Friends and colleagues, gentiles and heathens, strangers, Romans, and my mom...
Please, if you would, pull a chair nearer to my fire. I have a tale to tell, and though the "Rhyme" element of my advertising may be false, the cautions contained herein are not, and I assure you--you will benefit a thousand fold from the tales of the places of the narrative from the story I am about to tell!
As you definitely must have noticed, I have been gone from the blog-OH!-sphere for untold amounts of time encompassing about two weeks. Two things have happened since then. First, I moved to a house in Philadelphia! Second, Mass Effect!
Mass Effect? you ask, which is exactly what I wanted you to do. What is Mass Effect?
I will tell you!
It is a video game and you go around and save the universe and there are aliens and a stupid stupid gun car called a Mako GOD I hate that stupid car and driving all over the place to flag mineral deposits and salvage the useless cargo from wrecked probes!
Forgive me. You see the state I am in, reduced to a husk of a man by the ravages of addiction, which is what I am really here to talk about.
There was a time, years ago, when I walked in an entirely different world. I shall not name it--it is too large, too terrifying for a name--though perhaps you will discern its nature from my survivor's tale. In this world I was widely respected. People everywhere knew who I was, or could figure very quickly that I was a man to admire. My coffers flowed over with booty. Then, one day, an otherworldly light shone in and in that brilliant light... I saw all my achievements, all my possessions, for what they really were: a meaningless nothing. I knew my life could never be the same.
I announced to all the members of my clan that I was leaving, and they looked upon me as a man dispossessed of his sense. "But where you are going," my dearest friend said, "everyone is a noob!" "Verily, and never again will you froshock froshock ftw!" said my young protege. I felt the need to explain to them what I was doing. "Remember on your dr00d alt, when you finally got travel form and said to yourself, 'fnly i can gets lots of herbs for my pots,' then you just ran, and ran and ran and ran into that brave new world of tomorrow, far away from the creeps and spawns? Well, this is like that, except my travel form will take me away from this place, into a whole new world!"
"dr00d ninrvate lol" they said. "lol" I replied, sadly.
But this transition did not sever my addiction completely. No, it was more like a flummoxed British person who says: "I say good day, sir!" when they are beside themself, but nobody really believes they are offended or leaving because how cute is that British person. And then that person says "oh well, I suppose it was silly of me to explode like that." And so I fed the need for stimulus with lesser addictions, even though the behemoth was shrugged off.
And then I stopped. I took my controller and I put it down, and I was through. You have never seen a more stalwart, more radiantly put-together me in all your days! Travel, education, wonders! The world was mine, and I took it and kneaded it and made delicious European bread, not that soggy mushed up American nonsense!
Had you known me then... you could have loved me. The Mass Effect sucked me in. It is the tool the devil devised specifically for me, knowing I am weak and prideful. And now I am desperately scouring stupid boring planets in a stupid stupid stupid car for Turian Insignias, running around so carelessly a mere Geth Commando might fell my mighty party. I have had more Coors Lite in three days than I consumed in all my days preceding the EFFECT, and were I not equally addicted to yoga, I would assuredly have a formidable beer belly.
The moral, dear friend, is that you must remember, you could end up like me--consuming a breakfast of kiwis and Coors, unable to stand upon your own 2 feet, and probably smelly. I think I'm smelly, I really can't tell. I mean there must be an odor. Maybe it doesn't stink exactly, as much as smell odd.
Adieu, adieu, adieu!
Friday, May 30, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Why do I keep coming back?
Television, especially network television, is inconsistent. As good as a show is, as good as its premise and actors are, they put out bad episodes. In my opinion, this is one of the reasons the medium gets no respect. It's just pulp, produced quickly to feed the hungry masses. It's always rushed. There are a million and one things that can go wrong, from network execs coming down hard on character changes a showrunner had planned for two seasons to running production on a shoestring budget.
Definitely, there are times when I ask myself why I keep coming back. Battlestar Galactica, for all the really stunning design and story-telling they did in the mini-series, definitely wallowed in the land of mediocrity. Storylines were good, compelling even, but never as good as they could have been, especially since they were awash in faux-thematic religious babble that rarely translated into interesting drama (one of the tricky things about the sci-fi genre). Eventually, the shine of the CG veneer dulled from many viewings, until I didn't even notice how freaking awesome it looks when a Viper wheels around mid dogfight, and you can see how big space is, how tiny the ship looks, and the sweet-ass physics of the whole operation.
I watched it, I continue to watch it, because Starbuck and Laura Roslin are freaking awesome characters. That is the only reason, and robot fights and the sweet 80s interior of the cylon baseships. These two actors are phenomenal and even in a so-so script, there are moments when their characters surprise me.
In its final (1/2) season, we're getting back to the main storyline of the prophecy of the 13th colony, which thankfully centers largely around these two characters. And the show is getting good again.
Definitely, there are times when I ask myself why I keep coming back. Battlestar Galactica, for all the really stunning design and story-telling they did in the mini-series, definitely wallowed in the land of mediocrity. Storylines were good, compelling even, but never as good as they could have been, especially since they were awash in faux-thematic religious babble that rarely translated into interesting drama (one of the tricky things about the sci-fi genre). Eventually, the shine of the CG veneer dulled from many viewings, until I didn't even notice how freaking awesome it looks when a Viper wheels around mid dogfight, and you can see how big space is, how tiny the ship looks, and the sweet-ass physics of the whole operation.
I watched it, I continue to watch it, because Starbuck and Laura Roslin are freaking awesome characters. That is the only reason, and robot fights and the sweet 80s interior of the cylon baseships. These two actors are phenomenal and even in a so-so script, there are moments when their characters surprise me.
In its final (1/2) season, we're getting back to the main storyline of the prophecy of the 13th colony, which thankfully centers largely around these two characters. And the show is getting good again.
The Other Side
Over the course of my hermitage amongst the strip malls, restaurants, coffee shops, and yoga studios of the suburbs of Boston (which is coming to a close!), much new shit has come to light. You could call it a convalescence of sorts, set off like one of those weird re-usable hot/cold packs by the little metal clicker of my imminent departure.
For example, I'm picking a bunch of dirty plates off of a table of oh-so-delightful guests, who decide the best time to chat me up is just after I've loaded up with about thirty pounds of plateware which is beginning to deposit sauce down my shirtfront as the melting ice cream floods ceramic reservoirs. Normally I would not allow myself to be caught in such a compromising position, but it was Mother's Day, busiest restaurant day of the year. I was well into my eleventh hour of the ol' non-stop non-stop, and I was too shell-shocked to tell more hungry people--the stupidest people in the world and no, neither you nor I are an exception--what they were going to eat, when they were going to get it, and how, exactly, I would give it to them, thank you very much and control your children.
So as they're talking to me, I get to do a little exploration of my gradually fatiguing bicep. Muscle groups operate, generally, in opposition to another. Biceps/triceps are a nice, simple example. By actively extending the triceps while the biceps were loaded, shifting my elbows ever so slightly forward in relation to the ribcage, I radically altered the effort of the biceps. I felt my abdominals engage and my weight shifted slightly back, which I compensated for by extending my hamstrings through the heel and lifting the quadriceps a bit. Now, instead of a slouched, isolated effort of a single muscle group--what happens when you lift weights with sloppy form--I was in a position which activated the entire body. No pose is complete without awareness through all meridians, and its effort like this which lets you feel how altering weight through your feet, or relaxing the butt, or bending the knees can change how your upper body bears weight.
Convalescence, right? Of... employment with, yogic principles, and...
It was just one of those moments.
For example, I'm picking a bunch of dirty plates off of a table of oh-so-delightful guests, who decide the best time to chat me up is just after I've loaded up with about thirty pounds of plateware which is beginning to deposit sauce down my shirtfront as the melting ice cream floods ceramic reservoirs. Normally I would not allow myself to be caught in such a compromising position, but it was Mother's Day, busiest restaurant day of the year. I was well into my eleventh hour of the ol' non-stop non-stop, and I was too shell-shocked to tell more hungry people--the stupidest people in the world and no, neither you nor I are an exception--what they were going to eat, when they were going to get it, and how, exactly, I would give it to them, thank you very much and control your children.
So as they're talking to me, I get to do a little exploration of my gradually fatiguing bicep. Muscle groups operate, generally, in opposition to another. Biceps/triceps are a nice, simple example. By actively extending the triceps while the biceps were loaded, shifting my elbows ever so slightly forward in relation to the ribcage, I radically altered the effort of the biceps. I felt my abdominals engage and my weight shifted slightly back, which I compensated for by extending my hamstrings through the heel and lifting the quadriceps a bit. Now, instead of a slouched, isolated effort of a single muscle group--what happens when you lift weights with sloppy form--I was in a position which activated the entire body. No pose is complete without awareness through all meridians, and its effort like this which lets you feel how altering weight through your feet, or relaxing the butt, or bending the knees can change how your upper body bears weight.
Convalescence, right? Of... employment with, yogic principles, and...
It was just one of those moments.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
The Juno Effect
It is possible... that time has tempered my love for the Gilmore Girls. You see, at first I was confused as to what, exactly, I was supposed to do with this secret obsession I possessed, for which the world at large was sure to judge me. I watched the show with a hunger fueled in part by my Catholic addiction to guilt. Like, you know how some people quit cigarettes and take up excessive eating? I quit feeling guilty about my Major Life Choices and compensated by feeling guilty about my leisure activities instead.
But the great shake'n'bake of time disperses breading and spices evenly the more time it has to shake, and then it bakes. As such, I feel like I'm finally in a place to crack this crispy crust and talk about what's right and wrong about this show.
I came into GG knowing nothing whatsoever about what it was all about, besides the fact that Ben's sisters really liked it. I never saw the floral DVD packaging. I never saw the WB's godawful advertisements or show lead-ins or the portraits of Lauren Graham and Alexis Bleidel air-brushed until you can barely distinguish their facial features. Sure, there were other hints. Hair and nails, which are done up like the prom regardless of where the ladies are at, but it took until the last season--when Rory's hair was not only, whatever, super... hair... done, but also bouncy and done up all whickety whack--for me to notice. THEN even I had to step back and say, whaaaaaaat?
In fact, the first time I encountered the public image of GGs as a pjs and ice cream show for shallow, depressed women was during an improv comedy show, through a character played by a deeply unfunny guy in a wig using a stupid "i'm a girl" voice and pretending to be depressed and watch GG all day long in his/her bed and whine about his/her boyfriend, and I was so deeply offended I almost can't enjoy improv comedy at all anymore.
So, maybe that's how the show was sold, but it is miles away from what the show was, which was basically... if you take the movie Juno, make Ellen Page's parent's suck and be filthy rich, and have her run away to have the baby, which she keeps and supports, then fast forward 16 years (let's remember this is a character drama from Hollywood about overcoming hardship, and not a political statement). Actually the only thing to take from the movie Juno is an extremely plucky, funny, protagonist who reveals noble and surprising inner strength as she bears up against pressure of the Pregnant Teenager taboo and tries to follow a moral path. The rest of the series is about how the mother surrounds herself and her daughter with a supportive and eccentric community in which they can both thrive, struggle, and learn, before birthing the young 'un out of the womb of Star's Hollow into the world at large (wait till I find that speech, it will be an extra shiny dialogic gem). Yeah there are boys, yeah there is crying, and yes the show can, occasionally, make you sick with displays of New England old money, whiteness, and privilege, but at the end of the day it's funny. The banter is on par with, say, a House (ok maybe not House) or a Scrubs or Buffy.
And it was different than the usual shit on television.
But the great shake'n'bake of time disperses breading and spices evenly the more time it has to shake, and then it bakes. As such, I feel like I'm finally in a place to crack this crispy crust and talk about what's right and wrong about this show.
I came into GG knowing nothing whatsoever about what it was all about, besides the fact that Ben's sisters really liked it. I never saw the floral DVD packaging. I never saw the WB's godawful advertisements or show lead-ins or the portraits of Lauren Graham and Alexis Bleidel air-brushed until you can barely distinguish their facial features. Sure, there were other hints. Hair and nails, which are done up like the prom regardless of where the ladies are at, but it took until the last season--when Rory's hair was not only, whatever, super... hair... done, but also bouncy and done up all whickety whack--for me to notice. THEN even I had to step back and say, whaaaaaaat?
In fact, the first time I encountered the public image of GGs as a pjs and ice cream show for shallow, depressed women was during an improv comedy show, through a character played by a deeply unfunny guy in a wig using a stupid "i'm a girl" voice and pretending to be depressed and watch GG all day long in his/her bed and whine about his/her boyfriend, and I was so deeply offended I almost can't enjoy improv comedy at all anymore.
So, maybe that's how the show was sold, but it is miles away from what the show was, which was basically... if you take the movie Juno, make Ellen Page's parent's suck and be filthy rich, and have her run away to have the baby, which she keeps and supports, then fast forward 16 years (let's remember this is a character drama from Hollywood about overcoming hardship, and not a political statement). Actually the only thing to take from the movie Juno is an extremely plucky, funny, protagonist who reveals noble and surprising inner strength as she bears up against pressure of the Pregnant Teenager taboo and tries to follow a moral path. The rest of the series is about how the mother surrounds herself and her daughter with a supportive and eccentric community in which they can both thrive, struggle, and learn, before birthing the young 'un out of the womb of Star's Hollow into the world at large (wait till I find that speech, it will be an extra shiny dialogic gem). Yeah there are boys, yeah there is crying, and yes the show can, occasionally, make you sick with displays of New England old money, whiteness, and privilege, but at the end of the day it's funny. The banter is on par with, say, a House (ok maybe not House) or a Scrubs or Buffy.
And it was different than the usual shit on television.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A Drivel in Three Parts
I.
I like to go to the movies alone.
Maybe this is too strong a statement. I mean it's on a line by itself and everything so I should definitely dumb it down.
When I call my friends to go see a movie with me and everyone is being dumb, or I don't feel like trying very hard to get people to go someplace with me, I will very contentedly see the movie by myself. I spend $3.00 on a small coke that will lead to an inevitable pee break which will leave me in bad humor, but that's ok because I knew ahead of time it was going to happen, and then I'll try to laugh at myself but still actually, deep down, I'm pretty mad. Because I had to get up to pee in the middle of the movie. There is no one there to beat me at the dumb pre-movie trivia games so usually I get 100% correct all by myself. I watch the people coming in which is fun, and experience the mildest type of paranoia in which I assume everybody that glances my way is wondering what's wrong with that guy, why is he here all by himself but then I remind myself that actually nobody cares, or if they do I probably don't care that they care, and I grow deeply calm. Which is the best way to watch a movie.
II.
I went to see "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" in exactly this manner about a week ago. It was a well-put together, funny, and sweet movie--I mean, Judd Apatow--which is ultimately very forgettable. But you're glad you saw it, you know? Some moments are just really... adorable, like our protagonist in a black unitard smiling at the girl of his future having just performed his struggling pet project, a Dracula Puppet musical which will charm your socks off and make you laugh. Oops, I just told you the ending. The whole movie is just painful, earnest kitsch thrown out there with a "Ba dup, bap, ba dup, dup, BUP! [slide whistle]." One of the thoughts that passes through my head as I drive home is "It's cool to see some regular looking people in the movies!" Then I have to correct myself and be like, wait, regular looking guys in the movies, because those women were cooked to smokin' hot perfection by the magic celluloid flames of hungry Hollywood (I'm pretty sure they haven't used celluloid since, like, the 20s but whatevah). So, I guess that makes the film passively misogynistic.
I think the funniest parts may have been the fake-TV trailer bits. So deadpan, so not funny, and so absolutely and hilariously damning of pretty much every procedural crime drama currently on the air. SKEWERED the dialogue and character tropes, like, would you like a meathead male sidekick kebab with with some lame-comments-on-the-exposition sauce? I know! Isn't the supernatural twist on the detective's abilities marinade DELICIOUS!?!?
III.
I missed the "My So-Called Life" thing in the mid-nineties. I remember seeing it once and thinking "Nice flannel." Anyway, I watched the pilot and, I dunno. Claire Danes is kind of amazing, and there are some one liners that just ZING, and you remember how confusing everything was in high school and how stupid you were. Then I think about how confusing everything is and how stupid I am...
It's definitely different than the average teen-lit drama fest, so I'll watch a few more to decide if I can make it through the whole thing.
I like to go to the movies alone.
Maybe this is too strong a statement. I mean it's on a line by itself and everything so I should definitely dumb it down.
When I call my friends to go see a movie with me and everyone is being dumb, or I don't feel like trying very hard to get people to go someplace with me, I will very contentedly see the movie by myself. I spend $3.00 on a small coke that will lead to an inevitable pee break which will leave me in bad humor, but that's ok because I knew ahead of time it was going to happen, and then I'll try to laugh at myself but still actually, deep down, I'm pretty mad. Because I had to get up to pee in the middle of the movie. There is no one there to beat me at the dumb pre-movie trivia games so usually I get 100% correct all by myself. I watch the people coming in which is fun, and experience the mildest type of paranoia in which I assume everybody that glances my way is wondering what's wrong with that guy, why is he here all by himself but then I remind myself that actually nobody cares, or if they do I probably don't care that they care, and I grow deeply calm. Which is the best way to watch a movie.
II.
I went to see "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" in exactly this manner about a week ago. It was a well-put together, funny, and sweet movie--I mean, Judd Apatow--which is ultimately very forgettable. But you're glad you saw it, you know? Some moments are just really... adorable, like our protagonist in a black unitard smiling at the girl of his future having just performed his struggling pet project, a Dracula Puppet musical which will charm your socks off and make you laugh. Oops, I just told you the ending. The whole movie is just painful, earnest kitsch thrown out there with a "Ba dup, bap, ba dup, dup, BUP! [slide whistle]." One of the thoughts that passes through my head as I drive home is "It's cool to see some regular looking people in the movies!" Then I have to correct myself and be like, wait, regular looking guys in the movies, because those women were cooked to smokin' hot perfection by the magic celluloid flames of hungry Hollywood (I'm pretty sure they haven't used celluloid since, like, the 20s but whatevah). So, I guess that makes the film passively misogynistic.
I think the funniest parts may have been the fake-TV trailer bits. So deadpan, so not funny, and so absolutely and hilariously damning of pretty much every procedural crime drama currently on the air. SKEWERED the dialogue and character tropes, like, would you like a meathead male sidekick kebab with with some lame-comments-on-the-exposition sauce? I know! Isn't the supernatural twist on the detective's abilities marinade DELICIOUS!?!?
III.
I missed the "My So-Called Life" thing in the mid-nineties. I remember seeing it once and thinking "Nice flannel." Anyway, I watched the pilot and, I dunno. Claire Danes is kind of amazing, and there are some one liners that just ZING, and you remember how confusing everything was in high school and how stupid you were. Then I think about how confusing everything is and how stupid I am...
It's definitely different than the average teen-lit drama fest, so I'll watch a few more to decide if I can make it through the whole thing.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
... well I don't...
This is a clip from the documentary "Up" series, more specifically "Seven Up" which is famous I think.
Apparently I have time to kill. But this is just so worth it.
Monday, May 5, 2008
yoGAH!
Learning about your body is awesome. Overcoming the bounds the brain has in place to protect muscles and organs and whatnot is an actual chemical thrill, like taking a sled down the hill that looks vertical, or jumping from the wicked high rock in your friend's backyard when you were a kid. It's exxxtreme! and I think I'm addicted. Remember in Psych 101 when you learned that people perceive an inclined slope to be steeper than it actually is, so that dumb-asses don't hurt themselves? Similarly, we believe our joints and muscles to be limited in range of motion to protect ourselves from injury. But, with guidance and patience, we can open our proprioceptive sense and occupy space in ever-changing ways. And once you start this process, miraculous things occur. I'm not kidding. You can stand comfortably for longer; you don't mind when you have to sit on the floor; you can occupy yourself by expanding the diaphragm and intercostals on long car rides.
Everybody's different, right? Some people feel like they can move substantively and confidently through the world when they've crossed off everything on their todo list. Others get that ass-kicking feeling when they've performed, or gotten laid, or earned lots of money, or contemplated the mysteries of the world, or removed a booger from way back in their nasal cavity. We are what we do, and getting down and dirty with that old time proprioception is one of the things that makes me stand up a little straighter.
I love that yoga is a process, and I love that ideas you discover through working the body can bleed into other parts of your life. I know that sometimes the metaphors in yogic practice sound ridiculous (they really do), but there's an extent to which they make sense to practitioners. "Open your third eye" is a perfect explanation for relaxing the muscles that move the eyes, forehead, and scalp, an area of ENORMOUS tension for us anxious folk, and the concept of prana (universal energy) flow wheeling through chakras facilitates the relaxation and extension of muscle groups--making it easier to isolate and tone others--as well as discovering the center of gravity for arm balances and inversions. And when it hurts, the answer is always to breathe deeper, pull into your center, and calm down. Needless to say, this was a revelation to an Irish Catholic white boy from New England with a family history of medical issues related to inordinately HIGH ANXIETY.
Hoo. I don't want to make this post any longer, so maybe some other time we can get into my personal experiences of physical connectivity and body imagery, like scrubbing the inside of my skull during savasana, or connecting the eyeballs to the pelvic floor, wringing out and flushing the intestines, or...
Everybody's different, right? Some people feel like they can move substantively and confidently through the world when they've crossed off everything on their todo list. Others get that ass-kicking feeling when they've performed, or gotten laid, or earned lots of money, or contemplated the mysteries of the world, or removed a booger from way back in their nasal cavity. We are what we do, and getting down and dirty with that old time proprioception is one of the things that makes me stand up a little straighter.
I love that yoga is a process, and I love that ideas you discover through working the body can bleed into other parts of your life. I know that sometimes the metaphors in yogic practice sound ridiculous (they really do), but there's an extent to which they make sense to practitioners. "Open your third eye" is a perfect explanation for relaxing the muscles that move the eyes, forehead, and scalp, an area of ENORMOUS tension for us anxious folk, and the concept of prana (universal energy) flow wheeling through chakras facilitates the relaxation and extension of muscle groups--making it easier to isolate and tone others--as well as discovering the center of gravity for arm balances and inversions. And when it hurts, the answer is always to breathe deeper, pull into your center, and calm down. Needless to say, this was a revelation to an Irish Catholic white boy from New England with a family history of medical issues related to inordinately HIGH ANXIETY.
Hoo. I don't want to make this post any longer, so maybe some other time we can get into my personal experiences of physical connectivity and body imagery, like scrubbing the inside of my skull during savasana, or connecting the eyeballs to the pelvic floor, wringing out and flushing the intestines, or...
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Things That Are Terrible
This is slightly off topic, but I have to get these Things that are Terrible off my chest. You know, before the metaphorical immune system protecting my aesthetic sensibilities creates so much bile that my brain swells and/or pops, leaving me helpless in the face of the onslaught of painful procedural dramas (what happens when NCIS goes bad), reality television, and killer tomatoes.
Subjects today: "Underdog" by Spoon and "The Ruins" by Scott Smith.
Underdog - This song sounds like an amalgam of every overplayed classic rock song you've ever heard, and if you're around my age and grew up near a radio you've probably heard a lot of them--tired horn phrase, some hard-strumming guitar, and plaintive, upbeat male vocals singing about gettin' there, workin' hard, and what you have to do to survive. I am not against any of these things, I simply can not be expected to appreciate a song which is characterized by the uninspired re-mashing of said concepts to produce lethargic, repetitious, and grating sound poison. I only wish my neural networks could function faster, in order to send my fingers more speedily to the SEEK dial when I hear the opening tones of this terrible tune.
To it's credit, the lyrics (I listened to them once, while using the song as an exercise in mind-body centering to counter the rage impulse) are censuring small-mindedness and the inability to allow endeavors other than one's own any kind of significance. That is the only thing about this song I can put after the conditional phrase "To it's credit..." I listened to some other Spoon tracks, and my first impression was relative indifference, so maybe the rest of the album could be ok.
The Ruins - My contempt for this piece of printed media is not so strong as the aforelisted item. The writing does not suck, and he does a good job with some character exposition, albeit along grossly stereotyped lines. But, hey. This is a horror novel, aware of its pulpiness (which spares it from full derision) so, ok. But there is no excuse for the gross, really offensive--really, you just have to take my word for it because I could never in good conscience suggest that you read the book to find out for yourself--overuse of the word "implacable" and its many derivates.
The suspense was supsenseful for a while, but 1/3 of the way through the book I was reading every other paragraph of expo. I cannot fathom making it through this book without skimming. When shit started to go down things were appropriately gruesome, but then shit kept going down, implacably, and things remained gruesome. I couldn't wait for all of the characters to die and I only finished because I was on a bus, which was implacably moving forward. Ok, ok, I'll admit to curiosity as to whether or not there would be any survivors (there weren't), and whether or not the villain (an intelligent man-eating vine organism) would be explained (it wasn't). The book was implacable in attaining its haunting ending, implacably implacating the implacableness, implacable.
While I'm on terrible, Prey by Michael Crichton. I don't remember why, but boy, that was bad.
Alright, allow me some time to recover from the hate spitting and we'll get productive next time around.
Subjects today: "Underdog" by Spoon and "The Ruins" by Scott Smith.
Underdog - This song sounds like an amalgam of every overplayed classic rock song you've ever heard, and if you're around my age and grew up near a radio you've probably heard a lot of them--tired horn phrase, some hard-strumming guitar, and plaintive, upbeat male vocals singing about gettin' there, workin' hard, and what you have to do to survive. I am not against any of these things, I simply can not be expected to appreciate a song which is characterized by the uninspired re-mashing of said concepts to produce lethargic, repetitious, and grating sound poison. I only wish my neural networks could function faster, in order to send my fingers more speedily to the SEEK dial when I hear the opening tones of this terrible tune.
To it's credit, the lyrics (I listened to them once, while using the song as an exercise in mind-body centering to counter the rage impulse) are censuring small-mindedness and the inability to allow endeavors other than one's own any kind of significance. That is the only thing about this song I can put after the conditional phrase "To it's credit..." I listened to some other Spoon tracks, and my first impression was relative indifference, so maybe the rest of the album could be ok.
The Ruins - My contempt for this piece of printed media is not so strong as the aforelisted item. The writing does not suck, and he does a good job with some character exposition, albeit along grossly stereotyped lines. But, hey. This is a horror novel, aware of its pulpiness (which spares it from full derision) so, ok. But there is no excuse for the gross, really offensive--really, you just have to take my word for it because I could never in good conscience suggest that you read the book to find out for yourself--overuse of the word "implacable" and its many derivates.
The suspense was supsenseful for a while, but 1/3 of the way through the book I was reading every other paragraph of expo. I cannot fathom making it through this book without skimming. When shit started to go down things were appropriately gruesome, but then shit kept going down, implacably, and things remained gruesome. I couldn't wait for all of the characters to die and I only finished because I was on a bus, which was implacably moving forward. Ok, ok, I'll admit to curiosity as to whether or not there would be any survivors (there weren't), and whether or not the villain (an intelligent man-eating vine organism) would be explained (it wasn't). The book was implacable in attaining its haunting ending, implacably implacating the implacableness, implacable.
While I'm on terrible, Prey by Michael Crichton. I don't remember why, but boy, that was bad.
Alright, allow me some time to recover from the hate spitting and we'll get productive next time around.
Dialogic Gem
Lots of travel and excitement as of late, and I'm exhausted. So here's some dialogue.
Things you need to know, Aaron is freaking out because he's onto the fact that Jaye talks to inanimate objects. Jaye just won employee of the month at her crappy retail job. Sharon is a lesbian and she is totally not out to, well, pretty much anybody.
INT. THE BARREL
TIGHT ON two bubbling fondue pots shaped like barrels. One
is filled with chocolate, one with melted cheese. Jaye, Mom,
Dad, and Sharon sit around the fondue pot. Everyone has a
fondue fork except for Mom, who eats a salad. Jaye’s balloon
bouquet is tied to the back of her chair.
DAD
Where is Aaron? We celebrate all
Tyler victories as a family.
JAYE
I wouldn’t call this a victory.
Sharon scrutinizes Jaye’s Employee Of The Month certificate.
SHARON
This certificate’s invalid.
There’s no signature. Oh, wait.
There’s a stamp.
DAD
A stamp is good enough for me.
MOM
I guarantee you this’ll make the
Christmas letter.
JAYE
Oh, I wish it wouldn’t.
SHARON
There’s Aaron.
They all look to see a very gloomy Aaron approaching.
MOM
Hi, sweetheart!
DAD
Nice you could make it. Did you
see your sister’s certificate?
Aaron takes the certificate, but doesn’t look at it.
AARON
(low, to Jaye, as he sits)
What are you?
JAYE
Huh?
AARON
Are you like Dr. Dolittle?
MOM
Your blood sugar’s low. Here, dip
something.
AARON
It’s not my blood sugar. There’s
something out there and it’s
laughing at us.
SHARON
(re: Jaye)
Did she do this to you?
DAD
You really think your sister’s
special lunch is the appropriate
place for an existential crisis?
AARON
It’s not an existential crisis.
MOM
It’s nothing to be ashamed of,
sweetheart. You’re studying
religion, for godsake. You’re
bound to have one sooner or later.
AARON
Not an existential crisis. Just
the opposite. I was fine when
existence had no meaning.
Meaninglessness in a universe that
has no meaning -- that I get. But
meaninglessness in a universe with
meaning? What does that mean?
JAYE
It doesn’t mean anything.
AARON
Did the cow creamer tell you that?
DAD
What has gotten into you?
MOM
I am throwing that creamer away the
second we get home.
SHARON
The meaninglessness of meaning?
Are you people high?
MOM
Really, though.
JAYE
You want meaningless? This fondue
is meaningless. It mocks everyone
at this table.
DAD
That’s your celebratory fondue.
JAYE
I didn’t earn celebratory fondue.
I don’t deserve to be called
Employee of the Month. I don’t
deserve this certificate. I don’t
deserve a parking space on P-1.
(reconsidering)
But I am taking the afternoon off.
Jaye starts to head off, stops, goes back, grabs her balloons
and leaves. Aaron broods as he dips fondue. Mom and Dad are
flabbergasted. Dad turns to Sharon:
DAD
Anything you’d like to share?
She looks up, a piece of gooey cheese fondue half in her
mouth. She shakes her head --
SHARON
Uh-uh. No.
For the curious, that is from the Wonderfalls episode entitled "Muffin Buffalo." You should see it, the ensemble rapport is freakin fantastic.
Things you need to know, Aaron is freaking out because he's onto the fact that Jaye talks to inanimate objects. Jaye just won employee of the month at her crappy retail job. Sharon is a lesbian and she is totally not out to, well, pretty much anybody.
INT. THE BARREL
TIGHT ON two bubbling fondue pots shaped like barrels. One
is filled with chocolate, one with melted cheese. Jaye, Mom,
Dad, and Sharon sit around the fondue pot. Everyone has a
fondue fork except for Mom, who eats a salad. Jaye’s balloon
bouquet is tied to the back of her chair.
DAD
Where is Aaron? We celebrate all
Tyler victories as a family.
JAYE
I wouldn’t call this a victory.
Sharon scrutinizes Jaye’s Employee Of The Month certificate.
SHARON
This certificate’s invalid.
There’s no signature. Oh, wait.
There’s a stamp.
DAD
A stamp is good enough for me.
MOM
I guarantee you this’ll make the
Christmas letter.
JAYE
Oh, I wish it wouldn’t.
SHARON
There’s Aaron.
They all look to see a very gloomy Aaron approaching.
MOM
Hi, sweetheart!
DAD
Nice you could make it. Did you
see your sister’s certificate?
Aaron takes the certificate, but doesn’t look at it.
AARON
(low, to Jaye, as he sits)
What are you?
JAYE
Huh?
AARON
Are you like Dr. Dolittle?
MOM
Your blood sugar’s low. Here, dip
something.
AARON
It’s not my blood sugar. There’s
something out there and it’s
laughing at us.
SHARON
(re: Jaye)
Did she do this to you?
DAD
You really think your sister’s
special lunch is the appropriate
place for an existential crisis?
AARON
It’s not an existential crisis.
MOM
It’s nothing to be ashamed of,
sweetheart. You’re studying
religion, for godsake. You’re
bound to have one sooner or later.
AARON
Not an existential crisis. Just
the opposite. I was fine when
existence had no meaning.
Meaninglessness in a universe that
has no meaning -- that I get. But
meaninglessness in a universe with
meaning? What does that mean?
JAYE
It doesn’t mean anything.
AARON
Did the cow creamer tell you that?
DAD
What has gotten into you?
MOM
I am throwing that creamer away the
second we get home.
SHARON
The meaninglessness of meaning?
Are you people high?
MOM
Really, though.
JAYE
You want meaningless? This fondue
is meaningless. It mocks everyone
at this table.
DAD
That’s your celebratory fondue.
JAYE
I didn’t earn celebratory fondue.
I don’t deserve to be called
Employee of the Month. I don’t
deserve this certificate. I don’t
deserve a parking space on P-1.
(reconsidering)
But I am taking the afternoon off.
Jaye starts to head off, stops, goes back, grabs her balloons
and leaves. Aaron broods as he dips fondue. Mom and Dad are
flabbergasted. Dad turns to Sharon:
DAD
Anything you’d like to share?
She looks up, a piece of gooey cheese fondue half in her
mouth. She shakes her head --
SHARON
Uh-uh. No.
For the curious, that is from the Wonderfalls episode entitled "Muffin Buffalo." You should see it, the ensemble rapport is freakin fantastic.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Gripe #1: [Ex]igent Circumstances
Gripes are not fair. Complaining sucks, and there is always a far more sensible choice than offhandedly slinging disappointment and bitterness. Whenever I complain, I feel like I cut too broad a swathe. Unrestrained contempt is, after all, not a fine cutting tool. And didn't your Mom ever tell you nobody likes a whiner? Oh, what's that, you don't have a Mom? Sorry.
Now we're done with disclaimin' and down to complainin'! This is the internet, bitches.
Why does television insist on continuing to drop mysterious exes on the love interests of our protagonists? More importantly, how do the exes have such impeccable timing? Oh, oh so close to the moment of deliverance from weekly tension and frustration, our hero finally admits his or her feelings to his or herself! Or maybe to a friend! They prepare in dramatic fashion to catch up to the spurned love interest, only to find that at that very second in space and time, love interest is sucking face with the ex. I hurl my slipper at the screen to the befuddlement of my viewing partner, real or imagined, pause, and swear I'm done with this series forever for fifteen seconds before I can unpause again.
Maybe the problem is endemic to serial fiction. Dickens sometimes used the format as a kind of character history strip-tease ("It was the money left me, and the gains of the first few year wot I sent home to Mr. Jaggers"), but TV, unfortunately, doesn't have the luxury of letting characters work through their shit psychologically. Well, I guess they could, but it's TV. Why not just put the issue on the screen for us to see, right? And it's just so damned... logical. Structurally and whatnot. One of the best episodes of Wonderfalls is the one after Heidi comes back; Grey's Anatomy got a whole season (and a shitty spin-off show) out of Addison dropping by; can't think of any others off the top of my head but the inappropriate use of semi-colons excites me; OH, what's that another semi-colon.
Now we're done with disclaimin' and down to complainin'! This is the internet, bitches.
Why does television insist on continuing to drop mysterious exes on the love interests of our protagonists? More importantly, how do the exes have such impeccable timing? Oh, oh so close to the moment of deliverance from weekly tension and frustration, our hero finally admits his or her feelings to his or herself! Or maybe to a friend! They prepare in dramatic fashion to catch up to the spurned love interest, only to find that at that very second in space and time, love interest is sucking face with the ex. I hurl my slipper at the screen to the befuddlement of my viewing partner, real or imagined, pause, and swear I'm done with this series forever for fifteen seconds before I can unpause again.
Maybe the problem is endemic to serial fiction. Dickens sometimes used the format as a kind of character history strip-tease ("It was the money left me, and the gains of the first few year wot I sent home to Mr. Jaggers"), but TV, unfortunately, doesn't have the luxury of letting characters work through their shit psychologically. Well, I guess they could, but it's TV. Why not just put the issue on the screen for us to see, right? And it's just so damned... logical. Structurally and whatnot. One of the best episodes of Wonderfalls is the one after Heidi comes back; Grey's Anatomy got a whole season (and a shitty spin-off show) out of Addison dropping by; can't think of any others off the top of my head but the inappropriate use of semi-colons excites me; OH, what's that another semi-colon.
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