Necrotic Toxicity

Saturday, January 27, 2007

The apocalypse it appears is the property of Lacanians. Quite where this leaves the subject-supposed-to-burst-into-flames-and-die, I'm not sure. It is easier to imagine the end of the world than to imagine the end of analysis.

So...Celebrity Pig Fucker, eh? Haven't watched it. I'd much rather C4 filled that slot in their schedules with re-runs of Frasier, or even that weird, unremittingly miserable late series of Roseanne. What would Frasier have been like if Frasier had been a Lacanian? What would Roseanne have been like, if Roseanne's shrink had been a Lacanian? We need a counterfactual history of psychoanalytically-themed US sitcoms - not much, but much more than we need this frothing arse gravy.

Celebrity. Celebrity. What does it mean? What does it mean? The very concept is in crisis, beset by galloping inflation, distended and evacuated until celebrity - if it is anything - just is this crisis, this spreading ever more thinly of itself. Just as the Tate Modern is full of people saying "but is it art?", just as the entire edifice is sustained by their willingness to go on asking this question even though there is no answer other than "no" that could possibly satisfy them, even though the answer could not be other than "no" if there existed any concept of art with sufficient discriminatory power to make the question meaningful, so the celebrity status of the nonentities populating the Big Brother house is entirely dependent on the willingness of viewers to go on asking, mock-incredulously, "you call that a celebrity?".