Since the Great Recession started, have you noticed a proliferation of movies that center around life after the Apocalypse or some sort of cataclysmic event that confronts humanity? I've actually been thinking about this for a couple of years now, after the observation was presented to me in an article in New York Magazine in 2011.
The author's thesis that, in 2011, the common catalyst for the End of Days is capitalism and that we buy into these movies because we subconsciously concur that the rampant, unchecked capitalism of the last 30 years is responsible not only for our current woes, but also many more woes to come; woes that will make the Great Recession look like one down day on Wall Street.
The point in mentioning this is not to promote this argument - I disagree with most, if not all, of it - but to pinpoint what got me thinkin'. What I've determined is that we are OBSESSED with movies that center on the post-apocalyptic world. And we have been for a long time.
I figure there are three buckets by which we can categorize this genre, but obviously this open to interpretation and I'm sure there are more. This is what I have come up with.
1. Doomsday itself: "War of the Worlds", "Dr. Strangelove", "Independence Day", "World War Z"
2. Dystopic future: "1984", "Logan's Run", "Total Recall", "Escape from New York", "Blade Runner", "Elysium"
3. Horrifying, post-apocalyptic world: "Terminator" franchise, "I Am Legend", "12 Monkeys"
Again, I am under no delusions that there are myriad more movies - say that five times fast - that can be bucketed here and there are probably more buckets. This is just what I have come up with off the top of my head.
So, why does this genre sell? What's got us eating it all up? Well, I think part of it has to do with the Second World War. I will cede that the original "War of the Worlds" was written in 1898 and Orson Welles' radio interpretation was broadcast in 1938. That said, since the early 1950's it's been redone and re-interpreted umpteen times.
The Second World War marked an apex in human technological achievement vis-a-vis war machinery - formidable tanks whose production was scaleable, wholesale air combat conveyed by giant, aircraft-carrying ships, efficient, mass bombing carried out by aircraft capable of efficiently bringing total war to entire cities, jet-propulsion aircraft, and most importantly nuclear weapons. When looking at pictures of fire-bombed Dresden or Hiroshima, the setting of the battle scene at the beginning of "Terminator 2" doesn't look that far off.
This execution of martial technology also coincided with a ruthlessly efficient genocide, the likes of which we had never seen and hopefully never will again. When the camps were liberated in 1945, people saw for the first time the detached, indifferent cruelty and brutality of which humans are capable. I think the confluence of these events stained our social psyche.
In turn, this emotional scar was exacerbated by the nuclear arms race that started in the 1950's, which is the second component leading to our fascination with these movies. We knew we were capable of executing total war, frivolously using the aforementioned technology to slaughter ourselves, and knew we were capable of unfathomable crimes against humanity; now, we had weapons that can end the world with the push of a button. Doomsday was always over our shoulder. It almost happened 51 years ago next month.
So, in living with this constant, plausible what-if, it is in our perverse nature to be curious about said what-if. What actually does us all in? Do we all die? What happens after we're gone? What happens when Doomsday actually happens? Notice the proliferation of this genre in the wake of bad things actually happening.
As the ability to realize the world's end became more scaleable by way of the arms race, information technology developed exponentially. As this was happening, we saw a proliferation of Doomsday movies centered around self-aware artificial intelligence. "Blade Runner", "Terminator", and "Logan's Run" are good examples of this. Each one reflects a scenario where humanity essentially got cocky and we reached a point where we were in conflict with technology, sometimes existentially.
So, there's a lot going on here. There's a recognition that we are capable of unspeakable brutality. There's a realization that we are one-button push away from the ability to annihilate ourselves. Both of these yield a certain chord of existentialism in our psyche. Combine these qualities with our fear of our own hubris vis-a-vis our ability to ultimately control the things we create and our subconscious confidence that the monsters we create will one day rise against us, and you have the conduit to make palpable emotional connections with people via this genre of film.
In "Terminator","Judgement Day" - the day the artificial intelligence executes nuclear holocaust - occurs 1997. The first cyborg is sent back to 1984 from 2029. "Blade Runner" takes place in 2019. "Escape From New York" and "12 Monkeys" take place in 1997. "1984" takes place in...well, it's pretty obvious, isn't it?
I mention this because most of these years have come and gone and life now more closely resembles life as it always has been. We might have "smart phones" and "smart TV's", but we don't have cyborgs, replicants, or any artificial intelligence that can do anything beyond winning "Jeopardy". Yes, our problems have evolved, but not to the point where humanity is at the brink. Yes, the problems of the 1960's, 70's, and 80's seemed so bad that either the world would end, we would be slaves to robots, or both. But, it didn't and we didn't.
The world is beautiful. Our abilities to emote and love are incredibly powerful. You can't code empathy and gratitude. Our brains, which make decisions based on equal parts analysis and emotion, simply cannot be replicated, at least not any time soon. Hateful things happen, but it only causes love to respond and counter them. There is an intangible equilibrium, an unseen, uncontrollable means by which the world corrects itself when it's on the wrong path and, through our morality, we are the ones that contribute most to it. We should gives ourselves more credit.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
My Old South
American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God
I absolutely love this. I love it because it's kind of obnoxious. I love it because it suggests that being Southern somehow makes you better, yet there is a twinge of self-deprecating sarcasm to it. I love that it has a bite. I love that it doesn't make excuses. I love that it's kind of insecure. I have always loved it and I have always understood it.
I believe it and I am it.
I was raised in the capital of the Confederacy - Richmond, which does not need to be qualified with a state - and spent many a summer in the cradle of secession - Charleston. My Southern credentials more than suffice.
I write of my love and respect for the South, yet I write from Connecticut, the capital of Yankeedom. I have settled here. I have made my home here. I am raising my family here. It fits me like a glove. I love it here.
North and South. Yin and yang. Up and down. Blank and white. Felix and Oscar. The two are different, yes. But, to me, not mutually exclusive.
Do I ignore and/or sugarcoat the many stains on the South's white linen suit of a past? No. So, do I duly condemn the South, like so many do? No. Part of unconditionally loving something is to look past its flaws. I really don't have anything else to say about this.
When I think of the south, I don't think about cotton plantations, mint juleps, and water hoses fired at African Americans. I think about Bohicket Road on Johns Island, South Carolina.
I think about sprawling live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, reaching out over the road to shake hands with each other, creating flying buttresses that make the insufferable South Carolina midday resemble dusk in look and feel.
I think about the retired field, overgrown with kudzu. What did they grow there? Rice? Corn?
I think about the adjacent wood-framed building, with chipped paint and broken windows. The rusted red tin roof is barely visible through the aggressive, verdant, sub-tropical growth.
I think about the ubiquitous gray, sandy soil that comes up to the road.
I think about the marshes, the smell of mud and salt, earth and sand.
I think about sprinting across the hot, soft, gray sand and the slight squeak your feet made. I think about the salvation of the packed sand, cooled by the high tide that has conceded.
I think about low tide and a beach that went on forever.
I think about the water, saltier and less sweet and metallic than the water here.
I think about the palpable heat and the smell of horse manure.
I think about Pinckney Street and palmettos.
I think about the food and the lilts, the churches and the narrow streets.
My old South is a tremendous part of me. Too fundamental to ignore. There are so many qualities endemic to it that I want to instill in my children. I want my daughter to be gracious and humble, initially deferential, but always strong in spirit. I want my sons to be gentlemen, uncomfortable having doors held for them. I want them all to move slowly, have a sharp wit that they use tactfully, perfect the art of engaging conversation, and not take life too seriously.
When I'm stressed or unhappy and need to be transported to a "happy" place, I use many, if not all, of the visuals I laid out above. They ground me. They center me. They get me back on track. They fill me up with good things. I exhale. By the grace of God, indeed.
I absolutely love this. I love it because it's kind of obnoxious. I love it because it suggests that being Southern somehow makes you better, yet there is a twinge of self-deprecating sarcasm to it. I love that it has a bite. I love that it doesn't make excuses. I love that it's kind of insecure. I have always loved it and I have always understood it.
I believe it and I am it.
I was raised in the capital of the Confederacy - Richmond, which does not need to be qualified with a state - and spent many a summer in the cradle of secession - Charleston. My Southern credentials more than suffice.
I write of my love and respect for the South, yet I write from Connecticut, the capital of Yankeedom. I have settled here. I have made my home here. I am raising my family here. It fits me like a glove. I love it here.
North and South. Yin and yang. Up and down. Blank and white. Felix and Oscar. The two are different, yes. But, to me, not mutually exclusive.
Do I ignore and/or sugarcoat the many stains on the South's white linen suit of a past? No. So, do I duly condemn the South, like so many do? No. Part of unconditionally loving something is to look past its flaws. I really don't have anything else to say about this.
When I think of the south, I don't think about cotton plantations, mint juleps, and water hoses fired at African Americans. I think about Bohicket Road on Johns Island, South Carolina.
I think about sprawling live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, reaching out over the road to shake hands with each other, creating flying buttresses that make the insufferable South Carolina midday resemble dusk in look and feel.
I think about the retired field, overgrown with kudzu. What did they grow there? Rice? Corn?
I think about the adjacent wood-framed building, with chipped paint and broken windows. The rusted red tin roof is barely visible through the aggressive, verdant, sub-tropical growth.
I think about the ubiquitous gray, sandy soil that comes up to the road.
I think about the marshes, the smell of mud and salt, earth and sand.
I think about sprinting across the hot, soft, gray sand and the slight squeak your feet made. I think about the salvation of the packed sand, cooled by the high tide that has conceded.
I think about low tide and a beach that went on forever.
I think about the water, saltier and less sweet and metallic than the water here.
I think about the palpable heat and the smell of horse manure.
I think about Pinckney Street and palmettos.
I think about the food and the lilts, the churches and the narrow streets.
My old South is a tremendous part of me. Too fundamental to ignore. There are so many qualities endemic to it that I want to instill in my children. I want my daughter to be gracious and humble, initially deferential, but always strong in spirit. I want my sons to be gentlemen, uncomfortable having doors held for them. I want them all to move slowly, have a sharp wit that they use tactfully, perfect the art of engaging conversation, and not take life too seriously.
When I'm stressed or unhappy and need to be transported to a "happy" place, I use many, if not all, of the visuals I laid out above. They ground me. They center me. They get me back on track. They fill me up with good things. I exhale. By the grace of God, indeed.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
War
It's been 12 years since shit became real; since the "real world" sucker-punched and broke our nation's nose. We learned we are not immune to the hateful horrors that people all over the world endure - or must fear - everyday.
The knee-jerk reaction was war. Not war about which we learned in history class. We didn't meet a great army on a battlefield. No heroic cavalry charges were executed, no beaches were stormed. Our opponents were and are apocalyptic cowards who use God as a shield and a crutch. They vacillate between hiding in the shadows, thus using bystanders as human shields, and engaging in murder-suicide. Logic and rationalization is lost on them.
This has thrown us into a state of permanent war on a low-simmer. The decadence and peace of the 1990's has become decadence and war of the 2000's. Many people have died as a result of pinprick strikes executed sometimes by remote-control war planes. Many people still die, but the news has stopped talking about them. Snooki and twerking are more interesting. Obsessive, self-indulgent, first-world non-problems dominate our collective psyche. To quote Jimmy Kimmel, "it's a good thing nothing is happening in Syria right now."
First, we became desensitized to our permanent war. Then, we forgot about it completely. "Support the tr...OH! Honey BooBoo is on! Gee, how I love her crazy antics!" We pay lip service to the veterans, who help keep the horrors of the real world away from our fantasy land of conspicuous consumption and instant gratification, but do nothing to honor them. Look up from your smart phone and say thank you, at least. The world gets more complicated while Americans become number and dumber still.
I find solace in the fact that the politicians selling us on yet another war are getting nowhere. "Just a few tomahawk missiles," they say. But, the public is not signing on. They are sick of war. I am sick of war. It's just unfortunate this time there actually are weapons of mass destruction.
The realist in me says we need to do something; the President has seen Assad's atrocities and has raised him America's credibility. The Russians see our credibility and raise us bullshit. They bluff, we know it, but we're still about to fold. And this might be a good thing.
The American in me says no more war. No more shock and awe. No more attempts to untie the Middle Eastern knot. I care about perma-war and, while I know we can't turn away from it completely, we can at least not expand it.
Full disclosure, I have been saying that Assad needs to be dealt with. I've been saying it since 2011. I said Obama's perseverating is responsible for extremists filling a vacuum that our aid to moderates did not. I think this is all still true. But, I don't think a missile show is going to change anything.
Is it too much to ask just to remember how good we all felt on September 10, 2001? How good we felt when we woke up the morning of the 11th? The sky was royal blue, not a cloud to be seen. It was a crisp morning, but was heating up to be a very agreeable day. Can we get there again? Can we feel good and confident, while maintaining vigilance? Can we try to be smart about this? Can we attempt to recognize the world is not black and white, but a huge gray area with a huge standard deviation? Do we always have to back up soft power with hard power? Are the two truly mutually exclusive? Do we always have to have war?
The knee-jerk reaction was war. Not war about which we learned in history class. We didn't meet a great army on a battlefield. No heroic cavalry charges were executed, no beaches were stormed. Our opponents were and are apocalyptic cowards who use God as a shield and a crutch. They vacillate between hiding in the shadows, thus using bystanders as human shields, and engaging in murder-suicide. Logic and rationalization is lost on them.
This has thrown us into a state of permanent war on a low-simmer. The decadence and peace of the 1990's has become decadence and war of the 2000's. Many people have died as a result of pinprick strikes executed sometimes by remote-control war planes. Many people still die, but the news has stopped talking about them. Snooki and twerking are more interesting. Obsessive, self-indulgent, first-world non-problems dominate our collective psyche. To quote Jimmy Kimmel, "it's a good thing nothing is happening in Syria right now."
First, we became desensitized to our permanent war. Then, we forgot about it completely. "Support the tr...OH! Honey BooBoo is on! Gee, how I love her crazy antics!" We pay lip service to the veterans, who help keep the horrors of the real world away from our fantasy land of conspicuous consumption and instant gratification, but do nothing to honor them. Look up from your smart phone and say thank you, at least. The world gets more complicated while Americans become number and dumber still.
I find solace in the fact that the politicians selling us on yet another war are getting nowhere. "Just a few tomahawk missiles," they say. But, the public is not signing on. They are sick of war. I am sick of war. It's just unfortunate this time there actually are weapons of mass destruction.
The realist in me says we need to do something; the President has seen Assad's atrocities and has raised him America's credibility. The Russians see our credibility and raise us bullshit. They bluff, we know it, but we're still about to fold. And this might be a good thing.
The American in me says no more war. No more shock and awe. No more attempts to untie the Middle Eastern knot. I care about perma-war and, while I know we can't turn away from it completely, we can at least not expand it.
Full disclosure, I have been saying that Assad needs to be dealt with. I've been saying it since 2011. I said Obama's perseverating is responsible for extremists filling a vacuum that our aid to moderates did not. I think this is all still true. But, I don't think a missile show is going to change anything.
Is it too much to ask just to remember how good we all felt on September 10, 2001? How good we felt when we woke up the morning of the 11th? The sky was royal blue, not a cloud to be seen. It was a crisp morning, but was heating up to be a very agreeable day. Can we get there again? Can we feel good and confident, while maintaining vigilance? Can we try to be smart about this? Can we attempt to recognize the world is not black and white, but a huge gray area with a huge standard deviation? Do we always have to back up soft power with hard power? Are the two truly mutually exclusive? Do we always have to have war?
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
My Boring Little Life
I've been sitting here for the past 36 minutes struggling to think about something worthwhile to write about. Some people call it "writer's bloc". I call it "my life is too fucking boring to write about every two days".
I'm going through the motions: "What am I feeling today? What have I discovered lately that's empowering? What kind of changes are taking place that are making me grow as a person?"
Again, I go back to: my life is boring because I have three kids, ages three and nine months, thus my day is spent toiling, driving, eating, more toiling, more eating, more toiling, driving again, more toiling, more eating, and then "Friends" reruns. Then, repeat this at 5:30 tomorrow morning. I'm not complaining. It's just the way it is.
And during that time, especially during the toiling, some amazing things happen. S started to crawl, for example. And he's a baby-ninja. He's super slow and super quiet. You look away for a second and the next thing you know, he's crawled under a table, or over to the dog's toys, or underneath the Jumparoo.
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He's so proud of himself. And we're so proud of him.
For the record, G and M do amazing things, too. I'm just using this S's as an example of a beautiful interruption of life's normal rhythm.
There are sometimes that I really hate my life. Then, there are times that I absolutely love my life. Then, there are times that I don't have time to think about my life. But, not once, ever, have I regretted any choice I have made. Except for SoCo. That stuff is the devil.
There are a lot of people I know that tell me they wouldn't trade places with me for anything. "Ugh, I don't know how you do that. I love sleep too much," they say. Or "You got the reservation for 7:00? Why so early?" Or my favorite "...Sounds horrible."
I'm going through the motions: "What am I feeling today? What have I discovered lately that's empowering? What kind of changes are taking place that are making me grow as a person?"
Again, I go back to: my life is boring because I have three kids, ages three and nine months, thus my day is spent toiling, driving, eating, more toiling, more eating, more toiling, driving again, more toiling, more eating, and then "Friends" reruns. Then, repeat this at 5:30 tomorrow morning. I'm not complaining. It's just the way it is.
And during that time, especially during the toiling, some amazing things happen. S started to crawl, for example. And he's a baby-ninja. He's super slow and super quiet. You look away for a second and the next thing you know, he's crawled under a table, or over to the dog's toys, or underneath the Jumparoo.
.jpg)
For the record, G and M do amazing things, too. I'm just using this S's as an example of a beautiful interruption of life's normal rhythm.
There are sometimes that I really hate my life. Then, there are times that I absolutely love my life. Then, there are times that I don't have time to think about my life. But, not once, ever, have I regretted any choice I have made. Except for SoCo. That stuff is the devil.
There are a lot of people I know that tell me they wouldn't trade places with me for anything. "Ugh, I don't know how you do that. I love sleep too much," they say. Or "You got the reservation for 7:00? Why so early?" Or my favorite "...Sounds horrible."
- It's not like I don't like sleep. Do you know how happy I would be if someone put me in a sleep sack in a crib and let me sleep for two hours? When you say shit like that, you sound like a callous prick. I love sleep too, but I decided to be a father and forego sleep for a couple of years. Don't condescend and don't rub it in.
- I got it "so early" because eating like a Spaniard is eating past my bedtime.
- It's not horrible. It's hard work, but it's wonderful. When you make a remark like that, I have nothing more to say because you have proven yourself incapable of understanding any facets of my day-to-day existence. Now, there are times when it is horrible. Airport security, diaper-bursting diarrhea on a turbulent flight, mixing a bottle in an airplane seat while your son bellows so loud he might cause the oxygen masks to drop, pretty much anything to do with flying with three little kids, peeling bits of puke off of sheets before throwing them in the was at 2 AM, etc. That is all horrible. But, when I say "this morning, I woke up a little late, so I had to shave in the shower, get the twins up and changed, get G up, put her in underpants, burp the twins, put coffee on for R and me, and breakfast on for the kids" and you respond with "...sounds awful," you're telling me you think my life sounds awful. Ergo, at that point, I will do everything in my power to stop conversing with you, including faking a seizure.
No one held a gun to my head. I didn't sign a contract that said I would get married and have kids. Well, I technically did at my wedding. But, the bottom line is I chose this life.
When I met R, I knew very early on that she was the person with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life. I never thought that I was throwing my life away and jumping into a pit of "boringhood". I chose my future. And if that means what some people - hey, including me sometimes - would call a boring life, then I love my boring little life.
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