Welp, might as well dive into this.
We haven’t reviewed Jammie Wearing Fool’s work until now, as far as I can remember, even though he’s something of a treasure.
Whenever you consider a timely issue and try to anticipate the crazy, way-overboard commentary that will emit from the right-bloggers, some of them will display what in other animals is called cunning. They will remain a couple of decisions ahead of you, anticipating your anticipation as it were, and will come at the topic from some sly, oblique angle that leaves unsaid anything that would, you know, make for a satisfyingly apropos Shorter or that could profitably be superimposed onto a photo of themselves in misspelled comedy text.
But Jammie Wearing Fool will generally say what you think he would say. His pseudonym suggests a self-awareness for which no other evidence has been found. We imagine him as a disheveled, feety smelling man of 5’6″ or so and a silhouette like a fireplug, drinking endless cups of bad coffee as talk radio yells and chatters around him in an endless blare, like the radio in Bad Lieutenant. We like him and think of him in a way as a friend, as our hypothetical Everynut. If he notices us, it’s certain his opinion is less salutory — ‘despision,’ if you could do such a thing to the verb, ‘(to) despise.’
Today with the New York Post cartoon that has lately been so much of note, he didn’t disappoint.
To be continued below shortly, i.e. this evening, i.e. not like those things that I intend to do all the time, yet do not do. (Excelsior.)
In between this and that, Jammie Wearing Fool noticed us noticing him and was moved to comment.
Update: Some leftwing douchebag with a bad case of projection decided to link. Figured you folks could use a good laugh.
But Jammie Wearing Fool will generally say what you think he would say. His pseudonym suggests a…
Well, there’s no need to quote the quote and make a whole postmodern hall of mirrors out of things.
Gee, they’re on to me. Only off by nine inches. And, well, everything else. I doubt they’re bright enough to figure out the genesis of the name, either, so let’s just let small minds wander.
There’s too much arguing on the Internet.
In the abovelinked post on the chimp cartoon, the dense-packed, veering quality so enjoyable in Jammie Wearing Fool’s work makes it hard to do the normal close reading. I have instead begun by attempting a summary and providing footnotes:
These liberal wackos are always looking for hidden messages.1 Clearly unable to understand what satire is,2 except of course when they rush to use the satire defense themselves.3 Here’s Obama water-carrier Sam Stein, a nutroots blogger4 who magically found himself seated in the front row at the Obama press conference last week, so you know he’s in the back pocket of the administration.5
Summary: Liberals are faulty in a way appropriate to the topic. Ha ha can’t take a joke; howl shriek they are persecuting us. An individual is accused of poorly defined offenses, conclusion: conspiracy.
4 Cf.: “Sam Stein is a Political Reporter at the Huffington Post, based in Washington, D.C. Previously he has worked for Newsweek magazine, the New York Daily News and the investigative journalism group Center for Public Integrity. He has a masters from the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism and is a graduate of Dartmouth College.”
So we’re off to a pretty good start, more or less. Back soon, as above!
So, it’s surprising when you think about M.F.K. Fisher and realize how narrow was the range of the things she wrote about — food principally, Alsace and the food there, love and marriage through the medium of food, character sketches of culinary people. It’s surprising because of the spaciousness of her best work and its Technicolor vividness. It suggests that as a rule, writing doesn’t have to be ‘about’ its topic, because if you’re observant and honest as a writer, maybe also ruthless in a way that Fisher was, then you’ll necessarily pay more attention to worldly distinctions among things than to literary ones. I mean that whatever good writing tries to be about, it ends up being about the world in its damnable bigness and specificity.
Food is an excellent point of entry because of how soon and intimately it touches the vitals, as it were. I think all of these things presumptuously, in any case, because Fisher was a better technical prose writer in passing than I’ve managed to be on purpose. But I’m not sure anymore that there are any excuses in the topic I’ve been interested in, which is the topic of conservatism, specifically ditchweed conservatism, chiefly toward the end of calling it names.
A cartoon likening the author of the stimulus bill, perhaps President Barack Obama, with a rabid chimpanzee graced the pages of the New York Post on Wednesday.
No, because the world is in it like the moon in a puddle, or a mirror or a scanner darkly, or some metaphor. Because you try to be like, “Aah, chimpanzee, WTF, stupid buttclown,” but there’s a sort of negative genius to these things, and always more to them than you can quite get at, let alone finding words that make a kind of sense close to the one that you think is there.
In this case, as in an increasing number of others, part of the uncanniness is in the way the contemporary wingnut imagination seems to move naturally along tracks rutted by the Know-Nothings, and by the now-obscure enthusiasms and hatreds of the paranoid nuts of the 19th Century. Like artifacts from different site strata, the ravings of their wingnuts and ours are distinct and variously wrought, but recognizably from the same culture, the same people in the distributed, volkisch sense of the term.
[Back again, as above]