Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label politics. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Weird On Wheels: Consumer Campaigning vs. Wacky Wit
No cars in the city – penitentiaries built and maintained to the standards of country clubs and golf courses – businessmen wearing clown costumes to work. These platforms might seem odd to the public, but that’s only because they follow the definition more visibly than the dominant parties’ (“weird: strange and uncanny or bizarre” – Oxford Study Dictionary, 1996). In fact, the weirdest part of all is likely the coverage. The media-safe parties (in Canada; the Liberals, NDP, and the Conservatives; and in the US; the Democrats and Republicans) are more-often-than-not backed up by some hefty wads of cash to make their campaigns soar to peaks where outlooks become secondary concern, and popularity; key.
Hunter S. Thompson, inventor of Gonzo Journalism and novelist was not your average writer. This is the very man that wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – a tale of drug-induced antics while on assignment in the city of broken bank accounts and all-night boozeries. If you’ve read the book or seen the movie, you’ll know this is a man who pushes every limit in sight, and when he campaigned for Sheriff of Aspen, Colorado in 1969, there was no exception. Thompson was a prominent figure of an anarchist group known as the party for Freak Power. His platform included a legalization of the recreational use of narcotics (while prosecuting profiting dealers harshly to reduce gang activity), to “Sod the streets at once” (The Great Shark Hunt, Simon & Shuster Paperbacks, 1979) and create large parking-lots on the outskirts of Aspen in order to reduce pollution and preserve nature, to change the name of Aspen to “Fat City” by public referendum as to prevent the greedy from capitalizing on the name (for example, titles such as the Aspen Music Festival would then on be known as the “Fat City Music Festival”), forbid hunting and fishing in Aspen (or Fat City) to all non-residents, and the ban of weapons in public for all officers (including Thompson, who was a well-known firearms enthusiast). Of course, Thompson felt it was very important that Aspen elect a responsible party, and in his efforts, promised his community that if he became Sheriff, he’d never eat mescaline while on duty.
Hunter S. Thompson - Aspen Sheriff Election 1970
Ten years later, Jello Biafra – former Dead Kennedys lead singer and since then solo and spoken word artist – ran for mayor in San Francisco. What was originally meant to be a prank soon turned into a serious involvement in local politics and social order. His campaign promised everything from placing a rule that required businessmen to dress in clown attire within San Francisco to a citywide ban on cars (in an attempt to reduce pollution). But here is where the media attacks again, showcasing only the bizarre and offering little exposure for the revolutionary. Among his “weird” campaign moves are some plans that Jello’s argued had received too little attention: he felt that squatting should be legal in abandoned San Franciscan homes; he opted for elections to decide the occupations and jurisdictions of local police; played for a 50% panhandler commission for all state workers laid off due to deficit-caused staff reductions; and stood for jails being moved to local golf courses “so [occupants] can enjoy true rehabilitation like the Watergate criminals” (from an interview with Jools Holland). Despite the fact that he only won 3% of the votes, Biafra – his real name Eric Reed Boucher – did manage to put a dent in the politically limited wall of San-Francisco: following the election: no candidate was to run under any name other than the one given to them at birth.
Despite wacky antics and bold campaign promises, none of these parties went anywhere past their campaign as far as electorate success sees. The way North Americans and many more people of the world have been raised is to the understanding that the person who puts the most of their self into their work is the one that achieves the greatest cookie-jar success: in the case of campaigning; the more a party spends, the greater their audience becomes. Fairly independent parties, they don’t have the buck for that bang. This is where the track and field of the political race becomes more about Gatorade sponsorships than the ability to jump higher – run faster – throw further – run a country up to speed. It’s that kind of corporate funding that clouds the judgment. It gets people thinking who to vote for – who will cater to their needs in the future (their needs, their future – not their future’s future) – who’s drinking the same sports drink as them – who they should invest in.
Just like athletes drop sponsors, the sellout parties drop values along the road. Here is where generations of fence-sitters lose their strength and pick a box that seems familiar, because too different is too much to handle. In general, NHL athletes didn’t stop playing hockey when they changed the rules – instigated shoot outs in place of overtimes; they kept playing hockey because they were good at it and made good cash money. The year before that they were on strike, this was the new harvest season, and they had to make up for some dead crops.
Unlike the cash-driven parties we see, firing different philosophies every other day of the week, the weird stick to their guns still to this day. Hunter S. Thompson lived by his motto ’til the day he killed himself; “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro;” he never won any elections, but his writing still exists just as it did long before his new audiences were even conceived – just as popular, and if not, more. Jello’s motto, a little different, but just as influential: “don’t hate the media, become the media” – and he’s done a good job at that, producing albums at a rate so fast it’s as if the lyrical content of each song was as easily rendered as simple stones he only had to pick off the earth.
Become the media. Turn pro. Separate the suit-wearing clowns from the real people, and take your picking. Think about how satisfying it is, seeing a clown get a cream pie right on the nose. Ask the “weird,” and they’ll probably tell you that this is about all the clowns are good for: laughs.
*originally published in The Undercroft, vol.2, iss.3: "Rally in the Alley" as a feature article.
----------------
Now playing: The Misfits - Where Eagles Dare
Hunter S. Thompson, inventor of Gonzo Journalism and novelist was not your average writer. This is the very man that wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – a tale of drug-induced antics while on assignment in the city of broken bank accounts and all-night boozeries. If you’ve read the book or seen the movie, you’ll know this is a man who pushes every limit in sight, and when he campaigned for Sheriff of Aspen, Colorado in 1969, there was no exception. Thompson was a prominent figure of an anarchist group known as the party for Freak Power. His platform included a legalization of the recreational use of narcotics (while prosecuting profiting dealers harshly to reduce gang activity), to “Sod the streets at once” (The Great Shark Hunt, Simon & Shuster Paperbacks, 1979) and create large parking-lots on the outskirts of Aspen in order to reduce pollution and preserve nature, to change the name of Aspen to “Fat City” by public referendum as to prevent the greedy from capitalizing on the name (for example, titles such as the Aspen Music Festival would then on be known as the “Fat City Music Festival”), forbid hunting and fishing in Aspen (or Fat City) to all non-residents, and the ban of weapons in public for all officers (including Thompson, who was a well-known firearms enthusiast). Of course, Thompson felt it was very important that Aspen elect a responsible party, and in his efforts, promised his community that if he became Sheriff, he’d never eat mescaline while on duty.
Hunter S. Thompson - Aspen Sheriff Election 1970
Ten years later, Jello Biafra – former Dead Kennedys lead singer and since then solo and spoken word artist – ran for mayor in San Francisco. What was originally meant to be a prank soon turned into a serious involvement in local politics and social order. His campaign promised everything from placing a rule that required businessmen to dress in clown attire within San Francisco to a citywide ban on cars (in an attempt to reduce pollution). But here is where the media attacks again, showcasing only the bizarre and offering little exposure for the revolutionary. Among his “weird” campaign moves are some plans that Jello’s argued had received too little attention: he felt that squatting should be legal in abandoned San Franciscan homes; he opted for elections to decide the occupations and jurisdictions of local police; played for a 50% panhandler commission for all state workers laid off due to deficit-caused staff reductions; and stood for jails being moved to local golf courses “so [occupants] can enjoy true rehabilitation like the Watergate criminals” (from an interview with Jools Holland). Despite the fact that he only won 3% of the votes, Biafra – his real name Eric Reed Boucher – did manage to put a dent in the politically limited wall of San-Francisco: following the election: no candidate was to run under any name other than the one given to them at birth.
Despite wacky antics and bold campaign promises, none of these parties went anywhere past their campaign as far as electorate success sees. The way North Americans and many more people of the world have been raised is to the understanding that the person who puts the most of their self into their work is the one that achieves the greatest cookie-jar success: in the case of campaigning; the more a party spends, the greater their audience becomes. Fairly independent parties, they don’t have the buck for that bang. This is where the track and field of the political race becomes more about Gatorade sponsorships than the ability to jump higher – run faster – throw further – run a country up to speed. It’s that kind of corporate funding that clouds the judgment. It gets people thinking who to vote for – who will cater to their needs in the future (their needs, their future – not their future’s future) – who’s drinking the same sports drink as them – who they should invest in.
Just like athletes drop sponsors, the sellout parties drop values along the road. Here is where generations of fence-sitters lose their strength and pick a box that seems familiar, because too different is too much to handle. In general, NHL athletes didn’t stop playing hockey when they changed the rules – instigated shoot outs in place of overtimes; they kept playing hockey because they were good at it and made good cash money. The year before that they were on strike, this was the new harvest season, and they had to make up for some dead crops.
Unlike the cash-driven parties we see, firing different philosophies every other day of the week, the weird stick to their guns still to this day. Hunter S. Thompson lived by his motto ’til the day he killed himself; “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro;” he never won any elections, but his writing still exists just as it did long before his new audiences were even conceived – just as popular, and if not, more. Jello’s motto, a little different, but just as influential: “don’t hate the media, become the media” – and he’s done a good job at that, producing albums at a rate so fast it’s as if the lyrical content of each song was as easily rendered as simple stones he only had to pick off the earth.
Become the media. Turn pro. Separate the suit-wearing clowns from the real people, and take your picking. Think about how satisfying it is, seeing a clown get a cream pie right on the nose. Ask the “weird,” and they’ll probably tell you that this is about all the clowns are good for: laughs.
*originally published in The Undercroft, vol.2, iss.3: "Rally in the Alley" as a feature article.
----------------
Now playing: The Misfits - Where Eagles Dare
Monday, January 5, 2009
New York City
Part One
Dan from New Orleans
We got our tickets from roll call, and the relief that came with it was instant cause for a celebratory smoke for the two smokers in our quartet. They lit up, and after a moment of reflective commentary on the ridiculousness of the whole situation, being in New York City on such short sleep, tired legs, and little planning, this guy with camo shorts walks up to us. We ate a six in the morning breakfast at White Castle – where were our heads? Nervous giggles all around from a bunch of small towners.
And that’s when we met this guy, Dan, who said (and sounded like) he was from Nawlins (New Orleans, dontchaknow). Anyway, this dude, he was sweet.
He approached us because of the cigarettes.
“What are those?” he asked, pointing to a hand holding a dart.
What a miserable country, I thought. Our corporations can’t even perpetuate their own identity as Canadian. Even in our closest neighbouring country, we’re looked at like a bunch of wandering vagrants smoking cheap stuff short of Marlboro. Was smoking such a foreign concept when on the topic of our land? Our government systematically extirpated any sort of relationship with this menace in the advertising realm of its marketplace as if it was amputating some unsightly extra appendage, but it still allowed those companies to manufacture and traffic the things. The hypocrisy is ludicrous, of course. Imitate the rod and spoil the pimp, I guess. It almost makes me want to smoke. I probably would if I wasn’t allergic to it.
We pathetically explain the relationship we have with these cigarettes and tell him we like his shorts, laughing because we’ve all got the same thing going on. They’re really just convenient for wandering and carrying a lot of shit. Dan told us he was in New Orleans when Katrina hit – maybe those shorts had some history.
Dan’s about to leave to find his friends, and he turns around to ask the four of us if we’d like to join him further up the line – and well, the dude’s friends are right at the front. I’m not even talking twenty or even a couple people from the entrance or anything. I’m talking right at the gate. It turned out these friends were just two Aussie girls he met while partying the night before. One was talking about a party she was going to have after the concert in her loft. One of my friends looked up like it was an opportunity for a place to stay the night. Our luck was only this good in this state of miserable presentation: we must have looked like helpless, scared rodents in a city that’s too big even to begin looking for the scraps of food left in the gutter.
Either way, I guess we must have been good people.
We stood in line for another twenty minutes, and security opened the gates. They let us loose, but not before they dissected the contents of our bags for some sort of treasure akin to some booze or a bag of dope. We were too cautious for anything like that though. We were wild kids, but we shrank at the very notion of American border authorities, with ominous, post- 9/11 images of Muslims being picked out and dragged into interrogation rooms by some of the most clean-shaven cops in the country haunting our foresight. They confiscated my Nalgene bottle because it was too likely to be used as a weapon and I was a teenager in one of the largest settings perfect for anonymous, mindless, destructive behaviour. Event staff saw punks like me beyond their aviators every weekend, and even more often in the summer. And this was a hip-hop concert; too often closely affiliated with its violent brother, rap. I felt raped and insulted, but I gave the swine my bottle and in my head I thought of profanities I was too weak and outnumbered to assault him with.
Dan let us in on a little secret. He’d smuggled in some joints under his belt. We kept him around for some entertainment, I forgot to mention, he was a pretty funny guy.
Halfway through the day, Dan was still with us and he was comfortable enough to break out a new treat. He turned to my friend and asked if he wanted a hit. He took the offer, but not after he realized what was being pushed on him. Dan opens his mouth to reveal a single tab of what could only have been genuine LSD. We all knew how much hospitality was too much. “Nah man, I’m good.” Dan shrugged his head and closed his mouth, waiting to be lifted to a new level of existence among a crowd of sweaty, shirtless youth that was just there for the good time. I wondered what horrible incantations he would start shouting when the crowd conjured waves of Ws out of their hands when Wu-Tang Clan came on stage. I remembered that DARE program and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas simultaneously.
But what did I know. Dan was the epitome of hip, and he must have done this before. A concert held in a venue that could handle a capacity of up to 70000 people was a helluva lot to lay on any amateur acid head, after all. It was clear that Dan was used to the crude nature of authority in this country, and fear hadn’t ripped his heart out yet.
Dan from New Orleans
We got our tickets from roll call, and the relief that came with it was instant cause for a celebratory smoke for the two smokers in our quartet. They lit up, and after a moment of reflective commentary on the ridiculousness of the whole situation, being in New York City on such short sleep, tired legs, and little planning, this guy with camo shorts walks up to us. We ate a six in the morning breakfast at White Castle – where were our heads? Nervous giggles all around from a bunch of small towners.
And that’s when we met this guy, Dan, who said (and sounded like) he was from Nawlins (New Orleans, dontchaknow). Anyway, this dude, he was sweet.
He approached us because of the cigarettes.
“What are those?” he asked, pointing to a hand holding a dart.
What a miserable country, I thought. Our corporations can’t even perpetuate their own identity as Canadian. Even in our closest neighbouring country, we’re looked at like a bunch of wandering vagrants smoking cheap stuff short of Marlboro. Was smoking such a foreign concept when on the topic of our land? Our government systematically extirpated any sort of relationship with this menace in the advertising realm of its marketplace as if it was amputating some unsightly extra appendage, but it still allowed those companies to manufacture and traffic the things. The hypocrisy is ludicrous, of course. Imitate the rod and spoil the pimp, I guess. It almost makes me want to smoke. I probably would if I wasn’t allergic to it.
We pathetically explain the relationship we have with these cigarettes and tell him we like his shorts, laughing because we’ve all got the same thing going on. They’re really just convenient for wandering and carrying a lot of shit. Dan told us he was in New Orleans when Katrina hit – maybe those shorts had some history.
Dan’s about to leave to find his friends, and he turns around to ask the four of us if we’d like to join him further up the line – and well, the dude’s friends are right at the front. I’m not even talking twenty or even a couple people from the entrance or anything. I’m talking right at the gate. It turned out these friends were just two Aussie girls he met while partying the night before. One was talking about a party she was going to have after the concert in her loft. One of my friends looked up like it was an opportunity for a place to stay the night. Our luck was only this good in this state of miserable presentation: we must have looked like helpless, scared rodents in a city that’s too big even to begin looking for the scraps of food left in the gutter.
Either way, I guess we must have been good people.
We stood in line for another twenty minutes, and security opened the gates. They let us loose, but not before they dissected the contents of our bags for some sort of treasure akin to some booze or a bag of dope. We were too cautious for anything like that though. We were wild kids, but we shrank at the very notion of American border authorities, with ominous, post- 9/11 images of Muslims being picked out and dragged into interrogation rooms by some of the most clean-shaven cops in the country haunting our foresight. They confiscated my Nalgene bottle because it was too likely to be used as a weapon and I was a teenager in one of the largest settings perfect for anonymous, mindless, destructive behaviour. Event staff saw punks like me beyond their aviators every weekend, and even more often in the summer. And this was a hip-hop concert; too often closely affiliated with its violent brother, rap. I felt raped and insulted, but I gave the swine my bottle and in my head I thought of profanities I was too weak and outnumbered to assault him with.
Dan let us in on a little secret. He’d smuggled in some joints under his belt. We kept him around for some entertainment, I forgot to mention, he was a pretty funny guy.
Halfway through the day, Dan was still with us and he was comfortable enough to break out a new treat. He turned to my friend and asked if he wanted a hit. He took the offer, but not after he realized what was being pushed on him. Dan opens his mouth to reveal a single tab of what could only have been genuine LSD. We all knew how much hospitality was too much. “Nah man, I’m good.” Dan shrugged his head and closed his mouth, waiting to be lifted to a new level of existence among a crowd of sweaty, shirtless youth that was just there for the good time. I wondered what horrible incantations he would start shouting when the crowd conjured waves of Ws out of their hands when Wu-Tang Clan came on stage. I remembered that DARE program and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas simultaneously.
But what did I know. Dan was the epitome of hip, and he must have done this before. A concert held in a venue that could handle a capacity of up to 70000 people was a helluva lot to lay on any amateur acid head, after all. It was clear that Dan was used to the crude nature of authority in this country, and fear hadn’t ripped his heart out yet.
^From the front of the line (thanks Dan).
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