http://blogcritics.org/ A sinister cabal of superior bloggers on music, books, film, popular culture, politics, and technology - updated continuously. en Copyright 2005-2007 by the authors Fri, 29 Apr 2005 20:07:13 EDT http://backend.userland.com/rss Blogcritics.org custom software http://blogcritics.org/ Phillip WinnSunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding. Administration0@blogcritics.org Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/04/29/200713.php FinklemanEvery once in a while you run into one of those true raconteurs at a party somewhere (always seems to be in the kitchen.) The kind who can keep a slew of cunts enthralled as he raps out too-perfect set pieces on any number of topics. You know it's part of his trick bag and he's spun the same anecdotes dozens of times before, tweaking them along the way. Strewn amongst the tales, which are delivered like a polished stand-up routine, are memorable lines that make you look at things in a different way. Maybe a product of the speaker's own mind or plucked from some pop-culture guru of the day.But it doesn't really matter where the ideas came from...the cunt's entertaining and besides, he's better than most fools who can barely string together a few coherent thoughts let alone reel off a clever narrative. Waking Life (2001, by Richard Linklater) is a unique animated film that features a series of such individuals, as they keep the main character (and audience) rapt and intrigued via their most passionate interpretations of the world around them. In essence this film is a series of vignettes, sewn together by the main character's search for instruction and insight on life, and ultimately, a way to escape the dream in which he finds himself immersed. The gentle and inquisitive nature of the young man (played by Wiley Wiggins) who may or may not be experiencing the last few moments of his life in a surreal, time-skewed final exit, somehow matches, and guides, the feel and ambience of this memorable film.On first glimpse it appears to be a live-action movie in which artists then drew over top of the original footage. In fact, albeit in layman's terms, that's exactly what it is. It creates an interesting and powerful medium, flashing between varying degrees of a detailed adherence to an authentic representation of visual reality and simpler line drawings that symbolize the different subject matter and states of consciousness that the protagonist is undergoing. The animated format provides unlimited potential for various tricks and added effects, which are always used in interesting ways and add to the overall feel of this evocative film.The various rants and smooth, world-view recitations are at worst, new-age claptrap that couldn't withstand a cursory challenge of the concepts presented. The film is not unconscious of this fact. The wide range of viewpoints presented in the various monologues will undoubtedly provide at least some ideas or new way of looking at things that will appeal to many different individuals. While scoffing at a few, I couldn't help but be drawn into subsequent rants and soliloquies. The film eventually moves towards a discussion on the nature of reality and the power of lucid dreaming.The overall tone of the movie, though created by the seemingly independent voices represented by different characters or types in society, is not averse to mocking some of those very exhortations. Or more accurately, the same characters question themselves and provide a few different avenues for the viewer to examine their words and thoughts. A left or right ideological bent is not necessarily provided as the standard against which to judge various ideas presented. But more concisely: have they come to their views in an honest way? Does their highlighted bit of wisdom provide either a helpful or destructive road map for life?The repeated changing of venues and eclectic mix of different characters seems meant to remind us of the richness of ideas and alternate viewpoints in life. The celebration of the vast array and potential ecstasy of life, the joyous incomprehensibility that keeps us wondering and searching.It reminded me of a television interview I saw with an author, now deceased, a few years ago. The interviewer was querying the venerated literary legend on the amount of written garbage that is produced and lapped up by the masses. Far from taking the bait and segueing into a rant that would, by comparison, highlight himself as brilliant, the author made the point that those creating such supposed "garbage" must be committed to their work for it to resonate with any audience. This film is far from garbage but the point is that the same concept done in a less intelligent way would have fallen flat and come off as contrived and pathetic. Here, the outcome seems so in line with what must have been the film-maker's vision that you can only applaud and take it all in.Like zombie flicks, Neil Young and pints of Guinness, I'm guessing that this is a love it or hate it kind of film. For me the movie worked in many different ways, the most important being that it made me think and feel. Among other things it reminded me to steer away from the constant attempts to degrade, especially about those who make an effort to get close. After all, what is a mate except someone who buys your bullshit and riffs off whatever you have to say?Like a mirror-image of that distinct phenomenon that yanks have foisted onto the world, i.e. the "my-life-as-a-movie" persona, this is at times a movie like that...people rapping so solemnly and deftly that it could only be a movie...but wait a minute, it is a damn movie. It's the sense that so many for so long have been looking out of the corner of their eye, conscious that other cunts are eavesdropping on their deep conversations and marveling at their lives. Here it has come full circle. The "art-as-life" enigma rears its head again, and it is heartily welcomed.Try as I might, I couldn't dismiss this film. The likelihood that it has sparked numerous conversations in dingy university housing flats amongst groups of 1st year liberal arts students is undoubted. I find myself wishing I could take a joyous and ethereal page from this film and transport myself to some of those youthful celebrations.More reviews, travel tales from Thailand and general insanity at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Video28836@blogcritics.org Fri, 29 Apr 2005 20:07:13 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/04/27/082238.php FinklemanAnyone with even a passing interest in international news or specifically regarding south-east Asia and Thailand, will be familiar with the notorious drug war launched a few years ago by the Thaksin government. Since that time there has been a second drug war and a 3rd one is looming. The condemnations are barely heard now as Thaksin has outlawed any reporting on the statistics regarding those killed. I've harped on this numerous times and I won't go into details again. 3, 000 killed extra-judicially in 3 months (with the laughable claim that only a dozen or so were done in by the police), many with identical envelopes of speed tablets and similar handguns found next to their corpses, sums up the brutality and underlying mentality guiding such campaigns.Anyone who uses drugs is only ever a few steps removed from a dealer of some sort, regardless of whether a few joints or pills are being handed on to them by a friend who made the transaction. The belief that being slightly removed from any dealing activities somehow insulates a person from the horseshit that is inevitably associated, is a sentiment I have long sensed from most drug users. While in many countries dealing is now the only illegal aspect of the drug subculture (at least regarding marijuana), in Thailand possession is still a very serious crime that can result in a length of sentence similar to that which a person would face for manslaughter in the west.Once in the orbit of anyone who is providing you with drugs, you are beholden to that person to a certain degree. Add into the mix the fact that your judgement is undoubtedly skewed because of the usage and you are receptive to suggestions and requests from such individuals. If someone is leaning on them, what qualms would they have against using you in any possible way so as to lessen their potential plight or punishment?There are numerous examples of Brits, Australians, yanks and other foreigners banged up in Thailand for getting involved in the drug scene. Bangkok's Bang Kwang prison is full of western fools who thought they were immune from consequences. There is another larger tier below those incarcerated here, most of whom are doing time because of dealing or transporting across international lines, and those are common users. The sneering nonchalance from these individuals never ceases to amaze me. They are happy to tell anyone and everyone of the fact that they regularly smoke reefers during their stay here and assure their listeners that nothing negative will ever befall them because of it. They are the types who will casually spark a joint in the presence of others, oblivious to the fact that any foreigners in their midst are now open to extortion, jail time or deportation in the event that the coppers show up. Unlikely? Of course. Probably hundreds of such fools have come and gone, spent a good chunk of their lives here, engaged in illegal activities and left unscathed.But those fools who are snared never fail to start mewling and are ever eager to try and trade on their western status, a far cry from the image they projected in the time leading up to their arrests.Here are 3 observations I have made regarding those who want everyone to know that they are fearless hard-cases living on the edge in a gritty 3rd world country and are willing to use illegal drugs:1. That they haven't been caught assures them that they never will be in the future. This circular bit of nonsense afflicts many people in various situations. It's a variation on ascribing a run of good luck or the absence of any catastrophe to some inert object or other superstition. "Hey, this rock I carry around in my pocket protects me from tigers/witches/being raped in the ass etc.""How can you be so sure?""Well, it hasn't happened to me, so..."2. They all boast of a connection to some higher-up. To believe all these fools, a person would have to come to the conclusion that all Thais involved in the police force and army are a bunch of malleable, wishy-washy pushovers who take an instant liking to whatever foreigner is in their vicinity and pledges their eternal help to them. This claim of a free get-out-of-jail card is almost to-a-person and truly beggars belief regarding the naivete of these fucks. Do these cunts truly feel that whatever feel-good, flippant comment was offered at some point in the past by some Thai whose path they crossed, some stiff who was/is related to some tart they're fucking, allows them to break the law with impunity?"Ahh, you caught a foreigner and he was dealing smack? But he knows Tittifuck? Cut 'em loose! What the fuck were you thinking?"I wonder if Bang Kwang is full of sad fucks who spend those eternal minutes wondering why their local connection didn't get them off the hook?3. A compulsion to share information. Not unlike many small-time hoods, whose only claims that differentiate themselves from others, are the senseless risks they are willing to take in life. It's as if that added bonus of having others know is the only thing that makes it real for them.That affliction which seems to take hold with lawbreakers the world-over and for which the authorities will always be grateful. To share their own self-perceived daring and callous nonchalance creates an ever-growing web of knowledge regarding their activities. Amongst which is undoubtedly some vindictive cunt, one who may even partake in the backslapping and simultaneously set in motion a gutless series of steps in hopes of seeing the braggart nailed to the wall.Are these fools so lacking in awareness and understanding of the human condition? So inexperienced in the ways of the world that they don't know the masks that people wear? The sociopaths, the sly insincere individuals, the lovers of mayhem, the manipulators amongst us? That no person can ever really know another?Far from gaining a sense of schadenfreude from the plight of anyone who ends up in prison, I wish they would get their heads out of their asses before it's too late.Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Culture28710@blogcritics.org Wed, 27 Apr 2005 08:22:38 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/04/21/113220.php FinklemanHere is a lengthy article on Thailand regarding...what else...that subject which has seen more ink spilled about it than any other single aspect of this country; prostitution. The writer claims to be a jaded denizen of Sukhumvit soi 4 but at times offers up tripe similar to that from which he claims to be offering a respite. Being closer to the action doesn't necessarily provide sharper insight or more believable hypotheses.He starts off well, debunking some statistics that could be dismissed by a moderately trained chimp. The problem is, he adds to the mix his own litany of absurdities and hard-to-believe claims that he likely gleaned from local bullshit artists who bolster and reinforce a take on things that sits well with his view of the world. Among the gems: that Thai prostitutes clean the feet of paying customers before they shag them. Now, In my time here I have never paid to have sex with a woman but I have talked to plenty who have. Never have I heard this unlikely tidbit, something that many scum would probably gain a hearty and patronizing sense of pleasure from if it were true. Before receiving a traditional Thai massage your feet will be washed by a young girl whose sole responsibility is just that, only to allow the masseuse to avoid touching filthy foreign feet. It's not out of the realm, but again, I have never heard about this regarding prostitutes. Another claim, that does seem plausible and has a ring of truth to it, is that Thai prostitutes are generally free agents and not beholden to pimps. Of course, there are reasons that drive them towards the profession but an abusive, controlling individual who skims off most of the profits and keeps the girl desperately reliant, is not a sense many have gained from the girls working at the beer bars of Bangkok. While the writer of this article, like many before him, makes this observation, a significant portion of the piece is devoted to that almost unquestioned issue of human "trafficking" in the region. I don't know the extent of this or how true many of the claims are but the free-agent phenomenon and the trafficking horror stories just don't seem to jibe. How and why are those being trafficked out of Thailand so easily snared and in apparently such large numbers while an even larger number of girls remain in Thailand, unfettered (except for the slobs they endure.) Even on occasion hitting the jackpot, marrying a farang and, as the author states, returning to their villages with "no social disgrace attached."Fuck!! No stigma attached to a poor Isaan girl who is in any way connected to a farang? This alone tells me that the writer is relying on input from those he thinks are hip to the scene. Like many minorities in the west who are more conscious of their differences than the majority they feel threatened by, poor Thais are as hyper-conscious of social stigma as anyone in Thailand and usually more so. The foreigner-with-a-Thai-woman-must-be-a-prostitute canard is one that is alive and well amongst the lower classes.The writer does have questions for assorted NGO's about the reported statistics of such trafficking but this core contradiction of relative freedom on one hand and the international trade in flesh on the other, doesn't cause him to ponder this dissonance to the degree it deserves. So instead of bracing those who potentially benefit from such half-truths and the belief that this supposed murky underworld exists, he dances around the issue. I'm guessing it's because he is likely part of the world of NGO's himself.Some more problems I have with the article are regarding the claims of wages paid to rural Thais. Most importantly, are these figures based on unemployed people as well, which, if grouped with those who are working, would drag down the average. His figures are that 1/3rd of Thais make less than 2 dollars US per day. This would be the equivalent of 80 baht per day. Poverty and exploitation of the poor is horrific here and I personally know of numerous people being screwed in various hell-on-earth jobs. However, I do take issue with the specifics. I have never heard of anyone in the last few years getting less than 100 baht per day for a grueling 10-12 hours of physical labour. That in itself is beyond sickening as far as a true crime against humanity and I am only quibbling over a difference 20 baht but still, it seems articles like this take liberties in order to ratchet up the *gasp* factor. He further claims that 1 in 6 make less than 1 US dollar a day. Less than 40 baht per day? 10 million in Thailand at this rate of pay? I don't believe it unless there are some credible sources and statistics provided to back it up. Another matter concerns the core of scum who gleefully trip on shamelessly using, exploiting and discarding young vulnerable Thai women and who perpetuate the myth of them as cagey vipers so as to absolve themselves of any guilt. There is no doubt these men do exist. But as usual, a uniformity and a kind brotherhood of such people is implied and stated outright, which imbues that sinister and easy-to-loathe pall that adds to the appeal of such an article, a kind of sensationalism which the writer himself takes issue with.However, he makes a few valid points throughout. One I have long echoed, and that is the fact that prostitution is far more accepted and thus indulged by Thais and other Asians than it is for western tourists and expats. The garish-street front bar/hook-up joints and the strange and pathetic acting out by the core of western fools who do partake gives many a sense that perhaps the numbers are greater than what reality would show.A generalist piece which offers no new insight, arrives at few conclusions save for the obvious, and at times is maundering and unfocussed, it is still worth a look.Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Culture28469@blogcritics.org Thu, 21 Apr 2005 11:32:20 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/04/19/062842.php FinklemanYears ago while hitch-hiking through Spain with a friend, we gratefully slumped into a car that had stopped after we had stood for long hours at the same petrol station trying to flag a ride. It was close to dusk and before entering the vehicle we of course briefly conversed with the driver to determine if he was going our way. There was a strong scent of alcohol in the car, but we needed a lift and so we readily got in without a second thought.What followed was the closest I have ever come to death. A frightening ride during which the extremely drunk driver travelled at rates over 200 km/h, blazed towards oncoming traffic as he lurched fearlessly into the passing lane and came within inches of cars we sped past. I didn't experience the "life flashing before my eyes" that many talk about though I consciously said goodbye to all my family members and braced for what I was sure was inevitable impact.Amazingly, we survived the ordeal, which lasted for an unbearable and sickening few hours, covering close to 600 km in the time that most sane drivers would have gone 200. At one point the drunken fool slowed down to a speed just over 100km/h and started slumping forward, ready to pass out. I jarred him awake and he continued on. Our obvious fear seemed to spur him on. A few kilometers from our intended destination we stopped at a tollbooth. Though all but unspoken, it was clear that my mate and I both had feared for our lives and hoped the nightmare would end as soon as possible. Yet this brief respite, which offered a chance to bolt from the vehicle, was not taken by either one of us. We had both hoped for a chance to get away from this reckless fool yet when the opportunity arose, we didn't react. Moments later, our destination and safety greeted us as the fool left us and sped off into the distance. But who were the bigger fools?A number of years after that experience I found myself working a dream job--skiing in the Swiss Alps. Though a mere beginner on skis, I somehow landed a job working at the topmost peak...an actual glacier. The chief of the station was a Swiss bloke who could speak only a few words of English. He went out of his way to assist me at work and getting set up in the small village at the base of the mountain where I resided. It was one of those experiences that remain seared in my mind for positive reasons, so much so that I returned the next season.A fairly serious injury derailed my season the second time around. After I left, I lost touch with all those with whom I had worked and together enjoyed the thrill of being on top of the world for a few months each of those 2 seasons. A few years later I was in Eastern Europe and decided to nip back to that beautiful location in Switzerland and see the sights in summertime, as well as catch up with some of the locals I remembered and had worked alongside. Upon arriving at a local guesthouse in the resort town, I queried the owner about the whereabouts of my Swiss friend who had been so helpful during my time there. I was stunned to learn that he had been killed in a skiing mishap 2 years prior. The next day I promptly made my way to the maintenance garages connected to the resort, where most of the men I had worked with spent summers readying the litany of equipment and machines for subsequent winter seasons.The details of my friend's demise were gruesome. Working at the very top of the mountain meant that weather conditions could change dramatically, without warning and in a short amount of time. A beautiful blue sky, hot sun and no wind could turn into a vicious storm within 20 minutes. I had seen it happen many times during my time there and it was truly something to behold.However, on that fateful day he had headed up, there was no doubt as to the conditions. Things were bad and it was unlikely that skiers would be allowed near the top. As such, he headed up alone while the remaining staff who usually accompanied him were sent to other parts of the mountain. His only intent was likely to give the lift equipment a quick check and batten down everything for the impending storm.He must have gone to the uppermost point (which requires a final ride on a t-bar lift) and then been on his way down on skis when things really turned bad. Somehow he had had one of his poles positioned in front of him--something he had always cautioned me against when I was learning the basics--when it jammed into something that wouldn't give...an outcropping of rock, hard-packed snow...who knows? When travelling at high speeds a ski pole can become a lethal weapon. Exactly why he had admonished me on a number of occasions those years earlier as we had blasted down the slopes in a spread out file and upon one of the group in the lead dropping a scarf, I tried to snare it with my pole on the way past.Just what he had warned me against had happened to him; the pole sliced through his groin area, impaling him and rupturing a major artery. As the life rushed out of him he made a frantic call on his walkie-talkie, calling for a helicopter to airlift him out. Unfortunately weather conditions never make allowances for the severity of the situation of someone who is trapped or injured in a precarious location in the outdoors. The weather had become so severe that the helicopter wasn't able to land in those crucial early minutes. By the time things cleared enough for them to make a landing it was too late. I wonder if he had kept an open line on the walkie-talkie, maybe sensing things were almost over and giving some last minute instructions or some final message to be passed on to his family. More likely the shock and rapid blood loss he initially reported resulted in frantic shouting from those at the other end of the walkie-talkie and only silence on his end as he went unconscious and his life came to an end on those slopes he had worked for so many years.Both of those examples are different but have a few common threads running through and raise similar questions about human reactions, survival and the situations we find ourselves in. How and why do accidents occur? Are there some people pre-disposed to react in a more efficient and clear-headed manner when the going gets tough? Does thinking through a potential situation before it ever happens provide any hope that a person will respond correctly upon such an eventuality? Or, despite having vague ideas about potential emergencies playing out, without having ever experienced them, are humans absent a mental map which can guide them to safety?These and more are some of the questions that are addressed and themes that run through a fascinating non-fiction book by Laurence Gonzales entitled Deep Survival. Gonzales has spent a lifetime undertaking and writing about extreme sporting activities, risky professions and dangerous human behaviour in general. In this book he brings together his years of experience in studying and observing the reactions of people faced by such stress and in particular he deconstructs numerous accidents that have occurred to various people along the way. The question that has always intrigued him and forms the underlying theme of this book is: why exactly do some people react better than others and in the process survive any number of frightening near-death experiences brought about by the vagaries of chance, the chronically underestimated forces of nature and plain stupidity?The results as instructed by his years in the field and supported with loads of research from various psychologists, doctors, survival experts and the testimony of survivors themselves, would have many self-proclaimed hard cases second-guessing their own boasts of how well they would handle themselves when the shit hits the fan. One recurring observation that comes home again and again after a thorough analysis of numerous screw-ups in the wilderness by weekend warriors and hardened individuals with a lifetime of experience under their belts, is the power of the human mind. There is no good pre-indicator that tells us which individuals will handle themselves better under stressful and dire situations in the wild. A teenaged girl is just as likely to respond in a way that will increase her likelihood of survival as opposed to a seasoned outdoorsman. This is not just some quirky unfounded claim but something borne out by statistics as detailed by Gonzales and backed up by the various experts in the field whom he interviews in the book. However, look closely at a person's thought process and analyze their actions under stress and certain "eerie similarities" exhibited by survivors do emerge, such as the fact that rule-breakers are more likely to come out alive as opposed to the rigid rule-followers of the world. While individuals normally can't be assessed accurately on first glance as to how well they would respond in tough situations, there does appear to be statistical evidence regarding demographics. Children under the age of 6 actually have one of the highest rates of survival when being lost in the wilderness and this is even more proof regarding the power of learned processes. Children at that age are not cognizant of the idea of "being lost," thus the realization and subsequent panic never dawns on them. If the mind has not already been conditioned to live in the world of urban convenience we have constructed, which is highly forgiving and induces certain patterns of rewards and expectations, then it appears survival in the wilderness is more likely. Myths, such as various aboriginal peoples of the world being inherently more attuned to the ways of wilderness, a long-held belief that fits into the hazy, karmic law of compensation that so many fools ascribe to and that somehow soothes our consciences, are tossed aside. That certain individuals from such populations are more skilled in survival in the bush and have a greater feel for direction than others is not in doubt, but this is simply from an awareness and subsequent practice from an early age.Gonzales spins a highly entertaining and readable narrative in which he deconstructs numerous extreme sporting accidents and highlights common themes upon which he then extrapolates with various theories and personal observations. Every chapter has its own series of mishaps and tragedies told in a way that pulls no punches...never mocking the sometimes incredibly naïve, ill-prepared fools, yet always being brutal in the assessment of how and why they fucked up. No matter how easy it is for a reader of these tales to shake their head in disbelief at how brazenly obvious the impending disaster was, Gonzales always drives home the point that this is the very nature of such accidents. Just as in everyday life while performing some trivial task, the same litany of factors influence every decision while rappelling down a steep slope. From peer pressure, the desire to impress, laziness, tiredness, daydreaming...the reasons are multitude. Of course the potential consequences are much more deadly but that is readily apparent. That you haven't ever experienced such a situation and thus are lacking the mental map to respond and which inhibits your ability to survive is what is key.Or as Gonzalez opines on the word 'experienced': "(it) often refers to someone who's gotten away with doing the wrong thing more frequently than you have."Just as a few conditions need to come together to set the stage for disaster, the absence of such conditions convince many that they know what they are doing when in reality they have been blundering along at some weekend past-time from the beginning, lucking into their string of "successes". That more fuck-ups don't occur is what is so surprising.This book is jammed with shrewd insight and well-articulated hypotheses and observations. It's one of those books that takes you a while to read--not because there is any lack of desire to keep plowing through the pages--but because it continually hammers you into a reverie and forces you to stare off into the distance and ponder something that the author has so perfectly highlighted.For some, Gonzalez may go a bit too far in the early going as he establishes the concept and poses the questions that make up the running theme of the book. Nothing he writes goes so far as to be called filler, and though extrapolation is the stock in trade of non-fiction writers, in an attempt to ensure the big idea is lost on no reader, he sometimes adds more than necessary in those early chapters. It is clear that this is a topic that is dear to his heart, something so intimately intriguing to him that he has essentially devoted his life to experiencing, observing and writing about it. Another thread running through the book is the author's own personal experiences as well as those of his father, who flew during WWII as a bomber pilot. Usually a clear writer of crisp passages and memorable lines, only occasionally does he add unnecessary throwaway lines such as: "When I first heard that story, I almost wept, because it seemed so much like me and my father."Scant criticism for a book that, overall I highly recommend. Like all good books it leaves you wanting more.The subject matter is one that will resonate with most men, at least, and probably a growing number of western women as well, for whom an ever-expanding swath share the aspiration to be men. As the famous saying goes, the greatest compliment one man can hear from another is praise for performance in battle or on the field of play. Everyone likes to fancy themselves as possessing at least a modicum of physical ability and for many, competitiveness is a motivating factor behind everything they do. With prosperity available to most apes of average intelligence from western countries, the number of people turning to extreme sports for recreation and the opportunity to prove themselves outside of their bland office existence will continue to grow. Gonzalez not only deconstructs numerous survival incidents that stand alone as entertaining pieces but also provides some incidental as well as prescribed advice on how to best prepare your mind for such encounters. Through those compelling mishap post-mortems, patterns necessarily emerge and some conclusions can be drawn, though Gonzalez also shows reverence for those unknown factors that remain a mystery. Ultimately, every person will only ever know their true reaction if and when such a difficult situation arises. As Gonzalez so concisely points out on a number of occasions throughout, you can only hope that you've spent a lifetime building up a solid core that will help you to respond.Or, as one such maxim from the ancient philosopher Epictetus states, plucked from numerous Gonzalez includes and which demonstrates that the enigma of human survival has always intrigued and driven mankind to further understanding:"On occasion of every accident (event) that befalls you, remember to turn to yourself and inquire what power you have for turning it to use."Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Books28335@blogcritics.org Tue, 19 Apr 2005 06:28:42 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/04/12/030559.php FinklemanFor any piece of writing to be effective it necessarily has to keep the reader intrigued. Writers of non-fiction will inevitably stray towards sensationalism and exaggeration so as to make the piece interesting enough to be read to its conclusion. Things are simplified and packaged into a nice theme that fits into the one thousand word format.The temptation and thrill at being able to create worlds and having others take their renditions as accurate has driven many writers to blur the line between fact and fiction. There are other reasons as well; to ease the pressure of deadlines, avoid annoying things like research and other types of legwork and increase the writer's personal success. The parsing of reality into the most objective and truest representation possible is usually not the one that will result in the most entertaining read though typical praise would lead a person to believe otherwise.Take war as a subject, for example. Anyone convinced of the authentic nature of a piece about the horrors of war is in reality congratulating the writer on his skill in constructing an entertaining narrative. That the reader has been affected by the writing, focussed more on a particular issue and come away reeling at the inhumanity of it all is probably a good thing. Had fiction-like tools not been used to strengthen the narrative and ratchet up tension, the reader may not have felt compelled enough to continue reading to the end.It's not that elements of fictionalized stories don't exist in the real world. It's not that most people when queried wouldn't accept that any particular example of non-fiction necessarily reflects the writer's own bias and a desire to be heard. Most would admit to a healthy skepticism regarding anything they read but at the same time we like to be taken along for an entertaining ride. If we gain something that we think instructs us on life and provides a one-up on others, then all the better.Loathe to admit that they're the ones providing all the angles in an attempt to give more credence to whatever unique slant they're attempting, writers will introduce composite "friends," unnamed sources and supposed insiders. All of whom take the place of real characters. Sure, many of these are real people providing authentic insight and supporting a thesis, but liberties are often taken in this regard.Like war, stories about the dangers of drugs almost inevitably end up romanticizing the ordeal. Newspapers and magazines are replete with suburban redemption tales with the survivor highlighted as someone who has truly accomplished something. There seems to be therapeutic value or just the plain thrill of having your own life romanticized by a skilled writer that seems to move people to want themselves featured in such a piece (often referred to as a tot piece--triumph over tragedy.) What steps do people like this actually take to alert the media that they've ridden out the requisite personal horror and are now ready for the final step towards recovery, to have their personal lives smeared all over some rag in a sensationalistic piece?Do they simply place a call to the paper's switchboard and are then transferred to the writers on staff known for spinning such tales? Perhaps there's a name bank with various categories, rape, drug addiction etc., and when a particular tragedy becomes the flavour of the day, one of the fools is contacted.Just as a chronic lender of money is the one least likely to pay it back, so the individual with the compulsion to see the intimate details of their life aired in public may provide skewed insight. Perhaps they've studied such accounts and tailored their own story to follow a similar formula. They might recognize that the facts or solid logic expressed usually don't resonate as much as a particular imagery, a particular stylistic pattern that is more easily consumed by the masses.If these are problems inherent in non-fiction, then the much more prevalent examples of fiction storytelling must surely be free from such obstacles.However, while those obstacles may not be there, the end result might be similar. It is just that prevalence that makes all forms of fiction--and most prominently, film and television---the single source for providing insight into moral dilemmas for many people in society. While ostensibly the same level of diligence doesn't apply as it is "only entertainment," audiences may in many cases attach as much significance to works of fiction.You would receive a head-shaking, breath-exhaling, monumental scoff from most if you suggested they have their world view shaped by cinematic renderings. Yet those same people are likely willing to give their validation to certain, well-done pieces; "a realistic war movie," "a shocking look at the effects of drug abuse." That they themselves have never experienced such things and have no true barometer of authenticity is only proof that their seal of approval is simply a nod towards the director's ability to produce what they conceive as a convincing piece.Or maybe that's elevating some experiences to such a plane that even undergoing such an ordeal yourself would leave you wondering if it was authentic...All of these considerations are part of that age-old question; "Does art imitate life or does life imitate art?" and were part of my thoughts after having watched Requiem for a Dream.This film slipped under my radar back in 2000 when it was released but in recent years I have heard plenty of feedback, the kind of buzz reserved for those gut-punch movies that leave you reeling and are usually proclaimed authentic for that reason alone.It's a film based on the book by the late Hubert Selby Jr., a yank writer who was influenced heavily by the so-called beat writers of the 50's and 60's. Take the Kerouac stream of consciousness style and fuse it with some of Ginsberg's matter-of-fact/celebratory musings on the junky scene and you have some idea of Selby's style. Filmed a few years before his death, Selby even has a brief cameo appearance in the movie. Selby was known for looking at the dark side of life and exploring human pain to its fullest. This film follows that tradition and is based in a fitting locale.Anyone not familiar with the US through travel or time spent living there has still developed a hazy mental image and feel (however inaccurate it may be) for various locales in that country due to a lifetime of watching Hollywood movies. Coney Island is a place that always evokes a strange mix of dreary imagery; lost hope, yearning, a not unappealing physical setting (the water and Manhattan skyscrapers in the distance) scarred with the ever-present dilapidated amusement park rides and boardwalk.The kind of place where blue-collar workers end up--the ones who can't afford the more expensive neighbourhoods of New York city. Add in retirees who lived modest middle-class lives and the usual collection of directionless youngsters in every bleak, dead-end town who can never quite get it together to get move on to bigger and better things once they have grown, and you have the Coney Island of my mind's eye.This then is the setting for the film, one that charts the course of 4 lives and the impact of drug addiction upon them. Pain is sublime, pure and all encompassing in this ordeal of a movie, where there is never any doubt regarding who will win--the narcotics (actually heroin in 3 cases and a nasty diet pill addiction in the other) or the characters involved. The only matters in question are how sweetly wrenching their downfalls will be, what horrific fate awaits each and whether any sense of hope at all can be snatched from the depths of despair.In essence this film is comprised of 4 character sketches in self-destruction as induced by dependence on drugs. None of the minor obstacles thrown in the way of the characters are overcome so much as embraced. There are some not unexpected twists to the semblance of a plot but again, the downward trajectory is never really halted or in question.The story centers around Harry Goldfarb (played by Jared Leto), his girlfriend Marion (Jennifer Connelly), their friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans) and Harry's mother, Sara (Ellen Burstyn).The 3 youngsters descend into their heroin hell with a brief respite as a half-cocked plan to get some money from dealing so as to fulfill their dream the title refers to, disintegrates and their slow-motion suicides are back on track.The plight of Sara Goldfarb is slightly different from the others though no less painful to watch. A widow who lives in a dingy flat and spends her time watching surreal daytime game-shows, she receives a call from a telemarketer convincing her that she too can appear on television. This quickly becomes her entire reason for living, ,her dream, and in preparation for some anticipated future TV debut, she finds a doctor who prescribes a teeth-gnashing, manic cycle of amphetamines to help her lose weight. Ellen Burstyn does a good job in her role and will evoke a great deal of sympathy and empathy from most viewers.The scenes cutting to and from the game-show she watches together with the drug-induced illusions in her flat become a bit monotonous at times though overall the effect is quite good.In fact, there are good performances all around in this film. All the actors squeeze some undiluted pain into their deliveries, including some scenes that must have been just as difficult to pull off as they are to watch. However, in a film that, as mentioned, is character driven, with the exception of the aging and pitiful Sara, there isn't much insight into what brought these individuals to this point in time and what makes them such vulnerable specimens, ripe for the corrosive effects of addiction. They each get at least one chance to pour out their souls to each other in the calm before the storm, as they stroke themselves into pain-numbing bliss with each subsequent hit, but where did this capacity for weakness and self-destruction come from? Maybe it's in all of us to varying degrees and the most sensitive and naive will succumb to the evils of drug use more easily if we choose to take that route.Jenniffer Connelly's was another performance of the 4 that struck me. She has established herself as an actress skilled in capturing the emotional pain of a character and distilling it into some riveting performances (for another similarly impressive role, see her in The House of Sand and Fog.)The theme that runs through this is simple and stark: DRUGS ARE BAD. No matter what your intentions, once you choose that path you're fucked. It doesn't come off in a condescending or lecturing way in the least...here are 4 people and what happened to them, take it as you will. Of course people like this who fall prey to the insidious side of drugs do exist and are easy to find, just as are the recreational, functional user type.The results as detailed here play into the well established pop-culture story-line of heroin as the nastiest of the nasty and can't help but romanticize the lives of the characters to some degree no matter how gritty and merciless their ends are. It's the slow-motion suicide, do something up right even if it's self-destruction, no subtleties to be had motif that I'm guessing has resonated so well with the MTV generation. As a result this film has almost reached that cult-like status, on the must-watch list of everyone who knows they're hip to the hardcore realities of the world.Director Darren Aronofsky does a good job here with gloomy atmospheric scenes with plenty of close-ups of tortured faces and some unorthodox (though such methods are becoming so common as to be less and less experimental) uses of the camera to capture various emotions and moods. The climax is the culmination of a relentless march towards total misery and leaves the viewer hammered senseless with nary a shred of hope.There is not much in the way of feel-good emotions to be gained by the viewer here, except to marvel at the depths of others despair, feel the weight of empathy and be thankful for your own trivial problems in life.Now! Where can I score some of that insanely powerful junk so as to induce a wrenching downward slide into hell that will result in my being eulogized by jaded hipsters for generations to come?Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Video28045@blogcritics.org Tue, 12 Apr 2005 03:05:59 EDT http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/02/22/041631.php FinklemanI remember years ago working behind a bar in an attempt to cobble together some money and move on. The dreary work had few appealing aspects but the number of wackos you ran into was always good for the entertainment value.One day, a freakish acquaintance of one of the stiffs who worked there bounced in, eager to relay the details of his intriguing life. He started speaking to his mate and I shamelessly listened in from a few metres away. He started off with a breathless flurry of recent developments, including praise for a recent book he had begun reading. He had spoken barely a few words on the subject when I knew without any doubt to which book he was referring. His sparse initial comments would have been barely enough for most to register a guess but somehow I knew beyond any doubt.It was his mannerisms and desultory banter together with touching on what he would claim was a life-changing "literary" experience. I groaned to myself and muttered, "not another cunt on about The Celestine Prophecy." You may remember this title from a few years back and may have even read the bland prose yourself.Take The Celestine Prophecy with its conspiracy laced yet ostensibly benign, new-age horseshit and infuse it with an insane dose of paranoid fear and hatred and the sinister mirror-image result is The Turner Diaries, an underground novel that has been the favourite of inbred, white-trash gun loving yanks for years. The kind of fools who are genuinely frightened that their right to own guns is at risk, that the hordes of immigrants flooding their country is part of a sinister plot orchestrated by "the Jews" to take over the world.The popularity of such novels is not surprising. Their underlying premise is one which appeals to those unwilling or unable to explore issues and seek real and genuine knowledge on any given subject. They pander to every fear and desperate anxiety that exists in society and draw in countless wide-eyed, awe-struck individuals because of the fact that, of course, there are numerous instances where governments do lie, and undertake duplicitous, murderous acts and some things do always remain unexplained. Buying into such books and the surrounding subculture allows those people to bypass any effort necessary to acquire objective knowledge from a wide variety of sources and makes them feel they are in possession of the truth. At the same time they gain sense of belonging and feel part of a group who are hip to what's really going down.I first heard of The Turner Diaries quite a few years ago, the name uttered with smug satisfaction by members of various hate groups, white supremacist organizations and fanatical gun owners on talk shows or internet discussion forums. There was always the cachet of secrecy; the fact that it was never available by usual means such as at book-stores, instead sold at gun shows and traded at clandestine meetings by breathless oafs bristling with the anticipation of an armed showdown with government forces al a Waco, Texas.With the ease of obtaining such books via the internet, any mystery surrounding shit like this has been washed away. It was never widely available simply because it is such an all round terrible piece of work. If this is the best these clowns have to offer then the powers that be truly having nothing to be worried about regarding armed revolt.Told in the 1st person in a chronological way loosely adhering to a diary format, it tells the story of a future revolution spearheaded by those truly intelligent gun-loving wackos who knew it was coming all along. Telegraphed in the most straightforward way, there is absolutely no evidence of any skill or technique that contributes to good storytelling. Obviously no one ever told this fool about the most basic premise in fiction writing; show don't tell. Of course, just as previous crap such as The Celestine Prophecy could barely be referred to as a novel, this is nothing more than a rabid right wing tract.Ham-fisted, laughable symbolism delivered in the most obvious way so as not to miss the studious glare of the intended audience is rife throughout. Every targeted person is warranted to have attained their position or success by underhanded means and of course sports an obviously Jewish name.There were no bricks handy so we equipped ourselves with blackjacks consisting of good-sized bars of Ivory soap inside long, strong ski socks...We parked about a block and a half from Berman's liquors, around the corner.The causation fallacy is in wide use throughout this poorly written load of tripe. Non-sequiturs abound in which some social ill is mentioned and then a phrase that encapsulates one of the fears that motivate these fools is casually tacked on, the simplistic association enough to stoke the rage of the brainless cunts most likely to be rocked by such stunning revelations.To ensure that no one misses any of the connections here, the government and any type of officialdom is referred to as the System while the pure crusaders are part of the Organization.The paucity of imagination is further evidenced in the passages where violence is wreaked on those who are supposedly responsible for the plight of the honourable, hard done by working class caucasians. Their rights and sense of morals have been destroyed by the menace of liberal ideas as delivered by the sinister Jews:Someone walked up to him while he was waiting for an elevator in the lobby of his office building, pulled a hatchet from under his coat, cleaved the good Jew's head from crown to shoulder blades, then disappeared into the rush hour crowd.Again, unintentionally farcical. A person can't help but wonder if this was intended as pure satire. However, further reading makes it clear that this fool's brain nearly short circuits when he feels it is time to unload some more bilious hatred. The almost incoherent and nonsensical results are truly absurd:She gained an understanding of the unique historical role of the Jews as the ferment of decomposition of races and civilizations. More importantly she began acquiring a sense of racial identity, overcoming a lifetime of brainwashing aimed at reducing her to an isolated atom in a cosmopolitan chaos.The stock in trade of all raving conspiracy theorists is utilized throughout in which a shred of truth is taken and then wildly extrapolated to feed the paranoid nightmares that these clowns thrive on.The bare semblance of a plot maunders along with various acts of terrorism as provoked by, what else, the US government decision to ban gun ownership as dictated by the appropriately named "Cohen Act." Interspersed with the rabid anti-Jew, anti-liberal, anti-immigrant mantras and platitudes that guide these wackos, it is amazing that this ponderous tale apparently helped to motivate Timothy McVeigh to bomb a US federal government building in Oklahoma in 1997.What is interesting is the similar language and emotions regarding the indignant and long suffering common people and the need to strike back against governments as compared to the rationale spouted by the current brand of Islamic terrorists who are effectively fucking with yanks. If even a fraction of the injustices that the US government and its military have perpetrated on the world were experienced by the yanks whose lives are made easier by such actions, then perhaps these raving lunatics would actually gain enough adherents to see their twisted dreams come to fruition.It must be assumed that those who go for this horseshit would be sympathetic to the cause of the Islamic terrorists who struck on 9/11. The rationale could be almost be taken word for word, albeit with different underlying motivations:That is, can we justly blame what has happened to us entirely on deliberate subversion, carried out through the insidious propaganda of the controlled mass media, the schools, the churches and the government? Or must we place a large share of the blame on inadvertent decadence--on the spiritually debilitating lifestyle into which the Western people have allowed themselves to slip in the 20th century?And another passage which should serve to demonstrate the admiration these individuals logically should have for bin Laden and his boys:That is he didn't understand that one of the major purposes of political terror, always and everywhere, is to force the authorities to take reprisals and become more repressive, thus alienating a portion of the population and generating sympathy for the terrorists. And the other purpose is to create unrest by destroying the population's sense of security and their belief in the invincibility of the government.They both hate the US government, Jews, liberalism and turn to thousands of years-old fairy tales for comfort. A closing portion of the book even foretells, in yet another awkward and almost orgasmic passage, the death that liberated Palestinians will eventually wreak on Israelis with the help of the enlightened geniuses depicted in the book. Though I'm guessing there is some appropriately specious reasoning which allows Muslims to be just another group they have included in their net of blame and hatred in recent years.This rambling screed is not much more than a vast wet dream for what such paranoid lunatics hope will eventually transpire and in that sense they must be insanely jealous of what Al Qaeda has accomplished.As if sensing that his wild tale is not hitting the mark, the author keeps inserting meaningless asides just so as to introduce more laughable predictions of what a dystopian future awaits a US that has been poisoned by liberal values. The old "large groups of Blacks roaming the streets" is ratcheted up to include a future where gang-rapes by Blacks in school classrooms is the norm. The simplistic ham-fisted rendering is the sign of a talentless fool and a likely indication of how he rates the lowlifes likely to lap up this garbage.The hypocrisy is so complete it is laughable; evident in every claim made by the narrator against the tormentors of caucasians and then perpetrated times 10 by the supposed heroes of the tale. Most striking is the constant demonization and degradation of Jews and spluttering passages where they are casually slaughtered. Every frightened ignorant claim ever made against them is floated here, coming from every and all angles, never infused with even a shred of logic and all pointing to an invincible and superior group of people. A group of people this fool is obviously insanely jealous of and in fact would like to emulate, for the narrator seeks to be part of an elite group that rules the world, just as these scared fools are convinced Jews do at the present time.Fraught with contradictions, fallacies, inconsistencies and obsessive and continual lies, all soaked in an invincible paranoid fear, it is not surprising that this absolute load of shit appeals to those 2 ignorant groups of yanks for whom these qualities are also the motivating forces: bible beaters and fanatical gun owners.Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in bangkok Books25832@blogcritics.org Tue, 22 Feb 2005 04:16:31 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/01/18/104110.php FinklemanThis book reads like a lengthy satire magazine. Not surprising as it is a volume of political wit from Jon Stewart (and his staff of writers), the acclaimed current yank master. But it even looks like a glossy mag (cum bizarro world instruction guide), with loads of amusing inserts: pie charts, graphs and humorously bastardized words and pictures of famous philosophers and politicians. Photocopies of these clever additions are likely already adorning dorm room walls and cubicle separators throughout the land.Aimed at the college crowd and those under thirty who make up the apparent loyal and sycophantic following of Stewart's, they will hail this as another example of his brilliance. Having not yet seen his acclaimed television program I was free from any bias. After finishing the book I'm guessing his real talent is on the glass tit, though there are still plenty of laughs to be had here.While his brand of humor and delivery is near genius levels according to his fans, it is impossible to develop any type of real narrative using this style in print. Quips, one-liners, droll observations and the ever popular insertion of a current or recent pop-culture reference into an historical situation, morphing the 2 into amusing scenarios replete with double and triple entendres, are quickly established as the few gimmicks in his shallow but never empty trick-bag. As is the habit of fake quotes attributed to historical figures in which they use the word "fuck," which wears thin after the first half dozen times.The grandiose claims that have adorned the public declarations and unctuous volumes, as well as the smarmy politicians who have peddled lies throughout history as highlighted against the true shit-caked, hypocritical reality, is the ostensible theme of the book. In fact, the real motif that eclipses that and exists throughout is...the collective wit of Stewart and the group of professional writers who assisted him. Not a bad substitute considering how skilled they are.Ranging from "Democracy Before America," through the other nine blandly titled chapters covering various aspects of the US government system and closing with "The Rest of the World," the over-riding shtick is that it is meant to be a wacky textbook or helpful guide. The additional instructions supplied to "teachers" for classroom activities are often hilarious as are some of the graphics (for some reason the send-up of the Presidential library had me gagging with laughter) and the running gimmick allows for the loosely connected stand-alone chapters.The huge heaping of sex-related jokes throughout will have the self-righteous bible beaters outraged. The ones who won't even read the book but will be extremely perturbed by its presence and popularity and will see it as another opportunity to try and dictate to others. As usual these clowns and their insidious, shrill pronouncements will backfire, as demonstrated by the load of free publicity gained when Stewart's book was most recently yanked from the shelves of some libraries in Mississippi as a result of a picture that depicts the justices of the Supreme Court of the United States in the buff (to see the offending picture, see this same review at Pistonhips)Ruthlessly hammering and mocking everything in sight, where nothing is above being laughed at, is Stewart's stock in trade. This is something good, a mentality I share. Various ethnic and special interest groups all have their foibles and absurdities slammed, just as every lying duplicitous, hypocritical sack of shit politician is eviscerated, regardless of which party or ideology they have whored themselves out to...a true delight for the anti-PC crowd.Before reading this book I knew it would inevitably be rated against the other two widely accessible left-leaning political humorists of yank origin--Michael Moore and Al Franken. Though much different in style, the similar target audience makes the comparison worthwhile. All generalists whose prose styles could be handled by a 12 year-old, they have convinced a new generation of adult readers that to have breezed through their offerings is to have a solid grounding in the issues of the day. Of the 3, I would peg Franken's Lying Liars book as the better overall volume in terms of readability, style and effectiveness. Moore's substandard polemics which play fast and loose with the truth, employ sweeping generalizations and are lacking in solid research are the poorest of the lot and a 2nd rate companion to his entertaining documentaries.Stewart's first publishing endeavor is as consistent as it is limited in its scope. Unlike Moore and Franken, Stewart doesn't offer up the requisite "underneath all my sarcastic venom I know us yanks are still the best," type of jingoistic crap. A hip, jaded version of that underlying mantra most yanks casually accept, served up to appeal to as many as possible and avoid offending the tender sensibilities of those whose cries of "traitor" could affect future sales. Thankfully Stewart avoids this type of horseshit altogether.With Stewart's obvious wit and shrewd analysis of politics and popular culture, this book could have been much better than the one-dimensional result. How about a longer set-up beyond the 2-sentence jokes that are rattled off? Another indication of his full conditioning by his work on the tube and a recognition of the average attention span of those most likely to be reading his book. Of course, business smarts in catering to a pre-existing audience and a desire to sell as many books as possible likely instructed the end product as well.No doubt Stewart and his flunkies are astutely skilled in lampooning any subject they choose and rarely does this book descend into that "too clever by half" territory. His television audience will love this book, though curiously the aping of the steady delivery of one-liners that works so well on the tube left me feeling frazzled. The rapid-fire skewering of individuals and riffing on different subjects doesn't lend itself to being "the kind of book you can't put down." I would recommend this as a bathroom accompaniment or a beer and pizza-stained frat-house prop for referencing the humorous lines that appear throughout. Always being amazed at how different writers progress in style and scope, I look forward to future attempts by Stewart (though a compilation effort he most likely had a great deal of input) that move beyond a format he has already mastered and is best suited to television.Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Books24364@blogcritics.org Tue, 18 Jan 2005 10:41:10 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/01/13/084618.php FinklemanAs the aftermath of the tsunami continues to play out, Stalin's famous quote about a million deaths being a statistic while a single death is a tragedy couldn't be more true. The over-riding sentiment that seems to be attached to most stories is the rankist element that is part of any comment on individual or government sponsored contributions to the relief effort. There are also the accompanying desperate efforts to conjure up language that will express the feelings of shared grief but they just seem to...fall a bit flat.What is tangible are the insinuations and outright scolding heaped on various nations and entertainment and sports superstars who haven't ponied up what is perceived to be an adequate amount. Those assertions crackle, are real, are something we can really associate with.The one-upsmanship from various governments around the world can't help but be beneficial as the real amount of aid continues to increase. A closer look reveals that many strings are attached to various pledges. These dazzling promises and high figures may in part be based on low-interest loans and might well not materialize in full.Donations made by various stars and duly advertised may also have ulterior motives, including an enhanced public image. Again, if the end result is more assistance, then it's great to see every overpaid thespian and steroid bloated pro athlete run scurrying to make a donation prior to their next interview so they can let the true figure roll off their tongue in a nonchalant way and appear genuinely moved.Woe is the fool like Paradorn Srichiphan, a wealthy Thai tennis star, who made such a pathetically sniveling donation (10, 000 baht , about 250 US dollars) in comparison to his earnings, that he will most certainly pay for it in a real monetary way. The 10, 000 dollars US he could have easily given will be eclipsed by the income loss he is sure to suffer as a result of this huge PR disaster.Argue the rightness or wrongness of goading wealthy individuals into coughing up, but the fact is that failing to see in advance that this expectation was developing, means that a fool like Paradorn is ill-equipped to deal with all aspects of celebrity status. Such stars occupy an unreal position, are paid unreal amounts and thus are expected to demonstrate unreal and exaggerated displays of generosity. These individuals are given a great deal of leeway by most of the adoring and sycophantic public and an image of benevolence will solidify their standing. Come across as an ungrateful cunt and the public will happily join in as the media hammers them into remorse and humiliation.Part of the whole post-disaster posturing is a sociological study in group-think. Is it a spontaneous outpouring and world-wide reaction or can people be routed into pre-existing emotional gatherings that they can latch onto? Is "the media" a sentient force that dictates our reactions or simply a reflection of our collective feelings?Quite often humans do have the power to dictate how others will respond in any given situation. For example, in the case of a man trying to seduce a woman. Most fools recognize that females are the half of humanity who give off signals and indicate whether they are in any way interested in the attentions of a particular slob. Still, any tit who maneuvers into the position of being alone with a tart should realize that he holds the license for the woman's inhibition. All he has to do is issue the license and eliminate any simpering gestures of hesitation or that sickening coyness that some assholes from western nations exhibit around women. Avoid any behaviour that hints at and lets a woman buy into that contrived image of a pure virginal chastity and she will instead opt for that which she really longs for; to be stapled to the mattress with a rigorous and energetic shag.The world-wide reaction to the tsunami disaster is most striking then, as compared to the response towards the slaughter that continues in Iraq. As succinctly pointed out and asked by Terry Jones (the same member of the Monty Python comedy troupe) in a commentary in the Guardian; what has contributed to such vastly different amounts of attention and monetary aid despite the similar toll in lives? Is it the sudden ferocity of the tsunami? The instant destruction? The belief that perhaps we could have been victims if we had vacationed at a different time and maybe, just maybe those foreign cunts with the strange culture and guttural language in Iraq might just have deserved what they got if only a tiny bit? The lack of media coverage (surely)?Speaking of Iraq, the Guardian continues to demonstrate why it is the top online newspaper bar none with this account from an Iraqi film-maker in the days after the much touted route of Fallujah by US forces back in November. A bleak, macabre landscape greeted him, soaked with misery, desperation and rage. Most noticeably he asks, where are all the bodies of the insurgents the yanks claimed to have killed? He also guarantees that a civil war will kick-off in the very near future.Maybe any amount of assistance for Iraq would open our eyes to just how horrific things are there at the moment and would highlight our own culpability in the massacre. Comparatively, our spontaneous and generous outpouring towards the countries affected by the tsunami strengthens our image of a world full of caring and just souls in which we all play an important role.Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Politics24193@blogcritics.org Thu, 13 Jan 2005 08:46:18 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/01/05/101640.php FinklemanIt's rare to watch a crime drama that does not have its share of tired cliches woven into the plot. Insomnia, starring Al Pacino and Robin Williams, is no exception.To list a few: an aging and jaded cop--Pacino's Will Dormer--haunted by a case from his past; a supposedly highly intelligent perpetrator of a gruesome crime who engages the lead investigator in a psychological duel, initiating the "game" via unexpected phone calls; a female police officer who decides to take it upon herself to head out alone to collect some evidence from a potentially dangerous suspect, thus setting up the climax.Bolstered by a handful of Academy award nominations, I had high expectations for this film.A murder has taken place in a small town in Alaska and the local hick investigators are having problems solving the crime. Called in to help from Los Angeles, Will Dormer along with his partner Hap Eckhart (played by Martin Donovan) have an internal affairs investigation hanging over their heads back in the City of Angels, with a likely deal to be cut by Eckhart meaning that Dormer's reputation will be ruined. The result is antagonism from Dormer towards his partner that is subordinated with an ostensible professionalism and desire to solve the case with which they were sent to help.The legend Dormer quickly puts together a ploy to snag the killer (another cliche--an obvious lure that is fed to the media and which the killer quickly falls for) and the locals and the 2 LA detectives descend on the scene of the plant. It seems the school bag of the teenaged girl who has been murdered was already found. Let's replace the contents with rocks, put it back where we found it and let the media report that if we really find it we should be able to crack the case. A shadowy figure promptly appears as the cops look on from their hiding spots and Dormer mistakenly plugs his partner as they chase down the killer in the fog. The killer gets away and Dormer lets the assumption stand that the brutal murderer also topped his partner.This is really no more than a 2nd rate crime flick with the added scthick being that Dormer is unable to sleep during his time in the fictional Alaskan town of Nightmute. Haunted by his past, what has just occurred and the 24 hours of daylight that is part of life during the summer months in the far north, Dormer starts to come unhinged.It's as if the director, Christopher Nolan, decided to add the additional bit about being unable to sleep so as to provide a plausible cover for Pacino's sleepwalking performance. Except for a few exceptions, Pacino has been coasting through a series of roles in the past few years and it seems as though the nomination he received for this movie was based on name recognition alone. Sure there are a few flashes of quality acting here and the trademark borderline rages from Pacino, but combined with the fairly lame concept and script, the accolades seem overblown.The theme is that tried and true crime drama nugget...the past always catches up with you, take one wrong turn and you'll eventually pay the price, the end doesn't justify the means etc.Robin Williams as the twisted mystery novel writer who thinks he's more clever than he really is, comes off as a caricature of so many similar performances from others in the past. The plaudits apparently flowed because of the contrast of this role compared to the usual characters he takes on, but I just can't see the brilliance every cunt and his movie-watching goldfish chimed in with when Insomnia was released in 2002. The cinematic psycopath and the one-upsmanship involved as subsequent screenwriters try to come up with the perfect non-sequiturs and odd reactions imbued with creepiness has resulted in many implausible and unintentionally amusing performances. It's hard to do well and of course any actor is limited by the dialogue and context with which they are provided.The instant familiarity as Dormer and Finch settle in for some psychological tete-a-tetes where each professes to be more versed in the ways of the world and the workings of the mind are similarly unlikely. The fact that Dormer seems ready to nod off during these interactions because of his lack of sleep again adds unintended comic relief.Detective Ellie Burr, played by Hillary Swank, is the local cop, a naive sycophant who looks up to Dormer and is assigned to investigate the shooting of Eckhart as the other more serious investigation continues. At first a cursory job, appearing simpler because of the meddling by Dormer to cover his tracks, Pacino's character at the same time urges her to put more effort into it. The message is clear...Dormer is torn and ultimately wants to be caught, at the same time allowing the young female cop to see the correct path.Likely Mad magazine did its usual takeoff with this as they do with most Hollywood movies. They must have had a field day with the abundance of material to lampoon this flick. From the dangerously sleep-deprived zombie, Dormer, who turns into a walking disaster while others casually look on, to the amateur local cops who are painfully aware of their own shortcomings. Those cops who are supposedly trained to find murderers, rapists etc., but wait...they're hicks who needed help flown in so they can be forgiven...but then the young female cop inevitably shows her brilliance, but then as mentioned she heads out alone, going against protocol and failing to take a partner just for excitement. The scene where Dormer shoots a dog carcass in a back lane in broad daylight (or is it night?) so as to obtain the bullet to switch with the real one retrieved from his partner's dead body, is another example where the suspension of disbelief didn't work.There are still some good scenes here and there are certainly other films in the genre that are much worse. As a character driven drama, I suppose Insomnia requires a person to be completely taken with Pacino's acting. The disappointment is what sticks here, with Pacino as the conflicted detective not carrying the film (though certainly the dominant performance) as many others have claimed. Though the setting is Alaska, the movie was filmed in British Columbia, Canada, and the beautiful scenery and flat natural lighting add to the atmosphere and is another aspect that at least makes the film worth checking out.Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Video23926@blogcritics.org Wed, 5 Jan 2005 10:16:40 EST http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/01/04/090027.php FinklemanAlan Watts was an English writer, philosopher and orator who was singularly skilled in interpreting Eastern religions and philosophies and distilling them into easily understood and appealing sentiments for Western audiences. He moved to the US to study religion as a young man, earning a master's degree in theology and becoming ordained as an Episcopalian priest. Having been interested in a wide range of Eastern religions even as a youngster growing up, he furthered his education in this area at various institutions in the US. He really came into his own in the 1950s and '60s, when he started writing and speaking prolifically in the US and elsewhere on the subjects that were so much a part of his life.He dabbled on the fringes of new age celebrity status during that time, associating with the likes of Aldous Huxley, Timothy Leary et al., but still remains largely unknown to many.Though his books have remained relatively popular since his death in 1973, with the burgeoning power of the Internet to disseminate information, he continues to gain posthumous praise and new fans.Besides his books and essays, he made dozens of recorded lectures. Usually generalist and topical in nature, they tie in some aspect from any number of religious teachings that originate in Eastern countries and are applied to something that was (and usually still is) relevant to the audience of the day.Possessing a sonorous and easy-to-listen-to voice, the recordings would be a good starting point for anyone interested in exploring different spiritual outlooks from around the globe. A highly skilled speaker, Watts never talks down to the audience, and despite the sometimes annoying habit of laughing at his own jokes (and thus prompting the rapt audience members to erupt as well,) these are some truly thought-provoking pieces.The recorded lecture entitled "Sex and the Church" concentrates on Christianity more than the Eastern religions he normally talked about, though inevitably comparisons enter into Watts' discussion.Though every organized religion seems to have strange and distorted views of human sexuality, Christianity has forged a monumentally fucked-up and repressive obsession with the human genitalia and related urges. At the same time, Watts argues, this dominant role that sex plays in the church is also an undeniable indication of its importance in Christianity.At the root of most major condemnations that flow from Bible beaters and their leaders are those related to the pelvic thrust. Not lies, not attempts to defraud, not hatred, malice or violence, but primarily any and all things sexual. "Living in sin" and anything "immoral" is almost inevitably related to some form of fucking that has not been authorized by the church. "Sexual regulation societies" is what Watts calls most Judeo/Christian-based churches in Western societies.Why is this so?Because, as Watts points out, eating and fucking are our most fundamental ties to the material world. The point at which we can become most attached to the physical organism we inhabit.Secondly, and more subtly, we cannot rid ourselves of our sexuality. Religion as repressed sexuality or sexuality as a manifestation of the divine? This is a question that Watts poses and comes back to explore more thoroughly near the end of his talk.Watts argues that the negative connotations are in themselves an expression of sexuality. "A peculiar form of eroticism" is the result of creating such a longstanding taboo out of sex. But Watts also says that the whole anti-sex tradition is not as "anti" as it appears.Behind this most ultimate of physical pleasures and the resulting attachment is the impermanence of life. Inherent in the emphasis on detachment from the body that is part of all religions is this moral fixation on sexuality. The degree to which you identify yourself with the pleasures of the body is the degree to which you will be sucked away by the force of transience.Underlying the emphasis on detachment is a problem, according to Watts. And that is, Why is there a physical universe at all? If this existence is such an inescapable snare, and we should be so wary of that which is presented as reality, then WHY?According to some theologies, the world is in fact looked upon as mistake, a fall from divinity. A rational soul in charge of an animal body is the result. The divided human...the soul and the body as dueling entities that make up the whole, is a longstanding theme in many beliefs.Here is where Watts departs. Though we are all falling apart, this is not something to be lamented but is truly part of the splendor of being alive. Watts goes off on a bit of a tangent here stating that one day the replacement of all our decaying parts, limbs, organs, etc. as we age, will be end the result of our obsession with staying young. The fallout will be artificial and bored fools, as plastic as the materials used to prolong their lives.After the brief bit of prophecy, Watts homes in on the theme of duality that crops up in most of his books and speeches, a result of his understanding of Eastern religions. In other words, without decay there cannot be vitality, just as one is inherent and represented by the other. Just as, in fact, black represents white and vice versa."Supreme moments, superb vitality." The importance of reacting, taking steps to make things happen, as in the timing of music and that urgency that is part of youth, are two such examples. So too, timing is of the essence in matters of both sexuality and that other most real connection with physicality, all the pleasures associated with the art of gastronomy. "And then it's happened and you've had it," as he says, but this should not impart a feeling of regret. The only genuine facet of regret is not taking it when you had the chance.Detachment should not mean that you must remove yourself from participation. Complete participation but still detached...this is where Watts comes to the point he does in every lecture and one that presents a conundrum, signifies the limitations of language for most others. Usually it as this point where he demonstrates his skill in providing some clarity to certain concepts.Not a blasé, mien of nonchalance, with your thoughts elsewhere while you are furiously hammering away...not a way of being anxious about physical pleasure, so afraid that some there is a certain way it's supposed to be that can never quite be attained. Empty, desperate machinations, so you want it again and again (kind of like the phenomenon whereby someone eats bland food and keeps cramming it in because they are never satisfied). When you're grasping for something you cannot fully experience it. Holding on too hard takes the life out of something transient. This, says Watts, is the danger in becoming too attached to the physical world.In the second part of the lecture, Watts delivers an amusing anecdote on the initiation ritual of confirmation he experienced as a young lad. Not some wise passing on of special knowledge from the reverend in his church where he grew up but a stern warning on...the evils of masturbation. Nothing more that a standard spiel on jacking off, replete with the assortment of ailments that were sure to befall every young boy who couldn't resist.He also provides a brief history on the rising and falling tides of morality within the church. Marriage was initially a social institution to strengthen the alliance between families. Politics, eugenics, and the bargaining process that was part of the union meant that inevitably perfect matches rarely occurred and getting a little bit on the side was not uncommon. Idealization of women as goddesses in the Middle Ages changed things somewhat and coincided with the growing cult of romantic love. The institution of marriage became intertwined with such notions. What also flowed from this was that such sentiments started to infuse the laws of the day. The person you married was the person you should love and the only relationship where sex should have been allowed to occur was marriage.Periods where prudism toward sexuality were in ascendancy were contrasted by the presence of lasciviousness during those same times, such as the Victorian Era, and here again Watts comes back to the theme of interdependence, the fact that one cannot exist without the other.Watts also argues that according to a defender of the faith, the church could be held up as symbolically nothing but sex as opposed to repressed sex while those who make sex their god are the ones repressing religion. Sexual biology in turn reveals the mystery of the universe, and is not obscured but evident in the paintings, interior design and architecture of many of the great churches of the world.While Watts is mainly playing the contrarian here, this supposes a monolithic and continuing consciousness of "the church" that suggests a secret and shared understanding all leaders and followers. However, a powerful sociological aspect of all group behaviour means that every sap who is part of the process does not have to be acutely tuned in to a higher awareness to help carry forward the definitive character.Still, the more plainly erotic manifestations of artwork in other religions is simply an undeniable statement of how fundamentally part of the cosmos human sexuality is and more proof of the different attitudes that prevail in the western world.Watts finally comes to the crux of his speech and what I had been expecting. Those few seconds of orgasm that over a lifetime may add up to a few hours seem almost patently to be one the easiest ways to approach a higher plane without any dedication or discipline. One of the oldest and most basic charges against organized religion is of a concerted attempt to control the masses. Surely the attempts to imbue with fear and demonize that which represents something more powerful than they could ever offer are part of the skewed, eons-long fixation."The ultimate sacrament in bringing lovers together." This is why sexuality is degraded when fools say that it should only be carried on for purposes of procreation. In fact, "that is what animals do." "Mystical intoxication," becomes the ideal goddess. "Scales taken off the eyes"--by this I assume Watts means the inevitable comparison that many indulge in when looking at potential mates and which has to cease before someone will enter the realm of lover.Returning once again to the theme of duality Watts states that opposition to prudery goes overboard. Where do you draw the line? The battle of morals represents the same complementary aspects that are part of everything. Moralists mustn't be obliterated or the resulting total hedonism would become bland and plastic. Libertines and prudes need each other. The tension that exists between them is what helps makes the world go round.The problem with trying to relay the gist of a lecture by Watts is the same as trying to retell a good joke from a master comedian. It falls a bit flat in the translation. Also, unlike in print, a lecture will rely on simpler language and the skill of the speaker to pass on not only ideas but an overall feeling. Like a good novelist or filmmaker who takes a simple almost clichéd idea and makes it work, the cumulative and combined effects of an Alan Watts lecture are what makes it enjoyable.Cross-posted at: Pistonhips: misanthropic ravings from an expat in Bangkok Culture23892@blogcritics.org Tue, 4 Jan 2005 09:00:27 EST