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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
leilla's LiveJournal:
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| Monday, June 23rd, 2008 | | 12:32 am |
| | Saturday, March 22nd, 2008 | | 11:57 am |
David Mamet, Enter Stage Right
Many thanks to our friends at Counterpunch and Smirking Chimp, and all the readers who shared their comments and opinions with us.
Mamet, Enter Stage Right
Apostasy Now!
In his trenchent dissection of Christopher Hitchens' conversion from Trotskyite leftist to neoconservative apologist for American imperialism, Norman Finkelstein notes that political apostasy always seems to turn in one direction--to the right, which happens to be where the power is: "The would-be apostate almost always pulls towards power's magnetic field, rarely away. However elaborate the testimonials on how one came to 'see the light,' the impetus behind political apostasy is--pardon my cynicism--a fairly straightforward, uncomplicated affair: to cash in, or keep cashing in, on earthly pleasures." (Finkelstein, "Fraternally yours, Chris.")
David Mamet's recent announcement of his own apostasy ("Why I Am No Longer a 'Brain-Dead Liberal" Village Voice, Mar. 11, 2008) has little of the fanfare that surrounded Hitchens' hitching of his caboose to the Bush/Cheney/Wolfowitz train, just before it disappeared over the cliff and into the abyss of Iraq, but it does confirm Finkelstein's observation, in his Hitchens' piece, that political apostasy in American culture is less about a revolution in principle than about the absence of any principle at all. Mamet's new conservatism revolves around the same center of gravity that shaped his former brain-dead liberalism--his ego--and thus represents less a change of heart than a repackaging of his vanity in a more attractive, if not more lucrative, get-up.
It's hard to miss the real subject of Mamet's latest advertisement for himself: after citing Norman Mailer's critical about-face on Waiting for Godot, Mamet begins his article with two entirely gratuitous paragraphs about a prize he once won for writing "the world's most perfect theatrical review" for New York Magazine. He then proceeds to write an entirely favorable, if not perfect review of his own very theatrical sense of self-congratulation, suggesting that the sham political stance that Mamet has now discarded was less an adherence to a certain set of principles, or even doctrine, than the calculated pose of an ambitious young careerist who pantomimed the opinions of his peers in the manner of a young trophy wife taking a superficial interest in her mogul husband's hobbies and business ventures. "When in Rome. . ." could have been Mamet's career-defining mantra while he was weighing his Hollywood options.
While never a keen observer of politics, young Mamet was undoubtedly shrewd enough to notice that his chosen vocation, with its poor at best prospects for financial success and its roots in revolutionary social movements, was hardly hospitable terrain for the conservative viewpoint. He might have bristled at its "fey" conventions, striking the occasional "maverick" pose by admitting to his misogyny and his "liberal" use of the F bomb, but he was content it seemed, to align himself with his left leaning peers, no doubt daunted by the critical fall out that would ensue had he pursued his long held dream of re-working Beckett into a vehicle for Jerry Bruckheimer.
That the author of a body of work best summed up as "Penis Monologues" is not only a dick head, but a paid shill for neo-con cause shouldn't come as any real surprise for anyone who has seen "The Unit", Mamet's prime time wet kiss to US military interventions, and the highly trained grunts who commit its most egregious abuses, with the added twist of focusing in part on the wives holding down the fort as their menfolk battle evil-doers and the neglected household chores that await them after each mission.
Mamet's rather unspectacular public denouement of his former political stance has all the controversy of Paris Hilton announcing that her next career move involves a stripper's pole. His conversion to the "dark side' should hardly elicit shock to anyone who doesn't define a political ideology to a set of superficial lifestyle choices and the casually formed, inconsistent opinions one develops in the course of a lifetime devoted to non-thinking. Even low-rent turncoat David Horowitz could lay claim to an element of surprise in his public apostasy stunt, had his irrelevance not gotten in the way of an otherwise lucrative career "outing" academics and baiting Muslims.
In summary--and it's very easy to summarize--Mamet's transformation from "brain dead liberal" to mature, thoughtful conservative is based on the following clichés:
As a "child of the '60s," the "liberal" Mamet assumed that the government was corrupt, that big business exploits human beings in the name of profit, and that "people are generally good at heart."
At some point, Mamet's wife helped him (although it's not at all clear how, or why), as they were riding in their car, to the realization that he was a "brain-dead liberal," and that "NPR" (i.e., National Public Radio") really stands for "National Palestinian Radio." (Note: The reference to Palestinians, and the bizarre implication that the mass media is biased in favor of the Palestinians, and therefore, in the minds of the brain-dead, "anti-Semites," is not pursued in Mamet's essay; rather, it dangles awkwardly in the wind, like a smelly sock.) At that moment, Mamet understood the essence of the liberal position--"that everything is always wrong"--and it conflicted with his growing sense that everything is not wrong, indeed, lots of stuff is quite right as rain!
As if to demonstrate the profound truth of this life-transforming insight, Mamet proceeds with an enumeration of various matters that seem, from his perspective, good and righteous about America, but there is something unsettling about his list of things that aren't totally fucked up--perhaps because the list might as well have been cribbed from a high-school freshman's civics homework.
For example, Mamet helpfully observes, the Constitution establishes a separation of powers, and that's a good, no, a "brilliant" thing (when it isn't being subverted by our President with the rubber-stamp endorsement of both houses of Congress); similarly, the current President isn't really all that bad, and not all that different from Presidents Mamet used to admire when he was still brain-dead; and, "the Corporations" (Mamet's quotation marks--as if now, now that he's grown up, any reference to corporate greed and exploitation is necessarily tongue-in-cheek) can't really be so terrible because, after all, they satisfy Mamet's "hunger for those goods and services they provide" (emphasis added).
The newly matured and brain-functional Mamet realizes that just as corporations are actually A-OK, so he was mistaken in believing that people are pretty good overall. Unlike corporations and the military, he now sees that people, in general, "behave like swine"--greedy, lustful, duplicitous, and corrupt.
Finally, Mamet, having outgrown his youthful brain-dead innocence and embraced a healthy, mature skepticism, describes how he began to "question" his youthful distrust of the "Big Bad Military" which is, after all, made up of soldiers "who actually risk their lives to protect the rest of us from a very hostile world"--such as, presumably, Iraq's fearsome arsenal of weapons of mass destruction--and concludes his list of feel-good juvenile clichés and slogans with the rather bizarre but no less juvenile, nonsensical and entirely empty observation that the government, the military and the corporations (this time, sans initial capitalization or quotation marks; this time, he really means it!) "are just different signposts for the particular amalgamation of our country into separate working groups, if you will." What? No, I won't.
Mamet asks (rhetorically), and answers (rhetorically):
"Are these groups [What "groups"? The government working group and the corporation working group? Are we including the military focus group?] infallible, free from the possibility of mismanagement, corruption, or crime? No, but neither are you or I."
Take that, you brain-dead liberals!
After gotten over the "Hey, nobody's perfect!" intellectual hump, Mamet is ready to unleash the full force of his apostastic climax, the lynch pin of his transformation:
"things appeared to me to be unfolding pretty well."
Ergo, you'd have to be "brain-dead" to think otherwise. (One wonders if Mamet was listening to Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, By Happy" as he worked on his essay.)
One of the more disturbing aspects of Mamet's mini-confession is that despite having evolved beyond his liberal brain-dead state, he still seems deeply confused about some pressing issues of political principle, such as how liberals and conservatives are supposed to think of government, i.e., whether it's a good thing or a bad thing.
On page two of his essay, Mamet recalls that during his brain-dead phase, he "accepted as an article of faith that government is corrupt" But on page three, he seems to remember the opposite:
"What about the role of government? Well, in the abstract, coming from my time and background, I thought it was a rather good thing"
This volte-face raises the question: Has the brain truly recovered?
In any event, and regardless how Mamet may or may not have thought of government during his early vegetable years, now he knows better: the government "should not intervene"! That is a sign-post of maturity, the mark of a man who isn't brain-dead!
Mamet conceives of his life--and therefore, your life, all lives--as a kind of balance sheet, every event and idea falling either in the credit or the debit column, depending on how it affects David Mamet. Add up the respective totals in each column, and you can find out what you really think, about politics or anything else, for that matter:
"but tallying up the ledger in those things which affect me and in those things I observe, I am hard-pressed to see an instance of where the intervention of the government led to much beyond sorrow." (I'm sure the Iraqis, the Afghanis and the Palestinians would be the first to agree with the formerly brain-dead sage on this, but that doesn't affect David Mamet, so it doesn't count.)
But if the government doesn't intervene, Good Lord!, how will us ordinary folks possibly survive or, like David Mamet, prosper?
Mamet's answer is Zen-like in its simple-mindedness:
"I wondered and read, and it occurred to me that I knew the answer, and here it is: We just seem to."
To "work it all out," that is. Get by. Deal with it. Do OK--for a while at least, until we're dead. That's it. I'm OK--You're OK.
Mamet doesn't identify the ideology ("Brain-Addled Conservatism"?) has replaced his brain-dead liberalism, and his essay provides no insight. He does say that at about the same time as his fateful car ride with his wife (the "National Palestinian Radio ride"), he began reading Milton Friedman, Paul Johnson, Shelby Steele, and Thomas Sowell, whom he absurdly refers to as "our greatest contemporary philosopher" (as if to announce to the world that he's never read any philosophy and isn't interested in the subject). These authors have led Mamet to what he calls "a free-market understanding of the world," which he prefers to "that idealistic vision I called liberalism."
One might expect the author to conclude with at least some explanation of why the free-market vision "meshes more perfectly with [Mamet's] experience" than the idealistic vision, but one would be disappointed in that regard: the reference to "free markets," like the reference to "National Palestinian Radio," leads nowhere.
All of which leads to the conclusion that Mamet hasn't really "changed his opinion," as he announces at the outset. Rather, one has the sense that politics doesn't really interest Mamet at all, and perhaps never has, at least as politics is generally understood, namely, as a rational conversation regarding what principles of political philosophy ought to govern our understanding of the world and how the world might be improved.
Perhaps during Mamet's brain-dead phase, he was a "liberal" according to Rush Limbaugh's caricature, that is, someone who resents the success of others, expresses that resentment as a phony appeal to the "common good," and is all to happy to repudiate the notion of a "common good," and thus "liberalism," as soon as he or she achieves sufficient material success to replace resentment with self-satisfaction. This sort of thing happens often enough, but why take the next step of trying to justify to the world one's decision to sell out, as if the world is to blame, always and inevitably in the form of an all too public announcement that one has finally "grown up"?
In David Mamet's case, I don't believe it for a minute.
Stella Dallas can be reached at lout1956@gmail.com
Jennifer Matsui can be reached at: jenmatsui@mac.com | | Friday, February 8th, 2008 | | 12:28 am |
RIP Keith Foskin It is with great sadness that we say good bye to Keith Foskin, a good friend, a very talented painter, educator and all round extraordinary person. On February 3rd, Keith died of a heart attack while skiing in Colorado. He was only 51. I never met Keith in person, but he was a long time pen pal, and best friend of my good friend, Bill, who kindly put us in touch with one another, as one political junkie to another. To say that he was generous, sensitive, kind, brilliant, and funny comes out sounding like a cliche, but in Keith's case, it's all true. But I will leave the final word to Bill who wrote this: Keith was a fabulous painter, web designer, and political activist. He was involved in a number of anti-war events in the US over the past several years and exhibited his work widely. I thought I would share some links of Keith's work and views. He was part of a Ground Zero Memorial exhibition: http://www.911-groundzero.org/wow/gallery/f/foskin.html Some other recent exhibits and images: http://abstractearth.com/displayitems.asp?discipline=Painting_-_Drawing&layout=&page=37&item_medium=All%20Mediums&item_type=All%20Types http://www.njc.edu/liberalarts/events.html http://ilidio.150m.com/pessoal/Pintura/pintura1.htm And here's a broader collection of Keith's work: http://www.colostate.edu/Colleges/LibArts/kf/ And a recent course syllabus: http://www.colostate.edu/Colleges/LibArts/kf/class/dada.html And the news of his passing: http://media.www.collegian.com/media/storage/paper864/news/2008/02/05/News/Csu-Staffer.Dies.While.Skiing-3188370.shtml http://www.today.colostate.edu/index.asp?url=display_story&story_id=1003835 Keith was an incredible individual with an intense passion and concern for others. He had an enormously warm heart and was remarkably humble about himself. This has been a devastating and heartbreaking loss for myself and Keith's many close friends, so I thought I would share both my grief and more importantly, Keith's fine work.  | | Saturday, June 30th, 2007 | | 8:36 pm |
 (Photo courtesy of Rick Kastelein) See original here: http://www.atlanticfreepress.com/content/view/1894/81/A quick word of thanks to all of you who took the time to drop us a line chez Cryptoir to express your opinions on 'Electric Larryland'. That includes the commentariat over at Dissident Voice and Smirking Chimp, and the Counterpunch readers who wrote to us directly. We'd also like to thank Jeff Tiedrich of Smirking Chimp, Rick Kastelein of Atlantic Free Press, Jeffrey St Clair of Counterpunch and the 'Axis of Editors' over at Dissident Voice. To the surly reader who demanded to know what my "qualifications" were, I can only reiterate here. . . none whatsoever. I didn't know you needed a license to write about Larry King. I thought it was enough that I watched the first three episodes of America's Top Model Season 1. Now I know why my resumes are always returned to me shredded. As for my co-author Carl, you can find his previously published work over on the comments section of perezhilton.com He's the guy who always writes "First" and "OMG, Britney is such a skank". Based on his witty and insightful commentary, I just knew I had found a kindred spirit, so I tracked him down and asked him if he wanted to co-write an article with me on Larry King. I didn't ask to see his license. It was enough that he showed up to our top-secret meeting at the Olive Garden in his 'Team Aniston' T-shirt. | | Sunday, June 17th, 2007 | | 3:31 am |
Electric Larryland (Or How The King Of Shlock Is Destroying Democracy One Inane Question At A Time) If there is one reason to watch 'Larry King Live - unrelated, that is, to a perverse pleasure in testing the limits of banality and tedium to life-threatening extremes - it's the chance to play "Are You Optimistic? - a drinking game based on the CNN host's Tourette's-like penchant for asking his squirming guests if he/she is "optimistic". For the uninitiated viewer, this usually occurs whenever 'The King of Talk' has run through his entire repetoire of non-sequiter softball questions before his hour of dead airtime is up, thus opening up the playing field for a spirited round of blood alcohol poisoning that the whole family can enjoy. And unless you enjoy the thrills of competitive flatlining, watching this Gab-Fest equivalent of a frontal lobotomy (without the benefit of a bottle in front of you) is like having to endure, fully conscious, botched brain surgery performed by a Borscht belt hack on the back alley abortion circuit. And being fully sober throughout an entire episode of LKL means being unable to fully appreciate the mawkish, shlock appeal of Larry, CNN's even dumber 'Cable Guy'. If you are not yet familiar with this updated version of a perennial party favorite based on the CNN host's trademarked interview technique, the rules are simple: The players have to take a slug of Pruno (or some other lethal brand of bathtub gin) every time LKL's befuddled old host manages to rouse himself from his mid-interview snooze to growl, apropos of nothing, "Are you optimistic?" Some of you may remember this game as 'WMD' (What Me Drunk?) where each player takes a shot of Rum and Ectasy-spiked Kool-Aid every time Bush quacked out the words "Weapons Of Mass Destruction" during the build up to the invasion of Iraq. Whether it's the revolving cast of 'Dancing With the Stars' or Bob Woodward on the "hot seat", (or whatever you call the plush, mink-upholstered, vibrating Barcalounger LKL's guests recline on during their "interview") they will inevitably have to brace themselves for a barrage of smoke filled soap bubbles lobbed at them by a hideous mutant hybrid of Grandpa Simpson and Junior Soprano Presumably, Larry's now trademarked non-sequiter gives him a chance to inject an air of "gravitas" into a program that normally revolves around a game of footsie between the sycophantic host and someone connected, however peripherally, to the missing/murdered white girl du jour. Or just as frequently, anyone outside of a mausoleum or oxygen tent who has ever tapped Angie Dickinson. Seemingly, Larry doesn't conceal his preference for guests whose careers peaked during the Eisenhower era over his network's in-house stable of pundits and "experts" who are grudgingly invited on to his show to share their insights on topics ranging from the latest extreme weather disaster to Hillary Clinton's chances for the White House. You get the feeling that if Larry had his way, his "political team" would be made up of Bindi Irwin, Don Rickles and the ghost of Natalee Holloway (with Wolf Blitzer filling in for Bindi on the days she had to attend Brownie camp). If the purpose of every mainstream TV and radio host is to define the framework within which people are allowed to think and ask questions, then Larry, like Oprah, simply strip that function down to a bare minimum in much the same way ketchup can be considered, technically speaking, a "vegetable". Remarkably, no one on his show (at least to my knowledge) has ever replied to this oft-blurted question in the negative*, no doubt mindful of the unwritten rule that they stick to reciting whatever upbeat, power-serving sound bites are making the rounds of the talk show circuit that week. Political discourse within the narrow parameters of America's corporate media is a hologram facsimile of a democracy, where the "players" (those carefully cultivated specimens from some corporate funded think tank) intone pre-scripted, self-help based bromides from little Larry or tiny Tim Russert's Fisher-Pryce teleprompters. The inevitable, "Are you optimistic?" -- has the advantage of connoting seriousness in a way that soothingly resonates throughout the nation's McMansions and 'Double Wide' trailers alike, offering a brief, highly controlled respite from the "all terror all of the time" imperative of network and cable news. In 'Larry Land', and elsewhere on the American McMedia landscape, the world's more pressing problems (or in the less 'inflammatory' parlance of the day, "issues") from melting polar caps to African genocide are shrink-wrapped into easily digestable nuggets of conventional thinking labeled as wisdom - all grist for the magical thinking mill. According to a March 2005 New York Times' profile of CNN president Jon Klein, the network was seeking "to spend less time reporting the news of the day" (Huh?) and focusing more on "emotionally gripping, character-driven narratives pegged to recent events". Thus, the government's runaway spending became 'Runaway Bride', while coverage of the world's troubled spots becomes more and more focused on the high-profile personalities who organize the money-raising minstrel shows for their suffering populations. Although CNN continues to hemmorage viewers under his stewardship, "Kleinie" (unlike FEMA's unfortunate "Brownie) will continue to be rewarded for doing "a heck of a job"... increasing FOX's numbers. Arguably, Goebbels himself couldn't have come up with a better dog and pony show than LKL to instill a conditioned, non-response in the citizenry that comes with an imaginary proximity to power, and the illusion of engaging in the democratic process through "live" phone calls, all carefully screened to maintain a sealed echo chamber like atmosphere. This aspect of talk-based media is enhanced in the participatory format perfected by Rush Limbaugh and his countless blowhard imitators who are able to convince their listeners that acting against their own interests is imperative to the continuing survival of the "free world". Here is proof that Democracy is not only alive and well, but that we – meaning us Dittoheads – are a part of it! We have a voice, even if it amounts to a collective, "Ditto", or gushing praise for Larry from a caller in Nebraska. Whether the subject is global warming or celebrity drunk drivers, you can count on Larry to mask his ignorance of the subject matter by dumbing the conversation down to a level that even a none-too bright hotel heiress would insist was "too banal" and "an insult to single-celled invertebrates everywhere". "OK", you're thinking, "So he's as dumb as a bag of wilted turnips, but at least no one can accuse him of playing the kind of "Gotcha" journalism" that occurs the moment a high-profile personality says something revealing, or worse, honest. When Jimmy Carter momentarily veered off-script to compare Israel's race-based policies to Apartheid, he was roundly condemned by the establishment media, who used the opportunity his "gaffe" afforded to play "hard ball" with the Nobel laureate, launching an endless tirade of indignation and the kind of tough questioning that was curiously absent in the build up to the invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan. Carter's extended "Ooops!-moment" confirmed what we already knew, namely, that when the truth is spoken in America's political culture, it is always a gaffe, an embarrassing slip of the tongue, that must be atoned for by way of repeated public apologies, if not a month-long visit to a Hollywood rehab facility. It must have been a relief for the beleaguered former President to appear on Larry King Live to chat amiably off-topic about his charity projects and vineyards. Apart from offering an alternative to controversy, Larry puts his guests through a grindingly dull regimen of aroma therapy-based treatments as pioneered by Oprah and practiced throughout the American mass media landscape. Should any of his guests actually step out of their assigned roles as Empire's keynote motivational speakers, offering something other than a cautiously upbeat assessment of current events, watch how quickly the half-napping host will rouse himself out of his stupor long enough to steer the conversation away from the less choppy waters of unguarded truth telling, while surreptitiously passing a "Do not invite back" note to his producer. Still, if you are willing to play non-contact nerf ball, a guest spot on LKL offers even the most washed up, irrelevant "personality" a chance to appear serious and meaningfully engaged with the hot button issues of the day. To be fair, not many could resist an invitation to occupy a coveted place at Larry's table, where such luminaries like the dudes who almost sperminated Anna Nicole Smith have held court before you to expound authoritively on the awesomeness of optimism and the role it has played in their meteoric rise to the bottom of the celebrity food chain. Perhaps it's to Larry's credit that he doesn't really differentiate between a Hoochie-Mama Has-Been actress and a former US Secretary of State under Nixon. For a former Thigh Master spokesperson, being confused with, say, the Dalai Lama on a prime-time news (sic) program is less an embarassment than a career-defining moment - up there with banging Dr Phil in Oprah's green room. And if you are Henry Kissinger, having the 'King of Shlock" compliment you on your latest boob job is a small price to pay for not being cross-examined at the Hague about your war criminal past. And if you can stand having your "rack" fiercely ogled, while sitting nipple to eyeball with the goblin-like host perched between the gothic spires of his own shoulder blades - and better yet, if you still manage somehow not to collapse in a fit of giggles - there's always an open door invitation to flog your latest policy initiative and/or QVC jewelry collection from the comfort of Larry's revolving, heart-shaped desk. If anything, Larry is an equal opportunity fame whore. So even if your your celebrity is the kind that comes with being second runner up on 'So You Think You Can Dance', your brief, flickering fifteen minutes in the spotlight can earn you a permanent spot in his pantheon of assorted establishment movers and shakers from Madeline Albright to Marie Osmond. In this ersatz democratic environment, made up entirely of those who wield power and those who worship it, even "movers and shakers" of the jiggly blonde variety are granted the kind of intellectual and moral authority normally reserved for Nobel physicists and ancient desert prophets. Understanding how 'The King of Talk' has attained the status (according to one media expert at least) of "world-renown (sic) journalist" (sic) http://socialitelife.com/2007/06/23/tune_in_to_larry_king_wednesday_night_for_his_interview_with_paris_hilton.phprequires further rumination on how shoe-shining for power has become the staple format of talk shows, and indeed, the national pastime, where cozy banter between elites passes for genuine and substantive dialogue on subjects that profoundly effect our lives (healthcare, social security, employment, public education etc. . .) Wolf Blitzer requesting that those Republican presidential candidates to raise their hands if they believe in evolution doesn't inspire dialogue so much as ridicule. But sadly, this passes as serious journalism in elite circles, just as empty slogans like "The Audacity of Hope" has become a clarion call for non-action by yet the latest corporate shill on the Democratic party presidential ticket. As Americans' faith in their political institutions continues to wane, (according to recent polls, the number of Americans who trust Congress is about the same as the number who admit to beating their wives) TV and radio talk shows provide false affirmation that we have a role in determining the direction of public policy. Increasingly, though, "public policy" is limited to what extent the law can punish Mexican workers and the "Girls Gone Wild" segment of the population. In an age when the only guaranteed formula for political success at the national level is to alternately and seamlessly terrorize the voting public with more or less imaginary threats of mass extinction, temporary relief always comes in the form of the latest feel-good, victim-blaming nostrum as dictated from Oprah Central. An invitation to appear on 'Larry King Live' (or for that matter, 'Meet the Press' or 'Hardball') is only accepted on the tacit understanding that certain topics (for example, those that most affect the lives of ordinary Americans) are only touched upon, and only then to emphasize "personal responsibilty" within a narrow framework of "bi-partisan" initiatives. Since the public has largely given up on their expectations that the mainstream media fulfill its essential role as the peoples' watchdog and political conscience, relentless chit-chat sessions like LKL, Oprah, and even Letterman serve an even more vital function: to provide the illusory assurances that, unlike some forsaken creature clinging to survival on a drifting ice-cap as the planet hurtles towards extinction, we will somehow endure, shopping bags and credit ratings intact - at least long enough to find out whether or not Larry King will ask Paris Hilton if she's optimistic. *The rules of the LKL drinking game requires that if one of Larry's guests should ever snap back at him with some version of "No, goddamn it, I'm pessimistic as hell. And if you ask me that one more time, I'll shove your shrunken vulture head even further down your spinal column", participants will have to chug-a-lug a chaser of bong water after downing a triple shot of meth-laced Pruno.) . . . continued (temporarily out to lunch) | | Tuesday, May 1st, 2007 | | 10:04 pm |
Horror Night in the Cryptoir (Part 1)  | | Saturday, April 21st, 2007 | | 9:37 pm |
Boys Just Wanna Have Guns
Boys Just Wanna Have Guns
We should have seen it coming. The signs were in evidence at every turn; flashing neon billboards displaying a clear message that this particular individual was gearing up for mass bloodshed and carnage on a scale that would defy even the most gruesome of imaginations. But when all is said and done in the spirit of remorseful hindsight, who among us could have really predicted that he would erupt like this in a spectacular display of homicidal frenzy, unparalleled in its cruelty and senselessness? Beneath that placid seeming surface, few would have imagined that this creepy little non-entity harbored so much insane rage. Then again, Senator John McCain's recent remarks before an audience of South Carolina veterans about blowing up Iran were over-shadowed by another extremely disturbed individual with similar views on gun ownership.
Indeed, the "straight shooter" from Coco Solo and the cuckoo stealth shooter from Seoul have more in common than the curious coincidence of their births outside the US on turf bearing similar names and a heavy American military presence. More relevant, perhaps, is their shared fondness for macho posturing, not to mention an overblown, absurdly dramatic prose style that reveals a narcissistic pre-occupation with proving to the world that their smoldering resentments have deadly consequences.
'Richard McBeef', the play Virginia Tech shooter Seung Hui Cho submitted to his understandably appalled English professor spelled out in stark terms its author's seething contempt for humanity and a wholly unjustified sense of self-importance, while "Character is Destiny", the woefully ironic title of John McCain's most recent contribution to Barnes and Noble's discount table, laid out an equally corrupted worldview similarly predicated on fiction. By my reckoning, at least, Cho deserves higher marks for originality than his more banal and prolific counterpart:
McCain: "As a governor and senator, John Chafee set the standard for honesty and decency that the rest of us on our best days could only dream to emulate. "
Cho: "You prematurely ejaculating piece of dickshit."
The imaginary poetry slam continues as The Manchurian Candidate steps up to the plate. . .: (italics)
"Remember the words of Chairman Mao: 'It's always darkest before it's totally black"
. . . only to be slapped down again by 'Ismael Axe': (italics)
"I wonder why it's so sunny out. Today is one fruity day".
Encouraged by the audience's frenzied cheers, 'Ismael' gives them the raised hammer "Seoul Patrol" signal and moves in for the "kill". (italics)
"I hate him. Must kill Dick. Must kill Dick. Dick must die. Kill Dick."
Sadly for the the deceased playwright, the trophy for Best Performance By An Unhinged Asshole goes to the Beat Bard of the Beltway for his inspired riff on a Beach Boys classic: (italics)
"Bomb, bomb, bomb. . . Bomb, bomb Iran".
Special honors go to George W. Bush aka POTUS43, who scored an impressive slam dunk with his free association musings on chicken plucking, area rugs and "poofing" polls, beating out Don Imus and Alec Baldwin in the 'Hell Hath no Fury Like a Rich, Pissed-Off White Guy' category. (italics)
Whether or not Senator McCain is considering "Polls just go poof." "Remember the rug?" or even "Today is one fruity day" (my personal fave) as a replacement slogan for his next campaign bus tour remains to be seen, although some would insist that "The Straight Jacket Express" seems a more apt definition of his careening weiner cart's head-on collision with destiny as much it describes his increasingly loosening grip on reality.
Perhaps it's not entirely surprising that both the "maverick" senator from Arizona and the campus "loner" and spree killer from Virginia were able to remain mostly under the radar of mental health professionals and law enforcement agencies. After years of torments (both real and imaginary) at the hands of torturers and playground bullies, it was arguably only a matter of time before their rage would reach critical mass. The signs were certainly in evidence before either of these maniacs made headlines for their spectacular, public acts of self-immolation. John McCain's alleged but never proven homosexuality cost him his party's nomination in 2004, and it's highly probable that Seung Hui Cho's parents and classmates would have been more pro-active with their concern over his increasingly erratic behavior if it had included, say, a sudden fancy to nail polish.
It doesn't take an expert on Freud to recognize how both Cho and McCain, whether stalking their human prey" in the jungles of Vietnam or through the corridors of academia, exhibit(ed) an unhealthy fascination with the overt trappings of masculinity. Or that both men's wounded sense of manhood resulted in bizarre media-generated diatribes, noteworthy for the seemingly unprovoked nature of their attacks upon innocent civilians both real and gruesomely envisioned. As a nation, we are more threatened by "effiminate" traits in males than we are by their overt displays of testosterone fuelled rage.
Ironically, both made recent headlines wearing flak jackets with comically unintended results. Cho was described by one witness as looking like a "boy scout" (a description highly at odds with his intended persona of an "edgy" arthouse cinema anti-hero) while McCain's suffered a similar styling fiasco during a recent photo-op that was intended to make him look a mercenary gunslinger from an L.L. Bean catalogue. Unfortunately, his overly-accessorized stroll through a deserted Baghdad market inspired at least one comparison of the cocky little Senator from Arizona to Truman Capote, the "tiny terror" of Manhattan in reference to his unfortunate choice of a long, flowing scarf and sunglasses to complement his bad-ass Baghdaddy ensemble . Whether or not the ensuing ridicule caused the author of "Breakfast is Destiny" to erupt in a homicidal rage aimed at the Iranian people will no doubt spur debate among armchair Generals and fashionistas for years to come. | | 8:57 pm |
For Stella's Eyeballs Only:
It's all quiet on the Cryptoir front as we bid a fond farewell to 'Stella', who has taken a temporary leave of absence to pursue her life long dream of telemarketing. Thanks to breakthrough technology in denture fittings, she is eager to exploit her newly discovered vocal abilities after years of doing little more with her mouth than sucking the icing off 'Little Debby Snack Cakes', and yelling 'Bingo' in crowded, smoke filled theatres. Texas, as it turns out, is the only state where she can realize her career ambitions, owing to some loophole in the law that will protect her from the long arms and battering rams of bounty hunters. We wish her all the best in her new home, conveniently located within one minute driving distance to 'The Olive Garden' where her newly paroled paramour works the salad bar. Unless you are Stella, none of this will make any sense whatsoever, so I apologize, dear reader, if you have wasted your precious eyeball fluids trying to make heads or tails of this piece of highly encrypted nonsense. To 'Stella', I miss you terribly. Bingo nights just aren't the same without you hollerin' "fire" before Phyllis Pinchberry can claim her prize. | | Wednesday, March 28th, 2007 | | 3:55 am |
Holy Mother of chocolate Jesus on a Popsicle stick. After almost 24 hours, 'The 'Black Snake Moan' article is still provoking a lot of outrage and invective from Misogyny Central's troll brigade on 'Smirking Chimp. It seems that white, "liberal" dudes (and their humorless, irony-deficient womenfolk) get severely bent out of shape when sexual politics are brought up by (cue up 'Psycho' shower scene soundtrack violins here) a female! You'd think that I had reproduced 'Mein Kampf' here, instead of a satire-laced takedown of a recent film's rather laughable premise. But something tells me this particular crowd wouldn't know Mein Kampf from 'Mein Humps', and trying to explain the difference to them is about as worthwhile an endeavour as trying to explain quantum theory (or even NASCAR) to a single cell amoeba.
Does one really have to sit through 'Deep Throat' before one can say with any certainty that it's not a movie about tonsilectomies? Truth be told, 'BSM' isn't even playing yet in my neck of the world. But something tells me I don't need to shell out the yen equivalent of $20 to figure out that the idea of some dude chaining up some woman for "her own good" is a really, really dumb fucking idea for a movie. | | Friday, March 23rd, 2007 | | 2:25 pm |
Riding Miss Crazy
Experience tells me that a film so wrong on so many levels must either be a masterpiece, (Think DW Griffith's 'Broken Blossom' or John Waters' 'Female Troubles) or more predictably, an abomination on celluloid on par with 'Philadelphia', 'Forrest Gump' and 'Driving Miss Daisy'. It's probably bad form to comment on a film that I haven't even seen, but the reviews of 'Black Snake Moan' (with very few exceptions) glaringly overlook one simple question: Why does a woman who has been gang-raped, and presumably abused all her life, require of all things, "redemption"? For the same reason, it turns out, an HIV positive man has to confess his "shame" in a crowded courtroom for succumbing to a one night stand (Philadelphia), and a promiscuous woman has to succumb to HIV and a sexless, guilt-induced marriage to her mentally challenged suitor (Forrest Gump). In other words, how else will cineplex audiences engage emotionally with characters outside the sexual mainstream, however blameless, unless their transgressions are tearfully atoned for through death and abject obeisance to middle-class values? Or as 'Back Snake Moan' helpfully suggests, forced confinement and cough syrup.
The story as far as I can make out involves Lazarus, (resurrected here as Samuel L. Jackson) a bitter bluesman seeking salvation by forcing a gang-rape rape victim (Rae) to be his involuntary houseguest until valuable lessons about abstinence are learned through a tough love regimen of blues music, steak dinners, and yes, cough syrup. You see, it just so happens that Rae (played by Christina Ricci) has miraculously appeared on Lazarus's driveway like some Bratz doll version of roadkill, thus setting the plot in motion for a complex, densely atmospheric meditation on what it would be like to have a chick chained to your refrigerator. As you may have guessed, Rae is a feral, white trash nympho in desperate need of a firm, godly hand to offer her "salvation." The filmmaker was obviously inspired by the gospels of Maxim Magazine: "Hate the sinner - love her tits, though".
Director Craig Brewer offers up his "edgy" 'Blue Velvet(een)' vision of rural Tennessee as viewed through the wrap-around shades of Hollywood's latest slick white hipster purveyor of "ghetto" cinema. That it's a vision worthy of a black velvet painting hung over a motel water bed shouldn't distract one from the artistic merits of Christina Ricci's exposed midriff. We can only hope that the upcoming 'Director's Cut' will include the edited out scene of Samuel L. Jackson in white grease paint serenading his weeping floozy with a karaoke machine rigged up from a beer cooler and jumper cables a la David Lynch in one of his more more surreal cinematic asides. But more likely, it was pitched to the suits and bean counters in some overly air-conditioned, cubist monstrosity LA office as 'Driving Miss Daisy' as interpreted by the makers of '9 and a 1/2 Weeks'.
Following a long line of tortuously obvious symbolism, lessons in tough love are presented here as a bitter elixir remedy that when repeatedly rammed down the throat, will eventually yield an aversion to fellatio. This is 'Holywood', after all, and BSM is just the latest in a long line of "sin flicks", where tired biblical conventions like "redemption" and "salvation" are an excuse to punish "Women Who Love (cock) Too Much".
Maybe I'm missing something here, but it seems to me that Rae's rapists would be more deserving candidates for a "tough love" whooping at the hands of a sexual "redeemer". Curiously, Justin Timberlake's character is also exempt from Lazarus' biblically ordained bitch slappings, despite his voluntary enlistment in that supreme institution of unbridled male aggression that is similarly presided over by a deluded 'Decider' on a mission from God. I suppose that we are meant to believe that the cuckolded cracker is going off to I-Raq to build schoolhouses for little blind leper children. Not that we really need that added dollop of bathos to the already stirred-up pot of sympathy we are meant to feel for Rae's fiance Ronnie, reluctantly leaving his hotted-up bride-to-be to battle her inner-demons alone - armed with only cut-off jeans and a shortie, shrunken T-shirt. Or maybe the dude just doesn't want to be hitched (Get it? Hitched!) to the town pump, and willing to sacrifice life and limb to delay his dreaded fate as man-meat for some redneck Bridezilla.
In any case, Ronnie's early departure to boot camp clears the way for Rae to involuntarily enlist in her own private 'Booty Camp', where the recently-risen-from-a-bad-hangover Lazarus will put her through the paces of aversion therapy. (Make no mistake about it: The US would be celebrating victory in I-Raq by now if it weren't for homefront 'ho's like Rae, serial-cheating on poor bullet stoppers like Ronnie, who, in all statistical probability will be bringing home more than just his dick in a box.) Never mind that his "service" ultimately perpetuates a system that ensures people like them remain vulnerable to the predations of poverty and ignorance. Of course, we wouldn't want to confuse the film's obviously "deeper" meaning (Christina Ricci sure looks hawt tied to some dude's dog house in her itty bitty T-Shirt) by raising the specter of politics, or God forbid, feminism. This is after all, "art" with a capital 'A' and its "visionary" premise of subverted "race" roles (black guy wields the instruments of his oppression to "liberate" a young, white woman from her carnal urges) should be enough to ease the the viewer's discomfiture with the odd notion that restraining devices - those hideous legacies of slavery and Jim Crow - can be transformed cinematically into steamy boudoir accroutements.
"Irrelevant" politics aside, the message here is that "sluttiness", or what some would simply consider a robust female libido, is a punishable disease, and only "curable" at the hands of a stern patriarch "decider" whose remedy involves steak and cough syrup. Being force fed dripping cuts of freshly slaughtered meat, it turns out, is just the thing for a girl who has performed the 'tube steak boogie' one time too many in her short and wretched life. And cough syrup? Presumably, the recycled metaphor here has something to do with all the 'whooping'.
Chalk it up to fuzzy feminist logic, but it seems to me that a crime victim would be better served by a gavel-wielding judge delivering a guilty verdict to her rapists in a courtroom, rather than a chain-wielding creepy loner dishing out divine justice in a cabin. But I suppose I am overlooking the broader, "artistic" message conveyed to Black Snake Moan's young, white male demographic through a scantily clad slutbot tethered to a beer cooler.
We can perhaps attribute the film's questionable take on justice, where the victim is forced to atone for the sins of the rapists, while the perpetrators avoid sentencing in some vengeful, vigilante dude's livingroom to the fact that the filmmakers considered the dearth of erotic possibilities in Samuel L. Jackson shackling a gang of violent yobs to his radiator while regaling them with his guitar. In all fairness, one only has to consider the tortuously convoluted plot lines required to explain why Mr Beau-Duelling-Banjos would have in his possession multiple sets of police restraints. And of course, the more burning question would remain: Just who would wear the hot pants in this extended, dysfunctional family unit made up of an elderly vegetable farmer and his motley, mulleted, homegrown chain-gang? It would take the Coen brothers to figure that one out. | | Friday, December 22nd, 2006 | | 3:04 am |
Your International Moment of Sweetpea | | Tuesday, December 19th, 2006 | | 9:15 am |
Time Magazine's Person of The Year. . .It's Me(me)!
After being named Time Magazine's Person of the Year, I hadn't had a chance to pause and reflect on what it means to be a media icon up there with Pope John XXIII and "Hungarian Freedom Fighter" before losing my title to the rest of "You". The folks at Time Inc. must have been impressed by my profile on 'Hannidate, or the fact that I spent nearly $14.99 this year on E-Bay for a blood and Gatorade stained acrylic snowman sweater, and a plant stand made entirely of beer caps for them to have singled me out along with half a billion other "yousers". But that was before they yanked my tiara for "conduct unbecoming" to a 'POTY' queen (see pictures below) and tossed me out of the Trump Tower's plate glass penthouse window.
As you've probably already figured out by now, it's no easy task providing all the content and stuff for the internets. I admit, there have been a few low points in my now shortlived career as an "award winning media content provider" that are painful even now to recall. I count being voted unanimously "not" by the "R U Hot or Not" community, and having my cats banned from 'cuteoverload' as the nadir of my otherwise exciting and glamorous life as a shortlived media sensation.
To be honest, I kind of thought Time Inc. would bestow the honor to the over half a million Iraqi civilians killed during Operation Enduring Endless Occupation, but I guess dead people don't subscribe to Time magazine, or provide must-see content on You Tube. In the end, 'Lonely Girl' beat out 'Blown Up Girl' for the dubious honors. | | Saturday, December 16th, 2006 | | 11:37 pm |
Japanese Lesson 101
At some point during the 11 years Yoko Ono’s chauffeur was "Driving Miss Crazy", (to quote today's headline in the New York Daily News) the “sex starved Beatle-eating black widow” probably smiled at him, thus causing his patriarchal pickle juices to foment into bilious rage at the brazen indecency the 73 year old Ms Ono flaunted with the upturned corners her deviously planted “manhole”. No doubt the sly old dowager had more on her mind than reaching her destination when she hired the man who would eventually threaten her life, and worse, expose her pajama wearing habits to the world. As any tabloid photo editor can tell you, Britney sans pants has nothing on Yoko and her flannel fetish.
But who can blame a man for taking desperate measures against a hell-born succubus to the tune of two million dollars? Just imagine the medical expenses this beleaguered driver has accumulated from years of exposure to the poisonous gamma rays her goggle eyewear was emitting in the general direction of his shift stick. As anyone in a tin foil cap can tell you, “Take me to Saks” means “Take me for sex or I kill you” in Japanese. | | Tuesday, December 12th, 2006 | | 8:34 am |
The Return of Stella
I would like to welcome 'Stella' back from 'Club Meds' where she was receiving treatment for her addiction to Little Debbie Pink Snowball Cakes. When she wasn't stabbing herself with contraband chopsticks and carrying on illicit liasons with the orderlies, she was sharpening her writing skills with a blunt eyeliner pencil. Here she takes on Michael Kinsley. Excerpts of his latest drivel are in quotation marks.
Quick comments on Kinsley:
"most would-be solutions have counted on an outbreak of goodwill among the Middle East's warring parties. This tradition continues in the Iraq Study Group report, which declared: "There must be a renewed and sustained commitment by the United States to a comprehensive Arab-Israeli peace on all fronts" as a small warm-up for tackling the problem of Iraq."
--How does a "renewed and sustained commitment to a comprehensive Arab Iraeli peace" imply "an outbreak of goodwill"? It seems to me that it implies a strict reading of applicable law and its enforcement.
"What a good idea! And then we'll cure cancer, to pave the way for health care reform. Why, of course all of humanity should put down its weapons and learn to live together in harmony and siblinghood -- most especially in the Holy Land, birthplace of three great religions (so far). In fact it is downright inexplicable that peace and goodwill have not broken out spontaneously in the Middle East, even though this has never happened anywhere else either."
Here we see the standard effort at mystification, an attempt to characterize what is ultimately a rather simple issue (applying clearly stated and decided law to publically known facts) as some kind of mysterious irresolvable problem for all eternity. Attempts at solving the problem based on principle must be avoided because no principle supports Israel's position.
This effort at mystification sometimes involves invocation of the holocaust (the jewish one, not the nabka, about which the entire world is a holocaust-denier), or of various biblical prophesies, or of "the arab mind."
"Comes now former president Jimmy Carter with a new best-selling book, "Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid." It's not clear what he means by using the loaded word "apartheid," since the book makes no attempt to explain it, but the only reasonable interpretation is that Carter is comparing Israel to the former white racist government of South Africa."
--No explanation is needed.. We all know what "apartheid means." It means, among other things, the existence of two separate legal regimes governing a single population, divided by ethnicity. We all know that there are two separate legal regimes in the occupied territory, one for jews, one for non-jews. Ergo, apartheid.
"I mean, what's the parallel? Apartheid had a philosophical component and a practical one, both quite bizarre. Philosophically, it was committed to the notion of racial superiority. No doubt many Israelis have racist attitudes toward Arabs, but the official philosophy of the government is quite the opposite, and sincere efforts are made to, for example, instill humanitarian and egalitarian attitudes in children. That is not true, of course, in Arab countries, where hatred of Jews is a standard part of the curriculum."
The official philosophy of the government is zionism. Zionism is ethnic nationalism, the imposition of ethnic sovereignty of one group over territory, as in the "jewish state." Is that not a philosophical component?
"But in other ways, the implied comparison is backward. To start with, no one has yet thought to accuse Israel of creating a phony country in finally acquiescing to the creation of a Palestinian state. Palestine is no Bantustan."
Creating a phony country doesn't have anything to do with and is not essential to apartheid. But the word Bantustan is used by high-level officials in the Israeli government. Carter didn't invent it in this context.
"There used to be Jews living in Arab nations, but they also fled, in 1948 and subsequent years -- in numbers roughly equivalent to the Arabs who fled Israel. Now there are virtually no Jews in Arab countries -- even in a moderate Arab country such as Jordan. How many Jews do you think there will be in the new state of Palestine when its flag flies over a sovereign nation?"
--The first sentence is a lie. The question of how many jews there still remain in the new state of Palestine (which Israel won't allow, in the name of apartheid) depends on how the new state is defined. If the apartheid will stands, most jews in the occupied territories will be annexed to Israel, so they won't be included in the Palestinian bantustans. | | Monday, December 4th, 2006 | | 4:38 am |
Heaven's Cat Food Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of Blossom's death. Squiddly-Puff, this one is for you. Bon Appetit! | | Saturday, December 2nd, 2006 | | 8:48 pm |
When thine eyes deceive. . . pluck them out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9hzomP4DQW8Another treasure dredged up from the dusty vault of the cryptoir. An artist more prolific in death than life, muslimgauze continues to lend his voice to the terrorized and forsaken souls living under the boot of Israel's inhumane regime. A fierce and uncompromising critic of the Zionist occupation of Palestinian land, Bryn Jones, the single, artistic force of muslimgauze devoted his life and vision to the cause of Palestinian resistance. With over 2,000 tracks to his credit, much of his material is still being released. His sudden death in 1999 has done little to diminish his output. My first encounter with this artist came quite by accident. I was wandering through the "Avante Garde" section of Tower Records in Shibuya and "Speaking with Hamas" was one of the CD's featured in the listening station. Seconds later, I discovered what would become the soundtrack to my own head: Static, percussive, dissonant, delirious, seductive, enraged, uncompromising, sublime and utterly baffling in its clarity. As the master himself once declared, if people don't like it, they can "sod off". | | Thursday, November 30th, 2006 | | 7:19 pm |
| | Friday, November 24th, 2006 | | 11:59 pm |
| | Saturday, November 11th, 2006 | | 4:43 pm |
A 'Maxim-Lefty-ist' Weighs in on the Porn Debate... 
Originally uploaded by Leilla. Perhaps inspired by corporate America's co-opting of the term "choice" to mean a woman's right to choose among competing brands of "come-fuck-me" footwear, at least one male commentator defends the practice of "double penetration" as a potentially empowering expression of a woman's right to be painfully violated for profit and pleasure. Opines Eric Patton in this recent editorial: http://www.dissidentvoice.org/Nov06/Patton10.htm"I do not know how many women are interested in this sexual act, or have willingly performed it and enjoyed it, but if there is, has been, or will be even one woman anywhere on the face of the planet who has either fantasized about it, and/or has done it and enjoyed it, then I do not believe it is an appropriate position for a lefty to be suggesting, as Jensen does, that it is an inherently sexist act." And neither, I suppose, should a noose or a Confederate flag be considered inherently racist symbols as long as they are willingly and joyously displayed by their proud, imaginary owners in the African-American community. . . . As far as sex acts between consenting adults are concerned, I can only say "Hey kids, knock yourselves silly". Here at Rage Central our motto has always been "Whatever Bangs Your Bongos". (Unfortunately "Bring it On" had already been taken). If Mr Patton wants to endorse, or even engage in these practices himself, I say more "empowerment" to him. I take exception, though, to his claims that leftists like Robert Jensen (to whom Mr Patton's addresses his commentary) are somehow imposing heteronormative standards of behavior upon women by merely suggesting that an increased demand for DP in the porn industry has its roots in misogyny. His position is further undermined by his unwieldly use of the 'em-P' word, that in recent years has become a meaningless, media-generated buzzword to sell women a range of goods and services from lube jobs to boob jobs. "Empowerment", as it applies to "feminism" these days is little more than a marketing strategy aimed at women to convince them that fulfillment can be best achieved by "subverting" male privilege, which more often than not, means embracing it. With a wave of your Hitachi Magic Wand, a studded thong and dog collar instantly become rousing symbols of emancipation, and with the right spin, a surgically reattached hymen the pinnacle of "empowerability". (Still, who am I to argue against a labia saving device?) With women convinced that "empowerment" is best achieved by accepting, indeed, delighting in traditional gender stereotypes. a man needn't use force or even coercion to transform his partner into a home entertainment phenomenon. The Corporate Media/Industrial/Entertainment Complex has already laid the groundwork for him. Best of all, he needn't fear reprisal from feminists (or his own conscience for that matter) when his little X-Box needs an upgrade to Gonzo. In his interpretation of the 'Girls Gone Gonzo' playbook of male wishful thinking, Mr Patton helpfully suggests that "consent" and fantasy fulfillment underlines a video vixen's decision to play the reverse Buffy role in 'Brad the Impaler' Part I and II: "If women are empowered to make their own free, conscious choices, with no fear of reprisals or punishment, are we seriously opposed to this if the choice she chooses to make happens to involve double penetration?" A sea mammal trained to balance balls on the tip of its nose might not appear at first glance to be a victim of cruelty, especially if the animal performs the task eagerly and is amply rewarded for its efforts. Whether or not one "approves" or "disapproves" of such practices is largely irrelevant. But few would argue that Sparky the circus seal is "empowered" by the experience of performing publicly for the entertainment of humans. Nor can you deny that an underlying dread of having food and affection withheld from him plays a significant role in his obedience. However gleefully he submits to the demands and expectations implicit in his master's "request", his "willingness" as a performer is just as often a conditioned response to fear. Not surprisingly, Abu Ghraib's Arab inmates had to endure their sexual humiliations as a similar sub-class of species. As "women", they became even less human in the eyes of their captors and therefore played a complicit role in the crimes perpetrated against them. One can draw disturbing parallels between the US government's open endorsement of brutal interrogation techniques involving "sexual humiliation", and our society's increasingly super-sized appetite for shock'n'awe porn practices.. Or in the words of one Guardian columnist commenting in 2004 on the less publicized release of Abu Ghraib photos showing female Iraqi detainees being raped and brutalized by their American captors: "It is hard not to see links between the culturally unacceptable behaviour of the soldiers in Abu Ghraib and the culturally accepted actions of what happens in porn. Of course there is a gulf between them, and it is insulting to suggest that all porn actors are in the same situation as Iraqis, confined and brutalised in terrifying conditions. And yet, the images in both are the same. The pornographic culture has clearly influenced the soldiers; at the very least, in their exhibitionism, their enthusiasm to photograph their handiwork." http://www.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,3604,1222354,00.html Professor Patton further expounds on his theory of empowerability: "I simply do not at all see how a woman choosing, of her own free will, to have sex with two men (or to do whatever she wants, for that matter, as long as she is not coerced or in some other way deceived into doing it) is somehow anything we lefties can possibly be opposed to". I would argue that when a person's circumstances and life experiences culminate in their "decision" to risk irreparable internal damage and HIV infection for the sadistic viewing pleasure of 'You Dude' users , then "consent" is largely a subterfuge term a man can pull out of his ass (or hers) whenever called upon to justify the abasement and vilification of women. Just ask Lara Roxx, who contracted HIV after consenting to do a DA (double anal) to kick off her fledgeling porn career. It's probably safe to say that the eighteen year old former exotic dancer based her poor judgement, at least in part, on some notion of "empowerment", that her decision to go forward with the act, despite initial concerns about health and safety, was somehow secondary to her proving her "mettle" for the perv-cam. You have to wonder how indulgently our patriarchal elders, or at least those dudenacious defenders of "empowerful" women ("I am the Great Pornholio, hear me roar"!) would view an attempt to bring the tire iron into the fold of "empowering" feminist options like bikini wax and portable stripper poles for the home, office and playground. http://feministing.com/archives/005946.html Something tells me that the 'Hitachi Magic Tire Iron', despite its 'grrrly', pearly, pink exterior and hollowed out center (for the convenient conveyance of tampons) would be reason enough to call in the National Guard to defend Dude Nation against a stealth enemy in stilettos and garters. In other words, "Pussy Power" is all fine and dandy until it threatens to raise its furry little fist against standard practices of oppression, particularly the ones that come pre-patriarchy approved in "post-feminist" bubble-wrap. In the following passage, Patton issues a chilling warning on the dangers of speaking too publicly on matters concerning sexuality, lest we give comfort to the enemy: "I believe we, as lefties, have to be very careful when we deal with questions of sex and sexuality. There is a definite perception among the general population that we’re a bunch of anti-sex prudes whose views on sex differ very little from those of the Southern Baptist Convention (except that we’re pro-choice). Unfortunately, there is more than a grain of truth to this perception -- we’ve earned it honestly in many regards". Based on my own (admittedly) flawed calculations, I would say there are an equal number of people among the general population who also believe that "liberals" are a bunch of baby murdering advocates of man/dog marriage who celebrate XXX-Mas to commerate the birth of Barbra Streisand. In other words, I should give a shit about what they think. It's only when their leadership starts getting funny ideas about replacing the constitution with the Book of Revelations, and enacting prohibitive and punitive laws against the rest of us to counterract the ravaging effects of their inner demons that I start to worry about what goes on in the privacy of their pulpits and dungeons. As far as their views on sex are concerned, the "anti-sex prudes" of the Christian right have been universally outed as world class horn dogs. Or maybe Mr Patton hasn't been following the news lately. Still, I'm not sure if being branded a "prude" by a "robes and lotions" libertarian is any different than being denounced as a "whore" by some cross wielding whacko in a starched white sheet. Either way, such labelling merely serves to identify women for the convenience of their prospective buyers as either deserving fodder for the meat grinder or just plain sour MILF. Having grudgingly acknowledged that porn, for the most part, is a reflection of our society's underlying misogyny, Mr Patton then proposes a kinder, gentler skin trade for the coming Age of Aquarius: "The problem is not that porn is sexist. The problem is that the underlying society is sexist, and often porn is a reflection of that. The solution is not to get rid of erotica, or to go trying to guilt-trip the people who consume it. The solution is to eliminate sexism in society, and to create conditions of empowerment (as in parecon) so that the producers and consumers of porn have a self-managing say over its creation and form. . ." But before we break out the folk guitars, and start removing our fair trade hemp underpants in anticipation of porn, parecon style, we should consider the consequences of our boys and girls in uniform gone wild style of foreign policy, and and ask ourselves how much time we really have left to harbor vague hopes about "eliminating sexism". I think few on the left would argue for the criminalization of any sexual act between consenting adults, despite Mr Patton's implied claims that a stealth movement is underfoot to deprive Dudekind of his inalienable right to eye candy. Sadly, Mr Jensen to whom these comments are directed, doesn't rise to the occasion of a pissing contest mano a dude-o. Eric is seriously bummed to find a limp, left-handed dismissal to his vigorous, right-handed rebuttal to Mr Jensen's offending article: "I did not feel that Jensen ever really gave me straight answers to my questions. He referred me to other writings of his, but never really came out and gave answers to what seem to me to be straightforward questions. Perhaps I did not understand him correctly, but I was simply not satisfied with his answers. " I feel your pain, Eric. I e-mailed you some of my own comments and here's what you said: "I have no idea what the writer's point is". Now there's a straight answer. | | Friday, November 3rd, 2006 | | 11:18 am |
A Red Carpet Ride to Hell America as a Shining Body Upon a Hill "In a very real sense, American cultural history might be viewed as a vast, long-range eugenic experiment implicating the American public as an active test-bed for producing experimental prototypes of future bodies. Understood as a cultural as opposed to simply an economic phenomenon, mass consumer culture has since it gained escape velocity post-WWII literally grown a new American body: equipped with mobiles, interfaced by the Net, possessed by electronic media, alternatively splurging and purging in its dietary patterns, veering between individual self-help/self-loathing books and collective support for aggressive foreign policy, medicated, mediated, and (ideologically) interpellated".... -Arthur Kroker ('Born-Again Ideology') http://www.ctheory.net/articles.aspx?id=547We have to give credit to the purveyors of gossip and celebrity-driven entertainment for providing some of the most disturbing photographic evidence of the ravages of "liberation" on a civilian population. Internet sites like E-Online and TMZ bring us daily reminders of our nation's blood-thirsty predations upon the world's more vulnerable populations by highlighting our own casualties of the cat walk and the "Red Carpet". This aptly colored symbol of America's ongoing love affair with preening, gratuitous spectacle has become ground zero in the war on women at home. Over the years it has served as hallowed ground for Hollywood's growing army of corpse brides, where the fittest among these surgical survivors bask in the white hot glare of the male gaze before they are graded, stamped and herded off to their rightful place on the Hollywood food chain. With the nation facing a short fall in ill-gained plunder abroad, it seems only fitting that this Imperial relic of class privilege and power worship has become synonymous with America's bottomless appetite for prime cuts of freshly exhumed female parts. |
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