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Choose Your Own Argumenture: What Ben Weasel Did

March 29th, 2011 | Comments Off | Posted in Essays

1

You find yourself at SXSE 2011, trying to watch a set by Screeching Weasel, a staggeringly constant fixture in the international pop-punk scene for the past quarter-century. You have your phone out to capture some above-the-crowd footage of the band and you witness a young girl hucking an ice cube at Ben Weasel (nee Foster) after his repeated disgust at the band’s low income for the evening (250 dollars) versus their next night’s show (25,000 dollars). Your phone doesn’t stop recording as Weasel snaps and right hooks the girl in the face, and quickly turns around to shove at another woman. You, like everyone else, begin cheering as Weasel is dragged off stage, and excitedly upload the video to expose the event to the world, though you’re not entirely sure what you believe to be the biggest atrocity in this situation–that Weasel struck a fan, or that that fan was a girl?

If you choose to argue that Weasel shouldn’t have hit the fan because she was in the audience and he was on stage, go to 2.

If you choose to argue that Weasel shouldn’t have hit the girl because she was a girl and he was a guy, go to 3.

2

As the hits on the video start to rise, you notice a string of comments of people upset with Weasel’s actions as a man, but are upset at the larger picture–Weasel, an entertainer on stage promoting music that is meant to be uplifting, meant to be young-people’s music and meant to instill a sense of belonging in its listeners, lashed out and hit one of the fans that so vehemently supported him for 25 years, and upon whose ears and hearts his career and fame are literally founded. Regardless of this fan’s gender, Weasel committed the cardinal sin of hypocrisy.

An internet commenter says to you, “Hey, but he hit a girl! How can you ignore that?”  to defend your position, go to 4

To expound more theoretically on this, go to 5

3

For reasons beyond your understanding, the “anchor beyond its depth” of this argument is that Ben Weasel hit a fan, not a girl. Try as you might, you can not avoid listening to arguments of “Well, ultimately, men and women are equal.” This pisses you right off, because you know how many women get assaulted yearly, how many women are raped, murdered, mutilated, all at the hands of some domineering man that needs to exact power over someone else for one reason or another. You know how you would feel if it was you, or your sister, or your mother, or your aunt, or your girlfriend, or maybe you know how it feels to be assaulted and, for some strange reason, being told that it would have been just as bad if the girl was a guy doesn’t cut it for you.

An internet commenter says to you, “Men and women are equal. The tragedy here is that a fan was struck. This has nothing to do with gender.” To discuss this, go to 6.

To expound on this more theoretically, go to 7.

Trolling and just starting a fight for the hell of it? Go to 9.

4

“How can we continue to demand equality when we baby one member of our equal partnership so frequently?” you start. You argue that women are not weak, that they are equal to men in every way, and that no one should have to suffer violence, regardless of gender. You argue that the women you know are tougher than most guys, and they should never have to take a punch, but they can. Especially, you say, when it comes from the hypocrisy of the power dynamic purported by Weasel. If all things are considered equal, you say, the worst thing about this is violence. Weasel has much to atone for and we should never tolerate artist to fan abuse.

Good argument, you say to yourself. To expound on this more theoretically, go to 5.

Someone phones you and says they have a catch-all answer to the disputes you’ve been having on the internet. To ignore them, go to 9.

To hear what they have to say, go to 10.

5

Weasel has shifted the power dynamic in a disgusting way. Fans pay for the show, the band plays the show, the band benefits, and so do the fans. The band, admittedly, gets the better deal. Some would argue that the fans get to think that they are part of this moment with the band, but with the number of bands that a fan naturally divides its attention between, the fan is the consumer. The band is the supplier, and they get the bigger payoff. But what Weasel did was expose this, which extends beyond rudeness into sacrilege. Not only does the fan now know that they are lesser than Weasel in his mind, but their contract with the band becomes a slave-bind. They are not helping themselves, they are told. They are lying to themselves, they are told. They are just consumers, they are reminded. Though this may be true on some level, it is not discussed. Fans are to be thanked, their hands shaken, their CDs signed. They are to live forever as the reason the band got big, and they are never to be mistreated. Anyone that does otherwise is acting like an entitled prick.

You’re winded from typing so fast. Your mom walks in and you explain the situation. She offers you, what she believes, to be the end of the argument. Go to 10.

6

The second a person of one gender hit a person of another, this became about gender. Men and women can be equal socially, you start, but they are not equal in every way. That is what makes their experiences unique, and valuable to them individually, is that they had the chance to experience them as a woman, as a man. Just as someone comes from the experience of being black, or being disabled, you would not whitewash their life with your muscular white legs and say “Hey man, we’re all the same.” We’re not. That’s the point. That’s what makes stories worth telling. There is a fundamental difference between men and women that cannot be overlooked, and for Weasel to cross that line with a balled fist is a hideous act. That difference, of course, is…

Physiology, go to 8

Experience, go to 7

7

Each time anyone interacts with anyone, they are at the mercy of history. Your actions, whether you like it or not, are part of a long history of experience, knowledge, and choice. When you are dealing with a people who have been oppressed in any way, any choice you make to act in line with any form of that oppression makes you a reminder of that oppression. This is the foundation of all sensitivity. It does not mean that when you tell a racist joke to your different-ethnicity friend you are a slave driver, but you’re dealing with a form of that separation that has watered down to a form that–I hope–is funny to your friend. But hitting a woman is not watered down. It is strictly the same act as the ideological, social, and physical repression used against women for thousands of years. Hitting a woman is not a dilution–it is the repression. Any man guilty of this is guilty of continuing the defeat of a group of people. That man is guilty of repression at least of that one woman, if not guilty of possibly trying to repress the idea of female freedom as a whole.

Whew! I’m going to go see what’s on TV. Go to 9

Finish your thought. 10.

8

Men and women are scientifically built different. Men are designed with stronger upper bodies and women with stronger lower bodies. Sure, we can have the same jobs, but there is an actual comparative frailty to a woman’s upper body. And for Weasel, who is no 90 pound weakling, to cross her in the face with his fist, he put her in a higher possible risk of brain damage and permanent hospitalization that she could be if she was hit by a woman. There is nothing equal about it. Weasel was bigger, and he hit someone who was smaller, just as any man who strikes a woman is playing to her weaker upper body and dominating it. It’s not bad that Weasel hit just anyone, Weasel hit a woman here. A man hit a woman. And moreover, if we want to get down to the point of “Men and women should be able to take the same amount of pain,” why is Weasel the one suddenly championed as permissible to make this argument? Why is his case special?

“… which leads me to the different natures of men and women’s experiences.” Go to 7.

“…which leads me to a simple answer.” Go to 10.

9

You get distracted by a bird outside the window and close the computer. Tomorrow you will wake up and forget about this and your time as an armchair intellectual, a hammer for the people, will be over. You will continue posting videos and going about your daily life, and you will forget about all of this, which, your friend on the phone believes, would be a colossal tragedy. Do not forget this.

10

The answer is simple. A real man doesn’t hit a woman. You try to argue, but your tongue is caught, your jaw locks, and inside, you feel like a monster.

THE SUNDAY PAPER
by Richard Harris
Part 3

March 27th, 2011 | 1 Comment | Posted in The Sunday Paper
Read Part 1 or Part 2 of this story.

Julie and Henry played eight games in total that night. Each won four games. By the end of the eighth game, neither of them had the energy or the desire to play a tie-breaker. Instead, they talked on the site’s private chatboard.

That night Julie learned that Henry was nine years younger than her. He was a freelance set designer for movies and had never been to university. Henry assumed that the “77” in Julie’s screen name was the year of her birth, and she did nothing to dispel this misconstrued belief. Telling someone as young and carefree as Henry that she was a 40-something divorcée with two daughters was anathema to her.

For her part, Julie talked about books and movies she had recently seen. To her pleasant surprise, Henry proved more mature than the 30-year-olds she knew. When she went off about this or that character in Tolstoy’s Resurrection, for example, he read what she wrote patiently and offered comments that made her think.

She also opened up about her personal life. When Henry asked why she had majored in Russian Literature at university, she briefly considered telling him the same story she had been telling people for years (“I’ve always loved the Russians and couldn’t have imagined majoring in anything else!”). But there was comfort in the anonymity of the Internet. It was an intangible comfort, a kind of force field that allowed her to tell Henry <I actually majored in Russian Literature to infuriate my parents.> She had never spoken or written those words before, not even to her ex-husband. <My whole life,> Julie went on, <my parents tried to mold me into some manufactured, cookie-cutter-like human being. They demanded the highest grades. Anything but an A was met with the back of my father’s hand. By high school he made it clear there were only two paths open to me: law or medicine. Ideally, he wanted me to have graduated, married and had my first son by the time I was 30.>

The cursor blinked unapologetically on Julie’s screen. She was only now aware that she was breathing very loudly, almost panting. Before that night, if someone had asked if she had any baggage in her life, she would have laughed and responded, “I haven’t lived an interesting enough life to have any baggage!”  But this one man she had never met in person made her see that a huge weight was indeed resting atop her life and stunting her growth. It had taken her 43 years to acknowledge what very well could have been the most important truism in her life. All the decisions she had made up until then, from her major in university to the man she married to the names she had given her children (she refused to give them the names her parents had suggested), had in some way been a malignant protest against the wishes of her parents.

<seabreeze? u still there?>

It took a moment for Julie to realize she was still chatting with Henry.

<Yes. Sorry. Phone call came in. Sorry about that.>

<np…all good?>

<Oh, yes. Just hold on one moment, please.>

Julie suddenly felt poisoned by the invisible walls of cyberspace. She needed to extricate herself as fast as possible. She felt exposed in a way she could not describe, even to herself. It was not that she had revealed something embarrassing or shameful; it was the fact that someone sitting at a computer was interpreting her thoughts and she had no way to see him. It made her think of the time she saw all those prostitutes in Amsterdam’s Red Light District. They presented themselves in their shop windows while strangers passed by and judged them without ever getting to know them. Julie had felt guilty that day, like she was violating their humanity.  Now, thinking back on that day, she wishes she had stopped to talk to at least one of those women and introduced herself properly.

Something stirred inside Julie. She felt inspired to now introduce herself to Henry. She wanted to move one step closer to humanizing this sterile, aseptic relationship. With a perfectly straight back and both feet flat on the floor, Julie readied her fingers and prepared to type. But as she considered how best to introduce herself honestly to this person whom she had shared a revelation with, the power went out on Julie’s iBook. She had forgotten to charge it and now the battery was dead. By the time she got back on, Henry could very well be gone.

Julie stared at her mute reflection in the empty canvas of her laptop screen. A bevy of emotions passed through her. Should I plug in and try and get back on the Internet? Should I wait until tomorrow? Should I change my user name? The only thing that really crystallized for her was one eight-letter word that would score her an immense of points on a Scrabble board: empyreal.

Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday.
Stay tuned next week for a brand new start to a new story.
To submit your story for consideration for the Sunday Paper, e-mail us at submissions@woodenrocketpress.com

Haikus illuminating the morning rituals of an ironic appreciator of the mid-90s

March 25th, 2011 | Comments Off | Posted in Fantastic Tales of Amazing Individuals

Mazzy Star is on
the cassette deck I still use
when my iPod dies.

Toothpaste tastes like sun,
the morning greets me brightly!
I plan out my day,

wishing that I knew
about Electric Circus
before it got canned:

Listen to Bootsauce,
Watch Empire Records (again,
I know, it’s dated)

then nightlife beckons:
Elastica tribute band
and a hip-hop night.

Texts littler my phone
I answer each one in slang
considered “uncool,”

but my friends and I,
perfectly aware of it,
are hip to the joke.

Our hearts beat faster
to music we’ve forgotten.
Dance Mix ’95.

Even my bathroom:
shower like the one in “Fear,”
Kurt Cobain hand-towels.

Plus my dispensers
that look like Biggie and Pac–
hand lotion and soap

(both liquids are red
I keep one east of the sink
and one slightly west).

I drive a Sunfire
but converted the engine
to vegetable oil.

Pause. Spitting toothpaste,
I think about Alec Baldwin
and River Phoenix.

Sometimes I get sad–
What have I contributed
to the grunge movement?

Nothing genuine,
everything calculated,
My So-Called Lifestyle.

Shirtless I stand here
admiring my own body
and my sweet tattoos:

Candace Cameron
and her brother (wait, was he?)
Kirk Cameron.