A LITTLE ENCOURAGEMENT FROM NIETZSCHE

A REFLECTION

Sometimes I wonder what all my writing will lead to. I never intended to make a career from my writing. People tell me: "Go write a book." But then they say: "You need to have a story that people will like, etc., etc." In other words, to be a successful writer I need to stop wandering and get focused. If I want a bestseller, I need to Grishamize.

If you read my blog, you know I'm no John Grisham. I simply write what occurs to me. But my writing is thematically consistent. An identifiable core runs through everything I write here. I think it's possible to glean my life philosophy from the topics I choose to discuss. That might not be a recipe for bestselling commercial writing. But what have I ever cared about commerce? If anything, I recoil from it. I'm an Aristotelean in that regard: Philosophy and commerce just don't mix.

Still, it's a lonely road sometimes. I look at authors who achieve commercial success and wonder why no one ever notices me. Maybe I am just too weak or too preoccupied to promote myself. On the other hand, I know that most Americans really don't care about--or care to think about--the issues I typically address in my writing. So my commercial non-viability is really twofold: (1) I do not promote; and (2) My substance is largely unpalatable.

To be clear, I am not complaining. It is exciting to write only about things that stimulate me. For the longest time, I lived life without commenting on it. Commentary simmered in my mind all the time; work just never gave me a chance to write it all down. This blog has given me the chance I always craved. It has transformed me. So even if this blog does not pay me in U.S. dollars, it pays me in emotional satisfaction. If I die tomorrow, people would know who I am. My voice would not be lost. This blog is as much a testament as it is a forum.

I always find inspiration and encouragement when I need them most. Yesterday, I sat thinking about the fact that no one will ever read what I write, at least not in my lifetime. It frustrated me a little bit. I even thought about my philosophical archetype, Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche never achieved commercial success in life, either. His books barely sold a thousand copies. When he was 45, he lost his mind and never recovered. He died young. I don't think I'm losing my mind yet, but I identify with what happened to Nietzsche: I am defiantly proud of the fact that I am anti-commercial; but it nonetheless hurts to know I will likely never receive wide recognition.

So I felt a little down yesterday. It was cold, gray, windy and rainy outside. I reflected on how poor I am. I can barely pay my rent. In fact, this month I can't even pay it at all. I need to budget out my money to buy food. Plus I need to care for Steve, who is incapacitated. It pretty much sucks. I still experience joy these days. But it only peeks through like tiny patches of blue sky on a very cloudy day.

I decided to crack open Nietzsche's Human, All-too Human. I paged through the aphorisms. I stumbled on this one: "121. A Vow--I do not want to read any more authors about whom people say: 'He set out to write a book.' Rather, I only want to read authors whose thoughts became a book by accident."

Is this me? It sure sounds like it. I just write my thoughts. I never set out to write a book. I simply allow myself to pour out impressions on things that fascinate me or incite me. There is consistency in my thoughts. But they do not reflect a conscious plan to "write a book" in the conventional sense. Could they "accidentally" become a book? Perhaps. As a whole, I like to think that this blog resembles a collection of Nietzschean impressions. Nietzsche's unconventional thoughts transformed into books. Perhaps mine can too.

That was encouraging. Without even trying, I fit into the category of "authors" whom Nietzsche might have wanted to read. I am not one of those authors who "set out to write a book." I do not sketch plots or try to cram my writing into a conventional format that people like. I am not John Grisham. John Grisham's thoughts do not become a book "by accident." No, when he sits down to write, he knows what book it's going in. He's just fleshing out the formula he laid down before he starting writing.

I'm glad I stumbled on Nietzsche's aphorism when I did. I was feeling low and worthless. I was losing hope. But after discovering that Nietzsche, too, faced similar struggles in his time, I felt encouraged to face mine. I felt freshly secure in my writing. It did not bother me that I am not a bestseller. Rather, I felt hope that perhaps one day--like Nietzsche--my thoughts would "accidentally" transform into a book. That thought brightened me, even if the "book" appears after I die. I do not really value my life too much anyway. I would rather have people remember my thoughts than my "too too solid flesh." As the Germans say: "Wer schreibt, der bleibt" : "He who writes remains."

I blog because it is the only way for me to publish without editorial control or commercial pressure. Nietzsche wrote longhand and hoarded his writings in his desk. He found a publisher who printed a few editions. I can publish over the internet, even if my audience is small. At least it's something. And I will continue. That is my vow.

JOHN MAYER IS A FUCKIN' ASSHOLE, PURE AND SIMPLE

OESTERHOUDT STRIKES - FOR THE THROAT

I've never liked John Mayer. I always branded his music vacuous, unimpressive, pretentious, lightweight, bourgeois-pleasing, chart-serving rubbish. And I knew from day one that he was no reclusive "shy boy" type. I knew that was all just a lady-luring façade. As the tabloids now routinely report, Mayer is no "in-bed-by-10" sort of dude. He's more an "in-bed-with-10-chicks-by-10-the-next-morning" sort of dude. So all that whispery, faux romantic, breathy, oh-I'm-so-sweet, honey-dipped, bedhead lyricizing all amounts to a big stinking heap of hypocritical bullshit.

Having written my opening paragraph, you can see I have a bias against him. I won't conceal that.

But I'm not writing today to player-hate John Mayer. After all, there are plenty of men out there who would want to be in John Mayer's lady-killing shoes right this minute. They sling dirt at him just because they are envious. To be clear, I'm not envious. There are other things about John Mayer beyond romantic prowess that really repel me. The kiss-and-tell womanizing and the ignorant suburban pretentiousness pale in comparison to his much more substantial misconceptions about social realities in the United States.

Many others have already written about Mayer's recent interview in Playboy magazine. I will recount it in order to show that John Mayer is just an opaque asshole, pure and simple.

During the interview, Mayer fielded this question: "If you didn't know you, would you think you're a douche bag?" In response, Mayer said: "It's like I come on very strong. I am a very…I'm just very. V-E-R-Y. And if you can't handle very, then I'm a douche bag. But I think the world needs a little very. That's why black people love me."

Wait a minute. Just wait a goddamn minute. Black people love you? What the hell is going on here? What is this white man from Fairfield County, Connecticut talking about? Does he really think that African-Americans in any way identify with him? Isn't it enough that he copied their musical forms and passed them off as his own? I suppose John Mayer thinks--as many breathtakingly naïve white hipsters do--that it is "cool to be black." And somehow his imitation of black musical forms entitles him to adoration from those "cool black people." In other words, Mayer thinks that being "loved by black people" means you're "cool."

This is beyond embarrassing. It is insulting.

John Mayer's cultural experience could not be more different from the average black American's cultural experience. John Mayer grew up in Connecticut's wealthiest county. I know what it's like there: I grew up three counties over: Most people's biggest worry is whether to buy a new Range Rover or a Volvo. And there aren't many black people around, I can tell you that.

Mayer's parents were comfortable bourgeois. He went to college. He didn't even go into debt for it. He never wanted for anything. He did not suffer discrimination or abuse. His biggest challenge was dealing with suburban angst, for which he took Xanax pills. He achieved remarkable commercial success by copying blues musicians, even though nothing in his background even remotely compares to what original bluesmen endured in the segregated South a hundred years ago. Sure, maybe John Mayer's "baby left him (ie, Jennifer Aniston, Jessica Simpson, etc.)." But that transitory woe hardly compares him to 1920s black musicians, who not only lamented losing their girlfriends, but also struggled to escape lynch mobs and scrape a living working on a railroad in Arkansas or something. Put simply, John Mayer doesn't know shit about the blues with his well-situated Connecticut ass.

Yet it doesn't end here--not even close. Mayer went on to say that black people love him so much that they gave him a "hood pass." In the Playboy interview, he clarified what he meant: "And by the way, it's sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass…[] I said, 'I can't really have a hood pass. I've never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, 'We're full.'"

Oh no he didn't. Oh yes he did. He said it. He not only said it. He said it publicly. This is the same guy who claims that "black people love him." Well, from John Mayer's perspective, I suppose it really doesn't matter. He gets to be cool like a black guy without the attendant complications, like being turned away from restaurants because you're black. Nope, he doesn't need to worry about that. On stage, he can be a brother. But off stage, he can just be another rich white cocksucker from Fairfield. Oh, double standards… how very convenient they can be when they work for you.

Inconsistencies bother me in any intellectual endeavor. True, it is hard to escape inconsistencies in life. We are all wracked with contradiction and conflict. I have my own contradictions. But the smugness in John Mayer's strikingly inconsistent positions about race really makes my blood boil. After all, Mayer has made his career imitating black musical forms. He owes African-American culture everything for his success. If it weren't for soul, R&B and the blues, he wouldn't have anything to play. He styles himself "just another black guy." He relishes adoration from black audiences. He touts his "hood pass." But then he turns around and remarks that he never has to suffer the same social handicaps as his black "heroes." And he likes it that way.

Worse, in the Playboy interview, he even said: "My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I've got a Benetton heart and a fuckin' David Duke cock."

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think many black people would "love" any white man who favorably mentions David Duke in any context. And this is the maddening thing about John Mayer's racial inconsistencies. On the one hand, he owes black Americans everything and "loves" them. On the other hand, he uses the term "white supremacist" to describe his sexual life. Now, everyone is entitled to their sexual tastes. But favorably invoking white supremacy in any context is a bit problematic for a man who claims that black people love him. And it is even more troubling for a man who has made a fantastic career commandeering black musical forms. My conclusion: Once again, John Mayer is just an asshole, plain and simple.

John Mayer swiftly apologized for his statements--in a bite-sized Twitter sentence, no less. He explained that "he should not have used the word" during the interview, remarking that it is impossible to "intellectualize it." Yet Mayer missed the point. The fact that he used the word "nigger" in the Playboy interview is only symptomatic of a much larger issue, namely, his simplistic and self-contradicting positions about race in the United States. John Mayer needs to understand this more than most white Americans, because John Mayer makes his money imitating black music. While many white Americans routinely get away with casual racism, Mayer cannot. He cannot have it both ways. He cannot both be a hood hero and a white supremacist. Despite his contention that "black people love him," he coarsely generalizes about black Americans just as much as the most ignorant white teenage rap wannabe: They're "cool." They're "hip." It's "cool to have a hood pass."

And once again, he does not end there with the generalizations. First, he said that "black people love him" because he is "very." That puzzled the interviewer. But a little interpretation makes clear that Mayer was just stereotyping. "Very" is an adverb that means "more than usual." There is "black," and there is "very black." It intensifies the adjective. John Mayer said that "black people love him" because he is "very." Very what? Simply "very," meaning "living intensely, excessively, recklessly, thoughtlessly, frolickingly." In other words, living "more than usual." Mayer's statement, then, implies that all black Americans live this way; and that's why they love him. He lives "very." He lives "black." This is gross stereotyping.

I am not going out on a limb here. John Mayer truly feels this way. Consider what he said later in the interview: "What is being black? It's making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that's seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you'll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude's."

So now John Mayer--a wealthy white Connecticut suburbanite--is an authority on the meaning of black identity in America? This is so stunningly condescending it's funny. But then you realize it's not funny at all, because this guy actually believes he understands black Americans because he can imitate their guitar-playing. It is simply ludicrous for John Mayer to even suggest he knows a thing about the "collective struggle of black America," let alone to compare his "struggle" (whatever that is… maybe bagging some dancer chick on tour) to "one black dude's."

No matter what he says, John Mayer has not faced struggle in his life. Worrying whether a song about pillows makes the Pop Top 10 does not qualify as a "struggle." By contrast, battling to overcome the pernicious historical legacy of slavery--all the while contending with rampant poverty, educational inequality, discriminatory treatment, unequal housing, violence, broken homes and crime --is a "struggle."

John Mayer is no hero. He's an arrogant, self-righteous, fake, low-frequency imitator who knows nothing about racial realities in the United States. That really bothers me. Every American must come to terms with racism. Our Nation's racial conflict will never end; it stains the land. But there is a way to address it respectfully and a way to address it irresponsibly. John Mayer not only addresses it irresponsibly; he also profits from it. Then he gloats about how wonderful it is to be white and rich in America. So he gets the best of both worlds: Cool like a black guy; privileged like a white guy. Plus he gets all the white chicks and never has to wait for a table in a trendy restaurant.

All this makes him a straight-up asshole in my book.

And this is not slander. This is just an opinion about a nauseating public figure. But it really doesn't matter, because you can't slander anyone with truth.

HEALTH CARE REVOLUTION : MY LONG-TERM PLAN

A REFLECTION

I’ve been doing some promoting lately. Whenever I meet people, I try to get a feel for their social leanings. If I think they might like my blog, I tell them about it. I’m even thinking about advertising in some newspapers. But I know everyone won’t like it. In fact, I like that idea.

When I talk to people who have spent some time reading my catalogue, I hear familiar refrains: “Do you plan on writing anything for mass consumption? Do you plan to write a novel? A play? A book?” In truth, I have never wanted to be popular. I don’t want to be John Grisham. I don’t want to compromise my ideas in order to write something that is “conventionally pleasing.” I don’t want anyone to transform my writing into Hollywood adaptations, and I don’t care if Oprah Winfrey finds my essays compelling. She’s welcome to enjoy my essays; I just don’t thirst for her recognition. That’s all I mean. She’s welcome to like my writing. But nothing will make me write a lighthearted romantic comedy, like the New York Fire Department Captain who wrote a feel-good novel in his spare time. I just can’t do it. It’s hard for me to be frivolous. It makes me sick, actually.

Still, I have larger designs. For one, I want to compile all my satires into a “pamphlet.” I think my satires all dwell on consistent themes. They all mock powerful people and their pretentious, condescending arguments. I plan on editing my satires and organizing them in such a way that they could be read as a “book.” My essays travel over more varied ground, but I think they, too, could be organized into a relatively consistent format. In this sense, I think my blog already qualifies as a “book.” I just need to hash the ideas together and bind it up.

Second, I want to write a longer piece. I really like novels. But I don’t like English and American novels (with some exceptions, of course). I like German and Russian novels. There is an immense difference. German and Russian novels generally have loose, skeletal plots that merely provide a framework for dark, philosophical expositions. English and American novels generally go heavy on plot and light on philosophy. I’ve written before that I don’t like plot. If I want plot, I’ll read a newspaper or police report. When it comes to literature, I want something more, something challenging and daring. Sappy love stories don’t interest me, nor do swashbuckling commercial success stories. These are conventional stories. When I talk about love and commercial success, I’m usually mocking them. Dostoevsky and Kafka did, too.

So what kind of novel will I write? For two years, I’ve been mulling a novel about a new American revolution. What better way to make mordant observations about society than through a fictional revolution? I’ve said before that revolutions excite me because they represent times during which old orders collapse and the law fails. They spark radical changes in values. They make powerful people scurry and run. They force people to rethink their lives. That’s exciting. By the same token, I’ve written that revolution will not happen in America because too many people are “relatively pleased” with their lives; they don’t want to think differently. After all, enough people have homes, cars and televisions to risk everything for a shot at “something better.” So they let existing power structures persist, no matter how subtly pernicious.

But this broaches a question: What would push Americans over the edge? What would make Americans risk everything to reshape their society? What kinds of pressures and injustices would spur significant numbers to risk armed revolt against the old order? And how would the old order respond to those revolts? I always thought health care would be a good metaphor here. I envisioned an America—maybe forty years from now—in which wealth and power disparities grew to intolerable levels. In this unequal society, some people have access to miraculous medical treatments, while others die on the streets. I thought injustices involving health care would provide a good literary vehicle for a “fictional revolution.” Eerily, I thought these things long before the current “health care crisis” and the irrational debate it has unleashed in recent months.

My novel will pursue familiar, satirical themes. I often write about health care on my blog because it is a proxy for numerous subsidiary themes, including inequality, fairness, justice, death, money, commerce, profit, American life, hypocrisy and compassion. It touches upon life, yet it intertwines with money and profit. It touches upon our deepest humanity, yet it is also a commodity. No matter how you slice the health care issue, some people live and die because they can’t pay. That provides plentiful opportunities for commentary. Emotions run high in the health care debate because people worry about getting sick and dying. They become irrational when they think government might impede their access to a doctor, or because government tolerates a system in which they cannot afford to ever see one. I can envision emotions running so high over this issue, in fact, that revolution could ensue. We just need the right internal and external circumstances to make enough people angry and desperate. My novel will describe those circumstances.

I don’t think my novel will be gloomy. I often worry that readers find my writing too bitter and too scathing. Yet every time I try to make it less biting, I find I do not fully address the issue. I write satire because I see hypocrisy and injustice everywhere. You can’t take down injustice and hypocrisy with kid gloves. My writing might appear bleak because it reflects a bleak world. I don’t intend to depress when I write; I follow the old Russian tradition in this regard: I laugh through tears. I find so many injustices perversely funny. Maybe I’m unusual for thinking that. I don’t know. But I know I don’t intend to be gloomy. I can control my intentions, and every time I write a satire, I intend to provoke laughter about something that is really quite abominable about our society. When I write my novel about “the American revolution of 2048” it will aim to provoke laughter as much as it provokes a good, hard look at our society.

Anyway, these are my long-term plans. In the meantime, I plan to continue posting on the blog as I always do. This blog is my laboratory. Here new ideas spring forth and bubble up to the surface. Sometimes they are rough and undeveloped. Other times they pick up where an earlier one left off. No matter what, they are insights into my mind. I am proud that I have created this testament. I have reduced so many thoughts to writing over the past year. If I hadn’t, who knows how many thoughts would simply have vanished into time? Thoughts tend to do that. If you don’t seize them and develop them, they escape you. My blog helps me rein them in and keep them. After all, life is one immense distraction. It can blow you off course before you even know what’s happening to you.

Thanks to everyone who tunes in to read my latest stuff.