The Monoculture and its Discontents, Part 3: Discontents, or, Handle With Care

Not everybody lives in the monoculture, of course, but it takes a very specific effort to not fall into it. Since one of the qualities of culture is that it is ubiquitous, the monoculture cannot simply be removed; it has to be replaced with something else every bit as encompassing and central to the identities of those who live in it.

The only large alternatives to the secular mainstream that the monoculture presents are religious fundamentalist movements. The two most powerful cultures outside of the western secular humanist capitalist tradition are Protestant Christian fundamentalism and conservative Islamic theology. (Contain your hate mail; I’m not equating the two strains of culture, just noting that they contain similar responses to the cultural hegemony of the monoculture.)

Monoculture is worldly and sinful, goes the argument from conservative Christian groups, and the general response is two-fold. On one hand, they attempt to realign the broad culture more along what they consider proper, acceptable lines (see efforts to push into law various restrictions on gay marriage, or street preaching, or pamphleteering. These efforts could all be loosely encapsulated under ‘missionary’ work to a sinful world). The other response is to build a parallel cultural structure for themselves.

The effort of American conservative Protestant groups to build this secondary cultural environment for themselves is not readily apparent to the outsider, because it’s not aimed at the world. It’s entirely built for the believer’s benefit, with little pieces crossing over into the mainstream occasionally. Veggie Tales. Bibleman. Fireproof. Conservative Christians have their own movie industry and its own version of the Oscars. They have their own radio stations and websites specializing in content specifically for their consumption. The have their version of Roger Ebert, even, reviewing movies based on their religious message as opposed to any artistic criterion. They have their own bands, own concerts, own section of the bookstore. It’s a vast drop-in replacement for the monoculture, each piece of the secular culture having its analogue in the spiritual mirror.

That’s one response to the overweening ubiquity of the monoculture, relatively benign but hard to maintain. The other reaction is exemplified in the reaction of the Islamic fundamentalists in their war against Western culture: a complete rejection of the secularization of everyday life and the moral relativism that the monoculture has at its core. Instead of the parallel design of Christian counterculture, Islamic fundamentalist reaction centers on a destruction and replacement of the monoculture with a similarly monolithic and ubiquitous cultural edifice.

The roots of this can be found in the reaction to the secularist governments that were instituted across the Middle East in the first half of the twentieth century with Islamist group like the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. Rulers across the region imported secular-oriented governments to the region, some under pressure from Western powers eager for governments (not necessarily democracies) at least theoretically aligned with their interests, others under the leadership of rulers who equated the collapse of the region in power and importance with the role of Islam as a governing force. This secularization policy was strongest in Turkey, where Ataturk imposed a regime of cultural secularization on the still very Muslim populace.

The blowback from this divorce between the governments of the region and their citizens’ religious beliefs would result in the overthrow of the (corrupt and oppressive) Shah of Iran and the assassination of the (repressive and fatally-conciliatory-toward-Israel) President of Egypt Anwar El Sadat in 1981, among other reactions. When a radical cleric preaches death to the unbelievers, he is not only calling for the destruction of citizens of the West but of an entire culture — the western postmodern monoculture, to be replaced by an Islamic hegemony. For these radicals, it is not enough to co-exist, as the Evangelicals attempt to; they understand, implicitly, that the monoculture will bleed through and eventually absorb/co-opt competition. There can be only one winner.

I don’t believe that there are any other broad movements against the monoculture. Even punitive actions against the mainstream — not owning a television, not listening to Top 40 radio stations — are simply part of the narrative of mainstream vs. outsider that the monoculture encompasses. And they’re generally negative actions, a rejection of some part of culture, and not a construction of a replacement or alternative.

The monoculture exists and is perpetuated because, deep down, this is what we wanted. It is not imposed upon us, but created implicitly through our acceptance of it. So next time you complain about what you see around you, remind yourself that it’s up to you what that environment is. The monoculture is ruthlessly meritocratic when it comes to its contents, providing us with exactly what we want, all the time. The only way to change it, then, is to change ourselves.

sightsiteciteDENVERwhatifound2shoot

One of three ceiling lamps at Union Station.

At the northeast corner of Brodway and Colfax.

Denver -- On 17th, near Market Street.

All I can think of is The NeverEnding Story?

StationLamp2

Mother and child

StationSign

Fever

Ch. 1 – Roar

Ch. 2 -Growl

Ch. 3 – Pant

Ch. 4 – Hunt

Ch. 5 – Cry

It had never occurred to David how small his town was.  The school taken over, they needed someplace else to set up.  The police station was out, they hadn’t even gotten a chance to start the clean up.  It just lay there in a shamble of broken class and flickering florescent lights.  Detective Ford and her remaining team all looked to David for an answer.  Never mind that he was seconds into his confused and guilty grief.  He must have stammered out “the fire station,” because that’s where they were.  The two story brink building full of lost looking men in suits and holsters.

Detective Ford had been quick to set up an armada of computer monitors and keyboards, after which she’d been locked to her cell phone for the past twenty-three minutes.  David had nothing better to do than watch them tick away, cheering them on.  It was the only distraction he could find, everyone else distracted with their various important looking tasks.

There were eleven, including David.  Detective Ford, McDowell, and eight of their men.  One lay upstairs on a cot, grasping a battered arm to his chest and muttering through his fever.  Two men with guns stood watch, just in case. Continue Reading »

RHL

“Illusion”

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

Pt. 2: “Nightmares”

Pt. 3: “Respite”

            The risk of exposure was too great. With the police on high alert, not to mention that confounded security team, they could no longer afford to take her out. Sure, the money would have been nice, helped them grow the operation courtesy of a huge influx of capital to increase their investments. But now, any attempted hit would only draw more attention. Attention meant exposure, and the whole façade would collapse on top of them. His career would be over.

            He refused to let that happen.

            Calling off the hit was the smart decision. Jacy, damn the girl, was safe for the time being. He would find the money elsewhere, maybe even at the charity event in an hour’s time. Surely they could schluff off enough of the raised funds to make a deposit on the enterprise. Their contact in Colombia wanted the money paid out in installments anyway. While he couldn’t chance touching his own account for fear the IRS would track such a large transfer, the estimated take from this afternoon should cover a quarter of what they would need. Add to that the contents of their offshore account—the one he liked to call “petty cash,” not the one labeled “cushy retirement”—and they were halfway there.

            He’d call Krimmer. Get him to make the arrangements. Then they would need investors, or some other plan to help them appropriate the necessary millions. He wasn’t worried. He had a couple of options in mind. Continue Reading »

Mustafa Kemal Pasha Atatürk

Walking in the spring rain
without an umbrella
should be avoided
by budding poets.
It leads to writing
little bad poems about
walking in the May rain
without an umbrella.

I write you these lines
as a note of warning.
I saw that glint in you eye
when it began to drizzle
and I was all curled up
with the morning’s crossword
trying to think of the name
of the first president of Turkey.

Cry

Ch. 1 – Roar

Ch. 2 -Growl

Ch. 3 – Pant

Ch. 4 – Hunt

The wooden locker room benches were not built for comfort.  Light wood panels stretched the length of the room, tall metal lockers stood to one side, their horizontal metal slats bent in places where hormonal teens had banged and pounded over the years.  The opposite side of the bench gave way to space.  An open isle ran the direction of the wood grain, providing passage to the cold tile communal shower, athlete’s foot running amuck.

David sat with his back to the locked metal boxes, facing the showers like an audience member.  A waist level tile wall opened in three spots, lending access to the lime stained shower heads.  From where he sat he could make out the corner of the metal cage which stood under the grouping of spouts.  An occasional yip or howl shook the metal frame.

They hadn’t come up with a name for them yet.  As a species, it was hard to name.  Part parasite, part mammal, they weren’t “like” anything science had seen before.  The three young were born five days ago, birthed by science and Dr. Smith’s historic C-Section.  The mother had been too dangerous to not keep under sedation.  Her water broke and Dr. Smith’s scalpel carved three young animals from her womb.  No doctor or scientist had ever seen one of these animals alive, so operating blind had been the only option.  Once the third creature had been freed and caged, Dr. Smith’s scalpel continued to explore.  The mother never woke up. Continue Reading »

Keys: an enigma

            My car keys were missing. I’d had them minutes before; I knew I did. But as of this precise moment, I had no idea where they had gone. Beyond any doubt they had to be somewhere in the house. After all, I’d driven myself home not ten minutes before and had since visited a grand total of three rooms.

            They weren’t in any of them.

            In my jacket pocket? Wasn’t wearing a jacket. In my pants pocket? A quick check revealed nothing. In my purse, where they belonged? After emptying the thing, still no keys. Every usual place, each possible location that might have made sense—they all left me empty-handed.

            Though agitated, there seemed little I could do. I follow a very precise routine where important belongings, such as keys, are concerned. It seems smart to limit the chance of losing things by careless chance. So how could this have possibly happened? Where the heck were my car keys? Continue Reading »

A Walkabout on Broadway

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Continue Reading »

Geophagia

“This is a good vintage.” He scooped a handful of soil and let it run through his fingers. It fell in loose clumps, a dark brown shade, and landed back in the rough burlap bag on the floor. “It looks fantastic. That color is so rich, so deep.” He licked the few remaining moist flecks from his fingers. “Delicious.”

I was standing in a dining room that would not have looked out of place alongside the highest temples of haute cuisine in New York City. Geophagia opened last week alongside the San Francisco waterfront, and the proprietor and head chef, George Godson, was showing me around in the morning, as bags of soil and dirt arrived on trucks from around the world.

“As a culinary people, we’ve collectively lost contact with how our food is grown, where it comes from. You walk down the street and tell people that carrots grow underground, and they look at you like you’ve shit in their coffee.” The new restaurant is Godson’s way of reminding people that food comes from the earth. “Our ancestors were raised on food that had dirt on it. Dirt’s good for you. It’s got vitamins, minerals.”

Good, clean dirt, that is. Godson works with suppliers around the world to have specially-irradiated dirt brought specifically to his restaurant. “All the harmful microbes have been scrubbed out of this soil. It’s fine to eat.” The Food and Drug Administration has issued a tentative statement about the concept of dirt-eating, saying, in part, that “soil is not a proper source of nutritional value, and should not be a replacement for actual food in a normal diet. However, soil that has been properly treated would likely not be harmful in small quantities.”

Godson isn’t waiting for bureaucratic approval to start serving paying customers dirt-covered food. “About three-quarters of the menu is standard fare, with soil provided as a side-dish, as a way to enhance the flavor and texture of the meal itself. It’s like wine in that way, in that pairing it is of extreme importance.” The soil from Napa, for example, is good when paired with braised chicken breasts. A blend of soils from China do well alongside veal. “It’s all about pairing.”

The other quarter of dishes are “made with soil as the main ingredient, or central flavor or texture.” The purest of the dishes in this category that Geophagia serves are the ‘mud cookies’, which are simple patties of dirt with just enough water to make them solid enough to eat. “They’re a last-resort food in disaster-hit places like Haiti after the earthquake, where food is impossible to come by, and people are desperate to fill their stomachs with anything at all,” Godson explains. “By offering them here, in the lap of luxury, I want people to think about what the differences in context that take it from a diversionary meal to a staple of a diet.”

I sample a slightly less outré menu item, the braised duck with sea cucumber, with an extremely fine sand from the beach near where the sea cucumber was fished in Alaska on the side. While the dish itself was executed very well, the sand introduced an extra layer of complexity into the proceedings. I tried it both separately and with the meat, and found that, while alone, the sand was simply too gritty to be at all enjoyable, adding it to the dish as I ate, as if it were just another condiment, changed the texture and made it altogether more interesting, the roughness waking up my tongue to better taste the other ingredients.

Opening night was a big hit, Godson reports, with the line of the adventurous eaters backed up throughout the evening. Time will tell if he can turn this momentary curiosity into a sustainable business venture.