Of Moderate Literary Education

Being of moderate literary education, I feel I have a right to take umbrage at abstract post-modernist shit in advertising; and the fact that my mother thought I was a wanker for the above phrase.
But what else can you call this striking example of advertising scraping the bottom of the barrel for a new angle. I bought this apple juice at a truck stop a while ago, and in a moment of supreme boredom, I read the little blurb on the side; and I quote:

“When a bender begins and when it ends
is not and exact science. However, our
not so rigorous testing proves that
when the bender has been and
gone, it leaves behind a primordial
need to consume something of
substance, something so angelic and
good it probably grew on a tree –
and preferably for that something to
be almost like an apple in liquid form.
springvalley.com.au”

My first reaction was the classic – close eyes then open them while tilting chin downward and pointedly saying ‘What?’. Then after I came up with the great description of ‘abstract post-modernist shit’, I realised that’s what I must be spouting off half the time here on my blog. And it seems to be a style I share with Amanda. Actually, it sounds like something she might say, a la The Onion Cellar: A Parable. I don’t find it obnoxious when she slips into a bit of it; hopefully, it’s funny and witty when she and I do it. But in advertising, somehow I think it goes a bit too far.
I liked it better when products weren’t sentient, and didn’t try to talk to you.
This is what my shampoo has to say for itself:
“You’re all action and I’m good clean fun”
“use me: work you hair into a lather-frenzy, rinse and repeat – just for the joy of it.”
“I’m so good; everyday I’ll put clean thoughts into your head.”
Sure thing honey, how much are you an hour again?


I also wanted to secretly admit the impact that The Catcher In The Rye has had on my life; albeit venomous and resented.
You see, I hate this book, I really do. Well, not so much the book, but Holden. And seeing as he is ever-present within the narrative, I find it largely insufferable.
I approached this book with an open mind, when I had to read it for English this year. I had heard nothing but good things about it, and I was keen to be able to experience and express my opinions on such an American Classic. I liked the way it began; I thought the main character was going to be savvy, punchy and different. But by about the 15^th page, I had realised how wrong I was. I was already tired of his overly cynical, despairing and mordant state of mind – which, even more disappointingly, gave him no real new perspective on life. Holden hates everyone. Everyone is a ‘phony’. Holden is the biggest one of them all.

I had to read 193 pages of his dry, tawdry affairs; his meaningless insane ramblings, and vile depressing banter.
Did you know that there are 836 curse words (counting blasphemy) contained in the text? These include: damn, goddamn, hell, crap, ass, Chrissakes, and fuck. That’s more than More than 4.3 expletives per page!
Here is one of the best passages to illustrate this point, keeping in mind this is only from about a page and three-quarters.

It was pretty dark, and I stepped on somebody’s shoe on the floor and damn near fell on my head. Ackley sort of sat up in bed and leaned on his arm. He had a lot of white stuff on his face, for his pimples. He looked sort of spooky in the dark. “What the hellya doing, anyway?” I said.
“Wuddaya mean what the hell am I doing? I was tryna sleep before you guys started making all that noise. What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?”
“Where’s the light?” I couldn’t find the light. I was sliding my hand all over the wall.
“Wuddaya want the light for? . . . Right next to your hand.”
I finally found the switch and turned It on. Old Ackley put his hand up so the light wouldn’t hurt his eyes.
“Jesus!” he said. “What the hell happened to you?” He meant all the blood and all.
“I had a little goddamn tiff with Stradlater,” I said. Then I sat down on the floor. They never had any chairs in their room. I don’t know what the hell they did with their chairs. “Listen,” I said, “do you feel like playing a little Canasta?” He was a Canasta fiend.
“You’re still bleeding, for Chrissake. You better put something on it.”
“It’ll stop. Listen. Ya wanna play a little Canasta or don’tcha?”
“Canasta, for Chrissake. Do you know what time it is, by any chance?”
“It isn’t late. It’s only around eleven, eleven-thirty.”
“Only around!” Ackley said. “Listen. I gotta get up and go to Mass in the morning, for Chrissake. You guys start hollering and fighting in the middle of the goddamn--What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?”
“It’s a long story. I don’t wanna bore ya, Ackley. I’m thinking of your welfare,” I told him. I never discussed my personal life with him. In the first place, he was even more stupid than Stradlater. Stradlater was a goddamn genius next to Ackley. “Hey,” I said, “is it okay if I sleep in Ely’s bed tonight? He won’t be back till tomorrow night, will he?” I knew damn well he wouldn’t. Ely went home damn near every week end.
“I don’t know when the hell he’s coming back,” Ackley said.
Boy, did that annoy me. “What the hell do you mean you don’t know when he’s coming back? He never comes back till Sunday night, does he?”
“No, but for Chrissake, I can’t just tell somebody they can sleep in his goddamn bed if they want to.”
That killed me. I reached up from where I was sitting on the floor and patted him on the goddamn shoulder. “You’re a prince, Ackley kid,” I said. “You know that?”
“No, I mean it--I can’t just tell somebody they can sleep in--”
“You’re a real prince. You’re a gentleman and a scholar, kid,” I said. He really was, too. “Do you happen to have any cigarettes, by any chance?--Say ‘no’ or I’ll drop dead.”
“No, I don’t, as a matter of fact. Listen, what the hell was the fight about?”
I didn’t answer him. All I did was, I got up and went over and looked out the window. I felt so lonesome, all of a sudden. I almost wished I was dead.
“What the hell was the fight about, anyhow?” Ackley said, for about the fiftieth time. He certainly was a bore about that.
“About you,” I said.
“About me, for Chrissake?”
“Yeah. I was defending your goddamn honor. Stradlater said you had a lousy personality. I couldn’t let him get away with that stuff.”
That got him excited. “He did? No kidding? He did?”
I told him I was only kidding, and then I went over and laid down on Ely’s bed. Boy, did I feel rotten. I felt so damn lonesome.

To read it, you sort of get used to it; but when it is pointed out to you – it’s so over the top it’s laughable.
I was really surprised when I saw that Amanda was endorsing this on her MySpace. She said it is a must for anyone on the outer, and if you read it for school get over the resentment and read it again. I had no resentment. I read it three times. I couldn’t believe that someone I had so much in common with was recommending a book I so thoroughly detested.
But somehow, maybe simply through the strength of the writing of Holden – I seem to have caught a bit of his turn of phrase. I find myself thinking (but never saying, god forbid) things like ‘it kills me’ and reinforcing things to myself after I state them like ‘it really does’. I think it must be some sort of subliminal messaging or osmosis through repetition. It scares me.
Maybe Amanda was right, at least after reading it I didn’t think “Now there’s three hours of my life I’m never going to get back.” The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien is another matter…



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