Powell's is much better than Amazon at guessing what I might like to read in the future

Just sayin'.

My Job ----> You Sad :(

Frued didn't know what women want, and had it generally wrong about what men want. Kurt Vonnegut, in I forget which book, wrote: "I know what women want. They want a whole lot of people to talk to. What do they want to talk about? They want to talk about everything. What do men want? They want a lot of pals, and they wish people wouldn't get so mad at them." Sounds about right!

There's a new paper out from the Hoover Institution that cites several depressing facts about American men and women:

"In 1985, 10 percent of Americans had no discussion partner of any kind; by 2004, that number had increased to 25 percent. In 1985, 15 percent of Americans had only one person to talk to about a life problem, which even optimists call inadequate social support, since it makes a person very vulnerable to losing that lone relationship. By 2004, that number had increased to 20 percent. ... An estimated 20 percent of the population exhibits symptoms of anxiety and depression, and in some states the prevalence of symptoms is closer to 30 percent. An estimated 95 percent of Americans have low self-esteem."

In today's society of individualism and mobility, it becomes difficult to hold onto the ties of an extended family or religious group or to make stable new friend groups. The author believes this trend was exacerbated in the 1950s, when the rise of practiced psychoanalysis signaled the beginning of the organically-social's end:

"The caring industry weakens and may destroy the family by making it superfluous. If people have caring professionals to talk to about their personal problems, they don’t need relatives. They don’t even need authentic friends. Caring professionals may form the peer group of the future. ... As professional caregivers expand their presence in society, lay volunteers inevitably disappear. To make matters worse, some laypeople no longer see it as their role to volunteer, or to even help people in their own circle, thinking instead: “That’s what the professionals are there for."

Dun dun dun!

I'm sure the author, because he got published by ivy Stanford University's fancy Hooper Institution, probably has the figures to back up this fallacy argument. Were people pre-1950 happier and less anxious? Standardized testing isn't generally available for that population, but there must be specific groups, for instance schoolchildren or members of the military, that's happiness levels can be marked against those of a similar contemporary group. Or perhaps the author knows of a study in which a group was subjected to "professional" care-giving for a length of time, and afterward became less able to participate in "volunteer" care-giving. I am suddenly very interested in what studies like these would show! And how they would be designed to ferret out all the other factors involved!

I suspect, however, that the rise of individualism and mobility, especially when paired with new patterns of poverty and free time have done more to raise incidences anxiety and loneliness than have Frued and office couches.

Vonnegut: "Why are so many people getting divorced today? It's because most of us don't have extended families any more. It used to be that when a man and women got married, the bride got a lot more people to talk to about everything. The groom got a lot more pals to tell dumb jokes to. ... When a couple has an argument nowadays, they may think it's about money or power or sex, not how to raise the kids, or whatever. What they're really saying to each other, though, without realizing it, is this: You are not enough people!"

Moreover, the rise of counting people's levels of happiness has probably contributed a lot to the present state of affairs. Just as autism levels seemed to suddenly sky-rocket due to our noticing them, so have incidences of unhappiness.

Rather than blaming the care-giving industry for attempting to help, I believe it may be more fruitful to find ways our society can re-establish some kind of more or less "organic"-ish social bonds. For instance, in what spaces can we create free and non-judgmental doings that may draw the lonely and anxious? How can we fund day centers in which people are encouraged to make friends with one another, and how can that even be encouraged? What I'm talking about is, I guess, how can we make the grown-up world more like a college dorm or summer camp? How about if we changed the emphasis from individualized care-giving to group vocational training? How about regular, widely publicized outings of fun-having and bond-strengthening for non-hipsters and for no fee? How about consciousness-raising sort of groups for everyone? How about AA/NA, but without the emphasis on problems?

How do we do this? The only thing I can think, is, we don't do it by abandoning the admittedly commercial bonds people do have. We do it by adding more kickball.

"Inception" of a terrible movie onto my eyeballs

Good idea, Christopher Nolan!

Not very well executed, however!



Is it ever ok for a movie to explain away terrible NONEXISTENT characterization of all of its characters except for maybe one (and that one's boring) by saying the characterization had to be nonexistent for the plot to work? I am trying to think of a time that that happened, and was acceptable.

How about a time when there were all these snowmobiles for SUCH A LONG TIME and the plot completely stalled so we could look at ALL THESE SNOWMOBILES and it was SOOOO BORING but it was ok? IT IS NEVER OK!

Update! I'm right about everything :)

DVD: "Chloe"

Julianne Moore suspects that her husband, Liam Neeson, is cheating on her, because he misses the elaborate surprise birthday party she'd planned for him to go hang out with some girl student of his, who then texted him "thanks for the great time last night!"

So what does Julianne Moore, relatable everywoman, do? She goes out with Liam Neeson the next night to the symphony and a fancy dinner and shoots him questioning, hostile glances. Fair enough! Then she picks a fight with him on the way home. That's what I would do! I would pick a fight about the text message, I mean, and I would bring up Liam Neeson's ethical duties as a professor as well as his disrespectful-to-Julianne Moore behavior, and probably Trust Issues. Julianne Moore, however, picks a fight with him about how he was too nice to the waitress!

To which Liam Neeson replies, "Most people are so rude to service workers, so I try to be extra-friendly to make up for that."

This conflict (because the other conflicts are boring), sets the main theme of the movie (in my head). Which is interesting, because although I've seen indie movies for twentysomethings, and a few documentaries, focus on the Being Nice to the Help issue, fancy soft-porn movies for fortysomethings usually don't. And it's an important issue! So, who will win? The pretty lady who may have the morally superior hand in regards to her marriage, or the smiling old guy who is nice to service workers (ie, the world)? I hope you win, Liam Neeson!

So Julianne Moore, as you do, hires Amanda Seyfried, a sex worker, to tempt her husband to see if he'll try to sleep with her. Amanda Seyfried, for no reason, is like, Ok, Julianne Moore, you're so pretty and I really like you, so, ok! Julianne Moore's like, Why are you just a sex worker? That sounds so gross, and because I am paying you, I guess I am allowed to talk down to you about how you live your life? Amanda Seyfriend: I am definitely not in it for the money, and anyway, sometimes it brings awesome people like you into my life! Julianne Moore: Ew! Bye.



The next day, Liam Neeson tells Julianne Moore he loves her smile, so Julianne Moore decides to call off the whole stupid immature experiment. But Amanda Seyfried wants to keep hanging out, because she likes Julianne Moore's jerkface character, for no reason! So she tells Julianne Moore a long, soft-porn-graphic story about how she did it with Liam Neeson ("He kissed me and I could feel his excitement in his pants"). Julianne Moore's like, Oh no! Our marriage! But wait, all these details are turning me on and also making me feel closer to my husband! But the person in front of me's just a sex-service worker, so I'll just yell at her that I didn't tell you to do that!

So then Amanda Seyfried shows up at Julianne Moore's gynecology office - she is a doctor, and it's a huge corner office with floor to ceiling windows, and windows instead of walls separating the lobby from the exam room, which is exactly where I want to have my next pap smear. Julianne Moore has perhaps confused Amanda Seyfried with a psychopath, because I kind of did for a minute, because of other movies, and so she continues to treat her like a dirty servant. But then suddenly they're having sex? And it is way too graphic?

So Julianne Moore comes home late from the heteronormative lesbian sex scene with all of the nipples, and Liam Neeson's like, Are you having an affair?

Now Julianne Moore's sleeping on the plush leather couch instead of the double-king with pillowtop. She stares out the window - which is also kind of a like a mirror - and thinks about life. She goes to see Amanda Seyfried and says, This business transaction, which is was this was, is over! Amanda Seyfried's like, But I love you! Here are some flowers, and my mother's heirloom comb! I thought we had something special! But look, if you're going to treat me like a servant, then I'll blackmail you like one! Julianne Moore: Shut up, servant!

Julianne Moore has to save her marriage. So she calls up Liam Neeson and meets him at a fancy bar with lots of windows. He orders a coffee, and she says, to him, "I'm drinking cognac." He turns to the waiter and says, like a person, "And a cognac for my wife." NOW SHE'S TOO GOOD TO EVEN TALK TO THE HELP!

Julianne Moore: Let's be honest and save our marriage.
Liam Neeson: I hate getting older, so I avoided my birthday party. I went out and flirted with a student, because that made me feel younger.

Just as Julianne Moore's about to ask him about fucking Amanda Seyfried, Amanda Seyfried walks in. Julianne Moore stares at her. Liam Neeson says, "Who's that?" It is clear that Liam Neeson has not been fucking Amanda Seyfried. Julianne Moore: "Oh shit, I guess I accidentally hired a sex worker to see if you were cheating on me. And then I guess I slept with her, because it made me feel younger?" Liam Neeson: "?"

Although Julianne Moore is a dick to the entire service industry, Liam Neeson loves her or whatever, so they're going to be ok. She will be a dick, and Liam Neeson will be extra-friendly to the waitress/sex worker to make up for that. It's an ok message, I guess. Catharsis, yawn. But there are other loose ends to tie up! What will happen to the sex worker?!

Amanda Seyfried, in a very understandable and not at all cipher-y attempt to win back Julianne Moore, goes to Julianne Moore's house and fucks her son in Julianne Moore's bed. Julianne Moore comes home, finds them asleep in her bed, and yells at them. But Amanda Seyfried has her mother's heirloom comb and goes to stab Julianne Moore in the neck with it. Julianne Moore: What do you want? Amanda Seyfried: I want you to kiss me. Then Amanda Seyfried drop the comb, and Julianne Moore pushes her out the window! And Amanda Seyfried dies!



Next thing you know, it's the funeral son's graduation gala. He stares forlornly toward the window his mother pushed Amanda Seyfried out of while Julianne Moore mingles with her fancy friends, wearing Amanda Seyfried's comb in her fancy up-do.

The mind reels. The 90 minutes, it's Be Nice to the Service Workers! Look out behind you, Julianne Moore! Your lack of kindness is going to get you killed! Then suddenly, it's Don't worry, if you are fancy and pretty enough you can get away with murder.

This is a stupid movie.

DVD: "The Fourth Kind"

"The Fourth Kind" is actually pretty amazing.



At first it feels like a terrible movie... and then you're like, Hey, this is totally entertaining and well-edited! It goes back and forth for a while. Every time I'm super excited for the little sci-fi B-movie to be doing so well for itself, something terrible comes up. Essentially, it's the gold-star A+ paper result of a super-mean teacher's assignment.

It's like, Ok, class, time for the criteria for your final:

1) It has to be about alien abductions.

2) It has to try to invoke the audience's unconscious fear of owls.

3) It must include the foreboding line "Sometimes the things that shake us the most... are the things we seldom see coming."

4) Must have as its protagonist a braid-obsessed Doctor of Psychology paid by the government to root out insomnia in Nome, AK (where it is daylight for 16+ hours four months out of the year). This doctor must be seen flying a plane, owning a 19th century library, and understanding Latin and Greek. This doctor may not, however, believe in psychotropic medications or any kind of talking therapy or be answerable to any ethical board, but must rely exclusively on hypnosis, with absolutely no processing with the client afterward.

5) It has to include a child going spontaneously blind after a trauma s/he did not witness. This child must be played by a terrible child actor who is obviously not blind.

6) Must bring in at some point a wise African scholar who brings up that the ancient Sumerians definitely knew about oxygen masks (because of aliens), juxtaposed with museum images that definitely contradict that idea. Museum images must be obviously fake.

7) Must go further than any other film, ever, to impress explicitly upon its audience that it's non-fiction. Every single scene must include "real" footage as well as "dramatized" footage. In the "real" footage, the protagonist may not be shown wearing a braid.




8) Must show the Doctor of Psychology ("dramatized") arguing that "Eleven million people have seen or know someone who've seen a UFO. Eleven million witnesses - that'd win any court case in the world!"

9) In the climax, when the protagonist is herself hypnotized to help her remember when she'd been abducted by aliens three days prior, she must for no reason suddenly be able to talk to the aliens about things that happened just earlier that day.

10) There must be the suggestion of vaginal probing.

Extra credit: The aliens must turn out to be literally God, which fact cannot be dealt with whatsoever.

Keeping in mind these very tough constraints, "The Fourth Kind" did a great job! It was highly entertaining, with the right amount of plot twists, passable acting, great editing! It was FUN! The best thing about it, though, was the way it continuously (snarkily) undermined the idea that alien abductions are real, while also continuously remarking on how extremely non-fiction its story was.



For instance, it's bookended by footage of the film's actors reminding us, "The More You Know"-style, that the story here is real. Mila Jovonovich lets us know that the FBI have visited Nome 2000 times since the 1960s - more times than the FBI's visited any other town in Alaska! Why are the FBI so interested in Nome? ALIENS! Just after the actors' last appeal to our faith, a series of calls to the FBI UFO Sighting Hotline (which I hope is real) are played. Woman: "There were so many red lights!" Man: "There were no lights!" Woman: "It was shaped like a fedora!" Man: "It was shaped like a circle!" Girl: "My three-year-old brother thinks he saw one!" Just circles of ridiculousness.

Good job, movie!

Bret Easton Ellis: Total Dick

I found out two weeks ago he was doing a reading ten blocks from my house – and on my day off! And for free! I was excited! Although I find his style occasionally grating, and I haven't been able to get through any of his other books, I really liked American Psycho. It was an interesting book! Good satire!

I had a question all picked out. I was interested to find out if he found any of his characters likeable – not sympathetic, not fuckable, likeable. And if not, why does he think he hasn't written such a character? Not the worst question, am I right?

And then he got there, and then he started talking. He seemed sounded kind of nervous and uncomfortable with the packed room, but also confident in himself, which is exactly the correct personality for a writer to have at a reading. Sympathetic, but cool enough that you don't have to feel awful when somebody who went to college inevitably, in a loud, clear voice asks what the hell they think they're doing. So far so good!

Ellis read four pages from his new novel, Imperial Bedrooms, which is a great title that Elvis Costello thought of. Of the seven minutes he spent reading, I spent five mentally whittling down the lengthy description of his protagonist's beautiful-but-empty condo, and mentally deleting the terrible foreshadowy references (the desperate, lonely character suddenly hears the song “Hungry Like the Wolf,” if you know what I mean). But that's ok! It's a hard job, writing books! He already wrote one classic! And he still had fifty-three minutes to bring the interesting!

On with the questions!

It started with a lowball: There are a lot of balconies in your novels. What's that about?

Bret Easton Ellis has no idea. But he loves reading the papers people write about his work, and he's sure someone will answer this question in a paper someday, and he's sure he'll be blown away!

Ok. (Really?)

Can you speak for a moment about “This is not an exit,” the famous last line of American Psycho?

He liked the way it sounded.

Ok. (Whatever.)

And then he said a lot of boring, stupid shit.

What advice do you have for burgeoning writers? Real writers don't need advice. They don't ask questions. They just write. (C-)

What's your favorite movie adaptation of your work? “The only one that worked,” he said, "was The Rules of Attraction.” (F)

What audience does Ellis have in mind, when he's writing? He doesn't write for an audience. He writes the kind of novels he wants to read. If he had a reader in mind, he might as well be working for a PR firm or something. (D)

Why are there so many bisexual characters in his novels? He doesn't think about it. There aren't that many bisexual characters. Sean Bateman is “kinda gay.” Clay, from Less Than Zero and Imperial Bedrooms, isn't bisexual so much as his bisexuality is a literary device furthering the sense of him as rootless. (Haha)

But then he brought out some crazy shit!

A girl who went to college asked him what was up with his weird remark in Movieline about women directors?

Ellis hemmed a little bit. He let us all know that the asker was referring to something he'd said in an interview. He guessed he'd said that women can't be good film directors because "of the way [they] are built." Eesh!

He said he didn't remember really how it'd come up, and that what he'd said had most likely been taken out of context, and that it had become way too big a deal, and that he'd been sort of unfairly vilified for it... And anyway, he'd been in a snotty mood that night, so... But he didn't want to apologize or take it back, at the same time, because he kind of meant it, to an extent.

But, he was revising his opinion! He did really like a couple of women-helmed movies this year – like The Runaways!



(A 16-year-old child, and Joan fucking Jett as just another awkward teenager)

And I think, Bret Easton Ellis is kind of a dick. A stupid dick, who is really stupid.

But then it gets crazier! Lie to the strangers next time, Bret Easton Ellis!

Someone asks, says he heard from a friend that Ellis had been “haunted” after writing American Psycho, by the murderous protagonist, Patrick Bateman. True? (I know, blah-sounding question, right?)

Well, not by the character, but Ellis says he was haunted by the public reaction to the character. He called American Psycho “basically an autobiographical novel.” (!) He said it'd taken him years to be comfortable admitting that in front of an audience (!), but it was the truth. For years, when asked about this misogynistic, batshit horrifying character, he'd said he'd been hanging around a lot of Wall Street guys, and thinking about how their behavior related to what was going on in the larger society, and blah blah blah. But really, he said, the character was based on his own rage and loneliness (you know, while he was doing crystal every night with Jay MacInery and Tama Janowitz). He said he was angry because he was entering the world of adults, and finding out that all the consumer goods he'd been told would fill "the void" (barf), hadn't. He said relationships were hard, and girls seemed shallow.

("What's rarely said in all the furor over this novel is that it's a satire, a hilarious, repulsive, boring, seductive, and deadpan satire... Ellis is, first and last, a moralist. Under cover of his laconic voice, every word in his three novels to date springs from grieving outrage at our spiritual condition" - Henry Bean, Los Angeles Times Book Review. "The novelist's function is to keep a running tag on the progress of the culture; and [Ellis]'s done it brilliantly" - Fay Weldon, Washington Post.)

In a flash, I realize, OF COURSE, that Bret Easton Ellis is a total dick. First he writes horrible things that, it turns out, are not metaphors, but are in fact... you know... sexualized torture porn. Which he claimed were metaphors. Which we all bought as metaphors! I did some pointed re-reading:

“[S]he makes a futile dash for the front door, crying out... I'm leaping in front of her, blocking her escape, knocking her unconscious with four blows to the head from the nail gun. I drag her back into the living room, laying her across the floor... and nail three fingers on each hand, at random, to the wood by their tips. This causes her to regain consciousness and she starts screaming. After I've sprayed Mace into her eyes, mouth, into her nostrils, I place a camel-hair coat from Ralph Lauren over her head, which drowns out the screams, sort of. I keep shooting nails into her hands until they're both covered – nails bunched together, twisted over each other in places, making it impossible for her to try and sit up. I have to remove her shoes, which slightly disappoints me, but she's kicking at the floor violently, leaving black scuff marks on the stained white oak. During this period I keep shouting “You bitch” at her and then my voice drops to a raspy whisper and into her ear I drool the line “You fucking cunt.”

Finally, in agony, after I've taken the coat off her face, she starts pleading, or at least tries to, the adrenaline momentarily overpowering the pain. “Patrick oh god stop it please oh god stop hurting me...” ... The fingers I haven't nailed I try to bite off, almost succeeding on her left thumb which I manage to chew all the flesh off of, leaving the bone exposed, and then I Mace her, needlessly, once more ...

I take advantage of her helpless state and, removing my gloves, force her mouth open and with the scissors cut out her tongue, which I pull easily from her mouth and hold in the palm of my hand, warm, and still bleeding, seeming so much smaller than in her mouth, and I throw it against the wall, where it sticks for a moment, leaving a stain, before falling to the floor with a tiny wet slap. Blood gushes out of her mouth and I have to hold her head up so she won't choke. Then I fuck her in the mouth, and after I've ejaculated and pulled out, I Mace her some more (245-246).

When I read it, I remember thinking, RIGHT ON, that's exactly how society treats women! Metaphorically as well as too-often literally! Women as consumer goods to be used! Etc! On re-reading, however, I AM AN IDIOT. But more to the point, Bret Easton Ellis is a total dick. A misogynistic narcissist who writes only for himself and never attempts to grow as a writer-slash-person. He treats his fans like he's too cool to think for a second about what balconies might mean in his novels. (Duh, it's privilege and isolation, dumbass.) His style is BORING. He says terrible things about women. His only good novel's content is base - and not fun base, where lots of different kinds of people die for everyone's enjoyment, or where anyone dies for a really hard-hitting metaphor that increases awareness, but instead for no-good base reasons, where ex-girlfriend characters (and occasionally gay men) die because Bret Easton Ellis hates women and wants to masturbate to their pain.

There was no longer any point to asking my question or getting my book signed, so I left. Thanks for a charming evening, Bret Easton Ellis!

Things I've Been Reading About Mental Health!

Slate just published a review of Milton Rokeach's "The Three Christs of Ypsilanti," and it was not very interesting. The book appears to be a sort of philosophical justification for why a 1950s psychologist thought it might be interesting to put three schizophrenics who each believed they were Jesus into a ward together. That might've been interesting!

Instead, the 1950s psychologist lies about the schizophrenics' interactions with each other in order to make his experiment "meaningful." Then he fucks with the schizophrenics, sending them condescending letters from make-believe people in order to try and get them to stop believing they are Jesus. Then the schizophrenics stop reading the pretend letters and go on believing they are Jesus. Then, apparently, the book is over. Good job, book review! Running out to Powell's right now!

The part of the book that appears to be lies follows early meetings between the schizophrenics. Apparently, they weren't happy that they all shared the same identity.

"You oughta worship me, I'll tell you that!" one of the Christs yelled. "I will not worship you! You're a creature! You better live your own life and wake up to the facts!" another snapped back. "No two men are Jesus Christs. … I am the Good Lord!" the third interjected, barely concealing his anger.

This is clearly made-up nonsense directed at a reading audience that, logically enough for the 1950s, had probably never met a schizophrenic. (An audience that could see how Jesus 1 could walk up to Jesus 2 and say, "Hello, my name is Jesus. I like being the only son of God," instead of saying something like, "Mother says to stay away from the parasites. That tornado weapon was glinting?") It is intended to introduce a narrative about how each of us continuously constructs our identities: through logical interaction with our environment.



Its message is similar to Voltaire's story of Simon Morin (also mentioned in the Slate piece): Morin was a Christ-identified schizophrenic condemned to share a "mad-house" with "another fool, who called himself God the Father." Voltaire writes: "Simon Morin was so struck with the folly of his companion, that he acknowledged his own, and appeared for a time to have recovered his senses." So they let Morin out, and then, d'oh!, he remembered he was Jesus again, and then they burned him alive. These narratives emphasize Enlightenment logicality while ridiculing fanaticism, reminding us to ask questions toward finding truth, including the truth of who we are, in order to better ourselves and our society.

Which reminds me: Talking about mental illness is always talking about morality. It's always about "shoulds." What should we believe about this? What should be done about that (in order to uphold these values at the expense of those)?

Just sayin'.