Audrey Wu Clark responds to Chapter 8—The End of Universalism (1962-1990s) in Jennifer Ratner-Rosenhagen’s The Ideas That Made America: A Brief History.
Playas Gonna Play
It was the 1967 Summer of Love, but the main character in Oscar Zeta Acosta’s The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo was more interested in becoming a player than a hippie. The real-life model for Hunter Thompson’s Dr. Gonzo in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, the Mexican-American lawyer published The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo in 1972. While set during a time of supposed peace, love, and flowers, the book goes out of its way to distance the autobiographical protagonist from hippies, as literature scholar Hector Calderón points out.[1] The Oscar in the novel is no hippie. He identifies instead as a playboy.
Acosta’s autobiographical novel points to a different way to conceptualize Jennifer Ratner-Rosenhagen’s argument in the eighth chapter of her survey of US intellectual history, The Ideas that Made America. In “Against Universalism: 1962-1990s,” Ratner-Rosenhagen interprets the final four decades of the twentieth century as primarily “antifoundationalist,” by which she means they were marked by an undermining of solid and secure bases for knowledge. This is an accurate overarching interpretation, and Ratner-Rosenhagen offers a balanced reading of its emancipatory as well as its reactionary dimensions, but the turn against essences and fixed truths needs more specificity to understand fully its range of political and cultural ramifications.
“If we turn to a sampling of ‘ethnic’ literary publications that burst on the scene in the 1970s and afterward, what we glimpse most of all was the rise of a sensibility we might best call ‘player imperialism.’”
There was a particular kind of turn against universalism that shows up in the explosion of so-called “ethnic” literature during the decades after the 1960s. In these stories, a misogyny emerges with a force that links it to deeper legacies of class division, racism, and colonialism. The turn against universalism failed to address, never mind overcome, these unjust foundations of the modern world. No flowering of a worldwide hippie love, or spiky critical prick of punky postmodern relativism, or any other kind of liberating turn could completely demolish these crooked pillars. If we turn to a sampling of “ethnic” literary publications that burst on the scene in the 1970s and afterward, what we glimpse most of all was the rise of a sensibility we might best call “player imperialism.” Even in these supposedly revolutionary texts that were ostensibly cracking open a publishing market largely focused on a middle-class, white, Western readership, older forms of exploitation, patriarchy, and colonial power resurfaced with a vengeance. Although antifoundationalism arose at the heart of what imagined itself as a progressive movement, it also reproduced hierarchies of power within larger geopolitical player imperialist narratives that exploited racial, gendered, and global others.
To wit, in The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, as in much of the 1960s counterculture, the protagonist Oscar objectifies women. When he meets a white female hitchhiker in Nevada named Karin, he describes her as having “long legs, a perfect ass, and a smile to melt your heart out…a rich, hippie chick without a trace of a smudge.”[2] He expresses desire, but also loathing, resentment, aggression, and even hatred. He wonders, “How in the fuck would a brown buffalo stick a dirty dick into a classy broad that called him dear?”[3] The racial and class constructs that prevent him from sleeping with Karin signify the social separation between his minoritized ethnicity (“a brown buffalo” with “a dirty dick”) and the predominantly white hippie movement. Oscar Zeta Acosta’s The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo or a later short story collection such as Sherman Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, published in 1993, offer Indigenous “counterplayer” narratives that shine a light on the larger formation of player imperialism during the late twentieth century. They are not so much antifoundationalist as subordinated incarnations of a “playerist” mentality that undermined the very effort to break free of older, imperial orders.
The counterplayer narrative at once mimicked and exposed cultural dimensions of US imperialism that became dominant after World War II. Think of how John F. Kennedy’s “playboy” image combined with his high-stakes escalation of the Cold War conflict with the Soviet Union. In the ethnic literature variations of player imperialism were what Gloria Anzaldúa calls a “new tribalism” which “adds to but does not dispossess Indians (or others) from their own history, culture, or home-ethnic identities.”[4] In other words, antifoundationalism did not lead to fresh universalisms. Rather, new tribalism maintained cultural difference as part of a counterplayer narrative—a player imitated white hegemonic player imperialism. However, imitation was not the same as replication. There was a deconstructive difference that exposed the performativity of player imperialism, that revealed its unfixedness. Here was a kind of antifoundationalism, if not one that proposed easy alternatives. In US ethnic literatures of the late twentieth century, new tribalism instead became an example of an antifoundational “counterplayerism” that became part and parcel of postmodern player imperialism, but also hinted at potential resistances in its very failure to precisely imitate the dominant mode of masculinized white power.
Jennifer Ratner-Rosenhagen emphasizes the year 1962 as the key moment when antifoundationalism took hold in US culture—on the political left in particular. Intriguingly, this was not only the year of key texts written by intellectuals, but also the year when imperial “players” such as James Bond burst onto the international scene as well. The film Dr. No, based on the novel by Ian Fleming, was a box office hit in 1962. It was also the year of the Cuban Missile Crisis. As historians George Brown Tindall and David E. Shi argue, the Cuban Missile Crisis relativized the bipolarity of the Cold War between the US and Russia, heightening the parallels between the two seemingly opposite international powers. Tindal and Shi write:
Tensions grew as Khruschev blustered that Kennedy had pushed humankind “to the abyss of a world missile-nuclear war.” Soviet ships, he declared, would ignore the quarantine. But on Wednesday, October 24, five Soviet ships, presumably with missiles aboard, stopped short of the quarantine line. Two days later an agent of the Soviet embassy privately approached an American television reporter with a proposal for an agreement: Russia would withdraw the missiles in return for a public pledge by the United States not to invade Cuba. […] In the aftermath of the crisis, tension between the United States and Russia quickly subsided.[5]
The Cuban Missile Crisis made clear the equivalency of US and Russian player imperialisms. Both nations were merely playing a nuclear game of chicken rather than posing fundamentally different visions of geopolitics. Previously thought to be diametrically opposed—one capitalist, one communist, or one democratic the other exploitative or totalitarian—the United States and the Soviet Union seemed more like mirror images of each other after the tumultuous events of 1962. What had looked like a choice between ideologies now began to seem like a simple game of spy vs. spy, one side simply the other in parallel.
The geopolitical breakdown of Cold War bipolar options, with 1962 as a key moment of fracture, might be linked to the rise of postmodernism. According to theorists such as Joseph Ānanda Josephson Storm and Bruno Latour, two hallmarks of postmodernism are relativities of identities and ethics.[6] In criticism and theory, fluidities of sexuality, neurodiversity, racial, gendered, and class identities have been queried, if not championed, by figures as diverse as Michel Foucault, Audre Lorde, and David A. Hollinger.[7] Critics and theorists such as Christopher Lasch and Terry Eagleton argued that the radicality of the postmodern has been coopted by what they thought of as the tearing apart of any semblance of tradition and its potentially stabilizing power by the steamroller of liberation. Lasch, for instance, argued that:
Events have rendered liberationist critiques of modern society hopelessly out of date—and much of an earlier Marxist critique as well. Many radicals still direct their indignation against the authoritarian family, repressive sexual morality, literary censorship, the work ethic, and other foundations of bourgeois order that have been weakened or destroyed by advanced capitalism itself. These radicals do not see that the “authoritarian personality” no longer represents the prototype of the economic man. Economic man himself has given way to the psychological man of our times—the final product of bourgeois individualism. The new narcissist is haunted not by guilt but by anxiety. He seeks not to inflict his own certainties on others but to find meaning in life.[8]
For Lasch, the psychological urge for liberation in modern bourgeois society created a narcissistic disorder. Discovering “meaning in life” at all costs led to a bottomless, unfulfillable need that no economic security could satiate. Eagleton similarly critiqued this neoliberal “culture of narcissism.” He contended that its obsession with destroying norms rendered the emerging economic practices of what would come to be called neoliberalism pernicious rather than potentially liberating. Eagleton wrote:
The postmodern prejudice against norms, unities, and consensuses is a politically catastrophic one. It is also remarkably dimwitted. But it does not only spring from having precious few examples of political solidarity to remember. It also reflects a real social change. It is one result of the apparent disintegration of old-fashioned bourgeois society into a host of subcultures.[9]
Player imperialism linked global politics during the Cold War to personal identity. In this paradigm, the white, hegemonic—that is, straight and cisgender—man became the key figure. He sought to be a rebel, outside systems of power, thus questioning them even as, at the same time, he reasserted his centrality at the hierarchical top of these very systems, claiming his place as the patriarch of the nuclear family during the nuclear era. Moreover, insofar as he played others, which is to say tricked them for his own profit or to defeat and dominate them, the postwar player linked the market to the state. He became a crucial protagonist for the power of the free market ideal as at once a vision of national potency and personal virility. He could take advantage both of women and of nations, particularly when they were portrayed as gendered and colored (Asian and Middle Eastern in particular). International politics blurred into visions of individual masculinity. As a geopolitical neoliberal nation par excellence, the US promised inclusion and equality to other Asian and Middle Eastern nations since 1945, but only with American control as part of the bargain.
The hegemonic player imperialism of the decades after World War II might be understood, to play with the ideas of postmodern theorist Jean Baudrillard for a moment, as a simulacrum of a simulacrum—it was a neoliberal copy of a radical copy of an emancipatory leftist relativism. And that was no emancipation at all, of course. Instead, it was a trap. This became particularly true between the 1960s and 1990s, from the Vietnam War to the post-Cold War moment of the Gulf War. As Wendy Brown has argued, the liberal democracy on offer by the United States around the world promised inclusion and equality, but it also “monopolized” or gamed it.[10] Playas gonna play.
What then of the Indigenous male literary characters who appeared in texts such as Oscar Zeta Acosta’s The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo or Sherman Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven during this time? As literary figures publicized precisely as a challenge to white, Western, bourgeois, colonial power, what can they tell us about the “end of universalism”? Male protagonists in these novels emerge as figures who vacillate between hypermasculinity and femininity as they turn to gaming and gambling as core practices. The Oxford English Dictionary has it that “sexually successful” men or “playboys,” which the term “player” connotes, was at first applied mainly to men within African American culture in the 1970s. However, the dictionary generally defines the “player” in slang as both a high and low cultural and popular term that has, since 1945, described a man who embarks on serial sexual conquests for empowerment. One thinks of the new, white, bourgeois image of Hugh Hefner in his 1950s Playboy-magazine bachelor pad, an image not entirely unconnected to James Bond, or even John F. Kennedy. More recently, the figure of the player has been popularized again, more farcically, in comedic films such as Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, which was released in 1999.
Why did the player emerge as a figure during the era when universalism was supposed to be in eclipse? Perhaps because he was an individual who could handle, who even flourished, in a world without clear rules. After all, in both the Korean War of the 1950s and the Vietnam War a decade later, the US lost, or at least did not conclusively win. Not only American global power, but also US masculinity itself turned out to be at stake in these defeats. Yet despite the discernible losses incurred by the United States in both of those conflicts, the nation as a whole and the white men in control of waging the country’s wars were figured as hyper-macho, womanizing players. These seem deeply connected.
A Counterplayer Looks in the Mirror
It is when we look beyond hegemonic white men and their wars, however, that we see how geopolitics and culture intersected during an era when universalism seemed in decline. Not only players, but also counterplayers appeared on the scene then. As I have argued in Asian American Players (2023), the Asian American counterplayer adapted the heightened, but ultimately false, polarity established in a broader realm of geopolitics between Russian communism and US capitalism during the Cold War for his own personal purposes. This could prove disconcerting. During the escalation of the Vietnam War, between 1955 and 1975, rhetorical binaries of race and gender oscillated, unfixed from stable moorings of stereotype, but they nonetheless imprisoned, even in their shifting character.[11] David Henry Hwang’s play M. Butterfly (1988), for example, features both Rene Gallimard and Song Liling constantly oscillating between the roles of the white, masculine player and the “perfect,” submissive Lotus Blossom stereotypes.[12] Neither is liberating, necessarily.
So too in Latinx literature from this era. The struggle to liberate oneself from stereotypes did not necessarily lead to more profound freedom or a more just world. Instead, male figures seemed forever doomed in these works to waver, by their own self-recriminating standards, between effeminacy and Latinx hypermasculinity instead of striking a “just-right” white masculinity. The escapades of non-white or non-American male characters such as Oscar in Zeta Acosta’s The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo (1972), which was written during and references the Vietnam conflict, do not live up to the ideal of hegemonic white masculinity. When The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo was published, Acosta’s protagonist Oscar fails to perform masculinity in ways that reasserted the hegemony of white American masculinity more than simply dismantling it.[13]
Even in an era of supposed antifoundationalism, the counterplayer cannot inhabit the world of player imperialism he emulates. He can womanize, he can hyper-masculinize, but he cannot transcend the essentialisms of the era.
Oscar’s aphasic speech, in which he is stuck speaking in binary metaphors, reflects the assumed “either/or” mentality of the Cold War. The self-proclaimed “Brown Buffalo” from Oscar Zeta Acosta’s Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, can never match the standards of white American, heterosexual, cisgender masculinity during the Vietnam War. Nevertheless, he privately performs player masculinity. At the start of the novel, Oscar stands before a mirror:
I stare into the mirror for an answer. See that man with the insignificant eyes drawn back, lips thinned down tight? That suave motherfucker is Mister Joe Cool himself. Yes, old Bogey . . . And now with the upper lip tightly curled under and baring the top row of white teeth, can’t you tell? See how he nods his head, shaking it from side to side as in a tremble of uncontrollable anger? Right! James Cagney, you rotten scabs! And if you loosen up a bit, puff those fat cheeks out slightly and talk deep in your throat with the chewed-up cigar sticking you in the face . . . my name is Edward G. Robinson and I don’t want any trouble from you guys. See?[14]
Acosta must manipulate his body—“curl[ing]” his “upper lip tightly…and baring the top row of white teeth” to look like “old Bogey” (Humphrey Bogart), “shak[ing his head] from side to side as in a tremble of uncontrollable anger” to imitate James Cagney, and “puff[ing] those fat cheeks out slightly in your throat” to mimic Edward G. Robinson—to temporarily impersonate, but never become manly, white actors—these hyper-macho models of American society’s main players. But what he ultimately glimpses in the mirror is “that brown belly from every angle…I was also a fat kid. I suck it in and expand an enormous chest of two large hunks of brown tit.”[15] His brownness and his body fat composition haunt him as they prevent him from looking like his “three favorite men”[16] of old, white Hollywood.
Critic Marcia Chamberlain points out that, “Fat, according to the President’s Council on Physical Fitness at the time, was distinctly un-American” during the Vietnam War era.[17] While Oscar at first presents as hypermasculine in the mirror, his enlarged breasts reflect Robert Bly’s 1990 masculinist critique of the “sixties male who “was influenced by the Vietnam War and the women’s movement… [and] sought to learn about the ‘feminine side’ within him and to treat women differently.”[18] Oscar continually vacillates between hypermasculinity and effeminacy. He is a “not-quite-right” hegemonic, cisgender white man. And yet, Oscar fails to treat women differently from the ways in which Latinx men themselves had been historically oppressed. Many critics have taken Oscar’s feminization as a sign of his progressive gender and racial politics. Marta Ester Sánchez, for instance, interprets his “emasculation”[19] as evidence of “permeable and artificial national and gender borders….”[20] Be that as it may, Oscar performs his own version of pretend white hegemonic masculinity in relation to the exploitation of a woman.
Throughout Autobiography, Oscar relies on women and womanizing to define his manhood. Even though he cannot live up to the paragon of postwar whiteness and physical masculinity, he still struts his cisgender heterosexuality to compensate for those lacks. He chronicles his sexual exploits throughout his narrative but his sense of sexual virility is not without its contradictions: he states that, from a young age, “[e]veryone knew I had the smallest prick in the world[;]”[21] and yet, as he masturbates in the beginning of the novel, he calls his penis “the brown giant.”[22] Later, his moniker, “the brown buffalo” becomes a euphemism for his erect penis when he has sex with his friend Bertha, whom he incestuously claims is like a “siste[r], perhaps [a] cousi[n]”[23] to him. He writes explicitly, “I am thundering across brown plains, the entire herd of frantic, brown buffalos are at my rear. I explode upon contact. When it slides into the tightness, before I can even give her a chance, the blasted beast goes off like a rocket in the deep.”[24] At once, the brown buffalo, or his “blasted beast,” signifies his semen and his penis. The “brown buffalo” fullness, in the latter two instances, and “smallest prick in the world” lack, in the former, of his sexual apparatus invoke what Lacan terms the “objet petit a” or the illusive fullness of the lack in his narcissistic desires (“before I can even give her a chance”).[25] The contradiction in his description of his phallus only serves to underscore his counterplayerism as a “Brown Buffalo.” He strives to be a postwar imperial player but comes up short.
Not quite deeming Oscar a womanizer, Marta Ester Sánchez focuses on his countercultural “tricksterism,”[26] referring to him as a Chicano “pachuco.”[27] Critic James Smethurst likewise describes Oscar as a pachuco or a vato loco.[28] Critic Eric Bergman invokes radical, Chicana feminist Gloria Anzaldúa in his discussion of Oscar’s ethnic hybridity and “mestizaje” consciousness.[29] Likewise, critic Frederick Luis Aldama describes Oscar as possessing a “mestiza worldview.”[30] Indeed, as Bergman and Aldama describe, in Borderlands, Anzaldúa theorizes the feminist Chicana mestiza identity as “constantly… shift[ing] out of habitual formations” away from “a single goal (a Western mode)…toward a more whole perspective, one that includes rather than excludes.”[31] At the same time, she decries misogyny and machismo: “The loss of a sense of dignity and respect in the macho breeds a false machismo which leads him to put down women and even to brutalize them.”[32] While neither Bergman nor Aldama are entirely wrong in claiming that Oscar possesses an ethnically heterogeneous, mestizo consciousness, they misapply Anzaldúa’s feminist theories and criticism to describe his as mestiza consciousness.
By contrast, several critics, including Jelena Šesnić, María Herrera-Sobek, Carl Gutiérrez-Jones, and Marci L. Carrasquillo have remarked upon and problematized the masculinist objectification of women in The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo. Šesnić writes that even as Acosta recognizes racialized masculine bodies as expressions of anger and pride,[33] he nevertheless reasserts hierarchical gender positions.[34] Likewise, Herrera-Sobek argues that Oscar’s masculinity is constructed through the objectification of women.[35] Gutiérrez-Jones goes even further, claiming that “Acosta cites machismo as one of the principal bonds uniting ‘the’ Chicano community.”[36] However, with few Chicano characters, Autobiography is not as much a novel about building Chicano community but of Oscar’s self-discovery in terms of his ethnic and gendered identity.
Oscar owes his countercultural existence to the Beats, but he does not seem to relate to the countercultural hippie movement of a few years later in the 1960s. Here, again, Oscar invokes Hugh Hefner’s playboy image of the early 60s bachelor pad fantasy of masculinity, which never really gets supplanted by the hippie entirely. Although Oscar does not feel American at the end of his beatnik road trip—“what is clear to me after this sojourn is that I am neither a Mexican nor an American”[37]—he is nevertheless adamant about proving his manhood by fighting in the Korean War.
Although Ratner-Rosenhagen argues that the era of the civil rights movement until the 1990s adopted anti-essentialist conceptions of race, Oscar faces and reproduces foundational and binary concepts of race and gender that would seem to come from before this time period. Oscar is evidence that, despite the antifoundationalism of postmodernism, racial and gender essentialism still persisted. They not only fueled player imperialism itself, but also the counterplayer efforts that arose as mirrored sames to the forms of domination that continued into the postwar decades. Universalism may have ended its reign, but this did not lead, easily, to liberation from its damaging legacies. We see a different version of antifoundationalism emerge, one that continually reverts back to binaries of an earlier time despite seeming to transcend them. Oscar ends up reproducing racism and sexism in foundationalist modes.
The novel begins and ends with Oscar standing naked in front of a mirror.[38] However, in this repetition there is a difference: instead of the full bravado of the “Brown Buffalo sitting on his throne” that he exhibits in imitating white Hollywood actors at the beginning, now Oscar is “a brown buffalo lonely and afraid in a world I never made” in a hotel in El Paso. Intriguingly not capitalized here, “brown buffalo” suggests how Oscar’s efforts to achieve masculinist playerhood fail. “I stand naked before the mirror,” Acosta writes:
I cry in sobs. My massive chest quivers and my broad shoulders sag. I am a brown buffalo lonely and afraid in a world I never made. I enter the womb of night and am dead to this world of confusion for thirty-three hours …[39]
Oscar winds up forfeiting his American masculinity through his Brown Buffalo identity; that is, although the buffalo is big and hulking, it is not actually a man. Trying to become like Bogart and Cagney and JFK and James Bond when looking into the mirror at the start of the novel, he ends up, by the end of the, becoming an animal.
Even the opening mirror scene speaks to Oscar’s counterplayer persona and its problems. Humphrey Bogart might be understood as the Lacanian imago, or the reflective image of complete masculine wholeness to which he can never measure up.[40] Here is Lacan’s “mirror-stage” enacted.[41] As María Herrera-Sobek argues:
In Lacanian terms the mirror is the perfect prop for Oscar’s search for identity. If, according to Lacan, the mirror stage provides the human subject with an unauthentic sense of self, with a mis-recognition, Oscar will receive inauthentic images of self as he searches in the mirror for answers. The mirror will be a recurring leitmotif throughout the novel and the space where Oscar will vainly seek a reflection of his true identity, his authentic self.[42]
Oscar misrecognizes Humphrey Bogart in his mirror image. Instead, Oscar’s “true identity, his authentic self,” is the fragmented brown buffalo, a metaphorical identity that, by the end of the novel, leaves him “lonely and afraid in a world I never made.”[43] Even in an era of supposed antifoundationalism, the counterplayer cannot inhabit the world of player imperialism he emulates. He can womanize, he can hyper-masculinize, but he cannot transcend the essentialisms of the era.
Gulf War Playerism
By the 1990s and the end of the Cold War, a new kind of imperial playerism emerged, a “bait-and-switch” approach in which antifoundationalism was the promise, but conventional hierarchy is what you actually got. One could call this a Gulf War playerism in contrast to the Vietnam War and Cold War form, in which moments of breakthrough could appear before vanishing into the mirror of recurring binaries. During the 1990s, with the Cold War over, the US refashioned the hyper-masculinity of an earlier player imperialism into the guise of the gentle family man serving as the world police.[44] Sherman Alexie’s stories and novels of the time help to glimpse the changing nature of antifoundationalism in comparison to Oscar Zeta Acosta’s The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo.
Yet what qualifies Alexie’s 1993 short story collection The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven as a Gulf War text is, oddly, its elision of the event. In “Because My Father Always Said He Was the Only Indian Who Saw Jimi Hendrix Play ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ at Woodstock,” Alexie’s protagonist Victor’s father only makes brief reference to the Gulf War by teasing him for not fighting in it and referring to the illusory, filmic quality of the war. During the widely televised Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm, for example, was composed of one of the most technologically precise military strikes in history and, for this reason, warfare seemed virtual. An absent presence in the collection, the Gulf War imposes the rhetoric of virtual warfare on the narratives of The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, which the characters then themselves play, mimic, and expose. Virtuality becomes the real thing, a classic postmodern turn, but one that once again reveals a persistent conservatism lurking below potential radicalities.
The Native American protagonists in Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven are not only seen as fraudulent Americans, but also as insidious menaces to society. Unlike Brown Buffalo, Alexi’s characters more intensely disidentify with those within their ethnic and work communities. Moreover, Alexie’s characters, such as Victor and Junior, appear as inferior, overly hypermasculine threats to the larger society. They and the other figures in the stories of the book echo a kind of bluffing or, one might say, “playing.” This marked Gulf War strategies of deterrence geopolitically. No more was there the direct binary confrontation of communism, as during the Cold War. Now there is a more pervasive form of uncertainty. Under the surveilling thumbs of the Bureau of Indian Affairs[45] and the United States Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD),[46] the characters of The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven live with unemployment and impoverished conditions. Victor, for example, loses his job at the BIA right before he finds out his father has died and cannot afford to fly from Washington to Arizona to retrieve his father’s remains. Bearing witness to these social and legislated injustices, the alternating narrators of the collection—Victor, Junior, and Thomas—turn to modes of counter-surveillance and counterplayerism.
Despite the poverty, which features few “family men” (think back to the emergence of this figure at the level of American imperial geopolitics) able to provide for their families, the reservation also becomes a site of cultural preservation. Several critics point out that Alexie’s short stories present the readers with ethnic self-determination and self-representation[47] against colonizing narratives of “savage” and “Godless” Native Americans.[48] As counterplayer outsiders who shuttle between the reservation and white American society, the narrators are “authentic storytellers or representative writers…[who] tend to be the weird ones, the social rejects.”[49] In “Somebody Kept Saying Powwow,” Junior’s friend Norma, who had “never been off the reservation[,]”[50] asks him, “What’s it like out there?”[51]: “‘It’s like a bad dream you never wake up from,’ I said, and it’s true.” The nightmare of the racist world outside of the reservation is that he cannot distinguish between reality—“It’s true”—and (a bad) dream.
The shame of being Indian wells up in the narrator in this dream-like outside world in “Witnesses, Secret and Not,” the final story of the collection when it was published in 1993: as he narrates going to the police station to be interrogated about a murder, he states, “But as soon as I get off the reservation, among all the white people, every Indian gets exaggerated. My father’s braids looked three miles long and black and shiny as a police-issue revolver.”[52] For the narrator, all Indians, including his father with whom he is quite emotionally close, appear stereotyped. The violence attributed to the narrator’s father demonstrates the explicitness of Native American hypermasculinity but disempowered failure in acting as the protective family man. The hyperbolic depiction of the narrator’s father’s “three-mile long” braids suggests that they are a “savage” menace as they are likened to “a police-issue revolver.”
At issue here is precisely the question of the “family man” just as it was emerging at the geopolitical level for the United States during the Gulf War. Hypermasculine Native American retaliation becomes, in various stories in Alexie’s collection, part of a war of deterrence—reminiscent of the dominant American strategy in the Gulf War, but now manifesting on the reservation.
Virtuality was a new form of antifoundationalism that was harnessed by dominant geopolitical powers during the Gulf War to promulgate player imperialism.
Hypermasculinity abounds in Alexie’s short story collection. As Becca Gercken argues, analyzing Alexie’s The Business of Fancydancing, “a sanctioned Native space, the reservation, [is] the key marker for ‘authentic’ Indian identity, and service in a 20th century US war functions as the key marker for Indian masculinity.”[53] Yet the characters in the stories often do not fit this description in the era of the Gulf War. The distinctions show up in “Because My Father Always Said He Was the Only Indian Who Saw Jimi Hendrix Play ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ at Woodstock” when protagonist Victor complains to his father that his “generation of boy ain’t ever had no real war to fight. The first Indians had Custer to fight. My great-grandfather had World War I, my grandfather had World War II, you had Vietnam. All I have is video games.”[54] Victor’s father replies:
You’re lucky. Shit, all you had was the damn Desert Storm. Should have called it Dessert Storm because it just made the fat cats get fatter. It was all sugar and whipped cream with a cherry on top. And besides that, you didn’t even have to fight it. All you lost during that war was sleep because you stayed up all night watching CNN.[55]
The virtuality of the Gulf War is articulated in Victor’s preoccupation with video games and his association of the war with “stay[ing] up all night watching CNN.” This association is historically accurate since the Gulf War “was also a media war” that made famous the Cable Network News (CNN).[56] Instead of actually fighting in the war or being a family man himself, Victor only watches it on television, as a bachelor, and imagines himself to be part of some action through video games. The virtuality of the Gulf War, which was fought by an all-volunteer[57] US military, renders Indianness and the white, hegemonic, normative “family man” masculinity mutually exclusive in Alexie’s stories. Virtuality during the Gulf War was a disembodied performance of player imperialism and was the conservative underbelly of what Ratner-Rosenhagen refers to as antifoundationalism. Virtuality was a new form of antifoundationalism that was harnessed by dominant geopolitical powers during the Gulf War to promulgate player imperialism.
After his “Dessert Storm” speech, Victor’s father asks, “And besides, why the hell would you want to fight a war for this country? It’s been trying to kill Indians since the very beginning. Indians are pretty much born soldiers anyway. Don’t need a uniform to prove it.”[58] Despite his father’s comment on the American genocide of American Indians and his insistence that “Indians are pretty much born soldiers anyway,” Victor later tells Thomas Builds-the-Fire, “I wish I could be a warrior.”[59] He clings to the role even as he admits that hypermasculinity is not natural to Native American identity. Recognizing his social disenfranchisement as a Native American, the narrator of the title story, “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven,” sarcastically refers to himself as “the new kind of warrior” because “I was special, a former college student, a smart kid. I was one of those Indians who was supposed to make it, to rise above the rest of the reservation like a fucking eagle or something.”[60] The virtual “war” the narrator fights is assimilating into white society.
One might even say that the narrator of “The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven” and Junior are racially subjugated by white women. In “Junior Polatkin’s Wild West Show,” Junior is stereotyped by his white girlfriend Lynn Casey as an alcoholic. She tells him, upon meeting him, “I’ve seen you before. At parties and stuff. You seem to drink a lot.”[61] Feeling insecure and emasculated as a Native American civilian, Junior dreams about being a Spokane Indian “gunfighter with braids” who “gunned down” white heroes of the Wild West such as “Wild Bill Hickok, Bat Masterson, even Billy the Kid.”[62]
In his conscious life, however, he daydreams, much like Oscar did in front of the mirror in An Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, about white actors. In Alexie’s books, however, the actors are figures such as Robert De Niro and Clint Eastwood. He imagines they might play him while white actresses such as Meryl Streep or Sigourney Weaver could play Lynn. Despite his conflation of whiteness and masculinity in his conscious self-conceptions, he is nevertheless rejected by Lynn’s family and even Lynn herself, who tells him she doesn’t love him.[63] Moreover, when their son Sean is born, “Lynn’s parents refused to accept Sean Casey’s Indian blood and, in fact, exhibited a kind of denial that was nearly pathological in its intensity.”[64]
The double emasculation that he faces from not participating in the Gulf War and being Indian is not resolved when he returns from the city to the Spokane Indian reservation at the end of the story: after speaking with his son on the phone:
Junior hung up the phone and walked down the highway toward the reservation. He wanted to imagine that he was walking off into the sunset, into a happy ending. But he knew that all along the road he traveled, there were reservation drive-ins, each showing a new and painful sequel to the first act of his life.[65]
Expecting to wake up from the “bad dream” of the white American world outside of the reservation upon surrendering to it, he despairingly finds the “culturally authentic” reservation to be infected by the discursive virtuality of the contemporary war. There were, he exclaims, “reservation drive-ins, each showing a new and painful sequel to the first act of his life.” Reality and virtuality blur. As French theorist Jean Baudrillard wrote, during the Gulf War, “we are no longer in a logic of the passage from virtual to actual but in a hyperrealist logic of the deterrence of the real by the virtual.”[66]
On the reservation, seemingly far from the Gulf War, Alexie’s protagonists experience this too. Baudrillard demonstrates the ways in which Ratner-Rosenhagen’s theorization of the antifoundational was weaponized for the purposes of player imperialism during the Gulf War. Ratner-Rosenhagen ends her chapter by offering her critique of antifoundationalism—that it became so amorphous that it “t[oo]k[] down rights.”[67] I suggest, instead that antifoundationalism continued to give way to a player imperialism that collapsed any seeming transcendence of essences back into old binaries of power—man/woman, etc. Rather than making Ratner-Rosenhagen’s distinction between virtuality and antifoundationalism, virtuality turned out to be merely another form of player imperialism’s larger potency as a cultural form.
The virtuality and apocalyptic quality of the Gulf War demonstrate what Ratner-Rosenhagen admits at the end of her chapter: “That antifoundationalism could have enough intellectual firepower to take down rights struck its critics as a sign that the American mind not only had closed but also was sealed shut against any hope of reason and sobriety.”[68] That is to say, the very existence of player imperialism and its incarnation during the Gulf War demonstrates the ways in which conservatism could harness antifoundationalism for its own ends.
As with Acosta’s Vietnam War-era novel, one sees the dynamics of player imperialism surface again in Sherman’s Gulf War stories in terms of gender relations. Seemingly positive images of women appear in the short story collection. Critic Joseph Coulombe writes, “In an interview, Alexie describes what frustrates him most about white culture: ‘Pretty much everything patriarchal. We’ve resisted assimilation in many ways, but I know we’ve assimilated into sexism and misogyny’ (McFarland, ‘Polemical’ 27).”[69] Perhaps trying to combat this tendency, Alexie appears to portray female characters sympathetically. Grassian writes of the character Norma, who appears in “This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona,” “The Approximate Size of My Favorite Tumor,” and “Somebody Kept Saying Powwow,” that “since Indian reservations, as Alexie portrays them, tend to be male-dominated, Norma, as a female heroine, also breaks a cultural mode.”[70] He explains, “Norma is also a ‘rodeo queen,’ a ‘roper, a breaker of wild ponies’ (202), and is sexually promiscuous, but she also devotes herself to other poverty-stricken and drug-abusing Indians on the reservation.”[71]
Critic Jolie A. Sheffer likewise praises Norma as “a figure of utter self-possession, a woman who doesn’t need anyone to tell her what her role is in sex or romance. For her, sex is a tool of healing, not a weapon with which to inflict pain or shame; sex is an act of generosity between two people, not a way to fill a hole within herself.”[72] In both instances, critics comment on her non-normative sexuality, which qualifies her as a “female heroine” and “figure of utter self-possession.” However, I would argue that her hypersexualization, for which Victor labels her a “warrior”[73] problematically fetishizes her.
Norma is the equivalent of Oscar Acosta’s “Miss It”: in addition to being attractive, sexually free, and a “rodeo queen,”[74] “Norma always was a genius with words. She used to write stories for the tribal newspaper. She was even their sports reporter for a while.”[75] Furthermore, Victor states, “I always wished we could have suited Norma up. She was taller than all of us and a better player than most of us. I don’t really remember her playing in high school, but people say she could have played college ball if she would’ve gone to college.”[76] In all these instances, Victor demonstrates his sexual fetishism by portraying her as more than human—a sort of model minority: “a genius with words,” “taller than all of us and a better player.” Moreover, he refers to her as “a cultural lifeguard” who “could dance Indian and white,” which Victor adds, is a “mean feat.”[77] The romanticization reveals an underlying misogyny. She is a simulacrum, a fantasy, a virtuality, an impossible figure who helps to reveal the main protagonists’ problems.
Emasculated by the virtuality of the Gulf War and their racialization, the male protagonists fail to embrace an ethical masculinity of care and, instead, compensate for their masculine lack by objectifying the Native female characters in The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven through fetishism and cultural mysticism just as the protagonists of Lee’s novels do to Asian American women. Their failure to achieve a democratically inclusive, ethical manhood divorced from American imperialism is compounded by the contemporary US victory in the Gulf War, which was driven by the conflation of the two—the caring family man and the invisible world police. Again, here as well as elsewhere, I add to Ratner-Rosenhagen’s claim about antifoundationalism in suggesting that antifoundationalism gave way to and collapsed into player imperialism.
Played Out
The Gulf War certainly caused Baudrillard to rail against what I call US player imperialism in his larger critique of the war’s virtuality, its turn away from the real to a simulacrum. In his 1995 book, The Gulf War Did Not Take Place, published three years after the Gulf War, Baudrillard reduces the war to mere narcissistic self-promotion, “media promote the war, the war promotes the media, and the advertising competes with the war. Promotion is the most thick-skinned parasite in our culture.”[78] Here, Baudrillard blames both Hussein and Bush for their shameless self-promotion. Each in a sense strived to become a player imperialist on the global stage. Baudrillard goes on to note the ways in which Bush in fact called Hussein an outright “player.” Baudrillard wrote, “The most violent reproach addressed to Saddam Hussein by Bush is that of being a liar, traitor, a bad player, a trickster. Lying son of a bitch! Saddam, like a good hysteric, has never given birth to his own war: for him, it is only a phantom pregnancy. By contrast, he has until now succeeded in preventing Bush from giving birth to his.”[79] Baudrillard implies that Hussein and Bush are both players who attempt to give birth to the “phantom” children of imperialism.
Playing has persisted in US high and low culture since 1945, but particularly since the 1960s. Indigenous men as embodied in fiction help us to see its workings more clearly because they have been associated with violent and delinquent counterplaying. As receptacles of violence and abuse, Indigenous men sometimes, themselves, become abusers of others. Critic Jacqueline Reich argues that like all the socially abused, ethnic males, the hypermasculine “Latin lover” is “a consumer icon offered up for consumption as a mass-marketed product.”[80] Thus, he becomes a feminized object, like so many mass-consumer commodities do. Gender and ethnicity end up crisscrossing in complicated ways. As critics Robert Alexander Innes and Kim Anderson write, “The ways in which hegemonic masculinity has acted to subordinate Indigenous men encourages them to similarly assert power and control by subordinating Indigenous women and women of color, as well as white women (where circumstances allow).” Meanwhile, other indigenous men “are considered physically and intellectually weak.” They “do not express a heteronormative identity.”[81]
As Blackwell points out, it is important not to conflate the indigeneity of Native American and Latinx cultures: “Latin American colonialism, and later forms of state coloniality, aimed to erase Indigenous peoples through incorporation (Christianization, mestizaje, Indigenismo, and so on). Settler colonialism, on the other hand, is a structure based on land expropriation through a logic of elimination (removal, relocation, termination, and the like). This does not mean one system did not use the means of the other.”[82] Nonetheless, the counterplayerism of Acosta’s and Sherman’s texts share forms of Anzaldúa’s mestizajae “new tribalism.” The works strive to decolonize and add to Indigenous cultures of activism, yet even in their failures they reveal the larger structures of power in the era. Their failed attempts to achieve a “just right” player masculinity legitimates the very thing it cannot achieve: white hegemonic masculinity. From Korea in the 1950s to the Gulf War in the 1990s, as player imperialism appeared on the global stage, so too it showed up in the lives of those on the margins in the United States itself. By struggling to become players in their specific situations ethnically, works of “ethnic” literature in this era remind us of the pernicious hold of this ideal on even those who could not play the role.
Antifoundationalism in the postwar decades might have appeared like a bold new way forward toward ideals of equality and freedom, but as Ratner-Rosenhagen herself seems to notice, it mostly played those most in need of justice.
Imperial game playing—particularly womanizing, perhaps the most insidious of them all—arose from the antifoundational, anti-universal culture of postwar US that, as Jennifer Ratner-Rosenhagen seems to note, announced itself fully in 1962. Such playing did not only fall under the purview of popular culture and the left but also, one should note, surfaced in the geopolitics of the era. The bipolarity undercut by relativity that defined the Cold War conflict between the US and the USSR flowed right into the fluidity of identity in the early 1990s Gulf War. The Americans and Soviets could “play” or manipulate one another. Or they could “play” or perform any identity of their choosing. Championed as a mode of cultural liberation by the left—as a way to leave essentialisms behind—one might also notice that the fluidity of player imperialism, of playing roles and tricking others, of high-stakes gambling with the world as a mode of hypermasculinist bravado, was also coopted by the right for imperialist means.
The ethnically marked counterplayers of Acosta’s An Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo and Alexie’s The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven moralize in rebelling against the style of rebellion that marked the very forces that made their lives problematic. Their mimicking exposed player imperialism for what it was: a simulacra of actual justice or emancipation. These Indigenous players demonstrate that repetition with a difference, as Gilles Deleuze called it, exposes the illegitimacy of their forerunners. Antifoundationalism in the postwar decades might have appeared like a bold new way forward toward ideals of equality and freedom, but as Ratner-Rosenhagen herself seems to notice, it mostly played those most in need of justice. These works of fiction show how the ethnic male counterplayer cannot escape, and even reproduces, the very player imperialism that the antifoundationalist, postmodern era produced at the very apexes of geopolitical power. Seeming to be paths to liberation, counterplaying collapsed into the dominant playing, reinforcing the very hierarchies that it sought to overturn, often at the expense of women and gender equality.
About the Author
Audrey Wu Clark is an Associate Professor of English at the United States Naval Academy. She is the author of The Asian American Avant-Garde: Universalist Aspirations in Modernist Literature and Art (Temple University Press, 2015), Asian American Players: Masculinity, Literature, and the Anxieties of War (Ohio State University Press, 2023), and Against Exclusion: Disrupting Anti-Chinese Violence in the Nineteenth Century (Ohio State University Press, 2024). The views expressed in this essay are those of the author and do not reflect the official policy or position of the Department of Defense or the United States government.
Notes
[1] Héctor Calderón, “‘A Recorder of Events with a Sour Stomach’: Oscar Zeta Acosta and The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo,” Narratives of Greater Mexico: Essays on Chicano Literary History, Genre, & Borders (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2004), 107.
[2] Oscar Zeta Acosta, The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo (New York: Vintage Books, 1972), Autobiography, 97.
[3] Acosta, Autobiography, 99.
[4] Maylei Blackwell, “Indigeneity,” Keywords for Latina/o Studies, eds. Deborah R. Vargas, Lawrence La Fountain-Stokes, Nancy Raquel Mirabal (New York: New York University Press, 2017.
[5] George Brown Tindall and David E. Shi, America: A Narrative History, 4th Ed, Vol. 2 (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1996), 1408.
[6] Joseph Ānanda Josephson Storm’s Metamodernism: The Future of Theory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2021), 8-9. Bruno Latour’s We Have Never Been Modern, trans. Catherine Porter (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 11-12.
[7] Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (1977; reprint, New York: Vintage Books, 1995); Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality: An Introduction, Vol. 1 (New York: Vintage Books, 1978); Audre Lorde’s “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference,” Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Trumansburg, NY: The Crossing Press, 1984); and David A. Hollinger, “From Identity to Solidarity,” Daedalus, Fall 2006, 135, 4, On Identity (Fall 2006): 23-31.
[8] Christopher Lasch, The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1978), xvi.
[9] Terry Eagleton’s After Theory (New York: Basic Books, 2003), 15-16.
[10] Wendy Brown, Undoing the Demos: Neoliberalism’s Stealth Revolution (New York: Zone Books, 2015), 44.
[11] Audrey Wu Clark, Asian American Players: Masculinity, Literature, and the Anxieties of War (Columbus: Ohio University Press, 2023), 66.
[12] Clark, 67-68.
[13] Susan Jeffords, Remasculinization of America: Gender and the Vietnam War (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 6.
[14] Acosta, Autobiography, 12.
[15] Acosta, Autobiography, 11.
[16] Acosta, Autobiography, 12.
[17] Marcia Chamberlain, “Oscar Zeta Acosta’s Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo: A Fat Man’s Recipe for Chicano Revolution,” Bodies out of Bounds: Fatness and Transgression (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 93.
[18] Susan Jeffords, Hard Bodies: Hollywood Masculinity in the Reagan Era (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1994), 7.
[19] Marta Ester Sánchez, “Shakin’ Up” Race and Gender: Intercultural Connections in Puerto Rican, African American, and Chicano Narratives and Culture (1965-1995) (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005), 114.
[20] Sánchez, 131.
[21] Acosta, Autobiography, 82.
[22] Acosta, Autobiography, 16.
[23] Acosta, Autobiography, 52.
[24] Acosta, Autobiography, 65.
[25] Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis: The Seminar of Jacques Lacan, Book XI, ed. Jacques-Alain Miller, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1998), 103-104.
[26] Sánchez, 122.
[27] Sánchez, 121.
[28] James Smethurst, “The Figure of the Vato Loco and the Representation of Ethnicity in the Narratives of Oscar Z. Acosta,” MELUS 20, 2 “Varieties of Ethnic Criticism” (Summer 1995): 127.
[29] Eric Bergman, “Oscar Zeta Acosta and Nepantla: The Conceptual In-between,” American Studies in Scandinavia, 47, 1 (2015): 88.
[30] Frederick Luis Aldama, “Oscar ‘Zeta’ Acosta: Magicorealism and Chicano Auto-bio-graphé,” Lit: Literature Interpretation Theory 11, 2 (June 2008): 205.
[31] Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderland/ La Frontera: The New Mestiza (San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, 2007), 101.
[32] Anzaldúa, 105.
[33] Jelena Šesnić, From Shadow to Presence: Representations of Ethnicity in Contemporary American Literature (New York: Rodopi, 2007), 77.
[34] Šesnić, 79.
[35] María Herrera-Sobek, “Constructing Masculinities: Mapping the Male Body in Oscar Zeta Acosta’s The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo,” Revista Canaria de Estudios Ingleses, 58 (April 2009): 82.
[36] Carl Gutiérrez-Jones, Rethinking the Borderlands: Between Chicano Culture and Legal Discourse (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 129.
[37] Acosta, Autobiography, 199.
[38] Marcial González, “Cultural Nationalism and the Formal Logic of a Style,” Chicano Novels and the Politics of Form: Race, Class, and Reification (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2009), 105.
[39] Acosta, Autobiography,195.
[40] Jacques Lacan, Écrits (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1977), 76.
[41] Marcial González, 105.
[42] Herrera-Sobek, 82.
[43] Lacan, Écrits, 78.
[44] Jeffords, Hard Bodies, 95.
[45] Sherman Alexie, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven (New York: Grove Press, 1993), 59, 145.
[46] Alexie, 142, 176, 201.
[47] James Cox, “Muting White Noise: The Subversion of Popular Culture Narratives of Conquest in Sherman Alexie’s Fiction,” Studies in American Indian Literatures, Series 2, Vol. 9, No. 4, “Sherman Alexie” (Winter 1997): 52-53. Daniel Grassian, Understanding Sherman Alexie (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2005), 56-57.
[48] Cox, 52.
[49] Sarah Wyman, “Telling Identities: Sherman Alexie’s War Dances,” The American Indian Quarterly 38, 2 (Spring 2014): 250.
[50] Alexie, 207.
[51] Alexie, 207.
[52] Alexie, 219.
[53] Becca Gercken, “The Business of Crazy Horse: Indian Honor and Masculinity in Sherman Alexie’s Fancydancing,” North Dakota Quarterly 76, 4 (Fall 2009): 37.
[54] Alexie, 28.
[55] Alexie, 29.
[56] Alastair Finlan, The Gulf War 1991 (Oxford: Osprey Publishing Ltd., 2003), 7.
[57] Finlan, 22.
[58] Alexie, 29.
[59] Alexie, 63.
[60] Alexie, 188.
[61] Alexie, 237.
[62] Alexie, 232.
[63] Alexie, 239.
[64] Alexie, 240.
[65] Alexie, 242.
[66] Jean Baudrillard, The Gulf War did not take place (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), 27.
[67] Ratner-Rosenhagen, 172.
[68] Ratner-Rosenhagen, 172.
[69] Coulombe, RNAL,128.
[70] Grassian, 70.
[71] Grassian, 70.
[72] Sheffer, 139.
[73] Alexie, 65.
[74] Alexie, 202.
[75] Alexie, 205.
[76] Alexie, 206-207.
[77] Alexie, 199, 200.
[78] Baudrillard, The Gulf War did not take place, 31.
[79] Baudrillard, The Gulf War did not take place, 57, first emphasis mine.
[80] Jacqueline Reich, Beyond the Latin Lover: Marcello, Mastroianni, Masculinity, and Italian Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), xiv.
[81] Innes and Anderson, 11.
[82] Blackwell, 101.