Songs that Didn't Used to Exist: 6/1/06

28 June 2006

Playing Favorites.

I'm not saying they're the greatest albums ever made...Just my favorites, and, thus, quite spectacular. Or, you know, the "greatest" ever.

Besides, I do change my mind a lot. For lack of a better system, they are in chronological order.

1. A Hard Day's Night, The Beatles (Capitol) 1964: Choosing just one Beatles album is tough, but faced with the decision, this easily wins out for me. No, it does not have the unexpected elements of experimentation of the later albums, but I like it because it really does showcase the early Beatles at their best. Plus, it has what may be my favorite song of all time (even just for the harmony), "If I Fell." There needs to be no justification for this pick, obviously.

2. Beauty & the Beat, The Go-Gos (IRS) 1981: Sure, go ahead, make fun of me. Tell yourself that they were just girls, just partying whore drunk druggies hanging out with that shady dude that ran IRS. Tell yourself whatever you need to. Then run down to the Salvation Army or Goodwill and pay the two bucks it'll cost you for a decent copy of this totally righteous LP. These girls are some pop-song writers, in the tradition of all the girl groups that came before them, they moved the bar just a little higher, even if no one actually noticed. But, like I said, I did. My favorite song on the album is "Our Lips Are Sealed," but it also has what is probably the MOST famous of their songs ("We Got the Beat"), as well as the LEAST famous of them ("Skidmarks on My Heart"). My take? Both rule!

3. Split, Lush (4AD) 1994: Yeah, I am truly a child of the 90's. And yes, when I recently listened to this stunner, I was surprised to hear that the album truly is dated (though I do NOT think in this case it is a bad thing). Lush is without a doubt my favorite rock band to have ever existed. That said, I recognize the facts as they are: not exactly multi-purpose. You don't, for instance, necessarily want to party to this band. Compared against themselves, I think this is obviously Lush's best work, and the most fully realized product of the distinct thing that they were. Listening to these songs, I hear the voice of adult songwriters able to call a thing as they see it. My favorite songs are never everyone else's- most people love this band for what have been perceived as their pop-feminist anthems ("Hypocrite," "Ladykillers," "Single Girl") but I love this band when they are most difficult. Maybe that's why Split is and always was my favorite album of theirs. I love its seriousness, and its sense of the dramatic. That said, I rarely want to listen to it these days. I'm far too happy for them now.

4. Speaking of albums that don't live up to my happiness quotient, Wowee Zowee by Pavement (Matador) 1995 strikes me as an album made by slightly unhappy, but, more importantly, very TIRED people. That said, it is by far one of the best (if not absolutely the BEST) albums of the 90's. Sure, it can be a real fucking downer and yes, it is laden and heavy with memories of the year that I graduated from high school. But it is also filled with all of the best things about Pavement in one package. I have little else to say- I can't pick favorite songs because I think of this album as an album, a complete organism incapable of being rent apart. So I won't. Rend it.

5. Pinkerton, Weezer (Geffen) 1996. I know what you're thinking. Wait, really I don't. I don't want to discuss Weezer. Obviously a bunch of complete douche bags that somehow made two fantastic rock albums. This is the second one. Of two.

6. whitechocolatespaceegg, Liz Phair (Matador) 1998. I'm not even sure this is the best Liz Phair album, so what the hell is it doing on this list? Oh, I don't know: it holds up better than ANY album from the 90's, and I'm saying this with confidence, recognizing the fact that I have not even heard it in about 3 years. The early Liz Phair (Exile in Guyville, that other one) is hilarious and ground-breaking. This album is what I like to call mid-Phair- before the total shit phase of her last two (or was it three?) albums, lies this one, all alone. Lyrically strong, sonically challenging, and still kind of hilarious, this album is on here because of all the albums from the 90's that I can think of this minute, I'd like to listen to this one the most. The end.

7. One Beat, Sleater-Kinney (Kill Rock Stars) 2002: The first totally bitching rock album made by an all-girl band where the consideration of gender is totally beside the point and stupid. Period(s).

8. Title TK, The Breeders (Elecktra) 2002: I don't know what travails poor Kim and Kelley had to survive to give birth to this mother, but whatever, it makes me feel good. Whereas Lush brings to mind the weight of being an adult, Title TK is to me, the perfect soundtrack to the Special Olympics- and I'm not putting down either side here. The sound IS adult, but also overwhelmingly simple. There is joy here and exasperation- but not that awful sound of adolescence and puberty that the truly young making music often cultivate (maybe a little too much alcohol). I recognize this music: it is familiar and never uninteresting to listen to. Its main characteristic, as I see it, is "not empty." Incidentally, that is what ties all of these to one another, in my O-P-I-N-I-O-N.

9. More Parts Per Million, The Thermals (Sub Pop) 2003: Energy. Smacked in the face. Haven't heard something to excite me so much since the Spice Girls.

10. Standing in the Way of Control, Gossip (Kill Rock Stars) 2006: There are three members in this three piece. They all do their jobs better than you do.

27 June 2006

Blow by Blow

So... I just got another email from Amazon.com. Guess what?! They claim I owe them an ADDITIONAL $37.92 for I have no idea what as I never got anything. Wow! Do they really know how to fuck someone hard. Excuse my language g-ma, but holy cocksuckers are they pissing me off.

By the way: titties in Starship Troopers (I just found out) = (apparently) the same titties as the ones in Johnny Mnemonic, which is, undoubtedly the WORST film I have ever had the pleasure of viewing to the half-way point. Even worse than Matchpoint, though, Keanu Reeves and Scarlett Johannson share the same dialogue-delivery stylings: i.e., wooden and monotone. Shit. I'm on a roll. I'd advise not pissing me off.

As IF They Could Ignore Me!!!!

Meena T. dishes the hot custy service a little less than 12 hours after I pen my opus. The only question I need answered now is: did she or did she not piss her trousers?

Thanks for contacting us at Amazon.com.

I'm sorry, but we will need to research this situation further. We
will write back to you with an answer within the next week.

Thank you for your patience, and thanks for shopping at Amazon.com.

Best regards,

Meena T.
Amazon.com Customer Service
http://www.amazon.com

Flogging a Dead Unicorn

Hate to keep complaining (and I DO have to edit out a little "personal" information this time) but I got ANOTHER email from Amazon.com this morning, this time totally unprovoked: it seems they have recognized that something went wrong on their end of it, though I'm not sure what since "I" never cancelled anything...but you know, sweet.

Hello from Amazon.com.

I apologize for any inconvenience. I do see that the order was charged
and then refunded, most likely when you asked for it to be cancelled.
Therefore, we will contact Certegy and asked them to cease
collections for this order.

I apologize for any incorrect or misleading responses from my
colleagues, but thank you for your patience with this issue.

Best regards,

Amy B.
Amazon.com Customer Service

I have composed, and sent two responses to this inflammatory email.

Here they are.

ONE: Laura June Dziu**n to Amazon.com
More options 11:15 am (23 minutes ago)

Thanks. You guys fucking suck.
- Show quoted text -

TWO:

Laura June Dz**ban to Amazon.com
More options 11:36 am (3 minutes ago)

Once again: I did not cancel the order, YOU cancelled the order about one HOUR after it was placed. I am glad that Certegy (whoever the fuck they are!) can finally be contacted from your end since they're pretty tired of hearing from me that I don't owe you any money- I'm sure they considered me a super reliable sourse. But Amazon.com has told me for two straight weeks that you do not / cannot / will not contact them directly. To be honest: you were quite creepy about that part of the deal, and even Certegy themselves said that it was YOU that should do the "contacting." But, it's fine, I've learned, in the respite, to do my own "contacting." I've "contacted" the Better Business Bureau and also the "internet." EVER HEAR OF IT? Plus my blog is fantastic and interesting and millions read it. Sure, they read it mostly for the engrossing articles I write about the stunning Gyllenhal siblings, but don't worry, they're reading the amazon.com posts, too. Oh, and I'm posting your lame responses as well. Hope you like fame.
Sincerely,
Laura June D**uban

21 June 2006

As Axl screeches, "They're out to get me..."

You know, sometimes, I feel like I just woke up to find Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkel Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs is living in my guest room. I mean- life often feels like there is someone back there, pulling the little strings, just to fuck with me. Can it be so?

About 3 weeks ago (I would say about because I am dreadfully bad with time) I got onto the subway. It was a nice, cool morning- walking across the bridge five minutes earlier, there had certainly been no warning that anything o.o.t.o. (for idiots not familiar with Dziuban's new "blog lingo," that's "out of the ordinary") was about to happen. In through the doors, heap myself and my stuff into a seat- the train car not more or less than ordinarily crowded for that time of day and that part of the week. When finally settled in, I take a moment to survey the other passengers. My eyes fall first on...

All the sound air and light are sucked out of the car and for a moment, it is just me, and the two people directly across from me. Sitting sided-by-side, lined up in a row as if they had just boarded the Ark, are two people that obviously do not know each other, one man one woman. Both are reading Dean Koontz novels.

Stop. Breathe in. Allow the utter absurdity to wash over yourself and seep into your pores. This is far funnier if you are in on the "Dean Koontz is the answer to every other Trivial Pursuit: Book Edition Question" joke that apparently, only Josh and I really think is a side-splitter (we've tried to lay it on several others with tepid results). But you know, we're correct in thinking that.

Fast-forward to today. Similar situation - with beautiful weather and traffic nicely flowing, and shit, I even got a ride from the most beautiful man in the world so that I didn't need to walk over the bridge by myself - though I have to say it is very humid today- but still- I have no right to complain. Anyway, I step onto the train, take a seat, look up and am greeted by the sight of... of..

of someone actually reading The DaVinci Code. If you have no idea why this is funny, you most certainly are not very cool. Or smart. Or hilarious. Or deserving of my respect and admiration. But you know, whatever.

Living in the Past

What does it say about me that I print out hard copies of all of my blogs?

Celebrity Weddings

No, I don't really give a shit. But there is something in me that wants to see stolen moments from helicopters- candid shots of A-list guests James Woods, Halle Berry and Jack Black roughing it through a field 45 miles from anything they've been near in a decade (a.k.a. Hollywood) wearing satin and laden with servants bearing gifts like the 3 wise men just heard the messiah really was born and he was wanting to absolutely stun some on-lookers by looking better than my friends thought Ricky Martin did in 1998 (I was never fooled by his apparent "good looks"). Something about them- thinking about all that star-power in the same tent- Sean Penn carving "fuck you" into the sand back in '87- I'm sure something totally awesome happened at the holy union of Britney and K-Fed, right? He impregnated one of the caterers or tied one on a little too hectically and took over the mic for some free style? Speaking of which: here's some advice that I have concocted after several years of feeling embarrassment and actual physical pain for other people regarding the use of microphones and other amplification devices: I know they are intimidating and that most of us never know the feel of speaking, singing or screaming into one until we are faced with the need to make an urgent announcement or a major, life-changing speech at a wedding. But do me (and the rest of humanity) a kind turn and do not fall for the allure of the mic- no matter what goes through your head after you get the thing in your hands, say your two bits, then send it back from whence it came. Because no matter how hilarious, entertaining, or undeniably awesome your microphone rocking sounds on the speakers inside your head, please be advised that for the listening public, it fucking sucks out here.

Anyway: I love celebrity weddings. But for the record: neither Keith Urban nor Nicole Kidman qualifies.

A-M-A-Z-O-N B-L-O-S blows!!!

June 21 2006
Hi: Thanks For getting back to me. Hate to be a b-i-t-c-h, but you know, when I talked to you guys 6 hours ago, they said that they had "reached a final decision" and that they could do nothing for me- now you're telling me that the matter is still being looked into? SWEET!!!! I do appreciate the polite email, but amazon.com needs to get their shit together.

Sincerely,
Laura June Dz**ban

20 June 2006

Alignment = Center

1. It all pretty much boils down to D, D minor & A, for me.

2. I like dinosaurs.

3. I don't actually hate anyone. Not one person. And I never have. I think that means I'm incapable of it, because I know at least some people who deserve to be hated.

4. There is a difference between negativity and cynicism. The subtlety MIGHT be lost on most people. Not sure, because I'm often too busy being cynical to tell. Or negative, I can never tell the difference.

5. Crayons smell like they would taste good.

6. The Emily Bronte poem which begins, "I'm the only being whose doom" is my favorite. Ever read it?

7. Jesus did not intend for humans to wear sandals. Science backs this up.

My First Letter of Complaint to Amazon.

To be followed by one every day, just for fun.

Laura June Dz**ban
to Amazon.com
More options
4:03 pm (0 minutes ago)
Oh, sorry. I just wanted to say that you have the worst customer service on the planet. Not your fault of course- the people were very nice, when I could contact them, which was pretty much never. And emailing someone back a response to the problem they phoned in two days earlier with no way for them to respond to you is pretty annoying. I'm not any closer to rectifying the situation left over from May 24th - an order that was 37.92, which I've now paid 200 $ for in bank and merchant fees. Not to mention the fact that the item I ordered was out of stock and cancelled the day I placed the order, so I never got a single thing for all that money!!! Wow! Does your company suck. I am always pretty nice but after days and days of frustration, emails, faxes, phone calls & c., I am at a loose end and since I know I'll never get any of my money back I figured, what the hell, why not complain a little. So - yep, you suck. I'm going to advertise it all over my blog and myspace and on the internet, too. And report it to every consumer agency I can track down. You know why? Because I'm not an idiot, and I saved every email you dicks ever sent, and they're crazy, conflicting and insane. Thanks for a huge pile of shit, amazon.com. Thanks.

14 June 2006

On Matrimony

ring
Originally uploaded by Grodyspice.

As an adult, I've never been in a friend's wedding. In fact, I've only been to one friend's wedding, and I only went to the reception, not the ceremony. I have / had specific reasons for not attending weddings, for not showering those friends of mine that have tied the old knot with gifts, and really, for not even being happy for my friends (though you know, this part was kind of "private.")

I have, historically (yes, I speak of myself in epic terms), thought that marriage was an outdated mode of expressing several outdated features of outdated cultures. I mean: I have always felt that if you love someone, and you want to commit yourself to them - great. I am not opposed to monogamy - while I see no reason for it to be mandatory or a condition of being a respectable human being, I understood that monogamy seems to be a naturally occurring trait in a possessive and greedy race - that was possibly somehow related to that other human thing- you know, love.

Marriage seemed one step too far. Since I would not need to legally become the property of my husband (thank heaven that necessity has been long since dispensed with) - and since I don't believe in God, I was not sure what the point could possibly be.

If you are religious, you get married for religious reasons. If not, I thought, what could possibly be the reason? Insecurity was the only satisfying answer I could come up with (let 's leave the children out of this for now). But really, I thought, most people probably get married without even thinking about why- just because that's what people do. Well, I don't do shit that way.

So, I thought what I thought. No marriage for me. EVEN, I said, should I meet the world's awesomest man (who, at the time, I, quite mistakenly believed to be a toss-up between Jon Stewart or Joel from the 31st Street Pub) under the world's awesomest circumstances.

As it turns out, I was wrong on several counts.

Fast-forward. Here I am. Everything's different. My cynicism is gone. I don't care if marriage is the remnant of a capitalist /monarchic / feudal / apocalyptic system designed specifically to keep me unhappy an underfed. I'm getting my ass married and all the awesome reasons in the world for not doing it won't stop me. I have no reason. I don't want one. It turns out that sometimes, things have no reasons- they just are what they are and you want them because you want them, or need them, and all the logic in the world won't convince you otherwise.

I'm having that fucking reception in the dinosaur hall. Sure, you're probably not invited. But, you know, whatever.

11 June 2006

A Musician

June 2, 2006
Originally uploaded by Grodyspice.

I hear it, there. I was given no gift by God, but maybe only because, you know, there isn't one.

Everything that I have comes out of long labors of missteps and mistakes and hours of nothing accomplished. How unlikely that someone so uncoordinated and not really that talented should hear music in their head, and be driven to creation.

I have no talent. I don't even know if I believe in talent. I feel like saying someone is "gifted" or "talented" is so often a way of taking all of the credit for their achievements away from them: to say, "you're great. You have nothing to do with it." Beyond that, I'm not even that good of a musician - technically or otherwise. As if that mattered. The aptitude that I do possess resides in my possession of a decently equipped brain. That, I can't really take credit for, but I'm pretty sure no one else can either. But see, I decided to like, employ it. You know, I could've just spent my days and nights thinking about drapery patterns (I do that, sometimes) or what kind of shoes go best with gingham. But, I figured, there are so many other people about that are way better at that kind of thing than me - I should just leave it to them. Then the desire to just lie around and do nothing at all is quickly overshadowed by the need within me to say... say something. Something, anything at all, not to decrease the silence, but to increase the noise. There's not enough to hear, not enough being heard, do you know what I mean?

In the grand scheme (which definitely doesn't exist), music, being primal, is, I'm pretty sure, kind of meaningless, which is not to say it is not important. Music is largely emotional. To me, it seems patently obvious that meaning is contained in the thought and the action, not so much the chord or the word. The process of making music is infinitely more rewarding than that of listening (passive) or hearing (active) it. Experiencing music - rock music, that is, is a genuinely passive thing. You are not there to dance but to view and hear the spectacle, much like a football game. None of these things detract from its usefulness or its vitality. Music is a lot of things. Important to me, personally? Yes. Needed in the way that history, communism and the weather are? Of course not. Get it? got it? Fine.

10 June 2006

The Cultural Void I Am In

ceiling
Originally uploaded by Grodyspice.

It's fairly self-evident to me at this moment that I have no idea "what's going on" in the sense that most other people in my age group "know." What I mean is, what the fuck is going on? It's not really that I'm not interested or don't want to know, I just simply don't know. I don't know when it happened or how.

I don't watch t.v. or listen to the radio. I have no idea what is "in style" or not, what is popular, what people are listening to or reading. I don't know if they are doing these things or not. I don't know how they make their livings (I assume like everyone else), if they want to get married and have kids or drink their lives away.

How does this awareness make me feel? Pretty good, I guess. I'm not sure. I am kind of inclined to take the attitude, "well, I like what I like and that's it." It just so happens that I like dinosaurs, books, small dogs, and tiny shirts depicting any of the above.

I also don't smile enough. I'm not easy to get to know, I don't think. I'm not negative but people tell me I'm very critical. I should be, I ,did spend six years at universities learning how to be so. Just kidding. I mean.

I'm obviously pretty self-concerned -- after all, this started out being about how I know nothing about the outside world, and has devolved into my opinion of myself.

In short, I find myself to be pretty interesting, entertaining, and creative. I like to be around those kinds of people. I like certain types of negativity - when it is warranted and intelligent. But I have to say that I come from a place that is negative, and so my inclination to disassociate myself from the kids is not really a surprise to me. Last time I checked, most young people were pretty reluctant to admit that anything was good, including even their own creations. Personally, I like to think that the things I create, even if they fall short of my goals, are amazing just for the fact that they exist, and have come from my little brain. If you're that kind of person, I won't mind knowing you. Otherwise

08 June 2006

The second most handsome man on earth.

Beagle
Originally uploaded by Grodyspice.

You should be so lucky as to one day meet up with my little man, Salvador. Born on September 18, 1996, he's the cutest purebred Chihuahua I've ever seen.

People often ask if he is an albino (he's not), and I've had more than several offers of a purchase- people dying to take him off my hands. As if that would ever happen.

My little man is pretty adjustable- he's had many roommates, animal lovers and haters alike, and he's won their hearts over just the same.

Sal has more than a few of what might be known in the human world as "personality" ticks- he pretends he cannot get himself up onto furniture which he can - you see, he prefers to be lifted. Also, he has some rather interesting and at times annoying "bathroom habits" (anyone who has seen him strike the infamous 'tripod' knows what I mean, though I prefer here to not bog myself down in the gritty details). He whines a bit, he abuses pillows before making love to them. All in all, he's 100% unique: the most unique beast I have ever had the blessing to encounter.

I can't remember, or even imagine, what my life was like before he existed, and I prefer not to. You might want to introduce yourself to him. His fame is on the rise.

http;//www.myspace.com/kibbletrips

For the printed word.

Rain
Originally uploaded by Grodyspice.

I love to read. It is the only thing that I have a completely natural affinity for; becoming a musician was very hard for me, as was becoming a good student, employee, lover, and girlfriend. Most things, quite simply do not come natural to me. I don't remember a time in my life before I could read and write. I wonder sometimes if that moment when I learned these things was also the moment that I began to exist.

I love everything about books- collecting, reading, touching and smelling them. They are the only material objects I care about- I am not a decorator, I don't care about clothing or possessions in any real way and never have. But I keep every book I ever read- to the extent that I can afford to. I love to examine the paper, the printing, the bindings. I like old books, and new ones - hardcovers and tiny mass market paperbacks. I like new books and used ones too.

I love books (as I'm sure all book lovers do) both as objects as well as for the words that are in them. The two things are obviously interconnected, or correlated, but not directly related. For me, the contents certainly take precedence- like I said, I'm not into objects as objects; I'm into objects based on what they mean to me, or what they say to me - the best have lots to say and do it in a beautiful typeface on acid free paper.

But, like I said, I'm not into books really for the books themselves.

I've spent a significant amount of time over the past three years putting books on-line. These books have all shared some important features with one another:

1. They no longer have any copyright holders (important in the online book community)
2. They are all by women
3. They are (or were at the time of being put online) all unavailable to the everyday reader. That is to say, if they were available at all, it was only in some type of scholarly edition of facsimiles which no one ever really wants to read, or in heavy expensive library copies. For the most part though, they were just totally not available or in print.
4. Finally (this is a bit more subjective, but only a LITTLE) - they were all pretty obscure.

The reasons for doing so much work for no obvious reward were self-evident to me. Aside from the fact that I thought it would be interesting work, it also suited me politically. You see, I whole-heartedly believe that we ought all to have access to every book that has ever been published, should we want it. Most people do not have access to the extensive borrowing privileges that a university ID card will buy you, and I have a lot of "ideas" about the types of books that publishers like to publish: i.e., those which are bound to make them stacks of money and thus are often given to lowest common denominator-ism. Ever notice how long it takes to get a translation of a current Polish author? Probably 3-5 years, if you are so lucky as to EVER get one. Publishing houses have been, for years, shutting up their translations departments because the overhead is high (you have to pay the translator on top of the actual original author, and translators are well paid for their hard, artistic work) and they don't usually become "runaway" best sellers. So how liely is it that we're going to see, any time soon, a little paperback copy of the Fatal Secret over-filling the shelves of Borders like it was The DaVinci Code? Keep hoping.

I do, however, of course, have concerns about the online publication of books. For someone like me, of course, it is only upside: I believe that such publication can and may force some of the big publishers to re-examine their business philosophy with respect to lesser known authors and works. I also think greater exposure to a larger range of authors to the most amount of people possible can ONLY be a good thing (you know, I'm optimistic enough to belief firmly that most people only read total crap because that is largely what they are offered, and most people simply don't have the energy to go sifting through the mire for obscure novels in their spare time). The only reservations I have are those which besiege all of my internet feelings: fears about quality control. I believe in my own capability to know what is a terrible edition of an online book, what is a terrible Wikipedia entry, what is a misspelled word and a lame myspace profile. Alas, many are easily dazzled by the first thing that they find. So that is terrifying- but its a problem with, say, Barnes and Noble editions of printed books with expired copyrights as well, too, so really, all the internet can do is make that problem far, far, worse than it already is. This is, of course, a potentially huge problem. But it is more a question of teaching people to consciously sift through the information, rather than control what information is available. As more and more people dedicate themselves to the task of editing on-line books every day, I see both massive increases and decreases in the quality. The mass availability of relatively oddball works, however, makes it worth it. That's what I think.

Pascale Casanova has written a great book which deals with technology and the future of publishing. It is called The World Republic of LettersMaybe you want to read it?

05 June 2006

La nouvelle philosophie.

No, I'm not too into god. Nor am I into whatever smattering of New Age philosophy most of us riddle and bog ourselves down with. However again and finally, I am ALSO not too into the cynicism which so often accompanies atheism.

All of this is brought on by my recent viewing of one of the least intriguing, and most ethically bankrupt (but really, who cares about it) films I've seen in about 5 years: Match Point.

This film harps on about luck and fails to realize that luck carries with it a positive connotation. Therefore- it is not "luck" per se that allows the main character to literally get away with murder - merely chance. The whole movie, in fact, is intensely obsessed with the role of chance, which it for some indefinable reason insists on dubbing "luck."

Whatever. It is a piece for more reasons than this, but really, we simply do not have the time for it.

PREMISE: Shove J******n L********n S*****l up your ass, and read The Giving Tree instead. It will teach you far more- ethics and goodness abound, and you don't have to be bogged down with all the half-assed mysticism that has left most of the people my age with the reasoning capacity of a 4 year old and a belief system more fucked up than The DaVinci Code.

I don't think I'm expecting too much, but maybe. No one wants to think, or to ask themselves what it means that most of "us" are quite content to live on and on every day, without ever really questioning what purpose we serve while we are here. I'm not asking "what's this life for?" (Creed got there before me!) - just a far more important question: what are you doing here? Tell my your purpose. Succinctly. Writer. Author. Mother. Carpenter. Messiah. Christina Aguilera. &C. If you have no answer and you're 33, sitting at a bar 3 to 4 nights a week, then let me accuse you, full of self-righteous correctness, of totally sucking, and taking up precious space on the planet and on my radar. If you live to shop, or watch Alias , or party serious, you better fucking wake up because I hate to let you in on a trade secret- but you know what? Do you know the reason that you love watching action television shows? Because your brain and body want to do something, and in the absence of activity, they'll take spectation and try to make do.

Your brain is probably bigger than mine.

What good does it do you? Home-brewed philosophies really add to this directionless problem. I'm the last person that thinks we need religion to foster our growth and make us good people. But I believe in ethics. I really REALLY don't believe in God, which incidentally, also disqualifies the possibity of werewoves, vampires, ghosts, angels, etc. Nothing supernatural is on my radar. AT ALL. I'll be honest: I'm even suspicious of The Farmer's Almanac- I have no idea how that shit works (Magick?!) So you know, I'm pretty glad that most people my age don't seem to be big God goers. But the thing is, what is replacing traditional religion is kind of worse - just no thought, nothing. A void of brain waves bouncing back and forth from one place to the next. Maybe all this means something, maybe not. Who cares? As long as I have cool shoes and don't get acne, I'm flying high.

Just so you know: the kind of people I'm talking about, you, (sometimes me, I fear) you shallow vapid losers - you're not much different than those people from the 50's we all despise, the domestic suburban white loser families destined for unsatisfying sex lives. You might be dressed better, and you'll probably get laid by more people, but really- where can nothing but wants and more wants and shopping and more wants lead to?

Read something. But not my blog. Something better than this.

04 June 2006

It Won't Be Long (yeah! yeah! yeah! yeah!)

So we've been watching The Beatles Anthology - we're up to Installment 3, where the Fab Four take Manhattan and the rest of America and show them how it's done over in the land of- you know, whatever the English are famous for - umm... Cheddar Cheese, the Queen, Clarks Shoes and English Breakfast tea, of course.

But whenever I watch some film such as this (Don't Look Back immediately comes to mind as well) I have the same argument in my head with myself, and it inevitably comes out in conversation, and I have the argument with whomever I am watching the telly with. What's this? Oh, dear, I seem to have acquired an accent from all those hours of peering at "les quatres fabulous," ou however you say that in French.

The argument, (rather incidentally at this point, as far as I'm concerned) is that age old question, applicable to Shakespeare and Britney Spears alike is- how is it that so rarely do mass appeal and "good quality" collide to present us with some popular art that is not a bag full of shit?

Don' tell me that "good quality" is subjective, for obviously someone as intelligent as myself is aware of such things. No shit, okay, "good quality" or even "good" is "subjective"-- but in spite of that little useless label, we all know that in terms of plays Shakespeare is "good" and in terms of rock music The Beatles are "good" too.

But what collides with respect to a special few is mass appeal, even mass popularity, both within their own time and also extending into the historic and beyond after.

So, then, for example, to my mind, the Bogart Bergman classic Casablanca (written by the fabulous Epstein brothers) would not really be an applicable case in this thought process, because, although it is often considered to be one of the best movies ever made, and is surely one of the most beloved or popular (same thing: whatever), when... wait, I just looked into it on Wikipedia, and apparently the movie was phenomenally popular from the incipience of its existence, so I'm totally wrong. Scratch that.

What am I wondering about, again?
Oh, I think its the beginning of a larger topic that needs to be discussed long-term, which is the merging, or the possibility of converging tastes: critical vs. mass, which is roughly analogous to high vs. low class tastes, right? Do we need to be, as much critical, high brow academic thought has proposed for a very long time - do we need to be "taught" to distinguish what is good from what is bad? Can that argument possibly hold up for something like The Beatles or anything that comes after in any kind of art? The idea that we need to be discerning in our art tastes holds very little water after we have essentially abandoned any notion of our artists having the "direct link" to God they purportedly had for hundreds of years.. in fact, they have ceased to be special in any way that is not shallow or superficial. Part of most "artists" (read "stars") appeal is no longer that they are spectacular, but that they are in many ways, just like us, right? They have better houses and teeth but they cheat on their wives and get DUI's and everyone flops now and then. If we place them on any kind of throne, it is one based not on their achievements (most of the best artists in all the genres are unassuming characters at best, not true "celebrities") but their personal beauty or their ability to afford all of the shoes & handbags Chanel cranked out last year. Give me a break, right? They're shining and white, but very often, not much more educated than your average 13 year old.

So now we are talking about the genesis of celebrity.

I know this is shooting off in all sorts of wild directions, but I want to start somewhere. And this is where I begin.

Obscurity.

I've been thinking a lot lately about snobbery.

And also, some people's need to love things at least partially because they are obscure. This is probably in part natural- it is nice to like something that not everyone on the planet is into- it makes you feel different and special. But who wants to deny that Culture Club is wicked merely because my grandma was really into them?

Plus, I think there is often some validity to the thought that massive popularity means low quality. Certainly not all the time but you know, ER happened. So did CSI; CSI Miami; &c.

But I am not so much thinking about pop culture obscurity, which, when you think about it, is pretty oxymoronic. What I am thinking about is scholarly pride and even need for a constant stream of obscure materials.

In the academic world of "English" at least, it is very hard, for instance, in this age, to choose to "specialize" in someone like, say, Charlotte Bronte. Sure, she might be unheard of down at the local Hooters, but every college English major in America knows that pretty much everything that can possibly be obsessed about concerning this one, tiny woman, her life, family, writing, friends, and home, has already been said. Fifty times. This of course, does not stop new droves from attempting, and of course, useful work is still being done. But still, deciding to be a distinguished Charlotte Bronte scholar is something like deciding to be the next Michael Jordan-- even if you're a totally awesome baller, the deck is pretty much stacked against you. The cult of Bronte is, in fact, almost a bit of a joke amongst its own members- Stevie Davies, one of the best Bronte scholars, wrote quite a good novel poking fun at the "pilgrims." I think this might be what Terry Eagleton means when he says we are "rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic." - Incidentally, Eagleton is himself a sometime scholar of les soeurs Bronte.

So in that way, yes, we always need to be looking for things to think, write and talk about that aren't already over-done and used up. No one would really disagree there. The truth of the matter is, of course, that most authors are not nearly so well exposed as the Brontes. Most lie somewhere in between totally forgotten and iconized. Nonetheless, in the field of "typical" literary criticism (let's leave out theory completely for now), there is a platinum premium placed on obscure and "forgotten" authors. I think this trend has a lot to do with Feminist criticism, and their absolute NEED to have resurrected some great but essentially erased writers from the annals of literary history, and the reading lists of college students. They've done a totally wicked job of it too.

01 June 2006

Old Blog for The New (Myspace)

Old Blog for the New
Thursday, June 01, 2006

http://grodyspice.blogspot.com

Dear Myspace Blog:
I have had enough of you.
I'm sorry.
I know we've had some good times: for instance, I am really into using the "Tell us what you're reading" feature, though occasionally, I was reading something so obscure that it had no answers for me.

And I've never even made use of many of your features: Have I ever even once displayed the little face which could tell of my "Current Mood"? I think not. Have I ever inserted an Emoticon, Symbol, Link or Image? Alas, no.

Have I ever produced a "Podcast Enclosure"? Ha, surely no.

Never created a Blog Group, or, for that matter, even scored any "readers."

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

No, it really was pretty much just the worst, sorry to say.

Anyway, I'm a pretty "addicting" person, so I'm sure I won't be able to "kick" the habit so easily. In fact, it might be like trying to get Burroughs off of heroin. Or Kiedis. Or ... name some other smack addicts, I don't know. Like trying to get Nico off of the diet pills, &c.

I'll be back.
Oh, yeah, and: We are going to need a new vehicle. -Wait, scored. I got "blogspot." Far superior to "myspace."

"Well that happened."
Farewell, suckers.

The dishes are done, man.

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Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Sign: Gemini

My birthday is coming up. What this means is that I'll be 29 years old and still unable to purchase a can of beer (I like to buy them in singles) without the humiliation of the seller asking for the ID, looking at the date and saying something to the effect of "Jesus!" It ceased feeling like a compliment around, oh, 2003 I'd say. Because anyone with a skull in their heads will tell you that for the first few years you're like, "Cool. I look young." But at a certain point it becomes, "YES. I'm OLD. And still at a convenience store buying 2 gigantic cans of something sub-par at 10:15 on a Tuesday, but SOMEHOW, I've managed to tool through life without aging in the past 10 years."

One of my friends who I'd not seen in a long while saw me about 2 years ago and said something like, "You look old. Or maybe you just look your age." I was sort of stoked on that, and thought, at long last my face and body are catching up. But it was a sham, and has never re-occured.

If my mom's any indicator, I'll look 20-25 until I'm almost 50 and then crash and burn in about 2 seconds. I'm fine with that, but my life is shaping up to be fantastic and love-ridden, whereas hers was, you know, ass.

I mean, I was 4 by the time my mom was 29. But I had also scored 3 other siblings by then. Meaning she had cranked out 4 brats by 29, and I'm sure we were total angels but fuck it must have taken its toll somewhere along the way.

I come to my point. I think I'll have born a son in the next 2 years or so. Will I be pushing the stroller around with people musing sadly behind me on the plight of our nation's teen pregnancy problem? Painful thought. But I'm willing to take one for the team. I'm not a martyr, just willing to do my part to raise awareness for a deserving cause, whereas I'm not willing to contract AIDS or cancer or Herpes or etc. for the same purpose, so I figure, I might as well be a young looking mother with a totally bitching kid in a radical papoose.

Just kidding.

I'm sterile.

No, I'm not. But if I were, I'd pull an Angelina Jolie and get all self-righteous on my blog space.

Currently reading:
The Tragedy of Mariam, the Fair Queen of Jewry : with The Lady Falkland: Her Life, by One of Her Daughters
By Elizabeth Cary
Release date: By 07 February, 1994

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Monday, May 29, 2006

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Reminder: I have some very important things to say about the film "Requiem for a Dream." But right now, I am far too busy reading Dune Messiah and trying to figure out what the fuck to do with all the Memorial Day leftovers. I'm pretty sure my "roommates" have a solution in the works. But that RfaD blog is in the works. Brewing. Totally.

By the way, I'll "never forget."

Wait, what is Memorial Day for, exactly?

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Sunday, May 28, 2006

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Night before last I had a dream that Art Brut stayed in our guest room. All of them.

The truly amazing thing about this is that I never thought that I would live to see the day when I had a guest room. That is what moved the dream from nightmare (Art Brut are lovely people, I'm sure, but !!!) into "dream" status. Dig? Cool.

For the past several months, I have been plagued, 3-4 times a week or so, with dreams that my boyfriend was trying to kill me in often extravagent, exotic ways. I'm not exaggerating just to make my blog spicier, I swear. The fact that I was having these dreams has nothing to do with my boyfriend- you see: he's a totally spectacular, lovely guy (ladies: if you get the chance, I'd advise trying to bag him!!) who would never even slap me, let alone murder me!

But somehow, the dreams have mysteriously STOPPED. Suddenly.

I don' know why. What I do know is that they've been replaced with the truly bizzarre: the Art Brut clown car, and one last night that I was silently woven into the plot tendrils of Dune Messiah (would that it were so!).

What's going on?
Why are they doing this to me?
Who are they?

All of this is fiction.
I don't even have a boyfriend.
Just Kidding.

I do. Totally.
And he's trying to kill me.

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Friday, May 26, 2006

[Older] [Newer]

I saw Gena Rowlands outside my work yesterday. And then promptly forgot about it until this minute. I was too worked up thinking about more important things, like Dune: Messiah, and my totally awesome existence: love, legal turmoil, my stunningly new permanent and totally financially responsible job, oh, and also, with getting an unlimited metro card. I'm so sick of pushing 2 ones in there every morning and afternoon!! I've also seen two weddings being filmed here recently: one at St. Patrick's cathedral, and one in Bryant Park... wait, I think THAT was yesterday too.

Isn't that weird?

As Sal would say, "Only in New York, only on planet Earth."

Oh, so I've been debating whether I should have my wedding at the Star Trek Experience (this is something the "Experience" actually offers, aboard a fake Enterprise: go to the website to see a fantastic example couple, ceremony and cake!!), or in the dinosaur hall at the Carnegie Museum. I know Lenny's opinion. But I can't make up my own mind. Hmm...

I'm pretty fun.

Currently reading:
Secrets of the Code: The Unauthorized Guide to the Mysteries Behind the Davinci Code
By Daniel Burstein
Release date: By 31 March, 2006

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Thursday, May 25, 2006

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It's a scientifically established fact that nobody on the planet is happier than me. This rules completely.

Not trying to make anyone jealous here, just letting you know, since science is pretty important.

Not even me in 1983 was more happy than I am, today, in 2006. This is the best for several reasons.

Mostly because I rule and totally deserve a mystical piece of this illusive "happiness" we've heard so much about since it was invented in like, the '50's.

My happiness has absolutely nothing to do with the season finale of the critically acclaimed network television show "Lost," though I have to admit, I'm pretty happy to have it removed from my television diet.

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Manage Calendar

No, I don't have a myspace calendar.

I've been told recently that myspace is only for people looking for "sex," so I don't see who here could possibly want to know when I schedule my waxing appointments. Wait, maybe...

I'm certainly not here for sex (ask my dog: he'll deliver the goods on how often I get laid for a small fee) so I sometimes question myself... what AM I doing here? Oh, right, I've got my "reasons."

1. I like to check out my dog's profile, while he is sleeping beside me.

2. I like to check out my b-f's profile, while he is downstairs being a genius.

3. I love my blog.

I do, however, have a google calendar. I made it all beautiful and blue and pink, and scheduled work to re-occur 5 times a week, and I even update it on days I'm late or call off. I've scheduled in pertinent birthdays, my anniversary (this past Monday: bring on the gifts!) I've scheduled my periods on there, and ta-da! I'm organized. I did this at work, on a "PC" only to come home, and try to load the little fucker on a "MAC." Guess what?@ Google calendars aren't able to properly display on a MAC!!!!! They warned me: I didn't believe them, and instructed it to try and load anyway. It's all fucked and rotten.

WTF, google? I thought you were my homeslice.

Currently reading:
Dune Messiah (Dune Chronicles, Book 2)
By Frank Herbert
Release date: By 15 July, 1987

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Saturday, May 20, 2006

Insert: Emoticon, Symbol, Link, Image

Does everyone here know that Orson Welles literally dropped the bomb on Hiroshima? He did. Walked all the way to Japan (he could literally walk on water) with it strapped to his back, levitated into the sky once he got there, then dropped it upon them. God, he was really something else. Who knew?

Oh, by the way: you do not get to see titties in Citizen Kane- just in case you were thinking about renting it. What you DO get to see is two hours of cinematic awesomeness, and, should you choose the "Special" edition DVD, you get the added bonus of an episode of the PBS show "American Experience" about Orson Welles and that other guy, Hearst, who like, might've had something to do with inspiring the film. This show is an epic classic in it's own right, and does not exaggerate or romanticize events even one little bit.

SPOILER WARNING

Rosebud is a skateboard.

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Monday, May 15, 2006

Manage Address Book

I'm not going to name names.

BUT, there are *some* people on the "internet" (and by "internet," I mean myspace- I'm too busy to navigate my way to anywhere else) who cannot spell. It's not that our computers have not tried- they all, as far as I know, have come with "spell checkers" since the mid-80's- and before that, if I remember correctly, my Commodore came with a tiny monkey that was an expert with the Speak-n-Spell. So the Microsofts, the Apples, the you know, whatever some other computer names are, they've given us all the necessary tools- but some of us just aren't having it...or was it haveing? Just kidding, I totally know how to spell "haveing." I guess some people are naturally nervous, and they type poorly, or they're in a massive rush to update their profile from saying one of their interests is "reeding" to "going to moovies"-- I know, I was in a similar situation last week when I changed my music interests from the lyrics of a J.J. Fad song to "Skin o' My Teeth," which, for everyone who sucks, is a Megadeth song. I know- sometimes we have somewhere to go, but we HAVE to update the profile. So go ahead, dispense with proper capitalization- I personally wouldn't do it, but I'm a snob and think that all lower cases show a lack of self-worth, dignity, and respect. Besides, it's really fucking played out ever since that dog. did it, in my opinion. But I understand- you've got a limited amount of time, and proper caps call for hitting that "shift" key so many fucking times. So, I dig it, don't capitalize. Dispense, too, if you will, with proper punctuation- we all fuck those things up sometimes, and besides, no one will notice but me. But please for the love of ... whatever it is that you love, you self-loathing alcoholic web-literate assholes: learn to fucking use the spell-checker, or the OED, or dictionary.com. I'll even let your webdings slide- spell 'your' 'yr'--but keep in mind, you CANNOT spell 'you're' 'yr' - it doesn't work that way. I'll accept 'yr,' and 'u' for 'you' (again, I'd never do it, but I'm 65 years old and nearly wet myself when my boyfriend takes off his shirt) and even 'yeah' for 'yes,'- though I should point out that it's longer and more time consuming to type than 'yes.' Shorten all you like- I'm super fond of this technique: I'm g***g to f*****g k**l the n**t m**********r t**t t****s I'm a c***d. -Bear in mind, this is only an example, and does not reflect any advice on my part- I'm not freelancing here, just preaching. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, that's it: you get to see tities in Starship Troopers. You know where else? In any home in America, dear child. Get your ass a dictionary and you might just score a girlfriend, cause good spellers make the ladies go wild. At least the ones worth knowing.

Just kidding about all that. And to prove I'm kidding, and totally laid back about grammar, spelling and punctuation, I'm goin' for broke and publishin' this bitch without using the spell checker. Take that, literate world!

Currently reading:
A Scanner Darkly (Vintage)
By Philip K. Dick
Release date: By 03 December, 1991

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Monday, May 08, 2006

Email to a Friend

My genius found this, so I can't take the credit. But I can take credit for having read it and almost pissed myself a minute ago (I'm not telling what part because I don't want to ruin the surprise)> I have very little to add- alas, I have not seen United 93 and don't plan on it. I like this review because I like the review- not because it does a great job of hating a movie just as much as I, undoubtedly would. It says what it has to say exceedingly well, and better, I might add, than what I'm trying to say right now. In a world of bad negativity, this one is pretty negative in an awesomely positive way. That's why I like it. I'm giving this review and the fine Pepys over at Slant magazine a rave review, highly recommending it to every literate person on myspace.com. It runs a little long, I know, but the pay off is big: hey, you might even piss yourself.

United 93
Cast: David Alan Basche, Richard Bekins, Susan Blommaert, Ray Charleson, Christian Clemenson, Khalid Abdalla, Lewis Alsamari, Ben Sliney, Maj. James Fox and Gregg Henry
Directed by: Paul Greengrass
Screenplay by: Paul Greengrass
Distributor: Universal Pictures
Runtime: 111 min
Rating: R
Year: 2006

he Cinemascope frame has never looked or felt as much like a coffin as it does during United 93, a fragile glass casket of a film in which a good cross-section of humanity (all ages, races, religions, and persuasions) have been buried alive and forced to act out an emotionally depressive, hyperactively stylized passion play with an inevitable end. No one going in to watch this thing is unaware that the plane goes down and so certain questions are predictably begged, though I'd like to first focus on what is, by all appearances, the choice bon mot of the moment: "Is it too soon?"

Answer: No. It isn't too soon and it never is. The arts do not stand still in the face of world events and anyone who tells you otherwise (or deems the question worthy of any sort of extended pontification) is a bloody fool, plain and simple. People have been making "post-9/11" art of tremendously varied quality since at least the time American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the World Trade Center's North Tower. A filmmaker I knew back then rather callously bragged about how he intercut footage of the towers burning and falling with shots of him shrugging the whole thing off like it was no big deal. Standoffish? Yes. Adolescent? I think so. But per the maxim oft attributed to Voltaire, "I will defend to the death his right to say it." All this to declare that United 93 absolutely, undeniably has the right to exist and that to insist otherwise is tantamount to evolutional regression. And yet, wrapped up in that deceptively one-sided pronouncement is an equally apposite absolute: the right of the viewer to respond to the work in question outside of societally prescribed dictum, in any way they deem fit.

Call that prelude to a kiss of death because that's what I personally wish to bestow on United 93. In my heart of hearts I truly can't see anyone but masochists viewing this thing more than once, if at all. (If only Jesus Christ made an appearance, it'd guarantee boffo repeat box office). Writer-director Paul Greengrass's frenetic handheld camerawork, aspiring in its blue/green-tinged slickness to doc-like immediacy, and the faceless cast of unknowns, all of whom appear to be attending an actors seminar held on a Universal Studios theme park roller coaster, are in service of an ideologically muddled house of cards, which crashes to earth long before the plane does. Greengrass is good at portraying confusion, but he is incapable of providing an artist's clarity to an event that demands it. There's no moral center to United 93; Greengrass and his employers trust that recreation, along with a heavily promoted, voluminously footnoted fidelity to "fact" will carry the day. It's perfectly probable that FAA national operations manager Ben Slineywho, in one of United 93's many officially sanctioned and exploitative twists, plays himselfstood rooted to one spot as he dealt with what must rank as the worst ever first day on the job. But recreated on film his stasis makes little sensehe comes off as the worst sort of amateur, a deer caught in the headlights put through manufactured fictional paces that he, perversely enough, lived for real. It's called blocking a scene, Mr. Greengrass. Do it.

Every action outside of the United 93 cabin feels hopelessly bogus, thrown in to generate an illusory and dishonest sense of tension, though this isn't to say things are much better when Greengrass finally drops the ground control folderol and focuses on the airborne drama. A better filmmaker would have restricted the real-time story entirely to the plane and refrained from providing sledgehammer signifiers callously warning of what's to come. When the flight captain calls the passengers' attention to the not-yet-struck World Trade Center or when one of the terrorists hangs a picture of the Capitol building on the cockpit controls the film shows its contrived and utterly offensive dramatic hand, one reliant on passing off conjecture as proven truth. It's pornography, really, a kind of somber sub-Bruckheimer sideshow that stokes our anger instead of stroking our libidos, all building to an inexorable and anticlimactic cum shota sound-deprived descent into blackthat does nothing more than empty us of any kind of constructive emotion. We're constantly told to "never forget," but on the evidence of United 93 I have to ask what it is, exactly, we're being asked to remember beyond a Pavlovian sort of rage that constantly and deceptively folds back on itself?

Would that the film's sins were purely stylistic, it would be so much easier to dismiss. Yet while the stench of death and dread permeates every frame of United 93, it is nowhere near as strong as the stink of synergy. Certainly this isn't the first Hollywood production done in by the competing corporate and personal interests that funded it (consider the unspoken implicationsboth commercial and propagandisticof the film's last-minute title change from Flight 93 to United 93), but it is the only one I've come across where the families of those onboard gave it their full-on approval. Not all the families, of course. All evidence suggests that the terrorists' relatives were left entirely out of the creative process, an action which goes a way toward revealing the film's hagiographic bias (how easy it then becomes to turn victims into heroes and adversaries into monsters) and points up the general ridiculousness of involving the families in the first place (too many cooks spoiling an already rancid broth). In Hirokazu Kore-eda's After Life, the recently dead enter a kind of peaceful purgatory where they are given a chance to review their life on videotape and pick out one memory to be re-created on film. This recreation is then played on an endless loop and becomes, in effect, the individual soul's personal heaven. What does it say about the living that the families of the United 93 passengers, acting as proxies to the deceased, have deemed a feature-length recreation of their loved ones' deaths to be a perfectly acceptable testimonial and time capsule?

There's something more than vaguely unsettling in the way grief is being bartered here and it becomes even more of a head-slapping clusterfuck when one reads that 10 percent of the movie's opening-weekend grosses are going to the United 93 memorial fund. Um, excuse me: TEN PERCENT?!! Of the OPENING-WEEKEND GROSSES?!!! Leaving aside the moral and ethical quandaries of selling a family member's death to Hollywood bigwigs (which should be paramount above all else), why would anyone choosing this path accept anything less than 100 percent of every bloody penny that this thing makes? In effect, this says to me that Universal and its subsidiaries, with the full complicity of the United 93 families, have deemed every person involved in the tragedy to be less-than-10 percent human beings, revivified corpses, essentially, whose total worth is dictated by the amount of cash mustered in a standard movie-going weekend. Something is truly, soul-sickeningly rotten here and no amount of soberly enlightened testaments, fire-and-brimstone political punditry, or gaseous pronouncements to the contrary can distract from it.

Keith Uhlich
Slant Magazine, 2006

Currently reading:
A Scanner Darkly (Vintage)
By Philip K. Dick
Release date: By 03 December, 1991

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Monday, May 08, 2006

Customize

So, Shirley is still droning on. It's taking me longer to read than any novel I can remember since Middlemarch and War and Peace. I read this contemporary review of it which called it "not easy to read" (if a well-read lit. crit. in London felt that way in 1849 just think how I feel: poor, underfed, barely able to read my barely legible pulp copy of... wait, that's a Dickens novel I'm thinking of) but possibly "better than" Jane Eyre, a book published about a year and a half or so ealier to LITERALLY "rave" reviews-- literally, women were turning into total lunatics in their hoop skirts and corsets in their upper-class homes, and their upper-class husbands in boot straps and with ornate Holmesian pipes hanging out of their mouths were forced to carry them off and away up to the attics of their three-story, three window wide Victorian homes- the outsides of which were undoubtedly covered in the ashy sooty price to pay for industrial progr... again, Dickens! Get off my blog, Chuck, I'm trying to say something intelligent. Wait, DO you get to see titties in Starship Troopers? Because I'll be honest, I've never fucking seen it. I've just been taking other people's word for it. Hmm...

Currently reading:
Shirley (Oxford World's Classics)
By Herbert Rosengarten
Release date: By 09 July, 1998

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Sunday, May 07, 2006

Post New Blog

My blog is totally blogular!!!

That's all.

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Love the sinner, hate the sin.

Wikipedia is a great argument ender, sure. It'll tell me the difference between an immigrant and an emigrant (point of view), it will help me out when I am looking for, say some pertininent information about who composed the theme song to Silent Hill 3, it will fill endless hours of "work" time. I can look up sexual positions, the fat content of various edibles, and I can even find out that Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., is a "humanist." Alas- here's some other things I've learned from Wikipedia: not everyone was born to write entries. For instance, while it's true that you "get to see tities" in Starship Troopers, the poor sack that wrote that obviously didn't know it was spelt "titties." I was going to fix it for him, but someone got there before me- someone with the editing tool quite in tact, for they sliced the entire comment right out, rather than merely fixing a misspelled word. So, the question is, WHY did they remove it? Surely not because the comment was mistaken- for you DO indeed see titties in Starship Troopers. And obscenity can't be the reason: in the "pornography" entry, the editors have done us the service of explaining that "face down, ass up" is a common porn position, AND they explain what a "cum shot" is. Was the said editor of the Starship Troopers article a fucking tight ass? What's going on? If I can't count on Wikipedia to get their information straight, who'll inform me? I'm sad, and disappointed. I thought Wikiipedia was outside the realm of censorship. WTF?

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Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Endings

Happy New Years: Everything must finally come to an end, I tell ye. MS-CL had to end, though it promised only beginnings: would Chase finally realize that Krakow, with his terse wit and fine penmanship, was the one for her? Would Graff get a handle on herself and find a better place to sho