by Jay Fox
“But Faxo was an intelligent guy…”
“What?”
“What's the name of this song? It's so fucking catchy. I've had it in my head for like a week.”
“I think it's called 'Young Folks'. I don't know who does it. This is one of Melissa's mixes. I'll burn you a copy.”
“Thanks.” I take the last drag from my cigarette. “What was I saying?”
“About Faxo.”
“Yeah. It just doesn't make any sense. It doesn't seem like he'd get caught up in that type of bullshit.”
“You do know that Heidegger embraced Nazism.” My skepticism is discernible. “At least in nineteen thirty-three.” I dig at the cigarette, which, again, has refused to go out. “It just goes to show that even intelligent people will embrace some completely insane elements of a system, provided they agree with some of its underlying tenets. Heidegger felt that democracy was not capable of coexisting with the technological advances of the twentieth century. Furthermore, he wanted a society that promoted the epic, the magnanimous. Democracy, he felt, only promoted mediocrity.”
“I think that analogy is a bit exaggerated.”
“I won't deny that it is; I'm just saying that this Faxo character probably gave you the hagiographer's Keens, not the real Keens.” I tilt my head. “He probably came close to deifying the man.”
“But they, the A-R-E, aren't political. The organization isn't really religious, either. In fact, they didn't even seem to have an agenda or anything. They just wanted to pursue a, an—I don't know—halcyon lifestyle. They wanted to be like this nexus of peace and joy amidst a world that seems to have lost its soul—kind of like an artistic Kibbutz.”
“A what?”
“It's like a Jewish commune. It's not really supposed to be politic—”
“So they don't want to be political? Is it because they see politics as futile?”
“I won't put words into mouths.”
“But it's implied, right? That's what the art world has been doing for years. You've heard of Dadaism.”
“But it's different than anti-art and all of the other garbage that people espouse when they're too lazy and self-absorbed to do anything worthwhile. It's spiritual, too. Dadaism was not only nihilistic; it was atheistic, too, wasn't it?”
“I always considered nihilism inherently atheistic.”
“A lot of people would say no, but that's another conversation. It's not just that the A-R-E reject everything; there's a reverence for life, which is something completely anathema to nihilism. There's this earnest desire to…I guess revel in life, to relish it, to make it…I know this sounds stupid, but human. Modern art seems to be drowning in vulgar materialism and the basest of human emotions, the idea that the Unconscious is a bog of fury and lust. Even high art, when it strives to convey something complex or poignant, seems to be necessarily pessimistic.”
“You do read the newspapers, don't you? It's a veritable shit-storm out there. Besides the energy crisis that's about to erupt in this country, you have terrorism, civil wars on just about every continent, enduring strife in most of Africa, a culture of waste in just about every country that would call itself industrialized, waning civil participation, famine…I could go on. The point is that cloistering yourself from the harsh realities of the world either by denouncing them from the ivory tower or by ignoring them is nothing more than Modernist escapism. And we don't need escapism or its equally useless counterpart: bleak, apocalyptic millennialism. We need to recognize the problems confronting us as a species. We need people who not only see these problems, but artists and politicians who can shift the discourse of this society in order to actually address them realistically. I mean, free-market capitalism is no longer a sustainable system. We need a figure on the left who can drive this point home.”
“So vote Gore in oh-eight,” I laugh.
“You know what I'm saying, though,” he smirks.
“I agree with you; I just also believe that people need to enjoy life to a certain degree—that they shouldn't get so bogged down by the plight of the world that they lose heart, and end up just going with the flow. I think that's one of the primary objectives of the A-R-E—a celebration of humanity for just a night every so often. That's what I got out of Daphne and Patrick more than Willis. They seemed to imply that the A-R-E congregates on a fairly infrequent basis in order to have these parties.”
“What else do they do?”
“What do you mean?”
“When they're not having these raging parties with furries—”
“—I think they're called plushies when they wear full costumes like that.”
“Is that capitalized?”
“I don't fucking know.”
“Whatever. So you have plushies and Elvis impersonators and models from Seurat paintings and men in diapers and pointy, German helmets…what are those things called again?”
“Pickelhaubes.”
He laughs. “What do they do on the other days of the week or month…maybe even year?”
“I never thought to ask. It just seems like a loose federation of artists.”
“And the acronym could really be anything. It could be Argonauts Reclaiming Eden, for all you know.”
“That sounds pretty cool. Did you just come up with that?”
“No, I've been saving that one up for a while now.”
“Well, regardless, I know it could mean anything, but you shouldn't think of it as a group that has the potential to change the world. What I saw was just a party. I mean, every culture has their festivals, their Bacchanalias.”
“I guess. It just seems like a waste to me. If there are all of these famous artists floating around the place, I don't see why they don't put their heads together to come up with something of substance.”
“Maybe they do.”
15.1
Tomas is a drunken mess. His voice mail, which I receive as the nearly empty train speeds past sleepy brown facades, is a desultory harangue that conveys only one important piece of information: The Sheeps are going to be going on about quarter to one. The name sounds familiar, but I can't associate them with any person or place.
I arrive to the venue about half past twelve. From what I can infer from the number of slightly inebriated smokers mulling around the door, the place is fairly crowded for an early Tuesday morning. I don't try to eavesdrop on any particular conversation, but it is difficult not to overhear the various members of the throng. After being subjected to organ-slapping decibels, it takes a great deal of concentration to maintain an inside voice, I suppose. Moreover, the sound guy at this venue is known for making everything too loud. He’s also known to be a total dick.
A mini-van parked a few yards away from the venue is being loaded with a dismantled drum kit. Three guys in the midst of stowing it away are receiving good reviews (I would assume they must be the previous band, Freak Bear and the Yummy Makers). Honest ones, too. They lean against the van without the frustrated expressions of those who have borne too much flattery and bullshit exaltation. The postures of those surrounding them are not sycophantic; they are manifestations of admiration and respect. The consensus seems to be that the difficult portion of “Victim of a Cheese Malevolent” came off without a hitch. Ryan's solo in “I Want Pundit-Free T.V.” was perhaps the highlight of the show. One person compares it to Nels Klein's solo in “Impossibly Germany,” which Ryan gingerly denies, as this is far too generous a compliment. The Blind Melon cover, however, was not up to snuff. Danny evidently just can't hit the high notes. “Hey, I know I'm no Shannon Hoon or nothing,” he says in his defense. “Plus it's fucking tough to belt it out when you're playing the main riff, man.” Silence. “Whatever. It was the first time we played it. Probably the last. Are you coming to the Galapagos show next Thursday?”
Like most places that function as both venue and bar, there is no cover at the initial door. Getting to the stage, however, will probably require five bucks. About twenty people occupy the concourse, w
hich leads to the venue. Most of them are young and somewhat motley in appearance. The place looks like a dive bar gone glam-rock on a budget. One could qualify said budget as conservative, but, given the Bush administration's unique brand of Daddy's-Credit-Card-Republicanism, this may convey an image of soon-to-be-repossessed opulence. It's ostentatious, gaudy to the point of almost cool.
That sour beer smell that reminds one of an old ballpark permeates the place. It is the pnuema of the past. Bottles collide like passing strangers from a nonspecific locale. The torn portions of some of the seats have been covered by duck tape; smaller wounds have been sealed by electrical tape. Stuffing the color of a manila folder overflows from the bandages that have been tampered with, probably as a consequence of several visitors' boredom as opposed to the destructive impulses of one fidgety drunk.
The bartender is comprised of tattoos, sinews, and pieces of metal intermittently applied to various pieces of flesh and cartilage. He is like the anatomy project of a third-grader with far too much imagination. Aesthetically, of course. His hair is the color of weak Kool-Aid (Grape, though, to date, I have never come across a grape that tastes quite like Grape); it is thin and shoulder-length. He knows that dull scissors have a lower register than sharp scissors. From experience. From what I can tell, he has all of his teeth. The incisors, however, have been radially stained. His canines are more gray than black.
After cracking two cans of PBR, he approaches two critics at the bar engaging in conversational Onanism, a type of interaction in which a person may indulge if he or she wishes to let everyone within earshot know that, yes, they are in the presence of the smartest motherfucker in the bar, perhaps in all of the city. What makes it Onanistic, of course, is not the conceited belief of intellectual superiority per se; rather, it is that the apparent need to contradict everything another person says with horribly banal interjections that don't often go beyond pointing out that the opposing interlocutor has constructed a proposition that is mendacious as a consequence of the use of a universal quantifier as opposed to an existential quantifier (or, in normal parlance, that said speaker has made a generalization). Truth be told, they are pointing out a semantic inaccuracy, but they fail to note that the pragmatics of colloquial speech allow such propositions when it is obvious that the inaccurate proposition either has been constructed for the sake of brevity or is meant to be taken as a hyperbole. It's unbearable when one person does it; when in concert, it's almost Yoko-Ono-does-Enya unendurable. The shorter of the two conversationalists uses the word “couple” to describe a small group as opposed to a duo. The taller one points out that “couple” and “few” are not interchangeable in that slightly effete tone utilized by those who would never use the word “effete” because they believe it to be derogatory. The hand of the bartender quickly snaps up the dollars they drop on the bar in one quick, predatory motion—like the mouth of a snake, and without a “thank you” or a “thanks” or even a nod of acknowledgment. A Steve Malkmus tune with which I am unfamiliar plays in the background. I admittedly don't get the euphemisms or references, but still enjoy the song.
On the other side of the bar, a drunkard chorus taunts three apologetic friends who claim it to be too late to stay out for another round. One of the girls by the pool table is sympathetic to the responsible few. After saying a quick goodbye to the trio, she once again focuses her attention on the table, which is occupied by two competitors separated by several decades. The older of the two laughs as he calls the pocket into which he anticipates the eight ball will soon drop. He has a saprogenic complexion that indicates a feeble circulatory system and a prolonged case of nocturnalism—probably in the presence of union workers milking Disability, previously meth-addicted barflies who tell stories that would make Jesus seriously regret abandoning carpentry, and bartenders who should be awarded honorary degrees in psychology and social work. The older man's younger, bespectacled adversary shakes his head bitterly at the sight of the older man's arrogance. This should not be happening, he says. He then solicits the few surrounding people to confirm the validity of his belief—previous victories should have entitled his opponent to nothing more than another ass-whooping. The girl from above nods hesitantly. Inductive reasoning, unfortunately, is not the older man's strong suit (that, or he just knows how to exploit it).
The black ball plummets into the pocket. The chagrined kid is already pulling a handful of twenties from his pocket. The more-than-likely girlfriend can't believe her eyes. The old man winks to her, which causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand at attention. Her entire limbic system probably goes numb.
The woman collecting money at the door to the stage is beautiful in the way an L.A. sunset is beautiful. It's a beauty that's biting, perhaps even raw. Her expression is an almost meditative despondency—not sad exactly, but gripping in a way that is more communicative than the gray, anti-depressant torpidity or picayune angst for which people under the age of twenty-five are so infamous. It's not just intelligence or cynicism, either. It's more a weary melancholy. Because she is clearly waiting for something, something far more substantive than a better job, a better apartment, or a (better) man—either the variety who arrives on a white stallion or the confidence man all-too-familiar with the shibboleths of game: of love, of passion, of phallic narcissism.
Her condition is familiar. It has been described as a certain discomfort—not the nausea of estrangement, which has been ubiquitous since the heyday of the Greatest Generation, and probably long before that—that envelops a person in an almost viscous languor. It's something different than what the previous generations have felt, not only in its severity, but in its very form. Instead of the rejection of Panglossian faith, and the consequent assumption of romantic forms of rebellion, we feel paralyzed by our fecklessness, our own insignificance, and yet unabashedly absorbed by it. We see an unjust God in the eyes of those tormented by famine, by war, by genocide, by the dynamics of power and violence that keep half of the world in the chains of superstition and poverty, and cannot help but feel nothing. Perhaps nothing is a bit strong. It's more of a hollow pity.
Even with the technological innovations that have made it impossible to take recourse in ignorance when one questions our lack of charity or even generosity, it doesn't have the affect it should. We know that it'd be nice to change the system, but the truth is that we do not want to fight for a revolution because we recognize that there is no longer an Objective. We worship the corpse of Dike. Because everything is corrupt. And if an institution hasn't been corrupted, then it's just a matter of time before it will be. And if this isn't the case, if the institution is somehow a paragon of virtue towering above a world consumed by vice, then it's probably not all that affective anyway—it's just some naïve hippie bullshit.
But this is just what we tell ourselves. The truth is that our apathy is grounded more in laziness and self-absorption than cynicism. The truth is that, even if we had the opportunity to participate in something that was pure, it wouldn't matter. Because we do not want revolution any longer. Our disposition contains within it something far more troubling—an alienation from reality, a certain numbness or sickness that one finds in most post-adolescent Americans who have recently come to maturity in the middle and upper-middle classes. I guess the rich kids far no differently.
In vacuo.
The genesis of our most important precepts does not begin with anything so great as the existential outrage over our eventual deaths, as well as the injustices that we will all have to face prior to that time. It begins with information, with constant information. We establish our concerns; we establish our beliefs. The problem is that we are too proud and too saturated with information to accept ignorance on any level, even if we don't really know anything. It's more than that familiar sense of indestructibility that has corrupted the judgment of ephebi since before Jason assembled the Argonauts; it's the belief that our own opinions and the opinions of those with whom we agree are sacrosanct, impervious. We are the pr
ogeny of a perverse philosophy of self-affirmation without self-reflection: Cogito, ergo sum rectus. The Colbert Nation. Homo Certô. But these are the early stages. Moving beyond the opinions we espouse, what could be called our personal tenets, we come upon the daunting intellectual landscape of the information age, a space in which there is no proof of a greater veracity in any one institution. Everything becomes bullshit, a lie propagated by some dietrologic force that has corrupted all media outlets, all sources of authority, and (why not?) even those random, polarizing counter-cultural demagogues, who show up in the news every once in a while for saying something racist, sexist, homophobic, unpatriotic, jingoistic, etc. There is always an available objection challenging what is putatively regarded as fact. There are institutions founded to contradict what other institutions posit and report. And there are institutions founded to contradict the skeptics, those skeptical of the skeptics, and so on, ad nauseum. One may be run out of an Arkansas basement, but the message has the potential to be as potent as a signal being transmitted from the antenna on the top of the Empire State Building. It's democratic, true, but it's democratic in the same way that anomie is democratic.
And we are left wondering: Which one is correct? Are some of them mistaken, or are they purposefully hiding the truth? Are some groups acting in collusion? Are they colluding with just the other voices, or are they colluding with some less innocent institution? Or are most of them merely under a delusion, a pandemic Mayan veil, which has enveloped the sanity of so much of the world? Is there a truth that has been overlooked now that physical phenomena are being replaced with digital phenomena (manipulated light, really)? Has something been lost in the translation, something that is, paradoxically enough, intangible?