The Uncanny Valley, or Why I'm Grateful For Donald Trump

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Why do people like Trump?  Is it because he's honest?  Because he's independent?  Because he's tough?  Because he has help from wizards?

OK.  So maybe he lies his ass off, maybe he's not funding his own campaign anymore and maybe he's hilariously self conscious about the size of his fingers. But I don't care about any of that, because everyone knows all of that and nobody else cares.  

But I think I know what's really going on here. When people talk about Trump being honest or genuine or tough, what they're really talking about isn't what he's saying, but how he says it. Or, rather, how he doesn't say it.  Trump doesn't speak like a politician, and even though that alone should bury him, he is winning so much that I'm tired of his winning.

Intentionally or not, Trump is the harbinger of Ragnarok in American politics. He's taken the traditional trope of the American politician and smashed it with a fucking sledgehammer. The vast majority of politicians have either turned into archetypes, the same types of people wearing the same suits and the same gigantic American flag pins.

They may say different things, but they speak in the exact same way. Politicians, as we think of them, use the same inflections and gestures.  They relate everything to universal truths or allegories. Before this election cycle, the delivery of the same repetitive message was essentially formulaic.

And sure, there might have been some tremors at the base of the GOP before this. The rise of the Tea Party and the slow exodus of the hard-line evangelicals from the pulse of popular right-wing politics might have caused a minor fracture, but there was more than enough duct tape to fix it all up, or at least hold it together until the end of the Obama presidency.

Just run the playbook. The GOP, being the ones who invented this shtick, thanks to the hard work of people like Frank Luntz, were the ones who stuck to it the hardest.  

And why not? Selling the work of today's Republican congress isn't so much like selling policy as it is selling the fecklessness of their political opponents. All the GOP needed was somebody to rally the troops.

At first, it was supposed to be Jeb Bush, who had amassed an ungodly sum of money long before he even announced his candidacy, even though there never really seemed to be anybody who both A. knew he existed and B. was willing to forget his big brother's presidency existed. Watching the video where Trump bitch-slaps Jeb over his brothers quest for mythical WMD's, you can actually see the look of death in his eyes- sheer panic, and then a calm, a sense of the inevitability, where even he realizes it's over. His eyes glaze, his life flashes before his eyes, and the soul of his political ambitions collapses and then ejects into the ether.

From there, we basically ran past the blink-and-you-missed-it cameo of Marco Rubio, the little engine who almost could. Being a young, good looking Cuban dude was more than enough to build the confidence of the Republican base in Florida.  But not on the Presidential level.  You need an angle. He totally could have pulled it off, too- a little more pandering via establishment talking points (gun control or tax code reform would have worked like gangbusters, but all anybody got was nothing. I figured he would have at least championed something small like “Christmas v. Happy Holidays,” but what the hell do I know? Like the senator, I'm probably dehydrated.)

Then things got as weird as anyone thought they could get (at the time.)  Dr. Ben Carson, renowned Director of Pediatric Neurosurgery at John's Hopkins University Hospital, surged ahead, then went bat-shit crazy faster than the time it took to read this sentence. There's always a screwball candidate, and sometimes the guy who tried and failed to convince people he stabbed somebody is the guy who gets to enjoy the limelight.  If nothing else, it gives us all a break from people who are peddling a more nuanced brand of lunacy.  It was like taking a Jaegerbomb in between two Maker's Mark Manhattans.

Was John Kasich there? I feel like he was, right? Rand Paul rings a bell, maybe... Bobby Jindall? 

I remember Chris Christie.  He's currently on a quest to become Trump's VP by way of being his last resort booty call.

It was all supposed to lead us to Ted Cruz. He was the Frankenstein's monster of his party's ideals: An educated, intelligent, articulate person who could take their fight to the Democrats at the public stage. Here was a guy who previously clerked for a Supreme Court justice, and also previously ate bacon cooked on the barrel of a goddamn machine-gun. The pendulum was primed to swing back at Democrats- who, in the grandest ambitions of their opponents, were supposed to be the metaphoric stand in for the typical, elitist politician.  They just needed Cruz to remain somewhat relatable to the voter base and safe from other Republicans (most of whom seem to think that he's a piece of shit.)

And then: like an unholy orange ray of doom, a bottom feeder celebrity in the form of a chimpanzee with worse hair and nothing better to do than say “fuck it” and run for Pesident, descended an escalator and announced his candidacy while declaring, with certainty, that Mexico was sending drug dealers and rapists to the United States. And then he got more popular than all the other candidates combined.  (He's also currently gaining momentum with Hispanics.)

So how the fuck did this happen?  I can tell you.

Politics has hit the Uncanny Valley.  Put simply, once something with human likeness starts approaching perfection, at some point it stops being interesting, and starts becoming appalling.

See the "Zombie" tag on this diagram?  Trump has put everyone else right there.

By Smurrayinchester - self-made, based on image by Masahiro Mori and Karl MacDorman at http://www.androidscience.com/theuncannyvalley/proceedings2005/uncannyvalley.html, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2041097

Everyone of voting age has been around the current media cycle to know what a politician “sounds” like, or, say, what our bosses "sound" like.  Growing up, we are supposed to imagine that our bosses are all going to look and act like Ed Rooney or Bill Lumbergh, only to find out they're (mostly) not caricatures of power hungry pencil-pushers. When you meet your bosses, you find out that they're kind of like you: they have problems, and families, and rent to pay and shit to do. They don't always look spectacular.  They're real people. 

But politicians aren't regular people.  Not anymore. Their families are carefully cultivated. They give millions of dollars to people who help them decide what to wear, how to walk, talk and stand. And who knows? For the most part, it could be well intentioned. Perhaps the majority of them are simply trying to approach the largest number of people possible because they have the best ideas to implement in the place they live.

In one moment, it all went to shit. With no warning to soften the blow, it became apparent that all those countless hours and countless dollars did was create facades that are the antithesis of what connects with real, actual, breathing human beings.  Politicians have hit the uncanny valley, and since there aren't any real people left, some of us started cheering for something much, much uglier.

No political counsel, no campaign manager, no force on earth or heaven could possibly have a plan for Hurricane Trump. How could they? These people have spent their entire careers, and to some extent their entire lives, praying and sacrificing to the gods of public relations to know what to say and when to say it. They spent thousands of hours studying issues, reviewing policy, and meeting important people. They got to where they were because they were the best at portraying politicians.

They were the kids in chess club, and suddenly there was Trump: the new, gigantic kid from out of town who flipped over their tables and decided that everyone was going to play Monopoly by the rules he made up half an hour ago.

(Sidebar: It's only now occurring to me that there is some serious sexism in the media's handling of Trump and Carly Fiorina. When she made the outlandish claim about a fictitious taping of secret brain harvesters working at Planned Parenthood, the media debunked it and everyone moved on. But when Trump says [insert anything he's said here] it's a fucking story? What's the difference? If Trump made that kind of bullshit claim, people across the country would be dancing on the ashes of every abortion clinic in the continental states.)

But goddamn if it didn't work. People love the guy. Enough people love the guy so much that it's tearing apart the same political party that won the absolute fuck out of everything two years ago.

You couldn't publish a list of everything wrong with Donald Trump online without needing to rent an entirely separate server. He's a stupid man doing stupid things for stupid reasons and I hope his campaign gets put down hard, the sooner the better. But I'm still thankful for Trump. 

Because for all of the things he's done wrong, he's doing something incredibly right- he's destroying the efficacy of the trope of the American politician. Everyone who craves power via a carefully crafted public persona now realizes that what's important to people is somebody who is using their actual brain to come up with actual solutions, even if the brain belongs to a terrible person with awful ideas.

We should all be thankful for Trump, because he's shown us who we all are. Now, it's time for him to fuck off, and every other politician to take off the masks and show us who they really are.

Sam lives in Austin, TX, and is trying to say "President Trump" without vomiting.  Follow him on twitter, or send some hate mail to swellbo@gmail.com.

Flair Bartending Needs to Die

I found another reason to hate Tom Cruise.

I know, it's not like we needed another one. Over the last 20 years, his most charismatic performance that didn't involve him dressing up fat and dancing to Flo-Rida was a movie about him getting killed repeatedly. There's almost too many reasons to choose. You could scratch everything about his career that relates to Scientology and you'd still need half a week to list every reason that he sucks. But I've found one that nobody's mentioned yet, and I'd like to argue that it's best.

It was a movie that came out in 1988 called Cocktail. If you've never seen this movie, then first, I'm envious, and second, all you need to know is that it's a terrible movie made by dickheads. It's an ingrown hair on the cancerous mole on the left ass-cheek of American cinema.

Why that movie sucks is an article by itself, so let me save us all some time and give you the short version: it's a horse-shit fictionalization of the lives of people in the service industry, written by Heywood Gould- a man who had never worked in a bar in his entire life. In fact, the only thing he's actually known for was blowing his talent load on the 1978 movie The Boys From Brazil, which you'll never see but might recognize from that one Archer episode.

If you didn't read Heywood “No Seriously This is the Name My Parents Gave Me” Gould's biography (because, unlike me, you aren't an idiot) then all you need to do is watch this scene to realize he's an ignorant, high-browed nutsack who has nothing but contempt for the service industry.  Jesus, this scene.

If you're not sure why this would infuriate a bartender, then do me a favor: Imagine watching a movie about somebody doing your job. They're where you work, they're wearing your clothes, and they're flirting with your cubicle neighbor... only they're not doing your job. They're actually just dancing to a terrible song.  Now you know that if somebody was doing that instead of their job, somebody in charge of them would slap them for the sake of human decency.  But instead, there's a room full of fuckwads cheering them on. Now imagine that everyone watching this ridiculous portrayal of your job will now wonder why, when you're actually doing your job, you don't look like the dancing people.

If you're watching this with a restaurant worker, you might want to take a few steps back- they might combust from pure, unfiltered rage. Which brings us to today's topic: “flair bartending.”

I'm so glad that I didn't know this movie was a thing until after I started working in beer joints- if this was my only impression of bartending before I got into this industry, I would have brought dishonor to my entire lineage by attempting to learn a half-assed carnival routine by juggling bar equipment while I was supposed to be selling alcohol.

Fuck flair bartending with a rusty shovel in the ear for eternity.

Here's the thing about “flair” bartending: The name implies that what I will from now on call “fancy pouring bottle juggling” is actually bartending. No. This is bartending in the same way that throwing cards into a hat with borderline-impressive accuracy is the same thing as winning the world series of poker. I would call them completely different skill sets, but only one requires an actual set of skills, while the other is a cheap, flashy parlor trick that gets really fucking old after the second time you see it. Unless, of course, you're waiting for your bartender to stop flipping a bottle of nondescript vodka so you can get two draft beers and sit back down with your date. Then it gets old even faster.

Let me throw a disclaimer in here: this wouldn't bother me at all if this hobby existed in a vacuum. No reasonable person has the rage required to stay mad at somebody squandering hours of their life to learn something useless if it isn't troubling them. Not even at this guy, because this guy kicks ass.

But where I draw the line is people conflating bottle juggling with bartending. The first gives off the barely opaque facade of sophistication and utility, and the other one is a vastly more nuanced array of knowledge and techniques that takes so much more time, stress and effort to accomplish. It's something that looks so much fucking easier to do than it is.

If you know what you're doing behind a bar, it means you spent a lot of time in a bar not knowing. It means you've had tons of nights where you've fucked up- accidentally ruined somebody's drink, experience, or entire night. You're probably jaded and cynical; side effects of absorbing the stress of frustrated humans who not only expect what they ordered, but expect it now, with a winning smile.

It means you're going to have service industry nightmares- the kind you wake up from in a cold sweat because you're dreaming about being stuck behind the same bar that Katie Holmes's ex husband is in. The difference being, of course, that these people aren't applauding as you're flipping bottles at the pace of a song called “The Hippy Hippy Shake.” They're actually pissed that you poured too much fucking vermouth into their martini because you were trying to choreographically pour with another bartender in the timing of a song that started at least two god damned minutes before you started making their drink.

Seriously, think about being a customer in that bar. Imagine going into a bar to have a shot with somebody, and realizing that you won't get anything until the bartenders rhythmically JUGGLE-POUR their way through the orders of 6 people who got there before you. It would probably take 10 minutes before you finally snap and start murdering everything, or even worse, go to Applebees.

“But Sam,” you're probably thinking, “These are the most minor complaints ever! Fancy pouring bottle juggling isn't just something you can just do. The people who are great at it, the people who get their videos shot across the internet, the people who actually do this in bars, and this fucking guy right here...

… spent hundreds, if not thousands of hours learning to do what they did. What the hell is wrong with somebody being able to inaccurately pour the same drink twice in an hour if it looks that fucking cool? Who loses? Also, you know you have crumbs in your beard, right?”

That's a great question there, chief.  I'll admit that I could never do this. Hell, I could probably stop writing this, brush the crumbs out of my beard, and spend ten hours a day for the next two years trying to learn how to do the tricks that these people have mastered, and I'd still spend more time cleaning up broken glass than pouring drinks. To get that good at anything, be it twirling a bottle with oddly specific dimensions (that don't actually exist behind bars), or juggling while wearing a godawful Hawaiian shirt, or pouring the wrong amount of liquor into a drink because you're trying to balance a bottle in a shaker instead of holding the damn thing in your hand like an adult- takes real skill and dedication.

But despite the fact that they don't look anywhere near as flashy, the skills that actual bartenders have aren't as easy to acquire. For starters, you can't learn them by yourself. There are no diagrams in any book, or how-to guides on DVD's that tell you how to discretely explain to one of your bar regulars that they're too drunk to get served without upsetting them, but every bartender has 10 stories about that exact conversation. It's why they pay you- dealing with all sorts of humans, in all sorts of situations- sometimes talking to 350 people a night. And that's just one small part of the job.

First things first, you have to learn how to make drinks; and that takes time and practice. It's real work. But even once you feel comfortable with recipes, learning the techniques required to make those drinks at the pace that earns you a living- that's something else entirely. And if you're good, really good, then you do it consistently.

But nobody starts off good.  If you're a good bartender, then you've fucked up a lot. You've upset your employers and your customers because a few times in the past, you couldn't handle the duties required of you to make tips to pay the rent.  You've woken up in cold sweats because your bar looked like the bar in Cocktail, except that instead of the legions of fans screaming at your skills, you have legions of drunk dumbasses screaming because they ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey four minutes ago and you've spent three of those making ONE GODDAMNED DRINK.

Being a bartender isn't just about beverages or social interaction, or anything specific- it's about mastering an environment. And that's what so goddamned infuriating about flair bartending- it gives the illusion that juggling is a higher calling than actually creating an experience for the people who are spending money on what you're serving.  As somebody who's done this for years, I can tell you:  It isn't.  It isn't even close.

But the good bartender doesn't go viral, in the same way that anyone who is actually doing their job goes viral. There's plenty of interest whenever somebody juggles bottles amazingly, but find me a video that's got more than 750 views on YouTube of a bartender actually doing his job and I'll take all of this back.

In a way, flair bartending isn't just a disservice to bartenders, but their entire way of life. It makes people believe that hard work is mainly meant to look good and maybe, if there's time, produce something with actual value. There is a fucking difference, and knowing that difference comes from spending a lot of time in terribly stressful situations. You won't get that by learning to juggle, as cool as it might look when the video of you coming in 8th on a talent show goes viral.

Bartending is all about fluidity- the ability to accomplish different tasks at different times, often simultaneously. You can't turn around without something happening- you'll be making a martini for a guy on one end of the bar while trying to stay in audible range of the three girls on the other end as they argue about the shots they're going to take. Soon you've got yourself triangulated between the guy who ordered the martini, the ladies who are arguing over what's in a Washington Apple, and the Fireball/Deep Eddy flavored vodkas that everyone knows they're eventually going to order. You've got a plan, or something resembling a plan. Things are fine.

Until they aren't. You realize that these girls actually want the fancy mixed shots they were arguing over, because they're either terrible people, or terrible people who were hot enough that the new door guy, Todd, was too busy looking down their shirts to notice they were only 19. You make a mental note to rip Todd a new asshole, just in case.

Immediately after you serve the gentleman the martini he ordered, but before you can figure out which bar tab he's ordering on, one of the probably underage ladies shouts across the bar that she needs a Kamikazee, a Royal Fuck, and a chilled and salted shot of Patron tequila. 

(Sidebar: If you want the bartender to take you seriously or acknowledge that you are an adult, don't order fucking Patron. There's no better way to say “I want to put up a hilariously transparent illusion that I have money, but I also want to look like an out-of-touch dickbag” than to order chilled shots of fucking Patron.)

Your situation is going sideways. The gentleman likes his martini, but doesn't like the fact that he has to pay 11 dollars for it. You're now making three different god-awful drinks and explaining to this guy how you don't set the prices, sorry about the confusion, etc, at the same time. But you smile. You understand he's not happy. Of course he isn't. He thought he was paying one price for something, and he's paying more. 

That objectively sucks. But you are, due to years of dealing with shit like this, a professional, who knows how to deal with this situation (hint: it's not by juggling a shaker.) However, he is, due to years of never having to deal with shit like this, a cock. He wants to talk to the manager. Meet the new star of your service industry nightmares.

Then you hear the sound- it's the sound of a cat being ran over, sent through an auto-tuner. The ticket printer. One of your servers needs drinks. Add that to the mental to-do list, and see if there's anybody who can tell you what's on the ticket so you don't have to make two trips. Of course there isn't.

Martini guy is done being angry with you about things you have absolutely no control over, but now he wants his tab closed and you can tell you're not getting much of a tip. You drop off the shots with the girls who have finally stopped laughing about the name of the drinks they ordered and watch as Patron girl drops her shot glass on your bar. Nothing's broken, meaning you don't have broken glass in your ice well (THANK GOD) but now you have a mess to clean up.

Maybe somebody can help? Of course, Todd is pretending he didn't hear what the hell just happened and is taking a cigarette break while you're drowning. Now, in addition to having a hell of a mess to clean up, you have to rip Todd two new assholes.

You need to make her another Patron shot, so you grab the Dave Matthews Band of tequilas on your way to the service well, hoping to hell that you only need to pour a couple of draft beers. Two large Budweisers. Easy. You're night's right back on track. Hard parts over. That's when the keg blows.

Welcome to hell.

It's important to understand: This isn't just something that happens all the time behind a bar- this is something bartenders need to happen. As much as it sucks, being stressed means things are busy, and that means money.  Unlike juggling, your stress level and your income are directly proportional. But being good at managing stress with a smile sure as hell doesn't land you on Ukraine's Got Talent.

It doesn't happen overnight. The stress never fully goes away, but you learn to negotiate times like these. After a few years, you'll actually be praying for nights like these, because more people means more money. The same people who cause you stress in ways nobody else will ever understand are your lifeblood. They're everything, and sometimes, they can be awful.

But this is the job we do, because some of us are committed to creating an experience for people. Some people want to go above and beyond to make somebody happy. And that's what bartending is. That's essentially what the service industry is. It's a lot of things. But it's not fucking juggling. Don't give money to the guy who can pour 1 drink in 1 very fancy way. Because that guy is a great juggler. 

Cool, bro.  Go join the fucking circus. The adults have rent to make, and that means the rapid, friendly exchange of alcohol for money.  Don't forget about the jokes you've learned, and the regulars who depend on you for a good time when they don't have anybody else.  Ask how their kids are doing.  Ask by name.  That's what really sticks with people.  Actually giving a shit about people goes a hell of a lot further than tin-flipping.

In summation- if you're going to be a bartender, be a bartender and not a juggler. We won't serve juggling balls, and you won't juggle bottles. That seems fair, right?

Sam lives in Austin, TX, and has never been asked if he knew how to juggle in a job interview. Follow him on twitter, or see if you can simultaneously flip bottles and send hate mail to swellbo@gmail.com.