Grief (induced by the abstract)

    I saw the movie Man on the Moon in 2002; I had not even turned 20 then. It introduced me to the idea of self-effacement (self-erasure, self-caricature etc., apply too) in service of a craft that might not be considered respectable by many. Or in artistic terms, high art. One could, perhaps, think of people like Charlie Chaplin and 'clown acts' as a whole that might fit this category, but Andy Kaufman is of a unique breed. For Kaufman blended the performative with the 'real' and dared to explore its boundaries, apparently heedless of the consequences [1]. The ultimate act being his death itself, shrouded in manufactured (false) mystery.

I first got to watch Norm MacDonald in 'The Norm Show' around the same time. It was sharp and witty like some of the other sitcoms I liked but it was considerably more mischievous, in a dark, and perhaps deviant sense. Oh, he was also very likeable because he could barely keep a straight face. Over the next several years I sought after and consumed every bit of Norm I could find [2]. It wasn't long before I started quoting and paraphrasing him in real life conversations, mostly to 'nonplussed' faces.

Many of Norm's semi-serious pronouncements did not sit well with me but I could not help but admire his fearlessness and commitment to a certain idea of his craft and the integrity it required. This idea, I thought, was constantly trying to resolve a paradox: humour exists in a context within a mind but it also seeks validation from an audience, even if only one, that might not be on board. True, there is humour in the unacknowledgement of it too, but to proceed with no regard for this paradox is where one declares their allegiance. Norm did it more often and more successfully than others.

Condescension and even misanthropy are second nature to most standups (the good ones). It is a professional hazard. But Norm was generally better at masking it. Norm might have been inspired by Kaufman at some level, if not by his methods, by his chutzpah (which, ironically, is often projected as ignorance or gaucherie in their acts). His performance was driven by a semiotic sensibility that drew liberally from irony and farce. Norm saying "wait till you hear me do it" is one of the rare occasions he acknowledged his prowess. His profession did not get in the way of being genuine and earnest, nevertheless.

My everyday time-waste routine involved watching at least one or two of Norm's videos. They were always in my recommended list on YouTube and I never got annoyed by its ubiquity. It's been over a month since he passed away and my routine has been hit with melancholic disruption. I am now recommended videos of various comedians expressing their shock and sorrow at his passing; especially that he kept his nine year 'battle' with cancer a secret. Kaufman seems to have inspired him in at least one other aspect.

Norm had not put out any specials in a long time; even so the occasional word here and there in the plethora of podcasts had been reassuring, that there's flow still. Not anymore. But unlike most of his contemporaries we are not left just with a static composition but an iconic syntax. It's as if he used hours and hours of material that spans over decades to distill a predictable yet unique language structure that held his audience in wilful thrall. So much so that his fans seem compelled to speak citationally wherever possible [3]. This is a rare form of adoration that few artists, let alone comics, have achieved.

A palpable grief has crept in the last few days and has caused some dissonance. I have often wondered whether a favourite writer/artist who stopped producing anything for a long time being dead or alive makes a difference. Especially if there was no realistic chance of meeting them in person, for what it's worth. In a strictly rational sense they are only an abstract entity whose real existence should not matter. We all get a periodic reminder that our rational self is always playing catch up, and Norm's death is one for me.

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[1] - The film The Prestige comes to mind. 

[2] - Some self praise: it turned out that I was among the few in the 'audience' to get his act on The Roast of Bob Saget and was howling the entire set.

[3] - This essay is no exception.

Parts and the whole

An analogical thought experiment.

Person A lives in the main level of a house with all the modern first world comforts. Personal B lives on the roof of the same house with none of the aforementioned comforts and exposed to the elements year around. In fact, person A is able to enjoy those comforts because person B has been deprived of the same. The house may or may not have been designed to be so but that is how it is now. Person A and B are aware of each other's existence and their corresponding quality of life. Both occasionally wonder if their living arrangements are deliberate.

Given the above:

Person A says, "I live in one of the best houses out there. Sure the inequality needs to be addressed but it's still great".

Person B says, "I live in one of the best houses out there. Sure the inequality needs to be addressed but it's still great".

If one were to assign the attribute 'problematic' to only one of the two statements whose should it be?

Songs about stuff

Thank goodness for American music (and those from other English speaking countries), for songs about cats, dogs, trains, buses, paper, pens and all kinds of inanimate objects, and abstract and absurd thoughts.

End of Daft Punk

    Daft Punk announced their cessation today. 20 years ago their song 'Aerodynamic' sucked me into the world of electronic music and I have not cared much about other genres since then. The poetics of electronic music is not trapped in any abstruse movement but a primordial rhythm. This very accessibility has often been derided as being devoid of any substance but artists like Daft Punk have laid bare the emptiness of that argument and even their 'epilogue' does it.

I'll mark this moment (too) with a few words for now: of the many regrets in my life, missing out their concert in Toronto in 2007 will always rank high. So much so that I had mentioned to my friends several times that I'd spend a significant portion of my savings to watch them live when they tour again, no matter which part of the world it happens to be. A sentiment like that is atypical if not antithetical for me but once in a while our ideology, convictions and ethics give way to our cravings and indulgences, where we embrace the eternally flawed being within us. Only that this one would have easily survived the self-effacement and conscientious scrutiny that follow such 'lapses'.

For someone who's obsessed about 'punctuating memories' (putting in quotes here because it might appear again in another format, in the future) it's the absence of one that will stay with me.

Edit, Feb 25:

This is the epic tour  

More people in the same boat.

 


Learning To Die: Episode 3 - Socratic Method and Plato's Dialogues

This episode is a primer to Plato's Dialogues.

Edit, Feb 22:  Had a bad fall and re-injured my back again a couple of weeks ago. Not sure when I'll be able to continue this.

Learning To Die: Episode 2 - Socrates in The Clouds

In this episode we get a glimpse of Socrates in his early years; discuss Aristophanes's The Clouds and way he portrays Socrates in the play.

Learning To Die: Episode 1 - The Pre-Socratics

 

In this episode I discuss the origins of Western Philosophy; a few basic philosophical ideas in general and go over some key Pre-Socratic thinkers and their major thoughts.

Learning To Die: Preface

This episode is the preface to my new podcast series on Western philosophy: Learning To Die; இறத்தல் அறிதல் in Tamil. 

I think it'd be redundant to type out what I've discussed in the podcast but it is, perhaps, prudent to disabuse the uneasiness the title is likely to cause.

The title is inspired by what Plato says in the Phaedo: "…those who practice philosophy in the right way are in training for dying". Montaigne rewrote that as "to learn to philosophize is to learn to die" in one of his essays. The are some well known metaphorical readings of Plato's words but my reasons aren't just that.

I hope all listeners start with this episode so they know what they could expect from the series and orient their engagement accordingly. 

Note: This blog will only be temporary 'host' for the podcast series until I get to setting up a dedicated site.

Like a tree

When this blog is scoured for 'evidence' in the future, let it be known that the following chapter -- from  Kim Stanley Robinson's book, The Ministry for the Future -- encapsulates a scene that has played out in my mind for decades.

We were on the lakefront in Brissago, on the Swiss side of Lake
Maggiore, partying on the lawn of Cinzia’s place, just above the narrow
park between her property and the lake. She had a celebrity chef there
who cooked with a welder’s torch he used to fire at the bottom of big
frypans he held in the air, and a band with a brass section, and a light
show and all that. Altogether a righteous party, and lots of happy people
there, skewing young because that’s the way Cinzia likes it.
    But the narrow stretch of grass between her lawn and the lake was a
public park, and as we partied we saw a guy down there on the shore,
just standing there staring up at us. Some kind of beachcomber dude,
holding a piece of driftwood. Nothing Cinzia’s security could do about
him, they told us. Actually they could have if they wanted to, but they
didn’t. The local police might make trouble if someone were objected to
for just standing on a public beach. This is what one of them told us
when we told him to make the guy go away. The guy was skinny and
bedraggled and he just kept staring, it was offensive. Like some kind of
Bible guy laying his morality on us.
    So finally a few of us went down there to do what the security team
ought to have done, and send this guy packing. Edmund led the way as
usual, he was the one most annoyed, and we followed along because
when he was annoyed Edmund could be really funny.
    The guy watched us come up to him and didn’t move an inch, didn’t
say a word. It was a little weird, I didn’t like it.
    Edmund got in the guy’s face and told him to leave.
    The guy said to Edmund something like, You fuckers are burning up
the world with your stupid games.
    Edmund laughed and said, “Dost thou think because thou art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?”
    We laughed at that, but then this guy hit Edmund with the chunk of
driftwood he was holding, so fast we had no time to react. Edmund went
down like a tree, didn’t get his hands up or anything, just boom. He had
been cold-cocked.
    The guy held his piece of wood out at us and we froze. Then he
tossed it at us and took off right into the lake, swimming straight out into
the night. We didn’t know what to do— no one wanted to swim off after
a nut like that, not in the dark, and besides we were concerned about
Edmund. It just looked bad, the way he went down. Like a tree. Cinzia’s
security finally joined us, but they only wanted to hold the perimeter,
they didn’t chase the guy either. They took over checking out Edmund,
and when they did that they quickly got on their phones. An ambulance
showed up in about five minutes and took him away. After that it was a
couple of hours before we got word. We couldn’t believe it. Edmund was
dead.

 
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