Shit from an Old Hard Drive

It's city-wide clean up in Madison, South Dakota this Saturday, and that can mean only one thing. The year-2000 era computer that I have left at my parent's house for years was once again scheduled for being put out on the curb. In years past, I have convinced my parents to save the machine because it had a lot of old school work, etc., saved on it that I wanted to preserve. But this year, I now live again in Madison, and had no excuse but to actually take what I wanted off the machine and finally let it go quietly into the night.

I actually thought about just letting it go without even touching it. I wasn't sure it would even boot up anymore. But for once in my life, I wasn't a complete lazy piece of shit, and actually fired up the old computer to see what I could find. I was glad I did. In addition to a lot of half-assed academic papers, I also found plenty of old notes and garbage that was fun to read over. The following is a bit of that garbage that I transmit to you. It's from a time when I was taking stories of my friends and lightly fictionalizing them for my own enjoyment. This one is about the time that Franko Hudson turned 21, though you would figure that out in about two seconds if you know Franko. There are some things that I would change now, but I think I'll present it in its unedited glory:

How Pierre Got a Glass Eye

It was always a major occasion when someone was celebrating their 21st birthday. It meant that we had license to go out and get as shitfaced as we wanted without feeling much guilt about it. There's no shame in puking on your 21st birthday. And not much shame in an older person also getting so fucked up that they puke, too. Not that any of us had much remorse concerning the amount of drinking we did. But it's always more fun when there's an occasion.

This time it was Pierre. Pierre was really the last of us to be of legal drinking age. Naturally, everyone was geared up for the night. "Are we going or what?" said Dylan. It was 10:30. In South Dakota the bars close at 1:00. If we were going to hit it hard, we were going to have to be there soon.

"Yeah, yeah," said Pierre. "It's my goddamn birthday, so just hold your horses."

Pierre was from Amsterdam, the coolest city in the world. None of the rest of us had ever been there, but Pierre went back frequently to visit his grandparents. He would often regale us with stories of the city. He once told us that he had had sex with a woman in a cemetery there. That sort of thing never happened in Vermillion. He also told us about how his grandparents made their own wine every year. I wasn't even sure my parents had ever tasted wine, except at the communion rail.

Tonight Pierre was taking forever to get ready because he was working on his mustache. When I walked by the bathroom I could hear him mutter, "It has to be perfect." It was actually a joke, but one that had become increasingly elaborate over the last two months. What had initially begun as an all-too-common mustache growing contest had become something much more sinister. I believe that Pierre had come to enjoy his hairy upper lip, and to think of it as an asset. Everyone else had shaved theirs. Pierre was obsessed with his. Is it full enough? (No) Should he color it? (At first I thought 'yes', but after I saw the effect, clearly 'no'.) Are handlebars in? (No).

Dylan was anxious. "You either shave that thing off or stop screwing with it. It's time to go." Pierre was in the upstairs bathroom. After a moment, we heard the door slam.

"Fine," said Pierre. "I'm ready." His mustache gleamed in 100 watt light.

The bar was called LeRoy's. It was a Wednesday and the bar was almost empty. There were the 8 of us from the house, and one other couple there. Things got ridiculous quickly.

The birthday boy must do shots. This is one of the cardinal rules of turning 21. In legend, the birthday boy does 21, one for each year he has stayed alive. Since this would almost invariably end in alcohol poisoning, it is rarely accomplished. Pierre would come close that night.

The math is pretty easy. Eight of us there, including Pierre. To start, everyone buys Pierre a shot, preferably the most disgusting drink you can come up with. Among the night's inventions: the "Schnapps Suicide", consisting of the mixing of all the types of flavors of Schnapps the bar has into one shot; also, the Flatliner, half a shot of tequila, half a shot of Zambuka, and a few drops of Tabasco sauce; finally, Dead Ringer, which I believe may have included pure ethanol. Seven terrible shots to start the night. For some it's enough to stop there. But this story is in a way an homage to Pierre, and I wouldn't say anything bad about him. His constitution wasn't phased.

After shooting out of the gate, it was time for a few beer rounds. The alcohol was boiling in Pierre's ears, but we were mostly keeping him under control. The bartender didn't like it, though, and with the place so close to empty, he spent a good deal of time eyeballing us. Still, we were regulars. He wasn't going to spoil the fun.

Shots can be contagious, and before long, others wanted to try the various made-up drinks of the night. The Schnapps Suicide was a big hit. You could hardly taste the alcohol. Let me tell you, when eight young men who live in one huge pink house start to get crazy in a bar, the result is often completely banal. They get loud and obnoxious. And so we did.

Pierre had started his second round of shots. By the time he was done he had reached 17 drinks, including three beers. His face was hot and red, his forehead damp with sweat. No one looked good. Dylan was drunk, too. He was baiting Pierre. He was trying to pull his mustache.

"God damn it! Knock it off, Dylan!" Pierre half fell out of his chair.

We had to go home soon. It was closing time. It was time to pass out.

"Last last call boys. 10 minutes to close," said the bartender. He was starting to switch off the lights.

"Oh, fuck it," Dylan said. "Two more shots. Whiskey. One for me and one for the birthday boy. My friend Pierre."

The bartender looked like he knew better, but Dylan was already sliding the money toward him. The drinks totaled four dollars. Dylan was giving the bartender a 10. "Keep the change," he said.

Dylan brought the shots back to the table and set one by Pierre and one in front of himself. Pierre downed his immediately. Before Dylan could see, Pierre reached over and grabbed the second shot too, spilling half of it on the table. He drank Dylan's shot.

"Jesus fucking Christ. I was going to make a fucking toast. I was going to toast you!" said Dylan.

Pierre was already up and heading for the door, though. He had done 19, the closest I had ever seen to 21.

It was a cold night. It had snowed days earlier, and now the powder was packed hard on the streets. When I got outside, Pierre was already half a block away.

"Wait up," I shouted.

Pierre turned around with unexpected urgency. He was stumbling. "I'm going to rob Citgo!" he said. Citgo was an all night gas station. It was the only thing open in town after the bars closed. With that, he turned back, and began a full speed run. I watched him arc toward Citgo. He didn't slow down as he approached the doors.

"What's he doing?" asked Dylan, who had just stepped outside.

"He's going to rob Citgo," I said.

We both heard the bang, as Pierre's head smashed into the glass door of the gas station. He had run full bore into it.

"Oh shit," I said. Or Dylan may have said that. Or both of us.

The attendent was outside before Dylan and I could get to Pierre. He was trying to help Pierre up, but Pierre was too dazed and intoxicated to stand. We were hurrying up. "It's ok, it's ok," I said. "He's just had a little too much tonight. He just turned 21. We'll take care of him."

"You sure took care of him so far," the attended said. Fair enough. "Get him out of here before I call the cops."

"Yeah, we got him. Sorry. Sorry for the trouble. The door looks alright. We're just going to take him home."

We each took one of his arms and started to drag him the four blocks back to our house. The others had exited the bar and were coming to see what had happened. Pierre was barely conscious. "Christ, is he okay?" asked John.

"I think so. He hit his head," I said.

John looked Pierre right in the face. "Hey man, are you ok?" he asked.

Pierre seemed to perk up. "Yeah, I'm ok. Let go of me. I'm ok," he said. We let him go and he hobbled, then caught himself. He took a few steps, then took off running again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Dylan. "Let him run it off."

Pierre was sprinting down the street and slipped, falling flat. He slid on his back. His legs were still making a running motion through the air. He bumped up against the curb. Then he was up again, tripping over the curb and going down on the icy sidewalk. Up and down, up and down. I think he fell a dozen times on the way back to the house. He was swinging his arms wildly. He was possessed. He was the first one home.

I went through the front door a few minutes after we saw him enter. His bedroom was on the first floor, near the entrance. I looked in his room just in time to see him naked and losing his balance again, and falling headfirst into the radiator. It put a large, jagged cut on the top of his skull. I ran in to try to stop him before he could hurt himself again. His hair was matted with blood.

I turned around and saw Dylan. "I think he may have had a concussion," I said.

"He's alright," said Dylan. There were dozens of cuts all over Pierre's head. He was naked and bleeding inside the pink house.

When John saw what happened, he took Pierre up into the shower and turned the water on. Blood was flowing down the drain. Pierre started vomiting.

Pierre was crazy. John was helping him in the shower, but Pierre wasn't in his right mind. He was out of control. Blood and vomit were coming out of him at an alarming rate. Finally Pierre was out of energy. He was lying down in the shower. Lukewarm water was splattering against his body. I stood in the bathroom while John made sure that Pierre didn't drown. Pierre's eyes were rolling back in his head.

"I still think we should take him to the ER," I said. John looked at me. We were both drunk, too.

"Yeah, he's fucked up," John said.

It was then that Pierre leap up. I remember seeing his eyes. They were wide open. Pierre was a caveman then. It was prehistoric times and he was a caveman from Europe. He was a caveman trapped in a shower. He was a caveman trapped in a glass case.

Pierre lunged forward against the glass. It bulged outward and cracked.

"Holy shit," John said. John backed away from the cracking glass.

Pierre thrust his body against the glass again. This time it shattered, and Pierre fell forward, over the lip of the tub, and landed on the tile. He landed on the broken glass. He looked like a Greek god. He was a prisoner in a world he didn't understand. He was a Kafka character.

There were pieces of glass sticking in him. He stood up and yelled. There was glass in his forearms and chest. Blood was running down his torso. There was glass in his face. There was glass in his eye.

Someone threw a blanket around him. He would pass out for a few seconds and then wake up. When he woke up he would scream. John and I shepherded him outside. We put him in the back seat of John's car. He passed out again, as we drove to the hospital.

When we got there, we mostly carried him inside. The nurses looked shocked when they saw him. They put him in a wheel chair and wheeled him down the hall. John and I stood and looked at each other in the waiting room.

And that's how Pierre got a glass eye.

Facile Criticism of Literary Classics

To quote from the Afterword to my edition of Uncle Tom's Cabin: "For the literary critic, the problem is simply how a book so seemingly artless, so lacking in apparent literary talent, was not only an immediate success but has endured." Th...usually Usually, I am loathe to criticize books that are part of the cannon. This is entirely different from criticizing the cannon itself, which has been the subject of plenty of legitimate criticism. But though the cannon should include more works by women and minorities, the works that are typically included are generally there for a reason. Who would I be to suggest that Shakespeare is overrated? What value would there be in me listing my ill founded complaints about Oedipus Rex or Paradise Lost? Mostly I just accept that these are great books and if I didn't fully enjoy them, it's likely that the problem is with me, not the book. I am especially loathe to criticize a canonical book that is written by a woman author. Nonetheless, here I go.

To quote from the Afterword to my edition of Uncle Tom's Cabin: "For the literary critic, the problem is simply how a book so seemingly artless, so lacking in apparent literary talent, was not only an immediate success but has endured." That is a good question, indeed.

Uncle Tom's Cabin is a melodrama written with the best of intentions. If its publication brought about the end of slavery even one minute sooner than otherwise would have been the case--and my understanding is that the book did have a significant propaganda impact--then for that I give it the highest praise I possibly can.

But it is not really suitable for modern readers except for those reading to try to understand the relationship between literature and current events. Judging solely by literary standards, the book is a failure. Characters are badly drawn, the plot depends on random coincidence, and the mood of the writing is melodramatic to unbearable degrees. Harriet Beecher Stowe's perspective, while progressive for her time, is clearly informed by her own cultural baggage that puts distance between the author and her characters. There is a reason that being called an Uncle Tom has become a insulting epithet.

Racial issues have become enormously complex, and this book no longer furthers the conversation. Get some Frederick Douglas or Toni Morrison instead.

Tuesdays with Beer: Jersey's

It's been a couple of weeks, but the Tuesdays with Beer feature returns. This week we are at bar/restaurant Jersey's, the one lonely alcohol outpost out on the bypass. This time it was a family affair, with Matt and I accompanied by (Matt's wife) Penni and four-year old Ian.

As we entered Jersey's, the first thing we noticed was that the music was somewhere near 120 decibels, around the same volume as a jet engine. This would not be so weird at a popular nightspot, but the fact that it was a 6 o'clock on a Tuesday, and there were less than a half dozen people in the joint made it rather conspicuous. The waitress apparently noticed our discomfort, because she quickly told us that she didn't know how to turn the music down. Eventually the quarters ran out and the Queen subsided.

Jersey's is not a bad looking place inside. On one side is a restaurant area with around a dozen large tables. The other side is the bar area. We sat at first in the restaurant and ordered a bunch of fried stuff: cheese balls, mini-corn dogs, and popcorn chicken. Also a flatbread Philly sandwich and a chipolte club sandwich. The food was...meh. Granted, the only competing bar restaurant in the area is Stadium, but, for instance, my club sandwich came on a hoagie bun, which was not expected. It wasn't exactly bad, but it wasn't exactly any different from a sandwich I might buy at a gas station, either. Jersey's food can leave an impression. When we walked in Ian said, "oh no, daddy we came here one time and ate outside and it wasn't very good." The mind of a four year old doesn't forget crappy food. But at least the nice sunny day on the patio was memorable.

On the other hand, the beer on tap at Jersey's is of better quality than the usual fare. They include Shiner Bock and Black Label, Woodchuck (for the ladies), Sam Adams Seasonal, Boulevard, Fat Tire, Mich Golden, Coors, Miller Lite, and--according to an advertisement--Madison's #1 beer Bud Light. Also, a good selection of bottled beers. If you can't find something to enjoy in the beer department, you are too picky. Boxed wine and champagne also available.

Like most area establishments, there is plenty of video lottery on hand, with a separate room cordoned off for your hardcore players. On the bar side of the venue, there is a Spider-Box game, which looks dangerous, as well as Big Buck Hunter (which is dangerous), a jukebox, dartboards, and a pool table. A sign indicated a beer pong league meets there, but they were not present tonight. A few seemingly random jerseys adorn the walls. Some are for Minnesota teams, while others appear to be bought from the dollar bin at Scheels, such as Yankees and Lakers jerseys that serve little apparent purpose. Perhaps what I like best about the bar area is the view out of a small, backward facing window of the grain elevator. As the sun went down we got a great look at one of the iconic small-town images.

Not unlike the Seasonal Sam on tap, we are theorizing that Jerseys is a seasonal bar. During the winter if feels small and bleak, but during the summer, you can enjoy the patio, order a pizza, and watch a train make it's leisurely journey down the tracks. It's a dead end bar that feels like it's going places. We hope to return to Jerseys later this year, sit outside in the summer sun, and get away from that God damned music.

Pants on Fire

Amy Chua got a lot of ink earlier this year for her essay about motherhood, but since I'm perpetually behind the times, I'm just getting to her 2004 book about globalization, democracy, and market-dominant minorities. Chua asks here how it came to be that in many places around the globe small ethnic minorities came to have a disproportionally large share of the wealth--and to her credit, she mostly answers this question without sounding like a huge racist. She points to market liberalization and democratization as two major forces that can cause these disparities, but also as forces that allow for indigenous backlashes against their beneficiaries. In short, market liberalization can create huge sums of wealth for those in a position to take advantage of it, while simultaneous democratization can give the general population the tools to harshly punish market-dominant minorities (the rather unwieldy term she uses throughout the book). These forces can lead to persecution--and in extreme cases, even genocide--of those minorities with disproportionally large economic presence.

The first half of the book is Chua's description of market-dominant minorities in various cultures: the Chinese in southeast Asia, lighter skinned people in Latin America, Jews in Russia, and the market dominent ethnic groups of Africa, including those still benefitting from colonialist histories. In the second half of the book, she describes some of the atrocities that have arisen in combination with free markets and democratization.

What I thought was missing was a cogent analysis of how market-dominant ethnic minorities became so prevalent beyond some vague notions about cultural work-ethic. I would have liked to hear Chua talk more about relative educational opportunity, access to resources and capital, and to see more of an emphasis on colonialist heritage. In addition, while the problems that Chua identifies are certainly real, I'm not sure what alternative to democratization there is to believe in. Clearly, a rapidly democratizing society with extreme wealth imbalance does pose risks, but it's not palatable to suggest that the status quo is acceptable either. Surely we must be able to somehow encourage democratization while also mitigating the resentment that can be directed at market-dominant minorities.

It's a complex topic, and I think Chua's book would be stronger if it were about 100 pages longer, giving her appropriate space to reflect on some of the issues she raises in greater detail.

Guilty Tortures

I'm a reader with democratic tendencies. I like all levels of brow. I like fiction, non-fiction, poetry, genre literature, academic tomes, and racquetball advice books. So while I read my share of classics, I am always on the lookout for what is called a "guilty pleasure". For me this often takes the shape of a schlocky horror novel (this is also true of my taste in films). The trouble with guilty pleasures, is that one has to read so many guilty tortures to find a real guilty pleasure. Sometimes you have to just be satisfied with a few good pages out of a whole novel. So it is in the spirit of trying to find guilty pleasures that I will occasionally review a book that you may find questionable. Usually, these books will indeed turn out be letdowns, but we'll never know until we try them. And when you do find the one that is in fact a real pleasure, well, what a great feeling that is. Here then, is my first bwiwya guilty torture post, about a sci-fi/horror novel by Dean Koontz called Midnight:

Midnight sports a lot of Koontz's usual tropes. Among them are: the good-hearted protagonist that has experienced a loss, the angelic and unrealistically mature child, the unnecessary romance between main characters in the midst of mayhem, the remorseless mad scientist, the cute dog, and the easily predictable horror/sci-fi premise. Reading Koontz is too often like reading a screenplay for a March release Hollywood film--just very little complexity or surprises.

That said, this is far from the worst Koontz book I've read. There are at least two scenes that I thought employed effective visuals--one is a tense chase scene at the opening of the book, the other a curious close-call with one of the book's creatures--a sort of werewolf--that stares into a window of a house and idly taps a finger on the windowpane while our hero crouches against the wall and hopes he isn't noticed.

But there are way too many gaffes to give Midnight any sort of recommendation. Just listen to some of this writing. From page 104: "Harry stared at the apelike countenance, thought it was leaner and uglier and more fierce and infinitely stranger than the face of an ape." This sort of writing makes me crazy. Infinitely stranger than the face of an ape? That phrase has exactly zero meaning. Or from page 108, when a cry in the distance is described as "shrill yet guttural." Koontz does this kind of thing all the time--he was tall yet short, the sound was loud yet quiet. A good writer can give a description of the uncanny without resorting to nonsense.

I need to add something about a serious plot hole as well. The plot of this book has most of the citizens of a small town being changed to so-called "New People" in an experiment of which they are unwilling members. These New People are animalistic in that they live for essentially food and sexual pleasure only. Some of the New People embrace their wildness and go nuts. Others are worried and perplexed about losing their emotions. But none of those that loses their emotions ever ventures outside the community to seek help. Instead, the whole town gets turned over the course of a couple weeks with no one ever saying anything. If I thought my humanity had been stolen by a local mad scientist, I would hope some equally enterprising scientist elsewhere might be able to give it back to me. But what do I know? Also, no visitors ever notice anything weird about their relatives?

I saved the best for last though. The maudlin concluding scene of the novel is unbearable. The protagonist Sam is bitter at the beginning of the novel because he has had a near death experience and didn't like what he saw on the other side. What horrible thing comes after death that Sam saw, we wonder. Tessa, his love interest, brings Sam around to the life-affirming viewpoint that all Koontz characters are required to hold by the novel's end. The big reveal is that Sam was upset to see that there is an afterlife of some kind--you see, he hated living so much that he was mad that he would keep living. If that isn't the lamest plot point you've come across, then God help you.

Anyway, now Sam is on-board again with loving being alive, and he and Tessa return to his home where Sam hopes to make amends with his estranged teenage son. How does he do this? In a virtuoso display of unintentional satire, Koontz has Sam destroy his son's rock n' roll albums. I'm not even kidding.

Methinks We Do Not Protest Enough

Inspired by the extraordinary events happening in Wisconsin, yesterday I took to Pierre for the Stand Up for Education rally, ready to do my damnedest to stop the proposed 10% cut to education funding proposed by South Dakota's Governor Dennis Daugaard (Dewey to his friends). You may have seen my beautiful face on eastern South Dakota's NBC affiliate, KDLT. I'm famous!

The "protest" did accomplish one important goal--it got coverage on all the local news shows, and space in area newspapers. This is no small accomplishment and it deserves respect. However, what the protest did not do, was adequately demonstrate the anger of the electorate over the decimation of our already chronically underfunded schools. It was exactly the sort of polite, coffee and pie in the church basement kind of affair that makes very little impact on policy-makers. Education proponents have been nicely asking for funding for 30 years with no success. I don't understand what makes them think they can ask nicely for these cuts to be undone and get any results.

Here's what we did: sat in committee hearings (though the organizers had us trying to attend hearings that were not even happening on the day of the event), tried to find our local representatives to make our views known (this was close to impossible as legislators have no offices as far as I can tell and you had to simply hope to run into them in the hallways), and, in the one well-orchestrated part of the day, listen to a dozen or legislators that were already on our side.

What we did not do: show up in any kind of impressive numbers. There were about 100 people present, rather than the 1000 that could have started to be heard. 100 people at a protest tells legislators that hardly anyone cares enough to show up. We did not march, have signs, chant or in any way visably demonstrate our displeasure. No one knows how the situation in Wisconsin is going to turn out, but the protesters there, with their relentless application of political pressure, have given themselves substantially better odds of winning their fight than we did. Politicians are under no obligation to respond to well-reasoned argument or a reasonable alternative. The one thing they are obigated to listen to is overwhelming political pressure that they sense impedes their ability to continue to wield power. We are not producing anything close to that right now.

Of particular note was a conversation between Matt Groce and our own District 8 State Senator and fratboy tool Russell Olson. Olson suggested that school districts should have no problem handling cuts because their reserves are too large. When asked to envision how he sees the education funding issue being resolved "in a perfect world" he essentially said that Dewey's proposal in fact represents a perfect world. Deep cuts to education are perfect. At no time during the 10 minute conversation did he express any worry that deep cuts to education funding would result in worse outcomes for students. In committee the same day, he was the only vote against a bill that allow for a public vote on raising taxes to pay for education (he is so anti-tax that he won't even let his idiot constituents raise taxes on themselves, you see). This was the first time I had ever met Olson, but he certainly met the descriptions I had heard of him--dishonest, incurious, unwilling (or perhaps not imaginative enough) to consider proposals other than the one his party has handed him. He is a local George Bush Jr.

The ultimate fate of education funding in this year's budget remains to be seen, and it's still possible that education advocates might rally enough votes to avert disaster. But South Dakotans that care about this stuff need to get over their fear of offending those in power or making a ruckus of any sort. Quietly passing around a petition isn't going to do it. Politics is the clash of powerful interests, and the defeat of anti-education interests will require a lot of South Dakotans standing up and loudly declaring their opposition. I didn't see that yesterday.

Tuesdays with Beer: The Sportsman's Bar

7:10 PM at the Sportsman's Bar, Matt Groce and Brett Hoffman have a drink.

We've been here before, but not often. Last time, we were forced out by a rancid smell emanating from the salad bar. Spinach that had gone bad decades before. Tonight, there was no such smell, maybe because they've moved that same salad bar over to the Sportsman's Lounge restaurant down the street.

We were greeted by music as we walked in, a surprising and welcome development. Last week at the Trojan Tap, the line was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Not so at the happening Sportsman's this week. Eminem raps about White America and a small crowd of off duty Gehl employees make small talk around the bar. Matt says, "This is where you go for a drink between batches of cooking methamphetamine." True, but not necessarily a bad thing.

Not only was there music to greet us at this bar, but actual people as well. A local town drunk raised his glass to us and mumbled something about "my beer!" Right back at you, man! And look over there, a black man! It's the most diverse bar in Madison.

We walked up to the bar and ordered two Boulevards from the tap. Also available was Bud, Miller Lite, Coors Light, Bud Light, and Amber Bock. Our two beers cost $1.50 each, and absurdly low price. This is a place to drink on a budget. Suck on that Minneapolis! Also, available in bottles were Summit IPA and Summit Octoberfest. Wine was on hand as well--Arbor Mist and Sutter Home.

The money you save can be spent at one of the eight video lottery machines. The bartender told us he had seen people drop $700 in a machine. That's 466 and 2/3 beers! Tonight there was only one guy playing the machines. He smoked an e-cigarette while he played. There's also a pool table and a (working) dart machine.

On the walls was a staggering collection of mirror paintings. You know, the weird amalgam art form that is part mirror, part wildlife painting? There was a lot of that at Sportsman's, and the bar is better for it. Mixed with the wood paneling, it gives the bar a glow. This is your uncle's man-room in his basement. It's a place for working people to feel comfortable. We were out of the ordinary in our sweaters, but not out of place.

The bartender deserves a note of his own. He evidently doesn't work too often, because the regulars seemed surprised to see him behind the counter. But he was a charming older guy in a plaid shirt, with a rag hanging out of his back pocket. He was nervous talking to us, but clearly a good guy, and I bet a real character if you got to know him. He is small town bartender of your dreams. He took our word that we were over 21. The glasses hanging above him in the bar probably haven't been used in 20 years.

You can bring your big-city friends here, though it's hard to say why I am so comfortable saying that. Like it's cousin across the street, Foley's, this bar is natural and at-home in Madison. For whatever reason, this is not the place where most people I know tend to go, but it could easily have become my default bar if I knew more people that went there. In some ways, it is the inverse of the Trojan Tap--not conscientiously drawing any particular crowd. Under the prairie sky, this is the kind of bar where devils and angels come to sit, have a drink, and put their differences behind them for a few hours.

Good Endings

As far as good endings for short stories go, you can hardly beat James Joyce's ending to Araby from Dubliners: "Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger."

In Defense of Robocop Statues

Co-blogger Josh Davis lays out both some positive and negative feelings about a proposed Robocop statue in Detroit. I consider myself an authority on half-ass Robocop fandom, and am going to pick up the gauntlet that Davis has thrown down.

First, some credentials. I saw the original Robocop at a birthday party at a friend's house (my parents would never had stood for all the swearing). I can't remember where I saw the second, but I distinctly remember renting the third from a local video store as soon as it came out. I also watched the short-lived Robocop TV series that ran late at night on either Friday or Saturday nights. Finally, as a full-grown adult, I have seen all of the straight-to-video low budget Robocop sequels. There's a million of them.

I also have a "great idea" (even though I use scare quotes, I do actually think this a great idea) for a new Robocop movie. I haven't got it all worked out yet, but it goes something like this: the OCP bigwigs decide that they need to get Robocop out of Detroit and into other markets so they can start to sell more of their products nationwide. So Robocop is sent to an Indian Reservation in the Great Plains to solve a corporate crime involving the building of a casino. Somehow, a bunch of the capital that is supposed to go into construction has disappeared, and the books are all crooked. I think maybe OCP owns a stake in the casino or something. Solving white collar crime is not the kind of thing that Robocop is good at though, and he is having trouble making much headway; the Board of Directors is stonewalling him, etc.

Eventually he gets the Indian chief to agree to sit down with him. This happens in a teepee where everyone sits on the group and at the beginning of the meeting they pass around a peace pipe. I know this is a demeaning and inaccurate portrayal of modern reservation life, but I like the absurdist imagery. Anyway, the peace pipe has some kind of poison in it, and Robocop passes out after smoking it. When he is passed out, his body is completely taken apart and the pieces of him are buried in the foundation of the casino, which is now being constructed somehow.

But pretty soon ghostly apparitions start appearing around the construction site. Robocop is back, but he is Part Man, Part Machine, Part Ghost. I'm trying to invert the formula from Poltergeist. After this, I don't know exactly what happens except that Robocop solves the crime with the help of a young and dedicated Indian lawyer/accountant. His body is dug up out of the foundation and re-constituted and his soul, in a moving sequence, re-enters his body. At the end, the lawyer/accountant becomes the new chief and gives Robocop an honorary eagle feather. I guess the joke is that Robocop is an absurdly blunt instrument and that a lot of problems won't be solved by man/machines with guns.

Whew, that was a tangent!

But about the statue. No doubt that Detroit has been a national punch-line for many years. Detroit has lost population, has been forced to close half of its schools, and had to endure an ridiculous Super Bowl advertisement. The area has been inexorably torn apart by economic forces beyond any individual's control, even Roger Smith. No one thing--even one thing as amazing as a Robocop statue--is going to change all of that.

The statue is worth building though, if only because it injects a postmodern sensibility into our everyday lives. The building of the statue appeals to me in the same way that my plot for Robocop 4 does. It mixes up contexts and confounds our expectations. Public art is either supposed to be ridiculously solemn realism or incomprehensible abstraction. A Robocop statue is simultaneously solemn and incomprehensible. It treats with seriousness something which is inherently silly.

The original Robocop film is actually very cunning in its politics. It is a sly satire about privatization (the OCP Corporation with their police machines is brought in while Detroit's public police force is phased out). Officer Murphy's literal transition from human to machine in the film is representative our metaphorical transition from humans to machines that serve the always greater need for increased productivity in late-stage capitalist society. Yet the message is mixed, because of course Robocop is the hero of the film as he strives to destroy both humans and machines that conflict with his directives. Murphy's submerged humanity can make him a less efficient hero at times, yet it is what we cheer for.

So Murphy/Robocop is a product of his economic times just as the citizens of Detroit today cannot escape their own economic condition. Robocop is a pretend hero, but the relentless pressure to become machine-like that he represents is felt by any participant in our economy. Detroit knows this as well as anyone. And it doesn't hurt that the statue would be built, at least in concept, from donations rather by funds raised by the city. Finally, with no actual hero who challenged the changing economic conditions that has landed Detroit where it is today, we're forced to take heroes where we can find them. We worship a pretend hero because there is no real hero to worship.

Tuesdays with Beer: Trojan Tap

Tuesday, February 22, 2011, 7:30 PM Brett Hoffman and Matt Groce visit the Trojan Tap in Madison, South Dakota.

The Trojan Tap is one of about 8 or so drinking establishments in Madison depending on how you count them. The two us had not been in here since 2004, back when it was called Fat Daddy's, a bad bar name if you've ever heard one. The idea behind Fat Daddy's was that it would be a sort of Irish Pub, but that never caught on. Before Fat Daddy's, this establishment was called the Happy Hour, famous for its fried chicken.

Now it's the Trojan Tap, in an effort to attract college kids, the Dakota State University Trojans. Tonight there weren't many college kids around. In fact, when we walked in, there was just us and the bartender, an obese twenty-something in a DSU t-shirt. At first, we weren't sure he was the bartender, since he was sitting at a barstool with his laptop. But he obliged us after we came out of the cold and got on the right side of the bar. Granted, it was Tuesday night and early, so what were we expecting?

PBR was on tap, so the drink of the night was obvious. We ordered two beers, at $2.50 apiece. The only sound in the place was a television tuned to the Disney Channel, playing Ice Age. We got our beers and sort of stood around, eventually finding our way to one of the two tables in the joint, not wanting to sit at the barstools with no one else around.

There were two pool tables available, though the bartender was taking up one of them for about as long as we were present. There's also an old dart board, but it didn't look like it was working. Half of the lights were nonfunctional, apparently because of "a party the night before" according to the bartender. We didn't really understand what he was saying, but that was becoming a trend of sorts. There was, however, a black light on the ceiling that forced us both to hide the various stains on our clothes. Not the sort thing to do while picking up chicks.

As for the inside of the place, it's not bad in the dive-y sort of way that the bars of Madison tend to have. Wood paneling and some exposed brick, all of it painted over in light brown (my favorite color). Posters on the wall for NASCAR and the El Riad Shriners bar. Five video lottery machines along one wall is probably the high for downtown Madison bars. It's essentially par for the course, and could even be inviting if there were anyone around to share it with, but when you're on your own, it feels like you're drinking in someone's basement.

On tap: Bud, Bud Light, Coors Light, Miller Lite, Mich Golden, and PBR. In bottles, you could have (for you fancy-types) Mike's Hard Lemonade and Cranberry, Smirnoff Ice, Corona, Heineken, and Newcastle. The PBR we drank tasted fine.

Since we were the only customers, the bartender brought us our second round at the table. For the third, he was playing pool, so we had to go up the bar. Also, by this point that Angelina Jolie movie where she bends the bullets around was on TV. This was a step up, I think.

There was a room in back where it appeared there could be live music on occasion, but more likely a DJ. There was room to dance if ever there were a crowd. I don't know if they ever use this.

One positive that I'd like to report is that the bartender happily accepted my $5 that was torn in half and re-attached with a piece of tape. I hate when I have that sort of thing and I was greatly relieved that he took it off my hands. This may in fact have been my favorite part of the night. The bathroom is what you'd expect. The floor was unusually sticky considering it was a Tuesday night, but you can't be too picky about your bathroom floors. Toward the end of the two hours we spent in Trojan Tap, another soul did come in, much to my joy. It turned out though that this was another employee on his off-day or something, not a real customer.

In a way, it's hard to believe that there aren't any kind of regulars that frequent this place. It's no worse than several other bars in the area. But it's also no better, I suppose, and it's the newest name in a town with a lot of dingy bars.

So what is the lesson of this experiment? In one sense, it's maybe that you should simply tamp down your expectations when you're going out in Madison on a Tuesday night. But at least other bars appeared occupied. Trojan Tap is solely for those whose existential sadness is driving them toward complete isolation. If you need to experience a black hole, complete with PBR, then by all means, drag your sorry ass to the Trojan Tap. There are days when that's just what I needed. But thankfully, those day are few and far between lately.

On the other hand, if you're looking for hassle-free employment, this may just be the gig for you!

Hipness Unto Death

Hello. My name is Brett Hoffman. Danny and I have been friends for many years, and I'm honored that he would allow me to post occasional bits along with his superior insight. Danny will no doubt live to regret the day he opened this blog up to his idiot friends, but until he takes the keys back, I am free to use this space to do my level best to force my opinions on others. Mostly this will take the form of book reviews for books that virtually no one cares about, but it may sometimes be something else as well. Nothing drives page views like talking books.

Anyway, with Danny's review of the Blue Trees, I feel pretty liberated to talk about my own minor obsessions. I'm going to be starting on an esoteric note, with a review of Mark Crispin Miller's Boxed In: The Culture of TV.

Boxed In is a collection of essays about television advertising, films, and music. The newest essays are from 1988, and Miller went on to become quasi-famous as critic of President Bush with his books The Bush Dyslexicon and Cruel and Unusual. In this book, it's clear that Miller is part of the left from his essay on the Reagan Presidency, but most of the essays are essentially apolitical.

Easily the strongest section of the book is when Miller is focused on advertising. Miller is trained as a graduate student in English literature, meaning that he has spent a lot of time doing the "close readings" that are required by the New Criticism school of thought. He takes this technique that is normally applied to poetry and instead focuses it on television commercials with some very interesting results.

He makes explicit the racial themes that are implicit in a commercial encouraging Americans to vacation in Jamaica in the first chapter. In the second, he delves into the psycho-sexual tension involved in a soap commercial. That may sound like a joke, but it's really not.

Skip to the 1:40 mark to see the commercial.

A couple excerpts from this chapter, so you get the feel of the writing:

"He comes toward her, setting himself up for a profound humiliation by putting on a playful air of suave command. Adjusting his tie like a real man of the world, he saunters over to his wife and her flower bowl, where he plucks a dainty purple flower and lifts it to his lapel: "And," he boasts throughout all this, trying to make his voice sound even deeper, "with old J.J.'s business and my brains--""--you'll...clean up again?" Gail asks with suggestive irony, subverting his authoritative pose by leaning against him, draping one hand over his shoulder to dangle a big yellow daisy down his chest."

"Typically, it woos its female viewers--i.e., those who choose the soap in most households--with a fantasy of dominance."

"This 'man,' in fact, is actually Gail's wife: he is utterly feminized, striking a posture and displaying attributes which men have long deplored in women."

"The crucial object in the opening shot is that the flower box with its bright geraniums, which is placed directly in front of the husband's groin. This clever stroke of composition has the immediate effect of equating our hero's manhood with a bunch of flowers."

And so on. Miller's language is somewhat overwrought (all throughout the book, unfortunately) but the subtext is striking once it is pointed out. When I've brought this sort of analysis up to people, they often respond by saying something like, "Don't you think he's reading too much into this? These are just commercials, after all." This is exactly the wrong way to think about this phenomenon though. Commercials are ubiquitous and unavoidable--we are consciously and unconsciously bombarded with them, and it cannot be helped that they will penetrate our psyche. Rather than suggest that something we are surrounded by is unworthy of study, we should be all the more willing to discover what it is actually saying to us. And don't forget, the people that make national advertising are sophisticated and highly-trained. They are completely aware of everything they place in their ads.

So I think there is a great deal of value in this sort of analysis, though since this book was written in 1988, I wish there were more recent examples. Also noteworthy are Miller's chapters on Bill Cosby, Family Feud (Victory demands the absolute suppression of any wayward thought or preference, any eccentricity that might define the family apart from TV's bland reconstruction of ourselves."), and his viewer's guide to the 1984 Presidential election.

He also invents an archetype of the television ironist (David Letterman is his go-to example) that on one hand seems to say to the audience that they too smart to be watching this nonsense--say, stupid people tricks--but encouraging them to stay tuned anyway because they are in a sense, in the on the joke. That same audience is then turned over to advertisers that work on a similar principle: ads that are full of irony (you are too smart to fall for this dumb ad!) and trying to morph that irony into a desire to purchase a product.

The chapters on film and music are less compelling to me, so I won't go into detail about them. I would pair this book up with The Conquest of Cool by Thomas Frank, another interesting volume on the history of advertising.