Had the phrase drumming through my head for some reason as I was trying to sleep. So here's this, though I wish I didn't feel like it was pathetically derivative of some of Anne Sexton's work.
Once
Upon a time
I could control myself
Or so the song says.
Once upon a time
a boy
met a girl
and they fell in love
but they didn't live happily ever after.
No, this isn't one of those stories.
Sorry.
Once upon a time
the boy looked up and saw the girl across the hall
their eyes met
("Aw," you say,
"How sweet."
But remember
they didn't live happily ever after.
Sorry.)
Once upon a time
they stood under a streetlight
and he kissed her,
the falling snowflakes their only witnesses.
Once upon a time
he had to leave her.
Oh, they promised things would be the same.
But they never were.
Once upon a time
she said she needed more
and he tried to give it
but it wasn't enough
or it wasn't done right
and they died.
That's the way things happen, sometimes
once upon a time.
They try not to tell you that, when you're young.
Too depressing.
Once upon a time
he awoke,
walked out into the stars
and found a butterfly waiting for him.
"Tell me a story," she said.
How do you think it began?
"Once upon a time
a boy met a butterfly
and they became friends."
"Did they live happily ever after?"
Did they?
Will they?
Once upon a time
something something something
and they lived happily ever after.
But what they never tell you
is that the something
is everything.
Sidelong glances
whispered nothings
fits of giggles
angry tears
hateful cries
loving caresses
hands intertwined.
Be my everything
and maybe
someday
we can tell everyone how we met
once upon a time.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
The Story Goes On
So today is the 20th anniversary of Chernobyl, and I find it somewhat interesting that it comes at a time when people who helped clean up the World Trade Center are beginning to die, possibly (most likely, in my opinion) due to the fumes they endured, with the EPA and the government's blessings, while working.
Is history circular? Is there any way to avoid the mistakes of the past? Because sometimes it sure doesn't feel that way. Case in point, this story about the new(ish) Canadian government refusing to allow coverage of the arrival of the 4 coffins enroute from Afghanistan (for those who might not have noticed amidst the "news" of Teri Hatcher hurting herself or Ryan Seacrest's feud with Paula Abdul, this past weekend 4 Canadian peacekeepers were killed in Afghanistan by a roadside bomb).
Yes, those men and their families deserve respect. But at the same time, the Canadian people should see that, they should know what the price is. Are they not trusted enough to see that and yet be capable of judging for themselves whether the price is too high or not? Are people so inconstant, so irrational, so selfish that they would turn their backs? If Afghanistan was the Sudan and 4 peacekeepers were killed there, would people clamor for Canada to pull out? Or would the overall gain be deemed worth the cost, high as it may be?
Questions like those need to be answered; they are difficult and demand dialogue. It is only through answering those questions that we decide what our democracies mean, what they stand for and what it is that we hold dear in our hearts. Maybe part of the reason why we find ourselves in countries that feel like they're becoming dumber and dumber is because the people in power no longer ask their citizens to think, to engage and to search within themselves for the answers to these difficult questions.
Is history circular? Is there any way to avoid the mistakes of the past? Because sometimes it sure doesn't feel that way. Case in point, this story about the new(ish) Canadian government refusing to allow coverage of the arrival of the 4 coffins enroute from Afghanistan (for those who might not have noticed amidst the "news" of Teri Hatcher hurting herself or Ryan Seacrest's feud with Paula Abdul, this past weekend 4 Canadian peacekeepers were killed in Afghanistan by a roadside bomb).
Yes, those men and their families deserve respect. But at the same time, the Canadian people should see that, they should know what the price is. Are they not trusted enough to see that and yet be capable of judging for themselves whether the price is too high or not? Are people so inconstant, so irrational, so selfish that they would turn their backs? If Afghanistan was the Sudan and 4 peacekeepers were killed there, would people clamor for Canada to pull out? Or would the overall gain be deemed worth the cost, high as it may be?
Questions like those need to be answered; they are difficult and demand dialogue. It is only through answering those questions that we decide what our democracies mean, what they stand for and what it is that we hold dear in our hearts. Maybe part of the reason why we find ourselves in countries that feel like they're becoming dumber and dumber is because the people in power no longer ask their citizens to think, to engage and to search within themselves for the answers to these difficult questions.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
A Peace Offering
For those of you who think I'm an irredeemable cockbag after that last post (boy, that ought make for some interesting Google links to this page), if you haven't seen this video of Kevin Federline - or K-Fed, as I believe his dawgs call him - showing off his (not-so-new now) single Popozao or Popo Zao or Po Po Zao or whatever the hell it is...watch it. Watch it and weep at the fact that this man's genetic code has been passed on to at least one more generation.
Seriously though, is it possible that Kevin Federline is the genetic equivalent of a family fortune? Like, it'll take 3 generations for his genes to run out and be replaced with more useful, intelligent ones? How much would that suck for those poor kids?
Seriously though, is it possible that Kevin Federline is the genetic equivalent of a family fortune? Like, it'll take 3 generations for his genes to run out and be replaced with more useful, intelligent ones? How much would that suck for those poor kids?
Morbidly Funny? Funnily Morbid? Not Funny At All and I'm a Heartless Dick?
So I'd read about this site a bit ago but it slipped my mind; today I saw some article referencing it and went and checked it out.
I don't find the site itself funny; obviously it is sad. What I do find somewhat funny/irritating is that if you look at some of the profiles, friends continue to leave comments on the pages.
No, that in and of itself is not what irks me. I do think it's a bit morbid, but I can definitely understand having things you would want to say to someone, and maybe the people who pass on can read/hear what we say to them in some way, shape or form.
What does bother me, however, is the nature of the messages. Things like, "hey maaan woke up thinkin bout you today miss you boi" and "bruthhhha i miss u more than ever... would do anything to have u back but i kno u are looking over me i love u bro peaceeee". Those are actual copy-paste jobs, I'm not paraphrasing here.
I mean, come on. COME ON. Please Mary, Jesus and Joseph, tell me that the standards of communication are not so low that people can't even type out full sentences to honor someone who's passed. This person is important enough that you're leaving a comment and yet you can't waste the time typing y-o-u? What the fuck is that? Isn't it odd that even in the face of someone's death, people (kids, since that's what most of the people typing these things out are) are so casual? It's like this person has passed on, but you're still sending them text messages. If (God forbid) something ever happened to me and someone left a message like that on my myspace I swear I'd haunt their phone and computer and give them a little shock every time they typed "u" instead of "you" or some other useless crap. I demand well-thought out, gramatically correct prose, preferably in the shape of a real letter. I don't think that's too much to ask, though I seem to be in the minority these days.
I don't find the site itself funny; obviously it is sad. What I do find somewhat funny/irritating is that if you look at some of the profiles, friends continue to leave comments on the pages.
No, that in and of itself is not what irks me. I do think it's a bit morbid, but I can definitely understand having things you would want to say to someone, and maybe the people who pass on can read/hear what we say to them in some way, shape or form.
What does bother me, however, is the nature of the messages. Things like, "hey maaan woke up thinkin bout you today miss you boi" and "bruthhhha i miss u more than ever... would do anything to have u back but i kno u are looking over me i love u bro peaceeee". Those are actual copy-paste jobs, I'm not paraphrasing here.
I mean, come on. COME ON. Please Mary, Jesus and Joseph, tell me that the standards of communication are not so low that people can't even type out full sentences to honor someone who's passed. This person is important enough that you're leaving a comment and yet you can't waste the time typing y-o-u? What the fuck is that? Isn't it odd that even in the face of someone's death, people (kids, since that's what most of the people typing these things out are) are so casual? It's like this person has passed on, but you're still sending them text messages. If (God forbid) something ever happened to me and someone left a message like that on my myspace I swear I'd haunt their phone and computer and give them a little shock every time they typed "u" instead of "you" or some other useless crap. I demand well-thought out, gramatically correct prose, preferably in the shape of a real letter. I don't think that's too much to ask, though I seem to be in the minority these days.
So It Is Political - You're a Communist
As promised, here is the sight that greets me every morning when I leave and every evening when I return. Is it wrong that a Commie red awning with MAO writ large on it makes me chuckle? Probably. I don't know about y'all, but the first thing that springs to mind upon seeing a picture of the Chairman ain't candy, tobacco or a discount.
Oh, and anyone who recognizes the movie quote in the title gets a big high-five.
Monday, April 24, 2006
How Many Dollars Must a Country Throw Away
So check out this story about a $75.7 million part of the $2.4 billion no-bid reconstruction contract that KBR (Halliburton) was awarded in 2003, $75.7 million that was wasted with practically no results to show for it, $75.7 million that was possibly spent with the full knowledge that the efforts would fail:
More than anything else, I am reminded of the overarching themes of Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, how the corporatocracy works with corrupt dictators so that both parties get rich at the expense of the general populace - except in this case it is the American people getting fleeced, not tribal groups or the rural poor. And where is the outrage? Is it possible that people don't care? I suppose that $75,700,000 isn't all that much out of $8,358,727,000,000 (current US debt as per this site), right?
Will this ever end? What will it take? One thing mentioned in Confessions is that the dominance of the corporatocracy rests not only on the integration and interpenetration of big business and government, but on the fact that they have managed to sell their idea of economic efficiency as intrinsically good, an idea which is theoretically economically sound but is typified by extreme inequality. People are told hey, the economy is doing great, record profits are being recorded, CEOs are getting massive retirement packages and yet uncountable millions - the middle and lower classes upon whom America was truly built - struggle by without health insurance, without dental plans and paying $3 for a gallon of gas (though that's not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself - but that's a whole other topic that involves a bit of economic jargon and general nerdiness, which I both have and demonstrate in abundance).
You know what the biggest crime is? It isn't the huge profits in and of themselves, it's the fact that they are made on the backs and with the blood of people worldwide. Because in this struggle, it isn't about America vs China or France vs Germany - it's the corporations vs us all.
Holy crap, I sound like a Marxist. That reminds me - I finally managed to dig up my camera charger. Tomorrow I should have a picture of a sight that greets me every day and never fails to make me chuckle and then feel mildly ashamed for chuckling.
The Halliburton subsidiary, KBR, formerly Kellogg Brown & Root, had commissioned a geotechnical report that warned in August 2003 that it would be courting disaster to drill without extensive underground testing.$75.7 million.
"No driller in his right mind would have gone ahead," said Mr. Sanders, a geologist who came across the report when he arrived at the site.
KBR defended its performance on the project, and said that the information in the geotechnical report was too general to serve as a warning.
Still, interviews by The New York Times reveal that at least two other technical experts, including the northern project manager for the Army Corps, warned that the effort would fail if carried out as designed. None of the dozen or so American government and military officials contacted by The Times remembered being told of the geotechnical report, and the company pressed ahead.
More than anything else, I am reminded of the overarching themes of Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, how the corporatocracy works with corrupt dictators so that both parties get rich at the expense of the general populace - except in this case it is the American people getting fleeced, not tribal groups or the rural poor. And where is the outrage? Is it possible that people don't care? I suppose that $75,700,000 isn't all that much out of $8,358,727,000,000 (current US debt as per this site), right?
Will this ever end? What will it take? One thing mentioned in Confessions is that the dominance of the corporatocracy rests not only on the integration and interpenetration of big business and government, but on the fact that they have managed to sell their idea of economic efficiency as intrinsically good, an idea which is theoretically economically sound but is typified by extreme inequality. People are told hey, the economy is doing great, record profits are being recorded, CEOs are getting massive retirement packages and yet uncountable millions - the middle and lower classes upon whom America was truly built - struggle by without health insurance, without dental plans and paying $3 for a gallon of gas (though that's not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself - but that's a whole other topic that involves a bit of economic jargon and general nerdiness, which I both have and demonstrate in abundance).
You know what the biggest crime is? It isn't the huge profits in and of themselves, it's the fact that they are made on the backs and with the blood of people worldwide. Because in this struggle, it isn't about America vs China or France vs Germany - it's the corporations vs us all.
Holy crap, I sound like a Marxist. That reminds me - I finally managed to dig up my camera charger. Tomorrow I should have a picture of a sight that greets me every day and never fails to make me chuckle and then feel mildly ashamed for chuckling.
Fight For Your Right
So I have a friend from Canada coming into town this weekend, and he asked me if I wanted to attend the peace march. After a bit of hemming and hawing, I decided to go with him, so if anyone reading this is also interested and wants to come along, drop me a line/give me a call and we can figure out the details as the date approaches.
Honestly, I am personally a bit torn regarding the question of getting the troops out now. Yes, it is terrible that they are there, yes they are dying and should not have to be there in the first place, but the reality is that they are, and I don't know that an immediate pullout is the right answer. What happens to Iraq if the US leaves now? Can anyone guarantee that things will get better there? As it is, sectarian violence is already out of control; without even a semblance of American military strength, does anyone think that the killings will do anything but increase? It was the neocons who made the mistake of thinking America could be in and out of Iraq, that they could topple Saddam, set up a puppet government and then get back out, that Iraqis would all band together and embrace democracy and all the institutions that it took America over a hundred years to evolve and which have slowly been eroding since. And now America has to pay the price for letting those people come to power.
The chance to avoid getting involved passed years ago, when Dubya was first elected (and let's not start the conspiracy theory-ish argument about miscounted votes and voter registration list manipulation, Iraq is a difficult enough issue as it is) and they started the march to war with Iraq (and no, I am not suggesting that they had the intention of invading Iraq all along, though Bob Woodward's book Plan of Attack does mention that they began discussing Iraq long before 9/11; it is explained as a routine re-evaluation of plans that the government might have had to implement quickly dealing with situations ranging from a downed pilot to full-out invasion). You get the government you vote for, and the majority of voting Americans apparently wanted this one. That's why I have difficulty getting up in arms about legislations passing anti-abortion laws. Yes, of course I think a woman has the right to choose, and I will vote accordingly. But lots of other people are voting for the state or federal congressmen and women (well - I don't know if a woman has ever introduced anti-abortion legislation, I certainly hope one never has), so clearly they reflect the views of some part of the population. You cast your votes and if you're in the minority you can only hope for constitutional protection - that's the way a democracy works. I don't think abortion ranks in the same area as slavery, in which there is a side that is clearly more "right"; I think that, aside from the obvious ethical question, there are also mental and physical costs of abortion that are glossed over.
So, coming back to Iraq and the march; if I don't necessarily agree with bringing the troops home now, why am I going? Mostly, I suppose, to see what the people there have to say. Who knows, maybe someone will make a stunning argument that will win me over. It's actually somewhat interesting to see that "liberals" and "conservatives" have switched sides in this debate; wasn't the historical position of conservatives relative isolationism and a domestic focus while liberals were more in favor of increasing our connections with and aid given to the international community? Anyways, I doubt anyone will make such an argument because, like I said, no-one can possibly know what pulling out immediately would result in, and even if they did, pro-withdrawal activists never ask that question anyways - they are too focused on the American cost, perhaps rightly so but perhaps not. I know what I think, but it's just an idea, and I've changed my mind before.
Honestly, I am personally a bit torn regarding the question of getting the troops out now. Yes, it is terrible that they are there, yes they are dying and should not have to be there in the first place, but the reality is that they are, and I don't know that an immediate pullout is the right answer. What happens to Iraq if the US leaves now? Can anyone guarantee that things will get better there? As it is, sectarian violence is already out of control; without even a semblance of American military strength, does anyone think that the killings will do anything but increase? It was the neocons who made the mistake of thinking America could be in and out of Iraq, that they could topple Saddam, set up a puppet government and then get back out, that Iraqis would all band together and embrace democracy and all the institutions that it took America over a hundred years to evolve and which have slowly been eroding since. And now America has to pay the price for letting those people come to power.
The chance to avoid getting involved passed years ago, when Dubya was first elected (and let's not start the conspiracy theory-ish argument about miscounted votes and voter registration list manipulation, Iraq is a difficult enough issue as it is) and they started the march to war with Iraq (and no, I am not suggesting that they had the intention of invading Iraq all along, though Bob Woodward's book Plan of Attack does mention that they began discussing Iraq long before 9/11; it is explained as a routine re-evaluation of plans that the government might have had to implement quickly dealing with situations ranging from a downed pilot to full-out invasion). You get the government you vote for, and the majority of voting Americans apparently wanted this one. That's why I have difficulty getting up in arms about legislations passing anti-abortion laws. Yes, of course I think a woman has the right to choose, and I will vote accordingly. But lots of other people are voting for the state or federal congressmen and women (well - I don't know if a woman has ever introduced anti-abortion legislation, I certainly hope one never has), so clearly they reflect the views of some part of the population. You cast your votes and if you're in the minority you can only hope for constitutional protection - that's the way a democracy works. I don't think abortion ranks in the same area as slavery, in which there is a side that is clearly more "right"; I think that, aside from the obvious ethical question, there are also mental and physical costs of abortion that are glossed over.
So, coming back to Iraq and the march; if I don't necessarily agree with bringing the troops home now, why am I going? Mostly, I suppose, to see what the people there have to say. Who knows, maybe someone will make a stunning argument that will win me over. It's actually somewhat interesting to see that "liberals" and "conservatives" have switched sides in this debate; wasn't the historical position of conservatives relative isolationism and a domestic focus while liberals were more in favor of increasing our connections with and aid given to the international community? Anyways, I doubt anyone will make such an argument because, like I said, no-one can possibly know what pulling out immediately would result in, and even if they did, pro-withdrawal activists never ask that question anyways - they are too focused on the American cost, perhaps rightly so but perhaps not. I know what I think, but it's just an idea, and I've changed my mind before.
Punk Rock!
Caught these guys at Knitting Factory last night; they're friends of a friend, and I think my ears are still ringing. It's been forever since I was at a really rockin' show; I guess it's kinda funny how you take an awesome live performance, add a pile of crazy people jumping and screaming all over the place and it instantly becomes a bajillion times funner. Only crappy thing was that I couldn't check my jacket, so now the pocket's ripped along the seam. Nothing that can't be fixed with a sewing kit, though.
Anyways, The Briefs are, as the title suggests, on the punk-y side, and I recommend them to anyone - except Dolly, as she apparently hates everything I like, something that totally isn't reciprocated. Meanie.
Anyways, The Briefs are, as the title suggests, on the punk-y side, and I recommend them to anyone - except Dolly, as she apparently hates everything I like, something that totally isn't reciprocated. Meanie.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Polishing Myself Some More
Har har har!
| You Are Apple Red |
 You're never one to take life too seriously, and because of it, you're a ton of fun. And although you have a great sense of humor, you are never superficial. Deep and caring, you do like to get to the core of people - to understand them well. However, any probing you do is light hearted and fun, sometimes causing people to misjudge you. |
Self-Aggrandizing Fridays Are Here!
Uh, yeah. Not a very catchy title, I guess. Oh, well. Anyways, just wanted to point out that Uncle Morty's now has a myspace page up, with some new videos. Those, coupled with the ones over here give you a pretty good idea of what the dubbing portions of the shows are like, though there aren't any of the live-action bits. In case you were wondering, my personal faves are Tic-Tacs and the Queen of Personality.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Oh-Emm-Gee Blogthings!
I was so worried that I wouldn't fulfill my inane retardation quotient for the week, too:
| You Are Sunrise |
 You enjoy living a slow, fulfilling life. You enjoy living every moment, no matter how ordinary. You are a person of reflection and meditation. You start and end every day by looking inward. Caring and giving, you enjoy making people happy. You're often cooking for friends or buying them gifts. All in all, you know how to love life for what it is - not for how it should be. |
One More Thing
I wasn't totally sure if I was going to go through with this, but I guess I'll make it my official next book:
1. The Complete Poems, Anne Sexton
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
25. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
26. History of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides
Fuck, I'm a nerd. No, I am not reading it for class, though I did read selections for a politics class last semester.
1. The Complete Poems, Anne Sexton
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
25. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
26. History of the Peloponnesian War, Thucydides
Fuck, I'm a nerd. No, I am not reading it for class, though I did read selections for a politics class last semester.
I Just Had the Most Fucked Up Dream
I can never remember dreams, so I'm going to type this out as fast as I can before it all fades. I've been falling in and out of sleep for the past few hours and this time I started dreaming and I was in a bedroom with a statue on the bed, a statue that had its palms raised to the sky with a beaded little thingie running between them. I took the statue off the bed and placed it on the table, but the beaded thing fell off the hands. And suddenly I felt a premonition, a thought that whoever owned that statue, whatever god it was supposed to represent, was angry and would be seeking retribution. But then the thought occurred to me that I was dreaming, that it was all a dream, so if I woke up it would all be fine.
I wake up and it's dimly lit. For some reason I can't seem to move. I struggle a bit, trying to move my limbs. There is someone next to me, who kind of rolls over and says, "What is it?" I try to respond but I can't breathe, there's something pushing into my mouth, something actually in my mouth, and I'm trying to breathe and speak but I can't, I can't, and I realize the person next to me isn't a person, it's this insubstantial projection, and they're saying, "Just relax, just relax," when that is the last thing I want to do. I panic, I don't know what else to do, I'm trying to get my limbs to actually fucking DO something, and they finally do.
They rip the bedsheets out of my mouth as I wake up.
See, I had them kind of pulled up and over my mouth so they'd gotten a little wadded up in there. And that was when I was like...ok...clearly it's time to actually get up instead of just fading back to sleep.
So that was my dream. There's already a couple details I know I'm forgetting - like there was this whole story in my head about why I was in that bedroom to begin with, and there was something else on the bed I moved first. I wonder what it says about me?
I wake up and it's dimly lit. For some reason I can't seem to move. I struggle a bit, trying to move my limbs. There is someone next to me, who kind of rolls over and says, "What is it?" I try to respond but I can't breathe, there's something pushing into my mouth, something actually in my mouth, and I'm trying to breathe and speak but I can't, I can't, and I realize the person next to me isn't a person, it's this insubstantial projection, and they're saying, "Just relax, just relax," when that is the last thing I want to do. I panic, I don't know what else to do, I'm trying to get my limbs to actually fucking DO something, and they finally do.
They rip the bedsheets out of my mouth as I wake up.
See, I had them kind of pulled up and over my mouth so they'd gotten a little wadded up in there. And that was when I was like...ok...clearly it's time to actually get up instead of just fading back to sleep.
So that was my dream. There's already a couple details I know I'm forgetting - like there was this whole story in my head about why I was in that bedroom to begin with, and there was something else on the bed I moved first. I wonder what it says about me?
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
A Rush of Blood to the Head
Ha ha, Coldplay sucks. And yes, I have a few of their tracks, but no, those aren't the most embarassing songs I have. What are? That's for me to know and you to find out.
Still, check out this study saying that being shown sexually stimulating images impairs a man's judgement. Big surprise, right? Actually, I just wanted to point out this bit of the article:
Um...my ring fingers are like...a nail's length (fingernail, not like, a nail nail) longer than my index fingers. Guess the next time I do something stupid in front of a cute girl I can blame my fingers.
Still, check out this study saying that being shown sexually stimulating images impairs a man's judgement. Big surprise, right? Actually, I just wanted to point out this bit of the article:
The men's testosterone levels were also tested - by comparing the length of the men's index finger compared to their ring finger.
If the ring finger is longest, it indicates a high testosterone level.
The researchers found that men in the study who had the highest levels performed worst in the test, and suggest that is because they are particularly sensitive to sexual images.
Um...my ring fingers are like...a nail's length (fingernail, not like, a nail nail) longer than my index fingers. Guess the next time I do something stupid in front of a cute girl I can blame my fingers.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Yay Jebus
So Sunday I actually ended up in a church for the evening Easter service; I was walking past with a friend and the bells were tolling and she impulse-asked if I wanted to go in and I said sure, so we did.
That church is gorgeous, and I've wanted to pop inside for a while. I guess it's designed by the same guy who did St. Patrick's. It's Episcopalian, which is pretty close to the Anglican tradition, which I grew up with at the private school I attended; I think the Episcopalian Church actually is the Anglican Church of America. In any event, ceremony-wise it's closer to the Catholic tradition than to, say, a Baptist service. One thing that struck me in the middle of the service was how much space there was inside, how little of it was filled at the time, and what it must be like when it's more full; perhaps at the 11 am Easter service or the Christmas services.
The only slightly sour note struck all service actually came during the sermon, when the priest (father? deacon? Whatever they're called in the Episcopalian tradition) informed us all that Christianity did not begin with the birth of Christ, the teachings of Christ, or the death of Christ, but with the resurrection.
I have a bit of a problem with that statement.
I think it's typical of all religions to place emphasis on the mechanics of the prophet's actions rather than the underlying message, and I think it is this emphasis that leads to a lot of the negative aspects of organized religion. I was watching Real Time the other day and there was an author on there who mentioned that typically a prophet arises as a reaction to social, political and economic influences, but that in the formation of an organized religion by the prophet's disciples the message is pushed aside in favor of their own predjudices and agendas. I cannot understand people who are so blinded by the institution of their religion that they could believe that un-Baptized people are burning in Hell (this would include people like Mother Theresa and Gandhi).
Everyone's path to enlightenment, or heaven, or whatever it may be, is different. You cannot simply repeat the actions of another and expect that to bring you peace; you must understand the why. Systems of thought, whether religious or scientific (and yes, scientific individuals are just as prone to a blind adherence to dogma), are a sort of shorthand for lazy minds; you don't need to worry about why, it's just an assumption you make. Why all the emphasis on Jesus dying? How morbid is that? Why not celebrate his life, and all the beautiful things he tried to show us all before his time was up? What's really more important, more conducive to inner peace and social harmony: believing in a mystical Resurrection, or believing that I should love my neighbor as myself?
WWJD?
That church is gorgeous, and I've wanted to pop inside for a while. I guess it's designed by the same guy who did St. Patrick's. It's Episcopalian, which is pretty close to the Anglican tradition, which I grew up with at the private school I attended; I think the Episcopalian Church actually is the Anglican Church of America. In any event, ceremony-wise it's closer to the Catholic tradition than to, say, a Baptist service. One thing that struck me in the middle of the service was how much space there was inside, how little of it was filled at the time, and what it must be like when it's more full; perhaps at the 11 am Easter service or the Christmas services.
The only slightly sour note struck all service actually came during the sermon, when the priest (father? deacon? Whatever they're called in the Episcopalian tradition) informed us all that Christianity did not begin with the birth of Christ, the teachings of Christ, or the death of Christ, but with the resurrection.
I have a bit of a problem with that statement.
I think it's typical of all religions to place emphasis on the mechanics of the prophet's actions rather than the underlying message, and I think it is this emphasis that leads to a lot of the negative aspects of organized religion. I was watching Real Time the other day and there was an author on there who mentioned that typically a prophet arises as a reaction to social, political and economic influences, but that in the formation of an organized religion by the prophet's disciples the message is pushed aside in favor of their own predjudices and agendas. I cannot understand people who are so blinded by the institution of their religion that they could believe that un-Baptized people are burning in Hell (this would include people like Mother Theresa and Gandhi).
Everyone's path to enlightenment, or heaven, or whatever it may be, is different. You cannot simply repeat the actions of another and expect that to bring you peace; you must understand the why. Systems of thought, whether religious or scientific (and yes, scientific individuals are just as prone to a blind adherence to dogma), are a sort of shorthand for lazy minds; you don't need to worry about why, it's just an assumption you make. Why all the emphasis on Jesus dying? How morbid is that? Why not celebrate his life, and all the beautiful things he tried to show us all before his time was up? What's really more important, more conducive to inner peace and social harmony: believing in a mystical Resurrection, or believing that I should love my neighbor as myself?
WWJD?
Monday, April 17, 2006
Rawr
Typically, I am not an easily irritated person. In fact, I've been told that the fact that I never get irritated is, in itself, somewhat irritating at times.
This weekend, I had cause to get irritated.
We've been going through some rent fluctuations in recent months, what with a person moving out/being kicked out and questions whether or not someone would replace them. There are two people on the lease, my friend and I, who've been here for a couple years now. We (she, as I didn't particularly care either way) decided not to replace the leaving roommate.
Enter young roommate, living here less than half a year, who wants to have a "discussion" because he feels he wasn't consulted. Fine. So we sit and discuss. Sure, we can discuss all you like, your opinion does matter, but guess what: in the final analysis, our opinions matter more because we're on the lease, and if you don't like it, go find somewhere else in Manhattan where you can have your own room, share a bathroom and kitchen with "only" 4 other people and pay less than $500. I made this clear to him (the opinion mattering more part, not the go find somewhere else part - I figured that would be unneccessarily inflammatory at the time).
So that night, as roommates are coming home, buddy is going into each of their rooms and talking to them. This is when I'm pretty sure something's up. Sure enough, when lease-partner comes home and after we've been sitting in the common room watching tv for a bit, the roommies all pile in. Some small talk ensues, and then bitch starts talking about how he just wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page, that we were all in "agreeance" (he kept using that word over and over like he'd looked it up specifically for this conversation, or it was his word of the day, y'know what I mean? I fucking hate people who do that), that the decision not to move someone in had been made without really talking to the other roommates and their opinions matter because they live here too, blahblahblahblah.
This is where I get irritated.
Like I had said before - yes, you do live here, yes, you do pay rent, yes, you do have a say. But the lease holders make the final decision, and if you have a problem with that, you can shit or get off the pot. AND I ALREADY FUCKING TOLD YOU THAT. You want me to tell the other roommates that too? Sure, I'll tell them, because it holds true for them too. How dare you waste my time and energy. He keeps saying he doesn't mean it as an attack on the other lease holder, he just wants to make sure we're all in agreeance and wants to discuss. Fuck you, no you don't. You want your rent to stay at the previous level, which we already told you it wouldn't be, so now you pull this because you didn't get your way before. So not only are you wasting my time, you're trying to paint my friend as the bad person in this.
Typically I am content to listen more than I speak in group settings. In this case I was not. Since then he hasn't really been speaking to me or the other lease holder. We didn't really talk much as it was (I don't really have much to say to anyone who says, without a trace of mockery, "I love Paris Hilton!"), and the fact that he thinks this might have some effect amuses me.
This weekend, I had cause to get irritated.
We've been going through some rent fluctuations in recent months, what with a person moving out/being kicked out and questions whether or not someone would replace them. There are two people on the lease, my friend and I, who've been here for a couple years now. We (she, as I didn't particularly care either way) decided not to replace the leaving roommate.
Enter young roommate, living here less than half a year, who wants to have a "discussion" because he feels he wasn't consulted. Fine. So we sit and discuss. Sure, we can discuss all you like, your opinion does matter, but guess what: in the final analysis, our opinions matter more because we're on the lease, and if you don't like it, go find somewhere else in Manhattan where you can have your own room, share a bathroom and kitchen with "only" 4 other people and pay less than $500. I made this clear to him (the opinion mattering more part, not the go find somewhere else part - I figured that would be unneccessarily inflammatory at the time).
So that night, as roommates are coming home, buddy is going into each of their rooms and talking to them. This is when I'm pretty sure something's up. Sure enough, when lease-partner comes home and after we've been sitting in the common room watching tv for a bit, the roommies all pile in. Some small talk ensues, and then bitch starts talking about how he just wanted to make sure everyone was on the same page, that we were all in "agreeance" (he kept using that word over and over like he'd looked it up specifically for this conversation, or it was his word of the day, y'know what I mean? I fucking hate people who do that), that the decision not to move someone in had been made without really talking to the other roommates and their opinions matter because they live here too, blahblahblahblah.
This is where I get irritated.
Like I had said before - yes, you do live here, yes, you do pay rent, yes, you do have a say. But the lease holders make the final decision, and if you have a problem with that, you can shit or get off the pot. AND I ALREADY FUCKING TOLD YOU THAT. You want me to tell the other roommates that too? Sure, I'll tell them, because it holds true for them too. How dare you waste my time and energy. He keeps saying he doesn't mean it as an attack on the other lease holder, he just wants to make sure we're all in agreeance and wants to discuss. Fuck you, no you don't. You want your rent to stay at the previous level, which we already told you it wouldn't be, so now you pull this because you didn't get your way before. So not only are you wasting my time, you're trying to paint my friend as the bad person in this.
Typically I am content to listen more than I speak in group settings. In this case I was not. Since then he hasn't really been speaking to me or the other lease holder. We didn't really talk much as it was (I don't really have much to say to anyone who says, without a trace of mockery, "I love Paris Hilton!"), and the fact that he thinks this might have some effect amuses me.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Crazy Clubbin
No, not that kind of clubbing. This kind: the Canadian seal hunt. Obviously there are a lot of charged images that can be presented as reasoning why the hunt should be stopped. I don't buy that line of thought for a second. Don't kill seals because they're cute? Is it ok to kill ugly things, then? Life is life, and yes, it sucks that animals must die to provide for human beings; are we suddenly going to stop killing everything?
Some might argue that killing seals is different from killing, say, cows, since food serves a far more functional purpose than fashion, which is the main reason why seals are hunted. However, like Native Americans, Newfoundlanders are far less wasteful than one might assume, as this quote in the article from a Canadian animal rights activist reveals (although he's speaking pretty contemputously of the hunters):
You know what? Rather than attacking rural communities trying to live in one of the bleakest areas of the world, maybe you should focus your efforts on the market that they are filling; if people around the world - mainly Russia and China - stop buying seal pelts then there'll be no more incentive for Newfoundlanders to kill them, and they'll have to find some other way to supplement their meager income. And won't you feel good about yourself then? Hey, here's an idea - if all these celebrities are really set on getting people to stop clubbing seals, how about they offer them a viable alternative? How about they pool their money and say, hey, we'll pay you X amount of dollars every year to not club seals? Maybe if people got off their ideological horses and had an actual dialogue, they might be able to reach a solution that both stops the seal hunt and improves the standard of living in Canada's often-forgotten rural populations.
Some might argue that killing seals is different from killing, say, cows, since food serves a far more functional purpose than fashion, which is the main reason why seals are hunted. However, like Native Americans, Newfoundlanders are far less wasteful than one might assume, as this quote in the article from a Canadian animal rights activist reveals (although he's speaking pretty contemputously of the hunters):
"I have no respect for Newfoundland or Newfoundlanders. They debased Canada when they joined the nation in 1949 and they continue to embarrass us in the eyes of the world as they inflict bloody carnage on innocent creatures, peddling seal penises and their silly seal flipper pie to the ecological perverts who actually pay for these obscenities.
You know what? Rather than attacking rural communities trying to live in one of the bleakest areas of the world, maybe you should focus your efforts on the market that they are filling; if people around the world - mainly Russia and China - stop buying seal pelts then there'll be no more incentive for Newfoundlanders to kill them, and they'll have to find some other way to supplement their meager income. And won't you feel good about yourself then? Hey, here's an idea - if all these celebrities are really set on getting people to stop clubbing seals, how about they offer them a viable alternative? How about they pool their money and say, hey, we'll pay you X amount of dollars every year to not club seals? Maybe if people got off their ideological horses and had an actual dialogue, they might be able to reach a solution that both stops the seal hunt and improves the standard of living in Canada's often-forgotten rural populations.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Wow
Trying to get out of here, but I just had to point out this story about the remains of some soldiers found at Ypres; similar to the story about the pile of remains recently found at Ground Zero, except these ones are 80 some odd years old. This quote from one of the people visiting the battlefield really struck me: "It's the whole thing of they thought it would be over by Christmas. They died so we could have the freedom we've got today, and at the end of the day, people seem to forget that."
Indeed. And yet the First World War wasn't really as much about freedom (from what I know of it, which like so many topics isn't as much as I would like) as it was about political maneuverings; of all the wars of the 20th century I think it is generally seen as the most avoidable and regrettable. A random question: are Americans familiar with the poem In Flanders Fields? Because in Canada (well - a part of this has to do with the school I went to, too) it's read every Remembrance Day, November 11th, also known as Armistice Day or Veteran's Day here in the US - at least, I think that's when Veteran's Day is. It's a beautiful, haunting poem, and one that I know almost by heart because of all the repetitions I had to endure. It's funny how things that you're ambivalent to in your youth stick around in your head. Or is that just me?
In Flanders Fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
Indeed. And yet the First World War wasn't really as much about freedom (from what I know of it, which like so many topics isn't as much as I would like) as it was about political maneuverings; of all the wars of the 20th century I think it is generally seen as the most avoidable and regrettable. A random question: are Americans familiar with the poem In Flanders Fields? Because in Canada (well - a part of this has to do with the school I went to, too) it's read every Remembrance Day, November 11th, also known as Armistice Day or Veteran's Day here in the US - at least, I think that's when Veteran's Day is. It's a beautiful, haunting poem, and one that I know almost by heart because of all the repetitions I had to endure. It's funny how things that you're ambivalent to in your youth stick around in your head. Or is that just me?
In Flanders Fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
One More Thing
No thanks to Ducati I am totally obsessed with "Crazy", by Gnarls Barkley - I remembered seeing the stories about it when it hit #1 in the UK but never got around to listening to it. It figures that Danger Mouse is half of the group; that guy is friggin' awesome. Been meaning to check out the Danger Doom collaboration for some time but I never got around to it; anyone who references Dr. Doom just has to be, like, one of the 5 coolest people EVER.
Must Fight Urge to Shop
So many things I want to buy, so little money. Was thinking of doing some window shopping today; for those who are unaware, which, come to think of it, is pretty much all of you, my shopping routine goes a little like this:
1) walk through store
2) if nothing catches my eye, walk right back out
3) if something does catch my eye, go take a closer look/take it to fitting room
4) walk around store with item in hands for about half an hour, agonizing over whether or not I really, really, really like it
5) talk myself out of it, put it back
6) think about it incessantly for the next week
7) return and buy item on a whim some random day in the future when I've convinced myself that my budget can handle it when, in actuality, it probably can't
.........yeah. I've also just found out about two books by some of my favoritest Brit actor/comedians, Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie. Come to think of it, I also wanted to pick up some P.G. Wodehouse. Anyways, the high today is apparently 79, so I clearly have to be outside in some way, shape or form; I just don't know if I should be wasting time popping in and out of stores or just go sun myself in the park like the decadent member of the bourgeois I am.
At the risk of making this post a a bit too scattered, there's also a number of news stories that caught my eye: check out this one about an African-American state senator who wants to re-segregate Nebraskan school districts: "'My intent is not to have an exclusionary system, but we, meaning black people, whose children make up the vast majority of the student population, would control.'" Yet the article itself states that, "The Omaha district has 46,700 students, 44 percent of them white, 32 percent black, 21 percent Hispanic and 3 percent Asian or Native American." and "...no high school is more than 48 percent black."
How bizarre.
And since I'm already all over the place: the Jays beat the White Sox yesterday. Yay.
1) walk through store
2) if nothing catches my eye, walk right back out
3) if something does catch my eye, go take a closer look/take it to fitting room
4) walk around store with item in hands for about half an hour, agonizing over whether or not I really, really, really like it
5) talk myself out of it, put it back
6) think about it incessantly for the next week
7) return and buy item on a whim some random day in the future when I've convinced myself that my budget can handle it when, in actuality, it probably can't
.........yeah. I've also just found out about two books by some of my favoritest Brit actor/comedians, Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie. Come to think of it, I also wanted to pick up some P.G. Wodehouse. Anyways, the high today is apparently 79, so I clearly have to be outside in some way, shape or form; I just don't know if I should be wasting time popping in and out of stores or just go sun myself in the park like the decadent member of the bourgeois I am.
At the risk of making this post a a bit too scattered, there's also a number of news stories that caught my eye: check out this one about an African-American state senator who wants to re-segregate Nebraskan school districts: "'My intent is not to have an exclusionary system, but we, meaning black people, whose children make up the vast majority of the student population, would control.'" Yet the article itself states that, "The Omaha district has 46,700 students, 44 percent of them white, 32 percent black, 21 percent Hispanic and 3 percent Asian or Native American." and "...no high school is more than 48 percent black."
How bizarre.
And since I'm already all over the place: the Jays beat the White Sox yesterday. Yay.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Blog Wars!
A'ight. Peep this, yo (haha...pee-p). So you guys know the Time Warner Center, right? Y'know the entrance on the north-eastern corner, close to Pink? There's rotary doors, and beside them there's conventional doors in case fatties get stuck in the rotary ones or something.
Our protagonist - a young, striking Asian - goes walking through the rotary doors enroute to Whole Foods for some munchings and crunchings. As he rotates, he notices a gentleman walking through the normal door to the side and staring at him. Now, this young man can sometimes be a Bear of Very Little Brain when it comes to names and faces. It's something he's grown accustomed to over the years. He thinks to himself, "Gee, maybe I met this guy at a party or something," and gives the universal, "guy nod."
On the other side of the doors, dudey dude dude approaches, offering his hand. Holy shit, the Asian thinks to himself, I must have met this guy somewhere, sometime and totally forgotten him. Hands are shaken.
"How's it going?" the stranger asks.
"Pretty good."
"You're looking good."
"Oh...thanks." Brain cells are whirring, trying frantically to remember who the hell this guy is and where they might have encountered each other, blotting out the possibility of any other thoughts. Some other bullshit pleasantries are exchanged, forgotten in a frantic whirl of every social event attended in the past few months. Finally, something breaks through this fog:
"So...do you have a girlfriend?"
"...nnnooooo..." Ok. This is a bit weird. Who just up and asks that, acquaintance or not? Finally, a hint of an idea starts to dawn on our young hero: is this guy.......? Noooooooooooooooo. But could he be?
"I just ask because these days, you know, you never know if people like girls or boys or whatever."
"Uh...yeah...I mean, you know, people should be free to love whoever they want." Holy crap, I think he is.
"And I was just thinking, you looked so good, and I just really wanted to kiss you."
HOLY SHIT! I NEED TO REMEMBER EVERY SECOND OF THIS CONVERSATION SO I CAN REPEAT IT TO BEST FEMALE FRIEND.
"Uh...wow...thanks, that's really flattering, but I'm not really interested."
"Are you sure? You've never even wanted to try it?"
"...no..." Jesus, can't you just let it drop? How the hell can I extricate myself from this politely? I've seen what angry gays can do and it ain't pretty and this is the fucking Time Warner Center, it's a goddamn public place, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
"...we could just go find a bathroom somewhere in here, you know, and..."
Blink. A bathroom? Ok, first of all, NO, damnit, and second of all, EW. I mean, I know that's what goes on, but for fuck's sake...EW!
"..........no."
And he escapes down the escalator! The crowd goes wild! And our hero fumbles for his phone to make the loudest sober phone call of his life.
Take that, Pook.
Our protagonist - a young, striking Asian - goes walking through the rotary doors enroute to Whole Foods for some munchings and crunchings. As he rotates, he notices a gentleman walking through the normal door to the side and staring at him. Now, this young man can sometimes be a Bear of Very Little Brain when it comes to names and faces. It's something he's grown accustomed to over the years. He thinks to himself, "Gee, maybe I met this guy at a party or something," and gives the universal, "guy nod."
On the other side of the doors, dudey dude dude approaches, offering his hand. Holy shit, the Asian thinks to himself, I must have met this guy somewhere, sometime and totally forgotten him. Hands are shaken.
"How's it going?" the stranger asks.
"Pretty good."
"You're looking good."
"Oh...thanks." Brain cells are whirring, trying frantically to remember who the hell this guy is and where they might have encountered each other, blotting out the possibility of any other thoughts. Some other bullshit pleasantries are exchanged, forgotten in a frantic whirl of every social event attended in the past few months. Finally, something breaks through this fog:
"So...do you have a girlfriend?"
"...nnnooooo..." Ok. This is a bit weird. Who just up and asks that, acquaintance or not? Finally, a hint of an idea starts to dawn on our young hero: is this guy.......? Noooooooooooooooo. But could he be?
"I just ask because these days, you know, you never know if people like girls or boys or whatever."
"Uh...yeah...I mean, you know, people should be free to love whoever they want." Holy crap, I think he is.
"And I was just thinking, you looked so good, and I just really wanted to kiss you."
HOLY SHIT! I NEED TO REMEMBER EVERY SECOND OF THIS CONVERSATION SO I CAN REPEAT IT TO BEST FEMALE FRIEND.
"Uh...wow...thanks, that's really flattering, but I'm not really interested."
"Are you sure? You've never even wanted to try it?"
"...no..." Jesus, can't you just let it drop? How the hell can I extricate myself from this politely? I've seen what angry gays can do and it ain't pretty and this is the fucking Time Warner Center, it's a goddamn public place, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
"...we could just go find a bathroom somewhere in here, you know, and..."
Blink. A bathroom? Ok, first of all, NO, damnit, and second of all, EW. I mean, I know that's what goes on, but for fuck's sake...EW!
"..........no."
And he escapes down the escalator! The crowd goes wild! And our hero fumbles for his phone to make the loudest sober phone call of his life.
Take that, Pook.
Booksbooksbooks
Finally:
1. The Complete Poems, Anne Sexton
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
25. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
Unfortunately, Fountainhead is the first book I've read this year that I didn't like. There are some interesting things said, but as a book I found it pretty cruddy; a little too obvious, a little too didactic. It's all just a front for Rand to peddle her little philosophy, Objectivism, which is pretty close to Nietzschean thought, in my mind. The characters are laughably transparent, the dialogue is terrible and it's generally an irritating book.
Like I said, however, there are some interesting passages, mostly from the monologues (sometimes duelling monologues) that pretty much comprise the last 50 pages or so of the book. For example:
Perhaps these lines speak to me as an artist, as a performer, as someone whose work is presented specifically for the consumption and enjoyment of others (the protagonist is an architect). And yet you cannot approach acting as pandering to or pleasing your audience, or looking for that golden statue, or getting rich, for a multitude of reasons; the motivation must come from within. As many before me have said, if there is anything else you can possibly do in your life and be happy, you should go and do it - because even if you have that inner fire, the acting industry will use you, ride you, and then abandon you for the next fresh face. It is the work, and the desire to do good work that must fuel you, that will get you through 2 am tech rehearsals and 5 am call times and cattle calls. Because, really, what is there that an audience can give you that should not actually come from yourself? This is another point Rand makes that is quite true: there is no valuation that others can give you which is meaningful on a personal level. To be sure, it is helpful if others enjoy your work and are willing to pay to enjoy it; but you cannot (should not, perhaps) work with that in mind as your goal, for it is an empty one:
Not quite sure if I'll be picking up anything new for a bit; I'm trying to be a little careful with my fundage, since it's spring and, well...I want some new clothes.
1. The Complete Poems, Anne Sexton
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
25. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
Unfortunately, Fountainhead is the first book I've read this year that I didn't like. There are some interesting things said, but as a book I found it pretty cruddy; a little too obvious, a little too didactic. It's all just a front for Rand to peddle her little philosophy, Objectivism, which is pretty close to Nietzschean thought, in my mind. The characters are laughably transparent, the dialogue is terrible and it's generally an irritating book.
Like I said, however, there are some interesting passages, mostly from the monologues (sometimes duelling monologues) that pretty much comprise the last 50 pages or so of the book. For example:
"I like to receive money for my work. But I can pass that up this time. I like to have people know my work is done by me. But I can pass that up. I like to have tenants made happy by my work. But that doesn't matter too much. The only thing that matters, my goal, my reward, my beginning, my end is the work itself."
Perhaps these lines speak to me as an artist, as a performer, as someone whose work is presented specifically for the consumption and enjoyment of others (the protagonist is an architect). And yet you cannot approach acting as pandering to or pleasing your audience, or looking for that golden statue, or getting rich, for a multitude of reasons; the motivation must come from within. As many before me have said, if there is anything else you can possibly do in your life and be happy, you should go and do it - because even if you have that inner fire, the acting industry will use you, ride you, and then abandon you for the next fresh face. It is the work, and the desire to do good work that must fuel you, that will get you through 2 am tech rehearsals and 5 am call times and cattle calls. Because, really, what is there that an audience can give you that should not actually come from yourself? This is another point Rand makes that is quite true: there is no valuation that others can give you which is meaningful on a personal level. To be sure, it is helpful if others enjoy your work and are willing to pay to enjoy it; but you cannot (should not, perhaps) work with that in mind as your goal, for it is an empty one:
"In what act or thought of his has there ever been a self? What was his aim in life? Greatness - in other people's eyes. Fame, admiration, victions, which he did not hold, but he was satisfied that others believed he held them. Others were his motive power and his prime concern. He didn't want to be great, but to be thought great. He didn't want to build, but to be admired as a builder. He borrowed from others in order to make an impression on others."
Not quite sure if I'll be picking up anything new for a bit; I'm trying to be a little careful with my fundage, since it's spring and, well...I want some new clothes.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
So This Is What Cute Girls Feel Like, or, Them Gays Sure Love Asians
Alright, check it out. So there I am down on 13th Street in a cute, not-so-little stationary store picking up some odds and ends - a card, some nice wrapping paper and a new pen. I ask the dude working if he knows how much one of the pens is off the top of his head; he doesn't, goes and scans it and it's $3. Ok. So I grab a black one and go walking off to feel up some wrapping paper and make my choice over there. As I'm doing that I notice buddy helper guy motioning me over, back to the pens.
So I go back over there and he's got a red one in his hand, and he kinda whisper-mutters, "Here, take it, don't say anything." He's also got a folded-up piece of paper in his hand.
Lemme put this story on pause and add a bit of commentary for y'all. Through the lens of hindsight, yes, clearly this guy is hitting on me at this point. Did this occur to me at that moment? No, and here's why: first of all, I saw a free pen in front of me. I enjoy pens, especially pens that write vividly and easily (which these do). Plus it was red - I love red! So who am I to pass up a free red pen? Second, I don't tend to get people offering me free stuff often (aside from the annoying people on the sidewalk), so it kinda took me by surprise. And third, the last person I ever expect to hit on me is another guy, though I should probably be getting a bit more used to it as this is not the first time this has happened to me. But that's a whole other story.
So back to the story. I stuff the pen and piece of paper in my pocket and walk out to go pay. This is about when it occurs to me that the guy was probably hitting on me and the piece of paper probably has a number on it. I'm kind of mulling this over as I pay, and behind the dude taking my card I see the worker guy, making the ubiquitous, "Call me" sign.
So yeah, that settles it. Hitting on me.
I walk out and pull out the piece of paper a few blocks later - sure enough, it's a name and a number. I toss it out, and just after I toss it out it occurs to me that the nice thing to do might be to at least call and say thanks for the pen, but I play for the other team. I then picture myself fishing a piece of paper out of a trash receptacle on the corner of 14th and 5th and decide to give the next deserving homeless person I see whatever change is in my pocket to balance my karma.
Uh, so I kinda forgot to do that. But I'll do it sometime, I swear!
Now lemme put on my bitch hat for a second. Let's say, theoretically, that I was interested in the advances of stationary store worker guy, and analyze this situation. You think giving me a $3 pen is gonna get me to let you pound me in the ass (because - and I could be wrong here - gaysians are mostly bottoms, right? The whole Madame Butterfly/submissive Asian thing is always present in the minds of Western men, whether they be gay or straight)? Come on man, you gotta at least buy me dinner and some drinks first; I've got high self-esteem fucking 84% of the time, I don't come cheap.
So I go back over there and he's got a red one in his hand, and he kinda whisper-mutters, "Here, take it, don't say anything." He's also got a folded-up piece of paper in his hand.
Lemme put this story on pause and add a bit of commentary for y'all. Through the lens of hindsight, yes, clearly this guy is hitting on me at this point. Did this occur to me at that moment? No, and here's why: first of all, I saw a free pen in front of me. I enjoy pens, especially pens that write vividly and easily (which these do). Plus it was red - I love red! So who am I to pass up a free red pen? Second, I don't tend to get people offering me free stuff often (aside from the annoying people on the sidewalk), so it kinda took me by surprise. And third, the last person I ever expect to hit on me is another guy, though I should probably be getting a bit more used to it as this is not the first time this has happened to me. But that's a whole other story.
So back to the story. I stuff the pen and piece of paper in my pocket and walk out to go pay. This is about when it occurs to me that the guy was probably hitting on me and the piece of paper probably has a number on it. I'm kind of mulling this over as I pay, and behind the dude taking my card I see the worker guy, making the ubiquitous, "Call me" sign.
So yeah, that settles it. Hitting on me.
I walk out and pull out the piece of paper a few blocks later - sure enough, it's a name and a number. I toss it out, and just after I toss it out it occurs to me that the nice thing to do might be to at least call and say thanks for the pen, but I play for the other team. I then picture myself fishing a piece of paper out of a trash receptacle on the corner of 14th and 5th and decide to give the next deserving homeless person I see whatever change is in my pocket to balance my karma.
Uh, so I kinda forgot to do that. But I'll do it sometime, I swear!
Now lemme put on my bitch hat for a second. Let's say, theoretically, that I was interested in the advances of stationary store worker guy, and analyze this situation. You think giving me a $3 pen is gonna get me to let you pound me in the ass (because - and I could be wrong here - gaysians are mostly bottoms, right? The whole Madame Butterfly/submissive Asian thing is always present in the minds of Western men, whether they be gay or straight)? Come on man, you gotta at least buy me dinner and some drinks first; I've got high self-esteem fucking 84% of the time, I don't come cheap.
Just In Case I Doubted I Was a Leo...
Shazam!
I feel like I have to qualify my results a bit, though - a lot of the things they ask are, I do think/worry about - I just don't care, in the final analysis. Does that mean I have a high self-esteem? Or that I'm just a self-centered bastard? Or are they one and the same? I mean, I think about how I act, how I come across, how I dress, but only insofar as they represent me and my individual truth - as long as I'm being honest with myself, I could care less about what other people choose to read into it. Is that what it means to have a high self-esteem, or is that just having contempt for the opinions of others?
I think I just find it odd to be judged to have a high self-esteem, when for so long I don't think I did. Have a high one, that is.
| You Have Low Self Esteem 16% of the Time |
 Which can be translated to mean, you have high self-esteem and a healthy sense of self worth. You believe in yourself, and you know how to be the real you. You love yourself, imperfections and all. |
I feel like I have to qualify my results a bit, though - a lot of the things they ask are, I do think/worry about - I just don't care, in the final analysis. Does that mean I have a high self-esteem? Or that I'm just a self-centered bastard? Or are they one and the same? I mean, I think about how I act, how I come across, how I dress, but only insofar as they represent me and my individual truth - as long as I'm being honest with myself, I could care less about what other people choose to read into it. Is that what it means to have a high self-esteem, or is that just having contempt for the opinions of others?
I think I just find it odd to be judged to have a high self-esteem, when for so long I don't think I did. Have a high one, that is.
More Fun With Headlines
So you see this headline on Drudge (copied from the headline of the Bloomberg article it links to) and you think to yourself, "Holy crap, they could make a bomb in 16 days? We'd better nuke the crap out of them now," right? Then you click on the headline and read the article. Sure enough, the third paragraph is:
"Using those 50,000 centrifuges they could produce enough highly enriched uranium for a nuclear weapon in 16 days,'' Stephen Rademaker, U.S. Assistant Secretary of State for International Security and Nonproliferation, told reporters today in Moscow.
But wait - let's say after this bold statement you choose to continue reading the article for some odd reason. The very next paragraph:
Rademaker was reacting to a statement by Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who said yesterday the country had succeeded in enriching uranium on a small scale for the first time, using 164 centrifuges. That announcement defies demands by the UN Security Council that Iran shut down its nuclear program this month. (emphasis added)
So there's actually only 164 centrifuges at the moment. But wait, what's this, a little bit further down?
Iran has informed the Vienna-based International Atomic Energy Agency that it plans to construct 3,000 centrifuges at Natanz next year, Rademaker said.
"We calculate that a 3,000-machine cascade could produce enough uranium to build a nuclear weapon within 271 days,'' he said.
271 days! Nuke the bastards!
All in all, the article agrees with this one in the New York Times, albeit with the far less punchier headline of, "Analysts Say a Nuclear Iran Is Years Away." All the facts are the same - the 3,000 newer centrifuges due to come online near the end of the year, the 50,000 planned for the future; what is different is how they choose to present it. Also interesting in the Times article is the reasoning Russia has for being against sanctions, which I've been wondering about for a bit:
The Russian stance against penalties highlighted the obstacles Washington faces in its effort to force a halt to Iran's nuclear program. A senior aide to President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia said yesterday that any effort to employ broad penalties against Tehran would backfire because "Iran's current president will use them for his benefit, and he will use them to consolidate public opinion around him."
Russia's business ties to Iran are probably the underlying motive. And yet, the statement against sanctions is, from what I know of their effectiveness, essentially correct; rather than weaken a regime, all they do is strengthen it by allowing those in power to monopolize the daily necessities of life. So what do you do? Beats the hell out of me; all I know is that the stuff they've tried in the past sure hasn't worked. Who was it that defined insanity as the expectation of a different outcome from repeating the same action over and over? Or maybe that's stupidity. It's one of those -tys.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The Boys of Summer
Holy crap, it's BoSox-Jays on ESPN.
Isn't it odd to be watching baseball? I think the last time I mentioned to someone that I was watching or keeping an eye on a baseball game, their response was, "Why?" Does anyone really care about baseball anymore?
I have fond memories of the Jays when I was growing up; late 80s and then the back-to-back World Serieses in the early 90s before the work stoppage. I remember games with my dad sitting on the crappy benches at Exhibition Stadium, steel benches that had two sets of 3 line ridges; one in the front and one in the back and upon which it was impossible to sit comfortably, benches that would either freeze or burn your ass with no in-between. I remember when the Skydome (now Rogers Center) opened and the wave would go around and around and around, and every seat was filled. I remember watching games played by those World Series winning teams and knowing, feeling, hoping that they could always come back and win, even in the bottom of the 9th with 2 outs. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when Joe Carter hit his Series-winning homer. I can probably still name all or most of the starting lineups of all those teams I watched, some of whom went on to win or had previously been winners with other franchises: Ernie Whitt, Fred McGriff, Manny Lee, Tony Fernandez, Kelly Gruber, Lance Mulliniks, Jesse Barfield, Lloyd Moseby, George Bell, Dave Stieb, Jimmy Key, Todd Stottlemeyer, David Wells, Mark Eichhorn, Duane Ward, Tom Henke, Pat Borders, Greg Myers, John Olerud, Roberto Alomar, Candy Maldonado, Devon White, Joe Carter, Dave Winfield, Paul Molitor, Mookie Wilson, Pat Tabler, Jack Morris and Juan Guzman.
Is it really the sport itself, the teams or the individuals; or is it the people you share those memories with that make it special to you?
Isn't it odd to be watching baseball? I think the last time I mentioned to someone that I was watching or keeping an eye on a baseball game, their response was, "Why?" Does anyone really care about baseball anymore?
I have fond memories of the Jays when I was growing up; late 80s and then the back-to-back World Serieses in the early 90s before the work stoppage. I remember games with my dad sitting on the crappy benches at Exhibition Stadium, steel benches that had two sets of 3 line ridges; one in the front and one in the back and upon which it was impossible to sit comfortably, benches that would either freeze or burn your ass with no in-between. I remember when the Skydome (now Rogers Center) opened and the wave would go around and around and around, and every seat was filled. I remember watching games played by those World Series winning teams and knowing, feeling, hoping that they could always come back and win, even in the bottom of the 9th with 2 outs. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when Joe Carter hit his Series-winning homer. I can probably still name all or most of the starting lineups of all those teams I watched, some of whom went on to win or had previously been winners with other franchises: Ernie Whitt, Fred McGriff, Manny Lee, Tony Fernandez, Kelly Gruber, Lance Mulliniks, Jesse Barfield, Lloyd Moseby, George Bell, Dave Stieb, Jimmy Key, Todd Stottlemeyer, David Wells, Mark Eichhorn, Duane Ward, Tom Henke, Pat Borders, Greg Myers, John Olerud, Roberto Alomar, Candy Maldonado, Devon White, Joe Carter, Dave Winfield, Paul Molitor, Mookie Wilson, Pat Tabler, Jack Morris and Juan Guzman.
Is it really the sport itself, the teams or the individuals; or is it the people you share those memories with that make it special to you?
Hey Hey
| You Are an Excellent Cook |
 You're a top cook, but you weren't born that way. It's taken a lot of practice, a lot of experimenting, and a lot of learning. It's likely that you have what it takes to be a top chef, should you have the desire... |
Grails and Such
Lazy days, lazy days. Something interesting, though: yesterday I popped in Monty Python and the Holy Grail for some background noise while I was reading (not the best idea as it tends to distract with its hilarity), and today for various reasons I decided to look up the script online. Well, here's a copy of it, one which the person posting dates to March 20th, 1974, before shooting had started. What is fascinating is that the person has marked portions of the script which were crossed out and lines which were pencilled in. For anyone who's never shot a script, it's a neat look at how much scripts can and frequently do change between the end of the writing process and shooting. For any actors who are familiar with the process and are fans of Monty Python (which should be all of you, and if you're not then I don't want to hear from you), it's a neat look at exactly what was pre-planned and what was relatively last minute.
Another thing I find neat is watching so-called "Director's Cut" versions of movies versus theatrical releases, and the differences that can be made. The movie that always comes to mind when I think of this is Empire Records, a dorky, mildly-obsessive fave of mine ("Oh Rexy! You're so sexy!"). I watched the original release, came to love it, and then a few months ago I saw the extenda-mix version you can get on DVD these days - and the theatrical release is miles better. The extra scenes did nothing but bog down the action. When there's a good editor, things are cut for a reason; no matter how awesome the writing and acting is, the story and the film always has to come first. The first film I ever worked on, the director forgot/never knew/didn't care about this, and as such, his film ended up this 2+ hour long mess that could have been a decent, stupid 90 minute ok movie
There's some things in the script that I'd heard were actually improv'ed; I might have to go back and watch the special features again, because I think that was where I heard it; supposedly the French taunting and the name of the enchanter were both kind of made up by John Cleese on the spot, because he had problems remembering the actual lines.
Another thing I find neat is watching so-called "Director's Cut" versions of movies versus theatrical releases, and the differences that can be made. The movie that always comes to mind when I think of this is Empire Records, a dorky, mildly-obsessive fave of mine ("Oh Rexy! You're so sexy!"). I watched the original release, came to love it, and then a few months ago I saw the extenda-mix version you can get on DVD these days - and the theatrical release is miles better. The extra scenes did nothing but bog down the action. When there's a good editor, things are cut for a reason; no matter how awesome the writing and acting is, the story and the film always has to come first. The first film I ever worked on, the director forgot/never knew/didn't care about this, and as such, his film ended up this 2+ hour long mess that could have been a decent, stupid 90 minute ok movie
There's some things in the script that I'd heard were actually improv'ed; I might have to go back and watch the special features again, because I think that was where I heard it; supposedly the French taunting and the name of the enchanter were both kind of made up by John Cleese on the spot, because he had problems remembering the actual lines.
Monday, April 10, 2006
You Have the Right to Remain Ignorant
...or do you? Also - and I freely admit that I could be wrong here - where, exactly in the Bible does it say that homosexuality is wrong? Is it in the whole Sodom and Gomorrah story? Like, is that the only instance? Or are there more? I don't seem to remember any parables about Jesus casting stones at gays, but I could be wrong.
But setting that aside, is this a valid argument? In some ways I find it similar to the lawsuits and legislation (such as Oklahoma HB 2107 and - HOLY SHIT - New York Assembly Bill 8036) demanding that intelligent design be taught in schools with the same emphasis as evolution. I remember watching a Penn & Teller Bullshit! episode about the debate, where parents and activists would say over and over, "We just want to present both theories and let kids decide," and being struck by the hypocrisy. Kids aren't allowed to decide whether or not sex is right for them (abstinence is the only option, no teaching safe sex), whether or not certain books are damaging or subversive (banned book lists which remain all over the Western world), and yet suddenly they are supposed to be able to distinguish between two competing theories of life that, in the final equation, can never be proved or disproved. And the oddest thing about the debate is that there is room for both theories - evolution set in motion by an original creator. Isn't it odd that science has become something of a religion in and of itself, demanding a strict adherence to dogmatic principles? Why is it that some people seem to believe that it's either god and no science or science and no god (meaning science becomes the new god)? The reality is, there are some things science can explain and religion can't; conversely, there are some things religion (or spirituality, if you are averse to the connotation of organized religion and dogma) can explain or guide you in that science cannot.
I've gotten a bit far afield here; back to the California case. I think most people would agree that, yes, everyone has the right to their religious beliefs, no matter how repugnant we might find them personally (fucking crazy Mormons). But where is the line between private faith and public expression? Why do some Christians believe that practicing their religion requires them to publicly denounce the lifestyle choices of those around them ("Let he who is without sin...")? And is it just me, or is it only religions in the Judeo-Christian tradition (Christianity and Islam) that feel this way? I mean, you never see a monk hanging out in Times Square screaming, "REPENT! ONLY BUDDHA IS THE PATH TO NIRVANA! CHANGE YOUR WAYS OR YOU'RE ALL GOING TO BE COWS IN THE NEXT LIFE!" What's up with that?
I guess what is central to the case (and to the continuing bias against homosexuality that the Church has) is this:
Is homosexuality a choice or not? I think most people who actually know and have spent time with homosexuals (read: any New Yorker) would come down on the side of the nots. It is only the ignorant (or the terrified closeted, which in my experience is what most anti-gay Christian activists really are) who truly believe that homosexuals have some sort of choice, that they can just flip a switch and suddenly stop finding members of the same sex attractive. And you know what? Those people can keep believing that till they go blue in the face. What they don't have is the right to harass others; an individual's rights cannot extend to affect another individual's rights unless it is demonstrably in the common interest, which it is not in this case.
But setting that aside, is this a valid argument? In some ways I find it similar to the lawsuits and legislation (such as Oklahoma HB 2107 and - HOLY SHIT - New York Assembly Bill 8036) demanding that intelligent design be taught in schools with the same emphasis as evolution. I remember watching a Penn & Teller Bullshit! episode about the debate, where parents and activists would say over and over, "We just want to present both theories and let kids decide," and being struck by the hypocrisy. Kids aren't allowed to decide whether or not sex is right for them (abstinence is the only option, no teaching safe sex), whether or not certain books are damaging or subversive (banned book lists which remain all over the Western world), and yet suddenly they are supposed to be able to distinguish between two competing theories of life that, in the final equation, can never be proved or disproved. And the oddest thing about the debate is that there is room for both theories - evolution set in motion by an original creator. Isn't it odd that science has become something of a religion in and of itself, demanding a strict adherence to dogmatic principles? Why is it that some people seem to believe that it's either god and no science or science and no god (meaning science becomes the new god)? The reality is, there are some things science can explain and religion can't; conversely, there are some things religion (or spirituality, if you are averse to the connotation of organized religion and dogma) can explain or guide you in that science cannot.
I've gotten a bit far afield here; back to the California case. I think most people would agree that, yes, everyone has the right to their religious beliefs, no matter how repugnant we might find them personally (fucking crazy Mormons). But where is the line between private faith and public expression? Why do some Christians believe that practicing their religion requires them to publicly denounce the lifestyle choices of those around them ("Let he who is without sin...")? And is it just me, or is it only religions in the Judeo-Christian tradition (Christianity and Islam) that feel this way? I mean, you never see a monk hanging out in Times Square screaming, "REPENT! ONLY BUDDHA IS THE PATH TO NIRVANA! CHANGE YOUR WAYS OR YOU'RE ALL GOING TO BE COWS IN THE NEXT LIFE!" What's up with that?
I guess what is central to the case (and to the continuing bias against homosexuality that the Church has) is this:
Christian activist Gregory S. Baylor responds to such criticism angrily. He says he supports policies that protect people from discrimination based on race and gender. But he draws a distinction that infuriates gay rights activists when he argues that sexual orientation is different — a lifestyle choice, not an inborn trait.
Is homosexuality a choice or not? I think most people who actually know and have spent time with homosexuals (read: any New Yorker) would come down on the side of the nots. It is only the ignorant (or the terrified closeted, which in my experience is what most anti-gay Christian activists really are) who truly believe that homosexuals have some sort of choice, that they can just flip a switch and suddenly stop finding members of the same sex attractive. And you know what? Those people can keep believing that till they go blue in the face. What they don't have is the right to harass others; an individual's rights cannot extend to affect another individual's rights unless it is demonstrably in the common interest, which it is not in this case.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Canyons, Draft
Should really be working, but oh well. Could probably use an edit, maybe I'll do that sometime:
He wakes up in the middle of the night and hears her breathing echoing in the darkness. There is a gap between them, a chasm two feet wide with no bottom in sight, its walls worn away by months of injured silences and suppressed glances. How did they get there, they who had it all; who had nothing but each other. He is afraid if he reaches across he will fall, and yet he can already feel himself slipping and sliding, scrabbling for purchase in the slick soil and finding none. She's there but she is gone, miles away from him even when he looks her in the eyes. And he, where is he, where does that leave him? Where does he go from there?
Years later he wakes up and hears her no longer, feels her no more. She has gone, a decision made both by and without him. The world has moved on, and what does it all mean? Beside him lies another; her and not her, and he is sliding again, the world tilting around him. He is afraid, but of what: the darkness which hides, or the light which reveals? She is screaming in her sleep beside him, "Don't let me go, don't let me down, don't say you will," but he is unable to hear. The gap is widening again, widening and deepening, and he is digging, digging his own grave inch by inch and second by second.
He tosses his covers back and walks to the kitchen; hesitates, then flips the light on. Water; cleansing, freezing the lump threatening to overwhelm him and the life he has made. He holds the glass to his forehead, focusing on that point where flesh meets glass, feeling the liquid coolness travel down his body for one long moment. He finishes the water and goes back to bed. Even before he has pulled the covers back over him, he knows that she is awake beside him, her silence accusing him in the night, her hunched shoulder blades pregnant with tears prepared to fall. This is the moment. This is their moment, the moment they have been speeding towards since he first caught sight of her that night in the bar. And here, now, in this moment, he begins to feel real once more.
"Are you awake?"
Another lie. He knows she is. But this is the only way they can communicate, the only way they have ever been able to. She knows the moment is approaching, can feel its proximity, has been seeing it on the edges of her vision for the past week and yet cannot bring herself to speak, cannot seem to remember how to move her lips, tongue and breath to form words.
"Mmmm?"
"We need to talk."
"Can't it wait till morning?"
"No, it can't."
"Fine. I'll go make some coffee, then." She sits up, grinding her palms into her eyes and sweeping her hair back, taking her time and extending the moment, hoping against hope that he will reconsider, that she can buy herself one more morning. He knows exactly what she is doing, has done it himself, but remains silent. Watching. Waiting. He owes her that much, at least: these precious minutes where they can pretend this is just another soul-baring conversation, another rung on the ladder of intimacy. She knows that he knows and hates him for it, hates his smug consideration, his indulgence. As if she needed it from him. She did, once; needed and wanted it, but that time has long since passed, unmentioned and unmourned, just one more step on their path to this place, this moment.
She walks to the kitchen and flips on the radio while her body goes through its morning ritual of making coffee, 3 hours too soon. Standing before the sink, she realizes she is standing precisely where he was minutes before, feeling the leftover warmth of his footprints which had been cooling in the night air. She wonders what she will say, if she will have the strength and if there's even a point, or if he has decided this like so many other things: alone.
He stares at the ceiling while listening to the familiar gurgle of the coffee brewing. Rehearses what he is about to say in his head. If only there were some other way. There might be, but he is afraid; afraid of what they are and what they will become. He remembers promises whispered into a pillow that he would not be contained, would not be held down like all those around him while he was growing up; promises to himself that he has kept. His whole life he has known what he was not and would not be, but suddenly he realizes that knowing that tells him nothing about what he is or will be. She comes back in, handing him a mug. He takes a sip, smiles; she never could make it exactly the way he liked it.
"Something funny?"
He closes his eyes, feeling a wave of fatigue, but he cannot succumb. He must be strong, for her. For them.
"It's nothing."
She mmms in the back of her throat, cradling her mug in both hands, determined not to make this any easier for him. Blows across the top of her coffee, watching him over the rim of the mug. Waiting for him to make the first move, as she always has. Maybe that's why they find themselves here, now. Maybe even now there is a chance to save it, to save themselves, if they can just find the right combination of dots and dashes to transmit across the oceans that have formed between them.
For a moment he is struck by her beauty, perched on the edge of the bed and staring at him through the rising steam. He never wanted to hurt her. Maybe that's why they find themselves here, now.
"I want a divorce."
By the time the sun rises he will have packed a bag and left. Tears and recriminations will come later; his main memory of the conversation will be how civil it was. Perhaps it was that very civility that doomed them from the start. All she will remember is that the moment after the words were spoken, she felt more alive than she ever had.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and hears her breathing echoing in the darkness. There is a gap between them, a chasm two feet wide with no bottom in sight, its walls worn away by months of injured silences and suppressed glances. How did they get there, they who had it all; who had nothing but each other. He is afraid if he reaches across he will fall, and yet he can already feel himself slipping and sliding, scrabbling for purchase in the slick soil and finding none. She's there but she is gone, miles away from him even when he looks her in the eyes. And he, where is he, where does that leave him? Where does he go from there?
Years later he wakes up and hears her no longer, feels her no more. She has gone, a decision made both by and without him. The world has moved on, and what does it all mean? Beside him lies another; her and not her, and he is sliding again, the world tilting around him. He is afraid, but of what: the darkness which hides, or the light which reveals? She is screaming in her sleep beside him, "Don't let me go, don't let me down, don't say you will," but he is unable to hear. The gap is widening again, widening and deepening, and he is digging, digging his own grave inch by inch and second by second.
He tosses his covers back and walks to the kitchen; hesitates, then flips the light on. Water; cleansing, freezing the lump threatening to overwhelm him and the life he has made. He holds the glass to his forehead, focusing on that point where flesh meets glass, feeling the liquid coolness travel down his body for one long moment. He finishes the water and goes back to bed. Even before he has pulled the covers back over him, he knows that she is awake beside him, her silence accusing him in the night, her hunched shoulder blades pregnant with tears prepared to fall. This is the moment. This is their moment, the moment they have been speeding towards since he first caught sight of her that night in the bar. And here, now, in this moment, he begins to feel real once more.
"Are you awake?"
Another lie. He knows she is. But this is the only way they can communicate, the only way they have ever been able to. She knows the moment is approaching, can feel its proximity, has been seeing it on the edges of her vision for the past week and yet cannot bring herself to speak, cannot seem to remember how to move her lips, tongue and breath to form words.
"Mmmm?"
"We need to talk."
"Can't it wait till morning?"
"No, it can't."
"Fine. I'll go make some coffee, then." She sits up, grinding her palms into her eyes and sweeping her hair back, taking her time and extending the moment, hoping against hope that he will reconsider, that she can buy herself one more morning. He knows exactly what she is doing, has done it himself, but remains silent. Watching. Waiting. He owes her that much, at least: these precious minutes where they can pretend this is just another soul-baring conversation, another rung on the ladder of intimacy. She knows that he knows and hates him for it, hates his smug consideration, his indulgence. As if she needed it from him. She did, once; needed and wanted it, but that time has long since passed, unmentioned and unmourned, just one more step on their path to this place, this moment.
She walks to the kitchen and flips on the radio while her body goes through its morning ritual of making coffee, 3 hours too soon. Standing before the sink, she realizes she is standing precisely where he was minutes before, feeling the leftover warmth of his footprints which had been cooling in the night air. She wonders what she will say, if she will have the strength and if there's even a point, or if he has decided this like so many other things: alone.
He stares at the ceiling while listening to the familiar gurgle of the coffee brewing. Rehearses what he is about to say in his head. If only there were some other way. There might be, but he is afraid; afraid of what they are and what they will become. He remembers promises whispered into a pillow that he would not be contained, would not be held down like all those around him while he was growing up; promises to himself that he has kept. His whole life he has known what he was not and would not be, but suddenly he realizes that knowing that tells him nothing about what he is or will be. She comes back in, handing him a mug. He takes a sip, smiles; she never could make it exactly the way he liked it.
"Something funny?"
He closes his eyes, feeling a wave of fatigue, but he cannot succumb. He must be strong, for her. For them.
"It's nothing."
She mmms in the back of her throat, cradling her mug in both hands, determined not to make this any easier for him. Blows across the top of her coffee, watching him over the rim of the mug. Waiting for him to make the first move, as she always has. Maybe that's why they find themselves here, now. Maybe even now there is a chance to save it, to save themselves, if they can just find the right combination of dots and dashes to transmit across the oceans that have formed between them.
For a moment he is struck by her beauty, perched on the edge of the bed and staring at him through the rising steam. He never wanted to hurt her. Maybe that's why they find themselves here, now.
"I want a divorce."
By the time the sun rises he will have packed a bag and left. Tears and recriminations will come later; his main memory of the conversation will be how civil it was. Perhaps it was that very civility that doomed them from the start. All she will remember is that the moment after the words were spoken, she felt more alive than she ever had.
I'm Scurred
Horoscope:
What the hell is that? I mean, what the hell is that? Guess I'll just hide in my damn apartment all day. Stupid stars and planets.
Intense encounters
This influence indicates rather intense encounters with other persons and circumstances, which will reveal many aspects of your life that you may not have understood or may have chosen to ignore. In particular, it signifies that you may have power struggles with others, especially persons in authority, in which you will be forced to stand up for your position. On the other hand, you must avoid being overweening and domineering, because such an attitude will only create conflicts that you will probably lose, one way or another. Be careful not to place yourself in situations where you could be subjected to force or violence. Avoid places with high crime rates, or take precautions if you must go into such areas. Sometimes you can inadvertently draw violence into your life without knowing why. (emphasis added)
What the hell is that? I mean, what the hell is that? Guess I'll just hide in my damn apartment all day. Stupid stars and planets.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
A Leak is a Leak is a Leak
...except when the President does it, in which case by definition it can't be a leak, it's a "release of classified information".
To my mind, what is most disturbing about this is not the actual leak or declassification or whatever the hell you want to call it. If that's what the Bush Administration did, if they were really declassifying in order to rebut an argument, why all the secrecy? Why not just stand up, say, that's right Mr. Wilson, there's your arguments, and in order to respond we're going to make this knowledge known. If it they were really acting in the best interests of the American people, then the American people would have understood that, wouldn't they? And yet, if anything else, this instance is indicative of the general tone this administration has always taken: that they know best. Because, you know, their track record is absolutely brilliant. These are the people who are so confident that Iraq is doing well, they tell us that we have to wait at least 10, 15 years in order to let history judge how successful they were. At least. Because you know US troops are going to be stationed there for at least that long. Certainly not in the numbers they're there now, but in a similar situation to Saudi Arabia.
Anyways, I digress. Back to Scott McClellan:
And who decides what the public interest is, Mr. McClellan? Isn't there something inherently abusable in the ability of an administration to suppress information about its own questionable policies (wire-tapping)? Can people really be so blinded by ideology and party preference that they would believe that no person (and certainly no member of the current administration) could be tempted to use such power for personal gain? Whatever happened to the basic civics class "checks and balances"? What happened to America?
To my mind, what is most disturbing about this is not the actual leak or declassification or whatever the hell you want to call it. If that's what the Bush Administration did, if they were really declassifying in order to rebut an argument, why all the secrecy? Why not just stand up, say, that's right Mr. Wilson, there's your arguments, and in order to respond we're going to make this knowledge known. If it they were really acting in the best interests of the American people, then the American people would have understood that, wouldn't they? And yet, if anything else, this instance is indicative of the general tone this administration has always taken: that they know best. Because, you know, their track record is absolutely brilliant. These are the people who are so confident that Iraq is doing well, they tell us that we have to wait at least 10, 15 years in order to let history judge how successful they were. At least. Because you know US troops are going to be stationed there for at least that long. Certainly not in the numbers they're there now, but in a similar situation to Saudi Arabia.
Anyways, I digress. Back to Scott McClellan:
"There is a difference between providing declassified information to the public when it's in the public interest and leaking classified information that involved sensitive national intelligence regarding our security," McClellan said.
And who decides what the public interest is, Mr. McClellan? Isn't there something inherently abusable in the ability of an administration to suppress information about its own questionable policies (wire-tapping)? Can people really be so blinded by ideology and party preference that they would believe that no person (and certainly no member of the current administration) could be tempted to use such power for personal gain? Whatever happened to the basic civics class "checks and balances"? What happened to America?
Friday, April 07, 2006
Warning: NSFW
For those not conversant in net lingo/acronyms, NSFW stands for Not Safe For Work. Come to think of it, this probably is safe for work, but it's pretty disgusting. Consider this your warning.
Still wanna see it?
Really?
REALLY?
Remember this story about the Britney Spears birthing statue that is soon to be on display out in Brooklyn? Well, if you're like me (and here I pause, as I realize none of you probably are), and if you realized that all the pictures of it were that front angle, or a profile shot, the first thing that went through your head was probably: "I wonder what it looks like on the other end?"
Well, wonder no more. Honestly, I had considered going out there just to find out the answer to my question. Now I know. And knowing is half the battle.
Now please excuse me while I go sandpaper my eyeballs out.
GEEEEEE EYE JOOOOOOOOOOE!
Still wanna see it?
Really?
REALLY?
Remember this story about the Britney Spears birthing statue that is soon to be on display out in Brooklyn? Well, if you're like me (and here I pause, as I realize none of you probably are), and if you realized that all the pictures of it were that front angle, or a profile shot, the first thing that went through your head was probably: "I wonder what it looks like on the other end?"
Well, wonder no more. Honestly, I had considered going out there just to find out the answer to my question. Now I know. And knowing is half the battle.
Now please excuse me while I go sandpaper my eyeballs out.
GEEEEEE EYE JOOOOOOOOOOE!
RAWK
| Your Theme Song is Back in Black by AC/DC |
 "Back in black, I hit the sack, I've been too long, I'm glad to be back" Things sometimes get really crazy for you, and sometimes you have to get away from all the chaos. But each time you stage your comeback, it's even better than the last! |
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Speaking of Riots
Anyone else see these stories about the stuff that happened out in Brooklyn the other day? I know a guy who lives out there and he said it was crazy. Man...don't mess with those Hasids, they will fuck you UP.
Oh, and I wish the picture in that Post article was as big as it was in the paper edition, because that kid on the far left was really embarassing-looking. Like, he has the braces, and there was this one little line of spit going from his upper teeth to the lower? It really wasn't flattering.
Oh, and I wish the picture in that Post article was as big as it was in the paper edition, because that kid on the far left was really embarassing-looking. Like, he has the braces, and there was this one little line of spit going from his upper teeth to the lower? It really wasn't flattering.
CPE?
For anyone not really keeping tabs on international goings-on, the CPE (Contrat Premiere Embauche, or First Employment Contract) is the new youth labor law that the French government has been trying to push through, in the face of massive student and union strikes. This story first broke a bit ago, so there's links all over to stuff about it; here's one of the more recent stories. To my understanding, the French employment system is far different from the Anglo model that you find in Britain, the US and Canada, in that there are far more restrictions governing the hiring and firing of workers. I believe the German model is similar to the French, though I don't know a whole lot of specifics. The CPE allows companies to hire employees under 26 and fire them at any time in a 2 year period, for any reason. At the end of that period, if the company wishes to retain the employee, their contract becomes the same as any other French worker's, with the attendant protections.
An economist or globalist would probably look at the law and say it's a good thing; they would attribute soaring youth unemployment in France (50% in underprivileged areas, over 20% nationally as per the linked article) to the fact that companies cannot easily terminate new employees. Since they are hamstrung in firing employees when things don't work out, companies are far more conservative in their hiring practices and in seeking growth, since hiring a whole lot of employees as you grow, not growing as much as you had hoped and then being saddled with a whole lot of superfluous payroll is a really quick way to go bankrupt. In America, this is not seen as a bad thing per se; while the human cost is regrettable, the economic gains made by rapid company turnover are deemed a greater gain. Economists are great at ignoring the human cost.
The unavoidable critique of the law, however, is that while there will be companies who will adhere to the spirit of the law, taking chances and hiring these younger employees, there will almost certainly be a large number of companies who will hire people under 26 with every intention of firing them when they hit the 1 year and 364 days of employment mark, then running out and hiring some other poor kid to replace them. Having read Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, I find myself growing increasingly cynical of big business and the actual benefits of globalization.
It's clear that something has to be done in France to address the high levels of youth unemployment; it also seems clear that the CPE will not work in its current form. Where is the answer? Are we ever going to find a path that allows for both economic growth and social stability? And even if we do, how long will it be before big business finds a way around that?
On an unrelated note, I'm more than halfway through The Fountainhead, so now I feel comfortable saying what I had been thinking about 100 pages in, but wanted to give it a bit more of a fair shake before I really solidified my opinion: Ayn Rand was an annoying bitch. I will likely elucidate that at a later time, when I finish the book, but for now an illustration will suffice. You know that bit in Dirty Dancing? When the annoying, egotistical guy working at the resort who actually got Penny preggers - Neal? We'll call him Neal, even if that isn't his name. Ok, so when Neal is talking to Baby, right? And he whips out the book, tells her to read it and says, "Some people are worth more than others," or something to that effect? That's the kind of person who would want to make hot, sticky love to Ayn Rand.
I know, it makes me wanna puke too. She was really not an attractive girl. And besides - nobody puts Baby in a corner!
An economist or globalist would probably look at the law and say it's a good thing; they would attribute soaring youth unemployment in France (50% in underprivileged areas, over 20% nationally as per the linked article) to the fact that companies cannot easily terminate new employees. Since they are hamstrung in firing employees when things don't work out, companies are far more conservative in their hiring practices and in seeking growth, since hiring a whole lot of employees as you grow, not growing as much as you had hoped and then being saddled with a whole lot of superfluous payroll is a really quick way to go bankrupt. In America, this is not seen as a bad thing per se; while the human cost is regrettable, the economic gains made by rapid company turnover are deemed a greater gain. Economists are great at ignoring the human cost.
The unavoidable critique of the law, however, is that while there will be companies who will adhere to the spirit of the law, taking chances and hiring these younger employees, there will almost certainly be a large number of companies who will hire people under 26 with every intention of firing them when they hit the 1 year and 364 days of employment mark, then running out and hiring some other poor kid to replace them. Having read Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, I find myself growing increasingly cynical of big business and the actual benefits of globalization.
It's clear that something has to be done in France to address the high levels of youth unemployment; it also seems clear that the CPE will not work in its current form. Where is the answer? Are we ever going to find a path that allows for both economic growth and social stability? And even if we do, how long will it be before big business finds a way around that?
On an unrelated note, I'm more than halfway through The Fountainhead, so now I feel comfortable saying what I had been thinking about 100 pages in, but wanted to give it a bit more of a fair shake before I really solidified my opinion: Ayn Rand was an annoying bitch. I will likely elucidate that at a later time, when I finish the book, but for now an illustration will suffice. You know that bit in Dirty Dancing? When the annoying, egotistical guy working at the resort who actually got Penny preggers - Neal? We'll call him Neal, even if that isn't his name. Ok, so when Neal is talking to Baby, right? And he whips out the book, tells her to read it and says, "Some people are worth more than others," or something to that effect? That's the kind of person who would want to make hot, sticky love to Ayn Rand.
I know, it makes me wanna puke too. She was really not an attractive girl. And besides - nobody puts Baby in a corner!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
More Canyons
Figure I might as well just paste in the whole thing, so I don't have to be linking all over the place, and to make it a bit easier to follow:
He wakes up in the middle of the night and hears her breathing echoing in the darkness. There is a gap between them, a chasm two feet wide with no bottom in sight, its walls worn away by months of injured silences and suppressed glances. How did they get there, they who had it all; who had nothing but each other. He is afraid if he reaches across he will fall, and yet he can already feel himself slipping and sliding, scrabbling for purchase in the slick soil and finding none. She's there but she is gone, miles away from him even when he looks her in the eyes. And he, where is he, where does that leave him? Where does he go from there?
Years later he wakes up and hears her no longer, feels her no more. She has gone, a decision made both by and without him. The world has moved on, and what does it all mean? Beside him lies another; her and not her, and he is sliding again, the world tilting around him. He is afraid, but of what: the darkness which hides, or the light which reveals? She is screaming in her sleep beside him, "Don't let me go, don't let me down, don't say you will," but he is unable to hear. The gap is widening again, widening and deepening, and he is digging, digging his own grave inch by inch and second by second.
He tosses his covers back and walks to the kitchen; hesitates, then flips the light on. Water; cleansing, freezing the lump threatening to overwhelm him and the life he has made. He holds the glass to his forehead, focusing on that point where flesh meets glass, feeling the liquid coolness travel down his body for one long moment. He finishes the water and goes back to bed. Even before he has pulled the covers back over him, he knows that she is awake beside him, her silence accusing him in the night, her hunched shoulder blades pregnant with tears prepared to fall. This is the moment. This is their moment, the moment they have been speeding towards since he first caught sight of her that night in the bar. And here, now, in this moment, he begins to feel real once more.
"Are you awake?"
Another lie. He knows she is. But this is the only way they can communicate, the only way they have ever been able to. She knows the moment is approaching, can feel its proximity, has been seeing it on the edges of her vision for the past week and yet cannot bring herself to speak, cannot seem to remember how to move her lips, tongue and breath to form words.
"Mmmm?"
"We need to talk."
"Can't it wait till morning?"
"No, it can't."
"Fine. I'll go make some coffee, then." She sits up, grinding her palms into her eyes and sweeping her hair back, taking her time and extending the moment, hoping against hope that he will reconsider, that she can buy herself one more morning. He knows exactly what she is doing, has done it himself, but remains silent. Watching. Waiting. He owes her that much, at least: these precious minutes where they can pretend this is just another soul-baring conversation, another rung on the ladder of intimacy. She knows that he knows and hates him for it, hates his smug consideration, his indulgence. As if she needed it from him. She did, once; needed and wanted it, but that time has long since passed, unmentioned and unmourned, just one more step on their path to this place, this moment.
She walks to the kitchen and flips on the radio while her body goes through its morning ritual of making coffee, 3 hours too soon. Standing before the sink, she realizes she is standing precisely where he was minutes before, feeling the leftover warmth of his footprints which had been cooling in the night air. She wonders what she will say, if she will have the strength and if there's even a point, or if he has decided this like so many other things: alone.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and hears her breathing echoing in the darkness. There is a gap between them, a chasm two feet wide with no bottom in sight, its walls worn away by months of injured silences and suppressed glances. How did they get there, they who had it all; who had nothing but each other. He is afraid if he reaches across he will fall, and yet he can already feel himself slipping and sliding, scrabbling for purchase in the slick soil and finding none. She's there but she is gone, miles away from him even when he looks her in the eyes. And he, where is he, where does that leave him? Where does he go from there?
Years later he wakes up and hears her no longer, feels her no more. She has gone, a decision made both by and without him. The world has moved on, and what does it all mean? Beside him lies another; her and not her, and he is sliding again, the world tilting around him. He is afraid, but of what: the darkness which hides, or the light which reveals? She is screaming in her sleep beside him, "Don't let me go, don't let me down, don't say you will," but he is unable to hear. The gap is widening again, widening and deepening, and he is digging, digging his own grave inch by inch and second by second.
He tosses his covers back and walks to the kitchen; hesitates, then flips the light on. Water; cleansing, freezing the lump threatening to overwhelm him and the life he has made. He holds the glass to his forehead, focusing on that point where flesh meets glass, feeling the liquid coolness travel down his body for one long moment. He finishes the water and goes back to bed. Even before he has pulled the covers back over him, he knows that she is awake beside him, her silence accusing him in the night, her hunched shoulder blades pregnant with tears prepared to fall. This is the moment. This is their moment, the moment they have been speeding towards since he first caught sight of her that night in the bar. And here, now, in this moment, he begins to feel real once more.
"Are you awake?"
Another lie. He knows she is. But this is the only way they can communicate, the only way they have ever been able to. She knows the moment is approaching, can feel its proximity, has been seeing it on the edges of her vision for the past week and yet cannot bring herself to speak, cannot seem to remember how to move her lips, tongue and breath to form words.
"Mmmm?"
"We need to talk."
"Can't it wait till morning?"
"No, it can't."
"Fine. I'll go make some coffee, then." She sits up, grinding her palms into her eyes and sweeping her hair back, taking her time and extending the moment, hoping against hope that he will reconsider, that she can buy herself one more morning. He knows exactly what she is doing, has done it himself, but remains silent. Watching. Waiting. He owes her that much, at least: these precious minutes where they can pretend this is just another soul-baring conversation, another rung on the ladder of intimacy. She knows that he knows and hates him for it, hates his smug consideration, his indulgence. As if she needed it from him. She did, once; needed and wanted it, but that time has long since passed, unmentioned and unmourned, just one more step on their path to this place, this moment.
She walks to the kitchen and flips on the radio while her body goes through its morning ritual of making coffee, 3 hours too soon. Standing before the sink, she realizes she is standing precisely where he was minutes before, feeling the leftover warmth of his footprints which had been cooling in the night air. She wonders what she will say, if she will have the strength and if there's even a point, or if he has decided this like so many other things: alone.
I Got New Shoes, New Shoes, New Shoes
...in the mail, that is. Just bought these puppies. I am also disturbingly tempted by these, these and these. I think I can manage to avoid the Steve Maddens (I saw them in the store today and they have J U M P in these massive letters on the backs, which struck me as exceedingly retarded), but those pricey-er Cons keep calling to me, like the honey pots in Pooh's larder. Perhaps one day I will emerge from the mist and find them in my closet, waiting for me to slip them on and go A-Maying.
Hello, Pot
Have you met Kettle?
People are fucking retarded, and politicians invariably seem to be even moreso.
In a measure of how polarizing a figure Mr. DeLay has become, many conservatives expressed a belief that he was being hounded by political enemies.
"It's driven by hatred and politics far more than substance," said Representative Jack Kingston of Georgia, vice chairman of the Republican conference.
People are fucking retarded, and politicians invariably seem to be even moreso.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The Best Game You Can Name
Watched Legends of Hockey tonight; it's a series I've watched before, in Canada, about...well, legends of hockey, the great players who have come and gone in the past 60 years.
It is awe-inspiring to see these older gentlemen whose faces light up as they recall their playing days, to hear each of them sit and say what an honor it was to play a game they loved for so long, to hear the respect with which they speak of each other. It is names, faces and numbers that I recognize instantly, men who played before I was even born. And then, as the episodes get into the modern era, it is the gods of my childhood, the players I had the good fortune to sit and watch on my television.
It also reminds me of what I love about hockey, and I suppose sport in general. What is it about sports that speaks to us, why do we love athletes so much? Watching those old clips of players swooping along the ice, I find myself smiling and can't quite explain why. Of course, then you see the guy skating along gracefully and punching some dude in the face, or slashing or hooking, and you remember it can also be a game of incredible violence.
I have still yet to go see a game at MSG, something I have to remedy one of these days. Really want to see Alexander Ovechkin play, too. That kid is really something.
It is awe-inspiring to see these older gentlemen whose faces light up as they recall their playing days, to hear each of them sit and say what an honor it was to play a game they loved for so long, to hear the respect with which they speak of each other. It is names, faces and numbers that I recognize instantly, men who played before I was even born. And then, as the episodes get into the modern era, it is the gods of my childhood, the players I had the good fortune to sit and watch on my television.
It also reminds me of what I love about hockey, and I suppose sport in general. What is it about sports that speaks to us, why do we love athletes so much? Watching those old clips of players swooping along the ice, I find myself smiling and can't quite explain why. Of course, then you see the guy skating along gracefully and punching some dude in the face, or slashing or hooking, and you remember it can also be a game of incredible violence.
I have still yet to go see a game at MSG, something I have to remedy one of these days. Really want to see Alexander Ovechkin play, too. That kid is really something.
Canyons, Continued
Continuing this story:
He tosses his covers back and walks to the kitchen; hesitates, then flips the light on. Water; cleansing, freezing the lump threatening to overwhelm him and the life he has made. He holds the glass to his forehead, focusing on that point where flesh meets glass, feeling the liquid coolness travel down his body for one long moment. He finishes the water and goes back to bed. Even before he has pulled the covers back over him, he knows that she is awake beside him, her silence accusing him in the night, her hunched shoulder blades pregnant with tears prepared to fall. This is the moment, the moment they have been speeding towards since he first caught sight of her that night in the bar. And here, now, in this moment, he begins to feel real once more.
"Are you awake?"
Another lie. He knows she is. But this is the only way they can communicate, the only way they have ever been able to. She knows the moment is approaching, can feel its proximity, has been seeing it on the edges of her vision for the past week and yet cannot bring herself to speak, cannot seem to remember how to move her lips, tongue and breath to form words.
"Mmmm?"
"We need to talk."
He tosses his covers back and walks to the kitchen; hesitates, then flips the light on. Water; cleansing, freezing the lump threatening to overwhelm him and the life he has made. He holds the glass to his forehead, focusing on that point where flesh meets glass, feeling the liquid coolness travel down his body for one long moment. He finishes the water and goes back to bed. Even before he has pulled the covers back over him, he knows that she is awake beside him, her silence accusing him in the night, her hunched shoulder blades pregnant with tears prepared to fall. This is the moment, the moment they have been speeding towards since he first caught sight of her that night in the bar. And here, now, in this moment, he begins to feel real once more.
"Are you awake?"
Another lie. He knows she is. But this is the only way they can communicate, the only way they have ever been able to. She knows the moment is approaching, can feel its proximity, has been seeing it on the edges of her vision for the past week and yet cannot bring herself to speak, cannot seem to remember how to move her lips, tongue and breath to form words.
"Mmmm?"
"We need to talk."
Monday, April 03, 2006
Canyons
Feels like I haven't written anything in a while; not for lack of desire, but more from lack of inspiration. This one is a little different from previous things I'd posted up here, in that it's not quite as personal. I find it kind of interesting though, I might try to revisit this character sometime. There actually is something I'd seen a bit ago that motivates this piece and that I'd wanted to write something about, but it didn't really fit with where I am right now, emotionally and mentally, hence the need to create a character who it did apply to.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and hears her breathing echoing in the darkness. There is a gap between them, a chasm a foot wide with no bottom in sight, its walls worn away by months of injured silences and suppressed glances. How did they get there, they who had it all; who had nothing but each other. He is afraid if he reaches across he will fall, and yet he can already feel himself slipping and sliding, scrabbling for purchase in the slick soil and finding none. She's there but she is gone, miles away from him even when he looks her in the eyes. And he, where is he, where does that leave him? Where does he go from there?
Years later he wakes up and hears her no longer, feels her no more. She is gone, a decision that had been made by and without him. The world has moved on, and what does it all mean? Beside him lies another; her and not her, and he is sliding again, the world tilting around him. He is afraid, but of what: the darkness which hides, or the light which reveals? She is screaming in her sleep beside him, "Don't let me go, don't let me down, don't say you will," but he is unable to hear. The gap is widening again and he is digging, digging his own grave inch by inch and second by second, wondering all the while why the hole keeps getting deeper and deeper.
If you're wondering what it was that I saw (here comes your glimpse into my odd mind), it was actually a young man sitting on a crowded train. In this case, it was a 2, with the benches. This guy was sitting next to the pole that goes from the bench to the ceiling, but he'd left a distinctive gap between himself and the pole (you know how people normally sit right up against it), and so the two people sitting to his right were squished into the remaining space. That detail didn't really factor into what I ended up writing, of course, but seeing that (relatively) huge gap of empty bench got me thinking, and a while later this came out. So, there you have it.
He wakes up in the middle of the night and hears her breathing echoing in the darkness. There is a gap between them, a chasm a foot wide with no bottom in sight, its walls worn away by months of injured silences and suppressed glances. How did they get there, they who had it all; who had nothing but each other. He is afraid if he reaches across he will fall, and yet he can already feel himself slipping and sliding, scrabbling for purchase in the slick soil and finding none. She's there but she is gone, miles away from him even when he looks her in the eyes. And he, where is he, where does that leave him? Where does he go from there?
Years later he wakes up and hears her no longer, feels her no more. She is gone, a decision that had been made by and without him. The world has moved on, and what does it all mean? Beside him lies another; her and not her, and he is sliding again, the world tilting around him. He is afraid, but of what: the darkness which hides, or the light which reveals? She is screaming in her sleep beside him, "Don't let me go, don't let me down, don't say you will," but he is unable to hear. The gap is widening again and he is digging, digging his own grave inch by inch and second by second, wondering all the while why the hole keeps getting deeper and deeper.
If you're wondering what it was that I saw (here comes your glimpse into my odd mind), it was actually a young man sitting on a crowded train. In this case, it was a 2, with the benches. This guy was sitting next to the pole that goes from the bench to the ceiling, but he'd left a distinctive gap between himself and the pole (you know how people normally sit right up against it), and so the two people sitting to his right were squished into the remaining space. That detail didn't really factor into what I ended up writing, of course, but seeing that (relatively) huge gap of empty bench got me thinking, and a while later this came out. So, there you have it.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Speaking of Corporatocracy
I just had to mention this, because a friend mentioned it to me today. Corporatocracy is the term that Perkins coined to define the cozy relationship between industry and government, one that has seen individuals move from executive offices to government offices (George H. W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Robert McNamara, etc) and back. And if there's anyone who doubted that big business runs America, check this story out from Brazil about "flex-fuel" cars: cars that can run on ethanol and gasoline, and any mixture of the two, taking 53.6% of the market for new cars.
That's right.
Brazil.
Fucking Brazil has just sold more potentially clean cars than gas-driven cars in the past year, for the first time since the 1980s (not to knock Brazil, but honestly? Brazil vs the US?). And speaking of which, meanwhile, in the US - what? You mean to tell me that Brazil can manage something and the United States of America can't? Can you imagine what the result would be if, like during the space race, an American president stood up and said, "In 10 years, the majority of cars sold in the United States will be clean." Can you? Do you, for a second, doubt that America could make it happen in a decade? In 5 years? Again, this is the country that put a man on the fucking moon, all because one man said, "We will," and every individual, every applicable industry, every ounce of science and innovation bent to that one previously thought unreachable goal.
Because it could. But it won't, because every single oil and car company has a huge stake in holding it off for as long as possible. And that's the truth.
Fuck, this is so upsetting. I'd had such an awesome day up until this point, too. I think I'm going to go watch Real Time and get even more pissed.
That's right.
Brazil.
Fucking Brazil has just sold more potentially clean cars than gas-driven cars in the past year, for the first time since the 1980s (not to knock Brazil, but honestly? Brazil vs the US?). And speaking of which, meanwhile, in the US - what? You mean to tell me that Brazil can manage something and the United States of America can't? Can you imagine what the result would be if, like during the space race, an American president stood up and said, "In 10 years, the majority of cars sold in the United States will be clean." Can you? Do you, for a second, doubt that America could make it happen in a decade? In 5 years? Again, this is the country that put a man on the fucking moon, all because one man said, "We will," and every individual, every applicable industry, every ounce of science and innovation bent to that one previously thought unreachable goal.
Because it could. But it won't, because every single oil and car company has a huge stake in holding it off for as long as possible. And that's the truth.
Fuck, this is so upsetting. I'd had such an awesome day up until this point, too. I think I'm going to go watch Real Time and get even more pissed.
Back to the Fountain
1. The Complete Poems, Anne Sexton
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
25. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
Confessions was good and troubling. It's an entirely different side from Friedman, who chose to focus on the positives while Perkins had seen and been responsible for the negatives. It's impossible to know who is telling the truth and who isn't. I would whole-heartedly recommend Confessions to anyone with even a passing interest in world economics and politics. Finishing it has also reminded me that I wanted to grab the book that Syriana is based on; I'll have to try to remember that next time I'm in the store.
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
25. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand
Confessions was good and troubling. It's an entirely different side from Friedman, who chose to focus on the positives while Perkins had seen and been responsible for the negatives. It's impossible to know who is telling the truth and who isn't. I would whole-heartedly recommend Confessions to anyone with even a passing interest in world economics and politics. Finishing it has also reminded me that I wanted to grab the book that Syriana is based on; I'll have to try to remember that next time I'm in the store.
Have I Been Here Before?
Have I done this one before? I feel sure that I probably have, but I'm also sure I could do it 10 different times and get 10 different answers. In any event:
| You Should Be A Sagittarius |
 What's good about you: bold and adventure loving, life is one big party for you What's bad about you: you don't think before speaking - and you often regret it! In love: you're flirtatiously playful, but you never play games In friendship, you're: the one who keeps everyone laughing Your ideal job: fortune teller, philosopher, or athlete Your sense of fashion: your own mix of vintage and new pieces You like to pig out on: anything you haven't tried before |
Saturday, April 01, 2006
...And the World Goes Round
1. The Complete Poems, Anne Sexton
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
How's this for a chilling passage (granted, I'm certain that it's written this way specifically, given that this book is relatively recent):
2. On the Road, Jack Kerouac
3. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
4. Kafka on the Shore, Haruki Murakami
5. Sideways, Rex Pickett
6. The Shipping News, Annie Proulx
7. Le Morte D'Arthur, Sir Thomas Malory
8. Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh
9. The Sonnets, William Shakespeare
10. To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
11. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
12. A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, Yiyun Li
13. interpreter of maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
14. The Neverending Story, Michael Ende
15. Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
16. Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
17. Blink, Malcolm Gladwell
18. The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman
19. The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell
20. the namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri
21. Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro
22. seven types of ambiguity, Eliot Perlman
23. Unhooked Generation, Jillian Straus
24. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, John Perkins
How's this for a chilling passage (granted, I'm certain that it's written this way specifically, given that this book is relatively recent):
The premise of U.S. foreign policy was that Suharto would serve Washington in a manner similar to the shah of Iran. The United States also hoped the nation would serve as a model for other countries in the region. Washington based part of its strategy on the assumption that gains made in Indonesia might have positive repercussions throughout the Islamic World, particularly in the explosive Middle East. And if that were not incentive enough, Indonesia had oil.
Quitting Time
So, after thinking long and hard about it, I decided to quit the play today. I really wasn't feeling rehearsal; didn't want to go, didn't want to be there once I got there and wasn't getting paid enough to suck it up and deal. Hopefully this doesn't put a huge dent in my karma.
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