Rats In The Gutter

This week, Johanna describes the best live performance she’s ever seen in her life—which is saying something, as a seasoned performer herself, and someone very much in the world. It’s a piece called A Year Without Summer by a recently internet-famous artist, thanks to a performance at the Venice Biennial in which she played a human dongle inside a giant bell (and so, The Bell Woman). Summer takes her out of the bell jar and into a long wet orgiastic bacchanal of carnal delight and mayhem. If Caligula had more of an eye for stage production, basically. And dear god is it heartening to know that enormous, antagonistic, unsafe unfiltered work is still being funded SOMEWHERE, and that there are artists still willing and capable of pulling off extremism without settling for Tumblr-friendly provocation (cough, Sam Levinson). Also on the agenda this week, we reel like the rest of the country as our government stops even pretending like they don’t want us all to die, and aren’t actively taking steps to make this happen (because they are). I mean, cutting public servant roles and replacing them with literal SkyNet is, um, maybe not the buzz; and yet here we are anyway, getting ready to feel the inevitable shit wave once it’s CoPilot calling the shots (and, being Nicola Willis’s preferred AI module, why not?). Lord knows we’ll REALLY be feeling that mythical trickle-down once the binary-bot that usually walks you through your spreadsheets is deciding which families are worthy of financial support, and which should be street-walking in Dickensian rags holding a tin cup out for shrapnel from strangers.

Yeah, so cool and normal aye. Also also, the rats take back their previous stance on Fritter Fest and wonder if they have the combined culinary prowess to have their own truck at the next inaugural event—whether sweet or savoury offerings is something undecided as yet, but nothing they can’t figure out over a weekend vision board. Finally, the rats mourn the loss of one of the Topp Twins, and tend to agree with the surviving twin’s AMA speech in which Ole Paul Goldstein (sorry, Goldsmith) and his pie-loving cuck-party had their 2-billion dollar defence-slice questioned. I mean, we’re not actively trying to start a war with anyone are we? Is that something we’re into, as a country? Like, there are easier more fun ways to nosedive into the abyss than friggin war (and they all involve orgies at crack dens, just saying).

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Well, as winter descends and New Zealanders retreat into Bronte flavoured gothic doldrums, some turn to the familiar for comfort, the known, the whimsical. And for the rats, this can sometimes mean indulging in a slightly embarrassing but mostly innocuous nostalgia watch of Adventure Time, which should actually have its roses as a
forward-thinking animation that still smacks of post-modern vitalities and contemporary myth making in a media landscape that is annoyingly obsessed with (still, if you can believe it) teenagers having sex. I mean, at the very least it seems like Sam Levinson’s third season of Euphoria is pissing people off intentionally, making them feel icky enough they regret ever citing the first two seasons as quote-unquote ‘quality’. Which anyone who grew up on Skins could already plainly see was a complete ruse. Also; the rats comprehensively tackle (cough) the cultural weirdness of gooning and maxxing, which currently exist as a sort-of binary of optimisation and its opposite.

Basically, the maxxer games the system like a chaos magician, working advantages and discarding anything that impedes upward mobility; while the gooner intentionally casts his time and energy on the fire, wasting himself into oblivion through porn-flavoured idles in an attempt to wrangle some agency back from the hampster wheel of late-stage capitalism. Which is the better method? More importantly, what kind of material conditions could create something like the dedicated gooner, a wastrel as committed to the bit of passive self destruction as a performance artist from the late seventies, or a sixteenth century martyr. There is so much of Bartleby the Scrivener in gooning, Herman Melville’s short story in which Bartleby—a words man—passively refuses the mundane tasks of his position (“I would prefer not to”) with such radical consistency that he is eventually locked up for it. All because he refuses to participate and lend his energies to a system of bureaucratic lashes and genocidal vim. The gooner is essentially Bartleby with wifi.

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Jesus H Christ is it a crime to be messy these days or what? Seriously, the optimisation metrics, this ideology of converting every micro-event into revenue is becoming very effing suffocating. Like seriously, is there no inch on god’s green (ish) earth safe from the parasitic reach of The Economic Incentive? In this vacuum packed cat suit of a social climate the rats wonder about the true value of performative politeness, and whether we might be better off showing each other our teeth every once in a while; especially seeing as the edicts of politeness are rooted in maintaining bourgeois orders, vertically stacked ones of the haves and have nots etcetera. This is obviously not licence to treat other people badly, but it is something of a call to consider the essential mysteries of being human and act accordingly, to treat each other as the exhaustive evolutionary miracles we are rather than a collection of standardised pathologies and KPIs, with trackable social-media interfaces. God forbid we should try to confuse the lines drawn for us by acting outside of them, however this might look . Something of a necessity, actually, when those lines are put in place by a sprawling network of genocidal imperialism.

Anyway The Devil Wears Prada 2 is out! While one rat feels meh about it the other is candidly surprised by how not shit it is. Obviously things could’ve gone either way. While Sam hasn’t seen it (on principle) Johanna breaks down all the ways it tries (we’ll assume limply) to lambast the vacuity of fashion under late stage capitalism, which is as far away from being art as Christopher Luxon is from being a competent prime minister. But just like Luxon, Prada 2s more cutting critique’s of capitalism overall are…absent. But I guess you’ve gotta give it its chops, that a film about fashion coming out in a world where luxury consumerism is provenly anything but benign (this isn’t 2006 anymore) could even attempt to have some acumen, some awareness, even though it clearly doesn’t reach Sontag levels of criticism. I guess it’s sort of like watching a criminal lawyer (maybe Epstein’s?) monologue about the evils of lying. Or watching an evangelical christian pastor with a DL Grindr account lecture a room of depressed normies about the sanctity of marriage. In a nut shell, the call is coming from inside the house.

Do you remember Hopoating your friends on the playground? Playing Buck Buck with the hopes of grinding on the jock? Join us at patreon.com/RatsInTheGutter

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In honour of Tāmaki Noir tonight being hosted by Emma and featuring Samuel here's an episode from the back catalogue.

a refined and amiable guest - this week we talk to journalist Emma Gleason about life, love, and the dystopian abolishment of truth in a media landscape that has no center.

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A flashback to when Chris Parker and Eli Matthewson joined forces with Rats In The Gutter’s Johanna Cosgrove and Samuel Te Kani. This special one-off live event, we tempt the lawyers by covering modern Pride, recent break ups and gay All Blacks. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.