Remember, Remember, the fuzz of Movember …

October 30, 2013

Image

It’s Movember again. And that can mean only one thing: the terrible and dispiriting moustache of a just-teenaged boy.

Actually, that’s not strictly true. For the past 2 or 3 years my friends both here in Hong Kong and elsewhere have bravely (read: effortlessly) resisted the razor and bushed up, top-lip-wise, in next to no time. I can’t remember now the exact rhetorical wriggles I resorted to in order to excuse myself, but they evidently worked …

This, though, will be my ‘tache-growing debut. 2013. Remember the year. History will.

In truth, very little will change—at least from a distance. Up close (ohhh, up close …), I’ll look that bit more like a try-hard, fall-short, fishoutofwater hipster. Or I could, alternatively, look genuinely creepy, of course, like some disgraced middle-school caretaker found with a handmade “sex-Tardis” in his living-room. (Don’t Google that.)

Other characterful visages are more than possible, and none of them look good in the mind’s-eye.

Despite these relative unknowns, however, there are some certainties to rely upon. The main one being that whilst my Mo-friends are Mo-rauding round Hong Kong like a halloween-gang of George Bernard Shaws, I’ll be the one looking like a shit, blonde, Gary Neville impersonator. And I’m not even sure such a category exists.

Whatever the case, though, whilst others lazily leaf through books of moustache designs, deciding which one to wax, twirl and thirrup into place first, I’ll be living with the genuine, adolescent regret that I even started out with this whole Mo-growing fiasco in the first place.

And that’s got to be worth some sponsorship, even if you’re inexplicably pro-testicular cancer, which seems, I would hope, unlikely.

I’ll be trying to write a bit more about the damn thing on here, mainly as an angst-outlet, but also as an excuse to fire up the casual-writing engine again. And the blog itself, which has lain fallow for far too long.

This is my page.

And this is my “team’s” page.

Your part is simple. Get sponsoring. I’ll report back soon.

No (more dwarf) sex (on planes), please, we’re (flying with) British (Airways, and it makes people uncomfortable)

August 7, 2012

There should be a rule about nudity on aeroplane tellyscreeens. That rule should be:

  • no nudity is allowed on aeroplane tellyscreens.

A reason should be given for this rule. That reason should be:

  • because it makes people feel socially awkward.

Specific examples of social awkwardness should be cited to support this. Such examples might include:

  • being served a Hindu-vegetarian meal whilst a woman is being aggressively sexed from behindward by a barbarian yob;
  • being told that your seatback needs to straightened whilst a dwarf has sex with three prostitutes; and
  • catching sight of a fellow passenger peering over at your screen whilst a man is being bummed by a wolf.

Anecdotal evidence might also be provided so as to reaffirm the need for action. These anecdotes might take the following form:

  • … so there I was, settling down to a 16-hour marathon flight from ____ to ____, thinking, “I know, I’ll watch that Game of Thrones thing all the cool, streetwise kids are talking about on MySpace and the like; that’ll give me some popculture currency, when what am I confronted with? Nothing less than a gangattack of boobs, bums and dwarfsex, right there, inches from my face, this face [gestures towards face], the one I use every day for social interaction.”
  • “… well, looking away makes it seems obvious, no? So what about just leering at the screen with your hands under the blanket? That won’t do at all. Act like it’s nothing, you say? Just pretend like it’s a normal, everydaytypething, in that social pressurecooker, the eyes, the faces, the seats, the crowds, the food, the niceties? They’re all watching, you realise? They know everything you do—everything.”

I submit this motion to the Court.

 

NB. The third example cited above (wolf buggery) is fabricated for the sake of persuasive affect.

‘merikey, again

July 22, 2012

The blurredup, pseudoreality of the SCT is now reaching endtimes. The grand banquet approaches; final trumpets blare.

It’s been a wondrous few weeks, I reckon—although pretty Hogarthian. I’d arrived imagining some sort of academic Damascene conversion, but have instead spent a good deal of my time languishing down Gin Lane, vomiting in passing buckets, or pizzeria toilets. This isn’t to say that a lot of learning hasn’t gone on (it certainly has—don’t get me started on the primacy of poetic language; I’ll bend the ears right off your face), but more that there has been a pleasing ratio of work to notwork, reading to notreading, sobriety to notquitesobriety. They should probably put this on the posters. But I bet they don’t.

In my time left I still anxiously await two things: 1) feedback on my thesis project from that most eminent of brainboxes, Professor John Brenkman; and 2) my as-yet-undetermined fine from the Ithaca court judge for the terrible crime of illegal swimming. A potential double-whammy of “your project is dross; give up” and “we’ve considered your fine, and have decided to give you The Chair” would certainly be hard to stomach. I’m hoping instead for a shiny red rosette for “Best Boy” and a slap on my Twink (thanks, Tony) wrist from the authorities. As with most things, the truth probably lies somewhere in between these imagined outcomes.

A shortsharp spell in GITMO notwithstanding, though, it’s been a thoroughly de-concealing (ahem) experience in many ways. I have learned, for example, of my moochful attitude towards new acquaintances, who have, given my residence in the arse-end-of-nowhere-town-of-Lansing, been persuaded over time to lend beds, belts, trousers, shoes and even underwear (thanks, Dan) in a continued effort to keep me both clothed and off the streets. I’m essentially living as a parasitoid wasp armed only with an English accent and a voracious appetite for grace and hospitality. In this regard, it’s probably a good thing that we’re winding down the course. I’m no entomologist, but I seem to remember that in the lifecycle of the parasite it doesn’t end too great for the unwitting host.

What I’ve offered in return is open to question. I would like to think, of course, that dazzling conversation, wit and joie de vivre serve adequately as currency. But I think it’s far more likely that my role here has been one of accent punchbag (in the nicest possible sense). So if—and this is a real if—I’ve brought anything to the table here at all, it’s probably a heightened appreciation of the humble glottal stop. To my credit (and surprise), I’ve so far resisted the temptation to up the ante and Bill Sikes my way round town like some cock-er-ney chimneysweep. Perhaps in the coming days this will change.

Other than all this, my time here has been spent lurching, bathed in coffee and cyclesweat, from seminar to lecture and from miniseminar to colloquium—all of which, the seminar excluded, have been slightly hit-and-miss affairs, but certainly worthwhile, and often (unexpectedly) entertaining. Reading in the inbetween has been a bit of a challenge what with the everpresent possibility of groupbased distractions, but I’m glad to say that my too.cool.for.school, selfprepared reading packs have been (almost) totally devoured, brainwise. Just a couple of Heidegger essays and some Eliot poetry to plough through, and then I can (figuratively, probably) throw the things into a burning lake of hellfire.

It’s going to be a sad occasion on Thursday when we all have to say goodbye. Sad and very probably socially awkward, given that it’s a vague “banquet”-style event for which we’re supposed to make ourselves look presentable. We had a Garden Party a few weeks ago which came with similarly equivocal instructions on attire, meaning that whilst some people rolled up dressed for the beach, I looked like a fucking waiter. I was pretty overdressed, too, for the awful, fratboy-gunshow, topless-wrestling tourney I was unfortunate enough to witness, but perhaps more on that another day …

‘merikey, so far

June 18, 2012

Within just a few hours of landing in New York I was sitting in Prospect Park in Brooklyn, eating an overpriced ‘eggplant’ (read: aubergine) burger, and enjoying some low-priced festival music as part of the ‘Celebrate Brooklyn’ summer series. Willy Mason was first up, Masoning his way about the place, followed then by some British guy called Michael Kiwanuka, a singer with a truly remarkable voice but slightly less remarkable songs. Unfortunately for me this hipsterglow was tarnished slightly through spending most of my time sitting in isolation as gangs of happyfolk caroused about me like smiling helium balloons tethered to fashionable paint cans. And as the sun set I began to feel increasingly like a tourist in a dominion of knowingfolk chatting their knowingtalk of knownboroughs and knownpeople. Still, not a bad introduction to a city of which I had unreasonably high hopes …

The rest of my shortlived Brooklyn-life was spent largely under the influence of good booze and better company, punctuated by a seatofthe’pants’ (read: trousers) ‘soccer’ (read: football) game in which England managed, daringly, to beat a pretty mediocre Sweden team and get a nation’s hopes up for no reason. Most pleasing, though, in this regard, was the Hasidic Jew sat opposite me in the pub during the match—that really was some high-five.

Then it was off to Ithaca on the Greyhound Bus, amidst mild passenger fury, but, alas, no beheadings.

Ithaca is deadlyquiet. I’d never realised quite how much noise my own ears make. The whole place is lakes and trees and hills and waterfalls, with some land in between, holding everything up. That’s about the best I can do so far. I’ve only really been to the supermarket and the university, both of which are vast and a bit scary, and more expensive than I thought they would be. 1 x bag of onions: $3.99! I’ll let you decide which that relates to.

Otherwise, my seminar proper starts tomorrow morning at 9.30 a.m., and having now met the majority of my fellow SCT goers, all my fears and apprehensions appear well-founded. These guys both know and, possibly, pretend to know, a great deal of effing stuff about stuff. And they talk very quickly about it all. One girl in particular spoke as if she was disappearing over an event horizon. I caught about every four words. I think she was talking about gays.

I fully expect to be outgunned on the academic front anyway, so I’ll maybe try to develop a series of endearing and ostentatious gimmicks by way of distraction and feint. It’s all about hiding in plain sight. Now where are my bowling shoes and L.E.D. cravatte?

Wake(y) Wake(y)

May 27, 2012

It’s been far too long since I wrote anything on here. But now that my brain has started producing such high-grade academic horseshit I think it might be time to opt for some words with fewer syllables—even if these shorter words are used up mostly in describing the horror of the longer ones.

I’m writing a chapter on James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake at the moment, and writing about ‘the’ Wake when you’re not a fulltime Joyce scholar is a frightening experience. The book is astonishingly good, of course, and worthy of the praise it receives, but I can quite understand the opprobrium too. A critic called Ruben Borg says somewhere that ‘the’ Wake teaches you that there are books you still need to learn to read, and that’s exactly what it feels like. I spend much of my time just stumbling about from word to word, like a drunk looking for his keys, and every time I think I’m getting somewhere close to unlocking a phrase, a sentence, a passage, I discover it’s just the change in my pockets, jingling about and confusing things.

The real absurdity, though, is that it can only be a single chapter. People spend their entire lives reading this bloody book, and I somehow need to say something interesting (perhaps even original) about it over the course of what really amounts to just 7 or 8 months. And having recently screeded several thousand words about the meaning of just one, it seems that this is a task with an unlikely and unknowable end, a bit like Finnegans Wake itself.

I do already have a contingency plan though. Should I be fortunate enough to make it to my viva exam and be unfortunate enough to be asked a question on this chapter, I’m just going to filibuster my way through and then knock up a homemade degree certificate on a passing Etch A Sketch. Ta da!

In memory …

February 29, 2012

We only ever really talked about our shared passion for the music of Radiohead. He even gave me a free ticket to one of their Earls Court gigs back in 2003. Nearly a decade ago.

I can’t pretend to know what might have happened in the intervening years. Or even what might have been happening then. Whatever the case, it’s over now—for better or for worse.

Neither of us had seen Radiohead perform live before; they didn’t disappoint—it was a fantastic night.

Things are always in such a delicate balance.

Rest easy, JB. You’ll be missed.

Après moi le déluge!

December 9, 2011

The system-driven selfishness of the capitalist mode of production, as seen by Marx all those many years ago:

In every stock-jobbing swindle everyone knows that some time or other the crash must come, but everyone hopes that is may fall on the head of his neighbor, after he himself has caught the shower of gold and placed it in secure hands. Après moi le déluge! is the watchword of every capitalist and of every capitalist nation. Capital therefore takes no account of the health and the length of life of the worker, unless society forces it to do so. Its answer to the outcry about the physical and mental degradation, the premature death, the torture of over-work, is this: Should that pain trouble us, since it increases out pleasure (profit)? But looking at these things as a whole, it is evident that this does not depend on the will, either good or bad, of the individual capitalist. Under free competition, the immanent laws of capitalist production confront the individual capitalist as a coercive force external to him.

(Capital, 381)

It is perhaps the last two sentences which speaks most readily to current predicaments.

Progressive change (whether in relation to workers rights or environmental degradation) as a purely market-driven effect, divorced from ethics, is only too palpable when it comes to the depletion of nonrenewable energy resources, where serious implementation and funding of alternatives will only commence (in the coming decades) when the price of producing oil exceeds the production costs of its cleaner rivals.


Growth, Growth, Growth

November 1, 2011

7 billion people now inhabit the Earth. Although they don’t, of course—the article announcing the news is by now hours old. Now there will be several thousand more. Even now you can add on another couple or so. And now? Yeah, maybe you’d better just keep your pen handy …

This 7,000,000,000+ already uses 1.5 planet Earth’s per year—an inescapable statistic which defies logic as it damns. “Use” is perhaps a little neutral in this sense. How about “consume”? Everyone is, after all, born into a capitalist system hell-bent on consumption, on the acquisition and loss of money.

This capitalist system requires at least 3% growth in order to sustain itself. David Harvey’s lecture does better than I could ever do. As does Sir David Attenborough quoting President Kennedy’s environmental advisor Kenneth Boulding: “Anyone who believes in indefinite growth in anything physical, on a physically finite planet, is either mad—or an economist.”

The whole of the Attenborough speech can and should be read here.

I wrote nearly 18 months ago on this same topic and surmised that we suffer from what political scientists call “status quo bias”—basically a resistance to change when the imperative for change seems insufficient. Expensive products and holidays help drive this. The worldwide Occupy protests are an important step in the opposite direction.

Population Growth, consumption Growth and 3% compound Growth feed each other hungrily. And it is from these three interconnecting issues that a whole host of other worthy causes stem. It almost seems unnecessary now to talk of the environment, of animal welfare, of renewable energy, of global warming, since all are intimately related to and negatively dependent upon these three predominant (and growing) problems.

Answers? Well, I’ll probably have it all figured out in the morning …

For starters though, a healthy dose of consciousness raising through the (very limited, given the readership of this blog) dissemination of important information. Start with the Harvey lecture. Go on—consume it up all nice and tight.


Hypocrites! or pragmatists?

October 27, 2011

The criticism of the Occupy London protests in much of the right-leaning press in the UK recently has focussed largely on issues of hypocrisy. How can these so-called activists possibly be politically motivated, the question goes, if they’re seen drinking Starbucks coffee, browsing the internet on their Apple laptops, and wearing designer clothes? There they sit, complaining about a system of excess and corruption, whilst they themselves reap the benefits. Hypocrites!

The alternative (but still linked) rebuke is that the activists are made up only of feckless students, rich kids with nothing better do to, or the lowly unemployed. And why should anybody listen to these freeloaders? Do they really think that without capitalism’s guiding hand they’d be receiving their benefits or student-loans? And as for Henrietta and Ptolemy living off daddy’s oil money: they don’t know they’re born …

The recent (debatable and debated) news reports claiming that 90% of the Occupy London tents were vacant overnight conforms to this same all-or-nothing logic. Activists are clearly required to conform to an unchanging social role involving minimal shades of grey. As soon as one social category is breached or blended with another then activism ceases, political messages are compromised and hypocrisy reigns.

But then what does this really leave?

If the logic states that it’s impossible to engage in the activity of activism whilst immersed in the activity of capitalism, then who is left to speak? The answer, presumably, is only those with no political voice at all; those who can be easily derided or ignored—those, in effect, who can safely protest without ruffling too many feathers.

Undoing this cleverly disarming logic is, of course, quite easy. The influence of markets, branding and capitalism is inescapable. Put simply, it is impossible to be an effective political activist without engaging in hypocrisy. Just as it is very difficult to be an effective environmental activist without, say, international air-travel. Slavoj Žižek puts it well:

What one should always bear in mind is that any debate here and now necessarily remains a debate on enemy’s turf; time is needed to deploy the new content. All we say now can be taken from us – everything except our silence. This silence, this rejection of dialogue, of all forms of clinching, is our “terror”, ominous and threatening as it should be.

To remove these necessarily overlapping areas leaves only a choice between the ‘all-in’, easily stereotyped (and ignored) left-wing anarchists who want a return to communism, or the ‘all-out’ Mr Monopoly bankers who’d willingly sell Africa to Shell—which is effectively a choice between fuck- and bugger-all.

If someone at Occupy London leaves the camp every three days to go and catch up on paid work (so as to lengthen their stay at the protest), then their act of so-called hypocrisy is in fact a pragmatic choice based upon the realisation that whilst the current system is broken, it is the only system in town, and that it is only through such a system that new and collective political agency can emerge.

Within a hegemonic system like capitalism, hypocrisy must in fact be the point of departure for any act of political dissent. And whilst there are certainly some modes of hypocrisy it would be better to avoid (protestors drinking Starbucks coffee for one), to simply berate pragmatic people for working within their limitations is a shortsighted and manipulative attempt to caricature what is a complex social movement into clearly defined parameters, and works only to stultify debate.

And it makes me mad.

Subatomic particles: the musical!

September 7, 2011

EDL supporters have been ridiculed, Jeremy Kyle has been put to music, and now this, from the Symphony of Science: the Quantum World, autotuned for your pleasure.

I’m increasingly siding with Leibniz. This really is the best of all possible worlds.


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