Superstars -- they are not like us.

One of the greatest superstars has died. Michael Jackson was a popular culture icon from his pre-teen years until his death, and his legend will continue to grow. He was no mere PT Barnum; Michael was the real thing: a world-historical figure whose fame overshadows sultans, kings, and presidents. He sold three-fourths of a billion albums, but this is secondary. He was, in John Lennon's famous phrasing, "Bigger than Jesus." And as with our image-making of the legend of Jesus, our every hope, desire, revulsion became projected onto his image, his character.

Thus he walked with a burden no one else can know. Michael died too young, and I am so saddened by his death. Others have suggested comparisons to other pop stars, but they can only fall pathetically short. Michael Jackson became like an angel when he performed. In his private world, he was chased by devils. He lived outside himself, never comfortable in his own skin.

Michael does not leave much for us to analyze; his art was not the content of the music or the dance, but the performance itself. Watching TV in 1985, I saw an audience-member cry, "Oh my God, I just saw Michael Jackson!" The man himself was in the distance, glittering in gold and silver.

He was not larger than life -- life was too small for him. Our cultural epoch is in love with fame, tragic drama, and spectacle. As Mick Jagger sang in the Rolling Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil":

I shouted out,
Who killed the Kennedys?
When after all
It was you and me

In the end, we know that Michael Jackson was not better than us. The man may well have been a pederast and nonviolent sociopath. He very nearly went to jail for years; he was charged with 14 counts of child molestation. But let it be known -- our culture has no gods save the idea of "Michael Jacksons" and those like him. In an era of digital reproduction, "reality" has slid into melodrama. Well-fed and decadent, we hunger for figures unimaginable. A hero with gigantic talents and perhaps even larger character flaws has gone gentle into that good night, and we are all the worse for it.

Many of his posts sound like ACLU newsletters, but this one critiques the central "crisis of masculinity" that defines the neoconservative movement.

Ultimately, the only cure for this level of insecurity over one's masculinity is to become a cheerleader for wars, torture, "getting tough" with our current Enemy (today: Iran), and politicians who prance around in fighter pilot costumes on the decks of aircraft carriers.  The vicarious sensations of pulsating strength must be so soothing to someone like this, so desperate to prove their manhood.

Greenwald's points match the brutal spasms of the British Empire as it slowly crumbled. Torture, killing unarmed civilians; the violence is justified, O'Dwyer-style, by the tough guys back home. The US had its Blackwater massacre, the British had their Jallianwala Bagh Massacre. This mindset also find satirization in All Quiet on the Western Front:

It is my German head-master, and he fastens on me with the usual question: "Well, how are things out there? Terrible, terrible, eh? Yes, it is dreadful, but we must carry on. And after all, you do at least get decent food out there, so I hear. You look well, Paul, and fit. Naturally it's worse here. Naturally. The best for our soldiers every time, that goes without saying."

He drags me along to a table with a lot of others. They welcome me, a head-master shakes hands with me and says: "So you come from the front? What is the spirit like out there? Excellent, eh? Excellent?"

I explain that no one would be sorry to be back home.

He laughs uproariously. "I can well believe it! But first you have to give the Froggies a good hiding. Do you smoke? Here, try one. Waiter, bring a beer as well for our young warrior."
[...]
They argue about what we ought to annex. the head-master with the steel watch-chain wants to have at least the whole of Belgium, the coal-areas of France, and a slice of Russia. He produces reasons why we must have them [...].

Yesterday I watched the Tatar attack scene in the film Andrei Rublev, the Tarkovsky masterpiece. Considering that scene, we forget, or choose not to acknowledge, one aspect of the invasion of Iraq: the attack was essentially on a defenseless, third-world nation, justified because of the suspicion (later proven totally false) that "weapons of mass destruction" might be used against the United States.

More an act of fear -- of cowardice -- than heroism. And all those Iraqis killed -- for what? Likewise torture is the brutalization of defenseless suspected terrorists, justified by a new form of racism based on the belief that all Arab and/or Muslim men are probably threats. If some get unnecessarily tortured and killed in the process, good then; it's intimidation -- the Tom Friedman "Suck. On. This." principle. As Greenwald points out, the process is a simple one of cowards sending off other people to fight wars and commit torture, a crime against humanity.

It's all enough to make a person sick.

 

As I read this book, I became enamored with the title. McTeague! McTeague! Greed! Greed! I've got the Erich von Stroheim-directed silent film _Greed_ ordered on interlibrary loan. The novel _McTeague_ is a brutally cynical look at the darker side of obsession and "every man [and woman] is a mob" psychology.

 

From the little background research that I've looked at, _McTeague_ is written in the naturalist style (e.g. Stephen Crane). I am getting very interested in this era of American literature, especially considering that my reading of Hawthorne has failed (too many commas!). There are boundless connections between the works of Darwin, Nietzsche, and Freud from approximately 1880-1922, when the critique of human reason took on fiery, religious tones.

 

_McTeague_ -- I didn't know what was going to happen next! (Except for the final scene Death Valley, which is one of the most legendary finishes in Hollywood history.) Characters get killed off, character flaws get warped out of all proportion (a la Greek drama and Shakespeare), the subplots foreshadow and develop themes beautifully. One of the only flaws of the book is Frank Norris' sometimes-forced transitions between the handful of San Francisco narratives. Some paragraphs aren't written that well, while others leap.

 

One of my favorite sections reads thus:

 

"The one room grew abominably dirty, reeking with the odors of cooking and of 'non-poisonous' paint. The bed was not made until late in the afternoon, sometimes not at all. Dirty, unwashed crockery, greasy knives, sodden fragments of yesterday's meals cluttered the table while in one corner was the heap of evil-smelling, dirty linen. Cockroaches appeared in the crevices of the woodwork, the wall-paper bulged from the damp walls and began to peel. Trina had long ago ceased to dust or to wipe the furniture with a bit of rag. The grime grew thick upon the window panes and in the corners of the room. All the filth of the alley invaded their quarters like a rising muddy tide.

 

"Between the windows, however, the faded photograph of the couple in their wedding finery looked down upon the wretchedness, Trina still holding her set bouquet straight before her, McTeague standing at her side, his left foot forwards, in the attitude of a Secretary of State; while near by hung the canary, the one thing the dentist clung to obstinately, piping and chittering all day in his little gilt prison."

 

Grime and crime -- that's the formula. What an era for American literature. I am happy to return to reading early and often.

Does Mindsay no longer have a leg to stand on? The activity I see on Facebook is Web 2.0 to the illest; here, not so much. (Insert cricket chirping sound.)

Smart policy. Sounds like having a policy more in line with what the best organization do. Compare the University of California system to Liberty University or Oral Roberts University. Talented people go where they are wanted.