"This is called the change over, the movie
goes on and nobody has any idea..."
As the adapted from literary, cinematic bible of
the modern male identity unfolds through Fincher's 1999 guru (better than
master) piece Fight Club unfolds it’s natural that in the first dozen necessary
viewings to consider, among many greatnesses, the moment of true unveiling in
this movie to be that moment when the protagonist realizes the true nature of
his identity, and his relationship(s), and his sanity.
And that common consideration is not entirely
wrong, from the stand point of plot, but that analysis loses this fist fight if
you're after a victory and if your dilemma is theme.
The dilemma begins with a discussion of what this
story is really about. The interpretation of this humble viewer/reader,
and I can say with confident modesty that I know this story well, begins with a
question about the modern male identity. To put it simply: "Why do
we know what a duvet is?" As the first act moves into the second, the
confused male identity encounters the assured and their friendship produces a
series of possible answers to the image of the masses polishing the brass on
the Titanic. We in the discussion consider
a primal answer, a path from under the covers and through the catalogues.
But the story does not end after Fight Club's
first two rules.
Fight Club becomes Project Mayhem in Act Three. The
fighting men, the waiters, gas station attendants, and the slaves in white
collars who are cathartically accepting that they will never be movie gods and
rock stars gather on the porch on Paper Street to become loyal space monkeys.
We approach the change over, and this is where the real dilemma begins.
It is quite fine and acceptable in the ingestion
of movies and books and stories of such depth to stop at face value. The
device of the plot twist involving the two protagonist identities can be viewed
as a twist for plot's sake, while the action moves and resolves, and the
buildings fall and the Pixies play. But here is the changeover...
That's not the changeover.
The answer in the form of fighting our way to rock
bottom only becomes more questionable in the pursuit of anarchy.
Men defining themselves in opposition to modern
convention becomes a paradoxical undefinition as a commune of soldiers seeking
to demolish the consumer paradise around them, as they become disciples and
acolytes, a paradoxical parody of the identities they rediscovered in those
basement brawls.
What is this story saying about the male identity
in the post-post modern era? Who are we supposed to be, as we emerge from
the shadows of our fathers and confront the conveyor belts of society,
beckoning us into consumer servitude? Is the answer to gather in
basements and fight, to rise from them to forge a very masculine anarchy? Shouldn’t we be seeking some individuality
digging down to rock bottom?
I will avoid my own Durdenesque tendencies and
answer with no answers. I actually have more questions.
What are we without balance? Who among us
doesn't identify with both protagonists in various sections of the journey?
Who doesn't see himself as part James Bond, part Plato, part thinker and
part fighter, knight and scoundrel, simultaneously a product, opponent,
reflection, improvement, and a weak interpretation of his father?
Isn't that the point? Balance with chaos,
another bad guy after the last, a mountain with no peak, a race with no finish?
The modern man, standing across the basement in
the meeting we’re not supposed to talk about, and not supposed to talk about,
is a fight with ourselves that we can't win, won't lose, but will always show
up for. Keeping your dukes up,
because nothing is certain, the only answer is more questions…
It’s a story I don't much like
telling, not that I've often got anyone to tell stories to. I live in a graveyard called Progress
Township in the dead center of a wasteland called Nevada. This is the kind of place that people come
after crossing a line they can’t retreat to.
Each of them then seems to bring that trouble to my door. I haven't had a lot of luck knowing people in
this town. I'm truthfully better at
killing people than knowing them. I
stand at the edge of every happy room and over the man that crossed me at the
end of every fight, when the same rooms turn cross.
Every sinner before me says there's a seat waiting for me
in Hell, not for the wrath of my rifle, but for the little humanity I've got to
offer Heaven. There are only a damned
few truths worth counting on in this withered old west, but for the knowledge that
the sinner or saint that falls under the view of my rifle, from ten paces or as
far as my bullet will travel, falls dead soon after and there's as much good denying
it as there is waiting on a fair life. I
don't expect they keep a set of seraphim wings aside for one with a calling
like mine, but I don't expect if they did I'd much like the company. If I'm bound for hell I’ll take my rifle with
me.
They drew lines around this hole in our country and named
it a state on the day I was born, but our federal government gives us less
thought than the Indian folk they have herded between here and Texas. Personally, I enjoy the value of being
overlooked. It gives me occasion to
observe, to see what most chose to overlook.
On most days I am the postman of this territory, a
cripple limping on a false right leg down a dusty road consumed by my famous
father's lawman shadow. On some nights I
am drawn into using my rifle for more than a counterbalance over my shoulder,
to hide my crooked walk, and to carve a different balance out of the dirt,
blood, and shit of the end of this century.
Use excellent words. The people tolerating you deserve them. Any chance the above words bother you? Having some nasty feelings about their author? Pay attention...
Word:Acrimony
Definition: noun - Bitter, sharp animosity, especially as exhibited in speech or behaviour.
Example: There was a bitter row between the plaintiff, the defendant and their divorce lawyers, and the meeting broke up in acrimony.
Ask anyone who knows me. My pursuit is unconditional and trivial knowledge is encyclopedic.
There is an exquisite anticipation that comes with that eagerly anticipated cinematic experience; the one that has been tantalizing you for weeks with carefully designed preview campaign, trailered in front of recent movie vehicles and during commercial breaks of your favorite TV distractions. As the opening day approaches, film critics from across the virtual landscape line up with their thoughtfully designed and hopefully insightful analyses.
If you seek out these inflections and interpretations as I do, there are times that they did little more than to dash that purest of candied sensations by telling me that my eager anticipation has been misplaced. Every now and then, we the viewers are forced to confront one or more of these opinions in conflict with our hopes, a rhetorical lambasting of that upcoming film treat. The critical community has the power take that sunny window into escape you so long to look through and pull the shade with their negative shroud.
At times that opinion infects your awareness after your viewing and the initial formation of your sovereign opinion, tarnishing the experience in the aftermath. Have you ever emerged from a movie that you found perfectly enjoyable, only to later hear that some pompous fop told the world from his interplanetary movie podium that it sucked because the hero’s muscles weren’t convincingly painted on or main character’s motivation wasn’t explored enough in the third act?
Why do we allow the input of this critical network to affect our enjoyment?
Why is the opinion of a vocal minority ever more valuable than an individual point of view?
Criticism is vital to the interpretation of creative expression, by providing a standard of review, a platform for us all to stand on and form our own opinion, in compliment or contrast to the one previously stated. While that contribution is undeniable to even the most outlandish artist, the role of the critic is rarely more than a byproduct, as brilliantly put in the Disney/Pixar film Ratatouille:
"The average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so."
One of the best things I’ve ever heard formed of English words and I encountered it in an animated children’s film. I love the notion of something so eloquently truthful in the apex of childhood fantasy. Incidentally, that animated film got rave reviews.
So, should we heed the critics?
Should you make your decisions based on the inclination of a critic's thumb? Or even by the whim of their swarthy piper's tune?
Every time I plan to head out to the latest highly anticipated cinematic event I take a moment to read through a handful of online criticisms posted by film critics, reviewers, and bloggers that I have found to either share a viewpoint with my own or have shown to provide a satisfyingly objective perspective. Not to mention, that they seem to want to provide insight, avoid the seemingly standard practice of putting aside thoughtful reflection in favor of some snappy, thoughtless turn of phrase playing upon a reduction of the movie's title.
Every playground has its share of troublemakers. Whenever I see a thoughtless pun, turning like a square wheel on a movie website, hammering through a china shop like a bull chasing a bag of hammers, and smugly simmering next to a thumbnail photograph smiling at me like he’d just hit a homerun off a T-ball stand, I just feel bad for other critics. Filmmakers can handle the barbs, these are artists and circus people who have lived their lives overcoming and bouncing back, but for the most part they are a species of individuals.
Critics have a harder time standing out. By the definition of the process: one product passing through the approval filter, through a gathered consensus. Their voice often speaks as a collective, comprised of both gems and germs.
Criticism can be unpure. For every critic, blogger, or pulp pundit out there looking for something sound bite-ish to attract weary surfers, or quasi-journalists trying to push a political agenda supported by the name signing their paycheck, or those digital voices just drunk with power and influence, and speaking as an artist myself, stop what you’re doing. Consider a career change. You’re an abuser; you’re like a crooked cop.
Refer to the earlier quote and consider yourself the junk. You have already been designated.
I don't think that true critics want to be blindly accepted or followed. I think it is inherent to their practice to be questioned. After all, they themselves are asking questions, they are presenting a formed opinion, which is all but pointless without a counterpoint. Who wants to yell artistic insults into a vacuum? Well… vacuum critics, I suppose.
The cinematic landscape thankfully doesn't exist by the oligargic word of the critic community alone. For better or worse, the legacy of a movie exists both in its critical consensus and box office footprint, and often cultish corners in between, giving a voice to the powerful philistines as well as the intelligentsia. For every Oscar winner there's a Happy Meal toy collection that earns its own immortality. Power to the people; except where Transformers is concerned.
The ultimate station of the critic is to provide conjecture and analysis to all seeking their counsel, but the greater role of analysis belongs to the viewer interpreting with the compliment of earlier interpretation. Any expression of creativity, or explosion of Hollywood blockbuster-hood, relies upon the connection of the piece with the appreciator. Any experience is subject to context and to orbiting opinions and perspectives. We're at our best when we ingest the product of expression and determine its worth as it turns in our own belly.
We need the critics; we should thank the movie gods for them. In their best moments they get the conversation started that turns a movie into visual literature by encouraging the connection between beauty and the beholder.
The duty of every moviegoer is to incorporate the informed rhetoric with their own opinion, enter the experience with an objective opinion, sit back, and enjoy the show.
I went to see a movie the other night, which in and of itself is not really a staggering, essay-worthy event. What is significant, essay-worthy and rant-worthy was the response to this movie that grew around me in the theatre as the climax subsided and the credits rolled; it was a growl of disapproval for a cinematic meal that I found quite satisfying, but for others didn’t seem to provide what it promised on the menu.
The movie was called The American, and I really enjoyed it. It is a thoroughly well-acted, beautifully filmed, and tautly suspenseful character sketch, just as promised. This fact depends largely on whom the viewer sought to do the promising, who wrote the menu, or if the viewer sought any information of the fare at all, outside of crappy commercials, before they sat down at the table . The people around me in the theatre listened to the salesmen and judged the book by its cover, a film who’s only crime was allowing its handlers to preview it as something it wasn’t. The film succeeded for me because the preview failed.
I am before you today to offer less a critical review of the film as I am to comment on the current movie preview trend: To adver-tain every drop possible out of an opening weekend at all costs, none the least of which is often the cinematic expression itself.
I have a great deal of respect for advertisers, and admen and madmen of most every ilk. Their medium is equal parts creativity and communication, an economical narrative painted on a billboard canvas or in thirty seconds worth of persuasion with the utmost innovation. Occasionally and unfortunately, this masterful sense of pop culture karate is used for the forces of evil. Misdirection and the sleight of the editor’s hand can lead potential viewers to gather under a familiar flag, which is often a costume thrown over the real movie designed to be attractive to an intended demographic, rather than a sampling of their noble intentions. Our movie heroes ready to take the stage deserve a hero’s welcome and not a deceptive introduction.
The best persuaders are often the best liars. Every great persuasion has some measure of deception. In pursuit of the pitch, and of the sale, the trends, demographics, targets, market share, the true identity of the product often gets lost in the message. Sometimes in fact the truth finds itself in a distant second to the carefully sculptured message. Marketing persuasion has been known to massage, mask and mould the identities of all manner of politicians and their politics, medicine, pop idols, automobiles, and in my opinion most heinously and unforgivably, movies.
Every commercial, billboard and Twitter tweet is moment to provide the service of informing a potential audience member them that your movie is offering exactly what they seek. The disservice of this marketing deception is not just to the consumer but often to the art itself, which inescapably returns its damage to the artist for what really only amounts to short term financial gains, proportionately speaking.
This disservice was clear as the credits rolled when I went to see The American, a few nights ago. I didn’t know at first what to think when the pleasing taste in my mouth was clearly the minority. I was in a room with a sense that I was nearly alone with my opinion. Not an entirely new sensation in and of itself for me, but normally that sense of isolation is not found in a theatre seat, in the glow of the almighty movie screen.
I’m convinced that the disparity existing between my opinion those grumbling around me was not the fault of the viewers, the wrong ones (them) and the right ones (me, and a quiet couple behind me that I am counting as right), and not the fault even the movie itself. The fault in this case fell to the preview, the advertisement that brought most of the viewers around me in the first place was most directly responsible for the consumers around me not getting what they thought they paid to see.
In the case of The American, both advertisements that I saw, a trailer in theatre and one online, summarized all of the action sequences, added a glimpse or two of George Clooney with his shirt off, and threw in a brooding glance and a clichéd line of the regretful aging lone gunman. The movie is portrayed as Clooney’s Bourne movie, and why wouldn’t it? That is a very promotable formula.
Wouldn’t you like to see that? I would.
There’s only one problem: That is not the movie that you will be seeing. The American is a different film.
In place of the action thriller with some drama in the trailer, The American on the screen is a dramatic thriller with some action, which is certainly nothing to apologize for, but is apparently a less favourable sell. Given the chance to sample the film for what it is: a suspenseful thriller about an aging assassin weary under the weight of his vocation after he tragically allowed it to get personal, the powers that are chose the ultimate sin and dangled a carrot dipped in candy that would appear more appetizing.
I couldn’t help but feel sympathetic for my fellow theatre goers. I could hear a few muted crass remarks about its slow pacing, mingled with a few that weren’t so quiet. An older man, seemingly perfect for the film’s proper demographic stood up and sarcastically stated: “We should have gone to see Vampires Suck.” I could understand their protests and guffaws were at a different carrot, a different hook, a different movie than the one I had just enjoyed.
What if The American was advertised and sampled for prospective audiences as an appetizer more representative of 70s European espionage genre roots? What if it depicted more of the gorgeous pastoral Italian images or the themes of Clooney’s character Jack’s crippled spirit and unrelenting paranoia? Certainly any movie poster with George Clooney written across the top is going to attract an admirable box office tally. Why the need for the deception?
I can just see the studio executives around their conference table during their ill-fated promotional meeting for The American. I can see them presented with two potential campaigns; one displaying the genuine article, a thoughtful and suspenseful character piece, and the candied truffle, by the numbers spy-thriller schematic and accompanying flow chart splattered with dollar signs. I can also see them, after a short debate, ultimately making their choice. I get why the choice is made, time after time. I get the choice, but I can’t understand the choice.
I understand the nature of all the good and bad reasons: to serve their bottom line, to please their investors, to pay their mortgages. But that doesn’t answer it for me. The owners the film, the licensers, distributing rights holders, investors, devils and angels; they have this piece of art to display to the world in a splendour that only cinema is capable, and still they make the wrong choice.
In 2006, a charming and intelligent comedic drama called Stranger than Fiction, with a stellar ensemble lead by Will Ferrell, wowed an overwhelmingly small audience. An unfortunately large percentage of the opening weekend viewership left their respective theatres with a common complaint: “That was not the funny Will Ferrell I was expecting.” It stands out for me, because of how similar the experience was in my reaction to the movie vs. those around me, as what I saw last week.
More appropriately: “All of the funny moments were in the commercial.” The critique had a valid point. I can remember the commercials, a pastiche of random Will Ferrell goofiness, out of context screams and stumbles, and almost completely destroying the actual tone of the film in favour of Ferrell’s trademark slapstick. It is really a great surrealist story about creativity and fatalism, perhaps a tough carrot to candy.
Ferrell’s character Harold Crick: “This might sound like gibberish to you, but I think I’m in a tragedy.” It’s a touching moment that was probably played in the commercial for laughs. I hope I’m not in a tragedy.
The consequences: 1. Millions… well, thousands of pissed off moviegoers. 2. Will Ferrell has elected not to make a similarly smart movie since. I believe he has one coming out in a few months. Here’s hoping the commercials aren’t funny.
I have heard numerous reviews, in the time since that film has retired to the back wall of the video store, from viewers and reviewers who have found it when they weren’t looking for it, that it was a thoughtful and thoroughly enjoyable film. These of course, are movie fans not tainted by the shadow of its promotional campaign.
Here’s a prediction: Everyone who sees The American without having had that trailer in front of it, who enters with an objective outlook, unencumbered by these false expectations will have the chance to enjoy this film. This prognostication is not limited to the two films above, but all of the above and many below.
So, how do we overcome? Is the answer to eliminate orchestrated advance viewing of movies in the few minutes before other movies? And let that time belong solely to the annoying commercials we never agreed to watch?
The best defence is a little education. Don’t let your movie viewing experience be informed by the same jokers selling you their snake oil and political bumper stickers. Avoiding these kinds of surprises, with the movies complicated enough to lie about, involves a fairly simple antidote. Find a critic online or in your local bundle of newsprint with whose opinion you seem to consistently agree and spend a short article’s worth of time researching the fare you plan to dine upon.
Fortunately for we the film addicts, not all movies are complex enough to lie about and fall prey to this minor epic epidemic. Frankly, we often know what we’re getting from the movie poster and the name that appears above the title.
As a somewhat happy ending, I should mention that The American finished the Labour Day Weekend in the No. 1 spot in the box office and positive news is circulating about Will Ferrell’s upcoming dramatic comedy Everything Must Go, about a recovering alcoholic.
The saddest thing of all, I really like movie trailers. They have become a story-telling art form in their own right over the past two decades.
See what I mean with the following exercise: Take a look through your DVD collection and grab one movie from each decade going back to the 60s. Any DVD worth the shiny plastic it’s printed on will have its movie’s original trailer. Start with your most recent pick and work back chronologically. By the early 80s you’ll notice a significant difference and by the time you get to Doctors Strangelove and No the medium itself will be unrecognizable.
We’ve (they’ve) come so far, with an evolved superhuman ability to convey and stir excitement with split seconds and mere glimpses. The next evolutionary step will hopefully be in the musculature around the sense of ethics that compels these editors and synopsizers to be faithful to the stories they’re depicting. People lined up for these movies because of their false previews and for false profits, but other people will enjoy them one day in spite of them.
There’s a difference between creativity and creative ad campaigns, and not the least significant distinction is honesty. Honesty is where the creation of art and the selling of it will forever be divided.
I'm the Canadian in the title, by the way. Thanks for reading.
As promised in my previous post of a similar name, and because shortcomings of this kind are depressingly abundant, here is Part Two of my list of things everyone should know.
If you are suffering, or more to the point causing suffering, from a lack of knowledge of one or more of the items listed below, please read through to the end. Instructions will follow.
Everyone should know:
How to use Four-Way Stops
When was the last time you approached a four-way intersection marked with four stop signs and confronted another driver, and all two or three or four of you knew who was next to proceed?
I'm not talking about a hand gesturing, hi-beam flashing Morse code communiqué that negotiated the next to go. I'm talking about the law; the test question that all of us took on the path to our driver's licenses. Who is the next through the four-way stop when there isn't a mechanized traffic light to guide the thoughtless automatons of automobile antipathy?
If you approach an intersection not governed by the all-knowing red, amber and green of destiny, and another driver opposes you, do you know who goes first?
If you answered yes, you are in the minority.
Almost worse in my opinion, than the lack of knowledge is the culture of the uninformed to offer the polite hand gesture, brake pumping, hi-beam flickering, offering you the gracious chance to proceed in favour of the knowledge of actual protocol. Should a polite hand gesture replace the rules of the road? What if you can’t recognize that I can’t see through the windshield’s glare? What if you prefer to skip the insipid nonsense and just adhere to the agreed upon system formed in law?
This would normally be the point that the reader racked with some measure of guilt, will defensively point a finger back at the screen and declare: "Oh yeah, wiseguy! What’s the right of way, you handsome devil?"
Wisdom: "At an intersection with stop signs at all corners, you must yield the right-of-way to the first vehicle to come to a complete stop. If two vehicles stop at the same time, the vehicle on the left must yield to the vehicle on the right." From the Ontario Government Website. The guy to your right goes first, not the recipient of the gracious hand wave. Simple.
Knowledge is power, and sadly a scarce resource. In our society a forty minute test at the age of sixteen grants a lifetime of driving access. I don’t think I qualify in the same way for anything I qualified for when I was sixteen. From what I've observed, perhaps the office of Driver's License Holder should not be a lifetime appointment.
What I’m talking about
In my day to day life I regularly encounter a common glare of confusion in response to something I'm discussing that is well within general common knowledge. Occasionally this expression is entirely fair. I seem to recall some fairly obtuse and needless information.
I am pretty gifted in the useless gift of Clavin-esque trivial knowledge. It will never make me rich, because I'm not willing to appear on a game show and thus betray my Clavinage, but does prove to be a helpful muscle in everyday conversation.
The problem I have is that when I present a point or make a reference that wasn’t mentioned the previous night on American Idol, the obligation is then on me to slow down and enlighten the withering bulb in front of me to the coded KGB message I’ve stated, like Madrid is the capital of Spain. Why is it that the burden is on me to come down to their knowledge level with something that is perfectly within their grasp? Why don't more people feel the burden to brighten their bulbs up a little?
Celebrities are not Role Models
Actors are role models for actors, not scientists and astronauts. Pro athletes should be role models for young athletes, and only in the manner for which they’ve achieved. Holding famous people accountable for actions that have little or nothing to do with their chosen vocation does not reduce their value but our own. It’s like judging a knife for how well it writes.
This might seem about as obvious as “Don’t use a brick as a flotation device,” but still we not only follow but criticize, analyze, and evaluate public people on their personal and/or private lives. The people, or parents, criticizing the role models that were never intended to be so, should probably turn away from the TV and look in a mirror.
Tiger Woods’ golf is our business, nothing else in his life is.
The Internet has too many voices, but not enough brains
Online opinions are not news.
Every person who reads this blog, or more accurately both people who read this blog, have the power to publish their thoughts and make them available to every person on Planet Internet. Having a voice carries an inherent responsibility. That responsibility falls equally in this era to both the publisher and the reader.
The next evolutionary step we have to make in The Information Age must involve the ability to discern information and opinion, and understand that subscription is a form of contribution. This medium's message is interconnectivity. Know how the information you are reading is collected or ingested, and even if it deserves to be called information. You are responsible for what you read, because even a digital footprint can be measured as support.
That being said, please keep reading.
Social Networking is not a Game, it's a Tool
Like any tool, when used improperly, outside of its purpose or without skilful caution, that tool will injure.
Super Mario Bros, Play-Doh, Lego, and a 1000 piece puzzle can be great pastimes, but they don't actually accomplish anything productive. They are essentially the same at the start as they are at the end, as are their users. They are games.
A chainsaw is very little if not productive, but it is a roaring motor with a chain of sharpened teeth protruding from the side of it. For the people who aren't properly trained, don't take them seriously or aren't paying attention, chainsaws probably do more harm than good. More harm that is, to the lower halves of their legs or to their buddy's fingers.
Understand that the tool you are using connects you and your ‘friends’, and potentially exposes you and them to the entire digital world. I always feel bad for the people I see posting personal thoughts and emotions they are sure to regret, information about their families when they haven’t set their privacy options, or tagged pictures of their friends that look great the morning after a party, but not excellent when a prospective boss does a Google search on them.
I feel an equivalent stream of pathos for the guy with the air-powered nailgun nail sticking out of his forehead. On top on being itchy and an annoying hat deterrent, it is a failure demonstrated to the world.
I’m not trying to suck all the fun out the ubiquitous white and blue fantasy land. Like a guy doing an ice sculpture (with a chainsaw), it can be awesome, when it’s done right.
First Aid
In around six hours of class time you could learn how to save a life. Does this really require any persuasion?
What it's like to be Stoned
The Drug Prohibition Debate or The War on Drugs Debate, depending on to whom you speak or desire to influence, is so bizarre when you think of it. On both sides you have a small number of people deciding what is best for a far larger number. This really at the center of any political debate to be sure, but they are talking about something that only does direct harm to the user, but they are usually fixated on an entirely different form of harm.
Further from that, and far less actionable, but in another way far more insane, is the amount of drugs that are already legal, killing us in far greater numbers and distantly more addictive, namely booze, bad food and nicotine, and are often fundamental staples of our culture.
One person’s medicine is another person’s coffin nail. That’s probably the way it will always be. On the other side, I can’t help but think, and I’m not alone here, that if the staunch anti-drug crusaders put down the wine during their campaign toasts and tried a little ‘puff, puff, pass”, a great deal of the demon would cease to be so scary.
Personally I wouldn't care if all drugs were legal tomorrow and then punishable by stoning (funny?) the next day. Drugs of all kinds are really not a part of my life privately or socially, it's not something I could even give two political rat droppings about. It's the argument that bothers me.
I don't like the fact that it's clear we'll not agree on this any time soon, in fact the forty years of tip toes to the left and back to the right have served only to let illegal traffickers capitalize on misguided crusaders.
I don't like the argument because, from the political podiums of this culture, it isn't being made by people who feel impassioned to make a change for the improvement of a group affected either negatively or positively by drugs, they are using the argument and the ire of their audience to hold up their podiums and sell some campaign buttons. An argument for arguments sake is something I've only done when I was stoned, and it never produced anything fruitful, or nearly as funny as it seemed at the time.
Hey, don't those politicians smell funny, and that one sure is sniffing a lot...
Your Turn to Talk
When was the last time you had someone appear to think it was helpful to endeavour to finish every sentence in a conversation for you? When did become a form of courtesy to pull someone forward through to the end of their statement?
It seems that this instinct, in its most benevolent shade, is intending to demonstrate that you are sharing some sort of wavelength. The person you are trying to communicate with is trying to show how much they ‘get you’ by finishing your thought, like in some giggly romantic comedy.
This is actually dropping an anvil right on the neck of communication, and I’m not just saying because I happen to be consistently dropping nuggets of brilliance that taste better as a complete meal. It is really in the evil black heart of egotism that we find the bravado to assume that our point is more important than that of our…
Opponent?
I was going to say counterpoint.
When to Blame the Tools
There are times when it was the chainsaw’s fault, or your cell phone’s fault or your email’s fault, for maiming or sex texting accidentally, or a ‘reply to all’ when only one was intended. These occurrences do exist. Humans are imperfect and thus we do build imperfect machines to do our cutting, and cutting and pasting.
There are other times, and these tend to be the majority winners, when we should have measured twice, not been attempting the witty text retort while driving, or kept our thoughts on the boss’ company-wide email memo to ourselves, but sadly we ‘human it up’ instead.
There are still other times when we had no business using that particular tool. We didn’t get the training, we skipped the instruction manual, and we nodded blankly as the salesperson offered the warning we should have heeded.
If you are blaming the tool and it is clearly the fault of the inept skill you demonstrate, that the tool is pointing back with the same accusation, or you are that guy with the nail sticking out of your forehead, most often in my experience, the tool is right.
Believe me, it sucks when the tool is right. If you don't know it, learn it.
In conclusion, if you are subject to any of the above failings, please seek help, the proper instruction manual, a little patience, a big joint, or a well designed helmet. There are people out there who do know these things, and they frankly are better humans.
Every now and then I have a shot of brilliance. Of all the sparks in my head that dance from synapse to lobe, among the commands for food, drink, more drink, and stimulus of a more primal nature, every now and then something ignites a eureka and electrocutes my attention. It’s too bad that a spark doesn't shine for too long.
How often do you witness witlessness and needless stupidity in your daily life? Not even stupidity really, which genetically isn’t always the fault of the owner of dull gray matter, but ignorance.
Ignorance is in fact the scourge I have in my crosshairs at this moment. The guy on my wanted poster is not the subject of hereditary misfortune, but a behaviour that each of us has chosen in our weaker moments. Some would argue that the word implies a lack of exposure to certain knowledge and thus a 'get out of jail' freebie, but I see the word as a lack of the interest to self-inform. That's bad. Make no mistake, every ignorance that we commit or are forced to endure is the result of a choice. I say we penalize that choice.
I think there should be a tax, an admission charge to the outside world if you get into your stupid shoes and your dopey hat, and decide to wear them in public.
I believe we can negatively enforce people into smartening up.
Not every ignorance can be opposed. Some are a lifetime encumbrance and have ascended past choice into habit. These habits are spots on a leopard’s back that cannot be changed. Others should be changed, can be changed, and will be changed… with the proper incentives.
What gets through to people faster and better than anything? What cuts to the core, to the root of the matter faster than sensory deprivation, stern correspondence, and corporal punishment? Wallet punishment. Give those succumbing to their ignorance a ticket for being ignorant and fairly soon you’ll have people who finally think more than once about the foot going forward that's left to follow the left.
So what do we ticket? We all have our opinions about the behaviour we see in others that they should have to pay to exhibit. Stupid Tax is a given for many driving quirks we all witness that aren’t quite criminal but certainly aren’t thoughtful: For following too close, gratuitous horn use, leaving that space on either end of your vehicle that’s too small for another in a treasured free parallel parking zone. Though it’s behind the wheel that we mere mortals seem to most commonly take leave of our senses, it certainly doesn’t hold the exclusive rights on ignorami.
I would personally campaign for the addition of certain cosmetic bells and whistles that people add to their cars in the interest of an adopted racecar identity. If you put a trumpet on the end of your vehicle’s exhaust pipe to make it sound stronger, you my friend deserve a ticket, and if you have decal on your window of a cartoon character urinating on another cartoon character, you deserve to pay. Distinctiveness should not make my eyes sore.
For that matter, superfluous and pointless accents of many, almost any discipline tend to be deserving of this dubious distinction. Bells and whistles, when not found officiating hockey games or jingling on the side of a one-horse sleigh, are playing a cosmetic role that the owner can likely do without, and do far better without in the surrounding opinion. If you wear colour contacts, inject and augment certain features of your body, wear an ornament that hurts your body, call attention to yourself through some meaningless symbol, or make an incessant noise for the benefit of no one, than you should be paying the tax.
That bell and the accompanying whistle can indeed also be found on your cell phone. In our digital age these devices of mass irritation must be messaged. Certain cell phone infractions fall under this shadow, hiding from the thought and brightness of public decency. People who use the two-way radio option on their phone to hold a conversation that the entire room is forced to audience, take it outside, get in your car, or pay a fine. If your phone, or your app, or your text message is more important than general courtesy to those around you... in traffic, in the supermarket, or heaven forbid, in the movie theatre, then you are supporting the tax.
If you deliberately use bad grammar, replace ‘s’ in your correspondence needlessly with ‘z’, can’t think of a better title for your movie sequel than the original followed with a ‘2’, make generalist statements about people you don’t know, force others to be sensitive to your politics, talk on your cell phone when your attentiveness and silence is required, abuse your neighborhood garbage removal, treasure your toys more than your home, and discuss your personal politics with strangers, gratuitously play the race card, gratuitously use gratuitous… gratuitously doing anything, disrespect your parents, leave a toilet paper roll empty or the toilet seat up, you deserve to pay.
The next natural question is: who awards these medals of moronic distinction. As much as I would like to be a one-man force for thoughtfulness, I can’t do it all myself. Should the criminal justice system bear this burden? Do they then have to carry another ticket book? Will they want to issue me one of these tickets for issuing them more work? Where do you show up to dispute the charge, and should doing so merit another bigger ticket? Is it stupid to assume we could spare a cop or two?
We need to take ignorance out the hands of the people that abuse the right to be voluntarily stupid. In doing so, I’m not suggesting any Orwellian removal of basic freedoms. Lets face it, every once and while we relish being dumb, and rightfully so. We all deserve the right to let loose, be fallible and learn from our mistakes. Therefore along with my proposed Stupid Tax I suggest The Stupid Mulligan. In the spirit of immaculate imperfection, we all deserve a break.
Be a fool once shame on you, be a dumbass twice… pay up.
Stupid Tax is a principle that goes hand in hand with all of the other ways we penalize each other for our moments of vacancy. The crime is that we have let these less tangible acts go on this long. Though we should be allowed to be fallible, there is no reason to feign ignorance of ignorance. Keep the things you do unto others that no other deserves in privacy of your own cave and feel free to have your thoughtlessness echo through the ages, where no one else can hear.
