Brendan Hughes

Agents of W.E.I.R.D.

If everything is weird, then nothing is weird. And everything is weird. You? What you think is normal? That’s some weird shit. And if that’s weird, what else is weird? Fucking, everything. So nothing is weird. So everything is its own version of normal. So judgment is a pretty weak reaction. Don’t be weak. Be weird.

But, you wonder, what about studies? Studies that have shown things? Don’t they point to some form of normalcy? I have bad news. Actually I have bad news and worse news. The bad news is: normalcy isn’t a word. It was made up as part of a campaign slogan for Woodrow Wilson. The worse news is: “studies” that show things about “us” are almost entirely performed on very weird populations: Wealthy Educated Industrialized Rich Democracies.

As such, judgment of weirdness is inherently flawed. So shine on you deranged diamond.

The Oldest Name We Know

The older I get, the clearer it becomes that everything… everything is economics. So it should probably have come as no surprise that the oldest known identity we have on record is that of a man who live 5,000 years ago, in 3200 BC Mesopotamia, whose name was Kushim, and whose profession was as an accountant.

He did well in math, had perhaps a healthy dose of skepticism, and so when the time came he hung out a shingle. His name appears on a receipt tablet for barley.

Ancient Roman gladiators had product endorsement deals. Ancient Greece had mortgages and college and restaurants. Temporally, we really are just specks.

All Ball Never Knew His Own Strength

Last June, Koko the gorilla — who could communicate through sign language — died at 46. In her time, she told Mister Rogers she loved him, she jammed with Flea, she had a tickle session with Robin Williams (and grew morose for days upon learning of his death), and she kept a pet kitten she named All Ball.

According to Koko, this kitten was known to fly into fits of rage, and she once reluctantly implicated All Ball in the crime of having ripped a sink out of a wall.

Krishna’s Butterball is in Full Swing

“Equipoise” is a balance of forces and interest. For dancers, outfielders and cats of prey, it is the state between stillness and motion. It’s when you’re ready to pounce, you’re sprung, you’ve stopped just for a second but your momentum may tip your body weight onward.

In the town of Mahabalipuram, there rests on an incline a 250 ton granite boulder named Krishna’s Butterball. For at least 1200 years, it has paused briefly (in geological terms), to collect itself before continuing its choreo-tone poem performance down the hill.

In 1908, the local British administrator was so unnerved by its equipoise, and so emboldened by a colonizer’s arrogance, that he hired seven elephants to yank it from its place. He failed. It’s still catching its breath today.

Spunows and Spap Oop

Trudging the vast hellscape of made up product words meant to sound like the solution to the problem created by the company selling you the solution— which are at best a portmanteau like Pinterest and ‘broccoli’ (a man-made hybrid of brussel sprouts and cauliflower), and at worst gadflies of meaning, like Abilify and Instagram — it can be hard to know exactly what this thing is you’re expected to insert into your head.

As corporations massage the lexicon into an oblivion of monetizable syllables, it’s sometimes hard not to just take nonsense sounds at face value.

Like Spap Oop or, my favorite, Spunow.

Powdered wigs were because of sex, you guys

The 1580s were a time great lovemaking throughout Europe. So much so that basically everyone had syphilis. And without modern medicine, this meant—for many—open soars, blindness, dementia and baldness. Of these, Europeans found baldness to be the least tolerable.

So when the kings of England and France had dueling syphilae microbes laying waste to their follicles, they commissioned local wig makers to fix the problem. But the dementia among the syphilitic wig makers led to massive, curly beasts for the head, powdered with fragrances to mask the various olfactory offenses flowing through court.

“Bigwigs” then galavanted throughout the continent until a tax was levied on wig powder in 1795, whereupon all sex stopped, and natural hair got its European reboot.

How the Dodge Brothers Ruined Everything

I once walked into a friend’s new apartment, which he had decked out with black leather couches from a yard sale. “This,” he confessed, “is my American Asshole furniture.”

The phenomenon of the American asshole may have begun in 1919, with the Dodge brothers. The day after attending Henry Ford’s son Edsel’s wedding, they sued Ford (in whom’s company they owned a 10% stake).

Ford had wanted to use his extra profits to raise employee wages and hire more people. The Dodges argued in their suit that a corporation’s only responsibility was to increase shareholder value. They won, of course.

The Dodge brothers: American assholes.

And So the Tenth Watch is Upon Us

The longest running lab experiment in history, according to the Guinness Book of World Records, began in 1927. Professor Thomas Parnell set out to prove that pitch, in this case natural asphalt, which shatters like glass when you hit it with a hammer, is in fact an extremely slow-moving liquid.

Since the experiment’s inception, there have been nine drops. Parnell survived to see two of them. The first seven drops were, on average, about 8 years apart. The last two were spread out by 13 years.

Until the last drop, the ninth. on April 24, 2014, no one had ever directly witnessed a drop. The next one is due in 14 years.

The Vickers Manuscript

After Trish Vickers lost her sight to diabetes, she strapped a bunch of rubber bands around a clipboard and used them as guides to write a 110,000 book in longhand. Every week, her son would come over and read to her what she wrote, but one time she gave him 27 blank pages. Her pen had run out of ink during a burst of inspiration.

The forensics lab of the local police spent 5 months extracting the information and saved her work.

On March 9, 2017, the first copy of her book, Grannifer’s Legacy, arrived at her door. She lost a battle with breast cancer the same day.

The Sassi Can’t Find their Paperwork

Human troglodytes lived uninterrupted in these half-caves in Italy from 7,000 B.C. to the 1950s. They shared ovens and harvested rainwater in complex networks of porcelain pipes. They hung curtains and swept everyday.

Roughly 411 generations of recipes, feuds, love stories, fist fights, palace intrigues, tribal justice, rain, gods, births, sorrows, dawns, wars, inventions and handshakes… before they were kicked out for being poor.

Unpaid Interns, a short film

The inestimable Matthew Humphreys at Pace University’s School of Performing Arts had the deranged notion to give me six of his acting seniors, a camera, a theatre building, a snowy weekend in February of 2017 and carte blanche.

The result—when combined with my hatred for plutocracy—was my second short film, Unpaid Interns.

This is the trailer (full film below the jump):

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The Isthmus of Potential and the OK Plateau

In 600 B.C., construction began on a paved trackway at the Isthmus of Corinth, which became known as the Diolkos. Wheel ruts of the exact gauge of then-modern wagon wheel axles were built in to the road, so that boats and other heavy industry could be carted from Ionian Sea to the Aegean Sea without having to sail around the Peloponnese peninsula, windy as its headlands were.

Until then, wheel ruts were an annoying fact of ancient life. And would continue to be for millennia thereafter. Wheel ruts dug themselves into the Oregon Trail and other routes to the American West leaving such deep scars that it became difficult for subsequent wagon trains to travel anywhere else on these roads but exactly in these carved out trenches.

When someone feels they are “in a rut,” they are referring, knowingly or not, to this phenomenon of following a predetermined route and being carried forward as if on autopilot.

And the problem is that this is what the brain wants us to do. The Greeks got the idea for the Diolkos from the natural behavior own brains.

In 1967, research psychologists Paul Fitts and Michael Posner, who were studying Human Performance Theory at the University of Oregon, published a landmark finding in which they identified the three phases of learning a new skill.

The first is the cognitive phase, in which “it is usually necessary to attend to cues, events and responses that later go unnoticed.” Our brains are on overdrive, building new scaffolding through which to fire this new complex task. I was briefly a mediocre rock drummer in college (I couldn’t do fills or I’d end up on the wrong hand, so songs could only start... and then stop), and I noticed as I tried to learn a new groove—with each limb doing something completely different—that the beat stayed impossible day after day until, suddenly, it wasn’t, and suddenly I could sit down and do it without thinking or counting in my head. It was as if my brain was building lots of semi-complete rope bridges and then, one night, finishing them all at once while I slept. That was the threshold between the first cognitive phase into the second ‘associative’ phase.

The associative phase is for gradually eliminating mistakes, such as “grossly inappropriate subroutines, wrong sequences of acts, and responses to the wrong cues.” Learning morse code and keeping an aircraft out of the trees each take about ten solid hours in this phase before you’re off to the races. This is the point where my band-mates could say something to me on stage and I wouldn’t accidentally speed up the tempo when I tried to respond (this was never successfully achieved).

The final autonomous phase is the one in which the skill becomes so reflexive that a human can then re-deploy brain cognition to a new task at the same time. Drummers who can make both of their feet and their left hand hold a 6/8 rocking-motion pattern while tinging out a 4/4 or some sort of satanic 9/8 shit on the bell of the ride are perfect examples of the autonomous phase. Apache Helicopter pilots fly with a monocle over their right eye projecting into it dashboard readouts and radar information while the left eye looked out the windshield. Pilots complain of instant splitting headaches as their eyes and brains adjust to segregated tasks. But after a year of training—a year—the headaches go away. They can also by this point bend spoons with their minds.

Here's the rub: our brains constantly want to usher us into the autonomous phase. It wants news skills to become automatic as quickly as possible so we can look up from clubbing wheat stalks long enough to see a tiger slinking toward our tribe. Evolutionarily, that’s a good thing for survival, and in the case of Apache pilots and Clyde Stubblefield, hot damn, but for the rest of us it means we tend to level off and stop improving at a certain point in the process of learning something new.

Fitts and Posner called this "The OK Plateau."

As we acquire skills our brains are champing at the bit to be like, great, that's a roger. This level of ability will do just fine. Because, of course, tigers. The human brain is basically the worst high school football coach of all time. Look, kids, just catch the thing when what’s-his-name decides to throw it at you and run away from whoever wants the ball. Does... does that guy in the parking lot look like a process server? Okay, we’re done here you guys, watch some games on Youtube this week and I’ll see you on Saturday.

Chess, piano, driving, cooking, not being an asshole, our brains move us on to the next skill as soon as our current level won’t get us killed. And it sets up our egos to be pissed off at the suggestion that there may be more to learn. Because tigers.

But then how are there virtuosos like Bernini and Maria Callas and Bill Burr?

The only way to short circuit the inevitable mediocrity our brains lock us into is to decide to deliberately fail, and to then hungrily study yourself failing. Know that it will happen, that it must if you’re ever going to get any better at something, and be hungry for feedback. I always marvel at major league pitchers, who are under massive pressure as it is, and then the whole game has to stop while the pitching coach comes out and tells him his tempo is off, or that thing he does with his hips is showing up, or he’s rushing through his early checkpoints, and the pitcher usually just takes the note, totally hungry for it. But in his position with 60,000 people staring at me waiting for me to get my shit together, I would just be like, “dude, I KNOWWW!”

But that’s the trick. The best figure skaters spend most of their practices on their ass. Chess grand masters devour their previous false moves, retroactively scrutinizing their precise moments of psycho-intellectual weakness despite not being able to go back in time and fix it. When I leave my dishes in the sink all day only to discover it’s been bothering my wife the whole time, I come unglued at not having a time machine to rectify the situation. (Okay, that was a younger me. Marriage and fatherhood have, in a very good way, broken my ego’s spirit. Now I just very lovingly tell her “that sounds like a YOU problem,” and go back to writing this sentence. Ahem. [*Cracks knuckles*])

When we start to pick up a new skill, our brains immediately start digging a diolkos, preparing for the moment where it can lock us into mediocrity, from the Ionian of noob to the Aegean of meh. But we can’t get better with the wheels locked in the tracks. Because as Vsevelod Meyerhold probably never said, “you can’t get better and look good at the same time.”

We have to fail.

We have to fail hard.

And we have to get horny for failure.

Expertise and success are then merely by-products of our new, weird masochistic fetish. So the next time you meet the world’s foremost expert in something, you can win their heart by saying, “I’m so disappointed in you.” Nine times out of then they’ll respond, “ugh, me too. Let me buy you a drink.”

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The Grapevine and the Wedding Ring

Two friends of mine were driving on the Grapevine, which is a braided ribbon of highway climbing over the hills one hour north of Los Angeles. They were high school sweethearts, they had just gotten engaged, and they were in the middle of a knock-down-drag-out fight over something neither of them can now remember.

At one point, the bride-to-be had had it, she rolled down the window, and she chucked her engagement ring as far as she could.

As soon as she did, they stopped fighting. They forgot all about their squabble, and they yanked the car to the shoulder to find it.

But after hours, they couldn’t.  Dusk fell and they had to give up.

They tried to laugh it off and told themselves they didn’t like that ring anyway.

But over the years that followed, on separate occasions unbeknownst to the other, they each rented metal detectors and headed back up the Grapevine in the hopes of remembering the spot and striking gold. But they both failed.

On their fifth anniversary, they once again happened to be driving up the grapevine. They laughingly confessed to each other they’d both been back with metal detectors. Then they tried to remember the spot. And they began to argue once again about exactly where it was.

Now heated, they pulled over, got out and started walking.

And there was the fucking ring...

Haecceity (hex-AY-idee) is our impulse to assign uniqueness to something despite the existence of identical copies.

It is the this-ness of things.

We gradually replace every cell in our bodies every seven years—each of us is quite literally a different person than the one we were when Obama was elected—and yet we have the sense that we are still uniquely us.

The Sistene Chapel might be restored over the centuries, but it remains in our minds the work of Michelangelo.

Despite a world where everything is duplicating itself all the time, where the very basest urge operating within every living thing is to simply procreate a copy of itself, we nevertheless have the insatiable desire for the genuine article.

“It succinctly captures most people's intuitions about authenticity that are increasingly threatened by the development of new technologies,” says Bruce Hood, chair of psychology at the University of Bristol.

But every day I watch my son grow attached to sticks and pieces of litter he brings home, and then devastate him when it’s time for the litter to go in the trash. Totaled cars, phones in puddles, and moving days demand these micro-funerals in our minds at the weigh stations of life’s relentless march forward.

Attachment to things we value, said the Buddha, and I’m paraphrasing, is an unending pain in the ass. The brutality of loss, or even loss through change, is a constant source of anxiety when we choose to assign meaning to things. But we cannot seem to stop doing it.

In my first month of grad school, I passed the dean on the street and he said, “hey Brendan, come meet Fiona Shaw with me.” Fiona Shaw is a powerhouse Irish actress of stage and screen and I leapt at the chance. At the talk, she spoke among other things about mastering accents for her screen roles, and specifically about the differences between English, Irish and American accents.

“It makes perfect sense that the British invented iambic pentameter,” she said, “because they are AB-so-LUTE-ly SURE that THEY are RIGHT.” We laughed hard. “The Irish, meanwhile, speak in D minor... wouldyoulikeacupoftea?” her voice trailed of into the distance so we could barely hear the word tea. “Americans,” she said, “emphasize possessions,” and she began pointing at imaginary things around the room, “house... car... boat...”

As Americans, nouns are our sickness. John Steinbeck explained why socialism never took root here by pointing out that we see ourselves “not as an exploited proletariat, but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.” We are cursed with a compulsion to assign meaning to things, but in so doing exclude the reality that everything will change. Time, the element that allows us to recognize change, is against us.

Everything we care about is in the very urgent process of rotting into the earth.

“In the end,” writes Alan Lightman, “you cannot defeat the odds. You might beat the house for a while, but the Universe has an infinite supply of time and can outlast any player.” That thing you love, temporarily held together on a molecular level by bubble gum and prayer, has an impending appointment with atomization.

So what the fuck do we do? We can’t all become Buddhists, we’re dyed-in-the-wool capitalist pigs whether we like it or not. So if we must assign meaning to nouns, the odd verb, and maybe a quality or two, I’ve tabled out how it might go down...

The challenge, therefore, seems to be welcoming the inevitability of change into the picture. Starting from the temporary nature of all things, and assigning meaning from there, seems to be the only sane way to have a shoebox of keepsakes.

We have to eliminate our notion of time as the enemy.

This thing I'm holding is future dust, and I know that now, before I've committed any emotion to it, but it will be here for precisely 100% of the duration that it will. And in that window, I will love it. After that window, I will fondly remember it and know that this time that it's gone was always on the way. And that it would arrive too soon, as it always does.

As it always does.

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Let’s Murder the Moonlight

On the morning of October 15, 1908, Italian poet Filippo Tomasso Marinetti was speeding down Via Dormodossola in Milan. Rounding a sharp corner, two cyclists on penny-farthings blocked his way and he had no option but to veer into a ditch. His Runabout flipped twice and he was briefly knocked unconscious. When he awoke and was pulled to safety by the cyclists, he announced to them that having been a step away from death, he now knew we had nothing to fear from speed, that speed was the greatest thing to happen to man, and he resolved right there that his next move would be to launch an artistic movement.

Filippo Tomasso Marinetti was a nutcase.

Attending the wedding of some friends a few years prior, his toast took the form of an epic poem he'd composed for the occasion, entitled The Bleeding Mummy, which recounted, to the stupefied guests, the story of a pharaoh's daughter waking each night to beg the moon for her dead lover's body to be restored, so they could get it on in their crypt.

His play King Hoot depicted a decadent castle being overthrown by hungry peasants, who cannibalize their king and then have an orgy, but due to engorgement wind up vomiting up the king's body parts, which reconfigure themselves back to life.

His poem The Conquest of the Stars laid out the epic battle between the sea and the sky, and depicted the stars as offensively loitering in the balconies of the firmament.

In those days Art Nouveau was all the rage, and it drove him insane. As if in contrarian reaction to the half century of industrial progress that had transformed Europe beyond all recognition in just one lifetime, the artists of Art Nouveau exalted nature and the feminine. You can feel the dichotomy of the period at any entrance to the Paris subway system, where flowing curlicues and ornate decoration provide intense contrast to the deafening clamor of the iron horse below.

The future, it seemed to Marinetti, and speed, and machines, and war, and all things loud, and harsh, and mechanical, were getting a bad rap. "I suddenly felt," he would later write of his time laying in the roadside ditch, under his Runabout, "that all the poems, articles, and debates were no longer sufficient. A change of method was absolutely imperative: to get down into the streets, to attack the theaters, and to bring the fist into the midst of the artistic struggle.”

It was time for a manifesto.

He gathered his Like Minded People and they goaded each other into a deep loathing of everything old and traditional. They decided to love the future, to love technology, science and industry, to love war ("the world's only hygiene"), and to love originality, however daring, however violent. They proudly bore "the smear of madness," and resolved to destroy all museums, libraries and academies.

They were the original chaos Muppets of the art world.

The Futurist Manifesto would appear, through a family connection, on the front page of France's paper of record Le Figaro on February 20, 1909. “We stand,” wrote Marinetti, “on the last promontory of the centuries. Why should we look back, when what we want is to break down mysterious doors of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday! We already live in the absolute, because we have already created eternal omnipresent speed. Up to now, literature has exalted a pensive immobility, ecstasy and sleep. We intend to exalt aggressive action, a feverish insomnia, the racer’s stride, the mortal leap, the punch and the slap.”

The Manifesto was hotly debated throughout Europe. The arts were meant to be a somewhat effete counterbalance to the dead-eyed and shark-like march of progress. The past was meant to be the subject of nostalgia, sentimentality and longing. To focus on the low and brutish and loud, and to reject the past masters sent a chill through quiet and snobby galleries across the continent.

The Futurist movement gathered steam and expanded into all the arts: literature, drama, the visual arts, music, architecture, photography, film, dance, fashion, advertising, and even cooking. Futurism became a juggernaut because it was not simply a collection of loosely connected aesthetic preferences, but rather a systematic interpretation of modern society that examined the elemental relationship between art and power.

The Futurists took over theaters and held Sintesis (Italian for syntheses), where they would sell ten tickets for one seat in the hopes a fight would break out. At showtime, they would only raise the curtain to the actors knees and then begin, drawing a surge of angry jeers and projectiles from the gallery. When they did finally raise the curtain all the way, they would attempt to perform all of Shakespeare's plays simultaneously, crowding the stage with a mad cacophony of shouting actors. They would cover the floorboards with soap to create amusing pratfalls during otherwise tender moments. They would cover some seats with glue, so that patrons would not be able to stand at the end of the night without disrobing. The real show, the Futurists knew, was in the reactions of the audience.

The Futurists tore shit down. Marinetti would welcome new artists to the movement saying, "we Futurists are young artillerymen on a spree, as we proclaimed in our manifesto, 'Let’s Murder the Moonlight!' fire + fire + light against the moonlight and war every evening against the aging firmaments, great cities to blaze with electric signs." They wrenched the direction of societal gaze from the bygone past to the bold a beautiful future. The Bolsheviks in Russia took it up as a favorite theme.

It was to be one hell of a century.

But then the atrocities of World War One that soon followed would fairly quickly render the Futurist love of war somewhat naive and childish. And the movement's nationalistic tendencies probably fueled the rise of Mussolini and Italian Fascism. And it's views on women and feminism were pretty gonzo. Futurism finally petered out in the wake of the horrors of the Final Solution, with George Orwell's 1984—a crucial anti-fascist, anti-futurism manifesto that instilled in public discourse an appropriate suspicion of nationalism, love of war and glorification of the future—driving the final nail. Thereafter, any depiction of the future has been dutifully cast as a cautionary tale.

For the relative innocence of its time, Futurism served as an important expansion of scope in the world of art, but it's popularity and subsequent delegitimization in the wake of two horrifying world wars seem to have stigmatized the future itself along with it, and made it something to dread. Hollywood unanimously considers the future a dystopian hellscape. The Matrix, Mad Max, Wall-E. Everything is going to be horrible. I write this eleven days before one of the shallowest and most horrifying examples of the worst of humanity will assume his position of the leader of the free world and probably promptly end it.

But every generation on Earth presumes itself to be the last. The biggest tenet of Christianity is based around the any-second-now return of its prophet, and most Republican foreign policy regarding Israel is intended to hasten these prophesied end times. Doomsday scenarios pervade the concept of our collective destiny, and a sad by-product of this is that it engenders a certain disregard for any future generation beyond our grandchildren. Which is partly an understandable function of human life expectancy—I would be hard pressed to give you the first name of any of my great-great-grandparents, and I doubt they gave the idea of me much thought—but this is also a pretty major copout.

What if, ten generations from now, the world isn't a dystopian nightmare of scorched Earth? What if there are still humans (albeit thirsty ones) striving to win their days, be better, lift the odd nearby spirit and tend their planet? What if it doesn't actually look that different than today? (Ancient Rome had banks and schools and jobs and restaurants and indoor plumbing, for Pete's, it's not like they were drinking blood from skulls.) And what if some of these future people are your direct descendants?

Focussing on the past, preserving its essence, longing for its return, lamenting the profanity of the present in favor of the its sacredness, these are all reinforcing the reality that we are marching backwards into the future. Yes, the future is a red-headed stepchild we inherit without asking for it... yes, it's a pain in the ass to tend to (my son Oscar takes baths like a golf ball, in a Home Depot bucket, it's fun for no one)... yes, the future may be pretty bleak regardless of our actions, but that's what everyone has always thought. It's a pretty tired paradigm.

Filippo Tomasso Marinetti may have been a certifiable lunatic, but his revolutionary befriending of the Future was a direct valentine to you and I, right now, from someone who would never meet us, across an uncertain century.

No one thinks that way. Most default to wallowing in the exquisite and self-centered misery of witnessing the end of the world, which then tacitly excuses all of our moments of paralysis when we could be looking after our great-great-great-grandchildren.

I'll leave you with a taste of that exquisite paralysis.

The late, great David Bowie's 1972 concept album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars opens with a ballad (in 6/8, the most persuasive of all time signatures) about receiving the news that we are all on borrowed time, called Five Years. Listening to it, one first goes into a reverie about how they would live if they found out the world would end five years hence. But then it dawns on you that he was ballparking armageddon it around 1977, and the whole enterprise feels quaint and silly.

Sure, Marinetti was a kook with a juvenile love of war. But I'm with him when it comes to championing the future, the greatest underdog of all.

And now... Five Years by Davie Bowie, who's album cover predicted the rise of Kanye West.

Pushing through the market square, so many mothers sighing
News had just come over, we had five years left to cry in
News guy wept and told us, earth was really dying
Cried so much his face was wet, then I knew he was not lying

I heard telephones, opera house, favorite melodies
I saw boys, toys electric irons and T.V.'s
My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare
I had to cram so many things to store everything in there

And all the fat-skinny people, and all the tall-short people
And all the nobody people, and all the somebody people
I never thought I'd need so many people

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ObjtVdsV3I
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