The Culture of Celebrity - Joseph Epstein
Nothing like an old curmudgeon to take down the notion of celebrity in a famous, nay iconic, neocon rag. The readers of the Weekly Standard just eat Mr. Epstein up; plenty of red meat here.
He's entertaining, no doubt. Mr. Epstein breaks it all down for us from examining the terms culture and celebrity, to the difference between celebrity and fame, all the while setting us straight on some synonyms that really aren't so synonymous. He covers our fascination with celebrity bad news and he puts the terms star, superstar, and icon in perspective.
But when he gets to the red meat of his essay, things get good. He dismantles the tabloids and the subcultures of celebrity, including academia and writers. His take on Susan Sontag, in my opinion, is spot on.
I'm not sure the culture of celebrity is such a big deal. I can't tell what is wrong with in general terms. Personally, I find the celebrities easy to ignore. When politicians, such as President Obama, take on celebrity status, I feel a little uneasy.
In general, celebrity doesn't mean too much. Celebrities are a victim of the popularity of the culture of celebrity. Everyone is a celebrity and therefore, no one is really a celebrity. Fame no longer carries the power it once had. We can follow people on Twitter and Facebook and their blogs and see videos and really the amount of exposure celebrities have and the lack of control they seem to have over it makes their humanity a bit too obvious. The mystique is gone.
Celebrities should be distant and mysterious, right? I can't worship anyone that I can meet at a book signing or backstage after a show.
I've emailed authors and artists to tell thank them for their work and let them know I enjoyed it. In every case, they have written back, to say "you're welcome" and to thank me in turn. Those are the types of celebrities I prefer.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
False Apology Syndrome | In Character - Fall 2008
False Apology Syndrome - Theodore Dalrymple
British doctor (retired) Anthony Daniels is Theodore Dalrymple. He uses the pen name for his highly opinionated writings. He is a conservative for sure, but he has a streak of independent thought that is very fresh. I enjoy reading his material.
The False Apology Syndrome is a short essay on a nation, a people, a civilization apologizing to another for a wrong that was done in the past. American whites apologizing to blacks for slavery, the Vatican apologizing to the Muslim world for the Crusades, the Japanese apologizing to the Koreans and Chinese for their brutal occupation in the early 20th century.
All of it is false according to Mr. Dalrymple because the sins were not committed by the apologizers. The apologizer has the benefit of feeling morally superior for apologizing without feeling any real remorse.
But that is the obvious issue here. Mr. Dalrymple digs a bit deeper. He asks penetrating questions about the morality involved with all parties. For example, if whites should apologize to blacks for the slave trade, what about the culpable Africans who sold their continental brethren to the slave traders? What about white abolitionists who sacrificed their lives and fortunes to free slaves? What about the affluence that Americans have over nearly all of Africa? If slaves had not been brought to the New World, then many African-Americans, descended from slaves, would not have the same standard of living.
Mr. Dalrymple discusses the moral impact on the apology receiver. He contends that it can loosen the moral standing of such people. They can feel less inhibited about their behavior because of what has happened to their ancestors. He makes a stronger argument than my simple statement.
I love these essays that help me look at things in ways that go beyond my current thinking. Most of the arguments about false apologies found here I have made myself, but Mr. Dalrymple does add a few more. They are compelling.
And, of course, he apologizes in advance if you disagree.
British doctor (retired) Anthony Daniels is Theodore Dalrymple. He uses the pen name for his highly opinionated writings. He is a conservative for sure, but he has a streak of independent thought that is very fresh. I enjoy reading his material.
The False Apology Syndrome is a short essay on a nation, a people, a civilization apologizing to another for a wrong that was done in the past. American whites apologizing to blacks for slavery, the Vatican apologizing to the Muslim world for the Crusades, the Japanese apologizing to the Koreans and Chinese for their brutal occupation in the early 20th century.
All of it is false according to Mr. Dalrymple because the sins were not committed by the apologizers. The apologizer has the benefit of feeling morally superior for apologizing without feeling any real remorse.
But that is the obvious issue here. Mr. Dalrymple digs a bit deeper. He asks penetrating questions about the morality involved with all parties. For example, if whites should apologize to blacks for the slave trade, what about the culpable Africans who sold their continental brethren to the slave traders? What about white abolitionists who sacrificed their lives and fortunes to free slaves? What about the affluence that Americans have over nearly all of Africa? If slaves had not been brought to the New World, then many African-Americans, descended from slaves, would not have the same standard of living.
Mr. Dalrymple discusses the moral impact on the apology receiver. He contends that it can loosen the moral standing of such people. They can feel less inhibited about their behavior because of what has happened to their ancestors. He makes a stronger argument than my simple statement.
I love these essays that help me look at things in ways that go beyond my current thinking. Most of the arguments about false apologies found here I have made myself, but Mr. Dalrymple does add a few more. They are compelling.
And, of course, he apologizes in advance if you disagree.
The Gulf: A Meditation on the Mississippi Coast after Katrina | Virginia Quarterly Review - Summer 2008
The Gulf: A Meditation on the Mississippi Coast after Katrina - Natasha Trethewey
Natasha Nostalgia Trethewey has intertwined history, present day reporting and an emotional lament over her home. She is from Gulfport, Mississippi, one of the towns that dot the Gulf Coast.
I had the pleasure of living in Biloxi, at Keesler Air Force Base, back in the early 1980s. My memories of the Gulf Coast are fond and I wished that I had seen it again before the tragedy. Well, the first tragedy, though, Ms. Trethewey doesn't call it that, she certainly makes it feel that way. The tragedy is the reintroduction of the casinos along the coast.
Her Gulf Coast was already changing from her childhood memories when Katrina came. Now it is unrecoverable. The Gulf Coast that I knew is no longer.
Thanks to regulations and government spending that isn't necessarily going out based on need, more and bigger casinos are cropping up, with more on the way. Ms. Trethewey mentions an ordnance that doesn't allow any restaurants that aren't located within a casino.
She does not dare call it racism, but man, the circumstantial evidence is strong. Set back requirements for rebuilding on lots that aren't large enough to allow it? Oh, yeah, no problem there. Funds failing to help those who've lost their homes, because their homes aren't salvageable? Mmm, hmm. Because we all know that building a hotel where there was once a squat little ramshackle hovel is really the highest and best use for such prime real estate.
Yes, the casinos bring revenue and help with schools, but where is the analysis on the cost to the community?
Ms. Trethewey spends a good portion of this long essay describing the Gulf Coast's history, using her grandmother and her other family members as supports to tell the story. She intersperses conversations with various people in the present, all of whom seem to have some connection with the hotel trade, about the storm and its aftermath.
New Orleans gets the lion's share of the news and even the thin follow up stories. (Most of us are reminded of Katrina when the anniversary rolls around or when we catch the Saints playing football. We'll notice it again at the Sugar Bowl later this week.) But the Gulf Coast was ground zero for this storm. It was ravaged. And the place seems largely forgotten in the psyche of the American people.
Read this essay. Break it up over a period of time by reading it in its sections, the way it was written. Let each part sink in.
The area where I grew up has changed. More people, more development. They've even straightened out a street that I lived on that had two ninety-degree turns. But the place is the same. It only looks different because there are more buildings. The Gulf Coast had its geography changed. And while new construction has occurred, there is still devastation plainly visible.
How can we comprehend this? How do we respond when our homes, our histories, are lost to nature or war?
Ms. Trethewey mentions that children were more clingy and uncertain. A psychiatrist says that post-traumatic stress disorder will affect many people.
I can only imagine. I would have to agree. How can you trust the earth after doing this? How can you trust the world at large for its response?
Natasha Nostalgia Trethewey has intertwined history, present day reporting and an emotional lament over her home. She is from Gulfport, Mississippi, one of the towns that dot the Gulf Coast.
I had the pleasure of living in Biloxi, at Keesler Air Force Base, back in the early 1980s. My memories of the Gulf Coast are fond and I wished that I had seen it again before the tragedy. Well, the first tragedy, though, Ms. Trethewey doesn't call it that, she certainly makes it feel that way. The tragedy is the reintroduction of the casinos along the coast.
Her Gulf Coast was already changing from her childhood memories when Katrina came. Now it is unrecoverable. The Gulf Coast that I knew is no longer.
Thanks to regulations and government spending that isn't necessarily going out based on need, more and bigger casinos are cropping up, with more on the way. Ms. Trethewey mentions an ordnance that doesn't allow any restaurants that aren't located within a casino.
She does not dare call it racism, but man, the circumstantial evidence is strong. Set back requirements for rebuilding on lots that aren't large enough to allow it? Oh, yeah, no problem there. Funds failing to help those who've lost their homes, because their homes aren't salvageable? Mmm, hmm. Because we all know that building a hotel where there was once a squat little ramshackle hovel is really the highest and best use for such prime real estate.
Yes, the casinos bring revenue and help with schools, but where is the analysis on the cost to the community?
Ms. Trethewey spends a good portion of this long essay describing the Gulf Coast's history, using her grandmother and her other family members as supports to tell the story. She intersperses conversations with various people in the present, all of whom seem to have some connection with the hotel trade, about the storm and its aftermath.
New Orleans gets the lion's share of the news and even the thin follow up stories. (Most of us are reminded of Katrina when the anniversary rolls around or when we catch the Saints playing football. We'll notice it again at the Sugar Bowl later this week.) But the Gulf Coast was ground zero for this storm. It was ravaged. And the place seems largely forgotten in the psyche of the American people.
Read this essay. Break it up over a period of time by reading it in its sections, the way it was written. Let each part sink in.
The area where I grew up has changed. More people, more development. They've even straightened out a street that I lived on that had two ninety-degree turns. But the place is the same. It only looks different because there are more buildings. The Gulf Coast had its geography changed. And while new construction has occurred, there is still devastation plainly visible.
How can we comprehend this? How do we respond when our homes, our histories, are lost to nature or war?
Ms. Trethewey mentions that children were more clingy and uncertain. A psychiatrist says that post-traumatic stress disorder will affect many people.
I can only imagine. I would have to agree. How can you trust the earth after doing this? How can you trust the world at large for its response?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Aesthetics of Catastrophe | Public Culture - Spring 2008
Aesthetics of Catastrophe - Aric Mayer
Sometimes you read an essay and you feel that you've managed to expand your thinking, you've learned something new, you now have a new ability, however rudimentary, that you can put into your critical thinking toolbox. And sometimes you read an essay and you wonder just exactly what the author is attempting to convey.
After reading Mr. Mayer's essay and viewing his accompanying photos (more can be found here, including those with the essay) I felt a little of both.
I understood everything he was saying thanks mainly to his clear writing. However, maybe because I am not able to view these photographs as three to six foot squares, I couldn't quite make the connection. In other words, without seeing his exhibition, I felt that he failed to achieve his goal, which was, in his words "to present the images of the storm’s aftermath, (and) to critique our reception and expectations of them as well." Instead, I think he was more successful at reflecting, not critiquing, our ambiguous reactions to Katrina.
For many, Katrina was simply more cinema verite, just another drama playing out on television. For others, it was a call to action. Mr. Mayer examines the responses from private citizens to government bureaucracies and finds them all unable to adequately cope.
He, rightly, I believe, explains that our method of relaying images and stories of the disaster to the world were utterly inadequate. Photos are severely limited in scope. Television, too. Neither can pass on the magnitude of the damage, of the emptiness, of the despair of the people of New Orleans. "You had to be there," is truly the correct phrase in this instance.
And so Aric Mayer took his camera there immediately following the storm and took photos. He made large versions of these photos to help the viewer become immersed, to be there.
He purposely made the photos with beauty in mind. My first thought on viewing these, which is a reflection on me and not Mr. Mayer's photography skills, are that they would make excellent jigsaw puzzles.
I am the America that he is critiquing. But I think he made the photos too pretty to be horrific. Do I not have enough humanity in me? Or is it that I have too much of what passes for humanity today?
Sometimes you read an essay and you feel that you've managed to expand your thinking, you've learned something new, you now have a new ability, however rudimentary, that you can put into your critical thinking toolbox. And sometimes you read an essay and you wonder just exactly what the author is attempting to convey.
After reading Mr. Mayer's essay and viewing his accompanying photos (more can be found here, including those with the essay) I felt a little of both.
I understood everything he was saying thanks mainly to his clear writing. However, maybe because I am not able to view these photographs as three to six foot squares, I couldn't quite make the connection. In other words, without seeing his exhibition, I felt that he failed to achieve his goal, which was, in his words "to present the images of the storm’s aftermath, (and) to critique our reception and expectations of them as well." Instead, I think he was more successful at reflecting, not critiquing, our ambiguous reactions to Katrina.
For many, Katrina was simply more cinema verite, just another drama playing out on television. For others, it was a call to action. Mr. Mayer examines the responses from private citizens to government bureaucracies and finds them all unable to adequately cope.
He, rightly, I believe, explains that our method of relaying images and stories of the disaster to the world were utterly inadequate. Photos are severely limited in scope. Television, too. Neither can pass on the magnitude of the damage, of the emptiness, of the despair of the people of New Orleans. "You had to be there," is truly the correct phrase in this instance.
And so Aric Mayer took his camera there immediately following the storm and took photos. He made large versions of these photos to help the viewer become immersed, to be there.
He purposely made the photos with beauty in mind. My first thought on viewing these, which is a reflection on me and not Mr. Mayer's photography skills, are that they would make excellent jigsaw puzzles.
I am the America that he is critiquing. But I think he made the photos too pretty to be horrific. Do I not have enough humanity in me? Or is it that I have too much of what passes for humanity today?
Monday, December 28, 2009
Through a glass, darkly | Harper's Magazine - December 2006
Through a glass, darkly: How the Christian right is reimagining U.S. history - Jeff Sharlet
One thing is clear: Jeff Sharlet has a beef with Fundamentalists. And I share it. But is it worthy of an essay in Harper's? Is this "movement" really so strong as to be a threat to our liberties? He might have a point. The stuff that is spouted by these folks comes off as cataclysmically dangerous. In fact, it doesn't sound much more far-fetched than the nonsense that comes from radical Islam.
Yet these people are Americans, right? They can't be dangerous. Heck, aren't they pro-freedom? Don't they want the government off our backs? Well...that's one way of looking at it. They certainly want government to be smaller (and I think that would be a good thing.) But they would also pass laws that limit your actions to those things that are "approved", which means righteous, as in whatever the latest leader of the flock interprets the Bible to mean.
This is a truly dangerous thing. The last thing we need is a theocracy. Yet, even today, as we have seen in an earlier essay, the American people won't tolerate an irreligious person in the White House. They have to pass a basic litmus test of at least believing in God and making a show of buying into the divinity of Christ.
Mr. Sharlet paints a picture of these radical Christians building an army of the future via homeschooling and tent revivals. I simply don't buy it. Are the ideas of these people dangerous? Yes, it can certainly be seen that way. Are they taking over? Hardly.
The people that Mr. Sharlet profiles are on the fringe. They are strange. Given enough of them, we would be in big trouble. But most people are smart enough to see that these folks are not quite mainstream.
My fear, and Mr. Sharlet does NOT suggest this in the essay, is that if we act, as a society, or via government, to suppress or stop these folks from their wacky ways, then we are committing the gravest sin that a society is capable of committing. It takes all kinds. For all of the silly right-wing hardcore the United States is a Christian nation believers out there, we have as many or more who believe and think in hundreds or thousands of different ways. Suppressing thought simply because we think it is dangerous is itself a dangerous thing to do. What if our thoughts are the targets of suppression?
We should be vigilant against the bizarre and the foolish. Reason, hopefully, will win out. Mr. Sharlet is to be thanked for his consistent and relentless exposition of these fringe thinkers. Read this essay and judge for yourself. If you're a believer, then you'll think I am nuts, that I am lost and I cannot be saved. If you're like the majority of Americans, you'll likely feel a bit uncomfortable by the behavior of the main characters portrayed there.
Hey, it makes for fun reading at least. That's probably why it made it into Harper's. It certainly wasn't because American civilization is about to collapse because of a handful of Fundamentalists.
One thing is clear: Jeff Sharlet has a beef with Fundamentalists. And I share it. But is it worthy of an essay in Harper's? Is this "movement" really so strong as to be a threat to our liberties? He might have a point. The stuff that is spouted by these folks comes off as cataclysmically dangerous. In fact, it doesn't sound much more far-fetched than the nonsense that comes from radical Islam.
Yet these people are Americans, right? They can't be dangerous. Heck, aren't they pro-freedom? Don't they want the government off our backs? Well...that's one way of looking at it. They certainly want government to be smaller (and I think that would be a good thing.) But they would also pass laws that limit your actions to those things that are "approved", which means righteous, as in whatever the latest leader of the flock interprets the Bible to mean.
This is a truly dangerous thing. The last thing we need is a theocracy. Yet, even today, as we have seen in an earlier essay, the American people won't tolerate an irreligious person in the White House. They have to pass a basic litmus test of at least believing in God and making a show of buying into the divinity of Christ.
Mr. Sharlet paints a picture of these radical Christians building an army of the future via homeschooling and tent revivals. I simply don't buy it. Are the ideas of these people dangerous? Yes, it can certainly be seen that way. Are they taking over? Hardly.
The people that Mr. Sharlet profiles are on the fringe. They are strange. Given enough of them, we would be in big trouble. But most people are smart enough to see that these folks are not quite mainstream.
My fear, and Mr. Sharlet does NOT suggest this in the essay, is that if we act, as a society, or via government, to suppress or stop these folks from their wacky ways, then we are committing the gravest sin that a society is capable of committing. It takes all kinds. For all of the silly right-wing hardcore the United States is a Christian nation believers out there, we have as many or more who believe and think in hundreds or thousands of different ways. Suppressing thought simply because we think it is dangerous is itself a dangerous thing to do. What if our thoughts are the targets of suppression?
We should be vigilant against the bizarre and the foolish. Reason, hopefully, will win out. Mr. Sharlet is to be thanked for his consistent and relentless exposition of these fringe thinkers. Read this essay and judge for yourself. If you're a believer, then you'll think I am nuts, that I am lost and I cannot be saved. If you're like the majority of Americans, you'll likely feel a bit uncomfortable by the behavior of the main characters portrayed there.
Hey, it makes for fun reading at least. That's probably why it made it into Harper's. It certainly wasn't because American civilization is about to collapse because of a handful of Fundamentalists.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
On Impact | The New Yorker - June 19, 2000
On Impact - Stephen King
As I look ahead to the essays that we'll be reading and commenting on here, I notice that nearly all of them involve tragedy of some sort. However, they all have a hopeful tinge to them, which brings us through, if not unscathed, at least not damaged as readers.
Stephen King's tale of getting hit by a van while walking down a road in Maine reads much like a Stephen King novel. The words flow easily. A story is underway. It is horrific, yet personal.
What separates this story from his fiction is the tone it takes whenever he mentions Tabitha. When she is on the page, in his thoughts, it is clear that we are seeing the definition of love. He reminisces on their initial meeting, triggered by a memory of his wedding ring. He's near death and he needs to tell her that he loves her. He needs to write and she accommodates. She is half of him. I would venture a guess that he is half of her also. This is what couples are. They aren't perfect, they just seem to fit together. Over time, people really do complete each other.
I love this essay. King is a master at story. He mixes humor with the pain. He has a front porch poignancy about his writing that harmonizes with American culture while also extending the culture's boundaries. Where would horror be without him? (He did his vampire masterpiece 30 years ago.)
We're all lucky that Mr. King survived this accident.
As I look ahead to the essays that we'll be reading and commenting on here, I notice that nearly all of them involve tragedy of some sort. However, they all have a hopeful tinge to them, which brings us through, if not unscathed, at least not damaged as readers.
Stephen King's tale of getting hit by a van while walking down a road in Maine reads much like a Stephen King novel. The words flow easily. A story is underway. It is horrific, yet personal.
What separates this story from his fiction is the tone it takes whenever he mentions Tabitha. When she is on the page, in his thoughts, it is clear that we are seeing the definition of love. He reminisces on their initial meeting, triggered by a memory of his wedding ring. He's near death and he needs to tell her that he loves her. He needs to write and she accommodates. She is half of him. I would venture a guess that he is half of her also. This is what couples are. They aren't perfect, they just seem to fit together. Over time, people really do complete each other.
I love this essay. King is a master at story. He mixes humor with the pain. He has a front porch poignancy about his writing that harmonizes with American culture while also extending the culture's boundaries. Where would horror be without him? (He did his vampire masterpiece 30 years ago.)
We're all lucky that Mr. King survived this accident.
The Judge's Jokes | The American Scholar - Spring 2007
The Judge’s Jokes - John Barth
The Judge under discussion in John Barth's essay is his father. Mr. Barth (the son) gives us a quick glimpse of his father's maturement from a boy who mashes his finger to the only surviving son. We learn about the creation of Whitey's, a candy shop on Race Street no less, in Cambridge, Maryland, on the Eastern Shore. Mr. Barth (the father) becomes a leader in his community and surrounding area, as an elected judge to the orphan's court (I have no idea what that is), a volunteer fireman, an American Legionnaire and a much sought after after-dinner speaker at various events.
Mr. Barth clearly loves the Judge, but he only knew bits of him. He discovers his father's notebooks and files filled, not with the actual jokes, but with cues, splashes of ideas, that were intended to guide the Judge through his speeches. Judge Barth is a humorist, with some subtle adult humor mixed in. But Mr. Barth never attended any of these functions. He never saw his dad in action.
This is a short essay, and it isn't intended as a salute to dad. It really is about the concept of actually knowing someone, a lament on our inability to get beyond the artifacts, how we're stuck (until we develop telepathy and shared empathy) with a frustrating epistemological limit that doesn't go beyond simple recollection and memory. Everything we know about someone is relative to ourselves.
Mr. Barth's novels
are humorous, downright funny, but in person, apparently he isn't all that. He didn't inherit his father's gift for creating the chuckle. How can he know someone so different from himself?
How can we?
The Judge under discussion in John Barth's essay is his father. Mr. Barth (the son) gives us a quick glimpse of his father's maturement from a boy who mashes his finger to the only surviving son. We learn about the creation of Whitey's, a candy shop on Race Street no less, in Cambridge, Maryland, on the Eastern Shore. Mr. Barth (the father) becomes a leader in his community and surrounding area, as an elected judge to the orphan's court (I have no idea what that is), a volunteer fireman, an American Legionnaire and a much sought after after-dinner speaker at various events.
Mr. Barth clearly loves the Judge, but he only knew bits of him. He discovers his father's notebooks and files filled, not with the actual jokes, but with cues, splashes of ideas, that were intended to guide the Judge through his speeches. Judge Barth is a humorist, with some subtle adult humor mixed in. But Mr. Barth never attended any of these functions. He never saw his dad in action.
This is a short essay, and it isn't intended as a salute to dad. It really is about the concept of actually knowing someone, a lament on our inability to get beyond the artifacts, how we're stuck (until we develop telepathy and shared empathy) with a frustrating epistemological limit that doesn't go beyond simple recollection and memory. Everything we know about someone is relative to ourselves.
Mr. Barth's novels
are humorous, downright funny, but in person, apparently he isn't all that. He didn't inherit his father's gift for creating the chuckle. How can he know someone so different from himself?How can we?
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