By Craig Joseph
Tyler Durden is exacting his revenge.
I used to love Fight Club, so much so that when Tim chose it this week, I had three versions on my DVD shelf from which to choose (and Palahniuk’s novel close by). Imagine my surprise, then, on sitting back to enjoy and finding the movie – well – kind of annoying. Maybe it’s because I’m a homeowner now and have – with pride – done my fair share of nesting. Perhaps we can blame Helena Bonham Carter; since my last Fight Club viewing, I’ve seen her ruin too many roles with her inherent weirdness and l long for the Merchant Ivory days (see next week). Likely, I’ve grown weary of the “angry-young-man-who-has-something-countercultural-to-say” motif. Whatever. Get over yourself. If we all LOVE Fight Club, it’s sort of lost its anti-establishment bite, guys.
It left me lukewarm. The film felt more like a study of mental illness than a revolutionary call to arms. And I wanted to stand up and applaud Edward Norton when he finally figures out that he’s “cray cray” and attempts to correct all the havoc that his (totally implausible) alter ego has wreaked. Go to therapy already.
And then, today happened.
I’m sitting at my desktop computer, at work, at 11:31 PM, writing this blog entry because my Mac – which has my original post on it – has been lost by an airline. (I fully expect to have it returned to me, vibrating.)
I’ve been here since about 8:30 AM – on and off – trying to get through a mountain of work on my desk that never seems to disappear. And I’m moving very slowly because of interruptions from needy customers, co-workers who insist on having the loudest conversations in the small room we call our work space, and a never-ending stream of technology that doesn’t work (yes: we’re a tech company.)
My plush house with very cool mid-century modern furniture and walls covered with art does very little to calm the bile that rises in my throat every night I go home. And my cute and cuddly canines only seek to piss me off when they won’t stop licking licking licking. I’m not generally a rage-filled person, but I find increasingly –on days like this – that not much assuages the desire I have to beat the crap out of something or someone.
In this frame of mind, I long to drink watered-down community center coffee, nuzzle in a pair of man tits, and tell someone the woes of my day, railing about how stupid the world is – and to have them agree wholeheartedly. And I don’t think I’d be above claiming to have a terminal illness if it meant that someone would slow down for a second and take me seriously. (What is blogging about anyway? Speaking into space, hoping that someone is listening and maybe being egocentric enough to believe they are.)
So, Tyler wins. Tonight I might just do something crazy. By the time you read this, I may have blown some shit up.
Or at least stolen towels from the fancy men’s restroom at the airport.