Before we get to anything of substance, I am compelled to clear up one matter. The statement by Max that he surpassed (or even came close to) my level of academic success is just downright false. Obviously Max is still bitter about the fact that when his teachers went over to him, squeezed his pudgy little cheeks, and asked him "what's wrong?" they inevitably followed up the question with, "why can't you be like your brother?" Since he managed to leave this little tidbit out of his post, I'm guessing it still haunts him and rightfully so. Anyway, that's neither here nor there, let's get down to the real discussion.
I went back and forth about how to respond to Max's post. My first instinct was to pull out the same stats Gary Becker bitch slapped Paul Krugman with earlier this year when he decided to write about the diminishing economic rewards of higher education in the Times (I'm guessing Krugman was inspired to write such an article after seeing Max reading poetry and peddling for change on a New York City street corner). But after thinking about it I decided, against my better judgment perhaps, to throw out the numbers. Stats are stats. Obviously you don't need me to tell you that a Harvard degree is worth more than a degree from University of Phoenix (conveniently formatted for at home printing). This is not important, nor is it what I think Max is getting at. Sure an education gets you...something. Right? Is it really possible that a bunch of 18 years olds are convincing their parents to piss away large sums of money so that they can drink cheap beer, smoke sub-par marijuana and have sex without sneaking out of the house at midnight? Well yes and no. And I think that's exactly what Max is getting at. The bottom line is that some institutions are going to get you nothing more than what I just mentioned at a cost of around 300K to your parents (so stop bitching them out when they buy you a Ford instead of a BMW).
There's no doubt that a college degree gets you somewhere, moves you up a notch in the world and gets you a little closer to...umm...to what? The American dream? I don't think so. Isn't the American dream about immigrants fleeing persecution, landing in Brooklyn and running a successful Deli for 30 years? Maybe not. Anyway, rather than opening up a world or wonderful possibilities, a degree seems to slot you into a specific type of life. No, I didn't say career...I said life. A degree is like a ticket that gets you into a not-so-exclusive club. You have to have it to enter but when you get in you think: "shit, there are a lot of people here, why did I come in the first place?" Well because you don't want to be the one standing outside. To get anywhere you need to have that piece of paper though it's less and less impressive to just have a college degree. Now it matters where you went and what you did. So what's the club look like inside? What's the life that a degree gets you?
Let me break the suspense...it's bland. But at least there are iPads and nice furniture for sale. At least you get a once a year trip to Club Med or Orlando and that's better than the people who don't have a ticket right? Maybe it is.
Here's the thing, the stats say an education gets you money, makes you more marketable. Essentially a degree approves you for a middle to upper middle class life. I don't even think Max will dispute that an education does get you...some...things. The question is whether or not these are the "right" things. From an economic standpoint it doesn't matter. More people with degrees means more people with higher salaries who buy lots of useless shit and pump money into the economy. Fuck yeah! So what's sad about all this? The sad thing is that education is becoming a means to an end rather than an enriching, life changing experience. It's sad that most people will forget what they learned after a few years and instead pack their brains with Lady Ga Ga lyrics and the latest happenings on Jersey Shore. Nowadays an education, in essence, allows you to stop thinking.
I mean let's face it, how many people are still pondering what Marx, Hobbes and Locke said about political economy four years after graduating? I suspect it's close to none. So what, you ask, the wheels of the economy keep turning right? Why should we care? Well, think about that stupid Jersey Shore show you love so much. It's funny because it's a bunch of mindless meat heads and valley girls parading around doing stupid things that we most likely wouldn't do - that's what makes it entertaining. But without the desire to continue educating ourselves, to continue learning about challenging subjects and important social and political issues, we'll eventually devolve into a Jersey Shore society...mindless...and no longer entertaining. Hell Orange County is already half-way there.
Here's what you need to know - despite what the grads at Ohio St tell you, college does provide some pretty unique educational opportunities beyond learning how to get shit faced without puking or experimenting with mild psychedelics. There should be a reason we want to go to good schools and that reason is to learn, to expand the boundaries of our cultural and social mindsets. Education should not be a means to an end and if you think it should then let me enlighten you about what you'll end up using that money for: 50% for divorce, 10% for therapy, 10% on alcohol/cigarettes (drugs if you're a banker/consultant) and the other 30% is to pay the government to do god knows what because you stopped learning about what the function of the government actually is. Essentially ask yourself if you want to become Rush Limbaugh.
If the answer is no then stop reading shit like "Eat, Pray, Love" or Sarah Palin's biography. Step one: understand the role you should be playing in society by reading the "Social Contract."
And yes, you can download it on your Kindle and read it on your way to your weekly "So You Think You Can Dance" viewing at your friend's house.
Enjoy!
Friday, May 20, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Thoughts for Your Penny?
Max's Post:
The bell rings and hoards of children are flushed out of their classrooms. Waddling towards the parking lot, little Max looks sucker-eyed at his fourth-grade report card. He scans through every section a second time, a third. His fat cheeks wibble wobble excitedly and he fills his tiny lungs with a proud breath.
Straight A's! Yippee Skippers!
The march to his mom's car is triumphant. He plays it down, though. I don't know why but he wants to pretend he's upset about something, he wants her to see his long face, then the report card, then add it up, then get angry, then snatch the report card out of his hand, then look it over, then...
“Aaaahhh! Sweetie, I'm so proud of you! ”
She hugs her son. He's smiling like an idiot now, but he still tries to shrug it off.
“I'm serious Max. This is a great achievement!”
“Thanks Mom.”
“You see? You work hard, and it pays off! And this,” she holds up the report card, “this is SO important Max. With a good education, you can do anything you want........”
…...............................
What an unfortunate crock of shit.
No, that's not actually how I responded to my mother that day, way back when. I probably... well, I DID lap it up completely. I was sold on the idea (and so was she, to be fair). Education, for me, was my way of making my parents proud, it was my way of being better than everyone else, it was my way of competing with my brothers (safe to say that I always won, of course), it was my way of securing this successful future that I was constantly being told about even though it remained as intangible an idea for my young brain as... pffft, I dunno... getting married or something. Most of all, getting good grades meant free game tokens at Chuck E Cheese's, Ski Ball, ball pits and tubes (through which I could barely fit and only if I buttered myself up first), pizza, bread sticks, and all manner of greasy stuff to keep my pudgy ass on the road to diabetes. And let's not forget that lovable quintet of animatronic goons: Jasper T. Jowls, Helen Henny, the man himself - Chuck E. Cheese, the sole human of the bunch – part-time drummer, full-time racial stereotype – Pasqually, and the fucking purple... thing, Mr. Munch.
In retrospect, Chuck E. Cheese's seems to have been the most justifiable initiative to get a “good” education.
“Education?” you ask. “So, your beef is with... education?”
Mmm, nail on the head Sonny Jim.
Now, before I clamber back onto my termite-riddled soap box, let me just address that little thought in your head. You're wondering if all of my posts are going to be pissy, downhearted rants?
No.
Scratch that.
Yes. In some form or another, they will be. I promise I'll address an equal number of serious and silly topics along the way, but I can't promise that I won't inevitably bring both back around to my bitter brand of anger and irony. Hopefully it will at least be entertaining. It might even be interesting. You never know. We might get lucky.
If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not a particularly sunny person. I don't think I ever was. I've never been described as “cheery.” Teachers in elementary school were constantly asking me “what's wrong”? What were these so-called “teachers” really teaching me there? From my vantage point now, I see a chubby kid, relatively bright, having his brain exposed to mild and flabby authority figures who, unknowingly, are injecting it with this silly, never-ending notion that someone who isn't smiling or cackling like a moron has something “wrong” with them.
Growing up in quietly psychotic, middle-class suburbia, these things pass in front of your face and you don't even bat an eye. Southern California, especially, is a ridiculous sub-planet, a moon even, floating a desert away from the mainland, and everyone there has just plain forgotten what the hell normal people live like. Or, (and I'm leaning more towards this option)... they've never known. Whether one or the other is true, the common trait in the people there is this: they don't give a shit about how anyone else lives. And, if you're there long enough, you don't give a shit either. You'd forget how to breathe oxygen if it was fashionable in Orange County. You really pick up on this when you leave for a while, come back, see how funny everything is, and notice that no one there seems to think so. I've actually seen a coach for a junior high volleyball team pull a girl out of the game because she wasn't “smiling enough.” Surprisingly, this didn't make the girl smile more. Me, however, my cheeks hurt like hell.
Anyway, where was I?...
Education.
Education, education, education, education... ad infinitum. It's pretty much become synonymous with the American Dream, this thing we call education. A good education can bring a poor man from the proverbial rags to the oh so cherished riches. A good education can turn immigrants, and their children, into flourishing citizens. A good education gets you the keys to the castle. A good education, as my parents always told me, was more important than anything. And I believed that.
Why?
Well... It helps to understand that America is a manic country. There was never any doubt that we're an excitable bunch, but I'm talking about our warped obsession with becoming, well, obsessed. I'm talking about our weird, collective compulsion to go BIG or go home. And, most of all, I'm talking about our fanatical apotheoses of certain cultural values for reasons none of us really understand. Education is one of these values, and we're certainly maniacs for it.
And no, don't be stupid, I'm not trying to come up with some argument for why education is actually a bad thing. I'm arguing against the sick, blind, moronic lust we have for the promises that education supposedly brings, and the things we're so eagerly willing to sacrifice for them
We're maniacs I say. And our manias take the most hilarious forms, but we're all so knee-deep in it that we can't see the humor. Suburbia, in particular, is an understated freak-show where parents will obsess over their kids' sports teams, scout troops, dance competitions, social lives, and especially their education. It's insane. 4 out of every 5 or 6 cars has multiple, inane bumper stickers proclaiming that their child is a “star student,” an “honor roll student,” a “super learner,” “my child can read,” “my child can wipe his ass,” “you must be so proud,” “who the hell cares?”
Here's the unsurprising part: no one wants to admit that they're kids are average. I get that, to some extent. The problem comes when we parade around our children's average qualities as if they're worthy of supreme praise; filling them, like cheesy party balloons, with unwarranted confidence. Here we see the problem germinating. This little snowball starts a-rollin' downhill and, year after year, it picks up more confidence, praise, ambition and so on. And what do we get later on? Ridiculous numbers of kids who have sacrificed a lot of their learning because they truly believe they could have a future in sports, kids who sacrifice their fun and reckless years because they truly believe that they can get into an Ivy League school, kids who sacrifice hundreds of thousands of their parents dollars to go to (less than) mediocre Universities because they truly believe a college education (any college education) will make them successful, kids who waste their time, money, and talent by studying completely useless subjects because they truly believe that there's some economic value in knowledge for knowledge's sake (I belong to this category), and kids who sacrifice working experience in the real world and run to grad school because, at this point, they are truly, truly afraid of not being a student, and they truly believe that employers will want 28-30 year old, overeducated dweebs to run their companies.
Ask Zak, the econ guy, to explain this a bit better. A college education used to be held in high regard because it was a valuable and unique commodity. Now, we have supersaturated the shit out of the market with it and, surprise, surprise, it's less valuable! Every parent wants their kid to go to college because they refuse to acknowledge their kid's true worth. Shitty liberal arts colleges, shitty trade schools, shitty state schools, shitty private schools are cashing in on our terror of mediocrity, our dread of “failure,” and our blind addictions to education and status. Does this not sound scarily like some cliché fashion fable? Education is becoming a personal profile accessory that we must have, we've gotta have it, we don't care how much it costs, we'll pay it, we wouldn't be caught dead without it!
“Where does it all end?” you ask. We're in the process of finding that out and, believe me, it's costing us. It used to be that ignorance was the black burden suffocating the same woebegone classes that praised anyone with a “good education.” Simple moms and dads wanted their children to read, see the world, uncover the unreachable mysteries of intelligence, and have a better life than they did. And boy, oh boy, do we have a blacker burden hovering over us these days. If only ignorance were our chief obstacle. But we're something far worse than ignorant...
… we're useless.
But, maybe it's not so bad. I hear Chuck E. Cheese's has recently decided to award free tokens for college transcripts as well. Awesome.
The bell rings and hoards of children are flushed out of their classrooms. Waddling towards the parking lot, little Max looks sucker-eyed at his fourth-grade report card. He scans through every section a second time, a third. His fat cheeks wibble wobble excitedly and he fills his tiny lungs with a proud breath.
Straight A's! Yippee Skippers!
The march to his mom's car is triumphant. He plays it down, though. I don't know why but he wants to pretend he's upset about something, he wants her to see his long face, then the report card, then add it up, then get angry, then snatch the report card out of his hand, then look it over, then...
“Aaaahhh! Sweetie, I'm so proud of you! ”
She hugs her son. He's smiling like an idiot now, but he still tries to shrug it off.
“I'm serious Max. This is a great achievement!”
“Thanks Mom.”
“You see? You work hard, and it pays off! And this,” she holds up the report card, “this is SO important Max. With a good education, you can do anything you want........”
…...............................
What an unfortunate crock of shit.
No, that's not actually how I responded to my mother that day, way back when. I probably... well, I DID lap it up completely. I was sold on the idea (and so was she, to be fair). Education, for me, was my way of making my parents proud, it was my way of being better than everyone else, it was my way of competing with my brothers (safe to say that I always won, of course), it was my way of securing this successful future that I was constantly being told about even though it remained as intangible an idea for my young brain as... pffft, I dunno... getting married or something. Most of all, getting good grades meant free game tokens at Chuck E Cheese's, Ski Ball, ball pits and tubes (through which I could barely fit and only if I buttered myself up first), pizza, bread sticks, and all manner of greasy stuff to keep my pudgy ass on the road to diabetes. And let's not forget that lovable quintet of animatronic goons: Jasper T. Jowls, Helen Henny, the man himself - Chuck E. Cheese, the sole human of the bunch – part-time drummer, full-time racial stereotype – Pasqually, and the fucking purple... thing, Mr. Munch.
In retrospect, Chuck E. Cheese's seems to have been the most justifiable initiative to get a “good” education.
“Education?” you ask. “So, your beef is with... education?”
Mmm, nail on the head Sonny Jim.
Now, before I clamber back onto my termite-riddled soap box, let me just address that little thought in your head. You're wondering if all of my posts are going to be pissy, downhearted rants?
No.
Scratch that.
Yes. In some form or another, they will be. I promise I'll address an equal number of serious and silly topics along the way, but I can't promise that I won't inevitably bring both back around to my bitter brand of anger and irony. Hopefully it will at least be entertaining. It might even be interesting. You never know. We might get lucky.
If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm not a particularly sunny person. I don't think I ever was. I've never been described as “cheery.” Teachers in elementary school were constantly asking me “what's wrong”? What were these so-called “teachers” really teaching me there? From my vantage point now, I see a chubby kid, relatively bright, having his brain exposed to mild and flabby authority figures who, unknowingly, are injecting it with this silly, never-ending notion that someone who isn't smiling or cackling like a moron has something “wrong” with them.
Growing up in quietly psychotic, middle-class suburbia, these things pass in front of your face and you don't even bat an eye. Southern California, especially, is a ridiculous sub-planet, a moon even, floating a desert away from the mainland, and everyone there has just plain forgotten what the hell normal people live like. Or, (and I'm leaning more towards this option)... they've never known. Whether one or the other is true, the common trait in the people there is this: they don't give a shit about how anyone else lives. And, if you're there long enough, you don't give a shit either. You'd forget how to breathe oxygen if it was fashionable in Orange County. You really pick up on this when you leave for a while, come back, see how funny everything is, and notice that no one there seems to think so. I've actually seen a coach for a junior high volleyball team pull a girl out of the game because she wasn't “smiling enough.” Surprisingly, this didn't make the girl smile more. Me, however, my cheeks hurt like hell.
Anyway, where was I?...
Education.
Education, education, education, education... ad infinitum. It's pretty much become synonymous with the American Dream, this thing we call education. A good education can bring a poor man from the proverbial rags to the oh so cherished riches. A good education can turn immigrants, and their children, into flourishing citizens. A good education gets you the keys to the castle. A good education, as my parents always told me, was more important than anything. And I believed that.
Why?
Well... It helps to understand that America is a manic country. There was never any doubt that we're an excitable bunch, but I'm talking about our warped obsession with becoming, well, obsessed. I'm talking about our weird, collective compulsion to go BIG or go home. And, most of all, I'm talking about our fanatical apotheoses of certain cultural values for reasons none of us really understand. Education is one of these values, and we're certainly maniacs for it.
And no, don't be stupid, I'm not trying to come up with some argument for why education is actually a bad thing. I'm arguing against the sick, blind, moronic lust we have for the promises that education supposedly brings, and the things we're so eagerly willing to sacrifice for them
We're maniacs I say. And our manias take the most hilarious forms, but we're all so knee-deep in it that we can't see the humor. Suburbia, in particular, is an understated freak-show where parents will obsess over their kids' sports teams, scout troops, dance competitions, social lives, and especially their education. It's insane. 4 out of every 5 or 6 cars has multiple, inane bumper stickers proclaiming that their child is a “star student,” an “honor roll student,” a “super learner,” “my child can read,” “my child can wipe his ass,” “you must be so proud,” “who the hell cares?”
Here's the unsurprising part: no one wants to admit that they're kids are average. I get that, to some extent. The problem comes when we parade around our children's average qualities as if they're worthy of supreme praise; filling them, like cheesy party balloons, with unwarranted confidence. Here we see the problem germinating. This little snowball starts a-rollin' downhill and, year after year, it picks up more confidence, praise, ambition and so on. And what do we get later on? Ridiculous numbers of kids who have sacrificed a lot of their learning because they truly believe they could have a future in sports, kids who sacrifice their fun and reckless years because they truly believe that they can get into an Ivy League school, kids who sacrifice hundreds of thousands of their parents dollars to go to (less than) mediocre Universities because they truly believe a college education (any college education) will make them successful, kids who waste their time, money, and talent by studying completely useless subjects because they truly believe that there's some economic value in knowledge for knowledge's sake (I belong to this category), and kids who sacrifice working experience in the real world and run to grad school because, at this point, they are truly, truly afraid of not being a student, and they truly believe that employers will want 28-30 year old, overeducated dweebs to run their companies.
Ask Zak, the econ guy, to explain this a bit better. A college education used to be held in high regard because it was a valuable and unique commodity. Now, we have supersaturated the shit out of the market with it and, surprise, surprise, it's less valuable! Every parent wants their kid to go to college because they refuse to acknowledge their kid's true worth. Shitty liberal arts colleges, shitty trade schools, shitty state schools, shitty private schools are cashing in on our terror of mediocrity, our dread of “failure,” and our blind addictions to education and status. Does this not sound scarily like some cliché fashion fable? Education is becoming a personal profile accessory that we must have, we've gotta have it, we don't care how much it costs, we'll pay it, we wouldn't be caught dead without it!
“Where does it all end?” you ask. We're in the process of finding that out and, believe me, it's costing us. It used to be that ignorance was the black burden suffocating the same woebegone classes that praised anyone with a “good education.” Simple moms and dads wanted their children to read, see the world, uncover the unreachable mysteries of intelligence, and have a better life than they did. And boy, oh boy, do we have a blacker burden hovering over us these days. If only ignorance were our chief obstacle. But we're something far worse than ignorant...
… we're useless.
But, maybe it's not so bad. I hear Chuck E. Cheese's has recently decided to award free tokens for college transcripts as well. Awesome.
Friday, May 13, 2011
The Lizard Lounge
Max's Post:
Before I proceed and take a whack at this age old question, I'd like to point out how impressive it is that Austin Wong.... Austin fucking Wong... has been cited here as a credible, though apparently misguided, source on rating the opposite sex. I mean... how do we even determine the "opposite" sex for a being - nay, a stick bug - a smooth-patch-where-my-manhood-should-be Asian man lesbian like Austin who is, admittedly, sex-less? A tough question indeed. But this is not my concern at the moment. We have bigger fish, with bigger genitals than Austin, to fry.
Ahem...
Ladies and Gentlemen (and Austin), you've just witnessed my brother doing what he does best: arranging numbers and jargon prettily on a platter, then hurling that platter at your face... then waiting for you to say "thank you."
OK, maybe that's not completely fair. Zak has proven so far that he can surprise even his most critical reader (ie. Me). I was quite nonplussed after reading Zak's response to "Blogged Down?". Appalled, yes, but nonplussed just the same. Only an intellectual bishop-flogger like Zak can reference Nobel Laureate Saul Bellow AND... ahem... Julie and Julia in the same paragraph and mosey confidently on as if nothing just happened, as if no one heard the lazy flop of Saul Bellow turning over in his grave.
All jokes aside, Zak makes some compelling points. I can appreciate that numbers, equations, and binary systems are a quite useful, and classical, means to an end regarding this topic, and I can wholeheartedly admit that they are not my strong suit. Shit son, I majored in Russian Literature. I'm not a math guy.
Oh, by the way, I resent the implication that Humanities/Art losers like myself are walking, financially unsustainable clichés and, thus, have lesser chances of enticing 1,1,3s to our bed/cardboard box. Yes, I have two degrees in Russian Literature - No, I do not have a job – and Yes, I'm basically a waste of space, but you are completely discounting the “Charm Factor”'s ability to counteract the “Sustainability Factor.” In order for the Sexual Currency system to be viable, I feel like the factors comprising the “Personal Currency” variable shouldn't be allowed to operate independently but should, instead, be represented in correlation curves to, perhaps, come up with an optimal number based on the 3 sub-variables. For instance, as I just pointed out, there is an inverse correlation between charm and sustainability; the more charming a humanities bum like myself can be, the less weight his wallet needs to carry, and visa versa.
But, as our commentator already pointed out, this system is complicated enough. So I'll try to come up with something a little more comprehensive and a little less tedious.
Though the parameters of these rating systems are somewhat vague, I think I'm safe in assuming that they're all ultimately based on determining how plausible one's chances are of... uh, what do the kids say nowadays?... gettin the nookie? We're not just establishing ratings for ratings' sake. Correct? I'll assume so.
Right. Here we go.
A fundamental flaw I find embedded in all of these systems is the dominant aspect, which is: the outward projection of want. The smug look on Austin's face when he imposes his 4 point scale on the girl sitting across the way is a perfect representation of this. The reason these systems are all superfluous is that they are all superficially attached to the idea that the judgment is reserved, first and foremost, for the person across from you and not, in fact, for you.
This can never work.
I'm not going to play the economic logic game, but I will throw Zak a quick bone. You ready? OK, here it is...
Sex is NOT a buyer's market.
Zak suggests, with morbid generosity, that perhaps 50% of the population is worth putting on the “attractiveness scale.” I don't know what streets you walk down, but the population I see daily is full of greasy, fat, gangling, lagoon creatures, myself included. In the Sexual Pie Chart we fall under the huge slice labeled “beggars,” not the tiny sliver of “choosers.” That's point number 1. Point number 2, which is more important, applies to the pockmarked goblins comprising the bulk of the general population (I'd say at least 70%) and 25 of the remaining 30% left over. For my other humanities brethren out there, this means we're talking about something that includes 95% of the population.
Point number 2 is self consciousness.
We, the 95 out of a hundred, are a big, sweaty bunch of jittery-eyed, self-esteemless deadbeats. And I think we know this. Are we REALLY strutting around, gaging the the physical points of the people around us, or are we just trying to convince ourselves that this is the case? I know I referenced him in my last post and I promise I'm not going to turn into one of those pretentious Wallace worshipers, but the guy is so damn quotable and one of his most classic quotes works well here:
"You'll worry less about what other people think about you when you realize how seldom they do."
We can claim that we're a bass-bumping, martini-sipping, steamy club full of potential one-night-standers sizing up each other with coy looks, but let's slink into our corner, put on our night vision goggles and observe the reality of the situation; an uncomfortable sauna filled with perspiration fumes, oversexed, we're-having-the-greatest-night-of-our-lives music, and arm-rubbing club goers, worrying only about what other people are thinking of them.
So, is anyone actually thinking of someone other than themselves? Of course. But we need to put it into perspective here, this situation – the REAL situation – is founded not on a system of outward projection of want, but an inward reflection of doubt. We are not walking around a plasma TV gallery, looking for one that suits us. We are the TVs on display, trying to entice others to consider us, talk to us.... or just notice us. And trust me, and Mr. Wallace, when I say: no one is thinking about you more than you are.
Zak does address this in the Sexual Currency scale, referring to it as a kind of “spending within one's means.” We realize our own potential, or lack thereof, and choose our targets accordingly. In this respect, Zak and I are not in disagreement.
But what's my “system” of choosing? How does one person “rate” another based on their own self-doubt and not their outward projection of want? Again, I'm not bothering with numbers here because I find them superfluous. Looking again at Zak's scale, the only variable I see that's of any primary importance is Y = would they sleep with you? Remember, this is not a buyer's market. Remember, you are the TV.
So, when determining whether or not a person would actually sleep with you, you have to operate by what I call the “club meter.” We've all been to clubs, and we've all hated it. I maintain that this is the common case. But here is my secondary clause: this is the common case when sex is an initiative. If you're going to a club JUST to dance, or JUST to get shit faced, they can be quite enjoyable. But if sex, or the thought of sex, is playing any role whatsoever in your club night, then you will always have this sick feeling of disgust and disappointment sitting in your stomach. Why? The “club meter.” Want to know the “club meter?” Here it is (and, by the way, this is the only real number-based thing I'm going to include):
For all the women in a club: 98% of the men present are disgusting creeps/perverts with whom you'll dance for 2 seconds (if they're lucky) before mouthing the words “help me” to your friends.
For all the men in a club: 98% of the women present are potential sex partners.
Now, if you can find a way to operate effectively within those percentages, then congratulations, you've cracked the code. I've already yacked on long enough, to no real avail, so I'll just reaffirm my main premise. Determining potential hook-ups is a process that can only be effective when your ultimate criteria are a) how many of your unattractive qualities you'll be able to hide before getting to bed and/or b) how many of your unattractive qualities will they be able to overlook. After deciding these two points, then you can start to work outward. For instance: if you have a lot of unattractive qualities, then someone who is willing to overlook those will, most likely, have a lot themselves. We are drawn together by mutual degrees of self consciousness and loathing.
Finally, we want to get with people in order to dump some self-esteem back into our buckets. We want our sexual conquests to somehow reflect well on ourselves. This is why we parade proudly the photos of hot women we've hooked up with and deny the desperate measures we took in more desperate times.
It's all a a bit twisted and self-obsessed, really. Keep that in mind and you'll do alright.
Happy hunting.
Before I proceed and take a whack at this age old question, I'd like to point out how impressive it is that Austin Wong.... Austin fucking Wong... has been cited here as a credible, though apparently misguided, source on rating the opposite sex. I mean... how do we even determine the "opposite" sex for a being - nay, a stick bug - a smooth-patch-where-my-manhood-should-be Asian man lesbian like Austin who is, admittedly, sex-less? A tough question indeed. But this is not my concern at the moment. We have bigger fish, with bigger genitals than Austin, to fry.
Ahem...
Ladies and Gentlemen (and Austin), you've just witnessed my brother doing what he does best: arranging numbers and jargon prettily on a platter, then hurling that platter at your face... then waiting for you to say "thank you."
OK, maybe that's not completely fair. Zak has proven so far that he can surprise even his most critical reader (ie. Me). I was quite nonplussed after reading Zak's response to "Blogged Down?". Appalled, yes, but nonplussed just the same. Only an intellectual bishop-flogger like Zak can reference Nobel Laureate Saul Bellow AND... ahem... Julie and Julia in the same paragraph and mosey confidently on as if nothing just happened, as if no one heard the lazy flop of Saul Bellow turning over in his grave.
All jokes aside, Zak makes some compelling points. I can appreciate that numbers, equations, and binary systems are a quite useful, and classical, means to an end regarding this topic, and I can wholeheartedly admit that they are not my strong suit. Shit son, I majored in Russian Literature. I'm not a math guy.
Oh, by the way, I resent the implication that Humanities/Art losers like myself are walking, financially unsustainable clichés and, thus, have lesser chances of enticing 1,1,3s to our bed/cardboard box. Yes, I have two degrees in Russian Literature - No, I do not have a job – and Yes, I'm basically a waste of space, but you are completely discounting the “Charm Factor”'s ability to counteract the “Sustainability Factor.” In order for the Sexual Currency system to be viable, I feel like the factors comprising the “Personal Currency” variable shouldn't be allowed to operate independently but should, instead, be represented in correlation curves to, perhaps, come up with an optimal number based on the 3 sub-variables. For instance, as I just pointed out, there is an inverse correlation between charm and sustainability; the more charming a humanities bum like myself can be, the less weight his wallet needs to carry, and visa versa.
But, as our commentator already pointed out, this system is complicated enough. So I'll try to come up with something a little more comprehensive and a little less tedious.
Though the parameters of these rating systems are somewhat vague, I think I'm safe in assuming that they're all ultimately based on determining how plausible one's chances are of... uh, what do the kids say nowadays?... gettin the nookie? We're not just establishing ratings for ratings' sake. Correct? I'll assume so.
Right. Here we go.
A fundamental flaw I find embedded in all of these systems is the dominant aspect, which is: the outward projection of want. The smug look on Austin's face when he imposes his 4 point scale on the girl sitting across the way is a perfect representation of this. The reason these systems are all superfluous is that they are all superficially attached to the idea that the judgment is reserved, first and foremost, for the person across from you and not, in fact, for you.
This can never work.
I'm not going to play the economic logic game, but I will throw Zak a quick bone. You ready? OK, here it is...
Sex is NOT a buyer's market.
Zak suggests, with morbid generosity, that perhaps 50% of the population is worth putting on the “attractiveness scale.” I don't know what streets you walk down, but the population I see daily is full of greasy, fat, gangling, lagoon creatures, myself included. In the Sexual Pie Chart we fall under the huge slice labeled “beggars,” not the tiny sliver of “choosers.” That's point number 1. Point number 2, which is more important, applies to the pockmarked goblins comprising the bulk of the general population (I'd say at least 70%) and 25 of the remaining 30% left over. For my other humanities brethren out there, this means we're talking about something that includes 95% of the population.
Point number 2 is self consciousness.
We, the 95 out of a hundred, are a big, sweaty bunch of jittery-eyed, self-esteemless deadbeats. And I think we know this. Are we REALLY strutting around, gaging the the physical points of the people around us, or are we just trying to convince ourselves that this is the case? I know I referenced him in my last post and I promise I'm not going to turn into one of those pretentious Wallace worshipers, but the guy is so damn quotable and one of his most classic quotes works well here:
"You'll worry less about what other people think about you when you realize how seldom they do."
We can claim that we're a bass-bumping, martini-sipping, steamy club full of potential one-night-standers sizing up each other with coy looks, but let's slink into our corner, put on our night vision goggles and observe the reality of the situation; an uncomfortable sauna filled with perspiration fumes, oversexed, we're-having-the-greatest-night-of-our-lives music, and arm-rubbing club goers, worrying only about what other people are thinking of them.
So, is anyone actually thinking of someone other than themselves? Of course. But we need to put it into perspective here, this situation – the REAL situation – is founded not on a system of outward projection of want, but an inward reflection of doubt. We are not walking around a plasma TV gallery, looking for one that suits us. We are the TVs on display, trying to entice others to consider us, talk to us.... or just notice us. And trust me, and Mr. Wallace, when I say: no one is thinking about you more than you are.
Zak does address this in the Sexual Currency scale, referring to it as a kind of “spending within one's means.” We realize our own potential, or lack thereof, and choose our targets accordingly. In this respect, Zak and I are not in disagreement.
But what's my “system” of choosing? How does one person “rate” another based on their own self-doubt and not their outward projection of want? Again, I'm not bothering with numbers here because I find them superfluous. Looking again at Zak's scale, the only variable I see that's of any primary importance is Y = would they sleep with you? Remember, this is not a buyer's market. Remember, you are the TV.
So, when determining whether or not a person would actually sleep with you, you have to operate by what I call the “club meter.” We've all been to clubs, and we've all hated it. I maintain that this is the common case. But here is my secondary clause: this is the common case when sex is an initiative. If you're going to a club JUST to dance, or JUST to get shit faced, they can be quite enjoyable. But if sex, or the thought of sex, is playing any role whatsoever in your club night, then you will always have this sick feeling of disgust and disappointment sitting in your stomach. Why? The “club meter.” Want to know the “club meter?” Here it is (and, by the way, this is the only real number-based thing I'm going to include):
For all the women in a club: 98% of the men present are disgusting creeps/perverts with whom you'll dance for 2 seconds (if they're lucky) before mouthing the words “help me” to your friends.
For all the men in a club: 98% of the women present are potential sex partners.
Now, if you can find a way to operate effectively within those percentages, then congratulations, you've cracked the code. I've already yacked on long enough, to no real avail, so I'll just reaffirm my main premise. Determining potential hook-ups is a process that can only be effective when your ultimate criteria are a) how many of your unattractive qualities you'll be able to hide before getting to bed and/or b) how many of your unattractive qualities will they be able to overlook. After deciding these two points, then you can start to work outward. For instance: if you have a lot of unattractive qualities, then someone who is willing to overlook those will, most likely, have a lot themselves. We are drawn together by mutual degrees of self consciousness and loathing.
Finally, we want to get with people in order to dump some self-esteem back into our buckets. We want our sexual conquests to somehow reflect well on ourselves. This is why we parade proudly the photos of hot women we've hooked up with and deny the desperate measures we took in more desperate times.
It's all a a bit twisted and self-obsessed, really. Keep that in mind and you'll do alright.
Happy hunting.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
When Rating the Opposite Sex, Consider Your Currency - Zak
I had a conversation a few weeks ago with my best friend Austin while we were in London. Sitting outside at a pub and throwing back some (really bad) English beer, a girl sits down at a table opposite ours, catching Austin's eye. He looks over, gives me a smug little smile and says, "she's a one," before finishing off his beer. Sure, if you're a guy, you've heard it a thousand times in various forms - the women rating scale. From the basic 1-10 scale to the more sophisticated 3-part binary rating system, every guy seems to have some way to rate women in his back pocket. Presumably women have a similar way to rate men but all I've ever heard is either, "he's hot," "he's cute," or "oh I would never date him." Anyway as Austin left to grab us another round I sat and thought, what is the right way to rate the opposite sex? I determined that the only effective way to answer this question is to use an economic approach. But before we get to the right way, let's look at the flaws of some of the most common rating systems.
The "he's cute," "he's hot," "I would never date him" Scale:
Do I have to explain or are we smart enough to move on? Great!
The 1-10 Scale:
This is the most amateur rating scale there is. It's lazy and gives a fake authority to folks who don't deserve it. People who use the 1-10 are like that annoying, red-haired, pimply, kid in your high school honors English class who didn't belong there but had an inventory of sweeping statements (most likely borrowed from a dictionary of quotes) and used them to describe the "meaning" of every book you read. What's more is that the 1-10 scale is highly impractical. You most likely have never seen a 10 or a 1, they're more theoretical. It's also extremely difficult to explain the difference between each rating. What makes someone an 8 vs. a 7? Who knows. Undoubtedly the only way to tease out these differences would be to dig deep into very personal details (like oh she'd be an 8 but her nose is a little too pointy or he'd be a six if it wasn't for his chin) which effectively takes out all standardization from the scale, rendering it ineffective. There are several other flaws to this scale but there's no need to list them out as we've already demonstrated why it's bullshit. Instead, let's move on.
The 4 Point Scale:
This is the rating scale Austin used that day at the pub. Essentially it assigns 1 point for meeting each of the following criteria: cute now, hot now, cute in the future, hot in the future - the highest rating being a 4. While this rating makes it easier to distinguish between ratings (the difference between a 1 and a 2 is somewhat clear), it also assumes that there is absolutely no difference between 0's. Think about that for a second then ask yourself what percentage of the population you would consider cute or hot. Let's be kind and say it's 50%. That means that the 4 point scale assumes that there's no difference in attractiveness between the remaining 50%, the 0's. A little odd right? I mean, I wouldn't consider either of these two cute/hot but you can't tell me there's no difference between Queen Latifah and the chick from Precious. What's more is that there's really no way to get a 4. In reality the highest rating is 2 + p(cute in the future) + r(hot in the future), where p and r are the probabilities that a good looking person today will be good looking tomorrow. And I also have to imagine that the 4 point rating has to have some sort of age limit. If you dig the cougars and you're out on the hunt for 40+ year old women, do you really care what they look like when they're 90? Bottom line, I love you Austin but the rating scale is elementary.
The 3-Part Binary Scale:
A little more credit is owed to this rating scale but it still falls a bit short. The 3-part binary scale assigns a score of: x.y.z and works like this. X is a yes or no question - would you sleep with the person (1 = yes, 0 = no). Y is a 1-10 rating of the body and Z is a 1-10 rating of the face. I like the 3 parameters of this scale; however, the same problem arises with the 1-10 ratings as the lazy 1-10 scale we talked about earlier. But let's forget about that, let's say we cram the 1-10 to a 1-5 scale instead, does that fix things? Not quite. The 3-part binary scale is like watching Titanic at the IMAX. You're kind of swept up in its epic nature, you follow the rest of the crowd and say it's amazing, flawless, the best movie of the decade and then you rent it later, watch it on your 36'' TV and realize that it's cheesy, poorly acted and that you really only cared about 2 scenes: Kate getting naked and the band continuing to play as the ship went down. After a second look, the problem with the 3-part binary scale is obvious - the "would you do him/her" question isn't sufficient enough to make this a practical, workable rating. Why? Remember that annoying, red-haired, pimply kid from high school - because of people like that. Sure, he might answer yes to the "would you do her" question 100% of the time but unfortunately that doesn't give him anything more than a larger inventory of faces to think about in the shower. The problem for our pimply friend is that it doesn't matter who he would sleep with because nobody wants to sleep with him. Which brings us to...
The Sexual Currency Scale:
The sexual currency scale picks up where the 3-part binary falls short. Consider for a second buying a TV. When you walk into the electronics store what's the first thing you do? You go directly to the 80'' LED, 3D TV and think "I want that one." Then, once the fantasy is over, you remember that you don't have five grand to spend on a TV and you walk away with a 42'' plasma. The sexual currency scale uses the same simple economic concepts, weighing what you want vs. what you can afford. It follows the same scoring concept as the 3-part binary, the x.y.z but with different criteria. X is the same yes or no question - would you sleep with the person (1 = yes, 0 = no). Y is the more important question - would they sleep with you (1 = yes, 0 = no). Finally Z is how much of your personal currency would you have to spend in order to sleep with that person - 1 point each for: looks, personality (are you charming, funny, etc) and sustainability (wealth, viable career path) for a max of 3 points. Let's dig deeper. The first question is obvious - would you sleep with him/her. We'll ignore all rating of physical features because, let's face it, physical features are only important insofar as to determine whether or not you want to sleep with the person. But then we get practical. The question of whether or not that person is likely to sleep with you is the same as asking "can I afford this TV?" If the answer is NO, then forget about it and move on. Lastly, figuring out what it would take for that person to sleep with you is like figuring out how much you need to spend to get what you want. Are you a male bimbo who can get by on your looks only? If yes, then a 1.1.1 is like your budget friendly male/female. They are good looking enough to sleep with, they'd sleep with you and it will take minimal effort to get them into bed. Great! But you don't want to settle so you go for more. A 1.1.2 is a little more "expensive" in terms of effort. Your looks get you in the door but you better be a charming mother f-er to get them into bed. That's all fine and good but at some point, if you want to find the best of the best, you've got to prove some sort of sustainability. You can be a charming starving artist but at some point you've got to prove you've got some viable career as a writer or musician right? So you go for the 1.1.3 - the best man or woman you're going to get with the sexual currency, the "budget" you possess.
The bottom line - sure we'd all like to go for 10's or 4's or 1.10.10's but unfortunately we all operate within a band of overall attractiveness. No matter how much you pray for it, no matter how charming you are, you aren't sleeping with J-Lo. Why? Because she's out of your league buddy so don't even bother scoring her because it doesn't matter. My advice, take your ass to match.com and search for a 1.1.3.
The "he's cute," "he's hot," "I would never date him" Scale:
Do I have to explain or are we smart enough to move on? Great!
The 1-10 Scale:
This is the most amateur rating scale there is. It's lazy and gives a fake authority to folks who don't deserve it. People who use the 1-10 are like that annoying, red-haired, pimply, kid in your high school honors English class who didn't belong there but had an inventory of sweeping statements (most likely borrowed from a dictionary of quotes) and used them to describe the "meaning" of every book you read. What's more is that the 1-10 scale is highly impractical. You most likely have never seen a 10 or a 1, they're more theoretical. It's also extremely difficult to explain the difference between each rating. What makes someone an 8 vs. a 7? Who knows. Undoubtedly the only way to tease out these differences would be to dig deep into very personal details (like oh she'd be an 8 but her nose is a little too pointy or he'd be a six if it wasn't for his chin) which effectively takes out all standardization from the scale, rendering it ineffective. There are several other flaws to this scale but there's no need to list them out as we've already demonstrated why it's bullshit. Instead, let's move on.
The 4 Point Scale:
This is the rating scale Austin used that day at the pub. Essentially it assigns 1 point for meeting each of the following criteria: cute now, hot now, cute in the future, hot in the future - the highest rating being a 4. While this rating makes it easier to distinguish between ratings (the difference between a 1 and a 2 is somewhat clear), it also assumes that there is absolutely no difference between 0's. Think about that for a second then ask yourself what percentage of the population you would consider cute or hot. Let's be kind and say it's 50%. That means that the 4 point scale assumes that there's no difference in attractiveness between the remaining 50%, the 0's. A little odd right? I mean, I wouldn't consider either of these two cute/hot but you can't tell me there's no difference between Queen Latifah and the chick from Precious. What's more is that there's really no way to get a 4. In reality the highest rating is 2 + p(cute in the future) + r(hot in the future), where p and r are the probabilities that a good looking person today will be good looking tomorrow. And I also have to imagine that the 4 point rating has to have some sort of age limit. If you dig the cougars and you're out on the hunt for 40+ year old women, do you really care what they look like when they're 90? Bottom line, I love you Austin but the rating scale is elementary.
The 3-Part Binary Scale:
A little more credit is owed to this rating scale but it still falls a bit short. The 3-part binary scale assigns a score of: x.y.z and works like this. X is a yes or no question - would you sleep with the person (1 = yes, 0 = no). Y is a 1-10 rating of the body and Z is a 1-10 rating of the face. I like the 3 parameters of this scale; however, the same problem arises with the 1-10 ratings as the lazy 1-10 scale we talked about earlier. But let's forget about that, let's say we cram the 1-10 to a 1-5 scale instead, does that fix things? Not quite. The 3-part binary scale is like watching Titanic at the IMAX. You're kind of swept up in its epic nature, you follow the rest of the crowd and say it's amazing, flawless, the best movie of the decade and then you rent it later, watch it on your 36'' TV and realize that it's cheesy, poorly acted and that you really only cared about 2 scenes: Kate getting naked and the band continuing to play as the ship went down. After a second look, the problem with the 3-part binary scale is obvious - the "would you do him/her" question isn't sufficient enough to make this a practical, workable rating. Why? Remember that annoying, red-haired, pimply kid from high school - because of people like that. Sure, he might answer yes to the "would you do her" question 100% of the time but unfortunately that doesn't give him anything more than a larger inventory of faces to think about in the shower. The problem for our pimply friend is that it doesn't matter who he would sleep with because nobody wants to sleep with him. Which brings us to...
The Sexual Currency Scale:
The sexual currency scale picks up where the 3-part binary falls short. Consider for a second buying a TV. When you walk into the electronics store what's the first thing you do? You go directly to the 80'' LED, 3D TV and think "I want that one." Then, once the fantasy is over, you remember that you don't have five grand to spend on a TV and you walk away with a 42'' plasma. The sexual currency scale uses the same simple economic concepts, weighing what you want vs. what you can afford. It follows the same scoring concept as the 3-part binary, the x.y.z but with different criteria. X is the same yes or no question - would you sleep with the person (1 = yes, 0 = no). Y is the more important question - would they sleep with you (1 = yes, 0 = no). Finally Z is how much of your personal currency would you have to spend in order to sleep with that person - 1 point each for: looks, personality (are you charming, funny, etc) and sustainability (wealth, viable career path) for a max of 3 points. Let's dig deeper. The first question is obvious - would you sleep with him/her. We'll ignore all rating of physical features because, let's face it, physical features are only important insofar as to determine whether or not you want to sleep with the person. But then we get practical. The question of whether or not that person is likely to sleep with you is the same as asking "can I afford this TV?" If the answer is NO, then forget about it and move on. Lastly, figuring out what it would take for that person to sleep with you is like figuring out how much you need to spend to get what you want. Are you a male bimbo who can get by on your looks only? If yes, then a 1.1.1 is like your budget friendly male/female. They are good looking enough to sleep with, they'd sleep with you and it will take minimal effort to get them into bed. Great! But you don't want to settle so you go for more. A 1.1.2 is a little more "expensive" in terms of effort. Your looks get you in the door but you better be a charming mother f-er to get them into bed. That's all fine and good but at some point, if you want to find the best of the best, you've got to prove some sort of sustainability. You can be a charming starving artist but at some point you've got to prove you've got some viable career as a writer or musician right? So you go for the 1.1.3 - the best man or woman you're going to get with the sexual currency, the "budget" you possess.
The bottom line - sure we'd all like to go for 10's or 4's or 1.10.10's but unfortunately we all operate within a band of overall attractiveness. No matter how much you pray for it, no matter how charming you are, you aren't sleeping with J-Lo. Why? Because she's out of your league buddy so don't even bother scoring her because it doesn't matter. My advice, take your ass to match.com and search for a 1.1.3.
Monday, May 9, 2011
The Value of Internet Diaries
Zak's Take:
Saul Bellow starts The Dangling Man by writing: "There was a time when people were in the habit of addressing themselves frequently and felt no shame at making a record of their inward transactions. But to keep a journal nowadays is considered a kind of self-indulgence, a weakness, and in poor taste...To hell with that!...I intend to talk to myself - and I do not feel guilty of self-indulgence in the least!" For anyone who's ever kept a journal or considered themselves an avid follower of the age-old Socratic creed of "know thyself," this may seem like a statement of validation, an F-you to all those people who live their lives so mindlessly that, frankly, there's just nothing to write about. Well, let me break it you - it isn't. The only truth validated in this statement is that there exists a large group of pathetic, socially awkward loners who feel they improve their lives every time they shut their bedroom door, kick on some empty-bar-indie music and jot down all the reasons they feel isolated in a Hemingway mole skin journal. Sad isn't it? Well, if that's not depressing enough let me throw this at you - The Dangling Man ends with our diary-defending narrator getting drafted to fight in World War Two, eliciting this response: "Hurray for regular hours! And the supervision of the spirit! Long live regimentation!"
Think about that for a second...
Are you done? Imagine that - the one thing that lifts the narrator from his funk is getting drafted to go fight and most likely get his brains shot out or a limb blown off. But, at least he will no longer be alone. At least somebody else is calling the shots and it's no longer up to him to figure life out. Long live regimentation. So what does this all mean? What's the answer? Should the government set up some secret agency to round up all those depressed diary-writing-loners, throw some fatigues on them and toss them into the army? Fortunately - no. The answer is easier and less macabre than that. The answer is blogs.
Let me throw out a hypothetical for you. Have you seen the movie Julie and Julia? I'm not going to summarize the movie for you due to the risk of spending too much time on how annoying Meryl Streep's accent was (which could take up a full blog post). The bottom line is that the movie is not about cooking at all, it's not about some amazing connection forged between two women via French cooking - it's about blogging. Think about the movie but instead substitute the whole blogging aspect for a diary. What happens? How does the movie end? Let me help you. The movie ends with Amy Adams, after finally mastering the ever so difficult boeuf bourguignon, making one last diary entry - "I did it!" before running up to her rooftop for a triumphant celebration, probably with some Paula Cole sounding song playing in the background, and then hurling herself off the roof Thelma and Louise style. Why? Because she did it all alone, nobody knows or cares about her cooking every recipe in the Julia Child's book. There's no book deal, no New York Times article. Just a lonely woman cooking and writing in her diary. It's the blog that saves her. Weird right?
Not so much. The fact is that social networking DOES connect people in a meaningful way. And that's exactly why it was easy to convince my crotchety old bastard, intellectually self-righteous brother to write this blog with me. I disagree with my bro on his point that, "the value of voice has been depreciated and usurped by something else." Sure, Max is eloquent enough to spout off and maybe convince you that the internet and the social network is turning us into narcissistic, social retards (I almost fell victim to his argument) but here's where he's wrong. The social network is what gives us a voice. Writing in a diary or attempting to write a 'society-altering' novel is no longer as valuable as a blog or a twitter account. Why? Because our voices are out there for others to hear and connect with. We can wave that banner now and others can see it. Why does Julie and Julia end happily? The blog. The blog connects the character with others. She has fans. People give a shit because they have a forum to give a shit. The more you write in your diary (alone), the more socially isolated you become - the more of a narcissistic, social retard you become. Twitter accounts and blogs turn up the volume on what you have to say. It's a type of social therapy.
And what about cyber identities? Is the real world any more honest? Are those "scrawny nerds" walking around trying to convince the rest of us that they are, in fact, scrawny nerds and proud of it? Of course not. And what happens when they do? If there's ever a place where nerds celebrate their nerdiness it's the University of Chicago. But we do applaud that behavior? Hardly. I admit I liked to spot the guy on campus who proudly wore a cape and fedora but as soon as the moment passed I didn't give a second thought about him (I'm sure he wrote a killer blog though).
Blogs, Facebook updates and tweets are not only socially valuable, they're tremendously entertaining. Who doesn't believe that even a movie as serious as Braveheart wouldn't be improved if after a battle William Wallace tweeted, "philly-jack-smaking these Brits with my Scottish steel, party in MacClannough's tent tonight!" Now, I'm not saying that there aren't issues with the social network and that there aren't those people out there who refresh their twitter page every two seconds to see if Lady Ga-ga has tweeted what type of sandwich she's eating. What I'm saying is that I don't believe there's been an incremental decline in how our society operates. People have always cared about celebrities. People have always tried to shape their image in a way that's socially-pleasing to others.
What the social network provides is a voice to those diary-writers. Those who have always cared about exploring, questioning and writing now have a social forum to operate in; regimentation, in a different form.
Saul Bellow starts The Dangling Man by writing: "There was a time when people were in the habit of addressing themselves frequently and felt no shame at making a record of their inward transactions. But to keep a journal nowadays is considered a kind of self-indulgence, a weakness, and in poor taste...To hell with that!...I intend to talk to myself - and I do not feel guilty of self-indulgence in the least!" For anyone who's ever kept a journal or considered themselves an avid follower of the age-old Socratic creed of "know thyself," this may seem like a statement of validation, an F-you to all those people who live their lives so mindlessly that, frankly, there's just nothing to write about. Well, let me break it you - it isn't. The only truth validated in this statement is that there exists a large group of pathetic, socially awkward loners who feel they improve their lives every time they shut their bedroom door, kick on some empty-bar-indie music and jot down all the reasons they feel isolated in a Hemingway mole skin journal. Sad isn't it? Well, if that's not depressing enough let me throw this at you - The Dangling Man ends with our diary-defending narrator getting drafted to fight in World War Two, eliciting this response: "Hurray for regular hours! And the supervision of the spirit! Long live regimentation!"
Think about that for a second...
Are you done? Imagine that - the one thing that lifts the narrator from his funk is getting drafted to go fight and most likely get his brains shot out or a limb blown off. But, at least he will no longer be alone. At least somebody else is calling the shots and it's no longer up to him to figure life out. Long live regimentation. So what does this all mean? What's the answer? Should the government set up some secret agency to round up all those depressed diary-writing-loners, throw some fatigues on them and toss them into the army? Fortunately - no. The answer is easier and less macabre than that. The answer is blogs.
Let me throw out a hypothetical for you. Have you seen the movie Julie and Julia? I'm not going to summarize the movie for you due to the risk of spending too much time on how annoying Meryl Streep's accent was (which could take up a full blog post). The bottom line is that the movie is not about cooking at all, it's not about some amazing connection forged between two women via French cooking - it's about blogging. Think about the movie but instead substitute the whole blogging aspect for a diary. What happens? How does the movie end? Let me help you. The movie ends with Amy Adams, after finally mastering the ever so difficult boeuf bourguignon, making one last diary entry - "I did it!" before running up to her rooftop for a triumphant celebration, probably with some Paula Cole sounding song playing in the background, and then hurling herself off the roof Thelma and Louise style. Why? Because she did it all alone, nobody knows or cares about her cooking every recipe in the Julia Child's book. There's no book deal, no New York Times article. Just a lonely woman cooking and writing in her diary. It's the blog that saves her. Weird right?
Not so much. The fact is that social networking DOES connect people in a meaningful way. And that's exactly why it was easy to convince my crotchety old bastard, intellectually self-righteous brother to write this blog with me. I disagree with my bro on his point that, "the value of voice has been depreciated and usurped by something else." Sure, Max is eloquent enough to spout off and maybe convince you that the internet and the social network is turning us into narcissistic, social retards (I almost fell victim to his argument) but here's where he's wrong. The social network is what gives us a voice. Writing in a diary or attempting to write a 'society-altering' novel is no longer as valuable as a blog or a twitter account. Why? Because our voices are out there for others to hear and connect with. We can wave that banner now and others can see it. Why does Julie and Julia end happily? The blog. The blog connects the character with others. She has fans. People give a shit because they have a forum to give a shit. The more you write in your diary (alone), the more socially isolated you become - the more of a narcissistic, social retard you become. Twitter accounts and blogs turn up the volume on what you have to say. It's a type of social therapy.
And what about cyber identities? Is the real world any more honest? Are those "scrawny nerds" walking around trying to convince the rest of us that they are, in fact, scrawny nerds and proud of it? Of course not. And what happens when they do? If there's ever a place where nerds celebrate their nerdiness it's the University of Chicago. But we do applaud that behavior? Hardly. I admit I liked to spot the guy on campus who proudly wore a cape and fedora but as soon as the moment passed I didn't give a second thought about him (I'm sure he wrote a killer blog though).
Blogs, Facebook updates and tweets are not only socially valuable, they're tremendously entertaining. Who doesn't believe that even a movie as serious as Braveheart wouldn't be improved if after a battle William Wallace tweeted, "philly-jack-smaking these Brits with my Scottish steel, party in MacClannough's tent tonight!" Now, I'm not saying that there aren't issues with the social network and that there aren't those people out there who refresh their twitter page every two seconds to see if Lady Ga-ga has tweeted what type of sandwich she's eating. What I'm saying is that I don't believe there's been an incremental decline in how our society operates. People have always cared about celebrities. People have always tried to shape their image in a way that's socially-pleasing to others.
What the social network provides is a voice to those diary-writers. Those who have always cared about exploring, questioning and writing now have a social forum to operate in; regimentation, in a different form.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Blogged Down?
Max's Post:
Yes, hello, thanks for coming. Ya, ya, that's all very nice, now just sit the hell down and let's get this over with...
Now, let's get one thing perfectly clear from the beginning: I'm a crotchety old bastard when it comes to the Internet. Perhaps this blog will be good medicine for me. We'll see.
I've fought against it long enough, but I suppose it's time I start taking in the 21st century, one teaspoon at a time. Facebook... I've embraced that, but what the hell does that prove? Even 8 year old lesbian nuns in Greenland have facebook pages, and they probably have more friends than I do. But the buck has pretty much stopped there for me. From my cluttered living room I've pulled back the stained curtains just enough to see and shake my fist at those pesky neighborhood kids playing with their Twitter accounts, their blogspots, their livejournals, their... See? I don't even know what else is out there. The cyber-obsessed generation of which I'm a part has left me in its wake, but this has been an ongoing theme in my life, I suppose. I was one of those schmucks who amassed a treasure trove of VHS tapes because I thought this DVD thing would never take off, I was one of those schmucks who actually bought a Sega Dreamcast (best console ever, I maintain), I was, well... AM one of those schmucks who still has a flip phone and squirms with unpronounced envy and penal inadequacy when someone says "you can still look up driving directions on that phone, though, right?"
Anyway, I digress. The ultimate point here is that I haven't just fallen through the gaps in the World Wide Web but, like all shriveled codgers, I've managed to convince myself that I've done it on purpose, I was right to do so, of course I am, and all those hairy-palmed, self-obsessed, cyber-savvy social retards are... well, hairy-palmed, self-obsessed, cyber-savvy social retards.
Ask around. Anyone who's spoken to me for 2 seconds knows that I have an extraordinary talent for alienating myself from the rest of the world and subsequently convincing myself of my intellectual self-righteousness.
And yet... here I am. Get your cameras kids, here we see a hypocrite in his natural habitat. Once a moral activist of throw-red-paint-on-movie-stars'-fur-coats proportions, I'm now posting webcam shots of myself in a thong made of live chinchillas.
If I'm going to take this blog (somewhat) seriously, I feel it's a vital imperative to answer or, at least, attempt to answer for myself the inevitable question: Why should anyone give a shit about blogs? I trust my twin of lesser intelligence and greater baldness will provide some valuable insight from a more, hmm, rational point of view. But where does that leave me? Reveling, as I tend to do, in my own irrational and self-gratifying justifications.
How do I look myself in the mirror now that I've been assimilated? Well... it seems obvious that one of two things has happened, and they're quite archetypal things at that. Either a) I have been converted to the cyber hysteria and must, therefore, find some way to weasel myself out of admitting that I've sold out or b) I have picked up some banner to wave in the faces of my accusers and substantiate my actions.
And, Lord knows, I love waving a good banner.
Why should people give a shit about blogs? Why should I give a shit about writing one (with my brother)? And why should anyone give a shit about reading it?....
…....
…... Tough questions.
The main reason I agreed to write this blog with Zak is my sister, and my girlfriend, and my mom, and anyone, really, who's told me at one point or another to stop whining in my ivory tower, to stop tearing down other people and to put my money where my mouth is. Or, in this case, put my money where my fingers are quickly moving to act as my mouth. Does anyone else find this a bit odd by the way? A whole cyber world of information and opinion and bull shit exists and no one has made a virtual peep – with the exception of youtube posters... they get my wave of approval for now. It's all been done with the clacking of fingers on keyboards. The value of voice has been depreciated and usurped by something else. Something that I Hate.
A quick side-note, over the course of this blog you will see me use the word “hate” very frivolously. This isn't because I lack the due respect for the word or the action of hating. I lack respect for all the things to which I apply it.
Anyway, I hate the voiceless cyber-world for its annoyingly cliché Matrix-esque transformation of our social nature. At least give me a problem that's original! Now I'm going to sound cliché talking about it. I hate that mediums like facebook, myspace, twitter, etc. have forcibly wrenched a clear divide in our personae – like a log splitter, wedged in a trunk of birch, whacked with a sledgehammer. The internet is the dreamland through which our personalities can be represented in chopped up, airbrushed, and even fabricated pieces. Scrawny nerds can become giants with their booming-voiced blog-based avatars, ugly people can post pictures only taken from their “good side” and cyber-flirt with people they'd never have the guts to talk to in person, weirdos can lure you into their creepy Vans without you ever seeing the Van.
“So what?” You might reply. “It's all part of the cyber world anyway. It's like a video game. Once we log off, we're back to normal.”
Spare me.
We're becoming more socially retarded by the day. This isn't even the worst part. The worst part is how goddamn narcissistic the whole thing is. Only in a time of supreme, sci-fi self obsession could we honestly believe anyone gives a shit about our twitter updates We're the same ol' restless generation of the 90's but with a penchant for social schizophrenia; an increasingly quiet crowd of losers who can't look each other in the eye but will bash out pages of messages to each other with all the unrestrained familiarity of lovers. Clack, clack, clack, clack...
Or maybe we're just really lonely.
Again, we've become subject to an unoriginal problem in an original form. David Foster Wallace took a golden dump on the intellectual world when he talked about Television and the self-assured, self-replaced drones it's made of us. And now the problems of the internet are the bigger muscles of TV's younger brother growing into maturity. If only David were here now.
So, what's my banner? Well, until I find a better one, I'm going for the restoration-of-social-honesty banner. I'm not going to try to be more clever than I am nor assume a cyber-identity (a cydentity?) for the purpose of this blog. Don't get me wrong, the things I write may be totally pointless and vapid, but at least they'll be my opinions and not my witty, articulate, Tucker Max Doppleganger. Is that good enough?
Why should you give a shit about blogs? You shouldn't, anymore than you should give a shit about listening to someone yack on in person. If you want to hear me yack on, this is the place to be. Mostly I fear that this is not what the www.cybercrowd.com wants. They WANT false, voiceless, entertaining personalities. I only hope that my actual personality is enough of those things on its own. We'll see.
Clack, clack, clack....
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