Being a music critic is not really my thing. In fact, I’ve always loathed album reviews. They’re so often eye-rollingly pretentious and chock-full of subjective blabbering intended primarily to meet the minimum word count demanded by somebody’s editor. Endless yammering about idiosyncratic chord structures and time signatures, esoteric influences and the deeper symbolic meaning of this lyric, or that, topped off with insider stories intended to give the impression that the writer is somehow cool, simply by virtue of being aware of some trivial anecdote that not even the band itself would bother remembering. I actually believe that any academic analysis of art is, at best, irritating and pointless, and at worst, a real cockblock to the mind’s ability to simply take a creative work at face value and just, you know, feel something. But Whim Grace is a friend of mine, and she asked me to take a listen and write my thoughts on the album. I agreed, because I have long loved her work. So I listened. And then I listened again. I’ve been listening, for months now. I knew I liked it, but I didn’t really know what to say about it, without falling into the aforementioned quagmire of pretentiousness, so I didn’t write anything. And then I started to feel bad, because I kept not writing, which gnawed at me, because I had made a promise. But still I kept listening to the album, again and again. That part was easy, because it’s really good. Then I decided to just describe it the way I would to a friend. [Read more…] about The New Whim Grace Album is Gorgeous. You Should Buy It
The way I see it...
Dear Brock Turner,
You are a soulless, spoiled, utterly useless sack of shit, and you deserve to die. That’s as nicely as I can put it. You are scum and the world will be much better off without your smarmy, shitty little fuckface polluting it for even one more minute. You are the poster child for everything that’s wrong with rich people, white people, athletes, Californians, and men, in general. In fact, you’re everything that’s wrong with this country. Well ok, not everything. It’s not fair to pin Donald Trump on you. If anything, it’s the other way around. But still. You’re a degenerate black hole of selfish, ignorant, entitled shitfuckery, and you need to go. I hope that’s clear enough for your repugnant little dickbrain to process. Not that I particularly care. My intention here, though veiled as a sympathetic advice column, is to warn other narcissistic, self-indulgent fuckwits that there really are consequences for their actions, regardless of the impotence of our biased, ineffectual and fetid justice system.
Let me be plain. I think you deserve to suffer. A lot. By at least an order of magnitude higher than your victim, whom you’ve unilaterally sentenced to a lifetime of shame, despair, self-doubt, and myriad emotional and physical distresses that she does not deserve, and most certainly did not ask for, regardless of how many beers she drank or the outfit she wore or which alley she slept in. She did not deserve to have you fall upon her helpless body like a vulture feeding on her eternal innocence just to achieve your own brief moment of sexual gratification. Nope. What she deserved was basic human decency. What she deserved was the loving, helping hand of a passing friend who should have recognized her defenselessness and offered to reach out and protect her from the dangers of the night.
All you had to do was exercise the most basic impulse of goodness; the Golden Rule, Brock. But instead, you decided it would be fun to rip off her clothes and fuck away every good night of sleep she would ever have. Instead, you thought it would be a good time to force your filthy fingers into her and scrape away whatever hopes and dreams the world hadn’t yet taken from her. So here we are. Her life has been forever tainted, and you, miraculously, have been released from prison with your goddamn loathsome cock still attached to your body, rather than stuffed down your throat, where it belongs. Good for you.
But here’s the thing, Brock. Here’s where I’m actually doing you a favor. I know, I know…that was a roundabout introduction for a favor. Forgive me. It’s been a day. But here it is- your life is shit. YOU are shit. Every single thing coming at you for the rest of your life is shit. Sure, it may not seem like it, now. You beat the system. YAY! You got away with raping a defenseless girl. SCORE! Your family is rich and connected and you’re young and white and this is America, where rich white guys can do whatever they want and get away with it. You’re killin’ it, Brock! Or so it seems. But what you might not know is that, in addition to being a wretched puddle of pig vomit, you are also famous, now. The all-powerful Internets have seen fit to deliver your ratfuck face to the entire world, and now you are marked. My guess is, you’re gonna wish you’d stayed in prison. Don’t get me wrong- I’m sure prison was bad. You probably got raped repeatedly by big scary men who didn’t bother to wait for you to pass out first. At least, that’s what I hope happened to you.
Sadly (for capital-j Justice, anyway) that’s probably not what happened. What probably happened was that the same money and privilege that got you such a laughably, offensively short sentence, in the first place, also got you set aside in some minimum-security cell, away from the prying eyes and bulging penises of the general population. And that, to me, is a real shame. Personally, I think they should have just lined up, on a 24-hour rotating cattle call, taking turns splitting you right down the middle with members that would have felt akin to two-by-fours, pounding you until you were out of breath, lacerating your insides until you bled to the point of passing out, only to be slapped awake again by the next in line, who wanted to make damn sure you knew who was giving it to you. That would have been nice to see, regardless of what I must assume would be a rather objectionable smell. Sadly, your money got you a pass. And here we are. Today. But what happens tomorrow, Brock? See, tomorrow you won’t have the secrurity of a confined environment, with big walls and bars and locks and paid guards to protect you. No. Tomorrow you have to go back out into the real world, and that world is waiting for you. It’s gonna tear you apart, Brock.
You’re probably wondering where I’ve been going with all of this. I’m happy to explain. See, the world wants you dead, Brock. Or, more accurately, it wants to see you suffer and die slowly. You don’t want that, do you? I didn’t think so. And so, at long last, we have arrived at the point of my letter. Kill yourself, Brock. Seriously. It’s the best plan. It’s really the only scenario that guarantees that you won’t wake up one night with a dull knife slicing clumsily through your wee little cock and balls, only to be followed immediately by the disquieting sensation of simultaneously choking on them and drowning in your own blood. It’s going to happen, Brock. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But it’s gonna happen. You’re a bad guy, Brock. People want to hurt you. Lots and lots of people. And, sooner or later, one of them is going to find you, and when they do, they’re gonna slice off your verminous manhood and force it down your contemptible little throat. So let’s be real here, Brock. You should just remove yourself from the equation. It’s really the brightest possible outcome for you, you nauseating little savage. Nobody will miss you, Brock. Not even your parents. Can you even begin to imagine the immensity of their shame? They must really feel awful. I bet they’d go back in time and abort you, if they could. Why prolong their suffering, Brock? For once, go ahead and be the good guy, and abort yourself.
Imagine, if you will, a man.
This man has been eating at the same restaurant every day for his entire life. There are always the same two things on the menu. One is a flavorless bowl of watery soup. The other is a bowl of live snakes, spiders and human feces. Naturally, he opts for the soup every time.
And then, one day, he walks toward the restaurant and sees a sign advertising a thick, juicy steak with potatoes and carrots, delicious beer and buttered bread. The man is beside himself with excitement. Something different! Something GOOD! Hallelujah!
And then, as he takes his seat, appetite strong in a way he’d never imagined, and his fork and knife already gripped in his eager hands, the waiter appears, to take his order.
“What’ll it be?” Says the waiter.
“I’ll have the steak, please. It looks incredible! I never believed, after all these years, that I’d ever have the chance to try something so delicious!”
“I’m sorry,” says the waiter. “We don’t actually have any steak. The news kept saying that steak is unhealthy and expensive, so we’ve decided to play it safe and pull it from the menu. We just haven’t taken the sign down. Would you like to have the soup again?”
This is what it feels like being a Bernie supporter, watching Hillary win primaries.
(For any of you ultra-sensitive neo-liberals who may be tempted (RABIDLY FROTHING) to take offense, I’ve taken the liberty of writing your response, for you. You’re welcome.)
“Oh my god! Did Rob just make a joke about domestic violence?! What a monster! That makes him way worse than the guy who committed actual violence and hit his boyfriend, right?! Wait. Hang on. It was two men? Oh. So that doesn’t really count then, right? That’s like when two minorities fight. It doesn’t matter unless they hit a person of different racial origin, because that’s just a part of their culture and we have to respect that, right? God. Rob is such a bad person for making light of sad things that are, in fact, incredibly nuanced and really require a much deeper and wiser analysis than I am capable of. I resent him for making me think about things that make me uncomfortable. There are just some things that are too sacred, to me personally, for Rob to be allowed to make jokes about. There should be rules about that. Because critical thinking and informed debate and irony are just too hard for me to grasp, and my parents always told me I was special and that I would grow up to be super amazing. The purpose of comedy is to make ME feel better about things that bother ME, right? Thinking is hard.”
Facebook is currently recommending a known rapist to me as a “person I may know.” Awesome. It wouldn’t bother me nearly as much if they would just include a home address, so I could pick up some special supplies at Home Depot real quick, before I pop over and say hi. Nothing much. Just some rolls of plastic sheeting. Maybe a saw, or two.
Oh, sorry? Am I supposed to pretend that rapists don’t inspire bloodthirst? See, I write these “jokes” to help me calm down. Because right now I am furious. I am furious at our pathetic, biased and impotent “justice” system. No amount of punishment is severe enough for these so-called “people.” Sexual abuse is perhaps the most heinous, violent and unforgivable act that can be perpetrated on a person. An act of sexual abuse is a crime against all of Humanity, because sexual abuse is contagious. It is, all too often, passed from the abuser to the victim, where it morphs and mutates and grows and ultimately passes on to other innocents, creating an escalating cycle of pain and suffering that affects future victims, their friends and families, and society, as a whole. [Read more…] about Facebook Wants Me to Friend a Rapist