Thom Yorke in Copenhagen

While Obama's lacklustre address in Copenhagen makes all but a splash, there's someone there who we really should pay attention to. Yes, Mr Thom Yorke, servant to all that is sublime, has made the trip over in an attempt to quell his growing frustration. Not for the first time he's been using the band's website to (with uncharacteristic eloquence) publicise reporting on the ramifications of inaction. Now he's getting his hands dirty for real, submitting to knee-jerk interviews with The Guardian; here's a clip. He really is adorable, isn't he? You get the impression that it would take a much longer interview to get any sense out of him, or indeed, for him to get everything off his chest.

PS. - I see, in the photos he's posted online, that he's been wearing his red trousers again. Hero.

Sunset Boulevard

In an article for Vanity Fair back in April 1995 entitled, It Happened on Sunset Boulevard, Christopher Hitchens makes reference to Bret Easton Ellis' classic, Less Than Zero.

There is a tradition of louche to live up to. And so Bret Easton Ellis' affectless bastards cluster in Carnay's railcar diner on the strip, and his narrator in Less Than Zero is knocked back by a Sunset billboard that reads, DISAPPEAR HERE.

The parallel between the article and the underlying theme of Less Than Zero stretches much further than Hitchens cares to mention, or indeed, realizes. Sunset Boulevard runs East to West through the heart of Los Angeles. It's conclusion at the shores of the Pacific is as far as you can travel westward in mainland America. As we all (should) know, Less Than Zero tracks the aimless wandering of our vacuous, despicable protagonist, Clay through the boulevards of LA. Singificantly, a Led Zeppelin lyric appears in the forepages of the text:

There's a feeling I get when I look to the West...

As the novel reaches its conclusion, or rather, anti-conclusion, all meaning is lost; even wandering the streets of LA is given up, replaced by ambivalence. Clay's words:

...I sit on a bench and wait for them, staring out at the expanse of sand that meets the water, where the land ends. Disappear here.

The industrial, commercial, vehicular, political expansion of the United States is complete. The East coast has bridged the gap with the West. Our feelings of impending doom are realized. Not only has the implication come full circle during the pages of the novel, but outlived it also. This is the great triumph of Ellis' novel, and why the task of writing the sequel is only about to be finalised, thirty years on.

For what it's worth...

Atheist Christmas

As Christmas approaches, atheists like ourselves incline towards a collective sense of superiority. We are not haggard with religious obligations; we can enjoy the time off and excuse ourselves while we lap up the mulled wine, spoon ourselves some extra sausage meat, and exchange very middle-class gifts with one another. Heck, one of those gifts may even be the Atheist's Guide to Christmas (nudge nudge*). Indeed, we are prey to no particular tradition or outlook. As Christopher Hitchens remarks in a feisty article about the White House nativity scene:

I myself repose no faith in any man-made text or made-man redeemer, so when it's Christmas I say "Merry Christmas" with a clear conscience, as I respect Ramadan and Passover, and also because "Happy Holidays" is so thin and insipid.

No doubt that strikes a chord. However, what are we to do when approached by a non-Christian (likely these days, you know)? The New Yorker is on hand as always with their guide to a 'Happy Interfaith Holiday Season'. Our host, Paul Rudnick begins rather boldly, thus:

Just because anyone with half a brain celebrates Christmas, no one should ever use the holidays to make non-Christians feel uncomfortable.

He enlightens us with a few tips and suggestions to ensure a successful, communal Christmas period, Jews included. Here's tip number 7, for example:

For a jolly holiday film festival, invite your Jewish neighbours over and screen White Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, and Munich.

Byron

Christopher Hitchens on Lord Byron's childhood, in 2002:

His years of innocence were brief: at the age of nine he was subjected to much groping and fondling by his nurse, May Gray, who also used to whip him savagely and to terrorize him with hellfire religious rants. In other words, before he was ten, Byron had been made intimately aware of the relationship between sex and cruelty, and also the relationship between authority and superstition. I once proposed that a search be made for the gravesite of this sordid woman. It should be restored and preserved as a temple of the Romantic movement.

Nobel Aversion

Following up on what I just said, as I'm wont to do, it would be remiss not to point out that not only has Philip Roth not been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, but neither was a certain John Updike. The Swedish academy had plenty of time to do so. What's the root of the European aversion to American literature? Admittedly, Faulkner and Bellow were worthy recipients, but now we're pushing it back thirty-five years. Europeans don't go unscathed in the Nobel oversights either: Nabokov? Joyce? Proust? Slate had a good piece on this last year. Here it is.

Obama's Nobel Address

I'm not the only one a little impressed with Obama's speech. After failing to see the immediate merits of graciously turning down the award on the morning of October 9th, he's gone some way toward redeeming the apparent inconsistency of announcing the Afghan surge days before his Nobel recognition. Admittedly, the Peace prize has discredited itself over the years with awards to Henry Kissinger and Mother Theresa, and so too has the prize for Literature (Philip Roth, for instance, still criminally overlooked), but the political implications are huge. After a shaky affirmation of the non-violence (cough*) of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. in the presentation ceremony, Obama followed up the reference with his own slant:

As someone who stands here as a direct consequence of Dr. King's life work, I am living testimony to the moral force of nonviolence. […] But, as a head of state, sworn to protect and defend my nation […] I face the world as it is and cannot stand idle in the face of threats to the American people. […] To say that force is sometimes necessary is not a call to cynicism. It is a recognition of history, the imperfections of man, and the limits of reason.

Though that last bit about the "limits of reason" is rather questionable, what he's saying is admirable, and the argument holds. His rhetoric walks a tightrope, a tightrope stretched over a ravine of jagged rocks, but he balances the dichotomy nicely. The task, he explains, lies in "reconciling these two seemingly irreconcilable truths — that war is sometimes necessary, and war is at some level an expression of human folly." Our innate shortcomings, then, manifest themselves through War. This seems fair. He goes on: "yes, the instruments of war do have a role to play in preserving the peace." That's a fairly bold thing to say in front of the committee for the Nobel Peace Prize, as I'm sure you'll agree. His command of the language is impressive, and he uses it to good effect here. He acknowledges the contradiction, rather than evades it. Would Bush, or even Brown have done the same?

Paranormal Activity

I've just watched Paranormal Activity under perfect circumstances (alone, at night, darkened room) for which I allow myself some congratulations, and I'm rather disappointed. Readers of this blog will know that I like to be scared; I revel in a film's ability to escort me some way towards terror. I scary film is a successful film. This, however, did not engage me in the way I hoped it would, but I think I can pinpoint why.

First, the makings of a a good horror film rest in the audience's emotional resonance with the characters. This the film attempts by allowing us plenty of time at the beginning to get to know the two protagonists. No harm there. However, as the film progresses, the male character is much more likeable, both in his sense of humour and his overall approach to the phenomena. Take, for example, the following line of comfort and reassurance:

I'm taking care of it. This is my house, you're my girlfriend, I'm gonna
fucking solve the problem.

C'mon, when's the last time you didn't say something like that? Unfortunately, all da bad shit goes down with da ho, and, therefore, I didn't care as much for her as I perhaps should have done. For this reason, I think female viewers would enjoy the movie a lot more. Nothing patronising in that at all, just misogyny.

Second, the handheld thing has been done before, and the effect is wearing thin. A while ago I tipped my hat to the brilliant [rec.], which managed to tick all the right boxes for the handheld horror genre whilst maintaining the sense that this was fresh, what you were seeing was happening for real. Paranormal Activity, on the other hand, doffs its cap to the Blair Witch Project and Open Water in its conveyance of a psychological drama, with the intention that it's not so much the events, but rather the surrounding emotional furore. The friendship breaks down, the communal resilience is lost, trust fades, and hope is lost. In this regard, although by no means a failure, it comes up a long way short of Blair Witch.

Finally, the main problem is the believability factor. If you're like me, a sceptical, cynical, grumpy old man, you know full well that spirits, ghosts, demons, angels, whatever you want to call them, do not exist. No matter what websites you pull up, the air of explainability never goes out the door. For this reason alone, a film like this is totally lost on me. Point towards any successful horror film and you'll see that plausibility lies at its heart. What scares us most is the possibility that what we're seeing might actually be real.

What annoyed me most, however, was the obvious parallel with The Exorcist. Before you all write in, I know that this was intended. It is a nod of recognition of the highest order, and I don't blame them for it. What nagged me though was the feeling...hmm, you know what? I'll just go watch The Exorcist instead, and have the proverbial S scared out of me, thanks.

Sing A Song For You

In my mind is where I long for you
In my soul I search for you
Each time you turn and run away I cry inside
In my silly way to young to know anymore.

Deprave

"A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on."
~ William S. Burroughs

Lists

It's that time of year again, where every journalistic outlet worth no salt at all compile their personal, definitive list of everything that's been hot and everything that's not throughout the year. Seeing as we're moving into a new decade, they seem to think this gives them some authority to compile a list for the last ten years.

The Guardian posted their top sporting moments of the decade, failing to mention Michael Phelps at all, reminding everyone why we don't buy The Guardian for the sports supplement. Similarly, with no less vigour, The Times put Brazilian classic, City of God and P.T. Anderson's masterpiece, There Will Be Blood behind the likes of The Incredibles and Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy in their list of the best 100 films of the noughties.

Beware: Epic Fail alert! The Times go one further in their countdown of the best 100 books of the decade, placing the likes of Coetzee's Youth and Dawkins' The God Delusion behind (yes, you guessed it) The Da Vinci Code.

What really pisses me off though, what really grates at the tip is when columnists flat-out get something wrong. We're not talking difference of opinion, we're talking flagrant mischief of the lowest calibre. Take a certain Books Blogger over at The Guardian Online, Sam Jordison. He asks:

Who passed the law that everybody had to give a good review to On Chesil Beach? What fear prevented so many journalists from admitting that McEwan had laid down a stinker?

Well, Mr Jordison, you're wrong. I don't think there's any ulterior motive to his claim, I think he's just, in the words of Stewart Lee, 'a idiot'.

Equally, this month's Spin magazine provide their grimy, restless, half-inarticulate, vomit-scoffing readers with a list of "16 Rock myths", managing all the while, to forget the sixteenth, settling instead for fifteen. Nevertheless, they set about "debunking" them one by one, concluding in their No.1 Rock myth: "Radiohead can do no wrong." They gracefully set us straight:

REALITY: Radiohead kinda blow.

There's no arguing with that kind of logic, dear reader. And yet, the author, Chris Norris solidifies things for us all the same:

So we sit, wearing headphones and frozen grins, and continue denying that guilty, nagging feeling that actually, in some ways, when you think about it … Radiohead kinda blow.

I'll just leave that out there. Spin even put a picture of Thom Yorke on the cover of the magazine. Honestly, you wouldn't spit on them, would you?

Stewart Lee Again

In quirkier news, The Guardian published a nice little interview with our mentor and guide, Stewart Lee, which touches upon the recent Richard Hammond fiasco, the Jerry Springer scandal, and Lee's current commercial popularity. As we know, Lee's comedy is a delicate thing, balancing financial reward with critical acclaim. He says himself:

It would be nice for the TV show to be recommissioned so I could have a year off the road. Then again, I've worked out that the economics of a being an obscure cult figure might just work out better in the long run than the economics of being a discarded television performer.

Should he reach broader audiences, or should he remain touring the world's smaller venues, speaking to the niche and the cult audiences that this very blog finds itself among? Thankfully, Holly and I have our tickets for his latest routine, currently at the Leicester Square Theatre (a larger venue than the club we saw him in during the Summer). If you read the article, you'll notice that Sean O'Hagan, the author links to a YouTube clip of a "long and inspired tightrope walk of a routine which targets the Mail's reigning loudmouth, Richard Littlejohn". That particular clip, taken from Lee's 2006 show, is one that I posted online. As a result, I've had a few more hits than usual, plus a wealth of intelligent, Guardian-reader-esque-type comments in the comment section. It's worth rewatching for a quick laugh. I suppose, it's nice to be involved somehow.

Success

Sorry for the lack of more succinct posts over the last few days. As per the yearly routine, I was away in the weird, grimy capital of Texas, pitting my flesh and blood against the scum of the College Swimming community. (Well, that's not fair on Stanford). Those hotel wi-fi connections rarely provide anything other than an irritating distraction. But I return to you now, triumphant.

Apparat

Mischa Barton is going on the list...

Rusty Nails

Moderat on Top Gear? I've said it before...

Original Pirate Material

This weekend's Observer Music Monthly gave their album of the decade spot to The Streets for their 2002 debut album, Original Pirate Material. It's the wrong choice, obviously; the accolade should, by definition almost, go to Radiohead for one of their four albums released in the noughties. Admittedly, Kid A came in a solid second, but why? Well, I have to say, I have some sympathy for the Observer's decision. Original Pirate Material was the first album I ever bought and listened to from first to last. Something about the aura that surrounded the music endeared it to teenagers of my generation. We were well below the threshold of the topics under discussion (drinking, clubbing, drugs, and love), and yet you felt as though you were being spoken to, or spoken for. This was music produced with us in mind. Undoubtedly, the social message of the album was strong and, probably, ignored by listeners of similar years, and yet you felt as though The Streets were a band for you and about you. We were being directly addressed through the lyrics spoken, not sung by Mike Skinner in his inimitable, characteristic style. Repeat a line in the school corridors and, chances were, you'd have the next line delivered to you.

I produced this using only my bare wit.
[then, from elsewhere...]
Give me a jungle or garage beat and admit defeat.

Similarly, with not infrequent tenderness, during the song It's Too Late:

We met through a shared view;
She loved me and I did too.

As a whole, the album is not without its faults. It is two or three tracks too long, and it tends to lose its way between the more popular songs. Indeed, a focus or a direction are nowhere to be seen. Those of us who listened to their follow-up, A Grand Don't Come for Free, will know that OPM is weak by comparison, but I agree with the Observer; what OPM brought to British music, a unique gelling of genres, able to bring together grunge and goth, townies and kevs, far outweighs what it lacks in refinement. I relent for those kids, reaching their teenage years, who don't have a voice like The Streets. Where will they turn? The Arctic Monkeys? Perhaps. Snow Patrol? The Killers? Please.

Konnichiwa

Dissenter, womanizer, contrarian, friend, and competitor, Masa, who is, annoyingly, rather more famous than I am, has posted something about me on his blog, Road to London Olympics 2012. It's all in Japanese, so the link is pretty meaningless. Nevertheless, here's a quick word for all the swathes of Japanese followers who are currently passing through this site courtesy of his link:

こんにちわ

Shame

There is something extraordinarily moving about this video from the band, Low. Even without the audio, the visuals are beautiful. This song is from their second album, Long Division, released in 1994. They are band for those moments, without whom there would be no soundtrack for.

Backhanded

Radio 5's very takeable podcast, Fighting Talk issued the following question this week: Which sports personality divides the nation down the middle? The usual offerings of Gary Neville, Eric Cantona, et al. were given. My response, however, would be Andy Murray. Unashamedly, I hate him. I hate everything about him. I hate his demeanor about the court, his petulant moping. I hate his arrogance, his childish aversion to interviews, and his refusal to acknowledge the crowd when he lost to Andy Roddick at this year's Wimbledon tournament, let alone wait to walk off court with him. But, most of all, I hate his face. Why? Well, it was always far too unattractive for his ex-girlfriend, Kim Sears. Come to think of it, I always thought there was a problem with her face too.

Murray said the experience of his parents’ break-up had made him more determined to make his relationship with Miss Sears work.

Determination, whether genuine or not, doesn't get you everything in life, mate. Sometimes, genetic attributes play a factor (see your own face). When it comes to uncovering why she was able to see past his face for so long, The Times comes to aid: "Miss Sears has moved out of the £5 million Surrey mansion she shared with the world No 4". Good on you.

Pedantry

The supermarket was filled to the rafters today, likely on account of Thanksgiving. Get your turkeys! Get 'em cheap. Take an extra one just in case! Put it in the freezer, madame.

I'm repeatedly asked whether I'm going home for Thanksgiving. Where? To Britain where we don't know nor care what Thanksgiving is? From what we can see, as Thom so eloquently put it to me earlier, the United States give thanks to the Native Americans "for relinquishing their land". Indeed.

Here, on my blog, I noted two years ago that my Thanksgiving lunch, traditionally taken at my coaches house, was not tainted by any religious overtones. No 'grace' was said, etc.. I wonder if this is unusual, or whether Thanksgiving is a purposefully non-religious holiday, on account of its origins. An interesting question to which I'll seek an answer tomorrow.

While I'm here; I saw the cover of National Enquirer magazine this week held the headline, "Michael Murdered - New Proof", beside a picture of a gaunt Michael Jackson. For those of us unacquainted with with National Enquirer, that pinnacle of subversive contemporary journalism, it's the one you find next to the check-out, propped up against packets of chewing gum. Not to be confused with it's sister publication, Globe, which deals mainly with the ongoing death of Patrick Swayze. Returning to my point, "New Proof" struck me as rather odd; surely, once proof has been attained, any new evidence could not be considered "new proof", just new evidence. I expected better of the Enquirer, or maybe I'm being pedantic.

Ian McEwan - Solar

Solar is published on March 18th 2010. I need not say anything more. From the publishers, Random House:

Michael Beard is in his late fifties; bald, overweight, unprepossessing – a Nobel prize-winning physicist whose best work is behind him. [...] When Beard’s professional and personal worlds are entwined in a freak accident, an opportunity presents itself, a chance for Beard to extricate himself from his marital mess, reinvigorate his career and very possibly save the world from environmental disaster.

I think "a freak accident" sums up most of McEwan's recent fiction quite nicely (consecutively: Black Dogs, Enduring Love, Amsterdam, Atonement, Saturday, and On Chesil Beach). If this book falls into that ilk we can expect something very, very special.

Origin of Species Update - Old News

In case you're not one to read the comments sections of my posts, Jim enlightens us all on the matter of my 'Origin of Species story'. It turns out that the issue I have before me has been distributed freely about 170,000 times across university campuses worldwide, including, of all places, Oxford (long time abode of master Dawkins). What's more, I didn't put two and two together at the time, but Ray Comfort turns out to be responsible for this classic video about bananas, which Dawkins has shown to the delight of his audiences for some time. How Comfort has funded this enterprise remains a mystery. And finally, for your viewing pleasure, dear reader, here is Richard Dawkins addressing the matter first-hand:

Nabokov

With some caution I take up the task of writing about Vladimir Nabokov. By way of preamble, it's necessary to note that he was a genius, someone whom a blogger like me should never sleight without the utmost care and respect, though that's someway off my radar, it must be said.

As his final, unfinished work is published (click), it would be remiss not to revisit the tale that led to its survival. I first mentioned the unfolding saga almost two years ago, following a rather impassioned article by Ron Rosenbaum in Slate, who proceeded to deliver a string of emails to Dmitri Nabokov, the author's son and translator. The collision between familial loyalties and the yearnings of the scholarly elite was set in motion.

In my initial post I referred to the case of Samuel Beckett who, likewise, demanded his final, unfinished play go unpublished and unproduced. I should also have cited the case of TS Eliot; we would be without much of his later poetry were his wishes recognised in full. Obviously, the case was a delicate one. Empiricists, like myself, would be expected to ignore Nabokov's dying wishes; once the death takes place, his desires, whether fulfilled or not, go unquenched. However, the small matter of a man's reputation is potentially at stake: something to which we all apply a degree of value. A literary legacy, a library of letters, sculpted and tended to with the dearest perfectionism. Who are we to take such a thing into our own hands?

In a strange, though not unprecedented move, Dmitri sent the typescript of Nabokov's work, tentatively titled, The Original of Laura, to a few members of society that may be of some help. Martin Amis was one such individual. In a long, lavish, and luscious article for The Guardian, Amis claims that "writers die twice: once when the body dies, and once when the talent dies". Nabokov, he states, was no exception, and yet the commonplace is circumvented.

When a writer starts to come off the rails, you expect skidmarks and broken glass; with Nabokov, naturally, the eruption is on the scale of a nuclear accident.

Laura, then, falls under the heading of post-"accident". I have not yet read it so I cannot comment, but Amis certainly may. He frames his expectations for Nabokov with an example of genius, quoting from what Amis calls "the incomparable Pnin", Nabokov's only lengthy reference to the Holocaust:

Aunt Rosa, a fussy, angular, wild-eyed old lady, who had lived in a tremulous world of bad news, bankruptcies, train accidents, cancerous growths - until the Germans put her to death, together with all the people she had worried about.

The desperation, the agonies of a lifetime ended swiftly in under a sentence, hyphenated. Such instances give any writer, me included the sense, as Christopher Hitchens once noted, "that you shouldn't be in the writing business".

Just as I approached this post, I shall approach Laura with caution, but not before I reread Lolita and several other seminal works pre-"accident". First, however, I must go on with my sudden infatuation for J.M. Coetzee who, in his Man Booker Prize winning novel, Disgrace, briefly intercepts the Nabokovian arc. In it, as in Lolita and five other of Nabokov's novels, Coetzee attempts to "vivify the cruelty, the violence, and the dismal squalor of this particular crime" (Amis' words), that is: the crime of paedophilia or, more accurately, "nympholepsy". I recommend it thoroughly, but that's the subject of another post.

Wiki-Sutra Again

Not quite a position, in the strictest sense, but a new offering from the users nonetheless:

500th Post

For my 500th post in almost two and a half years, I impart a ditty of a story that manages to combine the horrific with the sublime, the banal with the beautiful, and the seminal with the sickening.

On Thursday I was making a whistlestop journey to the campus library whereupon I saw a woman holding a stack of books. As I drew nearer I glimpsed the spines, reading "The Origin of Species". I caught the woman's eye and she thrust a copy of Darwin's masterwork of evolutionary biology into my hand. What could I say? I beamed a smile at her, believing she was a wealthy proponent not only of secularism, but also of free speech. I clutched the text gratefully: my own pristine copy of a book that anyone should retain in their personal collection. "Good for you", I said. "Read the first fifty pages", she replied. So I did, I turned, with an element of suspicion to page 49.

To receive the gift of eternal life, you must repent of your sins (turn from them), and put on the Lord Jesus Christ as you would put on a parachute - trusting in Him alone for your salvation.

Well, that caught me, shall we say, off guard. I flicked through the next few pages, and there it was: the opening chapters of Darwin's text, printed so small one could hardly read it, continuing on to the last page. The first fifty pages, it seems present a "Special Introduction" by a certain Ray Comfort (one "of" short of being curiously laughable). The woman had fooled me, fooled everyone who graciously accepted her offer. I saw a boy sit down five feet from where she stood and turn to page 51. I felt like shaking his hand. A stubborn resistance to a Chaucerian fraudster, an exponent of every sort of secular profanity that could conceivably exist. If blasphemy existed in a non-religious form, this was it. I quote from the blurb, which references zoologist L. Harrison Matthews:

"The fact of evolution is the backbone of biology, and thus biology is in the peculiar position of being a science founded on an unproved theory - is it then a science or faith? Belief in the theory of evolution is thus exactly parallel to belief in special creation."

Does the conclusion follow from the presmises? I think not. The concession that evolution is a "fact", quickly followed by the determination that, therefore, biology is based on a "belief", I hope you will agree, gives a perfect, definitive example of equivocation. Needless to say, as an artifact in itself, the book is a peculiar thing, expensively put together, and proudly proclaiming it's timeliness: "150th Anniversary Edition", and I use the word 'timeliness' with all the ironic subtext I can muster.

I return to the UK in a month's time, and when I do I shall send Professor Richard Dawkins a card to explain myself, and a very unwelcome Christmas gift.

Militant atheists ruining Britain?

If you feel so inclined, read Nick Cohen's short piece in The Observer today. With Christians demonstrating their wanting intelligence not yesterday, and the religious propensity to resort to the most extreme measures (see recent Fort Knox massacre; September 11th 2001, etc.), is it fair to label the "new atheists", not far removed, it must be said, from the "old atheists", as just "as fundamentalist in their criticisms of religion as the religious fanatics they criticise". Richard Dawkins hasn't yet motivated anyone into strapping a bomb to themselves and discharging their entrails onto nearby commuters. Perhaps this is merely due to a lack of rhetorical vigour, though I have my doubts. Mixing politics with religion is extremely dangerous, and it would be unfair to you to have to explain why. However, what we see developing in Britain at present is nothing more than the realised desperation of a failing Labour party less than six months away from the next general election. There is nothing "progressive" in respecting the place of minority and/or majority religious communities within political maneuvering.

Missing the point entirely:

Some people are just a little out of reach. Click.

As a brief aside...

Gazing admiringly at my bottle/tube of Nivea lotion "for very dry, rough skin", complete with Almond Oil (imagine that - oil from almonds), I notice that it's labelled: "Essentially Enriched". Something about that term, for me, doesn't quite work. Enriched essentially. Can I essentially enrich? Unless it's conversational; say, how are you doing today? Enriched, essentially, thanks. That would, however, demand a comma. None such is given. Referring to the Oxford English Dictionary, one makes little headway: 'essentially', "as an essential attribute or constituent". This would suggest that were my lotion not essentially enriched then it would be something other than itself, which, one assumes, makes the delineation, from the get-go, somewhat redundant. Delving further, 'essentially', as defined by "a marked or eminent degree". Ah, now we're getting somewhere. So the labelling is simply a marketing matrix, a singularization, a purposeful divorce from its competitors. Essentially enriched. Essentially enriched. Hmm...

On Board Soon

Many things have fired the cylinders of my attention recently, from the publication of Nabokov's Laura (who thought that would ever happen?), to an unsightly incident that occurred to me yesterday, but I've been rather bogged down in multi-sensory self-gratification. The new Call of Duty: Modern Warfare is enthralling, so much so that I haven't the time to do anything else. Many of you will know this already, of course, and be hankering for me to get to the end of this post so that you can continue playing. My apologies. This wasted time won't go unsavoured; I'm sure it will be the subject of a post before long. Adieu.

Dungaree Girl

Today my comrade in the dungarees produced a wonderful presentation regarding Jamaica Kincaid's erudite exploration of the mind of an Antiguan teen-aged, disillusioned girl working as an aupair in New York City, entitled: Lucy. The dungaree girl cross-referenced Paradise Lost, and how the presentation of the Devil, Lucifer informed the characterisation of Kincaid's protagonist. It was superb, and could have been drawn out for another ten minutes had she the time. Perhaps I was wrong to judge, but I'm sticking to my opinions.

David Guttenfelder

A picture tells a thousand words, as a mantra, is frequently proved inapt. In this case, however, it is proved inapt for very different reasons. Take a look at these photographs from the front line in Afghanistan. This really is necessary, haunting, amazing viewing. The oft remarked-upon, billiard table look of the Afghan desert is startling, and I particularly like this image of marines patrolling towards a village under Taleban control, like in the rice fields of Vietnam.

Common Sense

I'm currently reading the collected writings of Thomas Paine, quite beautifully compiled by the Library of America, and there isn't a single passage that I'd feel uncomfortable quoting in full. Here, during his pamphlet, Common Sense, under the heading, 'Of Monarchy and Hereditary Succession', he gives the strongest opposition to the absurd, constitutional principle that we Britons live, fight, and work under to this day:

This is supposing the present race of kings in the world to have had an honourable origin; whereas it is more probable, that could we take off the dark covering of antiquity, and trace them to their first rise, that we should find the first of them nothing better than the principle ruffian of some restless gang, whose savage manners or pre-eminence in subtility obtained him the title of chief among plunderers; and who by increasing in power, and extending his depredations, overawed the quiet and defenceless to purchase their safety by frequent contributions. [...] That which first was submitted to as a convenience, was afterwards claimed as a right.

Reality TV Again

I do hope you read all of James Wolcott's article, but, if you haven't the time, here's the crux of the matter, polished with Wolcott's signature humour:

The chatty, petty ricochet of Reality TV—the he-said-that-you-said-that-she-said-that-I-said-that-she-said-that-your-fat-ass-can-no-longer-fit-through-the-door—eventually provokes a contrived climax, a “shock ending” that is tipped off in promos for the show, teasers replayed so frequently that it’s as if the TV screen had the hiccups. The explosive payoff to the escalating sniper fire on The Real Housewives of New Jersey was a raging tantrum by Teresa Giudice, who flipped over a restaurant table in a She-Hulk fit of wrathful fury and called co-star Danielle Staub a “prostitution whore” (an interesting redundancy), all of which helped make for a unique dining experience and quite a season finale.

Reality TV

I suffered a moral and psychological death over the summer when I spent a day indoors with my beloved watching nothing but MTV, during which time, something peculiar happened. My tear ducts crusted over, my mouth hung half-open at all times, I couldn't see anything more than ten feet away, and my brain was incapable of any deductive thought whatsoever. It was the cursive effects of Reality TV, dear reader. I've grown out of it, and endured far too much of it. My much admired journaling icon, James Wolcott, who I avidly read every day even when I haven't the slightest idea what he's talking about, laments the smoldering wreckage of popular culture and, with it, the United States. He punctuates his piece with subheadings enumerating the various after-effects of Reality TV. Under the heading, 'Reality TV wages class warfare and promotes proletariat exploitation', he brings to light something that, in retrospect, seems obvious:

The migrant camera fodder is often kept isolated, sleep-deprived, and alcoholically louche to render the subjects edgy and pliant and susceptible to fits. “If you combine no sleep with alcohol and no food, emotions are going to run high and people are going to be acting crazy,” a former contestant on ABC’s The Bachelor said.

This trend is rather off-putting, I hope you'll agree; to ween the participants on a Reality TV show into aggression and instability represents a very low form of broadcasting. What's more, does it not defeat the point of Reality TV if you're goading the contestants in this way? Of course, this sort of thing is done in a nuanced, delicate way that isn't superficially intuitive by shows like Big Brother, but to learn that it goes on behind the scenes is pretty alarming ("behind the scenes" [?]). Of course, we should have no sympathy for individuals who submit themselves to such ritual humiliation in the hope of televisual stardom, but they've become, as Wolcott says, "fodder" for the broadcasting giants, A&E, Bravo, MTV, VH1, etc.. Let us leave it in the dirt, smoldering away in the desert heat, while we free ourselves with a bit more House.

So Contrary

When Can first formed in 1968 they were joined by the confrontational, unstable, inimitable Malcolm Mooney, a black American who could actually sing. He would later return to the States on the advice of a psychiatrist who, it would seem, was rather perturbed by Mooney's repeated shouting: "upstairs, downstairs". The other members of Can later announced that Mooney was "caught in a Can groove". Something about that, to me, appears totally understandable. I think I'm caught up in one myself. Listen to the following track at a very low volume, so low that you have to strain to hear it, requiring your full and utmost concentration. Mooney belts out the lyrics:

Smoked a haiku cigarette,
Turned around and then we left
Smiling as the way began to grow.
We got your pretty men all in a row.
Mary, Mary, so quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
These silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty men all in a row?

It's from their only studio album together, Monster Movie. Listen to it. Though, to be fair, the rest really is the ramblings of a lunatic.

I Repent

I realise now that I may have been quite harsh on Lesbians yesterday. Undoubtedly, my hate is based on fear, but, like the flaming gays, lesbians have a knack for setting themselves apart. Why is that? You're in the minority, yes, but let's not enhance the matter. Anyway, that's by the by. I write to impart something of innate value. Weeks after I brought you the first line of Ian McEwan's new novel, I bring you the opening line of Bret Easton Ellis' sequel to his debut novel, Imperial Bedrooms:

They had made a movie about us.

It's hard to get excited about a single line, particularly one so short, but not in the case of Ellis. 2010 is going to be a good year.

When a woman takes another for her lover.

While sat in my post-colonial literature class last week I noticed that the girl sat opposite me was wearing dungarees. Now, these weren't some rehashed, modern, hipster dungarees. These were the real deal, fully-blown, pop your clogs, hide your daughter dungarees, complete with a Teletubbie pouch for Biros and knickknacks. I was aghast, as you may imagine. And then it struck me, as I looked around the room (something I positively dislike doing), that there are literally handfuls of lesbians clustered about the place. Can this be mere coincidence? I doubt it. This isn't the first time I've noticed carpet-munchers invading the English classrooms. There must be something about literature that they find positively appealing. Perhaps it is the act of reading itself, adopted at a young age, as a means of social escapism, that has simply carried through to adulthood. For men, lesbians are quite intimidating, especially these ones: gelled hair and tattooed biceps, empowered and angry (they wear dungarees for fuck's sake!). I'll have to keep my whits about me.

Is Christianity a Force for Good in the World?

Dear reader, your Sunday would be incomplete without partaking of the eternal fruit of knowledge. The latest Intelligence Squared debate has surfaced online, and it's your privilege to have it at your fingertips. It's a shame that the footage seems to have been edited down to an hour program, but the rout is complete nonetheless. Much like his highness, Stephen Fry (looking healthily trim these days), the debate requires no further introduction. Suckle on the bosom of intelligence.

Snooker and Damien Hirst

I, for one, was rather surprised by Ronnie's defeat in the Snooker Premier League to up-comer Judd Trump. He doesn't look particularly comfortable around the table at the moment. Insisting on using his left hand to break off every time gives away a weakness in his cuing - he's not straight, and his long game suffers. Warning bells should have rung when he shaved his head again, echoing the dark days of recent years, but he seems content enough, enjoying the game. The match was played on the 5th, so , weirdly, you could hear my bemissed fireworks screeching away in the distance. I was similarly taken aback to see the queer of darkness in the audience. Nope, not Bono, but close. Just as I thought to myself, Who the fuck is that misguided tosser sat indoors wearing his mother's cataract glasses?, the match commentators directed our attention to a certain Damien Hirst sat in the audience, watching his "good friend", Ronnie. Reportedly, he's just sold off a section of works, netting him a cool £100 million in the process. A girl was telling me recently about the Mexican celebrations that take place during El Día de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead, from which Hirst's piece, For the Love of God, was supposedly inspired. Thankfully, she had no idea who he was, so I was very glad to learn that his renown does not extend as far as he may like to think.

Passionate Ambivalence

Once in a while, a case of speculative excitement crawls over my skin, such as when one hears of the Golden Suicides' aperitif that Bret Easton Ellis is currently conjuring. The same sensation occurred when I read that David Cronenberg, directorial craftsman behind recent classics, A History of Violence and Eastern Promises, had adapted the William Burroughs novel, Naked Lunch, to film in 1991. A member of New York's niche literati, William Lee, played by Peter Weller (a skeletal Christian Bale) takes us through a faux-autobiographical series of recollective vignettes, tracking down scenarios and hallucinations that pierce the fragile sensibilities of his junk-induced state of quasi-comatose indifference. There is no plot, per se, and characterisation is as elusive as the ambiguities of the language. Now that I've read the book and seen the film I still have no idea what's going on. Indeed, it is not Cronenberg's best, which is especially frustrating considering it formed around the time of his horror masterpiece, The Fly, and his sci-fi classic, Scanners. Admittedly, however, there is real potency behind the imagery of the novel, to which both Bret Easton Ellis and Irvine Welsh owe an extreme debt. If you thought Trainspotting was gritty, this is something else. Cronenberg's skill, however, should never be overlooked. He manages to blend curiosity with disgust, horror with humour, and the absurd with the prophetic. It's interesting, at least, that Cronenberg wrote his screenplay long after the universal war on drugs was realised as an all-but defunct social policy (an advantage that Burroughs was not afforded). Rapidly, we follow Lee down the rabbit hole in search of bigger and better neurotic highs, he's a writer experimenting with artistic impetuous. His unconscious efforts compel him to inject cockroach-killing powder, the black meat of giant Brazilian aquatic centipedes, and, later, the jism of the sordid Mugwump. I know, I'm as lost as you are, but there is a social message in there somewhere, trust me. Feel free to try and find it, but if you're the slightest bit predisposed against insects, do not watch this film.

House

For all the mogul pundits who offer their two cents every week following the latest broadcast of Mad Men, why, I ask, is the best show on television overlooked so criminally? Hugh Laurie fits so perfectly, so graciously, albeit with his signature limp, into the shoes of Dr. Gregory House MD. Once we take for granted his faultless accent, his mannerisms and his persona, the fool is he who asks for more, and yet, series 5 surpasses all those that precede it. The craft of his character is stunning, the depth and the intricacies, the detail and realism make everyday relationships lifeless by comparison. House's gift for rationalism, his gift for diagnostics, and his gift for human observation are all prey to the fatal flaw that underpins not only the beauty of his character, but also the conclusion of the series; his addiction to neurotic painkillers proves, ultimately, too much. Laurie irrefutably destroys the criticism of the show's predictability. Watch the scene in which he semi-blindly succumbs to Vicodin overdose and resorts to a self-induced seizure, or the scene in which he leaps across his bathroom floor, stretching and yearning for one final pill. Secondary characters become distractions, tangents that play out in the shadow of our protagonist, our tragic hero. But still, all paths lead to one, and the zenith is reached in a tender closing act. A series of conflicts are introduced and developed: happy v. sad; gain v. loss; reality v. delusion, and every follicle of your being wants more. Dear reader, I cannot wait.

Comment

Sail to the Moon is one of Radiohead's finest songs. Alas, it goes under-appreciated because, such is its place on the album, it is unfairly sandwiched between one of their worst, Backdrifts, and a nothing track, Sit Down. Stand Up. (Come on, how often do you still listen to it?) Discuss.

Sail to the Moon

Just as I hit 'Publish' for that last post I stumbled upon Brit's quaint little blog, searching for a small piece of home. It's called Think of England, and the banner says it all, I think, rather beautifully. But it would appear that, a few days ago, Brit felt that same sense of belonging and pure contentment residing, as he does, in the west country. "It was a beautiful sunny autumnal day", he says, when he met a "local character" who, like him, "wouldn't want to be anywhere else". Well, good sir, that character may as well be me.

Bonfire Night

For the third consecutive year, I've turned the November page on my calendar and felt the pangs of longing for England. Why is the fifth day named after Guy Fawkes, by the way? (If the CIA had foiled September 11th would we name a day after Osama bin Laden? I think not.) It's this time of year when the weather becomes predictably murky, routinely dark, and just the right temperature to raid the wardrobe for the warmer threads. Mother turns on the central heating for the first time, and you're welcomed into a typhoon of homeliness when you return from school, soothing your stinging cheeks and numbing fingers. The daily routine that took flight in September has fully settled at a constant thirty thousand feet. You're in your comfort zone, and the smaller problems in life take on a significance that was previously denied by the bustling application of new rituals and new rules. Temporarily, I miss England.

Challenge Fail

Yesterday, my philosophy of religion instructor said, "There were no takers, but next time, perhaps, some of you will take advantage of my generosity", which caught me as being rather odd. He hasn't really done anything, only offered to do something, and why, therefore, is he afforded a proclamation of said "generosity"? Maybe I'm wrong, but the grammar of the sentence would seem to suggest that I'm right. Anyway, before we delve too far into the woodwork of irrelevancy, let us plane the surface of generosity a little more. None of you inbreds took advantage of my fairly generous offer by telling me where this came from, and I'm ashamed. It extends forth, of course, from the depths of the Radiohead back catalogue: a rare cover version of a 1968 B-side by Can called The Thief. The lyrics, admittedly, are fairly unintelligible to all but the ardent auditory mystique, but here is the music none the less.

Scotch

It's funny how these things crop up at the right time. Just as I dive in to defend my comedy hero, Stewart Lee, he's been proved right, and well ahead of the front bench yet again. Take this little, and, arguably, pretty inconsequential article from The Times in which Mel Gibson, the "reactionary Catholic bigot" behind Braveheart, admits that the film's portrayal of William Wallace "played fast and loose with the historical truth". It's not so inconsequential, however, when teamed with the following clip from Lee's live show, Stand-Up Comedian from 2005, which, brilliantly, was filmed in Glasgow (his routine about Braveheart begins around 3.47 and continues into Part Two, here):

Halcyon Days

I return to you with none of the lustre that accompanied these last few halcyon days with my lover. It has abandoned me when I need it most. Gladly, the same cannot be said of dear Holly.

You will keep forever.
I'll bury you like treasure.

Interim

My beloved, Holly and I are to be reunited within a matter of minutes, dear reader, and, as you can imagine, I'm rather excited considering it has now been over two months since I trod on the motherland. Telephone calls can only get you so far, and that medium has long been exhausted. Unfortunately, this does rather, dare I say, consume my time, so don't expect a flurry of posts in the next few days. I shall be triumphant, however, and I shall not neglect passing this on.

Lyric Challenge #1

From where did I take the following? One and a half points for the first correct answer.

Why must I be the thief?
He asked of the hanging man,
And how come you're the only one
Who gives with an open hand?
Why must I be the thief?
You curse and they cry,
And behind my head
Where they smile
And look beyond the stars,
And the thief will crawl across
To share in that other's fate
But the Jesus man says,
"Not now, my brother, not now.
It's far too late."

Stewart Lee

For my birthday this year, back in July, my beloved bought me tickets to see a certain Mr Stewart Lee perform a warm-up show for his stint at the Edinburgh Fringe. Needless to say, it was absolutely terrific. Any right-thinking fan of comedy is fully aware that Lee is the best comic working today, and by a long way. His influence on me reaches far beyond making me laugh, however. Whenever I'm asked to speak or present, I'm constantly aware of his turn of phrase, and regularly catch myself repeating back sections of his show, particularly if I want to keep an audience entertained. His level of restraint, subtlety, subversion, timing, and enough irony to shake a stick at, is far beyond the realms of the cleverest mainstream comedians we see on our screens. When he returned to comedy after a six-year hiatus in 2004, he opened his set with the sentence, "So, on September 11th 2001...", which got the biggest laugh of the night. Similarly, he's been no stranger to controversy over the brief years since then. Following the religious reprisals of co-directing Jerry Springer: The Opera, Lee embarked on a stand-up tour that concluded with a thirty minute routine about Jesus, reaching its denouement with the line, "So, I vomited into the gaping anus of Christ". During his new show, which I was fortunate to catch a preliminary glimpse of, he rails against Richard Hammond, the cheeky co-presenter of Top Gear. "I wish he'd died", he repeats. Well, he goes further, as the Daily Mail cared to transcribe for us (somewhat missing the humour):

I wish he had died in that crash, and that he had been decapitated, and that his head had rolled off in front of his wife, and that a jagged piece of metal debris from the car had got stuck in his eye, and blinded him. And then his head had rolled on a few more yards into a pool of boiling oil, and that his head had retained just enough neural capacity for him to be able to think, “ooh, this is bit hot", before the whole thing exploded into tiny pieces. [...] I wish Richard Hammond had died and I wish he had been decapitated. Of course, it’s a joke. But, coincidentally, it’s also what I believe.

My dear reader may find it hard to believe, but this is rather tame in comparison to his tirade against religion from his 2006 show. I'll leave that for you to discover for yourselves if you haven't already. A commenter on the Daily Mail website said Lee must be "scraping the barrel for material", whereas a reviewer for The Guardian said "the tension between precision and disgust is tantalising. But beyond the disgust is a bruised idealism". The above photo is from my birthday celebrations, capturing your's truly with the elusive Thom. I think you can tell which side of the fence we accommodate.

Baboon

In his regular column for the Sunday Times, AA Gill writes the following about an incident on Safari with a Baboon:

Just a little one. I can handle it; I’ll be a recreational primate killer. [...] So there was this big bloke leaning against a rock, picking his fingernails, a hairy geezer sitting in the sun with his shirt off. I took him just below the armpit. He slumped and slid sideways. I’m told they can be tricky to shoot: they run up trees, hang on for grim life. They die hard, baboons. But not this one. A soft-nosed .357 blew his lungs out.

He goes on and finishes his piece with the qualification, "I wanted to get a sense of what it might be like to kill someone". Now, it takes something quite special in print to make me laugh and dribble my morning cup of tea over my keyboard, but this was just the ticket. I gather there's a controversy brewing about his open heartlessness, but who cares? In a way, he's like a modern Raskolnikov in his furious attempt to reconcile his emotions for an anthropomorphised baboon. Brilliant.

Boys on the Baize

Congratulations must go to Neil Robertson for a stand-out performance at this year's British Grand Prix. His match against John Higgins in the semi-final, achieving its denouement on a doubled black in the deciding frame, was particularly special. I can only imagine the pressure those two contenders faced as they stepped out towards the baize for one last time, enveloping the emotions and tribulations of nine days worth of competition in one short evening of snooker. The players' hotel has long since emptied of competitors down and out. The corridors of the venue are bare, save for a few cameramen. It's a very lonely sport at times, one in which you're not even guaranteed an equal shot at victory, constantly struggling to arrest table time away from your opponent. It was sad to see Ronnie go out early on, but at least he did so in style against Higgins. Likewise, Mark Williams was my pick of the bunch - with his buck legs, lazy pull back and extended bridge, he's a favorite. His face seems to disappear as it slopes down towards his chin, as if it was purposefully designed to allow him to get his eyeline as close as possible to the cue. Anyway, condolences to Ding, who carries the weight of 100 million fans on his shoulders, but a rapturous round of applause for Mr Neil Robertson. I loved it.

Join the Fun

I've been humming and harring about posting re: Nick Griffin on Question Time. As I've noted here before, QT has abandoned any political lucidity and has all-but descended into a popularity contest. Who can make the cheapest point? Who can garner the most applause? It's sad really, coz poor old Dimblebee does his best, bless him. The anti-fascist protest that led up to, and continued during the broadcast, attacking the BBC's decision moreso than the personality of Griffin (Griffindor or Slytherin?), was absolutely moronic. One can sort of understand why providing a public platform or a megaphone for a fascist organisation is a questionable undertaking, but in the interests of free speech, freedom of expression, balance, and proportional representation, any independently-minded broadcaster would feel compelled to let them have a go, even if they're going to be booed, heckled, and shot down at every junction. These demonstrators have no idea of the damage they inflict upon the very ideologies they espouse. It's this kind of cameo liberalism that gives itself a bad name. You, like me, probably run kicking and screaming from the label, liberal, and who could blame us? A similar episode took place two years ago when Griffin was invited to debate David Irving at the Oxford Union. Irving denies the extent of the Holocaust. He denies Hitler was aware of much of the Holocaust, and he holds the allied forces accountable for the number of dead and dying in concentration camps at the end of the War. Protesters gathered at the time, accompanied by none other than George Galloway, to demonstrate against that debate, and they stormed the room half way through to stage a sit-in. They all make a fatal error. As if we, the public, are unable to defend ourselves against persuasion, or unable to form our own opinions or evaluate evidence. To call these protests a matter of elitism is not, I think, a stretch.

The Cliches of Snooker Commentary - UPDATED

Your suggestions welcome. An ongoing list courtesy of the master, John Virgo:

• Where's the next red coming from?
• Tied up.
• Tied down.
• Pulled up short.
• Missable.
• Whiped its feet.
• Frame-winner.
• He's got the cue ball on a string.
• Given himself a bit to do.
• Get his hand on the table.
• Tough school, this.
• Where's the cue ball going?
• Not sure what he payed for there.
• In all my years of snooker - as a player, and as a commentator - I've never seen a shot like that.

Wiki-Sutra

It goes without saying nowadays that user-generated sex positions are the future. Here's an immediate contribution from Vanity Fair:

Do You Believe In God?

Seeing as Thom asked so politely and eloquently, here is the essay, entitled, 'Does God Exist?', that I wrote for my class on the philosophy of religion. It's rather brief and aggressive, and you may notice a couple of occasions where I paraphrase Hitchens. I couldn't help it.

In my experience, to ask someone who believes in God what exactly they mean by ‘God’ is to hear of a concept, a notion, or an entity that one had not previously entertained. Indeed, because the principles and bases underlying the potential for God’s existence are so dynamic, one individual’s perception of God is regularly removed from another’s, not to mention one’s own. This quality, as I have described, lends the potential for God’s existence its great strength, but also its great weakness.

Personally, I am almost sure that God does not exist. Regardless of the garb with which I could dress the notion of God; as the metaphysical embodiment of the laws of the universe, for example, I cannot bring myself to concede that such an embodiment should, or may even exist. This assessment is based upon three fundamental principles that underpin my thought processes, and have done for some time. These principles are logic, reason, and, simply, evidence. It is through this last principle that all of my beliefs, opinions, and perspectives must pass before I feel wholly comfortable expressing them.

My prolonged struggle and regular forays with science have demonstrated to me that no convincing evidence for God’s existence has been, or could be established. Of course, science can rarely, if at all, confirm a theory, but it is certainly effective at disproving a theory. The universe, as it is documented and observed, need not rely upon the assumption that it is controlled, or was set in motion by a divine creator. Needless to say, it works perfectly well without this hypothesis.

As I have come to terms with this question, for it is an extremely important question, I have surmised that which may appear obvious, but is, nevertheless, worth addressing. Although I do not believe in God, I accept that this is a belief, and, though I wish to distance myself as far from the faith position as possible, I cannot conclude with acceptable finality that God does not exist. However, this is not symptomatic of some form of doubt; rather, this is, almost by definition, true for everyone. In this sense, we are all agnostics, because we cannot possibly know whether God exists.

Further to my reasoning and processing of evidence, I have grown suspicious of organized religion in all of its forms. I concede that I am, technically agnostic, but this is only true for the conflict between deism and, shall we say, a-deism. I have, therefore, an inherent sympathy for the deist position because I consider it a position that is very difficult to contest successfully. However, to transcend the gap that spans between the deist position and the theist position is something that I have no sympathy for. For me, this presents an irreconcilable non-sequitur. To claim, as the adherents to one of the three primary monotheisms do, that not only does God exist, but also that they know the will of God, is wholly and outrageously fatuous. In other words, they claim to know God’s intentions, motives, preferences, and plans, along with a host of information that is impossible, in the strictest sense, to know.

Further to this assertion, I am personally glad that no historical or scientific evidence has arisen that would infer the existence of God. For me, the very notion of a divine creator, an entity that made me, has dominion over me, knows my thoughts, along with my actions, and has a plan for me even after my death, represents the perfect encapsulation of a totalitarian nightmare. Again, the fact that I cannot reconcile the evidence with the suggestion of a divine creator is the source of tremendous personal comfort. And so, if I were to define myself based on these premises, I am an anti-theist.

Here, I note that the prompt for this piece contained the requirement that God be defined as “an all-powerful, all-knowing, perfectly good being”. I hope that my above paragraphs go some way towards explaining why I consider this premise rather shaky. Indeed, this definition leans heavily on the side of theism, and my overarching beliefs are divorced from the description that is given; I wish mainly to express my position as an agnostic anti-theist without addressing the nomenclature of the Judeo-Christian God.

Finally, I conclude with an oft repeated question, though it is one that I have never heard satisfactorily answered. If we are to believe that God exists as an all-knowing creator, who, then, created the creator? We are posed with an infinite regress. I do not accept the response that this is beyond the realms of Human understanding. Of course, in applying our understanding to this question we, once again, inspect the great, yet fragile dynamism of the notion of God.

A little bit more of Fry and Hitchens

From what I can recall this is only the second time that Christopher Hitchens and Stephen Fry have come together in public to discuss the matter of religion. Yesterday, they teamed up against Ann Widdecombe and Bishop Onaiyekan (of Abuja, Nigeria) to argue against the motion, "The Catholic Church is a force for good in the world". Unlike their discussion at Hay Festival in 2005, this debate centered on Christianity, demanding they focus their efforts. Seeing as this was a formal debate, conducted under proper auspices, here are the numbers:

Before the debate:
For - 678
Against - 1102
Don't Know - 346

After the debate:
For - 268
Against - 1876
Don't Know - 34

Well, what did you expect would happen? For all intents and purposes, that constitutes a rout. As someone remarked over at Richard Dawkins' website, "that's what they get for showing up to an artillery duel with water pistols". Apparently, the exchange is to be broadcast on BBC World on 7th and 8th November. Not one to miss, I imagine. There were even reports of Derren Brown in the audience. Fancy that.

god an' that

The blog is spluttering away like an infant but I'm currently tied down writing a lengthy philosophy essay discussing what I consider to be the best contemporary argument for god's existence. The prompt does seem rather pointed upon reflection. (Why not ask what the worst argument is and why?) In consummate style and poise that comes only from years of repeated adventures under the cosh, the essay is due tomorrow and I have barely begun. I don't quite know why I'm bothering; my first essay for the class, entitled "Does God Exist?" received a 'B', or, in American-speak, 8 out of 10. The grading was pretty inexplicable, which I'm sure you'll have already presumed. At the time I was quite tempted to post the essay, indicating the points where the instructor made a mark or a comment and refuting them. Perhaps I should have done this with him personally at the time, but I was too insulted to approach him. Nevertheless, here is the first paragraph of that essay. Just ask for more if you're so inclined.

In my experience, to ask someone who believes in God what exactly they mean by ‘God’ is to hear of a concept, a notion, or an entity that one had not previously entertained. Indeed, because the principles and bases underlying the potential for God’s existence are so dynamic, one individual’s perception of God is regularly removed from another’s, not to mention one’s own. This quality, as I have described, lends the potential for God’s existence its great strength, but also its great weakness.

New Depths from the GOP

Anyone good with Photoshop want to knock together a George Bush banner with a swastika for the S?
Well, admittedly, this is pretty funny.

Thereon

Is her last sentence a stretch? Discuss.

The Golden Suicides

Connoisseur of kitsch, and the most talented writer of our times, Bret Easton Ellis is writing a screenplay with Gus van Sant, the helmsman of 2008's Milk, tentatively titled, 'The Golden Suicides' or 'The East Village Suicides'. It's based on the dual suicide of the inseparable couple, Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake, which was masterfully transcribed to print by Nancy Jo Sales for Vanity Fair's January 2008 publication. Bizarrely, the article is currently the magazine's most popular article online. I recall reading the article when it was published nearly two years ago. Normally, I'm not one to enjoy personality prose or the public veneration of a private tragedy, but something about this story resonates rather poignantly with me and, it would appear, with many others. Sales calls it "a kind of modern Romeo and Juliet story", but that's somewhat modest. She's accurate, however, in labelling Ellis "a great chronicler of the modern macabre", so we're left with our appetites well and truly wetted. First, do yourself a favor; print the article and read it during your favorite hour of the day.

Hassle the Hoff

Yesterday, during Arizona's definitive victory over testicle-suckers anonymous, Stansbury, I met David Hasselhoff. He was doing nothing in particular, except slurring his way through the National Anthem. I remember the time he went over to the UK a couple of years ago for a brief publicity visit and remade a name for himself, leching around television presenters and grooming hipster teenagers in London clubs. One has to admire his commitment to the figure of college clown. What a tool.

Hitchens In Oz

I pass these on for what they're worth. Illuminating that speeches and debates of this sort are becoming somewhat popular as spectacles in themselves. The Ancient Greeks would be green with envy. Hitchens is on particularly fine form, humorous and enlightening.

. Interview for QTV - video from Radio Broadcast.
. Australian Q&A Panel Show (similar to Britain's Question Time).
. Keynote speech and interview at the Festival of Dangerous Ideas.

In case you were wondering...

I set you free.

Slowly we unfold
As Lotus flowers,
And all I want is
The moon upon a stick,
Just to see what is.
Just to see what is.

Comma

I can't help it. Michael Yon knows what he's talking about. Read.

fireworks and Hurricanes

I'm not here.

Not Back Yet

Inexcusable. Busy, if you're interested. All apologies. Swathes of topics to discuss. No time. Meantime, some enigma by the name of Dr Tchock II has taken over a friend of mine's blog. Spot the references. Comment.

An Observation Relayed

While I journeyed back from Terminal 5 to Pheonix, my final resting place if you remember, an inter-Continental couple sat beside me embarked on a rather lengthy, one-sided conversation with me regarding the differences between British and American living. One was a professor and the other was a professor so they could talk for England, and, indeed, America. One surprisingly astute observation did catch me however. The British gentleman, a native of Cambridge, though not quite good enough for the university, remarked that whenever he lands in a US airport, he's always struck by the characteristic smell: a blend of bleach and cinnamon, he said. Well, such a profound description does not occur very often, and it's stayed with me ever since and, I dare say, it will stay with you also.

Achievements

At least one thing was achieved in my absence; something that, I'm sure you'll agree, one should be proud of having advocated. Further, artistic, philosophical, and scientific genius and friend, Tim Dutton has come to our aid in bettering our understanding of the time-space conundrum that I posed some time ago. See the comments section for a run down. Also, if this impresses you, I've no doubt his latest video will too.

The Present Tense

No one else is this good. Nor has there ever been anyone this good. I get the feeling that this may be one of those rare, unimprovable moments (see Videotape 18/5/06 and Last Flowers 16/4/05). Listen at least ten times for full effect.

C. E. Hitchens

A plethora of topics, events, and discussion points to report upon come gushing forth in droves as soon as I unlock the door to my cobwebbed blog account. Where to start? Well, our maestro, Christopher Hitchens is, as you can probably tell, quite an impressionable fellow, so much so that some even appear to adore him more than I, dare I say, we do. YouTube accounts set up in his name have sprung forth, unfurling archives of wonderment that we may have never known existed were it not for the Internet generation. Kill a few hours by going direct to this page, engrossing yourself in the archives of this long-standing admirer. For a quick hit to keep you in check for the start of September, see this vintage clip of Hitchens locking horns with a Republican journalist in 1988. Watch patiently until the eighth minute in which our hero proves why he's been a figure of such controversy long before the publication of god is not Great. Further, for additional gratuitous humour, watch Hitchens don a leather jacket, cast off the issues at hand, and perform a ten minute stand-up set in Washington: a must for us Hitchenites.

Et in Arcadia ego

Robert is not one to disappoint his public. I see the stalwart few have come back again and again, rampantly and fervently in search of their master. Fear not, saplings, for he has returned. My summer in what I now shudder to call home was a raving success. I saw the mastery of Stoppard's Arcadia on stage, I absorbed the spectacle of Blur, live in Hyde Park, I had my senses flummoxed by Derren Brown, I cried laughing as Stewart Lee broke the final taboo in comedy, and saw my beloved Southampton trounce the pretenders, Northampton. I traveled to Copenhagen, Berlin, Prague, Munich, Paris, Brussels, Hohes van Eiffel, Rotterdam, Amsterdam, and sunny Marbella. My mind is richer for it, dear reader. Do not think that I was holidaying on these trips. Oh, no. My travels were penned, etched into the pages of a journal, aching to sprout from their surroundings. I read philosophy and science, clutching at the very straws which sprung me to these places, reminding me of friends, moments, and loved ones. Plenty has passed since I have been away and not a stone will be left unturned. The inexhaustible bank of my memory will be stretched and violated in every which way in order to bestow such gifts upon you, do not fear. There is more, but it shall wait.

Back Soon

This blog will be back from 24th August. In the meantime, click and listen.

One Last Hurrah

I'm perched once again within an arm-rest infested cluster of airport departure chairs. I'm still sane, but barely. I leave for Blighty this evening, not to return to Tucson until August, and likely not to frequent this page in a manner befitting my audience. I apologize in advance. My mind numbs with the pleasures of home and there are far too many distractions on holiday to piece together a coherent strain of thought. I'll use the opportunity to vocalize my opinions rather than change them. Indeed, I've never been so sad to leave the States, even during a period of unseasonably cool weather here in Arizona: good preparation, no doubt, for the unpredictability of England. As the climate warms here so do I toward the notion of calling America home, at least for the foreseeable future. It was Orwell who highlighted the wealth of names we ascribe to Britain, not to mention its divisions: the British Isles, the United Kingdom, the UK, Britain, Great Britain, and I'm positive I've missed a couple. It indicates a nation unsure of itself, disjointed and fractured. As individuals, the people of Britain are educated and tolerant, but as a collective they're cynical, introvert, and intolerant. Watching scandal after scandal unfold in British politics over the last few weeks (not to mention the greatest travesty of them all - Brown remains PM) has left me remarkably grateful not to be a recipient of all the media guff that comes with it, and grateful to be blogging at a fairly safe distance. So, I shall take up the reins again in August, dear reader. I wish I had a protege to hand over to for the time being but, so far, no one has volunteered (I admit, the bar is set pretty high). Wish me a safe and pleasant crossing. I pass on my sincerest good-will for the Summer months. Enjoy yourself, as I shall be. Before I go, a sweet little girl of five or six, barely three arm-rests away from me, has just exclaimed to her oafish mother, "Mum, that man looks like my Dad!", and accompanied her assertion with an outstretched finger. Absolutely fantastic.

Iran and Revolution

My silence surrounding the situation in Iran is not for want of trying, dear reader. Every time I broach an opinion or formulate an exposition, I'm outdone by the print media and my online contemporaries. If you have been a good bloggist you will undoubtedly already have discovered Michael Totten's specialized blog over at Commentary magazine. His knowledge of the Middle East and its intricacies is astounding, while his devotion to the area and its politics makes me feel like I shouldn't even attempt to comment. Don't neglect his regular blog either, as he's posted a wealth of images and video alongside a salad of the latest journalism, all of which are devoted to the protests and developments as they unfold. It would be irresponsible to condense his coverage into a single soundbite, but he did offer us this in jest:

In case you just woke up from a week-long nap, there is an uprising in Iran that may change the country forever.

What's more, Christopher Hitchens appeared on CNBC earlier today during The Kudlow Report to discuss the issues at present. He lamented President Obama's silence and apparent lack of support with the Iranian protesters, many of whom take severe risks in doing so (far beyond what may cause you or me to stay at home), and clarified his own position, one of solidarity with the demonstrators.

They should know that we are on their side, unconditionally.

This is a position I share. It's fairly clear for all to see that, whether you watch the videos posted on YouTube by the protesters, or delve into the details of how the 1979 revolution shaped the country that has since decayed under Khomeini's theocracy, Iran tinkers on a knife-edge. One heroic surge could topple the regime; all evidence suggests that it's already on its knees. Hitchens quotes Lenin's definition of a revolution and suggests that "both conditions of that definition have more or less been fulfilled". In fact, Lenin eloquently remarked earlier that a revolution involves:

A crisis in the policy of the ruling class which causes fissures through which the discontent and the indignation of the oppressed classes burst forth.

The reaction of Ahmadinejad and his cronies is indicative of a ruling class in crisis ("The situation in the country is in a very good condition") and the cracks are surfacing.