I have been slogging my way through a giant 1000-page collection of H.P. Lovecraft's better (or at least "more significant") stories. This is the first time I've read his work in many, many years.
I realize now that I actually didn't read as many Lovecraft stories as I thought I did, and that the ones I DID read I tended to skim. Patience, experience, context, and age are allowing me to better enjoy his strengths and tolerate his weaknesses...but I still have to restrain that skimming urge.
What have I learned so far? Lovecraft was far more creative than I ever gave him credit for. While he tended to use the same techniques over and over again, his actual IDEAS -- the "hooks" in the stories -- show a lot of variety.
I'm also surprised at how GRUESOME his work was. The stereotype of Lovecraft is that his protagonists always faint before they can fully describe the final horror (he even manages to turn Harry Houdini into a shrieking wimp in "Under the Pyramids"), but for the most part this isn't the case. Stories like "The Outsider," "The Shunned House," and "Cool Air" pull no punches when it comes to the climax, and "In the Vault" is one of the few stories I've ever read that has managed to shock me.
He was extremely creative, yes, and he doesn't entirely deserve the "tease" label he's been saddled with...so why is this compendium of stories so often infuriating?
A few reasons. Lovecraft's racism is well documented, and though his eugenic beliefs were more-or-less of his time, it's still maddening to read about the evolutionary and cultural "degeneracy" that his characters keep harping about.
Something else his characters harp about is the oh-so-scary "cyclopean masonry" in virtually every story. It comes up so often -- and is presented as so disturbing -- that I wonder if Lovecraft was confused as to what it actually WAS: big hunks of rough limestone built into a wall. Disregarding the fact that there is nothing intrinsically sanity-blasting about that sort of architecture, you really have to wonder how all his characters knew what the style was CALLED. Did YOU know what "cyclopean" meant? Did more people in the 1920s know what it meant? Somehow I doubt it.
Anyway, this ties into the prevalence of Lovecraft's lasting legacy: the ubiquitous Necronomicon, the supposedly-rare arcane book of evil and forgotten knowledge...which at least one character in each of his later stories has managed to read at some point. And we're not just talking about occultists and folklorists, we're talking about ORDINARY people. In "At the Mountains of Madness," both the geologist and the BIOLOGIST in the doomed Antarctic expedition have read the book cover-to-cover. Rather than provide atmosphere and depth, the constant citing of the Necronomicon just makes it seem increasingly pedestrian; who can be intrigued by a Book Of Forbidden Knowledge that everybody has read?
My final criticism only applies to two stories so far: "At the Mountains of Madness" and "The Shadow Out of Time." While most of Lovecraft's stories contain a fair amount of movement and action ("The Shadow Over Innsmouth" in particular), those two stories appear to be flimsy excuses for Lovecraft to say "Look at this detailed biological and cultural description of these monsters I made up!" They're dull expository sandwiches: two thin slices of plot surrounding thick, fifty-page examinations of the life and times of creepy pseudo-vegetables. Somebody should have just given Lovecraft a sketchbook for his birthday.
I started reading this collection with low expectations, so despite some extremely long and dry sections I am pleasantly surprised by Lovecraft's work. I am particularly in love with "The Colour Out of Space," which I think is the perfect collection of all of Lovecraft's strengths.
But for your own sake I recommend -- as always -- that you do NOT read all of his work in a row. You may find yourself turning into a fish-monster, losing your sanity, and screaming "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!" in the night, which would be too much for even fearless Harry Houdini to bear.
Showing posts with label bigotry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bigotry. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
New UPhold Song: "Think"
My Canada Day song contribution is one just finished from 2005 called "Think." It really IS sort of appropriate to the day, as it was inspired by a man who screamed insults at me from a balcony during a long-ago holiday...he was one of the men who explode.You can listen to "Think" in its short, minimalistic, ambient glory here.
It sounds the way it does because of the technology I was using back then. I wanted to write a conventional song, but since I couldn't sing I decided to use a Vocoder plugin.
Unfortunately the only plugin I had was the one from Cycling 74's "Pluggo" bundle. While I grew fond of many of the "Pluggo" plugins (and many of their "Mode" plugins as well), they were terribly flaky and would sometimes refuse to work altogether. Their Vocoder usually only half-worked for me...you had to route it through their virtual "PluggoBus," and in the case of this song the bus would just randomly fade in and out.
I got so frustrated with the vocoder that I gave up on "Think" after only one segment of one verse. But this year, when I went back to listen to it, I realized that the vocoder fade was sort of nice, and though it completely ruined an attempt at "conventional" music it was a nice "experimental" touch.
So I stripped out the rhythm and the original keyboards and rewrote the track around the vocoder glitch. It probably turned out better than if I'd written some lame song about depressed persecution.
The lesson: keep all of your mistakes, even if you think you'll never use them!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
"The Beothucks or Red Indians"
As children, we Canadians are taught a bizarre and shameful footnote to our history: immediately after settling in Newfoundland, our ancestors began a three-century project of informal extermination. And I'm not talking about the auks, I'm talking about the Beothuks.
Their story is a sad one of brutality, stupidity, missed opportunities, and belated reparations. The Beothuks (called "red Indians" because they covered themselves with red ocher) were the dominant tribe on the island, living mainly in the interior but coming to the coasts during the summer in order to fish.
European settlers began to arrive in the 15th century, and though there are some stories of goodwill between the cultures, the Beothuks and the settlers REALLY got off on the wrong foot. The Beothuks, probably angry about incursions into their fishing grounds, stole the possessions of the settlers, and the settlers -- meanwhile -- were shooting Beothuks out of some combination of fear, hatred, and sport.
In addition, the French were giving guns to the Mi'kmaq in Labrador, resulting in a serious military imbalance with the Beothuks. Attacked on two fronts, the Beothuks became increasingly evasive, retreating almost entirely to the interior by the 19th century.
It was around this time that philanthropic groups were organized to try to make belated peace with the Beothuks, but the European powers-that-be had a bit of a credibility gap, especially since settlers were still quietly killing Indians. Ultimately the plan of the philanthropists was to find out where the Beothuk were hiding, give them presents, convince one of them to return to town with them, and show the Indian all the joys of civilization. It was thought that when the Indian returned to his tribe, he'd gush about how wonderful the settlers were, and everybody would smoke a peace pipe and get down to some serious fur-trading.
Twenty years later and all the Beothuck had quietly disappeared. Forever.
Right now I'm reading "The Beothucks or Red Indians" by James P. Howley, originally published in 1915. It was Howley's attempt to gather all the information about the Beothuck as possible, and it's basically a reprint of the letters, journals, and proclamations he found.
This format isn't entirely successful. Decades go by without a single update, and then a hundred pages are devoted to material from just a year or two. If an expedition to the Newfoundland interior involved more than one person, he prints ALL their journals about the trip...and then he prints the recollections of people who HEARD about the trip...and then he prints newspaper articles written about the trip a few years later.
It's annoying to read the same thing over and over again, but it does illustrate the unreliability of memory and biography. Everybody describes the situations differently, and as time goes by the stories get more and more inflated. Howley sidesteps this aspect of his book -- simply pointing out in a footnote when somebody is "unclear about" or "misunderstood" the history -- but it's one of the many ironies that a modern reader is able to pick up on.
Another odd thing about the book is how absolutely bungled the whole philanthropic enterprise was. The do-gooders would march into the woods, scare the heck out of some Beothuck by sneaking up on them, accidentally kill one or two, and then kidnap one or more women. They'd spend a year showering the women with gifts. Then, just before returning them to their tribes, the women would die of consumption.
Hey fellas, A+ for effort, but WHAT THE HECK DO YOU IMAGINE THE BEOTHUCK THOUGHT ABOUT THIS? And while acknowledging that the tribe was in danger of complete extinction, did it not occur to anybody that STEALING WOMEN OF CHILDBEARING AGE was the worst thing they could do?
To be fair it seems they really WANTED to kidnap a man, but the women were just easier to catch.
I'd feel more charitably about these heartfelt schemes if the people involved -- even at their most idealistic -- didn't qualify their "reconciliation" plan with the need to "bring the poor brutes to civilization." In the first meeting of the surprisingly liberal 1827 Beothuck Institution, the participants speak highly of the Indian's right to life and land...but they always slip in the verb "to civilize," as though the Beothuck were unable to decide for themselves.
But none of that mattered anyway because the tribe was already dying (if not dead).
Some of the most interesting parts of the book are the vivid accounts of Shanawdithit and Demasduit, two of the captured females who responded to European life in a somewhat delightful way (before dropping dead).
MOST fascinating, however, is the apparently complete narrative of William E. Cormack's east-west journey across Newfoundland. Over several hellish months he pushed through parts of the island that even the Indians wouldn't stray into, and his descriptions are engrossing: every detail about the geography, botany, wildlife, weather, and inhabitants during a trip that nobody had ever taken before, and no sane person would ever do again.
I don't have romantic ideas about Indians OR Europeans, and in this case especially their relationship seemed doomed from the start. Reading this book, though, I'm getting a strangely haunting impression of the situation as seen by both peoples. To the European settlers, living precarious lives in an enormous unmapped wilderness, the Beothuck must have seemed almost devilish, the way they disappeared into the interior, leaving behind deserted wigwams and tumble-down storehouses, coming back only to steal things silently in the night.
And imagine what the Beothuck thought, hiding in the interior that they knew so well, always aware that more and more settlers were living on the fringe. Occasionally the settlers would intrude down the rivers, and the Beothuck would quietly slip away, leaving their villages deserted and starting up elsewhere, further and further from the resources they required.
Eventually, undetected, the last Beothuck died in the middle of all that uncharted forest, and nobody else ever knew.
PS: As I said, this is a romantic impression based on a book written in 1915. Reality suggests that some of the Beothuck DID survive, mainly by mingling with settlers and other tribles.
Their story is a sad one of brutality, stupidity, missed opportunities, and belated reparations. The Beothuks (called "red Indians" because they covered themselves with red ocher) were the dominant tribe on the island, living mainly in the interior but coming to the coasts during the summer in order to fish.
European settlers began to arrive in the 15th century, and though there are some stories of goodwill between the cultures, the Beothuks and the settlers REALLY got off on the wrong foot. The Beothuks, probably angry about incursions into their fishing grounds, stole the possessions of the settlers, and the settlers -- meanwhile -- were shooting Beothuks out of some combination of fear, hatred, and sport.
In addition, the French were giving guns to the Mi'kmaq in Labrador, resulting in a serious military imbalance with the Beothuks. Attacked on two fronts, the Beothuks became increasingly evasive, retreating almost entirely to the interior by the 19th century.
It was around this time that philanthropic groups were organized to try to make belated peace with the Beothuks, but the European powers-that-be had a bit of a credibility gap, especially since settlers were still quietly killing Indians. Ultimately the plan of the philanthropists was to find out where the Beothuk were hiding, give them presents, convince one of them to return to town with them, and show the Indian all the joys of civilization. It was thought that when the Indian returned to his tribe, he'd gush about how wonderful the settlers were, and everybody would smoke a peace pipe and get down to some serious fur-trading.
Twenty years later and all the Beothuck had quietly disappeared. Forever.
Right now I'm reading "The Beothucks or Red Indians" by James P. Howley, originally published in 1915. It was Howley's attempt to gather all the information about the Beothuck as possible, and it's basically a reprint of the letters, journals, and proclamations he found.
This format isn't entirely successful. Decades go by without a single update, and then a hundred pages are devoted to material from just a year or two. If an expedition to the Newfoundland interior involved more than one person, he prints ALL their journals about the trip...and then he prints the recollections of people who HEARD about the trip...and then he prints newspaper articles written about the trip a few years later.
It's annoying to read the same thing over and over again, but it does illustrate the unreliability of memory and biography. Everybody describes the situations differently, and as time goes by the stories get more and more inflated. Howley sidesteps this aspect of his book -- simply pointing out in a footnote when somebody is "unclear about" or "misunderstood" the history -- but it's one of the many ironies that a modern reader is able to pick up on.
Another odd thing about the book is how absolutely bungled the whole philanthropic enterprise was. The do-gooders would march into the woods, scare the heck out of some Beothuck by sneaking up on them, accidentally kill one or two, and then kidnap one or more women. They'd spend a year showering the women with gifts. Then, just before returning them to their tribes, the women would die of consumption.
Hey fellas, A+ for effort, but WHAT THE HECK DO YOU IMAGINE THE BEOTHUCK THOUGHT ABOUT THIS? And while acknowledging that the tribe was in danger of complete extinction, did it not occur to anybody that STEALING WOMEN OF CHILDBEARING AGE was the worst thing they could do?
To be fair it seems they really WANTED to kidnap a man, but the women were just easier to catch.
I'd feel more charitably about these heartfelt schemes if the people involved -- even at their most idealistic -- didn't qualify their "reconciliation" plan with the need to "bring the poor brutes to civilization." In the first meeting of the surprisingly liberal 1827 Beothuck Institution, the participants speak highly of the Indian's right to life and land...but they always slip in the verb "to civilize," as though the Beothuck were unable to decide for themselves.
But none of that mattered anyway because the tribe was already dying (if not dead).
Some of the most interesting parts of the book are the vivid accounts of Shanawdithit and Demasduit, two of the captured females who responded to European life in a somewhat delightful way (before dropping dead).
MOST fascinating, however, is the apparently complete narrative of William E. Cormack's east-west journey across Newfoundland. Over several hellish months he pushed through parts of the island that even the Indians wouldn't stray into, and his descriptions are engrossing: every detail about the geography, botany, wildlife, weather, and inhabitants during a trip that nobody had ever taken before, and no sane person would ever do again.
I don't have romantic ideas about Indians OR Europeans, and in this case especially their relationship seemed doomed from the start. Reading this book, though, I'm getting a strangely haunting impression of the situation as seen by both peoples. To the European settlers, living precarious lives in an enormous unmapped wilderness, the Beothuck must have seemed almost devilish, the way they disappeared into the interior, leaving behind deserted wigwams and tumble-down storehouses, coming back only to steal things silently in the night.
And imagine what the Beothuck thought, hiding in the interior that they knew so well, always aware that more and more settlers were living on the fringe. Occasionally the settlers would intrude down the rivers, and the Beothuck would quietly slip away, leaving their villages deserted and starting up elsewhere, further and further from the resources they required.
Eventually, undetected, the last Beothuck died in the middle of all that uncharted forest, and nobody else ever knew.
PS: As I said, this is a romantic impression based on a book written in 1915. Reality suggests that some of the Beothuck DID survive, mainly by mingling with settlers and other tribles.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Dr. Seuss and Flit: Suddenly I Must Reevaltuate My Childhood
Well Dr. Seuss, I've learned a lot of interesting things by viewing your Flit advertisements, but this one from the June 1, 1929 New Yorker has thrown me for a loop.
Errr, thanks Doc. Yikes
Errr, thanks Doc. Yikes
Monday, November 03, 2008
Armstrong Shoes and the Servitor
Every issue of the '20s New Yorker is bound to have a disturbing racial stereotype or two. I don't generally post them because they aren't usually very interesting, and also because I don't want to provide fodder for obnoxious preteen racists ("preteen" in either body OR mind).
More specifically, though...well, I often post New Yorker clips here in order to simultaneously draw attention to interesting finds, and to poke fun at them. The ham-fisted, surreal racist advertisements from the '20s ARE funny in a disturbing, groan-inducing, "I can't believe anybody would have CREATED this" way...but not to everybody.
Well, here's one that isn't particularly funny, but is so sustained that I can't help posting it. Why isn't it funny? Because its roots aren't in some vaudeville strain of ethnic humour. It is, rather, far too serious.
At first I thought I could make fun of the "What're YOU looking at?" aspect of this "Armstrong Shoes" advertisement, but then I read the description.
More specifically, though...well, I often post New Yorker clips here in order to simultaneously draw attention to interesting finds, and to poke fun at them. The ham-fisted, surreal racist advertisements from the '20s ARE funny in a disturbing, groan-inducing, "I can't believe anybody would have CREATED this" way...but not to everybody.
Well, here's one that isn't particularly funny, but is so sustained that I can't help posting it. Why isn't it funny? Because its roots aren't in some vaudeville strain of ethnic humour. It is, rather, far too serious.
At first I thought I could make fun of the "What're YOU looking at?" aspect of this "Armstrong Shoes" advertisement, but then I read the description.
Sambo, or is it Mose, craves to carry the luggage of the lady of yon descending foot. For Sambo, or Mose, has identified by its shoe a person of quality, generous to her servitors.See what I mean? This ad isn't about a cheap "black bellhop" gag. It's trying to be realistic. And that's ugly stuff.
"Body may be by Fisher," ruminates our hero, "but dem shoes am suttinly by Armstrong"...
...Sambo's perspicacity did not go unrewarded, you may be sure. That night he went home to Harlem richer by four bits.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Lois Long Finally Annoys Me
I've said in the past that I enjoy Lois Long's contributions to the 1920's-era New Yorker, particularly her somewhat acerbic "Tables for Two" column (which she wrote under the name "Lipstick"). I've also said that though some scholars have accused her of being a racist, I felt that Long's racial comments were simply par for an authoress writing about Harlem nightclubs, and that I got no impression that Long was -- as charged -- more dismissive of black people than anybody else in the magazine.
Then I ran across her December 22, 1928 review of "Club Harlem."
She goes on to mention a "high-yaller chorus," the first time I've heard this term in the magazine.
Then I ran across her December 22, 1928 review of "Club Harlem."
Above 125th Street, the latest place visited was one called, quite simply, the Club Harlem. Your first impression is of very pleasing decoration--acid yellow walls with huge, foggy, dark-blue silhouettes of barbaric negroes and palm trees. The second impression is of a grand blues orchestra, principally brasses; and the third is of probably the most inferior collection of white people you can see anywhere. Possibly they are hired by the management to give the colored race magnificent dignity by contrast, but I dunno.I'd have to do some real twisting to make this comment sound innocuous, and taken with the tone of some of her earlier writings I'll finally admit that "they" -- those few scholars who have ever mentioned Lois Long in their research -- are probably right: Long viewed the black people in Harlem as inferior to whites...but cute scenery, and LORD they could dance!
She goes on to mention a "high-yaller chorus," the first time I've heard this term in the magazine.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Huck Finn
I need to get this off my chest: I just finished reading "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" and I don't have a clue what I should say about it. It's like coming back from Niagara Falls and trying to find meaningful adjectives to describe the falls that haven't already been used. "Huck Finn" has been analyzed to death; what more can I possibly add?
Only that I thought it was amazing, funny, touching, witty, and fascinating. I hear that it is Mark Twain's best book by a longshot so I probably won't pick up his other books, but nobody could write such a masterpiece without being consistently brilliant in SOME other way.
Critics love to slam the book's final chapters, and I have to agree...they are total crap: forced, repetitive, pointless, and a complete letdown from the subtlety and fine-honed logic of the rest of the story. Don't let that spoil it for you though...if you're looking for a fun and sometimes painful adventure through a sharply-observed long-lost time and place, definitely give "Huck Finn" some of your time.
It was almost better than "Dwarf Fortress." Almost.
Only that I thought it was amazing, funny, touching, witty, and fascinating. I hear that it is Mark Twain's best book by a longshot so I probably won't pick up his other books, but nobody could write such a masterpiece without being consistently brilliant in SOME other way.
Critics love to slam the book's final chapters, and I have to agree...they are total crap: forced, repetitive, pointless, and a complete letdown from the subtlety and fine-honed logic of the rest of the story. Don't let that spoil it for you though...if you're looking for a fun and sometimes painful adventure through a sharply-observed long-lost time and place, definitely give "Huck Finn" some of your time.
It was almost better than "Dwarf Fortress." Almost.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Dr. Seuss and the Filmmaker's Flit
During the late '20s jungle documentaries were EXTREMELY popular. Everybody seemed to be making films about stoic Caucasian explorers and their quirky African guides, seeking the next big waterfall or hunting wild game. Many viewers suspected that the films were less than truthful, and they were right to be sceptical.
Here (July 28, 1928), Dr. Seuss shows us how they got so close to those deadly wild animals: apparently they killed them with bug spray first. The mystery is solved?
PS: I've mentioned the horrific black caricatures in the past...well, here's another one, this time from our beloved children's book author.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Strange, Bigoted Interjections
Maybe this shouldn't shock me -- I tend to move in a very educated, socially-capable, easy-going crowd -- but twice this past week I've encountered people who have emitted strange, bigoted interjections in social situations.
I'll be the first to admit that negative generalizations are easy to acquire; when I talk about "meatheads" and "hootchies," I'm laying a negative stereotype on people I hardly know, and I need to constantly remind myself not to jump to conclusions. But I like to think that the stereotypes I fall prey to are based on less superficial evidence than religion, skin colour, or gender.
I'm not going to get into an in-depth discussion about bigotry -- since the causes and effects differ depending on the person who says them, the setting they're in, and the target of their venom -- but it seems to me that people who make socially-obnoxious, bigoted comments are probably responding to some combination of three things:
I'll be the first to admit that negative generalizations are easy to acquire; when I talk about "meatheads" and "hootchies," I'm laying a negative stereotype on people I hardly know, and I need to constantly remind myself not to jump to conclusions. But I like to think that the stereotypes I fall prey to are based on less superficial evidence than religion, skin colour, or gender.
I'm not going to get into an in-depth discussion about bigotry -- since the causes and effects differ depending on the person who says them, the setting they're in, and the target of their venom -- but it seems to me that people who make socially-obnoxious, bigoted comments are probably responding to some combination of three things:
- Ignorance. They just haven't thought things through, or they're basing their assumptions on inadequate information.
- Anger. They've got some sort of chip on their shoulder, and they focus their anger on some group of people in order to direct it away from themselves.
- Social Inadequacy. They don't know how to attract positive attention so -- like schoolkids -- they "act out" and try to shock people. And they probably aren't aware of how they're perceived when they do this.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Golf Sweaters, Plus New Yorker Racism
Hmmm. There are a few things to be said about this June 30, 1928 advertisement from The New Yorker.
First, there was simply no escaping this black caricature in the '20s press. The cartoons always showed these big-eyed, slope-headed, huge-lipped creatures, usually scuttling in the background and carrying somebody's bags. Even when the cartoon's joke did NOT involve the servile black character (and it rarely did), he was invariably drawn in this way.
At first I was shocked, but after three years of New Yorker cartoons I'm gradually realizing that the cartoonists of the time -- whatever their own beliefs -- were largely drawing in an accepted style, the same way that all chorus girls were distinct in their comparative bustiness, all businessmen were fat, and all Jewish characters had big curly beards and glasses.
So in this illustration featuring the dignified golfer and the servile caddy, the black character has the additional indignity of wearing the offensive golf shirt. Peck & Peck tell us that the days of "bold, bad checks and Chuck Connor stripes" are gone, and that "good taste" is now the order of the day. That was 1928, mind you.
The question (other than "who was Chuck Connor?") is...why do people continue to wear ugly golf sweaters, eighty years later. Are some just taking an awful long time to transition? Much like the "ugly car salesman suit," the "ugly golf sweater" is a long-standing joke with more than a kernel of truth.
Is this because the stereotypical dedicated golfer -- like the stereotypical car salesman -- is clueless and reactionary, meaning that they're forever out of style? I wonder how this fashion trend started, what defines it, and why it continues today. Since I have never actually golfed I'm afraid the answer eludes me.
First, there was simply no escaping this black caricature in the '20s press. The cartoons always showed these big-eyed, slope-headed, huge-lipped creatures, usually scuttling in the background and carrying somebody's bags. Even when the cartoon's joke did NOT involve the servile black character (and it rarely did), he was invariably drawn in this way.At first I was shocked, but after three years of New Yorker cartoons I'm gradually realizing that the cartoonists of the time -- whatever their own beliefs -- were largely drawing in an accepted style, the same way that all chorus girls were distinct in their comparative bustiness, all businessmen were fat, and all Jewish characters had big curly beards and glasses.
So in this illustration featuring the dignified golfer and the servile caddy, the black character has the additional indignity of wearing the offensive golf shirt. Peck & Peck tell us that the days of "bold, bad checks and Chuck Connor stripes" are gone, and that "good taste" is now the order of the day. That was 1928, mind you.
The question (other than "who was Chuck Connor?") is...why do people continue to wear ugly golf sweaters, eighty years later. Are some just taking an awful long time to transition? Much like the "ugly car salesman suit," the "ugly golf sweater" is a long-standing joke with more than a kernel of truth.
Is this because the stereotypical dedicated golfer -- like the stereotypical car salesman -- is clueless and reactionary, meaning that they're forever out of style? I wonder how this fashion trend started, what defines it, and why it continues today. Since I have never actually golfed I'm afraid the answer eludes me.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Kink!
For a self-proclaimed asexual blog, there's been a whole lot of sex-talk here for the past month. I say this now because, tomorrow night, I'll be performing at Guelph's "Kink Event."
I always find it worrisome that people tend to equate drag with sex. Sure, I may dress in a sexualized way, but that does not mean that I am either FEELING particularly sexy or that I am SOLICITING sex. In fact, I am so aware of the fragility of my drag-illusion that I try to stay as far away as I can from graspy or damp things: I am there to be (if anything) visually interesting, and nothing much more.
That's not to say people SHOULDN'T find drag sexy -- either to perform in or to be attracted to -- only that it shouldn't always be assumed to be sexual (or rather, "carnal"), which in many cases (including mine) it just isn't. At least not in a fetishy way.
So the fact that I'm performing at "Kink" -- whose playbill promises the exploration "pleasure and excitement" -- is a bit strange, since my idea of an ideal drag number is either a cutesy '50s-style song of chaste silliness or a totally misanthropic rant about emotional dysfunction. How can I compete with the "porn screening room" and the "erotic art?"
In this case I need to bite the bullet (or perhaps the pony-girl bit) and dig out the more explicit numbers that I do for particularly horny crowds (when anything less would be cause for mass audience evacuation). But as I'm searching through the archives I think...
...hey, if *I* resent my method of expression being characterized as sexual, does the "kink" crowd feel the same way? Is it condescending for me to assume that a kink audience WANTS sexy songs?
Well, it doesn't take much perusal of the handbill to see that the show IS about fetishy sex, so I think I'm justified in assuming that sexy numbers will be appreciated. But this still makes me wonder if "kink" -- outside of this particular event -- is always sexual. Are there non-sexual expressions of BDSM?
In any case I'm sure it will be a fun time, but I absolutely NEED to find a stuffed cat in order to defuse the over-the-top nature of "Pussy" by Lords of Acid. The only one I could find today was a "nursing mother cat," which would add a particularly perverse level to the song that I don't think I can deal with. I told the saleslady that I was looking for something more "traditional," and after I walked away I thought...God, that sounded REALLY conservative.
I always find it worrisome that people tend to equate drag with sex. Sure, I may dress in a sexualized way, but that does not mean that I am either FEELING particularly sexy or that I am SOLICITING sex. In fact, I am so aware of the fragility of my drag-illusion that I try to stay as far away as I can from graspy or damp things: I am there to be (if anything) visually interesting, and nothing much more.
That's not to say people SHOULDN'T find drag sexy -- either to perform in or to be attracted to -- only that it shouldn't always be assumed to be sexual (or rather, "carnal"), which in many cases (including mine) it just isn't. At least not in a fetishy way.
So the fact that I'm performing at "Kink" -- whose playbill promises the exploration "pleasure and excitement" -- is a bit strange, since my idea of an ideal drag number is either a cutesy '50s-style song of chaste silliness or a totally misanthropic rant about emotional dysfunction. How can I compete with the "porn screening room" and the "erotic art?"
In this case I need to bite the bullet (or perhaps the pony-girl bit) and dig out the more explicit numbers that I do for particularly horny crowds (when anything less would be cause for mass audience evacuation). But as I'm searching through the archives I think...
...hey, if *I* resent my method of expression being characterized as sexual, does the "kink" crowd feel the same way? Is it condescending for me to assume that a kink audience WANTS sexy songs?
Well, it doesn't take much perusal of the handbill to see that the show IS about fetishy sex, so I think I'm justified in assuming that sexy numbers will be appreciated. But this still makes me wonder if "kink" -- outside of this particular event -- is always sexual. Are there non-sexual expressions of BDSM?
In any case I'm sure it will be a fun time, but I absolutely NEED to find a stuffed cat in order to defuse the over-the-top nature of "Pussy" by Lords of Acid. The only one I could find today was a "nursing mother cat," which would add a particularly perverse level to the song that I don't think I can deal with. I told the saleslady that I was looking for something more "traditional," and after I walked away I thought...God, that sounded REALLY conservative.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Things that Bother Me (But Shouldn't)
Morgan James just emailed me this link -- a sort of "photo caption" contest for people who engage in baby-slash-cat talk -- and yes...it's terrifying. I first ran across these people many years ago (via Portal Of Evil) and while I'm unable to track down an official name for them I refer to them by one of their more commonly-used words: "Meowmies."
The Meowmies own cats and appear to live vicariously through them, which I think is sort of sad. They meet in forums and chat rooms -- pretending to be their cats -- and socialize in a formalized "cat speak" that closely resembles baby talk. I quote an example from this site:
Secondly, I just can't see how people can perceive cats as baby-like. They're selfish, vicious predators who -- at best -- relate to humans on a more-or-less equal basis. I'll never forget my father telling me that cats have small heads so they can squeeze them inside ribcages. Such animals don't call people "Meowmie," they call them "encased offal."
In a fit of pique I once crashed a Meowmie forum, pretending to be a stray cat with mange and a clot of feces tangled around its butt. I said things like "Yeow, effur time I breafe, my lungs is cut by da sharp chicken bone I ate!" and "dees pinworms makin' me always HUNNNGRY!" I did this for a few days, and when my trolling got no response I started asking pointed questions like "who ARE you people?" and "why are you doing this?"
One man emailed a plain-English response to me. He said he didn't expect me to understand their intense personalizing of their cats, but HE wondered why I had bothered to seek out a group of harmless people just to insult them. He thought that behaviour was much sadder than gentle baby-talk with a bunch of friends, and I realized...wow, he was right. I'd been a total jerk. For some reason I'd gotten so ANGRY about the Meowmies that I'd become the kind of person I otherwise condemn.
Whenever somebody gives me grief about doing drag -- especially in an online situation -- I try to remember the Meowmies, and all those people who are just doing their thing. I'll still make fun of such people if they're otherwise jerks (or if they are really BAD at their "thing" but think they're super-great), but otherwise...truce!
The Meowmies own cats and appear to live vicariously through them, which I think is sort of sad. They meet in forums and chat rooms -- pretending to be their cats -- and socialize in a formalized "cat speak" that closely resembles baby talk. I quote an example from this site:
I luff my meowmie, she pampers me to da max.When I look at that Meowmie's Day Poem, my blood boils with absolute revulsion. First of all I think baby talk is 100% awful, and I am particularly disturbed when adults "baby" non-infants. I'm not just talking about Adult Babies -- who I also find highly disturbing -- but also about couples who cootchie-coo and poodgie-woo with each other. I want to lock such couples in a room without food and water and see just how long their babying will last, maybe after sawing off their arms.
Anyting I want or need, I don't efen havf to ask!
She rescued me frum da wild place when I was small, helpless & alone.
Gavf me luff, food, shelter & toys, It's sure a wonderfur home!
Secondly, I just can't see how people can perceive cats as baby-like. They're selfish, vicious predators who -- at best -- relate to humans on a more-or-less equal basis. I'll never forget my father telling me that cats have small heads so they can squeeze them inside ribcages. Such animals don't call people "Meowmie," they call them "encased offal."
In a fit of pique I once crashed a Meowmie forum, pretending to be a stray cat with mange and a clot of feces tangled around its butt. I said things like "Yeow, effur time I breafe, my lungs is cut by da sharp chicken bone I ate!" and "dees pinworms makin' me always HUNNNGRY!" I did this for a few days, and when my trolling got no response I started asking pointed questions like "who ARE you people?" and "why are you doing this?"
One man emailed a plain-English response to me. He said he didn't expect me to understand their intense personalizing of their cats, but HE wondered why I had bothered to seek out a group of harmless people just to insult them. He thought that behaviour was much sadder than gentle baby-talk with a bunch of friends, and I realized...wow, he was right. I'd been a total jerk. For some reason I'd gotten so ANGRY about the Meowmies that I'd become the kind of person I otherwise condemn.
Whenever somebody gives me grief about doing drag -- especially in an online situation -- I try to remember the Meowmies, and all those people who are just doing their thing. I'll still make fun of such people if they're otherwise jerks (or if they are really BAD at their "thing" but think they're super-great), but otherwise...truce!
Monday, April 23, 2007
It's That Simple ("Marriage")
Okay, this one isn't as nasty, I can live with it. Be sure to read this post first to understand the context behind this "editorial."
Tragically, "Enshrine Marriage Canada" is no longer online. Neither is the Michael Coren column (from September 17, 2004), which was a real gem about how a lesbian couple made a "bloody sacrifice on the altar of selfishness" by deciding to have children.
Childless “Marriage” – Time To Speak Up!
Just like the first bird of spring, a U-Haul truck is cause for celebration for me. It means a new family is moving onto Maple Street! As much as I abhor change of any kind – especially in my undergarments -- I admit that I get a thrill out of meeting new people, as long as they’re not godless or poor. Meeting a new neighbour is an opportunity to share cleaning tips and recipes with folk from distant, exotic lands (sometimes as far away as Timmons!)
This week, however, the U-Haul didn’t bring new friends. It brought two people who gleefully partake in a lifestyle that no right-thinking Realerwoman can condone: the unnatural, barren social experiment of the Childless “Marriage.”
Since people don’t wear any form of identification to mark them as deviants, upstanding folks like myself sometimes treat them as equals before we realize what who we’re talking to. Let’s just say that I’ve been burned before. I’ll have to start being more careful, at least until we get a Conservative politician in power, one who understands the need for immediate stigmatization.
In any case I didn’t know that the Andersons were childless when I arrived at their front door, bearing pastries and wearing my best bonnet. The two of them were a bit flustered with their move but they were happy to take a break and share their sofa with me.
“Gosh,” said Mr. Anderson, “these cherry-filled things are great!”
“They’re ‘Passion Flakies,’” I replied, flattered.
“Why do you call them that?” asked Mrs. Anderson, giving the plate a curious look.
“Because they remind me of the humiliation of Christ.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Anderson. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
After this strategic injection of religion into our first meeting (“scoring points with God,” my husband likes to call it), our conversation turned to the rigors of moving, which I said was always difficult and never fails to remind me of the humiliation of Christ. “Not to say that I have ever suffered as much as he did, of course. I mean, he was scourged, and scourged, and scourged some more! But gosh, moving can be tough too!” I paused to let my “lesson of the day” sink in, then said something I assumed was inconsequential: “Fortunately we have children to help us with the chores. Two of them. Well, three, if you count the one we never talk about.”
Mr. Anderson glanced at his wife and made a nervous gesture with his Passion Flakey. Unaware of their unholy secret, I barreled on.
“I hope you two have plenty of little ones on the way…Lisa and Zipporah could use some new playmates!”
That was when Mr. Anderson dropped his bombshell. With deceptive tenderness and mock regret, he said “Actually, we can’t have children…I had a…”
“What my husband means is…”
“…an accident with a waffle iron…”
And then they were both crying on the sofa in their empty livingroom – its barrenness reflecting both the state of Mr. Anderson’s genitals…and the state of their immortal souls! They were a childless couple! And they’d had the nerve to get MARRIED!
All of us know that marriage is centered on children…this is rule number three in the “Declaration On Marriage,” a pastiche of seven marriage rules invented last week by Enshrine Marriage Canada. If you’re not going to have children, your marriage is a sham…in fact, it’s not even a marriage, it’s just the word “marriage” with quotes around it!
How dare these people defy the sanctity of marriage by breaking rule number three! And to think that I’d come over here to welcome them.
But Mr. Anderson hadn’t finished trying to indoctrinate me – have you noticed that these deviants never shut up about their misguided beliefs? Crying crocodile tears, he told me that they were pinning their hopes for children on artificial insemination. He said this as though I should APPROVE!
Far from this making a childless “marriage” alright, artificial insemination just makes it worse! As Michael Coren said, the procreative nature of marriage is paramount, and “if love is excluded from the original act” (as it is in artificial insemination), “it is likely to be discarded from the outcome.” In other words you can’t LOVE a child that you didn’t produce sexually…it’s that simple! By getting married and choosing this artificial means of producing a child, infertile couples have “made a bloody sacrifice of children’s happiness on the altar of selfishness” (Mr. Coren has such a way with words! This phrase is just CRYING OUT to be hung on the wall!)
We all know that a REAL marriage can only involve two people who are capable of having children with each other. This is one of the primary reasons why we say homosexuals can’t be married, and what’s bad for them is bad for the rest of us. But defenders of Traditional Marriage seem to forget that there is another enemy out there besides homosexuals, a group of deviants already sanctioned by our liberal society: these sterile couples! By choosing to marry, they are contributing to the destruction of Traditional Marriage, an institution which has ALWAYS required children in order to legitimize it. A marriage without children is like a Passion Flakey without the cherries: AN ABOMINATION WHICH MUST BE STOPPED AT ALL COSTS!
As always, I urge true conservatives to speak up. When you meet people like the Andersons, tell them that you do not recognize their marriages as legitimate. After all, we have invented the rules for marriage and we must not allow ANYBODY to break them. I am disturbed that conservative organizations – like Enshrine Marriage – have yet to speak out against the fronts in the Marriage War which DON’T involve homosexuals. I hope this editorial wakes them up.
I’m not a coward. I stick to my guns. And if enough of us get together we might be able to start a constitutional amendment. We must write into the constitution a clause stating that marriages MUST produce children, and that those children MUST be biological descendents of BOTH parents. Otherwise it’s only a “marriage” (with quotes), and a selfish, “adult-centered” one at that!
Tragically, "Enshrine Marriage Canada" is no longer online. Neither is the Michael Coren column (from September 17, 2004), which was a real gem about how a lesbian couple made a "bloody sacrifice on the altar of selfishness" by deciding to have children.
Childless “Marriage” – Time To Speak Up!
Just like the first bird of spring, a U-Haul truck is cause for celebration for me. It means a new family is moving onto Maple Street! As much as I abhor change of any kind – especially in my undergarments -- I admit that I get a thrill out of meeting new people, as long as they’re not godless or poor. Meeting a new neighbour is an opportunity to share cleaning tips and recipes with folk from distant, exotic lands (sometimes as far away as Timmons!)
This week, however, the U-Haul didn’t bring new friends. It brought two people who gleefully partake in a lifestyle that no right-thinking Realerwoman can condone: the unnatural, barren social experiment of the Childless “Marriage.”
Since people don’t wear any form of identification to mark them as deviants, upstanding folks like myself sometimes treat them as equals before we realize what who we’re talking to. Let’s just say that I’ve been burned before. I’ll have to start being more careful, at least until we get a Conservative politician in power, one who understands the need for immediate stigmatization.
In any case I didn’t know that the Andersons were childless when I arrived at their front door, bearing pastries and wearing my best bonnet. The two of them were a bit flustered with their move but they were happy to take a break and share their sofa with me.
“Gosh,” said Mr. Anderson, “these cherry-filled things are great!”
“They’re ‘Passion Flakies,’” I replied, flattered.
“Why do you call them that?” asked Mrs. Anderson, giving the plate a curious look.
“Because they remind me of the humiliation of Christ.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Anderson. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
After this strategic injection of religion into our first meeting (“scoring points with God,” my husband likes to call it), our conversation turned to the rigors of moving, which I said was always difficult and never fails to remind me of the humiliation of Christ. “Not to say that I have ever suffered as much as he did, of course. I mean, he was scourged, and scourged, and scourged some more! But gosh, moving can be tough too!” I paused to let my “lesson of the day” sink in, then said something I assumed was inconsequential: “Fortunately we have children to help us with the chores. Two of them. Well, three, if you count the one we never talk about.”
Mr. Anderson glanced at his wife and made a nervous gesture with his Passion Flakey. Unaware of their unholy secret, I barreled on.
“I hope you two have plenty of little ones on the way…Lisa and Zipporah could use some new playmates!”
That was when Mr. Anderson dropped his bombshell. With deceptive tenderness and mock regret, he said “Actually, we can’t have children…I had a…”
“What my husband means is…”
“…an accident with a waffle iron…”
And then they were both crying on the sofa in their empty livingroom – its barrenness reflecting both the state of Mr. Anderson’s genitals…and the state of their immortal souls! They were a childless couple! And they’d had the nerve to get MARRIED!
All of us know that marriage is centered on children…this is rule number three in the “Declaration On Marriage,” a pastiche of seven marriage rules invented last week by Enshrine Marriage Canada. If you’re not going to have children, your marriage is a sham…in fact, it’s not even a marriage, it’s just the word “marriage” with quotes around it!
How dare these people defy the sanctity of marriage by breaking rule number three! And to think that I’d come over here to welcome them.
But Mr. Anderson hadn’t finished trying to indoctrinate me – have you noticed that these deviants never shut up about their misguided beliefs? Crying crocodile tears, he told me that they were pinning their hopes for children on artificial insemination. He said this as though I should APPROVE!
Far from this making a childless “marriage” alright, artificial insemination just makes it worse! As Michael Coren said, the procreative nature of marriage is paramount, and “if love is excluded from the original act” (as it is in artificial insemination), “it is likely to be discarded from the outcome.” In other words you can’t LOVE a child that you didn’t produce sexually…it’s that simple! By getting married and choosing this artificial means of producing a child, infertile couples have “made a bloody sacrifice of children’s happiness on the altar of selfishness” (Mr. Coren has such a way with words! This phrase is just CRYING OUT to be hung on the wall!)
We all know that a REAL marriage can only involve two people who are capable of having children with each other. This is one of the primary reasons why we say homosexuals can’t be married, and what’s bad for them is bad for the rest of us. But defenders of Traditional Marriage seem to forget that there is another enemy out there besides homosexuals, a group of deviants already sanctioned by our liberal society: these sterile couples! By choosing to marry, they are contributing to the destruction of Traditional Marriage, an institution which has ALWAYS required children in order to legitimize it. A marriage without children is like a Passion Flakey without the cherries: AN ABOMINATION WHICH MUST BE STOPPED AT ALL COSTS!
As always, I urge true conservatives to speak up. When you meet people like the Andersons, tell them that you do not recognize their marriages as legitimate. After all, we have invented the rules for marriage and we must not allow ANYBODY to break them. I am disturbed that conservative organizations – like Enshrine Marriage – have yet to speak out against the fronts in the Marriage War which DON’T involve homosexuals. I hope this editorial wakes them up.
I’m not a coward. I stick to my guns. And if enough of us get together we might be able to start a constitutional amendment. We must write into the constitution a clause stating that marriages MUST produce children, and that those children MUST be biological descendents of BOTH parents. Otherwise it’s only a “marriage” (with quotes), and a selfish, “adult-centered” one at that!
It's That Simple! (Spanking)
Nothing politicized me more than the 2004/2005 same-sex marriage debates. It wasn't same-sex marriage per se that got me going, it was the increasingly contradictory and bankrupt arguments against it that made me realize what was happening: the social conservatives had motives under the surface of the debate that they dared not state explicitly. Extreme bigotry was hiding behind a string of bizarre and stupid debating points.
So JP and I decided to infiltrate the Canadian right-wing noise machine by forming our own social conservative group: "The Realer Women of Canada." A spoof of "REAL Women of Canada," we decided to pretend to agree with all of their premises, and then take those premises to their "logical" (and more extreme) conclusions, in order to expose what we believed were the rotten underpinnings of the movement. We found some sympathetic webmasters and began our secret plan: to say all the vile stuff that the social conservatives WANTED to say, and then clasp those people to our bosoms. Sort of like abortion clinic bombers publically cozying up with the American Family Association. We wanted to embarass them by making them explain why OUR stances differed from THEIRS, which (we predicted) they'd be unable to do. If they were REAL women, we were REALER women!
We started writing topical "editorials" as the headwomen of "The Realer Women of Canada." My section of the site was called "It's That Simple!" and I wrote as a suburban housewife from somewhere in Calgary. I seem to remember that JP's character was more of an understated, embittered ex-scholar.
Even though the site went online and our editorials and mission statements were posted, we quietly took it down a few months later without ever publicizing it. I think the idea behind it was sound, but we'd been completely unable to find any actual women to write for it, and it seemed wrong for us to condemn bigoted women when we didn't actually have any women on our team. More importantly, though, writing these editorials made me feel emotionally drained and terrible; I didn't enjoy stepping into the shoes of somebody so reprehensible, and I couldn't see myself going beyond the four pieces I eventually wrote.
I thought this stuff was lost forever, but I stumbled upon the rough drafts today, and I figured I'd post them for posterity. They're nasty, offensive, small-minded, and brutish, but I think they really do peel back some of the layers of civility that barely cover the bigoted mind (with some satirical embellishments to make them more entertaining).
(I was originally going to post them in this blog, but somebody is bound to think I'm endorsing these ideas and report me to Blogger. Years ago, in response to rampant and ongoing anti-semitism in a chat room, I made a website called "Jewish People Eat Worms and Ride the Lochness Monster." Whenever somebody started ranting about the sinister "Jewish Conspiracy," I'd say "yeah, I agree, look at this site, it proves it!" But somebody thought I was serious, and I was promptly banned for violating the server's terms of service. I don't want that to happen again).
(So I had a link to my site, and I realized the articles were so reprehensible that I didn't want to be associated with them, so I wimped out and took away the links. Sorry!)
So JP and I decided to infiltrate the Canadian right-wing noise machine by forming our own social conservative group: "The Realer Women of Canada." A spoof of "REAL Women of Canada," we decided to pretend to agree with all of their premises, and then take those premises to their "logical" (and more extreme) conclusions, in order to expose what we believed were the rotten underpinnings of the movement. We found some sympathetic webmasters and began our secret plan: to say all the vile stuff that the social conservatives WANTED to say, and then clasp those people to our bosoms. Sort of like abortion clinic bombers publically cozying up with the American Family Association. We wanted to embarass them by making them explain why OUR stances differed from THEIRS, which (we predicted) they'd be unable to do. If they were REAL women, we were REALER women!
We started writing topical "editorials" as the headwomen of "The Realer Women of Canada." My section of the site was called "It's That Simple!" and I wrote as a suburban housewife from somewhere in Calgary. I seem to remember that JP's character was more of an understated, embittered ex-scholar.
Even though the site went online and our editorials and mission statements were posted, we quietly took it down a few months later without ever publicizing it. I think the idea behind it was sound, but we'd been completely unable to find any actual women to write for it, and it seemed wrong for us to condemn bigoted women when we didn't actually have any women on our team. More importantly, though, writing these editorials made me feel emotionally drained and terrible; I didn't enjoy stepping into the shoes of somebody so reprehensible, and I couldn't see myself going beyond the four pieces I eventually wrote.
I thought this stuff was lost forever, but I stumbled upon the rough drafts today, and I figured I'd post them for posterity. They're nasty, offensive, small-minded, and brutish, but I think they really do peel back some of the layers of civility that barely cover the bigoted mind (with some satirical embellishments to make them more entertaining).
(I was originally going to post them in this blog, but somebody is bound to think I'm endorsing these ideas and report me to Blogger. Years ago, in response to rampant and ongoing anti-semitism in a chat room, I made a website called "Jewish People Eat Worms and Ride the Lochness Monster." Whenever somebody started ranting about the sinister "Jewish Conspiracy," I'd say "yeah, I agree, look at this site, it proves it!" But somebody thought I was serious, and I was promptly banned for violating the server's terms of service. I don't want that to happen again).
(So I had a link to my site, and I realized the articles were so reprehensible that I didn't want to be associated with them, so I wimped out and took away the links. Sorry!)
Friday, February 16, 2007
Henry Ford and Father Coughlin Love the Jews
Update: I can't possibly do this subject justice during breakfast, but this is simply a quick "off the top of my head" writeup. I'll be the first to admit that it contains simplifications and generalizations of Coughlin's speech. But that doesn't mean he wasn't a dirtbag.
From the May 28, 1927 issue of The New Yorker:
Henry Ford's extreme anti-semitism is no secret, but this reminds me of another psycho, this one Canadian: Father Coughlin.
I make it a habit (or rather a duty) to listen to every old time radio show that comes my way. The wonderful otrcat site includes comprehensive "samplers" of shows when you order from them, so even though I haven't purchased the Father Coughlin collection, I still listened to one of his 1938 broadcasts called "Jew, Christian, and Persecution."
I don't have a lot of time for racists, and that includes anti-semites. It's always confused me that certain people (including Ernst Zundel, who was just sentenced to jail in Germany and who used to live across the street from a friend of mine in Toronto) stereotype Jews as being incredibly capable on one hand -- able to control the entire WORLD, apparently -- but incredibly inferior on the other. If one race has managed to dominate the financial and political machinery throughout the entire world then the rest of us are a bunch of lazy bums.
So sitting through an hour of Father Coughlin wasn't my favourite thing to do, but it did hammer home the lessons that racists -- and ideologues in general -- use to twist the facts.
The most disgusting and cynical technique of all is false sympathy. He repeatedly and vehemently sympathises with the Jewish victims of persecution in Germany...then proceeds to blame them for their persecution. And this is how he does it:
That's the big point of Coughlin's speech, which leads us to his final rhetorical swoop: since Jews are responsible for Communism, they are ALSO responsible for their own victimization in Germany! And as Coughlin ominously says, if communism isn't stamped out here in America, something akin to Nazism will arise in America as well, and the Jews will suffer.
But you see, Coughlin says he doesn't WANT the Jews to suffer (it's apparent that he really doesn't want Jews getting any sympathy). He really loves the Jews. Meanwhile, from the other side of his face he's exposing the Great Jewish Conspiracy to Spread Communism. So excuse me if I don't buy into his false sympathy routine.
Why am I mentioning all this? Because this is one of the most complicated and bizarre anti-semitic slippery slopes I've run across, and also because people have forgotten Father Coughlin, who was born in Hamilton Ontario so therefore not so very far from where I live. He's better left forgotten, but he is a potent reminder of how offensive hatred often hides itself as concern and defense.
PS: If it's any consolation, FDR managed to get Coughlin shut down in the early '40s. Not because of his antipathy towards Jews, but because of his opposition to FDR's policies, mainly as they regarded American entry into WWII.
PPS: And where did Hitler plan to relocate all the Jews in Europe? You guessed it: Madagascar.
From the May 28, 1927 issue of The New Yorker:
A visitor calling on the Marxes in their dressing-room, incidentally, arrived just as another gentleman departed. "That fellow you saw leaving," explained Harpo (of the red wig), "is the greatest salesman in the world...He must be, because he just convinced two Marx Brothers that Henry Ford loves the Jews, and sold them Lincoln cars."
Henry Ford's extreme anti-semitism is no secret, but this reminds me of another psycho, this one Canadian: Father Coughlin.
I make it a habit (or rather a duty) to listen to every old time radio show that comes my way. The wonderful otrcat site includes comprehensive "samplers" of shows when you order from them, so even though I haven't purchased the Father Coughlin collection, I still listened to one of his 1938 broadcasts called "Jew, Christian, and Persecution."
I don't have a lot of time for racists, and that includes anti-semites. It's always confused me that certain people (including Ernst Zundel, who was just sentenced to jail in Germany and who used to live across the street from a friend of mine in Toronto) stereotype Jews as being incredibly capable on one hand -- able to control the entire WORLD, apparently -- but incredibly inferior on the other. If one race has managed to dominate the financial and political machinery throughout the entire world then the rest of us are a bunch of lazy bums.
So sitting through an hour of Father Coughlin wasn't my favourite thing to do, but it did hammer home the lessons that racists -- and ideologues in general -- use to twist the facts.
The most disgusting and cynical technique of all is false sympathy. He repeatedly and vehemently sympathises with the Jewish victims of persecution in Germany...then proceeds to blame them for their persecution. And this is how he does it:
- In Russia, the Czar treated the people well (he never states this outrageous claim, but it's a necessary unspoken premise for everything that follows).
- The only reason that the people suffered was because the bankers in Russia were greedy.
- Jews dominate the banking community, therefore the Jews made the people in Russia suffer (pogroms, anyone?)
- As a reaction to this Jew-created suffering, the people were willing to embrace any ideology that would save them.
- So they embraced Communism, an idea developed and bankrolled by "secular Jews" (must of Father Coughlin's broadcast consists of his proving this link, but I don't think it's particularly relevant. Since Coughlin hates Communism almost as much as he hates the Jews, however, this link is important to him).
- Communism is evil, not because it resulted directly and indirectly in the deaths of millions of people (which the world community wasn't much aware of in 1938) but because it's GODLESS, thanks to those secular Jews who developed and paid for it.
- Nazism is sorta bad and represses people (Coughlin gives lip-service to Hitler's badness, but is most angry that people focus on the repression of Jews in Germany, and don't give equal time to repression of Christians...so one of Hitler's most heinous crimes is of eclipsing repression of Christians by repressing so many darn Jews).
- Nazism is simply a response to the GODLESS THREAT OF COMMUNISM!
That's the big point of Coughlin's speech, which leads us to his final rhetorical swoop: since Jews are responsible for Communism, they are ALSO responsible for their own victimization in Germany! And as Coughlin ominously says, if communism isn't stamped out here in America, something akin to Nazism will arise in America as well, and the Jews will suffer.
But you see, Coughlin says he doesn't WANT the Jews to suffer (it's apparent that he really doesn't want Jews getting any sympathy). He really loves the Jews. Meanwhile, from the other side of his face he's exposing the Great Jewish Conspiracy to Spread Communism. So excuse me if I don't buy into his false sympathy routine.
Why am I mentioning all this? Because this is one of the most complicated and bizarre anti-semitic slippery slopes I've run across, and also because people have forgotten Father Coughlin, who was born in Hamilton Ontario so therefore not so very far from where I live. He's better left forgotten, but he is a potent reminder of how offensive hatred often hides itself as concern and defense.
PS: If it's any consolation, FDR managed to get Coughlin shut down in the early '40s. Not because of his antipathy towards Jews, but because of his opposition to FDR's policies, mainly as they regarded American entry into WWII.
PPS: And where did Hitler plan to relocate all the Jews in Europe? You guessed it: Madagascar.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Common Mounted Police Problems In 1889
Police today think they got it tough? "The New West" -- a collection of reports filed by the North-West Mounted Police in 1889 -- should be required reading.
In 1876, the North West Act was passed, providing governance to what was then the North-Territories (now essentially Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba). I can find very little information about the act itself, but one particular part of it caused a lot of trouble for the Mounties: the Liquor Laws.
These laws forbade the importation and sale of liquor (though apparently not beer) without a permit from the Governor-General, the point being to prevent Indians from drinking it. But the Mounted Police found it impossible to enforce, especially since lawyers were always finding ingenious new loopholes in it. Not even the local government seemed sympathetic to the law; one judge even ruled that people could sell liquor as long as they had SOME permit, even if it was somebody else's. Every single report in this book contains a frustrated screed by the officers: everybody hates the law, we can't enforce it, it must be changed.
Equally annoying to the Mounted Police was the state of their barracks furniture, which they had to make themselves out of rough wood. This lowered morale almost as much as the lack of recreational facilities, and the officers were constantly pleading for iron bed frames, mainly because the iron frames could be folded up to allow the men more room to move around. Superintendent J. Cotton made the typical comment (so typical that it starts to sound like a coordinated campaign): "The ordinary boards and trestles furnish the men with a wretched substitute for a bed, and, at best, present a sorry appearance in the barrack room."
Once you joined the Mounted Police you signed up for a specific term and could only leave by buying out your contract. Even then it often took months for a buyout to be authorized. Since most of the men were skilled farmers and craftsmen -- and the life of a Mountie was cruel, harrowing, and ill-rewarded -- many of them saw better opportunities in the nearby towns and couldn't wait to be authorized to leave. Some of them deserted the force, mainly by crossing the border into Montana. This seems to make the officers more sad than angry.
Apart from difficulties with fire protection (not enough equipment for storing water and too many fires caused by locomotive sparks), a lack of bridges and ferries (making crossing rivers a life-threatening exercise), and dissatisfaction with the armaments (especially the Winchester carbines and the revolvers which were "too powerful"), the reports are mostly positive.
They get most colourful when they start talking about their dealings with the Indians. They generally divided the tribes into good (Bloods, Piegans, Stoneys) and bad (Cree) categories, except for the much-maligned "half-breeds" -- AKA Metis, or French-Indians -- who were generally described as shiftless criminals: "Many are idle and have no settled occupation, and if they get any money waste it in drinking and gambling."
Indians occasionally stole horses, slaughtered ranch cattle, and drank too much, but these were always stressed as isolated cases. Sometimes they camped close to ranches: "They have numbers of dogs, and these dogs chase calves and colts, kill poultry, etc.; Certainly a camp of Indians near one's house is not a desirable addition." The general tone was that the Indians were "good-natured" and needed to be prodded in the right direction.
From my 21st century point of view -- aware that the Native Americans have legitimate grievances, then and now -- I'm always on the lookout for racism in these reports. I started getting suspicious when officers kept mentioning Indians leaving their reservations "without a pass." Not having access to the laws of the time, I got more and more concerned: was there REALLY a law saying that the Indians had to get some sort of "pass" before they could walk on non-reservation land?
Then I came across this little gem of subdued horribleness, thanks to Superintendent R. B. Deane:
Not altogether surprising, but these 19th century Mounties sounded like such even-handed guys until then.
In 1876, the North West Act was passed, providing governance to what was then the North-Territories (now essentially Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba). I can find very little information about the act itself, but one particular part of it caused a lot of trouble for the Mounties: the Liquor Laws.
These laws forbade the importation and sale of liquor (though apparently not beer) without a permit from the Governor-General, the point being to prevent Indians from drinking it. But the Mounted Police found it impossible to enforce, especially since lawyers were always finding ingenious new loopholes in it. Not even the local government seemed sympathetic to the law; one judge even ruled that people could sell liquor as long as they had SOME permit, even if it was somebody else's. Every single report in this book contains a frustrated screed by the officers: everybody hates the law, we can't enforce it, it must be changed.
Equally annoying to the Mounted Police was the state of their barracks furniture, which they had to make themselves out of rough wood. This lowered morale almost as much as the lack of recreational facilities, and the officers were constantly pleading for iron bed frames, mainly because the iron frames could be folded up to allow the men more room to move around. Superintendent J. Cotton made the typical comment (so typical that it starts to sound like a coordinated campaign): "The ordinary boards and trestles furnish the men with a wretched substitute for a bed, and, at best, present a sorry appearance in the barrack room."
Once you joined the Mounted Police you signed up for a specific term and could only leave by buying out your contract. Even then it often took months for a buyout to be authorized. Since most of the men were skilled farmers and craftsmen -- and the life of a Mountie was cruel, harrowing, and ill-rewarded -- many of them saw better opportunities in the nearby towns and couldn't wait to be authorized to leave. Some of them deserted the force, mainly by crossing the border into Montana. This seems to make the officers more sad than angry.
Apart from difficulties with fire protection (not enough equipment for storing water and too many fires caused by locomotive sparks), a lack of bridges and ferries (making crossing rivers a life-threatening exercise), and dissatisfaction with the armaments (especially the Winchester carbines and the revolvers which were "too powerful"), the reports are mostly positive.
They get most colourful when they start talking about their dealings with the Indians. They generally divided the tribes into good (Bloods, Piegans, Stoneys) and bad (Cree) categories, except for the much-maligned "half-breeds" -- AKA Metis, or French-Indians -- who were generally described as shiftless criminals: "Many are idle and have no settled occupation, and if they get any money waste it in drinking and gambling."
Indians occasionally stole horses, slaughtered ranch cattle, and drank too much, but these were always stressed as isolated cases. Sometimes they camped close to ranches: "They have numbers of dogs, and these dogs chase calves and colts, kill poultry, etc.; Certainly a camp of Indians near one's house is not a desirable addition." The general tone was that the Indians were "good-natured" and needed to be prodded in the right direction.
From my 21st century point of view -- aware that the Native Americans have legitimate grievances, then and now -- I'm always on the lookout for racism in these reports. I started getting suspicious when officers kept mentioning Indians leaving their reservations "without a pass." Not having access to the laws of the time, I got more and more concerned: was there REALLY a law saying that the Indians had to get some sort of "pass" before they could walk on non-reservation land?
Then I came across this little gem of subdued horribleness, thanks to Superintendent R. B. Deane:
The Indians that have come this way from the Blood Reserve have, on the whole, behaved themselves well... Others come with all sorts of plausible pretexts to account for being off their reserve without a pass. Some do not appear to think a pass necessary at all. One Indian produced a pass which was exactly a year old, and therewith was quite content. Some of them seem to be aware that in point of law they have as much right to roam about the country as white men, and that confinement to a reserve was not one of the provisions of their treaty.You've got to be KIDDING me. The Mounted Police were regularly enforcing a fake "pass law" to keep Indians from leaving their reservations? And this is nonchalantly described in a report, with full knowledge that the reports were published every year for public reading? This has changed the tone of everything I'm reading; if such a basic violation of the rights of the Indians was so casually tossed around, I can't imagine what they DIDN'T put in the reports.
Not altogether surprising, but these 19th century Mounties sounded like such even-handed guys until then.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The Men Who Explode
This entry was written with a generous amount of "Knock On Wood"-ing. I don't want to jinx my extraordinary good luck. I don't want to find myself getting pummelled in an alley while thinking "jeez, I should have knocked on wood when I said that stuff!"At least once a year I manage to make a man explode into vicious, incoherent rage. Where does this terrible power come from, and how can it be used for the common good?
Last night I had a typical encounter outside of the Pizza Pizza. A man took great offense to my standing there, and he exploded. Fortunately I was with good pal El Diablo Loki, who -- with all the powers of the metal gods behind him -- challenged the guy to an old fashioned Canadian duel. With Loki's calm, peaceful friend on one side, the guy's horrified girlfriend on the other, and me in the middle trying to mediate, we made a bizarre quartet of clashing ideologies that really wasn't going anywhere.
The exploding man's girlfriend dragged him into the Pizza Pizza, where he apparently spouted potent vitriol about me. And this is where my "exploding man" power becomes a force for good: the people who left the Pizza Pizza -- stereotypical, drunken, post-bar toughs -- apologized to ME for the guy's behaviour and said that somebody should go in there and beat the hell out of him. Which wasn't going to happen because, as we all acknowledged, the exploding man was really big.
But the point is, these young 20-something people were on MY SIDE. Maybe they would always have been on my side, or maybe seeing the repulsive bigotry of another person opened their minds a little bit. As awful as the whole situation was, the fact that fifteen football jocks were prepared to come to my aid was pretty heart-warming.
I made another man explode last year...he stood on my neighbour's balcony for about fifteen minutes, hoarsely yelling strange slurs and accusations at me while his girlfriend sat crying, and all of his 18-year-old buddies came over to apologize and share a drink with me. You see what I mean about the good and bad sides of these situations.
I think I understand the exploding men a little better now. When two or more men decide to get aggressive toward me, they tend to do it in a more smug, low-key way. But when only ONE man gets aggressive, he has to deal with not only his incohate, overpowering rage, but ALSO with the realization that nobody around him approves of his behaviour, not even his girlfriend, not even his best friends. This must drive him crazy, it makes him REALLY explode...he's screaming at me AND at the sudden realization that he has become a pariah. Must be awful, though pardon me if I don't feel bad about it.
So the silver lining? People get a good glimpse of bigotry, they see that I'm far more rational and sensible than the exploding man, and maybe they'll teach their kids some good lessons.
But I can't help wondering...what happens to the exploding men afterwards? Do they go home and feel bad? I doubt it, I bet they grow even more extreme in their beliefs. On one side I might be doing my own small part to make our world a better place, but on the other side I might be making a small number of little Nazis.
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