Emphasis Added

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Gut Bomb

Men proverbially hate to admit when they�re lost and need directions. Indeed, Bush�s petulance and defensiveness in his recent debate performances has been likened to a peevish husband telling his wife he knows where he�s going, even as the car is wandering through obviously hostile and uncharted territory. The analogy strikes a chord, but the truth of it goes deeper than an explanation of Bush�s behavior. It also explains the durability of his support.

Many men and some women don�t like relying on outside sources of information to help them make decisions. There�s something very basic in the human aspect of masculinity (whether in men or women) that likes to feel entirely in control of the situation. Activities such as finding one�s way around are considered essentially simple and intuitive: admitting their complexity by having to consult maps or ask directions surrenders control at an unacceptably basic level. The greater one feels the need for control, the greater the urge to reduce situations to their simplest components, bringing them within the sphere of personal expertise, discretion and action. The whole do-it-yourself ethos, from home and car repair to the mystique of the self-made man, is rooted in this refusal to place one�s fortunes in the hands of others. Often, the urge is rational; occasionally, it is a dangerous fantasy that exposes one to risks far greater than those of cooperation and trust. One area where there�s an undeniable fissure between our hopes of simplicity and the reality of complexity is in government.

The promise of democracy is that people are free to govern themselves. They don�t need to rely on kings, aristocrats or clergy. In America, we have abstracted this even further into the myth that government is practically an amateur activity, simple enough that farmers and shopkeepers could work as part-time legislators. It�s been apparent for nearly 100 years that this model is not sufficient for an increasingly complex and interconnected world. Grudgingly and in fits and starts, Americans have relinquished their fantasies of absolute self-sufficiency and moved inexorably toward a greater dependence on specialization and expertise in policy-making. The reward for this compromise has been global supremacy, a standard of living that�s the envy of the world, and a society that remains free where it really counts, which are direct benefits of the mobilization of intelligence, professionalism and consensus-based management in government. On the whole, a pretty good deal. Still, we have tenaciously clung to the illusion of the solitary leader, the man in control, in one key office � the Presidency.

Bush indisputably personifies this archetype in its most extreme and ridiculous form. He is the triumph of the Id � the feral, the selfish, the uncompromising � over the constraints of reason and society. As President, he governs by the gut rather than the head. Indeed, he makes a spectacle of his contempt for deliberation and discussion, and he flat out refuses to take substantive accountability for the consequences of his actions. That�s what all the talk of faith and leadership and decisiveness boils down to: a refusal to be ruled by the external demands of reason, expertise, information and consensus, and an affirmation of the solitary masculine will over the soft virtues of community.

All of this makes him a hero to half a nation of men (and some women) who are, or perceive themselves to be, oppressed, exploited and fundamentally not in control of their lives and destinies. To them, the lost and stubborn, he is only doing what anyone would do when faced with a situation beyond one�s personal competence: gut it out and muddle through. They�re willing to tolerate a few mistakes along the way, so long as he continues to embody their fantasy of pure impulsive action. Like them, he has surrendered control only to an unseen supernatural deity � no shame in that, after all � but refuses to be pushed around by facts, treaties or (worst) know-it-all experts. The penalty that this exacts in terms of policy consequences is piddling for his supporters, who are going to get reamed no matter what, compared to the exhileration of indulging completely in swaggering, self-possessed machismo that's impossible in their own stunted lives, vicariously through Bush.

Bush�s triumph validates this basic need for simplicity and control. With Bush, there�s no need to compromise with complexity and cooperation, no need to acknowledge that one�s own powers are not up to the demands of a challenging tasks or difficult environment. Never mind that there is something profoundly impractical and even pathological about this kind of rigidity, or that the goals of government are meant to be practical rather than symbolic. For people who have surrendered their environment to predatory developers, their economy to remorselessly bottom-line oriented conglomerates, their tastes to a confusing and aloof media, and their personal lives to aggressive and demanding women, Bush represents an opportunity to show the world that their brittle and insecure notion of masculine values and ethos can prevail � if not in their own lives, then at least on the world stage.

John Kerry and particularly Al Gore, on the other hand, are the guys at the gas station. They�re the smug bastards who know the directions, and they�re just waiting to be asked. A lot of America, including a number of Bush supporters, probably understand that Kerry has a far better handle on practically every aspect of policy than George Bush, and that his deliberative temperament is probably in better alignment with the demands of the technocratic realities of government. But to support him would be to surrender the myth of control, to concede victory of the head over the gut. It would be failure � not of ideology or partisanship, but of the fundamental conception of their lives and identities. That�s why the facts don�t matter, the arguments don�t matter, the records don�t matter. Indeed, it only makes the problem worse. To those who identify with Bush on a basic level, voting for Kerry would be as unthinkable as stopping the car, rolling down the window, and saying �please, sir, I seem to be lost. Can you show me the way back to peace and prosperity?�

Hell, if that�s the alternative, then it�s better to never get where they�re going, if it means that at least they could still be men.

10:24:05 PM

Emphasize This! []

His Back Pages

Although this is unlikely to rate on the radar considering the political season, today marks the release of the long-awaited autobiography of Bob Dylan, Chronicles Volume I. Over the past 40 years, the writing of Dylan biographies and �critical interpretations� has been kind of a cottage industry among a certain sort of music geek. Since I count myself in that crowd, I have a few of them on the shelf, along with an unseemly large assortment of Dylan recordings, both legitimate and �unreleased.� What�s been missing until now, however, has been the man�s own perspective.

The release of a Dylan memoir is certain to trigger (or rather, be accompanied by) an orchestrated media frenzy that looks at his career as a performer (hopefully overlooking his missteps as a filmmaker). To those not familiar with Dylan, or who recall him through the misty haze of nostalgia, he will perhaps seem to be just another product of American celebrity culture � a persona with a series of identifiable quirks, including his distinctively abrasive voice, whining harmonica, propensity for cryptic utterances in his rare encounters with the press, and legend-in-his-time status as �the voice of his generation.�

These are his most identifiable traits, to be sure. But they gloss over the reason why we care about Dylan in the first place, and why the story of his career from his own perspective is so momentous: because he is, without a doubt, America�s greatest living poet. In fact, by creating a new outlet for serious poetry in the genre of popular music, he may have extended the life of the artform by at least half a century and awakened millions to the ageless power lyricism that had almost suffocated itself in the rarified air of coffee houses and literary salons.

But don�t take my word for it. For the remainder of this post, I�d like to present a couple of Dylan verses, penned at various points in his career. Everyone has their favorites. These are a few of mine.

Blind Willie McTell (1983)

Seen the arrow on the doorpost
Saying, "This land is condemned
All the way from New Orleans
To Jerusalem."
I traveled through East Texas
Where many martyrs fell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, I heard the hoot owl singing
As they were taking down the tents
The stars above the barren trees
Were his only audience
Them charcoal gypsy maidens
Can strut their feathers well
But nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

See them big plantations burning
Hear the cracking of the whips
Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
(And) see the ghosts of slavery ships
I can hear them tribes a-moaning
(I can) hear the undertaker's bell
(Yeah), nobody can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

There's a woman by the river
With some fine young handsome man
He's dressed up like a squire
Bootlegged whiskey in his hand
There's a chain gang on the highway
I can hear them rebels yell
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

Well, God is in heaven
And we all want what's his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I'm gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell

It�s Alright Ma, I�m Only Bleeding (1963)

(4^th Verse)

For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in.

While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him.

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society's pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he's in.

But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it's alright, Ma, if I can't please him.

I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine (1967)

I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,
Alive as you or me,
Tearing through these quarters
In the utmost misery,
With a blanket underneath his arm
And a coat of solid gold,
Searching for the very souls
Whom already have been sold.

"Arise, arise," he cried so loud,
In a voice without restraint,
"Come out, ye gifted kings and queens
And hear my sad complaint.
No martyr is among ye now
Whom you can call your own,
So go on your way accordingly
But know you're not alone."

I dreamed I saw St. Augustine,
Alive with fiery breath,
And I dreamed I was amongst the ones
That put him out to death.
Oh, I awoke in anger,
So alone and terrified,
I put my fingers against the glass
And bowed my head and cried.

All lyrics (c) Bob Dylan - Special Rider Music, reprinted under Fair Use guidelines.

8:34:08 AM

Emphasize This! []