Archive for the ‘wtf?’ Category
OK class. The text for today’s session is this amazing piece of journalistic commentary, “The 40-Year-Old Reversion” by Amy Sohn. Let’s do a play by play – might want to open the article in another window and follow along as I point out the highlights.
1. It’s a good idea to start something like this by blithely referring to a knowing/unknowing joke about some unfortunate caste or category of people to set the tone for the piece. This permits the readers to understand where they are, socio-demographically speaking, and where they most certainly aren’t.
Once a month I get together with half a dozen moms from Park Slope and Carroll Gardens. We call ourselves Hookers, Sluts and Drug Addicts.
Also note that the delivery of such a joke is a matter of touch. Sohn gets it just right here: Hookers, Sluts, and Drug Addicts are abstract and “funny” enough to keep things edgy yet chill. Adding “Teenage Pornstars with AIDS” or “Project Girls who Give Head for Crack” to the list would potentially bum readers out.
2. Following from that, head directly into a mildly dirty anecdote – something to give the piece a general air of… how to describe it… women staring at each other’s tits.
Sally and I hit it off right away. She had short hair and heavy lids. It turned out we had met ten years ago at the pool room in the back of the Brooklyn Inn, bantering and competing for boys.
Sally went to the bathroom and I waited in front of the door for her to finish. When she came out, I said, “Lemme see your tits.”
“I heard you got a reduction.”
She lifted her shirt and bra and flashed me. “They look good,” I said. “What did the old ones look like?”
They were too big for my little body. They were an F. After I weaned, I would roll over onto one of them in my sleep and it would wake me up and then I would realize it was part of my own body. Now I’m a D. I love them.” Then she started stroking them. A cook stuck his head out of the kitchen.
Notice, here, the way that Sohn doubles down in the final paragraph of the anecdote, moving from women looking at each others tits to a woman and a cook watching another woman massaging her own tits. Note too, at this point, that Sohn widely sidesteps the temptation to move into fullbore sucking, lapping, or licking.
3. Once you’ve cleared ironical slurring and salacious suggestion, you can permit yourself a little vanity-mirror moment, just to register for the readers that you are in fact still desirable enough that any of the rest won’t be gross in the “ugly-old-people-having-sex” sort of way.
Later we decided to go to a bar in Boerum Hill. The restaurant owner, Dave, said he would drive us. He turned out to be a divorced dad. We all crammed into his SUV. There were car seats in the back seat and he threw one of them behind us. The other wouldn’t move so a small mom sat in it, scrunched.
As we were crossing the Gowanus Canal, Dave said, “I just want you to know that I would have sex with any one of you ladies tonight. Even the pregnant one.”
“Thank you,” we said.
3.1 But it would probably be best to tie the “guy-who-says-you’re-still-hot” digression off with a knowing, self-reflexive wink – but a wink that nonetheless you are definitely still potentially somewhat up for it and not the kind of bitch who gets tetchy about stuff like harassing comments made by restaurant owners:
The difference between twenty-five and thirty-eight is that, at thirty-eight, when a strange man says he wants to have sex with you, you feel grateful.
4. Now it’s time to disentangle yourself from digressive anecdotery about Sluts and Tits and Cougarism in order to roll out the actual pitch of the piece. And by pitch I mean just that: this is where you copy and paste the email that you sent to the editor of the web-only publication that you’re writing in now. In the course of doing so, probably best to hat-tip the massively-overexposed and over-analysed bit of pop culture flotsam gave you the idea for the piece in the first place. Nobody, after all, gets tired of pieces along the lines of Lena Dunham – c’est moi. C’est nous tous!
When “Girls” hit this spring, I was shocked by how true the show rang to my life—not my old life as a post-collegiate single girl but my new one, as a married, monogamous, home-owning mother. My generation of moms isn’t getting shocking HPV news (we’re so old we’ve cleared it), or having anal sex with near-strangers, or smoking crack in Bushwick. But we’re masturbating excessively, cheating on good people, doing coke in newly price-inflated townhouses, and sexting compulsively—though rarely with our partners. Our children now school-aged, our marriages entering their second decade, we are avoiding the big questions—Should I quit my job? Have another child? Divorce?—by behaving like a bunch of crazy twentysomething hipsters.
4a. Above all else, it is absolutely vital to end the pitch-repeating “thesis” paragraph with a reduction of any (if any – let’s hope not) complexity you’ve generated so far into a single word brandname for what you’re describing. If you don’t do this, how will Newsweek what to put on their cover the week that you’re the star – they sure as hell won’t go with the title of the novel that you’re flogging by doing all of this in the first place.
Call us the Regressives.
Without a capitalized Name like this, how the hell would anyone know what you’re talking about? What sort of twitter hashtag would they use when arguing about whether you’re a shitter mother than the Tiger Mom or not? Most important of all, they might just start to get the sense that you’re extrapolating wildly (and hyperbolically) from a sample set that includes People who Live on My Block of Union Street, the One between Court and Clark.
5. OK – you’re just about ready to drop the name of your novel into the piece at this point. Careful – this part takes a deft touch.
My new novel, Motherland, is about five New York City parents who act out mid-life through adultery, marijuana or Grindr. The characters are inspired by my neighbors, who seek liberation not through consciousness-raising and EST the way their mothers did, but through Fifty Shades of Greyand body shots. They arrive home from girls’ nights at three a.m. on a weeknight and then complain about hangovers at school dropoff.
In another lesson, we’ll spend more time on the principles of novelistic construction that are on display in this dazzling set piece. For now: note the elegant to-and-fro of contradiction and confirmation of preconceptions are work here: moms are moms but also not because they fuck and drink, these people are made up but actually real, things have changed but really haven’t but really have, and this will have porny fucking in it, just like 50 Shades. All this in the course of a couple of sentences.
5a. This is slightly annoying, given the patently obvious universality of Sohn’s novel and this piece (and, presumably, yours as well), but it’s a good idea to underscore that universality for the haterzz by patiently explaining that the phenomenon in question is definitely not simply an insanely local case / unanchored particularity / simply evidence of the hothouse-reeking-of-egotistical-bullshit that is Brownstone Brooklyn but is in fact a global phenomenon.
(And this regression is not confined to upscale neighborhoods in New York City—I hear similar stories from friends in Los Feliz, Montclair and Rye.)
You can be forgiven if you don’t know where these desperately provincial backwaters are that Sohn mentions – why would you? I mean, the fact that they are only slightly more suburban versions of Brownstone Brooklyn, one in LA the other two just outside NYC, and are filled by exactly the same sort of people, only with bigger houses and maybe the shot at sending their kids to public school instead of having gram and gramps pay for St Anne’s, doesn’t contradict the fact that this stuff is probably happening in Omaha and rural Bangladesh. Or isn’t, as the whole piece is staked on the fact that Brownstone Brooklyn is so insane hip that…
You know what, forget it. Let’s move on.
5b. …we’ll move on save for one more thing. It will probably happen that some redneck will call you up on this Montclair or Rye thing. If so, answer with an eye-roll and the response “Oh, so I guess we don’t do irony, do we, where you’re from?”
6. Right. That’s it for the mandatory stuff. Now it’s time for the body of the piece, which needn’t be much more than a series of anecdotes about the phenomenon in question. Whether they actually add up to making a case for the existence of this phenomenon isn’t the point. Rather, the point is to deploy what you have – basically a series of mildly titillating / gross / silly things that have happened or you have “heard about” while sidestepping the fact that they may not in fact be real. One way around the later problem is to write in the present tense (“They arrive home from girls’ nights at three a.m. on a weeknight and then complain about hangovers at school dropoff”) or, even better, avoid using verbs beyond strange “it is” constructions at all:
The childbearing is over, the breastfeeding in the past, the sling donated to Housing Works. It’s the moment when a mom dresses as a Harajuku girl for Halloween, or there’s a full bar at a four-year-old’s birthday party, or two ladies step out of book group to smoke on the stoop. It’s blowjob gestures at cocktail parties followed by a-little-too hysterical laughter. It’s the mother who says, “Mommy needs an Advil because she stayed up too late last night.” It’s fortieth birthday parties at karaoke bars.
See that: through the “it’s, it’s, it’s” formulation, you’re not actually asserting that any of these things actually have taken place. Rather this is the sort of thing that would happen if this Regression thing was happening, and since you’ve said it’s happening, then they have happened too. Perfect – you’ve learned the secret of tautological spin.
7. It might be a good time, lest the reader starts to lose interest or attention, to reaffirm that this is just like the stuff that happens on her/his favorite cable tv shows.
The same Facebook moms who use kid photos as their profile pics post galleries of their binge drinking. Is the behavior really amoral? No. Does it cross a line? Rarely. But there is a wild, life-craving, narcissistic, oblivious madness to it that reminds me of Don Draper and pals in the mid-sixties. These women are the men their mothers divorced.
8. Now that you’ve done the amorphous “things that might be the case but who really knows” non-story story thing, the remainder of the piece can consist of a stream of consciousness list of mundane things that vaguely reinforce the Big Idea of the piece. Have no fear if these mundane things are really mundane and utterly disjointed, one to the next. What follows is an exhaustive list of what actually happens in the remainder of Sohn’s piece – exhaustive so that you can you can be reassured that having nothing really to talk about shouldn’t at all put you off writing a piece of this sort:
- Once, a woman in Fort Greene had non-intercourse sex once with a coworker.
- Once, a married woman with kids used coitus interruptus as her birth control method.
- Once, a man bought XL condoms from the Park Slope Co-Op
- Once, two men took Xanax while drinking.
- Once, a dad gave the author some marijuana.
- Once, the author took the subway to Park Slope once because there were no cabs on Smith Street.
- Once, people went back from drinks to someone’s place to do a line of coke.
- Once, someone said to the author that her Asian boyfriend had a large penis.
- Once, people at a party attended by the author smoked pot on the front stoop.
9. As you can see, the takeaway point is this: the initial “tits out and self-fondled” story is the alpha and the omega of this piece, and clears room for everything else. That along with a catchy tagword like “Regressives” will allow you to transform, as if (or, probably, in fact) effortlessly, some silly shit that happens at boring kids’ birthday parties in at the Center of the Literary Universe (i.e. Brooklyn) into a piece that not only captures the World Zeitgeist, but further even becomes a talking point during the dead-air times on CNN.
Did you catch a guy peeing against your garbage cans? Then exhibitionism in the new hip thing amongst the BoBos of Park Slope. Did you bump your head during sex with your husband? Watch out, EL James: it’s married BDSM that’s the new rage in Red Hook. Did a friend of a friend let one rip during a cocktail party? Then – as you can easily imagine – farting is the new flirting in Boerum Hill.
Maybe I’m just being silly, but I find this video strangely fascinating…
For one thing, I could see these videos dragging Stephen Joyce into his most insane legal action yet. But beyond that I have this vague sense that I’d love to write something that somehow was the exact fictional equivalent of these videos. Not sure what that would mean, exactly. But here we have attention-in-distraction (is he actually playing while he reads these?) plus porn (excellently – porn in epistolary form captured in a streaming video – brilliant!) plus the asynchronous “plot arcs” of the letters and the games (on one of the later video you get JJ abruptly cutting off the letter because he purportedly just uh-oh’d himself in the course of writing it) plus virtual sociality (the erotics at a distance of the letters crossed with the fascination of the girl gamer with the letters, and perhaps, we might imagine, the guy who is reading the letters) plus the stupidity of imitative pastiche (the guy who keeps resaying lines from the letters – quite accurately, as if he’s writing them down – in a sort of movie-announcer-cum-Halo-guy voice….)
I could keep going. Sometimes I really miss the US PhD seminars that I ran. I’d totally throw this in for us to kick around at the end of one of the three hour blocks….
I used to live in Brooklyn Heights, which among other things was the location of the world HQ of the Jehovah’s Witnessnes. I think most of their space there has been converted to condos and the like. Interestingly, there seemed to have been some decision on their part that they wouldn’t do the door to door think in their own nabe, for fear of saturating and thus alienating the locals. (The closest I got was the time that the creepy JW who lived two floors above my place ran into me smoking outside on 9/11. He said to me, “Son, you look troubled….” and held our some pamphlets for me to take. I responded, erm, inappropriately…)
Anyway, their housemag The Watchtower was dropped through my slot today. Gotta tell you, the clip art illustrations are worthwhile. So worthwhile that I’ve spent some time on the website tonight, and will be visiting each of you, at your houses sometime very soon. For now, if you could just take a look at this photoessay I’ve made up and consider the alternatives before you….
THE KINGDOM OF GOD EXPLAINED VIA JEHOVAH WITNESS CLIPART
AFTER THE REARRIVAL OF OUR SAVIOR, first of all, old men will be freed from the burden of passing large amounts of urine on any single trip to the toilet. Wee little pees will be their gift from the rearrived Jesus.
Further, entertainment will be more entertaining than it had been lately. Some will be riveted by it; others rendered ecstatic; still more will be driven to clutch and grab at their mother’s bra.
Christmas ornaments will feature shockingly realistic photographic clipart…
…while picnics with grandparents will generally take place in sunny graveyards!
Parents will be relieved from the burden of guilt that they’d rather look at porn than talk with their children!
Students coming home on break from university will be accompanied by their personal set of deer!
Mime will gain a priviledged place as the predominant form of popular art it was always meant to be…
…while Jehovah busily assigns willing, pretty girls to very, very awkward young men for them to use as they will, up to and including intense bouts of handholding!
Charcoal-sketched softcore will take up the religious thematics long anticipated by some…
…while many will be shocked to learn that rental charges will be waived for the video versions of this godly skinstuff!
What is left of non-porn art will be defined by mindbending tricks with perspective, undoing and redoubling the achievements of the Renaissance. Here, flat land in the foreground intersects in a way only conceivable by the post-Armageddon mind with the flatness of the water at about a 30 degree angle. If you had been Saved (do JWs do “saving” hmmm?), this would make good optical sense! Trust me!
After the second coming, you will be able to video chat with your friends on your personal computer! I shit you not, brothers and sisters!
Lounge singers will be permitted to fulfill their ambition to become disabled children!
Suddenly, looking at XXX Magazine will be like reading the New Yorker, perfectly acceptable for the living room on chilly Sunday afternoons in winter, wife and godly children huddled all around, especially since all the images will be blurred beyond visibility…
…while public murals drawn from the Afghan translation of The Joy of Sex will be omnipresent!
But best of all, the real payoff of this whole Jehovah rearrived, will the the distribution of the peacocks, one to each family. Here, we see the bird whispering instructions regarding what to do with the parental remains once she and the horses… and Jehovah are done with them!
Lots of this stuff boggles the mind, requires very very patient and concentrated searching around for slow explanations. Found a new favorite stumper today: one keeps finding folks advising the masses to “trade the volatility.” Trade the volatility… hmmm…. I know we live in strange days, when the demonic abstractions imagined into life by hedgefund mainframes are strutting across the brick and mortar surface of the world, spewing contagion as they pass. But it is hard, on first thought, to think exactly how one would devise an instrument that would allow you to “trade the volatility” in the markets itself. I can wrap my head around certain levels of abstraction – like trading risk, for instance, I can see how you can do that.
Volatility trading is still in its infancy, and not surprisingly critics abound. Naysayers suggest volatility is, in essence, a description of an asset’s return, not an asset unto itself. Yet most market players adopt the perspective that if it has a price, then it can be traded. (from here)
That seems like a good question from the naysayers in the crowd. And the response of the “market players” is pitch perfect. But there actually are instruments that you can buy (VIX futures contracts and VIX options…) to do this, but what are they, like, made of? Or are they simply pure betting table gambles, made of nothing more than the bet that you’d place at Ladbrokes on Wayne Rooney to score the first goal again Portsmouth this week? If you were doing it on “main street” (ugh) I guess you’d stock up on shotgun shells and can openers as well as oceanfront condos. But I can’t imagine that that’s how it works with these contracts.
Sometimes I wish I’d spent just a wee bit of time in the industry (where all of the lovely men I went to high school with are, er, or perhaps were) so I could understand this stuff. But that’s foolish isn’t it – they don’t know what these things are either. Silicon nightmares, terminator wisdom so far restricted to screens.
Does anyone know? Care to take a guess? OK, seriously, to work with me. Right now….
I’ve avoided writing about this because it makes me angry enough to, well, write more angry, stupid blogposts, but Stephen Michelmore does a nice job on the whole Kafka / porn faux shitstorm that’s been circling around the bowl lately. SM’s piece features a rather nice pull from Milan Kundera’s “In the Castrating Shadow of Saint Garta.”
Masterful as they were at analyzing all the strategies of love, nineteenth-century novels left sex and the sexual act hidden. In the first decades of our century, sex emerged from the mists of romantic passion. Kafka was one of the first (certainly along with Joyce) to uncover it in his novels. He unveiled sex … as a commonplace, fundamental reality in everyone’s life. Kafka unveiled the existential aspects of sex: sex in conflict with love; the strangeness of the other as a condition, a requirement, of sex; the ambiguous nature of sex: those aspects that are exciting and simultaneously repugnant.
You spend your life (as I do) trying to develop ever more complicated theories on and renditions of literary modernism, it’s nice to run into a reminder of some of the baseline but massive innovations of the movement. Kundera’s list of ways that sex appears in Kafka and Joyce is right on, I think.
Anyway, beyond all that Michelmore says about James Hawes’s Excavating Kafka, the thing that drives me most nuts about the whole affair is the way that this book and it’s media life seems to act out all of malign impulses that direct academic literary work today. It is driven by:
- big-score research – ridiculous fantasies drawn from A.S. Byatt novels or is it the Da Vinci Code of the, my god, sudden and startling archive find that turns the entire field on its head
- prepackaged media pre-positioning made of easy-to-open scandal n’ intrigue for the dummies at the papers swallow and spew up again
- something approaching utter disdain for the ethics of this work, for the one thing that we should have left in this business of letters after all else is gone, and that is barebones empathy for the human, a sensitivity to what it costs to be human, an appreciation of what it costs, a tolerance for idiosyncrasy, etc etc.
Why does Hawes keep going around saying things like this? How does he sleep at night after saying it?
Even today, the pornography would be “on the top shelf”, Dr Hawes said, noting that his American publisher did not want him to publish it at first. “These are not naughty postcards from the beach. They are undoubtedly porn, pure and simple. Some of it is quite dark, with animals committing fellatio and girl-on-girl action… It’s quite unpleasant.”
Seems fair, given the circumstances, to do a little sniff-test close reading on Hawes’s own words here – I’ll leave you to fill in the dots about the organization of his psychosexual drives. The “girl-on-girl action” bit is too easy. Um, that’s not how you’d say it if you were on the side of the weird angels you’ve aligned yourself with, James. More interesting is the idea of “animals committing fellatio.” Perhaps this is just a US / UK translation issue, but we Americans save the verb “to commit” for sexual acts that imply a moral trangression. One “commits” adultery. One “commits improper actions upon and with myself, father.” One does not, you know, “commit” getting really nicely laid. Or “commit” a blowjob, especially if one likes giving or getting them. The idea of animals “committing” anything – oooo, those horny, sinful little (or big) creatures, always taking the devil’s lowroad toward the wet and nasty, etc etc – is a bit odd, and it’s hard not to imagine a particularly, um, complicated relationship to animals, their sexuality, and their moral status informing that particular construction. Hmmm….
That’s all for now. I’ve really got to get some work in tonight on my monograph, Joseph Conrad Loved to Touch the Asscrack – Isn’t That Fucking Sick?!?!?!!????!.
[NB: James Hawes defends himself in the comments… He’s got some things to say that seem fair enough… So maybe I was being a wee bit harsh here… Still, still, what I saw in the papers was upsetting and we all need to be vigiliant, very vigiliant, when the reporters come calling… Take a look at what he says though….]
(my vacation, as illustrated by photos found in today’s Evening Standard….)
Well, I got lots of beachtime in during the last two weeks, and now have a bit of a tan. My wife says it make me look hot… Which is unusual, so there you go…
Anyway, to take advantage of all the third-world deals on in the home country, we did some shopping, like all the other pasties who flew in on BA. I bought some stuff at Banana Republic, because I’m very posh, and had a stack of bonus gift cards from my old credit card. My wife bought a few things at some of the other stores in the mall…
The return flight wasn’t too bad, but we’d brought so much back that our original plan to take the train back into the city seemed less attractive once we actually made it to terminal 5. Oh, and there was (as usual) a problem with the trains today anyway.
No matter, I’d saved so much on duty-free cigs and all my “nothing to declare” items, that a cab back to the house seemed very much the sort of affordable luxury that, well, one ought to gift to oneself now and again.
(sorry. I have absolutely no idea why I had to put you through that just now….)