11-30-2001





























Intellectual Expert


Dear friends,

The occasion which compels me to address you is one as grave as the tautological need of love for love that drove Stevie Wonder to record ``Love's in Need of Love Today.''

Friends, this column has fallen into the hands of an imposter. A dangerous imperialist who believes in the ``truth''-finding power of traditional Aristotelian logic, the Cartesian dichotomy of soul and body, and the dangerously ``scientific'' claims of non-French literary theory has diverted this column from its rightful mission as a bastion of post-structuralist, Motown-drenched discussion of modern poetry, Blake, sex, and drinking coffee.

That is why I, the rightful Intellectual Expert, have returned to plant my flag (ironically, of course, given the seeming male orientation of such an act) in the name of Derrida and Zukofsky.

``What the #%$ is going on here?'' I ask. ``Who the #$#* took over my &%$@*@#$&@#$& collum!''

``I think not!'' I reply. ``You took over my column and filled it with your snobbishly classical ruminations on culture. Where the Intellectual Expert once dripped with the raw, unnameable power of Marvin Gaye, the Romantics and Derrida, it now shivers in the frigid winds of male modernist intellecutalism.''

``You are indeed correct in asserting that you do not think,'' I reply.

``You're am imposter, with your phallic apparatus of modernity,'' I declare.

``You and your outdated neo-Freudian LitCrit dogma. I bet you have fond memories of chopping wood with your father,'' I reply.

``How like you, to reduce a complicated phenomenon to a simple linguistic tag. You would've fit right in with the colonial mind. `Oh, it's dark! Must be evil! Ahhh!'''

``Hate to tell you, chump, but some things actually have mechanisms. Your `macrodanke' is merely a sign of your inability to do the most simple logical analysis. `How is a baby born? Spontaneous generation.' I certainly wouldn't want you to be my personal physician!''

``Your penile denial of any power that you can't rationalize, such as raw sexuality and William Blake, show your inability to comprehend the vaginal cavernicity of reality.''

``Let me give you a clue: there's something in your head called a pituitary gland. Might want to have it checked out. After you grow out of your `genital phase' (note my quotation marks), and stop your verbal masturbation, perhaps you'll get to the point where you can actually attempt a reasoned dialectic,'' I said.

``Now who's being Freudian,'' I noted. ``Reason is a male hysteria. Only through acts of transgressive sexuality can its dominating imperious Gaze be deconstructed. Now hand me that vacuum cleaner.''

``I wasn't being Freudian. I was simply pointing out the hermeneutical issues within Freudianisms which indicted you for the same crimes. And you can have no epistemic base for your claim that reason is male hysteria (and of course it's etomologically incorrect, as I have not a utereus). And, oh my gosh, I'm never going to touch that vacuum cleaner again.''