Thinking to myself all weekend I should be at the Olympic Games in Vancouver — “protesting” or filming other people protesting. Or even do something really gay like make a documentary about the people who go to protests to film other people protesting. (People only exist, you know, to the extent they believe they’re being videotaped. Protest itself has lost edge and the youth of today need an even more ironic, “meta” approach to society’s problems, like organizing their own visibility)
I worked all weekend, at the gay bar, and managed to squeeze in a few critical but sociable comments about the Games to the regular barflies. My weekend job is essentially to babysit lecherous drunkards who want to molest everyone around them and make their own videos about it. It makes it difficult to educate revolutionarily. And I’ve possibly heard every gay pickup line.
Whether they’re gay or straight it doesn’t matter, everything a 200-pound drunk male says is a metaphor for how much sex they want to have with you. Everything you say is a metaphor for how much sex they think you want to have with them. Talking, in fact, is a metaphor for fucking. But there is no metaphor. Talk is fuck. Communicate is fornicate. “I’ll have another drink if I can get a glass of you to come with it.”
But if the authors of “Politics is Not a Banana” can write pornograhpic critiques of election year strategies, make riots seem like holidays and orgies, and appeal to pop culture and critical theory in the same sentence… there’s got to be a sexy way to upend the discourse of rich, white, or military, gay men without losing tips or the job itself.
Everyone is so honestly brainwashed by the omnipresent propaganda of everyone else’s happiness, the problem with the Games is difficult to even perceive. It broadcasts the continuing appeal of nationalism. It is “normalcy” in high definition. If only there were an ideological “reset” button on everyone’s forehead it would make the task of situationist activity far less Herculean. But that is of course the difficulty with achieving revolutionary consciousness in everyday life, that everyday life is filled with alienated discourse. How can organizing the visibility of revolutionary combat not take the backburner when your job in capitalist society is to satisfy the demands of that capitalist society? When your job is to entertain, delight and indulge the spectacle of “This is my Real Life as if it were on television” at the gay bar?