Jay Fox - THE WALLS

“What does that mean?”

“He who abnegates his due from the armed bully grants him — the bully — everything.”

“I see.”

“Where was I? Oh yes: about the answer to your second question. I am interested in what the young artists are doing in this city, and I’ve made it my business to seek out a lot of them and get their thoughts on art. To be blunt, it has been a piss-poor showing of hacks and cultural bulimics who equate Kurt Cobain’s suicide with the assassination of JFK. At best they are spoiled children, who think themselves entitled to the boon of a best seller just because they've picked up a fucking pen with some specious nostalgie de la boue . That's the writers, of course. Those who use other mediums can be even worse in their unwarranted pomposity — their envy, too. As Antisthenes, one of the contemporaries of either Socrates or Plato, said: 'As iron eats at rust, so too are the envious consumed by their passions'. What’s far more deleterious, however, is the level of condescension and the general isolation that I've found in your generation.” He shakes his head with disappointment. “For one, I absolutely hate being spoken down to by such brutally ignorant people who think their BAs in English actually mean something, especially when their feigned ataraxia is really just akrasia in disguise. Secondly, I don’t understand how you guys get laid. It is absolutely beyond me,” he says slowly. His observation is without enmity. “Do you fuck your sisters and cousins, or is that just in the South?” He pauses, but allows no rebuttal. “I know we're supposed to be the ones with the odd sex life — you know, fucking goats and sheep and all — but, honestly, we at least have the common courtesy to initiate a conversation every once in a while without trying to come off like a owl perched on an ivy tower. You guys, on the other hand…”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? And I thought the Scots were the goat fuckers.”

He ignores the latter remark. “…What I mean to say is that most of you absolutely revile each other here in the States. I don't understand this notion of patriotism espoused by the right; they detest many of the citizens of this country for being leftist and — even though this group comprises roughly half of the population…at least the population that votes — somehow un-American. They also hate their government. What is this America for which they have such deference? Is it the land they wish to defile in the name of laissez-faire capitalism? Is it a nationalistic mythology that was constructed over the course of the nineteenth century? I just don't get it. And then there are the leftists, who are so fucking full of themselves, as though they are the intellectual superiors to just about everyone under the sun. They proclaim themselves to be the most capable of understanding the masses, but never cease to express disdain for these same individuals. How can you empathize with a social group if you believe yourself to be superior to them, to be Gulliver in the land of the Yahoos? I'm troubled by the notion that New York is supposedly better than anywhere else in this country in this regard, though I often think of Mann's sentiment of Venice when I am here: half fairy-tale, half snare. Regardless, the people here are supposed to be open-minded and non-judgmental; I mean, this is supposed to be the Mecca of personal liberation, right? As an aside, I do believe, in your favor, that this city is far better than Washington, as Rome has never been one for philosophers. Still, the vast majority of this city, with all of its pretensions to history and culture, will always present its Brummels before its Balzacs. I feel like the protagonist in this one Wilfred Sheed novel, Square’s Progress ,” he adds distantly.

“Who?”

“American novelist. I don't remember what era he was writing; I believe it was during the heyday of Vonnegut, perhaps Miller. Not so bad if I recall correctly.” He becomes pensive for a moment, then quickly returns to his frantic mode of locution, which by this point has become something of a soliloquy. “Still, everywhere I go I run into the same types: drunk on their own sense of self-importance. Do you know how many times I've come into places on Bedford or on Smith Street or in Manhattan somewhere, and the only thing that people talk about is how silly those around them look or act? Everything seems odd when you're an outsider.” He pauses. “You people move to the city because you reject suburbia and all of the hang-ups there, but you never let those same hang-ups go. But maybe it’s not just that. Maybe it’s because most people are just moving here to get by. Maybe the white migration back to some of the urban centers of this country is a direct consequence of the end of the industrial era and the lack of unionization among the workers participating in what many are now calling the post-industrial economy. Have you ever seen the movie They Live ?”

“No.”

“There's a fantastic fight scene in it. I think the show South Park borrowed it for the cripple fight episode. More importantly, however, I believe it captures the anxiety that has defined both your generation as well as my own — perhaps even the previous generation. It's a fair movie, though its lack of subtlety makes its evocation more emotional than analytical.

“As I was saying, however, it's not that difficult to talk to someone new, even if you're taught to fear every stranger as scrofulous, covetous, criminal. I know it seems hard. I know your tellies push xenophobia upon most of this country, but you all need to get over yourselves. You need to abandon the Bluebird mentality.” He looks to me with ire in his eye for a moment. It passes. “Though Erasmus said this in the midst of satire, I believe his words were sincere: ‘The fool tries everything, meets his dangers at first-hand, and thereby acquires what I’m sure is genuine prudence.’ We are sitting in one of the entrepôts of history, of revolution, where ideas congregate with brute, historical forces. This is it, my friend; its potential to become an urban Thélème rivaled only by Detroit.” He laughs at my crossed eyes. “And yet there’s friction between so many people here, as so many are afraid of looking foolish. But I bet you've made quite a number of friends looking for this Coprolalia fellow, have you not? True, you probably don't call them on the weekend, you probably don't even think about them all that much; but something tells me that you're learning that most of the people in this city are not crazy or stupid or dangerous. They're just like you; they just have different preferences.”

“Well, thank you for your input, but—”

“But nothing.” He smiles as he places his fist on his chin. “I love this song.”

“Seriously? The fucking Partridge Family? Would a little Foghat every now and again kill you?”

“But this is so innocent,” with a dreamy smile.

“Your know what your pal Greene said of innocence, don’t you?”

He chuckles. “The more pertinent issue here is that you agree with everything that I have said. It's time this recognition begins influencing your actions. Prove Aristotle wrong.” My eyes narrow. “Prove that a man can be continent prior to the age of thirty.” I nod hesitantly. “Look, the world is a wonderful place for those capable of appreciating the company of others,” he points a finger up, which brushes against his lips. He notices that Tomas has just exited the bathroom. Tomas looks somewhat lost. “He needs to sober up a bit before we get to this party,” he begins somewhat quietly. “You are coming, correct?” I respond in the affirmative. “Well, I'm not about to bring someone assured to make a perfect ass of himself because he can't handle his liquor,” he says as if to drive the point home. “Anyway, I asked the barkeep to brew up a pot of coffee. It should be ready by now.” He looks to the bartender, and then back to me. “It wouldn't kill you to liven up a bit, too. You don't talk all that much, Maecenas, do you?”