droller than thou.

i've got a bad case of hating you: part one.

You know what I really hate these days? If you answered "everything" then, thank you, you've clearly been paying attention. If you answered "life-sized dolls" then you're partially right. If you answered "frito pie" then you're clearly a fucking moron.

No, but, really--you know what I really fucking hate these days? All these pseudoscientific doctor shows  that have popped up in the past year or two, peddling an infuriating pastiche of vague, bullshit statistics, scare tactic proclamations, and retarded-ass computer simulations/graphics which serve no purpose other than to provide something at which visual stimuli-addicted Americans can goggle. And by "all these" shows, I really mean two: The Doctors and The Dr. Oz Show. There are probably more out there, but we don't have cable--so my universe only encompasses the choices available on six channels. Whatever. As far as I'm concerned, two are more than enough.

So, the first (and really the main) point that I take issue with is all the pseudoscientific malarkey that's going on here. It brings to mind my brief, glorious tirade against Tresemme's Hydrology haircare line. Fucking idiots. It also reminds me of an article from The Onion, my most trusted news source in these troubled times. (Personally, I would welcome the addition of Extreme Gravity to the Science Channel's lineup, but I'm a fucking nerd. Apparently.)

But back to my point: I hate pseudoscience. It's just so...demeaning. To real science, I mean. And to those of us who actually value things like evidence and the scientific method and putting Mentos into Diet Coke and seeing if it explodes. But seriously--dumbed down pseudoscience makes actual science seem so much lamer and more easily accessible than it actually is. Not that science shouldn't be accessible or anything. But there's a difference between communicating complex scientific ideas and information in a way which facilitates its understanding...and simplifying shit to a point where it becomes meaningless and boring. And hellshitdamnfuckasstitties!--science ain't meaningless and boring! I think Einstein said that.

More importantly, I take issue with people invoking the ideas of "science" and "medicine"--or even just using "science-y" sounding words, as in the case of Tresemme's Hydrology line--in order to establish a (false) sense of authority. The automatic ceding of authority to doctors--something which both patients and doctors consciously and unconsciously participate in--is a cultural tendency I take issue with as it is. It's a complex interplay that involves ideas about power, knowledge, bodies, gender, class, race, and a plethora of other annoying liberal arts college vocabulary words. So it pisses me off that shows like Dr. Oz and The Doctors not only enthusiastically perpetuate this kind of shit, but actually make it so much worse by doing such an embarrassingly bad job of presenting medical information--like they're airhead anchors on some celebrity gossip show.

The ultimate problem here is that with this self-generated authority, the authoritative person (or institution) is granted undeserved legitimacy, potentially aiding in the justification of ridiculous or harmful ideas. In other words, people will be more likely to believe some stupid bullshit The Doctors say (even when it's beyond their scope within the medical field) simply because they are Doctors, and also because they are invoking Scientific Statistics to (weakly) support their claims. 

************

Stay tuned for the exciting second half of this boringass tirade, because I'm too lazy to finish writing it right now!

let's talk about nerds, baybee; let's talk about you and me.

So.  Let's talk about nerds.  

The origin of the nerd stereotype is something that has fascinated me for a long time.  It's part of  another totally fascinating (to me, at least) topic: the crisis of masculinity that emerged in the U.S. and Britain (and maybe some other places that I don't know about) among the middle- and upper-middle classes in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  This "crisis" stemmed from a wealth of factors, but had a lot to do with modernism and its related changing ideas/practices/social identities.  During this time, the work landscape (at least for the middle class) was shifting to a more bureaucratic/corporate/office jobby-type situation (read: less manual labor and therefore less "masculine"), as well as the entrance of more women into the work world, and specifically into the field of education (read: our children are being feminized by all these lady teachers, being all ladyish and crap).  Which led to the appearance of all these hyper-masculine (and, rather ironically, pretty homoerotic) things--like the Boy Scouts and competitive bodybuilding and Teddy Roosevelt's whole manly-outdoorsy bag...

But that's really not the point of this.  So let's just move on:

All in all, I have nothing against nerds.  Generally speaking, I find them to be much better people than the majority of douchebags out there--you know, the ones who eat at Applebee's Neighborhood Grill and Bar, listen to Puddle of Muddddd, and generally do despicable, "normal" things.  Yes, I realize that there are probably plenty of nerds out there who engage in these deplorable activities (and plenty of non-nerds who don't), but I'm trying to make a sweeping generalization here, people--cut me some slack.

But actually, to get a little less sweepy, I'll be the first person to point out that there are many flavors of nerd out there.  Of course there are the traditional, stereotypical nerds with pocket protectors, bow ties, and the tendency to snort snow off a top hat.  No, wait.  That's a different movie.

...But there are also a million other varieties of nerd out there, and plenty of cool or "normie" people who have their little (or big) nerdy indulgences. 

Take me, for example.  I definitely consider myself to be a nerd--but I'm a cool nerd.  And not just because my Mom said so, thank you very much*.  Yes, I love me some 50¢ words and book learnin' and obscure cartoons and snorting snow off a top hat.  But I'm also capable of normal (and, dare I say it, awesome) social interaction--to the point that most people wouldn't necessarily classify me as a nerd.  Until they get to know me a little better and I start lecturing them about the awesomeness of parasitic wasps.  At a keg party.  And, yes, I've actually done this before. 

[Note: According to my sources, Kids These Days (KTD) (at least at UC Santa Barbara) don't say "kegger" (or even "keg party"--why the fuck did I say that?), but instead "kickback."  As in, "Hey, are you going to that kickback in Brayden's room?  I hear it's going to be 'off da hook,' for shizzle!"]

[Note: The use of the name "Brayden" in the above note was not accidental.  KTD (or perhaps, to be more accurate in this instance, their parents) are disgusting.]

[Note: The use of the clearly outdated slang in the above note was also not accidental.  That's called "comedy."] 

So what was the point of all this?  Uh...Oh, right.  Nerds. 

Actually, my original intention for this post was to talk about the ridiculous level of nerdery going on in my Flash animation class--but, as usual, I got off on a sociological/historical/blabbering tangent. 

Because I'm a cool nerd.  Ahem.

...Okay, so I'm totally not trying to be all cocktease-y with you ("Oh yeaaaah; I'll definitely tell you all about my Flash class! ...Actually, I'm kind of tired now.  I'll call you...sometime."), but I'm going to save my actual tale of woe/amusement for the next installment. 

But I am totally planning on calling you later.  I swear.

PS: For further reading, please see Wikipedia's entry on nerds, which I find endlessly entertaining.  A reference to Freakazoid!?  Excellent. 

*Because she didn't.

on the inappropriateness of easter. and boobz.

This morning I saw a Yahoo! headline which read "Thousands of Children Expected at White House Easter Egg Roll."  I, of course, read it as "Thousands of Children Expected to Eat White House Eggrolls."  I was confused.  But then I read the actual article and I was even more confused...Why would Fergie perform at an Easter event for children?  She doesn't exactly ooze wholesomeness (which is generally the way one expels one's wholesomeness, I'm told).  

Which reminds me of two things:

1) Holidays that I don't celebrate¹ are annoying.  Yesterday The Mister and I wanted to go out for lunch and had to settle on our third or fourth choice because everything else was closed.  "Oh, look at me!  I want to be with my family on a special day!  Wah wah wah!"  Suck it up and cook me some quiche, asshole.

2) Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels makes my soul bleed.  The women on this season are somehow even more hideous than the ones they managed to scrape up last time (Daisy, anyone?).  I only saw part of one episode and I was severely disturbed.  The women competed in the "First Annual Truck Stop Games" or some such cleverly named contest, which involved performing various tasks (belly flopping into a pool of beer, stripper pole dancing, etc.) whilst clad in basically nothing.  They were judged by  a panel of leering, overweight rednecks.  The most disturbing part by far, however, was the fact that the audience was mostly comprised of families: lots of young girls and mothers who enthusiastically clapped and cheered.  I kept searching the mothers' faces, sure that I would see a cringe, a frown, even a clearly faked smile--some indication that they realized their eight-year-old daughters shouldn't be exposed to such over the top misogyny...But, of course, no.  

It freaks me out that adolescents grow up with such twisted examples of desirability and sexuality these days.  I mean, clearly idealized images of women have always been just that--idealized and therefore not real to some degree.  But it seems like things have reached some sort of stripper aesthetic extreme in the past decade or so, with this weird sense that women are empowered by being hyper-sexual, even while they're helping to exploit themselves.  It's all too bizarre.  

It seems pretty clear to me that shit like this is part of a long-building backlash against feminism--or at least a backlash against strains of feminism that existed several decades ago, or maybe even just what people  wrongly perceive feminism to be--even if they don't consciously realize it.  There's a book that addresses all this stuff, called Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and Rise of Raunch Culture.  Maybe I should actually get around to reading it someday?

And that, children, is the story of how the Obamas, Fergie, and Bret Michaels ate eggrolls with the Easter Bunny and a cadre of strippers on the White House lawn.  

The End.

¹When/if we have les bebes, we will definitely be doing the secular Easter Bunny thing--you know, jellybeans not Jesus?

on the ethical way to punch someone in the nards.

The other day in one of my painfully mind-numbing prerequisite courses (entitled "Business Interpersonal Skills," just to give you an idea of how truly horrific it is), we were instructed to form groups in order to discuss the ethics of various hypothetical situations.  Now, group anythings--discussions, projects, gatherings, etc.--cause me great mental anguish.  And group discussions about hypothetical situations, particularly involving ethics, just ratchets the suffering up another few notches. 

So, as you can see, I was already in a pretty shitty mindset.  But then, of course and like magic(!),  things got even worse when I turned around to face my three male group members.  One of them (let's call him "Douchebag") decided to introduce himself to the group: 

Douchebag: Hi, my name is Douchebag. [shakes hands with first male group member]  

First Male Group Member: Hi, I'm [whatever his name was].

Douchebag: Hi, my name is Douchebag. [shakes hands with second male group member]

Second Male Group Member: Hi, I'm [something or other].

Douchebag: ... [stares off into space, very clearly not looking at me]

Incredulous Me: ... [thinking to myself, "Wait, he didn't introduce himself to me.  Wait, is he not going to introduce himself to me?  Wait, wow.  Wow, what a dickwad!"]  HI, I'M SARAH!!! [said extremely over-enthusiastically, reaching out and pumping his hand vigorously]

Seriously, what the fuck??

And now, I'd like to write a letter to Douchebag:

Dear Douchebag,

How R U?  I'm kool.  Just chillin', U know?  

Oh, by the way?  I'm actually a person?  Even though I have boobs and a vagina and stuff?  And you can treat me like a normal human being, and, like, extend the kinds of normal courtesies that you share with other people?  You know, the ones with wingwangs?  

TTYL!

Sarah

P.S.- If you ever pull this shit on me again, I will totally call your sexist ass out in class, very loudly and with much drama.  You asshat.

And, of course, the group discussion was a fucking shitshow, what with Douchebag dominating the conversation the whole time (of course) with his completely black and white moral pronouncements--which, by the way, land him in the conventional level of Kohlberg's stages of moral development.  At one point, when I stated that I disagreed with what he said, he actually responded with, "You think that's OK, even though it goes against a federal law!?"  Yes, you fucking shit-slice; just because something is a federal law doesn't mean I automatically think it's right.  Oy vey.

I plan on either fiercely ignoring him or giving him the stink-eye for the rest of the semester.  Hurray for passive aggressiveness!

on kings and ankles that smell like cheese.

So, this past weekend was supposed to be The Weekend of Moving All Our Stuff Out of the Crazy Landlady's House and Into My Crazy Parents' House (TWMAOSOCLHIMCPH).  It became, however, The Weekend of Sarah Spraining Her Ankle and Then RICE-ing It On the Couch, So We Only Got Some of Our Stuff Moved Out (TWSSHATRIOCSWOGSOSMO). 

Imagine this: The Mister and I wake up extra early on Saturday morning, all fresh-faced and doe-eyed and other such things, ready to do battle with the shitbox we've been calling home for the past year.  We make the trek down to the house (as we have already entrenched ourselves at my parents' abode), stopping on the way to get some coffee.  We were full of optimism and hope and caffeine; it was truly beautiful.  We  arrive at our soon-to-be-former-home and I begin packing various items while The Mister finishes up some last minute dishes.  I promptly forget that there is a step down between the kitchen and the den, sending me sprawling, and spraining my left ankle.  I was pissed, mostly because I just had to lie there all damn day and so we couldn't actually get that much work done.  Something interesting to note, however, was that right after the accident, my left foot smelled really bad--kind of like cheese.  My other foot produced no such aroma, and the cheese smell had completely dissipated after about ten minutes.  Theories? 

So, yeah.  That was really great.  

But!  One great thing that came of this experience was that I got to miss work yesterday.  Man, I really like not working.  I could not work a lot.

Numerous friends have insisted to me that they would still choose to work, even if they were completely financially secure (e.g., King Midas, King David, King Ding Dong, etc.).  That's some crazy shit!  Who are these loons?  Working is, like, totally...sucky.  As Shakespeare said.  

Ahem.

Sometimes I think that I just feel this way because I've only ever had shit jobs, have yet to find my "true calling" (or at least something that isn't totally mind-numbing and/or beneath me), yadda yadda.  But then I think about The Mister--someone who has an awesome job doing something he's passionate about, makes a lot of money, is his own boss, and doesn't have to work that much to do well.  And even he doesn't really want to work.  

So are we just lazy?  Or perhaps we have simply thrown off capitalism's shackles, wherein one's identity and societal worth is determined by one's material output/adherence to the Protestant work ethic?  

Or something.

Yeah.  It's definitely the second one. 

on certain perversions.

Okay, so clearly I'm going to get a lot of traffic to this site from searches about poop and butts, but who the fuck are all these people searching for "Michelle Obama upskirt"?  I'm pretty sure that no other First Lady (oops, I mean potential First Lady) has ever had to deal with this kind of internet tomfoolery.

Well, maybe except for Anna Tuthill Symmes Harrison.  But back then it was all like, "Hey, have thou seenest the new upbonnet camera obscura image of First Lady Harrison?  It has truly given unto my member a state most swollen, by Zeus' beard!"

Pervs.

on childhood.

Sometimes I feel like I spend more time talking and/or thinking about my childhood than most people I know.  On the whole, I had a very lovely childhood (fatness aside), with a great family and basically no traumatic experiences to speak of (again, fatness aside).  Do other people not remember their childhoods that well?  Or maybe they just don't want to...I don't know. 

What I do know is that little kids are weird.  Let's take a stroll down memory lane and visit some of the strange ideas that were a part of my childhood:

1) Money is dirty, except if it comes out of Mom's purse.  Then it is clean and perfectly acceptable to put in my mouth (we're talking coins here, not bills).

2) The word "woman" is a bad (i.e. approaching curse status) word.  I came to this assumption as a very young child because I rarely heard people use it; "girl" was the widely used and hence acceptable term.  [Note: This is one of those instances which really highlights the amazing ability of children to distill oftentimes complex and "hidden" hegemonic ideas and express them in a clear and direct manner.  I've been meaning to write about this in a post...]

3) "Bastard" means "fish poop."  Bass-turd.  Get it?  I was disabused of this conviction when I decided to test my theory by calling my Dad's friend a bassturd...and promptly got sent to my room.

4) Cats meow constantly, twenty-four hours a day, except when they sleep.  (Needless to say, I was shocked when we actually got a cat .)

5) The word for "expensive" is "cheap."  Also, it is pronounced "chief."  I used to love to ask my Mom whether or not something was "really chief."

6) I can control the volume of the radio by screaming.  If I want it to go up or down, I must merely adjust the volume of my screams accordingly. I discovered this skill one day while waiting in the car for my Mom outside my Dad's office (in a residential neighborhood).  They got complaints from the neighbors, who thought someone was dying/being abused/insane/insanely annoying.

7) Toilets on airplanes and trains simply open up at the bottom and dump their contents into the wild blue yonder.  It's quite possible that my Dad convinced me of this, and I took great joy in thinking about my feces landing on people's houses, etc.

8) You know that kid that was born in a manger in Bethlehem?  His name is "The Baby Cheezits."

That's all I can think of right now.  I guess some of those examples are more "cute" than "weird," but whatever.  Whatever, I say!

comma chameleon.

So, as I've mentioned before, I'm in to punctuation.  "In to" as in I obsess about it and find it endlessly fascinating and assume that other people also approach it in a similar manner.  Of course the rational part of me realizes that this is not the case, and so I get really excited when I find evidence of someone else being in to punctuation--or at least knowing/caring that it exists.

Like The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks.  Sure, the person running the site has (or at least claims to have) no malice directed toward the hapless punctuation manglers--but I forgive her for the simple fact that she obviously has enough interest in the matter to have a whole blog about it, lack of cynicism aside. 

Also, there's this great Vampire Weekend song called "Oxford Comma":

And, yeah, they only briefly mention it; and, sure, what they have to say on the matter is "Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?"  But I just appreciate the fact that they mention a piece of punctuation at all.   See?  That's how desperate I am.  I give a fuck about an Oxford comma.

By the way, the Oxford comma (thanks to The Mister for being less lazy than someone around here and actually bothering to look up the definition of "Oxford comma"; I never knew its specific name) is the one that comes before "and" in a list of three or more things--a usage which is supposedly seen as "olde fashioned" in this crazy, spare, post-post-modern grammatical world of ours.  Personally, I much prefer using the Oxford comma, as I believe that it provides much needed clarity.  And isn't clarity the whole point of punctuation?  Nevertheless, I mentally pause every time I employ an Oxford comma, imagining someone reading along and then getting all haughty and dismissive of me because I'm being too old fashioned in my punctuation style.  So when I use Oxford commas, it's not because I'm clueless as to contemporary trends in punctuation--it's that I just want some motherfucking clarity, ok?  So just back off, you lousy ingrates.

Of course, if you read the linked Wikipedia article, you see that this comma can also create ambiguity in a sentence...but whatever.  I'm sticking to it.

Speaking of commas, I'll be the first to admit that I'm more than a little comma crazy.  I use them all the damn time, and I frequently wonder if other people are reading my posts and saying, "Now, isn't this a bit excessive?"  But, the thing is, no--it's not excessive, you jackass.  My favorite functions of commas are the little mental pauses they provide in a narrative as you read along.  This commatical (yeah, I made it up, so what?) feature is an excellent and necessary component for highly conversational, tongue-in-cheek prose--like, you know, how I write? 

And, like, stuff?

Sigh.

it's all about the benjamins.

[Note: I'm using an unfamiliar Mac for this post, and I can't figure out how to insert images. So no images for you for the time being. Me so solly.]

I love reality TV. I used to be embarrassed to admit this, but I've learned to cast away society's shame shawl and let the real me shine. I'm not afraid to say it anymore: I LOVE REALITY TV, YOU BASTARDS!

The Mister (a.k.a. Ian, a.k.a. the husband) is always trying to convince me that we should get cable, but I have steadfastly resisted because I know what will happen: I will leave the couch with even less frequency than I do presently, and that would be nearing about half of my waking hours. Just kidding. That's gross. It's only, like, 2/3.

Oh, wait. That's more.

Anyhoo. Whenever I visit people with cable (and with whom I feel comfortable enough to take over the remote control) I end up wallowing in Made (or something similarly awful/wonderful [which from hence forward shall be combined into one handy word, "awferful"]) marathons for hours on end. It's not pretty. I also discover the plethora of previously unknown, awferful shows that exist out there in cable land, and then usually end up calling my friend, the NCBLF, to tell her all about them and how she needs to watch them, too.

For example, right now I'm staying with the Parental Units (it's cool to make references to 1970s SNL, right?) in order to look for housing for the upcoming Big Move of 2007. When I'm not aimlessly driving around fantasizing about which particular craphole I'm going to live in shortly, I'm inevitably holed up in my parents' living room watching the shit out of some reality TV. (I've also been reading a fair deal, but that's not really very pertinent to this post.) Sometimes I think that I should get off my ass and, you know, actually do something with my day...but then I just rationalize it to myself: I'm here on vacation (kind of true), I've worked hard (not true at all), and I'm certainly not going to have cable in my own house (hopefully true)--so I'm going to watch as much damn Sunset Tan as I damn well please! Damn!

Speaking of Sunset Tan, have you seen this shit? When I saw it listed on the satellite guide thinggy I was like, "Oh heeeell no! They did not make a reality TV show about a tanning salon!" But, oh hell yes, they certainly did. I just couldn't believe that somebody would think such an
asinine concept would make for a good TV show...and then actually make it! For you see, even I recognize the ridiculousness that is this particular television genre.

And, actually, there are a number of reality TV shows that I have recently become acquainted with that I find not even awferful, but actually horrendously un-watchable (or, "horrendontchable"). These include Scott Baio is 45...And Single (just rolls of the tongue, eh?) and Hey, Paula, and possibly might expand to engulf Hogan Knows Best (pending ability-to-stomach-more-than-two-minutes-of-an-episode status). I watched at least 10 minutes of both Scott Baio's and Paula Abdul's shows, but they actually made me feel so depressed and uncomfortable that I had to change the channel to a more respectable and classy reality show like Top Chef.

Seeing how Mr. Baio has become a gross, stripper-ogling, beer-swilling, scraggly middle aged man just made me feel creepy for ever finding him oh-so-studly on Charles in Charge. Maybe he's been like this all along, trapped in the body of a hunky babysitter--but at least I wasn't in on the charade. And as for Mizz Abdul--she's a fucking nut, on some kind of medication that's just doing her wrong (contrary to any statements of denial she may make). I guess what made it impossible for me to enjoy these people's miserable/fabulous ("miserablous"?) lives was the fact that they were so oblivious to how fucking pathiculous (pathetic/ridiculous) they truly are. Well, maybe Scott has some idea...

The point is, give me a washed up celebrity with their own reality TV show like Kathy Griffin's Kathy Griffin: My Life On The D-List. That show is great, largely because she's actually funny, but also because her knowledge of her lacklusterness is the entire basis of the show--she doesn't just acknowledge it, she wallows in it and makes it pretty damn entertaining.

Granted, people's low levels of self-awareness is what makes most reality-based things great--documentaries, people-watching at the airport, television, interacting with people at work (this last one merely becomes tolerable, however, and never really quite makes it up to "great")...But, apparently, there is some line in the reality TV sand that has been trampled upon by certain past-their-prime, in-need-of-a-shave, suspcisiously-German-cyborgy-faced "celebrities." And now that they have trod upon it, my soul--like the souls of so many of my fellow Americans--will never be the same.

Or, you know, maybe I just need to watch a Hey, Paula marathon to get into the swing of things. Meh.

[Note: Okay, so no one really ever gets what my post titles are referring to (when they're actually referring to something, and not, you know, just whatever gibberish popped into my head right before I publish it), and I know that very few people would actually get the joke (a loosely applied term, to be sure) that I made up a long time ago and have now used as this particular post's title--and I normally wouldn't care. But! I really want people to get this one, for some reason...even if you won't think it's funny (which you won't), but just so somebody gets something that comes out of my mouth some of the time.

So, now we begin our brief sociological theory/joke explanation:

Walter Benjamin was this early 20th century dude who wrote and philosophized about all kinds of crap. One of his best known essays is called The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, which is basically about how with all this new fangled technology (e.g., film), the specialness, or aura, of original works of art becomes lost. One possible consequence of this reproducibility is that one might think, "Why do I need to go all the way to the Louvre when I can see this perfectly lovely reproduction of the Mona Lisa right here in Asshit, WI?" Or, you know, why bother to go to Europe at all when there are Venetian canals and the Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas? Clearly you can see how this sort of thinking is problematic, right? Right.

Now, moving on to part two of the explanation: As we all know, pimping ain't easy, and also, more importantly, it's all about the Benjamins. Truer words have truly never been spoken. Truly.

But, you say, what do these two seemingly unrelated things have to do with one another? Well, I'd like to say that it's all very clear--but really, like pretty much most of the things in my head that I find funny, the connection is tenuous and a bit hazy, born more out of juxtapositional absurdity than anything more tangible or high brow. But I'll try to make it seem like I only laugh at cultural theory-based witticisms...

Basically, the idea that "it's all about the Benjamins" is really shallow, greedy, selfish, and so on. But beyond the literal interpretation, I equate this statement with the larger, mainstream, blingbling, mass marketed hip hop culture that The Kids These Days seem to enjoy so much--a culture which is also shallow, greedy, and selfish. It is a culture which is also largely (if not entirely) predicated on the creation of images--both literal, visual images as well as the more intangible personae (aura, anyone?) of the musicians in the business. So, when I say (in my head, as I've only tried to explain this once to someone and they looked at me like I was crazy/soooo not funny) "it's all about the Benjamins," I'm really drawing a parallel between the false, empty, easily reproduced culture of mainstream hip hop and the theories of a Marxist cultural critic! It makes the head spin (with laughter), no?

(Okay, so the other thing that makes this funny [again, probably only to me] is that Walter Benjamin's surname is pronounced "ben-ya-meen"--or at least, that's how I learned to pronounce it in college, which is very likely entirely wrong. But whatevz. It's funny because it's pronounced differently! Don't you see!?)

Finally, to come full circle, by using this statement as the title of my post I'm making a connection between the artificialness, greed, etc. of reality TV and Benjamin's theory about the aura, yadda yadda yadda. And also Puff Daddy.

End note.]

the global war on language

Remember when I went off about the upcoming presidential primaries?  You don't?  Well, screw you.

But seriously.  I'm not usually one to read, think about, or quote Time magazine outside of my bathroom, but recently I came across something from that Democratic contender debate thinggy that lightly scuffed off one of the layers on my coal black heart: 

"At a recent debate, Brian Williams asked the eight Democratic presidential candidates to raise their hands if there 'is such a thing as a global war on terror.'  Clinton and Obama raised their hands.  John Edwards was among those who did not.  'This political language has created a frame that is not accurate and that Bush and his gang have used to justify anything they want to do,' Edwards tells Time."

Goddamn!  Thank you John Edwards for being intelligent/brave enough to publicly state this maddening fact.  Also, way to go on being one of the few politicians who actually owned up to your god-awful, jingoism-fueled vote for the invasion of Iraq.  It doesn't fully excuse it, but at least you have the decency to say "I was wrong" without all the annoying hedging and conditional statements with which everyone else seems to pepper their "apologies."

Moving along. 

The language of the Bush administration has been a thorn in my side for years now--so much so that for awhile I had the outline for a research paper marinating in my brain.  But, much like most of my "good ideas," this particular one never saw "the light of day."  Sometimes I like to "use" quotation marks to "excess" for "comedic effect."

But I digress (as usual).  A few years ago there was a distinct semantic shift in the Bush administration--one that sent a red flag screaming up in my head, but which, apparently, no one else seemed to notice.  Or, maybe other people noticed but just didn't care.  In any case, I noticed and I thought it was important.  What I'm talking about here is the shift in language from talking about fighting "terrorism" to fighting "terror"  (as in "the global war on terror").

To say that we're in a war against terrorism is questionable in itself.  How does one fight an "-ism," exactly?  It's not one specific enemy or event or place, it's a series of subjectively defined acts and incidents (and also, I suppose according to Bush, ideas).  Defining "terrorism" as your foe ensures the ability to fight against whomever, whenever, and for as long as you see fit.  In other words, the very definition of the enemy precludes any sort of tangible, definitive end to this particular war. 

Reframing our actions as a war on "terror" (or "terra," if you're from Texas) exponentially multiplies and complicates the inherent problems with Bush's rhetoric.  We are no longer engaged in a conflict against the already relatively intangible -ism, but now find ourselves in a war against an emotion.  How fucked up is that, I ask you?   The potential theatre of war, already bloated by our foe "terrorism," expands even further--reaching into people's homes, hearts, and minds.   Who knew I could be so poetic?

Oh, wait; I did.  And if I was some sort of speech/ad writer for the president--and also it was, like, 1942--I would totally propose the shit out of the following campaign:

Are you feeling terrified?  Well wallow in terror no longer--for I, President George W. Bush, declare war on your transient, intangible feelings!  I shall root out the cause of your fear and deploy a battalion of troops and barbed wire and missiles and such!  We will be victorious in our fight against your fleeting emotional state!  God bless America and huzzah for capitalism!

(Imagine this being said in an old-timey man's voice, with lots of vim and vigor.  And also there probably would be brightly colored patriotic crepe paper streamers.  And a parade with pachyderms and fresh-faced baton-twirling girls with rosy cheeks and cute bobbed haircuts.  And very little cocaine, but probably a lot of drinking.  And maybe some sort of electric, ride-able goat float, just for good measure.  Did I mention a lot of drinking?)

I have more to say on the subject of our current regime's language, but I'll save it for another day.   One can only absorb so many awesome pictures of vintage majorettes strutting their stuff...(But just in case you can't, may I suggest this?)