damning the man

When I arrived home yesterday afternoon, there was a box leaning against the front door waiting for me. And another box inside on the mail table near the entryway.

The larger box from outside was a region-free DVD player from my mom and dad. The smaller box was the spatula I had ordered from cooking.com for my mother (free shipping on anything, no matter how small, when you buy with PayPal!)--weird and seemingly gender-stereotyped gift, I know, but she asked for it specifically, so she's getting it.

When I first opened the DVD box, I was a little wary about what I had received (the packaging says Region 1 all over it). But upon closer inspection, I spied a tiny sticker that said the player had been modified to play all regions. Sweet.

So I pulled the plug on my DVD/VCR unit and placed the new--and smaller--unit on top (this situation reminded me of the Foxworthy "you might be a redneck" ramble ... only they're not old TVs, so I don't think it counts--though the fact that they're sitting on top of my micro-fridge might make it count). The new one doesn't have the same hook-up as my Sony, the general single-prong cable plug. It has the old red/white/yellow three-part cable; and, on my peculiar Sylvania television, that connection is at the front rather than the back ... but the cable is long enough, so I had no trouble putting everything where it needed to be. And, having tested on a region four disc and a region two disc, all works splendidly.

Yes, I am no longer restrained by the intentional restrictions of the movie distribution industry, able to watch whatever I want that comes from wherever I want. It's awesome.

I, of course, then proceeded to ogle my Amazon.co.uk wish-list for a good while. Mmm. DVDs.

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Torchwood's "Random Shoes" was so damn sad. And there was not nearly enough Jack! ... And it was just a really, really sad episode. And, without giving too much away about the plot, the vague description of the mystery e-bay bidder makes me think it was Jack (yes, beanie babies habit and all), though that's never actually answered in the plot.

I also began watching the tenth episode of Robin Hood (yes, another BBC production)--began, but didn't finish, because our apartment ordered-in and had fat-sandwiches and fro-yo for dinner. YUM! (What are fat sandwiches? you might ask. They're subs that are stuffed with every bad thing under the sun--fries, chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, onion rings, etc. If it's fried and awful for you, it can be put on a fat sandwich.)

Returning to the subject of telly, maybe Robin Hood is a tired concept, but it's a pretty damn funny show, actually. I'm just not sure if it's supposed to be funny where I'm laughing. And I still like Torchwood better. And, happily, I've been informed (via comment in this entry) that Torchwood is getting another season! Shows that I love actually aren't being cancelled. It's cause for celebration, I tell you.

To obtain these shows, I've been using iPodnova.net because the files are smaller than they tend to be with other sites I've used, and I can use the videos with iTunes and my iPod. I still haven't managed to get the first or second episodes of Robin Hood to finish; but they're still going, so I'm hopeful.

I'm also downloading the first season of the new Doctor Who, 40 hours to go, and the first season of Arrested Development, which reads that it still has five days to go.

Yes, I'll probably kill my hard-drive one of these days.

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And, ooh! ooh! We have a Christmas tree! It was just delivered by my flat-mate's friend's dad last night, and I'm guessing we'll be decorating it tonight. Very excited.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

blinded by your daylight

I hope "Random Shoes" is finished downloading when I get home. I need my new John Barrowman fix of the week.

Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do if the show isn't picked up for another season. Cry or something--the "something" probably being pathetically watching the thirteen available episodes over and over again.

And getting the novels from Amazon.co.uk.

And obsessively reading fanfiction (like I'm not already doing that).

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Should I feel guilty about not wanting to exercise with somebody else?

A coworker of mine asked me if I was going to join the university gym this season. I said that I might, and she said she was looking for an "exercise buddy"--you know, the person who's supposed to drag you to the gym even when you don't feel like it.

I was wishy-washy in my response, mainly because I'm not a big fan of exercising with other people. Instead, I asked when she thought she would like to make a habit of going, and she said that she wanted to go from 8 to 9 in the morning.

... *Alarm!* I like getting to work by 7 so I can leave by 3 and get some daylight out of the day, not easily done this time of year in Boston when the days are so short.

I asked if going to the gym after work would be possible, but she said that doesn't work for her because she has class from 6 to 7.

(And if she were like me, and left at 3 every day, that would be plenty of time to exercise before going to class.) I didn't say that, however; I did say that I prefer coming to work earlier.

In the end she just said, "Oh," and left me standing at the mail machine feeling like the most awkward person in the history of ever.

But, when I was thinking on it later over the weekend, I decided that it was just as well. I'm not a social person to begin with--so why should I be a social exerciser? Whenever I exercise with my parents, I end up killing myself trying to "keep up" with them. And when I exercise with people who are less physically fit, I feel like I "dumb down" my own workout to suit them. It just leaves me cranky, and exercise isn't supposed to make you cranky--it's supposed to give you a lift.

Ending conclusion? For the anti-social individual, iPods make better gym buddies than other human beings.

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Several of my parents' college friends and coworkers send out mass-produced holiday newsletters. They're usually poorly formatted, poorly written, and possessing some crappy pixelated border that may or may not suit the season.

I know it's more in-depth than a card, gives you a better idea of what's going on with so-and-so and all their little sos-and-so. But it's kind of peculiar, isn't it?

It's like you have a fan-club and a generator of addresses. And all you have to do is print off all these unpersonalized essays, a sheet or two of address labels, and then it's done. And you didn't have to think about it at all. I know that's also a part of the charm, but it's just so impersonal.

This judgment-call coming from one who rarely (if ever) mails a letter to anyone.

Yes, so maybe so-and-so's crappy newsletter is better than my nothing.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

high and dry

The title is in reference to where the Holidailies hub has left us for today--promptless. I am thus abandoned and neglected, and my topic must fend for itself and decide what it wants to be. My topics are a lot like me, however: indecisive, ever changing, and always procrastinating.

Granted, I've been mostly ignoring the Holidaily prompts, or twisting them to suit my purposes. But I like having that option of ignoring something.

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My morning has been terribly lax. Toast, tea, and milk in bed. And Torchwood.

I was re-watching "Countrycide" this morning, the sixth episode of the series. It's like The Hills Have Eyes, but set in the Welsh countryside--and focusing more on the team-members of Torchwood rather than the crazy rural cannibals. I made some screencaps ... and four icons.

John Barrowman has the best teeth ever. Seriously. The man has perfectly white, straight teeth. And nearly vampiric canines. Just awesome and unbelievable teeth.

I've been downloading songs and bands that have been featured on the show so far, because the music in the first episode inspired me. I think it was Snow Patrol's "Spitting Games" that set me off on the music search. And it just so happens that wikipedia has an episode log for the series, and a music list for each episode. Seventeen songs, fourteen artists, mostly Brit pop. My favourites have been Snow Patrol, Placebo, Hard-Fi, and Mogwai.

Yes, I'm kind of obsessed. There's a new episode airing tonight on BBC Three, and varying reports are calling it "Random Shoes" and "Invisible Eugene" ... I'm inclined to believe the latter, since it's coming from imdb.com (which seems to be a better source for reality than wikipedia--hey, I love wikipedia, but it can be full of crap).

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The shopping update? I've done no holiday shopping this weekend (bad Ri!), online or otherwise. I really must get that act together. And soon.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

what trouble?

Are you blogging to avoid doing something? Release your troubles!

Hmm. Possibile.

When I do, I'm probably blogging to avoid doing ... well, anything productive. To comment, to complain, to share weird things I've found online while avoiding life.

If I'm at home, then I might be blogging to avoid writing, or Christmas shopping, or the weird grayness of reality that sometimes creeps in when my guards are down.

Oh, yeah. I'm also a comment whore, so blogging is clearly a cry for attention, recognition, etc.

When it comes down to it, blogging is just cheaper than therapy (though, granted, Boston University has a fairly progressive outlook, and offers counseling to whoever may need it).

As for specific troubles in need of release, I can't think of anything at the moment. Troubles have a way of blurring on a Saturday morning.

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And rather than trying to dredge up whatever those presently forgotten troubles may be, I'll instead leave off with a passage from Chapter Five of Rice's The Tale of the Body Thief that frequently comes to mind--and no, I don't know why it struck me so much. But it did.

"... 'It was God talking to the Devil and telling the Devil that he must go on doing the job. And the Devil didn't want to do it. He explained that his term had already been too long. The same thing was happening to him that had happened to all the others. God said that He understood, but the Devil ought to know how important he was, he couldn't simply shirk his duties, it wasn't that simple, God needed him, and needed him to be strong. And all this was very amicable.'

'What did they look like?'

'That's the worst part of it. I don't know. At the time I saw two vague shapes, large, definitely male, or assuming male form, shall we say, and pleasant-looking--nothing monstrous, nothing out of the ordinary really. I wasn't aware of any absence of particulars--you know, hair color, facial features, that sort of thing. The two figures seemed quite complete. But when I tried to reconstruct the event afterwards, I couldn't recall any details! I don't think the illusion was that nearly complete. I think I was satisfied by it, but the sense of completeness sprang from something else.'

'From what?'

'The content, the meaning, of course.'

'They never saw you, never knew you were there.'

'My dear boy, they had to know I was there. They must have known. They must have been doing it for my benefit! How else could I have been allowed to see it?'

'I don't know, David. Maybe they didn't mean for you to see. Maybe it's that some people can see, and some people can't. Maybe it was a little rip in the other fabric, the fabric of everything else in the cafe.'

'That could be true. But I fear it wasn't. I fear I was meant to see it and it was meant to have some effect on me. And that's the horror, Lestat. It didn't have a very great effect.' ..." (page 75)

The rest of it is there for clarity's sake, but that's the part that my mind always recalls: That's the horror ... it didn't have a very great effect.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

Dear Santa,

I'm trying to decide which Rankin & Bass version of you is the least disturbing of the bunch.

First off, we have "Papa" Santa from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. You're mostly grumpy and disinterested towards your elves, storming off without a word when people are trying to perform just for you. You don't appreciate your wife. You lack vision and support bigotry amongst your reindeer, ostracizing impressionable youth over something they can hardly be expected to change.

You're also entirely too opportunistic. Would you really have decided to accept Rudolph into the top tier, were it not for the snow storm? Really? To back me up, I have "10 Reasons Why You Are Evil".

Then, there is Kris Kringle of Santa Claus is Comin' to Town. You endanger small children by giving them contraband items, items that could get them arrested and thrown in jail where they'd probably starve to death. Actually, not only do you do that--but you charge them for these items with "kissing." Are you "Sugar Daddy" Claus? That's pedophilia and encouragement of child prostitution, sir. It's obvious that you possess a sociopath's black and white view of the realities of good and bad, taking neither socioeconomic situation nor mere human emotion into the equation. Why else the puerile thinking that changing from bad to good is as easy as walking? (And what kind of crap filler song is "Put One Foot in Front of the Other" anyway? And why can't I get it out of my head?!)



And there has to be something innately wrong with you; why else would your parents have left you on the doorstep of Burgermeister--a man as likely to crush your tiny baby head with his jackboot as look at you? Obviously, your folks wanted you dead for a reason.

Actually, the version of you that I prefer is probably the one that most people dislike of your Rankin & Bass selves. Claus of The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus. Good natured and of a happy disposition, you like animals and speak for children's rights. You're well-educated and speak many different languages, and you seem to have a better grasp of the world than the other Santas. Okay, so you were raised by nymphs and wild animals--that just makes you that much cooler in my book.



Yes, the story itself has its creepy moments (Agwas); but you yourself within the story are the least creepy interpretation of Santa I have found in the Rankin & Bass world. So I would hope, if you were real, that you would be like him.

Just saying ...

Love,
Me.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

"animals howling in the night"

The Holidaily prompt of the day is asking us to recall our most memorable "perfect day"--but that isn't sparking any inspiration. It's just causing Lou Reed's "Perfect Day" to lodge itself in my brain and not go away. So I think I'm going to ignore the prompt, and I hope no one cares.

My mom sent me a vacuum cleaner in the mail. I'm taking this as a subtle hint (on top of her earlier more blatant remarks) that she thinks our apartment is dusty.

But mild resentment over opinions about my nonexistent housekeeping skills aside, I'm actually happy to have it; it's an improvement on the Dirt Devil, as it is bristle-free and won't scratch the wooden floor. And, more to the point, I recently decided that I need to pull down the storm-windows for the winter season. Lots of "stuff" accumulates between the window pane and the wire mesh screen over the spring and summer months. Suffice to say, I desperately need to vacuum out the cobwebs and dead insects around and inside my windows, so I hope this vacuum has attachments.

Mum also forwarded a UPS e-mail notification that says something else is supposed to arrive on Monday--and I'm guessing it's something that is also heavy or bulky, else she'd have had it delivered to their address and waited till I came down to visit them.

Very excited, very excited, indeed. Have become Welsh. ... Ignore that Eddie Izzard reference if its meaning escapes you. It's not that important.

Anyway, I don't really know what it is--but I'm hoping it's a region-free DVD player, so I can finally watch The Tribe and Lawless on my television, rather than my laptop. And I could rescue (and watch) the Once Were Warriors DVD from my parents' house. And finally get around to ordering The Brave from Amazon.co.uk, a film that I've been meaning to watch since, well, forever.

Yes, counting eggs as chickens. Good, good.

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The eighth episode of Torchwood became available in the late afternoon on Tuesday, so I downloaded it and watched it on Wednesday morning. It's entitled "They Keep Killing Suzie" ... and, as you might expect, they really do keep killing Suzie (a character that died in the first episode, whom they resurrect for this one).

On imdb.com there has been much speculation about the end of the episode, wherein Ianto and Jack are discussing the myriad of uses for a stopwatch (an implement that Ianto is carrying around and using for most of the episode). So many imdb.com users are insisting that it could be completely innocent. Well, no, boys and girls--the creators are trying to make it obvious that it isn't innocent fun and games. I mean, really, the producers have already announced that all the main characters on the show have the potential for omnisexuality (especially Captain Jack), so why is anyone surprised about a possible Jack/Ianto pairing (it's easier to swallow--double entendre really not intended--than Jack/Owen or Ianto/Owen)?

And besides, we have this from the Official Site: the Jack/Ianto instant messenger transcript. Yeah, so what if Ianto's girlfriend just died; we suspend lots of disbelief for the sake of this show, so there's no reason to not suspend it here.

... I can't wait for episode nine.

And I can't believe there are only thirteen episodes per series! Is it a solely State-side trait to have a 26-episode season?

In other entertainment: yesterday, I received the third and fourth discs of Witch Hunter Robin in the mail--SPOILER ALERT: skip the tiny paragraph between the following images if you've not watched this series and intend to do so.



That cannot be the end of Amon!! We're only halfway through the series! Helping her escape and then being some kind of martyr?! What the crap was that?



That being said, I'm supposed to get the fifth disc today, and I'm excited about finding out what happens.

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Ooh! look what Se gave me to try!



I had Cappuccino, Strawberry, and Praline. They are awesome--and so ridiculously cute! Little chocolate seahorses! Se says that this kind of chocolate is very expensive in China due to import taxes, so she buys them here and gives them as presents when she goes to visit. Nice idea.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

more obsessing over Torchwood, and pondering Father Christmas

"Creu Gwir fel gwydr o ffwrnais awen. In these stones, horizons sing." The Wales Millennium Centre, Cardiff Bay, Wales.

I wasn't sure if this place was real, or just something that the artists had created for the Torchwood series (a confusion which I understand is probably rather insulting to the Welsh--but please forgive me; State-side news about other countries is garbage, and it tends to lump all of the UK into "London"). The Google Maps programme is also to blame for my confusion, for if you look up Cardiff Bay on Google Maps you'll easily find the Oval Basin, but only a field of dirt or gravel where the WMC is supposed to be. Obviously, the overhead view is terribly out-of-date.

Anyway, the background shot of the Centre felt far too genuine to be fake, so I ended up pausing during episode seven or eight to read the words written on the building--half Welsh, half English. Then, through the powers of web searching, I discovered that the place was in fact real and there.

It makes me happy; I've done some reading, and I know that the Centre has been met with critical acclaim by the Welsh, but I think it's one of the more striking and beautiful examples of modern construction.

And I particularly like the view from the roof that we see in the first episode of Torchwood (though one probably isn't allowed to be up there in real life).

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Today's Holidaily prompt is to do with the Santa Claus myth--"Did you believe in Santa?" and "When did life deliver that soul-crushing blow, that Santa is in fact a myth?" and "Would you encourage your children to believe in Santa?"

First of all, my mother raised no dummy. By the time I was old enough to walk and crawl and snoop in every nook and cranny (always curious and surreptitiously getting into everyone's business, I was), I had determined that "Santa" was actually Mum and Dad. For one thing, sitting on a stranger's lap was abhorrent to me (I never liked shopping-mall Santas or clowns or anything of the kind; they terrified me); so I could hardly envision a stranger leaving me presents. Would I have wanted them?

I learned very early on that Christmas presents came from family and friends, not strange elderly men with an obesity problem. My first recollection of making this connection was in finding a large stuffed Big Bird doll in a closet in my mother's sewing room a week or so before Christmas.

Some people might say that dispelling the Santa illusion ruins the holiday for children, but I don't think so. I never felt disenchanted--I just enjoyed the time differently and with a sense of enlightenment. I recall trying to share my enlightenment in pre-school and being reprimanded by my teachers. "Just because you don't believe in Santa, doesn't mean that he doesn't exist." This coming from my fallaciously black-tongued elders. I believe my response was something like: "Just because they believe Santa exists, doesn't mean that he does."

I didn't deal well with authority and was in trouble quite a lot in those days.

As adults, we still enjoy ourselves this season; knowing that Kris Kringle is a myth or long-dead Saint does not spoil the holiday for us. And I don't see how forcing a lie upon impressionable youth teaches them anything (except that lying is acceptable). My family always said, "Santa" and "Rudolph" and "North Pole"--never in any seriousness, but simply as an appeasement for tradition. And we still do. Because the trappings of Christmas--though entirely fantastical--are wonderful, and I have always loved to indulge in them. I think it's like that for many people.

Will I support the idea of Santa if I ever have children? I probably will when they're young, but once they figure it out (and I have every expectation that any child of mine would be shrewd enough to do just that in record time), I'm not going to try and "make it real" for them all over again. Children deserve the respect of truthfulness, especially if parents are expecting truth in return.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

shopping horrors

I'm not sure if it's because I've never had a truly horrible shopping experience, or if my mind is just that good at blocking out bad memories--but I can't really think of any personal horror stories of shopping. Nothing major that would make an interesting anecdote, at any rate.

But dressing rooms have been known to make me nauseous, which leads me to think I may have a minor case of claustrophobia. Basically what sometimes happens is this: I overheat and feel like I might faint or get sick. It doesn't happen all the time, just sometimes. Only I can't recall ever feeling like that in a lavatory stall or lift, so I'm not sure what it is. Maybe I subconsciously just don't enjoy trying on clothes.

... My parents did lose me in department stores when I was younger. Well, my mother likes to say I was playing hide and seek in the clothing racks; but I can clearly recall just losing them on one or two occasions. I would turn around for a minute, something catching my attentively deficient and easily distracted gaze, turn back, and they were gone. And I remember being taken to the lost and found station by some worried passer-by, and having a sales associate page my mother or father. That was kind of horrifying. And, in retrospect, it's horrifying to consider how damned dangerous that situation really was (and can be, even more-so, today).

There's nothing holiday-related in those little factoids, though; and that's making this entry seem like a lost prompt.

On a more holiday-relevant note, I keep receiving e-mails regarding the UPS and USPS updates on certain of my packages for friends and family. All seems to be going well, and no terrible kinks in the works yet. *Knock on wood.* Hopefully things will continue to go according to plan.

Expected shopping horrors ahead are more at my own fault, and less at any peculiar metaphorical department-store lightning bolts from on high. I still have yet to decide what to get from my flat-mates, my grandmothers, and three other friends. Of these seven people, only two have wish lists on Amazon.com.

General cluelessness, combined with the character flaw of chronic indecisiveness, will make this final stretch of holiday shopping my own personal nightmare.

At least I have illicit copies of Torchwood episodes to make it all better at the end of the day. Captain Jack Harkness helps me black out the horrors of shopping.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

sounds of Yule

Yesterday's prompt regarded a preference between snow or sun; but, as is my way, I flaked and forgot to address it at all. I was reflecting on that choice this morning, making my way carefully from my doorstep to the T stop through the would-be snow. I say would-be, because it was not quite frozen, more like sleet really.

Given the choice between snow and sleet, I'll take snow by the feet. But sun or snow? I see no reason why one shouldn't have both, snow on the ground and sun in the sky. Really, it's best if the snow comes during the night or early in the morning and allows the sun to have its time throughout the day. That would be my preference for holiday weather.

I'm also still callous enough to think that ice storms are pretty--callous because I know what kind of damage ice will do to powerlines, tree branches, and life as we know it, and yet I still like it. One of my favorite memories of winter in Pennsylvania included ice storms--snow trapped beneath a thick sheet of ice and dozens or hundreds of leafless trees encrusted in glistening ice, glimmering in the sunshine. It's something truly spectacular to see; and while I know it was killing life and breaking weaker branches, I can't help but remember that vision fondly.

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On the subject of holiday music, if I'm hearing it before December (or, at least before Thanksgiving has come to a close) it might make my ears bleed. But as December wears on, and as the weather becomes more appropriate--like today's wintry mix, for example--I look forward to the classics. And some not-so-classic classics as well.



As a child of the 80s, I was brought up on television- and pop-culture-based holiday records. Sesame Street. Muppets. Star Wars. Cabbage Patch Kids. Rainbow Brite. They all had holiday records and my parents were indulgent. What does Rainbow Brite have to do with Christmas? Nothing. It had a Christmas record for the same reason the others did: because that decade was a time of shameless consumerism. We have action figures, dolls, movies, television series, clothing, bed linens, breakfast cereals--what else can we feed these little imbeciles to make us rich? The answer is holiday albums, of course.

So I will probably listen to those, as I have for the past two decades-plus of my life, along with some Rankin & Bass and Peanuts downloads. I also have the Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, and Elvis mainstays. Choir music, of course. The Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

Then, there are there are the stranger choices on my iPod--Bad Religion's rendition of "Silent Night." The Vandals' "Oi To The World." And South Park's "Merry Fucking Christmas" and Cartman singing "O Holy Night" while getting poked by a cattle prod.

Don't get me wrong. If I had to listen to this music any other time of the year, I would probably stab somebody.

But 'tis the season.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

sun or snow?

It's December 3rd. As predicted yesterday, I've managed to check five people off the gift list so far. I want to get at least two more done tonight, hopefully with the help of Amazon.com.

This does not include holiday cards, unfortunately. And I keep remembering people that I need to do cards for, so that list is getting longer. Problem being that I'm not sure where my address book is--or if it's even updated. So I might flake on those again (it's nearly traditional at this point, my not sending cards). Yes, I'm a writer who does not like writing cards. Silly, right?

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Illicit confession time. I've been downloading Pan's Labyrinth since Friday. It's almost done. I've already watched the first hour of it (sometimes the file allows you to see what's been downloaded so far, sometimes it doesn't).

The version I've got is dubbed in French with chopped-off English subtitles. Whenever a character was saying so much (two line's worth), you can read the top line. But not the bottom line. And for single lines of dialog nothing can be read at all. So I kind of understand what's being said, but not really.

It has some particularly violent and bloody moments--thus the R-rating--but I don't think that should deter fantasy enthusiasts; because, for all the gore, what I've seen is pretty damn brilliant. I think I prefer it to The City of Lost Children (another foreign fairy tale for adults). I'm looking forward to watching it in the cinema, in its original Spanish with full English subtitles.

I also watched A Ma Soeur yesterday. I'm not sure what to say about it. I suppose I could share the plot. But it's awful, so feel free to skip the following paragraph.

French family on vacation has two adolescent daughters. The elder one is 15, thin and pretty and, oh yeah, a slag. The younger one is 12 or 13 and overweight. The parents insist that the elder drag the younger everywhere she goes, and they have to share a room and so on, etc. Elder one falls for 20-something Italian guy, and he visits her at their house in the middle of the night. And the younger one has to lie there and pretend to be asleep while her sister is being a cocktease one night and loses her virginity the next (at great length--the scene goes on for about fifteen or twenty minutes--I think the director is a twisted bitch). The parents are oblivious, and the father is a workaholic who leaves vacation early. So the mother eventually finds out that her daughter has been a naive slag and then starts driving them home. Only they stop at a rest-stop on the highway and some guy comes along with an axe, breaks the windshield, bashes the slutty sister's head in, strangles the mother, and then drags the overweight girl into the woods and rapes her. But he doesn't kill her. And the message we are meant to glean is anyone's best guess: that just because you're fat and quiet doesn't mean you too are not worth raping. Or something. But that's the way the movie ends, with Anais (the fat sister) being led out of the woods by policemen and seeing her mother and sister half-dragged from their car, chalked and taped by forensics. And Anais says, "He didn't rape me," or something to that effect. The End.

As you might expect, it kind of left me feeling very bleah, which led to watching Love Actually (because after you take a downer, you're going to need an upper to make you feel okay again).

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

appreciating the smallest things

Headaches, shopping, and dollies. Oh, my!

I suppose I should appreciate that my headache is a small one. All things considered, I'm not sure what has prompted this headache. My stress has depleted a fair deal since this morning. Why? Because I've managed to tick off three names on my gift list. Well, three and half of two people--so it's kind of like I've managed four people if we put the two halves together.

Who are the incompletes? My parents. I solved half of the parental gift-giving puzzle today. They asked for clothing, and I will get them clothing. But I also wanted to surprise them, get them something they wouldn't expect and didn't ask for. And this morning I finally figured out something that seemed fitting.

In summers long past, my folks and I used to go camping in New Hampshire near a town called North Conway. The town had lots of little stores and one of them was a three-level Annalee's shop--a clearance basement, and a first and second floor show-room. It became my family's habit to visit there once a year during our stay to look at the new display of poseable figures.

What are Annalee dolls? you might ask. Poseable, hand-painted, mostly felt-and-wire dolls of all kinds--people, animals, holiday-oriented and otherwise. If you have an occasion, Annalee's probably has a doll for you. The history of these dolls goes back to the 1930s, and I could attempt to relay the details, but they have an official site that will probably do a better job at that.

Annalee's

Before I left North Carolina this Thanksgiving, I was going through the holiday decorations and found a few of the dolls--but we didn't have a lot of Christmas-related ones. Three or four, I think. And this morning I was thinking about them again, and I can't say what prompted that either; but I decided that it's something my mom and dad will never expect but probably like a lot, given its sentimental value.

Yeah, I know. They're dolls. But I feel secure that my dad is a modern fellow who can appreciate the artistry of these weird little creations.

My first attempt at ordering from one site might have incited my headache; I got an error message before the checkout could go through. I didn't want to chance something like that happening while "completing" the order, so I went to another site that had a similarly large inventory--and the exact thing that I had wanted in the first place.

And, if you're curious, these are the three I'm sending them:

Yuletide Santa
Mrs. Jinglebell Santa
and Tobogganing Bunny

Now I just have to do the clothing thing, which I intend to get to tomorrow while JCPenny is having some special Sunday sale online for "friends and family." I forget the specifics of the sale, but my mother sent me an e-mail and it's still in my inbox, so I'm not worried about it.

My dad asked for a cardigan, and that's what he'll get, but I think my mom may be getting some kind of sweater from them as well.

So, with three and two halves done, I have ... [looks at list] six and two halves to go. I'm appreciating those two halves right now--they're small, and after tomorrow I won't worry about them anymore.

Other small things that I appreciate--my credit card. So small, so light, ... so damned important this time of year.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

31 days of December, an entry for every day

An introduction to me. Now, that doesn't sound self-involved at all, does it?

There's only one other entry in this journal, and that was recording the progress of my NaNo for NaNoWriMo. Happily, November is over, but my NaNo still is unfinished--but I did reach 50,000 words! So the month's goal was met, but I have to keep plowing at the plot until it is finished. And I will. But not here.

I wanted to occupy this journal with something else--and Holidailies gives me a reason to write here every day. I did not discover this occupation on my own. No, my friend Measi has done this for the past few years, and I am merely following her cue this year. I tried to do it last year, but then my journal was private, so there seemed to be little point. I still have a private journal, but this one is not.

I'm not sure what subject to approach for my first entry. Me? That's a tired subject; if you think about it, everything a writer ever writes is about them. Even if it doesn't sound like it's about them, it is. It doesn't have to be "me, me, me" but it is always "my thoughts about 'x' subject." And sometimes 'x' is "me."

NaNo was (and is) one big self-indulgent dive into "me" where I was treading comfy and familiar mind waters for 30 days and nights. Holidailies will probably be similarly self-involved musings, but without a running plot. I haven't decided whether that will make it more or less interesting than a novel. Maybe somebody else can be the judge of that.

For the sake of strangers who happen to come across this running monologue, my pen-name is Amari la Recha. I am 23 years old, and I've been writing stories (often poorly) since I could form sentences. I still find copies of them in odd places, and my mother likes to torment me by reading them aloud over the telephone. Certain stages of development make me cringe.

I am from Pennsylvania, but I live and work in Boston, MA. And I firmly disapprove of this warm weather nonsense. Late autumn and early winter in New England should not feature sixty-degree days. Had I wanted that, I would have stayed in North Carolina--which is where my parental units have resided since the Summer/Fall of 2000. They're both from Massachusetts, but work has driven them farther and farther south over the past two decades. My father doesn't mind, but my mother hates it. Still, I digress (though not nearly so awkwardly as I could).

I've been living in Boston off and on since September 2001, when I started going to Boston University for my undergrad. "Off and on" because I returned to North Carolina for the summer seasons, and lived in New Zealand for six months of 2004. I graduated in a timely fashion in May 2005 and decided to stick around. So here I am. Working and trying to save money for my next great escape. Where to? I have yet to decide, but I haven't enough money to even run away to New York City for more than a week, so it's really a moot question at this point.

My favorite topics of discussion? Religion. Politics. Sex. Death. Basically, I like making frank observation about all the things people would rather not talk about. I also rent a lot of movies from Netflix. And if they strike me in any great way, I like writing about those.

I may also write about writing--but that will be due to the ghastly self-indulgence I was talking about before. I sooth my ego by referring to this as introspection--but it's actually just unforgivable conceit. Reader beware: this journal will likely be chocobox full of personal conceit.

Till next time, kidneys. Happy December!

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

fraction of my soul

Olric likes to make rather long and unbroken monologues about human behavior. I like to let Olric do that. It boosts my word-count.

But it does make it a little difficult to return to the point of whatever conversation he might be interrupting. Hmm. Yes. So part 18 is probably not going to be done today.

It's day 17. I'm at 30542 words, 69 pages (but I'm actually working on page 65). I'm giving myself the very reasonable goal of reaching 31K before I have to leave to get my mom today.



... And I need to watch Mary Reilly again soon. In my mind I keep hearing Mrs. Kent saying, "Don't be soft!" and then I see the eel that they're skinning alive.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

NaNo progress

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

Happy Hallowe'en!

And, of course, tomorrow is All Saints' (or, if you reside in Mexico, el Día de los Muertos).

Whatever the reasoning, it's a time to celebrate and eat things that are really bad for you. so go nuts.

I'd say I'm going to give out candy tonight; but we never get callers, so it's unlikely.

It might be just as well, however, since I think I might be coming down with something. I've been having congestion since the weekend, and it's making me dead on my feet (fitting, ne?). It or the NyQuil (big fucking Q) I had last night, though I think that should've worn off by now.

I'll be going to Shaws on my break to buy Airborne and vitamins. BU employees are lined up for flu vaccines this week, but I'm not sure it would be a good idea if I'm already coming down with something else. And there's that tricky egg allergy--I can eat egg under certain preparation, but I've had bad experiences (and flu vaccine is contrived with the use of eggs, so they typically warn those who may be allergic). I don't know. I'll see how I feel on Thursday.

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Lined up for this evening? An odd bundle of movies from Netflix (if they arrive)--Before Night Falls, Brigadoon, and Chinatown. I still have six discs of The Twelve Kingdoms at the top of my queue, but there's a "short wait" on the first one, which apparently leads them to skip the rest and go on to what's after. It's not that I don't appreciate that (I wouldn't want to watch them out of order anyway); I just wish the wait would end.

Last Friday I received Alfie (the Jude Law version), An Awfully Big Adventure, and Bend It Like Beckham. Boo to Alfie, lukewarm reaction to AABA (in spite of my love for Mr. Rickman and Mr. Grant), and a generally good reaction to BILB (though that was a near thing too).

Why didn't I like Alfie? Because there's no redemption for him. At all. Okay, so Jude Law is hot, and that's a redeeming quality, but the character has no redemption. He's a sleaze who sleeps around A LOT, loses friends because of it, and learns nothing by the end. He just goes on. And again, if not for the fact that Jude Law is so damn good-looking, the film would be a complete wash-out. **

An Awfully Big Adventure was the first movie I watched from the lot--and it's horrifying, but a really good story with excellent acting. If that sounds like a mixed reaction, there's a reason for that--and a good reason too.

One can recognize the genius behind something while still admitting it's more than a little cock-eyed. Good story. Good twist. But still horrifying. It's like "Oedipus" but reversed, and there's no way it could've ended well at all. ***

I watched Bend It Like Beckham last, because I guessed that it would be the most uplifting of the bunch, and I was right about that. In spite of all the family fighting and strange relatives, our protagonists are (of course) successful in the end. They become football stars and get to go to the States on a soccer scholarship.

But I was almost angry at this film. Why? Because Jonathan Rhys Meyer's character has a relationship with Jesminder (Parminder Nagra), but--in spite of the fact that she's going far far away, he just gives her a hug. A HUG?! THE FUCK IS THIS?! was my reaction ... until the very end, when he shows up at the airport. And they kiss. Thank you. This hugging nonsense is bollocks. ****

And if you've noticed a certain amount of alphabetized movie-watching ... ? Yes. Not by full title, just by the first letter (the rest keeps it random). The next movies (I'm not doing this with television series) on the queue are Career Opportunities and Caligula.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

YouTube observations and The Prestige

I just realized (yesterday) that a YouTube user has been uploading all the seasons of The Tribe. I think she's made it up to the fourth season. every episode--52 per season--is divided into four parts, about five minutes long each. That comes out to so many hours of The Tribe--that I don't even have to pay for.

I'd already watched up through the end of season two, so I'm working my way through season three right now. It's awesome.

But I keep hearing mixed rumors that YouTube may start charging for membership. so that could suck.

--------------------

I went to see The Prestige last night with Nicole.

I definitely enjoyed it more than Insomnia, another Christopher Nolan film. I'm still trying to decide if I like it better than Batman Begins. Maybe. It's a close race.

I figured out the general two-part twist halfway through, but I'm still puzzling over a few specifics.

For example, the business with Tesla (David Bowie)--and there are a few parts to this question. One: Why was "Tesla" the keyword if it had nothing to do with anything of Christian Bale's backstory? Two: When Tesla's machine does its cloning/teleportation, where does the original go? Is it the original that is transported and the duplicate that is left over? Or is it the other way around? And if the original is transported, then Hugh Jackman's duplicate shot the original--but if the duplicate is transported, then the original shot the duplicate in that situation, but after every "transported man" trick the original is being drowned while the duplicate lives on.

Or is what Tesla said the absolute truth? "They are all your hat." Duplicate and original don't matter, because they're exactly the same in every way--identical consciousness and sense of self continues on in both?

And following Bale back to Tesla, is that why he has an identical brother? Is it a real twin, or a Tesla creation? And which one is the little girl's father--the brother who was condemned to death or the one who survived? I'm guessing it's the one who survived, since it was he who loved the girl's mother.

I sigh, still enjoying all the motif moments.

See it.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

'tis the season

I believe in going for seasonal food; it's not always around, so you should get and enjoy it when you can (shamrock shakes, the odd Starbucks flavours, and certain kinds of fruit). So I tried the pumpkin muffin at Dunkin' Donuts today. And, yes, it was good, like pumpkin bread. Mmm.

Makes me want to carve a pumpkin. Except not really, because it's a big mess and then you can't leave it outside without some jackass from Boston College smashing it to bits. Sad, but we live in a high-population area. Somebody would be a douche.

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Got three discs from Netflix yesterday, two of which actually worked. The last disc of Angel came with two cracks at the center, and was therefore sadly unreadable. Customer service assures me that I'm being sent a replacement today.

That left me with Young Hercules, which I know I've seen before, but couldn't recall at all. So I watched it again. And was plagued by the questions, "Why does Ares want to be king of Ithica? What can he possibly achieve from being a king that he can't get from being the GoW?" And there was no Joel Tobeck as Strife. Just Meighan Desmond as Discord (and she serves the same purpose, really, but I prefer Joel-sama ... and Strife). I'm also still puzzling over the giant Ares head swinging from ropes. Were they in the middle of building a giant statue of him? And why didn't he just snap his fingers and kill everyone? ... It's shoddy. But Kevin Smith is (... er, was) awesome, so I guess I don't care.

And I also watched a 1985 made-for-TV version of Anne of Green Gables. I've never read the book(s?), never watched any version on film. I was just curious about what I was missing, since I know a few people for whom this was one of their favourites as a child.

I'm sorry. I just don't see it. She's too bloody perfect and winsome for me. I'm not a big fan of the winsome orphan-heroine of young adult fiction (this includes Anne Shirley, Sara Crewe, and even Mary Lennox to a certain extent--though she's kind of a bitch to everyone).

Actually, I just wasn't much of a fan of young adult fiction. I think i went from Berenstain Bears to Stephen King and Ray Bradbury without a big transition in the middle. I seem to recall somebody trying to introduce me to The Babysitter's Club, and being BORED OUT OF MY MIND. I did, however, enjoy Madeleine L'Engle and some R.L. Stine (not Goosebumps, anything but Goosebumps).

The redemption of Anne of Green Gables (over three hours long, by the way) was the rest of the cast. The side characters are much more real to me than Anne; their behavior, their reactions, their speech--all of it is more believable than Anne's anything.

And, of course, ...

All new tonight at 9, only on ABC (but, also, later at 2 AM on abc.com):

Lost - "Further Instructions"
The fates of Locke, Eko and Desmond are revealed after the implosion of the hatch, and Hurley returns to the beach camp and explains what happened when he, Jack, Kate and Sawyer encountered the Others. Meanwhile, Claire is shocked to find Nikki and Paulo (Kiele Sanchez, Rodrigo Santoro) in Jack's tent. Boone: Ian Somerhalder. Eddie: Justin Chatwin. Mike: Chris Mulkey. Jan: Virginia Morris. Sheriff: Joel Himelhoch. Kim: Dion Donahue.

But I'll probably end up watching it tomorrow morning if I fall asleep before it comes on tonight.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

5 year-old born again? sure.

Enjoy the freaks.

Jesus Camp - A growing number of Evangelical Christians believe there is a revival underway in America that requires Christian youth to assume leadership roles in advocating the causes of their religious movement. The film, directed by Heidi Ewing and Rachel Grady (The Boys of Baraka), follows Levi, Rachael, and Tory to Pastor Becky Fischer's "Kids on Fire" summer camp in Devil's Lake, North Dakota, where kids as young as 6 years-old are taught to become dedicated Christian soldiers in "God's army." The film follows these children at camp as they hone their "prophetic gifts" and are schooled in how to "take back America for Christ." The film is a first-ever look into an intense training ground that recruits born-again Christian children to become an active part of America's political future. (synopsis taken from jesuscampthemovie.com)

This film is very fair with its subject--which I can't imagine was an easy thing to do, as the filmmakers are obviously both worldly and educated. Is it a constant laugh riot? No, actually. It approaches this hyper-conservative evangelical movement seriously and respectfully (which is to be expected, really; how else would you get their cooperation? They don't want to be made to look foolish more than anyone else does). But it has its very ironic moments, and some distinctly uncomfortable moments as well.

To Fischer, I'm split between extreme anger and extreme pity. On a very basic level she admits to the audience that she knows she's manipulating children; but knowledge of that also seems to go directly over her head. Or, more clearly, she's manipulating them, but it's "for their own salvation" or something. Her work with kids aside, she seems like lonely person--she's extremely overweight, well into middle age, and she lives alone--and maybe her perception of G-d fills that gap of loneliness for her. I really don't know.

Actually, even the children introduced are filling some kind of gap with zeal.

Levi, a ten year-old boy with close-shaven hair and a trailing rat-tail mullet, tells Becky that he was "saved" and "born-again" at the age of five. "Why?" she asks. Because, in his words, "nothing was fun anymore." ... A little five year-old for whom "nothing was fun anymore?" Had you exhausted all the outlets? Gone sky-diving and bungee-jumping already, had you? "I am five, and world-weary, and nothing is fun; woe, oh, woe is me!" You little emo yokel, you. Let me tell you why nothing was fun, kid. Your parents probably wouldn't let you play make-believe or watch cartoons because they feared for your soul or some such rot; that is why nothing was fun, not the absence of deity in your life.

Rachael, 7 years-old: "I get picked on sometimes and I don't have a lot of friends." ... Probably because you're trying to convert all of them ALL THE TIME. One scene in the film has them in a bowling alley, and she walks up to this blonde and informs her that the holy spirit wanted her to go say hello and hand her a booklet about her faith. The blonde looks disturbed and dubious (waiting for somebody to jump out and tell her she's been punk'd or something), but she says thank you anyway and Rachael goes away. At the end of the film, during the credits, Rachael and company are in D.C. to speak their pro-life agenda. She approaches these three black men sitting in lawn chairs on the grass.

Rachael: "If you were to die today, do you think you would go to heaven?"
Black man, without pause: "Yes."
Rachael: "Oh. Okay."

Didn't expect that, did you, dearie? She and her little friends walk away, and she says: "I think they were Muslim." ... Come again?

There are so many gem-like moments in this film:

* Some woman carries in a cardboard standee of GWB, and acts like it's really him. "Everyone say hello to President Bush. Tell him how glad we are to have him here today." And the kids play along. And the guy sitting three seats over from me couldn't stop giggling for five minutes, which became contagious and had the rest of us going too.

* Fischer talking about how lazy some people can be--yeah, okay, hun. Go get another Big Mac and shut up.

* Levi, after delivering his own preaching to his fellow youths, visits a mega-church in Colorado Springs and talks to the head minister. And the minister asks if people listen to Levi because of the substance of what he's saying or because of the "cute kid" factor. Levi says he doesn't know. The minister tells him to use the "cute kid" factor until he gets some substance. And Levi doesn't even seem to recognize the insult.

* Parental involvement. They can't get the little slack-jawed inbreeds to do anything on their own, so the parents have to be there. Fischer is in a room full of children and asks them to raise their hands if they believe G-d can do anything. She gets little to no response, and the camera zooms in on a mother with a baby in her lap, and the mother takes the baby's elbow to raise its hand in the air while reaching for her other son to raise his hand in the air, too. Other moments like this follow.

* Expressions of disbelief. This little blond kid (who's never named and always seems to be going through the motions) has the mic and his Bible, and he's addressing the rest of the audience. "I just want to talk about belief, and how hard it is sometimes--and I feel like a fake." And his posture goes down hill, and he sits on the ground and opens his Bible while continuing to muse about the non-presence of G-d, and there's a bunch of junk folded into the pages of the book and a dollar falls out on the floor. ... And because there's absolutely no uplifting resolution to anything he's saying, the grown-ups begin looking fidgety and uncomfortable, and the zany kids look kind of confused.

* Harry Potter. It had to show up in the film at some point. Fischer: "Warlocks should NOT be heroes!!11!" and "Back in the good old days, Harry Potter would have been BURNED AT THE STAKE!" ... apparently not making the connection that Harry Potter is a character of fantasy. Cut to dinner time with kids sitting around talking about the lecture. "My mom won't let me read Harry Potter because there's witch-craft." -- "Yeah, my mom won't let me watch the movies, but it's okay, because I go to my dad's and he lets me watch them!" (followed by uncomfortable silence).

I could go on and on. There's a line through the plot that covers the Supreme Court appointments, the more overreaching effects of the evangelical movement, and the reactions of the more secular middle-ground (and other people who recognize the dangers of intense and unyielding theopathy). It's not intensely entertaining throughout, but it is informative--and important. It's important in the way that secular audiences should know that these people exist (in droves and not just on the fringe) and want to turn back society's progress to witch-burning and religious crusades.

... And then I went and decided to bait people on imdb.com. I'm still waiting for a reaction though; this is rather disappointing.

Oh, yeah. Rachael said something about "Dead Churches" that I think I'll talk about later. It's a very unimaginative way of excluding other Christian denominations from "true faith" in a child's mind--unimaginative, but it works.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

life is not the sum of its parts

We're only human.

The United States of Leland - Teenager Leland Fitzgerald (Ryan Gosling) appears to have everything going for him, including a famous writer father (Kevin Spacey). So, what drove him to kill? It's up to Pearl Madison (Don Cheadle), a teacher who works with inmates, to discover the anger, frustration and fear lurking beneath Leland's otherwise unruffled surface. Before long, Pearl helps Leland discover the truth about the painful past that led him to his excruciating present.

Gosling was 23 when he starred in this role, and I get the feeling he was trying to go for "quietly thoughtful teenager" but my first impression was "mentally deficient 20-something" because of his obvious physical maturity blended with intentional gawkiness and the inability to enunciate or say the right thing. Going beyond that, the character Leland is a disappointed character. Not disappointing--disappointed. He's unable to look at people and things and situations without seeing misery behind it all, so most of the time he "blocks it out" ... but when he can't "block it out" anymore, he blacks out one day, and kills his ex-girlfriend's retarded brother, whom he sees as the most miserable person he knows. Most of the film I was thinking, Sociopath.

Most of the poor reviews I've seen for this film come from the so-called moral muddle we're presented with. It does leave a lot to think about, much of it unpleasant. There are a lot of moral and theological questionings going on here. Why man creates/needs G-d and the devil (or just good and evil, if you like), why people do bad things at all, how the way people see the universe can have adverse effects on their social behavior, etc. Of course, there's the whole confusion around Leland's murderous act--Was it drugs? A falling out with his girlfriend? Lack of parenting? What made him snap? In the end, we don't really have a clear picture as to the big 'why'--why Leland killed this harmless kid that he obviously doesn't dislike, whom he, in fact, walks home all the time and takes care of better than the boy's own siblings and parents. But then the character was very up-front with the fact that there would be no decent 'why'--bad things happen, people are bastards, and sometimes trying to see a reason is completely futile.

To the other characters, it can't be said that Leland isn't a product of his environment. His father is an emotionally distant, though extremely successful, author who hasn't seen his son for ten years (he sends him an airplane ticket to a different city around the world every year, but he's never there). His girlfriend is an upper-middle-class junkie in reform school who dumps him for another junkie. Her parents basically ignore her in favor of her college-bound sister and sister's boyfriend (who happens to live with them for weird family reasons of his own). The college-bound sister is dumping the boyfriend after her brother's murder, and the boyfriend gets himself arrested so that he can make it into prison in order to murder Leland. Really, nothing is right with any of these people, and you have to wonder if it was much better before Leland's day of blacking out.

The filming is very stark at certain points. While in jail, Leland is wearing an orange jumper; into flashback mode, he's often wearing a hooded sweatshirt of the same bright pylon-orange while everyone around him is in muted gray tones. Ultimately it creates an extreme contrast between Leland and the people surrounding him, physically and mentally.

Message? We're all "only human" and therefore inclined to do wretched things, but hopefully we have the mental capacity to look beyond the moments of misery and not go bat-shit crazy in despair. ***1/2

And then there was Lost, and the Jack, Sawyer, and Kate habitrails--aquarium, primate house, locker room.

I love that people on the boards have started calling the Others' leader Benry.

And what did they do to Kate that she needs antiseptic and looks like she's about to have a break-down in front of Sawyer?

And wasn't the Jack flash-back kind of Dullsville and useless? Yes, he and his wife got divorced, which we already knew must have happened; we still don't know why. Okay, maybe he's the reason his father went back to the bottle after that 50-day sobriety, and maybe that's why Christian was practicing medicine under the influence, and went to Sydney, and died. I still don't think we needed a whole episode for this back story to be told. I hope next week's is more satisfying.

Tonight: Jesus Camp, 7pm, Kendall Cinema, Cambridge, MA ... Because morbid curiosity drives me to free screenings of movies about religious zealots. The WASPs have determined that the best way to fight Middle Eastern religious zeal and the godless ways of the modern age is with their own brand of religious zeal. Fabulous. I can't wait to watch the freaks in action. You know I'll have tons to write about after the fact.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

when you think as I do

Malcolm McDowell and David Warner have similar voices. Well, if they try, they have similar voices: sneering, British, "I'm-smarter-than-you" voices. And, really, either one of them makes for a decent villain.

Time After Time - Jack the Ripper (David Warner) is back to continue his ghastly reign of terror; this time, he's found his way to the late 1970s, intent on taking care of unfinished business. H.G. Wells (Malcolm McDowell) uses a time machine to pursue Jack into the future, where he meets Amy (Mary Steenburgen), a bank clerk who teaches Wells about life in the '70s while helping him hunt for Jack.

At the beginning of watching this, I'd forgotten who was going to be who; and the film opens on the Ripper murdering some prostitute (you know, like he does), but never showing his face. We do, however, hear his voice--which I mistakenly believed was McDowell, for all of three minutes until the scene changed to Wells' sitting room where other actors were clearly addressing McDowell as Herbert. Then Warner enters and everyone is calling him Stevenson (and I thought for a moment that they were going to have him be Robert Louis Stevenson so they could pull in the whole Jekyll and Hyde thing to have that be the reason why he's a crazy murderer--even though Wells and Stevenson weren't really contemporaries, since Stevenson was a Scottish Neoromantic and Wells was a younger London sci-fi man--but, anyway, no, his name is John "Jack the Ripper" Stevenson and there's no connection like that at all).

The movie is fun and weird and strangely frank about things you might not expect them to be as frank about with a PG rating. And poor H.G. has ideas about society being some kind of utopia in 1979 (hopes which are mercilessly dashed within a few moments of his arrival in, yes, his time machine).

I forget about the things people did and didn't have in 1979 (wasn't there, was I?)--the non-biodegradable McDonald's containers (yes, Wells visits McDeath), electric tooth-brushes, etc. What they most certainly didn't have was CGI technology. The special effects are typical to the time right before the entrance of CGI, but the cameras are better, so things even out. It's not all the greatest, but we suspend our disbelief, and it works itself out.

Strangely enough, even with the memory of "Alex" in my mind, Malcolm is adorable when he's so hapless and helpless; it's not a faithful portrayal of H.G. Wells, per se, but it's a portrayal that fits the story extremely well. He's a good actor and it's a pity he was type-cast to the villain, though I'm sure it's paid the bills all around. The DVD has a few special features--the writer/director and McDowell comment on the film, and there's a text section entitled "It's About Time" that runs through a fairly good list of the time-travel genre from books to movies.

The message? Screw time paradox and the importance of not tampering with the time-line. Also, screw that useless career. If you fall in love with a time-traveling sci-fi author, just go with it--and him/her back to his/her time, regardless of your inability to deal with the very real social aspects of this situation or the possible diseases with which your body won't be able to deal without the benefits of modern medicine. This is romantic sci-fi, after all, not reality (see: Kate & Leopold). ***1/2

I'm expecting The United States of Leland and the first disc of Angel Season Five today. But more than that!

All new tonight at 9, only on ABC:

Lost - "A Tale of Two Cities" - In the third-season opener, Jack, Kate and Sawyer begin to discover what they are up against as prisoners of the Others. Christian Shephard: John Terry. Sarah: Julie Bowen. Mr. Friendly: M.C. Gainey. Ethan: William Mapother. Goodwin: Brett Cullen.

I love that Jack's father and Ethan keep showing up, in spite of their being quite dead since Season One.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

if we're going to be damned ...

Three school shootings in the span of a week? methinks the U.S. government needs to stop worrying about spreading freedom and democracy, and start worrying about our own damned selves. Clearly there's something wrong with our system. Just LOOK!

But now, on to the movies ...

The Road to Wellville - Based on T. Coraghessan Boyle's best-selling novel satirizing late-19th century health fads. Will and Eleanor Lightbody (Matthew Broderick and Bridget Fonda), guests at cereal mogul Dr. John Harvey Kellogg's (Anthony Hopkins) health spa, are forced to undergo an array of hilariously absurd medical treatments. Meanwhile, a con artist (John Cusack) and Kellogg's adopted son (Dana Carvey) plot to steal the doctor's coveted corn flake recipe.

My favorite character? Definitely George (Dana Carvey). He's so mindlessly angry with his father (well, not entirely mindless--Dr. Kellogg was overly religious, fanatically asexual, and obsessed with vegetarianism; so there's a reason to the madness one might feel about having such a man for one's father, adopted or otherwise). Throughout the film there are a series of flashbacks to Dr. Kellogg's interaction with his children--George, in particular. And I love the jacket-on-the-hook scene.

George won't hang up his jacket when he enters the house, just drops it on the floor; so, as punishment, Dr. Kellogg has him repeat the action over and over again. Only George won't stop. And he does the action throughout the night, keeping everyone awake by slamming the door and thumping up and down the stairs again and again and again. Finally, Dr. Kellogg stops him forcibly, slaps him across the face, apologizes profusely for having done so, and bewilderedly pleads that the boy just go to bed. So George walks around him, dumps his coat on the floor, and goes to bed. It's GREAT. The message(s)? If you thought modern vegetarians were bonkers, you haven't heard of Dr. John Harvey Kellogg. Also, if your desire is to alleviate the suffering of other creatures, fine; but everyone dies of something, and being a vegetarian won't save you from that. ***1/2

La Reine Margot (Queen Margot) - To cement a partnership between Protestants and Catholics in France, Margot de Valois (Isabelle Adjani) agrees to an arranged marriage to Henri of Navarre (Daniel Auteuil). Although she's a staunch supporter of Henri, she's not a loyal wife and takes up with a Protestant lover (Vincent Perez). During the St. Bartholomew's Night Massacre, she helps her lover escape, setting off a chain of events that alters their lives and the course of history.

I don't know if there's a lot of basis in reality, but French period pieces are chockobox full of freaky sexual relations. The Queen Mother Catherine (Virna Lisi) seems to have the hots for Anjou (Pascal Greggory), and Margot has apparently lost her virginity to one of her other brothers; but Margot prefers the company of this other guy from the court who she's trying to bang when her new husband walks in (because he's decided he won't be banging this other baroness on his wedding night). But then Margot kicks him out and goes walking the streets with her friend (in masks) to look for somebody else to bang--and finds Vincent Perez.

Vincent's character, by the way, already thinks that Margot is a filthy Catholic whore and has no idea that it's her he's having fun with. Sexy; but, of course, it doesn't end well. Incest, royal insanity, religious warring that would do the modern Middle East proud, and pretty impressive costumes and sets to watch throughout the whole business. Oh, yeah. And when they say Massacre, they mean it. They killed all the Protestant wedding guests. ALL of them. Except for Vincent's character. Message? Royals are crazy. Also, isn't it good that Christians have gotten over self-hatred in their unifying hatred of ... oh, everybody else? ****

Swept from the Sea - Shunned by her seaside farming community, servant girl Amy Foster (Rachel Weisz) reciprocates with silence and is thus branded a halfwit. She finds a kindred spirit, though, when shipwrecked Ukrainian Yanko Gooral (Vincent Perez) ambles onto her master's farm. While the rest of the townsfolk spurn the disheveled stranger, Amy gently cares for him, giving rise to romance, marriage and a child ... but tragedy lies just around the corner.

Yes, Vincent Perez again--and he's not speaking a lot of English in this one either. For the whole movie, I'm wondering, Why is everyone so bitchy with Amy? She's not an halfwit, and one can't help but feel that other people would figure that out if they'd just give her the time of day. And then the BIG SECRET is let loose towards the end, and it's kind of an oh moment, but in a very old-fashioned and 19th-century reasoning way. I kind of felt like the end was plodding--courtship, struggle, courtship--Married! Baby! Aggh! There's lots of selectiveness about the portrayal of life and how much time the film should devote to certain aspects. I just feel like Amy and Yanko are never happy (because we don't get to see them being very happy for very long--though clearly they must've had at least nine months of happiness that we don't get to witness at all). Message? Talk to people, or they'll just think you're a dunce. Then again, there's also that other saying--it's better to keep your mouth shut and be thought an idiot than to open your mouth and prove it. ***

I got the Q Collective in the mail yesterday. He (Q) is so right on so many levels. The only reason Jean-Luc can prove him wrong on these occasions is the deus ex machina--the Enterprise crew has to prove him wrong, or there's no story after that. Real mankind? Real mankind sucks balls.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

ganking DVDs

I had nothing new to watch last night, so I opened the two Blockbuster DVDs that Chris still had sent to our apartment after he moved out.

Either way, we'd have had to open them in order to return them to Blockbuster, so opening and watching seemed to make as much sense as not. It was rather like a grab bag, since I had no idea what would be in them. So what was there? Poseidon and Akeelah and the Bee.

Poseidon: Battling the elements once again, Wolfgang Petersen (The Perfect Storm) re-creates Ronald Neame's 1972 action classic with help from an ensemble cast that includes Kurt Russell, Richard Dreyfuss, Josh Lucas, Emmy Rossum and Stacy Ferguson (aka "Fergie" of The Black Eyed Peas). A tidal wave spells disaster for a boatload of New Year's Eve revelers when it capsizes the mammoth vessel, pitching the passengers into a desperate battle for survival.

Yeah, I was not impressed. The characters are pretty two-dimensional, and I wasn't drawn to feel anything for any of them--not even the cute little kid who nearly drowns. Mostly I just sat back thinking that "rogue waves" were the dumbest idea of any disaster movie ever. There are so many real elements of disaster to deal with--Why make one up? Message: If the common laws of Earth science go kaplooie, you're probably screwed--especially if you're an asshole who makes lame jokes, or you're in a racial minority. **

Akeelah and the Bee: With an aptitude for words, 11-year-old Akeelah Anderson (Keke Palmer) is determined to spell her way out of South Los Angeles, entering scores of local contests and eventually landing a chance to win the Scripps National Spelling Bee in Washington, D.C. Despite discouragement from her mother (Angela Bassett), Akeelah gets support from her bookish tutor (Laurence Fishburne), her principal (Curtis Armstrong) and proud members of her community.

I enjoyed it, but then I always did enjoy movies about intelligent kids--Little Man Tate, Searching for Bobby Fischer, and so on. The plot is predictable, but the drama is good and the neighbors and family interaction make it interesting. Message: Laurence Fishburne is still Morpheus, even when he's not Morpheus. ****

Then, I spiced some mead, took a shower, and fell asleep watching Mononoke-hime.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

a chocolate biscuit--covered in bees

Eddie Izzard update!

'Low Life', the drama series that Eddie has been working on for the last eighteen months was given the green light yesterday. FX channel have commissioned thirteen episodes which will air in the US late 2007. Eddie is absolutely thrilled.

"It's the part I have been waiting for all my life" says he.

Lots of love,

-- The BeeKeepers

I'm so happy for him ... and I know we don't have FX at our apartment, but if he gets 13 episodes, at least they'll eventually end up on DVD.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

an ogre, a secret, and a game

Somehow England is soon ridding itself of Tony, but we still can't dethrone King George? Why not?

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Last night, I watched: The Ogre, Mr Rice's Secret, and Nemesis Game. These are the bare-bones reviews.

The Ogre: The outbreak of World War II helps a French simpleton named Abel (John Malkovich) -- who was wrongfully accused of attacking a young girl -- avoid prison time. But when his army unit gets captured, he's imprisoned in a Nazi camp. The film unravels into a dark fairy tale in which Abel is groomed to train Hitler youth under the direction of der Führer's right-hand man, Hermann Goering (Volker Spengler).

It's sad, because, in the end, Abel wants to save the children in his charge (because their other teachers have gone off and died); but they're brainwashed little Nazi shit-heels who try to kill him for his effort. Message: Children suck. And destiny is not on your side. ***

Mr Rice's Secret: A terminally ill boy, Owen (Bill Switzer), discovers a sealed envelope addressed to him from Mr. Rice (David Bowie). Owen soon discovers that Mr. Rice has left him a medieval code ring, a treasure map and a series of clues -- clues that will lead him on a surreal treasure hunt and one step closer to his destiny ... which may save his life.

The premise is good, and David Bowie is surprisingly good in his relatively minor role, though I'm more often than not reminded of The Hunger and a little bit Labyrinth. However, it's low budget; and there's only so much you can do with the fantasy genre when you have no money. Message: Accept that you'll die one day, live in the now, and you'll be happy. And my parents are obviously incredibly lenient--kids in this movie are getting belted or threatened with being belted every ten minutes. Yes, terminally ill boy, you're weak and fragile, but you've misbehaved, so pull down your pants ... ? ***

Nemesis Game: Mystery-thriller about a shy college student, Sara (Carly Pope--from Popular), and her friend, Vern (Adrian Paul, doing his best to hide his accent), who spend their time solving mental games and riddles for fun. But when everyone around her starts dying one by one, Sara begins to wonder whether she's part of someone else's game. Could her life be in danger, too?

Short answer: Yes. Rena Owen and Ian McShane also star in this. Owen is a crazy woman who's seen "the great design" and become a murderess and McShane is Pope's policeman father. Everyone is conveniently tangled into the Toronto-set plot.

I suspected the ending would be a cop-out, and it sort of is. But it couldn't be otherwise; because if it weren't a cop-out, then it would've been a really good movie (not direct-to-video schtick). But between the believable craziness of Owen and my predisposition to enjoy watching Paul do anything, it was an enjoyable distraction. Message: You're better off not knowing the grand design of the universe; knowing will make you kill people for reasons known only to you. ***

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

life on an easel

I morph a topic from Shelly into an allegory involving art.

I was thinking about Frankenstein on my walk to work this morning. I got to the point where I took the whole as the obvious allegory of the Big Guy and man between Frankenstein and his monster. Frank (Big Guy) creates something terrible, thinking it'll be great, and not recognizing its horrible characteristics until it's animated and too late (people). Monster is abandoned and behaves terribly (lack of divine influence and free will). Frank's surprised and horrified when monster is no better than its origins would suggest it should be, and decides he needs to get rid of it (the Flood?). It goes about trying to destroy Frank and all his ties (nihilism, atheism).

Why do I think of overreaching metaphors when I'm walking to work? Boredom mainly.

But it made me think of the monster as a piece of art, a failed piece of art--something you'd want to scrap. And perhaps human beings are pieces of art--of a kind. If you're a crap piece of art, you get thrown in a bonfire. And if you're a brilliant piece of art, they'd stick you in a museum with other brilliant pieces of art [of your type]. If you're something in between they might stick you in the basement of the museum for repairs and touch-ups. But the cases of the bonfire versus the museum is obviously after-life. Until then, you're still the misshapen ball of clay or the unfinished work on the easel.

This is okay--but what does the artist want from his art (if anything)? What can a painting possibly give the painter? A painter doesn't require the adoration of its painting. It's there to be pretty, to be amusing. Failing that, it's no good. So if a painting is harmless, but boring, isn't it a failure? Won't it go on the bonfire? Similarly, if I have an amazing painting portraying something that many people find distasteful (CBT, BDSM, snuff, etc.), isn't that worth more than the poster of a "Who me?" kitten? Isn't it more interesting? And isn't it more successful as a piece of art? Won't it end up in the museum in spite of its graphic nature and questionable content? It might not sit next to a Rembrandt, but it'll certainly have a room for it and its ilk.

Put the relative success of artwork aside.

Leave the museum and all the individual pieces of art that may or may not deserve to end up in a shredder. And ask if the painter needs to keep any of them. This is not a symbiotic relationship, and he doesn't need anything in that museum.

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I say upsetting things. I'm sorry if I'm offensive. I only ask these things with half the impertinence my mother would probably imagine is in them. The other half of me is deadly serious, really wants a good explanation for the sham that I see in religion.

Why would anything omnipotent need us to like it? Worship it? Recognize that it exists? WHY? And, returning to Frankenstein, why create something that is inherently flawed and then punish or destroy it for being flawed? Why create it at all?

I remember saying "Jesus Christ" in an exclamation when I was in middle school or so. My mother slapped me across the face for it. And now I think, if it were as bad as all that, then surely a slap isn't nearly enough punishment. And if I'm right, and it doesn't actually matter to anyone or anything, then she shouldn't have slapped me at all. Right?

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

Work House Rock

You must have tea and cake with the vicar or--you die!

Eddie Izzard
This is apparently what we need in order to teach people how to write, now that they're out of college and in the real world.

There were plenty of fun songs from Schoolhouse Rock, most of which you've probably forgotten (and feel you are no less for forgetting).

But today, I have a grammatical lesson to share--prompted by a coworker's frustration and a friend's ignorance.

My coworker could not quite understand why Outlook was giving her a "fragment" error for one of her sentences in an e-mail; and I had not intended to say anything, but she started to get antsy about it, so I decided to explain.

To "follow up" something requires no hyphenation; however a "follow-up" of something does. The difference here is verb usage versus noun usage, respectively. I'm sure it will make sense if you think about it long enough ... (though a few short seconds should be plenty for most, and some will understand immediately).

Therefore, if you would like a follow-up [noun], then that's fine; but if you would like to follow up [verb], that's something else.

Here is another example of verb usage, courtesy of my flat-mate: I will follow up with your professor about your project.

Thanks.

My coworker said that she never understood grammar lessons in elementary school. I told her that this was hardly irregular. The only way anyone ever really understands grammar is through constant use (writing and/or reading), so if you're not much of a writer or a reader, it's not going to come easy. Basics might come to you, yes; anything beyond that, not likely. Learning a foreign language also makes you more aware of parts of speech, but I didn't go into that.

And this point of view could be argued against, I understand; but I still feel that those who read and write more than the average are more likely to understand these things (including the inherent importance of proper spelling and correct grammar). If you want to be understood in the world, you had better learn to communicate.

Yes, this is one of my pet peeves towards a majority of science-minded individuals who try to bash me for having an English B.A. Of course, this resentment is not directed at scientists who can write, but those who think they don't need to know how.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

Match Point, etc.

Fittingly (or not, I don't know), I went out to the movies on the night of the Golden Globes ... to see Match Point.

Happily, this is not a tennis movie. All the plot summaries I found online set it up to seem like tennis was a big part of the film. And, metaphorically, I suppose it is; but it's primarily a backdrop and a motif for other things that are happening, rather than a major part of the film (it's not Wimbledon is what I'm trying to say--and while that is a good movie, it's not what I was looking for this time).

It's a fairly grim plot with some absolutely brilliant dialog, and for my limited experience with Woody Allen (The Front, remember?), this did not surprise me. For others more acquainted with his comedy (I am not one of those), it might go over badly. But I loved it. It's grim and gritty and beautiful.

And yes, it helps that Jonathan Rhys Meyers is in every scene. Some reviews I've read have described his character as being less emotional than he should be. I think he's just right; he's sick, torn, brutal, guilty, and falling apart. And it's just fantastic.

And for reasons that would be more evident if you've seen the film, this got my mind going on the issue of legitimacy--especially in regards to Shakespearean villain, Edmund. I think it would be wonderful to write and/or read an adaptation of the Edgar/Edmund/Gloucester relationship in a modern or alternate universe context and see what could be done with it. With or without the connection to Lear, I don't care; but I think Edmund is interesting enough without pulling in the main plot of King Lear.

... I know, I know. One project at a time, right?

Yesterday I also went to CVS (for pre-show goodies, which are cheaper than in-house goodies), and they had a BOGO on any Coke product with Diet Black Cherry Vanilla Coke as the free-b. The flavour reminded me of a rum-n-coke, to be honest; and I'm still debating whether that's good or bad ...

Other reflections I keep having: I don't often wear my contacts, once or twice a week, which is not nearly as often as I should. Every time I do wear them, however, I find myself staring at things. And I think this is what gaining "vampiric sight" would feel like (if such a thing actually existed, mind you)--suddenly seeing things that you never see otherwise. A little squirrel running across a power-line; sitting on the T, watching people sitting inside their apartments through un-curtained windows; every twig and branch of a tree on Beacon St. in sharp relief against the sky; or tiny separate pin-points of Christmas lights that usually seem like a continuous bright white blur. And it makes me think I ought to wear my contacts more often--except for this awful habit of staring at everything with near-foolish wonderment when I do.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...