Sophie O’Connor
Nass Recommends: The West Wing
My name is Sophie, and I am a Sorkinaholic. Which is to say: I have spent the better part of this fall break gorging on Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing, arguably America’s most famous political drama television series.
The show is, by all accounts, total propaganda. The characters are idealistic and possess all the necessary Sorkin traits of wit, intelligence, and a self-flagellating adoration of working. They are world-weary but have the cleverness to make it funny. Practically every character has the Bible memorized so they may debate political issues (e.g. televangelism, gay rights) using scripture itself.
In The West Wing, the White House becomes Shangri-La, chock-full of rapid-fire quips on legislation or the president’s agenda; scandals are neatly tied up with few consequences to the characters (for example, the press and the people somehow show mercy to Chief-of-Staff Leo McGarry (John Spencer) when it’s revealed that he is a recovering alcoholic and drug addict); and every episode ends with a long speech that appeals to the morality and hope in each of us.
If this wasn’t already television enough, the show is full of interpersonal conflicts and romances. Allow me to reprint a notable tête-à-tête between Josh Lyman (Bradley Whitford), Deputy Chief-of-Staff, and C.J. Cregg (Allison Janney), the Press Secretary:
JOSH: You’re overreacting.
CJ: Am I?
JOSH: Yes.
CJ: As women are prone to do?
JOSH: That’s not what I meant.
CJ: Yes, it is.
JOSH: No, it isn’t.
CJ: It’s always what you mean.
JOSH: You know what, C.J., I really think I’m the best judge of what I mean, you paranoid Berkeley shiksa feminista. (beat) Whoa. That was way too far.
CJ: No, no. (beat) Well, I’ve got a staff meeting to go to and so do you, you elitist Harvard fascist missed-the-dean’s-list-two-semesters-in-a-row Yankee jackass.
JOSH: Feel better getting that off your chest there, C.J.?
CJ: I’m a whole new woman.
I mean, look at this! How inspiring! Two “radically” different characters—no matter that they both went to elite universities and work for the same administration—overcome their differences for the good of the nation. And a feminist comeback while we’re at it, too.
And yet, with all of these faults and dissonances (is the show a pedagogical tool? Is it the needed corrective in combatting nationwide cynicism in our government?), it’s difficult not to buy into the show. I mean, the president is named Josiah “Jed” Bartlet, for Christ’s sake! Josiah!! He hath renewed our covenant with God—or in this case, true American ideals. He is Sorkin’s realized Bill Clinton (i.e. Clinton without his priapic tendencies).
President Bartlet is a mere keeper of a construct that is exceptionally American: that freedom and democracy are self-evident to humanity. As the camera pulls us down the hallway with CJ and Toby (Richard Schiff), we walk with them, also building our shared idea of America.
Mannix O’Brien
Nass Recommends: Scanning the well-worn path
There’s a hazy memory of mine that must be from around age ten. I’m watching a friend’s older sister, a self-proclaimed “Girl Skater,” apply rubbing alcohol to the trunk of a traffic light. She’s identified a vinyl sticker she wants and is letting it soak in the sanitizer before she delicately scrapes it off with a razor. The image of her angrily flipping through a notebook plastered full of her collection has long been my standard of beauty. For no reason at all, this summer I decided to download a scanning app and pick up the hobby. The app works by finding the face of an object and recording it with the detail of a shorn-off layer of skin. Just by noticing the news-racks and street signs on my way home, I’ve found some great designs hidden in plain sight.
I can’t quite articulate what makes these stickers so compelling to me, but I hope a brief description of some of my favorites captures the insanity I now feel connected to. A vegan Vitruvian Man, a distorted Harvey Weinstein emblazoned with “BOMBACLATT,” and, the Ramones posed beside the anti/pro-semitic expression “JEW YORK” are but a few of the gems one can find in Midtown Manhattan. These scans not only dutifully print a found font or graphic, but the texture of the wall it was stamped from. I find that these created photos obtain a real power from the traces of their original context implicit within them.
One artist whose writing process reminds me of a scanner is Bob Dylan. His fervent fans have long documented how he combs through big, important books like War and Peace and picks out the snippets that call out to him. There’s something about finding inspiration in works so influential that they’re ubiquitous that makes it like appreciating graffiti stickers. When a writer searches these places and finds a striking line they intend to stamp into their own work, something new and beautiful has been found in a well-worn path. Although the moments Dylan collages have been interwoven with all manner of folk archetypes, the traces of their source material lend these songs something powerful. When one listens to lines about log cabins and paltry dowries, the connotations of Dylan’s Russian sources are preserved like the texture of scanned asphalt. To find a new detail in the kinds of tomes that litter hotel nightstands and cobwebbed shelves is, to me, the same action as documenting a great unnoticed drawing on a trashcan.
I realize that scanning graffiti and the lyrics of Bob Dylan are two disparate interests of mine. However, I think the little connection they do have is a process for making references that enrich art rather than dilute it. A good reference is like a scan: striking, novel, and textured.
Sasha Rotko
Nass Recommends: A Cortado and World’s Fair by Julian Lage
This year, I’ve developed a morning routine to facilitate the consistent writing of my thesis, which is about many things but primarily the whimsical, brilliant minds of children. I’ve in turn tried to inject a bit of whimsy into my mornings, to curate a particular energy that is not childlike but that reminds me of how time would swell or go by so fast in childhood, when an hour would feel like five minutes or five minutes would feel like an entire afternoon. My internal clock has improved as I’ve gotten older, but it is nice to lose track of time, and it’s best to do so in the mornings, I think. I’m recommending to you today two things: one to make the time swell, and another to make it go by.
First, a cortado. It’s a small espresso drink. Four ounces: two ounces of espresso and two ounces of milk. It doesn’t take so long to drink, but that doesn’t mean you drink it fast. You take little sips every some-number-of-seconds, and then you drink some water, and then you have more of the coffee. And when you’ve finished you realize the time has swelled, because you’ve had a whole coffee but it’s only been about five or ten minutes, and you didn’t rush; you enjoyed the whole thing. Cortados also taste very good, which is a bonus.
Second, listen to World’s Fair by Julian Lage. It’s a fairytale-like guitar instrumental album that sounds like playing pretend and making potions in the backyard. It’s sprightly. Listening to this album while writing is like being dragged along by the music down a winding path through the woods, discovering my story in glimpses hovering midair that I have to try to capture as fast as I can along the way.
Claire Beeli
Nass Recommends: Stealing (poems, mostly)
Have you ever stolen something from a really great restaurant? I have. Once, a porcelain chopstick holder shaped like a sleeping baby. An ultra-long fork like an alien might use. A book (from a cafe with thousands of shelved books)—though that one I surreptitiously returned, read, a few days later.
This, for me, is spiritually the same act as memorizing poems. During COVID I’d pace my room and hold a book of poems too close to my eyes and read them aloud, over and over until I could repeat them without the book. It feels stabilizing and powerful to have secret, constant, internal possession of something so beautiful, much the same way I liked knowing I had the long fork or the porcelain baby.
This is a much kinder method than robbing restaurants, so I can feel better about recommending it: memorize a poem or two, really good ones. You can test yourself by copying them into notebooks during three-hour no-tech seminars if, like me, you aren’t afraid of classmates thinking you’re a serial killer. They’re also great at parties. I recommend Joanna Klink or, if you’re feeling lazy, e.e. cummings.
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