Is the veterinary industry running a scam?

We're heading out on a long weekend trip tomorrow morning, so we dropped off our little Yorkshire Terrier to be boarded at the vet this afternoon. The price for boarding her was actually quite reasonable at 15 bucks a night. The real expense comes in the dental cleaning that our vet strongly recommended. When the expert is telling you that a cleaning will substantially increase the life expectancy for your furry little child, it's sort of hard to say no. And, to be honest, we can afford it; plus, her breath stinks lately, and a cleaning couldn't hurt on that front. Thing is, they don't tell you exactly how much it's going to cost. They give you a base price for the cleaning and let you know that there is a possibility that she could need some teeth to be extracted, with a cost ranging from $30 for a "level one" extraction to $90 for a "level four" extraction. They were pretty vague when I asked them to explain how extraction-levels are determined, saying only that a "more difficult" extraction, like one in the back of the mouth, would cost more. Well, ok. They promised to call us beforehand if the total cost of the dental procedures would exceed $400. Which is a lot of money. And it's not like we're going to say no if they call and ask to do something, given that this is supposed to extend our precious pooch's life span. But, man, they really fleece you. Last time we took her to be boarded overnight, we approved a $27 vaccination booster, but when we picked her up, the bill for the procedure was almost $100 because, the vet said, they had to examine her first to make sure she was healthy enough to get the shot. I mean, really.

I had a conversation with my parents the other night, and my dad lamented the high cost of contemporary pet ownership. In his day, he noted, you took a pet once every year or two to get a rabies vaccine, but, otherwise, assuming the dog didn't develop some obvious disease or suffer some injury, you didn't take it to the vet. Nowadays, with all the care that your pet "needs," you really ought to have some kind of health plan for it. But this leads me to wonder, do our animal really need all these vaccinations, all these procedures? Especially a dog that, like ours, and like many urban dogs, stays inside most of the time--where are they going to be exposed to rubella, distemper, or even rabies? I mean, sure, it seems heartless to deny your man's-best-friend of any preventative care that he or she might need, but isn't it the veterinary industry that's telling us we need all of these things? And I would imagine that the prevalence of all these preventative treatments are most prominent in urban areas, where, to many, a dog really is like a child, rather than, say, a farmhand or a watchdog. I'd bet money that farmers don't take their precious sheep herders to the doggie dentist, and they do just fine. Aren't these people bilking us? Exploiting our paternal love for our animals?

Weren't dogs wild animals at some point? I would imagine that our pets' wild ancestors did just fine without yearly dental cleanings and 200 booster shots a year. But maybe therein lies the difference. Our modern pooches--especially a tiny, helpless one like ours--are less a product of natural selection and more one of human design. They are bred to be small and cute (actually, small terriers were apparently originally bred to catch small vermin, such as mice, but ours has never done any such a thing, thank God, save that one time she bit a dying but still buzzing locust, a decision she soon regretted). I feel fairly confident saying that our pooch would not survive long if left on her own. I also feel fairly confident asserting that never have packs of small terriers existed in the wild, so there's really no way to know how such an animal would fare without the care of humans. So maybe dogs like ours--who sustain themselves on easy to munch doggie food and an occasional dropped sandwich, rather than teeth-strengthening snacks like bone-of-recently-deceased deer--really do need human-provided dental care and vaccinations.

But still, I think there is a healthy bit of manipulation in the modern urban veterinary industry. I have a gut feeling that the vast majority of our pets would live healthy and happy lives even bereft of the constant care recommended by our vets. But, of course, like any overprotective parent, we'll continue to give her as much care as is recommended, to the extent that we can afford it. Here's hoping, for our sake as well as hers, for as few as possible "level four extractions" this weekend.

Don't sang it

I lived in Birmingham for a while, and the local hip-hop stations were far more Memphis-centric than Atlanta-centric, for whatever reason. The airwaves were rife with the dark, surprisingly lush beats that backed the Hypnotize Minds/Three-6 Mafia roster, and I guess this was the strategy that allowed that set to flourish: market heavily in Tennessee, Alabama, Kentucky, perhaps Arkansas and Mississippi, carving out a niche that could compete against the more well-funded artists coming out of Atlanta, as well as the guerrilla marketing competitors coming out of New Orleans (i.e. No Limit and Cash Money Records). I always had a thing for Memphis' female rappers, the most notable and famous of whom is Gangsta Boo. Something about this hardcore woman rapping over these super-dark beats about smoking weed and shooting people gets me for some reason.

Anyway, there was this one song that always showed up during mix shows, and I could never find it anywhere. It didn't help that I didn't know the name of the song, but just that the chorus involved this female rapper saying "I'm the tricky / the tricky tricky / the tricky tricky that you love to hate." No wonder I couldn't find it, even in the age of the Google search, since, in the unedited version of the song, which is called "Don't Sang It," La Chat sings "I'm the bitchy bitchy that you love to hate." I don't know how I finally found it, but it has been a favorite ever since. I had a low-quality mp3 that I had found on Limewire, and I listened to it quite a bit. Tonight I made a wonderful discovery: Emusic has La' Chat's entire debut album, "Murder She Spoke," which includes "Don't Sang It," as well as a bunch of other songs that sound very similar, but do the trick. Check it out here.

Some thoughts on The Dark Knight

I am, in general, a big fan of the superhero genre. As a kid, I loved Burton's take on Batman, and, like millions of other fans, I was excited to see the new one. I had heard all the hype about how amazing Heath Ledger was as the Joker, and the previews promised something dark and unsettling, so I was really looking forward to seeing the movie. Ever the thoughtful spouse, my wife bought us tickets to the midnight showing at one of our favorite theatres here in Atlanta. The fact that I usually go to bed around 11 on work nights (and, let's be honest, on a lot of weekends as well) is one factor that I had going against me in the first place. I was yawning in line, and there were points in the movie, especially during some of the talkier moments (and there were several - more on that later), I sort of found myself unable to really decipher what the characters were talking about. So maybe this tainted my viewing experience somewhat. Beyond that handicap, however, there were a couple of things about the film that left me with mixed feelings.

Before I describe those, I will say that, with Batman, the filmmakers face a unique challenge that is lacking in other superhero films: there are no superpowers, just a lot of eccentric humans who are, despite their extra-heroic or extra-evil missions in life, are nonetheless bound by the laws of physics and the limitations of the human body. So there are fewer opportunities for the jaw-dropping, escapist images of the hero launching himself into space (Iron Man) or throwing a exploding tank (Hulk) or swinging via spiderwebs throughout New York City (duh). And it's that challenge that sort of makes the Batman franchise brilliant. We're not able to suspend our disbelief as much as we are with the Marvel films, as we're drawn into a surreal, but not impossible, world in which an incredibly eccentric group of human beings have dressed themselves in elaborate costumes, with the aim of advancing a great pure evil or a great pure good throughout a dark, twisted American city. And that's kind of a brave story to try and tell.

And maybe its just that I'm not accustomed to that. The fast-paced, divorced-from-reality, brightly colored Marvel films that have defined the genre for the past several years have led me to expect a certain rush of candy-coated adrenaline from my superhero films. With that expectation on the table, it's no wonder that a film like The Dark Knight leaves me a little let down. The characters are all tethered down by the realities of gravity; the Joker's crimes involve knives and explosives, rather than some other-worldly monster or unstoppable nuclear force; Two-Face, despite his disturbing appearance, is just a guy with a gun. And don't get me wrong, I think each of these characters are brilliantly painted. But I'll get on with my "complaints," if you can call them that. I have a feeling that this is a movie that I will come to appreciate more upon a second viewing.

My main hesitation, I think, comes from the film's pace. There were many moments when the characters spend a long time explaining their motives or describing some complicated element, and I thought that many of these moments were superfluous and could have been cut without detracting from the story. The most egregious example came in the form of the Joker's occasional and random stories hinting at how he became who he is. While the film itself doesn't illustrate the villian's origins, there are several moments where he "introduces" himself to some group of people by telling some story of an event in his life: some crime his father committed upon his mother; some event in which he (?) cut his own tongue with a razor. Each of these stories does little to really elucidate who the character is, and they are each quite long-winded, so they serve only to add length to the film without contributing anything real to our understanding of the Joker's madness. I thought that some of these moments of talk could have been cut, quickening the pace of the film and eliminating some of the movie's duller moments. There are similar moments in which, for example, Batman goes into some long pontification about whether Gotham needs a vigilante hero like himself, or the prosecutors attempt to describe their RICO case against the city's crime lords. As a general premise, I feel that, if a film's plot is to be effectively advanced by dialouge, rather than action, that dialogue has to be quite compelling and well-written. Unfortunately, I didn't think that the writing was up to the point of excellence at which the audience is really drawn into the character's words. Plus, I don't like the raspy, whispery voice that Bruce Wayne adopts when he's dressed as Batman: but that's just an aesthetic thing, I guess.

That being said, another thing that I really liked about the film was the vivid, disturbing picture it painted of the complete madness that the Joker brings upon the city of Gotham. In many of the aforementioned Marvel films, the action sequences take place upon a sort of hypothetical, generic cityscape: we get the impression of the chaos that a battle between superhuman forces brings to a city block, but there's never much work done to explore the broader civic implications of the event. The Joker's reign of terror on Gotham, on the other hand, is not a singular chaotic event, but a systematic plan to break down civic order and crush any sense of hope among the city's residents as a whole. Each step the Joker takes--from robbing a bank to killing an important public figure to disfiguring the district attorney to bombing a hospital--is a blow to the psychological well-being of the city's residents. We are presented with several striking images of the populace poured into the streets, gripped by panic and fear, desparate for some salvation from this ultimate in home-grown terrorist. What makes these images most gripping, perhaps, is the spectre that someone might actually be able to pull something like that off. I think of the demented mind and violent determination of the Virginia Tech shooter and wonder, what if someone with that same disposition, but with immense resources and a great intelligence, decided to carry out some Joker-like escapade? It's far from impossible.

In the end, I really enjoyed this fim, and I'm looking forward to seeing it again. The more I think about the challenge of bringing such a strange human story to film, the more I want to give it another shot, leaving behind the expectations created by other recent superhero films. All in all, it is an inspired and inspiring artistic effort, especially in the face of the challenges that its story presented.

Crusin for a bruisin: let's raise the enlistment age

I was struck by this piece on today's cnn.com, in which young soldiers in the more tranquil areas of Iraq express their desire to get involved in the "real fighting" in Afghanistan, in order to "prove themselves in battle." As I read about these guys, most of them in their late teens and early twenties, eager to shoot their guns at some enemy other, my first reaction was a bit of disgust, even anger. You've got some kid lucky enough to be stationed in an area where he is not likely to be harmed or killed, yet he's itching to be placed in the middle of some violent battle. These are the kinds of guys who, in their overzealousness and macho stupidness, end up shooting civilians or abusing detainees. These are the guys that give American troops, and America in general, an ugly image in the world.

But, in paying attention to quotes from several older soldiers, who had experienced the "real battle" that these young recruits sought after, I understood a different perspective on this "itching for a fight" psychology. To wit:

Soldiers who have experienced combat stress note that it is usually young
soldiers on their first tour who most want to get on the battlefield. They say
it is hard to communicate the horrors of war to those who have not actually
experienced it.

"These kids are just being young," said Sgt. Christopher Janis, who is
only 23 but is on his third tour in Iraq. "They say they want to get into battle
until they do, and then they won't want it anymore."

Certainly, while some of those with a compulsion for battle might simply be jerks eager to shoot somebody, there are likely a good number who view the American mission as honorable and important, and their drive is fueled by a desire to contribute to something bigger and better than themselves. False though it may have been, the narrative of the noble American, fighting to liberate Iraqis from the chains of dictatorship and save the world from Islamofascism, is one that still holds sway over the minds of many Americans, and, almost certainly, holds sway over many of the young soldiers with a desire to shoot their guns in the name of freedom.

If that's the case, these soldiers itch to fight can probably best be attributed to their age and inexperience. When I think back to when I was 18, 19, 20, 21, and compare my relative maturity just a few years later, at 25 or 26, I shudder to imagine that a youth as young as 18 might be sent overseas with the delicate mission of winning over the hearts and minds of an occupied people. Perhaps in years past, when life expectancy was lower and people typically started working full-time and raising a family at anywhere from 16 to 20, 18 to 20 year olds possessed the experience and maturity necessary to make the tough choices and face the moral dilemmas of war. But in modern America, where high school graduation is the new middle school graduation, and many extend their childhood well into their 20's by living off student loans or their parents generosity, attending classes intermittently and playing video games throughout the day, our youngest men (especially our men) are ill-equipped to handle the profound difficulties of war. Those who are the most anxious to fight likely envision their first battle as something like a game of Halo 3, them and their compatriots stealthily diving about rocks and buildings, strafing the enemy with gunfire and achieving a high score when its all done. As the older soldiers noted in the article, many of those young soldiers aren't ready for the trauma of being shot at, the panic of having to actually shoot some one, the pain and devastation of your friend lying next to you in pool of blood.

Maybe there is an argument to be made for raising the age limit for military service? Thinking about most of the 18 year-olds I know, it seems actually quite absurd to imagine that any of them would be entrusted with our national security and our national image. 21 might be a good starting point, and it would actually have some legal precedent, in that (a) it's the most common drinking age and (b) its the common law age at which "infancy" ends, for purposes of enforcing contracts. Of course, in a day when it is increasingly difficult to recruit young people into the military, I would imagine that the top brass views the relative naivete of its youngest recruits as one of the few things working in the recruiters' favor. But it's hard to imagine that the immaturity and inexperience of our soldiers hasn't been one cause of the Iraq war's harm to our national image and the strength of our forces. Upping the age requirements would be a solid, though not adequate on its own, step toward improving that strength and image.

Review: Diplo and Dark Meat in Athens

Headed up to my old stomping grounds of Athens, GA this past weekend, in order to see Dark Meat and Diplo play the 40 Watt. My main motivation was to see Diplo, who has done some remixes that I've been pretty crazy over, and whose debut LP "Florida" was a favorite of mine during my days in the ATH. And, of course, I'm sort of a stan for M.I.A., whose initial success has been largely credited to Diplo (despite her protest to the contrary in some interview I read, which I don't really buy). I was also curious to see Dark Meat, who I first witnessed perform at the Flagpole music awards a couple of years ago. I recall really enjoying that performance, if only because it was so completely insane and over-the-top. The band created a complete spectacle, as its members filled the Morton Theatre with a cacophony of sounds, emitting from every instrument ever invented, and a parade of strange, drunk, dancing (gratuitous) townies. I remember the music being ok, too. So this combination of artist-that-I-like plus band-that-sort-of-intrigues me lead me to make the drive to Athens. That, and the fact that it was a beautiful summer night, and I wanted to do some drinking after a long week.

First, the bad news. Dark Meat was really terrible. I haven't heard any of their recorded material, which have actually gotten some good reviews, but live, all that came across was a wall of dense, indecipherable, uncomfortable noise. The first time I saw them, they played in the very large and acoustically-friendly space of the Morton Theatre, and, while the sound was huge and messy and loud, one could actually discern the various individual sounds: the horns, the guitars, the basses, the strings. It was all part of a big mess, but it wasn't intolerable, and you got the impression of hearing a grand, strange orchestra playing obnoxious bar rock, which was, in a way, kind of cool. At the 40 Watt, on the other hand, the sound just reverberated around the room to such an extent that, not only could I not discern the various instruments, I could not even discern chord changes or melodies. It was literally a wall of awful noise, like one continuous terrible rumble echoing infinitely throughout the bar, all set to a visual image of a lot of pretentious townies bouncing about self-seriously on stage.

Harsh, I know. But there are a couple of factors that lead me to judge Dark Meat harshly. The first one is entirely petty. The main guy in the band--the one who stands center stage and sings, etc.--was the biggest asshole server ever. He used to (still does?) work at this pretty great restaurant in Athens called 5-Star Day, and he was one of those guys who, no matter how respectful you were to him when ordering, no matter how sincerely you said please and thank you, he treated you like you were an annoying, uncultured frat boy, relative to his sophisticated, hip, indie rock individuality. Now, to be fair, this is a pretty common attitude among Athens-area hipsters, who long to be the compatriots of their Williamsburg counterparts, yet lack a borough in which they can be truly comfortable in their pre-fabbed idiosyncrasies, ever-surrounded by the cultural proletariat of the average college student riff-raff. But, because we ate at this guy's restaurant fairly regularly, we were subjected fairly regularly to his hipster hate-stares, and, while I guess we could have just stopped going there, I couldn't get enough of their eggs Benedict, so, I just sucked it up.

The second, and related reason that I cut Dark Meat no slack is that I feel they have largely insulated themselves from criticism by the adoption of (a) gimmickry and (b) an ironic stance. With regard to gimmickry, the band has drawn a great deal of attention to itself simply by the fact that they fill a stage full of strange people and strange instruments, such that, truly, there is nothing else quite like them out there. As Diplo himself said in an interview with Flagpole magazine, he was drawn to the band principally because he thought they were "weird," and, besides, he wanted to come to Athens to party. So, regardless of whether their songs are any good (or can even be discerned from their performances), Dark Meat is given a free pass by many, who just like to see something "weird." At one point during their performance, the singer/mean waiter announced that the next song was "9 minutes long:" oh man, that's so wacky! I thought, sarcastically, to myself. With regard to the band's "ironic stance," by their sheer strangeness, they are able to shrug off any criticism by announcing a "bad on purpose" aesthetic. Upon reading an article like this, I can imagine one bandmate laughing out loud and nudging another, like "he says we're a 'terrible wall of sound,' fuck yeah!" High five!

Diplo, on the other hand, was something else. I saw him perform sometime back here in Atlanta (at MJQ maybe?), and, on that night, he completely rocked the crowd. Not only is he highly skilled in the technical aspects of transitioning from song to song, blending beats, etc., but he also has a great ear for choosing songs that move a crowd. He moves about very quickly on stage, from laptop to turntable to turntable to mixer, constantly adjusting the mix and preparing for the next move. Despite the intense energy of his physical movements, he maintains a calm, expressionless face, creating the impression of great and easy concentration as he seamlessly brings his high-energy, bass heavy sounds together. In that sense, Diplo is almost the polar opposite of Dark Meat: no gimmicks, a minimal stage presence, and a total reliance on the quality of the sounds, with no need to adopt any sort of ironic stance to dismiss criticism.

And, on a personal note, I have to admit, with some embarrassment, that Diplo strikes me as the coolest (and I don't mean "nicest," because, hell, I don't even know the guy) guy possible. His life of making dance music that people love, traveling the world to DJ at exotic clubs, collaborating with new and exciting artists, partying a lot, being very popular: is there any downside to this? This near James Bond lifestyle seems frighteningly perfect, and is probably the sort of thing that a lot of guys (especially guys) wish for their own lives. So maybe my views of these two acts are driven, in part, by my predisposal to identify with Diplo's image and sound, and my countervailing bad personal impression of the personalities and "philosophies" of the members of Dark Meat. "The personal is political," as they say, and I suppose that same concept holds true in terms of our artistic tastes.

Kicka the burger!

Glass half full

I've been frustrated lately as I've read comment after comment by Obama supporters who seem to have grown disillusioned with our candidate. Several recent statements by Obama have lead some to dismay that he is not the left-wing messiah they had hoped for. Namely, these concerns have involved his statements that he would be willing to "refine" his Iraq policy after speaking with the generals there, that he disagreed with the Supreme Court's recent decision barring the death penalty for child rapists, and that he would be willing to compromise on federal wiretapping legislation. (See, e.g. here, here, here, and here).

Gail Collins makes some great points in this recent Op-ed in the New York Times. Her basic point is that, since most of us supported Obama over Clinton for his willingness to seek political compromise and un-divide our politics, we shouldn't be shocked when he actually begins to compromise. We shouldn't be shocked that he doesn't stake his candidacy on arguing against the death penalty for child rapists. We should understand the wisdom of his position that he'll shape his Iraq policy based in part on his conversations with the generals who are actually in Iraq. What Obama promised us was competent, reasonable policy, not a left-wing revolution. To wit:

Think back. Why, exactly, did you prefer Obama over Hillary Clinton in the first
place? Their policies were almost identical — except his health care proposal
was more conservative. You liked Barack because you thought he could get us past
the old brain-dead politics, right? He talked — and talked and talked — about
how there were going to be no more red states and blue states, how he was going
to bring Americans together, including Republicans and Democrats.

Exactly where did everybody think this gathering was going to take place? Left field?

It seems that many on the left would rather have a political martyr than a Democratic president. They want Obama to stand up against all the wrongs of the right, even if it means risking the presidency and 4 more years of GOP rule. They forgot that Obama is no longer running simply for the Democratic nomination, but for president of the United States; the whole United States, and not just the northeast and the west coast. In a democracy, the greatest leaders are those who effectively represent the interests of the majority, while balancing those interests against his or her principles, our fundamental rights, and the need to protect minority interests. As private individuals, most of us can afford not to compromise, to stick to our views and adapt them to no one. But as a president, Obama would be charged with representing the will of a nation. Along with the privilege of leadership comes to obligation of service, the obligation to sacrifice part of your own will for that of the People. And I am confident that Obama will serve us all while leading the nation in a direction that is smarter, more compassionate, and more respectful of human and civil rights.

I hope that my fellow Obama supporters won't forget about the things that made them love our candidate in the first place: not his left-wing credentials, but his willingness to move our nation forward by making political compromises and executing policy in a competent, principled fashion. If we demand ideological purity among our leaders, we will likely never find one with whom we can be satisfied. Not in a democracy, at least.

The Cinematic Orchestra melts my face off

Now listening frequently to Cinematic Orchestra's 2002 release "Every Day," and it ranks among the very best things I've downloaded (legally, via eMusic, as is my habit as of late) in the past year. The album combines the rich textures and dynamic cadence of instrumental jazz, with the mathematical, mind-tricking perfection of electronic artists like Aphex Twin or DJ Spooky. Like Swedish samplers Koop, Cinematic Orchestra base their compositions around a series of loops from various jazz records. However, unlike Koop, whose pieces are based entirely (and brilliantly) on these samples, Cinematic Orchestra adds layer after layer of live, sometimes-improvised musicianship, creating a sound that is dynamic and unpredictable. It's the perfect answer both to those who find electronic music to be cold or inorganic, and to those who find jazz to be overly random and structure-less. This is one that I will turn to often for catherthis and inspiration.

Wanted and the new American hero

For phase 2 of our make-your-own 2-for-1 movie special, we saw the new Angelina Jolie action film, Wanted. I had read some pretty good reviews of the flick, and I'm sort of a sucker for the stylish super-hero genre, so I was game. Overall, I enjoyed the film.

The film's protagonist is a sallow, beaten-down accountant, who is miserable with his life. He hates his job, where he is constantly berated and belittled by his obnoxious, obese boss. He lives with his girlfriend, who cheats on him with his "best friend" and, like his boss, nags and belittles him constantly. He suffers from anxiety attacks, in which, under the stress of his various troubles, his heart begins to pound and his vision to blur, and he takes a regular regimen of prescription medications to deal with this problem. As the film presents this scenario, we hear the Nine Inch Nails classic "Every Day is Exactly the Same," which fits the theme of tedium and the overall tone of the film perfectly. (Honestly, my reintroduction to this song was one of the best things about watching this movie.)

Turns out, our protagonist is the son of one of the world's greatest assassins, but he never knew it, because his father had abandoned him in order to protect him from the life he had lead. His "panic attacks" are actually the result of an innate ability to channel enormous doses of adrenaline, allowing him to perform feats of super-human strength, speed, and focus. When a rival assassin tries to kill him, the secret team of killers of which his father was a part intervenes. They bring him to their fortress and train him in the arts of assassin-hood.

The initial crescendo of the film takes place after the protagonist, who initially resists his destiny, makes the decision to abandon the life that he so loathes and join the team of assassins. In a dramatic series of events, he stands up to the terrible boss, humiliating her in front of the rest of the office; he smashes the "best friend's" face with his ergonomic therapeutic keyboard; he releases a satisfied and relieved sigh as he hops into an exotic sports car with Angelina Jolie, as she whisks him away to the assassin's layer. While the remainder of the film is dedicated to his training in the ways of the assassin and various other plot elements, his escape from his mundane life sets the tone for the film. It encapsulates who he is as a hero, and defines why we, as an American audience, identify with him.

The tone of Wanted reflects a rising disdain among Americans for the trappings of contemporary life. The sources of our protagonist's patheticness--his meaningless corporate job, his emasculation, his dependence on prescription medication to control his emotions--are those that more and more Americans have come to experience and question. The rise in the use of computer and information technology has led more of us into jobs that require little more than sitting in a cubicle and typing data into a computer; more often than not, we have little to no individual stake in the work that we are doing. Spending our days engaged in such a sterile occupation, we lose our sexuality, or virility, our masculinity (and I use this term not in the sense of being male, but of being driven, virile, physical). We have come to resent the prescription medicines that we take to dull the sadness and the anxiety that our modern lives have hoisted upon us.

So our heroes are the ones who spit in the face of all of this. Like the protagonist in Wanted, we long to reclaim a destiny that we feel has been taken from us by these trappings. Perhaps the popularity of this film and others like it signals some backlash against corporatization, medicalization, and the repression of sexuality?

The powerful, compassionate advocacy of Wall-E

This weekend has been one of movie-watching in the Bagley household. The fact that I was able to catch two of the feature films on my to-see list had much to do with the lack of much security at Atlanta's movie theaters. If you notice, some kid (usually) checks your ticket as you enter the theater and directs you toward the appropriate screen. But these struggling theater companies can nary afford to pay someone to stand in the door of each individual screen, checking tickets. And the other employees, whose duties are limited to concession-stand operator and floor-sweeper, surely have no stake in whether people step into a movie for which they haven't payed. Plus, let's not forget that even white folks like myself, who are aware of white privilege and seek, politically at least, to blunt its effects, are the beneficiaries of the famous privilege and generally don't seek to avoid its perks: nobody is going to suspect a well-dressed couple of white yuppies of sneaking into Wall-E without paying, and, even if they did, they're not likely to confront us. So, we were able to see both Wanted and Wall-E. Both were good, but the latter was a stroke of genius.

My beef with previous Pixar efforts has been their noisy, garish quality, something that, for me at least, made Finding Nemo intolerable. I found that film to be far too frenetic in pace, every scene involving several characters frantically yelling at one another, while a shark or something else chased them around at very fast speeds. It was mentally exhausting and obnoxious. For this reason, I tend to avoid Pixar films (or any kid-targeted computer-animated feature), so, of course, I had no interest in Wall-E. Until, that is, I heard reports from numerous friends and acquaintances, each of whom I know to have discerning and mature tastes in both politics and arts, that Wall-E was very good. I was especially interested in the claim that the film served as an indictment of America's consumer culture. Surely these friends had overblown Wall-E's critical qualities, I thought. But I was taken aback both by the film's measured pace and pleasant aesthetic, and the brilliance (and compassion) of its commentary on American culture.

From an aesthetic standpoint, Wall-E's riskiest move--it's overall lack of speaking parts--was also its greatest asset. The filmmakers told the majority of the story in near pantomime (robots don't talk, naturally), allowing the action of the film and the expressiveness of the character's faces (while not talking, the robots do possess extremely expressive "faces" and make "sad" and "happy" drone-like noises) to guide the viewer through the narrative. The result is that the film avoids any risk of cheesy dialogue or the infinite pop-culture references that infect so many animated films (see Shrek). Plus, there is room for a scene like the beautiful "dance" between hero Wall-E and his sleek, iMac-inspired (so much for no pop culture references) love interest "Eva." In that scene, the two robots shoot through space in a mathematically perfect, choreographed routine, twisting and intertwining between one another, leaving traces of bright color behind them, forming intricate patterns against the black canvas of space. The two characters' "love" is expressed in colors and sounds and shapes, with no need for any extraneous, inevitably stilted, verbal expression. Plus, because the film doesn't need language to tell its story, there is little to no need for translation for foreign audiences.

The real brilliance of Wall-E, however, lies in the power and compassion of its environmentalist message. The film depicts a world some 800 years in the future, in which the earth has become so overcome with garbage as to be uninhabitable, and all remaining humans have left the planet by way of an enormous spaceship, where they are pampered (and controlled by) an automated team of robots. Humans are governed by the "global CEO" of a corporation called "Buy N' Large" (or "BNL," an obvious reference to the "big box" companies like Wal-Mart that control the supply of commodities to an ever-increasing number of Americans). The ship, called the "Axiom," has been in space for 700 years, and BNL's attempt to clean up the garbage with a group of trash-compacting robots (of which Wall-E is one) have failed. What was, ostensibly, intended to be a temporary vestige into space has become a permanent colony, earth's life-sustaining properties being entirely depleted. All of the humans now on the space craft have become enormously obese, spending their days on floating vehicles, chatting, surfing the web, and playing "virtual" sports, while eating "meals in a cup," supplied by BNL's team of robots.

While the film could have taken the opportunity to ridicule and point an accusing finger at the obese denizens of the Axiom, it instead looks to these individuals with compassion and a bit of sympathy. Most of them, by this point, are barely aware of their earthly origins, having known nothing but BNL and the sedentary, virtual existence of the Axiom their entire lives. There is one scene in which the film shows the ship's children being educated by a BNL robot, which teaches them lessons like "A is for Axiom, your wonderful home," "B is for BNL, the provider of your home," etc. At their core, these individuals have maintained a sense of human morals, as revealed by their physically pitiful attempt to help Wall-E to save a tiny plant that is the human race's last connection to the planet Earth. These fat, pathetic people aren't inherently wicked; rather, they are the descendants of those who made a terrible mistake, and it's not too late for them to learn from that mistake and create something new. In the film's finale, in which the ship's captain overcomes the artificial intelligence that forbids the ship from returning to Earth, and the humans return to their planet, newly aware of their corporate overlords and their obligation to start anew, we are left with a sense that, despite tremendous errors, we may yet redeem ourselves and thrive.

By painting the denizens of the Axiom in a compassionate light, Wall-E accomplishes the difficult goal of criticizing America's consumer culture without pointing an accusatory, isolating finger at those who have become that culture's most obvious indulgers. In this way, Wall-E paints a frank portrait of our culture's excesses, while adhering to the moral principle to treat all people, even those who we blame for our society's failings, with love and compassion. More importantly, perhaps, the film provides a rare opportunity for coalition-building, one in which those who have come to understand the nature of our biggest mistakes open their arms and embrace those whose ignorant has led them to become the biggest victims of those mistakes. It is messages like these that we most need to pull ourselves out of the burgeoning crisis of overconsumption and begin to work toward a healthier tomorrow.

The laughter disease

Of all the habits that I inherited from my father, among the worst is my tendency to laugh uncontrollably at the most inappropriate of moments. Most recently, the urge to laugh has struck me while at couple's therapy with my wife, when moments of "serious" "reflection" turn into moments in which I struggle vigorously (and largely unsuccessfully) against the urge to laugh or at least smile. In the moments in which we are supposed to be the most serious and the most stolid, my brain tells my body to laugh.

We recently tuned into an HBO tribute to George Carlin, where we saw a bit he did about class clowns. He commented that everything the class clown did was made doubly funny by the fact that he made his jokes in school, where we're all supposed to be on our very best behavior. The moments in which we are expected to be stolid are the moments most ripe for humor: the mere act of breaking the silence and interrupting with something "inappropriate" is funny in and of itself; the awkwardness, tension, and discomfort that arises from a moment of forced quiet begs to be interrupted with some rude noise, some out-of-place gesture to relieve us. It is a genetic weakness of mine that, in these moments, I feel the tension so intensely, and seek relief so desperately, that I cannot physically control the impulse to laugh.

My most egregious offense of inappropriate laughter came about a year and a half ago, at the funeral of a fairly distant relative. Because I was not very close to this particular relative, I was free from much of the grief that others in my family felt, and which would have probably prevented any less-than-serious sounds from exiting my mouth. But, things being the way they were, I sat close to the back of the room during the visitation and funeral, standing and shaking hands and giving hugs and expressions of sympathy when called for. Generic instrumental music played unobtrusively in the background: things like "Wind Beneath My Wings," presented by the Mannheim Steamroller.

The "service" began when a funeral home employee put in a cassette of a recording of a contemporary Christian tune called something like "You Rescue Me" or "You Lift Me Up," which was a tearjerking piece marked by three emotion-laden verses followed by three soaring, timpani-assisted crescendos leading into a near-operatic chorus. The idea was that we were meant to just sit quietly and listen to this song, allowing the tune to serve its function of bringing out the tears. And it really worked: there were people crying all over the place, including several who I'm pretty sure barely knew this relative. But it was, to me, a very awkward moment, because we were all expected to just suspend normalcy for a moment and become "lost" in this very over-the-top recording. For me to have followed queue would have been so out of character, and I felt like the same was true for many of the other people there.

I fought the urge for nervous laughter throughout this song, which seemed to last 10 minutes, but, as the third crescendo began to swell, I lost it. The laughter, like vomit, began to rise from my stomach and lungs, and there was nothing I could do to make it go away. A terrible, cough-like hack emerged from my mouth, as I shamefully and frantically lowered my face to look toward the floor, trying to suppress the flow of air and noise. I closed my mouth as tight as I could, as the remainder of the laugh trembled in my throat, registering as a strange, frenetic mumble that I hoped and prayed could be read as a muffled sob. But it was all very audible, and all very terrible

As the song ended, and the preacher began his words, I hung my head low to the ground, sure that someone close-by was feeling hurt and outrage over my insensitivity. I envisioned a terrible scene in which the widow interrupted the service by standing and pointing a gnarled finger of accusation and rage in my direction, screeching a "HOW DARE YOU!" as her horrified relatives tried desperately to console her, and the rest of the family noted to themselves to scratch my wife and I off the Christmas card list. But, in the end, nobody said anything, and I'm hoping it was because my noises were interpreted as sobbing, and not laughter. Although my wife insists that it would have been difficult to interpret my fairly clear laughter as anything but. Plus, it would have been strange for me, of all people, to have started to sob uncontrollably at the funeral for such a distant relative, and, to be honest, I'm a little embarrassed to think that anyone would have thought that that song threw me into such an out-of-character emotional frenzy. But hey, beggars can't be choosers.

Big law firms: the new high school (only worse)

In an earlier post about job-attaining strategies, I noted that many new lawyers, particularly those who went straight through from high school to college to law school, with no intervening occupation, have difficulty transitioning from the application-based model of academic admissions to the anarchic, laissez faire world of the job market.

This got me thinking about law firm recruiting practices, which, for very large firms, often involves partners from the firm coming to law schools to conduct on-campus interviews with the top-ranking students. All the students have to do, generally, is submit their resumes to the school's career services office, which, in turn, submits the resumes to the firms, which pick out who they want to interview. After an on-campus interview, a couple of firms will likely invite you, along with a number of your classmates, to come to their offices for more interviewing. They'll generally take you and your compatriots to a nice dinner and probably get you drunk. And then there is the formality of the summer associateship, where the firm hires you to sit in an office and pretend to work for two months in the summer, and they pay you a completely excessive salary and take you out to many lavish dinners, and, assuming you don't completely turn them off to your personality, they offer you a job at the end of the summer. This is the way these things go. If you've got the resume, the grades, and a reasonable amount of people skills, they'll basically hand you a job with a 6-figure salary.

The thing is, you really have no agency in any of this. They give you a lot of material things, without really requiring you to demonstrate any special skills or ambition, and, after the lavish parties are over and you've accepted a job, they sit you in a lonely office and bring you stacks of papers to read and review, hoping you'll spend at least two years of your life doing this. The partner for whom you work is likely bitter about the fact that you are being paid upwards of $150,000 during your first year out of law school, and, because he or she knows that you aren't actually worth what you're being paid, he or she will attempt to extract every possible drop of productivity from you. Some means of such extraction include harshly-worded, sarcastic instructions; demands that you work 14-hour days; and belittling comments intended to remind you that your work is presumed incompetent, absent compelling evidence to the contrary. Most likely, this partner experienced the same thing as a young associate, and, like the frat boy bent on revenging the humiliations he experienced as a freshman, this partner will likely subject you to the maximum possible abuse.

In essence, your boss will treat you like a child: an abused, underappreciated, unwanted child. And your social life, at least among your fellow associates, will also resemble your life as a child. During my own summer associateship at a big law firm, I observed the firm's associates (and a few of its partners), whose ages ranged from 28 to 40 years old, engage in a large amount of gossip, and from this gossip, I learned which associate had slept with which other associate, and who was cheating on their spouses. I witnessed the parties being planned amidst extensive discussions over which associate would be invited and which would not, the decision to exclude being based on rationales ranging from "he's weird" to "she slept with Bert, which is, like, so gross." And, at parties and firm dinners, many of the associates drank as if they would never get the chance to do so again, as if they had snuck out of their parents house and were getting as drunk as possible as an act of rebellion. These 30-something professionals seemed to spend most of their free time becoming ragingly drunk and making offensive comments.

And it should come as no surprise that these young professionals would revert to the social patterns on children: they were treated as children by their employers, subject to a strict set of rules and, in essence, kept in their offices until "playtime" at the sports bar. Very few associates had any agency in terms of bringing in clients, choosing what cases to work on, or forming strategies, as most of this was dictated from above. And many had never been on the job market or worked at any job at which they had some degree of autonomy, so most had never developed the sort of adult skills necessary to experience a mature work or social life.

And I would imagine that the partners, who sort of perpetuate this child-like existence, not only repeat the way they were treated as associates, but also replicate the way that they are treated by their large corporate clients. Despite the fact that a BigLaw attorney's salary is large relative to that of the average American, it is often dwarfed by the multi-million (and sometimes billion) dollar budgets of the corporations that employ them. Corporate executives demand a great deal of their lawyers, since they are paying them millions of dollars to sort out their legal issues, and since a lawyer's credo is intense loyalty to his client. The work of the BigLaw corporate lawyer is often less about formulating strategies and more about the tedious, never-ending work of drafting corporate documents and ensuring compliance with various regulations and contract obligations, the type of work that can be simultaneously mentally straining and mind-numbing. So the cycle of abusive-parent-to-downtrodden child starts at the top, and works its way down to you, the peon with a 6-figure salary and way more debt than you had meant to get yourself into.

So think twice about that "offer that you can't refuse." Remember that time is, more often than not, more valuable than money. And the satisfaction of becoming an adult and using your personal agency to make things happen in the world is, without a doubt, something that money can never buy.