Everyone is commenting on, quoting and raving about Fight Club. I am not saying that I didn't like it. I am not "too cool" for this movie (thank you, R). But I find it amusing that in an average day's blog-surfing, I can come across three glowing comments and two direct quotations. Most of these are related to Brad Pitt's character, and his fuck-the-system attitude. Most are supporting it, seeing the truth in it, saying: "Hey man, he's really got something there."

Those bits were not what made the movie mind-blowing for me. It was not even the stunning revelation (that will not be pre-revealed here for those people in Papua New Guinea and certain parts of Greenland who may not yet have seen the movie and may still desire to) that made me go: "That is the funky shit." It was the way Brad Pitt gained support. The way these people wanted him, needed what he had to say. They ate it up. They wrapped it into something they could grasp firmly onto and they cherished it. The part where Edward Norton's objections to the death of his friend as part of the plan are bulldozed into part of this cultish belief system is, to me, the defining point of the movie. And the quotes and references just prove it to me. Here are people who are grabbing what Brad Pitt had to say. Who are embracing and finding worth in it. Here are people who would chant in unison over the dead body of a fallen comrade, given the right situation.

Maybe we're all Edward Nortons, searching for our Brad Pitts. Maybe we all desperately need something to hold on to, to cherish, to be the burning coal in the pit of our stomachs. Because we do live in that sterilised world that Edward Norton showed us and Brad Pitt jumped up and down on. And we have had the magic removed from our lives, the action, the excitement, the daily desire. But terrorism against credit-card companies won't work. And frankly, I don't think saying: "Fuck the system" will either. Because the system, frankly, doesn't give a fuck about you or your opinions. It is fired by the endless churning of the world, and each part turned the next like cogs. And if all the ants left, I think it would still keep turning, running on the ghosts and memories of those marching feet.

Enough of that. Back to the fish.