Sunday, October 19, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Shame
After watching the Scary Maze videos on Youtube, I've been thinking a lot about shame. There are basically two types--the sudden, unwanted shame of realizing you've just been scared out of your britches (those blubbering kids on Youtube), and the shame that you CAN do something about, but against your better judgment you keep doing the thing that causes you to feel shame, like carrying a Dungeons & Dragons Player's Kit down Main Street in front of everyone.
Which I did just yesterday.
It all began when I promised two of my "clients" that I would sponsor their D & D club. I'm not kidding: up to and above THREE of them have been carrying around books about it and spend all of their free time designing characters. "I mean, we could be out there playing Halo or getting drunk, right, Dr.____?" "Uhh...yeah...I guess you are right." The Freaks and Geeks episode went through my mind, as well the faces of all those kids in the 80s who were both D & D champions and complete and utter outcasts. But I am a champion of outcasts, eight? See all those posts about trolls, etc.
Mind you, I haven't really played the game very much. I know a little about it, but in the 80s my thing was fantasy sc-fi novels. A Spell for Chameleon! Bio of a Space Tyrant! Caves of Steel! Why play a game when you can READ about it and imagine the action on the page? Of course, my clients saw it the opposite way: why read about it when you can write your own characters and action yourself?
So I avoided the shame all those years. Until now.
The first thing I did--stupidly--was walk into TL Bookstore on Main and request the "D & D section." Our good friend Cl__ LAUGHED IN MY FACE, as did B___y from behind the counter, and a customers. Cl___ said, and I directly quote, "Take your ass down to the comic book store. We don't carry that shit!"
They were still laughing as we proceeded to QC comics, the rain outside cold and disapproving : was this some sort of mission/test that my "character" had to endure? We pushed the door open, convinced that at least here we would not be met so ridiculed.
It was filled with the usual nerds, some hunched over giant white boxes, others cradling glossy stacks of the latest issues as if holding newborn babes. P tried to warn me: "Uhhhh....no, I don't think..." But I had already asked, loud and proud, if there was D & D here. The comic book guy barely looked up and merely thumbed in the direction of that gaming store down by Aldi Foods.
Fuck. It was at least three or four blocks down. But oh well. P's shoes were soaked because he only owns one pair and they have holes in them. I was feeling really sorry for putting him through this ordeal. We were also going to be late in getting Cl__, who was supposed to meet us at Amy's in a few minutes. But we had to complete the mission!
We trudged down the street, and by now I was really glad that I wasn't alone. As we crossed the threshold, I thought, "Either this is certain doom or it's going to be the most welcoming place in the whole city."
The first thing that hit me was the smell. The tiny little gaming store does not have enough fresh air inside of it to sustain twelve 15-year old boys' air supply, let alone thin out their massive B.O. These kids were loud and entirely oblivious. Some were playing video games, some were arguing over game details. One was ferociously insisting that "If that's the rule, that's NOT what they said in Chicago!" Obviously, some inveterate game expert at GameCon Chicago had implanted orthodoxy in his head and Mr. Clueless didn't see the light.
The owner was just as you'd expect: pale and unhealthy looking, yet strangely exuberant for being in his element. Unlike Comic Book Guy, this man loved his customers, and even allowed them to eat subs and drink soda. He had provided chairs to some of them, and, as it was closing time, let them store their bikes in the basement ("Do you think he calls it The Dungeon?" asked P). One of the kids was joking around with a friend about how he was going to fuck someone "with no condom and no KY." "No, he's not," quipped Cl___ later on, after we told her about them. "He's really...not."
The owner pointed out the D & D section and we cut through the B.O. with out invisible swords. There was just so much from which to choose! I at least knew that I wanted version 3.5, not the most recent one. But did I want the Monster Manual? Were there individual campaigns that I could buy for the "clients"? Some unrelated Lovecraft games caught my eye, as well as Moorcock's Elric series made into RPGs. What a world.
From a high shelf I brought down a dusty box that contianed a) the Player's Manual, b) all the dice (4, 6, 8, 10, 12, and 20-sided), and c) a dozen Abberations (mini figurines of varying origins) which could serve as visual references. Everybody knew that an actual green fire-breathing dragon wasn't necessary, and there was no board, moreover, so it was all about collection the total of 60, I think, and placing them--where? Where the fuck in my house am I going to put these things? Oh, I know: next to my Gummy Mummy, coyote skull, handcuffs, survival knives, gas mask, and Alien facehugger! You know, in the room that I keep closed when entertaining mixed company? Out of shame?
I didn't have cash. "Uh..." P scrambled for it, as the owner looked really impatient. As P counted out singles I asked the guy if I could come back tomorrow. "We're not open tomorrow." "Well, on Tuesday." "We're not open Tuesday." Oh--apparently Wed-Sun is when their beacon shines through the dark Buffalo night, as this is when teens have time off from school or are the most likely to skip. Patrick had only $29 and it was $35. "Just take it," the guy said. He didn't. Even. Ring. It. Up. He waved us out as if he didn't want the kids to see, or, more plausibly, didn't want to keep any record that this sort of thing ever existed in his store. As we walked back in the now pouring rain, it occurred to me that to be truly cool I wouldn't have bought the game there, I would have ordered a classic one from eBay or already owned it--I was of the age, after all. There was just no being cool today. Just shame. In the rain. The man hadn't offered a bag, either, and I think we know why.
"I guess I better hold the box on this side," I said, shifting it out of eyesight from the cars, each set of headlights coming out of the drizzle like... dragon eyes. The little pieces inside made a crunching noise as they hit the side of the cardboard. This sound echoed louder than I could ever have imagined. "Crunch. Shame. Crunch. Shame..." I asked P if we should put the box in his car before meeting Cl__ at the diner. He was nice enough to say no. And to continue walking next to a grown-ass man carrying a D & D set.
Which I did just yesterday.
It all began when I promised two of my "clients" that I would sponsor their D & D club. I'm not kidding: up to and above THREE of them have been carrying around books about it and spend all of their free time designing characters. "I mean, we could be out there playing Halo or getting drunk, right, Dr.____?" "Uhh...yeah...I guess you are right." The Freaks and Geeks episode went through my mind, as well the faces of all those kids in the 80s who were both D & D champions and complete and utter outcasts. But I am a champion of outcasts, eight? See all those posts about trolls, etc.
Mind you, I haven't really played the game very much. I know a little about it, but in the 80s my thing was fantasy sc-fi novels. A Spell for Chameleon! Bio of a Space Tyrant! Caves of Steel! Why play a game when you can READ about it and imagine the action on the page? Of course, my clients saw it the opposite way: why read about it when you can write your own characters and action yourself?
So I avoided the shame all those years. Until now.
The first thing I did--stupidly--was walk into TL Bookstore on Main and request the "D & D section." Our good friend Cl__ LAUGHED IN MY FACE, as did B___y from behind the counter, and a customers. Cl___ said, and I directly quote, "Take your ass down to the comic book store. We don't carry that shit!"
They were still laughing as we proceeded to QC comics, the rain outside cold and disapproving : was this some sort of mission/test that my "character" had to endure? We pushed the door open, convinced that at least here we would not be met so ridiculed.
It was filled with the usual nerds, some hunched over giant white boxes, others cradling glossy stacks of the latest issues as if holding newborn babes. P tried to warn me: "Uhhhh....no, I don't think..." But I had already asked, loud and proud, if there was D & D here. The comic book guy barely looked up and merely thumbed in the direction of that gaming store down by Aldi Foods.
Fuck. It was at least three or four blocks down. But oh well. P's shoes were soaked because he only owns one pair and they have holes in them. I was feeling really sorry for putting him through this ordeal. We were also going to be late in getting Cl__, who was supposed to meet us at Amy's in a few minutes. But we had to complete the mission!
We trudged down the street, and by now I was really glad that I wasn't alone. As we crossed the threshold, I thought, "Either this is certain doom or it's going to be the most welcoming place in the whole city."
The first thing that hit me was the smell. The tiny little gaming store does not have enough fresh air inside of it to sustain twelve 15-year old boys' air supply, let alone thin out their massive B.O. These kids were loud and entirely oblivious. Some were playing video games, some were arguing over game details. One was ferociously insisting that "If that's the rule, that's NOT what they said in Chicago!" Obviously, some inveterate game expert at GameCon Chicago had implanted orthodoxy in his head and Mr. Clueless didn't see the light.
The owner was just as you'd expect: pale and unhealthy looking, yet strangely exuberant for being in his element. Unlike Comic Book Guy, this man loved his customers, and even allowed them to eat subs and drink soda. He had provided chairs to some of them, and, as it was closing time, let them store their bikes in the basement ("Do you think he calls it The Dungeon?" asked P). One of the kids was joking around with a friend about how he was going to fuck someone "with no condom and no KY." "No, he's not," quipped Cl___ later on, after we told her about them. "He's really...not."
The owner pointed out the D & D section and we cut through the B.O. with out invisible swords. There was just so much from which to choose! I at least knew that I wanted version 3.5, not the most recent one. But did I want the Monster Manual? Were there individual campaigns that I could buy for the "clients"? Some unrelated Lovecraft games caught my eye, as well as Moorcock's Elric series made into RPGs. What a world.
From a high shelf I brought down a dusty box that contianed a) the Player's Manual, b) all the dice (4, 6, 8, 10, 12, and 20-sided), and c) a dozen Abberations (mini figurines of varying origins) which could serve as visual references. Everybody knew that an actual green fire-breathing dragon wasn't necessary, and there was no board, moreover, so it was all about collection the total of 60, I think, and placing them--where? Where the fuck in my house am I going to put these things? Oh, I know: next to my Gummy Mummy, coyote skull, handcuffs, survival knives, gas mask, and Alien facehugger! You know, in the room that I keep closed when entertaining mixed company? Out of shame?
I didn't have cash. "Uh..." P scrambled for it, as the owner looked really impatient. As P counted out singles I asked the guy if I could come back tomorrow. "We're not open tomorrow." "Well, on Tuesday." "We're not open Tuesday." Oh--apparently Wed-Sun is when their beacon shines through the dark Buffalo night, as this is when teens have time off from school or are the most likely to skip. Patrick had only $29 and it was $35. "Just take it," the guy said. He didn't. Even. Ring. It. Up. He waved us out as if he didn't want the kids to see, or, more plausibly, didn't want to keep any record that this sort of thing ever existed in his store. As we walked back in the now pouring rain, it occurred to me that to be truly cool I wouldn't have bought the game there, I would have ordered a classic one from eBay or already owned it--I was of the age, after all. There was just no being cool today. Just shame. In the rain. The man hadn't offered a bag, either, and I think we know why.
"I guess I better hold the box on this side," I said, shifting it out of eyesight from the cars, each set of headlights coming out of the drizzle like... dragon eyes. The little pieces inside made a crunching noise as they hit the side of the cardboard. This sound echoed louder than I could ever have imagined. "Crunch. Shame. Crunch. Shame..." I asked P if we should put the box in his car before meeting Cl__ at the diner. He was nice enough to say no. And to continue walking next to a grown-ass man carrying a D & D set.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Bye Bye Blog?
Well, that's one reason. The other is that I'm trying to write autobiographically, which takes a lot of time--Geoffrey Crayon disappeared right around the time he was finishing his novel, then he had a kid, etc. Blogs aren't always high on the list.
But now that work is beginning again, I find myself in front of the computer lots more. So here's something small--for now.
I've always thought that liking heavy metal--more specifically progressive and symphonic metal (you know, the 'nice' stuff--not that Lamb of God, jingoistic fratboy bullshit--is a lot like collecting comic books or anything else geeky. You tend to know a whole lot about it that others don't, to like it a lot more (too much more) than others do, and to get offended when people don't understand it ("Evanescence is NOT part of this genre, man!" [Sound of geek spittle frothing]). And geeks always yearn to find the homeland of their true people, be it Darkon, Klingon, Comic-Con, or...small pockets of Europe!
Which is where these metal fests take place. Christ, in the U.S. we have, what, Ozzfest? Warped Tour? Fuck that. I want to go see this Medusa shit! I'll swim over there, dammit.
I bet these concerts are the only place in the world where you can't distinguish whose a girl-metal-singer fan and whose a Xena fan. Ah, Xena. If you were a singer in a band, the band would most definitely be a symphonic metal band with whispering banshees and full choir dressed in leather. The orchestra would be...well, like symphonic metal, it would probably be played by one guy on a synth, and he would be made fun of--until the Xena fangirls stared him down with their eye daggers. Because this shit is serious, man.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
This Week in B_n
--I was invited to be the speaker at the "exiting ceremony" where I work--which trite metaphor shall I use as I send them on their way?
--I'm sick of Obama's inconsistency with his old pastor, with Fox news, etc.
--I learned that Teddy Roosevelt's mom and wife died on the same day, and that he subsequently travelled to the American badlands to mull it over. He then led an expedition through Brazil to find a river, during which much of his party committed suicide or were murdered by natives, lived to tell everyone about the place, but was nevertheless disbelieved by respected geographers.
--I stood in line for an hour so that I could pick up my reserve copy of GTA IV. I thought I was a big dork until I realized there were no pimply-faced teenagers around at all. The fans were all my age, of varying ethnicity, gender, and class, some carrying babies on their arms, some an entire nuclear family, though most were lone males like me. None of us seemed like "nerds" at all, but rather celebrants of the most satirical video game about American culture ever invented (by the Scottish). We were all chatting about it line like it was not just some sort of Harry Potter phenomenon, but some sort of very serious event, like a new Wilco or Radiohead record. Not knowing GTA is like not knowing Seinfeld, The Wizard of Oz, or "Happy Birthday"--you must actively reject it not to know of it or at least its general contribution/detriment. When I brought it home I accidentally ripped off the plastic that stays on the case. My trembling fingers guided the disk into the Xbox tray like a nervous teenage virgin. The world of Liberty City opened up like Valhalla. I did not steal a car, punch anyone, or blow someone's brains out. I walked around, interacted with pedestrians, went to my apartment, and watched TV. That's right: you can just sit there in your virtual pad and flip channels around GTA-land TV while you mellow out. One show paired a butch closeted gay man with an out femmy gay man--that's a show I want to see: homophobia and queer criticism encircling each other like good and evil do in Fantasia. I then programmed my virtual cellphone with custom ringtones and tuned my radio to all-Russian pop, which is an amazing new genre I know nothing about except the usual (Gorky Park, Tatu, etc.). Apparently one can also make the character go "online" and connect to some social networking site--I've heard that XBox livers can actually connect to other Xboxers this way, like myspace and facebook. I can't confirm this most odd of mediations I've ever heard of.
--I rewatched the brilliant documentary Hollywoodism, which my "clients" love. They can't believe that Hollywood offers an inclusive picture of the American Dream that, ironically, was constructed by the very people shut out of it in the first place. An image consumes reality yet again.
--Opeth is my new favorite band. What other prog death metal band performs an entirely acoustic folk set of pure evil before launching into the "heavy" stuff? Here's just a mere taste: "Hope Leaves"--great fuckin' title, eh? More Opeth to come. I'll tattoo this O--I don't give a fuck.
--I'm sick of Obama's inconsistency with his old pastor, with Fox news, etc.
--I learned that Teddy Roosevelt's mom and wife died on the same day, and that he subsequently travelled to the American badlands to mull it over. He then led an expedition through Brazil to find a river, during which much of his party committed suicide or were murdered by natives, lived to tell everyone about the place, but was nevertheless disbelieved by respected geographers.
--I stood in line for an hour so that I could pick up my reserve copy of GTA IV. I thought I was a big dork until I realized there were no pimply-faced teenagers around at all. The fans were all my age, of varying ethnicity, gender, and class, some carrying babies on their arms, some an entire nuclear family, though most were lone males like me. None of us seemed like "nerds" at all, but rather celebrants of the most satirical video game about American culture ever invented (by the Scottish). We were all chatting about it line like it was not just some sort of Harry Potter phenomenon, but some sort of very serious event, like a new Wilco or Radiohead record. Not knowing GTA is like not knowing Seinfeld, The Wizard of Oz, or "Happy Birthday"--you must actively reject it not to know of it or at least its general contribution/detriment. When I brought it home I accidentally ripped off the plastic that stays on the case. My trembling fingers guided the disk into the Xbox tray like a nervous teenage virgin. The world of Liberty City opened up like Valhalla. I did not steal a car, punch anyone, or blow someone's brains out. I walked around, interacted with pedestrians, went to my apartment, and watched TV. That's right: you can just sit there in your virtual pad and flip channels around GTA-land TV while you mellow out. One show paired a butch closeted gay man with an out femmy gay man--that's a show I want to see: homophobia and queer criticism encircling each other like good and evil do in Fantasia. I then programmed my virtual cellphone with custom ringtones and tuned my radio to all-Russian pop, which is an amazing new genre I know nothing about except the usual (Gorky Park, Tatu, etc.). Apparently one can also make the character go "online" and connect to some social networking site--I've heard that XBox livers can actually connect to other Xboxers this way, like myspace and facebook. I can't confirm this most odd of mediations I've ever heard of.
--I rewatched the brilliant documentary Hollywoodism, which my "clients" love. They can't believe that Hollywood offers an inclusive picture of the American Dream that, ironically, was constructed by the very people shut out of it in the first place. An image consumes reality yet again.
--Opeth is my new favorite band. What other prog death metal band performs an entirely acoustic folk set of pure evil before launching into the "heavy" stuff? Here's just a mere taste: "Hope Leaves"--great fuckin' title, eh? More Opeth to come. I'll tattoo this O--I don't give a fuck.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Amber Benson (nerd alert)
AB plays an ethical vampire in an episode of Supernatural called "Bloodlust." Check it out at surfthechannel.com
One of the interesting twists on vampire mythology is that dead man's blood can be put on any stabby weapon, not just wood, and it has the effect of making the vampire sick or incapacitated.
One of the interesting twists on vampire mythology is that dead man's blood can be put on any stabby weapon, not just wood, and it has the effect of making the vampire sick or incapacitated.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Yes! [Hand Pumping at Hip-Level)
The guy who came to speak last year, the one I told you all about, who would just make up his own jargon and tried to pass it off as research, whom everyone "loved" and thought was "so charismatic," but who I said reminded me of L. Ron Hubbard and scared the living bejesus out of me because his doubletalk made no fucking sense at all, but which is a kind of discourse that members of my own family have lapped up, never to be seen again--is a fucking fraud!!!!!!!!!!!
Guilty before proven innocent, dude. I smelled your bullshit last year--beeeeeeeeeattttttchhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Guilty before proven innocent, dude. I smelled your bullshit last year--beeeeeeeeeattttttchhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Thine Eyes Bleed
Warning!
What you are about to see will make your eyes bleed.
You will go blind.
I'm not kidding.
You've seen him sneer in State and Main.
You've seen him groan "I just wanna pump, pump" in Happiness.
Curled up next to a model airplane in Love Liza.
And sitting in his tighty-whities in Red Dragon.
Now.
Watch.
Him.
From several angles.
Have sex with Marisa Tomei!
What you are about to see will make your eyes bleed.
You will go blind.
I'm not kidding.
You've seen him sneer in State and Main.
You've seen him groan "I just wanna pump, pump" in Happiness.
Curled up next to a model airplane in Love Liza.
And sitting in his tighty-whities in Red Dragon.
Now.
Watch.
Him.
From several angles.
Have sex with Marisa Tomei!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Speaking of Nerd Trolls--Howzabout "Trolling"?
Those n'er-do-well Scandinavian creatures to which we have been referring to: (nerd) "trolls" have sent me off on a quest for the true meaning of internet "trolling" now.
As I understand it, internet "trolls" attempt to bait others, either by going off topic or, alternately, staying somewhat on-topic but using sarcastic, insulting, demeaning, or patronizing language that will incense others to "flame." It's not unlike hate speech in the legal lexicon--it is so powerful that others cannot help but fly off the handle!
It all started when I encountered someone on gamespot who told me to "say goodbye to my thread" because I had used "A**hole" for "asshole" when I should have used only "A____." Instead of reporting me to the "mod" she pointed out my folly glibly, smugly. I looked her up and found that she does this on all the other forums, too--never engaging with others on the topic of discussion and only narc-ing on them and otherwise policing their language--even signing off with a link to a cyber crime site with .gov at the end.
So when I objected to her methods (calmly, rationally--I wasn't flaming), I was stunned at how many people called me "noob," "newbie" and the like--"learn the rules, dude." Hardly anyone said, Hey, You're right. You broke the rules, but she is trolling--so both of you quit it. No one pointed out her stupid ass American Flag avatar icon, either, probably because it cyberwind was blowing through their Gold-Bonded cyberballs.
It's like a weird version of Stockholm Syndrome in which narcs are more beloved the more they hypocritically cloak themselves in the mantle of "saving" the board from...what...swear words? On a board that was, admittedly, about a game in which you shoot people in the F**king head. I'm sorry, I mean F---- head.
No. I mean THE FUCKING HEAD, goddamit.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Everything is Completely Possible!
Do you want more?
That's some serious summarizing!
What? STILL want more?
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
A Rusty Nail Part II
In between Last Man and I Am Legend was the 1970s attempt at the apocalypse, Omega Man, starring "C-Dog" Heston, of course, but this one didn't give me nightmares. Oh wait, yes it did: the part in which he watches Woodstock over and over and over again, mouthing the hippies' lines word for word. Shudder.
In I Am Legend, the film Will Smith watches over and over is Shrek, and the one foodstuff he saves in his freezer, bacon. He attaches these memories to his absent family, as with the character in the original novel and film. But as you would expect, the setting is NYC (not LA) and Smith won't leave "ground zero" to explore the possibility of other survivors. Moreover, the film is ruined by bad CGI by once again inserting smooth, shiny surfaces where there should be dark, porous ones. A says that we will look back on the CGI era the way we do cheap color of the 40s and 50s with its garish pinks and greens.
I will say that there are a few poignant moments that give new meaning to the word "loneliness" and an excellent nod to Romero's positing of a "talented 10th" of zombies (well, vampires--they're called "hemocytes" actually) who start to think for themselves. Overall, however, none of the three films dared touch the theme running through the novel about the "lewd and lascivious" female vamp-zombs who attempt to lure him outside by strip-tease and masturbation. In I Am Legend, Smith experiments on a female hemocyte, and one might as, why her? In the novel, the question is given an explicit answer, and it's not pretty (though not necrophilic either).
I also saved myself another restless night without sleep by turning to another fundamentally amazing text, Blade Runner: The Final Cut. The audio is in 5.1, the transfer is sharper, and more gore was added (put back in--it was originally taken out); the bad stunt doubles and continuity problems were nixed completely. However, the accompanying documentary, Dangerous Days, was a nerd's delight! Sound the neeeeeeerd hornnnnnn. Three hours looooooooog! Bring your Hot Pockets and Gatoraaaaaade. You get to see screen tests of other actors trying out for Pris and Rachel--with the exact same lighting, smoke, and blocking!!! <---that's real enthusiasm, not sarcasm). Watching it has the odd effect of suggesting other replicants are "out there."
The most fascinating part of the doc was actually a socio-historical one: why did it fail at the box office during the summer of 1982? Because Reaganomics promised hope and happiness, not dark dystopia. Guess which film made the most that summer? E fucking T!!!! I remember that summer so well because everyone was crying over ET--I mean everyone. Oh and here are some other films Blade Runner had to compete with that summer: Beastmaster, Conan the Barbarian, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Poltergeist, Star Trek II, Rocky III, The Thing, and Tron.
To conclude by reiterating CGI sucks (except in Buffy, in which it has a campy effect that actually heightens suspension of disbelief). As one of the producers of (the new) Battlestar Galactica series relates, "We often just say to the CGI people--give it that 'Blade Runner' look, and they know exactly what we mean." Ironically, there is no CGI in Blade Runner--it's all in-camera effects. We truly are ruled by computers and robots these days. The replicants have won:
In I Am Legend, the film Will Smith watches over and over is Shrek, and the one foodstuff he saves in his freezer, bacon. He attaches these memories to his absent family, as with the character in the original novel and film. But as you would expect, the setting is NYC (not LA) and Smith won't leave "ground zero" to explore the possibility of other survivors. Moreover, the film is ruined by bad CGI by once again inserting smooth, shiny surfaces where there should be dark, porous ones. A says that we will look back on the CGI era the way we do cheap color of the 40s and 50s with its garish pinks and greens.
I will say that there are a few poignant moments that give new meaning to the word "loneliness" and an excellent nod to Romero's positing of a "talented 10th" of zombies (well, vampires--they're called "hemocytes" actually) who start to think for themselves. Overall, however, none of the three films dared touch the theme running through the novel about the "lewd and lascivious" female vamp-zombs who attempt to lure him outside by strip-tease and masturbation. In I Am Legend, Smith experiments on a female hemocyte, and one might as, why her? In the novel, the question is given an explicit answer, and it's not pretty (though not necrophilic either).
I also saved myself another restless night without sleep by turning to another fundamentally amazing text, Blade Runner: The Final Cut. The audio is in 5.1, the transfer is sharper, and more gore was added (put back in--it was originally taken out); the bad stunt doubles and continuity problems were nixed completely. However, the accompanying documentary, Dangerous Days, was a nerd's delight! Sound the neeeeeeerd hornnnnnn. Three hours looooooooog! Bring your Hot Pockets and Gatoraaaaaade. You get to see screen tests of other actors trying out for Pris and Rachel--with the exact same lighting, smoke, and blocking!!! <---that's real enthusiasm, not sarcasm). Watching it has the odd effect of suggesting other replicants are "out there."
The most fascinating part of the doc was actually a socio-historical one: why did it fail at the box office during the summer of 1982? Because Reaganomics promised hope and happiness, not dark dystopia. Guess which film made the most that summer? E fucking T!!!! I remember that summer so well because everyone was crying over ET--I mean everyone. Oh and here are some other films Blade Runner had to compete with that summer: Beastmaster, Conan the Barbarian, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Poltergeist, Star Trek II, Rocky III, The Thing, and Tron.
To conclude by reiterating CGI sucks (except in Buffy, in which it has a campy effect that actually heightens suspension of disbelief). As one of the producers of (the new) Battlestar Galactica series relates, "We often just say to the CGI people--give it that 'Blade Runner' look, and they know exactly what we mean." Ironically, there is no CGI in Blade Runner--it's all in-camera effects. We truly are ruled by computers and robots these days. The replicants have won:
Sunday, March 23, 2008
A Rusty Nail....Part I
Last night I saw one of the scariest films of my life: Vincent Price in Last Man on Earth. How could I not have seen this film until now????? I cannot hold my head up high as a gothic/horror theorist. In fact, this film unites vampire and zombie mythology in one sutured text!
I was so scared that I could not sleep at all last night, not one wink. Oh, wait; yes, I slept for 10 minutes DURING WHICH I HAD NIGHTMARES, one of which was about my trying to get out of a basement full of vampire-zombies by opening one of those windows that swings up and out--only a bucket of long-ass railroad nails, rusty and iron-stinking, fell right on my head somehow. One nail managed to pierce me through the neck. I pulled it out, bleeding profusely and worried more about blood poisoning than the ghouls. Then I woke up.
You can watch the whole film on youtube, but here's a brief clip--watch only the first two minutes of this. Notice that Price isn't picking up dummies; they are real people. He's living in a private holocaust, complete with BURNING BODY PIT to which he makes daily deposits. Gahhhhhhhhhhhh! There is not one single cheesy thiing about this 1964 film and I'm not so sure Romero's first film is scarier. They're both pretty bleak. Stayed tuned for Part II, in which I read the original Matheson novel again, watch Omega Man and the Will Smith version. By the way, the phrase "I am legend" comes from a conversation Price has with a vampire who tells him that they all hate and fear him: he's "legendary" in the city. The book is written in the 3rd person; Price's film narrated in the 1st--though he never utters that phrase. It's one of the best titles ever, though I already know the WIll Smith film will suck--a lot.
I was so scared that I could not sleep at all last night, not one wink. Oh, wait; yes, I slept for 10 minutes DURING WHICH I HAD NIGHTMARES, one of which was about my trying to get out of a basement full of vampire-zombies by opening one of those windows that swings up and out--only a bucket of long-ass railroad nails, rusty and iron-stinking, fell right on my head somehow. One nail managed to pierce me through the neck. I pulled it out, bleeding profusely and worried more about blood poisoning than the ghouls. Then I woke up.
You can watch the whole film on youtube, but here's a brief clip--watch only the first two minutes of this. Notice that Price isn't picking up dummies; they are real people. He's living in a private holocaust, complete with BURNING BODY PIT to which he makes daily deposits. Gahhhhhhhhhhhh! There is not one single cheesy thiing about this 1964 film and I'm not so sure Romero's first film is scarier. They're both pretty bleak. Stayed tuned for Part II, in which I read the original Matheson novel again, watch Omega Man and the Will Smith version. By the way, the phrase "I am legend" comes from a conversation Price has with a vampire who tells him that they all hate and fear him: he's "legendary" in the city. The book is written in the 3rd person; Price's film narrated in the 1st--though he never utters that phrase. It's one of the best titles ever, though I already know the WIll Smith film will suck--a lot.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Hulu.com Launch
So tomorrow is the beginning of hulo.com's auspicious rise to fame. Hulu offers almost all of the TV we'd watch with cable, but--here's the downside--it's ad-supported. However, apparently you can pick the kinds of ads you want to see. If I can pick movie trailers only, then I'm down. I am so fucking down. Gimmeh gimmeh gimmeh mooooore.....
If--and this is a BIG if--hulu.com gets as big as projected, Netflix will see a big drop in TV on DVD requests and iTunes will have to slash their video prices if not eliminate them completely. Youtube will also go back to being a amateur vid site primarily, as the pirated shows won't need to be ripped.
So here's what I'm worried about: some other site will come along and offer HBO, Cinemax, VHI classics, etc. for a small fee, and thus reinstate the same cable/pay division we had before. Anyone else anticipate how this or other sites like it will alter viewing habits, the Habermasian public sphere, etc.?
If--and this is a BIG if--hulu.com gets as big as projected, Netflix will see a big drop in TV on DVD requests and iTunes will have to slash their video prices if not eliminate them completely. Youtube will also go back to being a amateur vid site primarily, as the pirated shows won't need to be ripped.
So here's what I'm worried about: some other site will come along and offer HBO, Cinemax, VHI classics, etc. for a small fee, and thus reinstate the same cable/pay division we had before. Anyone else anticipate how this or other sites like it will alter viewing habits, the Habermasian public sphere, etc.?
Friday, March 7, 2008
So Objectively Speaking....
...this is good, right? None of us has to actually like opera, talent contests, or the stereotypes about people's teeth in the United Kingdom to agree that this is one fucking amazing voice!
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Scooby Gang News!
With the BIG BIG Buffy News aripplin' thru town, it gives me great honor to forward the FCC's latest ruling on Alyson Hannigan--yay! What next--the Dushku/Whedon project to premier in my back yard?????
FCC Okays Nudity On TV If It�s Alyson Hannigan
FCC Okays Nudity On TV If It�s Alyson Hannigan
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Juno Part II
I've been thinking about BEM's question--whether I truly thought the "homeskillet" comment was the funniest thing about Juno. Not only was it a genuinely a funny line, the fact that most people don't find it funny says to me that they actually liked Ellen Page's lines better, which I don't because they aren't as funny when a cynical teenager says them. Dwight Schrute (essentially) saying it makes it awkward/cringe comedy because he's a grown-ass man working in a 7-11 who assumes he knows better than a precocious teenage girl--a girl, who, by her own admission, doesn't know "what kind of girl she is." But she does know that she's alienated and cynical--thus all the tiresome "fashizzle" speak. I did like how the film honors every subjectivity, but I kinda agree with this script as an apt parody of Diablo Cody's writing style.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Dinner and an Ear Exam
Last night my brother and his wife and their son visited me. They had just watched Sicko, and guess what they said! "If things don't change, we're moving to Canada!"
Meanwhile, we visited their friend J___, a new myspace friend of mine through them, and who is getting a Ph D in Audiology. Gotta love nerds, no matter what field their in. "Just for fun," she gave us hearing tests. Had one before? It's not just the beeps and boops you have to listen to, it's the anechoic chamber one has sit in while being tested. Without any sounds or echoes, you are forced to listen to your own breathing, the blood rushing through your ears, and every swallow and lip smack you make. Torture! Try doing this for a couple of hours. Waterboarding is for sissies.
Anyway, I don't have any hearing damage, at least not above 8-12 KHz. Humans supposedly can hear between 20 and 20,000 Hz, when we're "young" at least. But since most sounds fall within 1000-8000 HZ, they don't even test for the outer ranges.
So after having bashed drums and cymbals into my skull for over two decades, and after having not visited a dentist in 7 years, I'm tinitus and cavity-free. Knock on wood.
But the most interesting part of the evening was my sister-in-law essentially pushing the audiologist and me together. "You should hang out; you're both right in Buffalo." Awkward silence. Yeah, except she's supposedly getting married to a dude who never visits her in Buffalo and whom she doesn't talk about much or apparently have anything in common with--except that he'll "be a great father."
"A great father"? Oh, I GET IT. So dudes like me are the one who (can) fulfill all the basics needs of a relationship EXCEPT the practical and domestic ones. And of course, the "most important" one--reproducing. God, it was so frickin' awkward realizing that the elephant in the room was, "See, B, if you just wanted to settle down and become one-half of a couple with someone, you'd get a girl like THIS. See what you're giving up?" I saw my life flashing before my very eyes! All the "hot" ones I could have had if only I was the marrying kind. I looked at pictures of this dude and saw how much she is WAY out of his league. That's how fat balding dudes can do it; that's the secret. Just be really, really nice, devoted, and a potential "good father." You'll never have to worry about what kind of books she reads or anything like that. That's something people do "on the side," anyway.
Just to add to cosmic joke, we indeed discussed books for a while and yes, we have very similar tastes in nonfiction. For instance, she's reading about Mormon fundamentalism and the Elizabeth Smart case. THEN she proceeded to outline all of her favorite VIDEO GAMES she plays. Wh-wh-what? Oh yeah. She's "addicted" to her PS2 and is a life-long Lara Croft fan. She "looks at her surroundings and imagines how she could jump or climb on things in order to get to the top of the highest building around." Sounds familiar?
Well, to end on a good note, here's a funny video about it. Watch all the way until the end, esp the angry people:
Meanwhile, we visited their friend J___, a new myspace friend of mine through them, and who is getting a Ph D in Audiology. Gotta love nerds, no matter what field their in. "Just for fun," she gave us hearing tests. Had one before? It's not just the beeps and boops you have to listen to, it's the anechoic chamber one has sit in while being tested. Without any sounds or echoes, you are forced to listen to your own breathing, the blood rushing through your ears, and every swallow and lip smack you make. Torture! Try doing this for a couple of hours. Waterboarding is for sissies.
Anyway, I don't have any hearing damage, at least not above 8-12 KHz. Humans supposedly can hear between 20 and 20,000 Hz, when we're "young" at least. But since most sounds fall within 1000-8000 HZ, they don't even test for the outer ranges.
So after having bashed drums and cymbals into my skull for over two decades, and after having not visited a dentist in 7 years, I'm tinitus and cavity-free. Knock on wood.
But the most interesting part of the evening was my sister-in-law essentially pushing the audiologist and me together. "You should hang out; you're both right in Buffalo." Awkward silence. Yeah, except she's supposedly getting married to a dude who never visits her in Buffalo and whom she doesn't talk about much or apparently have anything in common with--except that he'll "be a great father."
"A great father"? Oh, I GET IT. So dudes like me are the one who (can) fulfill all the basics needs of a relationship EXCEPT the practical and domestic ones. And of course, the "most important" one--reproducing. God, it was so frickin' awkward realizing that the elephant in the room was, "See, B, if you just wanted to settle down and become one-half of a couple with someone, you'd get a girl like THIS. See what you're giving up?" I saw my life flashing before my very eyes! All the "hot" ones I could have had if only I was the marrying kind. I looked at pictures of this dude and saw how much she is WAY out of his league. That's how fat balding dudes can do it; that's the secret. Just be really, really nice, devoted, and a potential "good father." You'll never have to worry about what kind of books she reads or anything like that. That's something people do "on the side," anyway.
Just to add to cosmic joke, we indeed discussed books for a while and yes, we have very similar tastes in nonfiction. For instance, she's reading about Mormon fundamentalism and the Elizabeth Smart case. THEN she proceeded to outline all of her favorite VIDEO GAMES she plays. Wh-wh-what? Oh yeah. She's "addicted" to her PS2 and is a life-long Lara Croft fan. She "looks at her surroundings and imagines how she could jump or climb on things in order to get to the top of the highest building around." Sounds familiar?
Well, to end on a good note, here's a funny video about it. Watch all the way until the end, esp the angry people:
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Casualties
So after last night's party, I'm ecstatic that so many friends of mine have actually found jobs--and locally, too! I had originally wanted to post this picture last week, and now that I have time to write, I wonder if I should: buzzkill!
The pic is sad reminder that not all of us "make it." One story I heard last night was about a certain grad student who simply disappeared off the face of the earth, never telling any of us when or why. I woke up several times last night feeling guilty. "I could have done more to help." Long ago, I had called/emailed several times, as did so many others, to no avail. Academia and shame are so intertwined. The fellow reminded me of my youngest brother who joined the cult: suddenly and severely disillusioned, but so completely stoic about it. Then, one day, snap! Gone.
Although L told me to "Step AWAY from the gaming console," I never cease to find useful ways to make games meaningful to my "real" life. In Rainbow Six Vegas, one has to find fallen teammates and heal them. If they die, you don't go on--game over. I was thinking about our grad student friend as a fallen....soldier?....well, the metaphor breaks down, I suppose. But the emotional impact of the comparison seems right to me.
So, here's to Ch__ Gr___. Best of luck, wherever you are.
(Oh, and sorry the pic is so small. Squint, please.)
The pic is sad reminder that not all of us "make it." One story I heard last night was about a certain grad student who simply disappeared off the face of the earth, never telling any of us when or why. I woke up several times last night feeling guilty. "I could have done more to help." Long ago, I had called/emailed several times, as did so many others, to no avail. Academia and shame are so intertwined. The fellow reminded me of my youngest brother who joined the cult: suddenly and severely disillusioned, but so completely stoic about it. Then, one day, snap! Gone.
Although L told me to "Step AWAY from the gaming console," I never cease to find useful ways to make games meaningful to my "real" life. In Rainbow Six Vegas, one has to find fallen teammates and heal them. If they die, you don't go on--game over. I was thinking about our grad student friend as a fallen....soldier?....well, the metaphor breaks down, I suppose. But the emotional impact of the comparison seems right to me.
So, here's to Ch__ Gr___. Best of luck, wherever you are.
(Oh, and sorry the pic is so small. Squint, please.)
Monday, February 25, 2008
"We Are the Wo--" Fuck It--Here's Something Better
Since this is now totally mainstream, scroll down below for a much better story.
Okay, so at "work" one of the very, very young "clients" is Juno-esque. Got me? Here's how it was revealed to my co-worker/friend, who has their trust and can't break it.
Four clients show up during a break, close the door, and say, "One of us is Juno-esque." YEP! It's like the 80s TV mini-series Lace! They wouldn't say which one it was, just that "someone" in the group was 12 weeks. And that they want to know where "to go." Oh snap!
On the bright side, the movie Juno really is their point of reference. I'm totally not kidding. They have no other cultural text at hand to guide them with its carefully respectful take on "both sides" of "the issue" and thus were hoping that they could do like Juno did and go visit "the place" to "just see how it goes."
So folks, we'll have either a result that the clients home superiors know ZERO about, and probably will never know about until years later, OR another van shows up and whisks the client away to Utah. Wow. Just---fuck. Wow.
Okay, so at "work" one of the very, very young "clients" is Juno-esque. Got me? Here's how it was revealed to my co-worker/friend, who has their trust and can't break it.
Four clients show up during a break, close the door, and say, "One of us is Juno-esque." YEP! It's like the 80s TV mini-series Lace! They wouldn't say which one it was, just that "someone" in the group was 12 weeks. And that they want to know where "to go." Oh snap!
On the bright side, the movie Juno really is their point of reference. I'm totally not kidding. They have no other cultural text at hand to guide them with its carefully respectful take on "both sides" of "the issue" and thus were hoping that they could do like Juno did and go visit "the place" to "just see how it goes."
So folks, we'll have either a result that the clients home superiors know ZERO about, and probably will never know about until years later, OR another van shows up and whisks the client away to Utah. Wow. Just---fuck. Wow.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
There Will be Old Men with Milkshakes--UPDATED post-Oscars
But seriously, the one that pleased me the most was a long-time fav:
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Halo-Scientology?
You're looking at one of the many temples built by the Covenant, a conglomerate group of aliens who collectively decided to become warlike in their method of spreading their message of the Great Journey, a journey one can take by travelling along various terraformed rings known as halos. I know, I know: sounds like Lord of the Rings or even Christianity. May I suggest Halo as an allegory for Scientology? Keep in mind, analogies do not work when there is an easy 1:1 correspondence. In fact, the two things being compared need a degree of mismatch for it to work--two unalike things work best because they highlight where the comparison works while granting where it doesn't.
Having recently purchased Halo 3 and thus essentially portalled into another dimension, I'm probably no where near the head space as anyone reading this blog, but here goes.
The Spartan warrior who destroyed one of the rings in a previous storyline is now friends with The Arbiter, leader of the heresy against the Prophet of Truth, i.e. L Ron Hubbard, who deliberately deceives his people by not telling them of the greater dangers of The Flood, a parasite that turns all forms of life into its zombie-puppets (lets call Gravemind, their leader, "Xenu," noting, however, that Gravemind does not have the same Yahweh-like powers as Xenu). The Spartan warrior you play as can travel through many levels of gradual revealing of the truth--or the truth of the Prophet's lies. It's like going deep undercover as a Scientologist.
When I play the game and fight The Flood, I'm always scared that one of the little infection modules will facehug onto some dead body and animate it, which will then divert my attention away from more incoming infection modules. Kinda like fighting Scientology and The Twelve Tribes at the same time--I turn my back on one and miss a body-snatching. (OK, so I've involved the TT--remember, the Covenant is not a single race, but a conglomerate. Feel free to insert any zealous group.)
The humans have recently allied with the Elites, lead by The Arbiter. I see the Elites as Crusaders turned good Christians--doubters of a "single path" to enlightenment, unlike their orthodox former friends in the Covenant. To mix comparisons even more, it's almost like Ishmael Reed's novel, Mumbo Jumbo. I fight alongside them, but wonder if they won't eventually give into their previous single-minded zealousy and forego their "common enemy" stance.
Last February 10 somehow became anti-Scientology day, with world-wide protests led against the church. What I don't know is if Scientology has drummed the whole thing up in order to appear the victim or if it's real. Apparently some hackers crashed the church's sites and have also made sure the Tom Cruise-is-batshit-crazy-videos don't disappear. What I do know is that some years ago The Free Zone dedicated itself to believing in the Hubbard-Xenuverse, but offered info entirely for free. What keeps me sane is knowing that I actually like it when humans believe in little fantasy worlds--I encourage it! I do it! It's when fantasy and reality merge at the corporate level--scary. I think I might actually like some of those Free Zone people--maybe. I like knowing that I am not like The Flood, an indiscriminate eradicator of all that stands in my way. Unfortunately, my TT and Sci family members think of me this way, as a Suppressive Person/the Devil, rather than as a defender of critical thinking, a destabilizer of orthodox, concrete, unwavering thinking. One of my ex's used to demand that I immediately make known my religious beliefs. I declared that I could, but that I also had an unconscious. She happened to be a pretty hardcore Christian, though she hid that from me for a long time. She accused me of being "patchwork" in my worldview. "You take a little of this and a little of that--but who are you?--what side are you on?"
And for that, I do not have an answer. I may not always know what I'm for, but I know that I'm against Scientology and the Twelve Tribes, and take great pleasure in imagining them as little AI beings that I can kill. I love not taking things literally.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
No Country for Vigilantes
Just watched The Brave One and recently finished a review of The Searchers--two revenge films (athough, properly, one melodrama and one western). I've always loved The Searchers because it divides audiences right about the moment when "Look" (the "squaw") is kicked down the hill. It's also one of those films that uses visual irony pretty consistently: John Ford's signature long shot flattens the hunting party against the buttes and the desert, each element a complement of the other, as if these white guys actually belong there, as if they are "integrated"--while in other shots they stick out like sore thumbs. In real life, Ford was politically the opposite to John Wayne, too, which is interesting. The film is critique of the white man's genocidal impulse, but John Wayne's mere presence in the film is an obstacle for many viewers. I'm reminded of how Faulkner's critique of Southern orthodoxy is also overshadowed by his uncomfortably harsh depictions of racism.
The Brave One takes all the obstacles away and makes sure you don't miss a single message. In fact, there's no subtext to the film at all. If you even try to imagine the film as a "comment" on the death penalty, there's an elevator scene to assure you that it is indeed: two people argue over endorsing the vigilante--"So you are FOR lethal injection, too?" snaps one. Foster's, a talk radio DJ, answers calls from listeners who pretty much sound like they are reading an after-school play about smoking--only it's vigilantism, of course. And if you try to think of the film as a conflict between the head and the heart, too bad: a scene between the detective and Foster spells that out too. Cut to Foster "dancing" with the memory of her murdered boyfriend, who also somehow plays guitar, both diegetically and extradiegetically. The film screams the message at you: you can't "feel" one way and "think" another, not in the end. You've got to make a choice. You've got to be John Wayne or better yet, the John Wayne of our times: Jack Bauer from Fox's 24. Even if you are rooting for Foster and just want to see her kick butt, Lilith fair den mother Sarah Mclachlin de-adrenalizes all her screaming and shooting with soft ballads throughout, as if to say "this is the real woman here-the one with the gun was just 'acting'. She didn't want to be the monster."
So give me John Ford. Give me something interesting, like, how did he deal with not being able to show the massacre of the whites in the beginning of The Searchers? The film begins from within the cool and dark safety of the cabin and then moves outward into the bright sublime desert--Ford bars us from re-entry.
Or give me the Coen Brothers, give me Faulkner. Give me subtext. Otherwise, art is simply a political cartoon. Since there was no real complexity to the art (I mean c'mon, Neil Jordan--taking lessons from Ron Howard?), I'd image one could encapsulate its content with something similar to this:
Or give me no art and politically laughable messages. Give me Charles Bronson in Deathwish III. Make it exploitively hilarious. Give me so much lack of subtext that I, the viewer, must invent it. One good thing The Brave One had going for it--Bronson and Foster have the same haircut!
The Brave One takes all the obstacles away and makes sure you don't miss a single message. In fact, there's no subtext to the film at all. If you even try to imagine the film as a "comment" on the death penalty, there's an elevator scene to assure you that it is indeed: two people argue over endorsing the vigilante--"So you are FOR lethal injection, too?" snaps one. Foster's, a talk radio DJ, answers calls from listeners who pretty much sound like they are reading an after-school play about smoking--only it's vigilantism, of course. And if you try to think of the film as a conflict between the head and the heart, too bad: a scene between the detective and Foster spells that out too. Cut to Foster "dancing" with the memory of her murdered boyfriend, who also somehow plays guitar, both diegetically and extradiegetically. The film screams the message at you: you can't "feel" one way and "think" another, not in the end. You've got to make a choice. You've got to be John Wayne or better yet, the John Wayne of our times: Jack Bauer from Fox's 24. Even if you are rooting for Foster and just want to see her kick butt, Lilith fair den mother Sarah Mclachlin de-adrenalizes all her screaming and shooting with soft ballads throughout, as if to say "this is the real woman here-the one with the gun was just 'acting'. She didn't want to be the monster."
So give me John Ford. Give me something interesting, like, how did he deal with not being able to show the massacre of the whites in the beginning of The Searchers? The film begins from within the cool and dark safety of the cabin and then moves outward into the bright sublime desert--Ford bars us from re-entry.
Or give me the Coen Brothers, give me Faulkner. Give me subtext. Otherwise, art is simply a political cartoon. Since there was no real complexity to the art (I mean c'mon, Neil Jordan--taking lessons from Ron Howard?), I'd image one could encapsulate its content with something similar to this:
Or give me no art and politically laughable messages. Give me Charles Bronson in Deathwish III. Make it exploitively hilarious. Give me so much lack of subtext that I, the viewer, must invent it. One good thing The Brave One had going for it--Bronson and Foster have the same haircut!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Ten Reasons I Love to Hate HBO's Tell Me You Love Me
In anticipation of Valentine's Day, the most godawful of holidays (except maybe Thanksgiving--and Christmas is really a "season"), I've been watching HBO's Tell Me You Love Me. I knew that there wouldn't be any personal identification going on, that it'd be the exact opposite: pleasurable disidentification: l love feeling smug and self-satisfied that I'm not one of "those people." (I doubt this show is very high on anyone's Netflix queue, so don't worry about spoilers. The show is lame. Read on.)
So who are "those people," anyway. Well, first of all they are 30-somethings, most of them. Late 30s or early 40s trying to appear in their 30s. Yes, I'm aware of my own age, but 30-somethings belong to a culture, one to which I don't belong at all. These people have pretty much given up on all their "childish" hobbies and taken up child-rearing only or simply become ultra-serious. There's no joy left, no playfulness in their personalities. They are Uber-adults.
Okay, so there's one youngish couple so far, but they're the "immature" couple who uses sex as a way to cover up their real issues. What issues are they?
That leads me to Smugness # 1: I Am So Glad I Will Never Have The Conversation About...what the mother-in-law's power trips are doing to the relationship. Bride-to-be wants no cake; groom wants his mom to be happy and have her way--to be thrown a bone and allowed SOME decision-making; they argue; they fight; they don't resolve it; they fuck instead. Ah yes, I can sit back and relax knowing that I would never marry anyone who allowed their parents to control shit about us. Period. Have fun with THAT tug of war.
Smugness # 2: I'll Never Have to Worry About Jealousy Over The Other One's Masturbation. Indeed, what has increasingly a primal scene in Hollywood is the straight female's wanting sex, the male's rolling over and feigning sleep, her leaving, the guy secretly masturbating under the covers, and the girl accidentally walking in on that--usually without being seen by him. Classic! And hilarious, too, because it suggest that for the years and years that they've been married, they've actually held to some kind of contract that each person's entire sexuality is funneled into the other --or perhaps, they've believed masturbation is resorted to when the other is absent for a long time (supporting fantasies, of course, feature the other as the main attraction, right?).
Smugness # 3: I ALready Had the Whole, "Do You Think I'll Be The Last Person You're Ever Attracted To?" conversation at like, 19 years old. How can any adult 30-something human being pretend that they don't have an unconscious? And yet on Feb 14 of this year alone, thousands and thousands of couples around the world will break up precisely over this sticking point. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Jealousy is so fucked anyway, but that kind of jealousy is just petty.
Smugness # 4: I get to make fun of Coupledom in general. The show loves close ups of faces and all the "little things" that couples do that also say "I Love You"--without the actual words. Words are so...trite. Like this is a lesson people STILL need to learn!!!!! Cue "More Than Words" by Exxxxtreme. Got it folks? Body language says so much more! Except that yet ANOTHER 10,000 couples will, on Feb 14, break up precisely because one of them didn't use those exact words. Or include a Pooh bear with a Valentine sewed on to its nappy fur. That's right folks, I've actually been there AND received such a gift, which was then bitterly snatched from me when I dared to debate the semantics of that trite and meaningless phrase. Looks like I'm actually allowing the show to make a good point...
Smugness # 5 (by now simply an extension of # 4): I will never stare nonchalantly at my wife's peeing upon a pregnancy testing stick. HBO is heralded for showing the "frank" and "mundane" aspects of couples' lives. But before you accuse me of being squeamish about bodily functions--I'm not--at least consider that if you've gotten to the point at which the sight of your partner taking down her underwear, peeing (while possibly yawning and talking about the weather) and then pulling it back up is somehow boring, you've definitely left the initial passionate phase far behind. And this can be a good thing, I suppose. But I'm willing to bank that this couple's sex life is as vanilla as the Febreeze that they spray when they're done. There so damn domestic. BTW, she had a airline runway pube-doo. What's with these people who are boring in every way but that way, who try to "spice it up" with a hip pussy-shave? Another episode will probably feature the V or the Hitler, which one of them looks at but totally doesn't say anything about because he's chewing on a ham sandwich. Oh Brenda of Six Feet Under, where are you? I need you "Tell me Your Not Serious With Your Shaved Balls" running commentary during these moments. That show was so fucking awesome, HBO. You totally blew it going in this new direction.
The show has one good thing going for it: the queerest couple in it is... old. Not to old. Post retirement age. They aren't too lusty or too domestic, just perfectly attuned to each other in a way that you don't see much on TV, either because it really IS rare or because the U.S. can't handle senior citizens' sexuality. Yes, as love objects they are hetero, but as characters, and in the context of all these other cringe-worth straight couples, they practice a queer lifestyle indeed! And NO Viagra necessary.
#6: I'm Not a strict Monogamist. The drama of the show is built around Compulsory Monogamy and the problems that monogamists face because they have to spend so much extra time structuring themselves around the always already structuring demands of monogamy. They can't get too involved in something because they have to do one of the thrice daily "check in" phone calls; they can't share too many perverse desires because someone will be left out and have to experience a temporary shattering of self-esteem; even intimacy itself becomes equated with monogamy, endlessly mirroring, mirroring, mirroring..... I wonder how many other Eager To Be Normal viewers watch intently at how one couple manages to have sex without ever ceasing to passionately kiss each other. No other physicality takes place but the kissing and the penetrative copulation.
# 7: (extension of 6) So far, the show has depicted not a single queer act of love: no untraditional erogenous zones touched (say, an elbow), no fingering as its own means and end, no oral sex for a woman that is its own means to and end, no means without an end, no blurred lines between talk and sex or music and sex, no discussion of the politics of what their doing--no 'meta' talk, that is. Oh wait, one couple sneaks away during dinner and has sex without the dinner guests even knowing!!!! Okay, that's slightly perverse. It was unplanned, didn't occur in their own bed, and involved more laughter than serious eye-gazing. But ultimately there's nothing yet queer about the show except that one senior couple. And of course no gay sex occurs at all, vanilla or queer. HBO wouldn't want to step on Showtime's toes!
# 8 The dad whose TEN year old daughter got her period finds himself STILL reading bedtime stories to her. Glancing from the book to the Kotex on her dresser, he swallows nervously. Ha! Even I, the non-breeder, wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over the whole "daddy's little girl ain't a little girl no more" bullshit. I wouldn't be able to wait until my kid was older because then we'd finally be able to talk like adults--precisely the point of me not liking kids so much, I guess.
# 9 I'll never experience the fear surrounding that oldest of dictums: No Matter What, You Always Sleep in The Same Bed. Even if you're flu-like, or simply need some space, or just "want to." These monogamists steel themselves at bedtime! The awkwardness, the monotony, the dressing ritual in silence--all because they can't break habit or simply sleep away from each other for a while so that, you know, absence makes the heart grow fonder. It's unthinkable!
# 10 I laugh and cringe as the 30-somethings take a lesson from the Baby Boomers and decide that they can perhaps patch up their relationship by either sailing or gardening together, even though only one of them is good at either at any given time. Throw that trowel down in a huff! Aw, go inside and find out what's wrong, dude! She's never had an orgasm and her therapist found out before you did! And all this right before your twilight years start to come around the bend!
#11 Ah hell, I'll save the rest of the bashing for Valentine's Day. More to come kiddie-winkies!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Um...In Your Face?
I'm immensely happy that a jazz artist FINALLY won a Grammy for Album of the Year. It's especially gratifying that Winehouse didn't get this one because a) she's good, but overrated, b) soul is just a more pop-friendly Black art form, no matter how good you are, c) she beat out FOUR women of color (okay two had already won in previous years, so maybe this isn't racism). But let's not call her the "Queen of Soul" okay? Most people that own her album don't even own any other soul records, let alone New Soul Records, like Me'Shell or Jil Scott, etc.--they just like the whole "badass girls who can sing" thing. True, a small percentage of her fans will indeed subsequently purchase Stevie Wonder's Inner Visions or perhaps the Best of Aretha.
Unfortunately, Herbie Hancock is a "crossover" jazz artist, and The Joni Letters songs are very palatable: smooth and short (radio-friendly), with lots of guest artists (sort of like how Santana made a comeback). The only other time a jazz album won this award was in 1965 for the Getz/Gilberto collaboration ("The Girl from Ipanema"--you know this one), and even THAT was another palatable, bourgeois record. When, oh when, will BE-BOP jazz actually win? I guess never, since, pure musicality, especially the "I can't understand it--meh!00it make my brain hurt--meeeh!--I can't dance/fuck to it--meh!" kind of musicality never wins (see: every classical music record every made).
So, I wanted to say, "In Your Face!" to everyone who voted for the hipness and the cool-factor over, you know, musical ability or something, but Winehouse's record is just better--because Hancock's is ust not that great of a record, folks. If you wants you some Herbie Hancock, buy Maiden Voyage--anything with his post-Miles Davis group. Just not this. And certainly not the "Rockit" album or that horrible "Cantaloupe Island" song!
Urgh. It's fucking cold out. Urghhh.
Unfortunately, Herbie Hancock is a "crossover" jazz artist, and The Joni Letters songs are very palatable: smooth and short (radio-friendly), with lots of guest artists (sort of like how Santana made a comeback). The only other time a jazz album won this award was in 1965 for the Getz/Gilberto collaboration ("The Girl from Ipanema"--you know this one), and even THAT was another palatable, bourgeois record. When, oh when, will BE-BOP jazz actually win? I guess never, since, pure musicality, especially the "I can't understand it--meh!00it make my brain hurt--meeeh!--I can't dance/fuck to it--meh!" kind of musicality never wins (see: every classical music record every made).
So, I wanted to say, "In Your Face!" to everyone who voted for the hipness and the cool-factor over, you know, musical ability or something, but Winehouse's record is just better--because Hancock's is ust not that great of a record, folks. If you wants you some Herbie Hancock, buy Maiden Voyage--anything with his post-Miles Davis group. Just not this. And certainly not the "Rockit" album or that horrible "Cantaloupe Island" song!
Urgh. It's fucking cold out. Urghhh.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Portal
Thanks to MrTreeTop, I've been playing this insane new game called Portal in which you are a test subject/lab rat who must find you way out by solving tests of geographic and task oriented logic, all the while being nagged by the disembodied voice of Big Sister. Sound like fun?
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Oh Baby, I... I...I'm Gonna...I'm Gonna CLIFFHANGERRRR!!! {guys only}
Since I Know Who Killed Me has become my favorite movie since No Country for Old Men, I think we all know I have a high/low art problem (see my dissertation, in which I actually gave close reading to Boxing Helena--yes, Boxing Helena).
It's just so much fun knowing that if you had Hollywood connections, you'd be more successful than the hacks you skewer on a nightly basis.
The latest skewering goes to The Tudors (pronounced Choo-dors; say it with me: Tudors, tulip [choo-lip], tuna [choo-na], TUDORS!). Showtime is obviously trying to compete with Rome on HBO, but whereas Rome invented lower-class characters to contrast the heavies of history, The Tudors cares very little for the facts. They CGI crane shots over London, the sets are awkwardly small--even a joust takes place in what looks like my back yard--and each episode jumps the shark by either a) someone buggers a scullery maid/lady in waiting, or b) someone gets "the sweat," which, yes, is historically what they called the Sweating Sickness, a plague-like illness which slowly killed you with fever and had no no origin. In real life, you could fight it and win sometimes. On The Tudors, you DIE WITHIN ONE DAY. You'll be delivering food on a silver platter to His Highness when you suddenly trip, then fall to the ground, all the while ripping open your shirt so the that the sweat may escape like a demon clawing its way out. Everyone who shows symptoms dies--the gay character first, of course--but one person, Anne Boleyn.
As a good soul on imdb says of the show: "It doesn't look like a bit like England, the actors don't look English, the script manages to be both hideously turgid and blindingly prosaic at the same time and some of the performances hit a nadir we haven't seen on mainstream British TV since Crossroads came back. Ann Boleyn looks as if she's just come in from playing shinty, Sam Neill clearly thinks he's in an episode of Star Trek or Red Dwarf and Catherine of Aragon looks as if she could go fifteen rounds with a good light heavyweight and drink Boris Yeltsin under the table while Thomas More, instead of being one of the engines of the enlightenment, seems to have the IQ of a fruitbat. The sets are hilarious. You could fit their Tower of London set in a B&Q greenhouse and the jousting scenes, of which there are a lot, seem to take place in Charlton Athletic's car park. The episode with the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the most extravagant meeting in history meeting between two rulers of Christian monarchies, looks as if it were shot in an unloved corner of Legoland and will have you in stitches. And historical accuracy? Whoever was in charge of that has never read anything longer than a jamjar label. So I'm hooked. Can it get worse? You betcha . . . .
By the last episode, we know what history tell us: Henry cannot be seen with Anne until his illegal divorce goes through (damn those popes!), so they must meet in "the wood" (Many Europeans omit the 's': "I'm scared of what might be in the wood!"). They thrust together, bodices and codpieces ripping and unsticking, respectively; but then, right as Hank is about to spew his divine-right essence, Anne pushes him off her, crying, "We musn't!" or something to the effect of, "If I have a child by you, I'll be in big do-do; everyone knows who I am now." With giant blueballs, Johnathan Rhys Meyes does this:
Then...FADE TO CREDITS! I shit you not. They literally made the cliffhanger narrative blueballs. So if you want to tune in/come next season, rise out of denouement and re-harden, folks, and see:
You see, Showtime is great and all--thanks for The L Word, especially--but they're TOO sexy. And I'm sick of sexy. Watching The West Wing reminds me that some American TV uses real people with real faces, and people in their 40s and 50s go on dates and have actual sex appeal. But Showtime just doesn't get that they will be old news, and soon. Dexter may survive, but I dunno. The Writers' Strike is still in full force. The Tudors returns in March, somehow. What? I'm eating IN tonight, honey. Just be back before bedtime, okay?
It's just so much fun knowing that if you had Hollywood connections, you'd be more successful than the hacks you skewer on a nightly basis.
The latest skewering goes to The Tudors (pronounced Choo-dors; say it with me: Tudors, tulip [choo-lip], tuna [choo-na], TUDORS!). Showtime is obviously trying to compete with Rome on HBO, but whereas Rome invented lower-class characters to contrast the heavies of history, The Tudors cares very little for the facts. They CGI crane shots over London, the sets are awkwardly small--even a joust takes place in what looks like my back yard--and each episode jumps the shark by either a) someone buggers a scullery maid/lady in waiting, or b) someone gets "the sweat," which, yes, is historically what they called the Sweating Sickness, a plague-like illness which slowly killed you with fever and had no no origin. In real life, you could fight it and win sometimes. On The Tudors, you DIE WITHIN ONE DAY. You'll be delivering food on a silver platter to His Highness when you suddenly trip, then fall to the ground, all the while ripping open your shirt so the that the sweat may escape like a demon clawing its way out. Everyone who shows symptoms dies--the gay character first, of course--but one person, Anne Boleyn.
As a good soul on imdb says of the show: "It doesn't look like a bit like England, the actors don't look English, the script manages to be both hideously turgid and blindingly prosaic at the same time and some of the performances hit a nadir we haven't seen on mainstream British TV since Crossroads came back. Ann Boleyn looks as if she's just come in from playing shinty, Sam Neill clearly thinks he's in an episode of Star Trek or Red Dwarf and Catherine of Aragon looks as if she could go fifteen rounds with a good light heavyweight and drink Boris Yeltsin under the table while Thomas More, instead of being one of the engines of the enlightenment, seems to have the IQ of a fruitbat. The sets are hilarious. You could fit their Tower of London set in a B&Q greenhouse and the jousting scenes, of which there are a lot, seem to take place in Charlton Athletic's car park. The episode with the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the most extravagant meeting in history meeting between two rulers of Christian monarchies, looks as if it were shot in an unloved corner of Legoland and will have you in stitches. And historical accuracy? Whoever was in charge of that has never read anything longer than a jamjar label. So I'm hooked. Can it get worse? You betcha . . . .
By the last episode, we know what history tell us: Henry cannot be seen with Anne until his illegal divorce goes through (damn those popes!), so they must meet in "the wood" (Many Europeans omit the 's': "I'm scared of what might be in the wood!"). They thrust together, bodices and codpieces ripping and unsticking, respectively; but then, right as Hank is about to spew his divine-right essence, Anne pushes him off her, crying, "We musn't!" or something to the effect of, "If I have a child by you, I'll be in big do-do; everyone knows who I am now." With giant blueballs, Johnathan Rhys Meyes does this:
Then...FADE TO CREDITS! I shit you not. They literally made the cliffhanger narrative blueballs. So if you want to tune in/come next season, rise out of denouement and re-harden, folks, and see:
You see, Showtime is great and all--thanks for The L Word, especially--but they're TOO sexy. And I'm sick of sexy. Watching The West Wing reminds me that some American TV uses real people with real faces, and people in their 40s and 50s go on dates and have actual sex appeal. But Showtime just doesn't get that they will be old news, and soon. Dexter may survive, but I dunno. The Writers' Strike is still in full force. The Tudors returns in March, somehow. What? I'm eating IN tonight, honey. Just be back before bedtime, okay?
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Goodbye 2007
Inspired by BEM's list of 2007 "Bests," here's my own.
FILMS:
Best Ghost Therapy/Melodrama Gothic Horror: The Messengers (runner up: The Abandoned); Worst: The Invisible; 1408
Best Uncanny Horror: Dead Silence
Best Zombie/Gross-out Horror: Planet Terror
Best Slasher/Torture: Halloween (Runner-up: Hostel II)
Best Creature-Feature: The Host
Best Psychological Horror: Bug (Runner-up: Zodiac)
Best Comedy: Ratatouille (Runner-up: Hot Fuzz; Simpsons Movie); Worst: I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry
Best Action: Rescue Dawn (Runners up: Death Proof (2nd half); Bourne Ultimatum); Worst: Live Free or Die Hard
Best Action Drama (i.e could have western/noir elements): No Country For Old Men (close runner up: Eastern Promises)
Best Tragicomedy: The Savages (runners up: Sherry Baby; The Interview)
Most Disappointing: Hannibal Rising (corny); Balls of Fury (slow) ; 28 Weeks Later (ghost therapy)
Had Its Moments: Reno 911, Superbad, Knocked Up; The Lookout; Sicko
Missed: I Know Who Killed Me; The Darjeeling Limited; 30 Days of Night; American Gangster, There Will Be Blood; I'm Not There; Atonement; Juno; Walk Hard; Black Snake Moan; Waitress; Tell No One; 30 Days of Night; La Vie En Rose; You Kill Me; The Invasion; Hatchet; I am Legend; The Brave One; Resident Evil: Extinction; We Own The Night; Sweeney Todd; Fay Wray
TELEVISION:
Best Action/Urban Commentary: The Wire; The Shield
Best Drama: Tie between The Sopranos and Deadwood
Best Melodrama: The L Word
Best Crime/Mystery/Noir: Damages
Best Slapstick Comedy: Rock of Love
Best Satirical Comedy: The Office; runners up: 30 Rock and The Colbert Report
Best Body Horror Melodrama: Nip/Tuck; runner-up: Dexter
Best Political Commentary: Daily Show; runner-up: Real-Time with Bill Maher
Most Disturbing Unintentional Commentary on Our Society: Kid Nation; Flip That House
Best Shot: Planet Earth
Had Its Moments: Battlestar Galactica; Friday Night Lights; Heroes
Most Disappointing: The Riches; Bionic Woman; Gilmore Girls; John from Cincinnati; Veronica Mars; Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia
MUSIC:
Best Albums: Rob Lockart's "Parallel Lives," Type O Negative's "Dead Again" and Neko Case's "Live from Austin, TX"
Best Reunion: The Police
Most Disappointing: Tenacious D; Britney Spears
Everybody Loves, But I Can't Stand: Amy Winehouse
Has Its Moments: Tori Amos' American Doll Posse; The Lost Tracks of Danzig; Smashing Pumpkins' "Zeitgeist"
I WIll Miss: MIchael Brecker; Max Roach: Oscar Peterson
Pop Songs I Can't Get Out of My Head: "Umbrella" (Rihanna); "Big Girls Don't Cry" (Fergie)
New Genre I'm Exploring: Operatic Death Metal (Epica; Kamelot)
I've Missed: St. Vincent, the new Radiohead, the new Rasputina, etc.
FILMS:
Best Ghost Therapy/Melodrama Gothic Horror: The Messengers (runner up: The Abandoned); Worst: The Invisible; 1408
Best Uncanny Horror: Dead Silence
Best Zombie/Gross-out Horror: Planet Terror
Best Slasher/Torture: Halloween (Runner-up: Hostel II)
Best Creature-Feature: The Host
Best Psychological Horror: Bug (Runner-up: Zodiac)
Best Comedy: Ratatouille (Runner-up: Hot Fuzz; Simpsons Movie); Worst: I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry
Best Action: Rescue Dawn (Runners up: Death Proof (2nd half); Bourne Ultimatum); Worst: Live Free or Die Hard
Best Action Drama (i.e could have western/noir elements): No Country For Old Men (close runner up: Eastern Promises)
Best Tragicomedy: The Savages (runners up: Sherry Baby; The Interview)
Most Disappointing: Hannibal Rising (corny); Balls of Fury (slow) ; 28 Weeks Later (ghost therapy)
Had Its Moments: Reno 911, Superbad, Knocked Up; The Lookout; Sicko
Missed: I Know Who Killed Me; The Darjeeling Limited; 30 Days of Night; American Gangster, There Will Be Blood; I'm Not There; Atonement; Juno; Walk Hard; Black Snake Moan; Waitress; Tell No One; 30 Days of Night; La Vie En Rose; You Kill Me; The Invasion; Hatchet; I am Legend; The Brave One; Resident Evil: Extinction; We Own The Night; Sweeney Todd; Fay Wray
TELEVISION:
Best Action/Urban Commentary: The Wire; The Shield
Best Drama: Tie between The Sopranos and Deadwood
Best Melodrama: The L Word
Best Crime/Mystery/Noir: Damages
Best Slapstick Comedy: Rock of Love
Best Satirical Comedy: The Office; runners up: 30 Rock and The Colbert Report
Best Body Horror Melodrama: Nip/Tuck; runner-up: Dexter
Best Political Commentary: Daily Show; runner-up: Real-Time with Bill Maher
Most Disturbing Unintentional Commentary on Our Society: Kid Nation; Flip That House
Best Shot: Planet Earth
Had Its Moments: Battlestar Galactica; Friday Night Lights; Heroes
Most Disappointing: The Riches; Bionic Woman; Gilmore Girls; John from Cincinnati; Veronica Mars; Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia
MUSIC:
Best Albums: Rob Lockart's "Parallel Lives," Type O Negative's "Dead Again" and Neko Case's "Live from Austin, TX"
Best Reunion: The Police
Most Disappointing: Tenacious D; Britney Spears
Everybody Loves, But I Can't Stand: Amy Winehouse
Has Its Moments: Tori Amos' American Doll Posse; The Lost Tracks of Danzig; Smashing Pumpkins' "Zeitgeist"
I WIll Miss: MIchael Brecker; Max Roach: Oscar Peterson
Pop Songs I Can't Get Out of My Head: "Umbrella" (Rihanna); "Big Girls Don't Cry" (Fergie)
New Genre I'm Exploring: Operatic Death Metal (Epica; Kamelot)
I've Missed: St. Vincent, the new Radiohead, the new Rasputina, etc.
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