A couple cold winter weekends ago, my girlfriend and I watched Russian Ark (2002), by Aleksandr Sokurov. A magnificent achievement, Russian Ark is one continuous shot lasting nearly 100 minutes that attempts to tackle Russian history, art, politics and psychology, all of which seem small in comparison to the logistics demanded for the jaw-dropping final scene. My girlfriend commented that a tracking shot down a corridor reminded her of The Shining (1980), a film I had seen while I was in high school and hadn’t liked because I felt it was sloppily edited and too far-fetched to be scary.
According to the film, “shining” is a rare trait of a few humans to communicate without words and see glimpses of both the future and the past. If anyone has possessed this gift in real life, it’s Stanley Kubrick. His 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), if not the greatest movie ever made, is certainly one against which all others must be judged. Its brilliance lies in large art on Kubrick’s ability to not only perceive where human evolution fits in with both his natural and created universe, but to express that vision by pushing every aspect of the medium of film- sound, color, cinematography, screenplay, acting, special effects, music, pacing- to its very limit. 2001: A Space Odyssey is still impressive and can be followed even with the audio track taken away. To Kubrick, surely, not having the ability to communicate non-verbally and see into the past and future would seem silly.
To take The Shining at face value, as being about a father losing his mind while caretaking an abandoned hotel in the Colorado mountains with his wife and son over the winter, is to miss the point entirely. Kubrick is primarily interested in the premise that humans can relate more to one murder than they can a million murders. Toward that end, he creates a hidden world reminding us of a million murders as he depicts one. The only alternative is that the movie is chock-full of continuity errors and illogical absurdities.
When Jack Torrance, played by Jack Nicholson, interviews for the job, it seems obvious that the general manager of the Overlook Hotel, or at least the person inhabiting the room behind the elevators next to the one marked as such, named Stuart Ullman, is concealing some things or stretching the truth. Everything from his horrible wig to his limp hand gestures to his shit-eating grin scream politician. His story does not adequately explain why the hotel would be shut down from October 31st (Halloween!) to May 14th; over half the year. The scene through the window in his office looks contrived, as if it’s just a plant under lights. We’re not sure what to think of Jack at first, but are suspicious when he declares his family “will love” the isolation.
The addition of the untitled Bill Watson reminds me of the guy whose only line is, “Exterminate with extreme prejudice,” in Francis Ford Coppolla’s Apocalypse Now (1979), and is perhaps there to ensure Mr. Ullman is choosing his words wisely. While Ullman is certainly a womanizer (the dance between him, his secretary and the metal paper tray when Jack first interrupts them is downright graphic), Bill Watson gives off a sadistic vibe. We are compelled to take Ullman seriously only when he describes the job is to “cope with the very costly damage and depreciation that can occur.” Watson also provides the first glimpse that something weird is going on within the movie itself, as when we get a close-up of him, stating, “Well, this ought to be quite a change for you,” he is suddenly wearing plaid pants. People don’t just change their pants. Kubrick obviously meant to include this, but why?
Just as the story of the previous caretaker is begun, Ullman reaches for something in his pocket, but it is interrupted by an abrupt edit. Jack feigns ignorance of the previous caretaker’s fate, but we will later learn the Jack not only followed the story, but recognizes the person who committed the crimes. Then we see the plaid pants again. Perhaps the person editing this film is a buffoon. But when Ullman punctuates “killed his family” with a thumbs up, there is no question this movie is taking the astute observer places beyond where the causal movie-goer will be able to follow. Kubrick is challenging us to look for things like Dopey disappearing and Goofy levitating.
We wonder who in Denver vouched for Jack, especially when we discover he and his family had only been in Boulder for three months. Why had they moved from Vermont?
When the Torrance family arrives at the hotel, the staff seems to be hustling about moving furniture. Mr. Ullman exchanges goodbyes with two girls entering the hotel with luggage. In contrast to everybody else, Mr. Watson is impatient to leave. When we first met Mrs. Torrance, she was reading The Catcher and the Rye, and now Jack is reading Playgirl. When asked about his luggage, he points to a suitcase being carried out by a girl, but we assume he means the excessive pile in the background. Just as they’re about to leave, Jack bizarrely jokes, “I’d better collect my family first,” which he doesn’t successfully do, because Danny, his son, is missing from the next scene. We see a person carrying a rug upstairs. This is immediately followed by a weird change-over in which three women and a man with a lot of luggage, surely guests although Stuart will later say the guests left yesterday, appear from the dissolving pile of the Torrances’ things and elevator doors replace the front entrance. As the camera pans away, the aforementioned group head into the elevators as two other females with luggage inexplicably go up a flight of stairs.
The dissolves between scenes almost always contain hidden messages. Take this one for example:
The main characters exit an elevator- both the elevator dial and the windows show they remain on the same level as the lobby so they must have been somewhere else in the interim. Also, the elevators and stairs are situated different from in the lobby so these are different elevators then what we saw before- for clarity, I will call these the main elevators. With Jack following behind her, Wendy Torrance asks about the Indian designs in the Colorado Lounge and Stuart claims they were based on Navajo and Apache motifs- totally contrasting enemy tribes that were not native to the Colorado area- as the camera passes by a wall of photographs, an American flag (a smaller version of which we’d already seen on Ullman’s desk), a man cleaning the glass doors of a bookcase, a large bowl or shell, a man mopping the floor, a larger piece of driftwood, yet another woman carrying luggage, a man polishing a piano, a man carrying a rug down a flight of stairs, a man vacuuming a couch and another wall of photographs. This shot does nothing whatsoever to help us understand the conversation. Instead, it makes us wonder why the hell they would be cleaning things before leaving them to collect dust all winter.
In the introduction to Dick Hallorann, where he stands in the same spot where we will later meet Delbert Grady, a woman carries out a white table cloth as a man on a ladder just behind Dick fixes something hanging from a lamp. Then we see a man run a vacuum behind Dick’s feet, after which he quickly leans down as his arms fly up. Wendy looks away as Dick’s arms come down.
I wasn’t really sure what the discussion about Wendy’s name was all about, so I looked it up: Winifred means peaceful, Winnie means pure, Freddy means peaceful ruler and Wendy means wanderer. Jack and Danny are the actors’ actual names; Jack is often generic for “man” but can mean “supplanter” or “God is gracious” and Danny means “god is my judge.” Tony seems to be a reference to the mascot for Frosted Flakes, seen several times in the film, and contrasts with Doc, which is said to be a Bugs Bunny tribute but is also one of the seven dwarfs in Snow White. The last names in the film are obvious- perhaps too obvious. The last names in the film are obvious- perhaps too obvious. Torrance= “torrents” (storms), Ullman= “all man,” Watson= “wants in,” Hallorann= “Halloween,” or “hallow end” or even “hollerin,” but I think “hallow” meaning “saint” is key here, and Grady= “greedy.” (Tellingly, Lloyd isn’t given a last name.)
Allow me to fast-forward past the morphing external structure, the omni-present ladders, the all-important “storing room” (I swear it sounds like he says “story room”), the bar dissolving into a freight elevator being filled with luggage, the fact that the walk-in freezer acts as a teleporter and the Calumet can. After all, “A lot of this stuff you’ll never have to touch.” After Stuart, Bill, Jack and Wendy walk away, leaving Dick with Danny, they, along with an anonymous worker, dissolve into Dick’s head. Less obvious to notice are the red pipes in the shape of a hangman gallows centered above Dick’s awkwardly twisted head. That this is not a coincidence is confirmed repeatedly during Dick’s conversation with Danny, as both a rope-colored frame to a picture and a wiring conduit to a light switch are repeatedly centered above Dick’s head, and he continues to hold his head at the twisted angles. “Is there something bad here?”
The first time we see the clock near the Chef’s Office, it says 12:49, but above the freight elevator, before stepping into the freezer/teleporter that led us to that clock, we had seen another clock that said 1:30. The next scene is a dissolve to a clock in the hall behind Stuart Ullman’s office and it seems to be stopped at 10:54 and 11 seconds. We had already concluded they must have been places before entering the Colorado Lounge, and we have also discovered that hallway with the two-sided clock surrounds the lounge area, so one possibility is to assume we were shown the scenes out of sequence. Another is that they are traveling backwards through time.
Jack finally catches up to Wendy in their living quarter bathroom.
The chapter entitled “A Month Later,” so we must be at the end of November, begins with Wendy pushing a food cart out of one of the two halls leading from the Gold Room into the lobby. The second mirror seems to pan in reverse starting where the first mirror faces. We suddenly cut to Danny, riding a tricycle, the type known as a "Big Wheel," past the elevators and into the Colorado Lounge. This second perspective of the lounge reveals that the chairs on the rugs are also plaid, matching those in the lobby, but we are too distracted by the drumroll sound of the Big Wheel that is muted by the unchanged rugs to notice. The space where the bowl or shell was remains just out of frame, but we can see that the lamps that were on tables in the middle of the room are gone. Why are the rugs still there? We did, after all, see two rugs in a roll being carried. The only way that all the men cleaning make sense is if they were not getting the hotel ready to close down for the winter but getting it prepared to be used. As we watch the entrance doors at the beginning of “Closing Day,” we find all manner of things being brought into the hotel, but the only thing that leaves are the belongings Jack gestures are his.
While the men are complicit or unknowing accomplices, the women are always with baggage, and the women are almost always in pairs. Certainly Bill Watson considers dealing with the luggage to be an irritating burden. I would suggest women are considered part of that burden. No children besides Jack and the sisters in the matching blue dress are ever seen.
Some other clues begin to add up. If we look closely at things repetitive patterns can appear… and disappear. We are also exploring altering perspectives- whereas when one is in what appears an un-navigable labyrinth, an overhead, objective angle reveals a map. Finally, we are forced to consider infinity- in terms both of time and macrocosm/microcosm. We are 35 minutes into the movie.
The only time Wendy isn’t wearing a watch the entire movie is when Jack asks her the time, and she unflinchingly replies, “It’s about 11:30.” This is the most normal behaving mirror scene in the entire movie, and also the one we most expect to show us something. Jack, unsurprisingly, likes sunny-side up eggs. Wendy reveals they’ve been staying up late, and we wonder why. After Jack acknowledges he has “lots of ideas- no good ones,” we see a German typewriter and discover it has now taken the place of that bowl or shell in the Colorado Lounge. A sofa has also been turned around 180 degrees to face the typewriter. We also finally get to see the other wall in the room- on which is a mounted buffalo head and, above a fireplace, a huge Native American mural depicting agricultural gods, the right edge of which Jack is repeatedly throwing a yellow ball at, and another set of elevators. (There’s a door with red panels on either side directly to the left of where Jack types, but it is just a door. We can see the backside of it during Danny’s first bike ride scene.)
We dissolve to the exterior of the building so that it seems for a moment that Jack is throwing at a weird shadow, presumably of a chimney although it is inexplicably toppling forward at an angle so that it looks like the head of a creature looking down onto the hedge maze. Wendy is saying to Danny, “The loser has to keep America clean. How’s that?” As they run into the hedge maze, we see a pile of sewer drainage pipes in the background, then the camera stops at a map, and at the bottom of it, a banner seems to read “Maize & Labyrinthe” (sic). After following the pair meandering through the maze, we return to Jack, who is now in the lobby, still throwing the ball- somehow he doesn’t break anything with it. The Big Wheel is parked nearby. Jack glances at a wooden bat and walks to a scale model of the hedge maze, which, although we hadn’t noticed before, has been there the whole time. In fact, it was framed by Stuart Ullman and Bill Watson as a man in a police uniform intently watches over it while Jack is telling Wendy over the phone, “I still have an awful lot to go through.” (He is apparently exempt from having to use one of the three pay phones in the lobby.) A man lined up directly under the model reinforces the idea that the uniformed man is watching someone.
Jack leans over the model of the hedge. It becomes huge, and he watches Wendy and Danny from a god’s eye view. They are in a henge flanked by two crosses, one upside-down. While this supernatural phenomenon comes as a surprise to the audience, it has been foreshadowed many times over. “Shining” seems to be an inherited trait. “I didn’t think it was going to be this good! Did you?”
In Greek mythology, the Labyrinth was designed by Daedalus to entrap the Cretan King Minos’ wife’s son the Minotaur- a half-bull, half-man whose father was a white bull Poseidon had given Minos to sacrifice but which he kept instead. According to Ovid’s epic poem Metamorphoses, in order to preserve the Labyrinth’s secrets, Minos locked Daedalus in a tower. Somehow Daedalus’ son Icarus ends up in the tower with him, and Daedalus builds them wings of wax and feathers to escape with, but Icarus forgets himself and flies too close to the sun, which melts the wax and sends him plummeting to his death. Daedalus, however, lands safely in Sicily and builds a temple to Apollo.
Daedalus is also credited with inventing the sail. This is notable not only because Wendy compares the hotel to a ghost ship, but because the patrons of sailors are the brothers Castor and Polydeuces (or Pollox), collectively known as the Gemini. I haven’t explored the sisters in the matching blue dress that keep appearing, frankly because they hadn’t made sense until now. Thus far, we have seen them twice: in a room wallpapered in blue flowers- a glimpse of the same wallpaper can be seen in “the staff wing of the hotel” near the Torrance’s living quarters - and in the enigmatic Game Room under a poster of a bull. Not being as familiar with the Gemini as I am with Daedalus, I looked them up. Castor and Polydeuce are usually considered half-brothers, Castor the son of the king of Sparta and Polydeuce the son of Zeus. They are twins, though, just not with each other. Castor’s twin sister is Clytemnestra and Polydeuce’s twin sister is Helen of Troy. If the creepy sisters in the movie represent Clytemnestra and Helen, the Gemini can only be Danny and Tony, but frankly that is far too tangential and speculative for my taste.
When we see Danny in the Game Room, he is attempting to throw at a bull’s eye, but does not seem to be having any luck, judging not only by the result of the three throws we witness but also the huge number 13 beside the board. His darts are stuck into the board like a picador’s spears into a bull. The room and the dartboard reflect the alternating red and green motif that we also see in the exit signs and hallways throughout the movie. The girls appear, standing in a doorway with a cigarette vending machine to their right and a water cooler and phone booth to their left. They glance at each other, smirk, and leave the room. This is only time we see them not in a place outside the hallway with the blue flowered wallpaper. The one on the right is obviously older. Soon after, Danny is found outside, and for the rest of the movie we see him riding away through hallways, but he never returns to the Game Room. It seems he has learned from the girls to reject fighting and embrace a flight response.
It is “Tuesday.” Danny rides his bike again, this time on the floor above the Colorado Lounge. The carpet is perhaps reminiscent of the Colorado flag with a different color scheme so that the circle is red instead of yellow. He starts near the second elevator exactly one floor above where his first bike ride scene begins and ends, passes room 237 on the right before going around the elevators connected to the main elevators a floor below and back to room 237, which is now on his left. To his right would be directly behind the Indian mural in the Colorado Lounge and there doesn’t seem to be a chimney there so you wouldn’t expect a fire in the fireplace…. If you were to draw a two-dimensional sketch of the Indian mural and then Danny’s route, you would have drawn a key. Then we see the Colorado Lounge from a new angle- this time as if standing in front of the main elevators. The camera lens tints the room red. The sofa has been removed and one of the lamps that have been gone since closing day has been repurposed. We might think Jack spends his free time rearranging furniture except for the fact that a chair disappears and reappears in the middle of the next scene. The camera lens makes the plaid drapes behind Wendy turn from beige to burgundy. The reflections in the bookcases anticipate her arrival just like the mirrors in the other halls, but don’t reflect her departure at all. Jack has an open book of newspaper clippings next to him as he types.
One may have expected the movie might drag through the entire winter, but we now know Jack is losing it precipitously, or rather is getting to work rather quickly. At the interview, Jack had stated, “five months of peace is just what I want.” As we are now a month into a six and a half month stay, we now realize that phrase wasn’t simply bad math. He only has less than two weeks left to find the peace he is looking for. Kubrick positions Jack between a stuffed bull moose head and a fire in the fireplace in the background as he glares out the window. We realize if he rotated the camera, he could position the antlers of the moose on Jack’s head… but he doesn’t. Kubrick had done the same thing earlier with flypaper dangling ominously behind Dick next to a sign that reads “Keep this area clear” while he walks to the freezer.
Jack is not the only one changing. On “Saturday,” Wendy is wearing a bright yellow Indian poncho, the back of which features two mountains, a man, presumably asleep, slumped against a cactus with two long upward stretched branches and two tombstones. Although she had declared her favorite colors were pink and gold, judging by her wardrobe up until now we would have assumed it was purple. Kubrick seems to be playing with the color spectrum throughout the film- blue and red oppose each other in a cold/hot sense while yellow/brown is neutral. Thus, red is used two ways- as it also juxtaposes green in a stop/go sense. This may seem complicated but it’s something we do in our daily lives every day while navigating traffic and distinguishing hot from cold. Wendy’s path as she switches from the telephone switchboard to the shortwave radio is in the shape of question marks. We see elaborate red restroom doors directly across from the front entrance. The bowls that once housed plants are now empty. Most importantly, we can see through the window in Stuart Ullman’s office that it is snowing. Wendy and the window are reflected in the top picture by the map.
Danny’s third bike ride scene starts in the hallway with the punch-in time clock that we see Stuart, Bill, Jack and Wendy dissolve into, presumably after leaving Danny with Dick on their way “through to the basement.” Cigarettes, trash cans, water coolers, telephones, fire alarms and sprinkler systems are everywhere in this movie, and we see four cigarette vending machines in this bike ride alone. We also see one water cooler with a trash can next to it, a phone above it and a sign that says, “Please put cups and other garbage in the cans provided.” He passes red doors on his right, turns right down a hall… and is suddenly transported to the hall surrounding their living quarters….
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Do you feel bad?”
“No, just a little bit tired.”
“Then why don’t you go to sleep?”
“I can’t. I got too much to do.”
Danny is looking down on several toy vehicles, playing with them. This is a perspective shift from him riding his Big Wheel, and we are reminded of his dad looking down on the hedge maze model. The yellow ball Jack was throwing earlier rolls to him. The camera shifts to behind him peering down the hall, and we see that sits in the exact spot where his second bike ride started and that the carpet has magically rotated 180 degrees. (Fold-out beds have also arrived.) A close inspection reveals the toy vehicles have rearranged themselves into a more orderly crescent-shape and gives the illusion that the ball smashed two vehicles out of that shape. While Wendy sipped from a Warner Bros’ Tom and Jerry cup at the beginning of the movie, Danny, who also goes by Doc, has Bugs Bunny on his shirt (and the number 42). Later, he has a one-on-one conversation with his dad while wearing a Mickey Mouse sweater. Now, he stands and reveals an Apollo rocket. It reminded me of the scene in Lone Wolf and Cub when the Head Executioner has his son, Daigoro, choose between a sword and a ball. I also thought how in the United States space program, the Apollo project replaced the Gemini project. But my strongest reaction to this while watching the movie was, “Holy crap, he’s Icarus,” and so was not surprised by his mysterious injuries in the next scene. Wendy responding to him arriving with his injuries by posing like the Statue of Liberty caught me off guard, however. Although the sun is actually much bigger than the moon, from Earth’s perspective, they are the same size. Danny is on the moon, where the sun would appear smaller than it.
We suddenly dissolve to Wendy in the Boiler Room, and she is near the freight elevator. While the audience may be thinking she’s doing Jack’s job, it would be more accurate to realize running those boilers was never intended to be Jack’s job. She runs down the corridor where Danny’s first bike ride scene started and ended, but in the opposite direction. The cigarette vending machines have been re-arranged but the water coolers remain steadfast. A clock is on the wall but is covered with a glare so we can’t read it. Jack is grunting/screaming, then falls to all fours; disoriented and drooling.
While with Wendy and Jack under the table, her shirt cuff is pulled down whenever we could have potentially read her watch but pulled up as far as will go to reveal she’s wearing it whenever we can’t. When Danny arrives, the bookcase on his left reflects first the chair and coffee table that had disappeared in the middle of a previous scene and then the elevators… the floor dial tells us these are the main ones on the far side of the room behind Jack, Wendy and the writing table (which have all been eliminated from the reflection) and not the others that actually are across from the bookcase. Some hidden elements have gone undetected because they needed to be cross-referenced with previous scenes or we were provided with a distraction- this one succeeds precisely because we have previously seen that decoy elevator.
We finally get to read the watch as she holds Danny in her arms, and it reads 3:15. She runs away with Danny… and a moment later we see her reflection in the bookcase. Jack slumps in the chair, dazed, and that chair and coffee table behind him are gone again.
After a chandelier gives Jack a Hitler mustache, the main elevator dissolves into a mirror reflecting the mirror that hangs next to it. It sees Jack walking past that mirror, and then the third mirror reflects what that first mirror faces. The fourth mirror reflects the wall across from it but does not reflect Jack. The doors to the Gold Room reflect only after he is already past them, inside the Gold Room and has turned on the lights. “I’d do anything for a drink… my god damn soul just for a glass of beer!” Jack says, and immediately sees someone he knows by name. Lloyd is an incompetent bartender- he doesn’t even know the difference between bourbon and Tennessee whiskey. Jack seems to be mocking him, and Lloyd’s disdain for Jack is palpable. Jack follows up his own statement, “You set them up and I’ll knock them back, Lloyd, one by one,” with, “White man’s burden.”
Jack says it’s been five months since he’s had a drink, which is exactly what Wendy said about him on the day of his interview. Maybe this scene occurred after his phone call telling Wendy he’d be late on the day of the interview? He also mentions, “I was afraid (two twenties and two tens) were going to be there ‘til next April!” but then finds they’ve disappeared. What was he going to spend them on in April? He, himself will say, just before being struck with a bat, that he “has agreed to look over the Overlook Hotel until May 1st” (It would make sense for there are two weeks of staff preparation before they open for guests.)
Wielding a bat for some reason, Wendy intercepts Jack in the Gold Room to tell him about the person in room 237, apparently after a conversation between Danny and her that we never witness. We see her watch and it says 6:35, but again, it looks more like 12:05 and that she’s wearing it upside-down.
We are transported to Florida via television- we have seen several of them but never one with a power cord. Dick Hallorann wears a wedding band, but certainly looks like he lives in a bachelor pad. Probably he eats his cake at eats it to. Danny interrupts his utopia to communicate with him about room 237 being unleashed… and then we are completely disoriented. Only the lamp design and a sliver of carpet from Danny’s discovery of the open door tell us we are in room 237; nothing else about it is familiar. A door is pushed open- the mirror inside the medicine cabinet doesn’t show anything but the vanity mirror shows a door being opened (or closed) in the opposite direction. Soon, a naked woman appears from behind the door- she does not appear in the part of the mirror reflecting a green wall. We are through the looking glass, but Kubrick has given us an ultimate distraction. As the old lady chases Jack, we do not see anything reflected in the vanity mirror but we do see a naked body pass across (not through) the doorway reflected in the medicine cabinet mirror. Jack walks backwards toward the main elevators or the stairway just past them, even though it would be much closer to go forward to the other set of stairs and elevator.
Things just keep getting crazier. Literally every single scene has layers of things going on. Take the view in this mirror for example, which we see while hearing the lines, “Did you find anything?” “No nothing at all. I didn’t see one god damn thing”:
The mirror is pointed at Wendy, but instead we see Jack and a mirrored image of the cigarette vending machine and the door next to it in the hallway behind him- the machine and door are reversed from what we would see if the mirror was rotated 45 degrees or so, which makes it a mirrored image in a mirror. This is the only time we ever see a reflection in this mirror. It is also one of the few times in the movie when Wendy is not above Jack but at his height. There is also a water cooler in the scene. Wendy is wearing a sweater that matches the motif in the hotel, but we never see her wearing it at any other time in the film. She will soon show her watch- it’s difficult to read but seems to be 4:50- or 7:20 if upside-down. Jack will gradually grow taller relative to Wendy and eventually tower above her for the only time in the movie. This is by no means a throw-away moment of plot exposition that we’d expect from a typical film.
Jack trashes the employee area we saw after rounding the bend “on our way through to the basement” where Stuart, Bill, Jack and Wendy pass a man moving soda cases before they dissolve into Dick’s head, so it is a shock to see Jack turn the corner and find him near the lobby elevators. (The fire hydrant case reflecting stairs instead of him is relatively expected.) Kubrick has moved on from one of the most disorienting and horrifying sections in the movie to one of the most orienting and revealing. We now know the view through the window in Stuart Ullman’s office should not be the outdoors but a wall, behind which is this servant hall, specifically the area where Wendy is when she says, “Just like a ghost ship, huh?”
Deflated remnants of a party litter the lobby, but then Jack arrives at a party in full swing. He’s traveling backward through time. That fourth mirror in the hall, the one across from the entrance to the Gold Room, which hasn’t reflected anybody the entire film, now sees Jack. Whenever Jack talks with Lloyd, multiple personalities come out, as if he’s embodying the personalities of every person who has ever sat in that stool. We know this hotel was “for the jet set, even before anybody knew what a jet set was. We had four presidents who stayed here, lots of movie stars… all the best people,” but even here, Jack is a VIP. Who is Jack? Certainly, the Overlook Hotel remembers him. Perhaps that is the secret of Overlook Hotel- it’s a place where people come to forget, and what they forget, it remembers. Perhaps, Jack is there to honor those memories. The “fish and goose soiree” is an obvious reference to his killing Wendy and Danny, respectively.
The red restroom is directly behind the bar. The fourth mirror in from the door does tricks beyond the others we’ve seen, including two perspectives at once after a momentary pink apparition that can only be a clumsy edit appears. (The fifth mirror sees what the fourth should see.) Jack strikes a Jesus pose and Delbert Grady carefully washes him. Jack asks, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” and then studies a mirror for a moment before smiling knowingly. At first, Mr. Grady doesn’t seem to remember anything except they have been in this hotel for an eternity, but in the end encourages Jack to follow his example, not only aware but proud of his actions. It is obvious that the hotel owns and controls Jack, and not the other way around.
Dick Hallorann and the lynching images are also elaborated on in this scene- surely he represents an escaped slave.
On the surface, it seems that Jack is conflicted between the demands of his job and his love for his son, while Wendy struggles as to what to make of her evolving child.
If we look closer, we notice the sweater she was wearing is now draped across a chair. A little coffee table has been moved next to it an empty blue chair. Wendy paces and smokes while talking to herself, walking past a mirror without it seeing her, as it focuses instead on the bathroom door to its right. A hand towel has been added near the bathroom sink. Danny hollers, “Redrum!” and we can see throughout the scene that Wendy’s watch reads 10:14.
A dissolve re-orients Wendy above Jack. We see by the gold clock above the reception area, on this “Wednesday,” that Jack dismantles the radio at 11:46. We can no longer see anything through the windows in Stuart Ullman’s office. The bottom picture reflects Jack and the window. Interestingly, it was around 11:40 at the ranger station according to the clock on their wall when Wendy contacted them while wearing the yellow parka. However, we figured it was just before noon on “Saturday.” When that scene cuts to Danny near that same clock in the hall just outside Mr. Ullman’s office, it clearly says 6:10. However, if you flipped this view of the clock upside-down, it would also read 11:40. There is no way anything in this movie can be taken at face value. The man at the ranger station never replies to “Over and out.” If Jack did arrive just as Wendy was finishing her conversation, she could have snuck out the door in the office, on the other side of which is where Danny’s third bike ride scene begins.
Everything looks bright and calm from the air. The American flag on the plane faces backwards, as if blowing in the wind. We, for some reason, return to the shot in front of the elevators and behind Jack typing, but without the red lens. Then the plane lands in a snow storm, which cleverly plays into our fears. As Dick Hallorann drives, we are bombarded with a series of dissolves rotating us around the vehicle. We see a red Volkswagon Beetle smashed by a semi- the Torrances’ have a yellow one. After acquiring a Snowcat through connections reminiscent of the Underground Railroad, the camera will continue to circle Dick for the remainder of his trip.
Wendy is with Danny, looking frazzled. She checks her watch- the only time she does this in the film- before leaving, saying she’ll be back in five minutes. We see it shows 6:30, or 12:00 if her watch is upside-down; either way it is just before the time we saw when she met up with Jack in the Gold Room. She grabs a bat before leaving. Danny is finishing breakfast, has his robe on and is watching Saturday morning cartoons, (“Roadrunner- the coyote’s after you. Roadrunner- if he catches you, you’re through.”), so we assume it is the AM. In every scene in which she has the bat, Wendy is wearing the same outfit.
When Wendy enters the Colorado Lounge, it is viewed through a purple lens. The sun shines through the windows and it even appears there is grass on the ground. We see her watch again- it reads 6:40. In the winter it would be dark out… but I have a hard time trusting the windows. However, it could be 12:10 if she’s wearing the watch upside-down. She could be taking advantage of having just sent Jack to inspect room 237 to steal a peek at his work. The repeatedly typed sentence is the only concrete evidence we have of the passage of time in this film lasting beyond three days.
The camera lens switches to green once Jack arrives, and the watch gets covered, but it is still light out through the windows. He could have just come down the stairs near the main elevators after his confrontation in room 237, except that gives us the scene with Wendy in the sweater to explain. Jack said he had a dream in which he killed his family. Do we ever see any of that dream? (He is also knocked unconscious.)
The bookcases have stopped being reflective. Wendy winds a serpentine route, holding the wooden bat like a boat rudder, then switches the bat angle as if taking the rudder out of the water as she ascends the staircase, all while walking backwards. It is apparent from her avoidance of exits she’s not really trying to escape. Jack spouts a load of bull. If Danny represents space and communication and Jack represents fire and deceit, Wendy must be water and obligation. A chandelier creates a crown on Wendy, then a much larger chandelier creates a much larger crown on Jack just before his fall.
Drool runs down Jack’s cheek, but the blood on his head has dried where it ran when he was laying face-down. He has been unconscious. A freezer plugged into the wall of the Chef’s Office has been moved to under the clock on the wall, which shows 6:55 as she drags Jack toward storing room C1, and then the camera focuses on her watch as she fights with the latch, and it is synchronized with the clock on the wall.
The actual screen time between us viewing her watch at 6:40 and at 6:55 is 8 minutes, which would give her only 7 minutes to gather her wits as Jack’s blood dries, drag him down a flight of stairs and into the kitchen, but if everything is upside-down- and certainly Jack’s feet in the air give us the impression that it is- the time would have gone from 12:10 to 1:25, which would leave 67 minutes unaccounted for.
Interestingly, once Wendy shuts the door to the storing room, we will never again see Jack and Wendy together in the same room.
Jack topples three boxes of Rice Krispies (snap, crackle, pop?), something Dick had mentioned was in there but we hadn’t seen, revealing part of a No Smoking message that we could clearly see when we were shown this room. Despite Dick’s precise knowledge of the inventory, it has increased significantly. Wendy grabs the knife with her right hand and holds it pointing down.
Wendy has a red tapestry behind her we haven’t seen and passes elevators we also haven’t seen on her way out the door, now holding the knife erect. Wendy goes outside, and it seems to be dusk or dawn. The knife edge seems to keep flipping back and forth.
When Jack awakes in the storing room, we discover the wound on his head has mostly healed, but holds his right ankle gingerly, as if falling down the stairs was worse than being struck by the baseball bat. Not only has he set up a bed of sorts, but there’s also a pile of food he’s been eating, including the Rice Krispies. He is underneath where we saw Dick “shine.”
Danny has gotten dressed into an outfit we haven’t seen before. He holds the knife with his left hand, and establishes that the blade is facing him. We have seen red and purple flowers by the mirror in separate scenes, but now we see them both together. We find out why that mirror has been watching the bathroom door. Of course, since Kubrick has once again manipulated where our eyes will go, there is obviously something else going on. Besides, Wendy completely overreacts, especially considering she is barely fazed by waking up to a son holding a knife with the blade now oriented towards her. When she looks past him, she may notice not only that an ashtray is now teetering over the edge but a red necklace with a cross attached has appeared in what was an empty jewelry box. We have wondered whether the characters in the movie have noticed any of the weird things going on around them, but we now realize they are the same as us- they only notice it when they are looking at it. One oddity that had stood out at the beginning of the film is that, even though Wendy acknowledges the Indian motif, she never actually looks at the huge, bright, frankly unmissable mural above the fireplace. From here on out, Wendy is going to start to see all kinds of things… it is as if she has suddenly awakened to a reality she had been long ignoring.
Just before Jack starts chopping down the outside door, we see Wendy’s watch at 5:10… or 11:40 upside-down. That is odd/significant, because we already noted 6:10 also looks like 11:40 upside- down. As if to accentuate this effect, the top of the hour hand on the clock at the ranger station is obliterated by the reflection of the ceiling light.
Once inside the restroom, Danny holds a toy vehicle in his right hand- it looks like a yellow Snowcat. As Jack chops down the door, we can see Shelley Duvall, the actress playing Wendy, repeatedly making sure her robe sleeve is covering her watch. The actors, who have to say their lines often at very specific moments, express a huge range of emotions, hit their marks, follow specific directions of pantomime and handle props, really do an astounding job.
The hotel chimneys become search lights.
A moment after the famous “Here’s Johnny” line, we see the mirror that has been magically watching the bathroom door ever since breakfast “A Month Later,” and, seen from the bathroom door, it has returned to reflecting the bed. We are distracted by the arriving Snowcat, and then the bathroom door has had the left-side panel chopped away. The Snowcat stops suspiciously near where it was a week ago “Thursday.”
Danny, sans toy vehicle, conveniently runs down the hall with the clock showing 5:15. Upside-down, this would be 11:45- it’s as if he has made a loop that began after leaving from this same location on his third Big Wheel ride scene. The trash can next to the water cooler is gone. Just sayin’.
We return to Jack leaving the open door of storing room C1 in the kitchen. He holds the axe with both hands while stalking the hallways, but otherwise keeps it only in his left. He then comes into the lobby through doors that we’ve seen but haven’t been used, past the hallway to the right that would lead to Danny’s hiding place but continues forward so we can finally see the next hallway that goes directly behind the window in Stuart’s office. Only the overhead light that would be on the other side of that window is brightly lit. He then goes up the stairs, and we see that on the next floor, the stairs and elevator matches how they are oriented near Room 237, except we know that is above the Colorado Lounge, so this could be written off as a coincidence except that we never learn where the Colorado Lounge is relative to the lobby except that they are on the same floor. Even the railing matches up in the same way in all three stairways (in the hall next to the Colorado Lounge, near room 237 and here in the lobby.) It seems all of the Torrances are reluctant to use those particular stairs. Also, I haven’t specifically mentioned it, but there are tons and tons of references to triangles with one peculiar intersection throughout the film, most obviously the chair Jack types in and the two behind him on either side, one of which keeps disappearing and Danny’s Big Wheel, whose famous front tire we never see. The mirrors are also frequently facing in ways that shape impossible triangles. Perhaps a more abstract example would be the blue, red and red, green motifs.
Jack looks over the lobby. Is there a black cat under the Gold Room sign by the door Dick’s about to enter through? Whatever it is, it isn’t there a moment later. (A trash can moves aside in order to accommodate Jack’s hiding place.) Dick knew returning to the hotel was a suicide mission, and will unceremoniously fall under the only working chandelier in the lobby exactly where Danny’s Big Wheel was parked when Jack watched Danny and Wendy from the hedge maze model. Dick succeeds in saving Wendy’s life. I daresay that Dick’s death is treated simply as an aside- even the Overlook Hotel ignores it- is one of the most poignant messages in this film.
We never get to see what is just to the left inside the room marked “General Manager.”
Jack hears Danny, and chooses a clockwise route. We see the clock again; it is 5:25 and 10 seconds; a 180 degree rotation from the first time we saw this clock, except that was from the opposite side. This movie is overlapping onto itself like a Mozart composition.
Wendy inexplicably goes up the stairs to the fourth floor, holding the knife in her left hand. These are unnatural acts for both Wendy and her archetype. Two water coolers seem to be reminding us that water flows down.
Jack exits the same doors Wendy opened and Dick entered. (The roof makes that particular portal look like teeth.) Danny enters the hedge maze, the maze Wendy has led him through but that Jack has only seen from above.
Wendy retraces Jack’s route on his way to the party in the Gold Room, with her knife back in her right hand. The reflections create triangles while ignoring her. We can plainly see the tapestry behind her looks blood-stained. Suddenly, chandeliers turn on and we see a zombie and a rotting fish wearing a monocle in a case. She passes down the hall that should have a window, proving that there isn’t and then retraces the route she pushes breakfast through just before Danny’s first bike ride scene. The mirror on the back wall is missing. Is she going forward in time?
Danny, like Wendy from Jack and Jack from the zombie, escapes by stepping backwards.
Wendy seems to be spilling all over the place, as if she has breeched a levy or something. In the past, she has tended to underestimate herself, and so has the audience, but she is a total badass, and has always been too big for the hotel to contain. Now she is in an unfamiliar, completely red hallway, and turns a corner to face a hall with an elevator we also haven’t seen. Seriously- how many elevators are in this place? She looks surprised, not so much at what she’s seeing but that she’s seeing it. Flooding is Wendy’s domain; she doesn’t run from it. The next time we see her, she’s outside.
Although he thought he was the hunter, Jack himself has been trapped. Like the Minotaur, he is half-man, half-demon.
The final image predictably throws us a lot of new information and misinformation. The furniture has been covered as it would have been during a winter closure; the sign is on the reverse side of the door. The tapestries are hanging vertically instead of horizontally. It looks at first as if Jack is wielding a sword, but then we glimpse that he is holding his arms like some sort of god. A man’s hand holds his right arm, seeming to give him extra limbs. (Of course, this isn’t the camera’s focus.) An internet search discovers that pose belonging to the demon Baphomet, who represents the sum total of the universe. Baphomet is a hybrid, but his top half is of a goat, and there has been no sign of a goat anywhere in this film. Regardless, Jack has been considered a worthy addition to the hotel’s collection. He was the target all along- it lured him there with hopes and desires that are never fulfilled.
In The Shining, Kubrick, gives himself permission to play, and it is not dull.
Immediately after watching The Shining, my girlfriend and I watched Room 237 (2012), which I initially thought was appallingly bad, but now realize must intentionally be a mockumentary making fun of people wildly speculating on the internet about things they barely understand.
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movies. Show all posts
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Jay, My Hero
I spent a significant portion of fourth through sixth grade, which spanned 1985-1988, reading Marvel comic books. My main source for reading material was my classmate JJ, who had two or three much older brothers, which meant he had a library of comics that covered some of the 60’s, mostly what was available as reprints, and all of the 70’s and 80’s. I read them as often as possible during class, keeping them hidden beneath my desk and ready to slip into the storage area under the hinged top in case of an emergency. It is difficult to convey how steeped I was in the Marvel Universe without inciting incredulity, but among the comics I read included: some Fantastic Four, Alpha Flight, Punisher, Captain America and Master of Kung Fu; a lot of Spider-Man, especially the Venom suit saga; the bulk of Thor, The Incredible Hulk and The (East Coast) Avengers (all of which were already long-running titles) and virtually the complete works of X-Men, both the “Classics” written by Stan Lee and the more familiar revamp mostly authored by Chris Claremont, Silver Surfer, Daredevil, West Coast Avengers, Iron Man, Moon Knight, The New Mutants, X-Factor, Excalibur and, of course, Wolverine. I asked the art teacher if she could teach me how to draw super heroes and she suggested I might be better suited at being a comic book writer. Chris Claremont was my favorite writer but it seemed obvious to me that the penciller had the superior job, and John Buscema and Frank Miller were my favorite artists. Bescema was a pioneer who had established the typical style of the time, but Miller did his own heavy, high-contrast inking that would set the tone for the future.
Something hard-wired into my nature, which would take me, oh, about 35 years to realize is not a trait ingrained in everyone, is a compulsion to be loyal. I am passionate, some would say to a fault, about the things and people I enjoy. I stand by my convictions, which fortunately prioritize the importance of conceding to logic and humility, and don’t do ambivalence well. Once I start on a course, I tend to see it through to its completion. I don’t jump ship and never make alternate plans. One thing that highly irritates me is when others start second-guessing or changing plans. I always try to keep my word, even when I know doing so will be detrimental to me, because from my perspective, my word is more important than myself. In my worldview, this is known as integrity, which, if I am to be frank, is a thing few others seem to understand.
Anyway, it should go without saying that I didn’t read DC comics… that is, until Frank Miller wrote and drew their Batman: The Dark Knight Returns saga. It was good; really good. This created not only a moral but practical dilemma, because the only person I knew who had DC comics was a junior high kid named Jay, whom I had never personally spoken to, although I often stood beside JJ while they quickly traded comics between backpacks. Jay had a quirk of being highly secretive about his comic book reading habits, which I found strange. Beyond that, discussing comics with him was complicated by the fact that I have always been and probably always will be uncomfortable engaging in conversations with people I don’t know well.
I went to a Kindergarten-12th grade school which had 100 students total, so we all ate lunch at the same time. One day during lunch, when I was in sixth grade, the cafeteria was disrupted by a kid in the table behind me loudly taunting another kid. The latter, I discovered when I turned around, was Jay. Suddenly, and without speaking a word, Jay slammed down his fist onto the other kid’s lunch tray and smashed the unopened milk carton with a loud pop that exploded white liquid all over everyone in the vicinity. Then, Jay stood up and walked straight into the principal’s office. This was a highly-unique and therefore memorable event. In other words, it was basically the coolest thing I had ever seen. Without ever knowing the full story, I egocentrically assumed Jay was being mocked for reading comic books and milk-smashing was his Marvel-esque way of defending his honor. I resolved to always defend my comic book-reading ways no matter how old I got.
I never did speak to Jay. After sixth grade we moved, and I found myself in a school where nobody read comics. I wouldn’t pick them up again until several years later, when I was 16 and armed with a driver’s license. There were three comic book shops in Des Moines, and I started a routine of driving from one to another, getting caught up on X-Men and Wolverine as well as discovering Frank Miller’s Sin City and Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. Along the way, I would also read the current issues of those same comics at Barnes & Noble. In this fashion, I could read 10-12 comics in a day while paying only for gasoline, although I did occasionally purchase Wolverine back-issues. I also began reading Shakespeare’s plays precisely because they had been a sub-plot in several Sandman issues. Even after college, Sandman and Frank Miller’s 300, as well as Howard Zinn, inspired an interest in world history that I had never had while in school.
When I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area in 2000, I got a part-time job as a barista at Borders Books and began reading Japanese manga while there. Eventually, I once again started hanging out in comic book stores to discover more manga and even got into playing sanctioned Yu-Gi-Oh tournaments until the cards got too expensive and I sold my two decks for a profit. I still read manga occasionally today, religiously refusing any edition that doesn’t read right to left. A couple weeks ago, I found myself correcting a random lady in a thrift shop calling it “anime.” I watch a lot of anime, too, but it should go without saying that graphic novels and television shows are vastly different mediums. One advantage of comics is the pace of the story’s development is dependent upon the reader. Instead of passively watching the characters, you move alongside them, discovering as they do. Another difference is instead of viewing a rectangle of a fixed size, comic panels can change size, shape and location at will. This can be used to great effect in keeping the reader actively engaged in both focus and mood. During a chaotic climax, for example, a reader can find himself feverishly attempting to decipher the order in which the panels unfold.
Even with the exploding popularity of conventions like Comic-Con, comic books themselves have mostly remained a niche consumed by introverts. One difference is many characters that began their lives there are now popular mainstream successes. To say I have mixed feelings about this would be a lie; I flat out hate it. I’d like to smash the milk carton of every jock in America who thinks he’s a big Thor fan but doesn’t even know who Jack Kirby is. You have to be pretty pathetic to be too lazy to read a picture book. I can’t really explain why I find it so annoying, but it has something to do with loyalty and integrity.
A couple years ago I was dating a talented poet who, presumably for lack of anything better to do, attended a Neil Gaiman lecture at the university where she was attending grad school. She had never heard of him before, so was very confused as to why hundreds of students had shown up to see him talk. “He read a few excerpts and they weren’t very good,” she declared. I shrugged and said, “Yeah, his work is pretty popular but maybe he’s not that great of a writer.” I am ashamed to admit I had forgotten about Jay. In part, I knew any attempt to defend Gaiman’s work to this person in particular would be futile. But, to be honest, the first thought to cross my mind was, Well, he does just write comics.
And Shakespeare just wrote skits.
Something hard-wired into my nature, which would take me, oh, about 35 years to realize is not a trait ingrained in everyone, is a compulsion to be loyal. I am passionate, some would say to a fault, about the things and people I enjoy. I stand by my convictions, which fortunately prioritize the importance of conceding to logic and humility, and don’t do ambivalence well. Once I start on a course, I tend to see it through to its completion. I don’t jump ship and never make alternate plans. One thing that highly irritates me is when others start second-guessing or changing plans. I always try to keep my word, even when I know doing so will be detrimental to me, because from my perspective, my word is more important than myself. In my worldview, this is known as integrity, which, if I am to be frank, is a thing few others seem to understand.
Anyway, it should go without saying that I didn’t read DC comics… that is, until Frank Miller wrote and drew their Batman: The Dark Knight Returns saga. It was good; really good. This created not only a moral but practical dilemma, because the only person I knew who had DC comics was a junior high kid named Jay, whom I had never personally spoken to, although I often stood beside JJ while they quickly traded comics between backpacks. Jay had a quirk of being highly secretive about his comic book reading habits, which I found strange. Beyond that, discussing comics with him was complicated by the fact that I have always been and probably always will be uncomfortable engaging in conversations with people I don’t know well.
I went to a Kindergarten-12th grade school which had 100 students total, so we all ate lunch at the same time. One day during lunch, when I was in sixth grade, the cafeteria was disrupted by a kid in the table behind me loudly taunting another kid. The latter, I discovered when I turned around, was Jay. Suddenly, and without speaking a word, Jay slammed down his fist onto the other kid’s lunch tray and smashed the unopened milk carton with a loud pop that exploded white liquid all over everyone in the vicinity. Then, Jay stood up and walked straight into the principal’s office. This was a highly-unique and therefore memorable event. In other words, it was basically the coolest thing I had ever seen. Without ever knowing the full story, I egocentrically assumed Jay was being mocked for reading comic books and milk-smashing was his Marvel-esque way of defending his honor. I resolved to always defend my comic book-reading ways no matter how old I got.
I never did speak to Jay. After sixth grade we moved, and I found myself in a school where nobody read comics. I wouldn’t pick them up again until several years later, when I was 16 and armed with a driver’s license. There were three comic book shops in Des Moines, and I started a routine of driving from one to another, getting caught up on X-Men and Wolverine as well as discovering Frank Miller’s Sin City and Neil Gaiman’s Sandman. Along the way, I would also read the current issues of those same comics at Barnes & Noble. In this fashion, I could read 10-12 comics in a day while paying only for gasoline, although I did occasionally purchase Wolverine back-issues. I also began reading Shakespeare’s plays precisely because they had been a sub-plot in several Sandman issues. Even after college, Sandman and Frank Miller’s 300, as well as Howard Zinn, inspired an interest in world history that I had never had while in school.
When I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area in 2000, I got a part-time job as a barista at Borders Books and began reading Japanese manga while there. Eventually, I once again started hanging out in comic book stores to discover more manga and even got into playing sanctioned Yu-Gi-Oh tournaments until the cards got too expensive and I sold my two decks for a profit. I still read manga occasionally today, religiously refusing any edition that doesn’t read right to left. A couple weeks ago, I found myself correcting a random lady in a thrift shop calling it “anime.” I watch a lot of anime, too, but it should go without saying that graphic novels and television shows are vastly different mediums. One advantage of comics is the pace of the story’s development is dependent upon the reader. Instead of passively watching the characters, you move alongside them, discovering as they do. Another difference is instead of viewing a rectangle of a fixed size, comic panels can change size, shape and location at will. This can be used to great effect in keeping the reader actively engaged in both focus and mood. During a chaotic climax, for example, a reader can find himself feverishly attempting to decipher the order in which the panels unfold.
Even with the exploding popularity of conventions like Comic-Con, comic books themselves have mostly remained a niche consumed by introverts. One difference is many characters that began their lives there are now popular mainstream successes. To say I have mixed feelings about this would be a lie; I flat out hate it. I’d like to smash the milk carton of every jock in America who thinks he’s a big Thor fan but doesn’t even know who Jack Kirby is. You have to be pretty pathetic to be too lazy to read a picture book. I can’t really explain why I find it so annoying, but it has something to do with loyalty and integrity.
A couple years ago I was dating a talented poet who, presumably for lack of anything better to do, attended a Neil Gaiman lecture at the university where she was attending grad school. She had never heard of him before, so was very confused as to why hundreds of students had shown up to see him talk. “He read a few excerpts and they weren’t very good,” she declared. I shrugged and said, “Yeah, his work is pretty popular but maybe he’s not that great of a writer.” I am ashamed to admit I had forgotten about Jay. In part, I knew any attempt to defend Gaiman’s work to this person in particular would be futile. But, to be honest, the first thought to cross my mind was, Well, he does just write comics.
And Shakespeare just wrote skits.
Friday, November 15, 2013
The Importance of Ice Cube
Growing up in rural Iowa did not provide many opportunities for interacting with black people, so my exposure to them came through 80’s mass media. If Run DMC and The Cosby Show were any indication, black people were talented, popular and well-respected. Besides those two examples, every black on television was either a fast athlete with trend-setting attire, an excellent singer and/or dancer with trend-setting attire or a good-natured, naïve orphan dependent upon white adults and peers to prevent them from making poor decisions. In retrospect, this may seem like a joke or exaggeration, but, um, nope. Remember, MTV was very hesitant to show blacks and only did so selectively and calculatedly until Michael Jackson blew that barrier apart after he began making elaborate and impressive videos that couldn’t be refused or ignored in 1983.
This disturbing reality is the backdrop for the most shocking thing I’d ever encountered in my 12 years of life, when, in seventh grade, I heard “Fuck Tha Police,” By NWA, being played through a boombox in the clay modeling area of the art room.
Upon hearing the unavoidable chorus, I wondered why anyone would say something like that. Simply listening to the verses reveals this song is about racial prejudice within the LA police enforcement and judicial system. More importantly, this song is a series of first-person accounts of what it is like to be a young black man living in the LA projects. As a young white man living in rural Iowa, I had literally no first-hand experience of police enforcement or the judicial system. One of my favorite television shows, however, had been Dukes of Hazzard, and so I sort of just figured cops were incompetent, unthreatening blowhards who ticketed bad drivers.
Public outcry protesting both the song and the band was loud and furious. The FBI sent the members of NWA a threatening letter accusing them of “advocating violence against and disrespect” for police officers. Parental Advisory stickers, which had been a compromised result of a 1985 Senate censorship hearing but had rarely been used, were suddenly omnipresent. (The first use of the sticker had been on Ice-T’s debut album in 1987.) It is extraordinarily important to recognize that, despite all the attention and backlash “Fuck Tha Police” received, nobody seemed at all concerned with investigating the LAPD or the California judicial system. The general public was shocked that this song was exposing their children to the f-word, not that this song was exposing racial injustice. It was deemed crucial that anger and violence should not leave the black neighborhoods; that was their problem… and their fault. When you peel away the layers, you find that the real concern was not to protect the children, but to silence the voice of the minority daring to speak against the unfair treatment they are receiving.
This wasn’t the first time I had encountered lyrics that shocked me. The first time was on a bus enroute to a little league baseball game, when I heard The Beatie Boys’…
“(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party!)”
You wake up late for school, man, you don't wanna go
You ask you mom, "Please?" but she still says, "No!"
You missed two classes and no homework
But your teacher preaches class like you're some kind of jerk
You gotta fight for your right to party
You pops caught you smoking and he said, "No way!"
That hypocrite smokes two packs a day
Man, living at home is such a drag
Now your mom threw away your best porno mag (Busted!)
You gotta fight for your right to party
Don't step out of this house if that's the clothes you're gonna wear
I'll kick you out of my home if you don't cut that hair
Your mom busted in and said, "What's that noise?"
Aw, mom you're just jealous- it's the Beastie Boys!
You gotta fight for your right to party
This asinine song encouraging teenage disobedience has no socially redeeming qualities. However, of all the songs on Beastie Boys debut album, Licensed to Ill (1986), this one is the least offensive. Some of them have a verse about shooting people followed by one about raping girls. The rest are about drinking, eating junk food and dealing with girls. “Paul Revere” even mentions cops: The sheriff's after me for what I did to his daughter- I did it like this, I did it like that, I did it with a whiffleball bat. Why didn’t anybody freak out about The Beastie Boys lyrics? They were hugely popular and influential while avoiding disparaging mass protests, threatening government letters or even a parental advisory sticker. They are also three Jewish kids from New York, so perhaps there couldn’t be more of an apples and oranges comparison.
Straight Outta Compton (1988) opens with the declaration, “You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.” Besides “Fuck Tha Police,” it contains songs that run the spectrum from “Parental Advisory Iz Advised” and “Express Yourself” to “Gangsta, Gangsta” and “Dope Man.” (Another highly controversial song, “A Bitch Iz A Bitch,” was a single added to the remastered version of Straight Outta Compton in 2002) Almost all of the lyrics on the album were written by O’Shea Jackson, using the pseudonym Ice Cube. His lyrics never quite go where you’d predict, for example “Dope Man” derides drug addicts. The characters in his songs almost always end up in prison. Ice Cube refuses to turn a blind eye to grim realities, and black on black violence is a central issue. Despite the grim subject matter, there is always wittiness in spades, and this is the key to NWA’s success. “Gangsta, Gangsta,” which is about a group of black kids driving around and terrorizing the neighborhood because they are bored, contains this gem:
Sweatin all the bitches in the biker shorts (but) we didn't get no play from the ladies- with six niggaz in a car, are you crazy?
One mustn’t lose perspective that Ice Cube is primarily an entertainer. He’s not a politician, physicist, psychologist or whatever- he’s a goddamn rapper. Ice Cube is a persona, a caricature played by a man named O’Shea Jackson. His lyrics weave freely between clowning and sincerity, gravitating toward whatever’s most entertaining. Ain’t nothin’ in life but to be legit- don’t quote me now; I ain’t said shit. He consistently defrays anyone from looking up to him as a role model, and makes it obvious that he’s exposing inner city violence as something to escape and not glorifying it.
Ice Cube’s lyrics contain a lot of tough talk and posturing, and while the outside world would cite that as a reason why they are baseless fiction to be ignored, in the inner city this is a necessary survival tactic. Street knowledge is basically the art of knowing how to handle yourself in a hostile environment. In the inner city, you have to wear a thick skin and retain a strong will to protect yourself from various pressures from people desperate to make a buck.
From 2000-2004, I lived in a neighborhood known as the “Iron Triangle” in Richmond, California. It was a close-knit community where knowing your neighbors was not an option but of the essence. During that same time, I was working late nights at a recording studio in the Tenderlon District in San Francisco, where I met and worked with dozens of rap artists, and playing avant-garde and experimental music in underground clubs in Oakland, including several centers run by the Black Panther party. In 2004, I moved to Oakland for a year. Those five years taught me a lot of lessons and showed me a lot of things, some of which would raise the hairs on the back of your neck. I will attest that to this day, when I feel threatened by someone or that they are trying to intimidate me, my first thought is to exclaim, I from fucking Oakland bitch; don’t even try an’ fuck wit’ me. Similarly, when I see a car driving down the street at five miles per hour, which is a frequent occurrence in the sleepy rural Iowa town in which I now reside, I still think, They either lookin’ to shoot or get shot. You never, ever act suspiciously in the ‘hood. You don’t want to look like a tourist. In Iowa, everyone basically acts like a tourist. Of course, they would likely have no idea what I mean by that, but it’s a convenient coincidence that the state’s name is an acronym for Idiots Out Wandering Around.
People in the inner city enjoy competition in a sporting sense. It is common to see men in open garages playing cards or families gathered around dominoes while cooking large meals together. This helps generate a strong bond of community. Gangs consist of a few greedy control freaks and a whole lot of teenagers desperate for a modicum of recognition and respect, but the vast majority of the community works hard to discourage gangs and remain safe. Moments of intense violence are borne from desperation, a lot of which relates to drugs, but also inner-turmoil stemming from deep-seated values of pride and familial loyalty. You don’t dare talk badly of anyone behind their back unless you are also willing to say it to their face. Speaking directly, decisively and frankly is expected and appreciated.
In contrast, people in Iowa tend to survive by being insular. They stay close to those they’ve known for years and try not to attract too much attention from outsiders. Iowans are not neighborly; in fact most prefer no or few neighbors. The degree to which Iowans will go to avoid communication or even eye contact with strangers in a public place is beyond impressive. Iowans are not used to handling stressors. They think traffic is a slow-moving vehicle (aka a tractor) that they’d need to pass to continue toward their destination at the speed limit. When confronted with any sort of direct challenge to any behavior, Iowans tend to completely lose their shit and respond with passive-aggressive immaturity and back-stabbing. As a result, Iowans are very suspicious of each other. People in Iowa enjoy staying in agreement and away from any competitive friction. They watch sports but don’t generally play them. They talk about the weather and how messed up the rest of the world is. Iowans think anything outside of their comfort zone sounds awful and is best avoided.
These culturally based ways of experiencing the world are mutually exclusive. No black person can go unnoticed in a rural Iowa town for the simple reason that there just aren’t that many people of color around here. An easy way to overwhelm an Iowan with panic and fear is to drop one in the ghetto. Even in places where it is more common, white people throughout the United States tend to be much more comfortable with blacks in isolation rather than in groups.
Iowans think, “If you don’t want trouble from the cops, don’t do anything illegal.” In the ‘hood, that assumption is straight up ign’ant. This assumption comes from experiences such as one that happened a few months ago, when a police officer in Iowa City hollered out the window at my white girlfriend while parked next to her at a stoplight that she had a headlight out. About a month ago, I was pulled over on a country road and given a warning for speeding, and as I drove off, I noticed I had three empty beer bottles sitting on my passenger seat which the officer didn’t inquire about. The fact that many are suddenly wondering the story behind the bottles illustrates my point perfectly. Two weeks ago, an officer in almost the same location flashed his lights at me to signal to slow down, and I obliged. I highly doubt any black person in America can relate to these experiences. Perhaps the biggest similarity between Oakland, California and the tiny towns littering Iowa is the main roads leading out of both are often hidden and unmarked. However, two other important shared traits are an appreciation for church and self-referential humor. One big difference is that if you talk shit about the ghetto to a hoodlum, it’s understood, but if you say anything bad about Iowa to an Iowan, heaven help you.
Part II
1990 was a world dominated by MC Hammer and The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, but it was also the debut of In Living Color on Fox, which shone like a ray of hope above anything on television featuring blacks. At first, I would watch it on Sunday nights in secret, not knowing whether it would be considered a bad influence. It laughed loudly at both the cultural treatment and media portrayal of skin color and race in America. Eventually, I used its sketches as starting points to instigate conversations about race relations, because the show seemed able to delineate the line between absurd and unacceptable.
1990 was also the year of Amerikkka’s Most Wanted, Ice Cube’s superb solo debut album produced by The Bomb Squad, best known for their work with Public Enemy. Many of the songs begin with sampled clips of mass media degrading American blacks and himself, contextualizing his lyrics as responses to and the result of white majority attitudes. A parody of himself being electrocuted after spouting the last words, “Fuck all ya’ll” is followed by a defiant rap that loudly mocks the claim that he’s the villain while drawing parallels between his lyrics and a drive-by shooting. He also demonstrates that the solutions are just as absurd as the problems.
"The Nigga Ya Love To Hate"
I heard payback's a motherfucking nigga
That's why I'm sick of gettin’ treated like a goddamn stepchild
Fuck a punk cause I ain't him
You gotta deal with the nine-double-M
The damn scum that you all hate
Just think if niggas decide to retaliate
They try to keep me from running up
I never tell you to get down it's all about coming up
So what they do go and ban the AK?
My shit wasn't registered any fucking way
So you better duck away, run and hide out
When I'm rolling real slow and the light’s out
‘Cause I'm about to fuck up the program
Shooting out the window of a drop-top Brougham
When I'm shooting let's see who drop
The police, the media and suckers that went pop
And motherfuckers that say they too black
Put ‘em overseas they be begging to come back
They say keep ‘em on gangs and drugs
You wanna sweep a nigga like me up under the rug
Kicking shit called street knowledge
Why more niggas in the pen than in college?
Now ‘cause of that line I might be your cellmate
That's from the nigga ya love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube!
Yeah, ha-ha, it's the nigga you love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube!
You know, baby, your mother warned you about me
It's the nigga you love to hate
Yo, you ain’t doing nothin’, pops
You ain’t doing nothin’, pops, fo’ us boys
What you got to say for yourself?
You don’t like how I'm living? Well, fuck you
Once again it's on, the motherfucking psycho
Ice Cube the bitch killa cap peeler
Yo runnin through the line like Bo
There's no pot to piss in I put my fist in
Now who do ya love to hate
‘Cause I talk shit and down the eight-ball
‘Cause I don't fake you're begging I fall off
The crossover might as well cut them balls off
And get your ass ready for the lynching
The mob is droppin’ common sense in
We'll gank in the pen
We’ll shank any Tom, Dick and Hank or get the ass
Fakin’ it ain't about how right or wrong you live
But how long you live
I ain't with the bullshit
I meet cold bitches no hoes
Don't wanna sleep so I keep popping No-Doz
And tell the young people what they gotta know
‘Cause I hate when niggas gotta live low
And if you're locked up I dedicate my style in
From San Quentin to Rykers Island
We got ‘em afraid of the funky shit
I like to clown so pump up the sound
In the jeep make the old ladies say
Oh my god wait it's the nigga ya love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube
Yeah, come on fool
It's the nigga you love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube
Yeah, run up punk
It's the nigga you love to hate
(Yo-Yo) ‘Who the fuck do you think you are you calling girls bitches?
You ain't all that
That's all I hear, bitch, bitch
I ain't nobody's bitch!’
A bitch is a....
Soul Train done lost their soul
Just call it train cause the bitches look like hoes
I see a lotta others damn
It almost look like the Bandstand
You ask me did I like Arsenio?
About as much as the bicentennial
I don't give a fuck about dissing these fools ‘cause they all scared of the Ice Cube
And what I say what I portray and all that
And ain't even seen the gat
I don't wanna see no dancing
I'm sick of that shit listen to the hit
Cause yo if I look and see another brother
On the video tryin to out-dance each other
I'm a tell T-Bone to pass the bottle
And don't give me that shit about role model
It ain't wise to chastise and preach
Just open the eyes of each
‘Cause laws are made to be broken up
What niggas need to do is start loc’ing up
And build, mold and fold they-self into shape
Of the nigga ya love to hate
Throughout the album, Ice Cube loudly rejects the status quo and refuses to yield his perspective. He reminds the listeners he still hates cops. In a song featuring the annoying Flavor Flav called, “I’m Only Out For One Thang,” Ice Cube very subtlely admits that not having his voice silenced has become a high priority. From his NWA days, Ice Cube had frequently declared his motivations were “money and bitches.” This is patently offensive, but also jarringly honest. Imagine if everyone who was motivated by those things admitted it. He specifically says this to cynically demonstrate his shortcomings: In “Gangsta, Gangsta,” he writes, Do I look like a motherfuckin’ role model? To all the kids lookin’ up to me- life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money, which is juxtaposed by a KRS One sample in the chorus that says, It’s not about a salary, it’s all about reality. Anyway, in what sounds like an improvised throw-away outro of “I’m Only Out For One Thang,” Flavor Flav jokingly persists in asking Ice Cube to clarify what one thing he’s after and Ice Cube finally responds, I’m out for the pussy, the money and the mic. The humor reminiscent of Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition sketch is obvious, but even keeping that intact, any long-time listener would have anticipated his answer to be “bitches and money.” This makes the addition of “mic” stick out as a declaration that being able to speak whatever it is he has to say is an essential goal.
The rap genre as a whole, and Ice Cube specifically, have been heavily criticized for being misogynistic. This is somewhat justified and one factor is the cultural impact of outspoken black male-chauvinists like Louis Farrakhan. Amerikkka’s Most Wanted introduces a female rapper named Yo-Yo in a song which attempts to reconcile perspectives on gender. Ice Cube takes the role of someone who thinks women should serve men, and Yo-Yo insists women deserve equality and respect.
Yo-Yo would go on to put out at least three very good albums, one of which Ice Cube co-produced and rapped on, and when Ice Cube started his own record label in 1994, he put Yo-Yo in charge (according to wikipedia.org). Although she had moderate success, Yo-Yo somehow never became a huge hit like her male peers. This ugly fact demonstrates the accuracy with which Ice Cube successfully captures not only localized attitudes but those of America as a whole in his lyrics. Like Archie Bunker, Ice Cube is both entertaining and relevant because he is publicly echoing thoughts that are claimed to be outdated but many silently cling to.
On March 3, 1991, a black man named Rodney King was filmed being brutally beaten by several Los Angeles police officers while other police officers stood by. After this incident became the top news story, the members of NWA should have received a whole lot of letters of apology for having criticized and been insulted by their claims of police violence on blacks instead of giving them diligent consideration. Instead, a jury demonstrated it wasn’t that the claims weren’t believed, but that police violence on blacks was acceptable. Inaction in striving for equality of justice could no longer be blamed on ignorance, but wholly on apathy. Tom Brokaw’s frank assessment that “Outside the South Central area few cared about the violence, because it didn’t affect them,” which had been used as a sample on Amerikkka’s Most Wanted, was once again validated.
John Singleton’s directorial debut, Boyz N the Hood (1991), came to theaters almost immediately after the Rodney King video broke with the tagline, “Once upon a time in South Central L.A... It ain't no fairy tale.” The title is borrowed from the title of the Ice Cube penned song that became the impetus for forming NWA, and includes Ice Cube in his acting debut. Today, the movie comes off as clunky and dated, but it accelerated the cinematic concept introduced by Spike Lee of giving an uncensored portrayal of the challenges and obstacles faced by black teens in the projects in movies like the seemingly prophetic Do the Right Thing (1989).
Death Certificate (1991) and Predator (1992), Ice Cube’s second and third solo albums, are just as good as Amerikkka’s Most Wanted. He also helped introduce Del the Funky Homosapien and produced Da Lench Mob’s magnificent Guerillas in the Mist (1992). In 1992, he also married Kimberly Woodruff. They are still married and have four children. In late December 1992, so basically 1993, another former NWA member Dr. Dre, now signed to a label financed by a real-life gangster named Shug Knight, released his solo debut. Although Dre was the famous name on The Chronic, it showcased the talent of a young unknown named Snoop Doggy Dogg and acted both as an introduction and test market warm-up for Snoop Doggy Dogg’s Doggystyle (1993). Both of these albums are over-rated, but they had a ton of commercial success. The failure of Ice Cube’s fourth album, Lethal Injection (1993) was that he seemed to lose confidence that the stuff he had been doing in the years between NWA and The Chronic was way better than The Chronic.
Acting is possibly a better fit for what Ice Cube attempts to communicate than rap. For example, when you rap about being a drug dealer, people assume you’re a drug dealer, whereas when you play the role of a drug dealer in a movie, people realize you’re acting. Ice Cube is not an exceptional actor, but he exudes confidence in front of the camera. When he turned down the male lead in John Singleton’s second movie, Poetic Justice (1993), Ice Cube recommended another gifted songwriter named Tupac Shakur.
For two years, I was the Assistant Engineer for the engineer who had mixed Digital Underground’s self-titled breakthrough album, and he often recounted the quickness and ease with which Tupac could listen to a beat, write a verse of lyrics and rap those lyrics over the beat in such a way that you could never imagine one had ever existed without the other. It is unfortunate that those who have decided they don’t like rap music will never get to appreciate how much more advanced rap lyrics are than what is found in any other American musical style.
With the successful rap producer DJ Pooh, Ice Cube co-wrote the hugely-successful comedy Fridays (1995), which launched the acting career of stand-up comedian Chris Tucker, and two sequels. He would re-join the cast in Singleton’s third movie, Higher Learning (1995), which is a creepily poignant depiction of how gangs are formed.
Hopefully the day will come when American blacks are given the same recognition and respect as white Americans, but, until then, it will remain essential for people like Ice Cube to bring the voice of the minority to the masses. This needn’t require heavy-handed preaching; simply re-telling entertaining stories from the point of view of those oppressed can be enough to trigger discussion, generate empathy and remind us of injustices. This will always bring strong resistance from those benefiting from the desperate, but boldly persisting in defying the roles society assigns us offers hope, at least for a time.
"Once Upon A Time In The Projects"
Once upon a time in the projects, yo,
I damn near had to wreck a ho
I knocked on the door - "Who is it?"
“It's Ice Cube, come to pay a little visit to you
And what's up with the niggas in the parking lot?”
She said, “Fuck ‘em, ‘cause they get sparked a lot.”
I sat on the couch but it wasn't stable
And then I put my Nikes on the coffee table
Her brother came in he's into gangbanging
‘Cause he walked up and said, "What set you claiming?"
I don't bang I write the good rhymes
The whole scenery reminded me of good times
I don't like to feel that I'm put in a rut
By a young nigga that needs to pull his pants up
He threw up a set and then he was gone
I'm thinkin to myself, Wont this bitch bring her ass on.
Her mother came in with a joint in her mouth
and fired up the sess it was sess no doubt
She said, “Please excuse my house,” and all that
I said, “Yeah,” ‘cause I was buzzed from the contact
Lookin’ at a fucked up black and white
Her mom's bitching ‘cause the county check wasn't right
She had another brother that was three years old
And had a bad case of the runny nose
He asked me who I was then I had to pause
It smelled like he took a shit in his little drawers
I saw her sister who really needs her ass kicked
Only thirteen and already pregnant
I grabbed my forty out the bag and took a swig
‘Cause I was getting overwhelmed by BeBe Kids
They was runnin’ and playin’ and cussin’ and yellin’
and tellin’ and look at this young punk bailin’
I heard a knock on the door without the password
and her mom's got the 12 guage Mossberg
The nigga said "Yo, what's for sale?"
and the bitch came out with a bag of ya-yo
She made the drop and got the 20 dollars
from a smoked out fool with ring around the collar
The girl I was waiting for came out
I said, “Bitch, I didn't know this was a crack house!”
I got my coat and suddenly...
(Stop, the police, don’t move. Freeze, or I’ll kill ya!)
The cop busted in and had a Mac-10 pointed at my dome
and I said to myself once again it's on
He threw me on the carpet, and wasn't cuttin’ no slack
stomped on my head and put his knee in my back
First he tried to wrap me up, slap me up, rough me up
They couldn't do it so they cuffed me up
I said, “Fuck, how much abuse can a nigga take?
Hey yo, officer, you're making a big mistake!”
Since I had on a shirt that said I was dope
He thought I was selling base and couldn't hear my case
He said, “Get out of my face!” He musta had a grudge
His reply, “Tell that bullshit to the judge.”
The girl I was with wasn't saying nothin’
I said, “Hey yo, bitch, you better tell ‘em something.”
She started draggin’ and all of a sudden
we all got tossed in the patty wagon
Now I beat the rap, but that ain't the point
I had a warrant so I spent two weeks in the joint
Now the story you heard has one little object
Don't fuck with a bitch from the projects!
This disturbing reality is the backdrop for the most shocking thing I’d ever encountered in my 12 years of life, when, in seventh grade, I heard “Fuck Tha Police,” By NWA, being played through a boombox in the clay modeling area of the art room.
Upon hearing the unavoidable chorus, I wondered why anyone would say something like that. Simply listening to the verses reveals this song is about racial prejudice within the LA police enforcement and judicial system. More importantly, this song is a series of first-person accounts of what it is like to be a young black man living in the LA projects. As a young white man living in rural Iowa, I had literally no first-hand experience of police enforcement or the judicial system. One of my favorite television shows, however, had been Dukes of Hazzard, and so I sort of just figured cops were incompetent, unthreatening blowhards who ticketed bad drivers.
Public outcry protesting both the song and the band was loud and furious. The FBI sent the members of NWA a threatening letter accusing them of “advocating violence against and disrespect” for police officers. Parental Advisory stickers, which had been a compromised result of a 1985 Senate censorship hearing but had rarely been used, were suddenly omnipresent. (The first use of the sticker had been on Ice-T’s debut album in 1987.) It is extraordinarily important to recognize that, despite all the attention and backlash “Fuck Tha Police” received, nobody seemed at all concerned with investigating the LAPD or the California judicial system. The general public was shocked that this song was exposing their children to the f-word, not that this song was exposing racial injustice. It was deemed crucial that anger and violence should not leave the black neighborhoods; that was their problem… and their fault. When you peel away the layers, you find that the real concern was not to protect the children, but to silence the voice of the minority daring to speak against the unfair treatment they are receiving.
This wasn’t the first time I had encountered lyrics that shocked me. The first time was on a bus enroute to a little league baseball game, when I heard The Beatie Boys’…
“(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party!)”
You wake up late for school, man, you don't wanna go
You ask you mom, "Please?" but she still says, "No!"
You missed two classes and no homework
But your teacher preaches class like you're some kind of jerk
You gotta fight for your right to party
You pops caught you smoking and he said, "No way!"
That hypocrite smokes two packs a day
Man, living at home is such a drag
Now your mom threw away your best porno mag (Busted!)
You gotta fight for your right to party
Don't step out of this house if that's the clothes you're gonna wear
I'll kick you out of my home if you don't cut that hair
Your mom busted in and said, "What's that noise?"
Aw, mom you're just jealous- it's the Beastie Boys!
You gotta fight for your right to party
This asinine song encouraging teenage disobedience has no socially redeeming qualities. However, of all the songs on Beastie Boys debut album, Licensed to Ill (1986), this one is the least offensive. Some of them have a verse about shooting people followed by one about raping girls. The rest are about drinking, eating junk food and dealing with girls. “Paul Revere” even mentions cops: The sheriff's after me for what I did to his daughter- I did it like this, I did it like that, I did it with a whiffleball bat. Why didn’t anybody freak out about The Beastie Boys lyrics? They were hugely popular and influential while avoiding disparaging mass protests, threatening government letters or even a parental advisory sticker. They are also three Jewish kids from New York, so perhaps there couldn’t be more of an apples and oranges comparison.
Straight Outta Compton (1988) opens with the declaration, “You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.” Besides “Fuck Tha Police,” it contains songs that run the spectrum from “Parental Advisory Iz Advised” and “Express Yourself” to “Gangsta, Gangsta” and “Dope Man.” (Another highly controversial song, “A Bitch Iz A Bitch,” was a single added to the remastered version of Straight Outta Compton in 2002) Almost all of the lyrics on the album were written by O’Shea Jackson, using the pseudonym Ice Cube. His lyrics never quite go where you’d predict, for example “Dope Man” derides drug addicts. The characters in his songs almost always end up in prison. Ice Cube refuses to turn a blind eye to grim realities, and black on black violence is a central issue. Despite the grim subject matter, there is always wittiness in spades, and this is the key to NWA’s success. “Gangsta, Gangsta,” which is about a group of black kids driving around and terrorizing the neighborhood because they are bored, contains this gem:
Sweatin all the bitches in the biker shorts (but) we didn't get no play from the ladies- with six niggaz in a car, are you crazy?
One mustn’t lose perspective that Ice Cube is primarily an entertainer. He’s not a politician, physicist, psychologist or whatever- he’s a goddamn rapper. Ice Cube is a persona, a caricature played by a man named O’Shea Jackson. His lyrics weave freely between clowning and sincerity, gravitating toward whatever’s most entertaining. Ain’t nothin’ in life but to be legit- don’t quote me now; I ain’t said shit. He consistently defrays anyone from looking up to him as a role model, and makes it obvious that he’s exposing inner city violence as something to escape and not glorifying it.
Ice Cube’s lyrics contain a lot of tough talk and posturing, and while the outside world would cite that as a reason why they are baseless fiction to be ignored, in the inner city this is a necessary survival tactic. Street knowledge is basically the art of knowing how to handle yourself in a hostile environment. In the inner city, you have to wear a thick skin and retain a strong will to protect yourself from various pressures from people desperate to make a buck.
From 2000-2004, I lived in a neighborhood known as the “Iron Triangle” in Richmond, California. It was a close-knit community where knowing your neighbors was not an option but of the essence. During that same time, I was working late nights at a recording studio in the Tenderlon District in San Francisco, where I met and worked with dozens of rap artists, and playing avant-garde and experimental music in underground clubs in Oakland, including several centers run by the Black Panther party. In 2004, I moved to Oakland for a year. Those five years taught me a lot of lessons and showed me a lot of things, some of which would raise the hairs on the back of your neck. I will attest that to this day, when I feel threatened by someone or that they are trying to intimidate me, my first thought is to exclaim, I from fucking Oakland bitch; don’t even try an’ fuck wit’ me. Similarly, when I see a car driving down the street at five miles per hour, which is a frequent occurrence in the sleepy rural Iowa town in which I now reside, I still think, They either lookin’ to shoot or get shot. You never, ever act suspiciously in the ‘hood. You don’t want to look like a tourist. In Iowa, everyone basically acts like a tourist. Of course, they would likely have no idea what I mean by that, but it’s a convenient coincidence that the state’s name is an acronym for Idiots Out Wandering Around.
People in the inner city enjoy competition in a sporting sense. It is common to see men in open garages playing cards or families gathered around dominoes while cooking large meals together. This helps generate a strong bond of community. Gangs consist of a few greedy control freaks and a whole lot of teenagers desperate for a modicum of recognition and respect, but the vast majority of the community works hard to discourage gangs and remain safe. Moments of intense violence are borne from desperation, a lot of which relates to drugs, but also inner-turmoil stemming from deep-seated values of pride and familial loyalty. You don’t dare talk badly of anyone behind their back unless you are also willing to say it to their face. Speaking directly, decisively and frankly is expected and appreciated.
In contrast, people in Iowa tend to survive by being insular. They stay close to those they’ve known for years and try not to attract too much attention from outsiders. Iowans are not neighborly; in fact most prefer no or few neighbors. The degree to which Iowans will go to avoid communication or even eye contact with strangers in a public place is beyond impressive. Iowans are not used to handling stressors. They think traffic is a slow-moving vehicle (aka a tractor) that they’d need to pass to continue toward their destination at the speed limit. When confronted with any sort of direct challenge to any behavior, Iowans tend to completely lose their shit and respond with passive-aggressive immaturity and back-stabbing. As a result, Iowans are very suspicious of each other. People in Iowa enjoy staying in agreement and away from any competitive friction. They watch sports but don’t generally play them. They talk about the weather and how messed up the rest of the world is. Iowans think anything outside of their comfort zone sounds awful and is best avoided.
These culturally based ways of experiencing the world are mutually exclusive. No black person can go unnoticed in a rural Iowa town for the simple reason that there just aren’t that many people of color around here. An easy way to overwhelm an Iowan with panic and fear is to drop one in the ghetto. Even in places where it is more common, white people throughout the United States tend to be much more comfortable with blacks in isolation rather than in groups.
Iowans think, “If you don’t want trouble from the cops, don’t do anything illegal.” In the ‘hood, that assumption is straight up ign’ant. This assumption comes from experiences such as one that happened a few months ago, when a police officer in Iowa City hollered out the window at my white girlfriend while parked next to her at a stoplight that she had a headlight out. About a month ago, I was pulled over on a country road and given a warning for speeding, and as I drove off, I noticed I had three empty beer bottles sitting on my passenger seat which the officer didn’t inquire about. The fact that many are suddenly wondering the story behind the bottles illustrates my point perfectly. Two weeks ago, an officer in almost the same location flashed his lights at me to signal to slow down, and I obliged. I highly doubt any black person in America can relate to these experiences. Perhaps the biggest similarity between Oakland, California and the tiny towns littering Iowa is the main roads leading out of both are often hidden and unmarked. However, two other important shared traits are an appreciation for church and self-referential humor. One big difference is that if you talk shit about the ghetto to a hoodlum, it’s understood, but if you say anything bad about Iowa to an Iowan, heaven help you.
Part II
1990 was a world dominated by MC Hammer and The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, but it was also the debut of In Living Color on Fox, which shone like a ray of hope above anything on television featuring blacks. At first, I would watch it on Sunday nights in secret, not knowing whether it would be considered a bad influence. It laughed loudly at both the cultural treatment and media portrayal of skin color and race in America. Eventually, I used its sketches as starting points to instigate conversations about race relations, because the show seemed able to delineate the line between absurd and unacceptable.
1990 was also the year of Amerikkka’s Most Wanted, Ice Cube’s superb solo debut album produced by The Bomb Squad, best known for their work with Public Enemy. Many of the songs begin with sampled clips of mass media degrading American blacks and himself, contextualizing his lyrics as responses to and the result of white majority attitudes. A parody of himself being electrocuted after spouting the last words, “Fuck all ya’ll” is followed by a defiant rap that loudly mocks the claim that he’s the villain while drawing parallels between his lyrics and a drive-by shooting. He also demonstrates that the solutions are just as absurd as the problems.
"The Nigga Ya Love To Hate"
I heard payback's a motherfucking nigga
That's why I'm sick of gettin’ treated like a goddamn stepchild
Fuck a punk cause I ain't him
You gotta deal with the nine-double-M
The damn scum that you all hate
Just think if niggas decide to retaliate
They try to keep me from running up
I never tell you to get down it's all about coming up
So what they do go and ban the AK?
My shit wasn't registered any fucking way
So you better duck away, run and hide out
When I'm rolling real slow and the light’s out
‘Cause I'm about to fuck up the program
Shooting out the window of a drop-top Brougham
When I'm shooting let's see who drop
The police, the media and suckers that went pop
And motherfuckers that say they too black
Put ‘em overseas they be begging to come back
They say keep ‘em on gangs and drugs
You wanna sweep a nigga like me up under the rug
Kicking shit called street knowledge
Why more niggas in the pen than in college?
Now ‘cause of that line I might be your cellmate
That's from the nigga ya love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube!
Yeah, ha-ha, it's the nigga you love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube!
You know, baby, your mother warned you about me
It's the nigga you love to hate
Yo, you ain’t doing nothin’, pops
You ain’t doing nothin’, pops, fo’ us boys
What you got to say for yourself?
You don’t like how I'm living? Well, fuck you
Once again it's on, the motherfucking psycho
Ice Cube the bitch killa cap peeler
Yo runnin through the line like Bo
There's no pot to piss in I put my fist in
Now who do ya love to hate
‘Cause I talk shit and down the eight-ball
‘Cause I don't fake you're begging I fall off
The crossover might as well cut them balls off
And get your ass ready for the lynching
The mob is droppin’ common sense in
We'll gank in the pen
We’ll shank any Tom, Dick and Hank or get the ass
Fakin’ it ain't about how right or wrong you live
But how long you live
I ain't with the bullshit
I meet cold bitches no hoes
Don't wanna sleep so I keep popping No-Doz
And tell the young people what they gotta know
‘Cause I hate when niggas gotta live low
And if you're locked up I dedicate my style in
From San Quentin to Rykers Island
We got ‘em afraid of the funky shit
I like to clown so pump up the sound
In the jeep make the old ladies say
Oh my god wait it's the nigga ya love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube
Yeah, come on fool
It's the nigga you love to hate
(background voice) Fuck you, Ice Cube
Yeah, run up punk
It's the nigga you love to hate
(Yo-Yo) ‘Who the fuck do you think you are you calling girls bitches?
You ain't all that
That's all I hear, bitch, bitch
I ain't nobody's bitch!’
A bitch is a....
Soul Train done lost their soul
Just call it train cause the bitches look like hoes
I see a lotta others damn
It almost look like the Bandstand
You ask me did I like Arsenio?
About as much as the bicentennial
I don't give a fuck about dissing these fools ‘cause they all scared of the Ice Cube
And what I say what I portray and all that
And ain't even seen the gat
I don't wanna see no dancing
I'm sick of that shit listen to the hit
Cause yo if I look and see another brother
On the video tryin to out-dance each other
I'm a tell T-Bone to pass the bottle
And don't give me that shit about role model
It ain't wise to chastise and preach
Just open the eyes of each
‘Cause laws are made to be broken up
What niggas need to do is start loc’ing up
And build, mold and fold they-self into shape
Of the nigga ya love to hate
Throughout the album, Ice Cube loudly rejects the status quo and refuses to yield his perspective. He reminds the listeners he still hates cops. In a song featuring the annoying Flavor Flav called, “I’m Only Out For One Thang,” Ice Cube very subtlely admits that not having his voice silenced has become a high priority. From his NWA days, Ice Cube had frequently declared his motivations were “money and bitches.” This is patently offensive, but also jarringly honest. Imagine if everyone who was motivated by those things admitted it. He specifically says this to cynically demonstrate his shortcomings: In “Gangsta, Gangsta,” he writes, Do I look like a motherfuckin’ role model? To all the kids lookin’ up to me- life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money, which is juxtaposed by a KRS One sample in the chorus that says, It’s not about a salary, it’s all about reality. Anyway, in what sounds like an improvised throw-away outro of “I’m Only Out For One Thang,” Flavor Flav jokingly persists in asking Ice Cube to clarify what one thing he’s after and Ice Cube finally responds, I’m out for the pussy, the money and the mic. The humor reminiscent of Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition sketch is obvious, but even keeping that intact, any long-time listener would have anticipated his answer to be “bitches and money.” This makes the addition of “mic” stick out as a declaration that being able to speak whatever it is he has to say is an essential goal.
The rap genre as a whole, and Ice Cube specifically, have been heavily criticized for being misogynistic. This is somewhat justified and one factor is the cultural impact of outspoken black male-chauvinists like Louis Farrakhan. Amerikkka’s Most Wanted introduces a female rapper named Yo-Yo in a song which attempts to reconcile perspectives on gender. Ice Cube takes the role of someone who thinks women should serve men, and Yo-Yo insists women deserve equality and respect.
Yo-Yo would go on to put out at least three very good albums, one of which Ice Cube co-produced and rapped on, and when Ice Cube started his own record label in 1994, he put Yo-Yo in charge (according to wikipedia.org). Although she had moderate success, Yo-Yo somehow never became a huge hit like her male peers. This ugly fact demonstrates the accuracy with which Ice Cube successfully captures not only localized attitudes but those of America as a whole in his lyrics. Like Archie Bunker, Ice Cube is both entertaining and relevant because he is publicly echoing thoughts that are claimed to be outdated but many silently cling to.
On March 3, 1991, a black man named Rodney King was filmed being brutally beaten by several Los Angeles police officers while other police officers stood by. After this incident became the top news story, the members of NWA should have received a whole lot of letters of apology for having criticized and been insulted by their claims of police violence on blacks instead of giving them diligent consideration. Instead, a jury demonstrated it wasn’t that the claims weren’t believed, but that police violence on blacks was acceptable. Inaction in striving for equality of justice could no longer be blamed on ignorance, but wholly on apathy. Tom Brokaw’s frank assessment that “Outside the South Central area few cared about the violence, because it didn’t affect them,” which had been used as a sample on Amerikkka’s Most Wanted, was once again validated.
John Singleton’s directorial debut, Boyz N the Hood (1991), came to theaters almost immediately after the Rodney King video broke with the tagline, “Once upon a time in South Central L.A... It ain't no fairy tale.” The title is borrowed from the title of the Ice Cube penned song that became the impetus for forming NWA, and includes Ice Cube in his acting debut. Today, the movie comes off as clunky and dated, but it accelerated the cinematic concept introduced by Spike Lee of giving an uncensored portrayal of the challenges and obstacles faced by black teens in the projects in movies like the seemingly prophetic Do the Right Thing (1989).
Death Certificate (1991) and Predator (1992), Ice Cube’s second and third solo albums, are just as good as Amerikkka’s Most Wanted. He also helped introduce Del the Funky Homosapien and produced Da Lench Mob’s magnificent Guerillas in the Mist (1992). In 1992, he also married Kimberly Woodruff. They are still married and have four children. In late December 1992, so basically 1993, another former NWA member Dr. Dre, now signed to a label financed by a real-life gangster named Shug Knight, released his solo debut. Although Dre was the famous name on The Chronic, it showcased the talent of a young unknown named Snoop Doggy Dogg and acted both as an introduction and test market warm-up for Snoop Doggy Dogg’s Doggystyle (1993). Both of these albums are over-rated, but they had a ton of commercial success. The failure of Ice Cube’s fourth album, Lethal Injection (1993) was that he seemed to lose confidence that the stuff he had been doing in the years between NWA and The Chronic was way better than The Chronic.
Acting is possibly a better fit for what Ice Cube attempts to communicate than rap. For example, when you rap about being a drug dealer, people assume you’re a drug dealer, whereas when you play the role of a drug dealer in a movie, people realize you’re acting. Ice Cube is not an exceptional actor, but he exudes confidence in front of the camera. When he turned down the male lead in John Singleton’s second movie, Poetic Justice (1993), Ice Cube recommended another gifted songwriter named Tupac Shakur.
For two years, I was the Assistant Engineer for the engineer who had mixed Digital Underground’s self-titled breakthrough album, and he often recounted the quickness and ease with which Tupac could listen to a beat, write a verse of lyrics and rap those lyrics over the beat in such a way that you could never imagine one had ever existed without the other. It is unfortunate that those who have decided they don’t like rap music will never get to appreciate how much more advanced rap lyrics are than what is found in any other American musical style.
With the successful rap producer DJ Pooh, Ice Cube co-wrote the hugely-successful comedy Fridays (1995), which launched the acting career of stand-up comedian Chris Tucker, and two sequels. He would re-join the cast in Singleton’s third movie, Higher Learning (1995), which is a creepily poignant depiction of how gangs are formed.
Hopefully the day will come when American blacks are given the same recognition and respect as white Americans, but, until then, it will remain essential for people like Ice Cube to bring the voice of the minority to the masses. This needn’t require heavy-handed preaching; simply re-telling entertaining stories from the point of view of those oppressed can be enough to trigger discussion, generate empathy and remind us of injustices. This will always bring strong resistance from those benefiting from the desperate, but boldly persisting in defying the roles society assigns us offers hope, at least for a time.
"Once Upon A Time In The Projects"
Once upon a time in the projects, yo,
I damn near had to wreck a ho
I knocked on the door - "Who is it?"
“It's Ice Cube, come to pay a little visit to you
And what's up with the niggas in the parking lot?”
She said, “Fuck ‘em, ‘cause they get sparked a lot.”
I sat on the couch but it wasn't stable
And then I put my Nikes on the coffee table
Her brother came in he's into gangbanging
‘Cause he walked up and said, "What set you claiming?"
I don't bang I write the good rhymes
The whole scenery reminded me of good times
I don't like to feel that I'm put in a rut
By a young nigga that needs to pull his pants up
He threw up a set and then he was gone
I'm thinkin to myself, Wont this bitch bring her ass on.
Her mother came in with a joint in her mouth
and fired up the sess it was sess no doubt
She said, “Please excuse my house,” and all that
I said, “Yeah,” ‘cause I was buzzed from the contact
Lookin’ at a fucked up black and white
Her mom's bitching ‘cause the county check wasn't right
She had another brother that was three years old
And had a bad case of the runny nose
He asked me who I was then I had to pause
It smelled like he took a shit in his little drawers
I saw her sister who really needs her ass kicked
Only thirteen and already pregnant
I grabbed my forty out the bag and took a swig
‘Cause I was getting overwhelmed by BeBe Kids
They was runnin’ and playin’ and cussin’ and yellin’
and tellin’ and look at this young punk bailin’
I heard a knock on the door without the password
and her mom's got the 12 guage Mossberg
The nigga said "Yo, what's for sale?"
and the bitch came out with a bag of ya-yo
She made the drop and got the 20 dollars
from a smoked out fool with ring around the collar
The girl I was waiting for came out
I said, “Bitch, I didn't know this was a crack house!”
I got my coat and suddenly...
(Stop, the police, don’t move. Freeze, or I’ll kill ya!)
The cop busted in and had a Mac-10 pointed at my dome
and I said to myself once again it's on
He threw me on the carpet, and wasn't cuttin’ no slack
stomped on my head and put his knee in my back
First he tried to wrap me up, slap me up, rough me up
They couldn't do it so they cuffed me up
I said, “Fuck, how much abuse can a nigga take?
Hey yo, officer, you're making a big mistake!”
Since I had on a shirt that said I was dope
He thought I was selling base and couldn't hear my case
He said, “Get out of my face!” He musta had a grudge
His reply, “Tell that bullshit to the judge.”
The girl I was with wasn't saying nothin’
I said, “Hey yo, bitch, you better tell ‘em something.”
She started draggin’ and all of a sudden
we all got tossed in the patty wagon
Now I beat the rap, but that ain't the point
I had a warrant so I spent two weeks in the joint
Now the story you heard has one little object
Don't fuck with a bitch from the projects!
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Life Without
I don’t have particularly strong feelings regarding grocery shopping- I look at it as a necessary task, like washing dishes or taking out the trash. These things approach miserable only when postponed for too long. What I don’t like doing is price-checking, keeping track of coupons or haggling. I tend to go through a process of taste-testing every brand of a particular product and then insisting on purchasing the one I like best. If it’s out of stock, I tend to not purchase anything rather than substitute a brand I’ve already tried and don’t like.
My girlfriend and I are both vegetarians, and I usually do the shopping for both of us. We exclusively make home-cooked meals. I am competent at cooking a few things and she is quite good at a wide range of dishes. Our bill for food, beverages and toiletries, which also includes food for a large dog and food and litter for two cats, averages $128/week or $18.25/day. She thinks that’s a lot, but it doesn’t seem overly luxurious to me.
For some reason, I always seem to come home from the store with one incorrect item; something similar to what I intended to purchase but with overlooked fine (but usually large and prominent) print. Actual examples include: Pomegranate red wine vinegar instead of red wine vinegar, instant oatmeal instead of oatmeal, sweet onions instead of yellow onions, diet juice and juice drink instead of juice, stewed tomatoes instead of roasted tomatoes, diced green chiles instead of whole green chiles… the list goes on but you get the idea. “In our most trivial walks, we are constantly, though unconsciously, steering like pilots by certain well-known beacons and headlands, and if we go beyond our usual course we still carry in our minds the bearing of some neighboring cape; and not till we are completely lost, or turned round, –for a man needs only to be turned round once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost, –do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of Nature.” –Henry David Thoreau, Walden
I dislike wasting food, and nearly always eat leftovers up until I can see mold growing. Actually, if it’s bread or cheese, I’ve been known to keep eating it after cutting the moldy parts off. “Yet, for my part, I was never unusually squeamish; I could sometimes eat a fried rat with a good relish, if it were necessary.” –Ibid.
I lived from ages 4-12 on an acreage where we raised our own crops, chickens and pigs and fostered horses. We got free hot school lunches and sometimes waited in line for big bricks of American cheese. I recently saw one of the boxes that cheese came in at a thrift store and found it very nostalgic. We shopped for toiletries and other things we didn’t produce ourselves at a strange warehouse full of damaged boxes. If there was an unopened box of something you wanted you simply found a box-cutter and got it out. I had a nice childhood. I mostly pretended to be a super hero while running around the farm or driving on the lawn mower. We went to the library once a week. I got a lot of Star Wars and G.I. Joe figures each birthday and Christmas and saved my $1-2/week allowance to buy G.I. Joe vehicles and a Swiss Army knife. We went on a one-week vacation once a year and frequently camped on weekends. I guess that’s why I’ve never been bothered by being poor. “In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we live simply and wisely.” –Ibid.
The other thing is; I feel the only ways to gain financial success are by working too much, getting lucky or being unethical. “The ways by which you may get money almost without exception lead downward.” –Thoreau, Life Without Principle
My parents taught me, by example, to value industriousness, dedication and self-sufficiency. I was also taught that conformity is a bad thing, which I’ve since discovered is rather unique. America reveres the rebel, the defining characteristic of which is a willingness to intentionally make mistakes, and Americans go to great lengths to attempt to emulate the non-conformist aesthetic. We even appreciate independent thinkers as long as they are venture capitalists. But having the integrity to not go along or agree with others is heavily frowned upon in our society. There’s this episode of South Park where Stan decides to rebel, and joins up with a group of Goth kids after they advise, “If you want to be one of the non-conformists, all you have to do is dress just like us and listen to the same music we do.” In Hollywood, the outcast invariably aspires to become popular. Why is their rebel always insecure? I suggest it’s because they are considered nothing more than consumers.
Last night I watched Into The Wild (2007) and absolutely loved it. I remember not wanting to watch it when it came out, whining, “Oh boy, another drama about a Trustafarian kid looking like James Dean who runs off into the woods to “discover” himself- how original.” Considering my favorite book around third grade was My Side of the Mountain, I didn’t feel like I needed to see it.
Even as a child, I understood that not jumping on bandwagons, thinking with clarity, knowing how to survive alone and, perhaps most importantly, not caring whether other people liked you or not, were all part of being a true individual. Anybody motivated to impress, whether by obstinacy, audacity or originality, is a bullshitter. The non-conformist’s beliefs and actions are completely independent of others, which sometimes means doing or enjoying something despite its popularity. Demonstrating empathy can, and should, also be part of that equation; indeed that discovery in itself requires individualism, considering how heavily lobbied we are to be selfish. “I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account; for beside that before he has fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself, I desire that there be as many different persons in the world as possible; but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead.” –Thoreau, Walden
An interesting choice is made in the movie that, because my favorite book is, in fact, Walden, stuck out to me like a sore thumb. The lead actor “paraphrases” (to quote the term he uses in the movie) Thoreau, and alludes to his line, “Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth,” but, in between love and money, he adds “faith.” WHAT? Are you fucking telling me you are going to misquote a tribute to truth? Oh, the irony. That occurrence profoundly illustrates the difficulty inherent to discovering truth- we are constantly compelled to twist it to conform to our desires. “Most with whom you endeavor to talk soon come to a stand against some institution in which they appear to hold stock, that is, some particular, not universal, way of viewing things.” –Thoreau, Life Without Principle
Perhaps the author or screenwriter intended to reflect that the main character did not realize truth without faith is unattainable, but surely that’s giving him or her too much credit and it was really just added to portray the character as an atheist and confusing atheism for nihilism. Either way, it instead portrays Thoreau as a bloviating fool. His works are already taken out of context enough as it is; afterall, his essay about economic living and enjoying simplicity within walking distance of a thriving metropolitan area is somehow taken as encouragement to run off into the wilderness and eat poison berries.
I recently spent a couple weeks unemployed. The only income I managed to gather came through selling some practically worthless items on ebay. As I had gotten rid of nearly every superfluous thing I own just over two years ago, I didn’t have much to sell. This made me contemplate the concept of needs versus wants, and how there is such a huge subjective gray area between them. It really irks me how loosely the phrase, “I have to have this!” is thrown around. I have, throughout the years, managed to scrape together the funds for indulgences such as three meals per day, hot running water, contact lenses, a used vehicle and gently used thrift store jeans. It’s been a long time since I’ve purchased a new outerwear item, but if underwear is any indication, it’s way over-priced. I think Levis are a bit of a rip-off at $5.38 and I only buy a pair or two per year.
Some things others might consider needs that I have seldom, if ever, been able to afford include doctor and dental check-ups, haircuts and television. I am fortunate to have been gifted the two computers I have owned. I can stretch a one-year contact prescription to three. I am very grateful that free public libraries exist. I long ago gave up purchasing superfluous items like hair conditioner and after-shave. I’ve never owned a vehicle with working air conditioning, and only seldom one that retained windshield washer fluid. I feel like these trivial sacrifices are pretty familiar ones to a lot of people, and yet, I feel like a lot of people are embarrassed by having to make them. That, to me, is the sad part. Shouldn’t those wastefully indulging in every little thing while lacking the capacity to imagine how they could survive without them be the ones who are ashamed? “No man ever stood the lower in my estimation for having a patch in his clothes; yet I am sure that there is greater anxiety, commonly, to have fashionable, or at least clean and unpatched clothes, than to have a sound conscience.” –Thoreau, Walden
Admittedly, a lot of these concessions have been made in order to save money for tattoos, which is ridiculous and shows how un-destitute I actually am. “If within the sophisticated man there is not an unsophisticated one, then he is but one of the devil’s angels.” –Thoreau, Life Without Principle
One fortuitous happenstance is that my unemployment coincided with my tax return, which I used to pay off the remainder of my debt. This had been incurred in December of 2009 due to plane ticket purchases coinciding with unanticipated vehicle repairs. I am very thankful I don’t have school loans, car loans or a mortgage to repay. I loathe indebtedness; it is a euphemism for indentured servitude. “Cold and hunger seem more friendly to my nature than those methods which men have adopted and advise to ward them off.” –Ibid.
Several years ago, struggling to make ends meet while living in Oakland, I walked to the mainstream grocery store across the street after work to get what I could to survive on until payday with the $20 I had left to my name. I usually got my food from the dented, damaged and expired store, but it was a bit out of the way. Among the few items I had decided to get was peanut butter, but the only brand this store sold that didn’t contain added sugar was a large jar that was over $6. I really do not care for sugar, but mulled over the options for several minutes pondering whether it was worth spending the extra money to avoid it. I decided to stand by my culinary laurels and splurge, and after receiving mere cents back from the clerk, I walked out of the store and down the sidewalk toward my car parked a few blocks away. Suddenly, I heard a crack, and looked down to see that jar of peanut butter spilling onto the sidewalk. My bag had ripped and the glass jar had shattered. I contemplated turning the jar upside-down and salvaging what I could, but quickly realized it was full of shards. The realization that I no longer had enough money to buy even the cheap, sugar-laden option hit me like bricks and I began to sob. I felt as if my entire existence was worth less than that broken jar. I thought about returning to the store and asking for a replacement, but it didn’t seem right to try and hold them responsible for my carelessness. I scooped what I could into a nearby trash can and went home.
Some months later, I moved to Portland, Oregon. I anticipated this would lead to new musical opportunities and had compiled a list of musicians to meet when I arrived, several of which were scheduled to perform at an event space a week after fitting all the belongings I could into my station wagon and driving ten hours to live with some guy I’d met on Craigslist who immediately scolded me for showing up while he was eating dinner. Traveling expenses, rent and deposit meant I would have no money at all while desperately looking for a job. Admission to this event space gig was $6, which I hoped would pay off in musician contacts possibly leading to gig bookings, etc. I still had an ash-tray full of coins in my Saturn reserved for paying parking meters in the Bay Area, and I fished $6 out of it, which ended up being mostly nickels and dimes, as any quarters that had been there had already served their purpose. I then apologetically dumped this pile of change onto the card-table at the entrance. The girl working the cash-box, I’d soon learn, was named Whitney. We would become friends and hang out often for the next several months until she moved to New York City, and is among the most genuine, generous, kind-hearted, non-judgmental and, as an aside, talented persons I have ever met.
I guess all this is to say I feel very grateful that I now have two jobs. I am lucky to be able to drive to a store and purchase food. We have a small garden that produces things like basil to make pesto with all summer. My girlfriend taught me how to make pretty phenomenal pesto. Perhaps most of all, I am glad that I don’t have to look very far to realize there are many things more important than recognition, money and the like. “The ways in which most men get their living, that is, live, are merely make-shifts, and a shirking of the real business of life- chiefly because they do not know, but partly because they do not mean, any better.” –Ibid.
My girlfriend and I are both vegetarians, and I usually do the shopping for both of us. We exclusively make home-cooked meals. I am competent at cooking a few things and she is quite good at a wide range of dishes. Our bill for food, beverages and toiletries, which also includes food for a large dog and food and litter for two cats, averages $128/week or $18.25/day. She thinks that’s a lot, but it doesn’t seem overly luxurious to me.
For some reason, I always seem to come home from the store with one incorrect item; something similar to what I intended to purchase but with overlooked fine (but usually large and prominent) print. Actual examples include: Pomegranate red wine vinegar instead of red wine vinegar, instant oatmeal instead of oatmeal, sweet onions instead of yellow onions, diet juice and juice drink instead of juice, stewed tomatoes instead of roasted tomatoes, diced green chiles instead of whole green chiles… the list goes on but you get the idea. “In our most trivial walks, we are constantly, though unconsciously, steering like pilots by certain well-known beacons and headlands, and if we go beyond our usual course we still carry in our minds the bearing of some neighboring cape; and not till we are completely lost, or turned round, –for a man needs only to be turned round once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost, –do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of Nature.” –Henry David Thoreau, Walden
I dislike wasting food, and nearly always eat leftovers up until I can see mold growing. Actually, if it’s bread or cheese, I’ve been known to keep eating it after cutting the moldy parts off. “Yet, for my part, I was never unusually squeamish; I could sometimes eat a fried rat with a good relish, if it were necessary.” –Ibid.
I lived from ages 4-12 on an acreage where we raised our own crops, chickens and pigs and fostered horses. We got free hot school lunches and sometimes waited in line for big bricks of American cheese. I recently saw one of the boxes that cheese came in at a thrift store and found it very nostalgic. We shopped for toiletries and other things we didn’t produce ourselves at a strange warehouse full of damaged boxes. If there was an unopened box of something you wanted you simply found a box-cutter and got it out. I had a nice childhood. I mostly pretended to be a super hero while running around the farm or driving on the lawn mower. We went to the library once a week. I got a lot of Star Wars and G.I. Joe figures each birthday and Christmas and saved my $1-2/week allowance to buy G.I. Joe vehicles and a Swiss Army knife. We went on a one-week vacation once a year and frequently camped on weekends. I guess that’s why I’ve never been bothered by being poor. “In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we live simply and wisely.” –Ibid.
The other thing is; I feel the only ways to gain financial success are by working too much, getting lucky or being unethical. “The ways by which you may get money almost without exception lead downward.” –Thoreau, Life Without Principle
My parents taught me, by example, to value industriousness, dedication and self-sufficiency. I was also taught that conformity is a bad thing, which I’ve since discovered is rather unique. America reveres the rebel, the defining characteristic of which is a willingness to intentionally make mistakes, and Americans go to great lengths to attempt to emulate the non-conformist aesthetic. We even appreciate independent thinkers as long as they are venture capitalists. But having the integrity to not go along or agree with others is heavily frowned upon in our society. There’s this episode of South Park where Stan decides to rebel, and joins up with a group of Goth kids after they advise, “If you want to be one of the non-conformists, all you have to do is dress just like us and listen to the same music we do.” In Hollywood, the outcast invariably aspires to become popular. Why is their rebel always insecure? I suggest it’s because they are considered nothing more than consumers.
Last night I watched Into The Wild (2007) and absolutely loved it. I remember not wanting to watch it when it came out, whining, “Oh boy, another drama about a Trustafarian kid looking like James Dean who runs off into the woods to “discover” himself- how original.” Considering my favorite book around third grade was My Side of the Mountain, I didn’t feel like I needed to see it.
Even as a child, I understood that not jumping on bandwagons, thinking with clarity, knowing how to survive alone and, perhaps most importantly, not caring whether other people liked you or not, were all part of being a true individual. Anybody motivated to impress, whether by obstinacy, audacity or originality, is a bullshitter. The non-conformist’s beliefs and actions are completely independent of others, which sometimes means doing or enjoying something despite its popularity. Demonstrating empathy can, and should, also be part of that equation; indeed that discovery in itself requires individualism, considering how heavily lobbied we are to be selfish. “I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account; for beside that before he has fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself, I desire that there be as many different persons in the world as possible; but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead.” –Thoreau, Walden
An interesting choice is made in the movie that, because my favorite book is, in fact, Walden, stuck out to me like a sore thumb. The lead actor “paraphrases” (to quote the term he uses in the movie) Thoreau, and alludes to his line, “Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth,” but, in between love and money, he adds “faith.” WHAT? Are you fucking telling me you are going to misquote a tribute to truth? Oh, the irony. That occurrence profoundly illustrates the difficulty inherent to discovering truth- we are constantly compelled to twist it to conform to our desires. “Most with whom you endeavor to talk soon come to a stand against some institution in which they appear to hold stock, that is, some particular, not universal, way of viewing things.” –Thoreau, Life Without Principle
Perhaps the author or screenwriter intended to reflect that the main character did not realize truth without faith is unattainable, but surely that’s giving him or her too much credit and it was really just added to portray the character as an atheist and confusing atheism for nihilism. Either way, it instead portrays Thoreau as a bloviating fool. His works are already taken out of context enough as it is; afterall, his essay about economic living and enjoying simplicity within walking distance of a thriving metropolitan area is somehow taken as encouragement to run off into the wilderness and eat poison berries.
I recently spent a couple weeks unemployed. The only income I managed to gather came through selling some practically worthless items on ebay. As I had gotten rid of nearly every superfluous thing I own just over two years ago, I didn’t have much to sell. This made me contemplate the concept of needs versus wants, and how there is such a huge subjective gray area between them. It really irks me how loosely the phrase, “I have to have this!” is thrown around. I have, throughout the years, managed to scrape together the funds for indulgences such as three meals per day, hot running water, contact lenses, a used vehicle and gently used thrift store jeans. It’s been a long time since I’ve purchased a new outerwear item, but if underwear is any indication, it’s way over-priced. I think Levis are a bit of a rip-off at $5.38 and I only buy a pair or two per year.
Some things others might consider needs that I have seldom, if ever, been able to afford include doctor and dental check-ups, haircuts and television. I am fortunate to have been gifted the two computers I have owned. I can stretch a one-year contact prescription to three. I am very grateful that free public libraries exist. I long ago gave up purchasing superfluous items like hair conditioner and after-shave. I’ve never owned a vehicle with working air conditioning, and only seldom one that retained windshield washer fluid. I feel like these trivial sacrifices are pretty familiar ones to a lot of people, and yet, I feel like a lot of people are embarrassed by having to make them. That, to me, is the sad part. Shouldn’t those wastefully indulging in every little thing while lacking the capacity to imagine how they could survive without them be the ones who are ashamed? “No man ever stood the lower in my estimation for having a patch in his clothes; yet I am sure that there is greater anxiety, commonly, to have fashionable, or at least clean and unpatched clothes, than to have a sound conscience.” –Thoreau, Walden
Admittedly, a lot of these concessions have been made in order to save money for tattoos, which is ridiculous and shows how un-destitute I actually am. “If within the sophisticated man there is not an unsophisticated one, then he is but one of the devil’s angels.” –Thoreau, Life Without Principle
One fortuitous happenstance is that my unemployment coincided with my tax return, which I used to pay off the remainder of my debt. This had been incurred in December of 2009 due to plane ticket purchases coinciding with unanticipated vehicle repairs. I am very thankful I don’t have school loans, car loans or a mortgage to repay. I loathe indebtedness; it is a euphemism for indentured servitude. “Cold and hunger seem more friendly to my nature than those methods which men have adopted and advise to ward them off.” –Ibid.
Several years ago, struggling to make ends meet while living in Oakland, I walked to the mainstream grocery store across the street after work to get what I could to survive on until payday with the $20 I had left to my name. I usually got my food from the dented, damaged and expired store, but it was a bit out of the way. Among the few items I had decided to get was peanut butter, but the only brand this store sold that didn’t contain added sugar was a large jar that was over $6. I really do not care for sugar, but mulled over the options for several minutes pondering whether it was worth spending the extra money to avoid it. I decided to stand by my culinary laurels and splurge, and after receiving mere cents back from the clerk, I walked out of the store and down the sidewalk toward my car parked a few blocks away. Suddenly, I heard a crack, and looked down to see that jar of peanut butter spilling onto the sidewalk. My bag had ripped and the glass jar had shattered. I contemplated turning the jar upside-down and salvaging what I could, but quickly realized it was full of shards. The realization that I no longer had enough money to buy even the cheap, sugar-laden option hit me like bricks and I began to sob. I felt as if my entire existence was worth less than that broken jar. I thought about returning to the store and asking for a replacement, but it didn’t seem right to try and hold them responsible for my carelessness. I scooped what I could into a nearby trash can and went home.
Some months later, I moved to Portland, Oregon. I anticipated this would lead to new musical opportunities and had compiled a list of musicians to meet when I arrived, several of which were scheduled to perform at an event space a week after fitting all the belongings I could into my station wagon and driving ten hours to live with some guy I’d met on Craigslist who immediately scolded me for showing up while he was eating dinner. Traveling expenses, rent and deposit meant I would have no money at all while desperately looking for a job. Admission to this event space gig was $6, which I hoped would pay off in musician contacts possibly leading to gig bookings, etc. I still had an ash-tray full of coins in my Saturn reserved for paying parking meters in the Bay Area, and I fished $6 out of it, which ended up being mostly nickels and dimes, as any quarters that had been there had already served their purpose. I then apologetically dumped this pile of change onto the card-table at the entrance. The girl working the cash-box, I’d soon learn, was named Whitney. We would become friends and hang out often for the next several months until she moved to New York City, and is among the most genuine, generous, kind-hearted, non-judgmental and, as an aside, talented persons I have ever met.
I guess all this is to say I feel very grateful that I now have two jobs. I am lucky to be able to drive to a store and purchase food. We have a small garden that produces things like basil to make pesto with all summer. My girlfriend taught me how to make pretty phenomenal pesto. Perhaps most of all, I am glad that I don’t have to look very far to realize there are many things more important than recognition, money and the like. “The ways in which most men get their living, that is, live, are merely make-shifts, and a shirking of the real business of life- chiefly because they do not know, but partly because they do not mean, any better.” –Ibid.
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