Jaded Robots, Let’s Just Watch Something With Dancing

Some thoughts.

1.) I need to find out who Tucker Max is or Tucker Carlson, or whatever his name is.  I keep getting his name confused with that teeny bop movie that came awhile ago, called something like “Tucker so and so must die.”

2.) As we are talking about the firecracker–the need to know and judge the artifacts of our world, I got to chomping on why I get so defensive about the cultural things I love–the way I can get nauseated and sweaty when somebody else claims ownership or appreciation of something that I am a strong fan of.  I get hotly protective when somebody starts yapping about something that particularly touched my life, and yet I know many of these things touch many peoples lives, and are classics.  But, it’s always important to my sense of self and ego that it touched me more specially than anybody else–that it was mine.  I think this comes from what we want from our inspirations.  We love them–love them to the point where our chests feel like bursting and we are so happy to have this beautiful thing in our lives, it hurts, it makes our life better, beautiful even.  We have found love.  And we want it to love us back, to be monogamous, and to appreciate and receive our specific attentions.  And so, it hurts when we find out our lover has been giving itself away to any other stranger that stumbled into its pages, harmonies, films, etc.

And then the other panic arises–the one that screams that as a lover, and mind, you are not individual, but actually part of a huge demographic that goes gaga in the exact same way you do. We are no longer on intimate terms with the object, but now part of a throng.  There is no way to be loved distinctly back.

I like the idea here that if I could let the ego go (which I can’t–it’s ferocious) and share the appreciation with others, it would be a more creative and restorative approach to these cultural artifacts that wind me up so much.  To share the work of the lover with the other lovers might ultimately be more rewarding than trying to squeeze something from the thing itself (to be the most authentic fan, to get noticed, to work with, to have holy communion with, I don’t know).  I also like the idea that the more fans that attach to these things the wider the door for appreciation becomes–expansive instead of the grabby.  Artistic and creative instead of all-knowing and approval seeking.   It’s the old possession versus creation aspect of love–lover and beloved.

But how did I get here? I meant to talk about other things.  I think it is because the cultural denizens (am I using this word correctly?) I have met always outrage me when they hate something because it is popular, and then I go and do the same thing about something else.  They love their mantle of cultural explorer and use up many calories defending it.  Chunklet (a music/culture mishmash rooted in Georgia) has this great character called Jaded Robot that represents that kind of unimpressed guy voice which covers that entire field of blazing opinions without actually engaging.  The faux sophisticate. I don’t think this is what our firecracker friends are, but it is part of the conversation, no?

Okay–back to business: do you still have Netflix? If so, I offer “Pocketful of Miracles” as our cinematic jaunt.  Bette Davis plays a homeless woman, and it looks like there is a grand charade where everybody has to pretend they are royalty.  If no Netflix, we will reconfigure our plan of idle attack.

As for your firecracker–yes, gunpowder.  Some of them are for real–and here I wonder if the attention to the cultural artifacts is from the access to definition it offers–the control of identity and place and knowledge of the world that such cataloging offers?

I have yammered so long, but your thoughts made me pause, and made me ache a little bit, and made me want some silly movie to watch (I wonder, is this our own way of engaging in this judgy judgy game, or since we do it with play in mind, are we the lovelier animal in all ways?)  The answer is yes, methinks.

Why did I stop numbering my thoughts halfway through?