The "Mallier Kier's" moment of fame.

Yes, that was my car that you saw on the news, with the back window smashed and shards of very expensive glass covering the back seat.

And yes, that was me, surveying the scene in my pink polka-dotted pajamas, looking confused.

'nuff said.

A 953-word review of "A 2,305-word essay on Sweet Child O' Mine."

The November issue of Paste arrived in our mailbox yesterday, and as I carried it into the house, the title of an article caught my eye: "A 2,305-word essay on Sweet Child O' Mine." Now, as far as titles go, this one would suck--if it weren't for the fact that it has most readers immediately wondering what one could possibly have to say about a Guns n' Roses song in an article that long. Falling prey to this curiosity myself, I flipped to the article and found that the previous title is actually only a subtitle/alternate. The full title of the article is "How a bunch of long-haired, strung-out guys in leather pants taught me about humankind's struggle to make sense of existence in a meaning-starved corner of the postmodern here and now, or: A 2,305-word essay on Sweet Child O' Mine."

The lure of this title, in its wordy glory, becomes a bit more complex once you've read the entire thing. It is clear that the article has a more specific audience than originally assumed. Allow me to point out a few key words: "or," "humankind's struggle," "existence," "postmodern." These signify that the author fancies himself not only a music critic, but a scholar in the field of cultural studies. He makes us aware that not only will he be analyzing a kitchy eighties song, but he will be doing so with intellectual panache, bringing together tidbits of history, philosophy, and literature. Obviously, this article is intended for people like himself who have united once-split loyalties to "high" and popular culture under the banner of postmodern pastiche.

Most of the time, I'm one of those people. As a student of literature, I also believe that I'm a student of culture, in all of its complexity. As a postmodern, I see no problem with analyzing a pop song as a literary work, because I think it IS a literary work. So, it seems that I'd really appreciate this article, and I do. But I don't LIKE it. I thought I did, at first, but the author lost me before I even finished the first page. Now I'm trying to identify why.

The purpose of the article is to trace the mounting tension between the opposing forces of bubble-gum pop and cultural uncertainty/disorder within the song. The author employs an analysis of lyrics and melody to argue that the song's feel-good romantic narrative is intentionally disrupted by a dark nihilism that threatens to become the dominant narrative of the song. By the song's close, however, the two narratives continue to exist side-by-side, forming a pastiche that comments on the dual nature of late capitalism: we embrace uncertainty and unbridled hope at the same moment. To make this argument, the author forms a pastiche of his own, juxtaposing his analysis with lines from Yeats' "Second Coming", Ezra Pound's "The Return," John Betjeman's "Slough," and Paul Simon lyrics.

Ok, so here's why I don't like this.

1. The author's need to identify himself as a postmodern is too self-conscious, and, in my opinion, hackneyed. Postmodernism (in its philosophical and literary forms) can be traced back to the late 1940s, making it sixty years old. But somehow, it's still treated as if it were a hip new phenomenon. I thought Christians were mainly guilty of this, but it appears that others (who should know better) are as well. Maybe this sounds smarmy, but seriously, pastiche is not a new idea. Neither is using literary form to comment on the message of a piece. SO MANY writers have done it now that it shouldn't really be attempted with a straight face anymore. This author seems a little too proud of himself for approprating a played-out literary mode.

2. Similarly, the author is obviously anxious to identify himself as one of the cool kids. First, he makes it clear that he did not like Guns n' Roses at the height of their fame. He likes them now that they've become kitchy and nostalgic (another pomo staple). Next, he takes pains to place himself within a subcultural elite: he understands diverse cononical literary works (Twain, Pound, Thomas, and especially Yeats), he knows "good" popular and obscure music, and he has a "cynical Marxist friend" (a prerequisite for belonging to the cultural studies elite). In short, the author seems so eager to prove himself to his readers that I almost felt sorry for him as I encountered posture after textual posture.

3. His prose is often over-indulgent. For example: "The whole imprecatory riot crescendos in an epic complaint that demands an answer it knows it will never get." Riiiight.

4. There's a big hole in his gaudy postmodern guise: his failure to be egalitarian. Only four women are mentioned in the entire article. Three of them are literary constructions: Becky Thatcher, "Sweet Child," and Little Suzy. The only female writer/artist mentioned is Cyndi Lauper, and then only to describe bracelets. The writers, philosophers, and musicians of importance to the author are dudes. This would be almost understandable (after all, we still live in a male-dominated culture) if he did not defend Axl Rose's mysogynist impulse when no defense is needed. Even if the woman in "Sweet Child" is objectified less violently or lewdly than in other Guns n' Roses songs, she's still being objectified and condescended to. The author's argument did not necessitate a defense of Axl's ideas about women; therefore, he should have left that part out and made himself more credible.

OK, so it's not easy to write 2,305 words about a Guns n' Roses song. But if you're going to do it, at least be a bit more aware of what you're getting yourself into.

Here's what the future holds for 36 lucky freshmen.

Instead of grading the intimidating stack of papers sitting on my desk, I'm thinking about the classes I'm going to teach next semester, particularly the readings I'm going to assign in those classes. This has distracted me all evening, so I feel the need to write about it.

First, here's why I'm thinking about my future classes instead of those I'm currently teaching. Unfortunately for me, I don't happen to be one of those (usually) contented individuals who "live in the present." Most days, from my point of view, the present sucks. But, lest I sound too pessimistic, it is also true that I generally count on the future to bail me out--even though the bailing out hardly ever happens when the future becomes the dreaded present, thus beginning the vicious cycle again. So, I'm thinking about the spring semester because it still exists in the future and is therefore infinitely more interesting and promising than the present. Four months from now I'll be writing a similar blog about fall '07.

So here's what I'm thinking about assigning.

Because I teach "Imaginative Literature and Critical Writing," an introductory literature course, I'm required to include the major literary genres: poetry, drama, and fiction. However, I do get to pick the subject matter for my classes, which means I can torture my students with the stuff that I love. Last time I taught this course, I decided to be gutsy and join the course cluster entitled "Oppression, Resistance, and Protest." I made my students read literature about how few rights individuals around the globe--particularly in America--actually have. Included were classics such as Miller's The Crucible and Steinbeck's The Pearl, but I also decided to take a few risks with Kushner's Angels in America and Guterson's Snow Falling on Cedars. The class turned out to be...interesting, especially since there were quite a few conservative political science majors in the class (dudes in love with their own voices, of course). I don't regret using that topic, but I think I'm going to be a bit more subtle this time.

But not too subtle: a bit of controversy and discomfort can be a good thing in the literature classroom. I think I'm going to start with a brief unit of creative non-fiction, which will definitely include David Sedaris (right now I'm thinking "i like guys" or "me talk pretty one day"), Annie Dillard (probably from An American Childhood), and a healthy dose of modernist expatriate memoirs. Then I may force them to explore the line between fiction and non-fiction with Capote's In Cold Blood. Of course, there will also be fiction by a handful of my favorite writers (John Updike, Flannery O'Connor, and Rosario Ferre, to name only a few). As for poetry, I think I'm going to take a leap and make them read some Eliot (maybe Prufrock? One of the Four Quartets?) but also some of the Victorians he hated, such as Christina Rossetti (Goblin Market?) and Robert Browning. Oh, and a few contemporary poets who pepper the generalist anthologies, for good measure. (Not to downplay the contemporary: I really do like some of it.) Finally, I think I'm going to bring back Angels in America because it's hilarious and forces them to see the world from a very different perspective (and it's set in the '80s, so I get to do my "I love the eighties" lecture). But I'm also thinking about adding Wit and A Doll's House, or maybe something by Tennessee Williams, since I'm preoccupied by Southern literature right now.

Anyway, this is the first time I've thought about the spring, so the list will definitely morph into something else by the time January comes. But brainstorming my future syllabus is SO MUCH better than grading papers that are currently cluttering up my present. And because the pile isn't exactly dwindling (I've been doing any number of unpleasant tasks to avoid it), you'll probably see another blog about future possibilities--in the classroom and out--posted here soon.

Everything's better in October. Even Pittsburgh.

Well, OK. Not everything. It's midterm in college land, which means the students are stressed and unhappy, which in turn means that my job kinda sucks right now. But a lot of things are better in this, my favorite month. The morning view from the 10th Street Bridge, in particular.

Three mornings a week I walk from the Southside to Duquesne, which means I have to cross the 10th Street Bridge, climb an intimidating set of steps, and cross the Boulevard of the Allies. The steps often make me curse DU's lofty location, but the bridge affords a notable view of downtown, the Southside, Oakland, and of course, the Mon. Because I cross the bridge so often, however, I began to ignore the view--until Monday, when the morning sunshine met the fog, producing spectacular results (that language would render ordinary, so I won't even try to describe them). I will, however, mention that I was reminded again, for the first time in a while, how oddly appealing Pittsburgh can be.

Fall glory unfolded again (in a distinctly Pittsburgh way) over the weekend when Mike and I hiked around the Southside slopes. It doesn't get any more Pittsburgh than the slopes, where sets of stairs are considered streets, old row houses are built into the hillside, and the downtown skyline can be viewed from the woods. We took the "church" route, which begins on 21st Street and winds around to Monastery and Pius streets, and shamelessly craned our necks over fences to check out houses we loved and their enviable views. The tree leaves were beginning to change, the air was crisp, and I experienced a rare moment of satisfaction with myself and the world. It was short-lived: while walking over a bridge, I looked down and noticed that the sidewalk was made of metal grating that provided a dizzying view of the 100-foot drop beneath. Immediately I imagined a snap of rusted metal and my body plummeting into the ravine below, where it would smash, pumpkin-like, into an unrecognizable mush of flesh. Ah, what a pleasant day.

Recently I've criticised myself for becoming one of those Pittsburghers who never leaves their neighborhood. But the Southside has basically everything I want and need: a movie theater, cheap European fashion (H & M), a grocery store, bookstores, a library, Crazy Mocha (a must!), and plenty of bars and restaurants. Oh, and enviable October vistas. So why should I leave?