What do you see?

Temporarily pungent odors

Not long ago I had occasion to smell a tremendously potent example of human flatulence and it was staggering. Indeed, I knelt down in deference to its power, tears welled in my eyes and I felt as though vinegar were being poured directly onto my corneas. I coughed and choked a little, my autonomic system apparently mistook the odor for food, and despite its error I am grateful to my faithful body that it would so quickly seek to protect and save me from foul stenches such as this one certainly was. But dear reader as you may well know yourself, retching in response to an unpleasant smell tends to compound the grotesque elements of the situation, perhaps even causing one to imagine tasting the material origins of the odor's abrasive pungency. If I may, the poop, as it were, if you will.

The folk there gathered appeared to be pretending that the offensive smell was not really there, and worse, that it had not been dispatched via a human orifice. Conversation continued to forge ahead, and I gawked in amazement at their stoic resolve to bravely carry on, paying no heed to the noxious fumes that were spoiling the air like an ancient plague. As I had arrived at the scene with the fecal-perfumed bouquet already evident, might I have missed the clarion call which had marked the arrival of said flatulence? Had a low bass note announced its entrance? Something like the synthesized tones out of Close Encounters? Or might it have had a more staccato, machine gun-like rat-tat-tat-tat. These are good guesses, and thanks for suggesting them, but in my guts, in my own viscera, I know that had the odor been accompanied by sound, and this is only speculation at this point, it would have been that of a shrieking chimpanzee. Probably a mother whose baby has been torn from her arms by a barbarous young male from a neighboring troupe. As he runs off, the baby's lifeless body dangling carelessly in one hand, the mother will scream as though all the forces of nature have been concentrated in her small body. This is the sound that I think matches the odor's primordial fury.

And what can be said of the people's denial of the smell out right? How to understand this mysterious taboo? Customs of social propriety are not easily transgressed, nor should they be. But in this case, when one among us has gifted the very atmosphere with potentially poisonous fumes, are those present not behooved to remark on the smell? At the very least a joke or two might be told to add levity to the tense situation. I would hope a more principled soul might even have spoken generally on the responsibility of the farter to exit the room at a sign of such an eruption. Why aim the diseased fumes towards the nostrils of one's friends and acquaintances? At least turn the offending orifice away from our nostrils, please do not insist on launching your sulfur-laced aroma at my sensitive olfactory apparatus. Call a spade a spade and point your accusative fingers at the culprit! It is you! You farted and pretended you didn't!

But what's this!? The outlandish fumes have vanished! Where have they gone? Back into the storm cloud like a retreating tornado? Maybe its very constitution had been torn apart, its minute particles spilling out into the surrounding space, losing their way among lumbering, abundant and tiny balls of oxygen. Or at least that's what the scientists would have us believe. Now I'm sad that it has gone! If only I might inhale deeply once more that thick scent! But what's this, I'm already forgetting the true full-bodied robustness of its acerbic stench. I feel nostalgic for earlier times, when my eyes watered and throat convulsed in mimed puking. But like a jinni, it has disappeared, with no mention of when it might my way pass again. And now I am sullen, wanting nothing more than for the first hesitant molecules of stench to trigger my nostril mechanisms, like a crazed butterfly momentarily alighting on a finger before happily dancing away. Good bye terrible odor, you'll be missed!

Sketch

The temperature was unbelievably warm. Coming from a city which had temperatures in the minus teens, it was a welcome surge.

Mexico city.

I had just cleared customs, and found myself in the airport of the largest city in the world. The expanse of the place from the landing airplane window was shocking. On the ground, the airport itself was less awe-inspiring, although I did hear the rumble of the sky train above me which connects the airports two vast terminals. Upon going through the doors in terminal one of Mexico City's International Airport, I was approached very swiftly by a young, somewhat groomed man.

-Sir, where are you going sir, he asked.

-Ah, well I need to get to terminal two, I said.

He appeared helpful and brought me to a staircase which lead to the highest of the terminal one floors. He spoke to me in good English but pantomimed the direction I was to head. Up one more flight of stairs, right and right again. I followed his instructions, but noticed before my last right a sign directing me straight ahead, to the sky train which takes people directly to terminal two. I stood confused but was quickly alerted by a curt "SIR!" which brought my attention back to the man who had approached me before. Speed-waling down a hallway he beckoned me to follow, like a fisherman diving his boat in the opposite direction from which his line runs in the water.
At this point I knew something was up.

So he walked in front of me, but always kept his eyes on the gullible traveler which I appeared to be. Obvious to him, I was the follower until I reached one more intersection, at which I turned the opposite direction that he was going, just to see what he would do.

-Sir, he screamed and then whistled. This way!

I was wondering where the fuck this guide wanted to take me. I saw not only was I far way from the train which I needed to catch, but that I was beside the autobus which could also take me to terminal two. Surely this man took me for an idiot. But I followed him, to see what was going down. The man was good, I'll give him that.

-Senor, he asked, where are you from?

-Canada.

-Where are you headed? He asked. Monteray?

-Morelia.

-Si! Morelia.

I was lead down a small staircase, two more flights of stairs. At the bottom was a small child selling candy. She was the first thing I saw. Looking up, I noticed that suddenly I was on the backstreets of Mexico City. Bright, intoxicating Mexico City. And, half a block away, my guide lead me to an SUV which had a man leaning against the hood, in a white wifebeater. Beside the SUV was a group of three men leaning on the hood of their souped up Honda civic.

-To Terminal two, my guide said pointing at the SUV and the man.

I said nothing. All I could do was look to the left and the right, and see that there were people looking very strangely at me. The streets of Mexico are alive and pulsing, I sensed what was going down. At best, I'd have been taken on a tour and eventually reach terminal two, which would earn my SUV driver a good three hundred and fifty pesos (about forty dollars Canadian) which he would share with the man who had brought me here. At the worst, I would have been driven to a secluded area near the airport, a group of men would enter the SUV at once and mug me, taking everything. I would be then be dumped somewhere either alive or dead, you never know in this city. Both outcomes did not suit me. I knew this and they didn't think I did.

-This will take me to terminal two, I asked.

-Yes Yes! To terminal two.

-I don't-

At this point I was cut off. The three men on the Honda civic started shouting at me and said in
unison;

-Terminal two! Go! Get in!

I looked at the gentleman who lead me thus far in less than five minutes. His name tag, surreptitiously placed, appeared worse designed than amateur. For almost thirty seconds; the man, the driver and the three hood-leaners badgered me to take the ride. I smiled and looked upwards to the sky. A large airplane was taking off, and I watched it for a moment. Beautiful. Then I looked at the aeroplane backwash windscreen which stretched several meters into the sky, much higher than the telephone pole beside it. I turned to my guide.

-Look, I'm going to take the sky train, I said.

-No no no, he said shaking his head, it is being constructed. Only works from six to three.

These guys knew they were getting nothing, and the last sinews of their lies were being severed
by the gullible blond foreigner.

-Yeah, no it's not. I'm going back inside.

With vexation my guide replied,

-Fine! go back inside!

I turned around and headed back down the block, to the staircase from which I appeared. The child was still sitting on the steps. With tired bloodshot eyes she stared at me and my eyes met hers for a few seconds. She smiled and stuck her tongue out at me.

I just smiled back...

A blatantly optimistic criticism

As Canadians have we not gasped in horror at the thought of the Americans buying only American? Have we not seen the writing on the wall as President Obama proclaimed his decision to save the United States from depression through economic isolation? Yes, of course we have - for it has been smeared across the papers of the nation, this fear that we as a raw resource nation will finally succumb to the economic terror that we have only dreamed of for ages, that the world will no longer need our natural assets. And yet, despite the fact that our salvation is glaring at us right in the face, we cannot see it. Or at least we refuse to see the light. You will have to excuse me as I will exercise my abilities in pseudo-cynicism in an effort to hide my true nature as an innocent wide-eyed optimist because here I'm going to suggest that Canada really has no problem as a nation of resources.

The answer is self-sustaining communities strengthened through the support for local resources. A perfect example of this is the "100 mile diet" (or "100 km diet", depending on your measuring system and intensity) which promotes not just a simplicity in dining but enhances the diversity of local crops and resources. A recent project featured on the radio show Deconstructing Dinner demonstrated, through a co-operative of farmers and residents in the Creston, BC region, the possibility of self-sustaining communities. Countless cities and communities across Canada will find themselves at a great loss in the event of a fuel shortage as all of them are needlessly dependent on the transportation of imported goods. This situation, although possible, is not necessarily inescapable.

It is all a question of what we perceive to be a turning point. In this instance it is a simple process of looking at a global situation, such as an economic downturn, not as an apocalyptic crisis but as a cue to reconsider our life styles. Returning to the United States and their apparent tradition of isolationism, we can see the fear evoked by terms like "iron curtain." Such terms are irrelevant and unproductive, relating the American decision to pull out of economic global activity as a return to the Cold War. What is the media suggesting here - that the isolationism is also cultural? Or is it perhaps that the US has gone socialist? Let's face it, it's certainly not the latter as practically every other nation in the western world is more socialist than the United States.

Here is the ultimate point: Obama's decision is not a crime. It should also not be a cause of worry to Canadians - in the face of apparently damaging economic depression nations need to focus on the importance of community, moving from large-scale global relations to more intimate settings. I would not use "isolationism" in this case as this term implies that a larger nation, which has typically employed smaller or less important nations for raw resources and labour, now cuts those off in an effort to protect itself. What I'm speaking of here is the case of the raw resource nation using its own products in an effort to sustain itself. So rather than worrying about our economy in the face of an American shut-down, we should regard this disruption in the post-Cold War global relations not as an end perse but as the beginning of a new era of self preservation.


The impending "American Iron Curtain," therefore, could be exactly what nations like Canada need. It is infinitely easy to fall into the cracks of apathy and lack of motivation - as humans we seem to believe that we are only moved to action through fear, stress, depression, and anxiety. This is a self-fulfilling prophesy: in seeing the futility of the situation we make little attempt to exercise any effort in bettering the situation and thus do nothing to redevelop society to a self-sustaining system where we can rely on ourselves and our immediate environment. (I'm trying to think of a clever way of putting this idea across - but its utter simplicity deflects the showers of sarcasm and irony that I wish to use.) Rather than sitting in our basements fearing change we can, very simply, alter our lifestyles with the most minute level of concentration. Perhaps that's a little too optimistic ... yes, it is, but you understand the drift here. This piece is not written to criticize human nature - it's like shooting fish in a barrel criticizing human nature. Human nature doesn't really exist (so perhaps they're imaginary fish ... which ruins the comparison a bit) and this image we have painted of ourselves as these bloated, unoriginal, conceited, imbeciles merely strengthens the evasion of responsibility.

(This has actually turned into a decent totalitarian-style motivational speech. Canadians! Unite! Earthlings! Fight against the corporate forces which control your food sources! Carbon-based life-forms! Grow spinach and potatoes for your country!)

Luck of the Irish?

As most of us Irish are, I am pretty culturally distanced from my roots. It is both a pity and a blessing perhaps. The Irish are responsible from some bad vibes. However, we've perfected the craft of fucking up royally and creating art at the same time. Strange that.

It's a queer thought though, that most of my favorite writers/poets are Irish and most of my favorite musicians either hail from the land of Black and green, or are descendants. My love for these artist occurred before I began to explore my roots. Memes perhaps?

I don't know too much about my family back home, all I know is that we originally hailed from a town in Southern Ireland called 'Douglas.' We emigrated to Canada about one hundred and twenty three years ago and seem to spawn a long line of alcoholics and manic-depressives.

Why we celebrate this heritage is beyond me.

Sláinte Mhaith.

Ali in Ireland, Ali in Northern Ireland

(Ye be warned dear visitor, herein you'll find little but deceit and slander. Aye, and more nonsense than is right for honest living.) Check yourself before you wreck yourself, sprightly people of the ancient forests! Though your bearded pines and oaks, birches and beeches are no more, but were long ago cut down to make way for the masticating ungulates on which progress depended, your souls are still of the forests and it is in its vague emblems you must crouch and hide. Today marks the day of Saint Patrick, that Welsh missionary whose tastes for roasted barley stouts, hatred for snakes and nearness to God knew no bounds. He strolled the ancient forests of Ireland and noticed that they needed more God and less serpents, and told people so. And he bashed the snakes dead. Then he told everyone about God. Succeeding in this endeavor, he did not rest on his laurels but rowed a boat across to England. And as the sea rhythmically lapped against his humble wooden vessel, he imagined the sound to be snakes clamoring to slither aboard, and he cursed them and thought of all the ways he would snuff them if they managed it. When the going was calm he listened to the patterned sounds of the oars and meditated on the incorrect perceptions of those around him. Sweet Irish folk, throw your spears and mumble incantations at thine enemies, trap them in labyrinths and drive them into a frenzied stupor with the primitive twang of your ageless harps.

When he arrived on shore he quickly jumped out of his boat and began thrashing at the earth, beating it and stabbing it with his oar. The people farther inland heard the commotion and gathered at the shore to see what was causing it. And Patrick looked up at them and approached them, taking a carefully preserved clover out of a pocket hidden underneath his robes. "Look on this small plant," he said to them, and one man blurted out, admittedly to the embarrassment of his wife standing just behind him, "Looks what me mum put in the pot for supper." And he laughed, but Patrick did not laugh but scowled at the man and furrowed his brow as a token of his profound irritation. "This is a holy sprig for it tells us of the nature of God," and pointing to each of the three leaves in succession he said, "here is the father, here the son, and here the holy ghost. Look on the clover and know God." The people listened to what Patrick told them and they took the clover to peer more closely at its sinews and veins, looking for a sign that the tiny plant really was as special as the invisible snake slayer claimed. From time to time, Patrick's long bony finger would appear in their field of view and would tap lightly at one of the tiny leaves. "Look on this carefully dear sister, for it is upon the eyes of Jesus that you are gazing," or "here is the binding essence of the trinity, it is the immaterial spirit which entwines the father and son." And the locals blinked and shrugged but finally accepted the strange Welsh-Irish monk into their midst.

But Patrick had to leave. The slithering and hissing filled his ears like no sound on earth and his heart was filled with purpose. He left the English people and rowed his boat to France, for it was there, he told them, that the serpents were gathering en masse, to sleep in cool places under rocks or in the crotches of trees. He furiously paddled his boat over to Europe and again raced on shore, thrashing at the earth in the hope of striking their small skulls. Again the people came down to see what was going on, and again Patrick showed them his holy clover and amazed them with tales of its oracular powers. "Tabarnak, cela étant un trèfle magnifique!" thought one in the crowd, and he was then struck by a vision of a great river across the ocean to the west and a settlement of his people. The land was filled with clovers and their were few snakes but that kept to themselves and did not beguile and charm the people. And he heard music being played there and it was heard across the land, the musicians were called Vous Deux and they sang about lost causes and glass-infested playgrounds. Patrick knew what the man had seen and whispered in his ear, "Get on your boots," and the man in turn knew of what he spoke and put on his boots. But soon it was like before and though the people had accepted Patrick among them, he moved on for the snakes had snuck out of the country, infesting new lands which had not yet beheld the power of the clover. So he departed, his oar whittled down to a proper thrashing stick, and in his pocket the holy clover. And he professed the trinity with his learning aid and beat at the snakes that were always slithering against his legs and hissing in his ears.

I Hope That I Piss People Off By Posting This.

Every now and then, I enjoy getting perspectives from people who on some level I agree with, but on most levels are so wrapped up in their beliefs, that I would rather run a mile rather than be in their company. Such was the case last night when a friend through the Disinformation company forwarded me this lecture/tirade by a fellow named Derrick Jensen.

Derrick is a self professed anarcho-primitivist who feels that we are killing the planet. Yeah I know, we've heard this song and dance before. His lecture/tirade is filled with interesting ideas, humor, insight, revolutionary leanings and pathos. I'm not too sure how much of what he says I agree with, but at least when he speaks, he makes it hard for me to dismiss much of his points.

One thing is for sure though, this lecture/tirade is guaranteed to piss you off in some way. Perhaps some of it, perhaps all of it. Maybe you will agree with all of his points, maybe you will agree with none of his points. But I implore you to give at least a half hour of your time to this video. If you so desire, the second part of the video is available through Google video as well.

'Take That!'

What do you do when you're a group of under-sexed and homophobic men, to get back at the world which has treated you so harshly? Why, you rape a lesbian of course!

Yes, the statement above is a very harsh one, but apparently there has been an increase of so-called 'Corrective Rape' in South Africa. There are groups of young men who have the audacity to rape somebody who is different from them and tell them while the deed is being orchestrated, that their misfortune is due to the fact that they have a different sexual orientation from their heroic saviors. Under the docket of 'truth-being-stranger-than-fiction' the ramifications of this act are bewildering and saddening. Not only do you have to deal with the daily persecutions of an unforgiving society, but now you have to fear for your life that somebody has taken up the creed to try and rescue you from your 'lifestyle.'

Now, common sense would dictate that this would be the last thing that any person with half a brain would attempt to do to purge somebody of their sexual misgivings. If anything, raping a lesbian will only make them more steadfast in their conviction of seeing men as useless brutes. Great thinking boys, you fail at life. Really what is going on is that you are a sadistic maniac who lacks the fortitude to look at the problems within your own life and the fact that perhaps, out there in the world, there may be nice people who are, yes, different from you and want to be left alone. That would be too easy wouldn't it.
At least have the balls to admit that you just like victimizing people and leave that 'corrective measures' claptrap to the American evangelicals who run conversion therapy summer camps. For even in that depravity, it's a bit more funny and less troubling.

One does have to wonder though, if male homosexuals in South Africa are receiving the same curative treatment...

New legends of comedy?

Vanity Fair is making a strong claim in its spread Comedy's New Legends. By "comedy" they appear to mean, quite strictly, only those comedic films produced in Hollywood. Sorry, there are also a few who got their start on TV, also not incidentally produced in Hollywood. So our first take-home point here is that today's legends of comedy happen to be those working in the TMZ (fortunately for TMZ.)

After a brief run through, I was forced to admit to myself that more than a few audible bleats have emitted from my own smiling maw at the antics of several deemed legendary. BC-boy Seth Rogen is prominently featured and I would be a terrible liar if I pretended Superbad didn't strike me as hilarious the first time I watched it. I also saw Paul Rudd dance once and the way he moved his hips seemed pretty funny. Like anyone who has seen that outlandish hilarity, the three seasons of Arrested Development are a breathtaking comet of comedy, so seeing J.O.B. and Michael there was also not infuriating. Actually, none of those pictured - in rather cloying and arbitrary, I mean funny, thematic arrangements - I would deny have been in a Hollywood film which is categorically anti-funny. That is to say, the laughter which is elicited from an audience is preordained by the careful planning and execution of these hardworking entertainers.

But by titling the feature "Comedy's New Legends," readers, or lookers, should be compelled to judge for themselves whether these few white, mostly male, joke-spinners will have successive generational staying power. When my eyeballs are directed towards these images I did not laugh. The production of the photos echos the bloated budgets of the films (even Superbad cost millions) these famous people reap their reputations from. Which is to say that it's hard to tell what the spread is more about, the "comedy legends" or the teams of stylists, hair and make-up artists, set designers and other uncredited behind the scenesters. In one image, newly minted legend Jason Segel pretends his work thus far lends itself to comparison with the great Buster Keaton. That is truly hilarious. It's like comparing my 11-year-old brother's grasp of long division to the math skills of John Nash (cursed game theory positivist nonsense). In another image, Rogen "The Auteur" is depicted as Frida Kahlo. "Like, she totally had an eyebrow mustache and wore the head gear of a Carmen Miranda fan club dork." An iconic Latin American folk hero and an up-and-coming, devil-may-care swear machine. What a hilarious juxtaposition! Oh, the subversion!

Somehow though, for all the fanfare that a ravishing photo spread in Vanity Fair can muster, I'm left feeling hollow and frowning. The word "comedy" here has become withered and shriveled like the testicles of a young steer, just before they fall to the ground with a dull thud left to be trodden and shit on (Rogen would love that one). Does anyone notice the evisceration of the term? Whither the satire? What happened to humor which served as the sugar, making palatable nasty truths. I'd love to see a satire on the Wall Street absurdities. What about the written medium, or do screenplays constitute a writer's sole comedic contribution? I'm currently leafing through a long-since forgotten writer, George Mikes - from whence the phrase "To take the mickey" comes - and I'm struck by the balance that humor and bitter criticism can achieve when wielded with skill. This is exactly the sort of humor which our new comedy legends run away from at impressive speeds.

The creations of Hollywood comedians are for the most part, and for our fledgling legends completely, a purely bacchanal affair. Strip the ladies down to their underwear, get drunk and stoned and see how many subtle variations Seth Rogen can spin with "fuck," "shit" and "cock." Fantastic hilarity for the ages! A comedic box-office success most often depends on its lowest common denominator element. It's not that the film need be complete pandering fluff, but to be financially successful it will need to kick a few crotches and offer a few improbable relationships between endearing, attractive females and "I-think-he's-retarded" males. Perhaps this escapist drivel simply reflects the spirit of the age, providing us with an escape from our vacationing lives. The lighthearted and offensive have become synonyms such that if one doesn't carelessly trample over our dwindling sense of propriety and decency, a legendary comedian he (oh and a few she's) ain't.

Perhaps this combination of "easy going affable lightheartedness" and sour offensiveness is evident most directly in the figure of Russell Brand (unjustly depicted as the demigod Charlie Chaplin). Brand's inimitable eloquence make him a compelling figure, and accordingly the British pop-culture mill has tapped his idiosyncrasies for all the cash value they're worth. But in a recent fiasco on BBC Radio 2, Brand and accomplice Jonathan Ross called up 78-year-old actor Andrew Sachs - "Manuel" on the passe and unlegendary Fawlty Towers - and let him know, ha ha, I can't even get it out it's so funny, and clever, musn't ignore the cleverness of the hilarity: Brand let Sachs know that he "had a go on" the old man's "satanic-slut" granddaughter. Brand and Ross recorded the zany hilarity and broadcast it over the airwaves. The stodgy BBC failed to see the joke and canceled Brand's program. Fortunately opportunities continue to knock loudly at Brand's door, so not to worry, legendary comedy is still on tap!

Legends these actors and comedians may turn out to be, but I can't help wishing an ignoble demise to the mentality which forms at least part of their popularity and success. "Fucking shit! I'm choking on a chicken bone!"

The losers are coming

Well it's spring, and boys and men the world over are tending to their weapons, making sure everything is just right before setting off to destroy as many lives as they can. It's a duty that weighs heavy on their subtle consciences. How can they kill as many innocent people as possible so that everyone might know of their thorough dissatisfaction with the world? How might they convey their impression that life has been unfair to them, that their allotted portion of body, space and time lacks a certain justice? On the cusp of spring, as the worms get to working the soil, allowing ambitious sprouts an early peek at the world, angry young men are also stirring, slaughtering here, there and everywhere, letting everyone know that they just don't like it here very much.

In North America, we look to several varieties of the inscrutable rodent to help us with our long-term forecasting. When those sleepy ground hogs emerge from their burrows for a stretch and a fart, we monitor their gaze very closely. If they are observed to locate the shadow cast by their diminutive though not unimpressive bodies, we can rest easy knowing that cold weather will continue for some time. But if the little bugger spies a maiden rising from her own dwellings, perhaps with a garland of wild flowers atop her fair head, he will ignore his shadow completely, indeed the cunning meteorologist will like Romeo mistake the maiden for the sun. And if she happens to make her way past our hero, he will no doubt lose himself completely when the pleasant fragrance of rosemary or cinnamon wafting behind her lingers a while in his exceptionally sensitive nostrils.

But what is stirring our modern violent sociopaths? Why do they get out of their beds one day to shoot the guns they bought, borrowed or stole at innocents, often strangers? I certainly don't know. My guess is that years pass with said sociopath slowly or quickly developing facade realities, which those closest to him either deny or reluctantly tolerate (The slightly more famous Erasmus noted that the world was filled with fools always mistaking their son's squint for a wink). In his mind, the world and its contents are ever poised against his interests, everyone and everything conspires to ruin him, to deny him what he most plainly deserves: attention. And if no one notices him, he will find a way to make them notice. These men and boys aren't Raskolnikovs, disgusted with the inferiority of those around them and compelled by a perverse survival-of-the-smartest morality, rather they see only darkness and decay. There is nothing good about the world, indeed their thoughts show them over and over just how vile, gruesome and violent the world can be.

A wise beardless old man has fortunately offered some thoughts to help us explain the disturbing phenomenon of seemingly random male violence: The Radical Loser. This exciting essay offers what amounts to a natural history of the radical loser, whom author Hans Enzensberger distinguishes above all else by their desire to hurt others without cause save the vague delusions nurtured in their heads. They are to be found on every continent (probably especially Antarctica - I joke) on earth, they speak every language, wear every garment and curse furiously at every idiot they see on TV. And there is no one but idiots, or unbelievers, or wrong believers, on TV so their poor throats inevitably grow course from all the ranting they're forced to unleash. Enzensberger's essay seems to me to identify and deal squarely with an alarmingly common phenomena more directly than most similar undertakings. It's not a work of academic subtlety or patience, but cuts right to the chase, which is probably what all thinking people do should they be so lucky to age with their critical abilities intact. Everyone has a duty to read, memorize and discuss this illuminating essay by a truly wise old man.

The Infamous Exploding Bookcase of 1909

One day, the two juggernauts of the mind; Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, were having a somewhat heated debate in Freud's office. Sigmund it seems, was very concerned with his protegee. On many occasions Freud had told himself that Jung would continue and improve on the work that he himself was pioneering. Jung was to be the superstar of psychoanalysis. However, Freud was just not too sure these days...

Sigmund had called on Carl to explain a distressing trend he had undertaken to find some acute form of rationality with the Chinese I Ching as well as astrology. For years, the topic of coincidence and synchronicity had befuddled and affected the young Jung. For a strict materialist like Sigmund Freud this just would not do."My boy, you are wallowing in the black tide of the mud of occultism!" he proclaimed. "I cannot help but dismiss your current work and my skepticism has grown tired of your paranormal leanings."
Jung was crushed. He had always wanted to feel some form of reciprocated interest . "Your skepticism herr professor, is an unhealthy one, and I fear it blinds you to great potential."

The two continued to argue somewhat heatedly. While Freud was going on in his way, Jung had a curious sensation. It was as if his 'diaphragm were made of iron and were becoming red-hot -- a glowing vault'. And at that moment there was such a loud report in the bookcase, which stood right next to them, that they both started up in alarm, fearing the thing was going to topple over on them. Jung said to Freud, "There, that is an example of a so-called catalytic exteriorization of emotion phenomenon."

"Oh come," Sigmund exclaimed. "That is sheer bosh."

"It is not," Carl replied. "You are mistaken, herr professor. And to prove my point I now predict that in a moment there will be another such loud report!"

CRACK!

Sure enough, no sooner had he said the words that the same detonation went off in the bookcase. Jung was unsure of what gave him such certainty and the emotion in his belly frightened him. But he knew beyond all doubt that the report would come again. Freud only stared aghast at the bookcase. The argument had abruptly ended.

After fetching Freud a glass of water, Jung sat down next to his grizzled and obviously shaken teacher. "So what do you think now?" Sigmund picked up his fatherly horn-rimmed glasses and placed them on his nose. "Keep a cool head, my son. It is better not to understand something than to make such great sacrifices to understand."

Absurdities pushed to absurdity compounded by absurdities*

I was going to write something about squirrels and public transport, about how I would recommend to our bushy-tailed mammalian comrades not to bother trying to sneak onto a bus because doing so would only delay their travel plans. I was going to tell you all about my intervention involving the little squirrel that ran out to catch my bus this morning: "Don't waste your time handsome rodent, you'd do better running to your destination in your inimitable frantic style, climbing a tree now and again to gauge the distances," I hollered. The squirrel probably thanked me in some incomprehensible way, and in doing so my own primitive intuitions caught its drift, and I nodded thanks in return for its thanks. With its opaque unblinking eyeballs staring into my own it would reveal to me its boundless gratitude for my unsolicited counsel, and would chirp or bleat back to his family and friends that their time would be wasted on public transport. If they wanted to reach the park in time to bother the magpies which lounge about the trees there, they should best get their tiny legs in motion. But this plan has fallen into decay and will not be written about.

The next thing I was going to write about would have referred to the pending arms agreement between Russia and the US. I saw a headline on the BBC, which caused me to choke and had I been eating I would have really choked, literally blocked the passage which thankfully passes the requisite gases into and from my organic vessel. So furious did the prospect of these former ideological foes smacking their hands in a sacred high-five make me, that I was about to scribe something withering and scathing about all sides. Then I realized that the article was really about disarmament! At once my scaffolding of ire and mockery collapsed to the ground, its hollow pieces bounding against the earth causing a faint echo, a feeble whisper of the mockery that might have been. After shutting down their vast military armadas, what criticism could possibly be aimed at the most weapons laden societies on earth? I tell you: none, no mockery is possible where the military might of Russia and the US are concerned. It's all peace and trade talks from now on.

My last option for writing involved the witty banter of some young men aboard the bus which dispatched me from work to my dwellings. To the elderly and enfeebled front section of the bus they confidently marched, deep in discussion about the literary offerings of a previous age. One critic was heard saying, "You could like write the point of Great Expectations in like 10 pages," to which a second pointed out, gathering to his power of insight all his vast learning, "In the nineteenth century that was just the style of those times. Crap." The final noun sunk into my eager ears like the apple into Kafka's insect. That's it! I have it! The style of nineteenth century literature is, where are my notes, ah yes... Crap! "All the literature of the world 209 to 109 years ago is crap!" This sentence rang through my mind and I almost embarrassingly blurted it out, before checking myself and sitting silently for the next pearl to be uncased. What foolishness to bark out a diluted plagiarism, when another casual aphorism might drop as randomly into my undeserving ear? "My liver is like suffering," said another mandarin, referring to the drunkenness that is the hallmark of all generous thinkers who, like superheroes with day jobs, pretend to be students when really they're literary heritage demolishers.

*title quoted from another crappy writer, but of the last and present century, Tom Stoppard.

Why I'll Be Missing 'Watchmen.'

I don't take very many things seriously in life. A general sense of hilaritas seems to rule my life because frankly, I find it to be healthy. Life is far too short to take as if everything matters. Granted, things do matter in my life and I do find aspects of my lifestyle that I must come at from a somewhat mature angle. But a prevailing sense of joviality appears to be the most overriding function for me at this time.

Except for one thing. Art.

Firstly, I'd like to make plainly clear that 'all art is quite useless' to quote Mr. Wilde. It does have it's faculties as well as aspects, some of them very advantageous. Perhaps the most fruitful of these facets is 'arts' ability to change consciousness. Some art seems to trigger such strong ideas within me that it almost seems like a quantum leap. Of course, because it's me, this 'art=consciousness change' balderdash is not so much a belief that I have, but merely a value. But don't get me wrong, in the pantheon of art that I've studied and enjoyed, I cannot canonize very many works of art with this dubious honor. Alan Moore's 'Watchmen' however, is one of them.

Yes, it is a silly comic book, and not one to be taken seriously. Alan has often stated many times that he finds it appalling that people take his work so earnestly and that most have perhaps missed the point of his book. I would definitely agree with him. Even I find myself sometimes embarrassed about how impassioned I am about this comic. These days, I am happy with the delight that 'Watchmen' brought me. The book is a very poignant, touching, ugly, beautiful and down-right funny one. Surely I will read it again, like all the works of literary art that I have found to be somewhat instrumental in my mental development. Of this I can be sure. However, I'll be skipping out on the movie.

It's not some kind of luddite stubbornness which belies my decision to do so. Frankly there have been many comics that have been adapted to film that I have enjoyed. 'Watchmen' however is a very different animal. Alan Moore expressly wrote the Watchmen to show what comics can do, that film cannot. Absolutely, there are very cinematic prospects within the pages of the book, some which even I would love to see be brought to a giant screen. But the detail and character development and other such features which shocked me with their poignancy, all within a twelve issue comic, just cannot be conveyed in a two and a half hour movie. My position on the whole affair is the same as that of Brian K. Vaughan; "...it's like making a stage play of Citizen Kane. I guess it could be OK, but why? The medium is the message." Of course, this is a very shallow perspective and not very open-minded. I do take some art as a serious matter.

So, I say the next sentences without any glibness. I hope people go and see the movie and I hope they enjoy themselves. How can you not make a good film from such wonderful source material? Many critics I admire rave over how stunning the movie actually is, and it's good to finally see the comic to movie genre gaining notoriety. I also hope that at least one out of every ten people that watch the 'Watchmen' will go and find the book somewhere and give it a read. Perhaps the movie will give people a larger perspective then they had before they watched the film.

As for me- it was a comic.

Then - Seperate. Now - Together.

When did we start to think about thinking? When were we actually aware that we may be conscious beings and that others around us are as conscious as we are? Most of us assume that we've always had it and that the growth of self-awareness occurred along with our physical evolution. What if it is something somewhat new? What if our ability to formulate our decisions is something that developed not that long ago?

Are you familiar with the bicameral mind?

It seems like there a time in which we communicated with the gods, where the separation of the god-head and mankind was very slim. To exist was to be controlled by the voices of the gods. We gave them names and they were plentiful. We gave them our emotions as well as the physical forces that shaped our world. Our art was handed to us directly from the heavens. They were in no sense ‘figments of the imagination’ of anyone. They were man’s volition. Slowly over time, we stopped listening. We began the journey to self-introspection. Where did they go? Were they ever there at all?

The one place where gods inarguably exist is the human mind, in all their grandeur and monstrosity. Our brain, split but together in two parts; the left and the right. These gods were encased in the right side of our brain, the irrational side. More than three thousand years ago, the right part of our brains would issue orders to the left part of the brain which is responsible for rationality and language. Our hallucinations were as real as anything. We all lived our lives like that of a modern schizophrenic. We functioned in a society, but we were all as crazy as the person beside us. Our language was a rich tapestry, we did not go about grunting and slobbering like the animals but merely accounted for our actions and art as the will of the gods.

Then, somehow things began to change. The voices grew more quiet by the centuries. We began to streamline our gods. We put faith in statues and idols, kings and queens. Eventually the voice was gone and we amalgamated all of our greatest gods into one. Instead of names such as Apollo and Astarte and Dionysus we gave our heavenly glory monosyllabic names; Yahweh, Allah, and God. Somehow we took away the diversity of the voices inside our heads and gave the supreme being a name that was no more than a single guttural noise.

Eventually the gods were gone. They have been replaced with multiple personalities and psychological demons. Every now and then, someone blessed with an atavistic brain emerges to listen to the gods once more. Someone who regularly dips back into lost times and brings forward the glory of our once separated minds. And as for the rest of us, we are lucky to get small whispers of old voices. They are there sometimes, and they speak in hushed tones. You will hear them before you fall asleep, submerged in a bathtub or riding on a bus.

Be calm, you're not going crazy. You're engaging in something that was once common but is now lost.