Only Your Shitty Kid Can Stop City-Fires

I.

Perusing my Facebook newsfeed I was astonished to find that the deadheads had broken free from their Cosmos binge long enough to update their feedback loop with a new (see: 2 years old) article by The Mind Unleashed. I could just plaster atop the whole site a [citation needed] and call it a day, but the content is so lysergically absurd that I'm already seeing fractals. Let's ride this one out:

The article is titled Nonconformity and Freethinking Now Considered Mental Illnesses, which is your first clue that maybe these clickbaiters have a bit of a bias. Rule #1 of media: always read with the consideration of what the author wants to be true. The medium is the message. Luckily for you, I'm just looking to fund another refill of my rum-pitcher. But unlike me, The Mind Unleashed knows how to work an audience, so applying the rules of cult leadership, first on the agenda is to convince the reader that everyone else is lying to them. 

Today's edition of everyone else = psychology, which to a Mind Unleashed reader implicitly translates to Big Pharma.

The article ham-fistedly outlines several additions to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, which they erroneously describe as extensions of the DSM-IV (1). As they glibly decry, the DSM has added to the roster of diagnoses Oppositional Defiant Disorder (ODD), which the APA characterizes as patterns of defiance, irritability, and opposition to authority, and which TMU mistranslates as the creative pathfinders of our doomed future. They go on to extrapolate their misunderstanding, saying that the addition of the diagnosis "should give any freethinking American reason to worry".

Let me stop you there, Nostromo, how the Hell do you think these psychological evaluations are playing out?

"Could you tell me about your family?"
"I don't wanna"
"Jesus, get this fucking wildling some Zyprexa, pronto"

ODD isn't some diagnosis Big Pharma is using to drown your little insurgent in meds and Newspeak, it's reserved for kids that are screaming for hours on end just to make sure Mom has to go to work with a purse full of 5 Hour Energys. Treatment isn't a pack of neuroleptic pacifiers, it's psychoanalytic therapy; it's discerning the cause of this child's trauma and stress, and helping to alleviate the distress of both the child and its caregivers. But that doesn't fit your narrative, so you retcon it in real-time, adjusting reality until it does; overdiagnosis, Big Pharma looking for another pretty penny, the "wussification" of America -- doesn't matter your bias, you'll find a way to spin things in your direction. Oh wait, you don't have to, Higher Perspective is willing to do it for you, and they'll even cull it down to 5 paragraphs. If you want the whole story, here's the Director's Cut.

TMU opts for Red Herring #1, and accredits the diagnosis to a perennial "over-diagnosing and over-medicating culture". Oh, get a new bit. They explain that the DSM-IV has, in the last 50 years, increased the number of diagnoses from 130 to 357. Technically true, though that edition of the DSM is 35 years old, but I'm not grading you on your understanding of the manual's history. But let's offer a counterpoint: would you rather we work backward? That sounds like hysteria to me, off to the menses hut with you, wench.

Gotta love the classics.

Here's the thing: the DSM isn't a fucking spellbook, and it's not "the bible of psychology", it's a dictionary; a compendium of psychological heuristics and suggestions so when some "freethinking American" comes kicking down the door of an Arby's with his pants down, firing all cylinders on the ironically-placed Wet Floor sign, we can say "might have some Antisocial symptoms in there, let's keep an eye on those".

And so completely neglecting the fact that the majority of these diagnoses are purely "she gets anxious around people, so let's talk her through that", when the article notes that "narcissism" and "antisocial behavior" are now considered mental disorders -- nevermind that Narcissistic Personality Disorder was in fact proposed to be removed from the DSM with this edition, wrongfully, I'll strongly posit -- mind that these are words by and for psychologists. If I tell the mechanic my car's flux capacitor needs an oil change, he's going to laugh in my face, stand idly at my hood with a wrench for 15 minutes and charge me double-price like the rube I am, so what makes people think they have the knowledge necessary to adopt "narcissism" as a colloquialism -- they don't even know what it means, and the misuse is now so frequent, and so mistranslated that even some modern psychologists get it wrong (2). If Toyota starts throwing V-tech in their Camrys you won't flinch, so why is it that when the APA decides to update their terminology you think you're in-the-know about their ploy to crush your freedom?

Narcissistic and Antisocial Personality Disorders are both diagnoses of a pathological incapability to empathize with others, such that their behavior is severely distressing to those around them, and in severe cases even result in such sociopathic understanding of morality and others that they'll straight-up fucking murder you. They're not just confident, or shy, but because TMU refuses to do their homework, people are picketing the system because they think the fucking psychopath getting tied down with maximum-strength Seroquel is being "overdiagnosed". You ever hear the statistic that 1% of the population is psychopathic? It sure is a good thing most of them have therapists, don't you agree? "That can't be true, I never see them acting out." Don't you agree?

II.
  
There's one portion of the narrative that these people get right, but they still point in the wrong direction. Is psychology a tool of the government? God damned right it is. But Big Pharma isn't responsible for it, and it's not by choice; psychology is just a government excuse. People love the notion of the greedy therapist, throwing Ritalin at healthy kids for a bonus check from Mallinckrodt, but they're not profiting from ODD, nor from NPD, neither are medicated unless there's an additional cause. But let's play pretend and trace the steps:

You're the US Government, hold on, leave the imperialism for later, we've got some poor people looking for a living wage.

And a refund on their Liberal Arts degrees.

 You suggest the minimum wage be raised to $15 an hour. 

Upper-crust conservatives stop paying for you.

Alright, then let's just leave it where it is.

Inner-city liberals burn down a block in protest.

Fuck, okay then, so you're stuck. Unless you've got a ruse.

So you redistribute that wealth through a separate system: healthcare and Social Security. No, it's not Socialism, we didn't GIVE it to them -- they need to apply. They need uh...a medical condition or something. See, they can't work. And so to convince the conservatives, you call in your buddy Inner City Psychiatry. "Yeah, he's got a disorder, he can't hold a job due to it. Also his kid's got ODD", and the conservatives begrudgingly agree, "Okay, we don't like it, but here's the money. But we WILL complain about it on Facebook." Deal.

So it's no $15 an hour, but you've struck a deal behind closed doors and now no one's happy, but no one's rioting. How much does it cost to keep the population in check? About $600 a month plus health insurance.

Sound too complicated? TMU agrees, and they prefer their own narrative. So back to spinning reality.

So complain about it on Facebook, it's very fulfilling, and more than enough to get your emotion out. And that's emotion that won't be expended on changing the system. Ah, you feel that? It's resignation. Feels good doesn't it? Here's a Mind Unleashed article so you can seethe about Big Pharma -- but not too much, we don't want you burning down any corporations. Not tickling you? Here's another on FOX about how liberals are leeches on the system. That's the good stuff.

Got it all out of your system?

Good. Now you don't have to get anything out of theirs.

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(1). To the discredit of the article's author, the changes mentioned are facets of the DSM-V, a complete revision of the manual; not the DSM-IV. This differentiation is not pedantic; the author's failure to recognize this makes blaringly clear not a misunderstanding of the manual, but rather a lack of any understanding at all. From 1978 to 2013 the DSM-IV was the reigning edition, thus he was familiar with the terminology, had heard the acronym in passing, and had come to associate it negatively with the field of psychology, but at no point put in even enough research to understand what it was. The DSM is referred to as the "bible of psychology", but this is a ruse, the term is not meant to be literal but persuasive; it's meant to polarize the reader against it. "How audacious are these fucking shrinks, how infallible do they think they are, that they can call it that?". You don't hear this term from people who have read the manual, and you certainly don't hear it from psychologists. "What makes you think I haven't read it?" I said READ it, not Google it -- that's what you do with the King James when you need to whip out some on-the-go piety. 

I don't care if you're tired of hearing this reprise: it's a third-party rebranding; a tacit smear-campaign. The Mind Unleashed isn't going to make any coin tossing you Risperdal, so they'll make you so paranoid of Big Pharma that you stop taking your god damned Risperdal. Turns out schizophrenics are easy marks. "By the way, it turns out Magic Mushrooms are good for your brain!" Too fucking easy.

(2). As I've stated before, narcissism as a pathology is not grandiosity; not thinking you are better than everyone else, in fact, it's often the opposite. Narcissism is an excessive fixation on the self, and a necessitation of identity affirmation. A narcissist doesn't have a concrete sense of self, doesn't know what to think of himself, who he is, what he should do, and so he outsources his identity to an audience; it's an act. Whereas some append to their identity a certain role, the narcissist wholly becomes this role, and his #1 priority becomes its defense. As he sees it, he is only himself insofar as he can convince others. Maybe he sees himself as a tough guy, and so he takes every opportunity to prove this, to affirm to others and so by proxy to himself, "I am a tough guy", by doing only what he feels a "tough guy" would do, against all other urges. Or maybe he sees himself as a successful businessman, garbed in business casual at his laziest, and must affirm his wealth and success, even though he was laid off.

"But everyone does that."

I know, isn't it terrifying?

It's the American pathology, and it rules your life, not just your self, but your world. And when a narcissistic injury occurs? When you're discovered not to be who you say you are? When the narcissist is faced with that realization -- that he believes he wholly is this person, maybe not right now, but knows deep down that IS him -- but someone now has objective, unquestionable evidence that it's not?

Then things get real ugly.

God Isn't Dead, He's Just Spiritual™

I.

According to a survey conducted by the Pew Research Center, religion is on the way out, and making way for the encroaching "nones". No surprise there; it's four millennia late on its rent and cedar don't grow on trees.

The article explains that the distribution of U.S. adults who claim to be religiously affiliated has dropped from 83% to 77% since 2007. Not to be confused with the following statistic, which states that those who claim to be unaffiliated has risen from 16% to 23%. Don't worry about the redundancy, they've got a point to make, just have a little faith. They continue to measure that of those who identify as "unaffiliated", 61% claim to believe in God (from 70% in 2007).

Seems off, doesn't it? I'd wager 100%.

I know, over at Reddit an antitheist just grew his neckbeard, and I can feel your resistance already, but don't you hang up on me.

It doesn't matter if you think you believe in God or not -- you wouldn't see me lined up for the communion wine unless it was an open bar -- but his omnipresence is hardwired whether you like it or not. He's not just a part of your culture, he's in your brain, in your actions, and in your porn. "I like older men." Gross. God is a social construct, not of proxy but of necessity, and in a nation of branding and appearance you better thank him for his audience.

He's your conscience, your guilt, your hope, your morality, and even your paranoia; every action you make and every thought you have is altered by your subconscious understanding that God is watching, whether he's a Platonic Santa or your "higher consciousness", depending on how much acid your generation had to dole out. Don't misunderstand me; he's only the image of man insofar as he's a reflection of yourself, but his mere notion is evidence of his tangibility in your life. But Christianity is no longer en vogue, "God is watching" used to result in chastity, but now it's just exhibitionism, and that loving paternal gaze suddenly feels a lot more judgy. This isn't a loss of faith, it's poor advertising. Someone should sack Yahweh's PR guy, it's 2015 and they're still trying to connect with the youth using MC Kosher.

"The study also suggests that in some ways Americans are becoming more spiritual. About six-in-ten adults now say they regularly feel a deep sense of “spiritual peace and well-being,” up 7 percentage points since 2007. And 46% of Americans say they experience a deep sense of “wonder about the universe” at least once a week, also up 7 points over the same period."

So what you're seeing isn't a deflation of religious devotion, it's a rebranding of the self. "Piety is SO pre-Enlightenment, you should read this Spirit Science article. "

And there stands the harbinger of the ever-shuffling zeitgeist: no one can buy that content on its own [ostensible] merits, so we recruit science, the unwilling but inevitable agent of our own self-aggrandization. The very word "science" connotes infallibility, and note well that it never suggests change, only justifies it. "Experts have proven the existence of a soul". An expert of what, mescaline?

"I'm spiritual, but not religious" is only a gradual sublimation of that omnipresence from manual to automatic -- we get the gist, and the purpose is self-perpetuating, so let's lose the dead weight, reinvent the brand and move on to New Religion™.

Catch the Wave.

This modern responsibility of science is not its natural trajectory; it's our natural reallocation of our faith. Faith and religion were historically the means by which we justified our actions, our thoughts, our beliefs, and there's no room for that in our progressive new world -- but stop. Our skepticism is no greater, our faith no lesser; we've only depersonified our God -- indeed we've regressed, assured that our new provider of omnipotent confirmation is infallible. We outsource our beliefs and our morality for the approval of an anonymous greater intelligence, and this much has not changed -- this is the very reason we can't change.

II.

I'll risk the blowback and use the example of the body-positive plus-sized woman. The sentiment of comfort in one's own skin is, itself, laudable, true, but I'm going to say something that'll have the Tumblr deathsquads on my porch by midnight: no woman that identifies as "plus-sized" is comfortable in her own body. 

This is not because overweight women cannot, but because she will not, her sense of self is not her own; she's surrendered it to The Other, to Science, to God. In exchange for its approval of her self, she exchanges to it that power. Insisted by the culture in which she was raised, she is not able to make this decision, it belongs to the societal collective, and thus her confidence needs to cite its sources. Historically, it was God, "he loves me no matter what", "only God can judge me", "the pastor didn't seem to mind", etc. Now that's no longer cutting it, but don't worry, because Pop Science is here to help her reinvent her brand too: she's not fat, she's Plus Size™. And this comforting new study says that real men prefer "curves". She doesn't develop self-confidence; she garbs herself with a brand connoting to others the trappings of self-confidence.

We are tacitly aware of this need, and we crave not self-confidence, but external affirmation. We think that we're learning to love ourselves, but what we're really doing is learning to believe everyone loves us, which is all we really wanted. But we expend our energy assuring ourselves that we are good, and science has become an agent of the ego, echoing only what we want to be true -- tantamount to cherry-picking your favorite bible verses.

And like the bible, it's probably best science leaves out some of the cruder early years.

"But I don't search for these articles, they just wind up on my Facebook feed."

And there's how you know it's a cultural pathology. So massive and so ingrained is this outsourcing of our ego that it finds you. Whether it's a Facebook post, or suggested article, or a concerned mother, it finds its way to its demographic, to assure you, and comfort you, and from there it breeds until it's Common Knowledge™: You're Probably Right. And with our self affirmed externally, our confidence atrophies, and our sense of self becomes dependent on The Other, on Science, on God.


III.


"You're getting side-tracked"


You sit back down, or I'll derail this fucker entirely. Did you know they'll just let anyone drive these blogs?


My point, and the problem with this line of thinking, is that it further perpetuates the culture of narcissism so paramount to the American way of life. You're not an individual, and your thoughts are not your own. Politics, social policy, self-image -- all of these things are reliant on the options of identification provided to you, and your behavior adjusts accordingly. You aren't labelled for who you are, you become your label, and you choose to do this. Nevermind the false dichotomy of Democrat and Republican, now you're a walking advertisement for them, and you better behave in-line with that brand, not for them, but for yourself.


How will the world know who you are if you don't?

So the prime directive of the self is no longer to change, no longer to improve. It doesn't matter what constitutes it, it matters what it appears to be. At your fundamental level, you don't exist as a person but as a series of identifiers, descriptors, brands, the molds of which you retroactively fill to convince the world who you are. So pick your side, democrat or republican, religious or spiritual, feminist or meninist, Coke or Pepsi, happy or sad, but you've been taught by the very system you compose , and indeed taught yourself not to fight to change, or to succeed, or to improve, or to be happy, but to affirm to anyone, any entity capable of assuring you:

"I am me, and I am good."

Brought to you by the makers of God.

You Can't Get Rid Of The Babadook

The Babadook is apparently a horrifying film if you're already paranoid.

The recent Australian horror film has garnered reverence from viewers and critics, and is currently sporting a dubious 98% on Rotten Tomatoes. Realistically, it's an unremarkably average film, brandishing heavy-handed metaphors and kitsch, emotional fast-food.You know, like critics love. And the internet has no shortage of blog posts lauding these purported strengths.

But try as they may to convince you, they didn't watch it to feed their dilettantism. It's a horror movie. They watched it for horror, of which I saw none.

So why did everyone else see it?

All I see is Edward Scissorhands doing an impression of a rorschach.

In the film, The Babadook itself is a tophat-clad manifestation of a children's book, brought into existence by the reader's awareness.

The protagonist's son and walking advertisement for 30th trimester abortion, Sam, [laughably poorly acts as if he] suffers from frequent nightmares and delusions that he and his mother are in danger of being attacked by monsters. He insists that they are real, despite her objections, and like a 40-pound MacGyver constructs makeshift weaponry so inexplicably convoluted for a six year-old that Rube Goldberg would use them to turn himself over in his grave.

One night after a rich, full day of being just an awful fucking headache of a child, he requests that his mother, Amelia, read him a story, reaching for Mister Babadook. Accompanied with the book's Gorey-esque illustrations is a rhyme:

If it's in a word, or in a look, you can't get rid of the Babadook.
If you're a really clever one, and know what it is to see,
Then you can make friends with a special one, a friend of you and me
A rumbling sound, then three sharp knocks, that's when you'll know that he's around
You'll see him if you look

This is what he wears on top [a tophat], he's funny, don't you think?
See him in your room at night, and you won't sleep a wink.
I'll soon take off my funny disguise (take heed of what you read)
And once you see what's underneath, you're going to wish you were dead

Sam squeals in fear like Ned Beatty on a roller-coaster made of Appalachian dicks, and his mother disposes of the book where she can be sure it can never again harm her family: atop a 5-foot high dresser. Because her child can construct bone-piercing crossbows out of three sticks and a string, but is incapable of standing on a chair.

Cue standard haunted-house cliché: objects move on their own, doors creak open, shattered glass finds its way into her soup,  and the creature hovers over her, croaking its name while she cowers underneath the covers for 6 hours. Still, she refuses to acknowledge the creature's existence. 

And so my first point: no reasonable person would so strongly resist the reality that their home is haunted. Not in 2015. Supernatural horror films used to pull their horror from the existence of ghosts, but we tired of that narrative; it's no longer even supernatural to us. For fuck's sake, ghost-hunting is a legitimate career choice. Not only do we accept that the supernatural exists, but ridiculous or not (it is), it's a casual experience. People will gleefully share with you that their clock-radio is haunted. Every creek and shadow is a late widow, trying to possess your faulty microwave. People call exorcists like pest exterminators. It's not horrifying to be haunted, because everyone already thinks that they are.

The horror now is that no one will believe you. The horror now is that no one will help. The horror now is that you can't escape. Saddle up, move the family to a new house, spend all night searching for discount ex-crime scenes on justdontgodigginganyholesintheyard.com, but the creature will follow you wherever you go.

You can't get rid of the Babadook.

In keeping up with her neglect of the living nightmare occupying her Nordstram, Amelia destroys the book, and begins to notice everywhere cockroaches...

Ever feel...Not so fresh?

in her wall, and

Sam screams some more.

So she takes her son to a doctor to treat what those in the psychiatric field refer to as The Batshit Crazies (Type II), but lacking the necessary shotgun full of Risperdal, offers her a prescription of sedatives to lull her little tumor to sleep through his screams.

Amelia drugs her child and tucks herself in for another night of staring directly into the gaping maw of the croaking monstrosity hanging above her head, and then sharing with no one like he was just a drunken hookup.

When the bar lights flick on, it's this or nothing.

In the morning, she finds the book on her front doorstep, repaired, and upgraded with popup scenes of her strangling her son -- and worse -- their dog, and then slitting her own throat. The book is accompanied with four new lines:

I'll wager with you, I'll make you a bet,

The more you deny, the stronger I get.

You start to change when I get in,

The Babadook growing right under your skin.

The rhymes serve to prove my ultimate point, I promise, but I'll get to it later because I'm a terrible writer.

Amelia receives a phone call from The Babadook (which I have to assume he awkwardly made from a payphone somewhere), once again throatily reciting his ridiculous name like a bronchial Pokémon. She finally decides that sharing a home with Tim Burton's wardrobe will not stand, and visits the police station to report it. As she tries to report to the man at the desk the children's author tormenting her, she sees hanging with the coats in the back:

Shit. The Babadook is Five-O.

She runs.

And goes crazy. Could really use that shotgun about now.

She cuts the phone lines, locks the house down, and sits down to pull an all-nighter watching silent films, apparently directed by the darker, crazier uncle of David Lynch.

She ultimately falls asleep and is possessed by The Babadook, repeatedly chanting in an attempt to ward him off "it isn't real".

Spoiler: it is. 

She breaks the dog's neck, gets shot in the shoulder by one of those ludicrously complex traps, tries to strangle her son, the kid gets thrown around like a rag doll in a wind-tunnel, and she is defeated with the motherfucking power of motherfucking love. They keep the Babadook as a pet in the basement and feed it worms.

The end. Didn't care for it.

But why does anyone find it scary?

Frankly, I didn't see the appeal, and I still don't find it scary. But I gave it some thought. More importantly, I gave it some thought alone, in a dark room, staring at the ceiling. And I started to see what others might. Everything adopts a Babadook-shaped form, every thought is molded by his suggested existence -- the mere thought of a Babadook manifests him in whatever you see. 

If it's in a word, or in a look, you're made aware, and it solidifies not as a tangible creature, but as a manifestation of your own mind; a twisted simulacra brought into being not due to, but of its own suggestion. 

See it in your room at night, and you won't sleep a wink. You know it's not there, you know you're safe, you know there's no Babadook.

But what if?

If you're a clever one, and you know what it is to see, you can try and return its innocence, and try and rationalize "it's the fan, it's a shadow, it's a hat on a coat rack"

But the more you deny, the stronger he gets. Even with a stupid name like The God Damned Babadook, the suggestion is there, inside of you, growing right under your skin, becoming ever-more terrifying.

The Babadook is written to represent a litany of poorly executed metaphors, be it mental illness, or our own "inner darkness", but what the creature so purely, excellently, and perhaps even unintentionally represents is the fear in all of us, imagined into existence not in lieu of rationality, but despite it. If you found yourself as terrified by this film as the rest of the internet seemed to, ask yourself: would this film be the slightest bit terrifying if the father was present? No, I'm not saying the man could stop it, but put yourself in her shoes and ask yourself: is the Babadook the slightest bit frightening with another person there, sleeping beside you?

She seemed to think not, as halfway through the film she ventures into the dank basement included in every Hey, The Murderer Was Never Convicted home package, and retrieves an item with which to sleep. Her dead husband's violin.

It's a slippery slope, liberals.

This violin is a partial object meant to represent her husband, not just to the audience, but to her. If the father was there with her and her son; if they were together, the Babadook wouldn't be frightening -- the Babadook wouldn't even exist. 

The Babadook is powerless; it's not an unstoppable juggernaut that will sweep through and go for the hat trick. It's that fear that bubbles up inside of you when you're alone, the fear of what you know couldn't be, but somehow simultaneously just primally know is. Maybe it's harmless, maybe it's a shadow, maybe it's a hat on a coat rack. Maybe you can live with it, and maybe you can't. Maybe you soldier on, or maybe you jolt up and rush for the lightswitch. You know that it's not real, and you know that it's just in you.

But you can't get rid of the Babadook.

Similac Isn't Sexist, But It Wants To Be

Currently there's a civil war waging among those self-righteous mothers with too little occupation not to complain, but haven't yet learned to pacify their dissent with white wine or their neighbor's penis. In case you've thus far opted not to spend your weekends catering to an 8lb shit-machine, here's the cause:

A light-hearted little ad campaign that reminds us all that no matter what your parenting choices, all parents are united in the resignation of their autonomy. My god, they even have a lesbian couple. Heartwarming. And progressive HuffPo just loves it. Or maybe not. They're not sure yet -- check back once the right wing takes a whack at it and they'll make sure to argue against that. But, being the valiant combatants of exclusion and intolerance that they are, they do have one concrete complaint: "what about dad?".


"Welcome to the Sisterhood of Motherhood"


"Until that unfortunate tagline, this was wonderful." (2)

Was it, now? Granted, I don't watch the Superbowl but I've always viewed advertisements as less "wonderful" and more "painful atonement for letting the TV out of the attic". But maybe I just have better taste in entertainment.

One day we'll be together again...

 Continue.

"Here are these dads, who are, we assume, capable and confident parents, converging at this playground for the same reason as all of the moms are. They're caring for their kids and spending time with their community of fellow parents! They express opinions about parenting!" 

Hold -- they're doing what? Firstly, their children are newborns. Is taking care of them in a public park really that laudable? Feed them and steer them clear of ill-placed minefields and they're golden. Secondly, I'd rather chew my own leg off than spend time with my community. Have you spoken to those people? These are friends -- partners in patrescence at the very least -- completely separated from the other, more estrogen-endowed factions. They're not spending time with their community; they're huddling together, segregated from the community, and doing their time, all silently praying that the kid doesn't poop until custody gets handed over to their reluctantly-professed "better half". "So, how's the wife?" How do you think? He brought a quilt -- she's cuckolding.

So what makes them capable, confident parents? I'm not saying they're not -- but what makes you think that they are? I'll concede that I don't see any baby fight clubs, shine on you dads, but I also don't see anything denoting particularly good parenting. And their only opinions are reflex defenses -- "You say I'm bad, but I'm not". I could get stronger substantiation out of your kid, and he forgets you exist when you turn the corner. They're capable and confident because you know that in real life they certainly can be, and you feel that the commercial should (and therefore, due to this bias does) represent them as such. Sophistry, I'm afraid, but fair enough. But more importantly, why do you care? Equal treatment, and all that, sure, and I can't wait to read about it on your Tumblr page, but why do you care about male representation in a Similac commercial? The only power Similac has is the power that you give to it. But you've surrendered that to them for the right to complain. You want a problem -- not a crisis, but a slight -- for which you can postulate a simple, yet somehow neglected answer. How perceptive of you. Righteousness lazily affirmed. Here's a gold star. You have conceded that in exchange for your right to voice your concerns, Similac's X/Y ratio has the power to affect our cultural understanding of parenthood gender roles. And here's the kicker: only because you accept that, they do.

But that's why HuffPo cares -- why you care about any commercial that brandishes some feigned social cause. But you didn't pay for the commercial, you just profit emotionally from the results. What does Similac gain? You think that Similac paid for this because they thought it was a good cause? How I envy your optimism. Advertising is never your friend, and whenever you find yourself in agreement with them you should ask yourself if your opinion is really your own. "It says Similac right at the end of the commercial. But there's no product." Correct. So they're selling the brand. "Duh. 'We're a brand that cares'." Close, but no cigar. They're not that blatant. But they're not above lying to you. In fact, they don't even need to do the work; you're happy to lie to yourself. There's one portion of the HuffPo article that perfectly encapsulates their ploy, but the author breezes right over it, leaving it only as a side-note.

"NOTE: I realize that the whole breastmilk vs. formula thing is precisely the sort of thing the Internet likes to argue about. For the purposes of this post, let's please set aside for a moment whether or not one is better than the other." - HuffPo (NOT Similac)

Point: Similac.

They know that their product is bad for infants. They know that breast milk is far healthier. They know that they can't compete with that. And they know that you know it. If you don't, this ad isn't for you (1)-- "get back to your Walkmans and Gameboys, the adults need to talk." They don't have a leg to stand on if we're talking health. So let's talk sex.

Note well, they didn't change the subject. They left the trail of crumbs, knowing full-well that we would find the end. "Fathers can be good parents too!" "You're right, we're sorry." And every conversation they have to have about male representation, they don't have to have about their product's healthiness. They can't win the match, so they change the game; they slyly, but intentionally decide the conversation. THEY decide. But they lead you on to think that you do, like a father playfully letting his son win. "Oh man, you got me, pal". Fine on its own, but if you catch your husband stealing the kid's fruit snacks while he's celebrating, better get Child Services on speed-dial.

He's history's greatest monster!

So while they can't change your opinion, they can change the discussion. They won't tell you it's changing. It crawls in without you realizing, like a centaurian slug, or a second analogy that people who enjoy parties will understand. And you, not they, are the ones to change the subject.

Just like they wanted.

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(1).  The brilliance behind this tactic, is that we decide for ourselves who sees the ad. This tactic is new, and thus fantastically effective: they don't buy air time, they don't purchase commercial slots; they let the ad find its own audience. So who intercepts it? There are Similac purchasers. No need to sell to you, just keep in mind how great we are. There are those that are on the fence about the purchase, or people who simply need an alternative to breast feeding. Hell, maybe the concept of that little entropy factory leeching your money AND your nutrients is too much, and you just want to put it in its place. "Hey, we care.". Okay, Similac, take them, they did their 15 seconds of research. "But what about the people that disagree?". Here's the brilliance: they were never going to buy it anyway. They only care about the ad because they can use it to promote what any Phish listener will gladly tell you in the checkout line of a Whole Foods: it's awful for the kid. And so they share. Where did you see the video? On Facebook? HuffPo? Whatever self-affirming circle-jerk homeopathy community you have squirming around a temporary internet domain? It doesn't matter -- the ad isn't for them. They're carriers, meant to spread the message far enough to infect those that will buy the product. And whether you support them or not, you still shared. Similac thanks for your contribution.

(2). It was fine until the tagline? You don't want to talk about the woman who sent her infant careening toward the Springfield Gorge to make room for an exaggerated boast?

Alright.

50 Shades of Grey: Some Sex, and a Lot of Masturbation

"Oh my God, how could you support that movie?" Because it was funny. "You think domestic abuse is funny?" Well with the right setup... "#50ShadesIsAbuse." I've paid $11 for worse.

Now, I've only seen the movie once--as my frothing womanhood can only take so much--but as I recollect, the physical abuse is not at all the most damaging facet of this film. More on that later.

Starting with the plot: the movie's protagonist is Hollywood-average (see: accessibly attractive ingenue) Anastasia Steele (no, really) who is filling in for her non-descriptively-ill school-reporter-or-such roommate, Kate, or MacGuffin or something (1). Note well, it's very important that Ana not be hot. She is pretty, absolutely, but not hot. In movie-shorthand, this means that the girl is you. Surely, you're not as attractive, but you recognize instinctively that she isn't sexy, and this brings the character closer to you. It's no secret that in 50 Shades, Twilight, and countless others, the character is left intentionally blank, so that you can project yourself unto her. She is just proximal enough to you that you can latch on, and extrapolate your own personality further toward her; your ideal self. And so, the story is interpreted as a narcissistic fantasy. You're not watching a movie about Ana, you're watching a story about ME ME ME. Just how we like it. Funny, you look prettier on the silver screen.

So, Ana finds her way to Grey Enterprises, a towering edifice dubiously staffed exclusively by 23-year old Bebe models, on-screen only to make Ana feel self-conscious. "I can so relate." I know you can. And so does E.L. James. Stay tuned for the sequel. "Mr. Grey will see you now."

Good thing the theater seats are scotch-guarded.

After four hours of meticulously pruning his stubble, Christian Grey wanders on camera for the first time. When the collective swoons from the menopausal audience ceased, the-- wait why is she here again? How long is this movie? 130 minutes? Christ. Where's my flask? Good thing the theater seats are scotch-guarded...

He's handsome. Check. She starts the interview, fumbling, and awkward. "I only have 10 minutes". He's in-charge. Check. "Mr. Grey, to what do you--" "To what do I owe my success?". Oh, he's clever and brusque. Check, and check. Character established -- let's get to the fucking. "This isn't porn. This is a movie. What about subtlety?" Right. So she forgets her pencil. "A minor flaw to bolster her imperfection and normality?" Yes, I know. Just like you. Grey offers her one of his own. Now I'm no big fan of Freud, but--

Subtle.

"I'm good at people." He explains he understands their thoughts, actions, motives. IMPORTANT. "You know, there are intern positions open" "I don't think I'd fit in here. Look at me." "I am." Smooth. And opportunistic. This is a woman very clearly insecure, unsure of herself, trusting, and vulnerable to this exact behavior, and a man of substantial power and influence who just several sentences ago explained his aptitude for discerning these things. What people often fail to see, is that at this exact moment it's made clear that Christian is performing a long-con. The Christian you see on film isn't the true Christian, but the one that he chose for her to see. Because he was certain that it would work. The author didn't mean for this, of course -- she was writing with one hand on paper and the other trying to fumble her way through her swampy nethers -- but while the characters are fictional, the personalities they represent are very real. He sees a woman that needs validation from others (1), and chooses very carefully his lines. This is a character both written as, and meant to represent women without personality, without a sense of concrete identity; one who needs to feed off of the solid, established identity of another so that she can identify herself not as who she is, but by whom she's with, and what that must imply about her. Alone, she is blank, but with Christian, she is complete, as an accessory to his personality -- one he chose specifically for her.

Christian is a narcissist; a Don Draper-type. Don't be mistaken, although he very well may, this doesn't imply that he thinks he is perfection embodied. Narcissism =/= grandiosity. The two are mistakenly conflated. What Christian is, is obsessed with his identity and his appearance, not just physical but social. He's a classic archetype, yes, the Orphan From A Broken Home Who Must Reinvent Himself To Be Wildly Successful™, but more than that, he is representative of a certain kind of person: the perennial method actor.  He doesn't feel, he doesn't empathize, he doesn't love. He knows what those things look like, and he postures them with practiced efficiency, but he doesn't truly feel them. And so he has no real sense of self -- not that he can tell. He's an adolescent, trying on different personalities and appearances for the one he needs, but it's never truly genuine. And so, Christian feigns empathy, learns to pick up on others without natural empathy, and furthermore learns to define himself by appearance. "I'm not the kind of person you want to be with." Adolescent, indeed, he's become every girl's middle-school boyfriend, pretending to be dark, brooding, and incapable of love in place of a true identity. Trim, well-groomed, wealthy, successful, discrete, stoic, he becomes a character. And this character becomes a surrogate for his missing sense of identity. While it isn't genuine, it is complete. Maybe the decisions he makes aren't the best, and maybe they're not the right decisions, but to him they are the decisions his character would make. And so he has his identity.

Ana, however, suffers from a similar ailment with different results. She lacks identity, just as Christian does, but doesn't feign it. Instead, she searches for a proxy. Where the narcissist has ingenuine, but concrete identity, she has loose, undefined identity that needs solidification. And so she accessorizes herself, and defines her identity by him, leeching off of his own. Christian knows this. He's spent every day learning how to spot this very thing. And he knows exactly how to handle it. "My tastes are very...singular". Oh, how vague and mysterious. It's just like 7th grade all over again.

So he meets up with her at her job selling construction appliances. Doesn't matter how he found her. He's a millionaire. I'm sure if Bruce Wayne was an amoral predator he'd figure it out too. He flirtatiously buys duct tape, cables, and rope. He's lucky she's so vulnerable, or they'd have an Amber Alert out yesterday. "I'm used to getting my way." Yes, we saw the rope, no need to be redundant. He invites her out to coffee, and the second she mentions romance, he recoils "I'll take you home". The author's fantasy, of course, is that this is a man incapable of love, the shell of which must be broken by the charming, and unique snowflake that is the audience Anastasia. But let's remember that outside of fiction, there's a real world, heavily but implicitly impacted by these movies: this is when that preteen lothario establishes his distance, not to deflect her, but for the sole purpose of convincing her to try and break through it. It's important to note that Anastasia is the 16th woman to fall victim to this, and he started when he was 15. By now, Christian knows exactly how and when to do this, and of course, knows that Ana is the very woman that will fall for it.

For the first time of many, they split up (there goes Cutest Couple in the yearbook...), until Ana calls him drunkenly from the bar. He answers, enraged, tracks her down, and swoops into the bar, assaulting her flirtatious friend, and throwing his brother's penis at her roommate to pacify her protests. Now, we all make drunken mistakes. I would know, I'm sitting here in row N wishing I had stayed home and just watched porn instead. But when a man you barely know escalates his constituency to Defcon 5 to locate you, and then burgles you from your friends by exchanging his kin for leniency, you Google Maps the nearest police station and run like he's The Thing. Leave no Mace behind.

Instead, neglecting every PSA they were ever shown, her friends allow him to take her home, undress her, and crawl into bed with her. "Did we...?" "No, necrophilia isn't my thing." Not without the proper paperwork, anyway. So he introduces to her a contract. Strike 2: "I won't kiss you until you sign this consent form" is a red light. "But she could claim it was rape! #notallmen!" Oh, go choke on an MRA article, that doesn't make it any less suspicious. The contract outlines the terms of their sexual congress -- or less formally, how much he's allowed to whip her. "Why can't we just be normal?" "I'm not normal". Well neither am I, but I don't have a business meeting to discuss the parameters of my sex life.

"Make it 6 inches and we have a deal"

They discuss the terms, and come to an agreement. "See the clause about anal fisting? Cross that out." Well, why don't you just junk the whole thing, then? Anyway, she decides to continue to peruse the contract before she signs the dotted line. That doesn't stop them from fucking. Over and fucking over. "You're not like the other women". Yes, Grey, that's exactly what she needed to hear to surrender her virginity to you. Fine manipulation.

A lot of it is, as the Internet will have me understand, ill-representative of BDSM culture. I wouldn't know -- the first time a girl asked me to tie her up I conjured up a loose shoelace and then gave up. But what I do know, and will completely concede: that play-room is fucked. At a point he stands outside a locked door, for which he has the only key. He doesn't explain what is inside, and demands confidentiality. My imagination landed on The Goonies.

Contract Page 14, Clause 8: Once a day you must feed Sloth one (1) Baby Ruth.

However, disappointingly, inside laid an Aleksandar Radijojevic wet dream: a sex dungeon complete with assorted whips, hooks, suspenders, floggers -- everything needed for a low-budget snuff film. There's a lot of flogging.

One scene in particular caught my eye (no, they crossed out anal fisting, remember?). It was something unmistakably intentional, yet no one else seemed to notice. I suppose that's why they're reading articles in between cat videos, and I'm writing this one in between trips to the liquor store. After their first night of fucking, they retreat to the bathroom to wash up. There's a shot that's very important, but easy to miss:

He doesn't watch her undress. He watches her reflection undress. He watches her undress with himself clearly in view. This is because the sex isn't about her, for him. It's not about the woman, or her body, or the contact -- it's about his identity. He is having her because his character would have her. This is his movie, she is his prey, and the acquisition is his reward. And so he doesn't watch her, he watches himself watch her. 

Christian Bale, pictured just being himself.

This is a very subtle, but very important detail. But here's the important part: he is not alone. He IS a fictional character, yes, and the character itself is probably not intentionally written this way, but he IS a very realistic representation of a very real kind of person. We may draw inspiration for our own lives from movies, but the movies do the same in return. This is a representation of a real person, one that E. L. James has likely encountered. However, instead of seeing through his behavior, she romanticizes it. She turns it into the interesting part of the character. She feels (and so Anastasia feels) that he is truly incapable of love, truly afraid to be close to someone, and just as the character reverts to the 7th Grade Seduction Handbook, she reverts to the 7th grade girl who fell for it. And she, too, is not alone.

This movie may very well affect peoples' understanding of BDSM culture, but I argue that it is a part of a much greater problem for society: it affects our vision of romance. The final scene of the movie shows Anastasia, after being brutally beaten with Christian's belt, refusing to continue, and leaving Grey, having never signed the contract. So at least the message is "Hey, don't stick around once the belt comes off". But at no point is the unhealthy romance addressed. The modern zeitgeist uses cinema as a template over which to place its own opinions and ideals. "I want a relationship like that", "That's my relationship goal", "Why won't my man/woman do that for me" -- yes, it's lovely and idealistic, but all of that behavior presupposes that that love can fit snugly into a 90-minute window, firstly without romantic flaws (beyond the rising action), but secondly without recognition of these kinds of tricks and sexual-romantic heuristics that are very real. Real love is nothing like you see in the movies, because real love can't be monetized. But furthermore, movie love CAN be taken advantage of. If you have ever met someone and immediately responded "He/she reminds me so much of--" STOP. Either you are trying to convince yourself that they are your [TV/Movie Crush], or they are molding their personality to convince you that they are no different than that. And if it's both, abandon ship -- once reality sets in, and you realize neither of you are who you say you are, the relationship is going to collapse faster than Gabourey Sidibe's trampoline. The longer it goes on, the more explosive the end. And if you're really so devoted to following movies, might as well make it cinematic: worst-case-scenario, one of you winds up halfway to Canada with the other at home laying on the floor with a smashed lamp and a head-wound. Does blood stain? Good thing the carpet is scotch-gaurded...

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(1). As is the case with most American media, this is a tale tacitly lined with egocentricity, and so the supporting cast is only there to act as a secondary audience. It's not enough to be successful. Other people need to witness it; appreciate it; validate it. In our minds, we are not what we do, or what we accomplish. We are who others tell us we are. We are only who we appear to be. And so, Anastasia doesn't flaunt her new boyfriend -- "I would never tell anyone about us", she emphasizes to him. But she doesn't hide him. She tiptoes around the subject, dropping hints with feigned modesty, allowing others to come to the conclusion on their own. And so he's introduced by others to her friends, her father, her mother -- never once does she even mention him, because it's not important that she brag about him. It's important that others simply see that he's there, and silently nod affirming "yes, you are good". The fantasy for the audience isn't having Christian, and it isn't being the woman that Christian wants. The fantasy is that without any attempt, others simply see you as that kind of person, and affirmed by a third-party, you are assured "yes, you're right, I AM good, aren't I?". It's freedom from the need to self-validate. You don't care if you're X, you care that others see you as X.

The reason for this is that we are intrinsically doubtful of ourselves. The common misunderstanding is that narcissism is a problem of too much confidence. It's exactly the opposite; the problem of narcissism is that to the narcissist, that confidence is worthless. Anastasia can look into a mirror and see that she is, of course, beautiful, or intelligent, but she won't feel that it is completely true. And so she outsources her confidence to others. Others see her with Christian, only a great woman would be with Christian, therefore she is a great woman. And the evidence is on the other side of the room bragging for her.