There is some truth to stereotypes. We used to be able to joke about them without shrieking, “racism, Anti-Semitism,” “Occidentalism,” “Orientalism,” “Eurocentrism.”
What happens when a fly falls into a coffee cup?
The Italian: throws the cup and walks away in a fit of rage.
The Frenchman: takes out the fly, and drinks the coffee.
The Chinese: eats the fly and throws away the coffee.
The Russian: drinks the coffee with the fly, since it was extra with no charge.
The Israeli: sells the coffee to the Frenchman, the fly to the Chinese, buys himself a new cup of coffee and uses the extra money to invent a device that prevents flies from falling into coffee.
The Palestinian: blames the Israeli for the fly falling in his coffee, protests the act of aggression to the UN, takes a loan from the European Union to buy a new cup of coffee, uses the money to purchase explosives, and then blows up the coffee house where the Italian, the Frenchman, the Chinese, and the Russian are all trying to explain to the Israeli that he should give away his cup of coffee to the Palestinian.
The time of the year is upon us when you buy your sweetie her favorite fragrance. Or if you’re good at shopping for scent, you surprise her.
You might consider consulting a new book, Perfumes: The Guide, by Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez.
If you like the better concoctions, and are old enough, you’ll remember “Joy Parfum, the 1930 masterpiece by Henri Almeras for Jean Patou, which, if it were a painting, could hang beside Matisse’s nearly contemporary ‘Yellow Odalisque’ in Philadelphia,” writes TLS reviewer Angus Trumble.
But you ought to know that:
“The cynical bean-counters in Paris and Zurich do not hesitate to tamper with old formulas, insisting on the substitution of cheap chemical compounds that approximately resemble rarer, better ingredients in an effort to reduce the dizzying cost and increase profits. They do not tell their customers when or how they do this, indeed they presume we won’t notice the difference, so fine perfume is now hopelessly entangled with the international cosmetic dollar, and ill served by marketing and public relations. It is also manacled to crude presumptions about what is acceptably feminine or credibly masculine.”
“Just as the world is awash with terrible art, the fragrance counters are unhappily cluttered with rubbish.”
You need only a nose to sense that the “bubble-gummy” “Heiress” by Paris Hilton is “cheap shampoo and canned peaches.”
Also indefensible is Britney Spears’ “Curious”: It’s “a Niagara of megaphone vulgarity which ‘lasts forever, and radiates like nuclear waste.’”
The book speaks highly of “Lovely” by Sarah Jessica Parker.” It’s “evidently worth serious consideration: ‘a truly charming floral, about as edgy as a marshmallow and all the better for it, with a fresh, gracious, melodic chord somewhere between lily of the valley and magnolia.’”
Has any one tried it? I’m still stuck on Paris by Yves Saint Laurent and the original Trésor.
I’m not even going to bother being legally correct and prefacing this with an “allegedly.” (Okay, I will, if I must.)
Coldplay, a crappy band of unmerry noisemakers, about whom I wrote the definitive piece, “Coldplay’s Contrapuntal Incompetence,” has allegedly ripped off Joe Satriani’s instrumental, “If I Could Fly.” (He sure soars musically.)
Although these knaves claim Frida Kahlo inspired “Viva La Vida,” it’s abundantly clear that coldcrap’s muse came not from the Marxist, Mexican artist, but, allegedly, from a good old American boy’s brilliance.
Listen (and resume reading after the clip):
This is an outrage I feel with every fiber, etc., etc. As when one reader wrote in to say a big-name radio talker was practically reading one of my WND columns on the air, claiming the words (chords) and ideas (chord progression) as his own.
As I once wrote, “The marketplace doesn’t adjudicate the quality of art or pop culture—it does no more than offer an aggregate snapshot of the trillions of subjective preferences enacted by consumers. Aguilera (Christina) probably sells more than Ashkenazy (Vladimir) ever did. Britney outdoes Borodin. For some, this will be faith-inspiring, for others deeply distressing.” (February 7, 2003)
Mediocre minds need to feed on their less-known betters. More often than not, the former have managed to climb to the top by catering to vulgar, popular tastes. (For example: The taste for blood Boobus developed facilitated not only the Iraq invasion, but careers for many a war harpy.)
They can steal with impunity from their betters, who’ll never attain the power to be able to sue.
But now the parasite has enraged the host.
Satriani’s law suit is gratifying, although I don’t expect Coldplay to lose face. They’ll be graced, rather than disgraced–much like Paris Hilton after copulating in public.
For fans of good, neoclassical, instrumental rock, I’ll ask the spouse, a formidable composer and instrumentalist himself, to say a word or two about Satriani. He agrees, though, that I’ve covered Coldplay quite adequately.
“Coldplay plays only one or two chords. When they get going, the band musters three. It’s the equivalent of ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,’ maybe ‘Three Blind Mice,’ although these nursery rhymes reveal better melodic progression. Indeed, some harmony might have helped Coldplay’s caterwauling, but consonance, like counterpoint, is nowhere apparent in their ‘music.'”
“The front man also fancies himself a keyboardist. He doubles over the instrument with immense concentration, leading the listener to expect some virtuosity. The sounds that escape from beneath stiff digits are as tortured as a toddler’s hammering away on a play-play piano.”
“Slackers like Coldplay deserve cold contempt. Colorlessly they drone on, sustaining one or two pitches and exhibiting zero proficiency on any of the instruments they belabor. The bassist picks notes in a pedestrian fashion and the guitarist strums simplistically, producing a cacophony with almost no melodic momentum or variation. At the guitarist’s feet lie 10 to 15 effects pedals. But a slight echo in the monotone is the only evidence that he makes use of these sonic supports.”
“The singer openly boasts that to record one of their trills, the band needed hundreds of takes—so many that they eventually gave up. Incapable of playing such simple dirge from beginning to end, our towering talents resorted to a computer to help them piece the bits together. Audiences cheer their admission of incompetence much like they revel in the president’s unfamiliarity with the English language.”
Sir Stothard had noted my praise for the TLS in “Excellence Vs. Offal”: “It’s always good to find a friend in blogland. So let me introduce Iana [sic] Mercer and her views about the TLS.”
Sigh.
As they say, “So long as they spell your name correctly…”
More interesting are Anthony St. John’s comments about me. A while ago, my pal Tom DiLorenzo sent me a note in which I am referred to as “one of the toughest people around.” Sean laughed a lot. (He understood that the comment was directed at my principles, not my person.) I find it puzzling, as I’m one of the softest sorts around, in demeanor too. (And a tiny person at that.)
I suspect that rationality is hard to grapple with in sentimental fin de siècle America. I don’t misplace sympathy; I always bestow it where it is absolutely deserving.
It takes a superficial sort to call me “hard.”
Has any writer written more emotionally than the one who wrote “About a Boy,” or “Betraying Brave Boys”? I doubt it. It’s just that I don’t bleed all over the floor for Oprah’s or Tyra’s archetypal “victims.”
I suspect that comments such as “[d]oes she eat nails for breakfast?” are an extension of the above, and compounded by the impersonal nature of the Internet.
In any event, St. John’s comments are interesting, as I’m not quite sure how he, being a Marxist, would like me to mellow. Or how he, being a Marxist, can even attempt to understand a woman of the Right, which I am–a woman of the Old, libertarian Right. This man has not done his homework. As for me being “crass”; a man who doesn’t recognize a lady is no gentleman at all.
Here goes:
30 June 2006
DO I HAVE TO THROW STONES AT THE MONA LISA BECAUSE IT’S CRACKING, PEELING AND FADING AWAY?
About twenty years or so ago, I (7 October 1944) stopped asking myself “Where’s this world going.” I just had given up. Nothing could surprise me from then on. So when one of my fellows, a woman, wrote back to me–after I had suggested to her to visit www.ilanamercer.com and tell me what she thought–pleading that I “blow Ilana out of the water,” I was not shocked, but I was very disappointed. I have no reason to blow Ilana out of the water. She is a stunningly beautiful woman, a very talented essayist, and I admire gutsy women (and men) who provoke us to think in these days of ambiguity and hypocrisy. A cad I am not! And Ilana offered me a chance to stroll down a Memory Lane of sorts. She reminded me of my stint as a circulation/correspondence assistant at NATIONAL REVIEW magazine in New York where I hobnobbed with those egg-headed US conservative doyens who were planting the seeds of the NeoTheoCon vogue with which we are burdened today. I broke bread with Russell Kirk, Senators Barry Goldwater and John Tower, Eddie Rickenbacher, Jr, James “The Managerial Revolution” Burnham, Robert Welch, Charles Edison, William A Rusher (WAR!), Frank Meyer and many others including, of course, the Prime Mover of the NeoTheoCon fad and the fervent Irish-American Roman Catholic who put God in the first pew of Northamerican conservative politics, William F Buckley, Jr. Ilana is made of that “conservative stuff” I tired of when I left NR in 1962 and went to university. (I am haunted, to this day, by with what my sister once told me: “You, mitigated Marxist, rocked the cradle of the NeoTheoCon movement, too!”) They are smart individuals but they stink to high heaven with their self-righteousness. I read a couple of IM’s articles and I know how her political DNA is mapped out. I could never agree with her on, say, her efforts to extol Oriana Fallaci whom I consider a racist and war-monger. (Nothing would please OF more than if British and Northamerican soldiers fought another “crusade” against the believers of the Islam religion which she, OF, detests.) But, IM is courageous enough to say those things which others might not agree with her on, and she is ready to take the consequences–something which many journalists today are not wont to do. I would like to give Ilana Mercer some advice, if I may. Ilana, you are often crass and insensitive. You also assume too much from your readers. Remember there are many people in this world who are not even interested in what the Left or Right has to offer us in these trying times. Your barbs are probably going to turn people off more than they will win friends and influence people to your side. You must enlighten and delight. Tone your voice down. You have a wonderful ability to see through to the heart of things. But, please be courteous when doing so–for your own benefit. Contain your strength and maintain a calm exterior. Remember that we are pliant. We are flexible when we are born, and we become hard when we die. You must be strong. Not hard. Being strong means you know when to be soft, when to be hard. You are too hard, Ilana. Really. Anthony “The Word Warrior” St. John…
