Elliott's Blog

Jesus Christ and Charles Manson: Kindred Spirits?

The public remembers Charles Manson as a vicious killer and a lunatic—at least one of those is correct.  While demonstrably insane, Manson never killed anyone, at least not to our knowledge.  The life sentence he is serving in California results from the sanctioning of the horrific Tate/Labianca murders, rather than his personal participation.  The more I read about the Manson case, the more I realize that there was an unspoken, but ubiquitous motive for his prosecution:  the man was just too good at being crazy.  

His madness had influence.  It had power.  Whether or not he personally committed the murders in 1969 is immaterial.  His astonishing ability to brainwash dozens of young men and women, to the point where he commands murder and they execute his wishes, is the hallmark of a man who has become too dangerous to exist on the outside.  The trial of Charles Manson was not only about the murders that had happened, but what could potentially happen in the future.  He had to be stopped.  The trial was about stopping him.

Oddly, it didn’t start out that way.  If you listen to interviews with any of Manson’s followers they all say that it began with messages of peace and love.  Love your brother.  Shed your old identity and become reborn.  Abandon your old life and attachments in favor of developing a new existence with Charlie.  For a while, it was glorious.  Then Manson began telling his followers that a great war was coming and that he was the last vestige for salvation.  Indeed, Charles Manson told his followers that he was Jesus Christ.  

His followers believed he was Christ, often pointing to his last name as incontrovertible proof—Manson, the Son of Man.  Jesus referred to himself as the same. (Mark 14:61; Matthew 24:44)  Much of Jesus’ behavior and teachings parallel that of Manson’s.  He advocated that people be reborn unto him, to shed their material possessions, and most importantly, to never love anyone more than they loved him.  Jesus is often depicted as the archetypal non-violent figure, but scripture suggests otherwise.  ”I come not to bring peace, but to bring a sword,” Jesus said according to Matthew 10:34.  In Luke 12:51 Jesus states, “Suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth?  I tell you, Nay; but rather division… The father shall be divided against the son, and the son against the father; the mother against the daughter, and the daughter against the mother.”  

It’s eerily similar to what Manson told his followers:  that their parents were superfluous.  The love that truly mattered was Manson’s love, and without him, they would perish in the coming day of judgement.  Jesus regularly referred to the “death,” “weeping,” and “gnashing of teeth,” that awaited those who did not accept him as the true son of god.  In Matthew 12:30, Jesus said, “He that is not with me is against me.”  

Some may say “yes, but Jesus taught non-violence and love for thy brother.”  To which I would say, yes, but so did Charles Manson.  Shall we celebrate him for his teachings as well?  Should we not pay attention to Jesus’ approbation of the violence in the old testament, such as killing disobedient children, owning slaves, and subjugating women? Should we overlook his violent behavior in the temples, and strict admonishments that anyone who did not agree with him would suffer eternal torture?  

Or is it more intellectually honest to admit that both of these men were men of lunacy, egomania, and danger?  When one accepts this about Jesus, the question then becomes:  Is this why he was killed?  Much like the trial of Charles Manson, the trial of Jesus may have been society’s referendum on a man who had become too delusional, yet too influential to keep preaching.  

Like the California Supreme Court, did the Romans know that this man must be stopped for this reason?  Obviously, his monotheistic preaching was deemed subversive by the establishment, but perhaps I am reaching.  I am not a scholar of ancient Roman civilization, so I cannot honestly speak to this.  What I can say is that in modern times, if a man were telling people who lusted after women “if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out” and people were listening, he would certainly be a threat to civilized society.  And if a man were claiming to be the son of god, I seriously doubt many would heed such a ridiculous claim.  

Both Manson and Jesus preached an ending of violence.  We got to see Manson’s; we never got the chance with Jesus.  We never got to see Jesus in his fat Elvis period, with the bodies of 1,000 followers strewn around a bucket of grape kool-aid.  This is why Jesus and his teachings have survived the ages.  We never saw the end of the story.  But look at recent history:  David Koresh, Heaven’s Gate, Jim Jones, Charles Manson… there seems to be a common thread regarding the resolution of these cult stories.  Some may say that Jesus was different, yet, I have shown excerpts from the New Testament that illustrate how Jesus either approved of violence, or was capable of it himself.  

All cults start out as peaceful movements.  All cons begin with the approach of a “nice guy.”  To paraphrase Thomas Jefferson, if you show people that you are genuinely interested in them, that’s how you get people to like you.  And that’s what con-artists and cult leaders do.  They make people feel special.  They make them believe that they are cared for in a world that has forsaken them.  They make them believe that they care more about them than they do themselves.  Pretty soon, you have devoted followers who believe you are “godly.”  That’s how you con someone.  It’s a trick, and it’s as old as human beings.  

Some people might argue that Jesus was different because he could perform miracles.  I hate to break it to you, but Manson’s followers said the same thing about him.  Pat Krenwinkel swore that she saw Manson “breathe on a bird and bring it back to life.”  Jim Jones regularly cured people of various incurable ailments.  It’s a trick.  The magician doesn’t saw the lady in half.  The psychic doesn’t tell you the future.  And neither Jesus nor Charles Manson were the son of god.

Manson said he was Jesus Christ.  As far as their behavior, is there really a strong reason not to agree with him?  Manson said to abandon your family and follow him;  so did Jesus.  Manson said to forgo material possessions; so did Jesus.  Manson issued stern warnings regarding the repercussions for those that did not follow him;  so did Jesus.  Manson convinced people he could perform miracles;  so did Jesus.  Manson advocated the deaths of those outside of his inner circle;  so did Jesus.  Manson initially influenced people by preaching peace and love;  so did Jesus.

There is a word for what both of these men were:  lunatics.  These were men who desired deification, and their method was simple:  preach love to convert them; preach fear to keep them.  It is telling that the one sin in the New Testament that Jesus said was unforgivable was to deny the existence of the holy spirit.  I am the son of god.  I am the holy spirit.  To be saved you must follow me.  You must love me more than you love yourself.  Me.  Me.  Me.  Do you see the pattern?  The standard operating procedure of a cult leader is to initially make a patron feel as if it is all about you.  Flattery gets you everywhere.  Once the leader has gained your trust, the truth emerges.  It’s all about them.

I often tell religious people that I am the second coming of Christ.  Most people either assume I am doing this to be funny, or to be a jerk.  Neither.  To this day, not one religious person has ever believed me, which illustrates my point:  anyone, ANYONE, claiming to be the son of god is either a lunatic or a con-artist, or both, and some rational part of everyone’s brain knows that.  I only hope that I never run across someone who believes me.  Unlike cult leaders, I have no desire to be followed, worshiped, or immortalized.  If I were less honorable, perhaps I would exploit their gullibility.  Now, look inside yourself and ask the question:  who is more holy—the man who dictates that either you worship him or you will suffer, or the man who would never ask such a thing of you?  It’s too bad the followers of Manson couldn’t ask themselves this question until it was too late.  The followers of Christ still have a chance.

-Elliott

Live Shows and Past Lives: Or How I Stopped Playing Music and Couldn’t Be Happier

Recently I saw a clip of Thurston Moore talking about the impact of live shows versus records.  For Moore, it’s all about the live show.  He owns the records, but rarely listens to them.  The interpersonal experience of watching an artist in the moment is what matters to Moore, and the record is merely a souvenir.  I would venture to guess that this is the predominant perspective among artists and enthusiasts in the milieu of underground music.  The community is of the essence.  The stage experience is the intrinsic value of a work of art.  In all my years as a performer I could never relate to this perspective.  

I once wrote a scathing critique of local music scenes for brandishing the slogan, “support live music.”  I thought it was empty and patronizing.  Mainly, I saw this mantra as a clever disguise for promoting social clubs at the expense of artists who were trying to build a fan base of people who genuinely liked their music.  Perhaps I was wrong.  Perhaps I was just angry.  Perhaps both.  But even if I wasn’t wrong I now see nothing wrong with such a scenario.  If club shows are 75% about communal experiences and 25% about the artists, I think that’s wonderful.  The problem is that I could never, and will never, understand it.

Music has always been a personal experience for me.  The most communal it has ever been for me are perhaps a few late night vinyls with a couple of friends after many, many drinks.  Unlike Moore, the record is the work of art to me.  It is the painting.  And while it may be interesting to watch an artist recreate their painting in real time, it is the relationship I have with the painting itself that moves me.  The relationship with the artist and their process is ultimately irrelevant.  

I’ve never really liked experiencing art with other people.  It’s always been strange to me that a group of people will get together for the ostensible purposes of interpersonal communication, and then sit in front of a screen for three hours.  I found the same problem in clubs.  If it’s about the community, then the bands are a distraction, a nuisance.  Honestly, I would probably get more out of 50 people arriving at a club after having heard a record by a band and just talking to them and each other about it for several hours, than I would hearing the band recreate it.  I realize this is odd and it is surely a testament to why I no longer play live music.

One of my favorite bands when I was playing in NC was Red Collar.  I was always a big fan of their music and I enjoyed talking to them.  And when I saw them play I always noticed something—they were truly having fun up there.  As an audience member, I was always tempted to cock my head sideways like a confused canine.  I truly did not understand how playing live could be that much fun.  For me, it was never fun.  It was perfunctory.  And I remember envying them so much because I wanted that feeling on stage.

It took me a while to realize that feeling would never come.  I remember telling Jason from Red Collar that “what I like about being in a band is that moment when you are jamming with a couple of people, writing or recording, having a few drinks, and for a moment everything is truly fun.  What I hate about being in a band is everything else.”  Live shows, booking, promoting, lugging equipment—all to substantiate a few moments of fun in the privacy of your own home.  So, I quit.  

I loved making music, especially with Tim and Nathan.  But I loved it in a way that is alien to most people.  When I look back on it, it may have been that I just loved Tim and Nathan.  And regarding my own needs as a singer/songwriter, I may have solely been looking for justification and reverence from people that I no longer need or want.  I still come up with songs in my head from time to time, but I never write them down anymore.  It will always be a part of me, yet one that I no longer feel the need to employ.  There is a good chance I will make music again eventually, but I doubt I would tell many people if I were to do so.

Perhaps one day I will feel differently.  When I tell people that I haven’t played in years they say “oh, but you should.”  As if I am deliberately not playing because I think it would be a childish regression, or that I am harboring ill sentiments towards music.  Not at all.  The truth is, it just never occurs to me anymore.  

What I got out of music was what I put into it.  I made a record in my early twenties that people still tell me I should try to distribute.  It’s not important to me that the record ever sells a million copies or that it is heard by thousands of people.  When I was a kid I dreamed of making a record, and that’s what I did.  That is what is important to me.  It was an intimate experience between myself and the music.  I had a goal, and with the help of Mark who co-produced and mastered it, we saw it through.  The rest is bullocks.

The same goes for live music.  I always wanted to be in a kick-ass rock and roll band, and we did that.  But outside of practice at Tim’s house, I found myself enjoying it less and less.  Near the end, you could hear me say “let’s just get this over with,” before we went on stage.  One show, the club personnel found it difficult to get Nathan and I on stage because we were more interested in playing the Donkey Kong machine in the back of the bar.  

Some of my friends are perennial musicians.  They’re true musicians.  They do it because they deeply love to do it.  Likewise, I know some people who absolutely cherish the experience of live shows.  I don’t really get anything out of seeing live shows habitually.  I don’t get anything out of playing them.  But I’m really glad that some people do.  Recently I saw my first club show in years.  My friends were playing at Slim’s and it was neat to step back into that world.  Afterwards, Lizz asked me if I missed it.  I really don’t.  But I left the club that night with a profound fulfillment from seeing so many people love it in the way I never could.  To them and to everyone playing and attending live shows, Rock on.

-E

Final Words on the West Memphis Three

This will be the last time I discuss this topic.  The only reason I am writing this is to formally state my position, which has spurred many arguments with supporters of the West Memphis Three.  My position has, and always will be—no matter how many HBO documentaries they make on the subject—that Damien Echols, Jessie Misskelley, and Jason Baldwin probably did it.  Probably, mind you.  That is simply my opinion, and not an admission that I agree with the ruling in the case.  Honestly, there probably was not enough evidence to convict them, especially in the case of Echols and Baldwin.  The inclusion of Misskelley’s testimony in the jury deliberations, against the orders of the court, should have resulted in a mistrial, alone.

However.  ”Not guilty” does not mean “Innocent” necessarily.  Before Hollywood stars and cause-heads across the nation scramble for photo-ops with the three men, remember, that—while there may not have been enough evidence to convict them—there is not a shred of evidence to date that exonerates them.  Inevitably, someone is going to rebound with the platitudinal “you are innocent until proven guilty in a court of law.”  Correct.  But these same people have no reservations about labeling Cassie Anthony a murderer, when a court of law failed to convict her of the crime.  Why?  Because anyone with common sense can tell you that she did it, apart from legal proceedings.  With the West Memphis Three, it’s not so obvious.  The truth is, only those three men know what happened in Robin Hood Hills that night.  But if someone put a gun to my head and said “did they do it or not?” I would be inclined to say yes.

For starters, one of the kids confessed.  Not once, not twice, but nearly half a dozen times.  Jessie Misskelley stuck to the same story, even nearly a year after all three of the suspects were convicted.  His story remained fairly consistent throughout the numerous reiterations.  Then, nearly a year after sitting in prison, Misskelley started to sing a different tune involving police brutality and his own confusion during the testimony.  Misskelley began saying “I thought if I just told them what they wanted to hear, they’d let me go home.”  This has been used by lawyers and filmmakers—along with his I.Q. which by differing reports, is somewhere in the range of 75 and 90—as evidence of a forced, “false” confession.

Now, if you look at Misskelley’s previous arrest record, there are numerous encounters with the police.  He was no stranger to the law and police protocol, and while he does have a low I.Q. this hardly makes him mentally retarded.  George H.W. Bush has a 92 I.Q., for example.  Anyone who listens to Misskelley in an interview can extrapolate that this kid is not stupid enough to believe that police will just let him stroll home after he confesses to the murder of several young children.  He’s dim, but not that dim.  At times he even comes off as quite competent, and certainly, street-smart.

In the “Paradise Lost” documentaries, the filmmakers focus unduly on the phenomenon of “false confessions” to bolster support for the defense.  An oft-repeated story involved a rape in New York City, where six different men confessed, yet none of them did it.  Did it ever occur to people who use this story that those six men might, indeed, have been guilty of rape and they were simply confessing to the wrong incident?  Yet, the filmmakers of “Paradise Lost” would have you believe six innocent men confessed to raping a girl, for what reason, I have no idea.

Similarly, it is difficult for me to believe Misskelley would have confessed in great detail regarding the murders, repeated the confession on numerous occasions, and stuck to the story for damn near two years all because “he just wanted to go home and would have told them anything.”  Use some common sense people.  I’ve read the transcript of the confessions, and while I hate to stick up for cops, this wasn’t exactly NYPD Blue style interrogation.  They were simply asking Misskelley questions to which he responded.  

The accepted narrative would also have us believe that these young men were singled out because they listened to Metallica, wore black, and drew pentagrams on their notebooks.  To quote one West Memphis detective, “My son wears all black and listens to Metallica.  That’s not why they were singled out.  They were singled out because Damien Echols had a history of violent behavior, and the other two were known associates.”  Indeed, Echols’ behavior prior to the murders is very damning.  He was essentially institutionalized for attempting to attack one of his teachers.  While in the institution, he tried to stab another young man in the eye with a pencil.  Several witnesses claimed to have seen Echols disembowel a dog, which coincidentally, a canine skull was found by police in Echols’ bedroom.  

Echols’ behavior on the witness stand was perplexing.  In the deliberation room, he admitted to his lawyers that he “was only about half listening.”  His lawyer had the best line of the film with his response, “well, maybe they’ll only half kill ya’.”  Whether it’s Amanda Knox doing cartwheels in front of the courthouse, or Echols treating his murder trial as a joke, such strange behavior is disconcerting.  Does it prove they are guilty?  No.  Does it mean they are the kind of weirdos you probably don’t want to be caught in a photo-op with?  Hell yes!  (I’m talking to you Dixie Chicks and Johnny Depp)

Plus, Echols has been shown to be a pathological liar.  There is video evidence of dozens of statements where he demonstrably contradicts himself regarding sundry elements of the case and his life.  In fact, all three of the boys concocted false alibis, which one-by-one, fell apart on the witness stand.  They even admitted they were complete fabrications.  To this day, not one single person can account for the whereabouts of Damien Echols, Jessie Misskelley, or Jason Baldwin from dusk until dawn on the night of the murders.

What is abhorrent apart from the facts of the case, is the little game of “Clue” the documentary filmmakers behind the “Paradise Lost” films insist on playing.  It’s disgusting.  With each film, they elude to one of the parents of the victims as the potential killer.  They should be ashamed of themselves.  How dare they point fingers at people who have lost children.  I can’t imagine anything worse than having your child murdered and some asshole with a camera blames it on you.  First of all, there were three different kind of knots used to tie up the boys in the woods.  So, if the filmmakers are correct, and Terry Hobbs acted alone, he is some kind of diabolical madman.  I find this quite unconvincing.  Second, they are accusing people without any evidence, which seems antithetical to their argument.  The same type of conjecture is what purportedly led to the West Memphis Three’s conviction, yet the documentarians have no moral objection about engaging in this behavior when it suits the needs of their film.  

Finally, many have said that the Alford Plea deal the state of Arkansas offered is an admission that the young men were wrongfully convicted.  Not necessarily.  The state has been thoroughly embarrassed by this case.  Millions of dollars have poured into the West Memphis Three’s defense fund, producing billboards and publications across the state.  HBO has produced three documentaries with Peter Jackson recently producing a fourth.  Celebrities have made it their own personal crusade, holding rallies in front of Arkansas courthouses.  Is it not possible that the state of Arkansas just wants to be done with this??  I could conceive of a situation where the state is so tired of being portrayed as backwoods and incompetent, they agree to let the three go free as long as no further legal action can proceed against the state.  Which is exactly what they did.  Makes perfect sense to me.

The case has become toxic, and again, no one knows what really happened except the West Memphis Three.  But I would be leery about affirming the innocence of these three men when the evidence is quite scant to do so.  Like the case of Cassie Anthony or O.J. Simpson, I can look at the case and come to my own conclusions, just like everyone else in the country.  And my conclusion is that they probably did it, even if they could not prove it in a court of law.  But they’re free now, so that’s that.  End of story.  Case closed.

-E 

Obsessive Sarcasm and Pseudo-Intellectual Rhetoric

For the last fifteen years I’ve watched a fetid trend develop among smart young people, especially those in the counterculture:  passive-aggressive pseudo-intellectual verbiage.  Whether on television or interpersonal communication, young people seem to be infatuated now with snide quips, designed to make themselves appear clever at the expense of someone else’s sincere intention.  It’s subtle, but ubiquitous.  Even casual conversation has become difficult with many people because it’s now all about their attempt at a witty, but ultimately condescending retort.  Case in point:  here’s a few lines of dialogue from a film called “Tiny Furniture,” a 90 minute exercise in sarcastic hipster interplay:

Girl:  I’m a hostess

Guy:  Hostess, what’s that?

Girl:  I answer phones, take reservations, stuff like that.

Guy:  And they call that being a hostess?  That’s generous of them.

Now, this is the kind of bullshit you have to hear from a lot of people nowadays.  It’s not clever, it’s not funny, it’s simply designed to shoot the other person down.  Yet, this is what passes for “wit” in our generation.  What’s frustrating is that, in this film, the viewer is implicitly asked to like this person.  Even more frustrating is that people who incessantly offer these “one-uppers” are now celebrated in real life.  For some reason it’s considered a humorous demonstration of intelligence.  We used to call it being a jerk. 

 Take a look at most modern situation comedies on television.  The “funny” people act just like the guy in “Tiny Furniture.”  Their comments are rude affirmations of their own perceived intellectual superiority, and we applaud them?  This all seemed to start in the early 90’s, with slacker characters who were convinced they possessed some great erudition, sitting back and throwing verbal darts at everyone around them.  For example, Ethan Hawke in “Reality Bites.”  These types of characters should be villains, but irony has made them heroes.  Now, people emulate these characters in real life and it is very infuriating for human beings who wish to converse like human beings. 

Guy:  So Juno… like the city in Alaska.

Juno:  No.

Nice attitude, isn’t it?  It’s no wonder so many people loved this movie.  Who wouldn’t want to hang out with someone who’s sole mission in life seems to be trying to make everyone else look stupid?  The problem is that this type of person opens fire even at people who are on their intellectual wavelength.  Being snide and condescending towards an ignorant person might be justifiable or funny on some level.  But behaving this way towards everyone you meet is nothing short of an extreme personality disorder. 

 …

 For those of you who may be suffering from Detached Ironic Comment Killer (or, DICK)  I will provide you with a simple tutorial for rehabilitation from this nasty complex.  Let’s start off with an easy example:

Billy:  So, I’m thinking about going to the store today.

Tristan:  I don’t know, you think that’s really in your best interest?

Whoops!  Strike one, Tristan.  Here, Tristan is trying to turn an ordinary conversation starter into his own little cute routine.  He’s shown no interest in what Billy might actually need from the store—what most of us would just feign in order to connect with Billy—instead, he chooses to show a complete disregard of Billy’s comment in order to turn the focus of the conversation towards his own smart-aleck, snarky need to appear clever.  Let’s see how Tristan does this time:

Billy:  I got this new phone that takes awesome pictures.

Tristan:  Yeah, because every phone doesn’t come standard with that now or anything.

Ooooh, not good Tristan.  Strike two.  Here, Tristan has taken someone’s moment of happiness and deflated it with a rude aside.  He thinks he is being funny, but like a lot of people with DICK, Tristan doesn’t understand that a good joke is funny to both people in the conversation.  People usually don’t respond well to being made to feel like a mere prompt for sarcastic observations.  A better response would have been, “Great Billy!  What kind of phone is it?”  Yet, doing so would have forced Tristan to not be the focus of attention for a moment and we know that is very difficult for him, considering he is a narcissistic asshole.  Generally, when people get the feeling you are truly taking an interest in what they are saying it has a lasting, positive impression and strengthens relationships.  Tristan is back up to bat…  let’s see if he gets a hit.

Billy:  I stayed up all night finishing this school project.

Tristan:  It took you all night to finish this?

Oh Tristan.  Will he ever learn?  Billy was communicating that he worked very hard and wanted someone to be proud of his accomplishment, yet it was more important for Tristan to make him feel stupid.  Most decent human beings would have responded with “Good job Billy, I bet you’ll get a good grade!”  Not Tristan!  Every single sentence uttered is an egomaniacal opportunity for self-aggrandizing.  He wanted to subtly remind Billy that he is superior, and now Billy’s day, self-confidence, and faith in humanity have been weakened, if only slightly.  Poor Billy. 

 …

 And it seems I meet more and more Tristans every day.  These people have no idea how to talk to people, so they find their niche in snobbery.  A common form is the joke clarifier.  You’ve undoubtedly met this person.  After you deliver a punchline such as “the polar bear was IN his rectum!” they respond with the clarification “actually, polar bears can’t live in rectums.”  And everyone is much better off now that they have pointed out a logical inconsistency in your joke about polar bears in people’s rectums. 

 The lifeblood of these people is the thoughts of other people.  They are unimaginative, rude, and should be strapped backwards to a donkey and driven out of town.  I am tired of irony when it is used in a manner that only serves the selfish purposes of one empty, pretentious charlatan.  I am tired of talking to people who use my candid interaction or jokes as a springboard for their own strategic ascension.  Come up with your own material, goddammit!  More than that, realize when someone is simply trying to communicate with you on an honest level.  There’s a time and place for witty remarks—pending that you are witty enough to make them in the first place—but they are unnecessary 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.  There is no “wittiest person on the planet award” so stop training, and stop turning everything someone says into a derisive sound bite.   

 People’s obsession with sarcasm is now more comparable to a nervous tick than a sparse comedic application, and it makes it unbearable to talk to people.  Telling a joke?  Don’t even bother.  You’re better off just walking around saying “as you do!” after everything someone says and you’re guaranteed to get laughs from the peanut gallery.  Hey, if you throw in a “too much information!” maybe they’ll even put you on the Tonight Show you uninspired son of a bitch.  And remember, never complement anyone, never just laugh at someone’s joke and say “that was a good one,” never show genuine curiosity, never allow the focus of the conversation to drift away from you—just be a goddamn dick at all times and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get a television show out of it.

Take a hike

A few years ago I was sitting with a group of people in a bar and I made a comment regarding my hatred of nature and how I think we should turn every inch of it into parking lots.  They assumed I was joking.  I wasn’t.  Admittedly, there was a little hyperbole involved.  I realize that trees have a necessary function apart from being fun things to climb after a bottle of Jack Daniels.  I don’t want to cut down ALL the trees… just most of them. However many we need to retain the oxygen flow is a good number to shoot for.  Hell, throw in an additional 10%.  I’ll be generous.  But whatever is superfluous after that gets the Paul Bunyan treatment.  I’m dead serious.  National parks, rain forests, the woods behind your house—fuck it, get rid of it.

My attitude is mainly a response to people with nature fetishes.  You’ve met these people.  They start drooling like a mental patient at the prospect of magically living inside a Bob Ross painting, as they pull the ticks out of their matted, hippie dirt crown.  The kind of people who confront a person with a bacterial infection and prescribe a mixture of peat moss and almond extract.  These people are obsessed with nature, and I suppose if they had their way, the human race would have probably died out around the time someone suggested an herbal alternative to the polio vaccine.  

It’s just another form of mysticism.  Some people believe the answers are in the arboreal, like some believe they are found in astrology.  What in the hell has nature ever done for us?  It’s given us infections, drought, low life expectancies, killer bees, hurricanes, tornadoes, and absolutely no information regarding our station on this cosmic rock.  Look at what humans have developed in the last one hundred years in the attempt to overcome the state of nature:  vaccines, telecommunications, chemotherapy, space travel, and nanotechnology, just to name a few.  

If you found yourself halfway through an arduous journey, you certainly wouldn’t be nostalgic for the starting point.  That’s what nature is, our starting point.  There’s nothing wonderful about its severe limitations or brutality.  If we are to ever figure out why we are on this planet, meandering about the woods like neanderthals is as counterproductive of an effort as one could undertake.  

If you want to study it, fine.  That’s productive.  But why do so many people worship nature?  What is it there for except to keep us in a primitive state of confusion and chaos?  While it may be necessary to select a few key areas for preservation and study (and for people who like to spend their vacations lying on the ground), is it necessary we have so much?  Think about what we could erect in some of these wooded areas that people cherish:  libraries, hospitals, homeless shelters, theaters, and yes, Wal Marts.  Hey, when hurricane Katrina pummeled New Orleans, Wal Mart showed up with tons of relief.  Why did they need relief?  Nature.  Nature killed a bunch of people.  Nature flooded hospitals and drowned bed ridden patients, made people abandon their beloved animals, and separated some families permanently.  Yet, never once did you hear anyone say “you know what?  Fuck nature.”  Well, I’ll say it:  Fuck nature, Wal Mart rules.  And for everyone who incessantly bitches about Wal Mart, the WTO has conducted studies that show the world is better off with Wal Mart, despite the drawbacks.

I realize this point of view is highly offensive to some people.  Oh well.  It just so happens that when I look over a vast wooded landscape, I do not see the majesty of god’s creation.  I see an area that has the potential to be utilized and transformed for the betterment of mankind.  I don’t celebrate nature, I loathe it.  And I think people who celebrate nature are missing the big picture.  The next time a black widow bites someone, or there’s a hurricane, or a fire, or a volcano erupts, and hundreds, if not thousands of humans band together and use modern technology to overcome pain, disease, and death, by all means, please continue to praise nature and all its glory.  I’ll be in line for a flu shot.

-E

Fuck this fucking movie: New Year’s Eve

**Hey guys.  So, this is a new series I’m starting to share my hatred of certain movies.  It’s called the “Fuck this fucking movie series” if you couldn’t gather that from the title.  I watch and review a movie I know for certain that I will hate.  It’s a nice chance for me to let off some steam, write without obsessing over every line, and generally discuss what I think is wrong with Hollywood.  Admittedly, I usually disagree with artistic criticism.  But this is different, because a.) I’m doing it, and b.) it’s not so much “criticism” as it is a ruthless, psychotic bashing.  Enjoy**

New Year’s Eve (2012)

As the debate regarding the second amendment currently fills the airwaves in America, here is a film that made me question my belief in the first amendment.  Is it really that important?  Would I be willing to sign a petition saying that I waive my right to free speech if it meant that the assholes who made this movie would never be allowed to speak freely ever again?  Yes.  Yes, I would.  This film is that bad.  One time I was trapped in a car for over two hours after hitting a skunk, and the smell would just not go away.  Watching “New Year’s Eve” made me nostalgic for that car ride because at least I didn’t have to look at Ashton Kutcher, the human pussy fart, the entire fucking time.

What a bimbo.  Actually, this movie is filled with bimbos, all directed by a fossil named Garry Marshall who we’re supposed to respect because he once wrote an episode of Mork and Mindy.  Here’s an example of this old fart’s humor:  Abigail Breslin shows her bra to her mother, Sarah Jessica Parker, and she exclaims “this is not Girls Gone Wild!”  Fuck this fucking movie!!  If you’ve ever longed to see a film about 50 lame white motherfuckers where each one’s story in no way improves on a blank screen, then this bud’s for you!  Oh, I should be fair.  There are a couple of black people in it.  Usually, they pop out of corners and offer up a “sho’ nuff” or “you get it, girl!” because apparently Garry Marshall thinks that sassy black stereotypes are the perfect little touches of flavor to spice up his aryan Wonder Bread explosion.

The only way to get through this movie is to drink heavily.  Beer’s not gonna cut it.  You need the hard stuff.  You’ll certainly need it for every scene involving Ashton Kutcher.  Let me be unequivocal about this:  Ashton Kutcher is a walking, talking NUTSACK.  They should show footage of him to detainees at Guantanamo Bay as a substitute for waterboarding.  ”I’ll talk, I swear!!  Just no more American pussy man, please!!”  He’s not alone, though.  This movie is filled with banal stories and characters, ranging from Seth Myers and Jessica Biel attempting to win a cash prize at a birth center, to Bon Jovi wooing Katherine Heigl, who I’m pretty sure is the genetic hybrid of a pudding pop and an Angora goat.

Yes, Bon Jovi is in this movie, cast as the biggest rock star in the world.  All the kids would be crazy about a 50 year old poof with flabby titties, right?  I’m sure he’s just the rock and roll attitude Garry Marshall was looking for to give this picture an edge.  If this movie had any real sense of humor, Jovi’s belly girdle would have busted during a song, causing him to blow a hole in the bass drum with a fart he’s been holding since “Slippery When Wet.”  Trust me, after thirty minutes of this movie you’ll be begging for fart jokes.

Who else is in this shit?  Let’s see… um… some people I don’t know… um… Oh yeah!  Robert Fucking Deniro is in this.  Am I crazy, or did this guy not used to be an actor?  He had a slew of classic performances, from that one where he played a psycho, to that one where he played a cop, and then that time he played a psycho, followed by that classic performance as a cop.  He could do it all!  In all seriousness, Goodfellas is just about my favorite movie of all time and it’s sad to see Deniro continually subject himself to this kind of pond scum.

Yet, there are many great actors given absolutely nothing to do in this film.  And when I say many, I mean MANY.  It’s like a fucking box of kleenex, the celebrities just keep coming.  Alyssa Milano is in one shot… ONE FUCKING SHOT.  She doesn’t even say anything!    Was it necessary to have the guy who opens the broken elevator door and says “We fixed it,” be Jim Belushi??  It’s not even a short scene.  It doesn’t even qualify as a cameo.  If you have to go to the bathroom, you’ll miss what would comprise a normal cast in any other major motion picture.  A monumental waste of time and talent.

I feel like I can’t say enough about the shittiness of this monstrosity.  This movie is like a celebrity Chernobyl.  If you can think of a trope that would have been too hackneyed and soft for Full House, this movie’s got it.  Please, for the love of god, someone revoke Garry Marshall’s director privileges.

Rating:  Fuck this fucking movie

Bohemian Grove