Poker According to Žižek

*A Warning: This post concerns political theory and poker. If that does not interest you, read no further.

Slavoj Žižek is a Marxist-communist philosopher from former Yugoslavia, and I’m currently reading his book Welcome to the Desert of The Real for my Secrecy and Spectacle course. (The full course title is “Secrecy and Spectacle from Cold War to War on Terror.” It’s easily the most influential course I’ve ever taken up to this point.) The book is basically about how the illusions of Americans should have been shattered after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, but instead Americans used the attacks as an opportunity to create more illusions. This is an incredibly basic summary—so basic it’s actually wrong, but there’s really no other way to simplify it. Anyway--as you can see from the title of this post, this is in no way what I was planning on writing about, but since I’ve gone this far, I’ll go ahead and summarize what Žižek means.

Žižek believes that America pre-9/11 lived in a fantasy land of Us and Them thinking (Again, the problem of dichotomies. And “Them” equals everyone existing outside of the U.S.), and that when our own country was attacked, it was an opportunity to realize that we are part of a world where terrible things are happening. (For instance, all the Bosnian women who were terrorized, the mass killings in Congo—these are all things that happen to them.) Žižek claims that America did not take this opportunity, that instead, “it [America] opted to reassert its traditional ideological commitments: out with feelings of responsibility and guilt towards the impoverished Third World, we are the victims now!”

Anyway, Žižek fills the book with these little anecdotes and jokes he’s picked up from who knows where, and Saturday night there was a poker game at my house, and Žižek’s words kept bubbling up. Every aspect of the game corresponded to his text—part of me now wonders, in fact, if this book is actually incognito poker theory, only disguised as political theory.

1. Welcome to the Desert of the Real

The Desert of the Real is a place one ends up after illusion—or reality—is shattered. I lead many players to this desolate place Saturday night, as what they knew as reality—their ideological constructs—were shattered.

Playing your pocket jacks when there’s face cards on the table? Welcome to the Desert of the Real. Raising me on two pair when I’m holding an open-ended straight? I’m all in, and I catch my card. I rake your chips, and the only thing you can do is stare blankly at the table, pretending not to be upset. Pretending is all you can do, because you have nothing left. Welcome to the Desert of the Real.

2. Economics Always Trumps Politics

This is how Žižek explains America royally screwing Iran from the 1950’s on, and how I explain pretending to have nothing when I truly hit trips of the flop. You raise, I reraise—sorry “friend.” Secrecy and Spectacle exist not only in government, but at my kitchen table as well. Welcome to the dictates of capitalism—and subsequently, The Desert of the Real. It’s hot out there, maybe you should have another Guinness before you buy back in.

3. A man must desire life like water, but drink death like wine.

This is an idea attributed to G.K. Chesterton—the soldier surrounded by enemies can’t cling to life, or he won’t escape. “He must seek his life in a spirit of furious indifference to it.”

Many players experience a chip flux, where they go really low or high. In either case, the reaction can be the same—to tighten their greedy fist around their pile. Inevitably, this results in chips slowly being depleted. The trick is to drink poker death like wine, make your enemies look down the barrel of your all-in. Force a show-down where only one person gets to keep their money, and their ideology--and the other is left numb and alone in The Desert of the Real.

Yesterday in Church

Yesterday in church, there was a boy sitting on front of Angela and I, maybe eleven or twelve years old, skinny, pale, bad haircut, and I noticed that beneath his seat was The Great Hunt by Robert Jordan, which is book two of The Wheel of Time collection—easily the greatest fantasy series ever written. Some people might argue that The Lord of the Rings trilogy is the greatest fantasy series ever written, but those people have never read The Wheel of Time series, and they are wrong. In the early twentieth century, the Wright brothers figured out how to get an airplane flying. It was a landmark, an impressive feat—but I do not want to ride that first airplane.

The boy in church yesterday reminded me very much of myself. I remember following The Wheel of Time series starting when I was about ten years old, and discussing the books with friends as dorky as myself until the next volume was released. (And, since dorkiness knows no age, every now and then I’d bump into someone at the bookstore, or a friend’s parent, who read the series as well. Always a jolt of excitement, to meet a fellow lover of The Wheel of Time!)

Bringing the book to church was a classic maneuver by my little pal in front of me. It was a nostalgic moment. But, since he wasn’t pouring over it in his lap, either mom had set some strict regulations, or he was purely a car reader. I remember church being a great space for reading Robert Jordan. My older sister’s volleyball and basketball games were harder.

My love for fantasy started to fade away sometime after I went to college, and eventually I stopped following all my favorite authors except for Robert Jordan. I had read The Wheel of Time for over a decade, and I was determined to read it until the last novel was released, and I figured out once and for all what would happen to Rand—would he defeat the dark forces at Shayol Ghul? Would he have to give his life in the process? My heart said no, but what about all the old prophecies? (I had a Wheel of Time reference book to help me keep track of these important questions.)

When Crossroads of Twilight was released, I was a freshman in college, and I bunkered down in my dorm room and didn’t leave until it was finished. By the time Knife of Dreams was released, I had stopped checking the WOT website for updates, and didn’t find out until I was in Alaska. I hitch-hiked to Anchorage, and the first thing I did was go to a local bookstore to finish before I flew home. Book twelve, A Memory of Light, was supposed to be the final book in the series, the end of a seventeen year odyssey, and when I was in Africa, I checked online to see if a release date had been set—and instead, I saw a picture of Robert Jordan, with the letters R.I.P. beneath it, and a date from a month or so before.

Throughout the sermon yesterday, I kept wondering—does this little boy know? Should I stop him after the service and say, you know RJ’s dead, don’t you? That he never finished?

The story is that on his deathbed, RJ told someone the ending, and that he kept prodigious notes on the final book, so another writer was hired to finish the books as RJ originally intended-- part one (yes, the “final” volume has now been separated in three parts) owill be released this fall.

I don’t have much time for reading fantasy these days, and I don’t have all my old novels around anymore. Before Angela and I got married, I loaded all my old fantasy novels into the trunk of my Grand Am, drove to Hyde Brothers books in Ft. Wayne, and sold them for four-hundred dollars.

This was actually not a bad price for memories.

Quick Pics

I have been telling Brett for two weeks that I am going to post on the blog. Obviously that has not happened, so I thought I would post a few pictures while he is out at campus! I know he is due for a new post any second and I wanted to get my pictures in before they became old news.

This is supposed to be a picture of Jen, Lane, and me on my visit over to Washington Court House. Of course thirty minutes into my drive back to Oxford I realized I never took my camera out of my purse! So here is a picture from Jen's wedding. I thought it was fitting because she looks just as beautiful now as she did on her wedding day with the cutest little baby bump.
We caught up and went shopping with Lane which you can't really tell from the picture:)




On the right is my candid-ish picture of Brett, Grant, Emily, and Bethany walking out of the Cincinnati Museum of Art. Bethany drove out to our place and then we went to Cincinnati to see Grant and Emily at their beautiful home in Kentucky.
Emily is sporting her new haircut which I think is very fun! I did more talking with Emily at the museum than actually checking out the art so I don't have much else to say about it. The two in the bottom picture absorbed more art.





So, Brett I realize that I posted as soon as you said, "I am going to put up a post today" and walked out the door. I just felt the need to put up some pictures. . . today.
You just go ahead and post today and it will be like a joint post only my bottom half of the post will have pictures:)

- Angela

Film Update

I probably should have tacked this on as an update to the last blog, but I had to say that it's no wonder Dave Eggers hasn't published much since his last novel, What is the What (An incredible book). Eggers and his wife, Vendela Vida (whose book, Let the Northen Lights Erase Your Name I'm currently teaching in my composition class) recently co-wrote a movie together, Away We Go.

I've devised a formula to predict whether or not this movie will be worth going to see:

Focus Features distributing the film + Sam Mendes directing + a screenplay by Dave Eggers and Vendela Vida + a cast that includes John Krasinski, Maya Rudolph, Jeff Daniels, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and Allison Janey = The perfect storm for what is now the most anticipated film of 2009.

Trailer available by clicking on title.

Where The Wild Things Are

On Monday I went and saw Salman Rushdie speak, which was a wonderful, informative experience-- one of the few lectures/readings I've attended recently that was higher than my expectations. So I started writing a blog about the event, intermingled with some updated thoughts I've been grappling with about the media/culture phenomena I touched on a while ago, but I've been busy the last few days and haven't been able to finish.

But, I thought people might be interested to see that the trailer for Where The Wild Things Are, directed by Spike Jonze, was just released, and it looks pretty good. Obviously the screenwriters had to take a lot of liberties since the book is short, but as I was watching the credits flash by I thought I saw a name I knew, so I backtracked and sure enough...Dave Eggers cowrote the screenplay with Spike Jonze!

Wouldn't miss it for the world. You can access the trailer on apple's website by clicking on the colored link above, but you have to have quicktime.

Salman Rushdie blog forthcoming.

Here comes the bride. . . and the groom

Breakfast at the Stricklands!! Larisa and Cameron came over to Oxford last Friday to hang out and take care of some official wedding business.
This is a picture before we left to pick out and pick up the groom and groomsmen's wedding attire. We made our way to Cincinnati and after three malls, lots of calls about whose size is what, and a drive to see what is behind Mt. Rumpke the trip was a success!! I am excited to post the pictures later this summer.




Larisa made a BIG brunch for us before we headed out for the mall. I took a picture because it was seriously impressive. Brett and I were super excited about the left over ingredients to try out her fun skillet creation on our own. The bread on the plate is French toast that she made out of like Cinnimon swirled bread.




Anyway it was fun to have Larisa and Cameron stay for the weekend. I am excited for their wedding and can't believe they graduate in like a month! Exciting times!!

-> Larisa and her Matron of Honor. I used to fight that title but I am embracing it now. It used to sound homely but now I really like it.
I may be posting again very soon as I am leaving tomorrow morning to visit a friend! So if Brett posts with another no picture blog I will balance it out soon with more pictures:)

- Angela

My Trip West in Review

Miami was on Spring Break last week, so after teaching my eight o’clock composition class, I jumped into my car and started winding my way out of small town Oxford, (which was in the startling throes of this and this, even as I drove to class at 7:30 am) with Scottsbluff, Nebraska plugged into my Garmin—home of my friend Kyle. The trip took approximately fifteen hours of driving, but I was never off the highway for more than ten minutes (I timed each gas break), and the roads were bare after Lincoln except for truckers.

Road To Kyle's House

Some people might grimace at the prospect of fifteen hours on the road, but I enjoy it. It gives me space to think and listen to music that I normally don’t have the time or inclination to sit through. For example. On the way to Scottsbluff, I listened to every album by Okkervil River, which I consider a strange sort of accomplishment. Since the drive back was to Toledo, OH, instead of Oxford, the trip was going to take longer, and my plan was to listen to every Bruce Springsteen album in chronological order. Almost inconceivable, I know. I thought I could, possibly, be the first to achieve this—until I realized I still don’t own Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J. and my computer didn’t transfer Devils & Dust to my ipod.
An epic feat for another day.

I’m always interested in what music other people choose to listen to, so if you’re like me, here’s a list of complete albums I worked through—indulge. And if you don’t care, skip the list and proceed to my dramatic account of camping in the Black Hills.

Complete Album’s listened to on Drive West

Joe Purdy—You Can Tell Georgia
Joe Purdy—Take My Blanket and Go
David Bowie—Best of 69-74
The Hold Steady—Separation Sunday
The Hold Steady—Almost Killed Me
Bruce Springsteen—Working on a Dream
Bruce Springsteen—Magic
Heartless Bastards—The Mountain
Okkervil River—Black Sheep Boy / Black Sheep Boy Appendix
Okkervil River—Don’t Fall in Love with Everyone You See
Okkervil River—Down the River of Golden Dreams
Okkervil River—The Stage Names
Okkervil River—The Stand-ins
Okkervil River—Stars too Small to Use
Okkervil River—Sleep and Wake-up Songs
Frightened Rabbit—The Midnight Organ Fight

Complete Albums listened to on Return Drive East

Santogold—Santogold
The Rural Alberta Advantage—Hometowns
The Hold Steady—Stay Positive
Neil Young—Tonight’s the Night
Matt Pond P.A.—Several Arrows Later
Black Mountain—In the Future
Bruce Springsteen—We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions
Bruce Springsteen—Born to Run
Bruce Springsteen—Born in the U.S.A.
Bruce Springsteen—Darkness on the Edge of Town
Bruce Springsteen—The River
Bruce Springsteen—Nebraska
Bruce Springsteen—Tunnel of Love
Bruce Springsteen—Magic
Bruce Springsteen—Working on a Dream
Bruce Springsteen—The Rising

Not represented here are the multitude of miscellanious songs I enjoyed; and, I also feel compelled to explain my only major musical failure—when I decided to listen to the best of Van Morrison. For some reason, I couldn’t handle anything after “And it Stoned Me”.

Kyle and I had planned on leaving Nebraska to go camping in the Black Hills outside Deadwood, South Dakota. My arrival, however, brought with it a cold dose of reality.
“I’ve heard there’s still quite a bit of snow up there,” he informed me as we considered camping strategies.
“Man against nature,” I replied.
This discussion reoccurred in various forms as the time to leave drew closer. In truth, I wasn’t really thinking—sometime in college, I learned that I have the interesting ability (power, perhaps? I’ll let you be the judge) to completely disconnect with reality. That’s a blog for another time.
As Kyle and I drove north-east through Wyoming, we passed small clusters of antelope, snow guards (wooden structures used to prevent snow accumulation on the highway), endless expanses of ranch-land, and exactly one other vehicle. The terrain grew rockier, and soon small clusters of pine dotted the landscape out the truck window—as well as large snow drifts.

Road Across Wyoming

After another hour of driving, wedged in by high canyons, we passed a mountain goat staring down at us from a high ledge, and the first road sign buried to the top of the post in snow. I thought I could sense a growing desperation from Kyle.
It was getting dark, and the campgrounds were closed “for the season”, so we drove down a winding dirt road, and eventually following a two-track into the by-then dark forest, which was illuminated enough by the moon, stars, and reflective snow, that we could see a rooty patch of ground not covered in snow.
We set up camp for the night, made a fire, and I ate a can of soup. The air was cold, but there was barely any wind—really, it wasn’t as bad as we had been expecting, and sitting by the fire, the moon visible through a circle of looming pine trees, coyotes moaning in the hills around us (I didn’t want to write “howling in the hills”, but now it sounds like the coyotes were in heat.…be assured, it was only typical coyote howling.), it was actually quite pleasant.

Me, After Setting Up Camp for the Night

(Water froze and Camera Died Shortly After)

Insights on "Church Shopping"

I've become increasingly aware that people seem more comfortable with dichotomies (Something is good or bad, right or wrong-- we like or dislike someone, they're funny or they're not), which I think is problematic for a number of reasons...but that's a blog for another time.

I read this article today (which doesn't mention anything about dichotomies), and thought it was interesting-- it's enigmatic in a refreshing way, discussing a peculiar trait that's arisen in the Christian world (prepare yourself for another slate.com plug, sorry), in a non-christian publication.

The popular media (should I have said "secular?") usually discusses Christianity in very specific avenues, about very specific issues (read: sex scandals, church shootings, christianity portrayed as a "hate group")--this article is remarkable (worth remarking on) because it considers an unsensational issue worth writing about. Perhaps because of the Obamas, who are mentioned in the beginning?

Anyway-- forgive my generalizations and reflexive parenthesis-- the full article is short, but here's an excerpt:

One in seven adults changes churches each year, and another one in six attends a handful of churches on a rotating basis, according to the Barna Group, a marketing research firm that serves churches. Church shopping isn't a matter of merely changing congregations: A survey by the Pew Forum on Religious and Public Life last year indicated that 44 percent of American adults have left their first religious affiliation for another. "Constant movement characterizes the American religious marketplace," a survey summary said.

Adages & Ovations

This man (link) needs to find another calling.

It makes sense that if you’re going to say something, say it in the most effective manner possible, but please—PLEASE—stop opening every speech with a spew of rhetoric. I get the sense that either President Obama or his speechwriter imagine listening to these speeches thirty years down the road, and man, they want them to sound eloquent. The problem, at least in the beginning of the speech, was that nothing was being said. President Obama understands the fear that keeps us up late at night. He understands we’re scared. But things will get better! (Standing ovation)

Things started to heat up towards the middle—President Obama explained that:

1. He’s going to fix the economy
2. He’s going to get affordable healthcare for every American, and what’s more
3. It’s time to cure cancer.
4. Education needs to available to every child, birth to beginning of career.

Does anyone disagree with any of these goals? I very much doubt it, but there was very little concrete presentation; just an unending flow of optimism, laced with a moment of slightly unsettling rhetoric—did anyone else pause when the President declared that if you choose to not pursue higher education, you’re “not quitting on yourself, you’re quitting on America!” Not going to college just progressed from a personal choice to an un-American activity. Sort of reminds me of something… (link)

I will say that I thought it was encouraging to hear there was a line-by-line budget cut in progress, and that Pres. Obama’s committee had already cut enough to save 2.2 trillon over the next decade. Before he gave that information, however, he put in a brief note about the auto bailout that I think was somewhat of a paradox, claiming that “we should not protect them (auto industry) from their bad choices.”
But we did! Why? Because “…the nation that invented the auto industry can’t walk away from it.” Is this really a reason for billions of dollars to be spent? What could that money have done for creating alternative forms of transportation?

Anyway. I thought there were some strong moments in the speech. I’m not sure what “Cold War defense systems” Obama was talking about dismantling (stock piles of A-bombs, H-bombs, and Star Wars type stuff I’m guessing...anyone know?), but it seems reasonable that that stuff has long been useless. Abu Ghraib was undeniably an embarrassment, and our intelligence community has a long, painful history of power abuse (in every sense of the word). Reform is necessary there.

Ups, downs...sifting for actual information shouldn't be as difficult as these speeches are making it…

Immortal Words!

There’s a lot of ideas floating around about what it means to be a writer. Sometimes I think I take the idea a lot less seriously than other people—other writers—that I know. For instance, Saturday night Angela and I were watching the movie Sylvia (Yes, it’s the true story of Sylvia Plath, who turned on her oven and gassed herself, but it was sort of a love story…anyway, we also cooked a romantic dinner together), and there’s a scene in the movie where Sylvia and Ted Hughes go to Hughes’s apartment with two of his friends, and for a good time they take turns reciting poetry with really serious faces, while the other people in the apartment yell “Faster! Faster!”
Yikes. Not cool. Is that supposed to look fun to me, because I’m a poet?
I used to wonder whether I should even call myself a writer or a poet, like it’s some special title that must be earned, and until I’m making loads of money I have to tell people I’m an aspiring writer. (to me, that reads: aspiring money maker)
I spend the majority of my time writing. I’m trying to make a career of it. What else should I call myself?
Anyway, after cutting through some of the bull, it’s hard to figure out whether the media is mirroring writers, or the other way around. I was talking with someone in my program a while back about something another student had written, and the person I was with said something along the lines of: …I don’t know why they’re wasting their time writing that stuff, it’s not immortal, like the words of the great poets.
Again, yikes. Who are the great poets? Is that what we’re suppose to be doing? Cranking out immortal words? Not possible—and if it was, I’m not sure I’d be interested.
I grimace when people make statements like “All art stems from sadness.” (L. Hughes, I think) I think inspiration is a slippery idea, and I haven’t seen it succeed apart from some manner of discipline. And rather than believe that writing is a sort of divine gift, I enjoy telling people that anyone can be taught to write—otherwise, why am I wasting my time teaching a freshman comp. course?
The source of many writer’s instability—because it’s undeniable that the profession has lost more than it’s share to early death—I think stems from a variety of sources: the problematic writing culture we have, other misguided writers, the desire for social status… and, I also think it’s simply a problem that any critical thinkers deal with.
When finding your own way--necessary, in our culture-- you just might start to lose your bearings somewhere in the wilderness.
A shred of the problem I'm beating around the bush about is evidenced by a volume I’m reading right now by Jack Spicer, another early death. The title of the collected works is the same as his dying words, which were “My vocabulary did this to me.”
Maybe. That catchy phrase will certainly inspire a host of fools to drink and write bad poetry, but I wonder how much of Spicer’s problem was vocabulary and how much was due to other factors? Could it have been your vocabulary…and the fact that you were a raging alcoholic? What if Spicer had been a philosopher? A teacher? A pastor?
The power of words I believe in, and even some of the mystery, and admittedly there’s a lot I still don’t understand—the idea of a genius still intrigues me, although I’ve never met one. (I’m more comfortable with the word “brilliant.” I think 99% of the time it’s more accurate.)