I watched a feminist documentary. I didn’t like it.

Posted on February 25, 2012 by Max T Kramer

Mistress and I went to a showing of the documentary Miss Representation in Hartford this past Wednesday. Granted, there were other places I would have rather been, like The Beijing Museum of Tap Water, or Donner Pass during storm season, or Hell, but the woman has me wrapped around her finger, so there you go. In the interest of continued peaceful cohabitation, I agreed to accompany her, and to do so with an open mind.

The movie was good. Miss Representation raises several excellent points, and promotes discussion about some truly important issues. It introduces the idea of, and need for media literacy, a suprisingly under-developed skill set for most people. If you are unfamiliar with the term, do yourself a favor and look it up. Figure out what it is, and then apply it. If you’re a woman, watch the documentary. I’ll give you a brief 3 part synopsis of the film, but you’re probably not going to like it.

1: The movie states that we are constantly bombarded with images of unattainable beauty, causing women to feel inferior and insecure.

This is so true, and just isn’t fair. You shouldn’t have to see beautiful people. You should totally move somewhere where the media doesn’t do horrible things like that. Like Afghanistan. The media there would never do something so horrible as show an image of a sexy woman, and make you feel bad about yourself! Women in Afghanistan must have it so easy. They’re probably happy all the time.

Sadly, not too many American women have the good luck of being able to flee to Afghanistan, or a similar bastion of liberation and women’s rights, and they’re stuck here in the horrible United States, where life is so tough and every day is simply a struggle to survive. I suppose in that case, they really have no choice but to soldier on, and try their best to come to terms with the fact that somebody, somewhere, is prettier than them, and that they just might have to see that person if they turn on the TV.

It’s rough, I know. Everybody everywhere should be worse than you in every way so that you never feel bad about yourself ever. OR, I guess you could maybe…feel bad…and then do something about it…and then feel better. Are unattainable goals really a bad thing? If you’re striving for the impossible, surely you’ll achieve some sort of progress along the way, right? If you’ve bettered yourself, you’ve bettered yourself, and that can’t be all bad.

If you can’t be the pretty girl, be somebody else. Be the smart girl. Be the funny girl. Be the girl that cures cancer. Be the best at SOMETHING, and I’ll bet you’ll be feeling pretty damn good about yourself, double chin and club foot notwithstanding. You want some self-esteem? Earn it.

2: The movie correctly identifies certain disparities, discrepancies, and double standards between men and women. Basically, men have the power, and women are constantly over-criticized, marginalized, subdued, held back, and generally taken advantage of. The movie blames modern media for this phenomenon.

I call bullshit. Media truly does suck, but I don’t think it’s a problem creator. It’s a problem reflector. Women have gotten the short end of the fairness and equality stick since long before cable television. I only checked the history books briefly, but i’m fairly certain that these problems existed since oh…..forever. Bitches been getting beaten and raped since Crog and Ogg back in clan of the cave bear times. We didn’t need MTV jams to learn how to objectify women. We could do that just fine on our own. Oh, but all the sex and violence in the media, it’s not natural, it’s a recent cultural phenomenon. It is? So then people definitely never gathered in excitement to watch witch trials, or criminal excecutions, or gladiatorial games. No, all of our ancestors were peaceful saintlike creatures. Pay attention now. I’m not saying there is no problem. There is a huge problem. I’m just saying the problem isn’t NEW.

3: Finally, the movie makes the dire warning that we are no longer moving forward. We aren’t progressing. The women’s rights movement has stalled.

Based off of what? Life is not, never was, and never will be perfect, but I still think we’re moving in the right direction. We don’t have a woman president yet, but I know we’re a hell of a lot closer than we were 20, 50, or 200 years ago. My great grandmother, bless her soul, was an uneducated breeding machine who birthed out 17 babies and never left the farm. Just three generations later, my twin sister is a PHD candidate in materials engineering, and a well respected researcher in a traditionally male dominated field. You tell me that we’re no longer progressing? I respectfully disagree.

Now get back into the kitchen and make me a sandwich.

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My mother never hit me, but I sure wish she did.

Posted on February 3, 2012 by Max T Kramer

Our country is a wonderful, amazing, incredible place. Sadly, it is full or horrible, useless people.

Us.

We suck, and for the most part, we are frustratingly ignorant of this fact. I don’t believe that we are willfully self-delusional. We’ve just never been told the truth. From the moment we are born to the minute we die, we are lied to. We’re told that we’re beautiful. We’re told that we’re special. We’re told that we can achieve great things. Well guess what. We’re not, we ain’t, and we won’t.

Our great-great grandparents whipped our great-grandparents asses. Our great-grandparents went on to do incredible things. Our great-grandparents whipped our grandparents asses. Our grandparents went on to do great things. Our grandparents rarely whipped our parents asses. Our parents went on to become disgusting hippies. Our parents never whipped our asses. We haven’t gone on to do anything. We still live in our parents basements.

Everybody is too damn emotional, and it’s crippling us as a nation. Instead of valuing incredibility and awesomeness, we value useless things like sensitivity. Two of those three traits won the Revolutionary War. The same two out of those three traits put a fucking man on the moon. Guess which two.

Once upon a time, when a child failed a test in school, their parents would give them a slap in the mouth and tell them to study harder. Now if a child fails a test in school, more often than not their parents will call the school and threaten to sue the teacher until the grade is changed. Which reaction do you really think is more beneficial to the child? I’ll give you a hint. It tastes like knuckles.

We seem to have forgotten the value of failure. Failing causes shame. Shame is an excellent motivator. If we take away the threat of failure, we also take away the incentive to succeed. If you allow yourself to live in a world where mediocrity goes unpunished, don’t be surprised when mediocrity is what you get.

I’m told that children can no longer play dodgeball in gym class, because everyone always throws balls at the fat kids, and its embarassing for them. Come on. We’re not helping the overweight kids by not chucking balls at their faces. Here’s the thing. They weren’t getting targetted because children are exceptionally cruel. They were getting targetted because they’re easier to hit. If there are no tangible, immediate unpleasant repurcussions to being overweight, what’s the incentive for a child to shed the pounds? Not So Little Timmy doesn’t give a hobo’s fart about diabetes or high blood pressure, but if he knows that he could avoid getting popped in the face with a playground ball just by eating a carrot and running around outside, Not So Little Timmy might just turn off his video game system, eat a carrot, and run around outside. Eat less. Exercise more. No more playground balls to the face. Even a child could figure that equation out.

As parents we have to realize that our children are dumb. Every single thing they want is exactly the opposite of what they actually need. If a child was left alone, they’d eat 8 thousand Twinkies, crap their pants, stick a belt buckle into an electrical socket, and die. Are you really concerned about what this horrible, stupid creature wants?

Of course they don’t want to eat broccoli, or study hard, or go to sleep early. They’re kids. They can’t see the correlation between those unpleasant activities, and leading a long, healthy, successful life. You can though. That’s why you have to dish out the tough love. Your kids might think you’re mean now, but odds are they’ll thank you later.

If only our parents had been meaner to us. Our country might not be in quite such bad shape now.

 

 

 

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I may be a writer, but none of my friends like to read.

Posted on January 16, 2012 by Max T Kramer

I’m not allowed to talk about reading or writing with my friends. They consider these activities to be deviant behavior, and they feel that openly discussing them is incredibly distasteful. I’m something of an enigma. A nerd without any nerd friends.

For the most part, those people closest to me are willing to overlook my irregularity, but, like anyone exposed to an embarrassing and poorly kept secret, there are limits to how far they will go to do so. For my guy friends, if I volunteer to drive to the bar, or a monster truck rally, or a knife fight, or any other suitably masculine event, and I happen to have a stack of library books in my back seat, they’re usually willing to let that go with a few eye rolls and a token sneer of disgust. If I attempt to bring one of those books with me when we reach our destination however, they are likely to beat me viciously with unopened whiskey bottles.

If I express a desire to stay in at night because i’ve got some new books i’m excited about reading, they immediately become concerned that i’m either dying of cancer, or that i’ve turned into a lady, and gotten my period. The last time any of them finished a book that didn’t include pictures of naked women, it was when they were learning to read Dr. Seuss’s “Hop on Pop”, and that was way back in the 8th grade. If you ask them to name their favorite sci-fi masterpiece, their answer will undoubtably be the movie Mega Shark Vs. Giant Octopus.

With girls, the lines are a little blurrier because most women think they like guys who are intellectual, when what they actually like are attractive men who happen to wear eyeglasses, which really isn’t the same thing at all. They also oftentimes consider themselves avid readers because they skimmed three Cosmo articles and a half page of Twilight that one time when they were taking a poop and they were bored because they couldn’t find their iPhone. Unfortunately, eternal devotion to team Edward does not an avid reader make.

For them, my reading and writing is fine, even attractive, as long as i’m not actually doing it. “Hey Chantal, see my friend Max over there? Yeah, the guy that’s arm-wrestling Steve. He’s a writer.” “Oh my Glob, Jenny, that’s so hawt!” This adoration for a nebulous and highly romanticized idea swiftly breaks down when exposed to mundane reality. There is nothing quite as effective at cooling the fires of a woman’s passion as me irritably hunched over my desk wearing sweatpants and a beer stained undershirt, squinting at my computer screen for several hours. “Oh, you didn’t shower again today. And you wrote a story about wizards. No, I don’t want to read it. I’m sorry, but, umm, i’m going to go. Don’t call me.”

I know there are people who share my passion for science fiction and fantasy literature. I’ve just never met them.

 

 

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It’s 2012, why am I still alive?

Posted on January 8, 2012 by Max T Kramer

10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1…HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!

I held my breath, and did another count down, this one in my head. After about 30 seconds, I gave up with a sigh, and focused entirely on making sweet lip love with Mistress. It looks like those bloodthirsty dicks the Mayans had gotten it wrong. The world hadn’t ended at all. I was still out celebrating with my friends. The expensive big-time DJ that the bar had flown in from LA was still spinning the same top 40 crap that any asshole with an iPod could have pumped through the Popov soaked speakers. We were still placing drink orders on some poor guy named Lloyd’s tab. (Thanks Lloyd.) I was unsuccessfully attempting to avoid detection as I ogled all the pretties in their little black dresses. It was pretty conclusive. We were all very much alive.

I’ll be the first to admit, I was a little disappointed. It turned out I would be going back to work in the morning after all.

Our continued existence isn’t all bad, I guess. Its no reason to give up hope just yet. 2012 is a long year after all. A leap year even. We still have plenty of time to achieve extinction.

I wonder how it’s all going to end. I mean, you know where my vote is being cast. Zombie Apocalypse. The signs are there people. There is plenty of room for surprises though. Asteroid Collision, Supernova, Volcanic eruptions, The Death Star, mutant dolphins with opposable thumbs and a taste for human flesh. These are all within the realm of possibility.

The weird thing is, for a lot of people, none of these horrible ends to civilization would be particularly unwelcome. You can count me among them. To be clear, i’m not suicidal. I think being alive is the bees knees. I even appreciate society, and all of its inherent perks; like the ability to order groceries online and have them delivered to my house, or the freedom to pay other people to change my car’s oil so I don’t get grease in my fingernails. Modern conveniences are pretty cool. The end of the world sure would make things a whole lot simpler though.

We wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that no matter which of the presidential candidates we elect, it won’t be a great choice, because there just isn’t a great choice available. We won’t have to sacrifice a significant portion of our income to a social security system that will have most likely failed by the time we are old enough to benefit from it (you’re welcome grandma), or to pay taxes which fund government initiatives we don’t support. People will stop making fun of me for not having an iPhone. We won’t have to worry about holes in the ozone, or Pakistan’s secret agenda. We wouldn’t have to watch those horrible TV commercials with the sad music where rich celebrities tell us that for just 40 cents a day, we can save 3 litters of sick puppies. I don’t want to save any sick puppies, they have gross gooey eyes, and that one there is missing a leg, and that’s nasty, and I hate them, so shut the fuck up Sarah Mclachlan.

If the end of the world happens, we’ll either be dead, or we’ll be driving around the desert Mad Max style, fighting off hordes of mohawked ruffians. Our entire existence will revolve around the following simple urges: Eat, Sleep, Poop, Fuck.

Those are the same things that interest your dog. Over the past day, your asshole labradoodle licked its own crotch for 3.5 hours, ate the contents of 4 garbage cans, and then napped for 18 hours straight. If you say you’re not jealous of that shaggy fucks life, you’re a liar.

Once the end of the world happens, we’ll all finally be free to enjoy garbage can feasts, and that’s not a bad thing.

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True Fiction

Posted on December 22, 2011 by Max T Kramer

Fiction, by definition, deals with information or events that are not factual. It is imaginary. Made up. Unreal. Ironically, the best fiction is successful entirely because it feels real.

You don’t need flowery language to create an entertaining story. You don’t need an engaging theme. You don’t need a brilliant idea or a pressing agenda. You don’t even need an entertaining story to tell an entertaining story. You just need tightly focused truths.

Accurately recounted mundane details. These are what it takes to make a story resonate. This rule applies regardless of genre. You can write a science fiction story about the methane breathing leviathans of kreeborg 6, wholly made-up creatures from an entirely ficticious world, and if you successfully convey how the main character becomes nervous and gassy while interacting with his secret crush, or gets annoyed by his inept boss, or feels bored in church, your reader is going to be engaged.

Readers are demanding beasts. They wish to immerse themselves in the imaginary worlds contained within the pages of the books they read. They insist that the characters they find there engage in extraordinary feats, and take part in outrageous events. They read to escape from the real world, and so they desire to be carried away, to pal around for an hour or two with the highly improbable, and the mostly impossible.

They crave this release, and yet they are picky. They are tricky. They must be wooed. The average reader can suspend disbelief only so much. The writer has to meet them half way. The reader wants to make a connection with their favorite storybook characters, but this connection can only be established within the limited scope of the reader’s actual experiences. The savvy writer understands this restriction. The successful writer exploits it.

A limited example. I read a story. The main character is a woman, and a detective, and a heroin addict. I am none of those things. I can’t connect. I hate this story. But wait! The main character attends a funeral, and during the service, all she can think about are sandwiches. Highly inappropriate given the situation. And yet, I myself have been to a funeral. I have also thought about sandwiches, and how attractive the widow is, and various other inappropriate topics that I would never admit to out loud, but since this junkie detective bitch is admitting it, she’s suddenly speaking my language. I’ll bite. I’m committed. Well played clever author.

The unbelievable can always be made believeable. The unachieveable can seem feasible. It is a funny business, speaking the truth. You can use the most mundane of imagery, and the basest of details,  and if you do it correctly, you can tell people anything. Even lies. Even fiction. And that’s the truth.

 

 

I’m not happy with this post. It doesn’t feel complete, but I don’t know how to better express what i’m trying to say.

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