October 23, 2009
Not amused: the scribbler.
Candid readers, it seems Ana Castillo, the learned subject of my Oct. 2 post, got wind of it and unwisely elected to counterpost, to the best of her limited abilities. Below, therefore, I’ve cut and pasted the Oct. 9 blog entry from her website, verbatim, with one exception. (I here elide the full name of the Berkeley grad student whose spelling/usage boner triggered my original post, a person whom Señorita Cosa gracelessly outs by name in her blog post — as my own post, you’ll recall, did not and still won’t.)
At the outset, let me note that Castillo includes, in her limp tissue of wet complaints, at least one bald-faced lie: that your faithful servant called the First Draqqueen a “gorilla” in a June 18, 2009 post. Bullshit. On the contrary, I used it to chastise those who do so call her, on the ground that Miss Hell Obomber doesn’t remotely resemble an ape, only a garden-variety, butt-ugly human being. So get it straight, mentirosa. Or did she just misread the post, as would be in keeping with her limited skill-set? If so, I retract mentirosa and say she’s babosa.
My own reflections on Castillo’s devastating riposte follow.
Friday, October 09, 2009
This morning the world wakes to our the news that our president has been awarded the Nobel. But no doubt it has further fueled the ignorance the racism that has reared its very ugly head since his election in this country–just like the above link that went out yesterday about my reading last night.
By the way, it was extremely well attended.
And while I am not a size 42 (and nothing wrong with that) and don’t pump out books like the white privileged mystery writer she referred me I personally took no offense.
Anyone who calls Sara Palin ‘divine’ is in some serious need of soul saving.
It is true that people come to listen to my reading but what this hateful ’student’ can’t appreciate (but probably would understand if her hero Sara Palin came to Berkeley) is that my long time readers also come to SEE me.
Reading further on this white reactionary blog–she has referred to the first lady as a ‘gorilla’ and to those who must obviously be objecting to this hateful nonsense as ‘anti-white’? Whatever happened to Berkeley?
I’ll have to say it recalled the last time I was on this campus–as a Regent’s lecturer. As I began my reading at the Latina conference ’somene’ set off the fire alarm. the building was evacuated immediately, fire department called, program over–I went off to have Chinese food with friends. I asked Rosa M——z–the target of the hateful blog entry yesterday to read it beforei introducing me at the program. There are two emotions that motivate the human spirit, I told them afterward. One is love (the reason I have been invited, the students who helped to organized, the professors who teach my books and the community people who came out) and fear–the blog entry.
[October 23, 2009]
My, what a deft close reader Castillo is! She sloppily infers that your faithful servant is herself a grad student, and at Berkeley, inter alia, because Sweet Thang, my source, is. (Sorry to embarrass you, baby — I know you’ve gone all monkish on our collective ass the last year or two, but remember, there were times when you used to spoil me ROTTEN. You know you did.)
As if I’d be caught dead in either the profession or the place. Baby, when you write you need to get paid for it. And living anywhere but Silver Lake (with the possible exception of Williamsburg, as I remember it anyway) sounds to me like hideous exile in the sticks. I won’t even cross the line into Los Feliz, kids — that shit’s bourgeois.
And let’s not even start on Castillo’s syntax and usage boners — I guess your faithful servant was on to something after all, huh, mean old bitch that I am, as you Beaming Betty Crockers out there are forever complaining. (Can’t a girl be tough and respected? Spare me your sugary, femmy, nurturing, first-wave feminist kitsch, ladies of the Left.) And, holy cow, her smug, insecure, posturing screed of a post’s just rotten with typos — if I dared hand my editor a piece in this shape, let alone tried to post it as a finished article, she’d throw it back in my face. And rightly so.
Poor dumb creature — Castillo earnestly volunteers, with more rhetoric than sense, that “there are two emotions that motivate the human spirit,” love and fear. Er, I submit she’s forgetting the third, much more interesting one: amusement, which very vitally motivates my blog entry. My own amusement, that is — I don’t claim it’s objectively witty, just subjectively, and gives me the relief of shouting, or at least bitching, when confronted with yet another instance of fools swindled by knaves, a capsule formula for the university literature departments these days.
And I assure you, I continue to be amused, rather than angered, by this scribbling ideologue: Could Castillo’s wrapping herself in the flag of Obama bin Laden and his dragqueen spouse be ANY more cloying and fatuous? I almost puked at her servile, abject “our president” — what’s with this hushed tone of reverence? Lick boots much, chica? And how about her frantic, fawning haste to point out “Look, look, I’m important, I was a Regent’s Lecturer at Berkeley!” (long since a hollow credential, alas, after literature in the mainline universities was defined down to include the pulp fiction of agitproppers like Castillo).
There, there, don’t cry — have a nice cup of Insecuri-Tea, dear, you’ll feel better. And maybe just a bit of cheese with your whine? Gross! It’s unseemly — she’s like a needy puppy, yapping and whining as it runs back and forth to trip you in the hall, peeing on itself and your shoes in eagerness to be validated.
Above: A portentous littérateur reads, to an adoring claque of spectators, at Berkeley.
And how ’bout that pompous, overblown mandarinism? (Pretty sad day for the mandarinate, if this mis-speller and sentence-fragmenter’s what they’re reduced to revering.) Castillo and the quasi-literates who buy her printed effluvia exhibit a suffocating, lifeless deference to social authority and received opinions that would make Alfred Lord Tennyson and Queen Victoria blush for shame. “My books are taught in the universities!” (Cut to extreme close-up of celestial mandarin strolling through Hall of Mirrors, making heavy-lidded, purse-lipped faces to the glass, huelepedos nose held skyward in paroxysm of smarm.) Oh, madam, I do apologize — please, your ladyship, say no more, we’re all terribly impressed out here in the trenches, where literature, if it’s to be made at all, will actually get made.
Actually, if she wants to read what might very well, after a few decades of cool judgment intervene first, be judged literature, by a first-tier intellect and first-tier stylist who happens to be Mexican-American but isn’t, mercifully, far gone in terminal self-adoration, or a bought-and-paid-for political hack, Castillo has much, much to learn from the deft Richard Rodriguez, especially his essay collection Days of Obligation: An Argument with My Mexican Father (best on style points) and Brown: The Last Discovery of America (best on substance).
Actual talent: Richard Rodriguez.
But, horrors! To admit the greater merits of another writer like Rodriguez, whose writing, both as form and substance, soars out of the abysm of self-reference in which Castillo’s screeds are sunk, would be to move beyond squalling self-absorption, to grow a pair and quit blaming “society” for the fact that you can’t write, and that nobody but the closed circle of the professionally aggrieved, and the repressed white ladies in the English departments who enjoy missionarying and condescending to them, wants to read your prose. If it’s only because Castillo’s a “minority” (and she’s sure as shit not a minority here in majority-Mexican L.A.), or if it’s only because “society” is holding her down, that she can’t write her way out of a wet paper sack, then how do we explain Rodriguez?
For Rodriguez’ writing transcends, rather than wallows in, the disadvantages he was born into. In his marvelously complex life, the past isn’t disavowed, or lost — but neither is it sentimentalized, nourished, fostered, in a perennial bile of resentments, grievances, and unforgiven wrongs (Lucifer, anybody?) in the belly you croon to, day in, day out, that’s long since risen up your gorge and into your head and yellowed even your eyes, so that for decades you haven’t seen anything, anything at all, even the stars or the flowers, except through the jaundiced prism of your hatreds.
No, in Rodriguez that past is instead neutralized, sweetened, absorbed, turned into something rich and strange that no one’s quite sure of yet (but we’re sure that we like it, ’cause it’s stylish). The narrative arc he began in Hunger of Memory, a mesmerizing account of how Rodriguez, like all of us who manage to write prose people not part of our clique care about, achieved escape velocity from private language and rocketed into public speech and citizenship, is still curving upward (let’s hope there’s a book-length sequel to Brown). Rodriguez like all Americans worthy of the name is a self-fashioner where Castillo is a self-pitier; he long ago left the dank, close air of Berkeley, in whose English Department he did his grad work — apparently without ever writing an e-mail to colleagues beginning “you might of heard…” — for the bracing air of the city. Was it inborn talent, or lots and lots of hard work? Both?
Either way, Castillo’s camp of critical race theorists and moldy Marxists, forever blaming bad character on social and economic conditions — as if poor people were so poor they can’t pick up their yards — will live and die petulantly refusing to accept any explanation for inequalities of outcome that doesn’t always, suspiciously, circle back to mean, old, rich, male whitey. (What pity I’m none of the above — well, okay, maybe I’m a little mean, just around the edges). ‘Cause that might require these professional resenters, if only imaginatively, to exit the warm, solipsist womb of the university hall of mirrors, and this, we can infer, the comfortable charity-case scribblers, cozily cocooned in praise from the Lilliputians of the lit departments, will never bestir themselves to do.
Rodriguez, you see, was exposed to, and then eagerly immersed himself in, writers of times, places and situations other than his own — Gawd, he even read Protestant theology at Columbia — those crazy nuns, you see, trusted him to learn and generalize beyond his own parochial experience. And now it’s paid big dividends in his subtly-toned, allusive, impersonal prose, and in a smart, well-balanced cultural criticism which may before long stand comparison with Carlyle’s and Arnold’s — because Rodriguez long ago disdained and bypassed the horrible self-ghettoization of “ethnic studies,” championed by soft-bigotry-of-low-expecations types like Castillo and her enablers in the lit departments.
Rodriguez’ great master Arnold: they share the long, bony, handsome head.
Speaking of which, shouldn’t having her deathless fictions put on a university lit syllabus be the kiss of death for little Miss Piss-on-the-Canon, in whose dim, dim horizon of expectations the horrid Barbara Cartland probably does loom as some “white privileged mystery writer,” a veritable mass-market Patricia Highsmith? But don’t expect logical consistency or rhetorical coherence from this shameless self-promoter — Castillo’s blog post is far too busy tripping over itself in her haste to run and hide behind the skirts of (secular) Respectability, Piety and Orthodoxy, rushing to shut down any debate that might unsettle her and her claque’s easy, shallow certainties — and I’m reactionary? Oh, this is too good!
Who’s the pious old fraud trying to convince, anyway? I don’t think it’s really me, or you, candid reader — more like herself and the cowed claque of coffee shop radicals, parochial hippies and ugly introvert fat girls who turn out for her “readings.” How exactly should I fear Castillo when she can’t even close-read another girl’s blog post, let alone a literary text? Or excise the typos, solecisms and just plain infelicities from her own? First cast out the beam from your own eye, hocicona, and then you’ll see clearly how to pull the mote outta mine.
Oh, and by the way: It’s not me but you, dear, who need some “soul-saving” — tsk, tsk, sounds rather Christian and reactionary of you, and don’t lefties pretend all human behavior’s caused by material condtions? — about Sarah Palin. (Note the “h,” dim bulb — I only used the Italian spelling locally to cohere with “la divina.” And must we hilariously infer that you took the epithet literally? Oh dear; the dullness is just too painful.) For as everyone on the right knows, and as all of you on the left dread, Sarah Palin has the body of a goddess (not the blood-drinking pre-Columbian ones you posture to revere, dear), and the raw energy and crowd appeal of a rock star, and she’s going to be the next President of the United States.
But then, you were probably just exercised ’cause you couldn’t construe my Latin about her. That’s pretty embarrassing, no? Shouldn’t a Latina be Latinaloquens?
In a word, candid readers: FAT. That, and the fact that Carrie’s upright in both senses: full of moral probity, and tall as a willow tree, to May-gun’s squat, dumpy barrel cactus.
Yes, Carrie Prejean, Miss California who “chose truth over a tiara” in Maggie Gallagher’s words, is the Queen Esther of her times, physically lovely but discreet too, willing to put herself on the line to speak truth to power:
Contrast this, candid reader, with the bovine eructations of Meghan McCain, as likely to shoot from the lip as her amnesty-crazed father but, incredible as it may seem, even more ethically challenged than the old Keating Five womanizer himself:
How dare this dumpy cow lumber onto a national stage, belching and farting her country-club Republican twaddle to any leftie who’ll book her on his show, especially looking like that? (You know the country-clubbers’ pious mantra: Cut my taxes — but keep abortion legal so my slut daughter can fornicate consequence-free.) I thought she’d learned from the scars earned in her battle of the wits, though sadly unarmed, with Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham, like that gaping new one ripped between her ass’s ears. How do I detest thee, Meghan? Let me count the ways… I can’t do better here than quote the patron sage of this blog, Jonathan Swift, describing female horse’s asses who try to impress beyond their abilities:
Some try to learn polite Behaviour,
By reading Books against their Saviour;
Some call it witty to reflect
On ev’ry natural Defect…
But, sure a Tell-tale out of School
Is of all Wits the greatest Fool;
Whose rank Imagination fills,
Her Heart, and from her Lips distills;
You’d think she utter’d from behind,
Or at her Mouth was breaking Wind.
(Strephon and Chloe, 1731)
Oral wind-breaking — yes, that pretty well sums up May-gun McLame. Back to your stall now, Old Bossy, and give that flapping jaw, and your sorely overtaxed hooves, a rest.
Meanwhile, why exactly is ass-ugly gossip blogger Perez Hilton allowed even to enter the presence of gracile beauties like Carrie Prejean, let alone question them? Does anyone who doesn’t huff amyl nitrite even know who this coarse little scrub is? Doubtless spawned in some estaminet of Huntington Park, a coffee shop drudge or simpering bag boy at Gelson’s until last week, Perez is stunted and beetle-browed, like so much East Side ethnojetsam washed up on the kosher West Bank of L.A., lately gone from working the corners of Santa Monica Boulevard on to modest fame among homosexuals. Yes, look closely at the face: the joke stage name conceals low peasant origins, probably one generation removed from an auto body shop on Washington Boulevard, two from some shithole jacal in Jalisco. Hardly a eugenic or edifying specimen, before one even gets to the illiteracy and repulsive Gay Mart couture. Indeed, the little pouf’s relentlessly pinched face and lemony sneer suggest a shredded or prolapsed anus, or some kindred sodomite ailment — you see what happens when you shove Coke bottles, various combinations of your own digits, and multiple strangers’ penile Petri dishes up your backside on a nightly, drug-fueled basis.
Bra-less wonder Perez Hilton before emergency makeover: What shat that?
That’s precisely why bourgeois liberals’ push for homosexual “marriage” is such a joke — “gay” and “marriage” are contradictions in terms, as every candid queer from Mark Simpson to Camille Paglia has observed, and not just because marriage originated as a sacred union framed for the procreation and protection of children. Everybody who’s not a Prozacked white lady in the Seattle suburbs, dutifully twitching when the Obamatards pull her strings, knows gay men are polygamous almost to a man. No matter what claims they make in public about their “relationships,” they are except in rare cases industriously promiscuous unless body fat, clock-stopping ugliness or some other structural flaw precludes it, as with blobby toad Perez.
This is not speculation, friends — though a strict celibate myself, my oldest and dearest friends are two gay men, as are a constellation of lesser friends and acquaintances, and believe me, they bear me out unerringly. Nor, I might add, do very many of them buy into this manipulative liberal “gay marriage” schtick. Gay men of all people know that male lust, freed of any limits in female reticence, is for all practical purposes unbounded; it drives unerringly for the maximum number of sexual partners, stopping only when structurally limited by the physical exhaustions of age, disease or both. Nor, they’ve told me for years, would they want it to be; it’s precisely their hedonist, libertine refusal of respectable social norms — the self-restraint and voluntary sacrifice needed for the protection and procreation of women and children — that keeps the gaiety in gayness for them.
And I’m not just picking on the gays here. Consistent reactionary that I am, I zealously assert divorce must be illegal except in cases of proven adultery; separation, perhaps, but rupturing a sacramental union, never. “Husband and wife are one body in the same way as Christ and the Father are one.” (St John Chrysostom) And hetero fornicating is quite out of the question too, as is indeed marital intercourse not open to the transmission of life.
Get with the program, self-described Christians: either human beings wholly own their bodies and can use them any way we damned well please — or not. Half-measures and casuistry, the hypocrisy of “Christians” who condemn homosexual acts while having hetero sex for pleasure, are just intellectual and moral flab — be for real:
The unitive aspect of sexual love, therefore, is a blessed and joyful corollary to procreation. It is a gift for which we can rejoice and give thanks. It is so, however, only inasmuch as it derives from the more fundamental purpose of Christian marriage, which is to participate directly in God’s creative work through the bearing and raising of children.
(Very Rev. John Breck, The Sacred Gift of Life: Orthodox Christianity and Bioethics, 90)
So is marriage a sacred institution framed to hallow the procreation and protection of children, or isn’t it? As several Orthodox and Roman Catholic theologians have observed, married couples who copulate using birth control are simply masturbating; it is every human being’s duty to abstain from sexual acts not open to the transmission of life. Husbands and wives who contracept are, therefore, as antisocially selfish and morally foul as the randiest sodomite. How’s that for consistency and even-handedness?