Are You Ready for Christmas?

People slyly asking each other if they’re ready for Christmas is one of the strangest social interactions out there.

It happened to me this morning as I went through a drive-thru. “Are you all ready for Christmas?” the well-intentioned woman asked me. And I, like the confused sheep I am said, “Yes”, took my change and moved toward window number two.

Which is one way to do it. It’s the best method to politely shut down the conversation before it can really rev into high gear. A high gear which oddly would further enrage the people behind me who are at a stand-still. It was gentle and kind and, although perhaps not as engaging as other options, it met the minimum standard and we both were able to move on with our feelings neither particularly nurtured, nor in any way hurt.

Another way is to do an exaggerated eye-roll, heave a comically despairing sigh and say the equivalent of, “Oh, don’t remind me! I’m always rushing up to the last minute!” whereupon both parties can exchange a sympathetic glance, perhaps a chuckle, and walk away satisfied. The inquisitor smug and well-pleased in how much better organized they are than their fellow man, and the respondent confident that they have fulfilled their role in a delicate seasonal dance; they have created a brief connection with (usually) a stranger by revealing a tiny amount of vulnerability, a slight character flaw, to another human being thereby creating a bond that is made and broken in an instant.

It’s all the satisfaction of an emotionally intimate relationship wound into a few seconds and then released into the ether with no accompanying feelings of loss. It’s a little shot of Christmas dopamine cheer during a time of considerable stress, worry and busyness which often and ironically has the effect of disconnecting people from each other.

The third way to tackle the “Are you ready for Christmas” question is to break into a bold laugh and gleefully explain how you always leave everything to the last minute and run around like crazy on Christmas Eve.

This is the worst response.

If people like this individual where in charge, we would live in a world of chaos. Social programs would crumble. The economy would be non-existent. There would be anarchy as infrastructure collapsed under the control of deranged gangs possessed by dangerous devil-may-care demons who render them unable to even organize the procurement of a few supplies for an event they know is going to happen at the same time every year. Worse yet, they embrace their debilitating affliction with a wanton acceptance. They are insane members (barely) of society who know they’re insane and actively celebrate, and perpetuate their instability.

But what was the woman at the drive-thru actually asking? Was she genuinely concerned about my ability to provide sustenance and (one might hope) some gifts as a physical manifestation of the love I feel for family and friends?

Or was she in fact asking, “Are you a functioning member of society who can use past experiences to predict future events? Are you capable, upon recognizing them, of coming to terms with those eventualities, regardless of their outcome, and of reacting in a way that not only allows you to merge your behaviour seamlessly with those around you, but also enables you to contribute in a beneficial way to the greater good, no matter what pre-destined outcomes await?”

Was she asking me at 8:30 this morning, “Are you ready for Christmas? Are you ready for death?”

Historical Facks - The Spanish Inquisition - Part 1

That wacky Mediterranean shindig of 1478 that we call the Spanish Inquisition was the brainchild of Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile who ruled Spain at the time. Fergie and Izzy were becoming somewhat alarmed and despondent at what they perceived to be heresy against the Catholic Church which was not having a particularly good time of it, what with Henry VIII marrying every broad he could find and Dan Brown, y’know, being a thing.

So, anyway, the Inquisition ran on CBS from 1478 all the way up until July 15, 1834 when the series was canned to make way for "I Love Lucy". Although, the last person believed to have been executed by the Inquisition was bumped off back in 1826 so… whatcha done lately?

But now we need details, and, like any ridiculous frollick into the quagmire of serious historical subject matter, I’ll start by placing a context around the topic and wasting away about 400 words.

In the 15th century, Spain was shared up more ways than a "Guatamalan showgirl" at a bachelor party. There was a whole caboodle of realms, such as the Kingdoms of Aragon, Catalonia, Valentia, Pixar and Disney. All of these realms were grouped together in a sort of parent company called the "Crown of Aragon". There also was another Crown, to accompany Aragon, and this one was called the "Crown of Castile" and it's interesting to note here that back in the Middle Ages, the Crown of Aragon had already staged a sort of mini, practice inquisition but it was Ferdinand and Isabella who really took the reins… (rein, get it? Because they’re rulers. It’s not going to get better, folks) and it was them who really did the thing properly.

Anyway, what I was trying to lead up to with this Crown's thing was that in a number of the larger cities in the Castile and Aragon area codes, particularly Seville, Valladolid and the capital of Aragon, Barcelona, there were very large populations of Jews. Which makes sense because at the time, there was a long history of Jews being involved in service to the royal desire for self-deprecating cinema. Even Ferdinand's father, John II of Aragon, had a Jew named, Abiathar Crescas as the court astronomer to aid in the development of the Spanish Mars Rover: El Rovero Cerveza.

But back to the Inquisition. The whole purpose of the Inquistion was to try to oust out all those sneaky bastids who were saying that they were Catholic but actually kept practising their Muslim or Islamic faiths on the Spanish equivalent of the DL: The El D.

Now, although looking back on the whole debacle, it might seem like Ferdinand got somewhat out of control what with the whole excruciating, torture (unlike pleasant torture) methods and tricks-of-the-trade and the concept of killing someone for lying about what they don't believe in, he had some reason's for pulling the cord on the religious lawn-mower that seemed decent at the time. Lord knows, I’m convinced.

Firstly was that, like I said before, Spain was all divided into numerous geographic regions. But more than that, Spain was divided within its borders by a large number of different religious traditions and ethnic groups. Fergie felt that if he could impose a common religion – pff… let’s say… Catholicism - he would be able to create a stronger sense of unity amongst his people. It's also thought by some pen-pushing, glasses-and-slicked-back-haired, "yes, Mother, I'll be home by nine", historians that Fergie was trying to quell any political opposition within Spain by having all his detractors be declared Catholic fibbers and subsequently executed. Yeah. Right.

But, whatever the reason, the Spanish Inquisition opened in the Crown of Castile to rave reviews. At least from everyone who didn't want to be tortured and killed. Except for one guy. Despite the thumbs up from Roger Ebert, that zany, out-in-left-field, Pope Sixtus IV of Rome just couldn't bring himself to even watch the highlights on SportsCentre, let alone get season tickets. Him! A man of the cloth! Disgraceful.

Being a sensitive guy, this hurt Fergie's feelings to some extent as he had cultivated close ties to Rome over the years and was upset that Sixtus wasn't supporting Fergie's hopes and dreams, yet expecting support for his own wacky schemes. In fact, Sixtus wanted the whole Inquisition shut down, but Fergie managed to find some lobbyists in the form of the Bishop of Valencia, Rodrigo Borgia and the Papal Vice-Chancellor to have a chat with Sixtus. Now, Sixtus wasn't a total jerk and frankly, had a bit of a soft spot for Fergie, whom he used to babysit for a couple of extra duckets a week, and so he conceded that the Inquisition could take place in Spain... but only in Castile!
And so, for a while, our hero proceeded happily torturing fakers and unifying his state. But you know those Spaniards, with their golden tans, flowing locks of black hair and their penetrating, sultry, Mediterranean eyes: you give them an inch and they take a mile and before anyone knew what was happening, the Inquisition had spread out of Castile into the city of Seville.

Now it was Sixtus who had hurt feelings. He was a man who enjoyed a tasteful torture after work as much as any other Man of God, but even he found the extreme methods of torture used in Spain to be not very kosher and with the hurt feelings, came the disintegration of the Fergie/Sixtus friendship and the Pope went so far as to suggest that the Inquisition was just a nasty scam Fergie had dreamed up to confiscate the property of the Jew's in Spain and that Fergie seemed to spend an awful lot of time wearing leather chaps. The Sixster tried to put an end to the Inquisition, but Fergie stepped up and said that if the Inquisition wasn't allowed to continue outside of Castile, then he'd just call back all of the troops he'd put into place as guard-dogs in Sicily (like a ma’fucka). Sixtus was mightily displeased, but in 1478 (like a little Bitch), signed a Papal Bull allowing the Inquisition to be conducted in Seville.
This back-and-forth thing between Sixtus and Ferdinand went on for a while, with Sixtus trying to slow down the relentlessy marchy march of godliness on the part of Fergie, and Fergie, in his corner, trying to get the Pope to acknowledge how ingenius the whole "death to Catholic fibbers" idea was. But eventually, Ferdinand had had enough of the whiny Sixtus and decided to take some more drastic measures.

At the time that Fergie was asking some tough questions of suspected Catholic fakers, Italy was not having a particularly fun-filled time. Venice, which traditionally had been the Italian line of defence against the Turks to the east, had become significantly weakend by a war from 1463 to 1479 where the Turks had invaded Greece. France, that dastardly, exquisitely-dressed, shark with a pencil mustache, to the north was circling around, rubbing its perfectly manicured hands together waiting for a chance to attack wherever there was evidence of some weakness. And to top it all off, in 1480, the Sultan of Turkey decided that he would attack the Italian port of Otranto and have his thousands of soldiers pillage the countryside, basically unopposed, for three days. Bummer central.

All of this had made Fergie's military prescence in Sicily (where he was also the King, in addition to Spain) much more important to Sixtus and so, although he really didn't want to, the Pope agreed to bless the Inquisition in exchange for Ferdinand to keep his soldiers stationed in Sicily. This was excellent news to Fergie because he now had the two things he desperately had wanted all along: 1) total control over the day-to-day operations of the Inquisition, and 2) the blessing of his old buddy Sixtus.

Well, I think that's way more than enough for the first installment. I will, however, take a moment to advertise the next issue of Historical Facks, because I've already written it, so it’s half done… just like my self-respect. So:
Tune in next time, when we'll get down to the real "meat and fritatas" of the Spanish Inquisition, including the Explusion of the Jews, A Day in the Life of the Spanish Inquisition, Spanish Torture Techniques and the much requested, Death Toll Summary.

BFFF!!! Best Friends from Films!!!!

Like you, I was heartbroken to discover that Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint aren’t lovers pals (I assume they also aren’t lovers except on the very rarest of red carpet after-party occasions. And even then it’s probably just a hand job underneath the punch table).

Actually, I wasn’t heartbroken. That was a little facetious sarcasm. Truthfully, like you, I don’t give a shit. And not only do I not give a shit, I have absolutely no opinion on the matter.

Which I will now discuss.

The article I read appears on the web site of the British newspaper publication The Daily Mail which I can’t be bothered (and don’t know how) to link to, but you can easily find it by yourself. Essentially, the Daily Mail article is desperately trying to develop the idea that two people who used to work together and now don’t work together are in a feud with each other where Daniel rarely speaks to Rupert, and when he does, it’s just (and I’m loosely paraphrasing) a polite “Hello” before he moves on to the next handjob. But (SPOILER ALERT!) Daniel admits to often texting Emma (the main chick in the Harry Potter movies). So what does this mean? The Daily Mail implies to ask. What sordid details remain hidden? How deep is the hatred to for these two young men who sky-rocketed to stardom together at a very early age? From inseparable childhood friends, to vengeful enemies: avoiding each other at all costs aside from the occasional bout of furious mutual masturbation.

Well, I suspect there is no conspiracy. No sordid scandal. No hatred. We love these boys, though, or at least the on-screen camaraderie they created (“We” being the viewing public, of which in this specific case I only slightly smugly distance myself from) and so the Daily Mail is frantically hoping to capitalize on our (your) emotions and sense of betrayal that such an iron-clad union could possibly rust.

But it hasn’t rusted. It’s just changed departments. Because as much as we like imagining that being an actor is on a level far removed from the reality of the McDonald’s fry machine worker, it isn’t. It’s more glamorous, the wages are better, and I’d like to think it’s personally, creatively, and artistically fulfilling, but when it comes down to it, acting is just a job. And unless you have some truly serious Hollywood juice, you don’t get to pick your co-workers. In your job perhaps you’ll develop a firm friendship with Steve in Accounting and you’ll join a bowling league together or rent cottages with each other’s families during summer vacation, but you’re just as likely not to. I certainly know none of my ex-co-workers speak to me. And there’s no reason for them to (even without the court orders). We just happened to be part of the same organization doing whatever tasks we were paid to do and no amount of “We’re really just like a big family: wacky, dysfunctional, and weird. But we get the job done. We work hard, and we play hard!” is going to change that.

What this all is leading to is that the Daily Mail article is irritating on two levels: 1) Of course, as a perfect example of utter nonsense trying to be passed off as anything not only worth reporting, but something that anyone should have any opinion on at all, and 2) as larger issue of society’s insistence that we all Care about each other.

Obviously, I agree that it’s a good thing that we’re taught that it’s wrong to knock down the elderly in the street if they’re over 75. We all are together in our belief of keeping that in the home where it belongs. And we all agree that murder and rape and violence and generally anything “mean” shouldn’t be done to other people. This is fine and, for the most part, doesn’t do any harm. But when these ideas and anti-bullying campaigns are blown out of proportion, they cease to carry the message of, “be nice to each other” and become warped into, “actively participate in everyone else’s happiness”.

This is fine and, for the most part, doesn’t do any harm when it comes to your own friends and family, but as a mandatory action in every situation it forces us to (quite often) fake concern which then appears disingenuous to the person we’re attempting to remind that we think they’re valuable and worthwhile. Of course we probably do think that in most cases, but the constant re-enforcement is a negative thing. It cheapens the sentiment and—more upsettingly—in some measure, is responsible for the culture of entitlement we’re living in.

If we were able to admit and accept the fact that we have no more interest in the person working the checkout at the store than they do of us, we’d vastly speed up the time it takes for us both to get on with our lives. If we admitted that we don’t really care that two people who used to be in films together; who we will likely never meet; who live lives entirely different from our own; who are safe and content and wealthy we’d be able to take our caring savings and deposit them towards someone or something that actually matters.

Like knocking down those 74 and younger.

-       Neil

Necrophilia and My Pornographic Legacy

I find the term “victimless crime” to generally be inaccurate. It most often comes up during discussions about prostitution (a topic frequently on my mind), but I suppose it could also be applied to something like clever accounting to skim a few pennies off the corporate books, or stealing a t-shirt from Walmart; illegal, yes, but without any physical injury or personal suffering.

Sticking with prostitution (as I told my career counsellor), I can’t bring myself to agree that it is “victimless”. The justification for its lack of victim is probably that a) the prostitute doesn’t have to approach the car, lean in, and ask if the driver wants to “go for a ride”, which a friend tells me is the usual lingo, and b) that once business is concluded, both parties go their separate ways: one with a fee paid for services rendered, and the other with sexual gratification only at the expense of a pre-determined cost and perhaps a slight twinge of depression.

This reasoning however seems very live-in-the-moment to me. It doesn’t take into account the idea that the prostitute may be a victim held essentially in sexual slavery by a--more often than not--abusive, domineering and manipulative pimp who controls nearly every aspect of their life from where they go to how much money they receive. With that in mind, the victim is clearly the prostitute with the “Neil” “John” being at least an enabler to the entire situation, if not practically complicit with the pimp.

In my view, therefore, the only truly victimless crime has to be necrophilia.

This isn’t a unique view. In fact, for full disclosure, the perspective was presented to me recently through an amazing and hilarious YouTube series called, “David Mitchell’s Soapbox”, but it seems absolutely right. The premise is basically that once you’re dead, why should you care what happens to your body? We don’t mind being buried in the ground. We’ve got nothing against being torched in an oven. Even being tossed into the ocean to be eaten by sharks is fair game. So why not make your corpse available to pass on some pleasure to a (admittedly, highly unbalanced) living person? You’re not around anymore, so what’s the big deal about having someone put their dick in your dead ass?

It was this line of thinking coupled with my enjoyment of a beloved hobby that led me to wonder if I could ever do pornographic live webcam shows.

Now to be clear, I’m not at all suggesting I could, or would, agree to a webcam show with someone else. I have no interest in being sodomized (that ship sailed many years ago), and neither am I interested in putting my dismally awkward and overwhelmingly pathetic love-making skills on display to the entire world (except countries ruled by oppressive regimes [and perhaps the U.S. if this SOPA shit goes through]). But solo on a webcam, well, we might have something there.

It may seem like a fairly substantial leap to go from being, more-or-less okay with someone having sex with my dead body to consider doing pornographic webcam shows, but it’s really not because in both scenarios there’s an intrinsic attitude of Result without Consequence. When If I did a solo webcam show it would be a positive experience for both sides wherein the viewer receives whatever gratification they’re looking for and I get paid (at an exorbitant rate, I’m told) without having to do anything that I don’t want to do. I perform whatever acts I’m comfortable with. And even better, the webcams aren’t two-way. I don’t need to see the svelte, buff, youthful monument to physical perfection that I understand characterizes the usual webcam porno consumer. I can partake in any visual stimuli I wish to while pleasing the viewer without sacrificing any of my personal boundaries or predilections.

On the other hand, it’s still difficult to get past the idea of it all seeming a bit icky. After all, the internet is forever. Just ask Rebecca Black. Once a few of my “performance pieces” are out there, they’re out there for long after I’m gone to the great Wankdom in the sky. And if I ever spawn whelps, do I want them to accidentally stumble across Daddy in flagrante delicto in 1080p definition? Obviously not, but the chance is certainly there that they may. And, perhaps even more importantly, how will I feel 50 years from now as I gaze out at dawn to the rapidly rising sun of my 75^th birthday and turn to the internet, chance upon my old reel and am confronted by the realty that no longer am I the virile specimen of masculinity I once was and instead have decayed and rotted like everyone else into a weak, hollow man, numbed and broken from decades of heavy liquor use destined to die and leave behind no mourners, no memories, no legacy except $5 per minute clips of exhibitionism and 12 hungry cats.

Still, five bucks a minute!

-       Neil