Almost on a daily basis, I daydream about getting into physical altercations with people. Ever since I beat my male cousin in an arm wrestle when I was twelve years-old, I’ve always wrongfully considered myself a bit of a badass. Maybe it’s the Dachshund Acting like a Doberman Syndrome, but in my mind I’m a lot tougher than I am in reality. Now, I’m not saying that I actually walk around town looking for men and women to get in brawls with. Nuh uh. In my older age, a few things have happened that have diminished the aggressiveness I displayed during my younger, rowdier years. One, I’m not nearly as physically active as I once was, and I’ve shrunk down to about a hundred pounds, so it’s highly unlikely I’d ever win any fight I picked. Two, I was manhandled and beat up in a relationship several years back, so it’d be purty durned hypocritical to knockout someone after I vowed to myself NOBODY WILL EVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN. NOBODY!!! Three, after years of being relatively irrational in my rage, reasonability and logic have finally tipped the scale against any sort of bloodlust. Sooooo, I’m not like this anymore:
*Thanks for inspiring that clip, Mr. Abouzelof. Somewhere, Out There, Mike, I hope you’re ruining little kids’ kickball games, and telling a guy smaller than you at a diner to “make like a tree and get out of here”. Miss ya!
Moving on. My judgment may be sounder these days, but that doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about KICKING ASS. The funny thing is, whenever I visualize fighting others, it’s almost a sure thing that I always win. If for some strange reason I don’t win, rest assured that my ego will still be plenty stroked. These scenarios often involve me almost getting the upper edge over some horrible, no good, very bad man. He ends up playing unfairly, and stabs me right where it’s plenty grave (but still in a place that I’ll surely survive) outside of a bar. A group of onlookers (all the people that have ever cared about me, or at the least people that I’ve always wanted to make jealous or impressed) gather around to see how seriously wounded I am, but are amazed to see that I still manage to dress my own wound, calmly dial 9-1-1 by myself, and slowly but gracefully lose consciousness before the ambulance arrives. One drop of blood trickles out of my mouth. That’s the stuff of legend.
I like stroking guns. I like reading about shark attacks. I admire the Coen brothers more than any other directors out there, and a huge reason for that is due to their mastery of violence on film (Walter Sobchak biting off and spitting out the Autobahn member’s ear on The Big Lebowski is seriously one of my favorite movie moments of all time). I can even appreciate having been in the abusive relationship I mentioned above because now I know what it’s like to be truly terrified horror-movie-style. And Jesus, do I love rough sex (Hello? How fucking fun is that!?). Violence is obviously something I entertain myself with.
It's not lost on me that my romanticism of destruction is good example of how self-absorbed Westerners can be when compared to countless other people on this planet that wish that violence would just go away. Many (but obviously not all) Americans actually have the breathing room to fantasize about beating the shit out of people. There are places on this earth where violence is viewed by whole communities as their collective birthright because besides poverty, that’s all they’ve ever known. Take a relatively stable city where you’d least expect a week-long riot to break out, such as London, England. If you look deep enough, you’ll find whole populations of desperate people crawling around the world’s most expensive metropolis that have been ignored all their lives, and are now resorting to large-scale riots to take the power back – even if just for a little while. Violence is all about control, baby. I’m not advocating anything here; I’m just trying to make sense of what is going on.
Anyways, go ahead and call me an ignorant asshole with a loathsome guilty pleasure. I can’t help it though – this shit is way too fun to think about. Picture it: I’m making curried potatoes one night as I'm listening to the Hall & Oates station on Pandora. While cutting up garlic, I hear a muffled scream accompanied by scratching noises rise from the bottom of the fifteen-foot ditch I dug through the floor of my coat closet. I put down the spatula, and grab the wicker basket filled with skincare products sitting next to my garbage can. My cat rubs up against my shin as I open the closet door slowly. After lowering the basket with a rope and pulley, I say in my baritone voice, “It rubs the lotion on its skin. It does this whenever it is told.” The terrified naked man at the bottom of the pit cries, “Miss…my family will pay cash. Whatever ransom you’re askin’ for, they’ll pay it.” Without looking at my victim, I repeat, “It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again….Yes, it will, Sofia, won’t it? It will get the hose!” You know for sure this poor fellow puts gobs of lotion on right quick. I pick up my cat and meander over to my bedroom. Dancing in front of the standing mirror, I suddenly smell the food I neglected burning on the stove (or is that blazing London I smell?). Dinner is ruined – fuck it. Wearing just a silk robe opened up in the front, I lean in close to the glass, smear lipstick around my mouth, and whisper…
For a more poignant view about the happenings in London, visit Laurie Penny’s post on her blog Penny Red at http://pennyred.blogspot.com/2011/08/panic-on-streets-of-london.html.
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