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EGR: Who Cares?
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Christopher Locke
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Jul 24, 2001 14:50 PDT
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Gonzo Marketing: Winning through Worst Practices
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0738204080/entropygradientr
be the first kid on your block!
chapters on the cheap:
http://www.gonzomarkets.com/intro.html
http://www.gonzomarkets.com/8mileshigh.html
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Valued Readers:
First, to clear up some old business, as some of you have started
hassling me about it. To wit http://www.gonzomarkets.com/guess.html
The mystery word is "bricolage," which, as I hinted as broadly as I
could, I figured you'd never guess without reading those chapters called
out above. As it turns out, I was wrong. The first six correct entries
were (in order of their senders alacrity in answering -- which was
pretty fucking quick):
1) the word of the day is "bricolage" baby!
Charlie A Stout - charli-@yahoo.com
http://www.snakebitejake.com - Intelligent Redneck Music!
2) The word is: bricolage. Make me famous, baby.
The art is cool too!
Anthony Citrano - anth-@citrano.com
Nuff 'bout me: http://www.citrano.com/Team/Anthony/anthony.htm
3) bricolage ?
[on being told he was (ding-ding-ding) a Winner!]
Happy, happy, joy, joy, I really needed this win... we'll use the
money to buy a new toaster and maybe a pound of the coffee beans
my wife likes so much, what the hell. I *might* start smoking a
pipe, come to think of it...
Tim Smith - ti-@hydrosphere.com
http://www.pipedreams.net
4) bricolage. And no I haven't bothered to read your steenkeeng
book.
Tom Meyer - to-@phoam.com
[URL suppressed out of spite]
5) my guess: bricolage.
it's hot here indeed, i guess that's what makes me send useless
email :) ok, here's my challenge: what does this say?
http://old.gecsub.hu/sakk.html [who knows? it's hungarian.]
Viktor Szathmary - vik-@presence.hu
6) Bricolage. Now give me my 15 nanoseconds. And here's a prediction.
The next one will be palimpsest.
Rick Putnam - put-@bellatlantic.net
Well, I don't believe there's a "palimpsest" on the way -- unless Laurie
decides to add it to the list. I never know quite what to expect from
that quarter (in keeping with the rhetoric of way too many movie reviews
I've been seeing lately, feel free to take that as "one of the top-ten
understatements on the year!"). All the words she's rendering in this
calligraffiti style aren't finished yet, mainly because the style itself
has undergone several stages of transformation -- as you can see on the
new splash page:
http://www.gonzomarkets.com
I think the latest is hypercool, but I'm radically biased. If you think
so too, drop Laurie a line. Or a job offer. It is, after all, what she
does for a living.
mailto:lau-@lauriedoctor.com
And now, if I may, goddam it, get on with what I was *going* to say...
see me.
feel me...
touch me...
heal me.
The Who
You haven't heard from me for a while because I've been, uh... "getting
ready" to write another book. And unfortunately, writing isn't getting
any easier. I thought it might. I hoped it would. But after all these
years, it's more of a bitch, not less (apologies to my muse; no offense
intended). The bitchiness of the process entails a sort of double-bind.
I feel as if I'm playing blindfold chess with myself. Because, in the
past, the harder I've had to wrestle with my angels -- or demons; it's
so hard to tell them apart -- the bigger the ideas that were brewing
turned out to be. Ergo the rule: anything worth saying will be harder
than hell to say. The trap lies in reversing this logic: because it --
whatever the hell "it" is, determining which is at least half the battle
-- is proving next to impossible to articulate, it must therefore be
REALLY IMPORTANT.
Of course, the truth could well be the opposite: that, this time, the
degree of effort comes not from the hugeness and importantfulness of the
ideas, but from the fact that they don't add up at all. That in fact,
they amount to nothing. Nothing that anyone else would care about, in
any case. This time, you're kidding yourself with all that struggle.
This time, you've bought your own PR. You're stoned on the Kool-Aid,
kid.
All this tail-chasing is made worse because *this time* I'm trying to
write about writing, the process itself: what inspires and motivates it,
what stands in the way, and what, if anything worthwhile, results --
where "worthwhile" should be taken to mean entertaining or moving or
maybe even meaningful to someone other than myself. So: something more
than solipsistic masturbation. Even though we all pretty much agree
these days that masturbation feels good. Still, we might not want to
watch someone else in the process. At the very least, we could say that
such a proclivity constitutes an acquired taste. And in this respect, my
existential impasse is made worse still by your kind indulgence -- yes
yours, gentle reader. I ask myself: have I been falsely encouraged by
the interest (real or imagined) of readers like yourself, whose taste
for such introspection was acquired in ways I'd rather not imagine? And
only you -- a microscopically small fraction of the world at large --
get off on watching me... do it?
You see my problem? Self-doubt is the worst. The pits. It sucks. A nasty
job, but someone's gotta pony up, I guess. I've tried to outsource it,
but the results have never been credible. Something about a club that
would have me as a member. Chicken Soup for the Golfer's Soul. Worse
than the Kool-Aid even. I catch myself asking, do golfers even *have*
souls... and then I'm off to the races again. It's exhausting.
Anyway, the working title (ahem) at this point is...
Coming To:
Institutional Amnesia and the Rediscovery of Voice
For me -- when I'm lucky, or "hot" (it could happen) -- writing is my
drug of choice. It's my modality of voice. The way I think about it,
voice expresses itself via other modes too: drawing, painting, sculpture
(I guess), music, even (I suppose, though why does it make me think of
Jules Feiffer?) dance.
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Oracle/9941/Feiffer.jpg
Hell, voice could be grunts and whistles. And probably once was. In
essence, voice is... well, ah, let's see... at base, inherently and
intrinsically, um... And fuck! That's where I'm stuck. I'm not sure I
know. Or sure *you* want to know. But I have this hunch I can't seem to
kick that it *is* something terribly... you know, *important*.
In the Cluetrain Manifesto, I alluded to voice at several points. Kept
coming back to it.
Conversations among human beings sound human. They are conducted in
a human voice. Whether delivering information, opinions,
perspectives, dissenting arguments or humorous asides, the human
voice is typically open, natural, uncontrived. People recognize each
other as such from the sound of this voice.
Actually, Weinberger probably added "uncontrived." I wouldn't know
uncontrived if it bit me. The "as such" bit was mine, though. I thought
that part was, you know, important too. I still do. But what does it all
mean, Mr. Natural? I wrote:
Across the millennia in between, the human voice is the music we
have always listened for, and still best understand.
OK, that says we like it... sort of. With huge qualifiers attached.
Like: obviously not the voices of rampant assholes verbally disporting
themselves in business meetings. Not the glottal dribblings of talking
heads on CNN or anything Michael Eisner ever said in his whole miserable
excuse for a life. That's not music. It's got no beat. You can't dance
to it. So I wrote some more:
From the beginning, something very different has been brewing
online. It has to do with living, with livelihood, with craft,
connection and community. This isn't some form of smarmy New Age
mysticism, either. It's tough and gritty and it's just beginning to
find its voice, its own direction.
So what have we learned here, class? That whatever this "it" is, it is
finding its voice, whatever *that* is. Double fuck! I have a feeling you
really do know what I mean. Like, you know? But I can't say for sure.
What you think, that is. Or what I mean. Other than that, things are
going along pretty swell for this book, of which I haven't yet written
Sentence One.
It's much easier to say what voice isn't than what it is. I have another
hunch, however: that voice comes out of some encounter with -- for lack
of better words -- "the sacred." Great! Now we have a conundrum wrapped
in an enigma wrapped in a kozmik bean burrito. But look, the sacred
doesn't have to imply what we normally think of (there goes my trick
knee) as religion. Perhaps it's more like what the Muppets call "The Big
Blue Wet Thing," only it's not necessarily big, blue or particularly
wet. Then again, maybe not.
Ah... why is this so fucking hard?
Let's try this again from another angle. In Gonzo Marketing (soon to
appear in better bookstores everywhere), I wrote:
From the dawn of human society, people have been drawn together by
storytellers who not only shared their interests but also had a
special quality of speech -- let's call it voice. True voice is not
just the ability to speak, but the ability to speak effectively. The
best measure of this effectiveness is whether a particular voice can
attract and hold an audience. This is as true today as it was in
Neolithic times.
Then I go on to talk about Click & Clack on NPR, thus undermining any
possible credibility I might have had if I'd chosen another example. I
don't know, say Winston Churchill. Though I think Winnie might put me to
sleep. So let's not go down that road, but instead recap. *If* there is
something we might call voice, its ultimate source is an awe-full
bumping up against the numinous -- great word, fewer calories, less
filling. Am I implying then that Click & Clack had some sort of satori
experience? Actually, yes.
The bare fact of voice bespeaks a generosity of heart I cannot imagine
within myself alone. Voice connects. It is a paradox: a recognition and
a cry for recognition. Not just to God or gods, but to other human
beings. Voice is social, creating a common vision of what we are, a
mirror in which we understand the meaning of this joyous, terrifying,
and at some subterranean psychic level, deeply shared existence. Unlike
the first half of this paragraph, it also usually reflects a sense of
humor. Because it's not trying to prove anything, colonize or
territorialize anything, it's not uptight. Not anal retentive. In less
psychological terms, it's like when you're trying to hold it all
together, show everyone how cool you are, but then you accidentally lose
it and shit all over yourself. Human beings being what they are, we tend
to find this funny.
Some do anyway. And here's where I return to certain doubts about, shall
we say, the universality of the theme.
Leaving that aside, however, and accepting (if you will) that there is
such a thing as voice, it seems there are certain things -- influences,
forces, dynamics -- that can stand in its way. Some of these are
impediments by default, some by design. In the oh-so-personal hour of
the wolf, these blockages -- these doubts; let's call them what they are
-- haunt us with intimations of catastrophic disconnection. The world I
see is not the world you see. Or you or you or you. I am alone in here,
paralyzed by an alienation so profound my chest is frozen. My vocal
chords don't respond. And even if they did, what would I say? What could
I say that would speak to you? And on whose authority?
Because, in the not-so-personal -- to the point of enforced anonymity --
world of good old everyday life, what's up with voice almost always
comes down to issues of authority and authorization. Without voice,
freedom of speech becomes bondage of speech. An internalized gag order
rooted in fear. A form of volunteer slavery in which Congress *need*
make no law. Silence is golden. In the famous words of the Unix error
message: Permission denied.
It started to occur to me when I was writing Gonzo Marketing -- after
I'd finished it, really -- that this denial of permission, this
inauthentication of voice is inherent in the dynamics of institutions.
Its source is not any particular organization or even any specific
institution. Rather, it lies -- unconscious and thus doubly powerful --
in the troubled sleep of institutionality. Think hangover, blackout,
institutional amnesia.
Think coming to.
In Cluetrain I wrote:
Who gives us permission to explore our world? The question implies
that the world in fact belongs to someone else. Who gives us
permission to communicate what we've experienced, what we believe,
what we've discovered of that world for ourselves? The question
betokens a history of voice suppressed, of whole cultures that have
come to believe only power is sanctioned to speak. Because the
ability to speak does involve power. It entails ownership and the
control conferred by ownership. As the saying has it: "Money talks,
bullshit walks."
And after enumerating endless digital miracles and info-wonders
appearing on the Internet, I added...
That's not the big news. The word that's going around, the word
that's finally getting out, is something much larger, far more
fundamental. The word that's passing like a spark from keyboard to
screen, from heart to mind, is the permission we're giving ourselves
and each other: to be human and to speak as humans.
Unconditional permission. Because if you go looking for a condition, you
won't find one. Trust me. There is no foundation on which you can stand
to speak. No reason, no rationale. No Permanent Record to refer to, no
Final Authority to which you can appeal. Shaky ground, tricky business.
True voice is always fraught with uncertainty. You can know who you are
or what you're saying, but you can't know both. Who you are changes what
you say. What you say changes who you are.
In Gonzo Marketing I say (and it changed me):
To speak from the heart is to become who we truly are, and that's
always risky, or at least surprising. If I strategize my speech,
anticipate what I think you want me to say, things may go more
smoothly on the surface. Certainly, there will be less confusion.
Things will be simpler and more predictable. Fearful of exposure, we
read from the expected social script. But we haven't really met. We
haven't yet entered into that terra incognita where genuine
communication becomes possible. Voice is far more than the sounds we
make.
And somewhere else in that gonzoid tome...
Something animated and vital looks out from our children’s eyes.
Whatever it is, we recognize it and know it is precious. Yet except
in rare cases today, that spirit is broken early and irreparably. The
light goes out all too soon. We know, because at some inarticulate
and dimly conscious level, we are those children. We feel the wind of
spirit move us at odd moments, but put it down to nostalgia or
temporary possession by some impractical flight of fancy. We shake it
off and get back to work. Robbed of a voice to speak of these things,
something animated and vital looks out from our own eyes, but only in
rare, unguarded moments -- and even then, wary, circumspect,
suspicious. We let no one see what we fear no one will understand.
So voice. I think maybe I need to write about it. I mean, write about it
more. What it is. Where it gets bottled up. What happens when the bottle
breaks. What happens when the cradle falls. I've been making notes to
myself for weeks. For months. Wondering what all this means, how it adds
up, if it does, to something greater than the sum of the words. And
wondering if anybody gives a crap. In the publishing game, we say: if
there's a market for it. With that practical focus very much in mind,
here's a note I jotted down just last week.
Who cares?
You do. That's my bet.
Take out your driver's license. Nice picture, huh? Those are always
the worst ones, aren't they? That's the cliche. That's how we explain
it to ourselves. Look closer, though. At your face. At your eyes. At
what only you know is going on behind them. That's you embedded
within the institution. Speechless. Voiceless. Institutionalized.
I look at my own license. I see what you see. I know how you feel.
Another word for license is permission.
All the above, which as usual has gone on far too long, was really a
lead-in to the following mail I got this morning. It speaks for itself,
though its voice is not located in, nor confined to, the words it uses.
The bare fact of this voice bespeaks a generosity of heart that
definitely has its humor -- though perhaps not so much for Mr. Bush. It
also represents something deeper: a turn from the anonymity of quiet
desperation to a steadily mounting social rage. I imagine it spreading.
Hear me... heal me. On the net as it is today -- nothing needs to change
to make it true -- voice is distributed shamanism. Trade routes pave the
storylines.
From: Jonathan Lethem <giss-@earthlink.net>
Date: Thursday, July 19, 2001 11:51 AM
To: jrose-@serendipitypoint.com
Subject: worth spreading around
Bill Hangley is a Philadelphia writer who writes for Philly Tonite,
the Weekly Press, City Paper, and many others.
This is his original post, apparently to a newsgroup.
From: "Bill Hangley, Jr." <bill-@email.msn.com>
Subject: His Gift To Us
Date: Mon, 9 Jul 2001 19:05:38 -0400
So when the President was here on July 4, I had the opportunity to
shake his hand. I wasn't sure if that was a good idea or not but I
did it anyway, and said to him, "Mr President, I hope you only
serve four years. I'm very disappointed in your work so far."
He kept smiling and shaking my hand but answered, "who cares what
you think?" His face stayed photo-op perfect but his eyes gave me
a look that said, if we'd been drinking in some frathouse in
Texas, he'd've happily answered, "let's take it outside." A nasty
little gleam. But he was (fortunately) constrained by Presidential
propriety.
But that was the end of it, until I turned away and started
scribbling the quote down in my notepad, so as to remember The
Gift forever. When he saw me do that he got excited and craned his
neck over the rubberneckers to shout at me, "who are you with? Who
are you with?" People started looking so he made a joke: "make
sure you get it right." But he kept at it: "Who do you write for?"
I told him I wasn't "with" anybody and pointed to one of his staff
people, who knows me a little, and said, "ask him, he'll tell
you." Then I split.
Half an hour later, my boss (who had helped organize the event we
were at) came up to me and said, "did you really tell the
President that he was doing a 'lousy fucking job'?" No way, I
said, I was very polite, I just told him what I thought.
Fortunately, he believed me. He wasn't happy with me, but he
believed me.
But anyway, if you ever wondered if the Prez really was kind of a
jerk, I'm here to tell you, he is, and I got The Gift to prove it.
I'm thinking of making up t-shirts so we can share The Gift with
everyone:
"Who cares what you think?"
President George W. Bush
July 4, 2001
And this from a TableTalk post:
Glenda Wlosinski - 06:29 am PDT - Jul 12, 2001 - #1864 of 2072
Regarding the "Who cares what you think?" story upthread. I looked
up the name in Philadelphia, and yes, there is a Bill Hangley
there. I sent him an e-mail asking about the story. This is his
reply.
>"Yeah, it really happened. And it's amazing what legs this story
>has. I talked to the guy for two seconds, and he said the one
>thing that everyone wanted to hear him say.
>
>My situation is a little complicated, as far as work goes; I met
>the prez at the "block party" hosted by Greater Exodus Baptist
>Church on North Broad St. in philly. I work for a group that has
>done some organizing with them, and was there on work time. I'll
>keep my employer's name to myself, although if you really wanted
>to know you can find out, it's hardly a secret.
>
>But I'm a writer first and foremost, and take my responsibility as
>such very seriously. That's a wholly accurate report of my
>encounter with the President.
Hangley is a freelance writer and a musician. He's standing by
this story in private email. He can be reached at:
bill-@email.msn.com
The answer to "Who cares?" is I care and you care. The Institution had
better think twice before asking again. Once for you, once for me.
Pass it on.
The Management
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