In the wee hours of a quiet summer morning in 1894, the fin-de-siècle movement, Les Jeunes (“The Young”), was born in the city of San Francisco. Artists Gelett Burgess and brothers Bruce and Robert Porter toppled the self-erected cast iron statue of teetotaling civic demagogue, Dr. Henry Cogswell, (from novelist Frank Norris’ McTeague infamy) off its pedestal on Market Street. Far from being some mindless, adolescent prank, this seminal act of iconoclasm became a harbinger for knocking hypocritical Victoriana square on its collective ass.
For masterminding the pre-dawn hi jinx, Burgess was summarily dismissed from his faculty post at the University of California, Berkeley. But, there was no time for tears. Instead, Burgess and Bruce Porter promptly launched the première edition of The Lark—a publication whose sole purpose was satiric anarchy. Contributors soon included architect Willis Polk, artists Florence Lundborg and Ernest Peixotto, poet Yone Noguchi and writings from the estate of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Despite a brief life of only two years, The Lark’s whimsical style and spirited attacks on pomposity swiftly won favor in the hearts and minds of literary San Franciscans. The popularity of The Lark was such that the always au courant Teddy Roosevelt shouted out recitations of Burgess’ pre-Dadaist/absurdest poem, The Purple Cow, between affairs of state (and otherwise) at the White House.
I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one
~ Gelett Burgess
One hundred years have past since the days of Les Junes. On the eve of the millennium, The Lark’s two years or even Warhol’s “fifteen minutes of fame” manifesto seem to be undergoing a myopic compression of time and space. Such dimensions are now measured in non-linear, sub-microeconomic terms like nanoseconds and angstrom units. Our world is rapidly on the threshold of critical mass. Our infinite wisdom creates an information society and feeds it gigabytes of vacuous waste ad nauseam. Suddenly, “Who’s on first?” is completely inadequate. The real question is “Where is home?”
In this time of crusades to unholy lands and flag waving bravura, there are still some tiny bands of misguided malcontents naively adhering to the notion that minority voices can make real impacts. Perhaps, home is a non-nuclear family? Could there really have been tribal communalism a million years before frozen TV dinners and Floppy Pop? And if so, what is the connection between the wall paintings of Lescaux and MTV?
In relative terms, the recognition of global survival may perhaps steer human cultures to look at the future in less prosaic eyes and to realize today’s sacred cows are destined to be tomorrow’s USDA inspected, 100% all beef patties. For the Home of the Whopper® is the planet earth. It is not just a parallel world or fantasy dimension of some overpaid crazy, high on martinis and uppers in some Madison Avenue executive suite. Understanding that that media spawned reality is as much our reality somehow juxtaposes the past with the future and suffuses it into a present, where isolation and alienation are not mere tokens, but actual identity badges for everyday survival.
Our identities are being strip mined from us daily as we willingly submit to torturous rigors unknown by previous generations. Our barbarous past pales in comparison to what is becoming the new reality. And, guided by the push of a button, the prospect of an even more barbarous future looms through an uncertain haze of Capital Hill folly and Wall Street hubris - both fueled by the vapor trails of tax payer bought martini lunches.
We are rapidly losing our humanity. We will soon be less sentient creatures than the machines we create. And, why not? We are HAL. We are Commander Data. SONY is not just consumer electronic gadgets or a global corporation destined to rule the planet. It is you and I. After all, who plugs in whom? Who makes the choices?
So, pull up an easy chair in the glow of your fractal fire, find your drug of choice and hear the soothing voice of Guy Lombardo crooning into the dawn of a new millennium. After all, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s later than it seems and we’re already here. Welcome to the Brave New Order. And, have a nice day. ☻
Copyright © 1991 by Timothy Johnson. All rights reserved.
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