More Buffalo Than Buffalo: The Savages

Okay, guys. Prepare yourself for this movie. Remember how Buffalo '66 captured the Buffalo suburbs a little too well, especially that lump of a mother-zombie chanting "go! go!" to the Bills? That was nothing.

The Savages stars our fav, P.S. Hoffman, of course, and guess what? He's a lot like us. He teaches lit at UB (he's got the Ph D, but he's more like a TA; you'll see what I mean), lives near Tupper in a horrible apartment full of puke David Lynch green wallpaper--but nice wood trim, and gets distracted by the gloomy Buffalo skyline, the bare trees of winter, etc. His sister (Laura Linney) just assumes he's depressed BECAUSE HE LIVES IN BUFFALO. And when her illicit, married, lover visits her (chiming, "I've never been to Buffalo!"), but then barely checking it out and skipping straight to Niagara Falls, he drags her to the Days Inn where an attempt at sex fails. Why? Because it's Buffalo! She even says, "Look at us! We're at a motel--in Buffalo--it's such a cliche!"

Of course the whole movie is about how we're all going to die eventually. That and the fact that the two middle-aged siblings lie to each other and themselves about their "achievements." She writes plays; he's studies them. A student asks him in that Buffalo-Valley-Girl accent, "What's the difference between plot and narrative? You, um, wrote it on the board." Hoffman lumbers back and forth across the classroom floor and can't quite answer. You just know what he's thinking.

This isn't really a movie review--non-sequitor, now, sort of. I've been toying around with the idea of writing my autobiography and I asked my dad who should play grad student me; you know, the lumpy, torpid, sit in a chair all day me. Answer? Philip Seymore Hoffman. Thanks, dad. Thanks alot. Wait. Shouldn't I take it as a complement? My dad genuinely likes him and has seen him only in Capote and some other relatively "good" role--not Dear Liza or Happiness. So he knows not what he's said. Oh well. We are ALL Philip Seymore Hoffman.

Just briefly--the reason I may have to write my autobiography is because of this book. It features my mom and stepdad as anecdotal warm-ups to each chapter. You know. Sociologists always use "human interest" stories to put a humna face on their data and theories. The chapters start with my mom and then move outward to show her as an example of the larger picture, and then finally end by showing how hippie men were heteronormative, etc. It's everything I've always wanted to say about where I grew up as a kid, but I'm not objective enough. Finally, someone else has done it.

It's VERY WEIRD how it features me as the "preschool kid" who arrives at the Garden of Eden with a naive mother and a shy stepfather, both of whom so badly need an identity that for the rest of my life I will be fighting an uphill battle against their politics. I'm sure publishers will see the irony of all this and give my own story a chance. It's all so meta. That now means all of YOU will be in it, too. Okay, so what do you want me to call you guys in it? How about I just put dialogue in your mouths like, "Man, B, you should write this down! It's destiny."

Bhutto's Death

I'm inclined to believe that the only reason she could not fulfill all of her campaign promises to help Pakistani women is that the opposition to her power was so great that she had to expend most of her energy fighting that. I also believe that she had to (mis)manage money in order to fight the true corruption at hand. I'm just starting to read all the history, but clarifications are welcome.

Blood Orgy--Yayyyy!!!!

We at Hatchety-Murder strive to bring you the very best in funny violence, but around Christmas it becomes quite a problem to find the appropriately themed links and embeds. Unfortunately, we aren't a fan of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," for obvious reasons, but we still yearn for some relief from holiday stress by enjoying an Xmas song or skit that would not be appropriate for work. Nothing beats South Park's Woodland Critters' Christmas. This is just a little something to take the sting off.

Riddle Me This!

One day someone asked me if I'd eat raw hamburger off of Zooey Deschanel and I seriously considered it. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. The other day, I found out that M. Night Shyamalan's new movie, The Happening, will star her. Oh no. Now the riddle has come true! What do I do? I could stare endlessly at this hip girl-next-door beauty, but ever since Lady in the Water, I'm worried that the narrative will be simply painful and unwatchable, not good-bad, but bad-bad.

In related "Night News," I would like you all to read a hilarious group of flamers debate Night's tendency to rip off older texts. (If link doesn't work, go to his imdb page, click threads, and scroll down to the "which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits will he rip off next?" discussion.

UPDATE 1/17--OKAY: COPIED AND PASTED BELOW:

Board: M. Night Shyamalan

1234

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which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by frankduxvandamme (Fri Nov 23 2007 15:18:05)
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hmm...
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by In_Excess (Fri Nov 23 2007 19:39:46)
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Which ones has he ripped off before? Hmmmm, NONE.
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by frankduxvandamme (Sat Nov 24 2007 17:20:28)
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Which ones has he ripped off before? Hmmmm, NONE.


the sixth sense.

there were at least 5 episodes of TZ where the main character was dead and didnt know it. then the big twist at the end of the episode was the character realizing he or she was dead the entire time.

The Village.

there were several episodes of both the TZ and the new Outer Limits involving the isolation of a community not aware of their own isolation, until the end.
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by RequiemForADyingPlanet (Sat Nov 24 2007 20:40:19)
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Shyamalan fans refuse to acknowledge that their messiah is a plagiarist.

By giving factual examples you force them to resort to denial (which they will, mark my words).
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by In_Excess (Mon Nov 26 2007 06:29:42)
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UPDATED Mon Nov 26 2007 06:31:05

the sixth sense.

there were at least 5 episodes of TZ where the main character was dead and didnt know it. then the big twist at the end of the episode was the character realizing he or she was dead the entire time.

The Village.

there were several episodes of both the TZ and the new Outer Limits involving the isolation of a community not aware of their own isolation, until the end.


You have never seen an episode of TZ before have you? Direct me to the EXACT EPISODES in which you claim Night ripped off. Otherwise, I do not believe it. I want you to prove these ridiculous allegations, especially the "at least 5" and "several episodes." Also, if Night rips those off, pretty much EVERY twist movie ever made ripped off TZ as well. The Others, Fight Club, Usual Suspects, Jacob's Ladder, etc. I'd like you to point out a twist film where the twist hadn't been done in SOME way in the past. There is nothing completely original left, at least as far as the twists are concerned.
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by RequiemForADyingPlanet (Mon Nov 26 2007 06:58:04)
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UPDATED Mon Nov 26 2007 06:58:47
Here are some examples of TZ episodes Shyamalan ripped off:


The Passerby - 10/6/61

A Confederate soldier rests with a weary woman waiting for her husband to return from battle. They realize they're dead along with the many soldiers walking down the road towards the afterlife.



The Hitch-Hiker - 1/22/60

A woman traveling across the country, keeps encountering the same mysterious hitch-hiker everwhere she goes. She later finds out that she had died on the trip and he's the Angel of Death.


He even stole his idea for LITW


The Bewitchin' Pool - 6/19/64

Two children escape through a magical portal in their pool, into a peaceful world for children.


Looks like In_Excess has to eat his words....AGAIN!




Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by In_Excess (Mon Nov 26 2007 12:56:15)
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UPDATED Mon Nov 26 2007 12:57:52
Looks like In_Excess has to eat his words....AGAIN!


You are an idiot. That is not "proof" of anything. In fact, anyone will be hard pressed to prove that Night ripped off any episode of TZ. What you have is two episodes where people realize they have been dead all along, so what? How does that BROAD realization prove that Night ripped off TZ? For all you know Rod Serling ripped off other sources for those episodes. I'm certain that Serling wasn't the first person on Earth to come up with the concept of someone realizing they were dead all along. Also, again, if that is enough "proof" for you to label Night as a plagiarist, you shouldn't have a problem labeling 90% of the filmmakers out there plagiarists as well.

Your last Bewitchin' Pool example is supposed to prove what exactly? Oh no, Lady in the Water has a pool that a Narf uses to live in, must be a rip of TZ!!! Yours and the OP's assertions are completely ludicrous. Again, you cannot take broad areas of a plot and say that it was ripped off. They are general enough to be mere coincidences. It's like saying Star Wars ripped off 2001 because they both took place in outer space. The only "rip off" criticism I am willing to entertain is the Running Out of Time v. The Village, which at least has some SPECIFIC detail that overlaps. Try again Jeremey.
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by RequiemForADyingPlanet (Mon Nov 26 2007 13:53:18)
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I guess writing bogus posts defending your director keeps your mind off the fact that you still have to eat your words. I gave proof. You couldn't handle that, your angry rant proves it.

Hopefully your next attempt isn't as pitiful.

How do those words taste, "moron"?
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by In_Excess (Mon Nov 26 2007 16:08:34)
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I guess writing bogus posts defending your director keeps your mind off the fact that you still have to eat your words. I gave proof. You couldn't handle that, your angry rant proves it.

Hopefully your next attempt isn't as pitiful.

How do those words taste, "moron"?


Just when I thought Jeremey couldn't get any more stupid, he gives us this classic post. Go look up the definition of "proof" before shooting your mouth of again idiot. I can't believe I have to explain these things to you. Again, when I asked for PROOF I asked for CONCRETE evidence to defend your moronic assertions. What you have provided as your "proof" is not even close to that. Your idiocy continues to astound me Jeremey.
Re: which Twilight Zone/Outer Limits episode will he rip off next?
by RequiemForADyingPlanet (Mon Nov 26 2007 19:47:10)
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What more concrete evidence do you want? I gave CLEAR EXAMPLES of TZ stories that MIRRORED Shyamalan films.

Of course, you're probably holding out for an audio recording of Shyamalan admitting his guilt. If that's the proof your holding out for, keep holding your breath.

Your redundant circular logic is amusing. I'm sure it gets you through the day.


1234

I Think I Might Be Turning into a Young Fogey

http://www.motherearthnews.com/DIY/1972-03-01/How-to-Use-a-Straight-Razor.aspx


Or, I just want to be John Cleese in The Meaning of Life (remember the war/shaving scene?)

I've been fascinated by these lately....sorry....

Most fights on the site are either too dumb or too violent for me to watch (especially between the guys, with blood, etc.), but the "girl fights" are interesting in that someone inevitably pulls another's hair (or they both do), others are prevented from "jumping in" and that most of the hitting is really slapping, with minimal physical harm done (even when harm COULD be done) at the privilege of harm to one's reputation. (Men attempt to destroy both, seeking to drive home the point in the most literal fashion.) In one video a group of Malibu types are filmed by someone's little brother (watch it to the end), in another chickens break up a rabbit fight, thus proving that chicken's are not as dumb as some may thing--please don't eat them anymore, dear meat-eaters. The last video is just...well...not what you think.













And in case the links don't show up in your browser, copy and past:
http://www.psfights.com/fight-video-1678.htm

http://www.psfights.com/fight-video-1534.htm

http://www.psfights.com/fight-video-1514.htm

http://www.psfights.com/fight-video-1468.htm

http://www.psfights.com/fight-video-1478.htm

Ahhhg, help me out BEM!

So this is what I bought last week, thinking it was the good stuff:






But it wasn't good; rather, it wasn't smooth, not like the Old Charter BEM introduced last summer. Was this it?

Yes, No, Fuck, I Dunno

The torment.


I've been saving up for this massage chair for months, selling everything I can part with on ebay/half.com and hoping that my birthday check would bring me up to where I want to be.

Then the guilt set in. Guilt for luxury. I don't "deserve" it--right? Who deserves such a contraption?

But the right side of my body is completely fucked. I get headaches, vertigo, and queasiness. All because of my tendency to hunch, clench, and stiffen.

The massage chair makes it allllll goooooo awayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy...

But it can't massage away the guilt. SO. All my savings--the safety net in case this my house gets sick (some $5,000 and change, all of my birthday money ($1000) and all of my saved up ebay money $1700 are ALL GOING TO MY CREDIT CARD COMPANY INSTEAD. No. Chair.

The relief of getting out of debt (somewhat) is as good as a massage.



But there's more. I just I saw a place online that is DISCOUNTING the chair nearly 40% for Christmas time.

Oh fuck. I spent the money.

Or did I?

I used enough of the check to pay outstanding bills for a month, I just got my rent checks, I get paid on Friday, and the store has NO PAYMENTS FOR ONE YEAR at NO INTEREST RATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I could pay about half and be "okay with it."

Fuck. I dunno guys. WhatshouldIdowhatshouldIdowhatshouldIdooooooooooo???????????????????

I'm fucking 35 years old as of tomorrow! This thing will de-stress me at a moments notice. I've been crying into my Scotch about this thing for almost two years now....

Comments?

Introducing Two New Faves: Scotch n' Chigurh

Several scenes from No Country for Old Men feature characters drinking from a glass of milk. "Look, it's still sweatin',' says one. Yup. Out here in the Texas heat, a sweatin' glass of milk means you are about to drink it or (oh shit) the person just drinkin' it was just here.

"He's no one," says a character of Anton Chigurh, the philosophical serial killer who makes Hannibal Fava Beans' "intellect" look like pre-school. Chigurh is poor Mexican hit man, apparently, who has a grander vision of the world than he does of himself. The Coens' film truncates much of the extended conversations he has with his victims, but they syphon those words into "pictures worth a thousand words." Every shot counts.

Which, by the way, leads me to ABELOUR a'bunadh, my new favorite single malt Scotch, introduced to me at a seminar last night. The facilitator reviewed Glenlevit, Scapa, and Laphroaig first, and then hit us with this. Whoa. No peat, shoe leather, or iodine. Just cherry, chocolate, ginger, and dried fruit, almost like a sherry. Can a Scotch be a sherry?

"Would you have me second guess the world?" That's what Chiguh says to someone who pleads for dear life. Before he pulls the trigger, he might say, "If the road you travelled got you here, of what use was the road?" These aren't pithy Arab proverbs ("If a dog bit off your ear, would you search first for your ear or chase the dog?"), these are examples of a tight belief system. The trouble is, there's one contradiction. Chigurh occasionally tosses coins and let's his victims go. Does he put more faith in chance or fate? Is there any distinction for him? When you are the one blubberin' "You don't have to do this!" he answers, "They always say that." Note his failure to communicate with the victims in any meaningful way: "they" not "you" as in "Why did you say that?" Chigurh kills like a monk in love with life--but the opposite of a Buddhist who preserves life at all costs. Same tenet; different execution, no pun intended.

Let's not forget the film is set in 1980 and at least three characters (possible Chigurh, too) were in 'Nam. You've got to listen closely to Sheriff Bell's stories. The function of his narration is to make up for a huge mistake he made in the war. You will miss this, but it's there. The book, obviously, makes sure you don't miss it, but the Coens, understated poets that they are, make obscure reference to it. And this is why I like the film so much. It makes me remember why I study film as seriously as I do literature. I could pause any frame and write a page on that alone. The mess of dead bodies in an open plain, a windmill in the distance. The wealth of knowledge Texans have about guns, but not necessarily people (Anton seems to be adept at both). The lighting, oh god, the lighting. Let's call it Hotel Room Gothic Noir. Afternoon sun creeping through the shades, shining through a central air grill in which a suitcase full of money sits, and waits, like Chigurh himself. The irony of shootin' guns at people as "impolite"! "When they stop saying ma'am and sir, then the rest of the world'll go to shit." Only a Texas cop with a gun would say that--and then read the newspaper article about the "weird" man in nothing but a dog collar.

Since Chigurh is after the money that some hapless shmoe found, it would seem that Chigurh is after "himself" too. Again, he's like a religious man, trying to find himself by exploring the world. Take away the killing part and he could be my best friend. Or my new favorite Scotch. Take a shot--cask strength--and yelp. But then mellow out and deal with it passively for a moment. I suppose Scotch drinking--any hard liquor-drinking--is a bit like masochism. Assaulting one's tongue for the benefit of belated effects.

I watched the film with an open mouth. I couldn't move. The Scotch seminar taught me to smell Scotch with an open mouth: it cuts the alcohol and allows the flora to permeate. Now go do this at No Country. Allow the flora of money, blood, and gunsmoke to permeate your pallet.

Do I Really Need to Set This Up?

Thanksgiving is a turd of day and anyone who says otherwise gets a fork in their eye. Howzabout I eat YOU?

"Cutie Patootie!" You've Just Been GINGERED!

Bad, Bad, Bad, Bad Girls...

So obviously I don't blog much these days. And I don't do "journal" blogs, either, or at least not much, as these are really just private thoughts. "I ate some cereal today everybody!" And work stuff is usually taboo, too, but boy oh boy do I have a gem this time.

So I have this "worker bee" at work, who, during her very first year of "work" broke the rules and "stole" from her neighbor's work. She went before a "judge" and was given a wrist-slap. Twice and you're kicked out.

Meanwhile, that same year, someone else committed the same crime, and this someone just so happened to be the 1st-year group's President. The president was "fired" and had to leave the "institution." Fast-forward three years. I am now the "boss" of (count 'em!) three worker-bees who stole and have been found guilty. Though they don't have to leave, they are are on probation.

This is where it gets good. One of these three just happens to be the one who REPLACED the previous president in year 1, which means now, in 2007, she has to step down as current president.

The rest of the worker bees in her group were told to vote for a new president and vice-president. I know, I know. Why can't the vice-president take over?

Get this. It's because this innocent, model worker bee happens to have served on the committee that voted Guilty (unanimously) for all three--the conflict of interest prevents her from stepping up. So she will remain VP.

The worker bees voted. In solidarity, they WROTE IN the Guilty person's name as VICE president, affectively kicking out the current VP and reinstating their thieving friend to some level of status. (The new president is of no interest.)

Vindication! You could hear it in the hallways. The bosses were evil and the workers of the world had united and stuck it to us!

And the irony of it all is this. Because there are no by-laws saying the workers COULDN'T employ this subterfuge, we bosses got together behind closed doors and FIXED the election so that the Guilty worker couldn't win! What is more, we forced her to give a speech saying she is so guilty that she must step down from all leadership roles completely--to make it clear that she's inelligible for any position.

The workers DEMAND A RECOUNT! I'm not kidding. There's mutiny a-bewing.

Where do I stand on all this? Well it was for my "project" that the worker stole--in fact, fabricated completely--all of her work. She told everyone she would do it before hand and her friends look up to her as a rebel, an icon. If I weren't to disapprove of this, I'd be allowing a flood of much more thievery. On the other hand, I disapprove of the bosses' dishonesty. It's not a democrasy anyway, so why not just say, "Nope, you can't do that. Vote again." Why lie and say she lost the vote?

Sigh. Am I way too involved in my work? Good god, I have no life do I? Wait, this is journalling, not blogging. D'oh!

My New Favorite Website

http://www.hotchicks
withdouchebags.com/

Nightmares Come in So Many DIfferent Packages

Looking Forward...

Sorry it's been so long, folks. A new school year has hammered me into the ground. Here's what I've been up to just today alone:

--gasping as Cait and Marla brutally murder my zombified and mildewed flowers (okay, okay, they should have been euthenized long ago--any thing else awaiting the axe?

--fixing my hallway: lots of spackling, taping, mudding and still painting and staining to go

--holding a funeral for my last already put-out-to-pasture DVD player and replacing it with an XBox.

--completing We Love Katamari and awaiting Beautiful Katamari (Oct 16) (I'm also awaiting GTA IV [March]). It's seems I never run out of things to kill, but at least it keeps me happy, awake, and motivated to do other things. Oh, what, that's the OPPOSITE of what video games are supposed to do? Feh. My new line for people who think TV and video games make you dumber is, You are only a strong as your weakest link, and if video games or TV is your weak link, than you have more serious problems than not getting out more.

--finding out more about my best friends than I ever knew by doing the "WTF?" function on OKcupid.com. This fun website allows you to answer literally hundred of questions about your beliefs, most about relationships, but a good chunk not, and then, after you've submitted a "WTF? request" you get a report sent to you that shows you how your friends answered. To my friends K and A, how was it that I never knew exactly where the line on inappropriate comments about religion was! (awk grammar, sorry)

--emailing my ex-fiancee about her childbearing anxiety. She has actually listened to my spiel about not-feeling-like-a-real-woman-if-you-don't/can't and has decided that all this time she's been living to please her mom--wow! I also sent her this cool webstie that can help narrow down the REAL reason one might have kid anxiety. Scroll down:
http://www.vhemt.org/biobreed.htm

--enjoying excerpts from Julianne Moore's new book on redheads here:
http://www.amazon.com/Freckleface-Strawberry-Julianne-Moore/dp/1599901072

Asenath has pointed out that it's really just the Ugly Duckling narrative. If so, than I will probably hate it. Why? Because the whole point is to LOVE YOURSELF THE WAY YOU ARE (clears throat), or else you might, oh, join a fucking CULT.

--checking out "top" websites. Here are two: Top Noir Films and Top Conservative Horror Films. Discuss.
http://www.ericenders.com/noir25.htm
http://www.libertyfilmfestival.com/libertas/?p=2689

--keeping up on that latest discourse on intersexuality. Check THIS out:



--and finally, enjoying the wonderful satire that is The (U.S.) Office. At first I didn't like it, but I've come to understand its appeal. The Pam/Jim tension is much better than the Tim/Dawn tension. And no, I don't think one has to somehow like Michael to like the show. I so hate this guy and feel better for not being as weird has he is.

Get Outta My Way!

To the twenty-year old dude in Wegman's who thought it'd be "fun" to drive a shopping scooter around just because it's midnight: soon you will be obese as fuck and it'll be me, not your silly-ass scooter in the bulk isle that makes backing-up beep noises as you fall into your fucking fat-lubricated grave (XXXLarge!).




To the lady driving the red sedan (licence plate NY DEW 5748), you're not fooling anyone by driving sloooooooooowly and howeeeeeeeeever you liiiiiiike. I see the Handicapped badge on your rear-view mirror and you probably ARE officially handicapped--what lardass isn't? But you obviously went to Home Depot, bought STICKERS and pasted "S-T-U-D-E-N-T-D-R-I-V-E-R" on your rear bumber--poorly, and with no attempt to appear like a legit driving school vehicle.

South Hero, VT

OK, remember when I was talking about this mythical island of lesbians somewhere in New England, but I forgot what or where it was? My coworker was talking about how she goes to South Hero, VT "to get away from Americans on the 4th of July. Basically, it's an all-lesbian BBQ." Indeed, this sounds like the Isle of Lesbos reincarnate! I checked out the data before posting. Barring smallish places like Provincetown or Northampton, where the lesbian population is anywhere from 3.3% to 5 % of "all households," South Hero boasts a mighty 1.3% for a population of only 1,700! (gay men: 0.0%. Buffalo is at 0.3% for both gays and lesbians, by the way). But here's the thing: I can't find a single web page saying that it's Super Awesome and Amazing Dykeland Garden of Vaginas. There's nothing. Zilch. So what's the deal? Is this a really well-kept secret that my coworker wasn't supposed to know about? Or are these just really aged women who hate computers? Maybe they're all hippies--it is Vermont after all, and you basically can't live in Vermont without injecting patchouli directly into your veins and churning butter into the wee hours so that your lighbulbs will operate for the one hour a day you read (books on how to make composting toilets, of course).

Anyone up for an adventure next summer? Or have the cows already won? (actual photo from Google images of "South Hero, VT")

Further Adventures in Rocking Out

Per a recent dinner discussion about rocking, and the exchange over at BEM, the Rock of Love show, as well as because of my own need to find Rock That Doesn't Suck, I present to you...Metal Skool. I know you may have already heard about them, but let me set this video up. I want to call Metal Skool a parody band, a tribute band, etc., but they aren't dilletants who could never "make it." Each member has been in "real" rock bands and has studio-perfect skills: no dilletant wannabes here. They frequently bring "actual" rockers up on stage (like Jerry Cantrell, the Distrubed lead singer, Bon Jovi's keyboard player, etc.) and currently play to the Sunet Strip demographic that glam rock used to court anyway. So where are we people? The parody has become so good as to actually rock better than the original stuff and most of what's around today. All those nu metal assholes are missing the point. You have to have a sense of humor going into and what follows is "sincere" headbanging and "that feeling" that you had in the 80s when you couldn't fucking believe music could be So Awesome--until it was all ruined by growing up.

One last thing: this performance is delicious because it's flawed. The mistakes they make are what rock is all about.

Soooo Many Levels.....

Forwarded to me by my sister

Just Because I Want to Gross You All Out

Abusement Park

Help me. I am in Phoenixville, PA, and I'm afraid either the outer world does not exist any more or this is all some elaborate Truman Show: there's a state fair down the street and the NASCAR crowd is everywhere and there's fried dough, ahem "funnel cake," wafting through the air, wiggers with pubescent caterpillar moustaches and their shirts off smoking Marb lights and clutching their Avril Lavigne-eyed underage girlfriends who scream and then puke from the rides and a weird house of mirrors from Lady from Shanghai and a carousel from Strangers on a Train and the bottle toss with prizes like a Def Leppard mirror (they STILL exist) or Betty Booop in leather on a motorcycle and a over there I see a clown over the water tank taunting the macho men who can't pitch the ball to pitch him in the drink and the lifer carneys who are sick and tired of you and everyone else and want to pull the lever a little too soon and the petting zoo with the sign "Dairy Cows" as if they're special and somehow bringing you closer to nature here on this abandoned lot made suddenly into a freak show that is not like the freak shows of old but some mutation of a parking lot-mall-deepfry vat-culture and I'm thinking where are the bearded ladies and hermaphrodites but who cares because this will be hilarious later on but right now I'm in hell and can only retreat 'home' back to this bizarre gated community of condos that seem idyllic and identical and crime-free but reports of a man with a whip terrorizing children at night have put the neighborhood watch staff on alert and caused the formation of a pre-teen gang called the Night Elves who carry authentic mail-order Lord of the Rings swords and arrows while they rove around at night shooting at and stabbing the first thing that moves and oh god this is all true so help me god i think i hear something at the window is that the sound of a bow string drawing back or a wip about to crack

Small World

Just finished watching Campion's biopic of the reclusive, shy, and nervous New Zealand ginger author, Janet Frame: An Angel at My Table. I had seen bits of this film in 1989 and had been fascinated by Frame's horrifying stay at a mental ward where JUST as they were about to give her a lobotomy won a literary award and was freed. I couldn't deal with this movie and avoided it for years because I knew it would be painful to watch. At UMass I wrote my honor's thesis on a closed down mental institution--but fictionalized it, and had Frame in mind (also Robert Pirsig). Then, a few years later I wrote my M.A. with a chapter on John Money, the doctor who coined "gender identity." Just wikipediaed Frame and found out Money and Frame were friends.

Chuck & Buck & Larry

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The Master Plan

I have suddenly realized that my true calling in life is to POPULATE THE WORLD WITH GINGER KIDS!!!
You see, there are too many people in the world, but not enough of us Redheads. The prejudice is weighty.












So what choice do I have but to convince a ginger girl to ENGAGE EMERGENCY REPRODUCTION SEQUENCE. This is possible in times of stress. At least one member of the species must be as short-haired on her head as she is Lilith-long-haired on her legs and the other must possess a firecrotch whose hue is no less bright than twenty-three cetifibes. A ginger root is dug up and then becomes a sort of "third party" in the mating process.














DO NOT ATTEMPT TO STOP US.







The world will soon be a better place for us--and you, if you behave accordingly.









HAVE A NICE DAY!






Laaaaaaaa La.
La La La.

You've Been Typed

Oh, Hipster Couple, you never saw me coming. Standing behind you at the Wegman's checkout, I never really gave you a chance, did I? I could have said nothing. But Boyfriend had the Brady Bunch striped shirt, red bowling shoes, 70s sideburns and intentionally messed-up hair; and Girlfriend had the short-cropped Mia Farrow hair, combed neatly so as not to look dykey, and the requisite thick-rimmed nerd glasses. I asked, "You in the P====cs Program?" and as you stared at me in horror ("How did he know?"), I paid for my groceries calmly, trying not lose it. Look, I know you are both smart, and probably really nice people that I'd hang out with givn the right circumstances. But try not to be so... cult-like. You stick out like the couple in the KFC commercial in which the girl on the phone signals to her boyfriend in sign language that she wants the whole damn bowl of potatoes, corn, and gravy. Only its not KFC prouct that's being cranked out, but you.

YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU and YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU and YOU YOU
YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU

Sopranos Season Finale

Since the only time outsiders ever hit my site is when it's news this big, let me chime in. The finale was awesomely perfect and if you don't think so, or were let down, or thought they should all be killed, you are wrong. Here's why.

Each Soprano family member regresses into unchecked sociopathic "American Dreamism." They don't care about anything but selfish material success and what's worse is they TRIED to develop a political consciousness about the world, only to toss it all aside when the going got tough. Carmela never got over her homophobia (remember the whole Melville discussions?), and was confronted with it on the finale, albeit in an oblique way; she is also shown gazing at her house plans like a zombie; Tony shows no concern for the absestos issue, but that's only one of many things--he, of course, in "incurable" according to Melfi, which is a just a metaphor for incurable American Dream materialism; Meadow now longer wants to "be a lawyer for black people" and accepts a sell-out job; AJ is the worst of all because he fights so hard against his family's apolitical consciousness, researches terrorism/oil, etc. and then completely flips a 180 and gets the gaz-guzzling car. When the Journey song, "Don't Stop Believing" ends on "Stop--" with silence and blackness, we aren't screwed out of a "real" ending; rather we're given a NEVERending. Materialism, that is, and the "belief" in it over all other politics. So stop whining, fans. This wasn't a ganster show and it wasn't really a melodrama either. It was a dark satire of the American Dream and killing them off wouldn't have made the right point. In fact, THAT kind of ending would have truly "crapped the floor."

"Gay Bomb" or The Oldest Trick in the Book

glumbert.com - Army considers Gay Bomb

This bridge is the one Webelos walk over as they become Boy Scouts. I chose it because the wood is cheap: no frills, just utility. It serves the ritual perfectly because ritual is by definition an action with symbolic value: there's really no need for frills and fluff, right?

So why was the high school graduation I just attended a study in emphasizing frills? Imagine: The underclasses wore immaculate white, each carrying a red rose. The seniors wore white dresses with white gloves and an entire bouquet of roses. Music written specifically for them—composed over 30 years ago on the very organ in the stiflingly hot church we were in (Satan, I will believe in you if you get me out of here)--combined special “trumpet” pipes with the regualr organ pipes. Fanfare! It was as if a king were arriving.

Oh, and television cameras. Weeping parents. Me in a borrowed gown that cost $350 (thanks GC), which itself was deemed the mot remarkable gown of all 60-70 some odd gowns in attendence (notice my clever synecdoche—the gowns stand in for the people themselves. Which is precisely my point--both frills AND symbols--become greater in meaning than mere mortals in their reg'lar ol' skin.

Which brings me to my point. The ritual of graduation made it seem as if we were not people but saints or even gods. What I liked about it was that because regular people—many who are sloppy, disorganized people in their private lives—were made to compose and compartmentalize themselves. They were interpellated to behave. It is kinda funny seeing grown men who would rather be wearing sweat pants try to act "proper."

What I didn’t like about it was the religiosity, the ritualism. I’m using the word not in sense of the various Christian church disputes. Maybe the word is ceremonialism. Ceremony for its own sake. Or ceremony as its own object, the spectacle of it.
I'm not suggesting that there was no "real" object here, but the object was supposed to be graduation—the demarcation between being in high school and no longer being in high school. And certainly the categories of pre- and post-graduate are meaningful to me.

I just don’t know why we need the ritual/ceremony. If you complete the work and the teachers say you are done, then you’ve graduated. If employers and schools didn’t required documented proof of this, there would be no need for the diploma. In other words, in practical terms, there is no need for a graduation ceremony.

So what about the symbolic “needs”? We need rituals, right? Community bonds, public recognition, etc. Well, here are some possible reasons to participate. And these, I must add, are public reasons for the most part. There might also be private reasons, but one can thus perform one's own ritual in private: a ceremony has a public quality, and perhaps it is to conferm something official on a impetus that is private in origin.

1. Compliance. Someone told you you have to do it. You can’t be part of the “gang” unless you do it. This applies to religions and gangs the most, but I'm sure there are those who wear the gown against their will or are simply too brainwashed to know any better. Since I don’t believe in God or in the absolute necessity of organized religion in order to believe in God/spirits/etc., I will always have a hard time understanding why humans need outward signs of their inner beliefs, but oh well. I probably signify my own inner beliefs with my movie posters, Scotch bottles, and electronic devices. But at least no one made me do it. (But wouldn't it be great if, in order to be a horror movie buff, a horror "gang" beat you senseless, chopped off a finger, and locked you in a haunted house for the night? What set you playin', son?)

2.Tradition. Sorry, not a believer in tradition either, though I strongly value memory and history. The "cyclical return" via a ritual that involves the self in some grand participation, on extra-temporal level, in the "thing to be remembered/honored"—pheh! Gimme new words, new symbols, and new dates on which to party. Let the memories come naturally. I guess I'm showing my pagan colors here: aren't nature and its seasons enough for humans? What "believers" don't realize is that their traditions are so painfully obviously manmade that it's hard not to snicker when pople "feel the spirit." Even if God were in the room RIGHT NOW, the ritual is still as hokey as The Twist. The more they insist that that "God inspired" it, the more secular it appears to me, and the more I laugh.

3. Approval. I’m on the fence with this one. My (cult-side) family does not recognize my educational expertise as having any value whatsoever. So would seeing me in full regalia give them pause for thought? Some of my friends say that your getting recognition in a culture that doesn’t recognize you very often—feels awesome. For me, though, why should I seek approval from them? This sanctioned “moment” of "You've Accompllished So Much!" adds insult to injury by underscoring the ironic contrast between "this" moment and every other moment of my live when I don’t get approval or recognition. The school cranks us out, we all look the same, and they really care more about their tutition than the fact that they produced me, the scholar. No institiution has ever sent an officer to ask how I have been representing them these years. As for parents, only one will ever read my dissertation. If there's an approval I seek, it's from an intellectual or avid reader of my work, and this doesn't need a graduation day.

As for family approval—pppffft. I WISH my other family members really saw the "real me," but then I ask myself, why do I want them to? Are they really intelligent to understand anyway? What are they going to do with this approval? Tell others? Whom would they tell? Would those people help get me a better job, a book deal, etc.? See, we're back to the practical. IN the end, my (non-cult) dad approves of me already and believes I’m intelligent. His experience of my higher degree will come with the reading of my dissertation. My enjoyment of his experience will be in hearing what he as to say about what I’ve written. This is all an intellectual can hope for, and robes and colors and platitudes about the future given by some commencment speaker tha you don’t know gives me noe of waht I really want: it only suggests that I could, possibly, have a greater chance of getting it later.

3. Proof of Expertise. I very much want something to signify that I’m an expert. It can be my publications, my interests that peope know and then seek out for advice, even the title “Doctor.” But I don’t need rituals or ceremonies for any of that. If the graduation ceremony allowed each graduate to speak for 10 minutes about the subject on which they are an expert, that would be something!

4. Identity politics. “I belong with you guys.” Pfffft! Sorry, I’m an individual. And while I’m perhaps not unique or special in the elitist sense, I’d rather celebrate how unalike I am then alike. I belong with my friends because...we're friends! No ceremony required. (Although wouldn't it be neat if Best Friends got "married"--i.e promised to devote much of their lives to each other? Nope, sorry, spouses are more important than friends, at least legally. That's why they get a ceremony!

5. Community with others. The feeling of comradery is nice. But again, you can get this sitting around with your friends and colleagues—you don’t need a ritual. In fact, I can't feel intellectually intimate with more than a couple at a time. Also, feeling a “togetherness” is best when it’s rhizomatic—you are part of other communities, too, and while in “this” one you may be the expert, in “that” one, you are not.

6. Empty egotism. Whatever. Overcompensation for lack, perhaps. Aren’t all of these reason starting to smack of LACK? The ceremony gives you something that you ALREADY HAVE, people.

7. Communion with a Higher Power, i.e, The Institution, The State, an Author, God. I understand the need for participants to look around at each other and see mirrors of the self, but easy does it. People talking about God together are the worst because they start comfirming each other’s fantasies the way little kidss talk about unicorns or Transofrmers. I'm certainly guilty of this because nerd gathering start to emit a hummmmmmm...........

8. Unexamined Interpellation. “I dunno. Everyone else is doing it. I thought I’d get confirmed, married, etc. too.” I guess this is the opposite of Egoism. I rather envy these people because they are Indifferent, while I am Concerned and Involved with Why I Should Be Here.

9. Power. Boy did I feel the power surging through me as hundreds of people stared and marveled at the colorful gown I was wearing. Some people actually said, “I want to go back to school so that I can look like you.” Sigh. See what I’m getting at here? It’s ALL EXTERNALIZATION that matters to these people. The inner truth—their wish fulfillment, my accomplishment—is entirely separate from the ceremony.

And when I said, “Yeah, this is a nice gown. I'm glad I came and I do want to honor the hard work these kids have done. But I’m just not much for rituals,” you know what they--inevitably--said?

“Just wait until you have kids.”

Today Wuz A Good Day

DUHN nee nur, duhr nee nur NURRRR!!!

So my dad and step mom were just here and it was fucking awesome. Everything I talked about they were interested in and understood, no subject was taboo, and the truth about the world actually counts toward having a good time.

After meeing QC and Asenath for mere minutes, they already adore them and understand completely how kewl they are.

Then we walked around Elmwood and every house and garden had "a soul," unlike the robot caves in suburban Boston. The streets were clean, my work place was interesting enough for questions and pictures, and eating at the Saigon was for my dad one of the "best eating experiences" he can remember. (He had the Mango Curry duck.)

Then we drove over the skyway as my dad gasped at the beauty of the grain elevators, GM plant, and my stepmom at the hundred of sailboats/yachts. On the way back the sun was setting. We had Scotch and watched Arrested Development (Job in the banana suit). My dad perused my book collection and borrowed several. He's "looking forward" to reading my dissertation.

WTF? Someone wake me up! Oh wait, I don't have to because I actually got a good night's sleep for the first time in a week, hit the sack at, oh, 9:30, and waking at 7.

DUHN nee nur, duhr nee nur NURRRR!!!

Okay, Okay, an "Occasional Lounge-Like Quality"

And I'm NOT saying Leonard Cohen '"is" a lounge lizard. My argument is that he sometimes has a notable lounge-like quality to him, which is often his own parody of one, but not always; AND, moreover, that while his lyrical skills are clearly that of a great poet and not those of an ersatz sentiment, his vocals are often delivered with the sang-froid of a lounge lizard--sometimes quite poorly. To quote Randy Jackson, he's "pitchy."

I include here quotes from reviews/blogs etc., just to show that my views are not isolated--even if we are all wrong.

1. "'Always,'" the Irving Berlin chestnut, is another matter: Cohen delivers it in a lugubrious lounge-lizard moan, complete with a spoken intro that sounds like Barry White revved down to 16 RPMs. It's difficult to tell whether Cohen's tongue is in his cheek on this one, but either way it's one of his most surreal tracks ever." -- David G. Whitis, "The Future"

2. Question--All of the following adjectives have been used to describe you; are any correct?

bard of the bedsits apocalyptic lounge lizard
durable hipster Jeremiah of Tin Pan Alley
legendary ladies man amiable gangster
existential comedian poetic playboy
spin doctor for the Apocalypse emotional imperialist
grizzled prophet restless pilgrim
damaged priest the Godfather of Gloom
hippie icon patron saint of angst
the prince of bummers

Answer — "All of them." From an interview by Ira B. Nadel

3. "The acoustic guitar of lounge-lizard easy-listening inspired 'Bar Noir' bings to mind the more laid back barfly tunes of Tom Waits or the flat vocal delivery of Leonard Cohen in its slick sardonic restraint, all dimly lit jazz stages and curling smoke from discarded cigarettes, while a femme-fatale in 50's garb snares some poor unsuspecting private eye into her film-noir existence of half-truths and deceptive glamour." Review of Alex Fergusson's The Castle, by heathenharvest.com

4. And this from a random blog, responding to YEARS of Cohen criticism--as with Bob Dylan--that Cohen is not much of a singer, though he might have become a better one around Death of a Ladies' Man.:

"I think what makes Death of a Ladies' Man my favourite Leonard Cohen album I've heard so far is the way it firmly disproves the notion that Cohen is a bad singer, or not a singer at all, in a way I'm Your Man, The Future and the career-spanning (but Ladies' Man-omitting) The Essential Leonard Cohen all fail to do. I love, adore, lionize Cohen's 'mature' voice, that dry croak that gives his later albums a disproportionate amount of their weight...This is part of Cohen's appeal, part of what sets him apart, and it's not as if he's unable to be visceral, it's just a different kind of viscerality. But on Death of a Ladies' Man, possibly due to writing all of the songs with Phil Spector, he's actually singing there with the songs (I have no idea how to actually describe this) - his performance on 'Memories' alone should absolve him of the need for any defence of his ability to sing (to say nothing of the glassily exuberent 'Don't Go Home With Your Hard-On' or the shattering, final title track). I mean, he may have lost it since, but he did have it at one point, and he was great at it. It's just an aspect to his talent that has been overlooked."

Here, the blogger protests too much--his exceptional singing proves the rule that he couldn't sing very well to begin with. I do like his singing, as we all do, but he fudges. Now Lounge Lizards are sometimes good singers (Paul Anka, Mel Torme, both jazz-trained), sometimes bad ones (various "Heya!" Rat Packers, etc.), but the meaning of the word, which dates back to at least 1923, signifies chiefly a ladies man or barfly who waits around for women; or a man who merely frequent lounges. Both are strictly speaking non-singing, but Cohen has adopted the ladies man persona the way so many crooners have and has somehow taken the cheesiness OUT of it. So the reluctance to align Cohen with loungeness perhaps derives from the fear of representing him as cheesy and ersatz, as trying to hard, which he's not. Even his parodical quality authenticates him. But he's got the jackets (check out the lapels fromt he 70s--eat your heart out Bryan Ferry [who, by the way, has also been labelled lounge]), the cozy, comfy intimacy of just this side of the piano, and the tendency to avoid those tough notes by covering it over with emphasized timbre, and--what ultimately allows him to transcend--meaningful lyrics. So think of him as a good Scotch, complex and rich, but with defininite "notes" of lounge.

Insomnia, Part II or "Blech"

Sorry--not in a good mood yet or able to write about anything funny. Feel free to skip this post, as it's more for my own diary purposes.

So I've been granted some relief from all the stress by re-waching Buffy (is there anything that show can't do?), but I got up this morning with dizziness. WTF? It didn't go away the whole day and I soon realized that it was yet another stress-related ailment, probably related to lack of sleep, but most likely not, since I have had insomnia without it. I had many stress-ailments during my dissertation writing/defense, all of which magically disappeared directly after, but my new job has brought some of that back, not to mention all the cult/family shit I've put up with lately.

So as I was going about my day, I remembered how in fourth grade we had to put on blindfolds and pretend we were born blind. This was to teach about how others have to deal with not being able to see. Today, experiencing this dizziness has given me some more "insight" into Queercat's situation. For me, it's not quite the same as being drunk, i.e. "roomspin." It's a more subtle uneasiness that suddenly hits you like a pang and before you know it you want to grab something and just be still. You close your eyes and the world keeps moving. I thought I'd include a picture. For some of you, this picture will be nothing more than a stoner poster; for others, it will make you look away. Blech.

Insomnia, Part I

Warning: Depressing Blog Ahead. No Need to Leave Comments After the Awkward Pause

So I can't sleep. I've got so much work to do for school, so many deadlines, so many voices begging for help and clarification that they all start to blend together.

Meanwhile, my step-dad, as some of you may know, is very sick. He signed his health over to $cientology and doesn't have the medicine to treat arthritis, rhuematism, or epilepsy. He recently has a seizure that left him unconscious until a neighbor found him. Where was my mom and why did she leave a near 70 year-old invalid alone? Because she was in NYC being a $cientology missionary.

Meanwhile, Falwell died, to my delight, and all the rage I've had for him, Billy Graham, the Promise Keepers' McCartney, etc. has come out in deliciously Sadean ways (See GC's blog), but I don't feel any better. It's because it always falls on deaf ears. I'm eternally the Boy who says that the Emperor is Wearing No Clothes, but even my family members who have NOT become pod people don't really understand why I have rage rather than compassion.

Now, my step-dad may die soon. It's bound to happen some day. I should be full of sorrow and available to support the very family that sold me out to the kind of hate that Fallwell represents, but I only feel rage. Sorrow and remorse becomes rage and then rage even more at having all emotions defer to rage. I probably won't go to the funeral (my step dad's) because I would only end up pulling a Bobby from Twin Peaks, pointing my finger at them all and crying, "You! You are all responsible!" It would be a debacle. Best to stay away.





So here's a toast to the death of Fallwell for whom my rage can at least be unambivalent, unmixed with the complex feelings one has for family, especially the pod people part of the family. Clickety click goes the Scotchy Scotch, a swallow, and another restless night seeing ghosts in the corner of my bedroom.

Crackpot

My Own Private Beatles Concert

The picture you're looking at is basically what every girl I "work with" imagines herself doing with the goalie of a certain sports team. Every single time the team gets a day or two break, he comes home and opens up his garage and washes his SUV, which is BMW--sans shirt, glistening muscles. The girls rush to the windows and scream and cry, just like the girls did for the Beatles or that androgynous singer on American Idol.

Once again (sigh), the goalie has had to complain about all the bothersome noise. Once again (double sigh), out boss has had to bring this up during the faculty meeting. It's actually preventing our diurnal activities from moving forward, such a big problem it has become.

Thanks alot, goalie. I finally get away from the jock-ridden halls of every educational institution I've ever been in, and there you are weilding more power with brawn than a thousand nerds could hope to muster by uniting their bee-hive minds and writing one big killer essay.

Crapped the Floor

The recent Sopranos episode was the worst I've ever seen. They let some co-executive producer write it and what did he do? He invented Tony's "gambling problem" and then decided to destroy his relationship with a long-time business associate with whom he most enjoyed a glass of Scotch. So I'm thinking, "This is all just a ruse, right? The writers are fucking with us, and they're going to do something amazing that will turn it all around and make it make sense." But no. What actually happened was **SPOILER* Vito's goth son is in standing in the shower at high school, getting picked on by the jocks, and he just CRAPS on the floor, jsut like that. Standing there. Then he steps on it. The jocks yell "Ewww" and run away. The end.

I propose we use "Crapped the Floor" the way we use "Jumped the Shark."



In other news, a student cleaned the board in my classroom today. This completely cliched act almost made me burst out laughing. I didn't ask her to do it, either. All I need is an apple on the desk.

Additionally, the show Work Out completely rocked my world recently. Besides the tragic story of Doug's passing, which I rank right up there with Pedro's very famous reality TV death, a brief side storyline brought together Jesse and a gay Iraq war veteran who happend to serve on the panel who decides if your misconduct gets you kicked out of the army. He told the story of a gay man whose troop accepted him and who the panel decided was OK, but then a higher-up canned him anyway.

I have not seen a SINGLE text that has brought together the two most 2005-election-contentious issues. You have your war documentaries here and your gay stories of the street or the home threr, but they are never conjoned. Anti-war Democratic candidates do not ever make the link. They're "separate" issues, apparently, even to Barney Frank, it seems. All it took was one random gay military side character in a B-channel reality show to say, "Yeah, the morale's gone down over there" in the same conversation as, "They kicked him out anyway" and this speaks volumes and volumes more than Brokeback Mountain and the latest NPR expose about funding or hidden death-toll statistics. As long as the war is talked about in purely DC-political or economic or nationalistic terms alone, and the gender politics are bracketed out, then that Elephant in the Room is going to stamp us all out. I refuse to express more outrage at the war or at global warming than I do at lack of gay rights. This is why Marxism and feminism never really "married," pun intended. This is why I'm not going to see the fucking 60s boomer Bread and Puppet Theatre do its "zany" Bush send-ups. I'm sick of those Vermont hippies because they, too, bracket gender out. Oh, maybe they'll have some abortion skit, but that'll be it.

Finally, I want to put forth a film that I like, and I am somewhat nervous to do it. It's, er, um, United 93, the story of the plane that crasked in Penn. on 9/11. Okay, wait, wait, stop, just listen. I saw that other film, the one with Nicholas Cage. Rather, Asenath and I "saw" it in 10 minutes by scanning through it and predicting everything. United 93 is completely different. There's no orchestral melos, first of all, and there's no exaggeration of heroism in the individualistic sense. Yes, they make all those who died into heroes--that's inevitable--but it's the pacing leading up to the end, the final crash, that's so amazing and makes the falws forgivable. Time is out of joint: we see the hijackers as they board and silently prepare, glancing at eachother nervously, but then we quickly cut to workers in the control tower who are beginning to freak out about all the off-course planes. There is no overstated or overacted line in the whole movie. It's mostly quiet bafflement, Altman-like murmer and overlapping dialogue, and general de-centralized character focus. Call me crazy, but I think it's a great fuckin' film, and perfectly sensitive to the victims without sentimentalizing anyone or anything, bereft of exalting anyone to heavenly status. In fact, there's a marked absence of meaning anywhere in this film.

A Real Hero

I know so few people that I truly identify with, but yesterday I was pleasantly surprised to meet a kindred spirit. Unfortunately, because of where I work and who she is, I can't say her name or reveal much else. You can find her on google if you type in the recent journalism prize being given by the P______er organization, which awards only one prize to an artist who is not a writer. One you find her name, you can type that all as one word, add a .com, and see why she's up for it. She's a genius. And I don't throw that word around. And not a socially indept genius, either, as is romanticed so often, but a real genius, a practical and practicing one. Perhaps a made, not born, genius.

She said that there are so few people like her that she has a small pool of about 25 people IN THE ENTIRE WORLD that even fully understand what she does, and out of them NONE of them really have the time to delve into her work and offer advice/comment because their so busy with their own work. She works all day, obsesses over her processes, has giant "maps" of her work plans, cannot distinguish life from art, etc. etc. She has chosen not to have kids because she would not have been able to achieve all of this if she had. Men in her field do the sexist thing where the wife at home takes care of them, and she doesn't have that privilege. Either way, she's glad, as having kids would have distracted her so much from artisitic creation that her entire world view probably would not have led her to her present status. She values isolation and loneliness, even from her own husband. Despite all that she has achieved, her greatest works "no one wants to listen to," even the ones commissioned for huge amounts of money. AND she's a teacher, too! She STILL works for a living and will continue to work even if she gets the prize money. "Even to be nominated is to basically win it," she says. At age 50 or so, she looks and seems 30: the loneliness that goes along with doing what she's most passionate about and what almost no one on the planet can or wants to do, I believe has added years to her life. So there's hope!

Neko Case Youtube Video Roundup!

This video for Porchlight is from the Brit show Bad Girls (trivia: Porchlight was also used in what Showtime show featuring a rag-tag gang of women "friends" from LA? Hint: three words and the second begins with "L"!

Ten Reasons Neko Case Rules

1. She sounds like she has a cold and for some reason that works.


2. The deep red bells haunt me.


3. All creatures on the earth stop what they're doing...and listen.


4. Her pants rule.


5. She's a ginger.