While contemplating the perils of reversing out of my driveway, I was reminded of another near miss. This was not as long ago.
I was reversing out of my driveway as I have done thousands of times. Today did not seem to be any kind of exception. I was checking my mirrors and moving out quite fast since I was supremely confident in this task at this stage of my driving career.
As the rear of my car was just about to hit the footpath I checked my rear vision mirror. All I saw was a pinkish blur whizzing past the rear window of my car. I hit my brakes just in time to avoid slamming into the mystery blob.
It continued and passed my driveway.
I was at a complete stop now and I hopped out of my car to see what the hell had just happened. I was met with an accusing glare from the father who had stopped short of my driveway. He was obviously planning to be the next blur to whizz past the rear of my car but had stopped when he saw me coming.
On the other side of the driveway was a little girl wearing a pink helmet standing beside her scooter. This was the pinkish blur that I had so narrowly avoided squishing.
She seemed oblivious to the near fatal clash she had just avoided. The father was giving me the evil eye as he passed by. I assumed he was placing the entire fault at my feet and ignoring the part his carelessness had played. It was he who allowed his daughter to ride her scooter on the footpath so close to driveways. I put a lot of his anger down to shock and I fully accept my part in this near tragedy.
From that day on I always reverse very slowly out of my driveway. I know I can’t see all angles at once no matter how hard I try, so I move very slowly. Fuck that was close!!!
This time we’ve figured it out! Just getting rid of the aristocracy won’t do. It’s like cutting the head of a fucking hydra; there’s never a shortage of greedy climbers lining up to replace the old elite. We have to eliminate the current greedy rich and powerful pigs and make sure the power remains with the workers. That way we can ensure that the wealth produced by their labour will be shared evenly rather than funnelling upward to the bourgeoisie.
The first step will be brutal and bloody, but it is absolutely necessary. A violent uprising and ruthless overthrow of the ruling class – no mercy! We will kill and die for what is right. Well, when we say we, we mean you of course. You’re going to need us and our big, brilliant brains when the smoke settles to ensure everything runs fairly and squarely.
Mission complete! We have rid our nation of all the prosperous parasites. The workers will now take control of industry and all other state matters, and we will all share in the fruits of our labour. Well, when we say workers, obviously we can’t all be in control, we will need people to oversee others and be responsible for output.
“You mean like being the boss?”
“Sort of, but more like a leader”
“Do we elect these leaders?”
“We already have people in mind.”
“Did we elect you?”
“You followed us to glory! So yes.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Don’t worry comrade, we have only the best interests of the workers in mind”
“Okay, well you have stood staunch up till now, so we will trust you. Plus, you have all those armed soldiers and police on your side so…”
“Yes, good, good – get back to work.”
I have little doubt, as I have said before, that many of the original leaders had pure and noble intentions. Unfortunately, power has a way of changing people and/or relationships. Once the keys to the kingdom had been won, the treachery soon followed. The snakes who kept close to the leadership, but well away from the action, now emerged from the shadows.
Those honourable socialists at the top who weren’t corrupted by power, were quickly silenced or eliminated. High minded intellectuals probably do not have the venom and deviousness to survive political intrigue. They were either outmaneuvered, leading to exile or execution; or they quickly fell into line after seeing the alternatives.
One of the most intriguing aspects of communist regimes for me has always been the total lack of democracy. Almost all other revolutions finished up with some form of elected representatives of the people. The hope being that having peasants/workers in the halls of power would provide more consideration for the masses in decision making.
Yet here we have a revolution purportedly by the people, for the people and they opted for totalitarianism. I do not know enough about the intricacies of Lenin’s vision and it is clear that Stalin was destined to be a despot. What fascinates me in those early years is how the Bolshevik Party convinced the Soviet state that they alone should rule.
They led a successful rebellion against the Tzar and the ruling class and then proceeded to place themselves in the top jobs. They genuinely saw themselves as Plato’s Philosopher Kings; the arrogance is astonishing…and frightening!
“You people are lucky! Now you will be under the dominion of the wise and trustworthy self-chosen few. You aren’t going to need elections because you can’t do better than us”
In the euphoria of a successful revolution, I’m sure a lot of the devoted communists really thought things were finally looking up. And the doubters? Well, I suppose any propaganda is amplified exponentially when dissent leads to a Gulag or oblivion.
“Only we know what’s best for everyone and if you disagree you must be a traitor to the cause!”
This seems to be the case for all three of the original commie czars. The popular version seems to have Lenin as the first leader, who was going to realise the workers utopia by following the communist political and economic system. Unfortunately, he croaked and the evil Stalin kicked the noble Trotsky out of the Communist party; then out of the country; and then off this mortal coil altogether.
If only Trotsky had prevailed…
It would make a great Disney story. Although I’m sure things were much more complicated, and that Stalin wasn’t the only one who transgressed for what he wanted. Whatever the case, the foxes had now taken control of the henhouse, and a new form of tyranny was upon the downtrodden workers. One cloaked in peasant clothing yet getting greedier by the day.
Shit. You reckon The International Brotherhood of Teamsters got drunk with power! The Soviet Union was a living example of the union winning absolute power; and you know where that leads – absolute corruption!
In a really fucked up way this system eliminated the need for the entrepreneurial knack required to rise through the capitalist system. Now, that sounds like, and is, what the system was supposed to do. Problem was that it didn’t eliminate the go-getters who would have taken that route; it merely removed the need to hone that particular skill. You didn’t need business savvy to climb the commie ladder; this game was pure politics. A union doesn’t need to know how to run a business or industry; it only needs to know how to put pressure on a cash cow and extract the maximum remuneration for its members. Now, envisage an industry run entirely by a union…How long until it has been bled dry?
The Bolsheviks had unintentionally made it easier for people with minimal business sense to rise through the ranks and be in control of agriculture and industry. Imagine a country where everything is run by politicians – holy shit! It’s bad enough in the corporate world with higher ups burying their mistakes. Picture a corporation that answers to no one. They do not need to run efficiently because profit is a capitalist evil. Even better, anyone who tries to point out any shortcomings can be disappeared and the population knows it.
I am positive that Marx and Engels were doing their utmost to create a blueprint for a fairer society, and most of the Bolshevik party were sincerely fighting for just that. Mind you, most of the revolutionaries on the ground where just baying for blood and desperate for any change they could get. Be that as it may…
“The road to hell is paved in good intentions”
On top of that, they made the same mistake all revolutionaries make – Us & Them. This is probably the way things are at the time when the fuse is lit. Us, the oppressed and Them, the powers that be. The error lies in believing that if we get rid of all of Them it is over. Inevitably a new Them always arrives from within the ranks of Us because the flaw is a human one that we all carry to varying degrees.
Naturally, the power hungry will gravitate toward positions of authority. More disturbing still, the desire may grow with exposure. A conscientious and industrious person could be housing a dormant megalomaniac in their unconscious. You never know how susceptible you may be until you are immersed.
While Stalin certainly wasn’t repressing any such egomania, he was consistently on the lookout for any ambitious competition or dissent. The ensuing genocide was largely in the service of his paranoia and malice.
Although state violence and mass murder are not limited to communism, it is alarming that the two largest communist revolutions led to two of the worst cases: Stalin in The Soviet Union and Mao Zedong in the People’s Republic of China. I understand notorious tyrants lead various regimes: Adolf Hitler and Pol Pot were not communists. I just find it glaring that tyranny seems wedded to communism – let’s not forget the Kim Dynasty of North Korea.
There is no escaping violent acts of reprisal whenever an oppressed population gains the upper hand, regardless of ideology. Revenge and hostile resentment are two other traits humans sadly possess. “Live and let live” can only go so far.
All revolutions are fought under some kind of “for the people” banner. I just can’t get my head around how the one that was supposed to keep the power for the people fucked up so royally. Even the French left room for people to prosper and increase their status. Communism invented the most outlandish contradiction. We abhor social climbers and/or people seeking affluence. The people who climb the party ladder are doing so in service of us all. Please pay no attention to the higher status, living conditions and level of influence they have.
The concept of a one-party socialist state seems paradoxical to me. Getting back to the labour union comparison, it’s easy enough to see how a Jimmy Hoffa type character might seize control and undermine the voting systems; a combination of charisma for the masses and menace to any competition goes a long way to securing power beyond your set term.
That coupled with the lack of people willing to step up to the leadership roles can mean that even if the elections are above board, the list of candidates is made up of only a small minority. Be that as it may, the union system at least has the pretence of democracy. The ideal democracy has as many different leaders as possible. Trouble is that though we all like to complain, not many of us are willing to step into the leadership role.
These communist parties went single-party monopoly right out of the gate. Leaders is the title; rulers is the rank!
“We are the best people for the job, and I dare you to complain”
Okay, bloody dictatorships aside, how did this new ideology pan out in reality?
Well, if you leave out the failed economies, famines and all-around human suffering – At least they got rid of that obnoxious upper-class. No more Grand Dukes, Princes, Counts and Barons. Now there’s a General Secretary, the Politburo, The Central Committee…
If you wanted to get your claws on the good stuff now, you had to successfully navigate the political or military minefield. Nothing as vulgar as winning votes of course, you just needed to play your Machiavellian cards right. Oh, and if you fail, you will probably never be seen or heard from again.
As for the heads of industry? That’s right – more political jockeying. A society that loathes capitalism must also not be one that worships profit. Brilliant for a political buffoon who has little to no idea how to successfully run a factory or large-scale farm, let alone an entire national industry or infrastructure. Stalin’s son-in-law who used to be a plumber is now in charge of supermarket logistics (fiction folks), what could go wrong?
The premise was based on a pipe dream: we will all work together because we will all get a fair share of the results. I often wonder if any of the Bolshevik leaders truly believed that an entire population would be so virtuous. I can accept that a bunch of intellectuals with their heads in the clouds might reckon they have designed a workable political system, but I struggle to accept that Lenin and co. were that naïve. Writing a book is one thing; attempting to apply it to a massive country and population takes balls of steel!
Maybe they hoped and dreamed it could be possible and proceeded knowing that they would be the ones sitting at the big table if they were victorious; “we can work out the kinks after we get rid of these asshole aristocrats”.
Look at the Russian Revolutionary Slogan “Peace, land, and bread”.
They were leading a nation of exhausted, starving workers and soldiers who were fed up with World War 1 and flagrant exploitation. These people were ripe and ready to follow any party that promised justice and improved conditions.
Even if we could magically rule out greed and the corruption that goes with it, you are still relying on individuals to work tirelessly for the success of an abstract concept; an ideology or nation. Right from the get-go you already have the percentage of citizens who disagree and never signed on to this whole communist thing. They will do as much work as necessary to avoid repercussions and nothing more.
The staunch believers will be diligent little workhorses and will not miss a chance to snitch on any idle sceptics; this will fill them with righteous pride no doubt. However, there is no escaping shirkers. Shit! Some of the most vocal supporters of the Red Crusade will be slackers. Work-dodgers always find a rort.
With no material reward or even some form of special treatment, even the majority of stalwarts will get sick and tired of doing more than their fair share. Especially when it becomes clear that there is no tangible reward for busting your ass other than the expectation to keep it up and pick up some of the slack from the deadshits. “Keep up the good work comrade!” – Fuck off.
An entire country running on the union motto of “same job, same pay”. It has its benefits, yet it has one major drawback; the race to the bottom. “Why should I do any more than that lazy prick? We all get the same pay. Fuck this!”
With no opportunity to improve your lot through hard work or increased efficiency the only way to feel like you are getting ahead is to do less than the other suckers. Suddenly the innovation that could be fuelling improvement is being channelled into cheating the system.
The communist state takes this rort to its extreme. Everyone has a roof over their heads and food to eat. The home may be rudimentary, and you probably have to queue for hours to get lousy groceries, but it is provided by the state. Of course, with no market competition there is little in the way of motivation for suppliers of goods and services to give much of a shit about the quality of what they provide.
Apathetic workers turning out mediocre products and listless services. Unless they can find a safe way to game the system they are stuck on this lackadaisical hamster wheel. It wouldn’t be like getting caught ripping off Centrelink here in Australia. Those Soviets will send your lazy ass to a forced labour camp in the fucking Arctic! Maybe they should try something similar Down-under…
I will conclude with a communist saying that has always made me giggle, “they pretend to pay us and we pretend to work.”
Until very recently, being wealthy usually consisted of two tangible possessions: assets and money. These were genuine 3-dimensional things rather than mere numbers on a computer screen. Even considering the numbers on a bank statement back then, the cash still existed in the banks vault; or some percentage of it. I know there was some kind of work around regarding the money a bank says they have and what is actually in their vault/s.
The interesting thing for me is that the value ascribed to them both is conceptual to varying degrees. The price of land, gold, cocaine and cucumbers are all based on economic and psychological abstractions: supply and demand + “it’s valuable because everyone agrees it is” etc.
The same goes for cash. The paper and metal are practically worthless without the uncanny phenomenon whereby everyone agrees to accept their attributed value. For now, I want to focus on assets. The things that are assessed in dollars and cents and thus represent that amount of capital. Its potential cash conversion might rise and fall without any physical money involved.
A person would be considered wealthy because they hold a substantial amount of assets, or perhaps a small amount of very valuable ones. 100 hectares of polluted swampy mangrove would pale in comparison to 10 hectares of prime real estate. A truckload of tomatoes or a car boot full of diamonds and rubies – you get the gist.
What anything is worth depends on a mind-boggling array of factors! Something as seemingly simple as supply and demand becomes a mystifying maze the instant you take a closer look:
People need or want a thing and there is ample supply – thing is cheap
Why isn’t it free? Many things were once, but somewhere someone claimed ownership and/or figured out how to monetize it and bingo!
Government sell off goods and services they once provided to private companies for a cash influx and the offloading of one of their expenses.
That product or service is now being supplied for profit – guess which direction the price is going to go.
People need or want a thing, and it is scarce – price goes up
What if the providers deliberately reduce supply to inflate the value of their product or service?
What about luxury goods and services? So many of these are ludicrously overpriced!
I’m not just talking about a $10,000 handbag either. An opal or emerald is only worth as much as people are willing to pay. I suppose the equation would need to include things like perishability and storage costs too. Those thousand plus dollar truffles can’t be held back while waiting for the best price for too long. However, their fleeting availability would be a reason for the obscene cost – I just countered myself!
What about your warehouse full of extravagantly priced clothing and a detrimental change in fashion? A sudden fire sale could cause serious damage to your brand; maybe a real fire would be a better move. Insurance fraud aside, preventing your passe product from reaching the market and absorbing the financial loss may be the clever play in the long term, by preserving your products exclusivity status.
In Australia right now (2026) we are witnessing a massive rise in the illicit tobacco trade. Yep – tobacco! The government has taxed the shit out of cigarettes to such an extent that people are turning to the black market to be able to afford to support their habit. Gangsters are getting rich selling a product that can be legally bought in stores. The crime is the tax dodge leading to affordability. These criminals are the modern bootleggers, minus prohibition.
The government has handed them a golden goose via their own legislation. It is not only stolen tobacco and cigarettes being sold. The product is now being produced without any regulations, ala moonshine or bathtub gin. There is also a proliferation in tobacconist store being firebombed. Talk about a legislative backfire!
The factors affecting the price of any commodity are too varied to pin down in a few hundred words. Just be aware that there are a whole bunch of invisible influences and influencers that we don’t notice, and the market price of any asset is very susceptible to manipulation. What about land?
In my opinion, land would be the fundamental asset for determining wealth. Before currency or any form of organised trade, groups of people were marking their territory. As time went on, they began drawing hard boundaries and fought to defend them.
“We do our shit in here. You do your shit out there. We can trade, but you can’t just mosey on in and start doing your shit without permission.”
This would be the infancy of the nation state. Kings, queens etc. ruled the land and the peasants worked to earn their keep. This land was obtained the old-fashioned way: squatting or conquering – land went to whoever was there first and then whoever was strong enough to keep it.
Somewhere along the line, a few cunning nobles got the idea of private property up and running. Now citizens could purchase their own sectioned off piece of the Earth; put up a fence and post “KEEP OUT” signs. Anything not bought or not for sale remains state land. This will usually be available for public use, until such time as the state needs a cash influx or is offered one they cannot ignore. After that – “PRIVATE PROPERTY”.
Prior to this, I imagine there would have been some form of etiquette when it came your hut/tent and my hut/tent, but it was probably considered rude, or at least a bit odd, to shut yourself in and refuse visitors within such a small community. What the fuck does that have to with anything? Get back on track.
People have been slowly but surely laying claim to almost every square inch on the planet since it went on sale. Corporations and conglomerates are doing their best to gobble up as much as possible nowadays. They either divide and/or subdivide to squeeze more renters in, or they go up. Hundreds of apartments standing where a few houses had once been.
Land and property prices continue to skyrocket while wages stagnate. Average people cannot afford to enter the market anymore. Cities are getting more and more crowded, and rent is becoming unaffordable. Sharing is becoming the new norm, just to be able to keep up with the bills. We’re not talking about a group of young people striking out on their own anymore; a lot of them are mature aged full-time workers whose pay can no longer sustain living solo.
Ridiculous tiny apartments that make a studio seem lavish are becoming the only option left for having your own place, and that is still gunna cost you big! Hong Kong coffin apartments are looming for most major cities.
Meanwhile we have more billionaires than ever before, with multiple palatial estates, super yachts and even personal fucken islands! These insatiable opulence junkies have no concept of the abject misery their hoarding creates.
London’s elite have even created infrastructure issues with their ‘iceberg’ homes. These affluence addicts have literally gone to a new low in their quest for more mansion metres. There is a limit to how high they can go, so now they are adding levels underground. Yeah, that’s right levels; plural. A three-story house might have four or more basement levels. All in the service of grandeur of course – pure wealth flaunting wank!
Once again, the value of any property stems from whatever the market decides is the most desirable. If prices keep rising, property remains a profitable investment, and that sounds great! Right? Well, yes, if you’re an investor. If you are trying to purchase a home to live in to escape the rental rat race and get a little security, it’s a fucken nightmare!
When the average house or apartment is a million dollars, being a millionaire is no longer what it used to be. I’m 52 and I have witnessed this decline in real time. As a kid/ teenager and even into my early 20s, a million dollars could set you up for a comfortable life. The average house was $300,000. The idea of winning the lottery for a million meant a hell of a lot more back then.
A home, an investment property, and still a few hundred grand to play with (I’m not up on the whole tax situation). Now…one house; if the bidding isn’t too competitive. Okay, technically you’re a millionaire – asset wise. Sell that house and get a big pay day…where are you going to live?
A million-dollar house aint so special when all your other housing options cost around the same. It’s a cruel system. You bust your ass to pay off your house; your equity keeps growing; but so does all the other properties in your city. If you bought in the 1990s or earlier (or inherited a house) this represents a huge windfall, unless of course, if it is your primary residence. If so, selling it means giving up your home. The only way to gain any advantage this way is to downsize or move out of your city.
I think I’m going in circles here.
One more complication before I finish – those ‘je ne sais quoi’ assets. Things like the chef being the draw card for your restaurant. The bricks and mortar; the whizz-bang kitchen and schmick décor are all worth money, but if the renowned chef walks… Same would be true for a secret recipe etc. You may own the ‘business’, but do you control the prime ‘asset’?
The value of a profitable business is worth more than the physical assets – performance and reputation can multiply that worth exponentially. A savvy entrepreneur can make a fortune selling their system or brand regardless of any physical assets. This leads to stuff like patents, copyright and intellectual property. Therefore, I will end right here.
A genuine Garden of Eden exists on a tiny island somewhere off the coast of Thailand. Hidden away from the unruly horde of drunken tourists running amok on the mainland. This is not some out of the way spot where a smaller throng journey for a more authentic experience. This is a dead set forbidden and practically untouched Utopia!
A pristine lagoon with a small group of self-reliant pioneers from distant lands gathered in a shared quest to get as far away from the rat race as possible; not just their lives back home, but the whole irksome tourism scene just across the sea too.
The haven’s isolation is not just geographic. The idyllic commune has a team of felonious farmers for neighbours who have their own desire to keep the place a secret; a massive marijuana crop! These guys are not gangsters, but they are heavily armed and will defend their livelihood and freedom. Not to mention the repercussions from the real gangsters if they fuck up.
Apparently, the founders of this blissful hideaway made a deal with the farmers, promising to mind their own business, not invite anymore pilgrims, and never give away the location. That’s a lot of trust given to a bunch of bohemians wanting to escape society and get stoned.
By the looks of the infrastructure, the community has been there for quite a while. It is never explained how many of the original visionaries there were and how many of the present members are blow-ins. The tattooing ceremony informs us that newcomers have been arriving at different times. What is not clear is, how many people (other than Daffy) have left.
Filling in the gaps, it is my assumption that anyone who decides to leave is sworn to secrecy and they uphold this oath so that the unspoiled oasis may endure. My next guess is that more than one of these dropouts (or is it drop-back-ins?) couldn’t resist a little boasting session when they got back to the mainland. Very difficult to fight the urge to tell let these generic tourists know how much more intrepid your travels have been.
These braggarts planted the seeds from which the myth about “The Beach” sprung. Maybe a few even gave the location away just to prove some drunken doubter wrong; maybe it was given as a gift. Whatever the motive, the whereabouts was passed on, and a few rare individuals took up the challenge of finding it. Even fewer were audacious enough to get to the final test/s.
If you manage to follow the map correctly your trail will end on a beach. Not The Beach; for that you need to get yourself to that island over there in the distance. Which is test number 1:
Commit to crossing the multiple miles of sea with no chance of rescue if you find out the hard way that you can’t make it.
Survive being dumbfounded by the copious amounts of fully matured marijuana plants, which may blind you to the dangers of standing in someone else’s clandestine crop.
If you manage to get out of that one and don’t high tail it the fuck out of there, you are one step, or should I say jump, away from your happy place. The only way down from this side is to take a literal leap of faith off a high cliff into the water below.
Successfully overcome those challenges and you have gained admission to the wanderlust wonderland.
It is basic pragmatism that prevents the tribe from expelling any new arrivals. Someone who just completed such a dangerous adventure and found that the improbable Shangri-La actually exists will not be easily deterred. The agony of rejection after such a joyous discovery could quickly turn to bitterness and envy. That person may well be found photocopying maps to the location within days of their return to the mainland.
Kind of the same goes for the unofficial agreement between the commune and the farmers. Everyone minds their own business, and we can all enjoy our seclusion. Although, the farmers are the ones with the machine guns and the final say.
Okay, so you’ve arrived and start taking your place in the community. This seems to consist of farming, fishing and frolicking; playing games, swimming and an endless supply of pot. Any extra supplies must be brought in from the mainland; a task the beach-bums detest because it means re-visiting civilisation, and those contemptible tourists. Funny how quickly these former tourists look down on who they used to be.
We never see or hear about anyone getting antsy, chucking all this Gilligan’s Island crap in and heading back to the mod cons. Besides Daffy, although I reckon he was a lot further along from antsy and closer to full-blown batshit! He seemed to have seen through the hypocrisy of the fellowship he helped create:
Daffy: Ideals, eh? We were just fucking parasites! The big, chunky charlie! The big, chunky charlie’s eating up the whole world!
Almost as if he could see what these vain vacationers were capable of. Or more frightening; maybe he had already witnessed the dark side of The Beach, and it drove him mad. Just speculating.
I am also curious as about something much more mundane. I mean it’s all well and good to rough it for a while, living like a Survivor contestant without the cameras and swift evacuation in an emergency. Fantastic bragging rights in the “off the beaten track” conversations your older self will have. It’s just that it’s not for everyone, and certainly not long term. Unless you’re on the run, or have a severe marijuana dependence, it is going to get tedious and one or more of these righteous non-conformists is going to get on your fucken nerves!
My conjectures aside, they all loved it and would love to stay as long as possible. When Richard accompanies Sal on a supply gathering mission, he sums things up nicely:
Richard: I’d really been looking forward to air conditioning and some cold beer. But, when we got to Ko Pha Ngan, I just wanted to leave again. In one moment, I understand more clearly than ever why we were so special, why we kept our secret. Because if we didn’t, sooner or later, we’d turn it into this. Cancers..parasites..eating up the whole fucking world.
The people who would never leave The Beach all felt like this. He even uses Daffy’s description of the regular tourists: “fucken cancers! Parasites!”. Important to note that he only uses Daffy’s labels for the uninitiated and conveniently leaves out what he said about his fellows from the lagoon.
More for me though is “…why we were so special…”. Richard couldn’t have been with the high-minded hippies for that long, yet he had already become a snob, looking at the embodiments of his former self with disdain and jealously wanting to keep the barbarians away from his gate.
He demonstrates this when he runs into two of his former peers that he had given a copy of the map to before he headed off. He vehemently denies the existence of The Beach and angrily disowns the guys who had previously been his compatriots – wanker!
Well, those are the things necessary for preventing a flood of dickhead tourists (like they all used to be) from overpopulating paradise and fucking it up. Kind of like a 1st world version of an indigenous group being invaded by the plague of civilisation. No matter how good the intentions may be from the newcomers, once the balance has tipped it is only a matter of time before the inundation. Next thing you know you’ve got jet-skis, night clubs and McDonalds. Humans can only live close to nature if you keep the numbers under control. Thus, strict secrecy is one price of paradise.
However, there are other heavier prices to be paid for maintaining this beachside, cannabis infused, Amish lifestyle and until you are forced to face them you may be completely and blissfully oblivious. When you do…things get fucken ugly!
Remember my earlier mention of Survivor and medivac?
The resident spear fishers get attacked by a shark. One dies and one is not badly injured; the other… he’s in a bloody world of hurt! Pieces off him everywhere! They patch him up as best they can, but things look very fucken grim.
They have a moving funeral for their deceased comrade where they all join in a poignant rendition of Bob Marley’s “Redemption Songs”. The burial eliminates the horrific choice that will need to be made about Christo, the poor half-eaten bastard who didn’t have the decency to die.
Sal, the leader of the group offers to have some people take him to the mainland for treatment. His surviving mate rightly insists that he would die on the journey and that they must call for medical help. For Sal, that is out of the question. Giving away their location would be the end of their heavenly home, and losing that is not worth the price of one man – cold hearted shit!
Even more gruesome, was that none of the others spoke out to try and save their “brother’s” life – holy fuck! These cunts are going to let a man die a slow and painful death so they can continue their ganga fuelled Robinson Crusoe fantasy. I told you things would get ugly.
But wait! There’s more!
Richard: After the funeral, we all tried to get back to normal.
Richard: But it just didn’t seem right
Richard: It became clear the problem was Christo
Richard: You see, in a shark attack, or any other major tragedy, I guess the important thing is to get eaten and die, in which case there’s a funeral and somebody makes a speech and everybody says what a good guy you were
Richard: Or get better, in which case everyone can forget about it. Get better or die.
Richard: It’s the hanging around in between that really pisses people off.
Yeah, you read that right. This dying man’s cries of agony are messing with everyone’s serenity, so they carry him far away and slap him in a tent. Out of sight out of mind. Only one French man condemns them and chooses to stay with Christo and do all he can to comfort him while he slowly and painfully perishes. One man among these “special” people has a concience; this story just took very dark turn.
I mean, that’s evil right? What they did for the sake of their own pleasure was outright evil!
Our protagonist gives their actions a little lip service via voiceover, but he barely registers the severity of what they did. His description comes across as being a “bad” thing. He doesn’t come close to “wicked”, “immoral”, or fucking “vile”. It is played off as “yeah, we got corrupted by paradise and we were all a bit selfish” – you black-hearted motherfuckers!
We’re not finished yet.
Things get complicated for the demon tribe when the people Richard tried to ward off appear on the beach across from them obviously weighing up their options on how to tackle the first test.
Sal goes into full tyrant mode and orders Richard to sit and watch the wannabe newcomers. He must turn them away any way he can. After several days, the isolation causes him to slowly unravel.
Eventually the four hopefuls find a solution and build a makeshift raft – clever move, I must say! They have a much easier crossing than their predecessors, but they come unstuck on the second test. Richard has gone troppo by this point and fails miserably at his gatekeeping task.
The euphoria of finding themselves standing in a huge field of dope plants causes them to dance with joy. They do not notice the irate locals with machine guns until it is too late. They attempt to flee but are mowed down by the farmers.
This snaps Richard back to reality and he makes haste back to the camp. On the way he makes a pit stop at Christos’s tent and puts him out of his misery – is he forgiven now or something?
He finds his two French companions and convinces them to escape with him. The farmers capture them and drag them back to the camp, which seems to be enjoying an impromptu rave party. Probably trying to get some blood pumping through their dead-hearts.
The farmers crash the party with guns drawn. They are furious about the newcomers they had to kill because the community could not keep their side of the bargain. Sal desperately tries to argue for a reprieve, but the farmers want her and her fellow ravers to fuck right off.
Sal stubbornly plants her feet, so the lead farmer offers her an ultimatum. He puts one bullet into a revolver and hands it to her. If she shoots Richard, they can stay. The psycho bitch pulls the trigger!
The chamber is empty and the lead farmer smirks as the other community members freak right out at Sal’s willingness to commit murder – apparently that’s where the line is for these cretins.
They all abandon the island and go their separate ways, leaving Sal devastated. I have no idea how any of them, beside the compassionate Frenchman, live with what they did. Although, there’s nothing mental gymnastics can’t spin and soften, I guess. Shit! It’s probably the sympathetic bloke who’ll suffer PTSD.
In the final scene, we see Richard in an internet café, checking his email. The girl he was infatuated with has sent him the group photo she took of them all on the beach; all jumping and looking happy. Richard delivers his final words of wisdom in voiceover:
Richard: And me? I still believe in paradise. But now at least I know it’s not some place you can look for. Because it’s not where you go. It’s how you feel for a moment in your life when you’re a part of something. And if you find that moment… It lasts forever.
What were you part of Richard? A bunch of obnoxious travellers greedily guarding a pristine preserve while looking down your noses at all other travellers. Smoking weed and sniffing your own farts and ultimately allowing a once beloved member, to suffer a tortuous demise to keep your secret. How can you look at that photo and not feel damned?
I hope you noticed that the martyr is not working; a common characteristic of these pretenders. They spend just as much time telling everyone how hard they work as they do actually working. These are a very cunning species, common to almost all workplaces.
“I’ve been working here for, like, two years. It’s bullshit man. I work my ass off. Remember Hector, I was telling you how hard I work my ass off?”
“Extract” (2009)
In the wild there exist a plethora of devious animals, insects and marine life that mimic other species as a form of survival. Be that warding off predators or ambushing prey, these sneaky bastards are nature’s master illusionists! Each trickster adapts their camouflage to suit their required purpose.
Blending in with the environment could be used to avoid being lunch, or to make yourself a living booby trap; invisible to prey until it is too late. While these disappearing deceivers are part of most working environments, I am observing a slightly different fraudster.
These sneaky slackers aren’t content with mere camouflage, although vanishing is a signature move for them. Avoiding as much work as possible is only one aim of their ploy. They are more akin to the harmless critters who have cleverly disguised themselves to look like a much deadlier and thus less appealing quarry.
These guys/gals want the whole shebang; maximum commendation with minimal effort. An absurd desire for shirking while complaining about being overworked. If that isn’t paradoxical enough, there are at least two varieties of these pseudo company carriers:
The deliberate con artist: these types know full well what they are doing. Perhaps they do it out of spite, or maybe they just enjoy the sport of it. The gratification comes from the successful cheat.
The delusional workhorse: this intriguing variation genuinely believes their own bullshit! A bizarre self-delusion that they are underappreciated stalwarts. Any criticism is seen as senseless character assassination by nasty underperformers.
It can be very difficult to tell these two apart, and things get even more confusing when you stumble across a hybrid. This half-breed ends up behaving like a person with a split personality; which can be a whole other category all its own.
Split Personalities are those people who change their attitudes like the weather. One day they are carefree jokers wondering why you take the job so seriously. The next they are disgruntled and bitter, sowing dissent. At a different time, they are the diligent one, criticising other people’s low work ethic. I have worked alongside multiple persona people who can shift numerous times during the same fucking shift!
Every identity is played with conviction and only a small percentage can recognize the incongruency in themselves and have a laugh about it. Most will not appreciate being psychoanalysed by a smart-ass co-worker and will throw the diagnosis back at you with interest. Everyone has changes in mood, and whole attitudes can change over time. The split personality is something different, and if you have encountered them, you will understand clearer what I am getting at. Perhaps I should do a deep dive into this specific archetype in another post.
Let us return to our sports-car with the handbrake stuck on. The “I do everything around here, therefore I shall do nothing” enigma.
The beast of burden/bullshit artist combination is a confusing contradiction. The hypocrisy should be self-defeating, yet these charlatans will not be swayed by silly things like logical consistency. Try and dismantle their masquerade at your own peril.
When they are in martyr mode, they can be insufferable. Having to listen to a notorious bludger whining about being exploited would be hilarious if you weren’t the one that was picking up the slack for this wanker. Hearing their tales of hardship and woe can leave you questioning your own sense of reality if you’re not careful. “Maybe I am missing something” you might think during a moment of cognitive weakness.
When these specimens are in delusional workhorse mode they, much like their pure-breed counterparts, would very probably pass a lie detector test if asked about their daily grind. They have an uncanny knack for erasing any loafing on their part, while magnifying the idleness of anyone else. At any given moment they can regale you with a thorough list about the slothful sins of any and every workmate.
They can just as easy supply endless tales of woe regarding the underappreciated trials and tribulations they have endured. Not all the stories are made up; some are exaggerations, while others are the extremely rare moments when they actually did go above and beyond; these hen’s teeth tales work on a ratio of about 100:1 in comparison to anyone else’s contribution, don’t forget.
Then are the times when they fucked up and got left holding the bag. Once in a while someone else gets the drop on our scammer and they have to do a bit of drudge work. Whether deliberate or not, this reprehensible insult is burned into their very soul and will be retold ad nauseum as irrefutable proof of their victim status. One must never be so vulgar as to mention the innumerable times this cretin has committed the same betrayal with full awareness. How dare you recall any slips of the halo! Of course, their defence would be that time someone did it to them once (maybe more than once and a little exaggerated on each retelling) plus a few extra wrongdoings that may or may not be true. “I’m sticking up for myself!” They will declare.
Over the years I have noticed a fascinating feature regarding accuracy in the imposter’s bogus accounts. Yes, they actually did happen; only they happened to someone else. This Bowerbird of frustrating fables heard another person’s telling of being cheated and appropriated it for their own list of persecutions. Every report will be delivered, not just with a straight face, but with full-on outraged righteousness. Their expressions and body language will add credibility to the whole performance. This isn’t gaslighting per se because the spinner is falling for the ruse themselves – fucking bizarre!
The manipulation, at least on a conscious level, takes place when they have their feet planted back in the real world and need to switch into bullshit artist mode. In these periods of lucidity, our slacker has a better understanding of how much they get away with. This is the maintenance phase, where they bolster any weak spots in their charade and mend fences with potential antagonists.
If you pose no threat don’t hold your breath; none of this is done out of remorse. The guilt is merely an indicator that the weasel may have overplayed their hand and should cover their ass.
For all intents and purposes, it is still business as usual. From the exterior not much has changed. The fink will still be up on their high horse doing as little as possible, while moaning about their lot. The differences will be subtle: their demeanour will be brighter, and their contempt will be better concealed. They may even shock everyone with a random act of assistance. This of course will go into the biased memory bank to increase their own generosity account. Remember the ratio from earlier?
One act of service for these jerks is akin to some kind of noble sacrifice! You must keep in mind that mutually beneficial cooperation is a net-loss for these bastards after all. I’m sure there is a sad backstory that led them to be like this, and if it isn’t traumatic enough, they might just amp it up a bit in the retelling. They may also play loose and fast with history and/or plagiarise anything they reckon sounds useful. The effect of the story is more important than the truth.
These phonies have zero respect for validity, and they often chop and change yarns to suit the audience. Like a consummate method actor, they are immersed in the psyche of this victim, and the goal is to convince the listener/s of their cruel toil. The “facts” can be rearranged to suit the listener/s.
Similar to the pure con artist type, there is one temptation they cannot resist – bragging. The only way to fully enjoy pulling off a successful rort is a good gloat. This is probably the weakest point in the hoodwinker’s façade. They are standing there crowing about how little they do and how clever they are. In this moment of hubris, they seem totally unaware that they are confessing to the very same people who have to carry their slack-asses, while simultaneously listening to them whinge about how much they suffer and sacrifice – dickheads!
Whether they do it knowingly, or they sniff their own farts, these mind-boggling types will irritate you once you notice their racket. It’s one of those things that cannot be unseen. If you can’t find the funny side, it is best to limit your exposure to these phones because trying to enlighten them would be a futile and potentially perilous exercise. Trying to play their game could start you down the same deranged path they are on.
During the rise of video shops there was a real mixed bag of titles on offer and the selection often varied from store to store. Everybody knew the stuff being released that was previously in the cinemas. I am not sure of the exact duration, but there was always a decent hiatus between the end of a movie’s cinema run and its arrival on the video store shelves. There was always a clambering for the latest new release.
The real treasure hunt however, was wandering through the genre sections, trawling through the movies that were in cinemas God only knows when. No internet to look such things up or find reviews and/or rankings. The only information you had was on the cover of that box. Usually, the title of the movie, the image/s and the tagline on the front; some stills and a short description of the story on the back. The films rating (G, PG, M or R) and the genre it was labelled with would provide some additional info.
Other than that, if you hadn’t seen a preview on a tape you had rented earlier, it was pure word of mouth. One point of call would be the grown-ups. They had seen so much stuff (it seemed to us) and they were not shy when it came to giving their opinions.
“This one’s the fucken grouse!”
“That is shithouse!”
One of my father’s thumbs down sayings was “very fucking ordinary”.
They rarely left any room for nuance. It wasn’t uncommon for a random oldie to feel compelled to introduce us youngsters to a bona fide classic we just had to see! Having a stranger point out their great pick was another way of stumbling on a gem. As the years went by, anyone could have seen something awesome that you had been overlooking and their recommendation could be the impetus you needed.
Those early years were so much fun for all involved it seemed. The ever-increasing catalogue of movies available offered viewing options we had never known. The video store was a playground for all ages. The excitement could be contagious! Sharing a good find was part of the experience, especially in the genre sections. If you’re browsing this section, you are probably a fan: “have you seen this one?”
My big sister was a horror fan back then and she treated us to “Rosemary’s Killer” AKA “The Prowler”, a nasty slasher based on a genre section tipster. I still remember her telling us that some guy told her it was a gorefest. “Knives in the head and pitchforks” he said. I guess you met such people in the horror section.
Although ‘section’ might give an impression of a spacious purpose-built store. Remember that this was the early days, where most video stores were just converted shops. The “horror section” wasn’t a separate aisle; it was just a separate shelf. People would be crammed in there during peak times.
Which reminds me of another source of suggestions: the staff and the videos playing on the telly on or behind the counter non-stop. Every store had its own fountain of film knowledge standing right there at the counter. Even if they weren’t Tarantinoesque film geeks, they were immersed in movies for every shift.
They played whatever they fucken liked on that thing too. The porn/violence paradox was in play of course. They wouldn’t have explicit sex scenes playing, but ultra-violence was fine; R rating be damned! I’m talking early days here.
I remember one evening in the video shop my father took us to. They were playing George A. Romero’s “Dawn of the Dead” on the screen. My sister and I weren’t the only kids in there, yet nobody seemed bothered. A security guard being pursued through a shopping mall by cannibalistic zombies, desperately blasting a shotgun into them with blood splattering all over the place. Probably no more violent than a Looney Tunes cartoon now that I think of it; just more blood.
My dad and sister asked the person behind the counter, and I will never know if they were told or heard a different title. The next time we visited, we rented “The Evil Dead” (1981). Freaked me right out!!! Overall horror ratings aside, it took me years to figure out what that “Dead” movie was we had seen in the store. There was nowhere to go and look that shit up.
So now we come to the number 1 source of movie recommendations: the school playground and friends in general. The classic “have you seen the one…” conversation. For “The Evil Dead” I would go with “…where the sheila gets stabbed in the ankle with a pencil?”. Or maybe “where the chick gets raped by a tree”. Kids really shouldn’t have been watching that shit! Most of those questions were regarding a grotesque, risqué or hilarious scene.
“Have you seen the one where the guy and girl are screwing and the killer stabs them both with a spear?”
That wasn’t the only form of recommendation, I just find it the most intriguing. We would just as often be telling each other about “the funniest movie” or “this awesome action flick”. We rarely discussed “that poignant drama that really captures the human experience” though.
“I haven’t been moved like this since the Joy Luck Club”
Jimbo Jones
(The Simpsons – Homer vs. Patty and Selma) [S06E17]
The other interesting gap in our film literacy was the release date of all these films; which movie came out when? Not something the average viewer cared about at the time. After all the dates would’ve been somewhere on the cover if you were that keen. No, it only became a concern for us film buffs in later years.
Which film was older? “Dawn of the Dead” or “The Evil Dead”?
Or for slasher fans: “Halloween” or “Friday the 13th” or “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”?
It matters in terms of originality and inspiration.
What order do the James Bond films go in?
Basic film trivia that is so easy to find nowadays. The kind of stuff that only matters to geeks. Guess what I was/am?
Such a bizarre way to explore the back catalogue of cinema. The ability to watch feature films, uncut and uninterrupted (fucken TV edits & commercials!) with no chronological sequence other than when the distributers got around to putting a title onto tape. In a strange way the original video generation was introduced to films according to our own unique timeline, and that was our order of release dates.
A list of films in order of their release on VHS or Beta rather than theatrical release. Not even I’m that big of a geek…I would love to check it out if it was done though. Has it by any chance?
How many times have you been watching a movie and those fucking snickering stooges are putting shit on some hapless victim. However the numbers stack up, it’s always a bunch of these assholes, and one or two Schmoes who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It might just be taunts, or it could escalate to an assault or rape depending on the film.
Regardless of how trite this scenario may seem, it is one of those cliches that keeps being used. The reason is as simple as it is depressing: this cruel behaviour happens all the time in everyday life. I’ll save the physical abuse for a later post. For now, I would like to focus on the group dynamics of this seemingly ingrained nastiness, and I’ll concentrate on the verbal stuff; which can wind up being just as traumatic in the worst cases.
Everyone has been on the receiving end of a mocking mob who have decided you are the target at some point. Not all will admit it; many people have buried such humiliation deep down, and heaven have mercy on the one who tries digging there. People rarely appreciate someone exposing raw nerves.
It is utterly ridiculous to believe that any human being has been in control of every situation from first memory till the present. In any one of those unprotected moments, we are all at the mercy of others. Without employing selective memory, it would be a remarkable life that never suffered the sting of cruel or careless words; and not necessarily in a good way. To have never been humbled could lead to a plethora of psychological flaws.
My point is that power can be a precarious attribute. It often shifts according to situations and circumstances. We were all very vulnerable to adults when we were kids and many of them would have been carrying their own distressing recollections (be they conscious or buried). And schoolyards? Holy shit! Kids can be very cruel to one another.
Even as an adult you may hold dominion in one group or relationship, while being the doormat somewhere else. There are too many factors to consider all at once, so I will limit this post to linguistic argy bargy; primarily in a group setting. Here the balance of power can easily shift based on who has the numbers on their side.
While I am not getting into gang violence right now, there is no denying the threat of a group turning hostile would certainly have an influence on an otherwise aggressive person; thus, removing an important weapon from their arsenal. The once weaker of the disputants finally being emboldened by the backing of the crowd. The textbook, bully being silenced by the majority shtick.
Two people are having a disagreement, and the crowd has decided that A is being unfairly treated by B, so they come to their assistance. Using the crowd’s ability to bestow validity to one side, while raining scorn on the other, they ensure that A’s arguments land much firmer than B’s. Extra damage may be inflicted if things degenerate into insults, where the crowd now becomes the judiciary on whose “dis” is best. That overwhelming laughter and ridicule can be devastating to any ego.
That is all very nice and I’m sure it does happen, but here comes that fucken philosopher again!
How can anyone be truly sure that they are on the right side of this dispute? It can feel very satisfying to take down a bully, and in a typical fictional scenario the audience would be clued in as to who the aggrieved party is. Even if it is a cautionary tale about mob justice that ends badly, we still get a fairly clear outcome.
In reality, we rarely get any such closure. Nor do we have much in the way of accurate backstory. A disagreement unfolds and we happen to be part of the nearby throng. All things being equal it’s none of our business and we keep it that way. There usually needs to be a trigger for an onlooker to chime in.
An even distribution of supporters on both sides and/or an impartial crowd would be a rare level playing field. Any side can prevail on the merit of their debating or dissing prowess. The crowd will announce a victor through a series of cheers, laughter (which can be positive or negative) and possibly a bit of running commentary. Or they might dissipate because they are uninterested, which could make things awkward for the arguers.
That, or the timely arrival of an assertive mediator able to silence the mob (a rare species indeed) are the only chance of limiting the potential of mob bullying. Once the balance shifts it can become an infuriating uphill battle for the poor dolt having to argue with a herd united against them.
What drives a background character to decide they need to add their own two cents worth?
One alternative is that we have a dog in this fight, and we might feel a little protective of them. We may feel compelled to offer some moral support. This could take the form of validating our buddy’s points. The truth may or may not matter, depending on how invested you are. Once emotions flare, winning the argument takes priority over finding a solution. One more arrow in the quiver for the sidekick/s is that of scoffing and invalidating any points being put forward by the other side. Very fucking frustrating to deal with!
Another alternative to lend your jibes could be an existing dislike for one of the two quarrellers and a desire to see them ridiculed. Maybe they are a known bully; maybe they embarrassed you in the past. This would fall under the “enemy of my enemy is my friend” motive. You might not get the win for yourself, but you do get the satisfaction of seeing them lose; or that’s the hope anyway.
One more before moving on. That tricky moment when one of the beefers turns and invites your opinion. Not always an ideal request for those who like to keep a low profile. Even worse if the person summoning you is the one being pummeled and they are desperately looking for back-up. I mean, how much do you really like this person?
Are you willing to join their public ridicule? How much weight do you have here? Are you even able to make a difference?
Let’s pause and look at what makes being a social scapegoat so terrible. Being on the receiving end of public humiliation via group heckling triggers our deep-rooted fear of being cast out of the tribe; a virtual death sentence in our primitive minds. To be treated in such a sadistic way by a bunch of strangers can bring forth that very same existential dread; which is why it feels so fucking horrible even if there is no physical danger.
Now multiply that angst by how attached you are to this group: family, friends, workmates etc. People you will be running into again and again – fuck! Or the coup de grace: people you loved and trusted; people you depended on. They could be from any of the aforementioned groups, and that creates an excruciating wound.
Brenner: I once asked Moore what’s worse than rape. Now I know. Betrayal.
“The General’s Daughter” (1999)
That fear would play a defining role in your decision of whether or not to answer the call for assistance. Even if you know the harassment is uncalled for, you may remain silent to spare yourself a similar fate. And congratulations if you do! You have earned yourself a new splinter for your psyche. It’s width and depth being defined by how guilty you feel for your silence. Not a problem if you have no conscience of course.
Okay, so you decide you don’t need any more remorse, and you will intervene to, at the very least, prevent a total annihilation. You don’t, or hardly know, the prey of these hyenas; or maybe you do, but you disagree with a lot of their assertions. So, you try and de-escalate by finding the middle ground and seeing both sides? Get prepared for “Are you taking their side?” – can’t fucken win!
Pays to be pre-emptive here and make your exit as soon as you sense the desperation; bale! bale! An ounce prevention is better than a pound of cure.
Of course, never rule out that you may be the bully and simply cannot resist the temptation to put the boot into someone while they are distracted. “Enemy of my enemy” is just as effective for the Darkside of our psyche. Sure, that “enemy” got one over on you, but that doesn’t automatically make you an innocent victim. What if you were the aggressor who picked the wrong mark? Picking on the wrong person and looking foolish is a far cry from being victimized.
Which brings me to yet another bully sleight of hand: playing the victim. Or, more disturbing, genuinely believing you are. The loss of face that you rightfully deserved is an insult that must be avenged. “You asked for it” only applies to others for the bully. Some people need drama as much as oxygen – fucking pests!
Now we arrive at the awful truth. What’s worse than being THE bully? Being one of those fucken snickering stooges! Who decides which side of the debate is more correct? We are all heroes in our own stories – therefore it’s highly likely that we would be the villain every now and then in someone else’s, whether we know it or not.
That can be a hard pill to swallow, and I have no desire to force it on anyone. I do not have any statistics to back this theory up. It’s merely a sneaking suspicion I have, and would like you to ponder. Are you certain you have never been on the side of the tormentor? An uncomfortable concept, I’m sure; unless you are a psychopath or sociopath that is.
So much more rattling around in my head. I’ll circle back again later.
In 1985 I was 12 years old, and this song didn’t really make much of an impact on me. I wasn’t really into music and only watched ABCs “Countdown” because that was one of the shows my older sister had chosen as a must watch. The house had to share the one television back then.
It was/is a catchy tune, and Tina Cross was gorgeous. I honestly cannot recall seeing the video, although when I stumbled on it a few years ago, I insistently recognised it. Kind of like “I know I’ve seen this before, but I cannot remember” moments. The tune, the chorus and Tina Cross instantly hit my nostalgia buttons.
As I have re-listened to it over the years I have fallen in love with one particular line. The song itself tells a pretty straightforward narrative. A young woman hooking up with an older man. It’s all new and exciting for her, but he wants commitments and control. She likes the guy and is enjoying their time together. However, she can also see that his feelings are more intense than hers and things are getting a little too serious.
She is literally telling him she does not want to make promises she cannot keep. We never find out how things ended up. It can be intriguing to imagine how this seemingly possessive lover handled being rejected by the object of his obsession…
She is trying to explain the divergence of their feelings for one another and let him down easy. She shows great insight into his and her own motivations. However, the line I will refer too is sublime wisdom!
“Changes of seasons I haven’t been through.”
What an awesome line! Regardless of how paradoxical it is for one so young to comprehend such a concept: I fucking adore it!
At 12 years old, I would’ve been lucky to grasp even a basic understanding of the lyrics. Rehearing them over thirty years later was a brand-new experience. Same song interacting with a more mature mind. With a person who had been through many changes of seasons himself. Corny but very true. At twenty-two, or even thirty-two it wouldn’t have hit the same.
“Seasons”, the plural make the world of difference. Each new era changes your perspective on life and your place in the world. The exact same song or film can resonate completely differently with the same person at different phases of their life; and here’s the twist on the line I am currently praising: you can only fully appreciate it looking back.
Tina Ross was 26 at the time of the songs release and her character in the song was maybe a little younger. The chances that a person in their early 20s would be contemplating such notions as the changing seasons of life would be very rare; them comprehending it beyond an interesting idea is almost impossible.
Perhaps such a contradiction becomes understandable when you discover the song was written by a 39-year-old male. Leon Berger was possibly the age of the male character in the song, and this might lead to the presumption that the song was about his relationship with Tina Ross; though I have no evidence of that.
Maybe he did have a similar painful love affair with another young lady all the same. So, we have an older man writing a song told through the eyes of an exuberant young woman trying to break up with a man who has lived through a few more changes of seasons than her.
Leon Berger may have placed his own life experience into the psyche of his female protagonist. Intentionally or not, he produced a great line that always makes me smile. Just a few words slapped together in the context of a pop song, and it hits an existential nerve (with me at least).
Of course, a more mundane thesis could be put across. Maybe she read or heard that line somewhere and never had any use for it until the time she was trying to dump some older dude who was getting too clingy; trying her best to prevent herself from acquiring a stalker.
I was so excited to finally get my licence. I was a late starter, and I failed my Ps test 3 times. I was so nervous every time I took the test, and I made silly mistakes which prevented me from passing; but today I finally have it. Last night Sydney had been awarded the 2000 Olympic Games and today I finally passed the fucken test. I missed out on getting pissed last night because of it, but it was worth it.
My mate Jonno was accompanying me for my inaugural drive without someone needing to supervise me. We were sitting in mum’s beat-up Mazda 323 in the driveway at home.
I put it into reverse and began moving out onto the road for my first drive as a ‘proper’ driver. Just as the rear wheels left the curb and hit the road a cyclist appeared behind me and had to swerve to avoid getting cleaned up.
Jonno saw him and screamed out a warning:
“Look out!”
I saw him and knew that this was a close call. Then for some God forsaken reason I panicked and hit the accelerator instead of the brake.
The car zoomed out onto the road practically pursuing the poor cyclist. He had avoided the initial accident but was now facing a new and worse threat. He had to swerve even more severely now and move out into the other lane of traffic. By sheer luck there were no cars coming at the time. If there had been this unfortunate cyclist would have been smashed for sure.
This all happened in a matter of seconds, but it felt like minutes. I was reversing after the cyclist and desperately trying to gain control of my right foot. Jonno seemed to be screaming “stop!!!” on a repeating cycle.
Eventually the cyclist got out of the range of my lethal 323 and I got my foot on the brake where it belonged. We drove on in a stunned silence. I don’t recall Jonno saying anything and I think we did the obligatory drive to Maccas to Christian my first outing. What a shocker of a start! What a fortunate conclusion.
As chaotic as it seems now, the United States of America was a genuine attempt to improve on the feudal system and its aristocratic biases. They called it a noble experiment, and it was at the time. Of course you must ignore the plight of the slaves, the native Americans and the total lack of women’s rights. Maybe we’ll call it a novel experiment. They were making a serious attempt to create a new form of government and to put in place checks and balances to limit tyranny.
“We the people…” is such a powerful opening! Okay it was obviously more specific than that, but much like the French “all men…”, it just sounds better than “We the white males…” Also like the French redistribution of wealth, there was still a limit to exactly who was entitled to a piece of that pie.
I mean we can’t be giving land back to the natives or doing without slave labour; that would put huge restrictions on our profit margins, and we deserve those just as much as any aristocracy. It’s our turn at the trough!
Blatant hypocrisy aside, this was a nation far removed from the European nobility and its ingrained nepotism. “No more of these spoiled brats being born into power and privilege”. Ludicrous as that sounds now, that was what they were aiming for; or maybe just professing. Rather hard to imagine that these “men of such foresight” had no inkling that a new breed of high society would rise and embed themselves at the top of this new hierarchy.
“Protecting the Queen’s safety is a task that is gladly accepted by Police Squad. No matter how silly the idea of having a queen might be to us, as Americans, we must be gracious and considerate hosts.”
Frank Drebin “The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad” (1988)
Well maybe they were dreamers; along with being biased and possibly deceptive; but hey! They were trying something unique. Despite the true and unknowable motives of the leaders of this revolution, the majority seemed overwhelmingly dedicated to breaking the royal chains and preventing any such concentration of power from forming again.
It is totally feasible that the average white man was ignorant of the horrible injustices they were perpetrating themselves; seeing their own fight for freedom as a righteous one, while glossing over their own sins. Victims usually can’t see themselves as bullies; that sort of inconsistency can be very painful to face. Particularly on a societal level.
So, we have established that “We the people…” referred to a very specific portion of the population and that this was a sanctimonious farce. Thank you, and I’ll see you later…
No, wait! How did it turn out for the white guys who fit “the people” mould? Not much different than it did in France, it turns out. Although this revolution does pre-date, and had an influence on, the French one. Be that as it may those pesky go-getters went and got the lion’s share again soon enough.
A few centuries and several generations later we find a “new world” version of a ruling class; technically not aristocratic, yet certainly generationally entrenched and dripping with nepotism. The only difference they have with European nobility and gentry is the link between the lineage and the land. Most European elites have to go back a lot further than their American counterparts to find the era where an ancestor planted their first flag and declared “this is mine!” Everybody had to start somewhere.
A lot of European countries also have the quaint tradition of still supporting a royal family. Variations of constitutional Monarchy maintained by the taxpayers is a bizarre form of nostalgia. Keeping the royal family in luxury for the sake of tradition; their authority being mostly ceremonial. Let’s not dwell on that…in this one anyway.
Back to the USA. My understanding of the US Constitution is that one of its main goals was to prevent the kind of totalitarianism that is possible with a ruling class. Exponents praise the humility and wisdom of the writer’s; the way they admitted to the potential for any man to become corrupted by excessive power. Apparently, they devised a unique democracy with a systematic division of power that would block any one group from monopolising the authority of government.
They also seemed to lean very heavily into the whole “individual freedom” schtick. They have a real thing about liberty – and guns too. Shit, that whole “liberty or death” and “don’t tread on me” thing. The gist being that government should keep their meddling hands out of the citizens “pursuit of happiness” as much as possible, lest they provoke an armed uprising from the citizens.
The implied promise was a level playing field (for certain people) where anyone with enough business savvy and diligence can work their way up. Up to where? I mean we don’t have an upper class, right? Well, you must reward hard work and ingenuity! This is true, but what do these successful people do with their accumulated wealth? Whatever they want. Like create a dynasty and keep it in the family? Yeah, okay smart-ass, but they don’t have fancy titles and shit. You mean like “mogul”, tycoon”, “magnate” or maybe the simpler “billionaire” or trillionaire”? Fuck off!
The traditional noble class has been supplanted by the ultra-rich. The populous has their new fandangled democracy along with their elected representatives. Trouble is those congress men and women and senators are, by definition, politicians. Spouting righteousness is essential; literal integrity is not. These people (most people) are not beyond the lure of worldly pleasures; which can be provided by any generous benefactor.
Whatever the aspirations of this high-minded political system and autonomous society were, the results show a depressingly inescapable wealth and power inequality yet again. A lot of the libertine ideas meant to curb government interference laid the groundwork for the more ruthless entrepreneurs to crush their competition and influence future legislation.
You can change the rules, but the ones who want it the most will adapt, and the wiliest of the bunch will find a way to hit the heights.
THE FORKIE PHILOSOPHER 