The Pop Fop

Up With Dialog, Part 3

This is the belated third chapter in an extended Q&A session with jones300, an enterprising young man interested in ideas and writing.  

Can you compile a list of books you consider essential reading?

I have a hard time discerning what is exactly essential reading (I know I’m being pedantic, sorry) mostly because if I forget something especially good or influential I will be kicking myself.  Nevertheless, in no particular order:

Pleasant Hell by John Dolan

The Painted Word by Tom Wolfe

The Pump House Gang by Tom Wolfe

Apocalypse TV by Jonathan Bowden - I had the pleasure of seeing him speak in person a few years ago and I recently found out he has passed so his works have been on my mind.

Confronting the Crisis by Paul Piccone

Militant Modernism by Owen Hatherley

Capitalist Realism by Mark Fisher

The Shadow Over Innsmouth: And Other Stories of Horror by H.P. Lovecraft

As Found: The Discovery of the Ordinary edited by Claude Lichtenstein & Thomas Schregenberger

Frisk by Dennis Cooper

Apocalypse Culture edited by Adam Parfrey

Ride the Tiger by Julius Evola

The IPCRESS File by Len Deighton

Lost in the Meritocracy by Walter Kirn

The Closing of the American Mind by Allan Bloom

The Primacy of Politics by Sheri Berman

NATO’s Secret Armies by Daniele Ganser

The Ego and Its Own by Max Stirner

The Temporary Autonomous Zone by Hakim Bey 

The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon

Theory Z by William Ouchi - This is a book on business management theory published in 1981, specifically on why American businesses should emulate Japanese management styles.  If you have no interest in the methodology of corporate capitalism than you could probably skip it.  I bought it for $1 solely for the cover art but was intrigued that it had a page advocating workers’ councils within a wholly pro capitalist context.

As someone who works for a large company within a very undynamic industry, I can attest to how import it is to have a management style which emphasizes the positive attributes of autonomy and responsibility for members of the workforce.  While I am against the ascendency of managerialism within almost every aspect of our lives, on a practical level in regards to employment, I would most certainly want to work for a company following Theory Z over any other management styles.

….

Lastly I will mention a book which I have not yet read but given the descriptions I have seen it is not to be missed.

The Culture of Narcissism by Christopher Lasch.

P.S.

Judge a book by it’s cover, especially if it’s a used copy.  You never know what interesting things you may find.

The Sterile Noir of Michael Mann

I recently had the pleasure of watching Thief (1981), a stylized neo-noir which served as the inspiration for the critically acclaimed Drive (2011).  Of course inspiration may be too loose a word as Drive is essentially a remake of Thief outside of a few minor plot details.  While Thief’s James Caan is a far more believable character than Gosling, notably due to his mix of narcissistic swagger and working class authenticity, Drive still succeeds by replicating the sterile determinism of Michael Mann’s neo-noirs. 

These films include Thief, Manhunter (1986), and Heat (1995).  While Thief and Heat both feature bank robbers as protagonists, the similarities lie in the way they are utterly committed to their craft.  They are pure economic animal.  While many crime thrillers and cop dramas feature the trope of failed domestic life, for Mann’s characters it is a forgone conclusion.  It seems absurd that they would even attempt such normalcy.  The characters in Mann’s thrillers are built to rob and kill just as easily as you or I are destined to eat and fuck.  The final scene of Thief is more akin to a slasher flick than a crime thriller as Caan guns down a house full of gangsters with robotic determination.

Likewise in Manhunter, based off the novel Red Dragon, the killer commits murder with methodical impunity while the victims, innocuous suburban families, seem almost fated to die.  Like the previous two films mentioned, the characters are trapped in a set of circumstances over which they have no control.  Innocent domestic bliss means nothing if the Fates have determined that one will fall victim of a serial killer.  And this is precisely where the horror lies in Manhunter.  If something bad can happen, it will and there is nothing one can do to stop it.  As such, unlike other films based on Thomas Harris’ novels, there is no gore or excessive creepiness needed to underline the darkness of the subject matter.  The killer kills when he wants to and is captured when his time is up.  The attempts by the police to gain insight into his reasons almost prove fatal for the protagonist.  To quote a thought terminating cliche: it is what it is.

It should also be noted that Manhunter and Thief have excellent soundtracks. For those interested, To Live and Die in L.A. serves as another example of an excellent 1980s neon noir.

Up With Dialog, Part 2

Continuing the dialog with jones300, I will now answer his second question:

What books have had the greatest effect on your political ideology?

One the best books I’ve read in recent years is The ‘Death of the Subject’ Explained by James Heartfield.  As I read it a few years ago, I feel I may not be giving it the proper justice it deserves with this paltry explanation.  To summarize, it discusses the way the subject has been either cheapened or discarded in various contemporary philosophies, from postmodernism to neoliberalism to Marxist structuralism to ecology.  To put it in a very simplistic manner it postulates support for the individual contra individualism without ever becoming absurdly voluntarist.  An excellent analysis of the loss of faith in self-authority which is currently so widespread in both academia and pop culture.

James Heartfield has a lot of great articles online which I recommend reading in addition to this book.  I specifically recommend State Capitalism in Britain.

The World Turned Inside Out by James Livingston is an excellent analysis of American culture from the late 1970s to the contemporary era.  Livingston acutely recognizes the true ideological mores of Reaganism in addition to mapping out how New Left radicalism became institutionalized in the universities and set the stage for the so called ‘culture wars’.  He also analyzes pop culture with the same severity as political philosophy, getting to the theoretical underpinnings of mass entertainment.

Death of the Liberal Class by Chris Hedges, a tweedy Christian socialist, is a good history of how liberals have historically acted as a bulwark against radicalism for the power elite.  His chapters on the First World War and the viciousness that those who opposed it faced are especially worth reading.  While I disagree with his pacifism and the evasiveness with which he treats Marxist-Leninist influence on the American Left, his thesis is spot on and properly researched.

New Culture, New Right by Michael O’Meara is an excellent introduction to the revitalized and postmodern conservatism of the Nouvelle Droite.  A good follow up to this book is Homo americanus by Tomislav Sunic.  Both books offer in depth explanations of the European reactionary tradition as well as acrid critiques of the ideas that form the basis for liberal society in general and American culture in particular.

Lit Crit Continued: A Few Words on DFW

David Foster Wallace is a contemporary writer whose name is often associated with higher literary esteem.  The literary establishment certainly considers him a contemporary, albeit late, writer of some note.  Of course, Wallace is not without his share of detractors.  His literary celebrity may be greater than the sum of his writing talents.  In addition, suiciding yourself is a cheap way of gaining a false mystique.  Ray Johnson and Yukio Mishima being rare exceptions where their methods of demise fit their personalities eloquently.

A recent article has questioned the veracity of some of Wallace’s pieces. Cook notes that 

If you doubt that, go back and read “Shipping Out” and “Ticket to the Fair,” two seminal nonfiction pieces Wallace wrote for Harper’s Magazine in the 1990s that established his hyperliterate-self-loathing-academic-lost-among-the-diabetic-hordes schtick. In both pieces—one an account of Wallace’s time on a cruise ship, the other of his day at the Illinois State Fair—Wallace encounters pitch-perfect characters who speak comedically crystalline lines and place him in hilariously absurd situations. When I taught magazine writing to undergraduates at Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism, I used both stories as examples of the inescapable temptation to shave, embellish, and invent narratives. I had no evidence—aside from the preposterous stories themselves—that Wallace had done so until his friend Jonathan Franzen bluntly revealed last year that “those things didn’t actually happen.”

Shipping Out is a detailed but predictable account of Wallace’s time on a luxury ocean liner.  The notion that any of it would be made up does not occur to the reader as nothing particularly interesting happens.  The funniest and most telling part of the article concerns Wallace’s description of a cruise brochure penned by Frank Conroy, a writer Wallace holds responsible for his own interest in literature.  He bemaons that,

part of the essay’s real badness can be found in the way it reveals once again Megaline’s sail-to-sail agenda of micromanaging not only one’s perceptions of a 7NC but even one’s own interpretation and articulation of those perceptions…

Conroy’s “essay” appears on an inset, on skinnier pages and with different margins than the rest of the brochure, creating the impression that it has been excerpted from some large and objective thing Conroy wrote…

The truth is that Celebrity Cruises paid Frank Conroy up-front to write it[.]

Of course we already take for granted that Wallace is being paid by Harper’s to write an objective but humorous and entertaining account of his cruise. Wallace is promising to speak his mind yet still manages to present an article that reads like a 1950s automobile advertisement.  It’s precise and properly worded but contains very few intriguing aspects.  Like a mid century magazine ad, it is more a series of intricate descriptions than a story.  If Wallace had to embellish for entertainment’s sake, he could have dug a little deeper.

The one part of his travelogue that seems rather fantastical concerns the Slavonian cabin maid who knows only two phrases of english, one of which is, “You are a funny thing.”  His descriptions of trying to catch her in the act of cleaning his room come off as sitcom worthy.  The praise he heaps on her ability to serve and clean so efficiently is nervously condescending and accompany his frequent mentions of being agoraphobic as some sort of justification.  Meanwhile, the unstated attraction which one naturally assumes Wallace has for her becomes rather empty when we begin to doubt her existence.

It would be inaccurate to call Wallace a poor writer, he has a natural wit and dispenses with a superior vocabulary effortlessly.  While the premise of Shipping Out, dubbed as treatise on the “nearly lethal comforts” of a luxury liner, could be interpreted as the liberal intelligentsia’s sarcastic chuckle at the middle Americans who flock to cruise ships, Wallace never succumbs to this arrogance.  Likewise, DFW’s characteristic nebbishness never comes off as forced.  

The problem with DFW is that he is a middlebrow who is lauded as one the best writers of his generation.  Part of his success seems indebted to the academic-literary complex which spawned him.  Like the Yale graduate art program which churns out a high number of “art stars”, MFA creative writing programs and writer’s workshops seem to be the place to network.  But more than connections, these programs offer writers a way to perfect their style and template.  But given what we know about said complex, how it is dominated by an insular Northeast liberal bourgeoisie, the stultifying effects institutionalization has on creativity, one begins to wonder if a better stand in for perfection is standardization.

Reblog: Book Reviews

The following is a repost from a forum I frequent.  I figured it might resonate with some of my readers as literature, specifically literary cynicism, is something we like to discuss from time to time.  Responding to this article, I wrote the following:

Platform is the only book I’ve read by Houellebecq and I enjoyed it immensely. I also recently read Anti-Matter: Michel Houellebecq and Depressive Realism by Ben Jeffrey. Unfortunately, only the first chapter is interesting while the rest relies on English 101 explanations and quotations from middlebrow writers (Wallace, Franzen) whom the author finds exemplary of a more redemptive contemporary fiction. Jeffrey notes:

[T]he Houellebecq hero (always male) typically takes the form of a soft-bodied, aging cynic who years exclusively for sex with young women and then spirals off into brooding monologues about the impossibility of living when it eludes him.

Indeed, the protagonists of Houellebecq’s novels are realistic if underwhelming. They are also heavily based off the author himself. Their strength lies in their wry observations about the frustrating mores of contemporary Western society in addition to self contained thoughts about women which are echoed by the vast majority of the male population. In Platform, for example, the reader is treated to musings such as,

When people talk about ‘human rights’, I usually get the impression that they’re being sarcastic.

Where Houellebecq’s protagonists get stale is in their intense preoccupation with physical gratification. While readers may sympathize with their observations and attitudes, one gets the impression that for Houellebecq not getting laid is tantamount to a new form of victimization. As such, there is the slight whiff of Men’s Rights and the Forever Alone crowd. Houellebecq’s protagonists “put the pussy on a pedestal” to quote a contemporary sex comedy, and like the protagonist of said sex comedy, they could be interpreted as being in a state of arrested development. Sex is seen as the only transcendent action for the individual, a view which comes off as adolescent to most people over the age of 25. Hence, Houellebecq’s novels lend themselves to a form of Babbittry. What about the drudgery of work? The stupidity of mass culture? The petty but persistent indignities we undergo everyday as part of the trade off for a secure, comfortable open society? Houellebecq’s protagonists are seemingly unquestioning of these factors. They just need to fuck some lithe slut and all is right in the world. Because of this as well as Houellebecq’s “controversial” statements on Islam, it’s easy to see how Houellebecq would be peripherally associated with writers like Martin Amis who pose as hard edged contrarians to the post 68 consensus. Of course, it doesn’t take much to ruffle the feathers of the current feminized and ideas-deficient literary establishment and no where is this more apparent than with this tepid dissent.

A good compliment to the weaknesses of Houellebecq is Pleasant Hell by John Dolan. This “coming of age” autobiography takes place in the suburban California of the 1970s and also postulates that the sexual liberation of the 1960s only produced a more nuanced tyranny whereby the more socialized accumulate the most sexual experiences while the rest are relegated to invisibility. The adolescent Dolan is a fat, disgusting nerd with an avid knowledge of history and literature which is responsible for his cynical outlook. The novel puts more focus on existential dread of the “Hell is other people” variety than sexual frustration and this occasionally veers into something resembling the Gen Y preoccupation with awkwardness. That said, I find that Dolan more acutely describes the vacuity and cruelty of women than Houellebecq. In addition, both writers are possessed of a robust wit when it comes to describing the idiotic politics of the era.

The best parts of Pleasant Hell concern Dolan’s relationship with Joanne, a ditzy lesbian who had been a member of the “Super People”, a clique of beautiful hippie chicks Dolan was enamored with during high school. Seemingly unaware of Dolan’s infatuation to her, Joanne treats him as one might a court eunuch. She obliges some sexual contact with him but only on the condition that it’s practice for when he meets someone. At one point she even initiates sex with him after feeling spurned by her live in girlfriend, however she backs down from this just moments from intercourse because she doesn’t want to have her hymen broken. Dolan, the perpetually losing beta male, thus finds himself stuck between postwar prudishness and a feminist-lesbian power play designed to keep men frustrated and powerless. In the end, Dolan’s intelligence and cynicism becomes his strength and in a subtle but powerful move overcomes his silent despair by saying, “Fuck all.”

This happens while our protagonist is hanging out Joanne and her dyke friends in a San Francisco dorm waiting for M*A*S*H to come on. The reader is then treated to bits of conversation whereby one young woman lavishes praise on the tv show while mistakenly thinking it was about the Vietnam War. But instead of M*A*S*H the group find themselves watching the breaking news of a standoff between police and the Symbionese Liberation Army. While the lesbians cluck disapprovingly about the situation (“They wanna show off their guns!”), Dolan lets go with, “Right on, man. Fry Tania!” He then basks in the horrified silence of his company and goes home.

The Pop Fop Drop On White Pop (Or, How To Be A Music Journalist)

Last night I went to see Tennis play at the Brighton Music Hall.  The venue used to be called Harper’s Ferry and though I knew nothing had changed there aside from the name, I kept half expecting to find myself in a scene from Quadrophenia with Mods and Rockers clashing on the boardwalk.  The fact that J had promised that this would be, “the whitest show you will ever attend” didn’t help matters.

My friend J won over an initially disinterested bartender by ordering a stout infused with coconut.  His choice was quite apropos as Tennis is a husband/wife team who formed the band after a seven month sailing expedition down the Eastern Seaboard.  A bit of tropical flavor is always welcome in an otherwise staid Northeast affair. 

As J and I sipped our beers and discussed David Lynch along the wall, Falling by Julee Cruise started playing through the speakers.  Was somebody listening to us?  My paranoia quickly subsided as the opening act, Hospitality, came to the stage.  The crowd quickly lined up in front of the stage, leaving a wide corridor for patrons who want to access the bathrooms.  How very polite.

This group was fronted by a short 20something woman with a Beastie Boys shirt tucked into a her skirt.  The lead guitarist looked like the downy guy from Trailer Park Boys.  About three songs into their set, J turns to me to describe Hospitality’s sound as, “methadone garage pop”.  I can’t disagree.  

As my interest in the show was more from a cultural perspective than a musical one, I spent most of the night people watching.  This was for the best as both Hospitality and Tennis weren’t really musically memorable.  Here’s what I saw: two guys wearing L.L. Bean duck boots (pants tucked into the boots), a guy wearing Nantucket Reds, and two guys dressed a bit like Ian Brady (I described them as, “postwar Mancunians” but J didn’t understand).  

Meanwhile, Alaina from Tennis made requests of the sound guys in the polite tone usually reserved for servants.  All through their set a pubescent looking skinny guy with a mustache that looked glued on danced with an Asian girl wearing one of those high waisted dresses that work best on a chubbier physique.  J remarked that white guys with Asian girlfriends are actually whiter than a full crowd of 100 proof Anglo Saxons.

Our friend T had joined us midway through Hospitality’s set.  He gave us updates on when his child is due.  He also told me that his wife had waited until marriage to have sex with him.  I responded honestly and enthusiastically to this information.  It’s important to have values.

First as Tragedy, Then as Farce

I was listening to The Boss today, specifically his Born in the U.S.A. album because I simply love I’m On Fire.  That song, much like Chris Isaak’s excellent Wicked Game, perfectly explores the physical and psychological hauntings of sexual desire.  While I haven’t seen anyone explicate on the issue, I’m On Fire also captures a certain predatory masculinity which seems to border on the frightening.  Of course, we all know that Bruce is a good guy and would never overstep the bounds of consent.  Nevertheless, the way in which Bruce subtly touches on this subject is rather jaw dropping.

The whole album is top notch.  From the driving rock bop of Cover Me to the Wild Boy anthem No Surrender which carries a title that is open to other interpretations.

And in the midst of all this great American Rock & Roll, I couldn’t help but think of Ronald Reagan’s détournement of the title track.  While I rarely delve into moral outrage, instead finding the cold eyed cynicism of my generation to be a blessing which we will utilize when black cloaks are donned and an unprecedented savagery is bestowed upon the oligarchs, parasites and their supporters, this act was sickening to a severe degree.  While Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. can be interpreted as a requiem to an American Working Class unable to turn the tide of historical development, Reagan’s triumphalist détournement was the ultimate Fuck You.

If there is indeed a Hell, you can be sure ol’ Ronnie is roasting there eternally.  But things are always looking up, for he is soon to be joined by his cunt-in-arms, Maggie.  And when she expires, as do all things including the socio-economic system she helped usher in, you can be sure there will be an ample amount of gloating from this blog.  

Meanwhile, Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. is a great album, wether for your July 4th cookout or while wading through the rubble of a decimated gated community to find a piss pants investment banker to dismember with your bare hands.

I just watched an early release version of The Hangover Part 2 and there is a scene where a baby ghost comes out of Zack Galifianakis’ penis and immediately starts bawling.  They replay the ghost coming towards the camera like four times, I don’t know if that was a glitch from the torrent or not though.  Then it cuts to a scene from The Office with Andy doing something annoying.  There is also a subplot which implies that Mike Tyson’s daughter died because of his parental neglect.

Yeah.  It’s pretty fucked up.

Reviews of Some Televised Entertainment

If you haven’t yet seen the Coen Brothers’ True Grit, see it.  Jeff Bridges plays the gruff but lovable Rooster Cogburn.  This character lacks any elements of The Dude which have shined through in other roles he’s played, making it more original and showing Bridges’ skill as an actor.  Matt Damon plays the heroic but slightly annoying LaBoeuf, a Texas Ranger.  His name is French for “the beef” though I doubt this has any significance to the plot.  Of course, the best part of the movie is Hailee Steinfeld as Mattie Ross.  Her character is so precocious, independent and strong willed it makes you wish that if you ever have a daughter she’ll be half as cool as little Mattie.

Watching little Mattie barter with a local merchant, ride a horse through a river and ultimately organize the assassination of the man who killed her Pa makes the viewer reflect on just how infantilized we’ve all become.  Now we’re worried about 14 year olds sending nudie pics to each other when over one hundred years ago teenagers were riding out into Indian Territory shooting people.  I know it’s just a movie, but Billy the Kid was shot to death when he was just 21 and at 16 Jesse James had joined a Confederate militia.  Think about it.

I recently picked up The Steve Coogan Collection DVD set on sale and have been enjoying it immensely.  In addition to being a great comedic actor, Coogan brings real warmth and sympathy to his characters.  Sure Alan Partridge is an unlikable twat, but watching Tommy Saxondale come to grips with getting older or the trial and tribulations of the characters on Coogan’s Run is truly touching.  Coogan’s mastery of character development is quite stunning to watch.

The Pop Fop Guide to Finland: Real Gay Clubs, Lesbian Arsonists and Russian Prostitutes

After eating a delicious dinner of grilled reindeer, I decided to retire to a few hours webzoning out in cafes while trying to figure out what to do in the wee hours.  With increasing energy and decreased interest in internet things, I decided to try Helsinki nightlife again.  After all, I didn’t want the yobbishness of Lost & Found to taint my view.

Around 1:30, I made my way over to DTM (not to be confused with DMT which would make for an entirely different experience all together.)  According to guide books, this is one of the biggest dance clubs in the city and the biggest gay club.  There were apparently multiple floors, but I guess in Finland this means a main dance floor, an upstairs dance floor (which is only open on weekends) and a downstairs restroom.  Whatevs though.  The club was sparsely populated with a few older types at the bar near the door and about 15 younger people on or around the dance floor.  I’m not complaining though, I wasn’t looking for anything crazy, I just wanted to dance.  

The tunes were decent, what one would expect: club remixes of pop tunes, classic and contemporary.  There were plenty of neon lights which was great because I love neon lights.  Granted the crowd was small, but it was very friendly and not at all sleazy.  Gays dudes and their female best friends, Elly Jackson looking lesbians, handbag hetero bitches, and some casual Finnish twink dudes.  One of latter group, who looked a bit like a mix of my friend Joey and tumblr twink icon Nicholas, kept giving me the shy eye so I decided to make small talk.  He said his name was Tom and told me the best night to come was Friday.  Duly noted.

As the clock neared closing time, I made my way towards the bar and made small talk with the chick featured above.  I told her I liked her hat and asked what brand it was.  No brand, it from from her friend’s grandparents: an authentic, traditional Finnish hat.  She told me she hated the music being played and was simply, “too old for this shit.”  I asked her age and what she’d prefer to hear, “24, Django Reinhardt and Shirley Bassey,” she replied.  While I can dig those artists, it doesn’t really make sense to play them at a gay dance club.  As our conversation progressed my mind drifted to this post from SBTVC about the banality of artsy girls.  She also told me she had gone to school for fashion but at the moment was doing nothing (i.e. reaping the benefits of the welfare state.)  Her girlfriend, another petite and far too skinny Aryan girl kept calling her from 30 feet away on her cell phone.  Her girlfriend had impressed me earlier by her dance moves which were frighteningly reminiscent of Nic Cage in Wild At Heart.  Somehow the yobbo bar Lost & Found came up and this girl told me that the last time she was there she got so drunk she tried to burn the place down, stripped off all her clothes and wandered out into the freezing Helsinki night.  All she remembers (aside from what her friends told her) was being picked up by the police and wrapped in a blanket.  Wow.  Color me impressed.  Moral of the story: don’t fuck with stylish Finnish lesbians.

As I walked back to my hotel, it started to snow lightly which was quite a beautiful sight on the quiet Helsinki streets.  When I was right around the corner from my hotel, a short 40something woman in all black waved me down with a smile.  ”Hi, how are you?” she inquired.  In replied in the positive.  ”Why don’t you come home with me.  I am not far from here.”  Why?  ”For sex. 100 euro.”  Uh, no thanks but have a good night.  I know I did.