Aww, it looks like the archive that hosted my old political blog (Anarchy for Anybody) went belly-up this year (I think roughly around the end of April). I worked hard on that site for a long time (particularly active from 1996-2001; I think sometime in 2000 I lost access to the direct FTP stuff I used to do to update the site myself, back in the day, and just made one last post in 2001 thanks to some friends and fans, and let it languish from that point on as a kind of archive of radical political thought in the 90s). Even at the end of my most active period with that project, I found refuge in fiction over nonfiction for my ideas -- that I found art was the best way of expressing my radical attitudes (just flourishes here and there, a sensibility, a sense of the possible -- I don't write polemics in fiction).
Still, 14 years is a long time for a blog, even if I hadn't been active on it for nine of those years, it still exposed a lot of people to new and different ideas (I remember it having something like 500,000 hits or more the last time I checked it, which is paltry in Net terms, but nice for a fringe political site -- I used to get comments from people who would write me expressing gratitude for that site). One of my essays (really, my most influential one, circa 1996) is still archived out there, which is nice to know. Everything else is apparently gone. I may have discs of the stuff saved somewhere (unlikely, anymore, after a few moves), but I've moved on from that stuff. Not in terms of my politics, which remain stubbornly small "l" libertarian and internationalist in spirit, but I've always been more philosophical than doctrinaire.
It's weird to think of that time and contrast it with the 00s, like how our political culture curdled in the face of right-wing extremism that's continued to hold our country back. We truly are falling behind. So many vital concerns I had then have become policy, now -- our country suspended habeas corpus, it is now a nation that officially tortures, we have secret prisons, etc., etc. -- serious breaches of liberty, carried out without hesitation or shame, or really much substantive debate. Sure, a lot of hand-wringing and navel-gazing, but the Beltway consensus seems to have accepted this as the "new normal."
In so many ways, the 90s seems like the last "good" American decade -- a time of peace and prosperity. Certainly the 00s did not begin auspiciously, and we're grinding along unsteadily in this second decade of the 21st Century as an imperial nation, desperately stratified economically, debt-ridden, deficit-laden, with an exhausted workforce and an overcommitted (and massive) military, with one-and-a-half political factions jousting for ever-dwindling voter market share (one group wanting to lead the nation the wrong way [the Republicans], the other unwilling to lead at all).
From my vantage point as an everyday citizen and political outsider, it's amazing to behold. But I console myself that bad times make for good art -- it gets the creative mind spinning, even as American life in the 21st Century is an affront to one's intelligence and a insult to the imagination. We are becoming a banana republic before our very eyes.
A decade ago, I'd comment about the "Youngstownification of the country" (and those of you from Youngstown surely know what I'm talking about) -- where ignorance was paraded about with pride, where things spiraled down into oblivion, and people would cheer the corrupt and the vile as heroes, and I see it continuing, maybe even accelerating. Maybe it's just a natural human reaction to political, economic, and cultural entropy. Maybe it's how people react when they don't even realize why they're fucked, or what's fucking them. I'm not sure. It's something, for damned sure.
Anyway, a4a is gone, but I'm still kicking, fuckers. ; )
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Vuvuzela Konzert
Okay, so there's one more week of World Cuppage left, but before it's done, I had to sling some more vuvuzela-related hee-hee...
Vuvuzela Konzert
*snicker*
Frankly, I think it violates the blaring spirit of the vuvuzela to actually play it, but it still amuses me.
Vuvuzela Konzert
*snicker*
Frankly, I think it violates the blaring spirit of the vuvuzela to actually play it, but it still amuses me.
Artful Dodger
I'm noshing on an Italian BMT (on Hearty Italian bread, with provolone cheese, naturally) from Subway at the moment. *nosh nosh* <-- see?
Beautiful day today -- mild, summery, sunny, lovely. A good walking-around kind of day, although I didn't have my camera handy, it was okay, because nothing jumped out at me (which is perhaps a good thing in Hyde Park -- you don't want anything or anybody jumping out at you down here!)
I was very pleased to learn that my good friend Corvina is getting a venue at ArtPrize! Yay! I stumbled upon that competition earlier this year and told her about it, said she should definitely submit something, on the off chance that she might get a venue (that's the real challenge with ArtPrize -- the venues are incredibly competitive and hard to get). And she got a venue! Her work is so solid, I'm really pleased she got in. Very, very cool. And what's even cooler is that the top 10 finalists win cash prizes for their works (and the prizes are phenomenally good). But even if she's not a finalist, at least she got in! Go get'em, Corvina! I'm so happy for her!
Beautiful day today -- mild, summery, sunny, lovely. A good walking-around kind of day, although I didn't have my camera handy, it was okay, because nothing jumped out at me (which is perhaps a good thing in Hyde Park -- you don't want anything or anybody jumping out at you down here!)
I was very pleased to learn that my good friend Corvina is getting a venue at ArtPrize! Yay! I stumbled upon that competition earlier this year and told her about it, said she should definitely submit something, on the off chance that she might get a venue (that's the real challenge with ArtPrize -- the venues are incredibly competitive and hard to get). And she got a venue! Her work is so solid, I'm really pleased she got in. Very, very cool. And what's even cooler is that the top 10 finalists win cash prizes for their works (and the prizes are phenomenally good). But even if she's not a finalist, at least she got in! Go get'em, Corvina! I'm so happy for her!
Damn
I just realized that I'm likely going to be on the road for the World Cup final (7/11) -- it's at 1:30 EST! D'oh! I might be able to just make it in time, if I time it just right!
There
1015 words this morning. Good words, too, mind you. I uploaded the files to my jump drive, so I can take it to work with me, maybe get some more done there.
Back in the saddle
I've gotten back into my early-morning writerly groove again; I'd tried to write at other times, but in our tiny apartment, with the boys jonesing for attention, I just can't swing it. So, for now, back to writing in the margins of my day. The morning is still the best, since I'm a natural early riser, and my brain is fresh, and there are no distractions (well, besides THIS, but I'm waiting for the old computer to warm up, so while it's doing that, I'm writing you).
Anyway, it's going well, this new piece. I've been easily clearing 1300 words a day, which is a decent clip for me. I would like to get over 2000 words a day, so we'll see how that goes.
I read an article in SALON about yet another memoir written by a privileged young woman (Sloane Crosley -- even her name sounds privileged, no?) Anyway, it left a bad taste in my mouth, highlighted the insider/outsider firewall that commands publishing. As somebody puttering around far, far outside that wall (heh, like a grubby, kilted Celt confronting Hadrian's Wall), it makes me peevish to see a 31-year-old with her second book out already, somebody with a perfect publishing pedigree (went to an elite liberal arts college, slummed around at an Ivy League school later, then miraculously got a job as a publicist -- indeed, New York City's most popular publicist, if you believe the hype (how does one get that job as a 20-something? Connections much?) And then, of course, a book deal (first book optioned out to HBO, and lord knows the fate of the second). And memoirs, no less. Well-connected from A to Z, reaping the rewards of it.
Sure, I'm envious. Why not be? What galls me is the retrofitting of such a fairytale history -- akin to adroit eraser rubs along the page to the theme song of the "Mary Tyler Moore Show" -- and we don't see the paperclip chain of connections, privileges, and opportunities that paved that golden road for her. Instead, we're to believe she did it all by herself. Not unlike that Russian spy gal who evangelized her pioneering spirit in America while taking Kremlin Kash to fund their lackadaisical spy mission in Cambridge. Bull-fucking-shit. Just once, I'd like to see somebody write "Thanks to my parent's wealth and connections, I got into the best schools, and because the Editor-In-Chief was a classmate of my mom's at Smith, I got a job at Fuckbird Publishing, where she introduced me to Celebrity X, who wanted me for her publicist as soon as she saw me, and blah blah blah blah." At least that would be honest and forthright.
As a member of the American Underclass (and let's be honest, here -- if you're making under $100,000 a year, if you've not gone to an elite school, if your parents weren't rich and/or connected -- you're a member of the American Underclass, intended only to be a spectator in our culture, not a participant -- anyway, as part of that, I chafe at seeing yet another memoir written by (and for) the children of privilege. I don't care that you trekked to Lisbon on a whim, Ms. Crosley. I hope nobody else does, either.
Alright, the old Dell's warmed up at last (my name for that computer remains "Shitbox"). I'm going to write the living fuck out of the story I'm working on.
Anyway, it's going well, this new piece. I've been easily clearing 1300 words a day, which is a decent clip for me. I would like to get over 2000 words a day, so we'll see how that goes.
I read an article in SALON about yet another memoir written by a privileged young woman (Sloane Crosley -- even her name sounds privileged, no?) Anyway, it left a bad taste in my mouth, highlighted the insider/outsider firewall that commands publishing. As somebody puttering around far, far outside that wall (heh, like a grubby, kilted Celt confronting Hadrian's Wall), it makes me peevish to see a 31-year-old with her second book out already, somebody with a perfect publishing pedigree (went to an elite liberal arts college, slummed around at an Ivy League school later, then miraculously got a job as a publicist -- indeed, New York City's most popular publicist, if you believe the hype (how does one get that job as a 20-something? Connections much?) And then, of course, a book deal (first book optioned out to HBO, and lord knows the fate of the second). And memoirs, no less. Well-connected from A to Z, reaping the rewards of it.
Sure, I'm envious. Why not be? What galls me is the retrofitting of such a fairytale history -- akin to adroit eraser rubs along the page to the theme song of the "Mary Tyler Moore Show" -- and we don't see the paperclip chain of connections, privileges, and opportunities that paved that golden road for her. Instead, we're to believe she did it all by herself. Not unlike that Russian spy gal who evangelized her pioneering spirit in America while taking Kremlin Kash to fund their lackadaisical spy mission in Cambridge. Bull-fucking-shit. Just once, I'd like to see somebody write "Thanks to my parent's wealth and connections, I got into the best schools, and because the Editor-In-Chief was a classmate of my mom's at Smith, I got a job at Fuckbird Publishing, where she introduced me to Celebrity X, who wanted me for her publicist as soon as she saw me, and blah blah blah blah." At least that would be honest and forthright.
As a member of the American Underclass (and let's be honest, here -- if you're making under $100,000 a year, if you've not gone to an elite school, if your parents weren't rich and/or connected -- you're a member of the American Underclass, intended only to be a spectator in our culture, not a participant -- anyway, as part of that, I chafe at seeing yet another memoir written by (and for) the children of privilege. I don't care that you trekked to Lisbon on a whim, Ms. Crosley. I hope nobody else does, either.
Alright, the old Dell's warmed up at last (my name for that computer remains "Shitbox"). I'm going to write the living fuck out of the story I'm working on.
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