Don’t Worry Your Pretty Little Heads, We’d Got it Covered
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Killing Properly
Before Cicero was murdered, he said, “There is nothing proper about what you are doing, soldier, but do try to kill me properly.” When I just tried to do a Google search on Cicero, Google offered me an option: Cicero’s Pizza. Cicero’s final words came to my mind. There is nothing proper about what we are doing to our culture, but let us at least try to kill it properly.
Presume “Guilty”
Last night, I watched Presumed Innocent. I hadn’t seen it in many years and I was pleasantly surprised. What I most remembered was that it was a very dark film, and so when the credits displayed “Cinematography: Gordon Willis” I was not surprised. What most people don’t understand is that video always has a higher contrast than video. So when you are watching a projected film, you can see great detail in even the darkest areas of the image. When this is transferred to video and displayed on a TV, most if not all of that detail goes away. Willis is a cinematographer who gives no thought to the fact that most people will watch his work on video and not film. Even though this bothers me, I can’t help but be impressed by his commitment. And even on video, his films still do look great and unmistakable.
What is most remarkable about the film is Harrison Ford in the lead role of Rusty Sabich. He is swallowed up by the actors around him. I know that the character is a hard one. He plays things very close to the vest. But Ford almost disappears in scenes with Raul Julia and Brian Dennehy. He is at his best in scenes with Bonnie Bedelia, where they seem to have a real connection. Of course, this is utterly counter to pretty much everything Scott Turow has ever written which can be reduced to a single sentence: women are unknowable. So it would have been better if they didn’t look so good together. I think the film would have been better with a great actor in the lead role, but I can’t think of who that might have been.
Novels—good ones anyway—are not preachy. Movies, being a melodramatic art form, often work better when they get in your face. And Presumed Innocent definitely gets in your face. It ends with a stunning voice-over with a shot of an empty courtroom:
I am a prosecutor. I have spent my life in the assignment of blame. With all deliberation and intent, I reached for Carolyn. I cannot pretend it was an accident. I reached for Carolyn, and set off that insane mix of rage and lunacy that led one human being to kill another. There was a crime. There was a victim. And there is punishment.
He is saying that even though he didn’t kill Carolyn Polhemus, his decision to have an affair with her started a process than ended in her murder. It is an “I am my brother’s keeper” moment. And it is very compelling to me. My experiences through these many decades have shown me that those we term guilty are not as guilty as we would believe, nor are the innocent free of guilt.
I cannot bear to be around people who consider themselves even mostly good or innocent, because they are neither; they are just fools.
Michael Close Doesn’t Get Branding
Michael Close is a professional magician and jazz pianist. He is a very impressive guy. What I most like about him is that he works presentations until they are finally tuned—more finely tuned than just about any other magician around. He is also an innovator. One of his effects—the pothole trick—moves a hole punched in a business card around the card and then onto another card. It is amazing and the presentation is wonderful.
Here he is doing an excellent presentation to a really simple—even brain-dead—effect:
[Video Missing]
Most of Close’s work has been published in 5 volumes of a series he calls Workers. They are all good and I’ve purchased them all twice, because I have a habit of loaning out books to people who don’t return them. Other than effects, Close also provides essays that are always worth reading. Oh, that they were required reading of anyone who ever might show me a magic trick! Mostly these essays are very useful. But not always.
In Volume 3 of the series, Close provides a “sermon” that he calls “Ethics.” In it, he argues that it is wrong to copy his books. And it is. It bugs me that so many (especially young) people think it is just fine to steal all of their entertain. But I think that Close goes too far. He writes a parenthetical paragraph:
I am often amused by how stupid some people think that creators are. For example, at one convention two young men came up to me at a booth and I demonstrated material from Workers #1 and #2. they looked through the manuscripts, asked the price, and then walked away and talked to each other. Then they came back. One bought #1 and one bought #2. Gee, I wonder what happened when they got back home?
I don’t know about stupid, but Close is clearly presumptuous. I suspect that these young men did what all magic geeks do: loan them to their friends. Does Close really think that these young men should each buy a copy of each of his books and guard them selfishly?
As a matter of fact, based upon email conversations with him in the past, he does think that. He, like many “creators” does not see the bigger picture. For example, in the video he talks about doing a 60 city lecture series. Does he not see that he would not have been paid to do that (and given the enormous financial opportunities that go along with it) if he hadn’t published these books? Or that ten people having seen a single copy of one of his book is ten people far more likely than they would otherwise be to pay to hear him lecture or see him perform? Or that some people buy his books multiple times? (Not that I have anyone specific in mind!)
This is the lesson that independent musicians have learned. Any artist can complain about every unit they don’t sell. But when they behave this way, they lose something much more dear than a buck in royalties; they lose good will. And the truth is that I would never go to see Michael Close, because to me, he will always be an angry old man. It doesn’t matter that he’s not angry at me or even that he’s gotten over this. I will always hold his books in high esteem, but as a person: he’s ruined his brand. For me, anyway; you might still want to see him.
Waiting for Groundhogs
Fake Science presented a chart titled Understand Groundhog Day.[1] It states, “Using statistical analysis, scientists have measured how a groundhog’s reaction can create predictive models.” There were four examples: sees its own shadow, six weeks of winter; sees some litter, neighborhood in decline; sees shadow of spatula, groundhog is going insane; and, of course, the one on the left, sees Waiting for Godot, six weeks of tedium and existential dread.
I take exception to this characterization of Waiting for Godot. Dread implies that the characters are expecting something bad to happen, and this is not the case. The whole point of the narrative is that Vladimir and (to a lesser extent) Estragon keep toiling through life with the hope that Godot will arrive soon and give their life meaning and purpose. Thus the great irony of the play is that their hope of finding meaning gives their lives meaning.[2]
Although Fake Science does not imply this, I believe that Waiting for Godot could easily be done as a puppet play with groundhogs. You know your average groundhog wastes and pines its life away.
[1] Fun Fact: many sources say that prairie dogs were named by Lewis during the Lewis and Clark Expedition. This is not true. Nor is it true that groundhogs are prairie dogs.
[2] I don’t mean to imply this is all there is to Waiting for Godot. Books can and have been written about it. To me, the search for meaning is central to the play. This is seen primarily in the hopeful act of waiting for Godot as well as bounds between Vladimir and Estragon, Pozzo and Lucky, and the two brothers.
Hate What You Do Not Know
Recently, I read an article (which I can no longer find) that showed that conservative opinion only has a shelf life of a generation. What this means is that after a generation, conservative opinion becomes so abhorrent that no one is willing to claim it. Take, for example, the opinion on civil rights in the 1960s: conservatives (on the federal level) didn’t say they were against the Voting Rights Act as a matter of policy. It was just that they believed in states’ rights. Few people hold such an opinion today, because we see it for what it was: disguised racism.
I know that liberals are on the right side of history. Assuming the civilization doesn’t disintegrate, we will continue to see progress in such areas as abortion rights and stem cell research. But I still find myself amazed to see where conservatives come down on the issue of gay rights. I’m not talking about being against them; that makes perfect sense; they are on the wrong side of history and in 20 years they will deny they ever held the bigoted views they now hold. What I don’t understand are people like the Cheneys who are radically conservative in all ways except one: gay rights. And why? Because their daughter is gay.
How can these kinds of conservatives look at their entire ideology with this one exception carved out and still maintain their faith (because it is nothing if not pure faith) in the rest of their belief system? Why does it not make them think, “Maybe I’m wrong about all those other things I have no first-hand experience with.” Certainly it is true that the Cheneys would be absolutely against gay rights if it were not for their daughter. How can they continue to think that they would have conservative ideas about welfare if they had any experience with being economically challenged? How can Dick Chaney continue to think that he would be so pro-war if he had not had better things to do than serve in the military during the Vietnam War?
There has been a lot of coverage of Maureen Walsh’s speech about ESSB 6239, the Washington State law legalizing same-sex marriage. It is a good speech. But again: doesn’t she see the problem? It’s easy to hate Jews when you don’t know any. And it is just as easy to hate the poor when you don’t know any. But like I said: it’s a good speech.
And One More Thing
I think I’m going to go crazy if another conservative tells me how much they miss Clinton. What this means is that conservatives, when not given a daily diet of Fox News propaganda and Talk Radio hate, forget why they hated Clinton: because they were instructed to. It’s the same reason they hate Obama, who is, after all, the same moderate president Clinton was. But what really drives me crazy is the thought that in ten years, I’ll have to listen to these same fucktards tell me how much they miss Obama.
Santorum’s My Man
I’ve decided to vote for Rick Santorum. The thing is, I just can’t manage my life. I don’t know who to fuck, where to fuck them, and how. So Santorum is my man. He’ll tell me how to live my life. And isn’t that what we all want: a government that looks out for the rights of corporations but greatly limits the rights of individuals? After all: corporations create jobs and we’ll need a lot of them to support all of our children.
We all know that the the road to tyranny runs directly through tax dollars spent on libraries and schools. No country ever had its liberties taken away by a government investing huge amounts of money on a military. We have nothing to fear from the militarization of our police forces. We have everything to fear from public intellectuals and women who want to have sex without getting pregnant.
So please Rick Santorum: save me from myself! Save us all! But don’t do it in a way that makes our lives easier. Get rid of any government programs that provide a safety net. That way, we can all grow to be strong and self-reliant as we work 80 hours per week to support constantly growing family.
But if Rich Santorum isn’t available, any other Republican will do as well.
The Best of People, the Worst of People
I have long thought that every generation believes theirs to be the worst, and every generation is right. But that does not mean that things only get worse. My experience of life indicates that things are ever getting different. And for conservatives souls, which all humans are, this is bad. I’ve long noted that when at the grocery store the day before the Super Bowl when there are 12 check stands open, that everyone would choose, if they could, to get into a single queue. The mad rush to find the best stand is not about getting ahead of others but only about maintaining their rightful place.
It is only reptiles and vicious beasts who will not share a kill that they cannot eat all by themselves. We are, at base, cooperative creatures that want nothing more than our due. And when we behave badly it is not because we are greedy but because we fear others’ greed.
If this time seems worse than times we remember, it is because we inevitably lose our connection to each other, and thus our belief in each other. But none of this really matters, and anyway: Dickens was right about our times and ourselves:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Don’t expect me to be so cheery tomorrow.
The Other Brontës
I decided, for reasons not all together clear to me, that I ought to read a little Anne Brontë. I certainly wasn’t going to read any Lord Byron wannabe poetry, so that left me with her two novels: Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Andrea told me that the latter was better and so I picked up a copy at the library today. I mentioned to the librarian that I figured I should read “the other Brontë” and she asked if I had read the brother. I had not. All I knew of him was that he was an opium addict, and I said as much.
I wish I hadn’t. It seems clear that had he been an opium addict, it was probably to medicate his undiagnosed tuberculosis. We tend to forget in this modern age of pill variety, where those with erectile dysfunction have a large choice of pills to take, that it was not always so. Indeed, most of the push during the 19th century to develop drugs from morphine to heroin came from a desire to treat tuberculosis. Even today, there really isn’t an effective cure and if you aren’t dying from it, it is probably more due to public health measures than anything.
Now I can say that I have read Branwell Brontë. And I can see why he is generally referred to as an artist rather than a poet. The painting in this article is an example of his work. This is Anne, Emily, and Charlotte—from left to right. But if you look in the space between Emily and Charlotte, you can see a kind of ghostly figure. This apparently was where Branwell originally painted himself. Later he decided to paint over himself. This could have been because he didn’t think it was very good. But I prefer to think that this is what a tortured soul like him would do. He was 31 when he died.
All the Brontë children died young: Charlotte at 38, Emily at 30, and Anne at 29. Anne also died of tuberculosis shortly after her brother, so she probably got it from him. This has led me to speculate that the Family had bad genes, but this doesn’t seem to be the case. Their father, Patrick Brontë, lived to be 84 years old. He outlived his wife, Maria, by almost 50 years.
As for the writing of the Brontë’s, I used to be very fond of both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. But I’ve cooled off on them. Jane Eyre has too much nonsense in it (like the first 100 pages and the last 100 pages) to make up for the good parts. And Wuthering Heights is just 400 pages of foggy mood. But The Tenant of Wildfell Hall has potential. It starts well enough:
You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827. My father, as you know, was a sort of gentleman farmer in —shire; and I, by his express desire, succeeded him in the same quiet occupation, not very willingly, for ambition urged me to higher aims, and self-conceit assured me that, in disregarding its voice, I was burying my talent in the earth, and hiding my light under a bushel. My mother had done her utmost to persuade me that I was capable of great achievements; but my father, who thought ambition was the surest road to ruin, and change but another word for destruction, would listen to no scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my fellow mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and exhorted me, with his dying breath, to continue in the good old way, to follow his steps, and those of his father before him, and let my highest ambition be to walk honestly through the world, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left, and to transmit the paternal acres to my children in, at least, as flourishing a condition as he left them to me.
And you must know by now: I will let you know.
The Blood of St. Valentine’s Day
In my ongoing efforts to destroy any joy you might have during holidays or other gift-buying opportunities, I thought I’d say a few words about Valentine’s Day.
When I was confirmed in the Catholic Church, my mother bought me a book of saints. It amazes me to this day that I managed to get this far in the Catholic Church knowing almost nothing about the Catholic Church. I knew about St. Francis, of course. Partly, this was because I shared his name. Mostly, however, it was because I was crazy for Theater of the Absurd and I had read Tiny Alice. But the thing is, Francis of Assisi was an exception for a Saint—in terms of his death; like the rest, he was a nut-job. The book of saints showed that the normal way to become a saint was to get murdered, usually in a suicidal effort to push your religious beliefs in the faces of others.
And so we come to St. Valentine. Unfortunately, St. Valentine was not one guy, but two or maybe three. The early church was not good at keeping records.
First, there is Valentine of Rome. According to Catholic Online:
Valentine was a holy priest in Rome, who, with St. Marius and his family, assisted the martyrs in the persecution under Claudius II [Not the I, Claudius guy -FM]. He was apprehended, and sent by the emperor to the prefect of Rome, who, on finding all his promises to make him renounce his faith ineffectual, commanded him to be beaten with clubs, and afterwards, to be beheaded, which was executed on February 14, about the year 270.
That’s how I want to go: beaten with clubs in defense of an imaginary god! You go, priest!
Second, there is Valentine of Turni, who was born around 175 AD in Turni, Italy. Check out this bit of information from Saints.SQNP [Bold mine]:
Noted evangelist, miracle worker and healer, he was much loved by his flock. Imprisoned, tortured, and beheaded by order of the prefect Placid Furius during the persecution of Aurelius. He was murdered in secret and at night to avoid riots and revenge by the people of Terni. Some scholars believe that he and Saint Valentine of Rome are the same person.
Okay, more of the same: tortured, beheaded; the usual things you associate with Valentine’s Day. But dig that last sentence! Some scholars think that a guy who died around 197 AD might be the same guy who died around 270 AD. They aren’t even sure that these guys who lived almost a century apart aren’t the same. And they think we should believe them about Jesus who supposedly lived 200 years earlier. Amazing!
Have a happy Valentine’s day! Do your part for the chocolate, flower, and greeting card industries. But just remember: real men were beheaded so you could have this day. So keep their headless corpses in your mind while you enjoy this day with your special someone. And if you don’t have a special someone, go find a cop to abuse; I’m sure he’ll be happy to beat you to death with a club.
He Says it There, it Comes Out Here
Watch Ezra Klein hosting The Rachel Maddow Show:
Or read this blog posting by him:
Comparing taxes under Obama’s and Romney’s budgets
But don’t do both. You see, they are pretty much identical. And you would expect this. And this just shows that if Rachel Maddow had a blog I habitually read every morning, I probably wouldn’t watch her show very often.
But make no mistake: Ezra Klein is an astute political observer. You should read his blog.
Genghis Khan: Family Values Man
What are we to make of a film like Mongol? Certainly, we don’t expect it to be historically accurate. I think we expect it to be thematically and emotionally accurate. Take Braveheart, for example: it is a mess from a historical stand-point, but it does provide a pretty good picture of William Wallace.[1] Mongol, on the other hand, is far more accurate than Braveheart. But it does present Genghis Khan as a far more likable guy than he probably was—just trying to bring the law to the people.
A woman I met when I was still a teenager was fond of saying that people could not be held accountable for the views of their time, but that they could be held accountable for their own views. I accepted this for a good long time, but finally I abandoned it. Are we really to say that Thomas Jefferson and a modern day redneck are the same, just because they both share the belief that blacks were inferior to whites? I don’t think so. It is no different than anthropogenic climate change: 15 years ago a reasonable man could deny it, but not today.
21st Century Genghis Khan
If Genghis Khan is to be presented in a film, he can’t be presented as he actually was. No one would like him. The film takes place in the 12th century, after all. There must be some compromise with the time we live in.
Mongol doesn’t do this by changing events in the life of Genghis Khan; it does it by focusing on the good and noble things he did, like offering Jamukha freedom (but, unlike in the movie, Jamukha would not take it and so was killed). What it doesn’t show is all the indiscriminate killing and genocidal campaigns. But hey, what’s most of the Persian race between friends? According to Mongol, Genghis Khan was just a guy who cared deeply about conservative social values.
The Film
The film itself is shockingly engaging. It is beautifully shot and moves gracefully from epic battle scenes to the most intimate personal moments. The only bad thing about the film is that the subtitles are worse than usual.
[1] Braveheart fails completely at the end. It is true that Wallace was tortured to death. It is not true that this was done because he wouldn’t submit to the crown’s authority. Wallace was more of an intellectual who tried to get foreign support for the Scottish cause. I think all of the inaccuracies regarding Wallace’s character stem directly from the tortured soul of Mel Gibson.