Blunted trauma

God, this place saps desire like some magic desire sapping machine. This place being Chinook Lane, Chattaroy towneshippe. I'd love to report that I've been fantastically productive since coming back from Boston.

I haven't. I can't even think straight. Forming thoughts is like striking a match underwater with your pants down. Futile and embarassing. Today I had to go to town to drop off some writing samples for my professors. Along the way I was meeting my dad for breakfast at Ye Olde Bomb-ass European Breakfast Jointe, just one stop.

In focusing on doing that thing along the way I forgot the writing samples I was supposed to bring--forgot about the first un-self-indulgent thing I would have done since what--two weeks ago I guess. The GREs, whenever that was. What is it about this provincial life that wipes my brain clean and makes me a mumbling dullard? This place makes me a moron, but it's so tranquil I can't bring myself to leave.

I think it's the dialup. And the sirens.

Right now I'm listening to Eliot Smith's post-suicide album for the first time since I bought it a week before it came out [connections]. That's a long time ago. Since moving back to Spokane, my interest in things that normally interest me has dwindled. Music, all that. In it's place I've put nothing. Nothing new.

And now I'm listening to this sad, dead man and I feel nothing. This bucolic condition, it dulls you around the edges. I never had much edge to begin with, but now you could safely give me to a class of kindergarteners and let them run with me.

I've believed it for a while but now I have proof: Thoreau was an idiot.

Since I'm not doing anything, I should be doing something. But what--maybe I'll write something. Like this, only better.

These men are cowards Donny.

Read the full thing here.

This just in . . .

Small Indie Label thinks I'm a Journalist
or
The deception pays off

A lot of strange things happen when polling referral URLs. You see who comes to your blog and from where. You see familiar addresses, unfamiliar addresses, the occasional zany search string.

Example: recently I found out that if someone were to Google Dave Chapelle and GZA, my blog is number three with a bullet, right after some place that hocks ringtones.

Today came a surprise of an entirely different order. I clicked a referral link I didn't recognize and got this, an excerpt from an old roadtrip rundown that Imputor records maybe thought was an actual work of journalism. Suckers.

Maybe they just needed more positive words about a good album.

Either way, it's nice to see myself somehow with the word press.

I leave soon for the airport, and will be back soon amongst thee.

Read the full thing here.

Apathy, now ignorance

There's this new conventional wisdom that says a lot of people were/are turned off by liberal intellectual elitism, a factor that may or may not have hurt Democrats and advocates of socially liberal policies this election. I can't really comment on that, I don't know if anyone can, it's just kind of a feeling some people have--the winds of down-to-earth red change. The kind of thing that's unquantifiable.

While arrogance might or might not have swayed elections, it may turn out that Democrats, in Washington at least, were most affected by a healthy helping of stupidity. Remember how the Governor's race ended with the Republican Dino Rossi up by 261 votes (Vote or Tie, Nov. 17)? First recount is in, and his lead is now 42 votes, with a second recount probably on the way.

The stupidity comes in precisely here: write-ins. Writing in a candidate in general is pretty stupid, because if the candidate had not the support nor the organizational capacity to get on the ballot in the first place, I mean, what does that say about the person? His or her chances are already nil, but what does it say about the person? Nothing good.

If, however, you feel you must truly vote your conscience, as symbolic and mute as that vote may be, go make yourself feel better.

But first, make sure the person you're voting for is eligible. This recount, which has now begun scrutinizing write-in ballots, has found that over 550 people in King County alone wrote in names of Democrats other than Christine Gregoire--recall: vote differential -42. Even that is fine. You're a Democrat, but you don't like Gregoire, that too is absolutely reasonable, a little futile for a pragmatist like myself, but I understand.

But this eligibility thing, it's troublesome. You see, over 500 of those 550+ people (King County alone mind you) chose Ron Sims as their write-in of choice. Ron Sims who had already been beaten by Gregoire in the primary. Ron Sims, who, according to Washington State law, is now, by virtue of losing the primary, unable to run even as a write-in.

That means you Sims lovers who felt a wave of real liberalism on the horizon and despite your candidate's failure still felt compelled to skribble down your symbolic dissent: your vote got thrown the fuck away. Morons.

Negative 42 plus 500 equals positive 458. Game Gregoire--game Democrats--if only it were that simple.

This is much worse than voting for Nader because it proves that, while Democrats may be elitist assholes, there are also a good chunk of them who are both arrogant and stupid. And now we're one step closer to the first Republican governor in 24 years.

Further proof that symbolism is fine for books, but is bullshit in real life.

The Washington Democrats now have three days to ask for a new recount, which, since the new recount fell under the 150 vote differential, might end up being done one vote at a time, optical scanning machines replaced by thousands of bespectacled seniors, bussed from their managed care facilities, battling their gout and glaucoma to do the work of the real patriots.

Read the full thing here.

The Meager Decency Un-Hoax

At the behest of the FCC, I'm self-censoring my spewings [can I say that?] in case this blog is read before the 10 o'clock hour, Eastern Savings Time.

People are talking. There's some lewd, indecent s[expletive deleted] going down all around us: dropped towels, exposed nipples and the piercings they bear, censorship. People are outraged by sex before junior's bedtime, but it's no one I know. People are outraged that "opportunistic ayatollahs on the right have been working overtime to inflate this nonmandate into . . . censorship by a compliant F.C.C. and, failing that, self-censorship by TV networks," but again, it's no one I know.

No one I know is worried about these things for two reasons: (a) I don't know anyone who has kids and (b) I don't know anyone who watches network television. That said, even if (a) weren't true, no one I know would be worried because (b), no one I know watches network television. And the reason, dear sirs and madams, that no one watches network TV, is because it sucks a[expletive deleted]oles. It's only now, with the penetration [tough call] of cable and the revenues generated, that pay TV has begun creating its own shows which are subject to much less stringent regulations.

You see, in paying extra money for cable, and more money on top of that for HBO, Showtime and the others, you are creating a demilitarized zone into which the FCC is loath to enter. You are, by virtue of your conscious patronage, consenting to as many breasts and expletives [within reason] that Comedy Central or HBO can throw at you. Basic cable networks self-sensor because there is a less specific consent in buying a basic package than specifically opting in for HBO and they still have to deal with advertisers, many of whom are "family companies". Whatever, the point is: where the FCC treadeth less, there bloometh intelligent programming. On HBO and Showtime, in a land of a[expletive deleted] and expletives, writers are free to cuss like real people, do drugs like real people, and copulate like real people.

This allows for shows real people like to watch.

So go ahead and censor all the advertising during all the bu[expletive deleted]it, sucky a[expletive deleted] programming I never watch. Big deal. Give the puritans their cloistered public airwaves with its intrusive commercialism. I take my smut straight.

All the same, I think we should reach out to them--they of the bible-belt. Maybe the whole problem is just that the red-state people, the welfare state people, the people worried about the effect of Nicolette Sheridan's lower back on toddling Jimmy's soul, are just too poor to afford HBO. Too poor to gain confirmation from Home Box Office that the things they think about in their private moments and the things they do in their darkened bedrooms are not, in fact, deviant.

Allow HBO to speak the unfettered truth, saying, "indeed, Jeraboam [Ezekiel as the case may be], all of humanity thinks bad thoughts from time to time, no one is perfect. Imperfection isn't evil, imperfection is human. Indeed, Jer [Zeke], though nauseating in retrospect, sex is fun in the moment, necessary and most of all, OK for consenting adults."

So I think, post election, those socially liberal 527s with money left over should pool their resources and focus on subsidizing HBO for the heartland's poor and sexually-repressed. Beam them smut, give them Sex for Dummies, and send them forth to preach the sexy, foul-mouthed gospel.

** [because there's no good segue] **

Nor is this Great Indecency Hoax so great, it's been done, it's tired, it's a non-issue. It's a fact of life.

The titillating little tug of war between the prudery and the sex-racketeers has been raging since long before I was born, since probably even before network TV allowed sitcom couples to share a bed. Outside the arena of television, it's been going on since at least the inception of that oldest profession.

As long as there have been whores, there have been those decrying whoredom.

And as long as there have been bare-midriffs, cleavage and smalls-of-backs, there have been those saying such things aren't fit for children. Now, it's just contextualized for Television and the current perceived moral climate [a 22% chance of blustery, fervent puritanism as of the last election]. No privates or swearings between 6 am and 9 pm on public airwaves, and afterward only in moderation--and only then with the proper disclaimer. Thus, when the skin-shy denizens of America, through their champion the FCC, state unequivocally: butts but no boobs may grace our cathode ray tubes, they're just reiterating the one side of that endless debate.

Advertisers and TV execs are always trying to get you to look at boobs, the FCC is always trying to cover your eyes. Granted, Janet-gate shouldn't have happened and was the result of a fame-deprived bit of vigilantism. But this latest thing is just a victim of timing. The post-election cycle is a tepid evolutionary killing ground and now it's less ringed-breast than news-deprived journalists who are fanning a nonflame into a nonfire.

After all, it's sex, big m[expletive deleted]king deal.

Read the full thing here.

Wine grapes as life

I like this Alexander Payne guy. Three very funny, moving, true movies. Election, About Schmidt, and now, Sideways. He's done some other movies as well, Citizen Ruth with Laura Dern, The Passion of Martin, which I can find no information about, and two soft-core loveathons for Playboy--real passion, simulated penetration. The breadth of his work as a filmmaker is already considerable.

I went into Sideways with the personal expectation bar probably set too high after seeing Election, About Schmidt and American Splendor (for star Paul Giamatti). I hoped it was better than all of these, a stupid desire that always ends with me sucking my thumb, in tears. I'd more or less decided I wouldn't see the film at all, the odds were just stacked against me. Then, something unexpected happened. Driven by Kismet--fate as only the Turkish can manage--the bar was inexplicably nudged higher by various reviewers.

It seemed then, that this movie was going to be so damned good I couldn't help but be devastated by its inability to live up to the brain-monument I would create to it. The monument destined to become a sepulcher. I needed a fall guy, something to drag my perception of the movie down enough that I'd feel okay watching it. To find that, I looked to the supporting actor.

The x-factor I found, the only potential flaw in the Carrara-marbled monolith--the only thing that could soften the blow of dissappointment--was Thomas Hayden Church, you know, Lowell Mathers. I hadn't seen him since Tales from the Crypt Presents: Demon Knight, which I think was at Ben Kromer's birthday party in 8th grade. He was good then, but not great. To stifle hope, I imagined him being neither good nor great.

It was a bust of Thomas Hayden Church, then, with which I crowned my expectations, and that sullied the whole thing enough that I felt okay about actually watching it. You can imagine, then, my surprise at his gleeful performance. In Sideways he's both good and great, often simultaneously. In such instances, like Voltron, good and great form to become real great.

Jack is an actor. Jack is guided by "nothing but [his] instincts". Jack's instincts are fantastically horny, and grateful for every piece of ass he gets. Especially the pieces of ass he gets days before that final, symbolic piece of ass, the honeymoon. Church plays Jack in some inexplicable way, a way that makes us like him. He's so selfish, so emotional, so starving for something resembling love, that he detaches his soon to be married self from his remaining bachelor self. All he wants is to be accepted, by his fiancee, by Miles (Paul Giamatti), by single mother Stephanie, by the chubby waitress who recognizes him as his decade-old One Life to Live doppelganger. He loves no one so much as himself, but somehow, Church makes us feel like there might be enough left over that he really loves all of these other people quite a bit too. Except the chubby waitress, that was probably a rebound thing. Probably also an ego thing. So we like him. He's our asshole friend. We all have one.

As good as Hayden is, Paul Giamatti is better, by virtue, probably, of being Paul Giamatti and playing a character that once again feels like retreading territory he's already covered in real life. Like Harvey Pekar in American Splendor, Miles is a child of pain and failure. Miles is a man of aspiration and brilliance. He's also, unfortunately, an anachronism. An alcoholic of the wine-tasting variety, he appreciates with monklike fervor something that most of modernity treats as an afterthought. White with fish and pork, Red with beef--or something like that. For Miles, it goes much deeper, wine is a reason to live. He also teaches 8th grade and has written a novel that is at least 750 manuscript pages. A novel Miles fears is a great book that won't find a home. From the beginning we know he's probably right.

I say the book is at least 750 pages because, at one point, as he quizzes Jack about his newest draft, Miles asks about the new ending. It's much, much better, Jack says. Miles tells him that nothing after page 750 has changed at all. Jack reasons that it must have just seemed different because everything leading up to it is so different. "Yeah, I'm sure it's that," Miles says with an acidity that belies his sullen exterior.

A lot of the humor in this movie, and there's a shitton, is based around these kinds of exchanges. An equal amount is based on personal humiliation. A third and no less significant source is how these two things are held beautifully in suspension by slapstick action. Jack gives Miles some bad news. It's some really horrible, absolutely awful news. Personally humiliating news. Miles shrinks away, then attacks Jack for keeping it from him. Jack on the defensive, explains his wrong-headed but good-hearted reasoning. That's the exchange. What makes the scene transcend what we've seen a million times in a million buddy movies is Miles' final move. There's a High Noon moment. Miles has a crazy look in his eye and Jack hunkers down like a linebacker. Miles dives into the back of his 70's Saab convertible, grabs a bottle of Pinot Noir and dashes headlong down a really steep slope, thumbing the mouth of the bottle between deep swigs, while Jack, the more conventionally brutish and manly of the two, gingerly and carefully runs after. It serves to lighten up a very confrontational scene, but also underscore that Miles, so close to rock-bottom, really has nothing left to lose.

It's the near constant and unexpected moments like that which make Sideways a really beautiful film. Also unexpected is Alexander Payne's respect for his audience and the importance he places on the film's many details. Nothing is wasted. This tasting tour of the Santa Barbara wine country isn't just a running gag machine. It doesn't just facilitate Jack replying, regardless of whether Miles loves or hates his wine, "Tastes pretty good to me." Wine is an interwoven and accessible metaphor for both Miles' and Maya's lives. In a moving scene, when Miles explains his unearthly love of Pinot Noir, the entire theatre gradually erupts in laughter as people realized he was talking about a certain variety of grape, yes, but more expressively about himself as well. Thin-skinned, not a survivor, it can't just grow any where . . . needs a lot of love. Payne expects us to understand the mystery that Miles can't, and subtly but deliberately gives us the clues to unravel it.

If I, myself, weren't so much like that lovely, fragile Pinot Noir--more perhaps like the hardy Cabernet--I might not have liked Sideways so much. But, I think, like all the subtle blends of California wine country, there's a little Pinot in everyone.

Read the full thing here.