Gleaming the Blog

Do any of y'all remember the 1990 movie Pump Up the Volume with Christian Slater and Samantha Mathis? In it, Slater played a troubled high school kid who used a pirate radio broadcast to rant about the scandals and angst that ran rampant at his school. As Hardcore Harry, Slater talked about homosexuality, suicide, rape, teachers getting you down, all while smoking, playing middling nineties music, smoking, ripping off the beatnik schtick, and yes, more smoking. The end of the film finds Slater getting arrested for fucking with FCC, and going away to jail while legions of his loyal fans, and fellow students, all watch him get hauled off. The last scene is a view of the cityscape in this sleepy California town while listening to every teen sign on to his own pirate radio station. "Hey, this is Mad As Hell, and you're listening..." "What's up, this is Kaotic Chic, and you're listening...." etc.

Here's my problem with this ending: Everyone's talking, but no one's listening. If everyone has their own station that they run at night, then there is no audience anymore. I assume this scene is meant to show how inspirational Slater's character was, and how he created a revolution of sound, man. That this class of kids is gonna change the way shit's goin down, and finally they'll be able to openly and honestly vent their feelings. But the irony is that Allan Moyle, the writer/director, has created an elegant metaphor for the problem of this modern world, including teenagers: Everyone's talking, everyone's finally saying just how they feel, but no one's listening to them. And sure, it feels great to just scream out yer problems, and rant and rave just for the sake of ranting and raving. Angst qua Angst can be quite satisfying. But if everyone's hoping to change the situation they find themselves in, and to alter the world for the better, then we all have to do our share of listening, too. Think of the rise of reality television: we all want to be seen and heard. We all want to be our existences validated, our pain to be felt, our jokes to be deemed "hilarious!"

And that makes me think of blogging. Up until, well, about yesterday, I was pretty sure that about three people read this thing. Ever. But still I wrote in it. Bemoaning this fact or this problem. Bitching about some other facet of my existence. But I was doing it just for myself. I wasn't doing it to really change anything, or improve conditions. I was just typing out of angst, silliness, and boredom. And, truth be told, I never read anyone else's blog, except for Zach Braff's and Jackson Publick's. But now I am reading other blogs. Following the cues of an intelligent woman, I now "blog hop" (you kids and your crazy terms these days) and just surf around, reading random bits here and there. I read Pure Prattle and other blogs that my friends have created (and that I just found out about). So I'm doing my share of listening, I feel. I mean, not that a person who expounds on the genius of Gleek, the blue monkey from the Superfriends cartoon, can really be seen as a societal gadfly, but still.

I guess my point is solipsistic rage, this myopic anger, can be very dangerous and ultimately isolating. Branch out everyone.

Of course, if you're reading this, you're already branching out. Thus rendering the whole point of this entry moot.

...

Well, I'm an idiot.