If I am ever famous, and I say this not in a hopeful or expectant way, but rather acknowledging that anything, even the most implausible can happen, I will try my utmost not to be Ben Affleck. Which is to say, in a slightly less longwinded and round-about way of saying things, that I hope I am never quoted as follows: “Fame is wasted on me. I already feel like I don’t want to have sex five times a day. It’s depressing.”*
I would hope that no matter how taxing celebrity is on the genius that I am, or at least that I might possibly be, I will muster all the will-power and fortitude that I possess, and continue having sex five times a day. I would do this, not for myself, but for the world at large with the multitude of ordinary and non-famous people which it contains. Understandably, there will be days upon which having sex five times will seem depressing and the whole thing will seem unbearable oppressive, and I’ll no doubt feel like I’ve wasted my life banging the constant stream of starlets, fans, and other nubile young women who are endlessly offering themselves to me. However, I will soldier on selflessly, understanding that the common man (who feels pretty good about himself if he’s managed to have sex five times in a year, and further that during at least one of those times his partner seemed to be enjoying his/herself, or baring that, was at least not visibly annoyed or upset) needs people like me, or like the person I might possibly be.
The common man needs someone to look up to, someone who has an incredible amount of sex, and equally important, someone who enjoys having an incredible amount of sex. Without this kind of role model men everywhere will lose sight of what it means to have dreams; they will despair that there is no happiness to be had in this sad little world. After all, if having sex five times a day cannot shield a man from depression, what hope is there for the masses of men who generally only think about sex five times a day (and when I say “day” in this latter context, I actually mean a somewhat lesser measure of time, a minute, for example)? So it will be thinking of the ordinary man that I may, though in all likelihood will probably not, suffer through my fame, continuing to have sex five times a day whenever possible, masking the depression that is inherent in every tiresome sex act, every monotonous sexual position, and every oppressive orgasm. I won’t do it for myself, I’ll do it for men everywhere.
* Ben Affleck in Australia’s New Weekly magazine on a date I forgot to write down.
Just finished reading No Logo: Taking Aim at the Brand Bullies by Naomi Klein. It was an interesting book about the “brands, not products” phenomenon and provided a balanced historical look at the culture-jamming movement. Klein was careful to distance herself from organizations such as Adbusters that, despite earning my readership and respect, receive some much-needed criticism.
A program that knows it’s limits (56 Kb files), is frugal on features and resources, and is elegant in it’s simplicity: