Fool Me Once, Shame on Me

           I’m going to go ahead and assume that most of you haven’t read Alexander Malisk’s recent novel, You Deserve Nothing. If you have, great. if you haven’t, I’m not going to spoil it for you. I am, however, going to spend the first part of this piece unpacking what I understand to be its core problematic, a problematic which gets most potently delivered late in the novel when an old man says to a young one, “If you remember one thing and one thing only, remember this: Anyone you can fool is not worth loving.”

I’ve been discussing this quote with everyone I can these past few weeks (including the author himself, if you’re interested...), and after much noggin-knocking I think I finally figured out what it means, sort’a.

First Off: The quote has almost nothing to do with other people, i.e., it’s not really about them and whether or not they’re worthy of sweet lovin’ (at least not initially...).

Whom/what is it about? Well, first and foremost, it’s about us. It’s about me. It’s about you. It’s about an answer to an uncomfortable question...

Anecdote: I read an earlier version of this piece at an open-mic event a few weeks back. The day after, I was in a coffee shop in downtown P-town and happened to see one of the other open-micers, a gal who’d sung this fantastic song about a woman coming up to her and mistaking her for Liza Minelli.

Being the brazen, fool-hardy, aw-shucks kind’a guy I am, I went up to the Liza Minelli “look-alike” and said, “Hey, I saw you sing last night and I really loved it. I just wanted you to know,” which precipitated her responding, “Awww thanks, hey, I really liked your piece too,” which precipitated my being like, “Thanks, whatever, yeah, blah blah,” and her going, “No, really, your piece really made me think. I always have a cigarette before I go to bed and I was out there smoking and was like, ‘How full of sh*t am I? Am I like 100% full of sh*t?’”

Sure, the gal could’ve been fooling me with her “No, it really made me think” (there’s almost nothing I like to hear more in response to something I’ve written, *wink wink, nudge nudge*), but I’m  going to go ahead and assume she wasn’t for the purpose of what follows.

Uncomfortable Question: How full of sh*t am I/are you? Are you Pinocchio full of sh*t?

Nixon full of sh*t?



Tubgirl full of sh*t?

• Answering the Uncomfortable Question:
• Angle 1: Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the insert what you’re looking to see here-est one of all?
• Being tubgirl-full-of-sh*t and/or fooling ourselves is primarily about distorting, misrecognizing, remaining blind to, and/or lying about what we see when we’re confronted with a “mirror” (whether said mirror be literal or figurative or magical or...).
• Fooling ourselves is about twisting the story we tell ourselves about ourselves in the name of...
• Feeling better about ourselves.
• I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and gosh-darnit, people like me!
• Feeling worser about ourselves.
• I’m not good enough, I’m not smart enough, and people just don’t like me (I know it).
• There’s always a “pay-off” to self-fooling (otherwise we wouldn’t do it).
• We get something when we fool ourselves about ourselves, a certain pleasure, a certain maintenance of the status quo.
• If I’m in the habit of telling myself that people don’t really like me (or that they’re too stupid to like me, e.g.), then I get to relish in the dark-fun of solitude.
• See Jonathan Franzen:

                                                           

• If I’m in the habit of telling myself that people do like me (i.e., that I’m just so d@mn awesome that they just can’t help themselves), then I get to ignore all of the subtle and not so subtle ques that suggest otherwise.
• When we’re in the business of fooling ourselves about ourselves it allows/forces us to tune out information/feedback/stuff we don’t want to hear.
• The opposite of fooling ourselves about ourselves is giving ourselves accurate self-appraisals.
• An accurate self-appraisal is any appraisal that doesn’t require you to ignore/obfuscate/distort That Which Is Present.
• That Which is Present is that which, when ignored/obfuscated/distorted becomes what is commonly referred to as a “pink elephant.”
• WE KNOW when there’s a “pink elephant” in the room.
• YOU KNOW.
• Accurate self-appraisal require that we learn to ask/answer the following, often uncomfortable meta-question: “What’s my motivation?”
• What does a given self-appraisal justify me in doing or not doing, ignoring or paying O.C.D. attention to, saying or remaining silent on, investigating or obfuscating, etc?
• Again, there’s always a “pay-off” for an inaccurate self-appraisal, and, unfortunately, a lot of the time the pay-offs are Big Ones.

• Angle 2: Hey, you there?!?
• Other people are just as likely to show/tell us what we want to see/hear r.e. ourselves as they are the opposite.
• Who am I kidding?!? Other people are way more likely to show/tell us what we want than not.
• Mostly as a function of their desire to be liked/approved-of or disliked/rejected by us.
• “He smiled at her, hoping to be liked...”
• “She scowled at him, hoping to be disliked.”.
• This notion is undoubtedly part projection on my part.
• Someone who doesn’t care whether/not they’re liked is not necessarily more trustworthy in helping us with accurate self-appraisals than someone who is.
• This is true insofar as nothing is really at stake in/for such a person, a “stranger.”
• Just like with the above, the first question we’ve got to learn to ask ourselves when receiving feedback from another person r.e. ourselves and whether or not we’re good/bad, ugly/beautiful, interesting/boring, etc., is: Motivation?
• What does the other stand to gain from helping us affirm/disconfirm a given self-appraisal? From saying/not saying X?
• Sorry people, but we just can’t trust strippers to give us information that will lead to a more accurate appraisal of our sexual desirability.
• Sorry again, but we just can’t trust people telling us certain jeans make our a$$es look downright delectable.
• Many of us can’t trust our own parents, period.

            And the Second Thing Is: It’s only once we’re actively not fooling ourselves that we’re really worth loving. Again, anyone you can fool is not worth loving...

Why do I believe this? Well, whenever I’ve developed a habit of fooling myself in regards to Thing X (e.g., my interests, my values, my principles, my intelligence, my looks, my goodness/badness) it has seriously compromised my ability to be the sort of person that another person could/should depend on or trust or be genuinely interested in.

I’ve come to believe there’s a big eff’n difference between being known/loved as one is and being known/loved as we/others distort us to be. And it isn’t until we stop fooling ourselves/letting ourselves be fooled about ourselves that being loved as we are becomes possible without the assist of wild, wild speculation on the part of some penny-stock kind'a person who, like, sees our souls or some such ideological sloppage (e.g., Drive).

ONE MORE THING: There’s nobody we can’t fool if/when we set our minds to it.

Nobody.

Movie Review DOUBLE-DIP: Hugo and In Time

            This past Turkey-Day, my familly was up to its usual shenanigans: Getting lost in a snow-storm on a walk (with my father in the lead), a weepy round-table giving of “thanks” for everything we’re thankful for this past year (my father, brother, sister and I were all thankful for our “mustaches,” for example), a multi-course glutting at the Sunriver Lodge (mmmm, cranberry-sauce... on... EVERYTHING), and our post-glutting trip to the movies.


Hugo:
    
           The movie everyone had agreed to seeing before I’d been able to show up and work my argumentative magic was Martin Scorcese’s Hugo (“I’m not saying I won’t like it, dad, merely that I have absolutely no desire to see it”).

Yeah, I didn’t want to see Hugo before being dragged to the theater by my family (the only film I wanted to see less than Hugo was Puss in Boots, another movie that might not be godawful but which I have absolutely no desire to see... A part of me wanted to see Jack and Jill).

Yeah, when I was 13 that kind of pre-judgment might have been enough to prevent me from liking d@mn-near anything.

HOWEVER, I like to tell myself I’m not 13 anymore and that I’m more than willing to revise my pre-judgements if I’m proven wrong.

I wish Hugo had proven me wrong.

            My primary complaint against Hugo comes from Mark Twain. Twain writes somewhere in his “How to Tell a Story”:

But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts it at you--every time. And when he prints it, in England, France, Germany, and Italy, he italicizes it, puts some whooping exclamation-points after it, and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

In his essay, Twain is trying to distinguish what he calls “American humour,” with its meandering style and willingness to pass over the nub/butt/punchline of a given joke and be like “What, what’s so funny?”, from the kind of comic stories that make Twain want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

While not at all comic (sorry Sasha Baron Cohen and fans), Hugo was packed with so much shouting about the themes and morals and what was supposed to be of dramatic-import, so much italicization of The Point, so many exclamation points after things of significance and explanations of What’s What and Who’s Who and What’s to Come that it made me want to renounce story telling and lead a better life. 
                   Me, my brother, and one of my younger sisters didn’t like Hugo. My dad, step-mama, and other sister did. Me, my brother, and my younger sister are in a teeny-tiny minority of Hugo haters (Hugo has a 97% on RottenTomatoes). My dad, step-mama and other sister are a part of the 99, er, 97% that think it's Gawd's gift to cinema.

            You know what I think? I think Martin Scorsese totally bamboozled film critics the world over by creating a film that--because of who made it (Scorsese!!!), the quality of its production (it's beautiful) and apparent quality of its story-telling (it's a clock!), not to mention its lovey-dovey gushing over old movies (those of Melies)--cannot be criticized from within the current state of movie-criticism. Scorsese fooled us, or, at least fooled 97% of movie-critics.
            Allow me: Hugo was a belabored suck-fest of the the most polished order.
            Oh, and: It’s in 3D!!!
            Oh, and: My younger brother spent the entirety of the movie disliking/wanting to punch Hugo’s whimpering male lead (Asa Butterfield) in the face.
            AND: When (SPOILER!!!) Abigal Breslin, er, Chloe Grace Moretz’s character turns out to be the writer of the whole she-bang I nearly threw my Thanksgiving up all over the backs of my parents' neighbor’s heads (long, un-comic story, i.e., humorous).

Hugo, even for them that claimed to like it (my dad, step-mama, and sis) was the kind of film that made you want to go watch something else, which is exactly what we did when we left Hugo and snuck into....

In Time:

            In Time, while having lots of problems (plot stuff, the woodenness of Amanda Seyfried), was also lots of fun.

DO YOU HEAR THAT, SCORSESE?!? FUN!!!

Thought-provoking instead of thought-inducing, In Time takes place in a future in which 1% of the population lives forever while everyone else dies not long after they turn 25. Interesting, right?!?

In Time is a movie I’d gladly watch at least part of again. It’s also a movie made by the same guy who made the considerably better Gattica. I’m talking about Andrew Niccol, a guy who basically only makes thought-provoking, fun movies like Gattica, The Truman Show, S1m0ne, and Lord of War. Movies that, while definitely not perfect (except The Truman Show, of course, which I think is perfect and probably the best thing Jim Carey’s ever done), I’m always happy to have seen.

            Oh yeah, and In Time’s got JT doin’ his JT thang:

Parting Shot/Thought: Perhaps the New-Zealand born Niccol is, in accord with what Twain says about “American humor,” more American than Scorsese? I’m just saying...

Movie Review: The Skin I Live In

           The Skin I Live In is only the second of Pedro Almodovar’s films I’ve seen, the other being Bad Education. I honestly can’t say that I remember all that much about Bad Education so I’m not sure how much the following pronouncement actually means: The Skin I Live In is my favorite Almodavar film to date and the less I say about it in my review, the better.
           Of course, I will say something about the film. Heck, a few things.

Thing 1: Unlike Bad Education, The Skin I Live In actually made me want to see more Almodovar films, which is exciting (for me) and about the greatest compliment I can give an artist.

Another Thing: I saw The Skin I Live In--a film replete with _____ and _______ and all sorts of disturb__________--with my old high-school librarian, whom I hadn’t seen in almost a decade before meeting up with to go see this film. Who’d’ve thunk me and my old h.s. librarian would eventually sit together in a movie theater and watch a man in a tiger-costume try and _______ a woman in a skin-colored neoprene jumpsuit? Honestly? Who’d’ve thunk?!?

   

Just One More Thing: I probably wouldn’t go out of my way to re-watch The Skin I Live In (while it is lovely and engrossing it’s also a bit ________), but I definitely wouldn’t mind talking it over with someone who’d seen it. The film is jam-packed with questions of _________ and ____ and, well, it’s just so __________ and Antonio Banderas is just such a convincing _________ that...

Movie Review: The Victim

            It was my first time at the Baghdad Theater’s Kung-Fu night. The film showing was an old Sammo Hung--



--flick called The Victim.

The guy who curates the Baghdad’s Kung-Fu series came out before the film started and told the packed house we we’re about to watch the only known 35mm print of the film, a print which he himself had painstakingly tracked down in somebody’s London basement and even more painstakingly dedicated three days to untangling and cutting and splicing it back together again. That we were even able to see the film in a theater was a work of crazy love.

            I wish I could say the film truly deserved it.
            I mean, I really wish.
            The story goes something like this: Sammo Hung’s character is looking for a Kung--Fu master, fighting guy after guy after guy (the last guy he fights is the best because this spacey warble-music plays whenever he’s on the screen) until he finally finds one (KA-Yan Leung). But there are a couple of problems: (1) that Sammo’s new master doesn’t want him as a pupil and (2) that Sammo’s new master is in a little bit of trouble with his crazy, one-eyed brother.

What follows in the film was not quite comprehensible and included Samo Hung faking like he was a vampire (which, considering the film is supposed to be set in feudal China...), and faking like (SPOILER!!!) he’s double crossed his master.

             Anyways, I probably wouldn’t want to see The Victim ever again, but I would like to go to another of the Baghdad’s Kung-Fu nights if anyone’s interested.

Movie Review: 50-50

            I wouldn’t pay anymore of my hard-earned cash-money to see 50-50 in theaters. And I probably wouldn’t Netflix, Red-Box, or On Demand it of my own accord. But I also wouldn’t mind watching it again with somebody who hadn’t seen it, and I definitely wouldn’t mind talking about it with somebody who had, except my mother, of course...

50-50, which stars Seth “Kind’a Funny A$$hole, Smokes Weed” Rogen and Joseph “Probably the Best Actor of My Generation” Gordon-Levitt, actually does a better job touching on issues between mothers than sons than it does touching on death/cancer issues (even if the death and cancer stuff is what the film is “really” about).

Joseph Gordon Levitt’s “Adam” has a mother. Just like the rest of us (yeah you, Seth Rogen). Played to perfection by Angelica Huston, Adam’s mother’s propensity to weeping and melodrama and guilt-induction reminded yours truly so much of his own mother that the film actually got quite uncomfortable at times. But then, unfortunately, so did Adam’s handling/treatment of his mother (distant, weary).

The film was therapeutic.

It's message ends up being something like: Even if they’re prone to weeping or melodrama or guilt-induction, even if at some point along the way they’ve Let You Down something fierce/deep/meaningful/traumatic (which you’ve probably taken out on others over the years), even if you begrudge them for said letting down (especially when you find yourself in new painful situations), YOUR MOTHER STILL LOVES YOU!!! And they’ll always love you. And the sooner you accept that fact and everything that comes along with it, the better.

Novel+ Review: The Marriage Plot

            Jeffrey Eugenides' The Marriage Plot was another book I acquired/read down in Los Angeles this past month. I picked it up after a friend sent me a link to a New York Magazine article called “Just Kids”.

Had I not read the first page or so of “Just Kids” I probably wouldn’t have bought The Marriage Plot. But I did read the first page or so, then buy the book, ergo, I feel inclined to make the following disclaimer: I have NO IDEA what reading the The Marriage Plot would have been like had I not been reading it through the lens provided by the first page-or-so of “Just Kids.” I’m just saying...

           Thing 1: I liked the book, i.e., enjoyed reading it. I found it stimulating, thought provoking, entertaining, anger-ing.

Sense I Got: The Marriage Plot is less a bildungsroman (as was suggested by “Just Kids”) and more a revenge novel, a revenge novel in which author Jeffrey Eugenides seeks to settle an old score between him and (1) “post-modernism” (post-modern literary-criticism, specifically), (2) David Foster Wallace, and (3) someone like The Marriage Plot’s “Madeleine Hanna.”

Conclusion I’m Drawing on the Basis of the Sense I Got: Jeffrey Eugenides--whose Pulitzer Prize winning Middle Sex I haven’t read and whose Virgin Suicides I’ve only seen the movie version of--has the literary equivalent of a little d*ck.

Think Bill Paxton in True Lies:

            Logic Behind My (Admittedly) Weird Science: If Eugenides didn’t have the literary equivalent of a little d*ck he would have written/published The Marriage Plot back in the late 1980s or early 1990s, when there were still people who believed in deconstruction and David Foster Wallace WAS ACTUALLY ALIVE and could’ve defended himself from what basically amounts to a kind of pity-ridden slander, and you know what they say about pity (“Basest form of currency there is”).   

My Largely Speculative Fuel for The Machine:

1. Eugenides is extremely relieved, like PREPARATION-H relieved, that po-mo-deconstruction has fallen out of fashion.
1. On page 43, Madeleine Hanna says, “Maybe it’s just me, but wasn’t it a relief to read a logical argument for once”; I bet this is exactly how Eugenides feels...
2. Eugenides understands just enough about the texts and tenets of post-modernism to be able to deride them (or, he understands just enough about people to be able deride them for posing as if they understand the texts and tenets of post-modernism).
1. Eugenides’ quote from Derrida’s Of Grammatology on page 47 seems borderline malicious. Yes that Derrida text is hard, but considering it’s the only direct quote from a text that gets repeatedly mentioned/used by characters who seem like TOTAL poser-a$$holes, well...
2. I can’t find it BUT Eugenides mentions Hegel once in passing, and I remember reading it and thinking, “You d*ck!”
3. Derrida’s only advocate in the WHOLE BOOK is the manic-depressive David Foster Wallace based character, Leonard BANKHEAD, and even he doesn’t give Derrida the thumbs-up, saying “You can’t just write him off” (p. 43).  
3. Eugenides has never himself been depressed, but has probably had to deal with his fair share of depressed people and the people who continue to love them (i.e., the Madeleine Hannas of the world).
1. While reading Eugenides descriptions of Wallace, er, Bankhead’s mania, I just got this sense that Eugenides only understood depression from the outside looking in. Call... it... a... hunch...
4. The End (Spoiler Alert): Jeffrey Eugenides’ own character in the novel, Mitchell Grammaticus, says to Madeleine Hannah (after David Foster Bankhead has exiled himself to the Great Northwest and divorced Madeleine), “Was there any novel where the heroine [Madeleine] gets married to the wrong guy [Bankhead] and then realizes it, and then the other suitor [Eugeneides] shows up, some guy who’s always been in love with her, and then they get together, but finally the second suitor realizes that the last thing the woman needs is to get married again, that she’s got more important things to do with her life?” (406). Now, if this isn’t the biggest piece of Ego-Pumping-Heroism masked as Self-Sacrifice=True-Love BULLSH*T I’ve encountered in a really, really, really long time, I... Just... Don’t... Know... What... Is.

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah: I know that it’s still unfashionable to talk about the character of the people who write the novels we read, but WHATEVER. I think Jeffrey Eugenides basically has the literary equivalent of a little d*ck and that The Marriage Plot is an enjoyable, fun, cowardly novel, the kind of novel I hope to never write.