Introducing Adventures in Modern Literature (1)
Like myself, I'm sure that many of you out there have picked up novels by the likes of Jonathan Franzen and Jennifer Egan having been told they're monumental literary works, only to be left disappointed. Both writers are impressive enough, but their efforts to date have done nothing to suggest that they'll one day produce a truly great novel. A Visit from the Goon Squad was fine for what it was (a collection of decent short stories dressed up as an ode to Proust), but I found myself bored by the events that were unfolding on more than one occasion. Franzen, meanwhile, seems to equate length with worth. With some judicious editing, both The Corrections and Freedom could have been every bit as thematically dense without the meandering passages, but instead wound up as sprawling books that never quite justify the page count. (2) I suppose these are my feelings toward modern literature in a nutshell.
Of course, a cross-section of two is hardly sufficient when contemplating the last 12-and-a-half years of published work, and isn't what I'm basing my apathy on. I've crossed paths with plenty of modern authors, and enjoyed some and loathed others, but I'm yet to find anything that will stay with me forever. That's what I'm looking for, because at its best that is what the form is all about: efforts that are worthy of being passed down from generation to generation and regarded as classics of literature. (3)
This is a voyage of discovery, one I'm partaking in because of my general disdain for or disinterest in 21st century novels and my desire to change. It's unreasonable to be a student of literature who dismisses the era they're living through out of hand as minor or irrelevant, so I'll be reading through supposed modern classics or highly lauded (or awarded) efforts published from 2000 onward in search of novels that reach the glorious heights the form achieved in centuries gone by. I would be delighted if you'd join me.
(1) I briefly considered calling this Modern Literature is Rubbish (possibly with a question mark at the end), because it'd make for a snappier, more provocative title. But that would be unfair on the thousands of 21st century books I haven't read (and don't intend to read/will never find the time to read), and besides, this is supposed to be a positive exploration rather than an extended condemnation.
(2) "It's too long" is often fingered as one of the weakest criticisms a person can make about a novel, but it really isn't. It's a perfectly valid way of attacking a plot that takes too long to deliver too little, and often speaks of an author's vanity. As far as Franzen is concerned, you can feel the strain he puts himself under to write a Great American Novel whilst reading his work; he reaches for epic but doesn't achieve it because a not unreasonable proportion of what he writes is best described as "padding."
(3) I know the notion of a canon is a tad ridiculous, but then so is the suggestion that "people like what they like" (true enough, but if you take the statement at face value then you render all forms of criticism redundant). Just because opinion is subjective doesn't mean it cannot be useful.
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
Thursday, 12 July 2012
Tales from Barcelona 4
Chapter 2: Under the Shadow of the Arc de Triomf, part one
Living in Manchester means the novelty of tapas wore off many years ago, once a glut of establishments realised they can sell piddling amounts of food for massively inflated prices to gullible customers convinced they're trying something exotic. For example, the following is a list of what £25 of my hard-earned money got me during a recent trip to a tapas restaurant in Chorlton:
1 chunk of chorizo
2 chunks of fried potato
2 bites of chicken stew
2 bites of lamb stew
1 calamari ring
Some bread
2 pints
Money well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. So is eating tapas in Spain a revelation that words can barely do justice? Certainly not in terms of taste; despite my varied slurs, Manchester is capable enough of delivering delicious tapas (and it's not like many of the dishes are particularly complex to put together in the first place). It's just that it always feels so forced. You can replicate the food, but you can't match the experience of actually being in a foreign country, nor can you benefit from the decent weather, and whilst it would be foolish to assume that eating tapas in Barcelona is as authentic as it was before the place became such a massive tourist hotspot, there's still a value to sitting outside in the sun, drinking beer and eating what are essentially bar snacks as the city bustles around you.
After arriving at the hotel and dumping our bags that's exactly what we set out to do. The nearest spot for it was Rambla del Poblenou, which proved to be everything La Rambla isn't; quiet and unhurried, the closest point of comparison in Manchester would probably be Burton Road: an area with all the local amenities you need and an abundance of food and drink options, albeit somewhere you wouldn't want to spend every night.
The winner of the evening was La Buena Vida (which translates as "the good life," I believe), a little bar and restaurant helpfully subtitled Oh My God Tapas! that delivered us artichoke crisps and an inexplicable dish of gyoza-style liver dumplings with a strawberry, paprika, and creme fraiche dip (all of which worked very well together). Before that, we'd sampled various Spanish sausages; afterward, we made a decision that in retrospect might have been influenced by our alcohol intake, strolling into a fish place and ordering a platter of deep fried seafood. After the trauma of our Ryanair flight, it was the perfect way to unwind.
* * *
The next day we mooched around the city, collected our festival wristbands, and ate and drank plenty more before making our way to the Arc de Triomf, where a free gig marked the opening of Primavera 2012. We caught the majority of Jeremy Jay's set, which was entertaining enough, proving a solid accompaniment to the slowly setting sun and the cold beers we'd bought from a nearby shop filled with revellers who'd had the same idea, eschewing the expensive on-site stalls. His brand of alt-pop is probably best described as "infectious," given that a few of his songs are still stuck in my head over a month later, the highlight being "Caught in a Whirl," which is basically a Wes Anderson movie distilled into four minutes of evocative music.
Having seen The Wedding Present tear through Bizarro in Berlin a couple of years back, I had pretty high hopes for their latest run-through of a classic album. In comparison, Seamonsters is a much slower and heavier affair, the sort of thing Lou Barlow sang about in "Gimme Indie Rock." This worked against it in the early going, with the sound a little muddy to begin with, but things quickly improved, allowing the material to become as powerful and imposing as it is on record. Gedge was as on as ever, singing songs of heartbreaks twenty years gone, breathing new life into their meaning and validating their existence by holding on to them.
* * *
I first caught The Walkmen, when they supported Idlewild at the big Academy in 2002, and was so impressed I talked one of the members of the band into selling me a copy of their debut album Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me is Gone at a slightly reduced price due to a lack of funds on my part. Since then, it's been a case of diminishing returns; neither that record nor any of their subsequent efforts have ever lived up to that transcendental first experience. I give each new album a shot upon release, typically enjoying it but not being moved by it in any way. I like the idea behind the band more than the execution, the way they're described on paper more than the music they produce. To my ears there is an emptiness at the heart of their music that I just can't move beyond, and with a few exceptions their output leaves me cold. Still, in marked contrast to my All Tomorrow's Parties 2010 experience (stay for "The Rat," leave immediately afterward), they struck a chord with me this time. The vastness of the setting gave their songs space to breathe, allowing their grace and elegance to shine the way it deserves to. Maybe I'll come to love them yet.
* * *
Deciding to call it a night so as not to burn ourselves out before the festival proper, we headed to the nearest Metro station, where we were lucky enough to hear a busker play the most approximate cover of "You Shook Me All Night Long" of all time. Meanwhile, on the station platform a big screen played basketball highlights, and under the influence I decided that I missed my calling coaching the sport. Before heading back to the hotel, we couldn't resist another trip to La Buena Vida, stuffing ourselves with Iberian kebab and the most delicious chicken strips in the world. Even though we didn't need the food, it seemed ridiculous to order drinks and not grab a bite to eat. It's what they do in Barcelona, after all, and why go against tradition?
Living in Manchester means the novelty of tapas wore off many years ago, once a glut of establishments realised they can sell piddling amounts of food for massively inflated prices to gullible customers convinced they're trying something exotic. For example, the following is a list of what £25 of my hard-earned money got me during a recent trip to a tapas restaurant in Chorlton:
1 chunk of chorizo
2 chunks of fried potato
2 bites of chicken stew
2 bites of lamb stew
1 calamari ring
Some bread
2 pints
Money well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. So is eating tapas in Spain a revelation that words can barely do justice? Certainly not in terms of taste; despite my varied slurs, Manchester is capable enough of delivering delicious tapas (and it's not like many of the dishes are particularly complex to put together in the first place). It's just that it always feels so forced. You can replicate the food, but you can't match the experience of actually being in a foreign country, nor can you benefit from the decent weather, and whilst it would be foolish to assume that eating tapas in Barcelona is as authentic as it was before the place became such a massive tourist hotspot, there's still a value to sitting outside in the sun, drinking beer and eating what are essentially bar snacks as the city bustles around you.
After arriving at the hotel and dumping our bags that's exactly what we set out to do. The nearest spot for it was Rambla del Poblenou, which proved to be everything La Rambla isn't; quiet and unhurried, the closest point of comparison in Manchester would probably be Burton Road: an area with all the local amenities you need and an abundance of food and drink options, albeit somewhere you wouldn't want to spend every night.
The winner of the evening was La Buena Vida (which translates as "the good life," I believe), a little bar and restaurant helpfully subtitled Oh My God Tapas! that delivered us artichoke crisps and an inexplicable dish of gyoza-style liver dumplings with a strawberry, paprika, and creme fraiche dip (all of which worked very well together). Before that, we'd sampled various Spanish sausages; afterward, we made a decision that in retrospect might have been influenced by our alcohol intake, strolling into a fish place and ordering a platter of deep fried seafood. After the trauma of our Ryanair flight, it was the perfect way to unwind.
* * *
The next day we mooched around the city, collected our festival wristbands, and ate and drank plenty more before making our way to the Arc de Triomf, where a free gig marked the opening of Primavera 2012. We caught the majority of Jeremy Jay's set, which was entertaining enough, proving a solid accompaniment to the slowly setting sun and the cold beers we'd bought from a nearby shop filled with revellers who'd had the same idea, eschewing the expensive on-site stalls. His brand of alt-pop is probably best described as "infectious," given that a few of his songs are still stuck in my head over a month later, the highlight being "Caught in a Whirl," which is basically a Wes Anderson movie distilled into four minutes of evocative music.
Having seen The Wedding Present tear through Bizarro in Berlin a couple of years back, I had pretty high hopes for their latest run-through of a classic album. In comparison, Seamonsters is a much slower and heavier affair, the sort of thing Lou Barlow sang about in "Gimme Indie Rock." This worked against it in the early going, with the sound a little muddy to begin with, but things quickly improved, allowing the material to become as powerful and imposing as it is on record. Gedge was as on as ever, singing songs of heartbreaks twenty years gone, breathing new life into their meaning and validating their existence by holding on to them.
* * *
I first caught The Walkmen, when they supported Idlewild at the big Academy in 2002, and was so impressed I talked one of the members of the band into selling me a copy of their debut album Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me is Gone at a slightly reduced price due to a lack of funds on my part. Since then, it's been a case of diminishing returns; neither that record nor any of their subsequent efforts have ever lived up to that transcendental first experience. I give each new album a shot upon release, typically enjoying it but not being moved by it in any way. I like the idea behind the band more than the execution, the way they're described on paper more than the music they produce. To my ears there is an emptiness at the heart of their music that I just can't move beyond, and with a few exceptions their output leaves me cold. Still, in marked contrast to my All Tomorrow's Parties 2010 experience (stay for "The Rat," leave immediately afterward), they struck a chord with me this time. The vastness of the setting gave their songs space to breathe, allowing their grace and elegance to shine the way it deserves to. Maybe I'll come to love them yet.
* * *
Deciding to call it a night so as not to burn ourselves out before the festival proper, we headed to the nearest Metro station, where we were lucky enough to hear a busker play the most approximate cover of "You Shook Me All Night Long" of all time. Meanwhile, on the station platform a big screen played basketball highlights, and under the influence I decided that I missed my calling coaching the sport. Before heading back to the hotel, we couldn't resist another trip to La Buena Vida, stuffing ourselves with Iberian kebab and the most delicious chicken strips in the world. Even though we didn't need the food, it seemed ridiculous to order drinks and not grab a bite to eat. It's what they do in Barcelona, after all, and why go against tradition?
Sunday, 1 July 2012
5 Reasons I Haven't Watched Any of Euro 2012
1. "Come on England!"
How can any reasonable human being not hate everything to do with the way we support England? People hanging flags from their windows or attaching them to cars. Tabloid newspapers rehashing World War II with lame, offensive humour every time we're drawn against Germany. The ecstasy of victory and agony of defeat suddenly becoming crucial to national self-esteem. People talking about "the mood of the camp." England's Brave John Terry, possibly the most unsupportable man to ever have represented his country. Post-mortems that last for weeks and yet always reach the same conclusion: the players simply aren't good enough. Even people like me, who rebel against this common cause and support whichever team England are facing. These three words - and all they entail - make fools of us.
2. An international tournament without South American and African teams is a waste of everyone's time
The truth is that modern international football tournaments are almost always a letdown. Think about it: since Euro 96, which competition has stuck in your memory as a great sporting event? Certainly nothing that has taken place in the 21st century. If you don't believe me, think about the victors, which include probably the worst Italian and Brazilian sides to ever win anything. Face it: the few great games are vastly outweighed by interminable dreck that punishes a person for taking an interest in the first place. But at least at the World Cup there's always one or two South American teams with genuine flair, and one or two African teams capturing the hearts of neutrals as they chase the continent's first ever World Cup, in both cases playing exciting football. Meaning we get to enjoy spectacles such as Uruguay vs Ghana at the quarter-final stage of the 2010 tournament, an instant classic that had just about all the drama you could hope for. Who was the non-partisan viewer supposed to root for this time round?
3. Spain are the new Greece
On that same note: when Greece won Euro 2004, it was pretty much mandatory to laud their achievement: massive underdogs overcome the odds to lift their first ever international trophy. It wasn't mandatory to actually enjoy their achievement, though, nor was it possible, given that their tactics essentially comprised of boring the opposition into submission and nicking a single goal somewhere along the way.
When Greece adopted this approach, it was understandable; after all, their squad was entirely lacking in quality. Spain, however, have any number of word class players in their ranks, including a midfield that at Barcelona outpass and outplay almost every team they go up against AND score an abundance of goals in the process. Whilst Spain's Euro 2008 success felt like just desserts for a great footballing nation, their progress through the 2010 World Cup was essentially one massive prolonged yawn, and by the end I was hoping Holland would butcher their way to victory. Despite their very best efforts to do exactly that, Spain proved triumphant, and in the process validated their approach to the game.
It would be unfair to say that Spain are like watching paint dry. I think of it more like staring at a metronome for 90 minutes. Which of course is an equally dull way to spend one's time. Never again do I want to subject myself to sitting in front of the television as they eke out a 1-0 victory against a side they could put five past if they were willing to shoot a little more.
4. Almost all pundits and commentators in this country are awful
Let us consider that statement in greater depth. Naming a favourite out of hosts Gary Lineker and Adrian Chiles is like Sophie's choice, if instead of her two children she had to pick between a sack of shit and a bottle of piss. Alan Hansen gave up trying years ago, shortly after "you can't win anything with kids" destroyed his professional credibility forever. Roy Keane is too filled with contempt for all mankind to offer anything in the way of insight. Lee Dixon: if by any chance you're reading, being described as "the best of a bad bunch" really isn't a compliment. And the parade of unemployed or unemployable managers on display is like walking through an animal sanctuary: it breaks your heart just a little, especially since you know that most of them have no chance of finding a new home.
Dreadful though they may be, none of the above are the worst offender. That honour is shared between Alan Shearer and Mark Lawrenson. Can you picture anyone sat at home as Shearer offers his patented brand of talking a lot and saying nothing whatsoever in the dullest voice in recorded history and thinking "that's some spot on analysis, Alan"? As for Lawrenson, his asides on commentary often paint him as a man who has not only lost touch with the modern world, but is slowly losing his sanity. When he insults Twitter users, or cracks jokes with racist or homophobic undertones, remember that your license fee is paying for him to do so.
In the battle of the networks, ITV "wins" by virtue of the fact that a) it doesn't employ Alan Shearer; b) it doesn't employ Mark Lawrenson; and c) at least adverts truncate the amount of time the viewer has to spend listening to jibbering inanities delivered by idiots. But the only true winner is the person who opts out.
5. Between live blogs and Twitter, actually watching football is pointless
Despite my refusal to watch any of the tournament, I've still retained a passing interest in it. Not enough to read the infinite number of think-pieces it has inspired, but certainly enough to follow the BBC and Guardian live blogs. For the uninitiated, they provide minute-by-minute coverage and analysis, with plenty of humour thrown in too. I'm free to check in on them as and when I please, and read over what's happened when I've not been paying attention, all the while doing more productive things with my time.
To supplement that, I have wonderful Twitter, and the people who dedicate themselves to cracking jokes. Enjoy shots at Spain not naming a recognised striker in their team, jibes at the obvious futility of England's efforts, or ribs at the cameramen and their propensity to spend a rather disproportionate amount of time lingering on shots of attractive Sweden fans? Twitter has you covered. It's difficult to imagine that any of the actual football could've provided more entertainment than, say, the Betfair Poker Twitter account, a surrealist masterpiece that described the Spain-Portugal match as a "bleak, humourless restaging of Waiting for Godot" and claiming that an iPad wielding Joe Hart was preparing for the penalty shootout against Italy "by watching a DVD of season 2 of Breaking Bad." Or how about News Manc taking the piss out of UEFA's practically unfathomable system for group qualification: "If Denmark manage a victory by two or more goals over Germany and the Dutch beat Portugal, Tottenham still only go into the Europa League." I haven't watched a minute of the tournament, and yet I feel confident in saying that nothing on the pitch topped the online humour it inspired.
How can any reasonable human being not hate everything to do with the way we support England? People hanging flags from their windows or attaching them to cars. Tabloid newspapers rehashing World War II with lame, offensive humour every time we're drawn against Germany. The ecstasy of victory and agony of defeat suddenly becoming crucial to national self-esteem. People talking about "the mood of the camp." England's Brave John Terry, possibly the most unsupportable man to ever have represented his country. Post-mortems that last for weeks and yet always reach the same conclusion: the players simply aren't good enough. Even people like me, who rebel against this common cause and support whichever team England are facing. These three words - and all they entail - make fools of us.
2. An international tournament without South American and African teams is a waste of everyone's time
The truth is that modern international football tournaments are almost always a letdown. Think about it: since Euro 96, which competition has stuck in your memory as a great sporting event? Certainly nothing that has taken place in the 21st century. If you don't believe me, think about the victors, which include probably the worst Italian and Brazilian sides to ever win anything. Face it: the few great games are vastly outweighed by interminable dreck that punishes a person for taking an interest in the first place. But at least at the World Cup there's always one or two South American teams with genuine flair, and one or two African teams capturing the hearts of neutrals as they chase the continent's first ever World Cup, in both cases playing exciting football. Meaning we get to enjoy spectacles such as Uruguay vs Ghana at the quarter-final stage of the 2010 tournament, an instant classic that had just about all the drama you could hope for. Who was the non-partisan viewer supposed to root for this time round?
3. Spain are the new Greece
On that same note: when Greece won Euro 2004, it was pretty much mandatory to laud their achievement: massive underdogs overcome the odds to lift their first ever international trophy. It wasn't mandatory to actually enjoy their achievement, though, nor was it possible, given that their tactics essentially comprised of boring the opposition into submission and nicking a single goal somewhere along the way.
When Greece adopted this approach, it was understandable; after all, their squad was entirely lacking in quality. Spain, however, have any number of word class players in their ranks, including a midfield that at Barcelona outpass and outplay almost every team they go up against AND score an abundance of goals in the process. Whilst Spain's Euro 2008 success felt like just desserts for a great footballing nation, their progress through the 2010 World Cup was essentially one massive prolonged yawn, and by the end I was hoping Holland would butcher their way to victory. Despite their very best efforts to do exactly that, Spain proved triumphant, and in the process validated their approach to the game.
It would be unfair to say that Spain are like watching paint dry. I think of it more like staring at a metronome for 90 minutes. Which of course is an equally dull way to spend one's time. Never again do I want to subject myself to sitting in front of the television as they eke out a 1-0 victory against a side they could put five past if they were willing to shoot a little more.
4. Almost all pundits and commentators in this country are awful
Let us consider that statement in greater depth. Naming a favourite out of hosts Gary Lineker and Adrian Chiles is like Sophie's choice, if instead of her two children she had to pick between a sack of shit and a bottle of piss. Alan Hansen gave up trying years ago, shortly after "you can't win anything with kids" destroyed his professional credibility forever. Roy Keane is too filled with contempt for all mankind to offer anything in the way of insight. Lee Dixon: if by any chance you're reading, being described as "the best of a bad bunch" really isn't a compliment. And the parade of unemployed or unemployable managers on display is like walking through an animal sanctuary: it breaks your heart just a little, especially since you know that most of them have no chance of finding a new home.
Dreadful though they may be, none of the above are the worst offender. That honour is shared between Alan Shearer and Mark Lawrenson. Can you picture anyone sat at home as Shearer offers his patented brand of talking a lot and saying nothing whatsoever in the dullest voice in recorded history and thinking "that's some spot on analysis, Alan"? As for Lawrenson, his asides on commentary often paint him as a man who has not only lost touch with the modern world, but is slowly losing his sanity. When he insults Twitter users, or cracks jokes with racist or homophobic undertones, remember that your license fee is paying for him to do so.
In the battle of the networks, ITV "wins" by virtue of the fact that a) it doesn't employ Alan Shearer; b) it doesn't employ Mark Lawrenson; and c) at least adverts truncate the amount of time the viewer has to spend listening to jibbering inanities delivered by idiots. But the only true winner is the person who opts out.
5. Between live blogs and Twitter, actually watching football is pointless
Despite my refusal to watch any of the tournament, I've still retained a passing interest in it. Not enough to read the infinite number of think-pieces it has inspired, but certainly enough to follow the BBC and Guardian live blogs. For the uninitiated, they provide minute-by-minute coverage and analysis, with plenty of humour thrown in too. I'm free to check in on them as and when I please, and read over what's happened when I've not been paying attention, all the while doing more productive things with my time.
To supplement that, I have wonderful Twitter, and the people who dedicate themselves to cracking jokes. Enjoy shots at Spain not naming a recognised striker in their team, jibes at the obvious futility of England's efforts, or ribs at the cameramen and their propensity to spend a rather disproportionate amount of time lingering on shots of attractive Sweden fans? Twitter has you covered. It's difficult to imagine that any of the actual football could've provided more entertainment than, say, the Betfair Poker Twitter account, a surrealist masterpiece that described the Spain-Portugal match as a "bleak, humourless restaging of Waiting for Godot" and claiming that an iPad wielding Joe Hart was preparing for the penalty shootout against Italy "by watching a DVD of season 2 of Breaking Bad." Or how about News Manc taking the piss out of UEFA's practically unfathomable system for group qualification: "If Denmark manage a victory by two or more goals over Germany and the Dutch beat Portugal, Tottenham still only go into the Europa League." I haven't watched a minute of the tournament, and yet I feel confident in saying that nothing on the pitch topped the online humour it inspired.
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Schrodinger's Mailbox: Epilogue
Today I decided it was finally time to check the mailbox. Inside were seven letters containing bills from utilities companies, an absurd number of flyers and circulars, and one dead cat.
Monday, 18 June 2012
Schrodinger's Mailbox
Life as an adult can be difficult, and there are still certain responsibilities I haven't gotten used to. Paying for the likes of water, electricity, and gas is one of them.
But before you think I'm getting all #firstworldproblems on you, let me put your mind at ease. I don't hate or resent having to pay bills; such transactions are entirely reasonable in nature. No, it's the act of paying bills I hate or, more specifically, can't be bothered with. The typing of endless information into an online form, or else the phonecall to a line that starts off automated before plunging you into human interaction without warning, or else trying to locate a Post Office that is open at sane hours of the day: each choice a task so arduous it could be chronicled by Tolkien. They haven't yet devised a payment option that doesn't strike me as the biggest inconvenience of all time.
The solution to my woes came to me by accident, in the form of a well-known thought experiment that I've unknowingly been carrying out for the last two months, the same amount of time that has passed since I last checked the mailbox. Partly because the tiny little key that opens the box is missing. I know that it is somewhere in the flat, but its exact location is unknown and its absence unlamented, so the search was called off before it even got started, largely because of a nonsensical complacency: I'm so certain that I could find it within two minutes of looking that it's like I've already found it, and if I've already found it, why would I need to look for it?
Because of this attitude, I find myself in the perfect situation. It goes without saying that nestled in the mailbox are several letters from utilities companies, all requesting money. It's been two months: of course the bills are mounting. However, because the box has not been opened, and the letters containing the bills not retrieved, it is impossible to say with absolute certainty that such letters exist. So at the same time they exist and do not exist, a glorious paradox that both critiques the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics and means I do not have to contend with the reality of my debts.
I'm sure Erwin Schrodinger could only dream about such a practical application of his theories.
But before you think I'm getting all #firstworldproblems on you, let me put your mind at ease. I don't hate or resent having to pay bills; such transactions are entirely reasonable in nature. No, it's the act of paying bills I hate or, more specifically, can't be bothered with. The typing of endless information into an online form, or else the phonecall to a line that starts off automated before plunging you into human interaction without warning, or else trying to locate a Post Office that is open at sane hours of the day: each choice a task so arduous it could be chronicled by Tolkien. They haven't yet devised a payment option that doesn't strike me as the biggest inconvenience of all time.
The solution to my woes came to me by accident, in the form of a well-known thought experiment that I've unknowingly been carrying out for the last two months, the same amount of time that has passed since I last checked the mailbox. Partly because the tiny little key that opens the box is missing. I know that it is somewhere in the flat, but its exact location is unknown and its absence unlamented, so the search was called off before it even got started, largely because of a nonsensical complacency: I'm so certain that I could find it within two minutes of looking that it's like I've already found it, and if I've already found it, why would I need to look for it?
Because of this attitude, I find myself in the perfect situation. It goes without saying that nestled in the mailbox are several letters from utilities companies, all requesting money. It's been two months: of course the bills are mounting. However, because the box has not been opened, and the letters containing the bills not retrieved, it is impossible to say with absolute certainty that such letters exist. So at the same time they exist and do not exist, a glorious paradox that both critiques the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics and means I do not have to contend with the reality of my debts.
I'm sure Erwin Schrodinger could only dream about such a practical application of his theories.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Tales from Barcelona 3
Interlude: You Get What You Pay For
Ryanair CEO Michael O'Leary hates you, your friends, your family, and your favourite childhood pet, and will continue to do so no matter how often you pay to use his airline.
Every time someone books a Ryanair flight, Baby Jesus cries.
Ryanair's terms and conditions includes sections dedicated to its "right to cancel flights on whims and fancies," its "right to fly you to an airport other than the one advertised, or to a different country altogether if the mood takes us," and its "right to plant drugs in your luggage if Ryanair staff are bored." The terms and conditions document runs some 500 pages, and is designed to rob customers not just of their rights, but of their dignity.
Ryanair specifically requests that airport security frisks its customers particularly roughly, regardless of whether or not they set off the metal detector.
Ryanair pilots spend the entirety of each flight idly daydreaming about anally fisting you without lubrication. Ryanair co-pilots think about what deep fried kitten would taste like.
It is forbidden to look Ryanair stewards and stewardesses directly in the eye. Any breach of protocol regarding this rule will result in the guilty party being ejected from the plane. Whilst midair.
All products sold on Ryanair flights contain nuts. That includes duty free items such as alcohol, perfumes, and stuffed toys. In addition, the stewards and stewardesses rub every seat with nuts before take-off. O'Leary has hated people with nut allergies ever since a classmate's condition forced the cancellation of a promised school trip to a local cake factory.
Ryanair charges its customers for breathing, with one complete in-and-out cycle costing 10p. The cost rises to 50p per cycle if the oxygen masks drop (supply and demand in action). In the event of the plane plummeting to the earth and wiping out everyone on board, passengers' billing information is recorded on the black box, and the debt is passed on to the deceased individuals' families.
O'Leary caused controversy when claiming the ash clouds that disrupted travel in April 2010 were "mythical." In the past, he has made similar statements concerning armadillos, table tennis, Margaret Thatcher, the Great Fire of London, and Lithuania.
There is at least a 50% chance that the next time I fly it will be with Ryanair. My greatest hope in life is that one day I'll be able to get that percentage down to zero.
Ryanair CEO Michael O'Leary hates you, your friends, your family, and your favourite childhood pet, and will continue to do so no matter how often you pay to use his airline.
Every time someone books a Ryanair flight, Baby Jesus cries.
Ryanair's terms and conditions includes sections dedicated to its "right to cancel flights on whims and fancies," its "right to fly you to an airport other than the one advertised, or to a different country altogether if the mood takes us," and its "right to plant drugs in your luggage if Ryanair staff are bored." The terms and conditions document runs some 500 pages, and is designed to rob customers not just of their rights, but of their dignity.
Ryanair specifically requests that airport security frisks its customers particularly roughly, regardless of whether or not they set off the metal detector.
Ryanair pilots spend the entirety of each flight idly daydreaming about anally fisting you without lubrication. Ryanair co-pilots think about what deep fried kitten would taste like.
It is forbidden to look Ryanair stewards and stewardesses directly in the eye. Any breach of protocol regarding this rule will result in the guilty party being ejected from the plane. Whilst midair.
All products sold on Ryanair flights contain nuts. That includes duty free items such as alcohol, perfumes, and stuffed toys. In addition, the stewards and stewardesses rub every seat with nuts before take-off. O'Leary has hated people with nut allergies ever since a classmate's condition forced the cancellation of a promised school trip to a local cake factory.
Ryanair charges its customers for breathing, with one complete in-and-out cycle costing 10p. The cost rises to 50p per cycle if the oxygen masks drop (supply and demand in action). In the event of the plane plummeting to the earth and wiping out everyone on board, passengers' billing information is recorded on the black box, and the debt is passed on to the deceased individuals' families.
O'Leary caused controversy when claiming the ash clouds that disrupted travel in April 2010 were "mythical." In the past, he has made similar statements concerning armadillos, table tennis, Margaret Thatcher, the Great Fire of London, and Lithuania.
There is at least a 50% chance that the next time I fly it will be with Ryanair. My greatest hope in life is that one day I'll be able to get that percentage down to zero.
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Tales from Barcelona 2
Chapter 1: Me and Barcelona
It started six years ago, as I exited the Metro station outside of Sagrada Familia to be confronted with the most amazing structure I have ever seen with my own eyes, an insane church straight from the mind of one of the few men worthy of the tag "genius." It ended with a classical version of "The Winner Takes It All" playing in the underground, followed by the ABBA version soundtracking my last minutes in the airport a few hours later. Of course, that's assuming that the story has come to a close, which seems unlikely. Chances are I'll find a reason to return to Barcelona.
On my first visit I fell in love with the place, even after accidentally finding myself on a date with another guy, being assaulted by a prostitute whilst walking along La Rambla, and spending the early hours of one morning asleep on a bench. Or maybe because of those things; a city isn't worth much if you don't have stories to tie you to it. I tried to fit everything in - the Picasso museum, the Joan Miro Foundation, the Nou Camp, Parc Guell, Montjuic - and despite my best efforts only managed to scratch the surface. Still, the impression I was left with was overwhelmingly favourable.
That goodwill was wiped out almost entirely by my second visit, although I'll be the first to admit that I got the mechanics of the trip wrong from start to finish. Much like this year, the primary reason for flying out was the Primavera music festival. However, at times it was disastrous: flights with Ryanair at ungodly hours of the day from Liverpool to "Barcelona" Reus, which is actually close to two hours outside of the city centre; a ridiculous schedule of moving from hostel to apartment to hotel to hostel; the combination of the above conspiring to deny me the time needed to enjoy the beats and rhythms of the city. Add in some poorly thought out food choices and some truly brutal hangovers, and the good times - the actual festival, basically - were contained in one tiny part of Barcelona, rendering the rest of the holiday superfluous. Still, Primavera was enough fun to convince me to return.
What follows is primarily the story of my third visit, although I reserve the right to veer from a linear path in order to ramble on about other experiences - and about nothing in particular - whenever the mood takes me. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it.
It started six years ago, as I exited the Metro station outside of Sagrada Familia to be confronted with the most amazing structure I have ever seen with my own eyes, an insane church straight from the mind of one of the few men worthy of the tag "genius." It ended with a classical version of "The Winner Takes It All" playing in the underground, followed by the ABBA version soundtracking my last minutes in the airport a few hours later. Of course, that's assuming that the story has come to a close, which seems unlikely. Chances are I'll find a reason to return to Barcelona.
* * *
In many ways, Barcelona is something of a mess, a perennial work-in-progress, the spirit of which is best embodied by Antoni Gaudi's aforementioned masterpiece, which started construction in 1882 and won't be finished before 2026 at the earliest. A sprawling mass of high rises that seems eternally stuck in the 20th century, punctuated only occasionally by breathtaking architecture and the odd modern glass structure, still trapped beneath the weight of a dictatorship that came to an end less than 40 years ago. The constant regeneration that has occurred since then has had a relatively limited impact, and in many respects Barcelona is a relic.
But a city should never be defined solely by appearances. Barcelona is one of the most alive places you could ever hope to spend time in; not in the "never sleeps" sense, like New York or Berlin, but in the sense that during the peak hours of human activity it is absolutely relentless. It hasn't been neutered like so many major cities; tourist traps exist, but wandering off the beaten track pays off big time, and any given back alley can be a hub of activity, home to an amazing restaurant or a blink-and-you'll-miss-it bar. I could spend an entire post elucidating about the grid system much of the city was built in. And although the regeneration moves at a slow pace, it remains a sign of the constant evolution that is likely to continue well into the future. Barcelona has a character completely of its own, and for that it should be cherished.
* * *
On my first visit I fell in love with the place, even after accidentally finding myself on a date with another guy, being assaulted by a prostitute whilst walking along La Rambla, and spending the early hours of one morning asleep on a bench. Or maybe because of those things; a city isn't worth much if you don't have stories to tie you to it. I tried to fit everything in - the Picasso museum, the Joan Miro Foundation, the Nou Camp, Parc Guell, Montjuic - and despite my best efforts only managed to scratch the surface. Still, the impression I was left with was overwhelmingly favourable.
That goodwill was wiped out almost entirely by my second visit, although I'll be the first to admit that I got the mechanics of the trip wrong from start to finish. Much like this year, the primary reason for flying out was the Primavera music festival. However, at times it was disastrous: flights with Ryanair at ungodly hours of the day from Liverpool to "Barcelona" Reus, which is actually close to two hours outside of the city centre; a ridiculous schedule of moving from hostel to apartment to hotel to hostel; the combination of the above conspiring to deny me the time needed to enjoy the beats and rhythms of the city. Add in some poorly thought out food choices and some truly brutal hangovers, and the good times - the actual festival, basically - were contained in one tiny part of Barcelona, rendering the rest of the holiday superfluous. Still, Primavera was enough fun to convince me to return.
What follows is primarily the story of my third visit, although I reserve the right to veer from a linear path in order to ramble on about other experiences - and about nothing in particular - whenever the mood takes me. Hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed living it.
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Tales from Barcelona 1
Prelude: Remembering the Dead
The Cure went on stage at ten fifteen on Friday 1st June for their Primavera 2012 set, and they stayed there for the next thirty hours. In the buildup to the festival, the weak-willed promoters had continually acquiesced to Robert Smith's repeated demands for more time, eventually allowing him and his band to both headline the second night and close the third and final night without interruption.
The Cure played many of their obscure songs, b-sides, and album tracks more than once, whilst dropping in their hits at a rate of one approximately every two hours. They saved "Boys Don't Cry" for last. "Play Boys Don't Cry" shouted every single Primavera attendee at least once during the course of the band's set. "Not yet," Robert Smith replied calmly each time. "We're going to play another mostly instrumental cut from one of our less popular albums. We know that's what you want to hear really."
The thousands of loyal Cure fans in attendance never did give up hope that they would hear "Boys Don't Cry," and remained rooted in front of the San Miguel stage for the entirety of the performance. Their happiness was diminished, however, when they realised that the band's selfishness had robbed them of the final day of the festival. En masse, they unleashed their anger along the coast of East Barcelona, razing much of it to the ground. Many of the male rioters were visibly in tears, softly singing Cure songs to themselves and repeating the question "why does Robert Smith hate me?" to no-one in particular. It took three days to get the violence under control, and amidst all the destruction over 50,000 people died.
Their blood is on your hands, Robert Smith. Their blood is on your hands.
The story that follows is dedicated to their memory.
The Cure went on stage at ten fifteen on Friday 1st June for their Primavera 2012 set, and they stayed there for the next thirty hours. In the buildup to the festival, the weak-willed promoters had continually acquiesced to Robert Smith's repeated demands for more time, eventually allowing him and his band to both headline the second night and close the third and final night without interruption.
The Cure played many of their obscure songs, b-sides, and album tracks more than once, whilst dropping in their hits at a rate of one approximately every two hours. They saved "Boys Don't Cry" for last. "Play Boys Don't Cry" shouted every single Primavera attendee at least once during the course of the band's set. "Not yet," Robert Smith replied calmly each time. "We're going to play another mostly instrumental cut from one of our less popular albums. We know that's what you want to hear really."
The thousands of loyal Cure fans in attendance never did give up hope that they would hear "Boys Don't Cry," and remained rooted in front of the San Miguel stage for the entirety of the performance. Their happiness was diminished, however, when they realised that the band's selfishness had robbed them of the final day of the festival. En masse, they unleashed their anger along the coast of East Barcelona, razing much of it to the ground. Many of the male rioters were visibly in tears, softly singing Cure songs to themselves and repeating the question "why does Robert Smith hate me?" to no-one in particular. It took three days to get the violence under control, and amidst all the destruction over 50,000 people died.
Their blood is on your hands, Robert Smith. Their blood is on your hands.
The story that follows is dedicated to their memory.
Friday, 18 May 2012
My Days as a Mover and Shaker
Between the champagne reception and the breakfast on expenses I knew one thing: I had well and truly arrived.
Of course, it took a fair bit of time to get there. Two hours and eight minutes, to be precise. That's how long the train from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston took. The train that tilted from time to time, and did nothing for my travel sickness. The train with free Wi-Fi and an onboard shop. The train that drove me to bigger and better things: my two days as a mover and shaker.
I've never had much cause to think of myself as a businessperson. Life has never much required me to wear a suit. But as we get older, and our careers progress, such occasions are bound to crop up from time to time. Which is how I found myself travelling down to London, to attend a conference dedicated to young leaders.
In preparation, I had purchased a brand new business suit, as my old one was looking decidedly rough around the edges. It is important to make a good first impression, after all. I even packed three ties. I own five ties altogether, although how I've accumulated so many I have no idea. They just seem to turn up from time to time, buried amongst the debris that builds up in any bedroom. I lugged a heavy travel bag onto the train, sat myself down, and spent the entire journey writing. Every single word I penned I'd somehow lost by the time I got back to Manchester, including one of the most perfect paragraphs I have ever been responsible for. My attempts to put it back together again from memory have completely failed.
As soon as I exited Euston station I was comprehensively lost, in that I had not bothered to research where my hotel was located and thus didn't have the slightest idea how to find it. For about five minutes it seemed reasonable to assume that I would remain lost for the rest of my life, but then I rooted around in my bag, pulled out a couple of maps that were rather lacking in detail, and managed to gain my bearings. I immediately walked past a film set, which is how I imagine every day in London must be for those who live there.
Upon arriving at my hotel, the girl who checked me in was both in training and a very colourful character. She engaged me in humorous banter, but due to creeping exhaustion I was of no use to her, either as a straight man to her comedic stylings or as a human being offering normal conversational responses. Toward the end of our exchange I attempted to crack a joke of my own, but it fell flat. Both of us were glad when our dealings were complete.
The room I stayed in was modest but well-appointed. There was a Bible and everything. I skimmed through it, making a mental note to replace Anthony Powell with Genesis as my bedtime reading. Switching on my computer, however, my worst fears were confirmed: no free Wi-Fi. The only two options were to bankrupt myself paying BT Openzone rates, or begrudgingly go without. There was a TV, but I hardly ever bother with TV these days. Unless I stream it, of course. With nothing else to do, I filled up the kettle and put it on to boil.
After a cup of tea came the realisation that I needed something to eat. I briefly considered finding a restaurant of some kind and eating there, alone, but as time was getting on I decided that I wanted neither the bother nor the expense. I remembered that on my way to the hotel I had passed a Sainsbury's. I contemplated wearing my new business suit to Sainsbury's - being anxious to take it out for a spin - but decided that the formality of the dress would not be in keeping with the occasion. I headed back out, trudging past the film set once more, this time paying a bit more attention to the trailers. There was one for a guy called Guy and one for a guy called Josh. And one for Nat and one for Chloe. And an entire trailer dedicated to an unnamed dialect coach.
When I arrived at the supermarket I was disappointed to discover that I had left my wallet at the hotel. The duck and hoisin wrap I had been hungrily eyeing up remained on the shelf as I exited and walked past the film set for a third time. By that point the novelty had worn off. I spent the minutes that followed traversing the hotel's corridors pretending that staying there was a profound meditation on loneliness and isolation, just like Lost in Translation. After an interminable period I had finally secured a sandwich, and just about had enough time to eat it before I fell to sleep.
The conference itself was great. Lots of networking and keynote speakers. Presentations and teamworking activities. The type of stuff they don't teach you in schools, because they're too busy teaching ancient mathematics with no practical day-to-day usage. They taught us how to get ahead. And who doesn't want to get ahead? Better that than standing still or heading backward. Alternative culture has a lot to answer for, teaching generations of individuals that ambition is a bad thing. And the only lesson I remember from school is what an Oxbow river looks like.
A lot of people had iPads and iPhones. All I had was a water damaged Samsung that refuses to send text messages. But in the cutthroat business world, you can't let such disadvantages get you down. At the end of the first day, we walked by the canal toward Camden, en route for an evening of free food and drink. All dressed up with somewhere to go. The luxury of the surroundings suited me far better than the fluorescent lighting of a takeaway joint serving tragic fried chicken and soggy fries at three in the morning. And when servers are constantly topping up your wine glass, it becomes impossible to tell whether you've consumed two glasses or two bottles.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and once the conference wrapped up I was simply a commuter, elbowing past people in a desperate dash for any available seat. As the train pulled out of London Euston I knew one thing: I had well and truly departed.
Of course, it took a fair bit of time to get there. Two hours and eight minutes, to be precise. That's how long the train from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston took. The train that tilted from time to time, and did nothing for my travel sickness. The train with free Wi-Fi and an onboard shop. The train that drove me to bigger and better things: my two days as a mover and shaker.
* * *
I've never had much cause to think of myself as a businessperson. Life has never much required me to wear a suit. But as we get older, and our careers progress, such occasions are bound to crop up from time to time. Which is how I found myself travelling down to London, to attend a conference dedicated to young leaders.
In preparation, I had purchased a brand new business suit, as my old one was looking decidedly rough around the edges. It is important to make a good first impression, after all. I even packed three ties. I own five ties altogether, although how I've accumulated so many I have no idea. They just seem to turn up from time to time, buried amongst the debris that builds up in any bedroom. I lugged a heavy travel bag onto the train, sat myself down, and spent the entire journey writing. Every single word I penned I'd somehow lost by the time I got back to Manchester, including one of the most perfect paragraphs I have ever been responsible for. My attempts to put it back together again from memory have completely failed.
* * *
As soon as I exited Euston station I was comprehensively lost, in that I had not bothered to research where my hotel was located and thus didn't have the slightest idea how to find it. For about five minutes it seemed reasonable to assume that I would remain lost for the rest of my life, but then I rooted around in my bag, pulled out a couple of maps that were rather lacking in detail, and managed to gain my bearings. I immediately walked past a film set, which is how I imagine every day in London must be for those who live there.
Upon arriving at my hotel, the girl who checked me in was both in training and a very colourful character. She engaged me in humorous banter, but due to creeping exhaustion I was of no use to her, either as a straight man to her comedic stylings or as a human being offering normal conversational responses. Toward the end of our exchange I attempted to crack a joke of my own, but it fell flat. Both of us were glad when our dealings were complete.
The room I stayed in was modest but well-appointed. There was a Bible and everything. I skimmed through it, making a mental note to replace Anthony Powell with Genesis as my bedtime reading. Switching on my computer, however, my worst fears were confirmed: no free Wi-Fi. The only two options were to bankrupt myself paying BT Openzone rates, or begrudgingly go without. There was a TV, but I hardly ever bother with TV these days. Unless I stream it, of course. With nothing else to do, I filled up the kettle and put it on to boil.
After a cup of tea came the realisation that I needed something to eat. I briefly considered finding a restaurant of some kind and eating there, alone, but as time was getting on I decided that I wanted neither the bother nor the expense. I remembered that on my way to the hotel I had passed a Sainsbury's. I contemplated wearing my new business suit to Sainsbury's - being anxious to take it out for a spin - but decided that the formality of the dress would not be in keeping with the occasion. I headed back out, trudging past the film set once more, this time paying a bit more attention to the trailers. There was one for a guy called Guy and one for a guy called Josh. And one for Nat and one for Chloe. And an entire trailer dedicated to an unnamed dialect coach.
When I arrived at the supermarket I was disappointed to discover that I had left my wallet at the hotel. The duck and hoisin wrap I had been hungrily eyeing up remained on the shelf as I exited and walked past the film set for a third time. By that point the novelty had worn off. I spent the minutes that followed traversing the hotel's corridors pretending that staying there was a profound meditation on loneliness and isolation, just like Lost in Translation. After an interminable period I had finally secured a sandwich, and just about had enough time to eat it before I fell to sleep.
* * *
The conference itself was great. Lots of networking and keynote speakers. Presentations and teamworking activities. The type of stuff they don't teach you in schools, because they're too busy teaching ancient mathematics with no practical day-to-day usage. They taught us how to get ahead. And who doesn't want to get ahead? Better that than standing still or heading backward. Alternative culture has a lot to answer for, teaching generations of individuals that ambition is a bad thing. And the only lesson I remember from school is what an Oxbow river looks like.
A lot of people had iPads and iPhones. All I had was a water damaged Samsung that refuses to send text messages. But in the cutthroat business world, you can't let such disadvantages get you down. At the end of the first day, we walked by the canal toward Camden, en route for an evening of free food and drink. All dressed up with somewhere to go. The luxury of the surroundings suited me far better than the fluorescent lighting of a takeaway joint serving tragic fried chicken and soggy fries at three in the morning. And when servers are constantly topping up your wine glass, it becomes impossible to tell whether you've consumed two glasses or two bottles.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and once the conference wrapped up I was simply a commuter, elbowing past people in a desperate dash for any available seat. As the train pulled out of London Euston I knew one thing: I had well and truly departed.
Thursday, 22 March 2012
;-)
Let us take a trip back to June 2010, when I posted the following:
"Let me note that Kilgore Trout and I have never used semicolons. They don't do anything, don't suggest anything. They are transvestite hermaphrodites."
Just as the semicolon was becoming a vital addition to my writing, Kurt Vonnegut - one of my favourite authors of all time - had to go and ruin it for me. Still, I bow to his superior literary genius, and accept that I'll have to modify my style accordingly. The above quote is from Timequake, which I've just finished rereading. Just one of the many examples of his brilliance.
Back in 2012, I still admire and enjoy Vonnegut a great deal. However, when I penned the above my own writing was still in its formative stages. Almost two years on I'm much more confident, and therefore much more inclined to take on sacred cows. The semicolon is a perfectly useful literary tool in the hands of those who know how to use it; one that can be deployed effectively in order to establish the mood or flow of a sentence, much like commas and full stops can be. Vonnegut was wrong to dimiss it, and wrong to suggest that writers should avoid it at all costs.
It's a stance he reasserted and expounded upon often, further dismissing the semicolon by suggesting that "All they do is show you've been to college." In this sense, his complaint takes on a distinct air of anti-intellectualism for anti-intellectualism's sake. If we accept that he's wrong then the comment becomes nothing more than a cheap shot at the educated, Vonnegut playing to one crowd whilst trying to make another feel foolish. The notion of blacklisting any grammatical device is ludicrous and restrictive, in a way that inhibits writers rather than challenging them. It's no more a valid statement than Stephen King's "don't use adverbs" mantra, but it's more celebrated simply because Vonnegut is held in higher regard by literary critics and "educated" readers (funnily enough), whereas King is more a man of the common people, and thus seen as easier to dismiss.
The point, of course, is that you shouldn't listen to anyone who would attempt to impose barriers on the way you write, or influence you away from certain techniques and devices. Guidelines are fine, and often very useful indeed, but cast iron rules only narrow what can be achieved. Vonnegut may well have been a genius. He even had a great many of the answers. But not all of them.
Links of interest:
Jon Henley considers the semicolon's place in modern literature.
A spirited defense of the semicolon.
An explanation of how and when to use a semicolon.
"Let me note that Kilgore Trout and I have never used semicolons. They don't do anything, don't suggest anything. They are transvestite hermaphrodites."
Just as the semicolon was becoming a vital addition to my writing, Kurt Vonnegut - one of my favourite authors of all time - had to go and ruin it for me. Still, I bow to his superior literary genius, and accept that I'll have to modify my style accordingly. The above quote is from Timequake, which I've just finished rereading. Just one of the many examples of his brilliance.
Back in 2012, I still admire and enjoy Vonnegut a great deal. However, when I penned the above my own writing was still in its formative stages. Almost two years on I'm much more confident, and therefore much more inclined to take on sacred cows. The semicolon is a perfectly useful literary tool in the hands of those who know how to use it; one that can be deployed effectively in order to establish the mood or flow of a sentence, much like commas and full stops can be. Vonnegut was wrong to dimiss it, and wrong to suggest that writers should avoid it at all costs.
It's a stance he reasserted and expounded upon often, further dismissing the semicolon by suggesting that "All they do is show you've been to college." In this sense, his complaint takes on a distinct air of anti-intellectualism for anti-intellectualism's sake. If we accept that he's wrong then the comment becomes nothing more than a cheap shot at the educated, Vonnegut playing to one crowd whilst trying to make another feel foolish. The notion of blacklisting any grammatical device is ludicrous and restrictive, in a way that inhibits writers rather than challenging them. It's no more a valid statement than Stephen King's "don't use adverbs" mantra, but it's more celebrated simply because Vonnegut is held in higher regard by literary critics and "educated" readers (funnily enough), whereas King is more a man of the common people, and thus seen as easier to dismiss.
The point, of course, is that you shouldn't listen to anyone who would attempt to impose barriers on the way you write, or influence you away from certain techniques and devices. Guidelines are fine, and often very useful indeed, but cast iron rules only narrow what can be achieved. Vonnegut may well have been a genius. He even had a great many of the answers. But not all of them.
Links of interest:
Jon Henley considers the semicolon's place in modern literature.
A spirited defense of the semicolon.
An explanation of how and when to use a semicolon.
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