On the Century of the
Working Man: A Fin-de Siècle Reflection
Dec. 1, 1995
Soon,
they shall come to bury the hopes of what proclaimed itself to be
“The Century of the Working Man.” Soon, they shall come to bury
us. The cravings and desires which distract us now shall mean nothing
then. All that shall matter, shall be the fabric which we have spun
from the flax of our dreams.
This
is an anthropological report on an expedition into The Hell of the
Violent. The Vespucci, who spend most of their lives in this world,
claim to believe in faith, hope, and love – but of these, they have
retained only a precarious hope, which insists that tomorrow has got
to be better.
I
look out on a Yves Tanguey seascape. From the parklands above, Henry
Demonford approaches. He’s carrying a set of golf clubs on his
back.
“I
want you to do something for Miles Mitchell,” he gestures
confidentially. “If you do, you shall be handsomely rewarded.”
Miles
Mitchell started out dealing in ‘Nam. By the ‘70's he had made a
small fortune supplying the little dealers who ran their cargoes into
suburbs like Hollywood and Watts. Then came the War on Drugs, and he
got caught. Since he was a war hero of sorts, they allowed him to
turn a trick, rather than make him deal with all of the Stinkers in
prison. As a reward for leaving a little more of his conscience
shredded up along the trail, Mr. Mitchell got introduced to some of
the Big Tricksters, who taught him to use the Bermuda Triangle as a
cloaking device. Guns would appear among the Contras in Nicaragua,
cocaine would appear on the streets of New York, Mitchell’s bank
account would overflow to grow corporate assets, but the only ones
who saw Miles Mitchell were the Caribbean islanders who knew there
was always a party whenever his yacht was anchored in their port.
I’m
told that the Vespucci used to believe in Faith, Hope and Love. Of
these three, only Hope remains – a precarious and materialist hope
that is contingent on the market interest rate.
They
say that Mr. Nixon
This
is an anthropological report on an expedition into The Hell of the
Violent. The Vespucci, who spend most of their lives in this world,
claim to believe in faith, hope, and love – but of these, they have
retained only a precarious hope, which insists that tomorrow has got
to be better.
I
look out on a Yves Tanguey seascape. From the parklands above, Henry
Demonford approaches. He’s carrying a set of golf clubs on his
back.
“I
want you to do something for Miles Mitchell,” he gestures
confidentially. “If you do, you shall be handsomely rewarded.”
Miles
Mitchell started out dealing in ‘Nam. By the ‘70's he had made a
small fortune supplying the little dealers who ran their cargoes into
suburbs like Hollywood and Watts. Then came the War on Drugs, and he
got caught. Since he was a war hero of sorts, they allowed him to
turn a trick, rather than make him deal with all of the Stinkers in
prison. As a reward for leaving a little more of his conscience
shredded up along the trail, Mr. Mitchell got introduced to some of
the Big Tricksters, who taught him to use the Bermuda Triangle as a
cloaking device. Guns would appear among the Contras in Nicaragua,
cocaine would appear on the streets of New York, Mitchell’s bank
account would overflow to grow corporate assets, but the only ones
who saw Miles Mitchell were the Caribbean islanders who knew there
was always a party whenever his yacht was anchored in their port.
I’m
told that the Vespucci used to believe in Faith, Hope and Love. Of
these three, only Hope remains – a precarious and materialist hope
that is contingent on the market interest rate.
They
say that Mr. Nixon used to believe in God, before Mao Se Tung
converted him by dragging his Christian fundament through all the
rice paddies of Indo-China. Mao Se Tung must have had a rather
chivalrous streak towards this fallen opponent who was about to lose
his constituency. Mao Se Tung was finally getting results in a War on
Drugs which had been code-named “The Cultural Revolution.”
Perhaps some sad reflections on the ways in which his war on drugs
had been used by cadre leaders to suppress collective freedom,
inspired Mr. Nixon to bring home a Cultural Counter-Revolution which
got code-named as a “War on Drugs.”
I
find that I must remind myself, that I have come here as an
anthropologist. I don’t want to get involved in the politics; I
just want to do a study on the relation between inquisitorial manners
and the evolution of local superstitions.
There
are some people here who remember, that just before this Cultural
Counter-Revolution was launched, a Peace-and Love movement was
drawing a bright radiance that outlined the California horizon. A
hopeful French observer published the book, Neither Marx Nor
Jesus.
All
right – maybe Mao really wasn’t being just chivalrous. Maybe he
felt threatened by the sort of Neither Marx nor Jesus
synthesis that was beginning to flourish in San Francisco. Maybe Mao
knew that Republican Cultural Counter-revolution in America was just
what he needed, to give his cadres time to get their revolution back
into shape, before the Neither Marx nor Jesus people came to
China with their candid cameras.
Maybe
that is why friendship has become so rare on the continent that
stretches out on both sides of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Maybe
that is why the light is now retreating in the West, and all of the
hopes of the ‘60's now seem to be vanquished.
used to believe in God, before Mao Se Tung
converted him by dragging his Christian fundament through all the
rice paddies of Indo-China. Mao Se Tung must have had a rather
chivalrous streak towards this fallen opponent who was about to lose
his constituency. Mao Se Tung was finally getting results in a War on
Drugs which had been code-named “The Cultural Revolution.”
Perhaps some sad reflections on the ways in which his war on drugs
had been used by cadre leaders to suppress collective freedom,
inspired Mr. Nixon to bring home a Cultural Counter-Revolution which
got code-named as a “War on Drugs.”
I
find that I must remind myself, that I have come here as an
anthropologist. I don’t want to get involved in the politics; I
just want to do a study on the relation between inquisitorial manners
and the evolution of local superstitions.
There
are some people here who remember, that just before this Cultural
Counter-Revolution was launched, a Peace-and Love movement was
drawing a bright radiance that outlined the California horizon. A
hopeful French observer published the book, Neither Marx Nor
Jesus.
All
right – maybe Mao really wasn’t being just chivalrous. Maybe he
felt threatened by the sort of Neither Marx nor Jesus
synthesis that was beginning to flourish in San Francisco. Maybe Mao
knew that Republican Cultural Counter-revolution in America was just
what he needed, to give his cadres time to get their revolution back
into shape, before the Neither Marx nor Jesus people came to
China with their candid cameras.
Maybe
that is why friendship has become so rare on the continent that
stretches out on both sides of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Maybe
that is why the light is now retreating in the West, and all of the
hopes of the ‘60's now seem to be vanquished.
Across
the plateau beneath the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, a cold wind is
blowing snow. Renata, who is weary of Dr. Payne’s Satanic rituals,
has moved away to a town in the valley. I am left here, to watch the
winter devour the hopes of the small farmers.
In
town, the teenage Goths who are not yet old enough to legally enter
the taverns gather outside of a coffeehouse. They reproach us for the
dreams which we have left stillborn. They ask why a generation which
had all the opportunities only left them the opportunity to flip
burgers at McDonalds.
In
Washington D.C., the Speaker of the House rises on his haunches to
inform us that we do not need to see the whole picture. He can teach
us everything we need to know about our history. Those who are poor
are only lacking in resources because they have been defrauding the
government. If they would only follow Benny Hinn into the Promised
Land, their problems would be solved.
