Yesterday in class I decided to use my one-on-one student as a guinea pig, and try out an exercise meant for a bigger class. It was basically about humor and what kinds of feelings inspire laughter. The lesson culminates in the student's piecing together of a joke from disjointed phrases. According to the "British Council for Scientific Research", this is the world's funniest joke. That point is up for debate.
The emphases here are rhythm and pacing as effective components of joke-telling in a social setting. The student in question is forever challenging me -- in a good way, challenging my preconceptions, and he can be quite recalcitrant. For example, when I brought up the issue of timing, pacing and inflection in joke-telling, asking him if he thought the delivery of a joke was important, I got this response:
"No, I don't think so, not at all."
"Really? You don't think that the way a joke is told, the inflection in the voice, or whether the person even has a gift for joke-telling, is important?"
"No, no. It doesn't matter. If the joke is funny, then the person tells the joke, and everybody laugh."
"So the joke stands or falls on it's own merit? It doesn't matter how it's told? I could read it off of a sheet of paper in a flat tone of voice, and it would still be funny?"
"If it is a good joke, then yes, I think it doesn't matter."
Now I know where Germans get their reputation for being humorless. Or perhaps, by the logic displayed here, they should find absolutely everything funny as hell!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Bye-Bye Rixdorf
I'm moving this month, back to my old flat in Friedrichshain. I'm glad, because I'll be back relatively closer to the center of things. I've enjoyed my time here in Neukoelln, it's a fascinating area. At times it seems a bit dodgy, though. My bike was stolen, for example, and occasionally i hear gunshots. I know a couple people who have been assaulted in the Hasenheide (famous park abutting the former Tempelhof Airport) as well.
Things I will miss: the winding, narrow streets around Richardplatz, and the abundance of Lidl stores in the area. For those of you not in the know, Lidl is the ultimate discount grocery outlet. Being connoisseur of exotic foods, I was delighted when my roommate introduced me to the wealth of delicacies on offer at this chain. For instance you can get a large bag of Erdnuss Flips for only 55 cents. Flips are to the best of my knowledge unheard of in the states, but here they are a popular snack. They are comprised of peanut oil and a kind of peanut powder, puffed up with air into an inflated comma shape (I guess it's an approximation of an actual unshelled peanut). Essentially, it's peanut-flavored Cheetos -- and if that sounds unappetizing, quite the contrary. The little bastards are downright addictive. I will still have access to flips, though, as there is a Lidl near my F-Hain digs. Whoops. I digressed there.
I will also miss Sonnenallee, that endless avenue of Oriental delights. I mean that in the Turkish sense as well as the Asian sense, for there is a panoply of Thai, Vietnamese and Chinese restaurants in addition to Occidental fare. Most of all I will miss the seedy Spielotheks and dodgy Spatkaufs, and the gruff men who run them. Invariably if you scratch one, there is a pussycat underneath.
Things I will miss: the winding, narrow streets around Richardplatz, and the abundance of Lidl stores in the area. For those of you not in the know, Lidl is the ultimate discount grocery outlet. Being connoisseur of exotic foods, I was delighted when my roommate introduced me to the wealth of delicacies on offer at this chain. For instance you can get a large bag of Erdnuss Flips for only 55 cents. Flips are to the best of my knowledge unheard of in the states, but here they are a popular snack. They are comprised of peanut oil and a kind of peanut powder, puffed up with air into an inflated comma shape (I guess it's an approximation of an actual unshelled peanut). Essentially, it's peanut-flavored Cheetos -- and if that sounds unappetizing, quite the contrary. The little bastards are downright addictive. I will still have access to flips, though, as there is a Lidl near my F-Hain digs. Whoops. I digressed there.
I will also miss Sonnenallee, that endless avenue of Oriental delights. I mean that in the Turkish sense as well as the Asian sense, for there is a panoply of Thai, Vietnamese and Chinese restaurants in addition to Occidental fare. Most of all I will miss the seedy Spielotheks and dodgy Spatkaufs, and the gruff men who run them. Invariably if you scratch one, there is a pussycat underneath.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Cunning Linguists
Currently contracted with a certain German Rail firm which shall remain nameless, I was recently called upon to do some editorial work on a jargon-filled intra-company brochure, regarding such cryptic and vaguely pornographic-sounding (maybe I am just a dreckige Sau) concepts as "Combined Transport" and the "transshipment" of "load units" in their "3 Corridor Structure". Oh, and let's not forget "add-on modules". Somebody get the smelling salts!
The in-house translation is betrayed by the tortured syntax and relentlessly abstract and logical progression of ideas, which occasionally get bogged down in repetition. I sat mesmerized as the rep drew several diagrams and charts to augment the abstruse technical English welded together by the translator. We had to dissect each sentence individually, and she did her best to define the terms to a mere lay person. Poring over such patently meaningless and stiff-as-a-board phrases as I had ever heard ("turnkey solutions"?) I wondered if the customers or contract-holders would even understand the exact nature of the products and services being described. The agency wants me to hack away some of the verbiage (you laugh) and simplify the text for clients throughout Europe and Asia. As you can see I have my work cut out for me:
Multimodal transport chains are one of the most important ways of carrying goods efficiently and reliably from A to B. We live up to these expectations by providing our core competency -- the rail transport of load units -- as part of Combined Transport chains. We also offer a further range of logistics components in the form of add-on modules and comprehensive extra services at the terminals, as well as services relating to all aspects of load units. Constant optimisation (Germans LOVE this word) of our transport products, efficient processes at the interfaces, and complete logistics solutions with suitable partner companies are our response to coping with increasingly complex logistics tasks.
It couldn't have been said better by HAL , 2001's evil computer himself. It's no wonder Dinglish has come under fire lately for adding bizarre, clunky and untranslatable phrases to the lexicon. Two examples from recent ad campaigns: "Come in and find out!" and "Powered by emotion!" Even my students are totally perplexed by these forehead-smack-inducing expressions.
I couldn't help but envisage a US counterpart to such a brochure, which would eschew logic for idiomatic feeling with a folksy Sarah Palin type in hard hat, proudly cutting the crap in her nasal Wasilla inflection:
"Don't sweat it, we'll get yer stuff where it needs to go, OK?"
Unlike a computer, we can all trust a friendly, sexy librarian, right?
The in-house translation is betrayed by the tortured syntax and relentlessly abstract and logical progression of ideas, which occasionally get bogged down in repetition. I sat mesmerized as the rep drew several diagrams and charts to augment the abstruse technical English welded together by the translator. We had to dissect each sentence individually, and she did her best to define the terms to a mere lay person. Poring over such patently meaningless and stiff-as-a-board phrases as I had ever heard ("turnkey solutions"?) I wondered if the customers or contract-holders would even understand the exact nature of the products and services being described. The agency wants me to hack away some of the verbiage (you laugh) and simplify the text for clients throughout Europe and Asia. As you can see I have my work cut out for me:
Multimodal transport chains are one of the most important ways of carrying goods efficiently and reliably from A to B. We live up to these expectations by providing our core competency -- the rail transport of load units -- as part of Combined Transport chains. We also offer a further range of logistics components in the form of add-on modules and comprehensive extra services at the terminals, as well as services relating to all aspects of load units. Constant optimisation (Germans LOVE this word) of our transport products, efficient processes at the interfaces, and complete logistics solutions with suitable partner companies are our response to coping with increasingly complex logistics tasks.
It couldn't have been said better by HAL , 2001's evil computer himself. It's no wonder Dinglish has come under fire lately for adding bizarre, clunky and untranslatable phrases to the lexicon. Two examples from recent ad campaigns: "Come in and find out!" and "Powered by emotion!" Even my students are totally perplexed by these forehead-smack-inducing expressions.
I couldn't help but envisage a US counterpart to such a brochure, which would eschew logic for idiomatic feeling with a folksy Sarah Palin type in hard hat, proudly cutting the crap in her nasal Wasilla inflection:
"Don't sweat it, we'll get yer stuff where it needs to go, OK?"
Unlike a computer, we can all trust a friendly, sexy librarian, right?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Service Schmurvis
Sometimes if you want something done well, or done at all, you have to grab the bull by the balls and do it yourself. Once in London I was subject to the whims of a sadistic barber who made no bones about his disdain for the American people. There is nothing so humbling as finding yourself strapped to a chair at the mercy of a mad Italian with rusty clippers, with a -- perhaps well-founded -- vendetta against your tribe. (This was, after all, 2002, with genocidal George W. Hitler in the ascendancy and the disastrous response to 9/11 just under our belt.) I had attempted gingerly and clearly to explain what I wanted. The little man gave a nod of understanding. He then undertook to give me an Alfalfa-Mohican hybrid which would have put Don King to shame. He spun me round in the chair.
"Whoa!!!"
"Is that short enough?" he asked.
"Which part?" I expostulated. There were chunks here, bald patches there. It was a real crazy quilt of a hair-don't. I'd asked for a simple military style buzz cut. How challenging could that be? My scalp now resembled like an ill-kept lawn. I looked to my companion, sitting mere feet away, for a little moral support, but he sunk sheepishly behind his magazine with an expression that said "You're on your own on this one, pal." I can't say as I blame him, being at the mercy of this would-be Sweeney Todd. Surely quicker results would have been obtained had I nabbed the clippers and peeled my own noggin, rather than having to guide this xenophobic cretin through the process of damage control. Owing to the style I had originally wanted, my condition was fortunately remediable. This fiasco is partially (also because I am a rugged individualist) why I cut my own hair now.
A similar creeping feeling of exasperation, of powerlessly wanting to take the reins, takes me over as I stand, waiting, waiting, in this so-called "Copy Shop" in deepest Treptower Park. There are hundreds like it in the area, but, like customer service in general in Deutschland, efficiency is not at a premium (I'll save the question of politeness for another rant). Services like "kopieren", "drucken" (printing) and "scannen" are offered, but at the best of times it seems like bait-and-switch. And selbstbedingung, or Self-service, is never the order of the day. Usually if you want something printed or copied, they have to crank it out of some crap-o fax, held together with scotch tape and bubble-gum, behind the counter. I'm dreaming of Kinko's.
Today there are five stand-alone copy machines in the lobby of this joint, but they don't trust one to man his own machine. The cashier has to abandon his post and make the copies himself, per the customer's (pained) instruction. Apparently I have interrupted his internet solitaire reverie, though. After each copy he rushes back behind the counter to slaver glaze-eyed over the colored shapes on his computer screen, fag in hand (like most of these Internet Shops, it is an urban oasis for the smoker and bears the de rigeur "Rauchen Ja" in flashing neon Pixels -- a tacky de facto re-creation of the old Parker Brothers "Light Bright" -- in spite of the city's attempts to pass a no-smoking ordinance.) You'd think we were in one of the goddamned Spielotheks. I guess ten seconds without a smoke and a card game is too much to ask for. Just ask the guys in "Cafe Harem" down the street, where the only estrogen present is pulling pints behind the bar. Languishing under the spell of the Arabic equivalent of Texas Hold-'Em, these dudes wouldn't know a snatch if it landed on their faces.
Glancing clock-ward, I realize it's taken 15 minutes and I am almost late for my Englischkurs. So much for convenience in proximity. Now paper is darting out from different slots in different sizes, but our friend the cashier is unfazed. An extra-large sheet spews out of the copier. I tell him to recopy it, but he raises an index finger, disappears behind the desk, emerging a moment later with a pair of scissors, hacks the offending paper into a jagged shard of a rectangle.
A copy is ejaculated bearing 48-point font, effectively cropping the text. I balk, but our guy remains blase behind his blue Gauloise cloud. He obviously needs me to hold his Schwanz throughout the process. Ash drips on the copy tray. After what seems like an eternity I'm paying at the front and collecting my teaching materials, such as they are. Any anger I feel is quickly defused by the sudden flirtatious tone of the indolent cashier.
"Bist du dann zufrieden? (Are you happy then?)"
I crack a grin. "Ja," I say, blushing like a schoolgirl, or as they say auf Deutsch, rotwerden (literally "to become red".) Customer service or no, I am unable to the end to resist the sly humor of a cheeky bastard.
"Whoa!!!"
"Is that short enough?" he asked.
"Which part?" I expostulated. There were chunks here, bald patches there. It was a real crazy quilt of a hair-don't. I'd asked for a simple military style buzz cut. How challenging could that be? My scalp now resembled like an ill-kept lawn. I looked to my companion, sitting mere feet away, for a little moral support, but he sunk sheepishly behind his magazine with an expression that said "You're on your own on this one, pal." I can't say as I blame him, being at the mercy of this would-be Sweeney Todd. Surely quicker results would have been obtained had I nabbed the clippers and peeled my own noggin, rather than having to guide this xenophobic cretin through the process of damage control. Owing to the style I had originally wanted, my condition was fortunately remediable. This fiasco is partially (also because I am a rugged individualist) why I cut my own hair now.
A similar creeping feeling of exasperation, of powerlessly wanting to take the reins, takes me over as I stand, waiting, waiting, in this so-called "Copy Shop" in deepest Treptower Park. There are hundreds like it in the area, but, like customer service in general in Deutschland, efficiency is not at a premium (I'll save the question of politeness for another rant). Services like "kopieren", "drucken" (printing) and "scannen" are offered, but at the best of times it seems like bait-and-switch. And selbstbedingung, or Self-service, is never the order of the day. Usually if you want something printed or copied, they have to crank it out of some crap-o fax, held together with scotch tape and bubble-gum, behind the counter. I'm dreaming of Kinko's.
Today there are five stand-alone copy machines in the lobby of this joint, but they don't trust one to man his own machine. The cashier has to abandon his post and make the copies himself, per the customer's (pained) instruction. Apparently I have interrupted his internet solitaire reverie, though. After each copy he rushes back behind the counter to slaver glaze-eyed over the colored shapes on his computer screen, fag in hand (like most of these Internet Shops, it is an urban oasis for the smoker and bears the de rigeur "Rauchen Ja" in flashing neon Pixels -- a tacky de facto re-creation of the old Parker Brothers "Light Bright" -- in spite of the city's attempts to pass a no-smoking ordinance.) You'd think we were in one of the goddamned Spielotheks. I guess ten seconds without a smoke and a card game is too much to ask for. Just ask the guys in "Cafe Harem" down the street, where the only estrogen present is pulling pints behind the bar. Languishing under the spell of the Arabic equivalent of Texas Hold-'Em, these dudes wouldn't know a snatch if it landed on their faces.
Glancing clock-ward, I realize it's taken 15 minutes and I am almost late for my Englischkurs. So much for convenience in proximity. Now paper is darting out from different slots in different sizes, but our friend the cashier is unfazed. An extra-large sheet spews out of the copier. I tell him to recopy it, but he raises an index finger, disappears behind the desk, emerging a moment later with a pair of scissors, hacks the offending paper into a jagged shard of a rectangle.
A copy is ejaculated bearing 48-point font, effectively cropping the text. I balk, but our guy remains blase behind his blue Gauloise cloud. He obviously needs me to hold his Schwanz throughout the process. Ash drips on the copy tray. After what seems like an eternity I'm paying at the front and collecting my teaching materials, such as they are. Any anger I feel is quickly defused by the sudden flirtatious tone of the indolent cashier.
"Bist du dann zufrieden? (Are you happy then?)"
I crack a grin. "Ja," I say, blushing like a schoolgirl, or as they say auf Deutsch, rotwerden (literally "to become red".) Customer service or no, I am unable to the end to resist the sly humor of a cheeky bastard.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Schlockmeister Hier!!!
Recently laid up with an Erkaltung (cold), self-medicating with some herbs prescribed by a local pharmacist friend (always good for a Katarrh) and jonesing for some American-style kitsch, I discovered quite by accident a website which features a somewhat random list of long-deleted films for free download. They are all in the public domain, so you don't have to become a member, simply press "download" and Voila! Instant movie collection. There are classics here I have forgotten about, never seen, or never knew existed.
So far I can recommend two schlocky TV movies from the seventies, Bad Ronald and How Awful About Allan. Ronald stars Scott Jacoby, a teenage mama's boy who seems to be suffering from an acute case of Asperger's Syndrome. Within the first 5 minutes he's accidentally killed a young girl, and hilarity ensues when his already overprotective mother goes into hyperdrive. For some reason I was rent with suspense during this little thriller, and it's nice and compact and marginally satisfying. Fans of alternate realities will appreciate Ronald's creation of a Narnia-like universe of which he is the default ruler, although it's really just a way for the writers to telegraph that he's lost control of reality. A whiff of prestige comes from Kim Hunter of Streetcar Named Desire fame, in the thankless role as the castrating mummy. Postscript: the period outfits are also a stitch to behold.
Next up we have How Awful About Allan, a title I relish intoning, not least because it's from the creators of such syntactically similar constructions as Who Slew Auntie Roo? and What's the Matter with Helen? Schlock fans may recall John Water's Crackpot and the section in which he reveals that his favorite moments in film, the real goosebump raisers, occur when a character actually says the title of the film out loud: "When Debbie Reynolds finally uttered those immortal lines, 'Well, What's the matter with Helen?'" Waters writes, "I nearly levitated out of my seat." I'll have to watch it again to see if this happens in "Allan", but the sheer number of times characters call out "Allan!" is enough to drive anyone insane, and rivals that of "Carol Anne!" uttered in Poltergeist.
Allan is a tawdry technicolor thriller featuring reliably typecast Anthony Perkins, let loose on the set like a headless chicken queen let out of its coop, spewing vitriolic bile with such deadpan comic timing you think he might melt if he touched water. There's faux-Freudian subtext, the great Julie Harris as the disfigured sister, an open-ended, surreal ending, and the gaslighting of a person suffering from hysterical blindness. A recipe for some serious shenanigans! Allan is crazy, you see, having lost it after his revered academic father is killed in a house fire. Allan, instead of entering the room to save his father (whom he also resents -- enter Freud) stands there paralyzed with fear, while Daddy's girl Harris rushes into the room to save her father and ends up being hideously disfigured, something which later changes. In fact, this film was far ahead of its time in respect to realistic depictions of plastic surgery. Allan spends time in an asylum, moves back into their Victorian home with his sister, who takes on a mysterious lodger. Allan soon begins to believe rather baroque conspiracies against him, and it is up to the audience to put the puzzle pieces together. Suffice it to say, the best plot and hammy acting ever! You won't soon forget images of Allan/Perkins stealing a car and tooling around town like Mr. Magoo on a flight of bipolar mania! Also featuring Joan Hackett in a hairstyle lifted direct from Cora the Maxwell House lady!
Next up in our Triumvirate of Terror is another technicolor flick, this time an unheard of film from England "Deviance", a simply titled and simply plotted suspenser featuring unknown actors playing killer hippies in a dilapidated mansion on the English countryside. This is the dark side of swinging London, set in creepy, mildewy tones, with miscegenation and intergenerational stoner sex, raving mad blind women chained to beds, intravenous drug use, a soupcon of bloodletting, including a posthumous tattoo removal which is ingeniously used in a Grand Guignol tableau! It's all so very British, and reminded me of the song "Brutality" by Black Box Recorder:
Whatever happened to the fear of god?
Whatever happened to church on sunday?
Whatever happened to the velvet glove?
And the iron fist
Whatever happened to the social season?
Whatever happened to the debutants?
Whatever happened to the South of France?
Good old fashioned brutality
Everything in it's place
Good old fashioned barbarity
Leave the room in disgrace
Whatever happened to drinking and driving
And doing the decent thing?
Hiding out on the continent
Getting over a nervous breakdown
Close the ranks and remove all traces
Say anything to stay out of jail
What it really boils down to:
It always wins, it never fails
Good old fashioned brutality
Everything in it's place
Good old fashioned barbarity
Leave the room in disgrace
Ah-ah-ah,ah-ah...
Driving back from a late night party
Took a corner much too fast
Head-on collision with the 21st century
Whatever happened to brutality?
Geniessen Sie!!!!
http://cultrararevideos.com/forgottenflixb.html
Obamennui
The opinions on the Obama phenomenon here are as various and verschieden as anywhere else. En masse,as we saw at the Siegessaule, the Germans can be counted on to give Obama a glorious welcome. Talking to the man on the street, one gets the feeling that people see him as a great symbol, but they possess a healthy skepticism and realize of course that his work is cut out for him and a successful presidency is not a foregone conclusion. I think it's much easier to have an objective viewpoint here in Deutschland because everything isn't clouded by Obamamania. Whether he can make good on his platitudes remains to be seen. People are happy, but it is also testament to the "logical" German brain the most people feel that we will "have to wait and see." Well, I suppose I am underselling the Krauts, as anyone with half a brain could see that.
Still, objectivity trumps the euphoria and I'm feeling a little bit deprived, since the US hasn't seen anything like this since Camelot days. I'm not making hyperbolic comparisons -- but it seems all of the US media are, although venerating this dubious dynasty is as misguided as doing the same with the Bush clan. This wave of magic that is sweeping the country seems unreal to me, but in a way it's the end of an era, and the diametric opposite of 9/11. It's like a shred of hope has been woven into a great gossamer dress -- Michelle Obama's inauguration dress! OK, brocade...
Students, friends, the baker on the corner, they're all unfailingly curious about my view of Obama. During the primaries it was a constant refrain of "Hilary or Obama?" Then Sarah Palin came on the scene, and all bets were off when this turkey and her turkeys seemed to dominate news coverage. It's as if I'm some sort of receptacle for people's hopes, or proxy, as a US voter. For one thing, everyone says a black man would never get elected into office in Europe. For another thing, it allows die Deutschen Leute a vicarious outlet for any nationalistic fantasies they may have, which because of the recent history here is strictly verboten save for at fussball season. And of course the people here are genuinely invested in events on the world stage.
"Ich bin auch zufrieden" said the baker, speaking pridefully of a local who gave 10,000 Euros to Obama's campaign. Others are not so glowing in their reviews. One dude cattily apostrophized, "Is Obama yo' Mama?" Others, again, feel that we will have to wait until the honeymoon period is over and see what remains. "I think it's good that he said he is only one man, and that it will take time to undo all the damage from the Bush administration, because it humanizes him. This is only one man who is taking on this huge task. So I liked that part. But I am still not sure about him" said a measured, soft-spoken pupil of mine sanguinely.
Yes, the tradeoff of Obama's striking and high-flying rhetoric of change, seems to be that most of his words, while striking a chord, are basically rooted in generalities. One tandem partner of mine felt that in this respect Obama strained credulity. But I think it's more the American style he was highlighting, contrasted with that of the German politicians, who are expected to bring concrete numbers to the table, Excel spreadsheets in hand. The people want exact percentages right down to the decimal!
Still others seem tired of the whole thing and wish it would go away. I tried to stimulate a discussion about politics in one of my classes with an article about Obama and change, but they seemed weary after two years of constant news coverage.
Suddenly self-conscious that I had offended them, I segued quickly, doing a 180 turn into German politics, which they claim no-one is interested in because it's boring. Not for me! Quite an interesting dynamic there. We have Angela Merkel and the Christian Democrats on the right left, the Green Party on the far left, with Rose, and an unnamed rep on the right right. According to one of my students, Green Party maven Rose is regarded ironically as a radiant celebrity who doesn't focus enough on politics, much like Klaus Wowereit, the openly gay mayor of Berlin (ditto his doppelganger, the young, good-looking, openly gay mayor of the richer Hanseatic port to the north, Hamburg), who, according to the same source is always photgraphed with a glass of champagne in his hand. Whereas the female representative on the right is considered by my student to be the better role model for the new woman, much of the left is derided as being glib, shallow party animals!
After this lively discussion, I realized that the problems of a social democracy are not so far removed from those of advanced capitalism. They are just refracted through a different (telephoto) lens, and everything is turned a degree or two to the left, to clumsily mix metaphors. But the same foibles, messy contradictions and paradoxes, conflicts of interest and personality cults remain part and parcel of both systems. However, I doubt we'll be hearing about Merkel-o-mania on the boob tube anytime soon.
Still, objectivity trumps the euphoria and I'm feeling a little bit deprived, since the US hasn't seen anything like this since Camelot days. I'm not making hyperbolic comparisons -- but it seems all of the US media are, although venerating this dubious dynasty is as misguided as doing the same with the Bush clan. This wave of magic that is sweeping the country seems unreal to me, but in a way it's the end of an era, and the diametric opposite of 9/11. It's like a shred of hope has been woven into a great gossamer dress -- Michelle Obama's inauguration dress! OK, brocade...
Students, friends, the baker on the corner, they're all unfailingly curious about my view of Obama. During the primaries it was a constant refrain of "Hilary or Obama?" Then Sarah Palin came on the scene, and all bets were off when this turkey and her turkeys seemed to dominate news coverage. It's as if I'm some sort of receptacle for people's hopes, or proxy, as a US voter. For one thing, everyone says a black man would never get elected into office in Europe. For another thing, it allows die Deutschen Leute a vicarious outlet for any nationalistic fantasies they may have, which because of the recent history here is strictly verboten save for at fussball season. And of course the people here are genuinely invested in events on the world stage.
"Ich bin auch zufrieden" said the baker, speaking pridefully of a local who gave 10,000 Euros to Obama's campaign. Others are not so glowing in their reviews. One dude cattily apostrophized, "Is Obama yo' Mama?" Others, again, feel that we will have to wait until the honeymoon period is over and see what remains. "I think it's good that he said he is only one man, and that it will take time to undo all the damage from the Bush administration, because it humanizes him. This is only one man who is taking on this huge task. So I liked that part. But I am still not sure about him" said a measured, soft-spoken pupil of mine sanguinely.
Yes, the tradeoff of Obama's striking and high-flying rhetoric of change, seems to be that most of his words, while striking a chord, are basically rooted in generalities. One tandem partner of mine felt that in this respect Obama strained credulity. But I think it's more the American style he was highlighting, contrasted with that of the German politicians, who are expected to bring concrete numbers to the table, Excel spreadsheets in hand. The people want exact percentages right down to the decimal!
Still others seem tired of the whole thing and wish it would go away. I tried to stimulate a discussion about politics in one of my classes with an article about Obama and change, but they seemed weary after two years of constant news coverage.
Suddenly self-conscious that I had offended them, I segued quickly, doing a 180 turn into German politics, which they claim no-one is interested in because it's boring. Not for me! Quite an interesting dynamic there. We have Angela Merkel and the Christian Democrats on the right left, the Green Party on the far left, with Rose, and an unnamed rep on the right right. According to one of my students, Green Party maven Rose is regarded ironically as a radiant celebrity who doesn't focus enough on politics, much like Klaus Wowereit, the openly gay mayor of Berlin (ditto his doppelganger, the young, good-looking, openly gay mayor of the richer Hanseatic port to the north, Hamburg), who, according to the same source is always photgraphed with a glass of champagne in his hand. Whereas the female representative on the right is considered by my student to be the better role model for the new woman, much of the left is derided as being glib, shallow party animals!
After this lively discussion, I realized that the problems of a social democracy are not so far removed from those of advanced capitalism. They are just refracted through a different (telephoto) lens, and everything is turned a degree or two to the left, to clumsily mix metaphors. But the same foibles, messy contradictions and paradoxes, conflicts of interest and personality cults remain part and parcel of both systems. However, I doubt we'll be hearing about Merkel-o-mania on the boob tube anytime soon.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Hell is Other Peeps
After plumbing the depths of Susan Sontag's psyche, I dove straight into those of John Cheever. I guess I'm a voyeur at heart. But the empathy that can arise from reading diaries of a famous intellectual, soon curdles into over-familiarity with another's diurnal habits. For Chrissakes, I got to know what Sontag had for lunch ! It's the same problem with today's memoirs, which are basically beefed up and fictionalized journals. Too much enumeration and description of bowel movements, etc. There's only so much exposure to another person's solipsism, unshaped by the revision process, one can take, until it tips over into resentment of The Other. For me, it's just another form of the dreaded Confessionalism. If I want to read about someone's menstrual cycle, I'll bloody well pick up Anne Sexton, something which has been distilled into "art". One puts down such a journal in relief, and breathes in the brisk fresh air again. I think most people are unsympathetic in some way (especially to a narcissistic misanthrope like me), and this is why authors choose to publish their journals posthumously. That said, these journals are valuable for the occasional nugget of truth, the odd diamond in the rough.
In the case of Cheever, according to his son's forward to the book, his image in the journals were so counter to his (apparently superficial) "Bard of Suburbia" sobriquet that it was a great relief, a huge albatross slung from the neck, for him to arrange for their publication before his death. The son was duly horrified but not unmoved by the revelations contained therein, as his father gloated while he pored over the journals, waiting for a reaction.
The book really stands as an argument against the insidious power of repression, and how it uglifies a personality. This is not a likable or attractive person, but what redeems him is his forthrightness about these traits. In his fiction Cheever had a nice grasp of the sublime. In reality, though, he was a hard-drinking, tormented man deeply conflicted about his sexuality (like his hero Hemingway), covertly judgmental of others, although he and his family were not spared his bile (in fact he reveals some nascent incestuous longings). He is also unflinchingly honest about the limitations of his own vocabulary and worldview. On the surface he reeked of Cotilion dresses, dance cards, a "pearl-handled revolver", crushed flowers and other symbols of the rarefied air of WASPy New England. Underneath, the smell of stale sperm and urinals. "I have seen the writing on the toilet walls" he says in one breath, while hypocritically excoriating "sinners" in the next. I can see how it would be a catharsis for this Larry Craig of the intelligentsia to show the world the true negativist, seedy self which lay at the heart of the personification of suburbia.
In the case of Cheever, according to his son's forward to the book, his image in the journals were so counter to his (apparently superficial) "Bard of Suburbia" sobriquet that it was a great relief, a huge albatross slung from the neck, for him to arrange for their publication before his death. The son was duly horrified but not unmoved by the revelations contained therein, as his father gloated while he pored over the journals, waiting for a reaction.
The book really stands as an argument against the insidious power of repression, and how it uglifies a personality. This is not a likable or attractive person, but what redeems him is his forthrightness about these traits. In his fiction Cheever had a nice grasp of the sublime. In reality, though, he was a hard-drinking, tormented man deeply conflicted about his sexuality (like his hero Hemingway), covertly judgmental of others, although he and his family were not spared his bile (in fact he reveals some nascent incestuous longings). He is also unflinchingly honest about the limitations of his own vocabulary and worldview. On the surface he reeked of Cotilion dresses, dance cards, a "pearl-handled revolver", crushed flowers and other symbols of the rarefied air of WASPy New England. Underneath, the smell of stale sperm and urinals. "I have seen the writing on the toilet walls" he says in one breath, while hypocritically excoriating "sinners" in the next. I can see how it would be a catharsis for this Larry Craig of the intelligentsia to show the world the true negativist, seedy self which lay at the heart of the personification of suburbia.
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