(awesomely problem women)
Haunted by Poe
Northern Star by Hole
It's All Over But the Crying by Garbage
Not An Addict by K's Choice
Hold On to Me by Courtney Love
Somebody by Veruca Salt
Just Let the Sun by Skin
Cherry Bomb by The Runaways
Death of a Whore by Juliette Lewis and the Licks
I Like Fucking by Bikini Kill
Well You Wanna Know What? by Bratmobile
Crazy by Alanis Morissette
Dirty Deeds by Joan Jett
Mother Mother by Tracy Bonham
Crazy on You by Heart
Mommy Complex by Peaches
WEAK by Skunk Anansie
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Playlist: Summer Camp 2009
(seasonal hits)
Back Against the Wall by Cage the Elephant
I Don't Care by Apocalyptica featuring Adam Gontier
Notion by Kings of Leon
Gives You Hell by The All-American Rejects
Re-Education (Through Labor) by Rise Against
100 Little Curses by Street Sweeper Social Club
Feel Good Drag by Anberlin
Ain't No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant
Blame It by Jamie Foxx featuring T-Pain
LoveGame (Dave Aude Radio Edit) by Lady GaGa
I Gotta Feeling by Black Eyed Peas
Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti & Spearhead
I Know You Want Me by Pitbull
Sugar by Flo Rida
1901 by Phoenix
New Divide by Linkin Park
You're Gonna Go Far, Kid by The Offspring
Know Your Enemy by Green Day
Savior by Rise Against
Black Heart Inertia by Incubus
She Loves Everybody by Chester French
Back Against the Wall by Cage the Elephant
I Don't Care by Apocalyptica featuring Adam Gontier
Notion by Kings of Leon
Gives You Hell by The All-American Rejects
Re-Education (Through Labor) by Rise Against
100 Little Curses by Street Sweeper Social Club
Feel Good Drag by Anberlin
Ain't No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant
Blame It by Jamie Foxx featuring T-Pain
LoveGame (Dave Aude Radio Edit) by Lady GaGa
I Gotta Feeling by Black Eyed Peas
Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti & Spearhead
I Know You Want Me by Pitbull
Sugar by Flo Rida
1901 by Phoenix
New Divide by Linkin Park
You're Gonna Go Far, Kid by The Offspring
Know Your Enemy by Green Day
Savior by Rise Against
Black Heart Inertia by Incubus
She Loves Everybody by Chester French
Playlist: Spring Training 2009
(seasonal hits)
Love Hurts by Incubus
Dead and Gone by T.I. featuring Justin Timberlake
Second Chance by Shinedown
Wake it Up by E-40
Love Sex Magic by Ciara featuring Justin Timberlake
Just Dance by Lady GaGa
Swerve by Lil Boosie & Webbie
Single Ladies by Beyonce
Right Round by Flo Rida
Kids by MGMT
If U Seek Amy by Britney Spears
Poker Face by Lady GaGa
Lifeline by Papa Roach
Spaceman by The Killers
Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon
Panic Switch by Silversun Pickups
Undead by Hollywood Undead
Whoop that Trick by Al Kapone
Pop Champagne by Jim Jones & Rob Browz
Zero by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Dead Memories by Slipknot
Indestructible by Disturbed
Magnificent by U2
Love Hurts by Incubus
Dead and Gone by T.I. featuring Justin Timberlake
Second Chance by Shinedown
Wake it Up by E-40
Love Sex Magic by Ciara featuring Justin Timberlake
Just Dance by Lady GaGa
Swerve by Lil Boosie & Webbie
Single Ladies by Beyonce
Right Round by Flo Rida
Kids by MGMT
If U Seek Amy by Britney Spears
Poker Face by Lady GaGa
Lifeline by Papa Roach
Spaceman by The Killers
Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon
Panic Switch by Silversun Pickups
Undead by Hollywood Undead
Whoop that Trick by Al Kapone
Pop Champagne by Jim Jones & Rob Browz
Zero by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Dead Memories by Slipknot
Indestructible by Disturbed
Magnificent by U2
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Suck It: Reification Posing as Irony
Tonight I finished reading James Hynes' The Lecturer's Tale, and was reflecting on what a downhill experience reading it has been, how ultimately disappointing. And I should love this book. The critiques of literary criticism, queer theory, postmodernism, the politics and absurdities of academia, all of that ring very true. There are some lovely imbedded references to literature, primarily the hoary old chestnuts of the canon, with a few nods to the New Canon of Tokenistic Inclusion. It's self-aware and ironic and yet also strangely earnest. These are all things which pluck at my little heart strings and make me all gooey and willing to forgive an author a great many faults.
In short, I should be the perfect audience for this book.
And yet. When I started it, I was really enjoying it, reading a portion out loud to David on Friday, outlining characters and their similarities to people in UCSD's Literature department during my time there over lunch with Anthony on Saturday. At first, I was savoring a few chapters at a time, enjoying the many send-ups and call-outs of idiosyncrasies and hypocrisies I've witnessed in my own experience of academic life. Then, it slowed, and I started lagging to read it, almost dreading the next turn of the plot; by the end, finishing it became the subject of more morbid curiosity than genuine suspense. I'll give it a 3 out of 5 primarily because rarely does anyone so accurately send up a Lit department, and I've got my own axes to grind on that score.
It had so much to recommend it, so what went wrong? There are plenty of issues: the plot is a pastiche of a handful of very well known, canonical tales, for one. That's not inherently a problem, especially if you hold to the Campbellian view that there are only the few megamyths. But, if you're writing an insider's book, a send-up of the sense and sensibilities of a literature department, you should probably expect that some of your audience will not only get your references, but will in fact get there somewhat ahead of you. So, knowing that, shouldn't you do more than mug at the readership and have the characters engage in battles of literary quotation?
It becomes a hall of mirrors, a reinstitution of the "great works" as an aesthetic position, as self-serving political conservatism, and worst as just another lazy writing tactic. Case in point: throughout the text, Nelson's ongoing academic research projects comment upon the character's circumstances and parallels to canonical texts. This bugs because it doesn't go anywhere, it just points out some obvious readings of the text. I actually can really enjoy a novel that deconstructs while you read it; I have love for Gertrude Stein's very difficult The Making of Americans and Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves. But this one kept irritating me. Either Hynes doesn't trust the audience to "get" his reappropriation of Shakespeare et al and can think of no better way to impart the themes than to come out and state them or he's just so impressed by his own observational skills and knowledge of the western canon that he's got to tell the reader about it, effectively making it a puffing up of his academic chest, the blustering self-congratulation of the deeply insecure. If you're going to be snottily superior about your own erudition and cleverness, then you had better dazzle me, and this just doesn't get it done.
That's not the worst of its sins, though. The big issue for me comes as a reader, rather than a critic: the lead character is a douche due several metric tons of comeuppance. And while the author all but transparently tells the reader that he thinks of old Nelson as a charismatic Gatsby or a Hemingway broken-heart or some other (allegedly) lovable ass and that we should too, the fact that the author has to step forward to tell you that you should love the guy, accept his utter lack of redeeming qualities, and find him "charismatic" in the bargain should have been a hint to the author and editors that, as written, he's an alienating jerk to read about, and I for one don't root for him even once after about fifty pages in.
I can't think of anyone whose poor-little-mes interest me less, or ring more false. Nelson is the guy who's pissed off he's not going to make it into the history books personally for the exact reason that it's already full of guys exactly like him. He thinks he's really getting screwed because history's full of guys like him--mediocre white guys--who became rich, famous, and powerful, and yet he's grinding out a middle class life. That guy never sees that his life is easier, safer, and more comfortable than almost everyone else's in dozens of large and small ways not despite his unexceptionality but because of it. In this sense, Nelson is the spiritual brother of Tyler Durden, another middle class white man who thinks his own stultifying mediocrity is actually him being oppressed and victimized by outside agents. Like Durden, his solution is to impose his will on those Others. The imperial narrative, the will to power. Rinse, repeat. Yawn. The fact that Hynes (and Nelson) can point out that they know the critique of their positions doesn't, in fact, change their positions. It's like when a guy prefaces a flagrantly sexist story or opinion with "I love women," or "I consider myself a feminist, but" or my personal favorite, "let's be honest..." Your disclaimer and self-awareness do not excuse or redeem you. So, suck it.
I don't want to spoiler plot, so I won't get into specifics, but the whole mishmash falls apart under its own preciousness and self-congratulation by the third act. Like the main character, it can cite chapter and verse of literature and can ape the jargon of theory, but it comprehends not. It starts out an incisive if bitter satire and ends up a paean to the mediocre but entitled middle class white professional man who rages at the world which promised him a kingdom and then told him he had to earn his keep. In the final analysis: if you're a lit grad student, academic grunt, or disenchanted humanities major, give it a read at least through the first 100 pages for the gleeful calling-out of the b.s. run amok in literature departments. After that, it's your call.
In short, I should be the perfect audience for this book.
And yet. When I started it, I was really enjoying it, reading a portion out loud to David on Friday, outlining characters and their similarities to people in UCSD's Literature department during my time there over lunch with Anthony on Saturday. At first, I was savoring a few chapters at a time, enjoying the many send-ups and call-outs of idiosyncrasies and hypocrisies I've witnessed in my own experience of academic life. Then, it slowed, and I started lagging to read it, almost dreading the next turn of the plot; by the end, finishing it became the subject of more morbid curiosity than genuine suspense. I'll give it a 3 out of 5 primarily because rarely does anyone so accurately send up a Lit department, and I've got my own axes to grind on that score.
It had so much to recommend it, so what went wrong? There are plenty of issues: the plot is a pastiche of a handful of very well known, canonical tales, for one. That's not inherently a problem, especially if you hold to the Campbellian view that there are only the few megamyths. But, if you're writing an insider's book, a send-up of the sense and sensibilities of a literature department, you should probably expect that some of your audience will not only get your references, but will in fact get there somewhat ahead of you. So, knowing that, shouldn't you do more than mug at the readership and have the characters engage in battles of literary quotation?
It becomes a hall of mirrors, a reinstitution of the "great works" as an aesthetic position, as self-serving political conservatism, and worst as just another lazy writing tactic. Case in point: throughout the text, Nelson's ongoing academic research projects comment upon the character's circumstances and parallels to canonical texts. This bugs because it doesn't go anywhere, it just points out some obvious readings of the text. I actually can really enjoy a novel that deconstructs while you read it; I have love for Gertrude Stein's very difficult The Making of Americans and Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves. But this one kept irritating me. Either Hynes doesn't trust the audience to "get" his reappropriation of Shakespeare et al and can think of no better way to impart the themes than to come out and state them or he's just so impressed by his own observational skills and knowledge of the western canon that he's got to tell the reader about it, effectively making it a puffing up of his academic chest, the blustering self-congratulation of the deeply insecure. If you're going to be snottily superior about your own erudition and cleverness, then you had better dazzle me, and this just doesn't get it done.
That's not the worst of its sins, though. The big issue for me comes as a reader, rather than a critic: the lead character is a douche due several metric tons of comeuppance. And while the author all but transparently tells the reader that he thinks of old Nelson as a charismatic Gatsby or a Hemingway broken-heart or some other (allegedly) lovable ass and that we should too, the fact that the author has to step forward to tell you that you should love the guy, accept his utter lack of redeeming qualities, and find him "charismatic" in the bargain should have been a hint to the author and editors that, as written, he's an alienating jerk to read about, and I for one don't root for him even once after about fifty pages in.
I can't think of anyone whose poor-little-mes interest me less, or ring more false. Nelson is the guy who's pissed off he's not going to make it into the history books personally for the exact reason that it's already full of guys exactly like him. He thinks he's really getting screwed because history's full of guys like him--mediocre white guys--who became rich, famous, and powerful, and yet he's grinding out a middle class life. That guy never sees that his life is easier, safer, and more comfortable than almost everyone else's in dozens of large and small ways not despite his unexceptionality but because of it. In this sense, Nelson is the spiritual brother of Tyler Durden, another middle class white man who thinks his own stultifying mediocrity is actually him being oppressed and victimized by outside agents. Like Durden, his solution is to impose his will on those Others. The imperial narrative, the will to power. Rinse, repeat. Yawn. The fact that Hynes (and Nelson) can point out that they know the critique of their positions doesn't, in fact, change their positions. It's like when a guy prefaces a flagrantly sexist story or opinion with "I love women," or "I consider myself a feminist, but" or my personal favorite, "let's be honest..." Your disclaimer and self-awareness do not excuse or redeem you. So, suck it.
I don't want to spoiler plot, so I won't get into specifics, but the whole mishmash falls apart under its own preciousness and self-congratulation by the third act. Like the main character, it can cite chapter and verse of literature and can ape the jargon of theory, but it comprehends not. It starts out an incisive if bitter satire and ends up a paean to the mediocre but entitled middle class white professional man who rages at the world which promised him a kingdom and then told him he had to earn his keep. In the final analysis: if you're a lit grad student, academic grunt, or disenchanted humanities major, give it a read at least through the first 100 pages for the gleeful calling-out of the b.s. run amok in literature departments. After that, it's your call.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Suck It: allegedly well-intentioned people
I used to think it was primarily a thing of mothers to their daughters, part of the carnivalesque ride that is the mother/daughter relationship. Sometimes, it seemed like a weapon wielded by those thwarted in their desires, like middle school math teachers whose dreams of astronaut status flamed out early and left them bitter. Or perhaps it was something that mother-in-laws learned to excel at, developing their passive-aggressive mojo well into their senior years. But, no. It's everywhere, everyone, and it's driving me crazy.
I refer, naturally, to the back-handed compliment and all other comments like it. Include in this pile the seemingly well-intentioned advice which also implies that you have the intelligence of a fruit fly and need to be hand-led through life. Also of this ilk is the pretended encouragement which is actually dispiriting, disparaging, depressing, or otherwise destructive.
If you're still unclear as to what I mean, then examples are in order. Besides, I have a war chest full of them and a pathological need to vent my spleen. So, here are some sample moments from my personal collection:
1) To one's daughter, who has struggled for years to lose 80 pounds: "You look so good. I'm so proud of you. So, are you hungry? I just made brownies." Why not say: "I thought we were in this fat thing together. That's how I designed it, and it threatens me when you defy my edicts."?
2) To a man training for a marathon: "You really run an eight minute mile? Really? Well, then I want to come on a run with you." Why not just say: "You're either lying, or running an eight minute miles is really easy. Man, I'll bet I can run a six minute mile."?
3) To someone unseen for many years, now much thinner, healthier, and happier than when last met: "Well, you certainly look young in the face." Just go ahead and cop to the fact that you don't really remember what they looked like that well, and you recognized them, so they seem about the same to you.
4) To someone who several years ago ended a ten year smoking habit, after a quiet battle of several months: "I never saw you so much as cheat, or even really jones for one. Quitting smoking must be a lot easier than everyone says. It makes you think, doesn't it? I mean, acting like it's so hard is almost like telling people they shouldn't even try to quit, isn't it?" Go ahead and admit you smoke secretly, okay? You don't have to invent a conspiracy theory or act like my keeping my struggles to myself somehow encourages you to smoke.
5) To a colleague training for a destination half-marathon: "Are you sure you're ready for that course? I mean, I trained for it all last summer, and my finishing time was quite a bit slower than I anticipated." Why not just tell me you think of yourself as faster than me in all senses, and since you barely finished, you assume I won't be able to finish at all. In fact, while you don't need to say this to me, you should probably admit to yourself that you think you're actually being a good person by saying this to me: you think you're saving me from a humiliation, because you so fundamentally believe you're better than me that it never enters your consciousness to think I might actually be better prepared for this event than you were.
6) To a struggling working-class graduate student: "Well, I think it's amazing how well you're doing, especially considering where you're coming from." Why not just say, "But you're so articulate," you entitled, elitist fuck? Believe it or not, the standards are not higher for those to the manor born. If anything, they're lower, and you'd know that if you'd done any of the required reading in your theory sequence, instead of playing beer pong and hitting on your composition students.
7) Or, as my lovely partner said to me when I was ranting about this very subject: "Wow, these are great examples. You should really write them down or you won't remember them." Thanks, honey. Good thing I've got you looking out for me. It's amazing I can dress myself in the morning, much less figure out how to write a blog--which is, after all, the most intellectually challenging and rigorous of tasks, what with the utter lack of publication rigors, editorial standards, and in my case...oh, say, readership.
I am certain you can think of a dozen variations of your own. That's just it; passive aggression rears its head several times a day in all of our lives, I think. Why don't people just tell you what they think? If you want to tell me I'm full of shit, or a big lardass, or you just don't dig my stylings, then just say so. This endless need to unpack the most basic of chitchat for the real, implied meaning wastes time and energy. Why do we bother to interact on a superficially pleasant level with people who clearly do not like or respect us or our efforts?
Sometimes, it's not even passive-aggression in the usual sense. It's not so much that the person has a conscious judgement they're trying to express covertly, or a nasty sense of superiority to flaunt. Sometimes, it seems like it legitimately comes from a desire to do good. That's almost worse, really. No, it is worse, really, because it smacks of such profound condescension. So, there's no out; any way the deck is dealt, these sneakily undermining comments don't serve a positive purpose--unless we count vapid small talk and empty well-wishing as positive ends. And, looking around, maybe we do.
It seems like the social niceties count for a great deal more than does actual communication, standing by your opinions, or sharing one's candid understanding of the world. I get that little white lies make it possible for us to interact with those we may love or loathe, but in any case can't avoid: bosses, colleagues, in-laws, relatives, government workers and service professionals. What I don't get is how often these moments seem to take on a life of their own, dominating our exchanges and dotting our conversations with moments of such utter falsity that it fills me with rage and shame to participate at all.
Or, to be more direct: suck it.
I refer, naturally, to the back-handed compliment and all other comments like it. Include in this pile the seemingly well-intentioned advice which also implies that you have the intelligence of a fruit fly and need to be hand-led through life. Also of this ilk is the pretended encouragement which is actually dispiriting, disparaging, depressing, or otherwise destructive.
If you're still unclear as to what I mean, then examples are in order. Besides, I have a war chest full of them and a pathological need to vent my spleen. So, here are some sample moments from my personal collection:
1) To one's daughter, who has struggled for years to lose 80 pounds: "You look so good. I'm so proud of you. So, are you hungry? I just made brownies." Why not say: "I thought we were in this fat thing together. That's how I designed it, and it threatens me when you defy my edicts."?
2) To a man training for a marathon: "You really run an eight minute mile? Really? Well, then I want to come on a run with you." Why not just say: "You're either lying, or running an eight minute miles is really easy. Man, I'll bet I can run a six minute mile."?
3) To someone unseen for many years, now much thinner, healthier, and happier than when last met: "Well, you certainly look young in the face." Just go ahead and cop to the fact that you don't really remember what they looked like that well, and you recognized them, so they seem about the same to you.
4) To someone who several years ago ended a ten year smoking habit, after a quiet battle of several months: "I never saw you so much as cheat, or even really jones for one. Quitting smoking must be a lot easier than everyone says. It makes you think, doesn't it? I mean, acting like it's so hard is almost like telling people they shouldn't even try to quit, isn't it?" Go ahead and admit you smoke secretly, okay? You don't have to invent a conspiracy theory or act like my keeping my struggles to myself somehow encourages you to smoke.
5) To a colleague training for a destination half-marathon: "Are you sure you're ready for that course? I mean, I trained for it all last summer, and my finishing time was quite a bit slower than I anticipated." Why not just tell me you think of yourself as faster than me in all senses, and since you barely finished, you assume I won't be able to finish at all. In fact, while you don't need to say this to me, you should probably admit to yourself that you think you're actually being a good person by saying this to me: you think you're saving me from a humiliation, because you so fundamentally believe you're better than me that it never enters your consciousness to think I might actually be better prepared for this event than you were.
6) To a struggling working-class graduate student: "Well, I think it's amazing how well you're doing, especially considering where you're coming from." Why not just say, "But you're so articulate," you entitled, elitist fuck? Believe it or not, the standards are not higher for those to the manor born. If anything, they're lower, and you'd know that if you'd done any of the required reading in your theory sequence, instead of playing beer pong and hitting on your composition students.
7) Or, as my lovely partner said to me when I was ranting about this very subject: "Wow, these are great examples. You should really write them down or you won't remember them." Thanks, honey. Good thing I've got you looking out for me. It's amazing I can dress myself in the morning, much less figure out how to write a blog--which is, after all, the most intellectually challenging and rigorous of tasks, what with the utter lack of publication rigors, editorial standards, and in my case...oh, say, readership.
I am certain you can think of a dozen variations of your own. That's just it; passive aggression rears its head several times a day in all of our lives, I think. Why don't people just tell you what they think? If you want to tell me I'm full of shit, or a big lardass, or you just don't dig my stylings, then just say so. This endless need to unpack the most basic of chitchat for the real, implied meaning wastes time and energy. Why do we bother to interact on a superficially pleasant level with people who clearly do not like or respect us or our efforts?
Sometimes, it's not even passive-aggression in the usual sense. It's not so much that the person has a conscious judgement they're trying to express covertly, or a nasty sense of superiority to flaunt. Sometimes, it seems like it legitimately comes from a desire to do good. That's almost worse, really. No, it is worse, really, because it smacks of such profound condescension. So, there's no out; any way the deck is dealt, these sneakily undermining comments don't serve a positive purpose--unless we count vapid small talk and empty well-wishing as positive ends. And, looking around, maybe we do.
It seems like the social niceties count for a great deal more than does actual communication, standing by your opinions, or sharing one's candid understanding of the world. I get that little white lies make it possible for us to interact with those we may love or loathe, but in any case can't avoid: bosses, colleagues, in-laws, relatives, government workers and service professionals. What I don't get is how often these moments seem to take on a life of their own, dominating our exchanges and dotting our conversations with moments of such utter falsity that it fills me with rage and shame to participate at all.
Or, to be more direct: suck it.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Playlist: Manson vs. Manson
#1 Crush by Garbage
Putting Holes in Happiness by Marilyn Manson
Vow by Garbage
mOBSCENE by Marilyn Manson
Androgyny by Garbage
This Is the New Shit by Marilyn Manson
Silence is Golden by Garbage
Heart-Shaped Glasses by Marilyn Manson
Why Do You Love Me? by Garbage
I Put a Spell on You covered by Marilyn Manson
Push It [Boom Boom Satellites Mix] by Garbage
Cake and Sodomy by Marilyn Manson
Queer by Garbage
Tourniquet by Marilyn Manson
Bad Boyfriend by Garbage
Playlist: Child of Bret Easton
(mostly 80s. songs that belong in a movie with James Spader.)
(Also: I like Billy Idol. Deal with it.)
Dancing With Myself by Billy Idol
Beat My Guest by Adam Ant
Stray Cat Strut by Stray Cats
Cradle of Love by Billy Idol
Hazy Shade of Winter covered by The Bangles
Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon
We Got the Beat by The Go-Gos
White Wedding by Billy Idol
Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper
Venus by Bananarama
You Keep Me Hangin' On by Kim Wilde
Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo
Rebel Yell by Billy Idol
Pretty in Pink by The Psychedelic Furs
(Also: I like Billy Idol. Deal with it.)
Dancing With Myself by Billy Idol
Beat My Guest by Adam Ant
Stray Cat Strut by Stray Cats
Cradle of Love by Billy Idol
Hazy Shade of Winter covered by The Bangles
Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon
We Got the Beat by The Go-Gos
White Wedding by Billy Idol
Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper
Venus by Bananarama
You Keep Me Hangin' On by Kim Wilde
Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo
Rebel Yell by Billy Idol
Pretty in Pink by The Psychedelic Furs
Playlist: Aging Hipster 2007
Fireworks by The Whitest Boy Alive
Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand
Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy
Punk Rock Princess by Something Corporate
When You Were Young by The Killers
Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes
Paralyzer by Finger Eleven
Don't Ask Me by OK Go
Song 2 by Blur
Salute Your Solution by The Raconteurs
You Only Live Once by The Strokes
C'Mon C'Mon by The Von Bondies
Are You Gonna Be My Girl by Jet
Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand
Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy
Punk Rock Princess by Something Corporate
When You Were Young by The Killers
Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes
Paralyzer by Finger Eleven
Don't Ask Me by OK Go
Song 2 by Blur
Salute Your Solution by The Raconteurs
You Only Live Once by The Strokes
C'Mon C'Mon by The Von Bondies
Are You Gonna Be My Girl by Jet
Playlist: Aging Hipster 2005
Paralyzed by Mondo Diao
Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge
The Authority Song by Jimmy Eat World
The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage by Panic! At the Disco
Of All the Gun Joints in All the World by Fall Out Boy
Paralyzed by The Used
Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects
Evil by Interpol
Hell Yeah! by American Hi-Fi
The Middle by Jimmy Eat World
Liar Liar [Burn in Hell] by The Used
Can't Take It by The All-American Rejects
This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race [Kanye West Remix] by Fall Out Boy
Dice by Finley Quaye & William Orbit
Clocks by Coldplay
Teardrop by Massive Attack
Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge
The Authority Song by Jimmy Eat World
The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage by Panic! At the Disco
Of All the Gun Joints in All the World by Fall Out Boy
Paralyzed by The Used
Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects
Evil by Interpol
Hell Yeah! by American Hi-Fi
The Middle by Jimmy Eat World
Liar Liar [Burn in Hell] by The Used
Can't Take It by The All-American Rejects
This Ain't a Scene, It's an Arms Race [Kanye West Remix] by Fall Out Boy
Dice by Finley Quaye & William Orbit
Clocks by Coldplay
Teardrop by Massive Attack
Playlist: Man Up
(Hardcore sends its regrets)
Fire Water Burn by The Bloodhound Gang
Land of Confusion covered by Disturbed
Fire Woman by The Cult
Violent Pornography by System of a Down
Unstable by Adema
Only by Nine Inch Nails
In My Head by Queens of the Stone Age
Institutionalized by Suicidal Tendencies
Down with the Sickness by Disturbed
Freaking Out by Adema
Collide by Anarchy Club
Machinehead by Bush
Killing in the Name by Rage Against the Machine
Click Click Boom by Saliva
Bodies by Drowning Pool
Getting Away with Murder by Papa Roach
What I've Done by Linkin Park
Fire Water Burn by The Bloodhound Gang
Land of Confusion covered by Disturbed
Fire Woman by The Cult
Violent Pornography by System of a Down
Unstable by Adema
Only by Nine Inch Nails
In My Head by Queens of the Stone Age
Institutionalized by Suicidal Tendencies
Down with the Sickness by Disturbed
Freaking Out by Adema
Collide by Anarchy Club
Machinehead by Bush
Killing in the Name by Rage Against the Machine
Click Click Boom by Saliva
Bodies by Drowning Pool
Getting Away with Murder by Papa Roach
What I've Done by Linkin Park
Playlist: Cobain & Co
(early 90s, mostly Seattle grunge)
Lithium by Nirvana
Doll Parts by Hole
Cover Me by Candlebox
Black by Pearl Jam
Somebody to Shove by Soul Asylum
Drawing Flies by Soundgarden
Plush by Stone Temple Pilots
Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog
Nearly Lost You by Screaming Trees
Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden
I Stay Away by Alice in Chains
Alive by Pearl Jam
All Apologies by Nirvana
Far Behind by Candlebox
Interstate Love Song by Stone Temple Pilots
Pushin' Forward Back by Temple of the Dog
Heart Shaped Box by Nirvana
No Rain by Blind Melon
Daughter by Pearl Jam
Vasoline by Stone Temple Pilots
Suck You Dry by Mudhoney
Would? by Alice in Chains
Pretty on the Inside by Hole
Stargazer by Mother Love Bone
Garden by Pearl Jam
Lake of Fire by Nirvana
Lithium by Nirvana
Doll Parts by Hole
Cover Me by Candlebox
Black by Pearl Jam
Somebody to Shove by Soul Asylum
Drawing Flies by Soundgarden
Plush by Stone Temple Pilots
Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog
Nearly Lost You by Screaming Trees
Black Hole Sun by Soundgarden
I Stay Away by Alice in Chains
Alive by Pearl Jam
All Apologies by Nirvana
Far Behind by Candlebox
Interstate Love Song by Stone Temple Pilots
Pushin' Forward Back by Temple of the Dog
Heart Shaped Box by Nirvana
No Rain by Blind Melon
Daughter by Pearl Jam
Vasoline by Stone Temple Pilots
Suck You Dry by Mudhoney
Would? by Alice in Chains
Pretty on the Inside by Hole
Stargazer by Mother Love Bone
Garden by Pearl Jam
Lake of Fire by Nirvana
Suck It: Big Dumb Action
This is actually from last summer, so the actual films it discusses have now turned over and made way for this summer's popcorn fare. The point, however, remains. Actually, if anything, the point is more true yet. The movies change (kinda), but the same bullshit prevails.
I've finally realized that action movies are pretty much always about reifying the current political machine and public zeitgeist. In the 80s, we had the glorious Bruckheimer indulgence of movies like Top Gun to remind us that the military can do whatever it wants, and we'd better like it. In fact, "Mavericks" who ignore rules and fuck around with billion dollar equipment are the American Way, dammit. We need them, because they will defeat those damn Commies. (Remember Commies? Remember what a big damn deal all that was? Boy, the Cold War seems like ancient history already, doesn't it? Funny how fast the Big Bad turns over. The rhetoric recycles, though.) And, the mavericks bed the hot chicks, especially if those "chicks" have authority over the men. That way, they can bring the womenfolk down to size, remind them of their place. In bed.
At the turn of the decade, we had movies like Die Hard to tell us that, while career women might not willingly suffer the yoke of traditional marriage anymore, ultimately machismo will still save the day, even saving that feminist who didn't want him anymore. We'll just see what she says when taken hostage by terrorists, eh? The macho man will get his, because he's secretly not a failing cop with little in his life besides a desire to cling to a wife who doesn't want him. In fact, all that undercutting by the "ballbreaking" wife and the devalued job is just creating a powder keg of masculinity ready to blow up and destroy...skyscrapers? Oh, and terrorists. Except the terrorists come back, because the battle is never won, or there'd be no further need for all that blustering machismo. Yippee-ki-ay, motherfucker.
By the late 90s, we had The Matrix, a kinder, gentler action movie that still had more bullets than brains, to tell us that technology will enslave us all...and then free us again. Well, actually, it will later free a select elite of previously oppressed tech geeks. In fact, technology will take Regular Joe cybergeeks and let them be superheroes, living in a fantasy constructed in their mind and remaking reality with a combination of will and technological proficiency to suit those fantasies--taking technology back from ... itself? Of course, this will take a kinder-gentler action hero, too...one who can be our "Neo"--the new man, the new savior, the new Great White Hope--the SuperGeek. Of the models, this one annoys me least. While it's largely the same old claptrap, at least it does acknowledge that we need changes in roles, in social structure, and in how we all relate to each other--need them, and frankly cannot avoid them in any case. It has plenty of problems, but the premise that brings all of humanity together against a common enemy at least means all of humanity brought together.
It was not to last, though, as the post-9/11 Era of Dubya has brought regressive politics, and equally regressive filmmaking. This year, we have Iron Man to tell us that annoying, aging playboy arms dealers are secretly superheroes and defenders of the American Way. They sleep with hot chicks, and then have their nice Gal Fridays escort them out the door while insulting them. Also, we have Wanted, which has such palpable contempt for its audience that it acutally informs us that it hates us. That's true for women the entire time (there are only 3 women--the pathetic shrew, the unfaithful bitch, and the bitch-goddess, none of whom fares well), and becomes true for men before the end of the film. One is lame action in the high deserts, overtly in favor of the fool's errand in Iraq. The other is pure escapist fantasy, fan-boy action, rife with misogyny (sidebar: amusingly, one apparent villain is impaled through the heart of an image of the madonna) and again, contempt for the public.
Not so amusingly, both movies are shockingly well reviewed. As of this writing, on Rotten Tomatoes, 76% of reviewers--both professional and informal--liked Wanted, and a scary 93% liked Iron Man. By contrast, quality psychological dramas like Tape and Hard Candy about split the audience, earning at most 65% positive reviews.
Are movies getting dumber? Am I just more discerning, or cynical, or intolerant of Big Dumb Action, than I once was? Or are people and politics getting dumber?
This is part of the same trend in which every damn thing they throw at us suddenly has to be a trilogy. Or beget a new trilogy, like the 60-something Indiana Jones. I mean, really. I like Johnny Depp as much as the next gal, but how you can make three long movies out of a Disneyland ride that runs less than three minutes I do not know. Whatever paper dragon the macho man or men fight always returns with with a new face, or there'd be no sequel. And there always has to be a sequel. Masculinity must always be redeemed, the feminist reduced to caricatured damsel or receiving comeuppance in the form of rape, torture and/or death; so, there will always be a sequel. The movie makers hate us. They hate us, and they think we're stupid. Appallingly, they're apparently right, as all these shit movies keep making money by the barrel.
Sometimes, I really, really hate the movies.
Angelina's still pretty, though. Really, Wanted should just be called "this woman is so hot, most of you won't care that we intend to insult you for two hours." But, I guess that wouldn't fit on the poster.
I've finally realized that action movies are pretty much always about reifying the current political machine and public zeitgeist. In the 80s, we had the glorious Bruckheimer indulgence of movies like Top Gun to remind us that the military can do whatever it wants, and we'd better like it. In fact, "Mavericks" who ignore rules and fuck around with billion dollar equipment are the American Way, dammit. We need them, because they will defeat those damn Commies. (Remember Commies? Remember what a big damn deal all that was? Boy, the Cold War seems like ancient history already, doesn't it? Funny how fast the Big Bad turns over. The rhetoric recycles, though.) And, the mavericks bed the hot chicks, especially if those "chicks" have authority over the men. That way, they can bring the womenfolk down to size, remind them of their place. In bed.
At the turn of the decade, we had movies like Die Hard to tell us that, while career women might not willingly suffer the yoke of traditional marriage anymore, ultimately machismo will still save the day, even saving that feminist who didn't want him anymore. We'll just see what she says when taken hostage by terrorists, eh? The macho man will get his, because he's secretly not a failing cop with little in his life besides a desire to cling to a wife who doesn't want him. In fact, all that undercutting by the "ballbreaking" wife and the devalued job is just creating a powder keg of masculinity ready to blow up and destroy...skyscrapers? Oh, and terrorists. Except the terrorists come back, because the battle is never won, or there'd be no further need for all that blustering machismo. Yippee-ki-ay, motherfucker.
By the late 90s, we had The Matrix, a kinder, gentler action movie that still had more bullets than brains, to tell us that technology will enslave us all...and then free us again. Well, actually, it will later free a select elite of previously oppressed tech geeks. In fact, technology will take Regular Joe cybergeeks and let them be superheroes, living in a fantasy constructed in their mind and remaking reality with a combination of will and technological proficiency to suit those fantasies--taking technology back from ... itself? Of course, this will take a kinder-gentler action hero, too...one who can be our "Neo"--the new man, the new savior, the new Great White Hope--the SuperGeek. Of the models, this one annoys me least. While it's largely the same old claptrap, at least it does acknowledge that we need changes in roles, in social structure, and in how we all relate to each other--need them, and frankly cannot avoid them in any case. It has plenty of problems, but the premise that brings all of humanity together against a common enemy at least means all of humanity brought together.
It was not to last, though, as the post-9/11 Era of Dubya has brought regressive politics, and equally regressive filmmaking. This year, we have Iron Man to tell us that annoying, aging playboy arms dealers are secretly superheroes and defenders of the American Way. They sleep with hot chicks, and then have their nice Gal Fridays escort them out the door while insulting them. Also, we have Wanted, which has such palpable contempt for its audience that it acutally informs us that it hates us. That's true for women the entire time (there are only 3 women--the pathetic shrew, the unfaithful bitch, and the bitch-goddess, none of whom fares well), and becomes true for men before the end of the film. One is lame action in the high deserts, overtly in favor of the fool's errand in Iraq. The other is pure escapist fantasy, fan-boy action, rife with misogyny (sidebar: amusingly, one apparent villain is impaled through the heart of an image of the madonna) and again, contempt for the public.
Not so amusingly, both movies are shockingly well reviewed. As of this writing, on Rotten Tomatoes, 76% of reviewers--both professional and informal--liked Wanted, and a scary 93% liked Iron Man. By contrast, quality psychological dramas like Tape and Hard Candy about split the audience, earning at most 65% positive reviews.
Are movies getting dumber? Am I just more discerning, or cynical, or intolerant of Big Dumb Action, than I once was? Or are people and politics getting dumber?
This is part of the same trend in which every damn thing they throw at us suddenly has to be a trilogy. Or beget a new trilogy, like the 60-something Indiana Jones. I mean, really. I like Johnny Depp as much as the next gal, but how you can make three long movies out of a Disneyland ride that runs less than three minutes I do not know. Whatever paper dragon the macho man or men fight always returns with with a new face, or there'd be no sequel. And there always has to be a sequel. Masculinity must always be redeemed, the feminist reduced to caricatured damsel or receiving comeuppance in the form of rape, torture and/or death; so, there will always be a sequel. The movie makers hate us. They hate us, and they think we're stupid. Appallingly, they're apparently right, as all these shit movies keep making money by the barrel.
Sometimes, I really, really hate the movies.
Angelina's still pretty, though. Really, Wanted should just be called "this woman is so hot, most of you won't care that we intend to insult you for two hours." But, I guess that wouldn't fit on the poster.
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