"Recep Tayyip Erdoğan." is a twerp.
There. I've done it. I could be arrested in Turkey now. I must never try and enter the place. In Turkey it is illegal to insult the president (translation: criticize his government), and it fully expects other governments to enforce this law in their own countries as well - as Germany was recently quite happy to do. Let's hope my government has more guts than Germany's.
Now, Turkey has seen fit to detain foreign journalists as well as her own, as Dutch writer Ebru Umar has learned.
Tin-pot dictatorships detaining journalists is nothing new. What's galling about this case is that until recently Turkey claimed to be a democracy, and presumed for herself a place among civilized nations. It's depressing to see such places sink backwards, and depressing to see no one in power calling her out on her bullshit. According to the above article, more than 1800 cases have been prosecuted in Turkey since 2014, and more than a hundred journalists imprisoned. Umar isn't the first Duch Woman to be arrested either: they nabbed Frederike Geerdink last year.
Think about this next time you open up your local tabloid and see a grotesquely offensive caricature of your Prime Minister or President in the editorial cartoon. In many parts of the world publishing cartoons is a criminal offense. The ability to publish such cartoons is a very simple acid test of the health of a democracy. Those who would tamper with such rights are beneath contempt.
So yeah, Erdogan is a petty tyrant, a tin-pot dictator, a twerp, a scoundrel, an all around asshole. It needs to be said; stopping people from saying it doesn't make it any less true.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Friday, April 15, 2016
With Tongue Firmly Bursting from Cheek: Thoughts on Kiss.
Finding myself in a record store with a coupon felt a lot
like it used to feel when my grandparents gave me a small paper bag, said “take
what you want” and let me loose in their general store. Under such conditions,
I acquired my very first Kiss record. As it was only four dollars, and someone
else’s four dollars to boot, I figured “why not?”.
Yet for all that, it’s catchy as hell. The secret weapon
here is of course Ace Frehely, who, if no Blackmore or Iommi, manages to infuse
even the lamest choruses with flare and groove.
I confess, I’ve always liked Paul Stanley’s singing, and ringmaster Gene
Simmons keeps it all anchored together. The formula works. I suspect Master
Simmons realized early on that whatever else he had planned for this
mega-venture called Kiss, the whole project would be dead in the water if they
couldn’t write songs people wanted to hear.
I was particularly interested in the production by Eddie
Kramer. It’s bass heavy, and muffled. It sounds like the band is performing in
your living room, and I can’t help picturing them recording in a studio with a
shag carpet. Now, I have no idea if Record Plant Studios actually has shag
carpet in their recording rooms, but that’s what it feels like. There is
something there absorbing the echoes. Compare that with the approach that would
become fashionable in the eighties, when every band on the planet, Kiss
included, apparently lost their bass player and took to recording in a tin-can[2].
For me, it’s all very evocative of an era – the Seventies –
which I directly experienced, but got all its detritus growing up. Re-runs,
film strips, fashions and furniture my folks hadn’t gotten rid of, movies that
were still pretty recent and songs that weren’t yet that old. It takes
no great leap of the imagination to place my pre-adolescence a little bit
earlier than it actually happened. (Okay, a full decade earlier, but bear with
me).
Picture if you will, a nerdy teenager in the Seventies,
living in a room stacked high with comic books and Kenner
action figures, and recent memories of Hannah Barbara. Chemicals are raging
inside, but you’re not sure where they fit in your current world. You find four
spandex-clad masked superheroes singing what you’re thinking, and BOOM –
lifelong Kiss fan is born.
(Why mention Hannah Barbara? Evocative of the era. And those
cartoons were no-less fantastical than the Don Juan world of Kiss. It’s
entirely appropriate that Hanna Barbara produced Kiss meet the Phantom in
the Park; it shouldn’t surprise anyone that Kiss coexists in the same world
as Scooby-Doo).
Of course, this little counter-factual thought experiment
only goes so far. I actually was a nerdy teenager in a room full of
comic books and Kenner action figures,
with recent memories of Hannah Barbara, and Star Wars and Dungeons and Dragons
and every other badge of nerd-dom imaginable, and I never got into Kiss. I was
fascinated by their imagery, but was deeply disappointed to hear how much they
sounded like frat-boys. I mean, how could you dress like a demon and never sing
about demons? Where were the swords? The Space-ships? The Conan-themed concept
albums? Maybe it was the Catholic
abstinence-only education, but I was weary of anything overtly sexual back then,
and couldn’t relate to party-bands (mainly ‘cause I didn’t get invited to those
kind of parties). Hormones could be channelled into pulp fiction and dime
novels, but rarely openly confronted or declared. More importantly, the music itself, mid-paced
rock songs, seemed kind of well, sedate to a kid who’d already
discovered Black Sabbath. (And Rush ruined just about every other band).
But. . .remember, we’re evoking the era. The year is 1976,
and Rock and Roll Over is Kiss’s fifth studio album. Heavy Metal is a very new, loosely defined thing with only a few practitioners (and more than a few who no longer fit the bill today). There is no thrash
Metal, no symphonic Power Metal, no Death Metal, Bay Area and Gothenburg are just points on a map, and Norway
exports nothing but peat moss. The world has yet to discover Sad Wings of
Destiny, or 2112[3]. Heck, Star Wars hasn’t even come out
yet! We are not yet spoiled by the embarrassment of sonic riches yet to come,
and the pickings are slim. Into this world parachutes Kiss. . .
Consider
also, that Kiss were never about the records. Picture if you will, the live
show, all explosions and spotlights, a choreographed spectacle which no one
else at the time was doing, at least on nothing near the same scale. I can’t
help but admire anyone who takes theatre seriously. I’ve been to hundreds of
shows and am constantly dismayed by how many “performers” can’t respect the
science of the stage – looking bored, showing up drunk, opening with slow
songs, mumbling to the crowd. . . While the punks may bristle at the blatant
capitalism of it all, there comes with it both professionalism and
craftsmanship – ticket buying fans are guaranteed to get what they pay for. Compare
this with the contempt artistes like Zepplin or G’n’R often showed to common
folk who actually had to work for a living. . .
Back to our fifteen year old. Martin Popoff formulated it
thus: kid is enraptured by Kiss show, picks up guitar, learns a few Kiss songs,
finds they’re not that hard and soon surpasses Frehely. By the time he’s twenty
five, he’s guitar wizard in his own right, has his own band, and BOOM: the year
is 1986, and there are Metal bands everywhere.
Everyone from Anthrax to Zombie cite Kiss as an influence.
It’s not really there in the songs – would you have guessed Thomas Quorthon was
a huge Kiss fan? (Or Garth Brooks for that matter?). But the performance
aesthetic – knees bent, shoulder width apart, rictus-grin, tongue like thrust out like a whale-harpoon, chrome, steel
and leather[4] - that’s all Kiss[5]. That, and the lust for glory, to stand on
stage and command an audience. More inspiration than influence, their impact
has been huge. They’re not really a band, but an idealization of what a band
should be like.
Besides, how could anyone not like “Rock and Roll all Nite”?
[1] I swear “Love ‘em, Leave
‘em” sounds a lot like “Normal People”, which is probably the very last thing
this band would ever sing about.
[2] Judas Priest were the
worst offenders. Ian Hill was still in the band pics but you’d be hard-pressed
to hear him anywhwere.
[3] Alright, released the same
year, but the first real statements by either outfit. Consider the era Up
Until Then.
[4] Priest played their part
here.
[5] Though Gene Simmons did not
invent the Malocchio.
The Turkey rules the Roost: How Recep Erdogan came run things in Germany
So. . .
Having destroyed freedom
of speech in Turkey Germany
According to the Guardian It started when a comedian
named Jan Böhmermann read out a less than flattering poem about Erdogan on
German television. The legendarily thin-skinned Erdogan went crying to Angela
Merkel, demanding Bohmermann be prosecuted. After which Merkel, as leader of
one of the world’s strongest democracies, told Erdogan in uncertain terms to
screw off, right?
Right?
No actually. She frumped disapprovingly over this “deliberately
offensive text”, which is only to be expected in diplomatic circles. After all,
what is one world leader supposed to say to another? But it would never go to
trial. Would it?
Well. . .there is a law. Paragraph 103 of the Criminal Code forbids
insulting representatives of foreign states. And there are some German
politicians who seem quite keen to enforce it. No less than the general
secretary of the Merkel's party Christian Democratic Union (CDU), Peter Tauber exclaimed:
“In a constitutional democracy we all
have to stick to the rules, and one of these rules is that offending foreign
heads of state is punishable by law,”
Wow. Nobody
tell Kim Jong Un.
Isn’t it
interesting that Mr. Tauber thinks protecting the delicate feelings of foreign
despots is more integral to Constitutional Democracy than upholding the rights
of its own citizens? And why am I not surprised that a politician would want to
enforce a law designed to protect politicians from ridicule?
Granted, I’m
no lawyer, but all the same, I’m at a loss as to how German lawmakers figured
this little stipulation was consistent with Constitutional Democracy.
Basically, it means that any tin-pot dictator’s cult of personality is
technically enforceable in Germany
I hope it
doesn’t have an extradition treaty with any of these places.
That’s the
obvious part. But there is a little worm in the ointment that complicates
things a little. It doesn’t change anything, but it complicates it just a bit.
Let’s look at what Böhmermann actually said. Like all the
best comedians, most of what he said is true. He accuses Erdogen of “repressing
minorities” – true! – “kicking kurds” – true! – “slapping Christians” – true! –
“while watching child porn” – oh dear.
Accusing someone of watching child porn is not a small thing, and it’s
only natural that Erdogen would take exception to it. It muddies the waters
because it takes us from the realm of political commentary into the world of
slander and libel, where, under most juristictions, Erdogen would have a much
stronger case.
What is libel? The technical definitions vary, but it basically amounts
to false accusation, or defamation, or falsehoods that could damage a
reputation. Spurious accusation of child pornography could destroy a life just
as thoroughly as a physical assault, so laws are in place to prevent them being
made willy-nilly.
Newspapers
have to be super careful when reporting on such things; it’s why in criminal
trials, even where the evidence seems overwhelming, the crime is always
“alleged” and the defendant is always “the accused”.
A chief
defense against libel law is that of “fair-comment”. It is fair to comment on
certain things and express an opinion. So, for example, in a restaurant review,
you are free to say it’s a lousy restaurant, but not that they put rats in the
stew. The former is just your opinion; the later is a lie.[1] The former is fair
comment, the latter would be slander. I wonder if Böhmermann
has opened himself up to a charge of slander, rather nullifying his fair (and
necessary) political comment with a cheap (and not-terribly funny) joke.
The existence
of libel law – in theory – shouldn’t amount to a limitation on your freedom of
expression. You are free to speak the truth. You do have to prove that it is
the truth. Which strikes me as only fair and reasonable: say what you will, but
be prepared to back up your words. I
personally have always thought of freedom of expression as the ability to speak
the truth rather than the ability to blab: but as one man’s truth is another
man’s blabbery, the definition should be as inclusive as possible and come with
as few external fetters as possible.
Unfortunately, libel law is often
used to limit freedom of expression, and limit the truth. In Britain
But libel law isn’t the only gag
available to the psychotically insecure, and dictators aren’t the only ones ins
search of them. I don’t even know if Erdogen’s going for libel. What interests
me is that laws exist in democratic countries which give foreign dictators a
measure of control over their citizenry, and many people seem happy to
relinquish this control. Germany Italy Poland Switzerland Britain Ireland Canada Israel
Meanwhile, bloggers have been
arrested and lashed by their government in Saudi Arabia Bangladesh
http://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/apr/15/angela-merkel-agrees-prosecution-comedian-erdogan-poem
Most concerning is this little quote from the CDU Parliamentary Faction leader:
“In a constitutional democracy, it is up to the courts to decide where the boundaries lie."
“In a constitutional democracy, it is up to the courts to decide where the boundaries lie."
So, the courts get to decide the limits of satire, and the limits of speech, and the limits of thought. Has the Parliamentary Faction leader considered that the courts decide such things in dictatorships as well?
Autocrats of the world, rejoice!
Autocrats of the world, rejoice!
[1] Assuming of course they
don’t actually do this – but even if they did, you’d need damn good evidence
for it before committing it to print. You’d be better off just repeating what other
people say.
[2] Fortunately,
Dr.___________ is also a best-selling author, and so happened to have the
resources to fight back. Many do not.
[3] Which Canada ’s
Liberal government is happily selling a billion dollars worth of armoured cars
to.
Two trials in Toronto: On Jian Ghomeshi and due process
Jian Ghomeshi
is a creepy douchebag, who, until recently, was one of the chief arbiters of
Canadian culture. Think about that for a minute. What does it say about a
country’s art scene that would choose to be represented by such a goof? I
digress.
A lot of
things have come out about this demented hipster lately that leaves little
doubt in most people’s minds that he is a narcissistic letch; but there just
wasn’t enough to convict him of a crime.
This has
made a lot of people understandably upset, and inspired many to call for
drastic changes to the system. Just what kind of changes I’ll leave to the
experts, but in this highly emotionally charged atmosphere, I would caution
everyone to remember that a conviction is never guaranteed.
If there is
one thing that protects us from the wrath of dictators, or the hysteria of the
mob, it is that. It’s what separates democracies from tyrannies, free societies
from closed ones. Innocence is the default assumption, allegations must be
proven, and everyone, but everyone, gets to defend themselves.
Now I would
never make excuses for an evident scoundrel like Ghomeshi. But I would never
deny him his trial either. Some seem upset that there was a trial at all. What
they apparently wanted was an automatic conviction in a kangaroo court. Many
are angry with the Defense lawyer, Marie Henein, but don’t
specify how they themselves would have conducted the defense, or what sort of
defense they would have allowed under their ideal system. These are not
technicalities; until such things are specified, calls for change aren’t much
more than demands for a witch-hunt. And
while “I believe the victims” hashtags all sound very nice, they do reject outright
the presumption of innocence.
There
probably are changes that do need to be made to the justice system, there are
indeed things that the law and society at large need to do to improve the lot
of victims, and there is possibly the political will to do it now. But whatever
changes end-up being made, don’t forget that a conviction is not supposed to
be easy, and it is the prosecution’s responsibility to prove guilt. If there’s
anyone the demonstrators should be angry with, it’s the prosecutors, who
completely failed to make the case; it was their responsibility, their
opportunity, and their bungle. Any reforms that weaken the threshold of
evidence or weaken citizen’s rights to defend themselves would not serve
justice any better.
In the
aftermath of the acquittal, it may be of some comfort that Ghomeshi is not
getting off scott-free. His life is ruined, his career is over, and he's got no one but himself to blame. He’s not
getting his job back at the CBC; he will never work in broadcasting again. He
will be lucky to scrub the toilets at any radio station from here on in. He’s
the public face of sleaze: who’s going to hire him? He will be lucky to appear in public without
getting pelted with lettuce. No one will read his book. No one will remember or
care about Q, or Play, or Moxy Fruvous. Nothing he does again
will ever matter. He will only be remembered as a guy who liked to hurt women.
It will be the denouemant of his Wikipedia entry, and main plot of his obituary. For a
narcissistic primadonna like him, that’s probably a worst punishment than
anything the judge could have handed down.
His day in
court seems almost irrelevant.
Two Trials in Toronto:On Law Enforcement and Due Process; Sammy Yatim and James Forcillo.
Two trials in Toronto .
One finished some months ago. The other only just. One ended in a Guilty
verdict. The other in a Not-Guilty one.
Both verdicts of both have made people very upset. One has upset people
who hold a great deal of power; the other, people who hold a great deal less
power. Some are so upset, they want to see the whole system changed.
I don’t care very much about media circuses (though compared
to high profile US trials, these ain’t nuthin’), but I do care very deeply
about due process – as far as rights go, I’d argue it’s just about the
most important one. The one that allows all the others. And during emotional
cases like these, it’s at its most fragile.
The first trial was about a cop who shot a kid. That sounds
bad, but it gets to the heart of the matter. Use “Police Officer opened fire on
a knife-wielding teenager” if you prefer. The whole thing was caught on
Youtube, a lot of people thought the cop didn’t need to shoot (nine times as it
were), there was a trial, and the jury agreed. Officer James Forcillo was found
guilty.
Having never confronted a knife wielder myself, I’m in no
position to judge how someone else should handle the situation. But, like most
Canadians, I’m appalled by gun violence, and when such stories come out I think
it’s entirely fair to ask “was there no other way”? Alas, a lot of the time isn’t. Sometimes
though, there is. That’s what inquiries are for, and when enough questions are
raised, trials.
Officer Forcillo had his day in court. He made his case, he told
his side of the story. The jury heard the evidence, deliberated, and found that
yes, he had used undue force. They found him guilty. Some people are upset
about this (just as many people would have been upset if the trial had gone the
other way) – they think it sends a disturbing message to police, that it
punishes them for doing their jobs. Nothing of the kind. The message it sends
is that they too will be held accountable for their actions, and that nobody is
above the law.
But everybody gets their day in court.
Which brings me to the next trial. . .
On Liars. . .
While I studying at Ryerson, one of the things I had to read was Joe Gould’s Secret by Joseph Mitchell. In it, Mitchell, a New York
There is no oral history. It doesn’t
exist.
When confronted, Gould is
speechless, and goes into something of a trance. Mitchell backs off, and Gould
goes straight back to telling his stories, not even acknowledging the
conversation. He had become so invested in his stories that he came to believe
them, and could no longer face the reality, or lack thereof.
Have you ever met someone like that?
Someone so obviously full of shit, but utterly convinced of it? I don’t mean
the occasional fibber, or embellisher – we all do that now and then. I mean. .
.
People who always have some crazy
story to tell, but can almost never provide direct evidence of it happening. .
.
People who never seem to have any
witnesses, can never produce anyone to corroborate their stories, never have
any shared experiences with common acquaintances. . .
People who’s experiences never seem
to have any logical consequences – no long, or even medium term affects.
Nothing ever comes back to haunt them, and they never follow-up on things they
mentioned before. . .
Who didn’t take pictures, or save
their receipts. Who don’t ever have any souvenirs from their adventures. . .
People who who’s stories are always
more interesting than yours, who’s triumphs are greater than yours, whose
sufferings are greater than yours, who’s coincidences are stranger than yours,
who’s celebrity encounters are greater than yours, who’s dealings with
bureaucracy are more frustrating than yours. . .
Who remember things in just bit too
much detail; who’s experiences sound just a bit too scripted. . .
Who seem to be trying just a bit too
hard. . .
You see what I mean? Not to mention
body language and tone of voice. Do they look you in the eye? Do their voices
ever waver? Police investigators are experts at detecting all the little ticks
of the liar, but on an instinctive level, most of us can just tell. Really
good liars know this, and learn how to control themselves, but most. . .don’t.
I saw a good movie once (forgive me,
I forget the title) in which an East German Ustache instructor lectures
an auditorium full of bright-eyed-bushy-tailed would-be interrogators “An
honest person will make mistakes, forget things and contradict themselves. A
liar will stick to a script they’ve memorized beforehand.” Possibly
contradictory, but it makes sense on some level: most of us don’t memorize
the details of our lives. We simply take them for granted. Often as not, we
can’t remember where we were at two o’clock last weekend, how many times we’ve
been out in the past week, what we were doing at such-and-such a place when we
ran into such-and-such a person. Where we put our car keys and television
remote controls. As Sky Masterson tells
Nathan Detroit: “I’ll bet you can’t remember the colour of your tie.”
Yet the liar of this magnitude will
remember their experiences in excruciating detail, and recall conversations
with scrip-like accuracy.
Now, who knows: possibly some people
can do that. Some people do have very good memories and some people do
lead very interesting lives. But sometimes. . .you can just tell.
Here’s the other thing: most people,
when caught telling tall-tales, will own up. They confess, equivocate or
rationalize (maybe apologize), and probably cling to that little kernel of
truth around which they built their tale. But some, like Joe Gould, will not.
What to make of such people? Is
reality so intolerable that they need to construct fictions in which to live?
In which case it’s for their benefit rather than ours. Despite their colossal
untruths, liar doesn’t quite seem to fit. I often think they genuinely
believe what they’re saying. Delusional? Maybe.
Every now and then I run into a guy
at the bar. He’s friendly and gregarious, and just plain full of it. I don’t
believe any of his fish stories, for all the reasons listed above. But because
he’s friendly and gregarious, and because I’d rather be greeted by friendly
people than unfriendly people, like Mitchell, I let it go. No difference
to me.
But supposing it was skin off the
nose? What happens in those situations where the stories are not harmless;
when they lure you into their lives with their tall tales and convince you to
make important, possibly life changing decisions based on them? Do they really
not see what they’re doing? Do they need their fictions so much that they’re
willing to drag you into them?
I’ve met people like that too. But
that’s another story. . .
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