Others Have Lives?

Sometimes it feels like I've seen more movies about zany nazis that there WERE zany nazis, so I love "The Lives of Others" if only for showing left wing evils. In fact, other than "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" I can't recall anything this remarkable at capturing the tragedy of Eastern European repression. (Yes, I know James Bond fought a lot of Commies, but that ain't what I'm talking 'bout.) "The Lives of Others" spins a simple enough story about a writer who plays so much by Communist rules that, naturally, he MUST be a subversive and spied upon. (Such is the wonder of totalitarianism that escaping its grind becomes a corrupting act of contortion in itself: in order to be good, you have to be bad.)Ulrich Muhe plays the uptight spy that records and reports on the writer's every conversation. Can you listen to dissent without it giving birth to doubt? His Kevin-Spacey-Gone-German performance is so affecting because it shows how devotion to a system can darken basic human goodness without altogether extinguishing it. Or so movies tell me all the time, I'm really not sure.

There's a wonderful Catch-22 of Communism that I'm quite familiar with and the movie expresses in a neat line early on, when a dissident claims not to know why he's been arrested, and he's asked: "How can you think that our Socialist society would arrest you without reason? If you can think that, that would be the reason to arrest you." It is censorship and paranoia in terms that spoke to me as a Cuban exile, and clearly spoke to every Academy voter who wondered if Bush was secretly wire-tapping them.
The movie does run longer than it needs to, explaining away its powerful enough conclusion. It's like they called Steven Spielberg to put some finishing touches. And some more finishing touches. And some more. But it is, er... What does my DVD case say? "Timely and timeless."

Music as Universal Language... vs. Battles' "Mirrored"

As a response to your comment:
I think that music itself (i.e. most deliberate arrangements of non-speech sounds) is not the problem with opera or ballet, but rather the conventions that are not friendly to someone who's new to them. There's a reason why we use the word "culture": it's something that must be grown. Like bacteria.

The first ballet I saw as a child was "Giselle", we knew a ballerina who'd gotten the lead role, and she kindly took me backstage. Naturally I had a huge crush on her, what with her being an old lady of 16, and all glittery in her revealing dress, but I was bored out of my gourd by the fact that- get this- all she did was like skip and hop around the stage! The dancing didn't even seem to fit the music! Knowing about ballet's conventions might have helped, but befuddled as it was, I just had to conclude that, yes, "What was this faggy shit?" The damage was done and it's safe to say that I'm not likely to develop any future interest in any of that.
(I love "The Nutcracker", though. Possibly the only ballet that "transcends" to a plebe such as I.)

Opera is a whole 'nother mess with me. Nothing I love more than a story told through music, so I have made a conscious effort through my life to learn about it. The emphasis is on "effort" though. Opera has its set of difficulties. Most of the great classics are in Italian, and the subtitling offered at most opera functions is bland and confusing at best. I had to learn some rudimentary Italian just to follow the original lyrics, but they're another problem: unlike, say, the vernacular poetry of a Broadway musical, opera lyrics tend to be well, "lyrical" to the point of banality. A lot of "upon seeing you, my heart stood still upon my chest." Then there's the lack of proper "melodies" that once left me grasping for the next aria. Then there's the frequent disconnect between performance and content. It feels like what one sings isn't nearly as important as how powerfully one sings it. (Hence every death scene that leaves newcomers to the artform going like: "Damn, for someone who's been poisoned, that fat lady's been going at it for twenty minutes.") I'll give you an example from my personal favorite opera, "Il Trovatore", (also not coincidentally one of the most accessible and melodic, along with "Carmen") Manrico, the hero, sings a damn stirring song that ends with, (my translation), "Unhappy mother, I run to save you/ If I can't save you, I run to die." Powerful stuff, but when I saw it the tenor did it so well that an encore was necessary- so AFTER he had run off to save his mother, dude comes BACK on stage, and sings the whole song again while beaming happily to the audience. And all along I kept thinking: "WELL. So much for running off to save your mother." My suspension of disbelief was gone.

That said, yeah, music is not as universal a language as all that. One doesn't have to go to Bulgarian sheep-herding sagas to be mistified.


Case in point: People had been recommending Battles' "Mirrored" so much that I bit, but after repeated listenings I... just don't get it... This is some ANNOYING shit. I'm sure if you're on the ketamine or something it's quite pleasing, but to me it sounds like someone left two or three of their music players going on at the same time.
(I know what you're thinking, Dear Imaginary Hipster Asshole: "Oh, Hans, you're just not open to experimenting with ear-splitting instruments, jarring time signatures and ridiculous math-prog. Go worship Kelly Clarkson or something, you Clearchannel slave."
You suck, Dear Imaginary Hipster Asshole, and are banned from reading my blog. You, and your children, and your children's children. For three weeks.)
I think I'm going to stick to my "listenable" music.

"Montmorency on the Rocks". And Opera.

Montmorency is no longer a gentleman thief: he’s now a recovering addict/ spy/ adventurer/ detective/vague all purpose anti-hero, but the twin plots are intriguing enough.

The closest thing to characterization our ex-convict has is his overwhelming passion for opera. While he was still a sewer-surfing criminal, Verdi saved his soul. Something in me resists this, the way it resists that scene in “Pretty Woman” where Julia Roberts decides the opera was so sad she almost peed herself. Opera, like ballet, involves a certain level of cultural decoding that frustrates neo-phytes. In the recent, wonderful “Aborigenes” there is a scene in which the African and Arab soldiers are “treated” to a ballet performance, and I could sense the groan of disbelief in me: were we going to be treated to a “great (Western) music unites all people” scene? Thankfully, that movie being grounded on planet Earth, the rough-and-tough soldiers react to skinny men prancing in leotards in the only believable way they can: first, confusion; then, unease; then, boredom; until, after a few minutes of processing, one of the soldiers, feeling like he’s being duped by the dancers, asks the obvious question: “What is this faggy shit?”
Not an indictment on ballet (which admittedly bores me), or opera, (which I worked to understand as a kid.) But I believe they require cultural leaps and are not something that sewer rats, pretty prostitutes, or Muslim infantry-men would take to quickly and voluntarily.
Add experimental poetry to that. And old Swedish movies.

GOOD INVENTIONS

NO MORE MONDAY

Thank God they’re worshipping your image in a television show
That you can guess at from the next room where it’s playing very low
You promised it was Sunday, but then no, no, no

No more Monday
We gotta protest,
I don’t wanna face the week without a bullet proof vest
No more Monday
We gotta revolt
You can bring out the Roscoe, I’ll bring out the Colt

You’re dropping blood up on your paycheck, and your shadow’s on the screen
So you can write about your weekend for some folks you’ve never seen
From Friday night to Sunday you get cut on mandolin
But when Monday morning comes, it’s no wonder you get mean

No more Monday
We gotta strike,
Before the Deathman comes in his Chinese bike
No more Monday
We gotta get a law
That says no no no no no no

No more Monday

GOOD ENOUGH PERSON

My feelings on the table, next to your pack of cards
My sentiments are all disjointed; they’re broken up in shards.
Lights low, you deal, you can’t smile if it’s poker.
You treat a woman like she’s just your ego- you’re out to stroke her.

I said I wouldn’t comment on the way you behave
Unless you twist my arm and criticize my shave
But you charged right at her secret with your blindman’s bluff
Said nothing for an hour but we’ve all had enough

You’re a good enough person,
But I think that she’s much better
And I’m not just saying that because I’m broken and bitter
You get my endorsement
But I’m not reading your letter
You need to keep away from your future babysitter.

(You care about cigars because it was some sort of fashion
And the clouds don’t let you see the footprints you left in the ashes
I swear we would have had you killed if you were not so dashing)

SMILES ALL AROUND

She can smile so nice
Her teeth like beads or ice.
He can smile so sweet
His lips crack in the heat.
Oh, sometimes it’s so ugly when a face it’s all you’re showing.
What’s going on inside a baby? There is no knowing.

Now her tongue appears
And it swipes at him
If he’s insincere
That’s fine ‘cause he’s dim.
At least he lies about
Being smarter than the Republican,
Brings up Jimmy Carter and Jimmy Corrigan
I wonder can I last?
Yes I can.

They smile for three hours, then go home and peel their faces
And discard civilization when they get down to the kisses
Oh, sometimes it’s so ugly when some meat is all we amount to
They said I better cheer up soon… But I don’t want to.

THE NAME OF THE MONEY

Money talks
No wonder everything got so quiet
I had a good look at the better me
But I couldn’t buy it
Out to window-shop
Carrying only a tape recorder
Talking to myself about
How I can’t afford her.
The wages of sin is death…
Or $8 bucks an hour
He’s been mowing the lawn
So he can buy you one flower.
Bought a bouquet, ok, love comes from planting and seeding.
But what do you care, as far as you know, everyone has money, manners, breeding.

THIS IS WHAT NICE PEOPLE DO

Saw you at the party. Saw you at the dance,
Saw you putting lipstick on the cheek of romance.
Your boyfriend is taller than anyone ever admits
Because he likes to look down on you even when he sits.
But I’m always polite, even though that gets blue;
This is what nice people do.

I have loved you forever and I thought you could fit.
I would murder my decency to kiss your left tit.
But he’s better I guess, he had the right chances
He must have done something right to get into your pantses and
I’m always left out, feeling happy for you:
This is what nice people do.

Let's Face it...

The problem with a book called "god is not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything" (with a bright yellow cover, no less) is that if you pick it up, you probably don't need to, and if you need to, you probably won't pick it up.

There's been a recent spate of high profile atheism books; Hitchens is the best I've read, because he's seldom as arrogant as Richard Dawkins, (who writes like Atheism was Revealed to him by Non-God), and he's not as sweetly condescending as Carl Sagan was, ("my dear friend believer, I understand what you feel, I really don't mean to upset you by telling you the truth.") Hitchen's book is matter of fact without coming across as superior.
But oh so depressing.
Because it's clear that the problem is not so much that "god is not great" but that "people are not great." Saddest thing in the Bible is that bit about man being in God's image- man, this murderous, contemptible, disgusting creature. The problem isn't religion, really. People don't need much excuse to murder, rape, and debase each other. Religion just provides the wording and the rethoric.
To borrow from crazies: "God doesn't kill people, people kill people."
Well, I guess god does kill people, but you follow.
I am TOTALLY in a misanthropic mood right now. Could it be related to my CREDIT CARD STATEMENT?

I've always wondered about dragon poo.

Naomi Novik is one of those authors that you just KNOW knows somebody. First time author- the book is released as a mass market paperback- and yet the blurbs saluting her dragons-in-the-Napoleonic-era trilogy make it sound like she discovered the theory of everything. Just minds blown away: "Who knew that you could take an Anne McCaffrey dragon story...and mix with a Patrick O'Brian naval story!"
Look folks, it's really easy to mix things together, not some amazing feat of the imagination. I should know, I've mashed a few genres myself in the past.
Who can forget..?
1) "Murder Time for the Berenstain Bears"
2) "Robo-Hamlet."
3) "Driving School Drama...With Werewolves."
4) "The Shopaholic Nanny's Holocaust Dilemma."
5) "Mrs. Cozy, Blinker the Cat, and the Stump Fetish."
Novik's book is a bit boring, if you ask me. Better than the fetid pile of draconic excrement that was "Eragon", though.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

It’s over.

In case you (haven’t finished it yet/are still watching the third movie/are a snob who doesn’t like fun things), I have come up with this system that prevents any spoilers and yet allows me to rant about J.K. Rowling’s (finest writing yet/plodding conclusion to the saga/plot to annex Scotland). Hip Harry Potter readers will know which is the option I mean.
First of all, wasn’t it (long/exciting/expensive)? I’m not ashamed to admit that while I read it I often (cried/felt hungry/pondered about the evolution of telephone booths.) But anyway, am I the only one who thinks that the romance between (Harry and Ginny/Harry and Draco/Harry and the Hendersons) was woefully underdeveloped? I suppose that was balanced by the way in which Ron and Hermione finally (held hands/kissed in public/tried ass-to-mouth). Another gripe: the random death of (Dobby the House Elf/Scooby-doo/My innocence.) I mean, like the surprise twist involving (Snape’s Wand/Hagrid’s Liposuction/Mrs. McGonagall’s Tax Evasion) wasn’t enough!

I already confessed to liking Rose McGowan, even though she’s now in her late ‘40s, and she was great in Quentin Tarantino’s “Deathproof”. I also loved Rosario Dawson, and that chick that lap dances to “Mexico”, and Jungle Julia, and the twit in the cheerleader outfit (see above). What can I say, ladies? I have a profound, deeply respectful appreciation of female empowerment in all its forms. Praise the Goddess. And praise Tarantino, America’s most prominent foot fetishist.
I honestly think that “Deathproof” manages to shy short of sexploitation because whatever else is going on, the women are being fetishized WITHOUT being objectified: they’re recognizable humans. I mean, that suppahot lap dance is a legitimate plot point! It’s a wonderful trick.
Seriously, this is a movie that has a lot of the pleasures you expect from the QT. The pop references, the black humor, the AMAZING soundtrack. In retrospect the “Grindhouse” concept might actually have been to its detriment, because this is not some throwaway until Tarantino’s next “real” movie. This is as real as it gets.
Neat DVD fact 1: If you freeze the frame right before the words “Death Proof” come on, you get to see the movie’s alternate title, (“Quentin Tarantino’s Two Hours of Hot Girls Talking Smack and then Ten Minutes of Crazy Shit Happenning.”)

Unlike most martial arts movies, “City of Violence” has characters (and character), but would be ridiculous to pretend it’s some sort of investigation on modernity, corruption, crime, or the way a group of young friends can be put at odds by time, jealousy and failure until they’re strangers to each other, (or actually until they’re torturing each other with sharp implements.) I mean, those things are sort of there and they would be worth discussing if Martin Scorsese had directed this, (as some scenes almost would suggest). But let’s face it, “City of Violence” is about incredibly dope violence that defies all physics. This is praise, by the way: the movie makes flying bodies a theme all its own. Treasure the way a soundtrack choice turns a fight from a brutal display into a joyful expression of youthful exuberance. I particularly dug the surreal scene in which our hero is forced to contend with pretty much every Korean subculture at once: gangs of taekwondo masters, skaters, break-dancers, vinyl collectors, yo yo aficionados, stray schoolgirls, who knows what else, it’s like the entire population of Seoul comes out to kick his ass.

My wireless is being its usual shady self, and I am too lazy to walk all the way to the DVD case so I can’t accurately tell you the director’s name, (he’s also the star), but if you’re at all interested in Asian action do some IMDB research on your own time, ‘cause he rocks.

Awww

Marcel Marceau died.
A minute of silence?

Two Books Meet and Talk to Each Other

Ian McEwan’s “Amsterdam”: Jolly good, jolly good, did you go to Cambridge, old chum? No, Oxford, I’ll wager… Oh, but we are all subject to life’s horrid maw. Such ennui, such despair. One must be exposed to badly played Stravinsky sonatas, torrid but unfulfilling extra-marital affairs, and do you call this tea? It is much too hot. Horrid, I say.
Ishmael Beah's “A Long Way Gone”: I was 10 years old and high on a mix of pot, gunpowder, spider legs and cocaine when the rebels forced me to shoot my little sister in the face.
Ian McEwan’s “Amsterdam”: Hmmm.
Ishmael Beah's “A Long Way Gone”: Yeah, you better shut the fuck up.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF CUBA

Dear Imaginary Reader:
I’ve often been accused of not being Cuban enough, (a weird foreigner, sure, but not Cuban enough), so as a reply I present the history of my beloved homeland for my fellow Americans who may not know it, my fellow expatriates who may not care because “American Idol” is rocking this season, and anybody else who cares to invade the moist anals of history. (That’s the word, right?) Don’t worry: it’s almost devoid of boring “facts” but shockful of juicy gossip: like, did you know that more than 337 spiders currently make their home in Fidel Castro’s beard?

A Brief History of Cuba, 1492 to the Present

1492
Christopher Columbus: Oh, I have arrived at the Indies! The world is round! What new wonders await?
Cuban “Indian”: Oh, white God! We bring you fruit and gold! May we enjoy an everlasting friendship!
Christopher Columbus: Die.

THE NEXT TWO HUNDRED YEARS:
Spaniard Conqueror #1: Golly, but these Indians sure are fun to rape!
Spaniard Conqueror #2: Yes, and what soft flesh beneath our swords! It’s like cutting through butter!

Hatuey- Great Indian “Insurgent” (insurgent is a word for someone who doesn’t like to be raped and stabbed) is captured by the Authorities and condemned to death at the stake.

Priest: Oh, devil-worshipping Indian, it’s not too late to convert to the loving religion of Christianity.
Hatuey: So… If I convert, you won’t burn me alive?
Priest: No, we’re still going to kill you. But you get to go to Heaven.
Hatuey: What’s in Heaven?
Priest: Harp music, and more Spaniards like us.
Hatuey: Fuck that.

16-SOMETHING SOMETHING
All Indians are enslaved and close to extinction.
Father Bartolome de las Casas: What Christian would not cry at seeing the horror to which we’ve cursed our fellow man? The Indians are all but dead! They’re gentle people, not made for hard, brutal work! It’s not like they’re NEGROES or something!
Spanish King: That gives me an idea…
(They kill the rest of the Indians and replace them all with African slaves.)
Father Bartolome de las Casas: This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

THE OTHER NEXT TWO HUNDRED YEARS:
Some more stuff happens. In an ironic twist, the Spanish end up owning Miami, and the British end up owning Havana. They figure out this doesn’t make a lot of sense and they trade.

EARLY 1800s:
Cuba gains its independence from Spain.
TEN MINUTES LATER:
Cuba loses its independence.

MID- 1800s:
Cuba’s great poet, Jose Marti, writes a lot of random poems and scraps of things but he’s too freaking ADD to finish an actual decent novel. He’s my hero. Unfortunately, he has this thing where he wants to save the world. His friends are like: “Dude, don’t start some shit, you’re an effeminate little writer and weight like 120 lbs.”
Jose Marti: “I’m going to fight for my country! Which way to the battlefield?”
Stray bullet kills him immediately.
Marti’s friends: “Moron. Hmmm, I mean, MARTYR!”

LATE 1800s:
Cuba gains independence from Spain. Again.
United States: “Yay, we won the fight against Spain!”
Cuba: “Wait, what? Who are you? What are you doing here? When did you become part of this?”
United States: “Haha, you’re funny, Cuba. We’re here for good. May we interest you in some Coca-Cola?”

NEXT 50 YEARS:
United States: Let’s put some hotels and casinos in this beezatch, because we’re filming the Godfather 2 here.

1957
General Fulgencio Batista: Si, Mister Smith. Whatever you want.
Idealistic bearded young man named Fidel Castro: Cuba has become a corrupt military tyranny with a huge gap between the rich and the poor and with an evil president that won’t allow democratic elections! When *I* come to power, man, things are sure going to change around here!

1958:
CIA: So, there’s some revolution or something going on Cuba. Are we with the rebels or with the government?
United States: Aaaah, let’s see how this shit plays out.

1959:
LA REVOLUCION:
United States (on the phone): So, Fidel, be straight, man, are you a communist or what?
Fidel Castro: Me? A Commie? Don’t be silly. Send me a million bucks.
Soviet Union (on the other line): So, Fidel, be straight, man, are you a communist or what?
Fidel Castro: Me? A Commie? Don’t be silly. Send me two million bucks.
Soviet Union: Done.
Fidel Castro: Nice talking, tovarich.

A LITTLE LATER:
Triumphant Fidel meets in Havana with his two best amigos: equally bearded affable Camilo Cienfuegos, and romantic Argentinean Guerrilla man Ernesto “Che” Guevara, who would be a hell of a lot less romantic if people learned enough Spanish to figure out that “Che” means “Dude.” Yes, their iconic revolutionary leader was known by everyone as “The Dude.”

I mean, come on, think about it:
“The people now sail forward in wings of progress above the oceans of reactionary blood towards a new land of prosperity, and this is true because I, Ernesto “Homey” Guevara, say so.” (Puts it in a new perspective, no?)

Fidel: Er, Che, man, I loved your speech. Ah, I don’t know how to tell you this, but from now, I’m going to be the only one giving speeches around here.
Che: Huh?
Fidel: There’s a whole big continent where you can start trouble, my friend.
Che: So are you suggesting I should leave Cuba?
Fidel: Hmmm, yes, “suggesting.” Oh, and while you’re out there, don’t bother wearing bulletproof vests, my friend. That’s for pussies.
(Che goes away and gets conveniently killed right away, so that people can put his face on a t-shirt and not have to deal with him becoming the fat evil dictator of Bolivia.)
Fidel now turns to Camilo:
Fidel: And you, Camilo, you are very lovable. Some would say even more lovable than me. Say, why don’t you get in this plane that is mysteriously going to ‘disappear’ in the next hour?
Camilo: Hmmm. But you will investigate tirelessly to find out the cause of my death, right?
Fidel: Tirelessly, yes.
(Camilo mysteriously disappear. No one ever finds out what happened. His death is SO mysterious that Fidel doesn’t even bother blaming those damned Yankees, the conspiring Miami Mafia, or anti-revolutionary aliens, or conducting much of an investigation.)
Fidel: Pity, pity. Allrighty, who’s left?
Raul Castro, one of Fidel’s younger brothers, is left alone in the room. (The other brother no one will ever talk about, Little Johnny Castro, is too busy enjoying his new mansion to be much trouble.)
Raul: Are you going to eliminate me too because people love me so much?
Fidel: Hahaha! No one loves you, little bro, relax. Just make sure to not say anything interesting for the next fifty years and you’ll live.
Raul: Done and done.

1960:
One fourth of Cubans: Damn. Communism? We need to get out this hellhole.
(They board American Airlines and settle in Miami.)

THE NEXT FIFTY YEARS:
Operation Massive Brainwash begins.
Fidel: In this new world of peace and democracy, none of you are going to be allowed to have independent thoughts, express discontent, or produce capitalistic “art.” Also, if you’re a fag, zip it up or die. It’s sort of ok to believe in Jesus, because I AM Jesus. You are encouraged to worship me and repeat the slogans I’ll produce. Deal?
Sheeple: Hmmm…
Fidel: (now with AK-47) Deal?
Sheeple: Patria o Muerte, Venceremos!

Unfortunately, one of Fidel’s main weapon of indoctrination is Russian cartoons, which are universally acknowledged as the worst fucking cartoons in the history of the universe, so despite all attempts, Cuban people never really learn Russian or relate to Siberian winters.

1980:
Another fourth of Cubans: Damn. Russian cartoons? We need to get out of this hellhole.
(They move to the US and become extras in "Scarface".)

1989:
Soviet Union: Hey, Fidel, buddy! You know how we’ve been supporting you for 40 years just as long as you were our communist stronghold in the West?
Fidel: Uh-oh, I don’t like where this conversation is going…
Russia: Sorry. It’s not you, it’s me. But, uh, good luck keeping up with the Communism thing!
Fidel (desperately on the phone with China): Heeey, me yellow brother, long time!
China: Me no speak Spanish. (hangs up.)

THE SPECIAL PERIOD:
Fidel: Hey, Cuban people, remember how we all were so proud and happy because Communism was going to bring prosperity and happiness to everyone?
Sheeple: Yes, barely.
Fidel: Well, we’re still triumphant, except that instead of prosperity you’re going to get a burnt piece of bread a day, and instead of happiness, a bicyle.
Sheeple: But we’re going to starve!!! The country has been crumbling for the last 50 years!!!
Fidel: Hey, don’t look at me, I’m a senile megalomaniac living in my alternate world of delusion where all I do is imprison dissidents, give unbearable speeches and hang out with Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Oliver Stone, and Hugo Chavez. The three of them tell me I’m great!

ANOTHER fourth of Cubans: Damn. We need to get out of this hellhole. (They throw themselves to the oceans and are eaten by sharks.)

THE PRESENT:
Hugo Chavez: I love your rotting carcass, Fidel. You’re an inspiration to every murderous power hungry demagogue that will ever be.
Fidel: I am alive. I swear, I am alive.
The other fourth of Cubans: Ok, everybody. Harakiri?

THE FUTURE:
...???

Kid Nation

CBS premiered this show called "Kid Nation" today. Put all the ridiculous controversy and parental crystal-balling aside (These kids are going to be scarred/seduced by fame/re-enact "Lord of the Flies"). It's awesome. A voyeuristic treat. No one is as honest and clueless as a child. Anthropologists should rejoice. I'm bad at watching television, (by which I mean I rarely schedule my life around TV networks' whims). I can't remember TV schedules or premiere dates so when some pushy advertising hand has me going like: "Hmmmm, for some reason I should watch CBS tonight and what IS this show? This is fascinating!" I'm generally onto something. It hapenned once before with the premiere episode of "Survivor"... Back when things were new and true.

High School Musical

So at long last I bit into this big ball of happy.
Incredibly inoffensive. I had to smile.
It makes "Grease" seem like "Crime and Punishment."

And there's a sequel.

"Heroes" Season 1

The third season of “Lost” better whip out some huge plot twists and revelations, because “Heroes” is now my favorite forward-thinking-globalistic-suspenseful-science-fiction-ensemble-drama.

One gripe: I’m very sorry, but every time Hayden Panettiere's character comes in touch with her creepy-pedophile-looking adoptive father, I just don't feel comfortable about the scene. "Come here, Claire-Bear, let me adjust your cheerleader skirt. Oh, is your B-Cup tight on you?"

William Gibson's "Neuromancer"

In a distant past there was this movie called “The Matrix” that had this really novel special effect where the camera was all crazy and went all around the place, and everybody’s pupils dilated with praise: “OMG, imagine if like, the WORLD was imaginary and we were all like hallucinating a common reality and we were inside this computer-made MATRIX and let me pick up my blown mind off the floor” and I was like: “Hmmm, seriously, have you ever like gone in a ‘bookstore’ and taken a cursory look at the Science Fiction section? ‘Cause, ah, this has been done and done. Have you heard of William Gibson, and his classic book “Neuromancer” where people plug into this thing they call the MATRIX and…” But then their eyes glazed over and they said: “Oh, and there are sequels coming, back to back, oh my mind is going to be blown even further.” And then it wasn’t…

Revisiting “Neuromancer”, which came out on George Orwell’s favorite year, it’s amazing how futuristic it still feels. The writing can get sloppy, and the plot is just Chandler through Philip K. Dick, but it’s all so kinetic that you can barely catch your breath to notice.
Some of the people that look down on science fiction- usually people unfamiliar with the genre that can’t see how it is the ultimate form of social fiction- look down on it because they don’t think it is a good predictor of the future. Sci-fi isn’t there to predict the future, but to ANTICIPATE it. It forces people to push things forward.

Doggie Time

I've been keeping my eye on Mike White because he's to me one of the best HUMANE writers- from his "Freaks and Geeks" contributions through "Chuck and Buck" to his "School of Rock" semi-chance at a spotlight... He's a little albino effeminate dude that will probably not be in the cover of any magazine but he should. I just saw his "Year of the Dog", a movie that I will not try to define and that I'm not even recommnending because it's not going to brighten up your Blockbuster night. What you get is Molly Shannon wandering through the very familiar and inmmensely uncomfortable bog of REALITY, where people are sad and broken and complex and don't meet in cute and meaningful ways. It's a rewarding movie if you accept that. People I saw it with tried to simplify and said it was about becoming a vegan, but, hmmm, nope, that's not what the movie was about at ALL. It's more about how expressing love through being a vegan is about the best this character can do at her attempt at life. Just watch it. It's a beautiful, sad film.

Also do yourself a favor and ignore pretty much anything the DVD case suggests to you. This is no romantic comedy, this is no hilarious movie about people and puppies or anything like that.

D'oh

So you know how Einstein was really bad in school and failed his high schoool math class?
Cute, but never happenned.

One of those things that "everybody knows" that isn't true.

"Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar"

Cute little joke-book/philosophy primer.
Jay Sherman would say: "Camus can do, but Sartre is smarter."
And then Homer Simpson would say: "Well, Scooby-Doo can Do-do, but JImmy Carter is smarter."

Boyz-N-The Hood

Season 1 of the BBC’s “Robin Hood” is a break from the moral quandaries and epithetal explorations of the current (evolved) television drama. Just Robin Hood, Maid Marian, the campily evil Sheriff of Nottingham, and the merry men in tights, stealing from the rich to give to the poor, you know how it goes. Love it.

No Porn Here; The New Pornographers- "Challengers"

God forbid A.C. Newman from The New Pornographers ever actually say what he means. He can make you sing along to some deviously phrased deflection ‘cause, damn, these are pretty melodies. It’s hard to explain the giddy thrill of a song like “Myriad Harbor”: “I-took-a-plane/I-took-a-train/ Who cares? You always end up in the seeeaaa-teeeee!” Or the subliminal way the songs become familiar after some listens, when suddenly some obscure phrase like: “She always endured toast after the whale; don’t you?” bursts inside your head and you know exactly what THAT’S all about.
My only complaint: Challengers could use more Neko Case.

30 Rock

It’s nigh impossible not to have a crush on Tina Fey, (she’s cute, smart and funny), but some cold hard feminist goblin inside of me resents the fawning that greets her work, largely because it’s built around that very premise:“Look, a woman can be cute, smart and funny! Who knew?”

Well, I kinda knew. Why didn’t everyone else? Pbbt.

30 Rock is great, though. Er, rock solid.

I promise this image is entirely relevant to 30 Rock.

So much for my feminist cred.

Are You There, God? It's Me, Flicka.

"The God of Animals" by Aryn Kyle is a woman's Western, one of those novels about love and loss and the end of innocence but it's warm and wise and makes you feel like you're listening to some sad Country song in a stable with a cowgirl.

Cyborg 009-1

Imagine if the Cold War had never ended, and the world was about evenly split between the Western Bloc and the Eastern Bloc. Now, flex those Philip K. Dick brain muscles and imagine that Bond, James Bond, 007, is actually a hugely-breasted anime cyborg fighting in a beautifully designed world of bright angles while techno-lounge plays in the background. Does it get any sweeter than that? I think not, my Dear Imaginary Reader, I think not.

Owen Wilson and Will Ferrell; “Blades of Glory”; Pavarotti.

Ridi, pagliaci. I’m always waiting for the next funny guy who’s going to saw off his own funny bone. Tragedy and comedy are peanut butter and jelly: they’re ooey and gooey and go together, they stick to the roof of your mouth, just like the barrel of that gun. But what’s odd to me is how people feign surprise at the lifestyles of the rich and famous. No one ever became a millionaire actor in order to get be home by 8 so they could catch “The King of Queens” before getting some peaceful sleep. Another funny guy whose liver is probably crying for help is Will Ferrell.

I met Will Ferrell once for an interview at a press junket, back during the heyday of the Iraq War. When he came in I was cluelessly looking for my reporter’s notebook, and when he noticed this he did the universal sailor sign of looking for something, (right hand protecting from the piercing sun), and said: “Nope, can’t find them, can’t find them. Are we looking for WMDs?” Point is, I suspect he’s not a comedian as much as he is just a constant clown. Comedians have some sort of philosophy they’re trying to project. Clowns just can’t help clowning. This is why Will Ferrell is funny in "Blades of Glory" but the ridiculous circus tent of the movie always threatens to come down. You know who is definitely not funny? Jon Heder, the “Napoleon Dynamite” dude. He really needs to go away.


*Talking about “Ridi, Pagliaci”: Luciano Pavarotti died. His “Vesti La Giubba” helped me learn to tolerate, if not completely embrace, opera.

The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable

Dear Imaginary Reader:
I had three of my favorite people get together and summarize the ideas in this 300-and-some page book in three lines. These were the modest results:
“Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans.”- John Lennon.
“From small things, big things come.”-Bruce Springsteen.
“You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”-Bob Dylan.


I’m not being glib, by the way. There is much wisdom in this book, even in its casual asides about why evolution makes all sorts of sense. In a tiny little insightful footnote, he points out that a new automobile looks almost magical and not the result of years of trial and errors and accidents, but that’s what it is. That’s just a footnote.

Where's Abbot?

Why do I do these things?