So I just finished watching the new James Cameron movie, Avatar, and now that part of my imagination most obsessed with technological advancement is running wild.
I am sure that some critic or another will point out that Avatar is actually an old story, that of indigenous aboriginal tribes in the face of a technologically superior colonial movement. In fact, it's a story that's been told ever since we stopped colonizing and started settling. In this sense, some critics will argue, the story of Avatar is a bit of a cliché.
What these critics will forget is that, old story or not, Avatar is very, very good.
Borrowing from mankind's history, Avatar discreetly pays homage to such events as the British colonization of Africa and Australia, as well as the fairly more-obvious American motion of western advancement, especially during the gold rush. Several Native tribes are depicted in spirit, tho of course they have been adjusted to fit the narrative. It also helps that the alien world being depicted is somewhat of a literal take on the Native theological view: that of the entire world, and everything in it, being connected, a massive organism in which every life is precious.
Beyond the semi-classical narrative, Avatar is depicts a number of ideas that are considerably more novel. First and foremost is the proposed advances made in human science, from the graceless and likely tools of a corporate military to the biomechanical masterpiece that is Avatar technology. (In brief, Avatars are cloned hybrid bodies, controlled puppet-like by human pilots.)
However, while the tech may be uniquely impressive, the feature that will define Avatar in the annals of sci-fi history is the science behind the setting, the world in which it all takes place. The planet Pandora is as alien to our understanding as the creatures that dwell there, with chunks of mountain floating miles above the ground and trees covered in neural relays instead of branches or leaves. Perhaps the most alien trait is the fact that Pandora's ecosystem is based completely in planet-wide symbiosis. Each species is able to physically attach its neural pathways to any other species, and even to the planet itself through certain “plants”. Two species so linked are able to act together, think together, becoming faster, smarter, more capable than would be possible alone.
As one could imagine, there is an ecofriendly message here, but thankfully it is just subtle enough that the movie does not suffer for it.
It has been quite some time since Science Fiction was able to command any degree of respect. Now, Avatar joins the ranks of extraterrestrial greatness alongside Alien and District 9. After a dark age of Uwe Boll and Micheal Bay, James Cameron is back on the scene, and there was much rejoicing.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
the house that metal built
I attended a benefit for the Watson Childrens' Shelter the other night: three metal bands thrashing it out for the kids. A writhing horde of rockers, metalheads and various other slavering mutants were in attendance, as much in appreciation of the music as for any humanitarian effort.
Even before things got underway (long before, it turns out, as the show began fashionably late) the impending event had raised a building tremor of anticipation. Breath caught with every dimming of the lights, small clusters hover in front of the stage in feigned indifference.
Then, at long last, that moment: the lights fall. The rumbling voice of a Mountain King over the sound system, and the surge of hot bodies pressing forward, reaching for the source of that voice. And we begin.
Universal Choke Sign present as three vikings stepped forward in time, axes and drums slung easily over their broad shoulders, battle-bright eyes snapping across the room, sizing up any potential threat...also, there's a skinny bald guy on bass who is awesome. Their music rumbles and roars forth like a flash-fire. Their sneering humor and brazen celebration of self-destruction is reminiscent of Primus, in some ways, with all the lust and sick joy of a half-drunk Norseman.
With all collections of music, it is important to find balance. Bring out the big guns first, build too quickly, you'll blow your load and lose your audience. Shaman's Harvest was next on the docket, their low tones and intricate melodies soothing the frenzy while allowing the audience to maintain. The throttle-back was received with mixed results, but then, metal will always bring out that group of freaks that live their lives set to “eleven”.
The main event is just such a group. Royal Bliss, rising before the crowd like titans, indomitable, and remaining with all the strength of pillars as the masses crashed like the tides against the stage at their feet, crushing and rushing each other, pressing forward, only to be thrown back. Carrying all the best elements of both the bands preceding, they held those assembled in a thrall from which there was no return.
Metal is auditory mescaline, a drug of sound to infect the mind, tapping into something ancient and primal within us, a power and divinity from before the first gods walked the earth. It is a religion unto itself, or at the very least a form of exultant worship, a thing of untamed celebration and fierce joy in the feral traditions of the Bacchae, whipping its faithful into a fervor, a zealous storm of activity.
The culmination was all the fire and passion that music has ever sought to stir within the hearts of man. Local radio stations have played enough Royal Bliss that even those who do not consider themselves fans were able to recognize individual songs, and soon the collected voice of the people rumbled as strong as the speakers, mighty vibrations ringing through the building's core, as well as the core of all those assembled, awakening a trembling, snarling passion for life, a desire to trample, rush, throw and leap.
They all were able to endure, even at such a manic pace. Hours later found them enduring still, running too hot, their own enthusiasm beginning to break them down. The quivering, ringing moments of the climax, with exhaustion beating through battered muscle still-taut. Voices tear free from raw and shredded throats, roaring for more even as it would burn them out completely. Even the band is swept up, submitting to encore after encore even as the event has begun to wind down, unable to maintain under its own momentum.
Now, with the memory of the event growing indistinct in my mind, my muscles still throb pleasantly, and the quiet is almost a cool relief. Almost as enjoyable as the music itself, still pulsing through my weary bones, is the soft and gentle morning after, a calm only enunciated by the ache.
I still owe a beating to who-ever stole my jacket.
Even before things got underway (long before, it turns out, as the show began fashionably late) the impending event had raised a building tremor of anticipation. Breath caught with every dimming of the lights, small clusters hover in front of the stage in feigned indifference.
Then, at long last, that moment: the lights fall. The rumbling voice of a Mountain King over the sound system, and the surge of hot bodies pressing forward, reaching for the source of that voice. And we begin.
Universal Choke Sign present as three vikings stepped forward in time, axes and drums slung easily over their broad shoulders, battle-bright eyes snapping across the room, sizing up any potential threat...also, there's a skinny bald guy on bass who is awesome. Their music rumbles and roars forth like a flash-fire. Their sneering humor and brazen celebration of self-destruction is reminiscent of Primus, in some ways, with all the lust and sick joy of a half-drunk Norseman.
With all collections of music, it is important to find balance. Bring out the big guns first, build too quickly, you'll blow your load and lose your audience. Shaman's Harvest was next on the docket, their low tones and intricate melodies soothing the frenzy while allowing the audience to maintain. The throttle-back was received with mixed results, but then, metal will always bring out that group of freaks that live their lives set to “eleven”.
The main event is just such a group. Royal Bliss, rising before the crowd like titans, indomitable, and remaining with all the strength of pillars as the masses crashed like the tides against the stage at their feet, crushing and rushing each other, pressing forward, only to be thrown back. Carrying all the best elements of both the bands preceding, they held those assembled in a thrall from which there was no return.
Metal is auditory mescaline, a drug of sound to infect the mind, tapping into something ancient and primal within us, a power and divinity from before the first gods walked the earth. It is a religion unto itself, or at the very least a form of exultant worship, a thing of untamed celebration and fierce joy in the feral traditions of the Bacchae, whipping its faithful into a fervor, a zealous storm of activity.
The culmination was all the fire and passion that music has ever sought to stir within the hearts of man. Local radio stations have played enough Royal Bliss that even those who do not consider themselves fans were able to recognize individual songs, and soon the collected voice of the people rumbled as strong as the speakers, mighty vibrations ringing through the building's core, as well as the core of all those assembled, awakening a trembling, snarling passion for life, a desire to trample, rush, throw and leap.
They all were able to endure, even at such a manic pace. Hours later found them enduring still, running too hot, their own enthusiasm beginning to break them down. The quivering, ringing moments of the climax, with exhaustion beating through battered muscle still-taut. Voices tear free from raw and shredded throats, roaring for more even as it would burn them out completely. Even the band is swept up, submitting to encore after encore even as the event has begun to wind down, unable to maintain under its own momentum.
Now, with the memory of the event growing indistinct in my mind, my muscles still throb pleasantly, and the quiet is almost a cool relief. Almost as enjoyable as the music itself, still pulsing through my weary bones, is the soft and gentle morning after, a calm only enunciated by the ache.
I still owe a beating to who-ever stole my jacket.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
smoked out
Just recently, a smoking ban passed back in 2005 finally want into effect. Apparently, before the ban, there was no legislation in Montana that prohibited smoking in schools, hospitals, or retirement homes. There was also no law against smoking in bars.
I've heard authoritative noises praising this ban for its benefits to public health and safety, saying how proud they are that Montana is “ahead of the pack”, being only the tenth state in the nation to prohibit smoking in public places statewide. I've heard health nuts ranting happily about how “it's about time,” before they launch into a stream of figures regarding secondhand smoke and its affects on the heart and lungs.
What I'm not hearing is why, exactly, this issue warranted statewide legal action. Previously, if an establishment wished to prohibit smoking, they would post a sign. If anyone violated the sign, they were quietly asked to leave. If they ignored this request, they would be made to leave. A simple system, but effective. In light of this, what is the purpose of a statewide ban if not to remove smokers from the few places they are still accepted?
According to KCFW, only sixteen percent of adults in Montana smoke. This percentage has not changed in over five years. Smokers do not fight for equal treatment; they are segregated by choice. They do not push ideals of any kind; they are united only by their vice. They are, as a group, practitioners of what has been called Montanan Conservatism, holding to this state's traditional adage: “Leave me alone.”
The non-smokers of Montana, however, seem to have some sort of axe to grind. Apparently 88% of Montanans feel that the threat to their health is so great that smoking cannot be tolerated inside any building, be it bar, club, or cabaret. I'm not sure why these establishments are so important to the non-smokers, just as I'm not sure how many non-smokers frequent businesses such as these.
In a neutral environment, demanding someone else change to better suit your comfort is unforgivably selfish. It is putting your importance, your rights, over those of another; this is the behavior of parasites, rather than the cohabitation of civilized men.
Each one of us, as an individual, is granted the freedom to do whatever we choose, and each of us is obligated responsibility for the choices we make. If you want a healthy heart and lungs, avoid places where there's going to be secondhand smoke. A simple system, but effective.
At what point did our comfort begin to hold precedence over the rights of others? When did we begin to require laws and motions to regulate how we interact with one another?
Now that the law has been passed, there is little more that can be done, especially by people grown so accustomed to apathy and inaction. Some businesses will tank, or plead for exception. Others will not notice any difference. Smokers will shiver violently in the cold, or stay home, because despite the intentions of our well-intending lawmakers, the addiction is stronger than any discomfort. People will not quit just because it is suddenly inconvenient or uncomfortable.
So what, if anything, has been accomplished here? What few bars had still allowed smoking will now offer clean air for their remaining patrons. Hopefully the influx of non-smokers will be enough to fill the empty, smoke-stained stools.
NOTE: At the time of this writing, it has been five and a half weeks since the author's last cigarette. He does not, nor will ever, consider himself a parasitic non-smoker.
I've heard authoritative noises praising this ban for its benefits to public health and safety, saying how proud they are that Montana is “ahead of the pack”, being only the tenth state in the nation to prohibit smoking in public places statewide. I've heard health nuts ranting happily about how “it's about time,” before they launch into a stream of figures regarding secondhand smoke and its affects on the heart and lungs.
What I'm not hearing is why, exactly, this issue warranted statewide legal action. Previously, if an establishment wished to prohibit smoking, they would post a sign. If anyone violated the sign, they were quietly asked to leave. If they ignored this request, they would be made to leave. A simple system, but effective. In light of this, what is the purpose of a statewide ban if not to remove smokers from the few places they are still accepted?
According to KCFW, only sixteen percent of adults in Montana smoke. This percentage has not changed in over five years. Smokers do not fight for equal treatment; they are segregated by choice. They do not push ideals of any kind; they are united only by their vice. They are, as a group, practitioners of what has been called Montanan Conservatism, holding to this state's traditional adage: “Leave me alone.”
The non-smokers of Montana, however, seem to have some sort of axe to grind. Apparently 88% of Montanans feel that the threat to their health is so great that smoking cannot be tolerated inside any building, be it bar, club, or cabaret. I'm not sure why these establishments are so important to the non-smokers, just as I'm not sure how many non-smokers frequent businesses such as these.
In a neutral environment, demanding someone else change to better suit your comfort is unforgivably selfish. It is putting your importance, your rights, over those of another; this is the behavior of parasites, rather than the cohabitation of civilized men.
Each one of us, as an individual, is granted the freedom to do whatever we choose, and each of us is obligated responsibility for the choices we make. If you want a healthy heart and lungs, avoid places where there's going to be secondhand smoke. A simple system, but effective.
At what point did our comfort begin to hold precedence over the rights of others? When did we begin to require laws and motions to regulate how we interact with one another?
Now that the law has been passed, there is little more that can be done, especially by people grown so accustomed to apathy and inaction. Some businesses will tank, or plead for exception. Others will not notice any difference. Smokers will shiver violently in the cold, or stay home, because despite the intentions of our well-intending lawmakers, the addiction is stronger than any discomfort. People will not quit just because it is suddenly inconvenient or uncomfortable.
So what, if anything, has been accomplished here? What few bars had still allowed smoking will now offer clean air for their remaining patrons. Hopefully the influx of non-smokers will be enough to fill the empty, smoke-stained stools.
NOTE: At the time of this writing, it has been five and a half weeks since the author's last cigarette. He does not, nor will ever, consider himself a parasitic non-smoker.
Monday, September 28, 2009
karma comes to interplay
Some news from the electronic entertainment front grabbed my interest recently. It seems that Bethesda, publisher of the post-apocalyptic role-playing game Fallout 3, is taking legal action against Interplay, the company that originally birthed the beloved franchise.
The cause cited for this was Interplay's rerererelease of three titles in the Fallout series, namely Fallout 1, 2, and Fallout Tactics, as well as the company's treatment of the long-rumoured Fallout MMO, code-named “Project V13”. Apparently Interplay has simply sat on the project, which they retained the rights to following their sale to Bethesda in 2004. Now, Bethesda is claiming that Interplay has failed to gather the funding for Project V13, and has implied in its legal action that Interplay is releasing its Fallout bundles in an attempt to cash in on the popularity of Fallout 3.
Is it true? Is the company that gave birth to such gems as Earthworm Jim and Clay Fighter stooping so low as to leach off of the success of another? Absolutely, and it's the smartest move they could make.
Consider: Interplay essentially tanked in 2004. They were hemorrhaging money, and in a desperate attempt to regain the popularity they enjoyed in their prime, they called on Charles “Chuck” Cuevas to produce another title in the Fallout series, namely Fallout: Brotherhood of Steel.
Those who know me are probably tired of this old chestnut, but for those who don't, let me explain. If you search the interwebs for Interplay games, you will not find this title amongst what is being called the “original Fallout Trilogy”. Indeed, many web sites do not list it at all. At IGN.com, this game is charitably, inconceivably described as “just what the doctor ordered-- a post-apocalyptic, mutant-killing, trash-talking, hotty-filled, bad mamma-jamma of a game.” It then goes on to proudly announce “It's got prostitutes, swearing, giant rats, drinking... and did we mention prostitutes? It even makes a reference to Office Space ... how cool is that?”
Long story short: Nothing I could say could adequately depict the offensive tripe that is F:BoS. It was as though the creators of Redneck Rampage took a passing glance at the Fallout series after watching a trailer to Beyond Thunderdome. (Considering that Redneck Rampage was also released by Interplay, I really cannot find any evidence to the contrary.)
What I'm trying to say is that, in poverty-influenced desperation, Interplay put one of its finest children in the hands of an irresponsible frat boy, and the resulting failure ended the Fallout franchise with all the cold brutality of a hot bullet.
This is the part of the story so many die-hard fans seem to ignore. The Fallout name was not quite dead, but it was terminal, and salvation was obviously well beyond the ability of its creators. Desperate fans scrambled to save what was left, and the development of project Van Buren should stand as a testament to their ability and their devotion to all that Fallout had been. It is easy to forget that most of us came to think about Fallout with nostalgia.
Then came the ridiculously popular, obscenely successful creators of the Elder Scrolls RPG series. When Bethesda took Fallout from Interplay, the post-apocalyptic RPG was a used husk of its original self, barely alive, barely remembered by any but the most devoted of fans. For the next four years, Bethesda was hard at work: rebuilding, redesigning, and basically showing the franchise all the respect that it had lost after being horrifically raped by Chuck Cuevas and his team.
Then, in October of 2008, Fallout 3 was revealed to the world at large, and the finest RPG ever created was known and loved once again.
Since then, Bethesda has gone on to produce one Creation Kit and five expansions based in the Fallout universe, and with each, the newest installment further cements itself in the lore of the series. Meanwhile, still struggling to pull out of their financial tailspin, Interplay attempts to cash in on the success of their estranged child by yet again releasing their Fallout bundles.
Frankly, I could not care less about the slow stagnation of Project V13. Not that I wouldn't love to wander the post-apocalyptic wasteland with my friends at my side, but Interplay has most effectively proven that they can no longer be trusted to produce anything of quality, and I care too much for the Fallout universe to leave it in the hands of amateurs.
I guess we'll see if that applies to Obsidian once they release Fallout Vegas.
The cause cited for this was Interplay's rerererelease of three titles in the Fallout series, namely Fallout 1, 2, and Fallout Tactics, as well as the company's treatment of the long-rumoured Fallout MMO, code-named “Project V13”. Apparently Interplay has simply sat on the project, which they retained the rights to following their sale to Bethesda in 2004. Now, Bethesda is claiming that Interplay has failed to gather the funding for Project V13, and has implied in its legal action that Interplay is releasing its Fallout bundles in an attempt to cash in on the popularity of Fallout 3.
Is it true? Is the company that gave birth to such gems as Earthworm Jim and Clay Fighter stooping so low as to leach off of the success of another? Absolutely, and it's the smartest move they could make.
Consider: Interplay essentially tanked in 2004. They were hemorrhaging money, and in a desperate attempt to regain the popularity they enjoyed in their prime, they called on Charles “Chuck” Cuevas to produce another title in the Fallout series, namely Fallout: Brotherhood of Steel.
Those who know me are probably tired of this old chestnut, but for those who don't, let me explain. If you search the interwebs for Interplay games, you will not find this title amongst what is being called the “original Fallout Trilogy”. Indeed, many web sites do not list it at all. At IGN.com, this game is charitably, inconceivably described as “just what the doctor ordered-- a post-apocalyptic, mutant-killing, trash-talking, hotty-filled, bad mamma-jamma of a game.” It then goes on to proudly announce “It's got prostitutes, swearing, giant rats, drinking... and did we mention prostitutes? It even makes a reference to Office Space ... how cool is that?”
Long story short: Nothing I could say could adequately depict the offensive tripe that is F:BoS. It was as though the creators of Redneck Rampage took a passing glance at the Fallout series after watching a trailer to Beyond Thunderdome. (Considering that Redneck Rampage was also released by Interplay, I really cannot find any evidence to the contrary.)
What I'm trying to say is that, in poverty-influenced desperation, Interplay put one of its finest children in the hands of an irresponsible frat boy, and the resulting failure ended the Fallout franchise with all the cold brutality of a hot bullet.
This is the part of the story so many die-hard fans seem to ignore. The Fallout name was not quite dead, but it was terminal, and salvation was obviously well beyond the ability of its creators. Desperate fans scrambled to save what was left, and the development of project Van Buren should stand as a testament to their ability and their devotion to all that Fallout had been. It is easy to forget that most of us came to think about Fallout with nostalgia.
Then came the ridiculously popular, obscenely successful creators of the Elder Scrolls RPG series. When Bethesda took Fallout from Interplay, the post-apocalyptic RPG was a used husk of its original self, barely alive, barely remembered by any but the most devoted of fans. For the next four years, Bethesda was hard at work: rebuilding, redesigning, and basically showing the franchise all the respect that it had lost after being horrifically raped by Chuck Cuevas and his team.
Then, in October of 2008, Fallout 3 was revealed to the world at large, and the finest RPG ever created was known and loved once again.
Since then, Bethesda has gone on to produce one Creation Kit and five expansions based in the Fallout universe, and with each, the newest installment further cements itself in the lore of the series. Meanwhile, still struggling to pull out of their financial tailspin, Interplay attempts to cash in on the success of their estranged child by yet again releasing their Fallout bundles.
Frankly, I could not care less about the slow stagnation of Project V13. Not that I wouldn't love to wander the post-apocalyptic wasteland with my friends at my side, but Interplay has most effectively proven that they can no longer be trusted to produce anything of quality, and I care too much for the Fallout universe to leave it in the hands of amateurs.
I guess we'll see if that applies to Obsidian once they release Fallout Vegas.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
here's to you, old man
driving home tonight, it hit me. hard. the loss, that realization that an influence is gone from my life, that i've learned all i can from him.
part of what's bothering me, i think, is the recent recognition of my slowly fading awareness of the spiritual world. i can't say how it happened...i just don't think about it like i used to. not that i don't believe...i just don't think about it.
he taught me well. i'll never forget what i learned while he was here, the stuff he said. "women will come and go, but friends are forever." "you can work the rest of your life, play while you can." "it's just stuff." and, of course, "...but you can't do that now!"
it's easy to forget, sometimes, that he's not there. i used to be wonder whether he'd be proud, if he could see me today. a while back i realized it didn't matter what i did, how i was, who i slept with, what trouble i got into...of course he'd be proud of me. he loved me, and no matter how deep i got, he would always smile, roll up his sleeves, and find some way to laugh at the situation.
i try to do that myself, now. shake it off, cowboy up. find a way to laugh.
so here's to you, Dad. i know you're around somewhere, and i just want to say: you raised me right. a little rough around the edges, but good job.
i can take it from here.
thank you.
part of what's bothering me, i think, is the recent recognition of my slowly fading awareness of the spiritual world. i can't say how it happened...i just don't think about it like i used to. not that i don't believe...i just don't think about it.
he taught me well. i'll never forget what i learned while he was here, the stuff he said. "women will come and go, but friends are forever." "you can work the rest of your life, play while you can." "it's just stuff." and, of course, "...but you can't do that now!"
it's easy to forget, sometimes, that he's not there. i used to be wonder whether he'd be proud, if he could see me today. a while back i realized it didn't matter what i did, how i was, who i slept with, what trouble i got into...of course he'd be proud of me. he loved me, and no matter how deep i got, he would always smile, roll up his sleeves, and find some way to laugh at the situation.
i try to do that myself, now. shake it off, cowboy up. find a way to laugh.
so here's to you, Dad. i know you're around somewhere, and i just want to say: you raised me right. a little rough around the edges, but good job.
i can take it from here.
thank you.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
dead dogs and false gods
So I'm sitting in the Oxford in downtown Missoula between the god-forsaken hours of three and four, enjoying the bent remains of a cigarette over a steaming cup of coffee and a half-eaten fried egg sandwich. The ladies behind the counter banter easily with the customers, mostly greasy late-night blue-collars and small packs of frail, giggling emo kids.
The whole night probably would have gone unnoticed, unremarkable and par for the course, if I had not been idly eying the muted television in the corner of the room. As it was, I happened to be watching when news of a now-homeless octuplet mother was suddenly interrupted by the red and flashing announcement of “BREAKING NEWS”.
So yeah. I can honestly say that I remember exactly where I was sitting when Mickey Rourke's dog died.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Mickey Rourke. Aside from the role of Marv in Sin City, where he did a fantastic job, I can honestly say that I do not have an opinion about Mickey Rourke one way or the other. I'm sure he's a great person.
That being said, why should I care about his dog?
Did this dog perform any heroic feats during the course of its life? Doubtful. Was it a rare breed slowly dwindling into extinction? No, it was a chihuahua, a miserable breed inexplicably far too plentiful in this country, a quivering pseudo-rat mutant. As far as I can tell, the only thing special about this creature was the fact that it just happened to belong to Mickey Rourke.
What I can't figure out, what I keep coming back to, is why this nonsense is being tossed around, publicized, and openly discussed as though it is actual news. Newsflash: dogs die. For some reason, old and sickly dogs seem to die more often than young, healthy dogs. What we're really discussing here is not the fact that a good dog died so much as the fact that a dog belonging to a celebrity died. The only way I could be more irritated is if I saw this amount of publicity when Paris Hilton's neglected mongrel finally choked on a used condom.
Has our celebrity-worship finally come this far? These people are not gods, or even anywhere close, as much as Tom Cruise would like to think so. They are human beings who are paid ridiculous amounts of money to entertain you and, according to some schools of thought, keep you stupid and docile. They are not special, they are no better than any one of you. Some of them are even arguably worse than the average scum on the street, and because our culture elevates them to the status of heroes, they are able to shrug off the consequences.
So why do we put up with this foolish nonsense? In this time of struggle we have people starving to death in gutters within a mile of where an actor or sports hero is grudgingly selling their second or third home. On one end of the country a couple wonders how they are going to pay for a life-saving surgery, while on the other an oversexed rap artist settles out of court, parting with three times the cost of the surgery without batting an eye.
I've proudly told many people that one memory I will always treasure is seeing Paris Hilton wail like an abused child as she was carefully loaded into the back of a cop car. This is why. You treat someone like they shit gold for long enough, they will begin to believe it. This is a group of people so adapted to our devotion, they don't even have the decency to be embarrassed by the attention they get.
Why do we allow this to continue? If we choose to continue believing that everyone gets a fair shake in this society, can't we at least be reasonable when it comes to our economic worth? If anyone deserves to be paid ridiculous sums of money just for getting up in the morning, why not someone performing a vital service instead of an entertainer? Doctors, cops and teachers all over the country scrape by as a drug-addled rapper drinks fine wine from a jewel-encrusted mug.
Strangely, I've noticed a similar pattern pertaining to senators. I'm sure it's merely a coincidence.
The whole night probably would have gone unnoticed, unremarkable and par for the course, if I had not been idly eying the muted television in the corner of the room. As it was, I happened to be watching when news of a now-homeless octuplet mother was suddenly interrupted by the red and flashing announcement of “BREAKING NEWS”.
So yeah. I can honestly say that I remember exactly where I was sitting when Mickey Rourke's dog died.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Mickey Rourke. Aside from the role of Marv in Sin City, where he did a fantastic job, I can honestly say that I do not have an opinion about Mickey Rourke one way or the other. I'm sure he's a great person.
That being said, why should I care about his dog?
Did this dog perform any heroic feats during the course of its life? Doubtful. Was it a rare breed slowly dwindling into extinction? No, it was a chihuahua, a miserable breed inexplicably far too plentiful in this country, a quivering pseudo-rat mutant. As far as I can tell, the only thing special about this creature was the fact that it just happened to belong to Mickey Rourke.
What I can't figure out, what I keep coming back to, is why this nonsense is being tossed around, publicized, and openly discussed as though it is actual news. Newsflash: dogs die. For some reason, old and sickly dogs seem to die more often than young, healthy dogs. What we're really discussing here is not the fact that a good dog died so much as the fact that a dog belonging to a celebrity died. The only way I could be more irritated is if I saw this amount of publicity when Paris Hilton's neglected mongrel finally choked on a used condom.
Has our celebrity-worship finally come this far? These people are not gods, or even anywhere close, as much as Tom Cruise would like to think so. They are human beings who are paid ridiculous amounts of money to entertain you and, according to some schools of thought, keep you stupid and docile. They are not special, they are no better than any one of you. Some of them are even arguably worse than the average scum on the street, and because our culture elevates them to the status of heroes, they are able to shrug off the consequences.
So why do we put up with this foolish nonsense? In this time of struggle we have people starving to death in gutters within a mile of where an actor or sports hero is grudgingly selling their second or third home. On one end of the country a couple wonders how they are going to pay for a life-saving surgery, while on the other an oversexed rap artist settles out of court, parting with three times the cost of the surgery without batting an eye.
I've proudly told many people that one memory I will always treasure is seeing Paris Hilton wail like an abused child as she was carefully loaded into the back of a cop car. This is why. You treat someone like they shit gold for long enough, they will begin to believe it. This is a group of people so adapted to our devotion, they don't even have the decency to be embarrassed by the attention they get.
Why do we allow this to continue? If we choose to continue believing that everyone gets a fair shake in this society, can't we at least be reasonable when it comes to our economic worth? If anyone deserves to be paid ridiculous sums of money just for getting up in the morning, why not someone performing a vital service instead of an entertainer? Doctors, cops and teachers all over the country scrape by as a drug-addled rapper drinks fine wine from a jewel-encrusted mug.
Strangely, I've noticed a similar pattern pertaining to senators. I'm sure it's merely a coincidence.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
January 20th, 2009
The sun rose as it always did, noticed dimly through the unrelenting cloud cover. People rose from their beds, showered, dressed, and ate hurried breakfasts before moving on to what jobs were still available. People put on heavy coats against the lingering chill of years past, and cameramen checked their gear alongside optimistic teens checking cell and camera phones. A handful of paranoid mountain men hopped in their pickups and made one last run to pawn and gun shops, convinced that they would not get a second chance. Somewhere, a journalist snarled and lit a cigarette in the same city that a gay couple sat holding hands in front of a television. At exactly ten o'clock mountain time, in one small corner of the internet, a timer finally hit zero, winked off, and was forgotten.
Change was in the air.
Say what you will about Governor Bush, the Boy King. It matters not what we thought of the decisions made or the motions passed in recent years, as at this juncture we have nothing to gain from casting blame or pointing fingers. The past is past, and all that matters now is how to move on, to thrive yet again in the face of certain peril.
A sea of color and smiling faces radiates from the capitol, still thick at the base of the Washington Monument about a mile away, the likes of which some have never seen, and aren't likely to see again. People of different races and creeds, both young and old, the well-to-do rubbing shoulders with the barely-getting-by. Americans, all. The rumbling of the celebratory cannons is still only distant thunder under the wave of cheers of these people gathered.
Elected in a time of crisis beyond the botched war that has taken so much, the President is not naive about the task set before him. This has marked itself as a historical time, not by chance of race, but by the sudden awakening of people long comfortable with the niche, the groove they had been worn into and the holes they would otherwise be buried in. We have long descended into a hell of our own making, through our tolerance for selfishness and our willingness to be led. Long ago, a wise man told me that no one really wants to hear the truth. This day, I happily saw the people of this nation prove a wise man wrong.
It is humbling to hold witness to a speaker of this nature, a man who captures and holds your attention in spite of yourself. They have been around, I understand, but in my lifetime I have not born witness to such a man before today. He speaks of unity, of joining together as the world falls apart. He speaks of how far we've come, the acts of greatness that history has shown us to be capable of. Can I tell you how much fear is in me? Can I convey how my hope swells with each uninterrupted word? The task before us is what it is, and it is, to say the least, daunting. The President (and how long has it been since I've proudly been able to use that word respectfully!) meets the future before us on his feet, unflinching, and smiling.
This is a pivotal time in our history. We have existed through crisis before and succeeded. We must do so again. For too long we have segregated ourselves, pitting ourselves again “them”, whoever they might be this week. Neighbors have been wary to join hands with one another, simply on foolish notions such as sexual orientation, class, or race. We have become the United Selves of America, and it has brought us to the very brink of ruin. Now, at long last, we have a chance to redefine ourselves in the light of the world, to be something different in the eyes of our brothers across nations.
I am honored by the chance to see such a change in my lifetime. These will be the days we look back upon and smile, and I cannot wait to tell my children of the days to come.
Change was in the air.
Say what you will about Governor Bush, the Boy King. It matters not what we thought of the decisions made or the motions passed in recent years, as at this juncture we have nothing to gain from casting blame or pointing fingers. The past is past, and all that matters now is how to move on, to thrive yet again in the face of certain peril.
A sea of color and smiling faces radiates from the capitol, still thick at the base of the Washington Monument about a mile away, the likes of which some have never seen, and aren't likely to see again. People of different races and creeds, both young and old, the well-to-do rubbing shoulders with the barely-getting-by. Americans, all. The rumbling of the celebratory cannons is still only distant thunder under the wave of cheers of these people gathered.
Elected in a time of crisis beyond the botched war that has taken so much, the President is not naive about the task set before him. This has marked itself as a historical time, not by chance of race, but by the sudden awakening of people long comfortable with the niche, the groove they had been worn into and the holes they would otherwise be buried in. We have long descended into a hell of our own making, through our tolerance for selfishness and our willingness to be led. Long ago, a wise man told me that no one really wants to hear the truth. This day, I happily saw the people of this nation prove a wise man wrong.
It is humbling to hold witness to a speaker of this nature, a man who captures and holds your attention in spite of yourself. They have been around, I understand, but in my lifetime I have not born witness to such a man before today. He speaks of unity, of joining together as the world falls apart. He speaks of how far we've come, the acts of greatness that history has shown us to be capable of. Can I tell you how much fear is in me? Can I convey how my hope swells with each uninterrupted word? The task before us is what it is, and it is, to say the least, daunting. The President (and how long has it been since I've proudly been able to use that word respectfully!) meets the future before us on his feet, unflinching, and smiling.
This is a pivotal time in our history. We have existed through crisis before and succeeded. We must do so again. For too long we have segregated ourselves, pitting ourselves again “them”, whoever they might be this week. Neighbors have been wary to join hands with one another, simply on foolish notions such as sexual orientation, class, or race. We have become the United Selves of America, and it has brought us to the very brink of ruin. Now, at long last, we have a chance to redefine ourselves in the light of the world, to be something different in the eyes of our brothers across nations.
I am honored by the chance to see such a change in my lifetime. These will be the days we look back upon and smile, and I cannot wait to tell my children of the days to come.
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