Red Dead Redemption

          After playing this game for a few weeks, I highly recommend it if—like myself—you specifically enjoy 'side games'.  If you normally prefer to stick to the main mission, finishing it without much deviation...this game is NOT for you.  If you are considering this game, it's probably because you've played a sandbox-style game before (like Grand Theft Auto) and enjoyed the open world format.

          In Red Dead Redemption, Rockstar Games has moved side-games from optional to mandatory.  In GTA4 accomplishing mini-games (like racing and going to arcades or bars) improves your relationships, but there's no measurable penalty for not doing so.

          Choosing to not accomplish the mini-missions in Red Dead, is detrimental to accomplishing the main mission.  This is done with two meters:  your fame meter (which begins at the bottom) and your honor meter (which begins in the middle).  As you successfully finish tasks (main and mini) you become more famous; increased fame makes life much easier.  If you "turn a blind eye" to mini missions (or fail them) your fame decreases.  For every good deed you accomplish (save villagers from bandits, rescue a person from attacking animals, choose to disarm a criminal rather than kill them, etc.) your honor increases.  For every bad deed (whether by choice or accident) your honor decreases.  The more honorable or dishonorable you become the more you are loved or feared, which alters the way you are treated by both law enforcement and people in general.

          Although you can decide to become an infamous outlaw or a famous legend of the old west, the game makes it possible to be both at the same time, to effectively "become a wolf in sheep's clothing."  This is done with outfits, which you earn by accomplishing various mini-tasks.  As an example, one outfit is that of a bandit-gang.  If you wear that outfit with a bandanna on your face not only can you commit crimes without your honor being affected, but you can freely enter the bandit gang's camp.

          Advertisements for Red Dead focus on the shooter-aspect, on the old west environment, and on the outlaw with a heart of gold.  They all fail to mention the strong element of hunting-as-necessity and hunting-as-sport.  If you have no problem killing and looting the bodies of video game stagecoach-robbers or cattle-rustlers but wouldn't enjoy the concept of killing and skinning innocent animals for food or sport, then this game is NOT for you.  There are several dozen different birds and animals in this game—some are predators who stalk and kill you and your horse if you enter their territory (unless you kill them first), some scurry fast through the brush, some glide slowly overhead, some dart quickly trough the trees—all need to be shot and skinned (or feathers removed) at some time or another, in order to sell their meat, hides, and feathers; in order to accomplish mini-games; in order to survive in the game.

          The biggest reason I appreciate and enjoy this game:  it successfully incorporated the key elements of every spaghetti-western and cowboy movie from my childhood—from dueling in the street to cheating at poker, from herding cattle to breaking broncos, from gold mines to searching for buried treasure with treasure maps, from stopping a hanging (by shooting the rope) to stopping a runaway train.  The notable historical exceptions (so far, I've not finished the game) are the absences of slaves and Native Americans.
   
No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars or sailed an uncharted land, or opened a new doorway for the human spirit. — Helen Keller

It's eleven eleven, do you know where your superstition is?

The sentence—I'm proud that I am smart enough to not have any superstitious beliefs—is vainglorious and condescending; but, it's also true.  A few months ago, I had a brief conversation about ghosts with our resident rapscallion (my paramour's teenage son).  All conversations with youth are brief, so this one might almost count as a lengthy one.  We were watching tv, and I was jumping over a commercial logjam in 30sec hops with the DVR remote (for unaware Europeans: American TV has a few-minutes of commercials every ten minutes).  My last hop advanced into the show, so I made a couple 10sec back-jumps and we watched a portion of a commercial for one of those shows where a group of people walk around at night, with night vision cameras, in old buildings (for unaware Europeans: most Americans think one-hundred year old buildings are ancient).

"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"No."  I said (as I paused the TV).
"So, ummm, what do you think happens after you die?" 
"Where were you before you were born?" (My default teach-a-teenager position has become—answer a question with a question.  It can, occasionally, cause an additional sentence to be added to the conversation.)
"So, like, that's it?  Nothingness?"
"You almost sound upset."
"Well, it's kinda sad...you know...blip and we're done."
"I'm not telling you what to believe.  You can pick from dozens of religions that say you go someplace magical.  Also, if you want to think ghosts move old dusty chairs in basements of derelict buildings or float around as orbs...well, that's your prerog™."  (Clipping a suffixplus is kinda lame, but I get a kick when he repeats them.  In a month I'll overhear him with a friend playing Guitar Hero, "If you don't wanna use the mic while I play guitar that's your prerog bitch.")
"But you don't.  And you're happy with that."
"Not only am I content with 'blip and we're done' (as I said blip I snapped my fingers) I'm amazed and confused by anyone who wants and believes their existence to be infinite and forever."
"Amazed and confused—isn't that a Led Zep..."
"Dazed and confused is Zep.  Amazed and confused is Neil Diamond."
"You sure?"
"About the song titles...yes."

This conversation got me thinking about my lack of superstitious beliefs.  I realized that I do have one thing which can only be explained as superstitious ideation.  It also could just be a big coincidence (I once had a co-worker who said there were no such things as coincidences, but I think he might have been superstitious).

Almost every time-telling device in my possession, or around our home, is digital.  I don't wear a watch (and haven't for many years).  Since I don't live a life of deadlines, schedules, or appointments (and haven't for many years) I'm usually not concerned with knowing what time it is.  This lack of concern results in my not looking at the digits on the stove or the front of the DVR.  I can answer my cell, talk, and hang up...all without looking at the time.  I probably check the time about six times a day.

I usually need a strong reason to look at a clock.  If I'm woken and it's still dark out, I'll point my eyes at the digits on the nightstand.  If someone rings our doorbell at night, the clock will tell me if it's too late for our resident rapscallion to have visitors.  If I've been reading for hours and wonder if I could squeeze in another hundred pages, I'll let those same digits on the nightstand decide.  If I'm hungry, but we have dinner plans this evening, the digits inform me if a snack is necessary.  A round of golf could take 4 hours.  The film starts at 5:45.  The store closes at 9.  Even in my lackadaisical life there are reasons to look at the time.

Lately (and by that I mean for the last several months) when I do, it seems, more-often-than-not, the digits are all the same.  An inordinate amount of the time, when I check the time, it is either 1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, 5:55, or 11:11.  And I read somewhere, enough years ago that I've forgotten when and where, that when that happens regularly it means something important is going to happen—and, that something is going to either be fortuitously good or viciously evil (I also forget which).

I'm not saying that every time I check a clock it's always all-same-numeral time.  But out of a possible 720 different minutes in every 12-hour period, there are six times it occurs (for unaware Europeans: Americans use a.m. and p.m. instead of the 24-hour clock).  That's a dozen opportunities out of every day, or—to be specific—only a 0.83% chance for it to happen every day.

I woke up at 4:44 to use the bathroom last night.  My landlord had people clean-out the rain gutters today; they arrived at 11:11.  I can go a day or three without it happening, but it's so frequent that I've begun to seriously wonder at the odds.

If I was completely non-superstitious, I wouldn't even notice if I sat down to watch TV at 5:55 or went to bed at 1:11.  But since I can't seem to stop noticing it happen, I must be a little superstitious.

[After writing this essay, I began to look for appropriate images and, in so doing, discovered more than a few e-groups discussing the 'phenomenon' as communications from the other side or somesuch.  They were a comfort to read, because then I realized that all I'm doing is pattern-recognizing.  If I see it's 10:52, I immediately forget the time and note to myself, "almost eleven."  But when I started the car last week and it was 2:22—that immediately got saved in long term memory because it's a signpost, of course!]

AAAhhhh me.  Once again a superstitiousless idiot.

Security is mostly a superstition.  It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it.  Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.  Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. — Helen Keller (blind and deaf author-activist)

I Don't Do Decoration Day

          When I was asked how I celebrated Memorial Day, I tried out the reply:  I don't celebrate May 31st.  It seems I say something similar almost every holiday.  This time, I decided I'd try to come up with something polite, and truthful, and which wouldn't set me up for follow-on questions.  And, it didn't work.

          "What do you mean?  You were in the service."  She said with a southern accent; maybe Texas near the Oklahoma border.  It came out—Whadja mean, yaw're enda sarvace!

          I must have made a scowl or something.

          In the past I've tried an abbreviated, "I don't celebrate," which only seemed to imply I didn't drink or party and, once, I attempted the über-short, "I didn't"—but that person assumed I must have had to work.  I was now thinking I might regret not choosing the put flags on graves outright lie.

          "I'm surprised you don't acknowledge our fallen heroes, retired army an all.  Betcha think it's alright that Obama didn't lay a wreath at Arlington then."

          Although indignation seemed to be familiar territory for her, we didn't know each other well enough for her to pull indignant, so I said, "I look at it the same way I look at December 25th...I try to be polite all year, not just the holidays...and, I try to remember my heroes all year round, not just the first day of summer.  And here's something you should know:  working in the military was just a job.  And, like any job, there's maybe one hero for every couple-thousand ass-hats.  Dieing doesn't make you a hero.  Cemeteries are filled with ass-hats."

The world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of tiny pushes of each honest worker.  — Helen Keller (1880-1968)

Art - Andreas Hykade; Music - Heiko Maile

I love power.  But it is as an artist that I love it.  I love it as a musician loves his violin, to draw out its sounds and chords and harmonies. — Napoleon Bonaparte

Emulate-Zheng

          Recently, in China, there have been six school-attacks on kindergarten, elementary school and pre-school children.  The first of this spate of spree killers/attempted killers was Zheng Minsheng, who began his unusual overpopulation-curbing attempts with a tally of 8-5 (killed-wounded).  Although the Chinese government speedily executed Zheng by firing squad, he's spawned five copy-cats.  Most, like Zheng, were also knife-wielders.  One, with a flair for originality, tried to attain amok-speed with a hammer and self-immolation (but achieved a paltry 0-5).  The latest used a cleaver; because his kindergarten-of-choice contained 20 children and two adults, his score of 9-11 reflects thoroughness, if nothing else.

          These attacks jolted my memory.  In early 2005, a meme posited:  What single weapon would you select if forced to thunderdome-battle a hundred unarmed 5-year-olds?  I dis-recall (and can't find in the archives) my answer from a half-decade ago...but I think I chose an edged weapon.  I did successfully locate Davecat's well-thought-out reply:  Dog Chain.

          Now, after learning about these dismal beta-test results in China, (I mean come-on Zhengers...with potential targets as young as 3, are double-digits really too much to expect?) I'd definitely not choose a short handled weapon—blunt or edged.

          Apparently, a hundred kindergartners will scatter like a thunder of 2am-cockroaches from a 1000-watt spotlight, so catching seems more crucial than dispatching.  Today, I'd choose a twenty-foot nylon cast net as my weapon.  Yes, I realize that means manually topping each kid before un-tangling them...but, if you pace yourself, I assume—just like clubbing baby seals—there's an attainable rhythm to efficiently snapping pre-schooler's necks. 

How many things, apparently impossible, have—nevertheless—been performed by resolute men who had no alternative but death. — Napoleon Bonaparte

Hustle

How many really capable men are children more than once during the day? — Napoleon Bonaparte

related art:

Unauthorized Portrait of MontiLee

日本にヘルプを提供してください。

STICKER

          I have a talent (or a curse) which I turned to my advantage during my crime scene investigation days.  My parents innocently planted and then accidentally cultivated this ability deep into my psyche between my seventh and twelfth birthdays.

          My family moved six times during that five-year period and professional movers have an effective (but insidious) way of insuring no items become lonerganed:  they place a small sticker on your furniture, and a checklist with every sticker's number is annotated during loading and off-loading.  Movers unbox, re-assemble, and remove all packing material—they do not, however, remove those tiny fucking pieces of colored tape. 

          I was the kid on the floor in front of the TV who got tired of seeing a yellow Allied Van Lines and a white North American Van Lines underneath the living room coffee table.  I eventually found the red National Van Lines under the base of my red bicycle frame.  Every spring—the first Sunday after the full moon after the vernal equinox—my mom would hide a hundred of those little colored-foil covered chocolate eggs around the house.  My sisters would find half of them and I'd find the other half...along with a few dozen more stickers.  By the end of my Freshman year in High School, I could enter a cluttered room filled with furniture and instantly see the millimeter-wide edge of a green Mayflower Van Lines peeking out from under the rear leg of a chair...in my new neighbors house.  After my step father died in the 90's, I found a decrepit set of my grandfather's WWII-era golf clubs in the back of the garage.  The bottom of the canvas bag still had a stack of five, stuck one on top of the other, edges curled, adhesive gone, the only thing keeping them in place for more than 25 years had been disinterest and the fact that the Easter Bunny never hid eggs in the garage.

           Time has morphed my sticker-curse in an Adrian Monk kind of way.  Today, when you show me your new electronic gadget, I'm instantly bothered by the protective film you failed to completely remove from all the cracks and edges or *shudder* intentionally left in place on the screen.  If you like the advert-logos on the face of your computer...don't loan it to me, even if I ask real nice.  I'm retarded when it comes to anything even remotely similar to those little bastards (I get the urge to pick and peel just looking at them up there on the screen).

          During my first housebreaking and larceny investigation, I realized my curse could also be a talent.  In a nutshell:  Sergeant Cooper returned from a two-week Christmas vacation to discover his house ransacked and vandalized.  I collected over 100 fingerprints and a dozen samples of DNA.  Apparently, a large group of zombies trashed the entire house during a nonstop Xmas-to-New-Years party.  No neighbors knew the Cooper's were on vacation; they all thought he threw a big party they weren't invited to.  Not much was stolen; everything of value was damaged to the tune of about 50K.  Interviews with neighborhood teens was a waste of time.

          Two weeks later, Sergeant Cooper's Datsun was stolen (and he realized, at that time, that his spare set of keys must have also been stolen).  Three days later it was recovered, I found no fingerprints, and told him to change his locks.  A week later his car was stolen again.  A few days later it was recovered again (still no prints).  Sorry, I didn't have time to change the locks yet—he said.  I used the office copier to make a sign, which I posted on our internal bulletin board.  The sign...

                                                                                                                                    ...got me a gentle ass-chewing from my boss because Sergeant Cooper saw it when he came to the office to provide his detailed statement of loss (and—his sense of humor must have also been stolen, even though I didn't see it on his list).

          Two more days go by...stolen again!  Goddammit Sergeant, what the fuck?  Sorry, I bought one of those club's for the steering wheel, but I might've forgotten to put it on.  After it was recovered for the third time (still no prints) I found a red 'Club' and a red cellophane-wrapped heart-box of candy (with receipt) in the detritus which permanently resided on the floorboards.  Since I'd searched that pile of garbage twice before, the Valentines gift jumped out at my eyes just like a sticker.

           The entire case was wrapped up in a week.  The receipt lead to a gas station video tape.  The cellophane had good fingerprints of the guy in the video.  He lived in the neighborhood, didn't want to pay for the damages he wasn't responsible for, and remembered five other people at the party...who remembered a few more, who remembered a few more, who remembered all the rest.  And all their prints and DNA matched what had been collected.  Almost twenty people.  Came to a little over 2K in damages per vandal.  The only one who got any jail-time was the joyriding guy who forgot his box of candy...and that was only because he was already on probation.

 

Note:  It would still be a few years before I would learn the term Asperger's, which would not only explain my attention to detail but my lack of eye contact and odor sensitivity.

Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake. — Napoleon Bonaparte

Davecat Gothic

A bout du chapeau to Ptak Science Books; I include a wonderful yet anomalous "find" of Mr Ptak's:  A future photo of Davecat taken in 2046.  Although he ages quite well, it is a bit unsettling to see that in the next thirty-six years Dakota and Carolina consolidate and, accordingly, there are again 48 states. 

"Keeping a straight face with you giggling, Sidore, is not easy."

The myth holds us, therefore—not through its romantic flavor, not the remembrance of beauty of some bygone age, not through the possibilities of fantasy—but because it expresses to us something real and existing in ourselves, as it was to those who first stumbled upon the symbols to give them life. — Mark Rothko

You're so vain—bet'cha think this isn't about you...

          I honestly despise every bit and byte of the most recent revelations from the sunset stained stucco-and-concrete hued neurons in your skull.

          I'm not only referring to the vacuous way your brain fails to formulate, nor just the way it conject-ificates — even (I say in my best cartoonishly lyrical exit-stage-left tone) but the way your Gulliver’s been wired.  That's what I hate the most.  The way you’ve permitted, nay—encouraged—its re-formatting by all the paperdolls who giddily camouflage you with their painlessly worthless info-injections.

          They’ve not only erased laugh lines (that could’ve, once, been correctly referred to as dimples) but are now—at the pace of these keystrokes—preventing the formation of character in what’s become a silicone-based body costume.  Is it possible to still refer to something as a ‘facade’ which completely covers all vantage points?  Once you begin to sleep in it (if you haven’t already) isn’t it an exoskeleton?

          The load—once enjoyed, then craved, now giveusthisday our daily band-with high-fiber-optic / low-in-telligence—is over your head...overwhelming...overwrought...over taking you...overkill   ing  you.

I know you don’t see it.

You’ll be missed.

Already are.

The magnitude—on every level of experience and meaning—of the task in which you have involved me, exceeds all my preconceptions and is teaching me to extend myself beyond what I thought was possible for me.  For this, I thank you. — Mark Rothko

Sizing-Up the Art of Criticizing

In another (failed) attempt to determine why no person I know (and especially no professionals) are capable of acting as my film umpire...I began—on the winter solstice of last year—to screen about one film a day and to rate every one I watched.  Four months and more than 100 films later...I've learned that the five-star rating system doesn't work (and little else).

Under the commonly used 5-point system, 1 is the lowest rating available, (for painfully terrible movies) 5 is the highest, (for unique and wonderful works of genius) and 3 is given to average middle-of-the-road films.  3's are routinely forgettable.  The best way to decide if a film is a 3 is if—immediately after viewing—you know it wasn't a 1 or a 5...wait a week...and if you can no longer recall the film, it's a solid 3.  That leaves 2 for the movies with too many flaws, and 4 for the films you like.

A good rating system, right?  I thought so too, until I learned the uber-majority were huddled invisibly under never-remember-land's umbrella.  When the best thing I could say about 6.5 out of 10 of them was:  They're not bad enough to dislike, I knew I "needed a bigger boat" (needed to fix the 3s).  But first, why are there so many 3s? 

I determined there were a few over-looked intricacies to both the film-watching and film-rating process:

The Rob Schneider Truism:  Film watchers rarely intentionally watch films they believe, based on previous experience, will be forgettable-to-terrible (3 or lower).  Accordingly, there are not many 1s on anyone's list.
 
The Pixar Truism:  Film watchers rarely love every aspect of a film to such an extent that they say it is amazing, timeless, and best-ever.  People are stingy with their highest rating, which results in a low number of 5s on most people's list.

The 'That-One-Guy' Truism:  The overwhelming majority of films are an unfortunate combination of not good enough to remember and not bad enough to remember, which poses a significant problem if you are ever asked to recommend a movie.  Even if you aren't a professional critic and are just some idiot who watches a rabidly massive shitload of films—eventually—someone you know is going to ask, "Hey, Avatar wasn't a 3, was it?"  [Yes]  "Should I see it anyway?"  [Yes]  "Why?"  [It's pretty and was uniquely made].

To solve my "3-problem" I decided to add qualifiers.  With a 3- and a 3+ it's possible to diminish the mediocre middle.  Unfortunately, sometimes—still—there is nothing more to say about a film than it was "solidly forgettable"...and, therefore, there are still some 3s.  But the majority are now identified as 3+ (some memorable accomplishments) or 3- (a few memorable errors).

The Never Listen to a Jaw-less Critic Truism:  Back when he could talk, Roger Ebert's "default" was solidly in the center, and he normally called them like he saw them.  Now, his default is 'thumbs up.'   It's as if every forgettable film gets a one-point bump because he's glad he still isn't dead.  And then there are his inexcusable exceptions.  He gave his lowest rating to 'Kick Ass' not because the film contained flawed editing or poor acting or a terrible script...but because he didn't find humor when an 11-year-old girl cussed and slaughtered baddies.

"Hey, Kick Ass wasn't a 3, was it?"  [No, a 4]  "But Ebert gave it a 1!"  [Grampy's sense of humor must have been removed with his tongue]  "Didn't he give Avatar his highest rating?"  [Simplistic template-driven action movies are perfect for the immature and the aged].

Title (linked)     Director, year      Theater / Home      Genre      Rating
Avatar - James Cameron, 2009 - T - Fantasy/SF - 3+
London to Brighton - Paul Andrew Williams, 2006 - H - Crime Drama - 3-
Bottle Shock - Randall Miller, 2008 - H - PPBOTS - 3-
Step Brothers - Adam McKay, 2008 - H - Comedy - 1
Up in the Air - Jason Reitman, 2009 - T - Comedy - 3+
Rudo y Cursi - Carlos Cuarón, 2008 - H - Drama - 3-
The Last Supper - Stacey Title, 1996 - H - Drama - 2
Blood Simple - Coen brothers, 1984 - H - Crime Thriller - 4
Once Upon a Time in the West - Sergio Leone, 1968 - H - Western - 3
A Sound of Thunder - Peter Hyams, 2005 - H - SF - 2
The Hangover (unrated) - Todd Phillips, 2009 - H - Comedy - 4 (2dX)
Sherlock Holmes - Guy Ritchie, 2009 - T - Suspense/Thriller - 3+
Solyaris - Andrei Tarkovsky, 1972 - H - SF - 3-
Lilja 4-ever - Lukas Moodysson, 2002 - H - Drama - 3
May - Lucky McKee, 2002 - H - Horror - 2 (2dX)
Visioneers - Jared Drake, 2008 - H - Comedy - 2
Don't Bother to Knock - Roy Ward Baker, 1952 - H - Drama - 3+
My Man Godfrey - Gregory La Cava, 1936 - H - Comedy - 4
United States of Tara: Season 1 - Diablo Cody, 2009 - H - Comedy - 5
The Book of Eli - Hughes brothers, 2010 - T - SF Thriller - 4
The Shooting Gallery - Keoni Waxman, 2005 - Crime Drama - H - 2
The Girlfriend Experience - Steven Soderbergh, 2009 - Drama - H - 1
You, The Living - Roy Andersson, 2007 - Comedy - H - 3-
The Class - Laurent Cantet, 2008 - Drama - H - 3-
Paper Heart - Nicholas Jasenovec, 2009 - Romantic Comedy - H - 3-
The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus - Terry Gilliam, 2010 - Fantasy - T - 3+
Daybreakers - Spierig brothers, 2010 - Action - T - 3+
O'Horten - Bent Hamer, 2007 - Comedy - H - 3-
In the Loop - Armando Iannucci, 2009 - Comedy - H - 2
Edge of Darkness - Martin Campbell, 2010 - Action - T - 3+
Ben X - Nic Balthazar, 2007 - Drama - H - 3-
Songs from the Second Floor - Roy Andersson, 2000 - Drama - H - 2
Body of Lies - Ridley Scott, 2008 - Action - H - 3-
Killshot - John Madden, 2008 - Crime Thriller - H - 3-
Thirst - Chan-wook Park, 2009 - Horror Drama - H - 5
Sleep Dealer - Alex Rivera, 2008 - SF - H - 3-
Surveillance - Jennifer Chambers Lynch, 2008 - Crime Thriller - H - 4
Taken - Pierre Morel, 2008 - Action - H - 3-
Max Payne - John Moore, 2008 - Action - H - 3-
Alice - Jan Svankmajer, 1988 - Animation - H - 3-
This Is England - Shane Meadows, 2006 - PPBOATS - H - 3-
La jetée - Chris Marker, 1962 - Short/SF - H - 1
From Paris with Love - Pierre Morel, 2010 - Action - T - 3-
City of Ember - Gil Kenan, 2008 - SF - H - 2
The Song of Sparrows - Majid Majidi, 2008 - Drama - H - 3+
Vidas Privadas - Fito Páez, 2001 - Drama - H - 3-
Pantaleón y las visitadoras - Francisco J. Lombardi, 2000 - Drama - H - 3-
Shutter Island - Martin Scorsese, 2010 - Psy-Thriller - T - 3-
Yi Yi - Edward Yang, 2000 - Drama - H - 3-
Baxter - Jérôme Boivin, 1989 - Horror - H - 3+
1000 Journals - Andrea Kreuzhage, 2007 - Documentary - H - 3-
Stupidity - Albert Nerenberg, 2003 - Documentary - H - 3-
The Iron Giant - Brad Bird, 1999 - Children's Animation - H - 2
911 In Plane Sight - William Lewis, 2004 - Documentary - H - 1
A Clockwork Orange - Stanley Kubrick, 1971 - SF - H - 5 (2dX)
Constantine's Sword - Oren Jacoby, 2007 - Documentary - H - 3
Breakfast with Scot - Laurie Lynd, 2007 - Drama - H - 3+
Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog - Joss Whedon, 2007 - Comedy - H - 2
Brief Conversations with Hideous Men - John Krasinski, 2009 - Drama - H - 4
The Taking of Pelham 123 - Tony Scott, 2009 - Action - H - 3-
The Crazies - Breck Eisner, 2010 - Horror - T - 4
Revanche - Götz Spielmann, 2008 - Crime Drama - H - 3+
Taking Woodstock - Ang Lee, 2009 - Comedy - H - 3-
The Invention of Lying - Gervais and Robinson, 2009 - Comedy - H - 3+
The End of August at the Hotel Ozone - Jan Schmidt, 1967 - SF - H - 3+
Chop Shop - Ramin Bahrani, 2007 - Drama - H - 3-
The Hunger - Tony Scott, 1983 - Horror - H - 3+
Sade - Benoît Jacquot, 2000 - Drama - H - 2
Ponyo - Hayao Miyazaki, 2008 - Anime - H - 4
Alice in Wonderland - Tim Burton, 2010 - Fantasy - T - 3+
Women in Trouble - Sebastian Gutierrez, 2009 - Drama - H - 3
Read or Die - Masunari and Lee, 2001 - Anime - H - 2
Undead - Spierig Brothers, 2003 - Horror/SF - H - 4
The Ghost Writer - Roman Polanski, 2010 - Thriller - T - 4
Sin Nombre - Cary Fukunaga, 2009 - Action Drama - H - 3-
No Impact Man - Gabbert and Schein, 2009 - Documentary - H - 3-
Hank and Mike - Matthiew Klinck, 2008 - Comedy - H - 1
The Hit - Stephen Frears, 1984 - Crime Thriller - H - 3-
The White Ribbon - Michael Haneke, 2009 - Drama - T - 3+
Fanboys - Kyle Newman, 2008 - Comedy - H - 2
Roads to Koktebel - Khlebnikov and Popogrebsky, 2003 - Drama - H - 3
$9.99 - Tatia Rosenthal, 2008 - Animation - H - 4
Changling - Clint Eastwood, 2008 - Drama - H - 3-
Final Fantasy: Advent Children - Tetsuya Nomura, 2005 - Anime - H - 1
The Botany of Desire - Michael Schwarz, 2009 - Documentary - H - 3+
Absurdistan - Veit Helmer, 2008 - Comedy - H - 3+
Encounters at the End of the World - Werner Herzog, 2007 - Documentary - H - 3
Special - Haberman and Passmore, 2006 - Comedy - H - 3-
Peter and the Wolf - Suzie Templeton, 2006 - Animation Short - H - 5
Extract - Mike Judge, 2009 - Comedy - H - 3-
Examined Life - Astra Taylor, 2008 - Documentary - H - 3
Harlan Ellison: Dreams with Sharp Teeth - Erik Nelson, 2008 - Documentary - H - 1
Shiver - Isidro Ortiz, 2008 - Horror - H - 3
The Ring Finger - Diane Bertrand, 2005 - Drama - H - 3
Lust, Caution - Ang Lee, 2007 - Drama - H - 3+
Angels and Demons - Ron Howard, 2009 - Thriller - H - 2
2007 Academy Award Nominated Short Films - Various, 2007 - Animated/Live Action - H - 4
How to Train your Dragon - DeBlois and Sanders, 2010 - Animation - T - 4
The Bank Job - Roger Donaldson, 2008 - PPBOATS - H - 3
A Perfect Getaway - David Twohy, 2009 - Thriller - H - 3
The Mother - Joon-ho Bong, 2010 - Mystery - T - 5
Chinaman - Henrik Ruben Genz, 2005 - Drama - H - 3+
Hot Tub Time Machine - Steve Pink, 2010 - Comedy - T - 3+
Black Dynamite - Scott Sanders, 2009 - Homage - H - 2
The Center of the World - Wayne Wang, 2001 - Drama - H - 2
Repulsion - Roman Polanski, 1965 - Horror - H - 4
Open Your Eyes - Alejandro Amenábar, 1997 - SF - H - 3-
Kick Ass - Matthew Vaughn, 2010 - Action - T - 4

"Hey, what's PPBOATS?"  [Period Piece Based On A True Story]  "What's the best American film you've seen in this four month period?"  [Surveillance, 2008]  "Best English language film released in 2010?"  [The Ghost Writer]  "Best of the 108?"  [The Mother]  "Any you'd be willing to excise with a blunt fork?"  [Hank and Mike, Step Brothers, and The Girl Friend Experience]  "Did you learn anything really valuable from all this?"  [Nope].

A picture lives by companionship.  It dies by the same token.  It is, therefore, risky to send it out into the world.  How often it must be impaired by the eyes of the unfeeling. —  Mark Rothko

Miscommunication vs. Mistakes

          Miscommunication causes more problems than malice, hatred, zeal and greed combined.  Don't lump miscommunication in with errors and oversights.  Miscommunications are not mistakes just because the portmanteau (this week's word!) began as: mistaken communication.  When someone commits a mistake all that is required from them is an apology.  Accidents happen.  Our decision-making brains don’t always work the way we want them to, and—because it's a common affliction—when someone else’s brain doesn’t work the way they wanted it to, we empathize and forgive.

I entered a large, empty, quiet, pizza place I’d never been to before, read the menu, ordered, sat in a corner and—for the next twenty minutes—ate a salad from the salad bar, drank a liter of unfiltered wheat beer, listened to soft music and read my book.  There were no other customers.

The cook came out of the kitchen, placed a pizza box on the counter and said, “Number 86!”

I stood, walked to the counter, picked up the box, thanked the cook, declined additional spices and cheese, took the box back to my table, opened it, and looked at the pizza for all of ten seconds before I began eating a slice.  In my defense—it was the correct size, smelled correct, and the toppings appeared to be of a texture, quantity, and color conforming to my order (simply put:  there were no slices of pineapple, no odor of green peppers or red chilies, and it wasn’t cheese-only).

Out of a rift in the fabric of the universe (or maybe even the bathroom) a big fucker with gravel in his voice and forty-four years of beers poorly hidden under a 3XL shirt appeared at the counter and said, “I think you called my number a minute ago?”

Fuck.  Me.

I profusely apologized and offered to buy him a beer.  He accepted my apology, declined the beer, and waited 15 more minutes for my pizza.  And, of course, neither of us will ever eat there again (imagine how many years it must take to get food when there are a hundred people on a Saturday night).

          This is not how people act after a miscommunication, although they are—like mistakes—common to everyone.  We rarely empathize when someone else’s brain doesn’t send or receive the communication the way we wanted it sent or received.  We always think our own brain is not at fault.  When miscommunication roars its ugly maw in our face, one's first impulse is to defend our brain's portion of the communication:  “That’s not what I said.”  “That’s not what was meant.”  “You didn’t say.”  “You know what I mean when I say.”  “I’m not a mind reader.”

I sat and talked with a dozen friends, co-workers, and family members at Oktoberfest.  Many of us were drinking unfiltered wheat beer and (as a group) it was decided we’d walk a circuit of the festival area to see the food booths as well as identify what types of music were being played and, once everyone returned to the table, we’d drink some more and come to a consensus on eats and music venue (at the time, that was the understanding my brain concluded had been decided for it).

Twelve brains—even sober ones—can never make a decision and act as a unit, and within three minutes a couple wanted to stand in line to get some food, five minutes later someone else wanted to shop at the craft booths and her husband decided to sit and wait for her, ten minutes later and another couple wanted to stay in the polka tent.  After less than an hour, the group was down to six.

As we walked past a tent with a band playing a cover of Prince’s 1999, I said, “This is the best tent because they’re playing Rock.”  I was hoping to sway the rest of the group.  (I thought I heard affirmative responses.  I thought my wife agreed.)

As we strolled through a little, grassy, shaded, park-like area one of the last couples decided to go get food but (because they didn’t want to lose the group) asked if we would wait five minutes for them.  We agreed.  And then almost immediately the last two people disappeared and it was just my wife and I.

Five minutes became ten.  We were sitting on a large boulder in the little park-area and we both needed to empty our bladders as well as refill our beer mugs.  We stood up, began walking and I said, “None of them are coming back.  Why don’t we go to the WC and after that...” At this point, she began to nod and our paths began to diverge as she turned toward the women's WC, so she looked at me over her shoulder as I completed the sentence (with a rise in my voice to insure I was heard over the festival volume):  “ ...I’ll meet you at the Rock Tent.”

Over the next three hours I listened to music, purchased more beers, went to the WC a few more times, walked back to the original table twice, scanned the crowds on and off (admittedly, my care-factor decreased as my intoxication increased) but I never ran into my wife.  Eventually I spoke with one of the other members of the group and he told me she was way beyond supernova angry in the little park-area.

“You goddamn fucking asshole!”
“Why are you waiting here?  I’ve been looking for you for hours.”
“Because the last words out of your mouth were, I’ll meet you at the rock!”
“The Rock?  I said, I’ll meet you at the Rock Tent.  Why would we meet at this...?”
“I don’t fuckin know!  I thought it was a stupid place, but that’s what you said!”
“But it wasn’t.  I’ve been waiting for you in the Rock Tent.”
“You just said you’ve been looking for me for hours!”
“Yea, well.  When you didn’t show up after enough time, I began looking for you...but I always returned back to the Rock Tent.”

          Every time I enter a location where becoming separated in the crowd is even remotely possible, I ask the question of all in attendance, “Where’s the rock?” 

          One might think everyone's cell phones eliminate the need for a “rock.”  That assumption is incorrect.  Wherever (when did that portmanteau get formed just so we could drop an e?) people congregate in large numbers the cell towers usually fumble the increased load; in very noisy locations, not everyone can feel their phone’s vibration all the time; batteries die.  Mistakes.  Are made. 

The familiar identity of things has to be pulverized in order to destroy the finite associations with which our society increasingly enshrouds every aspect of our environment.  —  Mark Rothko

Today's Veach

Me.  Open to new adventure.  As long as it fits into my current paradigm.  Which, to be a thousand percent honest, is simply:  Never again do more before 9 am...  (and if you can see your way clear to allowing that to be closer to noon, I'll show my appreciation until my jaw locks in the panting-alligator position).

For the last year my paramour has become quite a fantastic belly dancer as well as a pretty great choreographer of group/troupe dances.  I've now entered the fray.  Today, I began to learn how to accompany her on the doumbek drum.  After she shared a new (to me) genre: middle-eastern influenced gypsy-electronica punk, we attended a concert by Balkan Beat Box, and this genre has grown on me like a transplanted Caribbean bamboo forest in a Turkish bathhouse (one fucked-up simile, that).  I stumbled on this almost-hour example:  Diaspora Electronica - Balkan Beats by Markabre (from the above soundcloud, track 4 [at the 7.25 mark] is best—but, isn't track 4 always best?)  If you are able to sit still with any of these tracks at full-volume then...check your pulse, you might be dead.

Art is an adventure into an unknown world which can be explored only by those willing to take risks.  —  Mark Rothko

Creative genius comes with side-effects

          The Self Help Center exposes some uncomfortably sharp reflective pieces which don't quite mesh inside of it's author, Romius T.  Occasionally I glimpse counterparts in myself.  If Philip K. Dick wrote a digital journal (instead of his Exegesis) or if Hubert Selby Jr. had blogged, this is how they would read.  Since an introduction in any other form seems impossible, I offer a snapshot-travelogue-of-sorts:

5½ years ago—

Here's a list of things you normally take for granted until you are faced with unemployment:
   1. A fresh box of Arm and Hammer odor dissolving baking soda for the freezer and refrigerator.  [If one of you would just click through a google ad, and buy some baking soda for christ sakes.]
   2. Health care.
   3. (2) two-liters a day cola habit is hard to break.

5 years ago—

While it's true that I have been eating better on food stamps than during my time with Arizona's Superior Court, it couldn't last forever.  First there was that annoying sound my roommate would make everytime of the month rent comes around.

4½ years ago—

About Me.  I was told every blog should have one of these.  I am 38.  I work in a grocery store.  I am an atheist and a Marxist.  I have acid-reflux disease, and for a white guy I can make a pretty mean homemade refried bean tostada.

4 years ago—

First, real beauty does not come in all shapes and sizes.  I don't care if Tyra suddenly feels sympathy for fat chicks, they still is ugly.  And I know a little something about ugly.  Hell my memoirs are called "Memoirs from the short bald fat white guy who sits next to you on the bus who wants to get your attention but quickly averts his eyes when yours meet."

3½ years ago—

Of course it's 2:38 in the morning and I am on my 4th Natural Light beer.  Don't ever bet against me—no matter how much you think the guy in the Fast in the Furious is not Ja Rule—otherwise you too will be offering up your secret beer stash to me.

3 years ago—

If you could feel my jugular right now you would feel how it is pounding away at me.  My fat isn't the jiggly kind.  It's more like hard yellow brick.  Sometimes it feels like the blood feels all pudgy and gets stuck in my veins.  I want to rub it.  To coerce it through back through my veins like jelly stuffed in a donut.  But I hear that is the worse thing you can do for a clot.  You rub a clot and it could pass through right to your brain or to your heart.

2½ years ago—

We were at the Dollar PBR bar.  Only today is not Dollar PBR.  So instead we drank 4 or 6 pitchers of beer.  The beer was warm and we stuck a plastic cup of full of ice in the pitcher to keep it cold.

My ex-roomie has the Gout.  He drinks way too much.  I drink way too much.  I can't think of any other reason, (other than the Bone Cancer) that my foot should hurt.  I must have the Gout too.  I have to stop drinking.  If I stop drinking I will soon have to kill most of the people I meet in my customer service line.

2 years ago—

I must love punishing myself like some kind of co-dependent housewife or something, because I always take jobs where I have to deal with complaints, assholes, and upset people, or just people in general.  Why do I forget that I hate people?

1½ years ago—

My stomach feels like I swallowed a pine cone and I am now trying to squeeze it through my intestines.  I guess that is why I am awake at five in the morning and why I've decided I would get this post out about "how my blog turned 4 years old last week and nobody cared."  I started blogging 5 years ago on March 5, 2003.  I was working for the local county at a self help center and library.  I sold divorce forms and helped people get restraining orders.  I used to save lives for a living before I bagged your groceries.

1 year ago—

I start the dishwasher.  I glance at the left over dishes.  4 wine glasses.  4 shot glasses.  I need to take out the trash.  I need to shower.  My face feels grimy.  I may have smeared the bacon fat.  I look dumbly in the mirror.  I hope to see something that is not there.  I see the growing scalp line appear where once there was hair.  The computer hums in the background.

6 months ago—

July 30th is the fifth birthday of this blog.  You might think I would be excited about that.  But I am not.  Somehow celebrating the five year anniversary of a blog that has attracted 12 readers only makes me want to cry.  You can't celebrate 12 readers.  Just like you can't celebrate how the writing on this blog has gone from awful to almost better.

4 months ago—

Anybody else just really tired of trying, I mean fuck, I've worked my ass off for almost 20 years and I am still barely just scraping by.

2 months ago—

I think the coke we bought had to have been cut with meth.  Actually I am sure all coke is cut with meth.  I am so not addicted to coke that a line sits on a paper plate hidden in my dresser drawer.  I did not finish it off last night.  I did not use it as a perk for getting up early and going to work this morning.  I did not snort it up as soon as I got home.  I did not think about doing the line while I stood around at work today.  I am not even thinking about doing it right now.

1 month ago—

I had 4 beers before I took the pill.  My ruddy complexion is even redder today than normal.  My face feels quite warm to the touch.  Almost alarmingly warm.  Though I have had the feeling that I am running a temperature all day long.

Two weeks ago—

I have discovered: the connection, warmth, and empathy that I lack in real world.  I know E is fake.  All you do is sit on the couch with your friends touching fingers.  But when I take E I get all the "feelings" you take for granted.  I know it destroys brain cells.  But let's face it.  I have not been using those brain cells for anything.

Today—

Maybe you don't know this, but we are all going to die.  I think that life is like a video game.  That even if you beat the Donkey Kong arcade game and get a million points and finish the 39th level—some one unplugs your machine.  I guess what I am trying to say is that at some point all of our high scores get deleted.

When I was a younger man, art was a lonely thing.  No galleries, no collectors, no critics, no money.  Yet, it was a golden age, for we all had nothing to lose and a vision to gain.  Today it is not quite the same.  It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, consumption.  Which condition is better for the world at large I shall not venture to discuss.  But I do know, that many of those who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where we can root and grow.  We must all hope we find them. — Mark Rothko

Sometimes we have the absolute certainty that there's something inside us that's so hideous and monstrous that if we ever search it out we won't be able to stand looking at it.  But it's when we're willing to come face to face with that demon that we face the angel. — Hubert Selby Jr. (Requiem for a Dream)

I may be mistaken...aren't quail wings white meat?

         With a hat-tip and head-nod to Mary Whitsell and her Resident Alien post, A Case of Mistaken Identity...I share:

Northern Arizona — From my porch I watched a row of birds dashing single-file about as fast as their short legs could carry them across a corner of the yard and I asked my (then, new) girlfriend if she could ‘see the partridges from where she’s sitting?’
          ‘You mean the quail?’
          ‘Quail?  No.  The little bobble of feather-tuft on their head...like an antenna...I'm pretty sure that makes them partridge.’
          ‘Nope, quail.’ The smile in her voice contrasted with the (new to me) question-at-your-own-risk tone I immediately perceived as a challenge (which I've never learned to completely stop questioning, but I've certainly learned to respect...maybe 85% of the time).
          ‘I’ll bet you an hour back-rub that those are partridge.’
          ‘Deal.’

          It only took a few minutes of research for me to learn that, although both are in the pheasant family, she was right—they were quail.  Why was I convinced they were partridge?  I blame the producers of the 1970's TV show The Partridge Family.  In the producers defense, the California Partridge has a tuft on it’s head like quail, so maybe the “Come on now, and meet everybody...”  little family of bird caricatures shown during the “Come on get happy!”  intro-credits aren't completely to blame for the back massage I had to give.

Silence is so accurate.  —  Mark Rothko

Virtual Sistine Chapel - Gif Generator

Click above to see the art of the Sistine Chapel and below to view and make your own gif-art.

We assert that the subject is crucial, and only that subject matter is valid which is tragic and timeless. — Mark Rothko (Marcus Rothkowitz/Rotkovich, 1903-1970)

Intelligently Evolve

          Evolution is the change in the inherited traits of organisms through successive generations.  Anyone who wants to see proof of ongoing 'forced' human evolution should tune their television to any American Sports Network.

          Historical recap:

1. Between the 1500's and 1800's hundreds of thousands of humans were kidnapped on the continent of Africa and transported to The United States (nee: British North America) where they were forced to serve as chattel slaves.  Only the strongest and healthiest—and their strongest and healthiest offspring—survived the slave ships, and the new world's diseases, and the legal punishments, and the life of forced labor.
2. After the abolition of the slave trade (around 1800) and before the passage of the 13th Amendment (1865) slave owners increased their chattel using an internal slave trade and by focusing on breeding a self-reproducing labor force.  The census of 1860 lists over 4 million slaves in the US.

3. Until 1967, many laws prohibited inter-racial marriage or sex between races.

          If one were to imagine a quick and efficient means of engineering super-humans...it might entail selecting a group of muscular people and forcing them to exclusively inter-breed.  Then, by forcing them to constantly labor and use their muscles, one could identify "best breeding pairs" as well as cull the underachievers, injured, handicapped and weak.  If one were to repeat this for about a dozen generations, and follow that with maybe six generations of regulated inter-breeding, the obvious result may be...the African-American sport icons and super-players of today.

          It's a safe bet you think kidnapping for the purpose of slavery is way more than just a reprehensible series of acts, and—even though there are about 27 million people still working unfree today—it's also a safe bet you think there should be no slavery anywhere in the world.

          However, along a similar vein, there's a sixty percent chance you don't think the world should be gender equal.  An uncountable majority of the world's women and LGBT people—almost 2.5 billion—are subjugated by their society's religion, government, customs, and males (or all the above).

          Even though evolution is as close to fact as science will ever permit the use of that word, (evolution's poster-children are any NBA All-Star lineup) nonetheless, there's also a sixty percent chance you disagree with this fact.  Of the dozens of religions in this world of 7 billion idiots, almost every one of them contains a creation myth as well as some form of dogma which promotes prejudicial ideation and/or behavior towards non-followers or followers of other religions....which means 4.5 billion don't believe in evolution, no matter how convincing Kobe Bryant and LeBron James are.

The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up.  The shortcut to closing a door is to bury yourself in the details. — Chuck Palahniuk (Lullaby)

This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.2)?

Imagine books and music and movies being filtered and homogenized.  Certified.  Approved for consumption.  People will be happy to give up most of their culture for the assurance that the tiny bit that comes through is safe and clean.  White noise. — Chuck Palahniuk

This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.1)?
United Snakes - Stephen Walker

March-n-Beat Box

Your handwriting.  The way you walk.  Which china pattern you choose.  It's all giving you away.  Everything you do shows your hand.  Everything is a self-portrait.  Everything is a diary. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)

The Advert Planters of Kuala Lumpur

" ...please where can I buy a unicorn? " 

Thirteen months ago, the anonymous author of these seven words intrigued me.  Could this commenter be my long-lost friend with scars on all eight of his fingers?  (If anyone had reason to still remember the words on that sign it'd be him.)   I re-dredged my decrepit and bleary memory of that night with the word 'unicorn' as a spotlight—still nothing.  I replied with:  " Ano..., I think they still sell them for a buck 3.80 on the other side of this sign.  Tell ya what, I'll pick one up fer ya next tyme I'm sign time! "

This was not just flippancy on my part—this was me saying "Marco!"  About a buck three eighty was a term coined by a forgotten comedian-of-yesterday.  When my friends and I wanted to imply something was cheap or worthless we would say it was "worth about a buck 3.80" (it rolled off our late '80s early '90s tongues in a funny ha-ha way).  Twenty years ago it was a broadly-understood inside joke (like quoting some catchy phrase from Robot Chicken today). 

Almost a month later, I received this comment (which didn't contain the "Polo!" I'd been waiting for):  " Hiya,  I can't say thank you enough for all the advice the people here have given me over time!!  Love this site!  (:(:(: "

For several reasons—I'm not people (plural); I don't give advice; and...although I don't emote...aren't those scowling-sorry or worried-sad faces?—I chose not to introduce this comment to   but, instead, to reply as if she were the unicorn-guy...so I wrote:  " De Nada.  I'm still lookin fer yer one horned horse.  I'll get back to ya when I find one, kay? "

Nine months later:  " In my opinion you commit an error.  I suggest it to discuss.  Write to me in PM, we will talk. "

Although every week of those nine months I'd moderated-deleted two or more spam-type advert comments from this post (and one other)...which is weird in-and-of itself...I wondered if the error this stumble-translating commenter was alluding to was my faux-surmise that the unicorn-guy and the scowly-girl were one in the same, so I wrote:  " Which error dost youse allude to my dearest poorly-translating ay-no?  I continually commit errors all the tyme (intentionally and un).  And, any old evening you'd like to discuss the multitude of wayz I (errr we) fumble that there infernal ball, I'm wide open...only you'd have'ta do two things:  1 - Translate this comment of mine (and I've not made that easy for a computer program to do).  2 - Stop hiding behind the anonymous mask.  Can ya do it?  I doubt it. "

Within a month, twice-a-week became about two-a-day (still only on this post)—so, wrongfully concluding that it may be computerized, I embedded some spam-poison along with this sentence:  " I'm unsure why, but this page seems to attract 90% spam (and 10% anon-loonies) so, I'm attempting a solution: Fight Spam! Click Here! "

Last week I received (from stumble-translator, I'm sure):  " In my opinion, it is a lie. "

I (now) assume he is she, she is they, and they are all together (koo koo ka-choo)...one group of advert-planters who inject advertisements into Squire from a small village near Kuala Lumpur.  To make their job easier, they put a random word or words (Like: Sign Story) into the goog, plant advertisements, and then bookmark the page where they plant...returning every so often to see if their ad-weeds are flourishing.

I suspect that they get paid a bonus when advertisements aren't deleted.  I also suspect they occasionally post non-advert comments (sufficiently generic for continuous cut-paste) to determine if a moderator is deleting all comments or only advertisements.

Three days ago I wrote:  " You unicorn hunters are definitely the loonies.  And anonymous status guarantees that your opinion doesn't count. "

Today I had the pleasure of deleting ten of their advert-comments.

Although I'm getting tired of the persistent kudzu-planting fuckers, pissing them off has definitely brought me a measure of pleasure.

My goal is to create a metaphor that changes our reality by charming people into considering their world in a different way.  It's time—for me, at least—to be clever and seduce people by entertaining them.  I'll never be heard if I'm always ranting and griping. — Chuck Palahniuk

Sneaky Low Down Persistant Ellipsis
Kill Twitter, kill it dead and Happy Lunar New Year
Open Letter to Crazy
Is Complacency in Your Resume?

70 Million—Hold Your Horses!

We tend to live by rules that never made any sense, but we've forgotten they aren't the truth. — Chuck Palahniuk

John Hughes was a hack

I received an email from a good friend which contained the following giggle-ditty:  ...the John Hughes montage from the Oscars last night made me feel all warm and nostalgic inside.

The lengthy recognition that The Academy bestowed upon the late Mr Hughes (who's creativity died twenty-three years ago) was extremely generous for such a hack-writer.

For twenty-nine years between 1979 and 2008, John Hughes wrote almost 40 screenplays for film and TV.  While six of his films, released between '84 and '87, were good-to-great:  Ferris Bueller's Day Off; Sixteen Candles; The Breakfast Club; Planes, Trains and Automobiles; Pretty in Pink; and Some Kind of Wonderful (the last of which is debatable), Mr Hughes only directed four of those gems.  I recognize Home Alone is popular with six-to-eight year olds—and those who were that age twenty years ago—nonetheless it's as much a vacuous, ham-handed, template-driven, piece of shite, as Drillbit Taylor, Beetoven, and all his Vacation movies were.

For every good film that came out of John Hughes's head, he wrote four absofuckinlutely terrible movies.  He got by with a 15% good to 85% terrible ratio.  And don't forget...he was so ashamed of the dreck he was generating towards the end, that he wrote under the pseudonym Edmond Dantes (and yes, I think he was trying to send a message of some sort by using the character's name from The Count of Monte Christo, but I don't care enough about him to hypothesize what that might've been).

For comparison:

• Stanley Kubrick         wrote/directed about 15 films      60% good to 40% bad.
• Akira Kurosawa         wrote/directed 60+ films             18% good IN THE US!

• Cohen Brothers        wrote/directed 18 films                45% good to 55% bad.
• Kevin Smith               wrote/directed about 9 films        50% good to 50% bad.

This is how Kevin Smith could become the next John Hughes:  with the handful of good films he already has under his belt—all he has to do, now, is continue to spew out the same unwatchable movies he's shat for the last decade (at a rate of one-turd-a-year) and die of a heart attack around 2023.  The Academy could, then, compile a montage of Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, and Dogma and have Ben Affleck, Jason Lee, Matt Damon, Chris Rock, and Selma Hayek provide verbal tributes.
 
There’s always the chance you could die right in the middle of your life story. — Chuck Palahniuk