This entire trip has been hovering between triumph and disaster. It hasn't, actually, but it feels that way right this moment, because I'm trying to navigate a German keyboard. I can handle all the other keyboards I've had to handle but I hate handling this one. But today is not officially a Day Off and the wireless wasn't working in my hotel, which means I've been handling German keyboards to do my job, which is fine. And you know, I'm not sure how I feel about caring about my job. . . but it's just as well I started caring about it yesterday, though, because today was the first day I found a grey hair on my head, attached to me even, and if I still had a job I didn't care about when I started going grey I'd feel like shit.
So I started caring about my job when it fully came home to me what kind of assholes industrialists I have access to are. The answer is massive. Absolute fucking sons and daughters of bitches. I always knew business types are often cunts, of course; I used to work in advertising. But I'm talking organized criminality here, not just fucking with people's heads to trz to make them buy stuff or screwing over whoever you can to bring home a paycheque. What these people want is to be gangsters and for the rest of us to either ignore it, abet it, or cease to exist.
I tell you it took an extra 45 seconds for me to fall asleep last night, I was so pissed off by the answer to the first question Mistress La Spliffe has ever asked at a press conference - oh yes - I waved my hand and interrupted rudely in a forum where it was appropriate. Just like in the movies. It felt good but the answer I got made me want to fire the first shots of the revolution. It was the cuntiest thing I've ever heard a person say out loud in front of me. Not ill-natured, not dismissive; rhetorically speaking it was a perfectly cordial and helpful response to what was evidently considered an appropriate question. But I tell you, motherfuck. I was so pissed off.
Here's the long and short of it: the next time some asshole tries to Adam Smith you with some bullshit about how the free market has an invisible hand that will sort everything out if we let it roam free, spit in his or her face for me. The invisible hand of the free market will punch you in the balls or fucking goose you in a dark alleyway.
venerdì, marzo 07, 2008
martedì, marzo 04, 2008
The devil you know is a twat
America, you should start looking into what sort of bananas will thrive in your varied climates now. There's always the paw-paw, otherwise known as the prairie banana, which makes a fucking fantastic Jamaican hot sauce. Because if she wins, it won't just be the name of the overpriced sweatshop outlet anymore. Pardon my evident bitterness but I abhor that creature. Her husband was a cynical cunt who sold out what was left of Roosevelt's legacy to make nice with the very people he should have opposed, and she herself has made public statements of such staggering irresponsibility for populist purposes that I fear she'd be even worse. Not to mention participating in the murder of thousands in Iraq. Ugh. Gross.
I didn't think I'd fallen for the Obamania that has swept the universe; I've only heard him speaking once, and while it was delightful, so was listening to the creature's husband talk. I loved hearing Bill Clinton talk. He was so good at it. And from what I heard before I tore myself away from the screen, crying 'no! No more letting American politicians play with my heart,' Obama is even better at talking. Anyways. The point is I evidently have fallen for it, or at any rate have become absolutely persuaded that a half-unknown quantity who has at least put his votes where his mouth is over the short space of time he's been voting in his congressional house is a vastly better possibility for the future of our planet than four more fucking years of the Bush/Clinton combine.
Maybe that's not quite mania but it's sincere nonetheless. So this morning I actually switched on the computer in a state of hope that the evil charm has been broken and the Bush/Clinton combine has at last been consigned to the composter of history. Not yet, it seems. It's like Christmas has been postponed. But for how long? It better not be until McCain wins the presidency. He'd blow stuff up and then die and then that personable psychopath Huckabee would try to usher in the End Times. I don't want the End Times. I want to live to experience the adventure and excitement of menopause.
Anyways. My mate Kate has linked to a sometimes-funny blog called Stuff White People Like, which features my water bottle and my own life pattern in response to North American political degradation. I thought I moved to Europe for the extra four weeks of vacation, higher pay in a stronger currency, and richer desserts, but the writer makes a pretty good case. And if that Botoxed bit of criminal-insincerity-in-a-power-suit wins, I predict lots more Americans threatening to move to Canada and lots more Canadians threatening to move to Europe.
And anyways again. I'm going abroad for a conference this aft and won't be back until next week; unless my hotel has wireless (which I hope to fuck it does as I have another huge report due) I won't be posting until then. If you need anything keeping you busy, I suggest you check out the site for Viz magazine; easily the stupidest, grossest, most puerile thing I've ever been ashamed of enjoying. It's like a farting competition in an elevator that goes horribly wrong.
I didn't think I'd fallen for the Obamania that has swept the universe; I've only heard him speaking once, and while it was delightful, so was listening to the creature's husband talk. I loved hearing Bill Clinton talk. He was so good at it. And from what I heard before I tore myself away from the screen, crying 'no! No more letting American politicians play with my heart,' Obama is even better at talking. Anyways. The point is I evidently have fallen for it, or at any rate have become absolutely persuaded that a half-unknown quantity who has at least put his votes where his mouth is over the short space of time he's been voting in his congressional house is a vastly better possibility for the future of our planet than four more fucking years of the Bush/Clinton combine.
Maybe that's not quite mania but it's sincere nonetheless. So this morning I actually switched on the computer in a state of hope that the evil charm has been broken and the Bush/Clinton combine has at last been consigned to the composter of history. Not yet, it seems. It's like Christmas has been postponed. But for how long? It better not be until McCain wins the presidency. He'd blow stuff up and then die and then that personable psychopath Huckabee would try to usher in the End Times. I don't want the End Times. I want to live to experience the adventure and excitement of menopause.
Anyways. My mate Kate has linked to a sometimes-funny blog called Stuff White People Like, which features my water bottle and my own life pattern in response to North American political degradation. I thought I moved to Europe for the extra four weeks of vacation, higher pay in a stronger currency, and richer desserts, but the writer makes a pretty good case. And if that Botoxed bit of criminal-insincerity-in-a-power-suit wins, I predict lots more Americans threatening to move to Canada and lots more Canadians threatening to move to Europe.
And anyways again. I'm going abroad for a conference this aft and won't be back until next week; unless my hotel has wireless (which I hope to fuck it does as I have another huge report due) I won't be posting until then. If you need anything keeping you busy, I suggest you check out the site for Viz magazine; easily the stupidest, grossest, most puerile thing I've ever been ashamed of enjoying. It's like a farting competition in an elevator that goes horribly wrong.
lunedì, marzo 03, 2008
Hard, you say knowingly
The F-word found Good to Me by Otis Redding, who I love. And now I love him more. I ladore the Beatles, really I do, they're the whatevers of the universe, but Otis Redding's version of 'A Hard Day's Night' onto the original is like a big gorgeous black man offering to fuck your legs off onto two pallid lower-middle-class English boys whining for a blowjob. I can't find a video of it so I'll just post one of Otis Redding making Mick Jagger look like a twelve year old girl:
And just because it's awesome:
Ugh, it makes me want to cry that he's dead.
Anyhoo. The F-word also found The Big Sleep, which I hadn't seen yet, the one with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. She looks like Uma Thurman but hot. It was good, and I was interested to see how they'd departed from the book to avoid getting censored. Or not departed from the book.
For example, there's a bit in the movie where a handsome young guy shows up at Joe Brady's apartment, kills him, and then gets taken to Geiger's house by Marlowe, where Geiger's body is lying 'in state' on the bed. In the movie there's no explanation for all that, whereas in the book, where the same thing happens, Chandler was able to show that Geiger was gay and had had a sort of gigolo living with him who ended up shooting Brady, et cetera.
I was curious about what audiences must have thought about the sequence without knowing who the hell this handsome angry young guy was - if it made any sense, or if there were cues I missed in the movie suggesting what the relationship between Geiger and the gigolo was. Maybe people were more sensitive about suggestions of gayness back then because homophobia was common even though gay people usually kept it in the closet - you had to look out for things to get paranoid about . . . . Don't know.
And just because it's awesome:
Ugh, it makes me want to cry that he's dead.
Anyhoo. The F-word also found The Big Sleep, which I hadn't seen yet, the one with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. She looks like Uma Thurman but hot. It was good, and I was interested to see how they'd departed from the book to avoid getting censored. Or not departed from the book.
For example, there's a bit in the movie where a handsome young guy shows up at Joe Brady's apartment, kills him, and then gets taken to Geiger's house by Marlowe, where Geiger's body is lying 'in state' on the bed. In the movie there's no explanation for all that, whereas in the book, where the same thing happens, Chandler was able to show that Geiger was gay and had had a sort of gigolo living with him who ended up shooting Brady, et cetera.
I was curious about what audiences must have thought about the sequence without knowing who the hell this handsome angry young guy was - if it made any sense, or if there were cues I missed in the movie suggesting what the relationship between Geiger and the gigolo was. Maybe people were more sensitive about suggestions of gayness back then because homophobia was common even though gay people usually kept it in the closet - you had to look out for things to get paranoid about . . . . Don't know.
domenica, marzo 02, 2008
The Red Dragon doesn't like American movies
Awhile ago I stopped watching American movies, which wasn't a conscious decision. In fact, I could only see I'd made it after realizing I hadn't watched an American movie in months. And while working in advertising made product placements veritably leap of the screen and pluck my disbelief down from where I'd suspended it, I don't think that's why I stopped; I think I stopped because I had turned into a bitch who was impossible to please. Witness a couple of the movies we watched this weekend after last week's stress and Friday night took us out of physical and mental commission:
No Country For Old Men. Not liking this movie pissed me off so bad because I was 100% expecting it to be good. But it was flat. It wasn't a landscape that I could enter and get lost in, like Barton Fink, Miller's Crossing, The Man Who Wasn't There, Fargo, even Raising Arizona . . . just felt like a bunch of gross, sad stuff happening and then it ended. Okay, maybe the Coen brothers didn't want to get hemmed in to a traditional sort of storytelling or pacing, but if I run out of characters to be interested in by the 2/3 point of the movie, then as an audience member I'm just marking time until the thing ends.
Javier Bardem was great but they didn't give him enough to do. And finally I didn't care what he was doing because he spent too much time doing boring stuff. I love the way the Coen brothers use little visual cues to tell a story, like having him check his shoes for blood at key moments, but that's not enough to carry a film, especially when they labour other points for visual impact even when the node has tapped out. It was cool the way he blew up the car in front of the pharmacy to go get stuff to fix his leg. It was lame that I had to sit there for five minutes watching him fix his leg.
Ah, that's the thing . . . the whole movie felt like a visual wank - trading in character development for a series of visual impacts and shocks and conceits. Fuck.
Anyways, we were left disappointed and then tried to fix the disappointment by watching I Am Legend. For all his arty-fartiness the F-word likes an event movie from time to time - witness the 300 debacle - and I didn't mind as I wanted something that was sure to have an ending, which this type of film also does. Also, he'd told me it was based on the Omega Man, and I figured watching it would give me a better background on the Simpsons Halloween episode parody without forcing me to watch Charlton Heston 'act'.
I liked it more than I thought I would, as the fact that there was lots to look at and not much of a story helped me over the plotholes, and wasn't even unduly annoyed by the Brazilian god talk. The thing is, Will Smith can't cry without making me cry. It's awful. There are a couple of actors like that, who, if they have any reputation for talent, probably get it from making people want to cry when they do. Tom Hanks is another. You know, actors who are always playing more or less the same person, maybe with different accents or in different weight ranges, but more or less the same character in every movie, who you know is flawed but also probably a really great father so they're always showing them holding kids, and who is basically normal but who would lay down his life in a reluctant but determined Jeebus-like fashion in the face of real danger or iniquity - a James Stewart-y sort of guy without the whininess.
So there was a point in the movie when Will Smith's dog had just died, and he was going nuts, and he was all alone and hadn't got laid in years, and his family was dead, and there were all these flesh eating zombies around, and he started crying, and then I started crying, and then I felt manipulated, and then other humans came into the movie and I didn't care because I was too busy feeling manipulated, and then they plugged the Shrek series for 45 UNBROKEN SECONDS, and the bungee cord of my disbelief snapped, sending it hurtling down to the bottom of the ravine below, which is not where you want your disbelief during the climax of a zombie movie.
Ugh.
Then I remembered we had reefer butter, so I ate a bunch of that and we watched Dracula: Prince of Darkness, and that was keen. But more on that later.
No Country For Old Men. Not liking this movie pissed me off so bad because I was 100% expecting it to be good. But it was flat. It wasn't a landscape that I could enter and get lost in, like Barton Fink, Miller's Crossing, The Man Who Wasn't There, Fargo, even Raising Arizona . . . just felt like a bunch of gross, sad stuff happening and then it ended. Okay, maybe the Coen brothers didn't want to get hemmed in to a traditional sort of storytelling or pacing, but if I run out of characters to be interested in by the 2/3 point of the movie, then as an audience member I'm just marking time until the thing ends.
Javier Bardem was great but they didn't give him enough to do. And finally I didn't care what he was doing because he spent too much time doing boring stuff. I love the way the Coen brothers use little visual cues to tell a story, like having him check his shoes for blood at key moments, but that's not enough to carry a film, especially when they labour other points for visual impact even when the node has tapped out. It was cool the way he blew up the car in front of the pharmacy to go get stuff to fix his leg. It was lame that I had to sit there for five minutes watching him fix his leg.
Ah, that's the thing . . . the whole movie felt like a visual wank - trading in character development for a series of visual impacts and shocks and conceits. Fuck.
Anyways, we were left disappointed and then tried to fix the disappointment by watching I Am Legend. For all his arty-fartiness the F-word likes an event movie from time to time - witness the 300 debacle - and I didn't mind as I wanted something that was sure to have an ending, which this type of film also does. Also, he'd told me it was based on the Omega Man, and I figured watching it would give me a better background on the Simpsons Halloween episode parody without forcing me to watch Charlton Heston 'act'.
I liked it more than I thought I would, as the fact that there was lots to look at and not much of a story helped me over the plotholes, and wasn't even unduly annoyed by the Brazilian god talk. The thing is, Will Smith can't cry without making me cry. It's awful. There are a couple of actors like that, who, if they have any reputation for talent, probably get it from making people want to cry when they do. Tom Hanks is another. You know, actors who are always playing more or less the same person, maybe with different accents or in different weight ranges, but more or less the same character in every movie, who you know is flawed but also probably a really great father so they're always showing them holding kids, and who is basically normal but who would lay down his life in a reluctant but determined Jeebus-like fashion in the face of real danger or iniquity - a James Stewart-y sort of guy without the whininess.
So there was a point in the movie when Will Smith's dog had just died, and he was going nuts, and he was all alone and hadn't got laid in years, and his family was dead, and there were all these flesh eating zombies around, and he started crying, and then I started crying, and then I felt manipulated, and then other humans came into the movie and I didn't care because I was too busy feeling manipulated, and then they plugged the Shrek series for 45 UNBROKEN SECONDS, and the bungee cord of my disbelief snapped, sending it hurtling down to the bottom of the ravine below, which is not where you want your disbelief during the climax of a zombie movie.
Ugh.
Then I remembered we had reefer butter, so I ate a bunch of that and we watched Dracula: Prince of Darkness, and that was keen. But more on that later.
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