Dazzleship Potemkin

CRITICAL INQUIRY: Battle of the B_rgs

2009-02-06T11:22:00.011-06:00

There are some beers in Romania that whose whole raison d’être is unmistakably to act as a reliable method of alcohol delivery for anyone who can scrape a couple of lei together – viz. the 2.5- or even 3-liter bottles of Noroc, Bucegi, or Neumarkt, each one a stunning PET Fat Man bulging with its payload of regret. Then there beers like Ursus, which is sophisticated enough to make plausible claims on the upper end of the Transylvanian beer spectrum. But some beers sit confusingly in the middle: you don’t know whether buying it makes you a desperate (or desperately cheap) drunk, or the champion of an underdog beverage. Today we will turn our attention to two such awkward specimens, both of which apparently compete for the title of “Best Beer Beginning with ‘B’ With a Yellowish-Orangish Color Scheme.”

* * * * *

BÜRGER

Type: Pilsner
ABV: 4.8%
Manufacturer: European Food
Price: 1/28/09: 1.38 RON = $0.43 @ Auchan (500 ML PET bottle)

Possibly one of the only drinks to be available in a plastic bottle especially reminiscent of a mortar round, Bürger comes to us from the western Transylvanian town of Oradea. Its proud parent, European Foods, also produces “Stixy” brand “salted sticks,” and “Jackpot!” brand pretzels, among a range of other downmarket beers. Peddling in processed grains is clearly this firm’s speciality, and some of this experience seems to have rubbed off on its efforts to churn out industrial quantities of very inexpensive beer.

The aroma is neither particularly flattering nor inappropriate. It is sweet and yeasty and brings to mind a sticky barroom floor, or a 5^th-inning spill at a ballgame. At first taste, Bürger is hardly promising: a watery, noticeably carbonated, and slightly bitter mouthful awaits the sipper. Yet it was this touch of bitterness that maintained my interest in drinking more, and I found that it became fairly tasty after a while. Improbably, Bürger transforms itself from weak milksop to something with more body and a darker, nuttier flavor. I am not sure how this happens (alcohol + bloodstream???) or whether I am just imagining it, but it was a pleasant surprise.

* * * * *

BERGENBIER

Type: Lager
ABV: 5.0%
Manufacturer: Anheuser-Busch InBev
Price: 1/28/09: 1.59 RON = $0.497 @ Auchan (500 ML can)

Bergenbier was brewed originally in Blaj, very much within historic Transylvania, although from what I can tell it nowadays comes from Bucharest – most likely spewed forth from the bowels of a drab and monstrous plant. Being that Bergenbier is produced by the global beer colossus InBev, this speculation is more than simple, Transylvania-inspired prejudice against the south.

Rather than telling us what qualities the beer is supposed to have, InBev is cool with just letting us in on the “brand communication,” which is “based on male friendship, delivering conviviality and excitement. Bergenbier is friendly, dynamic and imaginative with a healthy sense of humour.” In fewer words, this beer is engineered to you get you drunk, possibly drunk enough (based on the description) to encourage those many submerged homoerotic desires kick the shit out of your superego.

But as with any drank, the journey to the liver begins at the mouth, and it is what happens there that concerns us most here. To the nose, Bergenbier smells as dry, faint, fizzy, and insubstantial as its light yellow (blond?) can suggests. The tongue reaches a similar conclusion, though it’s not all bad: the taste is manifestly aquatic and there isn’t much going on, but through these traits Bergenbier somehow encourages its own consumption as you are forced to take sip after sip to dry and detect the flavor. If you are patient and let some of the carbonation escape, this is a pleasantly lackluster beer to sit and sip, and I can easily imagine it being a refreshing choice on a summer’s day.

SUMMARY

After this whole beer-off, I was feeling mighty fine, and so the REAL winner was ME. But if I, like Paris, were forced to choose who would get the apple of victory and who would go home to start a cross-Peloponnesian war, I would have to bestow that glorious fruit on Bürger because a) of its marginally more interesting flavor and b) because fucking InBev doesn’t have its filthy tentacles all over it.

Maybe the Most Lively Thing I Have Ever Seen in Cluj

2009-01-30T02:00:00.011-06:00

Yesterday, while non-striking French were inconvenienced by more than a million of their fellow citizens protesting against job insecurity, my temporary home here in Transylvania was racked by not one, but two demonstrations. Surely, the good burgers of Cluj-Napoca downed tools and demanded their own protection from the ravages of our World Crisis?

Not quite.

As I was walking home from my labors at the Central University Library, I could see that further down my route, the B-dul 21 Decembrie, a mass of people had gathered and attracted a number of emergency vehicles, which squawked and flashed their strobes. Curious, I went on ahead to investigate and, eventually, gawk like the slack-jawed foreigner I am. It became apparent quickly that it was some kind of procession. I picked a spot on a corner across from the Sora shopping center and gazed upon the spectacle passing before me.

The lead banner in the parade told me that I was watching a "MARŞ PENTRU O IDEE" -- a MARCH FOR AN IDEA. The idea, as it happened, was the Universitatii Cluj, or "U," athletic organization. "U" is one of the two professional soccer teams in the city, and are the secondary division Montagues to their primary division Capulets, CFR Cluj. Though their fan bases are naturally much more expansive these days, "U" (patently enough) represents the agglomeration of universities and colleges in the city (over a dozen with around a total of 100,000 students), and CFR was originally the team of the railroad workers (Căile Ferate Române is the national rail system), back when the city used to be called Kolozsvár. I've asked around, and while I am told neither team represents any particular socio-economic group, their competition for local hegemony has given rise to the rivalry of the two neighborhoods where the respective stadiums are located: Gruia for CFR and Grigorescu for "U."

Well, I should say, "where the respective stadiums were located," since "U's" was demolished in 2008 to make way for a new one, and I think this had something to do with the march -- something about expanded resources and facilities both for soccer and for the club's other athletic endeavors. Whatever its precise argument, the march featured thousands of people wearing the team's colors (black and white), holding aloft team scarves, waving team flags and Romanian tricolors, and chanting slogans that I couldn't really understand. (One of these chant-songs was set to what was meant to be the tune of "The Battle-Hymn of the Republic," but the pitches were not quite what they should have been.) Police, with some private security mixed in, flanked the crowd, and ambluances zipped up and down the boulevard, but things were entirely pacific. Here is a video of what you missed:

Oh! And what was the other demonstration? It was a motor-parade of licensed taxi drivers, campaigning for greater regulation against their black-market competitors. Although more close in spirit to yesterday's French demos, the taxi protest seems to have gotten a lot less press coverage. I wasn't there to see it, in any case.

CRITICAL INQUIRY: Timişoreana : in Which I Write Too Many Words About a Not-Terribly-Interesting Beer

2009-01-28T03:18:00.007-06:00

TIMIŞOREANA

Type: Lager
ABV: 5.0%
Manufacturer: Ursus / SABMiller
Price: 1/24/09: 1.7 RON = $0.53 @ neighborhood alimentară (500 ml bottle)

Hailing logically enough from the city of Timişoara (which admittedly is in the Banat and not Transylvania), this beer is advertised as the first beer brewed comercially in Romania.

(It is my duty to intervene here and insist on a more thorough historcization. In 1718, when Timişoreana was first brewed, the Banat was a part of the Kingdom of Hungary and in turn part of the Habsburg Empire. The nation-state of Romania did not yet exist – and arguably neither did the modern nation-state as such. Perhaps it is most accurate to call this beer “the first beer to have been brewed commercially in the area of what is now Romania.” But that would be bad marketing, and sound too sudsy, even for a lager. I digress.)

At any rate, it’s the kind of beer whose “heritage” gets played up so as to aggrandize its otherwise unremarkable character. Don’t mistake me: there’s nothing wrong with Timişoreana, but beyond the historical trivia it’s nothing special, either. In the same way that we are supposed to be impressed with how PBR won some award at the 1893 Columbian Exposition (though apparently this is in dispute), Timi seems to rest on its laurels – including some won when the town bore the (Hungarian) name Temesvár, reinforcing my earlier pedantry. It also seems to rely on its cheerful packaging – replete with “old-timey” typeface, ghostly images of Habsburg Timişoara (when it was called “Little Vienna”), and a color scheme that evokes the blue-yellow-red of the Romanian flag – to jazz up the utterly ambivalent drink held within. The official Timişoreana website contributes further paeans to the apparent significance of the beer’s sheer oldness. The site is only in Romanian, but there’s a little video that goes through 300 years of history or whatever to some Beatlesy music.

Timişoreana lays assault neither to the nose nor to the tongue. Its aroma is so faint that in trying to get a good whiff I just ended up getting a wet beak – quite in contrast to the SABMiller site’s claim that it is “aromatic.” The scent is vaguely yeasty, although the SAB site also insists that it is “hoppy.” Maybe it is, and maybe I am still too much of a novice to know the difference; but there isn’t much of it, whatever it is. Timi’s taste is accordingly quite smooth, but with very little body to keep the wateriness in check. There’s a slight edge of sourness that sweetens out over time. SABMiller alleges that the “higher alcohol content” (5.0%, cf. Ursus’ 5.25% and Stejar’s 5.5%) lends Timişoreana a “full taste.” Allow me to disagree. Instead, I would submit that this beer has a texture and flavor very much like High Life, Bud, or PBR, though maybe not quite as carbonated.

After a pasting like this, you might be led to believe that I think Timi is a bad beer. Not so! Boring it may be, but this has its place. It’s what one might call a high-volume beer: a moderate ABV (despite what the official website says), an easy texture, and comparative blandness means that this is a beer suitable (though perhaps not advisable) for gulping, chugging, and generally downing with abandon. It would make a good, cheap keg beer, if they had such things around here. Certainly, had the college parties of my not-so-distant youth – I am reminded for some reason of Loose gatherings, for those in the know – been graced by Timişoreana’s “three centuries of tradition,” life would have been that much classier.

CRITICAL INQUIRY: Ursus

2009-01-26T13:46:00.012-06:00

Sorry for the glare.

URSUS (a.k.a. Ursus Premium)

Type: Lager (Pilsner, I believe)
ABV: 5.25%
Manufacturer: Ursus / SABMiller
Price: 1/24/09: 2 RON = $0.60 @ neighborhood alimentară (500 ml bottle)

Brewed in the Mănăştur district of Cluj-Napoca, Ursus is the self-described “King of Beers in Romania. Like the Kingdom of Romania, Ursus received its crown through foreign intervention: it was just another provincial brewery until SAB’s ownership and marketing largesse helped propel its hegemony beyond the Carpathian Basin (or so says SAB’s website).

Ursus, of course, is Latin for “bear,” and if it were also the name of a terrible beer I might have joked that it represented the animal whose urine made that beer’s chief ingredient (viz., Q: Does a bear piss in the woods? A: Only if trees were Ursus bottles, etc.). But that would be dishonest. Ursus has its charms, not least of which for me is that they make not far from where I live, even if it is still part of the vast SABMiller empire. As far as aroma, Ursus has a slightly raw, yeasty disposition – not unlike how it smells as you walk past the factory. I find this crudeness, this sharpness, mostly refreshing. On the downside, it is obvious even by scent that Ursus has a thin and watery taste; and its green bottle, though gilt in regal foil, means that this beer is virtually predestined to have at least a little bit of skunk. Sure enough, Ursus has a watery and mostly inoffensive flavor. However, as the official site points out, it also has a “marked bitterness.” In my opinion this wavers between being zesty and being just plain sour, but the more you drink the more pleasant it gets (which may or may not be a function of your elevated BAC). Therefore Ursus’ dryness lends it a punchier temperament than other basic lagers, though not nearly as robust (or, according to the prejudices of my sweet palate, domineering) as, say, a pale ale.

A shot of the Ursus Brewery, Cluj-Napoca

In short, if the American “King of Beers” is any guide, Ursus has many of the same qualities: simplicity, straightforwardness, and a congenial palatability that (I imagine) might make it hard for many drinkers to develop especially strong feelings one way or the other. I will say, though, that Ursus’ particular bitterness makes it a little more interesting than Budweiser. It’s not enough of a tang to incite controversy, but just enough to add character. And maybe that’s the power behind the throne.

Hot Executive Action

2009-01-26T04:22:00.004-06:00

Just to follow up on an earlier post, it turns out that Obama did not wait for Congress to reverse the Bush administration's secretive record-keeping rules. Part of his "Transparency Week" was to knock down 43's executive order with one of his own. Hooray! Dare I begin to revive my childhood faith in the White House?

To Hell With Poverty!

2009-01-24T12:48:00.002-06:00

Add Glitter to Pictures

According to my AdSense account, I have officially earned $0.01 -- MY FIRST PENNY! -- from this blog. That is also worth .033 Romanian Lei or 2.23 Hungarian Forint! HELL YES LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL! GONNA BUY ME A DRANK!!!

CRITICAL INQUIRY: Beers of Transylvania: Stejar

2009-01-19T14:38:00.018-06:00

In this series, which takes a judicious eye toward Current Events, I will be bringing attention to the many beers native to Transylvania, my temporary home. Romanian beer is too criminally inexpensive, and I too dangerously unoccupied, to overlook this Important Issue.

Let us proceed. First, however, a few remarks.

Moving to East-Central Europe demands certain alterations in the way one drinks beer. Most positively, volume rises and price enters a tailspin. While the 12oz. bottle does not leave the scene (in a slightly smaller .33l version, which also comes as a glass), especially not when ordering at a café or lounge, it can be argued that the basic unit of beer increases to a generous 500ml. In Romania, in fact, it is quite popular to buy 2-liter plastic bottles of low-end beer, often for a fraction of the by-volume cost of what comes in glass or aluminum. But then, this generally is a region where one can easily purchase alarming quantities of wine, beer, and spirits – such as a whole liter of moonshine for around $3 – and forget about their depressingly low individual share of GDP.

The main trade-off, as I see it, of living in this wonderland of cheap suds is that variety, even in the big cities, is generally not on par with what the spoiled American beer-drinker can access at his or her local supermarket. At bars, do not hope to see a phalanx of gleaming tap-heads; at the store, come prepared to buy something in any flavor – as long as it’s lager or pilsner. To be fair, a hypermarket like my local Auchan can supply you with stout (Guinness) or wheat (something German), or limed-up Mexican beer, if you are willing to pay a little more. But for the most part it is variations on two themes, and you had damn well better like the tune.

That said, Romania, Hungary, Poland, and of course the Czech Republic (these being so far the only places of which I can speak from experience) are all felicitous places to find oneself with a beer in one’s hand. Let us look closely at one of those beers now, together.

* * * * * * *

STEJAR

Type: Pilsner
ABV: 5.5%
Manufacturer: Ursus / SABMiller
Price: 1/19/09: 1.68 RON = $0.51 @ Auchan (500 ML can)

Bearing as its name the Romanian word for “oak,” Stejar proudly markets itself as a beer for manly men – presumably for those, in particular, who reckon their tumescent members recall the limbs of that eponymous tree. To quote the SABMiller promo page:

Stejar Pilsner has an intense taste and provides a refreshing sensation and a ‘thirst for adventure’. It’s a mainstream beer, created for men who want more, who enjoy having fun and who live their life to the full.

Indeed, the can promises INGREDIENTE SUPERIOARE, CARACTER MASCULIN, and GUST INTENS. It is clear that the fate of an entire constellation of gender norms rests in Stejar’s tawny depths. But once loosed from its reasonably butch-looking can, Stejar gallops enthusiastically towards ambivalence. The aroma, while not exactly precious, strikes me as more floral than hoppy; rather more like mowing the lawn than panther-clubbing when it comes to a “thirst for adventure.” With regard to color, on the other hand, I think it is fair to say that Stejar has a respectably nutty-golden tan, as though reflecting the dermal effects of many hours of outdoor drudgery familiar to its targeted consumers. As for flavor, gust masculin must have something to do with its relative bitterness – which I would not describe as “full-bodied” or “robust,” but instead as “feigning emotional impenetrability” or “cry on your own fucking shoulder, Steaua's on the teevee.” This is not a sensitive beer, but neither is it the stern cock-clocking advertised by the SABMiller marketing combine. Still, at fifty Yanqui cents a can, there’s nothing to complain about, especially when at that price it gives a beer like Natty Ice even more reason for self-loathing.

Humble Pie, à la Emergency Preparedness

2009-01-15T16:25:00.007-06:00

Every time I look over those optimistically illustrated safety cards they have on airplanes, I smirk (in spite of my own peril) at the idea that a plummeting jetliner might ever wind up resting placidly on a body of water. But I guess all that flotation impedementia I had once mocked came in handy yesterday for 155 people on board U.S. Airways flight 1549, when some birds ruined both of the plane's engines and the pilots had to take her into the Hudson. Shows what the hell I know -- but I am very happily wrong.

P33$ 4 R TYME!!!

2009-01-15T13:50:00.001-06:00

Myspace Glitter Graphics

In Post-Kleptocratic Romania, Joke Tell YOU

2009-01-14T11:47:00.006-06:00

Last night over drinks my new Romanian pal Mihai told me a joke that I thought I would relate here, as faithfully as possible, so as to give a taste of how the kids this side of the Gazprom pipeline like to get their giggles. It inexplicably guest-stars Barack Obama, I guess because a little of the Hope rubbed off on folks here, too. Mihai tells me it accurately describes certain aspects of law enforcement in Romania; it's pretty savvy about the USA, in any case.

One day, Barack Obama held a contest to see which of the world's intelligence services was the best. He set free a rabbit in the woods and told the contestants that whichever agency caught the rabbit first would be the winner and receive the grand prize.

The first to try their hand was the CIA. The Americans deployed their finest agents, who brought with them their best equipment. They scoured the forest floor for rabbit-prints, analyzed the forest air for rabbit pheromones, and kept vigil over the scene with their most advanced spy satellites. But after a week they could produce no results and declared that the rabbit just wasn't in the forest any longer.

Next up was the FSB (the successors of the KGB), and Obama released another rabbit into the forest. The Russian spies dressed up in tree costumes and erected carrot traps to lure the rabbit into their grasp. But despite their patience and discipline, a week passed and still they had found no rabbit. The prize would not be theirs.

Third and finally was the SRI (Serviciul Român de Informaţii), Romania's agency. Obama set a third rabbit free and told the SRI to succeed where the others had failed. The Romanian officers, wearing riot gear, spilled out of their paddy wagon. They swore and brandished their truncheons and shot tear gas wildly into the trees as they charged the forest. After three minutes a bear came running out, crying and waving his paws in surrender. "OK, OK, I admit it! I give up! I'm a rabbit -- I'M A RABBIT!!!"

The Seasons Don't Fear the Jenner

2009-01-14T03:45:00.009-06:00

Being that, these days, I probably have more unclaimed time on my hands then since when I left the oral stage, I've become more intimate with the various blind alleys of the Internet in ways that I hadn't before. Laughing at misspelled birthday cakes, for instance. In days gone by I rarely, if ever, read the health columns of the New York Times, though maybe because I feared it would only increase my guilt for enjoying one drunken Kum-and-Go charbroil too many. But now endowed with greater liberty to follow idly whithersoever the little blue swatches of underlined text on the NYT may lead, whole new horizons of marginal knowledge have spread themselves wantonly before me.

Like today. After having wondered more than once to myself in the fall whether I should seek any additional vaccinations before setting up camp in Romania -- a needless, Othering concern, as it turns out -- I've learned now that more than a few Americans have decided that vaccines are to blame for their children's autism. Maybe it's the Black Ops neurotoxins in my MMR talking, but this whole time I had labored under the belief that maintaining the extinction of smallpox had some things going for it. After pressing the down-key a bunch of times while staring glazedly at this non-article from the august journal of medicine About.com, I remain unconvinced that my issue should not have to feel the kiss of the syringe, delivered by a lying son-of-a-bitch doctor ("This four-pronged bastard won't hurt!"), just like I did.

Mostly, though, it strikes me that only in a dumbingly wealthy country like the United States could people take their immunity from epidemics for granted and demonize the very fucking thing that keeps their kids from going off to TB summer camp or living inside a goddamn space capsule. I have reason to suspect there is somewhat less hand-wringing of this kind in the good old "Global South."

(Non)Secrets of the Powerful, Part II

2009-01-12T09:54:00.003-06:00

So I was going to post about finding what would have been my favorite Nixon moment yet, something more to nurture my enthusiasm for believing that Richard Milhous was the closest thing America has had to a Caesar -- somewhere between Tiberius and Nero, but less the "minnows" and plus a lot more carpet bombing. I had stumbled upon a blog post (here on the Fredösphere) about stretches of the White House Tapes in which Nixon exposes his inexplicable hatred of French composer-conductor Pierre Boulez and plots to use another French avant-gardist, Olivier Messiaen, as "a 'wedge' who could be used to divide and confuse his enemies." It was all too delightful and impossibly, fiendishly petty, and I thought sure I could make an interesting post out of it.

But! Wanting to see the primary documents for myself, I looked in vain on the Nixon Library's site for mention of either Messiaen or Boulez. So I listened to audio excerpts of the White House Tapes from the precise days that Nixon was supposed to have made plans to break into the Darmstadt School, or mock Boulez with aide Charles Colson. And all I heard about was worthless George McGovern, because the author of the post that got me so excited had just substituted names and made up a phony context for the altered tape transcripts. Shenanigans called -- but well played, and I with an eggy face.

Oh well, dream deferred, but an object lesson in always checking your footnotes, even if there aren't any.

Secrets of the Powerful, Part I

2009-01-12T04:40:00.005-06:00

Over the last eight years, the outgoing President and the (now all-but-vanished) coterie of his faithful have more than a few times offered up their misdeeds on the altar of History: "history will judge," "when the histories are written," and so on, in the usual hope that incompetence or wickedness today will be rewarded by ignorance tomorrow. It is a very convenient platitude. In addition to sitting at some temporal vanishing point of unknown but presumably sufficient distance -- that is, after the speaker has died and no longer capable of sensing judgment -- capital-H-history is a disembodied cosmic force. Its very abstraction implies no author but itself. But pace the Hegelians, History exists nowhere; historians, on the other hand, do. And I can tell you that there is nothing a historian likes better than a Bankers Box full of other people's paper. Despite its appeals to deific and self-writing History, the Bush administration has always known this.

Executive Order 13233, signed by the President in November, 2001, aimed to keep Presidential records out of the National Archives and safe from the prying eyes of historians. In sum, the Order allows Presidents and Vice-Presidents (this latter bit one of the Order's innovations) to withhold White House records in perpetuity. Previous regulations and Executive Orders, established after Watergate and during the Reagan era, laid out timelines for the release of records and placed constraints on the privileges of the Executive Branch to keep them obscure. It seems fair to assume that with this Order Bush, Cheney, and their advisers hoped not only to arrogate their deeds above the law of the present, but to deny any honest, damning evidence be presented in the future court of "History," whose hobbled verdict they hoped would acquit them. Not much of a surprise, perhaps, but a move painful in its simultaneous cowardice and conceit.

Happy news, though! As the National Coalition for History -- which has been challenging the Bush records policy for years -- reports, the first act of our new House of Representatives was to push through H.R. 35, a bill that sets out to overturn E.O. 13233. The New York Times recently urged President-Elect Obama to speed the process along with an Executive Order of his own.

Here's hoping, then, that the Senate, the new President, or both will set the tone of a new administration by demolishing E.O. 13233 as soon as possible -- before too many records get pulped in the Bush retreat. There will be little responsible historical judgment without a responsible foundation of paper.

The Lighter Side of Ethnic Struggle

2008-03-06T22:14:00.004-06:00

Irredente: muses, as ever.

"However, Zoltán Várady, a Catholic priest who experienced his being Hungarian intensively, had a completely individual initiative. He developed a new form of greeting to deepen patriotic feelings, which he published in a special booklet in 1938. The detailed description, the adjoining poems and the included photograph tell us that in order to greet someone in an irredentist was the person must make a small step forward with his right foot, lift his right hand with the open palm turned inwards and with a friendly look say "Resurrection!" or "Justice!", to which the other person will answer with similar motions "May God grant it!". With this Várady wanted the irredentist idea to reach every Hungarian and "the flames in the souls" to burn "the indifference in the hearts and the obstacles of new and imaginary borders..."

[Zeidler, Miklós. "Irredentism in Everyday Life in Hungary During the Interwar Period." Regio: Minorities, Politics, Society. Vol. 2, No. 1 (2002), 71-88]

Goetta: Corpus Christi Cincinnatarum?

2007-07-02T11:57:00.000-05:00

Before my situation develops into a hostage crisis, i.e. that The Summer fails to show proof of (my) life to receive its princely demands for attention, I thought I should issue some existential proof of my own. That proof relates to an old theological tussle known as the Reformation, one particularly contentious aspect of which had to do with whether in the Sacrament the wine and bread truly were the blood and body of Christ, or mere representations. In this case (and I do not shy from blasphemy), the question is to what extent goetta, whose character I shall explain soon, is truly Catholicism in Cincinnati, or merely its representation.

Goetta , shown above, is, like Greek-immigrant chili, one of the hallmarks of Cincinnati culture and cuisine. It is a robust blend of ground pork, steel-cut oats, Old World Gemütlichkeit, and a studied indifference to one's cardiopulmonary infrastructure. I personally think it is delicious, and excellent as part of a hard-core, balls-to-the-wall breakfast.

Goetta's natural habitats include breakfast plates and lists contracting what practices and beliefs indicate how "you know you're from Cincinnati when..." It is served at Great American Ballpark as surely as hamburgers; and I wouldn't doubt that somewhere it is dyed orange and given black stripes to further glorify the criminally-inclined Bengals ("Better to play in Cincinnati than to serve in Heaven"). There are not one, but two "fests" dedicated to the advancement of goetta. (One of them, the original, held on the MAINSTRAßE in Covington, KY, which this author attended, is a dismal and tiny affair. Half of it consists of a saddening Renaissance Fair, and the other half a row of stalls selling Goetta in a surprisingly limited range of forms.)

But this pervasiveness has been, in my experience, far subtler than the thorough (and sometimes spectacular) infiltration of Skyline (chili), Graeter's (ice cream), and the Bengals (warrior-felon cult). After all, I have never seen entire RVs painted in goetta colors, nor goetta tubes displayed as decals on other vehicles, much less as hats or fluffy tiger-tails attached to the bumpers of beat-up Chevys. Goetta, that is, cannot seem to rise above class the way that other of Cincinnati's institutions can.

The reason, I have found, is because goetta is utterly tied up with German Catholicism, historically the single greatest cultural influence on pre-war Cincinnati. It is an import, like the breweries and sausage production that used to flourish here; but it has the universal appeal of neither. Goetta occupies the peripheral refrigerated shelves at Kroger, sitting high up in tight enclaves near the southern-style sausage, the lard, and other slightly disreputable meats; it is a culinary subculture, and is even viewed by some to be a questionable lifestyle choice. But metts (bigger, fatter, juicier, redder hot dogs) and beer, while more conspicuously representing the German-Catholic immigrant heritage that seems surprisingly faded here, do not stand in for a unique culture the way that goetta's humble, unrefined greasiness does. Lager and sausages are as American, as accepted, as anything else. But goetta, as The Queen of Eyes has so astutely noted, is peasant food. It is swine and grain, cut into slabs and fried. It reeks of Swabia. There is nothing industrious or Protestant about it; it does not sing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" or nail manifestos to cathedral doors. It IS superstitious; it DOES believe in saints; it IS nutrition for performing Good Works. It is, as I have known it, the very Host of Catholicism in Cincinnati.

Like Joe Strummer, I Live By the River

2007-06-18T19:15:00.000-05:00

Mr. Brian Fritsch suggested that I write a little bit about where the Queen of Eyes and I are calling home this summer. His idea was compelling -- obviously energizing enough to prod me out of the torpor that kept this space stale for some weeks. Compelling not least of all because the house you see to the left is, to date, the most unique structure in which I have lived.

The address is 338 Tusculum Avenue, the most picturesque street name to have ever received my mail. It sits in a floodplain of the Ohio River, and at the very frontier of two of Cincinnati's neighborhoods, Columbia Tusculum (to which the house belongs) and East End. The former is the longest-settled portion of the city, founded in 1788; the latter is among the most impoverished, filled for generations by Appalachian migrants seeking work for the unskilled. Columbia Tusculum, like many of Cincinnati's neighborhoods, is characterized by steep, almost San Franciscan, hills. Looking north from our house, just across Columbia Parkway, we can view those rises, which must have put those classically-trained settlers of the past in mind of ancient Italy.

The house itself dates back to 1886, a fact that is displayed on a plaque near the front door -- an ornament common among the buildings of Columbia Tusculum. Like many of its neighbors, it is cheerfully colored, although not as brightly nor as elaborately as others. It is among the class of house known and seen throughout the country as a "painted lady," and it, along with the two houses to the north (left), represents Cincinnati in Pomada and Larsen's America's Painted Ladies: the Ultimate Celebration of Our Victorians (1994). According to that volume (which, incidentally, makes 338 the first house in which I have dwelled to have been in a book!), the house was clad in aluminum siding as late as the 1980s, and, presumably, a victim to economic depression and neglect. Today, however, it is owned by a toy designer, rented by a young Belgian chemical engineer, and partially sublet by two non-profiteers. (Its rent is also half-subsidized by a global firm based in the city, which explains why the two non-profiteers can afford to live there.)

Brief Comments on Futurism & Fascism

2007-05-25T10:46:00.000-05:00

Personal connections aside, I am pleased that the Queen of Eyes over at the Glass Hotel picked up on my somewhat inconclusive dazzle-post yesterday and brought the Italian Futurists into play. She is right to put forward that the Futurists were unique in the scope of their ambitions, and I am with her in being unable to name (allowing for my limited art historical training) any other avant-garde movement that combined that all-encompassing, revolutionary outlook with cultural and political power well outside of their coterie. Arguably the Futurists share with Le Corbusier, Frank Lloyd Wright, Soviet Russia (e.g. Magnitogorsk -- see Stephen Kotkin's Magnetic Mountain) and Nazi Germany the ambition to take at least one aspect of civilization (the city) and apply modern engineering to reshape it after their own designs. Indeed, the among the Futurists was an architect, Antonio Sant'Elia, who until his combat death in 1916 sketched out different urban complexes that would comprise the Futurist city. All of these movements sought in some way to rearrange the relationships of individual with individual and individual to authority; the so-called totalitarian states were obviously most successful in realizing this desire. But while Le Corbu and Wright were able to "merely" produce manifestations of their architectural designs, the Futurists could claim an active working-class following shortly before World War One: their words were conveyed to tens of thousands through the newspaper Lacerba (Caroline Tisdall and Angelo Bozzolla, Futurism, 1977. p. 166) and their performance seen at large "Futurist Evenings" held at music-halls throughout Europe. There was, finally, a Futurist Political Party by 1918, and F.T. Marinetti, the Futurist ringleader, stood as a Fascist parliamentary candidate in 1919 (Tisdall and Bozzolla, 203-204).

But the link between Futurism and Italian Fascism has been, I am convinced, overstated, and has done the movement a great deal of harm. The Futurists' pioneering forays into typography (in Lacerba, mimicked by the Vorticists in Blast, then by the Dadas, and copied innumerable times, if unconsciously, in recent years with the advent of computer publishing), music, performance art, and cinema seem to be buried under the off-handed dismissals to which their association with the Fascists has condemned them. As Tisdall and Bozzolla point out, the veneration of technology, violence, and youth that the Futurists shared with Fascism enabled the two movements to draw inspiration from one another (200). But the Mussolini that Marinetti admired was not yet Il Duce, and the street-fighting, revolutionary Fascism that drew upon Futurist rhetoric was not the Fascism that eventually ascended to power. Surely Tisdall and Bozzolla are correct in stating the incompatibility of Futurism's individualistic, chaotic, anarchic program with Mussolini's historicizing, authoritarian government. As the avant-garde in Bolshevik Russia and Weimar Germany (and perhaps elsewhere?) experienced, the artistic love of modernity and desire to overhaul society lost out to its competitor and perverse sibling, the authoritarian state, which hated profoundly the demands for individual freedom, and which, in a grand and terrible paradox, used modernity (in the form of mass culture, industry, and technology) to wrench back the clock on Modern culture and bourgeois democracy -- although the latter was not worth very much to the Futurists.

Formed a Blog -- I Formed a Blog!

2007-05-24T10:35:00.000-05:00

It has been some years since my last exercise in internet solipsism. Ten years have elapsed; times have changed; these days one doesn't need even minimal knowledge of FrontPage Express to rocket one's thoughts into the infinite vacuum of the Web. Gone (for the most part) are the animated GIFs that were once a young webmaster's bread-and-butter, and gone is the rough-edged novelty of trying to manage one's place in a banner circle (or whatever it was called) or crafting miserable little graphics on shoddy freeware. Life is easier! Life is more democratic! Lo! how the MSM trembles before the trillion firebrands of the blogosphere!

Et cetera.

I will save the manifestos for the avant-garde, who comprise the subject of my first earnest post. Why "dazzleship?" The dazzle art movement -- there is evidence enough, it seems, to suggest that it was at least an aesthetic fad -- is something that I have foggily known about for a while and been occasionally piqued by for a good year. It is not yet something I have read any books about, so I have only enough authority to claim it as one of those interests that sits lightly on the most superficial layer of thought: rooted deeply enough to persist, but enjoying only rare flashes of intellectual sunlight. I intend for this to change, and for dazzle art to get promoted up the ranks of my fancies, but I am not willing to promise it to myself.

Dazzle art: one of those intensely curious moments in history where art and warfare join in true alliance. Not the kind of representational association between battle and battle painting, nor as between, say, armor and sheer decoration. The concept of modern camouflage, according to Timothy Lawrence Williams,

...was developed by a group of French artists serving in the First World War, who had the idea of using abstract painting techniques to conceal their battery from the enemy. This led to the formation of a Section de Camouflage in 1915. Nearly all the soldiers assigned to the section were artists; those of note include the cubist Jacques Villon, Jean-Louis Forain, Andre Dunoyer de Segonzac, Othon Friesz, Abel Truchet and Andre Mare founder of the Maison Cubiste. The French Section used the methods of the cubists to create deliberate distortions, forms that merge into other forms, planes or tones that bleed into other planes and tones and subtle use of colour and shading.

Think of it! The application of fine art to aid warfare in an active and directly material way. A phenomenon, I suspect, made possible only by the unique conditions of the Great War (general belief in and fascination with technology, the nation-state, and the positive usefulness of combat) -- and rendered in later decades distasteful because of that same war. Dazzle art, creation of the British Vorticist Norman Wilkinson, aimed not to conceal but to confuse. Its geometrical patterns and unnatural color schemes, painted on the surface of naval vessels, were meant to disrupt the image of a ship as it appeared, most specifically, in the periscope of a U-Boat. The profile of the ship would be fractured by the pattern, making the vessel's heading less obvious and making it a much more difficult target for gunners and torpedoes. Its success was and is debated; but it certainly captured the imagination of its contemporaries -- and mine.

With a Score By Dimitri Shostakovich

2007-05-24T00:31:00.000-05:00

I pledge, on Wyndham Lewis' grave, that the nautical metaphors will be kept to a minimum.