Return of the Real

Re: that last post. Bush's verbal mismanagement, his utter inability to say anything of actual importance without either some world-class torque on the level of a dizzying whirling dervish spin (i.e., 'More attacks in Iraq is a good thing because it shows how desperate the insurgents are'), flubbing the line, or simply resorting to a pathetic platitude that is so shockingly and obviously banal that even true believers cringe a little bit when they actually are put in a position to do anything but click their heels together and salute . . . . all of this is a clear sign of that to which all such postmodernists cringe (and, yes, I credit the GOP as being postmodern through and through), the return of the Real, that seedy underbelly that renders reality more than itself, the 'itself' of reality that is more than reality, and which occasionally, in glimpses, rears its most disturbing of heads. It frightens us all: it is that from which we recoil, which prompts so many sane, right-thinking Americans to stay away from the civil discourse in general, mostly because in this case it reminds us who has been leading American for nearly four years now, and if that doesn't fill you with dread and horror and sadness and a general disdain for the process that put him there, and doesn't make you wish for a double drop of whisky I don't know what will. And yet it also, ideally anyway, gives us some measure of hope, a glimmer of possibility that doesn't lie in some utopian future, but is here, with us, NOW, a feeling that we're not alone in noticing the horror, that together we can find some other headless Master to lead us down another path.

Taking Back Language

I've been having an ongoing conversation lately with Pat about the Republican appropriation of language in American political discourse. I.e., whereby the Republican agenda, simply by virtue of its purveyor's fine art of repetition and appropriate 'framing' (via talking points), is espoused before any actual content is presented (or at the expense of any content at all). For instance:

Well, frames are everywhere. Think of what happened on the very first day that George Bush took office. A press release came out using the words "tax relief." Now a linguist who looks at the word "relief" would say, "Ah-hah, there's a frame in which there is an affliction, an afflicted party who's harmed by this, a reliever, who takes away this affliction. And if anybody tries to stop them, they're a bad guy.

You add "tax" to that, and you get taxation is an affliction. And if the Democrats oppose the President's tax relief plan, they're bad guys

[. . .]

So the word "tax relief" goes out to every radio station, every TV station, every newspaper, day after day after day. Soon, everybody's thinking tax relief with the idea that taxation is an affliction unconsciously, automatically.

It is really easy, all too easy, to get frustrated about this, and simply to throw in the towel. Fortunately, though, we have people like George Lakoff to help make us a bit more aware of what is thrown our way. The more we're aware, the more we can actually be a bit less cynical (in the sense of bellyaching) and a bit more active in helping to reframe the issues that are important to us. Or, alternatively, it lends a bit more intelligence to our cynicism -- which is always helpful too.

Well Said

"The other day, I was ranting to a friend about Kerry's vicious support for the apartheid wall in Israel, his gratuitous attacks on Hugo Chavez in Venezuela and his abysmal record on free trade. 'Yeah,' he agreed sadly. 'But at least he believes in evolution.' " (Link)

For Those Who Didn't Get the Email

I emailed this out yesterday, mostly to friends who do not, for a variety of reasons, do not read Silentio. I had the intention at the time to quickly post it, but by that point the bottle of champagne was taking its toll on my already-stunted short-term memory.

Ding Dong... Ding Dong...

So the bells chimed throughout Maaseik, Belgium, announcing the wedding of B. J. and K. Z., before the legal eyes of the Belgian government. It was a quaint, quick service, spoken almost entirely in Flemish, and thus mostly indecipherable to the likes of me. My linguistic deficiency aside, the only panic was that my witness, Katrien's best friend, would not show up in time. I did not understand why this might be a big deal until I realized that at 11.00, a few moments after I was supposed to kiss the bride, Belgium's national day of mourning was set to begin. But like a blonde-headed angel, and they're all blonde of course, E. came running into the little room, startling the mayor, who was wearing the Belgian flag like a sarong, announcing her intent to affirm my participation and consent. There wasn't a dry eye in the house as I prounounced, with pride I might add, 'Ja' to all the questions asked of him by the mayor, trusting that his English translation of the service was grenade-range accurate and legally binding to make all of this worth it. Should none of you believe that I, the traditionally non-marrying type, did indeed get married, I recommend that you ask to see (a) the pretty snazzy crystal glasses given to us by the mayor, adorned with Maaseik's town seal (sans copyright), and (b) the utterly confusing 'marriage book', at which I've looked and of which tried to make heads or tails, but have thus far been unsuccessful.

I thank you all for your warmest well-wishes, hopes, and whatever other good omens you have effectively thrown our way. It has been very appreciated. Upon our return to the States sometime in the autumn, K. and I hope to have some kind of ceremony -- perhaps a ring-exchange, wherein you are entrusted to threaten me with a vicious thrashing should I break the heart of the Belgian. I hope to see many of you there, or at least sometime soon before or thereafter. For those of you not in the States, but marooned on the isle I will soon be vacating for bigger, though arguably less alluring shores, I hope to see and celebrate with you soon. Meanwhile, I'll see those of you on the Continent soon enough, if I haven't already.

Best to you all.

It's Come To This

It's go time. In a few minutes, I will be standing before the mayor of Maaseik, Belgium, completely clueless as to what he's trying to say, hoping that K. doesn't flake out as an interpreter, as she is wont to do from time to time. Barring something grossly more unexpected than that, I will be, the next time I post, a married man. What to think of all this? As the clock winds down, I'm thinking of fate and destiny as the romantic agencies of love and marriage, and I cannot but conclude that it is all complete bollocks.

The family is stirring in the next room, and I'm getting glares from those who walk by the computer room on their way to the toilet, so I guess I should do the pre-ceremonial mingle. Stay tuned.

Matrimony Looms

I'm down to my final days as a single man. Oddly, and I say this with a bit of hesitation, something of a stammer, and a hint of a shudder, I'm not feeling too nervous about it. I'm not sure if this means that the reality of it hasn't sunk in: what with the herculean maneuvers it's taken to get this close to actually making this thing legal, and the fact that the wedding itself is a very small, very simple affair, forgetting that I'm getting married, and all that entails, I suppose, is a possibility.

As the clock ticks, and as we wait for the taxi that will take us to the train that will take us to the plane that will take me to a pretty radical shift in my person, I'm sitting here listening to music, in search for something that'll make the moment poignant, something that speaks. Is it, perhaps, the Velvet Underground's 'Heroin'? Perhaps. The Twilight Singers' 'Follow You Down'? Maybe. Super Furry Animals' 'Herman Loves Pauline'? Pretty close. But no ... it's none of these great songs. The song of the moment, our song -- mine and Katrien -- the one we sing while washing dishes and folding laundry and all those other banal moments of the purest love, is Whiskeytown's 'Matrimony'.

I've been saving this dress for my wedding day
Mama wouldn't have it any other way
She says when she married her waist was 23
I guess I'll never wear it anyway

I don't believe I plan to marry
Although I cannot explain exactly why
Somehow it seems to me that matrimony is misery
Simply a faster way to die

Saving all my money for my wedding day
You know my mama wouldn't have it any other way
She says when she married she didn't have a dime
I guess I'll spend that money some other way

I don't believe I care to marry
Although I cannot say exactly why
Somehow it seems to me that matrimony is misery
Simply a faster way to die

I've been saving my best thing for my wedding day
Because my papa wouldn't have it any other way
He says if I lose it early I'd have thrown my life away
But I swear I'll use my cherry my own way

I don't believe I care to marry
Although I cannot explain exactly why
Somehow it seems that matrimony is misery
Simply a faster way to die

So ... off to Belgium for the week. I'll check in periodically.

Home Run

It's not often anymore that you get a stellar political speech in America, save for some of the neo-fascist conservative rantings whose sheer spectacle you can't help but gawk at from time to time. Occasionally, you get a choleric Howard Dean setting Sacramento alight in March 2003, days before the Iraq war, berating Democrats for giving America away to the fundamentalists. But normally you're stuck with middle-of-the-road political praddle, not unlike that exemplified by Bush himself in an interview (begins at the 15.00 mark) this summer in Ireland. (Note: Bush was lucky he had a fairly incompetent interviewer. Not so for Prime Minister Blair last February.). But then, occasionally, you get young politicans like Barack Obama speaking at the Democratic National Convention ... and bringing down the house (text transcript here).  Turn your political cynicism off for fifteen minutes and check it out -- this one is a keeper.

Ideology of Intention

Yesterday I had an interesting email discussion with a friend of mine re: his assigned textbook for a second-year Hermeneutics course he is teaching in the autumn, Grant R. Osborne's The Hermeneutical Spiral. Osborne's book is regarded pretty highly by those evangelical Christian seminaries that don't want to come off as fundamentalist nutjobs. In my friend's words: "Osborne's deal is that you get closer and closer to the meaning of the text the more and more you deal with it. In other words, you don't just move in the circle of the author's meaning that you can't extract, nor the reader's meaning that you can't avoid. Rather, his vision is of a spiral that gets closer and closer with each subsequent reading. It is fundamentally an exegetical model, and he explicitly admits to following E.D. Hirsch."

What's wrong with this picture of interpretation? Well, very shortly, I don't buy Hirsch's conservative conception of authorial intention. Namely, that it (authorial intention) is the ultimate horizon of a text's meaning. I certainly think it is possible to come up with reasonable authorial readings, and to that end Osborne's (and Hirsch's) method is reasonably sound). However, the assumption that the elusive authorial meaning is what keeps the 'spiral' in motion (i.e., keeps us reading), is not one that I think is all that compelling. It's telling that when Hirsch tried to support intentionality with philosophy, he ended up appealing to a very suspect reading of Husserl. When he saw that that wasn't going to fly, he appealed, far more successfully I might add, to common sense and pragmatics. There's something to be said for the latter, at least insofar as it displays how normative meanings are conferred to texts and discourses (a necessary step if we're going to make sense of one another). But critically speaking, and to an extent ethically, I think the underlying assumption of both Hirsch and Osborne leaves a lot to be desired, as it ultimately forecloses the hermeneutical horizon to a single (elusive) referent. What you seem to have in Osborne, if I remember correctly anyway, is a pretty standard foundationalist assumption that there is an ultimate meaning lying just beyond our subjective purview, and inasmuch as we search for it in good faith, we'll get closer to it. What you also have, though, is the also pretty standard foundationalist / rationalist caveat that, if hermeneutical activity is to continue, said ultimate meaning must remain further down inside the spiral. Alice, upon her descent into the rabbit hole, as it were, never quite reaches Wonderland. In other words: you have a foundationalist assumption, with no foundationalist payoff. Where is the exegetical money shot?

It is hard to see how one of two things will not arise from such an impasse: (a) strong interpretations that claim tentative / open status, but do not readily accept deviant / alternative positions; or (b) weak interpretations that (implicitly or explicitly) anticipate new contexts to be be unearthed that will lead us closer to an author's meaning -- which will, in a sense, discredit previous interpretations (that do not coincide) as obsolete or solipsistic play. Inasmuch as Ultimate Meaning remains the inaccessible horizon that other (bad) interpretations keep us from achieving, I think hermeneutics remains dangerously blind to its ideological function. Keeping Truth on the far side of reality is just as standard in the ideologue's handbook as casting alternative / deviant interpretations as the hurdle to said Truth. (E.g., 'If it weren't for those damned liberals mucking around with our biblical studies, we might know what Paul really meant!', or 'Deconstruction is the death of biblical interpretation!', 'Queer theory [or whatever other special interest theory] is a mockery of biblical scholarship!')

Celebration!

Not too long ago I received a letter from a scholarly journal rejecting a paper of mine.  Long-time readers may remember the upshot: "I wouldn't encourage its revision . . . though perhaps its translation into English!"  Well, this weekend I received vindication, of sorts.  Much to the chagrin of some readers who recommended physical violence, I opted simply to submit it elsewhere.  Thankfully, the good folk at the Journal for Cultural and Religious Theory didn't think it nearly as bad as The Journal of the ______ ______ of _____.  Should be up and available for public consumption in December.  Huzzah!

Two Weeks and Two Days

A whirlwind weekend in the life and times of K. and me.  It all started on Friday afternoon.  I was enjoying a quiet afternoon -- listening to this, reading this, skimming through this -- when I was called by the frantic Belgian, who explained that 'we have a problem'.  It turns out that if you want to get married in Belgium, nobody but you and your significant other can turn in the requisite documents (i.e., an assortment of birth certificates, certificates saying there is no impediment to a marriage, certificates indicating that you have never, to the knowledge of the Glasgow City Council, sacrificed a bull to Mithra, etc.).  This, of course, makes perfect sense, but, as it were, we'd been fed very bad information by the townhall.  Anyway ... upon the news that K.'s parents could not turn in these documents, K. told me to set aside all else and find affordable last-second plane tickets to Belgium, so that we might settle the matter in a timely fashion.  ('Just do it,' were her words, if I recall, when she heard the beginnings of the phrase, 'I told you s---'.)  So, twelve hours later, at the very dawning of Glasgow's most gray of dawns, I found myself with her, only one-quarter awake, £400 poorer, on a plane bound for Brussels (via Amsterdam). 
 
As it normally the case, the situation was not nearly as bad as we thought it might be.  If nothing else, we got to play with the (still nameless) orphaned kittens, drink Westmalle along the Maas, and tempt fate while riding a bike (after drinking said Westmalles) during an apocalyptic thunderstorm.  And, yes, we got things settled at the townhall, at least I think we did.  According to the competent official who has led us astray two times already, we are scheduled for a wedding on August 4, at 10.30.  Fingers crossed, people. 
 
We're bound for Glasgow early Tuesday morning, bringing another section of this weird chapter to its close.  Hopefully, it will eventually become just a footnote. 

Fafblog Forever!

It was recently brought to my attention that, for reasons I don't entirely understand, but realistically suspect to be a part of a vast conspiracy against the full-functioning depravity that Silentio encourages, I've never linked to the always wonderful Fafblog. Er ... then again, maybe I have. Whatever. Prior linking or not, if you need more proof before you add it to your bookmarks, look no further than Fafnir's interview with Ralph Nader and his running mate cum sock puppet, Mr. Winkles.

A Review

I got around to watching Fahrenheit 9/11 last night. As I mentioned here here, I went into it with a hearty dose of cynicism / skepticism. (Par for the course, that double dose.) Most of you have undoubtedly heard all the positive and negative reviews. One of the interesting things about the movie is that, at least in the 'liberal' press, its negative aspects are often redeemed for positive ends. There's some real value in this approach (e.g., Paul Krugman's op/ed), but I'm more struck by the fact by the weaknesses that undermine (what I regard as) its positive aim.

Most people are falling over themselves either in outrage or in defense of Moore's reliance on Craig Unger's book House of Saud, House of Bush: The Secret Relationship Between the World's Two Most Powerful Dynasties, whereby Moore insinuates many of the possible, conspiratorial ramifications of the connections between American corporate interest, esp. those of Bush's family, and those of Saudi Arabia. Yes ... this is one of the problems with Fahrenheit 9/11, but not because it lends itself to the self-indulgent promulgation of conspiracy theories. The downside is a bit more simple, I think: it just gets in the way of the more general, and in my opinion more interesting, analysis of America's corporate relationship with Saudi Arabia. In insinuating a conspiracy, Moore too quickly makes a conclusion that he ought not make; that is to say, I think this part of the movie would have been much more powerful had he presented the connections, in all their ambiguity and generality, and allowed moviegoers to make their own conclusions. The best way to spread a secret, after all, is not to spread it as such (i.e., as a secret); but rather, to talk around it, allowing people to create the content of the secret on their own and then spread it as truth.

Far more damaging, though, as was also the case in Bowling for Columbine is Moore's tendency toward haphazard collage, rather than meaningful pastiche. Now, I know he has a purpose, one I share, and I'm more than willing to give him leeway with playing with facts to make a rhetorical maneuver, but I'm still a sucker for a strongly argued point. The closest Moore has ever come to this is in Roger and Me. Since then, possibly due to his foray into television, his movies have become far too episodic and anecdotal, at the expense of their poignancy. What you have in Fahrenheit 9/11 is a series of reasons not to vote for Bush. Yes ... I understand that. On that level, I suppose it works. I do not think that only lefties are seeing the movie; in fact, I'm fairly convinced that it could be very convincing for non-committed middle-ground voters. HOWEVER ... I think its appeal could very well prove to be its worst point. Clearly, the end of the film, which profiles a Flint, Michigan mother, whose son was killed in Iraq, is designed for an emotional effect. I think it works. I'm not a very emotional person, but, unlike most of the Brits I've talked to about this scene, I was not embarassed by it, but genuinely moved. Seeing the mother nearly fall over in grief when standing in front of the White House lawn, not unlike the Iraqi woman screaming 'Why?' to God after yet another errant American bomb, is one of the most 'real' moments of the film. My problem with it, however, is that it functions as a climax to the anti-Bush theme, rather than its heart. As such, the weight of its reality is not as heavily felt -- i.e., it becomes all too easy to see through the rhetorical function of it ('Ah ... he's appealing to our emotions here'). In other words, it is not unreasonable to feel a little manipulated or jerked around. Surely, Bush & co. used the threat of terrorism to this same rhetorical effect, and one could perhaps say this justifies Moore's use of it, too -- but when one uncritiqued ideology replaces another uncritiqued ideology, you're simply left with what you started with. Mimicking the enemy is effective (and, as it were, true) only insofar as it disrupts its own reflection, breaking it into an untold number of possible reflections, all distorted, all inadequate.

Anyway ... in a nutshell: Fahrenheit 9/11 is surely worth seeing. It's chock full of unseen footage (of Bush, of the war, etc.), and is worth the ticket price (or length of a download) for that alone. I think it also has a lot of potential to sway middle-ground voters. Nevertheless, inasmuch as the rhetorical turns are often too apparent, and the content so broad as to be emotionally shallow, it carries the same potential to dissuade these same voters when/if their heads catch up with their hearts. On a cynical level, I guess I can but hope, apropos of the comparison of Moore's rhetoric with that of pre-war Bush, that it remains convincing long enough to accomplish its end.

Should I Include This In My Wedding Vow?

To put it another way: choice is always a meta-choice; it involves a choice to choose or not. Prostitution, for example, is a simple exchange: a man pays a woman for having sex with her. Marriage, on the other hand, involves two levels: in traditional marriage, with man as breadwinner, he pays the woman much more (maintains her as wife) in order not to have to pay her (for sex). So, in the case of marriage for money, one cay say that the husband pays the wife in order that she should sell not only her body but also her soul -- that she should pretend that she is giving herself to him out of love. Yet another way to put it would be to say that one pays a prostitute to have sex with her, whereas one's wife is a prostitute whom one has to pay even more if one doesn't have sex with her (since in this case she is not satisfied, and one has to appease her in another way, with generous gifts). (S. Zizek, The Ticklish Subject)

The Kids, They're Alright

The widespread influence of Silentio on America's youth is finally, after two long years, taking effect:

About one-third of American teenagers claim they're "born again" believers, according to data gathered over the past few years by Barna Research Group, the gold standard in data about the U.S. Protestant church, and 88% of teens say they are Christians. About 60% believe that "the Bible is totally accurate in all of its teachings." And 56% feel that their religious faith is very important in their life.

Yet, Barna says, slightly more than half of all U.S. teens also believe that Jesus committed sins while he was on earth. About 60% agree that enough good works will earn them a place in heaven, in part reflecting a Catholic view, but also flouting Protestantism's central theme of salvation only by grace. About two-thirds say that Satan is just a symbol of evil, not really a living being. Only 6% of all teens believe that there are moral absolutes--and, most troubling to evangelical leaders, only 9% of self-described born-again teens believe that moral truth is absolute.

Some commentators produce even more startling statistics on the doctrinal drift of America's youth. Ninety-one percent of born-again teenagers surveyed a few years ago proclaimed that there is no such thing as absolute truth, says the Rev. Josh McDowell, a Dallas-based evangelist and author. More alarmingly, that number had risen quickly and steadily from just 52% of committed Christian kids in 1992 who denied the existence of absolute truth. A slight majority of professing Christian kids, Mr. McDowell says, also now say that the bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ never occurred.

"There's a greater disconnect now than ever in the history of the church in America between what a Christian young person says they are and what they actually believe," says Mr. McDowell, who has ministered mainly to youth for more than 30 years. "Christianity is based on truth; Jesus said, 'I am the truth.' But you have an overwhelming majority even of Christian kids saying there is no absolute truth."

Ah, song of my most cynical heart -- sing again! Yea, my job here is almost done. I had to leave youth ministry before I could truly save souls.

Oh ... but it gets better:

Indeed, the consequences of this theological implosion now pervade the thoughts and actions of believing teenagers, following the moral breakdown of the broader American culture. Here's one practical example: Only 10% of Christian teens believe that music piracy is morally wrong, according to a recent Barna survey, not all that different from the 6% of their non-Christian peers who feel the same way.

It's almost too toothsome to taste, isn't it? Such moral ambiguity! Such unwillingness to unquestionably believe in a particular ideology! The audacity! It's almost as if -- Noooo! -- that the moralistic revival of America isn't really a revival at all, that American Christian belief is as shallow as George Bush's health care reform. Noooooooooo!

On Theory

As I've said in the past, I normally do not link to things in Salon, due to the mandatory ad you have to sit through before reaching any content; but, also as I've also said in the past, in so many words, exceptions are the spice of life. Granted, Judith Butler (professor of rhetoric & comp. literature at Berkeley) is not normally considered 'spicy' -- or at least has not been so, even in 'theory wonk' circles, for quite some time now -- but this article about her newest collection of essays is noteworthy. In it, probably far more than Butler does, the writer goes on at length about how 'maybe theory isn't quite so dead after all'. Hmm ... you think? One of the truisms that arose from the ashes of the Twin Towers was that, along with irony, theory was dead. The New York Times, the Christian Science Monitor, and even the Chronicle of Higher Education went on at length about the name of the game now is action / praxis. In other words, what with all this reality surrounding us, i.e., the constrant threat of (if not always the reality of) war and terrorism, theoretical 'wanking' is irrelevant, if not irresponsible. I never really bought the doxa, though. It seemed a bit too much like the 'everything has changed now' line. Easy to say, and perhaps even to believe; much more difficult to flesh out into actual, livable content.

I agree with the author's point here, that theory is not only NOT dead but is potentially, at least in the able hands of somebody like Butler, helpful. Nevertheless, Butler (via quotes) makes a far more significant point than the author actually unpacks -- namely, because Butler seems to address the important question that continually dogs theorists: Why is theory important?

Theory, Butler clarifies in our conversation, has been mistaken by many people to be a "position of permanent skepticism." Instead, she sees it as "nothing more than a critical interrogation of beliefs we already carry with us." It is a form of inquiry that does not deny the existence of the world but rather relates to it critically. "Theory is never fully abstract," she says, for "it is in the context of action that we have to think." In her words, theory is an "engaged form of reflection" that frequently "emerges in tandem with suffering."

This is something I've come more frequently to recognize about my work: i.e., theorizing about theology, for instance, is not tantamount to pushing theology in the direction I think it must go in order to retain / generate its vitality. People often regard me (and my kind) as commonplace critics, ones who pick apart what either we cannot do or what we did not do. This misses the point, though. In the end, as Butler rightly notes, theory is about 'the beliefs we already carry with us'. It is a way to think about where we already are, what we are already doing, and wondering aloud "Why?" THIS is the reason theory is scary, and why it carries the potential for abuse. It is not a question we normally ask with any seriousness, outside of wondering about the apparent causes that led event-Y to follow event-X. A compelling, persuasive to 'Why?' is, as such, powerful stuff -- it carries the potential to change lives, ideally for good, if not necessarily the fundamental conditions from which theorising about our lives is possible in the first place (i.e., that we never escape from the possibility of wondering 'Why?') To regard theory as being dead is not to place it in an early grave; but rather, it is to regard ourselves as no longer culpable to 'Why?' For me ... this is far more dangerous than any pesky deconstructionist or scary feminist.

Hear Me, All Ye Cheap Bastards

Interested in seeing Fahrenheit 9/11, but you're too poor (or impatient to wade through the throng of popcorn-eating masses)? Well, my children, you simply download it!! This internet thing, I tell you, it's the wave of the future. Now, granted, I just started my BitTorrent download, and boy is it a big mother! But, what else does a PhD student have to do with his day, eh?

Much like visiting most of America's tourist destinations, I feel like I've already 'been there, done that' with this movie; and yet, much like I still visit many of America's tourist destinations, in spite of the accompany insipid banality everything about the visit itself, I felt as though I ought to see this movie. I read something the other day saying Fahrenheit 9/11 was necessary, not because it was a good movie (who expects to see an honest-to-God good movie that doesn't involve Spider-Man?), but because 'it makes people think'. Eh ... I'm not so sure. 'Thinking' is not really America's strongest suit, is it? -- well, outside those Nobel Prize winning community, and all those advertising people who do our thinking for us. Anyway, this is why I don't really care if Michael Moore is a loud-mouth truth-bender. We've been held sway by one for nearly four years now, so I think we can survive a two-hour movie by one bending truth in a different direction. So, my hope, oh song of my cynical heart!, is not that Americans begin to 'think' -- that's like hoping we'll be able to stare at the eclipsing sun without going seeing spots -- but simply to do what we do best. Namely, get really pissed off (not by a rational argument, but by sheer, visceral revulsion), revolt, and THEN sink back into the hazy-eyed, haggard ennui that'll let all those people who do our thinking for us (the Nobel-winning think-tanks and myriad marketers) to come up with a new way to piss us off (and thus start the process all over again).

Or something like that.

Welcome to the World, Ella June

Congratulations are in order for Julia & Pat Rock -- two friends who, despite thousands of miles, years, and dollars, have remained very close friends over the years -- the proud parents of Ella June Rock. Pat told me yesterday that he was especially loving the premature birth aspect, as his daughter was not unlike a docile kitty at this stage of her life. From what the other new dads in my life tell me, enjoy it (and the silence of a wifeless / childless house) while it lasts. It may be the last peace you'll have for quite some time. I owe you both a very hearty drinking session upon my return. I'll bring the best of Belgium and Scotland, as usual, in full-throttle celebration.

For All The Parents

The number of friends of Silentio, it seems, is ever-expanding. While that doesn't mean more people are actually reading this blog that has become, for about two of you, a regular online haunt, it does mean that those two people are having kids at a rabbit's pace. Everybody I know, he says hyperbolically, is having kids. Where once I was attending weddings once a quarter, I'm now having to say Congratulations, your semen and your ovum were a match made in heaven. With this explosion of insemination blowing my friendships asunder in all directions, I dedicate this weeks' Mark Morford column to you:

Who Will Save the Children?!

The world, it is a teeming reeking cauldron of wicked malevolent demons, with sharp pointy teeth and filthy mouths and really impressive porn collections, and each and every one of them wants nothing more than to suck the juicy pith from your helpless innocent child like Donald Rumsfeld drains color from the sky.

It's true, isn't it? Senators believe it, the Christian Right believes it, the FCC believes it, half a million stunned nipple-horrified Super Bowl viewers who complained to the FCC believe it, the clenched morality police of this nation chant it like a mantra, John Ashcroft has it tattooed on his shriveled colon. This, after all, is the prevalent American view.

[. . .]

This is the mental image we are to believe, happening right this moment, across this fine nation: One hundred million honest, hard-working, sexually terrified parents are running around their homes with their hands to their heads, each thinking oh my freaking God what if our beautiful wee one just so happens to walk by the TV on his/her way to get an innocent glass of pure clean innocent Coca-Cola to wash down the pure innocent kiddie Prozac, and s/he just so happens to hear Tony Soprano call someone a "motherf-- " on TV? Why, our child, s/he would surely quiver and tremble and explode! Yes s/he would!

It's all about the kids, you know, and who will protect their so-called innocence, their nubile unfiltered dreams, and how, and with what sort of laws and guns and lawsuits and ridiculous fines and sneering Bible-thumping misguided misinformed self-righteous indignation.

[. . .]

This is what you are not to forget, ever: We are a nation wherein it is perfectly OK to show a dozen vaguely nauseating ads for erection pills and a hundred more touting the merits of slamming a sixer of Bud Light at halftime as you and your frat buddies ogle that chick at the bar as meanwhile the wife stays home and prances around the kitchen, high on the fumes from her new Swiffer WetJet. But a shot of a woman's breast? Inappropriate and traumatizing, pal. Don't like our hypocrisy? Move to France with the other perverts.

[. . .]

You know what scars kids? You know what traumatizes our youth and stabs at their innocent spirits like Dick Cheney thrusts at integrity? Kraft Lunchables, that's what. Drug-happy shrinks. Refined sugar. Abstinence-only sex education. Gutted school-music programs. McDonald's marketing gimmicks. Joe Camel's head shaped like a giant penis. Bovine growth hormones. Homophobic adults with guns. Rampant hypocrisy, like legal Zoloft but illegal pot, or being sent to Iraq at 18 but you can't have a beer until you're 21.

[. . .]

Try senators and FCC honchos and attorney generals and religious morality police who make life feel like a disease to be suffered rather than a pile of random messy bliss to be rolled around in.

Really, now, is there any scar more grievous than that? Anything more traumatic than teaching our kids that, no, you are not a healthy potent sexually burgeoning self-defined being of potential and love, but, rather, you are prey, ever put upon, ever under duress, ever meek and misinformed and ever requiring armed, patronizing protection. What a wonderful lesson.

Oh, and Pat (himself a parent-to-be), you'll be happy to note there is no registration necessary for this one.

Ah, but to Dream!

This is a couple of days old now, but it may still be of particular interest for some of the regulars around here. I'm a little too busy to say much about it, but it is something to be a little optimistic about. (The stuff re: abortion, homosexuality, and traditional theism notwithstanding.)

Evangelical Leaders Reexamine Principles

The National Assn. of Evangelicals is circulating a draft of a groundbreaking framework for political action that strongly endorses social and economic justice and warns against close alignment with any political party.

Steeped in biblical morality and evangelical scholarship, the framework for public engagement could change how the estimated 30 million evangelicals in this country are viewed by liberals and conservatives alike.

It affirms a religiously based commitment to government protections for the poor, the sick and disabled, including fair wages, healthcare, nutrition and education. It declares that Christians have a "sacred responsibility" to protect the environment.

[. . .]

In the midst of a presidential election year, war and terrorism, the framework says Christians in their devotion to country "must be careful to avoid the excesses of nationalism." In domestic politics, evangelicals "must guard against over-identifying Christian social goals with a single political party, lest nonbelievers think that Christian faith is essentially political in nature."

"This is a maturing of the evangelical public mind," said Richard Mouw, president of Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena, one of the nation's principal evangelical schools. "Instead of just assuming an automatic alliance with a specific party — and that's been traditionally the Republicans — it says evangelicals ought to be more thoughtful."

[. . .]

[Richard] Cizik, the association's governmental affairs official, said he hoped that the framework would spur discussion before the November presidential election.

But its greatest influence probably will be over the long term, said the Rev. Kevin Mannoia, the association's past president. Mannoia said he set the framework process in motion because he saw a need for a coherence in the evangelical response to public policy issues. Mannoia's successor, the Rev. Ted Haggard, agreed and followed through.

"I think short term it probably won't have a lot of impact. In the long term it will have a fairly significant impact," Mannoia said. "It will gradually seep into the consciousness of evangelical leaders, and it will become a guiding light."

One can but hope, I guess.

The Wonder of CMT

You never know what you're going to get when you send out a CC'd email to friends. For example, a friend of mine recently sent out a little email to friends of his, announcing this year's Bloomsday celebrations in Dublin. A week later, he sent me one of the responses he received.

Thanks for including me in your sendout, even though I am more than a little remiss in my electronic communication. Bloomsday. Great. Whatever. While you're across the puddle contemplating the finer points of modernist fiction {it's not hip to capitalize "modernist" anymore} I'm stuck at Fresh Air Barbecue watchin' CMT [Country Music Television, for all you who either did not know or (intentionally or unintentionally) forgot]. You know, I must admit, lately I've been trying to take it easy on people, tryin' to realize that some folks just got a different thing goin' on, you know, respecting the vibe and whatnot. But in the past few days the old edge is back. Hence, I MUST RESIST!!!! I WILL RESIST!!! CULTURE IS NOT A SHITHOLE FOR THOSE BASTARDS AT TIME WARNER AND VIACOM AND THOSE OTHER BASTARDS AND YES I MAY BE ELITIST BUT WHATS EVEN MORE SNOBBY IS REALEASING A BUNCH OF POPULAR HORSESHIT TO AN AUDIENCE THAT YOU HAVE NOTHING BUT CONTEMPT FOR!!!! So . . .

I'm sittin there at the barbecue joint, CMT on. First Shania Twain. Does anybody but Shania enjoy watchin' this? Does she go home at night and think about how great she looks, and how much she loves herself? Its just her flirting with the camera the entire time. Are the men in the target audience that entranced with her? It was utter indulgence in the most boring format imaginable, and the song was so trite, I will give thanks tonight that I will not be able to remember a word of it. OK . . . now on to the kicker. "Big and Rich" is the group. Have you heard about these clowns? Tell me that you're not insulated that much (I am, until today) because its like driving by a cultural train wreck and not being able to take your eyes away, and being embarassed that you too are aware that this type of thing exists. Anyway, the whole video is them riding in a convertible in a parade followed by a band of nasty dancin' rockette-like-automatons, some other general hardbodies (all women), and a midget. (Now at this point any good cultural observers recalls the numerous references to "American culture as carnival.") Now these two guys (I couldn't rightly discern who was "Big" and who was "Rich") were cruisin' along in this caddy in gangsta attire, I'm talking fur coats and sunglasses, and they are rappin'. I repeat, THEY ARE RAPPIN'. (Now at this point any good cultural observer pulls out the voice activated recorder and, so as not to be overheard by the pork eating clientelle, whispers, "Note to self, check into studies regarding schizophrenia and CMT viewership). I'm serious here. I know the collision was bound to happen, what with thousands of rednecks with nothing but country and rap stations programmed into their audio dial. It makes me recall a guy I framed houses with named Rodney and how Rodney (real name by the way, or else the story would lack something at its core) who hated black people, once asked me, "Say Joe, how come you don't like nigger music?" Only now do I realize what my answer should have been. "Well Rodney, that is your name, right? Rodney? What with a varitable panacea of slapped bitches and asses with caps popped in them, what's not to like?" Which brings us back to the video. At the end of the song, the guy in the back seat has a woman sitting by him. Only its not a woman, its a mannequin (or perhaps a woman made up to look like a mannequin, which would highten the sickness that much more) and he's slamming her head into the back of the seat repeatedly while talking (or rebelrappin' as it were) about what a stud he is. Now folks, I've been down the road and back a couple times, and as you know, it's pretty hard for me to find something to get offended at, but this cut me to the bone. I was almost sick when I got up. I mean, how did we reach this point? Has the violence and loneliness of the fatherless innercity now crept to the country as well? Does country music lack the fitting metaphors that used to carry it down the road with the good hearted outlaws of yesteryear? Think about Ice T versus Johhny Cash for a moment, or Snoop Dogg versus Doc Watson. Not their music per se but the guiding symbolism of their worldview. On one hand, "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta," or "I have to say it was a good day, I didn't even have to use my AK." Compare to "Jailer, oh jailer, jailer I can't sleep, All around my cell, I hear the patter of Delia's feet" or "You can take down my ole violin and play it all you please, cause this time tommorow, I'll be hanging on a white oak tree" Perhaps I'm implying a heirarchy of distinction, but that's not my point. I just wonder what happened to the idea of consequences in country music, to all the "I've lived hard and now I'm payin' for it" songs? Now we seem to hear, "The first thirty years were crazy, but now I've settled down and the next thirty are gonna be fine because now I have a second mortgage, a couple kids, and a borrowed sense of morality that involves thankin' the good lord from time to time for the good things he give us, like an F350 quad cab." Maybe the seeming schizophrenia of "young country" culture seems so complete and frightening because it has happened to a people who once seemed the paragon of quiet depth or what was commonly referred to as "having roots." Perhaps I'm falling prey to a culturally received notion of what I want to conceive of as a simpler place and time, where moral judgements and traditional values were themselves received from somewhere else and played out for better or worse in a community against which many individuals felt compelled to define themselves. At least, though, some searching and defining and discovery occured. Tell me that those things happened once, somewhere. Now America seems a mass cycle of reproduction without design, culture without precedent, and like women with big boobs and blank stares, it insulates but never recognizes.

I say this without a hint of irony . . . I am looking forward to returning home.

UPDATE: Just got an email from this email's writer. I was a little leery of opening it at first, in anticipation of getting in trouble for quoting it (longtime readers will know I've received hate mail for lesser offenses). But, thankfully, he was pretty cool. All he asked was that I mention his name (Joe Gunby), that I say that you should feel free to email him w/ comments you have about it (joegunby@yahoo.com). Have at it.