indieWIRE

Four-Wheeled Motorcycle

Woman to woman

Conservatives really piss me off sometimes. Now, don't get me wrong: I believe this is a great country, and that the founding principles outlined in the Constitution are ones that should be upheld and protected. But the conservatives, with their blather about "returning this country to its religious foundation," are actually countermanding the principles outlined by the founding fathers. Some of them, surely, were devout Christians, but they all agreed that the government should not be beholden to any religious belief. This is a democratic system, not a theocratic one.

Conservatism supposedly entails the belief that tradition is more important than change. But the GOP and other groups are actually trying to reverse the flow of history over the past thirty years, which means they are actually reactionaries, not true conservatives. (Doesn't it? I don't claim to understand the political system, or the methodology of the conservative ideology. Obviously, I think it's completely whacked; but I welcome your opinion. I hold no belief that my opinions are gospel truth.)

But the idea that "conservatives" are actually reactionaries in disguise isn't the only problem I see in their aims. The fact is, change is inevitable. It occurs in every moment, continually. Now, this isn't to say that change always results in a step forward (the myth of progress); obviously, it cuts both ways.

It's no surprise to me that the major conservative voice in this country is a fundamentalist Christian voice. After all, this is a group that believes their god will reward them with an eternal paradise in which nothing ever changes or dies. What a boring place that must be. For good or evil, change is the spice of life. It is injustice which creates the will to make positive change occur. The inevitable fact of death encourages us to make every day on Earth count. If we lived forever without any worry of death, most of us would be couch potatoes.

Even though change is a necessary force, humans have a need for continuity. I don't begrudge the conservatives the right to keep their traditions and values as they do, but their insistence on telling others what's best for them really gets my goat. Which brings us to the point which originally started this rant: the abortion issue. With their control of Congress and the new justices which they will appoint to the nation's courts, conservatives are attempting to reverse the Roe v. Wade decision and thrust our country into a second darkness, returning us to the state of affairs before abortions were sanctioned by the government. It was a horrible time, when a woman forced to make an already difficult decision had to face public condemnation, unsafe procedures, injury and death if she chose to abort her child. Feminists uphold the the coat hanger as a grisly image of those times, a reminder of the horrors of that era.

Sadly, that fat fuck Rush Limbaugh missed the point entirely. In comments made on the 30th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, Rush demonstrated, once again, that he truly is a misguided prick. His polemics are completely based on a skewering of the facts. Read 'em for yourself (be warned: they are likely to cause head-popping revulsion among humanists, and the website I pulled this from is even scarier. WorldNetDaily will be the focus of more rants here in the future. Stay tuned.) but I'll illustrate a few of his points here, so I can rant on them specifically.

First, coathangers. Typically, Rush begins with a news story rooted in fact: an editorial in the Boston Globe reveals that most women under 35 are unfamiliar with the meaning of the coathanger as a grisly reminder of the past. Though the piece calls this "good news," it is actually tragic: if we do not remember our own past, we are doomed to repeat it, and the conservatives want to see that happen. Just as Jews vow to "never forget" the Holocaust, so should America's women remember that their right to choose was not always guaranteed, and may not in the future. Vigilance should be the feminists' watchword.

But Rush spins this fact for his own purposes. Let's take a look at his reply.

"Is this not sick," asked Limbaugh, "to judge the health of a movement on the basis of that? Does that not tell you what this has always been founded on? ... Here's a movement that is proud of the coat-hanger past and is upset that not enough women under 35 understand what it is." (emphasis mine)

What a dumbass. In fact, I don't even have a more verbose response, so I'll just repeat it: What a dumbass.

This isn't the full substance of Limbaugh's comments, but I can't bring myself to encapsulize them. Read them for yourself, and remember: This man enjoys enormous popularity as the voice of conservative opinion. Please don't discount this as the ranting of one asshole. People listen to him, and he daily injects this poison into the minds of voters.

People, just say no to the conservative message. It purports to have your best interests at heart--but it actually intends to create a police state called America.

(Note: I am by no means a member of the Democratic Party, and I do not agree with all liberals, especially the ones in power, whose pockets are lined with dirty money--but I proudly consider myself a liberal nonetheless.)

In the News: U.S. Dismisses Growing Opposition to Iraq War

Today, even more countries came out against Bush's war machine today--China and Russia have joined France and Germany in declaring their opposition to the stewing conflict that Bush has been brewing up like some third-rate Julia Child, slicing his own fingers more than the carrots for his stew.

What's astonishing is America's continuing resistance to voices of reason, simply because "they talks all kind of funny," according to an unnamed Bush supporter. The stubbornness and self-assurance of Americans is our legacy--and one of our biggest handicaps.

Admit it! War is not a good idea! You know, people sometimes get hurt or even killed because of war. (!!!)

Interesting reading in the Loaf today:

• A neurosurgeon who's pioneering cyborg brain implants (cover story)
  
• Solidarity in cinema: The new wave of film collectives in Atlanta, featuring that funny bastard, BRUNE
  
• The voice of reason, Cliff Bostock
  

Crayon.net is one of those sites that, once you discover it, you wonder how you ever lived without it (like Blogger). It allows you to create your own customized newspaper. Highly recommended.

The Onion is my favorite website of all time. If you've never read it before, you are flushing your life away. There's lots of archives, get busy reading. Also, The A.V. Club is your smartest look at the week's new releases on screen, CD, DVD and print. Not to mention you can read Savage Love and Red Meat there.

Everything2 is a strange beast--like the Encyclopedia Galactica or the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (not to be confused with h2g2), it's a sort of universal reference guide. I recommend searching for your favorite song lyric, action figures, or movie quote--you'll be surprised what floats to the surface.

Japanese Streets is a zine devoted to Japanese style, featuring many, many pictures of all types of girls, wearing clothing that ranges from quirky to alien.

This is a site I stumbled on through PeterPayne.net, another good site on Japan that includes some very funny Engrish. (English as spoken by Japanese has a very distinctive style--I can best describe it as a poetic Elmer Fudd--or "Arimaru Fudu.") Peter Payne is the administrator of J-List, a site that sells all kinds of Japanese products. I find this stuff fascinating.

Links Archive:

Everything and More
WAGATRON

Speak to Me


These links aren't very interesting, but they're mine. My own. My precious...

Happy Birthday to me. At this point, I have definitely reached the age where birthdays are no longer a status thing. After 21, you begin to dread your birthday instead of anticipate it. This is for a few reasons:

• no one else will know its your birthday unless you mention it--why rock the boat?
  
• your age no longer represents a vital rite of passage
  
• your birthday is likely to be a weekday, and thus, a "school night" (must work in the morning)
  
• over time, birthday cake slowly becomes a poisonous substance to adults
  
• a birthday is only an embarrassing reminder that one day in the future, a doctor will give you a prostate exam
  

I could go on, but I don't really enjoy sobbing like a baby. I'm 24. Time to enjoy it.

What are personals sites?

I honestly think they are mirages. You think there are people there, but there aren't. It's exactly like the subway, where if you even wanted to talk to someone, they wouldn't like you. Everyone on board wants someone else, who doesn't want them back.

Worse, the personals site is a timeless sort of vacuum, not at all like the real world. People get frustrated and get off the train, but the afterimage remains, streaking away with time, and people still respond to it. There's a one-way correspondence between the desperate ones who just boarded at the last station and the pathetic ghosts who've been lingering for months, slowly disintegrating like wood smoke.

Most of the people look better than their posted picture, except for the ones who look worse, and most don't resemble their picture at all. It's a complete crapshoot, and the only way to find out is risk contamination by contact. Meeting someone.

Invariably, even if this goes better than expected, it's a slippery slope. Quicksand. A booby trap.

Consider yourselves fairly warned. Anyone with evidence to the contrary, feel free to email it to me. I'd like to read it.

I challenge you not to find this game queasily addictive:

Santa Ballz

Sure, Christmas is over, but Santa's balls are fun 365 days a year.

Mattress Planet Mission Statement:

we are your official "get-stoned-and-read-this" website.

Enjoy.

It's an impressive block of glass and concrete, I think to myself as I walk up the drive. Organic, even alive in some form. It's inviting--comforting, somehow.

I designed it that way, you know. You have an eye for design.

This voice shocks me out of my reverie. I'm used to hearing my own thoughts reverberating in my skull, but I'm not in the habit of picking up others'. And no one spoke aloud--that was a voice in my mind.

Can you hear me? I think, looking around for some sort of hidden speaker. I feel foolish, but only because I'm excited by the possibilities of a disembodied spirit haunting this office building.

I hear your thoughts, yes, but the expression on your face is more than enough to give them away. You're not a Vegas man, are you?

Are you human? I think to this presence, just as I realize that, if I am going to continue to talk to myself, I might as well do it on the move, instead of dumbstruck on the sidewalk. As I reach the revolving door, I get my answer.

This is what I’ve forgotten...

Daniel buttons his cufflinks, twists them beneath his hands so they lie on his wristbones, like ladybugs. His face is flush over his collar—in the mirror mine looks the same. We step to the mirror together, laughing. (When Dan and I laugh it’s like mirrors anyway. Put two jokers onstage and they will compete trying to split each others’ sides, both succeeding in the process. Whatever he does makes me do something that makes him laugh, or else he goes straightfaced and stares off in his head, in which case I go right after him, until we’re both dripping with sweat, gasping for air and spasming with giggles.)
There’s a knock on the door, and a dwarf in purple brocade appears round the door. “Places.” I don't know where that is, but the dwarf is motioning to us, and Daniel follows. I reluctantly follow after them.
This is a very plush theatre we’ve found for ourselves, I’m thinking. I’m still trying to fix what we’re doing here, but Dan seems to know well enough. We’ve done this sort of thing plenty before—but why don’t I remember this place?
Suddenly we hear a brass fanfare beginning below us. We round a corner and find ourselves at the back of the house, aisles filling the air below us. The orchestra is only the size of a coin, more than two hundred feet away. The dwarf leads us over to a floor rug laid out on the ground. There are four cables attached to it which stretch into the rafters, far above. The cables are fixed to the corners. Daniel steps to one side of the carpet, grasps two cables. The dwarf is smiling idiotically, waving for me to step on to it. As I do, the carpet ripples under my feet and I can feel it supporting my weight. Not your normal carpet, but not exactly a magic carpet either. The cables are rather unusual as well. Suddenly we are moving, and I see that Dan is pushing against the carpeting—pumping, as though we were on a swingset. We soar over the aisles, back to the heights at the top of the house, and then careening down towards the stage into the flys, and back up again. I can see the audience pointing, laughing, and I know many of the people in this audience. There are several hundred people though...suddenly I see Jason Wagner, laughing his goddamn head off. And as I lift my head, I see that Daniel’s laughing hysterically, which means I must be laughing as well. Hooting and pumping, higher and higher into the rafters. We leap off, landing in a net strung high above, and after simply clinging for a few moments, we climb down onto a rafter and toe our way into the darkness.
After many circuituous turns, forks and twisting passages, we find our way back to the dressing room. In my locker, I find my clothing: one sharkskin suit, polyester shirt, Day-Glo orange wingtips. “Daniel, what city are we in? Is this in style?” I ask him.
”You look fine.” He’s wearing his crumpled brown jacket, and a giant fish necktie. Leaving the dressing room, we descend a ladder, take two lefts and slide down a fireman’s pole. We’re inside a fire station, but it’s obviously abandoned. Daniel pushs the garage door button, and it slides upward a few feet before it sticks shut. We crouch and slide under.
The city is muggy, and that’s about all I can say about it. All distinguishing features, if there are any, are obscured by waves of heat and condensation. We hail a passing bromeliad and head downtown...

Well, here I am. I doubted that I would ever make it here, but somehow, I did. As I look down upon this great city of Montreal, I wonder: How will the world react to a man in a provolone cheese suit, plummeting toward the ground with 3,000 urinal cakes strapped to his undercarriage?

I guess there's only two ways to find out. And one of them died with Mr Peepers. I told that stupid chimp not to eat his colostomy deposit bag. Oh well.

Give my love to Eunice and Shit-for-brains. Eat this letter.