Media & Politics

Years later,
when his wheezy near-corpse is rolled out onto MSNBC for one last shouting match
with Chris Matthews, we moan lazily: “That guy’s still alive? Yeah, took
a class with him. Total cock-knocker. For a term paper once, I turned in one
of his Atlantic Monthly pieces as my term paper. His T.A. gave me a B-minus.”

But it’s
not a lecture course. It’s a seminar, which amps it way beyond our threshold
for pain. In seminars, students are expected to take an active part in class
discussions. In this class, they’ll be expected to argue with a guy who
prides himself on being the world’s most contrary contrarian, who thinks
he has the world’s most caustic wit and deft language skills, who believes
he has never lost an argument. Just look at the toxicity he directed at the
jellyfish of the Nation.

Just consider
this, please. Christopher Hitchens teaching an undergraduate Liberal Studies
class. According to the New School catalog, in this class, “Mr. Hitchens will
analyze several exemplary cultural critics, and discuss his own experience as
a leading public intellectual.” Imagine the poor little Sylvia Plath-quoting
girl who signs up because it both fits a core requirement and looks like fun.
She doesn’t know from Hitchens, she’s never heard of the Nation, neither
knows nor cares about his political trajectory. One day, she lets slip that
she thinks war is bad for children and other living things.

Seconds
later, she’s rushing from the room in tears after Hitchens announces that
her “semi-coherent ad hominem attack on my argument is an admission that you
would rather not engage with my arguments and would rather suck off academia’s
tit!” Et cetera, et cetera.

Too bad.
If only she had the staying power—and the good judgment to keep her tofu-hole
shut—she could’ve witnessed Hitchens dressed up in George Orwell’s
skin, Silence of the Lambs style, muttering, “Would you revere me? I’d
revere me.” We expect this class to focus on two things: George Orwell’s
writing (specifically his famous “Politics and the English Language” essay)
and how Christopher Hitchens is George Orwell reborn, despite the fact that
Hitchens’ Earl Grey skin and desk-jockey pudge grant him a passing resemblance
more to the titular animal of “Shooting an Elephant” than its author.

Orwell strenuously
advocated surgically precise language and argued that unclear writing muddles
thought. Hitchens practically chortles with joy in his gushy prose. Of course,
mention that during class and the hungover giant may wake, throwing down upon
you all of his fury. And no, those Paglia quotes will not save you.

Over the Age of 25

Alexander Cockburn

Thanks for
the new vocabulary word. Buh-bye. “You may be under pressure, but I’m not
quite sure why you feel it necessary to adopt the tone of a Prussian gauleiter,
and I very much resent the hectoring tone, as though I am some errant schoolboy,
to be dosed with heavy breathing about squirrels. I don’t know about ‘inflexible,’
but you certainly come off as rude. With your phrase ‘I need to get things
in line’ the intimation seems to be that things have been way out of line.”

It’s
11 months away, and already the buzz around the country is making this feel
like the Convention of the Century. Optimistic activists are promising more
Seattle than Chicago.

One of the
reasons so few protestors showed up for the ’68 Days of Rage was geography.
Chicago is in the middle of the country. Another reason was the deathwish lurking
behind the radical calls to “kill the pigs.” Everyone’s a lot smarter and
more serious this time around (right?), and the Republicans are walking right
into one of the larger bellies of the anti-Bush beast. Don’t expect a fizzle.

With New
York in such a financial mess, with basic services being cut left and right,
why is the DOT wasting millions on the equipment and manpower it must have taken
to replace all those walk signs with the fancy new Lite-Brite jobs? Sure, the
bulbs in the old ones tended to burn out regularly, but for godsakes, there
was nothing fundamentally wrong with them. Replacing a few bulbs every day has
got to be cheaper than throwing the whole damned thing away and hooking up a
new one.

The NYCDOT
isn’t saying, but our guess is that the reversion to pictograms instead
of written English is just the city’s own, quiet first step toward admitting
that the public schools just aren’t going to get any better over the next
few generations.

Two publicists,
though friendly and helpful, have no good dirt to dish. The third, however,
is more than friendly. She ignores our inquiry, but quickly contacts the magazine
in question—Magnet, if you care—to let them know that we’re asking
about their editorial policies.

Our first
thought is to wonder why proud punk publicist Tris Laughter is invested enough
in Magnet to want to protect them. Then we remember that this is the same lady
who, inspired by her strong feminist sensibilities, refused to alert the Donnas
that Playboy was interested in talking to the band about a photo layout to promote
The Donnas Turn 21.

You have
to respect a gal like Laughter—that is, if you’re selling out your
editorial to corporate interests. Or, if you’re a band who wants a prudish
publicist to make moral decisions as to what you should and shouldn’t do
with your own fucking career.

This whole
punk thing is working out quite well, isn’t it?

They don’t
mean to be pushy? The point of this obnoxious, scatterbrained campaign, we gather,
is to get the power plant shut down. This is a reasonable cause with which we
absolutely empathize; none of us wants a nuclear plant in our backyard. What
we can’t get behind are the manipulative scare tactics Riverkeeper and
its associated “think tank” are using to get their point across to the residents
of New York City.

History
has shown us that nuclear power plants are enough of a threat all on their own.
Look at Three Mile Island. Look at the meltdown at Chernobyl, popularly accepted
to be the greatest nuclear catastrophe in the history of mankind. But while
you’re at it, look at what was behind them: Accidents. Human error. Clearly,
we pose more of a threat to ourselves than any foreign agents could, but somehow,
this doesn’t stop Riverkeeper from hopping on the terrorist bandwagon to
achieve its ends.

We actually
appreciate Riverkeeper’s vigilance in other areas, like educating us on
GE’s dumping of PCBs in the Hudson, or pushing through 1997 legislation
to protect the NYC Watershed. This is why it disappoints and sickens us to see
them stoop in this new campaign. There are more responsible, more effective
methods of educating and motivating New Yorkers in regard to Indian Point. Poking
at open wounds that are only marginally related to the cause is little more
than psychological terrorism.

So say the
makers of Axe deodorant, whose advertising campaign suggests that wearers will
become so irresistible that they’ll need the Axe Wearer’s Handbook
for guidance.

Inside are
tips for men unprepared to be so pussy-laden:

How to Turn
a Fivesome into a Manageable Threesome

How to Slip
out Without Waking Her Up

How to Remove
a Hickey

How to Gain
Access to a Janitor’s Closet Without a Key

All of which
are middlebrow boy humor, on par with a good pull-my-finger moment. Worthy of
note, however, is How to Escape a Friend’s Mom:

It is not
uncommon for a young man wearing Axe to be approached by a friend’s mother
who can’t control her arousal. This is known as a MILF (Mature Invitation
to Loin-based Fraternization). When confronted with a MILF, take a minute to
consider the implications of fulfilling a MILF request—e.g. violent husband
or awkward social situation—then quickly execute your escape plan.

What MILF
actually stands for, as Axe’s target audience knows, is Mother I’d
Like to Fuck. Factcheckers may consult milf.com, milf.net, milf.org, even milf.de
(“M.I.L.F. – Willst du die Mutter meiner Kinder sein?”).

We don’t
know if the ad agency responsible for the Axe Wearer’s Handbook told their
client the true meaning of MILF, or if they snuck it past a boardroom of old
men. Either way, we applaud the oblique use of offensive profanity in a national
advertising campaign.

As a MediaBistro
production, the interview was intended as a lesson for aspiring pop-culture
journalists. When the interviewer eventually tired of the “How can I, too, parlay
my masturbatory obsessions into a book deal?” line of inquiry, he turned his
attention to the house that Russ Smith built:

MB: Clearly
other people seem to find you entertaining as well—though perhaps not the
New York Press.

CK: That
was really weird, a very weird thing. I got an email that day that said, “This
guy you’ve never heard of has written a piece for a publication you’ve
never read and is attacking what you look like and claiming you’re the
anti-Christ.” I still have a hard time understanding how I would warrant that.
But, I don’t know. It wasn’t hurtful, it was just strange. I’ve
been asked about this constantly, and I compare it to how if you’re walking
down the street and some schizo guy comes up to you and vomits on you: You wouldn’t
be hurt by that, you’d just think it’s weird. I keep saying the word
“weird” over and over again, but it’s the only way I can describe it.

Actually,
Chuck, that’s not quite right. If your “schizo guy” were vomiting at random,
then the vomit could have landed anywhere, on anyone. But it didn’t. It
landed on you. For a reason.

Here’s
how that exchange should have read:

MB: Clearly
other people seem to find you entertaining as well—though perhaps not the
New York Press.

CK: I compare
it to how if you’re walking down the street and some schizo guy comes up
to you and says, “Hey, are you Chuck Klosterman?” And you say, yeah, and he
says, “Your book sucks and you make me sick and I hate everything about you,
your culture, your approach to writing, your smug face and the mediocrity you
bring into this world that we’re forced to share with you.” And then he
sticks his fingers in his mouth and vomits on you. You wouldn’t be hurt
by that, you’d just think it’s weird.

Israel has
been the nuclear power that dare not speak its name for 40 years, but faced
with the prospect of a fully nuclearized Middle East, the world may finally
be ready to confront the consequences of its ongoing double standard. It’s
time.

But this
was no clever throwback. It was a ham-fisted attempt to convince women to trade
in their perfectly suitable blue Venus razor for the newest model. Does the
pink upgrade possess the power of Gillette’s mighty Mach3? Does it, perhaps,
sport a new pivoting head system that reduces nicks while shaving? How about
a built-in shaving- cream dispenser?

Nope again.
Gillette’s ad campaign is based around a question: “What is it about pink
that makes you feel so good?”

We have
yet to think of an answer, because every time we see the ladies of Pink partying
away—be it on a building or in the pages of a glossy—we consider not
shaving ever again.

Gillette
may be the best a man can get, but when it comes to women, they have a long
way to go, baby.

Wendy Coleman,
director of marketing and promotions for Razor Magazine (a publication of Razor
Media LLC), became number two. In a letter from the company’s Scottsdale,
AZ headquarters, we were told that Razor is the “logical choice on newsstands
today for the twenty-something ‘post-lad’ reader.” The Razor “formula”
is one of “sophistication with sex appeal,” a formula that Playboy and GQ are
“striving to emulate.” Unlike Maxim, FHM and Stuff, Razor wasn’t yanked
from the Wal-Mart shelves—clear proof that it’s nothing like the “typical
‘laddie’ book.”

How cute.
We don’t dispute that GQ may not offer your average twentysomething what
he’s looking for in a magazine. But the Razor “formula” of half-naked women,
dating advice, video game reviews, gadget reviews, a light smattering of “serious”
articles, Details dropout Anka Radakovich and a 34-year-old publisher posing
with a cigar hardly warrants coining a new marketing term.

Nice try,
Wendy, but “post-lad” is a very weak, very silly attempt to be “lad” without
the cloying stink of the reprehensible Maxim and Stuff and the countless knockoffs
that were pee in the pool of our corner newsstand. Try relaunching Razor as
something original, and we’ll consider assigning that story.

Still, for
those who don’t read between the lines, the Times’ spot-on ridicule
of both the National Organization of Women (NOW) and footnote presidential candidate
Carol Moseley Braun, the ethically challenged former senator from Illinois,
was a refreshing respite from the usual fare of “quagmires” and “tax cuts for
the rich.”

NOW is an
institution in serious disrepair, challenging Jesse Jackson for another category
we can think of, “Best Anachronism.” Who, besides the Nation’s Katha Pollitt
and perhaps a few herbal-tea drinkers in Greenwich Village, takes NOW seriously
anymore? The group’s steadfast defense of the lecherous Bill Clinton—because
he’s in favor of abortion, the only issue that matters—in the 90s
was a disgrace, especially considering its hysterical attacks on Clarence Thomas.
The Supreme Court Justice, you see, was accused of watching pornography and,
of course, was a Republican. A far worse sin, in NOW’s warped thinking,
than Clinton’s public humiliation of his wife and daughter.

NOW, a parody
of itself, has endorsed Moseley Braun for president in 2004.

The Times
had it right on Sept. 14: “[I]t is hard to see a principle that distinguishes
Ms. Braun’s candidacy, other than perhaps the right of a tarnished former
official to seek the nation’s highest office. By racing to assist Ms. Braun’s
candidacy, the leaders of NOW showed loyalty to someone with a long relationship
with the organization, going back to the unsuccessful struggle to enact the
Equal Rights Amendment. But they also trivialized the important role women will
play in the coming election, and made themselves look silly to boot.”

One caveat:
Do the Times editors believe that women haven’t played “important” roles
in past elections? Tsk, tsk.

On Sept.
11, Bunch listed 20 of these questions, among them:

Who made
a fortune on Sept. 10, 2001, when the trading ratio on United Airlines was 25
times greater than normal at the Pacific Exchange?

Why were
Rumsfeld and others in the administration so quick to link the attacks to Saddam
Hussein?

Why did
the Bush administration lie about dangerously high levels of toxins and hazardous
particles after the WTC collapse?

What’s
in the 28 blacked-out pages of the congressional Sept. 11 report?

Bunch isn’t
the only journalist asking these questions, but we thank him asking them so
pointedly on a day when so many others were busy scoring points with easy, maudlin
remembrances.

One needn’t
be a communist to admit that maybe those crazy labor radicals were on to something
when they suggested having weekends, or that the silly black people might have
had a point about riding in buses and sitting on benches. And never mind the
feminists who spent the 1990s vainly calling attention to the depravities of
the Taliban.

Somehow,
Coulter gets a pass. Her more centrist apologists call her “provocative,” as
though that alone warrants her being taken seriously.

Pulling
down your pants in Grand Central Station and screaming, “Hey ladies, come and
get it!” is provocative. It is also boorish, juvenile and insipid, and, come
to think of it, is an apt-enough metaphor for Coulter’s work: Her books
are acts of indecent exposure. Reading them is like watching someone scream
at a cash-register clerk for no good reason—you start to wonder if they
were born without the mechanisms that give most of us