We're all embattled in a grand and farcical game of stop hitting yourself. We (in only the most royal sense) are speaking on a Universal scale here.
When is the last time that you didn't find yourself having umbrella fights with the gorillas on the streets of Bismark? Ah, I thought not, and I knew you wouldn't say that. If we followed the code of Hammurabi in reverse, we would be flush with eyes.
In the world of today imprinting on paper, celluloid, or HTML is not enough to ensure immortality. You've got to invent a self-replicating meme. Only through viral ideas overlaid onto the conscious with foundations in the sub-conscious will work. The human mind can have conscious thought-structures razed, but the unconscious cannot be renovated except through systematic and purposeful restructuring.
Song For Your Ears To Taste: "No One Lives Forever" by Oingo Boingo
I am the president of The United States Of Mind. We don't have a capital, per se. Nor a motto, an anthem, or a clue. We are actually more of an anarchic confederation with single purpose laughably absent and a give-and-take of immediate vs. long-term goals continually negotiated between mayors, captains, and big men.
Music For Your Ears To Taste: "Fantasy Bar" by Juliette Lewis
Mister Romney. You, sir, have built up a very
great deal of rancor throughout your asteroidic rise to prominence.
Had you won, you could quite possibly have been the record holder for lowest
presidential approval ratings at inauguration. However, even in losing, thanks to your
ceaseless efforts to imprint your grinning countenance upon the
retinas of innumerable, you may well end up being the least popular
*private* citizen, amid some seriously stiff competish. The amusing
thing about all this (amusing to *me* at least) is that no one would
know to revile you had you not doggedly insisted on becoming a public
figure. Now, I suspect that you probably feel, in spite of all this,
that your ideas on government are still true. And you know what? You
could totally be right. But there are manners of speaking you could
personally utilize to convince those of us who disagree.
Not with your voice, heavens no. You
have proven yourself fairly inept in the use of that method of
persuasion. Nor do I mean the language of your body, as that often
tells stories you never intended. No, I refer to that most hip,
modern, and utilitarian form of speech: moolah. You have routinely
demonstrated your aptitude for capital rhetoric and, brother, can you ever
make that wallet sing. Your position on the glories of privatization
(one of the only core beliefs you appear to hold) seems to hinge on
your insistence that private enterprise is more useful to society
than government. The problem many, many, many of us have with this
notion, and your sponsorship of it in particular, is that you have
personally presented exceptionally little as demonstration.
Now, perhaps contrary to your own
reading of the situation, we of the 99% (or even the 47%) do not
begrudge wealth. Far from it. We, in fact, frequently laud those who
achieve high monetary earnings by having their names inserted in
History Textbooks or adorning sports arenas (difficult to determine
which is the higher honor). Andrew Carnegie. Walt Disney. Henry Ford.
Steve Jobs. Bill Gates. What separates you from their ilk is that in
acquiring their fortunes, these men (and they almost always are MEN,
aren't they?) produced products and/or ideas that have tangibly
enhanced each of us, rich and poor alike. You, though, created your
comma-festooned bank accounts by way of the cutting edge of
accounting. You were paid money for making money, never daring to
offer services to the plebeians. You made deals among fellow
financial astronauts well above the troposphere of influence the
majority of us have access to. To put it bluntly, we don't feel like
we got anything out of it. Wellllll, Staples, I suppose. And where
*would* we be without Staples? Probably shopping at Office Max.
Obviously you have no *obligation*
incumbent upon you to give us anything in return. You are, naturally,
free to do as you like. But every penny invested in a garage
car-elevator for one of your five absurdly huge vacation homes while
you preach on the myriad virtues of privatization feels like an
ever-loudening raspberry blown in our collective ears. Thus, I have
for you an extremely simple way to better make your point and perhaps
acquire a modicum of public goodwill: build a museum.
Now, clearly "simple" is a
relative term. This task would be beyond arduous for most of the
inhabitants of this country. But for a man whose tax return contains
pages numbering in the hundreds, this is a walk in the
gated-community park.
There are conditions, of course. If you
were to, say, build a museum dedicated to the life of Willard M.
Romney, then I doubt you would receive unanimous accolades. I think
probably an art museum would be the safest bet. Since you are so
quick to dismiss public arts funding, we might be more willing to
accept your argument were you to participate in a bit of the private
sort.
Also, you really oughtn't use this as a
forum for specifically political or religious ideological
advancement, as that would merely add more non-biodegradable fuel to
the cynical fire already miles high. But if you manage to avoid those
reasonable pitfalls, you can pretty much do as you please. Pick any
art you like. Pick art *only* you like. Have exhibits dedicated to
exhibiting great artists of the Latter-Day Saints faith. There is not
yet such a museum, and even non-religious folk like myself would have
no problem with that, as scores of masterpieces throughout history
have been created by the faithful. Art does not require fairness in
presentation so long as it is personal and passionate.
The lone consideration left to make on
this subject is this: do not talk about it. Make an announcement of
intent that is devoid of any attempts at humor, gallantry, or
philosophizing. Upon its opening, if you must speak, give the most
boring speech you can concoct. Set up a trust fund to hopefully
maintain this project in perpetuity and then... disappear. Stay away
from the limelight and keep to the hermetic circles in which you ran
before entering public life. You can then live out the remainder of
your days in relative peace and comfort. If all goes well, you won't
need to say one word more. Your deed will speak for itself.
Today's Song For Your Ears To Taste: "Thick As A Brick" by Jethro Tull
I found this booklet lying purposefully on a seat in the subway train. Like any good piece of public art, I added my perspective and left it where I found it, awaiting the next step in its evolution.
Music for your ears to taste: "Origin Of The Species" by MC Frontalot
I do not frequently imbibe alcohol; my position being: if I want to poison myself, I'll gnaw on the contents of my landlord's mouse trap, and if I want to stop being sober, I'd sooner trust the contents of children's cold medicine. However, occasionally circumstances dictate that I engage in distasteful activities, if only to prove my inherent badassery to my more dipsomaniacal fellows. Upon putting that erstwhile plant matter in my innocent innards and eventually finding myself alone amidst the chattering crowd, I engaged in the closest thing I'll probably get to automatic writing. The results follow:
The cacophony of ages drains helplessly upon the aegis stomach of nighttime splendor. And kind whimsy can find a spot for comfort in the dragon-child laxity of coiled expense. The gourd of magic is passed into the mental typhoon. Hyperactive classes won't fly with me tonight. Alight and sigh between heaves of nocturne follicles. Corn and spiders be everywhere not morose. Coinage of might is the only way of spending growing sane. Try nothing and be happy. Hip hags and cripples aim for gypping the the go-to men for men of power. Monsters glitter and gored plates disdain the organ player at their peril. Corridors of navel trees abound in the etheric logo. Plinths and planks and plums point power and pink pale pools up, pound by pound. Is there a magazine of brazen logs, fired loud and flagrant?
The Middle.
Music For Your Ears To Taste: "Escape From Nebula M Spacehunter" by Daikaiju
I love me some Christian Slater. I
know. I can't explain it. He's not the greatest actor in the world
(though he's probably better than you think if you haven't seen “He
Was A Quiet Man”). He doesn't star in amazing movies. And I'm not
gay. There's just something about him. He's able to project his
charisma off the screen in a fashion few other actors can. He can
even make otherwise unbearable films (such as “The Wizard” and
“Alone In The Dark”) tolerable. And while I first learned about
him through his gosh-darn-it-at-least-he's-trying
British-dialect-butchering performance in “Robin Hood: Prince Of
Thieves,” he cemented his cinematic excellence in my mind via the
film “Kuffs.”
“Kuffs” is an early 90's
coming-of-age story about a young, hip slacker who's given guff by
his elders and continually shows himself to be smarter than they are.
I'm sure you're simply flabbergasted at the display of singular
creativity employed there. What makes it special, though, is the
presentation. The film opens with a bit of written exposition
explaining that in the 1800's, the citizens of San Francisco found
themselves overwhelmed with crime and so split the city into
districts looked after by “Patrol Specials,” essentially a
private police force. Christian Slater portrays the eponymous George
Kuffs, the underachieving younger brother of Brad Kuffs (played by
Bruce Boxleitner), a district owner and Patrol Special in San
Francisco, who is gunned-down by a gangster for refusing to sell the
district. George then inherits the district and, in the name of his
brother, takes on the job of Patrol Special himself, despite being
completely unqualified. He finds himself at odds with his staff, the
Police, and his brother's killer. Hilarity ensues. Sort of.
The thing about this film is that it
alternates between several drastically different tones: at times airy
and humorous, other times deadly serious, and occasionally soft and
romantic; but it manages these tone shifts extremely well. It
maintains a consistency of narrative where none of the elements feel
out of place. I credit this chiefly to Christian Slater. He lets us
believe he can be the same character in each of these situations
without losing credulity in all the others, mainly through his
talking directly to the camera. While so many of the actions Kuffs
takes could easily cause us to recoil or write him off, his casual
breaking of the fourth wall allows Slater's charisma to draw us in
and makes us feel part of his life. We understand his decisions,
stupid though they may often be, and, in spite of them, we root for
him to win. Throw in a catchy score by Harold Faltermeyer, excellent
acting by all the other players (including Milla Jovovich and Tony
Goldwyn), and a surprisingly well-constructed script and you've got a
movie that I just adore.
~S-B
[Edit: Upon finding the "Kuffs" trailer, I discovered this one, which could possibly be the greatest movie trailer in the history of lampshades.
