Greetings Readers!
Let me just start by saying I’m pleased as punch that some of you didn’t immediately hit the delete key when you saw my surname. That means so much to me! Believe me, I would weep all over this keyboard if I did those kinds of human emotions. Admittedly this dispatch is longer than usual, but it’s been a while and quantity is always welcome when the product is high quality, isn’t it? We used to think so where I went to school anyway.
More to the point, I hope you are all doing well. In case that sounds a trifle delusional, how about I hope you’re plugging along with at least occasional moments of demented joy? OK then!
Since I take some of my own joy from blows against the empire, I’ve gotten quite a kick out of ignoring various responsibilities (admittedly I’m an old hand at that game) by escaping into the latest issue of The Baffler, July/August 2022, number 64 to be precise. After early years of scattershot frequency in which way too many months, more than twelve even, went by between issues, the great literary and political malcontent journal now comes in the mail every two months. That’s more like it, obsessively anti-status quo lefty wiseguys and gals (to be clear, its writers and editors are not mobbed-up)!
Thankfully the assembled contributors still focus their sniping on worthy targets, i.e. much of what I hate about our modern world (wow, what a long list!). Given the transition to bi-monthliness the quality of the writing can vary a bit,* what with tighter deadlines meaning less time to accommodate third, fourth, and fifth drafts, but the range of contributors has extended way beyond the old stable of white, albeit hilarious brainiac, guys of largely Ivy League or Ivy League-adjacent pedigree. The Baffler has become my favorite magazine (well, some months I might put the highly addictive journal Book Forum in that coveted top slot … but relax Bafflerites, healthy competition keeps you regular), partly due to its now including articles and reviews, along with some poetry and fiction, by a cross-section of humanoids which includes voices from outside our sacred (to some idiots, anyway) U.S. borders. And yes, if a more diverse mix isn’t a cover for hewing to some nauseating billionaire-friendly political line, a broader range of writers is a good thing even if a bunch of stodgy honkies tell you otherwise.
Baffler Senior Editor Dave Dennison opens this fine issue, packed to the gills with bashing of Zuckerberg and other cash cow cyber-grifters, by referencing the new-to-me historian David F. Noble (or maybe not … am I supposed to remember every social critic I read in my UMass/Amherst Social Thought and Political Economy classes?), who more than four decades ago described the USA as “a remarkably dynamic society that goes nowhere.” Dennison argues that Nobel's label still sticks to what said editor calls “our dismally networked society of consumer-citizens addicted to disinformation and anesthetizing content-trash, injected into our brain stems by powerful, pocket-sized devices on hand at all times.”
The Zuckster’s new label for his octopus-like attention economy (I lifted that phrase from Jenny Odell’s excellent book How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy) global behemoth is “Meta,” which this issue’s lead contributor, Jeffrey Sconce, describes as “a name that the laziest writer at Star Trek might have coughed up for an evil super-computer that Spock defeats by posing a series of logical contradictions.” I could go on quoting Sconce’s wildly entertaining piece for paragraphs and paragraphs but I’d hate for you to think I’m being lazy, despite my fondness for certain columnists over the years who excelled at fleshing out their word count with long-ass quotes from other writers. Of course it should be noted that those hacks had actual deadlines and cranked out the copy (note that I didn’t use the odious word “content,” which to me connotes subliterate digital filler, sorry if that sounds negative) despite frequent hangovers and fuzziness as to what they were writing about.
My arch culture vulture/dramaturge/adjunct film teacher pal Prof. Podell sent me a link to ZucksterCorp’s preview of the pathetic alternate reality avatarsRus thing Sconce devotes so much spleen to. Turns out the Zuck’s empire is gearing up to sucking our faux-connected population’s decimated attention spans into yet another iteration of alternate reality. Remember in decades past when virtual reality helmets were going to be the next big thing? I guess when you’re a billionaire there’s no problem with coughing up tens of millions to try, try again.
The taste of things to come Meta trailer was so horrific in its soporific consumerist mediocrity that I pretty much instantly blocked out the trauma of viewing it. A veteran exploitation film promoter used to say of his work “you sell the sizzle, not the steak.” He and his partners in hustle could always find a few minutes of trashy clips to string together to spark a thrill or two. Not this one step beyond Facebook trailer, which is about as exciting as Pat Boone covering Little Richard. I have trouble imagining this new immersion in cyber-blandness catching on but then I never thought home video would replace the infinitely more satisfying experience of going to an actual movie theater, so what do I know. I suppose a fake universe populated with time-wasting bots could take one’s mind off being evicted and/or overrun by fascists.
I strongly urged the ever-entertaining Prof. P to record his deranged riffing on the moronic voice actor blabbing over the top of the blandathon next-stage/worst-stage CGI animation in question, I think it would be a wonderful addition to anyone’s audio playlist for hysterical giggling at the horrors of our brain-dead modern world. Screw those time-wasting podcasts, get Andy’s mean-spirited satirical riffing … fun for the whole family and then some!
While I’m on the topic of nauseating current events, as much as getting out the vote for Dems to defeat psycho white supremacists is key if we are to have an even remotely livable future,** we don’t all have to march in worshipful lockstep on every Democratic Party initiative. Hence I can’t bite my tongue on the Biden Administration and CDC tack of adopting Don’t Worry, Be Happy/You Do You pandemic policies. I just don’t get why masks are only timidly recommended on public transportation during an ongoing pandemic. Hey, in the neighborhood of 400 people a day are still dying from the virus in the U.S. while there are no treatments I know of for long Covid with its myriad of not at all fun symptoms. I’m not an epidemiologist (I don’t even play one on TV) but I can read this sentence a friend in nursing sent me: “Masks reduce transmission, especially a high-quality mask such as an N95, and reducing transmission reduces the opportunity for mutation.”
While we’re on the subject, remember saluting essential workers? Who’s to blame them if, due to messaging from on high and general “moving on” public discourse, said workers figure being unmasked is no big deal. But aren’t people serving and working registers in front of a public newly emancipated from facial coverings kind of sitting ducks for new variants? Needless to say immunocompromised people being thrown under very large buses on this one is not a big topic of discussions I’ve been hearing either.
End of tirade, at least for the time being. Despite my immersion in Baffler (and other) political piss-takes and my inability to ignore the kinder, gentler eugenics side of current Covid-related public policy, I’ve developed better psychic defenses on the obsessive political animal front. As much as I don’t think being an ostrich is an ideal approach to preparing for everything that’s coming down the pike, it’s kind of pointless to stay immersed in the horrors of the not all that cheerful shitstorms that seem to dominate our news cycles, at least the ones I’m tuned into.
And as much as it’s a good idea to get a laugh or two when countless bastards are working overtime to grind you down, even the Onion’s news briefs leave a bitter aftertaste. So at night I’m avoiding reading news or watching late night satirical guys and gals who just glom on to events of the day already covered in the newsletters I try to read, or sometimes skip, in the morning. Take my advice (Am I turning into an advice columnist? Is there still money in that?), try taking a day or a week off online or print dystopia beat consumption, you’ll be a saner person, at least marginally, for having done so. As my dear sister Mary pointed out, when you come back to it anything you missed will be repeated endlessly anyway.
What to do when you aren’t compulsively doom spotting? I suggest developing an addiciton to The Criterion Channel, a truly great reason to continue living. The streaming platform got a dose of criticism a few years back for not including enough films from non-male, non-white, and non-straight filmmakers. Criterion big-wigs responded by expanding their offerings to include more world cinema and documentary and narrative film from people of color and queer filmmakers than one can shake a stick at (lucky that’s just a figure of speech, there’s enough stick shaking these days — for the love of Mike***, “Whole Lot of Stick Shaking Going On” is still on the hit parade). The key word there is expanding, there’s no idiotic replacement theory nonsense at work here as is readily apparent by the embarrassment of movies available from what the Oscar historian crowd refers to as the Golden Age of Hollywood. Take this movie addict’s word for it, Criterion is where it’s at if you want to sustain yourself while staring at a screen, high brow and low brow but very little middle brow. Billy Wilder, Ernst Lubitsch, Myrna Loy, color noir, jazz documentaries, Charles Burnett, Josephine Baker, various giants of silent film comedy — keep it coming!
One of my semi-loyal readers has been clamoring, or at least asked in passing, for book recommendations. Here's one: you could do a lot worse than going to your local library and demanding both the 1940s and 1950s volumes of the Women Crime Writers anthologies Library of America put out a few years back. Or order them from the Green Arcade, where you can also get Namaste, Motherfucker! #9 if that’s not yet on your coffee table. Each of the Library of America collections features four novels that will suck you into a twisted time machine which won’t let go until you collapse way past your bedtime several weeks later. Who could ask for anything more?
Speaking of my workplace, I will close with a shout out for an exciting new publication and program of action which we were alerted to via a PDF that came over the cyber transom on the Green Arcade Top Dog’s computer.
After memorizing the contents of his company’s website, I am convinced Bryan Gillette’s model will prove to be a powerful tool for our upcoming Green Arcade staff retreat’s marathon deep visioneering sessions. How could anything but high-test team building result from learning the lessons imparted by this great sage of athletic overkill and corporate excellence?
One need only read the site’s blurb on strategic planning using the EPIC model to understand why I’m a convert:
“Most teams rarely experience the highest levels of performance so in this program, you will learn key strategies to avoid and practical methods to incorporate in your team. Using a trusted team assessment with all team members giving their input, you will learn how well the team is doing around Goals, Roles, Processes & Procedures, Relationships, and Leadership. With this information, we will develop a game plan that drives you to a higher level.”
I suspect you’re wondering what the hell EPIC stands for. Wonder no more:
E = Envision: Clearly see your goals for your company, career, and life.
P = Plan: Create a step-by-step blueprint for making your dream a reality.
I = Iterate: Repeatedly practice with intention and evaluate your performance.
C = Collaborate: Work with others, and learn from those who have gone before you.
Why, I wouldn't be surprised if, after seriously applying ourselves to the EPIC can-do, hands-on, my gonads-right-or-wrong vision questing tips, we Arcadians will all be running 200 miles around Lake Tahoe in no time (yes, that’s on Bryan’s resume!). The plate and screws in my right ankle will bend to my will!
* Admittedly, this column seems to have also made the transition to bi-monthliness, not sure I can use that as an excuse for its unevenness.
** Yes, it’s time once again to drag your browsers to postcardstovoters.org; if you don’t feel like going through the registration process, email me and I’ll get you voter addresses and a message appropriate to the get out the vote campaign du jour.
*** Mike Mazurki, beloved bruiser who was so memorable in Murder, My Sweet.
NOTES:
I used to do the old tongue in cheek and tell people Namaste, Motherfucker! would be worth big money some day. Then my inattention to inventory led to having two remaining copies of this issue, check out the can-do pricing: https://www.art-books.com/advSearchResults.php?authorField=Ben+Terrall&action=search
The above link is proof that you need to buy my mag, and if you can’t get to The Green Arcade (1680 Market St. in Fog City) or any of the other fine outlets that sell it (including TerrallCorp HQ), there’s always the USPS: https://shop.thegreenarcade.com/product/namaste-motherfucker-issue-9/462?cp=true&sa=false&sbp=false&q=true
I’m pleased as punch that the Green Arcade has this Northwestern University prof’s new book, The Viral Underclass: The Human Toll When Inequality and Disease Collide, in our window: https://prismreports.org/2022/07/21/more-people-dying-covid-didnt-have-to-be-this-way/
A good editorial taking issue with what is seeming to me like kinder, gentler eugenics:
https://www.thenation.com/article/society/covid-pandemic-cdc-fatigue/
Strategically self-improve the EPIC way!: https://summitinggroup.com/services/#