Tuesday, August 19, 2014
I was Bigfoot's love slave (no, I really mean it)
Satire is dying because the internet is killing it
o Arwa Mahdawi
o theguardian.com, Tuesday 19 August 2014 12.52 BST
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‘The problem with satire in an age of finite attention and infinite content is that it makes you stop and think.’ Photograph: David Sillitoe for the Guardian
Forget self-driving cars or virtual reality nano-technology algorithms, the newest innovation to emerge from Silicon Valley is square brackets. Facebook is testing a “satire tag” that will clearly label fake news stories from well-known satire sites like the Onion as [satire]. No longer will you need to rely on outdated technology such as common sense to realise that content like Area Facebook User Incredibly Stupid is [satire], the square brackets will do it for you.
It should perhaps be noted that Facebook isn’t introducing the satire tag because it thinks we’re all morons, but rather because it knows we’re all morons. In a statement, the social network explained that it had “received feedback that people wanted a clearer way to distinguish satirical articles from others”.
Some of those people may well be journalists who have had embarrassing lapses of satire-blindness in the past. The Washington Post, for example, was once fooled into reporting that Sarah Palin was, in a somewhat unlikely career move, taking a job at al-Jazeera. And the English-language arm of China’s People’s Daily fell for an Onion article proclaiming the North Korean ruler, Kim Jong-un, the sexiest man alive, even using the accolade as an opportunity to run a 55-image slideshow of him, complete with quotes from the Onion spoof. Although, it’s possible this may itself have been satire – I’m unsure.
And that’s the problem. The internet has become so weird, so saturated with cats and lists and Buzzfeed quizzes that it’s difficult to know what’s serious and what’s a spoof any more. I challenge you, for example, to identify the Onion piece from these headlines:
• US adults are dumber than the average human
• Hazelnut prices soar, fuelling fears of Nutella shortage
• Tips For Being An Unarmed Black Teen
• Serial chicken smuggler caught in Norway
• Definitive Proof Kale Is The Marilyn Of Foods
The point of this carefully curated list is that you often can’t tell the difference between satire and real news online. There are several reasons for this. The first is the underlying business model of the internet. We don’t like to pay for stuff online so the internet is funded by advertising; advertising executives demand eyeballs for their dollars; content providers resort to clickbait headlines and shareable content to secure eyeballs and ad dollars; users get addicted to an endless stream of clickbait.
The manner in which we’ve monetised digital media means we often reward reaction over reflection and eschew meaning for meme-ing. News can’t just be news; it has to be entertainment. Indeed, the third law of modern media states that for every moderately important news item published, there will be an obligatory roundup of the funniest Twitter reactions to said news story, generally in slideshow format to maximise clicks.
The second big contributor to satire-blindness is our diminishing attention span. The average American attention span in 2000 was 12 seconds; in 2013, it was eight seconds. This is less than the average attention span of a goldfish (nine seconds).
As Vladimir Nabokov once said, “Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.” But if there’s one thing we’ve learned from the internet, it’s that everyone prefers games to lessons. The problem with satire in an age of finite attention and infinite content is that it makes you stop and think. It interrupts the speed and simplicity of the discover-click-share cycle that makes platforms like Facebook lots of money. By introducing satire tagging, Facebook has helpfully gone some way in eliminating the unhelpful friction of thought and, in doing so, made life easier for us all.
Should the satire tags prove to be a success, I’m hoping Facebook will extend the square bracketing and provide clear labelling for every post on my newsfeed. Here’s to a future filled with [millennial metafiction], [brunch-based panegyrics] and [aggravated alliteration].
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Monday, August 18, 2014
WTF?? Bizarre Russian cartoon defies explanation
I should call this sort of thing Ick at Night: it's a tendency to find bizarre things very late, when I really should be in bed. This thing is just so inexplicable, like a Russian Wizard of Oz on acid, that I sat there slack-jawed trying to take it all in. Usually I wouldn't watch the whole thing, but this time I stayed with it, hoping I'd find some clue as to what it's about.
This is an ick day. A couple of weeks ago I got the dreaded "call back" on my routine mammogram. Something is wrong, or at least needs to be investigated further. This has never happened to me before. I've kept my mind off it, pretty much, but today it just pressed in on me. My mind ticktocks back and forth like a metronome: I have it; there's no way. I have it; there's no way. And so on. So tomorrow I have to "go back in" and they'll try to see, I guess, what is there, or not.
I stayed off the internet until last night. My husband has been begging me NOT to go on breast cancer sites. There's just so much misinformation around, and the subject has been shoved in our faces for years, to an extreme I think. I just saw a Facebook thingie, status card or whatever, that exhorted women to "set their tatas free" and have a braless day. "SUPPORT BREAST CANCER!" the thing screamed. Is that really what we want to do?
Do we want to support the disease, which is what the message looks like, or support the cure?
Since Robin Williams died such an awful death, I've seen FB pages and things like that popping up to "support depression" and such-like. One such page-creator claimed that most of the stigma from mental illness comes from the sufferers. I had a hard time mustering much support for his cause.
I could say, I'll go in tomorrow, get my ultrasound and be done with it. I've had ultrasounds before, and CT scans and all that (in fact, in the past 18 months I've had every test you can think of, trying to pin down the source of considerable pain), and they're a piece of cake. What isn't a piece of cake is the waiting. Generally speaking, if a test comes out OK and they don't find anything, they don't call you. You are left hanging, and wondering if maybe just maybe they FORGOT to call you (as has happened to me a couple of times) and you will end up untreated until it's too late.
These things happen. Hell, doctors have been known to take out the wrong kidney or amputate the wrong leg.
I will take it a step at a time, of course, tell myself as usual that I never get sick (which I don't - it always turns out to be "nothing"). I'll go home and try to forget about it all, not hear anything for weeks and weeks while the whole nightmare issue recedes into the background again.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
And you are the Weaver's bonny
No, that's not Big Daddy from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, though you may be excused for making the comparison. It's Burl Ives, who, surprisingly, starred in a complete turkey of a TV show in the mid-1960s.
As good an actor as Ives was, and he was very good with the right part, there was something oppressive about him, a little adenoidal contempt in his speaking voice that took something away from his folksy charm. In his one-and-only, one-season attempt at a TV sitcom, he played one O. K. Crackerby, supposedly the richest man in the world. In the opening credits, he buys a hotel just because it's there. In one sequence he sits in a rocking chair whittling, but you get the feeling he could just as easily stab you in the throat.
In this memorable scene from the intro, he takes one look at his new hotel and commands: "Paint it!" Somebody should have dumped a bucket of whitewash on the whole show.
This is folksy on an endless loop. You can't say the man isn't trying, he does what he can with very weak material, but he did a lot better playing Santa in the Holly Jolly Christmas special. I've tried to describe Ives' voice, which was unique. Not at all what we think a folk voice should be, almost baleful. He excelled at morbid songs like Long Black Veil. (I've also been trying to find one called That's All I Can Remember, just a kick-ass morbid jailhouse execution song). I've always wanted to say about him, "folksy my ass". There was some sort of legend that he got up and walked out of the classroom in school and never came back. Like Bob Dylan, he was singing in front of people at age four. He sang one about the devil's nine questions, an old Child ballad that in actuality has only eight questions in it (maybe to see if you're paying attention?), and the accompaniment consists of two chords, strumming perhaps three strings per chord. At least until all that Little Bitty Tear business, he was a minimalist.
O. K. Crackerby on amphetamines. To be honest, these clips were not very good material for gifs, so I had to play around with the settings. I just liked the hokey name, which sounds almost like a breakfast cereal: the O. K. is obvious, but Crackerby is remeniscent of cracker barrels and even "crackers", po' white trash who made a killing somewhere. And not hunting possums. (This was, don't forget, the era of the Beverly Hillbillies.)
My favorite of the bunch, a grey square that appears between the end of the scene and the commercial. Probably had more audience appeal than the show. If Burl had been allowed to sing, it might have boosted the ratings, not to mention the quality. Even Andy Griffith pulled out his guitar once in a while.
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Friday, August 15, 2014
The Dancing Pig - My Favorite Silent Film
This is a favorite, one I've posted before, but let's trot it out again, shall we? Well, I'm doing it anyway.
Obviously this is some sort of crude vaudeville act that has been filmed with a still camera. The dancers are almost out of frame for most of it, and a man leaps in to remove chairs and other props, something you don't see in too many movies these days. But the most remarkable feature of this, which of course I have giffed in three speeds (small, medium and large), is the mugging at the end, in which the pig shows off all the technical marvels of his facial features, a tongue that sticks out and waves, nasty-looking fangs, etc. I'm not sure how the guy in the suit managed all this, but you will notice most of it took place during a head shot at the end. Keep your eye on the pig's neck, and you will plainly see hands working the strings and levers. As if it needed to be any creepier.
And now, for your enjoyment and edification, The Director's Cut by Wes Craven, a. k. a. A Nightmare on Pig Street. The fun begins at 3:52!
Who Killed Cock Robin?
Who killed Cock Robin
"Who killed Cock Robin?"
"I," said the Sparrow,
"I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."
"Who saw him die?"
"I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye, I saw him die."
"Who caught his blood?"
"I," said the Fish,
"I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."
"Who'll make the shroud?"
"I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."
"Who'll dig his grave?"
"I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave."
"Who'll be the parson?"
"I," said the Rook,
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."
"Who'll be the clerk?"
"I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk."
"Who'll carry the link?"
"I," said the Linnet,
"I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link."
"Who'll be chief mourner?"
"I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."
"Who'll carry the coffin?"
"I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."
"Who'll bear the pall?"
"We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."
"Who'll sing a psalm?"
"I," said the Thrush,
"I," said the Thrush,
As she sat on a bush, "I'll sing a psalm."
"Who'll toll the bell?"
"I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin
Poor Cock Robin.
In memory of Robin Goodfellow.
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Thursday, August 14, 2014
My beautiful! my beautiful!
'Arab's
Farewell to his Horse'
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Transcription
Arab's Farewell to his Horse.
PRICE ONE PENNY.
Copies of this popular production can always be had in
the Poet's box
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery
eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed,
I may not mount on thee again-thou art sold, my Arab
steed.
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.
The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold-
Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell, thou'rt sold, my steed,
thou'rt sold.
Farewell, these free untired limbs full many a mile must
roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stran-
ger's home.
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed
prepare-
The silky mane I braided once must be another's care.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont
to be.
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain,
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home
again.
Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun
and sky,
Thy master's home, from all of these my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become
less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to
meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check and cheer thy
speed,
Then must I startling wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab
steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreathes lie, like crested waves, along thy panting
side,
And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant
pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started
vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no it cannot be-
Thou art so swift yet easy curbed, so gentle yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should
yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee
to return?
Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do,
When thou who wert his all of joy hath vanished from his
view;
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and, through the
gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears,
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft has borne
me on.
And sitting down by that green well I'll pause and sadly
think,
It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him
drink.
When last I saw thee drink? Away! the fevered dream is
o'er,
I could not live a day and know that we should meet no
more.
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger' s power is strong,
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I'd giv'n thee up, who said that thou wert
sold?
'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back their
gold;
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back and scour the distant plains,
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
CommentaryThis ballad begins: 'My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, / With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye'. This broadside was priced at one penny and published on Saturday, 5th June 1869. It was published by the Poet's Box, (probably Glasgow) but the town of publication has been obscured.   |
BLOGGER'S NOTE. I decided to leave these rather boring notes attached, because? I was so intrigued by? all the? question marks. I suppose they were meant to represent some? other kind of punctuation mark, but I can't quite? figure out which one. My favorite passage is:
"Soap for lovers?!". These people were obviously well ahead of their time.
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