Pensive Laggard @bnrobertson1 - Tumblr Blog

Revenge of The Revenge of the Nerds

From Rallying Call to Repulsive to Subversive Masterpiece

Indeed, Frederick Aloysius Palowaski (OGRE)

Because the relentless reminders of Ruling Class deviance have been such a blast, I recently decided to revisit Kubrick’s power-orgy classic, Eyes Wide Shut. Sparing you the breathless praise for Stanley’s swan song and its spooky prescience, I found the viewing all-the-more exhilarating/edifying/engulfing as it was done through the prism the internet has crystalized around the film in the years since release. While none of Kubrick’s works have really aged a day, Eyes Wide Shut has truly taken on a second life thanks to the (appropriately often anonymous) voices of the masses. The wealth of theories, analysis, questions, and semiotic debate available with the most rudimentary of searches is almost as rich as the film itself. Was it about a pedo ring? Kubrick’s own marriage? Are there truths revealed by viewing the movie on three screens simultaneously, staggering start times by an hour? The NY Post reporter featured in the film was also known for his coverage of the elites, including noted financier Jeffrey Epstein. Modern discourse has impregnated the work with a thematic and psychosexual dynamism that would make Hamlet* blush. And much like The Bard’s masterpiece, it has proven to be a living piece of art, one whose relevance refuses to diffuse, or not not grow. TL; DR: Few things have benefitted more from the internet.

*Not Hamnet, that movie about screaming.

On the other side of that situation is Revenge of the Nerds. While I can’t say Nerds is anywhere close to the film Eyes Wide Shut is, I will say it is a hell of a lot more lovable. Since seeing it unedited for the first time in the early 90s, I have considered and loved every frame of Jeff Askew’s 1984 raunchy classic (or at least most of them). Booger’s t-shirts. Lamar Latrelle’s javelin. How awesome an Alpha Beta party would have been to attend. Amongst my group of (not stupid!) friends, few films over the years have been discussed as much. The story of a group of eccentric brainiacs and their crusade against the old guard of jocks in Atoms College, Nerds had pretty much everything a fledgling, horny smartass could want in a film. Razor sharp lines, boobs, wonder joints, a soundtrack that features both “Thriller,” “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” and a song called “Are You Ready for The Sex Girls?” (all contained at the same party no less!). Certainly a film featuring both Ogre and John Goodman, along with several of the funniest random scenes in the history of fiction, would sit eternally in its rightful position in the pantheon of classics, right between Rashomon and Red River…

But something happened. Standards modernized. And the comedy, as many comedies do, aged like cream. With the benefit of time, some of the “antics” depicted in the film started to feel a little… sketchy. If not criminal. And/or evil.

What once seemed just and right and perfect to a preteen boy now seems a bit… less so. Take, for example, the Nerds' response to having their big party sabotaged by the Cool Kids, who unleashed a sounder of pigs onto the festivities, and topped off that off by chanting a new version of "Old McDonald," while mooning the visibly wounded Nerds. A dick move for sure, and one that hurt a lot of people who did not deserve it.

In retaliation, the Nerds unleash a surveillance state on the offending sorority that would make Big Brother and Chuck Berry blush. In this same wave of revenge, they attack the football dudes responsible by scalding their genitals with a concoction called “Liquid Heat.” Again, as revenge for a naked guy showing off his butt about 50 yards away. Later, again in the name of the titular Revenge, there’s the scene that is rightly considered the film's most offensive, when Nerd Napoleon Lewis Skolnick tricks a woman into non-consensual sex that is prefaced by “Wanna do it on the moon?”

The DVD Cover: Not Helping!

But it’s not only the original aggressors who feels the Nerds apparently endless thirst for vengeance. The Omega Moos, the larger ladies sweet enough to accompany the Nerds at their big party, while celebrated in their own way, are mocked as well. The treatment of their own frat brother Takashi isn’t exactly gentle, his accent mocked so thoroughly that it takes over the soundtrack when “ Daichee“ (a mispronounced version of the song “Daisy Bell (A Bike Built for Two)”) is blasted as the foreign student is finishing his triumphant lap in Greek Games Beer Tricycle Race. That said, the song is tremendous.

And while I’d argue all of this is played for laughs and fairly harmless in intent… yeah, it’s bad. No matter the reasoning, it’s impossible to deny the moon-bounce manipulations and sorority house surveillance state are wrong by about any standard in the modern world. Watching now, I look at those things as signs of the time, revenge fantasies, acts of catharsis from the socially awkward against a system that has bludgeoned their psyches so thoroughly that the only recourse that felt appropriate was criminal and horrible in myriad ways. The humor is now more found in the insane overreaction of their misdeeds- kind of like Kendrick Lamar's bodying of Drake, but taken to even more grotesque proportions.

Not all find such overreaction funny. Even a little bit. Pretty much since the dawn of the #MeToo Movement, discussing Nerds' faults has become a bit of a cause célèbre for a certain type of killjoy journalist who seemed to have gotten into writing just so they can feel morally superior with such grandstanding brilliance as “Do Better”*. There’s even an American Dad! episode where Snot (played by Curtis Armstrong aka Booger) discusses the film’s faults pretty bluntly.

*If you’re curious for their- again, pretty well founded- POV, just google “Revenge of the Nerds rape” and you’ll find plenty of examples

In an unexpected way, Nerds has become like the statues of Confederate heroes that dotted Monument Avenue in my hometown of Richmond. These figures, once so revered as to be bronzed, are now banished*. This is probably just, but battling with past heroes isn’t what I’m here to talk about. Rather, I’m here to discuss the nature of the times- specifically, how they change.

*Nerds has seen a somewhat similar fate, often being near-impossible to find streaming.

About that. Since Nerds' release, and reevaluation, the times have continued to evolve change. The perception of nerds has been altered significantly. With the advent of and collective addiction to digital technology, those once viewed as awkward brainiacs have now become the rulers of the world. The dorks with hearts of gold have now become “the Haves,” the charmless villains of Late-Stage Capitalism. With this context in mind, Revenge of the Nerds has taken on a whole new meaning. What was once a bawdy comedy, then a shameful artifact, has become a film of symbolic prescience. A subversive masterpiece about our very future.

The world's nerds, once mocked for pocket protectors and thick-lensed glasses and social ineptitude, have totally flipped the script. Once aggrieved, the inside-inclined now hold humanity’s neck in their trembling grip. And what have these nerds done with their power? Tortured all of us in ways so sadistic little Wormser would probably have to hide. Just take social media as an example. Under the guise of connection, these nerds have made themselves God-level wealthy while sucking up our attention and replacing it with envy and the most anxious generation in American history. They have profited while knowingly scamming our elderly and creating a division so noxious it seems the only solution is some sort of Civil War.

Or take the modern dating app, whose ease of use makes it attractive to all the lonely out there, but powered by algorithms written so insidiously that a great majority of men and women will never end up with anybody (and thus keep using the app). In other words, they are digitally neutering a generation or two of adults, something akin to taking a “Liquid Heat” to the figurative genitals of billions.

Or Artificial Intelligence, where a few are taking the whole of intellectual and artistic endeavor and codifying it to simply replace the not-them. If this isn’t a societal rape of sorts, I’m not sure what is. (I guess that would make TikTok dances the moonbounce? Which means we really got screwed).

And then there’s the call-out to Nerds so obvious it borders on homage- for what is the surveillance state that companies like Palantir are currently implementing across the world but the successor of the Pi sorority house revenge job? And this is all a revenge for what? For being frustrated that the girl they like already has a boyfriend (The popular, good-looking star of the football team no less)? Being mocked in school by the athletes? That's not to minimize the effects of assholes who prey on people. But these aren't the people who are warping the world writ large. Whether it intended to or not, Revenge of the Nerds warned us that in the age of tech, nothing is more destructive than a hurt genius.

Once underdogs, now overlords.

Since I started writing this, both Robert Carradine (Lewis) and Donald Gibb (Ogre) have died. (Yes, sometimes these things take a long time). The timing of this is undoubtedly strange, and tragic, if you think this bit of text on the internet will somehow be the spark for a reconsideration of one of the funniest films that’s ever graced celluloid. (I don't). In the obits I saw for both actors, Nerds was heavily discussed, and with good reason. I have no idea what their thoughts on the Nerds legacy was. Shame? Pride? Maybe a mixture of both. Personally speaking, I love it as much today as I did the first time I watched it- the underdog story, the fully-realized characters, the goldmine of pre-internet-porn boobs. I understand it hasn’t aged great, but I’m at the point of my life where the things that haven’t aged well are what I enjoy the most, because they allow me to laugh at past versions of myself who aren't nearly as evolved as the person writing these words (that's a joke). And anyway, angels don't make good art, and depiction doesn't imply endorsement. Society- or its voice the internet- may say the film is “an underdog story” or “unhinged fantasy,” “cringe,” or “subversive,” but it was always- and will always- be great.

#revenge of the nerds #eyes wide shut #comedy #Youtube

Father's Day

I don’t remember where we were exactly, but I know I was supposed to be outside, enjoying the sunshine by the water. My parents and their friends were out on boats, getting burnt, emptying coolers, blaring Jimmy Buffett. I was in the dark hotel room, enjoying its cave-like conditions while the balcony glass door boiled with a wavy glare, making a day of outdoor activities seem as inviting as an immolation-off. Plus, a movie was coming on.

My comfort be damned, things were picking up outdoors, so my dad was sent to fetch me. We weren’t here to enjoy the inside after all. A bit, let’s say, flustered that I was snugly in bed as opposed to up on waterskis, I prepared for my day of ease to end. But then, the heavenly sounds of vaguely Asian strings filled the room and changed my life.

The music stopped my father’s lecture like a Dim Mak could end the life of a bottom brick- such is the power of the soundtrack of 1988’s Bloodsport. For not even my dad, more of a John Wayne guy at heart, could resist the charms of Jean-Claude Van Damme and his anatomy-defying kicking adventures. Nor could he defy a simple story told brilliantly, especially one featuring a rough, lovable biker type named Jackson, a babe journalist named ?????, an “OK USA” line reading that would make the Bard blush, and, of course, the (nearly) indomitable Chung Li, one of cinema’s most imposing villains.

Dim Mak Reference Explained

We cheered when JCVD finally triumphed in his insane training. We winced when a crazed-eye’d Chung Li broke that dude’s shin with his heel. We were dazzled as the “stats” displayed at the end of the film (such as “.12 second: Fastest Punch with a Knockout” that would later not only be exposed as a lie, but physically impossible, but I digress). We sat and we watched and we laughed and we high fived a lot. It all lead to my dad getting read the riot act two hours later by the group outside for “missing” all the fun they’d been having.

But even with paradise outside, my dad decided he’d rather spend the time with his socially awkward son and watch the travails of a Belgian martial artist pretending to be an American in his quest to win a fake karate contest on a shitty tv. And that means something. He would later take me to see the masterpieces of Europe, fund all sorts of fancies, and put up with an unspeakable amount of bullshit in the process, but few, if any, of these “big” things meant as much as that day in the hotel room.

My dad’s been gone for 20 years now. Our relationship had its ups and downs, as most do I suppose. It’s easy to fixate on the bad, often unfairly. Father’s Day attracts this kind of ambivalence for many. Dads die everyday. Sons too. It sucks. But don’t let life’s messiness dull the joy Dads (biological or not) bring us- some of it silly, some of it Belgian, a lot of it unplanned, some of It not Belgian (or so I am told). For it’s in the sneaked fast food combo, the car sing-a-long to Bob Seger, and the event skipped together where life shines. I share this all not to recommend watching Bloodsport (although [checks watch] you absolutely should) but to encourage you to share and embrace the “mundane” moments that are truly magical.

Happy Father’s Day

(56 Knockouts in a Single Tournament would mean, assuming typical tournament rules, that there were 56 rounds, which means there were 2^56, or 720,000,000,000,000,000,000, combatants)

#bloodsport #Father's Day #Chung Li #jcvd #Youtube

The Ultimate Sin

I’m glad Sinners exists. In these bleak media days, any movie that can get people excited about cinema is a good thing, full stop. I admire Ryan Coogler taking all the goodwill his Creeds and Black Panthers garnered him and using it for what is clearly a passion project. The film itself? Well…

It’s fine. It’s From Dusk Til Dawn, but instead of leaning into the grindhouse aesthetic with which it flirts, it tries to elevate itself by insisting the viewer acknowledges THIS IS A SERIOUS FILM WHERE WE’RE TALKING ABOUT SERIOUS STUFF, OK? And these topics (racism, artistic theft, racism, Michael B Jordan’s abs, racism) are certainly worthy of examination. But a self-serious tone rarely serves any piece of art- especially one featuring vampires and bloodlust fantasies of slaughtering KKK members. That said, there was demonstrably a great deal of effort put into the production design and cinematography. But it is this effort- or excess of it- that hinders the music, which ultimately turns out to be the film’s unforgivable [looks left, looks right] sin (we did it!).

For the most part, the music goes the more-is-more “Power Tools Ad” route, trying to modernize the blues by maximizing it- minimizing the timeless power of the blues in the process. Not great for a movie about the power of music, but most of it is in the background and thus more forgiveable (or at least ignorable).

But then comes the film’s climax. In the middle of the party before it goes all “Thriller,” a medley is played that is supposedly so powerful it can tear reality, obliterating logic itself. Now, the idea that a song can rip open a portal between our world and some demonic place is badass. Sign me up. But if that is what your entire movie hinges on, that song better fucking, well, rip. Whatever this is does not. It’s forced, it’s effortful, it’s just too much. It’s so bad it changes the perception of the film’s environment from the exogenesis of evil to a party where the people may have hooched themselves deaf and in their stupor started wearing strange costumes. Seriously: what is this shit?

You may say, well, Nick, I actually like this song. Which, OK, bully for you (and sorry your ears suck). But this song shouldn’t be just be OK, or even good. It should be an undeniable force that tears through the time-space continuum with its raw power. It should have had people standing up in the theater and freaking out like it was a 100 years ago and a moving image of a train was coming into the theater. There are countless songs, many by black artists of all sorts of prominence, that would have worked. Alas, having some busy discursive ditty that’s capped by a Bootsy Collins- lookalike (a genuinely awesome… bass player, natch) play a Diet Maggot Brain riff, just ain’t it. Listening to it, you’re not surprised it was composed by someone named Ludwig.

Maybe even worse than the music, Sinners is one of those movies certain types of people want to be congratulated for loving. And there are legitimate reasons to love it, even if it reminds Old Killjoy Robertson of other films. But the fact that the faux-authentic music- which Is so misguided as to derail the film as a whole- is literally award-winning speaks to the simplistic “well racism is bad so this movie is good” mindset seems to be driving much of the film’s acclaim.

#Youtube #sinners movie #music

Happy-er Holidays!

Zooming in to catch my beautiful boy Yacht IX hungrily unwrap his Christmas Kawasaki, it dawned on me: shouldn’t this be better? Don’t get me wrong- life is currently checking all the boxes: The pivots that paid off, the private battalion, the progress in the fight for data center liberation, the placement of the final golden bricks blocking the boiling void, the boner pills- truly, all dank. But watching my 73rd-ish child’s asymmetrical hands rip through tired wrapping paper made me realize- this is all so… gross. The inefficiencies! The wastefulness of pure joy on shameless display. The disgusting redundancy of “Ho Ho Ho.” Sure, Little Yachty’s radiant face makes the whole of my insides sparkle, but the moment’s ephemeral nature really embodies how insipid merriment is. Soon enough he’ll be squeezing- literally throttling!- the value out of his gift, naively giving away the sound of the engine to fill the block, while the resources could have been attaining blockchain nirvana mining for CandaceOCoin.

Imagine a better world, where instead of being misallocated on fleeting tears of joy, our precious water could be used to nourish the next generation of innovation. Where instead of powering a smile, energy is properly served, generating 40 pixels of a video depicting Kristi Noem kicking all the forgotten and inconvenient into an abyss à la the THIS IS SPARTA scene from “300.” Optimized. Perfected. Flawless. Eternal. Where the time squandered with loved ones is instead spent nurturing emerging technology. Let us be brutal about our tenderest (weakest) moments for the good of all (that matter). Less introspection! More pwns! Less smeary emotions! More Ryan Reynolds! It’s time to surrender our messy minds and streamline the holidays to be as clean and simple as unplugging a stranger’s dialysis machine. For true holiday bliss will only be attained when we boil down warmth to its numerical essence. That’s why, this holiday, I’m blessing my family with the gift of freedom from the burden of their emotional rights by signing them over to the good-adjacent folks at The Sauron Group. By doing so, we shall find the Hallelujah in algorithms- together. Let’s forgo “magic” for the mirth of metrics, because only when we replace elation with utility may we truly realize the potential of the Holiday Spirit System.

Anyhoodles- Wishing you *Happy…er* 😉 Holidays!

The true Spirit of Christmas.

#christmas #AI #kawasaki #kristi noem

42 Observations at 42

While I crossed the threshold in an orthopedic walking boot, I made it to 42. That’s roughly 368,000 hours lived. According to Malcolm Gladwell’s totally unimpeachable 10,000-hours-to-mastery metric, that means I have mastered life- over 36 times. Just let that sink in. Pretty amazing when you think about it. Sure, I could have just as easily watched Sorcerer over 182,000 times, but no- I decided to get out there and live, friend. But what’s one to do with all this experience smushed into one slightly leaky skull? Not being a selfish man, I couldn't very well keep it to myself. With that in mind, here are 42 thoughts, insights, underdeveloped ideas, questions, article false starts, gleans, cleans, bee-bops, rocksteadys, jams, and lessons that will ensure immortality and expand your size by up to 4 inches in no particular order.

The Ossur Rebound Walking Boot: Almost worth acutely fracturing your anterolateral calcaneus for.

First, an anecdote:

One of the nice things about living in DC is I don’t have to drive a ton. And one of the nice things about that is I rarely have car troubles. So imagine my shock earlier this summer while I was headed south on 95 when a cacophony of car dings dang on my dashboard. First, something about a tire air pressure gauge issue. A few minutes later, a flash about coolant thermometers. Soon enough, another chirp for my braking system. This spattering of advisories seemed as unconnected as they were relentless.

But the car felt like it was driving fine, or at least fine enough to wait to deal with. As none of the main parts of the car were visibly detaching, ajar, or aflame, I allowed myself some time to ponder what was behind all of this sudden alarm madness. Given the rapidly-surfacing, system-wide nature of the problem, I blamed the most obvious culprit: computers. I don’t know, maybe a foundational motherboard melted in the unforgiving June humidity? [Here's as a good a place as any to mention I know absolutely nothing about cars]. That's it- got to be the car computer. No car computer can withstand this heat! And while nothing about “cooked car computer” sounded cheap, with my car’s inspection coming up, and my compulsive inability to not address advisory lights, my only real choice was to face my problem head-on by paying a professional to face my problem head-on. After dropping my car off at the mechanic and waiting a few days, I braced myself for the other surely pricey car-foot to drop. Boy, was I not disappointed. Instead of a typical estimate, I got a video- and while the picture and sound were a little hard to make out (Werner Herzog this perfectly affable auto mechanic was not!), through the static I could hear something about “rodents” and “wires” and figured danggg this is going to suck. And suck it did. Flash forward to me picking my fixed 4-wheeled fuckhead up a week later. After paying for the car, I was waiting for my poor baby when the cashier excitedly pointed me out to a passing coworker, letting him know “this [me] is the guy.” The coworker stopped midstride then looked upon me with an odd awe, like I was an retired Redskin or had a nice rack. Apparently my car had become a minor celebrity in this garage during its stay. I had always wanted to make some sort of mark on this world, but impressing mechanics with the mangled state of my car felt a bit Monkey Paw-ish. Or, in this case, Rat Paw-ish. Because you see, friend, the problem was rats. Because I never drive, a group of the nasty fuckers had the time to set up a nest inside my front wheel-well. But were these vermin satisfied with their free shade from the blistering summer sun? Would I be asking such a belabored hypothetical if they did? No- my car’s new roommates decided that their new home was nice enough to eat- so they did just that. But the engine’s metal was a bit too heavy for their delicate tummies, so they settled for the chewy delicacy of my cars internal wiring instead.

No rats were harmed in the creation of this article. In the story it captures however...

I wasn’t really sure how to respond to the mechanic besides paying the costly lodging fees my rodent tenants passed onto me (there was no discount for kind of accurately guessing the problem was “computer-related,” whatever the hell that means). I tried not to imagine a family of rats, stuffed with chunks of decades-old Acura, jumping out of my car on 95. In vein. After receipt of the car, I drove back to DC fairly certain it was haunted by the ghosts of a dozen vermin, but, haha, whatever, bad times make good ghosts stories. A couple weeks had passed, annoyance became anecdote. Until the advisory alerts came back. I took it to another shop. This time, it seemed just a sensor was busted. I had never been so relieved to have a couple hundred-dollar burden hoisted onto my stilling shoulders. After a few days, I went to pick the car back up. Driving home, the same light came on. I immediately called the mechanic and dropped the car back off. After another week, I was finally set up to go pick up my car. [I think I just set a record for most times I’ve typed “car” since my brief foray into automotive autoerotic nonfiction]. As I was about to hail an Uber to the shop, I was halted by a call- actually, I wouldn’t be able to pick up my car today. During a final inspection, they had found something under my battery. Surprise! A fresh rat nest! Now, to fully explain my frustration, I do not park anywhere close to trees. In fact, I think the closest vegetation to my car is about 400 feet or so away from my parking space in the miles of concrete that is downtown DC. So, that means a rat (or a pack of them), identified my car, selected it, and then- to make it feel more homey- collected foliage from at least 1/10 of a mile away and dragged it all the way back to my car, setting up a palace under my battery. They had managed to do this all within the week or so I had the car back. Sure enough, yet again, they had decided that shelter wasn’t enough generosity from yours truly. And, yet again, they helped themselves to my apparently divine wiring. Long story medium, I now spray lowly-glowing peppermint crap on all the visible wires in my car twice a week. It looks like magical milk right out of a Tolkien tale. Often when I'm covering everything that looks important in this poison, I find myself bombarded by questions: Why did this happen to me? Did someone sabotage my car, putting a tasty hunk of cheese on a back tire? Will the rats come back? (It’s really not a fun thing to constantly have a low-to-mid grade paranoia about rats coming to eat your car). Maybe the rats like me? I do have empathy for them, and given the amount of rats I have seen crushed in the city's alleyways, I had at one point considered starting a @SplatRatsofDC Insta page, but never actually did anything towards that. Maybe this has all been some sort of warped punishment for not following through on their requiem. There’s no real moral of this story, besides that sometimes if you don’t drive in big American cities, there’s a chance rats will eat (and maybe haunt) your car. Take from that what you will.

2. The strangest part of aging is how similar most things feel. Sure you ache more, you may find a little softness where once was air, you might be puzzled by the youth and their attraction to all things dumb and loud, but all things considered, I still feel like the same person that I was when I was in my teenage years. I was expecting to feel significantly different- that age in itself would iron out my wrinkles. In some ways this lack of change is a blessing, but the greater reality is it kind of sucks. It’s not that I hate being me or anything, but I did assume that one day I would have an epiphany or transformation, which would be followed by torrents of built-up genius escaping every point of my being, sort of like an omniscient sneeze, leaving behind the cocoon of potential that adults used to mock me with through pure kineticism. I’d hoped that all the things I’ve consumed- from burritos to books to heartache to high fives to good times to bad karma- were all essential to creating this new, better version of myself. A [CLICHE ALERT] butterfly to my current caterpillar. This change has yet to occur- I think. Almost positive. Perhaps all the pieces are in place, and the final button is yet to be pushed- but it first must be found. But where is it? At the end of a marathon? In the midst of a particularly humbling work experience? The aftershocks of a trauma? The sun hitting my eyes at just the right angle? The end credits of Donkey Kong: Bananza? There’s only one way to find out…

3. Not only is Donkey Kong: Bananza! some world-class punnage, but it's one of the best types of game, where the puzzles are tricky enough to give you pause but just solvable enough to crack them sans internet, assuring you of your God-level intellect because you figured out how to complete a task made for someone 1/4 your age to collect massive bananas.

Always looking for an excuse to spotlight Cranky Kong.

4. One of the more concerning things about dating apps is the amount of women seeking a partner who loves Taylor Swift as much as they do. As a music obsessive, I get it- ideally a soul mate should connect with the same sounds you do. But, come on. Are women really seeking a middle-aged man who’s obsessed with a songstress who seems to exclusively sing baby-brained petty pop music about her exes? Shouldn't such a fandom be more alarming than attractive? At the risk of generalization, any guy who’s really into Taylor Swift is probably a date rapist. At best.

5. Slow and steady is a pace.

6. Cosmic justice tends to trump your resistance to hypocrisy. For example: Up until 36 or so, I thought running was the stupidest activity one could do. Just a total waste of time for dumb shits determined to live forever, just so they can run more. Modern day Sisyphi who make up for the lack of gravitas with a surfeit of stupefyingly obnoxious clothing. Dumb dumb dumb. In my earlier years, after a morning cocktail session, I would occasionally taunt joggers by asking them “What are you running from?” as they cruised by, enjoying my fifth Camel Light before 10 am, quite pleased with myself and my imperviousness.

You can probably guess what happened next. Sparing you the deeply moving, (dare I say purifying?) details, Covid Covid-ed and I’ve been running quite obsessively for over five years now. It wasn't even that gradual of a transformation. Once I got it, I loved it. But every time I run by a kid who looks kind of like I did a decade ago, it's hard not to see myself as a big ol' stinky fraud. How big of a dork I must look to that kid with the glassy eyes and relaxed gait. I hope he never starts running and lives forever. Time makes hypocrites of many of us. The things you detest you will come to love, that which gives security will one day vanish and yet you will continue. The whole of society will not what they're doing and point damning fingers at you for changing your mind about something. Perhaps this inevitability is so we’ll have more empathy for our fellow hypocrites when they- or we- are being hypocritical.

7. The tradeoff of youth for wisdom is a fair one. But what they don’t tell you is that no one cares what some old guy is yammering about, unless they did something notable when they were young.

8. It took a decade or so of frustration, but I think I’ve pinpointed my hatred of LinkedIn, aka “Relentless Neediness: The Website”: it’s because it breaks the first rule of good communication: show, don’t tell. With very few exceptions, the whole of LinkedIn is “thought leaders” telling you why you should consume their self-congratulatory drivel. Also: everything else about LinkedIn sucks. Gahdamn, I could not hate it more! Lest we forget the bromides! ”Failing is actually the best teacher!” How novel! “Those who change the world know how to pivot!” Awesome! “[Anecdote that leads to awakening, but not in a genuine or interesting form, but in a way that somehow points to their growth as a business leader]” Hit me, Dostoyevsky! While I am thankful for the endless fodder it gives for group texts to mock, the workworld-wide imperaive to not only be on the site, but be active in a totally inauthentic way*, is just the worst. God, it sucks! SUCKS! It standardizes success in sickening fashion. It is where groupthink reigns and sparks goes to die. The worst! I wish it would rise-n-grind itself into oblivion. *Unless you genuinely suck, in which case, don’t let me rain on your parade.

9. Someone take the word “problematic” out back and shoot it.

10. How terrific was WeaponsI?!?! One of those movies I left covered with goosebumps, excited to be alive. Genuinely weird, poignant, and hilarious. I’d be jealous is if I wasn’t so affected. Uncut kryptonite to the oceans of content dulling society.

11. I can’t tell if I’m getting worse at reading, or if I’ve always been bad and that reading more has made my deficiency harder to ignore. I find myself needing to reread paragraphs often three times for there to even be a chance of anything making a dent. One reason is that when I read things- especially "important" things- the first time, my brain, super-excited that I can now casually brag I read whatever pretentious thing, wants to skim more than actually engage, just so that it may check some internal box, giving me a little dopamine hit for this non-accomplishment. Close reading is essential for the growing mind- and so much harder than the self-congratulatory cursor. Anyway, I blame LinkedIn. Fuck that place (see: #8).

12. Anecdotally, I hear people say Infinite Jest is the novel most purchased novel which no one has actually read. And while I know some out there have made it's very presence on a bookshelf into a symbol of hollow male faux-intellectualism, in my experience most who own the book have read it. (And that’s not just a coy way of saying “I’ve read infinite Jest.” Regardless- and while I have no way to prove this- I think it’s probably the most read modern-ish novel of my friend group who actually reads).

13. That said, I absolutely lied about reading Gravity’s Rainbow for about 15 years. It's not that I hadn't tried. With a name that cool and the praise that heavy, surely it would click immediately? Not so much. There were parts I really liked, but it was just too bewildering for real engagement. But after tackling- and really enjoying- Cormac McCarthy's Surtree earlier earlier in the year, I was feeling intellectually invincible, so I bought a fresh copy of GV, a reader’s guide, and committed myself to tackling Pynchon’s postmodern beast. Bully for me- but… Why did I lie about reading it in the first place? Well, to seem smart, dumbass! It seemed sophisticated and that was enough to tell people that I had read it. Plus, there was no easy way to prove I hadn't. Of course, I don’t know anybody who cares whether I’ve read it or not, which makes the lie all the more silly, but isn’t that usually the case with most fibs?

14. That said, Gravity’s Rainbow is absolutely worth reading. If you find the connection between the post-WW2 power vacuum, sex, and the military-industrial complex to be reflective of our modern age, enjoy the rush that only the explosive power of language can trigger, or just like feeling you’re in the brain of Thomas Ruggles Pynchon Jr., one of literature’s most genius geniuses, run don’t walk. Then sit- for many, many hours. It's like the most sophisticated Looney Tune ever conceived by somebody with a taste for T.S. Eliot-esque proto-postmodernism, drugs, and a PhD-level understanding on projection physics. Probably the best piece of writing since Ulysses. (Another book I have lied about reading!). Let GR suck up a couple months of your life, and in exchange it will widen your world in a deeply profound way.

15. While we’re on Pynchon, One Battle After Another was also awesome! Two tip top films in one year!

16. It's been a fairly harrowing few months for the country, but nothing about living in DC is as depressing as how ecstatic the women in my office were to hear about the Taylor Swift/ Travis Kelce engagement.

17. Speaking of DC, another (shorter) anecdote. Like many residents before me, I have a love/hate relationship with our nation’s capital. I’ve been here for five years, and have filled four of them with conversations about where I should go next. Anyway, I was on work-break walk when I was passed by a woman so stunning that it took my brain a few seconds to even register. Ah yes, her Goddess form reminded me, there are benefits to living in the power capital of the world. Suddenly, the sun’s beam went from oppressive to warming. My walk now blissened, I went a block or two further to see a, let’s say "disheveled", looking guy on the sidewalk. I tilted my head down and kept walking, hoping to hold onto the beauty I had been graced with, but other forces were at play. For in the corner of my periphery, I saw them this gentleman pull his dick out, step out into the road, and start pissing into oncoming (car) traffic. I could feel his eyes as I took the first possible right. Relieved to be free of this one-sided staredown, I then saw a rat with chunks missing that looked like he just got out of the fight of their life. Finally, a bit of the White House lawn.

18. I totally forgot Lauren Hill is in Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit!

My B!

19. If you enjoy psychedelic experiences, here’s a tip that will save you money: stop smoking pot. While the topic remains understudied, take it from an old stoner- pot may help you go night night, but it messes with your Rapid-Eye Movement (REM) sleep. While you also dream in deep sleep, REM is where you get most of your night visions. Alas: if you quit smoking pot, you will start dreaming again. And here's the thing- your body essentially stores its cravings for REM sleep. The content of the dreams-not-had, or just the intensity? I have no idea! For how long? Clueless! The inky nature of dreams make them essentially impossible to study. But while few can agree on what dreaming is exactly for (memory formation? creativity? emotional processing?), the consensus is that is essential to your mental well-being. But fair warning: if you’ve been cheefing the sticky icky for a while, your return to the world of dreams will be quite intense (and could resurface some things from decades ago that you had forgotten about until you wake up mid-apology in a pool of sweat hoping to God that the person you haven't seen in two decades will forgive you about their jet ski. But I digress.) These experiences can be very lifelike. They will also involve surreal activities like flying underwater or having conversations with people long dead. Hell, sometimes you will dream of smoking pot, letting you blaze your cake and have it too. But wherever your specific night journeys may take you, the experiences you have will often put any psilocybin-spawned “man, the colors are moving” or phone astonishments to shame. Plus, your brain will work better with that fresh dank sleep as opposed to the recovery typically needed by poisoning your prefrontal cortex.

20. (But eat some shrooms every once in a while. It’s good for you.)

21. Back to dreams: Spielberg suggests in The Fabelmans that dreams are always scary. I don't find that to be exactly true, but they do always spawn some sort of dread. A lot of mine end with me awash with the anxiety sprung of looking for a lost wallet and/or phone. In fact, a lost gadget/key/MacGuffin is usually how I realize I'm dreaming- often mid-dream (although I’ve found lucid dreaming to be far less interesting in experience than you’d imagine). Yes, I’ve discussed this in therapy. No, there is no satisfying answer. Perhaps fixating on always finding something is the point? Or something? Do dreams ever fundamentally change? Are we living in something's dream? What happens when they wake up...

22. (Actually, maybe be judicious about mushroom use).

23. OK- one more dream thing. Having had roughy 1,000 consecutive nights of intense dreams, one truth that consistently surfaces is that dreams aren't as simple as popular culture may have you to believe. The experiences you have while asleep are far less linear than waked life. And the two planes of existence rarely- if ever- match up neatly. For instance, if you’re feeling stuck at work, rarely do you just dream of something as 1-to-1 as, say, drowning. The subconscious is an literally incomprehensibly powerful thing, and much like a higher power, its true intentions and mechanizations can’t really be understood through any modern lens, esp. one of its counterpart state. That doesn’t mean dreams aren’t worthy of discussion and analysis, but this idea that simple problems are simply expressed in dream world is Hollywood horseshit.

24. The power of the will never ceases to amaze. And flummox.

25. Youth is unlike anything else (Such insight, Nick!). But it is not everything. To wit, it's fairly common for people of a certain age to look back at their youth as the best time in their lives. And while that’s nice and all (and in many cases accurate), I think it undervalues how confounding our early years can be. Sure, it’s nice to essentially feel physically invincible, but all I remember from my younger years was how insufficient everything felt. Especially myself. How confused I was. How daunting the future seemed. And while there were certainly good times, if I look back at my life and find benders with buddies were the best time, then I will feel I have failed in some major way.

26. Am I the only jabroni who donates to Wikipedia?

27. Just because a relationship, romantic or otherwise, doesn’t last forever, doesn’t mean it wasn’t special- or even foundational.

28. My dad was almost 40 when he had me. He was 42- the age I just turned- when he had open heart surgery. My first memories of life are with him in his hospital bed. I was showing him some Ghostbusters toy where the eyes would bug out. I remember the toy more than I remember him in the bed.

At a subconscious level, I think having a father who had such a massive surgery so young (and then went on to die so young) made me crave certain types of, let's say "short sighted" experiences in my younger adulthood. For some reason, acting like I was in the rhythm section of Guns n’ Roses just made a lot more sense than trying to get a jump on life. But you get to a point where acting like life is short will cause your life to shorten. It all scares the shit out of me, but in a mostly constructive way.

29. I’m roughly 5 years older than Tony Soprano was at the start of his eponymous series.

My thoughts exactly.

30. Making my way through Walter Hill’s back catalogue (Streets of Fire? Superb opening number, but it falls apart pretty quickly- even if it was the inspiration for arcade staple Final Fight. Now, Hard Times and Johnny Handsome? That’s some good watching), it occurs to me that in my limited time on this planet I won’t see every great film, read every great book, or hear every great song. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.

31. On the other side of greatness, AI just feels like a scam. The stuff it’s making is fine, sometimes even interesting, but never great. That said, it doesn’t take much of a strain to imagine culture-writ-large’s standards continuing to sink and meet the slop, tricking our brains into thinking we have “endless content” when we actually are prisoners to ceaseless digital pap, bait made of misleading first frames that bludgeons us into spending so much of our time looking dead-eyed at things that do not bring us any sort of satisfaction. You can survive on slop, but it’s a shame when there’s so much better stuff out there. This will become all the more distressing once the same logic that corporations= people will take over for artificial intelligences. It makes you really appreciate Luddites. Modern tech has made us all crash test dummies, and with a dysfunctional lawmaking apparatus, these dangers will only continue to increase. But hey- at least the .000000000000001% who make it out alive will get to make videos of the Hamburglar boning Genghis Kahn!

So happy we're betting the future of the planet on this very hilarious stuff!

32. One example: AI seems determined to crank out infinite short form videos. I’d guess 96% are fitness influencers, giving essentially the same advice about limiting carbs and cardio, increasing weight and girth, and maximizing vein potential [I might be mixing a few things up]. But they’re all soundtracked by these slowed-down R n’ B tracks and/or mumble rap. It sounds like a sorta talented choir boy melting in a vat of boiling cough syrup. It’s fucking mindless. And bad. While I can’t count the number of times I’ve clicked to to see the trick that will make my arms look like some trt’d freaks with just an four minutes of of exercise a month, I have never- not once- come away glad I watched the video. Furthermore, I probably eradicated a species or two with the energy wasted just to watch this bad, bland madness.

33. To that end, I find myself saying “I’m a humanist” a lot more recently. If I wore a scarf, I’m sure I’d flip it to really emphasize the statement. And while my knuckles deserve a good rap for the precious obnoxiousness of such an observation, it feels necessary in a world that seems to perpetually posit that you’re either for the machines or for man.

34. Envy is a natural emotion, but it’s connection to narcissism is becoming more and more obvious. Nobody gets to have all the experiences, feel all the feelings, do all the things this life has to offer. You can’t be a boss and call yourself “working class,” be chosen and really identify with the Preterite, or be beautiful and have the perseverance it takes to make it through the world ugly. And that’s fine, nobody is everything (except to themselves). This all makes choice important, and those we make all the more meaningful. Internalizing this is the foundation of being happy for other people, which makes going through this existence considerably more enjoyable.

Not entirely sure what this picture has to do with envy, but The New Yorker said it did so here it is.

35. Sugar is the most addictive substance on earth. And thus the hardest to quit.

36. Tired of reading this crap? Check out a writer whose work I’ve been unknowingly enjoying for decades. Steve Hely, former writer of American Dad!, creator of 2025’s best show Common Side Effects, and author of the funny travelogue/ contest The Ridiculous Race and superb journey into the world of words, How I Became a Famous Novelist. Steve juggles wordplay with a comic imagination that is better enjoyed than described, but I have never laughed as hard at a book as I did Novelist. CSE reminds me of several Coen Bros. movies (esp. their finally-getting-its-due gem Burn After Reading). The man has range, a rare aptitude for silliness, but more importantly, touch. Elect him King of Hollywood already!

37. Ambition and gratitude aren’t opposites. But they’re pretty close.

38. Few things make me as disappointed in myself as a chocolate stain on a new t shirt. [To self: YOU. FAT. FUCK.]. Close second: biting my own lip.

39. Syndey Sweeney: Women:: Machine Gun Kelly: Men. I will not be fielding questions.

40. At what point of money gathering do you decide living forever sound appealing? Around billion 3? Is that when the devil appears to let you know something not-great is waiting on the other side for your greedy ass? Or, do people really want to live forever? WHY?

41. Personally speaking, there is no more sure sign that a romantic relationship is on the fritz than when the lady starts sharing things by Jillian Turecki with the expectation that I will listen and glean something from her. The abstract-spewing relationship “expert” seems to be a go-to source for the women I’ve been, let’s say “lucky,” enough to date when they’ve reached their wits end with me or the heat of the unknown is cooled by the undefeated mundane. And who knows, perhaps heeding the wisdom of Platitude: The Person would make my relational problems evaporate as quickly as brain cells enduring a Yungblud concert. Ladies, I’m sure the woman has given good advice before, and if it helps you, hey whatever, but the idea that any man is going to listen to the color lavender come to life with eagerly accepting ears is beyond wishful thinking.

This broad...

42. For a generation that loves to spray-paint things like “ACAB,” youngsters sure like policing things…

43. One luxury I never thought would cost you is overt kindness.

44. Desperation makes fools of us all.

45. Stereotypes about height are offensive to the tall.

46. Podcasts have taught me that net worth and talent are by no means connected.

Proof.

47. Cool: My beloved Stereolab came out with their first new album in 15 years. Cooler: It’s fantastic. I mean, how can you not love everything about this:

48. One nice thing about making it to the 2020s is that whenever I die, there will be no porno cache to be found.

49. Parsing emotions is essentially impossible. They all just feel like energy.

50. Most people who are constantly “right” are usually pretty bad hangs.

51. The amount of people suing ChatGPT/ chat bots as therapists suggest to me that privacy is passe and something for only the ultra wealthy.

52. It’s not that I wish to live a more conventional life. It’s that I wish that that was enough.

53. Working in a creative field, one constantly ponders talent. What is it, exactly? Is it something intrinsic? If not, when and where does it form? Is it watching a certain cartoon or learning to play the banjo at a certain age? Being around people who daily toss off ideas you couldn’t begin to conceive even if you had an eternity suggests there is something given to it. But there are many facets to it. Having the work ethic to get better is definitely an example of it. Focus seems to be the best talent as it can usurp the others. That said, I have learned that as much as we tend to think otherwise, intelligence, taste, and creative prowess are not always connected.

54. Aging is understanding people you love can annoy the hell out of you.

55. Having stormtroopers take over the city you call home is a bit of a surrealistic experience. Although what I mostly feel is cowardice.

56. One of the few things more depressing than the mind-boggling amount of Manosohere videos about how women are the root of all evil is how heavily targeted I am by them.

57. I can’t decide whether career apathy is a sign of depression, growth, or surrender?

58. Ballatro is the best thing to happen to cards since the creation of the heart.

59. I have a coworker who thinks he’s Beavis, but he’s really Stuart. This applies to many men.

60. Like all, Hulk Hogan was flawed. A lot of his later years were just filled with cringe. But there are few things as powerful in the visual lexicon as his body slamming Andre the Giant in Wrestlemania 3 in front of 92k in Detroit’s metronome. The sheer disobedience of limits. The triumph of will over physics. Determination over doubt. It flies in the face of The System. The anti-mundane. It is humanity and its peak. It’d be mythical- if it didn’t happen.

61. Which one of you has my copy of Boogie Nights?

62. Impossible to calculate how much cooler smoking looks than vaping.

63. Groaning after I got my orthopedic boot stuck in a crevice under my work desk, I was called “unc” by a coworker recently. I found more endearing than I should?

64. Being wifeless, childless, and propertyless, I often ponder masculinity, and if I have just failed its many tests or if the definition has shifted in my lifetime. What makes a man in 2025? Is it rising to the top of a system that’s as rigged as it is broken, all others be damned? The will to sink with your convictions even if it has a similar impact on your loved ones? Is it physical strength, economic prowess, or intellectual achievement? Is it acquiring the things most associate with success? Is it bedding as many women as possible? Or men? Is it dying for what you believe in? Is it simply being true to yourself, in the face of conventional wisdom? Buddha or Nietzsche? Sobriety or narcotized id? Is masculinity timeless or forever connected to a moment?

65. Business acumen is many things. Cool is not one of them.

66. Whenever I feel like I might be losing or gaining weight, the answer is always gaining.

67. While most cliches are just lazy, there is one that I have found to be fundamentally true: Comparison is the theft of joy. And a bad thing about aging is that you literally get more time for comparisons to creep in. PTA made BN when he was 16 years younger than me. Pynchon wrote GR 8 years younger. And JC was crucified 9 years younger. My dad was 3 years younger when he had me. Celebrated clown LeBron James was 25 years younger when he graced his first Sports Illustrated. And on…

68. The only thing worse than a new generation claiming "lost" things that weren't (yes, youngsters, we were listening to Pavement in the 90s) is the old generation trying to retcon their lame ass tastes as cool. I don’t care who tells you otherwise: Paramore, Dave Matthews Band, and Blink 182 were never cool. Just mentioning them has sullied this article. It is this retconning of the past that leads to stupidities such as "There's Nothing More Punk Rock Than the Public Library" t-shirts.

Not cool now. Not cool then. Not cool in the future. Don't let them lie to you.

69. Why do so many people define themselves by what they drink?

70. Women seem to find John Mulaney a lot funnier than men do.

71. No one gets less crazy with age.

72. Something positive: My mom recently rescued Mindy, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, from a puppy mill. Mindy's life mostly consisted of pushing out very expensive puppies. For five years. When my mom received her, the dog weighed a hair over 11 pounds, and almost all of that was hair and skull. Depleted of calcium and who knows what else, Mindy was quite timid at first, often seeking hiding spots in a new environment filled with large “humans” who equate gentleness with fragility and communicate via booming Southern twang. It took a year, a couple surgeries, 18 teeth pulled, and a number of treats so high it would detonate any data center tasked with tallying them, but Mindy has made leaps forward. She’s more social. She’s playful. She demands belly scratches. She smiles, a lot. Now, not all of us will be rescued by a saintly woman (yeah, I’m biased), determined to share a slice of the good life with a soul who's life had been defined by childbirth and the forced taking of her children. But the underlying truth is that while it may not be immediate, consistent warmth can work wonders for critters of all kinds.

Mindy MuMu in repose. Sitting on the couch she was "never" to sit on.

73. Realizing that a lot of these are a bit of a downer, I will say that at 42 the main feeling I have is gratitude. Thanks to all- friends, foes, strangers, jackals, and heroes alike- for making it an entertaining af ride so far.

74. [Last]. In conclusion, I lied up top. I don’t really have any life advice. Live in a way where people won’t celebrate if you get shot. (OK, I guess some advice).

75. [Actual last] I leave you with a quote from Thomas Pynchon that has brought me solace in the last year: “Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it; keep cool, but care.”

I’m 33 over- I guess that means I’m covered until 2058 Thanks for making it this far. Best,

The Rat King of DC

#rats #thomas pynchon #stereolab #aging

LIVE DRUGS AGAIN Review

War on Drugs has been on the brain since I saw them blow the roof off of Merriweather Post Pavillion a couple weeks ago*. While Adam & and his Merry Group of Scruffy/ Sexy Savants elected not to play a one of my 4 favorite songs of theirs, I'd still say it was the best I've ever seen them play and easily one of the most dynamic sets of 2024 thus far. Luckily for those who didn't find themselves in Southern Maryland in mid-September, the band's undeniable genius has been captured by a new live album which is pretty damn great too**.

Preferring the exactitude of the studio, I don't usually go in for live albums, but Live Drugs Again really captures some of the band's magic and Granduciel's singularly funny, passionate, and just likable showmanship. While the songs are great, it is the playing that really elevates the band to the rarest of airs. Compiled over the band's '22-'23 tour, the album is a testament to the band's approach: Earnest with a smirk, unafraid to rawk, yet never collapsing into monotonous 6-stringed masturbation. Find yourself a porch, some rain, and about 80 minutes (or a group of musically discerning homies, some longnecks, and a long weekend) and submit to one of 2024's finest offerings. Key tracks: "Harmonia's Dream," "Burning," "Coming to the City," "Under the Pressure," all the other ones.

Score: 10 Emotionally-laden Middle Aged Man Shimmies out of 10

*You'd think vets such as the National would know the #1 Rule of Live Rock: don't let your opener burn all the oxygen in the local atmosphere

**Even if it doesn't end with a genuinely surprising cover of Petty's "Love is a Long Road," which seems to be having quite the renaissance due to its soundtracking the GTA VI trailer.

#war on drugs #music #Spotify

What does the owl mean?

Scorsese’s newest crime-as-narrative-device epic Killers of the Flower Moon is brimming with masterful detail, worthy of study as long as there is light and projection. The morphing of medium, the performances, the production design, and just about everything else weave into an adaptation that wows just as deeply as it wounds. Just the idea of approaching a full-film analysis is daunting* as its (also excellent) source material is thorough. But if there was a prevailing question that surfaced while I resurrected my legs after the hefty, mesmerizing runtime it was: “What does the owl mean?”

*If a picture is worth a thousand words- and that seems a bit low for a Scorsese frame- the movie is worth 324 million words, assuming the standard 24 frames/ second, although I’m sure MS jimmied the speed once or twice throughout.

It's been a few years since I read Grann's revelatory book- and while many of the details have stayed lodged into my mind like a crown-entering bullet, I do not recall any owls. While well-written, what makes the book a modern masterpiece is its incessantly illuminating reporting- and its refusal to indulge in hypothetical connective tissue. The owls maybe in the book in the form of secondhand accounts, but Grann’s spectacular picture is not one inked by speculative surrealistic imagery. The pages' power comes from its unblinking objectivity, so while it may have reported that two women on their death beds saw owls, he would not give them the visceral, vivid, nightmarish treatment that Marty and DP Rodrigo Pieto have. Nor would he give the winged wonders the metaphorical density with which the maestro Martin has imbued them. Marty, unlike Grann, doesn't hesitate to use his well earned artistic license, weaponizing it for maximum impact.

Because even if you're not one who really considers subtext when watching a film, it's obvious that the owl is meaningful. Like, really, really so. Utilizing the bird as liberally as Vin Diesel uses the word "family," Scorsese clearly wants the viewer to consider these creatures, and is willing to essentially stop the plot- twice- for the audience to consider these majestic animals- as they stare right back at us.

In the context of the film, The Osages believe that owls appear to those on the brink of death. Simultaneously resembling a demon and DiCaprio's Ernest Buckheart with proud, enigmatic, robust, and unwavering focus. But there is something unsure about their menacing waddle and beautiful bobbing head- perhaps a reflection of Burkhart's ambivalence in the face of avarice. Sure, the birds both literally and metaphorically portend death- but what else?

While aloof, owls are usually considered benevolent creatures, the mascot of the studious, an animal who’s call is a Midwestern shorthand for amusement (“a hoot”). Most western schools of thought identify them with wisdom and transformation. And wisdom is often connected with light (“brilliance,” for instance), which is associated with truth, which is associated with freedom, or at least, exodus. Knowledge typically goes hand and hand with modernity- can knowledge be bad?

Ask the Osage Indians. Or Adam and Eve. Modern transformation walks hand-and-hand with unrivaled wealth much like a bite of the apple was the gateway to knowledge- but at what cost? Are Innocence and education/evolution mutually exclusive by design? In the case of the Osage, this is not a wealth they necessarily sought- it was given to them nearly out of spite. Does God want us to stay ignorant, and simply be- or to use the resources which he has bestowed upon us? Is money the root of all evil?

Or, does the owl itself represent the wisdom- and thus freedom- that comes with death? “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” and Catholicism- a major theme throughout this, and pretty much all, of Scorcese’s work. But what is the Lord here? Is it capitalism? Is it man’s nature- or specifically, white man’s nature? Is the owl's stare a damnation for our ruining of the planet? Or maybe something is being said about our tendency to wrap meaning around western, feathered symbols?

Article Spoiler Alert: I don’t have the answer, because how I read it, there isn’t any. Or there's many. Same thing. But such is the nature of visual media. The "answer" may not be translatable into language much like the majesty of Guernica could never be caught with words (or Moby Dick captured with a brush or chisel). Much like DiCaprio’s Ernest can illicit feelings both venomous and empathetic, the owl can be multiple- if not infinite- things, most of which are diametrically opposed and/or didactically in concert. For exactitude, one must reference the image itself, brimming with menace. And meaning.

#killers of the flower moon #martin scorsese