Stumbled onto Psychedelic Zumba

Since I am trying to add a bit of exercise to my cheese-eating day, I have found Zumba to be a pleasant alternative to running on the treadmill with the aircon aiming right at the back of my neck. Zumba is great. I mean, I almost always look silly doing it, I almost always sound like a broken boiler and almost always sweat as if that previously rejected aircon would suddenly be godsend. I rarely mind the silliness, as a quick look around will remind me that it is not just me and everyone looks like a clumsy kangaroo trapped in an human's body. Everyone is clapping along and sometimes shouts a few war cries just to get in the mood. It’s fun and it resembles dancing, especially when the instructors assume you know how to Samba. Guys, we don’t know how to Samba.

Zumba is so successful that there are songs that were written specifically for that purpose. And you can tell because the word ‘Zumba’ is heavily featured as well as numerous motivational phrases such ‘Put your hands up, burning with desire, shake that bum bum, and light that fire’. I particularly appreciate the pretence that it is not a song about Zumba by throwing the word ‘desire’ into the mix. I even have a theory that some genuine pop songs were written with Zumba in mind; they are a very good fit for Zumba and a very bad fit for anything else. I have accepted the playlists and the basic moves that get recycled and re-arranged into a choreography. But have you heard of psychedelic Zumba?

It is not an actual term, but it should be so people would know to avoid it. It is essentially what you get when you combine Zumba with an instructor who forgot to take drugs, but remembers what if feels like. One of the instructors we had over the summer, while our regular instructor was on holiday, definitely fits into this category. I should have known the moment she introduced herself. First of all, she was overly friendly and smiley; clear signs of MDMA. Secondly, she spoke of a two-day Zumba festival somewhere remote in London. There is nowhere remote in London. Also, there is no two-day Zumba festival. Or if there is, there shouldn’t be. But her friendliness and positivity initially confused me and I stayed for the class. The Zumba songs were worse than usual. They usually have a Latin, maybe light RnB feel to them; these once were straight psychedelic or rave or the kind of music that hurts in a very specific spot in the middle of your forehead. And in case some fans of this cacophony begin to think this is starting to sound good, let me point out that the silly Zumba lyrics are still very much present and they have somehow gotten sillier. I am talking ‘Zumba, Zumba, zu-zu-zu-zu-zu-zumba’. The instructor had clearly hand-picked the music, as she had closed her eyes and sort of moved with the flow. There was no pattern for us to follow, most of us stood still and maybe occasionally put a hand up when we briefly thought we grasped a choreography out of her, but she wouldn’t have known because, as I said, she had her eyes closed and was in a completely different dimension. Three people left during that class, and that is three out of eight. And I swear she never saw them leave and maybe didn’t even realise they were gone when the class ended. I, however, having stayed in England for longer than I should have, decided it was better to waste an attempt for a healthy lifestyle, rather than be impolite and go do a bit of running.

But, coming back from my holiday in Greece, I acquired a better mindset. Because believe it or not, the instructor who lost 37% of her class was permanently hired. And believe it or not I walked into her class once again. And this time there were only three of us. Well, two after I took off.

I am not proud. I tried to be nice about it and fake an ankle injury, but again, she had her eyes closed forever! So I just took off. And if this sounds like I felt guilty after, or I still do, or I am writing this blog hoping someone will tell me what I did wasn’t horrible and in no way will lead to her being fired, I am not. But, you know, I won’t complain if that  sort of reassurance comes up J

Stumbled onto the Joker

Two nights ago, on a Wednesday, two friends and I set out to finally see the Joker, this anticipated film about the most famous villain in DC, if not all comic books pre-MCU. The movie had already been in cinemas for two weeks, so we started about our day thinking we could just show up to the cinema and get tickets on the spot, considering, as I mentioned before, it was a Wednesday. I have never been more thankful for my anxious personality that insisted we book tickets instead. The screening was sold out. I repeat, on a Wednesday, two weeks after the premiere. It is obvious we weren’t the only ones curious about what the director of ‘Hangover’ (I don’t remember his name and don’t even have the decency to Google it) would do with this psychopath of a clown.

Now that I have set a premise for how popular this movie has been, as if that were even necessary, I think it is only fair that I also set a premise for my set of mind before watching it. I want to make it clear that I did not mind the attempt to give the Joker an origin story. I know there are some hardcore fans that love the ambiguity, but I think we can all just deal with this as one of the zillion versions all characters have in the superhero genre anyways. I was excited, but with movies like these I always fear that the Oscar-baitidness will annoy me. Then I read that while reviews had started off great, the movie gradually lost its ‘fresh’ certification on Rotten Tomatoes. Then I read one of those rotten reviewers calling it juvenile. Then I read a Facebook post from a fellow Psychology enthusiast arguing that the way mental illness is portrayed is vague. So I went in with the following mindset; Joaquin Phoenix will be amazing, but this will ultimately be a superficial movie posing as a deep look into the Joker’s psyche. I want to be clear about my predisposition because I want to be honest about the chance that I was biased. I mean, I definitely was, I did leave the movie theatre thinking these exact comments.

It is not a superhero movie, which was made clear from the get go. There are no acrobatics, no antagonists, no Joss Whedon jokes. And that is absolutely fine. But there was also no Joker. That wasn’t the Joker, it was some other psychotic clown. There has been a substantial increase in psychotic clowns, I have noticed. I think Burger King is making a move on McDonalds. The joker is confident, proud, unemotional and most of all, a genius. He is Batman’s arch nemesis. And while this is an origin story and therefore he might not yet be confident and unemotional, he should have at least been smart. You know, smart enough to notice a glass door. There were two scenes I can remember that had anything to do with the real Joker and they were probably my two favourite ones. Unfortunately, I am one of those few whiners that think that by naming a movie ‘the Joker’ there are some necessary elements of that character you need to include. Otherwise this is not a psychological profile of the Joker, and it is a lie to promote it as such. I wouldn’t have gone to watch the psychological profile of a random murderer. I haven’t even watched Mindhunter.

If I at least try to disengage from these expectations for a paragraph (maximum), I am still not satisfied with how they dealt with the Joker’s character. First of all, what were those multiple mental illnesses that he suffered from? It is 2019, ‘crazy’ is not a sufficient medical term, not when you are trying to make a realistic, dark movie anyway. Also, while I appreciate leaving a couple of things vague for the viewer, if all we have is the character (because this was definitely not a plot-driven movie), I don’t think those supposedly essential elements can be left vague. I think the very origins that this movie claims to examine were ill-defined. Is the Joker a societal by-product? If so, is it the decaying empathy that drove him to madness? Is it that lack of governmental support? Is he traumatised? Is he vengeful? Is he apathic? It can be a nature-and-nurture thing, but it wasn’t treated as such. The character repeatedly said he wasn’t interested in the politics of it all, but the movie ends with him taking a bow in front of his supporters. And someone really needed to decide if this is the ‘Killing Joke’s joker that lost everything, decided life is a meaningless chaos and found that hilarious or whether it is a vengeful, bitter vigilante. He can’t be both. Like his neurological condition with the uncontrollable laughter. This was a great idea and beautifully executed by Phoenix. But what was it then? Was it an ill-wired neurological response? Because that is what it initially seemed like. But then again, we are frequently reminded that he finds the meaningless of it all hilarious. So which is it?

And now that the supposedly disengaged paragraph is over, it is not possible to ignore Heath Ledger’s Joker and avoid the comparison. Part of me is happy that the Joker from ‘The Dark Knight’ remains the best cinematic adaptation, according to my royal highness, because I of how unexpected it was. I think the precise reason that this Joker didn’t overtake that Joker is they tried too hard and ended up losing the Joker’s purpose. Lest we forget, that character was made for a reason. To beat Batman. To tackle the reasonable, ethical, methodical Batman with his ludicrous, careless chaos. Heath Ledger’s Joker dies in the end, but he has partly defeated Batman because his rhetoric was heard. His compelling rhetoric that almost resonates with the viewer. And that was accomplished in a movie with a plot, a superhero, acrobatics and Joss Whedon jokes in the form of Alfred. We are told this Joker’s rhetoric is deep and meaningful, but that is hard to believe as a viewer, because as Rotten Tomatoes critics said, it is a juvenile rhetoric.

It is nonetheless a beautiful movie and I did like it, but that wouldn't have made for a very compelling blogpost. Kudos to ‘Hangover’ guy and whatever comes Phoenex’s way for this performance is well deserved. I just think that this was not the movie to take down Marvel. The power of the MCU is how well the characters are thought out and how consistent they are, even though there are a thousand different things happening at the same time. Therefore, another post comes to an end, where I praise Marvel, diss DC and complain about how the villain’s descend into madness is not well-founded. I need to get out more.

Stumbled onto a cool person's Sunday

If you have read this blog before, you would have noticed that I frequently talk about how I am mostly introverted and always happy to play board games, eat and watch TV series (occasionally movies). This is all true. Which of course means I am not a capable drinker and probably should not practice the sport. Definitely should not practice the sport. Nonetheless, my housemate and best friend just returned and, in a way, made it her night’s mission to test my gin threshold the past weekend. And we had fun, the gin was good, the tonic too. The next day? Not so much. And, much in a Carrie Bradshaw fashion, this made me wonder. Why do people do this to themselves?

There are a couple of obvious answers. One, it is pleasant to be tipsy, which is why people begin drinking in the first place. Two, once people are tipsy they want to drink more and are no longer accountable for that decision. But I don’t think tipsiness can be fun enough to counteract how awful the next day is. Maybe tipsiness is too light an adjective for five generous gin and tonics and a negroni, but it wasn’t meant to be that many! It became that many because of tipsiness! All I am saying is tipsiness is to blame. Anyway, the next day was everything that’s bad; from a splitting headache, to a much-more-complicated-than-usual digestion, to an inexplicable exhaustion, to a very specific suspicion that you constantly demanded that the DJ plays a folky Greek song that admittedly did not fit anyone else’s mood.

Another thing that does not help, is being a hypochondriac. Another thing that does not help is being a hypochondriac that hasn’t drank that much since eighteen. Within a spectrum of five minutes I decided I would die, I would need a new liver, I would never drink again, I caught a cold, I got some sort of brain damage that results in swearing a lot, I would become paralysed and I caused my skin some irrevocable pimples because I didn’t take all of my make up off (I did take most off, which I am very proud of). And all these things? In that order! And all of them? Dealt as if they were of equal importance! Two days later, I realise I was obviously overreacting and if these were likely, nobody in England would live past the age of 21. Or have good skin.

After a considerate amount of whining to my housemate, who, by the way, was absolutely fine and did a tour of London on foot, I fell for a three-hour nap. And just when I thought that indicated some calmness and that the paranoia was over, I wake up in a shudder that I was sure was a heart attack. You know, those heart attacks that 25 year olds get in their sleep 15 hours after they drank alcohol. It did take me a couple of seconds to remember that I was dreaming of a very pleasant Super Mario game and realising that I probably just fell or was attacked by a Goomba.

I really don’t think it’s worth it. I mean, we had a great time, probably created some memories, I mean quite a few of them are now lost, as you may have guessed. But what if this experience means I will never be able to drink gin again? I won’t for a while; you are put off certain liquids once you have seen them so… processed. I don’t know if I am ready to give up gin, it is such a cool drink with such a low calorie count. And I am such a huge fan of cucumber water, and with gin I can have it concealed in a drink! This is what this whole blog is about, my fear of losing gin.

Anyways, some things I learned is that once your stomach has settled, bananas are good and ‘Five Guys’ burgers are even better. Will update on the gin situation.

Stumbled onto Malcom Gladwell’s ketchup conundrum

This is a good moment to talk about what this blog was supposed to be about. It was literally supposed to be a deep dive into useless things that I just stumbled on. Instead, I mostly complain and judge in the written form about whatever I very intentionally come across. This is, therefore, possibly the first post where I actually stumbled onto something and then read up on it for seven hours straight. I stumbled onto an ad for Malcom Gladwell’s new book ‘Talking with Strangers’ and decided I should throw a day away obsessing over which of his books to read, if any. Yes, I am that suggestible.

Malcolm Gladwell is a very famous Canadian journalist, who is primarily known for his work for the New Yorker. I know of the New Yorker, but it would be extremely pretentious of me to act as if I have been reading this sophisticated magazine that is mentioned in any TV series when trying to portray someone as an intellectual. I instead know of Malcolm Gladwell through his podcast, ‘Revisionist History’, ‘a podcast about things overlooked and misunderstood’, as the tagline reads. Podcasts probably don’t hold the same valour as a well-established, prestigious magazine but listening to this podcast makes me feel a tad more intellectual, just as the magazine would. So, mischief managed. Googling him was supposed to be a 20-30 minute thing, but instead I fell down a rabbit-hole and started reading, among other things, about mustard and ketchup.

Assuming you have not read the aforementioned New Yorker article from 2004, I will briefly explain what this article was about; why a new brand of mustard managed to overtake the old brand of mustard, whereas a new brand of ketchup could not overtake the old brand of ketchup. That’s it. And I am a mayo girl, imagine the hours I would spend if they talked about mayo. I would probably still be googling. But god knows that article was well-written. Character descriptions, some action (involving ketchup tasting mostly), some lessons about advertising, some stats, and a mention of evolutionary theory. Much like his podcast something that would have been overlooked, was captivating. So the sad thing, and the reason I mentioned my original intentions for this blog five years later, is that I initially had the audacity to think I could do something similar in my blog. Thankfully, I quickly realised I would be nowhere near as interesting. Gladwell is a gifted writer and that is why these stories work. Surprisingly, that is what most of his critics also go after him for.

This is what mostly took up my time. The realisation that I took this intelligent-sounding man at his word a bit more than I should have. Because he is a journalist from such a well-known and respected magazine, because he gets paid 40,000 dollars for a single talk and because he is an excellent story-teller. He is convincing and he makes things sound simple and reasonable and that is just what I want from a podcast. That and good sound editing; if it sounds like it was recorded next to a construction site on a distant microphone, it is too niche for me. And I am sure he does his research and that there is a lot of work behind each of his podcasts, let alone each of his books. He sometimes does sound one-sided and cherry-picking the evidence. But realising the extent was heart-breaking. One example regarded his statistics about poets and their high suicide rates. I didn’t feel the need to doubt it; it made sense, and it was attached to a number and therefore sounded scientific enough. And knowing me, I would be quick to cite this fact in my next conversation about poetry, which luckily is never. But someone way more critical than me went back and checked the source of this statistic and it was an outdated article, with an ambiguous definition of poets, based on a tiny sample. I don’t even have to explain why that is not a credible statistic. I just want to make it clear that this outdated article was the source of the source that Gladwell uses (and cites) so what I am describing is not deception. Instead, it just points out that someone who writes beautifully and/or does research to support his already-existing argument might not necessarily be right or reliable.

Don’t get me wrong, his podcast is still excellent; it makes you revisit and think about stuff that has happened or is happening in a different way. And to be fair, that is exactly what Gladwell claims to do; open up discussions. I am sure the books are worth the read and I will read them, I mean the first three were international best-sellers. I have to, because just as I might not have been critical enough and just took Gladwell at his word regarding ketchup consistency, I wouldn’t be critical if I simply took the critics at their word. Again, just to be clear, none of them had a problem with the mustard/ketchup article and it is very, very cool if you would like to read it (link below). I bring this particular article up because I find it immensely impressive that this topic was made that intriguing and I thought it was a good example of what good story-telling can do. I guess I went into this turmoil because this realisation was particularly hurtful to me for two reasons. First of all, I am supposedly doing research and need to be critical and it seems I wasn’t and that is scary. And second of all, Gladwell basically discusses a bunch of different topics, very intelligently but without extensive knowledge. So it worries me that I wanted to do the same, but without the intelligence. I think we are all much safer if I keep on writing love letters to the MCU.

I think the best way for me to enjoy his work from now on is as a trigger, to maybe think about something I wouldn’t have and maybe even look up a couple of things. And while this blog is far from comparable to any of Gladwell’s work, the best way to enjoy it is to look up for any pop-culture references, self-deprecating comments and attempts at a joke.

Gladwell, M. (2004). The Ketchup conundrum. The New Yorker, September issue: <https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2004/09/06/the-ketchup-conundrum>