O O Ø O O O O
Headcuttin’
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Devil has come down to Pint Day. Through the magic of the Reading Break, the Pint Day Saints actually find themselves in the same room on a Tuesday. To commemorate this unusual event, we came up with a way to test our collective mettle, and squeeze out some fresh content for the week: the headcutting duel.
The duel will last six rounds. Points are awarded in several categories: segue, venom, and of course, style points. This is a no-holds-barred rant-off. Each Ranter has twenty minutes to segue from the current fit of venom into his own, and to churn out as close to 150 words of rant as possible.
Kjell will start us off, ranting from your left (our right).
I watched a Britney Spears spotlight today, and I have a question. Who does she think she’s fooling? The “girls” are about as real as Ottavio Cinquanta’s concern for the integrity of the sport of figure skating. Sorry, but “growth spurt” would sound like a much more plausible explanation if you actually had a body fat ratio. Nope. With a tummy like that, you ought to be flatter than, well, pee on a plate.
And I haven’t even started on the virgin thing. Sure, you could still be a virgin, because it’s innocence and virtue that make for success in the industry. Casting couch anyone? Not that I really think you’re in danger of losing your proverbial cherry to Mr. N’ Sync, mind you. Do guys in Boy Bands even like girls?
Do guys in Boy Bands even like girls?
It’s easy and obvious to think of the ranks of these teen idol groups as five gay guys out to shake their thangs. (Why is it always five? Who else watched the making of O-Town? I’m ashamed to say I did.) But I believe the truth is much more insidious: Boy Bands are genetically engineered, mechanically extruded polymer automatons. They’re not really gay, and they’re not really straight either. Like a Ken doll, if you know what I mean.
So as long as the Man’s machine doesn’t run out of synthetic resin, we’re sure to be in healthy supply of pre-fab, gel-laden, sculpted-ab, homo-erotic, teen crush-monkeys. Remember, “Pop is here to stay.”
Proof? Remember that N’Sync video that takes place in the supermarket? They’re rubbing our faces in it, like so much errant puppy-do.
And not only do we sit back and allow this studio-born fabricated excrement to be shoved down our bleating throats, we actually reward the crap-mongers that are doing it. We pay them billions and billions of dollars a year in compensation. We turn these lip-syncing Ken dolls into millionaires, and refer to them as idols and heros. Sure, we know that Karma and a coke habit will eventually reduce their windfall into a whimper, but what does that say about our priorities? Entertainment first, everything else second.
Karma and a coke habit will eventually reduce their windfall into a whimper...
Hey, this sounds a bit familiar. Anyone remember any other Empires that got soft and had their couch-potato, grape-eating asses punted off their pedestals? Admittedly, the Romans allowed their manufactured entertainment superstars to kill each other in the ring (how fun would that be? N’Sync vs. O-Town: last five standing get a record contract), but are we really any different? If you want to be rich and respected, bare your underage belly on national television. If you prefer poverty and shooting sprees, become a teacher. Yep. This society is sustainable.
I wouldn’t be so vain as to say we’re the generation during which the whole house of cards will come crashing down, but we’re definitely building on a table with some fairly wobbly legs. Passionate pleas in this space aside, we seem to have a collective problem of prioritisation: products and services that feed the machine are given greater weight than those that may detract from it. To wit:
Turning up the thermostat is better for Gross Domestic Product than putting on a sweater. Cleaning up environmental disasters such as the Kuwaiti well fires and the Sydney tar ponds is better economics than not having the accidents at all. Surgery is better business than just being well. This is all obviously nonsensical, so why is it true?
This is all obviously nonsensical, so why is it true?
The problem is our measuring stick: we can quantify that which is produced or served, but not that which is actually accomplished. There’s a whole phalanx of so-called green economists who are now pushing different metrics for evaluating difficult concepts such as the true value of free goods. Naturally, I don’t pretend to share all their beliefs, but at least they understand the trouble with our current M.O.
I don’t think we really need a different, non-growth-oriented method of measuring alleged progress. I think we need more people to wake up with different, potentially non-growth-oriented priorities. That means when a raise or bonus comes along, you don’t look around for large ticket items on which to blow it, or move into a newly-affordable, much bigger house house in the suburbs from which to commute. There are plenty more sustainable options you can pursue, such as experiential adventures (travel), or something the governments and economists would never want to hear: saving.
The idea of saving, of course, is about as passé as the concept of cash. The only people who seem to do it are those who can’t figure out how to work the ATM. Who needs cash when there’s OAC? Who needs Yuppie Food Stamps when there’s plastic and all those appealing-yet-perpetually-unclaimed reward points. Worst of all, saving required turning over a wheelbarrow full of your hard earned money to a bank. Now that’s the part that makes my stomach churn.
I’m sorry, but what have the banks done lately to deserve my money? The interest rate offered to me by my mattress is basically the same as the banks give me, without all those annoying surcharges. Moreover, my mattress rarely runs transactions through twice, forcing me into a three-month battle to get my money back, or magically lose sums of money that were present prior to closing a bank account. I don’t have a jar of Vaseline on my desk with a picture of my mattress on it, and a mattress has yet to make the List.
I don’t have a jar of Vaseline on my desk with a picture of my mattress on it, and a mattress has yet to make the List.
What have all the banks done that could possibly justify every one of them making it into our Very Bad Books? For the answer to that, we only have to turn to our friend the TV.
When a bank runs an ad, they show you soft-filtered scenes from the life of a successful middle aged Canadian. She has just decided to migrate from her career as an eight-to-five corporate commuter to a more fulfilling pursuit that closely resembles her life’s dreams. These dreams run the gamut from photography, to woodworking, to sculpture. (There are plenty of corporate types that phantasize of a more fulfilling career in the liberal arts. Are you one of them?)
What is the message these ads are selling Canadians? Precisely, they say you can dream of a fulfilling pie-in-the-sky second career after you’ve put in your thirty years playing the corporate game. Only after you’ve accumulated sufficient equity in your mortgage (since you don’t really save, remember), will we be willing to take a risk on your so-called dreams. Ambitious young entrepreneurs need not apply, as the funds the banks might lend you are all tied up in serious ventures, such as Enron. Call us when you’re 55 and have proven you can play our game, kid.
Until then, work for whom we say you should work, live on the edge of town where you belong (with your just-slightly-larger-than-you-should-really-afford mortgage we approved), and consume the same pop pablum as everyone else. (If you stare at Britney’s tummy for long enough, you can hypnotise yourself into believing you actually like this stuff.)
It’s the new American dream, and no one sells it better than the Canadian chartered whores-of-Babylon.
Welcome to the machine.
The
Pint Day Saints
Tuesday, February 19,
2002
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