phdworldwide, “We Are The Future” (2011)*

Fuckya is the first that that comes to mind after watching “We Are the Future,” a “promotional video to stimulate discussion within the marketing industry” made by PHD Worldwide, a global media and communications agency. The second thing that comes to mind is also a… fuckya.

The third thing that comes to mind is the last chapter of Jennifer Egan’s “A Visit from the Goon Squad,” which describes a delightful and frightening vision of the future where the world is ruled by pointers — just your regular toddlers, known as they are their finger pointing toward anything they find interesting. In the “Goon Squad” the grownups spend a lot of time worrying about how to please these smallest and shittiest of humans, also the future world’s most powerful consumers.

When I read the story I thought that its sci-fi vibe was quite flamboyant — less plausible than an accurate prediction of the future — until someone on Facebook asked if people could recommend the “best app to get her toddler.” And then watching the children of “We Are the Future” I realized that I’m so ancient I should just shut up and bury myself a hole somewhere in the ICQ graveyard and die. But before I do that I need to warn you all about the children of “We Are the Future.”

Basically, the children seem to have been instructed (by a Great Robot in the Sky) to tell the world what’s what. Speaking straight to the camera they narrow their eyes, crinkle their noses, tilt their giant heads and tell you about the type of a product they want. They want their product to be: interactive, accessible and appealing not only visually but also through sound, touch, gesture, and… intent. I think. The children say they want product to be based on sociograms (Sociograms? Really?), and to lend itself to co-creation. The product should also be full of smart content and “tailored to me.” “And me.” “Me.” “Me.” “Me,” say the children through rows of tiny, sharp yellow teeth.

Furthermore, what the children want is for the things they’ll buy — the car, the skirt, the hotel, the app — to be embedded with everything (“Everything.” “Everything.” “Everything.”): to not only have the product and experience but to have the product and experience intertwine with other products and experiences, with social media and information (or something called “double-tap on information”… Anybody?) and with a big flying fuckya unicornzzzzzz…

If one is not in the business of ads one tends to tune out this mass vomit of marketing propaganda and focuses on the children’s faces which are unselfconsciously hairy and so fresh you can almost smell the milk. Watching this, a hungry old person like me can’t help but think it would be nice to eat one of those little piglets, to pluck all the excess hair, stuff an apple in the mouth spewing all that endless derivative drivel, and roast away.

If not the urge to eat the children, one may feel slightly threatened by a few of the their messages. Because even the non-marketing crowd will recognize the cheerful aggression in announcements such as, “And then when we do buy there are normally more of us than there are of you,” and “You better get used to paying us,” and “Otherwise we’ll block you,” and “Mass blocks kill brands overnight and keep you up all night,” and some more stuff about ruling the world.

The subliminal meaning is, of course, “Obey or we will eat your brains,” and one can’t help but think of other children who talked that way and ate everybody’s brains back in the 80s.

Stephen King, Fritz Kiersch, “Children Of The Corn” (1984)

- Jowita Bydlowska

*from the PhD “debate” site:

We believe people have the right to debate the video and its contents so will be leaving it on YouTube to allow that and we welcome comments… (posted by Mark Holden)

fuel9000, “Ellie’s Amazing Vocabulary” (2011)

Is there anything funnier than a baby saying the word “fuck?” No there is not. Based on many studies I’ve conducted, a baby saying the word “fuck” is  40 per cent more entertaining than a cat playing a piano, or a drunken celebrity lady named Paz falling off a curb.

It’s life’s perfect moment — baby saying “fuck” — because it’s innocence and vulgarity combined together. Like strippers dancing for Jesus or something. The first time I heard my own baby say “fuck,” from the back seat of a car on our way to a dinner party, I laughed. I am in fact laughing right now as I recall that moment and the little squeaky voice saying “fuck” again, and then again — “fuck” — so clearly and perfectly behind me because he figured this was making mommy laugh so why not do it again. Part of me felt as if our family had reached an important milestone, the one you never read about in children’s magazines and other parental rules and regulations pamphlets. My partner and I had tears of pride and shame mixing in our eyes as we immediately, instinctively shouted from the front seat, “A duck? You see a duck? A duck? Look, a duck, what a big duck.”

A number of friends who are parents shared their baby’s-first-fuck-word story. One friend’s daughter said, “Good-night, assholes.” Another toddler was fond of “For fuck’s sake.” And yet another one while driving in the car with his dad said, “That fucking guy,” possibly in an imitation of road rage. It was nice to know that I wasn’t the only one able to enjoy this particular type of baby comedy. And the people who shoot movies of their big-eyed innocents cursing like sailors clearly understand that this is some funny shit. You can hardly find one of those videos without some grownup giggling hysterically in the background.

barampa1, “One, Two…” (2007)

But is the child damaged in the process? Possibly. I shared my baby-says-fuck story at work and it did not go over well. “Where did he learn that?” a mom of a girl toddler asked. “Oh, day care,” I said, quickly assessing the situation. “That’s horrible. Which daycare?” she said, and gave me her daughter’s daycare address and phone number and assured me that there were still open spaces. But what if my child was going to now damage others with his knowledge? Did she really want him to spread the “fuck” virus at her daycare? I was reminded of “Pontypool,” Bruce McDonald’s movie about a deadly disease of language that turns people into zombies.

Bruce McDonald, “Pontypool” (2008)

Was “fuck” just as deadly? My partner and I threw ourselves at trying to correct the fucking problem. We remained stone-faced when “fuck” was shouted over and over again. We teared up from holding our giggles when “Oh fuck” suddenly appeared on bumping into things. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” the toddler screamed as I burst blood vessels in my face from stifling laughter, remembering having to hold farts in a nice public place like church. And I was also reminded of what the church people (nuns) used to say about swear words when I was a child: “Heck” was just as bad as “hell” but it was, somehow, better. “Heck” ensured you still would get to hold hands with Elvis in Heaven, “hell” prevented you from even getting close to it.

And then, eventually, my partner and I eradicated “fuck” from our son’s language, sort of unwittingly relying on that old churchy suggestion. My baby is now saying “buck” and “oh buck” and we’re able to laugh freely because we know that “buck” really stands for “fuck” and is there anything more funny in the world than a baby saying “buck?” Yes there is. But at least my son’s soul is saved, for now.

- Jowita Bydlowska

“Retail Rage in Toronto” (June 27, 2010)

At first I thought how there was a touch of the fairytale in this video. I saw it in the wild, fantastical desperation of this new hero of the people—demanding his rights, asking the questions that everyone else around him is probably wanting to ask.

The hero, in front of this Mordor of shopping (the Eaton Centre), demands not only that the gods let him in but that they give him an explanation: “Why are you closed? Tell us why you’re closed. Why? Tell us the reason. Why? Why? Why? I wanna go shopping in the Eaton Centre,” he screams rattling the doors.

In my fairytale version I imagined a giant diaphanous figure descending somewhere from the rooftop, slowly, gently, hovering in front of the hero, ready to listen to his woes. She’s a female god, a patron of shoppers, perhaps a bloated, helium-balloon version of Carrie Bradshaw. “What is that you search for, shopper?” In awe of her sparkly, moving form, he is mute for a moment. Then, in the staccato whisper, he says: “Why are you locking your doors to the public. Tell us the reason.”

In her soft, melodious voice, the goddess tells him about the G20 weekend, and the security measures, while gently steering him away from the glass door into the sunset of Dundas Square.

This is not what happens in real life. In real life the man rages on, frustrated, with empty bags. He wavers between telling the cameraman to fuck off and, in a mournful tone saying, as if, again, complaining to gods who won’t listen: “No, no, it’s closed. It’s closed.” His voice sounds child-like, pleading.

I wish someone would open the God damn door for him.

There are no dance remixes of this video yet. Anyone who’s ever heard Christian Bale’s freakout remix, knows, however, that “Who gave you the right? Who gave you the right? On what right do you exclude the population?” and “We want to shop!” just begs to be made into a nice techno number. And I’m sure, by the time this essay gets published there will be a couple of those. Maybe even mixed with snippits from Christian Bale’s on-set freakout.

While writing this, the original video got taken down. It’s possible that its creator felt guilty; it’s possible that like me, he laughed and let others laugh at it but then stalled, no longer comfortable with ignoring the fact that there’s something seriously wrong here. Maybe it was the tension of the city under siege, the freaky animal behaviours that Toronto witnessed during the G20 weekend that caused this man to snap? Maybe it was a mental illness manifesting itself, or maybe this shopping experience was the only thing he had come to rely on inside some kind of personal chaos?

I watched this video a few times to write down the dialogue and something struck me. Again, maybe I’m reading too much into it but it broke my heart a little to hear the man say, “Doesn’t anyone else care? It’s just a spectacle to you? It’s just funny?” and then let out this insane laugh. Then he says, “Let the police cut off my balls? I don’t mind because it’s the cops and they’re always right?”

What happened to this man? What is this deeply rooted mistrust of police? Is it based on a past experience? A bad experience? What exactly are we watching here?

I can’t help but think of another videotaped man of rage: Robert Dziekański at the Vancouver airport.

“Robert Dziekański tasered by the RCMP” (14 October, 2007)

For this Polish immigrant, a freakout cost him his life. After a fifteen hour journey, he was kept by customs for ten hours, unable to speak with anyone (a translator was never provided). His mother, who was waiting to welcome her son to Canada, left the airport thinking he’d missed his flight. For whatever reason, he suddenly lost it and was tased to death.

Here are a few words from the transcript of the video:

“Dziekanski is pinned on the ground by four RCMP officers. He struggles, kicking his feet.

(Off Camera) It’s sad.
(O.C.) How is he still fighting them off?
(O.C.) He is still freaking out.
(O.C.) Nobody knows why.
(O.C.) He speaks Russian.
(O.C.) No rhyme or reason.
(O.C.) Prime footage for my home videos.”

- Jowita Bydlowska

This video starring Mariko Takahashi (and human actors in poodle costumes with superimposed dog heads) was made by Nagi Noda for the 2004 Athens Olympics as part of Panasonic’s “Capture the Motion” program of short films on the Olympic spirit.

Noda, who passed away in 2008 at the age of 35, wrote in her artist statement that the way poodles’ hair is cut reminded her of the definition of human muscles. The surreal video is a parody of the Susan Powter “Stop the Insanity” Workout and over the years it has become an Internet sensation.

It’s a funny video on its own, one I can relate to personally, but it’s also a clever commentary on the culture of fitness—and I don’t mean the healthy, 30-minutes of exercise five-days-a-week culture of fitness; I’m talking about the insanity of fitness as obsession, as a way of life.

Nagi Noda, “Mariko Takahashi’s Fitness Video for Being Appraised as an ‘Ex-Fat Girl’” (2004)

My first encounter with fitness insanity came in 2005 when, opening a glass office door, I stood facing a pair of perfectly round boobs atop Robocop pecs. The pecs belonged to a person who was possibly a female, but who, after years of workouts and hours of Photoshop manipulation, now resembled a cartoon: microscopic waist, balloons for breasts, sleek muscle and shine, synthetic Barbie hair and a mass of Black-lit teeth.

The cartoon lady adorned the poster cover of a certain fitness magazine, one which built its reputation and popularity on the appeal of such creatures. This was my first day as staffer at the magazine. I was fresh out of journalism school and eager to work at any place that would have me.

The publisher often referred to the magazine as the “fitness bible,” and the banishment of so-called fat was its canon—its religion.

When I watch the “Ex-Fat Girl” video I recall those two years I spent 40-plus-hours-a-week reading and writing about mothers who described themselves as “former big girls,” who would get up at 4 AM to strength-train for two hours before packing their families off to work and school, only to spend another hour concocting fat-free meals in especially designated coolers to lug to their workplace, which they would leave during lunch to do an hour of cardio at the nearby gym, and which they would hit again after work before picking up their kids from school.

The day would end with scribbling in their fitness log about the day’s exercise and their measurements and how badly they have been craving chocolate and how the “cheat day” (when they would allow themselves a sliver of pizza) was, thankfully, only days away.

Their weekends would be spent preparing copious rations of food—low in calories and high in protein—for their special coolers and their six kids and their one husband who is never in the kitchen and probably masturbating secretly, silently, methodically in his basement office to pictures of fat-free women with round breasts and silky hair extensions just like his wife’s.

When I watch the “Ex-Fat Girl” video I think about how we once sat in the office and lamented that one of the last remaining fitness models with natural breasts was going under the knife. (The unspoken beauty standard in the fitness industry is that the bra looks like crap when you pose with only your pecs to hold it. And after years of fat restriction you only have the pecs to show for. So you get implants.)

I also think about the two (or maybe three) special issues of the magazine titled something like No More Chub and Run, Fattie, Run!

I think of how we’d joke about the insanity of it all because if we didn’t joke about it we’d all hide in a fatty closet and eat donuts till we exploded.

I think of a former co-worker who was gorgeous (but?) overweight and who would spend ten hours a day on her computer making very slim women look even slimmer with Photoshop. And of the other former co-workers who happily traded their brains for the treadmill.

I think about myself in the shrink’s office not really wondering at all why the hell my eating disorder suddenly flared up.

I think of that woman with the magazine who lost a lot of pounds and wrote sermonizing editorials about other poor fatties and her own ex-fattiness. Or the guy who once wrote to us asking to be introduced to one of the fitness models because he “didn’t want no girl with fat deposits.”

I think about a beautiful, fit co-worker, the nicest girl the world, who went temporarily insane while training to compete in a fitness event. She was very hungry.

I love how composed and normal the “Ex-Fat Girl” seems, despite the wackiness of her universe.

I saw that look of serenity and superiority during my time at the fitness bible camp. I know that the “Ex-Fat Girl” is okay for now. She’s on the right side of fatness, she’s safe from it.

As long as she continues to over-exercise with her poodle friends, eat clean and keep a picture of her old chubby self as a reminder, she has a chance of staying safe, slim and insane.

- Jowita Bydlowska

Director George Greville, Executive Producer Adam Joseph

The subject of human beauty is tricky. My own standards of beauty run close to the ones in the “Now I Wanna Be Your Dog” video; most of the time I make no effort to challenge these standards. But I know I’m not the only one. You’re lazy too – you like the girls in the video. I do – we all do – take the easy route when it comes to beauty. I rely on fashion magazines, videos like this one, wacky shows like “The America’s Next Top Model” to confirm that youthful, slim, big-eyed model types are what goes.

Girls are so pretty. Frankly, I don’t know how people can stand it with all these girls around. Sometimes walking around in my (soon-to-be-lame) hip neighbourhood I’m mentally floored by how pretty they are. It’s how I feel when watching this video. I look and look and I don’t know where or how to look any more. I’m downloading with my eyes, want my looking to figure out for me who the prettiest is – it’s too much all at once – but I keep getting “Download Error” message. They’re all fucking gorgeous.

In elementary school I had a classmate whom we called “Piggy” because of her weight, large cheeks and general unattractiveness. Piggy had the most beautiful eyes, unusually shaped, with a curtain of dark lashes and of the most intense green shade. I was fascinated by this hidden (behind the cliché coke-bottom glasses) feature. I remarked on it to other girls who insisted Piggy was a mess.

I’m embarrassed to admit that at the time I felt strangely generous telling other classmates that Piggy’s eyes were beautiful. Unlike Piggy I wasn’t called a name for my looks (okay, my large nose was a subject of a few heated insult exchanges). I think I was a total jerk by feeling generous and Piggy probably thought I was full of shit too. By the way, her real name was Agnes. She was tough; insisted she liked her nickname. She was smart and funny. She once said that she was the new incarnation of Marilyn Monroe, punished for her sins with ugliness. I laughed but felt defeated hearing this.

To detox from all that beauty, here’s the original “I Wanna Be Your Dog” song:

Iggy Pop, “I Wanna Be Your Dog” (1979)

- Jowita Bydlowska

Mike Figgis, “Agent Provocateur Footwear Ad” (2007)

This is an Agent Provocateur shoe ad from 2007. It looks sexy, dirty and it’s shot in the way that suggests a peeping Tom or a surveillance camera. It has a fantastic soundtrack. It implies a lot more filthy fun than you can see, which is why it may make you a bit uncomfortable. But despite its rawness and underground feel it’s way more mainstream than… provocateur. It’s just your average S&M.

When I was 13 my friend and I wore sexy corsets and posed for a pedophile. He took pictures. We knew this was wrong, that he was wrong but our desire to wear sexy corsets was stronger than any red flags going up. He was just a pervert. The world was full of them.

By the time I was 13, I’d had various experiences with perverts: dicks pressed against me in line-ups and on streetcars, flashers popping out of cars and from behind dumpsters, droolers and fondlers and lap-sitting invitees at children’s sporting events and at summer camps. Once, in the course of one – one! – memorable day I saw two flashers (one by a dumpster, one by a church) and was approached to have nude pictures taken.

Perhaps I have a special luck with pervs, perhaps it’s a European thing, perhaps I’m just more honest in admitting that it happens all the time. The point is that by the time I had agreed to have those pictures taken I was well-versed in being a sexual object. Most kids are.

I liked it. No, not being an object so much but being an object of desire. It’s true that I didn’t understand it at such young age and I was stupid about it but the motive had stayed the same: to be adored. Although some are conflicted by it, it’s a natural craving and all humans have it. Even the ones who reject it, for political reasons or otherwise, have it (especially the ones who reject it).

Some take it a little further and dress it up in corsets and other sexwear like PVC, leather, chains, rope or ballet heels. The less extreme of us are content with whatever Victoria Secret or other La Senza allows. And if you’ve paid attention, in the last 15 years or so most lingerie outlets have quite evolved: from push-up bras and wedding-night garters to light S&M of black feathers and lace; I bought my first Grenier corset at La Vie en Rose 12 years ago; you can get it at SEARS today. What used to be underground is now above the ground and thriving, in shopping malls.

A hundred years ago, when I wore my first pair of fishnets (formerly my grandmother’s) in grade 8, I was sent home; it would be redundant for me to tell you the kind of outfits self-obsessed little brats wear to school nowadays. Seen an American Apparel ad lately? Wholesome is out. Pervy is in.

The Agent Provocateur shoe ad is a fine example of how friendly we’ve become with the underground and those secretive places reserved for perverts and fetishists. Everyone wants to be adored and dirty. Even Barbie.

- Jowita Bydlowska

Gavin McInnes, “Baby Discipline”

I watched this video many times during the course of my pregnancy. It was detox from all the ultra-somber baby-rearing advice that I had to endure almost 24/7.

Gavin McInnes is one of the founders of Vice magazine, a monthly guide to hipsterdom. Born in the 70s, he is also probably one of the most infamous heroes of my generation of North Americans. We are known as Generation Y, or the “Millennials” (though the Millenials, as McInnes would probably agree, is the lamest word ever).

After McInnes left Vice, he promised this was not the end of him, backing up his promise with the typical McInnesian flourish: “There’s a ton of other projects in the works, including books, a movie, comics, TV shit, etc and I’ll announce them on the site as they blossom into fruition like a hundred humid vaginas in the presence of God’s boner.” (Emphasis mine.)

One of those projects is a series of video shorts about parenting. McInnes is a father of two children; some have speculated that having children was the reason he left Vice. He is now in charge of STREET CARNAGE, a website that “features street fashion critiques called STREET BONERS and compilations of bad television called TV CARNAGE.” For the most part, the site’s je ne sais quoi is similar to that of the funny and offensive Vice of old, and has less in common with the look-guys-I’m-still-cool Vice of today.

Anyway, I’ve been watching McInnes’ parenting shorts and thank God’s boner for them. Websites and videos that deal with motherhood are practical and serious, the way motherhood is.

“Pumping and Expressing Breast Milk,” from Gurgle.com

Ugh. But like McInnes I struggle with the seriousness of it all. And my child-free friends, the Millenials, struggle along with me. For example, recently I got an email from my friend Ally that said “I can’t call you a ‘whore’ any more, can I, since you’re a mother now?” (Yes, she can.) Then my friend Bunmi wondered if “sexy motherfucker” was an okay term to describe my baby. (Yes, it is.)

Then there are the “professional parents,” people like Dave whom we ran into while pushing a stroller. He boomed: “Ha ha ha, where’s your techno now?” Dave represents the certain attitude that is based on the fact that parenthood is serious business. In that spirit, I’ve been warned about my vagina walking out on me after giving birth or my drug use becoming a public concern; and I’ve heard bad haircuts referred to as “Mom hair.”

Basically, babies are perfectly efficient coolness exterminators. I’ve seen dozens of mysterious smiles on the lips of parents who had said to me, “Oh, your life will change.”

And my life has changed.

Today I can tell you this: Never mind about worrying about being cool. There are more important things to take care of. You see, just like McInnes’ daughter, Sophie, my newborn child is unable to walk. Just like McInnes, we have asked doctors to give us some hopeful timelines but the outlook is always grim. “A year or so,” they all say. Worse yet: We are met with heavy, embarrassed silence whenever we ask about Hugo’s current inability to speak.

- Jowita Bydlowska

Marek Piwowski, “Rejs” or “The Cruise” (1970)

“The Cruise” is a story about a trip down the Vistula River. A passerby gets onto a cruise boat by mistake and the boat’s captain assumes that the ticketless man is the government-appointed Communist Party Cultural Leader. To keep up appearances, the intruder quickly adopts his new role and organizes an assembly and appoints an entertainment committee.

Everyone on the boat breathes a sigh of relief. This is what the people under the Polish communist regime are used to: assemblies, committees, pseudo-artistic events, idiotic games and over-the-top officious statements.

The entertainment committee doesn’t disappoint. Lots of nonsense ensues.

The movie was shot over a three-day period with a mostly non-professional acting crew pickled to the gills on vodka. It became an underground hit and eventually a top cult movie in Poland in the mid-90s when it was (ahem) rediscovered by the young culturatti. The dialogue often verges on the absurd; the scenes barely adhere to any sort of a storyline; and the finished product is a brilliant piece of (potentially over-exclusive) former Eastern-block humour.

But even though a lot of the humour is too specific and insider to be got by everybody, the film is of such a nature that anyone who’s ever been a participant or a victim of the corporate world should understand it instinctively. What is easily translatable and universal are the type of violently awkward events where groups of strangers are forced to do activities together in order to “break the ice,” show “community spirit,” or otherwise engage in “team-building” exercises.

From a randomly Googled site,www.corporateteambuilding.com: “If you ask any group what they think ‘team building’ means, you will get a many different answers. Some will say that it’s about building trust, others say getting better acquainted, still others say its all about communication, practicing leadership skills, or even learning about creative problem solving and group brainstorming. But the bottom line, team building is always fun.”

The following scene is from the main event of the cruise. My translation is below:

THE BIG QUIZ

THE HIPSTER contestant

CULTURAL LEADER
Oh! Please, welcome. Welcome, please. Please. Go on. Go on, over here. Go on. Please, welcome. Welcome, please. We’re very happy. First question. Can you hear me well?
HIPSTER
Me?
CULTURAL LEADER
Yes, you.
HIPSTER
Yes, I can hear you well.
[APPLAUSE]

CULTURAL LEADER
Next question. Onward. What is the name of the town by the river Vistula? As a hint I’ll add that it was the name of a Polish king who rebuilt Poland.
HIPSTER
But what town?
CULTURAL LEADER
I’m asking what town.
HIPSTER
Oh.
…
Well, I don’t know.
MAMOŃ
Mr. Kazimierz! Do you have the bathroom key?
CULTURAL LEADER
Ladies and gentlemen please don’t give out any more hints. Please.
HIPSTER
Keytown!
CULTURAL LEADER
The right answer: Kazimierz.
HIPSTER [SHAKING HANDS WITH HIM, THINKING THAT THE CULTURAL LEADER IS INTRODUCING HIMSELF SAYS HIS NAME]
Roman.
[APPLAUSE]

THE OLD MAN contestant

CULTURAL LEADER
Next question. Please. A domestic animal that lives by the river Vistula. Please make the sound that the animal makes.
OLD MAN
Please repeat the question.
CULTURAL LEADER
Animal, domestic, lives by the Vistula, the sound.
OLD MAN
Piotr Pietrzyk. Rzeszów.
CULTURAL LEADER
You misunderstood. I’m not asking about your name. I’m saying ANIMAL, Vistula. And the sound.
OLD MAN
How much time do I have?
CULTURAL LEADER
But… realistically. Do you know or not?
OLD MAN
Of course… cow.
CULTURAL LEADER
What do the judges think?
JUDGE 1
Cow, sure. But we’re thinking…
JUDGE 2
Of a horse.
JUDGE 1
Of a horse. Please make the sound.
[OLD MAN JUMPS TRYING TO IMITATE THE SOUND OF A GALLOPING HORSE]
CULTURAL LEADER
Stop. Stop. Time’s up. What do the judges think?
JUDGE 1
Unfortunately the answer is not fully correct. We’re asking about the mouth-made sound.
[OLD MAN TRIES TO MAKE THE SOUND OF A HOOF SOUND]
Clip clop
JUDGE 1
“Wehee!”
We meant this, of course.
OLD MAN
The questions are subjective.

- Jowita Bydlowska

Michael Jackson, “They Don’t Care About Us” First Version (1995)

“Skinhead, dead head
Everybody gone bad
Situation, aggravation
Everybody allegation
In the suite, on the news
Everybody dog food
Bang bang, shot dead
Everybody’s gone mad
All I wanna say is that
They don’t really care about us.”

So sings Michael Jackson in his song “They Don’t Really Care About Us.” In the video he’s dancing furiously, wearing a T-shirt with a peace symbol on it. He’s on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, chanting the angry lyrics. He is surrounded by hundreds of members of Afro Brazilian Olodum group. The video was directed by Spike Lee.

The song is a protest but against what and whom? The lyrics, written by Jackson are unclear: Who’s “everybody”? Who is the “they”? Who is the “us”?

“Beat me, hate me
You can never break me
Will me, thrill me
You can never kill me
Jew me, sue me
Everybody do me
Kick me, kike me
Don’t you black or white me.”

Jackson sings on, landing himself in some serious trouble for the language of this particular verse after the song is released. Jackson had to re-record the allegedly anti-Semitic lyrics. He also re-recorded the video where he bleeped out the offensive words.

The second video depicts what looks like beginnings of a prison riot; it is intertwined with actual, and often familiar, footage of rioting, war, genocide, starvation, assassinations, executions, beatings and other crimes against humanity. The video was banned in some countries due to its violence and was shown on MTV only at night.

Michael Jackson, “They Don’t Care About Us (Official Prison Version)” (1995)

“Tell me what has become of my rights
Am I invisible because you ignore me?
Your proclamation promised me free liberty, now
I’m tired of bein’ the victim of shame
They’re throwing me in a class with a bad name
I can’t believe this is the land from which I came
You know I do really hate to say it
The government don’t wanna see
But if Roosevelt was livin’
He wouldn’t let this be, no, no.”

The first allegations of sexual abuse happened in 1993. Were the song and video a response to it? If yes, is the song an attempt to clear his own name while simultaneously talking about the suffering of “us”? And about our struggles against the evil “them”? The system that curbs our freedoms?

In a statement Jackson said the song was about “the pain of prejudice and hate and is a way to draw attention to social and political problems.” He also said: “I am the voice of the accused and the attacked. I am the voice of everyone. I am the skinhead, I am the Jew, I am the black man, I am the white man. I am not the one who was attacking. It is about the injustices to young people and how the system can wrongfully accuse them.”

In another famous protest song,“Give Peace a Chance,” John Lennon too encountered some difficulties over lyrics. Because he couldn’t remember the original final verse of the song — “Everybody’s talkin’ ’bout John and Yoko, Timmy Leary, Rosemary, Tommy Smothers, Bobby Dylan, Tommy Cooper, Derek Taylor, Norman Mailer, Allen Ginsberg, Hare Krishna” — he just made it up when performing it for the album “Live Peace in Toronto 1969.” The verse became: “Everybody’s talkin’ ’bout John and Yoko, Eric Clapton, Klaus Voormann, Penny Lane, Roosevelt, Nixon, Tommy Jones and Tommy Cooper, and somebody.”

Also, like Jackson, he had changed words to avoid further controversy: He replaced the word “masturbation” with “mastication.”

Plastic Ono Band, “Give Peace a Chance” (1969)

Although with far more nonsensical lyrics, the message of Plastic Ono Band’s “Give Peace a Chance” is much more focused. Like Jackson’s “They Don’t Care,” Lennon’s song is a call to humanity to demand social change (and, of course, to give peace a chance). But unlike “They Don’t Care,” the call is not self-centered, bitter, resigned, and also not angry, despite the fact that the enemy is more clearly defined and definable.

Whereas Lennon’s simple lyrics never seem to take war personally, Jackson’s song sounds like whining about personal misfortune rather than for the general misfortunes of society. Unlike the paranoid “They Don’t Care,” “Give Peace a Chance” describes an enemy that is not lurking everywhere; the enemy is the Vietnam War and Lennon’s message is simply that everyone “come together.”

In this famous “bed-in” video, Lennon is surrounded by friends. We mainly see footage of anti-war protests around the United States.

About the song Lennon said: “That’s what my job, our job is, to write for the people now.”

- Jowita Bydlowska

Jay Jay Johanson, “On the Radio” (2003)

A month before my second sober anniversary I had heard Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” for the first time and I descended into a bathtub and tears and lots and lots of wine. This was one of those songs! A my song. I had tried to explain to my AA sponsor at the time what it was that I was crying about but it sounded so pathetic: “I’m crying about being miserable. Drunk. Being stuck in staircases and in doorways, waking up next to an unknown. Missing the two-dimensional world of the day-after: the wavy walk, the slow, sticky post-buzzed lovemaking, fried eggs, brunch, and half a nap in the park.”

I missed lying on the floor at night playing Jay Jay Johanson over and over and being heartbroken over a lover, or just imagining I was heartbroken over a lover.

“On the Radio” is a quintessential my song. It’s not my favourite song; it’s just a song that I could lie on the floor in the darkness and listen to. Sung by the effeminate Jay Jay Johanson—so, so my type with his orange-dyed undercut, pale ladder of a ribcage and heavy eye makeup—this song balances precisely on the line between cheesy-ironic and earnest.

In the video Jay Jay Johanson is giving a conference to an audience of Bambi-eyed models in stern 1930s S&M-secretary gear. About ¾ into the song, a honey-blonde beauty walks into the room. Jay Jay Johanson locks eyes with her and sings to her. This is their song, it’s her song, it is my song. The melody is catchy and the words are:

“Everytime I hear my song
On the radio
I keep moving closer
And closer to you
Everytime the DJ is playing my song
I can feel you here by my side
All night long.”

Over-the-top cliché; I hate liking it but I do.

Almost a decade ago, during my heaviest drinking years, I met someone who brought out the full drama queen in me. The first night I met him I asked him what he planned to do on the weekend. He said: “Slash my wrists.”

He gave me a bunch of burned CDs of Jay Jay Johanson and told me that I will love them. He got me. Although at first I was horrified at the voice and the embarrassing lyrics I realized that it fit me. Drunks are sad clowns. So sad they’re funny, so funny…

Jay Jay Johanson, “Believe in Us” (2000)

I’d left the 12-step program some time ago. I had stayed sober. I had stayed faithful and in the same relationship for years straight. My song phenomenon no longer applied to my life. I wasn’t dramatic, I was stable.

Then in the fall I flew to Europe. On arrival, coincidentally, I had received an over-the-top romantic email from the guy who introduced me to Jay Jay Johanson. It was a big wink from the past. I printed out the email. I went out to a friend’s club. I danced to Jay Jay Johanson’s “On the radio,” buzzed on a couple of Grolsch’s. I smoked a pack of cigarettes and proclaimed an undying friendship to some girl in the bathroom. Everything seemed to be as it was before. I came home, back to Canada, and found out I was pregnant.

- Jowita Bydlowska

This is “Vinni Puh.”

“Vinni Puh”

This is “Winnie the Pooh.”

“The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh: The Story Behind the Masterpiece (Part 1 of 3)”

You and I are not the same. It has nothing to do with my accent. It has to do with our youth: cartoons and toys.

This difference becomes clear usually when somebody (you) makes a reference to a childhood toy, a TV show or a cartoon, and everyone around the table nods enthusiastically and says: “Oh yes, yes, we remember,” and then you all grab each other’s hands, and stand in a circle and start singing that song and bring up other plushy, technicolour recollections.

By the time everyone is done sliding down the memory-trip rainbow I have turned suicidal, black and white — Polish. I am all alone sitting in the dark corner playing accordion, drinking vodka straight out of a plastic cup, finishing my pack of unfiltered smokes and laughing melancholically to myself while all of you fucking Care Bears ask me what is wrong sweetie?

What is wrong sweetie is that when you had your happy Strawberry Shortcakes I was cheering on an alcoholic, homicidal Russian wolf with a cigarette:

Vyacheslav Kotyonochkin, “Nu Pogodi!“

While you, on the other side of the globe were developing a bit of an ADHD from having too many choices per hour, I was eagerly counting down the days till Friday at five PM, when I could watch a TV show about a moth-eaten diarrhea-tinted dog puppet:

“Okienko Pankracego”

What is wrong is that you had Sesame Street and I had a balding, red-faced hobo named Kulfon:

You had My Little Pony, I had…What did I have?.. I had a My Little Pony catalogue — that I had found in the garbage by the American embassy — in which I painstakingly circled thumbnail-size pictures of ponies that I would ask for, if they were available. They were not available.

What was available? I had some toys from Pewex, like the sticky rubberlike hydrocephalus Czech version of a Barbie doll or a fake Monchichi monkey or a picture of a strangely elongated Miki Mous. (In Warsaw you could also, occasionally, get LEGO for the price of a kidney, on a black market.)

Sometime in the mid-80s Polish television acquired rights to “Smurfs.” In my recollection, the Smurfs were the biggest hit. Ever. They unleashed greed and need so impetuous that Polish children everywhere started to die of blue fever.

I myself have had spent a few humiliating afternoons trying to befriend — then bribe with sexual favours — a horrible, mean little kid named Daniel who somehow had access to colouring Smurf books. I wanted to borrow one so that I could copy the pictures at home. I let that kid kiss me.

Around the time of “the Smurfs,” the magical gates of the Western world had opened even wider and released “Fraggle Rock,” “Muppet Babies,” “He-Man,” Michael Jackson, “Gremlins“… And my mother, finally understanding the importance of authenticity and quality of rubber, had asked a friend in California to buy me a real Barbie. (The friend sent instead Mattell’s top-seller of the time: Super Star Ken — complete with a disco suit and Kent Clark-hair — whom I had cherished for the fantastic new smell, which till this day I still like to refer as “the Barbie smell.”)

But despite the bountiful accession of Western culture it would’ve been impossible to truly catch up to you to share similar memories of your fresh-rubber childhood heroes. We, dusty-coloured Polish children, weren’t used to them the way you were. We were suspicious, in too much of an awe to get accustomed.

So, do you see how insensitive it is for you to forever go on about your Pound Puppies, your GI Joes, your “Mr. Dress-ups,” even your “Friendly Giants” (the older you) as if it was normal? Are you surprised at how bitter I’ve become?

I’m kidding. I’m not really bitter or mad at you; this is not your fault. In fact, there’s nothing stopping me from re-educating myself right now with YouTube (and the Internet in general). For example, while writing this I had to look up a lot of the things so I know it’s all there if I only reach for it — and I will — once I sober up and put off the suicide for another time. The Internet is a great uniter.

- Jowita Bydlowska

Tickling Slow Loris

“But everyone has seen it already,” said my partner when I told him I wanted to write about “Slow loris loves getting tickled” video. This particular YouTube link has had – at the time of writing this – 1,715,794 views. I have seen it at least a dozen times. One time I had a fight with my partner and in that super awkward, right-after-the-fight time – when you can’t talk normally yet – we watched the slow loris getting tickled. We watched and we laughed and reenacted the arms going down, the sorrowful eyes looking accusingly resigned, the same eyes looking resigned and satisfied when the tickling resumed.

It was an innocent time for us. It was like relaxing with a glass of wine, a little puff, a little line to make you breezy; it worked.

The slow loris is a little nocturnal primate with “slow, deliberate movements,” giant eyes and humanoid paws. This animal is a cartoonishly delightful interbreeding of a sad Russian man, a plush teddy bear, a monkey and a vampire that is a baby. The video of this creature getting tickled while her owners are giggling in the background is beyond adorable. It is so aww-adorable it is perverse. It is the porn of cute.

I am sorry I just wrote “the porn of cute.” I am sorry that I made you look at the petite tickling hand disappearing in that softest fur and those melancholic, resigned eyes in that way. It’s just a little animal being tickled and I feel a little animal inside me when I watch it: I want to tickle this furry thing, squeeze it, kiss it and eat it. Posses it. I have a physical, instinctual reaction to it and it’s not to fuck it as you might’ve misunderstood because of that word, porn. My reaction is that I just want more of it.

Sometimes I think that we are simply not supposed to see certain things – like a slow loris getting tickled – and that we see so much and so much of everything, thanks to the Internet videos, that our minds get confused. We become oversaturated with images, some of us end up with the minds of addicts, dissatisfied, always looking for the bigger hit – bigger cute, bigger perverse, bigger amazing – to fulfill the exponentially expanding need for visual satiation and mental stimulation.

My partner was right: everyone has already seen it. And if some of you have the minds of addicts, that slow loris getting tickled was like taking your first hit. Afterward you Googled “slow loris” and “cute” and “cute video” and “cute animals”… you Googled and Googled: You needed more and more.

- Jowita Bydlowska