"Whenever I go into a restaurant, I order both a chicken and an egg to see which comes first"

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Marfa Higgins, The South, And LGBT

“Buggery, welfare, and black people”, said Marfa Higgins. “That’s all you Yankees care about. What about all the good, decent, white people in America?”

She pulled out a recent copy of the Yale Alumni Magazine which she had ‘borrowed’ from her wayward uncle, Compton Blaine ‘57, waved it in my face, and read me the following Letter to the Editor:

Your obsession with race is unbecoming, absurd, endlessly tiresome, and – strange to say – racist. With this article (“Who was the first African American student at Yale”) you are in effect saying , “Wow, a black guy was smart enough to get into Yale in 1857”.  My answer is, “Who cares?”. As long as you are going to parse minorities for thrills, how about telling us when the first left-handed albino ever got into Yale?

“At least there is one of you overbred, Ivy League poufs who has some sense”.

Of course she was right.  No matter where you turn these days – The New York Times, Washington Post, The Guardian, The Atlantic, all journals of record, intelligence, and objectivity – you will find the broadsheets and glossy pages saturated with race, gender, and ethnicity.  A poor Kazakh immigrant, thanking Allah for the open arms of America as he struggles through any one of these journals to master English, might well think he has landed in Sodom, a land of libertinage, miscegenation, and a chaotic world of cross-dressers.

The Atlantic online today featured an article on dwarf sexuality, a piece bordering on the prurient and usually reserved for the Daily Mail or worse. A politically sensitive and sexually aware dwarf – or more correctly a ‘Little Person’ – had become frustrated with the limitations of an ‘other-shaped’ body.  One tended to get tangled or obstructed somehow, and there was a clear need to write a Kama Sutra for the 21st Century, or at least a Masters and Johnson.

Mary Lou Naccarato called it, “Heighten Your Sensuality & Intimacy: Innovative Techniques for the LP Body,” a resource manual used in conjunction with her workshops. It addressed everything from living with a disability, chronic illness, and injury, to LQBTQ topics, to explicit details of techniques, sexual positions, and even personal hygiene. In addition, it tackled the broad topics of intimacy and sensuality, body image issues, safe sex resources, and even topics like how to kiss, how to have non-intercourse sex, and how to simply embrace or caress another.

As noted in the paragraph above, Naccarato wanted to deal with all types of ‘alternate sexual behavior’ including not only Little People but gays, lesbians, and transsexuals who might need some guidance in figuring out what goes where and who does what to whom.

“And what is this ‘lean in’ nonsense?”, Marfa went on. She was hard to stop when she got her dander up, especially after three Jack Black’s. “God made women with cunts and men with dicks”, she said. ”Carly what’s-her-face and Sheryl Glass Ceiling got roughed up in the birth canal.  To many YY’s on their double helix. Closet bull dykes.”

Now I and many of Marfa’s other friends figured her for extra bits of male DNA.  She, despite her Southern belle pedigree and antebellum upbringing, could outman men at every turn. Yet she chose her political persona from the opposing camp.  Despite the fact that she was as tough as nails and as shit-kicking and man hating as any Bernal Heights bull dagger, she sided with the traditional woman – homemaker, homeschooler, obedient wife, church-goer, and community volunteer.  “The salt of the earth”, she said. “Descended from Esther, Ruth, Miriam, and Deborah. Obedient, faithful, honest women who cleaved to their better halves”.

I have lived for years in the Northeast; and because of my class, education, and upbringing, I was destined to be a liberal.  The parents of my New England friends were far from progressive.  They were the captains of industry who profiteered during the Civil War, producing armaments and hardware at exorbitant rates to the desperate Union; and who in the early days of the Republic made millions from the Three Cornered slave trade. Their grandfathers were relatives of the Rockefellers, Jay Gould, and the rest of the Robber Barons who resided on Park Avenue, hunted on Jekyll Island, and summered at Newport.

Something happened in the Sixties.  The cultural strands of DNA were snipped, and the children of these scions of American enterprise turned radically Left.  Yale had only a tenuous hold on these political rebels, and they lent their support to the Great Revolutionary Experiment of the Sixties.  Only in insulated redoubts did old-fashioned American conservatism survive – Nantucket, Bar Harbor, and the Upper Peninsula.

These reconstituted liberals migrated far from the rock-ribbed Republican conservatism which was based on frugality, parsimony, discipline, and service; and lost their bearings. Yale classmates who perched on the Yale Fence, dined at Mory’s, and sang with the Whiffenpoofs, rejected Jefferson, Locke, and Rousseau and took up with Paolo Freire, and Saul Alinsky.

“In the South, honey”, Marfa continued, “we have our share of pederasty, interracial intercourse, and uppity women. We just don’t make a big deal of it. The Mississippi carries all kinds of flotsam and jetsam, but its channel is deep, wide, and powerful.”

What she meant was that Josh Barnum was dirt-tracking Billy Thacker; that Joanne Fricker was going down on the the third grade teacher at Prentice Elementary; and that Homer Alter went out to the prairie every Thursday to ‘plough another’s furrow’; but that all these peccadilloes were routine and commonplace, not worth noting, and insignificant relative to the white, conservative, family values mainstream of the community.

“We prefer murder, embezzlement, and deceit”, Marfa said.

Leticia Harper had been married to her husband, Randolph, for over thirty years. They had both married when they were quite young – at Ole Miss as Leticia liked to recall, reminiscent of Tennessee Williams’ Maggie and Brick, but with a whole lot more passion and blood – and had led an exemplary life.  They were master and mistress of Live Oak, a grand antebellum mansion that had been in the family since 1850 when it was the residence of Randolph’s great-grandfather Ellison, the most successful and prosperous cotton merchant of the town.

Live Oak was on the Pilgrimage Tour – one of the South’s last celebrations of the antebellum plantation period – and was always shown last because of its grandeur and Gone with the Wind romantic appeal.  It was indeed magnificent, overlooking the river, set on tonsured and manicured grounds reminiscent of Versailles, four stories of polished mahogany, Empire lowboys, Baccarat crystal, Audubon prints, and Mallard beds.  Its centerpiece was a long, winding staircase which rose from the formal foyer up to the bedchambers of the first floor, the studies and libraries of the second, and the clerestory, a widow’s walk lookout with Revolutionary War period colored glass through which the morning and evening sun cast rainbows.

No one will ever know whether Leticia pushed Randolph to his death down the narrow circular staircase to his death three stories below, crushing his head on the Victorian bust of Julius Caesar; or whether he stumbled drunk out of his ‘little room’, nest for quickie trysts with the black maids and fell of his own accord down onto the Venetian marble floor.

“She pushed him, of course”, said Marfa.

Eugene O’Neill, despite his presumptive status as America’s greatest playwright wrote some pretty awful grand guignol melodramatic stuff in his early years; and it takes a passionate devotee to conclude that Long Day’s Journey Into Night makes up for Mourning Becomes Electra.  Nevertheless Southern Gothic owes a lot to O’Neill, more so than to Tennessee Williams, native son, pederast, and literary genius.

“That faggot Williams claimed he was a Southerner”, Marfa said, but he didn’t understand jack shit about it. O’Neill is our man.”

She was right. Mourning Becomes Electra has incest, murder, jealousy, family heritage, greed, and ambition – all the makings of Southern Gothic.

“I am sure that the only Williams play that interests you is Suddenly Last Summer” – a play about incest, homosexuality, family pimping, mental disorders, and sexual dysfunction.” 

Marfa was right.  If the ‘progressive’ academics of the Northeast who determine the curricula of today’s colleges were to choose a favorite American play, they would certainly choose Suddenly Last Summer.  How could they miss? An intense mother-son incestuous relationship never fulfilled.  A homosexual son who preys on Italian street children.  A mother who pimps for her son then reluctantly relinquishes the task to another.  A final Biblical consummation of cannibalism.

“We like Shakespeare, Lillian Hellman, and Edward Albee”, Marfa said.  “They speak to us.”

All three playwrights hated marriage, that most unnatural of social accommodations; but knew that it was the crucible within which moral, ethical, and philosophical conundrums were resolved.  George and Martha hated each other – or so it seemed at the beginning of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf – but they really loved each other.  They needed each other desperately it turns out, regardless of the twisted, destructive play-acting of the evening with Honey and Nick.

In the final accounting, no one cares who did what to whom in the bedroom.  Whether dwarves have to rig struts, balances, and trapezes to achieve orgasm; or how complex LGBT intercourse comes about.

There was a recent article in a well-known liberal magazine about the challenges of complex transsexual relationships, and described a sexual free-for-all where men dressed as women masquerading as men fucking men dressed as super-macho men but with pussy submissiveness.  “Sexual Identity”, the piece was titled. “Who’s on Top?”. The article was far less interesting than the Letter to the Editor.  The most intriguing was one from a reader from Dubuque of all places, who raised the dominatrix-child-innocence theme; and wondered where in the Victor Victoria scenario portrayed in a recent movie, the primordial and essential element of woman-female child sex had gotten lost.

I am firmly in lockstep with Marfa and the South. The insistent, persistent, and predictable focus on race, gender, and ethnicity is bo-ring to say the least.  The Histories of Shakespeare have real resonance – greed, self-interest, venality, ambition, and murderous intentions are the truest expressions of human nature.  Tolstoy wrote about death and its contemplation.  Dostoyevsky and Nietzsche wondered about Will, Good, and Evil. Chekhov understood the ponderous weight of history and the inability of Man to throw it off,  Ibsen and Strindberg valued human decisiveness, courage, and amorality.

Race, gender, and ethnicity are temporal follies – eddies on the shoals of the cultural Mississippi, catching random and insignificant flotsam and jetsam.

The ‘progressive’ Left is caught in these drifts.  Academics and political shills have missed the point again and again. Ukraine and Palestine are about Will, determination, and higher purpose.  Religious unrest and the rise of fundamentalism is more about Tolstoy, the Crusades, and the Holy Roman Empire than it is about gay rights.

Enough already!

Monday, July 28, 2014

Commercial Strips–American Exceptionalism At Its Best

Any small town over 5000 pop. has a commercial strip with Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, Burger King, Walmart, and much more.  The bigger the town, the bigger the strip.  By the time the traveller gets to Rockville Pike,  DC’s strip deluxe, the low-end fast food, cheapo oil changes, nail salons, and Piggly Wiggly of the South have long since given way to high end container stores, go-to destination restaurants, gourmet delis, Bloomingdale’s, pick-up bars, and thirty-something fitness centers; but it is still a strip – long, concrete, treeless, and mercilessly  retail. 

Many highways in America still look like Tucson’s Speedway Boulevard, called the nation’s most ugliest highway by Time Magazine in the early 70s.

“New Jersey has such a bad image”, the Chairwoman wrote the First Lady when she had first heard of her Highway Beautification initiative, “and we hope that you can help us show the world that we are not the sinkhole that most people think”.

A tall order for anyone who spent any time in northern New Jersey back then and smelled the stink of the oil refineries along the Jersey Turnpike, made it out of accidental detours through the decaying cities of Newark and Jersey, lost their way amidst the tangle of rail lines, container terminals, freight depots at Port Newark, fought their way to the airport or banged into the City on the  Pulaski Skyway and onto the feeder roads into the Holland and Lincoln Tunnels.

Jersey was ‘over there’; not only no man’s land, but Indian country – used cars, bail bonds, and Cuban sandwiches.  No reason to go.

Steinberg New Yorker Cover.png

Then came Lady Bird Johnson and her campaign to beautify New Jersey.  Of course she could not pick on a whole state, no matter how blighted, and therefore focused her attention on the one aspect of the state which was by far the ugliest – Route 1.   Thanks to her the State of New Jersey and local communities began to bury telephone lines, set back and limit the size of signs, plant trees and bushes along the roadway, and clean up litter. She put the nation on notice that she and her husband would no longer put up with highway blight, and no one else should either. 

Urban sprawl must have been particularly painful for Lady Bird, growing up as she did in the Texas Hill country where ranches spread for acres over grasslands, wooded hills, and plains.

“God, this is awful”, she told the Newark Herald as she rode down Route 1.  The comment got picked up by the national media, and the tangled overhead wires, miles of neon signs, unregulated retail, chaotic access, and sheer garish cheapness gave New Jersey unwanted attention and a renewed prominence as the country’s ugliest state.  Lady Bird meant only to draw attention to the highway – a before snapshot to be compared with her final vision of daffodils and tulips – but the press, and especially the Western newspapers saw it differently.  Residents of Montana and Wyoming were particularly critical.

“It isn’t bad enough”, wrote a woman from Butte in The Crested Butte News, “that the federal government sucks us dry with tax and spend programs, but to waste money on a state with no remedial promise, no hope for rehabilitation, and certainly not a chance in hell in becoming beautiful is downright stupid.”

The residents of New Jersey have always insisted that their state is not just what you see on the Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State Parkway.  “The adventurous tourist”, a recent brochure claimed, “will find a world of wondrous beauty in the Pine Barrens and in the Kittatinny Mountains”; but most Americans think that such promotions are pure nonsense.  New Jersey can’t possibly have mountains and wooded trails.  It is all a fiction, and a PR-spun fantasy.  One of the best-sellers in San Francisco is the New Jersey Turnpike T-Shirt, apparently made by the State Turnpike Authority without a trace of irony but appealing inadvertently to the retro-ironic chic of the Bay Area.

New Jersey has consolidated its image as a tough low-end state thanks to The Sopranos and Jersey Girls.  The Jersey Shore is more synonymous with hot-combed Nicky Norks, Frank Sinatra, and Buicks than ever before.  Of course the demographics of the state have changed dramatically since they heyday of the mob when goombas flocked to Neptune Beach; but it is still white and low-end, drawing from both Newark and South Philly.

Newark is the East Coast’s Detroit, and despite young, progressive mayors who take on the city’s ills as political challenges.  The city school system is the worst in the state and has been under state control for almost twenty years – a drastic step which was intended to reverse the decline and rescue Newark’s children.  Its social indicators – income, family composition, crime, drugs, and levels of incarceration – still rank alongside Detroit and most areas of  the eastern quadrants of Washington, DC.

So, no matter how much state officials protest, and no matter how much the exuberant Governor can praise his state, New Jersey is a state to be driven through as quickly as possible.  By the time Lady Bird’s Highway Beautification program had taken hold, few people used Route 1 as a throughway, preferring the Turnpike and the Parkway, and it has returned to its original land use – a hodgepodge of low-end retail, gas stations, and fast-food chains.

Although commercial highway strips may have started in the congested Northeast, they have spread everywhere.  Route 45 outside Columbus, Mississippi is a case in point.  Downtown Columbus is an attractive town with modest retail, a few quality restaurants, and many antebellum homes.  It has a traditional Southern feel, a landed gentry whose families have lived there for over 200 years, a small university, and reasonable racial mixing. 

Five minutes out of town, however, the blight begins.  Dollar stores, outlets for every national fast food chain, pawn shops, nail salons, cheap gas, liquor stores, and guns.  It is awful, but not unique.  There are strips outside of Hattiesburg, Greenwood, Laurel, Starkville, and Oxford, just as low-end, just as ugly, and just as necessary.  There is no room downtown.  The state is poor, and land out on the strip is cheap.

I grew up on the Berlin Turnpike which was one of the first commercial strips in the Northeast.  I hung out in bowling alleys, grinder joints, army-navy stores, and even in the cheap cabin-style motels at the far end of the Pike near Meriden.  Gas was cheap on the Pike especially during the gas wars, and soon most retail moved out of New Britain, Berlin, Meriden, and Wallingford.  The Berlin Turnpike is still there, but only the cheapest motels, no-name gas stations, and seedy bars have survived.  There has been no investment since the Interstate diverted north-south thru traffic, land is cheap, but nobody wants it.  Strips haven’t gone away, they have just been disassembled and regrouped in malls and shopping centers.

The architect Robert Venturi published Learning from Las Vegas (1972) wrote about American pop art as embodied in commercial strip development.

Denise Scott Brown characterized Venturi’s vision this way:

Learning from Las Vegas is a “treatise on symbolism in architecture.” Las Vegas is analyzed as a phenomenon of architectural communication. The ‘Strip’ is architecture of communication over space, achieved through style and signs. This is a unique condition in comparison to "enclosed space," which architects are more familiar with. Value of symbolism and allusion in architecture of vast space and speed are evidenced through the Strip. Hence, Las Vegas is not the subject of the book. The symbolism of architectural form is. Venturi has described in the Las Vegas study the victory of symbolism-space over forms-in-space.

This is perhaps too generous – an ex post facto justification for all that is kitsch and low-brow in America – but Venturi was on to something.  In many ways Las Vegas is the most American of cities – false, glitzy, fantastical, garish, outrageously big; but somehow full of the energy of the Wild West.  Las Vegas is just a supersized cartoon of the frontier town where cowboys got drunk in the saloon, hooked up with the prostitutes upstairs, took a bath, and gambled.  Frontier towns just grew up, and as long as they had a tack and saddle store, bar, and whore house, nobody cared what they looked like.  Every strip retail establishment with a donut on the top was symbolic of American hucksterism, enterprise, and total disregard if not disdain for planning.

A French friend of mine visiting from Paris visited Las Vegas and immediately said that it was is favorite city.  Coming from the trim, cultured, and sophisticated world of the French aristocracy – his family’s chateau was one of Europe’s finest and his great-ancestors had fought in the Third Crusade – I thought he would have preferred the more familiar brownstones of Boston, Georgetown, Philadelphia, or the antebellum South.

“Boring”, he said. “European knock-offs.  Las Vegas is the real America”; and so were the strip malls and highway commercial corridors outside of every town.   He and Robert Venturi agreed on the energy, Americanism, and symbolism of these places. Most critics dismiss this ironic French take on America.  France is the country which embraces Jerry Lewis, after all, as a genius; but always has done so with Gallic tongue-in-cheek and not-so-veiled derision of the country that spawned him.  The French and Robert Venturi can’t be serious.

On my many trips of exploration of the American South, I looked for its antebellum heart; and found it in towns that were preserved more because of neglect and indifference than any sense of local historical pride.  The wealth was out on the prairie, in industrial parks, and far from the old genteel center of town.  The only vitality in these small towns was out on the highway, the strip mall.  Everyone shopped out there, and only the most particular and wealthy patrons drove to Jackson or Birmingham or even farther to New Orleans to stock up.  The strips were the community’s arteries, and no one even noticed the ugliness.

The American highway strip is as American as any other cultural expression, if not more so. While tourists will still visit the Liberty Bell, the Washington Monument, and the Old South Church, they have to drive in and out of center-city on the strips surrounding the cities.  They pass through the real America without notice or comment. Which is why strips are more American than church steeples, old houses, or New England commons.