Author: Hans Eisenbeis

It’s been some time since we offered anything on the subject of David Brooks, so here is something at last. Today in the Times opinion pages, Brooks modestly offers to assist President Bush, after the Prez’s State of the Union offer to listen to “other people’s ideas on how to fix social security.” (We wonder why President Bush would start listening now. Is this his idea of consensus-building—an eleventh-hour olive branch to all persons outside his sphere of absolute certainty and infalliability? Have his “mandate” and “political capital” so quickly evaporated in the wake of his train-wreck budget—a modest proposal that will have Republicans eating children for decades to come? Never mind, live for today!)

Now, just as a light-hearted prelude, let’s just consider how modest Brook’s offer of assistance really is. Considering that President Bush doesn’t even read newspapers—it seems possible that he doesn’t read at all—that’s a good one. Ha ha!

But we’re a little disappointed that Brooks’ thinking on this subject isn’t really up to snuff for the Times. In fact, it’s as fuzzy as his whole impressionistic “Bobos” daydream, and we’re surprised an editor didn’t catch it. In an effort to refine the whole idea of personal retirement accounts as a way to fix the unbroken social security system, Brooks dredges up the old idea of KidSafe. This was a bootless bipartisan taradiddle from the dark ages (the 1990s) that proposed establishing a $1000 savings accounts for all American children the day they are born. This amount would be tendered from the government, but—accforing to Brooks’ interpretation—it would be “invested in a limited number of mutual funds, but it couldn’t be withdrawn until retirement.”

So far so good. Sounds terrific. Except that for Brooks, this is a slam-dunk strategy for establishing the President’s chimeric “ownership society” based on the simple and absolute truth of “compound interest.” Brooks enthuses:

“Over decades, it would grow and grow, thanks to the wonders of compound interest, so that by the time workers retired, they would each have a substantial nest egg, over $100,000, waiting for them.”

Now, we count ourselves among the world’s most incompetent financial managers, and even we see a problem here. Brooks is apparently even dumber than we are. Compound interest is one thing, and a mutual fund operating in the open market is quite another. We can barely remember our own social security number, but we do know that putting money in a stock is not the same as putting it in a bank.

It’s a useful confusion because it obscures what they are really proposing: Bush and the people he will undoubtedly listen to most closely want more than anything to turn Americans’ money over to private concerns on Wall Street. As is always the case, Wall Street will take its cut, win or lose—the commission is the same whether you’re buying high or selling high, and the Plain People of America will leave their financial security exposed to the whims of the marketplace, with an equal chance of losing as much as they might gain.

We’ve said it till we’re blue in the face. It is not possible for 100 percent of Americans to be in the top one percent of taxpayers, and the sooner ninety-nine percent of Americans realize this, the better.

In yesterday’s New York Times, our friend Charles McGrath is up to his old tricks. In “Week in Review,” he considers whether The Paris Review can survive the death of its founder and guardian, George Plimpton—and at the same time considers the life expectancy of these tiny little “lit-mags” with circulations in the 10K range. McGrath points out that most titles of this sort will live about as long as a good dog—say ten years.

The Paris Review has managed thirty years or so for one reason: George Plimpton. He was an outsized personality with good literary chops and connections, and he had the charisma of a world-class editor and party-thrower, although he was mainly a great writer.

But the bottom line is, well, the bottom line. Plimpton’s little vanity project persisted because Plimpton was willing to write big personal checks to insure that it did. And thank goodness for that. There are lots of good reasons to write and read that have nothing to do with making, keeping, or spending money. So there may be a direct relationship between the celebrity of the editor and the lifespan of the journal, and that’s no real surprise.

Further, McGrath poses the interesting proposition that Dave Eggers may be our generation’s George Plimpton—the respected literary superstar who uses his powers for literary good, so long as he is willing to write checks and lend his boyish face and soft hands to the miserable job of begging for financial help when necessary. (But this is easier than it seems, probably. We just finished a wonderfully written book that contains a nice description of the perpetual-motion-machine of celebrity: “You know you have passed through the magic looking glass when people pay you to do what you wanted to do anyway.” That, and the free drinks for life are also kind of a red flag.)

We’re reminded of Will Blythe’s thoughtful review a few weeks ago of Plimpton’s latest book, a posthumous collection of his unique brand of “gonzo” participatory journalism. In that review, Blythe proposed that Plimpton was a certain kind of archetypal loser—the American anti-hero, who made a career of failure and self-deprecation. Clearly, Eggers has done the same thing.

But Blythe wonders why the anti-hero can never quite achieve the apotheosis of the hero in American letters, and we think we know why: Anti-heroes are an inherently contrarian minority. (That’s why they insist, for example, on publishing literary magazines for a couple hundred readers. How Euro-faggy is that? And why, after all, did Plimpton insist on naming his New York-based journal after that other gay city?) What’s more, neither Plimpton nor Eggers ever really failed at anything—if they did, it was a glorious case of failing up. Both are essentially privileged upper-middle-class literary fellows who have been in a position to prank the literary establishment, and the literary establishment loves to be pranked by its chosen sons.

We will be close to the tequila, and far from the internet for the next week or so. If the two come within close proximity, we’ll try to scratch out a few thoughts about free trade, the Tropic of Cancer, the European vs. English sizing of huarachis, and so on. In the meantime, enjoy the new issue of The Rake which you passed on your way in.

There will be a quiz.

Yesterday, Philip Johnson died. He was the architect who designed Minneapolis’ most recognized skyscraper, the IDS Center. While the building has got its fair share of respect over the years, we’re at a loss to explain why Minnesotans have been so eternally grateful that they have refused to dishonor the man or the building by putting up any building that would exceed it in height. There is surely a phallic joke to be wrung from this. (Our first skyscraper! We never had it bigger! Such a lover!) But we’ll leave that up to you, dear reader. In the broad sweep of 20th century architecture, the IDS is not all that remarkable, and we’re not sure why we’ve granted it this special, ceremonial status into perpetuity—despite several newer scrapers being, uh, erected to within a few feet of the Big Johnson. You know, we didn’t stop writing sonnets to the Foshay tower just because it was eclipsed by, as Guindon once wrote (possibly his best gag ever), “the box it came in.”

Lots of interesting developments today in the world of Mass Media. Yesterday, we were gratified to see Minnesota Senator Mark Dayton take the stage, front and center, in the New York Times. He launched a blistering (and, no doubt, somewhat fumbling—in a charming way, of course) verbal assault on Condie Rice that should have brought a smile to James Woolcott’s face. Among other things, he sounded like a very irritated dad when he scolded, “I really don’t like being lied to repeatedly, flagrantly, intentionally.” Go, dad, go!

Of course, Dayton really is a dad (we’ve met one son, and we found him charming). More important, his seat is up in the next general election. The best defense is a good offense, and it’s about time a Democrat from Minnesota lived up to family expectations. The last time we felt this way was when Dayton took on Rummy. He was fighting way out of his weight, of course, but he took some wild swings that landed nicely.

At least Dayton is getting his message out the old fashioned, honest way—by getting legitimate news coverage, rather than by paying a journalist or columnist to covertly do it for him. Yesterday, Armstrong Williams—the besieged columnist who took $240K to publically support No Child Left Behind policies—called efforts to bring him and his benefactors to task “a witch hunt.” Today, columnist Maggie Gallagher doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about that she accepted $20K to shill for a Bush-sponsored marriage initiative.

What is wrong with these people? Why don’t they offer us a quarter of a million dollars for our thoughtful, considered opinions?

Aside from the resounding silence of the right-leaning blog-ons with regard to this tetchy subject, we are highly entertained by these “journalists” efforts to dismiss the matter as no big deal. Indeed, it really is no big deal to many Americans—possibly most Americans. Just like torture is no big whoop. If you’re not guilty, then what are trying to hide? In both substance and style, that is the MO of the neo-con monopoly. Live for today!

But what these people seem to be genetically incapable of understanding is one of the pillars of this great country of ours: minority rights and representation. When a majority, cultivated honestly or through the almighty dollar, begins first to pooh-pooh dissenters, and then to slowly phase them out—well, that’s called a tyranny of the majority. And that’s when the backlash begins, and the bastards get run out of town.

You’ll recall that one of our guilty pleasures—among several, true—is the Fox program “24,” and this fourth season is certainly setting the bar high on a number of levels. First, it is interesting to watch the show’s writers struggle with the whole anachonistic idea of a cliffhanger. A show that dedicates an hour in real time to an hour in the storyline is bound to run into long stretches of sub-plot, while at the same time trying to sustain the main thrust of the show—in this case, a complicated massive terrorist attack on American soil. This is a formidable conundrum. You’ve gotta give your audience some payback along the way, and to do this, there must be some very bumpy conflict-and-resolution cycles… but always with some sort of provocation to bring them back next week.

Last night may have been the most bold and disturbing episode in the entire series, for a lot of interesting reasons. A quick recap: The US Secretary of Defense has been kidnapped with his daughter. Islamic fundamentalists are holding him in a bunker outside of LA, and they are planning a trial and an execution to be broadcast on the Web. It looks hopeless, so the President—having located the bunker—plans a missile strike to destroy terrorists, abductees, bunker, the whole lot before the execution can take place. Our man, agent Jack Bauer, is on the scene, and he singlehandledly breaks the perimeter and rescues Secretary and daughter.

The rescue is dramatic, and ends with the arrival of the US Marine Corps in helicopters. They rappel into the scene and, with cool precision, rip the place apart.

Now, we are well aware of how filmmakers manipulate us emotionally. We were not very surprised to feel a charge of excitement, a sense of justice, a rush of pride in American military might… this is standard operating procedure for a good action film. We have been set up to be sympathetic to the protagonist of the show (the USA, if you’re keeping track), and merciless to the antagonist. We are put in a position of cheering for death and violence.

What is most interesting about this new season of “24” is that it has removed the last veils of mitigating fiction, and taken the present world-situation head-on. Whereas in previous seasons, terrorist organizations were either a non-specific amalgam of multinational bad guys from some non-existent Baltic state, this seasons bad guys are islamic fundamentalists bent on their well-known goals and methods.

After last night’s blow-up, it is getting very difficult not to see this program as pro-war propagandizing. It is a terrible emotional mine-field to have to negotiate: If you didn’t feel a surge of pride after seeing all those terrorists cut down, you should worry that you can no longer be reached emotionally by the art-and-flash of mass media. (It’s OK to get excited, and then collect yourself and realize that you have been duped. Willing suspension of disbelief—engage!) Perhaps this point was driven home by the news of the Secretary’s successful rescue, televised within the program on (where else) Fox News. Or perhaps it was effected by the post-show dedication of the episode—”This epsiode is dedicated to Lt.Col. Dave Greene of the Marine Light Attack Helicopter Squadron 775. His sacrifice, and the sacrifice of all our men and women of the military, will not be forgotten.”

Indeed. Righteous, merciless justice is so much easier in fiction than in real life. Can Americans tell the difference anymore?

We happened to be present this morning at both a death and a birth. About an hour ago, Minnesota Public Radio pulled the plug on WCAL… And like trying to change alarm clocks without having to reset, they quickly plugged in KCMP, the much ballyhooed new “eclectic music” station they are calling “The Current.” Most people don’t pay that much attention to this sort of thing, but there is a decorum to be observed, and people in the industry attach great importance to the moment of switch-over. Normally, after a hostile commercial take-over, a station will switch formats without calling any attention to itself.

We remember eight years ago when an audibly surprised and upset Shawn Stewart said goodbye with virtually no warning the day Cargill sold REV-105. We don’t remember what song was played at the top of the last hour, but it was some godawful hair-metal song played on a continuous loop for at least 24 hours, while presumably REV-105 staffers were escorted from the building.

There were other reasons to remember that infamous day—it was the same day that the Village Voice announced it had bought City Pages and the Twin Cities Reader, and would be liquidating the latter. For those of us in the media biz, it sure felt like the day the national corporate monopolies moved into the Twin Cities and started crashing around our quaint little china shop. But of course, death often leads to birth—both processes being almost too painful to endure.

Old fans of REV-105 will surely expect “The Current” to reprise what they remember, in the sepia-toned twilight of their memories, about that celebrated radio station. And in the intervening years, we find we’ve become jaded about radio. An interesting inversion has occured in the last fifteen years. Commercial radio has so successfully been colonized by the bean-counters, focus-groupers, and poll-takers, that we expect any radio station that wants to compete will have its programming dictated by its format. That is, if your market needs a classic rock station, according to market research, then you will have certain, very limited choices about what kinds of music you can play. Your DJs, it is understood, aren’t a lot more invested in the business than your custodians–their jobs being limited to moving stuff and pushing buttons. Think?! You’re not paid to think, you’re paid to DO!

When news escaped that MPR was planning some sort of popular-variety music station, we were skeptical. Then, when they began to announce the pending switch-over to “eclectic radio,” we thought they were having trouble deciding what the station would be. In the mouths of radio professionals, “eclectic” is a word with much the same effect as a barber saying “Oops.” Surely MPR was not having trouble figuring this new animal out?

And then we realized what we most loved about REV-105. That station could get away with programming virtually anything, from Luna to KISS, Jimmie Rodgers to Joy Division. The reason they could do it successfully was because of the station’s ineffable personality. It reflected a group identity that synched and felt natural. The station owners left the programming in the hands of a bunch of passionate kids with great taste in music, and the results now live in immortal legend. (The Big Boss just stepped in to add, soto voce: “Yeah, but what was REV-105’s listenership? Microscopic!”) We like to think the same thing happens here at The Rake. There are no sui generis Rake stories, nothing really off limits. The only thing that dictates what we publish is whether it piques our collective, er, eclectic interests.

So far, we have to say the new station’s first-day playlist looks completely insane on paper. Opening song by Atmosphere. Last set: Luna, Son Volt, Hank Williams, Matt Pond. But then we had the funny realiziation that it compares favorably to our own iTunes library, set to shuffle.

Yeah, but can an idiosyncratic mix of unimpeachably cool music succeed as a real radio station with a real audience? We hope for their sake and ours that it can–but idiosyncracy plus mass media normally equals that saddest of all propositions: a critically-acclaimed money loser. It’s neat to think we’re not the only crazy people swimming against the currents of modern commercial media.

We’re not sure how other editors operate, so much. From anecdotal evidence, it seems that most editors are less curious than they are controlling. They will pass up a great story idea because the writer is not quite right. An editor put in the position of explaining why he is not interested in a piece will frequently say, “This is not quite right for us.” Pressed on the issue, he will say, “Well, there is a certain ineffable quality to our magazine, and this doesn’t have that.”

This is a dodge, of course. A wise editor separates subject from writer. Is the subject of interest to my readers? (Corollary—the reader doesn’t much care who the writer is, as long as it’s a good and interesting story. Sure, we all have our favorite writers, but it’s not like we won’t read a good piece if we don’t recognize the byline.) Secondarily, editors have to be honest about whether they like the style and skill of the writer. This is where editors turn into despicable and evasive people who will not be honest with the writer, and will probably go to hell when they die. (Hell, by the way, will be an Ikea on an eternal Saturday morning.)

Writing is, on a microscopic level, a mathematical thing—it is either correct or it is not. But taken as a whole, a piece of writing is a highly subjective thing, open to worlds of interpretation and impression. There are world-class writers that we respect and admire, but whom we simply cannot read because of a weird style-aversion. At our own modest little bush-league level, we’re sure we have the same effect on other people (indeed, we have a bloated rejection file to prove it), and so we like to believe that there is always more to learn, more to do, to become better at the craft of writing (and editing).

So anyway, a good editor with intentions of going to heaven at the end of his career, will tell a writer precisely why a suggested or submitted piece “is not quite right for us.” This, of course, takes a little bit of time and effort, but that is the job of the editor. Often, editors revert to an automatic position of “thanks but no thanks” for the simple reason that they have far too many great stories and far too few pages. They should say that. Or they may have run a similar story recently, or seen it in one of their competitor’s publications. They should say that. Or perhaps the editors have a strong sense that the story will not be of interest to their readers. They should say that. We don’t have a lot of patience for editors who cannot be more specific about their rejections. It is the job of the editor to instill that “ineffable quality” she seeks in everything she publishes—and believe us, she does this, quite often with an iron fist and none of the niceties. (The way they talk in their rejections makes you think that they expect to receive copy that is ready to publish without any tampering at all, and this is a cutting lie.) So an editor is ultimately trying to be nice when she says “not quite right for us.” A writer frequently wants to know: Is it me? Or is it the subject? This may seem needy on the writer’s part, but if the writer is a serious professional, it is useful to know. If it is the writer’s style or voice or lack of experience, then he can devote his valuable time to other magazines that might be a better fit. A writer does not like to hear the excuse from the editor that “I have 600 emails from other writers, it’s nothing personal.” Writing IS personal, if you take it seriously. Each writer must find a way to deal with rejection (there is a lot more of that than the other), but when we happen to go freelancing, we prefer no reply at all to a disingenuous one.

(We have to say right now that we are far from blameless in any of this. We hope we are judged by our good intentions and our general professional sunniness. We honestly try, at all times, to use our powers for good. Two areas where we need improvement: Snappier replies and yet more sympathy for the bitter freelancer. If you get a form-letter rejection from The Rake, it is likely that you have done something to make us angry. Otherwise, we are late in replying because we are carefully composing a thoughtful response to your idea or submission, or it somehow slipped through the cracks. We don’t mind gentle reminders—but be warned that this is not normal.)

It is certainly true that everyone today fancies himself or herself a writer, and if you work at a publication with any broad appeal at all, you will be inundated with hundreds of queries, pitches, and stories. We—and here, I am referring to me—have been singled out for public shaming here at the office because our email inbox accounts for almost a quarter of all available server memory. By far the vast majority of these unsolicited submissions are personal essays, stories, and anecdotes—precisely the kind of thing that doesn’t get published so much anymore by anyone. We tell people that, just about as diplomatically, honestly, and quickly as we can.