...when it meant something other than narrow-mindedness and self-absorbtion. (See a previous post here for more on that subject. And I'd tell you which one it was....but I just can't seem recollect exactly which one that was at this moment...) At any rate, revelry was in the atmosphere, the wine of exhilaration...as much as the $3 lemonades necessary for walking any distance in the heat. And The Freedom Trail is just such a pilgrimage that no American can resist. The great thing about Boston is that even though the downtown evelopment is as rampant as New York's, they managed to preserve enough of the locations intact so that, if you use your imagination, you can see the human scale of events, wherein the highest point would be the Old North Church where Paul Revere sighted those lamps: one if by land, two if by sea. If there is anything resembling hallowed ground, outside of a few Civil War battlefields, this is it. So is it any wonder that, as we strolled--post-hitching--from the Commons to the Old State House (and look through the actual window to the intersection where the fabled Massacre took place) to Fanieul Hall to Old Ironsides to Revere's house... Could I be forgiven, even amid the lovely piper's demonstration of period musical themes in the silversmith's courtyard, still humming the wedding music from last night, k.d. lang's exhilarating "Just Keep Me Movin'"?

"Free-eee-dom! Free-eee-dom! Free-eee-dom! Ooooh-Ooooh-Ooooh-Ooooha! Ooooh-Ooooh-Ooooh-Ooooha! Ooooh-yeah!"

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

If I didn't know it was flying, I might've had less fun...

TIME: I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror
Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,
Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
To use my wings. Impute it not a crime
To me or my swift passage that I slide
O’er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried
Of that wide gap, since it is in my pow’r
To o’erthrow law, and in one self-born hour
To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass
The same I am, ere ancient’st order was
Or what is now receiv’d. I witness to
The times that brought them in; so shall I do
To th’ freshest things now reigning, and make stale
The glistering of this present, as my tale
Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,
I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing
As you had slept between.... What of here ensues
I list not prophesy; but let Time’s news
Be known when ‘tis brought forth...in hollow laughter,
And what to here adheres, which follows after,
Is th’ argument of Time. Of this allow,
If ever you have spent time worse ere now;
If never, yet that Time himself doth say
He wishes earnestly you never may.

--from "A Winter's Tale", Wm. Shakespeare

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke--original Youth International Party slogan...ok, but what's so funny?

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: The header here was originally “Everybody’s in show biz/Everybody’s a star”—Ray Davies of the Kinks, from the album and song of the same name. That was when it was simple. But nothing is that easy. The new title came as the work-in-progress began to coalesce, and it became clear that a lot more was required. Then came the next inspiration, a quote attributed to Richard Burbage, Shakespeare's go-to actor, a last gasp that has come down to us, through the ages, as either perfectly formed or adapted and adopted, whatever, of the apocryphal summation of art: "Dying is easy; Comedy is hard."]

Today marks a peculiar anniversary, one that is probably only familiar to those obsessed by the Yankees/Red Sox feud ongoing since they traded the Babe to the Bronx. In 1774, two weeks after the other one, the NYC branch of the Sons of Liberty threw their own tea party, chucking crates of Tetley, Lipton and Earl Grey into the Hudson. Do you think anybody in the present world of “the rabble” (as many have self-labeled their groups, in honor of the King George view of our rebel forefathers) would care? After all, that is one of the two home fronts (the other being California) of the species Liberalus Elitus, their sworn enemies. Mind you, one supposes that they can now accept the other one, marginally, as South Boston was one of the districts that helped elect Scott Brown.

The Tea Party umbrella covers a legitimate, grassroots, honorable American protest movement…and also a ginned-up, astroturfed, shameful display of wanton childishness and egomania, blind to the assets of the opposition and too forgiving of their own lunatic fringe. These seeming polar-opposite opinions are not given to appear either indecisive or “fair and balanced”. The reason for saying so is only that within these extremes there is very little latitude for compromise or discourse, and it is much the same as our view of the Muslim world and its tepid response to our fears of terrorists. Here, the people with a desire for restrictions on Big Government and grievances at the loss of civil liberties cannot be debated because the only ones being heard, or having attention paid to them, are those who are the loudest, shrillest and generally the most obnoxious of the group.

When my friend Ed pointed out to me that Arlo Guthrie had given some reporter for the NY Times (for the feature “Five Minutes With…”, I think it was called) a reference to support of Ron Paul, he was dismayed to find the son of Woody had gone conservative. I pointed out that it could also be that the reporter was being young and snotty (or “snarky”, if that is the proper neologism—assuming that it is NOT the Lewis Carroll word but more the combination of “snakey” and “arch”) and Arlo just decided to flip-off with a curt blurt. When canvassing during at the last election, there were instructors who told us how to handle lawn signs as indicators of whether or not to approach houses (in that area) and the mention of Ron Paul supporters always brought a laugh (as being so rare) but also was encouraged as these were people who actually THOUGHT about the issues; who made a choice based upon what may be thought of as ultraconservative, but is, as well, almost radically Libertarian. And Libertarians are not people to be scoffed at—ever. Some of my best friends…

What I like, and what everyone must acknowledge, is that these are people who SPEAK TRUTH TO POWER. That’s in uppercase for a good reason: it needs to be set off as the most important thing that we, as citizens and registered voters and taxpayers—whatever label you wish to apply—should do in order to participate in governance. When you talk with these people, it is safe to say you can readily admit that the Healthcare bill is flawed; that regulation is necessary to curb excesses that violate sound business practices but should not be a bar to competitive trade; that the President is not the Messiah or even the Pope; that you take orders from your conscience as much as they do, but will—knowingly—have to bend it, at times, in order to accommodate your ideals to practicalities. At its best, this is truly Democracy in action.

That’s also a discussion that is impossible in the present climate.

In an attempt to get away from the noise of overheated rhetoric and virulent images and evening news clip-loops of rally-monkeys, I read. First, a New Yorker piece on the movement, then a lot of blogs, then a Times piece, and then some more blogs. The best of the bunch was the NYer one. While it did not entirely avoid the kooks, it presented a lot of the arguments from the perspective of ordinary folk, and—outside of being suspicious of anybody from that city—mostly provided a look at it from their side of the fence, and, as well, its evolution (though many would dispute the use of such a Darwinistic verb) from a CNBC reporter’s shout-out on the floor of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange into the activist campaign that could replace Teddy, the Lion of the Senate, with Pick-up Truck Scott. What it did offer of value was an historical perspective and some links for investigation.

It's so easy to satisfy curiosity there days: Google any one of the cause camps and visit their websites or blogs and look for patterns. Start with the tech and then check out the chat. As they are also part of the blogosphere of which this site is a participant, assessing the level of manufacture is no trick; we all use the same set of templates, depending upon your particular server’s options. We get frames and fill them with stuff; some of your own generation, others provided gratis to make it look fancier. And yes, the postings are long/short, entered by each date or in one long list [ASIDE: note for all—don’t do that; loading takes too long], with/without graphics, black type or white on colored background but some with differently-colored type mixed in. These are not that sophisticated or loaded with resources (unless you go to something like the big guns, FreedomNow.org or such); they ARE personal. Then, as equals in the world of open journals, meeting them halfway didn't seem like such a stretch.

And we’re not talking Birthers, Deathers, Truthers, or any of those specific phobias. So then you start reading and the first thing that you realize is that the references in the article to Liberty Bell (an early “Tea Bagger”—but with the wrong binding metaphor in her call to arms—is depicted in superhero cartoon) is the same one in the article AND she is cited on almost every site. And the prevalence of Ayn Rand Objectivism as the highest sources of philosophical criticism. And the number of slogans and caricatures of Obama, Pelosi, Reid, etc., as well as the photos of demonstrations, and lots of bumper stickers. Finally, because they are there, you start looking at the Comments fields too. (If I had as many as some of these, I would feel very fortunate indeed.)

Once you are hip-deep in the thickets, it all begins to blur but salient points do emerge. The best of them, after authority, utilize arguments based upon such things as polling data from Rasmussen Reports, “The Most Comprehensive Public Opinion Data”, as they claim. And most authorities say they are that good, except there is also another statistical factor they say is important, what is called the “house effect”: that of the systemic differences in the way polls tend, due to their own search for evidence to support their clients’ desired conclusions. This is not “skewing” data as much as nudging a question towards an answer you prefer. The extreme example of this, from Law School, would be something like, ‘When did you stop beating your wife?’ (A better analysis might be found here FiveThirtyEight: Politics Done Right: House Effects Render Poll-Reading Difficult) This does not say they are wrong, but it does indicate that they are probably Right. And if you go to this as your main source of support 5 times out of 10, you aren’t really interested in facts as facts any more than I used to be.

Still, if you are after public opinion, that’s what you do. It gets shakier when you start having to go after independent economic or scientific data, or philosophical slants that are wider afield than your sect. That’s when the volume ramps up alarmingly fast…like the Minutemen on laughing gas. Yes, the rhetoric (if you want to stretch the term to bad English) is nearly 100%, red-blooded, Revolutionary War (or the Colonial War, a designation equally descriptive but with less appeal to virulence and therefore never used in their sloganeering), fire-breathing oratory that wraps itself in all the symbols of the Founding Fathers’ major (ad) campaigns against the British, and talk about uniting again for a “Second” revolution…they just don’t talk about the rest of us. And even though a lot of them use the term “We” a lot (as in, “We, the People”), it sounds just like they’re saying “Me” in the plural.

Short aside for a minor confession. In my salad days, I admit to a similarly rabid turn of mind, albeit from the Left; uncompromising, arbitrary and disregarding as bogus any facts that did not fit in with my world view. (Ok. Almost. Bane of my existence: always looking at both sides of an argument. Only really useful in chess.) I would generalize, sure, but never without some modicum of evidence, and after much analysis and consideration. This is why we were called radicals--our opinions were out of the norm and extreme in their challenges to standards.

What comes through all of the speechifyin’ about the Real America and True Patriots and The Constitution and the Tree of Liberty and Don’t Tread On Me all that, is that the most authentic characteristic they all have in common is a sense of anger and aggrievement. As a rule, this sort emotional character comes from those who have been disenfranchised by a system and only want their fair share of ‘the American Dream’. However, what comes through in the Times article is that these people are better educated, have professional jobs in relatively stable employment areas, and are more affluent than the main. As well, the use of language and tactics is very close to what we used to use, and were often accused of taking dictation from Moscow and Fidel and Mao. When you add it up, then, this is not only co-opting the forms of your enemy but posturing like runway mannequins: they're messages are hollow and empty of any real content; the kind of stuff that's good for marches...but this is no different than what shows up on their blogs. And when you codify this behavior in a psychological/sociological profile, it rates as right up there with spoiled children: petulant and pouting. It is not, as they like to type themselves as the Radical Right, but simply reactionary. This is proven by the plain fact that the Party of No is against everything and proposes nothing new. One might argue that this is the way of any opposition group out of power.

But there's more.

The reason for the original title (the Kinks one) was that we all have realized, at some time or other in our blogging experience, that, with few exceptions, this is a trivial, useless waste of time and energy with no hope of any return of value for the time spent on executing our entries. (Take Ed, for instance. The amount of labor he puts into mediafunhouse.blogspot.com far and away outweighs the responses he gets for these little gems. And that isn’t counting the cable access show on which it is based.) At all but the most popular music-dl blogs, you can expect maybe 2-to-5 “thank yous” and are grateful for that, especially the idea of return visitors. In the TP world, it is more like 5-to-10 and better. And neither are these simple thanks; they are solid supports and hearty ‘fight the good fight’, ‘keep up the good work’, ‘don’t falter at the altar’-type-of-exhortations which express a vocal message much more than a written one. (Again: bad grammar; terrible spelling.) As well, these are people who tweet and Blackberry and IM lots too! And if you read the previous post, the attraction to this entire social-media networking is just as palpable. It is not generalizing to say that support-group re-enforcement for every impulse, no matter how ephemeral and trivial, which may add to the Foe’s consternation and frustration is trumpeted to the rafters right alongside Paul Revere’s Ride and The Shot Hear ‘Round The World and other iconographic events of the era.

It is not merely a mutual admiration society, though. This is not a small thing either. The idea of being ‘loud and proud’ may have come from James Brown and filtered through to Gay rights but it is squarely something the former ‘Silent Majority’ want…and they want it NOW! When you read the blogs, and the comments, you immediately notice that they are not out to make any arguments, compile any logical supports, create any plans to supplant that which they oppose (and believe me, this is something I recognize well from my own intemperate past) based in economic or demographic evidence. And, despite the Scott Brown victory (and the Hoffman defeat in upstate New York), they do not want to follow the strictest dictum of the game: ALL POLITICS ARE LOCAL. No, they must make an impression on the National stage, otherwise they won’t get their most sought-after prize: a 10-second loop on CNN. Think I’m exaggerating? Try this: one of the people in the New Yorker piece asked the writer if he knew who won the Battle of Saratoga. It wasn’t a pop quiz; it was to get to bring up Benedict Arnold. “One of the reasons he turned traitor was because he didn’t get the recognition he deserved.” (You may now insert a Rodney Dangerfield cut-away of tie-adjustment, shoulder-hitch and the “I don’t get no respect” grumple.)

They want to be famous…just like everybody else, if only for a minute…or 10 seconds.

When you live in a media capital, it is not uncommon for your waitstaff to have both Food Handler and SAG cards. On the other hand, what with the proliferation of “Reality TV” competitions and ‘unscripted’ family docu-soaps, more and more Average Joes and Janes are getting their moment in the spotlight as well. What differs from the past is that when you were on, say, Password or Jeopardy or Concentration, it was confined to daylight, workday hours. (Let us omit What’s My Line?, The Match Game, The Dating Game, etc. and those of their ilk as they would be either one or two a week, tops, or syndicated on the fringes of prime time.) Today, you see schulbs & bubbas, goombahs & goombettes, sluts & studs, nerds & cheerleaders, Six-Pack Abs & Joe Six-Pack, NASCAR Dads & soccer/hockey moms, all having their moment in the public eye. It does not matter to them that they are also being used in the same capacity as a freak show by venal carny barkers/programmers who have figured out how to garner the maximum advertising revenue stream from the least investment of capital. Nor should it matter; if what you want is to be able to sit around with the grandkids and point at a screen and say, Look! There’s ME!—that's fine. Performance art is a good place to start...but remember: drama, comedy, tragedy--it belongs on a stage.

Now to the substance of the subsequent title.

Spend some time with Stewart or Olberman and you will hear the subject of Comedy brought up: by the former as an explanation of what he does; by the latter as a critique of Fox News and their common-taters. Everyone knows that "The Daily Show" is on Comedy Central, but that doesn't stop a lot of people going after it as if it were a newsgathering organization with an editorial division. More than once he has explained--explicitly--that he is NOT "fair and balanced" BECAUSE THIS IS SATIRE. "Countdown" labels Bill-O the Clown, and Rush and Glenn as comedians, saying 'because that is what they are', in the main. So what we have, on one end, is a self-described humorist (I think that's safe enough to tag John, which gives him a point spread from Mark Twain to Will Rogers and leaves room for whatever heaviness may come from dealing in provocative ideas). He gets a lot of laughs, first and foremost, and he's happy. If someone wants to take something he says and start a crusade, he'd be the first one to tell them to seek professional counseling.

On the other, most prominently, are an ex-journalist and two radio-originated broadcasters offering views and opinions on the events and issues of the day, never claiming to have any authority or responsibility. No, they are just asking "why", arent' they? And here's the nut: they may be as described, but nobody treats them like that. When you see their summations, given as blanket statements echoing the deepest beliefs of those people on the aforesaid blogs, you have to wonder "why" as well. When it comes to public discourse, especially on the subject of the future of the governance, the last thing we should pay attention to are such vain, self-obsessed aggrandizers masquerading as patriots. Their broadsides are the permission slips for juvenile minds, inviting them to join a pre-packaged protest movement that looks like the old Vietnam/Free Speech/Ban the Bomb days without bothering to go through critical examination, the questioning of means and ends and motivations and desires, or ever reaching a conclusion on their own that does not eschew all doubt.

This is what reminds me of something I said earlier, about how the most important thing we can do is speak truth to power. If the news organizations want to show them making noise and raising hell, they should also acknowledge that these are empty, unconsidered statements, at best; and no less than professionally-produced simulacra/clones of our best aspirations towards the nobility of humankind and sanctity of the individual via Mad Ave-quality scripts and graphics for end-user industry lobby efforts to increase profits, suppress actual dissent and escape consequences of actions made possible only by continued manipulation of policy and regulatory agencies.

The worst is, these are people who literally do not think. Another generalization that seems too overarching? On Maddow last night, a perfect example: a Tea Party-identified woman was interviewed (or polled) and asked whether or not she approved of “big government”. She, of course, replied in the negative. Then she was asked if she was on Medicare or receiving Social Security. She answered yes. Then she was asked whether or not she approved of them. This caused her an actual conundrum, almost an Orwellian doublethink, wherein she had to confront her blanket statement of the TP line she had dl’ed to her frontal cortex for a knee-jerk response, but at the same time having to face the facts that her best interest lay with two programs that were emblematic of governmental intervention. She then had to say, “I don’t know, but I guess I’m changing my mind as we speak.”

See? These people are not dead between the ears; they CAN think, they just don’t want to ratiocinate. The problem with reading those blogs is how easy it is to feel superior to them, if only for one’s ability to run rings around their arguments. But smugness ill becomes anyone, and I would rather have a dialogue than talk to myself (despite what this particular blog appears to be doing). These are not evil devils doing bad as much as frightened and marginalized everyday folk who want what they see on TV to conform to something in their lives. Warhol’s most quoted line is “In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes”; most from the ‘burbs would settle for a blurb.

Am I immune? Yes and no. For me, this blog is a means to organize my thoughts, so to speak, in an open forum. I do not invite comments but neither do I reject them. This is first and foremost a journal of what goes on in one mind towards one end that may or may not be meaningful or purposeful. Whatever ‘fame’ I had was in the past; enough so that, in mine own little circle, I found some sort of admiration and popularity. But that’s what youth is about; on a bunch of grey retirees on pensions and middle-age guts and secretary spreads, it looks kinda sad and pathetic. What makes it ugly is that everything they ask for—like not leaving this debt to our grandchildren and such—is only making it worse.

One last quote. “Do not go gentle into that goodnight/Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” I know what John Donne meant, but it sure don’t look like they do.

First you have to see the light.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

I’m losing status at the high school.— “Status Back, Baby”—Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention

I’m losing status at the high school.—
“Status Back, Baby”—Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention

Of late, it has crossed the mind that there is a new form of behavioral control being proscribed upon the socio-cultural sphere with brand new set of obligations as subtle as any Japanese court politesse, as tightly-bound as Emily Post in Moroccan leather, and, as finely delineated as B.F. Skinner’s analysis of verbal behavior. And, amazingly enough, the metaphor comes built-in with the subject matter!

It is, of course, the Web. It is also, The Net. It is as well, not to stretch a point, an electromagnetic attraction. (Why do all these apply, and so aptly? That is something unponderable at this moment; suffice it to say—worthy subject for a follow-up.) Thus, as anyone can see, these all have built-in restraints and constraints and dynamics in their very definitions, let alone their poetic usages and implications. Here & now, though, they transcend those definitions to become…(we’ll get back to that…)

The exact instant this rose above the level of background processing (and yes, I know: too many computer metaphors for “thinking”? READ THE OTHER BLOG!) and began to consume major RAM, was after seeing an episode of “South Park”. Normally, this cartoon is off the radar as it is sort of boring (disgusted bus non dispute tandem bicycles), except, on this occasion, as the advertised subject was Facebook. It must be admitted: curiosity got the better of me. The influence of this phenomenon has not gone unnoticed, if only for the Marshall McLuhanesque aspects of it. (cf. SEE ABOVE, then BELOW) No novice here but hardly an acolyte, the prospect of seeing the world’s most popular (arguably, but not by me) social networking site reduced to a series of topical gags as appreciated by a gang of hyperactive 4th graders would, of necessity, strip away the overarching aspects of its place in the world of media and render it its essential functions. (Forget the potty-mouthed aspect: anyone who wasn’t at that age was raised in a vacuum, bubble or commune.) And that is enough of an introduction.

Though it is possible I am living in one of the aforementioned containment vessels, I have managed to get by without ever having sent a text message or engaged in an online chat. A cheapo cellphone only came into my life a year or so back, and I only signed on for a FB account to look at an e-mail sent by a friend. From this it would be easy to conclude the identity of a reluctant Luddite with a hard-on for hard disc space, or something. Well, were that true, why off earth would I have a blog? (Case closed.)

Yes, I like these toys but I also like CONTENT. As said in the last post, I prefer to emulate that sterling pedestrian equestrian of palomino persuasion, Mr. Ed, and not fritter away my time with drivel and doggerel. Yet the fascination with Facebook needs to be grappled with at some juncture. An attorney at the firm said that he found a witness he was looking for via FB. Now how modern is that? No skip tracer, no bondsman, or private dick—all you need to do is hunt him down…by his profile or…whatever.

And this is where the “South Park” show entitled, “You have 0 Friends”, came in handy. For those not in the know, of which I number myself, the enormous fan base has created its own language. Herewith, I intend to employ SP-ese—the shorthand and (I suppose) txt-version of conversation garnered from webchats and the like, whenever possible—but with a translation: such as refs to the “ep” (episode).

The boys have a new craze, Facebook, and as usual, are doing it to the exclusion of all else. Stan (the level-headed one, primarily, or at least, the killjoy of the bunch), loses his temper and says: “Why are you guys wasting your time on Facebook? We’re supposed to be out playing videogames!” As is common amongst them, their idea of a prank is to make him an FB account, against his express wishes.

Somewhere along here, the example of someone named Kip Drordy is mentioned as a complete social failure: he has a FB account with 0 friends for six months. (Hence the title of the episode. Kip is a one-time character.) He is seen sighing and staring at the screen of his computer; he has a sad clown picture on the wall behind him. (This is almost genuine pathos, here.) Then, suddenly, he is “friended” by Kyle and becomes renewed, focusing around this new addition to his life with utter infatuation. As soon as Stan’s father, Randy, finds out he has an account, he begs Stan to “friend” him. Then is told to friend mother and grandmother.

Kyle (the one whose hat has earmuffs) is playing a FB game called Farmville. (There are others, I gather, called Mafia Wars, Vampire Hospital, Pet Salad, and possibly Farkle and Super Farkle, and Bejeweled Blitz and Jungle Jewels. There also may be Yahtzee…but more on that later.) It appears to be some kind of group participation game where you can earn points when people visit it and do things like water crops or harvest or such. However, inexplicably, Kyle begins to lose friends (his counter showing them dropping off.) There is a cut-away to a Cartman podcast where he offers instructions on how to get friends on FB in a Jim Kramer parody called “Mad Friends” wherein stock and a friend count are equated. “Chick friends are worth almost triple what dude friends are” in his promotional view. Kyle decides to go to him for advice.

Meanwhile, Wendy (angry-looking girl with mouth-braces) confronts Stan about Susan92's post "I think you look cute in your bunny costume", not interested in explanation that this is his grandmother. She also demands he update his status to "In a Relationship". Later, he is walking down the street when a random stranger stops his car, accosts him for not “friending” him and then says: “I'm just a guy that gets ignored I guess!”, then, enraged, spits on him and speeds off.

The second half shows Stan trying to get his homework done but neglecting to respond to his FB friends, his father telling him "Stan, poke your Grandma!" Then, Cartman, schooling Kyle, suggests he go on Chat Roulette to gain new friends. Kyle demurs, saying, “It’s justa bunch of guys jacking off!” And, sure enough, that’s what they encounter one after another, leading to Cartman’s pithy summation: “To find a good friend, you've gotta wade through a lot of dicks.”

Then comes the adventure part of the show, wherein, Stan, frustrated by the waste of his time, tries to delete his account and becomes literally sucked into FB a la the old computer game fantasy movie, “Tron”. In that movie, the master CPU turned programmer—“user”—Jeff Bridges into a game piece and forced him to compete in his own creations, with the threat of elimination of his actual reality outside of the game. The games were all in glowing neon and featured high-speed grid running or “Space Invaders”-type shooters. Here, however, Stan has to play Yatzhee—an old school board game with dice—and wins every time. He is told that, in order to get out of FB, he has to find and battle his own “profile”, and, in order to do that, he has to find it. Here, Stan goes onto Kyle’s FB page and tells him to locate it for him, but first has to do something to help out on his farm. Instead, Stan begins kicking the crops until Kyle tells him he is hosting an online chat party for all his “friends”--almost 1,000,000 people—at Café World.

Meanwhile, there is a cut-away to Kip enjoying quality time with his new “friend” by taking a laptop to the movies and putting it on the next seat. (Poignant and creepy.) The climax is Stan—again—playing Yahtzee, only against his monstrous doppelganger, and winning with one throw. Shortly thereafter, he reappears in the material world and, when confronted by his father as to why they are no longer “friends” tells him to fuck off. Then, Kyle “un-friends” Pip, leaving him near-suicide when suddenly, all Stan’s friends are given to him.

And that’s pretty much it.

After all that, you’d think: “Oh, this must be a terrific fan in disguise to have gone into such detail.” No, all this was culled from chat rooms on the ep. The fanbase is rabid and ardent, but also varied. Within this world, I found slavish devotion, curiously unbalanced perceptions, petulance, and as well solid critiques and even a bit of historical perspective. And a lot of bad spelling.

However, that’s not the point of this.

As said up top, what has come to mind is how demands are made to participate in completely superfluous events because it is expected, and anticipated. Just not by you. By others. It is not even that these activities are not important to those others either. They can be. Stepping out of the SP view of FB and into a rather limited, first-hand, brush with the site, one thing came clear immediately. The service called “update status” or “profile update”. It comes, seemingly out of nowhere, unbidden, and arrives on your computer (or PDA or phone) with all the authority of a stop sign. It may not MEAN, “PLEASE RESPOND”, but neither does a ringing phone MEAN “ANSWER ME!” And neither of them means “PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’M IMPORTANT TO YOU!”

But they do, don’t they?

And this is where those metaphors come in handy as perfect cliches: like the stickiness of the Web, the inescapability of the Net and the magnetic pull of polar opposites. Any competent writer could create extended metaphors from more obscure forms but these are so natural, they would seem made for the job. (This is where the transcendence part comes in again.) I’d like to think it was all McLuhan’s doing—from the premise that all media are extensions of the human organism, senses and capabilities in particular—but he wasn’t around when the Internet was created in 1972. Still and all, we’ve learned to appreciate how present concepts can anticipate future developments beyond their immediate application and follow language to that place, and some of that was from him. I mean, he wrote “The Medium is the Message” before changing it to “The Medium is the Massage”. Was he seeing the way newscasts would become ego-stroke-books or was it just a “hands-on” approach?

In order to appreciate the prescience of the Marshall, you need a bit more post-science too.

Which brings up the story of “mands” and “tacts”. In the world of Behaviorism there are two giants which most people know: Pavlov and B.F. Skinner—the former for the dogs, the latter for the rats. But there’s more. In 1957, Skinner published Verbal Behavior. With this ambitious volume, he wanted to apply his form of operant conditioning to language learning, saying that a sentence is merely part of “a behavior chain, each element of which provides a conditional stimulus for the production of the succeeding element.” So, part of that is figuring out just what those elements are, and here are two salient ones. Mands (short for deMANDS) are defined as utterances (note: whimpers and groans communicate just as well) that are reinforced by the elevation of deprivation. Utterances (note: they can be grunts as well) that are produced when the speaker is not deprived are called tacts (short for conTACT). Tacts are verbalizations (or sounds) that the speaker produces to provide information instead of attending to states of deprivation. While on the surface, tacts and mands may seem similar, their underlying motivations (stimuli) and their reinforcements are different. When a mand is reinforced, the need is sated. When a tact is reinforced, there is no need to sate.

Yes, and that and $2 will still not get you any closer to a Tall Starbucks Regular Blend.

You see, this is EXACTLY what this whole shebang has been about. When you break it down to wants, needs and desires, the Individual doesn’t require attention; it just WANTS, and feels a lack of satiation. Mands need, but sometimes don’t need anyTHING. Tacts are more tactful, similar in many respects to eye conTACT or a head-nod, a tip of the cap. Nonsense, and not necessary, but nonetheless… And this has been proven time and again under strictly-controlled laboratory conditions and in multiple orders and environments. It is approaching a Law of Behavior, ok?

(After his book was published and critiqued by Noam Chomsky, Skinner failed to respond immediately to the issues and problems raised. His slow response coupled with both a growing disdain for the behaviorist paradigm and the influence of technology, computers, and information processing led to the strengthening of the cognitive movement in psychology and other social sciences. In other words: he was definitely right as far as that went, but HE LOST STATUS!)

So, is a Tweet more of a mand than an FB update is a tact? Or is it the other way round? That is not the question, however. It is more like: Why bother?

There is little more ephemeral than electronic communications, but also little difference between a mand or tact, in e-mail form, than a whim or even an impulse, despite the fact that one satiates a need and the other doesn’t. Such thoughts, without composition, are no different than autonomous functions; a gesture barely one step up from a knee jerk. And just because you think something needs to be said, it doesn’t mean it needs to be heard.

Interruption Science is the study of what happens when one activity is presumptively halted (usually by exterior forces) without explanation or consideration, in favor of another. In the modern world, this has become epidemic, as more and more we attempt multi-tasks that require the monitoring of many activities simultaneously—like the magician trying to keep a dozen plates spinning—all it takes is one lapse of attention and BANG! Schnabeleens… Not to get too pedantic about it, but to give you some statistics, it has been calculated that when you are on the computer and working on some project, you can get an e-mail or phone call or someone walk-in and say I need this right away. So you go ahead and TCB. However, that isn’t the end of it. You are just as likely to spend no more than 11 minutes before that one is interrupted, and those are as likely to be some three-minute segments as well. Then you want to get back to where you were, ok? This is not to say you can’t just jump back in, BUT, in clinically-tested studies, it averages out to 25 minutes before you can, given the complexity of the task as well. Now that is a heavy toll on efficiency, sure. Then consider our buddy Coleridge. “Kubla Khan” was a poem he was composing in the midst of a drug-fueled paroxysm of creation, and was interrupted by “a person from Porlock.” For being only some ten lines which he could remember, it is still one of those pieces most often quoted (and an inspiration for the Canadian Rock gods, RUSH to write “Xanadu”…and maybe even “Closer To The Heart” as the chord progressions—uh, I don’t want to start something else right now…) and most speculated upon as to what the rest of it might have been like…had not that person from Porlock come a-knockin’.

To return to something said earlier, there is a factor in thinking which I call “background processing”. It is, in other terms, as well, “day-dreaming”, “idling”, “a brown study”, “woolgathering”, “meditating”, “musing” and even just “fucking off”. You’ve heard about it before, in various places and such guises aforesaid, but what it really means is sort of like ‘thinking about nothing…to think about something’. This is how scientists come up with those “Eureaka!” moments when they have theoretic breakthroughs. It is all about how you fill the head with as much intelligence and data as you can, and then—well, the process really is something similar to letting a pot come to boil. No one can tell you exactly how they got from A to B, but they are just as frequently A to Z—it’s almost that startling, in many cases. Of course, if you call up Newton and say, Yo, Ike, whassup? and Ike says, Nothing, whas by you, dog?—he may have been on the verge of falling asleep, true, but just as possibly on the verge of starting the Enlightenment.

You don’t have to be in an opium trance to write a dream, but it helps…and more if you can languidly stretch out your arm across satin pillows and poppy-smoke billows to finger quill, ink and parchment at the ready to begin following a delicate-yet-rhythmic line of image-into-text as it flows from the soft tissue where dawn and dusk hide in hyperbolic arcs until BANGBANGBANG! ALLOALLO! MRCOLERIDGEYOUINTHERE? And Ike was probably going to find his way to a theory of optics, anyways…but maybe not on that particular day.

A while back, one of the entries quoted John Donne’s meditation 17 (http://stationsign.blogspot.com/search?q=no+man+is+an+island) so a further cite is off limits., but this still goes as far as the connectivity thing aforestated herein: the spider’s Web, the drag Net, the way positive charges can’t escape from negative charges, etc. I need inputs of all kinds from all sources; that’s a given. But there are stretches when I must ignore EVERYTHING that is not part of…something else—but specifically “THAT” [which stands in for “EVERYTHING that is part of”]. And this does not mean I do not want that contact or input, but JUST NOT RIGHT NOW! When it look most like I’m wandering about aimlessly, it MAY be so, but is just as likely that I’M NOT EVEN HERE. If it is really important, make it fast and I’ll deal with it. But if you want more of my time than a scan-&-reply, be prepared to wait.

It should be clear by now where this came from and is going. No point in prolonging. On the Simpsons, I’d be Lisa not Bart. In Warner Bros. cartoons, I’d be Daffy more often than Bugs, sorry to say. In SP, Stan. I don’t want to tell the world (or Randy) to f*ck-off…but yeah, I do.

So how is this all related to FZ’s song?

Everything else is just status. Long ago I figured that the rich, thin, and famous were always going to be at the top of the pyramid and then found out it was for no good reason other than people paying attention to them. It may have meant something to me in high school, but I am so far from that now I can’t even remember whether those brown spots on my back are incipient melanomas or acne scars. It is almost the definition of the term “juvenile”…as much as SP is today, what “Beavis & Butthead” were before, and on into the past of our animated doppelgangers, and, allowing for convention and adaptation of formulas, on into puppetry to “Punch and Judy” and beyond. Like Commedia del’Arte, they may wear the cloaks of buffoons but are just as certainly our stalking horses for the limits of social intercourse. (Here you may insert a snickering simpering Butthead…)

The impression I got from SP (as well as a funny bit done by Dimitri Martin on “The Daily Show” a few years back) is that what counts is the number of “friends” you have—not whether or not you could hold a decent conversation with any of them. (“Chick friends are worth almost triple what dude friends are,” don’t forget!) Of course, both were done as jokes, right? So nobody takes that seriously, right? And why are jokes funny? It is of many opinions that they tell some essential truth about ourselves, but in such a manner that the recognition factor is turned and the burn of embarrassment becomes sublimated into a gasp of astonishment which produces laughter.

So, it’s stupid, but true, right?

I don’t want to think about this stuff. Status is only good for making one feel superior to another, and it only exists in a universe where there are values more important than mine. I don’t mean Laws or Morals or Ethics—just Values. (Now I know why this sounds familiar: it was one of the entries in the Brain blog.) Is this selfish? You bet. Is it wrong? No way. If I give you my time and I place no value on it, then I am giving you nothing and saying, by implication, you are worthless as well. On the other hand, if I do place a high number on the word count/face time, you are getting a really good return on your investment of a couple of minutes or hours. (As opined earlier: “To find a good friend, you've gotta wade through a lot of dicks.” Sage counsel, indeed. I would hesitate to call him the Buddah of the show, but he does exhibit some of the insights of Bacchus.) And that’s better for all concerned.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

...after the thaw...

Being that it has been a while since posting, the best explanation one may offer is that of Sir Thomas More who, when asked, by the royal inquisitors, why he had not voiced approval for King Henry the Eighth's divorce and remarriage, was said to have remarked: Silence implies consent. You may then say: Consent to what? OR what is this sh*t? And be quite right to do so.

However, if that don't grab you, then appreciate, if you will, the sage counsel of a 60's tv icon:”People yakety-yak the streets/And waste their time away/But Mr. Ed will never speak/Unless he has something to say...”

Which brings me to my next post...

Uh...that is getting waaay too far ahead.

The subject of the return to the blog is, sort of, where it all began: politics. Or, rather, the struggle of certain public initiatives by individuals of some merit and groups of some influence to wrest the destiny of this country back from those who would govern by consensus of financial cartels and theocratic aspirations. On reflection, though, it might not really be that as much as a sort of celebration of participation. One of the tags on the accompanying video is “civics 101”. This is not an attempt to be arch or coy but more in the same vein of something Zappa once said. When asked why he, a musician, chose to get involved with politics and international relations he shrugged, “That's just what I learned in my high school civics class.” That is what is so striking. Some of us were actually paying attention then. Why was that?

The e-mail was one of those press-gang attempts to get anyone to respond to a call for volunteers to “March for Healthcare Reform”. It was, unfortunately, for a Monday. Then again, the timing was perfect, coming right as the debate in Congress was reaching a fever pitch on the subject aforesaid. It hit exactly where a personal level of outrage had reached someplace near the autonomous function, touching the soft palate at the back of the mouth, inducing a gorge reflex.

So, rather than vomit, we signed on. After all, it was a beautiful weekend to be in our nation's capitol. There were only a few cherry blossoms out but the ones on the trees fairly quivered in anticipation of the next dawn, or two.

Oddly enough, it was also the weekend of a big march for Immigration reform! So all Sunday it was huge with Mexican and Latino families and banners for SEIU (hospital workers—coincidentally). Despite that turnout, they all left with the sundown.

The real drama was on the Hill. We missed the Tea Baggers trying to intimidate the Majority leaders entering Congress and then linking arm-in-arm (and no, the comparison with the heydays of the Civil Rights movement was not lost on most observers) to walk through them, and, as well, the bear-baiting by the extremist members for them to get in the gallery and disrupt proceedings. No one disputes their rights to make their voices heard nor their right to peaceful assembly and even loud protest, but things started from this have gone beyond that and—well, no more of it will be mentioned here. The final act was the end of the debate in fury and vitriol of a sort that is rare among the Right, and sounding more than ever like petulant children. And then, way past midnight, some twenty blocks from our hotel, you could swear you heard the chimes of freedom flashing. (Why couldn't you hear the hurrahs and hallelujahs from the street, like when the Yankees won? Hard to figure, but Washington IS another country.) Then on come the Man himself to make the announcement (excerpted here) and you get a sudden spring shiver, what the Elf calls a “Kyoto chill”, not from the weather—which, bytheby, shows showers all day tomorrow—but from the occasion. History is being made all around you.

Upon arrival at the gathering point, it becomes clear that the march was primarily for the medical community, as the banners indicate. Nonetheless, they are most welcoming to any and all who would care to go along, but “lab coats in front please!” To make matters just more interesting, the bus from New York, the one with all our other recruited compatriots, is stuck in traffic and probably an hour late. Scheduled marches wait for no man or vehicle, and the clouds grow ever darker overhead. By the time the gathering speeches are even started, those who have not already encased their placards in plastic are wrapping, and also tearing holes in the corners of garbage bags for improvised ponchos. (The Elf, as ever, has her own faux leopardskin one.) As we turn up Pennsylvania Avenue, it is pouring, and hard to keep any chants going as the line gets strung out at the street crossings. Breaching the Capitol precincts, we are given canned beverages and a waxed cardboard box lunch for the equally daunting leg to the Hart Office building. There is quite a scrum at the doors because of the number of umbrellas trying to pass through security...”AND YOU CAN'T BRING IN YOUR SIGNS! PASS THEM TO THE COLLECTORS OUTSIDE!”...but someone apparently forgot to place collectors there.

Ah, the rest is self-explanatory.

...but one post-script: this is what change looks like...

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Last Chants for Health Care Reform

Within the whimsical title lies the mission of the previous weekend: a stroll with another 699 or so hardy souls across the Brooklyn Bridge.

That we were culled from the rolls of Obama supporters was a cinch. Who else would stage a protest in mid-February over the span of the windy East River? I would not rule out Tea Baggers, except that most of their activities seem to be confined to optimum climate conditions and never without adequate press coverage (meaning: Fox News). As much as memory serves that there were some official-type cameras out there, but the only one I recollect as being part of some media was the live webcast of the guy behind me carrying his iBook open to the built-in lens as his buddy carried a sign saying "KEEP IT ON THE CHEEP" written in copper paint and more significantly (and photogenically, I might add) while wearing what might be a classic Yves Saint Laurent grey twill suit, his jacket liberally coated with shiny pennies.

Ok. So I lied. It wasn't that cold. It was actually very nice. After gathering at the North end of Cadman Plaza under the eyes and prodigious muttonchops of the bust of some NYC mayor from 1910 (whose name escapes me), there was some attempt made to stage manage the presentation. First, it was important to get the health care professionals up front behind their banner, and it was ok to not wear a white lab coat either, as long as you were one. (Honor system.) Second, a variety of placards were distributed; some pre-printed, some homemade. Some people (like the above) brought their own banners like, "Upper West Side Baby Boomers for the Public Option" or affixed their own slogans to paint stirrers or a pizza box. (Liked that one--so American.) What impressed most about this melange was how random it was: the only homogenity was (probably) geniality. This is pretty much EXACTLY what I saw in the campaign: old, young, black, white, asian, dumpy and dowdy, sleek and chic, athletic and last legs. A common purpose, yes, but that defining factor as well: not just to talk the talk--a desire to walk the walk...literally.

That is not the subject of this, however. You want to read about the whole thing, I understand the Daily Kos has some mention of it. It is one thing to go on at length about the experience and its minutae; it is another to add the critique from that perspective.

The reason for the cutesy-pie play-on-words title is that the quibble here really is with one of the whole activities behind ANY march: that is--to protest, to RAISE A HUE AND CRY! (Ok. One aside: Without looking, I'd venture that the "Hue" part comes down to something like "Show your colors" or such. Any bets?) They spent a few bucks, most likely from the DNC, on the placards. But zero on the actual function of the whole thing.

That is: to raise your voice. To be heard above the din. To stand out from the noise.

That is: to chant, too.

Having been in a few of these in the past, experience teaches that a bunch of people carrying signs are a lot more effective at attracting attention when they speak with one voice. Or at least one snappy rhyme.

So, to wit: this.

Point ONE: Not enough megaphones. For even 700 people you need one at either end and one in the middle. Battery-powered bullhorns are cheap; hardware stores carry them for probably no more than $20 bucks. If you want to unite people somebody's got to lead and keep time, and fill in the gaps when weaker, meeker folk fall faint. These are people for whom volume is unnatural (sans sporting event).

Point TWO: Iambic pentameter. This is obvious--don't make it too rhythmically complicated.

Point THREE: If you ARE going to have more than one, you need to pass out cheat sheets...and rehearse!

Below are the ones from the cheat sheet I got when they were to be got. Comments are between the brackets.

Two four six eight
Time to reconciliate!

[Everyone knows the first line. The second is a chore, and a word few people outside of the Office of Budget ever use.]

President Obama, Senator Reid,
the public option is what we need

[Too many syllables! No way to gauge the stresses on vowels!]

Hey, Congress, you've got health care!
Don't you know it's nice to share?

[This asks people to do not only a CONTRACTION! BUT! to add an inflection to make it a question! Much too subtle.]

Hey hey, ho ho
pre-existing conditions have got to go

[Too many fucking syllables!]

Two four six eight
health reform cannot wait
Anthem Wellpoint is raising rates

[Too obscure. Also as this whole thing was organized--by MoveOn.org at least partially--to protest the aforementioned insurance monster jacking up rates in California by 39%, it makes a fine speech...but becomes utter nonsense in an exhortation.]

Get it done, do it now!
You bailed out Wall Street, HEALTH CARE NOW!

[Confusing the message, and, as if it matters, repeating the rhyme word.]

We need health care across the nation --
Time for reconciliation!

[See the first here.]

As for the rest? Just read.

Pass the bill, don't pass the buck!

We didn't vote for the status quo
Health care obstacles have to go!

Let's finish Teddy's fight:
Health Care is a Human Right!

Health care for people,
Not for profits!

Health reform for people,
Not the special interests!

If special interests win,
We the people lose!

and finally...

What do we want?
Healthcare! (Change!) (Public Option!)
When do we want it? NOW!

The last here is the only one that managed to get anything going. Period. Part of the problem is, as well, the Doppler Effect. As the Yell King (to borrow from collegiate rah-rah, pep rally terminology) went down the line, people DID pick it up...but at different points. This produced the smear effect of having some sections in sync and others way off, turning an aggressive statement of position into something approximating LaMonte Young's Harmonic Series or "I Am Sitting In A Room" by Alvin Lucier: canceling out the frequencies over time.

The singular charm of this last one is that it is the only one with a call-&-response format. This was good enough to come out of black churches in the South and have the SCLC bring segregationists to heel, its good enough for the present. So, yeah--good structure, easy to remember, easy to know your part. And then there's the other side: do NOT give Democrats (or liberals for that matter) too many choices. They will argue about anything as much as Republicans follow a party line like baby ducks. The only way to deal with Democrats is to LEAD THEM (you listening, Barack?) and they will follow, reluctantly, but eventually.

How do I know? Because I did. Having seen enough "boot camp" sections of war movies, the beauty of cadence count was not lost on me. One strong, well-nigh monotonous shouter can do the same to a bunch of raw recruits as it can for disaffected-but-disgruntled New Yawkuhs. So, I basically blew out my pipes on the Brooklyn Bridge. Sonny Rollins did the same on the Williamsburg a few blocks North. He made great music and I got a bunch of raw recruits to make a tempo.

Nice day for a stroll, anyways.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Tino Seghal, Guggenheim Museum - a meditation

negative space, positive emotions
positive space, empty emotions
full house, empty chatter
empty house, talk-filled

The world engages us at many points, enticing us to enter into the dialogue with it at whatever juncture chance and circumstance permit or dictate. We never know at which encounter we shall find paradise or disaster but we have no other choice but continue along, seeking some meaning even when it is obvious further intersections at specific junctures are no longer available. All around are examples of fruitful and intense discussions of the moment while all you have left is the knowledge that you can go to the edge and hurl yourslf over. Or watch the lovers in their obsessive embrace of each other from afar.

This is not a suicide note or a Beckett commentary but a review of the latest work by Tino Seghal. The Guggenheim Museum has taken a bold and startling step into the void. By commissioning a work by this "artist" they have actually taken Kierkegaard's leap of faith as well.

The tradition of performance art is one in which the line between the creator and the viewer is often no more than an participant and a non-participant. Theater, after the end of the Greek mixture of story and parable, myth and religion, was pretty much the set proscenium until Brecht destroyed the fourth wall--that separating the actors and audience. the main difference would be that the actors have a set mission, the audience none. The heyday of this was the '60s, mainly, with Fluxus (as a group) and individuals of various stripes and stars, planting their flags to claim...whatever territory they could as an experience of neither one nor the other cited above, but, perhaps, with bits of both somewhere in there. As far as I read it, the final product wasn't a piece of commercial art, in any sense of the term, as much as a concept or conception of reality. What comes for the viewer/participant (and in some cases, witness) an attitude or philosophical view you could take home with you. That's why these things are of the moment and the moment only. Afterwards, you can think about it and ruminate on meanings and the whys and wherefores until the cows come home. This is what they use as the dividing line in the Law--it is called the "bright line". (For anything else on the law, see the other blog...)

The substance of Seghal's previous work has been the use of concepts involving human interactions. One I've heard of was a Whitney Biennial where the security guards at the exhibit suddenly began bursting into song. At one gallery on 57th Street, I sat in a room for an hour or more as various persons, in one or more groups, meandered about in the traditional "white cube", perhaps stretching like dancers in the middle, standing or sitting, moving between clusters but always chatting. the thrust of this one had to do with the idea of sustainable growth, as much as I could figure. But the key point was their selection of certain individuals--average gallery goers (or gawkers) for their opinions (or contributions) on the topic as participants. They then might be engaged for a few lines of exchange and dropped when another actor/speaker comes in from a direct approach, followed by another at oblique or even a non-sequitor, until that "thread" has disappeared or mutated into another discussion altogether. The one contiguous line that was sustained between a participant and "actors" was about recycling and waste considered as an asset rather than a problem or a hazard to communities. And this was fascinating. Moreso because, after hearing the elliptical chat come around at least twice previously, I could sense when the set of instructions given by Seghal were beyond the reach of this digression. The only way to bring it back was a reset by (I suppose) the event "leader". This was conversation as cocktail party, sans social lubricant.

What his work emphasizes is the abiding fact that we, as social beings and cultural participants, all understand, inherently, implicitly: conversations are not scripted dialogues; they are living breaths--an expulsion of gases to project an ephemeral thought into the air, just to see what happens. Sometimes it immediately offends (especially when there is neglect of dental hygiene), at others it might merely rankle as it disturbs our preconceived notions. Then, there are those that draw us in, sometimes slowly, sometimes via an immediate spark of recognition. And the maddening thing is, among a group, you can be having the most engrossing discussion with one or more persons and then, suddenly, one remark from someone will completely change the subject, and what was an alternate universe (where two more sentences and you might have discovered the meaning of life) goes spinning off into the aether as a possible-but-unrealized, magnificent completion.

But that's all it is, all it was. And the wisest thing you can say about that moment is that it transcended itself. (What? Nevermind, it becomes clearer soon.)

The present case is a study in space and time--but not of quantum physics or the cosmic as much as human dimensions. For one thing, Saturday night after 5:45PM is the pay-what-you-will period. Whoever shows up is therefore...frugal, but with an avid interest in art. Also, this being if not the coldest f*king night of the year then pretty close means, as well, that these are not only a hearty but determined lot. Once in, the first thing are confronted by is the fact that you pay at the entrance--not at the usual one in the center of the ellipse. That is already occupied by les amorants. The French is there just because the man and woman making out in the middle are so locked into each other it looks like a Rodin mobile, wherein they circle about, writhe and join (all clothed--don't get the wrong idea), kiss and carress almost as if they should have a Michel LeGrande or Serge Gainsbourg soundtrack. I mean, it has been a while since P.D.A. meant more than personal desk assistant to me, but I know it when I see it. (And if they are acting, one can only hope that they won't be, after a bit.)

The elf and I were joined by a friend who knew a bit more than I about the doings, and said, instead of doing the usual elevator to the top, that we said we should walk up the ramp. As we stopped by the side of the first turning to view the obsessed two, he was approached by a little girl, who introduced herself with the statement, "This is the work of Tino Seghal. Would you like to come with me?" He shook her hand and they were off. We followed at a discrete pace but couldn't catch the entire drift. My friend attempted to bring us into the sphere by explaining they were discussing technology and economic growth. With a 12-year-old, no less. Intriguing, to say the least, but she did not seem to know how to react to a 3rd party opinion. Deferring to the young lady's lead, she took him into a side corridor while we looked around.

If you know anything about the Guggenheim, you know that it is one long spiral from bottom to top. Inside of it, it looks like a perfect white orange peel on the surface. It is on the secondary peel where the artworks hang...only there aren't any right now. Bare walls--that's all. Absent the paint; naked as the day it was born.

When I turn again, I see my friend has acquired a new companion, a post-teen or college-age male and they are deeply into whatever the topic has become. We continue up, at a discrete distance, looking for whatever cues are next. After passing several clusters of similar folks as ourselves--hanging at the rim and occasionally peering down at the evolving embraces--I note my friend has another person, and far down and behind us. Also, there is the overwhelming sense of the utter strangeness of this event, or, if you will, exhibition.

You see, there are few opportunities where one of the world's great buildings is the star of itself, and this is one of them. Even as I realize that there is some connection missed to the piece in question, there is the overwhelming sense of its opposite. I am reminded of the Library of Umberto Eco as described by Nicolas Nassim Taleb in "The Black Swan" (cited heretofore, and probably waay too much). NNT was more fascinated by the books Eco had not read, but more, as an extension of that thought beyond the potential for what might be learned, at the information NOT available, and especially how that information would shape what IS known.

And what is known is that the building is a hive of voices; not a buzz so much as rumble, the echo of so many people shuffling and murmuring. And as you check out the pair down there, it becomes more startling to see everyone else doing the same...and then you, as them. Remember: these walls are empty, their hard surfaces bouncing every nuance of sound, but also highlighting our silhouettes; outside of Kara Walker, no other "art experience" comes near it. And this is the other salient object of a performance piece; after the author, the audience. The constant evolution of contours notwithstanding, we move alike and apart yet without differentiation. It is also evident that we are looking at each other because we were not chosen to be active in the piece's positive aspect...but are fully the background to it: neutral actors in a positive space.

When I meet my friend at the top in the small side gallery (where there is a neat cache of surrealist canvas gems) he explains that it was as I suspected. Each talker conveys you to the next in a chain of increasing age and intimacies. This realization had come to me already: I have no access point by which to enter the relay. Even as he expresses intense enthusiasm for the exchanges with his handlers, I am examining my choice, and find it not that far from Robert Frost's "The Path Not Taken". My mistake was in believing that my previous exposure to Seghal would continue to rule the game here. At the gallery, it was completely non-linear and looping; here, it was not only linear but fixed duration. And of course it should be: a spiral is nothing more than a line. Yet there is more geometry going on here than that of coordinates on an x/y/z set of axes; there is also the minus signs on those integer sets. The place where one's feelings may curve into negative space.

In the earliest known work of Franz Kafka, "Description of a Struggle" a fragment entitled "Excursion into the Mountains", he has personified loneliness (or alone-ness, if you will) into a character refered to as Nonexistence. (Now that's what I call an imaginary friend!) In the course of this brief, he also forms concepts out of "nothing" and "non-doing". But, unlike the standard issue emotional content of these terms, Kafka finds a serene joy, and even a kind of comeraderie, joining in a trip of these no-ones ("Diese Niemands"), these solos, walking arm-in-arm with the other numberless no-ones. The virtues of a negative experience require more justification, to those with a positive experience, and will never be envied or probably even asked about their journey, but is not less fulfilling. Perhaps many would say, this comes under the same heading as "differently-abled" but cannot be dismissed as a "short bus" ride.

On the walk down, it remains an open question as to whether I should take the hand preferred by the little 12-year-old girl at the bottom and have the positive experience everyone is here for...but not for me. What all these people are happy about is not a good conversation as much as an invitation to a dialogue and a one-to-one performance; half-script/half-inquiry, all-customized to their reactions. And all I can think of is Eco's unread books--the unknown vs. the knowable, that which remains available: the potential. I can say, as easily, that I missed it. But what was it? If I asked any of the participants, how many views would I have, and how many would be right? Would they be "winners"? And if I asked "Diese Niemands", would their answers be worse, or better? Or that of "losers"? Should they have settled for less and wanted more, or settled for more and wanted less?

At the end, if there is wisdom at all, comes the realization that being alone is neither sad nor tragic but an eventuality we all must face, and the sooner one gives up on hope the better...to admire the view.