Decadence

According to my favorite reference book, Roget's Thesaurus, the word "decadence" is synonymous with the words "ruined, fallen, depraved, debauched, dissolute,...cynical". The word "decay", listed below "decadent", is a noun synonymous with "decomposition, deterioration, disintegration, dilapidation, putrefaction, rot...", and it is suggested that I might also want to consider the word "uncleanness".

I don't like the word "decadent" nor do I like the word "decay". They are suggestive of an advanced state of negativity to the subject in question. There are words in our language easier to read, more pleasant and comforting in the sense that we needn't think too much about what they imply. But it's difficult, if not impossible, to change thoughts and facts into words everyone is comfortable with, for there are those unwilling to consider the value of any opinion or view except their own. We do, after all, have our own perception of society, of how things are and how things ought to be.

The following commentary is not my own but one I'd like to share with you. Then, and now, I find it to be more than thought provoking, perhaps rather like being slammed by a Mac truck moving at 100 mph.

In December of 1978, the New Times Magazine ceased publication after five years of "afflicting the uncomfortable" in American government, business, and society. Their parting shot was an entire issue devoted to what the editors perceived as a pervasive decadence in American culture. The following is excerpted from the final issue of the New Times Magazine.

AMERICAN DECADENCE

WELCOME to America. Our Miss Shields will show you to your table. Such a pretty baby. What'll it be? Have a drink, have a puff, have a snort, have some smack. Legalized gambling in the front room, skin flicks in the back; mirrors, mirrors everywhere in glorious profusion.

C'mon in! Something for every palate. Reproductions by Rockefeller, senators by David Garth, exploding Pintos by Ford. Hey, and that's not all. Carcinogens in 31 flavors. Opium from Saint Laurent, Seconals from Graceland, polyvinyl vaginas from Larry Flynt...Funky, punky, junky...you want it, we got it. See the mayor of San Francisco shot dead in his office, see the homosexual supervisor dying down the hall, see 900 bodies bloating in the jungle sun. Parental guidance suggested. Get your top hat and your spike heels, grab a whip, grab a chain, and get it on for The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Sorry, Norman Rockwell doesn't live here anymore.

Join the looters in New York, a police strike in Memphis, an orgy in L.A. Say hello to Harry Reems, get a rattlesnake by mail. (Who invited Solzhenitsyn?) Catch some herpes, get a facelift, rent-a-boy. Watch Linda Blair being raped with a plumber's helper/Linda Blair vomiting on a priest/Linda Blair masturbating with a crucifix. Check it out.

There's something in the air...a sense of slippage, the perfume of decay. Life is slick and bright and noisy, but there's a softness here, a crumbling behind the gloss. Chuck Barris is the man of the hour. Tacky? Sure he's tacky, but he's having a swell time. Chuck Barris is perfect. Disco, with its red-raw beat and endless climaxes, is the anthem of the '70s. High voltage, quick hits, that's what we want; nuance and texture can wait. It doesn't have to be good...we're talking bottom line here. We have raised image over substance, reduced sensuality to its crudest, most efficient forms. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, my rod and my vibrator comfort me.

Come July, it will be 10 years since Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon, and 10 years since Teddy Kennedy and Mary Jo Kopechne rode off Dike Bridge. Of the two events, Chappaquidick far better presaged the decade ahead. It was so callous, so sloppy.

We shrug off almost everything now, moving on...with a lot of help from the omnivorous media, to the next fleeting titillation. Fur ads in Vogue feature women being attacked by Dobermans. Shrug. Bianca Jagger, Billy Carter, Gary Gillmore, all hype, show, diversion. There's a new rock group called the Dead Kennedys. Shrug. It's as if we're beyond making distinctions, beyond caring. Do Teddy's celebrated indiscretions continue? No problem, his Gallup ratings have never been higher. Third graders are selling dope, White House aides are buying it. Our appetite for violence is insatiable. Sid Vicious is just a mixed-up kid.

Exhausted from our exertions of the '60s, all we ask for now is relief. Six hours of TV helps to get us through the day; life once removed is close enough, thanks. The impetus to rethink-reform-transform has long since slid into ennui. After two centuries, we have reached a consensus of indifference. "We do it all for you", that's the spirit of '79. Proposition 13, with it's shimmering promise of something for nothing, is a metaphor for the times. The beauty of Werner Erhard's PR project to end world hunger is that you don't have to do a thing. Small wonder Jerry Brown is our quintessential politician. Liberal, conservative, Jesuit, Buddhist... Jerry will give us what we want. No sweat.

Don't think about it. Don't think about anything. Turn up the volume, have another toke, honk if you're horny. Say, heeeeere's Johnny Dolly Reggie Woody Angie Amy Betty Donny Chevy Henry Goldie Liz and O.J. Immerse yourself in their glossy, empty lives, all the better to forget your own. Jackie oh Jackie oh Jackie ohhh.

There are almost no famous people anymore, only celebrities, "personalities". Fame is passe; it is much too solid, too suggestive of steady achievement. There still are ripples of grace and distinction, commitment and courage, but all seem in shorter supply now. It's no time for heroes. Bob Dylan at Caesar's Palace, coming soon.

And when you can't get it up for all the stars Steve Rubell ever dreamed of, when the fevers of a thousand Saturday nights and all the massage parlors in Wichita still aren't enough, there remains surrender, body and soul, to an Emperor Jones. Like the man said, choose your own poison.

Aw, the hell with it, forget it, we'll just ease on down the road. And, hey, welcome to America. The drinks are on the house. Bottoms up.

"Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
And too strong to be suppressed"

George Wither
(Mistress of Philarete)