The Dead Hamlet

But back in the control console, the needle was twitching on the ham detector. It slowly swung down into the lower readings until it came to rest at "0". A warning light began to flash on and off, but there was no one left to notice...

Jaylemurph and basset hound Sebastian K. Poochles star in an all-new adventure in space and time this Saturday at 5.15 here on BBC-TV's new serial, "Poochles Poo".

We re-emerged in the console room a short time later. I was feeling much more prepared in a nice cardigan and some sensible shoes, and the Poochles had replaced his lost Astrakhan hat with a straw panama. Completely ignoring the safety monitors, we walked out the doors...

And I blinked. "Is it just me, Poochles, or has it gone all over-exposed?" I asked. "It is a bit bas-relief," he said. To make sure, we both gave our heads a good shake. That seemed to clear things up.

Looking around, we were in a kind of still, creepy wood. Poochles already had his nose to the ground, sniffing. "Look at the soil," he said, letting a palmful of it run through his paws. "It's all burned into ash and sand. The heat must have been indescribable!"

I realized there was a fairly stiff breeze blowing but none of the branches were moving. I touched one. "Hunh. It's like stone," I said "Very brittle stone." But Poochles was ignoring me. He'd found a little pink flower. "It's kept almost all its colour," he said.

I wasn't listening. I saw what could only be called A Thing. As I backed up, I ran into his flower. "Sir!" he said indignantly. But he soon saw The Thing and trotted over to it. "It's A Thing," he said, helpfully.

I waved my hand at it in the fiercest way I knew. It didn't move, so I assumed it was as dead as everything else around. "It's stone," I said. Poochles gave me a withering look. "No, I think it's metal. It's a metal ham." He was right -- it certainly looked like a ham. Poochles gave it an exploratory chomp. A little piece of his tooth sheared off. "Not juicy," he said.

"Oh my god, Poochles, are you okay?" I asked, concerned. "It's nothing, sir, nothing. I can only imagine it's held together by some magne...." he kept rattling on, but when I saw his was okay, I wandered away, bored. I went over to the edge of the jungle, about 6 and a half feet away.

"Look at that, Poochles! A city!" Sure enough, a few miles away from us, a city bloomed up from the foothills of a mountain range. It looked like nothing as much as a stacks and stacks of washing-up liquid bottles with some dry ice fog floating over it. When we looked again, it was clearly different: much more complex and defined.

Poochles frowned. "Too bad it's 9.56," he said. "All the lights go off in four minutes. We'll have to come back tomorrow. Let's go back to the BASSAT and rest."

On the way back, I saw another of the flowers Poochles had found. I stopped to pick it up as Poochles nosed ahead through the forest, but as I was picking the flower, I felt a hand discretely touch my shoulder and heard a plummy voice cough and say "Pardon me, sir, but..." Naturally, I panicked and ran screaming all the way back into the BASSAT.

The Poochles looked at me funny but didn't say anything.

As we walked through the Ship's double doors, Poochles remembered it had been days since I had eaten. "You probably need some foods. Besides, they've built some nifty sets for the next serial: let's go see them." We went through a pair of roundel-ed double doors at the back of the console room I was sure hadn't been there before. Behind them was what could only be called a big, clunky Space-Age machine.

"What would you like to eat, then?" Poochles asked. I thought about it briefly and said "A chopped barbeque sandwich would be nice, and some french fries." He looked at me dumbly. "An aspirin, then? I've got one hell of a headache all of a sudden." Without missing a beat, Poochles looked at me and said "Ham and Eggs it is then, sir." He turned a dial or two and cranked a lever. What looked like a aged Mars Bar was excreted. "Eat up, eat up!" he said. I took a nibble. It was the best-tasting tuna casserole I ever tasted. We finished nibbling our bars, only to leave the mess behind us as Poochles marched back into the console room.

"Well, you'll be wanting to get back to 1960s London, I imagine," he said, forgetting I didn't actually come from there. I didn't say anything, as he had a TV and VCR in the ship. I thought I might try to record an episode of TV or two, figuring the BBC would have wiped it by my time. Who wouldn't want a lost episode of Doomwatch, I thought?

As he spoke, though, a thick blanket of smoke filled the room.

"Do you think I didn't see you mess with that control?" I said. "You yanked it right out!" The Poochles ignored me, holding up the little component and squinting at it. "This fluid link is empty. We need to fill it up before we can take off again. We can only find the necessary Mercury in the city we saw!"

"If you wanted to go there, why not just say so? It seems a bit more interesting than pre-Swinging London," I said.

"Yes, we'll just have to risk it. We'll just have to risk it," he said as he operated the door controls and walked out.

A few hours later found us at the edge of the City. I was sweating profusely and he was panting to beat the band. "It's no good," he said. "I'll have to rest."

"I need to use the Little Time Traveler's Room," I said. "I'll be back here in 10 minutes." It was a lie, of course. I had to heave, big time. I opened one of the little electronic doors and went through into the city.

I wondered around the city for some time. I noticed the doors were quite small and rounded, not shaped for a human. After a while, I began to realized I was being guided. Doors were sealing off. Eventually I was bundled into a room that converted into a lift. I plummeted several stories. When the door opened, I went through, heavy with foreboding.

I knew I was being watched. I turned around. There, in front of me, coming towards me was... was...

I could only scream...

Next Week: The Surviving Things.

On another note...

Did anyone see tonight's episode of Jeopardy! ? It's Teen Tournament time there, which is always good for a wheeze. Last year, there was the so-pathetic-it-was-cute (or maybe vice versa) crush the adorable gay boy had the other, smug gay boy. Seriously, he did everything but write "Pleeeeeze let me blow you"* for a Final Jeopardy question. Which is funny, because this year in college, I'm sure he hasn't got any need to beg anybody for sex.

Well, this year's resident boi, Hunter Brown, promises to be just as amusing, but not quite as pitiable. He and the other contestant got pretty well trounced in the first round; he was in third place, so got to go first in Double Jeopardy. His category of choice? "Broadway". He pretty much ran through the category.

What really sold it was the look of mixed grim determination to fight mixed with the look of slightly-smug "Queer Powers: Activate" pride. He didn't win today's match -- rather impressively, he risked everything on the Final Jeopardy question, got it right, but lost by $2 -- but I'm sure he earned enough to make the Wild Card spot.

*I think when he lost one of the final matches, he even went through a shoe-staring, googly-eyed "I'm glad I lost to such a great player" speech. It was heart-rending it was so sad.

The Roses of Heliogabalus or, The Un-Valentine

Pretty isn't it? You can see the title above, it an 1888 canvas by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. Why mention it? I think it's the influence for Act II (of three maybe?) for the Edward project I'm doing.

I've been reading (an abridged, but still 1,000+ page edition of) Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It's one of a handful of books that I've ever read that lives up to its reputationL it's immensely well-informed but still highly readable. It's almost an obligation for anyone seriously interested in history -- and especially for those interested in writing about history -- to read.

But old Edward is a bit of a prude. Any non-standard sexual activity by a man (and hoo boy, do those Romani get up to it) gets labeled "effeminacy" and glossed over. Which is disappointing since that's part of while people read about the fall of Rome. Never fear, Suetonius is always glad to help out with a dirty secret or two and there are plenty of other fine Roman historians to fill the gaps.

And Elagabalus (for some reason often erroneously called Heliogabalus) was one of the interesting ones. Even reading Gibbon's version was enough for me to start sniffing around history to find out more. He came from a royal family of Rome (no point in going into detail here since these things get fuzzy for the Romans), and was at an early age a priest of the Syrian sun god Elagabalus. When he became emperor, he adopted the name as his title. And started the fun:

"When Hierocles, a charioteer in the arena, was thrown in front of the emperor's box, his blond hair spilling out from under his helmet, Elagabalus immediately had the youth escorted to the palace, where he was found to be even more captivating. Calling him "husband" and contriving to be caught in adulterous trysts, Elagabalus proudly displayed the black eyes he insisted on receiving. But there was to be a rival. Frequenting the wharves and public baths, agents sought out others who might please the emperor, especially those who were well-endowed. Another handsome athlete, Zoticus, was discovered who surpassed all others in the size of his membrum virile. Hastened to Rome, where he immediately was made court chamberlain, he greeted Elagabulus with the usual salutation "My Lord Emperor, Hail," only to be admonished, "Call me not Lord, for I am a Lady." That night, Elagabalus was to be disappointed, when Zoticus could not perform as expected. Hierocles, fearful that he would fall out of favor, had the cup bearers drug the wine and Zoticus, humiliated and deprived of his honors, was exiled from court."

This is from Cassio Dio, quoted on this excellent site.

The picture above is a rendering of this story from of his life:

"He [Elagabalus] loaded his parasites with violets and other flowers in a banqueting room with a reversable ceiling, in such a way that some of them expired when they could not crawl out to the surface."

Scriptores Historiae Augustae: Antoninus Heliogabalus (XXI.5)

Anyway, the link between the painting and Edward is this: the scene where the Edward-character and Gaveston-character first interact in a meaningful way after Gaveston's return from his (first) exile is in a scene set in a dance club, to the song "Michael". As the two dance* on the floor, everyone else's dances become equally sexy and roses, violets and other prettily-smelling flowers fall from the ceiling.While the other boys begin what is essentially an orgy (tho' their decorum be covered by petals), Edward and Gaveston leave to fuck alone.

Right now, I think the Gaveston-character will be called Michael -- for an obvious reason --and the Edward-character Daniel. I think that's enough for right now. Attentive readers can already see a few sticking points --"How old are these characters?" is one. The implied connection I've made between Elagabalus and one of the two characters (clearly Daniel as Edward) brings up the question of class -- which is a huge point in the original.

My next entry will detail the central metaphor I'm using for the work. I think once that has been laid out properly, I can return to the question I raised this time. I just wanted to start with this image, for its topicality, and because it's one of two relatively-thought scenes. (The other is Edward's death scene , with "40' " as the soundtrack.**

*Yes, all right, that's Shakespeare, not Marlowe.

**Do forgive the line spacing changes half way through the post. I meddled with Blogger for 20 minutes or so to fix it. Fortunately, it's somewhat masked since it only appears after the block quote: surely no accident, stupid cheap Blogger text editor!

"Fifteen pounds of fuck-puppy in a 10-pound bag"

So how, one may ask, do you fill your lonely hours of late, Jay? Well, despite spending a big hunk of each day writing a dusty thesis, I write. The only negative thing I could say about being in New York was that I didn't write as much as I should. Even that's not totally fair, as I was writing for school a great deal, but as much inspiration as there was to be had in the big city, I can't help but feel now I wasted a lot.


However, I got a big breath of inspiration not too long ago, and (touch wood) it seems to be lasting and prospering. Not all moody Indie music lends itself to working out, but not too long ago I started listening to Franz Ferdinand's first album at the gym. I had sort of given up on them as far too mainstream, but coming back to them and giving them a good listen, I clearly need to go back and tell myself to get over myself.

Time was, I thought the sun shined out of their shapely and seemingly available bums:


"Artist: Franz Ferdinand Album: Darts of Pleasure EP
Label: Domino Records Rating: 5 out of 5 *s


Oh. Yeah. Boys.
Being the Boy With His Thumb To The Pulse Of The Scottish Scene (TM ;0) I had heard rumors of the band Franz Ferdinand: wonderful, extatic, nigh-swooning things. And they were all right.
Franz Ferdinand is exactly what the whole lo-fi garage thing tries and fails miserably to be (Suck it up: The White Stripes, Jett, The Raveneonettes, et al. blow): fun, dirty and original.
What does it sound like? The above bands with a spark, with touches of Bowie, Steppenwolf and a little added Funk. On top is some sharp but subtle political edge (track three is about the gentrification of their hometown, Glasgow).
What separates these guys from their Big Label Clones is probably not surprising to any Kid around: they may be as hip or self aware as, say Jett, but they don't take themselves so damn seriously. They have fun. They're irony-light, yo. Play it now. "

[This, of course, was from the defunct Jaylemurph Reviews. I've been reading a few reviews there lately, after having, for soon-forthcoming reasons, wanting to find out more about the band. The material stands up pretty well, and the style pretty well matches up with the subject. It makes me smile]

Clearly, I like what I'm hearing there, and do again. And it's nice to have an excuse to spend some time listening to their work since that and their first full album came out. And it's good. The song "Michael"...

...struck a chord. The sort of louche pan-sexuality the band and their music exudes resonates as a concrete musical example of the theoretical, critical dullness I've been writing about for my thesis. This article, by Rob Sheffield and from the Village Voice, does a pretty good description of it, and is also really good a putting a finger on their musical influences. This entry's title comes from the article.

But of course the band does a much better job themselves:



Seriously, don't you want to grab one (or potentially, a few) of those boys from IndieBoyz?*

But obviously, gentle reader, cheap titillation aside, I'm sure you're champing at the bit to see where I'm going with this and my non-academic writing. Okay.

I'm writing a musical adaptation of Marlowe's Edward II using the music of Franz Ferdinand.

I still think it's a brilliant idea. Anyway, I've got the feeling this will be a profitable place for me to come to hammer out the details: I've got specific ideas for individual songs and how to use them, a general idea of what I'm going to change, and why, a general concept for plot, and -- best of all, if not the most useful -- as specific concept to build all these up on.

But I can get into those later. A lot of them are relatively complex dramaturgical issues that need more time and energy than I'm willing to expend this second.

One thing that is sort of tangentially exciting is that my good (and drop-dead gorgeous) friend** Jacob, who's finishing up his DFA at Yale, was the dramaturg for a production of Edward recently. Ish. I know I can bounce ideas of him, since we've worked together before, and I have the greatest respect for his knowledge and experience. His expertise is on modern theatre, but he has a solid understanding of the Elizabethans. And that's not praise I throw around a lot.

*Perhaps not completely incidentally, Eurocreme (well, technically their sub-studio IndieBoyz) has released Indie Boyz 2. The original is better (what sequel is ever as good? And no, don't say The Godfather...) but it's still hotter than 99.9% of the rest of the porn in the world. If this show ever gets on its feet, I'm totally giving small parts to the boys in these movies. It's only fair.

** Uhh... Maybe I shouldn't have said that, but I'm reasonably certain that a) he's never going to read this site, b) he knows I think that anyway, c) it's not at all mean and d) it's as true as anything I've ever said, if not more so.

Now Let Us Praise Famous Queers

For one reason and another, I haven't been listening to Dan Savage's Savage Lovecast podcast for the past several weeks, so as I was pottering around cleaning today, I listened to a few in a row.

Amusingly, in episode 66 (for 22 January) he bitches about Alexander Wolfe's hand-wringing complaint that because dull computer geek podcasts aren't the most popular ones, that podcasting is dead. And then Dan mispronounces Leo Laporte's name. Heh heh.
(If you don't know, Leo is in the contending for the dullest person on Earth, attended by a clique of poorly-washed, faux-hacker faithful who mistake technology for means of social interaction.)


Alarmingly, in episode 64, I'm reasonably certain it's my old friend Paulie from Brooklyn that's calling in, describing his girlfriend with a grammar fetish. And lying about it. Paulie's the guy who managed to sleep through shifts as a Renaissance soldier ("He had the night watch...") and who, after getting profoundly drunk, drew a "Mister Paulie's Stomach" smilie-face in indelible ink
and used him to talk for him for several hours. He's fascinating for being a drifter with whom you randomly run into in far-flung places: last time I heard from him, he was a bar manager in Asheville (giving Laura Llew completely the wrong impression of my ability to pull); before that, he was studying music in Poughkeepsie; before that, he was fleeing a hurricane in Raleigh (and no, that doesn't make any sense to me, either). Calling in to Dan Savage's show while high is oddly in keeping for him.

Here's an open Question...

Can you tell me why English infinitives have "to" in front of them?

I've never met anyone, anywhere who knew. It isn't inherent in the language -- Old English doesn't do it. As far as I can figure, it confers some idea of futurity, rather like the "to" in tomorrow or tonight. And the original form of those words often appeared as to-morrow and to-night as if the *to- was some sort of archaic enclitic, but I'm not aware of that form appearing anywhere else. Clearly, its function is purely grammatical, as that form of "to" carries none of the locative or dative functioning the preposition to has.

The Cave of Hams...

Or No Forest of Fear
Or The Fire-Basset

I woke up a few minutes later, feeling distinctly hung-over and confused. Then I remembered. I was aboard the Poochles' mysterious BASSAT, and he had kid-napped me away from my home. When I tried to escape, he had electrified the door switch on the control console and I had shocked myself trying to escape.

I remained fairly confident I had gone (at least temporarily) insane.

When I looked up from the chair I had collapsed into, the Poochles was hovering around the controls. Apparently, he had de-electrified them. "Hmmm now. That's odd. That's very odd. This yearometer seems reads '0'. It must be broken," he said, mostly to himself.

"So you think we've traveled, do you, Doctor Poochles?" I asked disdainfully.

"Poochles who?" he muttered, not looking up from the controls. Well, I thought, there goes a perfectly good title.

Aloud, I said with some disdain "I said, you think we've gone somewhere?"

This was enough to make him trot over. He looked me right in the eyes and said "I see. I know. You don't want to believe. But if you could taste an alien ham, and hear the cry of strange birds, and watch them wheel in another sky, would that satisfy you?"

"Yes," I said.

He went back to the controls and chekced a few read-outs. "Gravity, normal. Air, breathable. Radiation, nil. Let's see this new world, sir." He gathered up a few odds and ends and operated the door controls. They swung open to reveal a bleak landscape.

A few hundred yards away, a forest began, but all the trees were bare. There didn't seem to be a lot of movement within them. Closer to us, it was all sandy scrubland, with a few dried-up bushes and brown clumps of grass. It was dry, almost arid, and cold. It didn't look like an alien world. In fact, it looked suspiciously like a disused quarry. Needless to say, despite Poochles' poetic turn of phrase, there were no birds wheeling about.

Just then, there was a rustle from the trees. A figure was running towards us, dressed in furs that looked a bit tatty. It was a tall, leggy blonde with suspiciously long eyelashes and a full set of teeth. She was screeching and flapping her arms a bit. As she passed us, a flea landed on my arm. She kept going, and was soon out of sight.

"So... that was a cave woman, then?" I asked Poochles. He narrowed his eyes at me. "Clearly. And it suggests we've arrived at about 100,000 BCE. Now I had to leave your time in a hurry, without properly setting the controls. I'm going to sit, alone, here and take some measurements and make some calculations. With those, I'll be able to restore the proper directional setting back in the Ship. Now you go somewhere else. I'll be perfectly undefende... vulner... happy."

I left him as he settled down, cross-legged, and was lighting a big meerschaum pipe. I suddenly found one of the scrubby bushes immensely fascinating, and bent down to study it with my back turned to the Poochles.

After a few moments, I heard Poochles' ringing bite-bark. It sounds a bit like "Bwar-rar-rar-rowrf." My first reaction was an immediate "Oh, /that's/ what it sounds like when it's not me getting maimed. " I automatically rubbed my top lip. "Gee, it sounds awful."

Then the penny dropped. Poochles, I thought, he's alone, and been attacked!

I ran over to where he had been. His notebook had leaves strewn all over, and his pipe was smashed. His little Astrakhan hat was lying abandoned on the ground. Even the portable Geiger counter he had was smashed into ruination. Worst of all, there was a path of blood trailing away into the dark woods.

I stood for a minutes considering my options. I was no match for a vermin-infested cave man, let alone a tribe of them. Besides, who knew, I might get tangled up in a mind-numbingly dull primitive war of religion and politics.

But at the very moment, Poochles came walking out of the woods, tail wagging. And not oozing blood.

"Poochles," I said, "What's going on?" I suddenly felt like I might be saying that a lot more often from now on.

He was pretty nonchalant. "The gentleman needed some fire. He was hanging around earlier and saw me light my pipe. He tried to steal my matches, but I gave his ankle a savage nip. When he sat down to clean it, we had a little conversation. Turns out he's trying to become chief of the Tribe of Ham, but they've lost the secret to making fire. So I gave him a package of my nifty ever-lasting matches, and told him to teach the whole tribe how to use them. Problem solved." He looked pleased with himself. "Saved a lot of running around for us both, I bet."

I was a little put out. "Yeah, but what about all the character development, and metaphorical parables about nuclear weapons? And should you be meddling with history like that? "

He patted my head in a very irritating manner. "Nuclear weapons parable? You ain't seen nothin' yet, sir." He walked nimbly back to the BASSAT. "Shall we go? I was thinking of going somewhere Beyond the Sun."

I followed him in. He was already working his magic on the controls. Within a few moments, the central column on the control console stopped its rhythmic rise and fall. He told me to check the environmental read-outs. "Oxygen, okay. Gravity, normal." There was one he hadn't mentioned earlier next. "Ham, normal."

"Very good, very good!" he said. "Let's go get some food and a change of clothes." I agreed: " I could do with some knit-wear, you know. Maybe a nice cardie. And some sensible shoes." I followed him out of the console room.

But back on the control console, the needle was twitching on the ham detector. It slowly swung down into the lower readings until it came to rest at "0". I warning light began to flash on and off, but there was no one left to notice...

Next Week:
The Dead Hamlet

(in your most booming voice now): "WHAT??!!?!"

This may just be the greatest thing on the Internet. I actually got through it on my first try, but that in no way does justice to its inherent genius.

In case you don't know, Brian Blessed is a god who currently walks with us. He's best known for his huge performances (literally and figuratively) in most of Kenneth Branagh's films (Exeter in Henry V was particularly good, and a world away from my friend Mary's version when I did it*), and parody of the same kind of role in the first series of Blackadder.

But he's also been in Cats -- the only reason a sane person would /see/ the damn thing -- and donned eye make-up and a dress for a spot of high camp in Doctor Who (possibly the highest camp** ever in the series, and a thing of beauty to watch***).

AND he's climbed Everest three times, though not to the top, along with successful attempts on Kilimanjaro and Aconcagua.

I think the perfect film would involve him and Robbie Coltrane arguing over something. Anything.

*Well, it would be, wouldn't it?

**Sontag's article is not without its problems (she makes a direct link between camp and homosexuality (natch) that's troubling to say the least) but it is the /first/. And like everything she writes, intelligent and insightful.

***So, yeah, the 1980s.

In which the monster eats some people and destroys Whole Foods

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.

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

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"?

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.

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!"

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.)

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...

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.

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.

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".

.... 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.

What Surrounds Us

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.

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.**

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hi. Again.


I've decided to start this up (again).
Unfortunately, I've made this decision the same day that I'm leaving for the week-end.

Here's a neat little widget to tide you over.

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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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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!

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.

Ain't this nice?


Please to get this for me!

"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...