THE GREAT 'ALEXANDER'

Oliver Stone, whose new film ALEXANDER has been universally derided by American critics, was on a promotional tour in Europe this week, where he stated that one of the reasons for the lack of success back home was that Americans did not know their history as well as the Europeans did.

It sounded like a pretty feeble defense -- until I watched ALEXANDER, and loved it, and realized that Stone is right.

ALEXANDER is pure Oliver Stone -- melodramatic and forceful and over-the-top and the opposite of subtle. If you hate Oliver Stone, you'll probably hate this film.

I'm no Alexander the Great expert. I just finished reading one book on the guy (by Robin Fox, who was Stone's advisor), but it gave me a sense of the man and the context to understand the world in which he lived.

Almost all of other people's criticisms of the movie are attributes to me -- the narration by Anthony Hopkins, the episodic nature of the script, the emotional anguish of Alexander.

Particularly that last point. A lot of critics have stated that Colin Farrell does nothing but weep and moan throughout the movie.

All very true. But let's look. Let's look at what made Alexander particularly revolutionary. He agonized over his troops deaths'. He praised them before battle. He respected his defeated adversaries. He actually cried over his men. This is all historically accurate. This is what helped build the Alexander legacy. And this is what Stone gets chided for.

What Stone does, brilliantly, I think, is illuminate a period of history that will be little understood by those who watch the film if they don't have some basic knowledge of what events of that time were like. Is it Stone's responsibility to provide that context?

Well, yes and no. He does offer some historical information to set the scene, but how much can you give in a movie like this? I saw J.F.K. when I was sixteen, and I'd say sixty percent of the sixties' social context depicted in the flick went right over my head like a missle. Didn't affect my enjoyment of the film.

The difference here, I think, is that this is a story set long, long ago, before Christ. It deals with social customs and political ideals that are substantially different than what we now know. It's a time and an era that he has brought to life splendidly well, but I don't think a lot of people will have the patience or interest to sit through it, unfortunately -- it will seem baroque, unwieldy, sometimes silly.

All very well and good, but how is it as a movie?

This is my take on it. The film is called Alexander -- not 'Alexander the Great'. I think that's key. The Alexander from myth and history remains just that -- mythic. Somewhat ethereal. Not quite real. Stone has gone back and tried to imagine, conceptualize, depict, what it would be like for Alexander, himself, to come of age with his burden and his destiny. Stone depicts the boy and the man inside of the myth -- the tears and the rage and the confusion and the bloodlust. What would it be like to be considered the son of Zeus and the son of the most powerful man in the world? What would that do to you? Stone goes inside of the myth to try to bring forth Alexander.

If people don't like the film, fine. That's their perogative. But to see the joy that most critics' feel in dismissing a work that, for me, overflows with adolescent guts and passion and energy and grace is more than sad; it's debilitating. It smacks of cynicism and snarkiness and everything vile that growing old represents. Much of Alexander's life, and this film, focuses on the inevitability of glory's death, the long, inescapable fall that follows all those who seek to soar higher than the rest.

Perhaps, to some, this film is an example of that -- Stone's hubris expanded one last and final (?) time.

Not for me. For me, this film is an example of epic thinking. I think it has bravado and heart. It is long and slow, melodramatic and bloody. It dares to depict simple, primal thoughts. It beats with the heart of young dreamers. In its grandiosity, it practically invites the scorn it has received.

Let people scorn. The irony, I think, is that the young, who know very little about the present, let alone the past, will this film, and be intrigued, mystified, perplexed. They will want to know more about this strange man named Alexander. They will search the net, go to the library, explore. Somewhere in the world, a twelve or thirteen or fifteen year old boy or girl, just beginning to think of concepts like destiny and adventure, power and ambition, will see this film, and be enthralled, and marvel at one whose ambition knew no bounds, and whose desire, in all its multifaceted glory, had no territory or limits. They will, perhaps, wonder about those same qualities in themselves.

This film is for the young and the dreamers.

A JOLIE GOOD TIME...

Angelina Jolie appeared last night on this British discussion show called HARDTALK, which is, as the name implies, usually pretty hardhitting, politcally divisive stuff, meaning that the host grills the guests over the coals until they either cry 'uncle' or the program gives way to a commerical -- only this was a big-time-beautiful-famous-Hollywood-actress-kind-of- guest, so the questions were soft, sensitive, sympathetic. (I think the host was probably hoping to sleep with her, actually...)

They discussed her work with the UN, which mostly involves serving as a spokeswoman for various international causes related to issues involving landmines, refugees, etc. She has been to Sudan and Sierre Leone and basically every other horrible place on the earth, although she hasn't hit Welland, Ontario yet. (Maybe after the Fallujah thing settles down for good?)

She also talked quite a bit about Cambodia; she has an adopted Cambodian son, and has built a house up in Battambang province, although I'm not too sure how often she stays there. (I'm betting bi-annually, for a week or so at a time.) A few months back she was here in Cambodia, meeting with Prime Minister Hun Sen, flashing that Joker-smile of hers, talking carefully about how she would consider quite sincerely their offer of Cambodian citizenship. Last night on the British show she said she would accept it, so I guess she's decided to take the plunge and tie herself even further to the country.

There's two ways to look at celebrities like Jolie: 1) That she's a publicity desperate, emotionally
starved egotistical actress who is desperate for attention; or 2) That she's a genuinely good person who has led a life of extreme privilege, was gradually made aware of the fact that there's a wider, more severe world out there, and then, given what she has, and what is able to give, decided to do something about it.

I choose the latter explanation. Yes, she's probably spoiled, and arrogant, and condescending. (But aren't we all?) And it seems somewhat hypocritical to fly in and out of these places for a brief inspection tour of misery and carnage.

At the same time, as she herself said in interview, she found it hard to believe that people would think that she did all of this work with refugees, flew all over the world, witnessed all of this heartbreak, just so she could pretend that she enjoyed helping people. That's what it boils down to, I think; she's helping people. Not as much as the aid workers who give their lives, no, but she draws attention to causes, and arouses curiosity in young people, and perhaps sheds a little light, gets a little news time, for issues that would otherwise be neglected if a gorgeous film star wasn't discussing them through pouty, bee-stung lips.

And I can guarantee that the people she meets in refugee camps (and in Cambodia itself) do not hold any grudges whatsoever against her. They are poor, and they need help, and they see this foreign woman who would like to talk to them, listen to them, perhaps comfort them. They are told that she is important; they understand that she will listen.

And she is there.

That seems to be the clincher. She doesn't have to do this stuff. I don't imagine it's easy touring the havoc of Sudan, and I can testify that it's not easy to witness the maimed and the emotion-
ally torn in Cambodia. It takes something out of you. It also puts something back INto you as well, something foreign and invigorating.

The next time a celebrity appears on t.v., by all means, hold them up to scrutiny. Ask yourself why they are doing this, and what they're getting out of it, and what we're supposed to view them as -- martyrs, opportunists, wankers.

But remember that somewhere in the world there was a little boy or girl (definitely poor, most likely starving) who talked to that celebrity, and perhaps they smiled, possibly even laughed, and for a moment or two, someone was there. Someone listened. That Hollywood star left, yes, flew up, up and away, into the blue, that's true, but it was a moment, nevertheless; it was real and genuine and heartfelt. And I think that the poor (and maybe all of us) live from moment to moment, so one instant in time carries more weight than you may imagine. One moment can carry everything.

EVIL'S DAUGHTER

A feature article in The Cambodia Daily last weekend profiled the life of a typical teenage girl living in the northern provinces of Cambodia, a pretty young student looking forward to leaving the simple, somewhat secluded rural life behind as she moves to the big city of Phnom Penh to pursue her dream of studying accounting at a university; the only unusual part of this story, the only somewhat disturbing part, is the identity of her father -- Pol Pot.

Yes, that Pol Pot, the deceased lunatic leader of Democratic Kampuchea, that bizarre visionary who attempted to create an agrarian utopia, a worker's paradise, and instead launched four years of torture, deprivation and starvation that killed two million Cambodians. He ended up somehow surviving into the late nineties, eventually dying of natural causes in rural Cambodia.

The fact that his daughter is still alive, and contemplating studying at a university here in Phnom Penh is more than a little strange -- it's downright surreal, if only because, up until a few months ago, I was teaching here, and she could very well have ended up in one of my classes.

Think about it. It'd be like Hitler or Stalin's kid coming to class. Come on in, pull up the chair, have a seat. And what does your father do?

I'm not sure how much this girl knows about what her father did. I'm not sure how many other people know her identity. From the article, she came across as being, well, typically Cambodian -- kind and simple and a little naive. There was even a recent picture of Pol Pot in his final years accompanying the article, looking very much like a benevolent, content old codger as he posed with a group of grinning children, teeth flashing white against their dark sin.

There have been a few letters to the paper the last few days, angry letters, in which this young girl is reminded that yes, yes, of course, she bears no responsibility for her father's actions. She is innocent, and deserves the right to get on with her life and become the best person she can. Yet the smiling, harmless elderly man in the photos was the butcher of Asia, and many, many Cambodians were robbed of their own photos of wide grins and white teeth, fathers, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, mothers, slaughtered and starved and their families deprived of mementoes, companionship, life. There were millions of people whose lives were ruined directly due to the actions of father -- and she has the obligation (if not the burden) of understanding who her father was, and what his affect on this land has been. I don't envy her, or her years ahead.

Cambodia is a country that seems to live in the present and draw comfort (and horror) from the past. The future is far-off land that may very well be reached, but getting there is not a priority. The majesty of the Angkor Wat temples is offset by the destruction of Pol Pot's regime, a brutal reign that has put the country back fifty, if not a hundred years. The whole nation is an open sore and a gaping wound; the psychological wounds are not only fresh, but piercing. You live for today and only today, seems to be the strategy, in politics and business and life.

And here is Pol Pot's daugther, somewhat oblivious, it seems, to her father's legacy and impact on her native land. She has a shy smile and dark hair and, most likely, a shoddy bicycle that she uses to ride the uneven, bumpy roads of her village. She was a child of a horror that had finished long before she was born, true, but she is coming of age, and learning about life, and there will come a point in the not-too-distant future when she will more fully understand where her bloodlines run.

She deserves a good life, a fulfilling life. She has the right to go to school, learn about computers, plan for her future. Should she come to Phnom Penh, I wish her many nights of shining stars and cool, comforting quiet as she idly walks along the banks of the Mekong, while the motos buzz past and the monks shuffle by.

But there may come a point in time, too, when five, ten, fifteen, a hundred people in the nation's capital will learn of her true identity. They may treat her with sympathy. They may treat her with malice.

She will not be ignored, of that I'm certain.

And, like it or not, whether it's fair or not, they will be seeking answers. Perhaps a nineteen, twenty, twenty-one year old girl cannot, could not and shouldn't have to provide solace for what they seek.

But they will ask, nevertheless.

And, while she does not have to answer for her father's horrors, she has to, at the very least, be aware of them, in all their inexplicable terror and complexity.

That's quite a task.

"I wish you good luck," is what Cambodians often say, and it's what I say to her.

In the years to come, as Cambodia lurches forward to whatever destiny provides for this land and its people, I think she'll be needing it.

DO WE KNOW IT'S THE KHMER NEW YEAR AT ALL? (AND DO WE CARE?)

I hear that there's a new version of that Christmas song Bob Geldof put together twenty years ago for famine relief in Africa, the one featuring every living pop star together in one room, singing for a lot of charity and a little publicity. (There was also a Canadian song that did the same thing for the same cause called 'Tears are not Enough', bringing together Geddy Lee and Kim Mitchell and Brian Adams together in the same room, and that image right there is well worth the price of admission and, besides, it's enough to make a grown man weep, it is. I'm not sure who our version of Bob Geldof was. Maybe Mr.Dressup?)

I always liked that Geldof song. Still do. It's catchy and seasonal, with a melody, point and purpose.

But there's one line that alwasy struck me as kind of odd. It's the one that goes: "Do they know it's Christmastime at all?"

Now, that line is about the starving people of Ethiopia, right? And I don't think Ethiopia is the most Christian of countries, although I'm sure the various missionary groups that are out and about are doing their virtuous best to convert the country (and the continent, and the world, and...)

So, the question is: Why would they know it's Christmastime? Why should they even care?

I'm nitpicking, to be sure, and what the hell, it's only a song, and a song written and performed for a worthy cause, so I'm not knocking it for that reason. And I know that the line seems to represent something more than the season itself, but the whole spirit of giving and family and love that season represents. Got all that. It just seems like that's a good example of a western sensibility mixing itself up in a decidedly non-western place.

I'm not sure Cambodia knows it's Christmastime. Well, that's not entirely true; there are a lot of stores here in Phnom Penh that cater to foreigners, so there are actually artifical Christmas trees assembled here and there, with actual Santa Claus hats on sale, should the urge arise to wear one of these caps in the hundred degree heat. And there are, of course, a fair share of Christians here, too, most of them recent converts (recent meaning the last ten years. There was even a newspaper article awhile back about how a fair number of ex-Khmer Rouge soldiers had suddenly found Christ in their later years. Funny how that is...)

Still, I'm almost forgetting it's Christmas. The air is hot and the sky is blue and there won't be snow around these parts for another, oh, never.

Do Cambodians know it's Christmastime?

Some of them, maybe a lot of them, do. They've met foreigners. They've watched t.v. They know the deal. Maybe not the specifics, no, but they get the gist.

Of course, this past year in Cambodia, like every other year, there's been the Festival of the Dead, and the Chinese New Year, and the Water Festival. (There was even, no joke, a National Hate Day until a few years back, where the public could freely express their hatred towards their former Vietnamese oppresors.)

Maybe the question for Africa and every other non-Christian nation shouldn't be 'Do they know it's Christmastime'?

Maybe the questions should be directed at Canada and England and Australia and New Zealand and America. We've exported our celebrations around the world; how many holidays and festivals have we imported? (Or are even aware of?)

Do we know it's the (Chinese New Year/Water Festival/insert any other foreign country's holiday here, including Iceland and Burkina Faso) at all?

Do we?

Do you?

THE SUPERMAN III DOCTRINE

Living in Cambodia and seeing the scarcity of jobs, and the nature of jobs that are available, brings home how utterly, well, silly some of the occupations back home come to seem upon reflection, none being sillier, as the Oscar ceremonies loom closer, than that of a film critic.

Don't get me wrong. Film criticism is a necessary art, helping to shape, confirm and evolve people's critical faculties, but man oh man, it's rarely practiced well, if at all, in the western press. (Come to think of it, isn't that a really awkward sounding phrase -- 'don't get me wrong'? After five years of teaching English, you begin to recognize, quite quickly, those phrases that really seem to make no grammatical sense at all. This is one of those phrases. Try saying it to a Japanese or Cambodian who speaks pretty good English, but is not quite up-to-date on the latest colloquialisms, and marvel at the blank, uncomprehending stare you'll receive. That's the fun part about teaching a foreign language -- you can notice, literally, the moment when comprehension shifts (or bursts) into incomprehension; you see the light suddenly expire from their eyes. I've noticed it too, when speaking to someone in Japanese; as you're listening, it's as if you're brain is counting off all the vocabulary and grammar that you know and comprehend, saying: "Got it...got it...got it...oooh, don't got it. Got it...don't got it..." But I'm getting a little off topic...)

This is the time of year when every film critic, large and small (and Roger Ebert has actually gotten very small, will wonders never cease) trots out their ten-best lists, which are really just an indicator of one person's particular taste.

One thing that particularly ticks me off, about these lists and about the Oscars themselves, is that there rarely, if ever, seems to be any kind of criteria involved in determining what is 'better' than something else.

Think about it. In almost any other kind of contest or competition, you have some kind of rationale or reasoning for why you make the decisons or judgements that you do. If an employer has to choose between two people for a job, he or she is going to do have to be able to articulate why this person was/was not hired at the expense of the other person.

But in choosing somebody for Best Actor or Best Actress, there's no criteria. There's no guide-lines. (And why are the men and the women separated anymore, anyways? I could understand fifty years ago, when the genders were more stratified. But c'mon, it's 2004; there's not a separate category for blacks and whites, fat and thin. Acting's acting, right? Yes, there are better parts available to men, but that doesn't seem enough of a valid excuse.) People pick whoever they want to pick, and we never know why, most of it probably being decided by gut instinct and emotion.

These emotions are what most critics fail to acknowledge, however, as I've talked about previously on this blog. But emotions, and life, real life, are always somehow subordinated when talking about art and its effects on us. The personal is annihilated when it should be put back centre stage.

Let's put it this way.

The reason why movies affect us is because they slam us full-force with an intellectual or emotional wallop. They force us to think, laugh, cry -- whatever. Our reactions are tied into our own situation in life, our reaction to the world around us, our hopes and fears and anxiety about the job interview we have later in the day.

There's a deeper level, though, that a lot of these 'lists' don't acknowledge. They choose a film for its craftsmanship, its message, its embodiment of what cinema can and can't do. But there's more, more, more...

Take Superman III.

Generally regarded as inferior to the first two flicks in the series, while only marginally better the universally derided fourth film. (Which I kind of like, actually, but that's for another blog, the one that'll be about wrongly neglected sequels. I also like Cannoball Run II and Star Trek V: The Final Frontier, so sue me. And, believe it or not, the sequel to American Graffitti titled, unoriginally, More American Graffitti, is not half bad...)

I saw Superman III when I was seven years old. I saw it in the theatre. I saw it on a big, big screen. I saw it again at a drive-in, along with Twlight Zone: The Movie. I remember all of this because Superman III was the coolest, wickedest, most awesome experience a seven year old can have.

In fact, I liked it so much that I bought (or my parents bought, most likely) the novelization of the film, and read it while lounging by the pool at the Aladdin Inn in Daytona Beach, Florida, me with a Pac-Man visor perched on my head, Superman with his hands full, trying to outwit that massive computer he was up against.
(There's a picture of me reading the book, wearing the visor, chilling.)

So what does all this mean?

It means that at one point in time you were a seven-year old, too, and there were movies, books, comics, music and experiences that not only rocked your world but formed your world. They were the best and brightest things in it. And we all grow up (whether we like it or not), and we learn critical standards, and we judge our past by the present, to a large degree, whether it's films we're looking at or our relationships to the people and society around us.

And so if you watch Superman III again, and you are no longer a seven-year old kid who likes to wear a Pac-Man visor, then you will notice things that you didn't notice at that age -- plot holes, bad effects, questionable acting. The inner critic in you will make its voice heard.

I tend to ignore that inner critic.

Superman III still rocks.

The real critics, the ones who get paid, seem to lose sight of all our quirky likes and dislikes, our idiosyncratic reasons for like what we do. They want to leech the joy and irreverance out of our own opinion. They want to pretend that there are, in fact, universal standards of grading and determining excellece.

There isn't. There is you, and a movie screen (and a life, too, if you're lucky) and your own dynamic, weird and individual way of reacting and responding to what unfolds before you. Critics always move in herds; the mainstream critics like the same ten, fifteen movies, and the avant-garde critics tend to like the same ten, fifteen movies. Why is that? Because they're responding to what they think they should be responding to.

If one of them, for once, actually bucked the herd and said that he picked Police Academy IV: Citizens on Patrol as the best movie of the year, not because of its craftsmanship or its thematic relevance to the world today, no, but because it reminded him of when he was a kid and how he wanted to be a cop, and how, as a kid, he used to like goofy physical comedy, and this film blended those two elements just right, in a way that he would have loved (and still does), and, besides that, it was a nice day, a glorious spring afternoon, and the Coke was cold and the buttery popcorn was hot and the air-conditioning was turned up just right, and the speakers amplified that wonderful rousing Police Academy music to just the right decibel, all of this occuring only hours after his kid came home with a report card featuring a B+ in history, a B+ for the first time ever in ANY subject, and that was the capper, right there, the perfect ending to a lovely day and a suitable beginning for an evening of light, ludicrous entertainment that took him back, back to when he was a kid, dreaming of a future that promised a bright blue uniform and shining silver badge, if one of them said that, throwing out their cinematic and cultural pretentions and acknowledging the randomness of movies and life and all their time-bending, nostalgia-inducing processes, I'd eat my words and call it a day.

THE CASE OF THE MISSING LAMP

This is the single case involving Sherlock Holmes that I pledged never to reveal, not because of its sordidness (one becomes accustomed to that over the years), but rather due to accusations of vanity which I can already imagine being formulated -- that I, Watson, hid this account for so many years because it involved Holmes' arrest for murder, and my own successful investigation that resulted in his acquittal.

If you are reading this then I am most surely dead, as is Holmes, although the simple thought of Holmes somehow gone from this world strikes me as somewhat absurd. (Indeed, the very notion that he was once a stranger to me, and I to him, seems almost illogical.) I have carefully hidden these papers, and I know not where, or even if, they shall be discovered. I cannot even be certain that my present reader even remembers the very name 'Sherlock Holmes', given the precarious resting place of this document, although I would assume that not only his moniker but his brillance still lingers, if not resonates; the aura surrounding a person of the caliber of Holmes does not dim easily, I believe, even given the restless whims of tide and time.

These words are intended for my heirs, and their colleagues and associates, and, should the occasion present itself, for the people of London, who provided me with the sustenance and stamina to endure what we all endure on this mortal coil, until we can endure no more.

I write the following account (and this rather lengthy prelude) not to glorify my own ingenuity, for I have none. Having known Holmes for as long as I have, I cannot even pretend to compare my acuity and intelligence with his. To do so would not only be considered folly by all enlightened citizens, but crass, in my opinion an even greater and less forgivable sin.

Should I begin the narrative as concisely and intriguingly as I have all of my other accounts of Holmes' adventures, you may be misled into believing that this, too, is merely another unfathomable mystery that had the good fortune to be solved, only this time by myself. You may think you are about to be lulled into sleep by the comfort of a tale told well. I aim to deny you that comfort, because Holmes deserves nothing less than the truth, in all its ribald, untidy complexity. Never has a case depleted more from me physically, mentally and spirtually; and never has my respect and admiration for Holmes escalated more.

No, my intent is noble, and my conscience is at rest. There may come a point in time, through circumstances that have yet to be enacted, when the events of this particular winter's eve may come to light, despite the best efforts and assurances of the municipal authorities that they would be as fleeting as the mist that shrouds London each and every fortnight. I trust these gentlemen, I respect them, but nevertheless, one's own diligence and persistence should never be belittled or disparaged, even by oneself; this document will serve as a counterpoint
to any who dare besmirch the good name of my trusted confidant Holmes, a name and a legacy that, in trying to uphold, very nearly cost me my life.

Rumors have the tendency and the means to live long past the expiration point of their instigators; such being the case, I shall douse the flames of such an inferno before they have the chance to ignite.

So let me begin the tale of Holmes' unfortunate imprisonment, and my own efforts at redeeming the reputation of one whose unlikely life was nearly destroyed by the very city he did so much to protect...

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This was an extract from Dr.Watson's account of Sherlock Holmes' strangest, most unusual case (solved by Watson himself). This document was discovered in a London location (that must remain confidential) by the webmaster of canuckinasia.blogspot.com. Keep checking back periodically for further installments of this unusual tale...

IT'S A RIGHT-HANDED WORLD...(FOR NOW)

So you're seven years old, at the blackboard, answering a math equation. Maybe it's 2+2 = 4. Maybe it's 8-3=5. Doesn't matter. The point is, you're writing, and there's another student beside you writing, and you notice something. The side of their hand, the one this kid is writing with. It's clean. And then you look at your hand, at the soft layer of white dust blanketing the side of your hand stretching from your pinky finger to your wrist. (This section of the hand probably has a medical name, but I don't know what it is. I was absent that day in medical school. Actually, come to think of it, I was absent from medical school itself, wasn't I...) As you scribble your equation, your hand gently glides across what you wrote, smudging both the board and your flesh. Why doesn't it happen to the other kid? What's going on, here?

What's going on is left-handedness, and the curse of being a lefty in a righty's world.

(My brother Ted knows all about this. I'm writing this on his behalf, because he's too introverted to attempt a declaration as detailed as this one.)

There's an article in the current issue of that world-affairs-magazine-for-like-smart-people called The Economist, essentially making the argument that left-handedness may be more prominent in violent societies, because it is advantageous, in a fist-fight situation, to be a lefty; nobody knows how to fight a lefty. (It worked for Rocky against Apollo Creed, but then in Rocky II he switched from being a southpaw fighter to a right-handed fighter to confuse Apollo Creed even further, which was a pretty cool strategy, I admit, but I felt then, and feel now, that it betrayed Rocky's essential left-handed nature, but in some ways that was a moot point because by that point in the picture I was already confused, okay, because earlier in the movie Rocky signs an autograph from his hospital bed with his right hand, which made me think, wait a minute, is this guy an authentic lefty, meaning, does he write left or only fight left, or maybe it was an oversight on Stallone's part, a lapse in judgement and realism on the day of shooting, an embarassing insult to lefties the world over and a mistake that the director should have caught, but the director of Rocky II was Stallone himself, so I guess he's got a lot to answer for, is all I'm saying.) The better a fighter you are, the more impressive you are to chicks, so it's in a species favor to be a strongman.

Or something like that. Couldn't quite get the gist of the article, but the point is: Lefties can fight.

We have to. We learn early on that the world is not for us.

First of all, water fountains at school. Where is the switch-nozzle-thingee? On the right.

Next comes left-handed scissors. I always felt like I was mentally disabled in school having to ask the teacher if they had any left-handed scissors, you know, the ones with the green handle. 'Cause they always had scissors available (one or two, anyways), but they were usually for the corrupt, oppressive, right-handed majority. We got 'special' ones with green handles. Ooooooooh. (Actually, I shouldn't complain, because I learned in Japan that they don't have left-handed scissors at all there, so Japanese lefties are screwed, plain and simple, and Japan, like many Asian countries, still, I think, forces small kids to write with their right hand.)

Even gear shifts in cars are designed for righties. (In those countries that drive on the right, anyways.)

Point is, lefties learn early, yo, that it's not our world -- we're just visiting it. So I always notice, in films and on television, who's a lefty. Who writes with their left hand. Who wields a gun, uzi or otherwise, with their left. Who bats left and throws left. (Full disclosure -- I'm ashamed to admit that I was taught to bat like a righty. And golf like a righty. But I don't play either sport now --baseball or golf -- and I always, always throw left. And I bowl left, too. Proudly.)

I had a book as a kid full of famous lefties. A partial list:

Jack the Ripper. George Bush (senior). Marilyn Monroe. James Cameron. Amadeus. Eminem. Thomas Jefferson. Colin Powell. Glenn Gould. Hans Christian Anderson. James Baldwin. Richard Simmons. Jim Henson. Peter Jennings. Bob Dylan. David Letterman and Jay Leno. Franz Kafka. Beethoven. Ringo Starr. Fidel Castro. Jimi Hendrix. H.G.Wells. Phil Collins. James A.Michener. Helen Keller. Paul Simon. Celine Dion. (Uh, okay -- disregard that last one. Maybe we shouldn't be so proud of her, despite her Canadian heritage. My apologies.) John F.Kennedy. Ross Perot. Ronald Reagan. Bill Clinton. Spike Lee. Bruce Willis. John Irving. Julia Roberts (I think).

(Okay, maybe Jack the Ripper isn't the best role model for a lefty, but still -- you see what being a lefty can drive otherwise sane men to do?)

I mean, come one -- J.F.K. himself was a lefty. And is it a coincidence that three presidents in a row (Reagan, Bush, Clinton) were lefties? Not to mention the two dominant late-night television hosts (David Letterman and Jay Leno)? Lefties seek lofty heights. Lefties have battled adversity to triumph against all natural known (and unnatural) odds.

Despite the fame and respect lavished upon the above individuals, lefties are still seen as somewhat freakish. Left-handed hitters and pitchers and baseball are a pain in the ass. As are left-handed boxers. They're problems to be conquered, these people are, genetic abnormalities that are perceived, not as people, but as dilemmas.

Another thing: You ever try writing with a pen on a lined sheet of paper with your left hand? Once you write a sentence, that part of your hand between the pinky and the wrist will, inevitably, unavoidably, pass over what you have just written. And if the ink of your pen is the least bit malleable, or wussy-like, it will smudge. So after twenty minutes you will look down at the paper to gaze upon your intellectual ponderings, and you will see smitterings and smatterings and splotches and glotches of blue ink. If you're lucky, a few words are legible. You righties are able to look upon what you have just written in real-time as you glide your pen across the page, marvelling at your exquiste penmanship, at the elegant grace of your thoughts. Us lefties, on the other hand, look only outwards as we write, towards the future, leaving the words and their impact and their resonance behind, a gift for the reader, whoever he (or she) may be. (It's only afterwards that we go back and look, to reflect and consider, and we see that it's all an illegible mess, but hey -- we're forward thinkers, is all...)

Anyway, for all your righties out there, don't think that lefties don't have their act together. We're waiting. We're watching. We're aware when our accomplishments are diminished or disregarded, and we remember these oversights. (After all, Helen Keller was blind, deaf, mute and left-handed -- the last part always being omitted in her biography, and look what she accomplished. I would like to argue that being left-handed was her biggest, most grievious handicap, but in these politically sensitive times, I can't further that argument publicly. I just can't. I'd be put away, or shot, or killed, or worse.)

Just think about it -- that utterly innocuous person you see walking down the street may, in fact, unbeknownest to you, be left-handed. You may notice them nervously glancing at your wrists, both the right and the left, trying to determine exactly which one has a watch attached to it. If it's on your right wrist, you're okay. You're safe. You're one of us.

If it's on your left...

Just remember: We don't always give back those bright and shiny lime-green left-handed scissors. Sometimes we keep them. In our pockets. As we walk the streets.

You've been warned.