Nothing In Life Owes You Anything, Including Movies

It may seem absolutely unthinkable that I can support Michael Bay and tear down two of the three Batman movies. Or, it's thinkable, but the thought is just that I have ghastly taste. I'd like to offer a defense.

Movies do not owe you anything. You are not entitled to be moved, impressed, captivated, made to think, or even entertained by a film. That may be the director/writer/actor's intent for the end result, and it may happen, but you are not ever once guaranteed that will happen. Because they don't owe you shit.

You know who they owe? Two groups - the studio from whom they borrowed money and now need to repay plus profit so they can continue to have a job by getting another film backed, and/or the artistic elite who will hand them the awards that recognize and validate their art. They may be pleased that you went to see their movie; they may feel gratified, but the never once felt a duty or obligation that compelled them to make their film because you personally are entitled to watching a good movie.

To me, that's reasonable. I did nothing to earn the right to be given awesome films. The film industry knows we're not entitled to good movies, which is why we have Chris Rock singing about an afro - they don't care about our being enlightened through cinema any more than McDonald's cares about our health.

So, knowing that filmmakers don't owe us a good movie, and knowing they know that, we get down to honesty and transparency.

Michael Bay does not lie to us. At all. He doesn't say 'Transformers is really a metaphor for the transity of life, the idea that our hold on this earthly plane is tenuous at lest and that we are dangling precariously over Nietzsche's Abyss. Also, Megatron is supposed to be the incarnation of America's rape culture." No. He says 'BOOM'. And that's what you get. Do you think it's shit? Go ahead. I won't disagree. The dialogue's  badly written, the plot makes no sense, the fight scenes gave me a headache because they were shot so crazily, the villain has zero on-screen presence and is boring as shit...

Oh, sorry. I forgot for a minute if I was describing Transformers or Batman Begins.

And there's my point, after all this rambling. I will defend a filmmaker who makes crap blockbusters, as long as there's transparency. I may still call it shit, and it may still be shit, but because I am not entitled to good movies, I'll support someone who has the self-awareness to deliver exactly what he was expected to deliver. Have you ever once had any question about what you're about to see when you walk into a Michael Bay film? No? Good on him, then. All that man wants is to blow shit up and make the US military look awesome. He does that every single time.

Transformers did not disappoint me. Begins and Rises absolutely did. I may not be entitled to good movies, but I was told the latter films were meant to be so. Nolan made them out to be outstanding cinema, and they are still the only two films I have ever wanted to walk out of. And I saw Warriors of Virtue in the theater, folks. So, I will defend Michael Bay because he makes shitty films that at least are totally benign and transparent. Begins and Rises are just shitty. So, SO shitty.

Nice Guys In Daily Life

(Kyle sent this to me. Spot on.)

*Man walks into a store and finds employee*
Man: Alright, I’ve had enough. Why haven’t you guys hired me?!
Employee: Uh…well sir, when did you put in your application?
Man: I never filled out an application.
Employee: Well sir, we can’t consider you for employment if you’ve never filled out an application.
Man: No, that’s bullshit, because I’ve been coming here for years now, and every single time I tell you all how much I love this store and how much I appreciate your customer service, unlike some of your other customers might I add!
Employee: Well, but that doesn’t-
Man: AND I even told you that I didn’t have a job!
Employee: But sir, that doesn’t indicate to us that you would like a job at our store. And again, if you’ve never filled out an application, we can’t consider you. Besides, we’re not hiring.
Man: OH! Not hiring, HA! What a laugh. I see your store go through seasonal workers all the time. They come and go like nothing, but you won’t consider me as a part-time employee even though I KNOW you’ve been looking for workers to fill positions? That’s insane!
Employee: Sir, we’ve been looking to hire a few people for management positions. Do you have any management experience?
Man: Well no, but what does that matter?
Employee: …Well sir, that’s what we’re looking for. You won’t be suitable for the position without management experience.
Man: Oh that’s such a load of crap. You know, you’ll be waiting around a long time for a manager if you don’t lower your standards a little. Who cares if someone knows how to manage a store? I LOVE this store and I’m willing to work here, that’s all that should matter to you.
Employee: That…doesn’t make any sense.
Man: NO! I’m done. This is over. From now on, no more Mr. Nice Guy.
Employee:
Man:
Employee:
Man: Fuck you, slut.

He Still Can't Ruin It

Crash Davis: "I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."

Ebby Calvin LaLoosh: "It feels out there. I mean, it's a major rush. I mean, it feels radical in kind of a tubular sort of way, but most of all, it feels out there."

Some days, I am Crash. Most the time, I'm Ebby. 

I Am Not A Liberal

My sister mentioned one time that I should totally move to Portland because I'd fit in so well, and she sees so many women like me wandering around. After I was done vomiting a little in my mouth, I reflected. I can see where she's coming from - it's got a heavy art scene, the community's very Whimsicle, and the women are probably very big on motherhood and junk. But there, the similarities end.

I am not a liberal. Let me show you just how NOT a liberal I am:

1. While I am totally down with equality for the People It's Cool To Be Rooting For (homosexuals, women, blacks, those being persecuted religiously), I am also very much of the mind that, no matter who you are, if you're a moron or evil, you deserve nothing, and fuck off.

2. I hate sedentary activism. If you talk about/post about/whine about religion, abortion, breastfeeding, gays, politics, the judicial system, gender roles and/or sexuality more than once a week with any opinion attached, fuck off. We knew you hated/loved/ whatever the fuck you're babbling on about already. We get it. Shut up. The exceptions to this are people like Kyle, who get outraged at things that are so stupid it's hilarious and entertaining. Those people may continue.

3. I hate extremism. It's not passion, you twats, it's insufferable. Atheist, religious, right-wing, left-wing, you're all jackasses. And if you start in, I will go defend the other side -even if I personally don't agree with them - just because I hate your proselytizing more than I do the opposing opinion.

4. The government should control us, because we're fucktards. Mandatory birth control from ages 14-18 at the minimum. Shove those pills down those 14-year-olds' throats. Knot those vas deferentia. I don't care if it strips away a woman's right to be an Unmarried Teenage Mother. Strip away! Also, stop bitching about TSA. I've been through customs in Europe and they scream at you. Agents don't wanna feel up your obese, sweaty thighs, I'm sure. Just suck it up. Make cigarettes illegal. If secondhand smoke wasn't a factor, I'd let the idiots kill themselves, but it is. So, yoink. No more for you.

And mandatory circumcisions just because I hate Intactivists. A little bloody, painful trauma at the start of one's existence is good for the soul. Toughens you up. And men don't know how to clean themselves very well, so make it easier on them. Plus, it's easier to give a guy head if he's cut. Just being real.

5. I hate SlutWalk feminists. You are not helping. You are the reason we do not have a female President yet. You are encouraging the world to look at us and treat us like depersonalized, sexual objects. And I know sometimes a gal's gotta feel like a hot object, and I'm down. But when you want to carry the Womynhood Banner, put some fucking clothes on. 'I will not be ashamed of my body' means treat it with some respect and don't put it on display in the guise of empowerment. You will NEVER EVER...let me repeat....NEVER EVER get men to look at a girl in a bikini and instantly think 'My, what a strong, empowered female who obviously takes pride in her natural form and who, it is clear, is intelligent, capable and wise'. IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN. You look like a whore. And if you WANT to look like a whore, fine. But stop pretending it's some great feminist statement.

Exception - women who are savvy enough to use their tits and pussy to control men, know that's what they're doing, and don't care about equality between the genders. At least y'all are honest with yourselves.

6. I believe in capital punishment. We are able to send a man to the moon. We have created astounding works of art, amazing technology, and we've wiped out pandemic diseases. WE CAN TELL IF SOMEONE'S EVIL OR NOT. Yes, we can judge. We can. We have that level of reason (well, some of us, anyhow) and there are human beings on this planet wise enough and intelligent enough to make the call about someone being evil. And, if they're evil, sayonara.

I am not a liberal.

Meet Sylvia

She was not, by nature, a funny woman. She would say things to set her friends laughing and be shocked, having uttered them with total, morose sincerity. Her agent, Barry Wheeler, perpetuated this unwitting humor by cackling every time she opened her mouth.

Stuffed permanently into a red ski jacket, Barry now glanced at her as she sat in the passenger seat of his Buick LaCrosse. The rain was mild, but he had the wipers on at about twice the speed required to clear the windshield of droplets. She wanted to ask him to turn them down, but felt he might think her neurotic. She needed a cigarette badly, but couldn’t roll down the window in the rain. So, instead, she pressed her knees together a bit grindingly, and tried to hold onto her buzz from lunchtime cocktails.

“I’ve never been to the Steamtown Mall,” Barry informed her jauntily. “Good place for a book signing, though. Sue Grafton was there doing it, once.”

“This isn’t a book singing,” she told him. “It’s a gallows march.”

He cackled, like someone had given him a fanfare cue. She thought about the wipers wiping away infinitesimal layers of glass, almost on a molecular level, until years had passed and they’d worn the windshield down to paper thinness, and then the glass would shatter with a final pass of the blades. That would be interesting. “How long have you owned this car?” she asked him.

“Uhm, maybe nine months?” was his offhanded answer. She cursed mutely. Not nearly enough time. For a while, they rode in silence. Barry had always assumed she was one-eighth insane; not because of her eccentricities, but because he (like many non-artists working in the arts) believed it to be the case with every writer. She let him have that supposition. It made him more malleable when she made odd requests.

Outside the mall, in the very breathy drizzle of rain, she smoked while Barry went scouting inside to find the Waldenbooks. She did not want to go in. This new book was as awful as the one before it. Her advance from Doubleday was decent, enough to keep her fed, housed and blotto, and the projected sales suggested they’d not cut her out just yet. But she was not getting on any list anytime soon. Newsweek had given her three sentences and words like ‘solid’ and ‘engaging’. The Times had called it ‘an ambitious foray into the world of What If’, whatever that meant.

It would be bought by people in airports, or people who wanted something to read by the pool. It would be perched on the top of toilet tanks in peoples’ bathrooms, taken out at the local library. No one would carry it with them. Nothing in it would be highlighted. No pages would be dog-eared, and no one would discuss it with their spouse/friend/co-worker. If someone walked by and saw them reading it and asked ‘Hey – I saw that on Amazon; how is it?’ the reaction would be the same every time: a shrug, an exhale, and an ‘It’s not bad. Something to read, I guess’.

She finished the cigarette, flicked away the butt, and went inside the mall to find Barry and to sign, she estimated, sixteen copies of her latest book.