Author Archives: Diane Bushemi
Joaquin is still in the building
So there it is. It was all a hoax, and an elaborate one at that. Arguably, it trumps whatever Andy Kaufman pulled, and anything Sasha Baron Cohen could ever accomplish.
For those who don’t know, Joaquin Phoenix appeared on David Letterman February 11, 2009. His visage was puzzling, to say the least. With a full, unkempt beard, dirty hair, and recent weight gain covered by a careworn, black suit, he gave the impression of one who was not in touch with reality. This was after he announced that he gave up acting and was pursuing a hip-hop career. Subsequent performances of his “music” were ignominious, to say the least.
The audience and fans alike were left scratching their heads as they witnessed this brilliant actor go completely off the rails. His soul shuffled off its mortal coil to leave the shell of the man he once was. It was tragic. In our effort to cope, we held onto the slim hope that maybe, just maybe, there was more to the story.
His brother-in-law, Casey Affleck, released a film a year-and-a-half later documenting Joaquin’s downward spiral, and within a week, the world was let in on the joke—one with many players, it turns out. The collective’s conscience breathed a sigh of relief as the ego was left perturbed. We were duped.
While there is comfort in the reality that there was not another talent needlessly destroyed in his prime, it does leave many unanswered questions. The first and foremost is: Why? What was the motivation?
Was it a social experiment? If so, I am at a loss to explain what it was. How important is it to risk one’s career to make a socio-political statement? Perhaps he was turning the mirror on society and its fixation on celebrity. That is a bit of a stretch, but one must admit, we certainly invested a lot of energy and bandwidth into focusing on this spectacle.
Did he get a sadistic pleasure out of raking his fans across the coals? His brother was snuffed out so early in life, and we got to see in Joaquin the actor that River could have become. He was taking that away from us. What a meanie.
He could have been resentful for not winning the Oscar for his stellar work in Walk the Line. That makes a strong assumption that he cares about the accolades. If anything, he reiterated what a tremendous actor he is. His performance on Letterman was realistic, but left enough speculation to keep us guessing. Was he on drugs? Was he succumbing to mental illness? I was going with the latter, as he showed the hallmarks of a schizoaffective disorder. I noticed his delayed response to jokes, his nervous tics and fidgeting, as well as the subtly paranoid look he’d shoot the audience as if to say “what are you laughing at?” And how did he keep in character while faced with Letterman’s rapier humor? Bravo.
That said, Sir Occam’s Razor is feeling pretty sharp with this one. Maybe he just wanted to see if he could do it. And, he did.
My Room 101
You want to torture me by putting my head in a cage full of hungry rats? Pfft, bring it. But spiders? Then, we’ll talk.
I am terrified of spiders and scorpions. Arachnophobia, it is called. Ironically, I really dig the movie. They are hideous, yet fascinating to look at from a safe distance. A viewing from Ft. Knox would be preferable.
I have always been afraid of them. Nothing specific ever happened to justify that fear, but regardless, it is there. My husband, on the other hand, loves them, as well as scorpions. He wants them for pets. Actually, there are a lot of decidedly uncuddly creatures he would like for his very own. He is like Hagrid—the creepier the better. When I was in the museum La Specula in Italy, I was doing a sketch of a tarantula—a dead one, no less—that was encased in glass. I was even getting creeped out by that. What’s wrong with me? Don’t answer that.
Really, if I chose to, I could put these critters into perspective. I am hundreds of times larger than them, they are more scared of me blah blah blah. Yet, I just can’t shake the idea that in some intangible way, they are compromising my safety. If they are in my vicinity standing there unimpeded, “breathing” my air, threatening to invade my personal space, and, perish the thought, make contact with my precious skin, I feel . . . really, I don’t know what I feel. It is a fear of the unknown, perhaps, or of the violated skin turning gangrenous. Whatever my issue is, I know in my right mind the likelihood of being harmed is slim to none. Scorpions are another matter, but those fuckers are not the focus of my despair, as they are not indigenous to my section of the country.
I was at the local aquarium one time with my husband. As we were rounding off the day browsing in the gift shop, I passed by a display of boxes containing RC Tarantulas—remote control powered synthetic spiders. For $24.95, you too could have innocuous exposure to those frightening abominations. This was basically what they looked like:
This is the reason I don’t believe in God.
If I were ever to rue one action, it would be this: I picked up the package and showed it to my husband. Much to my chagrin, he had to have it. He just had to blow the money on it. I knew when his eyes lit up I would regret it greatly on many levels. I could hear the wheels turning as he imagined our dog and cat’s response to it. Great. Lovely, and as much as I don’t like to be wasteful, I was hoping the dog would break it upon first pounce.
When we got home, the first thing he set to do was to assemble it. We were out of AA batteries, so he pulled them out of the television’s remote control. He was bound and determined. Yes indeed, the animals responded favorably to it. The dog leaped upon it, took it in her mouth, and shook it. That damn thing was appearing to be indestructible. Shit. One bright spot was that he acknowledged we couldn’t have one for a pet, as it wouldn’t stand a chance against the dog. After what seemed like hours of amusement, my husband told me to lay on my back. Not asked, demanded. Nya-uh. Knowing how he is, I knew what he had in mind and he wouldn’t let up until he got it. Get your minds out of the gutter, people. He wanted to let the thing crawl on me like some Peter Brady-esque nightmare. I felt the first stirrings of anxiety. He thrust the monster in my face; I grabbed his wrist so that I could have some semblance of control. I touched it. The fur was coarse, and its underbelly was plastic. Yes, the thing was fake. I was assured of that. Then, why was my finger hovering over the red panic button?
I finally mustered up the strength to go horizontal on the cold, heartless, tile floor. I wished it could yield to my weight and suck me in to some alternate-reality sans eight-legged creatures. Upon first contact with my clothed leg . . . “OH GOD NOOOOOOOOOOO!” At that moment, I felt my response was justified. I tried again. “GAAAAAAAAAAA!” Okay, maybe the third time’s a charm. It was, kind of, as I let it crawl on me for a few seconds before whacking the beast off me. I thought I appeased my darling husband. No. He wanted to put it on my face. The unspeakable horror at the thought caused the contents of my bowels to settle to the bottom. Not really, but I was frightened. Eventually, I let the thing hover over my face, perhaps touching me briefly. Actually, a quantum clock would be needed to register the amount of time it contacted my skin. I gave one last blood-curdling scream before I scrambled to my feet and ran to the safe confines of my delightful walk-in closet. My hubby was left kneeling on the floor, cackling maniacally.
We all have our Achilles’ heel.
Incidentally, I have this odd theory. Tarantulas look like they smell like cracked pepper. I don’t know why; perhaps it is due to the coarseness and color of their hair—peppery. However, I am not about to conduct the research to prove or debunk my hypothesis. I’ll just believe it to be true unless I am told—told, not shown—otherwise.
The Galvanized Gut Battles the Meek Mind
I was heading outside to take my dog for her evening duty call. I smelled something burning as I passed by my neighbor’s door in our apartment building. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I peeked in the window and saw their dog staring back at me. I stood there stymied momentarily by indecision, and felt I should get a second opinion—my husband’s. I called upstairs, “Could you come down here and tell me if you smell something burning?” He most definitely did. I went upstairs to look for the landlady’s number. He called me downstairs and asked if I saw smoke when I looked through the mail slot. I believed I did, but that may have been power of suggestion. That same suggestion saw the dog look a little panicky. I held the phone in my hand and said that maybe I should call 911. I didn’t act until he gave me the okay.
I had a bad experience with a firefighter one time. It was a false alarm. A massively burnt batch of brownies was the culprit. As the fireman spoke calmly with my husband, I came up and asked him if I made the right call, he answered rather condescendingly as if to say, “No, you wasted our time.”
Because of that and being a bit timid by nature, I am very tentative about sounding the alarm about, well, pretty much anything. This time was no exception, so I bailed on my husband and told him I should take our dog away from the scene in case something happened. “What about our other pets?” he inquired. I did not answer, because I lacked a valid reason. Really, my motivation was to avoid an embarrassing encounter with another misogynistic (or so I perceived) fireman. So, off I went for a slow trip around the block.
I heard the sirens in the distance and immediately started to second-guess myself. What if I was mistaken? These hard-working people came out for this false alarm when there was a real emergency elsewhere. I just wasted the citizens’ tax dollars. As the trucks passed by me, I cringed and looked away, as if I could further avoid the folderol that I created with that one phone call. Of course, this was all about me at this point; it didn’t matter that my husband was there to back me up. I essentially left him to face the music alone.
As I completed my circuitous route, there were throngs of people discussing the scene while craning their necks to see what catastrophe awaited our quiet block. I worked my way through the crowd to my husband. “Our neighbors left their self-cleaning oven running,” he said immediately, “They said it would have caught fire at any time, and it is a common occurrence that is responsible for hundreds of fires every year.” Trying not to look too relieved, I asked, “So, did I make the right call?” He agreed wholeheartedly that I did. Whew! A few of the neighbors thanked me for being on top of the situation and for saving the day. Arms flew in the air. “Woohoo! You’re our hero(ine)! Hip hip, hooray!”
As I pulled the confetti out of my hair, the realization hit me that my fear of rocking the boat had potential terrible consequences. Why was I willing to risk the safety of myself and those around me (being a gas/electric oven, it probably would have exploded) to avoid embarrassment? While misery loves company, it is sadly part of human nature.
We are social beings, and with parental and societal influences, we grow to be very aware of our surroundings and how we come across to those around us. This is not to say that our perceptions are accurate. They do tend to be skewed by our own insecurities. This is a daily battle, and for some it is more challenging. Freud’s model of the psyche states that, basically, the id is awareness of the self, super-ego is awareness of society, and the ego is awareness of reality. For these purposes, the id is our instinct towards self-gratification; the super-ego is our desire for perfection; the ego acts as the mediator to apply common sense to the situation and please both attributes to the best of its abilities.
Apparently, my id and super-ego were duking it out, and the ego intervened to save the day. The ego happened to be my husband. If you knew him, you would appreciate the glaring lack of irony in that statement.
However, I am not alone in experiencing cognitive dissonance when it comes to action or inaction in social situations. We look to each other for cues on how to act, as I did. A mother could be violently disciplining her child out in public. While we stare in horror, we are also looking at each other for affirmation that our response is valid, as well as waiting for someone to intervene. If it doesn’t happen, then nothing will be done. This of course is not always the case; there are plenty of healthy egos that tell their id and super-ego to suck it. Still, how many of you have been in a situation and were afraid to be the first to act?
That gang mentality goes both ways. Most famously, it was studied in The Stanford Prison Experiment. If operating alone, most healthy individuals would not bully and terrorize innocent people. Yet, when put in a group and one acts aggressively, it becomes much easier, if not compelling, to follow suit. Socially unacceptable behavior is more palatable if part of “the gang”, allowing us to fade anonymously into the crowd. We also feed off each other, and it is intoxicating. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop there.
We hate to be wrong, and we shudder at the idea of there being witnesses to our lack of perfection. The super-ego wants to be right all the time, and punishes us with shame and guilt if we don’t live up to that unrealistic goal. Hence, the reason I fled the scene. I couldn’t undial 911, but I could make myself scarce just in case I acted imprudently. That was my id attempting to save face. Social acceptance is a very tempting and persuasive mistress, and we are very motivated to achieve it at the expense of other needs and wants. Studies have shown that men would rather experience close to their maximum level of physical pain than be publicly rejected by an attractive woman who they are sexually interested in. If you had a choice to be punched in the stomach or to be openly lambasted for a dissenting view, which would you choose? A surprising number of people would choose the former.
I may have painted myself into a corner with the title, or perhaps created a circular argument. The gut could be instinct, which is the id. What about the cliché that we should listen to our gut if the id is so self-serving? As the title suggests, the head would be the super-ego. Is that where emotions originate? It is difficult to think rationally when emotional. Then what is the ego? Is it an outside influence, or is it a culmination of our experiences? Call it what you will, the majority of the time the same one is declared the victor.
And the meek shall inherit the earth.
The Dexter Defense
Showtime’s Dexter is one of my favorite programs of all time. 
It is superbly written and acted, entertaining, intelligent, horrifying, comical, and most significantly, plausible. My toes curl in anticipation for the start of every season.
I figured it was only a matter of time before life imitated art. An Indiana teen was accused of strangling his 10-year-old brother to death. Andrew Conley, who was 17 at the time, felt that he “had to do it”. What was the impetus for this gruesome crime? You guessed it: Dexter made him do it. He so identified with the character that he finally acted on his compulsion that he felt since he hit his teens. Perhaps faced with life in prison, he grasped at straws there. Yet, I found out after reading the article about the case that this wasn’t a first. A 29-year-old Canadian filmmaker murdered a man in 2008 based on one of the storylines in the show. A filmmaker. He of all people should appreciate that despite the aforementioned plausibility of the idea, it is still indeed, fiction. What gives?
This is not an isolated incident. Since the concept of cinema was actualized, people have found their inspiration to act on their already existing pathologies. Yes, the desire to do the dastardly deed was latent, awaiting something or someone to stir the beast from its slumber. Even before that, troubled souls found ways to rouse their demons into action. How many Jack the Ripper copycats were there? Who knows, maybe Emperor Nero’s insane act of locking helpless citizens in Rome’s colosseum (or so the story goes) to force them to view his godawful performances led even the gentlest of characters to violent responses.
Call this human behavior what you will, for this writing I will coin it somewhat topically: The Dexter Defense, and it is a flimsy one, at best. While not historically apt, as evidence of this spans centuries, it is a good representation—an almagamation, if you will—of how far some people would go to make excuses for their actions. Plus, I really dig the alliteration.
As an artist with little exposure, my only concern about creating something that could stir a violent response is offending my potential audience. Imagine successful entertainers with far-reaching influence doing the same. They not only have to deal with possible rejection, they also may consider the likelihood that there will be impressionable people who take their art just a wee bit too seriously. Does that mean they should keep it to themselves, or should they expect a modicum of objectivity from their viewership? Should the sins of a few ruin it for everyone else? While the collective intelligence can decrease as the group expands, can the actions of a few leaven the whole loaf?
Musical influence
While Doris Day’s beautiful rendition of Secret Love was somewhat marred by the rumor that Calamity Jane had syphilis (I don’t believe it!), my history need not go back that far. Where the tendency to attribute malevolent influences from music became prevalent is with the recording technique of embedding subliminal messages in music, called backmasking. The Beatles popularized it (really, was it “cranberry sauce” or “I buried Paul”?) and other bands like Led Zeppelin and AC/DC followed suit. A law was passed forcing record labels to add a warning message that this technique was used. It is akin to adding the Surgeon General’s warning on cigarettes. We all know they are horrible, but does that stop the addicts?
Who can forget the inspiration Charles Manson got from The Beatles’ Helter Skelter? As far as their songs go, it isn’t one of their best, albeit an interesting cacophonous experiment. I personally wouldn’t even put it in their top 20. Never mind that the song was not violent, per se, nor could any rational person infer evil intent from it. Yet, the song is now inextricably bound to the Manson murders, so much so that the infamous book about this nugget in history shares the title. Lest we pin the blame on Paul McCartney, we must realize that Manson was born with violent inclinations. While it can be argued whether he was a psychopath or a sociopath, the seeds of nature and nurture were planted long before that. What nurturing mother punishes her son by forcing him to go to school wearing a dress? While he was definitely genetically hard-coded towards a pathology, his abuse as a youth set the stage. The song played as a convenient excuse.
Arguably, the most notorious case in recent memory involved the heavymetal band, Judas Priest. In 1985, two Nevada teens made a suicide pact after listening to their music all day while drinking beer and smoking pot. They went to a playground at a local church and aimed shotguns at themselves. The one died instantly, the other survived and was left with a severely disfigured face. He died several years later, even after numerous surgeries. The parents brought the case to trial in 1990. Rob Halford had to experience the ignominy of singing the offending lyrics from the album Stained Glass in court, and was specifically instructed to sing it in the same style as he did on the record. The prosecution claimed that it wasn’t just the words, but also how they were conveyed. The court ruled the band not responsible. The teens’ mental state was compromised with chemicals and existing depression. The album only reiterated an idea they already entertained. Still, the lack of precedent doesn’t keep others from attempting the same scapegoat defense.
Book burning
How many books have been destroyed in an effigial attempt to banish violence from our society? What, outside of a waste of resources, does it accomplish? Even Reverend Terry Jones’ recent showboating plans to burn the Quran were misguided. Yes, there are many fundamentalists who take a literal and/or incorrect interpretation of the work and wreak horrible havoc on those with dissenting opinions. My own views of religious persuasion aside, burning a book that can easily be reproduced and not abused by the majority, does nothing but incite further violence. It is laying the blame on the printed word instead of the individual. Sticks and stones and all that.
Mark David Chapman claimed that he re-enacted scenes from Catcher in the Rye when he fatally shot John Lennon. While Holden Caulfield was a dark character experimenting with rebellion, I personally focused on the symbolism of watching children on the carousel grab the brass ring that gave me hope that there was salvation in his future. How did Chapman devise such sinister machinations from this classic piece of literature?
Really, unless bookmakers can create a technology that will cause the reader’s hands to blow off if the story is not acted out, there is no one to lay blame on but the criminal. There are a bunch of Humbert Humberts running around deflowering nubile girls because they are compelled to do so, not because they were inspired by Lolita. Who reads about pedophilia and thinks, “Hmm, interesting concept, I think I’ll give it a whirl,” and then later blames Nabokov for corrupting them with his beautiful literature? Ridiculous.
Film noir
It only takes a modicum of common sense to intuit that thrusting two fingers at someone’s eyeballs will never end well. Yet, impressionable people tried that after watching The Three Stooges. It doesn’t matter that upon closer scrutiny, it is obvious that Moe Howard aimed at his brother Curly’s eyebrows. We are just such curious creatures that sometimes, we can’t help ourselves.
Filmmakers recognize this, and in fear of the consequences that could arise in our litigious society, they make allowances for that via disclaimers. The Mythbusters remind the audience every episode that they are professionals and since the average viewer is not, they are ordered to “not try this at home”. Does that stop everyone from trying to blow up Buster, as an example? Of course not, but it does remove the show’s culpability. My question is this: Should they be held responsible when their efforts to entertain result in criminal acts?
John Fowles The Collector was made into a movie in 1965 about a man who kidnapped and imprisoned a woman he was obsessed with, and held her until a relationship developed. She died, and he blamed her for it and looked for better ways to hold a woman captive and improve the experience for himself. Robert Berdella, a.k.a. The Kansas City Butcher, credited the movie version for planting the seed of fantasies about his subsequent acts. While he admitted that it just laid the foundation for the feelings that were already there, it seems fiction always must play as fodder.
Supposedly, Mark David Chapman’s obsession with killing John Lennon was assuaged temporarily by watching the movie Ordinary People. It was an emotional movie that inspired a lot of people in different ways. There hasn’t been an issue with crediting positive influences to any art form. Should there be a double standard applied?
But of course!
Don’t shoot the messenger
There is a precarious balance that faces artists in providing necessary escapes in entertaining ways and with giving fodder to disturbed viewers. Whether we’d like to admit it or not, humans are fascinated with violence and the ability to inflict it on others, thus determining their fate. It gives us the control that we feel we don’t have over our own destiny. Most of us are content with experiencing it vicariously, and there are plenty of opportunities out there to do so. From slowing down to check out car accidents, restraining ourselves from asking a soldier if he or she has killed people, flirting with road rage, and more to the point of this writing, immersing ourselves safely in pure fantasy. It’s there, and we are drawn to it. Like screaming at the plants, it shouldn’t hurt anyone, and it is a great stress-reliever.
We are born with a survival instinct, and it is manifested in a fight or flight response. When crimes are committed, we want to know why it happened. This provides an opening, and some are inclined to take it to save their own asses. In the movie Primal Fear, Edward Norton’s character faked a stutter and dissociative identity disorder, i.e., multiple personalities, to avoid the death penalty. That is not a stretch by any means, nor is blaming actions on works of fiction. Remorse can result in sincere apologies, attrition, retribution, as well as accusation. Apparently, the first three are more daunting and difficult than sitting back and pointing the finger. It is a convenient and alluring escape hatch. The fight is owning up to one’s actions; the flight in laying blame on outside influences.
The show Dexter is a brilliant tour de force. The actors, writers, and directors succeed where many fail—they make an otherwise reprehensible character not only sympathetic, but also likable. We root for him, even though in reality, it would be the opposite. If faced with that character in our world, we’d be horrified and humiliated that we were so duped. We know this to be true, so we are free to embrace this alternate reality. Leave it to a few bad apples to spoil it for the rest of us.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must gaze at Piss Christ, then punch a priest for bastardizing religion. That is what Andres Serrano wanted me to do, right?
Damn, I’m deep.
I just finished reading a book by my all-around favorite comedian—George Carlin. I highly recommend picking up When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? His irreverence immortalized in his writings suits me very well, if it is not obvious from the tone of this blog. While he was known for his systematic way of taking the snot out of anything that flew into his radar (his whittling down of the 10 Commandments is a classic), his random thoughts and observations tickle me in particular. Really, if we don’t know when we will die, how can we be sure when someone dies prematurely? Something to ponder.
I decided to list some of my own musings in homage to Mr. Carlin. I am sure it will become a theme and hopefully evolve into my own brand of quirky perspective.
- Is it ironic that “onomatopoeia” is not spelled the way it sounds?
- Why are elevator encounters so socially awkward?
- I think everyone should be required to bring reading materials into a public washroom, especially at work. Make a show of it so that everyone knows that you are about to move your bowels. Let’s remove the stigma of pooping and embrace human digestion in all its repugnant glory.
- On that note, raise your hand after you fart and own it with pride. “Yep, that was me. What a relief to get that one out in the open! Whew!” It would save a lot of uncomfortable askance looks from those trying to appear innocent by attempting to locate the source.
- Why do actors make such loud smacking noises when they kiss on-screen? Is it like closed-caption for the visually-impaired?
- When did “reality television” become so unreal?
- I think animals got it right. Objectively, shaking hands is pretty stupid and pointless. Let’s get to the heart of the matter and just sniff each other’s asses.
- How did the intent of toasting do an about-face over the years? We used to clink glasses because no one trusted that they weren’t trying to off each other; now it is a demonstration of trust and friendship. I don’t expect you to laugh at this one. I just really want to know what is up with that.
- Back to the elevator question. I wonder why we all feel so compelled to smile upon entering. Actually, it isn’t a smile so much as a wince. Then we position ourselves as far away from the other person as possible. And then, silence. Look down at the floor. Look at what floor the elevator is at. More silence. Idly look at your shoes. My point is that perhaps we are wasting valuable energy here. Maybe invading personal space and spending the entire journey in a blinking contest would be more rewarding.
- I’m just going to say it: I don’t think Winona Ryder is that good of an actress.
- I think smokers who can’t wait to light up until after they leave a building should be deprived of oxygen against their will at random intervals throughout the day.
- Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, serial killers need love too?
- If you are told not to hold your breath waiting for something to happen, defy them. See how long you can hold it before people start freaking out.
- If we put our coworkers in a chokehold when they pissed us off, the workday would be much more productive and fulfilling.
- Why do British accents make people sound smarter? Even Ozzie Ozbourne sounds like he could be at least an idiot savant.
- Does an environmentally-conscious musician sing the greens?
- I challenge anyone to prove that unicorns don’t exist. Just because we haven’t seen one, doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. They may just be really good hiders.
- The Inquisition was a puzzling affair. Who cooked up that strange litmus test? I wonder what would have happened if the alleged witches responded by walking on water. Now there’s a conflict.
- The Taliban just needs to get stoned. Afghanistan has the means to facilitate that, in more ways than one.
- Platitude of the day, compliments of Dove Dark Chocolate Promises: Always bring your own sunshine. I find that ill-advised. I can’t explain why, it just sounds like a bad idea.
- Speaking of getting stoned, who do the religious conservatives think made pot?
The tricky thing about random thoughts is that there is no hard and fast rule on the best way to end. Basically, I ran out of ideas. I need to refuel.
Infuriatingly refudiating
I must extend my thanks to Ms. Palin for inspiring this post. I suppose it is a sequel of sorts to discuss (more like I write and you agree) erroneous grammatical usage and spellings that set my teeth on edge. I have to tip my hat to the woman; she came up with a new one that vexed me before I even had a chance to drink my morning tea. But, like rolling out the red carpet—since she had a cameo in my first post to this blog—I’ll save that one for last.
No, it’s not alright
Think about the origin of this word, which is actually two words that unfortunately many like to shmoosh into an idiotic mess. When one says that everything is peachy, that would mean that all is right, i.e., it is all right. Doesn’t that make sense? Then who the hell truncated the damn thing? It was just fine and dandy the way it was, then some lazy ass comes along and fatigues at the thought of that extra letter and space. Poor thing. I understand that tendinitis and carpal tunnel syndrome are major concerns in this computer age, but find it somewhere in your heart of hearts to hit those two extra keys so you don’t piss me off. Really, you don’t even need to press that hard. Here, I’ll show you: l . There, it took a fraction of a second. Okay, I did put in the extra effort to highlight it and click the italics button. But, this is important to me and I must drive the point home. Still, there is nary a ghost of the sensation from the keys pressing on my ring finger and thumb, respectively. I am haunted, however, everytime I see this idiom spelled incorrectly. I won’t be all right until “alright” is exorcised out of the written lexicon.
How do you qualify the unqualified?
I refuse to pull any punches with this one. A kitten howls in mortal agony everytime someone attempts to throw an adverb or adjective in front of a certain adjective. Okay, it probably is acceptable to do that under many circumstances, but I am rendered dumb by the inanity of this assault on such a straightforward concept, and can’t think of any examples as I focus on one in particular: unique. It is what it is, and it is one of a kind. How can there be different degrees of it? Nothing is fairly unique, very unique, somewhat . . . I can’t go on. The cacophony of tortured kittens is causing my inner ear to bleed out. If you really don’t want to commit to labeling a person, place, thing, etc., as unique, ple— nah, I don’t need to ask nicely—just be specific, dammit. Here are a few examples of the wrong and right ways to use this word:
Wrong: The music is kinda unique.| Right: The music has a unique rhythm.
Wrong: I will approach this in a fairly unique way. | Right: I will approach this in an unusual way (This is a real example, and it annoyed the crap out of me, especially since I couldn’t stand the bitch who said it and she was trying to nail me against the wall for something I didn’t do).
Wrong: This person is pretty unique. | Right: This person has some unique traits.
I really hope I have made my point crystal clear. The kittens will purr their gratitude, assuming the absence of their pain is indeed pleasure.
Irregardless
Yes, that is all the introduction this one needs. Quite frankly, it doesn’t deserve a clever title. Irregardless is not a word. Don’t use it. Ever! You are trying to create a new word containing “regardless” with “irrespective” as its parasitic conjoined twin. I assure you; you will succeed only in sounding stupid. Plus, if you saw a person with a parasitic conjoined twin walking down the street, what would you do? I rest my case.
Don’t focus on the double negative
That does not mean I promote eternal optimism. I’d probably have to slap the beatific grin off your annoyingly cherubic face. But that’s neither here nor there (what does that phrase mean?). Anyway, I am merely suggesting you be so kind as to say what you really intend to convey. If you can’t get no satisfaction, am I to assume you do get satisfaction whether you want it or not? Unless you clarify, I’ll go with the literal and grant myself carte blanche to commence spewing my sour grapes all over that smug mug of yours. Oh wait, you meant the opposite of what you said. Oh, I get it. You can’t get satisfied, and you were just being cool about it, you torpid little tool. You still deserve to be beaten. Sucks to be you.
Now there their they’re
All right (see how much better that looks?), I make this mistake sometimes. However, it is not due to ignorance, it is just because I am human and prone to making mistakes. I write a lot, and do get fatigued on occasion and slip up. Sue me. Go ahead, I dare you. But make no mistake: I know when to use there, when to use their, and even when to use they’re. The logic is really simple, and I beseech you to embrace it. When you are referring to a location or direction, it is there. When speaking of a possessive, it is their/theirs. They’re is a contraction of they and are. Why am I having this conversation? Man up and figure it out for yourself. Google these three words, and I trust you will get many hits . . . hang on, I’ll check myself . . . holy crap, I got 3,770,000,000 hits! Apparently, I am not the only one in the English-speaking world who is passionate about this. I guess that about covers it, then.
And the winner is . . .
Sarah Palin gets the award for being the most educated dumb person. Apparently, she pulled the same irregardless logic and combined “refute” with “repudiate”. We all know what she meant, but it is more fun to watch her stick her right wing into her mouth and suck on it. Hard. She gave us the fodder and cooked it up for us, so I guess there is nothing else that could be said. I’ll give her credit, she is thorough.
Riddle me this: If she became pregnant again, and the doctor told her without fail, i.e., she would not be able to refute, repudiate, or even refudiate it, she would give birth to a baby with a parasitic conjoined twin, would she go through with the pregnancy? Just curious.
Smile for the cellphone camera and say “Bees!”.
Can you fathom life before cellphones? Certainly, anyone born before the 90’s has a good idea, yet more likely than not it is a distant memory. While we survived before them, life is enriched to the point where many of us might get a sinking feeling when faced with the possibility of having our phones yanked permanently from our hands before they are cold and dead.
Technology is pervasive and has a knack for influencing us in irrevocable fashion. Society shapes and molds itself around what technology has to offer. Removing that foundation leaves an amorphous mass of helplessness. I can’t live without my iPhone! Its fallibility does test our will on occasion. However, we can bite our nails knowing that it will be only a temporary setback; all the fun but useless apps will be available again in short order.
While I don’t consider myself a Luddite, as I do embrace a lot of what the digital age has to offer, a recent study has scored a point in my quiet pursuit to vilify the advancement of technology. Why? Because, it has a way of stinging us in the ass.
I am talking about bees, and they really don’t care whether the world much outside of their hive is round or flat. They just want to cross-pollinate, produce their own food, make baby bees, and attack anyone who threatens their existence. Yet, one of their more sinister enemies may be immune to their primary weapon. It turns out that everything they do to survive is impeded while in the presence of cellphone frequency. They become confused and unable to go about their business. Yay, we might have found their Achilles heel. But what can we do about it? Like the Kryptonians, they may need to colonize elsewhere.
The precipitous drop in the bee population has been a major cause of concern. While the jury is still out on determining all the causes for this dilemma, the consequences are unsettling to contemplate. It is easy to stroll down the primrose path and wonder where the honey for our morning tea will come from. That should be the least of our worries (although, I do get peckish without my raw honey and Greek yogurt). It is the knack for cross-pollination that bees have that makes them so invaluable to our “green” planet. Meaning, they are vital to sustaining our vegetation—one of our primary food sources.
I suppose we could compensate by developing technology to pollinate in their stead and/or find alternate ways to preserve plant life, thus blowing a hole in my argument. If technology fails, create something bigger, stronger, and faster to pick up the slack. It is like the pharmaceutical industry’s pesky little habit of solving the problems with side-effects from drugs by creating more drugs to mask them. Sadly, it is a superficial approach under the guise of a multi-layered solution.
Lest we are incapacited along with the bees in an amber cocoon as fate banishes us back to landlines, the brainiacs charged to improve upon this technological wonder must step up their game. Basically, technology needs to be tweaked so that the bees aren’t disrupted by our indulgences. Sounds easy, right? Perhaps not.
So, what is the frequency, Kenneth? What if there is no alternative way to have our cake and eat it too? Then what? We could continue down another primrose path and wish the problem away. That would work for a spell, maybe even for the next few generations. But, I’m afraid that Mr. Hobson isn’t that generous. If we wait too long, we may not have a choice.
Meh, cellphones may be scrambling our brains, as well. So it’s all good. At least this technology doesn’t playing favorites.
Martin Feldman resurrects Igor
Before you ask, I am not talking about this Martin “Marty” Feldman:
He was a legendary English comedic actor who in fact, played Igor in Young Frankenstein.
I am talking about this Martin Feldman, a Federal judge in Louisiana.
What a tool.
Okay, he isn’t that bad. But his presence in the news of late throws him into extreme scrutiny, and deservedly so. His decision to overturn Obama’s moratorium on deep-water drilling has not garnered many accolades outside of his local constituencies and like-minded peers. My knee-jerk response was to condemn him, but I had to step back and look at the situation more objectively. Few things are black or white; the truth lies somewhere in between those two values. Even the growing amorphous blob of black oil in the Gulf has cast a dark gray in waters that no light or sky’s reflection can penetrate. It is a tragic sight indeed, and taking precautionary measures to prevent this from getting even worse should be a no-brainer. Still, we are left with a polarizing dilemma. While necessary, it is challenging if not impossible for many to set aside their emotions to draw conclusions based on reality and objective thought. But, I’ll give it a whirl.
Before I went off the deep end in the assumption that the conservative right is out for Liberal blood, I forced myself to swim to shore to see the impetus behind this action. I must say that there are some compelling reasons to keep business going as usual. First and foremost is that the state depends on this to keep afloat. Upwards of 32,000 people in Louisiana make their livelihood in the oil industry, and it provides the state with $3 billion in revenue. Even though the moratorium affects only 33 exploratory sites out of the close to 4,000 active oil wells in the Gulf, this does have the potential to result in job reduction due to lost revenue from idle rigs. Let us not forget that this affects the whole country, as well. Our goal to lessen dependence on foreign oil is impeded if we can’t fully tap into domestic resources.
Statistics can be dehumanizing, but it is not difficult to appreciate the impact this could have on families who rely on the oil industry to live. It would be exacerbated by a weakened economy forced to compensate by budget cuts and tax increases, thus amplifying the hardship on the families with little to no income. From that perspective, I can understand a lot of people applauding Martin Feldman’s deed.
When dealing with a massive population, by and large, ethical pragmatism is needed in governance. Ethical pragmatism is basing decisions on what is best for the greater good without the intent to harm others. Defining that greater good is the tricky part. This disaster is not only hurting a local economy, it will be felt across the globe in a ripple effect of economic adversity and ecological damage. Our already hobbled economy will feel this from our gas tanks to our dinner plates. This is primarily due to the scales capsizing on the side of demand as the supply of seafood diminishes, amongst other things. The suffering does not stop with the people, despite the inclination of certain idealogies to place the needs of humans over animals. They are missing the bigger picture. Marine life that is so important to the ecosystem is being buried alive in sludge. There are species that are at risk for extinction, as well. How will our earth fare if half the creatures that keep our waters alive and clean are gone?
Once again, we manufactured a disaster that speaks to the unfairness of the food chain and pecking order. Leave it to the humans to muck things up in epic fashion: the salt of the earth paradoxically salts the earth. Again.
Obama’s decision was based on ethical pragmatism, as well as exercising caution in an untenable situation. The explosion was preventable and the resulting leak should have been repaired post haste, much less that lives were lost as a direct result. The prudent thing to do while fixing the damage is to remove as many variables as possible. It may appear reactionary—lightning rarely strikes twice. However, why test those odds? Just imagine as the hole gushes thousands of barrels, i.e., millions of gallons, of oil every day, another one occurs in the same waters. British Petroleum is already on the hook for billions of dollars that in all likelihood, will cause them to sink before they can pay the balance in full. Let’s face reality here. The government, and subsequently the people, are going to pay for this. The demise of any large entity is felt far and wide, hence the reason the failure of the banking industry brought us to our collective knees. Why compound the problem by relying on a deity to spare us his wrath? That begs the question, as it does not make sense that our alleged “intelligent designer” would destroy what he created. Yet, group prayer across states has been suggested as a means to a solution. But I digress.
So, who is right, or at least more correct? More to the point, who is looking at the situation most objectively? Based on both arguments, that may be a toss up because some of the fears, while not voiced by Chicken Little, are somewhat hypothetical at this point. Viewing historical trends, it seems all the arguments are quite plausible. With my limited resources, as I am not an economist nor a historian, I must look to the source of this controversy, thus explaining my Igor reference.
Igor is a fictional character who blithely served his villanous masters. Marty Feldman’s hilarious portrayal of that character went down in cinema history. Martin Feldman’s Igor will go down in infamy, but none of us are laughing. Why do I consider him to be Igor? Well, he is serving the current enemy of the states—British Petroleum, as it has been revealed that he has financial interests in them, along with other oil companies. That should make everyone, including Abby Normal, go “Mmmmmm”. As with Dick Cheney’s Haliburton, the burden of proof should be thrown back to the source. “Mr. Feldman, did you make this decision without consideration for your own financial gain? Might I remind you that you cannot prove a negative.”
The following is an observation based not on fact, but a conclusion drawn from what this behavior usually represents. His actions smack of grandstanding. The aging judge from the Reagan era would have faded into obscurity until this golden opportunity came along to pound on his puffed up chest. His core position was probably not persuaded by the desire for fame, as he is a “drill, baby, drill” proponent. However, did the potential consequences galvanize him to this extreme response? Was there a pleasurable jolt of power that he could stand up to the Almighty Obama and abrogate his ruling?
My little odyssey has circled me back to where I started. The moratorium is the right thing to do until the problem can be contained and we are on the road to recovery. The damage is more far-reaching than the state of Louisiana, and will go into the decades to reverse, if that can even be done.
As for a potential solution, British Petroleum should reorganize and make it their business to fix the damage—locally and globally—as well as compensate for the resulting burden on the people. They should also make it their charge to find alternate solutions for our energy and fuel to replace oil completely, so that an encore performance will not occur.
Bwahahaha. HA! You thought I was serious about that, right? They’ll be dead and buried before that happens. I was serious, actually, but then reality kicked in. We’re damned if we do, and damned even more if we don’t. All we can hope for is that this crisis is not wasted on ignorance.
Creatures of the trite
Women have the potential for very active and intricate sexual fantasies; I readily argue that they are more inventive than most men are inclined to entertain. They can be so complex to the point where they are near impossible to choreograph in reality. Making love in a rainstorm is easy to replicate. But, can you plan the clap of thunder to be in synchrony with the rip of your negligee as it is torn in half and pulled from your drenched but flawless skin in the throes of passion? Oh yes, and, the lightning should illuminate the sky and cast the perfectly pulchritudinous lovers in a chiarascuro of sensual artistic display. While a beautiful, poetic symphony of primal lust, chances are good: it ain’t gonna happen just like that. Being female, I admit that I have stopped mid-daydream and wondered outloud “What the hell am I thinking?” before I continue with my elaborately scripted internal drama. Why? Because it is fun and takes me away to a better place than Calgon ever can. We need that stress-relieving escape on occasion. Plus, it is the cheapest form of entertainment. It costs nothing to let one’s mind wander for a spell. Not to be guilty of solopsism, but I am quite confident that no other woman with a pulse can cook up what I have going in my prurient little mind.
Then, there are more base fantasies that are appealing to many. Okay, I will just come out and say it: the rape fantasy. Admit it ladies, you’ve considered it and chances are good that you have asked for it. How many have actually enjoyed it, though? I suspect that for the majority it has gone anywhere from disappointment to a traumatic experience. Losing control is good to explore, to a point. The fantasy allows us to forgive ourselves for enjoying it like the little whores we are. We have no choice because we are forced to do so. But, “rape lite” isn’t all fun and games, even when consensual. “I don’t care that I said you shouldn’t take no for an answer, when I say no I mean NO!” Objectively, I can picture myself crying my way out of that bag. So, I am content just imagining that there are men out there who want me so badly they will take me by force if need be. Preferably, on a beach with the backdrop of a gibbous moon.
But, this isn’t about me. Because, the fantasy I am honing in on for this post is not one shared by yours truly. Try as I might, I have no desire to be saddled with the burden of being the object of obsession of not one mythical monster, but two of them. Not only that, a war to the death is waged in my honor. Yes, I am talking about a vampire and a werewolf. In the unlikely event that this would happen to me, I’d torch the first with the cross he made me bear with his creepy, undead love, and impale the other with that same cross—silver, of course. Hey, it’s my world and I can MacGuffin it as I damn well please.
There are a host of contemporary female authors I suspect fancy the idea that deadly monsters would lust after them. They fulfill that wish via the characters they create in their books. Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake, Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse, Stephanie Meyer’s Bella Swan (you can look, but don’t touch), and the lesser known Richelle Mead’s Eugenie Markham of her Dark Swan series. In all fairness to the last one, the mythical men who are insane with lust for the heroine are not monsters, per se. They are a faerie king and a supernatural dude who can turn into a fox at will.
What stands out about all these characters is that none of them are particularly remarkable. While they all have a supernatural power, it does not extend to their attractiveness and desirability to justify such insane desires from creatures that don’t exist in the first place. Anita Blake dresses down in black jeans and Nike sneakers, and she sleeps with stuffed penguins. Sookie is a virginal waitress from a small town in Louisiana. Okay, Bella Swan has no power outside of apparently having scrumptuous blood and a great rockstar name. As for Eugenie, she is on the path towards obesity and heart disease with her daily breakfast of Poptarts.
Only two of the book series mentioned have been brought to film. This gives the viewer (meaning me) the opportunity to see what all the fuss is about with these characters. Alas, I am left more confused than before. While both Kirsten Stewart of the Twilight movies and Anna Paquin of Sookie’s True Blood are very good actresses and were cast well according to the authors’ descriptions, I fail to see the mind-scrambling allure. Yes, they both are cute. There are a lot of cute girls in this world, thus, there are plenty in the pool of potential conquests from which vampires and werewolves may choose. Why them? I’m just not feeling it. I am having to work hard enough to suspend disbelief that monsters exist and want to copulate with us mere mortals; don’t make my job more difficult by making said mortal of choice the naïve girl next door.
If I were a vampire, while recognizing time is on my side, I wouldn’t be wasting it with a wide-eyed country boy or an angst-filled teenager with a droning inner dialogue and a maddening tendency towards dramatic, ellipses-filled pauses; I would be glamouring the glamorous. If I had the power, I’d use it to full advantage. Jude Law would be my pet, and I am pretty confident I’d grow tired of him fairly quickly (relatively speaking considering we are talking about vampire years). I can think of an extensive list of hot bodies that I could plow through. I can imagine that your average red-blooded male, given the opportunity to become a sexy monster, would be hitting it with Jessica Biel. I’m just saying.
This is not me being shallow, it is reality (again, relatively speaking) and just plain objectivity. After years on this earth spanning centuries, I do believe there would be a “been there, done that” attitude. What stopped a journey of two lifetimes in its tracks to focus on these inexperienced girls? I suppose it could be argued that they opened themselves up to otherwise ostracized characters and accepted them for who they are. Maybe monsters crave some normalcy. Should we have to think that hard about it, though?
As for the other two book series, if they are brought to film, I cannot fathom any actress filling those shoes. It would be impossible to pull off. Laurell K. Hamilton’s writing has gotten spectacularly bad, and her character is reduced to an impulsively murderous nymphomaniac. Yeah, that’s hot. While I enjoy Richelle Mead’s writing for what it is, and the Dark Swan series is a page-turner, I hit a speedbump every time Eugenie takes a break from her artery-clogging diet and fighting otherwordly demons to have wildly passionate sex with one of the many creatures obsessed with her.
As for why the subject matter involves mythical monsters, it is simply because that is what sells. We never get enough of that stuff. They are sexy, and apparently these women find them very sexy.
All kidding aside, this is what could happen when the female psyche collides face-first with reality. Another way to put it is that a woman’s desire to be viewed as a sexual being is marred by society’s standards of what is attractive. I do admit that I suggested that a woman would have to be a 10 in order to attract the attentions of Dracula and Wolfman. That said, I do not think that society is right in putting the burden on women to be sexy. I am attacking the ludicrous level that some women will go to in order to cope with the low self esteem that can result. Writers are at an advantage. They are given a convenient and marketable means for that wish-fulfillment. As I implied in the beginning of this post, fantasy is healthy for everyone and can enhance creativity. It should not be damaging personally or professionally. It can get in the way of the quality of life or what comes out of it. In these cases, the work suffers. I cannot speak to their personal life, but I suspect it is a challenge for these authors to compartmentalize and not get carried away with the fantasy.
With Stephanie Meyer’s work, this is what happens when one uses her “art” to preach the benefits of abstinence. Her vampires sparkle beautifully when exposed to the sun, and the wolves go shirtless to make it easier to change form. Yeah, right. But what about those tight jeans? Where did they go? At least the Hulk kept his on, albeit torn to shreds and disproportionately shorter. It just makes no sense.
But oh, how romantic. This small town girl living in a lonely world is embraced whole-heartedly by men who must resist the urge to literally eat her alive.
I really hope time is linear
Imagine that if time travel became a reality what some people might do with that new toy.
If I had a time machine, I would go back to the point before life started. Upon my arrival, there would be no hesitation on my part after a few photo ops (I just hope the flash works and lights the place up sufficiently). I would gather all the primordial soup, consume it (yum!), and not excrete it until I got back to the present day. I’d be giddy with the power I possessed to create such a messed up paradox.
No, I wouldn’t. It sounded pretty cool, though. Really, I would probably go back to 15th Century Italy and watch rivals Michelangelo and da Vinci in action. I might show my partiality towards the latter artist just to incense the other to make a fracas for entertainment purposes. I can’t fathom that doing any appreciable harm. There might be some collateral damage, but no big whoop. The toe of David was broken at one point, but can anyone tell? I think not.
Einstein just retooled his famous formula from the grave. E=MC2: Egomania equals Mass Destruction squared. I know I took license with that. Seriously though, how does ‘C’stand for velocity of light? Huh? Answer me, dammit! Besides, there was no good synonym for destruction that started with that letter (carnage didn’t flow off the tongue for me).
The Purple Pedant 
