Depth Charges!

Hi, Everyone.

Well, I’m back from New Mexico and I’ve got lots and lots and LOTS of stories to relate. There’s the flight, the train, the trip to Old Town, the return, and the Graduation We Almost Missed and how this might have resulted in the scragging of a subway car operator.

But…

Before I get to all that, I’d like to restart an old Xcargo tradition. To wit, today, we’re going to have a visit with the lowest form of explosive-cargo…

Death Charges!

*

So I’m really kind of fearful for the Republican Party. Oh, it’s not that the GOP is doomed or anything, despite the excessively hopeful pronouncements coming out of the DNC. Remember, just a few years ago Republicans were saying the same thing about the Dems.

But, it is true that the current party leadership seems depressingly weird. You’ll recall that Dick Cheney is leading an apparently successful crusade against Colin Powell on the grounds that he, like Mr. Obama, is not tough enough.

Thus, once more, we have the interesting image of a man who’s never gotten closer to an armed conflict than a Baghdad drive-by photo-op in an armored plated limousine accusing an honest-to-God-war-hero of cowardice.

I mean, sheesh.

That’s like Barney Fife hating on Arnold Schwarzenegger for insufficient biceps.

*

While we’re on the topic, the chap that Cheney is promoting (as the next GOP presidential candidate?) is Rush Limbaugh.

Now, I’ve nothing against Mr. Limbaugh or any other sideshow freak, but the other day I saw a video of him performing his radio show. He was bouncing, bumping, and spitting, and, God forgive me, but the only thing I could think was that he resembled a large and angry mushroom.

So, you see my point, I trust. There is just something scary about the Party of Lincoln taking as its public face…a dyspeptic fungus.

*

Speaking of Dick Cheney, is it true that he was produced when German geneticists gene spliced a pit bull and Donald Duck in mid conniption fit?

Just checking.

*

Speaking of the GOP reminds me of Arnold Schwarzenegger which reminds me of the Terminator which reminds me of the new Terminator movie (“Salvation”).

I’ve been interested in the film since it came out. I probably won’t ever see it, at least not on the big screen, though I will rent it on DVD when it comes out. I like to be able to fast-forward through the boring bits, like all that tedious plot and character development, so that I can get to the explosions. You know. The good stuff.

Anyway, when I first heard about the film, I was sure the new Star Trek would clean the Terminator’s clock. I figured that the special effects would bring in the fanboys (and girls) in droves, while the teenaged James Kirk and twenty-something Spock would get the un-fan girls (and their mothers) into the theaters as well, sort of the way that Orlando Bloom did for Hobbits and Pirates.

Now . . . I’m not so sure.

You see, I think I may have underestimated the appeal of _ Terminator: Salvation _ . I think, in fact, that it touches something real and important in the hearts of almost all men and most women.

To wit, the sincere desire to go out and blast the holy living shit outta sumthin’.


*

Actually, I’m kind of serious. I think most of us (it’s certainly true for me) really, really want the cathartic release of violence, but without moral consequences.

So, zombie movies (Dawn of the Dead), vampire movies (Blade), and Frankensteinian machines (Terminator, Matrix) are perfect. You get to destroy something without actually committing murder. You can’t kill something that’s already dead, or was never living in the first place.

But, also, I think there is another factor at work.

Specifically, I think most of us, secretly, when no one is watching, are at least a little bit on the side of the zombies, the vampires, and the killing machines.

You see, if they win…well, it’s the end of the world, but… on the other hand…

That guy that cut you off in traffic this morning, the snotty woman at the personnel office, the bully who stuffed you in your locker in eighth grade, that dipsh*t at the DMV, the highway cop that caught you doing 56 in a 55 mph zone, your ex-husband or wife or their lawyer, that pompous ass on the dissertation committee, the guy who yells into his cell phone in public places…

They all get nuked, too.

Might be worth it.


*

Actually, I’m very interested in movies from a cultural perspective. Whether they mean to or not, they tend to reflect the social discourse of our age. They reveal to us what the larger society says we can and cannot say and believe.

For instance, a few years ago I was watching the bonus features on the DVD of a famous horror film. The film in question was rooted in Catholic belief; characters went to hell and heaven and limbo, and were eternally damned for suicide (even if, or particularly if, it was actually an act of self-sacrifice designed to spare others pain and suffering).

Truth be told, it was a pretty gruesome film with a pretty gruesome conception of God, but, be that as it may, it had great special effects. In fact, the special features included an interview with one of the talented FX chiefs involved.

In the middle of the interview, the man said an interesting thing. He said that his effects may have been more successful because he was Jewish, not Catholic, and so brought a new perspective to Catholic conceptions of hell.

Now, there was nothing wrong with him saying that. Not a thing.

But…

Suppose, just for a minute, that a Catholic filmmaker were to make a horror movie based on a not terribly respectful reading of the Torah.

Can you imagine the storm of protest that would result?

*

Besides, which…

Why go to movies? If you want a real Catholic horror story, you just have to open up your copy of the New York Times or any other major newspaper in recent months. There, you will probably find a story about a major report released by the Irish government about child abuse in Catholic reform schools and orphanages. It seems, according to the report, that nuns and priests systematically raped, beat, abused, and exploited tens of thousands of children under their care.

Moreover, it seems that the larger Church made no effort to discipline the pedophiles and sadists among its clergy. Rather, it spared no expense to cover up their crimes, and, more, blackened the names of their accusers.

And this . . . THIS . . . is what we receive from those who present themselves as our moral superiors, who claim a direct link to God, and announce that they are thus empowered to judge our failings.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not just nuns and priests that I object to here. I’ve seen my share of corrupt Protestants. There have been Buddhist murderers and Hindu tyrants. We all know about the 9-11 hijackers. And, yes, Stalin and Pol Pot had their faiths as well. They were evangelical atheists in good standing.

The point being that there are an awful lot of people out there claiming divine justifications for pretty terrible things. And we all know that. We know it, and yet, somehow, we end up following them just the same.

Which makes me wonder.

Could it be that another reason that we find apocalyptic movies attractive is that we know, on some level, that when and if God comes, he’ll have the Terminator with him…

And we’ll damn well deserve what we’re going to get?


*

Onward and upward.

mjt





Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker

Busy, Busy, Busy....

Okay, everyone,

This week’s column is going to be kinda short and next week’s is going to be even shorter. In fact, it isn’t going to exist at all. I’m not doing an Xcargo for the week of May 11, 2009, or for the week of May 18, 2009.

That’s because I’m busy. Very busy, Very, very busy. As in Holy Jumping Catfish-&-Cattle-Prods busy. As in I’m-never-gonna-get-this-all-done and afterwards they’ll-find-me-propped-up-in-front-of-my-computer-and-gibbering busy.

That’s because ye ole bunch-o-things are happening. Specifically, next week I’m flying off to visit my parents in New Mexico. I’m so looking forward to the flight. You betcha. The three a.m. departure times. The lines. The almost missing the plane. The friendly Homeland Securitoids with large caliber fire arms. The teeny-weenie chairs. The knees under my chin. The scrumptious airline food which now consists entirely of small indigestible nuggets of something or other that’s hawked at a penny per peanut. Golly. Gosh. Good times.

But there’s more. Before the whisper jet leaves the tarmac, I’ve got other stuff to do. Like, I’ve got to finish up editing several chapters of technical manuals. You see, since the overpaid-underworked-Academic gig didn’t pan out (no great loss, really. I look terrible in tweed), I’m trying to make a living by, first, teaching lots and lots of classes at lots and lots of different schools, and, second, doing freelance tech stuff.

The aforesaid techie stuff I’m doing right now consists of wading hip deep through a 400 page guide to a certain open source programmer’s tool with tons of easy-to-read prose like “The autodingdong pre-code process generation wingnut should be first de-pre-referenced and objectified under the GNU-non-compliant FLANGTHORB variable where Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey A kiddley divey too, wouldn't you.”

Oh. Joy.

Actually, it isn’t as bad as reading postmodern literary criticism . . . nor the last three books of my former dissertation committee…but, on the other hand, so’s a happy afternoon spent sticking toothpicks under your fingernails.

Anyhoo, then there’s teaching. This week I’ve got to finish grading the papers from my English 1 class. And I’ve got to do the lecture for it. And I’ve got to prepare the next paper assignment. And I’ve got to get ready to do the final grades. And I’ve got to do it all while at least pretending I know what I’m doing. I don’t. Know what I’m doing, that is. Not really. And I’m proud of it. So there.

Oh, and here’s a little tip. It isn’t just me. NONE of us knows what we’re doing. Next time you’re taking a class and you wonder about your instructor, rest assured, he’s just as clueless as you think he is. Or she is. More so. Teaching is very often the art of staying just one step ahead of the class. Or running to catch up with it. Then you try to have a good attitude about it.

And there’s the rub. The nastier your instructor, the more pompous, the more often he/she refers to “professionalism,” “scholarship,” or “academic rigor,” the further behind they actually are. They’re scared (even if they don’t exactly know it consciously). So, if you’re student, and you do your very level best, and you turn in the finest paper you can possibly write . . . and he/she still grades it like it was toxic waste and suggests you pursue a career as a crash test dummy (and we’re not talking the musical kind here, buckeroo), remember, you already have your revenge. Your instructor is three quarters in the grave. And knows it.

But, anyway, after I get the English 1 class done, I’ve got to get my English 2 class ready to roll. That means I have to write several lectures, come up with a syllabus, plan my lessons, and hope to God that none of the students have already taken my English 1 class because they’ll see how much I’m basically just repeating myself dully. And I do dull well. Some would say I’m the Duke of Dull. Or the Tsar of Tedium. Or the Baron of Boring. Insert additional alliteration here and snore. Then repeat.

BUT, that’s not all. I return to Boston on a Thursday. The next day, the Friday, I get to start a whole new class. This time it’s a course in American history. You see, I’m teaching an undergrad seminar for thirty or so students . . . most of whom are Chinese. It’s part of a program, you see, by which foreign students come to colleges to Learn Our Wisdom. Boy. Have we got a surprise for them. We haven’t got any. Wisdom, I mean. We’re dumb as a brick. They should have realized that when we let Wall Street brokers loot our economy. And voted for George W. Bush. And invaded Iraq. But, apparently they weren’t watching. And we’ve already cashed the check. Now, there’s a learning experience for ‘em.

So, anyway, I’ve got to come up with ANOTHER bunch of lectures, and another syllabus, and an assigned textbook, and a passel of handouts, and several assorted readings. By next week. While editing GNU-complaint dozy doats. And grading papers. And planning English 2 classes. And flying places. God help my students. Somebody has to. Sure ain’t going to be me.

(In fact, truth be told, it’s going to be an interesting class. You see, I’ve taught a lot of Chinese students in my time. We’ve gotten along fine. But, I’ve always wondered, will the day come when, finally, we face the reality that people may be friends, and nations may be allies, but ultimately, states do not marry until death do them part. Ultimately, they seek their own ends. Will my students ever sit before me as I lecture, smiling, but with that fact in mind? Theirs is, after all, a rising power. Whereas, in the last twenty years, we have done so very much to waste our own energies, resources, and dignity.)

But, moving on…

So, that’s what I’m up to. And that’s why I’m not going to be writing an Xargo next week or the week after. It’s hard. I know. Still, buck up. I’ll return. My absence is only temporary.

But I can’t write much more at the moment. I’m too busy with all those other chores.

Oh, and something else. I forgot. There’s another thing that is commanding all my time and energy. It’s a question that haunts me, that occupies my thoughts, and demands all my attention.

To wit: If there is a didgeridoo…

Is there also one that doesn’t?

Until next time…

Onward and upward.
















Copyright © 2009 Michael Jay Tucker