Sunday, April 22, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
John Bowlby and Mary Ainsworth developed attachment theory by applying to human beings that branch of observational biology (developed by K. Lorenz and N. Tinbergen) known as “ethology” because it investigates the ethos or character of a species as the heritable result of its evolutionary environment (Bowlby, 1969). Like bees, dolphins, or our fellow primates, ours is a profoundly social species whose neurological makeup requires for its health and development a rich tissue of interpersonal relationships. Attachment theory focuses on the neural and behavioral unfolding of the first relationship—mother and infant—and the way this earliest relationship tends to act as a template for later relationships.
The Making and Breaking of Affectional Bonds comprises a selection of Bowlby’s lectures from the 1950’s through the 1970’s, as A Secure Base collects some of his lectures from the 1980’s. Both volumes, especially the earlier, show Bowlby trying to reach his profession with a message for which they are not entirely ready. If Darwin pulled down human vanity by discovering our origins to be continuous with those of all the other organisms on Earth, Freud further injured our vanity by discovering the unconscious as our hidden master. Bowlby’s own insult to human vanity resulted from his synthesis of Darwin and Freud—at some cost to the latter’s metapsychology.
As Darwin derived the body of mankind from the bodies of predecessor organisms, Bowlby derived the human psyche from the unfolding, in lived experience, of those heritable attachment behaviors with which evolution has provided our species. Though this particular heritable repertoire of attachment needs and behaviors seems unique to our species, it is entirely consistent with our position in the animal kingdom that we do in fact have such a repertoire. Freud had read his Darwin and understood mankind to be one animal among the others; unfortunately, Freud’s understanding of “drive” or “instinct” was limited to the important domains of sexuality and aggression. That left the rest of human life to be explained by reference to culture, and its effects on the expression of those two basic drives. If Freud uses the term “instinct” as a black box labeled “sex and death,” Bowlby’s recourse to ethology gives “instinct” real behavioral content, this time grounded in the evolutionary imperatives of survival and heredity (not in a Cartesian metaphysics, nor in a bourgeois social arrangement that fostered atomized individualism).
Today, the revolutions in cognitive and (especially) affective neuroscience have verified Bowlby’s account of infant development. The result, perhaps best represented by the work of Allan Shore, is a new synthesis comprising neuropsychology, attachment theory, and the considerable portion of “object relations” psychology that remains compelling.
In Making and Breaking, Bowlby exerts pressure on his rivals in psychoanalysis—especially the followers of his erstwhile supervisor, Melanie Klein, whose emphasis on the role of unconscious fantasy seemed to Bowlby to be more applicable to adults and children than to infants. He is also at odds with the behaviorist psychology that was in the ascendant in midcentury, a synthesis of Pavlov and B. F. Skinner called “learning theory.” Whereas that synthesis has been largely swept from the field, psychoanalysis is still around, and it is just catching up to John Bowlby now, in the 21st Century. The meantime was occupied with a great arc of polemical psychoanalytic theorizing by I. Hoffman, O. Renik, R. Stolorow, T. Ogden, S. Mitchell, and many, many others, all at pains to wake analysis from the dogmatic slumber of Freudian metapsychology. The theory of psychoanalysis they developed is called “intersubjectivity,” or in somewhat different versions, “interpersonal” or “relational” psychoanalysis. By any name, it amounts to the momentous discovery that human beings require relationships; that there are two simultaneous but distinct human beings in any psychoanalysis, or any mating pair, or any nursing couple; that the dogmas of a one-person psychology were just a weird intellectual aberration, the long shadow of Freud the 19th Century positivist. His thought, together with that of his contemporaries like the physicist Helmholtz, trained psychologists to think like medical laboratory experimentalists whose precious surgical objectivity lay in their detachment from the object (the patient) they observed.
It should never have been necessary for Harry Harlow to torment infant Rhesus monkeys with maternal deprivation, in order to “discover” that primate babies need their mothers for love, not just for food. The horrific “hospitalism” that R. Spitz found inside the walls of institutions was not the result of faulty scientific knowledge, but of understaffing, bureaucratic organization (which conducts responsibility away from individual actors), and trauma (which makes for deficits in parenting skills) in the staff. The faulty scientific knowledge was just the ideological convenience that gave participating adults the necessary white lab coats and sociopathy. From kings to kittens, everybody knows that baby mammals need love.
Monday, February 20, 2012
At some point in the 1990’s I bought a pack of Bruce Lee movies on VHS because I wanted to see this person do his thing. I’d never seen a Bruce Lee film and, having heard people speak of him with reverence, I began to wonder what his deal was. In those days there were “video stores” that rented and sold movies on VHS for VCR (VHS tapes were hollow black slabs of plastic with two reels of magnetic tape inside). I popped over to one of those “video stores” and got a three pack. I picked the one in the box that said “FISTS OF FURY.” I liked it and wrote up a review. Then I headed over to the newfangled information superhighway with its world wide web, and searched for a place to send what I’d written. It was accepted at the website of the Independent Film Quarterly. Then a few years later the review disappeared from the internet altogether. I could never figure out why, and forgot all about it. But the other day while browsing on Netflix I noticed the same film listed under a completely different title, “The Big Boss.” It turns out that the titles of Lee’s films are a tangled mess. Says Wikipedia:
Fist of Fury (Chinese: 精武門; aka The Chinese Connection and The Iron Hand in the United States, … not to be confused with Fists of Fury, which is the former US title of The Big Boss)
Maybe that confusion (which turns upon the letter “s” pluralizing the fists) doomed my review. Anyway, here it is, back from the memory hole and retitled for THE BIG BOSS. Enjoy.
Bruce Lee’s The Big Boss: Kung Fu, Hong Kong Cinema, and Deep Politics
Prior to his big screen break in The Big Boss, Bruce Lee had bit parts in various films. He supplemented his income by giving private martial arts lessons to Hollywood Celebrities such as Steve McQueen, James Garner and Lee Marvin for $250 and hour.
In his first starring role, legendary martial arts star BRUCE LEE sets the screen ablaze in this thrilling tale of revenge and retribution. Having made a vow never to fight again, a factory worker named Cheng (LEE) does his best to put up with an abusive boss. But when Cheng’s beautiful cousin is kidnapped by company thugs, Cheng is forced to take matters into his own hands--and fists--to save her. Packed with pulse-pounding action, THE BIG BOSS, [sic] remains one of the most spellbinding martial arts thrillers ever made. 1971, Approx. 99 Minutes, color.
That’s what it says on the box. Never mind that “revenge and retribution” are more or less the same thing, that star appears twice, that there are two “in” clauses. And never mind what Matlock paid for his lessons. What’s important about this first sentence is the way it describes the effect of Bruce Lee’s performance: he sets the screen ablaze. Why is this important? The vow never to fight again (which turns out to be a promise Cheng has made to his old Uncle, not an impersonal “vow”) is a principle of deferral: the first big chunk of movie ticks on and on until at last the hero is forced to break his resolve and give the audience some of what it wants. Whom is he fighting? Bad guys whose evil is expressed in violence and disrespect, but whose real sin turns out to be drug smuggling. Cheng and his friends are exploited workers in the Boss-villain’s ice factory; their opponents are the Boss’ wicked son and his entourage of athletic goons. The vow not to fight is like the ice; the screen-blazing, “spellbinding” kung fu is like the big packets of heroin hidden inside each enormous cube.
One peculiar feature of this arrangement is that a third of the film is over before any of the worker-good-guys realize that the ice they process and load onto trucks has large bags of heroin inside. Ice is, after all, transparent, and anybody working in the plant day after day would have countless opportunities to look into the block before him and see the contraband. This just doesn’t happen, and it’s a pleasure to suspend one’s disbelief and enjoy the new turn of events -- the dope has been discovered!-- because other, much more important suspensions of disbelief define the martial-arts-movie genre in the first place. It’s by making all of these suspensions of disbelief at once, that martial arts films are enjoyed.
The opening credits roll up in letterbox format, to theme music by F. L. Wang: a swanky James Bond-type tune with a lot of brass in it, evoking the jet-set lifestyle that was a part of Lee’s goal in Hollywood. This same lifestyle appears in the film as dangerous luxury, nearly corrupting the rural and innocent Cheng (Lee) as his evil boss attempts to distract him with its pleasures. When the credits end, the letterbox suddenly gives way to full screen, and this adds some extra zing to the beginning of the movie.
The first scene has Cheng and his old uncle buying a homespun Slurpee (first appearance of ice in the movie) from a girl’s roadside stand. In a moment, some ne’er-do-wells arrive, threaten her, steal the wares of an itinerant rice-cake salesboy, and generally behave badly. Cheng would like to help, but his promise prevents him. Happily, a champion appears: Cheng’s cousin Shu Shen comes up the road and fights off all six or seven on his own. At home, the family celebrates its reunion with Cheng, and we meet the lovely Shao Mei. Next, down at the factory, Shu Shen helps Cheng get a job from the manager, who has just discussed the latest dope shipments with the owner’s son.
Fight number two occurs when Shu Shen helps out a hapless, gambling-addicted old friend by suddenly tearing open one of the dice provided by the racketeers. These dice are loaded, and the creeps chase Shu Shen and Cheng, who turn and fight them off with ease. Because of Cheng’s vow, Shu Shen does almost all the work, taunting the enemy at the start: “just you four lousy guys?” In fact Shen faces six lousy guys at this point, but it’s all right; it’s not what the film schools call a “continuity problem”--the mind of this movie seems to enjoy flouting the physical facts. By now, we’re accustomed to the three major inanities of the kung fu film in general: first, if and only if a fight is underway, every movement of every limb makes the noise of a phone book striking a wall (I know this is the noise, because I’m writing this in the summer and the mosquitoes are around). Second, gravity is glad to take small vacations whenever this is required by the script: guys regularly jump clear over their opponents’ heads and nobody is surprised. Finally, the film is not subtitled, which might distract from the very visual action, but dubbed: horribly, wretchedly dubbed into an English which by 1971 could only be heard in the translation headphones at the U. N.: “on the double,” “a square deal,” and “beat it.”
Another notable feature of these fights is their endings: at some point it becomes clear that one side is beaten (generally the loser is the more numerous party), and the victor shouts them off. The shouting always takes the form of some imperative (scram, etc.), but because nobody wants the fight to go any further, it’s never very inflammatory shouting. “Get going! Go on!” There is a wonderful instance of this at the end of the largest fight, near the middle of the picture. For once the sides are about evenly matched, and our guys are doing pretty well, when “the manager” (a weasel of a bureaucrat, who grins unceasingly) calls for a truckload of reinforcements. The new men pour out like bees from a hive, all wearing solid shirts of one color or another, and now there are way too many thugs carrying way too much metal in the form of knives, chains, and various implements commonly found at your neighborhood ice-factory. Things look bad, until Cheng really gives up his vow and challenges the entire opposing posse of about twenty men. A few blows are enough to show them that this is no ordinary fellow, and they stand there staring. This is when, keenly tensed in a battle-ready stance, he shouts them off: “Well? Are you gonna leave now?” Next, as though to compensate for the language barrier separating him from his American audience, he silently points to a few of the thugs and then points briskly into the distance. After a pause that shows their humiliated indecision, Bruce Lee utters a magnificent command: “GO on!” This may have been better still in the Chinese (I’ve no idea), but even in this dubbed version it shines as one of the sublime moments in his career. Art and Life kiss at this spot, and the movie’s nameless knife-wielding goons briefly seem to stand for everything in the real world that had hurt or might hurt the actor.
Where is all this evil coming from, ultimately? From the cold owner of the ice factory. Boss-man is a strange figure: he wears glasses (with thick black frames of some heavy, primitive plastic, like Bakelite) and this is his one concession to oldness: apart from that, he’s disturbingly young in his habits and powers: paid girls usually appear behind him, massaging his shoulders; his kung fu is far better than that of his youthful henchmen; and his son only looks plausible in that role because his own face is adorably boyish. When Boss Jr. wants some extra dough, he bribes his Dad with “girls” and the men let it be known that this sort of procurement is usual with them. As for parenting, it seems to be entirely taken care of already: nobody in this film has a mother (only Cheng’s is even mentioned, and we never see her), which is probably a good thing considering all the fatalities, and this is more or less the only father in the picture. Very little teaching happens: when the son and the goons are sparring, Boss Sr. gets up from his usual massage, saying “let me show you how it’s done,” and does some fine sparring himself (naturally this involves the spontaneous eleven-foot leap over the opponent’s head, for which even a kangaroo would need a running start). But that one phrase is just about the only heuristic moment in the movie, and this is somewhat unusual.
Kung Fu films often include a great deal of instruction, because it’s an excellent way of putting the beauty of the art on screen without expending either the cast of characters, or the viewer’s tolerance for the bloodier version. Also, we come to care about both teacher and student (Yoda and Luke, etc.) this way, so that the eventual confrontation with Evil will have some weight with us. Finally, teaching scenes provide another principle of continuation: the hero becomes more and more powerful until a day of reckoning when the instructor either dies, or declares that his pupil is now a master too. In The Big Boss, the hero doesn’t follow this trajectory, nor does he (like David Carradine in the Kung Fu TV show) simply get more and more angry until he explodes. At first it seems this is how things will go, but then the curve of disaster shoots down much more suddenly than is usually for the increasing-anger model: Boss-man and his goons kill a pair of young naive brethren, disposing of their bodies by sawing them with the factory’s ice-saw and hiding their remains in, that’s right, giant translucent blocks of ice.
Next, Shu Shen and a friend visit the Boss’ compound searching for their vanished relatives. By now we love Shu Shen because he has twice defended the innocent minority from the guilty majority: once at the film’s beginning when the rice cakes and Slurpees were stolen, and later, when he exposed the racketeers’ loaded dice to one of their victims. Innocent minority? Guilty majority? Not a Communist picture. In fact this is the world of Hong Kong, which in its own eyes is a beleaguered and benevolent minority (just trying to sell an honest Slurpee or two) living in the shadow of a gigantic Communist China, the arrogant, wicked, and hypocritical majority. In Henry V Shakespeare calls England “a tiny island with a mighty heart,” and this seems to fit Hong Kong’s self-understanding pretty well: Cheng is just one man (and his faction is always outnumbered), but he harbors a terrible power which he has vowed not to deploy. If China appears to dominate Hong Kong, says this unconscious, nationalist dimension of kung fu cinema, it’s only because the hero is holding back for the moment. If the blood of the minority is shed, either assistance or vengeance will eventually appear: though the Boss’ gang attacks Shu Shen and his friend before they can leave the compound, eventually overwhelming the two and murdering them, nevertheless the good guys win in the end. This triumph doesn’t come from superior numbers, money, or planning, but from the prodigious talent and virtue of a single heroic individual.
Cheng and his cousins and fellow workers do not as yet know for certain that anyone has been killed; they’ve simply disappeared. The bad guys promote Cheng to foreman, to keep him in line; the good guys send him to find out about their missing brethren. Then a strange thing happens: the Boss nearly succeeds in co-opting our Bruce Lee! Dinner, drink, and some sad-but-giggly whores make for a weird interlude in which vice has the upper hand and Cheng gracefully staggers around the brothel, like... well, like a man practicing Drunken Man Kung Fu.
Cheng is troubled, but he isn’t furious. The climax of the movie is forced upon him: one night he visits the giant shed of the factory, where he discovers the frozen heads and other fragments of the two hapless brothers embedded in ice-blocks. Then he discovers the drugs in the same way. Then the entire staff of the enemy emerges from the dark, armed to the teeth with all manner of metal weaponry. Bruce fights them all off, in a breathtaking, sustained display of intensely heightened kinesthetic awareness. He dances through everything, full of solid force and a grace that kills, totally convincing except for the preposterous squandering of advantages on the part of his opponents in these movies. This is a bit like the loaded dice which Shu Shen tore open and exposed: and to write that gesture into the movie, is the same kind of gesture: the dice in this movie are loaded, folks: that’s why the odds don’t matter.
The story of Cheng Xiao Huan is like Bruce Lee’s story in some ways: a young man comes to a strange town and gets dangerous work in a factory. Whereas Bruce Lee arrives at the image factory of Hollywood California, Cheng Xiao Huan arrives at the ice-plant, another place of illusion where nobody perceives anything amiss in the presence of all this non-invisible white heroin. So much about the film has the character of the open secret: the sweet absurdity of those four martial-arts-film conventions I described earlier (dubbing, loud limbs, antigravity, and absurd combat odds & outcomes); the transparency of the ice; the relative worthlessness of frozen water as a product of man’s labor. Is this stuff about Hollywood? Look again at the scene following Cheng’s enormous battle with the gang. He’s utterly exhausted; the creeps of the town have done their worst, and though he’s gotten through it, the ordeal has been extreme. His innocence lost, Cheng Xiao Huan / Bruce Lee catches his breath after the utmost exertion of that art which we call kung fu / the kung fu film.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Four months ago I published this piece on Collapsenet, the website and info portal of my old friend and former boss, Mike Ruppert. People seemed to like it.
My views have changed in the past four months. Congressman Paul's claims that he was ignorant of the contents of his newsletters have begun to ring hollow, for one thing. For another, it looks to me as if the Republican nomination process is rigged anyway. Still, here's what I was saying in those heady days of yester-month, 2011.
November 22, 2011, Los Angeles -- “The 99% are not leaderless, we are leader-full,” and after the swindle of Obama’s election in 2008 we certainly do not need another Pied Piper to co-opt our energies. Occupy is a genuine popular movement, outside the corrupt electoral system that has (with what I consider the partial exception of Jimmy Carter) given us a series of short-sighted, callow, brutal chief executives since the CIA murdered President Kennedy 48 years ago today.
That said, consider the following. No other candidate besides Ron Paul supports the following positions, which seem to me to be the heart of the Occupy Movement’s purpose:
- End the empire. Bring the troops home. Close the giant web of U.S. military bases that wrap the globe in American domination and violence. Restore the military to the small, defensive role assigned it in the Constitution, saving hundreds of billions of dollars and myriad lives each year.
- End the Federal Reserve. End fiat money. Stop the inflationary conjuring of ever more debt-based dollars, because it’s an ongoing theft of the People’s hard-earned purchasing power. Gold is money.
- Repeal the Patriot Act. It’s a shameful episode of tyranny that turned the entire Bill of Rights into null historical relic, backed by the most invasive techno-surveillance system the world has ever seen.
- End corporate personhood. Get the bribery money out of Congress. End the privilege that allows legislators to engage in otherwise illegal insider trading. Money is not speech and corporations are not people.
- Oppose the “intelligence community” which helps militarize life at home and abroad, operates outside the law, traffics in cocaine and heroin on a massive scale, violently installs and perpetuates repressive regimes the world over, spies on the people, uses murder and incarceration as political tools, and is guilty of heinous crimes against the People and the Constitution.
- Stop corporate welfare. End the massive subsidies to big oil, so the People get a fighting chance to deal with Peak Oil and climate change using our own creativity in place-specific localities. End the brutal and bitter repression of the People’s efforts to grow our own local food—before the agribusiness giants find themselves without the cheap and abundant fossil fuels upon which the industrial food system so precariously depends. If we don’t relocalize agriculture to small-scale farming and urban gardens, supermarket food will soon become either prohibitively expensive or simply unavailable, and millions of people will be added to the already huge number of undernourished Americans; indeed, major famines will become inevitable.
Of course, from the progressive point of view the big snag in all this is that Ron Paul is no progressive; he’s a libertarian whose ideological consistency and rigidity is as amazing as it is vexing. If elected, he is likely to slash not only the behemoths of repression that are dear to the Right, but also the few remaining laws and programs which the Left has achieved in the past century—the gains of the Progressive Era (circa 1901-1916), the New Deal (1933-1939), and the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960’s.
Such a risk, such a sacrifice may seem unthinkable. But it may be the only way to achieve the huge and terribly urgent goals listed above. Our worst enemies—the empire, the Fed, the Patriot Act, the corporate lobbyists, the CIA, and the hegemony of oil-based agribusiness over our food supply—would be faced with both the largest popular movement since 1968 from below, and the swift sword of executive power from above.
We are unlikely to prevail against these enemies unless and until they are confronted from below and from above at the same time.
Today, the 1% commands an unprecedented degree of sheer power, employing millions of street cops and political police armed with every form of lethal and “non-lethal” weaponry, surveillance equipment, data-mining hardware and software, and so on. The 1% shows utter contempt for both the Constitution and the rule of law, and they are becoming more repressive month by month, week by week. A head-on, all-out mass confrontation with the permanent warfare state would be an utter bloodbath.
The answer is the Occupy Movement. Without it, I would never support Ron Paul. But the combination of a libertarian administration and a mobilized popular movement adds up to something marvelous that neither could achieve by itself.
Suppose the Occupy Movement succeeds in 2012, because enough police officers and soldiers realize that they, too, are being screwed by the big banks and the corporations. What then? The most dangerous phase of any revolution is the period in which the old order has fallen, but no stable institutions have yet emerged to replace it. That’s usually when the sociopath with the most thugs climbs to the top and starts an autocracy worse than the old order. Electing Ron Paul could prevent that kind of chaos, because it would preserve, and begin to restore, the existing Constitutional separation of powers, checks and balances, and popular sovereignty.
What about Ron Paul’s alleged racism? It’s a smear that doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.
What about his alleged xenophobia? Taking America’s hands off the world’s throat does not sound so xenophobic, does it?
What about his libertarian dismissal of the Civil Rights Act of 1964? Of labor laws like the minimum wage, and environmental regulations like the Clean Air Act? What about all the legislative and institutional achievements that we the people have fought for throughout two centuries?
The answer is the Occupy Movement. Without it, I would never support Ron Paul. But the combination of a libertarian administration and a mobilized popular movement adds up to something marvelous that neither could achieve by itself. If Ron Paul hacks away at the existing order all across the board, our Movement is there to build new institutions where we need them, and bid good riddance to the rest.
Would a President Paul seek to overturn Civil Rights laws that compel businesses to treat all people equally? Perhaps, but we can protect and restore those laws with the same non-violent tactics by which they were achieved in the first place. And though racism, prejudice, and various Other-phobic attitudes still infect the American people, the disease is far less pervasive and virulent than it was in 1964, so perhaps the people can be trusted to treat each other with respect—and to marginalize those who fail to do so. Ending the fake War on Drugs would go a long way toward preventing the 1% from using institutionalized racism to profit from the prison industrial complex that has put so many of our brothers and sisters behind bars for non-violent “offenses.” Despite such festering sores as Arizona’s ugly policy on immigration, most of the American people seem to want to exchange mutual respect—even admiration, interest, and love. The 2008 election of a Black President showed that, and the entire Occupy Movement shows it now.
Would a President Paul seek to deregulate industry? Perhaps, but most of the current regulatory structure benefits big business anyway, to the detriment of the few small businesses that remain. If corporate personhood, fiat money, and the giant monopolies are ended, there will be a vast legal space for thousands of smaller employers and cooperatives to flourish. As a mobilized population, we can vote with our feet, our dollars and our labor, to starve out the corporate giants who pollute our planet and crush our fellow workers. If we can beat back Wall Street’s financialization of our economy, we can restore a productive and decentralized economy that meets human needs. And without the IRS, barter can develop.
Part of our current problem is that the 1% no longer need our labor the way they did in the 1930’s, when a general strike could bring the mighty American manufacturing sector to a halt. There are few jobs left, and most of them suck—e.g., “guard labor,” cubicle office jobs, and retail in franchise stores and chain restaurants owned by distant billionaires. We shop at Wal-Mart for cheap Chinese goods because there are so few locally made alternatives, but we can change that—and as we descend the ever-steeper slope of fossil fuel depletion, we are going to have to make more of our own useful goods for each other, like it or not.
When gasoline costs $10 or $15 or $20 a gallon, we’re going to have to work close enough to where we live that we can bicycle there. Big Oil and the car makers have made it nearly impossible to transform our infrastructure to public transport and smaller, more walkable cities. But they will lose the ability to do that, when we stop subsidizing them; when we make it impossible for them to buy and sell the government of the United States; when oil prices skyrocket because of sheer geological scarcity, combined with the effects of ending our imperial dominion over the Middle East and Central Asia.
That is why I support both the Occupy Movement of the 99% and the campaign of Ron Paul, and urge you to do the same. I’m not so sure of my position, and would welcome any improvements, corrections, or refutations from all comers. But for the moment this looks to me like the best way forward.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
1. Bowie, "Five Years"
2. Peter Gabriel, "Here Comes the Flood"
3. Niel Young, "After the Goldrush"
4. The Doors, "Ship of Fools"
5. Chumbawumba, "The Good Ship Lifestyle"
6. REM, "End of the World"
7. The Figments, "The Pile and the Hole"
8. Pearl Jam, "World Wide Suicide"
9. Quasi, "Our Happiness Is Guaranteed"
10. The Police, "When the World Is Running Down"
11. Talking Heads, "Road To Nowhere"
12. Laurie Anderson, "Oh Superman."