Reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions - Fight Club (1999)

Tower Records didn’t create the concept of the “Desert Island Discs,” but they surely did a lot to popularize it.  I sent in a list once, but it never got published.  But it is always fascinating to explore how people prioritize their prize possessions.  As a connoisseur of clutter, I would have a problem trying to fit my precious cargo into a suitcase.  My current crap barely fits into my ample closet.  But it gives birth to the argument about whether your quality of life increases in proportion to the amount of stuff that you accumulate.  Or whether this excess baggage becomes just another dead weight dragging you down.  I’ll spare you a misguided rant against consumer culture.  But there is evidence that your favorite things tend to increase your stress level.  One deduction is that the more stuff you have, the more time, money and attention it costs you to maintain it.  Not to mention, the anxiety of the possibility of it’s eventual destruction.  I recall that I used to keep brand new clothes in hermetically sealed state until I was ready to use them.  That might be taking things to an extreme.  The point I am trying to make is that the minute we acquire a new toy, we start to worry about wear and tear.  I know that not everybody has such a skewed world view.  My neighbor at work usually leaves her locker door wide open.  When I try to reason with her laid-back attitude, she replies that there is nothing worth stealing in there.  Maybe I have trust issues, but I check the locks several times before walking away.  Blame it on my OCD, but the paranoia becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.  If you expect the worst, you won’t be disappointed!  But I have begun to examine my attachment to inanimate objects.  It has been a life-long affair, but now I think that the romance has mellowed.  I will always love the rush you experience when you leave the store with your loot.  But the shit here is knee-high already.  I think the time has come to downsize my fabric footprint.  And I am not just saying this because I live in a small studio.  Letting go of my clutter has been a struggle, but I feel like I am turning a corner.  I often watch films where the protagonist packs his bags and leaves town and I sigh with envy.  I can’t imagine fitting the sum total of your physical self in a little box.  My sweater collection alone would take up two milk crates.  Baby steps, people.  Perhaps, this is the reason I find the idea of escaping to the countryside so appealing.  Alone in the house with a bitch and a mouse, I could be very happy living la vida rustic.  The Internet has made it possible to maintain contact with almost everybody at the most remote location.  Now if only I could wrap it up, I could move to the mountainside with my massive wardrobe and my laptop computer.  Far away from the prying eyes of the world!  Thankfully, I will not have to put my desert island disc list into motion, now that we have gone digital.

Kevin: You know Jules, there is the brink of insanity and then there is the abyss, which obviously you have fallen into!

I have always had a talent for denial.  Perhaps this might be a side effect of my inflated self-esteem.  But I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that things might not work out okay.  Sure, I fully expect to suffer.  I am not under the false impression that life will be all rainbows and unicorns.  But I have this sick idea that eventually the sticky situation will correct itself.  I am standing here on the sidelines and watching the economy go down the drain and it seems like just another bad dream.  Could this possibly be happening?  It reminds me of this time a huge pantry almost fell on top of me.  In the heat of the moment, I kept thinking that life could not be this cruel.  I snapped out of my reverie.  I was able to avoid life as a cripple.  But it made me realize that life offers no guarantee.  Since I’ve always landed on my feet, I conclude that I can rebound from anything.  But what if my luck has finally run out?  Of course, the adage misery loves company rings true.  I take comfort in the knowledge that this boat is sinking with extra cargo.  Isn’t that terrible?  But that knowledge provides a hallow victory, like seeing all of your best friends at the gates of hell.  I have been known to be optimistic in the face of tragedy before.  My initial reaction to 9/11 was to shrug it off as an unfortunate series of events.  I guess when things start to seem too severe, I retreat into my protective shell.  Like a turtle!  I recall I tried to take anti-depressants once without a prescription once and I was very melancholy for the rest of the day.  I must not need a mood stabilizer after all.  So maybe despite my abrasive exterior, I am just as naive as anybody else.  I pride myself on my savvy status, but maybe I’m just as clueless as the next guy.  I have always envied the dumb bliss of the simple-minded.  There is no rest for the neurotic New Yorker who thinks too much.  Especially with the sad state of our city today.  But I intend to carry on with high spirits despite the scary shit-storm outside.  Call me crazy!  If the true value of our lives can only be judged by the quality of this moment.  I’ll make this instant the best damn minute I can.  The nation can descend into anarchy and I will be fine dancing around my studio apartment in my underwear!  In that spirit, I present this video.  The clearance racks are cluttered with the remnants of solo albums by lead singers of popular bands.  More often than not, the record buying public rejects the efforts of a team player to fly solo.  So it should come as no surprise that this minor classic fell on deaf ears.  The lack of success of the singles effectively put an end to the brief Oakey/Moroder partnership.

I have a habit of getting into random confrontations with total strangers.  I have always had an outspoken personality.  But living in this city brings my abrasive side to the surface.  There is something in the air that loosens my inhibitions when it comes to speaking my mind.  But it would be a fallacy to say that I search for injustice.  I would be crazy to spend my days righting wrongs for the sake of a vicarious thrill.  Having said that, I have trouble biting my tongue when I see a lapse in street etiquette.  This behavior can be risky, because you never know how the other party will respond.  It is a miracle that I haven’t been beaten up already.  But I can’t stop myself from voicing disapproval when I witness bad manners.  Last week, I was enjoying a grande cafe latte at my local Starbucks.  While I was mixing my brew, I noticed a woman pull an outrageous amount of napkins from the dispenser.  Now, I’ve been known to smuggle out extra paper products from fast food chains before.  But this was above and beyond the call of normal consumption.  I uttered three little words: What a waste!  But this was enough to incite the odd duck standing before me.  I wasn’t paying attention to who I was speaking to.  But now she got all in my face crying foul about my judgment call.  I find that during the heat of battle, the exchange escalates to the point where the two parties just reiterate their talking points.  The maniac kept ranting and raving that there was an inch of piss in the bathroom and that she was not going to subject herself to an STD.  I took the environmentally aware approach.  The ridiculous amount of butt wipes she stole would have killed an entire forest.  Why don’t you just take a whole tree in there with you?  I made the mistake of sitting near the bathroom line while the bickering continued.  A strange thing happened while we kept launching our verbal attacks.  I started to realize that this freak was enjoying this attention.  Sure, she was shaking and sweating, but she would not let the conversation end.  Even after I apologized for hurting her fragile feelings (but not for my original statement!), she would’t shut up.  At this point, I was heavily caffeinated.  I don’t recommend starting a heated debate with me while I’m sipping a stimulant.  I can wax lyrical forever.  But I started to see the sorry state she was in.  I started to pity this strange creature and her generic fashions and black Reeboks.  This is probably the most attention she had received all day.  But I was perversely energized by our dumb discourse, too.  Maybe my hobby of picking fights with strangers is really an attempt to connect.  I can’t deny the thrill of victory when I make a valid point.  But maybe this is my wicked way of getting noticed in the urban jungle, too.   The subconscious is deceitful above all things.  Maybe I feel the need to attract negative attention when I am feeling invisible.  Regardless, this war of words did give me pause.  I almost blurted out “I am going to blog about you, lady!”  Perhaps, I should thank her for providing today’s topic.

What is the point of blogging?  What purpose does a personal blog serve?   Why are some people naturally better suited to it than others?  I often ask myself these questions.  Contrary to popular belief, it is not just another trend like macramé or aerobics.  The desire to express ones innermost thoughts via the Internet transcends any fad like needlepoint.  I would compare it to the old-school habit of keeping a personal journal.  But instead of keeping it under lock and key, we take it live on the world wide web.  Is it simply a device for the attention whores of the world?  Or are we contributing to a meaningful exchange of alternative ideas?  Certainly, there is too much navel-gazing that takes place in blog culture.  But isn’t that part of the original concept of sharing yourself with an on-line audience?  Certainly, the best and most brilliant bloggers are superior storytellers.  But if you focus too much on “me, myself and I”, you do risk alienating your followers.  The most talented are able to find anecdotes about their lives and frame it for a cross-section of persons.  It’s easy to be cynical about this breed of over-sharing wannabe writers.  But I think this phenomenon is powered by a genuine need to connect with our peers.  Maybe that is why the stereotype conjures up an image of a socially awkward tech geek.  But that theory does not take into account that a helluva lot of bloggers are first-class raconteurs.  I know plenty of blog folk who have larger than life personalities with active social calenders.  That does not support the popular notion of the neurotic outsider suffering from an extreme case of alienation.  I like to think of my blog home as a form of therapy.  It is difficult to process the majority of people, places and things that I encounter in my daily life.  But when I’m sitting alone at my computer, I am overtaken by the need to figure it all out.  I often have no clue what I plan to write about.  The words start to flow out of my system until they form a cohesive thought.  Maybe this is why blog format tends to be an abstract stream of consciousness.   It’s like real life, but without the editor.  Maybe that’s what causes the current of scathing criticism from the naysayers.  They just can’t handle the truth!  But blogs are not meant to be a substitute for newspapers, magazines or literature.  They are meant to encapsulate an intense personal experience that is specific to a certain point in time.  This is why a blog can give you an immediate rush.  That is why a dated blog can make you feel like you are trapped in a time machine.  It reminds me of my drug days.  The endorphins released in your bloodstream make you feel like you are living in the moment.  It is an illusion, but you start to feel larger-than-life.  Delusions of grandeur and paranoia are common symptoms.  And getting feedback on a post can result in the same high.  But I wouldn’t say that blogs are the new cocaine without the hangover.  I think it is just a modern technique to reach out and own your fucked-up feelings.  Better living through technology, you might say.  I doubt that this is what John Taylor had in mind when he created this punk manifesto. The music and vocals were rough and raw while the lyrics reflected his chaotic personal life.  I like to think JT could have worked out his personal issues with keyboard therapy.  But he chose to channel his angst into his music.  Ultimately, I am thankful that he suffered for his art!

Harlan: How the fuck do you stay up here? I mean, these people… I go in the store this morning for cigarettes, they got ducks under the counter. What, do they plant these people or do they just grow out of the ground? And they look at me like, hell, I don’t know.

I have always had a love-hate relationship with suburbia. Growing up on Long Island, I would have sold my left ball to escape the sterile subculture of the burbs. I felt disconnected from the mediocre mentality that surrounded me during my salad days. I was the proud owner of an extreme sense of entitlement. As a teenager, I longed to leave it all behind and conquer the urban landscape with my wit, looks and charm. The main reason that I chose to attend college at FIT was that it was located in midtown Manhattan. I liked to think of the school campus as my own club kid hotel. But I continued to visit my mother in Suffolk County. The novelty of the laid-back pace and the familiar landmarks were soothing to my soul. But I was a little prick when it came to relating to “normal people” After spending ten years bouncing around the city like a stupefied satellite, I had hit rock bottom. So I returned to the “scene of the crime”. This was during my freak phrase. I found it difficult to believe that I could relate to the common folk. I took great pride in my status as a conscientious objector to mainstream culture. But people are people and you don’t have to agree on art and leisure to enjoy the essence of a personality. But I do have a low tolerance for tackiness. And LI has an embarrassment of riches in the lack of tact department. If there is nothing worse that a poor snob, then I must be insufferable. I was able to enjoy the endless procession of glitzy plazas in an ironic hipster fashion. But I was making plans to escape and return to my people. I have been back for over a decade now. The city has ebbed and flowed more than I care to remember. But I think I’m falling out of love with the concrete jungle. Don’t get me wrong. I am in no rush to make out an exit strategy. But the intense vibe that I was addicted to seems to have gone missing. I don’t know if I would miss this urban rhythm if I left town today. I wouldn’t say that I have become disenchanted with the city. But my enthusiasm is certainly lackluster at the moment. I don’t know whether I have lost the incessant need to be in the center of the universe. Or whether the unique flavor has been sold out to the highest bidder. But NYC no longer seems like a sanctuary from the big bland world. Maybe I am feeling cynical today, but I feel confident I could leave this town tomorrow without regrets. Maybe my sense of connection with this town is like the stock market: cyclical. What goes up must eventually crash down.

Say goodbye to analog. As of 2007, 6 countries have completed the process of turning off terrestrial broadcasting. Many other countries, including the United States, are in the process of the conversion. Leave it to me to get warm and fuzzy about ultra high frequency. Back in the 80′s, broadcast channels above 13 gained a reputation for providing less polished and professional programming than their VHF counterparts. I was not a fan of this rogue network of independent stations, but there was one number on my UHF dial that left a lasting impression: U-68. It is hard to remember life before cable television. At one point, it was a new phenomenon that not every neighborhood had access to. And conventional wisdom dictated that you did not pay for TV. I did eventually get connected during my teen years. But there was a digital blackout during in my salad days. MTV used to be the ultimate barometer of cool. And the fact that I was missing out on this music revolution was killing me. But I was glad to discover an attractive alternative. I stumbled across this brave new world while channel surfing on my relic TV. The prospect of a music video channel that didn’t require a subscription to cable set my heart on fire. Furthermore, I was transfixed by the weird and wonderful sounds that were emanating from this box. I have always been a pop pioneer, so I was dazzled by the eclectic mix of foreign musicians on display. The fact that I had to play with the rabbit ears to adjust the poor reception only added to the intrigue. I would compare it to public-access TV and other media created by private citizens. I recall they had an overnight show called Nocturnal Transmissions, a naughty title for a music video program. Even after I got my MTV, I continued to check back with U-68. This low-tech start-up seemed to have access to a non-stop soundtrack of British new wave artists. And they did not seem to be too concerned with the relative obscurity of their video picks. Alas, the pajama party did not last long. In 1986, WHT was sold to the Home Shopping Network and it began airing the HSN format full-time. But I’ll always remember this lost paradise of strange sounds on Long Island. For a kid who dared to be different, it set me free.

If the autumn of 2008 has taught us anything, it is that there is nothing permanent except change. If everything you know about the world can turn on a dime, your perspective becomes paranoid. You can’t take anything for granted anymore. This can be liberating, as you shed the shackles of your comfort zone. But we are all creatures of habit and we secretly love our routines. We bitch and moan about our life and it’s predictable nature. But we yearn for a dependable universe to take care of us. The majority of us would gladly sacrifice thrills and chills for lifelong security. But in the midst of this perfect storm of consumer anxiety, we have been given the gift of optimism. A little goes a long way. The fact that we have a president elect that inspires so much positivity restores my faith in this country. Yes, we can. But I am no Pollyanna. I realize that lip service from a smooth politician will not fix our broken system. I think we can all take individual steps to bring about a new deal. It’s easy to fall into old habits. But I think we should examine our state of mind and make an inventory of what mental debris should be eliminated. There is so much unnecessary clutter in our neurotic brains. The least we can do is take the time to throw out our psychic garbage. If this sounds like psycho babble, so be it. I honestly believe that real change comes from within. You can’t change the world, but you can change yourself. If all of your problems were miraculously removed and you had not changed your damaged thought process, you would soon find yourself with a similar set of problems. No judgments! My overactive imagination is as dysfunctional as Woody Allen, but I’m trying to overcome my tendency to deny my present reality. I guess what I am trying to say is that we can’t rely on anybody else to figure it out. Not even Barrack! ABC mastered the art of change with this single release. It was a dramatic departure from the sweeping melodrama and stylized production of the band’s first LP. Needless to say, it was met with resistance. I love the disclaimer on the 12″: “This record is exactly the same as the 7″ version. The choice is yours.”

“I once had the nerve to ask Picasso, “What is art?” He answered, “Art is a lie which makes us see the truth.”” James Dickey

I like to approach a film cold with only a vague notion about what to expect. But I usually do a little research in order to decide whether a movie is worth two hours of my time. Thanks to IMDB , I can deliver a verdict from the comfort of my keyboard. I wasn’t prepared for the brouhaha that was raging in the forum for The September Tapes. The premise intrigued me. It is a faux-documentary that takes place in Afghanistan in the months following 9-11. The plot details the fact that the film makers have disappeared while making a documentary about a bounty hunter on the trail of Osama Bin Laden. Eight tapes are found which show the group coming closer to Taliban fighters. It was a strange hybrid of The Blair Witch Project and Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden. If you happened to stumble upon this film by accident, you would be convinced that the footage was genuine. The gritty realism on display could not be denied. But the artistic value was certainly up for debate. I found myself riveted by the secret passage into a forbidden netherworld of the former Taliban. I don’t understand the objections of the impassioned opposition on the board. But their caustic vitriol was on display. I know whenever you introduce a hot topic like foreign affairs, you are bound to unleash controversy. I was impressed by the portrait it gives of a country in war and it’s ability to put you in the center of it. Everyone is a critic in cyberspace, but the strong opinions on both sides provided a lively debate. It reminds me of an article I read about how theater critics have become obsolete. Now that everyone with a DSL connection has cast themselves as an industry insider, there’s no need for pros. I have been guilty of transforming myself into a cinematic judge and jury. A quick glance at my Flixter account should prove that point. But it is time consuming to be a patron of the arts. Not only are you expected to devour every pop culture artifact and formulate a reasoned response. Now you are expected to stake out a position and to write an essay explaining your thesis. Maybe there’s a reason why Rex Reed collects a decent salary. The upside to becoming hooked on this war games drama is that it reminds me of this long lost song.

The tag-line for the film The End Of The Affair was “The end was just the beginning.” I suppose that is how I feel at the moment. Like the majority of Americans, I was on pins and needles on Election Day. But I chose to escape reality and retreat into a no-spin cocoon rather than watch the events unfold. This is my usual defense mechanism against potentially life-changing events. I hibernate into my own little corner until I feel confident things have been properly resolved. But I have to say I was just as much of a nervous wreck as any of my other liberal friends this week. Although the professional pundits had made their predictions in our favor, we have been burned too many times in the past. Once bitten, twice shy. But in this digital age of information, it is almost impossible to avoid a possibly painful political truth. Thankfully, the warm embrace of the movie theater was waiting for me. For 120 minutes, I was able to create a black hole from the Electoral College. But when I emerged from the darkness, I felt a shiver go down my spine. I kept having flashbacks to ’04, when those exit polls had lulled me into a false sense of security. I kept trying to read the faces of the subway passengers for signs of an Obama victory or defeat. It is just my luck that everybody on the #1 train has mastered their poker face. But I wanted to control the flow of knowledge to my brain waves anyway. Still, I was looking for clues. I feel like I have been reading a murder mystery and I was reluctant to turn the last page. The killer would be revealed, but the thrill of the chase would be over. As I arrived home, I overheard the sound of McCain’s voice on my neighbors television. That better be a concession speech, I thought to myself. But I didn’t rush to the TV for the final result. Slow and meticulous, I washed my face and changed into my bed clothes. I did a few breathing exercises to prepare myself mentally for whatever happened. Finally, I felt strong enough to consult with my computer. As I suspected, I didn’t have to travel to confirm my suspicion. Murdoch’s papers call it for Obama. If the right wing News Corporation was projecting a landslide, I knew it was safe to let out a giant sigh. I don’t know if this is a healthy response to a stressful season, but I am glad it’s all over. And this is coming from somebody that watched the political theater of it all with a nudge and a wink. If politics is show business for ugly people, I was razzle dazzled by the whole damn spectacle. It was only the last few days that I started to have an anxiety attack. The possibility of 4 more years of conservative rule seemed like a bad dream. And I can’t afford to leave the country. So the campaign sideshow is officially over. But this is where the real performance takes place. It may not provide for fits and giggles when the real work of running this country begins. But I won’t have to stick my head in the sand again until 2012. I’ll have to find another amusement. Let’s get down to business!