The horse is dead. Long live the horse.
Sending out notes (thank you and otherwise) is the bane, not just of my existence, but of existence generally. I hate doing thank you cards, Christmas cards, and whatever other kind of cards there are to be sent. Still, society has this queer standard and so these things must be done. So, in order to keep them from becoming too boring, I like to try to write a poem for each card. Here are a couple I sent out over the last year.
So the other day, CP posted about Metroid and that got me thinking. A lot of video games aren't titled with future marketing in mind. Game producers are only thinking in the now.
Case in point: Metroid. In the original game for NES, a space bounty hunter named Samus Aran (who is nowhere near as cool as Spike Spiegel or Faye Valentine*) travels to the planet Zebes and fights space pirates and their leader, Mother Brain, in order to destroy the danger organism the pirates has hijacked, the silly jellyfish-like creatures called Metroids.
So you've just created the game and now you want to name it. You really have six directions you can go with the title. You can name it after: 1) the hero; 2) the villain; 3) the geographical locale; 4) the goal; 5) the primary action; or 6) the McGuffin device. So, here are some titular possibilities:
For a single game, any of these titles are acceptable (if not great). The problem comes when producers opt for a sequel. Or worse, sequels. This is where a game's title can become a liability. Take, for instance, Metroid.
The game is named after the McGuffin, the meaningless detail that gets the ball rolling. So what happens when you want to make a sequel? You have to shoehorn in the device again, because you're almost forced to rep the brand in your sequel. 'Cause nobody's gonna know that Space Hunter II is the sequel to a game called Metroid. So you're stuck with Metroid 2. And now, you've got to stick the dumb little things in every single episode of the game.
Poor Samus. She's basically stuck fighting against the same villain over and over and over again. All because a publisher didn't think.
And lest you think that stupid names are rare, here's a couple more:
So yeah, I'm just sayin' is all.
*note: or even Ed or Ein for that matter.
Labels: convention, videogames
Huh. I can see why I'd be the Number 1 result for it, but I can't for the life of me figure out why I've gotten such a jump on today's traffic (it'll probably settle at around 200-300% of my normal daily traffic) from people googling the term, "nowheresville." Can any visitors who searched their way here let me know what it was that you were looking for? A new movie? A funny video? A new philosophy of life? What?
Labels: meta, robot apocalypse
Being granted the pleasure of curling up on the couch while Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean's MirrorMask unfolded across the expanse of my home-entertainment viewing-device was a grave and happy privilege. This was one of those dark, surrealistic faery tales that parents fear to show their children but that children adore all the same. This was a movie I would have adored when I was in third grade.
Which just goes to show that I was a child of impeccable taste. Because this was a movie that I adored when I saw it yesterday.
McKean's visual design blends seamlessly with Gaiman's melancholy sense of whimsy to create a believably dreamlike world (a must in a film that takes place almost wholly within the bounds of a dream). The soft edges and lens filters either add environment to the atmosphere or vice versa. I can't decide which, but no matter the case, the result phenomenal.
Rating: 
Nightwatch (Nochnoi Dozor) fits right into the sort of films I've just happened to see lately. MirroMask, Nightwatch, Babe: Pig in the City, and Paprika each revel in their particular sense of surreality. And while Nightwatch may be the weakest of the four films, it still acquits itself admirably (especially when one considers that it is the product of a Russian television station, Channel 1).
Nightwatch is a strange, but satisfying, mix of action, horror, and speculative fiction. There's a race of immortals (factioned into both light and dark) and the fate of the world, of course, rests on the outcome of their clashes. The story was mildly entertaining, but really, the pleasure of the film is visual. There are certain scenes that really rise above the rest and turn the film into something worth while (I took a particular fondness for the second opening scene, in which Anton visits a witch).
Nightwatch is the first of a trilogy, I guess, and so while there is a degree of closure, it's really just set up for the craziness that is sure to follow in the rest of the story (Daywatch, the first sequel, is meandering around the independent circuit as I write). The film, I think, is definitely worth a NetFlik.
Rating: 
Fred Gallagher's MegaTokyo is really a fascinating experience. The entire series is available online for free for those with the patience to click through over a thousand comics. I had done this but will freely admit that it's far easier to read and to maintain scope when tackling the series as printed volumes.
Gallagher has recently published the fifth volume of the series and, strangely, the series becomes more and more compelling as it goes (the opposite of most serial television shows, which largely begin as compelling and degrade into nonsense as the series limps along towards its inevitably underwhelming conclusion). This could partly be attributed to the fact that the first volume of the series is rather schizophrenic and doesn't know quite what it wants to be and with each following chapter, Gallagher wrangles the book nearer and nearer to a cohesive vision.
MegaTokyo (as some of you know) began as a gag-a-day strip (though it was not ever published once a day) with art by Gallagher and writing by series co-creator, Rodney Caston. Due to the cacophonic forces of creative entropy, the fertile crescent of MegaTokyo's production team experienced that kind of dissonance that can only have one end result: breaking up the band over creative differences. Gallagher bought out Caston and has been, for good or for ill, the writer and artist of the series since.As MegaTokyo continued to flourish after its recasting, the comic became more story-focused and character driven than it was concerned with anything so banal as a punchline. Certainly there was still humour to be found lurking in the pages of the story, but they were no longer the comic's raison d'etre. By the end of Volume 2, Gallagher had taken the book into full-blown story mode and turned the comic into what amounts to a page-at-a-time Ameri-manga.
And as I said, the story just becomes more and more interesting with each volume. Honestly, if the book hadn't been freely available, I may or may not have continued with it past the second book. It was fun and enjoyable, but my spending dollar is not limitless and cuts have to be made somewhere. Fortunately, Gallagher continued to keep the book available at the cost of nothing so daunting as the time it takes to read and allowed me to get hooked.
By the time we get to Volume 5, both Gallagher's artistic skills and his story-telling powers have climbed to new heights. His characters have grown to possess depths I hadn't expected. The story is going places that establish and ground a curiosity in me that I cannot hide. Over the last few weeks, I've reread the entire series (including Volume 5 and the twenty-some pages available online that will start Volume 6) and I love it. I cannot wait to see how things pan out.
Rating: 
Valerie the Curious quotes a curious piece by someone she calls Debbie Maken:
Now every time I hear someone describing The Way It Is and they open with something along the lines of "by their very design and purpose," I start to get a little nervous. Certainly, there are appropriate appropriations of this kind of argument (e.g., people, by their very design, are meant to process oxygen), but those are rarely the kinds we see enter into this sort of discussion—a discussion of what women are like or what men are like. I'm not saying that every reference to design in reference to the sexes is offbase or inappropriate, but it's a pretty big warning sign that there's a rusty ol' hook in that shiny lure we're about to snap into our jaws.
And Maken doesn't disappoint.
It may be a presumption (as she doesn't state explicitly), but she seems to lean pretty heavily on a "strain of thought" from the Reformation era that seems less to do with anything actually thought out and more to do with whimsy and prejudgment. The idea that women cannot fulfill their purpose by remaining single is interesting and may bear scrutiny; but to ground a positive appraisal of the theory on gaunt evidences such as mentioned here is eyebrow-raising for sure. To say that women cannot be fulfilled in their singleness because they were "made for man" is as silly as implying that a man cannot be fulfilled in his singleness because God saw that he needed a helper and created woman to fulfill his need. If anything, the passages demonstrate that men have a greater need for women than women have for men.
And as if the author realized how much weaker the second proof is, but felt that any decent argument needs at least two evidence, she includes (trailing in arrears, as if ashamed to even be present, knowing full-well of its inadequacies) the sad, sad note that "all five characters in the Bible with lifelong celibacy-produced singleness were all male." Now let's ignore the fact that the purpose of the biblical narrative is nowhere to point out all the proper and acceptable life-paths for men and women... No nevermind. Let's not ignore that. Let's also not ignore that fact that women so rarely figure into the purpose of biblical narrative that a large majority of the time, their raison d'etre in the story is wholly (or maybe just primarily) due to their reproductive mechanic.
Let's also not ignore the fact that there are women in Scripture who have little problem fulfilling their Scriptural purpose apart from any marital interest. Deborah held a pivotal role in one aspect of the narrative and we know nothing about her marital state. Obviously, Scripture wasn't all that concerned with it.
If anything, the fact that five men in scripture led lifelong lives of good celibacy proves that women can as well (seeing as how men seem to need women as much or more than women need men, biblically speaking anyway).
Then in a classic statement of self-prioritization Maken states what she could not possibly know: "There is a loneliness, a floundering, an unexpressed longing to be whole, that is more acutely felt by women than men remaining single." While I'm sure all the single men who are pained by their bachelor state are ecstatic to be so duly dismissed by someone who could not possibly be an authority on their emotional state, I can happily report to men and women everywhere that Maken is makin' things up to suit her woeful purpose.
Then, surprisingly, Maken actually says something true: "Single women experience purposelessness." I cannot argue with this. I might however add a number of other equally true statements. Statements like Single men experience purposelessness or Married couples experience purposelessness. Or even less exclusive: People experience purposelessness. One might even be inclined to make equally true statements like Single women experience purpose or People experience purpose. All of these are true. People, both men and women, whatever their states, experience a range of things and among those things are either purpose or a lack of purpose or sometimes both simultaneously—which leads to the most common of human experiences: conflict.
Maken's real problem becomes here evident. She wants the pained single woman so badly to be special that she creates an exclusive club, an elite pity party that rivals the Mason's for the secrets it guards—secrets like dissatisfaction with life circumstances, a type of handshake that no other club can ever bear.
In the end, Valerie summarizes: "A woman without a man isn't like a fish without a bicycle; she's like a man without a job." To which I say, I would be stoked to be able to live without a job. I can't begin to tell you the number of things that a job keeps me from accomplishing. I think a better pithy saying (or at least more accurate, if not particularly pithy) would be: "A woman without a man is like a man without a woman; or even more likely, like a woman without a man."
Labels: christian culture, pop-christianity, women
So talking about song lyrics the other day got me to thinking about what song lyrics mean to me. That answer should not be surprising: they mean very precious little to me.
To explain, generally, when listening to music, my mind treats vocals as little more than another instrument. And the "litttle more" that my mind gives to the vocal is simply the nod that I am hearing the Prince of Instruments, the musical tool that boasts the greatest range and variety, and is the most difficult to master.
One of the most common refrains for kids with moralistic and worried mothers—kids who don't want to be deprived of that cherished album of Metallica, Nirvana, Limp Bizquik, Public Enemy, or whatever slightly inapprorpiate pop band they fear to be deprived of—runs along the lines of, "But mom, I don't know what he's singing about! I don't even hear the lyrics! I listen for the music!!"
Now, how much truth there is to this claim probably varies from kid to kid. As for myself, it would be, for the largest part, an accurate description of how I experience music. The fact is: it's actually very difficult for me to make heads or tails about a song's content unless I pull out a lyricsheet for the simple reason that I'm not actually hearing intelligible communication through the sung vocals. Instead, I'm hearing just another instrument. A human instrument, for sure, but still just an instrument.
I hear the notes sung. I hear the quality and vibrations of the voice. I even hear the special flavour that one word can give that another word couldn't. But though I can't potentially gather an aural mood, I simply do not hear semantic meaning.
For a long time, in my childhood, I presumed that this was normal. That no one else was hearing these kinds of communications through song. Then, as I grew older, I met people who held intensely to certain songs and garnered great meaning from them and placed great importance on what they were "saying." Even though I can accept that this is the case with some, the experience is entirely foreign to me. Generally, even singing songs in church is a vain activity for me, as I rarely know what I'm singing. Even if I know and appreciate the lyrics of a song (having read and studied them at some other point), there is rarely any connection for me to their musical recitation.
Songs whose lyrics I know well enough to sing are slender in number, with a scarcity that should make them quite valuable. Wendy should be able to attest to this with ample examples and anecdotes, all featuring me singing a few words of a chorus and rapidly devolving into some scat-like approximation of the vocal melody (or butchering the lyric entirely). If I have a particular fondness for a particular song and find it within the range of things I might find myself singing, I might hazard to learn the words in order to better facillitate my singing enjoyment. But doesn't this help me to understand the song I'm singing? Not necessarily.
I can sing, from start to finish, nearly the entirety of Weezer's "El Scorcho" (from their Pinkerton album). It's a fun song to sing. Jaunty. Lively. With fun sound combinations. I've known the words for years. Not once did I really consider the content. The other day, I was talking with Wendy and she mentioned how she had a new appreciation for the song and talked about how Rivers (songwriter, singer, and presumable narrator) is all creepy and interesting because he's the kind of guy who would find a girl's diary and read it. Now I've sung the lines hundreds of times (or more!): "I asked you to go to the Green Day concert. You said you never heard of them. How cool is that! So I went to your room and read your diary." And in all those times, nothing ever struck me as interesting or odd. I had absolutely no sense of the storytelling going on there (or that there even was storytelling going on!).
My mind just goes into full-blown right-brain operation where music is involved.
One thing that has an opportunity to aid my conception of a song as semantic communication is the addition of appropriate video. Besides the wonderful quality of sound in Jonathan Coulton's music, I've grown to love the storytelling in his songs. And the only reason that I ever realized that was going on? The WoW machinima videos Spiff created for several of his songs (viewable on YouTubes). Now I've grown to appreciate and adore Coulton's lyrical genius and storytelling abilities in a way inaccessible to me without the videos. Thing is: when I sing Coulton's songs while meandering through my day or riding home from work, I am once again divorced from the story (save for very particular and abbreviated passages that will always stick with me).
I think it is for this reason that PJ's implication that a Christian life that is without a robust experience of the singing of Psalms is a deeply impoverished Christian life really grates on me. In reality, the addition of the singing of Psalms would likely add little to my experience of the gospel. In all likelihood, it would be further exercise of vanity. Don't get me wrong. I love the Psalms and the experience of the level of devotion found there. They are a great comfort to the people of God (the reason that they are, in fact, the most popular reading material in Scripture for the bulk of the church). I want to learn them and commit their truths to my heart.
But really, and put yourself in my shoes, what has singing to do with that goal?
Emeth recently linked to an article by Peej on something or other. I think it was one of those ones that points out how much useless stuff you know and how much quote-unquote valuable stuff you don't know and then tries to make you feel bad for that. It might not have been that at all. I confess that once I got that flavour from the article, I had little interest in seeing where he was going with it (having been there and done that numerous times in the past).
So I just skimmed it, reading a paragraph here. A sentence there. All pretty divorced from context and any sense of thought-progression. All this is to simply say that I'll be interacting with a specific portion of the article without concern for the rest.
Now this paragraph doesn't exactly strike me as being in any way a fair treatment of people and the songs they do know. Personally, I can't single along with more than a few words of the choruses of many songs. The one's I can sing along with are such because I do sing along with them. And the reason I do sing along has, generally, little to do with lyrical content and far more to do with my enjoyment of the music itself and the degree of enjoyment I get out of the kind of singing I'm doing to keep up with the song in question.
Fact: I don't sing along with songs I don't enjoy. Fact: my enjoyment of a song stems directly from the degree to which I enjoy the music. Fact: if I don't enjoy the music, I will not sing a song (save from social duress). Fact: if I don't sing a song, it's pretty rare that I'll be able to tell you what the lyrics are.
So what does this have to do with my judgment that psalms vs. popular music is an unfair comparison? Well, everything actually.
The fact of the matter is that I have heard very few psalms put to music that I find listenable or enjoyable. Therefore psalms and popular music (for the sake of argument, we'll just call this the music I like, the music that is popular within my community of one) are not really comparable. A far more apt comparison would be something like:
I don't like country western music. Therefore I don't sing along with country western music. Therefore I don't know any country western lyrics. I couldn't quote anything beyond "All my exes live in Texas"—which I may not have ever actually heard bu have simply acquired through a broad cultural consciousness. The fact is, though I don't sing either country western songs or psalms, I know far more words to Psalms than I do country western songs (though they be popular in some sub-cultures).
Should I feel at all bad about being able to sing most of the lyrics to "Re Your Brains" or "El Scorcho" but could not sing even a few bars of Psalm 119 or 76 or 138 or 2? I don't think so. Peej asks how much of a Christian education I can have if I can't sing the Psalms. I know he's asking rhetorically, hoping that we'll shrug our shoulders, sigh deeply, realize that we know nothing, and humbly submit to the conviction that dadgummit we needs to be a-singing more of dem Psalms... but I think the question actually deserves an answer rather than the perhaps-expected silence of consent.
So then, question: How much of a Christian education I can have if I can't sing the Psalms?
Answer: A heckuva great Christian eduaction! I find myself to be continually fortunate in that the grace of God in educating my soul to the way of everlasting is gratuitous in its sufficiency, never ceasing to teach me and cause my wisdom and understanding to fall apart and be reshapen into a wisdom and understanding that ever closer resembles that which he would have me to be. I would be overjoyed to be introduced to some music that would make the singing of Psalms more than an academic exercise while I concentrate so greatly on the words in order to blot out the musical offense being perpetrated upon my ears. That would be wonderful. But what kind of screwed up law would I have to place myself under to believe that such singing would actually govern the education of faith rather than simply compliment it?
Labels: education, music, pop-christianity
I couldn't remember exactly what either a dart or a hand looked like, but it was a long meeting so I doodled around until I got something that somewhat resembled my target image - a hand lazily holding a dart. Man, I miss playing cricket on Johnny's old electronic dartboard. That was the best.
The is a fashion tragedy afoot. One that has perpetrated itself for far too long. It's long past time to end this fell machination's long centuries of influence. For far too long has this source of evil made fools of pretty, average, and ugly women alike.
And no, I'm not talking about capris pants. They are evil to be sure. And completely unflattering on all women who aren't six years old. But no, capris pants are to be considered a lesser evil.
Our target today is absolutely hideous and shows no sign of ceasing its diabolical hold on the fashionistas of our culture. Yes, you've guessed it. I am talking about none other than...Dun-Dun-Duhnnnn!!!
I was talking to Wendy about this problem a few weeks ago and she was honestly surprised that I (being a straight man, despite self-perpetuated rumours to the contrary) would have even heard of the cut let alone be able to rant about it. But really, any guy who knows women and has even the slightest chance of being caught up in that wily vortex we call "Clothes Shopping" ought to be well aware of the empire waistline—if only to rescue his female acquaintances from wholly unflattering purchases.
For those who remain in the unawares, the empire waistline is a cut of dress in which the waistline of the dress or blouse gathers several inches above the natural waist of the woman (the natural waist is the narrowest part of the body that lies between the top of the hips and the lowermost ribs). Essentially, this puts the waistline of the dress just below the bustline. Generally, from there, the dress or blouse will flow freely down the woman's body.*
I first remember really taking notice of the fashion atrocity in the early-to-mid '90s while watching the numerous Jane Austin adaptations of the era (Emma, Persuasion, and Pride & Prejudice). I was astonished at how otherwise attractive young women were made to look the exact opposite. These were movie stars. Traditionally good looking people. And yet, they were kind of yucky-looking (in comparison to their usual selves). Then I started noticing the style in real life. What I had originally presumed were frumpy, unattractive women were really just nice-looking people blighted by a fashion travesty. And sitting in Strabucks as often as I do, I see it all the time now—especially on those girls who do the empire-waisted blouse/ peasant-top thing over jeans. *chills*
So here's the thing, kids. The empire waistline does one thing really well. It makes you look like you've got a massive beer gut. Well, that or that you're pregnant. Or maybe both. The really curious thing is that while I was looking for a suitable image for this post's masthead, I kept running across descriptions of the empire waistline as being flattering. This was entirely baffling to me. "Hello, Superman. Hello."
One description said the cut was flattering for small-busted women, as it draws more emphasis to the bustline. But you know what? You know where attention is drawn? Da gut. The belly. The tub. That mysterious something that's filling the ballooning space beneath the bust.
And the thing is: nobody wins. Skinny girls look knocked up. Average women women go from looking average to looking fat. And fat women just look like they're attempting to hide who they are, hoping that the rest of us will just presume that they are really average women who made the unfortunate choice to leave the house in a fat-sack dress (a.k.a. a dress cut to fit an empire waistline). I mean, maybe that's a sort of win. People won't think you're fat, just that you have poor taste. Personally, I'd rather be fat.
So come on everybody. Let's work through this together.
p.s. pregnant women, I know you've kind of drawn the short end of the fashion stick by nature of, well, Nature, so I'll understand if you need to wear peasant tops and stuff. You've got an excuse. The rest of you however...
*note: there are alternate empire hybrids created ostensibly by designers who recognize how ridiculous the empire is but feel bound by arcane pressures to design something for those who feel the dread call of the offending waistline. These are typically blends of empire waistlines with some sort of princess seam, with everything below the empire line down to the hips is fitted through the use of vertical seams or some other form-fitting trickery. You'll see this fairly often with empire prom dresses.
Labels: fashion, social issues
I meant to post this on Tuesday, when it would have been most appropriate, but I really needed to tell you to go see Paprika instead—so it's been pushed off 'til today. Show's you how screwed up my priorities are, right?
It was 5 June 1989. I was in the ninth grade and gearing up for a long and fruitful summer vacation (in Southern California, school lets out around the twentieth day of June). In preparation for the glorious two-and-a-half months to come, my mood and personality shifted from one of actively despising the institution of formal academics to one of complete and overwhelming apathy toward the whole endeavor. Concordant with this burgeoning attitude, it was easy to become overwhelmed by an exagerrated illness or two and miss a day of school.
And so I did.
I would have liked, obviously, to spend the day playing video games and watching cartoons. My plans were destined to be torn asunder. Fate is no kind mistress—despite rumours to the contrary posted almost legibly in the furtherest stall of the men's restroom next to the McDanoald's in Concourse B of the Denver International Airport.
A couple weeks earlier, my wrists had swollen to painful extremes. I was a ninth grader suffering from carpal tunnel due, primarily, to Pro Wrestling on the NES (Star Man! I choose you!). So video games were out. My only hope now was daytime television and to hold out until cartoons came on in the early afternoon. But alas.
Apparently some university students in China had bigger fish to fry and also apparently they outnumbered me some few hundred thousand to one. I know this because apparently one of their goals was to take over my television and pre-empt all my shows for the day. Honestly, I wished they would have just gone back to being good communists who we could fear paranoiacally in peace—all to the end that I would be able to watch som G.I. Joe later (or whatever sydicated cartoons were around when I was in ninth grade, maybe Silverhawks or something).
In any case, there was one star of this new program that had taken over every station on my set. May we have a round of applause for Tank Man?
I had no idea what Tienanmen Square was. I had no idea what was being protested. I knew all about Kent State, but I didn't know whether it was only American authorities who shot and killed protestors or if that was an international sort of pasttime. But they did have tanks and stuff so I figured it was business as usual. I had no idea what it was that the students wanted. I had no idea about anything really—save for one thing.
That guy who stood in front of the tank column as it inched down the Avenue of Eternal Peace was amazing.
There are rumours that he watched Network the night before and was all amped up and inspired by Peter Finch, but who knows what the real story is. In fact, nobody who knows anything about him for sure will talk. There have been reports that he was executed 14 days later. There are reports that he is still alive and hiding in the vast wasteland that is mainland China. There are reports that he was taken into custody immediately. And the official word from the PRC is that they think they never killed him. Whatever the case, I can hardly believe that in two years, it'll be the twentieth anniversary of that act.
When I was younger, I used to be sad that my parents had witnessed all these amazing things as members of their generation—all this stuff that I could only read about. But drop-jaw-amazing stuff happens all the time. TIME Magazine listed Tank Man as one of the 100 Most Influential People of the 20th Century (he made it into the section on leaders and revolutionaries); TIME claims, "almost certainly he was seen in his moment of self-transcendence by more people than ever laid eyes on Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein and James Joyce combined." The irony is that while he is known internationally on a level unheard of for someone who is otherwise, so far as world concerns go, a nobody, in his own nation, it is rare that someone under the age of twenty has ever heard of him. The PRC, it seems, has worked overtime to purge his influence from the cultural memory. Sad.
In any case... Tank Man: A winner is you! You inspire even me.
For more reading:
• Wikipedia entry on Tank Man
• Wikipedia entry on the Tienanmen Square protests
• 4-page entry on Tank Man for the TIME 100 list
Labels: history, social issues
Just before my vacation, Kalinara engaged my interest with a post discussing just what was offensive and sexist. Or at least that's what I turned the post into in my mind, because that's what her words got me thinking about. Because of my impending vacation, I didn't really get to explore the ideas that were slogging through the muck of my consciousness. So let's do that now. Keep in mind that this is not so much a response to K as it is a rumination inspired by her comments.
So K suggested that if something offends anyone, it is offensive. She also suggested that if anyone finds something sexist, it is sexist. At first, I wasn't so into this as it allows terminology that has strongly negative import to be applied to things that might not actually deserve such negativity. I brought up the tired old example of how David Howard didn't utter a racist sentiment by his use of niggardly, even though it was racist to those who possessed a limited vocabulary. But then I thought more about it and while I'm still unsatisfied, that lack of comfort comes more from the nature of adjectives than from K's application of them.
The problem with adjectives is that, largely, they are relativistic. Perspectival. They are comparative to a usually unstated standard. And it's the unstatement of the standard where things get tricky.
At 6'2", I am tall for my age. If the standard is the average height of the 33-year-old male population of Japan. If, however, you compare me to the average height of a 33-year-old male professional basketball player, I'm not actually tall at all. The adjective's accuracy is entirely dependent upon the standard by which we measure it.
Now there are numerous standards to keep track of at any given time. Personal standards. Cultural standards. Sub-cultural standards. Statistical standards. Religious standards. Particular standards. It can easily get confusing. And we grant differing weight to standards according to circumstance.
As an artist, when I create something for print publication and it needs to be blue, I rely less upon my experience of blue (my standard for blue, as it were), and more upon both industry standard and client standard. I also don't give much weight to your mother's standard of blue.
When speaking of religion, a man of Islamic faith will more greatly grant to the weight of an Islamic understanding of what is moral than he will to the Hindu understanding of the same. Even an adjective like Christian will be applied or not applied based upon differing standards. Some will say that Mormonism is Christian because according to their standard, Mormonism is Christian. Others, of course, will fight tooth and nail to refuse use of that particular adjective to the Mormon faith—instead offering an adjective like "cult." It's all dependent upon the standard for comparison.
And so it is, I think, with adjectives like offensive, sexist, and racist. If we do not define our standard, things get really tricky. Kalinara, fortunately, does define the standard to which she appeals, stating that something is offensive or sexist if a single person finds it to be so (she also claims, then, that something being offensive isn't necessarily a bad thing).
I'm mostly okay with how she's treating the terms here save for the fact that I don't think that this is the normal way in which we use the terms. I think that generally when we say something is offensive (without using further qualifiers), we are appealing to some standard beyond simply our own personal standard—or even another's personal standard. If I say that Hitler's ideology is offensive, I'm not just saying that I am offended by Hitler's ideology (unless I add to me to the statement: "Hitler's ideology is offensive to me"). I'm saying that his ideology offends some greater standard.
The problem is ambiguity. What greater standard am I referring to? Now Hitler's pretty easy as his ideology likely would be considered offensive by quite a few standards. But let's take Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. If some one said the movie was offensive, there are many less standards by which the film would be considered offensive. Offensive to Jews? Evidently. Offensive to some Christians? Sure. Offensive to people who wanted Jesus to speak in Greek? I guess. Offensive to the rabid materialists? It would almost have to be. Offensive to practicing Roman Catholics? Probably not so much.
A large number of people wouldn't find it offensive. Another group of people would. So was the film offensive? Depends on the standard. Dictionary standard? Well, yeah, because it caused offense to some. Cosmic standard? Probably not, as little offends the cosmic.
So when approaching a particular instance, say a work of art or a corporate graphic depiction, what do we want to mean when we describe it as sexist, racist, or offensive? What standard are we appealing to? What standard should we appeal to? I think that by arguing whether something is sexist or not, we are usually less arguing over the appropriateness of adjective itself, and more just arguing in favour of one measuring stick over another.
Obviously, I don't have an answer for this yet. But I think my dissatisfaction has done well to prompt me to consider the question.
If your local art house theater is showing Paprika this week, run, walk, hitchhike, bus, fly, dive, teleport, or spinkick your way down there before its gone and on its way to dvd. Really, do whatever you need to in order to see Satoshi Kon's new film on the big screen.
My vacation was well-timed in that I got back just in time to catch it in its West-coast opening week. And beside myself, I think there were maybe nine other people in the theater. I wasn't sure what to make of that. The university-aged person is probably the largest demographic for the film—as people in their twenties seem to harbour less unrealistic bias against animation as a viable storytelling device—so to see the UCI theater's showing a veritable was disheartening. It may be a light attendance because the semester's over and students have gone away, but the rest of the student plaza was pretty busy so I don't know if that was it. In any case, it stands that I don't expect the film to last for more than a week or two (ah, the shelf life of foreign films).
So yes. Go forth, find the movie, and see it. For it is the best thing out there right now.
The film is visual gluttony to an extent that I haven't seen anything quite as ocularly stimulating since 2001's Spirited Away. Paprika is trippy, exciting, intriguing, weird, and, well, a joy. I laughed out loud at its absurdities many times (which is all the more noticeable in an empty theater. Really, I can't recommend the film enough.
The film is based on a story by Yasutaka Tsutsui published in Japan's Marie Claire in 1991. The premise is pretty simple. Dr. Atsuko Chiba is one of two chief researchers pioneering a new kind of psychotherapy. They've developed a machine-apparatus, the DC Mini, that allows therapists to enter into the dreams of patients where they can view and record the deep subconscious motivators that inhibit the lives of their patients (kinda like The Cell but cooler). A number of prototype DC Minis are stolen and from that point things begin to go awry. Researchers begin going mad, having dreams insinuate themselves into the waking world. As the boundary between reality and unreality blurs, things get interesting.
I'm excited to see it again. Huzzah!
Note: for those interested, Satashi Kon's other films are currently available on dvd. I highly recommend both Tokyo Godfathers and Millennium Actress (both should be readily available from Netflix or Blockbuster). I even put up a review of Tokyo Godfathers last year. Kon's animation and storytelling sense defy a lot of the stereotype that often plagues the Japanese animation industry. He's like Hayao Miyazaki in that sense (though there is little commonality between the films of the two creators).
Also note: if you'd like to see a trailer, there's a representative one on the official US site that I linked to above.
Let me begin by exclaiming: Romantic Spanking Fiction?!?
Okay, so now that I've got that out of the system, I should let you know that somehow—through arts both arcane and implausible—I was directed to the most amazing website in the world. I couldn't believe my good fortune upon arriving at said site for it cured me for days of any potential blues that might have even threatened to overtake me. After all, who could feel bad or gloomy after finding that a site like Chirsitan Domestic Discipline dot Com exists.
I know I couldn't.
Boasting a plethora of material that is certain to enhance one's traditional marriage, you'd think that I wouldn't be particularly interested. And I thought the same after reading that description. But then I remembered the name of the site and knew there had to be something to it (marriage enhancements vs. domestic discipline initially sounded too disparate to be referring to the same thing). And that's when I noticed the banner that appears on every page of the site: Loving wife spanking in a Christian Marriage.
And while I'm certain there should be some sort of hyphenation in there (along with some capitalization help), I knew instinctively that I was on the trail to greatness. If only I would hang in there.
So hang in there, I did.
Christian Domestic Discipline dot Com is, in itself an amazing experience and I have yet to experience firsthand a single one of their products. The site, put together by a woman, is dedicated to corporal punishment of unsubmissive wives (and sexy pantaloons and healing herbal remedies). One of the chief products offered is a workbook by the site's founder on the matter of Consensual Christian Domestic Discipline. Let's listen in, shall we?
Some of the workbook's chapter headings are amusingly awkward and thrill the imagination. Especially helpful is the chapter on aftercare. Aftercare? Man, I got spanked a lot when I was a kid and I never once needed any sort of special care for the keister. Makes you wonder exactly what kind of knives are being used to spank these willful, strong-headed women? One of the last chapters is called, "Wife's Means of Voicing Opinions." I would imagine that the workbook doesn't suggest this be done through a duly-appointed attorney, so my curiosity is certainly piqued.
But speaking of aftercare, the site offers aftercare herbal remedies that make a good, sound thrashing seem almost worth seeking! "A satiny mixture of cooling aloe vera, conditioning glycerin, and healing arnica tincture, lightly scented with soothing cucumber mint, this breezy gel feels wonderful on your skin!" The instructions for the "Aftercare Cooling Gel," however, do include instructions that curdle my milk:
Non-intact skin? I guess that goes along with the idea of spanking with knives, but really—it's hard not to be aghast. It's additionally amusing that the instruction go in to specify that "this product makes no medical claims." You know, just in case you thought that they might offer something to stem the pain wrought by your well-earned and festering wounds. That would take all the fun out of beati-- er, disciplining one's wife.
But you know? I still haven't gotten to the real gem found in this virtual mine. Romantic spanking fiction.
It's true, I speak no lie. In her Books for Download section, Leah Kelley offers a couple non-fiction offering (presumably tutorial in nature, educating disciplinarians of, amongst other apropos topics, the best grip to use on one's hole-riddled paddle and/or flanged mace), but the real emphasis seems to center on novels, novellas, and short stories that work as tracts for Consensual Christian Domestic Discipline. These pedagogical devices are deemed "romantic spanking fiction" and seem to feature husbands with disobedient wives who then submit (willingly or not) to the rightful relationship between hand and heinie.
Here are some of my favourite book descriptions:
And a wonderful excerpt from Bringing up Jenny:
And a breath-taking piece of work from God's Design:
Nikki tried to get up, but he held her close to him. "Mason, how can you say that you're not going to hurt me? Spankings hurt!"
"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to spank you and there is a difference between the two. Your spanking will be on your bottom, which is one of the things God designed it for. Yes, it will hurt, but it will be temporary and hopefully prevent long-term hurt from coming to our relationship. Now, I am going to take down your panties and you are going to put yourself over my lap where I am going to give you a very sound spanking."
Nikki began to plead. "Please, Mason! Honey, I don't want a spanking."
"I know you don't, but I am a man of my word and whether you want to admit or not, we both know that you have needed this for quite awhile now."
Mason pulled Nikki to her feet and stood her in front of him. He began to reach under the hem of her black, knee-length skirt. His hands were sure and steady as he reached for the waistband of her panties. Frantically, Nikki began trying to push his hands away.
"Mason, pllllllleeeeaaassseee, don't pull them down. I don't want you to spank me. You can't!"
"Nicole! Listen to me. You ARE getting spanked and if you don't stop fighting me you will be feeling the back of that hairbrush on the table on your backside instead of my hand."
For the first time, Nikki noticed a large wooden hairbrush on the coffee table in front of them.
"Are you going to cooperate?" he asked gently.
And I'm barely scratching the surface here. This stuff is the work of diabolical genius. And fortunately, for both the squeamish and the fetishistic, each listed work features a warning, alerting potential readers of just how drastic the level of spanking is. Typical warning read: contains mild-to-moderate spanking; contains moderate spanking; contains severe spanking. You know, so you can find just the right level of corporal punishment you're comfortable with and see it modelled through thoroughly realistic dialogue and narrative. Or something.
I think the thing that really gets my goat is that these polemical tools are aimed squarely at a female audience. The goal is to convince women that they need a good spanking every so often to keep them on the straight and narrow. And as little as I appreciate the horrifying ideal that we should submit our women to regular disciplinary beatings, I'm even less enamoured with the unspoken idea that it's women who need to be convinced of this rather than men—as if the moment a wife comes around and says, "Honey, I'm convinced. You need to spank me when I'm bad," a husband will happily breathe a sigh of relief, pick up the strap of rawhide he's kept hidden in his sock drawn, and say, "Baby, you have no idea how long I've been hoping that you'd come around. Christ be praised!"
Blech. I hate what people do in the name of my faith.
Note: I have no idea what the title mentioning Alfalfa refers to now. I came up with the idea and the masthead a few weeks ago but didn't end up writing the post 'til this week and have just plain forgotten. Still, I like the title so I kept it. Cool points to the person who comes up with the best explanation for the title.
Labels: pop-christianity, social issues, terrorism, women
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