Kent State’s bible thumpers are really leveling up their pamphlet game. A whole little book! That takes some amount of coin. And crazy.
As evidenced by this morning, their battle plan can also be best described as “divide and conquer.” And boy, did they conquer.
I had heard from some not-so-religious friends that they were handing them out by the MAC center, so I had to see what they were up to. Two of them were in front of the aforementioned building while another one was further closer to the Student Center.
I saw the former two chatting with each other in the moment right before the one closest to where I was walking reached out to me with a book, so I can only assume they were noting which one would be responsible for helping save my bleach-blonde soul.
After a brief stop in the Student Center, I took a semi-sneaky way around the Move The Gym annex in an attempt to avoid them on my way back to my dorm.
Ran into another one. A kid in a hoodie was seemingly denying his offer, but my iPod was turned up too loud to make out any discussion. I walked by as quickly and silently as I could.
In search of food, I was hoping the Design Innovation Hub would be a safe haven from campus creeps. Nope.
ANOTHER one of ‘em, brown suit and all, right in front of the main entrance with two others hanging out on the esplanade in the distance. Luckily the brown suit guy was too distracted trying to turn over some other chicks and I slipped by. He was still there when I took the long way out after my coffee and Rice Krispies.
Ah, my first post from my brand new MacBook! It looks and feels exactly the same as my previous machine, albeit with twice the storage and twice the memory. A weird part of me wishes the jump in unfamilarity was bigger, but I’m more than satisfied that I’ll be experiencing much less of the dreaded rainbow swirl of death in the future.
The summer is coming to a close, but with a bang instead of a whimper. The weather is finally cooling down in my neck of the woods, but all of last week was scorching beyond belief. I spent the weekend in DC a good two hours closer to the equator than I usually am, so I really got to feel it.
The (first) main attraction: Jawbox, round II, at the Black Cat. It was an extremely fun time—so fun, in fact, that I didn’t take that many photos because I was just too into it! They opened with my favorite song of theirs—“FF=66”—and ended with their cover of a Tori Amos song that I’d actually been hoping they would play the first time I saw them. It’s just really entertaining hearing the badass angsty dude that is J. Robbins declaring he “never was a cornflake girrrrrl!” And it just rocks in general when they do it. Scientifically proven, I would assume. It was great.
We visited the Smithsonian the next day, braving the oppressive heat to do so. I wish the Air and Space Museum had been open—it’s undergoing renovations. But the Museum of American History did not disappoint. Every part we walked through was immersive and gorgeously, intelligently curated. The place really speaks for itself.
Take the sprawling tree of presidential campaign ads, arranged in chronological order and swerving over the clusters of museumgoers. Immaculate.
There’s a temporary exhibit going on there right now entitled Girlhood, which explores the evolution of the titular age frame in America. It was interesting, but I guess being on the edge of proper adulthood made it the slightest bit uncanny to me. I also cannot get over how much it bugged me having to hear “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill twice as I milled about the exhibition space. Do I understand the song’s historical significance? Yes. Are there more “underground” female musicians that matter from back then than solely Kathleen Hanna? Yes! (Ugh, I’m such a nerd.) Later I even saw Le Tigre tickets (ironically from the venue we’d just been at the previous night) on display in another part of the museum alongside some old zines as an example of WOMEN being DEFIANT with MUSIC in the NINETIES. At least they had some Sleater-Kinney stubs there, too.
I guess I’m just frustrated with modern day hero worship. Cults of personality are fascinating to me. And strangely enough nowadays it seems more and more people are obsessed with being the master of their own niche domains as opposed to seeking widespread acclaim. Forget being the next Kim Kardashian—feeling like you’re the next Kathleen Hanna alongside similarly dressed peers with similar music taste is more relatable (and attainable). Doing the exact same things her circle did, especially in a time where her previously scorned actions are gaining more acceptance, is more comfortable than trying something new, something more culturally dangerous. What’s ironic is that the idols that we’ve collectively built out of these countercultural gamechangers would rather their worshippers try to pave some new ground instead of retreading what has now become safety net cliche.
Didn’t you know that being a cookie cutter punk is more rebellious and meaningful than ever when Machine Gun Kelly is allowed to strut around with pink hair on his head and dumb Sid ‘n’ Nancy fantasies in his brain? What perfect role models for a generation of increasingly volatile youth struggling with mental illness and 21st century stress. And when being a starving artist is in (no “sellouts” here), doesn’t that mean affording self care and security is the peak of uncool?
As the world continues to implode, self stagnation has never been so hip. I wonder how Kurt Cobain would feel.
Know your history. Avoid trends. Hop on them. Stop caring what others think of you. Get famous. Fight the power.
It’s really great that, once again, society is proving that it doesn’t give one shit about the rights of human beings. Maybe I shouldn’t got those two sweet, sweet pairs of perfectly fitting, low-rise pants the other day. Maybe I should have instead capitulated to literally any other pair of pants in the tri-state area, all of which ranged from “high rise” to “super high rise,” the latter of which I didn’t even know was a thing until a few weeks ago. I’d assume such conservative garments will be more acceptable once our American Taliban really takes control around here. Will we all be required to wear those ugly button flies in the future to keep any midriff from showing? Will skinny jeans be deemed too show-y, and will ‘mom jeans’ be the soup du jour from those trying to skirt the burqa? At least there won’t be any more of those dumb factory-ripped holes.
Not that only the female will be effected or is being effected by recent events. The Supreme Court’s ruling on Roe v. Wade may appear on the surface to be one that only effects one half of the country’s population—thee uterus-owners, thee whatever. In reality, considering how same sex relations, birth control, and desegregated schools now sit neatly in the court’s crosshairs after their big hit on Friday, it effects each and every American. Hell, it effects each and every person on this planet, considering the similar, anti-bodily autonomy pressure the Catholic church also has on countries like Poland. It effects anyone under the thumb of an oppressive and fundamentalist ruling class who just wants to live without said ruling class poking its nose in their business. That’s pretty much all of us, as much as some of us would like to deny it. It’s easier to succumb to the religious right’s reigning propaganda schemes—or to deflect the blame onto the entire male species, on the other side of the oversimplified political spectrum—than to unpack the weaving, intertwining tentacles of church and state in modern America. It’s easier to accept the reality of sending unwanted children to school in bulletproof backpacks and crossing your fingers, than trying to change that reality—especially when the so-called ‘representatives’ who promised to change that reality for you failed miserably at their one job.
As someone used to humans being the most awful and abhorrent creatures walking the planet, the weirdest thing about times like this is how much the world stays the same. I went out for sushi with my family for dinner Friday night, and it was definitively the best meal out I’d had in recent memory. I wasn’t turned away from dining out due to my new low rise pants or my feminine wiles. It doesn’t look like I’ll be turned away from higher education in the already parasitic, sinister Buckeye State any time soon either, despite the likeliness of said state to crack down on abortion rights coming up. It’s a strange crossroads to be standing on trying to sow tiny sparks of hope for your personal steps forwards while society around you is chronically and rapidly regressing with the highest hopes of taking you down with it. But with studies on the horizon and the resurrected Kent State SDS on my side, I guess I won’t be fleeing the country any time soon.
What’s with all this country business anyway? All it does is fuel ugly jingoism in the first place. And if the systematically defined borders around my place of residence define my or anybody else’s ability to legally be a fully autonomous human being capable of exercising freedom to the fullest, safest extent, I just wish we’d consider some truly universal healthcare.
I got around to watching Planet of the Apes for the first time last night, and I don’t think a film has soared like a blasphemous paper airplane so high above my already lofty expectations before. I adored it. Rod Serling must have been having the time of his life writing the script—”human see, human do”? Come on. It’s too good. I have literally never been so giddy watching a movie as I was when the high judges at Taylor’s unjust trial recreated the famous “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” formation as Zira and Cornelius tried to present their theory of human-to-ape evolution. It was just too perfect.
Despite the film having been released in 1968 (and featuring a “don’t trust anyone over thirty” reference as a sign of the times—though that’s probably just what all this ‘boomer’ talk mutated from) it felt all too relevant. If anything, it was refreshing. Too often into today’s world, the human is viewed as a creature of pure goodness and virtue by both sides of the societal equation. Either acts of cruelty are always good and just, or they are inhuman and unnatural. But neither of these perspectives recognize that humans are equally capable of good and bad. The same goes for the film’s apes: you have your Zaiuses, and you have your Ziras. The ape society shown in the film insists that it could have never evolved from a previous species; socially accepted religion states they were created in their higher power’s image. The earthly powers that be within that society know the truth—that they evolved from dirty, uncivilized humans—but calls heresy on anyone who tries to legitimize the facts. Doesn’t this fear of truth in favor of species superiority sound familiar? The apes repeat the flawed duality of the humans that came before them, and Taylor retains it as he tries to claim superiority over the apes instead of equality. It goes to show that a lust for power over others is an innate and primal instinct, and it can only be tampered by favoring reason and fact, which, while not impossible, is being slowly eradicated on a wide scale—and even the proprietors of the truth aren’t always perfect.
Life is so fun!
With all of this superb social commentary, I find it really amusing that the film’s popularity inspired a slew of sequels that, from what I understand, centered on primal action scenes over a message. They ended up even making Planet of the Apes toys so that America’s youth could not only watch man find himself reflected in what he once saw as the complete opposite of his society, but also reenact it on their own on a miniature scale. And how do you get kids to buy toys in the 1970s? You put that crap on TV.
The youth of that era needed to know that the off model, extremely dinky figures and play sets being churned out were the coolest, most action-packed experiences ever conceived in between their Saturday morning shows, and how else to do it but to condense the film your toy line is based off of into about a minute of compact insanity?
Whoever was responsible for this commercial was clearly having the time of their life. It totally reduces the film down to it’s most base parts but does so so creatively, so elegantly, that I say it deserves some sort of spot up there with the original. Budget and length constraints only imply the opening spaceship crash via the astronaut doll literally washing up on a sandy shore. He provides extremely dramatic, kung fu gripping narration as he explores his surroundings and is captured by apes who seek to “OPERATE” on him to keep him from being a “FREETHINKER.” He swiftly escapes with the help of some actual human children, who were also probably also having the times of their lives moving him around the plastic set.
But the absolute best part comes at the very end. Mimicking Taylor and Nova’s ride into the Forbidden Zone at the end of the full length film, the newly-free, nameless astronaut doll sits on the back of a mechanically powered toy horse as it actually trots across the shore. The human kids are gone, as they have gotten bored and moved on to the next hot licensed toy line. The astronaut peeks out from behind a seaside rock formation to explore “WHAT STRANGE PLANET” he’s crashed on. The screen immediately cuts to the most adorable rendition of anything ever: a cutesy shadow of the Statue of Liberty stretches out across the beach as the terrified astronaut gasps “OH…NO…” upon realizing that this mysterious planet was his own (despite surely having not been made in the US of A). He stops short of goddamning anything to hell, which would not be permitted on child oriented TV. It is absolutely glorious.
And I will always be a cheerleader for reason and logic, but sometimes you just need a dose of gorgeous, perfectly executed insanity. You just gotta bask in the glory and remember where you came from.
Thank you, Rod Serling, for being such a genius; and thank you, MEGO Toys, for being such shills!
Last week was technically the last ‘normal’ week of classes before AP and state testing wreck havoc across the land. For me, it was the busiest week of my high school career. I had my final Model UN conference, which ended with a joke motion to “get rid of Ohio (via bulldozer boats)” (don’t ask). Guess I won’t be off to Kent State in August, for it had to be sacrificed to save America from the rapidly expanding, parasitic Buckeye State. On other days of the week, I found myself in parts of my school I had never seen in my entire four years of attendance there. The secret agent lurking inside of me adored that, though I still question why my school doesn’t use its perfectly preserved time capsule pool for more than the swim team and physics class boat races, or why I didn’t know they have a room full of iMacs.
All that aside, it gives me mixed emotions to know that the public school system I’ve been tethered to for the last twelve years will be soon be behind me.
It’s even odder placing my role as a freethinking high schooler in the context of our current culture. More and more attacks on critical thinking have been entering schools across the country thanks to concerned parents who would prefer their children remain ignorant to history and the world at large. Reading about book bans and threats towards teachers who teach the truth is disheartening and, frankly, terrifying. It’s a shame that we as humans, instead of encouraging nuance and intelligent analysis, have allowed for those actively promoting ignorance to have an increasingly large platform. Society is being rapidly dumbed down at the hands of these types, the ones who let their favorite political pundits and reality show stars—what’s the difference nowadays?—determine their every opinion instead of stopping to think about what they are consuming. They may be puppets, but they have power.
We live in a world of ever-increasing absurdity, plain and simple, and humans are basically just strange little animals trapped in an overcrowded cage. They do weird things and can seem very kind one moment and then be seen brutally mauling each other the next. Recognizing these truths is the only way to see the world for what it is. And when logical thought and critical thinking are placed at the forefront of this observation and emotions don’t blind us, work can be done and change can be made for the better—for all of us. When education devalues these qualities and promotes homogeny and close-mindedness in their place, you are learning nothing but a lie.
I’m genuinely grateful that I was able to receive a quality education throughout my high school career. And I’m miffed that the things that made those four years so valuable to me—the discussions I’ve had in my English and social studies classes, the documentaries I’ve watched and dissections I’ve done in anatomy class, the support I’ve received from my teachers—are being disparaged across the country. But then again, people still think that the Kent students protesting the Vietnam War on that crisp spring day in 1970—the anniversary of which is coming up rapidly—were the true agitators when the National Guard came to town. And that’s not stopping me any time soon.
As I enter the next phase of my life, I will continue to seek the truth.
As you have heard me say on this blog too many times already to count, DEVO holds a continuously relevant presence in our society whether you want it to or not. And while the majority of the world still sees them as just some harmless, kooky one-hit-wonder from the 80s, their philosophy runs much deeper and darker than wiggly lines and bright colors suggest, and it dates back to the seediest early seventies basements of Kent, Ohio, places where new wave sheen would never dare to shine. DEVO were in the trenches, residents of Ground Zero, witnesses to de-evolution in action.
It just so happens that their second ever public musical communication of their de-evolutionary theory happened 48 years ago today. (Can you believe it’ll be 50 years since their first show next year?) As a partial live recording of the concert surfaced last year, current de-evolutionary scholars have a better idea than ever of what that early gestational period was like before Akron catalyzed DEVO’s big break, overshadowing Kent’s undeniable birth of the band.
One such scholar, my good friend and collaborator Max Devo (AKA Zhir Vengersky) has summed up the events in a brilliant little essay he wished to have me expose to the world. I was more than willing to handle the job. I’ll stop my spiel now and turn the microphone to him.
Somehow, in this media hypersaturated world, I’ve been feeling like I should watch more television. It’s the end of the academic year, and I constantly find myself in a weird limbo between feeling overloaded with home stretch work and having absolutely nothing to do. This limbo usually fluctuates within hours multiple times every day. And when my schedule creates a void, I need something to fill it. (I guess my time management skills are too good.) My teenage years made me into a movie watcher as I subconsciously rejected the cartoons of my childhood. But as someone who loathes dismembering a movie that was intended to be watched in one sitting, finding the time to fully digest one is sometimes tricky. TV can provide a similar experience in a (usually) shorter time frame, making it easier to work into a night. And, when done right, it can be the medium for incredible and moving works.
Not that everyone is “doing it right.”
The internet alerted me yesterday to the fact that horribly corrupt anti-democracy politician Rudy Giuliani made an appearance on a show called The Masked Singer. (It had apparently first leaked a while ago, but it somehow it didn’t appear on my radar back then, or maybe the news cycle moves way too fast for anyone to keep up in today’s world.) The first thing that popped into my mind upon learning this oh so crucial piece of information was this: Again? It was only a few months ago that that show, which I have never watched, made similar headlines for having Sarah Palin on as a fluffy singing bear or something, which had made me want to slam my head into a wall. Why?
Well, I think I’ve figured out why. Prior to those two media meltdowns, the only times I had to deal with The Masked Singer‘s existence was my DEVO fan friends cringing at some video game streamer bro singing “Whip It” on there, because their cultural assimilation continues to be amusing. Otherwise, I would have been blissfully unaware of anything regarding the show except maybe seeing a commercial once or twice when I wasn’t paying attention.
But The Masked Singer has cracked a code: Putting high profile, morally reprehensible people on your ditzy TV show gets headlines and, in turn, free promotion. Your content can be the most useless dribble in existence, but you can glue a controversial face onto it and the world cannot refuse to ignore it. Does the show in question bring anything new to the table? No. To, appropriately, apply an one-off DEVO catchphrase to a wider scale, people have been wanting their EmpTV for a long time. They like their charming C-list celebrities and cheesy old songs (which, in Rudy’s case, was the most tainted rendition of “Bad To The Bone” possible, which I don’t think even the guys from DEVO could have made up). Is there any reason to pay attention to it other than its promotion of some hideous politicians (and Jenny McCarthy)? Not anything meritable. Did it even matter that the rude-y episode actually hit a low point in viewers despite its shock value? Considering that I’m also seeing articles from the same publications about their epic fail, probably not. Any attention is good attention, and effort that could have gone into reporting about something not mindlessly idiotic and crass was forced to divert itself. It goes to show how cynical our modern world and media cycle is when you have to promote some of the world’s most undesirable people to get the share of the floor that you crave. It’s nice to call yourself “relevant,” even when you’re exploiting political starpower and uplifting people who only seek to slam the boot down on the little guy. And when cute little grandpa Rudy wanting to make a good impression on his granddaughter—he has kids?—comes off as harmless, it’s all the easier. It may have gone slightly awry this time, but maybe it won’t the next. Think of the people who viewed Joe Exotic as some sort of kitsch god after Tiger King gripped us in the early days of the pandemic, or Dubya Bush trying his best to fill in for Bob Ross. The media is manipulative; it just depends on what angle you’re viewing it from.
There’s plenty of shows out there that are actually worth sitting through, and we’re the ones who choose what we watch. Can we change the channel already?
A year ago today, I did not go to school. Due to our COVID-enforced hybrid schedule, Wednesdays were at-home days where no virtual classes took place.
In our living room, my mother had the news on in anticipation for the televised electoral vote count from the previous year’s election. I was interested to see how the event would play out, as I was well aware that protestors would be at the Capitol insisting that the loss of the previous president to the people’s vote was unjust. I was expecting to laugh at a gaggle of delusional, pathetic fools as one of this country’s final remaining tenets of democracy did its thing.
What I actually ended up seeing was a direct, effective, borderline killer threat to democracy itself.
I was practically glued to my television screen as rioters with their profane chants and absurd displays of red, white, and blue clumped into a boisterous mass eventually powerful enough to seep into the Capitol with very little restraint. I got to see a makeshift militia of brainwashed, blood lusted, homegrown terrorists, ordered by their chosen leader to protect their country by trampling on its foundations, stumble around those supposedly sacred halls of American institution, power-drunk and disgraceful. What did the popular vote matter when these once-marginalized, now-organized morons didn’t get their favorite flavor of Popsicle?
I knew right away that things would never truly be the same again.
The storm was ultimately unsuccessful at actually overthrowing the government. But it threw the doors wide open for those who cannot stand to think that we are all human. It beamed from the rooftops: fight for your belief in lies! Fight for inequality! You can do it! And these signals have worked, based on how many concerned parents have been putting up hands at school board meetings or opting for homeschool because their districts dare to teach children basic truth, or how many people are passing around cups of bleach flavored Kool-Aids about everything under the sun.
A lot of people love to cry “never again” at every big, culture-shattering event before excusing events of similar magnitude that do not negatively effect them or their favorite political pundit. But it’s true: deluding yourself has never been so cool.
Maybe it’s time we stop living in fear of the truth. Maybe.
Go Ape
Sunday, May 29th, 2022I got around to watching Planet of the Apes for the first time last night, and I don’t think a film has soared like a blasphemous paper airplane so high above my already lofty expectations before. I adored it. Rod Serling must have been having the time of his life writing the script—”human see, human do”? Come on. It’s too good. I have literally never been so giddy watching a movie as I was when the high judges at Taylor’s unjust trial recreated the famous “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” formation as Zira and Cornelius tried to present their theory of human-to-ape evolution. It was just too perfect.
Despite the film having been released in 1968 (and featuring a “don’t trust anyone over thirty” reference as a sign of the times—though that’s probably just what all this ‘boomer’ talk mutated from) it felt all too relevant. If anything, it was refreshing. Too often into today’s world, the human is viewed as a creature of pure goodness and virtue by both sides of the societal equation. Either acts of cruelty are always good and just, or they are inhuman and unnatural. But neither of these perspectives recognize that humans are equally capable of good and bad. The same goes for the film’s apes: you have your Zaiuses, and you have your Ziras. The ape society shown in the film insists that it could have never evolved from a previous species; socially accepted religion states they were created in their higher power’s image. The earthly powers that be within that society know the truth—that they evolved from dirty, uncivilized humans—but calls heresy on anyone who tries to legitimize the facts. Doesn’t this fear of truth in favor of species superiority sound familiar? The apes repeat the flawed duality of the humans that came before them, and Taylor retains it as he tries to claim superiority over the apes instead of equality. It goes to show that a lust for power over others is an innate and primal instinct, and it can only be tampered by favoring reason and fact, which, while not impossible, is being slowly eradicated on a wide scale—and even the proprietors of the truth aren’t always perfect.
Life is so fun!
With all of this superb social commentary, I find it really amusing that the film’s popularity inspired a slew of sequels that, from what I understand, centered on primal action scenes over a message. They ended up even making Planet of the Apes toys so that America’s youth could not only watch man find himself reflected in what he once saw as the complete opposite of his society, but also reenact it on their own on a miniature scale. And how do you get kids to buy toys in the 1970s? You put that crap on TV.
The youth of that era needed to know that the off model, extremely dinky figures and play sets being churned out were the coolest, most action-packed experiences ever conceived in between their Saturday morning shows, and how else to do it but to condense the film your toy line is based off of into about a minute of compact insanity?
Whoever was responsible for this commercial was clearly having the time of their life. It totally reduces the film down to it’s most base parts but does so so creatively, so elegantly, that I say it deserves some sort of spot up there with the original. Budget and length constraints only imply the opening spaceship crash via the astronaut doll literally washing up on a sandy shore. He provides extremely dramatic, kung fu gripping narration as he explores his surroundings and is captured by apes who seek to “OPERATE” on him to keep him from being a “FREETHINKER.” He swiftly escapes with the help of some actual human children, who were also probably also having the times of their lives moving him around the plastic set.
But the absolute best part comes at the very end. Mimicking Taylor and Nova’s ride into the Forbidden Zone at the end of the full length film, the newly-free, nameless astronaut doll sits on the back of a mechanically powered toy horse as it actually trots across the shore. The human kids are gone, as they have gotten bored and moved on to the next hot licensed toy line. The astronaut peeks out from behind a seaside rock formation to explore “WHAT STRANGE PLANET” he’s crashed on. The screen immediately cuts to the most adorable rendition of anything ever: a cutesy shadow of the Statue of Liberty stretches out across the beach as the terrified astronaut gasps “OH…NO…” upon realizing that this mysterious planet was his own (despite surely having not been made in the US of A). He stops short of goddamning anything to hell, which would not be permitted on child oriented TV. It is absolutely glorious.
And I will always be a cheerleader for reason and logic, but sometimes you just need a dose of gorgeous, perfectly executed insanity. You just gotta bask in the glory and remember where you came from.
Thank you, Rod Serling, for being such a genius; and thank you, MEGO Toys, for being such shills!
Tags:advertising, commercials, common sense, de-evolution, films, humanity, old toys, Planet of the Apes, Rod Serling, society, the truth, things I enjoy, videos
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