In Which Subtle Bondage Undercurrents Swirl Menacingly.

Blogger dotcom has taken the time to rub Elevenname's lack of South By South Westery in our faces. It turns out that several! Bloggers! Will be there! BUT NOT US.

Salt in the wound, blogger.com. Salt in the wound.

Speaking of which, now that we are coming down off of the giddy thrill of Hedonism week (I assure you, we are all lying around in various states of repose and undress, like that one Fiona Apple video from a few years back), I would like to bring up the idea of pain, and how it relates to you, me, and all of us. Do not try to deny it, you kinky bastards - I am on to you.

Bear with me, this will be quick.

One of the greatest parts about modern society is that we have become a civilization that lives on the creation, and following subjugation, of pain. We value those who are able to give us pain and those who are, in turn, able to identify themselves as pained.

Self classification is the panacea of people adrift in the sea of meta-aristoi. Modern american life has produced, to the middle and upper-middle class, a crisis of quantification, where they do not know where they are. The children of the upper-middle class experience a sharp incline in mental health issues, whereas the children of the poor experience the fewest. Partially, of course, because of ready access to psychiatric professionals - Jung's famous line about curing a sane man - but also, I propose, because of a sudden lack of duty. Whereas the aristocracy emerged from the myths of pre-history in the European cultures on which America based the majority of it's social structures, modern america has no such entities. We have the scions of powerful families - the Kennedies, primarily - though few of them match up to the glorious history of whichever celebrity brought their name to public attention.

The children of these semi-aristoi never quite match up. Who in their right mind would think of Ted Kennedy as a glorious man, after all? He's a man who, given his intelligence and positions in life, has done all the right things. Taking a similarly educated slob of similar ambition would likely make just as fine a representative of the people, just as I have no doubt in my mind that Ted Kennedy would make a fine truck driver, or convenience store clerk. His connection to the Kennedy name, that same connection which is being passed on in a very metaphysical way to Barack Obama, is his umbilical cord to greatness.

But we cannot help but wonder why? More intelligent (read: better in all ways) writers than I have observed and theorized about tribal structures, as modern man shambled into kingdoms and cities. I would go a similar route - that we worship and create an aristocracy around whomsoever we can tell the best stories around. Certainly, Kerouac was a great writer, but have you ever actually sat down and *read* On The Road? It's a terrible novel. Long, rambling, pointless. The same with Howl, as the best minds of the author's generation pat themselves on the back for their novelty, a great and aching groan of thigh as the beat generation's poets backsides meet their laurels.

No such luck with the people to follow. Modern authors must contend with publishing houses full of wooers, each one hoping to win over wise Penelope. It's an environment where having an amusing backstory, some kind of media coverage, maybe getting drunk at the Rivington Hotel and throwing a chair through a window, can only help. Books of quality are not hard to find, but amusing authors like the fabulist feculum peddler James Frey are a rare jewel to exploit - it's no wonder he's making money hand over fist for, basically, being a famous liar.

Much like old, self-flagellating saints, we can most easily focus on individuals who hurt us, or hurt themselves. No one *likes* paris hilton - no one in their right mind, anyway. But we identify with her, because she has become a powerful, and painful, totem in our society, a plague woman and an out-of-touch Disney princess.

Regardless, I am certain you are tired of my babble, so I'll cut it quick here. Suffice it to say, the methods of fascination, pain, and celebrity are all intimately tied up in the way that we understand modern culture. It's a heady brew, with no room for mercy or humility or ever, ever acknowledging the quiet aspects of life, where we may recoup. Whether this is because they aren't seksi enough or because we value them so much more, I daren't speculate. But nevertheless, culture moves onward, it's whirling gyre's center never having been held in place since the get-go, injuring us all, and yet, penurious, we stare onward, unable to look away.

I was playing some old Castlevania games the other day, and I couldn't help but wonder why, in at least one instance, they made Medusa look so attractive. I felt it to also be a rather elegant metaphor for how we approach the world.