I saw Cloverfield last week. I wasn't very impressed, and the more I've thought about it, the less I like it. Although, to be fair, it was enjoyable. Aside from the motion sickness. My collected opinions:
As a piece of drama, it pretty much falls flat on its face because it wants -- boy howdy, and how -- to be a character piece, but it's built as a melodrama. It's so completely and utterly based on plot that there is only some cheap, perfunctory character development or conflict. It bumps along fueled by cliches. All its best moments are direct rip-offs of other movies.
It feels like the movies own instincts lean towards wanting it to be a monster movie, and its instincts are right. The characters are whiny and dull and worse, completely predictable, so the vaguely defined and (for most of the film) vaguely seen monsters are far more interesting. This wouldn't be a problem if it settled down into melodrama. You don't expect the characters to be interesting then, and it's a relief to see them act they way you expect. Here, it's a cheap let down.
But the monsters in the "character movie" idea of the film that keeps trying to assert itself are just a means to an end, which is why in both you see so comparatively little of them, despite how intriguing they are. Appropriately, as they eat up the characters, they were the mechanics to initiate a vaguely sadistic audience to watch the characters break down. We eat them up, too.
And towards the end, even the physics of the world begins to break down. Characters become like cartoons: "oh look, they popped up *again* after being knocked down"; they /explode/ for ill-defined reasons; the camera stands up against every attack (including a nuke) and the battery lasts forever.
Well, I think it's illustrative of my biggest criticism of the movie: it /wants/ to be about the characters, yet one of them explodes -- explodes! -- and no one says much about it. (I know, they can't, they're too busy... that's the problem.)
You don't need every story point (Not plot point, and there's a big difference there, and this movie has noooo problem with the plot) explained, and there is a suspension of disbelief. But that can't be tortuously stretched and has to be internally consistent. And like I said before, by the end of the movie, that belief begins to break down as the character keep getting knocked down but keeping getting back up. That's the essence of comedy, right there, or more aptly, farce. But with the heavy hand the script has, it doesn't even acknowledge the possibility of humor and it moves the audience into a place of vague sadism. A good director would know that and try to at least downplay it, if not out and out re-write it.
With a movie so desperately self-consciously aware of itself, I thought that intro bit was corny, and wound up raising more questions that a normal "shut and watch, the movie's starting" scene would be. Why not do what the characters suggest and have some kids in China watch it on Youtube, with hokey military warning intact, too? But that'd be too close to making a /point/ for this film.
The only really interesting thing about it is it's use of 9/11 imagery -- which for me was uncomfortable. If that footage had been used in a better movie -- a movie /about/ something or that used that imagery to /say/ something other than a cheap effect -- it wouldn't have been so weird.
At 73 minutes, it's kind of long for what it is. I mean, the ending is completely predictable and effectively communicated in big, red letters, so it really could have ended 15 minutes earlier. What's left after that is basically the money shot for the monster fans.
That said, I did get a kick out the building I used to work in getting to be a setting. And then wholloped.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
What I think about HR 888
Or, why
Mr. FORBES, Mr. MCINTYRE, Mr. AKIN, Mr. BARRETT of South Carolina, Mr. CULBERSON, Mr. DOOLITTLE, Mr. FEENEY, Mr. GINGREY, Mr. GOHMERT, Mr. HAYES, Mr. HENSARLING, Mr. HERGER, Mr. JONES of North Carolina, Mr. MCHENRY, Mrs. MUSGRAVE, Mr. PEARCE, Mr. PENCE, Mr. PITTS, Mr. RYAN of Wisconsin, Mrs. SCHMIDT, Mr. WALBERG, Mr. WILSON of South Carolina, Mr. WOLF, and Mr. YOUNG of Florida
need to review their Ninth grade Civics class. If you need to learn about the Bill, you can read it here. My response? Haranguing my above-named Congressional Representative co-sponsoring it.:
[The real question, though, upon reflection is why Rep. Ryan et al. (need I even say there's an R next to their name?) decided to drag their districts along for the ride to 1764. The South being fuzzy on Constitutional law I get.]
Mr McHenry --
I'm writing to encourage to you to vote against H. Res. 888, should it ever come before the House. It is clearly in defiance of the separation of church and state enshrined in the First Amendment. It serves no purpose other than sheer self-congratulation on the part of those adherent to the Christian faith.
Personally, as a non-Christian, I find it offensive that a bill so clearly pro-Christian is attempting to word itself in the generic name of "religion".
I see it as a clear repudiation of the Constitution wording and intent, and a vote for it as nothing less than proof of your unfitness for the office you hold. I take it as read that a member of so august a House should be at least as familiar as I am with the documents that found this country, and the opinions and lives of the men who created them. All of these point to a deliberately atheist state, and this Bill (along with the related -- and alarmingly passed -- Bill 847) is nothing less than an attempt to undermine this, and an attempt to falsely re-write our history as a specifically Christian nation.
For these reasons, I am scandalized any such bill should come before the House, let alone co-sponsored by my own representative. Please be aware that in this, you do not represent me, nor many, many others in your district. Hopefully, your awareness of the position you hold, your knowledge of your country's history and practice, and your conscience in representing your constituency will all prevent you from furthering this bill.
Respectfully,
Jaylemurph
Mr. FORBES, Mr. MCINTYRE, Mr. AKIN, Mr. BARRETT of South Carolina, Mr. CULBERSON, Mr. DOOLITTLE, Mr. FEENEY, Mr. GINGREY, Mr. GOHMERT, Mr. HAYES, Mr. HENSARLING, Mr. HERGER, Mr. JONES of North Carolina, Mr. MCHENRY, Mrs. MUSGRAVE, Mr. PEARCE, Mr. PENCE, Mr. PITTS, Mr. RYAN of Wisconsin, Mrs. SCHMIDT, Mr. WALBERG, Mr. WILSON of South Carolina, Mr. WOLF, and Mr. YOUNG of Florida
need to review their Ninth grade Civics class. If you need to learn about the Bill, you can read it here. My response? Haranguing my above-named Congressional Representative co-sponsoring it.:
[The real question, though, upon reflection is why Rep. Ryan et al. (need I even say there's an R next to their name?) decided to drag their districts along for the ride to 1764. The South being fuzzy on Constitutional law I get.]
Mr McHenry --
I'm writing to encourage to you to vote against H. Res. 888, should it ever come before the House. It is clearly in defiance of the separation of church and state enshrined in the First Amendment. It serves no purpose other than sheer self-congratulation on the part of those adherent to the Christian faith.
Personally, as a non-Christian, I find it offensive that a bill so clearly pro-Christian is attempting to word itself in the generic name of "religion".
I see it as a clear repudiation of the Constitution wording and intent, and a vote for it as nothing less than proof of your unfitness for the office you hold. I take it as read that a member of so august a House should be at least as familiar as I am with the documents that found this country, and the opinions and lives of the men who created them. All of these point to a deliberately atheist state, and this Bill (along with the related -- and alarmingly passed -- Bill 847) is nothing less than an attempt to undermine this, and an attempt to falsely re-write our history as a specifically Christian nation.
For these reasons, I am scandalized any such bill should come before the House, let alone co-sponsored by my own representative. Please be aware that in this, you do not represent me, nor many, many others in your district. Hopefully, your awareness of the position you hold, your knowledge of your country's history and practice, and your conscience in representing your constituency will all prevent you from furthering this bill.
Respectfully,
Jaylemurph
Indie Pete
So have you been reading Diesel Sweeties where Indie Pete turns out (maybe really) to be gay? That's kind of hot.
But really, it's an excuse to give some people an opportunity to look at this Diesel Sweeties and say: do you really, seriously need something this obvious to tell you "Fuck off"?
But really, it's an excuse to give some people an opportunity to look at this Diesel Sweeties and say: do you really, seriously need something this obvious to tell you "Fuck off"?
Saturday, January 19, 2008
An Unearthly Hound...
or The Hound at the End of the Lane
or The Tribe of Ham
or 100,000 BH [Before Ham]
There I was yesterday evening, checking my email after getting back from the gym and right before going to see Cloverfield. I was reading some comments about Poochles off his campaign blog, and some of the... well, weirdnesses of him.
"He talks," the email (from one B. Wright, of Shoreditch, London) said. "That's just weird." Another, from one I. Chesterton, "He's my problem, too. He knows more about politics than I ever will. But he lets his knowledge out a little at a t time, so as not to embarrass me."
This was not the impression I wanted Poochles to make.
Miss Wright continued: "That's not quite right. I tripped him up by accident. He was talking about his trans-Atlantic friends, and I asked him how many shillings were in a pound. And he knew. He knew there were twenty. How do you explain a seven year old dog who knows imperial money? They may have a decimalized currency in the US, but we do, too, now."
Well, you can't justify curiosity.
It was just at that time that I heard Poochles coughing down the hall for some reason. The icy fog outside, I thought. It's mysterious.
Poochles was soon nosing around my room, looking at a Belle and Sebastian concert poster. Or more precisely, its frame. "It's very damp and dusty," he started, "But I might just..." he trailed off mumbling.
It was then I first got a good look at him. Even I was startled. He usually only wears a collar -- maybe a bandanna around his neck, too, if he's feeling festive. But he was positively decked out. He had, from somewhere, acquired what looked to be old checked trousers and a waistcoat. Underneath that was a wing-collared shirt, and on top and old frock coat. And I think I saw an old-fashioned cravat. As protection against the cold, he had a black cape and a striped silk scarf. And perched on top of his pointy head was the smallest Astrakhan hat I ever saw.
"Come along, hmmmnh? Time's wasting!" he said and walked a few steps out of the room. He stopped and turned around, clearly waiting for me to join him. I did.
In the hall was the most remarkable object. It was a dog house, rather like the one Snoopy has, but painted a dark blue. On the front, it had a set of double doors with a pair of frosted glass windows. On top was a little lamp, and (over the doors) "DOG poochles' private HOUSE" was helpfully written. It was noticeably humming. I put my hand on it and quickly jerked it away.
"It's alive!" I said.
I walked all around it to take it in. "There's no wires connecting it, unless it's through the floor." Poochles clearly thought that was a dim thing to say. "Well, are you going to stand around all day, or are you going to go in?" he snapped.
So I did.
He walked in and took of his scarf and cape (oddly throwing them on the floor despite the odd eagle lectern right next to him) while I gawped. "It's... bigger on the inside. But... but... I walked all 'round it!"
And it was bigger on the inside. It was huge -- and it couldn't have been a trick; it was wider by far than the foyer outside. The room was big on hexagons, for some reason. It was shaped like a big one, to start with, and running up and down the white walls were round indentations that exuded a soothing light. Hanging from ceiling was another hexagonal figure emitting light. Underneath that was a six-sided control panel on a plinth, more full of switches, lever and dials than can easily be suggested. At the top of this was a glass column, packed with still more advanced electronics, the interior of which was slowly rotating. Around it, on the floor, was a metal skirt. Again it was a hexagon. And the far wall, a TV monitor screen was suspended from the wall at eye level. A scanner, I presumed.
In contrast to the clinical white feel of the space were the furnishings that had been brought in. They were mostly antiques, like the lectern and an ormolu clock, but there was also a comfy-looking armchair and a table with a carved ham on it. "It's impossible," I said, in summary.
"Clearly not," said Poochles dryly. "I call it BASSAT. I made it up from the initials. "
"BASSAT?" I asked. None of this was making sense.
"Basset Hound And Sir Space And Time machine," he huffed. "It's a ship. It travels through space and time. It's for Basset hounds and Sirs. Catch up."
"A ship?" That made no sense to me.
"I use use your word for any craft that doesn't roll along on wheels!" he sniffed. He was clearly down with the condescension tonight.
"And it travels through space and time?" I was really lagging behind here. Poochles just stared at me in response. "Well, I don't expect to find the philosopher's dream of free movement through time and space sitting in a front foyer," I maintained. "Even a child would know that."
"The pups of my civilization would be insulted!" he barked. Well, not literally. But it was a pretty gruff response.
"Your civilization?!" I boggled. This was clearly going beyond me.
Poochles hooked his paws behind the lapels of his frock coat. "I was born in another time, another world."
I briefly considered it. It /would/ explain the talking, although not how he tied the cravat he was wearing. On the whole, it seemed a lot more likely that I was going insane.
"I'm leaving," I decided out loud.
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't let you do that. Leash laws are very strict on other planets. And I need someone to get stuff on the high shelves." By now, he was right next to the control console, and I saw him flick something on the nearest control panel.
"Piff," I said, and tried to use the control I'd seen him use to shut the door earlier.
And got one hell of an electric shock. It was live.
"Dammit," I said. "That hurt!" But as I sucked my smoldering finger, Poochles was rushing around the console, operating controls. A loud, strange noise erupted from deep within the Ship and the floor began to buck wildly. On the scanner, an image of my house appeared, but got smaller and smaller, as if we were getting higher and higher in altitude. Within seconds, the neighbourhood, and then the city vanished. On the screen, curious flashes and blobs of light started to move, howling around. I think I blacked out...
Poochles told me later that the BASSAT materialized on a sandy, barren plain. But we had been watched as we arrived, and an angry, man-shaped shadow loomed over out little dog house.
The Poochles' adventures in Space and Time continue at the same time Next Week in The Cave of Hams. That's next week on BBC 1 -- The Basset Broadcasting Corporation.
or The Tribe of Ham
or 100,000 BH [Before Ham]
There I was yesterday evening, checking my email after getting back from the gym and right before going to see Cloverfield. I was reading some comments about Poochles off his campaign blog, and some of the... well, weirdnesses of him.
"He talks," the email (from one B. Wright, of Shoreditch, London) said. "That's just weird." Another, from one I. Chesterton, "He's my problem, too. He knows more about politics than I ever will. But he lets his knowledge out a little at a t time, so as not to embarrass me."
This was not the impression I wanted Poochles to make.
Miss Wright continued: "That's not quite right. I tripped him up by accident. He was talking about his trans-Atlantic friends, and I asked him how many shillings were in a pound. And he knew. He knew there were twenty. How do you explain a seven year old dog who knows imperial money? They may have a decimalized currency in the US, but we do, too, now."
Well, you can't justify curiosity.
It was just at that time that I heard Poochles coughing down the hall for some reason. The icy fog outside, I thought. It's mysterious.
Poochles was soon nosing around my room, looking at a Belle and Sebastian concert poster. Or more precisely, its frame. "It's very damp and dusty," he started, "But I might just..." he trailed off mumbling.
It was then I first got a good look at him. Even I was startled. He usually only wears a collar -- maybe a bandanna around his neck, too, if he's feeling festive. But he was positively decked out. He had, from somewhere, acquired what looked to be old checked trousers and a waistcoat. Underneath that was a wing-collared shirt, and on top and old frock coat. And I think I saw an old-fashioned cravat. As protection against the cold, he had a black cape and a striped silk scarf. And perched on top of his pointy head was the smallest Astrakhan hat I ever saw.
"Come along, hmmmnh? Time's wasting!" he said and walked a few steps out of the room. He stopped and turned around, clearly waiting for me to join him. I did.
In the hall was the most remarkable object. It was a dog house, rather like the one Snoopy has, but painted a dark blue. On the front, it had a set of double doors with a pair of frosted glass windows. On top was a little lamp, and (over the doors) "DOG poochles' private HOUSE" was helpfully written. It was noticeably humming. I put my hand on it and quickly jerked it away.
"It's alive!" I said.
I walked all around it to take it in. "There's no wires connecting it, unless it's through the floor." Poochles clearly thought that was a dim thing to say. "Well, are you going to stand around all day, or are you going to go in?" he snapped.
So I did.
He walked in and took of his scarf and cape (oddly throwing them on the floor despite the odd eagle lectern right next to him) while I gawped. "It's... bigger on the inside. But... but... I walked all 'round it!"
And it was bigger on the inside. It was huge -- and it couldn't have been a trick; it was wider by far than the foyer outside. The room was big on hexagons, for some reason. It was shaped like a big one, to start with, and running up and down the white walls were round indentations that exuded a soothing light. Hanging from ceiling was another hexagonal figure emitting light. Underneath that was a six-sided control panel on a plinth, more full of switches, lever and dials than can easily be suggested. At the top of this was a glass column, packed with still more advanced electronics, the interior of which was slowly rotating. Around it, on the floor, was a metal skirt. Again it was a hexagon. And the far wall, a TV monitor screen was suspended from the wall at eye level. A scanner, I presumed.
In contrast to the clinical white feel of the space were the furnishings that had been brought in. They were mostly antiques, like the lectern and an ormolu clock, but there was also a comfy-looking armchair and a table with a carved ham on it. "It's impossible," I said, in summary.
"Clearly not," said Poochles dryly. "I call it BASSAT. I made it up from the initials. "
"BASSAT?" I asked. None of this was making sense.
"Basset Hound And Sir Space And Time machine," he huffed. "It's a ship. It travels through space and time. It's for Basset hounds and Sirs. Catch up."
"A ship?" That made no sense to me.
"I use use your word for any craft that doesn't roll along on wheels!" he sniffed. He was clearly down with the condescension tonight.
"And it travels through space and time?" I was really lagging behind here. Poochles just stared at me in response. "Well, I don't expect to find the philosopher's dream of free movement through time and space sitting in a front foyer," I maintained. "Even a child would know that."
"The pups of my civilization would be insulted!" he barked. Well, not literally. But it was a pretty gruff response.
"Your civilization?!" I boggled. This was clearly going beyond me.
Poochles hooked his paws behind the lapels of his frock coat. "I was born in another time, another world."
I briefly considered it. It /would/ explain the talking, although not how he tied the cravat he was wearing. On the whole, it seemed a lot more likely that I was going insane.
"I'm leaving," I decided out loud.
"I'm sorry, sir, I can't let you do that. Leash laws are very strict on other planets. And I need someone to get stuff on the high shelves." By now, he was right next to the control console, and I saw him flick something on the nearest control panel.
"Piff," I said, and tried to use the control I'd seen him use to shut the door earlier.
And got one hell of an electric shock. It was live.
"Dammit," I said. "That hurt!" But as I sucked my smoldering finger, Poochles was rushing around the console, operating controls. A loud, strange noise erupted from deep within the Ship and the floor began to buck wildly. On the scanner, an image of my house appeared, but got smaller and smaller, as if we were getting higher and higher in altitude. Within seconds, the neighbourhood, and then the city vanished. On the screen, curious flashes and blobs of light started to move, howling around. I think I blacked out...
Poochles told me later that the BASSAT materialized on a sandy, barren plain. But we had been watched as we arrived, and an angry, man-shaped shadow loomed over out little dog house.
The Poochles' adventures in Space and Time continue at the same time Next Week in The Cave of Hams. That's next week on BBC 1 -- The Basset Broadcasting Corporation.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Random Meanness
I watched Wife Swap tonight. It's terrible predictable: always the Dirty Hippy, "free spirit" mom trades off with "ex-military Christian nutzo". And they walk away having learned something about their families.
I think the producers need to kick it up a notch.
Find a meth whore with an abusive pimp for a mate and switch her with the Fundie mama.
On one side:
"C'mon, now, Cali would already be on her third pipe of the day. Smoke it on down now. Don't make me break this bottle over your head. And remember, next time you charge sawbuck extra for anal."
On the other
"Aw, look! The Jesus freaks got all kinds of small, easily transported consumer goods! Lawrence, bring the van. Oh, and you better bring a some extra ice. It's my night to cook dinner. "
Actually, that would make the "Two months later" segment that much more fun.
"Before mommy went away, the bugs never crawled under her skin. Now they do all the time. And last time we went to church, she offered the priest a blow job for another hit at the chalice. When he said no, she sold him my little brother."
And "Now that I'm on the rock, I get so much more done! I can bake and bake and bake, sometimes days in a row! And you should see my scrapbook! Each of my regulars get a page!"
I think the producers need to kick it up a notch.
Find a meth whore with an abusive pimp for a mate and switch her with the Fundie mama.
On one side:
"C'mon, now, Cali would already be on her third pipe of the day. Smoke it on down now. Don't make me break this bottle over your head. And remember, next time you charge sawbuck extra for anal."
On the other
"Aw, look! The Jesus freaks got all kinds of small, easily transported consumer goods! Lawrence, bring the van. Oh, and you better bring a some extra ice. It's my night to cook dinner. "
Actually, that would make the "Two months later" segment that much more fun.
"Before mommy went away, the bugs never crawled under her skin. Now they do all the time. And last time we went to church, she offered the priest a blow job for another hit at the chalice. When he said no, she sold him my little brother."
And "Now that I'm on the rock, I get so much more done! I can bake and bake and bake, sometimes days in a row! And you should see my scrapbook! Each of my regulars get a page!"
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
And Now for something completely different...
Having spent two posts discussing porn, I thought I'd talk a bit about straight drama. Well, legitimate performing art, rather than mere titillation. I had intended to use this space to talk about the local production of A Midsummer's Night Dream.
I know... it almost doesn't seem sporting, does it, but if you squint your eyes and hope for the best, it might be like a Regional Rep, right?
Well, I don't know. I went to the theatre at the appropriate time to see an ambulance in front. When I went to the box-office, I was told the performance had been canceled. I was floored -- the Show Must Go On*, and whatnot. I seriously thought about going 'round the back and volunteering myself**. As bad as that could be, it's still better than canceling a show.
*spits on ground*
I still don't know why, but I remain nosy. I have images (probably culled from ER) of the entire cast coming down with food poisoning. At least that would be an excuse, somewhat, but at that same theatre, yonks ago, I ran sound for a show where the lead spent an entire performance throwing up when not onstage and with a considerable fever.
Anyway, I've got a ticket for this weekend, so we'll see.
Apparently, some quick research shows something along the lines of my fantasy provides the basis for The Beulaville Baptist Book Club Presents: A Bur-less-Q Nutcracker! Which, depending upon the audience, the performers and the ambient level of blood alcohol at the show could be much, much better or much much worse than the local Shakespeare production.
*Noel Coward, on the other hand, would disagree
**Apparently, I have gone on to the place where these kinds of jokes are automatic. Sadly, 1970s British TV and I aren't simultaneous, or no doubt I'd have my own comedy on Auntie Beeb. (Although... My Hero proves the bar can't be too high yet.)
I know... it almost doesn't seem sporting, does it, but if you squint your eyes and hope for the best, it might be like a Regional Rep, right?
Well, I don't know. I went to the theatre at the appropriate time to see an ambulance in front. When I went to the box-office, I was told the performance had been canceled. I was floored -- the Show Must Go On*, and whatnot. I seriously thought about going 'round the back and volunteering myself**. As bad as that could be, it's still better than canceling a show.
*spits on ground*
I still don't know why, but I remain nosy. I have images (probably culled from ER) of the entire cast coming down with food poisoning. At least that would be an excuse, somewhat, but at that same theatre, yonks ago, I ran sound for a show where the lead spent an entire performance throwing up when not onstage and with a considerable fever.
Anyway, I've got a ticket for this weekend, so we'll see.
Apparently, some quick research shows something along the lines of my fantasy provides the basis for The Beulaville Baptist Book Club Presents: A Bur-less-Q Nutcracker! Which, depending upon the audience, the performers and the ambient level of blood alcohol at the show could be much, much better or much much worse than the local Shakespeare production.
*Noel Coward, on the other hand, would disagree
**Apparently, I have gone on to the place where these kinds of jokes are automatic. Sadly, 1970s British TV and I aren't simultaneous, or no doubt I'd have my own comedy on Auntie Beeb. (Although... My Hero proves the bar can't be too high yet.)
Monday, January 14, 2008
How very careless
After going to the trouble of generating a screen capture, I didn't give proper credit to the actors.
Standing, in full view is Rowan Valois, and you can just see the head of Juke Brandt. What a pity he knelt down to tie his shoes at the moment that was snapped.
That said, I think Rowan Valois is just about the most perfect porn name I've ever heard, and I'm not sure why, really.
Also worth mentioning (in the context, anyway) is the near-as-dammit Franz Ferdinand (when they were still worth listening to, at any rate) soundtrack by The Fandango Boys.
No linkage in this post, as I think all the names are fake... although The Fandango Boys may be a reference to Club Fandando nights put on in Manchester and London.
Update: Some kind person even sadder than me informs me that Rowan shows up on MySpace. They go on to assure me they mention this because he mentions Doctor Who in his bio. And his bedroom.
Update to the update: After investigating, he *does* mention Doctor Who "even if it makes him sad", so maybe he did watch it before RTD made it cool. But the bedroom (described as 'new') is not from the film. So, thanks all round to Sam for taking an innocent observation to creepy stalking. At least I didn't add the link. Yet.
U^3: Oh, why not? It's not my fault it's posted on the Internet. And isn't the point of MySpace that people are supposed to look at it? Maybe Sebastian will ask to be his friend...
Standing, in full view is Rowan Valois, and you can just see the head of Juke Brandt. What a pity he knelt down to tie his shoes at the moment that was snapped.
That said, I think Rowan Valois is just about the most perfect porn name I've ever heard, and I'm not sure why, really.
Also worth mentioning (in the context, anyway) is the near-as-dammit Franz Ferdinand (when they were still worth listening to, at any rate) soundtrack by The Fandango Boys.
No linkage in this post, as I think all the names are fake... although The Fandango Boys may be a reference to Club Fandando nights put on in Manchester and London.
Update: Some kind person even sadder than me informs me that Rowan shows up on MySpace. They go on to assure me they mention this because he mentions Doctor Who in his bio. And his bedroom.
Update to the update: After investigating, he *does* mention Doctor Who "even if it makes him sad", so maybe he did watch it before RTD made it cool. But the bedroom (described as 'new') is not from the film. So, thanks all round to Sam for taking an innocent observation to creepy stalking. At least I didn't add the link. Yet.
U^3: Oh, why not? It's not my fault it's posted on the Internet. And isn't the point of MySpace that people are supposed to look at it? Maybe Sebastian will ask to be his friend...
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Not the same any more, some how...
A brief, oddish observation.
I was, not too long ago, watching my favourite gentleman's film, Indie Boyz. I call it a gentleman's film because, well, it only has men in it, and is only really filmed for men to watch (although every girl like to watch them. Yes, they do.)
Clearly it's gay porn.
Now, the thing about this particular film is its attempt at Cinema Verite, with odd little monologues that let you "get to know" the talent, and apparently being filmed in the young gentleman's domiciles. These speeches make it rather different from most other films put out by this production company, since they're based in Central Europe and use chiefly talent from the Continent, and quite frankly, dialogue isn't the chiefest factor in these kinds of movies.
But this film is made in England, and they advantage of the local dialect. And, as I said, their housing. So, in the middle of the film, after two young gentlemen meet on the street, they repair to one of the two's bedsit.
And they begin to... well, let's say discuss current politics. And naturally enough, as they're well put-together and pleasingly comely, this is most engaging.
Until you see one of their bookshelves. Sitting there, all of a sudden is a little plastic TARDIS, all blue and square and solid and quite possibly the un-sexiest thing in the universe. And it's like a magnet against suspended disbelief.
They're still going at it, and I'm thinking, "Are those old Target novelisations? I'm pretty sure they are. But he can't be *that* old... Where did he get them? Does the mean he hangs out at Tenth Planet or something? I wonder if he fancies David Tennant*? /That/ puts Billie Piper calling him David Ten-Inch in a completely different persepctive..."
And then I sort of wretch, because the last three Doctors notwithstanding, Doctor Who is not sexy. Doctor Who is the sum of everything *not* sexy, or at least everything *pre*-sexy, and there's something immediately Visceral and Wrong, akin to thinking about grandparents as sexy, if my brain tries to work like that.
So now I can't watch the best part of the damn movie. And it's a great part. Thanks, Eurocreme. Thanks, Simon Booth.* *
Update: Apparently, the film did so well that Eurocreme is truning Indie Boyz into its own division, so Yay!
Update to the Update: Also apparently, you can find them on MySpace and apply to be a model.
There used to be one specifically for Indie Boyz on MySpace or Facebook one, which was about 300% hotter, but now, sadly, I can't find it.
Update to the Update to the Update: Just to share part of the actual experience, I did a screen capture of the relevant moment. Just remember, they're discussing politics.
*And yes, for anyone who bothered to click on the link, I did use the picture that made David look like he probably should be in the movie.
**And no, this wouldn't be at all because he's almost the same age I am, studied basically the same thing, but he directs porn for a living. And I don't.
Give the People What They Want
Now, heaven only knows why, but for the past month or so, I've gotten 20 or so hits a day, looking at this picture. I decided to move it up to the front page and save everyone the trouble (at least temporarily) of digging through years of archives to find it. So, kind visitor from Kuwait or Finland or Mexico or Greece, have at.
It does make me happy that it's fulfilled it happy little purpose.
Actually, that's only about half the reason I decided to bring this thing back to life. Not too long ago, I sent an email to my good friend Ms Laura Llew, in an attempt to garner pity. It didn't work, exactly, as apparently pity and farce don't coexist peaceful.
(Uhh... I'm a good little theatre historian, so I *knew* that. I just didn't related it to myself. Comedy and pity do go together, coincidentally, which is why Chekhov and modern tragi-comedy work so well. Which is a lesson to myself: don't be pretentious. You fall squarely into farce, and no Bentley-esque transcendence will elevate you to high comedy.)
All this was, of course, a long-winded way of saying the email was funny. And it was. And a few days later, when I was reading some of the oldest posts from here, they were funny, too. And they came from a point in my life that was almost -- but not quite -- as painful as the current one. So, in an effort to life my funk, I'm going to be funny.
Here, by the way, is that email. I point out it is entirely true. And if it makes me sound like I'm living in an episode of Hee Haw, then, well, there's a lot to be said for that.
I started out comparing myself to the Ice Bear in The Golden Compass, and pointed out that no, the comparison fails for one, important reason:
...I haven't actually had any alcohol
in months. Months. I didn't take communion last week for fear I'd
bogart about a dozen of those little shot-glasses of home-brew wine.
It's about 120 proof. I understand the new pastor they from got
Missouri coughed up his first draft onto the president of the Lady's
Aid Society. I'm sorry I missed that. Then again, maybe I'm not.
(God only knows what I'll do when (or if) I ever see a nice glass
of single barrel bourbon. I'm thinking something Cookie Monster-esque
with decidedly unpleasant consequences.)
Yes. My parents make me go to church every Sunday. Despite the
fact that I've explained patiently that a) I don't believe in god and
b) Even if I do meet a nice girl there, I won't know what to do with
her. But they insist.
I even threatened to come down with a dose of the Spirit and start
speaking in tongues, but my mother pretty much double bluffed me out
of that. I am looking for a nice serpent to handle, so if you come
across a rattlesnake, just punch a couple of holes in the top of a
shoebox and mail it on. It'll be like Ray Stevens meets Samuel L.
Jackson.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Warf!
Many people think basset hounds are lazy. And that's true. Sebastian sleeps a good 18 hours a day, and since I've been at home more, unemployed and working on my thesis, I've been able to observe him closely.
About three or four times a day, he dreams -- chasing bunnies, I expect, but I'm never quite sure. His paws wiggle, and his nose wrinkles up and you can see his eyes moving under his lids.
But at least once a day when he does this, he growls and yelps and wakes himself up. He looks around, confused -- you can see him trying to work it out. Then he gives me a suspicious glare stretches, and goes back to sleep.
About three or four times a day, he dreams -- chasing bunnies, I expect, but I'm never quite sure. His paws wiggle, and his nose wrinkles up and you can see his eyes moving under his lids.
But at least once a day when he does this, he growls and yelps and wakes himself up. He looks around, confused -- you can see him trying to work it out. Then he gives me a suspicious glare stretches, and goes back to sleep.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Bristol: The Channel, The Cathedral, The Chart
I don't 
know why, but I find this endlessly fascinating:
It's one of those things one finds accidentally on Wikipedia. I guess I simply don't have the kind of rapport with my poop that the creator of this medical chart has.
It does, however, fall well into the category of "distraction from my train-wreck of a life".
know why, but I find this endlessly fascinating:It's one of those things one finds accidentally on Wikipedia. I guess I simply don't have the kind of rapport with my poop that the creator of this medical chart has.
It does, however, fall well into the category of "distraction from my train-wreck of a life".
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
.... And then you open a Hotel
So what do you do when your whole world ends?
Travel shows, apparently.
Globe Trekker (on PBS and the Travel Channel), Samantha Brown's Passport series on the Travel Channel, Smart Travels with Rudy Maxa, Rick Steves , Anthony Bourdain, John Ratzenberger, Fred Willard, Burt Wolf or the guy from Have Fork, Will Travel.
I've started watching them all. I've even started watching reruns of Star Trek: Voyager on Spike without retching too much.
Is it a last ditch effort to imbue myself with exoticism before I leave New York? Very probably, I think. Sad, I know.
Life, now, with the ending of all the things I've fought so hard to achieve seems so pointless...
I mean, what's the point of soldiering on when even your dog is going to be taken away from you? My parents aren't young; they deserve a break -- they don't need me sponging off them, but where else have I to go?
I had such dreams for myself.
Travel shows, apparently.
Globe Trekker (on PBS and the Travel Channel), Samantha Brown's Passport series on the Travel Channel, Smart Travels with Rudy Maxa, Rick Steves , Anthony Bourdain, John Ratzenberger, Fred Willard, Burt Wolf or the guy from Have Fork, Will Travel.
I've started watching them all. I've even started watching reruns of Star Trek: Voyager on Spike without retching too much.
Is it a last ditch effort to imbue myself with exoticism before I leave New York? Very probably, I think. Sad, I know.
Life, now, with the ending of all the things I've fought so hard to achieve seems so pointless...
I mean, what's the point of soldiering on when even your dog is going to be taken away from you? My parents aren't young; they deserve a break -- they don't need me sponging off them, but where else have I to go?
I had such dreams for myself.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
What I wish...
I wish he would have killed me, instead -- stuck a gun to my head and blew out my brains, stuck a knife through my heart, or poured poison down my throat.
But he didn't.
But he didn't.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Okay Cable, ENOUGH ALREADY!
Those of you who don't live in New York probably don't have to sit through 1.800.okaycable's mind-searingly tedious ads. They apparently dig up local bands and pay them enough to shill.
The first one wasn't /so/ bad... It was a group called Early Edison singing about the wonders of one bill for digital cable, internet and long-distance. The lead singer was also passingly cute, so I wasn't grossly offended when it came on 18 times during my People's Court episode each day, and the bassist looked so OTT that I usually giggled.
Here, for your viewing pleasure:
But take a minute and consider the subtext. Apparently, this girl doesn't ever leave the house, and needs to talk to her mother, thousands of miles away, nigh-constantly. She clearly has some psychological issues. The lead singer of the band -- who admits to paying all of these expenses for her -- eyeballs her constantly the way Sebastian the dog eyes a ham, then turns her into a muse of cable advertising. Again, we see some weird obsessive action going on there.
And then there's the guitarist playing like he's trying to save his life.
Were it not for the lively Top 40 Pop/Rock music, it could be a play by Samuel Beckett. But given the music, I'd say it's clearly a verfremsdungeffekt on the part of the singer/actors and this is a modern-day attempt at Brecht.
Now, one would think -- and having been in such bands, written for such bands and played such bands on teh radios, I would consider myself one -- that they may just want to distance themselves from such crass commercialism. But no. Apparently (again, one hopes under the influence of something fun) they do this live:
Here, for your schadenfreude pleasure:
But this ad's run is over. Pseudo-sniff.
Fortunately for those who like local bands, but not enough to go see them or enough to hear their own unadulterated music, 1.800.okay.cable struck again.
This time it was Astoria's own Future86. (And to think, I could have been their neighbour!)
This one, a mid-tempo little ballad that speeds up to a ska-sound didn't exactly have the bizarrely sincere charm of the Early Edison stalkers and their agoraphobic fixation.
In fact, there was no little plot to tell us quite why this chick and her band were in a warehouse (or possibly a very empty cathouse) singing about digital cable.
When the tempo changes, the chick starts caterwauling about wanting it all and doing some third-tier Madonna-esque*posing in a wind tunnel that has suddenly sprung up (insert your own joke about sucking here) and the band doesn't even have the dignity not to look vaguely distasteful. Then, thankfully, the 30-second spot ends.
And so did the ad's campaign.
But wait! There's more! Just this week 1.800.okay.cable's come back with a /60/ second version. The first one caused an apartment-wide leap onto the Tivo remote -- Sebastian the dog not excluded -- to fast forward through the ad. This one causes the same, but... more. It makes me afraid to watch TV at all -- you never know when it's going to be put on the air, or what network. It lurks, like an evil shark, behind the pixels ready to jump whenever you're weak or unready. When you go for a pee during the commercials, there it is. Up for a snack? Its notes reverberate on your turned back. It will consume you. Fear Future86. Fear their love of package internet deals. Fear Spangly cami-tops and Leopard-print guitar straps. Fear Her.**
The first one wasn't /so/ bad... It was a group called Early Edison singing about the wonders of one bill for digital cable, internet and long-distance. The lead singer was also passingly cute, so I wasn't grossly offended when it came on 18 times during my People's Court episode each day, and the bassist looked so OTT that I usually giggled.
Here, for your viewing pleasure:
But take a minute and consider the subtext. Apparently, this girl doesn't ever leave the house, and needs to talk to her mother, thousands of miles away, nigh-constantly. She clearly has some psychological issues. The lead singer of the band -- who admits to paying all of these expenses for her -- eyeballs her constantly the way Sebastian the dog eyes a ham, then turns her into a muse of cable advertising. Again, we see some weird obsessive action going on there.
And then there's the guitarist playing like he's trying to save his life.
Were it not for the lively Top 40 Pop/Rock music, it could be a play by Samuel Beckett. But given the music, I'd say it's clearly a verfremsdungeffekt on the part of the singer/actors and this is a modern-day attempt at Brecht.
Now, one would think -- and having been in such bands, written for such bands and played such bands on teh radios, I would consider myself one -- that they may just want to distance themselves from such crass commercialism. But no. Apparently (again, one hopes under the influence of something fun) they do this live:
Here, for your schadenfreude pleasure:
But this ad's run is over. Pseudo-sniff.
Fortunately for those who like local bands, but not enough to go see them or enough to hear their own unadulterated music, 1.800.okay.cable struck again.
This time it was Astoria's own Future86. (And to think, I could have been their neighbour!)
This one, a mid-tempo little ballad that speeds up to a ska-sound didn't exactly have the bizarrely sincere charm of the Early Edison stalkers and their agoraphobic fixation.
In fact, there was no little plot to tell us quite why this chick and her band were in a warehouse (or possibly a very empty cathouse) singing about digital cable.
When the tempo changes, the chick starts caterwauling about wanting it all and doing some third-tier Madonna-esque*posing in a wind tunnel that has suddenly sprung up (insert your own joke about sucking here) and the band doesn't even have the dignity not to look vaguely distasteful. Then, thankfully, the 30-second spot ends.
And so did the ad's campaign.
But wait! There's more! Just this week 1.800.okay.cable's come back with a /60/ second version. The first one caused an apartment-wide leap onto the Tivo remote -- Sebastian the dog not excluded -- to fast forward through the ad. This one causes the same, but... more. It makes me afraid to watch TV at all -- you never know when it's going to be put on the air, or what network. It lurks, like an evil shark, behind the pixels ready to jump whenever you're weak or unready. When you go for a pee during the commercials, there it is. Up for a snack? Its notes reverberate on your turned back. It will consume you. Fear Future86. Fear their love of package internet deals. Fear Spangly cami-tops and Leopard-print guitar straps. Fear Her.**
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
When the Doctor Could Still Smack People Around
People ask me, "Why is Jon Pertwee your favourite Doctor Who?" and use about as much disdain as possible. It isn't just the fab wardrobe or the gadgets or vehicles, oh no.
It's the karate:
Sorry, but it's been an awful day and I'm too tired to be properly amusing.
It's the karate:
Sorry, but it's been an awful day and I'm too tired to be properly amusing.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Chomp!
So, Sebastian bit me. Again.
Right on the face -- in fact, he managed to bite inside and outside my mouth, ripping a nasty gash inside my cheek.
I called a cab and bled. We went to the emergency room at this hospital.
And waited for the next eight hours. And bled.
When the low-rent version of the ER Indie-Rock Doctor finally showed up, he looked at me and said
we don't give people stitches inside their mouth and wrote a prescription for antibiotics.
It maybe took three minutes.
I hate him.
(He also promised to give me some bandage strips for the outside wounds. He never bothered to come back to give those.)
We got into a cab at 4.30 in the morning and rode home.
You'll notice there's a link above. Go there. Bitch.
--Jaylemurph
Right on the face -- in fact, he managed to bite inside and outside my mouth, ripping a nasty gash inside my cheek.
I called a cab and bled. We went to the emergency room at this hospital.
And waited for the next eight hours. And bled.
When the low-rent version of the ER Indie-Rock Doctor finally showed up, he looked at me and said
we don't give people stitches inside their mouth and wrote a prescription for antibiotics.
It maybe took three minutes.
I hate him.
(He also promised to give me some bandage strips for the outside wounds. He never bothered to come back to give those.)
We got into a cab at 4.30 in the morning and rode home.
You'll notice there's a link above. Go there. Bitch.
--Jaylemurph
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Final Gilmore Ruminations
So... last night. Last Gilmore Girls. It was better than I expected. I was even a little sad at the end. I couldn't make up my mind, though, if the episode was shot /knowing/ it was the series finale.
This one guy pointed out that it went to great lengths to feature everyone from Stars Hollow (except it didn't -- Mrs Kim and the Troubadour at least were missing). And of course Luke and Lorelei got back together. And the last shot, the girls eating at a closed Luke's Diner, mirrored the last shot of the first episode.
I think they were hedging their bets, filming something that could work as a finale, but could also work fine as a season ender -- just a little too much was set up that could have been explored in a new season...
My final word? I was right. In the previous weeks' episode, they got Emily to singing. In complete opposition to everything ever established about her character.
This one guy pointed out that it went to great lengths to feature everyone from Stars Hollow (except it didn't -- Mrs Kim and the Troubadour at least were missing). And of course Luke and Lorelei got back together. And the last shot, the girls eating at a closed Luke's Diner, mirrored the last shot of the first episode.
I think they were hedging their bets, filming something that could work as a finale, but could also work fine as a season ender -- just a little too much was set up that could have been explored in a new season...
My final word? I was right. In the previous weeks' episode, they got Emily to singing. In complete opposition to everything ever established about her character.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Pointless Complexity
Ever have a complex relationship with someone with whom you have virtually /no/ relationship, or is it just me?
One of this one guy's friends is this person who elicits strong reactions from me. Now, I have met this person exactly once -- he and his boyfriend came over one evening. He promptly drank some Scotch and fell asleep on our couch.
For several hours.
His boyfriend was more game; He, some other guy, my friend Emily and I all played Katamari Damacy and drank heavily til late in the night. All told, it was a nice night. And there was some bother about this person switching from all-night to daytime work, and him suffering from insomnia, blah blah blah.
I was not amused.
Which is a shame because, truth be told, he isn't a bad person. He's smart and witty, and nice to look at, to boot. I read his livejournal often even though I probably oughtn't to; it's friends only but I can use this one guy's cookies to bypass that. Generally speaking, I don't hate him. Anything but.
Except on the rare occasion when I do. Something he'll write something or this one guy will mention about him will absolutely convince me he's scum. Really low-down, awful and hideous.
A strange amount of negative passion for someone I've met once.
I've noticed it before and sort of shrugged it off as either some personality quirk or some odd factor in him.
...but then yesterday, it hit me. He also looks like someone, someone I could never quite figure out. I remembered yesterday.
He's a dead ringer for the first boy I ever asked out. It's remarkable.
I had a massive crush on this other boy turned me down -- terribly. It was June and when I asked him out -- for an inoffensive coffee no less, not a seedy trip Legends or a tres cher French dinner -- he told me he had to study for his exams. I was humiliated and angry. And while I can't remember his name any more (it's probably floating around this site somewhere, but I can't be arsed), I remember exactly what he looked like.
Somebody's friend.
Odd bit of passion and anger solved, then.
One of this one guy's friends is this person who elicits strong reactions from me. Now, I have met this person exactly once -- he and his boyfriend came over one evening. He promptly drank some Scotch and fell asleep on our couch.
For several hours.
His boyfriend was more game; He, some other guy, my friend Emily and I all played Katamari Damacy and drank heavily til late in the night. All told, it was a nice night. And there was some bother about this person switching from all-night to daytime work, and him suffering from insomnia, blah blah blah.
I was not amused.
Which is a shame because, truth be told, he isn't a bad person. He's smart and witty, and nice to look at, to boot. I read his livejournal often even though I probably oughtn't to; it's friends only but I can use this one guy's cookies to bypass that. Generally speaking, I don't hate him. Anything but.
Except on the rare occasion when I do. Something he'll write something or this one guy will mention about him will absolutely convince me he's scum. Really low-down, awful and hideous.
A strange amount of negative passion for someone I've met once.
I've noticed it before and sort of shrugged it off as either some personality quirk or some odd factor in him.
...but then yesterday, it hit me. He also looks like someone, someone I could never quite figure out. I remembered yesterday.
He's a dead ringer for the first boy I ever asked out. It's remarkable.
I had a massive crush on this other boy turned me down -- terribly. It was June and when I asked him out -- for an inoffensive coffee no less, not a seedy trip Legends or a tres cher French dinner -- he told me he had to study for his exams. I was humiliated and angry. And while I can't remember his name any more (it's probably floating around this site somewhere, but I can't be arsed), I remember exactly what he looked like.
Somebody's friend.
Odd bit of passion and anger solved, then.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Addenda
Two other things:
1) It took about two days for this post to germinate.
I must have been thinking about it before I fell asleep last night because I had a GG-tangential dream. In it, Paris Gellar was a friend of mine who owed me a favour. Whilst staying at my Grandmother's, my contact lenses became so dirty they wouldn't adhere to my eyes.
I convinced Paris to drive me home to get new ones... Only to be stopped by the dastardly forces of Civil War Re-Enactors. We fled through a series of leaps several hundred feet high.
What does it mean? The answer frightens even me.
2) The cancellation of GG brings an end to my prophecies concerning the show. Which is a right pain. For the sake of posterity, here they are:
In Season 8:
A) Luke and Lorelei get back together, ultimately marrying. Or at least moving in with
each other. Jovial and intolerable bickering ensues.
B) April joins them to become the new, young, Gilmore Girl. They will, upon occasion,
be joined by Rory who married Logan, got a newspaper job and moved to the West Coast. Her return probably comes during Sweeps.
C) Richard finally kicks the bucket, leaving Emily free to star in a sit-com spin-off, where she
goes into business with Mrs. Kim and travels the country in a trailor selling antiques to
rubes.
D) Related to C: The writers, tempted beyond control by Kelly Bishop's musical theatre
background, will write an all-musical episode.
1) It took about two days for this post to germinate.
I must have been thinking about it before I fell asleep last night because I had a GG-tangential dream. In it, Paris Gellar was a friend of mine who owed me a favour. Whilst staying at my Grandmother's, my contact lenses became so dirty they wouldn't adhere to my eyes.
I convinced Paris to drive me home to get new ones... Only to be stopped by the dastardly forces of Civil War Re-Enactors. We fled through a series of leaps several hundred feet high.
What does it mean? The answer frightens even me.
2) The cancellation of GG brings an end to my prophecies concerning the show. Which is a right pain. For the sake of posterity, here they are:
In Season 8:
A) Luke and Lorelei get back together, ultimately marrying. Or at least moving in with
each other. Jovial and intolerable bickering ensues.
B) April joins them to become the new, young, Gilmore Girl. They will, upon occasion,
be joined by Rory who married Logan, got a newspaper job and moved to the West Coast. Her return probably comes during Sweeps.
C) Richard finally kicks the bucket, leaving Emily free to star in a sit-com spin-off, where she
goes into business with Mrs. Kim and travels the country in a trailor selling antiques to
rubes.
D) Related to C: The writers, tempted beyond control by Kelly Bishop's musical theatre
background, will write an all-musical episode.
Gil Me No More
So I heard the other day that the New CW is cancelling Gilmore Girls.
I wasn't surprised.
And I wasn't very upset. That /did/ surprise me. After all, Gilmore Girls has been my favourite American television show for years.
But let's face it: it jumped the shark a while ago. This season has really been driving that home. For the first half of this season, 4 or 5 episodes would pile up on the Tivo before this one guy or I could be bothered to watch them; even then, it was more out of commitment to the Remembrance of Things Past* than actual pleasure.
So what went wrong?
Well, you can't blame the CW, its new network this season, which formed from the unlikely merge of the WB and UPN...
Can you blame the leaving of Amy Sherman-Palladino, the show's creator at the end of last season? Well, probably. Quite frankly a lot of the problems cropping up in the show look a lot like actors getting to much head and writers without much self-control.
The biggest single issue, I think, is (was?) the show's growing lack of respect for its viewers. Early on, the show hummed with energy; the dialogue was lighting fast and its references -- to pop culture and to more, umm, obscure areas of culture -- were just as fast.
And unexplained. The show just assumed you got it. And it assumed you could put the parts of a plot together without being babied.
Now? Hah!
The scenes of the show this season, virtually every one of every episode drag. Drag like a bad SNL skit with Derek Jeter. Too long. Too obvious. Everyone says exactly what they mean, means exactly what they say and go to almost absurd lengths to make sure you at home get it, too.
That'd be the end of oh, say, complexity and subtlety.
Concomitant with that was the lack of discipline on the part of the writers. Luke and Lorelei's romance was built up over the course of years. It was defined by its complexity and depth.
And then it was essentially over in a night and the two acted like children for a year.
...and then Lorelei took up with Christopher. Which had all the cleverness of a divorced six-year old*. And then that ended, too.
It seems a lot like a group of writers sitting around and saying "What'd be fun?" rather than "What will develop our characters?" or "What would be really interesting drama?"
"Fuck it," says they, "A marriage in Paris would be pretty!"
What really told me things were going down was Logan. Flimsiest pre-text of a character he is -- and oh, so perfect for Matt Czuchry as an actor -- they were pretty stalwart about not showing his flesh. Much to my chagrin.
Fortunately and tellingly, a recent episode went to pains to show him in bed, in his boxers, discussing (slowly, natch) his need to be dressed in front of Lorelei.
...and then it hits me. Shark jumped = the time Rory picked Logan over Marty.
Saw him nude his first time on camera. Rory always was a smart girl.
*1) Nice little season 1/2 present for you there.
*2) Another little sly joke there for you.
I wasn't surprised.
And I wasn't very upset. That /did/ surprise me. After all, Gilmore Girls has been my favourite American television show for years.
But let's face it: it jumped the shark a while ago. This season has really been driving that home. For the first half of this season, 4 or 5 episodes would pile up on the Tivo before this one guy or I could be bothered to watch them; even then, it was more out of commitment to the Remembrance of Things Past* than actual pleasure.
So what went wrong?
Well, you can't blame the CW, its new network this season, which formed from the unlikely merge of the WB and UPN...
Can you blame the leaving of Amy Sherman-Palladino, the show's creator at the end of last season? Well, probably. Quite frankly a lot of the problems cropping up in the show look a lot like actors getting to much head and writers without much self-control.
The biggest single issue, I think, is (was?) the show's growing lack of respect for its viewers. Early on, the show hummed with energy; the dialogue was lighting fast and its references -- to pop culture and to more, umm, obscure areas of culture -- were just as fast.
And unexplained. The show just assumed you got it. And it assumed you could put the parts of a plot together without being babied.
Now? Hah!
The scenes of the show this season, virtually every one of every episode drag. Drag like a bad SNL skit with Derek Jeter. Too long. Too obvious. Everyone says exactly what they mean, means exactly what they say and go to almost absurd lengths to make sure you at home get it, too.
That'd be the end of oh, say, complexity and subtlety.
Concomitant with that was the lack of discipline on the part of the writers. Luke and Lorelei's romance was built up over the course of years. It was defined by its complexity and depth.
And then it was essentially over in a night and the two acted like children for a year.
...and then Lorelei took up with Christopher. Which had all the cleverness of a divorced six-year old*. And then that ended, too.
It seems a lot like a group of writers sitting around and saying "What'd be fun?" rather than "What will develop our characters?" or "What would be really interesting drama?"
"Fuck it," says they, "A marriage in Paris would be pretty!"
What really told me things were going down was Logan. Flimsiest pre-text of a character he is -- and oh, so perfect for Matt Czuchry as an actor -- they were pretty stalwart about not showing his flesh. Much to my chagrin.
Fortunately and tellingly, a recent episode went to pains to show him in bed, in his boxers, discussing (slowly, natch) his need to be dressed in front of Lorelei.
...and then it hits me. Shark jumped = the time Rory picked Logan over Marty.
Saw him nude his first time on camera. Rory always was a smart girl.
*1) Nice little season 1/2 present for you there.
*2) Another little sly joke there for you.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Saturday, July 15, 2006
I should have known it was coming...
Sitting there in the cinema for the first night's showing of Brokeback Mountian, we /all/ knew it was coming. As sure as Summer follows Spring and day follows night, it would arrive. And we were right. Not long after, you could rent Bareback Mountain. Or Bareback Mountain.
We needn't go into detail. The Wikipedia article is dandy because it treats something so awful with such sincerity. Glitter For Brains did a delightful comparison of the first porno with the actual film here. (You may have to scroll down a bit, but it's worth it).
What none of us expected was that these wouldn't be enough: now, you can watch Bi-Back Mountain! I have no idea what to say to that one.
Having sat through that, here's something almost worth a giggle:
This one guy insisted on seeing Brokeback the night it came out, so we humped down to the Village (where else?) for an evening show. The cinema was packed with not just every homo in the city, but his boyfriend and best girl friend as well. We all crammed in early to get good seats and watched the commercials that flashed on the screen before the previews.
"Beware of Brain Disease!" cried the screen in its best 1950s/Red Scare voice. "It killed Joanthan Larson, and it was COMPLETELY DETECTABLE!" Jonathan Larson* wrote Rent.
At this point, I should mention that my date and I had just been to our favourite little restaurant downtown called Tea and Sympathy. Wine was consumed.
"Well," I said, thinking it to be in a subtle whisper, "if it killed off Larsen, how bad can it be?"
It was not a whisper.
The entire auditorium -- 300 or 400 people -- went deadly silent. I knew I was going to die. My date had mysteriously disappeared. The tension increased and I came to know how riots started.
Then, without warning, the film began, sans previews. The audience, too busy anticipating the imminent cowboy sex, forgot me. And I made it though one more day.
Sitting there in the cinema for the first night's showing of Brokeback Mountian, we /all/ knew it was coming. As sure as Summer follows Spring and day follows night, it would arrive. And we were right. Not long after, you could rent Bareback Mountain. Or Bareback Mountain.
We needn't go into detail. The Wikipedia article is dandy because it treats something so awful with such sincerity. Glitter For Brains did a delightful comparison of the first porno with the actual film here. (You may have to scroll down a bit, but it's worth it).
What none of us expected was that these wouldn't be enough: now, you can watch Bi-Back Mountain! I have no idea what to say to that one.
Having sat through that, here's something almost worth a giggle:
This one guy insisted on seeing Brokeback the night it came out, so we humped down to the Village (where else?) for an evening show. The cinema was packed with not just every homo in the city, but his boyfriend and best girl friend as well. We all crammed in early to get good seats and watched the commercials that flashed on the screen before the previews.
"Beware of Brain Disease!" cried the screen in its best 1950s/Red Scare voice. "It killed Joanthan Larson, and it was COMPLETELY DETECTABLE!" Jonathan Larson* wrote Rent.
At this point, I should mention that my date and I had just been to our favourite little restaurant downtown called Tea and Sympathy. Wine was consumed.
"Well," I said, thinking it to be in a subtle whisper, "if it killed off Larsen, how bad can it be?"
It was not a whisper.
The entire auditorium -- 300 or 400 people -- went deadly silent. I knew I was going to die. My date had mysteriously disappeared. The tension increased and I came to know how riots started.
Then, without warning, the film began, sans previews. The audience, too busy anticipating the imminent cowboy sex, forgot me. And I made it though one more day.
Friday, July 07, 2006
For them such as are interested...
I've done up a rather nice Flikr site. Not only does it have a wider selection of pictures from Henry V, but also has all the pictures worth looking at from my vacation in Vermont, as promised. There are even a few other random pictures culled from the computer hard drive. They're all
here.
In case you're curious, the random photos are: where I work (the Time Warner building in mid-town Manhattan), my place (in the sun), across the street (in a big snow), the Bronx Zoo tigers and Sebastian, the Hound of Rock.
I've had the past two days in a row off, which is virtually unheard of. How have I spent it? Creating he above-mentioned Flikr site, trying unsuccessfully to turn a nice little paper on William Davenant's life into a better Wikipedia article, and a nerdy run downtown to the Strand, Forbidden Planet, the Virgin Megastore and Jim Hanley's Universe. This netted me a New Mermaids copy of Kyd's Spanish Tragedy from the Strand and The Resurrection Casket and this month's copy of Doctor Who Magazine from Jim Hanley's Universe. You see where my priorities lie.
The last two were in lieu of the hardback version of Target's novelization of Inferno that was on sale for $20 and worth about twice as much: Que sera, sera. I had seen it a week ago, but decided I'd only dish out that much cast if it were there today, when it would become clear I was destined for it. As I'm not, I'll revel in the fact I own pristine copies of The Dying Days, Lungbarrow and Cold Fusion. Don't worry: if none of the past paragraph is intelligible to you, it merely means you have a life and can't be arsed with the minutiae of Doctor Who fandom. Good on you.
Nevetheless, the seasan finale of the new Doctor Who is tomorrow night, when Rose Tyler is to die, in and amongst the fan-wanking spree of combined Cybermen/Dalek alliance. I can't lie: it's got me harder than Ayor's Team Training,* if only for knowing that Russell T Davies has had then same idea as me floating around in his head since 1985 or so.
In other news, when some guy and I went to go see the film Superman Returns (or, Can Someone Named B. J. Routh Be Anything Other Than Corn-Fed Iowa Porn-Star Goodness?), there was a trailor (trailer? I'm never sure about such things) for a film called Flyboys.
I was lucky enough last year to take a Theatre and War class with Erika Munk, a writer for the Village Voice, a professor and Yale and editor of Theater whose done (and edited) really top-notch work on war and its representation. It was Awful, and it's worth noting that positive representations of it are rare as hen's teeth -- with reason. I was disturbed to see the preview for the film (to be fair, perhaps not the entire film) to be gung-ho for the War. There is nothing in World War One to be romanticized or celebrated. I can't help feeling this film desecrates the deaths of the millions of soldiers who died.
If you disagree, nose around this site, which contains music, film footage and diary material from the war. It's compelling, and fascinating and horrifying. I love the music and audio selections, but even they can be dismaying -- look at this , or this , this. It certainly counters the charms of K-K-K-Katy or Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty or Keep the Home Fires Burning.
In other news, I finished reading Coriolanus today. More of that later.
*Oh honestly, with that name, if you expected this to be a link to anything other than gay porn, you need more help than I can give. Besides, it's /really/ good porn.
I've done up a rather nice Flikr site. Not only does it have a wider selection of pictures from Henry V, but also has all the pictures worth looking at from my vacation in Vermont, as promised. There are even a few other random pictures culled from the computer hard drive. They're all
here.
In case you're curious, the random photos are: where I work (the Time Warner building in mid-town Manhattan), my place (in the sun), across the street (in a big snow), the Bronx Zoo tigers and Sebastian, the Hound of Rock.
I've had the past two days in a row off, which is virtually unheard of. How have I spent it? Creating he above-mentioned Flikr site, trying unsuccessfully to turn a nice little paper on William Davenant's life into a better Wikipedia article, and a nerdy run downtown to the Strand, Forbidden Planet, the Virgin Megastore and Jim Hanley's Universe. This netted me a New Mermaids copy of Kyd's Spanish Tragedy from the Strand and The Resurrection Casket and this month's copy of Doctor Who Magazine from Jim Hanley's Universe. You see where my priorities lie.
The last two were in lieu of the hardback version of Target's novelization of Inferno that was on sale for $20 and worth about twice as much: Que sera, sera. I had seen it a week ago, but decided I'd only dish out that much cast if it were there today, when it would become clear I was destined for it. As I'm not, I'll revel in the fact I own pristine copies of The Dying Days, Lungbarrow and Cold Fusion. Don't worry: if none of the past paragraph is intelligible to you, it merely means you have a life and can't be arsed with the minutiae of Doctor Who fandom. Good on you.
Nevetheless, the seasan finale of the new Doctor Who is tomorrow night, when Rose Tyler is to die, in and amongst the fan-wanking spree of combined Cybermen/Dalek alliance. I can't lie: it's got me harder than Ayor's Team Training,* if only for knowing that Russell T Davies has had then same idea as me floating around in his head since 1985 or so.
In other news, when some guy and I went to go see the film Superman Returns (or, Can Someone Named B. J. Routh Be Anything Other Than Corn-Fed Iowa Porn-Star Goodness?), there was a trailor (trailer? I'm never sure about such things) for a film called Flyboys.
I was lucky enough last year to take a Theatre and War class with Erika Munk, a writer for the Village Voice, a professor and Yale and editor of Theater whose done (and edited) really top-notch work on war and its representation. It was Awful, and it's worth noting that positive representations of it are rare as hen's teeth -- with reason. I was disturbed to see the preview for the film (to be fair, perhaps not the entire film) to be gung-ho for the War. There is nothing in World War One to be romanticized or celebrated. I can't help feeling this film desecrates the deaths of the millions of soldiers who died.
If you disagree, nose around this site, which contains music, film footage and diary material from the war. It's compelling, and fascinating and horrifying. I love the music and audio selections, but even they can be dismaying -- look at this , or this , this. It certainly counters the charms of K-K-K-Katy or Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty or Keep the Home Fires Burning.
In other news, I finished reading Coriolanus today. More of that later.
*Oh honestly, with that name, if you expected this to be a link to anything other than gay porn, you need more help than I can give. Besides, it's /really/ good porn.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Meanwhile...
Wondering what I've been up to since my last post?
1) I directed a production of Henry V. Here are pictures.
In the interest of fair representation, I need to note the set and lights were designed by Eric Ketchum, costumes by E. A. Burlingame and staging by me. The cast list is here. Questions about cat listing can be posted to me.
Number two? A vacation in Vermont and Montreal. I'll post pictures from that tomorrow.
Wondering what I've been up to since my last post?
1) I directed a production of Henry V. Here are pictures.
In the interest of fair representation, I need to note the set and lights were designed by Eric Ketchum, costumes by E. A. Burlingame and staging by me. The cast list is here. Questions about cat listing can be posted to me.
Number two? A vacation in Vermont and Montreal. I'll post pictures from that tomorrow.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
K-9 and Co...
Dear Blog:
I thought the worst part of tonight's Doctor Who episode ("School Reunion") was when I had /genuinely/ inappropriate thoughts about David Tennant as the Doctor, with his glasses and assumed role as a teacher. So Hot.
Turns out, I managed to wake up some guy with my generally inappropriate giggling when K-9 appeared, and then proceeded to bawl like a baby when... later events in the episode transpired. But still, it makes me generally doubt our relationship when Sarah Jane Smith returns in a series of Doctor Who and he says "Uhh, yep" instead of dancing a happy dance.
I will end this post saying it was my favourite episode of Doctor Who ever, including "The Pyramids of Mars" (mentioned in tonight's story) and "Genesis of the Daleks" (also mentioned).
Dear Blog:
I thought the worst part of tonight's Doctor Who episode ("School Reunion") was when I had /genuinely/ inappropriate thoughts about David Tennant as the Doctor, with his glasses and assumed role as a teacher. So Hot.
Turns out, I managed to wake up some guy with my generally inappropriate giggling when K-9 appeared, and then proceeded to bawl like a baby when... later events in the episode transpired. But still, it makes me generally doubt our relationship when Sarah Jane Smith returns in a series of Doctor Who and he says "Uhh, yep" instead of dancing a happy dance.
I will end this post saying it was my favourite episode of Doctor Who ever, including "The Pyramids of Mars" (mentioned in tonight's story) and "Genesis of the Daleks" (also mentioned).
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Stop the Dog's Addiction!
So on Saturdays, I work late. I don't get home till close to (or after) midnight. This guy always makes a tasty meal of sausages and peppers I can look forward to, as well as downloading new episodes of Doctor Who.
Within a few minutes of me getting home tonight, we found the dog munching on some verboten substance. I was afraid of prying open the dog's jaws to discover the culprit, as the dog has maimed me before. That guy -- who's suffering from a pulled muscle in his chest -- couldn't.
Soon after, Sebastian gave up his chewing. He'd gotten ahold of a coffee bean out of my jeans cuff and couldn't handle it.
We await the puke.
So on Saturdays, I work late. I don't get home till close to (or after) midnight. This guy always makes a tasty meal of sausages and peppers I can look forward to, as well as downloading new episodes of Doctor Who.
Within a few minutes of me getting home tonight, we found the dog munching on some verboten substance. I was afraid of prying open the dog's jaws to discover the culprit, as the dog has maimed me before. That guy -- who's suffering from a pulled muscle in his chest -- couldn't.
Soon after, Sebastian gave up his chewing. He'd gotten ahold of a coffee bean out of my jeans cuff and couldn't handle it.
We await the puke.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Quick! Breathe fast!
It's my Spring Break right now, which means I'm getting a quick breather from classes, rehearsal, teaching and work. Well, all but work, anyway.
Henry V is going reasonably well. It's had about as much superfluous drama as you might expect (college theatre is only one step away from high school theatre, after all) but there are quite a few quite nice moments to be had and some of the actors -- the actual, real world, professional actors we have in to fill the ranks -- are a joy to work with. It's the thought of work with people like them again that makes it worth going through, really, although there is some joy to be had watching young actors discovering their own thing. Even if it is a bit malicious, nine times out of ten they discover things like that when they do what I suggest...
Because of the undergraduate desire to skip out on rehearsal, we're about a week off from my ideal. If there were no Spring Break, we'd be absolutely on target, but as it is we'll be missing about a week of time we need. It's funny: despite the fact I'm a trained and (somewhat) experienced director, my producer won't believe me when I say we're behind. Granted, we may just be ready for opening night, but part of directing is a) working with gut feeling and b) being able to realistically judge what's going on with your production. Both of these tell me we won't be where we should be for opening night. We have a week of rehearsals left, but these are all dress/tech rehearsals where the actors get use to costumes/lights/sets/props -- not so much a chance for them to work their acting skills. My job should be done by now; it isn't.
Still and all, I can't completely blame myself for what hasn't been done, and feel like I've given a decent shake with what I have done. And as all people in the theatre know -- and as Philip Henslowe said in the lovely film Shakespeare in Love -- "the magic of the theatre" will prevail. I hope.
Other than the play -- and it's a bit hard to get past that for me right now -- life is pretty good. I read a lot, or as much as I can. I've been going through a bit of a Sarah Vowell phase. I've read her first two collections, Take the Cannoli and The Partly Cloudy Patriot. I'd be reading her last one, Assasination Vacation, had some guy not loaned it out to some errant associate at his job weeks ago.
If she weren't a girl, I'd probably be madly in love with her. Her take on life is vaguely similar to mine (we have vaguely similar histories) but she has what I think is a very unique and modern voice. I'd be happy for people to say -- and they have -- that she speaks for my generation. Interestingly, the title of her fist books takes the same root as a Gilmore Girls gag.
I plan to spend the next week away from school and reading. Since my last post, I've finished reading all the books mentioned and am now on to:
Good King Henry: another life of Henry V -- emotionally well rendered and very engaging, but lapses into the old mistake of using 'thee's and 'thou's to prove its characters are from a few centuries ago.
The Empire of Glass: a Doctor Who story featuring Shakespeare, Marlowe, Galileo and the Doctor's... vaguely defined relative. Fairly fun, til you realize the plot hinges on a poorly-researched Roanoke colony plot line. Especially galling when you've spent as much time on Roanoke Island as I have... the number of colonists is wrong, it suggests that Marlowe -- Kit Marlowe -- went there with them, and worst of all, that there are cliffs on the Island!
Right, pedantry all and not worth counting, but it does have Marlowe falling for Stephen "Blue Peter" Taylor. As if.
The Messianic Legacy: what with all the excitement about the Da Vinci Code film, why not go back to its (legally determined) source? The sequel to the Holy Blood, Holy Grail book whose first 25 pages provide all the plot of Dan Brown's "book", this work tells you all the secrets the of Super Secret Sectet Society, The Priory of Sion. While parts of it are quite well researched, one of the authors /was/ a writer for Doctor Who. Go fig which bits are fake, but when the blood line of the aliens from Sirius gets metioned, have a care.
Rescripting Shakespeare: Written by a professor at Carolina with no practical theatrical background, this is a book about modern productions of Shakespeare that alter the text from the "standard" texts and the trade-offs directors incur. I'm only on page 12, but there seems to be a lot to be said about this from an actual, practical director.
The Crying of Lot 49: I've felt far too smart of late. I bought this book this week to cure that. I'm only on Chapter Two, but I do want to go 'round saying "I've got a penchant for Pynchon."
In the meantime, I'm playing this ridiculous and frustating game called Kingdom Hearts, the bastard offspring of Walt Disney and Final Fantasy... Any help?
And remember, Series Two of Doctor Who begins tomorrow night with "The New World". Whoot!
It's my Spring Break right now, which means I'm getting a quick breather from classes, rehearsal, teaching and work. Well, all but work, anyway.
Henry V is going reasonably well. It's had about as much superfluous drama as you might expect (college theatre is only one step away from high school theatre, after all) but there are quite a few quite nice moments to be had and some of the actors -- the actual, real world, professional actors we have in to fill the ranks -- are a joy to work with. It's the thought of work with people like them again that makes it worth going through, really, although there is some joy to be had watching young actors discovering their own thing. Even if it is a bit malicious, nine times out of ten they discover things like that when they do what I suggest...
Because of the undergraduate desire to skip out on rehearsal, we're about a week off from my ideal. If there were no Spring Break, we'd be absolutely on target, but as it is we'll be missing about a week of time we need. It's funny: despite the fact I'm a trained and (somewhat) experienced director, my producer won't believe me when I say we're behind. Granted, we may just be ready for opening night, but part of directing is a) working with gut feeling and b) being able to realistically judge what's going on with your production. Both of these tell me we won't be where we should be for opening night. We have a week of rehearsals left, but these are all dress/tech rehearsals where the actors get use to costumes/lights/sets/props -- not so much a chance for them to work their acting skills. My job should be done by now; it isn't.
Still and all, I can't completely blame myself for what hasn't been done, and feel like I've given a decent shake with what I have done. And as all people in the theatre know -- and as Philip Henslowe said in the lovely film Shakespeare in Love -- "the magic of the theatre" will prevail. I hope.
Other than the play -- and it's a bit hard to get past that for me right now -- life is pretty good. I read a lot, or as much as I can. I've been going through a bit of a Sarah Vowell phase. I've read her first two collections, Take the Cannoli and The Partly Cloudy Patriot. I'd be reading her last one, Assasination Vacation, had some guy not loaned it out to some errant associate at his job weeks ago.
If she weren't a girl, I'd probably be madly in love with her. Her take on life is vaguely similar to mine (we have vaguely similar histories) but she has what I think is a very unique and modern voice. I'd be happy for people to say -- and they have -- that she speaks for my generation. Interestingly, the title of her fist books takes the same root as a Gilmore Girls gag.
I plan to spend the next week away from school and reading. Since my last post, I've finished reading all the books mentioned and am now on to:
Good King Henry: another life of Henry V -- emotionally well rendered and very engaging, but lapses into the old mistake of using 'thee's and 'thou's to prove its characters are from a few centuries ago.
The Empire of Glass: a Doctor Who story featuring Shakespeare, Marlowe, Galileo and the Doctor's... vaguely defined relative. Fairly fun, til you realize the plot hinges on a poorly-researched Roanoke colony plot line. Especially galling when you've spent as much time on Roanoke Island as I have... the number of colonists is wrong, it suggests that Marlowe -- Kit Marlowe -- went there with them, and worst of all, that there are cliffs on the Island!
Right, pedantry all and not worth counting, but it does have Marlowe falling for Stephen "Blue Peter" Taylor. As if.
The Messianic Legacy: what with all the excitement about the Da Vinci Code film, why not go back to its (legally determined) source? The sequel to the Holy Blood, Holy Grail book whose first 25 pages provide all the plot of Dan Brown's "book", this work tells you all the secrets the of Super Secret Sectet Society, The Priory of Sion. While parts of it are quite well researched, one of the authors /was/ a writer for Doctor Who. Go fig which bits are fake, but when the blood line of the aliens from Sirius gets metioned, have a care.
Rescripting Shakespeare: Written by a professor at Carolina with no practical theatrical background, this is a book about modern productions of Shakespeare that alter the text from the "standard" texts and the trade-offs directors incur. I'm only on page 12, but there seems to be a lot to be said about this from an actual, practical director.
The Crying of Lot 49: I've felt far too smart of late. I bought this book this week to cure that. I'm only on Chapter Two, but I do want to go 'round saying "I've got a penchant for Pynchon."
In the meantime, I'm playing this ridiculous and frustating game called Kingdom Hearts, the bastard offspring of Walt Disney and Final Fantasy... Any help?
And remember, Series Two of Doctor Who begins tomorrow night with "The New World". Whoot!
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Oh yeah. That was me. In a previous life.
Life is busy now, and stressful. I often think I can measure my stress complications with how many books I'm reading. Currently, it's:
Seneca's Oedipus (for class)
George R Stewart's Earth Abides (out of curiousity)
Sarah Vowell's The Partly Cloudy Patriot (cause it's class)
George C Wolfe's The Colored Museum (for the class I teach)
and for Henry V:
1 Henry VI
The Merry Wives of Windsor (for the third time)
and Baldasare Castiglione's The Book of the Courtier
This is more than enough. In addition to this, I'm managing a small fracas about a loose blade in rehearsal, someone stealing my props, and an eighty-year old quitting my show (just how mad can you get at an octogenarian and not do damage to it?).
And on top of that, my dog appears to have a seizure disorder AND the Sci-Fi network can't even edit Doctor Who for shit:
Rose: Why do they keep tryin' to kill me?
The Doctor: Dunno -- we skipped the bit where the Autons try more than once!
I got sufficiently pissed to quit watching Rose... here's hoping they do better with The End of the World...
However...
In looking up something completely different on teh Internets, I found
this article from The Friends of the Heroes.
It's my interview of Richard, the drummer from Belle and Sebastian. I hadn't looked at it in years, but it's well-informed, smart, and fun to read. Sadly, I think it's the previous release of me, back when I had some cool points.
I don't feel like that now. Nice to know I was there, for a bit.
Life is busy now, and stressful. I often think I can measure my stress complications with how many books I'm reading. Currently, it's:
Seneca's Oedipus (for class)
George R Stewart's Earth Abides (out of curiousity)
Sarah Vowell's The Partly Cloudy Patriot (cause it's class)
George C Wolfe's The Colored Museum (for the class I teach)
and for Henry V:
1 Henry VI
The Merry Wives of Windsor (for the third time)
and Baldasare Castiglione's The Book of the Courtier
This is more than enough. In addition to this, I'm managing a small fracas about a loose blade in rehearsal, someone stealing my props, and an eighty-year old quitting my show (just how mad can you get at an octogenarian and not do damage to it?).
And on top of that, my dog appears to have a seizure disorder AND the Sci-Fi network can't even edit Doctor Who for shit:
Rose: Why do they keep tryin' to kill me?
The Doctor: Dunno -- we skipped the bit where the Autons try more than once!
I got sufficiently pissed to quit watching Rose... here's hoping they do better with The End of the World...
However...
In looking up something completely different on teh Internets, I found
this article from The Friends of the Heroes.
It's my interview of Richard, the drummer from Belle and Sebastian. I hadn't looked at it in years, but it's well-informed, smart, and fun to read. Sadly, I think it's the previous release of me, back when I had some cool points.
I don't feel like that now. Nice to know I was there, for a bit.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
"Dame Judi put out my eye in a bar-fight!"
So, my biggest concern right now is directing a production of Henry V at La Chasseur college. Somehow (black magic, I think) the Theatre Dept there picked it up as one of their main stage shows for this semester. Which puts me at the head of a show with a budget of -- well, I oughtn't to reveal the exact budget, but it's along the lines of a reasonably-priced economy car.
We did a workshop version of it last Decemeber in a rehearsal space (imagine the theatrical version of the rough draft of an English paper). I'm very excited, really. We've got some really wonderful actors and many more students who are willing to work hard, but it's all a bit... exacting?
We've had a number of actors drop out (read "Run screaming for the hills..."), but I can just maintain the belief that they're lazy bastards unfit for doing the work of the Bard. The rest I have a lot of faith in* and have seen them do some fine work.
Right now, we're in a bit of a dire strait finding enough actors to tote the load... The cast hovers at 26 or so, but I feel like I need another five or six to be comfortable. I feel a great deal of pride in my support staff: I couldn't imagine a more capable or supportive producer; my assitant director may just prove better than me; my PSM is a freshman with better skills than I've seen in many professional stage managers. My lead actors, too, are three shades of faboo: Henry is incredibly smart and so dedicated; one of the three leads is a beautiful girl from the Bahamas who will floor eveyone when she realises what she can do; the rest of the cast is equally exciting...
I need to sit down with my Canadian friend with the knack for 20th Cent drama to straighten out the funky ideas in my mind that may well be aired here.
Scotland's For Me!
In other news, Friday was the Belle and Sebastian concert! It wasn keen because it was a Belle and Sebastian concert featuring their new album The Life Pursuit. (I almost typed in DCW...). It was not keen because it was the first concert in years I didn't see with Laura Llew. I'm just getting over the bruises she put in my arms when they played "Slow Graffiti" in Durham and it'll be some time before I won't look for Indiana Marple at a B&S show.
Although to be fair, I did almost start a fist fight and was accused of feeling up a drunk straight girl. No easy feat, considering my hands were in my pockets...
As regards TLP, "Suki in the Graveyard" may be their best song in ages!
Now please forgive me, I've got to catch up on the poorly-planned Intro to Theatre class I TA for...
So, my biggest concern right now is directing a production of Henry V at La Chasseur college. Somehow (black magic, I think) the Theatre Dept there picked it up as one of their main stage shows for this semester. Which puts me at the head of a show with a budget of -- well, I oughtn't to reveal the exact budget, but it's along the lines of a reasonably-priced economy car.
We did a workshop version of it last Decemeber in a rehearsal space (imagine the theatrical version of the rough draft of an English paper). I'm very excited, really. We've got some really wonderful actors and many more students who are willing to work hard, but it's all a bit... exacting?
We've had a number of actors drop out (read "Run screaming for the hills..."), but I can just maintain the belief that they're lazy bastards unfit for doing the work of the Bard. The rest I have a lot of faith in* and have seen them do some fine work.
Right now, we're in a bit of a dire strait finding enough actors to tote the load... The cast hovers at 26 or so, but I feel like I need another five or six to be comfortable. I feel a great deal of pride in my support staff: I couldn't imagine a more capable or supportive producer; my assitant director may just prove better than me; my PSM is a freshman with better skills than I've seen in many professional stage managers. My lead actors, too, are three shades of faboo: Henry is incredibly smart and so dedicated; one of the three leads is a beautiful girl from the Bahamas who will floor eveyone when she realises what she can do; the rest of the cast is equally exciting...
I need to sit down with my Canadian friend with the knack for 20th Cent drama to straighten out the funky ideas in my mind that may well be aired here.
Scotland's For Me!
In other news, Friday was the Belle and Sebastian concert! It wasn keen because it was a Belle and Sebastian concert featuring their new album The Life Pursuit. (I almost typed in DCW...). It was not keen because it was the first concert in years I didn't see with Laura Llew. I'm just getting over the bruises she put in my arms when they played "Slow Graffiti" in Durham and it'll be some time before I won't look for Indiana Marple at a B&S show.
Although to be fair, I did almost start a fist fight and was accused of feeling up a drunk straight girl. No easy feat, considering my hands were in my pockets...
As regards TLP, "Suki in the Graveyard" may be their best song in ages!
Now please forgive me, I've got to catch up on the poorly-planned Intro to Theatre class I TA for...
Monday, February 27, 2006
Blimey
So the past few days have been a bit fraught, and I haven't quite gotten around to watching the second half of The Quatermass Experiment. (I intend to do so shortly after finishing this...) In the meantime, though, I have discovered this:
David Tennant is just a bit more popular than I thought...
I can't say I'm quite surprised. What is it about him? Merely the fact he's the new Doctor Who? I don't think so -- if anything that would make me think twice about him. The last even remotely fanciable Doctor was Peter Davison in 1980 when I was only 2 or 3. And he was so blandly Tristan Farnon in space that no-one but a coked-out Sanda Dickinson ever gave him much of a thought. My working theory is that he's terribly /accessible/. In theory, anyway. If you went to a really good party, he wouldn't be the hottest guy there. But he would be the hottest one you could reasonably expect to go home with. Because you could think "I'm in there", he becomes much hotter than, say, an Eastern European porn star or a social-climbing film star cum rent boy (though who can split the difference?).
And well, the accent is pretty desirable. If a recent DWM is to be believed, the question "Am I wearing a wee beastie?" is one of the most oddly desireable lines in recent history.
So the past few days have been a bit fraught, and I haven't quite gotten around to watching the second half of The Quatermass Experiment. (I intend to do so shortly after finishing this...) In the meantime, though, I have discovered this:
David Tennant is just a bit more popular than I thought...
I can't say I'm quite surprised. What is it about him? Merely the fact he's the new Doctor Who? I don't think so -- if anything that would make me think twice about him. The last even remotely fanciable Doctor was Peter Davison in 1980 when I was only 2 or 3. And he was so blandly Tristan Farnon in space that no-one but a coked-out Sanda Dickinson ever gave him much of a thought. My working theory is that he's terribly /accessible/. In theory, anyway. If you went to a really good party, he wouldn't be the hottest guy there. But he would be the hottest one you could reasonably expect to go home with. Because you could think "I'm in there", he becomes much hotter than, say, an Eastern European porn star or a social-climbing film star cum rent boy (though who can split the difference?).
And well, the accent is pretty desirable. If a recent DWM is to be believed, the question "Am I wearing a wee beastie?" is one of the most oddly desireable lines in recent history.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Hello. I'm back.
I decided to start blogging again. I've had the idea running around in my head since about Christmas, but it's only tonight that I got up the gumption to do it. So here I am.
I got lost today. Surprisingly, it was the first time in months. I left work today (I work in the Time-Warer building on Columbus Circle) and decided to go down to the Drama Book Shop. I'd had a particularly rough day at work and decided that the Arden Shakespeare edition of King Henry VIII would make it better. The Drama Book Shop has a decent collection of the Arden editions, so off I went on the B train.
Now, I took the B train for two reasons. One, there's a stop at Columbus Circle. Two, I'd never actually taken the B train and assumed it stopped (along with the 1 train and the A and C trains, which also stop at Columbus Circle) at Time Square. It doesn't.
It does stop at Bryant Park. I figured I'd better get off the train after it past 7th Avenue and 47-50 St. Fortunately, one of the exits out of Bryant Park station is on 40th Street, or god only knows where I'd be now. After walking two blocks in the wrong direction -- I /know/ the whole grid system by now, but being dyslexic, my idea of left/right/east/west can be a bit dodgy -- I turned around and finally found the shop and purchased my bardolic (ain't that a great word?) joy.
Luckily, I knew my N line a bit better and was off home.
I'm off to finish watching the BBC's new Quatermass Experiment, which I downloaded last night. Accordingly, I imagine I'll have something interesting to say about David Tennat tomorrow night. Man, blogger has changed a lot since I last used it.
Till then -- Obey the Basset!
I decided to start blogging again. I've had the idea running around in my head since about Christmas, but it's only tonight that I got up the gumption to do it. So here I am.
I got lost today. Surprisingly, it was the first time in months. I left work today (I work in the Time-Warer building on Columbus Circle) and decided to go down to the Drama Book Shop. I'd had a particularly rough day at work and decided that the Arden Shakespeare edition of King Henry VIII would make it better. The Drama Book Shop has a decent collection of the Arden editions, so off I went on the B train.
Now, I took the B train for two reasons. One, there's a stop at Columbus Circle. Two, I'd never actually taken the B train and assumed it stopped (along with the 1 train and the A and C trains, which also stop at Columbus Circle) at Time Square. It doesn't.
It does stop at Bryant Park. I figured I'd better get off the train after it past 7th Avenue and 47-50 St. Fortunately, one of the exits out of Bryant Park station is on 40th Street, or god only knows where I'd be now. After walking two blocks in the wrong direction -- I /know/ the whole grid system by now, but being dyslexic, my idea of left/right/east/west can be a bit dodgy -- I turned around and finally found the shop and purchased my bardolic (ain't that a great word?) joy.
Luckily, I knew my N line a bit better and was off home.
I'm off to finish watching the BBC's new Quatermass Experiment, which I downloaded last night. Accordingly, I imagine I'll have something interesting to say about David Tennat tomorrow night. Man, blogger has changed a lot since I last used it.
Till then -- Obey the Basset!
Monday, August 08, 2005
The Ears Call to the Ears...
It turns out our Bess loves our Chris more than the rolling hills o' Scotland.
It turns out our Bess loves our Chris more than the rolling hills o' Scotland.
I am Switzerland. Without the Banks.
What Places In The World Match Your Personality?
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I am scared by the fact that Spartanburg, SC matches my personality type. I've been there. There aren't many there like me.
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| Your personality type is SLOEI |
| You are social, moderately moody, moderately organized, egocentric, and intellectual, and may prefer a city which matches those traits. |
| The largest representation of your personality type can be found in the these U.S. cities: Washington DC, Greenville/Spartanburg, Boston Area, Nashville, Indianapolis, Miami/Ft. Lauderdale, Pittsburgh, Tampa/St. Petersburg, Memphis, W. Palm Beach and these international countries/regions Ukraine, Middle East, Israel, Slovenia, Croatia, Switzerland, Romania, Belgium, Denmark, Hungary, South Africa, Poland, South Korea, Guam, Hong Kong |
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I am scared by the fact that Spartanburg, SC matches my personality type. I've been there. There aren't many there like me.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Now Here's an Uncommon Thought...
Wow, that guy at Forbidden Planet was /really/ cute.
(It's true, he was.)
My old boyfriend is away this weekend, give rise to all manner of licentious thoughts. Since money is way tight right now, I'll be spending the weekend at home, watching DVDs. I'll be watching Harold and Maude and Odd Man Out (an old British film that's mentioned in Pinter's Old Times and features William Hartnell) and catching up on Monarch of the Glen series three and season three of Gilmore Girls.
Speaking of the WB Series, after watching all of season two, I am convinced that Dean started to take steroids (to improve his softball game, natch) at the end of season one. Nothing else easily explains his slip from relatively acceptibilty into Neaderthal-like stupidity and anger. Most of his season two dialogue can be condensed down to grunts and points.
It's no wonder Rory fell for Jess. Let's face it, between Jess and Logan, the girl has a good eye for cock.
Wow, that guy at Forbidden Planet was /really/ cute.
(It's true, he was.)
My old boyfriend is away this weekend, give rise to all manner of licentious thoughts. Since money is way tight right now, I'll be spending the weekend at home, watching DVDs. I'll be watching Harold and Maude and Odd Man Out (an old British film that's mentioned in Pinter's Old Times and features William Hartnell) and catching up on Monarch of the Glen series three and season three of Gilmore Girls.
Speaking of the WB Series, after watching all of season two, I am convinced that Dean started to take steroids (to improve his softball game, natch) at the end of season one. Nothing else easily explains his slip from relatively acceptibilty into Neaderthal-like stupidity and anger. Most of his season two dialogue can be condensed down to grunts and points.
It's no wonder Rory fell for Jess. Let's face it, between Jess and Logan, the girl has a good eye for cock.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Jaylemurph Goes to the Movies
Now, in a complete rip-off of the Glitter for Brains site, our triumphant return in a review of Batman Returns.
We begin in the lovely (and quite distinctive) Wollaton Hall, Nottingham. For Reasons That Remain Unexplained, this paragon of Elizabethan architecture is now Wayne Manor. Around the grounds, a young Master Bruce Wayne and a servant girl frolic about. While hiding from her, young Bruce falls through the rotten planks his doting, fabulously wealthy parents have used (For Reasons That Remain Unexplained) to cover an old well.
Cue the Bats.
The young master Bruce is Deeply Emotionally Scarred by them.
For Reasons That Remain Unclear, we cut several years forward to a prison camp in Tibet. For further Reasons That Remain Unlcear, several large Asians commence to be beating an Anglo. We assume this to be an older version of young master Bruce.
For even more Reasons That Remain Unclear, ymB is put into solitary confinement. For still further RTRU, Gary Oldman appears from behind a door.
Gary Oldman: *foams at the mouth a bit. EVIL BAD! ME STOP EVIL! YOU STOP EVIL NOW! BRING FLOWER TO MOUNTIAN TOP!
Bruce Wayne: Uh, okay.
For yet more RTRU, Bruce is released into the wilds. He picks a flower and begins the Arduous Trek up the Himalaya. At the top, he finds a monastery. Gary begins a long stretch of turning Bruce into a Ninja/idea/crime fighter. Unfortunately, rather than using a Rocky-style montage, it is drawn out over 20 minutes or so and features some blather attempting to be Eastern philosophy as might be found in Sports Illustrated.
For more RTRU, we cut back to the life of young Bruce. We meet his kind and loving father, who patches him up. Then we meet his dainty mother and we're off to a night at the opera.
Rather foolishly, Papa picks Der Fleidermaus.
Young Master Bruce flips out.
For (you guessed it) RTRU, rather than leaving through the main entrance, they go through a side door into a dark alley where they meet an Evil Criminal. Exit Mama and Papa through the bullet holes.
More blather about THE LEAGUE OF SHADOWS that purges evil from society.
Cut to The Evil Criminal's trial. It turns out he gets shot before Princeton student Bruce gets the chance to do so himself. He feels Angry and Cheated.
He is told he will never be really sad or angry til he is poor. He renounces his wealth and becomes a petty thief. For RTRU, he winds up in China and is caught and sent to a prison camp in Tibet.
The rest of the film is somewhat of a blur. Bruce leaves Tibet, claims his inheritance and decides to Fight Crime in New Y-- Gotham City (a mere stone's throw from his Nottingham estate). Fortunately, Wayne Enterprises hoardes ill-concieved Super Hero equipment. He helps himself.
There's something about a mob-boss and a Super-Kettle and Bad-trips, but by this point, all I noticed was Cillian Murphy, who plays an Evil Hott Doctor. So hott in fact, that he remained hott after belching forth maggots and bats. As far as I could tell, he was the focus of the film. Anything that was not him was not worth watching.
The rest of the movie featured Christian Bale moping about and speaking raspily. For the record, Batman deafeats the bad guys and makes solid plans to continue Fighting Crime with his pal, Lt. (later, presumably, Commissioner) Gordon.
The End.
Now, in a complete rip-off of the Glitter for Brains site, our triumphant return in a review of Batman Returns.
We begin in the lovely (and quite distinctive) Wollaton Hall, Nottingham. For Reasons That Remain Unexplained, this paragon of Elizabethan architecture is now Wayne Manor. Around the grounds, a young Master Bruce Wayne and a servant girl frolic about. While hiding from her, young Bruce falls through the rotten planks his doting, fabulously wealthy parents have used (For Reasons That Remain Unexplained) to cover an old well.
Cue the Bats.
The young master Bruce is Deeply Emotionally Scarred by them.
For Reasons That Remain Unclear, we cut several years forward to a prison camp in Tibet. For further Reasons That Remain Unlcear, several large Asians commence to be beating an Anglo. We assume this to be an older version of young master Bruce.
For even more Reasons That Remain Unclear, ymB is put into solitary confinement. For still further RTRU, Gary Oldman appears from behind a door.
Gary Oldman: *foams at the mouth a bit. EVIL BAD! ME STOP EVIL! YOU STOP EVIL NOW! BRING FLOWER TO MOUNTIAN TOP!
Bruce Wayne: Uh, okay.
For yet more RTRU, Bruce is released into the wilds. He picks a flower and begins the Arduous Trek up the Himalaya. At the top, he finds a monastery. Gary begins a long stretch of turning Bruce into a Ninja/idea/crime fighter. Unfortunately, rather than using a Rocky-style montage, it is drawn out over 20 minutes or so and features some blather attempting to be Eastern philosophy as might be found in Sports Illustrated.
For more RTRU, we cut back to the life of young Bruce. We meet his kind and loving father, who patches him up. Then we meet his dainty mother and we're off to a night at the opera.
Rather foolishly, Papa picks Der Fleidermaus.
Young Master Bruce flips out.
For (you guessed it) RTRU, rather than leaving through the main entrance, they go through a side door into a dark alley where they meet an Evil Criminal. Exit Mama and Papa through the bullet holes.
More blather about THE LEAGUE OF SHADOWS that purges evil from society.
Cut to The Evil Criminal's trial. It turns out he gets shot before Princeton student Bruce gets the chance to do so himself. He feels Angry and Cheated.
He is told he will never be really sad or angry til he is poor. He renounces his wealth and becomes a petty thief. For RTRU, he winds up in China and is caught and sent to a prison camp in Tibet.
The rest of the film is somewhat of a blur. Bruce leaves Tibet, claims his inheritance and decides to Fight Crime in New Y-- Gotham City (a mere stone's throw from his Nottingham estate). Fortunately, Wayne Enterprises hoardes ill-concieved Super Hero equipment. He helps himself.
There's something about a mob-boss and a Super-Kettle and Bad-trips, but by this point, all I noticed was Cillian Murphy, who plays an Evil Hott Doctor. So hott in fact, that he remained hott after belching forth maggots and bats. As far as I could tell, he was the focus of the film. Anything that was not him was not worth watching.
The rest of the movie featured Christian Bale moping about and speaking raspily. For the record, Batman deafeats the bad guys and makes solid plans to continue Fighting Crime with his pal, Lt. (later, presumably, Commissioner) Gordon.
The End.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Girls With Glasses Are Sexy Young Lasses
Ah yes. Laura Llew is sexier than you, and not because of her stint as a lesbian porn star. It's her shirt. She has worn it and Rory Gilmore has followed.
I want one, now.
Ah yes. Laura Llew is sexier than you, and not because of her stint as a lesbian porn star. It's her shirt. She has worn it and Rory Gilmore has followed.
I want one, now.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
"I don't remember Bojangles holding Shirley Temple's brains in her skull while they were tapdancing!"
It is A Fact that Emily Gilmore is the best part of Gilmore Girls, and it rules when she gets drunk, but she has finally supplied me with a Life Motto: "When a woman gives birth to a crack-baby, you don't give her a puppy."
Also, just how big is Miss Patty going to get? I have a lingering mental image of Patty the Hutt, the muu-mmu'ed form with Lorelai in the Leia slave bikini on a chain and Sally Struthers as that little thing with the ears.
Would it have killed Amy Sherman-Palladino to unbutton or maybe take off Matt Czuchry's shirt in that make out scene? Or possibly, a few minutes of hard core gay porn after that "kissing a man" bit? I mean, Rory's an active girl. She could deal with another boy around.
Tomorrow is the first quiz for my classes. Time to realize that, hey, you /do/ have to do the homework.
And for your viewing amusement: The Meatrix, the most amusing film I've seen at work.
It is A Fact that Emily Gilmore is the best part of Gilmore Girls, and it rules when she gets drunk, but she has finally supplied me with a Life Motto: "When a woman gives birth to a crack-baby, you don't give her a puppy."
Also, just how big is Miss Patty going to get? I have a lingering mental image of Patty the Hutt, the muu-mmu'ed form with Lorelai in the Leia slave bikini on a chain and Sally Struthers as that little thing with the ears.
Would it have killed Amy Sherman-Palladino to unbutton or maybe take off Matt Czuchry's shirt in that make out scene? Or possibly, a few minutes of hard core gay porn after that "kissing a man" bit? I mean, Rory's an active girl. She could deal with another boy around.
Tomorrow is the first quiz for my classes. Time to realize that, hey, you /do/ have to do the homework.
And for your viewing amusement: The Meatrix, the most amusing film I've seen at work.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Best. Valentine. Ever.
Yes, I stole this from Miss Laura's site, but she'd never post this one.
On a related note, some bastard looked at this and said, "Oh yeah. I need to call Jake."
On a related related note, I found out that an undergrad in one of my (where I'm student, as opposed to teacher) has a wee crush on me.
Also, the dog has taken to rooting out my socks from the laundry and sniffing them. All the time.
Yes, I stole this from Miss Laura's site, but she'd never post this one.
On a related note, some bastard looked at this and said, "Oh yeah. I need to call Jake."
On a related related note, I found out that an undergrad in one of my (where I'm student, as opposed to teacher) has a wee crush on me.
Also, the dog has taken to rooting out my socks from the laundry and sniffing them. All the time.
Monday, January 24, 2005
The Years Go By...
Yes, we all saw those movies/pictures of Simon Rex that got him canned from MTV. And really, who wouldn't want to see them?
But he's on "I Love the 90s: Part Deux" looking pretty rough now, and there's no-one willing to pay to see that, however much the smack says so.
Man, he looks so bad I can't even find a picture. Can anyone else?
Yes, we all saw those movies/pictures of Simon Rex that got him canned from MTV. And really, who wouldn't want to see them?
But he's on "I Love the 90s: Part Deux" looking pretty rough now, and there's no-one willing to pay to see that, however much the smack says so.
Man, he looks so bad I can't even find a picture. Can anyone else?
Waste Your Time...
...with this ingenious device.
For the record, it has guessed Romana from Doctor Who, Lorelai from Gilmore Girls and Cpt. Peacock from Are You Being Served? but not gotten Brendan Small from Home Movies, Nathan from Queer as Folk or Archie from Monarch of the Glen.
Alas, alas Thursday when I will no longer have time for such shite.
...with this ingenious device.
For the record, it has guessed Romana from Doctor Who, Lorelai from Gilmore Girls and Cpt. Peacock from Are You Being Served? but not gotten Brendan Small from Home Movies, Nathan from Queer as Folk or Archie from Monarch of the Glen.
Alas, alas Thursday when I will no longer have time for such shite.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Confessions!
After so long, I have decided to inlcude some shocking confessions about me:
*I hate Rachel Ray. I know, it makes me a Bad Person, but her cute little self makes me want to hit people. This one guy, however, adores her and her show is often to be seen in our apartment, generally provoking mean comments from me like "Is that a highway on-ramp or was she trying to show off her thigh?"
Also, she tips like a bitch. "My dinner was $12.50, and with tax and tip, that comes to $12.75! Hee hee!"
*We have a hound. Just after Christmas, that guy got a basset hound and named him Sebastian. I call him many other things: pooch, hound, and after he tried to rip my face off the first day he was home, Savage Hound of the Wild!
For those who are interested, the scar is healing nicely.
*Tivo: I don't hate it all that much. I have sworn for some years now that Tivo is evil and would reprogram you brain, like an I-pod. Nevertheless, I got this for someone as a Christmas present. Since then, it has been... useful. Its ability to pick stuff on its own to record is still wonky... soccer shows in Mandarin, Who's the Boss and a Latvian talkshow.
*I /really/ like the Canadian TV show, Degrassi: The Next Generation. I used to watch it with irony, but now it is gone. I used to refer to the characters by type names: Fat Chick, Jewish Kid, Black Dude, etc. I now most of the kids first and last names, like Paige Myckelchuk. For the record, there are only two people on the show I want to sleep with.
*Last year for Christmas, I got Stephen Malkmus' autograph for Miss Laura Llew. He may, somehow, have gotten the idea she was dying of cancer. This is very, very not true. He kept reading things into what I was saying... Yikes.
*I have, with a heavy heart, decided I will not be able to accept sexual favors from my students. Yes, I will be a TA this semester for THEA 101. Office hours, grading exams, the lot. The first day of class is next Monday.
*Ever wonder where those model/actors in Bel Ami movies go? Turns out, once they get a little too old or a little too bitter, they become bus boys at the Veselka diner downtown.
*Decimalized currency, female prime ministers and the new Ice Age: all things accurately foretold by Dr Who. There's a foot of snow on the ground and I'm cold as fuck. Amusingly though, the snow is almost as deep as the dog is tall. He has to jump around through drifts to pee. Also, he likes to eat snow, but only on the run.
*Man, you cannot find somebody selling bootleg movies when you need one. I've been looking since before Christmas for one to send as a belated gift.
And who will feel some pity and send me a copy of that Arcade Fire album?
After so long, I have decided to inlcude some shocking confessions about me:
*I hate Rachel Ray. I know, it makes me a Bad Person, but her cute little self makes me want to hit people. This one guy, however, adores her and her show is often to be seen in our apartment, generally provoking mean comments from me like "Is that a highway on-ramp or was she trying to show off her thigh?"
Also, she tips like a bitch. "My dinner was $12.50, and with tax and tip, that comes to $12.75! Hee hee!"
*We have a hound. Just after Christmas, that guy got a basset hound and named him Sebastian. I call him many other things: pooch, hound, and after he tried to rip my face off the first day he was home, Savage Hound of the Wild!
For those who are interested, the scar is healing nicely.
*Tivo: I don't hate it all that much. I have sworn for some years now that Tivo is evil and would reprogram you brain, like an I-pod. Nevertheless, I got this for someone as a Christmas present. Since then, it has been... useful. Its ability to pick stuff on its own to record is still wonky... soccer shows in Mandarin, Who's the Boss and a Latvian talkshow.
*I /really/ like the Canadian TV show, Degrassi: The Next Generation. I used to watch it with irony, but now it is gone. I used to refer to the characters by type names: Fat Chick, Jewish Kid, Black Dude, etc. I now most of the kids first and last names, like Paige Myckelchuk. For the record, there are only two people on the show I want to sleep with.
*Last year for Christmas, I got Stephen Malkmus' autograph for Miss Laura Llew. He may, somehow, have gotten the idea she was dying of cancer. This is very, very not true. He kept reading things into what I was saying... Yikes.
*I have, with a heavy heart, decided I will not be able to accept sexual favors from my students. Yes, I will be a TA this semester for THEA 101. Office hours, grading exams, the lot. The first day of class is next Monday.
*Ever wonder where those model/actors in Bel Ami movies go? Turns out, once they get a little too old or a little too bitter, they become bus boys at the Veselka diner downtown.
*Decimalized currency, female prime ministers and the new Ice Age: all things accurately foretold by Dr Who. There's a foot of snow on the ground and I'm cold as fuck. Amusingly though, the snow is almost as deep as the dog is tall. He has to jump around through drifts to pee. Also, he likes to eat snow, but only on the run.
*Man, you cannot find somebody selling bootleg movies when you need one. I've been looking since before Christmas for one to send as a belated gift.
And who will feel some pity and send me a copy of that Arcade Fire album?
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
What Better Way to Come Back...
... than puberty style? Here, the BBC answers your questions with informative cartoons. Presumably this was to help re-acquiant older Doctor Who fans with their genitals after excessive exposure to the perly new assistant, Billie Piper.
... than puberty style? Here, the BBC answers your questions with informative cartoons. Presumably this was to help re-acquiant older Doctor Who fans with their genitals after excessive exposure to the perly new assistant, Billie Piper.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
As In What Jesus Doesn't Do
I have class Wednesday nights, so I don't watch ABC's Lost program. But some fucker does, and I sometimes see bits of it.
This week was apparently about Dominic MoinaHobbit's heroin addiction.
LIES!
He's too pudgy to be a smack addict. Have the writers of this show never seen Trainspotting/been to Williamsburg/hung around professional dancers?
I have class Wednesday nights, so I don't watch ABC's Lost program. But some fucker does, and I sometimes see bits of it.
This week was apparently about Dominic MoinaHobbit's heroin addiction.
LIES!
He's too pudgy to be a smack addict. Have the writers of this show never seen Trainspotting/been to Williamsburg/hung around professional dancers?
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