Thursday, May 31, 2007
Move over, Relapsed Catholic
Okay, okay, Relapsed Catholic is still my favorite blog. But Small Dead Animals just may have stolen my heart by linking mockery of Stephane Dion to what may very well be the greatest song of all time. Kate, Bonnie, I love you all.
On Canadian Identity
So it's senior week, which means that the usual suspects are too drunk to cause any trouble (campus liberals proved they could go without food for ten days, but jello shots are a different matter altogether...), and I have no rants or new material of any kind. A dip into the archives it is, then. This is an essay I wrote a long time ago, in eighth or ninth grade I think. I publish it unchanged, so my apologies for the out-of-date references. The writing itself isn't great, but hey, I was fourteen, sorry! Still, I think it's pretty good, and I still agree with it (or is it a bad sign that my thoughts haven't evolved over a decade?), so I hope you enjoy it!
-----------------------
Do You Want Fries With That ?
Yes, I admit it. I deliberately skipped school. I left early on the Thursday afternoon a few years ago, conveniently right before French class, and walked to a friend’s house. Once there, I plopped down in front of the television and proceeded to watch the Thanksgiving Day NFL double header. Late in the evening, after the last quarterback got sacked, the last coach got soaked, and the last belt got loosened, I slowly rolled myself off the couch and waddled towards the door, remembering to wish my friend and his parents a happy Thanksgiving. My polite offering met with shocked silence, with only the sound of John Madden’s voice resonating throughout the house. Yet his brilliant post-game analysis soon gave way to a tirade by my friend’s father. We are living in Canada, he informed me, and Canadians do not celebrate American Thanksgiving. Ours was last Monday, or maybe Sunday, he wasn’t sure. Here he paused for a moment to put down his Coke before continuing his poetic lament. I had become a pawn of American culture, he said, and had lost my Canadian identity. He was ashamed of me. I trudged home that night thoroughly humiliated and full of remorse for the tragic betrayal of my country.
We pride ourselves in being Canadian. Who needs McDonalds when Canada has Tim Horton’s? Who needs the NFL when Canada has the CFL? Why read Time when Canada has Maclean’s? We’d take Pamela over Laetitia any day. Not to mention Celine over Britney. Truth be told, what Canadian culture exists is nothing but a regurgitation of the American one. The Tim Horton’s/Robin’s Donuts rivalry shadows the McDonalds/Burger King one. The CFL advertises its unique Canadian game. I suppose that one down really makes a radical difference. Our celebrities, musicians, artists, and writers all say that they strive for the true Canadian identity when their real goal is making it big in the States. An integral part of Canadian culture would appear to be the simultaneous denigration and emulation of Americans.
As my friends often say, one cannot forget the beer. A recent ad campaign for Molson attempted to destroy the ridiculous myth that all Canadians live in igloos in favor of the ridiculous myth that all Canadians are drunks. In fact, beer appears to constitute the one domain in which we Canadians distinguish ourselves from American culture. Let’s get real. We have a serious problem when we take patriotic pride in our alcohol production. The pathetic nature of such a situation compares only with our staunch desire to keep Canadian spelling, which favors “favour.” Our national identity consists of a six-pack and a vowel.
The paradox of Canadian identity lies in its reliance on the United States. Almost all Canadians share the conviction that we differ from Americans. Our patriotism manifests itself negatively, for it does not celebrate what makes Canada great; rather, it brags about what makes Canada better than the States. We must stop intoxicating ourselves with delusions of grandeur and accept our dependency on the United States (we must not feel ashamed – they outnumber us ten to one). Canada must appreciate and even embrace the American culture that pervades our society, realizing that being Canadian goes past pop culture, that downing a Bud Light does not constitute treason. We must stop lying to the pollsters about watching Canadian content on television and unabashedly admit that, yes, we do watch NBC. Doing so, we will be able to forge a new Canadian identity, one of honesty, truth, and realism.
A huge gap exists between what Canada should do and what Canada will do. Canadians will continue to insult the greatest nation in the world behind its back. Canadians will continue to take pride in our elongated end zones. Canadians will still speak out against the American influence even if McDonalds feeds them, General Motors employs them, The Sopranos entertains them, and Julia Roberts titillates them. The only comfort we have in this expression of ingratitude comes in knowing that most Americans couldn’t care less what Canadians do or say, so they won’t get insulted.
Our hypocrisy extends beyond that. On one hand, Canadians fume when the Americans stereotype us, whether as lumberjacks or hockey players. We mock their ignorance, their inability to look past the surface and see the many other aspects of Canadian society. On the other hand, we just as quickly label them. We refuse to look past the greasy curtain of McDonalds fries to see the true greatness of American culture. This refusal must exist, however, if we intend to keep on deluding ourselves with ideas of Canadian superiority. For if we look past Jerry Springer to the books of Ernest Hemingway, the plays of Tennessee Williams, the short stories of John Cheever, the poems of T.S. Eliot and countless other works of pure genius in innumerable fields, we would begin to plant the seeds of doubt. So we close our eyes, for we wish to remain in our country of illusion, scoffing at the supermarket books of John Grisham and contently perusing the latest from Margaret Atwood.
Which brings me to the question: how come Canadians only display emulatory expertise when it comes to American pop culture and not in truly important domains? How can we so easily swallow up McDonalds franchises but not produce a Metropolitan Opera? How come so many Canadians can imitate Britney Spears while not a single one comes close to Arthur Miller? Why did Madison Avenue commercialism catch on and not Broadway artistry as well? It would appear that not all of American culture has overwhelmed Canadian society, only the superficial aspects of it. Many Canadians rush to blame the U.S. for those shallow imports, but isn’t it our own fault for somehow never letting the meaningful ones through customs? That selective assimilation reflects more poorly on Canada than it does on the United States.
Indeed, as one who frequently visits the United States, I know for certain that Canada only sees a diminutive part of American culture. Yes, New York City’s landscape seems littered with McDonalds and Pizza Huts, but it also has The Lincoln Center. Perhaps when Canadians drop their superiority complex and accept their American ties, a little class will cross the border along with the deep-dish pizzas.
-----------------------
Do You Want Fries With That ?
Yes, I admit it. I deliberately skipped school. I left early on the Thursday afternoon a few years ago, conveniently right before French class, and walked to a friend’s house. Once there, I plopped down in front of the television and proceeded to watch the Thanksgiving Day NFL double header. Late in the evening, after the last quarterback got sacked, the last coach got soaked, and the last belt got loosened, I slowly rolled myself off the couch and waddled towards the door, remembering to wish my friend and his parents a happy Thanksgiving. My polite offering met with shocked silence, with only the sound of John Madden’s voice resonating throughout the house. Yet his brilliant post-game analysis soon gave way to a tirade by my friend’s father. We are living in Canada, he informed me, and Canadians do not celebrate American Thanksgiving. Ours was last Monday, or maybe Sunday, he wasn’t sure. Here he paused for a moment to put down his Coke before continuing his poetic lament. I had become a pawn of American culture, he said, and had lost my Canadian identity. He was ashamed of me. I trudged home that night thoroughly humiliated and full of remorse for the tragic betrayal of my country.
We pride ourselves in being Canadian. Who needs McDonalds when Canada has Tim Horton’s? Who needs the NFL when Canada has the CFL? Why read Time when Canada has Maclean’s? We’d take Pamela over Laetitia any day. Not to mention Celine over Britney. Truth be told, what Canadian culture exists is nothing but a regurgitation of the American one. The Tim Horton’s/Robin’s Donuts rivalry shadows the McDonalds/Burger King one. The CFL advertises its unique Canadian game. I suppose that one down really makes a radical difference. Our celebrities, musicians, artists, and writers all say that they strive for the true Canadian identity when their real goal is making it big in the States. An integral part of Canadian culture would appear to be the simultaneous denigration and emulation of Americans.
As my friends often say, one cannot forget the beer. A recent ad campaign for Molson attempted to destroy the ridiculous myth that all Canadians live in igloos in favor of the ridiculous myth that all Canadians are drunks. In fact, beer appears to constitute the one domain in which we Canadians distinguish ourselves from American culture. Let’s get real. We have a serious problem when we take patriotic pride in our alcohol production. The pathetic nature of such a situation compares only with our staunch desire to keep Canadian spelling, which favors “favour.” Our national identity consists of a six-pack and a vowel.
The paradox of Canadian identity lies in its reliance on the United States. Almost all Canadians share the conviction that we differ from Americans. Our patriotism manifests itself negatively, for it does not celebrate what makes Canada great; rather, it brags about what makes Canada better than the States. We must stop intoxicating ourselves with delusions of grandeur and accept our dependency on the United States (we must not feel ashamed – they outnumber us ten to one). Canada must appreciate and even embrace the American culture that pervades our society, realizing that being Canadian goes past pop culture, that downing a Bud Light does not constitute treason. We must stop lying to the pollsters about watching Canadian content on television and unabashedly admit that, yes, we do watch NBC. Doing so, we will be able to forge a new Canadian identity, one of honesty, truth, and realism.
A huge gap exists between what Canada should do and what Canada will do. Canadians will continue to insult the greatest nation in the world behind its back. Canadians will continue to take pride in our elongated end zones. Canadians will still speak out against the American influence even if McDonalds feeds them, General Motors employs them, The Sopranos entertains them, and Julia Roberts titillates them. The only comfort we have in this expression of ingratitude comes in knowing that most Americans couldn’t care less what Canadians do or say, so they won’t get insulted.
Our hypocrisy extends beyond that. On one hand, Canadians fume when the Americans stereotype us, whether as lumberjacks or hockey players. We mock their ignorance, their inability to look past the surface and see the many other aspects of Canadian society. On the other hand, we just as quickly label them. We refuse to look past the greasy curtain of McDonalds fries to see the true greatness of American culture. This refusal must exist, however, if we intend to keep on deluding ourselves with ideas of Canadian superiority. For if we look past Jerry Springer to the books of Ernest Hemingway, the plays of Tennessee Williams, the short stories of John Cheever, the poems of T.S. Eliot and countless other works of pure genius in innumerable fields, we would begin to plant the seeds of doubt. So we close our eyes, for we wish to remain in our country of illusion, scoffing at the supermarket books of John Grisham and contently perusing the latest from Margaret Atwood.
Which brings me to the question: how come Canadians only display emulatory expertise when it comes to American pop culture and not in truly important domains? How can we so easily swallow up McDonalds franchises but not produce a Metropolitan Opera? How come so many Canadians can imitate Britney Spears while not a single one comes close to Arthur Miller? Why did Madison Avenue commercialism catch on and not Broadway artistry as well? It would appear that not all of American culture has overwhelmed Canadian society, only the superficial aspects of it. Many Canadians rush to blame the U.S. for those shallow imports, but isn’t it our own fault for somehow never letting the meaningful ones through customs? That selective assimilation reflects more poorly on Canada than it does on the United States.
Indeed, as one who frequently visits the United States, I know for certain that Canada only sees a diminutive part of American culture. Yes, New York City’s landscape seems littered with McDonalds and Pizza Huts, but it also has The Lincoln Center. Perhaps when Canadians drop their superiority complex and accept their American ties, a little class will cross the border along with the deep-dish pizzas.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Great blogs
It's six in the morning, and I'm still awake, because I've spent the past seven hours absorbed in two blogs I discovered when I went hunting for pictures of Jean Arthur and Myrna Loy.
The other has fewer pictures, a lot more words. Miss O'Malley, despite being a Red Sox fan, appears to be passably literate.
Here, she features a wonderful excerpt from the one and only Camille Paglia:
Genuine radicals did not go on to graduate school. If they did, they soon dropped out, or were later defeated by the faculty recruitment and promotion process, which rewards conformism and sycophancy. The universities were abandoned to the time-servers and mercenaries who now hold many of the senior positions there. Ideas had been relegated to the universities, but the universities belonged to the drudges.
There is a widespread notion that these people are dangerous leftists, "tenured radicals" in Roger Kimball's phrase, who have invaded the American establishment with subversive ideas. In fact, they are not radicals at all. Authentic leftism is nowhere to be seen in our major universities. The "multiculturalists" and the "politically correct" on the subjects of race, class, and gender actually represent a continuation of the genteel tradition of respectability and conformity. They have institutionalized American niceness, which seeks, above all, not to offend and must therefore
pretend not to notice any differences or distinctions among people or cultures.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Thoughts on Blackness
Warning: this has been rolling around in my head for the past few days, gaining steam with each new, self-parodying opinion piece and mindless letter to the editor on racism at Harvard that The Crimson has published, so what you are about to read will quickly devolve into incoherent, angry rambling. My apologies in advance for the rant! With that out of the way, time to speak some truth to power.
So this is how I see it. The defining element of black identity, as taught to young blacks by their elders, is the experience of racism – slavery in specific, discrimination in general. It is hammered into each new generation from the earliest age that to be black means above all to be a victim of racism. The obvious problem that arises here is that, in the absence of racism, there is an absence of black identity. The only way the younger generation can share in this identity is to convince themselves that they are indeed living in a society as racist as that of their elders. So these spoiled Harvard brats, who wouldn’t know real racism if it burned a cross on their lawn, actually want to be discriminated against, they long to be victims, because it is only by savoring this sense of racial injustice that they can feel truly black. It is not enough for them to learn about the bad old days and then get on with their lives in the comparatively Edenic present of Harvard Yard; no, they feel that they must experience racism first-hand as an initiation into the black fraternity (an incredibly un-secret society), and so they will look for racism anywhere they can find it.
Compare that cultural approach to the Jewish one. I don’t want to make this into a suffering contest, but when it comes to hardship, blacks ain’t got nothing on us. Yet Jewish identity, as preached by our elders, is not about being a victim – it’s about refusing to be a victim, no matter what the odds. It’s about keeping your head high, working twice as hard, being a survivor, and, perhaps above all, joking about your troubles instead of dwelling upon them.
Believe me, I know all my family’s stories, I’m fully aware of everything that happened and of the possibility that it may happen again. But that doesn’t mean I go around trying to get German tourists to put their cigarettes out on my palm in some feeble, pathetic attempt at getting in touch with my roots. I’m reminded of the old Jackie Mason joke, about the excuse used by any Jew who can’t afford a Mercedes: “What? Me buy a German car?!? Phooey!” Yes, we Jews might crack a German joke now and then, but we’re not serious about it. We got over it. Maybe that’s something the rest of y’all should look into. So, dear students writing op-eds on Harvard’s racism: 1) Get a sense of humor, 2) a sense of perspective wouldn’t be too bad, either, and 3) excuse my misogynistic expression, but please grow a pair.
You know, I take that back - perhaps the complaining students do have a sense of humor, because it’s absolutely laughable that they are claiming that this is an issue of racial pride, of racial humiliation. These students don’t know a thing about pride or humiliation. When my dad escaped to Vienna after the war, he had nothing. He had faced hardships and horrors that these Harvard kids couldn’t even begin to understand, and he had nothing. Every day for an entire year, on his way to scrounge up whatever work he could find, he walked past a Red Cross station handing out food and supplies to a long line of fellow refugees. Not once, not one single time, did he stand in that line. He had nothing, yet not once that year, or in his entire life, did he accept anybody’s charity. That is pride. He has lots of incredible stories of escape from Nazis and Communists, but you have to pry them out of him – the only thing he willingly told me about, that he taught me, was that feeling of pride, of refusing to rely on anyone but yourself. The way he saw it, as long as you’re of able body and able mind, you should never accept charity. Obviously, I was never in a similar situation; I was blessed, thanks to his hard work, with an upbringing in which I never had to make those kinds of choices. But I do know this: if I ever suspected that I was accepted into Harvard not for my grades or my record, but on the basis of my family’s past hardships, I would be humiliated. And I would tell whoever had the gall to think he could offer me charity that he could take that diploma and shove it. I sure as hell wouldn’t accept the offer and then presume to tell anyone else about the meaning of pride and humiliation.
Anybody who calls for public apologies, public protests, public forums, public anything, by definition does not have any pride. Pride is not a possession you proclaim in public, it is a contempt for the public – a reliance upon the self, and nothing else. Pride means that even if you are living in an openly and violently racist society, you don’t complain about it, you definitely don’t write letters to the editor about it, you hold your head high and fight to survive. You cannot allot yourself pride in public, you must earn it in private. All you can achieve in public is humiliation. And, true enough, these protesting students and their faculty enablers, who I know do not represent all black students at Harvard, and who talk so freely of racial humiliation, have succeeded only in humiliating themselves.
So this is how I see it. The defining element of black identity, as taught to young blacks by their elders, is the experience of racism – slavery in specific, discrimination in general. It is hammered into each new generation from the earliest age that to be black means above all to be a victim of racism. The obvious problem that arises here is that, in the absence of racism, there is an absence of black identity. The only way the younger generation can share in this identity is to convince themselves that they are indeed living in a society as racist as that of their elders. So these spoiled Harvard brats, who wouldn’t know real racism if it burned a cross on their lawn, actually want to be discriminated against, they long to be victims, because it is only by savoring this sense of racial injustice that they can feel truly black. It is not enough for them to learn about the bad old days and then get on with their lives in the comparatively Edenic present of Harvard Yard; no, they feel that they must experience racism first-hand as an initiation into the black fraternity (an incredibly un-secret society), and so they will look for racism anywhere they can find it.
Compare that cultural approach to the Jewish one. I don’t want to make this into a suffering contest, but when it comes to hardship, blacks ain’t got nothing on us. Yet Jewish identity, as preached by our elders, is not about being a victim – it’s about refusing to be a victim, no matter what the odds. It’s about keeping your head high, working twice as hard, being a survivor, and, perhaps above all, joking about your troubles instead of dwelling upon them.
Believe me, I know all my family’s stories, I’m fully aware of everything that happened and of the possibility that it may happen again. But that doesn’t mean I go around trying to get German tourists to put their cigarettes out on my palm in some feeble, pathetic attempt at getting in touch with my roots. I’m reminded of the old Jackie Mason joke, about the excuse used by any Jew who can’t afford a Mercedes: “What? Me buy a German car?!? Phooey!” Yes, we Jews might crack a German joke now and then, but we’re not serious about it. We got over it. Maybe that’s something the rest of y’all should look into. So, dear students writing op-eds on Harvard’s racism: 1) Get a sense of humor, 2) a sense of perspective wouldn’t be too bad, either, and 3) excuse my misogynistic expression, but please grow a pair.
You know, I take that back - perhaps the complaining students do have a sense of humor, because it’s absolutely laughable that they are claiming that this is an issue of racial pride, of racial humiliation. These students don’t know a thing about pride or humiliation. When my dad escaped to Vienna after the war, he had nothing. He had faced hardships and horrors that these Harvard kids couldn’t even begin to understand, and he had nothing. Every day for an entire year, on his way to scrounge up whatever work he could find, he walked past a Red Cross station handing out food and supplies to a long line of fellow refugees. Not once, not one single time, did he stand in that line. He had nothing, yet not once that year, or in his entire life, did he accept anybody’s charity. That is pride. He has lots of incredible stories of escape from Nazis and Communists, but you have to pry them out of him – the only thing he willingly told me about, that he taught me, was that feeling of pride, of refusing to rely on anyone but yourself. The way he saw it, as long as you’re of able body and able mind, you should never accept charity. Obviously, I was never in a similar situation; I was blessed, thanks to his hard work, with an upbringing in which I never had to make those kinds of choices. But I do know this: if I ever suspected that I was accepted into Harvard not for my grades or my record, but on the basis of my family’s past hardships, I would be humiliated. And I would tell whoever had the gall to think he could offer me charity that he could take that diploma and shove it. I sure as hell wouldn’t accept the offer and then presume to tell anyone else about the meaning of pride and humiliation.
Anybody who calls for public apologies, public protests, public forums, public anything, by definition does not have any pride. Pride is not a possession you proclaim in public, it is a contempt for the public – a reliance upon the self, and nothing else. Pride means that even if you are living in an openly and violently racist society, you don’t complain about it, you definitely don’t write letters to the editor about it, you hold your head high and fight to survive. You cannot allot yourself pride in public, you must earn it in private. All you can achieve in public is humiliation. And, true enough, these protesting students and their faculty enablers, who I know do not represent all black students at Harvard, and who talk so freely of racial humiliation, have succeeded only in humiliating themselves.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
"If they won't be peaceful, kill 'em"
Remember when Hollywood's dangerous bad boys used to be, you know, actual dangerous bad boys?
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Grindhouse
I saw Grindhouse last night in the only theatre in Boston where it's still playing. I don't understand why it performed so poorly, I really enjoyed it. The first movie (it's a double feature), Planet Terror, is a very over-the-top, violent, and gross zombie movie, but it's entertaining if you're into that sort of thing, and it's an honest-to-goodness grindhouse film, which was, after all, the whole point.
But I want to write something about the second movie, Death Proof, directed by Tarantino. Unlike Planet Terror, it's not just a campy grindhouse homage, it's actually a terrific action movie in it's own right. And, I would like to argue, it has some surprisingly conservative themes and dialogue (in Tarantino's usual vulgar, wordy, and funny style). Before I get to the conservative message, which will require spoilers, I wanted to excerpt a pro-gun discussion from the movie. Lots of foul language, so be warned, proceed at your own risk. The context here is that one of the characters, Kim, explains to her friends why she always carries a concealed pistol (the transcript I'm using is from IMDB):
Lee: Did you know Kim carried a gun?
Abernathy: Yes. Do I approve? No. Do I know? Yes.
Kim: I don't know what futuristic utopia you live in, but in the world I live in, a bitch need a gun.
Abernathy: You can't get around the fact that people who carry guns, tend to get shot more than people who don't.
Kim: And you can't get around the fact that if I go down to the laundry room in my building at midnight enough times, I might get my ass raped! Lee: Don't do your laundry at midnight.
Kim: Fuck that! I wanna do my laundry whenever the fuck I want to do my laundry.
Abernathy: There are other things you can carry other than a gun. Pepper spray.
Kim: Uh, muthafucka tryin to rape me, I don't want to give him a skin rash. I wanna shut that nigga down!
Abernathy: How about a knife at least.
Kim: Yeah, you know what happens to muthafuckas who carry knives?They get shot!
(Spoilers ahead)
As for the overall theme, it's one of strong female empowerment. No, no, not that kind of empowerment - not spoken-word poetry or low-rise jeans or sleeping around or whatever the latest thing is that liberal women claim empowers them. No, I'm talking about real empowerment - women shooting a bad guy, chasing after him, scaring the daylights out of him, attacking him with a lead pipe, and finally punching and kicking the life out of him. The movie follows two sets of women, and the maniac who tries to kill them. The first set, who are portayed on a typical modern immoral girls' night out, drinking heavily, smoking pot, giving lapdances to strangers, etc., are easy prey for the killer. But then the movie moves on to a second group, not girls this time, but women - two strong and brave stuntwomen (one, as noted, packing heat) and another woman who doesn't let the men in her world use and abuse her (she explains, in another conservative moment, why she won't sleep with her boyfriend, but I couldn't find a transcript of it). The maniac sees these women as prey and tries to kill them, but soon regrets the decision, since these women are no victims - they soon turn the tables and begin hunting and terrorizing him. The movie ends as they take turns beating the hell out of him.
In short, the moral of the movie: don't let yourself be a victim, don't let men push you around; be strong, fight back, and don't forget your gun!
But I want to write something about the second movie, Death Proof, directed by Tarantino. Unlike Planet Terror, it's not just a campy grindhouse homage, it's actually a terrific action movie in it's own right. And, I would like to argue, it has some surprisingly conservative themes and dialogue (in Tarantino's usual vulgar, wordy, and funny style). Before I get to the conservative message, which will require spoilers, I wanted to excerpt a pro-gun discussion from the movie. Lots of foul language, so be warned, proceed at your own risk. The context here is that one of the characters, Kim, explains to her friends why she always carries a concealed pistol (the transcript I'm using is from IMDB):
Lee: Did you know Kim carried a gun?
Abernathy: Yes. Do I approve? No. Do I know? Yes.
Kim: I don't know what futuristic utopia you live in, but in the world I live in, a bitch need a gun.
Abernathy: You can't get around the fact that people who carry guns, tend to get shot more than people who don't.
Kim: And you can't get around the fact that if I go down to the laundry room in my building at midnight enough times, I might get my ass raped! Lee: Don't do your laundry at midnight.
Kim: Fuck that! I wanna do my laundry whenever the fuck I want to do my laundry.
Abernathy: There are other things you can carry other than a gun. Pepper spray.
Kim: Uh, muthafucka tryin to rape me, I don't want to give him a skin rash. I wanna shut that nigga down!
Abernathy: How about a knife at least.
Kim: Yeah, you know what happens to muthafuckas who carry knives?They get shot!
(Spoilers ahead)
As for the overall theme, it's one of strong female empowerment. No, no, not that kind of empowerment - not spoken-word poetry or low-rise jeans or sleeping around or whatever the latest thing is that liberal women claim empowers them. No, I'm talking about real empowerment - women shooting a bad guy, chasing after him, scaring the daylights out of him, attacking him with a lead pipe, and finally punching and kicking the life out of him. The movie follows two sets of women, and the maniac who tries to kill them. The first set, who are portayed on a typical modern immoral girls' night out, drinking heavily, smoking pot, giving lapdances to strangers, etc., are easy prey for the killer. But then the movie moves on to a second group, not girls this time, but women - two strong and brave stuntwomen (one, as noted, packing heat) and another woman who doesn't let the men in her world use and abuse her (she explains, in another conservative moment, why she won't sleep with her boyfriend, but I couldn't find a transcript of it). The maniac sees these women as prey and tries to kill them, but soon regrets the decision, since these women are no victims - they soon turn the tables and begin hunting and terrorizing him. The movie ends as they take turns beating the hell out of him.
In short, the moral of the movie: don't let yourself be a victim, don't let men push you around; be strong, fight back, and don't forget your gun!
Friday, May 25, 2007
Talk, Talk, Talk
I watched The Talk of the Town, which was very good, but not great. My main complaint is that Jean Arthur, except for her short interrogation scene, is criminally underused. I mean, yes, she's in almost every scene - but not as her spunky self, just as some generic leading lady. I have a big crush on Jean Arthur, and if you do, too (and you should!), and you want to see that dame at her wise-cracking best, check out The Whole Town's Talking, a very underrated comedy co-starring Edward G. Robinson (!) and directed by John Ford (!).
Kind Hearts and Coronets is hilarious and deserves its classic status. My only complaint is that it's too short - some of Guinness' characters barely get a line out before they're offed. Well, my other complaint is that it's probably this movie that led Eddie Murphy to think The Nutty Professor would be a good idea.
As for Days of Heaven, I haven't watched it yet. The reason I've been able to rent movies this week - the end of school - is also the reason I've been able to play a lot of tennis every day, so I'm really, really tired by the evening. I love Terrence Malick, but I know that his films tend to be slow and lingering (one of my favorites is Badlands, a beautiful movie, much better than Bonnie and Clyde), and I was pretty sure I would fall asleep if I started it. I don't know why I am even sharing this. Blogging is weird sometimes. No, that's not fair - I am weird sometimes. Well, goodnight!
p.s. my other big Old Hollywood crush: Myrna Loy. Like I said, I'm weird. This is what happens when your father was born in 1927.
Kind Hearts and Coronets is hilarious and deserves its classic status. My only complaint is that it's too short - some of Guinness' characters barely get a line out before they're offed. Well, my other complaint is that it's probably this movie that led Eddie Murphy to think The Nutty Professor would be a good idea.
As for Days of Heaven, I haven't watched it yet. The reason I've been able to rent movies this week - the end of school - is also the reason I've been able to play a lot of tennis every day, so I'm really, really tired by the evening. I love Terrence Malick, but I know that his films tend to be slow and lingering (one of my favorites is Badlands, a beautiful movie, much better than Bonnie and Clyde), and I was pretty sure I would fall asleep if I started it. I don't know why I am even sharing this. Blogging is weird sometimes. No, that's not fair - I am weird sometimes. Well, goodnight!
p.s. my other big Old Hollywood crush: Myrna Loy. Like I said, I'm weird. This is what happens when your father was born in 1927.
"For someone this disdainful of the American underclass, why do you want to double the size of it?"
Many thanks to Udolpho for pointing the way to the quite hilarious evisceration of Bryan Caplan in his own comments section. I have no idea who Tino is, but I'm a little bit in love. I would urge you to read all of Tino's remarks, but if you're in a hurry, just focus on his first comment, the third one down (no permalink, sorry).
p.s. my favorite line from Udolpho's post: "Instead of debate there is, on the one side, immigration skeptics pointing to demographic trends, class and social realities, and a sea of worrisome data, and on the other side a bunch of deluded pseudo-hippies shouting catchphrases: "YOU CAN'T PUT AN ARMY ON THE BORDER, YOU CAN'T DEPORT THEM ALL, THEY DO THE WORK AMERICANS WON'T DO.""
UPDATE: From another comments thread, I really liked this remark, from Steve Burton: "Those who support open borders like to point out that, in the past, the U.S. has successfully assimilated all sorts of ethnically distinct immigrants.
But the great waves of American immigration in the 19th and early 20th centuries swept ashore in a relatively harsh, sink-or-swim society where one had little choice but to fit in, and to make one's own way.
The Latin American immigrants of today, on the other hand, show up in an advanced welfare state which positively *encourages* them to maintain and to exploit their separate ethnic identity for political and economic advantage.
That's a whole different ballgame."
FURTHER UPDATE: Just to avoid any confusion, I am not the 'adrian' from those comment threads.
p.s. my favorite line from Udolpho's post: "Instead of debate there is, on the one side, immigration skeptics pointing to demographic trends, class and social realities, and a sea of worrisome data, and on the other side a bunch of deluded pseudo-hippies shouting catchphrases: "YOU CAN'T PUT AN ARMY ON THE BORDER, YOU CAN'T DEPORT THEM ALL, THEY DO THE WORK AMERICANS WON'T DO.""
UPDATE: From another comments thread, I really liked this remark, from Steve Burton: "Those who support open borders like to point out that, in the past, the U.S. has successfully assimilated all sorts of ethnically distinct immigrants.
But the great waves of American immigration in the 19th and early 20th centuries swept ashore in a relatively harsh, sink-or-swim society where one had little choice but to fit in, and to make one's own way.
The Latin American immigrants of today, on the other hand, show up in an advanced welfare state which positively *encourages* them to maintain and to exploit their separate ethnic identity for political and economic advantage.
That's a whole different ballgame."
FURTHER UPDATE: Just to avoid any confusion, I am not the 'adrian' from those comment threads.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Disobedience training tomorrow, 12 noon - don't be late!
Who says you don't learn anything at Harvard? I just received an email about a student-run training session tomorrow: "Civil Disobedience Training & Know Your Rights!" An excerpt:
"Before we leave for the summer, come learn about your rights to protest. Come practice non-violent street tactics!
- What is civil disobedience?
- Dealing with authorities and police officers
- Know your rights!
- Non-violent Civil Disobedience and Street tactics
- Escalation and de-escalation
Sponsored by: the Student Labor Action Movement"
The subject line of the email, you ask? "if you wanna be a rebel you gotta KNOW YOUR RIGHTS!" It is wrong for me to smirk. I must admit, I know of no better, more direct and straightforward way of becoming a rebel than attending a training session on how to be a rebel.
"Before we leave for the summer, come learn about your rights to protest. Come practice non-violent street tactics!
- What is civil disobedience?
- Dealing with authorities and police officers
- Know your rights!
- Non-violent Civil Disobedience and Street tactics
- Escalation and de-escalation
Sponsored by: the Student Labor Action Movement"
The subject line of the email, you ask? "if you wanna be a rebel you gotta KNOW YOUR RIGHTS!" It is wrong for me to smirk. I must admit, I know of no better, more direct and straightforward way of becoming a rebel than attending a training session on how to be a rebel.
Now that's a coalition!
Now that the security guards are set to go on strike, their student allies are passing the hat around for donations to a strike fund. I don't really have anything to add to my earlier comments on this whole inane affair, but I was quite amused by the long list of student groups involved. Here, straight from the latest email, is the full list:
"The Stand for Security Coalition is: Activate South Asia · Association of Black Harvard Women · Black Men's Forum ·Black Students Association · Fuerza Latina · Graduate Student Council ·Graduate Student Labor Council · Harvard AIDS Coalition · Harvard Coalition for Ugandan Peace · Harvard College Democrats · Harvard College Interfaith Council ·Harvard Progressive Jewish Alliance · Harvard Darfur Action Group · Harvard Initiative for Peace and Justice · Harvard Progressive Advocacy Group ·Harvard-Radcliffe RAZA · Harvard Students for Choice · Latinas Unidas · Latino Men's Collective · Phillips Brooks House Association · Radcliffe Union of Students · Society of Arab Students · South Asian Women's Collective · Student Labor Action Movement · Students Taking On Poverty · Unbound · Undergraduate Council"
The Harvard AIDS Coalition, Harvard Darfur Action Group, Harvard Coalition for Ugandan Peace - I'm glad to see these groups are sticking up for the truly important cause of a living wage for security guards, and not wasting time on frivolous concerns with AIDS, Darfur, or Uganda. It would be a shame, after all, if it turned out that these groups had devolved into little more than run-of-the-mill liberal interest groups. A real shame, that would be.
As for the support of Harvard Students for Choice, well, this only casts the hunger strike in an even more negative light. After all, why risk the health and well-being of fully grown, immensely talented Harvard students, what with their bright futures and limitless potential and all, in such a dangerous and physically taxing protest, when you could just as easily have aborted a fetus or two on the Widener steps? The chances that they would have grown up to become Harvard students too are negligible at best, so it seems quite fair to say that they're rather disposable.
"The Stand for Security Coalition is: Activate South Asia · Association of Black Harvard Women · Black Men's Forum ·Black Students Association · Fuerza Latina · Graduate Student Council ·Graduate Student Labor Council · Harvard AIDS Coalition · Harvard Coalition for Ugandan Peace · Harvard College Democrats · Harvard College Interfaith Council ·Harvard Progressive Jewish Alliance · Harvard Darfur Action Group · Harvard Initiative for Peace and Justice · Harvard Progressive Advocacy Group ·Harvard-Radcliffe RAZA · Harvard Students for Choice · Latinas Unidas · Latino Men's Collective · Phillips Brooks House Association · Radcliffe Union of Students · Society of Arab Students · South Asian Women's Collective · Student Labor Action Movement · Students Taking On Poverty · Unbound · Undergraduate Council"
The Harvard AIDS Coalition, Harvard Darfur Action Group, Harvard Coalition for Ugandan Peace - I'm glad to see these groups are sticking up for the truly important cause of a living wage for security guards, and not wasting time on frivolous concerns with AIDS, Darfur, or Uganda. It would be a shame, after all, if it turned out that these groups had devolved into little more than run-of-the-mill liberal interest groups. A real shame, that would be.
As for the support of Harvard Students for Choice, well, this only casts the hunger strike in an even more negative light. After all, why risk the health and well-being of fully grown, immensely talented Harvard students, what with their bright futures and limitless potential and all, in such a dangerous and physically taxing protest, when you could just as easily have aborted a fetus or two on the Widener steps? The chances that they would have grown up to become Harvard students too are negligible at best, so it seems quite fair to say that they're rather disposable.
God is a Republican
So, remember how I was saying that the only thing Harvard's security guards do, besides sitting on their butts and watching their stories, is supervising package delivery in the mailroom? And remember how I said they performed even that minor task with conspicuous incompetence? Well, it turns out that they really screwed up yesterday. A student had her passport delivered to the dorm, and it was signed for, but now it's gone, lost or stolen. The student is supposed to leave the country tomorrow, but won't be able to unless the passport is miraculously recovered. Quite a stressful situation for her, as we all can understand. The kicker, and the reason for this post's title? The student whose passport was lost or stolen by the security guards is the very girl who was the dorm's most vocal defender of the hunger strike in their name! She is, as a matter of fact, the young lady who coined the phrase displayed in my masthead. I don't wish lost passports or travel hassles on the worst of my enemies, but I'll admit I find this quite entertaining.
"If written today it would include a clause making the separation of paper and glass mandatory for all householders, every other Wednesday."
I know I link to Relapsed Catholic to the point of excess, but, I mean, she's just that great.
The Death Penalty for Rape
As far as it makes any sense to judge these things, I think that rape is worse than murder. I'm actually against the death penalty (not for any humanitarian reasons - I just would prefer that murderers suffer a lifetime of solitary confinement interspersed with the occasional beating rather than a quick and painless death), so my take on convicted rapists is that they should all be castrated (seriously). Still, I suppose this ruling is a good first step.
Study: 3 in 4 Harvard Freshmen Did Not Cheat on Final Exams
Phew. And to imagine that some people were trying to claim that there might be something to be worried about.
UPDATE: As always, Iowahawk does it better.
UPDATE: As always, Iowahawk does it better.
Neocon Propaganda
Gateway Pundit has a bigoted post up about Iranian women supposedly being beaten up by police for not wearing their veils. Doesn't he understand that these women freely choose to wear the veil as an expression of their faith? It's just that, sometimes, they feel an even stronger need to express that faith, and then they freely choose to get violently assaulted. If they're feeling especially pious, sometimes they even freely choose to get hanged. It continues to amaze me that anti-Muslim, pro-war, imperialist bigots like Gateway Pundit refuse to learn the truth about the freedom women enjoy under Islam.
Talk is Cheap
Despite all the vocal anti-Americanism around the world, there are still huge numbers of people who go to immense lengths to come to America to have a chance at a better life - to the point that we actually have to build a fence on the border to keep all the people out. Meanwhile, despite all the arguments of communists and their sympathizers, they still had to build a wall to keep their people from escaping to the west.
Which brings me to Michael Moore's new movie, Sicko. I haven't seen it, and I won't, but if it's true that he holds up Canada's health care system as a model, he's even dumber than I thought.
If you want a great rebuttal to claims of Canadian health care superiority, please see this Norma Kozhaya article. But I don't need to read her article, or anyone else's, because all I need to know is that any Canadian who can do so goes to America for treatment. They talk a big game, brag about universal healthcare, but the moment they get sick and need surgery or an MRI tomorrow, rather than next year, it's off to Buffalo they go.
Which brings me to Michael Moore's new movie, Sicko. I haven't seen it, and I won't, but if it's true that he holds up Canada's health care system as a model, he's even dumber than I thought.
If you want a great rebuttal to claims of Canadian health care superiority, please see this Norma Kozhaya article. But I don't need to read her article, or anyone else's, because all I need to know is that any Canadian who can do so goes to America for treatment. They talk a big game, brag about universal healthcare, but the moment they get sick and need surgery or an MRI tomorrow, rather than next year, it's off to Buffalo they go.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
"they never cease to make you smile and feel at ease. but they do that for everyone. and they will do it for anyone."
Great post. "Do not expect anything to come from dating charming people." It's kinda obvious if you think about it, but it needs to be said, because lots of girls (and guys) seem blind to this false charm. I suspect there are more people like this at Harvard than in most places, what with all the networking and politicking and all that. There are kids here who have incredible charisma, who make you feel as if you're the only person in the world, who treat every person as their long-lost best friend - except, if you think about it, they don't like you at all, because if you were somebody completely different, they would treat you exactly the same, you're absolutely interchangeable to them.
I myself am always at my best with people I'm uninterested in. With people I really like, I'm a total bore, because I'm not looking to put on an act and entertain them, I'm just free to be my regular boring self.
The trick is to come to terms with that regular, boring self. I'm not one of those new age-y people who says you have to learn to love yourself before you love others, in fact I'm quite opposed to loving yourself. But you do at the least have to like yourself. Otherwise, when you're in a relationship, you'll have to keep the act up, keep entertaining her 24/7, and will inevitably run out of steam. The goal of love, as I see it, is not to keep each other entertained, but to be able to simply be yourselves, your private selves - to be with one another as you would be if you were alone.
I am not yet anywhere near that point - I still often prefer my act, my entertaining side, to my real side. My real side is the side that hates it here and gets depressed and all that jazz. I went on a few dates this year with a truly wonderful girl, the only girl with whom I've ever truly been able to be myself, but I don't think either one of us could have kept it up because we're both in kinda bad places and it would just have ended up as a suicide pact or something.
So until I'm able to make peace with myself (and I hope that leaving Harvard will help a great deal), I'm staying away from romance. Because, if I'm going down, I don't want to take anyone else down with me!
To return to book recommendations, my favorite author by far on this subject is Hemingway. I would recommend A Farewell to Arms in particular. Hemingway's couples talk of love and wonderful romantic futures, but he shows that they know, deep down, that their talk is empty, that they are playing roles, and nothing more.
p.s. to end the post on a lighter note, I am proud to report that at least one person has come upon my blog after a google search on "Nipples Photography." I am sorry if I disappointed them!
I myself am always at my best with people I'm uninterested in. With people I really like, I'm a total bore, because I'm not looking to put on an act and entertain them, I'm just free to be my regular boring self.
The trick is to come to terms with that regular, boring self. I'm not one of those new age-y people who says you have to learn to love yourself before you love others, in fact I'm quite opposed to loving yourself. But you do at the least have to like yourself. Otherwise, when you're in a relationship, you'll have to keep the act up, keep entertaining her 24/7, and will inevitably run out of steam. The goal of love, as I see it, is not to keep each other entertained, but to be able to simply be yourselves, your private selves - to be with one another as you would be if you were alone.
I am not yet anywhere near that point - I still often prefer my act, my entertaining side, to my real side. My real side is the side that hates it here and gets depressed and all that jazz. I went on a few dates this year with a truly wonderful girl, the only girl with whom I've ever truly been able to be myself, but I don't think either one of us could have kept it up because we're both in kinda bad places and it would just have ended up as a suicide pact or something.
So until I'm able to make peace with myself (and I hope that leaving Harvard will help a great deal), I'm staying away from romance. Because, if I'm going down, I don't want to take anyone else down with me!
To return to book recommendations, my favorite author by far on this subject is Hemingway. I would recommend A Farewell to Arms in particular. Hemingway's couples talk of love and wonderful romantic futures, but he shows that they know, deep down, that their talk is empty, that they are playing roles, and nothing more.
p.s. to end the post on a lighter note, I am proud to report that at least one person has come upon my blog after a google search on "Nipples Photography." I am sorry if I disappointed them!
If I Only Had a Brain
I found out today that, despite my best efforts, I did manage to pass all my classes this semester, so I will be graduating in a couple of weeks. I actually came very close to dropping out these past few months. Not because of my dislike for Harvard, but as a matter of principle. As I have already explained, I think my degree is worthless. I feel it would be dishonest for me to accept a diploma that I believe represents nothing. Upon further reflection, however, I realized that honesty doesn’t matter when you’re dead, and that, if I dropped out a month before graduating, my mother would hunt me down and kill me with her bare hands. So, cap and gown, here I come. Here are some clichéd, sentimental, and overly moralizing thoughts to mark the occasion (I will put up a sillier take on all this eventually, don’t worry):
Your graduation doesn’t mean a thing. Your family, your friends, the very robes you wear, all are on display to make you believe that it is a special day. That it is the first day of the rest of your life, the day you enter “the real world.” Well, it isn’t. It’s just the day you sit through a bunch of boring speeches and get a piece of paper. A very pretty piece of paper, perhaps, but a piece of paper and nothing more. And that paper, that diploma, is meaningless. Oh sure, it might represent the classes you took, the subjects you studied, who you were as a student, but it doesn’t represent who you are as a person. You can do what you want with it – you can frame it, mount it, laminate it, you can even get really wasted and run it through the shredder – but all these attempts to imbue it with some greater meaning will fail. Because your diploma is just a piece of paper, your robes are cheap rentals, it is just another day, and you are not about to enter the real world. You’re already in it.
The real world isn’t out there, beyond the gates; it’s in here, in our hearts and souls. To borrow a turn from The Wizard of Oz, we’ve had it in us all along, right here in our backyard: we never really left to begin with. I know, I know, I’m being maudlin – but I’m sincere. Look, our generation can’t put on our sneakers without a sense of irony, but, hard as it may be, there are times to put our knowing smirks aside and embrace our vulnerable, true inner selves. That is why I am harping on all this diploma business: because there is no link, no relation, between that inner self and that paper. Your diploma might say, “He graduated,” but it will not say, “He is good,” and that is all that matters. Sure, at one time, a diploma might have meant more. The goal was once unabashedly to mold us into better people. Harvard doesn’t do that anymore. We can no longer count on our teachers to lead us into the light. We have to do it for ourselves. Maybe, for some, that journey is already well underway. Maybe you were lucky, and one of the books for one of your classes touched you, moved you, really got to you, in a way that proper academic style would frown upon mentioning in a final paper. If not, don’t worry. There are so many books left to read. For what I am trying to say is that graduation is not a beginning, it is not an end. It’s just another day in the journey.
To return to the Emerald City, and to the wise words of the Wizard: “Why, anybody can have a brain. That's a very mediocre commodity. Every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the Earth or slinks through slimy seas has a brain. Back where I come from, we have universities, seats of great learning, where men go to become great thinkers. And when they come out, they think deep thoughts and with no more brains than you have. But they have one thing you haven't got: a diploma.”
Well, in a few days, I will have one, too.
Your graduation doesn’t mean a thing. Your family, your friends, the very robes you wear, all are on display to make you believe that it is a special day. That it is the first day of the rest of your life, the day you enter “the real world.” Well, it isn’t. It’s just the day you sit through a bunch of boring speeches and get a piece of paper. A very pretty piece of paper, perhaps, but a piece of paper and nothing more. And that paper, that diploma, is meaningless. Oh sure, it might represent the classes you took, the subjects you studied, who you were as a student, but it doesn’t represent who you are as a person. You can do what you want with it – you can frame it, mount it, laminate it, you can even get really wasted and run it through the shredder – but all these attempts to imbue it with some greater meaning will fail. Because your diploma is just a piece of paper, your robes are cheap rentals, it is just another day, and you are not about to enter the real world. You’re already in it.
The real world isn’t out there, beyond the gates; it’s in here, in our hearts and souls. To borrow a turn from The Wizard of Oz, we’ve had it in us all along, right here in our backyard: we never really left to begin with. I know, I know, I’m being maudlin – but I’m sincere. Look, our generation can’t put on our sneakers without a sense of irony, but, hard as it may be, there are times to put our knowing smirks aside and embrace our vulnerable, true inner selves. That is why I am harping on all this diploma business: because there is no link, no relation, between that inner self and that paper. Your diploma might say, “He graduated,” but it will not say, “He is good,” and that is all that matters. Sure, at one time, a diploma might have meant more. The goal was once unabashedly to mold us into better people. Harvard doesn’t do that anymore. We can no longer count on our teachers to lead us into the light. We have to do it for ourselves. Maybe, for some, that journey is already well underway. Maybe you were lucky, and one of the books for one of your classes touched you, moved you, really got to you, in a way that proper academic style would frown upon mentioning in a final paper. If not, don’t worry. There are so many books left to read. For what I am trying to say is that graduation is not a beginning, it is not an end. It’s just another day in the journey.
To return to the Emerald City, and to the wise words of the Wizard: “Why, anybody can have a brain. That's a very mediocre commodity. Every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the Earth or slinks through slimy seas has a brain. Back where I come from, we have universities, seats of great learning, where men go to become great thinkers. And when they come out, they think deep thoughts and with no more brains than you have. But they have one thing you haven't got: a diploma.”
Well, in a few days, I will have one, too.
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