Clusterfuck Nation Moron culture in the USA really got full traction after the Second World War. Our victory over the other industrial powers in that struggle was so total and stupendous that the laboring orders here were raised up to economic levels unknown by any peasantry in human history. People who had been virtual serfs trailing cotton sacks in the sunstroke belt a generation back were suddenly living better than Renaissance dukes, laved in air-conditioning, banqueting on “TV dinners,” motoring on a whim to places that would have taken a three-day mule trek in their grandaddy’s day. Soon, they were buying Buick dealerships and fried chicken franchises and opening banks and building leisure kingdoms of thrill rides and football. It’s hard to overstate the fantastic wealth that a not-very-bright cohort of human beings was able to accumulate in post-war America.
More of my love-annoyed relationship to Kunstlerfuck, sorry, I mean, James Kunstler on Clusterfuck Nation. The man can nail it, and thinking about the rise of the lower echelons for years. I grew up in New England, where the towns were designed by thoughtful minds, and they are classic, beautiful. The town green. All the features, in fact, mimicked so poorly and half-assedly in any given semi-expensive suburb. No, mimicked is too strong a word—more like, gestures tossed in the direction of things no longer present, like trees, and meadows.
We’ve barely seen the beginning of this, just a little peevishness embodied by yeast shaman figures such as Sarah Palin and Glen Beck.
Another fine and trenchant sentence. It’s just that blogging the apocalypse is a tricky business. As you can imagine. One has to set new apocalyptic goals, sometimes by the month, things change so quickly. I’ve written about Kunstler before; I don’t know, am I fascinated because so snappy a writer obsesses over a not so snappy subject? Are there two different intelligences at work here? Do I simply place on a pedestal anyone who can really, in this vast wasteland, write? Yes, yes and yes.
Writing the end of times, however, whether peak oil or the messiah’s return, is risky business and is also somehow a cheat. The intellect is not taxed—Kunstler can, obviously, churn these out til Kingdom Come (my little joke.) Was it Robert Frost who said, No surprises for the writer, no surprises for the reader.
Perhaps that’s why I object. Perhaps Clusterfuck Nation is sheer showing off—see what I can do—with nothing given to the reader but the same view, only with the scenery slightly rearranged. Smoke and mirrors, but in this case, the only thing seen in that mirror is the charming visage of James Howard Kunstler.
Post script: Kunstler, never shy, also sells his paintings. Which are not without skill, I would just like to get my hands on his palette and also take away his painting knife.
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My first visit to Kuntsler’s site, and, while I can’t disagree with a thing he says on this week’s post, there’s something off. He’s sort of the Cormac McCarthy of elitism, writing sado-masochistic cultural commentary. This piece is elitist porn. While I’m agreeing with the content and the sensibility of the piece, I’m squirming the way I do when I accidentally catch a glimpse of Montel Williams on someone else’s TV or find myself exposed to Rush Limbaugh on my car radio after the repairman’s been at it. I guess I like my cultural elitists to hold their noses a little higher in the air, but, having found him, I just can’t look away.