"There can be no objective rule of taste, no rule of taste that determines by concepts what is beautiful. For any judgment is only as good as it is similar to Simon Cowell's."
-Immanuel Kant, From Critique of Judgment
Today I was reading Entertainment Weekly when I knew I should have been researching Lawrence Weiner and I thought: these writers seem caught in between worlds. Their abundance of wit is evident in their writings which are consistently humorous and sometimes even moving and yet they are doomed to eternally discussing T.V. Sure, there are slight book and stage sections but let's not kid ourselves, EW's bread and butter is Dancing with the Stars gossip.
I thought to myself, perhaps they were like me at one time, seemingly caught in a rack (the German torturey kind) between Detective Benson (Law and Order: SVU) and Wittgenstein (20th Century German philosopher--see Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus) and they just submitted to the dark side where being dumb is not only hilarious but a ratings guarantee. Then again, perhaps they were all scholarly creative writers who seized a solid job opportunity and then proceeded to immerse themselves in the simulcra. Either way, they're in limbo between According to Jim and Derrida (evidenced by writers like Lisa Schwarzbaum who use the word deconstruction in its correct form--signifying shifting components of representation-- and not just as a substitute for "breaking down."--see her review of Be Kind Rewind)
Contrary to their eternal balancing act I feel like I've conquered my historically oppressive nemesis and have gradually lessened my signal intake but I still feel like I'd strike brilliance if I didn't respond to The Daily Show theme emanating from the other room every night at 11:00 like Pavlov's dog. (j/k)
It must have been a lot easier for Hawthorne to focus on Young Goodman Brown (1835) when home entertainment was reading and Marquis De Sade's philoso-porn was the so-called "bottom of the barrel." If you want a glimpse of contemporary basement dwelling entertainment (and who doesn't once in awhile?), watch the so-unbelievably-dumb-your-stomach-will-send-up-its-own-opinion The Girls Next Door, a voyeuristic binge into the Playboy Mansion where the camera tracks the lives of three Playboy Bunnies. It reminds you just how far our society has come. In one episode we track Holly Madison as she co-hosts a radio talk show hour with her dog. We then follow her as she takes her beloved canine to a dog talent agent where he promises big things.
Believe me, I'm not fantasizing about days of yore, I wouldn't trade in my computer and cell phone for a quill. And I certainly wouldn't want to cut off the flow of information because I'd probably end up like Tracy Letts' characters in Bug (convinced that imaginary bugs are everywhere and that I am their mother). I'm just noting the contemporary struggle.
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