So I've ditched LJ and have moved to Blogger. Yay.
I'd write something more interesting here, but I'm getting tired..
--
I've also uploaded all of my previous posts; the original posting dates are noted in brackets.
*less than three*
-Jer
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Pan's Labyrinth
[original post: Feb.12.2007]
I've fallen out of habit of updating this journal, which is my own damn fault. I've discovered that I like to write, but I am fairly bad at the consistency of it.
I felt compelled to write tonight, because I just viewed Pan's Labyrinth, the dark, Spanish fantasy film that came out in December.
As usual, stop reading if you intend on viewing the film.
-----
The following is a review of the film Pan's Labyrinth.
-----
Pan's Labyrinth (4 stars)
Pan's Labyrinth is one of the best films that I've seen all year. (And by year, you can decide how you want to define that, since 2007 just started and the film came out in December of last year. By any account, it's meant to be a compliment.) I have rarely felt a comparable sense of wonder, horror, and absolute captivation in a movie. The film reaches into your past and tickles the remnants of fairy tale mythology, while appealing to an adult's sense of fear, politics, and security.
The sheer vision of director Guillermo del Toro is reflected in every scene, either beautiful or horrific, the viewer can't seem to look away. His vision is strikingly interesting to the eye at every turn.
Set in Spain during World War II, the narrative follows the story of Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), the long-lost princess of a vast underworld, unknowingly living among mortals. She has a sad, but loving mother (Ariadna Gil), a reprehensible despot of a step-father (Sergi Lopez), and a caring servant, Mercedes (Maribel Verdu). Ofelia lives in a fearsome world of civil war, where authorities can't be trusted, and danger lurks everywhere.
One of the features of Pan's Labyrinth that immediately drew me in, was that of its dark, formidable nature. The sets, music, and characters are meant to scare you, if not to at a minimum create an unsettling feeling. The character of the faun (Doug Jones) is beautifully constructed, yet I did not know whether to trust him, or doubt his intentions. The tasks that the faun instructs Ofelia to complete are equally unsettling, between obtaining a key from the belly of a giant frog to obtaining a box of sprites from the lair of the hideous "Pale Man". During the 'Pale Man' scene, I knew he would pop up in a nightmare of mine in the future.
Several themes abound in the film, notably an interesting blend of child and adult perspectives of fear and authority and how to interpret situations where you are unsure of your safety and outcome. While actions in the labyrinth mirrored a child's perspective, the civil war, and the plotline surrounding the evil Captain Vidal worked as a perspective of adult power and authority, magnified in the eyes of young Ofelia. The blending of the two perspectives managed to touch the viewer as an adult and as a "grown-up child". I applaud Del Toro for successfully scaring and awing the child and adult in me.
The top layer of the cake is a beautiful fairy tale, told in an unconventional setting. This is a novel film, in story and vision. This is why we go to the movies.
I've fallen out of habit of updating this journal, which is my own damn fault. I've discovered that I like to write, but I am fairly bad at the consistency of it.
I felt compelled to write tonight, because I just viewed Pan's Labyrinth, the dark, Spanish fantasy film that came out in December.
As usual, stop reading if you intend on viewing the film.
-----
The following is a review of the film Pan's Labyrinth.
-----
Pan's Labyrinth (4 stars)
Pan's Labyrinth is one of the best films that I've seen all year. (And by year, you can decide how you want to define that, since 2007 just started and the film came out in December of last year. By any account, it's meant to be a compliment.) I have rarely felt a comparable sense of wonder, horror, and absolute captivation in a movie. The film reaches into your past and tickles the remnants of fairy tale mythology, while appealing to an adult's sense of fear, politics, and security.
The sheer vision of director Guillermo del Toro is reflected in every scene, either beautiful or horrific, the viewer can't seem to look away. His vision is strikingly interesting to the eye at every turn.
Set in Spain during World War II, the narrative follows the story of Ofelia (Ivana Baquero), the long-lost princess of a vast underworld, unknowingly living among mortals. She has a sad, but loving mother (Ariadna Gil), a reprehensible despot of a step-father (Sergi Lopez), and a caring servant, Mercedes (Maribel Verdu). Ofelia lives in a fearsome world of civil war, where authorities can't be trusted, and danger lurks everywhere.
One of the features of Pan's Labyrinth that immediately drew me in, was that of its dark, formidable nature. The sets, music, and characters are meant to scare you, if not to at a minimum create an unsettling feeling. The character of the faun (Doug Jones) is beautifully constructed, yet I did not know whether to trust him, or doubt his intentions. The tasks that the faun instructs Ofelia to complete are equally unsettling, between obtaining a key from the belly of a giant frog to obtaining a box of sprites from the lair of the hideous "Pale Man". During the 'Pale Man' scene, I knew he would pop up in a nightmare of mine in the future.
Several themes abound in the film, notably an interesting blend of child and adult perspectives of fear and authority and how to interpret situations where you are unsure of your safety and outcome. While actions in the labyrinth mirrored a child's perspective, the civil war, and the plotline surrounding the evil Captain Vidal worked as a perspective of adult power and authority, magnified in the eyes of young Ofelia. The blending of the two perspectives managed to touch the viewer as an adult and as a "grown-up child". I applaud Del Toro for successfully scaring and awing the child and adult in me.
The top layer of the cake is a beautiful fairy tale, told in an unconventional setting. This is a novel film, in story and vision. This is why we go to the movies.
The Barbershop
[original post: Dec.04.2006]
I got a haircut today. Yeah, I know... big wow.
Actually, it was quite a concerted effort, as I had to wake up two hours earlier than usual in order to get to work early so that I could leave early and get to the barber before they closed. The drawback of having a 9-5 job is that it has the annoying little habit of blocking out BUSINESS HOURS, essentially stripping me of my title as an American consumer.
It was also a concerted effort because as I woke up this morning, I, for some reason, was sleeping at the far end of my bed with my head poised at the jutting sharp corner of the window sill. I lurched forward in my sleep ten minutes before my alarm went off, slamming my forehead into the sill and painting my hands with blood. Just another manic Monday...
So yeah, it was not a happy morning... but I made it back to Davis in time for my haircut, miraculously.
Leo's barbershop is an anachronism. The entire interior hasn't been touched or modified since 1953. The barbers themselves seem to have stepped out of a street-beat Detective thriller, or a Spike Lee Joint, I can't make up my mind. The walls are adorned with antequated advertisements pushing the "buzz cut" and the "presidential". Hairdos that disappeared during the Cold War.
My barber today is a man that I have known for the last five years, and yet, I do not know his name. I've come in every two months or so for a haircut and I've never learned a single one of their names. He's a Japanese man in his mid to late fifties... reminds me of a scruffier Captain Sulu. He's the best barber there, in my opinion, and his steady hand has only once in five years left me less than satisfied. And after five years, I have molded my request down to specifics. "Just a trim, even all around, scissor-cut, block the back, please."
It's such a peaceful place, the barbershop. Gentle conversation, the sound of a rustling newspaper, the distant voices from outside, and a low television usually following a football game are the only sounds in the shop. I've come to realize that it's one of only a few times during my normal day that I am not inundated my immense amounts of stimuli.
And yet, something always bothered me during the haircuts. Something I later came to identify as a prime source of the peaceful ambiance... the silence.
I always felt an urge to talk to the barber, make some sort of pointless conversation to fill the sound void. I'm just not a talker during haircuts, but I felt like I needed to be. Something about silence scares people, scares me.
And yet, though perceived as awkward, the atmosphere was still pleasantly peaceful and I felt genuinely relaxed and at ease, without the use of words. I suppose that the barber and customer share some sort of implicitly understood relationship, almost a bizarre, physical mentorship of some sort that takes place in the hearts and minds of those involved. Words aren't always necessary.
From Pulp Fiction:
Mia: Don't you hate that?
Vincent: What?
Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it's necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?
Vincent: I don't know. That's a good question.
Mia: That's when you know you've found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.
--
I got a haircut today. Yeah, I know... big wow.
Actually, it was quite a concerted effort, as I had to wake up two hours earlier than usual in order to get to work early so that I could leave early and get to the barber before they closed. The drawback of having a 9-5 job is that it has the annoying little habit of blocking out BUSINESS HOURS, essentially stripping me of my title as an American consumer.
It was also a concerted effort because as I woke up this morning, I, for some reason, was sleeping at the far end of my bed with my head poised at the jutting sharp corner of the window sill. I lurched forward in my sleep ten minutes before my alarm went off, slamming my forehead into the sill and painting my hands with blood. Just another manic Monday...
So yeah, it was not a happy morning... but I made it back to Davis in time for my haircut, miraculously.
Leo's barbershop is an anachronism. The entire interior hasn't been touched or modified since 1953. The barbers themselves seem to have stepped out of a street-beat Detective thriller, or a Spike Lee Joint, I can't make up my mind. The walls are adorned with antequated advertisements pushing the "buzz cut" and the "presidential". Hairdos that disappeared during the Cold War.
My barber today is a man that I have known for the last five years, and yet, I do not know his name. I've come in every two months or so for a haircut and I've never learned a single one of their names. He's a Japanese man in his mid to late fifties... reminds me of a scruffier Captain Sulu. He's the best barber there, in my opinion, and his steady hand has only once in five years left me less than satisfied. And after five years, I have molded my request down to specifics. "Just a trim, even all around, scissor-cut, block the back, please."
It's such a peaceful place, the barbershop. Gentle conversation, the sound of a rustling newspaper, the distant voices from outside, and a low television usually following a football game are the only sounds in the shop. I've come to realize that it's one of only a few times during my normal day that I am not inundated my immense amounts of stimuli.
And yet, something always bothered me during the haircuts. Something I later came to identify as a prime source of the peaceful ambiance... the silence.
I always felt an urge to talk to the barber, make some sort of pointless conversation to fill the sound void. I'm just not a talker during haircuts, but I felt like I needed to be. Something about silence scares people, scares me.
And yet, though perceived as awkward, the atmosphere was still pleasantly peaceful and I felt genuinely relaxed and at ease, without the use of words. I suppose that the barber and customer share some sort of implicitly understood relationship, almost a bizarre, physical mentorship of some sort that takes place in the hearts and minds of those involved. Words aren't always necessary.
From Pulp Fiction:
Mia: Don't you hate that?
Vincent: What?
Mia: Uncomfortable silences. Why do we feel it's necessary to yak about bullshit in order to be comfortable?
Vincent: I don't know. That's a good question.
Mia: That's when you know you've found somebody special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence.
--
Casino Royale
[original post: Nov.19.2006]
The following is a review of the film Casino Royale.
-----
Casino Royale (3.5 stars)
I have always been a huge Bond fan. I suppose my mom was the one who first introduced me to Agent 007. We would go down to the independent video store in the town where I grew up and rent the James Bond movies from the 60s for $.99. I would then pick up some orange frozen yogurt (for some reason, it was the only other thing sold in that video store) and I would spend my summer nights watching Sean Connery in his perfectly tailored tux sip his dry vodka martini, shaken, not stirred of course, and race through the Austrian countryside in his "new" Aston Martin fully stocked with Q's latest tinkerings. In my opinion, Sean Connery will always be in my mind the best actor for the role, his collectivity, sophistication, and ultra-suave demeanor untouched by any other.
Sean Connery remains at the top of my list, but Daniel Craig comes remarkably close.
I admit that I did have my doubts about Daniel Craig as the new 007 in Casino Royale. He's blond, rougher, more muscular, and... well, he's the new guy. I suppose everyone's apprehensive about the new guy. But while Pierce Brosnan set the bar of temperament for Bond, Craig returns the character to his dark beginnings and brings Bond's sophistication and understated sex appeal back to the days of Connery. Craig has unexpectedly mastered the role with an appropriate blend of refinement and humor.
Furthermore, director Martin Campbell opens Bond's character up to a certain vulnerability when Bond girl Vesper Lynd (Eva Green) enteres the scene. Lynd breaks through Bond's cold exterior in a way that was not possible in the 1960s. The result is a man grasping for any remnant of his identity in a world of thugs, two-timers, arrogance and greed. It is thoughtfully and elegantly done and the end result is a plot line that works and held my interest for the 2 1/2 hour film.
The film also brought back a classic Bond signature, the relationship between 007 and the antagonist. Goldfinger, in my opinion, one of, if not the best Bond film, perfected the relationship between Bond and his enemy as one of civility, respect, and the ability to sit down at a table together without the need for a PPK. The antagonist "Goldfinger" in the film Goldfinger shares this relationship with Bond as he invites him to his ranch and the two share mint juleps. Bond and the villain Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen) in Casino Royale share similar scenes, mostly around a high-roller's poker table. The "dagger-in-the-back" civility is present, especially as Bond is poisoned and nearly killed by a specialty cocktail, spiked by Le Chiffre's voluptuous henchwoman. Le Chiffre is one hell of a bad guy, finally bringing a sense of evil and darkness that was clearly absent from Die Another Day's cartoony Gustav Graves.
Casino Royale triumphantly reawakens all that is a James Bond film. A strong cast, breathtaking locales, sophistication, elegance, technology, intrigue, and the dark, complex persona that is James Bond. The late Ian Fleming would most certainly be proud.
The following is a review of the film Casino Royale.
-----
Casino Royale (3.5 stars)
I have always been a huge Bond fan. I suppose my mom was the one who first introduced me to Agent 007. We would go down to the independent video store in the town where I grew up and rent the James Bond movies from the 60s for $.99. I would then pick up some orange frozen yogurt (for some reason, it was the only other thing sold in that video store) and I would spend my summer nights watching Sean Connery in his perfectly tailored tux sip his dry vodka martini, shaken, not stirred of course, and race through the Austrian countryside in his "new" Aston Martin fully stocked with Q's latest tinkerings. In my opinion, Sean Connery will always be in my mind the best actor for the role, his collectivity, sophistication, and ultra-suave demeanor untouched by any other.
Sean Connery remains at the top of my list, but Daniel Craig comes remarkably close.
I admit that I did have my doubts about Daniel Craig as the new 007 in Casino Royale. He's blond, rougher, more muscular, and... well, he's the new guy. I suppose everyone's apprehensive about the new guy. But while Pierce Brosnan set the bar of temperament for Bond, Craig returns the character to his dark beginnings and brings Bond's sophistication and understated sex appeal back to the days of Connery. Craig has unexpectedly mastered the role with an appropriate blend of refinement and humor.
Furthermore, director Martin Campbell opens Bond's character up to a certain vulnerability when Bond girl Vesper Lynd (Eva Green) enteres the scene. Lynd breaks through Bond's cold exterior in a way that was not possible in the 1960s. The result is a man grasping for any remnant of his identity in a world of thugs, two-timers, arrogance and greed. It is thoughtfully and elegantly done and the end result is a plot line that works and held my interest for the 2 1/2 hour film.
The film also brought back a classic Bond signature, the relationship between 007 and the antagonist. Goldfinger, in my opinion, one of, if not the best Bond film, perfected the relationship between Bond and his enemy as one of civility, respect, and the ability to sit down at a table together without the need for a PPK. The antagonist "Goldfinger" in the film Goldfinger shares this relationship with Bond as he invites him to his ranch and the two share mint juleps. Bond and the villain Le Chiffre (Mads Mikkelsen) in Casino Royale share similar scenes, mostly around a high-roller's poker table. The "dagger-in-the-back" civility is present, especially as Bond is poisoned and nearly killed by a specialty cocktail, spiked by Le Chiffre's voluptuous henchwoman. Le Chiffre is one hell of a bad guy, finally bringing a sense of evil and darkness that was clearly absent from Die Another Day's cartoony Gustav Graves.
Casino Royale triumphantly reawakens all that is a James Bond film. A strong cast, breathtaking locales, sophistication, elegance, technology, intrigue, and the dark, complex persona that is James Bond. The late Ian Fleming would most certainly be proud.
On queue...
[original post: Nov.01.2006]
I sit here on what's left of Halloween night wondering what happened to my childhood. What happened to little Jerry Gardner? He must have gotten lost on his way home from school.
It wasn't until I got into my car and was on my way to work today that I finally realized that it was Halloween. And the realization was a slow one with an abrupt ending, sort of like realizing that you're due for an oil change. Shit, it's Halloween....... eh....
I really don't dislike Halloween, but I do feel that it's built up so much by society that I can't muster enthusiasm to find a costume (which is a marathon in itself), stand in line (which I'll talk about later), pay $59.99 to look like SpongeBob, and then have to compete in a night-long Facebook profile photo contest (credit to Mr. Anthony Soufrine). Plus, I don't really like costumes. I'll absolutely dress up in a theatrical sense, but I just don't do costumes. There's too much pressure. Cutting fabric, glue guns, JoAnn's fabric store, not for me.
And yet I remember vividly the excitement of Halloween when I was younger. I have many smells that are associated with the holiday, most notably the smell of burning wood as October 31st always seems to be the first day of autumn that people start using their fireplaces. Halloween was a holiday where you could be anything you wanted, and possibly a little freaked and excited, and yet you always had that mask to cleverly hide the angst and adventure you were feeling. It was a marvelous time. And of course a gang of 12-year-olds trolling the neighborhood is always fun. Don't even talk to me about TP'ing.
And so, the wonder of Halloween is essentially obsolete for me now. Am I sad? Not so much. Sure I can't be a 12-year-old again painting the town red with my gang of friends in my old neighborhood, draining the community of its Snickers and Three Musketeers on our final Halloween year right before we start to seem a little awkward going door-to-door, only to retreat to Chase's house to watch a nonsensical amount of cheap '70s horror flicks and cable television (something quite foreign to me at the time). Sure that's gone.
But when I was 12-years-old, I couldn't have people over whenever I wanted, or attend an impromptu party at someone's house for absolutely no reason, or decide like I did on Saturday that I wasn't going to eat lunch and instead I was going to spoil my appetite and eat Pirate's Booty (stop laughing, Michael). Why? Because I can.
I suppose it is a trade-off. A piece of the past for a piece of the future.
Which brings me to the second part of this LiveJournal posting.
-----
I have absolutely no transition here, so if you're waiting for me to link the Halloween entry with this one, which is about my observations on queues, hence the title, think again. There is no transition, so take an abrupt 180 because I just did.
-----
I was at Trader Joe's yesterday, buying lunch. I'm actually there a couple of times a week. It's very close to my office and I've decided that I want to eat things that differ from ham sandwiches, clam chowder and yogurt, the main staples of our cafeteria at the M.I.N.D. Institute. Sidebar: The M.I.N.D. Institute is where I work. It's a neurodevelopmental research clinic in Sacramento.
So there I am, standing in line, clutching my sushi, potato salad, and strawberry and wheatgrass smoothie. Oh by the way, in case you didn't know, I'm pregnant.
I'm in line, just sort of thinking about this that and the other, like one does. Thinking about why my car is dematerializing, realizing that I'll be out of town for the Nov. 7 elections, wondering why the stamp from Sophia's never seems to wash off my damn hand.
Suddenly, my inner musings are interrupted. I can best describe it as watching your favorite sitcom to have the emergency broadcast system flash on. I am suddenly struck by the realization that the line has not moved in 7 minutes. I shift the items in my hands to try and look a bit less awkward.
Immediately, tenth grade Jerry kicks into gear. Well, I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for why this line has not moved, relax. What do you expect to do about it anyway? A few more minutes pass and the line crawls on. The woman in front of me is only purchasing 9 items, she should be done in a minute. Not the case.
She hands some sort of official-looking coupon to the cashier after the scan of each item. With each coupon, or whatever, the cashier has to consult a manual and copy down some sort of alpha-numeric code onto the coupon, scan it, and then progress with the remaining items. Eight minutes go by. The tenth grader chimes in again: Be patient for the good of humanity, Jerry. It's probably government-issued food stamps, and she looks like she's been through enough. Probably has five mouths to feed at home hence the bulk staple items. Consider others.
Then, contemporary Jerry kicks in: If our government gave a shit about these people, they would have designed a food stamp that was easier to use and didn't require their excess display at the front of the check-out line like some sort of marionette against an unintentional pity backdrop. I mean, I hate it when my card is a little scratched and it takes me 23 seconds to authorize credit, decline the pin request, sign my name electronically which always looks funky, and wait for the banks to communicate. Have you ever been just sorta standing there for like 30 seconds... waiting...
Do we really exist during these periods on queue? What happens to us? I always wonder what the others in line are thinking about. Maybe the queue is the premier philosophical venue and we're all too stupid to realize it. After all, it's one of the rare times when we're forced to stop everything and take in our surroundings. But then again, maybe it's just a queue.
Buy sushi somewhere else, not at Trader Joe's.
I sit here on what's left of Halloween night wondering what happened to my childhood. What happened to little Jerry Gardner? He must have gotten lost on his way home from school.
It wasn't until I got into my car and was on my way to work today that I finally realized that it was Halloween. And the realization was a slow one with an abrupt ending, sort of like realizing that you're due for an oil change. Shit, it's Halloween....... eh....
I really don't dislike Halloween, but I do feel that it's built up so much by society that I can't muster enthusiasm to find a costume (which is a marathon in itself), stand in line (which I'll talk about later), pay $59.99 to look like SpongeBob, and then have to compete in a night-long Facebook profile photo contest (credit to Mr. Anthony Soufrine). Plus, I don't really like costumes. I'll absolutely dress up in a theatrical sense, but I just don't do costumes. There's too much pressure. Cutting fabric, glue guns, JoAnn's fabric store, not for me.
And yet I remember vividly the excitement of Halloween when I was younger. I have many smells that are associated with the holiday, most notably the smell of burning wood as October 31st always seems to be the first day of autumn that people start using their fireplaces. Halloween was a holiday where you could be anything you wanted, and possibly a little freaked and excited, and yet you always had that mask to cleverly hide the angst and adventure you were feeling. It was a marvelous time. And of course a gang of 12-year-olds trolling the neighborhood is always fun. Don't even talk to me about TP'ing.
And so, the wonder of Halloween is essentially obsolete for me now. Am I sad? Not so much. Sure I can't be a 12-year-old again painting the town red with my gang of friends in my old neighborhood, draining the community of its Snickers and Three Musketeers on our final Halloween year right before we start to seem a little awkward going door-to-door, only to retreat to Chase's house to watch a nonsensical amount of cheap '70s horror flicks and cable television (something quite foreign to me at the time). Sure that's gone.
But when I was 12-years-old, I couldn't have people over whenever I wanted, or attend an impromptu party at someone's house for absolutely no reason, or decide like I did on Saturday that I wasn't going to eat lunch and instead I was going to spoil my appetite and eat Pirate's Booty (stop laughing, Michael). Why? Because I can.
I suppose it is a trade-off. A piece of the past for a piece of the future.
Which brings me to the second part of this LiveJournal posting.
-----
I have absolutely no transition here, so if you're waiting for me to link the Halloween entry with this one, which is about my observations on queues, hence the title, think again. There is no transition, so take an abrupt 180 because I just did.
-----
I was at Trader Joe's yesterday, buying lunch. I'm actually there a couple of times a week. It's very close to my office and I've decided that I want to eat things that differ from ham sandwiches, clam chowder and yogurt, the main staples of our cafeteria at the M.I.N.D. Institute. Sidebar: The M.I.N.D. Institute is where I work. It's a neurodevelopmental research clinic in Sacramento.
So there I am, standing in line, clutching my sushi, potato salad, and strawberry and wheatgrass smoothie. Oh by the way, in case you didn't know, I'm pregnant.
I'm in line, just sort of thinking about this that and the other, like one does. Thinking about why my car is dematerializing, realizing that I'll be out of town for the Nov. 7 elections, wondering why the stamp from Sophia's never seems to wash off my damn hand.
Suddenly, my inner musings are interrupted. I can best describe it as watching your favorite sitcom to have the emergency broadcast system flash on. I am suddenly struck by the realization that the line has not moved in 7 minutes. I shift the items in my hands to try and look a bit less awkward.
Immediately, tenth grade Jerry kicks into gear. Well, I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation for why this line has not moved, relax. What do you expect to do about it anyway? A few more minutes pass and the line crawls on. The woman in front of me is only purchasing 9 items, she should be done in a minute. Not the case.
She hands some sort of official-looking coupon to the cashier after the scan of each item. With each coupon, or whatever, the cashier has to consult a manual and copy down some sort of alpha-numeric code onto the coupon, scan it, and then progress with the remaining items. Eight minutes go by. The tenth grader chimes in again: Be patient for the good of humanity, Jerry. It's probably government-issued food stamps, and she looks like she's been through enough. Probably has five mouths to feed at home hence the bulk staple items. Consider others.
Then, contemporary Jerry kicks in: If our government gave a shit about these people, they would have designed a food stamp that was easier to use and didn't require their excess display at the front of the check-out line like some sort of marionette against an unintentional pity backdrop. I mean, I hate it when my card is a little scratched and it takes me 23 seconds to authorize credit, decline the pin request, sign my name electronically which always looks funky, and wait for the banks to communicate. Have you ever been just sorta standing there for like 30 seconds... waiting...
Do we really exist during these periods on queue? What happens to us? I always wonder what the others in line are thinking about. Maybe the queue is the premier philosophical venue and we're all too stupid to realize it. After all, it's one of the rare times when we're forced to stop everything and take in our surroundings. But then again, maybe it's just a queue.
Buy sushi somewhere else, not at Trader Joe's.
On etiquette...
[original post: Oct.07.2006]
Have I regressed to a point where I don't like people.. at all?
I guess not, I just don't like people that piss me off.
--
I was at Mishka's today, enjoying a white mocha like usual. Yet instead of being relaxed and pensive, I was agitated and uncomfortable. Why, you may ask? Let me count the ways:
-Instead of playing some kind of low-key, harmonious music, they were playing some bizarre folk/traditional jig that sounded like a mix of a few too many countries. It was loud and unrelenting.
-Next, this clueless guy answered his cell phone in the coffee shop. Okay, the answering of the phone was not what pissed me off, it's that his voice was absurdly LOUD. I heard him word for word through my iPod headphones, and so did everybody in that half of the room, who looked up several times in annoyance. I'm basically against answering cell phones indoors in certain places to begin with, but I generally don't care if you keep your voice to a low volume. This guy was essentially the tour guide from The Jungle Cruise.
He was a little weird though. He was drumming his hands on the table top (to no music), while bobbing his head and mouthing certain lines of music (in his head). So yeah, that cell conversation went on for 10 minutes. Take it outside, motherfucker.
-The final straw was this fairly young couple who came in with a stroller. The stroller already agitated me because I think they're one of the most annoying inventions. They get in the way of everything. But whatever, I was a baby once, so I'll let it slide. What pissed me off was that the couple decided to make out while groping each other. They weren't making out in a corner or even sitting down, they were making out up at the counter in front of everyone. What the hell is this? This is not a drive-in movie theater... nobody wants to see that.
-----
I swear I'm not becoming Oscar The Grouch, I just believe that people need to behave appropriately in public places. There is a loose script for whatever public place you happen to occupy. Follow it and don't be a douchebag.
For example, if you're in a coffee shop: sit, eat, drink, read, talk, study, write, etc. Generally do things that are discreet because that is the nature of the environment that you're in. If you're at a punk rock concert: stage-dive, mosh, yell, sweat, make hand-gestures, and generally be a punk. If you're at the festival of San Fermín: drop your cell phone and run your ass off.
That's my wish for humanity, that we'd all be a little more conscious of the places we occupy, and those around us.
Have I regressed to a point where I don't like people.. at all?
I guess not, I just don't like people that piss me off.
--
I was at Mishka's today, enjoying a white mocha like usual. Yet instead of being relaxed and pensive, I was agitated and uncomfortable. Why, you may ask? Let me count the ways:
-Instead of playing some kind of low-key, harmonious music, they were playing some bizarre folk/traditional jig that sounded like a mix of a few too many countries. It was loud and unrelenting.
-Next, this clueless guy answered his cell phone in the coffee shop. Okay, the answering of the phone was not what pissed me off, it's that his voice was absurdly LOUD. I heard him word for word through my iPod headphones, and so did everybody in that half of the room, who looked up several times in annoyance. I'm basically against answering cell phones indoors in certain places to begin with, but I generally don't care if you keep your voice to a low volume. This guy was essentially the tour guide from The Jungle Cruise.
He was a little weird though. He was drumming his hands on the table top (to no music), while bobbing his head and mouthing certain lines of music (in his head). So yeah, that cell conversation went on for 10 minutes. Take it outside, motherfucker.
-The final straw was this fairly young couple who came in with a stroller. The stroller already agitated me because I think they're one of the most annoying inventions. They get in the way of everything. But whatever, I was a baby once, so I'll let it slide. What pissed me off was that the couple decided to make out while groping each other. They weren't making out in a corner or even sitting down, they were making out up at the counter in front of everyone. What the hell is this? This is not a drive-in movie theater... nobody wants to see that.
-----
I swear I'm not becoming Oscar The Grouch, I just believe that people need to behave appropriately in public places. There is a loose script for whatever public place you happen to occupy. Follow it and don't be a douchebag.
For example, if you're in a coffee shop: sit, eat, drink, read, talk, study, write, etc. Generally do things that are discreet because that is the nature of the environment that you're in. If you're at a punk rock concert: stage-dive, mosh, yell, sweat, make hand-gestures, and generally be a punk. If you're at the festival of San Fermín: drop your cell phone and run your ass off.
That's my wish for humanity, that we'd all be a little more conscious of the places we occupy, and those around us.
San Francisco's Alchy-traz
[original post: Oct.01.2006]
Good evening ladies and gentlemen.
Looking back at my previous entries, I noticed that they all seem to have this semi-polished tone, usually commenting on some cultural phenomenon, blah, blah.
Despite that, I've decided that I'd like to break with tradition and gush a 'lil bit. I said 'lil!
So - here it goes. *Ahem*
This last weekend, I drove out to good 'ol Sanny Franny (as Anthony calls it) to hang out with Anthony (my best friend from SoCal), as he came up for his 22nd birthday. For those of you who don't know Anthony... how can I characterize him?.. Well, I can't. Just think of the opposite of me in pretty much every way (minus the gay part), and add a flamboyant, caffeine-infused personality that likes to bitch slap people. That's Anthony.
We essentially spent the entire weekend in the Castro, which would be a bit much with any other group besides this one. Needless to say, I was good and drunk over the weekend. And I don't mean that I ended up trashed Saturday night, chased a cable car, and befriended a tranny. That didn't happen. I was continuously drunk the entire two days between:
-Japanese sake (which I never previously tried and now I'm convinced that it's fabulous)
-wine
-mimosas
-more mimosas
-beer
-more beer
The mimosas surfaced at brunch on Sunday at this very retro bar/café/club called Lime that seemed like it would fit perfectly in an episode of The Jetsons, or maybe Austin Powers?
And there were British people in our group! I adore the Britons. They were just way cute and way British and brunch felt a lot like Sex in the City. A LOT.
So Lime has the best policy in the western hemisphere, and that being that they serve bottomless mimosas at $5 a head. And it's decadently ridiculous how quick they are to refill your glass. I had somewhere between 8 and 10 mimosas. God only knows how many Anthony had. So I was drunk. And there's nothing better than being drunk at 11:30 a.m. in Castro wandering around trying to not be a big 'ol walking gay cliché, even though it's pretty damn obvious.
The Castro Street Fair was in full swing on Sunday, and let me just say this. Castro is amusing enough sober. Trannies, daddies, and bears, oh my!
And all the while, the Brits were going anywhere and doing anything (this is when the beer started to flow). At this point, I am not really able to move, in straight lines. Or see, in straight lines. Somehow I find my way to the YMCA table with Anton, and somehow I manage to score two baskets with one of their nerf balls to win a YMCA waterbottle and a week's YMCA membership. How the fuck did that happen. I'm not quite sure how I was able to make baskets as I couldn't walk in a straight line. Eh..
--
The moral of this story?... if you're going to be drunk before noon, you might as well be in Sanny Franny.
-Fin-
Good evening ladies and gentlemen.
Looking back at my previous entries, I noticed that they all seem to have this semi-polished tone, usually commenting on some cultural phenomenon, blah, blah.
Despite that, I've decided that I'd like to break with tradition and gush a 'lil bit. I said 'lil!
So - here it goes. *Ahem*
This last weekend, I drove out to good 'ol Sanny Franny (as Anthony calls it) to hang out with Anthony (my best friend from SoCal), as he came up for his 22nd birthday. For those of you who don't know Anthony... how can I characterize him?.. Well, I can't. Just think of the opposite of me in pretty much every way (minus the gay part), and add a flamboyant, caffeine-infused personality that likes to bitch slap people. That's Anthony.
We essentially spent the entire weekend in the Castro, which would be a bit much with any other group besides this one. Needless to say, I was good and drunk over the weekend. And I don't mean that I ended up trashed Saturday night, chased a cable car, and befriended a tranny. That didn't happen. I was continuously drunk the entire two days between:
-Japanese sake (which I never previously tried and now I'm convinced that it's fabulous)
-wine
-mimosas
-more mimosas
-beer
-more beer
The mimosas surfaced at brunch on Sunday at this very retro bar/café/club called Lime that seemed like it would fit perfectly in an episode of The Jetsons, or maybe Austin Powers?
And there were British people in our group! I adore the Britons. They were just way cute and way British and brunch felt a lot like Sex in the City. A LOT.
So Lime has the best policy in the western hemisphere, and that being that they serve bottomless mimosas at $5 a head. And it's decadently ridiculous how quick they are to refill your glass. I had somewhere between 8 and 10 mimosas. God only knows how many Anthony had. So I was drunk. And there's nothing better than being drunk at 11:30 a.m. in Castro wandering around trying to not be a big 'ol walking gay cliché, even though it's pretty damn obvious.
The Castro Street Fair was in full swing on Sunday, and let me just say this. Castro is amusing enough sober. Trannies, daddies, and bears, oh my!
And all the while, the Brits were going anywhere and doing anything (this is when the beer started to flow). At this point, I am not really able to move, in straight lines. Or see, in straight lines. Somehow I find my way to the YMCA table with Anton, and somehow I manage to score two baskets with one of their nerf balls to win a YMCA waterbottle and a week's YMCA membership. How the fuck did that happen. I'm not quite sure how I was able to make baskets as I couldn't walk in a straight line. Eh..
--
The moral of this story?... if you're going to be drunk before noon, you might as well be in Sanny Franny.
-Fin-
Idomeneo's fall
[original post: Sept.28.2006]
From The New York Times:
BERLIN, Sept. 26 — A leading German opera house has canceled performances of a Mozart opera because of security fears stirred by a scene that depicts the severed head of the Prophet Muhammad, prompting a storm of protest here about what many see as the surrender of artistic freedom.
-----
I was originally going to write an entry about being an undergrad and my reflections, positive and negative, of the experience. I thought it would be refreshing from my current point of view, as a nomadic graduate who is essentially title-less. But then I read an article from The New York Times, and I decided that there were more interesting things to write about... at least for now.
The lead tells most of the story, but I'll elaborate. A German opera house has pulled Mozart's Idomeneo from the fall lineup amid speculation of a possible terrorist attack regarding the content of the opera. A scene from Idomeneo features a character placing the severed heads of several religious leaders on chairs, including the Islamic prophet Muhammad. The opera house has received an anonymous terrorist threat and has decided to pull the performance especially in light of the recent Islamic outrage over the Danish caricature of Muhammad wearing a turban with a bomb. The decision to pull Idomeneo has sparked a wave of criticism from all echelons of German society.
Here is my opinion: Reinstate Idomeneo.
From Merriam-Webster, here is the definition of terrorism:
The unlawful use or threat of violence especially against the state or the public as a politically motivated means of attack or coercion.
I have a couple of problems with this. Firstly, terrorism is nothing new. Contemporary terrorism dates back to the days of the French Revolution and the Spanish Inquisition. International actors have used terrorism throughout history as a means to coerce others into action or non-action. Canceling Idomeneo is not going to make terrorism go away.
What's worse is that German society is essentially giving in. They're sacrificing their culture, their way of life, as a form of complacency. Canceling the opera only says, 'Yes, we will meet all of your demands and accept artistic censorship in a democratic state.' It is the definition of submitting to terrorism, the surrender of free society. The surrender of civilization.
Idomeneo doesn't even single out Islam as a target. The severed heads of Jesus, Buddha, and Poseidon are also featured in the controversial scene. Why aren't Buddhists in an uproar?
The fall of Idomeneo is not a logistical problem. It is a cultural problem. What's at stake here is the valuable freedom of expression and art. Art has always been controversial, from the days of Da Vinci to the Da-Da movement to postmodernism. The point is that art is art. It is meant to comment on society, not dictate society. Controversial artistic subjects are meant to provoke thought, not insult and injury.
Without freedom of expression, the foundation upon which democracy sits, crumbles, and critical thinking morphs into unquestioned dogma.
"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." -Benjamin Franklin, 1759
From The New York Times:
BERLIN, Sept. 26 — A leading German opera house has canceled performances of a Mozart opera because of security fears stirred by a scene that depicts the severed head of the Prophet Muhammad, prompting a storm of protest here about what many see as the surrender of artistic freedom.
-----
I was originally going to write an entry about being an undergrad and my reflections, positive and negative, of the experience. I thought it would be refreshing from my current point of view, as a nomadic graduate who is essentially title-less. But then I read an article from The New York Times, and I decided that there were more interesting things to write about... at least for now.
The lead tells most of the story, but I'll elaborate. A German opera house has pulled Mozart's Idomeneo from the fall lineup amid speculation of a possible terrorist attack regarding the content of the opera. A scene from Idomeneo features a character placing the severed heads of several religious leaders on chairs, including the Islamic prophet Muhammad. The opera house has received an anonymous terrorist threat and has decided to pull the performance especially in light of the recent Islamic outrage over the Danish caricature of Muhammad wearing a turban with a bomb. The decision to pull Idomeneo has sparked a wave of criticism from all echelons of German society.
Here is my opinion: Reinstate Idomeneo.
From Merriam-Webster, here is the definition of terrorism:
The unlawful use or threat of violence especially against the state or the public as a politically motivated means of attack or coercion.
I have a couple of problems with this. Firstly, terrorism is nothing new. Contemporary terrorism dates back to the days of the French Revolution and the Spanish Inquisition. International actors have used terrorism throughout history as a means to coerce others into action or non-action. Canceling Idomeneo is not going to make terrorism go away.
What's worse is that German society is essentially giving in. They're sacrificing their culture, their way of life, as a form of complacency. Canceling the opera only says, 'Yes, we will meet all of your demands and accept artistic censorship in a democratic state.' It is the definition of submitting to terrorism, the surrender of free society. The surrender of civilization.
Idomeneo doesn't even single out Islam as a target. The severed heads of Jesus, Buddha, and Poseidon are also featured in the controversial scene. Why aren't Buddhists in an uproar?
The fall of Idomeneo is not a logistical problem. It is a cultural problem. What's at stake here is the valuable freedom of expression and art. Art has always been controversial, from the days of Da Vinci to the Da-Da movement to postmodernism. The point is that art is art. It is meant to comment on society, not dictate society. Controversial artistic subjects are meant to provoke thought, not insult and injury.
Without freedom of expression, the foundation upon which democracy sits, crumbles, and critical thinking morphs into unquestioned dogma.
"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." -Benjamin Franklin, 1759
Little Miss Sunshine
[original post: Sept.19.2006]
The following is a review of the movie Little Miss Sunshine.
Little Miss Sunshine (4 stars)
Don't you remember those uncomfortable family dinners? Everyone's unhappy for one reason or another, no one wants to be at the table, take-out food was ushered in at the last minute between mom's refueling of the Carolla and the picking up of her dry cleaning. You and your brother just almost came to blows over something stupid and mom is a nervous wreck.. convinced she is going to lose her job any second... it could be NOW!
And as much as you try to distract yourself by thinking, one day, I'll have a family all of my own that's SANE, the reality of the situation is that you are currently stuck here, eternally chewing that take-out chow mein with a grimace, forever.
How many times have we wished for a different family? Anybody! Tim Freakin' Allen, Tool Time and all!
I don't care! Anyone! CPS! So is the story in Little Miss Sunshine, the new indie flick from Fox Searchlight. My favorite character would have to be Dwayne (Paul Dano), the emo-intellectual adolescent of the family, self-sworn into a code of silence (he says he won't speak until he is admitted into flight school for the Air Force, I think part of his reason has to do with sharing the same air as an overachieving, motivational-speaker-father staring down the barrel of divorce with his mother, an uncle on the verge of a psychotic breakdown, and a grandfather who speaks as if narrating a Penthouse article).
The film is successful in bringing light to all of those moments when you wished you were someone else, somewhere far away. There is a candid scene in a convenience store where the character of Frank (Steve Carell) accidently bumps into the lover who just left him for a man whom Frank considers less of a prize than himself. They make small talk, then the lover and the new guy jump into a convertable sportscar and drive off, laughing in the wind. Meanwhile, Frank is left standing in the convenience store, holding his slushee and porn. Oh yeah, that's just about as bad as it gets, my friend. I suppose it could have been worse, but seeing as Frank's next two days would entail a cross-country trip to California to attend a child beauty pageant, I take it back, the excavation's done and we're at the center of the earth.
What works in the film is that despite the cascade of unfortunate situations, the family searches the deep, dark corners of nothingness to find some shread of support for those of them in need. There is a scene where the father, Richard (Greg Kinnear) loses a publishing deal that would have secured his family's financial stability and instead has left them with virtually nothing. Richard is on the verge of collapse when Grandpa Edwin (Alan Arkin) pulls himself together and offers some aged words of encouragement. When the sky has fallen, it may seem trivial, but a few words of support from family can mend the sky. It will only be the equivalent of a band-aid, but it will help you feel not quite so shitty, if only for a minute or two. And lest we forget that the sky is hyped anyway.
The film also functions as a successful commentary on the commercialistic nature of American culture, where dreams become a conditioned response, life becomes a rank-in-file obstacle course with no end in sight, and true happiness is lost somewhere in-between motivational tape #6 and #7. The beauty pageant, dubbed "Little Miss Sunshine", the group's final destination and lifelong dream of seven-year-old Olive (Abigail Breslin), is portrayed not as a younger, glitzy Miss America pageant, but rather an institutionalized microcosm of commercialism where little girls are programmed to want to be thin and beautiful carbon copies of each other with smiles that look painted-on. The contestants dance around the stage in a slightly provocative adult manner which made me cringe. Something is very not right when a seven-year-old is forced to don make-up and leggings in order to feel good about herself.
What's appropriately ironic is that Olive proceeds to break the monotony of the pageant and dance as she pleases to the music she chooses (which is even more provocative than the other contestants), yet the movie audience laughs and applauds her genuineness and innocence. Kids should be kids.
During the film's entirety, I caught myself asking, At what point do dreams make us miserable and at what point do we sacrifice who we are in the name of success? Maybe those questions are best answered at the dinner table, somewhere between fried chicken and contempt.
The following is a review of the movie Little Miss Sunshine.
Little Miss Sunshine (4 stars)
Don't you remember those uncomfortable family dinners? Everyone's unhappy for one reason or another, no one wants to be at the table, take-out food was ushered in at the last minute between mom's refueling of the Carolla and the picking up of her dry cleaning. You and your brother just almost came to blows over something stupid and mom is a nervous wreck.. convinced she is going to lose her job any second... it could be NOW!
And as much as you try to distract yourself by thinking, one day, I'll have a family all of my own that's SANE, the reality of the situation is that you are currently stuck here, eternally chewing that take-out chow mein with a grimace, forever.
How many times have we wished for a different family? Anybody! Tim Freakin' Allen, Tool Time and all!
I don't care! Anyone! CPS! So is the story in Little Miss Sunshine, the new indie flick from Fox Searchlight. My favorite character would have to be Dwayne (Paul Dano), the emo-intellectual adolescent of the family, self-sworn into a code of silence (he says he won't speak until he is admitted into flight school for the Air Force, I think part of his reason has to do with sharing the same air as an overachieving, motivational-speaker-father staring down the barrel of divorce with his mother, an uncle on the verge of a psychotic breakdown, and a grandfather who speaks as if narrating a Penthouse article).
The film is successful in bringing light to all of those moments when you wished you were someone else, somewhere far away. There is a candid scene in a convenience store where the character of Frank (Steve Carell) accidently bumps into the lover who just left him for a man whom Frank considers less of a prize than himself. They make small talk, then the lover and the new guy jump into a convertable sportscar and drive off, laughing in the wind. Meanwhile, Frank is left standing in the convenience store, holding his slushee and porn. Oh yeah, that's just about as bad as it gets, my friend. I suppose it could have been worse, but seeing as Frank's next two days would entail a cross-country trip to California to attend a child beauty pageant, I take it back, the excavation's done and we're at the center of the earth.
What works in the film is that despite the cascade of unfortunate situations, the family searches the deep, dark corners of nothingness to find some shread of support for those of them in need. There is a scene where the father, Richard (Greg Kinnear) loses a publishing deal that would have secured his family's financial stability and instead has left them with virtually nothing. Richard is on the verge of collapse when Grandpa Edwin (Alan Arkin) pulls himself together and offers some aged words of encouragement. When the sky has fallen, it may seem trivial, but a few words of support from family can mend the sky. It will only be the equivalent of a band-aid, but it will help you feel not quite so shitty, if only for a minute or two. And lest we forget that the sky is hyped anyway.
The film also functions as a successful commentary on the commercialistic nature of American culture, where dreams become a conditioned response, life becomes a rank-in-file obstacle course with no end in sight, and true happiness is lost somewhere in-between motivational tape #6 and #7. The beauty pageant, dubbed "Little Miss Sunshine", the group's final destination and lifelong dream of seven-year-old Olive (Abigail Breslin), is portrayed not as a younger, glitzy Miss America pageant, but rather an institutionalized microcosm of commercialism where little girls are programmed to want to be thin and beautiful carbon copies of each other with smiles that look painted-on. The contestants dance around the stage in a slightly provocative adult manner which made me cringe. Something is very not right when a seven-year-old is forced to don make-up and leggings in order to feel good about herself.
What's appropriately ironic is that Olive proceeds to break the monotony of the pageant and dance as she pleases to the music she chooses (which is even more provocative than the other contestants), yet the movie audience laughs and applauds her genuineness and innocence. Kids should be kids.
During the film's entirety, I caught myself asking, At what point do dreams make us miserable and at what point do we sacrifice who we are in the name of success? Maybe those questions are best answered at the dinner table, somewhere between fried chicken and contempt.
The Dark Night
[original post: Sept.17.2006]
I've been sort of emo-nerdy the last few days and have been watching a lot of Batman: The Animated Series on DVD. Most of my friends don't know that I'm a mild comic book geek at heart, or maybe it's that I just love all things noir. I don't know.
So I've been wondering what it is about Batman that is so appealing to me. I've decided that it must be the various psychopathologies that are manifest in the many 'supervillains' that inhabit Gotham City.
Let's see,
The Joker is a deranged, murderous psychopathic clown;
Two-Face is a former district attorney-turned-crime boss obsessed with duality as a result of the two hemispheres of his brain constantly fighting;
The Penguin is an upscale 'gentleman' criminal, devoid of mental illness, trying to steal a happy adult life after an unhappy childhood;
Poison Ivy is a former biologist turned eco-terrorist who went off the deep-end;
Catwoman is an anti-hero who grays the distinction between right and wrong with slippery ethics;
and my favorite.. Harley Quinn, The Joker's court-appointed psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum-turned-lover and parner in crime.
There are others, but they're not quite as cool.
What I've decided is that the reasons for the continued success of Batman as a franchise are the well-developed characters and their intricate backgrounds and beginnings. What also helps the franchise are the connections between the various villains and Batman (Harvey Dent (Two-Face) was Bruce Wayne's friend in the past, Catwoman and Batman have always had a tortured attraction and distance between them, The Joker has been responsible for Robin's death, Batman and The Joker may be archenemies, but they almost need each other in their roles as protagonist and antagonist (The Joker is notably upset when Batman is supposedly killed in one episode), etc.).
The world of Gotham City mirrors life in reality as friends and foes often cross paths and possess many intricate relationships interlinking them within the community in which they live.
The success of any work of fiction is always dependent on the characters. If the characters are shallow and the plot is one-dimensional, the work goes nowhere. I absolutely hate it when books/movies/television shows do not pump life into their characters. Why am I watching/reading it? For the scenery?
Plus, add in classic noir elements: hard-boiled detectives, femme fatales, tommy guns, dated roadsters, low-key lighting, and roarin' '20s avant-garde jazz, and I'm sold.
In summary, the characters complement each other, and create the stylized world in which they inhabit. What causes brilliant people to stumble into the abyss of madness, severing their ties to their friends and the outside world? Where is the line where ethics become twisted into selfish depravity? What influences people to become what they are? Those are questions of character, fictional, myself, you.
I've been sort of emo-nerdy the last few days and have been watching a lot of Batman: The Animated Series on DVD. Most of my friends don't know that I'm a mild comic book geek at heart, or maybe it's that I just love all things noir. I don't know.
So I've been wondering what it is about Batman that is so appealing to me. I've decided that it must be the various psychopathologies that are manifest in the many 'supervillains' that inhabit Gotham City.
Let's see,
The Joker is a deranged, murderous psychopathic clown;
Two-Face is a former district attorney-turned-crime boss obsessed with duality as a result of the two hemispheres of his brain constantly fighting;
The Penguin is an upscale 'gentleman' criminal, devoid of mental illness, trying to steal a happy adult life after an unhappy childhood;
Poison Ivy is a former biologist turned eco-terrorist who went off the deep-end;
Catwoman is an anti-hero who grays the distinction between right and wrong with slippery ethics;
and my favorite.. Harley Quinn, The Joker's court-appointed psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum-turned-lover and parner in crime.
There are others, but they're not quite as cool.
What I've decided is that the reasons for the continued success of Batman as a franchise are the well-developed characters and their intricate backgrounds and beginnings. What also helps the franchise are the connections between the various villains and Batman (Harvey Dent (Two-Face) was Bruce Wayne's friend in the past, Catwoman and Batman have always had a tortured attraction and distance between them, The Joker has been responsible for Robin's death, Batman and The Joker may be archenemies, but they almost need each other in their roles as protagonist and antagonist (The Joker is notably upset when Batman is supposedly killed in one episode), etc.).
The world of Gotham City mirrors life in reality as friends and foes often cross paths and possess many intricate relationships interlinking them within the community in which they live.
The success of any work of fiction is always dependent on the characters. If the characters are shallow and the plot is one-dimensional, the work goes nowhere. I absolutely hate it when books/movies/television shows do not pump life into their characters. Why am I watching/reading it? For the scenery?
Plus, add in classic noir elements: hard-boiled detectives, femme fatales, tommy guns, dated roadsters, low-key lighting, and roarin' '20s avant-garde jazz, and I'm sold.
In summary, the characters complement each other, and create the stylized world in which they inhabit. What causes brilliant people to stumble into the abyss of madness, severing their ties to their friends and the outside world? Where is the line where ethics become twisted into selfish depravity? What influences people to become what they are? Those are questions of character, fictional, myself, you.
An open letter to Facebook
[original post: Sept.05.2006]
My darling Facebook,
Pookie, you know I love you. And it's nothing personal. But this is borderline ridiculous. I don't need Facebook's news feed parked outside my apartment with binoculars giving a play-by-play to the world: Jerry Gardner peeled an orange at 11:32 a.m., Jerry Gardner returned from his haircut at 2:53 p.m., Jerry Gardner hugged the porcelain idol at 1:10 a.m...
I don't need to be logged-in, plugged-in, signed-on, updated, refreshed, saved, cookied, hacked, and data mined 24 hours a day.
I'm one step away from moving to Walden Pond.
That is all.
Always yours,
JG
My darling Facebook,
Pookie, you know I love you. And it's nothing personal. But this is borderline ridiculous. I don't need Facebook's news feed parked outside my apartment with binoculars giving a play-by-play to the world: Jerry Gardner peeled an orange at 11:32 a.m., Jerry Gardner returned from his haircut at 2:53 p.m., Jerry Gardner hugged the porcelain idol at 1:10 a.m...
I don't need to be logged-in, plugged-in, signed-on, updated, refreshed, saved, cookied, hacked, and data mined 24 hours a day.
I'm one step away from moving to Walden Pond.
That is all.
Always yours,
JG
Paris, France
[original post: Aug.06.2006]
Oh.. Paris. And I'm not talking about the Hilton.
It feels great to be back in the United States, but oh... Paris, a gay man's dream. For those who don't know, I went to Paris for two weeks and disguised myself as a euro-twink (yeah they saw right through it).
So I could sit here and write forever about vacation stories that no one else wants to hear about, or I could share my observations. I choose to do the latter.
Basically, Europeans just don't give a fuck. Going through customs to return to the U.S. felt like a scene out of Men in Black. There were guns and flashing lights and signs every which-way and uniforms and oh the lines! Entry into Paris was a single customs agent who resembled a librarian, stamping my passport with a cheerful 'Merci!' Ah, Paris. The streets of Paris also resembled a culture that just isn't obsessed with the latest diet craze or cable news or the price of gas or Madonna (okay, I take back that last one). People were just lounging around drinking, laughing, relaxing, smoking, not being American.
European gay men also seemed to not give a fuck. From their attire to their playful attitude, I didn't sense much cattiness, just... well, everything else. Here are the pre-requisites for being a euro-gay. You must:
-own at least five tank tops
-own an mp3 player that is not an iPod
-possibly have a "euro-mullet"
-own at least two pairs of crazy patchwork jeans slightly too big for you
-own a full wardrobe of three-quarter pants that stop at the shin
-be thin
-own a few pairs of button-down shirts that are nearly transparent
-end up in a café at least once a day
Pretty much every male in France seems gay, which you can imagine is a little confusing. One true way to tell, the international sign of the gays, still holds true... the limp wrist. Any time you feel that slight wind start up, you know.
So, moving on.. one of my best memories was at the Louvre (pronounced loove). The Louvre is quite possibly the most famous museum in the world, which houses Da Vinci's Mona Lisa or La Jaconde as the locals call it, along with works by famed artists such as Delacroix, Rembrandt, and De la Tour. The greatest masterpieces of fine art in the world live here at the Louvre, influential pieces like Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People which embodies the concept of liberty as a partially clothed woman holding the French flag, rising from the depths to deliver the French people after the French Revolution. And how do the tourist masses commemorate this monument to art, democracy, and history? They take a flash-photo of it, deteriorating the fragile paint base.
Here is my plea to humanity: DO NOT TAKE FLASH PHOTOGRAPHS OF WORKS OF PAINTED ART.
IT IS TASTELESS AND POINTLESS.
So you've got a bajillion terrawads of space on that memory card in your brand new 8 megapixel camera that's the size of a postage stamp. You take a photo of every single art piece in the museum. Good for you. Are you actually going to go home, look at each photo one-by-one, and reminisce about the artist's message, the cultural impact, and the piece's place in history? Are you going to marvel at the artist's talent for sfumato style brushwork through your crappy, pixelated photo? You're not. You're taking a photo because you can, with no deference to the art. The U.S. Declaration of Independence, the blueprint of American democracy, is barely visible today because of exposure to light. Museums are for eyes, not lenses.
The French have created so many beautiful things; I was awestruck for the entire trip. To the creators belongs the world.
Oh.. Paris. And I'm not talking about the Hilton.
It feels great to be back in the United States, but oh... Paris, a gay man's dream. For those who don't know, I went to Paris for two weeks and disguised myself as a euro-twink (yeah they saw right through it).
So I could sit here and write forever about vacation stories that no one else wants to hear about, or I could share my observations. I choose to do the latter.
Basically, Europeans just don't give a fuck. Going through customs to return to the U.S. felt like a scene out of Men in Black. There were guns and flashing lights and signs every which-way and uniforms and oh the lines! Entry into Paris was a single customs agent who resembled a librarian, stamping my passport with a cheerful 'Merci!' Ah, Paris. The streets of Paris also resembled a culture that just isn't obsessed with the latest diet craze or cable news or the price of gas or Madonna (okay, I take back that last one). People were just lounging around drinking, laughing, relaxing, smoking, not being American.
European gay men also seemed to not give a fuck. From their attire to their playful attitude, I didn't sense much cattiness, just... well, everything else. Here are the pre-requisites for being a euro-gay. You must:
-own at least five tank tops
-own an mp3 player that is not an iPod
-possibly have a "euro-mullet"
-own at least two pairs of crazy patchwork jeans slightly too big for you
-own a full wardrobe of three-quarter pants that stop at the shin
-be thin
-own a few pairs of button-down shirts that are nearly transparent
-end up in a café at least once a day
Pretty much every male in France seems gay, which you can imagine is a little confusing. One true way to tell, the international sign of the gays, still holds true... the limp wrist. Any time you feel that slight wind start up, you know.
So, moving on.. one of my best memories was at the Louvre (pronounced loove). The Louvre is quite possibly the most famous museum in the world, which houses Da Vinci's Mona Lisa or La Jaconde as the locals call it, along with works by famed artists such as Delacroix, Rembrandt, and De la Tour. The greatest masterpieces of fine art in the world live here at the Louvre, influential pieces like Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People which embodies the concept of liberty as a partially clothed woman holding the French flag, rising from the depths to deliver the French people after the French Revolution. And how do the tourist masses commemorate this monument to art, democracy, and history? They take a flash-photo of it, deteriorating the fragile paint base.
Here is my plea to humanity: DO NOT TAKE FLASH PHOTOGRAPHS OF WORKS OF PAINTED ART.
IT IS TASTELESS AND POINTLESS.
So you've got a bajillion terrawads of space on that memory card in your brand new 8 megapixel camera that's the size of a postage stamp. You take a photo of every single art piece in the museum. Good for you. Are you actually going to go home, look at each photo one-by-one, and reminisce about the artist's message, the cultural impact, and the piece's place in history? Are you going to marvel at the artist's talent for sfumato style brushwork through your crappy, pixelated photo? You're not. You're taking a photo because you can, with no deference to the art. The U.S. Declaration of Independence, the blueprint of American democracy, is barely visible today because of exposure to light. Museums are for eyes, not lenses.
The French have created so many beautiful things; I was awestruck for the entire trip. To the creators belongs the world.
Entry number one
[original post: Jul.04.2006]
So here I am, starting a live journal (now Blogspot). Why, you may ask?... well, it's not RESEARCH. And more specifically, it doesn't have to do with AUTISM. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against autism, but I am inundated by it forty hours a week. Enough is enough.
So.... a blank canvas. It's so rare that I actually get to write whateverthehell I want, with no need to reference anything! This is what it must feel like to work for Fox News.
All right, got it - here's something I can write about.. Last night, the Planeteers and I went to see The Devil Wears Prada, which was the gayest movie we could've gone out to see, next to Superman Returns, of course.
Here is my review of the film. If you plan to see The Devil Wears Prada, STOP READING.
The Devil Wears Prada (2.5 stars)
The Devil Wears Prada opens with the fast-paced bravado of New York City. Espresso machines whur, taxicabs honk incessantly, highheels tapdance on the metropolitan pavement. Didn't you too want to be a 24-year-old girl in New York city, starting a new life? I know I did.
Anne Hathaway plays Andy Sachs, a wide-eyed midwesterner with aspirations of working as a writer for a major publication. She's got an undergraduate résumé to be reckoned with, a decidedly boring yet supportive boyfriend to support her, and a host of no-name friends for encouragement. She's still got the remnants of a 'princess diaries' tiara on her crown, but we bear it no mind. She is a marketable young woman who has recently shed the likes of Disney for the big time, Rupert Murdoch.
She interviews for a high-prestige job as the assistant to the assistant to Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of 'Runway' magazine, the be all and end all of making or breaking the fashion industry and its dossier of players. Enter Miranda Priestly (played by Meryl Streep), the ultra-high maintenance EIC who runs the publication with an iron fist, a tepid tongue, and a disapproving glance sure to turn the onlooker to ice. She knows fashion, demands perfection, and yet the audience knows that there must be more to this character. The light-spirited frivolity of the narrative suggests that Priestly is not Cruella DeVille, but something of an impromtu mentor to Andy. I mean, the film can't be all about a bitch job and nothing else, right?
Both Streep and Emily Blunt, who plays Emily, the first assistant, are orchestrated with a delicate balance that evokes our laughter at their utter pretension, yet we are not turned off by them. They are not overtly manipulative or shady, just seemingly shallow with a rough sarcastic edge. Blunt's British accent only fuels the laughter. Stanley Tucci plays gay PA Nigel (is it possible to be straight with the name Nigel?) as the equally catty yet motherly voice of reassuarance to Andy. The characters dance well together, giving and taking, so we never feel turned off by what we see. The characters are relatable, and I'm sure we've seen snippets of them in our various occupations.
I enjoyed The Devil Wears Prada, and laughed throughout. Where the film veered seemed to be its unfinished resolution of the flamboyant scenario that had taken three-fourths of the film to set up. Andy walks off the job, finds another, and Priestly recommends her, much to her surprise, but not to ours. Is that it? Was Priestly's master plan to attract and drive away assistants in masses with a final realization that yes indeed, she (Priestly) is a bitch, but life is a bitch and how well you succeed is dependant on how well you can adapt? Priestly's character is too interesting to leave it at that.
There is a candid scene where Priestly makes arrangements with Andy to handle her pending divorce. She is out of her fashionable garb and makeup, revealing a softer, more human vulnerability. The narrative opened up her character, then shut the door as fast as it was opened with her signature line, 'that's all'. I feel we as the audience missed out on seeing her character expanded, possibly connecting with Andy. Instead we get a fax of recommendation to Andy's new employer with Priestly flashing an enlightened smile as her limo drives off. Was that it? It seemed to be a bit of a cop-out, popcorn ending. The characters are so good here, let them fly.
So here I am, starting a live journal (now Blogspot). Why, you may ask?... well, it's not RESEARCH. And more specifically, it doesn't have to do with AUTISM. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against autism, but I am inundated by it forty hours a week. Enough is enough.
So.... a blank canvas. It's so rare that I actually get to write whateverthehell I want, with no need to reference anything! This is what it must feel like to work for Fox News.
All right, got it - here's something I can write about.. Last night, the Planeteers and I went to see The Devil Wears Prada, which was the gayest movie we could've gone out to see, next to Superman Returns, of course.
Here is my review of the film. If you plan to see The Devil Wears Prada, STOP READING.
The Devil Wears Prada (2.5 stars)
The Devil Wears Prada opens with the fast-paced bravado of New York City. Espresso machines whur, taxicabs honk incessantly, highheels tapdance on the metropolitan pavement. Didn't you too want to be a 24-year-old girl in New York city, starting a new life? I know I did.
Anne Hathaway plays Andy Sachs, a wide-eyed midwesterner with aspirations of working as a writer for a major publication. She's got an undergraduate résumé to be reckoned with, a decidedly boring yet supportive boyfriend to support her, and a host of no-name friends for encouragement. She's still got the remnants of a 'princess diaries' tiara on her crown, but we bear it no mind. She is a marketable young woman who has recently shed the likes of Disney for the big time, Rupert Murdoch.
She interviews for a high-prestige job as the assistant to the assistant to Miranda Priestly, editor in chief of 'Runway' magazine, the be all and end all of making or breaking the fashion industry and its dossier of players. Enter Miranda Priestly (played by Meryl Streep), the ultra-high maintenance EIC who runs the publication with an iron fist, a tepid tongue, and a disapproving glance sure to turn the onlooker to ice. She knows fashion, demands perfection, and yet the audience knows that there must be more to this character. The light-spirited frivolity of the narrative suggests that Priestly is not Cruella DeVille, but something of an impromtu mentor to Andy. I mean, the film can't be all about a bitch job and nothing else, right?
Both Streep and Emily Blunt, who plays Emily, the first assistant, are orchestrated with a delicate balance that evokes our laughter at their utter pretension, yet we are not turned off by them. They are not overtly manipulative or shady, just seemingly shallow with a rough sarcastic edge. Blunt's British accent only fuels the laughter. Stanley Tucci plays gay PA Nigel (is it possible to be straight with the name Nigel?) as the equally catty yet motherly voice of reassuarance to Andy. The characters dance well together, giving and taking, so we never feel turned off by what we see. The characters are relatable, and I'm sure we've seen snippets of them in our various occupations.
I enjoyed The Devil Wears Prada, and laughed throughout. Where the film veered seemed to be its unfinished resolution of the flamboyant scenario that had taken three-fourths of the film to set up. Andy walks off the job, finds another, and Priestly recommends her, much to her surprise, but not to ours. Is that it? Was Priestly's master plan to attract and drive away assistants in masses with a final realization that yes indeed, she (Priestly) is a bitch, but life is a bitch and how well you succeed is dependant on how well you can adapt? Priestly's character is too interesting to leave it at that.
There is a candid scene where Priestly makes arrangements with Andy to handle her pending divorce. She is out of her fashionable garb and makeup, revealing a softer, more human vulnerability. The narrative opened up her character, then shut the door as fast as it was opened with her signature line, 'that's all'. I feel we as the audience missed out on seeing her character expanded, possibly connecting with Andy. Instead we get a fax of recommendation to Andy's new employer with Priestly flashing an enlightened smile as her limo drives off. Was that it? It seemed to be a bit of a cop-out, popcorn ending. The characters are so good here, let them fly.
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