Bonus Question!
What can stop the Dynamo Love Star? Nothing.
I don’t like the use of the term “grammar Nazi”. Believe me when I say that it has nothing to do with the terrible actions of the actual Nazis. My apathy about such taboos is no secret. I’ve heard some say that common references to historical horrors diminish the significance of those events, but I don’t have time for that. No one’s actually going to stop taking these things seriously in appropriate situations because they’re used less seriously in other situations. Do you know what I mean? There are plenty of ways to use concepts like Nazism in productive ways. The Soup Nazi’s a pretty good example. His appellation compares him to his historical namesakes through his intensity as it contrasts the scope of his dominion against theirs. Rampant Nazi flavour is also a part of what makes Darth Vader and his friends seem credible and stylishly intimidating. The fact that they didn’t actually kill millions of real people doesn’t make it seem disrespectful. This sort of dissonance isn’t just restricted to Nazis either. Games like “Call of Duty” are tremendously popular in all parts of the world. This is true despite the fact that players generally take the roles of American soldiers, which means that there are a bunch of Japanese kids right now who are gleefully murdering caricatures of their grandparents. And it’s fine! Really. I can’t say that it would be wise to bring that sort of attitude into other aspects of life, but I hold to the belief that fiction isn’t responsible for bad behaviour. People who do bad things in imitation of fiction would have been inclined to do bad things anyway.
I’m also wont to believe that there’s a sort of numinous statute of limitations on historical villainy anyway. Would anyone actually be bothered if Tolkien had come out and said, “Yeah, the orcs were totally an allegory for the Ottomans. I’m surprised no one picked up on that.” Out of respect for the guy, I should probably say that that is exactly the sort of thing he would never do, but the point stands. Nobody would really care. Well, someone probably would. I realise that it’s essentially impossible for people to bring themselves to shut up for a moment or two, but I accept it because I don’t really like silence either.
Anyway, I should probably get back to the point that I haven’t really mentioned since the introductory sentence. The term is problematic because the Nazis were actually good at what they did. What they did was horrible, but they still did it well. Hitler was like the Wolverine of racism.
Conversely, I’ve never encountered a pedant who actually knew what he was doing. Few of them even try to hold themselves to the standards they arbitrarily impose on others. Furthermore, Nazis actually had a cause. They were disastrously misguided in their pursuit of that cause, but their fundamental goals weren’t inherently unreasonable. They just wanted their country to be glorious. It’s fine to take issue with their definition of glory, but I can readily understand that drive to be awesome. I don’t even really know what could justify pedantry, though. It’s fine to be eloquent, but it’s hardly imperative for everyone. A lot of people can communicate effectively without being grammatical. That’s actually sufficient in most situations. Unsolicited corrections just waste time. In that sense, one could say that they actually bring the level of discourse down. I’ve actually worked as a proofreader, but I never correct anyone unless I’m specifically asked to do so. I’d like to get to a point where I can replace the word “asked” with “paid” in that sentence, but my resume is still pretty light, and the print industry doesn’t really seem to like paying people. Still. How weird would it be if Mr. Whipple got invited to a party and tried to stop all the other guests from squeezing the toilet paper? Weird and annoying. We understand that that’s your job at the supermarket, George, but you can’t be taking your work home with you.
I’m even inclined to abhor prescriptivism of any kind. I like to speak, act, and do various other things in certain ways, but it wouldn’t be sensible of me to expect others to do the same. I don’t want everyone to be like me. I just want them to like me. There’s a pretty significant difference.
What other possible motivation is there for pedantry? Well, I suppose that some might do it because they don’t have anything of value to add to the conversation, which would mean that the people who claim to care about language are incapable of using it productively. If that’s true, there’s a somewhat depressing sense of irony in it.
Like . . .
Alright, guys. Does anyone know the amount of effort that genocide requires? It’s not easy. Those guys actually had to know what they were doing, whereas your average pedant doesn’t even seem to be able to expend enough effort to remember the difference between an object and a subject. I even had an English teacher like that once. I remember a particular meeting with her in which I casually referenced an occasion on which my father had brought my brother and me to the cinema. Obviously, I used the word “me” because it was the grammatical object of that sentence, but this incompetent hedge witch took it upon herself to lean back, raise her eyebrows, and say, “‘My brother and I.’” My father, who was actually sitting beside me at the time, instinctively placed his hand upon mine to stop me from raising it against her. Striking her obviously wouldn’t have been the kind of thing I would have actually done, but my arm definitely felt the urge. I might also say that this took place at a private school. The kind where parents actually pay considerable amounts of money for the education of their children. I can’t believe that my family’s money was intended for such mediocre instructors. On the other hand, this was the same school that gave me good marks for a philosophy essay I wrote on the X-Men. Actually, another teacher even gave me a decent grade on a separate piece I wrote for biology, which involved the X-Men and David Bowie. “You’ve got to make way for the Homo Superior!” Was that Magneto or Ziggy Stardust? I don’t think that it matters, but that was the closing line. Anyway, I suppose that my time at that school wasn’t wholly unpleasant in retrospect.
Anyway. What were we talking about?
Nazis were monstrous but efficient. Pedants are petty and ineffectual.
I think that that’s a decent summary.
Bonus Question!
Best use of Nazi symbolism?
I've always been pretty fond of that whole thing with the marching hyenas at the end of "Be Prepared".
Novelisations! What are those things? How do they work? Those things are mystifying on many levels, but the part that currently stands out is the fact that they seem to be generally restricted to a genre that would probably have the least need of them.
They’re obviously not written to expand on the inner workings of the protagonists of character pieces. No one ever says, “Oh! I loved ‘The Descendants’, but I wish I could know more of what was going on in Clooney’s head. I must have the literary adaptation! It’s book club time!” But I could almost imagine a perceived point in that. Maybe. Almost.
But that’s not how it goes. The target audience is basically the opposite of that.
“I just saw fuckin’ ‘The Scorpion King’!” “Wow! What’s next on the docket for Edwin J. McDouchehat?” “Man, I’ma gets me some novelisation of that flick. Read me ‘bout some muscles! It’s book club time, mathafahkaaah! But first, I’m going to crush a cream soda!” “Dude, pun! ‘Cuz like, Crush cream soda!” “Fuck yeah, pun!”
Actually, I’m just going to take a moment here. Despite the preceding paragraph, my love for “The Scorpion King” is as grand and glorious as the empire of the arachnid sovereign of the title. That thing is a classic.
In 15 years, someone might come up and say, “Jaymes Buckman, the world loves you. What they’d really like is a collection of new, remastered editions of your favourite classic films.” Who knows? Right? I only know that I’ll slit the guy’s throat with my tongue if “The Scorpion King” doesn’t make it into that collection.
Incidentally, I saw “Iron Man 3” recently, and Ben Kingsley was hilarious. His voice in his videos reminded me of Heath Ledger’s Joker, which actually makes sense for his character in a weird way because Trevor Slattery’s a lazy actor who probably hasn’t been lucid since “The Dark Knight” was in theatres. Modelling his villainous role after that is probably the kind of thing he'd do. Also, I was surprised to discover that we don’t need Val Kilmer anymore.
That’s probably a good thing, for Val Kilmer doesn’t seem to be too interested in doing the Val Kilmer thing at the moment.
But that’s fine. Obviously. He looks very comfortable.
“But who will play David Lee Roth in the cinematic adaptation of Motley Crue’s hit autobiography ‘The Dirt’?” you ask.
That’s not important right now.
Actually, it might be.
But the most important thing in all of this is the fact that Val Kilmer seems very comfortable.
Bonus Question!
"But can Guy Pearce convincingly portray Jim Morrison?"
I'd assume so. Furthermore, he could also portray Ray Manzarek.
This week’s story of Hot Apollo’s adventures on the streets gets more ridiculous in stages. It was on this recent Thursday evening when my cohort and I took it upon ourselves to grace the Annex with our glorious tunes once again. It wasn’t the busiest time of day, but the weather was nice enough to compel a fair amount of people to repeatedly place their feet upon the pavement in a kind of stepping motion. So. Foot traffic wasn’t great, which meant that our time wasn’t especially lucrative, but we were having a great time, and the response was alright. One particular guy threw a five-dollar bill in the case along with a sandwich, which seemed destined to be the night’s most salient source of amusement. I gave the sandwich man the Hot Apollo card as he left, for it is my custom to do so whenever a person expresses interest in our music. Shortly before we finished, however, I received a text message from an unknown number. It said, “excellent blt. from subway. bi- curious first time but must have another female or multiple couples”. Apparently, the giving of the sandwich was an act of courtship. Furthermore, what had seemed to be a five-dollar bill was revealed to be pair of notes of the same denomination. Apart from a slight bit of trepidation from my guitarist, who vaguely suspected that the sandwich might be drugged, the whole thing seemed like a hilarious example of good times, and my friend’s hunger won out in the end anyway. On the following afternoon, I received an unidentified call from a man who immediately asked for my name. When I told him, he said that he didn’t recognise it, adding that he’d made the call because he’d found my number on his phone. Then he hung up. I was momentarily puzzled until I realised that it was the same number from which the previous night’s text had originated. Unsolicited propositions that involve sandwiches are droll enough, but I’m inclined to feel that it’s even funnier somehow when the latently bisexual drunkard who initiates the thing doesn’t remember any of it on the following day. But now I just want to know whether he’d remember if we’d gone through with it.
Bonus Question!
Best courtship gift from an old drunk man? Leather pants.
I think that we're going to start with this one.
Recently, I've been doing most of my performing on the street instead of the stage. There are a number of factors for this, but most of them stem from the fact that Hot Apollo doesn't currently have a drummer. The best way to make these songs work without drums is to base everything around an acoustic guitar, which doesn't really require a venue at all. I've actually come to love the acoustic versions we've been doing lately, though Hot Apollo is still intended to become a full electric band again in the near future, which will necessitate a return to the stage and all of the attendant organisational annoyances.
But street performance has revealed to me some of its own advantages, and these go beyond the decreased emphasis on planning and forethought. It's a new, different, and fairly efficient way to bring the music out to new people and interact with them in the process. This is old news to anyone who has ever stood with an instrument on a street corner, but I'm thoroughly enjoying the experience and regretting the fact that I've only been able to start recently.
All of this is at the fore of my mind right now primarily because of one meeting that came about through an afternoon of busking in Kensington Market. One of the many pedestrians who presumably enjoyed our music on that day has offered to lend his technological skill and knowledge to the task of making what will undoubtedly be the first truly decent Hot Apollo recordings. I've heard some of the stuff he's done with his own music, and it's pretty great. If you're interested, my personal favourite can be found at http://youtu.be/9lV2-682nOg.
Anyway, I'm pretty excited, and I intend to put some of the tracks up as they're made. Soon!
Best bad recording? That "Raw and Live" Sex Pistols album I borrowed from my friend when I was 15. From what I remember, the sound quality was too atrocious to discern anything of detail, but it was my first real introduction to the band, and it had a bunch of Sid's solo stuff that's still inexplicably intriguing to me.
Damn it, Vitaminwater! I can't trust you when you do nonsense like this! Why must people always go and break the scales that they set for themselves? It only serves to make whatever point they're trying to prove seem immediately untrustworthy.
Just come out and say what you mean, Vitaminwater! Be a man!
Oh, I know that arguments could be made against me here.
"Oh, but Jaymes!" they'll say. "It's easy for you to be a man, for you already are one, whereas Vitaminwater is really more of a fortified aqueous solution. Check your privilege!"
Well, I can say that my privilege has been thoroughly checked, but the lack of testosterone, genitals, and corporeal form can do nothing to excuse base cowardice of the type so audaciously displayed here by Vitaminwater's craven chicanery.
Look, Vitaminwater. I'm going to be honest with you here. Honesty is something I can do. I am by nature a weaver of truth.
Incidentally, I know that truth doesn't really have to be woven, but I just prefer it to the unwoven kind.
Anyway!
Honesty time. Truth hour. Moment of perspicacity.
Vitaminwater, you must understand that I'm not criticising you for arrogance or anything of the sort. Vanity is my virtue. I know that confidence can be a healthy thing in massive doses. But you've really got to learn to take it to the top, Vitaminwater. Don't hide behind false scales. You're whispering, Vitaminwater. You need to shout. If you're really sure of yourself, be direct about it.
"Hey! Our drink tastes like eleventy billion, you bastards! Drink the fuck up!"
Is that so hard?
Damn.
Bonus Question!
Best vitamin? C.
I just realised the implications of the dude's sppon and the lady's bow. Very clever, Sexcereal.Bonus Question!
Best cereal? I don't know. Froot Loops? But someone recently gave me some dubious information about the supposed illegality of their ingredients? The kind of information I rarely heed. But Frosted Flakes seem like a safer bet anyway. Raisin Bran's always a great time too.
Really, Italpasta? I'd expect more integrity with a name like "Italpasta".
I was walking through town recently when I noticed a smell I haven't encountered in a good while and a half at the least. It was the scent of Fruit Roll-Ups, and I was momentarily startled by the wonderfulness of its intensity. For the first time in years, I was compelled to think deeply on Fruit Roll-Ups. This meditation soon brought me to a conclusion that seemed to be at odds with the heady virtue of the aroma I'd experienced.
Fruit Roll-Ups aren't very good.
I can truthfully say that I have no taste for them, and I doubt that I ever did. I can say this with knowledge of the erstwhile love I had for foods that I now dislike. But Fruit Roll-Ups are a different issue. I never liked them, yet I know that I once enjoyed them.
And it comes back to that smell. In my recent encounter with it, I was stricken with no hint of desire to consume its apparent originator, though it was obviously powerful enough to provoke this contemplation. However, the smell did briefly instill in me a vague wish for intimate associations with Fruit Roll-Ups. It made me want to rub my face in them. It made me want to wash my hands in them and wrap myself in them until my skin was sticky with their saccharine scent.
And I realised that these were not new desires. This was why I had enjoyed the candy in my youth despite its uninteresting flavour. The smell had always filled me with these instincts and more, but their obvious impracticality had led me to simply eat the confection instead. When that action became an inadequate substitute, the candy left my life.
Bonus Question!
Gushers are still good, though, aren't they? I'd assume so. Yes.
I saw the advertisement for “World War Z” recently, and it looks like a fairly worthwhile film to me. That’s almost definitely old news, and the fact that it’s not really closely related to the book at all might just be slightly less old. But that’s alright, for it still looks like a decent story in its own right, and the original author seems to share that opinion.
There are a lot of worse adaptations out in the world, and some of those actually seem to lend credence to the occasionally hyperbolic lamentations of the creators of the original works. These are generally the ones that take enough from the original to seem credible and do everything else badly. I can see how that can hurt a work’s reputation, and I can understand creators when they say that being involved in the creation of an adaptation is like watching the dismemberment of one’s own child. But I’m inclined to think that the number of situations in which that common analogy is actually a fair one is probably a relatively low one. In a lot of cases, these adaptations don’t involve the murder of a child. The producers aren’t killers. The author’s child isn’t being harmed at all. Instead, the child is an object of envy to the producers. He’s the youth who wins all the football trophies and gets on the honour roll. The producers look at their own offspring, who is plainly a cretinous, slovenly mess, and decide to name him after the golden child. The sanctity of the author’s family is maintained. Meanwhile, the producers, displeased by the futility of their efforts to mould their own son into a reasonable imitation of the author’s, decide to engage in some twisted form of sympathetic magic by throwing money at the author in the hope that it will aid the daft endeavour in which they tenaciously persist.
I seem to recall some momentary tinge of sympathy that I once felt for Anne Rice and others in her situation upon hearing bits of her odyssey with the Tom Cruise vehicle “Interview with the Vampire”. Apparently, she was initially resistant to a number of elements of the adaptation, and the supposed impropriety of the star was foremost among these. Even I’ll admit that I was somewhat bemused when I first saw Tom in that blond hair, and I actually like the film. Actually, I just watched it again a few days ago.
But that’s obviously beside the point.
Anyway, Rice later said that she changed her mind after seeing the film, which apparently convinced her that Cruise was indeed capable of channelling the paler, more cannibalistic version of her husband. That made sense to me. After all, the dude’s a charming actor. But then I was told that she clearly must have been compelled to say that by movie executives with concerns over the potential impact of a negative review by their film’s originator.
And that seemed like a sad thought. An image of a woman in the process of being forced into submission by guys in suits and sunglasses in a dim room.
But I eventually came to realise that the tool of those guys in suits was money. That’s obviously another bit of old news. Anyway, it put a happier note on things.
Bonus Question!
Favourite bad adaptation? "League of Extraordinary Gentlemen".
Actually, anything by Alan Moore could probably come close to qualifying. They're pretty good movies, but they're terrible at being faithful. I could probably give an exception to "Watchmen" on the part about being faithful, and I suppose that I can give an exception to "Constantine" on the part about being good.
So. I’m obviously really excited for the show on Tuesday. You know the one. The one at the Velvet Underground by Bathurst and Queen. I don’t even know why I took the time to specify when you clearly know the one already. We go on at midnight. Anyway! I realised that I didn’t really have any shoes that would be completely worthy of covering my feet on such a night. Around this point, I considered the fact that I wouldn’t even need to cover my feet if I weren’t so ashamed of them. At a period soon after this point, the opportunity for a pedicure was presented to me. Solution! At first, I thought that my feet looked weird in their cleanliness. My big toe looked too big. I was momentarily worried. Do toes get bigger with age? Is this going to be a problem? I’d only just found a decent pair of socks for the first time in my life. Then I remembered someone’s comment about the size of my toes from 2007, and I realised that my toes have always been like this. I feel better now. Now my feet look great, and the show’s going to be even greater. You lucky fools.
It’s going to be an awesome time.
Bonus Question!
Best thing about my socks? They're the only pair I've worn since the winter, and they haven't broken yet. Seriously, that's all I ever wanted.
I was looking for a new book to read recently. I’m nearing the end of my current one, and I shall miss the thing. I didn’t really know what I wanted to read next, and I just stumbled around for things that had the potential to catch my interest. For some reason, my mind wandered to a cartoonish kind of Norse adventure tale I’d read in 2008, and I was surprised to discover that a sequel was released fairly recently. The original was a big book, and I supposed that its successor would be possessed of similar heft. Maybe it doesn’t really matter; I don’t even like to carry small books around.
In any case, I went to amazon.com and discovered that it wasn’t in the Kindle store. This seemed contrary to the claims on the author’s site about its digital availability. Because I am a desperate fool, I even deigned to check the Canadian version of the site. I soon realised that it wasn’t available in any North American channels of digital distribution. I’ve experienced the horrid annoyances of Canada’s foolishly xenophobic approach to imports before, but America has always seemed to be a place without real restraints on entertainment access. If it’s available anywhere in the world, it’s usually available there.
Well, that’s true if it’s in English at the very least.
However, the long list of nations in which this electronic novel was available contained neither of these two bastions of the western world.
Fortunately, I discovered that Amazon’s process for changing one’s country of residence is the easiest thing in the world. I got an address and postal code from a large toy shop on Regent Street and downloaded the book with haste.
Things were fine? Seemingly.
When I next checked my email, I was bemused to find a meekly worded message from some sort of customer service robot. This note informed me that there seemed to be some traces of illegitimacy in my claims of immigration, and I was told to assuage their doubts with proof of citizenship.
By fax.
Because of publishing rights.
I don’t . . .
Mother of balls, Amazon! I just want to buy a book! That’s “buy”, a word that is semantically distinct from “steal”, “rob”, “pilfer”, and many other nefarious verbs that convey the idea that the authors or their corporate benefactors would somehow lose something by way of my desire for literary entertainment. The damned thing wasn’t available here; thus I was forced to travel through the dreamy medium of the information netherworld like some sort of cybernetic psychopomp and set up a fictive summer home beside a British bookstore. I did this to give you money. Keep that in mind. I did it to give you money that you would not accept anywhere in the digital domains of my home continent.
Maybe you should calm down.
Thank you.
Now I’m going to read this book, and I’m going to enjoy it. There will be monsters, magic, and all sorts of crazy letters. It’s going to be great, and on this occasion, you can’t stop me.
Melodramatics for the win, you bastards.
Bonus Question!
Favourite rune? Kaun.
The weather was getting nice again.The apartment search was going smoothly. I woke up early to discover that work had been cancelled for the rest of the week. Well, that last part was of dubious fortune, but things seemed alright. For some reason, I woke up around 7:00 on Tuesday after getting a very small amount of sleep. I wandered around for the morning and generally had a good time. Something about the long weekend caused my boss to give me the week off when I went into work, and I started making plans soon after. I got a call from a friend without a phone, and I tentatively decided to meet him for coffee in the evening. For some reason, my apartment started to seem particularly cold in the later parts of the afternoon, and I decided to lie down under the blanket for a few moments to get a bit of warmth. The next thing I know is darkness. I think that I regained consciousness around 10:00. A slightly panicked sort of consciousness it was. I immediately started running, but I’m still unable to remember the first part of that run for some reason. The pain in my arm was the main clue of the seizure that had taken my evening from me. I still don’t know why those things always seem to affect my left arm so acutely. On the return from this excursion, I began to worry that I’d be unable to sleep, but I managed to get to bed quite easily. Obviously, seizures aren’t the most restful experiences. But they are annoying! Alright. First. These things only happen to me when I lose an extraordinary amount of sleep. That’s why I always try to get a minimum of one hour of sleep per night. It’s just responsible, guy. If my body was desperate enough for a bit of extra unconsciousness to shut itself down without regard for its health or my feelings, it shouldn’t have woken itself up at dawn for no reason. Damn! And I honestly don’t know the exact nature of the relationship between my left arm and these episodes. Perhaps my memory’s being selective, but that limb always seems to play a starring role. I remember the first one. I didn’t even know that it was happening. I was just sitting in a room with my parents, thinking that I was jokingly hurrying the conversation along with the rotations of my arm. Then the arm kept moving. Then I was unconscious. They’re just inconvenient, man. Fortunately, I don’t get these when I’m actually focused on something. Still, that doesn’t seem like any great consolation when you’re interrupted in the middle of a breakfast conversation with your family. In one moment, you’re trying to hear your brother’s words over the din of cartoons and your own munching. In the next, your feet are in your cereal. But I don’t think that I’ve ever known the arm thing to last for such a time. The pain was pretty constant for days, and it’s slightly sore even now. And it totally twisted my mood around too. You know that thing where a physical illness will bring you down somewhat even when your mind’s completely healthy? It’s like that, but these things affect the brain directly too. I’m fighting chemistry now. I’m not saying that I’m inexperienced or ill-equipped to do that. I am the master of my mind, sinners. But it’s still a pain sometimes. Whatever. I’ve been feeling pretty good for the last day, and I should be nearly perfect by my return to work on Tuesday. And I did happen to run into the friend I missed on this Tuesday. He came upon me as I was walking with another dude on Thursday, and he didn’t seem to mind the other day’s inconvenience at all. We made up for that, and he also pointed me in the direction of some new apartment possibilities. Good times. In light of all of this, the luck of my leave seems much less dubious. That’s going on the assumption that this little occurrence would have taken place anyway. I think that this assumption is one with which I shall go. Reset to zero. Feel good. Let’s go.
Bonus Question!
Worst way to get a seizure? I always felt pretty bad for those dudes who got them from cartoons. They'd miss the rest of the episode. That seems like a bit of a pity.
I think that seeing “The Great Gatsby” did something towards justifying my experience with the travesty that was “Spring Breakers”. At the very least, the above picture came out of it. Even without the weird way in which James Franco reminds me of a millennial Leo, his character is probably what would happen if someone took Jay Gatsby for a role model with no irony. I suppose that one could argue that Jay Gatsby is actually what would happen to someone who took Jay Gatsby for a role model, but I’m currently disinclined to give further thought to the subject.
In any case, the newer movie should be a worthwhile affair if your love for Baz Lurhmann exceeds your regard for Mr. Fitzgerald. The dude seems to prefer making translations instead of adaptations. I feel comfortable in saying that the film washed the taste of “Australia” away. At least, it would have if “Australia” had left any taste that I could register.
I just don’t fully understand why people are supposed to be good. Furthermore, I think that this expectation actually decreases the amount of good in the world. The particular conception of goodness doesn’t really matter; I believe that this applies in most cases. I think that a lot of people look at themselves and start to believe that they’re not good people. Maybe they’re right; maybe they’re wrong. Who cares? I’ve been there. But people who feel like that should know that they can get by in the world by refusing to act on whatever desires cause them to fall out of the “good” category. You know? I don’t think that it really matters if a dude tends towards racism, paedophilia, or bloodlust. He’ll be fine if he doesn’t act on it. That’s why we have laws. That’s why we had religion. All of this is meant to guide people along a path on which they won’t hurt anyone. That’s enough. But it doesn’t always seem like enough. I think that some bad people who would otherwise be able to follow the path of apparent goodness come to feel that they should go on and indulge their malefic nature because they feel that it’s going to define them anyway. No one’s really going to know if your mind attaches racial epithets to your black coworker when you pass him in the office. Just don’t burn a cross on his lawn. Right? It’s not great to have sexual thoughts about children, but I would think that it would be fairly harmless if it stopped there. But if a guy is made to feel evil for what goes on in his mind, he’ll eventually be wont to think, “Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a penis.” And that’s where actual problems start.
I think that being a jerk is like being an alcoholic. It’s probably tough, but if you can get through life without acting on your urges, you should be treated as you would be without them. You shouldn’t be arrested for drunk driving if you’re sober. It’s enough to act good and be quiet. It’s not ideal, but it’s enough.
Bonus Question!
Best penny? That giant one in Batman's cave.
I think that shower floors should be carpeted to avoid the noise of the dripping that happens when you forget to turn off the water completely.
Bonus Question!
Best shower? Meteor.
Saturday's show was pretty great. We got to see some awesome bands, play some new songs, and enjoy a generally awesome afternoon. I think that it also marked the first show for which we were excessively prepared.
Hot Apollo has a long history of pulling things together at the last moment. In the week before our first actual show, we lost two bassists and a drummer. The bassist we got actually had to learn all of the songs on the night before the gig. With all of that, we still managed to play a good set. We've had a lot of experiences like that, and we've made some strides towards adequate preparation since. This weekend was an unusual one, though.
The set time we were given was slightly longer than what we usually get, and we didn't have time to pull together people for a full electric set. That left us with the task of adapting some extra songs into acoustic versions. Various life circumstances and a fracture in the guitarist's leg meant that most of this had to be done on the day before the show. We're no strangers to this kind of thing, though. We arranged a solid set, and an awesome new song even got written when I accidentally played a recording of some humming I'd made before bed in the preceding week. Things were set.
Unfortunately, things on the day of the show got slightly chaotic, and we were forced to cut our time down. I think that we managed to play two thirds of what we had in the end. They were two awesome thirds, though, and that incident of excessive preparation was a surprising new experience for us.
Bonus Question!
Best swamp punk? Alan Moore.
I just got back from seeing "Evil Dead". I went with a friend who differs from me in his unwillingness to see every random movie that comes out, but this was one of those occasions on which he decided to take a chance and do it for the sake of it. For what it's worth, I wasn't that sure about seeing it tonight either, but I'd heard good things, and my standing affection for "Army of Darkness" gave me a sense of obligation.
I remember getting that tape from one of my father's assistants for Christmas when I was 10. Was I 10? Probably. It seems slightly stranger in retrospect, but that guy's primary job seemed to be taking care of my brother and me. The whole situation is somewhat reminiscent of the sort of internship one would see in a situation comedy. Still, the guy was pretty awesome, and some sort of amiable connection must have been established through sheer familiarity, for that gift really hit the mark. I hadn't heard of the franchise before, and I was initially bemused to receive the final installment of a trilogy I'd never seen. He explained that the movie's greater emphasis on crazy fun made it the one for me, and I agreed that that made sense. I don't know whether I've actually seen the middle film yet, but my eventual encounter with the first one definitely reinforced the guy's argument. A fairly straight horror movie pales beside a fantastical time travel romp in my eyes, and that would have been especially true at that age. That was probably around the time of my first viewing of "Young Frankenstein", which initially left me in a state of confusion over the movie's placement in the comedy aisle of the video store. I watched it again shortly afterwards and started to build up a greater affection for it, but I doubt that I'll ever be able to say the same for Ash's first outing. In any case, I watched "Army of Darkness" on the first day of Christmas vacation, and the thing still sits on some nebulous list of my favourite movies.
This new film is obviously a different beast, but it does what it does well. My friend and I didn't leave the cinema with any sort of transcendent joy, but we had a good time. There is one lingering thing, though.
How is a decrepit cabin a relaxing environment for a recovering drug addict? Mother of balls. Cabins are generally pretty boring unless you already enjoy the sorts of activities they enable, and I would guess that most heroin fanatics aren't really the types who ascribe any great importance to the joys of fresh air. I doubt that anyone has a great story about going on a kayaking expedition with Lou Reed. I suppose that the included diagram claims the possibility of a slight overlap between addicts and cabin enthusiasts, but it's probably filled by adherents of the Coleridge lifestyle that mostly just involves sitting alone and suppressing sanity with a bunch of opium. And Coleridge's place certainly couldn't have been as isolated as the one in this film. For one thing, it would have needed to be in walking distance of that guy who interrupted "Kubla Khan" with some great offer on water heaters or something.
People go to cottages to get away from distractions. Care for a quick bit of news about distractions? They're pretty important in fighting obsession. For some reason, I have a very vivid memory of going to see "Clerks 2" with a group of friends. When Jay walked up to the camera and sighed that boredom was the first step on the road to relapse, the suicidal alcoholic who sat beside me proudly whispered, "It's true."
If the poor girl hadn't been interrupted by damned zombies, she might have had a worse time. I don't think that you're really supposed to sit alone in an empty room when you're trying to fight off addiction. At least turn on "Ellen" or something. Damn.
Obviously, bad decisions are fairly necessary to enforce the plot of most horror movies, but there's often a bit of justification. The people in them have no way of preparing for the types of new and depraved situations in which they find themselves, and it therefore makes sense for them to be unable to formulate decent plans. They're not trained for it. But it's harder to condone the mistreatment of a friend in that manner. It's the same level of horror movie stupidity with less logic. In this case, it's especially weird because they specifically mentioned the abject failure that resulted from a previous attempt to do the same thing in that exact manner.
Whatever. I preferred "Oz".
Bonus Question!
Best cabin in the woods? "The Cabin in the Woods".
Bonus Question!
Am I the only one who reheats popcorn?
Alright. I've been listening to this song pretty frequently over the last week. I think that the main attraction for me is the production. There's just a kind of shadowy mysticism in the sound that's helped along by the faintly innocent rawness of Kate's voice. Also, I may have a soft spot for bottle crashes that are used for percussion. It's probably one of the things that puts "The Lilac Hand of Menthol Dan" near the top of my list of early Tyrannosaurus Rex songs.
I was already vaguely familiar with the general plot of the song before the onset of this week's obsession, but I've had the chance to pay some real attention to it in recent days. Basically, the woman believes that her husband thinks that she has become old and ugly over the course of their marriage. After he responds well to a letter she sends in the guise of a fake admirer, she turns the pseudonym, "Babooshka", into a disguise that's basically a version of herself that's made up to look like the younger, prettier model the husband supposedly wants. In this persona, the wife successfully seduces her husband and ruins the marriage by proving to herself that he has the potential to be unfaithful.
But now I'm just confused about her reasons for being doubtful of her man's fidelity in the first place. Seduction by letters would be one thing. She can conjure up images of her faded beauty for her husband in her prose. She went further, though. Somehow, she was able to convince her husband that she was actually a gorgeous nubile vixen and maintain that disguise through the most intimate of all acts. I just don't understand how she managed to convince herself that she was so ugly in the first place.
Alright. That's a total lie. I totally understand how people can be insecure about flaws of dubious reality. It's not uncommon.
What I don't understand is why she thought that she was irreparably undesirable to her husband. She easily transforms herself into his dream woman by the end of the song! She doesn't even give that a second thought! She never sits and thinks, "Hm. How in hell am I going put these ragged old bones back into sexy fresh overdrive?" She just picks a pseudonym and goes to it. Was her name the only problem? I don't get it. It seems as though the only things that stood between her and a sexually satisfying marriage were a bit of makeup and a fancy outfit.
I'm an avowed romantic, but even I accept that a lot of couples need to take extra measures to keep the boudoir loud as old age advances. A lot of couples even role-play with fake names and secret meeting places to simulate the forbidden excitement of an affair. If she'd turned the whole thing into a game and told her husband about it in the beginning, the story would have been a happy one, and she would have injected a new sense of vigour into her marriage.
Instead she punished her husband for wanting a younger, prettier lover by being a younger, prettier lover. I just don't comprehend how that works, and I don't know how it ever became a problem.
Incidentally, I did a tiny bit of research about the song once, and I learned that Kate Bush wasn't aware that "babushka" is a Russian term for an old woman when she wrote the piece. Apparently, the story's leading man wasn't either.
Still, dude. Great song.
Bonus Question!
Best old Russian lady? Black Widow. Seriously, she must be 80 at least.
I just finished reading "Gravity's Rainbow". I wouldn't suppose that that's a particularly notable feat, but it brought to my attention something I share with the man who recommended it to me, which I'll address in short order. I'll give you a hint right now, though. It's not a love of Thomas Pynchon novels.
My father introduced me to the book a few years ago. I think that it was ostensibly a gift to celebrate the completion of my first year of university, which is still incidentally my only completed year, but I'm pretty sure that it was just an excuse to give me a book and share with me a cherished memory in doing so. It wouldn't have been the first time. That was basically the custom in my family. When nothing could be found to celebrate, books could be given without pretense, but even the most insignificant event could serve as a reminder to get a novel or something for someone in the house.
However, this particular gift was given shortly after I'd finally solved a problem that had been growing for years. The years were the ones in which the majority of my travel stopped taking place in the back of a parent's car, and the problem was the physical burden of books. To me, travel has generally been the connective tissue of the reading process. It's the gluten. On an average childhood day, book transportation was easy. Take it in the car on the way to school. Read it when you can. Leave it in your desk when you must. Take it back in the car. Then you're back at home with a book. You always have something to read, and it always has a secure surface on which it can rest. A minimal amount of carrying. You can even leave it in the car when you're being driven to a place at which books would be an inconvenience.
Obviously, that eventually stopped being the case. I did make attempts to deal with the situation. I remember a long English vacation during which this problem really hit me. This was in the holiday season of 2007, and I received two books for Christmas. One was "The Picture of Dorian Gray", which I squeezed into the pocket of the last pair of jeans I would ever willingly wear. I finished that in the middle of the trip and moved on to the other present, "Don Juan". That was the primary motivator for the acquisition of my first purse, but this form of carriage was still too inconvenient to allow me to bring books to destinations that didn't allow for much reading, and I was thus unprepared for situations of unexpected inactivity.
This was finally solved when I received an iPhone for my birthday in the months before I was given "Gravity's Rainbow". This was a bit of a hefty tome, and its transportation would have caused some strain even in the years before I started doing the majority of my reading on my phone. I planned to buy the digital version immediately, but I was dismayed to discover that there wasn't one. Since that point, I've searched the Kindle store for it after every completion of a book.
I recently searched again, and I was pleased to learn that it had finally been added. I immediately started reading it, but I quickly discovered that Pynchon was a master of a style that I generally loathe. I can't really say that it's bad. I'm pretty sure that it's exactly what he wanted to make. That's a bit of a feat in any form of art. I just really don't like reading this kind of thing. That's purely personal. But there were little discrete pockets of enjoyment. That was clear from the beginning. The occasional line that really spoke out from an intriguing way of thinking. They were brief, and they were rare, but I think that they might have been the most salient reason for which I refused to stop reading. That would have meant missing the rest of them.
This obstinacy brought to my mind an experience with my father that recurred over a period of months. I can't remember the exact year, but I'm pretty sure that it fell within the last few. My father ran a book club with some of his friends, and the book of the time was "Late Nights on Air". If memory serves, it was a Canadian novel about a radio host in one of those northern territories. You know the ones. This could basically be the book that would be written for me in one of the more personal hells. It didn't seem to delight my father either, and he'd frequently complain about it whenever he perfunctorily went off to do what should have been recreational reading. The fact that his book was exactly the kind of thing that would have brought out the same reaction in me really allowed me to sympathise with him, and I did recommend quitting on several occasions. He was resolute, though. I think that both of us were pretty sure that his club would understand. Indeed, I don't think that it was popular among many of the other members either. But his dedication went beyond that, and he did eventually finish the thing.
My experience with "Gravity's Rainbow" allowed me to fully understand that at last. The motivations might have been slightly different, and the novel he read might have been legitimately bad, but reading "Gravity's Rainbow" made me feel what I saw him experience with "Late Nights on Air". I noticed that the book was almost over today, and I was determined to enjoy the night's smoothie over a new book. The ride to the shop didn't give me enough time to finish the last section, but I stood outside it with determination as I finished the damned thing, eagerly anticipating the opening notes of the copy of "The Anubis Gates" I'd already purchased.
Smoothies and Tim Powers, man. I'd say that the night was a success.
Bonus Question!
Best rainbow? Bifrost.