You Gonna Make Me Superman Up on You

Usually, when commercials leave me puzzled, I get angry. "Who are these people?" I ask. "Why are these people wasting my time?" I ask.

But this one -- from Mo' Money Taxes -- is different. It amuses me.

It begins in Miami, apparently.

It starts out with a group of people talking to a man in a nice car. They complain -- understandably enough, ipsa re -- about taxes, and how much they are. I suppose at a stretch, somebody with such a nice car has lots of money, and therefore knows about money, or at least how to get a good accountant, so maybe random guy in a (well, I can't tell model of car it is exactly -- maybe a Camero Z28 from the blurry hood ornament, but more likely something with a little more intelligence, judging by the noise the engine makes) car isn't the worst guy you could ask.

So random guy places a call on his cellular phone.

Cut to a scene on a beach (quite possibly also in Miami, but you can't be sure). RG's contact it seems, has quit the business.

One assumes the accountancy game, but you can't be too sure.

So has his partner, a big dumb white guy taking several drinks off a scantily clad waitress. Hearing his (ex-?)partner dis him, he talks about the virtue of his shoes -- babymakes, as he calls them -- and threatens the heading of this post. One assumes the blue t-shirt he's wearing has a Superman symbol underneath the pixellation.

Cut to some other guys on a boat. They're on the phone, too, and one assumes to the original random guy. "Don't worry," they say, "We'll be there in less than thirty seconds." Then we're treated to a montage of the yacht saling by for about half the length of the commercial.

I'm glad, frankly, that I don't live in Miami. It seems to me the yachts on the street (as they would have to be to get to ORG) would be a bitch to avoid.

Cut to a pool in front of mansion, where three people are standing. They might be ORG and the two guys on the boat. I don't know; I can't tell. They're wearing vaguely similar clothes to the men on the boat, but I swear it looks like they've switched shirts. The guy in the middle may well be ORG, but I'm not too certain of that, either. Could be the sunglasses they've all acquired.

"Come down and see us -- you'll be glad that you did," they close.

And I believe them. I do. I would give them my tax returns to file in a heartbeat.

Anybody who could make such an incomprehensible ad /has/ to be better at something else, and why shouldn't that something else be accountancy?

I have to assume that this ad is just another in a series I've never seen, so I just don't understand part of the assumed narrative. But even so, the cuts even within this one ad are /really/ unclear, so you can't quite get the connections between the speakers. It would make exactly as much sense if each of the three parts had no connection whatsoever.

However, that lack of clarity -- and subsequent lack of useful meaning -- is what makes it hysterically funny. It doesn't mean to, but it functions exactly in the way an absurdist play /should/ but seldom does. It makes you question logic behind how you piece together the world around you. Connections that seem like they should be obvious don't quite work correctly and things that makes no sense at all appear to connect seemlessly within the narrative.

Or to put it another way, the strange seems familiar and the familiar, strange.

Which is -- of course -- Brecht's classic definition of the verfremsdungeffekt. Bet you didn't think there was much crossover between him and Ionesco. Or Albee. Or that either had much to did with current Urban marketing.

If I ever got to re-edit this ad, the only thing I would change is to have them shout "It's not that way; it's over there!" a few times at the end.

Bet you didn't see that lil' bit of dramaturgical awesomeness coming at you when you started!

Miss Emily Never Had It So Good

The following story is really not as crazy as it seems.

All right, it probably /is/ but I refuse to take sole credit for it. I was practically invited to write it. But I stand by it -- if I have to justify it, I'll just say it's a response to all the To Kill a Mockingbird crap The Charlotte Observes is foisting on the world at the moment. Frankly, I'm shocked that Southern Gothic never garnered that much parodic response in its own time.

The color of the past is brown.

Not the rich tones of a sepia print or the hazy, golden brown of nostalgia. It's the washed-out, pale brown of dust. Memories don't die, don't get lost as much as they get buried in a sea of choking, wan dust.

At least, that's how it was in that town. Dust colored road. Old clapboard houses, once white, faded down to the color of old dust. Even the stains on the road -- tobacco juice and horse shit -- were brown.

Even old Benbow was brown, old and tanned, and his old linen suit just as faded as the whitewashed boards he sat in front of.

Well, I called him Benbow. I'm not rightly sure what his real name was, but I read a book once -- about flags or somethin' or other in the dust, incidentally -- and he struck me as mighty similar to that Benbow. So I started to call him that. He never corrected me. Looking back, I always assumed he never got the joke. I'm not so sure now.

I walked by him on the way to fetch Mamma some lard and Nehi back from the store.

"I don't take to no women what wear brooches," he said.

That's how he started a conversation with you, a salutation out of nowhere. I say started. Maybe just clued you in to the conversation he already had going on in his brain.

Okay, I thought, I'll bite.

"Why's that Mister Benbow?" I asked.

"Well, you sit yonder there and I'll tell you," he said, as he motioned to the two stairs up to the boarding house porch." When he did so, he returned to silence briefly. After a minute, a brown splat flew out of his mouth and arched delicately in the space between us. When it came down, it covered a scraggly old daisy, the only thing in Miss Hattergold's hopefully desingated "flowerplot" to survive the heat. The only thing in town that wasn't brown.

"I met her down in N'Orleans," he said. "She wore a blue dress with white pokke dots. And gloves. And a big white sun hat. And a silver brooch. Looked like a cat. Almost the size of your fist. That shoulda told me something. But it didn't.

"She wearn't no young woman. Musta been nigh 70. Sorta smelled o' mothballs and sech once you got close to her. And, Lord help me, I did get close to her.

"I first seed her gettin' off the train down at the depot. She just stood, lookin' around with her mouth a little open, as the porter arranged her bags on a cart. Then she clapped eyes on me.

"I warn't but 16 or so. A shoeshiner. Couldn't get no other work that young. Leastways, not addicted to laudnam like I was. Anyways, she claps eyes on me, and I am looking good. I beat a newsie t'death just the day before, and I was all decked out in nearly-new knickers, suspenders, bowtie and a cap. I weren't surprised t'see her lookin', lascivious like.

" 'Lucius?' she asked, a little uncertain.

" 'No'm,' I said.

" 'Surely it's Lucius! The Sweet Lord has finally returned you back from whence he took ye.' She seemed a right smart certain. I wa'n't.

" 'I don't reckon I know nothin' 'bout no Luciuses, ma'am,' I said.

" 'And he's given you back your limbs. You're sound as ever you were! They told me you'd been... injured. All the other boys who came back, they were missing arms and legs. What must have you had to go through if you... couldn't come back to me?' She pulled a little lace hanky outta her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

" 'I'm tellin' you woman, I ain't no kind of Lucius. My name is...'

" 'I'm a rich woman, now, Lucius. I took the money they gave me and opened a store. And then another store. And then a whole plantation. Now I own 87% of Mississippi, and good hunk of Arkansas, too. They called me hard. They called me a cold woman. But what else could I be when you were gone?' She dabbed her eyes again.

" 'Eighty-seven per cent.?' I asked.

"She nodded.

" 'Reckon you done found your sweet Lucius, sent back by Jesus to find ye. I also reckon He wants you to go and buy me a muffelata. Shinin' shoes and starin' at sweaty male crotches all day is hungry work.'

"She smiled. 'I expect so. I'll be back directly, Lucius.' Then she squeezed my hand. "Then I won't never be far from ye again.'

"I'll be honest here. I thought I had landed in some tall cotton, boy. I expected to be retired for good at age 16. 'Course it don't work that way. Never does.

"It weren't too long ere she came back with my sandwich and a bottle of Co-Cola. It didn't hardly smell like old people when I took a bite. She was happy with just a pickle and a squirt of Old Thomason's Remedy for the Dried Up and Spinisterish. When she suggested we 'repair to my suite at the Pevensy' I couldn't say no. I insisted that we stop at the Woolworth's on the way there so I could stock up on my medicine, though.

"When we got there, she shet the door. She looked strangely at me.

" 'I b'lieve you know what I want now, Lucius. I been a-waitin' since them Yankees up in Fredricksberg done took ye from me them 47 years ago.'

"I weren't no fool. I know'd what she was arter. I war'n't inclined to give it to her, but that 87% of Miss'ippi was a powerful inducement to sweet a-moor.

"She winked at me as she crossed over the room. 'I ain't never bathed since last we were as one. I didn't wanna cleanse myself from your presence.'

"And damned if it weren't true. She took off her pantaloons and the flesh of her thighs above the stockings was black as an ole blue buck. I felt some of the muffelata come back to me.

" 'At least now I knows where old people stink comes from' I thought, as I took an extry large swig of laudanum. I took another just to be safe. I finished the bottle as she took off my shirt.

"I don't rightly know what happened next. I get all hazy. She sort of threw me onto the divan and she took advantage of me. Maybe you heard that 'ere joke about the old workin' girl what suffered the drynesses. I can tell you the first part's true, any road.

"Thank god she kept her top on, so I couldna seen what lay beneath that. All I saw was that ol' cat brooch a zoomin' to me and from me over and over till it was over.

"I say over.

"Th'excitement musta been to much for that old girl, cause she expired right at the height of ecstasy, as it were. Or maybe I choked her to death then. I don't rightly recall. As I said, things went to hazy. All I knows was she was dead when I shot my load.

"I ran outta that room fast as I could get her bony old carcass off'n me. I didn't stop to tell no po-lice or hotel management. What could I tell 'em? Nothin' such as they'd credit. I didn't stop running till I got right to this very spot."

Well, I thought to myself, right there's a moral for a body. Don't be missin' round with no crazy rich war widder. Ain't no gold at the end o' that rainbow.

Ol' Benbow snorted as if he reckoned what I was thinkin'.

"More moral than that. Wa'n't a week passed till my old pecker turned black and fell off. I ain't never had no women since. 'Syphilis' is what ol Doc Forrester called it. Think on that, youngin'."

I got up to walk away. It was almost sundown and Momma was gonna need her lard to fry up a chicken. Benbow's eyes followed me as I walked away.

"Now you mind them old women with brooches on now, y'hear me? You mind..."

This Is Not the Post I Thought I'd Be Writing Tonight...

I watched a wiener dog die tonight. It was oddly emotional.

This was my parents wiener dog. I had never particularly liked it -- they bought her after they got rid of /my/ dog, a fine (but stupid) Labrador Retriever they simply got tired of dealing with. Looking back now, I can't blame them (too much), but I did love my dog and a wiener is hardly a suitable replacement for a boy.

I hated the dog. The wiener dog returned the favour. She never liked anyone else besides my father. She'd run out across their front yard and attack anything that tried walking down the sidewalk, all the time yapping fit to beat the band, so it was a cert the neightbours hated her, too.

But after I left home, it wasn't too much of a concern of mine. I'd see once or twice a year, when she'd spent her time glaring at me from her corner of the couch. A few years ago, I thought she'd had it for sure when I came home and she was riddled with tumors across her belly. She had breast cancer, apparently, but my parents couldn't or wouldn't do anything about it. But she didn't die. She didn't even act sick. The tumors just grew and grew. And she got older and older.

She turned 15 (I think) sometime last Fall. Like most old dogs, all she really wanted to do was lie in the sun and nap. She'd waddle out the front door to go to the bathroom once or twice a day, and she'd yap all the while, but she was virtually blind from cataracts and mostly deaf. If she wandered out so far as the street, someone would have to go and lead her back in.

Last week, she most have fallen down from her place on the couch, because when I stopped by one afternoon she was balled up in front of the couch, shivering and whimpering like she was in pain. When she took a step or two, her back was held at a funny angle. This, I knew, from basset education, was bad. When I tried to suggest they take her to the vet to get examined, they said she was fine, and the next day she was almost back to normal, even if she still held her back oddly.

It was about this time she lost control of her bladder. Undeterred, my parents still refused to take her to the vet.

This afternoon, when I stopped by to check on her, I found her on the couch. Her cushion was covered -- covered -- in pus. It was leaking from somewhere in her back end. I didn't check where. Too gross. I stayed with her till my parents got home from work.

"You have to take her to the vet," I said. "You have to put her down." They still refused. "If you don't," I told them in typically reasonable terms, "I'm going to take her outside and whack her over the head with a shovel. It's cruel to keep her in this state."

I think they took me at my word, because soon she was wrapped up in her blanket. It was after 5.30, so they had to cajole the vet into staying open late and we had to rush over. (When they saw her condition, they didn't complain.) My father wouldn't drive, so I had to drive both him and the dog to the vet. The vet was astounded when she saw the little wiener dog. She didn't question it was the right time. My father wouldn't stay for the final act, as it were, but I didn't think even this objectionable little thing -- who always resembled nothing so much as an overgrown rat -- should die alone. I stayed with her.

The vet gave her a shot to calm her down. She sighed and rolled over to one side. Then the vet gave her another shot that stopped her heart. And she died. I like to think she looked grateful or relieved or something, but if she felt anything, I suspect she was pissed off that the only person she'd ever even acted like she liked wasn't there. I'm not sure I'd want me about when I was dying, either.

And of course I cried, just a bit. And laughed at the same time. I mean, I hated the thing. Always had. It was funny I was so pointlessly emotional. "It's hard" the vet said as she handed me a kleenex. I felt I had to explain to her it wasn't my dog. I didn't know why I was crying.

It took me a while to realise that was the first thing I'd ever see die. My parents are alive; the only grandparent I can ever remember is still alive. I've had two -- maybe three -- uncles die, but never anyone close enough that I was /there/ for the death. Even the pets I've had have died away from me, either at vet's office when I was too young to be there or while I was away somewhere else.

And as I examined my reaction later on, it occured to me that our reactions about death are seldom about death. They're about us. They reflect our concerns about our own deaths. I didn't stay to watch that dog die because I thought she needed to be surrounded by love as she passed to the next world. I don't believe in a next world. I practically don't believe in love.

I stayed with the dog because /I/ don't want to die alone and it's at least a thought in my head I just might.

It's been terribly interesting watching them announce the new Doctor, hasn't it?

I mean, I'll save you the apparently obligatory "Doctor WHO?" joke. As if say, Sylvester McCoy or Tom Baker were household names when they took over the role.

But the whole "bring out your prejudice" aspect of it all is what fascinated me. People bending over backwards to convince others that, no I'm /really/ not a racist because I think the Doctor can't be black.

I think Paterson Roberts would have been pants, too, but I thought he was pretty painful in Neverwhere. The colour of his skin isn't so much a factor.

(Although that's not a unilateral dismissal of him as an actor. I don't think his genius is suited to sci-fi in general. Not too long ago he was in the National Theatre's production of The Emperor Jones, and I'd've loved to see that. And not just for the idea of a British take on something that is so essentially an American drama...)

And while Matt Smith's chops don't fill me with confidence (unlike David Tennant), I'm not willing to prejudge before I see anything.

Well, pre-judge too much. In his Doctor Who Confidential interview -- a bit low-key and too full of de rigeur self-effacement for my liking -- he did manage to showcase the fact he didn't know when Doctor Who started. If I were just a tad more cynical than I am, I'd think it's a clever little "Look how different I am from David Tennant ALREADY" plug. Though I think David's love for the show was one of his greatest attributes.*

And... well.. there was the little bit in the Guardian article where he mentioned his girlfriend in Brazil. Rio, was it?

Does that mean Brazil = Canada to the British?!**

*I've always thought the reason Eccleston was so distant in his portrayal was because he'd so much be somewhere else...

**Come on, it's an Avenue Q joke! Although it would take a special lady to get past that huge head. Makes Rainn Wilson look proportionate.

In Further Basset Hound News:

Bassett Hound and owl strike up unusual friendship

The pair have become inseparable since meeting at an animal refuge, and are quite happy to cuddle up together on an armchair.

Beryl the Basset Hound, who is a grand old dame at 16 years old, and four-year-old tawny owl Wol struck up a friendship when their owner realised they both loved watching television in the evenings.

Sara Ross, who shares her home in Tenterden, Kent, with the animals said: "They are both rescue animals and they're like best buddies. Wol needs full-time care and one day I was giving him a bit of exercise and he just plonked down on Beryl's back. She doesn't mind, she's really laid back and a bit of a pussycat really.

"She didn't mind at all and now you can't keep them apart.

"Four times-a-week you'll see them settle down to watch what's going on in Albert Square. Beryl barks when it's over and Wol gets a bit upset too, with a bit of flapping.

She added: "They are inseparable. They love cuddling up and watching television together.

"It won't come as a surprise that they love nature documentaries, but they also like soaps like Coronation Street and Emmerdale."

She added: "I've never known two animals who are so different hit it off quite so well. They just love being around each other."

Have your hams gone missing of late?

It could well be the new Stealth Basset Hound model:


I didn't even know there were black basset hounds, but even the local rescue shelter has one.

If You Need It, So Do I

Not too long ago, I was looking up the lyrics to the Rosebuds' song, "El Camino". It turns out I couldn't find them, which was a shame. It' s one of my favourite songs and has been for yonks, so I was surprised I couldn't locate them on teh Interwebz. So here they are.

The first time I heard the song was live. It was called "El Camino in the Night"then, and the first recording I have of it is on a split album from the Rosebuds, My Dear Ella and the Sames called "A Show With..."

Probably because of all those live shows, my hearing isn't what it could be, and I can't quite be sure of all the lyrics. Anything I'm reasonably uncertain of is in brackets [].

Don't ask me what the second word in the third line is. It sort of sounds like "box-a" to me on the first version, which kinda, sorta makes sense, but in the other recording sounds more like "boxer", which even if it sounds more distinct, makes even less sense.

Mister Fun, what have you done?
You took our toys and left us one
Shiny [boxer] filled with tears.

And in the haze, you've gone too far
In all my ways a perfect car
No rust, [not common] dear.

And through the field light appears
Please hold on close and know my dear
The El Camino is burning tyres.

The El Camino's in the night
Fighting crime and saving lives
And like that, it disappears.

But if you need it, so do I
Away from the traps and the lies
We can ride away and have no pain, my dear.

And through the fields he's coming [my dear]
Shining brightly from our rear
The El Camino is burning tyres.

The El Camino's in the night
Fighting crime and saving lives
And like that, he'll disappear.

But if you need him, so do I
Away from the traps and lies
We could ride away and have no pain, my dear.

The more produced, shined-up version that appears on The Rosebuds Unwind is entitled just "El Camino" and the lyrics are slightly different:

Mister Fun, what have you done?
You took our toys and left us one
Skinny [boxer] filled with tears.

And through the haze, you've come so far
In all my ways, a perfect car
No rust, [not common], dear.

And through the field, the lights appear
Just hold on close, Let's go my dear:
The El Camino was burning tyre.

The El Camino in the Night,
Fighting crime and saving lives
And like that, it disappears.

But if you need it, so do I,
Away from the [traps] and the lies.
We can ride away and have no pain, my dear.

And through the hills it's coming near,
Shining brightly from our rear.
The El Camino is throwing fire.

The El Camino in the Night
Fighting Crime and saving lives
And like that, they re-appear.

So if you need it, so do I
Away from the traps and the lies
We can ride away and have no pain, my dear.

Vapid Prettyboy Seeks Horse-Faced Bitch with whom to Flog Ugly Fashions.

I don't hate /all/ TV ads. In fact, I don't even hate most TV ads: thanks to the wonders of Tivo, I don't even see all that many. For any ad to come to my consciousness, it needs to a) be repeated roughly 100 million billion times and b) pose some manner of inscrutable question.

Take, for example, Future86's caterwauling about the boons of bundling cable, phone, and internet, or Interactive Male's odd service*.

Or the above ad.

First of all, just who is this guy trying to kid with the "I can't get a date" routine? He's hott. Dullness comes off of him in waves like heat from the sand, but still... One expects some excitement when talking about how one fell in love. Except she's not much better. More bitter, but not more better. It looks suspiciously like she's been using her own features to grind whatever axe she's got going against the rest of the world. Perhaps -- like Mynheer with Vrouw van Winkle -- Joshua's emotional response to her is just to turn low-key and 'bide it out. I can only assume some incipient Carmelita Spats awaits us all in Utero...

Anyway, the Joshua "I can't connect" bit the ad is predicated on: I'm not buying it. I'm certainly not buying it if he has cojones enough to spread his legs like that and show off just what Tanya Lee is getting on a regular basis now that they're married.

Presumably. I mean, eHarmony.com has thinly-veiled Christian fundamentalist leanings -- they wouldn't match up teh Gays till the courts pointed out the 14th Amendment to them and suggested they open up a same-sex sister site** -- so one can only assume that Joshua's visible assets notwithstanding they pulled a Twilight and just held hands till they got hitched.

It makes me wonder how just pathetic the other 87 million people they claim to have connected are, since they won't let any of them on the air to describe the process. Cue Mort and Muriel Goldman's testemontial, I s'pose...

*Have you seen their new ad that covertly replaces the Hispanic guy (but nothing else) with yet another little white thing?

**Chemistry.com made great ad along those lines.

A Conclusion:

For some years I've been wrestling with this question, since the lovely Helen (ever so lamented in her absence) recommended The Mighty Boosh to me*, but I have decided.

Vince Noir is fucking hot, right down to the (admittedly) incredible hair. Noel Fielding, on the other hand, who has more than once been sighted in the company of Amy W(h)inehouse, is not.

A contributing factor that is by no means exclusive to him is the hipster belt that wraps oh-so-clingingly-and-oh-so-inviting-of-the-rimming 'round the lower part of his arse. Frankly, it does wonders for anyone height/weight proportional, but he can work that shit, down.

The whole post-modern-awareness bit is almost but not quite gilding the lilly.

And I'm happy with this sort of dichotomy, as the exact opposite (actor v. character) holds true for David Tennant, and comes damn close to working for Chris Eccleston.

*The reruns of The IT Crowd on IFC have helped in this as well, as well as complicating my idea of just how cute Richard Ayoude is after Garth Marenghi's various incarnations (but that can be tied back to the Emotionally Feckless Fucker...). Turns out he's straight, but still... cute is as cute does.

I don't like Christmas.

It's not that I hate it, as such -- though I occasionally I am driven to that -- I just don't care for it. And this pisses people off. More often that not, it's like an affront to their very existence. Every year, I have to listen to someone go on and on about how special and wonderful it is for them. And this is fine. I just wish they'd go be special on their own and leave me the fuck alone.

It was best when I lived in Durham. I somehow got in the tradition of driving my friend IGP to the airport to catch a red-eye flight on Christmas Eve. We'd spend the night before drinking and watching bad movies, often in the company of another friend I'll call Roweena (spot the Romantic-era joke there, folks!). That would descend into inebriated debates over local scenesters' sexual proclivites over The Sound of Music.

I still don't know about Neil and that was always a hot topic. As it were.

The next day I'd head over to the radio station with Roweena and refuse to play Christmas music for a huge shift. It was prinicipal: I was atheist and R. was Jewish. And we both felt like the world needed far more girly pop played in Decemeber.

I'm not sure exactly why I dislike Christmas. (Other than, you know, the atheism...) The only really nasty Christmas run-in I've ever had was when the person I lived with felt obligated to put up a string of lights and was stupid enough to do it on the stair railing. A few mornings later, dashing to work at 5 am, my foot got caught in it and I fell down the stairs.

That was no fun.

I think it mostly comes from indentured labor in my youth. For a period of ten years or so (inclining towards 15), I was forced to be in my parents' church's Christmas play. This meant the wasting of four or five perfectly good Sunday afternoons in Advent* watching a bunch of awkward, poorly-educated children mumble the same tired sing-song Bible verses.

For years, I didn't even have to learn the words since I had the same verse**: "Unto Us a child is born, unto us a son is given. And the government shall be upon his shoulders and he will be called Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Unlimited Rice Pudding*** etc., etc.

When I finally was old enough to complain about this -- my father was the Sunday School Superintendant and I was therefore an example -- I got cast as a rock. A rock.

This is separate from the obligatory family Christmas tree decoration. The least said about that the better; suffice it say I was once beaten and told "You will come hear and you will have a good time. Or else."

So I have no love of the Yule. The only thing I /do/ like is music. But only a certain kind. My parents are old; they almost were when I was born, and their taste in music betrays that. Growing up, the Christmas music they played was from the eeaaarrllly 1960s: The Living Strings. Andy Williams. Laurence Welk. Johnny Mathis.

To this day, it ain't Christmas till somebody breaks out The Andy Williams Christmas album and plays "Kay Thompson's Jingle Bells"****. And my favourite single Christmas collection is the one album of their multi-disc Laurence Wellk Christmas Set they disliked enough to let me ruin. I still have it.

Naturally enough, when I'd been gone a few years, I got a hold of some Esquivel and it suits me perfectly.

So... after bitching about the holidays for a while, I am now going to deliver some goods. Good, free Christmas music:

The Real Deal:

The good folks over at Ultra Swank still have available their Retro Christmas album. For Free!

Over at Pyschotic Leisure Music present you with a whole album of Senor Esquivel. Also For Free!

And last but not least -- and also gatis -- our benefactors over at Romantic Air Records have their Christmas album up, and it's a modern take on the same sort of sounds. It's keen!

So take that Christmas cheer and stick it, yo.

*Yes, I know perfectly well there are only four Sundays in Advent. I just don't care.

**Lutherans love memorising things almost as much as they do not changing things.

***Obligatory Doctor Who reference. See how I sneaked that in effortlessly with Isaiah, Chapter Nine? See, I /told/ you Lutherans were into memorising.

****For years, the whole album was unavailable on iTunes. Now it is. Merry Christmas to me, iTunes.

This Isn't a Common Lament of Mine...

... if anything, I tend to think the exact opposite of this, yet oddly, today was the second time in as many weeks it's run across my mind: it's always very sad when the very pretty aren't very bright.

I am -- properly or not -- deliberately conflating bad taste and militant inexperience with "not-very-bright"-itude.

One of tonight's Jeopardy! contestants* (not the champion, obv.), Daniel, was very pretty and handled himself reasonably well. Through the wonders of Facebook**, a man might be privy to his likes and dislikes and such, and they are disappointing to say least. You really should have a decent book as a favourite before you go on Jeopardy!(.)

:(

The other instance, which I'm not sure I ought to mention, happened when I was in Durham recently, when someone quite fetching said something more or less deeply stupid.

*Yes, another Jeopardy! contestant. Shut up.

**Oh, do the hard work yourself.

They've revived those ads for Britney Spears' perfume -- "Fantasy: Everyone's Got One". I suppose my fantasy would be finding out just who would want to smell like /her/.

(Or more to the point, who would pay $40 to do so when all you really need to do is wake up on a stranger's floor after pack of smokes, a pint of Jack Daniels and a broken condom...)

But this defies me even more. If it's a gag, then it doesn't work; if it's real, it's far more terrifying than smelling like Britney. *

It sort of backs of my theory that American culture is Teh Fails.

*Although really, the Obesity epidemic being what it is, this oughtn't to be as shocking as it is.

Happiness Is...

Hearing one of your favourite bands on one of your favourite TV shows, like when I heard "Keep it Clean" by Camera Obscura on Skins last night. (Or, indeed, when they were on Gilmore Girls.)

Sadness is when you realise they were saying something mean about that song and the kinds of people who listen to it.

Bad Skins writers. Unfortunately, short of bitching about it here, my only other form of protest is not to watch the show any more, and *that* is unlikely. So I'll just sit here and stew.

In Which We Learn That The Recitations Of An Asthmatic Hamster May Be More Salubrious Than The Entire Corpus of William Faulkner

I am very susceptible to suggestion. Virtually anyone who knows me will agree to that. Part of it is just natural... gullibility, I guess. But part of it is training.

Any sort of criticism is essentially a response to the stimulation a work of art gives; formal criticism is just putting that gut reaction into a more informed context.

And while this is true for all art, I think it is even more so for the drama. Most modern acting in the US is more or less based on Stanislavski's System, and all that boils down to is a schemata for making yourself extremely open to the imaginative suggestion of an author's script.

Dramaturgy and directing are even more so, in that dramaturgy is preparation for the more literary, theoretical suggestions underpinning a script, and direction is dealing with the the concrete realities of working actors and their inter-relating physical and mental positioning.

So where is this going?

I finished reading Faulkner's Go Down, Moses not long ago, and it's made me want to go hunting.

This is, of course, ludicrous.

I have none of the necessary skills, nor (really) any of the necessary desires. I mean, sure, I hate deer. I /really/ hate deer, and it must be loads of fun to take one down, but the whole sitting half-way up a tree at 4.30 in the morning of the off chance one might stroll by is pretty much the opposite of how I'd like to spend my time.

And the idea of giving me a firearm ought to appal everyone. I mean, technically speaking, I can fire them -- and have been licensed to do so in front of people in state-run institutions, even -- but my knowledge runs out for anything produced after 1580 or so.

Had I spent more time learning to shoot in Boy Scout camp instead of learning to kiss from the instructor, this might not have been an issue. (And no, for the record, it was not some gross Scoutmaster. It was some over-eager older scout.) In an amusing twist of fate, the state of South Carolina got rid of sales tax on guns the weekend after Thanksgiving. And my brother was going to be there. I asked him to pick one up, but he (wisely) laughingly refused. He was in the army and knows the danger of me packing heat.

But for a few weeks yet, I'll still think the whole hunting thing is something I ought to try. I even learned all about seasons for various game, and the licenses required and bag limits and so forth. One might even hunt bears in the vicinity of where my parents live, which I find equally fascinating and appalling. I didn't know there were bears left there to hunt, but next time I'm there, I'll be more aware of the dark.

Perhaps fortuitiuosly for everyone involved, I've started reading a collection of the works of Washington Irving, an author with whom I have no familiarity. (Other than he used to hang out with Walter Scott and that Mary Shelley carried a torch for him...) I quite like it so far, if for no other reason to find out what Isobel Campbell was going on about in "I Could Be Dreaming".

Yarr.

As I sees it, few there be with better claims to piracy than me. I knows my way around a sword; I've worked upon an antique sailing vessel, I've studied up on me history. I can do the funny talk with authority.

And I has me a pirate name, now:

What kind of pirate am I? You decide!
You can also view a breakdown of results or put one of these on your own page!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

!!!

I love pirates.

I love Weebl.

I love topical news references made into satire.

I love THIS:

Dear The (Twilight) World:

Concerned as I am over The Curse of the Cullen Hair* -- it's moved into poor Kristen Stewart's real life, and it seems the film version of poor Jasper has been hit upside the head with the clown-hair stick -- I have to take more drastic measures.

Today I saw pictures of Jackson Rathbone in real life. Let it be known: to hell with Team Edward. I'm defecting to Team Jasper. Actually, make that Team Jay** to ensure Beautiful Green Eye Continuity.

*A Horror Movie in its Own Right.

**So says IMDb.com: who am I to judge if fate has destined this?

Sic Probo, or Q.E.D.

This is a Fraggle (Wembley, to be precise). Note the resemblance to the picture below, specifically in the hair area. This should end all disagreement with my pronouncement.

In Which Our Author Is Pointlessly Catty

I guess I shouldn't be too surprised (given the contents of the novel) that a Twilight personality quiz would be almost painfully sexist, and certainly not gender neutral. So I played along and took the "Which Male Character Are You?" to this result:


Take the Quiz and Share Your Results!

Reasonable, I suppose, although the picture reminded me of a jovial bisexual Bavarian tourist in 1930s Berlin the morning after one too many absinthes.

Out of curiosity, I also took the female version and got this:


Take the Quiz and Share Your Results!

Which I objected to. Not because she apparently warrants an exclamation point and Carlisle doesn't(!). Not because of the result. But because of Alice's hair. As I've said before, just because she received electro-shock therapy in the '20s is no reason to feather her short hair to give the impression her toe's permanently wedged into a light socket. I mean, she looks like a Fraggle.

(I've also pointed out that, judging by how Edward's pompadour cut gets bigger in each new ad, he'll be able to go Pom to Pom with Liberace in a 'Who's the Gayest Corpse in Hollywood" by the time the film's released...)

Love Without Hope

Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head, as she rode by.

--Robert Graves

No reason for posting this other than it's quite lovely. It's exactly what lyrical poetry is supposed to be.

(Okay, I've been reading the Patrick Troughton Doctor Who Annuals, which insist on showing him with that hat from his first few stories and it always makes me think of this poem... And bugger all if you can find a picture of the dratted thing)

Edit: oops! No weird agenda with the wrong colour scheme. Just an amusing mistake!