Can’t Keep a Good Blog Down

All blogs go to heaven. Some come back from the dead.

Maybe God was like, “You have too many awesome posts left in you. Get back in there.” Maybe the rent was too high or it was crowded; maybe the co-op rejected your application. Maybe your book-length commentary on the later work of 2 Live Crew didn’t get posthumously picked up by that East Coast publisher, the one with the free bottled water, and you were steamed. Maybe you finished graduate school and decided this was more fun than a whole lot of academic life. Maybe you like the idea of running a website despite having no knowledge of basic coding or visual design or marketing.

My “maybe” is somewhere in there toward the end. In June of 2012, I finished a PhD in English; soon thereafter I remembered that keeping TGR updated was one of the most pleasurable aspects of my entire grad-school tour. That said, I don’t plan for this iteration of the Reader to be a solo job.

In the short term, The General Reader will be entirely online, and a small group of authors will produce it. It won’t have any sort of mission statement, genre affiliation, or well-defined lump of topical concerns, beyond the general aegis of Arts and Culture. And I mean generous: if you ever thought, “Man, wish there was a place to read about American literature, mid-shelf wines, rap music, sports, climate change, US and world politics & current affairs, yoga pants, gardening, urban planning, lyric poetry, YouTube comics, furniture, exercise regimes, Calvin and Hobbes, and midcentury film,” a crew of over-educated, plaid-shirted amateur genies just rolled up at your front door. No big deal. We do this for free.

Tell your friends.

Video

High-Level Emotions

Among other subjects, this iteration of The General Reader will have a decent deal to say about lyric poetry. (That basically means short poems.) One could interpret this Sunset Corp YouTube nugget as a cynically sentimental depiction of the genre.

Amis Live

Over the past couple years I’ve had the Martin Amis fever real bad.  I started out liking his pop, Kingsley, whose Lucky Jim (1954) is required reading for anyone born after World War II who likes really funny novels, then got into Martin via his psychotically hilarious Money (1984), the best novel of the Eighties. It’s been heating up from there. There are many novelists I love on my shelves, but right now if I had to take one person’s books to prison, they would be his: there is nobody smarter or funnier or sadder or meaner or cooler writing fiction in English, not since Bellow (or maybe Twain) died.  David Foster Wallace is the nearest American equivalent, and he only got close.

Amis got his start at 24, because people wanted to see how bad the novel of famous Kingsley’s son would be. Turned out he was good.

His prose has always sounded “young,” because he’s a funny prick with a poet’s relish for the language, but Amis is getting older. He just turned 60; his best friend of forty years, Christopher Hitchens, is dying of cancer; and he’s now written twelve novels. A reliably engaging guest on Charlie Rose, during the latest interview (from August) he’s able to dodge Charlie’s inane, overabundant questions, and get to improvising brilliant things about terrible things like death and wonderful things like writing. He probably practices in the mirror, but still. Enjoy the video here.

-TGR

Bad Lieutenants

In Werner Herzog’s quirky dark comedy The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call–New Orleans (a remake of an earlier Harvey Keitel vehicle), Nicholas Cage plays a cop who is a serious dick: he’s an irritable, capricious, drug-gorged gambling nut who robs civilians and happily serves as a mole for a local narco-king (a job for which he gets paid in cocaine).  But Cage’s portrayal—his first halfway decent work in a long time—also renders Lt. McDonagh a kind of damaged Romantic hero.  He’s a selfish prick, but he’s also smart, ironical, and tenacious.  Herzog’s film is the best fictional treatment of post-Katrina New Orleans that anybody has done in the five years since that catastrophe, and you should see it.

In real New Orleans, though, things aren’t so charming.  Bad cops are just bad, and unfortunately the NOPD has a nasty habit of employing (and promoting) lots of them.  Add this to an unprecedented civic disaster during which everyone was understandably losing their shit, stir in decades of terrible race relations (like most urban American police departments, New Orleans’ has a shitty track record re: poor black and brown people), and you get a situation like the one Frontline‘s most recent documentary, Law and Disorder, unpacks in saddening detail.  In the first days of the great flood, a young black man who was apparently doing nothing worse than gathering stray foodstuffs in a shopping mall’s parking lot got murdered by a nervous NOPD rookie, after which high-ranking members of the city’s S.W.A.T. force attempted to conceal things by personally torching the man’s body in his car (and beating the shit out of friends who got involved).  Frontline is the best in-depth news program in the U.S., and here they’ve partnered with journalists from Pro Publica and the New Orleans Times-Picayune to produce an incisive, if depressing, story about some of the ethnic tensions, many of them institutional, that continue to trouble “post-racial” America.  Watch it here.

-TGR

Long Drive

John Updike writes somewhere that sports are a rational, justifiable waste of time.  (Spoken like someone who was a huge NBA fan.)  I would cite the actual sentence, but the piece it’s from is somewhere deep in a Collected Essays, Vol. 8 or whatever, and I don’t feel like hunting for dog-ears.  This isn’t a scholarly blog anyway.   Got a feeling y’all wouldn’t want footnotes.

There are no dumb sports.  Except for golf—golf is a dumb sport.  I don’t say this just because I find it astonishingly dull.  There are broader reasons to dislike the game.  First, it is an environmentally destructive one.  By this I mean that, for all the pretensions of its new “green” landscape engineers, golf is a huge waste of space that requires the conversion of existing, functional ecosystems into heavily managed (think of all the lawn mowers and herbicide . . . ), entertainment-oriented, homogeneous, artificialized environments.  Shaved Bermuda grass replaces deer and wetlands and herons and cacti and what have you.  As such, the golf industry is a coeval of the big-box stores, suburban subdivisions, gas stations, and ugly highways which have metastasized across the U.S. since World War II.  Second, it is, socioeconomically speaking, a proud register of divisions within industrialized Western societies which those societies like to deny: clubs and green fees are pricey, and so only relatively privileged people, most of them white, can afford to indulge.  There’s a reason American presidents must pretend to like golf; and I suspect that one of the reasons Barack Obama makes so many middle-aged white voters uncomfortable is that he doesn’t love the links.  Golf isn’t like basketball (the President’s preferred sport), which poor people can play because all you need is a ball, a hoop, and some flat space.  It ain’t gonna colonize the South Bronx.

S0 I guess it makes a kind of evil sense that someone has finally built a golf course in the Amazon basin.  It’s in a remote area of Peru that the course’s website—I can’t believe its URL wasn’t already taken by someone with a sense of humor—calls the “last outpost of civilization.”  Evocative, eh?  The company that runs the place is working hard to convince prospective visitors that the course is perfectly integrated with its natural surround, that it may in fact be totally natural!   There are boas in the sand traps and piranhas in the water hazards.  And native trees along the fairways.  And colorful nature reserves and indigenous peoples nearby.

To be fair, the course was hacked out of “second-growth” forest, which means land that had already been slashed-and-burned by people out to get valuable old-growth rain-forest lumber and (temporarily fertile) farmland.  Surely this will speed its recovery.

I can’t decide if this exemplifies reductio ad absurdum or ad nauseam.

-TGR

Addendum

In the previous post, I might have made it sound like few professors are openly confronting the problems facing universities.  This isn’t the case: not only have the best books on university decay been written by academics (Chris Newfield, Frank Donoghue, Mark Bousquet, and Louis Menand, among others), but plenty of progressive younger professors–including ones with tenure–are speaking up eloquently.  Trouble is, nobody in a position to change things listens.

-TGR