             | Answer me this: Who's to blame for mistaking myth for historical fact? Are individuals accountable for their belief systems (each step of the way, not just ultimately) or are the propagators of ‘myth in nonfiction-sheep’s-clothing’ at fault? And if these instructor-wolves are liable, where’s the beef? These three questions—easily directed at religion/priests or classroom/teachers—came to the forefront of my brain today, after watching two recently released films containing a common thread, (both Cheaper-quality, reviews will be posted next month) so I decided to point my three questions at: films/directors. The films were: Capote (which is plotted like* Girl with a Pearl Earring) and Good Night and Good Luck, (which is plotted like* The Downfall: Hitler and the End of the Third Reich). I discussed both with my film umpire: “I wonder how Good Night and Good Luck will be used in decades to come? Do you think teachers will show it in class when teaching about 1950s-era McCarthyism?” I asked. “I think that’s certain to happen. My high-school history teacher showed: A Man Called Horse, as part of Native American studies and Tora, Tora, Tora, when covering World War Two; I also recall watching Excaliber in English class.” “Did your English teacher show King Arthur and Merlin to depict actual events?” “Very funny…she showed it as an example of fantasy. Myth.” “Then, neither you nor she took it out of context, that's encouraging... ...but…a Hollywood war-movie? Even though it may seem unbiased because it tries to be a movie that "tells it from both sides" it's still just a dramatic re-creation about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and NOT historically accurate, except for the war footage, of course. Also, I'm amazed anyone would think a movie about an Anglo trying to 'become a native'…wasn’t that the one with Richard Harris hanging by the chest?…I thought so…How does that have anything to do with teaching about Native American culture?” “It’s a wrong-headed, highly-skewed perspective, you’re right. But, I wasn’t so good in those classes—and partly because I’m still not so good at history, geography, and religious studies; once-in-a-while, I like a movie that teaches me something while it entertains. I’ll bet there are plenty of people who think like I do,” she said. So, I ranted: “Some films, by their very nature, are understood to be a story by everyone that watches them. But when teachers show PP-BOATS to their students, there aren't any attached codicils: ‘What you are viewing is merely a story, or a depiction of a few people's ideas—namely those of the screenwriter, the director, and a producer or two.’ I'll bet even if the teacher told you it was a story…in a couple decades, your memory holds the film and forgets the disclaimer.” “aaah…PP-BOATS?” She asked. “Oh, sorry...I thought you knew my acronyms: period piece, based on a true story.” “Was Capote a period piece based on a true story?” “No. It’s actually a bio-pic, based on a true story…so: B.P.BOATS. Confusing myth with fact in a bio-pic, like Capote, or Girl with a Pearl Earring, isn't as problematic as with a PP-BOATS. Actually, it’s nothing compared with the mistake of teaching a PP-BOATS as if it were historically accurate!” “I don’t know if I understand the distinction—and I’m positive I don’t understand why one’s OK to confuse with history, but the other isn’t.” “I’ll use better examples. Are you familiar with, The Birth of a Nation? No? Well, it is a boringly-long, silent film, set in the years surrounding the US Civil War. Filmed in 1914, but depicting the 1860’s, thus ‘period piece’; and since the war actually occurred, it is ‘based on a true story’. But, that’s where fact stops and fiction starts. The director and screenwriter tell a story—which distills into flagrant racism—about why the ‘nation’ of the Klu Klux Klan needed to be ‘born’ to restore ‘white order and justice’ to the incompetent, negligent, and lazy newly-freed blacks in the southern states.” “Are you saying such an obvious fiction, could be confused with actual history?” “Yes. And, it is. Children are born and raised by stupid, evil, and viciously-hateful adults every day—who grow up to raise ignorant, vile, and insipidly degenerate children of their own. And I’ll further answer your question with questions of my own: How could such an obvious fantasy as The Old Testament be confused with natural events? How could the New Testament be considered a true-biography? How can such a ridiculous fabrication as The Book of Mormon be considered depicting actual events?” “But, have you ever read or heard about anyone who believes the version of history depicted in that KKK film?” “Well...yes...In the mid-90s, I worked with a card-carrying hater who—while trying to convince me of the supremacy of the white race—ended up only making me sure of one thing: he actually believed the film revealed the ‘real truth’ behind a liberal, left-wing, non-confederate, cover-up! This college-educated cracker from Arkansas spoke in earnest praise of this film’s message.” “Right. So, I understand how this KKK PP-BOATS film is misused, even today. But, if I'm following you correctly, it's not so bad to re-write history if it's done in a bio-pic?” “Correct. Take the film: Girl with a Pearl Earring—even a huge misrepresentation about Johannes Vermeer’s paintings, or life, amounts to nothing more than you mistaking an artist for something he wasn’t. In the film, his wife is a tyrant. What if she was really a saint? What if Vermeer was really a fanatical blithering idiot who not only couldn't mix his own paints, as this film depicts, but couldn't walk outside without a diaper? The truth hardly matters at all. It's only about one person: unimportant in respect to the big picture.” “So. OK. Where are you going with all this? What do you think about directors who take Oliver-Stoneish and Michael-Mooreish liberties with history? That make films about Pocahontas falling in love when she was actually kidnapped, that recreate history in the minds of millions, effectively making “new-history?” “Oh, I don’t much care either way. They are—after all—just movies. But I do so very much enjoy debating their value as if they were earth-shatteringly important.” “I thought so.” * plotted like, does not always mean ‘similar to’: Capote (about the years he researched and wrote the book In Cold Blood) is plotted like, and similar to, Girl… (about the years Vermeer spent working on the titled painting). But, although the plotting of Good… and The Downfall… are alike because each collect ‘snatches of time’ (from the years of Murrow’s news-team’s lives, and from Hitler’s last days in which his surviving-secretary shared a bunker with him) once these ‘snatches of time’ are combined, the differences are vast. In Good... the journalistic endeavors to expose Senator McCarthy become canonized, while in The Downfall... Hitler’s fractured personality is not only it’s focal point, but it's rasion d'être. |
PP-BOATS are different than B.P.BOATS, but who cares.
To settle the Neosporin Debate (from last week)
October's 21 thru 31
 | “You appear slightly flustered,” screen-face wheezes. “Why?” “It is surprise. I have not heard my own name since…before the gray.” As the heavy front door pivots open he indicates with a jiggle of chins for me to enter and says, “Aahhh. Well. I am Lösch.” As if he thinks that should be sufficient explanation. I enter. Through a dim entry hall and into a deep, comfortably lit, central room—I follow the smell of a wood-burning fire and the sound of his voice. “Food and drink in the kitchen behind you; even Surinam cherries.” He knows about my cherries? |
 | “Our meeting is not in-person,” Lösch’s disembodied body image—dressed in an unflattering wrap—says from a couch near the fire. “Hologram,” he coughs, exhales deeply, and points at a series of mod-art looking rectangles, mounted near the ceiling. “I wondered about the odds of you living in the same city as Joe Lorber,” I say. When finished laughing, which is all breath, he giggles, “I’m not even on the same continent as your husk. But I do enjoy your subtle sense of humor, Roble. Coincidence. That’s how you operate? How you choose?” “No such thing as coincidence,” I reply. |
 | “No?” he asks. “Then tell me how the decision was made to mistake Radamir’s husk for a pizza.” I stroll the room’s circumference. Floor-to-ceiling, the walls are covered with intricate honeycombs of woven material. A few area rugs in muted shades, which match the walls, cover the tile floor. “Earlier today, I saw an advertisement for a place named: Vuil Bemiddelaar; when he referred to himself as a go-between…,” I shrug and let my sentence trail off. “Two grimy go-between’s is coincidental.” “A clear message,” I say. “Punctuated by total hearing loss. Regained upon soot-suit’s—Radimer’s—arrival in the gray.” |
 | “Interesting interpretation. What are your thoughts on retaining the lifespan of your young-mister-lorber?” Sitting in an overstuffed armchair facing the fireplace, I say, “It would depend.” “On?” His voice whistles when it inflects at the end. “I’ll put it like this: Radimer. His gray—right now—is either the total void of the newly returned or it is an improved gray.” When Lösch’s hologram stands and walks until it disappears, his voice emanates from the wall he walked through. “I’ll answer your non-question-question with two questions. How many improvements have you made? And how many years ago did Roble die?” |
 | “Surprised that knowledge is not in your possession.” Returning into sight with a carafe and a plate, Lösch mumbles, “Humor me,” around a mouthful of chocolate cake. “Over twenty improvements in eight centuries.” “Who grants your requests?” His voice echoes out of the carafe. Raising my eyebrows and shoulders slightly, I say, “I only know Zuella is its mouthpiece.” “Tell me about her.” “Whenever I think of her—no matter what—I recall blinding sunlight, shining off her beautiful, long, yellow hair. We were kids together. Still kids when she became my wife. Never anything I wouldn’t do for her.” |
 | I consider my words—all the despicable things she asks of me. Is that why it uses her as a mouthpiece? “Aaah-anyway, I injured my hand and arm on a broken stake during the family harvest and returned home early. Because no hearth-fire smoke was visible and the shutters were closed, I left my mount in the orchard and found her with rounders. Using my ox-mallet, I bludgeoned the one with his back to the door and staved-in the other’s face as he got off her. She claimed they were mendicants. That they took her, after determining she was alone. |
 | “But the lack of table-disarray or injuries—on her, as well as on the bodies—indicated no struggle occurred, so I accused her. We fought. And, as she should have done to rapists, she attacked me. After she reopened my arm, I cubit-clubbed her. She bit through my foresleeve before losing consciousness. I drowned her in the Zaragoza, where I sank all three bodies.” “Ever bother you? Not knowing for sure?” Lösch asks. “Until I died, yes—I called it plague, burned the house, and became a shipman—but not after.” “Why?” “I realized she became a husk that morning.” |
 | As Lösch’s image nods (in an ‘I-understand’ manner) I stand and enter the kitchen where I fill plates with fruit, crackers, cheeses, butters, and meats from overstocked refrigerators and pantries. His voice, audible from the next room, asks, “Assuming a constant rate of improvements, describe your gray in ten-thousand years.” On a hassock, back towards the fireplace-embers, I reply, “All my senses, time, unlimited space...” “Presently?” He cuts me off. “Timeless. Limited to a pier. There is a beach and nearby tree line. Birds. No color yet. I hear, and have gravity; but no sense of touch, smell, or taste." |
 | “After mission accomplishment,” Lösch says. “If you have asked questions for every recovered sense—except the last—then, asking one specific question will stick you here. Of course, there’s something I’ll need, before I tell it to you.” “According to Zuella, a question is an escape lever that returns me to my gray. If I died in this husk, for example, I would be condemned to Joe Lorber’s gray: the void.” “Then why didn’t you return to your pier when you asked Robert if he was ready, after lunch today?” Absentmindedly fiddling with piggyback dad’s gadget, my skin crawls. Shit. |
 | “Ask two questions, you won’t go anywhere.” I consider returning to the pier for an interminable amount of time without new sex-memories, then decide to take the chance. “Where can I get a pistol without engaging the focus of the law—since I may soon be concerned about Joe’s future?” I listen to Lösch breathing and the fire pop. He points over his shoulder at a cabinet. Inside I find a loaded Heckler & Koch 9mm, which I pocket. “What happens if I ask another question before my next sense-recovery?” “Back to your wonderful pier, like Zuella said,” he replies. |
 | After outlining my mission to him—as I understand it so far—Lösch details how the police can track piggyback dad’s phone and gadgets. So, as I finish snacking, I melt them. Lösch gives me replacements, which he explains how to use. Leaving, I say, “see you when my mission is over, Lösch.” “Not if I see you first, Mister Coincidence,” he chuckles. His image winks out. In the crisp, pre-dawn light, with tulips bordering the walks—it still looks like a jailhouse—I head for a turn out. The gadget's—V-Sat's—screen blips green as I call the car. |
Neosporin
"Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without news porn, or news porn without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter." - snapperhead barely misquoting Thomas Jefferson
digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005
I'm Bogey!
The Exotic Lover
45% partner focus, 47% aggressiveness, 55% adventurousness
Based on the results of this test, it is highly likely that:
You prefer your romance and love to wild and daring rather than typical
or boring, you would rather be pursued than do the pursuing and, when
it comes to physical love, you concentrate more on enjoying the
experience rather than worrying about your performance.
The Exotic Lover is a wonderful Lover Style, and conjures
images of the exotic, romantic hero out of a romance novel, or perhaps
a slightly dangerous and deadly sexy femme fatale from a noir mystery.
The Exotic Lover loves pleasure and is a treasure to date, though it
can be difficult to do so because they sometimes tend to be mysterious
and reluctant to commit.
In terms of physical love, the Exotic Lover can be quite
surprising, as they are often more exciting and adventurous than
predicted. Given a little freedom, and the right lover, the Exotic
Lover can be a delight in bed.
Best Compatibility can probably be found with:
The Liberated Lover (most of all) or the Devoted Lover, or the Romantic Lover.
You prefer your romance and love to wild and daring rather than typical
or boring, you would rather be pursued than do the pursuing and, when
it comes to physical love, you concentrate more on enjoying the
experience rather than worrying about your performance.
The Exotic Lover is a wonderful Lover Style, and conjures
images of the exotic, romantic hero out of a romance novel, or perhaps
a slightly dangerous and deadly sexy femme fatale from a noir mystery.
The Exotic Lover loves pleasure and is a treasure to date, though it
can be difficult to do so because they sometimes tend to be mysterious
and reluctant to commit.
In terms of physical love, the Exotic Lover can be quite
surprising, as they are often more exciting and adventurous than
predicted. Given a little freedom, and the right lover, the Exotic
Lover can be a delight in bed.
Best Compatibility can probably be found with:
The Liberated Lover (most of all) or the Devoted Lover, or the Romantic Lover.
October's 11 thru 20
 | An odd, smoke-like, cloud—dense and moving without wind—floats into view over the apparently abandoned, high-rise apartment building. Devoting very little attention to the pushing rush of people around me, I continue walking as the smoke congeals into a quasi-recognizable shape: a naked woman reclining...or...a big-eared dog. I bump into a couple blocking the sidewalk, staring at the cloud drifting over the street. The thin one with a skull-tattoo carps about blind, idiot, tourists in French; the other clucks possessively and shushes. I squeeze around them. Skull-tattoo eyeballs me while mother hen’s body posture coddles and admonishes. |
 | As I creep down the street at the clouds pace, it kaleidoscopes into a rainbow of foggy colors, effervesces, implodes, and morphs into a quasi-familiar: purple and pink canoe...or...chartreuse and lilac vagina. When it turns the corner at Gewijde Straat, (Dedicated Street) I make a Macy’s parade-float-connection and try to locate the guide vehicle. No way, traffic is too fast. I return my gaze. The cloud—quasi-shaped like a lime-green castle—displays: Three-nights, Overwinnings Herberg (Victory Hostel), 150 Euros. I wait at the intersection. The light changes. Crossing Dedicated Street, I examine the underbelly of the floating cloud-billboard. |
 | No motor-sounds nor hint of movement emanate from above, and I see only a slice of sky between the illuminated billboard-sides. Shimmery gray-blue, and clearly shaped like a nude woman reclining, the cloud advertises a Cabaret nightclub Vuil Bemiddelaar. The aroma of baking draws my attention away from the street and into a bright pedestrian area. Hungry...how could I forget! A multi-faceted blaze of sharp light—from the exterior and interior surfaces of a chrome block—demands closer inspection. Small cubicles, like the spaces between the toes of the Sphinx, are inset around the circumference of a mirrored building. |
 | I pass food-stalls reminiscent of midway-booths from a long ago fair in America. Reflections of all shadows and movements, including mine, bounce off everything (like an outdoor, hall-of-mirrors) and make me forget my hunger. Almost. I stop in front of a deep cubicle selling pizza and beer. Once inside, I realize the menu-board displays American pizza and German beer. I’ve died and gone to heaven...chuckling at my own irony, I order. Taking a Schneiderweisse to a side table and sipping, I wait for my soft-crust Chicago-style pie to cook. A man sits across from me—sideways. I look around. |
 | I see four empty, nearby, tables—and sigh. A meat-gazer. In an empty wall of urinals, this guy probably chooses the adjacent pisser. “Only been back short time?” he asks in accented-English. Yugoslavian is probably his native tongue. His face muscles, especially those having to do with his lower lip, have an interesting life of their own. He says, “noticed you outside the Internationaal Instituut,” and wrinkles his chin. I swallow a slice from my bottled-loaf-of-wheat-bread and say, “we have never met.” He puckers. “True. Ask me something. Anything.” I shake my head. Does he know? He stands. Grimaces. Leaves. |
 | I finish my unfiltered wheat and buy another. Returning to my seat, I find an English language newspaper on meat-gazer’s chair. The texture feels like a magazine. Heavy. There are no advertisements or photographs—just blank spaces. Business: ...infoport investigators divulge the tracking system was corrupted..., ...sat-sys compromised by moon-meteorite debris..., ...without the cooperation of the Web of Internets Controllore-Globalè...; Local: ...evidence links spree to shuttle-rail conductor..., ...mother consumes her aborted...; and International: ...Yellowstone toll suspected to level at seventeen-million..., ...Italy and Romania pass mandatory branding... Che-ohss is busy. My pizza arrives. I eat, drink, and read—savoring it all. |
 | With slicer-disc and pie-server, I cut and fold my pizza slices. I eat them like an American—point first, like a sandwich. Others stare, while eating theirs with silverware—crust first. Grease dribbles down my hand to the cuff of my sleeve. I lick it off. Another man, coal-miner-dirty, slips into meat gazer's seat. Fucking Central Station! He is—head to toe—wearing a...a soot suit. Oh. I have to use that. In French, the beers help me enunciate, “Your soot suit est remarquable. Sing Chim-Chimney.” In English he says, “Did you return, assimilate, and begin your mission recently?” |
 | Thoughts bumper-car around in my head. How could meat-gazer and soot suit be aware? Mind readers? ...Joe’s psychology class last spring: technological advances in brain wave interpretation permit a form of telepathy... ...needs a huge machine... ...like... ...this building... ...Jesus-youblitheringidiot-Christ! I leave. Soot suit follows. “Since you’ve only one question left, or risk premature departure, I’ll explain,” he says. Slowing my pace—wrong about the no-questions rule, could just be a fancy trick—I turn. His eyes are so clean. He continues, “One named Lösch discovered how to stick. Not return. If you choose, you can have your husk’s lifespan.” |
 | Squinting—not from headlights, overhead streetlights, or storefront glare, but because Joe’s muscle-memory squints instead of scowls—I say, “Tell me how.” “Only Lösch can. It involves a certain...deception. I’m still bound by that rule.” “Your 'one-question-left' statement confuses me.” He shrugs. “You retrieved two senses, haven’t asked two... Oh, how do I know? ...Sorry, I’m out of practice conversing with interrogatory-incapable ones. It’s like an aura? A visual record of our life force; way over this one’s head,” he laughs. “Interested in meeting Lösch?” I nod. We walk away from lights, through dim alleyways, and into darker passages. |
 | We enter an incongruous park. Through the trees, spotlights illuminate a windowless building. The swishes of our steps fade away. As I say, “looks like a jail,” my voice becomes distant. Soot Suit turns, squeaks, “My go-between duties are complete. Announce yourself on the…” He indicates, still talking. I remove the slicer-disk from a pocket and point him away from me before opening a mouth-sized smile in his grimy neck. I let him fall. The clean-shaven head on the screen adjacent the jailhouse door peers around its own flesh. It’s breathy voice says, “Roble. Can you hear?” “Yes,” I reply. |
Pissed off is sometimes justified
I was recently told my portrait made me look angry-sad. What portrait do you mean? The one on your site. Oh...the impressionistic digital rendering? Yep. *blink* What the? So, you think it looks angry and sad? Kinda, yah.
So I looked at it. Closely. I really examined it (since I haven't looked at it with more than .000238th of a glimpse in seven months). I think it is, if anything, a blurry-rainbow sticking out it's tongue surrounded by leaves with lavender eyeshadow over one eye. But. That's just me. Maybe I'm too forest-from-the-trees, here. So I took my self over to The Perception Laboratory's Face Transformer where I attempted to become happier and reduce my desire to kick my cat. He currently pisses in my presence, and not in a talking with the bathroom door open, kind of way; more in a squat next to me on the bed...did I get any of that on ya?...Shucks, I'll do better next time, kind of way.
Don't I look happy?
The vet tells me his OC disorder has become aggrevated by any number of events (real and, possibly, imagined) and I am to consider kitty Prozac.
Book Recommendation: BIOS
This tightly plotted story is a valiant, smoothly-written science fiction story about the universal prevalence and diversity of life. Focused on the various viral, bacterial, and building-block-proteins of über-microscopic organisms (which are certainly much more deadly and difficult to combat than, say, huge scaly-caterpillars with coral-sharp claws and beady crab-like eyes.) Future space-travelers will more than probably have to deal with deadly plagues long before they will need to squash big bugs.SF Fans, this book is widely available in paperback.
Book Recommendation: Cold Service
A unique Spencer novel, in that, this entire story Spencer plays second-fiddle to Hawk's lead. Although filled to the brim with dozens of Parkeresque-dialogue chapters (normally fun, witty, and capable of moving the plot quite effectively), here, the banter between all the familiar characters sounds a bit lackluster, bordering-on-unimaginative in a lot of places, and tired-dull in more than a few others. I'm afraid Spencer is getting tired of Parker or vice versa.
Spencer Fans: this book is available at used bookstores. For those unfamiliar with the series, pick up a copy at your local library.
Keeper Alert: Domino
Domino (2005) directed by Tony Scott (Man on Fire, 2004); starring Keira Knightley and Mickey Rourke: Snaprating=Keeper, PROBLEM theme (Character sub-theme). Fans of Scott's colorful, quick-cut, intense information overload films, will love this edgy, hard-pounding blur. (Of special note are the numerous, wonderful, minor-characters and odd sub-plots).
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