Friday, October 17, 2014

The Algorithm The New York Times Uses To Spit Out "David Brooks" Columns

has another big, foamy bowl of tepid nothing for a thousand people on Twitter to retweet as wise and sage.

See, in Mr. Brooks' post-causality world, there are no Republicans, or Democrats, really, just "politicians".  And politicians can be motivated to do good things by the power of people practicing "low idealism", which, operationally, just so happens to look exactly like the Whig Party.

Not the real, long-dead American Whig Party, mind you, but the awesome Imaginary Whig Party about which Mr. Brooks writes so much fan fiction.

And so, The Algorithm The New York Times Uses To Spew Out "David Brooks" Columns addresses its one millionth column to that frail and desperately insane cult of cowards who live in an entirely alternate universe in which no political fight is ever about facts versus lies, proof versus delusion, reality versus paranoia, right versus wrong or wreckers versus builders, but about the ineffable pleasure of gliding above our grotty real world entirely a soft pillow of straw men, vapid abstractions about how things should be, and privilege.

Which brings us inevitably back to The Algorithm The New York Times Uses To Spit Out "David Brooks" Columns' latest iteration of Whig  Fan Fiction in which...

The low idealist rejects the politics of innocence. The low idealist recoils from any movement that promises “new beginnings,”...

Low idealism begins with a sturdy and accurate view of human nature.

Low idealism continues with a realistic view of politics.

The low idealist knows that rallies with anthems and roaring are just make-believe, but has warm affection for any politician who exhibits neighborliness, courtesy and the ability to listen.

The low idealist understands that those who try to rise above the messy business of deal-making often turn into zealots and wind up sinking below it.
It goes on at length (well, 800 words) about niceties and comities which all sound super-delightful and fun and which have fuck all to do with any of the grim political realities which Mr. Brooks' GOP have inflicted on this country and through which we are currently slogging.

If  he had lived 2000 years ago, David Brooks would have been scampering through the streets of Pompeii pestering restaurant owners to post "Employees Must Wash Hands Before Returning To Work" signs as Vesuvius smoked and roared all around them.

If he had lived 70 years ago, he would have been scuttling around the Battle of Midway demanding that the commanders sit down and read "Robert's Rules of Order".

But David Brooks lives today, and so he has a column in the New York Times in which advises his readers on proper salad fork usage while the GOP drives a bulldozer straight through the middle of the dinner party.


dinthebeast said...

The low spark of well-heeled boys.

-Doug in Oakland

Anonymous said...

"Employees Must Wash Hands Before Returning To Work"

Hah! If you use the restroom on your lunch break and then wait for an employee to come wash your hands, you will be late getting back to work every time.

Anonymous said...

It's always disheartening to read the comments by credulous readers on a Brooks column. They strike me the same way people did who fell for ``the New Nixon'' in 1968.

Anonymous said...

Folks bitch about Derrida's perhaps deliberate obliqueness, and I kinda get it, but I'm willing to forgive it, because there are gems buried in Derrida's texts. But I read shit like the Brooks excerpts here -- "the low idealist rejects the politics of innocence," for fuck's sake -- and I experience complete empathy with Derrida's detractors. This guy is making shit up, and not skillfully.

But "grim political realities"? Good christ, that's the worst sort of mindless question begging. One almost wants to try to appreciate the quasi-poetic fiddle of "politics of innocence."

Anonymous said...


Well, since you had a link to David Fucknut Brooks and his case for “Low Ideals”, I followed it and read it…I’m now singing “Doctor my eyes” by Jackson Browne.

In just the first three paragraphs Fucknut Brooks sounds like the rankest of smarmy used car salesmen, trying to sell a Yugo with flat tires, broken windshield, and the ever present half disconnected muffler dragging on the ground, while pissing on your shoes so you won’t notice he’s trying to steal your wallet.

“…the low stability of truth”. For the love of my Pagan altar, please just stop talking and I’ll buy the fucking car, so later I can run you over with it three or four times as my low idealism pushes my foot through the floor board and drives me to a “deeper dimension than the realm of the political”.

“Doctor my eyes…”

Casimir said...