Don't Be Silly, Toto! Scarecrows Don't Talk!

In other news, the Kansas State University Wind Erosion Laboratory was blown away by a tornado in a sort of punctuated-equilibrium moment in architectural evolution.

Here in Seattle, we had a bit of sun, actually. All sorts of poppies are out. They look a lot better with sun on them. More real, really, more like flowers and less like Georgia O'Keefe is going to spring out from behind one and harm me with her eyebrows.

Coming Soon: 'The Birth of Venus' on Your Toilet Seat!

Oh, dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, dear, dear. It is not as though it is inconceivable. No, indeed; not in the slightest. Absolutely to be expected, in fact. And, had I troubled myself to think about it, I should definitely both have conceived and expected it. No questions asked, no surprises whatever. One would not be far off to call it ineluctable.

But the fact is that, as with so many other distasteful and frightening things, I rightly - righteously! - keep my delicate soul from straying into such foul places when possible. It is a great stretch to say I am blissfully ignorant of the ills plaguing this world; it is rather the case that I must cultivate what ignorance I can in order merely to sustain the crudest emotional equilibrium, in order not to plunge a 'French Provincial' rooster-shaped carving knife into my jaded heart, or attempt futilely, yet again, to impale myself on a 'shabby chic/Paris apartment' Eiffel-Tower-motif pepper grinder.

But here (and I swear I was looking for something else; you must believe me; I am not a masochist, nor do I enjoy inflicting this sort of thing on you!) on Design Observer I couldn't help but read every last letter, and linger over every last plaintive semi-colon, of a heart-rending account of those Tuscan varlets' invasion of solid, stolid - and hitherto predictably 'Spanish'/neo-rancho in its design choices for suburban subdevelopments - Orange County, California. Tuscany already has the Renaissance, Michelangelo, Dante, da Vinci, Botticelli, Brunello, Vino Nobile, and Chianti. It doesn't need to annex the whole bloody United States (not to mention parts of China, too!).

Look, I understand if postmodernism scared off a few people, looked a bit jarring, felt a bit dislocating. And I for one don't ever need to see another purportedly postmodern BP station, I assure you. However, at least postmodernism was inquisitive. At least it involved thought. At least it was, well, not inherently dishonest, not an impoverished, anemic, false, wheezy new version of a distinctive, geographically specific older thing.

You can object that 'thought' and 'inquisitiveness' are not exactly what most people are looking for in a bedroom or latrine, but I fail to see the superlative soothing powers of pseudo-Tuscan kitsch. Granted, I am not the sort who wishes to stay in the 'Jungle Room' or 'Circus Room,' either, or indeed find myself in the sort of hotel that has such things, but as Ms. Wild correctly points out,

'Perhaps it is not so much styles per se, and "Tuscan" in particular, that I am whining about, but the transformation of styles generated from the heart and the brain that actually contained meaning, to lifestyles generated by highly paid marketers and branders that are deliberately emptied out of meaning.'

It could even be argued that the Jungle Rooms of this world, coming from the (admittedly kitsch-riddled) heart as they do, do contain meaning, because they are an expression of someone's honest desire. The only desire the faux Tuscan McMansions of the world express is the vulgarian's desire to seem cultured, rich, and stylish: Nabokov's poshlust, in other words:

'Russians have, or had, a special name for smug philistinism—poshlust. Poshlism is not only the obviously trashy but mainly the falsely important, the falsely beautiful, the falsely clever, the falsely attractive. To apply the deadly label of poshlism to something is not only an aesthetic judgment but also a moral indictment. The genuine, the guileless, the good is never poshlust. It is possible to maintain that a simple, uncivilized man is seldom if ever a poshlust since poshlism presupposes the veneer of civilization. A peasant has to become a townsman in order to become vulgar. A painted necktie has to hide the honest Adam's apple in order to produce poshlism.'

I would also concur with Ms. Wild that the variety of anachronisms and other discontinuities that inhere in such endeavors as tracts of 'Tuscan' homes irritate rather than soothe in my case:

'The appearance of this faux Italianate style (tile roofs, stucco walls, shuttered windows and crenellated corners) is not all that different from the "Spanish" but it seems a world away from the coherency of the rancho house. This is not helped by the fact that the new construction in this style is generally too big and proportioned poorly, and made of materials that are veneers, blatantly more contemporary than the image that they are constructing. Real Tuscan villas possess a sort of laconic elegance from their relatively unornamented rustic style: the rough hewn here is more of the Home Depot "I forgot" variety. And the houses sport "great rooms" and "master bedroom suites" and beveled or stained glass windows and brass fixtures that no Tuscan house ever witnessed.'

I need to be more careful in my browsing, more judicious in my reading. Heaven knows the sort of permanent damage that could befall my psyche should I continue to encounter such troubling stories.

Those whom God wishes to destroy, He first makes angry.

Which naturally brings me to the vast and at times soul-eating downside of Internet dating. True, I don't need to spend four hours with you, or even two seconds with your profile, if what you said in your introductory letter was so insipid as to put me off even oatmeal and soda water for a week. And I stand by the handy listing of facts in many ways: I think seeing 'does not want children ever' in literal black and white makes it seem a bit realer, even (or so I baselessly hope) to the sort of people who seem always to aspire to change their loved ones in significant ways. If one has the sort of goal which ostensibly can only be met by dating, those things about this type of dating are good.

But there is so much more that is unsettling, disturbing, maddening, and wrong. Take stalking, for example. I have been stalked in real life, and I admit that some chucklehead writing me desperate notes wondering if I'm okay because I wrote to him twice before and now haven't returned his letters in over two days! absolutely pales. I am in no danger, for one, which is a big difference, if there ever were one. It is irritation rather than terror, and even I am not cynical or misanthropic -- or passionate -- enough to prefer the latter. But it is extreme irritation, and I am not paying in hopes of receiving even a low-grade variety.

I think at some level perhaps many people unknowingly feel that each email in some way constitutes the equivalent of a discrete conversation in real life. So, if I have written you two, and you have written me nineteen, then we are, or could reasonably be supposed to be, as close as we would be had we met twenty-one times in the physical plane.

Which is patently not so. But email engenders an interpersonal comfort and fluidity that talking to a stranger while waiting for a cab does not. It as well inspires people to reveal things or be more candid (again, even without an in-person meeting) than they would while hitting on chicks in the wine bar. You think we have something we do not. That's scary. Really. Because someone who actually lives on my block and fancies himself to be engaged in a relationship with me of which I am unaware would be considered crazy. Were he to act on it, he would quickly be considered locked up.

Not so online. Not only due to the well-documented and seemingly inherent characteristics of email as a medium, but for other reasons, as well. One is the simple fact, generally ignored, that I and my interlocutor do not, in fact, know each other. You read my words, sure (and that this itself is a charitable assumption I can attest from personal experience), but you give them your own meaning. I am a newfresh electronic tabula rasa, the more rasa the prettier I appear. By even responding with thanks for a compliment I run the risk of 'proving' to you I want to meet you. By my not responding, you become by turns pleading, petulant, accusatory, and apologetic.

And I still don't know you.

But, you want to plead, we've shared so much! In many cases not realizing that it was really you doing the sharing and me the one refusing even to open any more missives from that address. Of course you can't see that, since you're not at my house, as you've never been to my house, since we have never met...

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Another aspect that is a definite downside for me and yet I suspect not so much so for others is having a bunch of random people think they like me. In my case, the only people I want to 'like' me are people whom I know and respect and whom I like in return. However, my profile accurately states that I am not overweight and have no children. This, I think, makes me very, very likable.

However, it also accurately says a bunch of other things which one would quite reasonably imagine would scare off nine-tenths of the male dating population -- but no matter, as I also have a picture up, and I'm not ugly, and a picture of an unugly girl trumps all concerns about religion, politics, personal finance, decor schemes, reading choices, musical tastes, medical problems and food allergies. Translated into action, this means you don't have to read my profile then: you just have to know I'm pretty. "'Yes, you've entered my bloodstream, the room, the whole springtime is filled with you'" at that point. Not to mention the lack of 'baggage' represented by the lack of both children and excess weight. You can't bear not to write.

Of course Rilke also said that Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, but don't let that concern you. It's not Beauty you are after, anyway; it's 'pretty.' It's 'reasonable,' and 'good enough,' and 'companionship' -- not to mention the candlelight, walks on the beach, and 'good times.' And because I am a pretty blank slate, I am the pretty blank slate of your deepest, most deeply prosaic, dreams.