Let's Talk About Me

Pork Parable

Once there were three little pigs. But they were not your average ordinary pigs. They were better than that. They were Indy pigs. That's right. Independent film making pigs. And one day, they all grew up big enough to go out on their own and make real Indy films.
Now the first little pig made his studio out of straw (give me a break, it's a time honored literary convention that I have to use). And he began to crank out the films. Now his films were pretty darned artsy and full of social commentary. He was a very hip little pig. He made sure to use swear words and tried to focus on the theme of incest, because then he would be taken seriously. But there was a reason he was an Indy film maker. He wasn't any good. But he was self-delusional and tried to not let these little things bother him. At least there were the festivals where all the Indy films would be shown and everyone would sit through the little pig's films as long as he promised to sit through theirs and pretend to discover stinging commentaries on Sartre hidden in the sub-plot. It was a wonderful existence, until (of course) the Big Bad Wolf came along.
Now BB Wolf didn't think much of the medium, but it all looked like so much fun that he had to dive in. And so he attended the next film festival. He drank Scotch, swore and wore mostly black. He commented on chiasms and even made one reference to Heidegger. But there was something wrong. He had a little smirk on his face. And the little pig began to notice it. He was hurt. He was wounded. He got POd. He confronted BB and told him, "If you hate me just say it, but quit making fun of me!"
But BB didn't hate anyone there. He was more entertained by them than anything else. Besides all he had done was join in the revelries with everyone else. Admittedly, he had laughed. But most of his laughs were at his own self, because it was all so damned silly. If anyone was offended it was because their own Indy pride had gotten a bit too puffed.
And of course the little pig went running "wee wee wee" all the way to pig number two's new stick studio.
Now pig number two had a chip on his shoulder. None of the real studios had seen his brilliance. None had recognized his gift. And so he loved independent films, because it gave him a chance to "be some-n." Because of this he had grown to be a bitter little pig. And boy did he crank the films out. They were provacative. Scathing. Merciless. They were "in your face." They were so gritty and real that you could hardly believe it. But like the first little pig, nobody watched them, except a couple of miscellaneous barnyard animals with nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
Mr. Wolf followed the squeels all the way to pig number two's studio where he discovered something even more fun. This pig was not only self absorbed, he was also a bitter little porker. And so the next film festival found Mr. Wolf with front seats, a very swank beret, and a martini (cause hard liquor is for grown-ups). Again he joined the revelries. He saw layers of meaning. He made allusions to every famous nihilist that he could think of. And most of all, he was very ostentatious with his baggy cords.
Pig number two knew what was happening. He knew that he was being mocked. And like pig number one, he was one POd little porker. But rather than get hurt, he got pious. "This is not the way to treat a brother!" Now some people were curious as to how that fit with his earlier tendency towards criticism. But this little pig was too big to be tied down by something like consistency. And so he and pig number one went "weee, wee, wee" all the way to pig number three.
Now the third little pig was busy working away in his studio of brick. But when he heard all the squeeling, he stopped his work and let the other pigs in because he was a kindly sort of pig. He even invited them to his next film festival. Mr. Wolf heard about the festival and decided to come along as well. But he was shocked when he got there.
The first film was quite trivial and silly. So he began his typical commentary. But to his surprise, the whole theater burst into laughter at his comments. The more he spoofed the films, the louder the place shook with laughter. At the end of the first film, the producer, a small chicken from Iowa, came up to him with tears in his eyes from laughing so hard and thanked him earnestly for coming along. He looked around and awkwardly realized that he was the only one wearing a black turtleneck. Did no one take themself uber-seriously here?
The second film was significantly different. For once it was good. It was so good that Mr. Wolf got annoid at the many distractions in the theater. Couldn't they be quiet and pay attention?
The rest of the evening was mostly a mix of these two types of films. Some were really good and demanded a serious viewing. Some fell dramatically short. But when the audience laughed, so did the director. After all, he worshipped something other than himself. He could handle having an idol knocked over.
And so at the end of the festival. . .
Ah never mind. It's the Sabbath and it was a lame story anyways. Stupid pigs.