Back from the Dead

Well, a recent plug about me from my friend Meghan Daum over at The Elegant Variation has encouraged me to write a few words. I do this despite the fact that my sister Molly over at aptly named Molly.com has been urging me to write forever. But little brothers have an age-old right to ignore big sisters. And why should I write? The dissertation-writing process leaves me dried-up and blocked and I come to doubt that anything I write has any real meaning. Perhaps this is all part of the way graduate school builds character and my feeling is universal in the academic world.

So, since guilt prevents me from enjoying anything that doesn't have to do with history, the only movie I could justify seeing this weekend was CSA, a pseudo-documentary about the Southern victory in the Civil War. Or "The War of Northern Aggression," as some like to say. Since I'm now working on a Civil War chapter that deals with Henry Adams trying to convince the New York Times-reading public of 1861 that the war is, or should be, very much about slavery, the movie resonated on a few themes not much in the public consciousness these days. Like the fact that Lincoln's first goal was preservation of the Union and his theory of the war was that the South had no constitutional right to secede. Adams kept pounding home the concept that the war was about slavery and not only that, without the moral authority of that issue, Europe would follow her economic interests and interfere on behalf of the South. He had a good point: If the war was about the very localized idea that states had no constitutional right to secede, why would Europe care? In fact, hadn't the colonies separated from England under a very similar theory? But if the abstract and universal principle of "freedom" were at stake, then Britain, with her anti-slave and Dissenter heritage, and France with her supposed commitment to the principles of the Revolution, could hardly weigh in to preserve a nation built on bondage.

CSA does a creditable job of depicting an alternative America. Most disturbing perhaps are the ostensible commercial breaks which give a window into a country where slavery has become mainstream. The plug for a tv-show called "Runaway" has footage so close in appearance to the reality of "Cops" -- white officers pursuing blacks -- that one wonders if this is irony or reflection.

As for me, the most pertinent question is not how finding the moral imperative for a war defines its place in history (a question much on my mind since I can find no real moral imperative behind certain nameless wars) but, "how much of my dissertation do I write today?"

Go Not in Search of Monsters

Playing as I am in the fields of empire this season, I occasionally come across golden nuggets laying about. Henry Adams, who is the subject of my disseration, has quite a few things to say on the subject of empire. Perhaps he was informed by his grandpapa, J.Q. Adams, who on Independence Day in 1821 made the following comment:

Wherever the standard of freedom and independence has been unfurled, there will America's heart, her benedictions, and her prayers be. But she goes not abroad in search of monsters to destroy. She is the well-wisher to the freedom and independence of all. She is the champion and vindicator only of her own. She will recommend the general cause by the countenance of her voice and the benignant sympathy of her example. She well knows that, by once enlisting under other banners than her own, were they even the banners of foreign independence, she would involve herself, beyond the power of extrication, in all the wars of interest and intrigue, of individual avarice, envy, and ambition, which assume the color and usurp the standard of freedom. The fundamental maxims of her policy would insensibly change from liberty to force. The frontlet upon her brows would no longer beam with the ineffable splendor of freedom and independence; but in its stead would soon be substituted an imperial diadem, flashing in false and tarnished lustre the murky radiance of dominion and power. She might become the dictatress of the world; she would no longer be the ruler of her own spirit.

We sometimes choose our historic symbols with circumspection, and wisely no one has been dredging up the spirit of poor ole' J.Q. to rationalize under-the-thumb democracy as our grossest domestic export. No, perhaps it's best to keep John Quincy in the vague and fuzzy pantheon of dead presidents. Let's just keep his political philosophy in the "quaint" box for now. Indeed the argument today seems to be whether there are justifiable wars of expansion, as if what we need is atonement or affirmation. Once again we seek to make the world safe for Democracy, capital "D." One argument against this is that the justification of Democracy, for the United States, has too often been the calling card for empire. Cuba, Hawaii, the Philippines, -- bequeathing Democracy seems to end up, despite our best intentions, an imperial slog-fest. In the Philippines, of course, the anti-American "insurrection" lasted officially for three years, and unofficially for more than a decade; several hundred thousand Filipino civilians died so that their own revolution could be substituted for an American one.

So here we are in the slog-fest and we can't deny that fact. When George Bush spoke the other week and reminded us that we were staying in Iraq until the mission was complete (and who among us did not remember that he had long ago announced the mission accomplished), it was only a rhetorical flourish. We're not staying there until the mission is complete. A presidential babelfish is called for: We're stuck there. What we need now, rather than more justifications for spreading "Democracy," is to question what this imperial project, what all such projects, have done and will do to our own republic. The answer can be pretty scary, for when we go in search of monsters, we may discover the monster is us.

Cross-posted at histori-blogography

Iraq -- A Compound Phrase for Irony and Agony.

As you are all probably aware, Newsweek Magazine recently published a story alleging an incident of Koran desecration at Guantanamo which turned out to be suspect.

White House spokesman Scott McLellan was appalled that a large organization dedicated to Constitutional principles like the First Amendment could act on inaccurate information and proceed to put lives at risk. "The report has had serious consequences," he said. "People have lost their lives. The image of the United States abroad has been damaged."

I would say that indignation works better when you have not committed the same offense, to a magnitude of power unfathomable. It seems that one of the great MIA's in the War on Terror has been irony, because Scott McLellan clearly has lost all sense of it. Acting on inaccurate information?? Putting lives at risk??? Damaging the image of the US abroad???? Indeed, perhaps Mr. McLellan knows something we don’t. Perhaps he knows that irony is confined to a secret detention center and is right now standing on a box in a corner, hooked up to the power supply with a garbage bag over its head. Or that irony is being smothered in a naked pyramid pile right along with paradox, satire, sardonicism, and, oh yeah, honesty.

But of course, bullshit still stands around, taking souvenir pictures, smiling, and giving us all a hearty thumbs up.

Meanwhile, my good friend and colleague Chris Bray, an amazing grad student, Teaching Assistant and all-around great intellect, has been recalled to active duty and will probably be going to Iraq in a few weeks.

Ironically, his dissertation work focuses on, among other things, some confluences between imperialism and racism.

Good luck, Chris, and in all earnestness, God Bless.

The Catalog of Atrocities and My Grandmother's Butter

It's holiday time and that means my mailbox gets overburdened with the paraphernalia of pushers -- excuse me -- marketers of false cheer. Slick catalogs spill out every time I open the box. They slide to the floor in a torrent and make me drop my briefcase and whatever else I'm carrying in an effort to collect them all before one of the heavily scented seniors who lives in my building careens around the corner into the spill, slipping and falling, and then demanding from building management a copy of the security video of the lobby to use as evidence against me in the inevitable lawsuit.

Christmas brings out my best holiday neurotic ideations.

One particular catalog page, open on the floor, caught my interest. Beside a picture of a laughing redhead who stands with a friend next to a park bench is written, with italics and bold:

"I AM inspired by stories that endure, like my grandma's stories of evenings by the radio and fresh churned butter. Stories that last because they're about things that are real and rich and human, not synthetic like so much in life now. Wearing organic cotton is like that for me."

Now, doesn't that make you yearn for authenticity? Manipulative bastards. They got me thinking all warm and fuzzy thoughts about my grandma's fresh churned butter. Thing is, I don't know about you, but my grandma was probably too busy being chased by Cossacks across the plains of Mitteleuropa to care much about fresh churned butter. And I'm guessing you don't concern yourself much with foods that spoil quickly when you're huddled in steerage with the rest of the masses yearning to be free.

Come to think of it, sticks of butter wrapped in wax paper and readily available at the A&P probably made my grandmother pretty goddamned happy that she was finally living a life that was, if not rich, at least, and I quote, "real . . . and human." When it comes down to it though, my grandmother probably preferred to use schmaltz to butter. What is schmaltz? Chicken fat. But, and now I'm laying the irony on thick, the word schmaltz has come to mean . . . you guessed it . . . mawkish, hackneyed sentimentality. Coincidence? Perhaps not. But perhaps life without schmaltz in this second sense is too harsh for the marketers:

"I AM inspired by stories that endure, like my grandmother's stories of home butchered chickens and evenings in the ghetto spent hiding in the chimney from the press gangs. Stories that last because they are nightmarish and terrifying and real, not banal like so much in life now. Wearing organic cotton is like that for me."

Organic cotton? It probably just reminded my grandma of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire.

Now, I'm not knocking organic cotton. Synthetics in my closet are as rare as fresh churned butter. What pisses me off is the attempt to reimagine memory that's pushed by the marketers. The things that are "synthetic like so much in life now" are primarily the stories used to make us want stuff. If you choose to wear polyester, poor soul that you are, you're going to have an authentic experience, I assure you. Likewise for typing on a computer. You could blog with a fountain pen (I believe it's called writing in a journal), but your experience won't be any more or less real, even if it's more difficult to download.

This longing for authenticity isn't new, of course. I could turn you on to Herbert Marcuse or T.J. Jackson Lears, if you like. What's frustrating is that people keep falling for it. We now have glossy magazines, filled with advertising, whose editorial mission is to inform cosnumers how to live in a Real Simple fashion. Would you like to live simply? I'll give you a few of the great snob secrets of life. Read carefully, now. Don't buy what you don't need. When you buy what you need, make sure it is the best, longest-lasting, least faddish, you can afford. Oh, and stop giving gifts for the sake of giving gifts.

Maybe, just maybe, we can achieve an authentic experience that doesn't come from a catalog.

And check out my very cool sister's interview on blogging

Is it me, or is everyone else insane?

So, here are the results of a variety of personality tests I've taken. Did you really want to know more about me? Well, then . . . .

The results of my general personality test are:

Big Five Test Results

Extroversion (73%) high which suggests you are overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense too often of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity. Friendliness (53%) medium which suggests you are moderately kind natured, trusting, and helpful while still maintaining your own interests. Orderliness (59%) moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly organized, neat, structured and restrained at the expense too often of flexibility, variety, spontaneity, and fun. Emotional Stability (27%) low which suggests you are very worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious. Openmindedness (98%) very high which suggests you are extremely intellectual, curious, imaginative but possibly not very practical.

And the results of the test which says which classic movie I am . . .

I'm ready for my close-up, now. Want to take your own test? Go see http://similarminds.com/

!ACHTUNG!

Now that I'm firmly in control . . . a few rules about "cuteness."

1) After January 1, 2005 any person displaying a menagerie of stuffed animals in the back window of their car shall be executed by firing squad at the DMV. The execution site will be covered in nylon bunting by Christo and an image of same will be placed on a postage stamp commemorating highway beautification.

2) Anne Geddes will be brought up on crimes against humanity charges. The names of parents consenting to have their child photographed in a daisy, sunflower, or bumble-bee costume will be added to a national child molestor database. Their children will be removed from their care and custody and raised in the emotionally more nourishing bosom of government bureaucracy as wards of the state.

3) Any one who publishes, distribues, or possesses a William Wegman doggie calendar will be sent to a reeducation facility and released only upon compelling evidence of rehabilitiation.

I'm Jewy McScrooge and I approved this proclamation.

Jay Leno's Falafel Cravings and a Little Hermeneutics

I ducked into a cheap Greek restaurant on Ventura Boulevard for a quick gyro today, regretting only that I had recently removed all reading material from my car. So, I had to rely on imagination while eating alone, something I’m never happy about. Sadly, just as my imagination was failing, Jay Leno (or someone in a damned good Halloween costume) and a friend came in wearing motorcycle gear and sat down across from me. Thankfully this is LA, or more precisely Encino, so no one made a fool of themselves and fed his amour-propre, but of course, not having anything to read, I just had to sit there blandly looking at Jay Leno wolf down falafel when I really would much rather have had a copy of Terry Eagleton's Ideology of the Aesthetic. Hell, the Ikea Catalog would have been sufficient, under the circumstances. Not that I have anything against Jay Leno, just the cult of celebrity. In fact, judging by how he treated the restaurant staff (and that, in my estimation, is a pretty good indicator of character) he’s a stand-up fellow, but I can never get out of my mind what Bill Hicks said about him being a fevered ego and total sell-out. Nonetheless, whether it’s that Angelenos are too hip or too self-absorbed, I was delighted that even the women at the next table over, one of whom was holding a digital camera and showing pictures of “the new house” to the other, didn’t see fit to take advantage of the obvious opportunity. Actually, I ended up walking into the bathroom just as Jay walked out and I now know for certain that his shit isn’t any less malodorous than mine.

A friend of mine at campus read one of the entries here and told me “by God, you’re a Snob and a Socialist.” Well, it’s probably true and frankly I don’t see that these are contradictory. Contempt for the bourgeoisie? Check. Class insecurity? Check. Loathing of gaudy excess? Check. Support public funding of the arts and education, and, aw hell, just about everything else that’s high-brow? Check. Religion and/or television is the opiate of the masses? Check. And not really interested in a true worker’s revolution? Well, as the old joke goes: “The workers are revolting!” “Why yes, they are.” Look you might not find this all a compelling basis for a political and aesthetic ethos, but I’m not looking for converts. Go shove another Krispy Kreme in your pie-hole and leave me to ponder the good life.

Or the bad life. I will be going to Washington D.C. Friday after the election and if George Bush has won by a suspiciously slim margin, I’m hoping for chaos in the streets. A Kerry victory will only bring me relief, and though I earnestly like him and don’t think of him as the lesser of two evils, it will not bring me joy. To paraphrase Jeremiah, my heart is already sick at what I see as the breaking of my people. Maybe I am a Socialist, but is only because I fear there is no balm in Gilead.

And I thought we were supposed to be guarding the balms.