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.