LesbianMonk was Alex's screen name. It still makes me laugh. Alex was an internet friend I never got to meet in real life but always wished I did. He lived in Canada when I knew him but his place of origin was Iran. He told me when the shah fell his family exited the country "flying first class". Canada, I have learned, is a destination country for those seeking a western lifestyle that is NOT America.
We shared a passion for gaming (at which I was awful but Alex would suffer me as a partner) but more importantly we shared the same sense of humor. He too had been cursed by God with a streak of creativity and was still finding himself when he decided to go to Japan to teach English for a year, keeping an online journal of it. I, naturally, read every word of it and loved it.
For some reason he crossed my mind lately and Anthony Bourdain did a show in the fun-filled divided Middle East and I re-watched Argo so maybe that all fused together into this dream. And these dreams are so fucking real...
It was set in a time of war - which could be now or further down our current path. I was a White Western Caucasian fighting for my freedom to be a greedy backstabbing corporation. I had known nothing else, after all. But Muslim extremists had come and taken a part of our territory. Like it or not there was nothing we could do. They had us by the balls.
The separation line was marked by a chain link fence. Get caught on the other side and it was certain death. We'd descended into a mentality of permanent conflict. Some were more gung ho than others but the idea of death and fighting had been mainstreamed as the "new abnormal". But for me, a funny thing happened on the way to the battlefield. I had lost all my weapons (and no one even thought of sharing). I was exposed, naked to the world war.
This put me on the run but I felt unsafe wherever I went. Unable to commit murder and mayhem I was forced to seek survival through different avenues than I was used to. Not a good feeling. I felt a part of me was missing. My only choice at that point was to learn how to get along with whomever I met. Not exactly my strong suit. I'd much rather greet them with a bullet than a handshake!
As a non-warrior I was relegated to the fringes of society. Feeling vulnerable and stupid I was willing to say yes to anybody to get acceptance and a renewed sense of the security I had lost. I got mixed up with these crazy artistic types driving around in a car with no sense of direction. Sheer fucking agony. They gave me no points of reference back to mainstream society. My mind was on its own - and not a happy camper!
These fuckers didn't seem to understand you can't just go around doing what you want. I felt like I was being roasted alive in that car but I couldn't get out. No one else would have weaponless me. Sure enough, the worst possible thing happened of these unpossessed minds: we had wandered into the Muslim territory as they veered off the road and drove through nighttime woods. Panicking, I got out and ran fast as I could - to nowhere.
Next morning I found myself alone and on the open face of a hill cut off from safety by that damn fence. I knew sooner or later I'd be found and I had zero delusions as to the amount of mercy I'd receive from the extremists. I was aging by the minute, trembling by the horrible death to come. I'm just an idiot, I remember thinking. My instincts for freedom were always getting me into trouble. Freedom is only for people who can make love work, not me.
They kept asking me where my art was.
I heard voices coming and if I'd had a poison capsule I'd have swallowed it. Instead, I was discovered my moderate Muslims who agreed to hide me. They took me into their home and fed me. We laughed and played games and they became as much a family to me as anyone ever had. I didn't want to leave but obviously couldn't stay forever. It never crossed their mind to keep me there or turn me over. Logically, as someone bent on fighting them it would have made sense to have disposed of me in a sense of self-preservation.
When I finally got back across I was able to fully re-arm myself and I couldn't wait for that feeling of security to return! I packed on everything I had ruefully missed: rail gun, razor discs and a Gatling gun. I was ready for action - and back to what I comfortably knew. What a relief. But then I thought: who is it I'm ready to kill? No way I could raise a weapon against my Muslim family. That'd be the same as turning around and shooting everyone I know on here.
Reluctantly, I dropped my weapons forever, still clinging to my hope for freedom. And that's when everyone turned on me, yelling at me, blaming me for their problems. "Freedom isn't free!" At that point I suddenly realized what I always knew - and feared. Yes, there were two sides to this fight but not the sides I had brainwashed myself to believe. There was no "us and them", just those for war and those for peace, the blind extremists against the thinkers, the liars against the truth-tellers.
Sorry guys, I can't fight. I don't have the love to waste.
"There was a time when we thought anything was possible. It was like walking in the clouds and the chains of the world had dropped off. So intoxicating was this dream of dreams! I thought my heart would burst open.
But it was the devil's mask that fooled us. We didn't want to look behind it. We didn't want to know. We just wanted to believe." Kronstadt sailor, whom Lenin later referred to
as one of his "useful idiots"
*****
The last vestiges of hope slipped from Russian fingers in 1917. In the west were the ever approaching Germans moving seemingly at will. In the cities, starvation. Not a single horse left alive in St. Petersburg. Food rationing meant hours in line, oftentimes for only half a loaf of bread. Protests over the years had started and fizzled out. For the monarchy life meant to ignore them at their own peril - and that they did.
The Tsar was an oblivious beast. To survive he'd need the purest of hearts and this he did not possess. Instead he was an ordinary man placed in an extraordinary position. The monarchy was his god and savior, preserving it meant preserving his heritage and entirety of Russian history. The ruling elite had always ruled, why change now? Why change ever? A man of vision could only harbor treason.
Another protest, another police action. Quell them, maintain order, carry on. There was nothing else to consider. The Tsar wrote letters of passionate love to his wife. He thought of his family and his family life. He was living his life - the rest of the families of Russia must do the same - with or without food. In this way he slumbered into a revolution.
For centuries the state had feasted off its citizens. Landlocked and surrounded by rival empires, the Russians freely gave control to the central state in the name of survival. Once this pattern had been established, the state kept alive the fear of "outside threats" in insatiable desire for more and more power. Dark as Mordor became its soul, withdrawing into a lullaby world that saw only itself as an aristocracy lorded over vast swaths of illiterate and backwards peasants who literally clawed each other in unruly disdain.
Buried deep inside the Russian soul burned the flame of freedom. She felt herself inferior to the West and her capitalistic ways who seemed to already be on the road to self-determination. But how to find freedom without catering to self-interest? She would find another way - a better way. She'd dazzle the world with her enlightenment and superiority. Russian freedom would be true freedom. Life would be love.
As it happens, not all protests are the same. The "why-change-now, stay-the-course" credo was a fatal error for the Tsar and his entire family. In the name of saving his life he guaranteed his death. These were times that called for men of vision and none had a stronger vision than Lenin (and it's always the strongest vision that wins, right or wrong). Hungry workers went on strike. Soldiers mutinied at shooting the protesters who were just as hungry as their family members. "Are we to shoot our wives and children too?"
The mutiny and strikes spread in popular fervor. A revolution had begun in the blink of an eye. Among its most ardent supporters were the long abused Kronstadt sailors. Withering under the officers' cruel control (a sailor could spend ten days in the brig for failing to salute), the sailors overthrew their officers and formed a committee to help engender a world more just. The feeling was all across the land. Freedom and hope at last, dawn of a new era.
In the absence of government sprouted long suppressed ideals vying for a new and better way. Poetry as politics. The excitement of the possibilities had minds running wild and anticipation was high. So pervasive and communal was the feeling the revolution had been virtually bloodless and certainly universal. Now was the time for Russia to show the world her true colors. Paradise waiting around the corner.
Like a child beginning to crawl with this infant democracy. Anyone could join the daily meetings in the town square to help decide the future. The Russian people were taking ownership of their lives. But too much of it was done in a religious fervor, a cacophony of voices seeking to impose their values on the other. The national debate lacked a single unified vision. Remnants of the old government grasped for fading feudal power as liberals cried out for a ringing democracy to right the Russian ship.
Then came Lenin.
Storming back from exile to a hero's welcome, Lenin overstepped himself at first. The idea of a true revolution, of a grass roots organic movement with legitimate motives was absolute anathema to him and had to be avoided at all costs. Lenin wanted tyranny in the name of freedom only. To this principle he was wholly dedicated and willing to follow to the very end. So even though his first attempt to seize control backfired and had him on the run, no other voice could fill the void either. Time was on his side.
As the provisional government crumbled under its own weight, Lenin rose from the ashes. An astute politician, he knew he needed the true believers of a fair and just society on his side. The sailors of Kronstadt were made to order. A life filled with just purpose can topple a thousand uncommitted lives with merely a whisper. Lenin realized this and though his Bolshevik party was only a small sliver he knew an army of "useful idiots" would save the day. And in this way power was finally seized.
The sailors became drunk with the idea of their moral infallibility. After "saving the revolution" and protecting the gains in freedom achieved, the sailors saw themselves as agents of purity cleansing the filth from society. People displaying wealth on the street were used for target practice. These self proclaimed guardians of the revolution would plant the seeds for a mentality that would later spawn the KGB as high protectors of Russian purity. No order could be wrong, no act considered vile if done in the name of protecting the revolution.
Lenin had to use the gambit of these directed dogs that instituted a democracy. When the count came in the Bolsheviks were voted to only a minority slice of power. Lenin had no use for democracy anyway, calling it a "step backwards". Democracy itself was declared an enemy of the revolution. The sailor guards emptied the delegates from the building and the essence of democracy has remained dead ever since. Lenin's next step, naturally, was to get rid of the sailors whose driving force was still the ideals of justice and fairness.
As Lenin's true murderous face emerged the sailors lodged a pitiful protest too late. Over the next three years Lenin's red army would take complete control in ruthless conviction and intolerance. The Russian people sank back into their previous role of subservience to an all powerful state who ran their lives from top to bottom. But Lenin, who literally made the revolution his life both personal and professional, was also a victim of deceit.
Lenin had drunk too much of his own Kool-Aid, wishing himself to believe he had created a true dictatorship of the proletariat. He had both power and purity, achieving his lifelong dream. But another soul saw more clearly than he. He saw the revolution and its mechanisms for what they were: tools of power whose only purpose was power itself. To believe anything else was a grand self-deception. Lenin spotted this traitorous non-believer and wrote a letter of denunciation but died on the day he was to deliver it.
In the decades that followed, the traitor Stalin - who'd made a useful idiot of Lenin - rode the lie of the revolution on the backs of his countrymen as darkness fell over the land with horrified screams in the night.
Sitting through the previews for upcoming films (and even ads and TV series) can be a disheartening experience. I imagine at some point our ancestors will be looking back on us saying, "What were they thinking??" We're either supposed to cheer at out-of-touch realities about as realistic as winning the lottery or be engulfed in nihilistic darkness that's supposed to be oh-so-edgy or we're to laugh and cry on cue to manipulative melodramas with their tried and true formulas. Scary stuff, that. As hollow and empty as a money lender's heart.
So when I find something that breaks that mold in these treacherous times it's a truly remarkable find. Honesty is in severe drought. Short Term 12 is set at a foster care facility for "at risk" teens. That alone will put off many people but that's why this is a film review for cowards. These are kids we want to sweep under the carpet. This is us facing our failings as a society. This is the mirror of pain we all avoid.
Years ago when I was a meds courier there was a children's facility on my route. I instinctively feared going there. I'm rotten with kids in the first place and having to face the predicament of these displaced children was not something I was looking forward to. Trust me, when it comes to cowardice I'm a lifelong dedicated coward. But I can also tell you that one visit changed my outlook forever.
No matter what any movie may show there's no substitute for the real thing. The cold, Soviet, antiseptic feeling of always living in spaces and things owned by others shook me to the core. It doesn't matter how nice or new it is it's still not yours and if you're using it you better be fucking grateful! For being robbed of a family your reward is a grudging acknowledgement of your existence and guilt trips funded to the fair. Watching those young little kids being marched down the hallway as an example of family life is a memory branded on me for life. Thank God.
Fear was replaced with desire. I can only pray someday I'm in a position to do something for those children. If you ever have the chance to visit a children's home, do not hesitate. Put away your fears and self-doubt and be prepared to be rewarded in ways you thought not possible. Love and tears await you. And it was this experience I hoped to recapture in Short Term 12 - and boy did I ever.
As politicians prey on our weaknesses, wars eat at our soul and greed is hailed as God's divinity, we still have those brave few who still hold the strands of the fabric of society together. We discount them, we fear them and most of all we dread to do their thankless job of being the glue to our many shattered parts. Lord knows I can't do it and it takes more courage than any soldier has ever faced. Here is the true front line of saving souls.
I did go to see this film with a bit of trepidation. Fricking indie film with all the red flags of a lefty jerk off session for "fixing" broken children with the prerequisite manufactured angst. I would have walked out on that torture fest in a heartbeat. But here we have a story of a counselor having never faced her own inner demons of a broken childhood even as she helps those experiencing the same journey. Her trip is their trip and vice versa.
We all know in real life answers don't always come and tragedy occurs in horrific fashion. One need only watch the news to see that. But this is a movie about what can happen when healing comes and we let others in. (Frankly, it'd be unbearable to watch otherwise it would be so bleak.) So while we do see tinges of a lefty circle jerk it's all very forgivable in the reality of the characters and the humanity of their situations and reactions. In other words: I was bawling throughout.
Put aside your reservations and take a chance on what you might see in the mirror. I can guarantee you will be pleasantly surprised. Go see Short Term 12 ("Short Term 12" refers to the length of stay for most kids: 12 months) and take a gander at the true front lines of society. Your heart will thank you later.
The room was inert, sterile - like all interrogation chambers. Mentally, you scratch the walls, desperate for something to hang on to, but instead find yourself sliding downwards with nothing to break your fall, slipping in a room of ice. The time for humanity and compassion has passed. To be here is to have reached the end of your rope.
"Your name!" demanded the tense, uniformed voice.
"I refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me."
The interrogator leaned back in his chair disgusted. He looked to the men behind the mirror to make the next move.
Dr. Silverberg was not happy to have been called in. Two sex crazed teenage daughters and a temperamental wife had him questioning his vocation as a psychiatrist. He had no answer for that age old adage. "Doctor, heal thyself first." But he buried these doubts for the sake of a paycheck and his community standing. A meaningful life eluded him thus far.
Captain Bridges wasn't much happier. A high profile death meant the higher ups would be breathing down his neck for answers. He missed the old days when he could smoke indoors.
"What do you think, doc?"
"It's obvious. Look at him. He's squirming inside like a repressed volcano. He's at war with himself."
"So how do we break him?"
"What kind of forensics do you have?"
"Not a shred. And unless something breaks we'd have a hard time making a circumstantial case." Bridges raised his eyebrow. "Looks like it's up to you at this point."
Silverberg's mind was still latched to his crumbling household. Now he has to do the police's job too? Where does it ever end?
Sitting across from the sweating suspect reassured the good doctor of his superiority. He'd been briefed on the facts as they knew them. The suspect's sister had been drowned in her pool, held underwater until dead. Her brother - who currently resided in the opposite chair - stood to inherit 3.2 million dollars. They'd been estranged for years and he was openly bitter at having been disinherited. The lawsuit the brother filed was thrown out in a summary judgment.
"Joel, my name is Dr. Silverberg. As you know, you're under no obligation to speak to me. I'm simply here to ensure your welfare in this situation. Do you understand me?"
Joel Keaton had reached the end of his rope long before he'd hit the dead end of the interrogation room. He simply couldn't take it anymore shuffling from one hated job to the next while his sister lived her worry-free life. Comes a time when a man can no longer force one more bitter pill down his throat. He has to feel alive. Certain realities must be faced. Joel, living in this dark universe, kept his head down, hoping he'd never have to face the person across the table.
"I want to tell you a story, Joel. It's about a murderer who got away with it. In court he'd been acquitted and could never be tried again for that crime." Joel couldn't help be interested in the story, his twitching hands pausing. "But it was barely a year after that the man committed suicide. That's an actual fact, I can give you his name. Do you want to know why?"
"No..."
Got him! He's talking! "Because he'd been sentenced to life in prison." Joel looked up in confusion. Victory number two. "He was never going to escape the truth. He was doomed to live a lie until he died. He couldn't serve his time and be free. He'd lost all hope."
Joel had always thought of psychiatrists as con men. "Your tricks won't work on me."
"This is no trick. I've studied the human mind my entire life. I can recount case after case just like this. If you've got anything to say, now's the time to say it."
"I've got nothing to say."
"So be it," adjourned the doctor, leaving the room. Joel felt the walls closing in.
Bridges was doubtful to his returning colleague. "Didn't make much headway in there."
"On the contrary. I got him to speak and make eye contact. He's hanging on by his fingernails. He knows if he doesn't get out of that room soon he's going to break."
"Goddam, I hope you're right. You better know your shit."
"Do you have any idea of his IQ?"
"We found an online profile where he claimed an IQ of 142."
"I thought as much. He has contempt for me. Like a lot of amateur psychologists he thinks he can outsmart everyone else. Probably knows just enough to be dangerous. I think I can work him on this, Nash. His rational mind is fighting him too hard. I can use his intelligence against him."
"What exactly do you plan to do?"
"First, we leave him alone in there for a while, let his mind play tricks on him. Those weren't just stories I was telling him. He recognized the ring of truth. You know as much as I do about the desire to confess."
"Ok, yeah, so how you gonna make him confess?"
Silverberg smiled. "By getting him to confess."
Joel couldn't hide the flash of anger in his eyes at having been left alone in the room. His plan was to show no emotion but he knew the doctor was playing games and it irked him even more those games were actually working.
"Can you tell me about your sister, Joel?"
Joel answered a defiant "no".
"You were always afraid she was better than you."
Joel's head jerked upwards, ready to strike. He gathered himself at the last minute. "I told you no games!"
Emotion at last! "The police already have a motive with the cash inheritance. Your personal feelings are immaterial to the case. But that's what I'm here to talk about. Your acrimony is no secret."
"Then you already know. I hated her."
The dam had its first crack. And from that crack would lead to its entire destruction. "Hate is a strong word."
Joel really did need to confess. He knew that even before going in. "You have no idea what she was like. Always digging, digging, digging into my life. She had to stick her nose into everything! You have any idea how infuriating that is? I wanted to kill her!"
"Stalking victims express that same sort of rage. She didn't respect your boundaries. She was obsessed and out-of-control. Is that it?"
"She was never going to stop! Can't you see that? I couldn't take another minute of her looking over my shoulder, commenting on everything I did. She was a maniac. I'm glad she's dead."
"Those are very understandable feelings. I could see how you'd want her dead."
The doctor locked eyes with Joel, urging him into the light. Joel felt himself swaying, swooning with the temptation to be free, remembering the doctor's words of hope. But hope had long passed Joel. Silverberg continued.
"Just tell me how you felt, Joel. Then I can leave this room and have you discharged. The police have no hard evidence against you even without you having an alibi. Otherwise, this could drag on for hours."
"It wasn't fair! All she had to do was stay the fuck out of my life. I hated her. I could live with everything else but that damn busybody would never leave me alone. I wanted her dead! Do you understand me? I wanted her fucking dead!"
Joel fairly foamed at the mouth.
"OK, now we have it." The doctor wiped off glasses in finality. "I'll talk to Captain Bridges and have you sent home."
"What? That's it?"
"All done." Silverberg stood up, walked over and opened the door.
"Wait!"
"Joel, my job is done. I've got a wife waiting on me at home. I've got my own headaches to take care of. You don't want to talk. I get that. You're on your own."
"But you don't understand! I had to do it! I had to stop her! She was driving me out of my mind!"
"Had to do what, Joel? Are you saying you killed her? I thought you said you didn't want to play games." Silverberg's hand never left the doorknob.
"Yes, I killed her! It's all my fault!"
The doctor still held the stance of wanting to go home. "Killed her how, Joel? You're trying my patience."
"I put my hands around her fucking neck and strangled her under that water. She deserved it! She deserved every fucking second if it. She never deserved that money more than I. The world's a better place without her."
"Whatever you say, Joel." The doctor closed the door and rejoined Captain Bridges.
Joel stood up staring at the door.
Back behind the mirror entered a beaming doctor. "There you go: on a silver platter.He just thought he knew as much as I do." Dinner was going to taste very special tonight! Dr. Silverberg also had a couple of new ideas for his out-of-control daughters. Life was looking up.
"That was good work, Micah, but there is one little hiccup. The girl wasn't strangled. She was pressed down by her shoulders. We only reported she'd been strangled as a ruse to the public."
Silverberg was shaken. "What are you saying? He made a false confession? But how?"
"You tell me."
"Oh, dear Lord." The color drained from the doctor's face. "I got him to confess his guilt over his feelings and now he thinks he's just as guilty as the one who did it. Oh hell, I'm sorry, Nash. His brain is so crisscrossed right now he probably does believe he did it."
"I'll have my men go over it with him again, step by step just to be sure. Who knows. Maybe he still did do it."
"No, no..." moped the doctor. "I got him confused. I was too cocky. Maybe I was just too intent on showing him who was really smarter."
"Happens to the best of us," offered a disingenuous Captain Bridges. Doctor Micah Silverberg slowly drove his miserable self not to his house but to a long night's bar.
In repeated statements, Joel Keaton insisted he'd strangled his sister to death. He never did get the facts right, his confession useless. The D.A. could see no reason to file a case, leaving the probate court free to grant Joel the entire 3.2 million dollars.
*****
CODA: Barely a year later, Joel Keaton committed suicide. He'd thought himself clever with his carefully staged false confession, the false story planted in the paper giving him the idea. The vanity of such an act played right into his hands. Micah Silverberg - now a divorced drunk - read the suicide story and realized too late he should have stuck to his instincts.
Joel knew he had to confess, thinking the partial confession of his feelings would suffice to set him free. Instead, it placed him in solitary confinement - for life.
i don't know why I'm telling you people. you people are monsters. i can't stop and you can't help. trapped in a raging current on the river to hell.
i'm in serious trouble
mind ripping trouble. walking through the house screaming trouble. frozen in the moment right before the wolves devour you in unstoppable flesh tearing madness.
i'm in serious trouble
time does not heal all wounds. sometimes it perpetuates them. the longer you live the more you hurt. mistakes of the past never leave. they blackmail you always wanting more.
i'm in serious trouble
it's the only time i feel alive, with a gun pointed towards my head. it's the only time i feel alive when i'm so close to death. death is life and life is death. i can't stop and you won't help.
i'm in serious trouble
i was wrong to go to nam. why don't i feel better when i say that? i'm supposed to, right. i just feel pushed in. i say it but i don't know it. i know i want to die. i know i'm dying.
you leave a hero. you come back a coward
i'm in serious trouble
all alone. alone in every way. when the gun's against your head you're alone forever. empty and alone. the world echoes. i never should have gone to nam. i was weak and cowardly. it was the guilt. i did what they wanted. where are they now?
i'm in serious trouble
where's the help? nobody can help when the gun's against your head. I don't want to die! I don't want to die! chink faced fuckers with their guns and cigarettes putting me inside the hole of their souls.
i'm in serious trouble
i can't stop. i have to keep doing it. i want to feel alive. pull the trigger! pull it, you bitch. they want you to, the motherfuckers. that's all they want. they don't think about anything else. who are you people?
i'm in serious trouble
flying in that first time was sickest feeling of my life. i still feel the plane buzzing like we were a cargo of spare parts to nowhere. they stick you in a shithole like you're nothing. that's all they do, say you're nothing over and over and over until you believe it. being nothing is what makes them happy.
i'm in serious trouble
being nothing was supposed to make me good. it's like a sick poison that feels good going down. rest the time your body aches in terrorizing pain. pain like a prison with no way out. i'm going mad in the boundless dark. only more poison makes me feel good. look at me! i'm shit! war is about throwing away your life because your buddy did.
i'm in serious trouble
nobody wanted to know my name. nobody looked me in the eye. i see why now knowing what they had planned when the worst of the worst happens. they knew it could happen and secretly wanted it to. they want you captured and tortured. if you die and can't testify against them then they really make you a hero.
i'm in serious trouble
why doesn't anyone help me?? can't they see the gun against my head? only my tormenters see it. everyone else abandons me. how can you leave me to die? why would you bring me here? how is this helping anything? i must eat to live but all i have to eat is insanity.
i'm in serious trouble
it's the biggest sin, wanting to live. they'll forgive you anything but that. raping, killing, burning it's all ok. it makes you like them and they like that. but don't let them know you want to live. they hold that against you in forever anger. they put a gun to your head just like the gooks. everyone's a goddam gook.
i'm in serious trouble
i'm sliding down a slow motion ice slope to the edge of a cliff. you say look you up if i live but where are you now? i got a boner thinking about being dead. it's my only friend that bullet in this gun. it will make the hurting stop. you aren't who you say you are.
You see it everywhere. Ninety percent of our advertising is geared towards ten percent of the population. Half the population are de facto slaves, another forty percent are middle men living in various degrees of comfort as they pass on their cash with the final ten percent out there buying up the BMWs, going on cruises and funding mainstream advertising. But it's not really five figure vacations and six figure cars we are selling. We're selling the perfectness of our society.
Come, see how the winners live! If you aren't living like that it must be your own fault! Prosperity preachers even speak of divine dollars for the deserved. How do you know you deserve the money? Easy! Because you have it. How do you know a person deserves to suffer? Easy! Because he is. Yes, it's good to live in a perfect world that's above questioning and need never change. Wouldn't you love to be above questioning and need never change?
If so, then you're part of the problem.
Reality is a bit more complicated than our propaganda would have us believe. While the vast majority for one reason or another simply lie down and let their life be destroyed there are a stubborn few who cannot see why they should die - for any reason. Them's the people you don't wanna cross. But cross we do! It happened to Clyde Barrow when the prison guards taught him it's OK to kill at will. It's happened all throughout history - and there's always been a price to pay for it.
None of this is breaking news. We all know some societies are more violent than others and that there's a reason for that. When we hear of a mass shooting we publicly recoil and blame the gun or pretentiously pretend not to understand why anyone would shoot or simply turn a blind eye lest we be drawn into a debate leading to self-questioning. We do this because it's impossible not wonder how much of our finger was on that trigger.
This may not solve anything but I'll feel better
Telling people day after day 24/7 in relentless pervasive preaching they don't deserve to live but do deserve to be hung out to dry and die is to create people who believe that. To live in a dog-eat-dog society and not expect shooters is same as drinking poison and expecting to live. You can do it - there's nothing stopping you - but you will die nonetheless. So in the end if you tell me there are people who deserve to suffer and die and I'm standing with a bottle of poison at the public well, I'm pretty much following our credo when I pour it in.
As a resident of Gotham City I do try to keep up with all things Gotham, especially when it comes to our favorite son, the Dark Knight. Casting Ben Affleck has caused quite a stir in the limited basement that is the comic book fanboy world. As in the comic series, he will be "tired and weary", a burned out bat. The opening scene goes something like this:
Batman sits on the grimy curb of a musty Gotham night. Wind blows trash down the street passed his scuffed bat boots. In his a hand, a 40 oz wrapped in brown paper bag. Behind him, a convenience store with heavily barred windows. All around is the smell of piss, beer and suicide. Inside, we hear a violent maniac shoot out the security camera then point a shotgun at a little old lady behind the counter.
Cut to the harsh fluorescent light of the store. We see the gunman's cruel face and apparent imminent demise of the store lady. Cut back to Batman taking a pitiable swig. We hear the gun go off and see the robber run out the store laughing. Batman belches. We never do see if the store lady was shot.
I said "Affleck" not "Aflac", you idiot!
WTF, Batman? What happened to you fixing the world for us? You have to! We certainly have no interest in it. We need some sucker with a martyr complex and an irrational vengeance streak to clean things up for us. Maybe we need a superhero who's a janitor!? Sweep up those bad guys so we can tuck in junior safely at night. Don't worry - I know getting a free ride from a superhero is what really sells the most.
So what can be done to stir up our caped crusader? Why it's that publicity hound Superman who gets him all riled up! (Seriously, that's why it's called Batman vs. Superman). Batman reads in the paper the next day it's Gotham's most notorious reporter/alien who nabs the convenience store gunman. Heck, it's Superman doing everything! Shaving commercials, best tables at all the exclusive restaurants, high-fiving Derek Jeter, Vanity Fair cover and even quarterbacking the Jets (until the league passes an "Earthlings only" rule after Superman goes undefeated for the season).
Batman is Johnny-on-the-spot during an elaborate hold up and when he sees Superman show up tries to aid in the capture of the criminals, only he fails miserably in his poor condition next to the magnificent, oh-so-perfect Man of Steel.
"Leap buildings in a single bound. Bullets bounce off you. X-ray vision and the breath of a hurricane. Guess we're going to have to register you as a lethal weapon," snarls Batman in exposed jealousy.
"Hey, you don't want to work together? Fine by me!"
"Got no choice. All washed up. God hates me."
"Know what? I hate you! So I guess we're both the fucked."
"No problem. I hate you back. Frickin' works for me."
Hey, whaddaya know! It's a buddy pic! Butch and Sundance, Riggs and Murtaugh, and now those two wisecracking superheroes: Bat- and Super- man! Yeehaw! But turns out there's one foe even the perfectly flossed Superman cannot defeat alone so Batman must get his act together. Can he do it? Can he be the crime fighting wonder he was once was? But of course, or the plot can't proceed!
In what sure is to be a crowd pleasing sequence, we see Batman in a lonely soul-searching wandering of Gotham's streets - both high and low - with "Hey Jude" playing over. Gradually, we see his body language change into a tentative resolve until, at the very end, we see a single black bat tear run down his cowl.
Hearing Triumph's "Lay it on the Line" we see a montage of scenes with Batman doing one-handed pushups (with Alfred sitting on top), chasing a chicken and finally early morning running up the Gotham steps followed by adoring children (whom we've seen spit on him earlier in the film) as he raises his hands in victory by a larger-than-life Batman statue - as the Triumph song dissolves into to the Rocky theme, of course. But as the camera pulls back we see the enemy that makes the crowd gasp in hopeless horror. An enemy never before defeated nor even thought possible to defeat: Wall Street.
Bite me, Batman!
Are there enough for-profit prisons to hold all the evil bankers? Will Batman be outwitted by a hedge fund manager? Will the Man Of Steel find himself leveraged like a risky derivative? Will this be an enemy they can even defeat in one picture?? Clearly, we have the formula here for the greatest Batman ever! Tune in to find out the answers to these questions and more as Hollywood continues its endless cavalcade of Heroes To Save World We Don't Want To Save Ourselves!
A wizard walked through the village today, hooded in a red robe, his destination uncertain. One who dared look upon his face gasped he saw no eyes. But none who saw the wizard pass felt unprobed. In his wake cold fingers penetrated their bodies as his spirit ripples within. No one could explain why but the feeling of doom afterwards was overpowering. Children wept.
Rumor had it he came out of the Forbidden Forest, a place so terrifying even animals refuse to enter. Whatever business the wizard had it had to have been foul. Was he to meet the Dark Lord, ruler of the forest? Had he gone to practice his witchcraft at an unholy temple? Some even whispered he opened the gates to Hell, leaving us first to be swallowed. Try as we might to shake it, it was the last story that held us most fast, gripping our minds and flailing the weak among us.
We live on the edge of the Forbidden Forest in fascinated fear. Try as we might to resist, it holds us in a trance, thrilled at the danger yet curious to its nature. Other villages mock us for our foolishness but they do not understand we are held in the forest's orbit as much as the moon is to the earth. I suppose I would say the same thing were I them. No way to see the inner shackles that claim us but to be here - to shiver here - is to feel the wonder of its power. Our lives have no direction but what it gives us.
Is that direction doom? We hear those sounding the warning bells but dismiss them as hysterical. Occasionally grave words are spoken in deep suspicion but never with full commitment. Some prefer to believe because we live so near to the Dark Lord's domain without destruction that we have his blessing. I would hazard to guess he would like us to think that. But the Dark Lord will do what the Dark Lord will do, we as meaningless as falling leaves in the wind.
So what was the wizard's business? Our empty lives were gratefully stirred by this Important Traveler. We felt as the focal point of the world while he sauntered in his deliberate steps. News of the wizard's movements spread like the plague. But none will approach the wizard lest his wormy tongue speak wrongly of them. First he lulls to you to sleep with hissed blessings longed for but never to be in our lives, then he injects poison words of doubt into the heart that kills all but the strongest. Oh, that the wizard did not be!
None dare ask the wizard of his dark dealings yet we hang on his every footstep. The question that crawls up inside us, eating us like a worm, leaving us hooked like a helpless fish is this: "What does the wizard know?" What does he know of the outside world? What does he know of the impenetrable Forest? And most of all: What does he know of us? That's our true prison: what might he reveal we never dare admit to ourselves? In this way we are chained.
But the wizard roams freely in his mystical powers, feeling the sway and movements of the land, his eyes gazing upon sights never imagined in a villager's lost life. A fool with more sand than salt once tried to step in the wizard's path, boasting of no fear. But the wizard whispered in his ear, leaving the man wailing in descending madness. We villagers are born in a hut, scrape to survive each and every day without meaning or purpose then die as if we never existed. Only the wizard knows why - and he's not talking.
What is life that we should live at the mercy of these eyeless men of evil? How is it they came to rule this world? Is man so weak the worst of us can take the throne unchallenged? I feel to answer these questions is to become a wizard I fear to be.
I freely confess to suicidal thoughts. The world is a prison I can not want. What can I do if a pine box is the only way out? Who but I can pay my rent? There's no way out - except to be perfect like Jesse and Celeste. Christ, I used to like Jews until I meet these fuckers.
Rashida Jones is daughter of the great Quincy Jones, winner of 27 well deserved Grammy awards. She's the star and perpetrator of this self-indulgent fantasy flick of the Perfect Couple who's so darned perfect they even have the Perfect Divorce! Ready to vomit yet? Repeated viewings will turn you anorexic.
Don't get me wrong, Rashida has got something. She first caught my eye in "The Social Network" and she had me asking myself, "Who is that woman?" Turns out it was merely her phenomenal breeding I was noticing. But she don't step outside that bubble she gonna pop herself like a week old zit! Many people never make that step. Still, I'd fuck her - once (before she fades into oblivion).
Celeste (Rashida) is the so-self-aware-I-know-you-better-than-you-know-yourself person who has problems "being right all the time" but because she's self-aware of that it makes that OK too! The character's attempts at self-deprecation ring hollow and what's supposed to be moments of charming vulnerability to one's weaknesses turn out to be moments you just want to boo. (For charming vulnerability see Hugh Grant in "About a Boy", a movie I've watched over a dozen times).
I love me!
Poor Rashida was surely laughing as she wrote the script, imagining the hilarity to ensue. "Sounded funnier in my head" must have been the catchphrase during filming. The comedic efforts are wholly uncoordinated and lines are painfully mis-delivered - by everyone. (OK, the mock German while reading the menus was kinda funny.) Leave comedy to the professionals, Rashida. It's something that cannot be taught - even to perfect people.
As for Jesse, he's a just a prop for Celeste's odyssey of self-exploration. His issues are convenient targets of failing to achieve worldly success (Celeste is a best-selling author) and wallowing in self-pleasure. But what is Celeste (or Rashida) as a Wal-Mart cashier? Living in a household where she witnessed firsthand the rewards of having talent, Rashida must be living under the burden of having to live up to that high mantle. The film certainly reeks of that strain anyway.
When time comes to pull that trigger and I feel my nerve failing, I need only put on a copy of this movie to realize my hopeless inadequacies and pointless existence in the wonderful pain-free bubble world of Rashida/Celeste whose awesome talent spares her from the mires of a soul-eating job and cut-throat sharks who'd pleasure in her rape and killing. Even divorce is good for perfect people who still only want each other to "find happiness". Just once I'd like to see her 'fess up and say, "I hope you're miserable as fuck without me." But then, that wouldn't be perfect - merely human.
I've worked hard all my life, been honest and fair but can't find a job after the CEO took all the cash and ran away. He's off living the good life on an island while I and my family are facing life on the streets. Doesn't hard work and honesty count for anything?
Signed, Working Class Zero
Dear Zero,
In a word: no.
****************
Dear God,
I'm a child soldier who's doped and drugged and sent out across mine fields in front of the adult army people. Every hour day and night is a nightmare, I keep seeing my friends blown to pieces in my dreams. I can never escape this even for a moment. What can I do? I don't understand.
Signed, Frightened Fodder
Dear Fodder,
Sucks to be you!
****************
Dear God,
I've been framed for a crime I didn't commit by an over-zealous prosecutor, a lazy judge and corrupt cops all of whom are looking to justify their jobs at my expense and at expense of the truth. I'm facing twenty five years for a crime I didn't commit and no one will listen to me!
Signed, Framed and Fucked
Dear Fucked,
Don't bend over for the soap!
****************
Dear God,
I'm an honest banker and I have a way to prevent my evil co-workers from carrying off a plan that will harm millions of people. But they are plotting against me and I cannot stop them. Why can't I be allowed to enforce the right thing to do?
Signed, An Honest Buck
Dear Buck,
God only knows! (Oops, I mean I only know!)
****************
Dear God,
In the movies the good guys always win and the bad guys always lose but in real life it's just the opposite. Why is everyone lying about what is happening?
Signed, Muddled at the Movies
Dear Muddled,
How the hell should I know? I'm up here, you're down there. You're on your own, pal!
