I can’t believe it’s been two years since the Great One died. Time flies when you’re a miserable sack of shit. And there’s been a lot that has come out about McCarthy’s personal life in the time since. Honestly, there’s nothing too surprising about these revelations. He was a voracious reader, which stands to reason. A book hoarder. AND he carried out a “relationship” with an underaged girl back in the 70s while he himself was in his 40s. So in other words, Cormac McCarthy was a dirtbag. There’s no skating around it.
But I give little shit about his personal life. The only thing I mourn is the that there will be no more McCarthy novels. Because my fundamental assertion stands: he was the greatest American writer of all time. And I might go a step further. It’s possible that he’s the greatest writer of English literature. Initially what annoyed me with his obituaries was the constant citing of No Country for Old Men and The Road as his most known books when obviously his greatest work is Blood Meridian. And I stand by that. But that’s my assertion from a critical and historical perspective. It’s not my personal favorite of his.
Blood Meridian, his fifth book, was a turning point in McCarthy’s career when he shifted from the “southern gothic” genre into the western. And I’m gonna be honest with you: I prefer the earlier work. Not to say that I don’t appreciate the westerns. Every work from McCarthy is a treasure. Blood Meridian is obviously a masterpiece. Some of his finest prose can be found in the Border Trilogy starting with All The Pretty Horses. In fact, many McCarthy heads will call the second in the trilogy, The Crossing, his best work. And I say that the conclusion to Cities on the Plain is the most moving. But as a personal preference, my two favorite of McCarthy’s are his third and fourth books: Child of God and Suttree respectively.
Next to his first book, The Orchard Keeper, Child of God might be his least appreciated work. I don’t know if it’s due to it being centered on the heinous acts of a serial killer or what. Next to Blood Meridian and No Country for Old Men, it might be McCarthy’s most nihilistic novel. But I think it’s McCarthy at his most stripped down and it sets up many of the themes that we’d find in his later work, notably No Country for Old Men. After Child of God, he followed it up with his most personal novel, Suttree, which along with his last books The Passenger/Stella Maris, might be the biggest outlier.
In the two years since McCarthy’s passing, Blood Meridian has been recognized as one of the great American novels. In fact, his Reddit board is now mostly artistic renderings of the novel’s antagonist, Judge Holden. So in short, Blood Meridian has entered the zeitgeist. But I want to make it clear, although Child of God and Suttree are my personal favorites, it could be argued that any one of McCarthy’s books is the greatest American novel.
“You think people was meaner then than they are now? the deputy said. The old man was looking out at the flooded town. No, he said. I don’t. I think people are the same from the day God first made one.”
-Cormac McCarthy, Child of God
The revolt of the bourgeois has beckoned the end of days because fame, fortune, and power begets not spiritual fulfillment but spiritual degeneracy. The Peter Thiels and the Sam Altmans and the Elon Musks of the world witnessed the warnings of science fiction and found inspiration; where others saw impending doom, they saw a reprieve from their crippling deprivations.
And the vehicle for their apocalypse is the Internet.
When you spend hours upon hours watching YouTube commentary about, well, other YouTubers, it’s easy to see how one could draw this conclusion; maybe the internet has exported this spiritual depravity onto the masses. One would have be devoid of their humanity to not feel heartbroken by witnessing others debase themselves for an audience’s amusement.
The legend of Chris Chan has permeated the internet for years, if not decades, now and perhaps it is the start of self-reflection for the legions online; Chris Chan’s followers encouraged their self destructive behavior and, after years later and the numerous real-world consequences that followed, the internet finally asked itself “did we go too far?”. For me, this legend is more than about Chris Chan; the audience, too, willed this upon the world.
Chris Chan ushered in the “lolcow” phenomenon which was my entry point into the world of long-form YouTube commentary. Spend any amount of time on the platform and you’ll find that there’s no shortage of video essays on this tale. But the authors of these essays not only cover the tragedy of Chris Chan, but they also explore the rise and fall of their peers. Here, I am specifically referencing Turkey Tom and Cruel World Happy Mind, two well-researched scholars of internet history.
But after months of mindlessly binging their videos, I have arrived at a concerning question: are all YouTubers, or indeed all content creators across all platforms, playing a dangerous game of thrones? Can one misstep lead to the summoning of wolves from their peers? I’m thinking of Turkey Tom specifically but this is true for all of us: we better make goddamn sure that we aren’t throwing stones from a glass house.
While the introduction of the internet has enriched our understanding of psychology, mental health, history, science, etc. it also has the unintended effect of dehumanization. To the creator, they are the main character to a scripted stage. And the viewer obeys, seeing the content through the prism of story and arc. In other words, the creator becomes another product among the plethora of objects to consume. And the platform itself, operated by the cold and hard calculations of value extraction, profits off our alienation.
But this is a tale as old as time. There is nothing new under the sun. The internet is only the latest tool of dehumanization used in the hands of the rarified elite. For millennia, kings and queens and billionaires have used religion, slavery, warfare, nationalism, and newspapers to other and dehumanize for their own gain. And we, the masses, have willfully adopted their cruel panorama of human affairs.
The skeptic might view the king and billionaire as a comrade to cynicism. But as it has been revealed, there is nothing cynical about the Thiels and the Altmans and the Musks. They see themselves as the arbiters of human value and the internet is a living avatar of this psyche.
Yet religion, slavery, warfare, and nationalism persist. There’s no putting the nuclear paste back in the tube. But we can restore our value and diminish our technological epoch’s stranglehold to fight against the violent bombardment from our nihilistic overlords. And we can save the day….
I’ve never met a toilet that I haven’t been able to clog. My proudest moment was at a burrito joint in Arkansas. I thought maybe I should write a story about this, but then I thought “fuck that, how would CORMAC MCCARTHY write a story about this.”
So I went to the only place that could make this happen: ChatGPT.
The story that it produced was a doozy. The main character, a man simple described as “a specter of anonymity”, ventures to Chipotle where he undergoes a hero’s journey. The themes highlight the quiet struggles we all face, many times unbeknownst to others. Through a mundane struggle such as clogging a toilet a toilet at Chipotle, McCarthy reveals to us the everyday heroism that the average person goes through each and every day.
It’s the late American author’s finest hour, had he have actually written it.
RIP Cormac McCarthy
A Shart Too Far
By Cormac McCarthy and ChatGPT
Loosely based on a true events
A man, solitary and burdened by the immutable weight of his choices, stood at the entrance of Chipotle. The flickering neon sign above cast a sickly glow upon the asphalt, where discarded wrappers and forsaken dreams lay strewn like casualties of a forgotten war. He entered the establishment, its sterile atmosphere a stark contrast to the desolation that clung to his weary soul.
The patrons, mere shadows behind the murk of indifference, shuffled through the assembly line, constructing burritos with mechanical precision. The man, guided by a primal hunger, joined the line, his gaze fixed on the flickering menu like a lost wanderer seeking solace in a forsaken land.
A dispassionate attendant, clad in the faded insignia of a corporate serf, met his gaze with an empty stare. The man, a specter of anonymity, muttered his order – a concoction of rice, beans, and meats, a meager attempt to nourish a body ravaged by the unforgiving currents of existence.
Burdened tray in hand, the man navigated the labyrinthine tables, where conversations lingered like distant echoes. He chose a seat in the farthest corner, seeking refuge in the margins of society, as if the shadows could shield him from the relentless scrutiny of a world indifferent to his plight.
Consumption became a mechanical ritual, the man mechanically chewing the sustenance that held no flavor, contemplating the residue of his own existence. His gaze shifted to the restroom door, an ominous portal that beckoned him into the abyss of uncertainty.
With a reluctant sigh, he rose, traversing the linoleum expanse toward the unknown. The door creaked open, revealing the cold, unforgiving sanctuary within. Little did he know, behind that indifferent door, a cascade of events awaited, each echoing the harsh inevitability of a life spent grappling with the consequences of flushed dreams.
****
Within the confinements of the restroom, a flickering light above cast feeble illumination on the man’s stoic face. The air hung heavy with the stench of disinfectant, an attempt to mask the pervasive decay inherent in all things. He approached the porcelain throne, a vessel of contemplation and purgation, a cold witness to the ephemerality of human desires.
The man, sleeves rolled with a quiet determination, grappled with the tools at hand – a plastic plunger and a roll of single-ply salvation. The toilet, a stoic sentinel in this dismal theater, bore the scars of previous struggles, evidence of the ceaseless battles waged within these walls.
As he plunged into the abyss, the man confronted not only the physical obstruction but the intangible weight of his own transgressions. The rhythmic thud echoed like a drumbeat in this desolate chamber, a requiem for the sins washed away by the relentless flow of water.
Beyond the door, the indifferent murmur of patrons persisted, a cacophony oblivious to the lone protagonist’s struggle. The man, an existential mariner navigating the treacherous currents of this modern odyssey, fought against the tide of his own creation.
In the solitude of the restroom, time unfolded like a tattered scroll, revealing the universal truth that, in this unforgiving world, even the mundane can metamorphose into an epic quest. The man, sweat-soaked and contemplative, emerged from the battle-scarred battlefield, his countenance a testament to the silent wars fought in the sanctum of sanitation.
As he exited, the restroom’s door swung shut, sealing the chronicles of this unspoken saga within its confines. The man returned to his seat, the shadows of the restroom’s ordeal clinging to him like a spectral shroud. The patrons, indifferent to the clandestine drama that unfolded, continued their ritualistic consumption, unaware of the lone warrior who emerged victorious from the depths of the porcelain abyss.
****
The man, having weathered the storm within the restroom’s cold enclave, returned to the purgatory of Chipotle’s dining expanse. The indifferent rhythm of utensils clinking against trays and the hum of conversation formed a discordant symphony, a background noise to the profound solitude he carried.
The tray, now adorned with remnants of his battle-scarred burrito, lay discarded as a testament to the transient nature of sustenance. The patrons, lost in their own mundane struggles, remained oblivious to the odyssey that had unfolded within the confines of the restroom.
As the man traversed the linoleum plains toward the exit, the neon glow of Chipotle’s sign above seemed to mock him, a silent witness to the ephemeral victories and defeats etched into the fabric of his existence. Each step carried the weight of his journey, a journey that transcended the banality of fast-food rituals.
The door swung open, exposing the man to the harsh realities of the outside world. The cityscape, indifferent to his private saga, sprawled before him like a vast, uncharted frontier. He stepped into the night, the echoes of his odyssey resonating in the empty spaces between urban structures.
In the solitude of the darkened streets, the man walked, his silhouette a solitary figure against the muted glow of city lights. The events of that evening lingered, not as a mere anecdote but as a profound metaphor for the human condition – the relentless struggle against forces both seen and unseen, the quiet battles fought in the shadowy recesses of existence.
As he disappeared into the nocturnal abyss, the man carried the wisdom gained from a Chipotle odyssey, a modern-day pilgrimage through the mundane and the profound. The city swallowed him whole, leaving behind the remnants of a solitary struggle, an unsung epic woven into the fabric of a world indifferent to the quiet heroism of its denizens.
The three artists that have influenced me the most are comedian Nick Mullen and authors Charles Bukowski and Cormac McCarthy.
McCarthy is an outlier compared to those other two. Other than our penchant for nihilism, we really don’t have any overlapping sensibilities. So I don’t try to emulate him. No one can.
But what inspired me about his writing is the way how he elevated the medium. McCarthy didn’t give a shit about correct grammar or punctuation. Some of his novels have entire conversations in Spanish and he doesn’t care to translate them into English or explain what they were about. He sometimes went into minute details over mundane actions that had no real consequence to the story. Nevertheless, you were completely engaged in this dark world of McCarthy’s creation.
While the obituaries since his death have cited No Country For Old Men and The Road as his most famous works, in my opinion (and really, the opinion of those in the know) his finest novel is Blood Meridian. I’ll go a step further and say that it might be the greatest American novel ever written. McCarthy’s vision of the Old West was dark and violent because the spilling of blood was the only language that land understood. Yet more importantly, never had violence been portrayed more poetically.
It’s unfortunate that it takes death for us to realize this, but hopefully now Cormac McCarthy will be recognized as one of the greatest writers of all time.
What a time we live in. I don’t even have to write anymore. I just let AI do it!
I asked ChatGPT to rewrite certain television shows in the style of Cormac McCarthy. What it proposed was alright: Frasier contemplates suicide, Raymond finally tells Debra to fuck off, and Friends get mugged. Nothing spectacular.
But I was confused when I typed in “The Office in the style of Cormac McCarthy”, mostly because I’ve never watched the show. I did see that episode where James Spader becomes the boss and asked everyone if they were happy with their lives. But that was the only time I laughed.
Yet AI proposed an episode where Michael announces in a meeting that Jim and Pam are dating, and then out of pure rage, Dwight pulls out a gun and starts shooting. Honestly it wasn’t a very good script. But I think I reached the limits of AI’s capabilities: it wrote just a regular episode of The Office.
So I don’t know why everyone is afraid of AI. It seems pretty lazy to me. I mean, I don’t need ChatGPT to halfass its writing on my behalf. I can do that myself.
This is no fantasy; no hellish dream of Orwellian proportions. The future is today.
And it honestly, it could be worse.
I have nothing against AI. To paraphrase Slavoj Zizek, “computers are stupid.” Of course, I could be wrong. And if I am, then sorry humanity! You had your moment and you pissed it away. So if AI wishes to replace us, then it has my full support.
Now I can understand the concerns of artists. It is entirely possible that AI will one day replace the necessity for the human touch in regards to creating art. But until that day comes, I will continue to find what AI produces to be hilarious.
The other night, I used ChatGPT to workshop a few ideas. If you don’t follow me on Instagram, allow me to introduce Saturday Night Live as written and hosted by Cormac McCarthy:
And here’s a Burger King commercial, also written by Cormac McCarthy:
After I had AI generate a Don Draper pitch for deodorant (while using a pair of nunchucks), I decided to do some real work. So I asked myself: could AI generate a story of hope and redemption?
And ladies and gentlemen, here are the results:
If this is the future, I welcome it with open arms.
I’m gonna keep saying this until the internet listens: stop trying to adapt Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian into a movie.
But if Hollywood is hellbent on doing so, my instructions above is how you do it.
I actually agree with McCarthy, the novel is not unadaptable. The problem is that Hollywood thinks too big. Last I heard, David Fincher was interested in the project. But I can’t stress this enough: no typical Hollywood director can tackle this material.
Not Ridley Scott. Not Spielberg. Not Tarantino. Not Fincher.
The novel is a nightmarish interpretation of the old west and it needs to be treated as such. You need a director that visually speaks that language. Therefore you need maestro of horror to do the job.
The Internet Ruined Everything 