You may have noticed (but really, why would you have?) that I’ve stopped blogging about Sarah Palin. There are two reasons for this. One is that she feeds on attention, and I want to do what I can to starve the beast. The other is that it’s no longer fun mocking someone whose willful ignorance is her chief marketing asset.

Besides, I was dismayed at how large she had grown in the tag cloud over there in the right-hand bar. I thought about removing the tag entirely, but decided instead to rename it “despicable fame whores.”

Dave Rant despicable fame whores

My friend Mark responded to my recent “Me of Little Faith” post with the following:

Dave! While you were “Facebooking,” you wrote:

“Alternately, we’re all just tiny, briefly-existing specks in an incomprehensible vast and uncaring universe who have created gods in our own image to keep the nightmares away.”

But, you forgot to write the most important part of your comment! Namely:

” . . . and soon, Cthulhu will awake, the seas will boil off, the continents will shake like gelatin, the electrons in the carbon atoms that comprise our bodies will be forcibly torn from their orbits, and our souls will be used as the clay for his obscene and inscrutable purposes.  Have a nice day everyone.”

I’m reposting this not only because I think it’s funny, but because Mark correctly identified the intersect between my personal beliefs and the writings of author H.P. Lovecraft.

I’ve long been fascinated by Lovecraft. At first it was mostly due to the absurd names he gave to his indescribably horrible horrors. (Oh yes, I’m so very terrified of Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young.) Later, I came to recognize the massive influence he’s had on horror and fantasy literature, comics and movies.

The central themes of Lovecraft’s body of work describe a universe which is incomprehensible and, at best, uncaring. Mankind is neither the first intelligent life to walk on the Earth, nor will it be the last. Cosmic forces lurk in the gulfs of space and in the most inhospitable parts of our globe, biding their time until “the stars are right” and they reemerge to smite victims and followers alike.

Now, I don’t believe that extradimensional nightmares with far too many consonants in their names are anticipating the day when they can squoosh humanity between their rugose and squamous toes. But the notion of a universe that defies understanding has stuck with me.

When I think of our relationship with the seemingly infinite voids that surround us, I cannot help but be reminded of ants. Ants do some of the things that humans do: form castes, build structures, farm and fight. And their senses allow them to perceive much of the larger world around them.

But does that ant crawling up your pant leg comprehend the surface upon which it treads? Does it recognize you as another living creature? Can it have even the tiniest inkling about how denim is made, or about the Chinese sweatshop in which your garment was assembled?

I think that humans are perhaps a bit better off than ants in our understanding of the universe. We have complex equipment that has allowed us to look deeply in the darkness, and a scientific method that analyzes data and tests hypotheses.

But I believe that the universe is simply too large and too weird for us to ever truly figure it all out. And it strikes me as supreme arrogance for any of us to declare that they understand the nature and purpose (if any exists) of our shared reality.

If someone today arose from the rabble and claimed to be the living embodiment of God, we would (rightly) laugh them out of town. Well, most of us would, anyway. But a great many are all too willing to accept hearsay testimony on behalf of people who once claimed to have first-hand knowledge of God…or even to be God. And these people conveniently lived thousands of years ago, before mass communications or sensitive scientific instruments were invented, in a part of the world that, to be blunt, most modern-day Americans don’t exactly trust.

I hope you’ll pardon me if I say that I don’t believe that any of us understands it all.

Dave Rant ants on your pants, Cthulhu, H.P. Lovecraft, me of little faith

These days, I do most of my linkblogging on Facebook rather than this site, but I feel this one is worth disseminating as widely as possible. Peter Beinart writes at The Daily Beast:

“The president is furiously backtracking; Republicans are clawing over each other to demonize Muslims; Democrats are dead silent. It’s time to face reality. Whether or not the “ground zero” mosque ever gets built, the political debate is over. Decency lost.”

Here’s the full piece.

Dave Rant editorial

One downside of reconnecting with old friends on Facebook is finding out just how little in common you currently have with them. Another is that they bring their new friends with them.

Recently, a high school classmate of mine pondered why life had to be so complicated, then declared:

“It’s a test to see if we can handle all of our problems!…before we go to Heaven!!!”

Shortly thereafter, his friend commented:

“What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger…You know what they say, God doesn’t give you anything that you can’t handle.”

A half hour later, another one redundantly followed up:

“Just remember God doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle and what won’t kill us will make us stronger……”

Ah yes, just as Jesus said.

I don’t know if it was the repetitive platitudes or the abuse of Friedrich “God is Dead” Nietzsche, but I was compelled to jump in.

“Alternately, we’re all just tiny, briefly-existing specks in an incomprehensible vast and uncaring universe who have created gods in our own image to keep the nightmares away. There’s nothing about this world that makes me think there’s any higher power taking a personal interest in the day-to-day struggles of its inhabitants.”

“Once you take eternal punishment and eternal reward off the table, what’s left? Do the best you can with what you’ve got, and try to leave the world a slightly better place than when you entered it.”

Of course, I knew perfectly well that wouldn’t be the last word:

“David, Do you think the universe and world, just popped up, one day?… I know in my heart there is a God! and everything happens for a reason!..I guess we’ll all find out one day!”

Okay, sure. Or we won’t. Whatever.

I really wanted to say, “No, you think the world just popped up one day. Specifically, Day Three. I think it took about thirteen billion years.”

And “Everything happens for a reason?” I dearly wish that I could figure out who first came up with that spurious bit of received wisdom and pimp-slap them. “Everything happens for a reason” is the empty philosophy that brought us M. Night Shayamalan’s Signs, in which Mel Gibson’s wife was cut in half by a car just so she could tell him that it was okay to hit an alien with a baseball bat. Because God had no other way to impart that admittedly helpful advice.

It’s our way of reconciling our belief of a kindly old man in the sky with the reality that a whole lot of awful shit happens in the world. No all-powerful, infinitely benevolent überbeing is setting things right in Darfur, North Korea or any of a hundred similar hellholes that dot his favored planet. That bothers us, so we chalk it all up to a divine plan that we simple people cannot possibly comprehend. We needn’t do anything because all the bad folks will be sorted out when the final trumpet blows.

Sure, many things happen for a reason. That Afghan girl with no nose or ears* who was on the cover of Time a few weeks back? The reason that happened was that her fuckhead family and some religious fanatics wanted to set an example for any other uppity women who might complain about the cruelty and virtual slavery under which they live.

Oh sure, if you want to feel better in the middle of the night, you can imagine that the bearded sky-man allowed that atrocity to happen as part of his grand scheme. And hey, losing her facial features didn’t kill that girl, so she must be stronger. If they’d cut off her feet as well, she’d be nigh unstoppable.

It’s all a test. I hope she passes. It’d suck if she couldn’t handle what God gave her.

*Remember when Disney got all those complaints about their animated film Aladdin? Specifically, the lyric “Where they cut off your ear if they don’t like your face?” Just sayin’.

Dave Rant full of shit, me of little faith

Last week, USA Today opined that flight attendant Steve Slater–who famously quit his job by taking a plane’s emergency slide to the ground–is not, as some would have it, a hero. I agree. While it takes a certain kind of bravery to choose unemployment in this terrible, terrible economy, there’s nothing particularly heroic about what he did.*

But where I take issue with the editorial is the comparison it makes between Slater and Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger, the pilot who safely landed his damaged aircraft in the Hudson River last year. “Heroism,” it suggests, “is about selflessness and grace under pressure.” Certainly Sullenberger exhibited the latter, in spades.  But selflessness? He was in the plane. It’s not as if there was an option to save himself that didn’t also involve saving the passengers.

Now, I am in no way denigrating Captain Sullenberger’s actions that day. He performed his job in exemplary fashion. We should all be so lucky to find ourselves aboard Sully’s crate. But, here’s the thing: Sullenberger is a commercial airline pilot. Not crashing the plane and killing everyone aboard is pretty much the minimum we expect from them.

Let’s move on from the good captain. I don’t want to sully the name of Sully. I’m just using him as an example of our something that bugs me: our overuse of the word “hero.”

To me, a hero is someone who not only puts others ahead of him or herself, but voluntarily risks personal safety to help the helpless. A soldier facing enemy bullets to pull a wounded squad member into cover is a hero. So is someone who suffers on behalf of someone else’s civil rights. And firefighters? Inherently heroic.

However, we use “hero” to describe all manner of people. Sports figures, of course. Folks who tell their boss that thing we always wanted to tell our boss. And disaster survivors. Especially disaster survivors. In times of catastrophe, we lionize victims and saviors alike.

To paraphrase The Incredibles–a movie in which a troubled boy confuses superpowers with heroism–“When everyone is a hero, no one will be.”

*It was pretty cool, though.

Dave Rant hero

The latest thing in my craw (though it’s only lunchtime) is the Curious Case of <redacted>. You’ve probably heard about it. A couple of <redacted> ago, someone shoved a <redacted> in <redacted> and asked <redacted> what <redacted> thought about <redacted>. <redacted> was typically outspoken. “<redacted>,” <redacted> said, adding that <redacted>.

Okay, it wasn’t exactly diplomatic. And the references to <redacted> were crass, given <redacted>.

It was barely any time at all before <redacted> made the rounds and the charges of <redacted> began. Even the <redacted> got involved. <redacted>‘s career as a <redacted> came to an end.

Leaving aside the question of whether “<redacted>” is the same as “<redacted>,” there are legitimate controversies about <redacted>. A person who felt strongly about <redacted> might find themselves echoing <redacted>.

However, what has been have made very clear is that one must not express <redacted>. That will not be tolerated.

For a country that loves to shove our blessed rights in the faces of non-Americans, we are quick to deny those self-same rights to those with whom we disagree. You’ll never take away our God-given ability to say whatever damned fool thing crosses our minds, but we will.

And that’s <redacted>.

Dave Rant freedom isn't free, redacted

David Frum writes, in the aftermath of the Democrats’ historic victory over health care legislation, “We followed the most radical voices in the party and the movement, and they led us to abject and irreversible defeat.” He goes on to suggest that perhaps it wasn’t such a hot idea for the Republican Party to refuse any sort of negotiation or compromise with the Obama White House.

I like David Frum, and not just because he says things that cheer me up. It’s that he’s one of a relatively few voices of calm, reasoned argument among conservative pundits.

Longtime readers of this blog–if indeed, there are any–might think that I’m rabidly anti-Republican. Not quite. I am very much against Republicanism as it’s been practiced for the past quarter-century: a movement based on hatred, jingoism, racism, paranoia, anti-intellectualism, religious fundamentalism and a pathological need to see government as incapable of solving any problem.

On the other hand, I was a declared Republican during my college days. I voted for Reagan in 1984. (No, I don’t feel good about that now.) That was due partially to naiveté, partially to having a conservative father. But it also was due partially to the rhetorical excesses of the extreme left. I don’t like extreme in my politics any more than I like it in my sports or snack chips.

While I’ve ultimately come down on the leftward side of the scale, I don’t see myself having irreconcilable differences with rightward thought. I’m still relatively pro-business. I remain skeptical of unions. And while I don’t believe that free markets can fix everything, neither do I believe that Wal-Mart is the Devil.

Even where we disagree, I still think that there’s room for productive discussion. That’s where David Frum and George Will come in. I believe that they approach their arguments with intellectual honesty and a willingness to debate ideas on their actual merits. They don’t create imaginary, grandma-killing monsters. Unlike Beck, Limbaugh or Palin, I believe that they believe their own words.

Dave Rant smart Republicans

These past couple of weeks have been kicking my ass. Three big work projects all hit within the space of seven days, and while all of them were examples of the things that attracted me to the broadcast industry in the first place, well…it’s just been a lot.

Tuesday I’d already been feeling a bit down after the mixed success of my big A Cappella BEATdown — Live! pledge-o-tainment spectacular (more on that in the next post) when I got wind of the shit sandwich that had snuck its way into the lunch pails of the University’s worker drones that morning.

Our local campus rag, the Daily Illini, had taken it upon themselves to print a handy supplement listing, by name, the salaries of everyone working for the three campuses of the University of Illinois. Not only that, but they published it online in a searchable database. Because that’s what was called for at a time of layoffs, furloughs and increasingly dire financial predictions: an extra little kick in the collective morale.

Oh sure, they say it’s all about “transparency.” They’re just doing it because the “public” has a right to know how their tax dollars are being spent. How sweet. How wonderful it must be to sit on a little hill of journalistic ideals and claim the high ground.

In their comments section, many people whose salaries weren’t just revealed to every dormitory and coffee house in Champaign County (not to mention the entire, God-damned planet, courtesy the Internet*) were quick to point out that this information has always been available. That’s true. Except that it used to be that you actually had to go down to the library and ask for it. You had to go to a bit of trouble. You had to get your hands dirty.

Now you’re just a few mouse clicks away from knowing from what every one of your coworkers make. Because, make no mistake, that’s how this information has been traditionally used. Each year, University employees made a pilgrimage to the library, sharing what they’d learned in hissing, hallway whispers.

Here’s the thing. Unless you’re an elected official, a political appointee or a head honcho, the only people who are going to give two shits about what you make are the people you already know. From there, it’s one quick leap to workplace resentment.

I have first-hand experience of the hurt feelings and misplaced anger that result from employees checking up on what Jane in the next cubicle over makes. I can’t get into it for what I believe should be obvious reasons, but it’s a real blow when someone you thought you knew accuses you of legally-actionable behavior over a (mis)perceived salary slight. Unless you’ve spent months feeling besieged in your own office, don’t tell me that you have a right to know what I make.

What I especially love are the “I’m a taxpayer!” arguments. Really, I know that the Internet is a sea of dickishness, but as far as I can tell, they still don’t give awards for it. Yet people cling to the teabagger notion that because a tiny fraction of their tax dollars go to pay for a tiny fraction of my salary, they have absolute authority over me.

There’s also the presumption that being a government employee automatically makes one a bloodsucking leech, too high on tax money to ever seek a job in the untamed wilds of the private sector. Look, folks: I’m not a state employee because I sought it out. I just happen to have gotten a job at a business which is part of a college which is part of a land-grant university. We get some state money–at least when the state actually sends the checks–but the majority of our funding comes from private donations.

And it’s not as if I’m just sitting around collecting a fat paycheck and laughing at the corporate rubes. I do my job, and I pay my taxes. I make my own contributions to the community. Heaven knows that I pump a lot of my money back into the local economy.

None of that matters to the online douchebags who can’t seem to understand that yes, there’s a good reason that most workplaces don’t publicly post salary information. “Transparency” is just another word for “Why does Sally make more than me?”

So thanks, the Daily Illini, for making life that little bit shittier.

*As I am told that the Internet extends past our state borders, it’s not just the taxpayers of Illinois who have been given free access to my personal data. Whee, now someone in the Philippines will know exactly what to enter in the “annual salary” box of their fraudulent credit card application.

Dave Rant fuck you, get to work

Writer/director/professional asshole Kevin Smith has been in the news lately. Partially, this is because he has a new film out, but mostly it’s because he used the power of social media and his million and a half Twitter followers to throw a hissy about being deemed too fat to physically fit a single airline seat. There are some things about his account that don’t quite make sense to me, but the one thing about which I’m fairly certain is that the seat is not at fault.

Thinking about Kevin Smith (something I care to avoid whenever feasible) has had me thinking about a peculiar subset of geekdom: the fan-turned-pro. These are the relatively few fanboys and girls who have achieved a measure of creative success in movies and/or TV, and who have themselves inspired devoted followers who declare them the wittiest, most wonderful things ever to exist in the universe of stuff.

In the case of Kevin Smith, my theory is that his entire rise to fame is built upon the scene from his debut film Clerks in which the main characters debate the ethics of blowing up the many independent contractors laboring aboard the second Death Star in Return of the Jedi. I suspect that a great many people who would never otherwise have been interested in a cheap indie flick about misogynistic, jerkwad store employees saw it solely because they’d heard about that scene. I know that I did.*

Now, I’m not in a position to review his body of work. The only other Smith film I’ve seen was Chasing Amy, which I thought was okay. Nothing I’ve heard about his later flicks encouraged me to check them out. From my perspective, his chief contribution to culture has been giving other fanboys license to wear black trenchcoats during situations in which trenchcoats are neither necessary nor a good idea.

I believe that, to a large extent, Smith’s following is built upon a foundation of self justification. “If a tubby, repulsive geek like him can make it, then how can I be worthless?”

He’s not the only one to benefit from that flavor of adoration. (Though he is the one least likely to fly on Southwest Airlines.) Buffy the Vampire Slayer creator Joss Whedon certainly qualifies.

Now, please understand that–unlike the anal pustule that is Kevin Smith–I myself have a great deal of fondness for Joss Whedon. My DVD library includes seven seasons of Buffy, five seasons of Angel and no seasons of Dollhouse. (But the fact that I watched every last damned episode of the latter suggests that I am willing to follow him into places most others wouldn’t.) All in all, I think he’s a talented writer who happens to work with the sort of subject matter I enjoy.

I have argued with friends and associates who find Whedonites a particularly noxious fandom. I don’t think that they’re any worse than any other group of myopic idolizers. I’ve hung out on enough sci-fi message boards to remember the ferocity of Babylon 5 fans who saw its creator J. Michael Straczynski as the most remarkable TV producer ever. Joss’ fans may be all too willing to blame his failures on others,** but I don’t think that’s unusual.***

I do, however, believe that Whedonites (and I admit to having Whedonite tendencies myself) extend their intense devotion to any actor touched by the Joss. Certainly, I initially tuned into How I Met Your Mother mostly because of Alyson Hannigan.

How else to explain the extreme interest in minor Internet celeb Felicia Day? She played a potential Slayer in the final season of Buffy, and–more significantly–the love interest in Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog. She’s moderately cute, and can kinda sing. She produces and stars in a web series called The Guild, based on her experiences as an online gamer. Basically, she’s Kitty Pryde of the X-Men–a non-threatening, mildly geeky imaginary girlfriend–with the added advantage of being a real person one could actually touch but never will. But, because of the Whedon connection,**** she’s the most beautiful talent triple-threat, and woe to the persons who can’t see it for themselves.

Sometimes, this unnatural attention runs its natural course. These days, one rarely hears about Babylon 5 outside of sentences like, “Hey, remember when Babylon 5 was a thing?” J. Michael Straczynski mostly writes comics these days. Even so, I’m sure that someone out there is breathlessly declaring JMS the bestest thing to hit comics since Stan Lee.

Thankfully, I do not hang out on that message board.

*For my own part, as far back as 1977 I had wondered much the same thing about the original Star Wars. Even at 13, I’d begun to wonder about things like whether everyone aboard the first Death Star deserved to be vaporized. Surely, I thought, there were at least some imprisoned Rebels aboard?

**Dollhouse was ruined by pinheads at Fox, not because it was an unworkable series premise populated by characters who were literally blank slates and fronted by an actress with the chameleon-like ability to play a single personality.

***Can’t wait to read the justifications for Cop Out.

****The gamer thing also helps.

Dave Rant anal pustule, assholes, fanboys, Felicia Day, Joss Whedon, Kevin Smith

Dave Rant equations, terrorism