Happiness in the new world is paramount. So when Linda and John get their desperately wanted permission to recondition and adapt to the new world, matters of happiness are the very first things that both are encouraged to tend to. Unfortunately for some unlucky new-worlders, the happiness of savages might just lead to the downfall of one of their powerful leaders.
And guess what?
This is exactly what happens.
Linda's entrance is not as glorious as it might've been before. That is, before she'd become one of the savages. Before she'd gained weight and lost teeth and allowed wrinkles to blemish her previously taught face. Her enemy? The very man who did all of this to her in the first place. The director is of course stunned at her return and pretends not to know this beast. Embarrassed, he leaves to never return to power.
Savages: 1
New Worlders: 0
Success for Bernard, however, is only bitter sweet. This small-in-stature Alpha becomes power crazed. Too many girls, and too many parties later, he too comes crawling out of his whirlwind of success.
A list of things that might happen to Bernard is sure to come.
Until then...
Conclusion: What do The Bible, Beauty and the Beast, and Machiavelli's "The Prince" have in common? Why, all were written with Brave New World in mind, of course.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
The Age of Anti-Shakespeare
It seems as if John might be out of place.
He's the only son of both a new worlder and a savage.
The only savage educated on the subject of decanting.
And the only man on the earth reading Shakespeare.
So... as John is quite excluded from most of any society he'd like to blend in with, he is quite eager to tell Bernard his life story from birth to present. He tells about how his mom was what the savages might call a whore. And about how his mom taught him to read. And even about how he was neglected by the other boys for his entire young life. His mother... *gasp*, yes, mother couldn't exactly deal with having the shame that was him. Guilty for her never being able to return, John remains an outcast in his own house. Bernard even gets a useful tip from John passed down to him by his new-world native mother: Mescal is most definitely not soma.
Not all bad things were happening to John in the reservation, however. His depressed mother had quickly taken to her shameful son, as John recalls. She taught him to read by marking letters in the dirt and later, he became well versed on the subject of The Chemical and Bacteriological Conditioning of the Embryo. Practical Instructions for Beta Embryo-Store Workers. Because in the new world, all literature is only for the purpose of instruction. In the overlap between the savage reservation and new world, the dilemma becomes obvious. When little John asks Linda about where the chemicals come from, her answer is quick and definite: the chemical store.
So it's simple:
Either the savages think too much.
Or the New-World doesn't think at all.
ANYWAYS, Bernard devises a wonderful plan for young John and his very, very old mother (by new-world standards at least.) Bernard and Lenina will bring back John to the new-world as the very first savage to be integrated into the new way of living. His mother will be able to get her first dose of soma in years, and get back to the life she misses. And all of this might just make Bernard more of an alpha-plus than he'd ever been before...
But, all of this will have to wait.
After all, this had never been done before.
Conclusion: Both sides could think about nothing but Shakespeare. Hopefully it would solve a problem or two.
He's the only son of both a new worlder and a savage.
The only savage educated on the subject of decanting.
And the only man on the earth reading Shakespeare.
So... as John is quite excluded from most of any society he'd like to blend in with, he is quite eager to tell Bernard his life story from birth to present. He tells about how his mom was what the savages might call a whore. And about how his mom taught him to read. And even about how he was neglected by the other boys for his entire young life. His mother... *gasp*, yes, mother couldn't exactly deal with having the shame that was him. Guilty for her never being able to return, John remains an outcast in his own house. Bernard even gets a useful tip from John passed down to him by his new-world native mother: Mescal is most definitely not soma.
Not all bad things were happening to John in the reservation, however. His depressed mother had quickly taken to her shameful son, as John recalls. She taught him to read by marking letters in the dirt and later, he became well versed on the subject of The Chemical and Bacteriological Conditioning of the Embryo. Practical Instructions for Beta Embryo-Store Workers. Because in the new world, all literature is only for the purpose of instruction. In the overlap between the savage reservation and new world, the dilemma becomes obvious. When little John asks Linda about where the chemicals come from, her answer is quick and definite: the chemical store.
So it's simple:
Either the savages think too much.
Or the New-World doesn't think at all.
ANYWAYS, Bernard devises a wonderful plan for young John and his very, very old mother (by new-world standards at least.) Bernard and Lenina will bring back John to the new-world as the very first savage to be integrated into the new way of living. His mother will be able to get her first dose of soma in years, and get back to the life she misses. And all of this might just make Bernard more of an alpha-plus than he'd ever been before...
But, all of this will have to wait.
After all, this had never been done before.
Conclusion: Both sides could think about nothing but Shakespeare. Hopefully it would solve a problem or two.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Annotated Bibliography
"Illegal Human Organ Trade from Executed Prisoners in China." American Education 1/2008 1.1-1.2. 8 Dec 2008 .
China remains one of the only countries that allow the continuation of the sale of the organs harvested from criminals who have been executed. Though many other countries see the practice as dehumanizing and unethical, it poses one possible solution to the organ shortage seen all over the world. Several controversial factors play a part in this ongoing practice. Doctors in China sometimes make record profits off these illegal transplants, and often perform these operations more hastily than they would a legal organ transplant. Both human rights activists and the World Medical Organization alike agree that stricter government control should be put in place to more closely monitor these operations and organ harvests.
BASSOUL, JOELLE. "Egypt's Illegal Organ Trade Thrives on Poverty." New York Times 04/04/2006 8 Dec 2008.
In Egypt, slums are becoming the world’s next big organ factory. In these unsanitary environments, those who live in poverty are often happy to sell their organs to rich buyers ready to pay up and undergo surgeries that often pay them more than they would earn in a year. For some unlucky Egyptians, however, this is not their view of the organ trade. Several impoverished are kidnapped each year and are given medication so that when they awake with only one kidney, they have no idea where they were before their experience from hell. Trickery is also used when applicants for a job are conned out of their organs through a request for some medical tests. After taking these medications, they reawake with no idea as to where they are and with the cons nowhere in sight.
China remains one of the only countries that allow the continuation of the sale of the organs harvested from criminals who have been executed. Though many other countries see the practice as dehumanizing and unethical, it poses one possible solution to the organ shortage seen all over the world. Several controversial factors play a part in this ongoing practice. Doctors in China sometimes make record profits off these illegal transplants, and often perform these operations more hastily than they would a legal organ transplant. Both human rights activists and the World Medical Organization alike agree that stricter government control should be put in place to more closely monitor these operations and organ harvests.
BASSOUL, JOELLE. "Egypt's Illegal Organ Trade Thrives on Poverty." New York Times 04/04/2006 8 Dec 2008
In Egypt, slums are becoming the world’s next big organ factory. In these unsanitary environments, those who live in poverty are often happy to sell their organs to rich buyers ready to pay up and undergo surgeries that often pay them more than they would earn in a year. For some unlucky Egyptians, however, this is not their view of the organ trade. Several impoverished are kidnapped each year and are given medication so that when they awake with only one kidney, they have no idea where they were before their experience from hell. Trickery is also used when applicants for a job are conned out of their organs through a request for some medical tests. After taking these medications, they reawake with no idea as to where they are and with the cons nowhere in sight.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
The Amazing and Inspirational Fill-In-The-Blank Blog
Oh dear,
It seems I've forgotten to title the last post.
Fill in the blank, if you wish.
Lenina has made a decision!
In order to avoid government suspicion and mind-numbing boredom in going to the north pole with Henry, she decides to make her way to the savage reservation in North America. Just outside the reservation lies a lavish hotel with a soma bar and just about any amenity that a beta from the new world would ever need. Inside the reservation, however, there is absolutely nothing from the future. There is no soma, no planes, no soma, no synthetic material, and worst of all, no soma. Lenina is not happy. Because in the new world state, people don't age. They remain forever content as working people thouroughly drugged out on soma on a daily basis. They never retire, and they never get wrinkles in their faces. They are never allowed time to sit and, Ford forbid, read a book. Nor are they allowed to relax and freely think. They simply work until the day they die, usually around the age of 65 when soma is of no more help to them.
SO... It's a shock for dear Lenina when she sees men of various ages dancing about a campfire in loinclothes, their wrinkles bouncing as they cry out chants. Similar, she thinks, to a lower caste community sing. Because it's easier for this new world inhabitant to compare things to other things. More familiar things. Things that are familiar at all are comforting. All this occurs, while Bernard simply thinks:
Fascinating.
After the initial shock of the savage lifestyle, both Lenina and Bernard return to a pueblo to meet a savage family. This very family is unique, and the overweight and wrinkled housewife of the family is shocked and elated to see Lenina. Once an inhabitant of the new world, she became lost on a visit to the reservation. Her previously and illegally devoted partner, the director (insert collective *GASP* here), took her to the reservation and assumed her to be dead one night after camping (without soma) during a storm. She eventually married a savage man, and had a child. GASP should ensue.
And all of this is known by Bernard.
Who says absolutely nothing.
Conclusion: short writings give me more time to evaluate my own nonexistent desire to travel to the North Pole.
Would I like to travel there?
No.
I still don't want to go.
It seems I've forgotten to title the last post.
Fill in the blank, if you wish.
Lenina has made a decision!
In order to avoid government suspicion and mind-numbing boredom in going to the north pole with Henry, she decides to make her way to the savage reservation in North America. Just outside the reservation lies a lavish hotel with a soma bar and just about any amenity that a beta from the new world would ever need. Inside the reservation, however, there is absolutely nothing from the future. There is no soma, no planes, no soma, no synthetic material, and worst of all, no soma. Lenina is not happy. Because in the new world state, people don't age. They remain forever content as working people thouroughly drugged out on soma on a daily basis. They never retire, and they never get wrinkles in their faces. They are never allowed time to sit and, Ford forbid, read a book. Nor are they allowed to relax and freely think. They simply work until the day they die, usually around the age of 65 when soma is of no more help to them.
SO... It's a shock for dear Lenina when she sees men of various ages dancing about a campfire in loinclothes, their wrinkles bouncing as they cry out chants. Similar, she thinks, to a lower caste community sing. Because it's easier for this new world inhabitant to compare things to other things. More familiar things. Things that are familiar at all are comforting. All this occurs, while Bernard simply thinks:
Fascinating.
After the initial shock of the savage lifestyle, both Lenina and Bernard return to a pueblo to meet a savage family. This very family is unique, and the overweight and wrinkled housewife of the family is shocked and elated to see Lenina. Once an inhabitant of the new world, she became lost on a visit to the reservation. Her previously and illegally devoted partner, the director (insert collective *GASP* here), took her to the reservation and assumed her to be dead one night after camping (without soma) during a storm. She eventually married a savage man, and had a child. GASP should ensue.
And all of this is known by Bernard.
Who says absolutely nothing.
Conclusion: short writings give me more time to evaluate my own nonexistent desire to travel to the North Pole.
Would I like to travel there?
No.
I still don't want to go.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Lenina is a very bad girl.
No, she isn't overly promiscuous.It isn't that at all. In fact, she doesn't meet the promiscuity standards set by the world state. Because it is abnormal for any one girl to stay with any one man for too long a time. And it is especially odd for this girl to be uninterested in any other man. And it is incredibly strange for this same girl to wish to do this at such a young age. Because, as we all know:
Everyone belongs to everyone else.
ANYWAY, in order to avoid suspicion from the government that watches her on a daily basis while she works, she decides to seek out a second lover. His name is Bernard.
And Bernard is also a very bad man.
The only difference: No one knows it.
Unlike Lenina, Bernard doesn't wish to be promiscuous whatsoever. And unlike everyone else in the world state, he sees the commercialization of sex as absolutely disgusting. People are treated as meat, and even after his long hours of conditioning and hypnopaedia, his free thinking allows him a dangerous ability to oppose the government. His intelligence is what keeps him safe, and allows him to strategically keep his opposition under control as well as his temprament. He is very small for an Alpha. He is also a stark contrast in comparison to Henry.
Henry is a good man.
Perfect, actually.
Unlike BOTH Lenina and Bernard, Henry has no free thinking abilities whatsoever that come out in either chapter 5 OR 6. And if I had to make an educated guess, I would predict that he would show no further thinking throughout the rest of the book. Instead of being shockingly monogamous like Lenina, he takes other girls out frequently in between his outings with her. The couple often goes out to do world state approved outings, such as dates at clubs offering the delicious soma as well as synthetic music machines. mmmmm... gotta love those synthetic music machines. Not to mention the soma. They listen to music about soma and drink soma while talking about soma and not aging from the wonderful soma.
Now, off to a place without soma.
*GASP*
Yes, WITHOUT soma.
For a girl as dependant on soma as Lenina, Bernard takes a chance and invites her on holiday to a savage reservation. The savage reservation is apparently situated in North America, and there is absolutely NO soma allowed. The natives live without soma and do things like mending clothes and bearing children. For Lenina, there are only two options. She could go to the lovely savage reservation with the interesting alpha, Bernard, or she could undergo serious government suspicion and travel to the painfully old fashioned North Pole hotel with Henry (again.)
Or she could go on soma vacation.
What a Brave New World.
Conclusion: No witty conclusion today. Try again later.
No, she isn't overly promiscuous.It isn't that at all. In fact, she doesn't meet the promiscuity standards set by the world state. Because it is abnormal for any one girl to stay with any one man for too long a time. And it is especially odd for this girl to be uninterested in any other man. And it is incredibly strange for this same girl to wish to do this at such a young age. Because, as we all know:
Everyone belongs to everyone else.
ANYWAY, in order to avoid suspicion from the government that watches her on a daily basis while she works, she decides to seek out a second lover. His name is Bernard.
And Bernard is also a very bad man.
The only difference: No one knows it.
Unlike Lenina, Bernard doesn't wish to be promiscuous whatsoever. And unlike everyone else in the world state, he sees the commercialization of sex as absolutely disgusting. People are treated as meat, and even after his long hours of conditioning and hypnopaedia, his free thinking allows him a dangerous ability to oppose the government. His intelligence is what keeps him safe, and allows him to strategically keep his opposition under control as well as his temprament. He is very small for an Alpha. He is also a stark contrast in comparison to Henry.
Henry is a good man.
Perfect, actually.
Unlike BOTH Lenina and Bernard, Henry has no free thinking abilities whatsoever that come out in either chapter 5 OR 6. And if I had to make an educated guess, I would predict that he would show no further thinking throughout the rest of the book. Instead of being shockingly monogamous like Lenina, he takes other girls out frequently in between his outings with her. The couple often goes out to do world state approved outings, such as dates at clubs offering the delicious soma as well as synthetic music machines. mmmmm... gotta love those synthetic music machines. Not to mention the soma. They listen to music about soma and drink soma while talking about soma and not aging from the wonderful soma.
Now, off to a place without soma.
*GASP*
Yes, WITHOUT soma.
For a girl as dependant on soma as Lenina, Bernard takes a chance and invites her on holiday to a savage reservation. The savage reservation is apparently situated in North America, and there is absolutely NO soma allowed. The natives live without soma and do things like mending clothes and bearing children. For Lenina, there are only two options. She could go to the lovely savage reservation with the interesting alpha, Bernard, or she could undergo serious government suspicion and travel to the painfully old fashioned North Pole hotel with Henry (again.)
Or she could go on soma vacation.
What a Brave New World.
Conclusion: No witty conclusion today. Try again later.
Monday, November 24, 2008
My Life as a Delta
So how would I describe Brave New World?
An absolutely captivating and intriguing work of literature.
I know this because a) I've heard all these wonderful things from people who have actually finished reading the work, and b) It's the first book in a long time which I have the motivation to look for after losing it.
So guess what?
I found it!
Onward, to chapters three and four!
According to Aldous Huxley, the world as we know it will be gone after the time of Henry Ford. No more countries, just seven World States. Some traditionally thought of futuristic apparatuses will come into production, such as trans-Atlantic rockets. Alcohol dissapears, and instead soma comes into production. It's a wonder drug. Like drinking a vial of alcohol and tripping all night, then waking up in the morning refreshed for another day of work with the rest of your caste system. Erotic play will be accepted and encouraged in children... Say what?!
Yes, children and adults will all be encouraged to participate in erotic play and to give into their desires. Because, according to His Fordship, one cannot be happy when they are denying themselves exactly what they want. Like hypnopaedia suggests unto littluns, "Everyone belongs to everyone else."
Child rearing centers will pop up, staffed by Betas who must wear blue at all times. The Deltas will work the desk jobs that don't require too much... thinking. The Gammas, one of the largest social castes, will work roads, railways, and most forms of public service as well as manufacturing jobs of all types. The Alphas will try as hard as possible to oversee things and to not use the free thinking skills that they've been conditioned to have. And the Epsilons... oh dear, those Epsilons will do everything else. They'll be the absolute idiots of society, yet the other castes couldn't do anything without their help. Frankly, those Epsilons just can't stop loving the fact that they're Epsilons.
Why?
Well, in a perfectly sterilized and proper world, everyone will love what they're doing. The Alphas love being the best, and the Epsilons love being looked after. So I've concluded that if I were living in the world state, I would most likely be happiest as a...
Delta.
It would seem it's a low rank to rate one's self, but it makes perfect sense. First of all, it seems like this is the bourgeoisie of the world state. These middle castes have the least supervision of all, since they have the least risk of attempting to rebel against the current policies. They have the ability to go on living their lives happily and not knowing any way but the way they are conditioned to think: exactly as the well-intentioned government intends. Of course, no one wants to be the idiot of society, such as the Epsilons, yet they get protection from all other castes. Yet having the ability to think freely yet being forced to conform to the highly regarded government as an Alpha would be a fairly miserable way to live a life. A Beta works in the government centers all the time, because what on earth would the Fordship do if these second-rate castes began to think freely? They surely wouldn't handle it as well as an intelligent Alpha. So they're kept under watch daily at their jobs conditioning more fetuses to think just like they do. Lenina is one of these Betas, and she's managed to stick with her conditioning over most of her sheltered life. Though under scrutiny for staying in one relationship for too long (because, of course, it's improper to become attached to one person only. everyone belongs to everyone, as they say in the world state) her conformity in every other aspect of her life causes her to stay relatively quiet and without suspicion.
Bernard Marx, however, is a completely different case.
Conclusion: The US economy, the Iraq war, and the high prices of Starbucks coffee could be resolved if our world leaders/CEO's just took a gram of soma.
An absolutely captivating and intriguing work of literature.
I know this because a) I've heard all these wonderful things from people who have actually finished reading the work, and b) It's the first book in a long time which I have the motivation to look for after losing it.
So guess what?
I found it!
Onward, to chapters three and four!
According to Aldous Huxley, the world as we know it will be gone after the time of Henry Ford. No more countries, just seven World States. Some traditionally thought of futuristic apparatuses will come into production, such as trans-Atlantic rockets. Alcohol dissapears, and instead soma comes into production. It's a wonder drug. Like drinking a vial of alcohol and tripping all night, then waking up in the morning refreshed for another day of work with the rest of your caste system. Erotic play will be accepted and encouraged in children... Say what?!
Yes, children and adults will all be encouraged to participate in erotic play and to give into their desires. Because, according to His Fordship, one cannot be happy when they are denying themselves exactly what they want. Like hypnopaedia suggests unto littluns, "Everyone belongs to everyone else."
Child rearing centers will pop up, staffed by Betas who must wear blue at all times. The Deltas will work the desk jobs that don't require too much... thinking. The Gammas, one of the largest social castes, will work roads, railways, and most forms of public service as well as manufacturing jobs of all types. The Alphas will try as hard as possible to oversee things and to not use the free thinking skills that they've been conditioned to have. And the Epsilons... oh dear, those Epsilons will do everything else. They'll be the absolute idiots of society, yet the other castes couldn't do anything without their help. Frankly, those Epsilons just can't stop loving the fact that they're Epsilons.
Why?
Well, in a perfectly sterilized and proper world, everyone will love what they're doing. The Alphas love being the best, and the Epsilons love being looked after. So I've concluded that if I were living in the world state, I would most likely be happiest as a...
Delta.
It would seem it's a low rank to rate one's self, but it makes perfect sense. First of all, it seems like this is the bourgeoisie of the world state. These middle castes have the least supervision of all, since they have the least risk of attempting to rebel against the current policies. They have the ability to go on living their lives happily and not knowing any way but the way they are conditioned to think: exactly as the well-intentioned government intends. Of course, no one wants to be the idiot of society, such as the Epsilons, yet they get protection from all other castes. Yet having the ability to think freely yet being forced to conform to the highly regarded government as an Alpha would be a fairly miserable way to live a life. A Beta works in the government centers all the time, because what on earth would the Fordship do if these second-rate castes began to think freely? They surely wouldn't handle it as well as an intelligent Alpha. So they're kept under watch daily at their jobs conditioning more fetuses to think just like they do. Lenina is one of these Betas, and she's managed to stick with her conditioning over most of her sheltered life. Though under scrutiny for staying in one relationship for too long (because, of course, it's improper to become attached to one person only. everyone belongs to everyone, as they say in the world state) her conformity in every other aspect of her life causes her to stay relatively quiet and without suspicion.
Bernard Marx, however, is a completely different case.
Conclusion: The US economy, the Iraq war, and the high prices of Starbucks coffee could be resolved if our world leaders/CEO's just took a gram of soma.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
What I Learned About Test Tube Babies
Okay, folks.
Get ready for test tube babies.
Kids as we know them... made in factories. Identical twins? Forget about it. We'll have sets of 8, 22, 54, even 96 human beings, all looking almost... well, identical. They'll be cultured, conditioned, labeled, and even put into what would be their very own middle school clique before leaving the womb (excuse me, tube) and as soon as they become those cute, living, breathing, crying, pooping babies we love, they'll start to be conditioned to love every moment of their lives as we knew they were pre-determined to be.
At least according to Aldous Huxley.
I'm no enemy of genetic engineering, but this futuristic, and seemingly hypothetical situation involving a completely genetically engineered world are at best, propaganda. If scientists want to create living cells from other cells, fantastic. They can grow hearts, livers, kidneys. Just don't grow the next generation just yet, doctor. Not only would my manufacturing process be terribly out-of-date, but we're not exactly ready for something like this at this point in history. Let the stubborn few of society catch up to the idea of global warming, start teaching evolution in ALL the schools, then start creating kids back in the lab.
The idea of a predestined social class, however, is far from new. The status quo just got more preset through any test tube baby's 17 years of conditioning. Not only are they put into a social caste, but they love it! Hypnopaedia (real word, who knows!?) is a useful tool in this future society. Like hypnotism, except it's legal for the government to perform it on kids while they sleep. The Epsilons are the morons of society, followed by the much smarter Deltas, Gammas, Betas, then the highly regarded Alphas. The Alphas sit at the top of the pyramid looking down at all others, but this is not a bad thing after hypnopaedia. The Gammas are stoked they're smarter than Deltas, and absolutely delighted that they don't have to work as hard as the Alphas. The Epsilons are as happy as their little minds can be to be surrounded by intelligent people who treat them like just another part of society and who are there to protect them from any bad to come. See? It's perfectly legit... just different. Maybe the US will give it a try. But before teaching them to be happy with being an Alpha or a Gamma, lets teach our kids about the dinosaurs.
Get ready for test tube babies.
Kids as we know them... made in factories. Identical twins? Forget about it. We'll have sets of 8, 22, 54, even 96 human beings, all looking almost... well, identical. They'll be cultured, conditioned, labeled, and even put into what would be their very own middle school clique before leaving the womb (excuse me, tube) and as soon as they become those cute, living, breathing, crying, pooping babies we love, they'll start to be conditioned to love every moment of their lives as we knew they were pre-determined to be.
At least according to Aldous Huxley.
I'm no enemy of genetic engineering, but this futuristic, and seemingly hypothetical situation involving a completely genetically engineered world are at best, propaganda. If scientists want to create living cells from other cells, fantastic. They can grow hearts, livers, kidneys. Just don't grow the next generation just yet, doctor. Not only would my manufacturing process be terribly out-of-date, but we're not exactly ready for something like this at this point in history. Let the stubborn few of society catch up to the idea of global warming, start teaching evolution in ALL the schools, then start creating kids back in the lab.
The idea of a predestined social class, however, is far from new. The status quo just got more preset through any test tube baby's 17 years of conditioning. Not only are they put into a social caste, but they love it! Hypnopaedia (real word, who knows!?) is a useful tool in this future society. Like hypnotism, except it's legal for the government to perform it on kids while they sleep. The Epsilons are the morons of society, followed by the much smarter Deltas, Gammas, Betas, then the highly regarded Alphas. The Alphas sit at the top of the pyramid looking down at all others, but this is not a bad thing after hypnopaedia. The Gammas are stoked they're smarter than Deltas, and absolutely delighted that they don't have to work as hard as the Alphas. The Epsilons are as happy as their little minds can be to be surrounded by intelligent people who treat them like just another part of society and who are there to protect them from any bad to come. See? It's perfectly legit... just different. Maybe the US will give it a try. But before teaching them to be happy with being an Alpha or a Gamma, lets teach our kids about the dinosaurs.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Foxy Skeletons and Other Things That Fall on Cars
Alas, right when I was convinced that the secrets to the universe were held within the pages of the owners' manual for a '97 Saturn...
the world came crashing down on Chuck's windshield.
In a figurative sense, of course. Once again, under a series of events labeled "Things That Aren't True at All," Chuck tells us of things that may or may not have happened. In fact, this final chapter of Chuck Klosterman IV seems to have the most plausible events of all three sections. The first of which being titled "Things that Are True" and involves the legendary Bono picking up street kids in his Maserati, and the second of which being called "Things That Might Be True" and involving hypothetical average Joe death matches.
The third starts off with some nightly unmentionables and moves on to some mundane info on his workplace. He then makes his way to a chinese buffet and runs into another shady friend named Ricky Rumble. Yes, Ricky Rumble. This man is not as shady as one would think, because he asks Chuck an oddly specific and seemingly wholesome favor upon his entry to the restaurant. Sir Rumble gives Chuck the explicit instructions to pick up his sister in Cincinatti, and as Chuck in his good willingness had already said yes, he accepts this task. Unfortunately for Chuck, Ricky's sister is a hyper-sensitive bookwormish-type exotic dancer. And she will be in Chuck's car for several hours. So while Chuck is agonizing over what is soon to be a terribly long car ride on the way to pick up Miss Rumble, it hits him.
Literally.
A fox, in the figurative sense, happened to make a crash landing on Chuck's '97 saturn. This fox being an incredibly gorgeous woman with straight black hair and a cocktail dress. The manual for such a vehicle apparently doesn't contain a section on what happens to a car when a corpse crashes into it. It even causes some damage to the motor vehicle, who knew? The shocks on the car can't handle the force, and the car crushes itself into whatever cement it may be driving on. And corpses bounce. Like a bouncy ball flying out of a helicopter, if that bouncy ball had the outer shell of human skin and the shape of a foxy skeleton.
?
So what does one do when a former heartbreaker does happen to decide to land on a car such as that of Chuck's? He got out of his vehicle to sit on the side of the road, noting how gorgeous the girl who fell from the sky is despite her every bone having been pulverized by the hood of his car. She must've fallen from a helicopter, Chuck finally decides. And the first thing a journalist can think of in a crisis is "How great of an article would this be?" So This is what Chuck does. He decides to abandon Mrs Rumble and ride home to enjoy a night of chinese take-out and continue with his routine life of watching MTV before waking up to another vapid day at work.
Here's to hoping these are "Things That Are Not True"
Conclusion: Silly reader, the best analogies are implausible.
the world came crashing down on Chuck's windshield.
In a figurative sense, of course. Once again, under a series of events labeled "Things That Aren't True at All," Chuck tells us of things that may or may not have happened. In fact, this final chapter of Chuck Klosterman IV seems to have the most plausible events of all three sections. The first of which being titled "Things that Are True" and involves the legendary Bono picking up street kids in his Maserati, and the second of which being called "Things That Might Be True" and involving hypothetical average Joe death matches.
The third starts off with some nightly unmentionables and moves on to some mundane info on his workplace. He then makes his way to a chinese buffet and runs into another shady friend named Ricky Rumble. Yes, Ricky Rumble. This man is not as shady as one would think, because he asks Chuck an oddly specific and seemingly wholesome favor upon his entry to the restaurant. Sir Rumble gives Chuck the explicit instructions to pick up his sister in Cincinatti, and as Chuck in his good willingness had already said yes, he accepts this task. Unfortunately for Chuck, Ricky's sister is a hyper-sensitive bookwormish-type exotic dancer. And she will be in Chuck's car for several hours. So while Chuck is agonizing over what is soon to be a terribly long car ride on the way to pick up Miss Rumble, it hits him.
Literally.
A fox, in the figurative sense, happened to make a crash landing on Chuck's '97 saturn. This fox being an incredibly gorgeous woman with straight black hair and a cocktail dress. The manual for such a vehicle apparently doesn't contain a section on what happens to a car when a corpse crashes into it. It even causes some damage to the motor vehicle, who knew? The shocks on the car can't handle the force, and the car crushes itself into whatever cement it may be driving on. And corpses bounce. Like a bouncy ball flying out of a helicopter, if that bouncy ball had the outer shell of human skin and the shape of a foxy skeleton.
?
So what does one do when a former heartbreaker does happen to decide to land on a car such as that of Chuck's? He got out of his vehicle to sit on the side of the road, noting how gorgeous the girl who fell from the sky is despite her every bone having been pulverized by the hood of his car. She must've fallen from a helicopter, Chuck finally decides. And the first thing a journalist can think of in a crisis is "How great of an article would this be?" So This is what Chuck does. He decides to abandon Mrs Rumble and ride home to enjoy a night of chinese take-out and continue with his routine life of watching MTV before waking up to another vapid day at work.
Here's to hoping these are "Things That Are Not True"
Conclusion: Silly reader, the best analogies are implausible.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Apocalyptic Scenario #1: Playing God and Other Tips from Chuck
Praise Chuck.
My death match against average Joe has not yet been waged, therefore I am safe to live another day. However, he has given me much more pressing problems to worry about. Because should I live until tomorrow, I have no choice but to die sometime in the future. The catch is, I will know the exact date of my death.
I lied.
So it might not be my death that Chuck has set up for me. It's the end of the world that will most likely end my life, because Father Klosterman (who now controls the earth and its rotations about the sun) has decided to collaborate with lowly me on exactly when this fated day will be. It will either be...
a) at exactly twelve o' clock on my fiftieth birthday or
b) two days after I die, on my 75th birthday.
True rock critics (Chuck) and their proteges (people like me) would generally try and make every attempt to dodge hypothetical scenarios such as this one. So to get a decent answer, I decided to ask some of my peers. Not the idealists, but the logical ones. Both chose the second option by default without a second thought to the matter. In fact, Rebecca stated "I don't care when the world ends, as long as I get an extra 25 years of life." Olivia raised an eyebrow. Chuck wrote a short article following his question that had absolutely no other purpose than to distract the reader from the fact that he had no answer. And I tried as hard as possible to understand why in the world I would pick the first answer.
For one, I am absolutely terrified of getting old.
And for some reason, this seems like a terrible thing to say.
Don't get me wrong; I love old people. They're allowed to be bitter, they forget things, they need to be taken care of (but they hate when you take care of them), most of them can't hear, and they're still good at giving advice. Society has even accepted that once a certain age is reached, it's perfectly okay to start to develop a habit not accepted by younger adults. Once again, we've let it become okay for 60 yr old women to flirt with young waiters. And beyond that age, it's the reason we sometimes just grit our teeth and bear it when someone over 80 uses a racial slur. They don't have to conform to the new social standards because it takes effort, and they're old enough not to be expected to make this effort. In the next decade or two, they'll die off and their politically-incorrectness will die off with them. So when I'm bitter and deaf, the last thing I'd like to be worrying about is how the world is going to end two days after I die. I won't die because of the apocalypse, no. I'll die of old age or cancer or heart disease. And not to make light of these, but the end of the world? This only happens once (or so we think) and it seems almost like a prestigious award for this never-before-seen disaster to be the thing that in the end ends my life.
HOWEVER,
Should the world end when I'm 50, there could be problems. First of all, the grand 50th birthday celebration that I hope for in 35 years would most likely be planned as an evening affair, and no one wants to come to a party during an apocalypse. But beyond this, what would this day be like? Would death ensue instantly? Or would our race live on with those hardy cockroaches on the nuked version of planet earth? For Christians, God will come on this day. So for anyone planning on converting to this religion anytime in the next 35 years, this would probably be the best option. After all, the rapture could be fun? For those who have lost at least some faith in the nature of people, including me, it's blatantly obvious that the end of the world will come when some idiot with money and a background in some advanced chemistry and war science will nuke this planet. Right after we drill all the oil out of it, develop and AIDS vaccine, and start to find a solution to climate change... POOF. They will be the ones to indefinitely ruin my day.
Chuck on the other hand, evaded the question and decided to write an essay about his 24 hr VH1 marathon. It was highly entertaining, and I didn't think about that question for the remainder of the chapter.
Maybe our politicians are taking lessons from Chuck too.
Conclusion: maybe I'm craving some science fiction.
My death match against average Joe has not yet been waged, therefore I am safe to live another day. However, he has given me much more pressing problems to worry about. Because should I live until tomorrow, I have no choice but to die sometime in the future. The catch is, I will know the exact date of my death.
I lied.
So it might not be my death that Chuck has set up for me. It's the end of the world that will most likely end my life, because Father Klosterman (who now controls the earth and its rotations about the sun) has decided to collaborate with lowly me on exactly when this fated day will be. It will either be...
a) at exactly twelve o' clock on my fiftieth birthday or
b) two days after I die, on my 75th birthday.
True rock critics (Chuck) and their proteges (people like me) would generally try and make every attempt to dodge hypothetical scenarios such as this one. So to get a decent answer, I decided to ask some of my peers. Not the idealists, but the logical ones. Both chose the second option by default without a second thought to the matter. In fact, Rebecca stated "I don't care when the world ends, as long as I get an extra 25 years of life." Olivia raised an eyebrow. Chuck wrote a short article following his question that had absolutely no other purpose than to distract the reader from the fact that he had no answer. And I tried as hard as possible to understand why in the world I would pick the first answer.
For one, I am absolutely terrified of getting old.
And for some reason, this seems like a terrible thing to say.
Don't get me wrong; I love old people. They're allowed to be bitter, they forget things, they need to be taken care of (but they hate when you take care of them), most of them can't hear, and they're still good at giving advice. Society has even accepted that once a certain age is reached, it's perfectly okay to start to develop a habit not accepted by younger adults. Once again, we've let it become okay for 60 yr old women to flirt with young waiters. And beyond that age, it's the reason we sometimes just grit our teeth and bear it when someone over 80 uses a racial slur. They don't have to conform to the new social standards because it takes effort, and they're old enough not to be expected to make this effort. In the next decade or two, they'll die off and their politically-incorrectness will die off with them. So when I'm bitter and deaf, the last thing I'd like to be worrying about is how the world is going to end two days after I die. I won't die because of the apocalypse, no. I'll die of old age or cancer or heart disease. And not to make light of these, but the end of the world? This only happens once (or so we think) and it seems almost like a prestigious award for this never-before-seen disaster to be the thing that in the end ends my life.
HOWEVER,
Should the world end when I'm 50, there could be problems. First of all, the grand 50th birthday celebration that I hope for in 35 years would most likely be planned as an evening affair, and no one wants to come to a party during an apocalypse. But beyond this, what would this day be like? Would death ensue instantly? Or would our race live on with those hardy cockroaches on the nuked version of planet earth? For Christians, God will come on this day. So for anyone planning on converting to this religion anytime in the next 35 years, this would probably be the best option. After all, the rapture could be fun? For those who have lost at least some faith in the nature of people, including me, it's blatantly obvious that the end of the world will come when some idiot with money and a background in some advanced chemistry and war science will nuke this planet. Right after we drill all the oil out of it, develop and AIDS vaccine, and start to find a solution to climate change... POOF. They will be the ones to indefinitely ruin my day.
Chuck on the other hand, evaded the question and decided to write an essay about his 24 hr VH1 marathon. It was highly entertaining, and I didn't think about that question for the remainder of the chapter.
Maybe our politicians are taking lessons from Chuck too.
Conclusion: maybe I'm craving some science fiction.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Joe Six-Pack v.s. Joe the Plumber
I am now in a pickle. More than one, in fact. I am currently in 19 hypothetical situations and moral dilemmas, all because I read about some things that may not be true in a book called Chuck Klosterman IV.
Thanks a lot, Chuck.
It's true, the second section of Chuck Klosterman IV, titled "Things That May Not Be True", is nothing but a collection of nearly impossible hypothetical situations, each being followed by a short observation on something with little or nothing to do with the situation in question. After reading, it struck me; I am blogging about a blog. However, this is my own blog, and though Chuck has already significantly molded my brain to fit his writing style, I'm doing my best to be... different.
This may turn out to be more difficult than I'd imagined.
Possibly one of my favorite dilemma was labeled "the Joe Six-Pack Hypothetical", so named because I, as the reader, am apparently perfectly embodied by the average American we affectionately speak of as Joe Six-Pack. So what if Joe the Plumber is the new Joe Six-Pack? Chuck seems to believe that I, as the reader, am the more "vintage", more athletic American. Works for me.
As this average Joe, I am forced to compete in a series of five events for my own life, and must win at least three of these events. My competitor is also competing for his/her life. The events consist of an 800 meter run, a game of scrabble, a three-round boxing match, a debate over the legalization of late-term abortion, and the math portion of the SAT. As with all hypothetical situations, I have two choices. I can either a) choose an opponent selected at random (maybe I'll get a toddler with 1 limb, maybe a Navy Seal... it's all very stressful) or b)choose to be matched with another one of who Chuck percieves me to be: Joe Six-Pack.
There are several aspects of this decision that I hate. For one, I hate that I do not have a six pack. I hate that I don't know what it is that is making me fight to the death. I hate that I am being forced to race another person for 800 meters. And most of all, I hate that I only have 20 minutes to decide my competitor. However, all is not yet lost! I can't run any better than average Joe, my math skills are mediocre (compared to Joe though, who knows?), and I'm sure that my chances of winning a boxing match would be slim against this average American man equipped with a six-pack. Arguing and words, on the other hand, are both events I can handle. So, against this literal average version of myself, our lives would both come down to the math portion of the SAT.
Life or death, it's all a question of whether I believe I am better than the average American, Joe Six-Pack?
Why yes, yes I am.
?
If any of that made much sense at all, Chuck has listed some bands that Joe Six-Pack must like as an average American. On the list, there are a few classics such as Van Halen, Blue Oyster Cult, and The Beatles. The rest, however, are bands I've hardly heard of whatsoever. These are supposedly indie bands that preach to the average American, yet I've never even heard their names. A few are genres I no longer allow myself to listen to, such as Ska and Underground-turned-mainstream Hip-Hop. No offense to fans of either genre, but to a rock critic they're insignificant. All Ska sounds the same, and it happens to any artist coming out of the underground. It just doesn't work. But back to the Joe Six-Pack playlist, most of it hasn't yet been experienced by my ipod. Perhaps I am not Joe. Perhaps I am more like Chuck.
Conclusion: Seeing as I picked up the writing of Chuck Klosterman over reading one of his novels, I might just go on a Shakespeare binge next time...
Thanks a lot, Chuck.
It's true, the second section of Chuck Klosterman IV, titled "Things That May Not Be True", is nothing but a collection of nearly impossible hypothetical situations, each being followed by a short observation on something with little or nothing to do with the situation in question. After reading, it struck me; I am blogging about a blog. However, this is my own blog, and though Chuck has already significantly molded my brain to fit his writing style, I'm doing my best to be... different.
This may turn out to be more difficult than I'd imagined.
Possibly one of my favorite dilemma was labeled "the Joe Six-Pack Hypothetical", so named because I, as the reader, am apparently perfectly embodied by the average American we affectionately speak of as Joe Six-Pack. So what if Joe the Plumber is the new Joe Six-Pack? Chuck seems to believe that I, as the reader, am the more "vintage", more athletic American. Works for me.
As this average Joe, I am forced to compete in a series of five events for my own life, and must win at least three of these events. My competitor is also competing for his/her life. The events consist of an 800 meter run, a game of scrabble, a three-round boxing match, a debate over the legalization of late-term abortion, and the math portion of the SAT. As with all hypothetical situations, I have two choices. I can either a) choose an opponent selected at random (maybe I'll get a toddler with 1 limb, maybe a Navy Seal... it's all very stressful) or b)choose to be matched with another one of who Chuck percieves me to be: Joe Six-Pack.
There are several aspects of this decision that I hate. For one, I hate that I do not have a six pack. I hate that I don't know what it is that is making me fight to the death. I hate that I am being forced to race another person for 800 meters. And most of all, I hate that I only have 20 minutes to decide my competitor. However, all is not yet lost! I can't run any better than average Joe, my math skills are mediocre (compared to Joe though, who knows?), and I'm sure that my chances of winning a boxing match would be slim against this average American man equipped with a six-pack. Arguing and words, on the other hand, are both events I can handle. So, against this literal average version of myself, our lives would both come down to the math portion of the SAT.
Life or death, it's all a question of whether I believe I am better than the average American, Joe Six-Pack?
Why yes, yes I am.
?
If any of that made much sense at all, Chuck has listed some bands that Joe Six-Pack must like as an average American. On the list, there are a few classics such as Van Halen, Blue Oyster Cult, and The Beatles. The rest, however, are bands I've hardly heard of whatsoever. These are supposedly indie bands that preach to the average American, yet I've never even heard their names. A few are genres I no longer allow myself to listen to, such as Ska and Underground-turned-mainstream Hip-Hop. No offense to fans of either genre, but to a rock critic they're insignificant. All Ska sounds the same, and it happens to any artist coming out of the underground. It just doesn't work. But back to the Joe Six-Pack playlist, most of it hasn't yet been experienced by my ipod. Perhaps I am not Joe. Perhaps I am more like Chuck.
Conclusion: Seeing as I picked up the writing of Chuck Klosterman over reading one of his novels, I might just go on a Shakespeare binge next time...
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Impress a Rock Critic. Buy a Maserati.
"...the band understands a very basic equation: as long as they make everyone money, they will be allowed to do whatever they want."
-Chuck Klosterman
Finally... a reason for me to chuck that U2 album I never really liked.
Yes, the band in question is U2. This band labeled as "classic" and "refreshing" and god forbid, "indie" never so much as piqued my interest. You see, I like U2 about as much as Bill O'Reilly likes Marilyn Manson. For as many years as I've systematically analyzed music beyond it's initial appeal, I've choked down every song off "How To Dismantle an Atomic Bomb" and enjoyed it about as much as I would've enjoyed reading about how to literally dismantle an atomic bomb. The only difference? Had I read about how to dismantle such a bomb, I might've been able to contribute somehow to society instead of sitting around listening to this excruciatingly boring album. I'll admit it. I'm guilty. I never liked U2.
Please don't kill me.
Somehow a rock enthusiast saying that they don't enjoy U2 is a bit like a drummer saying they don't like the sound of a dry hand-hammered K custom ride cymbal for jazz performance... Anyone? Oh dear, it seems I've lost a reader or two. Maybe it's like a chef saying they don't like eating... or like a christian saying they despise Jesus's disciples.
On the other hand, I absolutely love Bono.
Bono isn't like the frontman of any other band. Most bands consider themselves completely legit because they live for nothing but the music they make. These frontmen are only concerned with the music, and whatever may happen to their popularity is only based on the people's complete love and devotion to the sounds that the band makes. Bono, however, makes the music he wants only because he has concerned himself entirely with the band's self image. As Chuck would describe, he's a charismatic salesman in a rocker's body. He can make himself as excited about the band making an apple commercial (they're big fans of the company) as he is about his red campaign for gap or about all the progress he's helped make in Africa. He absolutely LOVES being interviewed because he loves to talk, especially about himself, and he does nice things around reporters just for the sake of them seeing him do nice things.
On another note, Chuck does not like Ireland.
But it was while in Ireland that Chuck interviewed Bono about his band's new album, his newest campaigns for changing the world, and about all those things that only Bono could do. Bono took chuck for a ride in his Quattroporte Maserati (it only means four door, and it was when Bono made this joke that Chuck labled him once and for all, an elitist.) Good deed #1 for Bono during this interview... check. As if this wasn't lovely for the interviewer and interviewee, Bono stopped his Quattroporte to pick up four pale Belgian teenagers and gave them a lift to see his very own studio. Good deed #2... check. I believe he was on a roll.
Chuck must've seen this too, because he began to question "does he just do things like this all the time? Is it to suck up to an interviewer? Oh god... is Bono trying to impress me?"
I then questioned "Was this ride in Bono's Quattroporte the best day of those four teenagers' lives? Or was it the best day Chuck himself ever had?"
Conclusion: Chuck must really love this band. Or maybe it's only the car.
-Chuck Klosterman
Finally... a reason for me to chuck that U2 album I never really liked.
Yes, the band in question is U2. This band labeled as "classic" and "refreshing" and god forbid, "indie" never so much as piqued my interest. You see, I like U2 about as much as Bill O'Reilly likes Marilyn Manson. For as many years as I've systematically analyzed music beyond it's initial appeal, I've choked down every song off "How To Dismantle an Atomic Bomb" and enjoyed it about as much as I would've enjoyed reading about how to literally dismantle an atomic bomb. The only difference? Had I read about how to dismantle such a bomb, I might've been able to contribute somehow to society instead of sitting around listening to this excruciatingly boring album. I'll admit it. I'm guilty. I never liked U2.
Please don't kill me.
Somehow a rock enthusiast saying that they don't enjoy U2 is a bit like a drummer saying they don't like the sound of a dry hand-hammered K custom ride cymbal for jazz performance... Anyone? Oh dear, it seems I've lost a reader or two. Maybe it's like a chef saying they don't like eating... or like a christian saying they despise Jesus's disciples.
On the other hand, I absolutely love Bono.
Bono isn't like the frontman of any other band. Most bands consider themselves completely legit because they live for nothing but the music they make. These frontmen are only concerned with the music, and whatever may happen to their popularity is only based on the people's complete love and devotion to the sounds that the band makes. Bono, however, makes the music he wants only because he has concerned himself entirely with the band's self image. As Chuck would describe, he's a charismatic salesman in a rocker's body. He can make himself as excited about the band making an apple commercial (they're big fans of the company) as he is about his red campaign for gap or about all the progress he's helped make in Africa. He absolutely LOVES being interviewed because he loves to talk, especially about himself, and he does nice things around reporters just for the sake of them seeing him do nice things.
On another note, Chuck does not like Ireland.
But it was while in Ireland that Chuck interviewed Bono about his band's new album, his newest campaigns for changing the world, and about all those things that only Bono could do. Bono took chuck for a ride in his Quattroporte Maserati (it only means four door, and it was when Bono made this joke that Chuck labled him once and for all, an elitist.) Good deed #1 for Bono during this interview... check. As if this wasn't lovely for the interviewer and interviewee, Bono stopped his Quattroporte to pick up four pale Belgian teenagers and gave them a lift to see his very own studio. Good deed #2... check. I believe he was on a roll.
Chuck must've seen this too, because he began to question "does he just do things like this all the time? Is it to suck up to an interviewer? Oh god... is Bono trying to impress me?"
I then questioned "Was this ride in Bono's Quattroporte the best day of those four teenagers' lives? Or was it the best day Chuck himself ever had?"
Conclusion: Chuck must really love this band. Or maybe it's only the car.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Now, For Something Completely Different...
Due to some unfortunate circumstances the touching not-quite-pop-culture novel Tender as Hellfire has been conveniently...
misplaced.
Of course, in a matter of months I might be organized enough to find it under a dusty pile of nameless objects. I will then pick it up, open it to where I brutally dog-eared the page, and resume my quest to open-mindedness.
Until then, my life has become much more interesting.
Chuck Klosterman may be the best pop-culture novelist of all times. I've read nearly every one of his books such as Killing Yourself to Live, Fargo Rock City, and (my personal favorite) Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. Don't be alarmed, my friends. It's all just rock and roll history. The last of the 3 told the story of his cross-country journey, equipped with nothing but a backseat filled with CD's and the occasional rock band hoping to catch a ride with this obsessed audiophile. From these three separate but fascinating studies of rock criticism, my good friend Chuck drilled it into my head to never love a band. It is absolutely necessary, however, to examine the band in question's significance to culture, to mention the band's influence on future groups, and never to forget to mention their most daring musical endeavors, whether ear-pleasing or not. Whether or not the critic enjoys the band, the correct adjective is almost always "interesting", which can be either a good thing for revolutionary groups as well as the perfect word to describe bands who play off-key electric mandolins and scream songs about how the world is flat to an audience of none. Sound unlikely? The average listener would be appaled, but to an experienced critic, they're... interesting.
Therefore, (according to Chuck's critic lessons) Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs is an interesting compilation of the travels of one rock critic's nationwide journey to criticize rock and/or roll. Writing by day and spending time with one of three different women whom he will meet throughout the trip, he wrote of his travels in one of the most significant pop-culture novels of our era, Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs.
By George, I think I've got it.
Now that I've learned to be completely dry about the topic I love, it's time for some discussion on the book that I am actually reading.
Chuck Klosterman VI, not V, not III, but Chuck Klosterman IV is this book, indeed. If it begins with the author's name, it must be significant. As I browse the table of contents, wondering how the story would match up should I read from back to front (hey, it could be interesting), I find some interesting titles. Bending Spoons with Britney Spears, The Amazing McNugget Diet, and Local Claravoyants Split Over Future are a few that stand out, along with a list of "hypotheticals" such as The Joe-Sixpack Hypothetical, The Hitler Theft Hypothetical, The Stereotypical Jesus Hypothetical, and The General Tso's Hypothetical. I wonder...
So, a very brief summary of the first twenty pages or so would have to go something like this: Chuck is miserably obsessed over the Challenger explosion, which he studied in the eighth grade, and he hasn't been able to sleep without dreaming about it since. He has the privilege of interviewing Britney Spears after her pantless photoshoot, bashes the media for turning her into a redneck, and points out his obvious use of the present tense throughout the story.
Conclusion: I have been reading too much Chuck Klosterman.
Oh well. At least I can sleep well tonight, not needing to toss and turn over whether the book I'm reading is truly pop-culture or not.
This one is.
And I love it.
This blog was furiously typed to the frantic vocals of "Girl Anachronism" by The Dresden Dolls. Check it out for all your fast typing needs.
Klosterman, Chuck. Chuck Klosterman IV. New York: Scribner, 2006.
misplaced.
Of course, in a matter of months I might be organized enough to find it under a dusty pile of nameless objects. I will then pick it up, open it to where I brutally dog-eared the page, and resume my quest to open-mindedness.
Until then, my life has become much more interesting.
Chuck Klosterman may be the best pop-culture novelist of all times. I've read nearly every one of his books such as Killing Yourself to Live, Fargo Rock City, and (my personal favorite) Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs. Don't be alarmed, my friends. It's all just rock and roll history. The last of the 3 told the story of his cross-country journey, equipped with nothing but a backseat filled with CD's and the occasional rock band hoping to catch a ride with this obsessed audiophile. From these three separate but fascinating studies of rock criticism, my good friend Chuck drilled it into my head to never love a band. It is absolutely necessary, however, to examine the band in question's significance to culture, to mention the band's influence on future groups, and never to forget to mention their most daring musical endeavors, whether ear-pleasing or not. Whether or not the critic enjoys the band, the correct adjective is almost always "interesting", which can be either a good thing for revolutionary groups as well as the perfect word to describe bands who play off-key electric mandolins and scream songs about how the world is flat to an audience of none. Sound unlikely? The average listener would be appaled, but to an experienced critic, they're... interesting.
Therefore, (according to Chuck's critic lessons) Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs is an interesting compilation of the travels of one rock critic's nationwide journey to criticize rock and/or roll. Writing by day and spending time with one of three different women whom he will meet throughout the trip, he wrote of his travels in one of the most significant pop-culture novels of our era, Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs.
By George, I think I've got it.
Now that I've learned to be completely dry about the topic I love, it's time for some discussion on the book that I am actually reading.
Chuck Klosterman VI, not V, not III, but Chuck Klosterman IV is this book, indeed. If it begins with the author's name, it must be significant. As I browse the table of contents, wondering how the story would match up should I read from back to front (hey, it could be interesting), I find some interesting titles. Bending Spoons with Britney Spears, The Amazing McNugget Diet, and Local Claravoyants Split Over Future are a few that stand out, along with a list of "hypotheticals" such as The Joe-Sixpack Hypothetical, The Hitler Theft Hypothetical, The Stereotypical Jesus Hypothetical, and The General Tso's Hypothetical. I wonder...
So, a very brief summary of the first twenty pages or so would have to go something like this: Chuck is miserably obsessed over the Challenger explosion, which he studied in the eighth grade, and he hasn't been able to sleep without dreaming about it since. He has the privilege of interviewing Britney Spears after her pantless photoshoot, bashes the media for turning her into a redneck, and points out his obvious use of the present tense throughout the story.
Conclusion: I have been reading too much Chuck Klosterman.
Oh well. At least I can sleep well tonight, not needing to toss and turn over whether the book I'm reading is truly pop-culture or not.
This one is.
And I love it.
This blog was furiously typed to the frantic vocals of "Girl Anachronism" by The Dresden Dolls. Check it out for all your fast typing needs.
Klosterman, Chuck. Chuck Klosterman IV. New York: Scribner, 2006.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Just a Few More Reasons NOT to Eat Meat
Picture this:
A room full of the smell of cigars. Florescent lights cut the smoke. In the middle of the room, a ring of chicken wire. A small German Shepherd and a vicious pit bull are thrown into the ring. Their owners watch as the two dogs tear each other apart. Both dogs come close to death. At the end of the night, the men pass money back and forth among each other. They climb into their trucks and head home, sneaking back into bed with their innocent wives.
Tender as Hellfire tells this story. From the eyes of a 10 yr old.
Tenderloin is not normal.
It's true, I don't eat meat. I've never regretted making that decision for over two years. I've never missed hamburgers or the smell of barbecue, and I've learned to love tofu as much as the most fanatic soy-lover. This scene wasn't nearly as vomit-enducing as some of those radical PETA videos I've made myself sick watching, but there was more to this scene than just a couple of bloody paws. It's something I've noticed about meat eaters across the board. These two kids, an arsonist and a younger brother aspiring to be an arsonist, were more than hurt when their mother's greasy boyfriend took them to see this cruelty. They were truly sorry for the dogs who were being turned on one another. Pill even came close to tears when he watched Shiloh the cowardly pitbull come close to death.
And then they went home and ate a steak.
Just kidding.
But who knows, they might've, had I turned the page and continued in opening my mind to this strange, strange book. Maybe I stopped reading because I was disturbed by their insensitivity, but I would guess that wasn't the case. I closed the book only to think about it over and over again. Why do most of us have a strict disconnect between the food we eat and the animals we love? Why do we eat ham when pigs are as smart as a two yr old child? Why are we appalled that dogs in Japan aren't a rare menu item? Why don't I just suck it up and eat a steak?
I have come to a conclusion. I need to write an essay.
Or maybe I'll write another blog.
As soon as I find out whether or not Pill really did eat that steak.
A room full of the smell of cigars. Florescent lights cut the smoke. In the middle of the room, a ring of chicken wire. A small German Shepherd and a vicious pit bull are thrown into the ring. Their owners watch as the two dogs tear each other apart. Both dogs come close to death. At the end of the night, the men pass money back and forth among each other. They climb into their trucks and head home, sneaking back into bed with their innocent wives.
Tender as Hellfire tells this story. From the eyes of a 10 yr old.
Tenderloin is not normal.
It's true, I don't eat meat. I've never regretted making that decision for over two years. I've never missed hamburgers or the smell of barbecue, and I've learned to love tofu as much as the most fanatic soy-lover. This scene wasn't nearly as vomit-enducing as some of those radical PETA videos I've made myself sick watching, but there was more to this scene than just a couple of bloody paws. It's something I've noticed about meat eaters across the board. These two kids, an arsonist and a younger brother aspiring to be an arsonist, were more than hurt when their mother's greasy boyfriend took them to see this cruelty. They were truly sorry for the dogs who were being turned on one another. Pill even came close to tears when he watched Shiloh the cowardly pitbull come close to death.
And then they went home and ate a steak.
Just kidding.
But who knows, they might've, had I turned the page and continued in opening my mind to this strange, strange book. Maybe I stopped reading because I was disturbed by their insensitivity, but I would guess that wasn't the case. I closed the book only to think about it over and over again. Why do most of us have a strict disconnect between the food we eat and the animals we love? Why do we eat ham when pigs are as smart as a two yr old child? Why are we appalled that dogs in Japan aren't a rare menu item? Why don't I just suck it up and eat a steak?
I have come to a conclusion. I need to write an essay.
Or maybe I'll write another blog.
As soon as I find out whether or not Pill really did eat that steak.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Some Readings That Often Induced "Huh?"
I love this book.
Hooray!
For one thing, this book is a cliched masterpiece. In Tenderloin, Iowa, the fictional or possibly non-fictional capital of meat raising/killing/eating, there is nothing to do. Two relatively small boys were forced to relocate to this town, and because of it, things begin to go badly. The high school includes the stereotypes pulled straight from the earliest of the 90's. There are mullet-wearing jocks, overall-sporting cheerleaders, and the very sad few who fit into neither of these. After all, what is there to do in rural Minnesota besides football or cheerleading?
What would YOU do in Tenderloin, Iowa?
For one, Pill likes Arson. That's right, the oldest of these relatively small boys is named Pill. Pill-bug to his younger brother, Dough. Something tells me these boys are not from a normal family. They live in a trailer park, and are sons of some madman living far far away from his family. This just happens to be the man who named the poor boys. Who knew? For little Dough, things aren't much better. He enjoys drawing gladiators and the executions of a small unfortunate looking chatterbox named Lottie. He also has the hots for his teacher.
This is where things start to get wrong. The boys living in a trailer park are babysat by a 28 yr old waitress named Val. She reminds me vaguely of someone from the movie waitress, with her short yellow uniform complete with stark white apron, shoes, and paper hat. This is all fine, as anyone in uniform usually conforms to some stereotype to some degree. However, this waitress enjoys serving her middle school guests gin and water, as well as inviting cowboys and truckers in to her shiny Christmas-light-clad trailer for sleepovers at night. An average reader would be slightly put-off by this, but not I. It's a trailer park, and frankly I never had high expectations for these characters. It looked as if the miserable lives of the characters were becoming more illegal and mundane with every new paragraph.
And then a large drunk cowboy sliced through the screen door with a switchblade and attempted to kill the two boys and their sitter.
"Huh?"
Once again, I put away the book.
Hooray!
For one thing, this book is a cliched masterpiece. In Tenderloin, Iowa, the fictional or possibly non-fictional capital of meat raising/killing/eating, there is nothing to do. Two relatively small boys were forced to relocate to this town, and because of it, things begin to go badly. The high school includes the stereotypes pulled straight from the earliest of the 90's. There are mullet-wearing jocks, overall-sporting cheerleaders, and the very sad few who fit into neither of these. After all, what is there to do in rural Minnesota besides football or cheerleading?
What would YOU do in Tenderloin, Iowa?
For one, Pill likes Arson. That's right, the oldest of these relatively small boys is named Pill. Pill-bug to his younger brother, Dough. Something tells me these boys are not from a normal family. They live in a trailer park, and are sons of some madman living far far away from his family. This just happens to be the man who named the poor boys. Who knew? For little Dough, things aren't much better. He enjoys drawing gladiators and the executions of a small unfortunate looking chatterbox named Lottie. He also has the hots for his teacher.
This is where things start to get wrong. The boys living in a trailer park are babysat by a 28 yr old waitress named Val. She reminds me vaguely of someone from the movie waitress, with her short yellow uniform complete with stark white apron, shoes, and paper hat. This is all fine, as anyone in uniform usually conforms to some stereotype to some degree. However, this waitress enjoys serving her middle school guests gin and water, as well as inviting cowboys and truckers in to her shiny Christmas-light-clad trailer for sleepovers at night. An average reader would be slightly put-off by this, but not I. It's a trailer park, and frankly I never had high expectations for these characters. It looked as if the miserable lives of the characters were becoming more illegal and mundane with every new paragraph.
And then a large drunk cowboy sliced through the screen door with a switchblade and attempted to kill the two boys and their sitter.
"Huh?"
Once again, I put away the book.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Therapy for a Pop Culture Addict
Tender as Hellfire by Joe Meno
Joe Meno has shocked me with another pop culture novel. There he goes again.
As someone not easily shocked, Mr. Meno has given me things to ponder aimlessly in his books. I've read most of them. This coming from a person who rarely reads for pleasure, he must be a prodigy when it comes to writing intriguing and out-of-place pop novels. Hairstyles of the Damned was fantastic, as was The Boy Detective Fails. But this... this book I can already tell is different. This book is...
Strange...
So it all starts with the back cover. It's like the most highly condensed sparknotes that cover the bare minimum of the plot up until the climax. It's supposed to make you buy the book. This one didn't.
Hairstyles of the Damned was about some kids who shift their lives from punk to grunge, then back to punk again for a brief time. They then dabble in the creative yet non-existent mix of punk/grunge before rebelling into the straight-edge sector, then safely returning to grunge. It also contains explicitly clear instructions on the art of hair dying. It's cliched and within my comfort zone. I loved it. Then there was The Boy Detective Fails. I felt like I was reading something that a young bookworm would buy the exact minute it came out, then stay up all night for the first time while reading said book. It was a mix of the obsessive compulsive detective, Monk, and the autistic main character that I only vaguely remember from the 9th grade outside reading. Something about a dead poodle... but none of this matters. The book as I can remember was fantastic. And as hard as pop-culture-Joe tried to be innovative, his story stayed cliched: just the way it was meant to be.
Tender as Hellfire was different. From the first few pages, I get a vague idea of what it's about. A pair of brothers sits outside an Iowa trailer. Speaking of fistfights and whatnot... I cannot imagine what he means. This, my friends, is not pop. It is not culture. And if I said it was white trash, I would be wrong. This was interesting, yet I wanted nothing to do with it. It was... god forbid... new? There are certain things about which I will admit that I know nothing. I know absolutely nothing about Iowa. I know nothing about what it's like to be a 13 yr old kid getting into fistfights in middle school, or what it's like to live in an aluminum trailer park. I know nothing about their situation, or whether or not they play instruments, or what they're passionate about. I know nothing, and this disturbs me.
What to do?
I put the book back on the shelf where it belongs. Maybe it will get picked up once again.
Once I learn to cope with my pop-culture-xenophobia.
Meno, Joe. Tender as Hellfire. New York: Akashic Books, 2007.
Joe Meno has shocked me with another pop culture novel. There he goes again.
As someone not easily shocked, Mr. Meno has given me things to ponder aimlessly in his books. I've read most of them. This coming from a person who rarely reads for pleasure, he must be a prodigy when it comes to writing intriguing and out-of-place pop novels. Hairstyles of the Damned was fantastic, as was The Boy Detective Fails. But this... this book I can already tell is different. This book is...
Strange...
So it all starts with the back cover. It's like the most highly condensed sparknotes that cover the bare minimum of the plot up until the climax. It's supposed to make you buy the book. This one didn't.
Hairstyles of the Damned was about some kids who shift their lives from punk to grunge, then back to punk again for a brief time. They then dabble in the creative yet non-existent mix of punk/grunge before rebelling into the straight-edge sector, then safely returning to grunge. It also contains explicitly clear instructions on the art of hair dying. It's cliched and within my comfort zone. I loved it. Then there was The Boy Detective Fails. I felt like I was reading something that a young bookworm would buy the exact minute it came out, then stay up all night for the first time while reading said book. It was a mix of the obsessive compulsive detective, Monk, and the autistic main character that I only vaguely remember from the 9th grade outside reading. Something about a dead poodle... but none of this matters. The book as I can remember was fantastic. And as hard as pop-culture-Joe tried to be innovative, his story stayed cliched: just the way it was meant to be.
Tender as Hellfire was different. From the first few pages, I get a vague idea of what it's about. A pair of brothers sits outside an Iowa trailer. Speaking of fistfights and whatnot... I cannot imagine what he means. This, my friends, is not pop. It is not culture. And if I said it was white trash, I would be wrong. This was interesting, yet I wanted nothing to do with it. It was... god forbid... new? There are certain things about which I will admit that I know nothing. I know absolutely nothing about Iowa. I know nothing about what it's like to be a 13 yr old kid getting into fistfights in middle school, or what it's like to live in an aluminum trailer park. I know nothing about their situation, or whether or not they play instruments, or what they're passionate about. I know nothing, and this disturbs me.
What to do?
I put the book back on the shelf where it belongs. Maybe it will get picked up once again.
Once I learn to cope with my pop-culture-xenophobia.
Meno, Joe. Tender as Hellfire. New York: Akashic Books, 2007.
Monday, September 15, 2008
BAM! It's blogging time.
I suppose the concept of blogging must have some purpose other than random-inim-ousity or nonsensical words of that sort... possibly this blog will come down to something directional... something either accurate or precise but not quite either one whatsoever... I hope these things have some chance of coming together... though the whole concept of blogging seems slightly random at the moment nonetheless. And for some reason, it seemed like a good idea at the time...
Here are some random thoughts by me.
Man running through the forest.
Picture this.
Here are some random thoughts by me.
Man running through the forest.
Picture this.
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