Thursday, March 22, 2007

Be, and I'll Just Watch You

(Props to the criminally under-recognized Julian Cope for the lyric referenced in this post's title, from the song "Soul Desert," on the album Jehovahkill; the lyric quoted is followed, rather devastatingly, with the addendum, " . . . 'cause being is just too hard for me.")

I'm sorry I haven't called. Really. I didn't mean to leave you hanging. I've been busy, but that's not much of an excuse; I found time to play with my other friends over on the Fray, and I don't even like them all that much (I've actually got a lot more over there--click on the "More By This User" key to see what I've been up to--but this review is the only thing that got any honorable mention, so I chose to emphasize it). Well, maybe a few of them. Mostly I go over there to get into debates; it's like a bar I'd never take my wife to because I only go to start brawls.

I had a performance with UMO Ensemble on Sunday, for the Moisture Festival, a great idea (a week+ festival for burlesque, cabaret, clowning, magic, vaudeville, and other arguably archaic forms that, at one point, formed the basis for modern musicals and the Theatre of the Absurd, and a good basic ground for re-enervating, and hopefully innovating, the form) with a terribly and wholly inexplicable name. We were performing as buffoons (I don't actually appear in the picture, but I wore the costume/makeup for the tall one with the horns, and more or less looked exactly like that; the costume defines the buffoon at least as much as the wearer), a staple of the UMO roster with which I, being something of a newbie (I've been a member since 2003, but we've been on hiatus most of that time), had not yet engaged.

A buffoon is the ultimate outsider: deformed (indeed, in the case of Aztooth, not human at all), rejected, interdependent on other buffoons, living in holes in the earth near the landfills and sewers outside medieval towns . . . and liberated to tell nothing but the truth, to exist free of all social grace or obligation, oblivious to stigma, allowed to live in a state of perpetual toddlerdom.

Anyway, we were emceeing the event in question, so it involved a lot of flying by the seat of the pants. I'm a little creaky when it comes to verbal improv--words are a very carefully considered thing to me, though I can react quickly and organically enough on a physical basis--but, luckily, Aztooth is the least verbal of the crew, so I just had to live in the skin. Much hilarity seemed to ensue.

Of course, how could it not? One has a clearer--and giddier--view of truth and being when we use artifice to strip away pretense, costumed that we may run, socially naked and brutally honest, through the world without accountability. Clowns and fools always have a certain advantage when it comes to telling the truth, and fiends & monstrosities have a certain advantage when it comes to seeing it. The rest of us are so tied to the roles we feel obligated to play that we often don't see when the role is doing the talking for us. The role of buffoon speaks for its wearer, of course, but the role itself is obliged only to exist outside obligation; there is no fear of repercussion, no mercy, no sense of consequence, no concern for the consequence when it arrives. The buffoon laughs at being beaten, its anger just a more violent facet of its perpetual amusement.

This article in last week's Seattle Weekly, written by Mike Seely, got me thinking about roles & obligations, about labels and context (which continually both illuminate and obscure truth). The passage that really took me for a ride was this one, in which the narrator--a prank-playing indie rocker--is confronted by someone who chastises him with a label I have often used derisively:

'John, you're such a...a...frat boy!'

"The insult was the equivalent of slapping my face with a white calfskin glove," Roderick goes on. "The term 'frat boy,' as he intended it, had all the connotations of beer-swilling, date-raping, jock, macho crap. I laughed, because to me, a fraternity boy was someone who sneered insults at people with sarcastic WASPy smugness. His knotted-sweater, white-collar disapproval was everything I associated with the Greeks.

"So here we stood, two indie rockers, faced off across a gaping cavern of American culture as defined by the term 'frat boy.' He dismissed my car-wreckin', prank-pullin', fire-startin', gun-shootin', whoop-it-up, call-the-cops American party-makin' with one word: frat. And I saw his sniffing, eye-rolling, weak-assed, big-vocabulary-but-not-quite-used-correctly tsk-tsking as more or less the same thing: fraternity boy. But in fact, we were both limp-wristed, lit-major indie rockers."

The operative words in Roderick's diatribe: "gaping cavern." The stigma associated with frat boys is not a one-size-fits-all-proposition, but has rather been expanded over time to signify anything that anyone might find remotely annoying about white heterosexual males.

Seely goes on to note that no one should get too worked up about the "poor white boy" thing, and I won't get into it here (much; it's probably unavoidable). But it's interesting for me to see not only how two-sided the label can be (or many-sided, if we buy the author's assertion that ANY annoying traits of the white, heterosexual male can be targeted), but on how many sides I've actually been when using the word (only once, that I know of, did anyone ever use the word to describe me; as I was in a bedroom with two naked women when it came out, I decided offense would've been a little out of line). Really, I've been both the merry prankster dismissing the uptight preppy and the trimmed metrosexual chastising the feral party animal; I've been the fashionista and the regular Joe straining at the boundaries of couture. Interestingly enough, while I champion independent music, I've often been dismissive of (some) indie rock (some of my favorite and least favorite bands are tagged with the label), as such, precisely because they seem like a fraternity, a collective with rigid standards of fashion and conduct wherein learning to sing or play instruments is dismissed as selling out (probably because some of them, if they shed the affectation of sloppiness, would be mere rock bands, about as indie as Bob Seger), with an off-putting sexlessness that seems counter to all that I consider revolutionary in art. But I do also see that as a reaction to what I've always perceived as the adolescent sexual culture of the more jockish franternities, where I always imagined that men got laid, but women never had orgasms. Of course, that view may be my envy and not getting laid nearly as much as I hoped I would in college, knowing full well that I could provide the orgasms I was sure the women weren't getting . . .

What was I talking about? Oh, yeah . . .

So anyway, that little exchange noted in the article--in which we see that both sides of the "gaping chasm" see frat boys on the other side--reminded me of this post from back in August. See, I realized as I read the article on the indie rocker/frat boy divide that the term "frat boy," while once indicative of membership in an organization, has become a term rather like "bourgeois," a way of commenting on class, aesthetics, and value systems. And like "bourgeois," it's a term generally only applied by those to whom it might BE applied. Whatever you mean by "frat boy," chances are, if you use it as an insult, that you're white, male, reasonably privileged, somewhat educated, pop-culture savvy (even if you pretend not to be), and either a self-styled bohemian or a meticulously constructed "average Joe." And if you're not at least, say, three of those things, you're not more than a degree separated from someone who's all of the above. I'd also bet money that if you're a male applying that term, you (like me) choke just a little on the envy in the term, probably still a little steamed at the girl who left you alone that night for her frat god, certain to spend her orgasm-less night (unless, you know, she came by such things--pun intended--easily) in the arms of cretin. If you're a female applying the term, I suspect that you either spent too much time around people like me, or you're one of those unfortunate girls who could've been having orgasms with the 'hound, but instead were duped, to your eternal regret, into sleeping with the devil in the alligator shirt.

Shit, what was I on about? Oh, okay . . . See, I don't really think we can possibly underestimate the role that envy plays in this whole tendency to disparage the frat boy; I can only take TREMENDOUS comfort in the fact that my wonderful wife, 'Stine (y'all know her, right?), chose me over a creature that, truth be told, is probably more like me than I care to admit. It seems to me that stratifying the people you see and know over such mundane details as whether you were into Joy Division or Def Leppard as adolescents, the Decemberists or Jack Johnson now; whether you're into arts or into sports; whether sex came easily to you or only infrequently and with tremendous personal, emotional investment . . . Well, it's all very bourgeois, isn't it? It's like the whole geeks/jocks/art fags thing really just followed us into adulthood. Everybody's adolescent angst has become the meat of our arts journalism, apparently.

But this problem isn't just about frat boys and indie bands. No, this is something else. Look at this article about how New Age culture cheapens yoga. I happen to agree with some of what the article is getting at. New Age-ism claims to have roots in Hermetism, Gnosticism, and Rosicrucianism, but it seems to get the doctrines wrong, and the hippie-turned-yuppie concerns of baby boomer self-actualization have done much to confuse my own understanding of spirituality and self-care. As a Western practicing Buddhist, I struggle not only with those who will criticize, en masse, all Westerners who practice Buddhism, but with the fact that they at least partially have a point: There ARE those who use Eastern thought as a way of avoiding the rigors of Christianity, who adapt it to their least noble instincts and create a consumer culture of fabricated needs disingenuously called "tools." The comfort I take--aside from the physical benefits of doing yoga and martial arts, of chanting, of studying the Lotus Sutra and the Nag Hammadi Library--is in knowing that this disdain is itself a function of the same occidental privilege. Atheists who chastise Western Buddhists as insincere are ultimately betraying their oneness of mind with American Christians, assuming that honest Westerners must surely be either Christians or Atheists, that all religions should be approached only in their orthodox forms.

But then, the Vedic cultures from which yoga arose were often anti-materialistic only in rhetoric; some yogis have been ascetics, but certainly not all. Similarly, the debate as to whether the tenets of Buddhism demand austerity was raging in the East long before it was cool in the West to meditate, chant, or read the Sutras. Western boxing neglects the feet, knees, and elbows as weapons, and anything outside the torso as target; indeed, ALL Western exercise before pilates fails to address the body from a holistic perspective. Moreover, if we LIVE in a material culture, in practicing arts or spiritual disciplines from elsewhere, we need to either adapt those arts to what we NEED TO DO to survive here, or we need to leave.

And I suppose you could make similar arguments for fraternities. People who belong to them develop social connections that help them in the free market; artists may even be able to network in ways that can help future career prospects, or to create a new audience. Hell, a fraternity produced one of my plays back in college, with no help from the theatre department itself, because one of them happened to like what he saw at one of my other pieces. Did I sell out? Did I accept help from a lesser being? Does the fact that I wanted to be Kafka suffer because he may possibly have been listening to Stone Temple Pilots back at the frat-house?

These prejudices, and the misunderstandings that surround them, are almost necessary for the color in our language and culture; abandoning "frat boy" as an insult isn't likely to happen soon, and I wouldn't want it to. Insults are prejudicial by nature, and a culture without insult is a culture without flavor. Disdain, discord, and elitism are the satirist's bread and butter; subcultures exist to oppose each other, and the greater good of the culture relies on the proliferation of subcultures, where innovation takes place to enrich the whole. I don't object, either, to our turning either our parts in these conflicts or the "objective" analysis of the conflicts themselves into fodder for critique. But I think we need to recognize, also, that there's something inherently frivolous, and a little hypocritical, about taking these things too seriously. We could be talking about the health benefits of yoga and the dangers/benefits of materialism. We could be talking about the effects of white privilege, about the harmful wages of social competition through sex, about different levels of entitlement, about aesthetic theories and the role of theory vs. technical proficiency in the creation of art. If we spend all our time talking about whether it's acceptable to meditate or chant for more money, trying to decide who is and who isn't more of a stereotypical frat boy, or scolding people for driving several hundred dollars worth of yoga equipment to a class in an SUV, it seems to me that we're missing the point.

Labels: , , ,


Blogger Missuz J said...

While it's certainly not the intent of your post, now i find myself trying to remember if I fucked any frat-boys in college. I think a couple became frat-boys AFTER, and maybe one was but I didn't know it. Hmmm. Well--no orgasms either way, so whatever.

Since giving up Mormonism oh, so many years ago, I've been completely unwilling to believe in anything, really. Yea, I do go to yoga, and my body loves it, but a voice on my shoulder mocks the white girls (including me) chanting "ohm shanti" even as I'm doing it.

But you know, it's tiresome. Somewhere in your post you mentioned survival, and sometimes, I think, finding something to believe in becomes necessary to survival--at least, it's beginning to feel that way to me, while in the same sentence I can type that doing so also feels like a cop out.

Almost erased this comment, because I'm not sure exactly how it fits in with your post but fuck it.

word verification=ooorgf

7:40 AM  
Blogger A Man without a Band said...

You wanted to be Kafka?

9:01 AM  
Blogger thelyamhound said...

Actually, AMWAB, I wanted to be Herman Hesse, but I thought that might be a more obscure reference. Kafka would've been acceptable; it was the dark, expressionist aspect that appealed to me (though Hesse's crypto-Gnosticism was a definite bonus, even if I didn't know to label it such at the time). I actually toyed with the idea of using Hesse in "Blood From a Stone," but was worried about the obscurity AND the fact that I would have considered Hesse almost too leavening a presence (since Ethan was supposed to be my neurotic self).

Missuz - I think belief is necessary to survival in some ways, and it can have the feeling of being Dumbo's "magic feather," a crutch that allows us to maximize potential. On the other hand, the only real reason to believe in anything is because it appears to reflect truth, or at least holds some hope of reflecting truth. The real pickle is when you find belief necessary for survival, yet find nothing reflective of truth.

I think there's a whole conversation we could have about this. I might be able to cook up a post on the matter, but you should also feel free to email me (the profile's updated to give my new address) and take it offline.

10:53 AM  
Blogger the beige one said...

I feel like a desert flower and it just rained!


remember: The squirrel always gets the pickle.

non-sequitur OUT!

12:47 PM  
Blogger JJisafool said...

We talk about the discourse when we think we are, and actually could be, talking about the things.

Is that escapable? I want to say yes, but I don't really believe that to be true. I believe that all communication is mediated in the ways you say. And that being as aware as possible, and analytical about them as you are, is not so much the path to Truth, which I don't believe exists, as a way to live with more truthiness.

Shit, now I owe Colbert a nickel.

Interesting post, Ly. Good to see you back in the blog world. Think I can con a 5c review out of you soon?

9:01 AM  
Blogger thelyamhound said...

JJ - I'll get back to you on the 5C matter; I have three features and about eight reviews to write by next Tuesday, and then I need to start adapting Buddha/Nasrudin tales for UMO.

As to the rest . . . yeah. I'm with you on that, for the most part. I just think we need to watch thinking that these analyses are too serious. I think the human animal skews towards elitism, wherever you are (which is why the left and right have BOTH, historically, accused the other of being made up of either academic, economic, or cultural elites). These deconstructions can help us work through these prejudices, of course (see the frat boy conversation), but they can also lead us to yet more elitism.

I think there's a conclusion I didn't get into on the post, because exploring it fully would have doubled the post's length: that we might do well to recognize--first and foremost--that most people are just trying to face the sheer holy terror of existence (though most, in my experience, are not so prescient as to see it in that light) with what they perceive as the most useful tools at their disposal.

1:39 PM  
Blogger Stine said...

These deconstructions can help us work through these prejudices, of course (see the frat boy conversation), but they can also lead us to yet more elitism.

- I think what you say about the tendancy to deconstruction is inherent in our makeup. It is our quest to understand ourselves. However, as you mentioned, it can skew into elitism, and/or the opposite, self deprecation. But in my opinion, elitism and self deprecation are two sides of the same coin.

I think there's a conclusion I didn't get into on the post, because exploring it fully would have doubled the post's length: that we might do well to recognize--first and foremost--that most people are just trying to face the sheer holy terror of existence (though most, in my experience, are not so prescient as to see it in that light) with what they perceive as the most useful tools at their disposal.

- I couldn't agree more.

2:12 PM  
Blogger A Man without a Band said...

I completely agree with what you said about "belief." Very succinct and well put.

I guess I disagree about the sheer holy terror of existence, unless by that you actually mean the sheer elation of existence, the absolute limitless possibilities. That can be a little scary, but for me, it's the limitations we put on ourselves which terrify me. I gave up being afraid of existence the moment I stepped out of a plane at 11,000 feet, thereby taking on the greatest fear of my life (heights), yet the greatest dream (flying) as well. The fact that I survived (or at least I think I did) has made every day since like a "freebie," for lack of better words.

Feel a little like Becca on this one. Maybe I missed the point (it happens often).

8:24 AM  
Blogger thelyamhound said...

AMWAB - If I were a pedant (snicker!), I might suggest that your sky-diving incident alleviated not your terror at existence, but, in fact, its opposite: your fear of death, the natural (but conquerable) fear of non-existence (or, for the wayward theist, the fear of eternal punishment). That conquering this fear might enrich existence, and lead you to embrace its limitlessness, I don't doubt. After all, my terror at existence doesn't preclude the notion that life contains great beauty as well as great ugliness, or even that the ugliness masks beauty (though it seems to me that the inverse--that beauty masks ugliness--would also have to be true), or great triumph as well as great despair.

10:47 AM  
Blogger A Man without a Band said...

Dammit! I'm supposed to be an English major, so you would stop using words that I have to double check.

Anyway, I actually thought about the fear of death (or non-existence) after I submitted that last comment (and I'm starting to feel like we're getting into those longer rants I've seen on some other blogs... fortunately, work is slow, so I've got the time). I would probably agree whole-heartedly with you, except for the fact that the act also involved so much of living a dream, literally. For more years than I can remember, I have had recurring dreams where I can fly... various methods (swim strokes the most common), various heights and varying levels of freedom from the constraints of gravity. I knew the closest I would come to it in reality would be to skydive, and that I shouldn't let fear stand in the way of my dreams (either fear of death or just serious fucking physical damage... we've all seen the footage of the people who have lived, right? Like the guy who bounced?)as opposed to simply conquering a fear and embracing life as a result.

And without sounding like a jerk, because I'm really curious, what is it about existence that terrifies you?

Wow, I just realized that could go into a long one, and not everyone may want to stick with us on this line. If you feel so inclined, email me.

11:11 AM  
Blogger thelyamhound said...

Well, if they can't stick with us, they obviously they don't know on whose blog they're playing. :^)

We can take it off the record if it gets weird, but I'm not too worried about going off on tangents.

So . . . Yes, there is much to be said for conquering fear and embracing life. My finding is that most artists do that on all sorts of levels, all the time: We put the contents of our hearts and minds out there, we cultivate our bodies and voices to reveal truths, we meticulously develop and codify our perceptions, and we lay all of this before critics (who will, more often than not, walk all over it) and audiences (who at least come in wanting to like it, but will often treat their own biases and misunderstandings of it as being valid comments on the quality of the thing itself).

But to both answer your question and explain why I don't think that either skydiving or art truly alleviate the terror of which I speak, I will first admit that I'm speaking from the point of view of a frequently suicidal depressive and an avid consumer of all things existential, so my view probably relies both on subjective experiences and philosophical presuppositions too numerous to go into here. I'll elucidate what I can.

And what I'll say is this: After jumping out of a perfectly good airplane, after experiencing either great triumph or great humiliation onstage, one still has to get out of bed the next morning; one still has to eat, sleep, and shit; one still has to pay the bills or forever elude the collectors; one still has to navigate one's relationships through the frequently duelling needs & natures of any two (or more) organisms. There is great poetry in all of this, sometimes, but also work, repetition, obstacle, fatique. There's still the question of whether and how to turn risks into a career (is acting in Neil Simon any less a drudgery than sitting at a desk during the day and acting for free in Beckett at night? is the pay raise for reviewing Christina Aguilera albums worth losing the exhilaration of discovering emerging Beijing post-punk for $0.02 a word?), whether one can sell without selling out, whether personal integrity or interpersonal compromise is the nobler virtue, whether there's a God, from where we derive moral responsibility if not, etc. Most of these questions don't have easy answers (is in more in keeping with a "reaching for a dream" mentality to do mediocre art in order to fulfill the dream of being a paid artis, or to do art one believes in for no money to fulfill the dream of doing art to fulfill a specific social or aesthetic purpose?), but more importantly, the answers don't change the fundamental fact of existence. I suppose what I find terrifying about life is that life needs, that its needs are never fully met, and that it hounds you for its needs every day, regardless of your terrors and triumphs, your gifts and efforts. Yes, there is joy and poetry in filling those needs. But you need only look at any blog in this circle to see that life's needs can sometimes sit rather heavily on the shoulders.

Lest I should sound like a fatalist, I'm certainly not saying that there's anything necessarily wrong with any of this; note that I spoke of terror, not of despair (and terror is a far more exhilarating motivator than is despair). "Terror" is just a word I use, really; Sartre and Camus often used "angst," but that word's been cheapened a little, and "dread" is a little close to despair for my comfort (though dread and despair can result from the sort of anxiety and discomfort of which I speak). In any case, I hope that "terror" can be seen as, at least, being fairly value neutral.

11:55 AM  
Blogger A Man without a Band said...

Hmmm. Okay. Thanks for the clarification. Okay, I'm much more on board, now. I almost added another comment after my last one about how I'm not really well versed in philosophy. I speak from the voice of an optimistic (once severe pessimistic), possible schizophrenic. I'm not really well versed in psychology either, so maybe that combination isn't realistic.

Thank you for separating terror from despair, and even though devalued, I think "angst" is probably closer to my interpretation of what you're hinting at. Before I go there, though (and to go full circle), it's interesting to look at the interpretation of art according to the artist. I find myself fortunate that, as a writer, the topics I choose to write on, the subjects that I truly enjoy, are fairly marketable. But I can't tell you what flack I've taken, both in academia and writing retreats, for writing in a genre considered less-than-literary. I've met more than a few artists who wear their suffering or poverty like a badge of honor, many of whom I've suspected would love to do mainstream things if they hadn't have committed themselves to being the "struggling artist," including a woman who was a wonderful artist but didn't feel like she should make money for her art at the same time as she complained about how poor she was. Art is a tricky business, if you have to make it into a business at all. Personally, I've been poor (not exactly "rich" now). Didn't care for it much. I certainly don't want to sell-out, but I think if someone offered me a job writing for the Weekly World News... bad example... I would love to write for WWN. If someone offered me a job writing for Oprah's magazine, I would do it and find pleasure because I would be writing for a living (as opposed to say, swinging a hammer, which I might be doing again any day now if our family business goes under), and I know that I would always be working on my personal art whenever possible. I think we all have to decide what we can live with personally, regardless of what others may say, and that we should be allowed the flexibility to change our minds and jump ship if it looks like we're going down. So how was that full circle? I guess to get back to your original post about "roles we play."

Now... life needs. Super interesting way of putting it. I like it... as a concept. You are very correct. Life does need, it wants, and it expects, but it also gives. And for me, these limitless possibilities outweigh the admitted dread, fatigue, angst, whatever. And I'll be honest, this is a relatively new thing for me. Almost two years ago, when I got back my manuscript from my agent telling me it still wasn't ready and that I needed to get another editor, I got pretty discouraged and sat on it for about four months. Now I've realized that it was the best thing that could've happened to my book, and that it continues to get better. I've just sent another draft to an excellent editor with whom I've been working, and I know that when he gets back to me, I'll get right back to work on it. In a way, you might say I've turned the tables. Life may need, but so do I. And I want, and I expect, and I'm not going to stop until I get it. Or I'll die trying.

Because when you're stripped raw, and you've given everything you have, and you're left with nothing, you really only have two options. You're either going to die, or things are going to get better.

That's just me, though, and I appreciate you sharing your viewpoints. Fascinating, intelligent, and well-thought out, even if different from my own.

Well, this'll probably have to be the end for today. Thanks again for the thought provocation.

12:57 PM  
Blogger thelyamhound said...

Good show, He Who Has No Band! This is a real corker of a discussion.

I actually envy what you do, because it's something I like, as well (horror, that is), but for which I have no gift. It would certainly be a useful compromise between what I believe in and what I can get paid to do. It's interesting, because I know some people in my industry who'd consider it beneath them to do horror movies or action flicks; I'd willingly do either, if it didn't involve living in L.A. (there, as they say, is the rub). But to me, most (not all) Neil Simon plays and most (not all) musicals are an insult to the label of "art."

Interestingly enough, the beige one once directed a play of mine that was a fusion of zombie/splatter flick and kitchen-sink, social realism (or a broad satire thereof). A mutual friend is now working to adapt it into a rock opera; we'll see how it goes (my only worry is that he's something of a musical theatre traditionalist, and I'd always hoped my own rock operas would sound like, you know, rock . . . the good kind).

I like the WWN example, too, because I'd probably do that. My writing, for the most part, is limited to music reviews/journalism, so I don't know how that would apply. My thinking is that I would gladly write for someone like Rolling Stone or Spin if, and only if, they allowed me at least SOME leeway to write about independent artists and labels (i.e., where all real musical innovation takes place, at least initially; underground artists who achieve mainstream success or commercial artists who successfully co-opt underground values do manage to bring the mainstream up to speed within 5-10 years from the initial emergence of any advancement). To do otherwise would actually rob me of the single most important perk of being a music writer: a bunch of free music that's actually worth owning (as opposed to something by Hootie or Celine that I'll likely use as a coaster). I suppose if Rolling Stone paid me enough that I could afford to drop several hundred dollars each month to stock up on new indie releases and the veritable scads of post-punk canon fodder I need to properly fortify my library, I could live with reviewing Christina Aguilera CDs to do it . . . I guess. My only real fear in that case would be the potential cost to my love for listening to music, the pleasure I take in the act of absorbing the art, which is not yet threatened by my supposed critical objectivity (no such thing).

I guess what I'm getting at is that my preferences for and ideas about art aren't really informed by the placement of my brow (low/middle/high) or even a simple matter of genre, but they DO speak to what I value IN art, nd WWN, Clive Barker, and Jackass fit into that framework as easily as do Kafka, Radiohead, or Truffaut; Neil Simon and Jerry Herman don't, really. There are also a lot of up-front investments you need to make to get commercial work, so some of the sacrifices involved are actually monetary. I CERTAINLY have nothing invested in suffering or starving for my art.

I'd love to read your book sometime.

2:27 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home