The Importance of Being Richard

Decades of feminist toil notwithstanding, the framework of the relationship between the male and female of our species remains on display in the exchange between male John and female prostitute: women continue to be granted access to the means for economic survival only to the extent that their sexual wares remain for sale. The inviolability of this sexual paradigm in late twentieth century and post-millennial America is writ large in the Hollywood career of Richard Gere.

Gere first shot to fame via 1980’s American Gigolo, in which Gere flipped the sexual script in his portrayal of the male prostitute servicing a female clientele. The success of this film hinged on the erotic potency of the violation of taboo found in its illicit rearrangement of sexual typecasting (re. the box-office potential of taboo-busting, witness the aptly titled pornographic film Taboo, one of the highest grossing blue movies to date, in which a male in his late adolescence lusts after, and ultimately consummates a sexual relationship with, his mother). The success of American Gigolo simultaneously made and unmade Gere, as he had unquestionably ascended to star status, but on his way up became marked as persona non gratis, effectively emasculated by the viral femininity that had leeched into his Hollywood aura during his turn as prostitute, i.e. Woman.

It is crucial not to let the box-office success of Gere’s 1982 smash hit, An Officer and a Gentleman, muddy the waters. Understood correctly, An Officer and a Gentleman is the exception that proves the rule that when one swims against the tide of masculine domination, one swims at one’s own risk. Gere’s ability to temporarily transcend the stain from American Gigolo is secured in the famous final scene of An Officer and a Gentleman in which Gere, in full Marine dress blues, storms onto the factory floor and literally sweeps Debra Winger off of her feet and out of the factory, to the cheers of her female factory co-workers. Each element in this scene is crucial to Gere’s brief transcendence. The marine uniform as warrior’s cloth cloaks Gere’s sexual stain, obscuring it from the viewer’s gaze. Gere sweeps Winger off her feet in a factory, the archetypal site of involvement in the wage economy, symbolically removing Woman from the labor pool and placing her economic survival back in its rightful domain of sexual object-hood. Winger swoons in Gere’s masculine embrace, an embrace which clearly references Man’s purchased ownership of Woman’s sexuality via marriage as rendered in the traditional carrying of the newly betrothed bride over the threshold, which is always a precursor to laying the virgin down in the marriage bed and taking possession of her sex. This shot reverses the transgressive act of taking women back across the threshold into sexual freedom that Gere, by bedding them for pay, had symbolically accomplished in American Gigolo. Finally, the cheers of Winger’s female factory co-workers signal their complicity in the sexual status quo, as they long to be liberated from the oppressive workaday life of factory labor by their own knight in shining armor; a life of indentured sexual servitude seems a small price to pay at the end of an eight hour shift on the factory floor for peanut wages. These women’s cheers signal that the feminist’s victory has in fact been Pyrrhic in nature, as the fruits of liberation from masculine domination are revealed as but a subjugation of a higher order. The song of women’s liberation is lost in the throbbing beat of workingman’s blues.

Post- An Officer and a Gentleman, Gere’s career entered its wilderness period, as the stain of American Gigolo, temporarily undone in the narrative of Officer’s denouement , reasserted itself in a near-decade long series of box-office disappointments. The only heat Gere generated during this period came in the form of a perverse urban legend. Legend has it that Gere engaged in a radical form of bestiality, inserting a mouse encased in a condom inside his rectum, with the frantic scratching of the mouse intended to generate sexual stimulation. Gere almost certainly never actually engaged in any such sexual shenanigans, but the viral spread of this rumor, which became so commonplace as to be considered a matter of course, had nothing to do with whether Gere actually stuffed a mouse in his arse. The ubiquity of this urban legend was an expression of zeitgeist, a collective recognition of the stain attached to Gere as a result of his actions in American Gigolo. The urban legend was a reformulation of the cultural stigma attached to Gere’s transgressive sexual persona. It was the very success of American Gigolo, in which mass culture encountered its own unacceptable desire for non-traditional sex, which foundered Gere. Gere’s stain, translated to narrative form via the urban legend, was the accompanying equal and opposite reaction to our collective repression of unacceptable, libido-driven desire.

Gere’s salvation as Hollywood leading man came with 1990’s Pretty Woman, in which Gere permanently erased his stain by renouncing American Gigolo’s radical core. By portraying a man paying to have sex with a female prostitute, Gere is able to stuff the terrifying specter of our sexual unchaining back into Pandora’s Box. It all plays out like a failed psychoanalysis, in which Gere shares his dream/nightmare of being paid to provide sex to a woman, only to have the analyst misinterpret the potentially transformative content of the dream as a symptom of pathology, the only available treatment for which is a reversion to socially acceptable sexual norms, a real, yet cloaked, pathology invisible to the incompetent analyst; the failed analyst, of course, is you and I.

The erasure of the stain enacted by Gere’s performance in Pretty Woman is as comprehensive as it is pathological. Pretty Woman is Gere’s public recital of the requisite Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s, proscribed by that other analyst figure, the Priest (we are, of course, also Priest, in the church of public opin{repress}ion). One conjugal embrace with girl-next-door cum slut Julia Roberts later, and Gere’s sins are completely absolved. The absolution’s probation period ends with Gere’s installation as People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive in 1999. Gere’s new status as Hollywood’s (un)enlightened uber mensch is then codified by his exalted gig as the Dalai Lama’s number one Hollywood henchmen. Namaste!

Gere’s talent as the reverse Harry Houdini, inexplicably capable of re-chaining himself to social sexual norms after the near symbolic-death experience of American Gigolo , is celebrated in 1993’s Somersby. Gere portrays a returning Civil War veteran who, while physically resembling himself as he was before the war, is somehow just plain different enough to raise the question of whether he really is himself after all. Jodie Foster, a real-life “glass closet” lesbian, here dressed in (patriarchal) period costume, perfectly representing the figure of unacceptable, repressed desire, says to the new Gere, in order to prove to him once and for all that he is not the man whom he once was, “I never loved him the way I love you.” Foster’s stated passion for the new Gere is the acceptable, sublimated version of a passion our society is clearly not ready to own: our unequivocal, secret and diabolical desire for our American gigolo.

To Believe or Not to Believe, That is the Question

Those who would reform American education must beware the difficulty in reforming a system which already performs its true function, maintenance of the socioeconomic hierarchical status quo, perfectly. Would be reformers of urban public education (UPE) might initially take great comfort in the need for their services apparent in bulbous dropout rates and other assorted commonplace city school maladies. But the UPE reformer consigns herself to irrelevance when she mistakes the chaotic malaise of UPE as a sign of dysfunction, when in fact the apparent dysfunction is a symptom of UPE’s true function, the cementing of class immobility. The yet-to-be-seen successful UPE reformer must first take the necessary leap of faith and truly believe that really existing UPE is, against all outward appearances, a smashing success, in that it covertly fulfills its sub rosa, sinister function. Only by recognizing UPE for what it is, an instrument in the never ending story of class struggle, and by letting go of what UPE pretends to be, a flawed but curable system for the delivery of education to the masses, can a would be UPE reformer even begin the daunting task of initiating meaningful transformation. As long as the aspiring UPE reformer clings to her belief in UPE as a charming fixer-upper she will remain an unwitting accomplice in the maintenance of UPE as the guarantor of class immobility, as she will inevitably fail in achieving the impossible task of fixing what ain’t broke.

No one is more important in maintaining our necessary collective belief in the fiction of UPE as fixer-upper than the exceptional UPE alumnus who exhibits class mobility. This individual is shot forth from the belly of the beast like a Heimlich-dislodged chunk of meat, a propulsion necessary for the survival of UPE as currently constituted. If we follow the script we should see in this exceptional individual what is truly possible if only we were all to believe in and support our public schools. Ironically, it is the fact that we all already believe in our public schools, a belief paradoxically strengthened by their constant teetering on the verge of collapse, thereby increasing the intensity of our need to sustain them via our belief, which allows them to continue to function as instrument of oppression for the students condemned to their halls. Is it just coincidence that UPE produces just enough “success stories” to keep us all believing that we are just a reform away from tapping the limitless potential of the millions of children in urban schools, a belief mysteriously resilient to the contradictory fact of life as it is lived on city streets?

As a clinical social worker in a major UPE school system, I show up for work each day in order to help one more child become the exception that proves the rule. In doing so I am effectively attempting to feed the machine with the exceptions necessary to maintain our collective belief in the “potential” of UPE, and by now we all know that in touting someone’s potential we are merely gift-wrapping the reality of his or her current shortcomings. Wrapped up inside the shiny silver packaging of UPE spin is the coal-black heart of economic violence. If I am going to be complicit, as we all are, let me be so from within where at least I can spring a few of the inmates.

So how might the "potentially” successful reformer, one who believes in the true truth of UPE as the eight hundred pound gorilla sitting not in the room but on the backs of UPE’s students, initiate meaningful transformation? First and foremost, she would have to be a good liar; in order to penetrate the inner sanctum of UPE she must cloak herself in a false but outwardly convincing belief in the party line of accelerating student achievement, which if enacted would of course only ever serve to mint a modicum of exceptional individuals. Once ensconced inside the machine she would have to achieve the fantastical outcome of radicalizing millions of currently colonized consciousnesses, an act which looms larger than moving mountains. But Gandhi got the British out of India. And, perhaps more to the point, Dr. King got Jim Crow out of the American south. Of course, they shot Dr. King as soon as he started preaching economic justice. Which, with untold thousands of Americans dying and killing in the global “war on terror”, leaves me wondering what you and I are willing to lay down our lives for? In the meantime, I’ve got some exceptional children who need my clini(radi)cal assistance.

Oh Merde

Nothing keeps our species honest like the smell of our own shit.  And nothing is consistently funnier or more universal than potty humor; already my 21 month old daughter gets a laugh every time she says “faht” (not sure where she gets the Boston accent).  We are never more vulnerable than when we sit down to take a crap, and even more so after the fact as our human stain lingers in the air for all to smell.  Potty humor works precisely because of this vulnerability inherent to the act of moving our bowels (my all time least favorite euphemism for shit was that used by my maternal grandmother: “B.M.”; those two initials somehow made every shit I ever took in her house approximately five thousand times stinkier).  Effective potty humor releases the tension we all feel regarding our excrement and the act of expelling it by universalizing the absurdity of the act.  Nothing levels the playing field more than the realization that even the Queen of England stinks up the W.C.  Potty humor is the ultimate “I’m OK, you’re OK” moment. 

It is no coincidence that the greatest Zen Masters take their regular turn in the rotation cleaning the monastery’s toilets.  There is no better reminder that each and every one of us has Buddha nature than the fact that each and every one of us shits.  The individual of whom it is said “he thinks his shit doesn’t stink” is in exile from his own Buddha nature and in denial of everyone else’s; taken to its logical extreme this insight reveals the toilet seat as the throne of the son of man.  If we all “love our own brand” it is not because it doesn’t stink but because in the smell of our own shit we smell our own basic humanity. 

The office workplace is revealed, then, as soul crushing antiseptic vacuum by the little can of Glade air freshener in the restroom.  It does not matter whether you spray the can of Glade after you have done your business or not, for the real purpose of the can of Glade is to announce to all who enter that here, in the office, your human stain on the air is unacceptable; i.e. it is your very humanity that intrudes on your purpose here in the office, which is not to have your excrement extracted from your bum into the toilet but to have the surplus value extracted from your labor to serve your employer. 

There is something bracing, invigorating even, about walking into a freshly shat in bathroom.  The stinky bathroom is, if nothing else, alive.  But this honest stench is transmuted when subsumed under the cloying sweetness of Glade. Paired together, Glade and human shit smell like the scent of the stink bug.  The living, breathing, shitting human being is reduced by the office and the can of Glade to the status of pest.  And the pest is nothing other than that which must be controlled.

 

This morning's painful life lesson: While two glazed strawberry Pop Tarts make a delightful dessert, they make a truly nausseating breakfast. Now I am faced with the difficult task of operationalizing this key insight....

Hug This

The emphasis on the man-made origins of global warming/climate change and the corollary insistence upon the greening of human behavior masks a deeper fear. As long as climate change remains our creation, it rests within our power to undo it. Even if we fail to do so, through a collective species shortcoming, we become the authors of our own group suicide, and as such remain the masters of our own universe.

Hidden behind this narrative of climate change in which human beings are cast in the starring role, is the fear that climate change is occurring without any human input whatsoever. It is one thing if, like Thelma & Louise, I choose to steer my car off a cliff; it is another thing altogether if an earthquake rips open the interstate beneath my Toyota Prius and I am gobbled up by the earth.

The prevailing human-centered narrative of climate change, with its clarion call for a green revolution, is nothing other than a re-boot of enlightenment’s central project, the human domination of nature. The vision of a green revolution that brings humanity and nature into harmony, restoring conditions that reliable sources confirm were enjoyed by American Indians before the arrival of El Gordo (aka The White Man), is the obscuring fantasy that allows the real project of dominating nature to continue right beneath our noses while we post pictures of the family trip to Yosemite on Facebook. If you doubt the depth of the need for climate change, and by extension nature itself, to be ours, just imagine yourself at a cocktail party engaged in a discussion with someone who doesn’t “believe in global warming”. If we are honest about the emotions this (in)human being would provoke, we might need to revive the word heretic.

So what do we do if every last one of us composts and it is still sixty degrees and sunny on Christmas Day in Wasilla, Alaska? We carry on with the really existing debate between the greens and the oil barons: how best to dominate nature? It is only by accepting that this is the debate to be won that the greens can cast off their tattered coat of tree hugging flakiness and attain to their true status as benevolent dominatrix. Clad in leather garb appropriate to the ferocity of this debate, the greens might actually win. And the stakes of this debate, given that homo sapiens (probably) are responsible for climate change, could not be higher. For if Bobby Knight was interviewed by Connie Chung again, this time around he might reformulate his infamous remarks thusly: "If global warming is inevitable, just sit back and enjoy it." There is no more dangerous enemy than he who thinks he is being funny when he is actually being creepy. I'll take a session with my friendly local dominatrix, thank you very much.

Hipster (a working definition):  One whose enjoyment is subservient to one’s perception of the acts essential to one’s self image.  

From a Lacanian psychoanalytic perspective, the hipster is one with a rigid, perhaps fundamentalist, investment in the fiction of his or her ego, placing the hipster at a radical remove from the truth of his or her subject.

The geek, however, experiences no limitation in his or her enjoyment of the experience; in fact the geek has the opposite problem in getting carried away with his or her enjoyment, in other words going too far in the sense of alienating others. The geek, whether engaged in civil war reenactment or on-line World of Warcraft gaming does not know how to limit his or her enjoyment, allowing his or her excessive enjoyment to interfere with basic social functioning. To use a (possibly hip) Lacanian term, the geek has an over abundance of jouissance. On a personal level, I am a closet geek about tennis equipment, but I have enough of the hipster in me to keep this geek enthusiasm largely concealed.

The hipster’s enjoyment is restricted by a rigid self image, and the hipster’s perception of his or her own sexual attractiveness is a key element in the hipster’s calculus of acceptable acts. The hipster is limited at all times by the idea of how he or she will be perceived by others, unlike the geek who could care less about the opinions of those not engaged in e.g. medieval warcraft and costume gatherings. The hipster is the far more tragic of the two conditions, as he or she is, ironically, as socially and sexualy limited as the geek; just as geeks only get laid by geeks, hipsters end up only having sex with other hipsters. But while the geek must struggle with an excess of jouissance, the hipster, bound by his or her rigid ego, exiled from the truth of his or her subject, can only nibble at the life-giving buffet table of jouissance, while everyone else helps themselves to Cheesecake Factory portions. And the geeks go home with doggy bags.

Finally, the phenomenon of “geek chic” in which the hipster attempts to coopt the yearned for jouissance of the geek but only ever manages to shackle the geek’s excess freedom, reveals the truth of the hipster’s subject as a narrative of the geek in flight from himself, i.e. the hipster is nothing other than the necessary ego fiction accompanying the truth of the repression of the geek into the always obscured subject.  

Witness the author’s circa 1995 immersion into thrift store clothing, wine-colored hair, local Perth indie rock bands, and a subsequent ill-fated long distance love affair with an Australian hipster sheela.  After further romantic catastrophes amidst a prolonged hipster phase, my care of the self has consisted largely of a modulation of my hipster terndencies in an effort to give the truth of my own subject room to breathe, e.g. allowing myself to devote untold hours to staring at tennis racquets on internet tennis gear websites and, ahem, posting thoughts on the pro’s and cons of various racquets on chat room message boards; perhaps if I can let myself chat up the occasional stranger in an elevator about the reason I am considering a switch from Head to Dunlop I will have truly relented my investment in a hip facade.  All that said, the most important step in the journey towards my subject was wooing and marrying a decidedly unhip, but manifestly cool (as in the true meaning of cool in the sense of the real meaning of Christmas) Jewish chick.  L’chaim!

 

 

To Err Is Human, To Kvetch Divine

 

Driving my daughter Samara around the neighborhood for her mid-day nap earlier this week I encountered the following bumper sticker:  “The more you complain the longer God makes you live.”  On the surface the meaning and humor of this bumper sticker is fairly straight forward.  It depends on an image of God as One who is as annoyed by constant complaining as the next guy, perhaps even more so since the offending individual is complaining about the universe that God Himself created.  As punishment for the crime of complaint, God sentences the complainer to more of what makes her miserable in the first place, life itself.  In handing down the sentence of long life, this God is clearly telling the complainer “Shut up, already.”

 

This is a God with whom we are very familiar, a God who makes us quite comfortable in the claim that we were made in His image. With this God, The Holy Spirit is encountered in that rush of righteous indignation you feel when your neighbor complains about the quality of the snow during his recent Colorado ski vacation.  To get on with this God, the annoying complainer must enact a change in attitude, a change that would not only please God but would also make the complainer less offensive to those mortals who have had to put up with all of the bellyaching.  To please this God, the complainer must learn to let go of the complaints by growing in awareness of the infinite blessings in her life; blessings that, of course, flow freely from God’s never ending grace.   Most specifically, this is the God who would abolish all of our worries by pointing out how well tended are those lilies in the field.   Implicit in this instruction to the complainer is the deeper message of how delightful these silent lilies are to all of the passersby, which is exactly why all of those annoyed by the complainer worship this God. 

 

There is just one catch.  If we follow the mandate of the bumper sticker, ceasing our complaints and replacing them with humble gratitude for the bounty of our blessings, if we become the kind of person who, when asked what kind of day he is having, automatically replies “I’m blessed”, then by the logic of the bumper sticker we are to be rewarded with… a shorter life.  

 

As the logic of the bumper sticker collapses in on itself, this God, the God we are all so comfortable worshipping precisely to the degree that we are convinced that He will not so much vanquish our enemies as He will punish those who get on our nerves, dies. In encountering the God of this bumper sticker, Nietzsche, with his proclamation of God’s demise, has never seemed more prescient. 

 

But God is, like Steven Seagal in his seminal 1990 action flick, hard to kill. In place of the late, overly familiar God of quiet reverence arises an altogether alien God, a God as unnerving as the stranger within each of us.  For, if truth is stranger than fiction, and if God is the author of all that truly is, then God’s creation is something stranger than we can even begin to imagine, though we inhabit it every day.   This God speaks to us directly through the unconscious of the author of this humble bumper sticker.  The unconscious, that source of crazy wisdom undergirding each and every one of us, spills forth unintended meaning ceaselessly, both in our dreams and in cases of Freudian slips of the tongue, but also in our everyday routine discourse.  In this case, the bumper sticker author’s conscious intention of getting a laugh was the sheep’s clothing, which cloaked the wolf sent to us by the author’s unconscious in order to devour our timeworn, and self serving, popular spirituality.

 

The unconscious or “secret” message hidden within this bumper sticker is revealed by the simple act of screening out the consciously intended humor.  Read the bumper sticker again, but this time read it as if reading a set of instructions for putting together a piece of Ikea furniture (which, I’ve found, is one of life’s most humorless moments): “The more you complain, the longer God makes you live.”  There.  It could not be any simpler.  God isn’t annoyed by our complaints, instead they are music to His ears.  In fact, given their righteous nature, the signifier “complain” just isn’t up to the task of supporting the weight of the signified.  So, once more we turn to the Jews (I mean really, my wife, Jesus, Einstein, Freud, Sandy Koufax, etc.; what are these people not capable of?), from whose sublime Yiddish tongue comes kvetch, a word as beautiful as it is flexible (it is both noun and verb).  With kvetching, mere complaint attains to its sacred role as existential song.

 

So what does it tell us about God that He would have us kvetch?  Just asking this question throws our accustomed relationship with God off kilter, an effect necessary to disrupt our complacency in our (mis)conception of God.  On the original Batman TV series, whenever the villain’s lair was on-screen the camera angle was tilted noticeably, a cautionary cue that the viewer was encountering a separate, de-centered realm where everyday rules and expectations did not apply.  In fact, the reality which we inhabit every day, God’s creation, has this same quality; everything is always a bit askew, which inevitably leads to a great deal of kvetching.

 

This tilted nature of reality is best captured through the lens of psychoanalysis (from the viewpoint of psychoanalysis we are all like Batman’s villains, in the sense that the prevailing symbolic order would indefinitely banish those Joker or Catwoman elements within each of us to the unconscious).  In his discussion of the film “The Matrix”, Slavoj Zizek, psychoanalysis’ current Mother Ship, insightfully points out the film’s explicit rendering of reality’s bent nature.  Zizek highlights Agent Smith’s speech to Neo in which Agent Smith describes a virtual reality designed for humans without suffering; Agent Smith informs Neo that a life without suffering led to the death of the humans immersed in that virtual reality.  Zizek quotes Agent Smith:  “I believe that, as a species, human beings define their reality through suffering and misery.”  With nothing to kvetch about, humans literally die, which is precisely the secret truth of the bumper sticker.  The requirement of suffering is illustrated in real life by the heroin addict, whose escape from suffering and misery through a needle is a slow fade out of reality.  Zizek encapsulates this truth succinctly: “(T)he experience of an insurmountable obstacle is the positive condition for us, as humans, to perceive something as reality.  Reality is ultimately that which resists.”  I would take this argument to its logical extreme, with a psychoanalytic reformulation of Descartes cogito: “I kvetch, therefore I am.”

 

Look up the word kvetch on Wikipedia and you will encounter the following enlightening passage from Glen David Gold’s novel, “Carter Beat the Devil” (to which I now owe a karmic debt and will have to check out from the library): “Make a commitment, Charlie.  Go with life or go with death, but quit the kvetching.  Don’t keep us all in suspense.”  But the human condition is exactly the inability to make such a choice, and faced with this eternal impasse the only sane response is to kvetch.  The crowning insight of Freud’s genius, what allows psychoanalysis to bring us in direct contact with the God who would have us kvetch, was his postulation of the death drive, the human drive towards the nothingness found only in death.   The death drive, placed in tension with the life force visible in Freud’s concepts of Eros and the pleasure principle, is the last necessary step in Freud’s unrivaled contribution to our understanding of the human condition.  The human subject is at last revealed as a clearing where the irreconcilable elements in Man (and in Woman) endlessly slip and slide past one another. 

 

Against the harmony of yin and yang, Freud gives us the (unavoidable) neurosis of life and death.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve met a lot of neurotics in my day, especially the one in the mirror, but the only Zen Master I’ve encountered is Hall of Fame basketball coach Phil Jackson, and that was on TV.  If nothing else, Freud has sheer numbers on his side; if a billion red Chinese can’t be wrong, then 6 billion neurotics would seem to close the book on the elusive goal of realizing basic goodness, as its called in Tibetan thought.  The kernel of truth in the eastern notion of non-attachment, as developed on the meditation cushion, is the ability to weaken the attachment to one’s neuroses; the notion of abolishing these neuroses altogether through the act of meditation, however, is fool’s gold.  In the kvetch, however, there exists an alternative path through one’s neuroses.  And it is only with the kvetch that we can laugh at the joke God has played on all of us.  As my wife often implores me, apparently afraid that the Joker within me will dissipate on my meditation cushion, go ahead and Google the list of great Buddhist humorists….

 

Lest we Christians feel that the heights of kvetching can only be reached by the Jews, we would do well to remember that Jesus’ last, and perhaps most important act before his death and resurrection, was his kvetch on the cross.  In his last moment clothed in mortal flesh, Jesus cried out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.”  With this kvetch, relying for the moment on the definition of kvetch as “to be urgent, or insistent; press; strain”, rather than the more common definition of “a nagging complaint”, Jesus demonstrated the fullness of his humanity in his complete acquiescence to the tragic human condition of being caught inescapably between life and death, symbolized perfectly in his last hours on the cross.  (That Jesus answered the tragedy of his fully human life and death with the fully Divine resurrection, whatever that was, and what he accomplished in doing so, is a conversation for another occasion).

 

Of course, the kvetch, as act, does not stand alone.  In clearing the ground of existence, kvetching opens up the space for its most important counterpart, the kvell:  “to be delighted; to be extraordinarily proud; rejoice”.  Without the counterbalancing effect of kvelling, kvetching, which at its best includes at least a grain of humor (or as in Jesus’ case, heartrending urgency), shrinks down to mere whining, in the process losing its life giving vitality.  That kvelling occurs most often in the context of pride in one’s children informs us that the necessary companion to kvetching is compassion for the other.  If God’s Kingdom ever does come, there will still be plenty of kvetching.  But there will be even more kvelling, by all of us for each and every one of us.

 

 

 

Falling Man: A Novel by Don DeLillo

Delillo explores the open wound left by the events of September 11. His prose is raw, stripped down to the bone. Reading "Falling Man", one is carried along on a slow drift through the ashes and the aftermath. On a personal level, I was pre-numbed by my father's terminal brain tumor when the events of September 11 occurred; in clinical terms I was already experiencing isolation of affect, and September 11 just became an echo of the suffering which my psyche was doing its best to keep at bay. "Falling Man" enabled me to at last engage with September 11 in a meaningful way. Delillo shows us how, after an event such as September 11, the strangest thing is the slow creep back to everyday routines and relationships, a strangeness that resembles a constant droning background noise that you can always almost hear.

On His Majesty’s Secret Service

Theories abound as to the reasons for Michael Jordan’s premature first retirement in 1993, at the peak of his powers.  When Jordan left basketball in 1993 it was as if Jesus had walked on water, delivered the sermon on the mount, but then decided to return to a life as a quiet carpenter rather than enter Jerusalem on his donkey and inaugurate the sequence of events that would lead to his crucifixion and subsequent resurrection.   Indeed, after a young Jordan had torched Larry Bird’s Celtics for 63 points in a playoff game, Bird famously quipped “that was God disguised as Michael Jordan.”  By the 1993 NBA Finals Jordan was obviously so much better than everyone else that he was, essentially, temporarily immortal.  And, it seemed, the best was yet to come.  But by October of 1993, Jordan walked away from it all, voluntarily reentering this mortal coil.  Why?

           

            To solve this mystery it is necessary to dispose of the theories that have been making the rounds since 1993.  But first it is important to differentiate Jordan from Bjorn Borg, whose 11 major titles along with his seemingly inscrutable retirement from tennis while still at his physical peak at age 26, may at first glance tempt us to simply pair Michael Jordan circa 1993 with Borg; two rock star athletes who shone brightly and then faded fast.  But in reality the circumstances surrounding Jordan’s and Borg’s respective retirements are in stark contrast.  Borg’s retirement was astonishing only in the sense that Borg was astonished that he had been beaten.  Winning five consecutive Wimbledon’s and being branded a sex symbol in the process had bred in Borg a sense of entitlement.   Tennis was his.  When that brash young New Yorker McEnroe had dared to share tennis’ center stage with Borg, crafting a “rivalry”, Borg was suddenly at sea.  His retirement was nothing more than a case of the child who refuses to share his toys, and instead tromps off the playground and takes them home.  Michael Jordan had no McEnroe.  Basketball, in 1993, was his.

            Which brings us to the first possible theory for Michael Jordan’s early retirement:  he had become so good that it just wasn’t fun anymore, as there wasn’t enough of a challenge.  This argument ignores the central organizing feature of the competitive professional athlete’s psyche, i.e. “It’s good to be king.”  Don’t think for a minute that Jordan didn’t relish every minute of the butt whipping he put on Charles Barkley in the ’93 Finals.  Putatively the ’93 Finals pitted the Chicago Bulls against the Phoenix Suns.  But legendary players like Jordan, Bird, and Barkley literally ARE their teams, making the ’93 Finals effectively Jordan vs. Barkley. This provided Jordan with the opportunity to definitively assert his dominance over Barkley, a player so menacing and physically powerful that he manhandled other power forwards, despite generally giving up a half-foot or more in size (Barkley was generously listed at 6’6”).  Jordan played the best basketball of his career in the ’93 Finals, meaning the best basketball that has ever been played, and in the process crushed Barkley’s will.  Barkley is reported to have realized during the ’93 Finals that he would never be able to beat Jordan.  The 1993 NBA Finals were officially won by the Chicago Bulls; the real triumph was that a man with Barkley’s outsized ego and genius level physical gifts was completely subjugated by Jordan’s dominance.   If you think Jordan didn’t enjoy that then you don’t know the first thing about men.

            Jordan publicly stated at the press conference for his retirement in October of 1993 that he was leaving professional basketball in order to spend more time with his family.  This reason has been given at countless retirement press conferences by celebrities of all stripes, and is a socially acceptable way of stating that one does not wish to give the real reason for one’s retirement.  Like the vast majority of those who had offered this explanation before him, Jordan subsequently spent no more time with his family then he had before retirement.  Playing minor league baseball, Jordan’s retirement activity, required endless hours on buses between minor league burgs.  Jordan, no fool, spent a small portion of his millions on outfitting a charter-style bus with every available luxury, except, of course, a compartment for his family.  As always, the wife and kids stayed home while Jordan was interminably on the road.  Scratch “more time with the family” off the list.

            So did Jordan really quit basketball to pursue his lifelong dream of playing professional baseball?  Perhaps if Jordan had only half the talent at baseball that he did at basketball, which would have made him a heckuva big league player, this argument might hold water.  But Jordan was in over his head as a minor leaguer, and was never more than a novelty act.  Imagine Tiger Woods quitting golf tomorrow in order to pursue his dream of playing professional tennis.  Picture Tiger playing satellite tennis events in Toledo, a couple hundred bucks at stake as he struggles to lift his ranking from #1,047 to #983 in the world, and you can begin to get a sense of the absurdity in play here.  This, plumbing in Toledo instead of acting on Broadway, was effectively what Michael Jordan, Sports Illustrated’s Greatest North American Athlete of the Twentieth Century, was doing in the summer of 1994.  Something, much deeper than a boyhood dream of playing baseball, was at work.

            Which inevitably brings the conspiracy theorists into play.  The conspiracy theory goes as follows:  Jordan, an inveterate gambler, had wracked up seven figure gambling debts to seedy criminal types, attracting the attention of league commissioner David Stern.  An official NBA investigation was well underway during the 1993 offseason.  Per conspiracy theory, Jordan made a backroom deal with Stern, proffering a premature “retirement” in lieu of punishment for betting on sports.  Which makes perfect sense, if you’re talking about Pete Rose.  Like Rose, Jordan is, for whatever reason, drawn to the unseemly world of high stakes gambling.  Unlike Rose, Jordan is nobody’s idiot, as evidenced by the hundreds of millions of dollars that Jordan made OFF the court as the greatest celebrity pitchman in history. 

Jordan gratified his gambling jones at casino tables and at the golf course, obtaining whatever satisfaction is to be derived from losing millions of dollars, and perhaps winning some of it back, in those settings.  But Jordan is simply too savvy, too cunning, to piss it all away by betting on sports.  Rose already has that pathetic angle covered.  Stern’s investigation into Jordan’s gambling quietly ended three days after Jordan’s retirement.  Stern undoubtedly learned that Jordan’s gambling habit brought Jordan into contact with what may politely be referred to as society’s less desirable element.  But there is nothing in the NBA collective bargaining agreement that says you can’t lose a million dollars on the golf course to a scum bag.  Say what you will about Stern, about whom conspiracy theories are a dime a dozen, but if he had learned in 1993 that Jordan had bet on NBA games there is absolutely no way Jordan is back in the league a year and a half later.  Stern, even more savvy and cunning than Jordan, knows more than a little about covering his own ass.

The most plausible of all the existent Jordan retirement theories is that he was overcome by grief at the senseless murder of his father, James Jordan, in July of 1993 at the hands of a pair of two-bit thieves.  Indeed, nothing signals to a man the finality of his own mortality more than the death of his father.  But at the time of his father’s death, Jordan had already ascended to temporary immortality; James Jordan’s death did nothing to diminish Jordan’s exalted status.  Had Jordan responded to his father’s death within the framework of basketball it would likely have been to dedicate his efforts on the court to the memory of his father.  Jordan’s premature exit from basketball was in response to a threat to his immortality, but this threat had nothing to do with his father’s death.  Jordan would have known that his own immortality was in no way dependent upon his father’s corporeal existence.  Since Jordan’s temporary immortality had been won on the basketball courts, it was only there that it could be lost.  Enter, stage left, John Starks.

We all have a role to play in fate, no less so John Starks.  Starks’ preordained collision with Jordan was prefigured by the circumstances of his employment by the New York Knicks.  While trying out for the Knicks in 1990, Starks, a tenacious competitor who worked his way into the NBA by way of bagging groceries and navigating a series of community colleges before landing at Oklahoma State, attempted to deliver a dunk in the face of the Knicks Goliath all-star center, Patrick Ewing.  Ewing, appropriately, was having none of it and tossed Starks to the hardwood.  Starks hurt his knee, and due to the severity and duration of the injury the Knicks were unable (under the collective bargaining agreement) to cut Starks; they ended up keeping him and Starks, inevitably, made the most of this shot. 

Fast forward to the 1993 NBA playoffs.  Starks, by now, is entrenched as the Knicks starting shooting guard.  The Knicks are at home in a preliminary round playoff game against Jordan’s Bulls.  In a tight game with 50 seconds remaining in regulation, Starks has the ball in his hands on the perimeter.  Starks, who has a great burst, accelerates easily past his defender and thrusts towards the basket.  In his way is the relatively accomplished Bulls power forward, Horace Grant, who at 6’10” has Starks by five inches.  But Starks demolishes Grant with one of the most explosive dunks in NBA history.  All well and good, and as fantastic as the dunk was, if that was all that had occurred it would have made for a nice ESPN highlight and been forgotten by the next morning’s coffee.  Watching video of the dunk it is clear that the facial is delivered to Grant.  But at the last moment, as Starks delivers the ball through the basket, Jordan enters the frame.  Like the well trained Tar Heel that he was, Jordan was attempting to bail Grant out by providing some much needed “help defense”.   By doing so, Jordan allowed himself to be caught in a still photograph as if he, not Grant, were receiving the facial from Starks. 

By the fall of 1993 this false image, that of Starks humiliating Jordan, had become a truth.  Nothing is more potent in the imagination of the adolescent male than the images found in the posters that adorn his bedroom wall.  Jordan’s temporary immortality lived in the collective imagination of adolescent boys everywhere, a reality illuminated by Jordan iconography hanging on millions of adolescent bedroom walls.  The poster of John Starks dunking over Michael Jordan, though trafficking in illusion, hung on enough walls that the cloud of adolescent adoration on which Air Jordan had ascended to heaven, had begun to noticeably dissipate.  In order to repair the (highly lucrative) symbolic order that governed professional basketball, a symbolic order dependent upon Jordan’s nonpareil status, Starks would have to be punished for a crime he did not commit. 

In order for the symbolic order to be reestablished, a number of remarkable events necessarily had to occur.  First and foremost among these was Jordan’s retirement.  Starks’ punishment would require that he take professional basketball’s biggest stage, the NBA Finals.  In order to get there, Starks’ Knicks would have to first defeat Jordan’s Bulls, which was, of course, impossible.  Jordan’s retirement is so mysterious precisely because it is dependent on an event that is to occur later, temporally.  The cause of Jordan’s retirement was the necessity, per the requirements of the symbolic order, of John Starks’ appearance in the NBA Finals some nine months later.  Jordan himself had no idea why he was retiring, as evidenced by his vapid explanations and lack of any alternative plans at his retirement press conference.  (Cause and effect were still operative in this sequence of events, but they were not bound by the illusion of the linear flow of time from past to present to future that so beguiles us humans.)

With Jordan removed from the scene during the 1993-94 NBA season, the Knicks quickly became the preeminent team in the NBA’s Eastern Conference Scottie Pippen, the Bulls new on-court “leader” in the absence of Jordan, knew better than to upset the symbolic order by leading the Bulls to a championship sans Jordan. In the 1994 Eastern Conference semifinals game 3 against the Knicks, Pippen famously refused to enter the game after a timeout with 1.8 seconds left in regulation.  Pippen was upset that Bulls head coach Phil Jackson had drawn up the last shot for Toni Kukoc rather than Pippen.  Jackson, the greatest coach in professional basketball history, knew that Pippen was the greatest sidekick in basketball history.  He also knew that sidekicks don’t shoot daggers at the end of regulation in the playoffs.  Kukoc calmly stepped onto the court and won the game, defeating the Knicks, but more importantly, effectively emasculating Pippen.  With their best player unmasked as a chump, the Bulls bowed out to the Knicks.  And while Pippen had been disgraced, he had remained true to his subordination to Jordan’s greatness.  No further punishment would be necessary, and Pippen was allowed to remain Jordan’s sidekick as they later cruised to three more championships.      

The Knicks, and Starks, marched into the NBA Finals in June of 1994 where they would face the Houston Rockets.  On the surface, the Finals were a clash between the NBA’s two best big men, Ewing and the Rockets’ Hakeem Olajuwon, who had previously clashed as college players for the NCAA championship.  But, just as in the collegiate final in 1984, this matchup would disappoint.  It’s just not exciting to watch two seven-footers grind against one another two feet from the hoop.  Of course, the real tension of this series was what fate held in store for John Starks.  In order to maximize Starks’ moment of judgment, the Finals went to a rare Game 7, guaranteeing the greatest possible audience for what was to come.  But along the way to that Game 7, a funny thing happened.  The NBC broadcast of Game 5 was hijacked by O.J. Simpson and his white Ford Bronco.  As O.J. and his hostage cruised slowly down the Los Angeles freeway, pursued by 13 police cars and several LAPD helicopters, the NBA Finals had been subsumed in what NBC commentator Bob Costas described as the “surreal”.  This surreal intrusion of primordial chaos in the person of O. J. Simpson foreshadowed the supporting role that Game 7 was to play for a subtler, more fascinating intrusion.   

In Game 7, the symbolic order would extract its pound of flesh from John Starks, who had performed admirably up to this point in the Finals.  With the NBA championship on the line, and with anyone in the world who gave a damn about the game of basketball watching, John Starks had not just the worst night of his career, he had one of the worst nights anyone has ever had on a basketball court, and it could not have come on a bigger stage.  The numbers, while miserable, Starks shot 2 of 18 from the field, and a “perfect” 0 for 11 from the three-point line, don’t even begin to tell the story of how badly things went for Starks.  Because, after he started missing threes, rather than adjust and drive to the hoop for an easy look or a pass to the open man, he just kept shooting, and missing, threes.  Every time it looked like the Knicks might catch up to the Rockets, Starks jacked, and missed, another three.  It was as if someone (or something) outside of Starks were controlling his body, which we now know to be true.

But Starks was not the only one under the control of outside forces that night in Houston.  Knicks Coach Pat Riley, who, along with Phil Jackson and Red Auerbach forms the Three Tenors, if you will, of professional basketball coaches, inexplicably kept Starks in the game.  While Riley’s bench was thin, at some point after another Starks brick in the fourth quarter any of the twenty thousand people in the building would have been an improvement over Starks.  Everyone on the planet watching Game 7 knew that Starks needed to be taken out of that game.  Everyone, that is, except Starks and Riley, who were complicit that night in their (unconscious) service of the symbolic order as they perpetrated the required symbolic death of John Starks.  Years later, in a candid moment during the 2006 NBA Finals, Riley called his handling of Starks in 1993’s Game 7 the biggest coaching mistake of his career, adding that he has never forgiven himself.  Riley has yet to comprehend that he had no choice in the matter.  For, just as Judas’ shortcomings were instrumental in Jesus’ journey towards crucifixion and resurrection, John Starks’ inability to hit the broad side of a barn in Game 7, with a big assist from Coach Riley, was the turning point that restored the symbolic order of the professional basketball universe, enabling the return of the king, his Airness, one short year later.

As a postscript to this story, it is important to note the sad case of Nick Anderson.  Anderson was one of the most promising young players in the NBA when his Orlando Magic faced the Chicago Bulls in the 1995 NBA playoffs, just days after Jordan’s return to basketball.  Trailing the Magic as regulation waned, the Bulls of course handed the ball over to Jordan, fresh off his almost two year exodus from basketball.  In a blink Anderson made his fatal mistake, stealing the ball with shocking ease right out of Jordan’s previously unassailable iron grip, and stealing the series in the process, as the young and talented Magic hurtled towards the NBA Finals.  The symbolic order had been violated, yet again.  Retribution would be swift.  In Game 1 of the NBA Finals, once again featuring those Houston Rockets, Anderson would have four opportunities in the game’s closing seconds to ice the game away at the foul line.  Anderson missed all four, and the Rockets won the game and, eventually, the championship (making the Rockets the ultimate paperweight, as their superstar Olajuwon was just good enough to keep the NBA from floating away during Jordan’s exile).  His own symbolic death accomplished, for all intents and purposes, Nick Anderson was never heard from again. 

There is a lesson in all of this, and it comes dangerously close to “know your place and stick to it”.  But I’d like to believe that John Starks was a modern day Icarus.  When he soared to the rim and dunked over Horace Grant in the vicinity of Michael Jordan, he just got a little too close to the sun.  And though you can’t look directly at the sun, you just might want to take a peak before liftoff.  Just ask John Starks’ ghost.

             

What Price (Fantasy) Glory?

 

My fantasy football league is switching to an auction style draft this year.  Instead of selecting professional football players for our respective fantasy “franchises” in a pre-determined order, each fantasy  “team owner” will have a chance to bid on each and every available player, each using an equivalent pool of imaginary money.  I am a little uncomfortable with the auction format, as it brings the fantasy “team owner” too close to the unacknowledged shadow side of professional sports, which is the symbolic master/slave relationship between “real-life” professional sports franchise owners and their players.  The mind-numbing salaries paid to these players by their “owners” does nothing to destabilize the master/slave relationship, in fact, it chains them ever more tightly to their “owner”, as it is only in the “owner’s” keep that the players can ever amass the vast fortunes that in turn provide a false sense of liberation to the player. 

 

Of course, a professional football player is theoretically able to walk away from the lure of those millions of dollars in a way that really existing slaves never could, at least without risking life and limb.  But of course, they almost never do, and the rare exceptions, Robert Smith leaving the Minnesota Vikings to pursue a medical degree, Pat Tillman leaving the Arizona Cardinals to “fight terrorism” in the US military, simply prove the rule.  Smith and Tillman answered a higher calling, and in doing so found an authentic state of liberation, in direct contrast to the false liberation of professional football’s obscenely inflated slave’s wages.

 

It will, then, be with a sense of trepidation that I engage in my first fantasy football auction draft.  The lighthearted fun of picking players for my fantasy squad, “Dr. Thunder”, transposed now into the auction format, with bids defining an attendant price for each and every player, including zero dollars for the undesirable players, has too much the trace of the really existing slave auction.  The price of entry into my fantasy league has never seemed so high, a price which has nothing to do with the seventy-five really existing dollars necessary to join league play (although I complain about that too).

 

 

Interpreting a Freudian Split

 

            Slavoj Zizek, the renowned Slovenian provacateur and Lacanian psychoanalyst, describes the (in)famous rupture between Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung thusly:

“(T)he difference between Freud and Jung is insurmountable: the fundamental premise of Freud’s ‘Civilization and its Discontents’ is that the universe is utterly meaningless- it is not structured in compliance with human desires, there is no harmony between microcosm and macrocosm- whereas Jung reinscribes a psychoanalytical problematic into the frame of ‘cosmic principles’ which guarantee correspondences between human life and the universe at large (yin and yang as psychic and cosmic principles, etc.).”

 

            But perhaps the meaninglessness of it all, which was so evident to Freud, is, paradoxically, the very guarantor of meaning.  Jung wrote extensively about the symbolism of the alchemical effort to transform base metals into gold; for Jung the alchemical process represents the process of individuation, the maturation of the soul.  But the process of individuation, melted down (to extend the metaphor) is nothing other than a byproduct of the individual’s day-to-day reckoning with suffering, a suffering which is rooted in the meaningless void into which we are all thrust as human beings.  Freud’s meaningless ground of suffering becomes the fertile soil out of which grows, respectively, the human soul, the insights of history’s religious geniuses, and civilization itself.

 

            Against Zizek, then, the irreconcilable split between Freud and Jung can be recast as a divergence of exploratory interests.  Freud remained until the end transfixed by the problem of human suffering and its relations to the peculiarities of human sexuality.  His vision of psychoanalysis is announced in his famous statement that the best he could do with the psychoanalytical cure was to deliver his patients from the misery of their neuroses to a state of common human unhappiness (not a small accomplishment in and of itself, to be sure).  As pessimistic as Freud’s insistence on meaninglessness and the inevitability of suffering appear, it is a perspective absolutely vital to the endeavor of psychoanalysis, and appropriate to its founding father.  Freud grounded psychoanalysis in the fact of the meaningless void in which humans suffer.  Everything that we humans accomplish grows out of the encounter with existential suffering.  To deny that is to obscure the profound insight of Freud, and to lose psychoanalysis in the process. 

 

            Jung’s ability to comprehend “man and his symbols”, what Zizek labels “cosmic principles”, comes from standing on Freud’s shoulders, as must all psychoanalysts worthy of the name.  That Jung found meaning where Freud found none simply indicates where Jung’s genius differed from Freud’s; Jung’s genius lay in his willingness to bring psychoanalysis with him as he made the leap that each of the world’s great faiths inspire.  The leap to discover what mysterious, ineffable meaning emerges from the shivering, suffering human soul’s encounter with the meaningless void.  If God exists anywhere, it is there, in the least likely of places, right in front of us in our eternal suffering.  That Jung finds God in the best hiding place of all, the very place that Freud, and Zizek, believe obliterates the very possibility of God, is a testament only to Jung’s willingness to follow Freud’s lead up to the edge that Freud defined as the limit of psychoanalysis, and walk right over the cliff.

 

            We are left, inescapably, with one question: where would we have psychoanalysis lead us?

 

Horseshoes, Anyone?:  Towards an Understanding of Male Sexuality

 

            There is more than meets the eye when it comes to the game of horseshoes.  Traditionally played by men gathered in social settings such as backyard barbeques or VFW halls, horseshoes is the quintessential male bonding activity.  Horseshoes, as a reenactment of the sexual chase, unites men in the shared experience of sexual follies and triumphs.  Each toss of the horseshoe represents a pass at a female of the species.  Inevitably, most tosses of the horseshoe miss their mark, just as in real life most male efforts to attract the opposite sex result in failure; were this not the case we males would all tout Wilt Chamberlainesque sexual resumes.  But the law of averages is with the male, and if he persists in the hunt eventually a female shall, ahem, succumb to his charms.  Throw enough horseshoes and eventually you will score a ringer, horseshoe wrapping itself suggestively around the post.  Bringing us to some rather obvious and unavoidable symbolism….

            

There is a common saying, “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”  Leaving aside for the moment the implications of this phrase for the endeavor of warfare, it is a key marker of the importance of horseshoes as a male bonding activity.  In horseshoes, the ringer, while sublime, is not the only way to score points.  Get close enough to the target, and points are accrued.  What this tells us is that what brings individual men into the community of men is not the achievement of sexual conquest; you don’t have to get laid to be a man.  As always, the journey is far more important than the destination.  To enter the community of men one must simply make a reasonable effort to get laid.  This participation in the sexual hunt is all that is required to enter the realm of socially defined manhood.  Whether, or who, you’re shagging is beside the point.  Along these lines, not only does “close count” in horseshoes, one ringer is as good as the next. 

Perhaps this explains the general acceptance of the ideal of lifelong monogamy among heterosexual men.  Marriage, as permanent symbol of participation in the sexual hunt, stabilizes membership in the male social bond.  All hunts that end in marriage achieve, in the language of horseshoes, the never-ending ringer, elevating all married “hunters” to the same sublime status, at the same time defusing potentially destructive sexual rivalries among the hunters.  If all ringers are equal, and if all marriages bestow the never-ending ringer, then the community of men is ideally one of equals.  Unmarried hunters are granted full equality of membership, as long as they are engaged in the hunt.  Close DOES count in horseshoes.

The stability of the male social bond is problematized by the presence of the homosexual male.  The homophobic male fear of being labeled a homosexual is nothing other than the fear of being excluded from the male social bond.  The act of male homosexuality is, within the heterosexual male framework, the act of exiting the heterosexual male social bond.  This was illustrated in the famous Seinfeld episode when Jerry and George repeatedly and emphatically proclaim themselves not to be homosexuals, on each occasion adding “not that there is anything wrong with that” (i.e. wrong with homosexuality).  George and Jerry were clearly voicing the truth of heterosexual male homophobia.  From a heterosexual male perspective there is “nothing wrong” with sexual relations between men, in and of itself.  What is “wrong” with male homosexuality, the “threat” that exists in being perceived as homosexual, is the very real danger of being excluded from the heterosexual male social bond.  In the heterosexual male universe, male homosexuality only functions to mark off the boundaries of membership in the heterosexual male social bond. 

This logic is on display with the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy of the United States military.  “Don’t ask, don’t tell” specifies that there is nothing inherently wrong with the gay male soldier; he is the straight male warrior’s equal in every respect, just as long as his sexuality remains unstipulated.  Even if his sexuality is an open secret, the gay male warrior is accorded full membership in the heterosexual male bond which is the symbolic glue that binds the US military into a cohesive fighting force, an Olympic horseshoes team, if you will.  But once the gay warrior is formally unmasked, his sexuality revealed to the big Other, the symbolic order that maintains US military cohesion is destabilized.      

The instability of the heterosexual male social bond comes into further relief when compared to the rock solid stability of the female social order.  Unlike men, who must compete in horseshoes in order to be accepted as men in the social bond, females must simply achieve menses in order to achieve womanhood.  In this sense, there are no “gay” or “straight” women, just women.  This is why women’s sexuality is frequently and insightfully referred to as “fluid” in a way that the male social bond would never sanction in a man; a woman can sleep with whomever she wishes without ever endangering her status in the female social bond, a status guaranteed by the fact of her biology, while the male’s status as man is stricto sensu defined by who he is sleeping, or attempting to sleep with.   The same reasoning explains not only why men are turned on by “lesbian” porn (granted that the on-screen “lesbians” are of the male fantasy variety), but why it is acceptable in the male social bond to be turned on by hot “lesbian” sex, i.e. there are no “gay” women, just women, so the shadow of homosexuality, the shadow of social banishment, never intrudes on the straight male’s arousal.  In fact, it is said that the truth serum for a man’s sexuality is his arousal, or lack thereof, in response to (male fantasy) “lesbian” porn.  All of this to say that there’s only one kind of horseshoe, the kind that is to be tossed at the post.  It is completely irrelevant, from the horseshoe player’s perspective, why a toss misses the post.  You simply move on to the next horseshoe.  If two errantly tossed horseshoes happen to land on top of one another and intertwine, well the game just goes on as if nothing happened at all.  And, according to the rules of horseshoes, nothing really has.  

Gay males, by definition, can’t play horseshoes.  And, like it or not, for the straight American male in 2009, horseshoes remains the only game in town.  If, as Freud famously postulated, we humans are all actually bisexual, perhaps it is time for a new backyard barbeque pastime.  Tiddlywinks anyone? 

If It Sounds Too Good To Be True....

Apparent wellness, or the absence of observable neuroses, is most often an advanced capacity in the individual for complying with social norms, and is, as such, its own (well disguised) form of neurosis.  Social norms are indispensable in helping us manage to get along with one another, but strict conformity to these norms does nothing to broaden the soul.  A life defined by social correctness dressed up as "sanity" is as stable as the first little pig's straw house when, as they inevitably do, things fall apart.  The extreme exemplar of this phenomenon is the "perfect" college student: straight A's, varsity sports, good looking in a typical fashion, socially and sexually successful, paired with an attractive boyfriend or girlfriend.  But the process of achieving social perfection can so utterly alienate the late adolescent from the process of suffering and enduring everyday pains and humiliations (think bad acne, unacceptable fashion, prolonged virginity, the list of transgressions is almost endless, making the "perfect" adolescent's "accomplishment" all the more astounding and shedding light on where this is headed) that little by little chisel a human soul.  This process of achieving  true social, i.e. external, "perfection" hollows out the late adolescent's soul or internal life with a brutal finality, so that in the end her only means of retrieving her lost soul from its imprisonment in the social sphere is by violating the sine qua non of the social order, the suicide taboo.  Suicide, here, is a tragic act of liberation.

Translated into Buddhist language, this (in)sane figure is similar to the master practitioner of Samsara, who lives a life of comfort and ease, safely sealed off from suffering and assorted discomforts.  Deep in the womb of Samsara, he will be birthed into trauma when things fall apart, as they inevitably do.  Even, and especially, if this birth is the moment of death.  

Something to Tell You by Hanif Kureishi

Kureishi breathes new life into that old jalopey, psychoanalysis. "Something to Tell You" will make you want to dive onto your nearest analyst's couch and dig into your mad, sacred neuroses. Or at least go read some Freud. Kureishi's storytelling is good, but his feel for the half art/ half science of analysis is uncanny. My favorite line, spoken by the protagonist's analyst: "We are here to cure the well, too." Wherever you fall on the continuum of wellness and neuroses (or psychoses, for that matter), read "Something to Tell You", if for no other reason than to be reminded, or as in my case, re-inspired, that your unconscious has something to tell you. And well should we listen, because as any analyst worth her salt will tell you, a letter always reaches its destination, and your unconscious probably doesn't use e-mail.

Buddhist thought of the day:

The pain will never end until you realize that the pain will never end.

The Quest for the Historical Jesus

            

My quest for the historical Jesus has been an attempt to make sense of this strange, wonderful religion in which I have been raised.  But before I go any further, let me put all of my cards on the table.  The son of an Episcopal clergyman and his theologian wife, so needless to say a baptized Christian, I have married a beautiful Jewish woman.  Together my wife Jennifer and I are raising our two daughters in the Jewish tradition, and I have been blessed with a firsthand appreciation for the depth and light of the Jewish faith.  And the primary spiritual practice in my everyday life is Buddhist sitting meditation.  I like to think that I am practicing Buddhism in order to be a better Christian.  Put another way, the Episcopal Church has not lost a Christian, instead it has gained a Buddhist.  This postmodern tableau is, quite simply, religion in the 21^st century.  Whatever your comfort level with religion as collage, the Episcopal Church must continue to build in the flexibility necessary to meet the spiritual needs of people for whom the possible avenues of faith are virtually infinite.

           

So, the historical Jesus.  In many ways Christianity asks more from its believers than any other major world religion.  The virgin birth, God walking the Earth as a man, and, of course, the resurrection, each of these is mind blowing enough in its own right.  Put them together and you have a landscape of events that leaves the post-Enlightenment western individual with few choices:  maintain a safe remove by labeling the Gospel stories as “myth”, chuck the whole religion as absurd, or choose to believe precisely because it is all so unbelievable. 

 

The quest for the historical Jesus, then, is an attempt to save Christianity by providing it some much needed ballast.  Imagine Christianity as a hot air balloon.  The beauty of Christianity as a mystery religion, with the feeding of the five thousand, water into wine, walking on water, and, of course, the salvation of human kind via the resurrection, is really what Christianity is all about.  But this stuff is all lighter than air and threatens to float away into the postmodern ether without something more substantial to hold it all down.  The quest for the historical Jesus, boiled down to its essence, is nothing other than the emphatic insistence that Jesus of Nazareth actually walked the Earth.  Without this fundamental grounding of Christianity, with the quest as rational pilot suspended in a basket beneath the hot air balloon of those mysterious Gospels, it would all just float away.

 

In this context, it matters little which Jesus historian you read, or which theories you find most credible, as the act of engaging in the quest for the historical Jesus is an end unto itself.  But most of the fun to be had on the quest is in immersing one’s self in the material, wrestling with the implications of each possibility, and coming out the other side with a position one is willing to stake one’s faith on.  A perfect jumping off point for a freshly minted “quester” is The Meaning of Jesus: Two Visons, coauthored by Marcus J. Borg and N. T. Wright, the leading lights, respectively, of liberal and conservative Jesus scholarship.  In this work, Borg and Wright engage in a gentlemanly butting of heads regarding the central mysteries of the historical Jesus.  Among the topics up for debate is Jesus’ resurrection.  The effect of reading Wright and Borg consecutively is psychedelic, as their contrasting analyses distort the reader’s perceptions as she attempts to bend her mind around these ultimately irreconcilable Easter gestalts.  A closer look at both is necessary to determine which fork in the path leads to hallucination, and which to enlightenment.

 

Wright, first up to bat in the text, insists upon a corporeal resurrection.  Jesus is resurrected in the flesh:  “What the early church insisted about Jesus was that he had been well and truly physically dead and was now well and truly physically alive.” (p. 116)  But this simple equation is complicated by Wright’s next move, the assertion that the resurrection “is, rather, the transformation of the existing body into a new mode of physicality.” (p.120)  Wright postulates his theory of a “transformed physicality” in opposition to the translation offered by some of Jesus’ resurrected body as a “spiritual body”.  However, Wright is completely unable to elucidate what exactly this transformed physicality consists of, other than that it is “still concrete and physical” (p. 120) and that it is assuredly not a “spiritual body.”  I am left with the impression that Wright would be more than happy if the only “transformed physicality” to be found on the resurrected Jesus was the addition of a vestigial third nipple, thereby affixing Jesus’ bodily stamp of approval to Wright’s theory as if it were the Shroud of Turin.

 

Wright’s insistence on a bodily resurrection privileges Wright’s apparent fantasy of living in an impossible reality.  In his classic work Merely Christian, none other than C. S. Lewis, Wright’s conservative forerunner, explained that God is bound by the rules of logic that govern existence in God’s creation, and that this necessary limitation in no way detracts from God’s glory or dominion.  Even God, then, must play by the rules if the “game” is to have any meaning.  Wright, ignoring Lewis with his insistence on a bodily resurrection, would discard the rules that frame creation.  His is the classic mistake of fundamentalism; by insisting that Jesus’ resurrection conform to his set of doctrinal priorities, Wright negates the very possibility of a really existing world for Jesus to save.  “Well and truly” dead bodies return, irrevocably, to ashes and dust.  Such is the price of admission to creation.  By refusing to pay this price, Wright loses his grip on reality and any possible insight into how the resurrection is, for lack of a better term, really real.

 

Fortunately, Borg’s chapter on the resurrection comes after Wright’s in the text.  Post Wright, the relief one feels in the encounter with the basic sanity of Borg’s stance, “I see the empty tomb and whatever happened to the corpse of Jesus as ultimately irrelevant to the truth of Easter” (p. 130), is akin to being told that your loved one is going to pull through a difficult emergency surgery.  Such is the strength of Borg’s reassuring grip pulling us back from the abyss of Wright’s astonishing literalism. 

 

Borg expertly contrasts resurrection with resuscitation, though his endorsement of resurrection as “entry into a new kind of existence” (p. 131) may at first glance appear in danger of veering towards Wright’s “transformed physicality”.  But Borg steers a steady course towards something potentially far more transformational than Wright’s Zombie-Christ.  Borg’s most important step is in framing the resurrection “beyond the categories of space and time” (p. 131), in doing so he sagely takes us beyond the realm of the physical body.  Wright’s greatest failure is a failure of the imagination, as he is unable to envision a resurrection that does not hinge on a simplistic undoing of human mortality.  It is Borg who takes the real leap of faith by elevating his conception of the resurrection beyond the obvious.  As always, God works in mysterious ways, and there is not even the hint of mystery in Wright’s clockwork universe.

 

Borg’s reading of the risen Christ’s appearance on the road to Emmaus is a synopsis of how one can experience the resurrection story from a place of sanity, which is the necessary clearing in mental and spiritual space for the experience of Jesus’ saving grace:  “Most centrally, the story makes the claim that the risen Christ journeys with us, whether we know that or not, realize that or not, even as it also affirms that there are moments of recognition in which we do realize that.” (p. 134)  In comprehending the “post-Easter Jesus as an experiential reality” (p. 135), Borg maintains the link with really existing creation necessary for Christianity to attain to its healing mission, a healing necessary due in part to what Borg calls “the establishment of a new set of requirements” (p. 141) found in Christian doctrinal requirements.  This new set of requirements would bind us bind us to Wright’s resurrection narrative, which would be like living in a mirage.

 

Having fenced with Borg and Wright, I am compelled to reveal the ground from which I currently encounter the resurrection story.  In doing so I do not propose a definitive final answer as to what occurred on the third day; when it comes to the resurrection I adhere strictly to the maxim Zen mind, beginner’s mind (the Christo-centric are referred to Thomas Merton’s Zen and the Birds of Appetite).  Instead, my kaleidoscopic relationship with the resurrection is simply an example of the spiritual adventure awaiting the enthusiastic “quester”. 

To build my own bridge to the resurrection I turned to the least likely of sources, the psychoanalytical theory of Jacques Lacan.  One of Lacan’s greatest contributions to the psychoanalytic understanding of the psyche was his concept of the human subject.  Understanding that the ego is ultimately a necessary fiction, Lacan found the subject always obscured behind the ego, but at the same time constantly speaking through the ego.  This motif of simultaneous presence and absence bears an uncanny resemblance to how we human subjects encounter God.  In his brilliant explication of Lacanian theory, Lacan, Lionel Bailly includes this insight into the nature of the subject:  “(T)he subject could exist whether or not the person is alive.  This is not just a philosophical fancy: it has clinical relevance, as one may see how a dead child or a past patriarch may still act like a Subject within the dynamics of a family.” (p. 67)

 

When I was a child my family traveled every summer to a beach cottage owned by my paternal grandmother and her siblings.  In the cottage was an ancient chair, timeworn but given pride of place.  The chair was always referred to as “Darling’s chair”, in reference to the family matriarch who had ruled uncompromisingly for decades from that chair.  Darling’s body had been in the ground for an equal number of decades, but her subject, represented by “Darling’s chair”, continued to organize the dynamics of my father’s side of the family. 

 

Now I must ask you, if Darling’s subject was potent enough to rule from her chair for decades after her death, then what might Jesus Christ’s subject, present in the cross, be capable of?