Franz says, “That is brilliant, and brilliantly compassionate, Willie.”
Willie McCant says, “Thank you, and I prefer to be called Li’l Willie.”
“Understood, Li’l Willie.”
Li’l Willie continues, “We have to place our small changes in a larger context, to discover the ways the insignificant changes we make in our own lives link to larger currents, structures, movements, resonances, vibes. We have to look at chaos theory, quantum theory, string theory, all these scientific theories that I don’t understand but that nonetheless show me how me sitting here and delighting in the sensation of the heat emanating into my buttocks from this electrically heated ergonomic meditation pillow will help suffering people everywhere. I am sending this comfort and pleasure into the world, and just as in capitalism a rising tide lifts all boats, so my own happiness and comfort raises the universal happiness and comfort quotient for the world, lifting everyone else’s happiness and comfort. So when I hear of some atrocity somewhere, I know the best thing I can do is make myself more happy and comfortable, because I know the happier and more comfortable I am, the happier everyone, including the victims of those atrocities, will be. It’s scientific!”
Franz is barely able to articulate, “I’m in awe, Li’l Willie. Absolutely stunned.”
Li’l Willie says, “Thank you, Franz. I prefer to be called Tiger.”
Franz murmurs, “I can see why.”
Tiger continues, “It is this knowledge that allows me to face up to even a tiny fraction of the horrors out there: the knowledge that each time I perceive some horror, my role in fighting back—and I’m a very big part of the struggle—is to make myself more and more comfortable and happy. Because we can’t avoid all knowledge of these atrocities. If I could avoid that knowledge, I would, since that knowledge is so hurty. But I can’t. Clear-cutting happens. Mountaintop removal mining happens. ‘Ethnic cleansing’ happens. Corporate greed happens. War happens. ‘Rape’ happens.”
Franz interjects, “Or it may not. There is serious doubt among some scientists.”
“That’s why I put quote marks around the word rape, Franz. But the important thing is not whether or not it does happen. The important thing is that we not assign responsibility in any case. I said, ‘Rape happens.’ I did not say that anyone commits any of these atrocities, because I want to stay away from any notion of blame. I want to stay away from any notion of blame because if we assign responsibility, ‘He raped her,’ or ‘He ordered a clear-cut,’ then we are back in the land of judgment, implying he should not rape her; he should not order that clear-cut. And we can’t make those judgments, because having made those judgments it becomes morally reprehensible not to take the sides of the victims, and having taken the side of the victim it becomes morally reprehensible to not act decisively to defend that victim. And I’m not a stop-rape kind of guy, so I need to not start down that path at all, but rather become extremely adept at the use of passive voice.”
There follows the sort of comfortable silence that passes between the insufferably smug when they’re drawn together by common desires and techniques to avoid taking responsibility.
Finally Franz says, “Brilliant, Tiger. Nothing less.”
Tiger says, “Thank you. I prefer to be called Li’l Willie, Tiger Boy.”
Franz says, “Your wish is my command.”
Li’l Willie, Tiger Boy, says, “Rowr.”
Franz smiles, his whole body tingling.
Li’l Willie, Tiger Boy, says, “The most important thing about any conversation is that it end by being about me. So when you ask what are the most important things we can do to stop rape, I immediately ask, ‘How can I clarify what is most important to me?’ I think it’s important to regularly check in with myself about what’s important to me. In fact it’s so important I’m going to say that it’s important to regularly check in with myself about what’s important to me again and again. And it’s important for me to check in with others too to make sure they know what’s important to me. So, when you ask me what are the most important things we can do to stop rape, I ask the same ‘question cycle’ I ask about everything: 1) What’s important to me? 2) What’s important to others? 3) What about what’s important to me comes from others, other times, or other places? 4) What would I like to be important to me?”
Franz says, “I’m confused, Li’l Willie, Tiger Boy. I thought we were talking about rape (presuming it occurs).”
Li’l Willie, Tiger Boy, responds, “I thought we were talking about me. But if you do want to talk about rape (presuming it occurs), here are some suggestions I would make to the knitting circle women. I don’t think they are very courageous. I think they’re taking the easy way out, the harmful way out. It doesn’t take any courage to use a knitting needle to stab a man who has two guns, three knives, a chain, and steel-toed boots, a man who outweighs you by a hundred pounds, and who is because of his own prior woundings attempting to do you great bodily harm. That takes no courage whatsoever. I’ll tell you what takes courage—and it takes courage right now for me to sit on my electrically heated ergonomic meditation pillow and say this to you, because I don’t think you’ll take my advice, I think you’ll reject me, I think you’ll act without consideration for my feelings whatsoever, and you won’t even care if you are hurty and you make me cry, but I’m going to tell you anyway. It takes courage to remain small and ineffectual. I challenge these women to have the courage to be, to be present in the perfect and eternal now. I challenge them to have the courage to learn, the courage to learn what it was in their past lives or in their past energy that has called this into their lives, the courage to learn the wondrous lesson life is trying to teach them by giving them this wonderful opportunity, the courage to open themselves up to others, physically, emotionally, spiritually, including to those they may perceive as exploiting them, the courage to see things from the so-called rapists’ perspective (as I do), and to ask themselves why they so desperately want to hurt these poor innocent wounded men whose only crime is that they need love and acceptance and don’t know how to get it. And finally, I would urge them to have the courage to see things from my perspective, to see that their actually fighting back makes me feel ashamed of my own cowardice.”
“Thank you, Li’l Willie, Tiger Boy. Any final thoughts?”
“Yes, thank you, although I prefer to be called by my full name, William McCant. I do have a beautiful, powerful story to end with. Many centuries ago a devout Buddhist woman was walking along a forest path. She was ambushed by bandits, who raped her …”
“So there actually is evidence of rape existing?”
“We only have her word for it, which probably isn’t worth much, but on with the story. Instead of resisting, she allowed herself to be raped by the bandits with such grace and compassion that the bandits converted to Buddhism on the spot, as soon as they were finished.”
Franz says, “That’s an extraordinarily powerful story, William McCant. It’s so, like, spiritual and deep. And I can see how this story will make things so much easier for so many of us.” He turns toward the camera. “Did you hear this story, Katherine? Tonight, baby, I challenge you to convert me to Buddhism!”
But suddenly Franz’s vacuous smile disappears. He stops moving. He is troubled by a thought, for two reasons. The first is that he’s never actually had one before, which means that having an original thought is very uncomfortable in and of itself. He wonders for a moment if this is what brain cancer feels like. And he’s also troubled because the thought itself is troubling. He says, “But if the enlightened thing to do is to let perpetrators perpetrate, and to do so with compassion, and doing this is supposed to help them stop perpetrating, doesn’t that mean we should let the knitting circle murderers continue their murders, and if we do so with compassion in our hearts this will convert these women to being pacifists?”
William McCant pulls his pacifier out of his pocket, and sucks on it. He closes his eyes. Finally he opens his eyes,
uses his right hand to tenderly take the pacifier from his mouth (keeping it close for quick reinsertion if necessary), and says, “I thought you were going to ask a question, but you never said anything.”
So Franz repeats the question.
This time William sucks on the pacifier while holding his hands over his ears and humming “Amazing Grace.”
Franz waits.
By fits and starts William McCant stops humming. He opens one eye, then the other. He says, “You’re still here.”‘
Having never before come up with a meaningful question, Franz is willing to give it one more try. He asks again.
This time William McCant doesn’t pitch a fit. He simply answers, “Oh, no. These women aren’t reachable. They won’t stop. They should all be strung up. But gently and with compassion.”
CHAPTER 9
With the knitting craze swelling into a national obsession, and with rapists disappearing faster than capitalists in an ethics contest, federal lawmakers step in.
Senator Richard Dick, square-jawed, bullet-headed, dead-eyed, and with a smile only a lobbyist could love, delivers a speech which concludes, “We must ban knitting needles immediately. We have never faced criminal terrorists as vicious as these lunatics who want to destroy our precious freedom and democracy.”
Senator Hassemann, the Senator voted least likely to be allowed to have children sit on his lap as well as the Senator most likely to violate his multiple restraining orders, continues, “… and our fun. You don’t go far enough by half, Senator Dick. It’s not surprising that you’re soft on terrorism. We must also ban crochet hooks, plus all wool, cotton, and even acrylic yarns. We must immediately initiate sheep eradication programs, even though that is bound to affect my social life. Starve these illegal enemy combatants of the means to commit their terrorist atrocities.”
Senator Eve Pankhurst, who was appointed to her position after the death of her predecessor, and who knows the lobbyists will vote her out as soon as they can, says, “Those who would choose security over sweaters deserve neither. Knitting has been a fundamental right since the beginning of this nation, a proud tradition begun by our foremothers. And furthermore, if we outlaw knitting needles, only outlaws will have knitting needles. Every woman in this building opposes this ban.”
The acting head of the Senate, who looks like he’s been dead for several hundred years, says, “Since we’re unanimous, we don’t need any debate. The ban passes.”
Debate does, however, break out in every corner of every city and town across the country. Everyone takes sides, and not always the sides you’d think.
Picture this: Dozens of people, many wearing camouflage, all carrying guns and knitting needles, sit on folding chairs in a room lined with wood paneling, stuffed animal heads (including a couple of children’s plush toy stuffed animal heads among the deer and elk), and a big NRA logo. They are listening to a speech. The speaker, wearing a Bullwinkle the Moose hat, waves his fist and shouts, “Today they take our knitting needles, tomorrow our rocket propelled grenades. We must oppose this creeping fascism!”
At a meeting across town, a tall, slender man stands at a lectern wearing a suit and a tie. He holds a copy of the constitution, and copies of books by both William F. Buckley and Noam Chomsky, to let the audience know he’s well read, an “intellectual,” and “open-minded.” Underneath his unbuttoned suit coat he wears a Heinz 57 T-shirt to make sure the audience also knows he’s a “regular guy” who knows how to “chill out” and “have fun.” His audience consists of four bibliophiles, two homeless people coming in out of the rain, a couple of teenagers in the back making out, and radio and television crews from NPR and C-Span respectively. He pontificates to the mostly empty chairs, “I see nothing in the constitution that guarantees the right to bear knitting needles. Bear arms, yes. Bear children, of course! But not knitting needles.”
One of the homeless people raises her hand and mumbles something.
The speaker points to her. “You have a question! Madam, please speak up!”
She asks, “Why does he get a pitcher of water, and I don’t? I demand my rights!”
Or picture this: a paved road travels to the horizon between fields of tasseled corn. Old skid marks weave across faded asphalt. A dotted yellow line travels till it disappears in heat waves. A Ford Fiesta zooms by so fast you can barely make out the paired bumper stickers on the back: “Jesus Saves” and “Knitting Needles Still a Beating Heart.”
Soon after, an ancient Dodge pickup chugs by, this with a single sticker on its bumper: “You can have my knitting needles when you pry them from my cold, dead fingers.” It passes slowly enough for you to spot a small blue-haired head barely higher than the steering wheel, and a knitting needle rack in the pickup’s rear window.
Or picture this: it’s Oscar Night, and elegance prevails, from the red carpets to the overdramatic music to all the stars decked out in their really fucking expensive designer outfits. The camera pans across a row, revealing to the millions of television viewers their heroes (heroes, celebrities—you say tomato, I say tomahto): Susan Sarandon, Barbra Streisand, Tom Hanks, Matt Damon, and Tim Robbins all wearing small wool strings pinned to their lapels with tiny (solid 24-karat) gold knitting needles.
As happens so often in governmental Wars on Inanimate Objects, the government’s War on Yarn leads to some unintended consequences and unforeseen circumstances.
Two customs officers at the Oakland docks—brothers named Herman and Melvin—don’t work quite so hard as the other officers. They mainly spend their time coauthoring what they hope will be The Great American Novel. It’s about a mad whale who relentlessly pursues a one-legged sea captain. Their first draft had been about a one-legged whale who relentlessly pursues a mad sea captain, until they realized the obvious problem: how do you tell a mad sea captain from one who is sane? The novel begins, “‘Call me Ishmael,’ he wailed.” That’s pretty much as far as they’ve gotten.
Nonetheless, they are madly scribbling notes when one of their field officers, a bright young woman named Delly, brings in her list of U.S. inbound manifests on the allotment of containers the three are supposed to inspect. The brothers don’t look up from their scribbling as they say, in unison, “Begin.”
She does, reading aloud page after page describing imported junk. They never stop scribbling.
She gets to the last page. “Here we have a container of TNT being sent to ‘Domestic Terrorism, Inc.,’ in Rexburg, Idaho.”
They keep scribbling.
“A load of anthrax ampoules, being sent to ‘White American Heroes!’ otherwise known as WAH!’”
They keep scribbling.
“One full container of heroin, 99 percent pure, being sent from a ‘Mr. Big’ to some certain offices in Langley, Virginia.”
Herman waves his hand dismissively.
“Two containers labeled ‘fissionable materials’ sent from Al Qaeda Central to the local Al Qaeda franchise in Boger City, North Carolina.”
Melvin asks, “Why are you wasting our time with this stuff? Anything else?”
Delly takes a deep breath, then says as quickly and quietly as she can, almost mumbling, “One more. A shipment of yarn and needles from—”
Herman and Melvin simultaneously leap to their feet, and cry, “Confiscate that container. Alert Homeland Security!”
In the Mexican desert, near the border with Arizona, two hippies stand next to a car. One of them is holding a bunch of knitting needles. He says, “Well, what do you do when you smuggle weed, man?”
The other responds, “I put it in the tires, dude. They never check there.”
An hour later their car crawls along the road with four flat tires, knitting needles piercing the rubber. “Bummer, man.”
A man wearing a long coat and loitering in Washington Square Park in New York City hisses softly, “Spikes, string, I got it all, man.”
In a basement in Arcata, California, 1000 watt grow lamps blaze over a “scene” of cotton
plants. Upstairs, a woman spins yarn. She proudly tells her friend, “This strain is called White Widow.”
A man is being hauled across his front yard by a pair of police officers. A bashful yet beautiful sheep peeks out his front door. The man pleads, “But it was only for personal use!”
Hollywood knows a good thing when it sees it. It doesn’t take long for American remake of The Girl with the Knitted-Dragon Sweater to hit the big screen. The movie stars Daniel Craig as Nick, and—well, it doesn’t really matter who the women in the film are, so long as they have big breasts. The codirectors, Lars von Trier and David Fincher, both deeply troubled by what they perceive as the muddled message of this movement—“Stop Rape or Face the Wrath of the Knitting Circle”—decide to clarify their message by putting out a series of promotional posters for the film that feature various actors—since they are women, their names don’t really matter, do they?—nude, with the posters trailing into suggestive darkness a couple of inches below the women’s navels. In these posters Daniel Craig stands fully clothed, one arm protectively around a woman’s torso (but not, of course, covering her breasts), and the other brandishing a knitting needle.
When women complain that these posters demean women, Lars von Trier issues a press release declaring that he will not pander to the whims or demands of any minority group, even one that constitutes an actual majority of human beings. Further, he states, there’s no way he could sell the movie to his target audience of males between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five “without showing some major boobage.” He concludes his press release with the questions, “How could these posters demean women? I mean, for God’s sake, they show beautiful young women with beautiful young tits. What more could anyone want?”
The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad Page 12