August 23, 2011
Bat-Assholes

Pittsburgh is ready for it’s close-up in Batmaster 3, even if it means sucking the joy out of what was once a welcome escape.

For those of you who don’t know, I run a museum of cartoon art in Pittsburgh. In many ways, it’s a dream job - and that dream is sometimes a nightmare. So let’s just get it out of the way: I don’t give a shit about the filming of The Dark Knight Rises (or Magnum Rex, as it’s known in these parts).

I do, however, care about Batman.

People have a lot of preconceived notions about what I do, and most are at least polite when commenting. I’ve gotten used to it, the museum being a culmination of what some may see as unorthodox career choices. I spent several years out of college drifting aimlessly through service industry jobs while moonlighting with various projects self-crafted to maintain sanity. My best attempt at a bohemian lifestyle was slinging drinks in between spurts of music and writing and eventually teaching, first a brief stint at a community college and then some bliss as an art instructor for young children. I was a single, twenty-something, straight male who spent most of my time hanging out with three to six-year-olds. I loved the job and the kids, but while my friends were burning through their long dark twenties with drugs, promiscuity, and unpleasant but profitable entry-level positions and grad school, I was worrying about how to present a paper-mache project to an autistic child whose sensory acuity made for a weekly window into Armageddon. Those years eventually bled into a few contacts and a stake in the fledgling museum. I supplanted youth with youthfulness.

While my museum position carries a perception of hipness and fun, it’s full of all the tensions of any other job. And it’s ego-less. I’ve become used to the blank stares every time I try to expound upon the complex social and philosophical implications of cartoon art that I toil to unearth each and every day. Ultimately, I’m a grown man who spends much of his time reading, watching, talking and writing about cartoons. Despite all the overcompensating monologues about Derrida, I’m seen as a man-child; a socially-functional geek. Most “normals” simply assume I spend all of my money on Spider-Man collectables.

I’m a professional comics apologist. As Warhol cleverly illustrated, familiarity often dilutes one’s willingness to observation and introspection. Instead of a carefully executed piece of imagination, skill, and vision, most people are just going to see a banal soup-can because they’re more interested in the soup than the marketing psychology and label art. The opposite is true of the serious comics fanatic who has allowed their juvenile whimsy to escort them into a sophisticated adult intellectual life. Study is more accurately identified as obsession. To the geek, the execution of physicality, dialogue, and panel construction can become a transcendent moment of perfection capable of being preserved, re-examined, and shared. Most fans don’t even feel the need to intellectualize the artform. They unabashedly like the stories and characters, artists and genre cliches. They like the look and feel of comics and what they represent, regardless of whether that feeling is a daily intimacy or nostalgia.

And they love to talk about the comics. Sometimes to a fault.

I am certainly interested in the history of comics, the genre artists and the evolutions. However I am not very interested in the translation of comics to film, a conversation that has become a more and more dominant obstacle in my job. I was a kid raised on T.V. and movies, but my affection for comics was always related to the art work. I could get stories from other media. What I wanted from comics was a window into design, a textbook on how to draw that thought or movement. I drew incessantly as a kid; bizarre, impish animals, caricatures, and robots, all owing to my love of Looney Tunes, Chuck Jones, Filmation and Hanna-Barbera. Outside of the Transformers and Star Wars machinary, I never drew other people’s characters. I seemed to have identified that as plagiarism early on, and the comics provided hours of close scrutiny and textures the television shows couldn’t sustain. I read X-Men well into my teen years and then had a shocking realization: the art and the stories were just awful.

It was time to put away childish things.

When the boom of superhero movies hit the screen, starting with Tim Burton’s Batman in 1989, I was more excited about the Prince score as I was the prospect of Jack Nicholson as the Joker. It was all a big farce, despite the violence and dark shadows. I had yet to read Frank Miller or Alan Moore, but in my heart, I knew this Batman was a disgrace. As with all of his film’s, Burton couldn’t help but satirize emotion (has he ever made an authentic, resonant movie outside of Ed Wood?), a slight bumble at the time that nonetheless morphed into the repugnant, joyless sequels by Joel Schumaker.

The comic book movies kept getting worse until Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man. Here was a director who seemed to understand that the emotional heft of the Spider-Man pathos allowed for plenty of camp mythos. Instead of the wooden, embarrassing black-leathered X-Men of Bryan Singer’s disgraceful adaptations, Raimi’s Spider-Man films showed a reverence to the comics and a playful inventiveness that cemented them in Hollywood bombast. There was no need to recreate the comics panel. Raimi’s Spider-Man was never meant to be taken seriously, but instead gave you the option of dark psychology in between rousing flights of fancy.

But comics geeks must have their pound of flesh. Suddenly, all of the superhero movies – and more than two dozen sub-par comics adaptations that don’t feature men in tights – required grim authenticity and a moody anti-hero, the likes of which they were experiencing in the increasingly violent and myopic pages of Image and Vertigo. Even Superman - the clown-prince of peace, balance, and infallibility - fell prey to the ambitions of Singer’s dubious vision of “what modern audiences want”. Hack auteurs like Zack Snyder have taken the whole “the book was better” ethos to a new level of cinematic guilt. Snyder’s panel-for-panel recreations of 300 and Watchmen have made for truly terrible movie-going experiences with each new film feeling like a cinder-block tied to the foot of good taste. How are we supposed to get people to read the book when the product attached to it is so damn nasty? Or should we expect the layman to understand any of the comic culture being very examined in works like Watchmen when they are completely unaware of conventions Alan Moore is satirizing? Should we expect moviegoers read at all?

Here in Pittsburgh, we’re being treated to a potentially lethal dose of comic book movies this summer. The museum’s first exhibition of superhero comics art accidentally coincided with one of the ugliest parade of comics adaptations yet. Each day, my staff and I are forced to weather an endless stream of inquiries with no polite answers:

“Have you seen (Thor, X-Men, Captain America, Green Lantern) yet? What did you think?”

“I want the book that movie was based on. Do you have that one?”

“I saw that Watchers movie. Do you have that?”

“Who do you think the new Spider-Man should be?”

“Who’s Joss Whedon?”

“Why does everyone like Jack Kirby so much?”

“Do you have anything drawn by Stan Lee?”

Yes, Hollywood has made it safe for housewives, businessmen, grandmas and miscellaneous audiences heretofore completely disinterested in the genre to share their personal experiences, revelations, and disappointments with the superheroes we have gracing our walls. Everyone now seems to be packing varying degrees of newly-minted superhero philosophy, trivia, and cultural ephemera, violating the realms usually exclusively inhabited by creepy modulations of The Simpson’s all-too-accurate Comic Book Guy. It’s not that I’m an elitist or even unamused by this constant badgering. It’s great to see so many people turned on by the comic book experience. But my inner-Comic-Book Guy is exhausted.

The honest answers to these questions: I don’t really like the superhero movies. I haven’t really read superhero titles since I was thirteen. I don’t think comics should be adapted into movies. I like the small-press comics better, and even with them, I’m pretty picky. And if you don’t know the difference between Joss Whedon, Stan Lee, and Jack Kirby, you may have to read a few more books and watch a few more movies before I can offer any insights.

Furthermore, I’m not Oprah. I can’t choose a title for you and swear it’s going to change your life.

But the real story in Pittsburgh this summer has been the filming of Christopher Nolan’s final Batman film, and honestly, it’s the real reason for my comics fatigue.

Like Raimi’s Spider-Man trilogy, the Nolan Batman films have been the rare exception to the rule of general comic-book movie detritus, and it’s easy to see why. Nolan, while not a particularly gifted filmmaker, is a sharp, intellectual craftsman. His projects, however uneven, all share the same stylistic tensions and psychological insights that align him more with the subversive delights of Hitchcock than the mish-mash of populist imagination and ennui that typifies directors like Spielberg and his acolytes. Nolan’s previous two Batman films took the characters to places we didn’t want them to go, creating a recognizable but no-less shocking world in which there were real stakes, real arguments, and real villainy. His clever manipulation of the Batman image in the drug-induced passages of Begins was enough to convince me that Nolan understood the comics rather than just mimicked the tones. And then there was his masterstroke handling of The Joker, as much a testament to the writing of the character as Heath Ledger’s brilliant performance. Nolan was able to make the Batman films darker and challenging without losing the fun. While I could still do without the 20-minute chase scenes, Nolan was still able to make a two-hour-plus comic book film that left us wanting more.

The Dark Knight Rises has been filming here in the streets of Pittsburgh for the last month. This is the biggest non-sports related story of the year, and one that will only conflate as we approach the film’s release next year at this time. While none of us may even be able to feed ourselves by next July, I’m sure the majority of Pittsburghers will have squirreled away some cash to go see the city star as Batman’s squalid, corrupt, and teetering Gotham. Tens of thousands of people auditioned to be criminals, nurses, businessmen, and athletes, flooded Heinz Field to see the Gotham Rogues, and laser-lit the facades of downtown skyscrapers with flickering bat-symbols. The local press is overflowing with daily bat-bits and people are lined up six rows thick behind barricades hoping to capture twenty-seconds of Christian Bale to upload onto their You Tube pages. Many of the bat-freaks are tourists who planned their summer vacations around the shooting schedule, and every one gets a second look on the sidewalk to be sure they aren’t a secondary cast member on the lookout for a slice of pizza.

The filming has it’s perks. The museum’s business is booming and the occasional visit by Anne Hathaway is nothing I can get too upset about. But one gets excited about the occasional celebrity because of the randomness of it, because a very distant human entity that flutters through dreamy cinemascapes is in fact flesh and real and wears pants like you and me and here it is, biologically functioning in front of you. I don’t harbor any fantasies about the star’s day to day, or the potentiality of my own celebrity. It really just comes down to having a pretty girl in the museum, and we all like pretty girls. Now, if Jeff Bridges were to walk in the front door, I might ‘lose my shit,’ more because I have spent my whole life engrossed in his movies, having deduced an actual him from the medley of roles he has played over the years. One feels that one can “know” someone like Bridges, that the experience wouldn’t be so fleeting. So the question is really this: do we crave celebrity because of gaps in our own lives, because of a misplaced need for beauty and acceptance, or do we respect and envy the life of an artist – the perception of money, talent, and escapism? Either answer leaves us unsatisfied, just like the people who groan outside the barriers that “nothing is happening” on the location shoots they’ve mobbed. And dare I ask: what does watching Batman, a 70 year old popular archetype, teach us about the real Christian Bale?

Then there are those people crawling about on the sidewalks, scooping up bags full of paper Gotham snow, anticipating the gold-rush moreso than claiming an ironic souvenir, completely unaware of comic or movie. The same people that won’t pick up litter off of a busy sidewalk quibble over faux snow drifts in the middle of summer. Ah, the magic of Hollywood! The death of America!

Everyone’s a little bat-crazy, and it’s making me miserable. It isn’t enough that the Marvel and DC canons have provided the world with the most ridiculous and sustained soap operas in the history of mankind. Now the haggle comes over which slice of the mythology pie the Hollywood studio will choose to exploit, and how accurately the fan boys can decode the snippets of information they are witnessing into a Magnus Rex synopsis. Unable to simply sit back and absorb the wonder of the processes we get to observe - simply by living our day to day lives, simply by walking to get coffee in the morning – every asshole on the block has pieced together their own plot for the film. The local media is going apeshit, determined to convert as many spoilers as possible into ratings gold. The media, you can turn off. The fan boys, you cannot. The guy shoveling up bat-snow? You can’t even neuter him.

I do not want to know a single detail about The Dark Knight Rises. I don’t care what the costumes look like, I don’t care who the actors are, I am unconcerned with third-act script revisions. But the gravity of the project and the immaturity of the masses have combined to create the biggest assholes known to man, bigger than a Steeler fan in a Ben Roethlisberger jersey. These weaselly little fucks insist on recounting for anyone and everyone the smallest bat-item they’ve observed to the biggest spoilers they’ve read about. They foam at the mouth like rabid dogs, desperately licking their own nuts in vain attempts to self-satisfy or perhaps cleanse themselves of their own filth taking it back into their foul little mouths. In an attempt to be better, more knowledgeable, about something so insignificant, they go about ruining the experience for everyone, perhaps because of a need to unconsciously force everyone to share in their own personal, pithy miseries. And of course, the saddest thing is the idea of claiming knowledge and control over something that doesn’t exist yet.

Pittsburgh is a city of contradictions (as most decent cities are). The demographics almost take pride in the wide gaps between the haves and have nots, intellectualism and ignorance, a hard, gritty work ethic and trifling industry. As the city becomes the du jour locale for bad Hollywood contrivances, Pittsburghers may or may not get used to the delays and closings and celebrity sightings. Probably not. It is safe to say that we may never experience anything quite like The Dark Knight Rises, nor should we want to. Imagine what it would do for the Yinzer ego if we had to endure a two month headache for an Alpha Flight movie.

If you don’t know, don’t ask.

August 19, 2011

crinkledcomicspress asked: Just wanted to say that after you mentioned it in conversation, I found this tumblr. I'll let you know what I think and what brave new horizons your thoughts open for me. Or what depths I'll sink to. One never knows these things.

Great! I should apologize in advance. Who knows how these things work? I tend to ramble more than anything else, but I guess if you’re self-indulgent enough to blog, you’ve already denied the existence of an editor. And part of my credo here is no edits.

Just curious as to where I spoke to you?

Appreciate you reading in any case!

jm

August 9, 2011
Paying For It: The 3rd Annual GE Sex Issue

Parts One and Two combined.

Part One - Paying For It

This will mark the fifth attempt I’ve made at beginning this year’s “Sex Issue.” I’m hoping there is not a sixth. My argument for this year’s article hasn’t changed since March, however much of the content has. Every time I’ve sat down in an attempt to unravel this year in Coitus Reporting, some new scandal or otherwise unbelievable tidbit would rise up and stall the project. A steady stream of pop-culture sex stories overwhelmed the whole of the media in the past few months, so much so that the stuff I had prepared was getting buried over and over again. You’d think that with all this fuck-talk we were opening up a bit; entering a new collective maturity about sex roles and practice and how that functions in the media.

And if you’d think that, you’d be an idiot.

2011, awash in smut, and yet titillation has had nothing to do with it. Instead, we live in a culture that has defined itself by its willingness to sell sex while simultaneously strapping on the chastity belt. A walk through the neighborhood Wal-Mart will find you up to ass in eroticism - or our particular strip-mall idea of it – while the same retailer regularly refuses to carry best-selling books and magazines, DVDs, and CDs (remember those?) that their in-house censors consider inappropriate. You can stop off at the Wal-Pharmacy for your generic Viagra prescriptions, but you ain’t never gonna find a Jack-Rabbit upgrade in the aisles of plastic Chinese nirvana. America has always had these sexual identity problems and laughable inconsistencies, but when did it all get so political?

I’m certainly not that naïve. Sex has always been political (and a key economic pillar), especially when considering that for several hundred years of Western culture, the only time we’ve talked about sex in public was in a courtroom, pulpit, or the resulting news program. But these are not real conversations. They are more likely to be dictatorial monologues, regardless of who’s delivering it and what they believe. The “liberal” can be just as fascist as the “conservative,” as the ever devolving feminist movement has proven. Finding a middle ground between prude and hedonist can be tricky when you have a billion voices shaping willing to debate. But let’s be honest: it’s rare that the Right has anything good to say about sex.

There’s an argument to be made here - with sound reason and little irony - that the Right hates sex. Not fears, not misunderstands or misrepresents, but hates sex. It’s not the first time you’d accused me of hyperbole – but the recent wave of conservative absurdity reveals a strange thread of paranoia that goes well beyond the typical puritanical group-think that has pervaded the Republican and Tea Bagging parties for years. We’ve come to expect a certain amount of this silliness at this point in the political cycle as the Republican trolls come out from under whatever bridge they’ve slept under since Barack Obama’s historic victory in 2008. But the typical religion-fueled anti-abortion/anti-gay rhetoric that usually propels the basest candidates in the infancy of his or her presidential bid has had a new bite, and it has diversified. While said rhetoric may be divisive and therefore self-containing in the broad scheme of political success, the fanaticism embedded in this year’s bumper crop of Tightie Righties has adopted a new language of absolutism that reveals a real sexual sickness that’s being mistaken for acceptable policy. The danger that this extremism can transcend radical conservative demagoguery and become accepted party practice isn’t imagined or inflated. Powered by economic woes, these typical prejudices have gained credence in a “dialogue” with bullies who will stop at nothing to keep Big Government out of our bank accounts, but firmly entrenched in our bedrooms.

Sex is a tremendous ethical gray area for a lot of people, exponentially so if you are a politician or clergyman who has to weigh out a universal desire against irrational regulations and your own peculiarities. When these people get caught in a scandal (and how often does said scandal directly contradict their most fervent public moral personas?), we’re often left to wonder what they were thinking, what bizarre deviation led them to chance on the sordid little indiscretion of momentary pleasure. In America, one is supposed to have personal control (part of that rugged individual thing) as it pertains to social politeness and Christian dignity, even though every fiber of our national being is steeped in indulgence and overload. Fast food, gambling, sports industries… fuck it, the entirety of the free-market myth is based on satisfying ridiculous, irrational urges with little or no consequence. Except when it comes to sex. Sex has rules, though some of them are more clearly defined than others.

The Right is constantly reminding us of their version of the rules and the past twelve months have been a particularly rich time for what amounts to media fodder and propaganda. But again, the threat here is the relationship between sex and economic policy. The heated budget debates that will no doubt carry well into the 2013 inauguration have centered more around social programs than evaluation of the Wall Street debacle, military spending, and - dare I say it? - the failure of Reaganomics. The Right does not want a single taxpayer dollar trickling into what they consider immoral institutions. So while Michelle Bachman’s unaccredited husband collects government funds for a program that seeks to cure homosexuality (powered with a decidedly Christian message which, essentially violates constitutional law), Planned Parenthood faces a endless string of attacks from the Right under the assumption that all they do is kill babies. If you recall, they’re even willing to lie about it, exaggerating the numbers in a way that “was never meant to be misunderstood as factual.”

Because Planned Parenthood collects government funding and provides several constitutionally protected programs that conservatives don’t like, the Right went to great lengths to introduce budget cuts that would essentially cripple the non-profit which supplies free or deeply discounted healthcare to almost 40% of the adult American female population. But rather than angle this as a war against women, primarily those of poor, middle, and the “oh-shit, hide this from the country club members” classes, the Republibaggers have decided that, alas, hard decisions about our country’s financial well-being have to be made. How cowardly to manipulate an economic crisis into a moral agenda that ultimately puts the health of millions of women in jeopardy.

But of course, abortion isn’t the only issue that conservatives have with Planned Parenthood. The idea that a non-profit would point out the mega-failure of George W. Bush’s wide-ranging abstinence-only sex-education programs was enough provocation to earn Cecile Richards a Public Enemy Number One rating when the Right reclaimed the House last fall. Under the banner of actually saving lives, the House sought to withdraw over 50% of Planned Parenthood’s budget. When it comes to morality and saving money, ending abortion saves lives. However, allowing poor women to die of cervical cancer and AIDS is not a moral lapse, it’s an uncomfortable side-effect of a constricted budget. That lapse is in the person who chose to have sex, after all, regardless of whether she was properly educated about the potential consequences.

Without dipping my testicles into the mouth of rhetoric here, I need to ask: how can any woman of any political leaning be okay with that reintroduction of time-honored misogyny?

The conservative understanding of liberalism is that traditional moral and ethical conventions are wantonly trampled by a minority of free-wheeling bohemians and atheistic hedonists at the expense of the conscientious majority. Of course, the majority in question here is not necessarily an equivocation of all collected opinions and lifestyles that combine to fill a consensus of expectations and values. This majority is the wealthy, activist Protestant Christian base. “It” is predominantly white in a country that is increasingly brown and “it” is often eager to make mistakes when quoting the printed words on which our country was founded - biblical, constitutional, or otherwise. That is not my personal, liberal attack on conservatism. “It” is just what “it” is. If you ask these people (or more likely, even if you didn’t), they’ll explain to you that America’s recent woes are the result failed Democratic policies (which were actually Republican policies, from rampant spending and the EPA to social security and housing subsidies) and a collapse of traditional values. This can be translated into “we hate the gays and think abortion is evil.” There is no convincing them that we can trace abortion and homosexuality back to the dawn of mankind. Nope. These are purely modern corruptions that should be evaluated by government. Incredibly small, inactive government that should stay out of our lives.

What the Right stands to lose from homosexual marriage is beyond me. Yet here we are, in 2011, debating what is clearly an uncomplicated civil rights issue. But how can we even approach the marriage debate if we still live in a country in which an openly gay man or woman isn’t even allowed to die for his or her country? We can’t even sign these fags up for cannon fodder.

The laughable Don’t Ask Don’t Tell debate was and is a clear line in the sand for both of 2008’s presidential candidates. Unfortunately, when the dust cleared this winter, both Obama and his opponent John McCain ended up on the same side of that line. McCain, who had previously stumped for the abolition of the policy gave into his conservative base and very publicly rejected the repeal. Obama - who ran on an often pandering progressive GLBC platform - refused to take a stand on the policy as well. Perhaps Obama could spot the shadows in the water that would become the Planned Parenthood controversy sharks, but in a horrific coincidence, the president’s failure to push the repeal of DADT (a campaign promise) looked even more pathetic when a string of young GLBC suicides and anti-gay violence landed in the media.

In Rush Limbaugh’s moral sphere “there is no correlation between teenage bullies who beat up homosexual kids – if a 16 year old can even know that he’s gay – and the policy of having gay people serve in the military.” We expect these kind of intolerant statements from a raconteur like Limbaugh, however it was shocking to watch the Right go silent for a week, choosing to simply ignore the stories as if they did not exist.

Where sexual preference meets national policy is at the intersection of religion and politics. Nowhere else. There is absolutely no other explanation for why sexual preference would limit the rights of an individual under the BIG “C” Constitution or the Bill of Rights. To make a law that outlaws specific kinds of fucking is a law against fucking. But if the policies relating to homosexuality are not defined by Judeo-Christian rhetoric entirely, then the flabbergasting paranoia over “sharia” certainly smacks of conservative Christian malice.

There’s a popular argument that there are “true Christians” and then there are those misguided souls who wholly misrepresent the teachings of Christ, yet these same folks would faint in the aisles if Pastor Bob were to deliver a sermon on Jesus’s sexuality. If the Bible is all about “interpretation” or “literal readings,” it’s an easy leap into the reading that Jesus encouraged getting down with anything that moved. The brother roamed the desert with sailors and prostitutes, speaking about love and equality. Jesus never uttered a word about the sexual practices of the Romans (more on them later), though he spoke plenty about their violence, social intolerance, and financial dealings. And he didn’t seem to be very concerned about polygamy. Historically, there were plenty of Jewish, Christian, and Roman polygamists on record. The practice wasn’t any more uncommon than homosexuality, which, by the way, there was A LOT of in Greece, Rome, and Egypt (yeah, more on that later, too). But as the old saying goes: one (wife/husband) is enough. In fact, one of the only times in which Jesus makes direct reference to sex is when he is condemning the concept of divorce. Go figure.

The buzzword “sharia” is the latest in a line of sly bigotry, intertwining the fear of sexual impotency with terrorist violence. America, neutered by 9/11 - by an enemy with arguably even bigger religion-driven sexual hang-ups – can only respond by launching a million explosive phalluses off into the night for some ole midnight shock n’ awe. That guttural but no less seductive enemy hides at the edges of our tolerance, infiltrating our culture by playing off of our best intentions and simultaneously cuckolding our rough and ready cocksmen with the promise of a thousand thirsty virgins in paradise. How can we hope to defeat an enemy who is getting busy with forty women at once, individually producing a whole army of like-minded zealots eager to bring the nation to it’s knees? Before it was the blacks and the Hispanics. In Germany in the 1930’s, it was the Jews. That it’s biggest critics don’t even understand the basic tenets of Islam, let alone that “sharia” has little to do with sexual conduct (with polygamy little more than a footnote), is dangerously irresponsible. The idea that “sharia” disregards the rights of women - coming from folks who wanted to dissolve Planned Parenthood – should be identified as hysterical.

Stay on course with me here, even as my imagination wanders: the Right wants a smaller government that is most effective when it stays out of people’s private lives and reduces spending, yet that same government should form committees and pass special legislation to curb specific biological behaviors that essentially define the perimeters of said private lives. And that’s exactly what landed in the midst of the spending debates in April. While the Right was championing budget cuts that would eliminate monies for liberal resources like arts and sex education, public radio, and social/health services and ultimately poo-pooing the wasteful, committee-driven mentality of Washington, those same conservatives (specifically Orinn Hatch and more than a few shameful Democrats like Dianne Feinstein) were pushing the federal government to expand the perimeters of obscenity laws and increase pornography prosecutions despite the protection of said materials by ruling of the Supreme Court.

Part Two - Teabaggers 3: Porn and Politics

To say that Americans have a complicated view of sexuality is an understatement. Inter-culturally, there’s no clear-cut consensus on what even constitutes sex, as we were made painfully aware a few years ago by President Bill Clinton. How then, do you legally regulate sexual behavior without sounding like a slack-jawed hypocritical idiot? There are those folks who only think in terms of penises and vaginas, therefor oral and anal sexual contact doesn’t even exist in a manner in which they can debate. Like the classic deist argument: even acknowledging the word is accepting the possibility of a God. Homosexual contact wasn’t legal in the United States until 2003, and outside of the bedroom, 21 states still hold that it is legal to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation in the workplace. While I have never had gay sex in the breakroom, that’s not exactly what we’re talking about here: in almost half of the country, your boss can fire you just because you like blowjobs (giving or receiving).

We can recognize that this is not only silly but downright draconian. And of course, there is a steady stream of media exploitation of sex for political purposes, right and left. For every dumb ass high school teacher who makes national headlines for calling a student a fag, there’s the Looney Lefties who want to crucify Tracey Morgan (and I agree, for slightly different reasons) and silence Dan Savage (also, I can somewhat agree) for making comments that challenge base political correctness, even if these creepy comments were made in jest. We take this stuff so seriously that we’re left dumb-founded when sex actually does coincide with real news. The unsettling Dominique Strauss-Kahn case was being reported as a cross-cultural wake-up call for the world, ushering in a new era of sexual considerations for a continent that virtually advertises sexual harassment as one of it’s greatest exports. Call me a prude, but if I were a woman being groped by hoards of smelly, hairy French, Italian, and Spanish men in the employee lounge, I wouldn’t necessarily equate that with liberation. But just as Americans were about to claim victory for the mass-marketed International Chastity Belt (complete with crucifix key), some even stranger details broke in the case. With just a splash of tabloid journalistic persistence and miscued statements to police, the Ben Roethlisberger of the IMF has watched the probability of conviction wither. Is DSK innocent? It depends on whether or not you believe that politicians are honest, virtuous, trust-worthy people who always do the right thing…like have “consensual sex” with their hotel housekeeper. If you want to know how mature we are as a political nation, consider that a large number of accusations have been made the DSK case is a response from prosecutors to the Roman Polanski case.

Polanski, after all, had sex with a child and made a few movies about it. And we all know how permissive those French movies can be. I think we can all agree that the sexual coercion of minors is a pretty disturbing and justifiably illegal thing, as is the production of materials that depict or document such encounters. While the real problem is that this happens (and let’s be honest, will continue to happen) at all, it’s not the most scientific or logical argument that child pornography and sexual abuse is the result of art, or cinema, or the logical progression for someone who experiences arousal from legal pornography. Unless you’re a Senator from Utah, California, or Nevada, the three states that seems to have cornered the market on wacky sex habits.

Yet that’s just what an open letter co-signed by 41 senators and sent to Attorney General Eric Holder argued. An ill-begotten death-rattle that attempted to drum-up public support for porn prosecutions, the letter now seems to have been a ploy prompted by some inside information that the budget cuts would be shutting down the preposterous Obscenity Task Force, a leftover from the Bush (and really, Reagan’s Meese committee) administration that sought to rid the world of all pornography, er..uh… they meant ….

What did it mean? What were the objectives of the Obscenity Task force if not to use government funds to protect the people from stuff that they wanted. We’re not talking nuclear weapons here. We’re talking legally documented and distributed pornography made by adults for adults. The committee was formed to target, arrest, and prosecute child pornographers and identify sexually violent materials that had no “cultural or artistic merit.” A slippery slope, constitutionally, but generally agreed to be a decent thing.

The letter, however ineffectual (the task force was shut down in May after Republicans demands for cuts deemed it unnecessary, go figure), identified a consistent hypocrisy: why do the people that claim to not watch porn believe that others should not have the right to watch it? And why are they willing to lie, cheat and steal to make sure that others cannot exercise that right? Sure, religion has something to do with it. And certainly, there are valid questions and concerns about the contradictory messages of porn and the depiction of both men and women in stereotypical, arguably degraded scenarios. But are these arguments about porn, or arguments about human sexual behavior. Hatch and his 41 dwarfs really can’t say. So instead of opening up a dialogue, they just made up some facts:

“Last June, an important briefing in the Capitol outlined how pornography has changed, becoming more harmful, addictive, and available, and linked to other crimes.  Researchers, scholars, and other experts explained, for example, how today’s hardcore pornography is typified by extreme violence against women and how pornography consumption can contribute to sexual harassment and sexual violence.  Another expert warned that Internet adult pornography normalizes sexual harm to children, while another addressed the growing connection between pornography and sex trafficking…

Simply put, we know more than ever how illegal adult obscenity contributes to violence against women, addiction, harm to children, and sex trafficking.  This material harms individuals, families, and communities and the problems are only getting worse.”
Now hold on. 42, it turns out, is not the answer to everything. ‘Simply put,’ none of that argument makes sense, nor is it remotely defensible when you use real studies, not simply those promoted by the Church of Latter Day Saints and Morality in the Media. There is ample evidence to suggest that, since the proliferation of internet porn in the mid-90’s, most of the harmful things they report on as side-effects of a porned-up culture are actually declining. Since they do not cite their sources, I’ve made sure document mine:
A Princeton Brookings study states that reported sex crimes against children fell more than 50% from 1992 to 2006. The U.S. Justice department has also reported a 500% increase in the number of successful child pornography prosecutions since 1995.
Statistics from the U.S. Department of Justice state that reported forcible rape dropped to 29 in 100,000 in 2009, the lowest that’s ever been recorded.
The U.S. Justice Department reports that reports of domestic violence dropped by more than 50% since 1993, and that divorce is at its lowest rate since 1970.
The CDC reports that, in 2009, teen pregnancy has hit an all-time low.
And here’s the kicker. The Guttenmacher Institute’s most recent survey on abortion (the mother of all sexual evils) has some shocking numbers in it, the kind of which don’t seem to ever be reported in the mass media at all:
The rate of abortion in 2005 was at it’s lowest point since 1974, the year after Roe vs. Wade. It has risen .2 % under the Obama Administration.
While 49% of all pregnancies are unintended, only 22% are terminated by abortion.54% of all abortions were the result of failed contraception.
Teens are less that 20% of all abortions and 70% of all abortions are by mothers who already have at least one child.
Less than 40% of women who have abortions live below the poverty line. 79% of all women who have abortions state that they cannot afford to have the baby. 38% of all abortions were given to white women.
One third of all women under the age of 45 will have an abortion.
If pornography is the meter for degrees of social depravity, we seem to have done pretty good by it, especially when talking about prevention of sexual evils.
The one truly distressing fact to confront is the expansion of the human trafficking, which again, is more a side effect of the world economy than it is the proliferation of pornography.
You may not be able to defend much of pornography on an intellectual level with these folks, but the numbers don’t lie. As the access to free and diverse pornography has increased, bad stuff has decreased. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the nation’s staggering homicide numbers, which we can only believe will continue to increase as the effects of the economic catastrophe of 2008 bear down.
Citing the ubiquity of porn is certainly no logical defense. After all, the nation had a fantastic chuckle when it was revealed that Osama Bin Laden has a sizable porn collection in his little bunker. What can be more damning of a religious and financial zealot who ordered the murder of thousands of people on the basis of their Western decadence and perversity? It seemed fitting, the perceived fall from grace, because of the sick hypocrisy imbedded. By my initial response to the story was one of sadness. Here was another justification for the culture-vultures to deride porn without any real justification.
The discussion that needs to be had is not a one-sided, black and white argument for or against pornography, because both sides come out looking silly.
Porn is as old as art. In fact, porn was the first art. 25,000 years ago (that’s 19,000 years before God created man for all of you Creationists reading along), some horny caveman teenager sat down and carved the Venus of Willendorf, either as a glorious exaltation of the beauty and power of women or because he just wasn’t having any luck finding a mate. Whatever the case, a few trillion big-titted statues and ridiculously large stone, wood, and bone phalli later, the Egyptians apparently started having a lot of sex with the animals of the Nile … and their sisters, servants, and slaves. All well documented. It was, of course, the Greeks a few thousand years later who formalized pornography for dinnerware and weaponry, hailing in a New World order of public debauchery, pederasts, one hell of and army and -l et’s see…lewd sex, military, debate … oh yeah – politicians! Then came the Romans who sought to make the world Rome and then graffiti a large dick of the side of it. The Romans fucked everything and went out of their way to document it loudly and proudly. You’ll recall too that the Jesus fellow really didn’t seem to have many problems with the graphic perversity of the Roman world. His concerns were never about which Jewish prostitute worked on the Sabbath or the giant cock scribbled on the side of the Temple. In the words of Jesus: “It was the economy, Stupid.” Namely that his own people would forget their own rules as a tradition if it meant winning some money on a cock (different kind) fight.
Yep, the Romans loved porn, even after they decided that Jesus was just alright and made him their national spokesman (a move that proved that Constantine was even crazier than previously imagined). In fact, most of the earliest Christian sects were fertility and sex cults. Even under the reformed church and well into the 6th century CE, churches were being built with lavish sexual imagery and what would no doubt be considered pornographic depictions covering their exterior and interior walls as a means of attracting new parishioners.
Christianity did not do the Romans any good. Already in disarray, the empire collapsed a hundred years later. While there was still plenty of porn around, it now served a dual function of promoting Christian mythology or referencing the Classical world before it. Painting a picture of the naked Virgin Mary or of a swan raping a woman was high art, often commissioned by the church itself. But the Church was a harsh mistress, especially as plagues and wars started people looking for some easy answers to why God hated them all so much. Why, because you’re all perverts, of course. By the mid-1400’s, figures like Savonarola and later, Pope Paul III started destroying art in an attempt to rid the world of filth, a trend that continues until the printing press makes smut profitable…and it’s creators and consumers prosecutable. Strange thing, though: throwing Oscar Wilde in prison didn’t stop porn.
Somehow, we went leapt from the creation of the written word, mathematics, science, literature, medicine, philosophy, astronomy, and the city-state to the Dark Ages, plagues, and book-burnings in the blink of a Christian eye. Some of the greatest works by very Christian artists like William Blake were destroyed because of their erotic content, and still how many more unwritten because of intolerant beliefs. But pornography never went away, and who could stop it once the camera was mass-marketed? The first thing people did with cameras was shoot themselves doing it.
The argument against porn doesn’t make any sense. But as Alan Moore suggests, the devil is in the details; the eroticism that we as a culture have lost as modern pornography strips the act of sex down to its most guttural essentials.
Modern porn is degrading only because we have degraded ourselves, having imagined humanity to be something more meaningful than basic biological urges and the slightly more sophisticated urges to observe them. When we define ourselves as above those particular laws, we have to be careful to uphold them, and that is where the Right fails to understand, even hate sex. What makes sexual expression vital to psychological and spiritual health is greatly linked to the imagination. The conservative response is to seek to curb something they are not especially good at expressing, whether it be physically, emotionally, or graphically. This is certainly tied to religion and consequently, as a repression of antiquated ideas about making the world Rome, or in this case, Church.
But as I said before, the Right are not entirely wrong in their appraisal of the porn industry, and the Left are no better at an open discussion of porn and sexuality. There seems to be no indifference in the debate: your either against it or you’re a misogynist pervert. While liberal anti-porn activists would scoff at the idea that a man who has sex with other men is a sexual deviant, that same activist would not hesitate in decrying that homosexual man if he enjoyed watching pornography that featured women. The mode of thought that all pornography lessens and debases it’s subjects is on its way out the window as new generations of porn consumers age. And you certainly can’t win an argument by calling the other side names.
Am I an advocate for porn? Not really. Quite a bit of porn and the potential for it makes me a bit squeamish myself. Again, referencing Moore, the state of the industry strips away the erotic and replaces it with the mechanical rote response to human connection. I’m more fearful of the ways in which porn interacts with technology, not in the sense that the internet is destroying sexual intimacy, but simply that the increased technological connectivity does have a dehumanizing effect on its subjects. How often have any of us had an erotic moment ruined by the intrusion of technology? I’m not necessarily talking about coitus here. When was the last time you glanced across the candle-lit dinner table and saw your partner texting their sister’s girlfriend’s cousin and thought to yourself: I should have just downloaded Who’s Nailin Palin Too?
At least your $150 dinner helped stimulated the economy, even if you’ll be going home to seek your own stimulation from a free streaming service. But let’s be honest: about the only industry in America that really is turning out an marketable international product at a huge profit is porno. If the Teabaggers are all about deregulation, you think they’d see the relative value in charging $50 bucks for a DVD of Orin Hatch’s predictably bizarre sexcapades, whether actual teabagging occurs or not.

August 6, 2011
The Third Annual Grinning Elvis Sex Issue

Part Two - Teabaggers 3: Porn and Politics

To say that Americans have a complicated view of sexuality is an understatement. Inter-culturally, there’s no clear-cut consensus on what even constitutes sex, as we were made painfully aware a few years ago by President Bill Clinton. How then, do you legally regulate sexual behavior without sounding like a slack-jawed hypocritical idiot? There are those folks who only think in terms of penises and vaginas, therefor oral and anal sexual contact doesn’t even exist in a manner in which they can debate. Like the classic deist argument: even acknowledging the word is accepting the possibility of a God. Homosexual contact wasn’t legal in the United States until 2003, and outside of the bedroom, 21 states still hold that it is legal to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation in the workplace. While I have never had gay sex in the breakroom, that’s not exactly what we’re talking about here: in almost half of the country, your boss can fire you just because you like blowjobs (giving or receiving).

We can recognize that this is not only silly but downright draconian. And of course, there is a steady stream of media exploitation of sex for political purposes, right and left. For every dumb ass high school teacher who makes national headlines for calling a student a fag, there’s the Looney Lefties who want to crucify Tracey Morgan (and I agree, for slightly different reasons) and silence Dan Savage (also, I can somewhat agree) for making comments that challenge base political correctness, even if these creepy comments were made in jest. We take this stuff so seriously that we’re left dumb-founded when sex actually does coincide with real news. The unsettling Dominique Strauss-Kahn case was being reported as a cross-cultural wake-up call for the world, ushering in a new era of sexual considerations for a continent that virtually advertises sexual harassment as one of it’s greatest exports. Call me a prude, but if I were a woman being groped by hoards of smelly, hairy French, Italian, and Spanish men in the employee lounge, I wouldn’t necessarily equate that with liberation. But just as Americans were about to claim victory for the mass-marketed International Chastity Belt (complete with crucifix key), some even stranger details broke in the case. With just a splash of tabloid journalistic persistence and miscued statements to police, the Ben Roethlisberger of the IMF has watched the probability of conviction wither. Is DSK innocent? It depends on whether or not you believe that politicians are honest, virtuous, trust-worthy people who always do the right thing…like have “consensual sex” with their hotel housekeeper. If you want to know how mature we are as a political nation, consider that a large number of accusations have been made the DSK case is a response from prosecutors to the Roman Polanski case.

Polanski, after all, had sex with a child and made a few movies about it. And we all know how permissive those French movies can be. I think we can all agree that the sexual coercion of minors is a pretty disturbing and justifiably illegal thing, as is the production of materials that depict or document such encounters. While the real problem is that this happens (and let’s be honest, will continue to happen) at all, it’s not the most scientific or logical argument that child pornography and sexual abuse is the result of art, or cinema, or the logical progression for someone who experiences arousal from legal pornography. Unless you’re a Senator from Utah, California, or Nevada, the three states that seems to have cornered the market on wacky sex habits.

Yet that’s just what an open letter co-signed by 41 senators and sent to Attorney General Eric Holder argued. An ill-begotten death-rattle that attempted to drum-up public support for porn prosecutions, the letter now seems to have been a ploy prompted by some inside information that the budget cuts would be shutting down the preposterous Obscenity Task Force, a leftover from the Bush (and really, Reagan’s Meese committee) administration that sought to rid the world of all pornography, er..uh… they meant ….

What did it mean? What were the objectives of the Obscenity Task force if not to use government funds to protect the people from stuff that they wanted. We’re not talking nuclear weapons here. We’re talking legally documented and distributed pornography made by adults for adults. The committee was formed to target, arrest, and prosecute child pornographers and identify sexually violent materials that had no “cultural or artistic merit.” A slippery slope, constitutionally, but generally agreed to be a decent thing.

The letter, however ineffectual (the task force was shut down in May after Republicans demands for cuts deemed it unnecessary, go figure), identified a consistent hypocrisy: why do the people that claim to not watch porn believe that others should not have the right to watch it? And why are they willing to lie, cheat and steal to make sure that others cannot exercise that right? Sure, religion has something to do with it. And certainly, there are valid questions and concerns about the contradictory messages of porn and the depiction of both men and women in stereotypical, arguably degraded scenarios. But are these arguments about porn, or arguments about human sexual behavior. Hatch and his 41 dwarfs really can’t say. So instead of opening up a dialogue, they just made up some facts:

“Last June, an important briefing in the Capitol outlined how pornography has changed, becoming more harmful, addictive, and available, and linked to other crimes.  Researchers, scholars, and other experts explained, for example, how today’s hardcore pornography is typified by extreme violence against women and how pornography consumption can contribute to sexual harassment and sexual violence.  Another expert warned that Internet adult pornography normalizes sexual harm to children, while another addressed the growing connection between pornography and sex trafficking…

Simply put, we know more than ever how illegal adult obscenity contributes to violence against women, addiction, harm to children, and sex trafficking.  This material harms individuals, families, and communities and the problems are only getting worse.”
Now hold on. 42, it turns out, is not the answer to everything. ‘Simply put,’ none of that argument makes sense, nor is it remotely defensible when you use real studies, not simply those promoted by the Church of Latter Day Saints and Morality in the Media. There is ample evidence to suggest that, since the proliferation of internet porn in the mid-90’s, most of the harmful things they report on as side-effects of a porned-up culture are actually declining. Since they do not cite their sources, I’ve made sure document mine:
A Princeton Brookings study states that reported sex crimes against children fell more than 50% from 1992 to 2006. The U.S. Justice department has also reported a 500% increase in the number of successful child pornography prosecutions since 1995.
Statistics from the U.S. Department of Justice state that reported forcible rape dropped to 29 in 100,000 in 2009, the lowest that’s ever been recorded.
The U.S. Justice Department reports that reports of domestic violence dropped by more than 50% since 1993, and that divorce is at its lowest rate since 1970.
The CDC reports that, in 2009, teen pregnancy has hit an all-time low.
And here’s the kicker. The Guttenmacher Institute’s most recent survey on abortion (the mother of all sexual evils) has some shocking numbers in it, the kind of which don’t seem to ever be reported in the mass media at all:
The rate of abortion in 2005 was at it’s lowest point since 1974, the year after Roe vs. Wade. It has risen .2 % under the Obama Administration.
While 49% of all pregnancies are unintended, only 22% are terminated by abortion.54% of all abortions were the result of failed contraception.
Teens are less that 20% of all abortions and 70% of all abortions are by mothers who already have at least one child.
Less than 40% of women who have abortions live below the poverty line. 79% of all women who have abortions state that they cannot afford to have the baby. 38% of all abortions were given to white women.
One third of all women under the age of 45 will have an abortion.
If pornography is the meter for degrees of social depravity, we seem to have done pretty good by it, especially when talking about prevention of sexual evils.
The one truly distressing fact to confront is the expansion of the human trafficking, which again, is more a side effect of the world economy than it is the proliferation of pornography.
You may not be able to defend much of pornography on an intellectual level with these folks, but the numbers don’t lie. As the access to free and diverse pornography has increased, bad stuff has decreased. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the nation’s staggering homicide numbers, which we can only believe will continue to increase as the effects of the economic catastrophe of 2008 bear down.
Citing the ubiquity of porn is certainly no logical defense. After all, the nation had a fantastic chuckle when it was revealed that Osama Bin Laden has a sizable porn collection in his little bunker. What can be more damning of a religious and financial zealot who ordered the murder of thousands of people on the basis of their Western decadence and perversity? It seemed fitting, the perceived fall from grace, because of the sick hypocrisy imbedded. By my initial response to the story was one of sadness. Here was another justification for the culture-vultures to deride porn without any real justification.
The discussion that needs to be had is not a one-sided, black and white argument for or against pornography, because both sides come out looking silly.
Porn is as old as art. In fact, porn was the first art. 25,000 years ago (that’s 19,000 years before God created man for all of you Creationists reading along), some horny caveman teenager sat down and carved the Venus of Willendorf, either as a glorious exaltation of the beauty and power of women or because he just wasn’t having any luck finding a mate. Whatever the case, a few trillion big-titted statues and ridiculously large stone, wood, and bone phalli later, the Egyptians apparently started having a lot of sex with the animals of the Nile … and their sisters, servants, and slaves. All well documented. It was, of course, the Greeks a few thousand years later who formalized pornography for dinnerware and weaponry, hailing in a New World order of public debauchery, pederasts, one hell of and army and -l et’s see…lewd sex, military, debate … oh yeah – politicians! Then came the Romans who sought to make the world Rome and then graffiti a large dick of the side of it. The Romans fucked everything and went out of their way to document it loudly and proudly. You’ll recall too that the Jesus fellow really didn’t seem to have many problems with the graphic perversity of the Roman world. His concerns were never about which Jewish prostitute worked on the Sabbath or the giant cock scribbled on the side of the Temple. In the words of Jesus: “It was the economy, Stupid.” Namely that his own people would forget their own rules as a tradition if it meant winning some money on a cock (different kind) fight.
Yep, the Romans loved porn, even after they decided that Jesus was just alright and made him their national spokesman (a move that proved that Constantine was even crazier than previously imagined). In fact, most of the earliest Christian sects were fertility and sex cults. Even under the reformed church and well into the 6th century CE, churches were being built with lavish sexual imagery and what would no doubt be considered pornographic depictions covering their exterior and interior walls as a means of attracting new parishioners.
Christianity did not do the Romans any good. Already in disarray, the empire collapsed a hundred years later. While there was still plenty of porn around, it now served a dual function of promoting Christian mythology or referencing the Classical world before it. Painting a picture of the naked Virgin Mary or of a swan raping a woman was high art, often commissioned by the church itself. But the Church was a harsh mistress, especially as plagues and wars started people looking for some easy answers to why God hated them all so much. Why, because you’re all perverts, of course. By the mid-1400’s, figures like Savonarola and later, Pope Paul III started destroying art in an attempt to rid the world of filth, a trend that continues until the printing press makes smut profitable…and it’s creators and consumers prosecutable. Strange thing, though: throwing Oscar Wilde in prison didn’t stop porn.
Somehow, we went leapt from the creation of the written word, mathematics, science, literature, medicine, philosophy, astronomy, and the city-state to the Dark Ages, plagues, and book-burnings in the blink of a Christian eye. Some of the greatest works by very Christian artists like William Blake were destroyed because of their erotic content, and still how many more unwritten because of intolerant beliefs. But pornography never went away, and who could stop it once the camera was mass-marketed? The first thing people did with cameras was shoot themselves doing it.
The argument against porn doesn’t make any sense. But as Alan Moore suggests, the devil is in the details; the eroticism that we as a culture have lost as modern pornography strips the act of sex down to its most guttural essentials.
Modern porn is degrading only because we have degraded ourselves, having imagined humanity to be something more meaningful than basic biological urges and the slightly more sophisticated urges to observe them. When we define ourselves as above those particular laws, we have to be careful to uphold them, and that is where the Right fails to understand, even hate sex. What makes sexual expression vital to psychological and spiritual health is greatly linked to the imagination. The conservative response is to seek to curb something they are not especially good at expressing, whether it be physically, emotionally, or graphically. This is certainly tied to religion and consequently, as a repression of antiquated ideas about making the world Rome, or in this case, Church.
But as I said before, the Right are not entirely wrong in their appraisal of the porn industry, and the Left are no better at an open discussion of porn and sexuality. There seems to be no indifference in the debate: your either against it or you’re a misogynist pervert. While liberal anti-porn activists would scoff at the idea that a man who has sex with other men is a sexual deviant, that same activist would not hesitate in decrying that homosexual man if he enjoyed watching pornography that featured women. The mode of thought that all pornography lessens and debases it’s subjects is on its way out the window as new generations of porn consumers age. And you certainly can’t win an argument by calling the other side names.
Am I an advocate for porn? Not really. Quite a bit of porn and the potential for it makes me a bit squeamish myself. Again, referencing Moore, the state of the industry strips away the erotic and replaces it with the mechanical rote response to human connection. I’m more fearful of the ways in which porn interacts with technology, not in the sense that the internet is destroying sexual intimacy, but simply that the increased technological connectivity does have a dehumanizing effect on its subjects. How often have any of us had an erotic moment ruined by the intrusion of technology? I’m not necessarily talking about coitus here. When was the last time you glanced across the candle-lit dinner table and saw your partner texting their sister’s girlfriend’s cousin and thought to yourself: I should have just downloaded Who’s Nailin Palin Too?
At least your $150 dinner helped stimulated the economy, even if you’ll be going home to seek your own stimulation from a free streaming service. But let’s be honest: about the only industry in America that really is turning out an marketable international product at a huge profit is porno. If the Teabaggers are all about deregulation, you think they’d see the relative value in charging $50 bucks for a DVD of Orin Hatch’s predictably bizarre sexcapades, whether actual teabagging occurs or not.


August 5, 2011
The Third Annual Grinning Elvis Sex Issue

As always, an unedited, unapologetic spin on the farce we call American Culture

Part One - Paying For It

This will mark the fifth attempt I’ve made at beginning this year’s “Sex Issue.” I’m hoping there is not a sixth. My argument for this year’s article hasn’t changed since March, however much of the content has. Every time I’ve sat down in an attempt to unravel this year in Coitus Reporting, some new scandal or otherwise unbelievable tidbit would rise up and stall the project. A steady stream of pop-culture sex stories overwhelmed the whole of the media in the past few months, so much so that the stuff I had prepared was getting buried over and over again. You’d think that with all this fuck-talk we were opening up a bit; entering a new collective maturity about sex roles and practice and how that functions in the media.

And if you’d think that, you’d be an idiot.

2011, awash in smut, and yet titillation has had nothing to do with it. Instead, we live in a culture that has defined itself by its willingness to sell sex while simultaneously strapping on the chastity belt. A walk through the neighborhood Wal-Mart will find you up to ass in eroticism - or our particular strip-mall idea of it – while the same retailer regularly refuses to carry best-selling books and magazines, DVDs, and CDs (remember those?) that their in-house censors consider inappropriate. You can stop off at the Wal-Pharmacy for your generic Viagra prescriptions, but you ain’t never gonna find a Jack-Rabbit upgrade in the aisles of plastic Chinese nirvana. America has always had these sexual identity problems and laughable inconsistencies, but when did it all get so political?

I’m certainly not that naïve. Sex has always been political (and a key economic pillar), especially when considering that for several hundred years of Western culture, the only time we’ve talked about sex in public was in a courtroom, pulpit, or the resulting news program. But these are not real conversations. They are more likely to be dictatorial monologues, regardless of who’s delivering it and what they believe. The “liberal” can be just as fascist as the “conservative,” as the ever devolving feminist movement has proven. Finding a middle ground between prude and hedonist can be tricky when you have a billion voices shaping willing to debate. But let’s be honest: it’s rare that the Right has anything good to say about sex.

There’s an argument to be made here - with sound reason and little irony - that the Right hates sex. Not fears, not misunderstands or misrepresents, but hates sex. It’s not the first time you’d accused me of hyperbole – but the recent wave of conservative absurdity reveals a strange thread of paranoia that goes well beyond the typical puritanical group-think that has pervaded the Republican and Tea Bagging parties for years. We’ve come to expect a certain amount of this silliness at this point in the political cycle as the Republican trolls come out from under whatever bridge they’ve slept under since Barack Obama’s historic victory in 2008. But the typical religion-fueled anti-abortion/anti-gay rhetoric that usually propels the basest candidates in the infancy of his or her presidential bid has had a new bite, and it has diversified. While said rhetoric may be divisive and therefore self-containing in the broad scheme of political success, the fanaticism embedded in this year’s bumper crop of Tightie Righties has adopted a new language of absolutism that reveals a real sexual sickness that’s being mistaken for acceptable policy. The danger that this extremism can transcend radical conservative demagoguery and become accepted party practice isn’t imagined or inflated. Powered by economic woes, these typical prejudices have gained credence in a “dialogue” with bullies who will stop at nothing to keep Big Government out of our bank accounts, but firmly entrenched in our bedrooms.

Sex is a tremendous ethical gray area for a lot of people, exponentially so if you are a politician or clergyman who has to weigh out a universal desire against irrational regulations and your own peculiarities. When these people get caught in a scandal (and how often does said scandal directly contradict their most fervent public moral personas?), we’re often left to wonder what they were thinking, what bizarre deviation led them to chance on the sordid little indiscretion of momentary pleasure. In America, one is supposed to have personal control (part of that rugged individual thing) as it pertains to social politeness and Christian dignity, even though every fiber of our national being is steeped in indulgence and overload. Fast food, gambling, sports industries… fuck it, the entirety of the free-market myth is based on satisfying ridiculous, irrational urges with little or no consequence. Except when it comes to sex. Sex has rules, though some of them are more clearly defined than others.

The Right is constantly reminding us of their version of the rules and the past twelve months have been a particularly rich time for what amounts to media fodder and propaganda. But again, the threat here is the relationship between sex and economic policy. The heated budget debates that will no doubt carry well into the 2013 inauguration have centered more around social programs than evaluation of the Wall Street debacle, military spending, and - dare I say it? - the failure of Reaganomics. The Right does not want a single taxpayer dollar trickling into what they consider immoral institutions. So while Michelle Bachman’s unaccredited husband collects government funds for a program that seeks to cure homosexuality (powered with a decidedly Christian message which, essentially violates constitutional law), Planned Parenthood faces a endless string of attacks from the Right under the assumption that all they do is kill babies. If you recall, they’re even willing to lie about it, exaggerating the numbers in a way that “was never meant to be misunderstood as factual.”

Because Planned Parenthood collects government funding and provides several constitutionally protected programs that conservatives don’t like, the Right went to great lengths to introduce budget cuts that would essentially cripple the non-profit which supplies free or deeply discounted healthcare to almost 40% of the adult American female population. But rather than angle this as a war against women, primarily those of poor, middle, and the “oh-shit, hide this from the country club members” classes, the Republibaggers have decided that, alas, hard decisions about our country’s financial well-being have to be made. How cowardly to manipulate an economic crisis into a moral agenda that ultimately puts the health of millions of women in jeopardy.

But of course, abortion isn’t the only issue that conservatives have with Planned Parenthood. The idea that a non-profit would point out the mega-failure of George W. Bush’s wide-ranging abstinence-only sex-education programs was enough provocation to earn Cecile Richards a Public Enemy Number One rating when the Right reclaimed the House last fall. Under the banner of actually saving lives, the House sought to withdraw over 50% of Planned Parenthood’s budget. When it comes to morality and saving money, ending abortion saves lives. However, allowing poor women to die of cervical cancer and AIDS is not a moral lapse, it’s an uncomfortable side-effect of a constricted budget. That lapse is in the person who chose to have sex, after all, regardless of whether she was properly educated about the potential consequences.

Without dipping my testicles into the mouth of rhetoric here, I need to ask: how can any woman of any political leaning be okay with that reintroduction of time-honored misogyny?

The conservative understanding of liberalism is that traditional moral and ethical conventions are wantonly trampled by a minority of free-wheeling bohemians and atheistic hedonists at the expense of the conscientious majority. Of course, the majority in question here is not necessarily an equivocation of all collected opinions and lifestyles that combine to fill a consensus of expectations and values. This majority is the wealthy, activist Protestant Christian base. “It” is predominantly white in a country that is increasingly brown and “it” is often eager to make mistakes when quoting the printed words on which our country was founded - biblical, constitutional, or otherwise. That is not my personal, liberal attack on conservatism. “It” is just what “it” is. If you ask these people (or more likely, even if you didn’t), they’ll explain to you that America’s recent woes are the result failed Democratic policies (which were actually Republican policies, from rampant spending and the EPA to social security and housing subsidies) and a collapse of traditional values. This can be translated into “we hate the gays and think abortion is evil.” There is no convincing them that we can trace abortion and homosexuality back to the dawn of mankind. Nope. These are purely modern corruptions that should be evaluated by government. Incredibly small, inactive government that should stay out of our lives.

What the Right stands to lose from homosexual marriage is beyond me. Yet here we are, in 2011, debating what is clearly an uncomplicated civil rights issue. But how can we even approach the marriage debate if we still live in a country in which an openly gay man or woman isn’t even allowed to die for his or her country? We can’t even sign these fags up for cannon fodder.

The laughable Don’t Ask Don’t Tell debate was and is a clear line in the sand for both of 2008’s presidential candidates. Unfortunately, when the dust cleared this winter, both Obama and his opponent John McCain ended up on the same side of that line. McCain, who had previously stumped for the abolition of the policy gave into his conservative base and very publicly rejected the repeal. Obama - who ran on an often pandering progressive GLBC platform - refused to take a stand on the policy as well. Perhaps Obama could spot the shadows in the water that would become the Planned Parenthood controversy sharks, but in a horrific coincidence, the president’s failure to push the repeal of DADT (a campaign promise) looked even more pathetic when a string of young GLBC suicides and anti-gay violence landed in the media.

In Rush Limbaugh’s moral sphere “there is no correlation between teenage bullies who beat up homosexual kids – if a 16 year old can even know that he’s gay – and the policy of having gay people serve in the military.” We expect these kind of intolerant statements from a raconteur like Limbaugh, however it was shocking to watch the Right go silent for a week, choosing to simply ignore the stories as if they did not exist.

Where sexual preference meets national policy is at the intersection of religion and politics. Nowhere else. There is absolutely no other explanation for why sexual preference would limit the rights of an individual under the BIG “C” Constitution or the Bill of Rights. To make a law that outlaws specific kinds of fucking is a law against fucking. But if the policies relating to homosexuality are not defined by Judeo-Christian rhetoric entirely, then the flabbergasting paranoia over “sharia” certainly smacks of conservative Christian malice.

There’s a popular argument that there are “true Christians” and then there are those misguided souls who wholly misrepresent the teachings of Christ, yet these same folks would faint in the aisles if Pastor Bob were to deliver a sermon on Jesus’s sexuality. If the Bible is all about “interpretation” or “literal readings,” it’s an easy leap into the reading that Jesus encouraged getting down with anything that moved. The brother roamed the desert with sailors and prostitutes, speaking about love and equality. Jesus never uttered a word about the sexual practices of the Romans (more on them later), though he spoke plenty about their violence, social intolerance, and financial dealings. And he didn’t seem to be very concerned about polygamy. Historically, there were plenty of Jewish, Christian, and Roman polygamists on record. The practice wasn’t any more uncommon than homosexuality, which, by the way, there was A LOT of in Greece, Rome, and Egypt (yeah, more on that later, too). But as the old saying goes: one (wife/husband) is enough. In fact, one of the only times in which Jesus makes direct reference to sex is when he is condemning the concept of divorce. Go figure.

The buzzword “sharia” is the latest in a line of sly bigotry, intertwining the fear of sexual impotency with terrorist violence. America, neutered by 9/11 - by an enemy with arguably even bigger religion-driven sexual hang-ups – can only respond by launching a million explosive phalluses off into the night for some ole midnight shock n’ awe. That guttural but no less seductive enemy hides at the edges of our tolerance, infiltrating our culture by playing off of our best intentions and simultaneously cuckolding our rough and ready cocksmen with the promise of a thousand thirsty virgins in paradise. How can we hope to defeat an enemy who is getting busy with forty women at once, individually producing a whole army of like-minded zealots eager to bring the nation to it’s knees? Before it was the blacks and the Hispanics. In Germany in the 1930’s, it was the Jews. That it’s biggest critics don’t even understand the basic tenets of Islam, let alone that “sharia” has little to do with sexual conduct (with polygamy little more than a footnote), is dangerously irresponsible. The idea that “sharia” disregards the rights of women - coming from folks who wanted to dissolve Planned Parenthood – should be identified as hysterical.

Stay on course with me here, even as my imagination wanders: the Right wants a smaller government that is most effective when it stays out of people’s private lives and reduces spending, yet that same government should form committees and pass special legislation to curb specific biological behaviors that essentially define the perimeters of said private lives. And that’s exactly what landed in the midst of the spending debates in April. While the Right was championing budget cuts that would eliminate monies for liberal resources like arts and sex education, public radio, and social/health services and ultimately poo-pooing the wasteful, committee-driven mentality of Washington, those same conservatives (specifically Orinn Hatch and more than a few shameful Democrats like Dianne Feinstein) were pushing the federal government to expand the perimeters of obscenity laws and increase pornography prosecutions despite the protection of said materials by ruling of the Supreme Court.

Check out Part Two - Teabaggers 3: Porn and Politics - tomorrow.

May 11, 2011
Of Swords and Trombones: Trying to make sense of HBO

Treme and Game of Thrones mark a new era for the cable giant, but only one has the pedigree of past hits.

A short time ago, HBO was the network that could do no wrong. On a given Sunday night in, say 2003, you could turn on HBO and watch three of the greatest series in TV history – The Sopranos, Deadwood, and The Wire – back to back, not to mention a teaser of Curb Your Enthusiasm or Real Time with Bill Maher to whet the appetite. These shows were unlike anything that had gone before them, establishing new boundaries of storytelling sophistication and nuance, film-like production values, and an honest appraisal of the realities of sex and violence that the Big Four dare not touch. How influential these shows had been was readily apparent in the freshman class of Big Four television in the following year, when misguided knock-offs like The Shield, Boomtown, and Kingpin began appearing, making television feel all the more irredeemable outside of a pay-cable subscription. The best non-HBO shows of the era – Battlestar Galactica, Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly, and Arrested Development – were relegated to second-tier affiliate networks or prematurely canceled outright on their way to becoming the current standard templates of their genres. Even the HBO misfires had their charms. The miserably dark Tell Me You Love Me made for squeamishly brilliant television, Carnivale was as gorgeous and nutty as it was curiously dull, and the beloved Six Feet Under (which I always felt to be repetitive and precious) guided it’s miserably unlikable characters through seven seasons of grinning at death.

Then HBO hit a rut. The cancellation of Deadwood in favor of the high-budgeted and yawn-inducing Rome began to reveal the cracks perpetrated by an ever-expanding marketing ego that landed somewhere just to the right of “We’re HBO, trust us…there’s nothing else out there.” For the most part, they were right. The freedom of censor-free HBO and the relative immaturity of the Big Four made middle-brow exploitation pap like Big Love look like unfettered genius. With the passing of The Sopranos and The Wire, HBO infamously passed on Matt Weiner’s Mad Men and instead launched a thousand sinking ships as random and malcontent as Arli$$. The network that brought you Band of Brothers and The Pacific is now proud to present the unbearable fetish-porn of True Blood. It’s not TV, it’s Adult Twilight.

However, the premiere each new HBO series remains a “big event” mainly in the hopes that it has the potential to be a game-changer like The Wire. But this new generation just seems vapid. Boardwalk Empire is surprisingly linear, Number One Ladies Detective Agency too genteel. The only things that have had teeth (aside from fake plastic fangs) have been the hilarious Bored to Death (itself a slow starter) and the uneven Eastbound and Down.

Now comes Game of Thrones, a swords-as-penises adaptation of the George R. R. Martin (the second “r” is for “redundancy”) fantasy novels. It’s a bold show. It looks great, it’s appropriately broad and complex, and it’s full of varied character types who scheme slash and screw their way through a rat’s nests of political intrigues. But for all of its billowing might, Game of Thrones is an innate viewing experience.

For starters, the show suffers from the same overblown dread inherent in Martin’s source material. There are way too many characters, each with their own complex back stories, prejudices and ticks, all vying for attention in your head, yet none of them are remarkable and none of them ever even consider smiling. It is such a welcome relief every time Peter Dinklidge’s Tyrion appears on screen because we know that for a few brief seconds, we’re about to be treated to something resembling real human drama , wit, and insight (even if it does come in a broad package). Dinklidge is perfect for the role, and there’s never enough of him. Glen Headly’s Circe, kfojoerejfeo’s Jon Snow, and The Wire veteran Aiden Gillen (Littlefinger) also show glimmers of personality, but are buried in the crushing weight of exposition. The show moves swiftly, but that is hardly a boon if it can’t (or won’t) allow the viewer to grab hold of the world. All of the relationships and intrigues are prescribed and flat.

Game of Thrones will improve. It’s written to build to several moments of glorious shock and awe, taking chances that few television series would dare. But for those plot twists to work, you have to have something hanging in the balance. The bloody throne in question hardly seems worth it when several key ingredients are missing from the porridge. More than anything, the show has failed to follow-up on the promises of the pilot (and in many ways, that’s a good thing). Each episode has gotten stronger, yet the initial thrust was so guttural and explicit that it feels like a show divided. While Game of Thrones overflows with strong female roles, it spends an awful lot of time masturbating it’s ‘man’s world.’ A world as flat as this could never tolerate a hint of homosexuality or gentleness, even though it boasts loud and laughable sex in all of it’s various other incarnations with lots of prostitution, lots of incest, and lots of less-than erotic ritualism. Breasts are bared and gnashed in a high-plains wedding reception with joyless animalism, yet a few thousand perverts and murderers holed up in an icy, depressing fort can only wistfully remember the beauty of the women they’ve encountered. Buggery is in the eyes of the beholder, and no one here is remotely as smoldering as a Bayou Queen.

That HBO has spent so much time in the bayou lately has more to do with blunt commercialism than with the promotion of their best show and their only truly ‘original’ series. While True Blood and Game of Thrones arrive ready-made with a built-in audience who devours the popular books they are based on, David Simon’s Treme is the only show being written and produced by, for, and about real people. Hey, sure, it’s not for everybody. Those that think American culture is vampires and overblown Arthurian epics probably don’t care too much about the plight of Real American industries and cities like jazz, education, New Orleans. But here’s your chance to get a little smarter: with this season ‘s first four episodes, Treme has established itself as the best show on TV.

The first season of Treme was more of a mood than a story, and that’s why I loved it. Simon’s show was brave in that it let plotlines meander in favor of showing you a whole swath of experience. It didn’t need to milk the tragedies of the city, only show what they were and why, favoring instead long sequences indulgent of the music, frivolity, sex and drink that make New Orleans such a beautifully corrupt city of dreams. Simon never uses an actor when the real person can lift the weight of the camera (a tendency that can lead to some uneven scenes), and his insistence on “authenticity” has often mystified casual viewers who can’t be bothered with watching water rise to a boil. By the end of Season One, Treme was less boiling water and a lot more spicy gumbo.

Season Two has led off with a string of powerhouse episodes. Displaced characters, crime, broken promises and a crippled economy all compete against the infectious nature of Treme’s joyful music sequences to a tune that reminds us just why the city is worth saving. The poor and sullen are constantly rubbing up against the rich and ambitious, the outsider always welcomed to the party, the exploiter always greeted with an anger that becomes a smile. It’s the way the city that doesn’t work works.

The expatriots, like Kim Dicken’s defeated restaurant owner, try to settle in other cities, only to find themselves irritated by the blandness and condescending nature of the typical American public. Those that are married to New Orleans – the incredible Khandi Alexander as a defiant dive-bar owner - find themselves crippled by the realities of Katrina, a god of elemental chaos that leveled the playing field so as to make capital off of the downtrodden for its own sick delight. The show established lies, half-truths, and slick deception as rules in the game of life that, once accepted, can bring a promise into fruition. Melissa Leo’s big-hearted attorney is back, beating cases against the red-tape while her personal life crumbles under the weight of depression. She works her hopeless cases because they offer absolute ends, much like the one absolute that took her husband’s life.

Where Simon’s other projects for HBO -The Wire, The Corner, Generation Kill – have obsessed over the details of The Fall, Treme is much more interested in the pieces that make the dysfunctional city work, even succeed in the face of so much horror and disappointment. The show is a joy to watch, even when it pushes the viewer deeper into the defining depression of post-Katrina. Season Two has adopted a new, brisk self-satisfaction. The episodes have been sleeker, more self-assured with greater scope and better storytelling. What was only a promise in Season One is now a a vibrant, vital show that has intelligently used tragedy as a springboard for honesty and hope.

Treme is a towering example of what HBO can do - and more appropriately, has done. It’s the kind of quality we should expect from the network: a show that delivers the unexpected, providing magic where there seemingly is none. And it doesn’t require an alternate universe to reveal desperate truths about the one we live in. For all of the garishness and swagger of Game of Thrones and True Blood (even the departed Big Love), these don’t feel like real worlds or real people. Escapism, when untethered to emotion, becomes a kind of cubism: you have to acknowledge the nonsense that leads to the construct. Both GoT and True Blood yearn for the freedom of escapism, but insist on rooting themselves to the real world in disingenuous ways. Why not just live in the real world? It still makes for better TV than anything NBC is ever going to put out.

May 6, 2011
The Conservative Mono-Myth: Reimagining Superman as an Ayn Rand Paper-Doll

This is the original unedited draft of the op-ed piece I wrote last week. A very different version may be published sometime in the up-coming week.

“What’s up with your buddy, Superman?”

The question was posed to me by a leering, middle-aged gentleman wearing an National Rifle Association cap and a camouflage hunter’s jacket that bore an “Anyone But Obama” pin fastened just above one of the many pockets. I knew immediately what he was talking about but I played along with the charade, carefully eyeing those pockets, a little afraid of what might be concealed there or underneath. I asked him what he meant.

“He renounced his U.S. Citizenship.”

“Oh, Superman has always been a citizen of the world, not just America. Clark Kent is a U.S. Citizen,and of course, he’s not real,” I replied.

I had not yet read the now-infamous Action Comics #900, and I was sure that he hadn’t either. In this issue, the Man of Steel threatens to rescind his American citizenship before the United Nations after his attempt to quell Middle-East tensions becomes interpreted as an act of American aggression against the Iranian government. “I’m tired of having my actions construed as instruments of U.S. Policy,” he says, inciting the ire of countless conservative commentators (and newly minted comics experts) like Jonathan Last, Cal Thomas, and NRA-Man X. Last wrote “if Superman doesn’t believe in America then he doesn’t believe in anything,” a typically myopic and grand-standing appeal to the Conservative core.

Mr. Thomas’s response is no more interpretive, however is a bit more crude.

As expected, Thomas resorts to the anti-intellectualism and jingoism that play like a Greatest Hits Collection of All-Good-Things-Passed over the march of Right wing ideology. But then he strangely contradicts himself with a series of nasty, condescending remarks, not about the fictional character’s threat but about comics readers themselves (and of course, immigrants):

“Construed? Would comic book readers have heard of such a word? This storyline sounds as if it was written by [sic] the Obama administration. The occasional big (for comic book readers) word and a left-wing plot are what make me think someone has highjacked Superman, [maybe] one of those leftover hippies [who now teaches] at an Ivy League university or Berkeley. Even though he was an illegal alien, he has done enough good to “earn” his citizenship. This story is new age pap.”

And then:

“Like so many other American traditions that have been debunked or discarded by liberal elites, [Superman is] abandoning America.”

The perception of comics as a juvenilia is nothing new - and to a certain extent – is highly accurate. Much of the market has always been aimed at children and young adults. However, the assumption that the comic book aficionado’s mouth moves when he or she reads is as ridiculous as the Fox News banner of “fair and balanced.” The success of the comics industry is based not only in the accessibility of the material to emergent or deficient readers, but in that DC Comics through Superman and others have tapped into seminal aspects of human development: pictorial storytelling (from cave-paintings to how-to manuals) and fantastical mythology. The slightest bit of research or dedication to his trade would have found this point crystal-clear to Mr. Thomas. Instead, he offers the kind of pithy jab that betrays an author who thinks “construe” is an endlessly threatening, complex, multi-syllable word.

Comics - graphic literature if you want to use a “liberal elite” term - have always served as a powerful vein of important information, political propaganda, and story-telling traditions throughout the world. From Hogarth’s engravings to Ben Franklin’s “Join or Die,” sophisticated political commentary has been distributed through cultures that were barely literate. Since the dawn of the American comic book in the late 1930’s, the medium has progressed with staggering leaps in complexity and social relevance, offering easy laughs, escapist fantasy, and also tackling serious issues of race, religion, sex and gender, drugs abuse, and the nature of violence. Mr. Thomas seems blissfully unaware of the work of R. Crumb (whose satirical depictions of perversion and race unearth uncomfortable truths), Art Spiegelman (whose epochal Maus recounts the Holocaust), or Alan Moore (who’s pretty much written brilliantly about everything), comics artists and writers who have reshaped whole cultural landscapes with their books.

Thomas’s statements not only reveal a grotesque ignorance of comics history and context, but of the character of Superman itself. What he recalls is not the Superman of comics, but rather the dullard black and white TV serials of his youth which exemplified and exaggerated the silliness of the superhero conceit. These were images of mortal actors dressed up in colorful costumes pretending to have the superpowers akin to the Greek gods and were certainly laughable. The same dumbed-down Hollywood money-making machine that gave us those wacky Right wing icons like Ronald Reagan and Arnold Schwarzenegger (another alien from a distant world known as Europe, where fanciful princes marry princesses in elaborate ceremonies and evil masterminds concoct grand schemes to enslave the world and murder all who stand in their way) also produced those cheap, hilariously inept Adventures of Superman and Captain Marvel serials. The Superman of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster bares little resemblance to these campy clowns.

The Superman of the comic book is the very epitome of Roosevelt’s very socialist New Deal. An alien from a dead world, the orphan rises from the ashes of the Great Depression with a vow to use his powers to end the suffering of others. On the second page of the very first Superman comic (written by two working-class Jewish teens, one of them a Canadian), the Man of Steel is called “Champion of the Oppressed, the physical marvel who had sworn his existence to helping those in need.” This Superman is not “the defender of the American way”; that tidbit of nationalism was an addition by Jewish immigrants Max and Dave Fleischer and the film studio agents who sought to clean up Superman’s image from the roughshod puck of the comics (Superman was not above killing those who hurt others, or glibly mocking their fragility) at the cusp of America’s entry into WWII.

The earliest stories from Siegel overflow with liberal idealism as Superman takes on corrupt senators, hate-groups, arms dealers, even a military torture squad (Dick Cheney is never mentioned by name). Superman fights for worker’s unions and labor rights, stomps racketeers, embezzling businessmen, and war-mongers, and even confronts domestic abuse. In the very first issue, Superman defends a falsely-accused prisoner from a vigilante lynch mob that attempts to hang the scapegoat. Not only does Superman insist that the man’s fate be determined in a court of law, but Superman goes on to find the real criminal. Unlike the good folks at FOX News (who employ Mr. Thomas), Superman does actual investigative reporting to free the man.

In short, Superman was a conglomeration of myths, most of them biblical: Moses, Hercules, and Samson with the egalitarian message of Jesus. The Man of Steel is and was a powerful Apollonian link to those basic stories that were meant to inspire strength, compassion, and bravery in each of us. Gloriously too good to be true. The cynical nature of his enemies and of many contemporary readers has even earned him the title of “Big Blue Boring Boy Scout.”

Over the years, Superman has evolved. That’s a difficult, argumentative multi-syllable word for the Conservatives on several levels. After all, the notion of the Conservative Movement (seemingly to everyone but it’s progenitor Barry Goldwater) has been to keep everything just exactly philosophically, genetically, and financially as it was in some ether yesteryear. As I’ve hopefully illustrated, yesteryear was a LOT more liberal than the Right seems to recall. Since Siegel (who was contractually cheated out of millions by more than a few slippery Ayn Rand-capitalists throughout his career), many of the best comics writers have jumped at the chance to helm Superman. Their best stories, of course, always confront Superman’s preternatural sense of honor, fairness and selflessness, and often the horrible burden of power that only a fictional character could absorb. It is a literary tradition to dangle corruption in front of him. Of course, Superman has never succumbed.

When Siegel returned to writing Superman in 1960, he wrote a landmark series called Return to Krypton in which the Man of Steel travels back in time and gets to meet his real parents back on Krypton, an event that shapes the Superman storyline for the next 40 years. Return, for the first time, gives the character an interior dialogue that ultimately informed the more stylistic superhero tales of Stan Lee. So the genesis of this thoughtful, haunted Superman goes back as least as far as his creator. In the aforementioned Moore’s What Ever Happened To the Man of Tomorrow?, Superman hypothetically gives up his role as champion to raise a family ala Kazantzakis’s Last Temptation of Christ (and we’re reassured it would never happen). In Grant Morrison’s more recent All-Star Superman, the Man of Steel confronts his mortality by finally opening up to those he loves and ultimately transforming arch-villain Lex Luthor in a moment of empathy and compassion. According to Thomas, these are “new age” concepts (while still re-affirming the Superman of the 1940s?) in a moment of bi-partisan demagoguery and budget battles over social programs that help the poor and oppressed.

Who is Thomas’s Superman? All that the slim editorial offers is that he is an illegal alien done good. But as far as his renouncing American citizenship for the benefit of all countries, Thomas only reports that this “is not who he is.” As Clark Kent asks of a professor he’s interviewing in a 1939 adventure: “elucidate.” That’s a big word. Would Thomas know what it means?

It seems that Mr. Thomas and the Conservative Right could learn a lot from actually reading Superman (any story will do, really), but they’re too busy emulating Lex Luthor - or maybe Frederick Wertham, the 1950’s quack who raised a McCarthy-like stink about comics causing juvenile delinquency. Mr. Thomas lampoons comics as a simpleton’s endeavor, but could it be that he and anyone who finds themselves angry at a fictional character (who detests guns, by the way) and the poison messages they spread lacks the power of imagination, the ability to perceive any reality other than the blunt shapes of their own narrow universe? Of course comic books don’t make sense to these “Earthers”; the medium requires an individual effort of creativity and punishes the casual, dispassionate reader. Reading comics also typically requires the use of hands that would otherwise be occupied by guns and anti-Obama placards.

I don’t really care if Thomas or Last find liberal conspiracies in the pages of Superman. The invented controversy ultimately boosts awareness of the medium and hopefully illustrates to many that comics often deal intelligently and effectively with real world issues. But the article, just like the confrontation with the angry NRA member, has left a bitter taste in my mouth. If we are to agree that Superman stands for truth, justice, and the American way, maybe we need to accept that the American way doesn’t mean the same thing anymore. Maybe the Right is angry because the Man of Tomorrow has more concrete, logical, and timeless values than they do. Is the U.S. suddenly too small for anyone who believes in helping those in need, regardless of political leanings or costume?

March 7, 2011
Dry

Rango proves once again that Hollywood, even at its best, is in the midst of a serious drought.

One of these days, Clint Eastwood is going to die and countless eulogies will cite the death of the Western. Hardly anyone under the age of thirty associates the geriatric shlockmeister with his classic Sergio Leone characters anymore. Its more likely that if you ask a hipster to comment on their favorite Eastwood piece you’ll get a adoring review of middling-to-awful fare like Gran Torino or Mystic River. But Eastwood (or at least his likeness) makes a curious cameo in Rango as, appropriately, the Spirit of the West. His iconic Man With No Name is the ubiquitous symbol of mystery, revenge, redemption, and hard-won ethics. Anyone paying attention knows that the riff is coming, but that doesn’t make it any less bizarre, another odd aside in a film chock full of pleasant eccentricities and barely a whiff of joy. Eastwood, it could be argued, saves Rango, a film lovingly - oddly- licking his dusty bootstraps.

Rango is the first animated film from Industrial Light and Magic and the ever funky Gore Verbinski, yet another noisy and clumsy director who has found his muse in Johnny Depp. Depp, already a caricature of himself by the time he put on Verbinski’s pirate costume, lends voice to a “Chameleon With No Name” in this would-be remake of Chinatown, ensuring that Rango will reach more of its intended audience and stave off some well-informed crit from kids who just feel plain tuckered out by the film’s end. Verbinski and Depp are drawing a line in the sand here: it’s time Americans starting realizing that animation ain’t kids stuff. But it’s a logic that both liberates and bloats this complicated and sometimes suffocating movie. For all of its “maturity,” we are reminded that mature poets steal.

Rango is peerless in terms of its incredible cinematography, character design, and voice-acting. I haven’t seen an animated film with more style or complexity. The animals that populate the small town of Dirt each have beautifully observed details and quirks. A dastardly rattlesnake (Bill Nighy!) has a gravelly seductive slur and a pencil-thin villain’s mustache, barely noticeable on his scaly lip. A field mouse has damp rings around its eyes, darkening the fur in minor tear shapes. Ned Beatty voices a wheel-chaired turtle, gently sending up John Huston. These actors are flawlessly executed, yet many are troubling, defiantly gruesome and vulgar. You get lost in them, and unfortunately that attention to detail starts showing the holes in the script. Too often, the plot meanders and the audience is left to just stare into the glassy eyes of wonderfully souled creatures who nonetheless have little to do (and there are seemingly hundreds of them, nameless and gorgeous and ultimately unnecessary).

Rango wants to create a mood, but too often, it’s dragging the audience along despite the fact that we’re already ahead of it. Long passages of the film are strangely vacant, substituting eccentricity for story, existential noodling for depth. There are strange religious overtones, the promise of motifs that never develop, and a confused musical score that buoys many scenes, yet disappears when the film desperately needs a kick. Rango is too clever in paying homage to cinematic histories that are far beyond it’s grasp and takes one too many illogical turns. It reaches hard for jokes that don’t land (or didn’t, at least, with the audience I saw it with), especially to a generation who may never see High Noon or Shane. While I liked all of these knowing visual puns, stolen dialogue, and hip asides (a Hunter S. Thompson cameo delivers the film’s best line, ten minutes in), the movie never breaks out, even in the well-designed but never-thrilling action scenes. For all of its sophisticated posturing, it feels more like Back To The Future III than The Outlaw Josey Wales.

I was bored by the diasporic mood of Rango until “Eastwood” showed up, where the film gains some legs and revs up for the finale. It’s only then, with twenty minutes left in the film, that Rango truly clicks. The rest, while not at all unpleasant, feels a bit smug. We would only tolerate this kind of “homage overload” in an animated film (Shrek built a franchise off of it), and once again, another studio makes the difference between PIXAR and the rest of the animated market so obvious: where Up used Bergman and Chuck Jones as points of inspiration to deliver simple but never mild statements, Rango uses entire catalogs that drive it toward parody. You can love what Rango is attempting -visually and dramatically - but in the end, its an unlovable movie with a chip on its shoulder; paradoxically rich, even if the treasure is pyrite.

If you want to see a Western send-up that really delivers, check out Jee-woon Kim’s frenetic The Good, The Bad, and the Weird (or Nom Nom Nom, depending on where you’re finding it). A “kimchee Western,” the virtually plotless film artfully blends the silliest conventions of Spaghetti Westerns and high-flying Asian action flicks into a wickedly entertaining farce. TGTBTW has something to do with a treasure map, the Korean liberation movement, and revenge pacts, but none of it really matters. Short on plot, the filmis devilishly clever and never short on violence, wit or humor. Given the opportunity, it would probably score higher with kids than Rango.

February 16, 2011
Another Gem

Mike Leigh’s Another Year is another in a line of brilliant, complex films from England’s modern-day Renoir.

I sat down to watch Mike Leigh’s latest film, Another Year, with a good friend after a visit to one of Pittsburgh’s most authentic(?) English pubs and a few pints of bitter (Ommegang’s Chocolate Indulgence, actually). As Mike Leigh is by far my favorite living film director, it seems a bit unfair to soapbox about how utterly perfect Another Year can be. I’m going to do that anyhow, but it deserves to be said that my friend’s official stance on Leigh is love em’ or hate em’.

Leigh’s films can be divisive. While the director’s style and characters are very consistent from film to film, his context is broad and bold. In films like Naked and Topsy-Turvy, Leigh can be a brash, abrasive showman, prodding his audience with indeterminable humanist puzzles. Though Naked is stark and violent and Topsy-Turvy sweet, both films are defined by their use color and a drug-induced logic; clips of frenetic action followed by long, anxious, moody passages that wield dialogue like sharpened swords. In these films, it wouldn’t be inaccurate to liken Leigh to Tarantino or Heneke, or even Goddard. But Leigh arrives at different ends than any of these filmmakers. He’s not intent on you feeling anything that could be considered maudlin or disturbing, but he won’t settle until you’re moved, one way or another, by the humble ambitions of his characters.

In his more typical format, Leigh is a master of understated intelligence and class politics, the most deft social critic since Renoir (whose canon he’s seemingly ingested). In brilliant dramedies like Life is Sweet, Happy Go Lucky, and Secrets & Lies, Leigh uses humor like a hammer, breaking through the sad doldrums of everyday life. Tackling everything from race relations, unemployment, and Thatcher-fallout to abortion and rape, Leigh has a distinct way of making depression and rage genuinely palatable in his characters. That requires a lot from not only the actors, but from the audience. It’s easy to feel slighted by a Leigh movie if you’re not willing to put the work in yourself. He’ll lay down a multitude of dots, but its up to you to draw your own connections.

Another Year is a Leigh enterprise akin to previous works All or Nothing and Bleak Moments, two sadly underrated films that are also quite polarizing. It’s full of stellar performances by several of Leigh’s standard players, notably Lesley Manville, Ruth Sheen, and Jim Broadbent, each melting into their roles with seamless grace. It’s a busy, rambling script that has no conceit of narrative drive, gathering all of its power from what is left unsaid, a very un-American trait. Another Year crafts a visible spell of empathy and all things bittersweet, dissecting comedy from what plays as tragedy. There are times when it floors you with its precision, and just as many moments that teeter on anarchy, but you always know where you are (even if you wish it weren’t so). Its like a filmed version of the Beatles’ “A Day In the Life.”

The film makes a bold assumption about the marriage of two upper-middle class hippy North Londoners, the ironically named Tom (Broadbent) and Gerri (Sheen): they are fast approaching old age and are deliriously happy. That’s part of what makes Another Year so wonderful; not just the shock of seeing a pleasant, functional couple on screen, but that their love is not only believable, the audience can actually feel it in a way that is rarely captured on film. It’s the miraculous performances by Broadbent and Sheen that elevate the film from observational pathos and into the realm of sublimity. Their emotional health is like a beacon to many wayward souls like Gerri’s trainwreck secretary, Mary (Manville, hilarious and heartbreaking). Even their gently oafish thirty-something son (Joe) can’t stay away for more than a few days. The film follows the couple through four anecdotal seasons, remarkable only by a death (“Dropping all around us,” Tom comments dryly) and Joe landing a lovable, chirping girlfriend. Tom and Gerri have two emotional centers: their small, cozy home and an urban organic garden. Consider the way a film like The Kids Are Alright uses gardens as biblical symbols of wild energy and subversive pleasures, and then see what Leigh has done here, constantly returning us to Tom and Gerri’s garden where anguish is converted into compassion (curiously, only Joe helps with the garden, and is rewarded with a balance that escapes the others). The couple literally cultivates love, every bit as much for the belly as the heart (Tom’s frequent references to the splendor of his ‘to-mot-o’s’ becomes a mouthwatering leitmotif).

Tom and Gerri’s friends are not happy. As Leigh has spent so much time over the years defining the specific dread of working-class England, Another Year and the beatific Happy Go-Lucky have both been about characters who certainly grieve, but are more defined by pain and frustration of those around them. Here, Leigh is making an astute observation about the time-honored British class system (much more careful and complex than the clumsy center of the lauded The King’s Speech, which uses royalty as an excuse for self-delusion). A particularly lonely and gluttonous friend is terrified to retire, so he vows to eat and drink himself to death. Tom and Gerri are happy to make him fatter. Mary, who is desperately needy and altogether incapable of intimacy, drinks, prods, and irritates everyone she comes in contact with, yet the couple always welcome her back into the house, free of judgment. In the gasp-inducing final scene (perhaps the film’s most perfect), we absorb all of Tom and Gerri’s success and the horrible, beautiful consequences it has for everyone that they love, crafting each individual’s fate with a Dickensian determinism. The scene is sly, punishing, and unexpected.

Leigh is my favorite director because even when I know how his stories will end up I’m never sure of how he will get there. I’m never fazed by his darkness because he’s always so close to the light, and likewise, I’m always sure that no happy ending will be delivered. Another Year is funny and uncomfortable, mean-spirited and strangely warm. It makes no excuses for its characters or their behavior, nor should it. While the film starts out as a soft story about a kindly couple, it ends someplace more real, more sinister. Or does it? It’s a film with many different perspectives.

At the end of the film, my friend leaned to me and stated “I’m going to seriously have to go back and consider what it was that I disliked about Leigh’s other movies because I loved this.”

February 9, 2011
War and Wonder

PJ Harvey’s Let England Shake may not only be her best album to date, it may be one of the best albums of the last thirty years.

Polly Jean Harvey’s new album Let England Shake is about history repeating itself, something Ms. Harvey has never had any problems with. Critics lavish PJ with praise because, frankly, each new album has a curious habit of stunning you dead in your tracks, erasing what came before, expanding what you thought she was capable of. In fact, there have been few missteps that don’t seem completely calculated right-angles of taste. While Harvey’s back catalog may have its love-or-hate quirks, its hard to deny her brilliance as an ever-shifting, often breathtaking artist. She’s what I want out of art: an open book, emotionally raw and yet intricately designed, referencing, stealing when necessary, wise, somber, bloody fucking alive!

Let England Shake is a masterpiece and may very well be PJ’s best record to date. It’s blunt and often heartbreaking, boiling over with jagged songs steeped in political fury and sprawling, ferocious imagination. Harvey, always one of rock’s most forceful singers and songwriters, has jam-packed the record with a seemingly endless string of contradicting anger, beauty and fragility. It’s a “concept album about war,” or more specifically, what wars have done to England and her people. The song cycle doesn’t preach so much as it observes, displaces, specifies the tragedies with disturbing candor, like forty minutes worth of The Kinks’ “Some Mother’s Son.” Yet the songs rarely feature Harvey’s trademark guitar strut n’ howl or the spare piano that dominated 2007’s White Chalk. Reportedly written over a span of three years and recorded over five weeks in a Dorset church, Let England Shake is populated by autoharp and saxophone, stomping beats, countless samples, and Harvey singing at a significantly higher pitch than we’ve ever heard from her, adding a queerly innocent vibe. It’s a record about violence, yet it has some of PJ’s most shockingly beautiful vocals to date (listen to the album’s spare centerpiece “England” and try not to shiver).

Every song is arresting, singular, significant. Despite the album’s grim enterprise, there’s pop to spare in the twelve tracks, many of which clock in under the three-minute mark. The doo-wop jangle that lifts “The Last Living Rose” disrupts the gradual realization that the song is ultimately a soldier’s bitter deathbed waltz through a country he’ll never see again. Let England Shake is obsessed with landscapes, sometimes typified by grandeur, but more often horror. In “The Words That Maketh Murder,” Harvey sings “I seen and done things I want to forget / seen soldiers fall like lumps of meat / arms and legs in the trees” before free-associating a viciously ironic recalling of Eddie Cochrane’s “Summertime Blues”: “What if I take my problem to the United Nations?” On the seductive, masterful Patti Smith-meets-Debbie Harry ache of “In the Dark Places,” Harvey invokes “our young men” visiting “hell and worse…in the fields, in the forest, another summer passed before us, yet not one has revealed the secrets of this world.” On paper, those words may ring empty. Accompanying the swaying song, they thump like a mallot. “Hanging In the Wire” revisits WWI trenches and the absence of singing birds.

The album’s strongest, strangest tracks close Let England Shake. The raga “Written on the Forehead” recounts a funeral procession through a refugee village. “The Colour of Earth” recalls Sandanista-era Clash. The two songs sound vaguely hopeful, a sort of catharsis to this brief, infinitely powerful record.

With Let England Shake, PJ Harvey (along with collaborators John Parish, Mick Harvey, and Flood) has created a career defining artistic statement. Like The Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks, the Clash’s London’s Calling, the Pogues Rum Sodomy and the Lash, Billy Bragg’s Brewing Up, Sinead O’Connor’s I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got, Pulp’s Different Class and Radiohead’s OK Computer, Let England Shake is a watershed moment in British music, drenched in ennui and insight, politics and class, pain and incredibly elegiac clarity. It gets better, deeper with every listen. In twenty years, it may be the only proof that any of England’s (or America’s) wars have meant anything at all.


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