A picture tells a thousand words, as a mantra, is frequently proved inapt. In this case, however, it is proved inapt for very different reasons. Take a look at these photographs from the front line in Afghanistan. This really is necessary, haunting, amazing viewing. The oft remarked-upon, billiard table look of the Afghan desert is startling, and I particularly like this image of marines patrolling towards a village under Taleban control, like in the rice fields of Vietnam.
I'm currently reading the collected writings of Thomas Paine, quite beautifully compiled by the Library of America, and there isn't a single passage that I'd feel uncomfortable quoting in full. Here, during his pamphlet, Common Sense, under the heading, 'Of Monarchy and Hereditary Succession', he gives the strongest opposition to the absurd, constitutional principle that we Britons live, fight, and work under to this day:
This is supposing the present race of kings in the world to have had an honourable origin; whereas it is more probable, that could we take off the dark covering of antiquity, and trace them to their first rise, that we should find the first of them nothing better than the principle ruffian of some restless gang, whose savage manners or pre-eminence in subtility obtained him the title of chief among plunderers; and who by increasing in power, and extending his depredations, overawed the quiet and defenceless to purchase their safety by frequent contributions. [...] That which first was submitted to as a convenience, was afterwards claimed as a right.
I do hope you read all of James Wolcott's article, but, if you haven't the time, here's the crux of the matter, polished with Wolcott's signature humour:
The chatty, petty ricochet of Reality TV—the he-said-that-you-said-that-she-said-that-I-said-that-she-said-that-your-fat-ass-can-no-longer-fit-through-the-door—eventually provokes a contrived climax, a “shock ending” that is tipped off in promos for the show, teasers replayed so frequently that it’s as if the TV screen had the hiccups. The explosive payoff to the escalating sniper fire on The Real Housewives of New Jersey was a raging tantrum by Teresa Giudice, who flipped over a restaurant table in a She-Hulk fit of wrathful fury and called co-star Danielle Staub a “prostitution whore” (an interesting redundancy), all of which helped make for a unique dining experience and quite a season finale.
I suffered a moral and psychological death over the summer when I spent a day indoors with my beloved watching nothing but MTV, during which time, something peculiar happened. My tear ducts crusted over, my mouth hung half-open at all times, I couldn't see anything more than ten feet away, and my brain was incapable of any deductive thought whatsoever. It was the cursive effects of Reality TV, dear reader. I've grown out of it, and endured far too much of it. My much admired journaling icon, James Wolcott, who I avidly read every day even when I haven't the slightest idea what he's talking about, laments the smoldering wreckage of popular culture and, with it, the United States. He punctuates his piece with subheadings enumerating the various after-effects of Reality TV. Under the heading, 'Reality TV wages class warfare and promotes proletariat exploitation', he brings to light something that, in retrospect, seems obvious:
The migrant camera fodder is often kept isolated, sleep-deprived, and alcoholically louche to render the subjects edgy and pliant and susceptible to fits. “If you combine no sleep with alcohol and no food, emotions are going to run high and people are going to be acting crazy,” a former contestant on ABC’s The Bachelor said.This trend is rather off-putting, I hope you'll agree; to ween the participants on a Reality TV show into aggression and instability represents a very low form of broadcasting. What's more, does it not defeat the point of Reality TV if you're goading the contestants in this way? Of course, this sort of thing is done in a nuanced, delicate way that isn't superficially intuitive by shows like Big Brother, but to learn that it goes on behind the scenes is pretty alarming ("behind the scenes" [?]). Of course, we should have no sympathy for individuals who submit themselves to such ritual humiliation in the hope of televisual stardom, but they've become, as Wolcott says, "fodder" for the broadcasting giants, A&E, Bravo, MTV, VH1, etc.. Let us leave it in the dirt, smoldering away in the desert heat, while we free ourselves with a bit more House.
When Can first formed in 1968 they were joined by the confrontational, unstable, inimitable Malcolm Mooney, a black American who could actually sing. He would later return to the States on the advice of a psychiatrist who, it would seem, was rather perturbed by Mooney's repeated shouting: "upstairs, downstairs". The other members of Can later announced that Mooney was "caught in a Can groove". Something about that, to me, appears totally understandable. I think I'm caught up in one myself. Listen to the following track at a very low volume, so low that you have to strain to hear it, requiring your full and utmost concentration. Mooney belts out the lyrics:
Smoked a haiku cigarette,It's from their only studio album together, Monster Movie. Listen to it. Though, to be fair, the rest really is the ramblings of a lunatic.
Turned around and then we left
Smiling as the way began to grow.
We got your pretty men all in a row.
Mary, Mary, so quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
These silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty men all in a row?
I realise now that I may have been quite harsh on Lesbians yesterday. Undoubtedly, my hate is based on fear, but, like the flaming gays, lesbians have a knack for setting themselves apart. Why is that? You're in the minority, yes, but let's not enhance the matter. Anyway, that's by the by. I write to impart something of innate value. Weeks after I brought you the first line of Ian McEwan's new novel, I bring you the opening line of Bret Easton Ellis' sequel to his debut novel, Imperial Bedrooms:
They had made a movie about us.It's hard to get excited about a single line, particularly one so short, but not in the case of Ellis. 2010 is going to be a good year.
While sat in my post-colonial literature class last week I noticed that the girl sat opposite me was wearing dungarees. Now, these weren't some rehashed, modern, hipster dungarees. These were the real deal, fully-blown, pop your clogs, hide your daughter dungarees, complete with a Teletubbie pouch for Biros and knickknacks. I was aghast, as you may imagine. And then it struck me, as I looked around the room (something I positively dislike doing), that there are literally handfuls of lesbians clustered about the place. Can this be mere coincidence? I doubt it. This isn't the first time I've noticed carpet-munchers invading the English classrooms. There must be something about literature that they find positively appealing. Perhaps it is the act of reading itself, adopted at a young age, as a means of social escapism, that has simply carried through to adulthood. For men, lesbians are quite intimidating, especially these ones: gelled hair and tattooed biceps, empowered and angry (they wear dungarees for fuck's sake!). I'll have to keep my whits about me.
Dear reader, your Sunday would be incomplete without partaking of the eternal fruit of knowledge. The latest Intelligence Squared debate has surfaced online, and it's your privilege to have it at your fingertips. It's a shame that the footage seems to have been edited down to an hour program, but the rout is complete nonetheless. Much like his highness, Stephen Fry (looking healthily trim these days), the debate requires no further introduction. Suckle on the bosom of intelligence.
I, for one, was rather surprised by Ronnie's defeat in the Snooker Premier League to up-comer Judd Trump. He doesn't look particularly comfortable around the table at the moment. Insisting on using his left hand to break off every time gives away a weakness in his cuing - he's not straight, and his long game suffers. Warning bells should have rung when he shaved his head again, echoing the dark days of recent years, but he seems content enough, enjoying the game. The match was played on the 5th, so , weirdly, you could hear my bemissed fireworks screeching away in the distance. I was similarly taken aback to see the queer of darkness in the audience. Nope, not Bono, but close. Just as I thought to myself, Who the fuck is that misguided tosser sat indoors wearing his mother's cataract glasses?, the match commentators directed our attention to a certain Damien Hirst sat in the audience, watching his "good friend", Ronnie. Reportedly, he's just sold off a section of works, netting him a cool £100 million in the process. A girl was telling me recently about the Mexican celebrations that take place during El Día de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead, from which Hirst's piece, For the Love of God, was supposedly inspired. Thankfully, she had no idea who he was, so I was very glad to learn that his renown does not extend as far as he may like to think.
Once in a while, a case of speculative excitement crawls over my skin, such as when one hears of the Golden Suicides' aperitif that Bret Easton Ellis is currently conjuring. The same sensation occurred when I read that David Cronenberg, directorial craftsman behind recent classics, A History of Violence and Eastern Promises, had adapted the William Burroughs novel, Naked Lunch, to film in 1991. A member of New York's niche literati, William Lee, played by Peter Weller (a skeletal Christian Bale) takes us through a faux-autobiographical series of recollective vignettes, tracking down scenarios and hallucinations that pierce the fragile sensibilities of his junk-induced state of quasi-comatose indifference. There is no plot, per se, and characterisation is as elusive as the ambiguities of the language. Now that I've read the book and seen the film I still have no idea what's going on. Indeed, it is not Cronenberg's best, which is especially frustrating considering it formed around the time of his horror masterpiece, The Fly, and his sci-fi classic, Scanners. Admittedly, however, there is real potency behind the imagery of the novel, to which both Bret Easton Ellis and Irvine Welsh owe an extreme debt. If you thought Trainspotting was gritty, this is something else. Cronenberg's skill, however, should never be overlooked. He manages to blend curiosity with disgust, horror with humour, and the absurd with the prophetic. It's interesting, at least, that Cronenberg wrote his screenplay long after the universal war on drugs was realised as an all-but defunct social policy (an advantage that Burroughs was not afforded). Rapidly, we follow Lee down the rabbit hole in search of bigger and better neurotic highs, he's a writer experimenting with artistic impetuous. His unconscious efforts compel him to inject cockroach-killing powder, the black meat of giant Brazilian aquatic centipedes, and, later, the jism of the sordid Mugwump. I know, I'm as lost as you are, but there is a social message in there somewhere, trust me. Feel free to try and find it, but if you're the slightest bit predisposed against insects, do not watch this film.
