Ben Solo is going to get redeemed. You can count on it, at least if JJ Abrams understands even the smallest thing about the moral universe that George Lucas created in the first six Star Wars films. Redemption is as baked into the DNA of Star Wars as lightsabers and space battles, and to swerve away from that in the supposed final chapter of the Skywalker saga would be far more shocking than killing off all the characters at the end of Rogue One. Whether that redemption involves a love scene with Rey remains to be seen (don’t count on it), but by the end of the film Kylo Ren will have returned to being Ben Solo, and he will have found redemption.Continue reading “Kylo Ren vs Cancel Culture”
It’s the most wonderful time of year: the time when people show up on social media to fight for the idea that Die Hard is a Christmas movie. The thing is… there’s nobody to fight. Nobody really DISAGREES with that position; at most people like me respond to “Die Hard is a Christmas movie!” arguments with “Sure… okay. Whatever. I guess.”
This comes to mind because I saw this tweet from a friend of mine:
There is nothing more pathological to me than people who righteously defend that Die Hard is a Christmas movie when no one even cares enough to fight them on it. You’re tilting at windmills!!
— Desi (@DesiJed) December 4, 2018
And I thought it was very funny, but also very true. And not just true about Die Hard As Christmas Movie, but about all things in our lives.
As you proceed down the spiritual path some things become clearer to you. One of the great understandings you come to is that most of what people do or say to you is not personal; they’re not out to get you, they’re just acting on the conditioning and mind states in which they’re trapped. You can depersonalize a lot of the interactions you have, and suddenly things get less painful. The guy who is a jerk to you is acting out of his own pain, and you can bring compassion to the moment rather than feel bad or mad.
It’s so freeing, and it opens up the world in a whole new way. When you don’t have to take everything so damn personally a lot of negative moments can just pass by you like clouds passing by the sun. You don’t have to get hung up on them, and they only slightly darken your day for a second.
But the spiritual path ain’t that straight and narrow, and if you’re like me there’s nothing your fucked up conditioned mind can’t weaponize. And so this freeing understanding that everyone around you is wounded, is doing the best they can in that moment even if their best isn’t that good, that they are all just behaving in the ways that their genes and their parents and the world and their experiences taught them to behave, that they think they’re doing or saying what they need to do or say to protect themselves… it becomes a whole new way to be shitty to people.
And now for something completely different.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a novelist; over the years my writing found other outlets, but recently those old fiction muscles have been twitching. I’ve answered their call by writing some fiction stuff, and I’ve not known what to do with it, so I’ve decided to just go ahead and publish it on my Patreon.
Here’s a sample of The Ultimate Vengeance of Professor Death, a post-superhero novella in twelve chapters. You can read the remaining chapters by becoming a $10 patron on my Patreon – www.patreon.com/cinemasangha. If you’ve been thinking about supporting the site, this is a great time to do so!
And, full disclosure, I may put this up as a Kindle Single if there is enough of a response. Yes, that cuts into possible new subscribers, but I’m not trying to rip people off, just make a living.
Without further ado, the first two chapters of…
There used to be a familiar refrain in the aftermath of a mass shooting: don’t name the killer. Don’t give him the fame he wanted. I never took to this – it always seemed like magical thinking to me, a connection to the old days when a name was a power object – but I understood the rationale well enough.
Today we don’t really know the names of mass shooters, and I don’t think it’s because this campaign for an attitudinal shift worked. I think it’s because no one can keep up with them. Of all the statistics about shootings in this country, this is maybe the one that shakes me the most: these events are so common we don’t even have the time or the energy to care about who did it.
I come from the world of true crime and serial killer fascination; reading about and learning about the worst offenders in history are hobbies of mine. I do not turn away from these people – if anything I’m fascinated by these deadly outliers. But the mass shooter is no longer an outlier; he’s an increasingly banal figure stepping out of the shadows, unsurprisingly legal weapon in his hand. He’s angry, disaffected, almost always white. 99% of the time a he. We are fascinated by novelty – there was a time when mass shootings were so novel that they warranted songs about them, not in protest but in kind of stunned amazement (“I Don’t Like Mondays” by the Boomtown Rats, about one of the few mass shootings carried out by a woman) – and the reality is that mass shooters are no longer novel.
At the same time mass shootings are not quite banal. We are in a place where the same horrifying thing happens with almost clockwork regularity; we endure scheduled public traumas. The horror is real but everything else is kind of a blur. It’s the equivalent of being jumped by six guys – each fist and foot is a new and terrible pain, but the people beyond the limbs are out of cognitive range. The fists and the feet are almost independent agents of hurt.
There’s another song I think about, Phil Ochs’ “Universal Soldier.” It paints a picture of one soldier throughout history, fighting and dying in all wars:
He’s five foot-two and he’s six feet-four
He fights with missiles and with spears
He’s all of thirty-one and he’s only seventeen
He’s been a soldier for a thousand yearsHe’s a Catholic a Hindu an Atheist a Jain
A Buddhist and a Baptist and a Jew
And he knows he shouldn’t kill
And he knows he always will
Kill you for me my friend and me for youAnd he’s fighting for Canada
He’s fighting for France
He’s fighting for the USA
And he’s fighting for the Russians
And he’s fighting for Japan
And he thinks we’ll put an end to war this wayAnd he’s fighting for Democracy
He’s fighting for the Reds
He says it’s for the peace of all
He’s the one who must decide
Who’s to live and who’s to die
And he never sees the writing on the wall
This week I wrote about my second sober birthday, and the response I got was phenomenal. So many people contacted me to express not only their well-wishes and congratulations, but also to tell me how what I wrote impacted them. As a writer this is the dream – to talk about your own experiences and life and have other people say “This resonates with me. You’re saying something that means something to me.” Some of the kind words came from friends, some from longtime readers, some from people with whom I had never interacted with before. It was wonderful.
But two guys left less than complimentary comments on the piece. One guy says he knew me sixteen years ago, and wanted to make sure I knew I was an asshole. The other guy I don’t think knew me, but wanted to make sure I knew I was a bad person.
There were a dozen kind, affirming, positive replies (and hundreds of positive interactions on my Instagram post about my sober birthday) and two less kind ones. Guess which reactions I internalized?
In recovery we celebrate the worst day of our lives. After all, you don’t get sober with the help of a 12 step group if you’re doing just fine – you usually have to come in the door beaten and battered. Some people come in on their own two feet, but most of us come in on our knees. More than a few come in on their backs, wheeled into a hospital or jail.
But it’s like the Smashing Pumpkins song Today, which is all about how the worst day of Billy Corgan’s life was also the best – because he knew it couldn’t get worse. Hitting bottom doesn’t just imply that you have no further to fall, it implies that you’ve landed, and now you can start standing up.
Originally on this, the second anniversary of my sobriety, I wanted to write about my bottom and how it wasn’t just one event but rather a long skid of alcohol-fueled disaster that stretched throughout 2016. People sometimes think that a bottom means you decided one day that you had a problem, when the reality is that you knew for a while. The bottom is just the moment when you can no longer ignore that problem.
Writing about my bottom seemed self-indulgent, though, and maybe a little too “look at how I suffered!” Perhaps I’ll tell the full story of my annus horribilis at some point in the future, but I don’t think that story will be helpful to anyone except me today. What I do think might be of some help is if I tell you how I drank.
I was a blackout drinker.
Perhaps you think you know what that means – drinking until I became a drooling mess, falling asleep in some bar booth or on a subway platform. If only it was that lame. No, drinking until you blackout doesn’t mean passing out, although later you may well wish you had. A blackout drinker is someone who, when a certain amount of alcohol enters their system, has a part of their mind shut off. I have heard the blackout drinker’s brain during an episode described as a VCR without a tape in it, but I think it’s even heavier than that. The blackout drinker is walking and talking, may seem absolutely together and not even obviously super intoxicated, but essential parts of their brain have been shut off. The blackout drinker is a danger to themselves and others.
It’s very possible that Brett Kavanaugh doesn’t remember assaulting Christine Blasey Ford. It seems like Kavanaugh has been a heavy drinker, and if he suffered from blackouts while drinking he will never recall the incident. A blackout isn’t the same as passing out; a drinker in a blackout state may seem perfectly normal, but a switch has been thrown in their brain and they are no longer making memories. There are no memories for the drinker to recover. I’ve seen it compared to the old-fashioned VCR technology – you could set your VCR to record a TV show, but it wouldn’t record anything if you forgot to put a VHS tape in there. A person in a blackout has had their VHS tape ejected.
Or perhaps Brett Kavanaugh doesn’t remember assaulting Christine Blasey Ford because it was just not a big deal to him. He was raised in a culture, and lived in a community, where this kind of behavior might have been seen as fairly par for the course. That’s a pretty stinging indictment of our society, but it seems quite plausible. Kavanaugh came of age in a time very different from today, in a decade in which two of the most vaunted underdog movies – Revenge of the Nerds and Sixteen Candles – feature triumphant moments that we would now recognize as rape.
Neither of these options let Brett Kavanaugh off the hook. It’s just worth noting that he might very well have no memory of assaulting Ford. It’s worth noting that drinkers in blackouts also have a part of their brain turned off that regulates their behavior. It’s worth noting that he was raised in a culture where his values at that age may not have been positive. To judge his character today based on his actions in 1982 might be unfair. A lot of growth and change can happen in 30 years.
So let’s judge him on his actions in 2018. And in 2018 he has shown himself to be a moral coward, a man without decency, and a person willing to throw his own humanity away to score a win.
As you may know, I have a Patreon running to support this site. Patreon is a platform that allows you to personally and directly support creators and artists, and I’ll tell you that Patreon has been a game changer for me.
The way it works is that you become a subscriber of a creator, and in return you get exclusive content/goodies. The folks who subscribe to my Patreon at certain levels get exclusive content every week.
At $5 a month (that’s just $1.25 a week) you get a weekly recommendation from me. I try to keep it eclectic, so some weeks I’ll write about a book, some weeks about a game, some weeks about a TV show, some weeks about a podcast.
At $10 a month (only $2.50 a week! Less than coffee!) you get not only that weekly recommendation, you get a biweekly long review. All of my writing is longer, but I try to make the biweekly reviews meatier. Today I published 3000 words on GLOW season two for instance. This is how it begins:
Let us praise Netflix shows that don’t bulge with unwanted wasteful minutes, get lost with wheel-spinning wandering, or sag beneath wretchedly wooden and wearisome plots. Let us praise Netflix shows that come in at 30 or so minutes, that zip through stories and that leave us wanting more. Let us praise GLOW.
GLOW, loosely based on the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling TV show, comes into its second season with its characters and situations established, and that allows it to move forward at a pace that would baffle the likes of leadfooted Matt Murdock or Luke Cage. The first season of GLOW had an infectious “Hey kids, let’s put on a show” vibe that propelled it forward through complication after complication; this year the show’s focus is more on the actual creative act. If season one was about getting into place to make a thing, season two is about artists finding their space to create and express themselves, and experiencing the consequences of that.
The biggest difference between this season and the last is that GLOW season two is much, much lighter; the first season included and abortion and a character unknowingly trying to sleep with his own daughter. Season two softens the character of Sam Sylvia (Marc Maron), while also removing much of the darkness from Ruth (Alison Brie). The softening of Sam is perhaps the most disappointing aspect of the season (along with limited screentime for the secondary characters, but more on that later) – season one proved that a show could take the traditional Bad Man trope and do something interesting with it when the Bad Man is not just free to be an endless asshole. Sam Sylvia was a piece of shit in season one, but characters we liked saw things in him that allowed us to like him; he was both a heavy and a hero (or a babyface and a heel, to use wrestling terminology), which made him unpredictable and interesting.
But in season two he’s mostly cuddly. He’s a dick at the beginning of the season (firing Marianne Palka’s Vicky the Viking (likely to free the actress to direct her latest film, EGG), but he quickly lets up. The in-story reasoning is that his daughter is now living with him, forcing Sam to reconsider his attitude, but it feels more like a retcon than anything else. The fact that he only found out Justine (Britt Baron) was his daughter after making a serious and gross pass at her is never once mentioned this season; the aftermath of that icky moment is unexamined. There’s no room for something that heavy in Sam’s story this season.
The full review is waaay more positive than that opening makes it sound. Maybe I should have pulled a section from the body of the piece. OH WELL.
Anyway, I’ll always publish stuff here on the site, but I currently have no plans to ever republish Patreon-only posts. So if you wanted to read “The Surprising Moral Complexity of Pumpkinhead” then a) you’re my kind of people and b) you gotta be a patron. It’s also where you’ll get reviews of new movies like RBG and A Quiet Place, as well as a deep dive into Paterson‘s spiritual underpinnings.
Of course you don’t have to do $10 a month. Your support at even $1 a month means the world to me. As my means become more limited this Patreon gives me the space to continue writing, which is what I think I was put on this Earth to do. Your $1 a month is not only a buck in my pocket, it’s a reassurance that you’re interested in hearing what I have to say as I continue this strange, confusing and sometimes very difficult journey.
If you want to become a patron, click here. If you don’t, this site will remain freely accessible to you!