May 2002

May 31, 2002

Stumpy seems to think I have a hard time talking about feelings. What?! No problem here - as long as the feelings being discussed are: anger, rage, or fury.

I like talking about Ikebana, too.

May 30, 2002

Hotmail lets you use a filter to send likely spam directly to a "Junk Mail" folder. Although, this is a handy feature, from time to time, I find messages in my "Junk Mail" folder that are not, in fact, spam. I also manage to receive a ponderous amount of spam in my Inbox, but that's another rant entirely.

My usual course of action is to give the list of senders in said "Junk Mail" folder a cursory glance from time to time to see if any valid messages have mistakenly ended up poised to go to the trash. I few minutes ago, I was scanning the list when I spotted "Noel F." I actually know a "Noel F.", but haven't heard from him in some time. It's a fairly unusual name, so I guessed this might actually be the "Noel F." I know, as opposed to those lowest common denominator-sent messages from "John S.", "sue", "Dad", etc.

My eyes followed a straight line from sender to subject line:

SMACK PEOPLE WITH YOUR BIG DICK!!

Classic. I guess Noel pays the rent with e-marketing these days.

May 28, 2002

Two television shows wrapped up recently - one for the season (24), one for good (The X-Files).

A few words about them, then. Yes?

I watched the entire season of 24. I'm a sucker for the "real time" gimmick. After all, I sat through the awful "Nick of Time" for the same reason. (well, for "real time" and Christopher Walken. I couldn't pass that up, although I should have. I probably also should have nixed "The Propechy II." Not that I watched it, or anything. Twice.) In case you were one of the many who didn't see any of 24 and missed the decent press, the show's season was a day in the life of an anti-terrorist agent named Jack Bauer (who looked a lot like Kiefer Sutherland), one hour at a time, from midnight to midnight. Each "one hour" episode (really, 40-something minutes, I think - doesn't everybody's life get interrupted by commercials?) followed an hour of Jack's day. Once Mike and I put in a good number of hours, we really had to hang in there to finish out the day. Which means the gimmick worked its magic on us. Unfortunately, I imagine the nature of the show also made getting in after the first coupla hours too daunting for most folks (despite a neat little, "this is what's happened so far" intro to every episode), so I hazard to guess the audience didn't grow much from the beginning to end. Fox was kind enough to rerun episodes on the FX channel which was a very good thing - I have a sillyhard time remembering to be in front of the tv at the same time once a week, so I caught a few on the rebound.

All good and lovely so far, yes?

So, I had a couple problems with the show, and since I don't have the numbers of the writers or producers, I'll just spill my beans here. Note: I shall not pull a Forrest and give away the ending without due admonition. That is to say, I'm about to give away the ending. Stop here. Go away. Hit Blockbuster when the "first season DVD" comes out for rent. Watch all 24 hours in one sitting and numb your ass like ne'er before.

They killed his wife. (I warned you. I wasn't kidding around. Happy now?) Now, the whole gist of the show was, terrorists kidnap Jack's wife and daughter in an attempt to force him to assassinate a Senator on the road to becoming a President. The wife and daughter escape, they're recaptured, they escape, you get the picture.

And, at the end, they killed his wife. Jesus Schmoolians in a trash bag.

What is this, a fucking Greek tragedy? I want escapist fun, not a fucking wet snotrag. I'm not sure what kind of purpose doing the wife serves, except to leave me thinking, "Let's see, the rope... the rope... the rope is in... the attic?" The funny thing is, I'm the first to applaud a move like this, usually. I love movies, tv shows, books (ok, so I don't read. Ya got me, Sherlock. Stand proud.), radio plays, etc. that feature a good ol' ya-didn't-see-the-death-of-this-character-coming-didya? But, Key Rist. The poor guy spent the whole season trying to save his friggin wife and daughter! And they killed her. Dead.

Wife dies in Jack's arms. Fade to clock: 11:59... 12:00. End.

I can't wait for next season where we follow Jack around for 24 more hours as he makes funeral arrangements. I mean, they killed his fucking wife!

I'd also like to file a minor protest with the Olympic committee against the casting of Dennis Hopper as the show's baddie. I normally like Hopper, but listening to him mangle his Vulgarian accent was nearly too great a cross to bear. I kept waiting for him to intone, "I VANT to SUCK your BLOOD!" Thankfully, he didn't show up til the last few episodes, but bringing him aboard was nearly tantamount to strapping skis on the show and heading for the penned-in shark.

So, just to review: They killed his wife. Sheeit.

I haven't actually watched The X-Files with any regularity since the end of the show's second season. That was way back in.... time, I dunno. Sure, I checked in on the wonder twins now and again, but (and maybe it's just foolish pride talking here) I got the feeling I had followed the show at its apex. Seemed to me, after several seasons/years, Mulder's whole "truth" schtick got to feeling forced and, uh, well, old.

But, with the same morbid curiosity that might lead me to attend my next high school reunion (not likely), I tuned in for Fox and Scully's swan song.

Bad move. I wish I didn't. Better to remember the show in its prime than to suffer through the two hours of blind-leading-the-retarded trainwreck that was The X-Files finale.

I mean, a "ripped from today's headlines" military tribunal with Mulder on trial for murder? Ick. The X-Files was always best when Mulder and Scully were trampsing around Canada (made to look like your pick of eastern seaboard locales - shooting in Canada is cheapy!) in hot pursuit of some ridiculous nightcreature. Remanding the bulk of the last show to some non-descript military ballroom was not a stroke of genius; it was crappy.

There were fleeting glimpses of the spectacular chemistry between the principals that made the show great (and Mulder did finally grab Scully and jam his tongue down her t'roat, the showing of which I suspect might've been a first), but they just served as a reminder of how far and how flat the show had fallen. I think whenever you have a show featuring dual, male and female, protagonists, the clock is pretty much ticking - they're gonna circle and circle until they end up in bed. Everybody wants them to do it, baby, but everybody also knows the show will commence sucking hard the second they light up the post-coital smokes. Once the tension is broken, well, the tension is, ah, broke. I'm honestly not clear on whether or not Mulder and Scully jumped up and down horizontally on a bed, but there was mention of some love-child they had, so... I guess they porked. (I am a poet. I weave magic with words.) I would've ended the show the moment they climaxed. Mulder forgets all about aliens and realizes he's been working side-by-side with a knockout redhead for years. Hot monkey sex ensues. Roswell, boswell.

I guess what I'm getting at here is, they could've ended the show in a dozen other ways, all of them superior.

Perhaps you could argue the "non-ending/ending" of the last show was just a setup for more "X-Files: The Movies," but the whole enchilada rang hollow to me.

And what good is a hollow enchilada, anyway?

May 25, 2002

Sometimes a Bad Thing™ can turn into a Good Thing™.

So, I had been looking forward to Satan's favorite television network's latest installment of Pseudo/Quasi/Not-Really Celebrity Boxing. Sean was even kind enough to throw me an invite to his pad to take in the war crimes among like-minded individuals. It was too good to be true. Truely, it was. Because, so giddy was I at the prospect of witnessing Screech and that geek from "Welcome Back Carter" biyatch smizacking each other around a boxing ring, that I completely forgot my wife made plans for us to go to the Boston Pops.

The Boston Pops. I could've cried. Ok. I cried. Like a baby. Like a baby that was dropped down a flight of stairs. Twice. (Note to child services: I am only postulating here - I have no first hand knowledge of the behaviors of infants that are thrown down staircases. Twice. Thank you.)

So, off to the Pops we went. (sniff, sniff) I fully expected a sober evening of pastoral compositions, performed with the rote zeal of an assembly line worker. Don't get me wrong. I'm down with the symphonic music. I'm schooled in all that crap. But, I mean, come on. There was friggin Pseudo/Quasi/Not-Really Celebrity Boxing to be had.

And, in fact, slow-likey-molasses is indeed how the evening began. The first couple pieces were smack dab in line with my expectations. With the exception of some fine food and drink and the company of a hot piece of ass, I had resigned myself to a few hours of misery.

Then the violinist in the purple sparkly tank top and black sparkly hot pants came out.

Ok, now we're getting somewhere, Corporal. The lil band dove into a composition whose violin part was so Yngwie-like in its furious pace and density of notes, I had to ask my wife if it was a Paganini piece (it wasn't). So, as it turned out, there were three world-class female violinists performing this eve (Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg, Regina Carter, and Eileen Ivers), each a superstar in her genre of music (classical, jazz and Celtic, respectively) and the fare was to include the world premiere of a piece written especially for the three by Dave Brubeck's son, Chris (titled, "Interplay").

Son, you don't have to know shit from Shinola to tell this was going to be something special. And it was.

Frankly, I've always had a hard time buying into violin as a valid jazz/blues instrument. I just don't hear it. I don't like accordian in my death metal either. But that's just me - Regina Carter is a phenomenal player and certainly her technique and style are right at home in the music she plays. Soulful bends and fluid, speech-like phrasing. Not what I usually associate with the violin (which, I guess, is where the trouble starts for me). Not precisely my cup of tea, but I can underdig where she's coming from.

I had recently read an article about Eileen Ivers and how she's from the Bronx and she's at the forefront of Celtic music and she's the friggin Seven Time All-Ireland Fiddle Champion and I made a mental note to check her out, if the opportunity ever availed itself. Life is funny like that sometimes. You gotta love a chick who pumps her electric violin through overdrive and a Wah Wah pedal at the Boston Pops. I actually searched the stage for a guitar player for a coupla seconds before I realized that the screaming lead was coming from the violin. At one point, a tap dancer joined her onstage to pound out some rhythm - more traditional tap than Riverdance. I tell ya, I wanted to leap from my seat and scream, "TWO DEODORANTS! TWO DEODORANTS!"

The Brubeck piece was a loose and fun pastiche of each violinist's specialty - a ragged blend of everything that sounded perfectly unified. They played it like they'd know it all their lives, although I think they'd only rehearsed it a handful of times before the debut. Masters always make it look so easy. Bitches.

It was an inspiring evening. A once in a lifetime event. A treasure to behold. Someday I'll forgive my wife. Someday.

May 20, 2002

Coupla things I forgot to mention previously in my movie-roundup:

The "air traffic chase scene" towards the beginning of Attack of the Clones looks like The Fifth Element - right down to the yellow "air car" that resembles Bruce Willis' character's taxicab.

Apparently, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, all hair stylists were fearless practical jokers who dared to give the vaunted Jedi Knights ridiculous mullets and rat tails and dweeby pony-tails. Check out Obi-Wan's hockey hair and Anakin's tard braid/tail combo. Talk about unkind cuts.

Spider-Man somehow manages to be both a decent flick, and feature a potentially shark-jumping scene. All I can say is, when you hear the phrase: "Ladies and gentlemen, Macy Gray!" go for more popcorn. Ick.

Also, I'd think by now, ripping off the Matrix and specifically Neo's gravity-defying-back-breaking-bullet-time-bullet-dodging scene would be more a liability than an asset. Note to Hollywood: No more slo-mo leaning backward to dodge flying stuff. It don't work no more. It will not be considered "cool" by the movie-going audience. Thank you.

May 17, 2002

"Lookie, lookie!" - Jar Jar Binks

Jesus Christ, George. Why don't you just sell "Yard Jar Jar" statues holding laterns?

I've seen four movies lately - two in the theater: Attack of the Clones (not by choice, I promise you), Spider-Man, and two on dvd: Series 7: The Contenders, Sexy Beast - that I'd like to jaw about. These aren't reviews, per se - I leave that to the master - just a coupla comments. If any spoilers are revealed, it's not intentional. Having said that, it is possible, so you may want to stop reading here - if finding out that Anakin Skywalker is really a transman will ruin the new Star Wars movie for you. That's right! Ze is really a zir! Or... something.

I was looking forward to seeing Series 7 since I'm a voracious consumer of reality television, and this "mockumentary" is all 'bout a ficticious "Survivor-like" contest. Only, there's no silly "immunity challenges" - the point of the game is to hunt and kill the other players. Good, good. I like that. The movie is shot to give the impression you're watching a marathon of "Series 7" shows. Much like the way "The Real World" occasionally hijacks MTV for a Saturday, allowing you to fully immerse yourself in state-of-the-art carcinogenic broadcasting. Neat, I can dig it. Unfortunately, the novelty quickly wears thin; the movie pretty much blew. I guess for me, the real draw of watching a bunch of "reg'lar" people talk and walk is that the best crap tumbles forth from their maws. The creme de la crap, so to speak. I mean, you can't script this stuff... which is a problem (a big one) when you try to make a movie about an unscripted reality show. It was nice to catch up with the chick from The Silence of the Lambs who belted out TP's "American Girl" like she really meant it, though. Was that too review-y? That kinda felt like a review... Hm. Let's move on.

I was similarly initially pleased to get my ham-hands on Sexy Beast. Cause I love heist flicks. I love em. I like em, plenty. You got me, Sparky? And the box said this was about a heist, or thieves, or criminals, or the like. And I like. You hear, Chief?

So, as it turns out, this flick was less about a heist as it was about Ben Kingsley (aka Ghandi) chewing up the scenery as a hot-headed baddie. The actual heist had all of about 3 minute's screen time, and was roundly disappointing. Had I known this going into the film, I might have enjoyed it more, but I was kinda expecting all the groovy heist-planning, gang-gathering, cross and double-crosses that make a heist flick, well, a heist flick.

On the plus side: Ben was great great. I mean, really, really good (hence the "great great") as the heavy. It was kinda cool to see peace-lovin Ghandi tossing the "C" word (and I don't mean "chaka-laka") around with the type of abandon normally reserved for sit-in protests. Those Brits love their "C" word, man. They friggin love it. Also, I added a couple new (to me) insults to my collection: "pillock," and "ponce." I adore both. They make a nice triumvirate with "pym." And all very British sounding. Makes me want to shun dental care and smash a guitar, it does. You right ponce.

Attack of the Clones. See it, if you must. I wish I didn't. My wife wanted to go. (Yes, I do whatever my wife wants to do. No, I have no impetus of my own. It makes everything better that way.)

A couple things I noticed: the cityscapes looked like Blade Runner, replete with gigantic neon-ey adverstisements on buildings featuring Asian people hawking products. The Waterworld world looked like, well, Waterworld, inhibited by the creatures from The Abyss. The "outer part" of the balconies in the Gladiator scene looked like big, terra cotta vaginas, as my wife was kind enough to point out. I kept waiting for Count Dooky to lean over the edge and stimulate the clitoris. He could have used his "light sabre" to carve his way up to the G-spot. In battle scenes, Lucas leaned heavily on the ZOOM! technique, perhaps hoping to satisfy the audience's need for anything directed by Raimi, thus squelching Spider-Man's boffo box office. The Jedis seem to have attended a few too many jazzercise classes, as evidenced in their "Solid Gold" stances when kicking CG-droid ass. CG-anything sucks, as evidenced by the eerie "I'm-not-really-here-I'm-actually-a-blue-ping-pong-ball-against-a-blue-background" look that Yoda favored. Gimme a muppet anyday.

Spider-Man was decent. The CG scenes didn't offend as much as I was led to believe they would by the heavily "Spidey-swingin" weighted commercials. And only a coupla times did I catch myself thinking, "Whoa, what is Spider-Man doing in the Evil Dead universe?" Good show. Bad versus evil. Candy-coated and with a satisfying crunch.

May 13, 2002

I spotted my new favorite a-hole vanity plate over the weekend:

MITPHD

I guess

WANKER

was taken.

May 10, 2002

I think a lot of people who've had to struggle through very painful episodes in their lives can understand suicide. At least, in the abstract. Whether the hardship is heaved randomly at you, or it's brought on by your own doing, from time to time, I believe most of us entertain a fleeting, "No mas. No mas." thought or two. Usually, this passes, we pick ourselves up off the floor, dust off, buck up and move on. Sometimes it doesn't. Someone I know passed away recently. There's a good chance that it was suicide. I didn't know him especially well - we didn't see each other often, we didn't talk all that much when we did see each other - but I liked him a lot. I have some personal, first-hand knowledge of the kinds of trouble he was having, so I can imagine a bit of what he was going through. Obviously, I didn't walk a day in his shoes, but if shared experience can bring any kind of understanding, I think I might know at least a little of what he was trying to work through. I understand the problem even if I so vehemently disagree with the solution. He'll be missed by those he's left behind.

I wonder if offering any kind of blanket "ask-for-help" plea is a source of solace for anyone in need. Maybe it just serves to make me feel better. These issues are complex, and navigating the way through is such a difficult task; certainly a simplistic message is not what's called for. But that's all I can do for now. I don't think suicide is ever the answer. If that's what you come up with, change the question.

May 7, 2002

From the conductor on the Red Line T at Porter Square:

"We're experiencing a delay due to a medical emergency and a disabled train at the Harvard Square stop. We'll be moving as soon as possible."

Now, a delay caused by either a medical emergency or a disabled train wouldn't seem so forboding to me... but both suggests something pretty grisly. Ick.

May 2, 2002

Many thanks to Pep for introducing me to the sonic stylings of Nick Drake. He may have offed himself way back in '74, but his music is state-of-the-art in wrist-slitting accompaniment today. Perfect for a rainy day.

May 1, 2002

Boston is a very small town, and despite what some people will tell you, doesn't really have an awful lot to recommend it. At least, not if you've been to a truly great city. Like New York. Or New Orleans. Or Pittsburgh.

A couple of the many strikes against Boston:

Closing time is like, 11:30. How can I get my drunk on when I'm home before Dad goes to bed? And don't give me none of that, "Well, you just have to know where the uber-cool afterhours clubs are blah blah blah..." Get this: I DON'T WANT TO LEARN SOME SECRET FUCKING HANDSHAKE I WANT TO GET DRUNK, JACKHOLE.

The drivers are really, REALLY, I'm-going-out-of-my-way-to-screw-you rude. Now, I'm not some nansy-pansy driver. (I drive a Tercel. Did I mention that? Yeah, it's a '96. You are so righteously jealous right now.) I can handle myself behind the wheel. (And often do. Hoo gah!) I love to drive in Manhattan because, although you have to be aggressive and know what the hell you're doing and where the hell you're going and the cabs seem to wildly veer at you from all directions and the streets seem to lack any kind of organizational structure that would suggest lanes, there are unspoken rules and behind the facade of menace, there's a healthy amount of respect between drivers.

Not so in Beantown. I used to try to maintain some semblance of courtesy, some shred of regard for my fellow man, when tooling around town, but no more. It just doesn't pay. Case in point: When someone is entering the highway from an onramp, in what I learned in drivers ed is termed an acceleration lane (note to Bostonians: Look that up. Please.), I normally slow a bit, if I'm in the right-most lane, to allow the driver to get up to speed and get on the damn road. In Boston, the other drivers will not speed up and merge in front of you, even when you are (literally) waving them on. They hit the brakes (which is somewhat counter-productive when attempting to join fast-moving traffic on an expressway) and force your hand in cutting them off. The first time I encountered this, it was nearly a game of anti-chicken. We were trying to out brake each other. I slowed to let said dullard on the road, said dullard slowed. Repeat and rinse. Finally, after creeping down to the 45 mph mark, I blew by the mobile vegetable shaking my head and considering shaking a digit. I mean, WTF? Now, I understand that drivers merging into traffic in and around Boston are like severely beaten spouses, afraid to do anything that might result in another smackdown to the point of paralysis. Now, I regularly find myself pulling to a stop in traffic right in front of a car that wants to turn onto the road I'm on, fully and completely and unneccesarily blocking the other driver's way, because if I don't, if I pause to let someone in ahead of me, to show the slightest bit of grace in my daily commute, other drivers just won't know what the fuck to do. The guy I'm letting in will freeze up and likely poo his shorts, the guy behind me will lay on the horn, the guy ahead of me will rear end the guy in front of him, rubber-necking to see what the hell is causing all the commotion behind him. Chaos in the streets. Dogs and cats living together. The whole deal. My "good deed" ends up in murder, mayhem, a frigging WWF-pay-per-view in the intersection. Who needs it? I give. Uncle. You want me to treat you badly? Ok. Happy now?

Whoa. Where the hell did that come from? Ok, so... I was going to write about Boston and Louis Grammatico of the seminal rock group Foreigner, but in the interest of getting at least one other thing done today, I will close here.

More later?