Life In America’s Dumber Ages

Susan Jacoby, The Age of American Unreason

Does it seem like America has gotten coarser lately? Not only the usual suspects, like political vitriol or “lowest common denominator” media content. Rather, we’ve become impatient with nuance, intolerant of expertise, and fearful of innovation or challenge to our existing beliefs. Nor is this a partisan issue, though it’s easier to see in the “other side.” Americans of most stripes seemingly want to snuggle into politics, media, religion, and art that makes us comfy.

I really wanted to like American journalist Susan Jacoby’s 2008 bestseller. Written as the American electorate grew dissatisfied with George W. Bush’s “plain folks” style, and tried to transition to Obama’s starchier, more academic approach to social order, I and others saw much in her willingness to call out Americans’ fondness for bonhomie and informality over knowledge and competence. That is, we saw much in her early chapters. But then her arguments started mounting up.

Jacoby starts well. She doesn’t romanticize the powdered-wig past, and rightly correlates America’s early high culture with its slaveholding and its peonage of the industrial working classes. Far from wishing to return to an idealized aristocratic age, she seems more enamored of “middlebrow,” a culture that arose between the World Wars. She speaks warmly of ordinary Americans’ aspirations to better understand science, history, and politics. Mass media, publishing, and culture encouraged proletarian learning and self-improvement.

In this, Jacoby positions herself in a robust intellectual lineage. She doesn’t even hide the debt her analysis owes to Douglas Hofstadter and Neil Postman, two prior culture critics who derided America’s slippery cultural slope. Like Hofstadter and Postman, Jacoby pooh-poohs television, overextended public schools, and Americans’ desire to see our prejudices verified. Far from revolutionary, these complaints are so well established and widely shared, at least in certain circles, that they too are comfy.

Problems become visible as Jacoby’s peroration continues. Her chapter on religion laments Christianity’s descent into nationalism. Post-WWII public Christians, progressive innovators like Dr. King and Reinhold Niebuhr, gave way to conservative heel-draggers like Falwell and LaHaye. Okay, true enough. But I’ve read James Cone and Gustavo Guittierez, and I spot something Jacoby overlooks: Whiteness. Where Black and other “racialized” Christians still seek justice, White Christians frequently want their prejudices sanctified. Jacoby sees only the latter.

Susan Jacoby

Proximity to power, not religious devotion, often defines how nuanced one’s Christianity is. Scholars like Kevin M. Kruse or Gorski & Perry address this in detail. These sources shipped after Jacoby’s book, but their premises and conclusions aren’t new. Rather than addressing such scholarship, Jacoby compares contemporary (2008) religious headlines with her childhood catechism lessons, and finds the present wanting. She probably hasn’t needed to consider non-White Christianity in her journalism, so she forgets it.

We could continue. Jacoby’s discussions of American anti-science spotlight Intelligent Design, and President Bush’s opposition to Darwinian evolution. This seems quaint after, y’know, global warming and The Pandemic. Likewise, she belittles universities teaching courses on Stephen King, which she sees as decline from the Bronte sisters. Except universities have historically used pop culture analysis to teach students the principles of literary criticism. To say nothing of the importance of analyzing today’s world through contemporary art.

As Jacoby’s claims accumulate, themes emerge. Though she’s largely progressive (though dismissive of Politically Correct excesses), she shows an essentially past-oriented bias, believing things used to be good, and now they’re not. She yearns for moral clarity she believes America had at its middlebrow peak, encouraged by post-WWII economic largesse and the GI Bill. But she isn’t comparing apples to apples. Jacoby’s present consists primarily of headlines; her past mainly comprises memories and cultural touchstones.

The past doesn’t just objectively exist. It took me years to realize how thoroughly curated the past is, even within my own lifetime. Headlines create a perception of urgency, and in today’s saturated media landscape, crisis and catastrophe sell ad space. Breaking news isn’t your friend, and is frequently deceptive. Meanwhile, the past gets trimmed of ambiguity, contingency, or doubt, making positive outcomes seem falsely inevitable. That’s why people yearn to bring greatness back “again.”

Don’t misunderstand me. Historians and anthropologists have long documented America’s widespread opposition to learning, nuance, and deliberation. The years since this book dropped make Jacoby’s 2008 milieu look parochial and sweet; we’ve busted multiple nadirs since, and find new ways to crash ever lower. But blanket statements about a bucolic past and an apocalyptic present are neither useful nor accurate. Good and bad have always existed—and Americans have always chosen poorly between the two.

Does “Pheromone Maxxing” Even Exist? or, Don’t Believe Every Panic

Aaron Parnas

Since August 30^th, 2026, social media has veritably reeked with users posting about “pheromone maxxing,” a supposed manosphere trend. This trend putatively has men skipping showers before dates, wearing unwashed clothes to magnify their natural aroma, and even drinking their own pee. These activities ostensibly magnify men’s pheromones, an olfactory hormone observed in many animal species (but not humans), linked to sexual desirability and performance.

Nearly every social media post I’ve read cites a TikTok video by opinion aggregator Aaron Parnas, dated August 29^th. It’s unclear how many people even heard of this “trend” before Parnas’ video; it certainly wasn’t trending worldwide. Some subsequent posts cite no sources whatsoever, suggesting the online umbrage has become self-supporting. The concept went from no meaningful presence, to capturing the internet’s collective imagination, in four days.

I’ve struggled to source this nominal trend. Parnas cites “new reporting from Vice.” This almost certainly means this article, dated August 12^th. Notably, this is Parnas’ only source. His one source, in turn, cites only one pertinent source, this article from Men’s Journal. This source, in turn, cites Instagram user Topher Cusumano, a modest influencer with less than 5,000 followers, and one ten-second Instagram reel with the byline of “wandering_optics”.

For those playing along at home, that’s a remarkably tenuous chain of evidence leading to just some guy, whose questionable influence doesn’t much impress me. Vice and Men’s Journal do cite other sources: Vice quotes several reliable sources identifying pheromones as pseudoscience, while Men’s Journal correlates underarm fetishes with queer culture. Neither provides anything like longitudinal data or evidence of more widespread influence.

Perhaps more notably, “pheromone maxxing” has produced no celebrities, primary-source images, or even meaningful footprint. Recall last April, when Braden “Clavicular” Peters pushed “looks maxxing” into public consciousness. Peters’ notoriety ended almost as quickly as it began, but at least he provided a recognizable face, demonstrating his “trend” actually existed. The one “pheromone maxxing” personality I’ve identified, Topher Cusumano, remains virtually anonymous.

Which raises the question: does the “pheromone maxxing” trend even exist outside its social media reaction? Online journalism has produced only two accounts I’ve found that willingly associate themselves with the concept. And in fairness, the “wandering_optics” reel seems notably ambiguous and may itself aim to satirize other “maxxing” subcultures. We have a trend with no participants, an influencer with little influence, and a story propelled mainly by disgust.

Topher Cusumano

Social media programmers learned long ago that fear, anger, and revulsion sell content faster than optimism, progress, and contentment. Happy people don’t panic buy. Therefore, it’s perhaps understandable why the Vice story, amplified by Aaron Parnas’ demi-celebrity status, gave the story legs. After decades of conditioning by advertising and PR that our bodies are dirty, stinky, and gross, this story reverses that, activating deep-rooted ego defense mechanisms.

Aaron Parnas isn’t a journalist. Despite covering current events, he mostly reports others’ prior coverage. His social media footprint suggests he spends most of his day online, spreading his message across multiple platforms. Parnas’ videos frequently provide lite commentary, followed by a pertinent Substack link. He begins many TikToks by saying “Breaking news” or “Heads up,” terms designed to cause viewers to feel alerted, if not outright threatened.

To be clear, there’s nothing wrong with opinion aggregators amplifying others’ coverage. American society broadly detests self-promotion, so rebroadcasting through third-party voices is often the only way to get stories heard. Parnas has a light touch compared to basic cable outlets like Fox News and MSNOW, which both butter their bread by layering thick partisan commentary onto other journalists’ prior reportage.

However, when a story trades primarily on disgust, a powerful motivator, the influence can spread. Many post-Parnas comments have attributed this phenomenon to “men,” rather than one minor Instagram influencer. This presents the problem as widespread and specifically gendered, a conclusion that seems plausible prima facie, but isn’t supported by the evidence. It certainly doesn’t justify tying all men together.

Briefly put, this story appears tenuous at best, passing through a cascade of increasingly specious re-reporting, back to one lone guy of questionable influence. The “trend” barely exists beyond its pushback. But the emotion underlying the story’s coverage has outlying effects. Revulsion and anger drive clicks, the root of online economics, but they create divisions between humans; this story has already named another out-group who, by their basic existence, disgust us.

The last thing America needs now is another designated disgusting out-group. But the second-to-last must surely be another online trend that splits people despite barely even existing.

“Chai Tea” and the Perils of Words

Several times recently, I’ve seen social media users post variations on “You mustn’t say ‘chai tea,’ because chai means tea, so ‘chai tea’ means ‘tea tea.’” These posts aren’t verbatim, so they presumably aren’t copypasta; but they repeat the same message, that “chai tea” is a tautology. I take the poster’s point. But I think this misses something important about how language evolves, and how meaning is something we make, not something that just exists.

Why do we pronounce the name of Notre Dame University, in South Bend, Indiana, differently than the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris? Well obviously, because Notre Dame University is in the United States, while Notre Dame cathedral is in France. The transition between countries, with their different majority languages and historical conventions, means the words change when moving across contexts. When stated that way, the difference seems obvious. But seems is a loaded word.

Continuing the French metaphor, English has several loan words from French. This probably reflects French cultural influence in British and Continental affairs from the Renaissance through the Napoleonic era, and the fact that speaking French has long been considered mannerly. But in reading how these French loan words cross into English, it becomes clear that the words’ meanings change. Language is dynamic, usage creates meaning, and we reinvent language when we imbue words with significance.

In French, un sachet is simply a bag, any bag. Plastic grocery bags, designer handbags, and over-the-shoulder totes are sachets. But the English word bag already exists. Therefore, in making the transition, the word sachet in English morphs into a small ornamental bag, especially one used in displaying scented herbs. Likewise, un bureau is an office desk with drawers, but in English, it becomes an office full of desks, especially a remote or subsidiary office.

When English-speakers say chai, we aren’t speaking Hindi; we aren’t ordering “tea,” because the word tea already exists. Generally, we mean masala chai, a specific way of preparing tea, which only recently came into English-speaking consciousness and has become a fad for its rich texture and intense flavor. If chai simply meant tea, the word would be prolix and unnecessary, or anyway redundant. But by naming masala chai, the word becomes valuable, and therefore survives.

We could stop there. The fact that words, like species, change to fit their ecology, is sufficient. But I see something deeper happening here. When a certain subset of tea connoisseurs demand the Hindi definition persist in English, they’re trying to establish strict linguistic controls and stop meanings from changing. Many of us remember this form of prescriptive grammar from grade school, from teachers upset over split infinitives and the difference between “can” and “may.”

I’ve written before about my students who were terrified to write anything for class because they’d had such extensive, sometimes tyrannical grammar rules drilled into their heads. Language rules, even within the same language, are often contradictory, arbitrary, and driven by personal preference. And they often share a previous supposition that language is in a state of decline. Many classroom language rules intimidate students because they reflect how English was spoken decades, even centuries ago.

It bears stating that I taught in an overwhelmingly White, working-class university, in an overwhelmingly White, working-class state. But the students most intimidated by aggressive grammar enforcement were Black, Hispanic, and poor. In unguarded moments, they speak particular gradations of English reflecting their racial, economic, or provincial backgrounds. But teachers, rule-bound to teach “standard” English, can be particularly harsh, deliberately or otherwise, with students they perceive as belonging to out-groups. The result is tragically imperialist.

And remember, there is no tea commerce, much less tea vocabulary, without European imperialism. Vast swaths of India and China still haven’t fully recovered from English damage during the Opium Wars, conducted specifically to open the tea trade on terms advantageous to White Englanders. Though Britain’s overseas empire has substantially crumbled since World War II, America—or, more accurately, American multinational corporations—have stepped into the role. Americans drink “chai tea” because of ancestral imperialism.

I’d rather not say that American tea connoisseurs demanding chai purity are Orientalist imperialists. Those I’ve known care deeply about Indian history and its postcolonial legacy. But the attempt to freeze language according to past usage, always winds up being about preserving power hierarchies. Whether it’s the hierarchy of imperial conquest, or the hierarchy of tea snobbery, prescriptive grammar is an act of power. And power inevitably burns its users as much as its targets.

Anaïs Mitchell and the Rebirth of Greek Tragedy

Eve Noblezada and Reeve Carney as Eurydice and Orpheus in Hadestown: the Musical

The word “catharsis” enters English from Greek through Aristotle, mostly his book Poetics. Therein, Aristotle uses the word “katharsis” to describe the effect he believes tragic drama has on audiences, raising negative emotions and, by expressing them, leaving them behind in the theater. For the most part, only classics scholars, gastroenterologists, and theatre kids know the word has its origins in medical terminology.

In ancient Greek, “katharsis” meant the removal of harmful substances from the body, especially in large quantities. In Aristotle’s day (and remember, his father was a physician), this might have meant medical leeching or emetics. It also signified heavy menstruation, though Aristotle, a consummate misogynist, probably never considered that. Most likely, he meant a metaphor to powerful laxative drugs and their effects on the gut.

You read that right. By “catharsis,” Aristotle probably meant that large, oft-postponed shit you take and, having taken, find yourself able to think clearly, feel deeply, and judge accurately. Aristotle believed that audiences watching Athenian tragedies, which were religious ceremonies, felt their feelings so intensely that it cleared mental blocks and burdens on the soul. He figured tragedy made audiences take a metaphorical shit, and having shat, emerge spiritually cleansed.

All that is prelude to say: I hope Hadestown, Anaïs Mitchell’s musical retelling of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, presages a new generation of artistic tragedy. Many audiences, especially in the provinces, may never see a stage production, because the show’s need for multiple levels and trick floors make it impractical for regional and community theatres. But its recent big-screen distribution has made this play into a legitimate phenomenon.

I won’t recapitulate the plot. Writers from Plato and Virgil, to Rainier Maria Rilke and Sarah Ruhl, have reinvented it for their times, as Mitchell does here. I’m more interested in process and effect. Hadestown has all the Aristotlean characteristics of a successful tragedy: plot, character, theme, language, music, and “spectacle.” And, to judge by the stunned silence among the exiting audience at my showing, it clearly purges the emotions.

This production differs from most theatre in its specificity. Orpheus is still a gifted musician, but no longer a hero, he works despised jobs while seeking his break. Eurydice, beautiful but poor, is no longer snake-bitten; she chooses Hades, because at least there’s work. And Hades (the god and place alike) are now metaphors for carnivorous capitalism, the economic machine that consumes dreams and reduces humans to anonymous parts.

Plato and Aristotle, depicted by Raphael

We, the audience, see ourselves in this Dionysian ecstasy. Not everyone is a poet like Orpheus, surely; but we’ve all known the indignity of accepting work beneath our capabilities because rent is due. Like Eurydice, we’ve known the push-pull between economic necessity and moral integrity. And while we all haven’t been rapacious industrialists like Hades, we’ve all known and worked for someone who, like Hades, is disfigured inside and out.

For years, I insisted I disliked musicals. But recent experiences have shown me that I actually dislike Broadway musicals toned down for production in educational theatres, a theatrical subgenre too many of us know innately. School musicals are perhaps notorious for their thematically neutered structure and precious, virtuoso-driven music. Little could seem further from lived experiences of poverty, inequality, and discordant rhythm.

Mitchell doesn’t blanche to coach audiences to see ourselves in her characters, then hurt the characters. The suffering Eurydice suffers when Orpheus can’t hear her, and she must make a decision alone—why, we’ve all felt that misery when we discover we face life’s violent circumstances, sooner or later, alone. The doubt Orpheus feels, walking out of hell, is doubt we’ve all experienced that our lives are founded on lies.

Finally, Mitchell appends a final scene missing from the ancient sources. Without spoilers, we whether the characters lack free will, and whether they chose their tragedy, or the tragedy was an inevitable outcome. I’ve written before that whether writers and critics see plot or character as more important in storytelling, seemingly depends on whether they believe humans have free will. But we live now in times where such certainty seems quaint.

Hadestown is a tragedy because, like the ancient Athenian tragedies, it isn’t timeless. It uses mythology its audience already knows, but repurposes it for its intended audience. Millennia from now, Mitchell’s references to our real world may seem as abstract as those embedded in Sophocles do to us. But it’s a tragedy, in Aristotle’s sense, specifically because it hits us, the viewers, where we live. We feel because we already do.

Anthony Fauci and the Impolitics of Doubt

President Taco and Dr. Fauci have clearly differed on how to face the problem.

I struggle watching the Senate grilling America’s former chief immunologist, Dr. Anthony Fauci, for the same reason I avoid Farrelly Brothers-style doofus comedies: because it pains me to watch hapless dorks struggle. While Senators, particularly Rand Paul, fling bad-faith questions, Dr. Fauci responds by avoiding answers. This isn’t a partisan blowout, as I’d expected beforehand; it’s a disgrace to everyone who loves public policy and hard science.

Much news coverage has focused on Fauci’s diary. Senator Paul leaked reams of Fauci’s personal papers ahead of the hearing, presumably expecting the contents to embarrass Fauci and his supporters. They certainly should embarrass him for writing style—the man uses the telegraphic style and lush punctuation of a 13-year-old girl in an Elmore Leonard novel. But the contents, and the Senate's reaction to them, have proved altogether more interesting.

From the beginning of the pandemic, I compared the responses to religion. To President Taco, and most Republicans, “science” is whatever dribbles from a scientist’s mouth. Scientists are like prophets, their pronouncements are oracular truth, and our only responsibility is to make their parables useful. Watching scientists grasp at straws, change their minds, and struggle for unifying narratives, looks like secularized waffling to those who seek certainty.

I still believe that. However, I’ve come to believe the response isn’t unique to science. A certain kind of public personality believes that truth must be certain, and should never vary from first to last. Changing one’s mind, thinking of truth as conditional, and adjusting one’s language to meet the circumstances, come across to the literal-minded as vacillation and dishonesty. The small-c conservative mind seeks certainty where none exists.

Think back to recent political events. (I’m old enough that “recent” is a fungible term; bear with me.) Remember the brouhaha surrounding John Kerry’s notorious 2004 statement that “actually did vote for [a military appropriations bill] before I voted against it.” This probably submarined his presidential aspirations. Barry Glassner writes about the criticism Bill Clinton received for taking both sides of several political issues.

If Dr. Fauci can change his mind in light of new scientific evidence, it perforce follows that anybody else can, too. Senator Paul himself has stuck with the narrative that Fauci is personally responsible for the economic sinkhole the pandemic caused, if not the pandemic himself. Paul’s narrative persists despite a paucity of evidence, partly because Paul probably believes it, but also because he daren’t be seen publicly changing his mind.

Republicans, who are broadly more religious than the opposition, yearn for the moral certainty of Moses in their political leaders. Moses challenged Pharaoh, and David challenged Saul, both confident that they had God’s imprimatur. This absolute, unwavering confidence can look commanding to people confused or overwhelmed by the rapid social changes which have become hallmarks of modernity. Why can’t we all be as certain as Jesus?

My friends and veteran readers know where I’m headed here. The confidence of religion is, itself, irreligious. Moses initially tried to beg off G-d’s calling; so did Jeremiah and Isaiah. Jesus himself prayed, immediately before his arrest, to avoid what he knew came next. John, in his first epistle, warns against excessive faith: “Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God” (1 John 4:1).

Doubt, not certainty, is the condition of life in this material world. Science is never “done;” it must constantly revise itself as new evidence arises. Lawmakers must pass the best bills available now, knowing they or their successors will repeal those bills later as conditions, economics, or public morals evolve. Prophets speak to a specific time and place, and their truths, however absolute, must face contingent interpretations.

Say what you will about Dr. Fauci’s over 100 recourses to the Fifth Amendment. (I’d suggest Fauci, a 38-year career civil servant, knew the game well enough to simply avoid common pitfalls.) For our purposes, what matters most is Fauci’s willingness to acknowledge scientific uncertainty without reaching for a pat narrative. He didn’t need to reconcile his doubt, because for him, doubt is simply natural.

Anthony Fauci makes modern lawmakers, media pundits, and other vendors of pat solutions nervous. Because, simply, he reveals that it’s okay to doubt, to question, to change your mind. Politicians squirm at this, because unshakeable certainty looks better in campaign ads. But the more command you have of the facts, the more nuanced your read, and the more vulnerable you are to doubt. Fauci says that’s okay, and that frightens grey-faced nabobs.