I grow old...I grow old...

So it seems like folks my age (folks!) like to make extravagant claims about how old they are, bemoaning the loss of their idyllic childhood experiences of, like, a decade ago, or wildly exaggerating their aches and pains, grimacing about their old this that or the other. 

This is all with a metaphorical single arched eyebrow, ladling on the irony with dramatic anecdotes of 14.4 dial up speeds and dusty DOS programs etc. I think it is another symptom of the witheringly intense self-observation of our generation, which has led to facebook and myspace, and personal blogging. We are definitely giving the boomers a stiff challenge for the title of most self-obsessed generation, and we just started. They no doubt would serenely object, over their increasingly bifocaled noses, that we have merely done much more with much less: charting weather patterns and precipitation totals for every teacup tempest without the saving grace of a single bracing gale (not that there haven't been any, its just that they're harder to quantify in status updates). But who cares about old people?

Anyway, this has all been just to say: I got to tell a "back in my day" story, without a single shred of irony, to a wide-eyed seventh grader today. I feel old.

Opposites attract right? ...a Craigslist query

Looking for love...

Well wow, hi. I have to say, I kinda saw this coming--this trolling of the fetid, musty basement of the internet in search of meaningful human companionship. It's a good thing I'm excellent at this kind of thing. Well, I guess I'd say that I'm not much fun. I really don't like to have fun at all, come to think of it. I am really outgoing at first, but once you get to know me I will gradually withdraw into a bitter and cryptic shell. I enjoy spending loud nights at home with a bunch of friends, but also quiet nights staring across a table in a restaurant, searching for things to talk about. I guess you could say I like to play mind games. You will never know where you stand with me. Speaking of standing, I'm 6'6" 210. I would describe my physique as "academic-chic" in the sense of: "flabby." I am a good speller.

If you're a hot and beautiful girl from 18-30, with lots of money, ambition, and a spare bedroom, hit me up. Your pic will get mine.

P.S. --I hate your kids. Please don't have any already, or find some place to put them.

The Grinch: an unnecessarily complicated examination

So everyone is familiar with The Grinch, and How He Stole Christmas. I'm totally on board with the Learning-the-Lesson-of-Christmas, but there is an avenue of inquiry which can lead us to a more nuanced appreciation of this Seussian classic, namely: why does the Grinch dress up as Santa Claus?

The immediate answer is to provide exactly the cover he needs when confronted by the adorable Cindy-Loo-Who (Lou-Who, Lew-Who?). Because he is dressed as Santa Claus he is able to explain away his presence in her home, and his absconding with every scrap of their holiday hardware. But consider: his hatred of Christmas is understood to be long-standing (53 years, at least), but his plan is born and enacted hastily after reflecting on all the noise noise noise of another Christmas. It is an awful plan, ascending-like the awful reek of a Whoville laid waste-up the sides of Mt. Crumpit, and it strikes the Grinch instantly and completely. We have then to explain the 'elaborate' costuming of not only himself, but also (indeed, especially) his dog Max. The Grinch's plan is to stop Christmas, which he intends to do by removing all physical signs of its presence. This is burglary. But what he is actually attempting (without fully realizing, I contend) is not the theft of Christmas, but its complete negation. In addition to what would be the superfluous costuming of his dog, the Santa-as-cover-story plan is explicitly excluded by the fact that faced with the wide-eyed questions of the dove-cooing Cindy, the Grinch "thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick," which rules out premeditation on his part.

We have then: Anti-Claus. Is it necessary for him to dress the part of Santa Claus in his commando raid? Return again to his putative goal: to stop Christmas from coming. (He believes Christmas "arrives" rather than "occurs," an important semantic distinction) The means by which he attempts this would be better aided by a ski-mask and dark clothing, with Max on look-out duty and blending in as a local dog. But in fact the Grinch is playing a zero-sum game on a symbolic level, using an absurd performative voodoo to undo each of the elements of the Christmas celebration as he understands it. Thus the sleigh, thus Max out front "pulling" the sleigh in a "costume" as ill-fitting and poorly executed as the Grinch's travesty of a Santa outfit. This is grotesque metaphorical synecdoche: Max is to be the symbol of a reindeer, and in fact nine reindeer (or eight, depending on whether Rudolph exists in Whoville, a knot of such deep metaphysically syncretistic ramifications that we will not seek to untangle it here), but his pitiful antler-with-string reminds us of the savage primitivism, again, the voodoo, of the Grinch's assault on the Who-feast.

It is noteworthy that Max' culpability is somewhat mitigated (at first). While he is a loyal helper throughout the actual theft of all visible manifestations of Christmas in Who-ville, their arrival into Who-ville is accomplished by a comedic tumbling down the mountain--the importance of which we would do well not to miss. The Grinch is not fully aware of the import of his actions. This is not to say that he is not fully cognizant of the fact that stealing Christmas, and stealing in general, is wrong. Rather, he is unaware of just how evil his plan is. Here then is an important point in Seussian ethics: we can only know evil for what it is if we are fully aware of what it is a transgression against. If the Grinch totally understood Christmas, he would know exactly how evil the idea of stealing it would be. The Grinch thinks himself sly and nasty. In fact, he has become unadulterated evil. This brings us back to Max and the mountain. The descent into evil is easy, and once it has started, we are almost powerless to immediately check its course. Max, then, is along for the ride, borne on the current of an elemental evil that threatens to destroy both he and the Grinch even (notice!) before they have stolen a single can of Who-hash. Even the smallest acquiescence, the smallest thought-step towards accomplishing something bad can lead to our destruction, much though we would like to stop it once we have gotten on for the ride.

We will pass over the theft, except to point out the sadistic pleasure enjoyed by the Grinch in stealing the toys: here again is an attempt at negation--the toys, to be played with in a spirit of fun, are instead reduced to their mechanistic functions and allowed to condemn themselves to the sacks that represent their destruction: wind up toys and toy trains marching/chug-chugging into the open maw of their own doom. A perverse inversion of their purpose. Again we see the juxtaposition of intent and reality: toys depend for their ability to bring joy on those to whom they are given. The Grinch can only enjoy the toys ironically, which is to say not at all. One last note: the hypocrisy! the hypocrisy of the Grinch in getting Cindy LooWho a drink before bed. It speaks of his own lived childhood, of a time when the Grinch himself may have needed a drink in the middle of the night and to be tucked in. He uses now the treasures of his childhood as weapons in his deception, another example of toys/treasures going to waste in the hands of someone who doesn't recognize their purpose.

Finally, the conclusion. Again the mountain demonstrates to us the elemental aspect, and now the unforeseen consequences of the Grinch's wicked plan. Beginning the process was easy, so much so that he and Max are almost swept to their dooms under the momentum of evil. Returning (escaping) will be more difficult, and here we see that Max represents all of us, who (in falling down the mountain) are too afraid to stop evil before it starts, willing to comply even if uneasily once it has started in order to avoid further conflict or the possibility of discovery (loading the sleigh), but who then discover that the price for escaping justice for the crimes we "unwillingly" aided, is to be thrown under the bus (or sleigh) and forced to feel the whip in making a getaway that is now every bit as urgent for Max/us as it is for the Grinch.

We arrive at the top of the mountain for the climax. The Grinch is about to lose his sleigh and his dog, and it is of great concern to him. But again, notice: it is important to him to save all the stuff he has stolen, not just his dog and his life and get back to the lair and call it a job well done. He has fallen victim to the materialism he thinks is the driving force of Christmas. He hates what he believes to be the degenerate noisy reveling of those awful Whos, while he himself maintains a spartan existence on top of Mt. Crumpit. But now, in possession of what he believes to be Christmas, he is terrified that he might lose it, suggesting to us that deep-down, the Grinch is not angry so much as jealous, though it is a jealousy he has misplaced, mistaking the exchanging of gifts (Things) for the exchanging of people (Community). Why not grab Max, let the sleigh go and be done with it? Because now he doesn't want to destroy Christmas, he just wants it all for himself. His evil intentions have changed without his knowledge, another example of the insidiousness of this malignant ill-will he has allowed to fester in his two-sizes-too-small heart, which grips him and controls him in ways he doesn't understand.

And then the singing Whos, whose yearly singing the Grinch is aware of. But now, as he hears it without any apparent reason, it is transformed into an epiphany. Here then is the opposite side of evil, in which the Whos celebrate and give thanks every year for their abundant riches (if the montage of toys of Christmas past is taken as an indicative Christmas). And because it is a way of life for them, they recognize that this tradition, this frivolous singing together (because it has no monetary value: food and gifts cost something, but anyone can sing), is the true locus of Christmas cheer. The lesson is clear: things don't equal Christmas, and everyone gets it. But don't fail to notice the much much deeper thrust of the argument in this Christmas Classic of the Grinch's redemption. Notice that the tremendous weight of the Christmas decorations, which were the reason for the back breaking re-ascent, are now the helpful ballast for a much smoother ride back to forgiveness, having transformed from plunder to tokens of apology and atonement.

And notice finally, that we hear only two people speak in this story: the Grinch and Cindy Loo Who. We don't really know the denizens of Whoville at all, this near-perfect society of thanksgiving and communal goodwill and (apparently) boundless and instantaneous forgiveness. Our access into their world is through an innocent child and that green-furred blackguard, the Grinch. We do not ever meet an adult Who, and that is not an accident. Nor is their name: Who. Who? Who are they, we ask, because we don't know. We don't know because we don't recognize them, and we don't recognize them because we've never encountered their analogue in the people who surround us in everyday life. The innocence of Cindy Loo Who we understand because she is a tiny child, and the innocence of children doesn't upset our ideas at all. Rather, we experience the story through the Grinch because he is us.

When watching this animated classic (or reading the book, whatever), we like to identify with the Whos, to say: 'yes, loving each other, the true meaning of Christmas which the Whos understand, just like me.' We exclude people based on Grinchiness: He is a Real Grinch, etc. In doing so we believe ourselves to be more firmly identifying our place with the Whos, but beware! There is no protest, no conflict at the bottom of Mt. Crumpit. The Whos swing like a gate to allow the Grinch into their circle. If they had not, they would not be Whos, they themselves would be Grinches, seeking to exclude and punish. We must remember that we are all Grinches, and that the best we can do is to blow the horn of self-abnegation, announcing our guilt and humbly attempting to approximate the goodness and forgiveness embodied by the only Who we are privileged to know directly: the little baby Cindy Loo Who, who sits by the Grinch at the feast, forgiving him and helping him serve the roast beast.

Merry Christmas.

Getting Started

Strategies for Meeting Women, by someone who has yet to do so.

--Whenever you are in a public place, be it a restaurant, coffee-shop, or department store, maintain at all times an attitude of politeness and deference. This will inevitably attract the attention of a like-minded young lady who will admire your quiet acquiescence to minor inconveniences and your cordial good manners with other patrons/shoppers/coffee-drinkers should interactions with them transpire. Your continued forbearance in the face of incorrect orders, wrong sizes, or long waits for refills will ignite a flame of passion in the improbably beautiful woman sitting alone in the next booth. She will look up from her copy of Dubliners, watch approvingly as you smilingly accept more sweet tea, and then quietly resume your meal. The unspoken tension between the two of you will come to a head after she intuits the generous tip you will be leaving, the mediocre service notwithstanding. You 'forget' to pick up your copy of Aristotle's Physics. Breathlessly, she catches you before you leave, returning your book. "Change is the actuality of the potential qua such," she will say. You in turn will remark on Joyce's architecture of ironies in "The Dead." Your fingertips will touch as she passes the book back to you, with her name and phone number written on the bookstore receipt you use as a bookmark. Decorum prevents either of you from doing more than exchanging pleasantries at that time, but you will have three children and each publish a novel. Congratulations.

--Accomplish herculean feats of harmonic and rhythmic sophistication in a solo saxophone rendition of "Central Park West" by John Coltrane at the open-mic night of your local coffee shop. You will approach the microphone with an attitude of one who is being indulged by his audience, who is being forgiven in advance any of his musical shortcomings in light of his earnest desire to communicate beautiful things through his imperfect medium. Announce the tune with due emphasis on the greatness of the composer. A group of college students giggling around their resident acousti-strummy singer/songwriter (who will perform later) quiets down as they sense your rootedness in a musical tradition that is older and 'deeper' than any they have yet encountered. Your rendition begins boldly, but with a sense of architecture in the opening cadenza that hints at your orderly musical thinking. By the time you have made it through the melody and begun your solo explorations, the usually effervescent nursing major in the giggling group will be appraising you thoughtfully. Your eyes are closed the whole time, so you can't tell, but she is obviously deeply moved by your fourths-related patterns which successfully bridge the constant shifts of tonality by the interval of a minor third. When you incorporate the "Cry Me a River" lick to move from D7 through G major back to the original key of C# major (on a Bb instrument, remember), thus seamlessly eliding both harmonic areas, the seduction will be complete. After a chromatic exploration of the final ii-V-I in an extended cadence to the melody, you will simply say: "John Coltrane's Central Park West" and move to sit down, gracefully though humbly acknowledging the applause. She will pronounce you cute to her companions, one of whom will approach you as you put your horn back in its case. It is the lithe and dark-haired friend of the future nurse who strikes up a conversation with you. She is aware of the horrible high-school irony of being sent on an errand of inquiry by her cowardly yet smitten friend. You share a laugh. Obviously you are uncomfortable in this situation, but dutifully make conversation with this young future nurse, with whom it turns out you have nothing in common. Her raven-haired friend mitigates the awkwardness of the conversation by demonstrating a surprising affinity for mid sixties Miles Davis. After a rocky start to your relationship, your children will end up being a bass player, a drummer, and a lawyer, in that order. At the wedding, you will credit her friend the nurse as having introduced you, and everyone will laugh. Congratulations.

--Read profound works of great erudition in public places. As you silently take notes on the love poetry of John Donne, two other bookstore patrons will be working their way through Philosophy and Religion towards the Bibles and eventually, the Starbucks Cafe. As they walk by, the will hardly notice you, but upon returning with their half-caff soy lattes (Grande, Tall, respectively), they will notice your careful note taking in the margins, and will spy "John Donne" on the spine of the book you are reading. There are also books by French philosopher Henri Bergson and a Henry James novel on your table, indicating that as soon as you have dispensed with Donne, you intend to tackle other subjects with equal aplomb. They will sit down two tables away, one reading Vogue the other perusing a copy of Alasdair MacIntyre's History of Ethics. It is almost closing time, so you begin stowing your books back in your unpretentious messenger bag and prepare to leave. The two women leave at roughly the same time. Vogue-reader is consoling MacIntyre reader over a recent (two weeks ago) breakup with an oafish MBA who has no intellectual curiosity. She is somewhat consoled, and in subsequent conversation, you (Guy-Reading-Two-Tables-Over) are mentioned casually, though nothing is thought of it at the time. Over the coming weeks, your continued simultaneous presence in the same Big Box retail bookstore and ritual of silent mutual contemplation will eventually erupt into a conversation when she trips on her way back to her table, spilling latte both on your copy of Kant's Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals and her copy of Mansfield Park, which she has not yet purchased. Gallantly, you pay for her book and politely defuse her effusive apologies and racking sense of guilt. She is an excellent cook, though she expects you to also at least try. Your spaghetti recipe is a modest success--ingested without disaster on your fourth date, and she eventually shows you the secrets of genuine pasta sauces handed down from generation to generation in her loud but lovable Italian-American family. You will have four children. Congratulations.

--Talk directly to one (a woman). No one knows what will happen if you try this. You will probably strike out. Its probably best to maintain your posture of inoffensiveness and keep reading big books.