After four days of zero views, and many more of zero updates I thought I’d FINALLY do something about it.

So, Here we are.

Happy Turkey Day, unless you aren’t eating turkey– I understand that a lot of people are weirdo vegetarians or happen to like meats besides gobble-gobbles.  I get that.  I love veggies, but I feel that becoming a vegetarian would be awfully mean to all of those veggies out there.  I read an icon, once, it said:

“I’m not a vegetarian because I love animals, I’m a vegetarian because I hate vegetables.”

Ah ha.  That’s hilarious, I love it.  I wish I was a vegetarian so that I could wear a pin that says that.

Speaking, though, of icons.  I think they’re the bumper stickers of our generation.  I mean, you used to look for bumper stickers to get your fill of witty quotes, but now you go to icons.  Truthfully, I like the change– because icons are easier to find a cheaper to use, while you actually have to buy bumper stickers.

I think everyone thanks whatever for the same stuff, generally.  Food, a job, money, a house, and especially friends and family.  But we stood around the table, held hands, and said: “over the lips, past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes.”  That was our blessing, told by my grandfather it was absolutely beautiful.

Reminds me of a scene in Gran Torino, in fact, the first scene.  ”Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch.”  I don’t know about you guys, but I thought that was a fabulous movie.  I also should’ve been thankful for all of the fantastic movies out there, I don’t know what the world would be like without people like Chuck Palahniuk and Will Smith.

By the way, has anyone seen the movie Choke?  I read the book, but I have heard next to nothing about the movie, and yet if it was written by Chuck Palahniuk (author of Fight Club) it has to be good, no?  I heard it won something, or something, but I’m not entirely sure what.  Gimme a second, I’ll look it up.

Well, it got a 6.7/10 on IMBD, but is that good?  Truthfully, I don’t really know. D=  I thought it came out a while ago, but it actually came out last year (2008), which is kind of shocking.  That I can see, it didn’t win anything too notable.

“A sex-addicted con-man pays for his mother’s hospital bills by playing on the sympathies of those who rescue him from choking to death.” That about sums it up, doesn’t it?  Great book thought, if you have a chance– read it, before you watch the movie.

I’ll check out the movie and write up one of those lame little reviews I like so much.

Oh, lemme do what I came here to do: Happy Thanksgiving.

Shelf Life: Fight Club

By all accounts, 1999 was one of the best years in film history, featuring an amazing glut of debuts and career-defining follow-ups from a rich and varied roster of directors who are steadily working some ten years later. For example American Beauty, which was also released in ‘99, was one of the first films revisited in our “Shelf Life” series, and it seemed most likely to lose its luster, especially given its Oscar win and almost universal critical acclaim, but thankfully the film sustained most of its initial appeal and impact.

Fight Club, meanwhile, faced markedly more polarizing reactions from audiences and critics, although like Alan Ball’s film it captured a moment in the zeitgeist that made it important almost regardless of how good it was. Ten years later, Fox Home Entertainment just released the film on Blu-ray in a gorgeous new set, and after a decade of conspicuous consumption and ironic detachment, it’s time to see whether the weight of its message or meaning still holds relevance.

The Facts: Released on October 15, 1999, David Fincher’s Fight Club is an adaptation of the Chuck Palahniuk novel of the same name, adapted by screenwriter Jim Uhls. Its incendiary deconstruction of contemporary culture and the narcotizing effects of consumerism, particularly on men, was met with mixed reactions: some hailed it as a brilliant social commentary, while others condemned it as empty provocation, or worse, irresponsible.

Regardless, the film eventually earned $100 million domestically against its $63 million budget (reportedly $17.5 million of which went to star Brad Pitt), and enjoys an 80 percent fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes. It was nominated for only one Academy Award, for Sound Effects Editing, but it was also nominated for several awards by different critics groups including the Online Film Critics Society, and subsequently netted several awards for its DVD release, which featured several commentaries and featurettes exploring the world within the film.

What Still Works: While during its original release the film was deliberately, perhaps even conventionally reactionary (“f*ck Martha Stewart!”), it really serves as a powerful reminder that contemporary consumer culture is still designed to satisfy us in superficial ways and ultimately distract us from the human connections and more visceral accomplishments that prove more meaningful. Particularly with the benefit of hindsight, the film’s analysis of overmodulated consumption, broken down to the details and objects in our life that supposedly define us, is especially potent, and deserves to be revisited as a reminder to remain vigilant against that kind of complacency.

fight2

Meanwhile, I think especially now the film escapes being mere provocation or dangerous advocacy because it ultimately acknowledges that these characters are trading one oppressive structure for another, and that even the intentional absence of order eventually creates its own organized sense of routine, if not full-fledged cultural mores (hence Project Mayhem, the “space monkeys”‘ blind devotion to their anarchic causes, etc).

In terms of the performances, Pitt and Edward Norton are both really terrific as, essentially, the same guy, albeit in different iterations of his self-confidence, much less self-awareness. Fincher, coming off of the menacing polish of The Game, finds a gorgeously gritty aesthetic that really brings the narrator’s oblivious self-examination to life, and creates a truly subversive and valuable portrait of what is essential schizophrenia, filtered through both movie-star sheen and the thematically-reinforced, exacting opposite of stardom’s supposed “importance” – namely, that all of that beauty and truth is as illusory as anything else.

What Doesn’t Work: Surprisingly little, although the unwieldy structure, oddball rhythms of the storytelling and its eventual descent into (self-) destruction seem more shocking in the context of real-life events like 9/11, not to mention our culture’s subsequent escape even further into conventional, comfortable forms of entertainment. There’s lingering resonance to the destruction of the banks at the end of the film, both in terms of domestic and international terrorism and the current state of our economic system, but it’s subjective whether that’s a virtue or a shortcoming for film, since it certainly isn’t the film’s fault.

Otherwise, there is a degree to which the idea of white guys bemoaning their pampered, IKEA-sustained existence feels, well, so 1999, and that their reaction feels like a more than slightly self-indulgent rebellion that people with constructive minds wouldn’t act out. But as a parable and a perhaps necessary reminder of the complacency and boring blandness that can come from a life lived within the lines – and in light of the fact it’s meant not to be taken literally - Fight Club still transcends such criticisms.

What’s The Verdict: Fight Club is a really terrific movie and I am genuinely relieved to say that it holds up beautifully for the most part. Not only was it the first movie that I bought on DVD, but it was an important one in my adult, intellectual maturation, particularly in discovering that as conceptually appealing as such reckless behavior might be, it ultimately serves as mush as a prison as any other philosophy or paradigm. I think I still prefer Fincher’s previous film, The Game, if only because it was just so shocking and cathartic when I first saw it, but Fight Club is a wake-up call and a punch in the gut that needs to still be felt.

by Todd Gilchrist

“All you have to do is be fragile and grateful.” – Chuck Palahniuk

We live in a culture that’s all about bigger, better, more more more. Flat screen TV? Okay, but you should get the SUPER GIGUNDOUS HUGE TV! Why get the 8-gig iPod⁽¹⁾ when you can get the 32-gig? A perfectly acceptable 300-thread-count sheet set? Made of cotton? Fuck that. Try these 1 x 10^(10100)(2)-thread-count Egyptian-organic cotton sheets that also make you an omelet of your choice each and every morning!⁽³⁾

In an effort to combat this trend⁽⁴⁾ towards elephantine consumption, here is a timely list of things, in no particular order, for which I am especially thankful and, as much as possible, exist in two dimensions.⁽⁵⁾

• Each separate page of my copies of both David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest and Tom Robbins’s Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates.
• Photographs, particularly old, black-and-white photographs, and photographs by Lindy Loo.
• Film negatives. I still love holding them up to the light and seeing a completely different world.
• Ashley’s skin. Because she has cystic fibrosis, it tastes salty and therefore like no other skin I’ve ever tasted.
• Sliced non-dairy cheese.
• Sliced non-meat lunch-meat.
• Cheez-Its.⁽⁶⁾
• Toilet paper.
• Tissues.
• Napkins.
• But most of all, paper towels.
• DVDs.
• The strings on my guitars and banjo.⁽⁷⁾
• Guitar picks.
• Wrapping paper, particularly when being unwrapped because I enjoy the sound.
• Christmas cards, especially the one I get from overseas.
• Lindy Loo’s super-majorly-awesome birthday mixes.
• Playing cards, especially a brand new pack that’s still all slick and slippery.

Keeping with the non-three-dimensional theme, tomorrow I’ll talk about the abstract things in my life, the intangibles, that I am grateful for every single day.

In the meantime, please share your list of life-affirming two-dimensional things.

The SEXY list…

1. Amanda LePore
2. Miami…South Beach
3. Naomi Campbell
4. Gold and Diamond Plated Mercedes, Lamborghini’s and Bentley’s
5. Leighton Meester “Somebody to Love”
6. Shakira “Did it Again”
7. Pierre Fitch…Gay Porn Star
8. Celebrity Sex Tapes
9. Bow Ties
10. Excessive Faux Fur
11. Christian Louboutin
12. Couture Hats
13. Vivienne Westwood
14. Enormous Gucci Purses
15. Fingerpainting
16. The first snow in the city
17. The Kindle II
18. The Guerlain $62,000 Lipstick
19. Diamond Lighter Necklace
20. The Smart Coffee Maker
21. The Dubai First Master Card…The most exclusive credit card in the world
22. Vintage Love Beads
23. “Snuff” by Chuck Palahniuk
24. “Tricks” by Ellen Hopkins
25. The Defaming of a beauty queen…The tragedy of Carrie Prejean
26. Porn Star/Lingerie Designer Tera Patrick
27. Genius Club Kid/Murderer Michael Alig

Eyes Open…We’re Watching!!!

Vous vous souvenez la première fois que j’ai lu un bouquin de Tom Perrota ? J’avais dit que je m’en reboulotterai bien un petit pour la peine. D’où Bad Haircut dans ma boîte aux lettres une semaine plus tard. Le livre est un peu étrange car catégorisé comme une série de nouvelles. J’aurais plutôt tendance à partir du principe que c’est un roman. Bad Haircut est en effet l’histoire de Buddy, un gosse qui grandit dans le New Jersey des années 70. Nous suivons son entrée dans l’âge adulte de la primaire jusqu’à la sortie du lycée au fil d’une grosse demi douzaine de nouvelles. Dit comme ça, on pourrait penser que c’est plutôt sympa. Mais les intrigues sont parfois très très sombres, ou en tout cas puissantes dans les thématiques qu’elles évoquent. Moi qui m’attendait à un truc gentillet, j’ai été servi, mais pas déçu.

Bad Haircut se lit facilement, à part si l’on est comme moi, à galérer sa race pour retenir les prénoms et situer qui est qui. Le style est clair, sans chichi. Du coup le seul reproche que je pourrais faire au bouquin, c’est d’être trop, comment dire, « simple ». Parfait pour une lecture rapide sur un aller-retour en TGV mais qui ne m’habitera pas un bon moment. Ca reste un cran au dessus de toutes les merdes de gare en tout cas. Maintenant alors je lis quoi de Perrotta ? Little Children ?

Lire trois bouquins du même mec, c’est une chose. Mais pousser le vice jusqu’à commander un DVD documentaire sur un site officiel US, ça devient grave. C’est pourtant ce que j’ai fait, en cramant la carte bleue sur The Cult, le portail de Chuck Palahniuk. Le site mériterait un article entier pour tous les trucs cools qu’il propose (ateliers d’écriture, concours de nouvelles, critiques, shop, blog). Aujourd’hui je vais seulement vous parler de Postcards From The Future.

Il y a quelques années Palahniuk était l’objet d’une conférence dans une université américaine. La prof de littérature avait invité l’auteur pour deux jours de débats, présentations et séances de dédicace. Des fans étaient sur place, caméra au poing, immortalisant une heure trente sur galette. L’image est dégueulasse à cause du matos de roumain utilisé et on ne voit clairement pas assez Chuck. En faisant un documentaire pour des fans par des fans, on se retrouve trop souvent avec des interviews face caméra de… bah de fans. Moins une réflexion sur l’œuvre de Palahniuk que sur le fanboyisme littéraire, Postcards From The Future n’en demeure pas moins intéressant. Malheureusement pas pour les bonnes raisons. Ceux qui espéraient un portrait inédit de l’auteur risquent d’être déçu. En ce qui me concerne, j’ai eu le bonheur de choper le DVD pendant une période de soldes sur le site. Les quelques bonnes phases de Palahniuk auront achevé de me satisfaire de mon achat.

Bon, approfondir l’œuvre d’un auteur et se regarder des documentaires, c’est n’importe quoi. Je risque de finir par devenir crédible. Promis dès que j’ai évacuée la centième critique la semaine prochaine, je me remets à lire de la merde.

Day 1

There was Belle, I felt my saliva glands go into overdrive as she strutted across the hall, her jiggly hips sending thunder claps through the floor and into the bullshit that I was spitting at her.

“Yeah. Barning can’t fucking teach for peanuts.”

In a fit or wittiness, I reply, “You chuck peanuts, you get monkeys.”

I eye the corners of her lips as they trace a smile across her face.

And then comes the kicker that will have me embark on a quest that will revel in revalations.

My tongue drips in expired sugar, “So, have you seen Twilight New Moon yet?”

As I asked Belle that question, I was dragged a hundred miles away from the hall, there was Tyler Durden, Robert Paulson, and there I was in the corner. I was being given reprimanding looks by Senior Durden, and in my hand, he spilled his lye into the palms of my hands.

http://www.ugo.com/therush/images/character_studies/robert-paulson-7/image.jpg

Back to the hallway with Belle; suddenly I want to yank the words that I had said a minute ago. Never should I have had to kneel down to the dogma of a woman in order to attain her favour.

Feminists: Misogynistic much?

Maybe.

Flash forward to the same night. I’m watching Fox’s How I Met Your Mother. A gossamer flap against the lobe of my ear. A roach. I slap it off my neck, take of my shirt to reveal the abs of a Abercrombie model. Too phobic to crush the twitching roach in paper, I drag my vacuum cleaner from miles across to suck in the motherfucker.

I am Robert Paulson bearing bitch tits. I am Jack’s absolute lack of testosterone. In post-millenium America, I am a man. In this era where men’s skinny jeans are acceptable, I am a man. The roach twitches in the garbage as I hesitantly run my hand through my head of hair. Motherfucker, I am not a man.

I am a unit of the single generation raised by women and corporate defined definitions of masculinity.

Day 2

I wake up, twitching like the roach I had killed, castrated from the discoveries of the previous day; I walk myself to One Choice Cut and think of the most masculine way I could wear my hair – I cut it all off.

Coincidentally; it’s the same day I’d scheduled to blaze [light up joints] with a few buddies at lunch break. Boys and girls alike at school recognize an abrupt difference that has come with the cut – I walk with the swagger of a made man, careful to never let my tone rise an octave higher than it should.

As I smoke, as my black friends spit stories of sexual escapades, I feel that hate for misogynism diminsh – if not partially, then absolutely. I feel no pity for the women that was fucked on Marlon’s carpet and was then discarded like pizza torn up by fungi.

If it was possible, I choked on the air in front of me as Senior Durden pitched a seal of approval by passing me the soap to neutralize the acid.

I choke, choke, choke, choke, cough, stutter, spit. As I’m subject to the looks of Marlon and Co. I walk out without any words, a changed man.

Conclusions:

I think that there’s a line that all men must find – a line between the pot smoking misogynist and the Abercrombie model – a line where I am woman’s equal. A path where I would never have to question my masculinity – where I could walk into a room and fucking ooze alpha-masculinity.  The alpha-male opens doors for women out of respect and nothing more.

But! Was the Abercrombie dude a man? Sure he was. Chuck Palahniuk is openly gay. Surely, I wasn’t reading what he was pitching.

My point is to simply know where you stand in regard to your masculinity – dissect everything you thought you knew about what you think is masculine, and pick at what’s left. I assure you, you’ll find something worth treasuring.

If you guys enjoyed this post, google: Disneyfication of Manhood – a complex essay on similar themes.

To recap, about 2 weeks ago, a popular high school English teacher named Greg Van Voorhis was suspended for handing out copies of Chuck Palahniuk’s ground-breaking short story Guts out to his 11th grade students.   According to the Gothamist:

That didn’t go over so well with school administrators at the Bronx School of Law and Finance in Marble Hill, where the seven-year veteran was quickly reassigned from his classroom duties while the Department of Education investigates.

Now, isn’t this just stupid? The man is trying to educate them and what does the school board do? They fire him.  What would they have 11graders read?  Sleeping Beauty? It’s literature, it’s art. Chuck Palahniuk is a great writer and the story isn’t the way they portrayed it.  It’s not awful but it gives a view on what’s wrong with some people these days. I’ve read it and i’ve read things that are more disgusting than this so i don’t really get what the whole fuss is about. The fact that they would fire him is an attack on people’s rights and an obvious attempt at censorship. If you ever saw the movie Donnie Darko (which is great by the way) you would see the same situation happening there, the teacher in the movie is being investigated (and later fired) because she presented her students a short story called The Destructors by Graham Greene. Though in the movie it seemed to have had an influence on the one who tried to destroy the school, in this case, the teacher did nothing else than, somewhat, give those students a life lesson. Not to mention that the “kids” are supporting their teacher and have even started a group on facebook. So if you want to rally for this cause and join the group here is the link:

Save Mr V group http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=159270906478

also if you want to read the story here it is:

http://chuckpalahniuk.net/features/shorts/guts

Fight Club Fight Goes On

The film Fight Club is celebrating its ten year anniversary. A special collectors Blue Ray edition was released for the occasion. People have reported that it comes with a Project Mayhem-like prank. The Ny Times article takes a look at how the film has maintained its cult status for all these years.

The secret to the enduring allure of “Fight Club” may be that it is, as Mr. Norton put it, quoting Mr. Fincher, “a serious film made by deeply unserious people.” In other words, a film as willing to take on profound questions as it is to laugh at and contradict itself: what is “Fight Club” if not the most fashionable commercial imaginable for anti-materialism? A movie of big ideas and abundant ambiguities, it can be read and reread in many ways.

Desperate for a changing.. starving for the truth.. I’m closer at were it started.. I’m chasing after you.

Uff. Ich weiß, dass es falsch ist und so, aber irgendwie ändert das ja nichts. Außer vielleicht den Zustand meines Gewissens. Mein moralisches Gelabere wird dadurch natürlich unglaubwürdig, nehme ich an. Aber deshalb frage ich mich:

Was sollte mir wichtiger sein? Mein persönliches Glück oder den Schein von Glaubwürdigkeit, Authentizität, was auch immer? Ich bin doch nicht authentisch, wenn ich mich zu einer Handlung zwingen muss, oder? Ich habe nie von mir behauptet, ein Engel zu sein. Und da ich früher nie in der Situation war, war es auch leicht für mich, voreilig zu urteilen. Natürlich war das falsch. Aber ich hab’s eben getan.

Zumindest: Wenn ich etwas tue, weil ich tief in mir selbst den Drang spüre, es zutun (nein, ich rede nicht von Harndrang), dann kann es doch nichts natürlicheres, authentischeres und glaubwürdigeres geben. Das bedeutet nicht, dass ich früher oder jetzt gelogen hätte. Es bedeutet an sich nur, dass ich mich – so wie alle anderen Menschen auch – entwickelt habe. Dass ich nicht mehr so denke, wie früher. Warum, ist erstmal egal.

Darum sollte es aber eigentlich nicht gehen.

Auch wenn ich jetzt mich selbst damit beruhigen kann, dass ich nicht mir selbst zuwider handle oder so etwas, ist es immer noch moralisch gesehen falsch. Auf so Weisen, dass ich sie nicht mal nennen kenn.

Sollte mir Moral wichtig sein?

Warum? Warum eigentlich, sollte es mir wichtig sein, ob ich ethisch gesehen, eine ‘gute’ Handlung vollbringe.

Soll ich denn immer utilitaristisch an alles rangehen? Das Glück der Mehrzahl? Schän altruistisch handeln und hoffen, dass ich mir damit meinen Platz im Himmel verschaffe? Blödsinn.

Warum aber ist es mir so wichtig?

Wenn ich mir selbst mehr damit schade, als mich zum Schluss am Ergebnis zu erfreuen, sollte ich es dann nicht lassen?

Wenn mich eine Handlung verändern würde. Und das auf eine Art und Weise, auf die ich nicht geändert werden möchte.. sollte ich das dann nicht lassen?

Was, wenn sich mein Weltbild umkehrt. Wenn ich die einfachsten Dinge nicht mehr zuordnen kann, weil ich etwas getan habe, was mein Kopf mir verbietet, egal wie sehr sich der Rest von mir eben diese Sache wünscht?

Ida Mancini oder wie sie hieß hatte irgendwo recht: Seitdem Eva in den verdammten Apfel gebissen hatte, waren wir Menschen zu schlau. Wir sehen nichts ohne unser Wissen: Dieses große Gebilde dort ist ein Berg, das viereckige (viereckig.. auch Wissen, egal.) ist ein Haus usw. usf.

Würde ich nicht wissen, dass es moralisch gesehen falsch ist, würde ich einfach meinem Urinstinkt folgen, oder?
Würde ich nicht wissen, dass es mich selbst auch auf andere Weise verletzten würde, würde ich doch einfach akzeptieren, was da ist.

Hm.

Una oda a esa nave llamada locura así como a los salvajes y reprimidos deseos por abordarla

Fight Club también pasó por ese fenómeno que le ha ocurrido a otras películas como Blade Runner y que es un producto directo del desarrollo de sistemas caseros de video; mientras que en su salida en cines (sobre todo en Estados Unidos) nunca logró alcanzar el verdadero éxito, fue su versión en DVD la que llegó más lejos y se transformó en una película de culto.

Creo que cada generación y cada década tiene una o dos películas que, a pesar de ser duras y controvertidas, se transforman en el sentir de una época; logran transgredir el ámbito temporal y se transforma en un “must”.

Películas como The Deer Hunter (1978), A Clockwork Orange (1971), The Graduate y la misma Blade Runner que ya ha referido son ejemplos clásicos y creo que Fight Club pudo integrarse a ese selcto grupo.

“Ésta es tu vida y se está acabando minuto a minuto”

Basada en una novela (del mismo nombre) escrita por Chuck Palahniuk, la cinta es un verdadero viaje a través de la locura de ese personaje sin nombre, al que es referido simplemente como El Narrador y su alter ego Tyler Durden.

El Narrador es un simple mortal con un trabajo sencillo que está en pleno proceso de enviar todo al demonio. Un proceso con el que se quiere desligar de la vida del hombre común, de los deseos y necesidades creados por una sociedad consumista y de transformarse en un individuo ajeno a la realidad y en cierta manera encargado de alterarla, modificarla para dar a conocer a otros su filosofía.

El Club de la Pelea, el recinto donde se reúnen los miembros a partirse la cara no es otra cosa que una válvula de escape que no tarda en transformarse en un movimiento anarquista de resistencia.

La primera regla es “no hablar del club” sin embargo la voz se corre con una velocidad brutal y muy pronto son cientos de seguidores; no importa el trasfondo, no importa el rol que se juegue en esta sociedad hipócrita, lo importante es poderse dar de golpes hasta sangrar para así olvidar en una marea de adrenalina los estúpidamente horrible y desalentadora que es la vida.

Si hay una opción y ésta es liarte a golpes y dejar que te rompan la crisma. Mañana será otro día.

Esta semana El Club de la Pelea (como se le llamó en México) cumplió 10 años sin embargo, después de verla otra vez, es fácil darse cuenta que la premisa de la película sigue siendo igual de vigente que hace una década. Como una terrible premonición de lo que ocurriría tan solo tres años después la cinta nos habla de cómo se derrumban las estructuras dentro de una mente y de cómo ésta quiere derrumbar las estructuras que la rodean.

El simple hecho de salir a la calle y provocar un pleito con un perfecto desconocido es una temeridad que solo pueden hacer algunos que más tarde no dudarán en integrarse al proyecyo Mayhem (la palabra significa mutilar a alguien para impedir que pueda defenderse en una pelea o una guerra).

Es difícil seleccionar una escena o secuencia favorita de la película; las actuaciones de Bard Pitt y Edward Norton son magníficas y la forma oscura y expresionista en que está dirigida es una obra magnífica de David Fincher. En lo particular me intriga mucho la escena en que El Narrador se golpea a si mismo para alegar un abuso por parte de su jefe; la secuencia es en cierta manera una de las más grandes ilusiones de muchos asalariados llevada a la realidad.

El final es diabólicamente premonitorio mientras que la trama nos pone a pensar sobre la banalidad de lo que llamamos nuestra verdadera civilización, sobre la profundidad de la cultura televisada pero sobre todo, nos demuestra de manera irónica que, por solo un día, nos gustaría ser ese Taylor Durden que vende jabones a las señoras ricas hechos de su propia grasa  y no teme enfrentarse con los puños limpios a un mafioso o a un camionero que pesa lo doble.

Salio la nueva versión DVD de Fight Club, si no la tienen cómprenla; si no la han vista, véanla y si ya la vieron, vale la pena repetirla. Es un auténtico Clásico Electrónico.

part of an ongoing series of columns I’ve written, reprinted from the TU Rambler.

November, 2009.
Most pharmaceutical ads I see usually say something about only being effective when combined with “proper diet and exercise.”  But what does that mean?  Last week we talked about eating healthy; this week, let’s talk about exercise.  Our culture seems to have an obsession with “getting ripped”, which I’m pretty sure is the male equivalent of girls starving themselves trying to look like Kate Moss, but instead we have protein shake-chugging guys going to the gym trying to look like men, at least the way a sculptor or an art director or Mtv says men should look.  But really, there’s no reason to try to become Ahnold Schwarzenegger.  When in life are you ever going to need to lift 400 pounds?

Like I said last week, if you want to see human beings at their height of physical fitness, you have to turn the clock back about 20,000 years.  If the lifestyles of modern-day hunter-gatherers are any indication, your ancestors were way more fit than you.  How’s this for analogy: Paleo-man is to ‘carved out of wood’ as you are to white bread.  Modern man is a flabby, out-of-shape wimp.  “But,” you protest, “I spend fifteen hours a week in the gym pumping iron and running on an elliptical machine!  Surely that makes me better than some hairy Ice Age brute.”

Yes, perhaps you are more outwardly muscular than Mr. Cro-Magnon Man.  But look at modern hunter-gatherers living on the savannah: none of them look like Kimbo Slice, or even Mr. T.  There is more to being healthy, fit, and trim than counting repetitions and bulking up and drinking Gatorade.  Our ancestors didn’t pencil in a block of time each day for ‘workout’.  Bushmen get their exercise in the course of their normal day, chasing gazelle, climbing trees, throwing spears or shooting a bow-and-arrow (chances are so did your great-great-grandfather, who probably had to chop wood, make tools, and plow his fields by hand).  While I’d like to be as hale as the former, I could happily settle for the latter.

Here’s a novel idea: instead of buying a Bowflex, buy (or even make!) a bow and learn to shoot it;  master some stairs instead of hopping on the Stairmaster; don’t run laps around the track, map out a route and take a jog around town (you might even take a bag and pick up trash along the way).

Human beings weren’t meant to get their exercise the way most people do now: under florescent lights, hooked up to a machine (identical to the one next to it), in front of a window, unable to feel the wind or the sun on your face.  We evolved in an ever-changing landscape, not separate from it.  A change of scenery can transform exercise from drudgery to fun, but the scene out the window of the [campus Athletic Center] rarely changes.

part of an ongoing series of columns I’ve written, reprinted from the TU Rambler.

2 March 2009.
As part of Transylvania’s delegation to the 2009 PowerShift conference, I spent the last several days in our nation’s capitol, an experience which has illuminated much for me.  The city seems to consist entirely of white marble neoclassical buildings and brings to mind imperial Rome, built by architects who believed their monuments would last forever, only to have their empire fall within a few hundred years.  Such is our similar position: our current (I would like to say previous) unsustainable way of life, in which we see our species as immortal and believe that the world’s seemingly infinite resources are ours for the taking, can only end with our own destruction.  While exploring the National Mall, a friend and I wondered what would linger in a thousand years after humans check out.  Not much, we hoped; toppled columns and ruins among a young forest; the remains of the Washington Monument leaning at a 45-degree angle.

While I heard many speakers this weekend discuss the ideal (and very achievable) sustainable future—one which is brought about by nonviolent action and progressive legislation, powered by clean and renewable energy, and which justly incorporates marginalized groups—I heard no-one mention what I believe to be the key in the whole issue—the modern disconnect from the natural world; it seemed to me that we are attempting to fix the symptoms, and not the root problem.

One of PowerShift’s keynote speakers, Van Jones (named a TIME 2008 Environmental Hero), explained that focusing on just fixing our energy issues wouldn’t necessarily ensure survival for our world; we’ll just have solar tanks and geothermal fighter jets.  Climate change is not, he said, just a technological, political, legislative, or business challenge; it’s a moral challenge.

I was reminded of what Erik Reece (a professor at University of Kentucky) wrote in the conclusion to his 2006 book Lost Mountain:

“While [the] sense of kinship among all living things can be explained through molecular biology, it will only be a force for change, a moral force, if it is understood by the individual.  No one wants to be told what to do: turn off lights, drive less, recycle.  But if a desire to change the way one consumes limited resources comes out of an inner conviction, a deep feeling of conscience, then it is not too late for a real transformation of our culture.”

Chuck Palahniuk é conhecido por seus textos perturbadores e, principalmente, o livro Clube da Luta (Fight Club, 1996) que foi adaptado para o cinema.

Guts, de autoria do escritor, foi publicado na Playboy norte-americana em Março de 2004 tornando-se um texto bastante comentado desde então. O texto ganhou fama quando, em 2003, durante a divulgação do livro Diary, Chuck leu o conto e mais de 35 pessoas desmaiaram ao ouvir. Apesar da veracidade dos desmaios ser contestada, o texto é realmente tenso e faz parte do livro Haunted de 2005.

A seguir copio uma versão traduzida para o português, de autoria desconhecida. O original (em inglês) pode ser conferido no site oficial do autor, The Cult.

.

Inspire.

Inspire o máximo de ar que conseguir. Essa estória deve durar aproximadamente o tempo que você consegue segurar sua respiração, e um pouco mais. Então escute o mais rápido que puder.

Um amigo meu aos 13 anos ouviu falar sobre “fio-terra”. Isso é quando alguém enfia um consolo na bunda. Estimule a próstata o suficiente, e os rumores dizem que você pode ter orgasmos explosivos sem usar as mãos. Nessa idade, esse amigo é um pequeno maníaco sexual. Ele está sempre buscando uma melhor forma de gozar. Ele sai para comprar uma cenoura e lubrificante. Para conduzir uma pesquisa particular. Ele então imagina como seria a cena no caixa do supermercado, a solitária cenoura e o lubrificante percorrendo pela esteira o caminho até o atendente no caixa. Todos os clientes esperando na fila, observando. Todos vendo a grande noite que ele preparou.

Então, esse amigo compra leite, ovos, açúcar e uma cenoura, todos os ingredientes para um bolo de cenoura. E vaselina.

Como se ele fosse para casa enfiar um bolo de cenoura no rabo.

Em casa, ele corta a ponta da cenoura com um alicate. Ele a lubrifica e desce seu traseiro por ela. Então, nada. Nenhum orgasmo. Nada acontece, exceto pela dor.

Então, esse garoto, a mãe dele grita dizendo que é a hora da janta. Ela diz para descer, naquele momento.

Ele remove a cenoura e coloca a coisa pegajosa e imunda no meio das roupas sujas debaixo da cama.

Depois do jantar, ele procura pela cenoura, e não está mais lá. Todas as suas roupas sujas, enquanto ele jantava, foram recolhidas por sua mãe para lavá-las. Não havia como ela não encontrar a cenoura, cuidadosamente esculpida com uma faca da cozinha, ainda lustrosa de lubrificante e fedorenta.

Esse amigo meu, ele espera por meses na surdina, esperando que seus pais o confrontem. E eles nunca fazem isso. Nunca. Mesmo agora que ele cresceu, aquela cenoura invisível aparece em toda ceia de Natal, em toda festa de aniversário. Em toda caça de ovos de páscoa com seus filhos, os netos de seus pais, aquela cenoura fantasma paira por sobre todos eles. Isso é algo vergonhoso demais para dar um nome.

As pessoas na França possuem uma expressão: “sagacidade de escadas.” Em francês: esprit de l’escalier. Representa aquele momento em que você encontra a resposta, mas é tarde demais. Digamos que você está numa festa e alguém o insulta. Você precisa dizer algo. Então sob pressão, com todos olhando, você diz algo estúpido. Mas no momento em que sai da festa….

Enquanto você desce as escadas, então – mágica. Você pensa na coisa mais perfeita que poderia ter dito. A réplica mais avassaladora.

Esse é o espírito da escada.

O problema é que até mesmo os franceses não possuem uma expressão para as coisas estúpidas que você diz sob pressão. Essas coisas estúpidas e desesperadas que você pensa ou faz.

Alguns atos são baixos demais para receberem um nome. Baixos demais para serem discutidos.

Agora que me recordo, os especialistas em psicologia dos jovens, os conselheiros escolares, dizem que a maioria dos casos de suicídio adolescente eram garotos se estrangulando enquanto se masturbavam. Seus pais o encontravam, uma toalha enrolada em volta do pescoço, a toalha amarrada no suporte de cabides do armário, o garoto morto. Esperma por toda a parte. É claro que os pais limpavam tudo. Colocavam calças no garoto. Faziam parecer… melhor. Ao menos, intencional. Um caso comum de triste suicídio adolescente.

Outro amigo meu, um garoto da escola, seu irmão mais velho na Marinha dizia como os caras do Oriente Médio se masturbavam de forma diferente do que fazemos por aqui. Esse irmão tinha desembarcado num desses países cheios de camelos, na qual o mercado público vendia o que pareciam abridores de carta chiques. Cada uma dessas coisas é apenas um fino cabo de latão ou prata polida, do comprimento aproximado de sua mão, com uma grande ponta numa das extremidades, ou uma esfera de metal ou uma dessas empunhaduras como as de espadas. Esse irmão da Marinha dizia que os árabes ficavam de pau duro e inseriam esse cabo de metal dentro e por toda a extremidade de seus paus. Eles então batiam punheta com o cabo dentro, e isso os faziam gozar melhor. De forma mais intensa.

Esse irmão mais velho viajava pelo mundo, mandando frases em francês. Frases em russo. Dicas de punhetagem.

Depois disso, o irmão mais novo, um dia ele não aparece na escola. Naquela noite, ele liga pedindo para eu pegar seus deveres de casa pelas próximas semanas. Porque ele está no hospital.

Ele tem que compartilhar um quarto com velhos que estiveram operando as entranhas. Ele diz que todos compartilham a mesma televisão. Que a única coisa para dar privacidade é uma cortina. Seus pais não o vem visitar. No telefone, ele diz como os pais dele queriam matar o irmão mais velho da Marinha.

Pelo telefone, o garoto diz que, no dia anterior, ele estava meio chapado. Em casa, no seu quarto, ele deitou-se na cama. Ele estava acendendo uma vela e folheando algumas revistas pornográficas antigas, preparando-se para bater uma. Isso foi depois que ele recebeu as notícias de seu irmão marinheiro. Aquela dica de como os árabes se masturbam. O garoto olha ao redor procurando por algo que possa servir. Uma caneta é grande demais. Um lápis, grande demais e áspero. Mas escorrendo pelo canto da vela havia um fino filete de vela derretida que poderia servir. Com as pontas dos dedos, o garoto descola o filete da vela. Ele o enrola na palma de suas mãos. Longo, e liso, e fino.

Chapado e com tesão, ele enfia lá dentro, mais e mais fundo por dentro do canal urinário de seu pau. Com uma boa parte da cera ainda para fora, ele começa o trabalho.

Até mesmo nesse momento ele reconhece que esses árabes eram caras muito espertos. Eles reinventaram totalmente a punheta. Deitado totalmente na cama, as coisas estão ficando tão boas que o garoto nem observa a filete de cera. Ele está quase gozando quando percebe que a cera não está mais lá.

O fino filete de cera entrou. Bem lá no fundo. Tão fundo que ele nem consegue sentir a cera dentro de seu pau.

Das escadas, sua mãe grita dizendo que é a hora da janta. Ela diz para ele descer naquele momento. O garoto da cenoura e o garoto da cera eram pessoas diferentes, mas viviam basicamente a mesma vida.

Depois do jantar, as entranhas do garoto começam a doer. É cera, então ele imagina que ela vá derreter dentro dele e ele poderá mijar para fora. Agora suas costas doem. Seus rins. Ele não consegue ficar ereto corretamente.

O garoto falando pelo telefone do seu quarto de hospital, no fundo pode-se ouvir campainhas, pessoas gritando. Game shows.

Os raios-X mostram a verdade, algo longo e fino, dobrado dentro de sua bexiga. Esse longo e fino V dentro dele está coletando todos os minerais no seu mijo. Está ficando maior e mais expesso, coletando cristais de cálcio, está batendo lá dentro, rasgando a frágil parede interna de sua bexiga, bloqueando a urina. Seus rins estão cheios. O pouco que sai de seu pau é vermelho de sangue.

O garoto e seus pais, a família inteira, olhando aquela chapa de raio-X com o médico e as enfermeiras ali, um grande V de cera brilhando na chapa para todos verem, ele deve falar a verdade. Sobre o jeito que os árabes se masturbam. Sobre o que o seu irmãos mais velho da Marinha escreveu.

No telefone, nesse momento, ele começa a chorar.

Eles pagam pela operação na bexiga com o dinheiro da poupança para sua faculdade. Um erro estúpido, e agora ele nunca mais será um advogado.

Enfiando coisas dentro de você. Enfiando-se dentro de coisas. Uma vela no seu pau ou seu pescoço num nó, sabíamos que não poderia acabar em problemas.

O que me fez ter problemas, eu chamava de Pesca Submarina. Isso era bater punheta embaixo d’água, sentando no fundo da piscina dos meus pais. Pegando fôlego, eu afundava até o fundo da piscina e tirava meu calção. Eu sentava no fundo por dois, três, quatro minutos.

Só de bater punheta eu tinha conseguido uma enorme capacidade pulmonar. Se eu tivesse a casa só para mim, eu faria isso a tarde toda. Depois que eu gozava, meu esperma ficava boiando em grandes e gordas gotas.

Depois disso eram mais alguns mergulhos, para apanhar todas. Para pegar todas e colocá-las em uma toalha. Por isso chamava de Pesca Submarina. Mesmo com o cloro, havia a minha irmã para se preocupar. Ou, Cristo, minha mãe.

Esse era meu maior medo: minha irmã adolescente e virgem, pensando que estava ficando gorda e dando a luz a um bebê retardado de duas cabeças. As duas parecendo-se comigo. Eu, o pai e o tio. No fim, são as coisas nais quais você não se preocupa que te pegam.

A melhor parte da Pesca Submarina era o duto da bomba do filtro. A melhor parte era ficar pelado e sentar nela.

Como os franceses dizem, Quem não gosta de ter seu cú chupado? Mesmo assim, num minuto você é só um garoto batendo uma, e no outro nunca mais será um advogado.

Num minuto eu estou no fundo da piscina e o céu é um azul claro e ondulado, aparecendo através de dois metros e meio de água sobre minha cabeça. Silêncio total exceto pelas batidas do coração que escuto em meu ouvido. Meu calção amarelo-listrado preso em volta do meu pescoço por segurança, só em caso de algum amigo, um vizinho, alguém que apareça e pergunte porque faltei aos treinos de futebol. O constante chupar da saída de água me envolve enquanto delicio minha bunda magra e branquela naquela sensação.

Num momento eu tenho ar o suficiente e meu pau está na minha mão. Meus pais estão no trabalho e minha irmão no balé. Ninguém estará em casa por horas.

Minhas mãos começam a punhetar, e eu paro. Eu subo para pegar mais ar. Afundo e sento no fundo.

Faço isso de novo, e de novo.

Deve ser por isso que garotas querem sentar na sua cara. A sucção é como dar uma cagada que nunca acaba. Meu pau duro e meu cú sendo chupado, eu não preciso de mais ar. O bater do meu coração nos ouvidos, eu fico no fundo até as brilhantes estrelas de luz começarem a surgir nos meus olhos. Minhas pernas esticadas, a batata das pernas esfregando-se contra o fundo. Meus dedos do pé ficando azul, meus dedos ficando enrugados por estar tanto tempo na água.

E então acontece. As gotas gordas de gozo aparecem. É nesse momento que preciso de mais ar. Mas quando tento sair do fundo, não consigo. Não consigo colocar meus pés abaixo de mim. Minha bunda está presa.

Médicos de plantão de emergência podem confirmar que todo ano cerca de 150 pessoas ficam presas dessa forma, sugadas pelo duto do filtro de piscina. Fique com o cabelo preso, ou o traseiro, e você vai se afogar. Todo o ano, muita gente fica. A maioria na Flórida.

As pessoas simplesmente não falam sobre isso. Nem mesmo os franceses falam sobre tudo. Colocando um joelho no fundo, colocando um pé abaixo de mim, eu empurro contra o fundo. Estou saindo, não mais sentado no fundo da piscina, mas não estou chegando para fora da água também.

Ainda nadando, mexendo meus dois braços, eu devo estar na metade do caminho para a superfície mas não estou indo mais longe que isso. O bater do meu coração no meu ouvido fica mais alto e mais forte.

As brilhantes fagulhas de luz passam pelos meus olhos, e eu olho para trás… mas não faz sentido. Uma corda espessa, algum tipo de cobra, branco-azulada e cheia de veias, saiu do duto da piscina e está segurando minha bunda. Algumas das veias estão sangrando, sangue vermelho que aparenta ser preto debaixo da água, que sai por pequenos cortes na pálida pele da cobra. O sangue começa a sumir na água, e dentro da pele fina e branco-azulada da cobra é possível ver pedaços de alguma refeição semi-digerida.

Só há uma explicação. Algum horrível monstro marinho, uma serpente do mar, algo que nunca viu a luz do dia, estava se escondendo no fundo escuro do duto da piscina, só esperando para me comer.

Então… eu chuto a coisa, chuto a pele enrugada e escorregadia cheia de veias, e parece que mais está saindo do duto. Deve ser do tamanho da minha perna nesse momento, mas ainda segurando firme no meu cú. Com outro chute, estou a centímetros de conseguir respirar. Ainda sentido a cobra presa no meu traseiro, estou bem próximo de escapar.

Dentro da cobra, é possível ver milho e amendoins. E dá pra ver uma brilhante esfera laranja. É um daqueles tipos de vitamina que meu pai me força a tomar, para poder ganhar massa. Para conseguir a bolsa como jogador de futebol. Com ferro e ácidos graxos Ômega 3.

Ver essa pílula foi o que me salvou a vida.

Não é uma cobra. É meu intestino grosso e meu cólon sendo puxados para fora de mim. O que os médicos chamam de prolapso de reto. São minhas entranhas sendo sugadas pelo duto.

Os médicos de plantão de emergência podem confirmar que uma bomba de piscina pode puxar 300 litros de água por minuto. Isso corresponde a 180 quilos de pressão. O grande problema é que somos todos interconectados por dentro. Seu traseiro é apenas o término da sua boca. Se eu deixasse, a bomba continuaria a puxar minhas entranhas até que chegasse na minha língua. Imagine dar uma cagada de 180 quilos e você vai perceber como isso pode acontecer.

O que eu posso dizer é que suas entranhas não sentem tanta dor. Não da forma que sua pele sente dor. As coisas que você digere, os médicos chamam de matéria fecal. No meio disso tudo está o suco gástrico, com pedaços de milho, amendoins e ervilhas.

Essa sopa de sangue, milho, merda, esperma e amendoim flutua ao meu redor. Mesmo com minhas entranhas saindo pelo meu traseiro, eu tentando segurar o que restou, mesmo assim, minha vontade é de colocar meu calção de alguma forma.

Deus proíba que meus pais vejam meu pau.

Com uma mão seguro a saída do meu rabo, com a outra mão puxo o calção amarelo-listrado do meu pescoço. Mesmo assim, é impossível puxar de volta.

Se você quer sentir como seria tocar seus intestinos, compre um camisinha feita com intestino de carneiro. Pegue uma e desenrole. Encha de manteiga de amendoim. Lubrifique e coloque debaixo d’água. Então tente rasgá-la. Tente partir em duas. É firme e ao mesmo tempo macia. É tão escorregadia que não dá para segurar.

Uma camisinha dessas é feita do bom e velho intestino.

Você então vê contra o que eu lutava.

Se eu largo, sai tudo.

Se eu nado para a superfície, sai tudo.

Se eu não nadar, me afogo.

É escolher entre morrer agora, e morrer em um minuto.

O que meus pais vão encontrar depois do trabalho é um feto grande e pelado, todo curvado. Mergulhado na árgua turva da piscina de casa. Preso ao fundo por uma larga corda de veias e entranhas retorcidas. O oposto do garoto que se estrangula enquanto bate uma. Esse é o bebê que trouxeram para casa do hospital há 13 anos. Esse é o garoto que esperavam conseguir uma bolsa de jogador de futebol e eventualmente um mestrado. Que cuidaria deles quando estivessem velhinhos. Seus sonhos e esperanças. Flutuando aqui, pelado e morto. Em volta dele, gotas gordas de esperma.

Ou isso, ou meus pais me encontrariam enrolado numa toalha encharcada de sangue, morto entre a piscina e o telefone da cozinha, os restos destroçados das minhas entranhas para fora do meu calção amarelo-listrado.

Algo sobre o qual nem os franceses falam.

Aquele irmão mais velho na Marinha, ele ensinou uma outra expressão bacana. Uma expressão russa. Do jeito que nós falamos “Preciso disso como preciso de um buraco na cabeça…,” os russos dizem, “Preciso disso como preciso de dentes no meu cú……

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.

Essas histórias de como animais presos em armadilhas roem a própria perna fora, bem, qualquer coiote poderá te confirmar que algumas mordidas são melhores que morrer.

Droga… mesmo se você for russo, um dia vai querer esses dentes.

Senão, o que você pode fazer é se curvar todo. Você coloca um cotovelo por baixo do joelho e puxa essa perna para o seu rosto. Você morde e rói seu próprio cú. Se você ficar sem ar você consegue roer qualquer coisa para poder respirar de novo.

Não é algo que seja bom contar a uma garota no primeiro encontro. Não se você espera por um beijinho de despedida. Se eu contasse como é o gosto, vocês não comeriam mais frutos do mar.

É difícil dizer o que enojaria mais meus pais: como entrei nessa situação, ou como me salvei. Depois do hospital, minha mãe dizia, “Você não sabia o que estava fazendo, querido. Você estava em choque.” E ela teve que aprender a cozinhar ovos pochê.

Todas aquelas pessoas enojadas ou sentindo pena de mim….

Precisava disso como precisaria de dentes no cú.

Hoje em dia, as pessoas sempre me dizem que eu sou magrinho demais. As pessoas em jantares ficam quietas ou bravas quando não como o cozido que fizeram. Cozidos podem me matar. Presuntadas. Qualquer coisa que fique mais que algumas horas dentro de mim, sai ainda como comida. Feijões caseiros ou atum, eu levanto e encontro aquilo intacto na privada.

Depois que você passa por uma lavagem estomacal super-radical como essa, você não digere carne tão bem. A maioria das pessoas tem um metro e meio de intestino grosso. Eu tenho sorte de ainda ter meus quinze centímetros. Então nunca consegui minha bolsa de jogador de futebol. Nunca consegui meu mestrado. Meus dois amigos, o da cera e o da cenoura, eles cresceram, ficaram grandes, mas eu nunca pesei mais do que pesava aos 13 anos.

Outro problema foi que meus pais pagaram muita grana naquela piscina. No fim meu pai teve que falar para o cara da limpeza da piscina que era um cachorro. O cachorro da família caiu e se afogou. O corpo sugado pelo duto. Mesmo depois que o cara da limpeza abriu o filtro e removeu um tubo pegajoso, um pedaço molhado de intestino com uma grande vitamina laranja dentro, mesmo assim meu pai dizia, “Aquela porra daquele cachorro era maluco.”

Mesmo do meu quarto no segundo andar, podia ouvir meu pai falar, “Não dava para deixar aquele cachorro sozinho por um segundo….”

E então a menstruação da minha irmã atrasou.

Mesmo depois que trocaram a água da piscina, depois que vendemos a casa e mudamos para outro estado, depois do aborto da minha irmã, mesmo depois de tudo isso meus pais nunca mencionaram mais isso novamente.

Nunca.

Essa é a nossa cenoura invisível.

Você. Agora você pode respirar.

Eu ainda não.

Fim.

.

Say, have you people ever heard of that awesome television series: Firefly? You have? Good for you. Did you hear about the truly revolutionary Film based on the TV Series called “Serenity”? You have? Well Okay then. Finally, do you people think Firefly-Serenity was promoted enough? As if, in this point in time, F-S was so underpromoted that the whole franchise really didn’t get the chance it deserved?

If you believe in that crap, then you’re reading the wrong blog post.

The whole F-S cycle is the most overrated excuse for a franchise that has ever been concieved. I avoided the whole thing just based on the hype alone. Then, when I got a chance to watch the whole Firefly series on Hulu, I found out the hard way what a big pile of excrement this thing really was.

My points of contention with the franchise:

1. The Never-ending puke river of Nihilism that permeates the series
2. The Vacuous Backstory
3. The Fake “Realism”
   

First off, the Nihilism. Really? Nihilism? Did I just say that this franchise was nihilistic? You better believe that this franchise is nihilistic. The people behind F-S really go that extra mile to deliver that cheap shot to the cojones type of nihilism I’ve come to despise in things outside of F-S. F-S wears it’s nihilism on it’s sleeve, tattoos it’s chest with it, and drops it’s pants and moons you with it every step of the way.

That nihilism extends to the characters of the franchise also. I’m talking about The Protagonists here. These people are impossible to root for even as Anti-Heroes. Oh Sure, these people engage in light-hearted banter that makes them tolerable for awhile. But on the things that count, these guys are detestable vermin no sane person would want at their side.

As for the Alliance, they really never get enough screen time to evoke any impressions beyond superficial ones, which leads us to the next issue….

F-S has no real backstory! There, I’ve said it. I feel that a great weight has been lifted off of me now that I’ve come to terms with the fact that no back story actually exists for F-S. It would actually violate the creators’ hard-line stance on nihilism to have a backstory of any substance. Oh yeah, there’s the whole “Alliance vs Independents” thing. But that’s only a pretext for this series, NOT A REAL STORY.

The Alliance doesn’t work as a fictional entity because they are depicted in two contradictory ways:

1. As a monolithic “Evil Empire”
2. As a bunch of hapless dipsticks that are convenient victims for Reavers and more mundane forms of piracy.
   

The mention of Alliance personnel as “Hapless dipsticks that are convenient victims for Reavers” sets up my final point: The Fake “Realism”

Ah Yes, if there’s anything that can raise my hackles beyond the Nihilism and Zero-Story content of Firefly-Serenity, it’s the whole attitude towards “telling it like it is”-style arrogance of the show’s creators and it’s fans.

Ok, I’m up for another round of that neverending, stupid debate on “Realism in Science Fiction”. Actually, I’m not. Not because I’m against realism per se, but because I’ll get bogged down in the stupid postmoderism of the show’s creators and fans.

What I’m going to to is to cite 2 examples of the stupidity of this series where it utterly fails by any standard of realism

First example, In the Jaynestown episode, We have a character that is introduced as an archenemy of Jayne Cobb, Stitch Hessian. We first see this character when he is released from a POW-style sweatbox AFTER FOUR YEARS.

He is healthy, whole, and ready to kick ass right out of the box without any kind of REHABILITATION OR MEDICAL CARE WHATSOEVER.

Even by sci-fi standards, this is unforgivably stupid. Boxes like the one Stitch was in are DESIGNED TO BREAK PEOPLE. But by some miracle, the detestable planetary overlord managed to care for a man(who tried to rob him!) in less than ideal conditions. There’s not even any cheap MacGuffin-Medicine included in the plotline to deal with all of this. This story was written by morons, for morons.

Even by postmodern standards, a hellhole POW-style sweatbox does not work wonders for ones’ health. The Firefly series is full of stupid stuff like this.

Now that I’ve handled the physical reality that F-S operates under, it’s time to confront the bogus behavior and fake backstory of Firefly.

Bushwacked is an episode that features two very different antagonists to the Serenity crew. The Reavers and the Alliance. There is only one actual Reaver depicted in the episode. How a person becomes a Reaver is subject to debate(at least, until they introduced that stupid retcon in the Serenity movie which I have not seen, but read about).

Retcons aside, The role the alliance plays here is that of “bunch of victims for the newly minted Reaver”. The F-S franchise has trouble deciding if the alliance constitutes “an Evil Empire” or “a bunch a victims” because of the grossly nihilistic attitudes of the F-S productions.

Yes, here we go with the nihilism again. But in this circumstance, it backfires. There is less exposition given to the creation of the Reavers than there is to the creatures in a third-rate zombie movie. The Firefly-Serenity series is so nihilistic that the very idea of storytelling is an exercise in pointless stupidity.

All that’s left here, when you look carefully at it, is a stupid “Vietnam Trip-wire Veteran” story combined with the imagery of the Hellraiser movies.

It fails to entertain, or enlighten, or anything else positive. Nor was it ever intended to.

Ok, so you’re asking: “What was it intended for?” Here’s your answer: To intimidate, to humiliate, and to keep you off balance.

Apparently, you people in the audience out there are a bunch of grain-fed Sheeple who need to get kicked in the ass at every opportunity. Yes, the creators of the Firefly series and the Serenity movie have total contempt for their audience. In this episode, they throw around blood and guts in a vain effort to get people to take them and the show seriously.

Now that I’ve covered all of that unreality, it’s time to confront the heavy-handed moralizing that also constitutes the “realism” of the F-S franchise.

In the closing minutes of the “Jaynestown” episode, we’re treated to a conversation between Mal Reynolds and Jayne Cobb:

Jayne Cobb: Don’t make no sense… What, Why the hell that muther have to go and do that for Mal? jumping in front of that shotgun blast. Hell, there weren’t a one of them that understood what happened out there, that(sic) probably sticking that statue right back up.

Mal Reynolds: Most like(ly)

JC: I don’t know why it eats at me so

MR: It’s my estimation that every man who ever got a statue made of him was one kind sumbitch or another. It ain’t about you Jayne, it’s about what they need.

JC: Don’t make no sense.

This exchange is so out-of-character with the previous behavior of the characters that it sticks out like a sore thumb. They really don’t seem like the type of people who would be concerned about the fate of a bunch of strangers. In the final analysis, this scene was contrived to make a cheap, nihilistic point about how all people who get statues made in their likeness are total bastards. WHICH FLAT-OUT CONTRADICTS JAYNE COBB’S INTROSPECTION AT THE END OF THIS EPISODE.

How did a Nihilistic, Brain-dead, cheap-shot infested series like Firefly ever get a huge fanbase? I used to think that the “Fans” were mere astroturfers. However, the truth is more vile than even I could have imagined.

What I am about to suggest is so bizarre, that even I have trouble believing it. But it rings true

James Randi(AKA The Amazing Randi) wrote on page 99 of his 1989 book: The Faith Healers

(Joseph)Barnhart suggested a scenario that I have come to accept–though with some difficulty–because it satisfies all the evidence and it has been confirmed by my subsequent investigations.

He contends that the faith-healing service functions as a significant drama for those who attend. This explains their willingness to believe what others see as obvious delusions. He says we cannot divide the participants into “audience” and “Performers.” The entire auditoriium becomes a huge stage, with both the preachers and the believers taking part in the drama. A careful observer notices that almost everything in the drama leads up to the climax, the long-anticipated healing scene. It is a ritual of major magical importance to the participants.

Barnhart points out that the afflicted person wants to get close to this magic. By pretending–earnestly–and by refusing to entertain any doubt, on his or her part or on behalf of another, the subject maintains and reinforces the myth that all of the actors have agreed to believe in, for their own reasons. The faith-healing service is a sort of mutually accepted morality play that is participated in without doubt or hesitation, for fear of breaking the spell.

The above gimmick is used in other fields besides faith-healing. While the average Firefly-Serenity “fan” believes themselves superior to your average inbred faith-healer, they engage in exactly the same techniques and attitude depicted in the Randi book excerpt.

Stripped of all religious-healing influences, The Fake Audience Trick consists of:

• A general “reality is made by FAKING SHIT REALLY HARD” attitude.
• Shouting down any criticism.
• Presenting yourself as more: Serious, Hardcore, Spiritual, Moral , Ect. than anyone else.
• Presenting the subject matter as more :Serious, Hardcore, Spiritual, Moral, Ect. than anything else in the field.
• hanging on the the absurd belief that something positive can come from all of this stupidity.
  

This is the foundation of all religion, politics, publicly-traded companies, pyramid schemes, marketing, and Firefly-Serenity Fandom.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention an important part of the trick:

• Make up excuses (or scapegoats) to explain away your failures.(Which there will be a lot of)

Firefly Fans have as their scapegoat-excuse: “Firefly-Serenity wasn’t promoted enough”. This is inaccurate. Firefly(and Serenity) was promoted, stoked up, hyped, and finally shoved in the face of a public that didn’t want anything to do with it.

More than one person has commented on the messed-up, retarded, abrasive and painful nature of witnessing Firefly fandom. Outlaw Vern commented on Firefly fandom in his review of the Serenity movie:

I consider myself a brave man but more than once I found myself eyeing the fire exit. I was planning my escape and it wouldn’t have been a daring one like in the movie, it would’ve been more like when Old Dirty Bastard fled the hospital without checking out.

Inside the theater was worse. There was a singalong of a folk song about the characters. There was people trying to talk in space cowboy talk.

Ho boy, this isn’t like Trek or Wars fandom. This is entirely different. They seem to be trying too hard. Vern has encountered some weirdos in his time.(See his Chaos(2005) DVD review). But he seemed genuinely scared at the Serenity viewing.

This all seems like a Viral Marketing project that mutated into a cult.(Think “Xenu” but without the laughs)

How did all of this come about? I’ve got a pretty good idea, but you’ll have to take my notions about nihilism and the 1990s-2000s seriously to understand it.

To understand Firefly fandom you have to go back to the 1990s, The Nihilistic Nineties. Did I mention that I hated the 1990s?(and to a lesser extent, the 2000s). If I didn’t, let me state right here: I HATED THE 1990S. I hate the 90s so much, I won’t bother to explain why. Instead, I’ll let Greg Stacy, of the OC Weekly, articulate his attitude toward the 1990s, which happens to coincide with mine:

Besides, that’s a time most of us are happy to forget. Who the hell gets nostalgic for the LA riots, grunge or O.J. hysteria? It was one of the most volatile yet paradoxically least interesting times in our nation’s history. I remember long nights searching the radio for anything listenable; eventually I’d grow so bored with the rap and metal I’d end up stuck with Art Bell’s loony conspiracy theories. It’s an experience (GTA)San Andreas re-creates with depressing accuracy, right down to a so-so Art Bell parody.

–Pop! Culture
Getting lost on the streets of San Andreas, December 23, 2004

That rhetorical question about “Who the hell gets nostalgic for the LA riots, grunge or O.J. hysteria?” has to be answered here. Since this is a blog post about Firefly-Serenity and its fans, the answer should be obvious. F-S fans are vile, nihilistic types who think that the planet Earth reached cultural Satori in the period between The LA Riots and the publication of the novel Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk in 1996.

But the influence nowadays on F-S fandom isn’t so much “Tyler Durden” anymore but “The Joker from the movie The Dark Knight (2008)”. Just like The Joker only wanted to burn the world, so do the F-S fans want to burn the very idea of fandom. Having failed in their putrid efforts to astroturf the success of the whole Firefly-Serenity cycle, they are going to make lots of noise and burn the internet with their behavior.

Worse, these clowns manage to get the whole F-S franchise attention it doesn’t really deserve.

But let’s get back to the substance of the Firefly series and the Serenity movie. Oh that’s right, THERE IS NO SUBSTANCE IN THE F-S FRANCHISE.

Ironically, The Evil Megacorporation depicted in the Alien Movies has a sunnier take on humanity than the protagonists of Firefly. The white-hot nihilism of the 1990s has turned into the cold ashes of the 2Ks. With the approach of the new decade, I’m going to do everything I can to burn the nihilists. I’m going it alone, and no hypester is going to have any fun in the future. Most importantly, “Hardcore” is going to be the joke of the 2010s.

Genre: Satirical

Year of Publication: 2001

Forse avremmo dovuto accorge cene prima.

Negli anni Sessanta e Settanta, gli spettacoli di cucina in Tv persuasero un crescente gruppo di persone a dedicare tempo  denaro extra a cibi e vini. Dal semplice mangiare, si spostarono alla cucina. Guidati da esperti come Julia Child e Graham Kerr, facemmo esplodere il mercato dei forni Viking e delle pentole in rame. Negli anni Ottanta, con la diffusione dei videoregistratori e dei lettori CD, subentrò la nuova ossessione dell’entertainment.

I film diventarono la nuova arena dove al gente poteva incontrarsi e dibattere, come fino a dieci anni prima accadeva per i soufflé e il vino. Come già era accaduto con Julia Child, Gene Siskel e Roger Ebert vennero in televisione a insegnarci a spaccare il capello in quattro. L’entertainment diventò il nuovo campo in cui investire tempo e soldi extra.

Invece che di annate e bouquet e vitigni, ora parlavamo dell’efficacia della voce fuori campo e degli antefatti e dello sviluppo dei personaggi.

Negli anni Novanta siamo passati ai libri. E al posto di Roger Erbert c’era Oprah Winfrey.

Ma la differenza sostanziale era che a casa si può cucinare, mentre un film non si può davvero fare, non tra le mura domestiche. Ma si può scrivere un libro. O una sceneggiatura. E le sceneggiature poi lo diventano, dei film.

Lo sceneggiatore Andrew Kevin Walker una volta disse che nessuno a Los Angeles si trova mai più di qualche centinaio di metri da una sceneggiatura. Ce ne sono stipate nei bagagliai delle auto. Nei cassetti degli uffici. Negli hard disk dei PC portatili. Sempre pronte a essere tirati fuori. Un biglietto vincente della lotteria a caccia del suo montepremi. Un assegno paga ancora da incassare.

Per la prima volta nella storia, cinque fattori si sono allineati per dar vita a questa esplosione narrativa. In ordine sparso, i fattori sono i seguenti.

Tempo libero.

Tecnologia.

Materiale.

Istruzione.

E disgusto.

Chuck Palahniuk,  La scimmia pensa, la scimmia fa, Mondadori, Milano 2009, Voi siete qui, pp. 52 – 53

Forse un contratto editoriale è la nuova forma di beatificazione. La nuova ricompensa per essere sopravvissuti grazie alla forza di volontà e al carattere. Al posto del paradiso, avrai del denaro e l’attenzione dei media.

Forse un’interpretazione di Julia Roberts, più grandiosa della vita vera, bella come un angelo, è la sola vita ultraterrena che vi aspetta.

E questo solo se…  se la tua vita, la tua storia si riveleranno qualcosa che si può impacchettare e mettere sul mercato e vendere.

Da Chuck Palahniuk, La scimmia pensa, la scimmia fa, Mondadori, Milano, 2009 -  racconto Voi siete qui,  p. 50

Un giornalista a spasso per l’America. Ma non un giornalista normale, un cronista d’assalto, ma uno dei più spietati osservatori della storia americana, nonché indubbiamente uno dei più grandi scrittori della letteratura americana. Chuck Palahniuk si immerge nei posti più insoliti, tra scontri con le mietitrebbe, spedizioni nei sottomarini, orge nei locali desolati della periferia americana, incontri con personaggi improbabili come Marilyn Manson.

Palahniuk è morbosamente attratto da questa america nascosta, dagli ultimi della terra che costantemente vengono consacrati nei suoi romanzi ed ora vengono analizzati, se così si può dire, con l’occhio oggettivo del giornalista. Eppure Palahniuk non riesce a prendere le distanze, è profondamente attratto da questa umanità e vi si butta dentro a capofitto, lsaciandosi coinvolgere pienamente.

Tagliente come sempre, cinico come ci ha insegnato nei suoi racconti, Palahniuk si mostra questa volta anche nei panni del critico letterario, ad intessere lodi per Amy Hempel ed Ira Levin per poi passare in rassegna i comportmenti della nuova umanità, di questo mondo di artisti, come in Voi siete qui.

E il titolo originale di questa raccolta (Stranger than Fiction) rende meglio il senso del discorso, poichè la realtà che stiamo vivendo è sempre più strana delle storie inventate.

Choke

Choke is a 2001 novel by American author Chuck Palahniuk.  Woopty Doo.  I will start with that.  I read this 7 years ago on the plane to Japan and had forgotten how crap it is…accidentally read it again out of boredom.

Most of us have either read, watched the movie or at least heard someone else talk about Fight Club.  This is for a good reason.  As a book it was intense and fresh.  As a film it was well done and fun to watch.  It even “Made people think.” or something along those lines.

“Choke” sadly, will make you think about little more than going out and buying a new book to read.

From the very first few pages Palahniuk is being gimmicky and cheap and trying to catch his reader in primitive devices that frankly, he should be above.  Each chapter there after is more of the same, with only a few, very few exceptions.

I am not a big fan of giving full reviews or plot summaries.  I think you should go READ something yourself.  I will say however, just so we can have this conversation here, that essentially the main character is a Med school drop out named Victor.  He works at a colonial re-enactment type theme park…or something.  These chapters are fun, interesting and fresh.  Little else in the book is.  So this guy Victor is emotionally all screwed up (big surprise, anyone else read fight club?) and to deal with everything he goes to “sex addict” meetings in order to pick up chicks.

Lame.

Perhaps Palahniuk was trying to be SHOCKING, but he only succeeds in being gross as he rambles on and on about sex related injuries and STD’s and impacted colons and blah blah blah.  Just gross…gross and dull. Painfully dull.

Through out the whole book it is as if Chucky is trying to stand up and say “Hey look everyone! We are morally decadent!” No shit Chuck.

Wake up and smell the left overs.

Out of five stars I give this 2.5 and thats being kind as I liked Fight club.  Read it if you find yourself either stranded on a desert island, locked up with no other literature in a Japanese prison or just immensely bored.

Ate so much grease over the weekend, now I’m sick.  Fried eggs, sausage and beignets for breakfast.  Night before, chicken and dumplings (I made the dumplings because I couldn’t even look at the chicken) and for dessert blueberry milkshakes.  What I’m looking to say is, at my dad’s, I eat very well– and then back here I pay for it.

Sick as hell.  Had no problem waking up at six am because my stomach’s trying to make the rest of me miserable.  As is my cat, spent all night chewing on my feet.  Owwie.

I’ve been some kind of idiot lately– in a clumsy sort of way, I’ve been running into everything.  I’m completely covered in bruises, some that I don’t even remember how I got.   Lost my usually enormous appetite, I think from memories of all of the good food I had over the weekend.

I would kill to have some of my dad’s leftovers.  Yummers.

School.  Ew.  No thanks.  I really don’t want to go, but recently I’ve been missing a lot, and I do kind of want to go to the recruitment concert, because we get to stand around a group of little people and blow music at their faces.

Ah, well, y’know what is no one really says, but probably should because it’s generally good advice:

“The lower you fall, the higher you’ll fly.”

Thanks Chuck Palahniuk.

Some rather similar Chuck Palahniuk quotes for you:

“Maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.”

“Only through destroying myself can I discover the greater power of my spirit.”

“The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.”

“ The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on.

Chuck Palahniuk

Genre: Satirical

Year of Publication: 1996

I will offer a thorough review of Nick Cave’s second novel The Death of Bunny Munro when I finish reading but for now I need to vent.

Nick Cave is a godlike figure to me. Circumstances have kept me from EVER seeing him live, a fact that haunts me daily. It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid it might never happen, like I’ve used all of my Nick Cave chances up. Which is why I snatched the copy of The Death of… off the library’s shelf, in a rather aggressive fashion it must be said. I sort of loved The Proposition, despite all the flies and blood and gore and flies and blood so I expected to like this book; this was a case of the very informed reader arriving with a bagful of predisposition.

The Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave

Now? I’m scarred. And scared. While I’m beginning to see the merit in what seems a  Palahniuk/Bret Easton Ellis/Bukowski homage I  am finding the incessant masturbation scenes somewhat disturbing and, well, as a girl there’s only so much in the tales of a male sexual compulsive I can handle.

So that’s that. I will write more when I’m through and maybe I’m just approaching a turning point after which there will be no more masturbation. Maybe, and hopefully.