As boy who grew up in a household with a violent schizophrenic as a father, and who went to school in a marginal area, I have very conflicted feeling about violence
Ive said it before, in various contexts: Humans are simultaneously both gods and monsters. We are eternally torn between the cognitive and the primordial. Our ego is constantly straining against a locked door behind which our id forever restlessly shifts. We all know what we should do in situations of conflict, but in our heart-of-hearts there are instincts, hungers, and millennium of evolution that transcend all of the logic and societal conditioning that we as humans have developed in order to keep our reptilian hindbrains safely chained.
One of the most striking depictions of this dichotomy was filmed by Kubrick, in his interpretation of the novel 2001: A Space Odyssey. The end of the opening scenes of the film elegantly sums up 40 million years of human evolution in a few seconds by showing a Neanderthal hurling his killing stick into the sky. As the cavemans club, the most basic of all tools, the type of tool most vital to our short term survival, a weapon, ascends into the sky, it becomes an orbiting space station; the ultimate incarnation of mans aspiration towards heaven and godhead.
Unfortunately, as humans how learned to walk upright, our primal bodies shedding their matted fur, and we have left the constant struggle for sheer survival behind, not all of us have made the same jump.
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god!
- Mr. Bill, Hamlet
Throughout this process of ascension, there have been men and women who have laid out the very principles of physics, of philosophy, of engineering, of art. We have microscopes that can perceive things a single atom wide, sculpt mountains into statues, or destroy our own world with a handful of machines.
"Now I am reborn Shiva, destroyer of worlds.
-Robert Oppenheimer, inventor of the atom bomb.
We have theodolites, and Theremins, and rocket launchers, and carbon dating, and cheesecake.
"Now I am reborn Kali-ma, eater of cheesecake."
-Rachelle, this girl I dated once.
But there is (of course), a far more visible sub-group of humanity, the ones we all experience every day. For every Stephen Hawking, Niels Bohr, or Laurie Anderson, there is an frickin' army of shelf-browed monkeys buying tickets to an As game.
So Lets just say that the guy I wanted to kick the shit out of last night wouldnt recognize Niels Bohr if I shoved that brilliant little Swede up this jerkoffs ass.
So there we were, at a birthday party, at a bar far outside of our usual territory.
Tourists we were, in hipster yuppie-land. The drinks were flowing, the Killers were playing (God help us), and we were having a good time (The Killers insipid retro-pop earfloss notwithstanding).
At one point, my radar picks up a couple of boys standing behind me and my non-date, but after a quick evaluation, I assume theyre harmless, and tune them out.
A second later, my friend yelps, and I turn to see a big slab of yuppie pawing at her back
Turns out that Chuckles (the big un) cant hold his liquor, figuratively or literally; hes gone and spilled half of his apple-cranberry martini down my rather attractive friends back, and for some reason the alcohol (if you want to call it that) is telling him that he should wipe her off using only his big meaty paws (either that, or he was just going for the cheap grope).
Now, you and I tend to smell like distilleries when were drunk, because we drink alcohol; these two smelled more like a Jolly Rancher factory. This confused me for a second, until I considered what they had been drinking. So, in short, our two badly dressed friends were drunk.
Accidents happen, so apologies all around. Maybe their apologies soundeda wee bit insincere, a touch out of focus, but apologies nonetheless. Im fine with this, but my friend having just received an icy-cold blast of apple-cran bukkake down her spine, is still (understandably) miffed.
Now, Im of the opinion that if youre the one done the bad, you eat a little crow. If a girl wants to go off on you for a second about something dumb you just did, thats her karma, let her carry that weight, its on her.
But if you fucked up, you own it.
You dont spill a drink on a girl in front of a Southern boy and then call that girl a bitch.
Its bad for your life expectancy.
So the evening suddenly started to heat up a bit, some words are exchanged, my female companion is (of course) called a bitch, I feel compelled make some pointed observations regarding Chuckles manners, fashion sense, and the perceived homoerotic undercurrents of his relationship with his friend Smirking Boy. So at this point, Im (of course) called a bitch, so I ask Chuckles if his Momma taught him how to use that mouth, and full-on masculine posturing begins.
Were funny, funny creatures, we boys. So driven by our egos, and their complimentary insecurities; so drunk on our own ancient chemical cocktails, that we actually think were thinking when shit like this goes down. But theres nothing spontaneous about the dance that leads to fighting (or the one taht leads to fucking, for that matter); were primates, and as such we have our own rituals for combat (or coitus, for that matter); rituals that are buried so deeply in our biochemical makeup that they are almost impossible to completely uproot. In the end, its all a dance, a dance so rigidly structured as to be completely predictable.
I was actually invited to step outside.
::giggle::
(I love the fact that bigger guys have always been able to overlook the fact that Im obviously a giggling psychotic. Its a source of endless amusment to me.)
Now, in very recent memory, I would have done it just for an outlet. He would have had me at bitch. He had six inches on me, but Im Welsh, you know? But at this stage, I have a whole lot less anger in me than I had even three weeks ago, and a lot more balance. Stomping a yuppie at midnight on Mission Street really seemed like a zero-sum game at that point, and . So I just told my new friend that I had no interest in stepping outside, and that if he wants to fight, all he has to do is touch me, once. Of course, the reptilian hindbrain also has a presence at the negotiating table, so I liberally pepper my very lucid points with the word bitch. If my little speech had been jambalaya, the word bitch would have been the Andouille.
Chuckles does some huffing, and puffing, but no houses are blown down. I turn my back on him and go back to drinking my single beer. The night returns to a slightly tense calm.
Later on in the evening (of course) Im outside, having a clove, and Chuckles comes outside. By this point, Smirking Boy has noticed that I seem to be part of a group of 10 -15 people. Chuckles shoots me his best smoky, come-hither look, and his friend bustles him away.
A minute later (of course) Chuckles staggers back up, demanding that we engage in fisticuffs, and asking why I need all my friends to protect me.
Bear in mind that Im surrounded, primarily by very attractive girls with very bright hair extensions; I was like Bosley surrounded by the VNV Angels.
Now, the dilemma that this situation raises is, (of course) what should you do in a situation like this?
People are both gods and monsters, animal and human, and this boy was a lot more animal than human. Or, to be more accurate, he was a child. If you let rude behavior slide, you (in a sense) condone it. If a dog isnt trained not to bite, piss on the rug, or hose down attractive girls with their martinis as a pickup line, then they never have a reason not to. And theres the key word: reason. If this boy had used what god gave him, he would have apologized sincerely, offered to buy the girl a drink, or at least just walked away.
Instead he acted like a badly trained dog, and started trying to bite. His best-case scenario in that situation would have been just mekicking his ass. Further down the scale of good ways to spend your evening, and he would have been beaten up by several boys. Least likely to be the way he wanted his night to end would have been publicly flogged by the Deathrock Barbie Posse.
Not so good for the male ego.
But heres when our own innate humanity kicks in; If he won, and walked away with his ego intact, hell carry that success with him, and it would define his actions from that point on. If he lost, he would be able to rationalize that it was because I fought dirty, or he was drunk, or because some deathrocker biker boy was looking for trouble and picked on him. Hed never see it as his fault, responsibility, and it wouldnt change his behavior one bit.
Drunk yuppies; cant drink with em, cant kick the shit out of em.
Its a zero sum game.
Committing to a fight is like having sex with someone you shouldnt. You feel it building, you rationalize it, you tell yourself youre better then that, and then they go and say (or do) that one thing that just pushes you right over the edge. And then afterwards, no matter how good it felt, no matter how certain you were at that particular moment that it would all be worth it afterwards, youre left with a nagging sense of doubt. Of wondering how the evening would have unfolded if you had just had that tiny extra shred of self-control.
Discipline is its own reward.
Thanks, Barry.
Ive said it before, in various contexts: Humans are simultaneously both gods and monsters. We are eternally torn between the cognitive and the primordial. Our ego is constantly straining against a locked door behind which our id forever restlessly shifts. We all know what we should do in situations of conflict, but in our heart-of-hearts there are instincts, hungers, and millennium of evolution that transcend all of the logic and societal conditioning that we as humans have developed in order to keep our reptilian hindbrains safely chained.
One of the most striking depictions of this dichotomy was filmed by Kubrick, in his interpretation of the novel 2001: A Space Odyssey. The end of the opening scenes of the film elegantly sums up 40 million years of human evolution in a few seconds by showing a Neanderthal hurling his killing stick into the sky. As the cavemans club, the most basic of all tools, the type of tool most vital to our short term survival, a weapon, ascends into the sky, it becomes an orbiting space station; the ultimate incarnation of mans aspiration towards heaven and godhead.
Unfortunately, as humans how learned to walk upright, our primal bodies shedding their matted fur, and we have left the constant struggle for sheer survival behind, not all of us have made the same jump.
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god!
- Mr. Bill, Hamlet
Throughout this process of ascension, there have been men and women who have laid out the very principles of physics, of philosophy, of engineering, of art. We have microscopes that can perceive things a single atom wide, sculpt mountains into statues, or destroy our own world with a handful of machines.
"Now I am reborn Shiva, destroyer of worlds.
-Robert Oppenheimer, inventor of the atom bomb.
We have theodolites, and Theremins, and rocket launchers, and carbon dating, and cheesecake.
"Now I am reborn Kali-ma, eater of cheesecake."
-Rachelle, this girl I dated once.
But there is (of course), a far more visible sub-group of humanity, the ones we all experience every day. For every Stephen Hawking, Niels Bohr, or Laurie Anderson, there is an frickin' army of shelf-browed monkeys buying tickets to an As game.
So Lets just say that the guy I wanted to kick the shit out of last night wouldnt recognize Niels Bohr if I shoved that brilliant little Swede up this jerkoffs ass.
So there we were, at a birthday party, at a bar far outside of our usual territory.
Tourists we were, in hipster yuppie-land. The drinks were flowing, the Killers were playing (God help us), and we were having a good time (The Killers insipid retro-pop earfloss notwithstanding).
At one point, my radar picks up a couple of boys standing behind me and my non-date, but after a quick evaluation, I assume theyre harmless, and tune them out.
A second later, my friend yelps, and I turn to see a big slab of yuppie pawing at her back
Turns out that Chuckles (the big un) cant hold his liquor, figuratively or literally; hes gone and spilled half of his apple-cranberry martini down my rather attractive friends back, and for some reason the alcohol (if you want to call it that) is telling him that he should wipe her off using only his big meaty paws (either that, or he was just going for the cheap grope).
Now, you and I tend to smell like distilleries when were drunk, because we drink alcohol; these two smelled more like a Jolly Rancher factory. This confused me for a second, until I considered what they had been drinking. So, in short, our two badly dressed friends were drunk.
Accidents happen, so apologies all around. Maybe their apologies soundeda wee bit insincere, a touch out of focus, but apologies nonetheless. Im fine with this, but my friend having just received an icy-cold blast of apple-cran bukkake down her spine, is still (understandably) miffed.
Now, Im of the opinion that if youre the one done the bad, you eat a little crow. If a girl wants to go off on you for a second about something dumb you just did, thats her karma, let her carry that weight, its on her.
But if you fucked up, you own it.
You dont spill a drink on a girl in front of a Southern boy and then call that girl a bitch.
Its bad for your life expectancy.
So the evening suddenly started to heat up a bit, some words are exchanged, my female companion is (of course) called a bitch, I feel compelled make some pointed observations regarding Chuckles manners, fashion sense, and the perceived homoerotic undercurrents of his relationship with his friend Smirking Boy. So at this point, Im (of course) called a bitch, so I ask Chuckles if his Momma taught him how to use that mouth, and full-on masculine posturing begins.
Were funny, funny creatures, we boys. So driven by our egos, and their complimentary insecurities; so drunk on our own ancient chemical cocktails, that we actually think were thinking when shit like this goes down. But theres nothing spontaneous about the dance that leads to fighting (or the one taht leads to fucking, for that matter); were primates, and as such we have our own rituals for combat (or coitus, for that matter); rituals that are buried so deeply in our biochemical makeup that they are almost impossible to completely uproot. In the end, its all a dance, a dance so rigidly structured as to be completely predictable.
I was actually invited to step outside.
::giggle::
(I love the fact that bigger guys have always been able to overlook the fact that Im obviously a giggling psychotic. Its a source of endless amusment to me.)
Now, in very recent memory, I would have done it just for an outlet. He would have had me at bitch. He had six inches on me, but Im Welsh, you know? But at this stage, I have a whole lot less anger in me than I had even three weeks ago, and a lot more balance. Stomping a yuppie at midnight on Mission Street really seemed like a zero-sum game at that point, and . So I just told my new friend that I had no interest in stepping outside, and that if he wants to fight, all he has to do is touch me, once. Of course, the reptilian hindbrain also has a presence at the negotiating table, so I liberally pepper my very lucid points with the word bitch. If my little speech had been jambalaya, the word bitch would have been the Andouille.
Chuckles does some huffing, and puffing, but no houses are blown down. I turn my back on him and go back to drinking my single beer. The night returns to a slightly tense calm.
Later on in the evening (of course) Im outside, having a clove, and Chuckles comes outside. By this point, Smirking Boy has noticed that I seem to be part of a group of 10 -15 people. Chuckles shoots me his best smoky, come-hither look, and his friend bustles him away.
A minute later (of course) Chuckles staggers back up, demanding that we engage in fisticuffs, and asking why I need all my friends to protect me.
Bear in mind that Im surrounded, primarily by very attractive girls with very bright hair extensions; I was like Bosley surrounded by the VNV Angels.
Now, the dilemma that this situation raises is, (of course) what should you do in a situation like this?
People are both gods and monsters, animal and human, and this boy was a lot more animal than human. Or, to be more accurate, he was a child. If you let rude behavior slide, you (in a sense) condone it. If a dog isnt trained not to bite, piss on the rug, or hose down attractive girls with their martinis as a pickup line, then they never have a reason not to. And theres the key word: reason. If this boy had used what god gave him, he would have apologized sincerely, offered to buy the girl a drink, or at least just walked away.
Instead he acted like a badly trained dog, and started trying to bite. His best-case scenario in that situation would have been just mekicking his ass. Further down the scale of good ways to spend your evening, and he would have been beaten up by several boys. Least likely to be the way he wanted his night to end would have been publicly flogged by the Deathrock Barbie Posse.
Not so good for the male ego.
But heres when our own innate humanity kicks in; If he won, and walked away with his ego intact, hell carry that success with him, and it would define his actions from that point on. If he lost, he would be able to rationalize that it was because I fought dirty, or he was drunk, or because some deathrocker biker boy was looking for trouble and picked on him. Hed never see it as his fault, responsibility, and it wouldnt change his behavior one bit.
Drunk yuppies; cant drink with em, cant kick the shit out of em.
Its a zero sum game.
Committing to a fight is like having sex with someone you shouldnt. You feel it building, you rationalize it, you tell yourself youre better then that, and then they go and say (or do) that one thing that just pushes you right over the edge. And then afterwards, no matter how good it felt, no matter how certain you were at that particular moment that it would all be worth it afterwards, youre left with a nagging sense of doubt. Of wondering how the evening would have unfolded if you had just had that tiny extra shred of self-control.
Discipline is its own reward.
Thanks, Barry.