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The Friday Article Roundup

The FAR considers matters of life and death

Weighty matters in the week's best pop culture writing.

This week, you will

  • Pay respect to a great writer
  • Marvel at an influencer who was never alive
  • Hate on stuffy poetry
  • Fight an unending battle
  • Raise arms against AI
  • Remember a long-gone movie theater

The FAR is living large thanks to Bridgett Taylor! Send articles throughout the next week to magpiesfar [at] gmail! Post articles from the past week in the comments for discussion, and have a Happy Friday!

Alex Press mourns the death of writer and photographer Kaleb Horton:
Like a character from an earlier time, too cool for today. As it turns out, that was true: he couldn’t make a living at writing, not in a world where being a genius makes you unemployable…. Plenty of great writers have to do other work, that’s not news, but talking with friends over the weekend, everyone sounded mystified by it. People won’t pay this guy to write? He should’ve been a household name, but the world doesn’t run on “should.” “The last magazine writer” indeed: might as well call it and write an obituary for writing itself instead. He said he wanted to write a novel “about the dust bowl that takes place over the duration of a man’s life and begins in Oklahoma and ends in Bakersfield and opens and closes with the line ‘can you swing a hammer?’” Somebody should’ve strapped him to a chair and covered his room and board until it was done.

For I-D, Max Wolf Friedlich looks back at his time writing the life of a fake influencer:
My day-to-day job is to write Miquela’s captions. Online, the exchange rate for the written word is zero. If analogue talk is cheap, internet speech is free. I make her whoever we need her to be. Suddenly, millions of people are reading the words I put in her mouth. My boss confides that the long-term goal is to create a social-media-based cinematic universe, the “new Marvel,” with me as Stan Lee…. Despite being a 23-year-old Jewish man, I am the internet’s most mysterious 19-year-old It girl. Every day, dozens of people beg to see my tits. Still, more tell me to kill myself. I have made it in Los Angeles!

Nick Strum dances on the grave of The Best American Poetry at Defector:
Institutions work tacitly to produce consensus. In the case of The Best American Poetry, that consensus is reinforced through a circumscribed roster of poets and publications whose prestige serves to filter the series editor’s culture wars within the trusted colophon of a Big Five publisher. Poetry’s aesthetic variousness, radical discontinuities, and political efficacy are smoothed over into a marketable narrative of the genre’s ongoing resurgence in the face of difficult odds. The anthology’s profits are spent to sustain poetry’s corporate shine, legitimating [founder David] Lehman’s reactionary ideology as apolitical orthodoxy.

For Reverse Shot, Violet Lucca looks at how the form of One Battle After Another gives juice to its function:
Anderson’s decision to make the “present” not very different from sixteen years earlier, implies that this type of violence this is merely part of the United States—and it is. The powers and precedents Donald Trump uses were established during George W. Bush’s administration; 1954’s Operation Wetback, the largest mass-deportation in history, was militarized in a way that’s not dissimilar to ICE. One must merely look at history—the right kind of history—to see that these overreaches are endemic, not aberrations. The film’s strength is that, as an action movie, it refuses to sugarcoat its fairly radical politics without preaching: it shows, it moves on, it doesn’t stop.

The editors of n+1 survey the written word’s response to AI incursions, and pen their own manifesto:
Whatever nuance is needed for its interception, resisting AI’s further creep into intellectual labor will also require blunt-force militancy. The steps are simple. Don’t publish AI bullshit. Don’t even publish mealymouthed essays about the temptation to produce AI bullshit. Resist the call to establish worthless partnerships like the Washington Post’s Ember, an “AI writing coach” designed to churn out Bezos-friendly op-eds. Instead, do what better magazines, newspapers, and journals have managed for centuries. Promote and produce original work of value, work that’s cliché-resistant and unreplicable, work that tries — as Thomas Pynchon wrote in an oracular 1984 essay titled “Is It OK to Be a Luddite?” — “through literary means which are nocturnal and deal in disguise, to deny the machine.”

And Cameron Cross at the Curioustorian looks at the history of an old local movie theater:
Donald Hunt filled in for a friend playing piano to accompany a silent movie showing at the Nugget. The friend was unable to play one afternoon and he asked Don to take over ‘because he knew I could play the piano,’ my grandfather recalled. Unfortunately Don knew only one song, ‘Ida, Sweet as Apple Cider.’ He played that song throughout the show. He played it louder and/or faster during the exciting parts of the movie, then softer or slower during the dramatic parts. This led attendees—mostly Dartmouth students—to yell, ‘Music, more music,’ followed by people yelling, ‘No music.’