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Friday, September 25, 2015
Thursday, September 24, 2015
How you live is how you die
Yes, selfies and shark attacks can kill. But what we really fear is old age
Suzanne MooreAs we seek to prolong our lives, we shut old people away, only happy to see them if they are healthy and happy
Are we afraid of old people? Photograph: Alamy
Every day I read about something that will help me stay alive for longer. Usually, it’s something dietary: a bean, a berry, some kind of vegetable that we use to feed cattle. Then there is a message about moderation. Somehow, I soak this information up, regurgitate it to my friends over too many units as we nod in agreement that we should do something about ourselves. Information is power, but sometimes it feels more powerful to ignore it. Am I slowly killing myself ? Clearly. Will I live to regret it? No idea.
But there are always new things to worry about. One survey shows that more people died last year taking selfies and falling off things than in shark attacks. This isn’t funny really, but it seems to me I was always far more likely to die in the pursuit of some narcissistic exercise than anything that involves swimming. Is this stupid way to die any worse than some sensible way to die? Because the sensible way to die involves getting really old, which is terrifying.
The cool thing is not to be afraid of death, but of the actual dying bit – and when I was younger, I am sure I said that. Now I am afraid of all of it: cancer, Alzheimer’s, having every day overcast with cloudy, arthritic joints. Then I strip my fears to the bone and they are about being dependent. And losing my sense of self. And needing other people. And I wonder: is this a fear of dying of old age – or actually a fear of old people?
This may be a vile thing to say but it’s there, isn’t it? We constantly talk of an ageing population in an abstract way. This is the subtext to why we may benefit from taking in refugees. They will care for us in the end. We constantly express our disgust at the way old people are treated but we don’t want to see them unless they are healthy, happy and hiding their diseases. Jackie Collins was amazing to do as she did, but most of us couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep up appearances like that.
The reality is that many of the illnesses of old age will hit if we get to 80, and most of us are befuddled by what to do. We must keep alive and be kept alive while actually being given minimal care and regarded as an embarrassment. It is as if the time-bomb of this unproductive, decrepit layer of society is a theoretical discussion that is solved by bolting down green juice and behaving like immortals.
Doctors who deal with mortality, day in and day out, can be good to bad to brilliant. The best I have seen have been paediatricians – possibly because there is something so unnatural about children dying that it cannot be ignored. When one of my children was in an intensive care ward, two of the eight children there died on the same day. Everyone was openly devastated: the parents, the nurses and the doctors. They got us together and talked about how they felt and how they would work for our children.
On cancer wards, though, I have seen curtains pulled round a bed while a corpse is removed, with not a word said to the other patients. But what some of the best thinkers who happen to be doctors (Henry Marsh and Atul Gawande, for instance) are now talking about is both ageing and death, and how to have the best possible end, knowing that it is going to end. There is a consistent line coming from medics worried about the suffering caused by overtreatment. This means thinking about what to prioritise – especially with the elderly. It is to talk about quality of life and a return to personhood. What does this individual need? And the answer may not be medicine.
Gawande took his father’s remains to Varanasi, sprinkling his ashes in the Ganges water. He knows, as a good Hindu, that this rite is sacred. But as a doctor, he also knows that to sip the holy polluted water is dangerous, so he premedicates himself. However, he still ends up with giardia. But what comes from his experience is his father’s vitality, his work and connections remaining vivid till the end.
This is in sharp contrast to what we know is actually one of the biggest diseases of old age: loneliness. It may well be a cliche to contrast Gawande’s extended family to the atomised existence of the west, but the figures speak for themselves: a million people over 75 say that they don’t know their neighbours and haven’t spoken to anyone for a month. Their company is a TV set.
So when physicians talk of the myriad problems of treating the elderly, when we talk about palliative care and assisted suicide, we must be honest. The reality is a set of policies that have slashed social care, underpinned by the idea that caring is itself a low-status, feminised activity. The corollary is that what it means to be cared for is to be the lowest of the low. Old. Alone. Helpless. So we shut old people away as we seek to prolong our own lives. Indeed, a privilege of the west is we now fear not dying, but ageing, as much as we fear death itself. We literally cannot face our own futures.
Every day I read about something that will help me stay alive for longer. Usually, it’s something dietary: a bean, a berry, some kind of vegetable that we use to feed cattle. Then there is a message about moderation. Somehow, I soak this information up, regurgitate it to my friends over too many units as we nod in agreement that we should do something about ourselves. Information is power, but sometimes it feels more powerful to ignore it. Am I slowly killing myself ? Clearly. Will I live to regret it? No idea.
But there are always new things to worry about. One survey shows that more people died last year taking selfies and falling off things than in shark attacks. This isn’t funny really, but it seems to me I was always far more likely to die in the pursuit of some narcissistic exercise than anything that involves swimming. Is this stupid way to die any worse than some sensible way to die? Because the sensible way to die involves getting really old, which is terrifying.
The cool thing is not to be afraid of death, but of the actual dying bit – and when I was younger, I am sure I said that. Now I am afraid of all of it: cancer, Alzheimer’s, having every day overcast with cloudy, arthritic joints. Then I strip my fears to the bone and they are about being dependent. And losing my sense of self. And needing other people. And I wonder: is this a fear of dying of old age – or actually a fear of old people?
This may be a vile thing to say but it’s there, isn’t it? We constantly talk of an ageing population in an abstract way. This is the subtext to why we may benefit from taking in refugees. They will care for us in the end. We constantly express our disgust at the way old people are treated but we don’t want to see them unless they are healthy, happy and hiding their diseases. Jackie Collins was amazing to do as she did, but most of us couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep up appearances like that.
The reality is that many of the illnesses of old age will hit if we get to 80, and most of us are befuddled by what to do. We must keep alive and be kept alive while actually being given minimal care and regarded as an embarrassment. It is as if the time-bomb of this unproductive, decrepit layer of society is a theoretical discussion that is solved by bolting down green juice and behaving like immortals.
Doctors who deal with mortality, day in and day out, can be good to bad to brilliant. The best I have seen have been paediatricians – possibly because there is something so unnatural about children dying that it cannot be ignored. When one of my children was in an intensive care ward, two of the eight children there died on the same day. Everyone was openly devastated: the parents, the nurses and the doctors. They got us together and talked about how they felt and how they would work for our children.
On cancer wards, though, I have seen curtains pulled round a bed while a corpse is removed, with not a word said to the other patients. But what some of the best thinkers who happen to be doctors (Henry Marsh and Atul Gawande, for instance) are now talking about is both ageing and death, and how to have the best possible end, knowing that it is going to end. There is a consistent line coming from medics worried about the suffering caused by overtreatment. This means thinking about what to prioritise – especially with the elderly. It is to talk about quality of life and a return to personhood. What does this individual need? And the answer may not be medicine.
Gawande took his father’s remains to Varanasi, sprinkling his ashes in the Ganges water. He knows, as a good Hindu, that this rite is sacred. But as a doctor, he also knows that to sip the holy polluted water is dangerous, so he premedicates himself. However, he still ends up with giardia. But what comes from his experience is his father’s vitality, his work and connections remaining vivid till the end.
This is in sharp contrast to what we know is actually one of the biggest diseases of old age: loneliness. It may well be a cliche to contrast Gawande’s extended family to the atomised existence of the west, but the figures speak for themselves: a million people over 75 say that they don’t know their neighbours and haven’t spoken to anyone for a month. Their company is a TV set.
So when physicians talk of the myriad problems of treating the elderly, when we talk about palliative care and assisted suicide, we must be honest. The reality is a set of policies that have slashed social care, underpinned by the idea that caring is itself a low-status, feminised activity. The corollary is that what it means to be cared for is to be the lowest of the low. Old. Alone. Helpless. So we shut old people away as we seek to prolong our own lives. Indeed, a privilege of the west is we now fear not dying, but ageing, as much as we fear death itself. We literally cannot face our own futures.
This piece from The Guardian sums up so much of what I feel, and don't talk about, around the subject of ageing and death. Bill and I watched his parents fade over time, each in their own style (Dad fighting and cantankerous, Mum wryly humorous and grateful for everything she had). If we live so long, we don't know what our end-style of living will be, or how our dying will unfold.
I often say - probably too damn often, it's one of those things I've started saying - that the way you live is the way you die. Gangsters are shot down in cold blood. Drunk drivers drive drunk and die (often taking others with them). The grumpy die most reluctantly, wanting to win just one more battle and failing. The grateful, like Mum, go out as gently as a tide.
Talking about and looking at old age is deeply taboo in a culture that still worships youth, or at least only accepts old people who act unnaturally young. Think about it. When was the last time you saw a news item about an "oldster"? They're always reaching some incredible milestone like being 114 years old, or getting married at over 90, or running a marathon. No glimpse of adult diapers, of speech contorted by strokes, of infirmity. And certainly, no loneliness.
I'm over 60 now, though I still can't quite believe it, and Bill is nearly 70. I don't say this to him, but when he dies I will be very tempted to go with him. I'd like to. I don't want to outlive my mate. He's my mate, for God's sake, my life partner. I would never be one of these widows who boo-hoos into a kleenex for 5 minutes, then takes off on a cruise. There would be no new boy friend to scandalize the family. My life would be over. No, really, it would. I don't care how correct or incorrect that is, and I don't care if "most women adjust just fine" and "only grieve for a year" (apparently having an "on/off" switch somewhere in their soul).
I can face looking after him for years, being infirm, institutionalized, anything. We did say "in sickness and in health", and we also said, "'til death do us part". But they didn't tell us how to do it.
I'm not much good at this life thing, and in many ways I really think it would be better if I wound it up in the next couple of years. Suicide is hard on the family however, and the memory of it never quite goes away. It would be cowardly, because the apocalypse is coming in the next ten years, and maybe I need to be here, and maybe not. Depends on who else is left.
Muslims are the Jews of 2015
If you've followed this blog at all, you'll see that I'm almost apolitical. I stick to popular culture, strange social trends, personal passions (including my favorite, obsolete technology), and random bizarre-iana, with a few swipes at the Writer's Life (such as it is). But something happened today that sickened me so much, I had to write about it. A person I thought I knew well posted the most bigoted video I have ever seen. A woman was ranting in a continual stream without taking a breath, blaming "the Muslims" for all the evils in the world. The point seemed to be that she came from a Muslim background herself, so she knew the score and couldn't be wrong.
When confronted with the jaw-dropping bigotry of this kind of thing, people always backpedal rapidly, saying oh, no, no, we didn't mean ALL Muslims! Then why did they not say "Muslim extremists" or "Muslim terrorists"? No, all the way through this video which everyone praised so highly, she referred to "the" Muslims, a name that reminds me, most sickeningly, of "the" Jews during World War II. Below are my journal reflections on this gut-sinking thing, followed by my response to the video on Facebook, which will no doubt provoke strenuous denial that they did anything wrong. Jeez, can't we say anything at all any more without people being oversensitive? It will be either that, or "wake up, Margaret, they're taking over the world and you'd better accept it as fact."
If I cut loose from social media, and I am VERY close to it now, this video will be the last chop.
I was ambushed today by the most hateful thing I have ever seen on Facebook, something posted by a childhood friend of mine whom I knew to be formerly in favour of civil rights. It was a news video about “the Muslims” with a woman ranting and ranting that they represented pure evil in the world and were destroying everything in their path. It appeared with the caption “This brave woman is risking her life to finally tell it like it is!"
The idea that most Muslims are peaceable is steadily eroding. They are the Jews of our time, and not enough people see it. I could not believe a former friend, an intelligent woman with formerly liberal views, did this horrible thing – it made my guts squirm. Nobody seems to realize that that little word "the" changes everything, because it refers to the entire group. This changes speech into rhetoric and a diverse group of people into a target. Then they had a ranting and raging man in a turban on the video who just foamed at the mouth about the Koran, making Islam look even more innately violent and destructive, but they could just as easily have shown a white supremacist or a member of the KKK. But in the unenlightened public eye, the knee-jerk response will be, "oh, look at that. One of those Muslims."
As I watched all this, I had an awful, gut-sinking sense of a chess game being played on an ever-more-tilting board. A huge number of people are massing against a select group, and it may end the civilized world because it is Third Reich syndrome. All we need now is a Hitler. People hate Muslims because the media is feeding them lies that they are responsible for every atrocity that happens, and that hatred is only massing and burgeoning. The fact this was posted by a childhood friend just stunned me. She obviously believes this stuff if she’s putting it out there and praising this woman as some kind of heroine. I was more appalled than I have been in years. FB is completely poisoned for me now.
This is a response to a video which I felt was misleading. Every day now I see news items which no longer differentiate between the Muslim community and "the Muslims" (terrorists) who are behind all the evil in the world. Living in a city which has a very large Muslim community, this gets me in the gut. Quotes from the Koran are pulled out of context to demonstrate how primitive "they" are in what "they" believe. I try to deal with this issue below.
Using this terminology ("the" Muslims, which she used repeatedly) paints them all with the same brush, refers to the entire group and does not differentiate between the peaceful and the murderous. I am being repeatedly shot down for saying this (and it scares me), but the vast majority of Muslims I know personally are peaceable and completely appalled by what is going on. We may not approve of their customs, just as I certainly do not approve of much of Christianity, but the majority are not promoting or performing acts of terrorism and do not support these acts at all. I don't see Muslim families hiding in the bushes in the streets of Vancouver with bombs.
Saying "the Muslims" are responsible for terrorism and the evil in the world is distorting the truth, just as if we saw the KKK/white supremacists as representing Christianity. As for ideology, let me pull out a few choice Bible quotes: "an eye for an eye", "slaves, obey your masters," "women, submit to your husbands," "women should keep quiet", "I come to bring not peace but a sword" (Jesus). Most Christians do not adhere to these beliefs, but still call themselves Christian.
The belief that Muslim extremists are behind all the atrocities is not-so-slowly being eroded as Western culture begins to equate "the Muslims" with "terrorists", and "converting to Islam" as synonymous with "joining the terrorists". It is human nature to scapegoat and find a group of people to hate and blame, and this is a formidable force which can unite a society in hatred. This has happened before in history, with disastrous results. The fact this is a woman from inside the culture does not automatically make what she says true. Finally, if a Muslim family moved in next door to you, would you be afraid? Would you try to make friends with them? Would you let your children mix with them? Marry one of them? Ask yourself.
(Post-blog exhaustion. I finally gave up on working on/editing and re-editing this because it was bloody exhausting, and I don't think anyone will be swayed to believe the word "the" has any significance at all. They just don't see it. Talk about nit-picking! Political correctness! But it still makes my blood run cold, and I don't understand why so many people don't seem to know what I'm talking about. Though that's nothing new.)
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Down the tube: the first luxury TVs
Why am I sitting here in a state of ecstasy? you may ask. Because it takes so little to make me happy.
From somewhere, some hidden trove, some archive, some musty vault, has come a moldy treasure the likes of which I've never seen on YouTube before. Classic Commercials for Defunct Products: 107 videos in all, each running about 15 minutes.
Do you know how many minutes that is - nay, how many HOURS? of musty, fusty, dusty old flickering black-and-white ads, many of them peeled off of kinescopes older than Egyptian cuneiform. . . ?
Some of the best TV ads are ads for TVs, and the earliest ads showcased the television as the central piece of furniture in the living room, if not the whole house. Dancers whirled ecstatically around it, almost as dizzily as if they were in a Tarreyton cigarette commercial. Though this one looks super-high-tech, it's not so remarkable, since Ernie Kovacs was using similar "camera tricks" in the early '50s. The tiny-screen TV on the right is one of the very earliest models from the 1940s.
But this is my favorite: a wobbly, grainy zoom shot of a bleary little screen in a cabinet that looks like it once housed a giant radio. The doors opening on this marvel made for a desperately modern effect. I am not sure what the people are doing onscreen - perhaps dancing at a funeral? It is, of course, made by Dumont, first on the scene and first to go extinct.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Monday, September 21, 2015
Completely incomprehensible: Monkey's Uncle by Transogram!
My pick for worst board game ever. You run around the room doing completely inexplicable things, and it makes you a Monkey's Uncle.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Why is Facebook so fucked up?
I don't often post journal entries, because I make a distinction between blogging and journalling. But lately I have been more and more sickened and offended by what I see on Facebook. I have no idea what is going on here, as I used to enjoy it, with a few exceptions. I don't think this is just a case of "bad friend choices", as everyone is telling me. Elections on both sides of the border have brought out the ugly in everyone, but there has been some real frat-house-level sexual humour and depictions of blow-jobs and menstrual blood and cunt pillows made of red velvet and that sort of thing, and I get sickened before I've even had my breakfast. "So don't go on Facebook any more! Get lost!"is the response. That's like throwing someone out of their country because they don't like its politics. Or something. Anyway. I want to preface this by saying I don't object to profanity if you are so incensed that your head is ready to blow off your body. The f-word, smeared around so liberally, should be reserved for occasions of rage mixed with headspinning nausea. Like - fucking right now!
FB makes me even more sick now, if that’s possible. That guy who wrote the sensitive, moving piece about his struggles with mental illness boasted that he was in a film in Toronto that played at a festival. Fine, if egotistical. Then I looked at it, and it was a film showing a woman giving a man oral sex, complete with grunts and groans and head-pushing. This was going on even as the movie began, so there was no preface for it, no context at all. It took a while to realize it was simulated, as it was obviously meant to look as much like a real live blow job as possible.
Are you surprised to hear me say I don't want to watch a blow job at 10:30 in the morning, or ANY time? It's all very well to say, "duhhhhhh, wellll, then just don't watch it, eh?" - but after looking forward to something half-decent from a friend, it was an ambush. This "don't look at it" does not work for me - the problem is once more "my fault". These posts are either impossible to ignore, or rotten and disgusting when (lured by an interesting headline) you open them.
Hard on the heels of the blow job, there was a giant pillow representing a vulva. A big fat. . . I mean, I've seen this kind of thing before, but isn't it getting just a little bit stupid? (As usual, it was wrongly called "a vagina", which is now slang for anything below a woman's waist. A vagina is a tube. Sperm goes in; babies come out. But "vulva" sounds erotic and dirty, so it's never used.)
(For further information on this topic, read my former post, which got a lot of views because it had the term "twat" in it until I changed it. To vulva.)
http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2012/04/vagina-vagina-lets-call-whole-thing.html
If it were a penis, would it fly (or whatever)? Who knows. But once again, the comments were all squeals of joy and enthusiastic praise, stating how "empowering" it was. But who would have it on their living room sofa? These liberals, put to the test, aren't liberal at all, because you can be anybody you want on Facebook, even a brave feminist who keeps her mouth shut in company. Then there was the picture of Donald Trump painted in someone’s menstrual blood, which everyone screamed and raved about and ooh-ed and ahh-ed over because it was, I guess, "feminist", but it still makes no sense to me. It was as much of a political statement as painting a picture of Alfred E. Neuman in your own snot.
(For further information on this topic, read my former post, which got a lot of views because it had the term "twat" in it until I changed it. To vulva.)
http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2012/04/vagina-vagina-lets-call-whole-thing.html
If it were a penis, would it fly (or whatever)? Who knows. But once again, the comments were all squeals of joy and enthusiastic praise, stating how "empowering" it was. But who would have it on their living room sofa? These liberals, put to the test, aren't liberal at all, because you can be anybody you want on Facebook, even a brave feminist who keeps her mouth shut in company. Then there was the picture of Donald Trump painted in someone’s menstrual blood, which everyone screamed and raved about and ooh-ed and ahh-ed over because it was, I guess, "feminist", but it still makes no sense to me. It was as much of a political statement as painting a picture of Alfred E. Neuman in your own snot.
Then the Stephen Harper thing. Yes. Stephen Harper, loathed by all my friends, just skewered in every post. Compared to Hitler, that sort of thing (which is a horrible insult to Holocaust survivors, but hey, haven't most of them died off already? It doesn't really matter what we say now.) The worst one, posted by Mick Gzowski (Peter Gzowski's son, who had up to that point been quite supportive of my posts) had a series of photos with Stephen Harper wielding a giant dildo. Yes, folks, because I am NOT a dried-up, prissy little old lady, I do know what a dildo is, and I still don't know why this is considered "good political satire". It's a fake penis, guys. Washroom wall stuff. A fourteen-year-old could come up with something funnier and more relevant. All the comments joined in the sniggering and "awe-some, man!" attitude. God. PLEASE bring back Mark Twain or someone who knew what it was to put a politician in his place without pulling out a fake dick!
I've been told over and over again that the problem is my own poor choice of friends, but it doesn't make a lot of sense that this has escalated so much in the last couple of months. It might be the friends of friends thing, which I don’t remember before. These are posts that friends supposedly "like" or "comment on" which are now shoved in my face, so they're not from friends at all. It’s getting so bad I just don’t know what to expect. I haven’t had any really good links in a very long time, and I used to get at least a few a day to interesting sites with some actual content.
I’d clean out all the dead wood, except that I have around 800 friends (a relatively small number by Facebook standards) and can’t anticipate who will send me this stuff. I had NEVER seen that kind of crap from Mick Gzowski before. If I housecleaned I’d be taking stabs, and end up with basically nothing. This has turned irreversibly sour for me, and nobody’s listening, I mean nobody. All I’ve been posting are complaints lately, it seems, because the stuff I’m seeing is either offensive or just plain stupid: oohing and ahhing over the wisdom of Pamela Anderson’s comments on politics and the coming election. PAMELA ANDERSON, Miss Tits and Ass herself! This was posted by someone I thought was smart! I don’t dare say what I feel, which is, are you out of your fucking MIND?! Has your IQ dropped by 20 or 30 points just by being on Facebook?
FB used to be more-or-less enjoyable and I went on it every day with a degree of anticipation, and now I just wait for the offensive material. I don't have to wait very long. One of the problems is taking "friends" on for similar interests, such as silent film and other film-related things, then finding out they are Tea Party Republicans and have the personality and insight of Great White sharks. You can’t tell by the color of their eyes OR their interests whether they will possess a complete brain, vestigial insight, or a white uniform with a hood in their closet. I could not keep this meme because it made me want to vomit, but it depicted JFK at the top and Obama (with a circle around his picture) at the bottom, and said "If we're going to assassinate a Democrat, next time let's make sure we get the right man."
Another Republican splat in the face, offensive for an entirely different reason, was one of those gooey religious ones about Jesus loving us all. It had a meme of the traditional picture from the Sunday School wall with some kind of message like, "Share if you love Jesus!" I could not believe what I was seeing. One of my friends had apparently commented on this, probably very negatively, so - there it was, clogging up my feed, making me feel like I needed some sort of Facebook Drain-o to flush all this crap away.
Another Republican splat in the face, offensive for an entirely different reason, was one of those gooey religious ones about Jesus loving us all. It had a meme of the traditional picture from the Sunday School wall with some kind of message like, "Share if you love Jesus!" I could not believe what I was seeing. One of my friends had apparently commented on this, probably very negatively, so - there it was, clogging up my feed, making me feel like I needed some sort of Facebook Drain-o to flush all this crap away.
There is all sorts of stuff on the net, but the quality of it has really degenerated in recent (very recent) times. The "news" sites are just junk with no content at all. So-called satire, much of it of the look-at-my-penis variety, is muddled together with "real" news stories to create deliberate confusion. Newspapers are dead and are even closing their doors. Apparently the Edmonton Journal, whom I wrote for for more than 15 years, is now huddled in the corner of their old building, with the printing being farmed out elsewhere, probably the Third World. The ink is so pale you can’t read it, and the type is smaller and squashed-together, a shrinkage that has been going on for a couple of decades now. The image is extremely potent. My old-school milieu, the only place where I felt I had a sense of accomplishment, is slowly and ruthlessly being squeezed into oblivion. Once again I am left alone on the playground, which is the worst feeling in the world.
P. S. I have decided to vote for Harper. Why? I'll tell you why. Because of the Hitler moustache, and so many other things that are ludicrously over-the-top and even unfair. I am voting for Harper because you don't want me to. Because you have ruined my day with your tasteless and even stomach-turning frat-house crap. Because I am sick of lefties yapping about human rights from their plushy fat-cat houses with three-car garages. Because I'm afraid of protesting any of this garbage because I know I will be abused, and afraid of expressing my real views because I know I will be sniped at. Because I'm tired of the gooey idealization of that pretender-to-the-high-IQ, Justin Trudeau. I lived through his father TWICE, and I am sure as hell not going to live through him! As for that other guy, orange never looked good on me, and I'm sure it wouldn't look too good on my country either.
P. S. I have decided to vote for Harper. Why? I'll tell you why. Because of the Hitler moustache, and so many other things that are ludicrously over-the-top and even unfair. I am voting for Harper because you don't want me to. Because you have ruined my day with your tasteless and even stomach-turning frat-house crap. Because I am sick of lefties yapping about human rights from their plushy fat-cat houses with three-car garages. Because I'm afraid of protesting any of this garbage because I know I will be abused, and afraid of expressing my real views because I know I will be sniped at. Because I'm tired of the gooey idealization of that pretender-to-the-high-IQ, Justin Trudeau. I lived through his father TWICE, and I am sure as hell not going to live through him! As for that other guy, orange never looked good on me, and I'm sure it wouldn't look too good on my country either.
Friday, September 18, 2015
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Another one of those nauseatingly narcissistic Facebook things
Yet another actual FB message, echoing three or four hundred I have read lately, tossed off to casually announce one's wild popularity as a human being, and thus dragging everyone else's mood down as they realize what pariahs they are:
"I've caught up on all my emails. I shall now bask in this small accomplishment for the thirty seconds it will last."
Translation: "OMG, I just have SO many friends! SO many people love me that they SWARM my inbox with messages of worshipful adulation. I just can't keep up with it all, and if I take a breath for 30 seconds, I am simply inundated. Please! Please, all my slavering sycophants. Give me a chance here! Give me a second to breathe! Curb your adulation for a couple of minutes, and I promise to favor you with a one- or two- word response (one word for every 500 of yours). What can I say? You are truly my fans, and you are precious to me. Now KNOCK IT OFF."
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Now, now, NOW!
(From a short-lived mid-00s site called ABSURDITO (http://absurdito.blogspot.ca/2004/06/birds-schoolchildren-song.html) comes this startling revelation about the most annoying song I've ever heard. Then some comments. Then some more.)
'The Birds' schoolchildren song
Finally, today, I've found the actual lyrics as sung in the film. Other lyrics I've found on the internet were shorter. It turns out that The Birds screenwriter Evan Hunter extended the song with new lyrics (and has been receiving royalties ever since!).
I took these lyrics from the actual shooting script of the film, which can be found at: http://www.screentalk.biz/hitchcock.htm
The following begins with the script's description of the action, and then I omit all other scene descriptions and present only the song's words:
EXT. BODEGA BAY – DAY – LONG SHOT
Melanie’s car turns and goes up School Road.
EXT. SCHOOL – DAY – MED. SHOT
Closer shot of the car coming to a stop outside school.
Inside the school, we HEAR the children SINGING.
CHILDREN (O.S.)
I married my wife in the month of June. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Mo, mo mo!
…
I carried her off in a silver spoon. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
…
She combed her hair but once a year. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Mo, mo, mo!
With every rake, she shed a tear. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
With every rake, she shed a tear. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
…
She swept the floor but once a year. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Mo, mo, mo!
She swore her broom was much too dear. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
…
She churned the butter in Dad’s old boot. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Mo, mo, mo!
And for a dasher she used her foot. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
…
The butter came out a grizzle-y-grey. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Mo, mo, mo!
The cheese took legs and ran away! Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
The cheese took legs and ran away! Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
…
I brought my wife a horse one day. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Mo, mo, mo! She let the critter get away. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Mo, mo, mo!
…
I asked my wife to wash the floor. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Mo, mo, mo! She gave me my hat and showed me the door! Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey bombosity, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, (the song slows – it is near the end) willoby-wallaby, Mmmmmmmo, Mmmmmmmo, MO!
Though the above is in the shooting script for the film, in the film the children shuffle around the lines to the song and change a few words. The changed words sound like they changed the unrhythmic "hey bombosity" to "hey donny dostle-tee". Also, "I carried her off in a silver spoon" appears to have changed to "I brought her off by the light of the moon." And "Mo, mo, mo!" sure sounds more like, "Now, now, now!"
Finally, I *SWEAR* that, instead of the word "butter" (in the first stanza) the kids sing "poison"!! This would certainly be keeping with Hitchcock's macabre humor. So, I've taken the liberty to make these changes to the updated version below.
So here are the above lyrics modified as sung in the film:
The poison it came out a grizzle-y-grey. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Now, now, now!
The cheese it took legs and ran away! Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey donny dostle-tee, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Now, now, now!
She let the critter get away. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey donny dostle-tee, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Now, now, now!
I asked my wife to wash the floor. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Now, now, now!
She gave me my hat and she showed me the door! Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey donny dostle-tee, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, Now, now, now!
She gave me my hat and she showed me the door! Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey donny dostle-tee, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, Now, now, now!
I married my wife in the month of June. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, Now, now, now!
I brought her off by the light of the moon. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey donny dostle-tee, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Now, now, now!
She combed her hair but once a year. Ristle-tee, rostle-tee, hey donny dostle-tee, knickety-knackety, retro-quo-quality, willoby-wallaby, Now, now, now!
Blogger's observations. The Birds is one of my favorite Hitchcock films (the other one being Psycho, which I'll have to devote a whole post to), mainly for the cheap thrills. You don't have to figure anything out in this movie. There is no intrigue; there are no plot twists; indeed, there is no plot. The birds come; they see; they conquer. Based on a short story (Daphne du Maurier?) which is in turn based on a true incident, nothing is ever explained here, much as in life. Terror and confusion hopelessly intermingle to bring a formerly happy and innocent community to its knees.
The song the schoolchildren endlessly sing (which drives me bananas with its nonsensical monotony) reminds me a lot of a song we "took", or rather sang, in about Grade 5. It was bad, but not quite THIS bad. It was called The Wee Cooper o' Fife (and doesn't that sound more Irish than Scottish?), and here is the part I can remember, spelled phonetically:
There was a wee cooper who lived in Fife
Nickety-nackety noo, noo, noo
And he has taken a comely wife
Hey willie-wallacky, hoo John Dougal a rain co-rushity roo roo roo.
Oh she wadna bake and she wadna brew
Nickety-nackety noo, noo, noo
For the spoilin' o' her comely hue
Hey willie-wallacky, etc.
Nobody knew what it meant. Nobody explained anything to kids in those days (or now, probably). This was right around the time of the Canadian Centennial, when we had to learn all sorts of daft folk songs that were supposed to be Canadian. Canadian meant Scottish, English and Irish. So we didn't know what a cooper was (a barrel-maker, it turns out), where Fife is (? Isn't that something you blow into?), what a comely hue was supposed to be, and what all that other shit meant, if it meant anything at all.
Though I thought we had every Burl Ives recording ever bleated, we didn't have a recording of him singing "that song". I've dug up the lyrics, and it's definitely the same one:
She wouldna wash, nor she wouldna wring (nickety-nackety, etc. etc. etc.)
For the spoilin' o' her gowden ring
She wouldna card, nor she wouldna spin
For the shamin' o' her gentle kin
So the wee cooper went to his woodpack
And laid a sheepskin on his wife's back
"Now, I wouldna thrash ye for your gentle kin,
But I would thrash me ain sheepskin."
"Oh, I will bake and I will brew,
And nae mair think o' my comely hue!
"And I will wash and I will wring,
And nae mair think o' my gowden ring!
"And I will card and I will spin
And nae mair think o' my gentle kin!"
So ye what has gotten a gentle wife,
Just ye send for the wee cooper o' Fife!
Charming, isn't it? This song (which may or may not be a somewhat simplified version of the song in The Birds) is all about domestic violence and a wife cowed into submission by her husband's threats of physical harm. Good, clean, wholesome fun.
This is the only Burl Ives version I could find on YouTube. WARNING: may be hazardous to your mental health if you loathe marionettes as much as I do. But for some reason, when I was a kid, they were everywhere, from the execrable Howdy Doody to Supercar, one of the better action-adventure series of the '60s. Except for that goddamn chimp.
ADDENDUM. Why I hated that goddamn chimp from Supercar, followed by an image of his death mask.
This is the only Burl Ives version I could find on YouTube. WARNING: may be hazardous to your mental health if you loathe marionettes as much as I do. But for some reason, when I was a kid, they were everywhere, from the execrable Howdy Doody to Supercar, one of the better action-adventure series of the '60s. Except for that goddamn chimp.
ADDENDUM. Why I hated that goddamn chimp from Supercar, followed by an image of his death mask.
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