John Walker's Electronic House

This isn’t my usual tone, but it’s a thought that I’ve been batting around with friends for a while, and it seems to have blossomed into a terrifying clarity.

That thought is: America – vote Bush.

Stop. This isn’t the annoucement of my mind’s collapse. This isn’t some stupid “Kerry’s slightly imperfect, and was only hit by shrapnel and not a proper bullet! He should be rejected” idiot argument. This is a horrible realisation that if America is to have any chance of halting its rapid collapse into a fascist state, it needs, so bizarrely, Bush to be in power.

I can explain.

First of all, it’s crucial to not allow oneself to become all-consumed by the invasion of Iraq. In no way do I belittle the horrors that have occurred there by the unutterable stupidity that led to such an ill-advised and astonishingly badly executed invasion. But it is not the only thing Bush has done – the rest is slightly more subtle.

One of my closest friends, Kim, is a teacher in Illinois. Over the last four years she has seen a poor education system destroyed. Her profession is being eroded around her, resources at previously badly funded schools dwindling away to utter desperation, support falling apart, and no help offered from anywhere. She despairs – she lives the effects of Bush’s cruel and idiotic leadership. She feels the pain of his actions personally, before most have started to notice.

American healthcare has always been something horrific to watch from afar. To see a country accepting a system in which health can only be bought, and where pain or death are the punishments for poverty, is difficult. It’s a reminder of why while the British NHS isn’t exactly perfect, it’s still a thousand times better than a scheme run for those that can afford the insurance premiums. What isn’t widely discussed is the incredible damage Bush has done to the few alternative options that did exist. To the free clinics. To the drug clinics. To the services that looked after the homeless, the addicts, the pregnant teens.

What is discussed, and yet still seems to disappear in a puff of Iraq, is the economy. Bush took America from its strongest ever position to the largest deficit the country has ever faced. Incredible debts that will still be hanging over the heads of America’s grandchildren. Unimaginable amounts of money, leaving the country bankrupt.

And even Iraq. While the problems in Iraq are happening now, inevitably far worse is to come, once one of the factions gets itself organised. Despite a worldwide cry for an exit strategy to have been formed before the attack, it never happened. It’s like a mother telling her son, “Make sure you remember to take sunblock,” over and over and over, and the son blustering, “Of course I’ll remember! I’m not STUPID!” and then looking all upset and confused when he’s burned from head to toe.

In all that Bush has done – in the inconceivable numbers of seeds of wanton damage and civil destruction he has planted – lots is growing, but little has shown its fruit.

If Kerry wins the November election, it is during his term that the fruit will appear. And if there’s one thing one must never underestimate when dealing with a population as a whole, it’s quite how stupid it’s capable of being.

Look at the way people chastise the Labour government for the state of British schools, hospitals and transport networks. This is no fervent defence of Labour, but it requires such a hefty ignorance of ‘consequence’ to not realise that these are the results of 11 years of Conservative erosion and privatisation of the services. Newsflash: the consequences of ill actions do not all happen on the same day. Labour, for all the crap, have improved all three services. As Nick pointed out tonight, it’s achingly aggravating to see an idiot member of Question Time’s audience shouting at a Labour MP for the evil of Railtrack.

And it is this time-blind stupidity that means Bush must win the next election.

If Kerry wins, as each and every fruit of Bush’s sowing blossoms into the public’s view, it is with the Democrats that the blame will be placed. Every evil of the Republican’s creation will be dubbed the evil of the Democrats. If Kerry were the greatest leader the world had ever seen, it would still not compete with the inevitable fallout that will occur over the next four years.

If Bush wins, it will be terrible. He will do more and maybe worse. But he will be there as the economy meets with the inevitable collapse. He will be there when HIV/AIDS cases inevitably dramatically climb in number. He will be there when education inevitably screams through its death. And he will be blamed for what he (and understand by “he” I clearly mean his team) has created.

If Kerry wins, it will be less terrible. At first. And then as the inevitable list unfurls, it will be the end of an already weakly Democrat party. It will become unelectable in the eyes of America. The Republican party will be back in immediately, and there they shall stay for a very long time. And America will continue in its current descent, unhindered by its four year hiccup.

The majority cause of all the above-mentioned is time-blindness. The refusal to look at a long-term view. And therefore, America’s Left must not make the same mistake. Yes, getting Bush out seems the best thing to do right now, for the sake of the world. But that is thinking with a Republican mind. Long-term thought must be applied. And as astonishing as it is to say, America needs Bush for another term.

Well I feel absolutely sodding miserable.

I bought scales, to chronicle my weight loss.

And I weigh exactly the bloody same as I did two months ago.

I may as well have sat still and eaten cakes for all the good the last month has done.

Crap.

You see, the thing is, for some reason this past week and a half I’ve just not been in the writing rubbish on the internet mood.

The mood takes me again. I think I went a pretty long time that last burst, and a little break is good for me. It means I’ve stored up lots of thoughts for things I’d like to write about which I’ve duly forgotten to write down or note anywhere and hence entirely lost them from my mind.

I have begun eating sensibly.

This is quite exciting for me, as over the last couple of years I have expanded from people saying, “No, you’re not fat! You’re not thin, no, but you’re not fat or anything,” to, “You’re not… that fat.” Which is Polite Friend Speak for, “Blimey, I’d not noticed quite what a porker you’ve become.”

So Nick has been amazingly helpful, and helped me sort out what is sensible to eat, what is not, and what number of calories to aim to eat in a day. The key part to it all has been ensuring that I eat enough to feel full. Let it be said now, so that suddenly the entire world hears and realises: DIETS ARE STUPID AND DON’T WORK. Why would a profit making company design a diet that ensures you lose weight and keep it off? It would be bad business. They rub their fat hands with glee as we demand short-term solutions from them. Look at them laughing.

Nick explained the obvious idea that if you eat less calories than your body naturally burns in a day, then you automatically lose weight. Combine this with some exercise, and tummies get smaller. But importantly, you’re still eating enough each day to prevent your body from screaming at you, and if you eat the right stuff, you still get to feel full.

This is so great! I ate yummy things today, and felt full throughout, and still accidentily ate less than the number of calories I’m supposed to. Which means I need to adjust slightly, and have something yummier!

I’m going to get some scales soon, and I shall chronicle my weight loss for all you weirdos. That way I’ll feel more accountable, and less inclined to be rubbish about it.

So to make that first step into the fearful territory of such honesty, I reveal that the last time I weighed myself, I was… sixteen stone. Ick.

I would like to be 12 or 13. I think that’s realistic for someone broadly shouldered like myself.

I’m not dead.

I’m just lazy. But then, only two people bothered to write a story. You’re just take, take, take.

I went to the circus today.

I’ve no idea if this will work, but I’m hopeful.

My current dissertation title is:

“How do the stories that young people tell and hear affect the ways in which they perceive their lives?”

A part of my research for this is going to be to get lots of different age groups to write or tell me stories. And I’m hoping that people who read this will be good enough to write me a story.

If you would, please email it to the address on the left, (removing the “plop” first). It could be exciting.

We appear to be experiencing some technical difficulties.

Please do not retune your internet.

I have no idea what’s causing the intermittent WordPressian crashes, nor if that’s how you spell intermittent. I have decided to blame Nick, whether it’s his fault or not.

Interesting week. The lectures at the residential were terrible. Abysmal. Certainly Monday night and Tuesday morning’s were. After that, it gets a bit more difficult to report, as my presence in the lecture room became a little less substantial.

Skiving isn’t much fun, really. Sian and I found that nothing could convince us it would be worth attending any of Wednesday’s offerings (the third year lectures were on one subject all week, all by the same lecturer, and all taught at a GCSE level, which in the THIRD YEAR OF A DEGREE seems slightly more than a little poor – and we were correct, as the reports of those who attended Wednesday morning’s efforts were not exactly positive. I’m not sure there was anyone to ask about the afternoon’s, as the rest of the group were a few hours late in catching up with Sian and myself in realising that we would learn more wedging forks into our nostrils and head-butting the canteen tables, and so very few bothered to attend) and our reaction was not to be oh-hoo-hoo-hee, we’re skiving! woo. But instead, WE ARE SO VERY ANGRY THAT WE ARE NOT LEARNING NEW THINGS.

What troubles me is that there were people who didn’t leave. There were people who did not sit on the back table and draw on each other and write collaborative stories and tip Doug’s chair over so far that he could only roll over backwards and read books and get the giggles. They sat at the front and took notes on this utter drivel. For example, at one point she explained to us (the lectures were on “research methods” with a view to helping us with our dissertations) that collecting a sample of 1, and then saying that this represents a 100% opinion of people is… can anyone guess? Can anyone guess without being in the third year of a degree course? To collect a sample of 1, and to say that it represents 100% of people is… WRONG! Who would have thought it. And there they sit, eagerly taking notes and asking for clarifications.

So, we burned them all to the ground.

I think I’m spoiled by the high quality of the lectures I’ve attended the last two years in Bristol. That, or it’s that my college isn’t treating me like a thick school pupil.

Apart from that, it was an excellent week, a big part of which was collecting thirty nine signatures on Sian’s petition to have cyanide capsules under the chairs at future residentials (an entirely selfless act, as this was our last – Sian and I are extremely caring people (I initially typed “an entirely selfless ass”. I’d like to stress that my ass is indeed entirely selfless)) and presenting it to the course director, and another part being the discovery of what I might like to do with the rest of my life.

It coincides with my learning a new word: peripatetic.

I intend to become a Peripatetic Imagination Worker. What this means is quite clear in my head, but not entirely ready to appear outside of it in a coherent form. But I think it will involve my going from place to place to work with schools, youth groups and churches all over the place, rather than staying in just one place. Well, clearly, as that’s the definition of a peripatetic worker, but the “Imagination” part is what makes it blurry. It’s exciting though.

It also all links to my dissertation, for which I’d really appreciate your help. As many people as possible. But that is tomorrow’s exciting adventure.

And just when lots of new people had visited the site, I’m off for the week to ensure they never check back here again.

Unless I can figure out how to update on my mobile phone – that would be cool. And impossibly annoying.

I’ve spent the weekend writing, so there’s little willpower left in me tonight. Be good kids, and remember to water the plants. Back Thursday.

A quick and stupid thought for the weekend:

I don’t think there’s anyone I know working for Future Publishing who hasn’t at some point told the story of how they had the most fantastic collection of Example Magazine, every edition including issue 0, until one day they returned home to find their mother had thrown them away.

What is the cause of this bizarre yet common behaviour? Why do mums think it ok to ditch such things, when most would never consider chucking a stack of CDs, or a shelf of books? It happens too often for it to be a coincidence, and ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have a theory.

Last weekend, while in London, I was taken to a shop in Soho that sells film memorabilia and the like, and downstairs sells issues of all manner of magazines dating back decades. It’s very odd – the magazines aren’t special editions or rare prints – just regular, every day copies of, say, Q from June 1987. And it was browsing around in here that my previous thoughts were finally feeling more confirmed.

No, it’s not so obvious as that. I don’t think mums are secretly selling the magazines to collectors’ shops such as that one – not at all. If this were the case, these shops would be inundated with copies, so prevalent are the cases of maternal magazine removal. And crucially, such large numbers of issues would inhibit the high prices being charged.

My contention is that mothers are paid to destroy magazines, in order to increase their value for collectors. It’s a commission thing. Say, for every ten magazines “thrown away by accident”, they receive a small amount, thus ensuring the market value of those remaining.

It would explain why copies of regular computer games magazines from the 80s can now shift for a tenner on eBay, when they only cost a pound when first released. And it would explain why shops like the one in Soho are able to make a sustainable living.

And of course, the conspiracy doens’t end there. How much do you reckon Superman Issue 1 would be worth if it hadn’t been for the mums? 25p. That’s how much. But because of this secret matriarchal malevolence they are instead worth over 400 million billion pounds. And who’s getting a cut when that sale goes through? Exactly.

I’m onto you, mum. I now know where my metal Transformers went, and I’m not fooled. In fact, I’m onto you mums. And the word is out. Your remaining days of this evil hegemony are few.

I’m a bit overwhelmed. Thank you to everyone who linked to yesterday’s entry.

Back to normal now, I suspect, as I have now finally learned what “Blitz spirit” is all about.

Last night, while finishing off my Muppet eulogy (sniff) a horrendously loud alarm started screaming somewhere nearby. So I immediately sat where I was and carried on writing. And then, when it didn’t stop, and I realised that it was extremely nearby, as in, above me, I thought I’d have a look outside to see what was going on.

I think it’s school’s fault. Alarms signify nothing but an annoying noise that will interrupt us for a moment. Deliberate false alarms on a termly basis have ensured that the deafening wail of any warning bell is only met with grumbling, wondering if it will stop, resigning to the knowledge that it won’t, carefully putting your things into your bag, and then resentfully shuffling outside. The commands of “do not run” become laughably irrelevant by secondary education, as classrooms of students would rather take their chances in the imaginary fire than stand outside in the cold while a gym teacher has a rare go at calling the register.

We’ve trained ourselves to ignore every single alarm encountered. When did anyone hear a car alarm go off and think, “Oh my goodness! Someone’s car is being broken into. I’d best alert a passing police officer.” Instead it’s assumed that rippling air from the wing of a passing moth must have brushed against the surface of the vehicle’s paint, sending it into its spasms of screeching horror. Surely the way to break into a car is to pretend to be frantically fumbling in coat pockets for your keys whenever anyone looks over.

So it was with reluctance that I finally decided to investigate the source of this catawauling. And standing outside, shirtless as if having taken the noise seriously, was my new neighbour from downstairs. We shouted to one another over the racket, trying to work out what was going on. We spotted movement in the upstairs flat, and considered whether it was malicious or not. And then we introduced ourselves to each other. See, Blitz Spirit.

Eventually the main alarm stopped, revealing that it had been drowning out a second alarm, and then when that stopped, a hideous high-pitched whine that I at first mistook for tinnitus. As it turns out, like a Russian doll of sound, the tinnitus I heard later was being hidden under the dreadful whine. Because I’m brave, brave like an ox, I rang the doorbell of the top flat to see if everything was ok. Admittedly I’m not quite sure what my plan was if everything was not ok.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I heard the alarm and wondered if everything was ok.”

“Well, you see we’re burglars, so I suppose not really.”

STAB

But as it turns out, it was the landlord, who hadn’t realised that the code for the alarm had changed. He then proceeded to tell me all about this, and then about how he was having to redecorate the entire apartment because of the previous occupants. They’d made a terrible mess, he told me, and they’d had to strip the kitchen and refit it. “They were Chinese.” He spat, as if that proved his point. And then added, “Grease.”

It’s hard to know what to do in such a situation. Setting the alarm off again seemed appropriate. I choose the highly honourable response of staring at him blankly, in shock. And then eventually, “Were they students by any chance?” He confirmed, and I implied that this might be a more appropriate prejudice. The stupid racist idiot.

I’m grateful that I can truly say, with the Muppets I’ve been able to defy the cliche “you don’t know how much you love something until it’s gone”. I’ve always known how much I love the Muppets. I’m reminded of this now they’re gone.

I know this happened in February, but I only found out this evening. Chatting with Richard Cobbett, I was asking him if he’d heard that Sesame St. is now sponsored. He hadn’t, so as I was about to deliver the grotesque punchline that the PBS pre-school programme was now sponsored, unbelieveably, by MacDonald’s, he found this:

http://muppets.disney.go.com/

The text of the URL should be enough to tell all. Disney now own the Muppets.

Jim Henson created something incredible. Muppets began appearing on American television in the 1960s, but it was Sesame St. that made them famous. A non-commercial educational programme that understood that pre-school children could learn by using their imaginations.

And it was powerful.

Think of another programme that Channel 4 have broadcast without commercials. Let alone a daily, hour long programme. Because to put adverts in Sesame St. was to destroy its reason for existing. That Channel 4 were prepared to do this was a sign of its strength. But more importantly, Sesame St. was a sign that the Children’s Television Workshop and Muppets Inc. cared deeply about what they were doing.

The success of Sesame St. allowed Henson to make the Muppet Shows, and by this his creations became world famous.

Henson had a vision. He created programmes and films that were driven primarily by imagination. His children’s television programmes had more depth and sophistication than the majority of adults’ programming. Take Fraggle Rock. As a kid, I saw a show about this group of underground creatures who had adventures. As an adult I look back on it and realise it was a satire of social structure. The Fraggles were the middle classes, existing in a world beneath the upper class monsters (the King, Queen and Prince) and the working class Doozers. The Doozers built because what Doozers did was build. The Fraggles ate their constructions without caring about them or the effort behind the source of their favourite treat. And every episode contained a ‘post card’, spoofing our world seen through the eyes of the Fraggle. (I could be completely wrong in my reading of this, and I’d love to hear other people’s thoughts).

Muppet movies always make me cry. (To avoid smart-arse responses, I’ve not seen Muppet’s Treasure Island). There are some that are clearly designed to – they feature sad sequences, tear-jerking scenes. But while those always get me blubbing, that’s not the only thing that makes me cry when I watch them. I find myself overwhelmed by the love that has gone into the characters on screen. I find that I’m too delighted by their existence to know what to do with all the emotion.

And none more so than ‘The Muppets Celebrate Jim Henson’. (This is all from my memory, so lots could be misremembered. Post corrections in the tsukkomis). Released in November 1990, six months after Henson died, this is one of the most moving films I’ve ever seen. The Muppets are all asked to gather together to celebrate Henson’s life, who they still believe to be alive. As one large group, they begin reading through the readers’ letters that they find, and it is in reading these letters that they learn of his death. They are destroyed, and one by one leave. But it’s Gonzo who remembers who Henson was, and why they are there, and makes the others come back. I think it’s all done with a song. And it makes me cry just to remember it.

I’m not entirely sure why – why the Muppets always move me so much, why they overwhelm me so I become a big wet blubbering wreck. But I’m fairly sure it’s the love. They exude caring love. You can’t create something like Gonzo without loving it.

If you search Google for “Jim Henson’s vision” today, you’ll get results about the Muppet 3D ride at Disneyland.

If you go to www.muppets.com, you’ll be redirected to a picture of Kermit wearing Mickey Mouse ears, and be told that he’s “the happiest frog on Earth.”

When I opened that picture it shocked me. I felt the wind leave me, and replied in four select letters to Rich. And then about ten seconds later it really hit me, and I burst into tears. I realise I’ve mentioned crying quite often in this post, but hey, that’s me. However, before it was because of not knowing what to do with such happiness. Tonight I feel like the five year old me just got kicked really, really hard in the face. Because people have stopped caring. Henson’s foul children could not give a shit about what their father created, referring to the Muppets as “assets” and how they can “exploit our… properties”. They have allowed something beautiful to die a hideous, undignified death. They will cite that the “franchise” has not been successful for ten years, and so this will save their “assets”. But what they appear to have never understood is that with Henson’s death, and Frank Oz’s retirement, no one holding the sticks loves the Muppets any more.

Sesame St. died a few months ago, the day it became sponsored by MacDonald’s. Which was the same day as the Sesame St. Pizza Hut promotions began. And the MSN sponsorship. Or is it AOL now? A programme aimed at five year olds and under, encouraging their audience to develop brand loyalty to poisonous fast food chains before they’re ever old enough to know what money is. I wonder if such economic ideas will be added to “Near and Far” and counting to 10, in their educational sketches.

I’m floundering, and not really tying this all together very well. Maybe I sound silly, getting so upset about this. I am certain that I’m not. I loved the Muppets – they meant so much to me. They inspire me. My passion in youth work is to let young people know that with their imagination and the strength of God behind them, they can change the world. Jim Henson taught me a big part of that.

They didn’t get Sesame St. thanks to what is now called The Sesame Workshop. But what remains of it (if you’ve seen an episode lately, it’s a sad site filled with the sponsorships and elongated sequences of Elmo in a CGI room linking classic clips from the 80s and 90s) can’t have long to live. Not that the state it’s in is really living.

I hate Disney. I despise them. And now they own the Muppets. As someone on the Muppet Central forum put it:

“I’m marking my calender.

Today is the day my childhood died.”