{"id":100226,"date":"2016-07-11T09:26:06","date_gmt":"2016-07-11T13:26:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=100226"},"modified":"2016-07-11T11:41:49","modified_gmt":"2016-07-11T15:41:49","slug":"bloodthirsty-billboards-and-other-news","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/07\/11\/bloodthirsty-billboards-and-other-news\/","title":{"rendered":"Bloodthirsty Billboards, and Other News"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_100228\" style=\"width: 610px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/07\/barracuda-billboard.jpg\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-100228\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-100228\" class=\"wp-image-100228\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/07\/barracuda-billboard.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"407\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/07\/barracuda-billboard.jpg 960w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/07\/barracuda-billboard-300x203.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/07\/barracuda-billboard-768x521.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-100228\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">As integral to the landscape as the horizon is.<\/p><\/div>\n<ul>\n<li>On February 3, 1974, Philip K. Dick was minding his own business\u2014just recovering from dental surgery as you or I might, maybe with a pint of rum\u00a0raisin H\u00e4agen-Dazs and some trashy daytime television\u2014when a divine spirit had the nerve to interrupt his solitude, altering his life forever: \u201c<a href=\"http:\/\/publishersweekly.com\/pw\/by-topic\/industry-news\/tip-sheet\/article\/70857-was-philip-k-dick-a-madman-or-a-mystic.html\" target=\"_blank\">The doorbell rang, and when Dick opened the door he was stunned to see what he described as a \u2018girl with black, black hair and large eyes very lovely and intense\u2019 wearing a gold necklace with a Christian fish symbol<\/a>. She was there to deliver a new batch of medications from the pharmacy. After the door shut, Dick was blinded by a flash of pink light and a series of visions ensued. First came images of abstract paintings, followed by philosophical ideas and then, sophisticated engineering blueprints. Dick believed the pink light was a spiritual force which had unlocked his consciousness, granting him access to esoteric knowledge.\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<ul>\n<li>Imagine a world without billboards. I can\u2019t do it, either. But an earlier generation, their synapses blessedly unfried by constant advertising, had the creative wherewithal to mount an assault on the whole industry. Erica Berry writes, \u201c<a href=\"http:\/\/www.theatlantic.com\/technology\/archive\/2016\/07\/the-call-of-the-billboard\/490316\/\" target=\"_blank\">Billboards are democratic invitations, tickets to Dionysian adventure and Hedonistic romps \u2026 Taking a cue from the English Society for Checking the Abuses of Public Advertising, American anti-billboard reformers quickly organized against this assault, with the renowned landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., helming early efforts<\/a>. The signs concealed piles of litter, blocked sunlight, distracted from the scenery, and \u2018obtrude[d] all sorts of sordid ideas upon the mind,\u2019 Olmsted wrote in 1900. Beyond moral objections, anti-billboard activists seized on the practical effrontery of the signs, as when wooden boards atop San Francisco\u2019s buildings helped conduct the city\u2019s disastrous 1906 fire, or when a \u2018bloodthirsty billboard\u2019 tipped and injured pedestrians in Kansas City in 1905, as reported by\u00a0the<em>\u00a0Kansas City Journal<\/em>.\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<ul>\n<li>Come to Catullus for the hunger and heartache, stay for the dick jokes: \u201c<a href=\"https:\/\/newrepublic.com\/article\/134975\/erotic-bard-ancient-rome?utm_content=bufferf1c60&amp;utm_medium=social&amp;utm_source=twitter.com&amp;utm_campaign=buffer\" target=\"_blank\">The verses Catullus addressed to male rivals, or to friends who he felt had let him down, often pullulate with rage and obscenity<\/a>.\u00a0<em>Paedicabo ego vos et irrumabo<\/em>is his gloriously defiant reply to two companions, Furius and Aurelius, who had criticized the indecency of his writings: \u2018I shall fuck you in the ass and I shall fuck you in the mouth.\u2019 His fearless attacks on his enemies, even revered public figures, teem with anuses, penises, stinking armpits\u2014one man, a certain Rufus, is said to have a wild goat living beneath his\u2014and graphic sex acts either given or received. The saltiness of these poems has thrilled many a beginning Latin class, but their power extends beyond mere shock value. With his freewheeling aggression, his willingness to let fly at the slightest provocation, Catullus evokes the modern Beat poets; the \u2018neoteric\u2019 school to which he belonged was just as daring as theirs in breaking with literary tradition.\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<ul>\n<li>Our poetry editor, Robyn Creswell, reviews Hisham Matar\u2019s <em>The Return: Fathers, Sons and the Land in Between<\/em>, which finds Matar returning to Libya for the first time in thirty-three years, after Qaddafi\u2019s fall: \u201c<a href=\"http:\/\/www.nytimes.com\/2016\/07\/10\/books\/review\/hisham-matar-the-return.html\" target=\"_blank\">His memoir is set in this honeymoon of the revolution, the brief window between the dictatorship and the current civil war<\/a>. \u2018Anything seemed possible,\u2019 Matar writes of this hopeful interim, \u2018and nearly every individual I met spoke of his optimism and foreboding in the same breath.\u2019 In the memoir\u2019s most rapturous passages, which recall Albert Camus\u2019s essays on his Algerian childhood, Matar evokes his rediscovery of the Libyan landscape, the luminous Mediterranean coast and the austerity of the interior, where the earth \u2018stood as all the unpeopled landscapes of Libya stand, clean and witnessing.\u2019\u2009\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<ul>\n<li>In which James Wolcott sits down with a group of memoirs looking back at the golden age of magazines, including Terry McDonell\u2019s\u00a0<em>The Accidental Life<\/em>:\u00a0\u201c<a href=\"http:\/\/www.vanityfair.com\/culture\/2016\/07\/helen-gurley-brown-terry-mcdonell-and-the-glossy-glory-days-of-magazines\" target=\"_blank\">The twilight melancholy that creeps through the book is due not only to the ghosts of those now gone \u2026 but also to the waning of an entire way of life, the shrinking power, prestige, glamour, and advertising clout of glossy print in the Digital Age beneath the Death Star of Silicon Valley hegemony and the loss of journalistic comradeship<\/a>. Everything McDonell writes rings sad and true, but the marvel is (as I\u2019m sure he\u2019d agree) that so much superb, adventurous work is still being done in magazines in the encroaching void of such adversity. If you\u2019re going to go down with the ship, might as well go down swinging.\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>On February 3, 1974, Philip K. Dick was minding his own business\u2014just recovering from dental surgery as you or I might, maybe with a pint of rum\u00a0raisin H\u00e4agen-Dazs and some trashy daytime television\u2014when a divine spirit had the nerve to interrupt his solitude, altering his life forever: \u201cThe doorbell rang, and when Dick opened the [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2512],"tags":[23182,679,23183,23184,23185,10252,16937,23186,269,10368,12856,7789,2047,200,9166],"class_list":["post-100226","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-the-shelf","tag-23182","tag-advertising","tag-billboards","tag-catullus","tag-hishim-matar","tag-james-wolcott","tag-latin","tag-libya","tag-magazines","tag-memoirs","tag-morality","tag-philip-k-dick","tag-poets","tag-science-fiction","tag-terry-mcdonell"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>People Once Dared to Imagine a World Without Billboards<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This and more in today\u2019s roundup.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/07\/11\/bloodthirsty-billboards-and-other-news\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Bloodthirsty Billboards, and Other News by Dan Piepenbring\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"July 11, 2016 \u2013 On February 3, 1974, Philip K. 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