THE FORKIE PHILOSOPHER

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  • A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH: Movie Musings #14

    THE GUNFIGHTER (1950)

    ***SPOILER ALERT***

    Long before the term “toxic masculinity” was coined, film makers have been deconstructing the idea of machismo and heroism. One genre in particular has an intimate relationship with the theme – the western. While it is true that most protagonists in these movies are stoic tough guys, not all are portrayed as one dimensional as the stereotype suggests. Good guys and bad guys often operate in the grey zone between righteousness and evil. Most great westerns, even the over-the-top shoot-em-ups present characters with some kind of internal conflict; maybe not multi-layered, more kind of questioning the path they are on.

    “Unforgiven” (1992) is arguably the greatest deconstruction of the western movie, and all its motifs. As a young man I thought it was the first, beside comedies and satire, to rip in like it did. After many more years watching and rewatching countless westerns, I have realised that critiquing the concepts of its own genre was very often one of the very tropes of these films:

    • What makes a man strong/brave?
    • What makes a person good or bad?
    • Is anyone all one or the other?
    • Can a bad person or a coward find redemption?

    A western without nuance can be a boring affair.

    And so, we meet Johnny Ringo, The Gunfighter. Fastest gun in the west. As soon as he is recognized, the conversation swiftly turns to his showdown prowess. Yes, Johnny is a one-dimensional character in the eyes of strangers at least. Just a walking yardstick for anyone who wants to take the fatal test.

    Trouble is, Ringo is getting really tired of being every wannabe gunslinger’s chance at fame. He has finally figured out how hollow, not to mention dangerous, being so infamous is. A lonely life with no home; always on the move and always looking over your shoulder.

    Shit, imagine the paranoia! Every man you killed has at least one person looking for revenge. Every stupid young punk with a point to prove seeing you as some sort of title shot; not everyone looking for a fair fight neither. Especially against a seasoned killer like Ringo.

    I remember laughing so hard during “Little Big Man” (1970) when Jack Crabb hangs out with Wild Bill Hickock. Jack is so chuffed to sit beside such a famous bad-ass and is genuinely confused by Bill’s hypervigilance and anxiety. After asking Bill what he’s so nervous about, Wild Bill flatly replies, “gettin’ shot…gettin’ shot”. Who wouldn’t?

    The Gunfighter opens with Ringo entering a bar minding his own business. Pretty soon the local quick draw blowhard tries his luck and learns the lethal lesson. Ringo had no choice but to defend himself, thus he is clear in the eyes of the law. A barman informs him that the dearly departed dueller he just beat fair and square (or technically with a handicap since he waited for the soon to be corpse to draw first) has 3 brothers who won’t be much interested in sporting chances and such. Notch up another kill and 3 brand new mortal enemies for Johnny Ringo.

    Ringo hits the trail and the brothers are soon in pursuit. Rather than try to outrun them, Ringo lays in wait and ambushes his aspiring assassins. One might expect Ringo to kill them, but instead he disarms them and sets their horses free giving himself a nice long headstart. Ringo doesn’t kill in cold blood apparently.

    This is the first incident in this film that reminds me of “Carlito’s Way” (1993). Carlito has had enough of up-and-comer Benny Blanco and finally snaps. Benny ends up battered and sprawled at the bottom of a metal staircase. Carlito’s right-hand-man Pachanga insists they must kill Blanco and is more than keen to do the deed. Carlito relents in what seems like an exhausted attempt at stopping the cycle of violence. Similar to Ringo and just as foolish.

    Ringo uses his extra time riding to the town of Cayenne for his own attempt at redemption. He wants to find his wife Peggy, whom he hasn’t seen in 8 years, and his son, who doesn’t know he exists.

    The town marshal, Mark Stratton, turns out to be an old friend of Ringo who has given up the outlaw life. Although he still appears drawn to the wild side having chosen such a risky profession. He later tells Ringo a tragic tale of him and his gang running amok somewhere with guns blazing. An innocent girl got killed in the chaos and no one could ever be sure who shot her. That was the last straw for Stratton.

    Although, just like Ringo he wasn’t cut out for much in terms of an honest living. So, he didn’t lay down his guns entirely and turned his hand to keeping the peace instead. A small blessing for not being a famous shootist like Ringo; the long-lost friend who just rode into town and made his job a hell of a lot more difficult.

    That little anecdote seems like a neat explanation for the marshal’s change of heart. It is that, but I sense more. It is a gruesome reminder for those who may still be romanticising Ringo’s life. Yes, he the men he killed were trying to kill him, and he has a code of honour so to speak. However, we will never know if any innocent people got wounded or killed during any of this wanton violence. We must also remember that Ringo was once the young upstart looking to prove his gun toting capability. He might remember things different, but surely he provoked some of those dead men on his list into a fight they didn’t want.

    Stratton trusts that Ringo’s latest slaying was in self-defence. He is also certain that the brothers with the vendetta will be arriving soon enough. Determined to avoid a bloodbath he tells Ringo to keep moving but is stonewalled by Johnny’s insistence on seeing his family before he goes.

    Ringo assures the marshal that his pursuers can’t possibly get to town for a long time. Stratton accepts this and understands Ringo’s yearning to see his wife and son. He also understands that a man like Ringo has an uncanny ability to draw dim-witted troublemakers with guns like a siren’s song.

    He orders Ringo to stay in the town saloon and even has a rifleman posted outside with orders to shoot if he steps out. Stratton now has two missions: find Peggy and have his deputies help him get every sick-of-living pistolero they can think of out of town until Ringo is long gone.

    The number one contender for Ringo’s next victim is the young upstart Bromley. You know those famous last words, “he don’t look so good/tough/fast to me.” They can chase the early-grave applicants out but keeping them away is near impossible.

    Ringo finally gets to speak to his estranged wife who has changed her last name to conceal their relationship. More evidence of the toxic fame that follows Johnny Ringo. Peggy also asks him to keep his identity from his own son to try and protect him from the curse of the blood-soaked crown.

    Ringo explains his exhaustion and promises to go somewhere where he is unknown and start over. This is the starkest paradox of the ‘being a real man’ cliché. Ringo is no doubt a competent combatant, but that has many drawbacks. Not least of which is how much longer will he even be around to take care of his loved ones.

    Ringo’s unrivalled skill and cunning are the very magnets drawing the relentless peril to him. He has no homestead or farming skills. No trade with which to make an honest living and provide for his family. Life expectancy of a marshal or sheriff isn’t much better than he has now, and it will plumet the moment he is recognized. The fearsome reputation he so desperately desired as a young man has all but sealed his fate.

    Peggy refuses his offer but agrees to reconsider if he can find a way to live in peace. Cue Stratton to hustle Ringo out of town while the gettin’s good. You guessed it…too late!

    The brothers have made it to town and the next Carlito’s Way inspiration kicks off. The finale of the 1993 film has Carlito and his lover trying to escape some mafia goons and board a train to a new life. They make it after much suspense and just as they are about to get on board…fucken Benny Blanco! “Remember me?” Bang, bang.

    Well Stratton’s deputies catch the vengeful trio before they can strike and apprehend them. Ringo begins his ride off into the sunset…fucken Bromley! “How ‘bout it Ringo?” he calls out seconds before shooting him in the back – dirty little fucker!

    Stratton gives Bromley a sound thrashing as everyone rushes to the downed Ringo. Mortally wounded, Ringo insists that all witnesses saw a fair fight.

    “Don’t do me no favours Ringo” Bromley snarls – dumbass.

    With his dying breaths Ringo explains the punishment awaiting his murderer. An often-debated piece of exposition; some think it was unnecessary. Whatever way you may lean personally there is no denying the awesome retribution Ringo’s ‘favour’ ensures.

    You frequently hear terms like “hanging’s too good for him”. What should be done instead? Life imprisonment at the taxpayer’s expense? Some kind of grotesque torture?

    Well Bromley handed Ringo and the witnesses of his cowardly act his own comeuppance on a platter. At least hanging for first degree murder would have been quick. By handing over the gun-fighting championship title to Bromley he also bestows all the anguish and paranoia that goes with it.

    There is no cash prize or profitable livelihood for the title, just some fame which might get you a few fans and will probably see men step aside for you – hell you might even get laid or offered free food and drink sometimes. For that privilege you must be ready to engage in a life and death shootout every time some aspiring asshole wants to take a shot.

    A brilliant ending and one that for some reason makes me imagine a Twilight Zone episode that I cannot put my finger on.

  • MUSINGS ON THE JOB ABOUT THE JOB: What’s Your Time Worth?

    “We’ve got some big contracts coming up, so there’s gonna be heaps of overtime! Take a look at our other depot when you get a chance; they’ve been doing 12 hours most days. You won’t see an old car in their car park!”

    Paraphrasing a manager during a depot meeting long ago

    This was meant to be a motivational speech I suppose, and for many I’m sure it worked wonders. Especially the overtime hogs who were almost always the laziest workers in the joint! Forever having smoko breaks and miraculously vanishing whenever the shit hits the fan.

    One trope that always amazed me was when the effort-allergy sufferer used their extensive hours as an excuse to do less. “I’ve been here since (fill in a time for which this person undoubtedly gets penalty rates and thus more money than others on the same shift for). Not once in my 30 odd years of work have I heard a boss suggest that one of these passengers cut back on their overtime.

    “Maybe you’re overdoing a bit. All that lurking around on the sidelines must be exhausting. Maybe just do your core hours for a while; build your energy back up. You won’t be missed.”

    If you have been reading my stuff for a while you’ll already know I was one of the stupid people who thought we were expected to get the job done. This was one of those ‘work till finish” gigs, so the sooner you get it done the sooner you get out. Not a great incentive for people looking to milk overtime.

    Me and any other dopes are up there rowing our asses off and these guys are dropping anchors left right and centre. Talk about working at cross purposes. Volume often waxed and waned throughout the year, and we could never be on the same page. During a quiet period, they would curse us for finishing on time. Mind you, when I say on time, there was usually at least an hour or more overtime regardless. Never enough for them:

    “Time and a half? That’s shit! I want double time! I want tea money!”

    During a peak period, we would curse them for putting on the cloak of invisibility and doing all in their power to drag the chain. It was an impossible gulf to bridge. People who wanted to squeeze every penny versus those who value what little free time they could get.

    “Just come and sit in the lunchroom with us.”

    “I wanna finish this shit and knock off.”

    “Don’t expect me to help then.”

    This was a union yard if you hadn’t already guessed. The supervisors were fighting an uphill battle wearing greasy shoes trying to get the double-time bandits to take the hand brake off. So they would inevitably ride the simple fools who wanted to clock off at a reasonable hour while the human hinderances went on their third lunch break. Interesting vision of unity.

    A quick tangent which will make sense soon: A mate of mine was one of those home loan comparers and he sat down with me one evening with his laptop. After going through all the figures, he concluded that he could approve me for a sizeable loan. However, he added that as a friend he would not recommend it because my earnings were reliant on overtime and that could vanish rather quickly.

    Like I said before, we always had overtime, it’s just that we didn’t have the copious amounts the milkers were after all year round. Considering I had no desire to be doing regular 12 hour days; I decided to opt out of becoming a homeowner. Not more than a year or two later my mental health took a severe downturn, so the overtime would be off the table sooner for me than the rest anyway.

    Looking back, it is a strange paradox: I didn’t have the energy to exploit the overtime because I worked more than my fair share thinking I was picking up the slack for the deadshits. They would have loved nothing more than for me to relax with them and let someone else do the hard yards. It wasn’t pure laziness per se; it was strategic inefficiency, a wage maximisation ploy. In their eyes the company made plenty of profit and they were merely getting their noses into the trough.

    Unfortunately for me I hated the idea of not pulling my weight (I have no idea how that translated into me running myself ragged other than naivety). I also hated the idea of spending almost every waking hour at my job. The conversation was hardly riveting in that fucken lunchroom and there was only a couple of people I actually enjoyed talking to.

    Another bizarre behaviour I witnessed was that around half of the extra-hour-hogs weren’t doing anything constructive with their earnings. Sure, half of them were paying off a home or even dabbling in investment property. A few were world traveler types out gallivanting and looking for adventure, but a startling amount would piss it away on either booze, drugs, prostitutes or gambling; or all the above!

    I imagine this overwhelming urge to indulge was a reward for the hours they sacrificed. A cruel vicious cycle. The other overtime extenders would spend the money they gave away hours of their life for on luxury items. Fancy cars (just like our manager promised!) and clothes, jewellery and all manner of big boy toys: Jet skis, pool tables, trail bikes, hot tubs, home theatres; whatever the latest status trend happened to be. “I deserve it.”

    The gravy train continued for maybe another decade, but the winds were definitely shifting. The days of good money for next to nothing were coming to an end. New legislation was tying the unions hands, and the smaller operators were being merged into huge corporations. The great purge in pursuit of profit was beginning.

    Most of the old timers got their homes paid off and maybe even a nice nest egg or investment property. Many who bought in when I didn’t were at least lucky enough to have purchased before the prices skyrocketed and managed to pay a large chunk off before the overtime dried up. Many have a second casual job or some kind of side hustle desperately trying to attain homeownership; the rental market is an absolute nightmare!

    The era of near endless overtime and frivolous penalty rates is pretty much over now. Unless you are one of the dinosaurs riding the wave of an old school agreement that can’t be reneged (yet) you have to make do with whatever crumbs fall your way.

  • WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE: Martial Arts and Fighting are Very Different Beasts

    I was 11 years old when The Karate Kid was released. Back then it took a while before any big movie made its way down under, so I was probably 12 when I got to see it. I can still remember rushing into the cinema with my mate Jonno because we were late. We missed the beginning, but by the time the credits rolled we exited elated right alongside the rest of the packed theatre.

    We all walked out of that movie with a sense of hope and maybe even a little thirst for vengeance on a few people. I have never seen any statistics, but I would be very confident that enrolments in martial arts schools spiked markedly not long after that film was released. Who wouldn’t want to take down bullies?

    Me and most of my friends were not among the tough kids in school and we weren’t fighters, so we were very keen to learn how to kick-ass; especially when it required no actual fighting!

    Think about how absurd the premise was:

    • Daniel had taken a few classes at his old home.
    • Mr Miyagi was trained by his father, and we have no information regarding if he ever had to use it.
    • Mr Miyagi trains Daniel and they never go any harder than very light sparring.
    • The Cobra Kai psychos train full contact against various opponents, and most have competed in one or more tournaments.
    • Johnny and his pals are black belts, and I highly doubt that John Kreese would be giving those things out lightly.
    • Daniel enters his first tournament after training with Mr Miyagi for around 7 weeks and takes out Cobra Kai.

    Where’s the problem?

    First off, I don’t think anyone, at least us kids, caught on to the 7-week thing. We were all on board and just accepted the montages as meaning a lot of time had passed. We all understood that it was a fantasy and many aspects were exaggerated, but none of us could shake the idea of secret techniques and training methods that transform a wimp into a bad ass. It might take a few years, but it was possible.

    Never mind that we never saw any of the tough kids using anything more than wild punches and sloppy wrestling whenever they scrapped. We all doubted when our fathers would insist that a good boxer would destroy one of these Karate clowns, yet as we moved into high school it was often the kid who had trained in boxing who did the most damage. Although any kid willing to trade blows earned respect and those giants who were big for their age also held a lot of sway.

    I never saw any of the kids with black belts (usually karate or taekwondo) use any snappy techniques if they did actually get into a scrap, but somehow the myth survived.

    My Greek friends were all enrolled in goju ryu karate at the St. Peters town hall. For some reason my mate Wayne and I enrolled in the taekwondo classes that ran on alternate nights to the karate. I can clearly recall telling one of my cousins about the class and him saying “Taekwondo is good, that’s all of them combined”. I was feeling pretty good after that. A perfect example of our total ignorance right there folks. What the fuck is “all of them” anyway?

    The Ultimate Fighting Championship was still almost a decade away and I have mentioned in an earlier post our extremely limited exposure to what was going on in the rest of the world. Grappling was not really a thing. Wrestling was either the phony Pro-stuff or the boring Olympic stuff. Without knowing the difference between judo and jujitsu they both meant the same thing to us and seeing it in the movies it looked damned effective and used a lot of strikes.

    We understood that Kung Fu was different to karate, but all the different styles were incomprehensible to us. Like karate, kung fu was an all-encompassing term; maybe slight variations here and there, who the fuck knows? Those chop saki guys (and gals) kick serious ass. Our blind spot was that this all happened in fictional movies or TV shows.

    The only time we saw two fighters go at full force for real was boxing or the new (to us) sport of kickboxing. No prizes for guessing which one our fathers preferred and recommended. This was not Muay Thai mind you. No elbows, knees or legs kicks yet. Most of us wouldn’t see that until a few years later.

    Somehow our wishful thinking convinced us that the new breed of kickboxers were just karate blackbelts who made the transition to going hammer and tongs in the ring. You could train techniques with light sparring in a dojo and when you get that black belt you can go full throttle with someone trying to take your head off.

    All this while knowing damn well, that the reason none of us took up boxing was because sooner or later you were going to get punched in the face – repeatedly and hard. I don’t think anyone connected those dots in that exact way, but that was the major flaw in the average karate dojo system. We didn’t fight.

    Ironically, the karate school that would probably prepare you best for a street altercation would be Cobra Kai. That kind of intensity, pressure and pain would require the kind of fear conquering needed to perform in a violent encounter. Criminal charges and psychological damages aside, Johnny would be much better equipped than any McDojo martial ‘artists’.

    Like I said earlier, in the hierarchy of the school brawlers I cannot think of any martial arts experts, and this goes on through most of my life in bars, on the street, on the news. An entire industry built on fantasy! How much money was spent on getting fit, flexible and gaining the ability to kick hard, fast and accurately? It wasn’t wasted, unless the person actually believed they would be able to fight like Bruce Lee did in his movies for real.
    Looking back on this post, one thing stuck out to me. The martial arts we held in such high esteem were the very ones we saw characters in the movies use to beat up multiple bad guys. The myth was born on the silver screen. As kids we lacked the real-world experience of our fathers who had yet to see one man take down a bunch of blokes on his own using high kicks and fancy moves. Maybe a nutter who punches like a thrashing machine and has a rock for a head, but not a kung fu master.

    Anyway, Wayne and I didn’t last too long at St Peters Town hall. If memory serves me, we dropped out when they told us we had to pay for yellow belt grading. More laziness I would say; the money was just a good excuse.

    I would continue searching for that mystical system that could make me a bully-basher without having to get punched or kicked in the face and I would continue to see untrained people beat the shit out of people without connecting the dots. I learned a lot; how to fight was not one of those things though.

  • WE NEED TO DIG A LITTLE DEEPER: Do as I Say Not as I Do

    The Abrahamic religions all advocate The Golden Rule in some form or other. “Do unto others, as you would have them do unto to”. In simplest terms: if you wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end, don’t dish it out; or “don’t knowingly act like a cunt”. From Hinduism to Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism it stands as a guiding principle. Many moral and ethical philosophies land on the same theme regardless of a God, or Karma or any other Higher Power. It just makes sense! Or does it just make us feel a little better?

    Every society has those greedy manipulators who claw their way to the top spots with no regard for the welfare of their fellow man. Divine punishment or troubled conscience be damned! Many will use the honourable card solely for the purpose of deception – Bastards! Either as a way to disguise their own selfish intentions or to guilt their opposition into surrendering leverage of some kind.

    That is so low! Not only are you a self-serving prick, but you even weaponize the noble intentions of others to your advantage. Make no mistake my friends, these are the people who make it to the top. The top, not just up there, the top; the shot caller. They may keep a few upright characters around if they are useful, and everyone is useful when a scapegoat is needed.

    However, the majority of top-level corporate or political players have, in Mafia terms “made their bones”. Not necessarily committed cold blooded murder but gotten their hands dirty just the same. You do not get invited to sit at the big table if you don’t have dirty laundry. A clean-skin is a liability in that room. We need to know about at least one juicy transgression before we can be sure about you.

    How many tales about corrupt cops contain a line similar to this: “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t take the money”. Trust is an ironic word to use considering we are talking about crooked police officers. Kind of like the ‘honour among thieves’ oxymoron. A code of ethical standards meant to be adhered to by a bunch of immoral rule breakers.

    It’s more a kind of contract in essence. “If you try to fuck us, we got dirt on you too”. The Mafia code of silence (Omerta) is a great example. “We’re all in this dirty business together.” The concept behind ‘snitches get stitches’ has a genuine notion of justice in this sense. “How dare you get righteous with us you fucking hypocrite!”

    Of course, all of this just gets utilized as another weapon in the arsenal of the assholes. Being staunch and never squealing are just another “do as I say, not as I do” tool. Just like the old chestnuts: “I think that is fair” or “negotiating in good faith”. Fuck off! Fair is a very subjective concept and as for negotiating in good faith – do you believe in unicorns too. Do you reckon swearing on the bible or any other book is going to persuade a villain to tell the truth?

    The best players in the power games are not the ones who operate on trust in the sense of fidelity. It is trust founded on predictability; if you know the other person will always take the self-interested route you have a twisted trust in them, or their behaviour at least. A true master of the game knows that anyone is only as successful as they are useful, including themselves. You only get to stay at the big table if you are bringing in the profits or it is too expensive to get rid of you. Once you have served your purpose you will be tossed aside as soon as it is safe to do so.

    Most of us do not have the stomach for that kind of ruthless scheming so we just do our jobs and keep our heads down. It can be comforting to believe that ‘the meek shall inherit the Earth’ and other such ideas.

    “Those treacherous tycoons will burn in hell, while we luxuriate in paradise”

    “Karma is coming for those greedy executives and corrupt politicians. We’ll get the last laugh”

     “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people”

    Karl Marx

    We have yet another chicken and egg proposition here. If we go from an atheist assumption: did the powers that be create religion to placate the miserable masses and keep them subdued; or did the masses create religion to make themselves feel better regarding the atrocious inequality of wealth – maybe it started with the plebs and the aristocracy ran with it for its pacifying effects.

    Ooooh, does that get your blood boiling? Just picture the upper crust assholes sniggering at the workers. “We got those imbeciles believing we will suffer for all eternity, so they don’t revolt. They just keep toiling and waiting to die. Idiots”.

    The theological alternative is quite intriguing also. Are these malicious magnates flirting with eternal damnation for a fleeting period of pleasure? Have they actually sold their souls for power and prestige?

    Whatever the metaphysical or purely psychological motivations may be, these individuals have separated themselves from the flock and feel a sense of entitlement that sets them on a path of degradation. While their external circumstances may be magnificent their internal world decays. Or that is what we like to think anyway.

    I’ve got a lot more grist for the mill churning from this one. As a Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 once said “I’ll be back”.

  • POTENTIAL DEATH OR SERIOUS INJURY: True Stories #25

    I was just a kid, around 10 or 11, accompanying my dad driving around the back streets of Marrickville. Going up one particularly steep hill there was a small utility truck ahead of us. There were two kids sitting in the back of this truck with one leg each hanging out. The kids in the back weren’t anything new; this being the early 80s seat belts were rare and sitting in the back like that wasn’t unique in any way.

    It was the legs hanging out that caught our attention. I don’t remember if anyone said anything, but I definitely recall a sense that these kids were pushing their luck.

    I don’t know if the truck went over a bump or what, but one of the kids fell out of the back onto the road right into the path of our car. My dad had to hit the brakes hard to avoid squishing this kid.

    We avoided disaster and dad got out to help the kid. I saw him speak to the driver and if memory serves me correctly I believe the kid got back into the back of the truck. I am not certain of this so I will not comment further.

    Flash forward and I am now around 17 years old. My father has left my mother and settled down with another woman. She already had three kids of her own; two sons and a daughter. The eldest boy was 15 years old and we got on really well. We even called each other brother.

    So one afternoon I am sitting in my brother’s granny flat out the back of dad’s house. We have just finished smoking bongs and are well stoned; that wonderful feeling of floating on the coach listening to music and just chilling out.

    Through the haze I hear my brother’s voice: “do you know that when I was a kid your father nearly ran me over”.

    Holy crap!

    You’re that kid!

    The ‘pushing his luck’ kid!

    I am still blown away at this fact: My step brother and pot smoking compadre was that very same kid from my childhood memories!

    Small world; small world indeed.

  • We Reap What We Sow: CORPORATE CONFUSION MEETS MOVIE MUSINGS

    SOYLENT GREEN (1973)

    ***SPOILER ALERT***

    Well thank the heavens it hasn’t happened…yet. The future the film was predicting took place in 2020; phew! We dodged that bullet. Unfortunately, we are continuing down the exact path that will land us in a similar predicament – fuck. Overpopulation, global warming and pollution are still on the increase with no signs of slowing down.

    The movie was released in 1973, based on a novel written in 1966. So, to the writers, 2022 seemed like long enough for us to fuck things up. The population of New York in 1973 was 16 million. In 2026 it is 20 million. That’s half of the predicted 40 million in the film’s 2022. So, I suppose we managed to keep the global warming and pollution at bay too…for now.

    In this dystopia we have successfully fucked the entire planet – ecocide. The water supplies are strictly rationed and food as we know it is a distant memory. People eat processed food wafers produced by the Soylent Corporation. Shit! Imagine having a monopoly on what everyone eats! Overpopulation = more profits! You bloody beauty!!!

    Soylent yellow was their first product, made from soy and lentil. Its successor, Soylent Red was made from krill. Soylent green is the new kid on the block; tastier and more nutritious! Imagine existing on a diet of wafers; no variety whatsoever. Eat it or starve, we don’t give a shit.

    The film is based in New York where housing and room in general are nightmarishly scarce. People live in absolute squalor, and civilisation is hanging by a thread. People have to queue with containers at public taps and then cart the water back to their hovels. I assume bathing, at least in clean water, is a distant memory too. Can you just smell it?

    Naturally, the elites still have spacious apartments along with access to running water and fresh food; these are now some of the greatest status symbols on earth!

    “Hey did you hear Tony had steak and salad the other day? Talk about opulence!”

    These buildings are heavily fortified and patrolled by armed guards to ensure the riffraff don’t try and pinch a bit of lettuce – the scum! I am guessing that the main clientele here would be the executives of that fucken Soylent Corporation. Must suck to have been climbing the ladder in McDonalds only to see the entire food chain turn to shit.

    These upper-class assholes even have concubines! They call them furniture and share them around like toys. No human rights, who are you going to complain to anyway? Plebs down on the filthy streets eating shitty crackers and struggling for mere survival, while these pricks have sex-slaves, real food, ample water, air conditioning, plenty of room and privacy and access to whatever entertainment is still available. What more could you want? Perhaps your own personal bodyguard just in case some disgusting commoner makes it across the moat, past the armed guards and through the security system and then has the gall to ask for a crumb – impudence! They do have bodyguards just in case you were concerned.

    It is a genuinely horrific vision of societal collapse; made even more terrifying by its possibility. It was not caused by a nuclear war or pandemic. It was the result of business as usual. We just continued on wrecking the joint and reproducing ad nauseum. People protested, recycled, turned vegan (I’m not sure how far the solutions had come by 1973) and whatever else, but they could not prevent the relentless march of ‘progress’. No cataclysmic event, just a slow, grinding decline with no hope.

    The tragic result of “endless growth on a finite planet”. Corporations need ever expanding growth. Nations need constant GDP growth. So, we take and take ever more resources to create wealth. What the fuck is wealth anyway?

    I was going to quote lyrics from “King of Pain” by The Police here, but I reckon they deserve their own post, so I’ll go with a more famous and apt quote:

    “Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish caught will we realise we cannot eat money.”

    “Native American saying”

    This movie IS that fucking realisation! Or maybe just a few steps before it. The elites still have a tiny stash of goodies for themselves. Only time will tell if they will runout entirely first or the furious masses will tear their ivory towers to the ground. Either way the end is near. After the masses consume any and all excess provisions from the stash…best not to think about these things.

    If you still hold the tiniest sliver of optimism for ‘civilisation’, how about this? When the inevitable and frequent riots break out among the street trash the powers that be have an extremely effective response that leaves no doubt about their sentiments; a cross between a bulldozer and a fucken garbage truck! Have you got that image in your mind? Streets packed with rampaging rabble and an armoured garbage truck scooping people up and tossing them into the back like filth.

    It seems the only dignity left for the downtrodden in this hellscape is the assisted suicide offered at government clinics. Euthanasia is treated much like giving blood is to us these days. Let’s be brutally honest, anyone applying is doing the world a favour at this point.

    So, there you have it, the dismal destiny of the human race as predicted in a 1973 film. I wouldn’t worry too much though, we’ll probably get wiped out by some unforeseen catastrophe long before we sink that low.

    Oh, I almost forgot; the title of the film; the new and improved Soylent Green. This one is made from plankton apparently. Yeah, we’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here. No crop production possible on the land we’ve ruined, therefore no food for breeding animals on top of no more ingredients for Soylent Yellow. We fished the oceans and waterways so thoroughly that only the tiniest creatures are left for us to pilfer for sustenance.

    Just one problem; there is no plankton left in the oceans either. That’s correct folks; we’ve stripped the world’s resources completely bare. Not even so much as a speck of nutrients left. Except for…

    “SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE!”

    The infamous line from the film’s climax. You heard it right; like starving castaways on a desert island, we are down to cannibalism. Unknowingly for the majority of the population as the credits roll, but the truth is out – eeeewwww!

    I reckon it might be tough getting a booking at those assisted suicide clinics for a while after that news breaks. I also reckon plenty of people will go on regardless:

    “Maybe things will improve with a few million less people.”

    “We didn’t kill them”

    “At least they get to give back to society in a small way”

    “Kind of like being an organ donor”

    “I’m sure it’s all done hygienically and we won’t get sick”

    What do you think you would do?

    Is this the ultimate doom scenario for our greed and misuse of the planet or what? We succeeded milking the earth so well that there was nothing left. We took so much and grew so big the only thing left to eat was ourselves. Holly shit!!!

    I have two questions though:

    1. Did we actually eat all the insects?
    2. Are we sure there’s not at least one colony of shifty rats hiding out waiting to claim victory after we’re gone?

    That’s all. Cheers.

  • THE GREAT LAND GRAB: Rise of The Tycoons #21

    The finale of the 1992 film Far and Away depicts Joseph participating in the “Land Run of 1893”. Joseph was a dirt-poor Irish immigrant, and the moment he plants his flag into the ground is a moment of great joy for him and his beloved Shannon. They have claimed this land as their own and with hard work they just might make a go of it. Victory!

    I’m not saying THEY stole any land per se, but it was stolen land that they ‘won’. In simple terms the US government was running a competition and the prizes being offered were the spoils of invasion and genocide. The desperate competitors would have scarcely considered the plight of the native people; they were too busy trying to lift themselves out of the muck; trying to put a little distance between themselves and abject poverty.

    Extra irony points go to a former Irish peasant participating in the contest. A man who would have had personal experience with being subjugated and cheated by the British was now celebrating his piece of the booty pilfered by the very same tyrants! Fucked up shit man.

    I suppose that is as good a place to start as any, as I try to unpack the scourge of colonisation that engulfed much of the world. It was always a thing, but with the advances in naval technology this obsession of expansion was now able to cross oceans.

    Explorers were globetrotting across the high seas trying to make a name for themselves. “Discovering” new lands was a good way to secure yourself fame and fortune. Most of that was about self-promotion for the explorers and scientists who made the big finds, rather than conquest. It was what the powers that be did with the information brought back that caused all the misery.

    “So, you are telling me there is an entire island with no inhabitants?”

    “Well, there are some people lurking about, but they are primitive”

    “Are they human?”

    “Sort of, but they’re scattered and their weapons are crap”

    “Do they have houses and castles and shit?”

    “No”

    “What about agriculture and a functioning economy? Have they even heard of Jesus Christ?”

    “Ah, no sir”

    “We better send some people to have a closer look”

    On closer inspection it was decided that these ‘backwards’ people were wasting the potential of this unspoiled land and that it would be best for them to step aside and let progress take its course. All those pristine lands, waterways and resources, just sitting there being barely molested; only the slightest exploitation. Disgusting! These people are squandering their environment! Let’s get over there and show them how to squeeze the maximum profit out of every asset.

    Settlers start tentatively trickling in at first. In some kind of dark cosmic joke, the natives often helped these pioneers survive their first year/s in these alien landscapes; only to be completely over run when the trickle bursts into a relentless stream. If the entire group of first settlers perished, it would have at least slowed things down a bit. The influx was inevitable though, tragically.

    One thing the natives could never have comprehended was the enormous population the European continent contained. A great majority living in squalor and/or under some form of persecution. These people were willing to risk their dismal existence in a shithole for even the slimmest chance of a better life.

    Another common misconception I notice when colonisation is discussed is that all the invaders made it rich. Yes, many people made fortunes from the rape and pillage of these new found lands. However, the vast majority were just starving plebs trying to escape horrendous living conditions. Sounds eerily familiar to present circumstances, doesn’t it?

    Those rich landowners, ranchers and all the other moguls were just the latest batch of opportunists taking advantage of the heist. They rode on the backs of the unwashed masses just as their forebears had. Their money and influence were useless without the dutiful poor people striving for a better life. What better way to conquer land than sending steadfast colonists in search of new homes on ‘uninhabited’ country. These hopeful homesteaders overwhelmed the native population like a plague of locusts.

    The sheer weight of numbers was provided by the mass of sheep, not the foxes and lions. As always, the one’s on top convinced the many on the bottom to do the dirty work. Throw them some crumbs and they’re satisfied. These were the soldiers who fought and died; the pilgrims and settlers who ventured into new territories, risking life and livelihood in the hope of a new start. With the military might of the empires backing them up and practically endless replacements they were unstoppable.

    Most of the big-shots came in after the smoke settled and sat themselves at the head of the table. Even if they were the pioneer once and that made their fortune; I’d wager any further expansion of their dynasty was headed by someone on a salary. Only the rare Richard Branson trailblazer types would continue the escapades.

    As for the monarchs and aristocrats back in Europe, they just sat there in their opulence giving orders and taking tributes. It was the up and comers who took the punt and became pioneers; ambitious social climbers with designs on making it big.

    Those monarchs and new land barons rode on the backs of the throng. Their coffers grew fatter from the blood, sweat and death of the downtrodden. These hopeful schmucks gambled their and their family’s lives expanding an empire. Many got a fresh new start in an unspoiled land; many others perished.

    The British, Spanish, French, Dutch and Portuguese were so focused on beating each other to claim land, the natives were not more than another obstacle to overcome. There were rules for this colonisation contest, but being created by the empires, the indigenous populations were just part of the game, they were not invited to play.

    More on that and other uplifting tales of humanity to come.

  • LYRICAL MUSINGS

    This thread is pretty self-explanatory. Like most people, I have an endless soundtrack running in my head. All the songs I have heard throughout my life are in there and can be triggered at any moment by something obviously attached to it, or maybe some bizarre connection I will never figure out.

    A lot of it is melodies and music I just find myself whistling or humming. Just as much is lyrics; songs I have heard so many times I know them word for word. Or at least I think I do. If I find that I have imprinted the wrong word in my version of the lyrics, it can be very fucken difficult to rectify. Even when it is obvious that the word I was using was ridiculous and the correct word makes much more sense, that sucker is just burned into my mental hard drive.

    Bit of trivia for you: You know how humans used poems and songs to pass stories along through generations? Did it hit you? I only heard about it less than a year ago myself! We all know hundreds of songs word for word (mostly); but more than that, we also remember the melody, the tempo, the lot. Almost as reliable as having it written down!

    Anyway, this thread will be for those lyrics that I need to say a little something about. Some can be slotted into another post and speak for themselves. The lyrics just fit so well with what I was trying to say. Others never seem to fit properly, or I reckon will take me-too far-off track if I insert them. I like to keep the posts brief and even then, I can waffle on. I don’t need any more temptation.

    Which leads me to the first post for this thread. I couldn’t add these lyrics and simply leave them there. I love the double meaning but explaining it in the other post would have been a segway too far.

    So here we go:

    “There’s a rich man sleeping on a golden bed

    There’s a skeleton choking on a crust of bread”

    For most of my life I’ve loved the contrast between ridiculous wealth and devastating poverty in these two lines. It says so much with so little and until not long ago that was it. Every time I heard them, I had the image of the two extremes in my mind and felt awe at how a few words could convey an idea so well.

    That was until a few years ago when I read about the King Midas connection. It fits just as perfectly and hits a different point just as brilliantly!

    Everything King Midas touched turned to gold – wonderful! Until you have the horrific realisation that gold may be a valuable metal and having this ‘gift’ will obviously make you insanely rich, but EVERYTHING you touch turns to gold; you don’t get to choose.

    That golden bed might look really flashy, but I don’t thing it would be very comfortable. The whole fucken bed too, remember; not just the frame. The mattress, the pillows and the blankets – that’s fucked!

    Obviously, the line borrows a lot of its clout from the myth, but for anyone who catches on it offers such a vivid new concept and that’s just one line.

    The next line is real kick in the guts. The skeleton is King Midas himself! The poor bastard cannot eat because food must touch his mouth for him to receive any nutrients. This guy is rich beyond all imagination, and the very source of that wealth is slowly starving him to death!

    He’s choking on a fucken golden crust of bread!

    Two lines from a song with two very different interpretations; both hitting their mark dead centre – Fucking awesome!

  • CORPORATE CONFUSION: Let’s Get Political

    Q) How do you know when a politician is lying?

    A) Their lips are moving

    We’ve all heard that one, I’m sure. I’ve got one with a slight twist:

    Q) Why aren’t there any honest politicians?

    A) Because who would vote for them.

    Not as witty as the first, but just as true. If a politician got up and told us that there was no possible way to fix the mess we are all in, especially within the three or four years they get in office, we would be horrified! Like a huge ship, you cannot turn an economy around in a short time and little room. The moment you get into office you are handed the keys to a battered vessel being held together with duct tape and chewing gum.

    For a little while you get to blame the previous crew for their mishandling of things during their time in charge. They will probably counter by blaming you for doing the same before they got to the helm. This keeps the mud from sticking for a little while at least.

    Eventually you will be expected to have all your ducks in a row (looks like we’re going with a nautical thing here) and set the course for your bold new vision. You’ve only got about three years left at this stage, so it can’t be anything that takes too long before you get results. Pull into port for repairs? Absolutely not! This baby must keep moving like a shark (they just keep coming!) or we will perish.

    Promises and grand announcements can keep the masses calm for a while, but without tangible results you are sunk. First, you have to figure out the right promises to make; that’s a fucken mine field! Every good cause, has a rival cause that need more help than that other cause:

    “Youth crime is at epidemic levels! We will be doing all we can to stop this scourge!”

    “What about domestic violence?”

    “Well, of course we will be allocating resources to…”

    “Oh, allocating resources, not doing all you can”

    “What about the plight of the indigenous community? You heartless bastards”

    “That is our number one priority”

    “Which one?”

    “All of them. Bad stuff. We will be doing everything within our power to stop bad stuff from happening.”

    “That sounds kind of vague”

    “FUCK!!!”

    Of course, the whole time this is happening, you will have the opposition members talking shit about your plans. “Too little, too late”, “doesn’t go far enough”, or to really stir the pot they might even dig up another cause you missed and denigrate your lack of action there.

    “This government is too soft in its war on illegal drugs, terrorism, child abuse! Yeah, child abuse! Those fuckers don’t even care about our children!”

    Next you need to prepare for the 20/20 hindsight salvo if anything goes wrong.

    “This government was so busy running around ticking boxes and pleasing interest groups that they never even bothered to put together an emergency plan for a wombat straying onto the Princes Highway, causing a massive pile up, which in turn ignited a horrendous bush fire! Our party has had a 7-step plan for just this kind of occurrence.”

    “Never would have happened if we were in charge”

    “What?”

    “Whatever”

    Imagine a political website where each minister has to explain their portfolio and what they plan to do. A 3-hour PowerPoint presentation on the scope of their responsibilities along with the major departments and other entities under their authority. Next, they will lay out what the previous minister handed over and what changes they plan to make.

    If anyone is still watching after all that, they will be faced with the stark reality of what happens next. Corruption and incompetence aside, there are only so many resources available. As much as this minister may wish to solve all the ills occurring under their influence, there will need to be compromises and there will inevitably be shortfalls.

    “There are no solutions, only trade-offs.”

    Thomas Sowell

    Go one step further and open it up to the opposition and allow them to reply with their own ideas; on the record, BEFORE we see the results of the policies getting introduced. No Monday’s Expert chiming in after the outcome is known.

    Imagine a politician firing back at a passionate mental health advocate who is demanding more be done to combat depression and suicide:

    “I hear your concern, but there is only so much money in my budget. Would you like me to take money from the breast cancer coffers?”

    I know that is a very flippant example, but it is also a horrible decision that needs to be made. There is not enough to go around and there are countless good causes that deserve assistance. Again, I won’t complicate matters with profiteering and other unscrupulous practices that undoubtedly go on and make these choices that much more difficult. In the end, there is never enough and people need to fight for their share of the pie – tragic but true.

    Any cause a politician backs is ignoring innumerable others and only a handful of those will even get their complaints heard. Now imagine a polly getting up and saying something akin to: “life stinks and all I can do is spray a little deodorant for you guys while I’m here”. This is based on an upstanding character, mind you, let us not forget that a career politician accepted the ugliness and double-speak long ago. They joined the game knowing it mostly fixed and their only concern is improving their own living standards.

    Those lot use deception like a musician uses their instrument. Telling lies IS the job. Keep the voters happy or angry at someone/thing else and keep REALITY obscured. In that sense the original gag at the start of this post is funny way of stating a fact.

    Either way, a politician must choose their words extremely fucking carefully. Lying, exaggerating, playing down, omitting and any other ruses are essential tools for survival. You cannot take advantage of political office if you are booted out.

  • MUSINGS ON THE JOB ABOUT THE JOB: Someone Has to do it #2

    “That Health & Safety Representative is fucken useless!”

    “Our union delegate only gives a shit about stuff that affects him”

    More common gripes that could make you rich if you got a few bob every time you heard them. Always easy to pass judgement from the sidelines. Another one that would build a nice little nest egg (probably would need a few dollars per time to make it worthwhile though) is the one where I suggest that I nominate the complainant for the position in the next meeting and am met with a super swift “fuck that!”

    Everybody knows these are thankless jobs that add responsibility and stress for, not just no reward, but harsh criticism and even hostility! You step up and make yourself a target for management and a whipping boy for all the ills of the workplace. On top of that you are expected to go into battle for people who are calling you a useless bastard, or even a corrupt one! Why wouldn’t you take whatever cream comes your way?

    I suppose that is where the slippery slope begins. At first, you get a few little perks; maybe a cushier job, or a little more overtime. Nothing is asked for in return. Then the time comes where you are in on a little secret and asked to withhold it to keep things running smooth. Sooner or later, you are turning a blind eye to violations, and in the end, you become part of the company’s propaganda machine; actively spreading misinformation and conveniently “forgetting” member complaints and withholding information that might damage the business.

    That is an extreme fall from grace though. Unless of course you were a skunk from the get-go and what can I say? If nobody else puts their hand up, we get what we deserve; much like a shonky town sheriff.

    A few things we need to remember before passing judgement:

    • Anyone can be nominated and voted in. If the current delegate/rep has no opposition, we have no choice.
    • Legislation has changed a hell of a lot and unions have nowhere near as much power as the “good ol’ days”. A lot of member grievances are about liberty’s no longer being tolerated because the union can no longer call a strike at the drop of a hat.
    • The business model has changed, and corporations have replaced the owner. Unions are now dealing with a bureaucratic machine rather than one or two rich people who have the final say on decisions.
    • The corporate profit machine is ruthless and relentless in its pursuit of profit above all else.
    • The gravy train has come to a shuddering halt in most industries now and delegates/reps must accept that profitability will not be sacrificed lightly, if at all.

    A HSR has more power than a union rep in many respects these days. Occupational Health and Safety regulation holds a lot of power regardless of union strength. However, like much legislation, it is open to interpretation, and all businesses would be crossing a line somewhere I reckon. A 100% safe working environment is unfeasible and making safety your number one priority could send you broke. “Safety at all costs” sounds like a wonderful catchphrase but following it unwaveringly could cost more than you bargained for.

    Mr. Burns: It seems the federales have been tipped off by an anonymous whistleblower.

    Homer: [to himself] Mm-hmm.

    Mr. Burns: Now, while the plant is brought up to code, there will be massive layoffs. That is to say, total layoffs. Toodles!

    Lenny: Way to put us out of work, genius.

    The Simpsons: “HOMR”

    Just like a union delegate, a HSR must accept that having the place shut down would not be met with gratitude from most of the workers. The ones who whinge and moan the most would very probably be the loudest detractors of the rep responsible. “Standing up for what’s right” can instantly become “fucking it up for everybody” depending on the outcome. Complainers love to complain after all.

    Which leads me to another shitty part of taking one of these positions: most of your time and effort will be taken up by bludgers, whingers and troublemakers. People will want you to go into bat for them simply because they are lazy; these same people would be the most vocal regarding “all the dead-shits in this place!” Projection is almost impossible to see in oneself. People who ignore all kinds of hazards and maybe even are one themselves at times will nit-pick one tiny flaw because they have a grudge.

    Much like becoming a supervisor, these positions can only be performed by a person with good political instincts; be they a greedy/lazy weasel or a person of integrity genuinely trying to help. If you can’t operate in the grey zone and don’t have the knack of reading and persuading people you will either burn out or be tossed out very quickly indeed. I suppose the weasel has the best chance if they don’t get caught red-handed; at least they don’t have the added frustration of being wrongly labelled as a crook.

    Both roles are important and do serve a purpose. It’s just that solving all the problems of the workplace is not it. Dealing with personalities, fighting fires and keeping the peace are the main tasks. Much like a cop, you will last a lot longer de-escalating situations rather than attempting to ‘fight evil’ and take down all the bad guys/gals. Much like the police force the opportunity for corruption comes with the responsibility and many will assume you are ‘on the take’ regardless.

    There are no perfect systems and no matter how many oversight committees, anti-corruption commissions or super-dooper integrity special investigation teams you tack on, you are still left with flawed human beings.  

    KARL: I move that Homer Simpson be our new union president! All In Favour?

    CROWD: Aye!!!

    KARL: All opposed?

    ONE INSIPID VOICE: Me.

    KARL: Congratulations Homer!

    (CROWD CHEERS)

    HOMER: Hey what does this job pay?

    KARL: Nothing

    HOMER: Doh!

    KARL: Unless you’re crooked

    HOMER: Woohoo!

    The Simpsons: “Last Exit to Springfield”