I've been watching a lot of TV lately - well, I've downloaded a lot of shows, and watched those - and noticed that American TV is actually getting better. For the first time in a long time there are actually a few shows that I want to watch every week (or, there were, before all the shows went on hiatus for the holidays, being replaced by terrible gameshows and various reality TV shows).
However, every time I think our shows here are getting good, I find something from the other side of the pond that's even better, and puts our programming to shame.
Case in point: Life on Mars. I became a fan - somewhat - of the American show Journeyman. It had an interesting premise - guy goes back in time, but doesn't know how or why, and ends up having to help people back there. Sort of a lazy man's Quantum Leap. Good, easy entertainment, in other words.
Then, I saw Life on Mars, and everything changed. Not only does it feature incredible music from that era (1970's), but it doesn't dumb itself down for viewers - there's no hand-holding here. In Life on Mars, the protagonist gets into an accident, and finds himself in 1973. He - and we - don't really know if he's really back in time, or if the entire thing is his comatose dream. The show goes on to show him solving crimes. It's hard to really describe, but the show manages to make you, the viewer, feel everything he feels - the frustration, the anger, and the simple joy of finding your place. It's the same basic premise as Journeyman, but manages to create a relationship between the viewer and the characters on the screen, while bringing forth issues of morality and justice. By showing the world back then, it creates a contrast to the world we know now - and shines a light on all the successes and failures of our modern society, especially in law enforcement.
The point is, every time our American shows take a step forward, so do the British - so we're always at least a step behind. It's a bit frustrating, but at least entertainment is getting more... entertaining.
Now watch Bowie sing.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
when i say niggy you say nuthin
Just a quick post, as I ponder what time it is, or is supposed to be right now.
Check out Saul Williams' latest album, The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust. Not only is it an excellent album, featuring Williams' great poetry along with producer Trent Reznor's wall-of-noise approach, but it's a giant middle finger to the music industry.
get it here http://niggytardust.com/saulwilliams/download
They decided to release the album for free, or for $5 if you want a higher bitrate version. Both downloads come with full liner notes (in PDF).
I suggest getting it; It's actually a very interesting (I thoroughly enjoyed it) hip-hop album, with just a hint of Trent's industrial noise. Ok, more than a hint. But it's like nine in nails, but with hip-hop. But better than I just made that sound.
Hopefully more artists will follow the lead set forth by Saul (with Trent) and Radiohead. I feel dirty buying cd's from major labels, knowing that I'm just making some executive rich - I'd rather have a system like this, where the money is going straight to the artists.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Luna Perigee
btw, look up
the moon is gorgeous right now (that was, actually, the content of the very random text message I received the other night).
the moon is 356754 km away from the earth right now, so it looks huge - that, coupled with the fact that it's a full-moon makes it spectacular to see.
I sat outside watching it for a twenty minutes, sipping on cheap bourbon out of a styrofoam cup, hearing John Vanderslice wailing through the windows. It was a spectacular sight, absolutely gorgeous, seeing that celestial body floating through the sky, bracketed by a thin layer of clouds.
So, I repeat,
Look Up.
atrocity exhibition
I still exist.
I really want to see control, hence the title, and first line.
but that has nothing to do with anything.
A few things I've seen recently:
A car full of people all talking on their phones. I don't know what exactly it was about that that caught my very insubstantial attention, but that scene did. Maybe it was the isolation of those people in that very closed space - four people crammed into a mid-sized car, all in their own private conversations. Or maybe it was the fact that i imagined them perversely conversing with each other, each listening in on each others' private words, learning more about each other that way than through direct conversation. Or maybe it was the fact that they stopped a good twenty feet behind the car ahead of them, forcing me to glare at them (as they were blocking me from making my left-hand turn).
A spider. Not any spider, but a seven-legged spider. And not any seven-legged spider, but one with an incredible ability to survive. You see, I saw this seven-legged spider months ago, in my home. I was drawn to it even then - maybe it was a morbid curiosity, but I couldn't help but watch it make its way up the walls. I even took pictures of it - I would post them here, but I'm A) too lazy, and B) I have no idea where my camera is. Which brings us back to A, but I digress.
I saw this spider long ago, and saw it again less than a week ago. This isn't all that impressive in and of itself, but there's another little fact - my house was fumigated a few weeks ago. So, a couple of months after originally seeing the spider, my home was filled with poisonous gas. Then I see the very same seven-legged spider trudging through his day. I thought that was amazing, and found myself imagining his perilous journey, surviving the poisonous fumes that filled his home, with one leg missing, then seeing this bizarre giant who took pictures of him so long ago.
I now wish I had caught said spider, and given him/it a more comfortable home - a sort of retirement, where it/he didn't have to worry about survival. But I suppose that would be a sort of insult - this is, most likely, a proud, honorable creature that has survived far too much to be relegated to mere pet. After roaming freely through my entire house, a small glass cage would be dishonorable.
Stories. Especially the filmed variety. I've watched quite a few movies recently, ranging from the recent (the likes of Ocean's 13 and 28 Weeks Later) to the legendary (Rear Window and Cries and Whispers). I noticed something that, for me, set apart the stories I loved from the ones I could barely pay attention to. The best stories, for me, are the ones that focus on the individuals' stories, instead of some grand picture. Some stories try to be all encompassing, while others - the truly great ones - speak volumes about the human condition by focusing on the lives of individuals in minutiae. Those stories that focus on a few characters, and delve deeply into their lives' and experiences hold more weight, for me, than the ones that make sweeping generalizations about humanity as a whole (I'm speaking to you, Michael Moore).
Oh, and I've fallen even more in love with Joy Division.
Plus, I got a random text message from someone I haven't talked to in a long, long time. That was weird.
And I just rambled on for a good, long while about nothing in particular.
Now go listen to David Bowie and Joy Division, and Jenny Owen Youngs (one of these things is not like the other... but great anyway!!!!).
This is just a means to an end (yet another joy division reference, which is what reminded me of Jenny Owen Youngs, as I just refer to her as JOY anyway)
I really want to see control, hence the title, and first line.
but that has nothing to do with anything.
A few things I've seen recently:
A car full of people all talking on their phones. I don't know what exactly it was about that that caught my very insubstantial attention, but that scene did. Maybe it was the isolation of those people in that very closed space - four people crammed into a mid-sized car, all in their own private conversations. Or maybe it was the fact that i imagined them perversely conversing with each other, each listening in on each others' private words, learning more about each other that way than through direct conversation. Or maybe it was the fact that they stopped a good twenty feet behind the car ahead of them, forcing me to glare at them (as they were blocking me from making my left-hand turn).
A spider. Not any spider, but a seven-legged spider. And not any seven-legged spider, but one with an incredible ability to survive. You see, I saw this seven-legged spider months ago, in my home. I was drawn to it even then - maybe it was a morbid curiosity, but I couldn't help but watch it make its way up the walls. I even took pictures of it - I would post them here, but I'm A) too lazy, and B) I have no idea where my camera is. Which brings us back to A, but I digress.
I saw this spider long ago, and saw it again less than a week ago. This isn't all that impressive in and of itself, but there's another little fact - my house was fumigated a few weeks ago. So, a couple of months after originally seeing the spider, my home was filled with poisonous gas. Then I see the very same seven-legged spider trudging through his day. I thought that was amazing, and found myself imagining his perilous journey, surviving the poisonous fumes that filled his home, with one leg missing, then seeing this bizarre giant who took pictures of him so long ago.
I now wish I had caught said spider, and given him/it a more comfortable home - a sort of retirement, where it/he didn't have to worry about survival. But I suppose that would be a sort of insult - this is, most likely, a proud, honorable creature that has survived far too much to be relegated to mere pet. After roaming freely through my entire house, a small glass cage would be dishonorable.
Stories. Especially the filmed variety. I've watched quite a few movies recently, ranging from the recent (the likes of Ocean's 13 and 28 Weeks Later) to the legendary (Rear Window and Cries and Whispers). I noticed something that, for me, set apart the stories I loved from the ones I could barely pay attention to. The best stories, for me, are the ones that focus on the individuals' stories, instead of some grand picture. Some stories try to be all encompassing, while others - the truly great ones - speak volumes about the human condition by focusing on the lives of individuals in minutiae. Those stories that focus on a few characters, and delve deeply into their lives' and experiences hold more weight, for me, than the ones that make sweeping generalizations about humanity as a whole (I'm speaking to you, Michael Moore).
Oh, and I've fallen even more in love with Joy Division.
Plus, I got a random text message from someone I haven't talked to in a long, long time. That was weird.
And I just rambled on for a good, long while about nothing in particular.
Now go listen to David Bowie and Joy Division, and Jenny Owen Youngs (one of these things is not like the other... but great anyway!!!!).
This is just a means to an end (yet another joy division reference, which is what reminded me of Jenny Owen Youngs, as I just refer to her as JOY anyway)
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
I don't think there's any hope, either. I was just trying to make you feel better.
Why can't I sleep? No rest for the wicked, and all that, I suppose. But really, how wicked can I really be?
I was laying in bed for two hours, trying to fall asleep, before giving up and writing this. I would go out and get something to drink, but that doesn't really help, and it's too late, anyway.
I just laid in bed, thinking too much. My mind drifted from memory to imagination to vexation. I thought of a girl I knew a long time ago, a conversation we had years ago, missed meanings, and what may have been. Or maybe I just conjured up a false memory, to shield me from some god-awful truth.
Why can't I sleep? I relived an argument from months ago. Words said and unsaid - especially unsaid. My verbal jabs are much more poignant spoken silently in the stillness of night.
I think I'm a good person, overall. I can't say I've never hurt anyone - but can anyone really say that? Even if unintentionally, every single one of us has harmed another. Maybe it was someone who deserved it. Maybe we were having a conversation with someone else, and said something hurtful that someone else overheard. Maybe the person we hurt was someone we loved. Maybe it was something said, or done. Or, every bit as likely, it was something we didn't do. Something we weren't there for.
I laid in bed, trying to sleep. The noise from the neighbor's air conditioner humming into the night. They must sleep under yards of down comforters - I'm cold in here, and they have their AC on. My monitor buzzes when it's off. Not really a buzz, I guess - more of a high-pitched whine. I turned on my side, going fetal, my ragged blanket bundled up around me, a cotton womb. I checked my phone - only a few minutes had passed since the last time I checked.
I start writing a story in my head, and it's pretty good. I outline the plot to myself, working out the kinks and inconsistencies. I even write out some scenes in detail, picturing it while translating that into words. It's a short story, of course - my mind is far to feeble to contain anything of considerable length. It's the worst, though, when I write the scenes out in my head - whenever I try to write them down proper, for the world to see, it's never as good as it was before. I lose the exact wording, the images blur, I start to lose the plot. That, and I get bored of it - the story's already played out for me, so it's the verbal equivalent of watching a rerun or a semi-decent drama. Sure, it was good the first time - but once you've seen it, there's no real point in watching it again.
But maybe I'll try writing this one down. To quote _Storytelling_, it's confessional, yet dishonest.
But instead, I write this, to no one in particular. Sort of a public diary, I suppose. Maybe, someday, I'll write something of substance, and that will make all of these rantings seem more interesting. Or maybe I'll die a beautiful, tragic death, which would have the same result - only a bit more on the macabre side.
On that note, good night.
and if you were wondering, the title is also a quote from Storytelling. Great movie, if you can find it. No stores seem to carry it - I've called them all.
I was laying in bed for two hours, trying to fall asleep, before giving up and writing this. I would go out and get something to drink, but that doesn't really help, and it's too late, anyway.
I just laid in bed, thinking too much. My mind drifted from memory to imagination to vexation. I thought of a girl I knew a long time ago, a conversation we had years ago, missed meanings, and what may have been. Or maybe I just conjured up a false memory, to shield me from some god-awful truth.
Why can't I sleep? I relived an argument from months ago. Words said and unsaid - especially unsaid. My verbal jabs are much more poignant spoken silently in the stillness of night.
I think I'm a good person, overall. I can't say I've never hurt anyone - but can anyone really say that? Even if unintentionally, every single one of us has harmed another. Maybe it was someone who deserved it. Maybe we were having a conversation with someone else, and said something hurtful that someone else overheard. Maybe the person we hurt was someone we loved. Maybe it was something said, or done. Or, every bit as likely, it was something we didn't do. Something we weren't there for.
I laid in bed, trying to sleep. The noise from the neighbor's air conditioner humming into the night. They must sleep under yards of down comforters - I'm cold in here, and they have their AC on. My monitor buzzes when it's off. Not really a buzz, I guess - more of a high-pitched whine. I turned on my side, going fetal, my ragged blanket bundled up around me, a cotton womb. I checked my phone - only a few minutes had passed since the last time I checked.
I start writing a story in my head, and it's pretty good. I outline the plot to myself, working out the kinks and inconsistencies. I even write out some scenes in detail, picturing it while translating that into words. It's a short story, of course - my mind is far to feeble to contain anything of considerable length. It's the worst, though, when I write the scenes out in my head - whenever I try to write them down proper, for the world to see, it's never as good as it was before. I lose the exact wording, the images blur, I start to lose the plot. That, and I get bored of it - the story's already played out for me, so it's the verbal equivalent of watching a rerun or a semi-decent drama. Sure, it was good the first time - but once you've seen it, there's no real point in watching it again.
But maybe I'll try writing this one down. To quote _Storytelling_, it's confessional, yet dishonest.
But instead, I write this, to no one in particular. Sort of a public diary, I suppose. Maybe, someday, I'll write something of substance, and that will make all of these rantings seem more interesting. Or maybe I'll die a beautiful, tragic death, which would have the same result - only a bit more on the macabre side.
On that note, good night.
and if you were wondering, the title is also a quote from Storytelling. Great movie, if you can find it. No stores seem to carry it - I've called them all.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Survivor (definitely not a motivational post)
a bit from the book Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk (read his stuff - all brilliant, all warped - but that's just redundant):
Tonight a girl calls me from inside a pounding dance club. Her only words I can make out are "behind."
She says, "asshole."
She says what could be "muffin" or "nothing." The fact of the matter is you can't begin to fill in the blanks so I'm in the kitchen, alone and yelling to be heard over the dance mix wherever. She sounds young and worn out, so I ask her if she'll trust me. Is she tired of hurting? I ask if there's only one way to end her pain, will she do it?
My goldfish is swimming around all excited inside the fishbowl on the fridge so I reach up and drop a Valium in its water.
I'm yelling at this girl: has she had enough?
I'm yelling: I'm not going to stand here and listen to her complain.
To stand here and try to fix her life is a big waste of time. People don't want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unkown.
Most people who call me already know what they want. Some want to die but are just looking for my permission. Some want to die and just need a little encouragement. A little push. Someone bent on suicide won't have much sense of humor left. One wrong word, and they're on an obituary the next week. Most of the calls I get, I'm only half listening anyway. most of the people, I decide who lives and dies just by the tone of their voice.
This is getting nowhere with the girl at the dance club so I tell her, Kill yourself.
she's saying, "What?"
Kill yourself.
She's saying, "What?"
Try barbiturates and alcohol with your head inside a dry cleaning bag.
She says, "What?"
You cannot bread a veal cutlet and do a good job with only one hand so I tell her, now or never. Pull the trigger or don't. I'm with her right now. She's not going to die alone, but I don't have night.
What sounds like part of the dance mix is her starting to cry really hard. So I hang up.
On top of breading a veal cutlet, these people want me to straighten their whole life out.
The phone in my one hand, I'm trying to get bread crumbs to stick with my other. Nothing should be this hard. You flop the cutlet in raw egg. Then you shake it dry, then crumbs. The problem with the cutlet is I can't get the crumbs right. Some places, the cutlet is bare. The crumbs are so thick in other places you can't tell what's inside.
Tonight a girl calls me from inside a pounding dance club. Her only words I can make out are "behind."
She says, "asshole."
She says what could be "muffin" or "nothing." The fact of the matter is you can't begin to fill in the blanks so I'm in the kitchen, alone and yelling to be heard over the dance mix wherever. She sounds young and worn out, so I ask her if she'll trust me. Is she tired of hurting? I ask if there's only one way to end her pain, will she do it?
My goldfish is swimming around all excited inside the fishbowl on the fridge so I reach up and drop a Valium in its water.
I'm yelling at this girl: has she had enough?
I'm yelling: I'm not going to stand here and listen to her complain.
To stand here and try to fix her life is a big waste of time. People don't want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unkown.
Most people who call me already know what they want. Some want to die but are just looking for my permission. Some want to die and just need a little encouragement. A little push. Someone bent on suicide won't have much sense of humor left. One wrong word, and they're on an obituary the next week. Most of the calls I get, I'm only half listening anyway. most of the people, I decide who lives and dies just by the tone of their voice.
This is getting nowhere with the girl at the dance club so I tell her, Kill yourself.
she's saying, "What?"
Kill yourself.
She's saying, "What?"
Try barbiturates and alcohol with your head inside a dry cleaning bag.
She says, "What?"
You cannot bread a veal cutlet and do a good job with only one hand so I tell her, now or never. Pull the trigger or don't. I'm with her right now. She's not going to die alone, but I don't have night.
What sounds like part of the dance mix is her starting to cry really hard. So I hang up.
On top of breading a veal cutlet, these people want me to straighten their whole life out.
The phone in my one hand, I'm trying to get bread crumbs to stick with my other. Nothing should be this hard. You flop the cutlet in raw egg. Then you shake it dry, then crumbs. The problem with the cutlet is I can't get the crumbs right. Some places, the cutlet is bare. The crumbs are so thick in other places you can't tell what's inside.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
why I like
(some) rap -
lyrics born:
" Man, fuck that shit, I pay my taxes when I'm asked to
I'm not enthusiastic about it, but shit I make it happen
Yeah, it's last minute, but goddammit they cash it
"This is fiscal harassment! They keep touching my assets!"
Now I imagine I might be feeling different about it
If it was given outright, witnessing it helping somebody
But it just so happens in life, the school district's too crowded
There ain't no teachers in sight, that's why the kids are so rowdy
I just imagine some asshole with glasses on up at the capital
One of a thousand pawns packed in an office, cramped up like animals
Pictures of his sister, his mixture Lhasa Apso poodle
His 2.6 kids and the missus thumb-tacked to his cubicle
So damned detached from the average man's planet he can't fathom
That he can ever be anything other than stats, fat and taxable
He's getting his usual, ritual 2 o'clock cup of noodles on
Fucking you with your W-2, with his John Denver music on
Now, I do admit that in the music business
people do and say some really stupid shit
Kids are zooming in and using what we do and say
I can see how you can say "do not abuse your influence"
But to all the Hillaries and the Williams of the new millennium
If you really aren't feeling like living with the children will be a fulfilling experience
Or something you envision yourself willingly
and unconditionally committed to from the beginning
Maybe you shouldn't be bumping bellies from the giddyup anyway, dummy"
lyrics born:
" Man, fuck that shit, I pay my taxes when I'm asked to
I'm not enthusiastic about it, but shit I make it happen
Yeah, it's last minute, but goddammit they cash it
"This is fiscal harassment! They keep touching my assets!"
Now I imagine I might be feeling different about it
If it was given outright, witnessing it helping somebody
But it just so happens in life, the school district's too crowded
There ain't no teachers in sight, that's why the kids are so rowdy
I just imagine some asshole with glasses on up at the capital
One of a thousand pawns packed in an office, cramped up like animals
Pictures of his sister, his mixture Lhasa Apso poodle
His 2.6 kids and the missus thumb-tacked to his cubicle
So damned detached from the average man's planet he can't fathom
That he can ever be anything other than stats, fat and taxable
He's getting his usual, ritual 2 o'clock cup of noodles on
Fucking you with your W-2, with his John Denver music on
Now, I do admit that in the music business
people do and say some really stupid shit
Kids are zooming in and using what we do and say
I can see how you can say "do not abuse your influence"
But to all the Hillaries and the Williams of the new millennium
If you really aren't feeling like living with the children will be a fulfilling experience
Or something you envision yourself willingly
and unconditionally committed to from the beginning
Maybe you shouldn't be bumping bellies from the giddyup anyway, dummy"
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