We All Scream For Lies Green

If you’ve picked up a newspaper or magazine in the last three or four days, you will have inevitably noticed (if not on the front page then prominently featured inside) the word “green” in the title of the edition/main article/theme of entire issue. As I sit typing this, there is a magazine on the table in front of me (one of those supplemental magazines that the Globe and Mail throws in for free every week or so…you know, the type of magazine – either fashion-oriented, vacation-oriented, guys-who-like-cars-oriented – that you’d be hard pressed to have ever remembered seeing in a retail store, even one which boasts a million magazines). It’s called Green Living and the front page trumpets “CANADA’S GREENEST CITIES OF TOMORROW” (with an asterisk at the bottom ” * Is yours on the list?”). The Sunday New York Times Magazine was dedicated to this colour also. As were the entrails of most newspapers.

You see, this Wednesday (April 22, 2009) is Earth Day. Get it? Earth Day? Green? Ohhhhh!, I’m sure you’re exclaiming, perhaps even tapping your noggin for foolishly neglecting to remember. Not that it’s a holiday or anything. No, Earth Day is not a holiday. Not even the banks get it off (though I would’ve expected them to sneakily insert an Earth Day Eve into their schedules). It is, however, that time of year – like Poetry Month – when, for 5 minutes, we try to give a shit about something we do a much better job of conceptualizing when it’s not being shoved down our throats by people who hold diplomas in Event Management.

Expect between now (Monday) and then (Wednesday) to be inundated with the environment, Mother Earth, drowning polar bears and the like. This is not to say that I’m one of those Ayn Rand-ian right-wing troglodytes who thinks climate change is a socialist scheme. That is not my point (and I’m happy it’s not my point today because it’s extremely convoluted and I did poorly in math). My point is that, in the same breath that these newspapers and magazines (and websites!) roll-out the green, there are hundreds of articles about how to “buy” green. Getting back to Green Living, the sad little magazine in front of me, some other articles listed on the front are “WHERE TO PUT YOUR ECO DOLLARS” and “20 Budget Smart Enviro-Tips” [sic?!]. Even in the otherwise lefty (rather Jeckyll/Hyde lefty, if you ask me) Toronto weekly, NOW Magazine, the emphasis is almost as enthusiastically consumerist as it is on scaring the shit out of the reader about our imminent ecopocalypsetm.

In other words, legitimate environmental concerns aside, with every Earth Day I feel as if we are facing a new Y2K (i.e. a semi-manufactured crisis that wasn’t entirely invented to make money, yet, hey, why should we stop ourselves from making a buck, hell, wouldn’t you, let’s see how long this lasts). Of course, there are substantial differences between Y2K and Earth Day: the latter is borne from a need to undo and/or mitigate the effects of society’s footprint on the earth, the former was borne from a need to undo and/or mitigate the effects of a bit of coding corner-cutting. There are (and were) legitimate concerns in either scenario. There were (and are) also people who would do anything to cash-in on a fear-based trend which increasingly loses its reason due to the insatiable North American need – even in our present economic situation – to commodify e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. Basically: isn’t getting people to buy a lot of stuff, green or not, counter-intuitive to the philosophy of reduce, re-use, and recycle? Furthermore – and this is me – I worry when a word (outside of religion) gets so stretched, mistook, mythologized, and appropriated that its meaning eventually loses all efficacy (see: sustainability).

I do not argue with the want or wish to use the word green, or to associate it with legitimate environmental concerns (because they are legion). I just wish it – and by virtue, Earth Day – did not seem like a St. Patrick’s Day Parade where everyone – Irish or not – wraps themselves in the colour without really caring to know why, so long as there is the remote promise of an unrelated happiness (this goes for Valentine’s as well, sad to say). The thing is – and I hope my father isn’t reading this – we as a society can afford to misinterpret (or forget) what St. Patrick’s Day means, but allowing our concerns over the environment to be cynically co-opted by purely commercial interests – whose concern for the environment is more or less a marketing strategy – is more disconcerting to this writer.

I’ll take the Earth. You keep the green.

[P.S. Just as I was about to upload this, I received an email from a local limo company who fancies I am interested in their services. The subject: “Join Us at the Green Living Show”. A limo company!]

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Master: “May the wind always be behind your back. “

Student: “What, and fuck up my hair?”

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“The major philosophical problem with the block-Universe interpretation of four-dimensional spacetime is that it appears to be fatalism disguised as physics. It seems to be a mathematician’s proof of determinism and a denial of free will dressed up in geometry.”

Paul J. Nahin, from Time Machines: Time Travel in Physics, Metaphysics, and Science Fiction

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Dear Reader,

It may have come to your attention (those who visit semi-often) that I have not been posting here that often (aside from the Twitter-y things on the right column).

This is true.

I am a little swamped these days with non-Imaginary Magnitude-y things (i.e. work). I have not, I insist, lost interest.

Please stay tuned. I will eventually return with more consistency than what is currently on display.

Cheers,

Matt

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Book Review: A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace

For those of you who didn’t know already, author David Foster Wallace took his life last September. It was an all-too-unfortunate excuse for me to delve into his work, particularly his non-fiction, having enjoyed it years ago when I was a Harper’s subscriber (see here for context).

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again is a collection of seven essays he wrote during the 90’s (there are other collections of more recent work available as well, fyi) for such periodicals as Harper’s, Esquire, and Harvard Book Review. On display is everything I recall from my earlier introduction: his wry sense of humour, an idiosyncratic writing style (in particular his prominent affection for footnotes), and his ability to turn the subject matter back onto his own life without self-indulgence.

This is where I make a (hopefully) short (and hopefully respectful, considering the circumstances) tangent: after DFW’s death, along with the dismay of those who were fans, I read just as many comments from people who – without hesitation – admitted to simply not liking the man’s style of writing. This sentiment (though still not what I would call “the prevailing opinion”) was even echoed in Harvard professor/New York Times book critic James Woods’ recent opus How Fiction Works; for him Wallace’s prose evidently did not. I figured this mood extended itself more to his fiction which – truth be told – I have not read. His most recognized piece, Infinite Jest, is over 1,100 post-modernist pages long. Not interested.

Because I had such little exposure to his work, reading ASFTINDA was an interesting experience: I could see what his detractors must have been referring to. While there is no doubt Wallace was an extremely intelligent and talented writer (which I shall get to), there are numerous examples in this volume where he comes across as rather pompous, which wouldn’t be so bad were it not for his habit of typing huge swaths of text which any good editor would have asked him (nay demanded) he remove because of either its redundancy or its convolution of said essay’s point. He also suffers an ailment similar to what I found with Carl Wilson (recently reviewed here) where, for no particular reason, he seems hell-bent on exhuming obscure words which stick out like antlers on a house cat.

Of the seven essays, three are distinctly underwhelming for reasons cited above. In particular, his essay E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction is a terribly long argument for post-modern fiction (ie. the type he writes) using academic media theory as a course of analogy (via reminiscences of 70’s and 80’s television shows). While the fact that his examples are quite dated is no fault of his (it was written in ’93 after all – hello, St. Elsewhere), it is problematic that after many excruciating paragraphs of explanation/theorizing he never actually gets around to completing his argument in a way that satisfies the effort of having read it.

That all said (he types, rolling his eyes) the remaining four essays are gold and worth the price of the book. In particular and unquestionably his essays Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All (an assignment from Harper’s to cover the Illinois State Fair) and the eponymous A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again (another Harper’s assignment – do you see a trend? – this time to take a 7-day ocean liner cruise of the Caribbean). On display in both is the perceptive laugh-out-loud satire of society’s absurdities as well as well-crafted reportage. There is also enjoyment in reading the essays on David Lynch (hanging out on the set of Lost Highway while opining on Lynch’s place in the American cinematic landscape) as well as tennis player Michael Joyce (set at the Canadian Open in Montreal, one of many coincidental Canadian-content inclusions throughout the book).

These four essays provide an opportunity for us to assess Wallace, the writer and person, without the willing academicism or pro-post-modernist chip on his shoulder. There is, for example, a wonderfully personal (yet appropriately witty) gem in the tennis essay where he admits, having previously questioned Michael Joyce’s IQ only to discover that, rather than a lack of intelligence it was an overwhelming physical and mental commitment by the athlete to his sport, and realizes by comparison that he can be a snob and an asshole. I like to come by my revelations honestly and it is in these four essays where Wallace’s gift shines.

So, if you don’t mind wincing a little and skipping a couple of entries, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again is rewarding in the end. When he was on his A-game, Wallace had a unique voice and a wonderfully biting sense of humour; it makes the suddenness and nature of his passing all the more sad. I’m sure I will pick up more of his non-fiction in the months to come.

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, by David Foster Wallace [ISBN: 978-0316925280] is available at a friendly independent bookseller near you, or online at numerous impersonal sources.

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