Aspirations, sex dreams and my brain on Twitter

Resolved: celebrity crushes are for douchebags.

I am still subject to collecting them.

Allow me to spare myself the indignity of hyperlinking my many moonings over David Duchovny.

Here's the obvious thing about nursing sexual feelings about someone you will never meet: it's totally self-defeating if felt with any earnestness. These people are essentially inaccessible. The things we think we like about them may well be wholly fabricated by whatever publicity machines are operating around them. And, as I've argued before, actual sexual attraction cannot be gauged without a proper assessment of the pheremonal charge one picks up within physical proximity of any given lust object. Therefore, I fully admit that whatever steamy thoughts I may conjure up about a famous person are utterly pointless and based in idle self-illusioning--which I hope lets me off the hook, just a little bit, for the following indulgence in douchebaggery.

How's that for an apologist's disclaimer of an opening?

I follow all of two Hollywood types on Twitter. No, Duchovny's not one of them. There are two Twitter accounts attributed to him but neither appears to be all that authentic. Or interesting. Basically, because I only really care about language, sex, food and the continuation of human life on my planet, most of the people I follow are writers, eco-activists, sex-workers, or chefs (or some delicious mix-and-match combination of the four). But I do follow Diablo Cody. Her tweets sometimes make me snort green tea out my nose. She says cool shit about the confrontational quality of female nudity. And really, she kinda fits into both the sex-worker and the writer categories, so I figure can absolve myself of the usual celebrity sycophanticism (of which, apparently, I'm deeply concerned I'll be accused) on that one. The other one's Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

So, fine. I've been known to wax florid on a film or two of his (again, purposeful lack of hyperlinks here). I like to watch the kid. His intensity, his physicality, his offbeat charisma. I find him compelling. But I think I started following him because I was curious about the sort of hype (500) Days of Summer, which I saw last April at NaFF, would get. That's the thing about film fest fare--when you get to see something before everyone else does, and if it's any good at all, it's inevitable you'll take an interest in what becomes of it. But then, in following him, I discovered he's devised this little hitRECord.org website (Joe, help me out here. I don't understand the capitalization. As the stress in the word "record" is actually on the 2nd syllable, why highlight the first? Picky, picky, I know.), which appears to be a collaborative video remix forum. He links a lot of hitRECord-derived videos in his tweets--several of which have been worth the double-click. Fantastic, I thought. Non-boring celebrity tweets. What a boon! So I continued to follow.

And then he hits me up with this one:




All right, Joe. You got me.

It's like a missile to my ooey-gooey lit-nerd core. It could only have been made better if he'd been reading one of Jim's letters to Nora:

"My sweet little whorish Nora. I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck up in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes."*

As it stands, that video reminds me lot of that time I caught Mr. Duchovny casually dropping the word "gerundive" in an interview...and I had to change my panties. Is it really any wonder I've been having dreams of performing prolonged fellatio on this guy?

I've noticed that, much in the way that my sexual crushes and my creative crushes seem to have collapsed in on each other, Twitter owes part of its addictiveness to this collapsing of the distance between us and those whose talents we admire--this strange false intimacy. As such, Joe's thoughts enter mine in a couple 140-character bursts a day. And those bursts have reminded me of how much I loved his 2005 film, Mysterious Skin. And from there, I've been reminded of another sort of fantasy altogether--that one I used to have about becoming a doctor of pervertology. Or something.

Remember all those months ago when I swore up and down that taking my current job would grant me the leeway to go frolicking off in search of yet another useless graduate degree? Well. It seems I've gotten a little more invested in my job than I'd planned. It seems I've grown accustomed to actually seeing my friends in the evenings and having time to pick up my dry-cleaning. It seems I enjoy waking in daylight on weekends. And in a million other ways, life has interceded. But I continue to long for school. Sometimes now more than ever.

Over the course of the last three years writing this blog, a series of observations have coalesced into a couple of big questions. I still don't know what kind of program would have me (Critical film studies? Gender studies? Pop culture criticism? An amalgam?) but I have a hunch said questions would benefit from some academic structure. Here are the basics: in fictional reflections of our culture, non-compartmentalized sexuality, particularly if the sexuality in question belongs to someone female, is described as a threat to social order. As a result, it's often explained away by means of one of three causes--and have a cause, it must. In fiction, disruptive sexuality is rarely a naturally occurring phenomenon. Rather, a fictional slut has become a slut, not because s/he was born overtly sexual, but because either s/he is demonic, s/he suffers some sort of mental pathology, or s/he is a victim of abuse. And as the story goes, the slut either seeks a "cure" or is forced into one--and by "cure," I mean either (usually heternormative) monogamy or celibacy. And there it is: the pattern for which I've been looking-- a little one, a humble one--but a pattern nonetheless. The thing that intrigues me so about this pattern is that it really does seem rather divergent from the way I've experienced my own sexuality. Actually, it's divergent from the experiences of a lot of other sexually open people I know. So, the questions themselves. Why the disparity? Why are filmic depictions folks with fully integrated, big, showy, swaggering fuck-vibes so rarely positive? Why do we perceive sex as threatening in the first place? And so on.

So, because it's what good geeky girls do, I thought, why not turn that question into a scholarly inquiry? Oh, some day. Some day.

But here's where Mysterious Skin fits in. In many ways, this film relays a very conventional slut's narrative with the victim variant I mentioned above. An 8-year-old kid is molested by a man he worships. He grows up to become a rent boy, furiously seeking to replicate the feelings that early experience drummed up in him--feelings he names "love." And then, literally and figuratively, he gets beaten down--punished for his slutty transgressions. On the surface, the character of Neil McCormick, as embodied with so much slit-eyed heat by our Joe, isn't really all that different from, say, Rae in Black Snake Moan. She too was molested as a kid. She too develops an itch. And she too gets smacked into unconsciousness for it.

Now, it's no secret that I love Black Snake Moan for being the flawed disaster that it is. It really is a mess. I suppose I value it most for the way it adheres so slavishly to the model I described two paragraphs ago. Black Snake Moan tells a fallen girl's tale so very straightforwardly, stopping obligatorily to suggest Rae's childhood molestation before depositing her safely into her monogamous hetero marriage, that it veritably points out its own ridiculousness in the doing. The film is, after all, not much more than a fantasy of a sexed-up white trash American South that never was. It's perfect. Bless it's sweaty, bruisy, spermy little Southern heart.

But Mysterious Skin is just that much more sophisticated. For all the ways that it plays by the rules, as determined by the pattern I've been chasing, it breaks just as many. And what I really love about it is that the rules it breaks have very little to do with gender roles, despite Neil's maleness and his queerness. Actually, the film's casual handling of Neil's queerness makes it, in essence, incidental.

Rather, he is subject to many of the usual vulnerabilities visited upon slutty women. Being a lithe young kid, physical debasement is a particular occupational hazard for him. And though he is described as having "a black hole where his heart should be" (or something like that--I don't have the exact quotation), he seeks love through sex-- a thing folks like Oprah try to tell us is behavior typical of women. It's not, of course, but my point here is that within the construct of what I'm calling the slut narrative-- a species of story usually populated with women--Neil ain't special because he's a boy. His psychological motivations seem very much aligned with your garden variety contemporary fictional construct of the harlot. (Incidentally, that boy-seeking-love thing is most of why there's so much fuss being made over the (tres debatable) "reversal of gender roles" in (500) Days as well. That makes me giggle because, last I checked, being a fool for love isn't gendered behavior. Regardless, I continue to find it rather satisfying when it just happens to be a cute boy dipping toes into this gender-role-discussion bath. In more than one film, even!)

So, no, at first glance, Neil isn't a terribly anomalous character. However, this film takes a very notable risk--a risk that knocks it slightly asunder in relation to that pattern upon which I'm harping. Namely, it presents Neil's disruptive sexuality as a thing that precedes his abuse. I know. It seems small. Except that in a culture in which prepubescent children are generally ascribed a pointed asexuality, positing lusty thoughts in the head of an 8-year-old kid drastically complicates the hustler-as-victim paradigm. Can I just shorthand the pretentious Foucault reference here? I mean, here we are, 30-some-odd years after The History of Sexuality: Volume I was first published in French, and still, a large portion of the energy Western culture directs at this thing we call child-rearing is focused on negating innate sexuality in our children, and claiming said sexuality doesn't exist. But it does exist. So when a a very young child in a film describes jerking off to orgasm and being "sledgehammered" by desire, it's noteworthy. And more than that, it takes the story arc out of the realm of the conventional whore's tale.

Personally, I happen to think this little facet of Neil's character goes a long way to lend this film a particular authenticity. I mean, long before I ever read Foucault, I knew in my, er, heart that fucklust precedes the acquisition of secondary sexual characteristics. I was born with basically all the same nerve endings I've got now-- and, as I may have mentioned in previous posts, I figured out what all those nerves endings do pretty early on. Which was kind of awesome. Getting busted by a fellow kindergartner? Not as awesome.

So, right. My point here is that if we understand Neil's seemingly precocious sexual awareness exists prior to his being molested, even in an unformed way, it becomes much more difficult to view Neil as an unadulterated, agency-free victim. I know that idea could be touchy but bear with me. Neil's desire for his baseball coach doesn't, by any means, absolve the adult coach his transgressions against a little kid--a kid utterly lacking in adult perspective, self-preservation instinct and aplomb. But it does mess with the head of the viewer just enough for for a niggling little thought to wedge its way in: just how does a kid's willing participation affect the dynamic between victim and victimizer?

Oh, I know. That thought is an unnerving one that confounds the conventional wisdom regarding these sorts of encounters. It's one few of us particularly want to dwell upon. The notion that grown-ups shouldn't touch the sensitive parts of children is a wholly nonpartisan--and sacred--concept in our culture. Within the landscape of a film, to make an infraction against that concept is to jeopardize an audience's loyalty in a very serious way. But the fact that Neil's ostensible collusion in his coach's desire does indeed squirm its way into this film, without actually exculpating the coach character, is truly what makes its narrative feel both a little dangerous and uniquely challenging. Those two descriptors constitute just about the highest compliments I'll ever pay a movie.

That said, the film itself even looks for ways to undermine the implications that Neil's childish, yet clearly sexual, desires cast upon it. One could point to the character of his mother, for instance. She keeps porn under her bed (bonus points for her, by the way--a woman who likes porn? In a film not so terribly far from the proverbial main stream? How often do you see that?), she doesn't hide her own sexual shenanigans from her kid, and she seems generally oblivious to Neil's teenage tricking on the edge of the playground. Some might call her "negligent." Some might say she "sexualized Neil too young." Well? Meh. I don't buy that argument. I tend to think it draws upon some class-ist rhetoric, actually. She is a blue-collar single mom with resources simply too limited to allow her the luxury of the perpetual child-monitoring that we like to call "good parenting"--which isn't to suggest that she isn't something of a mess herself. But she is, as they say, doing the best she can.

And, yes, the film does go on to imply that every last bit of the blame for Neil's career trajectory into professional cock-jockeying lies with the attentions of his once-beloved coach, rather than with... I don't know...Neil's own jubilant lustiness and generous desire to service the world, one blowjob at a time, with only paltry remunerations as his reward. Now, don't get me wrong--I don't begrudge this movie its portrayal of sex work as degrading. An awful lot of it is degrading. It's not like I'm gonna try to deny that. It's more that, when looking at cultural representations of whorishness through a wider lens, there are so blasted few of them that consider sex work as something other than an act of desperation. I've used the following quotation from debauchette's blog before, and again, it seems apt here:

"This is where the press consistently gets it wrong: they suggest that all sex work is oppressive and dehumanizing, when it isn’t. Dehumanizing sex work is dehumanizing, just as any work that treats human beings as automata is going to be dehumanizing. Or they suggest it’s empowering, which it can be, but only empowering sex work is empowering. There’s tremendous range. And within that range, it’s easy to feel valued only for your sexuality, as if you have nothing else to offer the world. But then, that’s not limited to sex work alone."

Well, someday that perspective will get some screen time. Some day. Maybe. Right?

Fuck me. I miss school.

Anyway.

It comes to this:

"I've played the smart kid, the funny one, the nice sweet one, even the angry one, but never the sexy one."

A while back, I randomly found that little nugget on IMDb, which attributes it to none other than Joe. That's right. He once said he'd never played sexy. Now, who knows when he said it--if it was before or after Mysterious Skin. Clearly, it's hopelessly marooned sans any semblance of context. But, Joe! Seriously? What the crap? Surely you know it's not the part. It's the human energy in the part. You simply can't actualize a haunted teenage prostitute without tapping into some kinda fuck-vibe. It's there. It's in some of those smart, funny, sweet and angry kids too. It's innate. It's what it is. If it weren't there, you probably wouldn't be populating the wet dreams of women who don't know you. Just sayin'.



*It should be noted that I bought my used copy of the 1976 Ellmann-edited Selected Letters of James Joyce with the spine already broken. It naturally falls open to the filthiest of Joyce's erotic letters. It seems some perv before me also bought this book with prior knowledge of its unique contents.

Me & Jon & the romantic comedy

A couple of years ago, I put up a rare post containing one of my own poems. It contains the line, "I find it humbling that I'm the same dumb fool for love I was 10 years ago." That might be the most unmitigated moment of autobiography I've ever included in a poem. And my poems tend to be not much more than heavily coded navel-gazing. So maybe it's merely the least obfuscating line of autobiography I've ever written.

Most of the time, I feel like I've pitched my emotional pup-tent somewhere approaching the more neurotic end of the self-awareness spectrum. Like anyone, I miss stuff and feel side-swiped when someone makes an astute observation of me that I did not anticipate. But I suppose I feel so knocked asunder by those observations because it's my own lack of anticipation itself that is rare. So, because I plumb my own psychic depths with some regularity, you'd think I'd have an easier time breaking problematic behavior patterns than some folks who can't or choose not to even see their own metronomic zigs and zags. But this is not the case. In other words, I find it humbling that I'm the same dumb fool for love I always was and probably always will be. I also find it comically ironic that I consider my snarky, bitchy, irreverent self to be no kinda romantic.

Last night, Jon and I went to go see 500 Days of Summer on opening night of The Nashville Film Festival. This little movie's going to have a smallish roll-out in July and, if it catches on, it may well pick up a wider distribution. And it might well catch on. It's a tilted, wistful romantic comedy of the Garden State/The Last Kiss/Wristcutters ilk. It's the sort of film for which I can't really help but begrudgingly offer up my affection, despite my knee-jerk dismissal of its genre. It has a happy-ish ending that still allows for more romantic strife in the offing. It has a skinny, brown-haired, unconventionally sexy male lead who can play soulful without coming off as effete (A Frankenstein's monster made from Zach Braff, Patrick Fugit and Joseph Gordon-Levitt parts would probably be not all that far off from adolescent me's masturbatory fantasy of all that is desirable in a boy.) And it has the overall tone of a Matthea Harvey poem: amused despair at the human condition. I don't know. Something in that salmagundi is what makes a romantic comedy palatable in my estimation. And so, I pretty much hearted this movie in spite of my much-cultivated scoffing cynicism.

Admittedly, it's Gordon-Levitt who works me over for everything I'm worth, in this movie, as in all others. Whether he's fucking a john up the ass as a rent boy in (the near-flawless) Mysterious Skin or slurring through his luscious drunken squint to give us a karaoke rendition of "Here Comes Your Man," (a song that pulled me from the depths of many a funk my senior year in high school) he inspires more affection in me than I knew I could have for a total stranger. I think it's his deep-down command of his physical instrument that I find so compelling. Few men as young as he (seemingly instinctively) understand their own bodily rhythms so well as to be able to shape them to each character's specifications without losing that great settled-into-the-bones aspect of real man. 500 Days in particular really does make the most of this gift. Oh, yes, we are treated to a tonally spot-on "I just got laid" choreographed dance sequence. Not since Ferris Bueller has such an ebullient expression of a character's physicality worked so well. Because sometimes it really is okay, even necessary, to let your movie indulge in that sort of celebration, even if you are a "serious actor."

However, what is truly noteworthy about this cute little film (and it is cute-- whether you interpret that word to mean something complimentary or derogatory) is that it seems to have found a wormhole in the art of making a narrative character arc. It's plot, according to the tagline, is this: "Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love. Girl doesn't." But that's only the half of it. It's more like: "Boy meets girl. Boy projects soulmate fantasy onto girl. Girl knows better. Boy gets heart broken. Boy suffers. Boy gets drunk. Boy makes an ass of himself. Boy quits his futureless job. Boy refuses to give up hope in spite of girl's straightforward rejection. Boy malingers. Boy begins to heal. Boy hits on new girl. Boy projects soulmate fantasy onto new girl. Boy hasn't learned a damn thing." In landing Tom, Gordon-Levitt's character, squarely back where he started, the film does something really fairly unusual. It shows us an example of such a deeply ingrained, problematic behavior pattern that does not get resolved and yet this ending is no less satisfying for doing so. In fact, it contains the thing that is absent from virtually every happily-ever-after ending: an acknowledgment that even the smartest, most self-aware folks are pretty much resigned to being the same dumb fools for love they always were forever after. In terms of genre conventions, this ending is notable because, really, it subverts the usual model in which the hero learns, grows and changes via the vehicle of plot-driven conflict. In terms of being a reflection of the human experience, this ending most certainly feels like home, if your home was a stylized land, populated with people wearing nostalgic Doris Day dresses and in which you get to make out on the model beds in IKEA, that is.

So, watching this movie with Jon was a complicated experience. Jon and I have had a rough year in the history of us. Last year at this time, I was dating someone and trying to forge a distance from Jon and this year, he's doing the same to me. Which isn't to say that I'm not dating anyone this year-- it's just that trying to keep him at bay was so harrowing that I figured I'd be better served henceforth by keeping a slot open for him on my dance card. A late-in-the-evening, hair-unfurled, heels-kicked-to-the-sidelines slot, but a slot nonetheless

And, nonetheless, we rail against each other and we cling to each other. This jackass (a term of endearment. I think.) has been my closest friend for the last 5 years. However, we did not speak, email, text or gchat for nearly three months in the very recent past. And until Thursday night, we had not set eyes on each other even once since last April's film festival. (Ahem. Unless you count a couple Skype-related indiscretions, that is. *cough* Skype is evil.) Simply put, we are not a couple. We've never been a couple. We could never be a couple. And yet we cleave to each other through petty argument after petty argument, through other lovers, through senseless beat-your-head-against-a-wall frustration that we simply do not process emotional information in similar ways. And the unspent sexual component hangs heavy between us. Yeah, surprise. There's that.

So, upon our first in-person meeting in a year, we went to see a sweet romantic comedy about unbreakable behavioral patterns. Our conversation afterwards was tense and a more than a little mournful. We both know we can no longer reach the level of intimate connection with each other that we've come to depend upon and yet we are utterly flummoxed in trying to delineate the parameters of how our friendship will continue from here on out-- if it will continue at all. Our post-movie conversation also had an ironic twinge that did not go without notice: hilariously, we both identified, to a certain degree, with Tom, with regard to each other. At different moments, I think, either one or the other of us has been the willing supplicant, wishing the other would just go ahead and fall in love already. At the same time, though, we've both always been aware of a element of wrongness about our closeness. We pick at each other too much. We are too quick to find ourselves annoyed with the other. We lug a list of past slights and fights into each new skirmish. There is some underlying fundamental level on which we just don't get each other. We know this. We've exhausted our capacity to discuss it, rationally and irrationally.

So, why, then, can we not just knock each others' names off that damn dance card? Why can't two not-idiotic, thoughtful (if neurotic) people jump off this Ferris wheel of relatively self-defeating patterned behavior? Because we're the same dumb fools for love we were five years ago, that's why.

Learning the lesson that identifies your foibles is one thing. Deciding whether to embrace those foibles or eradicate them is something different. Completely. So then, it is, no doubt, that moment at the end of 500 Days, when the decision washes over Tom's ever-expressive face, his choice to own his peccadilloes rather than transcend them is what earns him, as a character in a completely not-earth-shattering movie, my respect. To do otherwise would be swimming upstream. Or so I tell myself.

N.B. Sorry, Jon, for airing dirty laundry. Please don't kick my ass.