Begin! [click]
chptr 1
last night upon exiting the meditation workshop perhaps a little more enlightened i discovered the back tire of my bicycle was flat. i had important things to do so I thought not and mounted, after which I rode approximately twenty feet down Parrish St. before my rear wheel kicked out to the left over a patch of ice. i suspended briefly, the movement of the bike frame being very sudden, and the body rotated counterclockwise through both the sagittal and transverse planes, after which the right haunch impacted unceremoniously with road ice coated with perhaps an eigth of an inch of well-mixed road slush. the bottle of bourbon ($23.29) did not break. ask me why i imagined my dainty road bike had transformed into a skidoo while i sat and breathed with my friends and teachers, and i will tell you i don't know. my compatriots were headed to their cars, perhaps a little more enlightened, and they expressed their concern for my person. placing my bike in the snowbank snug against a parking meter and encompassing bike frame, rear wheel, and meter pole with my U-lock, i accepted a ride home with lindsey. we discussed consciousness, vibration, showing up to parties just because you have to, the qualities of a few of our classmates (obliquely), and the buddha.
at lizzie's house we consumed one half of a ginger cake, one orange, 4 generous whiskeys, and two episodes of deadwood in which not overly much happened.
End! [click]
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Arrested Development
is a program deeply loved by those with whom I roll.
My introduction to the Bluths was scattershot. The first episode I saw was the one where the giant guy flies the handicapped uncle-type guy around. The in-joking and the absurdity were smug and off-putting, and though I now recognize them as elements of brilliance, first impressions are enduring.
The entire. ever. lovin. series. is just one long joke, which is a premise claiming predecessors as notable as One Hundred Years of Solitude, Catch 22, and The Infinite Jest. The doilies and wondrously interconnected celebrations of shock and awe from nothingness dig right in to the heart of Humor, and damn this show is funny. And what an experiment to perform on televised media! This is as "forward-thinking" or "experimental" as network television will ever get.
My introduction to the Bluths was scattershot. The first episode I saw was the one where the giant guy flies the handicapped uncle-type guy around. The in-joking and the absurdity were smug and off-putting, and though I now recognize them as elements of brilliance, first impressions are enduring.
The entire. ever. lovin. series. is just one long joke, which is a premise claiming predecessors as notable as One Hundred Years of Solitude, Catch 22, and The Infinite Jest. The doilies and wondrously interconnected celebrations of shock and awe from nothingness dig right in to the heart of Humor, and damn this show is funny. And what an experiment to perform on televised media! This is as "forward-thinking" or "experimental" as network television will ever get.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
RETURNS
Posts I owe THE BLOGOSPHERE:
Arrested Development
Deadwood
Grey's Anatomy
These, though worthy of great discussion, do not comprise my mission today. Nay, my purpose runs deeper, like a torrential underground chasm, or a cosmic tsunami wrecking house in the fifth dimension. A mystery, whispering odd vibrations and anxieties to the body in idle moments.
I went back to Azeroth.
For you noobs who don't know what that means, it means that after a year-long struggle with addiction and two and a half years clean, I took a taste of the virtual crack some deign to call the WORLD OF WARCRAFT, to see what it would do me.
The game is still the game. Quest-lines and story-boarding have been streamlined; there's less pointless running around and time wasted in travel; you can mount up at level 30; the new content is varied, fun, and challenging. New world areas are incredibly tightly designed. Most importantly, the continued refinement and balance of different character classes has created even better tools which grant users extensive control in interacting with the virtual world, which means more freedom and creativity. Blizzard has really learned as they've gone, not to mention the whole venture takes on a new sort of meaning when ELEVEN AND A HALF MILLION people are paying monthly to play the game.
Basically, you get to pretend you're living Lord of the Rings. You work for power and stature in this impossibly huge virtual world with its own living economy. You efficiently manage a set of abilities to slay evil and to achieve goals set before you by the game's writers, whether epic (get twenty-four of your friends into a group and slay the lich king!) or trivial (go pick some flowers for me!). You combat other players for loot and glory. You can spend hours not moving and fishing. Watching a bobber on the ocean, and clicking on it to pull in the fish. Literally.
I'm endlessly captivated. It's funny, the addictive element hasn't really surfaced, probably because I have honest-to-god responsibilities and sustaining commitments in my life, as opposed to times past, and the pull to "win" the game, to get all of the best gear and kill the hardest bosses, has lessened in the face of perspective.
The bottom line for me is this: we have language and tools to create simulacra of the world. It's like TV, except you're IN it. It's part creationary--your avatar is not you, you get to define the terms of the character as well as its actions--but it also incorporates that strange and life-like element of risk, in which you don't know exactly what repercussions your actions will have and you can see, in patterns rising from the foundational elements of the "game," the potential to build something.
Arrested Development
Deadwood
Grey's Anatomy
These, though worthy of great discussion, do not comprise my mission today. Nay, my purpose runs deeper, like a torrential underground chasm, or a cosmic tsunami wrecking house in the fifth dimension. A mystery, whispering odd vibrations and anxieties to the body in idle moments.
I went back to Azeroth.
For you noobs who don't know what that means, it means that after a year-long struggle with addiction and two and a half years clean, I took a taste of the virtual crack some deign to call the WORLD OF WARCRAFT, to see what it would do me.
The game is still the game. Quest-lines and story-boarding have been streamlined; there's less pointless running around and time wasted in travel; you can mount up at level 30; the new content is varied, fun, and challenging. New world areas are incredibly tightly designed. Most importantly, the continued refinement and balance of different character classes has created even better tools which grant users extensive control in interacting with the virtual world, which means more freedom and creativity. Blizzard has really learned as they've gone, not to mention the whole venture takes on a new sort of meaning when ELEVEN AND A HALF MILLION people are paying monthly to play the game.
Basically, you get to pretend you're living Lord of the Rings. You work for power and stature in this impossibly huge virtual world with its own living economy. You efficiently manage a set of abilities to slay evil and to achieve goals set before you by the game's writers, whether epic (get twenty-four of your friends into a group and slay the lich king!) or trivial (go pick some flowers for me!). You combat other players for loot and glory. You can spend hours not moving and fishing. Watching a bobber on the ocean, and clicking on it to pull in the fish. Literally.
I'm endlessly captivated. It's funny, the addictive element hasn't really surfaced, probably because I have honest-to-god responsibilities and sustaining commitments in my life, as opposed to times past, and the pull to "win" the game, to get all of the best gear and kill the hardest bosses, has lessened in the face of perspective.
The bottom line for me is this: we have language and tools to create simulacra of the world. It's like TV, except you're IN it. It's part creationary--your avatar is not you, you get to define the terms of the character as well as its actions--but it also incorporates that strange and life-like element of risk, in which you don't know exactly what repercussions your actions will have and you can see, in patterns rising from the foundational elements of the "game," the potential to build something.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Fuller Arrangements
In my most recent post, I spoke disparagingly of "Pushing Daisies," the latest brainchild of Bryan Fuller, creator of such gems as "Dead Like Me" and "Wonderfalls." I wrote erroneously.
"Pushing Daisies" does things no other television shows dares. Mostly that simply means it is highly imagined and stylized. Yes, the show at its worst is quite twee, occasionally saccharine, and at times it gets a little bit stuck for being so cute and clever, and yet there is something completely delightful about the risks taken--characters repeating voice-over narration; unabashed wordplay and rhythmic exchanges; splashingly vibrant sets and costumes. In the most recent episode, a full minute of airtime is dedicated to one of the actresses belting away at Eternal Flame by the Bangles, to hilariously obvious "did they really?"-type interruptions after the "say my name" lyric. There was a scene with an entire class full of boarding school boys lured to the kitchen after midnight by the scent of a pie, cooked by the young protagonist because he longed for the scent of home. Eventually the entire kitchen is fired up, pies and filling fly and each and every boy has a berry smear on his face. I hope that if a show could contain an image as wonderful as this in every episode, it would be an enormous success.
My problems occurred when the dramatic tension went slack. Nothing colorful for the goofball team of lovers, dreamers, and investigators to engage in. But recently, shit from their history is coming up, and colorful new characters are being introduced, such as Chuck's dad, recently reincarnated and wrapped in bandages. I wonder if there is room for a show like this--any of Bryan Fuller's shows, really, as of yet none have made it out of season 2--on network television. What I really want is "Wonderfalls" back on the air, but since that can't happen, maybe Fuller can sell a grittier version of his vision to the cable networks, which is the only place good television that is not also a soap opera can live a long, unslaughtered life.
"Pushing Daisies" does things no other television shows dares. Mostly that simply means it is highly imagined and stylized. Yes, the show at its worst is quite twee, occasionally saccharine, and at times it gets a little bit stuck for being so cute and clever, and yet there is something completely delightful about the risks taken--characters repeating voice-over narration; unabashed wordplay and rhythmic exchanges; splashingly vibrant sets and costumes. In the most recent episode, a full minute of airtime is dedicated to one of the actresses belting away at Eternal Flame by the Bangles, to hilariously obvious "did they really?"-type interruptions after the "say my name" lyric. There was a scene with an entire class full of boarding school boys lured to the kitchen after midnight by the scent of a pie, cooked by the young protagonist because he longed for the scent of home. Eventually the entire kitchen is fired up, pies and filling fly and each and every boy has a berry smear on his face. I hope that if a show could contain an image as wonderful as this in every episode, it would be an enormous success.
My problems occurred when the dramatic tension went slack. Nothing colorful for the goofball team of lovers, dreamers, and investigators to engage in. But recently, shit from their history is coming up, and colorful new characters are being introduced, such as Chuck's dad, recently reincarnated and wrapped in bandages. I wonder if there is room for a show like this--any of Bryan Fuller's shows, really, as of yet none have made it out of season 2--on network television. What I really want is "Wonderfalls" back on the air, but since that can't happen, maybe Fuller can sell a grittier version of his vision to the cable networks, which is the only place good television that is not also a soap opera can live a long, unslaughtered life.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
The Reinvigorating Breath
Life, my friends, is not like television; nay, not even a long-form, decompressed version of television. Television is television, and I am generally disenchanted with this mysterious medium that so many consume rapaciously. I doubt, who hoped to champion! Is there value to be found in lessons viewed? How does the low art interact with immediacy? Can it be better than sheer escapism?
Explorations best left for another day, because right now is time for the lowest low-down, the skinny, the truth summarized and pre-packaged (individually wrapped) as it emerges coyly from my current viewing queue, which these days is not the average bag. I am consuming piecewise, bite-sized instead of dvd-ified episodic intake, because my netflix is canceled just like Pushing Daisies (and good riddance. as a result of that show I have added the word "twee" to my vocabulary).
The Office. A rare example of a good show staying good. Sure, they mix in a clunker every now and then, but I can not call to mind a show that creates more moments with staying power. I still remember the warehouse basketball game, Dwight and Michael and their secret powow at Staples, the bat, Pam alone in the office calling her mother over the whole Jim thing, the first time we met Andy Bernard... you get the picture. Goddamn does this show have characters. And they keep being flawed and themselves, and they keep coming in to work every day. This is a goddamn television show.
Heroes. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shitty shit shit pile of shit shit. Shit. I watched only a couple episodes of season 1, and then I stopped because there were lots of characters, none of whom possessed consistent traits or motivations. Also, nothing ever happened. Caught the tail end of season 2; it was minimally exciting. There were some good eps in season 3, I swear, but you can see the network brass in the background stoking the fire hot so that the "canceled" brand burns extra hard. Every scene is second guessed. Every character is interchangeable, and even though the actors retain the same faces from one episode to the next, I swear to god they are playing different roles every time I boot up nbc.com. I don't quite understand, because nobody's TRYING to make a really fucking terrible piece of television and I honestly don't give a fuck about the insane plot logic. They're just so confused in trying to cater to ratings and pack as much watchability as is possible into every moment, and as a result, we the viewers get no development or continuity. There is the scattered cool moment--it was AWESOME when Peter's father stole all of his powers and we witnessed evil ascendant, the extent of arthur petrelli's assholedness, familial betrayal... good stuff--in a huge mire of shitty shit shit shit shit.
Mad Men. Baller. Best drama on television bar none.
Chuck. hehehehe! There is nothing to this show but attractive people, a modicum of heart, and a truly foolish gimmick, yet it makes me giggle. Curious.
hoopah! power chords! intercostals!
Explorations best left for another day, because right now is time for the lowest low-down, the skinny, the truth summarized and pre-packaged (individually wrapped) as it emerges coyly from my current viewing queue, which these days is not the average bag. I am consuming piecewise, bite-sized instead of dvd-ified episodic intake, because my netflix is canceled just like Pushing Daisies (and good riddance. as a result of that show I have added the word "twee" to my vocabulary).
The Office. A rare example of a good show staying good. Sure, they mix in a clunker every now and then, but I can not call to mind a show that creates more moments with staying power. I still remember the warehouse basketball game, Dwight and Michael and their secret powow at Staples, the bat, Pam alone in the office calling her mother over the whole Jim thing, the first time we met Andy Bernard... you get the picture. Goddamn does this show have characters. And they keep being flawed and themselves, and they keep coming in to work every day. This is a goddamn television show.
Heroes. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shitty shit shit pile of shit shit. Shit. I watched only a couple episodes of season 1, and then I stopped because there were lots of characters, none of whom possessed consistent traits or motivations. Also, nothing ever happened. Caught the tail end of season 2; it was minimally exciting. There were some good eps in season 3, I swear, but you can see the network brass in the background stoking the fire hot so that the "canceled" brand burns extra hard. Every scene is second guessed. Every character is interchangeable, and even though the actors retain the same faces from one episode to the next, I swear to god they are playing different roles every time I boot up nbc.com. I don't quite understand, because nobody's TRYING to make a really fucking terrible piece of television and I honestly don't give a fuck about the insane plot logic. They're just so confused in trying to cater to ratings and pack as much watchability as is possible into every moment, and as a result, we the viewers get no development or continuity. There is the scattered cool moment--it was AWESOME when Peter's father stole all of his powers and we witnessed evil ascendant, the extent of arthur petrelli's assholedness, familial betrayal... good stuff--in a huge mire of shitty shit shit shit shit.
Mad Men. Baller. Best drama on television bar none.
Chuck. hehehehe! There is nothing to this show but attractive people, a modicum of heart, and a truly foolish gimmick, yet it makes me giggle. Curious.
hoopah! power chords! intercostals!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Whoa.
Let's be honest. It's hard for us Joe Sixpacks on the wrong side of the pond to think about the Brits as much of anything besides imperial has-beens--the once-rans of being awesomest in the world, fish-sticky knobbledy-toothed funny talkers with blistering red coats, football which is actually soccer, and the bee's honey.
Now, I have encountered a series which will enlighten the average American as to the errors of these misconceptions. I concede they are still British, but they're clever.
DOCTOR WHO!
Maybe you're not into the sci-fis. Maybe you think: "God all British people ever talk about is that stupid show. Aren't there ALIENS? Isn't there TIME TRAVEL? Ahhh, I can't stand it already. Buy me a cheeseburger!"
The time travel works because they don't try to explain it, beyond "you can't go back on your personal time line." Divert, divert, divert. Aliens work because they're surprisingly imaginative and well-designed. As the show goes on, there are less aliens and more non-corporeal beings standing in metaphorically as aspects of human nature. Which is fun, and offers a surprising degree of contemplative thematic meat for a raucous space adventure. "Ugh, Turn on Gossip Girl," you say, "it's just like the OC except without the moralistic didacticism!" (mental transcript ends here. subject falls into an electronically induced state of ennui, cynicism, despondency, or value-corruption toxicity)
And characters. The Doctor is an archetypal epic hero. Epic epic, as in last of the Time Lords, universal wanderer, civilization saver, reformed pacifist, defender of everything, tragedy being he is doomed to be alone for all of time. He picks up young, doe-eyed women who grow to see themselves through the Doctor's eyes and understand that they're special, too, and that all of persistent humanity is special. All very heart-warming, and in SPACE, with a time machine.
It's pulpy, full-on whimsical, and yet has no shame in tackling Big Questions like what are we doing here? is humanity fundamentally good? how many times in one show can we use small-scale explosion and smoke effects? Granted, it doesn't always pose these questions RESPONSIBLY, ie in the manner we're taught Art that is Great SHOULD pose questions, but how unrealistic is that? No individual can take everything into account, physics and the wikinets tell us no one person can actually know more than a tiny eetsy little bit and that bit is ever-changing, so let's throw caution to the wind, my friends, and get our hands dirty. Isn't that what our contemporaneity is all ABOUT? Toss out paralytic reverence, let's teach ourselves that we're capable.
Yes! headstands! adho mukha svanasana!
Now, I have encountered a series which will enlighten the average American as to the errors of these misconceptions. I concede they are still British, but they're clever.
DOCTOR WHO!
Maybe you're not into the sci-fis. Maybe you think: "God all British people ever talk about is that stupid show. Aren't there ALIENS? Isn't there TIME TRAVEL? Ahhh, I can't stand it already. Buy me a cheeseburger!"
The time travel works because they don't try to explain it, beyond "you can't go back on your personal time line." Divert, divert, divert.
And characters. The Doctor is an archetypal epic hero. Epic epic, as in last of the Time Lords, universal wanderer, civilization saver, reformed pacifist, defender of everything, tragedy being he is doomed to be alone for all of time. He picks up young, doe-eyed women who grow to see themselves through the Doctor's eyes and understand that they're special, too, and that all of persistent humanity is special. All very heart-warming, and in SPACE, with a time machine.
It's pulpy, full-on whimsical, and yet has no shame in tackling Big Questions like what are we doing here? is humanity fundamentally good? how many times in one show can we use small-scale explosion and smoke effects? Granted, it doesn't always pose these questions RESPONSIBLY, ie in the manner we're taught Art that is Great SHOULD pose questions, but how unrealistic is that? No individual can take everything into account, physics and the wikinets tell us no one person can actually know more than a tiny eetsy little bit and that bit is ever-changing, so let's throw caution to the wind, my friends, and get our hands dirty. Isn't that what our contemporaneity is all ABOUT? Toss out paralytic reverence, let's teach ourselves that we're capable.
Yes! headstands! adho mukha svanasana!
Friday, September 12, 2008
The Crazy Show
airing on the MYLIFE network is entering syndication for at least a month or so! Reruns and no stress, this news coming from the suits upstairs and if there's anything I've learned in my life, it's always trust the man in the suit.
Now, I've been thinking a lot lately. Deep, deep thoughts, resonating from my most internal depths which I have PLUMBED--at great personal effort to myself, and with mighty tolls and tribulations on my person--and I have RECEIVED and calmed them. Let me tell you, these thoughts, as they perch here retrieved and resigned in my pretty head, they are in fact DEEP.
I am thinking, "all I ever do in this blog is write something when I get excited about a TV show." And the next thought, which follows the first, is "THAT IS OK! YOU ARE EXCITED BY A TV SHOW!" But not that way. No, no, no, not that way.
MAD MEN. Oh, season 2 has been a landscape of gently rolling disappointment spotted with the occasional "oh yeah that's kind of cool" copse. Until now. Episode 7 was an EARTHQUAKE but one that is not dangerous just delicately and awesomely terrain-altering.
Just the final moment of the show and we can be done. Betty and Don for the first time confronted by the consequences/horror of their success, or maybe more accurately, their belief in it as corroborated by all observers. So artfully done. Questions by the child: "Mommy, are we rich?" "It's not polite to talk about money, sweetheart." Purchase of an exorbitantly expensive and sweet-ass caddy as in Cadillac, baby. Don just got invited by his boss into the "people who get to decide what happens in this world" club. And then BAM, Jimmy Berrett hits on Betty like crazy and tells her Don is fucking his wife. And she knows it might be true. And then Jimmy tells Don what a shithead he is. And HE knows it might be true.
Then they sit in the brand new caddy--the one they won't let kids in unless the rugrats have washed their hands--just looking terrible, and not talking, and you, the viewer, are wondering what the hell are they going to say. AWESOME FACES OF DISCOMFORT.
Betty pukes. Cue Brenda Lee... "Break it... to me gently..." roll the credits. I loved it. I am just so tickled.
Headstands!
Now, I've been thinking a lot lately. Deep, deep thoughts, resonating from my most internal depths which I have PLUMBED--at great personal effort to myself, and with mighty tolls and tribulations on my person--and I have RECEIVED and calmed them. Let me tell you, these thoughts, as they perch here retrieved and resigned in my pretty head, they are in fact DEEP.
I am thinking, "all I ever do in this blog is write something when I get excited about a TV show." And the next thought, which follows the first, is "THAT IS OK! YOU ARE EXCITED BY A TV SHOW!" But not that way. No, no, no, not that way.
MAD MEN. Oh, season 2 has been a landscape of gently rolling disappointment spotted with the occasional "oh yeah that's kind of cool" copse. Until now. Episode 7 was an EARTHQUAKE but one that is not dangerous just delicately and awesomely terrain-altering.
Just the final moment of the show and we can be done. Betty and Don for the first time confronted by the consequences/horror of their success, or maybe more accurately, their belief in it as corroborated by all observers. So artfully done. Questions by the child: "Mommy, are we rich?" "It's not polite to talk about money, sweetheart." Purchase of an exorbitantly expensive and sweet-ass caddy as in Cadillac, baby. Don just got invited by his boss into the "people who get to decide what happens in this world" club. And then BAM, Jimmy Berrett hits on Betty like crazy and tells her Don is fucking his wife. And she knows it might be true. And then Jimmy tells Don what a shithead he is. And HE knows it might be true.
Then they sit in the brand new caddy--the one they won't let kids in unless the rugrats have washed their hands--just looking terrible, and not talking, and you, the viewer, are wondering what the hell are they going to say. AWESOME FACES OF DISCOMFORT.
Betty pukes. Cue Brenda Lee... "Break it... to me gently..." roll the credits. I loved it. I am just so tickled.
Headstands!
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