A Broken Clockwork Orange
I've always felt that one thing that's kept me from writing seriously is that one needs to forget about who might get hurt by what one writes, and I've always had trouble doing that. Do I really want my Mom to know what I think of her? Did I really want whichever woman I was with to know how much I thought about other women? Do I really want to look back twenty years later and see just how full of shit I was?
Well, obviously, the answer has been "no" to all of those questions. But now, at the dawn of the 21st century, we can practice as much gratuitous textual masturbation as we like, in relative anonymity. What a world. Gee, I'm glad I live here. Another blow for our right to live responsibility-free lives. On the other hand, it feels a bit cowardly to publish this stuff and not invite comment. So, discretion being the better part of valor, I've decided I'll just resort to having the best of both worlds and use a pseudonym.
I watched a video biography of Stanley Kubrick the other day, and since he made so few movies it was possible to address each of them individually. Hence, there was a section just about "A Clockwork Orange." The movie was taken, of course, from Anthony Burgess's book. So, it was Burgess who "vidied" that horrid future world. The question must now be asked, however, "Is the present world better or worse than the creepily-imagined future of the book?"
Apparently, immediately after the movie was released in Britain, hundreds of crimes were attributed to people emulating what they'd seen in the movie. So much so that Kubrick - who lived in Britain - successfully lobbied the studio to withdraw the movie's release in Britain - while it was still number one in attendance.
What, you may well ask, has this to do with the matter at hand at the beginning of this post? In the first instance, not much. But then it does make a certain sense in a stream-of-consciousness kind of way. I bemoan (while celebrating) one more way of dodging personal responsibility, and then I think of the group of toughs in "A Clockwork Orange," who are pros at responsibility dodging. Then, I wonder if this world is better or worse than that world. Then, I remember that Kubrick committed what today would be an unheard of act of altruism, not to mention unheard of artistic humility, based upon his fear that his work was either having a negative societal impact, or was at least perceived to be having such an effect. (Whew! Heavy weather in the stream of consciousness today.)
Oh, and about that question as to whether today's world is better or worse than Burgess's imagined future world? The answer is, of course, "Yes."
Das vidanya, gentle reader.
Thursday, June 13, 2002
Meet Vampira
I heard this woman's taped diary on NPR the other day. Her brother had been killed in the Oklahoma City bombing. Somehow, the whole deal seemed like the best thing that ever happened to her - becoming a professional mourner and "terror victim's advocate," or whatever she was selling. She entered a lottery to be a witness at Timothy McVey's execution. She talked about how excited she was to have "won" the opportunity to watch McVey die.
After she's watched the execution, we hear this breathless tape of her saying she hasn't much time, because she's "off to the media area to give interviews." Talk about yer' cold-blooded, eh? She also talks about seeing this "little puff" come out of McVey's mouth after he's already unconscious, hoping that she's gotten to see "his last breath." Jeez, if she was watching the whole time she must know she got to see him take his last breath! The guy was alive when she walked in and dead when she left the room, after all.
Then, in the "post September 11th" segment, we get to hear her having dinner with some survivors of people killed in the World Trade Center attacks. One of them is talking about how the compensation for the survivors is supposed to be "somewhere around 1.65 mil." This is what she wanted us to hear from visiting with other survivors? I think she was pissed that the OKC people didn't get anything, or as much, whatever.
She reminded me of my sister. She enjoys being center-stage at the after-tragedy festivities too.
See ya'
I heard this woman's taped diary on NPR the other day. Her brother had been killed in the Oklahoma City bombing. Somehow, the whole deal seemed like the best thing that ever happened to her - becoming a professional mourner and "terror victim's advocate," or whatever she was selling. She entered a lottery to be a witness at Timothy McVey's execution. She talked about how excited she was to have "won" the opportunity to watch McVey die.
After she's watched the execution, we hear this breathless tape of her saying she hasn't much time, because she's "off to the media area to give interviews." Talk about yer' cold-blooded, eh? She also talks about seeing this "little puff" come out of McVey's mouth after he's already unconscious, hoping that she's gotten to see "his last breath." Jeez, if she was watching the whole time she must know she got to see him take his last breath! The guy was alive when she walked in and dead when she left the room, after all.
Then, in the "post September 11th" segment, we get to hear her having dinner with some survivors of people killed in the World Trade Center attacks. One of them is talking about how the compensation for the survivors is supposed to be "somewhere around 1.65 mil." This is what she wanted us to hear from visiting with other survivors? I think she was pissed that the OKC people didn't get anything, or as much, whatever.
She reminded me of my sister. She enjoys being center-stage at the after-tragedy festivities too.
See ya'
So May It Secretly Begin
I e-mailed an old girlfriend a couple of weeks ago. I found her at Classmates.com (not a plug - just a fact.) We corresponded, and it turned out that she had moved back to our hometown (where I still reside) a year or so ago. She remembered me fondly as her first love, despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding our breakup, or maybe because of them. It was her father that forced her to stop seeing me - hippy scum that I was back then. Maybe she remembered me so fondly because neither of us had chosen to end it.
She came out to hear my band. Everybody I knew seemed to show up that one night, including my present significant other. She'd been planning to come with her male cousin, but he cancelled at the last minute. After our first set I saw her sitting alone at a table. It had been 32 years since we'd seen each other. She still looks great. I don't. Luckily, she'd loved me for my mind back then. I ended up inviting her to sit with everyone else. I told those who asked how we'd re-connected that she'd e-mailed me. I didn't say "first," so its more of a misdirection than a lie (yeah, right.)
Anyway, we've e-mailed back and forth a few times; talked on the phone for about an hour one day - that was great, just as though we'd taken up right where we left off, except she told me that she was disappointed about my use of the word "fuck," which she likened to "waddling in the garbage." What a weird term, right? I didn't tell her that that closely resembles the manner in which I like to fuck. I did tell her that its just another word, and that in my chosen profession the ultimate compliment is to be called "a motherfucker," so I've gotten used to it. She's a very gentle person, so I'll try not to offend her while I try to expand her linguistic horizons somewhat. After all, "fuck" is the best word for fucking ever invented - at least in English.
That reminds me of a joke - its a guy joke - it goes like this:
Q: What's the definition of "making love?"
A: That's what your girlfriend's doing while you're fucking her.
Crude, but mainly true.
Well, gentle reader, that's it for my first aside. Feel free to comment upon the above. Almost all criticisms of me, my character, my attitudes toward women, men, politics, inanimate objects, or anything else will be closely scrutinized, but inevitably rejected because, well, because generally I don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks of me. You're certainly entitled to your microscopically informed opinion about me, but, hey, you're entitled to drink rat poison as well, and I don't have anything to do with that either - probably.
Hasta la vista.
I e-mailed an old girlfriend a couple of weeks ago. I found her at Classmates.com (not a plug - just a fact.) We corresponded, and it turned out that she had moved back to our hometown (where I still reside) a year or so ago. She remembered me fondly as her first love, despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding our breakup, or maybe because of them. It was her father that forced her to stop seeing me - hippy scum that I was back then. Maybe she remembered me so fondly because neither of us had chosen to end it.
She came out to hear my band. Everybody I knew seemed to show up that one night, including my present significant other. She'd been planning to come with her male cousin, but he cancelled at the last minute. After our first set I saw her sitting alone at a table. It had been 32 years since we'd seen each other. She still looks great. I don't. Luckily, she'd loved me for my mind back then. I ended up inviting her to sit with everyone else. I told those who asked how we'd re-connected that she'd e-mailed me. I didn't say "first," so its more of a misdirection than a lie (yeah, right.)
Anyway, we've e-mailed back and forth a few times; talked on the phone for about an hour one day - that was great, just as though we'd taken up right where we left off, except she told me that she was disappointed about my use of the word "fuck," which she likened to "waddling in the garbage." What a weird term, right? I didn't tell her that that closely resembles the manner in which I like to fuck. I did tell her that its just another word, and that in my chosen profession the ultimate compliment is to be called "a motherfucker," so I've gotten used to it. She's a very gentle person, so I'll try not to offend her while I try to expand her linguistic horizons somewhat. After all, "fuck" is the best word for fucking ever invented - at least in English.
That reminds me of a joke - its a guy joke - it goes like this:
Q: What's the definition of "making love?"
A: That's what your girlfriend's doing while you're fucking her.
Crude, but mainly true.
Well, gentle reader, that's it for my first aside. Feel free to comment upon the above. Almost all criticisms of me, my character, my attitudes toward women, men, politics, inanimate objects, or anything else will be closely scrutinized, but inevitably rejected because, well, because generally I don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks of me. You're certainly entitled to your microscopically informed opinion about me, but, hey, you're entitled to drink rat poison as well, and I don't have anything to do with that either - probably.
Hasta la vista.
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