Y'know, these newfangled social media ain't so different from good-old-fashioned social life. Especially at this time of year.
Some parties, you have to attend, out of obligation. Some parties, you really want to attend. The people are genuine, warm and mean it when they wish you happiness, merriment or peace.
Yes, social media let you dispense with the obligatory good wishes easily and quickly. But they really shine at keeping you in touch with the people you care about.
Cyber-pal Neil Kramer, has forged an open, friendly community of generous souls with his long-running blog Citizen of the Month. Every December, his online version of a seasonal shindig is the tongue-twistingly PC Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert.
All his online friends get together and do what they would do, were they a 3D community. They sing songs, share laughs, wish each other well, and enjoy a drink or two. Judging by some of the singing, they probably enjoyed more than two.
You recall that I said social media may be used to share happy, memorable, sincere good wishes, or you can use it as a cheap way of going through the motions? Guess which of the following videos came from Neil's concert, and which not.
Readers will note that public comments on the second video were disabled on upload.
With that small tale, please accept sincere good wishes for a great holiday weekend from Master Right and me, and for a fantastic, Deutschmark-denominated 2012.
The chap below is my contribution to this year's Christmahanukwanzaakah celebration on Neil's blog; we snapped him in the Austrian ski-and-spa town of Bad Gastein on Boxing Day, 2010. I love it when a twink...er, twig, gets naked without you having to ask. I'm sure he wishes you a ho or three.
Many have asked if our friends and loved ones are safe. The answer, for the moment, is yes.
Master Right's family live in western Japan, and our friends in Tokyo are shaken, but OK. We held fears for the family of a dear friend from Fukushima. Luckily her folk live in the inland hills, and so were spared the tsunami. But the earthquake damaged their property badly, and the family is now together in Tokyo. As far as situation with the nuclear reactor...well, we'd be fools not to worry desperately for our friends and colleagues in eastern Japan.
As you can imagine, it's been two sombre weeks at our place, glued to N24 and N-TV. NHK, the Japanese national broadcaster, and the BBC are on our computer screens.
By now, most of you will have read or heard the facts of what happened, and seen images of the aftermath. Let's reflect on these things for a moment.
Lessons from Kobe.
The Hanshin Earthquake of January 1995 horrified Japan, not just with the scale of the destruction, but with government impotence in the face of it.
Kobe lay in ruins, and rescuers simply couldn't reach the worst-hit parts of the city. Many who survived the quake itself died of exposure, without a place to shelter as the cold winter days dragged on.
They vowed that such avoidable suffering should never happen again, in one of the richest nations on the planet.
By 2000, when I arrived in Tokyo, many of the current systems were in place. Evacuation and refuge centres, and the system of accounting for people's whereabouts, had been established.
When I first moved in to my apartment near Toranomon, the police paid a call. They provided ample information in English to make sure I knew safety drills and precutions (like securing bookshelves to walls). They told where to report in a quake's aftermath. In my case, it was the East Gardens of the Imperial Palace. It comforted me to know that should the need arise, I would share a chemical toilet with the Emperor.
At the office, the drill intensified. Yebisu Garden Place, then a new development in Tokyo's fashionable inner west, set an example of exceptional earthquake safety in both design and procedure. An extensive network of building marshalls met regularly to review practice. That included practice in first aid.
Here, we see colleagues brushing up on CPR and wound-dressing at the annual Safety Awareness Day. German readers will be familiar with this sort of thing. One needs to undergo such training in Germany to get a driver's license, or to work in a school or public building. But under few circumstances is one required to brush up as often as the Japanese.
It was easy to giggle at this as over-caution. But take a look at the video in this link. At the fifteen second mark, we see people administering CPR with confidence, perhaps learned under such circumstances.
Our local ward government, the City of Shibuya, would provide its Earthquake Simulator on Safety Awareness Day.
Spectators climb aboard, and take seats in a small room, built to the same standards as earthquake building codes. An operator begins to shake the building.
As the intensity increases, lights on the wall show the scale reading. A pendant lamp from the ceiling acts as a reckoner, so that when the earthquake happens, you can judge its magnitude from the swing of the light in the room in which you find yourself.
This is more than just a curiosity. It demonstrates that even though the building may shake or sway quite violently, if it is built to withstand Richter 7 quakes, it will. If you're caught in the middle of a major earthquake, such reassurance unlikely to completely eliminate your panic. But if it calms you enough so you can think clearly about what to do next, then it serves its purpose.
By the time Friday's earthquake reached land, it was a Richter 7 in northern Japan. Sure enough, few moden buildings collapsed. It was the tsunami that proved so destructive.
Protection from tsunami relies less on engineering, and more on organisation. After the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, Japan accelerated the development of its Earthquake and Tsunami Early Warning system, which came into effect in 2007. It detects the early "P" waves, which simply compress the soil, before the more damaging "S" waves which follow when the compression is released—the latter are the waves that actually shake the earth. (For a simple explanation, click here.)
It may give only minutes—even seconds—of warning. But if you're in a speeding train, an elevator, or a plane that's about to land, that can prove crucial.
This was the system in action at around 2.45 last Friday, interrupting NHK's broadcasts of the Japanese Parliament.
It shows that communities had at least five minutes notice to make a dash, and fortunately, some had more. Was this warning long enough to save everyone who heeded it?
Tragically, no. Like the Indian Ocean tsunami, the Sendai tsunami hit with great speed. Outrunning the wave as it bore down was impossible. Many of the frail and elderly, often without a car, couldn't have escaped, and had to hope for the best on the upper floors of their homes.
Some lost precious minutes rescuing possessions to take with them. In rural areas, many would surely try dig out evidence of ancestry. Ownership of the family farm, having been passed down for centuries, has an almost religious significance. Did it cost them their lives? For some, undoubtedly.
The system couldn't save everyone. But remember this:
Right now, hundreds of thousands of people huddle in refuges, and over ten thousand are confirmed dead. There may be more dead.
Were it not for diligent organisation and planning, those figures surely would be reversed.
In the days since the quake, the Japanese Self Defense Forces have taken nearly 25,000 survivors from the wreckage. Almost as many, again, have been identified as alive and waiting rescue. That's fifty thousand more people to add to the list of the living.
The Japanese government mobilised almost 100,000 troops to deal with the crisis. That's more than the entire US contingent in Afghanistan. (Of course, provisioning these troops creates its own supply-chain problems, but that's another story)
The survivors are miserable. They're cold, hungry and frightened. But they're alive. And we can thank the foresight of those in charge for that.
Trust me, I'm from TEPCO.
The record of some Japanese officials over the past decade or so has not been so virtuous, however.
Has complete atomic catastrophe been averted? We hope so. Though the news this morning certainly causes concern
It's not as though nobody warned about genpatsu-shinsai, a term coined from the words for earthquake and nuclear meltdown.
A whistle-blower once reported TEPCO to the (powerful) Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI). The ministry's only action, apparently, was to blow the whistle back by reporting him to the power company.
Japan was officially prepared for earthquakes and tsunami. But for atomic catastrophe? No. Why? Because the atomic energy establishment assured us that such an event was far-fetched.
Should we be skeptical of people who reassure us of the safety of anything nuclear, anywhere in the world?
The (relatively) smooth handling of TMI—and the pains taken to distinguish the Chernobyl reactor from the sort built elsewhere—made the world complacent about the hazards of nuclear power. Recent events have given governments pause.
Especially so here in Germany, where the crisis at Fukushima led to some hasty policy changes. Bavarians welcome talk of closing the ageing Isar1 reactor at Landshut, north of Munich. But we remain a tad nervous about the communist-era reactors just over the border in the Czech Republic. Plans to build reactors in Italy, a known earthquake region, might fray a few nerves, too.
Let me point out a key fact. The earthquake and tsunami early warning system is a government initiative. There is little telmptation to cut corners or gouge profits when running it.. On the other hand, nuclear power is a public-private partnership. The government regulators who control it have close ties to the private sector. Profit drives the industry, as much as public service.
One system performed. The other failed. Just sayin'.
Many observe, with regret, that entertainment value has replaced editorial judgement in much Western journalism. The requirements of drama—heroes, villains, conflict, treachery—leach into the fabric of news. The English-language reporting of the Sendai earthquake and tsunami shows how badly this serves us.
A Chiba-resident British journalist who blogs at Our Man in Abiko, got an invitation to write for the Huffington Post. He was chuffed, but his pleasure changed to dismay when he discovered that they simply wanted him to seek out, in his words, "disaster porn".
He is, by the way, publishing a book of crowdsourced experiences of the tragedy, told with respect, and without sensationalism. He calls it, simply, 2:46, the time of the first shock on the floor of the Pacific on March 11. I urge you to support the project.
The media do not respect the memory of those who died, nor the suffering of those who remain, to turn their story into The Poseidon Adventure. Not every tale needs a Bruce Ismay or a Roger Simmons.
As I write, I'm watching CNN's Max Foster as he bullies Noriyuki Shikata, spokesman for the Prime Minister, into using more inflamatory language. No, insists Shikata, unstocked shelves in Tokyo conveninece stores do not translate into mass starvation in the capital. Foster quibbled rather nastily with Shikata's use of such words as "precaution". Perhaps he would have preferred the government spokesman to say omigod we're all going to die. It would make better television.
Master Right and other Japanese like him think the western media sensationalising a tragedy which needs no hype.
The US Embassy actually had to issue an English-language statement telling American residents to listen to Japanese authorities. And, indeed, to trust the US government, as it works closely alongside. "There is no double standard," writes Ambassador John Roos, "what we advise our Embassy personnel will be provided to all Americans." Of course, the US and Japanese governmnets diverged in their advice later, causing confusion and anger on the Japanese side.
The US media have used a bullish tone to report the bedlam which followed, inevitably, in the wake of a natural disaster on this scale. That leaves a bad taste in Japanese mouths.
In Japanese culture, it is ghoulish and insensitive to gawk at others when they are at their most emotionally vulnerable. Alas, that's pretty much the main reason why Americans turn on the TV, nowadays.
Recovering.
Masa and I were in Tokyo on September 11, 2001. Our neighbourhood, Atago—a little two-chome district sandwiched in between Toranomon, Shimbashi, Kamiyacho and Shiba Park—was pretty much cordoned off. The US Embassy was a couple of blocks away from us.
As happened in so many places around the world, the managers of tall buildings added extra precautions. Yebisu Garden Place requested ID to enter the building; standard procedure in many US offices, but extraordinary for low-crime Japan.
Several days later, I passed through the security screening, and picked up my customary Excelsior Latte. As I checked emails at the desk (remember, these were pre-Blackberry days) I noticed a request from our New York office.
In a most delicate way, it asked for an opinion on a sensitive subject. After the sarin gas attacks on the Tokyo subway, how long did it take for public spirit to return to normal?
That was a very delicate subject. And frankly, wouldn't someone who lives in New York have a lot more to worry about?
Our team looked into the matter. With the Kobe earthquake in January, and the subway attacks in March, 1995 was truly an annus horribilis.
Japan's econmy took an immediate dip in reponse to the Kobe quake. And no wonder. The port of Kobe, Japan's second-busiest after Yokohama, lay in ruins. The nation could still build the goods that would earn money for reconstruction, but had significantly less capacity to ship them out.
According to sources, Japan's economy recovered significantly over the course of the year. A fiscal stiimulus package helped the recovery. Kobe City had restored water and sewerage in about four months, and officially ended its emergency housing efforts eight months after the event.
It took about a year for consumer sentiment and optimism to reach pre-1995 levels, even accounting for Japan's sluggish economy at the time. (The same pattern held for the USA, as it happened.)
For several months, people avoided confined spaces with crowds—which ain't easy in Japan, as you can imagine. Cinemas, theatres, night clubs and department stores showed steep declines in business. You can't avoid public transport in Japan, but if people could, they did.
As always, the human spirit recoves. In connection with the paper, I read Haruki Murukami's Underground, a book of interviews with survivors of the attack. It is an amazing testiment to human strength.
Even playfulness recovered. Not long after, a night club in Roppongi opened. Owners called it GASPANIC, a morbid joke about people's reluctance to gather in public places. It was so successful, there are now three branches.
The Gaspanic Party Bus
The scale of the 2011 tragedy makes it different. Communities, and the nation as a whole, will certainly need more than a year. You can't whip up buildings, infrastructure, and economic activity out of thin air. But how long to recover psychologically?
The rhythms of everyday life comfort the spirit. Children get back to school, shirts get ironed, meals get shared, jokes get cracked and beers get gulped. How long before such rituals can comfort Japan again? I don't know. I fear it may be a very long time for those affected, and equally so for those who share a sense of community wth them.
Gambatte, or Do Your Best.
One of the anchors on the German network ZDF interviewed Jörg Brase, their Tokyo correspondent. Surely, remarked the host by satellite, you are living among tragedy and chaos?
Brase corrected him. Tragedy, yes. Chaos, no. He described the Japanese response as "organisiert" and "dizipliniert", both officials and the public at large.
That's how Japan works, day-to-day, and in moments of crisis. To the extent that something can be done, it will be done. If nothing can be done, then one forges ahead, doing one's best, no matter how grim the prospect. Nicholas Kristof, former Tokyo bureau chief for The New York Times, writes with admiration at this highly practical philosophy.
Beloved friends, beloved city.
Our hearts ache for those who have lost lives, loved ones, livelihoods, homes and property. How much more can the nation suffer?
In particular, what will become of Tokyo, the city we once called home, and our beloved friends there?
We think about the unthinkable. We can't help it.
I wrote several paragraphs about what might happen to the city under different scenarios, knowing its infrastructure and geography. I deleted them. They would upset too many who read this blog.
Rather, I'd like to write about our local liquor store.
The Atago Konishi Cellars lay just around the corner from us in Tokyo, at the base of Mt. Atago (Atagoyama). Too often, we overlooked their thoughtful selection of French wine and fine Scots whiskeys, to stock up on jumbo-sized longnecks of Sapporo Black Label beer—its "Polaris" symbol is the world's oldest brand, you know. For late-night souses, the management provides one of the city's few remaining liquor vending machines, just outside the front door. Litre cans are available.
Konishi Cellars first opened its doors in the 1600s, and kept the neighbourhood tipsy ever since. That means our local bottle-o has operated on the same spot for over four hundred years. Through the great Kanto earthquake of 1923. Through the fire-bombings of World War II.
Even in the face of great challenges, Tokyoites will do their best. They will attend to the demands of the present, and look to the future. Its citizens will show the courage that has served them in the past.
The city will go on.
During those years I lived in Japan, my colleagues would worry when I travelled. I was alone, abroad, and they knew something of my personal carelessness. Thieves, assailants, strange foods, and countless other dangers lay in wait. Please, they said, get back to Japan quickly. Japan, where there's order, where people co-operate, where things work as they should, where you can set your watch by the arrival of the train, where the cab driver will return your phone when you leave it on the back seat, where life makes sense, where it's safe.
Now, it's my turn to worry about you. And I do. Our love and thoughts are with you.
Gambatte, or Do Your Best.
One of the anchors on the German network ZDF interviewed Jörg Brase, their Tokyo correspondent. Surely, remarked the host by satellite, you are living among tragedy and chaos?
Brase corrected him. Tragedy, yes. Chaos, no. He described the Japanese response as "organisiert" and "dizipliniert", both officials and the public at large.
That's how Japan works, day-to-day, and in moments of crisis. To the extent that something can be done, it will be done. If nothing can be done, then one forges ahead, doing one's best, no matter how grim the prospect. Nicholas Kristof, former Tokyo bureau chief for The New York Times, writes with admiration at this highly practical philosophy.
As you might expect, I attend dinner parties where both Europeans and Americans gather. Guests often remark on the manner in which the natives of both continents use cutlery.
Here's the drill. A European stabs his meat with a fork in the left hand, slices off a piece with a knife held in the right, and raises the left hand to his mouth. An American stabs his meat with a fork in the left hand, cuts it with a knife held in his right, transfers the fork to his right hand, and spoons up the meat with it.
Europeans think Americans are infantile, because a toddler eats the American way after a parent cuts the meal into bite-size bits. Americans think that Europeans are stupid because the European way makes it much harder to deal with peas and mashed potatoes and stuff. It becomes an issue of cultural superiority. The dinner conversation grows tense as each team sneers at the other side, until the Americans remind the Europeans about World War Two, and the Europeans remind the Americans about German cars and universal health care.
One of the things which sustains this meme is that no-one knows how the difference came about. If there were a logical explanation, one could judge what makes more sense.
Then the wrong side must change. Because wrong sides always change when you point out how wrong they are.
Many years ago, a knife served as both weapon and eating implement. You took your dagger from its scabard, sliced a chunk from the joint, and speared the food to bring it to your mouth. Any actor who plays Henry the Eighth has to get this move down pat.
Understandably, Henry and his fellow monarchs felt nervous when every feast at court involved guests who waved around murder weapons.
In the 1600s, European nobility introduced an Arabic invention; a device with two prongs, designed to help eat chopped fruit. Since it resembled the way one road splits into two, they called it a fork.
With the arrival of the fork, knife tips could be blunted, making them useless for a stabbing. As a bonus, you could eat faster, two handed. Since the royal court determined manners, it wasn't long before well-to-do subjects all ate this way.
Nobody sent America the memo.
Colonists innocently bought knives and spoons, not thinking to add these mysterious new items called forks that appeared on the order form. When knives arrived with a round end, they improvised. They cut the meat with a knife, as before, but had to use spoons to shovel the pieces in to their mouths.
By the time Americans caught on, the fork had evolved. It grew a couple more prongs, so each tine could be blunter and less threatening. Habits being what they are, Americans simply substituted the fork for the spoon, and continued to scoop up their meat. They have done so ever since.
Proved right, for what it's worth.
See? There's a logical explanation.
Not that it matters. When I tell this story at a dinner party, people sometimes fall asleep, face down in the dessert. It does take some telling, after all.
More often, they scoff in disbelief. The story makes too much sense. They long for these cultural differences to have an exotic source. They want to believe that George Washington ordered his troops to eat with their right hands in honour of Benjamin Franklin, who lost his left arm in a guillotine during the Spanish Inquisition, or something.
You can imagine the smug pride I felt on a recent trip to the Salzburg Fortress, where I found evidence that corroborates the historical account.
The picture above shows a museum exhibit from the seventeeth century. The table setting contains a knife with a blunted tip, and a two-pronged fork. Exactly as the theory would predict.
The next time I'm invited to a dinner party, I'll email everyone this story first. It will save time.
Kid: "In America our fridges are way bigger. Our steaks too. And you can buy potato salad ready-made". American Dad: "WOW. We can't buy anything so delicious!" German hostess: "Not here, either. It's home made." American Dad: "I like home-hade!" Announcer: "Season it with a little Whip"
Cultural decode:
Americans are addicted to convenience food and have forgotten how to cook
Americans talk too much about America when abroad
Americans are cowboys who play baseball.
Many Americans speak heavily accented, but grammatically-correct, German.
Germans are more tasteful, dignified and restrained, and have a quiet, generous tolerance of others when they say something foolish.
Fair and accurate? Deplorable stereotyping? Go wild in the comments.
If you're a European in a partying mood, go east. Jet lag will keep you up 'til all hours, and help you sleep through that tedious bit of the day known as work. On the other hand, if you find yourself travelling west, then you'll be punching zeds before the cocktail hour kicks in.
Early to bed, the saying goes, means early to rise. Which is how I found myself wandering Soho at 5 am on a Sunday morning.
Frank Loesser wrote about the small hours in Manhattan.
My time of day is the dark time A couple of deals before dawn When the street belongs to the cop And the janitor with the mop And the grocery clerks are all gone. When the smell of the rain-washed pavement Comes up clean, and fresh, and cold And the street-lamp's light Fills the gutters with gold.
Yes, there is something beautiful about this time of day in the city. There's a peace that lets you see things. One begins to notice the built environment.
You can see how much of this town was built in the first decades of the twentieth century, just when America (and this part of New York, in particular) began to understand its own energy and importance.
When I lived in New York, it wasn't around here. I took an apartment in Turtle Bay. The name suggests, accurately, a slow backwater—not interesting enough to be Murray Hill, and not posh enough to be Sutton Place. "If you must live in midtown, Husband," scoffed one expat-Brit hipster, "you could at least go to Hells bloody Kitchen." Nope, my neighbourhood was NYC in vanilla.
In Soho, you can glimpse the Damon Runyon side of the city; a Gotham of small-time gamblers and hopeful starlets; of bootleggers and greengrocers; of Luckies smoked on fire escapes; of families who rolled up their rugs in the summer. This neighbourhood was once the thick of it.
Now, the gentry has conquered Soho. Condos. Microbrews. The Apple Store.
The kind of place where your Vespa matches your house. The kind of place where designer moms with expensive prams need to be warned against bumps.
Cracks in the sidewalk? Who knew?
That's why this sign caught my attention. A last hold-out against middle-class order. A playground for defacers, each wanting his three-square inches of fame.
The photo doesn't reveal a certain gentleman standing beneath. He sucked a Camel, fast and desperate. Curse those those new-fangled smoke-free bars!
"You a photographer?" he asked, testily. (Ah, the new camera seems to have made a good impression.)
"No, I'm just an amateur," I replied.
He barked a string of paranoid demands. "You're not gonna publish that picture, are you? What's your name? Show me some ID. If you publish that picture, I'll sue the shit out of you. I'm an attoyney."
This made me smile. Not because a half-drunk stranger was threatening to take away my house. But rather because he actually said "attoyney".
Usually, the first time one hears a New York accent, someone plays it for laughs—especially if you're my age. Bugs Bunny makes a lasting impression.
When I lived in New York, I had trouble taking anyone seriously. The whole city sounded like a Stooge. I expected people on the street to poke my eyes out. I feel sure they wanted to, sometimes.
"Here's my detail,." I said, cheerfully, as I reached in my pocket and handed him a Drinking Card. For those of you who don't hang out in bars, a Drinking Card is kind of like a business card, except without information that makes you stalkable—in my case, an anodyne gmail address and a mobile number. Gay gentlemen of my acquaintance sometimes call this a Trick Card, for reasons irrelevant to this discussion.
My suitor (is that not what you call someone threatening you with a lawsuit?) took out his Blackberry Curve (Coyve?) and angrily tapped a message. It arrived on my phone a moment later.
DESIST FROM USING ANY OR ALL PICTURES TAKEN, read the title line.
"I will desist, with pleasure. Since you asked so nicely." With a tap of a button, his image disappeared from the camera display. Of course, I hadn't actually deleted it, but he didn't know that. I didn't know that either, since I hadn't read the camera instructions. Real men are above such things.
My hand reached out for his. "You know my name, but I don't believe I caught yours May I have the pleasure?" This was a lie, since he had just sent me an email, but hey.
Niceness caught him off guard. "Look, y'know. Sorry. Caught me at a bad time."
Apology accepted. If one leans against a signpost at dawn, half-drunk, in depserate need of a cigarette, one can't expect to sparkle.
But just in case New York's collective mood hasn't improved, please enjoy these entirely people-free photos of the Bowery and its environs on that summer morning, not long ago.
By happy co-incidence, photos of buildings suit this week's PhotoFriday theme rather well: Architecture.
Where is he gay today?Fucking, Austria, and Intercourse, Pennsylvania.
Have you experienced Intercourse? What! You haven't? Let me show you. There are many pictures of Intercourse online, but I believe these are the most explicit.
Even in the midst of Intercourse, the Big O can remain elusive. You might end up with a big zero.
How did the town get its name? As you can see from the picture below, Intercourse brings people together in a three-way. Perhaps many travellers crossed paths, like ships in the night, and enjoyed much intercourse on this very spot. In those days, there was little else to do.
Other stories about the name come from the town's equestrian history. Apparently, the village sprang up around the entrance to a race course. Over the years, Enter Course became Intercourse. So remember, Intercourse is not a race! You'd be surprised how many think it is.
The road to Intercourse—well, you can take it fast, or take it slow. Once you've reached Bird-in-Hand, Intercourse is not far away. If you discover Blue Ball, perhaps you missed it.
Will you find yourself saying "Oh, God!" in the middle of Intercourse? The locals do. It's an Amish town, quite strictly religious. For those of you who don't know about their distinctive beliefs, the Amish eschew any technology not mentioned in the Bible. This means they must negotiate Intercourse with horses.
Intercoursers. Or is that Intercoursians?
Luckily, one of the things they found in the Bible was money. The town does a thriving trade in traditional Amish quilts, and some of them cost a fortune. It's a little bit sad to be in the middle of Intercourse, and your mind is on how you mustn't stain the bedclothing.
To my taste, the town's T-shirts stop short of celebrating Intercourse in the way it deserves. Religious influence keeps the jokes rather coy.
Enough of Intercourse. On to Fucking.
With a population one-tenth the size of Intercourse, the village gets few visitors.People talk a lot about Fucking, but few of them of them go all the way.
Fucking is a littlle more down-and-dirty than Intercourse. The name means, in the local dialect, people of Fuck. Except, like Entercourse and Intercourse, the name Fuck was originally Focko, whose descendants adopted the noble name de Fucingin. So the town is a bastardisation of a legitimate German surname.
Like many of our age, we used a device to to help with Fucking.
Next stop:Fucking Mitte
It confused us to discover we couldn't program a Fucking address into the navigation system. Usually, the screen tells you the street on which you're travelling, and the next street en route. But as we approached Fucking, the poor car could think of nothing else.
Google Earth shared the same obsession, it seemed. Every street was named Fucking. Is it possible for one of de Fucingin's descendants to be, say, Baron von Fuck, of Fuckingstraße 28, 4774 Fucking, Austria? Truly a case of Fucking on the brain.
The sign below explains it all. It seems that many towns in Austria use a Japanese-style address system. In each small neighbourhood, they simply number the houses in the order they were built. Hence, Baron von Fuck's address would be Fucking 28, Austria. It makes Fucking easy to handle, wouldn't you agree?
Before you get to Fucking, you need to go through Petting, and before that, Willing. There is even a town called Kissing, but that's in Baden-Württemburg. If you've reached Kissing, you're still nowhere near Fucking.
Like Intercourse, Fucking is a religious experience. The sign below asks God to bless the harvest. It's quite fertile around there, so a good Fucking plowing often bears fruit. In Fucking, be careful where you drop your seed.
That said, there's not much to recommend Fucking. Unless you're with someone you like, Fucking can be quite dull.
The picture below reveals a highlight of downtown Fucking.
Alas, not a Fucking soul to be seen. These chaps below were the closest things to Fuckingers we could find. (Yes, the townsfolk are called Fuckingers, which is perhaps not what you thought. ) Maybe everyone was in Hiding. I think that's near Linz.
One thing you can say about Fucking—it's over quickly. Fare thee well.
Which is better, Fucking or Intercourse? Tough call.
I think Fucking is a little more personal than Intercourse. Intercourse is more romantic. But if I had my druthers, I'd choose to stay in Austria and visit a town called Poppendorf. As you may know, the word dorf in German means town, and the word Poppen means—please forgive my language—fucking.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for change. Hell, I voted for change. And thank goodness that change has come.
Changing presidents is the easy bit. Changing America will be tough. Some treasured American values need an overhaul.
Many would argue that rather than change, American values must change back. Back to an earlier, purer, more noble version of themselves.
Whatever. The truth is, my fellow Americans need to look hard at the values by which they live today, and not flinch when they see hypocrisy, shallowness, inhumanity and falsehood.
It takes moral courage to do this; you must be open to truth, from any source. Stop buying half-truths ready-made, cloaked under religious rhetoric, or cooked in glib sentimental goo.
What values need to change? Here's one.
The marketplace is moral.
Victoria de Grazia opens her book Irresistible Empire, the classic study of how American consumer society triumphed over European bourgeois civilisation, with an astonishing scene.
She recounts Woodrow Wilson's 1916 address to the World Salesmanship Congress in Detroit. With the American century still a decade away from its first spectacular cycle of boom-and-bust, he argued, with touching innocence, that greed is good.
America's "democracy of business" had to take the lead in "the struggle for peaceful conquest of the world," Wilson said...
"let your thoughts and imagination run abroad throughout the whole world, and with the inspiration...that you are Americans and are meant to carry liberty and justice and the principles of humanity wherever you go, go out and sell goods that will make the world more comfortable and happy, and [thus] convert them to the principles of America." (pp. 1-2)
Over the next several pages, de Grazia analyses Wilson's assumptions in eloquent detail. She describes a caste of mind which I find familiar from my American boyhood.
If the gentry turn up their noses at the great unwashed, then one should use the power of mass production to make soap cheap enough for them to buy. Pretty soon, the great unwashed will look pretty clean and smell pretty good, and the gentry will seem a whole lot less genteel by comparison. The influence of the wicked old gentry will fade away, along with their silly elitist ideas. Democracy triumphs, and freedom reigns supreme.
So pervasive is this notion through the United States, that many have ceased to see material goods as a means to an end, but as the end in itself.
During my recent stint back in the USA, I would challenge people to show me how America was, in fact, the land of the free. Disturbingly, proof often pivoted on the freedom to choose amongst a vast array of consumer products.
Again, don't get me wrong. A vast array of consumer products is a jolly nice thing. In fact, I make my dosh shilling for a vast array of consumer products.
But consuming in quantity does not equal living in freedom.
You can walk right into any American supermarket you damn well please and vote with your wallet for Liquid-Plumr® over Drano®. Is that the beginning and end of freedom? Are these the fruits of democracy? You'd be surprised at how many Americans believe so.
De Grazia points out that Wilson endorsed "a peculiarly American notion of democracy, that which comes from having habits in common rather than arising from equal economic standing, freedom to select far fetched alternatives, or recognising diversity and learning to live with it."
That is, if billionaire George Bush drives a pick-up truck, and I drive a pick-up truck, then the difference in our incomes doesn't matter all that much. Homogenised tastes iron out political differences. Promoting that homogeneity furthers peace and progress. Right?
(Elections have been won and lost in America for the sake of homogenous tastes. Earlier this month, 48% of America voted the Republican ticket. Many of these voters did so, at least in part, because it contained a hockey/soccer mom just like us. More about that later, perhaps.)
Does it work?
Let's make a value judgement on this system of values. Does it work?
Recent history vividly shows that this sea of material goods is not, to stretch a metaphor, a tide that lifts all boats. The gentry hasn't drowned in an ocean of the gentrified middle class. If anything, the worker's quest for material comfort has enriched the elite far more handsomely than it has enriched the worker.
Getting richer doesn't guarantee that a worthwhile democracy will take root, as is implicit in Wilson's argument. "Liberty and justice, and the principles of humanity" don't necessarily follow from owning a lot of stuff.
Look at the Middle East or China. There are plenty of ways to get rich, and not all of them are the American way.
Nor does democracy make you rich, automatically. Just ask a South African township worker, or a disappointed eastern European after the Iron Curtain fell.
Did the spread of American bounty result in the "peaceful conquest of the world," as Wilson predicted? If only he could see how much of her wealth America pours, today, into the violent conquest of the world. With little real peace to show for it.
The marketplace is incredibly good at sorting out, and providing in abundance, what is useful. But that misleads us. An abundance of useful stuff doesn't guarantee that amongst it, you'll find what is essential.
Like healthcare. Or education. Or art. Or justice. Or equality. Or peace.
Modern Americans seem to believe that if you just get rich enough, everything else will sort itself out. From there, it is not a long stretch to believe that getting rich is the only way to sort everything out. If we're all fat and happy, what else matters?
Shovel enough Oldsmobiles, Pop-Tarts, Magnavoxes and Cheez-Whiz in my direction, and do I really need to marry the man I love? If my supermarket shelves are well stocked, is it important that the local library's shelves are not?
I'm not knocking materialism--hey, I work in advertising. But it it's a pretty poor place to search for values.
Modern American values are so entwined in materialism, that it will be a hard habit of mind to break. Can we do it? I hope so.
Cape May is a classic, picturesque American seaside resort, popular for weekends away from Philadelphia or Washington, D.C. Some time ago, the town's hotels and guest houses were booked out by Disney executives. Locals were abuzz with speculation that they might see a new Disneyland nearby. Alas, the Mousers were in Cape May to rip it off; the town of Celebration, Florida is an ersatz Cape May. Celebration is so creepily fake, that they filmed The Truman Show there.
The cocktail wasn’t a Molotov. It was a very nice Soave, perfectly chilled. But it could fan political flames, in its own way.
This trip, Master Right and I visited one of our favourite towns. Milford nestles into a bend of the meandering Delaware River, in a corner of northeast Pennsylvania that bumps up against both New York and New Jersey. Frommer ranks it as number two on its list of ten coolest small towns in America.
Standing nobly on a hill near the edge of town, we find Grey Towers, former home of Gifford Pinchot, twice governor of Pennsylvania and founder of the U.S. Forest Service. This faux-mediaeval mansion, today, anchors the Forest Service’s training and education programmes.
Milford hit its heyday around the turn of the century. (The last one, not this one). With a variety of landscapes nearby, the town became a centre for the early film industry, before the whole show moved underneath the reliable California sun. Mary Pickford once kept a house here.
This brush with glamour gave Milford more than its share of fancy homes, posh hotels and grand public buildings. One such place is the Hotel Fauchere.
Legend has it that Pinchot and Teddy Roosevelt sketched the plans for the Forest Service on a Fauchere napkin after a boozy dinner. Thus, one could argue that the hotel is the birthplace of the environment movement in the United States. The famous Delmonico restaurant in New York recruited the Francophone-Swiss Louis Fauchere as Master Chef in 1851. In 1870, he moved his family to the countryside and opened an eponymous hotel. Thereafter, Fauchere became one of Milford’s most celebrated citizens, officially known as “the crazy Frenchman”.
Shortly after our arrival, we found ourselves sitting in the Crazy Frenchman’s stylishly renovated conservatory, sipping Soave with one of his successors. Sean is a partner in the Fauchere, and joins his guests every evening for a drop of very nice wine, and a few very nice cheeses. Ever the gracious host, he remembered Master Right and me from previous visits.
The thing that attracted us to Milford in the first place was an article in Instinct Magazine, describing the small but vigorous gay community. Sean is a pillar of it.
Our last visit coincided with the hotel’s monthly rather-gay dance-party. The party grew so successful, that it had to move to larger premises. Sean and his partners are tossing up what to do with the space. Top of the list is a patisserie. In middle America, this is pretty much neck-and-neck with a gay disco in the gayness stakes. We always seem to arrive at the right time for an event. Sean remarked that we should stick around the next day for a political rally. Documentary film-maker Rory Kennedy, eleventh and youngest child of Robert and Ethel Kennedy, would stump for Barack Obama in the Pennsylvania primary.
By now, you all know the result of the election. Obama was defeated, but went on to secure the (presumptive) national nomination in spite of it. This Pocono Record News Forum comment on the Milford rally helps explain why, perhaps.
"Rory Kennedy is no gift, nor is she representative of the working class people of NEPA...She stood outside the Hotel Fauchere giving a speech about who she supports in a place were most working class people could not afford. The Hotel Fauchere is an over priced bed and breakfast that caters to the upper class at $300 a night per person and $40 to $60 a plate meals not including drinks and appetizer…Although her father died before she was born, she was still born with the silver spoon in her mouth and a trust fund filled with money from her grandfather's criminal activities...When she lives through the true hardships real Americans face of either buying heating oil or paying the mortgage, buying food for the dinner table or putting gas in the tank so she can get to a real job...Until then she is nothing more than an ugly more educated Paris Hilton…"
Hmmm…Paris Hilton has proved herself truly, profoundly ugly in so many important ways, that I don’t quite get the comparison.
And our room didn’t cost three hundred bucks, either. Perhaps he was confusing the Fauchere with…oh, I dunno. Paris Hilton, the hotel?
Obama’s famous comment about Pennsylvanians clinging to guns and God—spoken behind closed doors in San Francisco, no less—is a fairly mild rebuke compared to the vitriol that drips upon him when the cameras aren’t running.
Here’s a report from the Washington Post about the Pennsylvania campaign.
"The contrast between the large, adoring crowds Obama draws at public events and the gritty street-level work to win votes is stark. The candidate is largely insulated from the mean-spiritedness that some of his foot soldiers deal with away from the media spotlight. Victoria Switzer, a retired social studies teacher, was on phone-bank duty one night during the Pennsylvania primary campaign. One night was all she could take: "It wasn't pretty." She made 60 calls to prospective voters in Susquehanna County, her home county, which is 98 percent white. The responses were dispiriting. One caller, Switzer remembers, said he couldn't possibly vote for Obama and concluded: "Hang that darky from a tree!" Documentary filmmaker Rory Kennedy, the daughter of the late Robert F. Kennedy, said she, too, came across "a lot of racism" when campaigning for Obama in Pennsylvania. One Pittsburgh union organizer told her he would not vote for Obama because he is black, and a white voter, she said, offered this frank reason for not backing Obama: "White people look out for white people, and black people look out for black people."
Two Milford residents, quietly proving the lady from Pittsburgh wrong.
It raises the hackles of some Hillary supporters that she cops so much blatant sexism. They uncover misogyny in a thousand subtle (and not so subtle) ways—from Obama saying she has her claws out to the famous heckler who shouted iron my shirt.
It’s a legitimate concern, yes. But iron my shirt ain’t in the same league as hang the darky. (Or bash the fag, for that matter.)
A couple of hundred supporters braved the nippy spring weather to hear Kennedy speak. The crowd suffered no hecklers, though some Hillary supporters cheerfully waved a banner across the street.
I worried that Master Right would soon grow bored. After all, I remember how I struggled to get through a political meeting in Munich in a language that was not my first. No matter how fluent you may be in your adopted tongue, the grammar of politics demands a sense for subtext which challenges those not born to it.
As it turned out, one could read the subtext without a word being spoken. “I’m enjoying this,” he said. “You can feel the positive spirit.”
The rally started with a surprisingly sincere recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance from all concerned.
Indeed, you could. The gathering was traditional, grass-roots American democracy at its finest. Speeches from the podium rang with passion, but were delivered with grace and generosity. Small towns often cultivate this kind of genteel politics; one must know how to debate people whom you need to face the next day.
The latest Economist points out that the drought of civil discourse in American politics might stem from one key demographic fact. As Americans become more mobile, many choose to live amongst politically like-minded neighbours. The more choice an American has, the more likely he will veer towards either a Grosse Pointe or a Marin County, with few settling in-between. Presumably, estate agents can market homes based on the Tahoe-to-Prius ratio of the neighbourhood.
In towns like Milford, though, a Republican and a Democrat actually stand a good chance of crossing paths. That's increasingly rare.
Kennedy’s speech, in many ways, reflected her films. She recently made documentaries about Hurricane Katrina and Abu Ghraib; we should not be surprised that she spoke of changing the moral tone which the nation has set for itself.
Just as interesting, and just as serious, was the speech of 18 year-old Ryan Jameson. He's a high school senior—that’s year 12, the final year, for those of you outside the US—who organized two hundred of his fellow students to register to vote in their respective Primaries. In recognition, Ryan became chair of Obama’s Pike County organizing committee. And I understand he actually comes from a Republican family.
Another surprising speech came from County Commissioner Mike Warsho. His daughter, studying in Italy, relayed the excitement and interest surrounding Obama abroad. (Master Right and I can attest to that, too.)
The crowd murmured approvingly.
Well, knock me over with a feather. The Clintons spend much energy concealing Bill's exploits as a Rhodes scholar in Oxford, lest it alienate their base of inverted snobs. Many here, though, thought it a good thing that a prospective president should have lived abroad, as Obama has.
As we heard the speakers, it became obvious what made the atmosphere so inspiring. We beheld an event that had been absent from American politics for a long time. A discussion of ideas and principles rather than personal invective and ridicule.
Yet more identity politics.
Ideas and principles are not a luxury for the elite. They are life and soul of what makes a nation.
Here, let me venture into an area which will infuriate friends, casual readers and partisan political activists alike. The elephant in the room for American politics is social class.
From time-to-time, anti-elitism can act as a healthy foil to political hot-air. But fake-anti-elitism has become the order of the day in American politics. Frankly, the fakery is beginning to smell. Perhaps the electorate caught a whiff of it on Hillary’s breath. The super-delegates certainly did.
I suspect Republicans have tired of this bogus culture war, too. A CNN poll shows a number of them, cautiously, listening to Obama.
Standing amongst the crowd, I couldn’t help but remember how fragile this idealism is. Master Right felt inspired; I felt like—forgive me—a bit like a Weimar Jew.
Philistinism was one of the great weapons Hitler exploited for popular support. The bombast about liberal-biased media, which so much of the USA swallows, reminds me not a little of the smear directed against the so-called conspiracy of rich Jewish bankers.
You can’t trust people who are a little too smart, a little to worldly, a little too decadent, or a little too rich—unless, of course, they’re a lot too rich, which, since this is America, any of us might become at any minute.
Obama supporters held a bake sale to raise money for the campaign. Get these people a patisserie, quick!
Obama speaks of the audacity of hope, while his opponents so often decry the vanity of hope. Kennedy’s speech addressed this, quoting no less a moral authority than Nelson Mandela. (Mandela attributes this passage to Marianne Williamson; did she insert a few gay code-words?)
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? …Your playing small does not serve the World. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that others people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us: it is in everyone. And, as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
More than once in my life, I had to make the choice between a tank of gas and dinner on the table, too. But it never stopped me believing in the power of ideas.
Having lived outside the United States most of my adult life, I never voted in a Presidential election. But I might just do so, this time.
Now let's get back to that crazy, elitist liberal agenda. Come 2009, everyone will have to learn Latin, attend the opera, and substitute extra virgin olive oil for Crisco. Top up my Soave, would you? There's a good chap.
Obama supporters can log onto Obamacycle.com to swap and re-use campaign materials. The rally was some three weeks after St. Patrick's Day, but thrifty Milfordites didn't seem to care.
Photos of Grey Towers and the Fauchere from their respective websites.
Teaching the Germans to party since 2007. No, not that party. The Honourable Husband proudly proclaims himself to be stateless, rootless, godless and gay. A fiftyish American-Australian chap, recently posted from New York to Munich. He and his Japanese partner regularly discover new reasons to think the other odd.
The Husband's Most Honourable
My Favourite Blasphemy Those virgins were really pissed off when I reminded them how little sex they were having.
Ththththth! Tough consonants for the world at large.
Viva Taxi Libre! A night out in Barcelona, in which the Author barely manages to protect his bits.
Click here to see the Honourable Husband's month of mindfulness, January 2012 The River of Stones is a fascinating web project. Buddhist Priest Kaspa and his fiance Fiona began it as an exercise in relaxed alertness—living in the moment and appreciating the world around us. They urge us to find a small item of beauty or meaning in the physical world, every day, and notice it. One need only write it down; if we share it, that’s our choice. I've chosen to share it—given my background and temperament, I need plenty of practice at watchful serenity. If you click on the link in the text above, you'll see the results. Click on the logo to find out how you, too, can participate.
Resistance is Useful
It's on again! Is someone dicking you around? Is your day filled with petty people tut-tutting you at every turn? Through no fault of your own, do you find yourself marching to someone else's tune? Strike back against the petty tyrants and oxygen thieves. For one day, let them kiss your sweet, fragrant buttcheeks. The Honourable Liberation Front has declared January 13 to be the Fourth Annual International Day to Bite Me. Join the movement, here!
My guide to the homosphere, including the blogs of quality queers. Be gay the Honourable way!
Coming out of the safety of the closet was easier for me than coming out of the mindwarp of the church. This page has plenty for the godless and groovy, including Mojoey's incomparable Atheist Blogroll.
People often ask about life as an expat. The experience is different for everyone. Here, you'll find stories and advice from my favourite modern-day immigrants.
The motto of a certain well-known advertising agency is Truth Well Told. The authors behind this link need no reminder that a well-told truth is powerful. They prove it. Of course, tales well woven, and jokes well cracked earn a berth here, too.
The online world will revolutionise social history. The stories of ordinary people were once hidden. Now, we can share them with the stroke of a key. Many bloggers (such as Neil Kramer and A Free Man) have encouraged their readers to interview each other, share their stories and record them for posterity. Here are the interviews I've participated in.
To Elvis fans, schade.
Sorry to disappoint, but Deutschland über Elvis, is not an Elvis Presley fansite. The title is a pun on the German national anthem, Deutschland uber Alles. Presley fans curious about his G.I. stretch in Germany (1958-1960) should whack elvisforever.de into BabelFish and follow the link to Elvis in Germany. It contains some extraordinary photos, and the story of a rumoured Munich mistress.
Ayn Rand: Atlas Shrugged (Penguin Modern Classics) A user called Theta9 on LibraryThing summed it up. "There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year-old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs."
Helen Garner: The Spare Room The people we love can be infuriating and self-destructive, especially when they're sick. How does a carer continue to care? This tale quietly rips your heart out. Nobody describes the minutiae of every day life with the same clarity and symbolic force which Garner brings.
Rudolph Herzog: Dead Funny: Humor in Hitler's Germany The author, son of film-maker Werner Herzog, traces the jokes people told abou the Nazis in order to prove that most people knew the nature of the regime. To me, this slender collection of political humour shows that there simply weren't enough jokes cracked, not that there lots of sly jokes which showed a public spirit of resistance. The funniest and cruellest jokes, ironically, often came from Hitler's victims themselves.
Sean Condon: My 'dam Life: Three Years in Holland (Lonely Planet Journeys) Sean has an ear for the cadences of modern, media-warped speech. He has a heart for the subtle humiliations which life deals out to the ordinary bloke, and he retalliates by humiliating the famous in return. A genuine, new, and distinctive voice in literature. He's also a pal, so buy his books. A lot.
Bill Wasik: And Then There's This Boy, have I had it with Tipping Points, Flat Worlds, and anything 2.0. So imagine my delight when one of these so-called business books turns out to be a gem. Wasik is a gentleman adventurer in the world of new media. An amateur pundit with a day job as a rock journalist, he dips a toe in the water of viral culture every so often, and manages to beat the pros. He was, after all, the man who invented the flash-mob. Name one other writer on cyberculture who starts his book by quoting John Stuart Mill. That's class.
Thomas Doherty: Pre-Code Hollywood: Sex, Immorality, and Insurrection in American Cinema, 1930-1934 (Film and Culture Series) It was six years between the birth of the talkies and the enactment of the draconian MPAA Production Code in 1934. But in those few short years, Hollywood relased some of the most subversive, racy and cynical movies it would ever make. The parallels with our own time, as the forces of censorship stir again, are frightening. the cover shows ten items which the Production Code would never allow. Among them, an inner thigh, wickedness unpunished, drug use, consumption of alcohol that is not essential to the plot and the mockery of religion. I ask you: what's left that's worth making movies about?
P.J. O'Rourke: Republican Party Reptile O' Rourke says he's a Republican, but he appears on NPR. A (political) party animal. His viewpoints, in large measure, suck. But I bet he mixes a mean Gimlet.
Mary Karr: The Liars Club Like Nick Flynn, another poet tells her tale of childhood neglect and abuse. The portrait she paints of her star-crossed parents, held together by lust and divided my tragedy, will bring you to tears.
Nick Flynn: Another Bullshit Night in Suck City: A Memoir How does it affect your soul, if you're working in a homeless shelter, and your dad checks in? And you have to throw him out for bad behaviour? A gut-wrenching tale of family dysfunction, emotional torture, and (yes) vanity. Flynn is a poet, and he tells his tale in a way that's morbidly beautiful.
Muriel Spark: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie The relationship between a gifted student and a truly inspiring teacher is an intimate one. So intimate, the student and teacher can resemble two lovers, with their intrigues, passions, and potential for betrayal. Spark's cool, detatched style is at odds with the simmering emotion that runs through this tale of adolescent self-discovery. It makes her story all the more heartbreaking. A masterpiece.
Mark Leyner: My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist Dali once described surrealism as the chance meeting of a fish and an anvil on an ironing board. As a modern surrealist, Leyner provides plenty of anvils, but the fish are somehow missing. A dozen eskimos in bowler hats have just rung the doorbell, and I must get my llama to make them hot fudge sundaes. Do I make myself clear?
Japan Travel Bureau: Japan in Your Pocket: "Salaryman" in Japan No. 8 (Eibun Nihon Etoki Jiten) Perhaps the funniest book on Japanese culture ever written. And it's meant to be serious. Did you know that the highest ranking executive gets the safest seat in a taxi? I didn't, until this book explained all those silly details of business etiquette. Special section on how to curse your bucho.
Dana Thomas: Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster A staggeringly well-written book from a former Washington Post fashion correspondent. The many hundreds of billions of dollars which passes through the hands of the luxury goods industry has not trickled-down to the people who actually do the work. Once proud brands tarnish their reputations by badge-engineering. A merciless expose of luxury marketing, but one which respects the artisanal ideals which spawned the industry in the first place.
Gore Vidal: Myra Breckinridge & Myron Today, Vidal concentrates on scathing essays and scandalous memoir. But you'll find his best work in his early satires. Myra Breckenridge tells the story of a ball-busting post-op transexual woman who wreaks revenge on the millieu of B-list celebs and wannabes who spurned her as a man. This short book carries not an ounce of fat; every word packs a punch. It is, without doubt, his masterpiece. The sequel, Myron, runs longer, and is just a little too aware of its own cleverness. Irritated at a Supreme Court decision on censorship, Vidal replaces each of the proscribed nine dirty words with the names of the Justices themselves. Oddly, the judges all seem to sport names which suit the purpose. I am especially fond of the name for a vulgarity which refers to the female genitalia; Justice Whizzer White.
Michael Heyward: The Ern Malley Affair This is so post-modern, it makes your head spin. In 1940s Australia, two would-be poets Harold Stewart and James McAuley grew tired of rejections from avant-garde literary journals. As a lark, the two composed what they thought was were silly parodies of the prevailing modernist school, and submitted them under an assumed name to Angry Penguins, a new journal published by the Adelaide dandy Max Harris. Harris said they were brilliant. The (real) authors revealed that the poems were frauds. Or were they still brilliant, even if the poets responsible never intended them to be? A fascinating artistic morality tale, which still stirs arguments in Australian academic circles.
Robert Whiting: You Gotta Have WA (Vintage Departures) Prospective expats often ask me for tips on doing business in Japan. This book, which tells the story of American baseball players recruited to Japanese clubs in the eighties, proved the single most useful guide to how a Japanese organisation works. Richard Whiting is a sportswriter who has spent most of his career in Japan, and carved a niche for himself explaining the curiosities of Japanese team sports. Check out his most famous work, The Chrysanthemum and the Bat.
Alice Miller: The Body Never Lies: The Lingering Effects of Cruel Parenting I have suffered through endless therapy sessions, support groups, and self-help books which proclaim the abused must forgive their oppressors in order to find peace. Alice Miller calls bullshit on this quatsch, and shows that victims make better progress if they do NOT forgive their abusers. I concur.
