Matt Suddain presents an essay on era-defining novelist Douglas Coupland — complete with notes from era-defining novelist Douglas Coupland.
"I like witty cynicism. Hell, I've even been to Palm Springs."
Douglas Coupland: Wait …did I say this? I pioneered that place back before it was gay or mid-century or Coachella-land. It was this magical place in the clouds where Richard Nixon's America slept beneath a magic bell jar of sketchy industrial money. And there was only one place to get coffee and it closed at 7.30 pm).
Dear Mr Coupland,
DC: Hello Matt. Please call me Doug. MS: I will call you Doug.
Did you ever have the experience where you're describing the 1990s to someone too young to remember them and it starts sounding like you're just making stuff up?
DC: I do think the 1990s were the last good decade we're going to get for a long time.
The 1990s now feel like a spectral zone someone gets sucked into through their TV set in an old horror movie: an abode of VHS noise where words drift by in Carsonesque type… Alcopop. Webcast. Embiggen. Creutzfeldt-Jakob.
DC: Grunge. Slacker. Wired. Windows 95.
Kids who came of age in that decade were labelled Generation X, and it should be said that the blame for that lies largely with you.
DC: I'll gladly take it. I like it because it made me feel like a science experiment in a John Wyndham novel.
Also, that tag always seemed a little too dynamic for us, like we should have mutant superpowers.
DC: See? The Midwich Cuckoos. There you go. MS: I'd like to see an MCU cross-over where the golden-eyed xenogytes from Midwich take on the Avengers.
Our superpowers were understated scorn and constructive idleness. If we had to defeat the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants we'd have done it by subtly undermining their sense of purpose.
We'd've (DC: This is my favourite contraction! I'm so glad to see someone else use it!) said something like, "Nice costumes, guys, could you be trying any harder?" And they'd have left, chastened.
Is world domination worth it if you lose your dignity in the process? This seemed to be the central philosophical question for our community of outsiders. You stepped into the middle of our experience and answered another question: "Shouldn't one of us be writing some of this down?"
DC: I've always avoided the pronouns 'we' and 'us.' Baby Boomers use 'we' and 'us'.
Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture arrived in the world in 1991 — bestie, force quit, cybersex — and began a slow burn to iconic status, such that by the middle of the decade — alt-country, back button, jukebox musical — every second acquaintance was telling me I just had to read it.
One fun thing you can do is browse through the one-star customer reviews the book gathered over the years from people who didn't quite take to it with the same fervour, but whose critiques somehow end up capturing the cynical spirit of our collective, and your work.
"It was just three annoying people in the desert, feeling inordinately pleased with themselves for no particular reason."
And …
"I truly despise this book. It's the third time I've read it."
And …
"… But then, I hated Catcher in the Rye as well."
I remember a guy I secretly hated telling me he'd read Generation X three times and describing its inception as the result of some sort of vision quest. "He went into the desert, and when he came out he had this book."
DC: That's pretty much it. You need to remember that in 1989-1990 when I wrote the book, there was nothing. The 1980s were dead — with the Wall coming down, everybody knew it — but there was nothing to replace it, there was nothing to colour the era with an aura. It felt like we were at the end of eras altogether, just a bland nothingness until the end of civilisation.
It's a powerful foundation myth. We tend to send our best people into the desert. Our Jesuses of Nazareth and our Mads of Max.
DC: I chose the desert because I'd been there once before and thought it would be a romantic place to write a novel. In October of 1989 I had only been writing for two years. I never studied writing — or even thought of doing it — until an accident put me in a situation where I needed to write once-a-month magazine articles in Canada. Magazines had this magical thing back then called money. Magazine writers ate steak.
But because I secretly hated this guy, and I didn't get around to reading it until a girl I secretly liked said I should. By then you'd written Shampoo Planet, 1992 — hacktivism, homepage, silent migraine — and your much-discussed spiritual text Life After God, 1994 — botox, roofie, metrosexual — and Microserfs, 1995 — digerati, flash-drive, Frankenfood — and Girlfriend in a Coma, 1998 — cyberbully, flexitarian, friend with benefits.
I don't remember feeling like I was reading a work by a desert mystic. Those guys are usually driven by a personal spiritual need. To me, your books are social objects. They feel like meditations on our shared sufferings, as opposed to our private agonies. A support group, rather than a session on an analyst's couch.
DC: I thought there were maybe eleven people on Earth who would understand it. I really did. I'm still shocked that it resonated.
I've been playing catch-up with your work ever since Generation X. Which is why it's 2019 — Flexit? Cudgy? Muelleorite? (that's a meteorite you think is going to make a huge impact, but just fizzles out in a cloud of vapour resembling a frowny face) — and I'm only just getting round to Jpod, which came out in 2006 — totes, mumblecore, microblogging. I'm "reading" it on audiobook, because I want to fit more books into my busy schedule, and also because I'm interested to see what happens to me psychologically when I combine your work with visits to the gym.
DC: That is the nicest (and coolest) compliment I've heard in ages. Thank you. MS: My Pleasure. So far, I'm finding it surprisingly motivating. DC: It's all about productivity now.
The difficult part was selecting the right equipment.
DC: Actual LOL… (as opposed to gratuitous LOL) [plus an added self-conscious meta moment.]
The rowing machine seemed too dynamic ...
DC: I know. F*** rowing machines. They're boring and of sketchy developmental efficacy. I go to the gym five days a week. I'm not a gym freak, but if you don't do it, you'll end up with a s*** aging existence. Note: I swear a lot. MS: I'm a big fan of swearing — especially at the gym DC: Bonus body culture note: Today I put on a new pair of beige pants I bought in a Dubai Banana Republic and have never worn, and my inner legs have broken out in welts. What the hell could be in them that they'd do this to skin? MS: I've heard that sometimes people's immune systems will reject the colour beige.
... the treadmill, too basic. They've got a stair machine that towers above all the other rides.
DC: What's with all these machines? Stick with weights.
You hold a rail and trudge upwards like you've been sent to hell and your punishment is to eternally try to board a domestic flight.
DC: You get it! MS: I love free-weights, but I can never hear the audio-book above my manly cries.
It has displays that tell you how many buildings you've climbed, and how close your heart is to just exploding. If a future society ever does build a Museum of Late 20th Century Culture I think its centrepiece could be the latex model of a desperate, sweating man riding one of these hulks.
DC: We should probably move on to other topics, but cardio is way overrated.
But the Sisyphus 3000-X is a fine machine, I think I made a good choice.
DC: You did, dammit! And that's a good name.
I especially liked the opening exchange of Jpod:
"Oh God, I feel like a refugee from a Douglas Coupland novel." "That asshole." "Who does he think he is?"
I'm going to assume "asshole" isn't the umbrella term you'd usually choose to describe yourself.
DC: I think it's that I've never bought into the mysticism that surrounds 'the book' or of 'being published.' I'm highly suspicious of people who get published and peacock around like they're a gift from the gods. Writing festivals are painful that way. Wait — oh f*** — I'm going to a writers' festival there, aren't I ? Okay, I suppose I need to say something charitable about writers here. Okay… I've met and am reasonably friends with a few writers whose work I deeply admire and who I can safely say are not complete assholes. MS: Hard to believe. We need names. MS: David Mitchell. William Gibson. Chuck Klosterman. James Gleick. Pico Iyer. And some Canadian writers, Susan Musgrave, Michael Harris, Will Ferguson and Norman Doidge. Oh, and Chuck Palahniuk.
You'll soon be appearing at the Auckland Writers Festival where you'll be discussing all 23 of your books, including Generation X — which, unbelievably, turns 30 in 2021. (God only knows what words that year will give us. Nano-drone? Identity terrorism? Smelfie?)
Can I suggest that instead of putting quotes from fellow authors and professional reviewers on the cover of the anniversary edition your publishers consider pulling lines from those one-star customer ratings I mentioned? Habitual one-star reviewers seem to be the only group still working to uphold the biting cynicism we worked so hard to develop.
DC: I completely agree. For years I've been saying that the finest writing in the English language is found in one-star reviews on Yelp! ("And I only gave it one star because I couldn't give it zero.") Note: in a practical sense, two-star reviews are technically crueler than one-star reviews. MS: Oh, they totally are. They basically say "You even failed at completely sucking."
Some of their best lines could have come straight from the mouths of characters in your books.
"If you make it to the end without killing yourself or anyone else, well done." "Passed it to my local charity, but they already had one."
"I like witty cynicism. Hell, I've even been to Palm Springs."
DC: THAT'S where that came from.
Have a great time in NZ.
All my very best, Matt
DC: Well Matt, this is a very meta thing we're doing. Your editor's going to s*** all over it. Just saying. Ed: Nah, we LOVE meta.
* Douglas Coupland is speaking at the Auckland Writers' Festival, which runs May 13-19.