GOING GAY FOR HITCH

There is a long list of things I hate. Two of those things happen to be (1) hero worship and (2) when hetero men talk about who they'd "go gay" for. I intend to fully indulge both of those loathsome phenomena presently.

I do not believe there is a gay bone in my body (yes, there are lots of jokes there, I know). At least, I don't normally think so until I see a TV or youtube clip of British-turned-American news pundit and all-around intellectual bad-ass Christopher Hitchens. I wish there was something kind I could say about his physical appearance, but alas, many years of indulging Hemingway's favorite passion have left him bloated and somewhat sickly looking. No matter. The sheer force of his intellect is enough to transform someone with The Elephant Man's appearance into the hottest of spank material. Fiercely combative, unapologetically atheist, lightning-quick on his feet, and eloquent beyond belief, Hitchens is a stentorian early 20th century intellectual in a weak, pusillanimous early 21st century world. There is no fight he will back down from, there is no position he will not take on a matter simply because it is not popular, there is no opponent too skilled for him to debate. He is, simply put, a credit to the human race.

One of my favorite things about Hitch is his complete lack of allegiance to any political camp. He can manage to outrage a fundamentalist right-wing christian and an isolationist, we-just-want-the-world-to-love-us liberal in the same breath. A former Marxist, Hitch gradually moved a little to the right over the years. Following 9/11, his position became much more stridently conservative in foreign policy affairs, due in no small part to his hatred of religious fanaticism.

Even dead celebrities don't escape the wrath of Hitch if he deems them unworthy. One of the quotes that interviewers of the man like to point to is his famous rant against Jerry Falwell, of whom Hitchens stated that it was "a pity there's no hell for him to go to." He also devoted an entire essay following Bob Hope's death challenging his readers to demonstrate a single funny thing the old coot ever said. I mean, we're talking about a guy who wrote an entire book about Mother Teresa entitled The Missionary Position. When questioned about the provocative title, Hitch replied, "it was either that or Sacred Cow, and I thought Sacred Cow would be in bad taste." Fucking ruthless.

Watching him debate an opponent is a site to behold and one I would recommend to anyone interested (even if only slightly) in the political conversation America happens to be engaged in at any given moment. Caustic and fearless, he can reduce an opponent to a lobotomized retard in a matter of minutes. Additionally, he has what can only be called an encyclopedic knowledge of history and the politics behind it. A sheer joy to behold, I say.

So yeah, I'd go gay for Hitch. I would lick the alcohol-laden sweat from his body while dressed as a Catholic priest and apologize for the harm I'd done to the world. Hitchens is a decent family man, of course, so he would never go for this, but it is important that I make my naked admiration for the man abundantly clear. He is one of the few heroes I have. His independence of mind, and his willingness to defend that independence in the face of opposition that can be both qualitative and quantitative are, I believe, truly admirable traits. And yes, for that, I'd tap it.

MONKEY WRENCH

The Batman franchise has never been my cup of tea, but like most things, even if I don't care too much for them, I can find a nugget or two of gold in the proverbial bucket of gravel. In the fairly recent Dark Knight, Alfred Pennywise and Bruce Wayne have this priceless little exchange while discussing the psyche of The Joker:

Alfred Pennyworth: A long time ago, I was in Burma, my friends and I were working for the local government. They were trying to buy the loyalty of tribal leaders by bribing them with precious stones. But their caravans were being raided in a forest north of Rangoon by a bandit. So we went looking for the stones. But in six months, we never found anyone who traded with him. One day I saw a child playing with a ruby the size of a tangerine. The bandit had been throwing them away.
Bruce Wayne: Then why steal them?
Alfred Pennyworth: Because he thought it was good sport. Because some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn.

He's right, of course. Some men want to destroy for the pure sake of destruction. There is nothing to gain, no angle to play, no bridge to conquer. Some folks just like to see everything turn to shit. It is a powerful and anarchic impulse that I don't believe many people have. Those few that do possess it, however, do so with a vengeance. I believe most addicts fit under this category, and probably most serial killers. It is an urge to experience the most aggressive of sensory overloads, and to do so (hopefully, at least) at the expense of something or someone that took care and time to construct. A lot of these types probably don't know this about themselves, and might not want to admit it even if they did. But the truth is, there is something invigorating about watching everything that is supposed to be neat and tidy and orderly become transformed and dominated by the twin gods of chaos and limitless pleasure.

Trent Reznor understood this phenomenon perfectly when writing Mr. Self-Destruct, the opening track on the brilliant Downward Spiral album:

I am the voice inside your head
and I control you
I am the lover in your bed
and I control you
I am the sex that you provide
and I control you
I am the hate you try to hide
and I control you...

...I am the needle in your vein
and I control you
I am the high you can't sustain
and I control you
I am the pusher I'm a whore
and I control you
I am the need you have for more
and I control you
I am the bullet in the gun
and I control you
I am the truth from which you run
and I control you
I am the silencing machine
and I control you
I am the end of all your dreams

Yep, Trent knew of which he wrote. Of course, most people with these tendencies are doomed to die an early death or enjoy the lush accommodations and increased rectal cavity size offered by certain state facilities. As a society, we try to medicate problems like this, and naturally, all that accomplishes is a temporary respite; it is "hidden" in much the same way that Ignorance and Want remain hidden behind the third spirit's cloak in A Christmas Carol.

The only way out of it, I think, is to find some way to control the demon, some way to keep it at bay while still acknowledging and respecting it. Why the fuck would you want to get rid of something that's that much fun, anyway? No, I think the only way out of this pickle is to find some way to achieve what our pussified culture refers to as "balance." How does one make this happen? Don't ask me; if I knew, I would have been able to do so by now. Feisty Icelandic pixie Bjork seemed to have been on to something when she wrote what have to be my favorite lyrics of all time:

we live on a mountain
right at the top
there's a beautiful view
from the top of the mountain
every morning i walk towards the edge
and throw little things off
like:
car-parts, bottles and cutlery
or whatever i find lying around

it's become a habit
a way
to start the day

i go through this
before you wake up
so i can feel happier
to be safe up here with you

it's real early morning
no-one is awake
i'm back at my cliff
still throwing things off
i listen to the sounds they make
on their way down
i follow with my eyes 'til they crash
imagine what my body would sound like
slamming against those rocks

and when it lands
will my eyes
be closed or open?

The image of little Bjork tossing shit off of a cliff early in the morning before her long-suffering, mentally stable, delightfully boring lover even wakes up is a vision of pure joy. She is "wild at heart and weird on top" as Lula would say, and has finally found a way to control the animal within her. She knows that suppression is not the answer, but she also knows that the beast has to be at least placed into some sort of metaphysical grotto if she is to have anything resembling a happy life. Her simian impulses are vomited on to the world below just before sunrise, so she can let the animal out for a bit and then return to the arms of whatshisname, where she can be "safe up here with you."

If you haven't heard this song, give it a listen. Bjork's not your thing, you say? Well then, it's your lucky day, asThe Twilight Singers recorded a beautiful cover of this song on their album of covers, She Loves You.

What Bjork doesn't tell us is how genuinely elusive this cliff is. Some of us search for the fucking thing our entire lives. In the meantime, the need to throw the proverbial monkey wrench into our own lives will continue to torment that fortunate sub-species of human being.

PHOENIX

Those of you who haven't yet done so should check out French indie band Phoenix's latest album, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. Perfect fusion of ambient and pop, and very, very listenable. In places, the lyrics are positively dream-like:

Acres

Visible horizon

Right where it starts and ends

When did we start the end?

Acres

Visible illusion

Where it starts it ends

Love like a sunset

Just enough to tease and tempt you, but not so much that it comes off as slutty. I like.

SOCIOPATHS IN LOVE

If there's something sexier than a sociopathic couple doing what they do best, I don't know what it is. Nor do I wish to know, as I don't believe I am wired to handle that level of eroticism. I am speaking, of course, of Paul Bernardo and his ever-so luscious partner in crime, Karla Homolka.

For those who don't share my taste for the aesthetically sublime, Paul and Karla were a young, attractive couple who perpetrated what later became known as the "Ken & Barbie" murders in Ontario in the early 1990s. Said murders consisted of the drugging, rape, and death of three teenage girls, including Karla's younger sister, Tammy. Karla's sultry cold-bloodedness can be clearly seen in the events leading up to and shortly following her sister's demise.

In the summer of 1990, Paul decided that de-flowering Karla's younger sister was an idea whose time had come. Karla enthusiastically participated in the plan to drug and rape Tammy, a plan which came to fruition on the night of December 23, 1990. Following a christmas party, the sexy couple brought Tammy back to their home where she was drugged with animal tranquilizers (Karla worked at a vet's office). After Paul and Karla took turns raping the comatose girl, Tammy aspirated and died. While lesser women would have had, shall we say, a less calm reaction, the delightful Karla jumped into action, clothing her dead sibling and moving the body into the basement. Not only did she not appear to be too upset about this development, she went on to assist Paul in ending the lives of two more unsuspecting young ladies.

Okay, so I'm guessing you want some sort of uplifting, edifying conclusion to all of this, don't you? Never fear. At their trial, Karla quite brilliantly painted herself to be an abused victim of Paul's, doing his bidding not out of her natural lust for destruction, but out of fear of the consequences of disobedience. In exchange for her testimony regarding Paul, Karla received a significantly reduced sentence (12 years), while Paul received a sentence of life imprisonment with a possibility of parole after 25 years.

Like most lovers of life, Paul and Karla decided to videotape their adventures. Much to Paul's chagrin, and for various reasons not relevant here, the tapes (which did NOT support Karla's story of a frightened victim) did not surface until after she had entered into her plea bargain with the prosecution. Karla thrived in the country club prison in which she was confined (engaging in various naughty activities with other females), and was eventually released in 2005. She now has a baby with her new husband and is rumored to be living somewhere in the West Indies.

A woman so entrenched in evil and depravity is something close to a national treasure, although I sincerely doubt the Canadians appreciate their good fortune in this regard. She participated in the death of her own sister, and the murder of two other girls, and then introduced poor Paul to the underside of the proverbial bus to save her ass. Gotta love that.

The Marquis de Sade often said that when a woman commits a libertine act, she is effused with an angelic glow, the kind of radiance that is mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time. Look at the dead eyes in the photo above. The glow is there, my friends. I like to think she had it often. Love ya, sweets.

I WANT TO SEE THAT FUCKING LOOK

I'm not even going to deny being a closet sadist. Peoples' pain and discomfort has a calming and life-affirming effect on my psyche. One of my most treasured fantasies is as follows: I find a good-hearted soul, one who believes that the universe is a beneficent and well-meaning place that has nothing but the best interests of the human race at heart. This type of belief can take many forms, all the way from belief in the Judeo-Christian god to belief in astrology to belief that "nature" is the true "god-force," otherwise known as Pantheism.

The key ingredient in this ethos must be that, whatever the machine that powers the universe, human beings are at its metaphysical center. We are the reason behind the machination. Something or Someone is watching out for us and there is a definite purpose, a "why," if you will, for everything.

Once I have located this hapless victim, I take them to that place. What place is that, you might ask? I am referring to that special window, that magnificent opening in the space-time continuum where one can look and behold the true nature of things and experience the reality of existence with no illusions or false promises. And when they look through that portal, do you know what I want them to see? Nothing. That immense void, the boundless and endless blackness that is the truth of all things. I want them to know that the universe neither knows nor cares that we are here; that there is no one watching out for them; that things do not "happen for a reason"; and that nothing you do or say means anything save to those who have had the good fortune to know them.

And I want to see the look in their eyes, that dawn of understanding and horrible realization. I want them to feel it all at once, and to see that feeling reflected in their bulging and terrified eyes. In those few moments of abject grief, I will find a little bit of peace. And it will be worth it.

TRANSCENDENCE I

I love those rare moments where pop culture crosses the line from mere entertainment to something approaching art, or even to art itself. While one should certainly always be on guard against impostors at every level, popsters posing as something more are a particularly risky sub-set. But every now and then, something comes along in the big bad world of multi-media that hits me like a tidal wave, and I am unmistakably (if a little embarrassingly) moved.

One such moment is the first time I saw the video for Glosoli, by the ethereal Icelandic band Sigur Ros. I don't want to spoil it for those of you wanting to watch it, but let's just say it places a much-needed positive perspective on a theme from The Catcher in the Rye. The first time I saw it I was transfixed by the beauty and hope contained in its little universe. Watch the video and see if you don't agree.

MOVIES ABOUT MOUNTAIN CLIMBING

For the most part, I love 'em. Two of which I am especially fond are K-2 and Touching the Void. While drastically different in style and tone, both films adhere to Formal By-Law of Mountain Climbing Movies #1, which is "Thou shalt maximize actual mountain climbing footage when at all possible." Slightly less known, but of equal import, is By-Law #2, which states "Thou shalt minimize intrusive sub-plots that detract from adherence to By-Law #1."

The makers of Nordwand (2008) appear to be young upstarts who think they have no need for such silly, fuddy-duddy old rules. Better known in America as North Face, the film tells the story of two Bavarian climbers attempting to scale the dreaded north face of the Eiger in 1936. For those of you not in the know, the Eiger is a mountain in the Bernese Alps, about 13,000 feet in height, and infamous for repelling over-eager scalers into the infernal regions.

Attempting such a feat in 1936 was, as you can imagine, a source of pride for Nazi Germany. Granted, the political ramifications of such a sub-plot are certainly not irrelevant, and I wouldn't expect the film makers to leave it untouched. I would, however, expect to see some significant time on the great mountain before half the movie is over. We don't get that here. Instead, we are treated to an incredibly lame love story that I cannot imagine any fans of mountain climbing movies would possibly find interesting. In addition, we are reminded (again and again, and in every which way possible), that the Third Reich has its beady eyes on the two dare-devils. Yes, we get it. The Nazis were Bad People. Now let's climb that fucking mountain before geology has its way with it.