The junction of 580 and California 132 – Zodiac territory
The junction of 580 and California 132 – Zodiac territory
Last weekend I biked to the main library in downtown Santa Fe to return Every Love Story Is a Ghost Story: A Life of David Foster Wallace1 and David Byrne’s new book, How Music Works, and to pick up a few books I’d reserved (Philip Kerr’s latest thriller, Prague Fatale, Christopher Hayes’s The Twilight of the Elites, and Patricia Highsmith’s 1964 novel, The Two Faces of January2).
Near the front door the library has a large wooden magazine rack where patrons can discard their used magazines or peruse and “recycle” these throwaway copies by taking them home and reading them. On my way out I grabbed a copy of the August 2011 issue of Macworld. I’ve subscribed on and off over the years and admire Macworld‘s stylish product reviews and how-to stories. That night I browsed through the issue, not even a year and a half old, and experienced a sharp and familiar but unnameable sensation. In the world of this “recent” issue, Steve Jobs was still alive, Siri was not yet born, the iPad 3 and 4 didn’t exist, and OS X Lion and the iCloud syncing service (the cover story) had not yet been released.
The magazine’s shiny, cutting-edge future is now practically ancient, its cheery futurity slightly forlorn. Jobs (born just a few weeks before me) is gone, Siri’s Star Trek charms are now quotidian and familiar, the iPad 3 had its turn in the spotlight and made way for the iPad 4 and iPad Mini, and iCloud’s still-superior rival, Dropbox, itself just a few years old , recently passed 100 million users.
Even new issues of monthly magazines sometimes seem supperannuated now, and newsweeklies (and Newsweek the printed product) are doomed unless they’re called the Economist.
Life is a jet plane; it moves too fast. Sure, these observations are commonplace, but thinking about my castoff Macworld from the dog days of 2011, I wish there was a word to describe the almost recent past, that shadowy canyon where everything’s outdated and previous-gen and about to be unsupported, like my 2008 MacBook that can never be upgraded to Mountain Lion or whatever feline version of OS X obsoletes the insanely great puma. It’s a place too new to earn the cool patina of Retro, too distant to possess the uncanny that-just-happened vividness of deja vu.
David Foster Wallace deeply distrusted the Web and had no affection for digital wonders. Maybe he and Steve Job are stolling through the twilit groves of some limbo or afterlife, giving each other shit and enjoying a long break from, respectively, the unbearable onrush of self-consciousness and the relentlessly temporary shock of the new.
As someone who recently published a confessional essay titled “How I Enabled the Cult of Lance Armstrong,” I was immediately drawn to Spencer Ackerman’s confessional post, “How I Was Drawn Into the Cult of David Petraeus,” published over the weekend on Wired’s website.
Like many in the press, nearly every national politician, and lots of members of Petraeus’ brain trust over the years, I played a role in the creation of the legend around David Petraeus. Yes, Paula Broadwell wrote the ultimate Petraeus hagiography, the now-unfortunately titled All In. But she was hardly alone. (Except maybe for the sleeping-with-Petraeus part.) The biggest irony surrounding Petraeus’ unexpected downfall is that he became a casualty of the very publicity machine he cultivated to portray him as superhuman. I have some insight into how that machine worked.
It’s a bracingly self-critical and comprehensive survey of how Ackerman, an immensely talented and hyper-skeptical security journalist, became susceptible to the Petraeus aura and the great man’s highly efficient technique for disarming and co-opting people who might affect his reputation and public image.
Along with displaying the obvious virtues of honesty and transparency, Ackerman’s move is also a prudent one — a tactic akin to the Watergate era’s “modified limited hangout,” in which the guilty party can preemptively do damage control and proactively calibrate the terms and the extent of the salutary mea culpa. (I should know.) The efficacy of this approach depends, of course, on how guilty you really are and how willing your enemies and critics are to let you leave it at that. I suspect that Ackerman will be getting off scot free, as he should, now that he’s given himself a few stinging lashes.
Beyond the soap-opera lubriciousness and a journalist’s hangover, however, there’s something powerfully uncanny about the fall of David Patraeus — the perfect name for a gladiator of national security — in part because it came so suddenly on the heels of the sacrificial frenzies of the presidential leadership contest, in part because the idea of Patraeus had been so overburdened with martial virtue and soldier-scholar brilliance, and in part because the civic worship of Patraeus had so usefully served as a tribal shield to deflect the unacknowledged failures of Iraq and Afghanistan. At the moment it’s hard to see anything but a banana-republic floridness in the medals and commendations the general routinely wore, like twenty pounds of headlines stapled to his chest.
And Petraesus losing his job at the CIA over an extramarital affair seems even stranger in light of the military historian Thomas E. Ricks’s recent argument that the quality of leadership in the U.S. military has been seriously degraded by a culture of automatic promotion where nobody ever gets fired for screwing up — an argument that Spencer Ackerman irreverently highlighted in a recent interview with Ricks (“Your Favorite Army General Actually Sucks”).
William Pfaff writes:
As a former serviceman, I have been long bemused by the proliferation of ribbons and other decorations on the chests of today’s high-ranking army officers. Petraeus, who left the military academy in 1974, now is entitled to wear 45 ribbons and 10 metal ornaments on his military blouse (other than unit patches, and parachute and similar badges). He has seen active combat only as commander of the 101st Airborne in the Gulf War. His only combat decoration is the Bronze Star with V (for valor). He wears the prized expert infantry badge, but without the wreath indicating participation in infantry combat.
And Andrew Sullivan published this image, with a note from a reader that Ike “typically wore only three or four [medals] at a time”:
Preparting for a trip to San Francisco next week, I’ve just ordered a new case for my iPad 3 (no longer the “new” model), and I fell asleep last night listening to a podcast discussion of iPad keyboards and the inadvisability of traveling with an Apple Bluetooth Keyboard that’s unprotected. The podcaster, David Sparks of Mac Power Users, recommended the $29.95 Incase Origami Workstation as an essential road-warrior shield for the keyboard.
Instead, for my trip I plan to repurpose the beautiful, compact, and chastely white little box that the Apple Bluetooth Keyboard was packaged inside when I bought it. It’s only an inch or two wider than the admirably diminutive keyboard itself. Most Apple products arrive in containers every bit as minimal and elegant as the devices themselves. I can never bear to throw these boxes away, even though I’ve rarely repacked and sold a used Apple product before breaking it or wearing it out. In this case, the fetish will serve me well.
“Together with almost everyone who had been a fan and admirer of Armstrong’s achievements, both athletic and philanthropic, I’ve been wrestling with painful, complicated feelings of anger, sorrow, and disillusionment as the totality of his disgrace sinks in. But as a magazine journalist once deeply invested in covering the Armstrong era in cycling, I also feel a shock of self-recrimination as I struggle to reconcile my part in lionizing a man who, in hindsight, was almost certainly a cheat and a liar of breathtaking audacity and shamelessness.”
I’ve got an essay posted at TheAtlantic.com about covering Lance when he was riding high and watching his downfall with regret and chagrin.