There Are No Facts, Only Interpretations

Behold the legendary Barbie, renowned internationally for her beauty:

“There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.”

For many, she is an impossible standard, an aspiration beyond the grasp of the girls who hold her in their grasp. In a dynamic comparable to the tail wagging the dog, the child who seems to control the social outings and private dramas of Barbie's life is actually having her future social and private life directed by the plastic figurine. The flawlessness and glamour that is conjured up in the naive imagination of the young girl sets an unreachable bar for the adult woman, who suffers trying to emulate her childhood companion. Barbie is tall; her long hair is devoid of split ends; her body matches all the prescriptive adjectives laid out in women's magazines — trim toned, firm, and shapely; her breasts perk indefatigably against the law of gravity; her makeup never smudges; not a single hair betrays the smoothness of her body; she has a thigh gap you could pass all the academic literature about her through, and if her flesh was more pliant, she'd undoubtedly have a bikini bridge; all her clothes fit perfectly and she never gains weight.  

Sell her, give her away, throw her in the trash — it doesn't matter; the emergent woman cannot escape the spectre of the doll, telling her of her inadequacies and laughing at her attempts to be glamourous. Barbie's angular hands point at the imperfections that litter the woman's life. She tells you that you are not happy enough, not strong enough, not sexy enough, not confident enough. Nobody will want you and nobody will like you, especially yourself. Barbie is the plastic embodiment of a narrative that suppresses women's potential, crippling their self-esteem in childhood. She is a wolf in sheep's clothing, a sleeper agent, and a despicable anti-feminist. 

Or so the story goes. We must keep in mind, however, that Barbie is voiceless, and all such stories are interpretations that she cannot contradict. I propose another interpretation, one that doesn't vilify a woman for being the best she can be and doesn't blame all your insecurities on a lump of plastic. Is it really Barbie's fault your kid can't see that a figurine missing nipples and genitalia is an inaccurate deception of what a woman should be? Are their eyes blind to the many shapes and sizes of women? Kids are one thing, but it's astounding that adults also overlook the doll's obvious deformities when blaming her for misleading youths. Barbie is a beauty wrought out of a monstrously misshaped body. Her feet are permanently arched upward, relieved only by orthotic high heels. It is widely assumed that this is the cause of her chronic back pains, but it is much more likely that the cause is lazy-minded, mediocre sociologists riding her around as a hobby-horse. Her hair can never grow back; like a lady in declining years, once you snip it short, it remains that way permanently. Her knees are creaky, her digits are pretty much webbed, her limbs are clearly disproportionate, and her inability to excrete toxins from her body must surely cause her illness and pain. She fashioned a malformed mess into something glamorous and attractive. Her beauty lies not in her apparent flawlessness, but in her victorious march from ugly duckling to graceful swan. Her firm body was not granted by nature but (as evidenced by gym Barbie) by hours of exercise. But all the hard work in the world cannot undo the prejudices of others. Some people call themselves feminists, yet shun a woman just because she has made herself pretty. 

"One must need strength, otherwise one will never have it." 

Barbie came from a difficult background. Varvara Bzovsky was an orphan who was adopted by a wealthy Californian couple. Her deformities suggest she may have been a Chernobyl victim or mutilated as a child. When she arrived in the United States, she tried her best to fit in, shortening her name and making an effort to become a Californian girl. Undoubtedly, she was bullied in her school in Malibu, because she was weird, but she had already developed the strength she needed to endure the mean comments (something she still has to endure to this day).   

She adorned herself with colour and glitter because she had witnessed true misery and knew that she couldn't afford to entertain it. She hoists a permanent smile on her face, because she defies adversity, misery and loneliness. You could flush her down the toilet, throw her out a window, have GI Joe asphyxiate her and derive sexual arousal from it (even though you are only seven years old and don't know what it means), but she would still keep smiling.  She is used to being unloved. She is mass produced, shipped all over the world, and disposed of when she has outlived her purpose. She can never bear children, and her body is not equipped for the pleasure involved in procreation. She would be a great disappointment to her would-be suitors; despite being able to do a front split, she is unable to perform most sex positions. She takes solace from the fact that her boyfriend and closest friends are burdened by the same inadequacy. To the outside world they are a freak show, trying in futility to please each other. What they don't see is that even their most diabolical sexual activities are infused by a tenderness and understanding of their tragic disabilities.     

"What do you regard as most humane? To spare someone shame."

If Barbie is beautiful, it is because what resides inside shines outward so brightly. What you see is not an impossible standard but what hard work and fortitude look like. So, I ask you now: is it fair to reject a woman for her beauty or take your kid's shortcomings out on others? If your child is fat and dumb, the presence of Barbie dolls won't change anything, and she will grow up ill-equipped for what adult life throws at her. Barbie is an inspiration, but only for those who are open to being inspired. I pray that the next generation will not be as stupid and useless as you assume, because, in that case, I foresee a world that is nothing but a lifeless wasteland. The cockroaches will continue to reign supreme without us to bother them — the cockroaches and all the non-biodegradable material we leave behind, including millions of Barbie dolls. Your children won't survive, but she certainly will. Some might retort that her inability to decompose gives her an unfair advantage, but people of such low calibre have no divination of real character. Barbie will endure as a testament of our short sojourn on this planet. Our legacy will be a plastic symbol of the very best of us, what we could have been — strength, resilience, and a smile greeting even the worst of circumstances.

“What is the seal of liberation? Not to be ashamed in front of oneself.”

12 Things That You Need to Make Happen If You Want to Be Happier

Listen, let's not beat around the bush; I'm a smug, condescending prick who writes for new media and I'm going to give a hashed-together listicle and act like I know better than you. Happier and generally better off people are doing these things, your mind will be blown by them, the results are shocking, and they are surprisingly simple. So, just let me impart this wisdom in the only method I know that is less useful than a TED talk (that isn't a TEDx talk). If you don't feel like shit afterwards, then just leave, because you've missed the point, much like that character from that popular show, which I'm assuming you've seen and which I'm referencing because it's the limit of my horizons. So, eat this shit up and share it so you can gratify your ego, believing you have some sort of wisdom or insight. 

"The nuclear holocaust has finally come!"

1. Smile and then post it on the internet 
A smile can light up the world, but you have to post it online for everyone to see it. Unless you have a personal photographer, you'll have to take a lot of selfies. Stick them up daily to remind everyone you're happy. Hoist a smile on your face first thing in the morning and keep it there until you go back to bed. Every person you pass could potentially fall in love with you if you are smiling, but if you're not smiling all the time, you could miss out on a life time of romantic bliss. That may be a disconcerting thought, so try not to hold it in your head, as it may make your smile look fake. If you don't want someone to fall in love with you, cover your smile with your hand. Be careful how you do this, as it may look cuter and further attract unwanted attention. Don't lower your smile, however; remember, it is keeping you happy. If you have horrible teeth, see a dentist, or perhaps just concede that happiness is only for beautiful people.

2. Don't complain
Complaining accomplishes nothing, and the only one who suffers is you. Don't be whinge bag. Jesus, you'd fucking swear you were dying or something. Do you appreciate how adults are supposed to act? Do you want me to get your mommy because you had to get up early or because you actually have to do some work? Oh, no, you're a bit tired and the weather isn't balmy all the time. Just shut it. Shut your goddamn fucking mouth.

3. Trust in the universe 
Perhaps not everything is going right. Perhaps you feel sad and unsure about life. Maybe you feel anxious over what lies in the day ahead. Believe. The universe has good things in store for you, and there's a reason for everything. She may have wiped out the overwhelming majority of creatures she has brought into being, many after a lifetime of pain, but trust me when I tell you that everything is going to be all right. All is okay and the universe embraces you warmly. It's not a choke hold, I swear.

4. Write listicles about happiness 
Nothing is as deeply satisfying as writing a smug, poorly researched, virtually plagiarised list on a topic and slapping it onto the internet to provide subsistence reading for those who fear nothing more than raising their literacy level. Satisfying that itch we have for instantly forgettable information, the listicle is the lovechild a PowerPoint presentation and a fashion magazine article. So, get on your laptop and bang one out. Convince yourself you are a brilliant writer. Really brilliant. Affirm this belief with short sentences. Like this. Be bold and minimise your sentences to one word. One. It may be called a full-stop, but it can't stop your fullness. Write. Today.

5. Have simple, fantastical notions about happiness 
Wake up in the morning well-rested and enthusiastic for the day ahead. Open your curtains to find a glorious sunrise reigning over a vista of lush nature and tasteful architecture. Enjoy breakfast with your soulmate in your pristine kitchen of white and chrome. He grows more handsome, devoted, and interesting with each passing day. Laugh gently in the shower, recounting all the joys you are blessed with, such as experiencing no physical aches, real stress, or anxiety. Fall in love with the world all over again on your commute. Get to work and get down to a day of rewarding, fun productivity. Leave satisfied and with enough energy for a yoga session. Arrive home to a home that is inexplicably clean and tidy, and have a delicious yet nutritional meal. Make love to your partner in a manner that is both sufficiently erotic and tender. Fall asleep peacefully, never detouring into self-doubt, dwelling on negative conversations and feelings had during the day or undesirable things that you have to do. Don't wake in the middle of the night, aghast at the horror of it all. If you fail in any number of these, you can resort to pretending you have such a life and live it online for all to see for no particular reason.

6. Preach about kale
Kale isn't delicious, but if you can delude yourself that it is, you can use the power of delusion to take yourself out of any negative mindset. This is how I understand the oft proclaimed benefits of kale, as there is nothing in kale that can't be derived from other foods. The right kale-free diet can produce all the benefits of kale, so there is absolutely no need to eat cabbage's ugly cousin. The same goes for all the other "super foods", but by all means, conscientious eater, eat away at your fashionable vittles; the power of delusion is shield unlike any other and can be deployed against the painful reality. Preach kale and live the fantasy.

7. Travel
I'd like to go on holiday. Unfortunately, that's not possible, as we no longer go on holiday; we travel. Travel makes you morally and spiritually better, more tolerant and conscientious, and more interesting. Don't worry about the cost or whether you like it or not, just go. See a world colonised by McDonald's and Starbucks; find people as petty and worldweary as those you left behind; expect everyone to speak English; take pictures of unusual dishes you eat; stand or sit with your back to the camera, looking out at nature; come back home with useless trinkets we are strip mining our only planet for, which you could probably find in your own country anyway. Pack a few confirmed prejudices in your suitcase and bring those home too. (After all, you've been there.)

8. Be aware of depression
In order to avoid falling victim to depression, it is important to understand how it works. If someone is depressed, it is important to do absolutely nothing, but be aware of it. Suggesting professional help or even getting away from their circumstances for a while, even in the most tentative fashion, reveals you to be an ignorant, insensitive monster with a level of misunderstanding on par with a bigot. Depression is a disease, whose causes are mystical and beyond all human comprehension. The first step out of depression is acknowledging that it is an immutable and all-powerful phenomenon, which cannot be overcome. Therefore, any attempts at therapy, psychological analysis, escaping depressing circumstances, positive thinking, medication, meditation, occupational therapy, increased level of activity, decreased level of activity, new friends or relationship, greater wealth, or a greater understanding of oneself, or any permutation of these, are all as effective as saying, "Ah, sure, Jaysus, will ya just cheer up already?".  None of those ever work or ever will work, even over a long period. However, it goes without saying, the above advice doesn't apply to the other suggestions on this list. So, when someone is depressed, tell them to smile, stop complaining, have unrealistic expectations of happiness, trust the universe, forgive themselves, write listicles, do yoga, travel, eat kale, preach about kale, travel, and be aware. 

9. Get off the internet 
Go read a book or have a real conversation with a friend. Go for a walk, take things in your stride, and smell the roses. Discover all old cliches life has to offer. Go on. Don't hesitate in case you click on another page and forget to leave.

10. Forgive yourself 
You failure. You shouldn't be here. What did I just tell you to do? Now what? Forgive yourself, I suppose. Let it go and move on. Your inner peace and happiness is what matters. Don't forgive others; that's just oppressive, religious dogma. That sort of stuff lets murderers and rapists off the hook. Worst of all, it deprives you of your sweet, sweet outrage and victimhood. But do forgive yourself; it will surprise you how easy it is.

11. Be childlike
Be like a child in all your activities. Feel the wonder of everything. Ask questions about everything. Take joy in simple things. Learn and seek out new experiences. Where does that path lead? Why can't I clad my blubbery body in a bikini? What do children look like on the inside? How will I ever get the blood out of the carpet? What is the thumping sound coming from inside the wall? Most of all, avoid responsibility and never modify your behaviour. Speak like a child and tell yourself that responsibilities are for silly adults.

12. If all else fails
Do yoga. Be grateful. Be mindful. Be positive. Let go of negative people in your life. Be giving. Be patient. Eat what your grandparents ate. Go to India. Plant a tree. Accept your body. Preach about all these things. Read short articles about these things and share them. Set aside hours to plan out your new life, allocating time for everything, including at least one hour a week to meditate on your inner light and divinity. Give up after some initial snags. Curl up in a ball, make infantile sounds and stay there for the rest of your life.

13. Buy helium-filled balloons and go running with them by the coast.

8 Life Hacks You Need to Be Doing

Listen, let's not beat around the bush; I'm a smug, condescending prick who writes for new media and I'm going to give a hashed-together listicle and act like I know better than you. You're a brain-dead click monkey and you need enumerated instructions in order to understand anything. No matter who you are, whether you play in the big leagues or just sit in the bleachers, life will catch you off base and throw you a curveball. It's unavoidable, as the underlying metaphysical structure of the universe is an exact map of baseball and its rules. Here are 8 life hacks that will ensure you cover all your bases right off the bat. Eat them up and share them, deluding yourself into believing you have some wisdom or insight.

 

1.  Keep Moving

So, you find yourself in a swamp surrounded by crocodiles, and you're thinking, "Oh, man, not again!" Maybe this time they will see through your elaborate croc disguise made from bamboo and foliage. One of the reptilian monster darts at you, much faster than you would expect. You sprint away from his jaws of death, but he's closing in. Is this the end? No. Run in a zig-zag fashion. Crocodiles have difficulty turning quickly, and soon you'll have a good lead on him. Feel free to throw a demeaning comment or two at him, but be sure to keep moving.

2.  Make Some Noise

Falling off a cliff really sucks, especially if the fall is long and you have time to consider the awfulness of what is happening. But climbing a dangerous cliff face is exciting. If you are well-rested, experienced, and prepared, there's nothing to fear. Except eagles. What happens if you are suddenly attacked by a moma eagle, furious because you are too close to her nest and children? Surely, it's game over. Not necessarily. Remain calm. Pull out your SAS standard military radio, which you always keep on your person. Tune it to any loud frequency and turn up the volume to the maximum level. Point it at the eagle. She will get frightened and back off long enough for you to continue scaling the cliff and out of harm's way. 

3.  Take on the Challenge

You are walking down Crime Alley just minding your own business when some punk emerges from lurking in the shadows — a life long preoccupation of his no doubt. He produces something that glimmers from his jacket pocket. It might well be a mirror to aid him in fixing his hair, but, with the oily mess on his head, you sense that that is unlikely. At the sight of a knife, you feel you should probably just hand over your money and phone, but the heat of the night tells you that it ain't gonna go that way. How do you take on an armed man though? You hear the words, "Come at me, bro!" leave your mouth, and he lunges at you blade first. Hollywood has taught us incorrectly to grapple with the man until he has the blade right at your throat, before knocking him back and lethally pushing it into his torso. This is as pure a fantasy as the protagonist getting hit by every swing until the villain produces a sharp object. You push (now listen carefully), downwards, so you don't get punctured in one of your vital organs. Try not to get stabbed in the dick. It's not quite as bad a vital organ, but it's bound to hurt. Disarm the thug, by hitting his hand against a wall, and then finish him with a judo chop to the shoulder.

4.  Look Before You Leap

While surveying the landscape in a helicopter, the unthinkable happens: the engines cut and you start to nosedive towards the punishing ground. Your gut instinct tells you to bail out immediately, but this is the worst thing you could do. "Oh, because the drop would kill or seriously injure you.", you assume. Wrong. The blades would mince you the instant you exited. Best to hold your nerve and wait until the blades have slowed and you're much closer to the ground. Whatever awaits you on the ground, exclaiming "Bring it on!" will  surely soften the blow.

5.  Be Patient

Patience is hard to develop and requires continual practice until it becomes habitual. When suddenly faced with a black widow spider one must wait patiently and execute the best plan of action. Spiders are sensitive to vibrations, so tapping your fingers on the surface where it is will most certainly be felt. Tap out the most sexual music you know. The black widow will build a web and release a scent to attract a mate. When the mate finally comes (this may take days), you will have time to sneak away while she mates and then eats the male as a post-coital snack. Find the nearest phone book and flatten the two of them while you have still the chance. If you miss, run for your life — she will know where it came from and black widows are very fast.

6.  Take Time to Appreciate Where You Are

So, you've taken the shortcut over the frozen lake. It's all going well until the sound and sight of the cracks tell you your fate before you even have time to fully comprehend what is happening. You are plunged into the freezing water, and it seems that the only thing taking a shortcut today is your life. The total shock will probably cause you to panic, but you only need a few seconds to get out of the danger. Orientate yourself and swim upwards, looking for the hole you fell in. Catch your breath and get your arms and bearded face onto the ice. If you pass out, your beard might get stuck on the ice and keep your above water. Kick your legs to get your body level with the ice, and crawl, rather than try to pull yourself out. When you have successfully escaped, roll your way off the ice. Then keep rolling, and never stop, ensuring you'll never fall down anything again. If anyone questions you about it, tell them that's how you roll; they'll say you're on a roll and just roll with it. With any luck, they'll join you. Then you can go rolling with your homies.

7.  Be Careful

When in situations where the greatest delicacy is required, we must call on a special set of skills deal with the situation. Whether it be consoling someone who is recently bereaved or heartbroken, or if you have to give criticism of someone's work, the ancient art of ninjutsu can bail you out of a tight spot. Just slip out of the awkward situation, using stealth and cunning. To sneak like a ninja, practice the following steps. Firstly, you must not hold your breath; instead you should breath calmly and slowly. Watch out for what noisy ground lies in your path and keep your feet shoulder-length apart. Use your legs, not your waist to walk and keep a low centre of gravity. With each careful step, place the ball of one foot on the floor and then slowly lower the heel. Repeat with the other foot and continue this way for as long as you need to sneak out of the room. Of course, if you're rolling this whole time, you can ignore this advice. Just try not to get carpet burn.

8.  Fight Back

You're on a beach holiday and everything is going fine. The babes are impressed by your alpha body, you've acquired a golden tan, and the water is perfect for some diving. We all know this scenario, and we all know what is coming next. While you're in the water, you spy a deadly tiger shark rapidly making its way over to you, and you fear it might be hungry this time. The lethal predator is getting closer, and only these carefully executed actions can save you. Keep your eyes on the shark, as they attack in several ways, often circling their prey to find an optimal approach to make their move. Now, while this may sound somewhat seductive, don't be lured into a dance of certain death with the fearful predator. The hypnotic eye contact and the animal's fascination with you may be very arousing, but you'll wake up with more than a hungover stranger in your bed if aren't careful. Stay out of the shark's way and try not to move too much. Playing dead won't save you, if the shark is intent on eating you already, but if you stay still, he may not bother with you. Don't thrash about in the water; as much as you want to draw the shark's attention deep down, being the object of the shark's attention will only lead to your extinction. 

If possible, position yourself in a way that limits the shark's attack options. Go back to back with a swimming partner, if you have one, stand if the water is shallow enough, or back up against a rock. The thought of being pushed up against a wall by the mesmerising creature may run through your head, but you must focus on your task. If the shark attacks, you seek out his sensitive spots and give him everything. Yes, everything. No, not like that. Hit him hard in the gills, snout or eyes. Fight as hard as you can, especially against the urge to just surrender and allow this amazing creature's mouth to embrace you and rip your world apart. Once clear of the shark, swim to the nearest boat or to the shore. Regale everyone with your cool story, especially the ladies. Despite their tanned, languorous limbs, the beach babes can't compete with the intoxicating death-wish attraction of the murderous sea creature, but just try not to think about it and be grateful you're still alive.

"Come at me, bro!"

Meditations in a Graveyard

My feet paced conscientiously along the worn gravel paths, bearing a gait of solemn respect. I was as unsure of my direction as I was about the feelings one is supposed to have in such a place. Having passed by twice on the ferry the drizzly day before, I had decided to explore what lay beyond the walls of the island graveyard. I read that Napoleon, while his army occupied Venice, had ordered the city to move its deceased to a nearby island. One might admire the progressive efforts to bring hygiene to the city and keep death away from the doorsteps of its denizens; one might also laugh at the folly of trying to keep death behind the four walls of the cemetery. We bury death six feet below us, but it's never deep enough. The kerbstones, the headstones, the gates, and the elevated footpaths were crumbling, slowly, yet inevitably. The fate of the silent occupants was the same, regardless of whether their means were abundant or scarce. I saw plain walls with graves as big letterboxes, which lay in contrast to the ornate memorials scattered around the place. The corpses, I was told, are exhumed from the graves after a certain period of time and returned to their descendants, such is the shortage of space. This rule doesn't apply to the cemetery's more famous inhabtants, such as Ezra Pound and Igor Stravinsky, whose graves I sought out amongst the rows and rows of headstones.

Isola di San Michele

I was struck by one memorial in particular: an elaborate, unheimlich, sculpted parlour scene coming out of a wall. I approached the sculpture and stood closely to the main character. "Hate that", I whispered gently in her ear. She didn't smile (and she never will again). After a long meander, I came across one of the older graves, wherein a soul had been at rest for decades. "Get up outta that", I jibed, "How much sleep does lazybones need?"

Those struck down in their youth are the hardest to come to terms with, but I wasn't short of consolatory words. "Better luck next time," I whispered to one unbearably sad memorial; "Too bad" and "What a pity" were uttered close to the deaf ears of the youthful dead. "I bet you didn't think it would be that bad when your parents said you were grounded," I quipped, trying to cheer one of them up. I got no response - typical teenager. I got an equally unimpressed result from another line of graves, who I asked if they were having a lie-in. "The silent treatment," I hissed scornfully. "How mature." I sulked about the labyrinthine paths, until I wasn't sure where the exit was. After a few minutes, it began to get a little frustrating. I lit a candle in the cemetery chapel I stumbled across, meditated a little in the dark, and stepped outside again. The view of rows upon rows of final resting places evoked resignation in my heart, and I sighed, "C'est la mort." "These things happen," I announced clearly within earshot of the resting dead. Any silent resentment on their part brushed off me, as I have no sympathy for people living such charmed lives of relaxation. After further confusion as to where I was going, even with the strategy of walking along the walls until the exit appeared, I began to panic, and the dead told me silently (and vengefully) that there was no way out. "You of all people know that isn't true," I replied. "Perhaps for you," I grinned, "but not yet for me."

I eventually arrived at the exit. I turned on my heal and, suppressing a smile, asked them all if they had tried not being dead. A funeral procession came through the entrance, as I made my way out. I mused, salivating with the glee of my cleverness, that there was no exit here after all, only a way in. As I made a quick trip to the toilets, I thought about following the procession and asking if the recently deceased was going to be long in there. I doubt the family would have minded - their English probably wasn't all that good. I waited for the ferry back to the mainland like a hero of antiquity on the River Styx. I felt anxious, as I still had a few clever quips left, and I could get through a few of them in the ten minutes I had to spare. I wanted to tell them that I was much like them about thirty years ago, but I gave it up. Of course, I knew, they could easily retort that I'd be like them once again very soon. They say a lot for people who can't speak. The walls of the cemetery were slowly disintegrating with every lap of the waves against their base. They could be twenty metres thick and they couldn't keep death inside. The ferry came and took me away from coffin-like memories of being trapped in that place. Yet, I was haunted by my experience. A twinge of regret ached in my heart. I had somehow managed not to find Ezra Pound's grave. Then I remembered that he's nobody's favourite writer anyway and enjoyed the rest of my holiday.

How the hell was I supposed to find this?

I really love your hair do, yeah.

Andy Warhol was born within himself, which was born within the very heart of the revolutionary spirit of the 1960s, which in turn was given birth by Warhol's schizo-variagated, kaleidoscopic psychedelia. He revolutionised art and the world by colouring in pictures of celebrities. From an early age, he developed a passion for colouring books and obvious portrait subjects. In his Pennsylvanian home, his parents observed his talent and encouraged him to pursue a life of art. He had a preternatural ability to stay within the lines of his colouring book, even with the bluntest of crayons. Warhol's strict form helped him become established as a venerable artist. His extraordinary ability to keep his colours within a fixed parameter ran contrary to abomination that was Jackson Pollack. A crude affront to Warhol's sensibilities, Pollack practiced a brazen disregard for staying within lines to the extent that no discernible image could be found on his canvas. Warhol felt nauseated at the sight of Pollack's variegated vomit, and vowed to rein colours back into nice, intelligible blobs.

After mastering the art of painting on pictures of celebrities, Warhol turned to film. He masterfully depicted the Empire State Building by sticking a camera in front of it and leaving it run for over six hours. He enjoyed the privilege of being recognised in his time, and his celebrity enabled him to have elaborate cocktail parties, which, if they could be preserved somehow, would also be considered works of art. He is famously quoted for predicting that, "in the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes", and he is also quoted as saying, "man, people, like, need to be free to feel the world vibe, and, like, totally do what you want and be free, maaan". Warhol swaggered art forward in the 1960s by painting tins of soup and saying it was a meditation on consumerism. (Incidentally, I once drew a picture of a giant purple penis in crayon and titled it 'Death of the Penis'. I haven't got my due recognition, but as Nietzsche said, some of us are born posthumously.) He photographed famous people, playing on their sham importance and suggesting that all art is a largely irrelevant contrivance (which it absolutely is).

"Everything is, like, consumerism, maan."

Warhol was openly gay, and — as we all know — being gay makes you a great artist. Michelangelo was also gay, ergo Warhol was as good as any of the Renaissance masters. They would have made a cute couple, too, but not in Michelangelo's time, where Warhol wouldn't have the technology to make most of his works of art.

Andy Warhol left a notable legacy. He inspired The Dandy Warhols to swag on and be free and, like, live the vibe and don't be a drag, maaan. He also brought artist Jean-Michel Basquiat into the light of fame. When Warhol discovered Basquiat, he was jittery with excitement at how "raw" he was, and he told him that he liked him. "Yes, I like you.", he confessed, "And I'm feelin' so bohemian like you." He insisted on taking a picture of the young artist, upon which he then superimposed a pretty assortment of colours. Basquiat added the final touches, with a thick layer of white paint all over the canvas.

Warhol died in New York City in 1987. His attending physicians described his death as "a masterpiece, an inimitable piece of performance art". He urgently requested those around him to fetch a video camera and film his passing, but none could be found, and the opportunity, like Andy's polychromatic soul, disappeared forever. Perhaps it was better that Warhol passed away when he did. Spent of all artistic inspiration, except dressing in drag and taking selfies, Warhol may well have sought out new talent without creating his own, not unlike Paula Abdul on the judges' panel in American Idol. Warhol's greatest legacy was David Bowie. The English singer wrote what is surely the greatest song ever written about him, the name-dropping classic Andy Warhol, and he even portrayed him in film once. Bowie took after Warhol's style and considers him his greatest inspiration. "He taught me to build a ladder of pretentiousness use it to climb deep into my own hole," he confessed once in article. "Haha! War-hole! Haha!" Their genius lies in being able to consider themselves such important artists that people believe it. And so, time will not erase them, and they will forever be taken seriously by people who like to take themselves seriously.

Side-Kick!

With the release of The Avengers: Age of Ultron poised to easily take in over a billion dollars, and with DC and Marvel expanding their universe, there has never been a better time to release a superhero movie. All the various production companies are planning the release of lesser known stories and characters, and there has never been a greater time for an off-beat superhero film. I have a screenplay that has been gathering dust in the bottom of my wardrobe for years, and I believe that now is the time to let Hollywood bring my vision to life.

Nick Fury, aged and weathered from years of pursuing a vendetta, has finally tracked down the racist mastermind, Master Tokenism. A guru in the arts of magic and social stratification, Tokenism has campaigned to marginalise ethnic minorities. After an epic battle, Fury holds Tokenism by the scruff of the neck and demands he breaks the spell that keeps those of a different complexion sidelined. With malicious glee, Tokenism tells him there was no spell, and that society itself has sidelined its minorities. Aghast, and then dejected, Fury finally summons the strength to challenge the predominance of white superheroes. He enlists the help of Falcon, Lucious Fox, War Machine, Heimdall, Bishop, Black Panther, Perry White, Morpheus, and Storm.  Together, they tap ferociously at their state-of-the-art SHIELD laptops, banging out articles for Upworthy. They create an innumerable volume of memes and type comments under articles and videos. They start an entire Facebook page dedicated to bringing about more black superhero leads.

All is going well, until they collide with an equally powerful force — a motley crew of female superheroes led by Wonder Woman. After decades of being denied her own feature film, the Amazonian princess has gathered a formidable ensemble to help her hit the screen. She is joined by Black Widow, Captain Marvel, She-hulk, Batgirl, Supergirl, Storm, Jean Grey, Rogue, Scarlett Witch, Kitty Pride, Pepper Pots, and the winged superhero with a mace in the Justice League, who I'm too lazy to look up. After knocking a few heads together, they have discovered that they were being held back by Wage Gap 76, an ethereal organisation, which our heroes have difficulty finding in reality. When they stumble upon a group of secondary superheroes led by Nick Fury, who work in dark rooms, they assume they have found who they are looking for.

The first ever depiction of Wonder Woman in a feature film.

 

Battle ensues, as each member of each side conveniently pairs up against their match. Walls get smashed, sufficient time for clever quips is allocated, civilians dash out of the way of the carnage, some of the ladies show off their silky - yet deadly - acrobatic skills. At one point, a knife is held at someone's throat, but she manages to repel the attack. Someone lies vulnerable on the floor at gun point. A gunshot goes off, but our vulnerable hero survives, as it is the shot of an ally, who has just saved his life. Memes and sensationalist articles come flying out of nowhere. The battle draws to a standoff, and the heroes quickly realise that they should be on each other's side. Storm, whose allegiance has been torn for the first two acts, gives a long, rousing, expositional speech about intersectionality. In the third act of the film, our massive ensemble of films confront the main culprits of society's inequalities — the predominant white, male superheroes. They storm the restaurant where Captain America is having lunch with Superman. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What?", Cap protests, but to no avail. "I don't know what you're talking about.", he insists, but that only angers the crowd further. After several attempts by both of the boys in blue to downplay the level of inequality, Superman tries another approach, reminding them he is an immigrant and Steve Rogers needs some leeway, given he's from another generation. The heroes seem defeated, but Batgirl points out that one of Superman's powers is being immune to being underprivileged, and ignorance of one's privilege is a privilege itself.

Things escalate further when Batman and Iron Man arrive, provoking accusations of class privilege and elitism. Batman protests, claiming that his abilities depend on him having massive wealth and leisure time. Tony Stark just quips that his wealth is a product of his genius, before producing a copy of Atlas Shrugged from his iron suit. The heroes reach for their laptops and smartphones and battle hard on forums, Youtube video comments, Twitter, and Facebook. Memes are wielded masterfully as simplified arguments for complicated issues. Eventually, the white, able-bodied, heterosexual men between the ages of 25 and 45, concede defeat. "What would thou have us do?", asks Thor. "Just be aware.", replies Wonder Woman. And so, thanks to the awareness of our privileged white males, the world is a better place. 

However, the battle rages on. Our heroes must be forever vigilant on the internet, taking umbrage to every throwaway comment that can be categorised into an '-ism'. It rages against inequality in films, celebrity comments, and song lyrics. It rages on much like the Marvel and DC film series, endlessly, pointlessly, and predictably.

Exquisite

Have you ever found yourself in an art gallery looking at painting after painting and feeling deeply unsure about what you should say? Have you ever found yourself at a nice restaurant perusing the wine list, having no idea what to order or even what questions to ask? Perhaps you have found yourself at the theatre or the opera feeling that same, familiar awkwardness? Or somehow you have stumbled into a conversation about literature or classical music and already used up your quota of the word 'exquisite'? If you have answered 'yes' to these questions, then you have come to the right place. Many of us have found ourselves in such a position, asking ourselves if we are in the midst of a fear-ridden system, where everyone is afraid to call out the folly and pretentiousness of it all, where there is no system of evaluation unless you are deeply entrenched in the production of such things (and even then…). But who dares to do that and risk being considered a philistine?

"Oh, how exquisite!"

Fear not, as I am here to help. I may not be able to help with the above problems, but I happen to be quite expert in French cinema. The next time you go to an arty French film, you can glide about the cinema's lobby with enviable self-assurance, ditching the usual panic for an unusual panache. (It's pronounced PAN-ayk — don't let anyone tell you otherwise.) So, dust off your chicest little get-up, learn off this table and enjoy your newly found liberté (pronounced lie-BER-tie).

Add the number of points shown if the film has the following:

When the film is over, just tally up the score. The higher it is, the better the film should be in your estimation. Bonne chance, mes amis!

Same Day, Different Shit

A friend of mine wrote an account of her average day a while ago, to lay to rest the falsehoods of our lives on Facebook and other social media. It has inspired me to do likewise. Honesty can be a merciless gruel to swallow, so if you have an aversion to the truth, I advise you to cast your eyes away from the text now.

I open my eyes around 7 a.m., and after approximately fifteen minutes of my dream logic resentfully confirming that waking up is the greatest indignity ever imposed upon mankind, I leap out of bed, whipping the entire duvet into the air. It lands perfectly-made seconds after my feet hit the ground. I do this for the sole purpose of feeling more productive in the first few seconds of my day than a hippie is in the entirety of his. I stomp to the other side of the apartment to put on the heater for my shower, and drop a depth-charge in the toilet, grumbling something about "damn, dirty layabouts". I have a breakfast comprising mainly of wheat chaff, and then stretch my way towards the bathroom, much in the manner of Kevin Bacon dancing out his anger in Footloose. I step into the shower —after my five-minute, dancing detour — and spend ten minutes scrubbing myself in soapy water, striking as many erotic poses as possible. After towelling myself down, I turn on an emphatic piece of classical music and, standing stark naked in my living room, I affirm my whole being by punching my fists in the air Rocky-style for a few minutes. I dress myself in the manner of Batman in the Joel Schumacher films and ride fearlessly out into the day ahead. 

Artist's depiction of me in the shower.

Having such an observant mind and a misanthropic heart, walking to work is usually a horrible experience. I can't help noticing the egregious number of SUVs in my neighbourhood, especially considering how narrow many of the suburban roads are. An impractically-sized gas-guzzler in suburbia serves mostly as a vehicle for your sense of status. It ought to grant you some special demarcation, but, alas, nearly everyone else in your neighbourhood has one. Pro-tip: buy an SUV and move to a less affluent suburb. Additional pro-tip: don't buy a car for the sake of status. I pass by cyclists coming at me on the footpath; I pass by litter; I pass by reckless driving; I pass by primary school children; I pass by dog shit; I pass by owners of shitting dogs, many of whom have less of a sense of responsibility than the primary school children I see and never clean it up. 

My working day is a blur. Days meld into one another, and we teachers suffer from TEFL amnesia, where we couldn't possible tell you what we taught the day before. Sometimes I teach in the afternoons, so I drop one off around lunchtime, in order to prevent it interrupting my class later. After work, I head home and relax a while. Three days of the week, I go to the gym, which is a twenty-five minute walk away. During the summer, if you are interested in seeing a real pair of steely calves, pull up a seat along my walking route and you will see me march by in shorts. If my performance is a bit sluggish in 'La Casa de los Machos', I sit it out in one of the toilet cubicles until I dump something of significance. After approximately an hour of mostly resisting the urge to judge harshly the poor (and often dangerous) form of my fellow gym mates, I head back home.

Depending on the evening, I also like to socialise with friends, go to the cinema, write, read, or watch some TV. When I meet with friends, after a long, laborious day, we yawn, halt mid-sentence to wait for our train of though to return, repeat ourselves, and lapse into undesirable conversations about work. I can never stay out too long, regardless of whether it's a weekday or the weekend. My high-fibre diet requires me to stay within close proximity to a well-kept toilet bowl. To paraphrase a conversation I had with a housemate many years ago, we no longer have the sphincter of a nine-year-old playing a two-hour football match (perhaps this is a consequence of those lengthy football matches).

As the day wanes, so do I. In the safe comfort of my bedroom, my mind slips out of the colon of consciousness into the toilet bowl of dreams. They say money never sleeps, yet, on the salubrious street where I live, no sound disturbs the slumbering heads of the residents. In the suburbs, the well-to-do suburbs, the SUVs sleep tonight.

Let's work!

"Aw, yeeeaaahh!"

Renua is a party of sales and marketing people that envisions a world where we can all work in sales and marketing. When we're done, the Blue Shirts of Fine Gael will be replaced by the cornflower blue shirts of our corporatist captains (Though most days, we will wear white-collared, blue shirts, to ensure we are never mistaken for blue-collared workers).

Do you like money? Do you like consuming products? Do you like anything else? If you answered 'yes' to the first two questions, and 'no' to the last one, then we are the party you have been waiting for. We have your interests at heart — insurance, property, a formidable car, Starbucks [sic], and maybe a round of golf. We will subsidise phone upgrades, so that you can have a shiny new phone to show off every six months. 

Entrepreneurship, enterprise, employment, expansion, 'excellence', ennui, and Éireann evermore. Grasp the future, and grasp it now. The next quarter is nigh, and the hectic schedule of additional (unpaid) hours will leave you only two hours before you go to bed, or an hour between getting up and arriving at work, to grasp it.

There will be a bubble, but it will never burst. You will live there, against a backdrop of muted grey, and drone out your life. The sky will be cornflower blue, and, like all good property, it will be owned. If you ascend to our level, you may get to own a piece of that sky. You see, we understand status. We understand that it is import to be rich to be important (to the rich). Once you reach the mountain top of a million Euros, your newly-found status as a millionaire is a mere one Euro away from dissipation. A fortune of €999,999 does not a millionaire make, so it is important to make another million to ensure you stay important. On your journey of ever greater wealth, Renua will back your neurotic fears of slipping out of a wealth bracket.

So join us! Our life-long membership will enable you to feel like a decent person with a worthwhile life, as you will equate goodness with a certain level of wealth, and always have people to feel superior to, no matter how much you despise your life.

Too Big for His Bootstraps

After a stretch of over fourteen centuries, it seems that Islam is in decline. Religious commentators are predicting it will depart from the faiths of the Earth by the end of the year. Former Muslims will only turn towards Mecca on a trajectory that has them turn their back on Sharia. The Five Pillars will crumble, Masjid al-Haram will become a shopping mall, and men will flock to bars to drown the sorrow of only having one wife. The pigs are dreading what is to come.

The victory is erroneously being claimed by people who posted pictures, derogatory or otherwise, of the Prophet Mohammed online in January. Good work, guys, but it wasn't you. While they were effective in eroding a centuries-old religion and way of life deeply ingrained into the culture of over a billion people, it was really a viral video from two months ago that has persuaded Muslims to abandon their faith. The cause of this unprecedented cultural change is none other than our local-lad-done good Jimmy Nugent. Type 'Nugent Pwns Muslim' into Google and you will find the video which has millions across the globe renouncing their faith in Allah. On Henry Street, Dublin, a ruddy-faced man argues with proselytising Imam at a stall. The two men spit charged words back and forth, raise their voices, interrupt each other, overlap, burn each other with incendiary insults, skin each other with sharp remarks, incite as much violence as one can with a rattling index finger, and reiteratively shout the phrase, 'you stupid cunt' out of their foaming mouths. After several bouts, the Muslim man tries to return the conversation to civility. He discusses his faith at length and asks Mr Nugent, whose breathing is beginning to relax, existential questions concerning what lies beyond the physical, the apparent order in the universe, and the duties that are bound to our struggle in this world. A long ten seconds pass, as Jimmy calms and ruminates what he has just heard. "But your beliefs are a load of shite though.", he replies finally.

Like the flap of the butterfly wings that produces a hurricane on the other side of the globe, the simple line seems to be dismantling the Muslim faith across the globe. When asked about the situation, cantankerous TV3 presenter Vincent Browne insisted that the story was "nothing but utter horse shit". "The religious have once again warped the focus of the story for their own ends", he informed us, claiming that the story is a distraction from the ongoing class warfare in our country. Jimmy Nugent wasn't looking to spar with a religious leader that day; he was engaged in his new initiative to eliminate poverty and homelessness in Dublin. He has been using his newly-found prominence to help those living on the street. Before getting into a hot-blooded debacle with an Imam on the corner of the GPO, Jimmy was handing out cards to homeless, which read 'Get a job.' He has a good reason for doing so —  his voice has become too hoarse for him to tell them verbally. At present, the great Irish patriot is fundraising for his local and international war on poverty. His headquarters in his beloved Clondalkin has large posters of a belligerent-looking man pulling himself up by a giant pair of bootstraps. Later this year, he plans to tour around the poorest parts of Africa and Asia on a safari truck yelling at people with a megaphone to get up and make something of their lives. Aeroplanes will snow the literate areas with cute business cards, informing poor people how getting a job will make them richer. Contrary to the Band Aid anthem, Feed the World, there will be snow in Africa this Christmas time.

Sources tell us that Jimmy plans to visit the Archbishop of Dublin to ask for funds for his campaign. When questioned by the press about the meeting, the Archbishop denied he feared that Mr Nugent would annihilate Catholicism as he did Islam. "No, no, no.", he chuckled. "That isn't going to happen.", he told reporters confidently, as cleaners furiously polished the already very slippery staircase behind him.

Nutritional and spiritual sustenance from the James Nugent Foundation soup kitchen.

Yet Another Slow Year

Having watched the Oscars on Sunday, I thought it right to mention some of the also-rans I have seen over the last twelve months. After all, art is something to be cherished and admired and praised regardless of its mediocrity or inability to compose a coherent, plausible story.

Interstellar
I could discuss the merits and failings of this film at length, but I'll save you time and get to the crux of the matter: it's not Battlestar Galactica. For all the acclaim Nolan receives, he failed to produce a piece of art as sophisticated as the 2003 remake of the classic sci-fi series. His imitative cinematography is impressive, but no more impressive than the innovative style of BSG's immanent battle scenes. BSG's characters are fuller and never trail off on an academic-styled conversation of the immortality of love like Anne Hathaway does. Galactica goes beyond asking how humanity will survive, instead putting humanity on the brink of extinction and asking why we should be spared annihilation. It has a plausible reason for humanity's exodus into the stars, rather than a bogus food shortage. Speaking of which, why did all the militaries of the world disappear in Christopher Nolan's vision of the future? In times of a food shortage, the military is the very last thing that would disappear. If you found Interstellar a work of genius, I strongly recommend you watch Battlestar Galactica on Netflix. But please be careful that your impressionable mind doesn't crack under the pressure of better-written story lines, dialogue, and characters. Then go look the words 'genius' and 'hyperbole' up in the dictionary.

Not the original series though.

The Imitation Game
Whatever you may think of the inaccurate depiction of Alan Turing, you were surely excited by the after-credits scene, where we get a glimpse of Stephen Hawking's origin story in The Theory of Everything. Universal Pictures, in response to the strides made by Marvel and DC in the superhero genre, are bringing all the secular, scientific heroes of the internet, in one epic film. Turing and Hawking are joined by Reddit favourites, including Nikola Tesla, Richard Dawkins, Karl Sagan, Bertrand Russell, and — of course — Neil deGrasse Tyson. Having borne witness to the plague of scientifically illiterate comments on YouTube, our heroes endeavour to prove, once and for all, that God doesn't exist, employing empirical methodology, cool gadgets, Parkour, fist fights, and explosions.

Unbroken
Angelina Jolie's third directorial outing is a tale of commitment and inner strength in the face of adversity. Our protagonist, Mutsushiro 'the Bird' Watanabe, never errs from his duty to beat the living shit out of enemy POWs. Even when the US drops a nuclear bomb on one of their cities, the Japanese, and the Bird, refuse to desist in their efforts humiliating and crushing the will of their captives. The tension increases as the war is coming to the end, and the Bird's efforts are making slow progress. Just as victory is within his grasp, Japan surrenders, hammered into submission at the dawn of the nuclear age. We are left without an epilogue for the heroic Watanabe, but one assumes he forgave his Allied enemies for being so stubborn bunch of maggots.

Lucy
Beginning with the (completely erroneous) premise that humans only use 10% of their brain, Luc Besson's sci-fi story explores the prospect of a woman whose brain rockets well-beyond normal capacity, thanks to an experimental chemical. As her brain usage soars, her ability to assimilate knowledge dramatically increases, and soon she can speak all languages, understand and improve scientific theories, and master many forms of martial arts. Within a short time, she develops telekinesis, and is eventually able to warp matter as quickly as she can imagine it. When her brain usage passes the 90% percent mark, she transcends all restrictions of reality, and her final form is beyond comprehension. There is an alternative version of this film where Lucy, at 11% usage of her brain, realises how utterly exhausting and destructive it would be to be to use your brain at anything approaching 100%. At 18%, she starts to feel really dehydrated and has to drink lots of water for the rest of the film.

Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part 1 
Only one arrow is fired by Jennifer Lawrence in the entire film. The rest is her getting progressively more upset by attack ads, starring her wussy love interest. It is an excellent portrayal of  how some intelligent, able, and good-looking people mysteriously fall for people from much lower leagues. Unfortunately, it fails to show us why this utterly bizarre phenomenon happens, and in truth, it's not as good as the Arrow TV series, which has the Green Arrow fire multiple arrows in every episode. If you hunger for some real bow and arrow action — and I certainly don't blame you if you do — then tune into Arrow on FX and watch them babies fly.

Expendables 3 
Given the age of the actors involved, this is a massive wasted opportunity which won't come around again. Wesley Snipes's real-life tax fraud misadventures would have made an excellent story for this film. Imagine the Expendables coming to rally behind Snipes, who is being pursued around the globe by a ruthless IRS agent, played by Michael Ironside. A martial arts expert, Ironside would threaten to tax Snipes's ass. Instead of this fine idea, we got another predictably dull outing. Why can't Hollywood just listen to the ideas in my head? How many times do I have to rewrite Man of Steel or Star Trek: Into Darkness in recurring daydreams? To Hell with you, Hollywood! I was even in town for two days last year. Why can't you recognise talent when it falls at you doorstep?

Histoire de la Sexualité

"Sexual intercourse began in nineteen sixty-three," wrote Phillip Larkin,"between the end of the 'Chatterley' ban and the Beatles' first LP." And Sadomasochism began in 2012 with the release of Fifty Shades of Grey, a book as grey and pedestrian as the footpath. Nothing quite demarcates you as a bore like a Fifty Shades reference. Alluding to the novel is now a byword for "I'm a person of limited horizons. I consider myself a liberated person, yet I waited for a popular book to legitimise an aspect of my sexuality. In addition to this, I rarely venture outside the very obvious." The success of this book has brought me to the conclusion that half the population of the English speaking world was birthed fully grown and articulate around the end of 2011 from giant spores, such is their level of apparent ignorance. SMBD has been around far longer than Fifty Shades, and erotica novels have been around for centuries. One imagines that those who have been S&M practitioners for a longtime must have felt aggrieved at the popularisation of less conventional sexual practices. If anything was given birth by the book, it was the dominatrix hipster, bemoaning how she was doling out sexual punishment long before it was widely accepted and appreciated.

With this in mind, I feel it my duty to write a history of sex, explaining how people have been having different varieties of sex for centuries. And who better to write it, than me, from the wealth of information stored at the top of my head? "You?! Know about sex?!", I hear you ask incredulously. "Do I know about sex?", I retort rhetorically, nudging my friend in the rips and repeating the question. Ha! Do I know about sex? This is me we're talking about. I know all about sex. I've even had it. Many times. We're talking naked women in the bed. We're talking interlocking genitalia. We're talking the million dollar blowjob, grade-A pussy, and wild romps that get the neighbours talking. We're talking scandalous, shameless behaviour and an escalating competitiveness with your friends and rivals that results in doing really unenjoyable things just so you can say you did it. We're talking a threesome with two absolute mingers, leaving out that last detail when regaling your friends with your sexploits. We're talking the Devil's threesome and crying in front the mirror the next day, wondering who you are anymore. We're talking too much fibre in your diet, resulting in having to resist going to the bathroom until you're desperate, so you don't take too long and she doesn't know what you're doing in there. When I walk down the street, people recognise me as a man who has sex. If you asked any stranger about me, they'd agree that I most probably have had sex. "That man is so 'sex', he could be a gigolo.", is what they would say. We're talking boobs, man. Leering, groping - the works. We're talking foreplay and stuff. Pah! Do I know about sex…

If you're still not convinced, then I guess there's no persuading you. Perhaps some people like the feeling of their softened brain dribbling out their ears when they read appalling prose and cringe-inducing dialogue. Perhaps some people (mistakingly) believe that being a billionaire makes you interesting. Please do keep alluding to your sex life as though it makes you a more interesting person, and by all means, assume that your sexuality is the secret true of your being. I will have to accept your contributions to the mediocrity and dullness of the world.  The sad reality is that society is cruel, and there are some forms of human cruelty that don't have a safe word.

"Ha! For a moment there, I thought I was in 50 Shades of Grey."