Browsing through the local Blockbuster store, the movie "Jesus Camp" popped out at me. Now, a little background about myself: I love to watch and listen to things that I hate. I watch things like Nancy Grace or listen to right wing A.M. radio on long drives. These programs make me laugh. So naturally a documentary about kids going to brainwashing camp in North Dakota (my hometurf, by the way) sounded pretty awesome to me.
And it was awesome, in a way that made me want to take a cold shower. "Jesus Camp" is a documentary on the entanglement of the Evangelical church and the political right. It shows these kids being endoctrinated at an early age. Obviously there is film editing going on which heightens the drama, but even with this knowledge it is hard to ignore how crazy these people are. I found myself loathing the woman in charge of the church group. It seemed like there was a contradictory answer to everything that she said. I wanted to shake the shit out of her through the television screen. I wanted to call her up and argue the points that disprove her logic.
But then I realized I'm just sitting on my couch, stewing. Why do we love to consume things that we hate? I once heard a saying that the average person who likes Howard Stern listens for ten minutes, while the average person who hates Howard Stern listens for an hour. I'm a pretty argumentative person, perhaps this is it. Or perhaps we watch because it is powerfully engaging to "strongly dislike" someone else's point of view. It's like a drug. Disproving someone else's point takes quick thinking and engagement of our brains. Maybe these programs give us a sense that we are definitely right and that makes us feel good. Programs like Bill O'Reilly, Nancy Grace, Judge Judy, Maury, Rock of Love, Shot of Love, or any program on VH1 or MTV for that matter, are the new drug dealers of the cable television age. They make us feel good about ourselves, but make us sit on our asses while they administer themselves to us. We could have been learning a new skill, but instead we hit the cable crack pipe instead.
In the end the people we hate for their "stupid" opinions are the ones who win. Afterall, we are subscribing. It looks good to the advertisers. We turn the people that we hate into millionaires.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
telegraphic experience
The sun was beginning to fall beneath the buildings and Heather and I were approaching the end of Telegraph Ave. Not that Telegraph actually ended at that point, but the point that mattered to us at the point of time, the shopping area, did. I felt a little bit of apprehension about this, as I saw the area ahead to be a little on the shady side, but Heather, being the free-spirit that she is, did not perceive any immediate danger. A large group congregated near a bus stop. We would have to walk through it. No doubt I'll be solicited, I thought. Sure enough a man emerged out of the crowd with an aggressive sales pitch.
"Hey man, you want a C.D.? Ten dollars." He looked like a rastaman. I gave him a look to communicate my disinterest, which I thought was adequate. I might have even made a small hand gesture. "Yo....from Canada.. Winnepeg... I see them there," he said. I walked past as he talked. I did not move my head. What did he say? It was pretty much unintelligible, but was he saying the artist was from Winnepeg? Or did he just call me out on my relative Canadianess? Do I look Canadian? I'm trying to fit in here... Jesus.
I pulled up to an intersection without a stoplight. "We should cross here," I told Heather. I sure as hell did not want to walk through degenerate's row again. The cars crossing the intersection flowed like a crackhead's veins. I took two steps into the street, still shielded by parked cars. The drivers did not appear to be attentive to my needs, or at least they couldn't read the intent of my wobbley steps and swivelling head. I might have even been biting my nails.
"Press that button," I told Heather. She pressed it; nothing happened. I looked for the flashing lights overhead to warn the cars. They must be hiding. Well, they are probably on, I thought. I took a weary step. Traffic didn't slow. "Should we walk back?" I asked Heather. I took a step toward the congregation at the bus stop. They looked tired, pissed. I spun around. Finally, a break in the cars. We hopped into the street. Not wanting to go on trial for manslaughter, or humanslaughter as Heather might say, the cars yielded.
We crossed, but only to find ourselves on the side of the street with abandoned buildings with iron-barred windows and graffiti on the walls. We walked past a clothing exchange store. "Do you want to go in there?" Heather asked. I'd just like to get the hell out of here, I thought. "Nah, I'm kind of hungry," I said. "We should roll back to our place." She was bummed but damnit it was getting late. So we walked past. Sucessful aversion to potentially prolonging my anxiety: check.
"We have to check out this Himalayan store before we leave," Heather said. Shit.
We entered the store. Strange bells chimed in a seemingly out of time rhythm. The walls and display cases were cluttered. One more object and the store would have exploded. I began to feel the kind of claustrophia that I would feel when my older brother would sit on my head with a pillow on top. Blue skinned gods with fangs and warped smiles hung on the walls. Intricately carved, metal dragons with fierce nostrils and hostile eyes stood erect from the display case; statues of gods fucking people; scenes of which I would never understand the meaning of. Good God, I thought, I'm going to lose it. There was too much detail - minute detail. Each detail splintering my attention into a myriad of directions. It made me dizzy.
But then bells came into the foreground. Is this music? I had never heard anything like it. There was certainly no discernable beat. The choice of bell timbre and the time in the musical space of which the bell rang seemed arbitrary. It sounded as if there was no planning at all, just a bunch of monks hitting bells whenever they felt that it was time. There was no musical communication going on. Just slow, strange bells. Sometimes they were in harmony, sometimes they were in dissonance.
I came out of my bell trance in a calm state. The bells were no longer arbitrary but served their purpose well. I was able to take in the intricate pictures and the five-headed, twenty-four armed statue in an awed state. A rug hanging in the corner had skulls woven into it. The image did not shock me, rather I pondered on the Nepalese culture: a group of people who are chilled out by bells and do not shy away from the fact of death. I felt at peace.
We walked back out into the street, and although it was still the chaotic urban environment, it felt slower. In the Himalyan store, I stole a little piece of zen.
"Hey man, you want a C.D.? Ten dollars." He looked like a rastaman. I gave him a look to communicate my disinterest, which I thought was adequate. I might have even made a small hand gesture. "Yo....from Canada.. Winnepeg... I see them there," he said. I walked past as he talked. I did not move my head. What did he say? It was pretty much unintelligible, but was he saying the artist was from Winnepeg? Or did he just call me out on my relative Canadianess? Do I look Canadian? I'm trying to fit in here... Jesus.
I pulled up to an intersection without a stoplight. "We should cross here," I told Heather. I sure as hell did not want to walk through degenerate's row again. The cars crossing the intersection flowed like a crackhead's veins. I took two steps into the street, still shielded by parked cars. The drivers did not appear to be attentive to my needs, or at least they couldn't read the intent of my wobbley steps and swivelling head. I might have even been biting my nails.
"Press that button," I told Heather. She pressed it; nothing happened. I looked for the flashing lights overhead to warn the cars. They must be hiding. Well, they are probably on, I thought. I took a weary step. Traffic didn't slow. "Should we walk back?" I asked Heather. I took a step toward the congregation at the bus stop. They looked tired, pissed. I spun around. Finally, a break in the cars. We hopped into the street. Not wanting to go on trial for manslaughter, or humanslaughter as Heather might say, the cars yielded.
We crossed, but only to find ourselves on the side of the street with abandoned buildings with iron-barred windows and graffiti on the walls. We walked past a clothing exchange store. "Do you want to go in there?" Heather asked. I'd just like to get the hell out of here, I thought. "Nah, I'm kind of hungry," I said. "We should roll back to our place." She was bummed but damnit it was getting late. So we walked past. Sucessful aversion to potentially prolonging my anxiety: check.
"We have to check out this Himalayan store before we leave," Heather said. Shit.
We entered the store. Strange bells chimed in a seemingly out of time rhythm. The walls and display cases were cluttered. One more object and the store would have exploded. I began to feel the kind of claustrophia that I would feel when my older brother would sit on my head with a pillow on top. Blue skinned gods with fangs and warped smiles hung on the walls. Intricately carved, metal dragons with fierce nostrils and hostile eyes stood erect from the display case; statues of gods fucking people; scenes of which I would never understand the meaning of. Good God, I thought, I'm going to lose it. There was too much detail - minute detail. Each detail splintering my attention into a myriad of directions. It made me dizzy.
But then bells came into the foreground. Is this music? I had never heard anything like it. There was certainly no discernable beat. The choice of bell timbre and the time in the musical space of which the bell rang seemed arbitrary. It sounded as if there was no planning at all, just a bunch of monks hitting bells whenever they felt that it was time. There was no musical communication going on. Just slow, strange bells. Sometimes they were in harmony, sometimes they were in dissonance.
I came out of my bell trance in a calm state. The bells were no longer arbitrary but served their purpose well. I was able to take in the intricate pictures and the five-headed, twenty-four armed statue in an awed state. A rug hanging in the corner had skulls woven into it. The image did not shock me, rather I pondered on the Nepalese culture: a group of people who are chilled out by bells and do not shy away from the fact of death. I felt at peace.
We walked back out into the street, and although it was still the chaotic urban environment, it felt slower. In the Himalyan store, I stole a little piece of zen.
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