digital zombies

During an ad-break for VideoHits last week my friend Adrian and I, both very hung over from the night before encountered a chocolate bar commercial endorsed by someone I would consider to be one of the twentieth century’s most iconic celebrities. Nothing out of the ordinary there I hear you say except, that is for the fact that this particular celebrity is dead and has been dead for over thirty years. The advertisement in question for Mars Bars included the footage of a late Bruce Lee, shirtless and skin glistening in sweat at his peak physical prime and utilising the latest in computer imaging like techno voodoo has the dead kung fu master with his lightening fast reflexes eat one of their chocolate bars with their chocolate-malt nougat centre, covered in a layer of caramel and coated in milk chocolate… I was livid and quickly lept to my feet in indignation.

To many of us the idea that we will be remembered after we die holds a central part to our spiritual lives, our motivation to procreate and get up in the morning, hell the ancient Egyptians believed that if people forgot who you were after death you would suffer a second one. But no need to worry, that is providing your name keeps getting mentioned, allowing you to party in the afterlife to you ba's content and similarly celebrity status holds a key to immortality. Think Mozart, Shakespeare and Leonardo Da Vinci and you have a few members of what could be classically termed immortals. Now Bruce Lee is just a modern day entrant and he's not the only one. Indeed celebrity status met dizzying new heights in the twentieth century and for some being dead was an excellent career move, in 2004 Forbes Magazine published a list of the world’s top ten earning dead celebrities to which unsurprisingly Elvis Presley took top billing and it can be argued that, and I will attempt to minimise the schmaltz, that the use of their images, music, artwork etc with all the cash that come from it functions in keeping their memories alive (so to speak). And fair enough. Concord Moon LP, a company owned by Linda Lee Cadwell and Shannon Lee Keasler (wife and daughter of Bruce Lee) hold the name and likeness rights for Bruce Lee and through the non-profit organization The Bruce Lee Foundation has this stated intention. The foundation’s mission statement says that they intend to “enrich lives, open minds and break down barriers through the active proliferation of Bruce Lee’s legacy of undaunted optimism in the face of adversity, unwavering humanism, mental and physical perseverance, and inspirational presence of mind toward the betterment of our global community.” This apparently involves selling chocolate bars and whether the man in question would have objected or seen this as furthering his legacy I am not in a position to answer however it opens an ethical question as to whether the images of the dead should be sold and leached off to build a company’s brand identity or shift units especially when a company’s philosophy or product is seemingly incompatible with the person or the lives that they led.

A perfect example is the Street’s Magnum Swinging 60s promotion that my friend pointed out to me there in my living room mid rant, where Streets introduced nine new Magnum flavours, all with a 1960s theme, among them were Jami Hendrix, Woodchoc, John Lemon and Cherry Guevara. Now I could understand an Andy Warhol flavour (suggestions?) but what exactly is it about the lives of John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix or god forbid Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara that lends their posthumous support for tackily themed ice creams?

With the maturing of digital imaging technology and techniques in what I feel is becoming close to a virtual necromancy, where it is increasingly possible to have the dead talk and act as though they were still among the living. A situation where the dead are forced against their will, ripped from their peace to sell sell sell products and promote brands incongruent with the lives they lived: at the best distasteful and on the other extreme a form of electronic purgatory. Surely it would be more appropriate to attach the strings to those monsters of history like Hitler, Stalin and maybe Idi Amin and have them dance and make fools of themselves or maybe even have them apologise for all the wrongs they’ve done but then there’s no money in that, no parasitic brand can leach their je ne sais quoi and synergise.

Also:

Dan Glaister, Dead stars who rain money on the living. The Guardian 9 April 2005.

my last two dollar coin

I spend my lunch breaks alone and while I know this sounds awfully anti social well that's me I suppose, but really I just like to wander the city streets listening to my ipod thinking and humming to myself and am happy not to be bothered. And yesterday while doing this, standing at the lights near parliament waiting to cross I saw one of those AIDS trust fundraisers across the road just waiting there wanting to make me feel guilty for just passing by, looking all innocent and goodly made me rush rationalise why I wasn't going to drop a coin into her bucket. Look I give to them here and there, I even volunteer goddamn it and I mean solidarity and all but when you reduce it down to its basics I just don't know anyone who's positive and while that's not the limits of my generosity it is a deciding factor when handing over my last two dollar coin.

It was just then that an African couple, possibly Sudanese thinking I recognised the lady from Footscray, with their little boy approached the AIDS fundraiser in her plastic bib, the man stumbling around in his pockets for change as the pedestrian light went green playing some salsa hit by Ismael Rivera from the 1950s. The man took his son by the hand to cross, turning seemingly annoyed that his wife wasn't with him only to then smile with broad enthusiasm when he saw that she was hanging back rummaging through her purse for more change.

I don't mean to comment here on their financial situation even if it is true that many African migrants, especially those from places like Sudan are here in Australia because they have experienced extreme deprivation of their human rights but merely to say that I saw in a short seconds glance that to some people the statistics that I read about on BBC world are really a part of a plague that is of an irreducible immensity and even here in Melbourne on this sad cold and wet thursday of a horrible immediacy.

Regardless of all this and the fact that all I had to do was just get more money out of the wall I still didn't give up my last two dollar coin.

memed in

Thanks goes to Richard for the tag. The game's rules are this:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4 sentences along with these instructions.
5. Don’t you dare dig for that “cool” or “intellectual” book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

Now technically the closest book was El Principito, a spanish translation of that french classic Le Petit Prince (The Little Prince) by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, however as there was no page 123 I had to therefore settle for the book underneath it, the controversial Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie.

Here we go:

'It was the Devil,' he says aloud to the empty air, making it true by giving it voice. 'The last time it was Shaitan.' This is what he has heard in his listening, that he has been tricked, that the Devil came to him in the guise of the archangel, so that the verses he memorized, the ones he recited in the poetry tent, were not the real thing but its diabolic opposite, not godly, but satanic. He returns to the city as quickly as he can, to expunge the foul verses that reek of brimstone and sulphur, to strike them from the record for ever and ever, so that they will survive in just one or two unreliable collections of old traditions and orthodox interpreters will try and unwrite their story, but Gibreel, hovering-watching from his highest camera angle, knows one small detail, just one tiny thing that's a bit of a problem here, namely that it was me both times, baba, me first and second also me.

midwinta protest

I went to that midwinta protest outside the VIC-state parliament on Sunday with a friend from work; we'd decided to add our shiney faces to the crowd demanding some public and legal recognition of our relationships should either of us ever find ourselves in one. It was my friend's first protest and well .... I'd been to a few here and there but nonetheless there were some first times there for me as well, such as the sight of a rather hansome hombre signing (AUSLAN) with a lisp and all those miniture purebreed such-and-such yap-yaps that only homos would think to bring to a political action. The crowd was bigger than I thought it would be with theage.com citing over 2,000 awashed in red, balloons and clothing. I wore red boxer-briefs beneath but kept this fact to myself.

On Wednesday last week in my lunch half-hour I'd walked past an anti-abortion protest on the steps on parliament and the day before that a freedom of speech protest that was nothing but a cover for various right-wing church groups who were fighting for the right to slander muslims. I stood there on Sunday, sun bright and sky cerulean with a satisfied grin on my face that our protest outnumbered theirs combined and then some. I was particularly moved by one minister who spoke on behalf of those christians who took Jesus' message about inclusion to heart, inviting gay men and women (single and in union) into the fold. It was nice to see the words of hate and exclusion and their adherents were down in the stats for once.

Labour and Liberal representatives were there and they skipped oh so merrily around the issues, voicing their support with one hand for the removal of discrimitory legislation but conveniently omitting the fact that both their parties oppose any formal recognition of same-sex unions: anything that resembles an adam and eve not adam and steve. The Greens were unequivocal and the Democrats took the middle ground.... but were we all there? There was something or someone missing... maybe?

Maybe it was the more outlandish among us, who were coming down from their saturday night... the drag queens were all sleepy heads in bed leaving it to the socialists, the red block to lead us into what was a very convoluted chant. Now don't get me wrong I like socialists, in fact I have my little secret activist boy fantasy but sometimes I feel as though they think the year is 1968. Let say they lack the pizzazz, the kitch, the glitter, and glam that I felt we needed as we walked into swanston street gawked at by so many happy snappy tourists.

Well... that said. Canada, the UK and various EU states have enshrined same-sex relationships on their books, are we so backward? If not now then when and will I have a boyfriend? I ask you.

i hugged a heater for warmth and got burnt

I am on my third set of pain killers today and my head just won't quit from hurting. I think it has something to do with the wisdom tooth that's pushing through the gum way back there in my food hole. Every year it does this... well at least the last three and reliable as ol' faithful, I say, come winter my mouth begins to swell and I start chewing check. But then as I get round to making an appointment with the dentist the pain dissipates and the inflammation goes down and I am made the fool and feel the hypochondriac.

the writing on the wall

"The lamb's teeth will be sharpened"

- scrawled on a rotting fence just east of Christchurch (city of churches), New Zealand circa 2004.

jogging on

My shorts are too short and tight I think to myself as I attempt to keep some semblance of pace as I jog around princes park. I hear the shocked and amused thoughts of those I pass in my head; the paranoid psychotic voices are always hard to filter out even when I am exercising but then again where else to go but inward. Strange weird swirly visual effect.

I find myself dwelling on a conversation I had with a friend of a friend last week at some homo party held regularly under inflation nightclub in geddes lane in the city. I sip on my vodka lemon/lime spritz spouting my usual crap, nonsense that comes out whenever I am nervous... which is most of the time. Imagine standing on the Bolivian plains of El Salar de Uyuni (something I hope to see next year) the world's biggest salt lake wearing pitchblack motorcycle goggles, the kind Tom Waits would be proud to wear... stillness and blinding light reflecting on the pure white lake contrasted by a deep breath of blue sky above. I say if only I could find the optometrist crazy enough (oh my, my poor myopic eyes) , say with the vision to undertake my patronage. Turning to me he grins in his sheepish way and without detectable venom "did you realise I stopped paying attention about five minutes ago." I am taken aback. Fuck you too I think and shut my mouth.

Disolve to a small cafe, a scene in which I sit with my soy latte retelling this to a friend; still a little put out by it all. His eyes light up, incredulous that someone had sought to shoot me down about this and we build together on my little fantasy stimulated by caffiene and we both dream of mad optometrists in lab coats surrounded by diodes as lightening flashes through tubes above.

My foot lands in a puddle on the path and mud splashes up my leg but I keep jogging.