20090417.teaParty

Apparently Americans, grown obese on years of wealth and an absence of hardship, have a thing about attempting to compare their current situation with those of others throughout history whose circumstances don't mirror our own in, well, anyway whatsoever. While I worked diligently, earning money and supporting my family, other less industrious souls attended mild-mannered protests that they had the gall to compare to the Boston Tea Party.

Hey kids look: a history lesson!

The Boston Tea Party went down like this. American colonists, who were not being constitutionally represented, were being forced to pay a tax on delivered tea. They said: "Do not want tax or tea. Kay. Thanks. Bye." This worked in many of the colonial port cities, but in Boston, the British lackey governor said "Hey no way! You have to take this tea. Even if you don't buy it. And then Britain shall tax you!" So 7000 colonists met to figure out what to do and as usual, nothing got accomplished at the meeting, so angry people filtered out into the streets. Hours later, some of those angry people boarded the three boats carrying British tea and then they took that tea and destroyed it. And some of them were disguised as Native Americans because, you know, they thought they could fool the dumb British like that. And hey, if they took the tea, they'd be pirates, but since they dumped it overboard they're heroes. In any case, the British weren't happy and made a law that said the port was closed until the colonists paid for all the property they destroyed.

Why? Oh yeah, because these protesters were not throwing they're own property in the water. They destroyed British property. So how is that like the current situation? Oh yeah, it isn't. The entire world embarrasses me at like every turn.

I mean seriously. How are we supposed to look at these Tax Day Tea Party excursions and not be rendered helpless from the deep belly-laughs that overtake us? Can we cry out with any justice that we are being taxed without representation? Uhm, nope. Are we a distanced colonial franchise ruled by a government who cares little for our welfare? Not last anyone checked. And the protesters, did they destroy government property surreptitiously as mark of their protest? No, that was, uh, that was their own property.

Omigosh. These whiny, privileged adult children have officially taken a page from the riots that followed the Rodney King verdict and the Watts Riot, in which angry citizens destroyed their own communities and property. And yet, they don't even have the backbone to do any real damage to themselves. Maybe a dollar on tea bags? How...

*sigh*

How is anyone supposed to take this stuff seriously. It's hard to respect a people and their anger when that anger amounts to loitering and wasting money on a caffeinated beverage that will never be drunk.

Bonus, the incomparable John Oliver comparing British tyranny to Obama's so-called of the same.

20090413.amazinfail

One of the ways that cultural Christianity most often capsizes itself is its reaction to the world around it. We (if I may say we without necessarily implicating myself in our transgressions) have a historically reliable fear of that which is not us, of that which is—ironically like us—not quite pure as the driven snow. Our fear causes us to react badly. Our apprehension over the things and people of the world about us cause us to engage in a multi-variegated palette of poorly conceived behaviours.

From political propaganda founded on ill-informed dogma to outright hatred. From slippery-sloped doggerel to trenchant panic. From amateur paranoia to... professional paranoia. We, as a cultural Christianity, don't have a great track-record.

And that's just the last couple years. Never mind decades and centuries of reacting poorly to the world around us.

So then, what's this all about? It seems that as every week, this one features a whole new topic about which we might prove our success or failure. While apparently there had been various Amazon ranking shenanigans over the preceding months, things seemed to have stepped up a bit quite recently and over the weekend, the social networking hoo-hahs got ahold of the story. And there has been furor.

It seems that Amazon has gone out of their way to strip the sales rank of a particular sector of the literary product. Quoted as saying that it is Amazon's policy to remove adult-oriented books from their ranking system, Amazon has really only stripped books with GBLT themes. Apparently, books with non-graphic homosexual content are falling to the sales-ranking axe, while books with graphically sexual content catering to a heterosexual crowd are both Scot and Free (notably among others, Playboy books and American Psycho.

What being forfeited from the sales-ranking circuit means for a book is virtual invisibility. Not only do books show up at a lower rank in book searches, but it seems an added value is that the books do not show up at all in Amazon's sitewide search. For instance, when searching all of Amazon for Brokeback Mountain, the in-print paperback version is unseen. As if no such book exists. Only when one refines the search to troll only through the category Books does one find that the book does indeed exist. And as L.A. Times writer Carolyn Kellogg says, "As troubling as the unevenness of the policy of un-ranking and de-searching certain titles might be, it's a bit beside the point. It's the action itself that is troubling: making books harder to find, or keeping them off bestseller lists on the basis of their content can't be a good idea."

Now for our purposes here, I'm not super concerned with whether this particular sales-ranking methodology so far as what Amazon's going to do. It seems pretty clear and predictable that this operational philosophy, which has turned into a bit of a PR nightmare for them, will be abandoned forthwith. And while I worry about the mindsets of those Christians who may have cheered Amazon's effort here, my mind is already set on the potential calamity that Christians may bring upon their own heads when Amazon inevitably reverts its policy.

Christians have an uncanny ability to be rendered entirely unable to divorce the thing they believe to be sin from portrayals of that thing in fiction. If a film has a character reviling the church and mocking its practices, the film is anti-Christian. If a singer sings that she kissed a girl and that she rather enjoyed it, that singer is promoting homosexuality. If a book features a story in which a Christian behaves hypocritically, that book is a diatribe against the church. Add to this acute myopia a certain forgetfulness of what it means to live in a free country and we can almost expect a Conservative Christian outcry that Amazon is kowtowing to the godless.

Heck, we might even catch wind of a boycott or two.

The fact is, though: Amazon's precedent here is dangerous. Why is it that "making books harder to find, or keeping them off bestseller lists on the basis of their content can't be a good idea"? For this reason alone: when a society has the ability to censor a strain of thought based wholly upon its whim, its only a matter of time before its your idea or belief that is the target of censorship or ban. The thing is, it doesn't matter if I think that homosexuality or pedophilia or income tax evasion or naming your daughter George are unpardonable offenses. It doesn't even matter if I think they are the highest affront to the Almighty.

So long as we play at being a free society and a democracy, these are things that must be allowed. A privately owned business does have the liberty, I think, to makes discriminating choices, but when one is as powerful as Amazon, it is a liberty I do not think the company ought to take. And please let us not, as Christians, embarrass ourselves by encouraging them to take that liberty.

Unless we're going to be upfront about wishing to trade in our quote-unquote free society.

20080827

Ostensible parents. A warning to you all. Take special note you who favour the practice of naming all children with the same initiating letter.

Sometimes naming your children with like-initialed first names is not just in bad taste. Sometimes it is just bad.

The Monk and I know some very sweet girls whose names (Katherine, Kelly, and Karly) when taken alone are innocuous enough. And perhaps even winsome. It is only when taken as a threesome that the trouble begins. I will leave the discovery of the problem wholly to your own detective's skills. I also leave it to you to speculate whether the error was in fact an error—and not just some horrifying Freudian slip.

20080813

So California recently enacted a hands-free law for mobile phone usage while driving. The law prohibits the use of mobile phones while behind the wheel unless a driver utilizes an earpiece, allowing both hands to be on the wheel. The thing is, I'm not a fan of the law.

People are bad drivers. A good 70% (or more) of drivers are not competent enough behind the wheel to drive safely on a daily basis. Millions of people should not have licenses or at the least should have their driving confined to trafficless country roads, where things like merging and stop-and-go traffic occupy wholly the realms of myth and legend.

Now take one of these Not Quite Ready for Prime Time drivers and give them somebody to yak on the phone with. A poor driver is gloriously transformed into an abyssmal driver. Is this because he has a brick in his hand? Nope, it's because his concentration is now thoroughly divided between giving lip-service attention to the road and the far more intriguing discussion in his ear about so-and-so at the office or where to go to lunch or why he has to take off work early to pick up juniour from baseball.

Now remember. I drive a scooter. It's small while cars are big. As such is the case, I am hyper aware of my surroundings while tooling through the congested streets of South Orange County.

Before the hands-free law, I was given a very visible sign of the cars to which I ought pay special attention. When I can see through the car next to me or in front of me or even behind me that the driver has a hand by their face it's like they're a snake and they have a big, shaking rattle. "Hey, look at me! I'm driving like a moron because I'm on the phone! And even if I seem to be okay for the moment, it's only a matter of time before I accidentally start driving by braille."

Now? I have no such warning. Cars will just make strange mistakes with no warning. And it's not 'til I turn to glare and the driver that I notice them paying no attention, chattering away to invisible companions. Joy.

Thanks a lot State of California. Thanks a whole heckuvalot.

20071224

Having the Monk around helps me to not send messages that I would normally send. I was all set to send off the following, castigating a reckless friend of ours, but she stopped me from doing something that would probably wound too deeply a sensitive soul. So instead, I'm sending the diverted missage to you, dear sweet interthing.

Dear _______. You lose at driving. We recommend either putting your make-up on before driving to church OR keeping the liquor for special times at home by the fire. Following these rules will keep you in your lane and out of ours. Cheers.

20071220

It is amongst my deep and abiding hopes that someday soon archaeologists will uncover the lost secret to wearing footwear without socks. Because socks, in the final analysis, just look stupid.* Especially in shorts. What we need is a none disgusting way to wear shoes that doesn't involve unsightly socks. So I say, "Goooo archaeologists!"

*caveat: girls can look incredibly cute in a nerd-chic sort of way with colourful, designed socks** that cover the bulk of the calf.

**a.k.a.: argyle socks or multi-toned stripe-ed socks.

20071112

If you could ride around on any animal as your noble steed, what you choose? See below for my choice.

20070924

Nerds are known for their obsessions. For their meticulous attention toward trivia that the average participant in life couldn't be bothered with. Nerds may know what a saving throw is. Nerds may know that Orson Welles's last film roll was as Unicron in Transformers: The Movie. Nerds may know that Spider-Man fell in love with many girls before Mary-Jane Watson (among them Liz Allen, Betty Brant, and Gwen Stacy). And nerds might think that these things are not trivia but general knowledge. The thing is: nerds are obsessed with information that nobody cares about.

And now, I've discovered the nerdiest of the nerds: Fantasy sports league managers.

There are, you must trust me on this, people who take players from various teams, pretend they are all on the same team, track their stats from their real teams and follow some byzantine track to determine how good this fabricated team is. I know, huh.

I know you're even now doubting me right now that such people truly exist. As if rabidly following sports teams scores and their players stats was not already the high province of geeks and nerds, we discover this hyper-actualization of the trend. It seems to defy both reason and imagination but, believe me, it's true. Such übernerds indeed roam the plains of this earth and the Magna Carta of their community is the Fantasy Sports League. I have seen it firsthand.

Two recent hires in my office confer several times a day to either gloat or commiserate, discussing at some length their plans for trades and evaluating the performance of other players in their, quote-unquote, league. I find it baffling that they speak so brazenly, as if completely unaware of how deeply peculiar they are. But then, nerds have never had the most acute sense of their social surroundings. Perhaps they presume that they are taken part in a national interest--nay, ritual!

Or perhaps they do not care, scoffing under their breath at we lesser beings who know nothing of [here is where I would place names and jargon and vocabulary intimate to one of these fantasy leagues if I had even the slightest hope of parsing their arcane dialects].

Whatever the case, we should be aware, for there is mischief and chaos in their eyes.

20070918

One of my favourite novels of all time is Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. In one of the early chapters, the doomed narrator introduces the reader to one of my favourite ideas in the novel. He introduces us to the term granfalloon.

A granfalloon, in the theology of Vonnegut's little world, is a kind of imagined social connection between people - one that is not based on any real connection, but instead finds it whole root and nourishment in a link that is totally fabricated in the minds of its members. Examples of granfalloonery would be that kind of social endearment one feels for other alumni of an educational institute (oh? you went to Stanford too? how wonderful!). Or sports team fanaticism (go Lakers!). Or name brand boosters (xBox is for losers, Play Station is where it's at!). Or even most religions. Or the fact of nationalities; is there really anything more arbitrary than national citizenship? Well yes, there is.

Ethnic solidarity is even further abstracted from real social connection than something as ridiculous as National Identity. Ethnic solidarity may, for intents and purposes universal, be considered the Granfalloon of granfalloons. But enough about granfalloons, let's talk product.

There are a great number of benefits to granfalloonery. It's great for those whose lives are filled with inadequate society. Those with disabled social interests - those with a paucity of real friendships (those relationships built on love, trust, and mutual admiration) and with dysfunctional familial connections are ripe for granfalloonery. Such individuals take to ideas of institutional, national, and ethnic pride more more readily and fully than those with real social connections.

Granfalloons offer the illusion of society. Granfalloons offer comfort in a world of strangers. Granfalloons offer pragmatic systems of support, allowing individualists to fallback on their imagined societies for support, and members of their granfalloons will often provide that support simply because they too believe in the existence of the social mirage in which they play part.

There are, however, deficits to taking part in granfalloonery. Among the chief of these is imagined responsibility for the activities of other members of the fabricated society. I ran across this yesterday when reading about the tremendous and ancient earthen works of Poverty Point in Louisiana. In response to the note that most Americans are unaware of such archaeological treasures in their own country, a typical voice was raised:

Wouldn't want us dwelling on the fact that we stole this land, would we?

Despite the fact that it was a pretty familiar outcry, I was struck by something in its phrasing. The author did not lay blame for the tragedy of American expansionism at the feet of the leaders of the American 19th century. Instead, he took it upon himself and, as well, layed that blame upon the shoulders of all Americans (well, presumably upon those Americans of European descent). He said the WE stole the land. Not they. We.

So deeply does he identify with the granfalloon of White America, that he feels the need to take responsibility for actions to which he is not remotely connected. And these aren't even current events. He's taking responsibility for actions his granfalloon perpetrated two hundred years ago. He is ashamed of himself. And more, he must be ashamed of himself because he has chosen to identify himself with a particular imagined society and that imagined society (or at least a few of its imagined representatives) has done a bad thing.

It is this reliance on and security from fabricated social connections that prompts people today to apologize for slavery in the 1800s and for the Crusades in the whatever-00s. It's why forty-year-old Germans today feel Holocaust-guilt.

So people should really just cut it out already. The end.

20070816

[[ WARNING: Hey there. Watch out. This post contains the kind of graphic (literally) violence, gore, and bloodshed that only a well-adjusted, action-loving, horror-movie-watching fifteen year old can produce. Consider yourself warned. ]]

Okay, so here's the thing. If my daily behaviour as a youth in America's high schools appears in any child these days, that child will likely be expelled. And the thing? That thing I mentioned when I said, "Here's the thing"? The thing is: I was a good kid.

What was the problem then? I liked to draw. What? Surely that is not enough to merit expulsion. True enough. There is a caveat. I liked to draw what kids my age and of a typical disposition might like to draw if they had the ability. Okay, well, no. I didn't draw boobs. Because, well, I figured that would a) get me in trouble, and b) give me the title and distinction of Class Perv (something that, astonishingly enough, was not a distinction I cared to cultivate). What I did draw (as alluded to in the last post) were gunfights and scenes of mayhem.

The plain fact of the matter is that everyday and in every class (save for P.E., alas), I, in my authority as the artist, killed by the fistful. I was lord over a domain of death. Not only did I engage my doodles in simple firefights, but I subjected my creations to beheadings, impalements, internal combustion, acids, and, well, squirshings. Among other fates. This was partly because I found that drawing things I would hopefully never see was adventurous and partly because my classmates egged me on, cheering the imaginative ways in which I brought to a close the lives of two dimensional persons.

There was nothing wrong with me. I was a quiet, well-adjusted kid who was both good-natured and friendly (if a bit shy). I mean, sure I occasionally wore a bathrobe to school and sometimes wore all flannel because I knew how atrocious a decision that would be. Still, I grasped full-well that the drawings I created bore no import in the world of flesh and of blood. They were not worlds in which I immersed myself in order to escape from the tortures of a world that was too cruel to me (i.e., the real world*). I did not harbour secret desires to slaughter the jocks, make the cheerleaders pray to me before I drown them in a hail of gunfire, hog-tie the rich kids in overtly homo-erotic poses in order to shame them forever. There wasn't really anyone at school I didn't like.

Well, maybe the fat kid. I was, after all, still a kid.

For some reason, though, nowadays teachers and principles and authorities have been taught that violent games or stories or drawings are a critical first sign that a kid is gonna go wrong. That he is gonna take the Harris/Klebold route to fame and a messy exit. I'm not sure I know what happens to us. When do we cross the line from kids to reactionary adults who just really don't at all remember what it was like. Does this happen when we become parents? Is that when we stop remembering that kids aren't completely stupid (even if they act like it), that they can handle the things in the dark as well or sometimes better than we can?

I don't know why that is, but here is my evidence to you. I am a variously hard-worker in a respectable profession. I treat people who are different from me with respect (except for when I'm poking fun at them). I love my family. I love my friends. I work for a non-profit organization. I volunteer to work with children. I read books. I even sometimes understand them. I sing songs in the shower. I want a dog (maybe a Welsh Corgi). I drive an environmentally friendly vehicle. I don't like poetry. I think I'd make a good father. I've only been in one fight (juniour high and it was a wrestling fight not a fist fight). I'm patient and easy-going. I'm not violent (though I play at it when frisky). I would never join the military by choice. And these are a small sampling of the stuff I would draw daily in Math, English, and History (and of course, you may click on the below images to see the whole thing):

IBM presents: You Make the Call! What's the verdict? Should I be locked up as a potential killer? Was I only a step away from massacring untold tens of students and a teacher or three? Personally, I am far beyond dubious that such would be the case.

*NOTE: though not the MTV version - which hadn't come out yet - I full-well support those who create imaginary worlds in order to escape "reality" television.

20070723

So I've got a question. A few days ago, I posted that thing responding to an article about how Diesel's advertising campaign was damaging the counter-hegemonic resistance by convincing potential resistors to simply look the look without either talking the talk or walking the walk. As I elucidated, I had problems with the article's conclusions.

Still, it made me think and that's good. And so I wondered at how advertising affects me, personally. Whether a Diesel-like advertisement, something slick and witty and cynical, could draw me to prefer a brand over another. And so, I've got a question.

Do you find that you are yourself influenced by advertising? And how so or why not?

For my own personal answer to the question, I'll say that I am not largely affected by advertising. Now, to be sure, I will certainly purchase things I see advertised, but generally they are the kinds of things that I already have desire for but just did not know the product was available.* Like when I see that Brian K. Vaughan is releasing a new series or that Valve is releasing a new episode of Half-Life content. But then, it doesn't even need to be any sort of flashy ad or anything for stuff like that to sell me. Just seeing the words "RockStar is planning to release GTA IV" is enough to sell me on the upcoming game. I "fall" to advertising that hocks what I would buy anyway; so I don't really consider that a loss.

The other way advertising affects me is that it alerts me to new products that will be made available to my discerning mind. This, in itself, can never sell me on a product. It can, however, induce me to research a product. When I heard someone mention BioShock, I thought, Great. Another mediocre games that everyone's getting crazy excited about. Still, there was enough buzz that I thought I'd check it out for myself. I watched demos, production trailers, read about the game—and only after all that does it seem like a game I wouldn't mind purchasing. It was the same with World of Warcraft. I saw an ad and heard some hype. I wasn't interested in purchasing but was intrigued enough to check it out. Videos, reviews, analyses. A lot of stuff went into my decision to purchase a game that initially sounded utterly unappetizing. So, while the advertisement did have some influence (i.e., it alerted me to the product's existence), it certainly didn't sell me on the product.

Advertising, I guess, just rings hollow for me. I don't purchase image. I don't buy into what is being sold. Even though I can really appreciate the work and ingenuity that goes into many advertising campaigns, my appreciation of irony or cynicism or wit doesn't make a repped company's product any more enticing to me. I might buy Diesel's jeans if their models look comfortable in the clothes and when I see them in the store the clothes still look comfortable. And if I appreciate the aesthetic vibe I get from the clothing (this is only image in the mundane sense, not the identity sense). At best, traditional advertising can alert me to something for further inspection. At worst, it can make a product look entirely unappetizing.

Funny that. Advertising can't win me over but it can alienate me.

I will say this, however, there is a kind of advertising that when properly achieved, swims so seamlessly into the conscious mind that it cannot be detected or reacted against. Recently, they've called it viral marketing (probably when its a direct and definable operation by a campaign), but in reality, it's just word of mouth. In this way, I may actually be more affected by advertising than I think. For instance, if a number of people are sucked into a product via advertising, then it's entirely likely that they will talk about the product with friends and acquaintances. The more people are talking favourably about a product, the more likely it is that the person non plussed by the advertising will actually be willing to give the product a shot. While I can't note any purchases that I have recently made that could have been introduced through a concerted effort by companies to virally market, I can point to at least one example by which a specific product became known to me as the one I wanted (almost wholly upon reputation of the product as conveyed by others).

My Vespa. This was the biggest purchase I'd made in recent years. Nearing six thousand dollars. And while I'm pretty happy with the purchase, it's rather curious why I didn't research other company's scooters at the time of purchase. I wanted a Vespa, plain and simple. Someone told me I could get a Honda for a couple thousand less and I simply responded with, "That's okay. I want an Italian job." Why exactly was that?

If I look back, my (along with many Americans') first experience of the Italian motorscooter involved Gregory Peck as he raced around in Roman Holiday. For some, that was enough (just like the explosion of Mini Coopers in recent years rests solely on the shoulders of The Bourne Identity and The Italian Job). For me, it was merely one among many sparks. Then there was a good friend a few years back who was dying for a Vespa. I think her interest was infectious. And I really can't guess what influenced her, though I'd hazard that the slick European image the vehicle conveys wouldn't be wholly excluded from the formula. One more seed. After that, I started seeing them zipping around my beach community. They looked fun and convenient. One more step. Then I read the works of Chynna Clugston, Blue Monday and Scooter Girl and I was sold (even though in Scooter Girl, one of the top bikes was a Lambretta, not a Vespa... I had mistakenly imagined that Lambretta was just a model of Vespa).

A few months later, my car blew up (nearly blew up for reals. I am lucky to not be crisped) and I was in the market for new transportation. So I did research. I read all about Vespas and their gas mileage, power, and reliability. I went down to the showroom a few times. I checked forums and websites. I read up on the history of the company. I made an informed choice. And yet...

I still hadn't checked into any other brand of motorscooter. For some reason, in my head, there was only one worthy brand—if scooters were worthy at all (and they are!). The Wasp. The Vespa. The Italian lines and style. It had to be the Excalibur grey LX150 that I drive to work every day. And while I can't attribute that purchase to traditional advertising in any immediate sense (as I've never actually seen a Vespa advertisement), word of mouth and a general cultural aura about the thing** infiltrated me and opened my wallet.

So then, how 'bout you? What kind of advertising works on you?

*NOTE: An interesting subject for discussion some day would be the validity of my saying that I desire things of which I am unaware.

**NOTE: It's fascinating how often I get comments along the lines of "Oh wow! Is that a Vespa? I've wanted one of those since I was a teenager!" and "Man, those are among the coolest looking things on the road today." I have to admit that while I don't know what kind of image (identity) a Vespa betrays, I do admit to enjoying the feeling of riding around on one.

20070719

Johnny T, in his infinite graciousness, has provide to both The Kilted One and I an article worthy of both consideration and discussion. It boasts an interesting premise, a broaching analysis of big business's interest in propping up the hegemony through its various advertising campaigns. This one, specifically, deals with Generation X—a generation whose boundary I just chin-hairingly squeak into. If at all.*

The name of the article (or chapter in a book, really, was "The Diesel Jeans and Workwear Advertising Campaign and the Commodification of Resistance." It was penned by the ever-dapper Daniel R. Nicholson.

Nicholson uses his allotted space to rail against big advertising for its part in supporting the hegemony by pretending to support the resistance, thereby drawing resistors from the ranks of the truly resistant and into the hegemonic fold. He does this by analyzing Diesel's entertainingly sly marketing campaign in the early '90s that went by the nomenclature, Successful Living (though I guess that particular identity transferred to the brand generally). Nicholson supports counter-hegemony activism and believes that by marketing the so-called lifestyle of such activism, Diesel is in fact actively stripping (or actively stripped since this was written in the early '90s) Generation X of their lives of resistance by simply replacing life with a lifestyle.

What the Hegemony Is It?
It may be worthwhile here to describe, define, or otherwise elucidate on the term hegemony.

It's not a terminology I use often. Or really, ever. Essentially though, hegemony is a form of consensual control. Police states use the threat of force or violence to keep the populous under control; hegemonies on the other hand, are according to Nicholson "a sort of society-wide agreement which attempts to maintain a social order among the various members of society." Part of Nicholson's problem with hegemonies is that despite any influx of good will on the part of the participants, a society itself will continue to oppress certain members of the society. These victims are subordinated by various and almost discernible uses of power by the dominant group of victimizers.

The creation and disbursement of pop-culture, says Nicholson, is one of the many forms that the power of the dominant group influences the subordinate. "Hegemony occurs when the subordinate group acquiesces and accepts the 'reality' produced and then maintained by a dominant group." And so, Nicholson supports counter-hegemony.

Counter-hegemony, then, focus on personal and continued enlightenment and, once enlightened, action based upon the truths learned. Counter-hegemony is based wholly on the discontent that full-comprehension ideally must engender. Nicholson relies on the theory that analysis of pop-culture is itself counter-hegemonic and will result in both discontentment and the resultant action.

While I think there's some bits of the view worthy of critique (not the least of which is the elitism and appeal to a popularity upon which Nicholson relies**), I'm not really going to be talking about that today. Instead I'd like to focus on Nicholson's points that a) Diesel is commodifying resistance and b) this is a danger to the resistance.

Commodifying the Resistance?
To the first point, Nicholson does well with his analysis of several magazine advertisements in which Diesel vies for the disinterested interest of the cynical, hopeful Generation X. I found his perspective fascinating and think he did a great job pointing out exactly what Diesel was trying to do: sell the Generation X lifestyle to twenty-somethings.

In the early '90s it was discovered that twenty-somethings, those in the generation called X, seemed jaded and rather immune to the advertising formulae that worked well in the Cosby decade, the boisterous big-hair and yuppie-driven '80s. After growing up with commercial after commercial fraught with promises that could not be delivered, my generation grew to resent marketing and saw through the lie of most of it. At least on the surface of it anyway.

So advertising changed. It became more obscure. More self-deprecating. Harder to understand. Not that there hadn't been this kind of advertising all along, but it seemed to take on a renewed vigour in the face of a cynical market - exactly the kind of disillusioned consumers to whom such advertising flourishes. Gen-Xers supposedly found joy and accomplishment from deconstructing smart ads. That joy transformed into interest in a company that cared enough about them to market directly at their obscure, self-referential, and devastatingly witty needs. Or something like that.

And so advertisers duped Generation X into becoming consumers and supporting the hegemony just like advertisers tricked their parents and uncles into doing the same. Only this time they did it by preying upon the very thing that could set them apart from prior generations: their discontent and resistance to a society that wronged them. Nicholson pins this on advertisers like Diesel, who capitalize on the desire to be resistant.

The thing is, I don't think advertisers like Diesel are to blame for the commodification of Generation X.

Nicholson laments here, that because these kids weren't savvy enough, they were getting swindled by a fashion industry into believing that just looking the part would be enough. The thing is, it wasn't Diesel who commodified the resistance. Diesel only capitalized on the existing commodification. The commodification began the moment someone gave the generation a name.

It was the coinage of the term that was the culprit. The moment someone first said that Generation X was _______, then suddenly there was this identity to live up to. What? I'm supposed to be apathetic, disillusioned, cynical, wry? Well, I better get crackin' then! Generation X is what's cool, so I better look and play and smell the part. Goodbye mascara and hairspray! Hello bedhead! Goodbye vinyl! Hello flannel! Gotta look the part, gotta play the part. I don't know what ennui means, but I can learn, I can adapt.

The identity was not commodified by Diesel Jeans or any other advertiser. They merely noted the ongoing commodification and marketed toward those who would be attracted to such commodification.

Danger to No One Worth Saving
Those who revelled in the identity, those who even cared about the identity, were never Generation X (in its most proper form). They were hangers-on. Wannabes. They are the people who would shop a Hot Topic today in order to be so very punk, so very scene. And if there's one thing cooler than being cooler, it's eschewing coolness at every opportunity and relishing in one's outcast status. There is no one so ineffably hip than the person who is hated by the society for which he toils.***

Part of Nicholson's definition for Generation X is that they really and truly do not care. That person is not in any way going to be affected by the Diesel campaign. And if they do buy Diesel Jeans it won't be because they want to look the part.

Nicholson worries that by selling a resistance-lifestyle, Diesel is robbing people from truly living as a resistant and prompting them to think looking the part is okay. The thing is, none of those who care about looking the part were ever a part of the resistance anyway. They might occasionally play the part of the noble counter-hegemonic influence, but really? They're probably just doing it to get chicks. And I assure you, Daniel R. Nicholson, losing the wannabe to Value Commodification is no loss to your cause. If anything, Diesel is doing you a favour by giving the opposition Team Colours.

And really, this is besides the point anyway. As Nicholson points out, the true players for Generation X are not players at all. They don't care. They are apathetic. They've lost interest in politics, business, society. They are experiencing, as Nicholson says, weltschmerz: which is a "mental depression and apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state." So in the end, who cares if Diesel is sucking Genexers into its tractor beam of capitalism and hegemony? It's not like they cared enough to be the resistance anyway. Resistance entails hope and apathy is the enemy of hope.

Still though, I liked his analysis of the ads themselves. It was fun, in a Gen X sort of way.

*note: The early '70s seems to be the best estimated cut-off time for whatever we term Generation X, though some will place the cut-off as late as 1976. Later estimates (say... 1985?) seem to have one common failing: the proposed Genexers would only have been under twelve ('85ers would have been six) when the term came into vogue, describing a generation that was currently experiencing a deep ennui and generational cynicism resulting from the big lie of the '80s. These were supposedly twenty-somethings who found they didn't fit into the place the world had prepared for them. Twelve year-olds can't claim that particular conceit.

**note: At one point, Nicholson states the "the truly media literate will recognize that the advertisers of [the Diesel Jeans] campaign have appropriated the resistant, anti-establishment attitudes of Generation X and commodified them for the purpose of selling resistant, anti-establishment identities in order to make money for Diesel." So either you're "truly media literate" or you disagree with Nicholson and relegate yourself to the scrap pile of the media illiterate. Joy.

***note: The key to discerning the truly put-upon from the lookitmeI'msodowntrodden is that the truly put-upon is happy to be shown that things aren't as bad as all that while the wannabe relies so heavily on the idea that he is discontent that any and every effort to lighten or remove the cloud of ultra-hip despair that perches in a distinguished other-worldly hover above his head must and will be forcefully rebuffed. The wannabe is immune to reason for fear of the horrible possibility of removing his resistance-identity and replacing it with something slightly less discomforted and acquiescing (and therefore, less cool).

The Empire Strikes Back (mostly against good fashion sense)

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!!!

The Empire Waistline

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.

Tank Man: a winner is you

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

More Christian than Alfalfa

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?

Just as a parent would never stop to ask permission to chastise his child, a husband should not have to obtain consent to discipline his wife; however, our legal system has put him in the position of having to do so. Just as our culture is turned upside down in so many other things, the traditional Christian marriage is no exception.

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:

FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY. DO NOT USE ON BROKEN OR NON-INTACT SKIN. DISCONTINUE USE IF REDNESS OR IRRITATION OCCURS

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:

The Arrangement: A harried head of household learns that if he's to have peace in his home, he must discipline not only his wife but his widowed mother-in-law as well.

The Check: Clay left work early to surprise his wife with a nice evening out, but when he discovers an unusual piece of mail he may have to surprise her with a spanking instead.

To Train Up a Wife: Jason is tired of living in filth and eating fast food while his wife spends all her time volunteering at the church. When he accidentally witnesses his neighbor's method of training a wife, will he learn the secret of marital bliss?

And a wonderful excerpt from Bringing up Jenny:

Jenny's breath quickened, her eyes fastened to the strap. At least two feet long, it looked to be made of heavy rawhide. A quick glance around her showed she wasn't the only student imagining that strap wrapped painfully around their bottom. The room was almost ominously quiet as twenty-three pairs of somber adolescent eyes now faced the front.

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.

Just Love Me. Please?

So I have this dilemma thing. Over the past year or two, I've paid an increased attention to the complaints against the fairly-plain, sexist nature of comic book fiction. Things in the realm of comics (and especially in the genres of superhero fiction and many of the genres native to Japanese manga) are a bit antique. Every month, there seems to be a fresh target upon which to vent one's righteous indignation against the indignities disproportionately bestowed upon the female character. There are entire sites devoted to women's issues in comics (with most that I've seen focusing on the ins and outs of the American mainstream affairs). The main point, however, is that things are not great.

Which puts many female comic readers on edge, looking out for these breaches of egalitarian principle.

Which is where my dilemma comes in. The graphic novel on which I've been working since November features a female as the lead. I think she's a pretty good character and engaging. Strong in some areas, greatly flawed in others. Kinda like real people. Or so I intend.

The problem is that in delving into this feminist subculture of the comics subculture, I get the feeling that no matter what I write, I can't win. Along with all the good critique I've read, I've also been pretty taken aback at some of the grossly inadequate critique out there. For every feminist out there who's giving things a fair evaluation, there are those who operate on assumption rather than evidence—tarring, feathering, and dismissing with a description that becomes so common that it begins to lose all strength: misogyny.

What worries me is not the reasonable critics. It's the ones who don't need to be reasonable. One of the dangers in taking on the identity of a critic is that one tends to feel the need to find error so deeply that one is not satisfied if error is not found. I see this all the time with burgeoning young proofreaders and editors (yes, part of my skillset is that of a master editor!*). After a few weeks of proofreading and editing, they become so anxious to find mistakes that they begin seeing them everywhere. Even things that are not mistakes. When they become especially attached to their role, it often takes some fierce discussion to convince them that they are not seeing what they imagine they are seeing. I'm gathering that a portion of the feminist (note: not female) comic-blogging atmosphere is suffering from such a malady.

For every honest appraisal of sexism in comics, we're getting hit with over-reactions and presumptions. Or maybe that ratio's off. Maybe it's 3 reactions :: 1 overreaction? Or 1 reaction :: 2 overreactions? Or 10 reactions :: 3 overreactions? I don't know. What I do know is that its dangerous to put out a book in this kind of environment.

What I mean when I say "this kind of environment" is a charged environment. Feminist momentum in the realm of comics-blogging is picking up. And as that momentum picks up, the sightings of Jesus in a tortilla will be picking up as well. Things that deserve ire will garner it—but what about the innocent stuff that gets caught in the sweep?

I'm essentially the poster-child for American privilege. I'm white, male, Protestant, blond-haired, blue-eyed, not fat, and I grew up in Laguna Beach. The only count in my favour is that I didn't grow up rich (as my father was an artist—and not one of the $2500-per-work kinds either). I've got all the marks against me that screams: "How can you write a ____ character? You don't know what it's like to be me! You've never endured the struggle or prejudice that I have!" And it's true. My struggles have nothing to do with speaking English as a second language, being discriminated against because of the colour of my skin, being dismissed because I don't have a Y chromosome, or being hated/feared because my sexuality deviates from norm.

All the same, I like stories—and think I have one worth telling. One about a woman.

After having written it, I'm worried that I will be perceived as misogynistic Not by the reasonable—I have no fear of my acquittal on their part. But it's the ones looking for trouble that worry me. One of the things that makes the reception of a creative work such a dicey proposition is that I see some feminists praising a specific instance in a book while other feminists revile the same instance. And both groups cite their feminism as the basis for their decision to praise or revile.

Colour me baffled.

Really, it shouldn't surprise me, as people constantly cite ideology as the fuel for their evaluations. I knew people who voted for Bush because they were Christians and couldn't, in good conscience, vote any other way. I knew people who would not vote for Bush because they were Christians and couldn't, in good conscience, support his presidency. I know I shouldn't fear this dynamic, but ideologies are powerful (and often unpredictable) things. And this book is dear to me and I don't want to see it sacrificed to thoughtlessness.

I count myself fortunate that I'm just in the first year of a four-year project and that the climate may have been entirely mellowed and resolved by the time I'm ready to present my story. But if its the same? Or worse? How can a creator win?

I don't believe there is anything in my book that should offend readers to the point that the story is tainted. I do believe that some will be offended and the story ruined for them. I did my best to craft not just a believable woman (which would be inadequate) but to craft a believable person. Bad things happen and she doesn't come out completely rosey. I think a good feminist/humanist/what-have-you could read my story and be satisfied that I did a good job with what she's looking for. I guess the current climate just worries me is all.

---

*note: don't take my blog writing as evidence that I'm a bad proofer, everything on this site is first drafted and though it could use a good proofing, I'll save that for my serious writing.

---

Some resources discussing women in comics:

When Fangirls Attack - hand-edited aggregation of articles on women in comics

Pretty, Fizzy Paradise - posts on comics by Kalinara

The Beat - sociology-tagged posts from The Beat

Comics Worth Reading - Johanna Draper Carlson reviews comics

Written Worlds - posts on comics by Ragnell

Girls Read Comics (And They're Pissed - Karen Healy is angry

and...

Some of my own musings on related matters

Wincing at What?

A typical response one may hear (and by this, I mean I do hear) to the concept of attending a film that contains less wholesome aspects is that one shouldn't take enjoyment from evil. This kind of expression might be found in conversation like:

"So, The Dane, what's your favourite movie of all time?"

"Well, it's pretty much a toss up between Snow Falling on Cedars and Fight Club - with Seven Samurai trailing in a close third."

"Oh really? They're that good, huh? Maybe I'll have to check them out. What are they rated?"

"Hm. Well, both Fight Club and Snow Falling on Cedars are rated R. And Seven Samurai predates the MPAA and is Japanese, so it's not rated."

"Hm. Rated R, huh? For what?"

"Well, Fight Club is pretty violent and there's quite a bit of foul language, and..."

"What about the sex? Nudity?"

"Well, Fight Club has a pretty surreal sex scene and nudity. And Snow Falling on Cedars doesn't have any nudity but there's a pretty steamy love scene in there. I wouldn't want to watch it with my mom*, if you know what I mean."

"And those are your favourites? I don't know, I just don't think that we should be entertained by sin."

And yes, I have actually had some form of that conversation many several times with many several people. And it always baffles me. I never understand it.See, the thing of it is this:

One doesn't have to approve of every motive, action, or event in a film to find it worthwhile anymore than one has to approve of every motive, action, or event in the Bible to find it worthwhile.

It is not a just criticism to declare that I find the reading of Scripture repugnant because it contains salacious passages like Ezekiel 16:25 ("At the head of every street you built your lofty place and made your beauty an abomination, spreading your legs to any passerby and multiplying your whoring"). It would be like asking in astonishment after someone proclaims that they love the Word of God: "What?! You love whoring?"

Simply put, the presence of sin in something one enjoys does not mean that it is the sin that one enjoys.

Another old stand-by is the admonition: "I just think that we should dwell on whatever is true and noble and just and lovely and of good report."

Again, if this is to be used as broadly as one might use it, we rule out the reading of Scripture, for Scripture is filled, stem to stern, with all manner of things that are neither true nor just nor lovely nor of good report. And yet, we declare the Bible good - even as it declares itself to be good.

The crux, then, is not in the presence of fouls thing in the make-up of the which we find worthwhile. It is elsewhere. It is, perhaps, in the reading of the thing. In the individual's reaction to the thing. As an adult, I could watch Schindler's List and be properly overwhelmed by the horror and folly of mankind. As a seventh grader, I most certainly would have been thinking: Bοοbs!

The fact of the matter is that in either Fight Club or Snow Falling on Cedars, there are parts and pieces that - if one were to cull out and focus all of one's attentions and enjoyment upon - would be considered unhealthy. That is why we rate these movies with an R rating. It is our way of saying not that the movies are bad, but that we are warning off those with immature sensibilities. It is our way of saying: "Look. This movies contains material that you, as the childish (in mind or faith or motive), will not be able to properly appreciate. Come back when you're older."

And really, if you're an adult, processing things in an immature fashion, please hope for better for yourself. If you walk into a movie like 300 or Black Snake Moan or Cinema Paradiso and you are titillated as my seventh-grade self would have been, that is really just sad. I'm not saying that you should go out and subject yourself to a deluge of stuff that you have a certain weakness for; I am saying that you do have a weakness and should seriously consider why you have this weakness and how to overcome it.

*note: Yes. I did indeed watch Snow Falling on Cedars with my mom. But it wasn't as uncomfortable as you might think. At least not for me.

The Mole vs. the Gay Baby

Yesterday, Tom posted a link to an article on Al Mohler's recent comments regarding homosexuality and genetics. The day before, I was browsing through comments on the subject by Metafilter's muddle-headed user base (it was great cause for mirth, reading their descriptions of what Al was saying and why he was a hypocrite). Amusing stuff, really.

I'm always fascinated by the things that will anger people. Mohler's stance here is surprisingly rational (I'm not a big Mohler booster and find some of his thoughts to be pretty thoughtless) - and it just happens that this is the one that gets under the broadest range of skins.

Now, some points:

A) The believer should have no more trouble accepting the possibility that homosexual proclivity may in fact be sometimes related to genetic disposition. Just like alcoholism, anger, and total depravity. It kinda puts homosexuality in well-tread territory.

B) Even granting the popular-yet-asinine definition of homophobia, the desire to solve what amounts to a genetic difficulty doesn't betray any more necessary a hatred of the homosexual than a desire to solve cerebral palsy in the infant necessitates a hatred of the handicapped. Homosexual society has been lobbying for several decades now for the widespread acceptance of homosexual orientation as a genetic condition rather than a learned (and therefore, deprogrammable) condition. They should have more carefully considered the implications of their quest.

C) Some of the rhetoric bouncing around is ingeniously silly. E.g.:

What bothers me is the hypocrisy. In one breath, they say the sanctity of an unborn life is unconditional, and in the next breath, it's OK to perform medical treatments on them because of their own moral convictions, not because there's anything wrong with the child.

That this could be contrary to the idea of the sanctity of unborn life is laughable. And that the messenger is hypocratic more so. I presume the speaker wouldn't oppose a medical intervention to solve cerebral palsy (even though there's nothing wrong with the handicapped). We, as a people, just prefer that other people be run under optimum conditions. So we try to fix their inadequacies. Give that child some Ritalin so he'll be "better"! Use occupational therapy with that child so that his motor skills are "better." Abstain from antibiotics during your pregnancy so your child will be "better."

We make values judgments all the time. This is just another one. The only difference is that this one threatens to strip people of their raison d'etre. Whatever.

Haircut Reaction

So here's a big and important question: how should you respond when someone says they think you got a great haircut? For quite sometime, I responded with the typical, "Hey, thanks buddy!" But the other day, after getting a fresh cut, someone said that they liked my haricut and I simply responded, "Oh! Cool." (Actually, this happened several times.) And you know what? I think it's a better response.

If I thank someone for my liking my haircut, I'm implying that I bear some sort of responsibility for the cut. As if I had something to do with the stylist's work. This, obviously, is not the case at all.

This is why I think it better to simply express a happy sort of surprise or even an "I know, huh?" if you are certain that the cut is good too. In this way, you're acknowledging both the skill of the barber and the aesthetic eye of your friend - all without falsely taking credit for something yourself. Bravo!

Wedding Dumbness: Episode 2

Not to harp too long on the inclusion of the Divorce Lecture that's wormed it's way into many contemporary wedding ceremonies, but - well, yes - I'm going to continue. You probably know what I'm talking about if you've been to more than a couple wedding in the last couple decades: officiants warning the bride and groom of the solemnity of marriage admonishing them based off the statistics that say about fifty percent of Christian marriages end in divorce.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't discussion of the likelihood of divorce at a wedding incredibly tacky? I mean it's one thing for the wedding guests to quietly have a pool going on how likely they believe the couple are to last, but for the pastor to bring it up during the ceremony? Classy. And so much for celebrating, huh?

I mean look at it this way. At a baby shower, you don't announce to everyone that, statistically speaking, there is some probability that the baby could be still born. At Grandpa's eightieth birthday, you don't ask everyone to celebrate in earnest, because, you know, it could very well be Grandpa's last. And why don't wedding officiants then also produce some word about adultery - after all, statistics show that it is certainly not improbable. And really, adultery within marriage is worse than adultery without, so what's the deal? Why don't we mention these things?

Because it's in bad taste.

Really, what pastors are saying is: "Look. I know you're happy now. But you won't be soon. And statistically speaking, there's a betting chance that you guys won't be married five years from now. So really, let's try to make it okay? Please? I know that I've said this same thing to all those other couples - some of whom are now divorced - but I'm gonna say it anyways, 'cause, well... you guys have seen that Jesus movie right? You know that part where Pilate washes his hands? Yeah. That's me right now. I know it's tacky and that I've cast a black pall over what should have been an entirely joyous occasion, but well. I just don't want to feel guilty down the road when things aren't looking so rosy."

Blargg, I say. Blargg.