Birthers and the Total Collapse of Hope

So, first off, let's start with this:

http://www.theage.com.au/world/obama-relents-to-trump-releases-full-birth-certificate-20110428-1dx8j.html

I have a fascination with American politics, in the same way that a car crash is horrifyingly mesmerising. Also, as the resident 800 pound gorilla of world politics, I find things make a little more sense if you pay attention (not much more mind).

So as some background for those who don't share my morbid curiosity, there has been a slowly percolating conspiracy surrounding Barak Obama's country of origin. This began as a fringe right-wing conspiracy but has slowly bloomed into something resembling an ideological front piece for the entire Republican movement. I'm not going to say that most, or even all Republicans support the idea - the less radicalised will certainly disavow belief in the matter if pressed in front of a camera. But the Republican party is certainly happy to embrace those who do subscribe to this kind of idiocy. And in recent days, the hairpiece of destruction, the living symbol of greed and callous arrogance that is Donald Trump, in courting the batshit fringe, has also decided to leap on this bandwagon.

Donald Trump has previously expressed admiration for Barak Obama - so I have little to no doubt that his belief in this kind of bollocks is nothing but the most heinous opportunism. But as one person now referred to as a presidential hopeful (and it gives me the jibblies just to say that) it shows how deeply infiltrated this idea has become.

Never mind that Juan McCain...sorry, John McCain...was actually born in Panama. Never mind that the law itself is a piece of archaic nonsense that even the dystopian future of Demolition Man had the good sense to do away with (although that was to make Arnold Schwarzenegger president, but I digress). Never mind the fact that no other president has ever been asked to parade the pieces of paper that prove his identity before a camera before. None of that matters to the bigots that perpetrate this nonsense.

And it is bigotry. The country of birth is ultimately immaterial - this is about delegitimising Barak Obama on the basis of his identity. The birth certificate is code for "race", as used by people who know well enough that they can't say the word "race" in reference to their objections, but nurture this ugly little worm within themselves anyway. It's a code, a nod and wink to all those other people who have this part of them that lurks in a sub-linguistic kind of way, that says a black man can't be the boss of me.

As soon as Obama was elected, I said "He is going to have to make the rivers of America run with gold if he's going to survive". The close of the Bush era, a remarkable slide into poverty for the most prosperous nation on earth, allowed him to get elected. But it had the feel of the little kid in the Shining reaching out, summoning the groundskeeper. And I see, with ever increasing anger and frustration that Barak Obama has become some kind of racialised stalking horse, a goat layed out for the howling masses to descend upon. Jack Nicholson, just out of frame in the hallway with an axe.

So finally, Obama drags the birth certificate forth. Donald Trump claims it as victory. Reince Prebus (yes, you read that correctly, a parent did inflict that name on a child), the RNC chair, has the gall to imply that somehow this whole saga is Obama's fault. From the article linked above:

''As I've repeatedly stated, this issue is a distraction,'' said Reince Priebus, the chairman of the Republican National Committee.

''The president ought to spend his time getting serious about repairing our economy, working with Republicans and focusing on the long term sustainability of Medicare, Medicaid, and Social Security.

''Unfortunately his campaign politics and talk about birth certificates is distracting him from our number one priority - our economy.''

YAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGH!

I actually screamed when I read that. Even now, it makes me inarticulate with rage - there's a basic simian part of me that wishes the truth was a rock so I could bash the enemies of reason and sense with it. 2001 style.

But this brings me to the collapse of hope. For contained in this statement is the thesis for the destruction of this planet - a fractal replica on the inanity and horror of the age we're living in. It's a purely political statement - no actual assessment of the situation could lead to the conclusion that in any way did Obama manufacture this situation, the doubt over his birth certificate. A reasonable person would perhaps take this moment that a fringe element within his party had propagated this, and to demand that they now shut the fuck up and go back to fucking their cousins or demanding the right to arm bears or whatever it is that abject lunatics do when there isn't a black man in charge to fixate on. But instead, it's simply an opportunity to bend Truth over the table and give it another solid rogering. It's "Politics as Usual".

Once it becomes apparent that no issue, no matter how transparently obvious, becomes simply another battleground for political grandstanding; that lies have no consequence whatsoever, that one can simply spew nonsense without one's credibility being impaired at all, that we have descended into some post-modernist nightmare.

I find it interesting that whilst the right-wing takes great joy in heaping scorn on postmodernism, they are ready and willing to adopt its fluid notions of objectivity. For a break in this disheartening diatribe, and general amusement, please watch the following:

http://gawker.com/#!5791100/watch-stephen-colberts-defense-of-planned-parenthood

Which brings me to the horror. Right now, we, the human race, have a giant freight train of objectivity bearing down on us. We are standing on the verge of a dose of almost Lovecraftian objective reality. Science isn't Santa Claus or the Boogeyman. Not believing in it won't stop it tearing you limb from limb (yes, Santa Claus does that, it's why our parents destroy our belief in him before we hit puberty and get too naughty. It's for our safety). But it's a big complicated issue, one you have to think carefully about, think about the real ramifications and what the real possibilities are. Something that requires a level of curiosity, but also a healthy respect for certain immutibilities. But the people who are in charge, the people who have tied us to the tracks cackling and twirling their moustaches, they have not even the most basic respect for factuality. They can't make a statement that agrees with itself from beginning to end.

So what hope is there for us?

I just hope that the beetloid race that succeeds us has a little more sense.

Just for Nerds - Catching the Painting Bug

This post will be devoid of the usual rantology - apologies to any who tuned in for that. This particular post will simply be dedicated to the unabashed joy of painting - in particular, painting miniatures.

What I do isn't art. There are miniature painters who hit this standard, but I don't, anymore than a child who proficiently draws within the lines. But if I wanted to be an artist, I'd need a heroin habit, longer hair, motifs of sorrow, loss, and other such stuff. And I have no time to do all of those things because I have a pile of pewter that fills an entire cupboard that needs painting.


Miniature painting is like exercise (or at least, what I've been able to observe of exercise at a safe remove). At first it is painful and labourious. The rewards seem distant and the aches and pains ever present. But if you do some, everyday, even just a little, it gets easier and easier, and more and more consuming.


Having a fair whack of spare time on my hands at the moment has given me the opportunity to catch the bug. And it's been wonderful.


First of all, my giant pile of shame has been steadily diminishing. In a world full of unquantifiable gains and losses, this is something I can see happening. Bits of scattered pewter steadily become a squad, an army! I'm not good at setting goals but this is something tangible and concrete. It's a sense of achievement that grants me pretty minimal bragging rights within a very limited set of people, but the internal sense of satisfaction in definitely disproportionately large.


The way it starts to occupy your mind is also great for stress relief. Instead of worrying about the unavoidable minutia of adult life, you think about washes, what highlight you're going to use where and trying out that new feathering technique. I actually dreamt about washes and shading the other night.


There is a meditative aspect to painting that I haven't been able to access through actual meditation (actually, for various reasons meditation is now associated with social anxiety for me but that's a story for another time). In high school, and was pretty solidly stressed out, what with managing the only known atheist chapter of the Junior Anti-Sex League all by myself, listening to waaaaay to much Ministry and Big Black in the mornings and trying to complete work requirements. The only thing I think that kept me sane during that time was rhythmically painting skink after skink. This was back in the day when each was identical, so I don't even know how I managed to paint 80 odd of the little bastards.


Painting gets me out of a grown-up self-critical linguistic state. When I finish painting some giant monster and make "Raaaargh" noises as I put him on my shelf I am lost in the mindset of a child. There's no artifice to it - I'm not going to make more money, be cooler, or pull more ladies as a consequence of completing it. Yet there it is, a slice of pre-pubescent joy, to see something angry and cool-looking on the shelf. 8 year old Reuben would think it was completely awesome.


So there it is, a little love letter to my current hobby. For those of you out there who share it, then you know what I mean. For those of you out there who don't, well hopefully this is some insight into why I'm at home on a saturday night.

RSVP: Its part in my downfall (Apologies to Spike Milligan)

So...
After a productive year of successful singledom, this summer produced Bernard Black-eque feelings of the necessity of a summer girlfriend. Something about the humidity, I think. This culminated in an admission, at breakfast, to two of my nearest and dearest, that I did not foresee being able to last another year of singledom. This was an extraordinary admission from me, as I have previously claimed I could do a year of celibacy standing on my head (not literally). However, this statement bore with it an obvious question - if can't do singledom, what choice do I have?

Smeames, my erstewhile companion, has oft regailed me with success stories from the world of internet dating - I am told her sister located a strapping transylvanian gentleman thereon, with whom she has produced a child. With the promise of summer vampire love, and having watched too many episodes of True Blood, I resolved to at least look. No harm in looking right?

Initially, it seemed very unlikely to bear fruit. Lots of profile photos with pictures that looked like they'd been taken at flemington racecourse, with words like "bubbly" and "live, laugh, love" and other shudder inducing phrases. I was very close to giving up on the idea, when I stumbled across a young woman - black hair, likes sci fi and video games, has tattoos? Had I found my Ramona Flowers?

I took a deep breath and set about creating a profile. It's a difficult thing - trying to write something that appears snowflake-like, doesn't include any foibles that people aren't likely to find charming, not appear to be self-aggrandising whilst being exactly that. Neil Strauss wrote about "peacocking" in his excellent book "The Game", and this is very much what was brought to mind. If you haven't read this book, then you should - despite what I thought was highly suspect subject matter (the International Society of Pick Up Artists) it is in fact an extremely interesting examination of neuro-linguistic programming, human interaction, and ultimately a charming love story. And it has Courtney Love in it! But I digress.

So I wrote something that highlights what I believe to be the selling points of me, and obscures my Woody Allen-esque nerotics (I believe some people like my neurotic habits, but it's not romance material). And sent a form of limited exchange to the the dame who caught my eye.

It is here that the slightly odious element of monetisation enters the fray. I get it - I'm not some wide eyed neophyte. No one runs a dating site so they can go home with a warm fuzzy feeling. They do it to make money, and they're entitled to do so. But the only way to make such a system work is to restrict access between people. But you can send a little, canned piece of script that you can select out of several options, just to ensure you haven't wasted money on someone who perhaps sees you as "well, maybe if you were the last man on earth...but you'll still have to wear a bag over you head."

So I sent this, and to my near fatal shock, got a positive response - "You seem interesting, I would love to learn more about you."

Gads? More? About me? How could I refuse? Someone, somewhere out there was currently suffering from a dearth of information about me! How could I, as just, reasonable, compassionate man deny her this? Out came credit card.

I got ready to send an email. Finally, a chance to use my WORDS. I'm an articulate guy right? I even use the world "dilettante" in an appropriate context in my profile! So...

What little shame I have left does not permit you to give the exact text used, but it was something along the lines of "So...do you like...stuff?"

I am not surprised that this failed to elicit any response whatsoever.

Saturday night saw dear Smeames leave me at home with her laptop, scrolling endlessly through faces frozen in a rictus of "cheerful, bubbliness". There's something hollowing about this experience - the cold, brutal assessments you make on a person based on their slightest written inflections, the grim knowledge that the same callous judgements are at this very second being meted against you as well. But there's a sense of voyeuristic power as well - although you are  not entirely unobserved, with a click I can approach someone I'd never approach in real life. With another click, I can dismiss someone who's found me. I found myself quite addicted, I have to say. When Smeames returned home, she found me scrolling like a madman. It felt icky, slightly sickening, like eating too many pringles. But once you pop, you can't stop...
Monday was an oddity - I received a contact from a girl, far too attractive for the likes of me. Evidently the press I'd used had succeeded, but perhaps too well. Email banter ensued - areas of common interest found - and slowly, a consensus to meeting up in the real world.

It is important, at this critical juncture, to remind readers that I have this...tendency. I tend to construct these long, romantic narratives about any vague prospect I have. Long as in "growing old together" long. It requires little participation from the other person - in fact, the less they are involved, the better really. Real people rarely match up to the idealised narrative. I will henceforth refer to this as "The Ramona Flowers Effect". So of course, prior to even meeting this person I had spun this elaborate story of the past, present, and future of this involvement; its place in the grand scheme of my somewhat farcical romantic life.

Once again, gentle Smeames was the one to jar me out of my suppositions. Of course, I had no real idea who this person was. I had no idea whether we would work. I had no way of knowing at all. And acting like this was anything other than a possibility was abject foolishness.

Thus it was that I came to be much better prepared for the rejection that followed. We met, had a few drinks and went on our way. I have never felt so comfortable being let go by anyone. It was actually kind of a relief - no longer wondering whether enough I would attractive or witty enough, whether eating that for lunch was a wise idea, any of that stuff.

It seems to be winding up now - the interest I found, or garnered seems to be drying up. I have many rejections under my belt, endured with an increasingly degree of nonchalance, and a great number more of being ignored without response. I find myself doing this scientific dissection - the autopsy of a social experiment. I am chalking it up to a learning experience. I will now return to the quiet dignity of going to Pony, getting drunk and going home alone, or alternatively spending saturday evenings shooting monsters in Gears of War. I have a strong temptation to scrawl "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" across my profile and abandoning it to the wolves, but I still bear some tiny, niggling hope that something will come of it. But nonetheless, chase not the elusive transylvanian promise of internet dating. It is a perilous game.

Sometimes, I really, really hate Facebook.

Today is such a day.


Last night, I stayed up too late after drinking a bucket of coke during Tron. Today I am not my peaky best. So I follow a relatively benign link and end up inadvertently viewing the profiles of not one but two people I'd really prefer not to think about most of the time, let alone today of all things.


Do we need it? Constant information saturation, the melange of interconnected bollocks? I know it's pretty much a cyberpunk wet dream, total connectivity, global village rah rah rah. But fuck, my brainspace could use a break from knowing shit, once in a while.


He wrote, on his blog on the internet.


Yes, yes, yes, Juicy, salty slabs of delicious irony.


I'm a junky for the this information hyperload - the ready access to trivia, gossip, argument, opinion, hype, anti-hype, fucking you-tube videos of cats riding turtles, the lot. I have been lured in thoroughly. But fuck! Where's the nanny state when you need it? I don't need protection from seeing the accumulated piles of Zombies in Left 4 Dead 2. I need to be protected from pictures of my ex having fun.


I return you to your day. Hypocrite Out!