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.