supernormal

Pretty much every academic field I know of is fractal. It’s never just “I’m a scientist” — like, what would that even mean? You’re a biologist, a molecular biologist, a genomicist, a comparative genomicist. Or something. I’m not a comparative genomicist.

Linguistics is like this! One huge subfield of linguistics is called speech act theory. Speech act theory describes how words accomplish real actions in the world, rather than just describing states and objects in the world. A bet is a speech act. When you say you bet somebody $20, it’s the saying of it that makes it happen. Promises and apologies, also speech acts. In fact, there’s a twist ending in speech act theory that all words perform actions. One of the more salient takeaways of linguistics is that “actions speak louder than words” is total horseshit. Words are actions.

Conventional wisdom, and conventional corporate wisdom in particular, doesn’t want you to acknowledge this, probably because those engaged at the corporate level would rather be culpable for less than more. But I’m just spitballing here. In any case I think consumerism strongly encourages us to narrow the scope of “appropriate actions”: you are what you buy, you are your beauty or fitness routine, you are what you eat, you are the movies you see. You are not who you love. You are not what you feel. You are not what you say.

But who’s that on the top rope? It’s Roman Jakobson’s functions of language! These are the things that language can do — in a much more general way than “bet” and “promise.” Functions, not specific actions. For example, the referential action refers typical declarative sentences. “You are reading my blog.” “I’m wearing a gray hoodie.” “It did not rain today.” The metalingual function allows us to discuss language with language, like asking someone how to pronounce something.

Okay okay, let me get to what I actually came here to think about: the phatic function. It is speech for the sake of speech. To be more precise, it’s speech for the sake of speaking to somebody. “Hello” means nothing, describes nothing. All it does is open a channel of communication. “Goodbye” closes that channel. Public speakers deride the use of “um,” but it serves as an important placeholder in face-to-face conversation: um tells your partner that you still need the floor, it’ll just take you a minute to get your thoughts together.

Hello, goodbye, and ummmm are all phatic in a very narrow interpretation. They affect the pacing of a conversation. But unlike genomics, linguistic objects are open to many different kinds of interpretation. “lady through whose profound and fragile lips/the sweet small clumsy feet of April came” both refers to something — a quality of a person — and serves the poetic function — to convey the message in a beautiful way. Depending on context it could serve the metalinguistic function, too, if you’re repeating for someone who missed it the first time. Nothing is ever cut and dry.

When I talk to you, my words are also performing an action. I am saying whatever it is I’m saying, and I’m also saying “I want to be here, with you, talking to you.” Sometimes that message is very quiet. We can talk about what we want for dinner, and at the end we will have dinner. Other times, the phatic message is very loud. We are talking about the worst shaped video game console, we’re telling stories we know we’ve told before. Our words are a long umm to hold our place in conversation with each other.

This is sometimes called “grooming talk,” which I super hate. I think “small talk” works better. Calling talk small is the same dismissal as calling a novel a cell phone novel — but rather than fixating on smallness as the counterpoint to bigness, I like small talk as a counterpoint to “the conversation,” the giant ongoing discussion of trends, of who bought who and for how much, of what someone said and what none of us should ever say. A smaller world isn’t a bad one.

As Twitter continues to undergo disassembly at the whim of someone who has likely never held a meaningful conversation, big or small, I’ve been thinking of how the app served to gamify conversation. It invited everyone to the widest stage. It encouraged particular behaviors, meaning it discouraged other ones. Twitter, and all social media platforms, ask you for a part of yourself, not all of yourself. Quote Kate Lindsay, “Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Substack will forever own the parts of my personality that I’ve handed over to them, as do the platforms from my past: Facebook still claims the extroverted college student; Tumblr, the angsty, artsy teen; MySpace, the confused and flailing twelve year old who shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

Online talk provides a whole new set of strategies for disengaging with small talk: the Leave On Read, the “Forget” To Respond, the Like React, the Lurk. You never have to speak online if you don’t want to. And you may have plenty of reasons to not want to — believe me, I understand. At the same time, it means that our ability to phatically communicate hangs more in the balance than ever. Spend any amount of time in a Twitch chat and I think you’ll find people desperately wrenching to open a channel of conversation that can’t exist.

Jonathan Gingerich writes about the experience of “spontaneous freedom,” a feeling of unplannedness he describes at length, but which I think is depicted really well in a passage from Mrs. Dalloway, which Gingerich takes as the object example: a character arrives in London by boat and realizes that nobody knows he’s there. He has no plans or obligations.

All spontaneously free talk is small talk. You’re not trying to accomplish anything, and there’s no “right way” unless you start speaking total gibberish. But online, there is very much a right way. Not just in the literal technical constraints required by certain platforms — you cannot post to Instagram without visual media, you cannot post to TikTok without videos of a certain length — but in the limitations placed on you by the architects of the platform. It wasn’t long ago that users who dutifully posted aesthetic photos to Instagram saw their engagement tank because, somewhere in Menlo Park, a group of people decided on the competetive advantage of Instagram Reels.

The difference between conversational rules placed on you by tech CEOs (rules like “Reels succeed” and “verified users are boosted) and the rules of small talk (“be kind” and “use correct pronouns”) are this: one is natural, one is artifical. A tweet I think about a lot came in response to Instagram CEO Adam Mosseri discussing why photos from your friends don’t show up on your main feed.

Instagram will always construct its rules based on growth, based on market forces. No one unaffiliated with the company will share its loyalties.

Rules in small talk, on the other hand, already line up with our sensibility and empathy. You follow the rules because you want to be understood, and because you don’t want to harm your conversation partner. In that way, according to Gingerich, you can still experience the unburdened openness of conversation without the alien constraints of social media platforms.

In short, nothing online replaces small talk. The Internet has no third places, physical locations centered on human connection. For what it’s worth, scholars have been lamenting the disappearance of third places since at least 2000 and the publication of Bowling Alone. Car-dependent city design has done at least as much as the iPhone to destroy our sense of social space. Social media simply accelerated things, as it accelerates everything.

Now that Twitter has brought the ego of the platform into the neon limelight, I think we should all be seeking out ways to rebel. A great place to start: go talk about the weather.

I’ve started thinking of a TikTok a lot like a street performance. Like, when I find a good singer performing on TikTok it feels less like going onto Spotify or YouTube, or playing a CD, or going to a little mini-concert, and it feels way more like stumbling onto the performance on my walk to work. I’ve actually saved certain performances, then looked for them on Spotify, and bounced off because it didn’t sound the same as when I wasn’t looking for it. The app lets people busk for music, but also recipes and comedy and DIY projects. Everything comes with an unexpected thrill of discovery.

But there are some other, important ways in which TikTok is like a concert. Or, TikTok fall on some spectrum between street performance and concert. I’ve been trying to find what are the relevant factors.

For example, a street performer is an unplanned encounter while a concert is a planned encounter. When you go onto the feed, you’re definitely aware you’re going to be served some kind of entertainment. But the nature of that entertainment is potential, not kinetic. The next TikTok could be anything. Since that lotto aspect is part of what makes the app so addictive, I’d say that’s a point to street performance.

There’s a humanness to TikToks. They feel like something unproduced — or at least, an overproduced TikTok sort of gets written off. Trying too hard is a cardinal internet crime. Only when the illusion breaks do you realize lots of creators are in fact adopting an affect. It’s like comedians or streamers, where the character wants you to believe that it’s the performer. When really, if you ran into the performer at Costco, they’d probably be very different from who they are on stage. Concerts, on the other hand, feature people who are very obviously performers. They’re idolized. Everyone is facing the performer’s direction. In the app I think someone can choose where they land, either obscuring the line between character and performer or making it obvious. I don’t know that it’s possible to not perform, though.

A concert has a venue, but a street performance appears somewhere you were already going. Phones present a kind of supernormal access to entertainment at all times. In that way, it’s always one step in front of you. But there’s one extremely important way the two are different: concerts silo attention. They take place in a venue built around the musician. You can meet people at a concert or whatever, but they’re not mingling events. The music would be quieter if they were. TikTok SUUUPER siloes attention. You are drip fed each video. Everything about TikTok is designed to keep you where you are.

On the other hand, I went for a walk and found a little performance I wasn’t expecting. There was a food truck, folks had their dogs. I sat down to take some notes and, lo and behold, some friends walking by noticed me. I spent the rest of my time with them. Not with the performance.

I don’t actually know what irony means, but as a child of the ironic T-shirt generation — both the sO rAnDoM cartoon trend in elementary schoolwear (I mean, we were kids) and the gross Jam Rags era (not kids, no relation, good riddance) —  I guess I’m as equipped as anyone to investigate the affliction.

For one, even googling “ironic T-shirts” produces a strange variety of results centered on diarrhea. After like, a thousand “irony (adj): the opposite of wrinkly” garments. Irony can be taken to mean funny-but-for-clothes. Only, with the caveat that they’re not funny, there has never been a funny shirt, wearing a joke on your body is never optimal.

(I’m bitter. You don’t know how many graphic tees I had to throw away, and how late.)

But in every non-textile arena, irony becomes harder to pin down. Pretty much no one but lit crit people uses it in the lit crit sense of “dramatic knowledge beyond the ken of characters in-fiction.” Subverison of expectation plays some kind of role: fully three quarters of the ironic T-shirts of yesterdecade feature some rejoinder about sarcasm.

Alex King wrote a truly incredible introduction to aesthetic irony in “Taco Bell and the Paradox of Ironic Appreciation.” She points out that irony does center on expectation, and namely it centers on our expectations about others based on “cultural class.” You might expect that, because someone wears cardigans and wire-frame glasses and brews coffee from a moka pot, they’d also enjoy small plate fare and black-and-white films about sad clowns. If they express a love of Butterfingers and Die Hard — or Taco Bell — you would be surprised.

No one wants to be surprising. Irony helps you cope with the question mark of how you come across to the world. What do they think of me? What do they expect of me? Am I lowering my social capital by liking something so… simple? Ironic appreciation allows someone to express love, while acknowledging that they are in fact above whatever it is they love. This is why you don’t hear of many people ironically liking The Turn of the Screw.

Lots about that bothers me. I’d link back to my argument against this kind of irony, but honestly just scroll through the blog. My whole genre is unironic appreciation — including Supernormal, which I will link. Let me draw just one gripe from my bag of gripes.

Do you think Taco Bell is simple food? Not that it’s gourmet, that’s different. I mean, can anyone imagine in good faith that Taco Bell is the ground floor of complexity in tacospace?

Your dream car, your dream house, your dream island — none of these come close to the price tag that Taco Bell has pinned on curating the experience of eating their product. Every element has been fine tuned by probably very well-paid food testers. Ditto soda. I’m remembering Malcolm Gladwell’s ketchup essay, a quote from sensory consulting bigwig Judy Heylmun: “The thing about Coke and Pepsi is that they are absolutely gorgeous.”

Of course they are! The engine of scientific achievement has locomoted ceaselessly towards Coca-Cola, Pepsi, Taco Bell crunchy tacos! Everything led us to this moment!

What I’m not saying is that these things are culinarily good, or even complex in the sense of tasting notes. But they are extremely sophisticated and, in my opinion, elegant. They capture one thing extremely well.

Completely unironically loving corporate saltlicks and cookie jars, admittedly, takes this kind of appreciation too far. They buy your tastebuds. They know what substances, down to the molecule, pilot your brain through their grocery aisles. They know how addictive something can be before it gets regulated.

Love unironically, or not at all. Don’t dismiss simple things — it may even be wise to fear them.

 

Apparently, one method for coping with a shopping addiction is to click “add to cart,” but not actually buy anything. This is because dopamine registers in the brain exactly the same for very short-term rewards as long-term ones. I.e. buying the thing, getting the thing, unpacking the thing, using the thing, gives you the same dopamine hit as just clicking the button.

This came up in a conversation about my quest to watch all 2,100 of my liked TikToks. Liking TikToks — the physical action of liking them — is an “add to cart” for the content of the video you’re liking. You don’t actually need to learn the dance or follow the recipe or work the workout to feel a momentary glow of pride. Clicking the button provides that same feedback. Anything you plan from within the dream of the feed requires additional effort to carry out in the real world, some lucid moment where you make the connection between the video and your daily life.

Memory bears a lot of the load here. Do you even remember that you saw an automated financial planning spreadsheet, let alone that you wanted to try it yourself?

What it reminds me of is a mindfulness practice called “noting.” Instead of ignoring thoughts that pop into your head, you acknowledge the thought (note it) so that you may forget it. Brief, active attention brings closure.

Mindfulness is generally good, and noting assists mindfulness by diffusing the awkward tension of ignoring something you know is there. TikTok, the flow state of total absorption in wick-short content, the dream — these are generally less good. And the app doesn’t want you to wake up. A nagging idea that, maybe, you should get up and take an action, could disturb your absorption. The like button diffuses that tension.

Especially ironic is the prevalence on TikTok of vignettes from picturesque lives. With the click of a button, those lives are as good as yours.

My working theory, that tagging TikToks in a way that you can find them later defeats the self-replacement of the app, only solves half the problem. I can find anything I want. That doesn’t mean that I’ll think to look for it. I still miss some connection between the app and my waking life, and without that connection, bookmarking becomes as add-to-cart as liking.

One argument you could make: If a TikTok is truly worth my waking attention, then it’ll rise to mind naturally. Maybe, but in my experience as a collector I’ve found that memory is unreliable, even for ideas that meaningfully impact projects I’m currently working on. I mean, everyone forgets a birthday or an anniversary, but that’s not because those things are unimportant. It’s because we give them meaning by choise — their sentiment isn’t natural to us.

Another argument, this one in the words of Rayne Fisher-Quann: “when i scroll on tiktok or whatever, i can’t get away from the feeling that almost nothing there is really meant to be loved — it’s just meant to be snorted, basically, and occasionally to get you to buy something.” I agree with this. But for one thing, that “almost” is important and bizarre. Some artists have stared into the vortex of TikTok’s limiting format and effervesence, and have decided to make incredible work there anyway. That’s worth saving. I also think that, in a more plain way, most of the app is made by people who, for whatever reason, thought to share something from their lives. Just like you might wish you could save a scrap of conversation in the real world to refer back to, any given TikTok could make a meaningful impact.

More than that, though, I think loving something is more of an approach than a result. You can choose to find the beauty in the impromptu dance circle, the cat fancam, or whatever.

Pinterest came up as an example of a platform designed for reference. I’m not as familiar with it. Maybe there’s an approach there?

I’m not gonna recount this whole journey here — that’s for the Substack — but I want to get down some numbers and some intention setting.

My plan is to watch all of my liked TikToks. 2114. I counted. I don’t have any kind of average length, but today I clocked in at about a minute a tok. So that’d be 35 hours, end to end. I’m committed though!

Why am I committed though? It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a while now, before any of this Restrict Bill jazz started playing. Mindfulness mediation uses a practice called “noting” to acknowledge a thought, thereby letting it disappear. Like, someone keeps making the same joke over and over and you laugh to get them to stop.

Liking a TikTok does something similar. It says “I’ll watch this later,” or “this is a really good idea,” or “that recipe looks good I’ll make it tomorrow night.” By noting the TikTok, you don’t have to think about it anymore.

Truly world-changing ideas, and spot on recommendations, and lovingly crafted pieces of art disappeared in my thousands of liked TikToks. I want to try and recover some of them.

Something I think about a lot is the unarchivability of internet culture. Stuff just disappears. Some platforms try to keep track of everything, but others — particularly social media — lean into the bubbliness of art and conversation generated on the platform.

It reminds me of “right to repair,” the counterpoint to planned obsolescence. I’ll find links for this stuff as I go forward with the project!

At the end of day one though, without any deep research or drafting… the task is very daunting.

It started, god help me, with Cocaine Bear.

Who knew what to expect? If I had been bored at home, with too much of the internet unscrolled — a too-stocked Steam library, a too-ready river of streaming services — this mid-budget meme movie could have come and gone without ever crossing my desk. A guy came to the theater in a big rubber bear costume, spiritual precursor to DJ Jazzy Jeff, and like… Look, we’re all just here to have a good time. But after watching enough haha fun facts get vaccuumed into uber-clickable headlines and regurgitated as Oscars sight gags, you get a good sense of which dead horses arrive pre-beaten.

But in those halcyon pre-Kimmel days, Cocaine Bear made for a great excuse to go out to dinner with some friends. We dragged our barbecue-laden bodies through concessions, passed the time in a packed theater, and sat around till the small hours talking about slashers.

I mean, is Cocaine Bear a slasher? I liked Fear Street a whole lot, caught pieces of Scream at a Halloween party before seeing last year’s reboot in theaters. Otherwise I was clueless. I lacked context for the art form as a whole. Outside of some core set, how far could you twist a genre label until it snapped?

That question chased me through the dark forests and narrow hallways of half a dozen slasher flicks, and a whole dismembered heap of journal articles, book chapters, think pieces on one of the least charmed categories of cinema.

I wanted to prove something about the way we judge movies, and what we lose when we’re set on respectability. Check your locks, cover your mirrors, and don’t sneak off.

Keep reading.

Someone in a video I watched was talking about blockbuster movies, and they said, “They’re the most popular movies in the world. Why can’t they also be good?”

I wonder if there’s something about popularity that precludes “goodness.” And to be honest, I’m sure this is a very well thought-about question with many answers, but I want to kick the ball around and find some answer of my own.

“Good” is the vaguest thing you can say about an artwork, but in this case I think that’s a strength. It’s by design. The most boring thing to say here would be that art is confronting, and what is popular cannot be confronting, and therefore it cannot be of great aesthetic quality. But that’s not what we mean when we talk about a “good movie.” I like John Wick, but I don’t know that it does anything complex. It’s good, I would argue, because it isn’t complex. It fulfils that campfire story itch in an unsurprising but satisfying way — low blows notwithstanding — and does whatever an action movie needs to do to be enjoyable.

One line I draw here is the difference between art and craft. John Wick is art in that it’s an art form (movies), but it’s not “film” in the Letterboxd sense. I still haven’t found a good delineation — “high culture” and “low culture” is a poor distinction in my opinion, and for that matter lots of arty art also has mass appeal. Everything Everywhere All At Once killed it in the box office. For now let’s just say, John Wick does not have a strong rhetorical message that it’s trying to convey.

But the craft of the movie is spot on. The dialogue is well-written (if melodramatic in some ways), the scenes well-blocked, the acting well-acted. There’s nothing to distract you from your enjoyment of the movie. Compare with big budget projects, in which constant shifts in mission and demand may ultimately lead to a rushed product. The Marvel VFX problem. I feel like this happens especially with video games and TV.

Another sense in which a big artwork can fail to hit “good,” comes from the same problem: design by committee. I think audiences have an instinctive sense for vision, and we can tell when an artist’s vision has been smudged by too many hands. Or if “vision” is too flighty of a word, say “opinions.” Whatever you want to say about the vision of John Wick, it’s clear everyone on that production had opinions about what action movies should be like. Any choice is better than no choice. I’ll link my Scream VI review again, because although I liked that movie, I point out that one of its big flaws is that it has no opinions. In the end, it just makes itself about family. I said any choice is better than no choice, but the “default to family” thing is no choice.

It also explains popularity, since it gives some films access to more heavily censored markets than a movie about, say, anti-capitalism.

So, what makes an artwork good? Craft and opinions. A project with too much weight behind it passes too many hands to keep either of those things.

Are craft and opinion all that make an artwork good? No, but I would love to find an example of a well-crafted, clear-sighted movie that’s bad. Off the top of my head, There Will Be Blood was kinda like that for me, except I would never call it a “bad movie.” Just wasn’t for me.

Oh, and it can’t be about hate. I guess that’s the big one, huh?