On Mythology

Grant McCracken has one of those tossed-off ideas that seem profound at first glance:

Firefox and Fire Eagle sound a little like mythical creatures, the sort of thing we might hear about from the mythic worlds of North American aboriginals, classical Greece, or ancient Scandinavia. And this works too. Natural creatures with supernatural powers, this makes sense. Ordinary creatures with extraordinary powers. Mythic creatures that make periodic appearances in the human world.

...

Maybe this is why a mythological naming appeals to us. It is a little as if we have been returned to a mythical world, or a human world shot through with mythical interventions. As our world is turned upside down by the new technologies, it does begin to feel like a place occupied by creatures capricious and unpredictable, spectacular but often unintelligible, sometimes intervening on our behalf but just as often unkind to our kind. If we were to put a face to the digital revolution, maybe this it: hybrid creatures with fantastic powers engaging in spectacular interventions in the human world, but rarely possessed of anything more than a casual interest in human welfare.

Of course this falls apart when you expand the corpus a little bit. But I think there is something there -- at least, something that could be worked into literary form. Perhaps in a novel about the persistence of folklore and myths, say.

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Gah!

We are living, the New York Times has declared, in a "new Gilded Age." It seems like I read that phrase at least once a day, as though the Grey Lady were becoming senile and repeating herself. That's all well enough: corporate executive pay has increased exponentially, workers' compensation has barely stayed even with inflation, vast pools of wealth are created by well-connected financiers and traders, paying for mind-boggling luxury apartments and private school tuitions and whatever toys modern man can think of. Fine, dandy. Maybe not entirely accurate, but the term is catchy. I can deal with seeing this phrase used more commonly than, say, allusions to Shakespeare or snide Bush-speak references.

And now, Paul Krugman (or his editor) is getting in on the act:

I’d put it this way: many progressives, myself included, hope that the next president will be another F.D.R. But we worry that he or she will turn out to be another Grover Cleveland instead — better-intentioned and much more competent than the current occupant of the White House, but too dependent on lobbyists’ money to seriously confront the excesses of our new Gilded Age.

In fairness, his column generally does hammer inequality-furthering economic policies.

But this phrase still pisses me off, royally, deeply, because I'm half-convinced that The Paper of Record means to praise with faint damning. Well-intentioned left-wing Liberal institution that it is, the Times can be deeply, embarrassingly sycophantic to power and wealth: (see Elizabeth Bumiller's reporting on President Bush's tailor in the wake of the 2004 election). Its arts and lifestyle pages dote on the haute bourgeoisie: the self-congratulatory class of successful bankers and executives who can afford to carve out their duplex condos, and the professionals who serve them. These are the best and the brightest, living in glass-walled Upper East Side homes, worrying over school admissions for their four children with Victorian names, splurging on expensive ties and cars and interior decorators. When the New York Times refers to the "new Gilded Age," its audience are the smiling, cheerful robber barons who read with nodding self-recognition, and the struggling intellectuals or artists who went to the same universities. There's something smug about the term; something darker, too, which brings out my (just barely) inner misanthrope. It's not simply that the phrase recognizes the existence of inequalities, or their heavy costs: it's that the subjects of the phrase ("We" are living in "the new Gilded Age") recognize the evil, too, or at least the unpleasantness -- many of them voted for Kerry, probably love Krugman, and all donate to well-meaning charities -- but continue on with their well-paid jobs as bankers, executives, lawyers, or what have you. Call it self-alienation of the ruling classes. It's just the way the world works.

Day is done

The last weekend of September was beautiful. The sky was blue and the air clear, with a taste of autumn, cool and clean and firm as the oak in a glass of Tennessee whiskey. It was a good day to die.

Or to complete a collapse that the baseball world has described as "historic".

This isn't a site to go into details of the Mets' play over the last three weeks. I've been as stunned and frustrated as anyone else watching the losses, one following the other, each as unlikely as the previous, and an incomprehensible statistical aberration when considered as a whole. But, them's the breaks. Baseball is a game of odds as much as it is of brawn or brains, and every now and then shit happens. Sometimes it happens at the worst possible time, and continues to happen. After a while you shout every filthy word you can shout, throw every object in the living room, and all that's left is to laugh. I reached that point about a week ago: it hurts to give up on your boys so early, but the bullpen this year would have had trouble surviving the Division Series. Realistically, we lost the division for good somewhere on that last DC / Miami road trip.

So I swore once this afternoon, loudly, for the hell of it, and then I laughed, and then I got up in the 7th inning and took care of some business around the Upper West Side, where there were other suffering residents wearing the blue and the orange.

In a couple decades I'll recount this month happily, with a resigned face: it's fun to gripe. I can take some comfort from that thought. And in a couple months I'll be following the news closely. Here are some concerns: Minaya needs to revamp the bullpen. The starters will need some work, too. Is LoDuca coming back? Does Green belong on this team? Can Milledge become an everyday outfielder? Are there any managers available who know how to run a clubhouse AND run a ballgame? But for now, it's time to let this season go. Drink and laugh, for the baseball gods are fickle. With any luck, Philly will embarrass themselves next week. It's about time we had some luck.

And thanks, John Maine, for giving us yesterday's few hours of joy. This winter would have been a lot colder had you not shown us what this team is capable of, in ordinary times -- and what you can do when you're not tipping your change-up. I'll throw you some All-Star votes next year for that one game, and, I hope, for a few more years after.

Livejournal has this field where diarists say what music they're listening to. This evening the music is Over the Rhine, "I Don't Wanna Waste Your Time." You were a good squad, guys; Jeff knows we've seen worse in Flushing. But you didn't seize the division title when you had the chance. Take a few months to look for that killer instinct, and we'll see you in the spring. Hopefully with reinforcements.

"But I don’t wanna waste the words
That you don’t seem to need
When it comes to wanting what’s real
There’s no such thing as greed
I hope this night puts down deep roots
I hope we plant a seed
‘Cause I don’t wanna waste your time
With music you don’t need"

The drink right now is Jack Daniels, with ice.

Cycles of History

I never saw the Talking Heads at CBGBs during the 70s. But last night I saw the closest our age can offer: Architecture in Helsinki played the Fillmore at Irving Plaza. Judging from the set list, their new album combines hipster culture childhood-chic with emphatic 'Heads-esque guitar rhythms and androgyously-voiced lead vocals. Art rock it ain't -- a little too lightweight -- but New Wave repeated as farce, maybe. Fun stuff, and sure, it's nice to see them evolving, but ten years from now I think I'll still prefer the group's more unique sound from "In Case We Die" and "Fingers Crossed."

the bbc thinks like i do

"Let’s have British Sea Power perform a musical arrangement of John Betjeman’s poem 'The Licorice Fields of Pontefract' and then throw in some gratuitous shots of girls’ field hockey."

BSP: It’s like he has a desire to be, um, smothered by some … athletic, big athletic women.

BBC Narrator: Yes --

BSP: Don't we all?

BBC Narrator: Do we all? Yes, uh, yes, uh, yes, yes, I’m not saying, uh, I, uh, I mean, [regains authoritative narratorial tone] when we think about it, of course we do.