Tag Archives: Sex

This Week: Top Five Ways The Baby Boomers Fucked Up Our Future

Image by Sky Thompson

by Ben Kritikos

“The world is what you make it,” they’re constantly telling us. At what point did I make a world where people listen to Michael Bolton?

Baby boomers seem to have a sense of entitlement to personal freedom. They’re like that kid standing next to his Dad who gestures the horizon with a swooping arm, saying, “One day, this will all be yours”.

In theory, there’s nothing wrong with this mentality of entitlement; but in combination with unparalleled wealth and freedom, it has produced a generation of spoiled brats.

My grandparents’ generation endured some of the most horrific events in human history, including the second World War, the Holocaust, the Great Depression, and the crushing of the American labour movement. I’d wager that millions of WWII veterans vowed to protect their kids from these kinds of horrors.

The generation known as the Baby Boom were the largest generation in the history of humankind. This massive blob of ego-positive kiddies grew up shielded from reality, being spoon-fed a narrative about reality that placed them squarely in the driver’s seat. The hitherto unknown postwar health and prosperity instilled the boomers a heightened sense of self-importance.

Just look at the 60s and the way people still talk about it as though it were the apex of human history. When did being young and self-indulgent — only to disavow principle in favour of a high income — count as a cultural achievement?

Now that the baby boomers are approaching pensionable age it is time we, so-called Generation Y, have to live in the aftermath of their unmitigated personal freedom. And they’ve left us with a disaster. World War III isn’t imminent, but ecological disaster could be. Housing and third-level education are all but unaffordable. It’s almost impossible to find a job, and when you do it will almost certainly be mind-numbing. Then, to add insult to injury, there’s Kenny G.

But apparently all of us are spoiled because we had Nintendo and iPhones. Yipee. Continue reading

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This Week: Top Five Reasons Kids Take Drugs

by Ben Kritikos

Image by Mariclare Cole & Sky Thompson

Disclaimer: I am NOT advocating the use of drugs.  But: I don’t believe that drug users are criminals.

In June, it’ll be three years since I last smoked marijuana — the last vestige of my illicit drug use in adulthood.  Want to know why I stopped?  I just did.  It wasn’t a conscious choice.  I haven’t felt particularly different since I stopped, either.

So much fuss was made about drugs when I was growing up.  Even my mother, who made a virtue of over-explaining things to me when I was little, strayed off the good path and told me the biggest whopper of her whole life.

“If you take drugs, even once, you will DIE.”

The thing about well-intentioned lies like this one, as soon as the kid is old enough to be the slightest bit discerning, they’ll know it’s bullshit.  Some bits of anti-drug campaigning are such bullshit, they’re the stuff of legend:

Of course, loads of people take drugs — loads of normal, functional, healthy and happy people — as well as junkies, alcos, crack heads, nut jobs and Pete Doherty.  And when kids realise they’ve been misinformed about drugs, they may come to one or more conclusions:

1) Anti-drug campaigners don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about

2) Anti-drug campaigners are liars

3) Drugs have improved since their parents’ time

Being so poorly informed, kids run the risk of trying things they shouldn’t, or trying things that are arguably okay but only if you know in advance what to expect, or trying way too much of something that is ordinarily not dangerous.  You’re told that all drugs are bad, in between adverts for booze and coffee and antihistamines.  When you first enjoy a spliff you may very well think, “I bet heroin isn’t as bad as they say, either”.

Hysteria and closed-mindedness are actually more of a danger to kids than the drugs themselves. Much in the same way nobody regards alcohol as inherently “evil”, but everybody understands that drinking tequila for breakfast will, at best, eventually leave you drowning in a pool of your own vomit; or, at worst, turn you into Winston Churchill.

People need to talk to kids openly about drugs.  Take it from somebody who tried just about everything before he shaved.
Continue reading

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This Week: Top Five Sexiest Musicians (not according to appearance)

by Ben Kritikos

Hello again.  I’m back with some more unwanted opinions about things that don’t very much merit discussion.  It’s cold and rainy here in London town, the festive lights are up and the bank balance is down: ’tis the season.

At the end/beginning of every year, when we brace ourselves for heavy weather with thick layers of clothing, I can’t help but notice the disappearance of the most subtle means of human communication: namely the human body (this doesn’t include people who work in finance or advertising, and who, incidentally, are composed of recycled wellies and animated with four AAA batteries).  The upshot to this sudden exile of flesh is that I’m forced to get my sinister jollies elsewhere.

Good-looking people are nice to look at, and it follows that sexy people bring sex to mind; but what I find equally a turn-on is that brand of sexiness that tickles my auditory g-spot.  In fact, the select few whom I will herewith designate my top five sexiest musicians are the aural equivalent of porn stars, in my feeble-minded opinion.  The following lovelies have been judged without considering what they look like, because some ass-ugly motherfuckers make the sexiest music in the world.

Conversely, have you listened to the shit that pumps like over-flowing sewers from the likes of MTV these days?  I’ve forgotten the dawdlings of every booby-headed Mouseketeer because they’re ugly on the inside, and they insidiously persuade children to look and act like them.  God save the fate of the future, for it is Mickey Mouse’s sex dungeon. 

(Click on the title to see all seven pages of this blog)

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Ben Kritikos’ New Year’s Resolution: righting a literary wrong

Anna is always taking the piss out of me. More often than not, it’s silly (“Did you see they put a picture of you in the Guardian?”Points to a drawing of an ape).  Every now and then, though, the joke is poignant.  And the truth is often told in jest, as funny lady over here never fails to remind me.

So it was that I discovered a gaping void in my knowledge of books.  I’m a reader, you see.  In school, when others were failing miserably and being moved to basement classes in “special ed.” because of bad behaviour or drug abuse, I was failing miserably and being moved into basement classes in “special ed.” because of Fyodor Dostoevsky.  I read the majority of Notes From Underground in Psychology class, secretly, the book hidden under the table.  Imagine the irony when I was caught; the teacher scolded me, saying, “You’re supposed to be learning about psychology!”

Dostoevsky, Checkhov, Bulgakov — I love them Russians!  My teens were spent writhing in the shadows of the Beat Generation, writing bad poetry entirely in lower case, dispensing with “and”, “the”, etc.  Salinger was my God; I’ve read The Catcher In The Rye 14 times, and Nine Stories (published in Britain as For Esmé, With Love And Squalor) ten times.  Rimbaud stole a week from my life which I’ll never recover, or even remember.  Henry Miller, Ernest Hemingway, George Orwell, Bruce Chatwin, and even D.H. Lawrence have been dearer fellows to me than most friends — and longer serving.

But female authors?  None.  I’ve barely read any.  Arundhati Roy’s The God Of Small Things, Stella Gibbons’ Cold Comfort Farm, and Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird are the only ones that I remember blowing me away … or remember at all, to be honest!  Shameful, I know.

Well, what are New Year’s Resolutions for?  This year, I’m going to plunge into the deep end and combat a long-standing error on my part.  I expect the results to be deeply, profoundly rewarding: I will only read female authors in 2010.  This, of course, excludes the Guardian, which I devour at lenght on Saturdays, and peruse during the week.  I will, however, be especially conscious of how much I enjoy Lucy Mangan’s columns.

Think of all the goodies I’ve been missing!  I have a few in my possession.  They’re a good start: An Ordinary Person’s Guide To Empire, by Arundhati Roy (starting in the comfort zone, so to speak); The Female Eunuch, by Germaine Greer; The Second Sex, by Simone De Beauvoir (you see, I’m doing a sort of penance for gender equality, and re-educating myself); The Color Purple, by Alice Walker; Nightingale Wood, by Stella Gibbons (as well as revisiting Cold Comfort Farm); as well as the works of female titans like Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein, The Brontës, et al.

Here’s the panic: can I go a year without re-reading my old favourites?  No Catcher or Nine Stories?  No Black Spring or The Time Of The Assassins?  No Season In Hell?  Oh my God, I’ve only read The Brothers Karamazov once!  And Ulysses twice — and I only sort of got it!  What about all those lesser-known Orwell novels I’ve been meaning to read, like Coming Up For Air or Keep The Aspidistra Flying?  For Christ’s sake, I’ve just been given a copy of Anna Karenina (loves me those Russians!), and I still haven’t read the copy of Middlesex my best friend gave me for my birthday in 2006!  How on earth will I manage?!

Be resolute!

I’ll keep you posted.

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We Love… Allen Ginsberg

“So that’s one reason I write.  To say what I could say when I was alive.”

Allen Ginsberg was born in Newark, New Jersey in 1926, to mother Naomi, a Russian immigrant, and father Louis Ginsberg, a poet.  While attending Columbia University in the 1940s he befriended William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, who profoundly influenced his writing, which up to that point employed strict meters and rhyme schemes.  These three friends established what later became “The Beat Generation”.  Ginsberg further honed his command of what he called “the bardic function” under the influence of Walt Whitman and William Blake, and the tutelage of William Carlos Williams, whose own poetry incorporated the sounds and diction of everyday speech.

In 1956, Ginsberg published his first volume of poetry, Howl and Other Poems.  These poems freed the voice of the poet, rooting the prosody in physical breath, using long, uninhibited lines, as well as the diction of common speech.  Howl and Other Poems was banned on grounds of obscenity, leading to an historic censorship trial in which the judge found “artistic merit” in the work, thereby advancing the cause of free speech in the US.  “Howl” went on to become one of the most widely read poems of the 20th century.

Allen Ginsberg was a lifelong vociferous advocate of human rights, and he criticised authoritarianism wherever he saw it, on both the left and the right.  He was also a prescient proponent of environmentalism, promoting earth-friendly, sustainable human activities before global warming entered the modern lexicon.  Ginsberg actively organised against the Viet Nam war, and was highly critical of US military aggression in Latin America and elsewhere.  He campaigned actively for gay rights throughout his life, and much of his poetry explicitly depicts gay sex at a time when homosexuality was still a taboo subject.

Ginsberg’s output was continuous up until his death at the age of 71.  Allen Ginsberg died surrounded by friends and family in 1997.  His works and activism are lauded around the globe.  Many great artists, writers and musicians cite Ginsberg as an inspiration, a brave cultural and literary trail-blazer who opened the doors of freer and more natural expression — in life and art — to future generations.  Bob Dylan said of him, “Ginsberg is both tragic & dynamic, a lyrical genius, con man extraordinaire and probably the single greatest influence on American poetical voice since Whitman.”

Ben Kritikos
10 December ’09

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