DownerMan Revival
Revival
Sometimes we do things that, at the time, seem noble or
extraordinary. Then we come to our senses and realize that what we've
done is too extreme. Fortunately, in many instances, you can call a
do-over. This is one of those times.
Two months ago I declared the death of DownerMan. I now call a
do-over; like Ray Davies sang, you gotta give the people what they
want. And frankly, I want it too - the ability, the permission, and the
space to be a complete crank. So, without further ado, let's get down to
what's wrong with America today.
I grew up on a rich and satisfying diet of cartoons. My favorites were
those that came out of Warner Brothers' stable, the Merry Melodies and
Loony Tunes - the likes of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Foghorn Leghorn and
Yosemite Sam, and Porky Pig. I couldn't stand Pepe Le Pew, because of the
cooties factor (ewww, who would want to kiss a girl?) and his
relentless stalking of that nice female cat. I loved it when the Coyote
got his comeuppance in every Roadrunner episode, especially when Sam the
sheepdog beat the stuffing out of the mangy doofus Coyote with
professional detachment and a solemn respect for the job that he was
doing. It startles me now, as I write this fifteen and twenty five years
after first seeing these cartoons, how strongly these characters elicit
emotional reactions. And in there is one character in that pen-and-ink
world who has irked me for as long as I have known him, and whose
resurgence in today's culture is a daily reminder: Taz, the Tasmanian
devil.
Taz is based loosely on the reputation of the real Tasmanian devil, a
carnivorous marsupial found only on Tasmania, near Australia. Real
Tasmanian devils are reknown for the tenacity and ferocity with which they
attack and eat their prey. The cartoon Taz is portrayed amusingly as a
compact cyclone buzz-sawing through the forest, coming to rest as a
strong-jawed, long-armed hairy troglodyte (in terms of accuracy, this
description is as fraudulent as Disney's 1950s images of lemmings actually
committing suicide by jumping off cliffs - reality time, folks: like
Humpty Dumpty, those lemmings were pushed. Tasmanian devils look like
skinny wild boar, with tapered snouts). As a dueling partner to Bugs
Bunny, Taz represents the force of pure physical strength, much like
Yosemite Sam was anger unleashed or Daffy Duck was stubbornness. The
threat to Bugs was that he could be injured or eaten by the sheer
intensity of Taz's movements, reduced to a small pile of fluff in a matter
of seconds. Taz spun his way though his surroundings, drifting
unpredictably and jaggedly through enormous tree trunks, leaving a wake of
destruction and rubble.
Now it should come as no surprise to devotees of this space that
DownerMan would consider Bugs Bunny to be the hero in those
Saturday-morning cartoons, and that Taz the Tasmanian devil is merely a
foolish trifle to be sidestepped and easily thwarted, as evidenced by the
outcomes of all of those episodes. But it seems to me that there is a
growing body in America that overidentifies with Taz in those cartoons, as
evidenced by his grimacing mien leering at me from car windows on our
motorways, or cutely emerging from shirt pockets on ubiquitous
stone-washed denim shirts. And that troubles me. While Taz might
represent appetite, the sheer visceral drive for satisfaction, or
even enthusiasm or passion, there is no mistaking that this heroic
homunculus carries with him an unmistakable air of irresponsibility and
recklessness. Taz crashes through the forest unapologetically, unaware of
the destruction he has caused. Taz is his own, er, man.
That type of macho independence is so goddamn American that it makes me
reflexively reach for my now-expired Canadian passport (though I was
naturalized in 1995, I keep it as a Get-off-the-plane-for-Free card in
case my flight is ever hijacked). de Tocqueville wrote of this uniquely
American trait in 1832, and to incorporate Taz he would merely need to
inject steroids into his treatise. In so doing he would also encompass
monster trucks, monster homes, road rage, WWF and their clown-like ilk,
Eminem (or is he the Illustrious Cotton Mathers?), gangsta rap, and
Central Park public rapefests. The spirit of, "I gotta be me" has mutated
into, "Get the f*ck outta my way, I'm gonna do my own thing and f*ck you
if you get hurt in the process." Taz is the posterboy for this behavior -
unfettered drive, animal lust, uncontrollable urge, blind to
consequence. Taz fans dream of being able to ride their jacked-up pickups
over the bumper-to-bumper traffic, crushing roofs and getting to their
destinations in the quickest, most exciting way. Taz fans spin through
life without regard to what they're doing to others - maybe even willfully
so. To them, it's so much more important that they be able to get what
they want, rather than to curtail themselves, like grown-ups do.
I guess that's it, really. What I'm left with is a sadness for the
lives these people lead. The law considers them adults by dint of age,
but that's hardly a measure of preparedness for living in a civilized
society, and it feels like there are more and more of them each day,
desperately spazzing from one corner of the forest to the other, looking
for satisfaction and oblivious to the costs they incur. That denim shirt
they got at the Warner Brothers outlet store at the mall may still look
new, but I think I see a thread unraveling - the thread that keeps Taz
from taking over completely. Me, I'm getting bunny-ear implants, so that
I'll be prepared.
DM
With apologies to the Taz that I know - unless you
own a monster truck, in which case: Can I go car-crushing with
you?
