Anti-Social Social Media

 

They call it "social media," but it really ain't!

(That's the extent of my daily allotment of folksy verbiage!)

Of course, that is not a new observation.  Contemporary media pundits have been making this observation for some time, so I am not saying anything new.  I guess you can consider this just my personal declaration of social media liberation.  

Well, that is my hope, anyway.  

Trump is No Nixon

There is no greater indicator of just how low President Donald Trump has sunk than to realize that he has, somehow, incredibly, made former President Richard Nixon seem like an admirable leader by comparison.   How did it come to this?

I refer, of course, to President Trump's dreadful handling of the civil unrest gripping American cities.  With the death of George Floyd at the hand of what were, at a minimum, callously stupid police officers, protests have erupted across the nation, and rightly so.  Unfortunately for the president, these protests are finding rich soil in the record unemployment rate the nation is experiencing in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic.  People, without jobs, without schools, and even without basic entertainment venues such as movie theaters, have more than ample free time to take to the streets and engage in some civil activism, hence the massive crowds.  Of course, as with any mass movement, opportunists - thugs, anarchists, professional troublemakers - have attempted to capitalize on the disorder, resulting in those unfortunate accounts of looting, general hooliganism, and sadly, even assaults upon the police themselves.  

In this dangerously unstable situation that America is now facing, there is an urgent need for a steady hand at the tiller of government.  Sadly, this is not what we now have.  

Reading Albert Camus' "The Plague" During a Time of Pestilence

A Plague of Dragons, by Justin Gerard

Like a lot of people, my reading list is determined by various factors.  Mood, certainly.  Passing fancies?  Absolutely.  Even current events can be the nudge that suddenly pushes a title to the top of my reading list.  Hence, Albert Camus' The Plague.  Yeah, yeah: this was the book to read during the past months of pestilence in America, so I wasn't doing anything unique.  Be that as it may, having now read it, I am much wiser for the experience as Camus description of an unremarkable town gripped by plague served to bring understanding to events I witnessed during America's trial by virus.

Hmm.  "...Past months of pestilence in America."  Those are words I never thought I would have cause to write.  What a remarkable thing to experience in the high-tech 21st Century world.  As we lounged in the comfort we conjured from our domination of the material world, we thought we were masters of all we surveyed.  Pride goeth before the fall, as the old adage warns, and indeed our pride as wizards of the biological world would in the early months of 2020 take a mighty blow.  An old enemy - mankind's oldest enemy, in fact - would reveal itself as being still fit for battle and ready to take advantage of the modern world's complacency.  Plague had returned, much to the astonishment of its soon-to-be victims.

Coincidentally, the propensity of mankind to be taken unawares by plague is precisely what Albert Camus observed in the opening moments of his novel, The Plague:

"Everybody knows that pestilences have a way of reoccurring in the world; yet somehow we find it hard to believe in ones that crash down on our heads from out of a blue sky.

Why are people always so surprised by its return?  

Summer Arthouse: "The Swimmer"

Everybody has their favorite summer flick.  Those of a nautical bent usually prefer "Jaws" or "The Shallows,"  while hydrophobic landlubbers usually gravitate towards drier fare, such as "Summer Rental" or "Fiddler on the Roof."  For me, a movie can't be properly considered "summer" without referencing the quintessential suburban experience of dipping into a swimming pool to escape a hot summer day.  With that proviso in mind, one of my favorite summer movies has to be Frank and Eleanor Perry's The Swimmer. 

Reviewed: Netflix's "Love Death + Robots"

Whenever I watch some Netflix original production, I am reminded of the words of Omar Bradley who chided the world for being one of "nuclear giants and ethical infants."  Much the same is going on in the world of contemporary entertainment where CGI giants and narrative midgets abound.  Tim Miller and David Fincher's Love Death + Robots is a perfect example.  While each of the eighteen episodes is brought to spectacular life with some truly astounding animation, the vast majority of the narratives are rather, well, juvenile.

Why "Ready Player One" Should Have Won Best Picture at the Academy Awards

If a bunch of celebrities throws themselves a self-congratulatory awards party and nobody watches, did it really happen?  Well, yes it did - reality isn't contingent on paying attention.  But when you are an entertainer, the only thing that really matters is people paying attention to your antics.  So, in the case of last night's desultory Academy Awards, I believe it might as well not have happened as last night's farce suffered the second-lowest viewership of all time (it was only eclipsed by 2017's comically bad lineup of talent and movies).

Now, why do I bring this up in a posting about Ready Player One?  Frankly, I consider this classic bit of Spielbergian escapism to be more deserving of a Best Picture award than any of last night's nominees.  Mind you, I am not saying this because I thought RPO was a great movie - it wasn't.  At best I would say it was a feel-good fluff movie of middling merit.  However, unlike last night's sorry lineup, it is a movie that will prove to have far more enduring popularity and value than anything on display last night.

"Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar

This poem, written by Paul Laurence Dunbar, was the inspiration for Maya Angelou's poem "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings." Honestly, I find it superior. 

Sympathy

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!