There's this funny, silly, stupid movie called Gayniggers from Outer Space. I highly recommend it. It's not brilliant, but it's very bizarre. Twenty-seven minutes long, the story is about gay black men from outer space. (Which makes sense.) They come to earth, realize the planet is infested with women, and then they kill all of them.
The men of earth aren't at all upset about this. Quite the opposite -- they are overjoyed to be free of the horrible, domineering, nasty women. Earth is now a gay utopia. In a tribute to the Wizard of Oz, the entire film is in black and white, until the earth is made queer. Then the film is in colour. The Gayniggers leave one of their kind behind to teach the men of earth how to properly live in a homosexual utopia.
Campy, outrageous, demented fun. The end.
You can actually watch the movie online. Why not do so immediately? I can wait here patiently for you.
Back already? Great.
"Gayniggers from Outer Space" is deliberately bad, features tinfoil special effects, awful dubbing, characters with thick German accents, and terrible acting. I love this movie, as I love all things strange and demented.
Maybe a year ago, it was movie night at my house, and two friends and my brother Fred were over. We'd watched several movies, it was late, and people were looking for some small tidbit of film to end the night. So I looked through what I had available and this film jumped out at me.
I suggested we watch "Gayniggers From Outer Space". Everyone seemed game. Well, almost everyone.
Fred almost literally ran from the house to escape the movie. I have no idea why. It was late -- but it felt like he wanted to be out of the house before the movie even started. As if it would physically hurt him to see it.
To be fair, Fred does not understand my taste in movies. I forced him to watch Paris Hilton in National Lampoon's Pledge This! A terrible film, but not as terrible as I hoped it would be. I'm still waiting for Paris to do a film where she can fully express what a lousy actress she is.
When "Pledge This!" was done, Fred asked over and over, "Why did you make me watch that?"
How do you explain that some movies are so bad that they are beautiful? Glen or Glenda remains one of my all time favorite films. And you can also watch the film online. Luck you!
"Only the infinity of the depths of a man's mind can truly tell the story."
Genius!
When Fred left my place, he must have run home and logged on. Or maybe he did it the next day. But eventually, he went on to IRC (basically the old school version of a chat room) and told a bunch of anarchists about the film "Gayniggers From Outer Space". Apparently they all reached consensus: it is a terrible film with a terrible title. You know -- without having seen the movie or anything.
This past weekend, I went on IRC for the first time in years. Just out for a lark. Some guy -- let's call him Ted -- saw me, figured out I was Fred's brother, and immediately brought up the film. Which is pretty weird, if you think about it. I'd hate to think having seen the film is my defining feature.
Ted said something like, "I hear you like the movie Gayniggers From Outer Space."
At first I thought he wanted to talk about the movie because he'd seen it. Let's compare notes, let's chat about the comedy. Let us revel in our mutual experience.
That wasn't it. Ted wanted to explain to me why the film is a Very Bad Thing. You know, without having actually seen it. Why let trivialities like knowing what you're talking about get in the way of being righteously indignant?
"Hipsters", he claimed, think that using the word "nigger" shows that they're edgy and sophisticated. It indicates nothing of the kind. It's stupid and pointless. There's nothing cool or sophisticated about using that word.
I tried to explain to him the movie was stupid. And, really, it did tweak social values.
My saying this frustrated Ted -- I believe he wrote that he was doing a "face palm" to indicate his dismay at my lack of understanding.
By the way, he offered up fans of the TV show Family Guy as another example of people who are loathsome. And presumably they and the hipsters will be first against the wall when the anarchist revolution comes.
Mind you, Ted is studying psychology. He hopes to learn things that will allow him to write "propaganda" for the left that can bring about a "bloodless coup". Thus the lives of many hipsters will be spared. Way to be humane, Ted.
It amuses me to think of all the other things in the film that would offend Ted, if only he sat down and watched it. How would he feel about the gayness? Or the blatant misogyny? Or the fact that the film shows all the women of earth being exterminated in a comical way? The symbolic fisting scene? So very much to offend.
Ted confided to me that he doesn't watch a lot of movies. Hopefully he can bring himself to watch this one, and will leave a comment on this blog to let me know what he thinks. You know, once he actually sees the movie and can offer an informed opinion.
If you happen to be a humourless, self-righteous anarchist with twenty-seven minutes to burn, maybe you'll watch the movie and leave a comment too. I would certainly appreciate it.
In your comments, please explain how the anarchist revolution will differ from the Gayniggers revolution. Will you guys be using laser pistols? Will you leave one of your kind behind when the rest of your species take off in the flying saucers? I really need to know. Much obliged.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Smash Me, Smash The State
"My ideal life would be sitting alone in my room, in the dark, stabbing myself repeatedly in the testicles," Andrew exclaimed. He made a motion with his right fist towards his groin, as if stabbing. An expression of uncertainty crept on to his face. He'd heard himself speak the words and they made sense to him. The logic that led him to the statement struck him as sound. But clearly the idea of knifing himself in the balls over and over again was crazy.
"Do you even know if you're joking or not?" I asked.
"I don't know," Andrew admitted, and he broke into loud nervous laughter.
For me, this was the highlight of our conversation -- the final proof I needed to declare that Andrew's love of pain is pure masochism disguised as philosophy. I felt a strange sense of triumph. But I know it will be short lived. Next month, when I see Andrew again, he'll have forgotten the entire conversation, and we'll be back at zero.
We were sitting in the EXILE Infoshop, an anarchist, activist bookstore. I was there somewhat against my will. The earnest zeal of the young people who hang out there gives me hives. Andrew was sitting on a couch, a bearded Buddha, dressed all in black, wearing a cap with a prominent circle-A on the front. When I showed up, he was deep in a lecture, making pronouncements. Camus said this, Nietzsche said that. Have you read Thoreau?
I worried for the kids listening to him. Andrew can make a strong impression, but beneath all the intellectual tap dancing lies a great deal of madness.
"Do you think there will ever be an anarchist utopia?" asked a kid.
"It's inevitable," Andrew assured him. "But it won't be a utopia. For example, there will still be wars."
"Wars?" the kid exclaimed, wide-eyed. "In an anarchist society?"
"Oh yes," Andrew said. And he went on to explain how he thinks wars can sometimes be a good thing.
As I perched on a stool, Andrew and I quickly launched into our traditional argument -- is pain good for you?
My take is that pain can be good if it occurs while focusing on a task. For example, climbing a mountain as a challenge to yourself. Your muscles strain and you work to make it to the peak. Other people might be getting to the exact same place by taking the stairs, but you're going up the sheer cliff face, making an effort. There's a goal, a purpose, a direction, a point.
Andrew's take is a little more complex. Or perhaps it's much, much simpler -- pain is good. Always choose pain no matter what. Mind you, he voices this philosophy in an overly complex way.
A real choice, Andrew argued, involves pain. This real, painful choice, he claims, is an existential choice.
"Choosing between ten types of toothpaste isn't an existential choice, because there's no pain involved," he explained. "An existential choice is permanent, and is painful."
"Aren't all choices permanent, painful or not?" I asked. "Isn't that a big point of existentialism, that we are surrounded by so many choices that it's impossible to choose, and we experience an existential paralysis?"
Andrew scowled. He then made reference to Sartre, again insisting that an existential choice always involves pain.
I disagreed quite loudly: "If Sartre were here, he'd punch you in the mouth."
Pain is what makes us human, Andrew insisted. Animals cannot choose to endure pain to achieve some greater goal. Only humans can do that. That's what makes humans special.
"So humans aren't animals?"
Andrew nodded.
I laughed and shook my head. "That's complete fucking bullshit."
My mocking disagreement with Andrew caused the Infoshop people some dismay. They all did double-takes and looked nervous. I couldn't tell if it was my swearing, or that I simply refused to let Andrew lecture everyone, unchallenged. I got the feeling the youngsters really look up to him. That someone could passionately disagree with Andrew seemed to come as a shock.
"Human beings can choose to endure pain. It's what differentiates us from animals."
"What about a mother animal that sacrifices herself so her off-spring can live?" I asked. "Isn't she choosing to endure pain?"
"That's instinct. She didn't consciously choose anything."
"How do you know you're not choosing to suffer pain by instinct?"
"I make a conscious choice."
"You're not an animal?"
"No," Andrew said, almost shuddering with disgust.
"You believe in evolution," I said. "At what point did the monkey creature stop being an animal and become a human? At what miraculous point did the transition occur?"
"When the monkey consciously chose to endure pain," Andrew said.
"But I know you, Andrew," I said, getting quite emotional. "You don't choose pain because it's an existential choice. You choose pain because you want to suffer and endure torture. If someone offers you a choice, you'll always choose the thing that's mostly likely to wound you deeply. It has nothing to do with philosophy or the intellect or any of that. It's pure masochism."
Andrew somehow never responds to this statement. He dodges it. He quotes authorities, he talks of studies on different types of meditation. He tap dances.
As he rambled on about the ennobling qualities of pain, I interrupted with a blast of vicious sarcasm.
"You know what would be great?" I asked. "If Roman soldiers burst into this room, right now, dragged you out into the street and nailed you to a cross. Wouldn't that be awesome?"
Andrew laughed nervously, but also happily. On some level, that's exactly what he longs for. It's the not-so-secret reason he's fighting the authorities -- because he wants them to crush him with their batons and shields and boots. He longs to be destroyed.
Eventually, as he always does, Andrew started talking about gurus controlling their bodies in masterful ways. In glowing terms, he described a man who stood on top of a pole for 20 years to show that he has mastery over his body.
"You know how I show mastery over my body?" I asked. "By not standing on a pole. I've been not doing it for thirty-eight years now."
"But do you want to stand on a pole?" one of the kids asked me.
"You bet," I said. "I've got it set up in the basement of my house, but I keep managing to resist it, somehow."
Andrew is especially fond of a guru who turned his head to the right and kept it that way forever. He speaks of such self mutilations as though they are a beautiful ballet. "Holding the head to one side -- it breaks his spine and eventually he can't even move his head. He has to drink his meals through a straw. And that's how he shows mastery over his body."
"Or that's how he earns more money as a beggar," I said. "They make more money if they're crippled."
Andrew scowled again. (I have this amazing ability to make him do that.) He argued that pain is how the body communicates to a person. Didn't I know that?
"Sure," I said. "When I burn my hand, my body tells me, using pain, not to stick my hand in fire."
"Or it's telling you to hold your hand in the fire as long as you possibly can," Andrew replied.
We started talking about the unconscious, and how Andrew is at war with his. He doesn't perceive his unconscious as a part of himself. "I resent the observer, sitting in the back of my head, who doesn't have to do anything, getting a free ride, while I have to do all the hard work," he said.
"But that other -- that's you," I countered. "In fact, I think you have it backwards. There are some schools of philosophy that argue that the observer, the unconscious, is the real you, and that the thing you call 'I' is the phoney."
Andrew strongly disagreed. "If I can't control it, it's not me. How can it be me, if it has nothing to do with me?"
"So you won't be needing your heart then," I said. "You can't control its beating. Hand it over."
There are two approaches to the unconscious. One is the mystical other who sits inside of you, giving answers through dreams and other phenomena. Another take is we all live in a darkened room and explore it with a flashlight. Everything is unconscious -- except the spot where the flashlight of consciousness happens to be pointing right now. For example, you are unaware (until I bring it to your attention) of the pressure your shoes are putting on your feet. I suggested this other take on the unconscious to Andrew.
"We can only shine the light on so much at once," I said.
"There's another answer to the problem," Andrew said, "and that's to turn on the lights so we can see everything all at once."
"You can't," I said. "Your brain would burn out. A human being can only perceive so much data at once."
Andrew stubbornly disagreed.
"Why do you want to control everything, see everything at once?" I asked. "Let your heart beat itself. Let your lungs breathe without your assistance. You don't need to control these things. You can't control all those things."
"Who says I can't? I want to, and I can try to do so. There are gurus who can put themselves in a state of suspended animation and be buried in the ground for days, and live."
"So what? They're buried in the ground, doing nothing. You can't walk around, above ground, controlling every aspect of yourself. You can have complete control over your left hand, but you'll lose track of your right hand. You can have mastery over your breathing, but doing so means you forget about your bowels. You can't control everything all at once. Your brain is not designed to focus your attention on everything all at once. It would burn out."
"It's something to aspire to," Andrew said.
"You would need three brains to do it."
And still, Andrew insisted that he wanted complete control over every aspect of his being. The unconscious is his enemy, and has nothing to do with who he is.
I grew exasperated. "These are the rules of the game. You're biological, you're an animal, and you can't be conscious of your entire body all at once. You're like a kid playing a board game who suddenly announces half-way through the game that he wants to change the rules. And that's exactly what you do in your dreams!"
Andrew looked startled. On many occasions, he's told me about his dreams. And he admits he has this bad habit of trying to change the rules in the middle of a dream. Monsters are after him, he's running, but then he stops and says, "Ah, but -- I have super powers, and I can shoot lasers out of my eyes!" Or he announces, "But... it turns out I have a gun, in my pocket!" and he frantically starts searching for a gun. When he can't find one, he holds up his finger like it's a gun.
And all the dream characters look at him like he's nuts and roll their eyes and shake their heads. "That's not a gun," they say. "It's your finger."
But Andrew insists. "No, no! It's a gun! Back off! Back off or I'll shoot you!"
And the dream characters put their hands on their hips and sigh -- much like you would if you were playing a game with a stubborn child.
Now it strikes me that Andrew does the same thing while awake. He doesn't want to be an animal, so he defines himself as a human being -- something non-animal. He wants to be in constant pain, so pain is always good. In fact, it's what makes you a human being. If you don't choose pain, you're an animal. Andrew refuses to have an unconscious beyond his control, so it's entirely possible for a human being to be entirely conscious of everything all at once. The gurus of India do it, after all.
All of his intellectualizing is an attempt to avoid unpleasant realities. Those things that he can't put at a physical distance, he puts at an intellectual distance.
Before our conversation could go any further, a man in his seventies asked Andrew for some advice. Seems the man had received a trespassing ticket for going through some garbage. His mission in life is to take the recycling out of the garbage and put it with the recycling. Only the cops saw him this one time and gave him a ticket.
Andrew advised the man to fight the cops. Tell them to fuck off. Get in their faces. Be confrontational. If you're going to fight them, it's going to be a full time job. Prepare to be a target for all cops, everywhere.
"Could I just point out at this moment that Andrew is over six feet tall?" I said.
Everyone laughed. The old man was frail, in no condition to say, "Fuck you, pig" and expect to get away with it.
It's not like I've ever fought a ticket in court, but I still felt Andrew was giving the guy bad advice. And he was clearly going to go on giving bad advice for some time. So I got up, put on my coat, and said my goodbyes.
I've had several versions of the pain conversation with Andrew. I once told him to go see a dominatrix.
"You want pain, she'll give you pain," I said. "But, then I suppose you wouldn't let yourself do that. Paying for a beating requires a certain amount of self-deception. You'd be paying a woman to humiliate you in a specific way. All the power would really be in your court, as you're paying the bill. So I suppose she would have to come up to you, on the street, and start beating the crap out of you for no reason at all."
Andrew laughed nervously, which confirmed my suspicions.
If I want to give Andrew a present, but he only enjoy pains, would giving him pain be cruel? Do you suppose there is a dominatrix out there who would take money from me, and beat up Andrew on the street? Or would a hitman suffice? Would that be sexual enough for Andrew? Or would the hitman have to dress up as a police officer for Andrew to really enjoy the experience?
"Do you even know if you're joking or not?" I asked.
"I don't know," Andrew admitted, and he broke into loud nervous laughter.
For me, this was the highlight of our conversation -- the final proof I needed to declare that Andrew's love of pain is pure masochism disguised as philosophy. I felt a strange sense of triumph. But I know it will be short lived. Next month, when I see Andrew again, he'll have forgotten the entire conversation, and we'll be back at zero.
We were sitting in the EXILE Infoshop, an anarchist, activist bookstore. I was there somewhat against my will. The earnest zeal of the young people who hang out there gives me hives. Andrew was sitting on a couch, a bearded Buddha, dressed all in black, wearing a cap with a prominent circle-A on the front. When I showed up, he was deep in a lecture, making pronouncements. Camus said this, Nietzsche said that. Have you read Thoreau?
I worried for the kids listening to him. Andrew can make a strong impression, but beneath all the intellectual tap dancing lies a great deal of madness.
"Do you think there will ever be an anarchist utopia?" asked a kid.
"It's inevitable," Andrew assured him. "But it won't be a utopia. For example, there will still be wars."
"Wars?" the kid exclaimed, wide-eyed. "In an anarchist society?"
"Oh yes," Andrew said. And he went on to explain how he thinks wars can sometimes be a good thing.
As I perched on a stool, Andrew and I quickly launched into our traditional argument -- is pain good for you?
My take is that pain can be good if it occurs while focusing on a task. For example, climbing a mountain as a challenge to yourself. Your muscles strain and you work to make it to the peak. Other people might be getting to the exact same place by taking the stairs, but you're going up the sheer cliff face, making an effort. There's a goal, a purpose, a direction, a point.
Andrew's take is a little more complex. Or perhaps it's much, much simpler -- pain is good. Always choose pain no matter what. Mind you, he voices this philosophy in an overly complex way.
A real choice, Andrew argued, involves pain. This real, painful choice, he claims, is an existential choice.
"Choosing between ten types of toothpaste isn't an existential choice, because there's no pain involved," he explained. "An existential choice is permanent, and is painful."
"Aren't all choices permanent, painful or not?" I asked. "Isn't that a big point of existentialism, that we are surrounded by so many choices that it's impossible to choose, and we experience an existential paralysis?"
Andrew scowled. He then made reference to Sartre, again insisting that an existential choice always involves pain.
I disagreed quite loudly: "If Sartre were here, he'd punch you in the mouth."
Pain is what makes us human, Andrew insisted. Animals cannot choose to endure pain to achieve some greater goal. Only humans can do that. That's what makes humans special.
"So humans aren't animals?"
Andrew nodded.
I laughed and shook my head. "That's complete fucking bullshit."
My mocking disagreement with Andrew caused the Infoshop people some dismay. They all did double-takes and looked nervous. I couldn't tell if it was my swearing, or that I simply refused to let Andrew lecture everyone, unchallenged. I got the feeling the youngsters really look up to him. That someone could passionately disagree with Andrew seemed to come as a shock.
"Human beings can choose to endure pain. It's what differentiates us from animals."
"What about a mother animal that sacrifices herself so her off-spring can live?" I asked. "Isn't she choosing to endure pain?"
"That's instinct. She didn't consciously choose anything."
"How do you know you're not choosing to suffer pain by instinct?"
"I make a conscious choice."
"You're not an animal?"
"No," Andrew said, almost shuddering with disgust.
"You believe in evolution," I said. "At what point did the monkey creature stop being an animal and become a human? At what miraculous point did the transition occur?"
"When the monkey consciously chose to endure pain," Andrew said.
"But I know you, Andrew," I said, getting quite emotional. "You don't choose pain because it's an existential choice. You choose pain because you want to suffer and endure torture. If someone offers you a choice, you'll always choose the thing that's mostly likely to wound you deeply. It has nothing to do with philosophy or the intellect or any of that. It's pure masochism."
Andrew somehow never responds to this statement. He dodges it. He quotes authorities, he talks of studies on different types of meditation. He tap dances.
As he rambled on about the ennobling qualities of pain, I interrupted with a blast of vicious sarcasm.
"You know what would be great?" I asked. "If Roman soldiers burst into this room, right now, dragged you out into the street and nailed you to a cross. Wouldn't that be awesome?"
Andrew laughed nervously, but also happily. On some level, that's exactly what he longs for. It's the not-so-secret reason he's fighting the authorities -- because he wants them to crush him with their batons and shields and boots. He longs to be destroyed.
Eventually, as he always does, Andrew started talking about gurus controlling their bodies in masterful ways. In glowing terms, he described a man who stood on top of a pole for 20 years to show that he has mastery over his body.
"You know how I show mastery over my body?" I asked. "By not standing on a pole. I've been not doing it for thirty-eight years now."
"But do you want to stand on a pole?" one of the kids asked me.
"You bet," I said. "I've got it set up in the basement of my house, but I keep managing to resist it, somehow."
Andrew is especially fond of a guru who turned his head to the right and kept it that way forever. He speaks of such self mutilations as though they are a beautiful ballet. "Holding the head to one side -- it breaks his spine and eventually he can't even move his head. He has to drink his meals through a straw. And that's how he shows mastery over his body."
"Or that's how he earns more money as a beggar," I said. "They make more money if they're crippled."
Andrew scowled again. (I have this amazing ability to make him do that.) He argued that pain is how the body communicates to a person. Didn't I know that?
"Sure," I said. "When I burn my hand, my body tells me, using pain, not to stick my hand in fire."
"Or it's telling you to hold your hand in the fire as long as you possibly can," Andrew replied.
We started talking about the unconscious, and how Andrew is at war with his. He doesn't perceive his unconscious as a part of himself. "I resent the observer, sitting in the back of my head, who doesn't have to do anything, getting a free ride, while I have to do all the hard work," he said.
"But that other -- that's you," I countered. "In fact, I think you have it backwards. There are some schools of philosophy that argue that the observer, the unconscious, is the real you, and that the thing you call 'I' is the phoney."
Andrew strongly disagreed. "If I can't control it, it's not me. How can it be me, if it has nothing to do with me?"
"So you won't be needing your heart then," I said. "You can't control its beating. Hand it over."
There are two approaches to the unconscious. One is the mystical other who sits inside of you, giving answers through dreams and other phenomena. Another take is we all live in a darkened room and explore it with a flashlight. Everything is unconscious -- except the spot where the flashlight of consciousness happens to be pointing right now. For example, you are unaware (until I bring it to your attention) of the pressure your shoes are putting on your feet. I suggested this other take on the unconscious to Andrew.
"We can only shine the light on so much at once," I said.
"There's another answer to the problem," Andrew said, "and that's to turn on the lights so we can see everything all at once."
"You can't," I said. "Your brain would burn out. A human being can only perceive so much data at once."
Andrew stubbornly disagreed.
"Why do you want to control everything, see everything at once?" I asked. "Let your heart beat itself. Let your lungs breathe without your assistance. You don't need to control these things. You can't control all those things."
"Who says I can't? I want to, and I can try to do so. There are gurus who can put themselves in a state of suspended animation and be buried in the ground for days, and live."
"So what? They're buried in the ground, doing nothing. You can't walk around, above ground, controlling every aspect of yourself. You can have complete control over your left hand, but you'll lose track of your right hand. You can have mastery over your breathing, but doing so means you forget about your bowels. You can't control everything all at once. Your brain is not designed to focus your attention on everything all at once. It would burn out."
"It's something to aspire to," Andrew said.
"You would need three brains to do it."
And still, Andrew insisted that he wanted complete control over every aspect of his being. The unconscious is his enemy, and has nothing to do with who he is.
I grew exasperated. "These are the rules of the game. You're biological, you're an animal, and you can't be conscious of your entire body all at once. You're like a kid playing a board game who suddenly announces half-way through the game that he wants to change the rules. And that's exactly what you do in your dreams!"
Andrew looked startled. On many occasions, he's told me about his dreams. And he admits he has this bad habit of trying to change the rules in the middle of a dream. Monsters are after him, he's running, but then he stops and says, "Ah, but -- I have super powers, and I can shoot lasers out of my eyes!" Or he announces, "But... it turns out I have a gun, in my pocket!" and he frantically starts searching for a gun. When he can't find one, he holds up his finger like it's a gun.
And all the dream characters look at him like he's nuts and roll their eyes and shake their heads. "That's not a gun," they say. "It's your finger."
But Andrew insists. "No, no! It's a gun! Back off! Back off or I'll shoot you!"
And the dream characters put their hands on their hips and sigh -- much like you would if you were playing a game with a stubborn child.
Now it strikes me that Andrew does the same thing while awake. He doesn't want to be an animal, so he defines himself as a human being -- something non-animal. He wants to be in constant pain, so pain is always good. In fact, it's what makes you a human being. If you don't choose pain, you're an animal. Andrew refuses to have an unconscious beyond his control, so it's entirely possible for a human being to be entirely conscious of everything all at once. The gurus of India do it, after all.
All of his intellectualizing is an attempt to avoid unpleasant realities. Those things that he can't put at a physical distance, he puts at an intellectual distance.
Before our conversation could go any further, a man in his seventies asked Andrew for some advice. Seems the man had received a trespassing ticket for going through some garbage. His mission in life is to take the recycling out of the garbage and put it with the recycling. Only the cops saw him this one time and gave him a ticket.
Andrew advised the man to fight the cops. Tell them to fuck off. Get in their faces. Be confrontational. If you're going to fight them, it's going to be a full time job. Prepare to be a target for all cops, everywhere.
"Could I just point out at this moment that Andrew is over six feet tall?" I said.
Everyone laughed. The old man was frail, in no condition to say, "Fuck you, pig" and expect to get away with it.
It's not like I've ever fought a ticket in court, but I still felt Andrew was giving the guy bad advice. And he was clearly going to go on giving bad advice for some time. So I got up, put on my coat, and said my goodbyes.
I've had several versions of the pain conversation with Andrew. I once told him to go see a dominatrix.
"You want pain, she'll give you pain," I said. "But, then I suppose you wouldn't let yourself do that. Paying for a beating requires a certain amount of self-deception. You'd be paying a woman to humiliate you in a specific way. All the power would really be in your court, as you're paying the bill. So I suppose she would have to come up to you, on the street, and start beating the crap out of you for no reason at all."
Andrew laughed nervously, which confirmed my suspicions.
If I want to give Andrew a present, but he only enjoy pains, would giving him pain be cruel? Do you suppose there is a dominatrix out there who would take money from me, and beat up Andrew on the street? Or would a hitman suffice? Would that be sexual enough for Andrew? Or would the hitman have to dress up as a police officer for Andrew to really enjoy the experience?
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Politics and Theatre
Friday, I saw "Belle Moral" at the NAC theatre. Saturday, I saw the Ontario NDP leadership race debates at the Lord Elgin. Of the two, the debates made for better theatre.
Belle Moral is about evolution, a family secret, the thing locked up in the attic, and other gothic tropes. The play pretends to be smarter than it is. The two main characters regularly give long and complex soliloquies about science and evolution and the future of humanity. Those speeches are pretty tedious.
And the stage is so damned frantic. Three large screens spin on an axis point, allowing shadowy characters to come out and install new sets. At one point, a character goes into the attic, has a five minute scene, and then the whole set is disassembled and reassembled as the drawing room. Ten minutes in the drawing room, and the characters decide to head for the attic. The set is disassembled and reassembled again. There has to be a better way to show this. It felt like at least a fifth of the night was wasted in creating and destroying sets.
The acting was decent enough. The story was okay. The conclusion, beyond goofy.
It was an acceptable evening, seven out of ten. But ultimately, forgettable.
Now on to the real theatre...
The set of the NDP debates featured five podiums: four for the candidates, and one for the moderator. The villain was played by Michael Prue. He seemed unaware of the part he was playing. His orange silk tie, a ring on either hand, his very proper gray moustache -- he had the air of a retired pimp.
He angrily accused a fellow candidate of not letting him speak -- though she'd done no such thing. Later, he erupted into indignant rage. A fellow candidate heckled him.
He only had thirty seconds to answer the question, he complained, and the guy heckled him? "Jesus!" he yelled out.
There followed a hushed and embarrassed silence that Prue either didn't notice, or ignored.
Prue's right eyebrow kept rising up, making it look like he had an invisible monocle in his left eye. The expression made him look like he was already contemplating his future coronation. While sincere, something about his presentation style felt artificial and forced. All of his hand gestures involved "giving the fig" -- holding the hand palm upwards, and drawing all the fingers into a bundle, and emphasizing points. Prue needs to loosen up.
A demonstration of "the fig".
And he also needs to loosen up geographically. Everything Michael Prue talked about was centred around Toronto. He kept giving examples of places he knew and things he'd done: Toronto, Toronto, and Toronto. I wanted to yell out, "You ain't in Toronto anymore, Toto!" but I'd already seen how angry Prue got with hecklers, so I kept my mouth shut.
Prue came across as pompous, irritable, whiny, and a prima donna. Definitely the villain of the debates. Everyone loves a good villain, and I immediately loved Michael Prue. I hope he wins so I can watch him more closely. But he doesn't stand a chance.
Andrea Horwath was the female lead. The only notable thing she did was call another candidate sexist when he jokingly referred to his own "pretty face". When Horwath said she wasn't going to let the sexist comment pass, all the other candidates seemed baffled. It had been clear the man, Gilles Bisson, had been making fun of his own ugly face. Horwath chose to interpret him differently.
It was a gutsy if confusing thing for Horwath to do. But I think it made her come across as a little weird. Mind you, this is the NDP we're talking about. A sign of political incorrectness is the equivalent of high treason. I'm surprised the crowd didn't immediately crucify Bisson -- but they were all a bit confused as to what Horwath was talking about.
(I keep wanting to call her Hogwarts.)
Gilles Bisson struck me as the most affable man up there. While the other three struggled with their French -- Prue's French was particularly bad -- Bisson was fluently bilingual. Bisson was funny and loud and quick with a joke. Of all of the speakers, I enjoyed hearing him the most.
When Bisson casually mentioned his previous work with unions, I immediately understood who he was. He had that affable union organizer feel to him. High minded enough to be a politician, but rough and tumble enough to drink beers with the workers. He mentioned that he was going to be at a Superbowl party on Sunday, and I was not even slightly surprised.
The final candidate was Peter Tabuns, and I suspect he has this thing locked up. He looks like Howard Hampton, he's well spoken, and he didn't make any mistakes. He was boring but friendly, and I'm starting to think that's exactly the sort of person who gets elected to office.
According to a piece of paper handed out at the door, Paul Dewar says Tabuns has his support -- which in Ottawa pretty much means Tabuns has every NDP Ottawans' vote.
Tabuns has a face too small for his head, and a haircut so perfect I suspect he has a hairstylist on staff. He made broad gestures with his open hands. It made him seem larger than he was.
The debates featured written questions from the audience, read by the moderator. Fundraising was a big issue. Someone asked, what can we learn from Obama's success, particularly in regards to fundraising?
That's a touchy issue with the NDP, because they're in debt and everyone knows it.
Tabuns said that the NDP needs to be a party of ideas that people can support. When the NDP truly represents what the people want, the people will come to the NDP -- and presumably throw money. Some of the other candidates echoed this sentiment.
This approach really depressed me. It seems so incredibly wrong.
As the coalition craziness swept over Ottawa, I heard a news story about the Conservatives. They wanted money. Line our war chest with dough so we can fight this, the Conservatives pleaded.
Well, if the Conservatives are asking for money, clearly the NDP needs money too. So I went to their website and looked around for where to make a donation. There was a very clear "donation" button, but when I clicked it, I was greeted with the opportunity to donate money to Jack Layton's campaign fund.
This was confusing, as the election was long over. I hesitated to donate, for fear it wouldn't be processed properly, or at all. Was this the right place to give money?
Shouldn't a political party always be fundraising, even after an election? Shouldn't the donations page of the website been updated immediately after the election was over?
I get this feeling that the NDP sees itself as a party of the people. They don't have to raise money. That's gross and dirty and not what the NDP is about. As Tabuns seemed to say, the NDP just have to reflect who the people really are, and the money will magically arrive. Socialism inaction.
How ironic that that all the candidates voiced concern over the public perception that the NDP cannot be trusted to handle matters involving finance.
Charities don't assume they'll get money, just because they're a good cause. They have to ask for the money, over and over and over again. That's the reality of the marketplace.
Sadly, the NDP seems to think Obama simply raised money by being awesome, instead of organized. Not to mention that he was running against the proxy of the least popular president in history, and people were terrified he'd win.
But despite my displeasure, Tabuns will win, because he's non-threatening and bland. He's a good product the NDP can sell. I can see the posters now.
VOTE TABUNS: He Has Nice Hair
Too bad he'll win. I'd really like to see Gilles Bisson get the job -- if only for the jokes.
Belle Moral is about evolution, a family secret, the thing locked up in the attic, and other gothic tropes. The play pretends to be smarter than it is. The two main characters regularly give long and complex soliloquies about science and evolution and the future of humanity. Those speeches are pretty tedious.
And the stage is so damned frantic. Three large screens spin on an axis point, allowing shadowy characters to come out and install new sets. At one point, a character goes into the attic, has a five minute scene, and then the whole set is disassembled and reassembled as the drawing room. Ten minutes in the drawing room, and the characters decide to head for the attic. The set is disassembled and reassembled again. There has to be a better way to show this. It felt like at least a fifth of the night was wasted in creating and destroying sets.
The acting was decent enough. The story was okay. The conclusion, beyond goofy.
It was an acceptable evening, seven out of ten. But ultimately, forgettable.
Now on to the real theatre...
The set of the NDP debates featured five podiums: four for the candidates, and one for the moderator. The villain was played by Michael Prue. He seemed unaware of the part he was playing. His orange silk tie, a ring on either hand, his very proper gray moustache -- he had the air of a retired pimp.
He angrily accused a fellow candidate of not letting him speak -- though she'd done no such thing. Later, he erupted into indignant rage. A fellow candidate heckled him.
He only had thirty seconds to answer the question, he complained, and the guy heckled him? "Jesus!" he yelled out.
There followed a hushed and embarrassed silence that Prue either didn't notice, or ignored.
Prue's right eyebrow kept rising up, making it look like he had an invisible monocle in his left eye. The expression made him look like he was already contemplating his future coronation. While sincere, something about his presentation style felt artificial and forced. All of his hand gestures involved "giving the fig" -- holding the hand palm upwards, and drawing all the fingers into a bundle, and emphasizing points. Prue needs to loosen up.
A demonstration of "the fig".
And he also needs to loosen up geographically. Everything Michael Prue talked about was centred around Toronto. He kept giving examples of places he knew and things he'd done: Toronto, Toronto, and Toronto. I wanted to yell out, "You ain't in Toronto anymore, Toto!" but I'd already seen how angry Prue got with hecklers, so I kept my mouth shut.
Prue came across as pompous, irritable, whiny, and a prima donna. Definitely the villain of the debates. Everyone loves a good villain, and I immediately loved Michael Prue. I hope he wins so I can watch him more closely. But he doesn't stand a chance.
Andrea Horwath was the female lead. The only notable thing she did was call another candidate sexist when he jokingly referred to his own "pretty face". When Horwath said she wasn't going to let the sexist comment pass, all the other candidates seemed baffled. It had been clear the man, Gilles Bisson, had been making fun of his own ugly face. Horwath chose to interpret him differently.
It was a gutsy if confusing thing for Horwath to do. But I think it made her come across as a little weird. Mind you, this is the NDP we're talking about. A sign of political incorrectness is the equivalent of high treason. I'm surprised the crowd didn't immediately crucify Bisson -- but they were all a bit confused as to what Horwath was talking about.
(I keep wanting to call her Hogwarts.)
Gilles Bisson struck me as the most affable man up there. While the other three struggled with their French -- Prue's French was particularly bad -- Bisson was fluently bilingual. Bisson was funny and loud and quick with a joke. Of all of the speakers, I enjoyed hearing him the most.
When Bisson casually mentioned his previous work with unions, I immediately understood who he was. He had that affable union organizer feel to him. High minded enough to be a politician, but rough and tumble enough to drink beers with the workers. He mentioned that he was going to be at a Superbowl party on Sunday, and I was not even slightly surprised.
The final candidate was Peter Tabuns, and I suspect he has this thing locked up. He looks like Howard Hampton, he's well spoken, and he didn't make any mistakes. He was boring but friendly, and I'm starting to think that's exactly the sort of person who gets elected to office.
According to a piece of paper handed out at the door, Paul Dewar says Tabuns has his support -- which in Ottawa pretty much means Tabuns has every NDP Ottawans' vote.
Tabuns has a face too small for his head, and a haircut so perfect I suspect he has a hairstylist on staff. He made broad gestures with his open hands. It made him seem larger than he was.
The debates featured written questions from the audience, read by the moderator. Fundraising was a big issue. Someone asked, what can we learn from Obama's success, particularly in regards to fundraising?
That's a touchy issue with the NDP, because they're in debt and everyone knows it.
Tabuns said that the NDP needs to be a party of ideas that people can support. When the NDP truly represents what the people want, the people will come to the NDP -- and presumably throw money. Some of the other candidates echoed this sentiment.
This approach really depressed me. It seems so incredibly wrong.
As the coalition craziness swept over Ottawa, I heard a news story about the Conservatives. They wanted money. Line our war chest with dough so we can fight this, the Conservatives pleaded.
Well, if the Conservatives are asking for money, clearly the NDP needs money too. So I went to their website and looked around for where to make a donation. There was a very clear "donation" button, but when I clicked it, I was greeted with the opportunity to donate money to Jack Layton's campaign fund.
This was confusing, as the election was long over. I hesitated to donate, for fear it wouldn't be processed properly, or at all. Was this the right place to give money?
Shouldn't a political party always be fundraising, even after an election? Shouldn't the donations page of the website been updated immediately after the election was over?
I get this feeling that the NDP sees itself as a party of the people. They don't have to raise money. That's gross and dirty and not what the NDP is about. As Tabuns seemed to say, the NDP just have to reflect who the people really are, and the money will magically arrive. Socialism inaction.
How ironic that that all the candidates voiced concern over the public perception that the NDP cannot be trusted to handle matters involving finance.
Charities don't assume they'll get money, just because they're a good cause. They have to ask for the money, over and over and over again. That's the reality of the marketplace.
Sadly, the NDP seems to think Obama simply raised money by being awesome, instead of organized. Not to mention that he was running against the proxy of the least popular president in history, and people were terrified he'd win.
But despite my displeasure, Tabuns will win, because he's non-threatening and bland. He's a good product the NDP can sell. I can see the posters now.
VOTE TABUNS: He Has Nice Hair
Too bad he'll win. I'd really like to see Gilles Bisson get the job -- if only for the jokes.
WANT
I've suddenly realized that WANT is good.
Environmentalists, anti-consumerists, Adbusters, and the people buried deep in the "protest movement" all tell us otherwise. Want is bad, they say. Our wants are destroying the planet. Our wants are enslaving the children of third world nations in sweat shops. The capitalist system manipulates us into wanting things we don't need. You can end all this exploitation and death by eliminating your unnecessary wants.
Then there's the Buddhists and their four noble truths. All life is suffering (or dissatisfaction, disquietude, etc -- depending on your translation). And how do we stop that suffering? It's want that causes grief. Kill your cravings and desires. Want is bad.
Allow me to humbly disagree -- the Buddha and the anti-consumerists don't know what they're talking about.
(Can you humbly contradict the Buddha?)
Want is absolutely essential to our existence. We are biologically programmed to want. If you genuinely don't want anything, then you're dead. Desire, craving, longing, hunger, lust, passion, WANT -- these are all good things, as long as they're channelled properly. Want is like fire. You can use it to cook food and keep warm, or you can burn your house down.
Picture the poor bastard who whips himself with a branch to repress his sexual urges. Inevitably, he starts to get aroused by the whipping. He learns to want the pain, and craves it the way he used to crave pleasure. The masochistic misery becomes a perverse badge of pride. Squish down longing in one area and it pops up some place else.
You can't kill want. It's the specific things we want that we have to watch out for. Maybe I don't need three cars, six iPods, and seventeen TV sets. The anti-consumer folks have this part right. Over consumption goes hand-in-hand with our consumer culture and the destruction of the planet.
All of this might seem like a purely semantic distinction, but it's not. Target the thing, not the want, and the environmental movement will have greater success. As meat machines, we crave so much -- we want sex, we want friends, we want to fit in, we want a safe community, we want to have fun, we want to be happy. Want is good.
But advertisers know what we want. Every ad in existence attempts to hijack our basic desires. You'll be happy, if you drink this beer. You'll get laid, if you buy this car. You'll be safe, if you buy this security system. You'll have fun, if you watch this movie. They take our wants and pervert them, objectify them.
Want to undermine capitalist consumerist advertising? Forget attacking the desire. Instead, try this:
* * *
1. Expose human desires for what they are. Wants expressed openly and clearly lose some of their power. Advertisers try to conceal desire even as they use it. They'd never say:
"I want to express my love for my wife. I guess I'd better go buy her an expensive diamond ring."
They're never that obvious. Instead, the ad says, "Tell her you'd marry her all over again!" The man hands over the bauble and the woman swoons. Our desires are hinted at, only enough to make us insecure.
2. Attack the thing. Show how the product does not actually satisfy the desire.
"The ring made her happy for fifteen minutes, but I really don't feel any closer to her. A diamond isn't going to save my marriage. It didn't really express my feelings."
Love isn't in a ring. I don't give love with a ring. I give it through myself.
3. Offer an alternative way of fulfilling the desire that doesn't involve a product.
"Maybe if I just sat down and talked to her, shared my feelings with her regularly, I could develop some genuine closeness."
* * *
In consumer society, physical objects (products) have become a replacement for emotional interaction. We don't interact with each other or with our own insides. Instead, we focus our feelings into a purchase -- a "present" or a "card" or a status symbol. The object speaks for our desires, because the want itself is too great, too complex, too internal, too vague. That's the appeal of the physical thing -- it pretends to contain the entirety of our want.
"My true identity will be brought into focus by the frames of my new glasses!"
But identity is deeper and more real than that. We're always forgetting that we, as individuals, are the centre of our experience. Our whole world is based on the principle that what you buy is who you are. They want us to put our identity outside of ourselves.
This is partly where the hollowness of modern life comes from -- all our relationships are with things, not people. Direct contact with another human being has almost become taboo. It's like germ theory, but for emotions. Feelings expressed directly are seen as infectious, better expressed through an object. How embarrassing and awkward to be openly emotional.
People give a Hallmark card to express their sympathies. The feeling is in the card. And the card contains a poem someone else wrote for you. It would be much more genuine and touching to go up to the person and speak your own words, no matter how awkward.
"I just wanted you to know that I'm thinking about what you're going through. You have my sympathies. It must be extremely difficult for you."
Doesn't this have more value than spending five bucks on a card and signing it?
Art is an example of genuine interaction with one's self. When I create or write something myself, my emotions pour into it. My painting is so much more vital to me than anything I can buy. It's a personal symbol, it's real. It's a "product", true, but I made it out of my own nature. It's closer to me than any marketing group can ever get.
Is it tacky to write your own card, your own poem, and pass it on? It's definitely more risky, and more genuine. I think this is why "do it yourself" culture seems to be picking up steam. Something a person spends time making themselves feels more valuable than something they merely buy.
Pity the people who can only express themselves through the things they purchase. The art of the credit card. What are you going to "create" today, besides debt?
I am no extremist. Go out and buy stuff, if you need it. I own and love my iPhone. But I'm almost embarrassed to admit I have one. Is it a guilty pleasure for me? Are all my wants repressed, occasionally sneaking out into the open with the occasional extravagant purchase? Almost definitely. Plus I love being able to check my email wherever I go.
I get the feeling advertisers are glad anti-consumer protesters attack WANT instead of THINGS. Our desires are evolutionary, biological, programmed deep into us. Killing our WANT is as impossible as living without lungs.
You will want, and you will always want. All of the things for sale, on the other hand, are relatively new. There is the Achilles' heel of consumerism. Aim your weapons there.
Environmentalists, anti-consumerists, Adbusters, and the people buried deep in the "protest movement" all tell us otherwise. Want is bad, they say. Our wants are destroying the planet. Our wants are enslaving the children of third world nations in sweat shops. The capitalist system manipulates us into wanting things we don't need. You can end all this exploitation and death by eliminating your unnecessary wants.
Then there's the Buddhists and their four noble truths. All life is suffering (or dissatisfaction, disquietude, etc -- depending on your translation). And how do we stop that suffering? It's want that causes grief. Kill your cravings and desires. Want is bad.
Allow me to humbly disagree -- the Buddha and the anti-consumerists don't know what they're talking about.
(Can you humbly contradict the Buddha?)
Want is absolutely essential to our existence. We are biologically programmed to want. If you genuinely don't want anything, then you're dead. Desire, craving, longing, hunger, lust, passion, WANT -- these are all good things, as long as they're channelled properly. Want is like fire. You can use it to cook food and keep warm, or you can burn your house down.
Picture the poor bastard who whips himself with a branch to repress his sexual urges. Inevitably, he starts to get aroused by the whipping. He learns to want the pain, and craves it the way he used to crave pleasure. The masochistic misery becomes a perverse badge of pride. Squish down longing in one area and it pops up some place else.
You can't kill want. It's the specific things we want that we have to watch out for. Maybe I don't need three cars, six iPods, and seventeen TV sets. The anti-consumer folks have this part right. Over consumption goes hand-in-hand with our consumer culture and the destruction of the planet.
All of this might seem like a purely semantic distinction, but it's not. Target the thing, not the want, and the environmental movement will have greater success. As meat machines, we crave so much -- we want sex, we want friends, we want to fit in, we want a safe community, we want to have fun, we want to be happy. Want is good.
But advertisers know what we want. Every ad in existence attempts to hijack our basic desires. You'll be happy, if you drink this beer. You'll get laid, if you buy this car. You'll be safe, if you buy this security system. You'll have fun, if you watch this movie. They take our wants and pervert them, objectify them.
Want to undermine capitalist consumerist advertising? Forget attacking the desire. Instead, try this:
* * *
1. Expose human desires for what they are. Wants expressed openly and clearly lose some of their power. Advertisers try to conceal desire even as they use it. They'd never say:
"I want to express my love for my wife. I guess I'd better go buy her an expensive diamond ring."
They're never that obvious. Instead, the ad says, "Tell her you'd marry her all over again!" The man hands over the bauble and the woman swoons. Our desires are hinted at, only enough to make us insecure.
2. Attack the thing. Show how the product does not actually satisfy the desire.
"The ring made her happy for fifteen minutes, but I really don't feel any closer to her. A diamond isn't going to save my marriage. It didn't really express my feelings."
Love isn't in a ring. I don't give love with a ring. I give it through myself.
3. Offer an alternative way of fulfilling the desire that doesn't involve a product.
"Maybe if I just sat down and talked to her, shared my feelings with her regularly, I could develop some genuine closeness."
* * *
In consumer society, physical objects (products) have become a replacement for emotional interaction. We don't interact with each other or with our own insides. Instead, we focus our feelings into a purchase -- a "present" or a "card" or a status symbol. The object speaks for our desires, because the want itself is too great, too complex, too internal, too vague. That's the appeal of the physical thing -- it pretends to contain the entirety of our want.
"My true identity will be brought into focus by the frames of my new glasses!"
But identity is deeper and more real than that. We're always forgetting that we, as individuals, are the centre of our experience. Our whole world is based on the principle that what you buy is who you are. They want us to put our identity outside of ourselves.
This is partly where the hollowness of modern life comes from -- all our relationships are with things, not people. Direct contact with another human being has almost become taboo. It's like germ theory, but for emotions. Feelings expressed directly are seen as infectious, better expressed through an object. How embarrassing and awkward to be openly emotional.
People give a Hallmark card to express their sympathies. The feeling is in the card. And the card contains a poem someone else wrote for you. It would be much more genuine and touching to go up to the person and speak your own words, no matter how awkward.
"I just wanted you to know that I'm thinking about what you're going through. You have my sympathies. It must be extremely difficult for you."
Doesn't this have more value than spending five bucks on a card and signing it?
Art is an example of genuine interaction with one's self. When I create or write something myself, my emotions pour into it. My painting is so much more vital to me than anything I can buy. It's a personal symbol, it's real. It's a "product", true, but I made it out of my own nature. It's closer to me than any marketing group can ever get.
Is it tacky to write your own card, your own poem, and pass it on? It's definitely more risky, and more genuine. I think this is why "do it yourself" culture seems to be picking up steam. Something a person spends time making themselves feels more valuable than something they merely buy.
Pity the people who can only express themselves through the things they purchase. The art of the credit card. What are you going to "create" today, besides debt?
I am no extremist. Go out and buy stuff, if you need it. I own and love my iPhone. But I'm almost embarrassed to admit I have one. Is it a guilty pleasure for me? Are all my wants repressed, occasionally sneaking out into the open with the occasional extravagant purchase? Almost definitely. Plus I love being able to check my email wherever I go.
I get the feeling advertisers are glad anti-consumer protesters attack WANT instead of THINGS. Our desires are evolutionary, biological, programmed deep into us. Killing our WANT is as impossible as living without lungs.
You will want, and you will always want. All of the things for sale, on the other hand, are relatively new. There is the Achilles' heel of consumerism. Aim your weapons there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
