Saturday, October 30, 2004

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Masquerade! or FASHION LEPER

Er . . . or thereabouts. I shouldn't be invited to a formal function. I end up wearing a psycho Blues Brothers "half head" and a suede green jacket, and then circling around the walls aimlessly like a fly trying to find an exit to an open window.
There were some very stunning ensembles, Darth Maul face-paint included, so I felt outdone artistically which is something I loathe, since art is all I'm good at anyway. Kudos to Kyle on being so inventive (a black and red feather "headress" with black angel wings and matching shirt, tie, and slacks!) and props to the rest for looking so posh. Brenda was a butterfly fairy? Or at least she painted what looked to be a butterfly trimmed w/ bagettes on her face, and wore a baby blue evening gown w/ sheer sleeves. Sound like a fashion show? It was! I made a better wallflower with what Sam terms my "Utah" stylings, and was very comfortable finding a plush armchair away from the more fashionable.
So, I suppose my greatest lament is that I'm not really "me" around anyone. Er, or not that I know of . . . So I'm not really comfy unless I'm all by my lonesome.
Anyway, it was fun, and I got to pester Sam for HOURS on end afterward. (I'm sorry!) It was a good time chatting/discussing/arguing . . . :) (I'm sorry!) So anyway, I've got too much to do, and little motivation to do it.
. . . Au revoir

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Split in two

Ugh. This is a common Taylor emission, though it's often internal; as my outside sags so goes my chest cavity. I get so tangled: infuriated and morose, lugubrious and loony, befuddled and ugly clear---I just can't seem to divide those sensations. I've also found that I want to be neat, but I'm just this side of far-gone slovenly; I'm extremely sensitive and intermittently callous; I'm a fence-sitter. I'm the lukewarm victual that is doomed to be spewed. Haha! I'm spewed. Nevermind.

I both detest and aggrandize myself. I have whimsically plotted (without fussing over details) to take over the world, complete w/ totalitarian propaganda, a slick veneer, and a huddle of yes-men to complete the package. And yet, I don't look in the mirror and see much. Oh, God gave me eyes---remarkable eyes, not so much for their sky-blue shimmer, but for the beauty I can see beneath the surface. I have legs to take me where I want to go, frail but capable fingers, etc. but I don't think I've used them as much. Persons devoid of my lackluster umph! would protest, and say "Well, why not start now?! Why not change? You're not dead yet! Why, you're only 27!" I would reply, "I've been trying. Twenty or so years---as soon as I knew something was wrong."

Yet, I realize there are so many problems within that I scarce have the energy to muster a smile unless I'm being all too jovial. I cannot, as Elizabeth magically does, summon a smile. It's as if whatever core hope existed within me has died. I can resurrect it temporarily on the Sabbath, but it wanes even as the day progresses. And there is no surer way to stifle its Phoenix flight than for me to attempt to be social. I'm sorry, btw, Sam for leaving. It was a nice party.

Ugh. I need to stop.

Smarmy or smokin' . . .?

So, I was perusing one of those Cosmo mag-like articles at MSN about flirtation ---(don't ask), and once again cycled through the series of epiphanies that I experienced when I used to be an even bigger "MAN ABOUT TOWN," which revelations caused me to subsequently scurry into my "cave" and discover the joy of "3-d" polygonal video games---(8 bit Nintendo . . . ancient clockworks as far as I'm concerned). I know I'm a flirt, and I'd say terrible except that "terrible flirt" connotes a charming one. I doubt I can claim any real successes as a result of my "lines," etc.

However, I'm usually fishing for a reciprocal reaction, not making a booty call. I don't want ACTION, I just want to mitigate the crushing blow of rejection; I think it's fair to say that rejection is something that most women don't relish, either. (I know a number of Mormon ladies who are very comfortable NOT being expected to make the first move.) My hope is that someone will return my volley, respond in the pseudo-affirmative, etc.

However, I've come to a romantic ceiling, and frankly don't see that any "volleys" will pass. I'm getting more slouchy and dowdy by the second, and I cannot spy any interested parties across the embankment in this eternal battle of the sexes. Since I seem incapable of the fraternization that Kissinger mentioned, I'll try my hand at the hobby of video gaming, er . . . or alchemy. I know taxidermy goes well w/ psychosis . . .

At any rate, I also wonder if happiness doesn't come w/ a beagle . . . they're so cuuuuuute!

Monday, October 25, 2004

Emotional exhibitionism or MOULDY BERFDAY BLOG

Well, my birthday was grand; granted, there were no jack-o-lantern cakes and neighborhood children posing as friends long enough to snag some cake and ice cream, but then that was one of those rare reasons I never liked being little. People were less likely to take my diatribes seriously. (Of course, most of them were about the foul taste of broccoli or how one of my siblings had taken up more than their fairly meted share of the backseat.)

Aside from running around the bulk of Saturday on random errands for snow pants and tennis shoes, we went to a couple of places to eat, which will probably mean larger lovehandles, less love. :) Anyway, last night we went to have dinner w/ my Uncle J.D. and a few of his "crew" at Mandarin, a popular chinese place in Bountiful.

And I suppose I'm not truly capable of expressing how the evening went, because I frankly don't know. I have a casual good time w/ my family, but I'm inept at informing the public about "how my evening was." I'm sure I'll perturb any future friends, fiancee, etc. with my apparent constipation, but I'm only good at discussing things that seem emotionally eventful. I could write a novel about the various oddities that I witness just being around flesh and blood relatives, but then I worry that I might ruin familial reputation doing so . . .

What I realize, though, is that too much goes unsaid.

Anyway, I wonder if for all of my boasting about my being raised by my mother and sis, and my wondrous sensitivity, if I'm not just as emotionally boxed in . . . or emotionally dead. I could easily relate that to the scriptural "hearts waxing cold," since I consider myself the very "vilest of sinners," but I want to believe there's some societal catalyst that causes it.

All I know is that I respect those persons who honestly display their emotions, "emotional exhibitionists" if you will. I don't know that I term anger or lust as true emotions, since when I experience them they kill off the clarity that drives my happiness, my concern, my love, my sorrow for others' grief, etc. In other words I applaud those who, having kept themselves pure, know true emotion, even passion.

That's all for now . . . no more complaints about MOULDY BLOGS, lest I curse you w/ a siege of enchanted cats . . .

Friday, October 22, 2004

Sigh . . . blondes

So I must be a ravenous wolf in really bad sheep's clothing---(are my sequins showing? Hehe. I always pictured the Big Bad wolf wearing a red sequin suit; go figure)---because women always have something else to do. This girl from my first block storyboarding class is an animator, which is more or less up my alley; she can be goofy, which I excel at, and she's got a good nose. Who could ask for anything more? (I'm still waiting on my Toyota.)

Problem is, she had some unexplained plans tonight so I'll be flying solo. Let's see: yogurt pretzels, chocolate Silk and homemade nachos. Check. Homework? Check. Laundry? Check. So I got "stuff to do" (mafia accent). And maybe, though its callous, I'm missing a good lip-lock; don't get me wrong, while I don't deny an exaggerated quantity of hormonal vigor I also connect a kiss more w/ a person's perception of how attractive I am, and since I'm working on a new virgin pair of lips, I'm almost certain---NOT VERY. (Cue retaliatory rebuttal here.)Most of you probably think it's lunacy to so contemplate a kiss. I don't want a make-out session, either. Just a ... $%&*$%@ Nevermind. Bah.

I most likely am not sounding as misogynistic/cantankerous as I should, being a troglodytic curmudgeon, but I'm working on it. Just got to git summa that bitternass back. That's right, I said bitternass! We doin' it west coast style, g! LOL. Nevermind. Don't . . . ah . . . no. I'm too white and uninformed, too suburban and happily so to start pretending I'm a gangsta. I'll let the white rappers of America handle that task. Although I wouldn't mind having a linguist's guide to South Compton . . .

Alas, the various tendrils of my ugly inner self are protruding. Talk about showing one's sequins!!! I'd better go and scour around for sheep.

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Princess Mononoke

To quote an admired quote of a fond friend, "WOW. I TELL YOU WHAT, WOW!" This movie made me want to rush out to the local Suncoast and delve into the anime archives. Never did I think I could watch animals talking and truly take it seriously. I'm one who finds the animal "love scenes" in Disney films laughable. Of course, Princess Mononoke has none of that; it shows animal kind (in a more regal form) at war. While the animation is fluid, even frighteningly fast in parts (you've never seen wolves move so quickly) it never feels as if the movie is trying to impress. It's just telling a spectacular narrative.

Not only that, but whatever preconceived cultural demarcations may have delineated an "Asian" film for me in the past were completely dissolved here. The movie touts a strong and even spiritual telling of the very universal and fairly old struggle between technology and nature, without stooping to the same manipulative tricks of other "nature-friendly" movies. (My bile is still churning thanks to Fern Gully.)

It was said that perhaps the ending was "de-assuring," as opposed to what one experiences in a Western film, especially an American one. *SPOILER AHEAD* I don't think Princess Mononoke's decision to remain with the wolves instead of humans was anything but satisfying, but then I'm ever aching toward the end of a typical American movie to see the token man and woman combo part ways or remain just friends. Instead, there HAS to be a sexual chemistry, and it inevitably HAS to be fulfilled, if only by a kiss. Just test the theory next time you go to a traditional movie. In some combination that American movie ending remains the same.

At any rate, to those who haven't seen it, do. It's just too cool for words! And from someone as verbose as myself, that's saying a lot!

Trekkies

I thought I'd just make mention of the movie I saw in my Super 8 class last night. Our instructor is required by the department to show us movies and have us write on them, so he decided to show us strictly documentaries, which are his preferred stock and trade.

Trekkies made me glad that though I appreciate some of the inter-character chemistry of the Next Generation series I do not attend conventions, collect memorabilia, or subscribe to any fanzines. However, it also seemed very much like the lunacy that affects any hard-core football fan who has the audacity to paint his/her face (and in some instances a rotund belly) in the favored team's colors and scream like a drunkard at the referee, all of which is in many instances is considered societally acceptable. However, when a person dresses like a Klingon and cheers a cast of characters from a show that originated more than 30 years ago, they're considered freaks.

Obviously, in either case there are extremes, and moderation in all things is a wise practice w/ any passion. Still, I find it ludicrous that I should be esteemed as odd because I celebrate comic books, mythology, and random acts of poetry and the super-jock should be exonerated despite numerous accounts of barbaric hazing, vandalism, and assorted pseudo-criminal insanity being a sports aficionado.

Go figure.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

One of my favorite tunes . . .

U2 - Love Is Blindness
Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my heart
Love is blindness

In a parked car
In a crowded street
You see your love
Made complete
Thread is ripping
The knot is slipping
Love is blindness

Love is clockworks
And cold steel
Fingers too numb to feel
Squeeze the handle
Blow out the candle
Love is blindness

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my love
Blindness

A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby...a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense

Love is drowning
In a deep well
All the secrets
And no one to tell
Take the money
Honey
Blindness

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me
Oh my love
Blindness

I know I'm violating a number of Latter-day Saint taboos by loving this song, if only for its insinuating tempo, lyrics and mood in general but it's very close to some of the cavernous reaches of my broken inside . . .

Sunday, October 17, 2004

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand cut! That's a wrap!

So, I have some closure. I am freed at last from the fear of never finishing, and thanks be to a patient cast, (thank you Sam, especially, for putting up w/ moi) and the good graces of a benevolent God (the weather was kind), it's done, or as done as it will ever be.

I only wish I had invested in a camera years ago. I would have shot a thousand stories before now, and hopefully somewhat better than what I've done today. My sincerest apologies to all the student film-makers of past through future for having so sloppily concocted a premise. I'm sure it's not the first historically; it won't be the last personally---haha! but I will resolve not to be so shoddy A.S.A.P.

At any rate, I'm beat, and still have some 30 storyboards to do . . .

Avocado!

Saturday, October 16, 2004

SLC blues . . .

Yesterday . . . all my troubles seemed so faaaaaaar awaaaay, now . . .ahem! Yesterday I journeyed as far as Salt Lake City in search of a viable video camera, and instead of renting, made a purchase. For $25 I acquired an ancient Magnavox VHS, and I'm hoping it lasts the weekend. It doesn't have a working battery, only runs on AC; so I also got an extension cord . . . but that's just the rank-and-file rigamarole. I had an epiphane! (Cue mind-boggled facial expression here.)

Just pacing to and fro between the Salt Lake Arts Center and Crossroads Plaza (there was a snafu in payment and I needed to snag some simoleans--(I wonder if that's the right spelling?)) I witnessed the vacuous cacophony, the seething synergy of the inner city. Frankly, having been to Houston and San Fran I know that SLC isn't the most bustling of towns, but in terms of Utah's center of civilization, the capitol city is IT. I felt that muddled melancholy that washes over me when I feel as if some cosmic calamity's afoot, just crossing the crosswalk and seeing people marching determinedly to lunch or a job and yet moving aimlessly. It reminded me of Thoreau's cautionary observation, "the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." In the city, whether loud or timid their desperation is blanketed by daily business.

Though in the past I've worried a great deal about being a movie maker---especially when it comes to financial peril, I can only say that at the very least I would choose near-poverty rather than subject myself to a monotonous routine. Alexander Pope's peasant humbly declares, after having received the kindness of a king, if I remember right:
"An't please Your Honour," quoth the peasant,
"This same dessert is not so pleasant:
Give me again my hollow tree,
A crust of bread and Liberty."
(that's in The Sixth Satire of the Second Book of Horace, lines 218-21)

I dare not mock the effort of business persons, the cubicle worker, or the dutiful secretary; rather, I have to say that staring up at the skyscrapers I had more desire to film them than to crawl inside their confines and muck out a living as a faceless number, another passer-by in a corporate machine.

There. I said it. Now begins the mocking! :) (I know I'm a cheesehead, but I know you love it!)

Friday, October 15, 2004

How Little We Know . . .

That's a swell Frank Sinatra ditty, btw. And considering my constant befuddlement w/ the opposite sex, ---(frankly, I don't understand my own gender, either)--- I was wondering if anyone could inform me as to their own personal "signals." I don't want a textbook response, I'm certain that no one woman is exactly the same and thus my difficulty. (I used to think fudge and flowers were magic . . . ) So if you have any signals, especially those suggesting you're "interested," (and in a romantic way, as opposed to wondering what keeps a persons hideous face from exploding into an alien plant) please spell them out here. Maybe we'll compile an anthology. Each of you ladies have qualities I appreciate, so I'd appreciate your input. Tanks!

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Want to be a star? ;) trek . . .

So, any and all innuendo associated w/ the casting couch aside, I can safely say that this weekend will task me, in an oh-so-Wrath-of-Khan-but=without-the-fake-chest kind of way. I'm supposed to miraculously conjure a video camera scouring Happy Valley. This ain't New York or L.A., mah peeps; I can't just jaunt down to the local convenience store and rent some 1Ks, sandbags, and a Digital 8. So I'll have to trek to Salt Lake and beam into the Utah Film and Video Center, whose customer service ranks from 1 to a devil's handshake.

I've phoned a couple times now sheepishly seeking aforesaid video camera, and the disgruntled guy at the other end MUST have been rolling his eyes so far back he could have scanned his inner skull. Okay, so I exaggerate, sue me! Let's just say his tone of voice was no Wal-mart greeter. And if a jittery senior citizen can offer a warm welcome, why not a no doubt middle-aged malcontent? I don't need him to bake me cookies; just pretend like he doesn't think I'm an idiot.

Then I have to shoot 9 close-up scenes and an exposition shot w/ a car, people, and water; then I have to do a simple expo shot that I managed to make irritably complex in my storyboard . . . ugh. I imagined a girl clad in white holding a billowing sheet of sheer fabric in the wind, atop the mountains, etc. Crazy? No, it's art. :P
Oh, and I have some 36 drawings to do on top of that. Oh, and a Super 8 project. (Cue Mission: Impossible soundtrack here.)

So I'm off, to explore strange new people, to seek out new humiliations and new ideas, to boldly go where no real man should . . .

LIVE LONG AND PROSPER

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Me and Roger

Well, I'm officially unsettled. It's not like I didn't have a storm cloud or two lingering over my clunking cranium, but thanks to Michael Moore's freshman film I'm now inundated with thoughts of socio-economic doom. Ugh. So I'm going to seem much like the pastel-clad blue-haired ladies teeing off at the private club in the movie, but I'd like every now and then to smile, and I just can't when I'm made aware of the tragic moral incongruities that prevail thanks to money-grubbing corporate-types all over the world and not just in Flint, Michigan. I still don't understand how Michael Moore can fake a smile unless he's being smug or mischievous at the expense of the "establishment." (I put that in quotations, or as they appear when gestured, "bunny foo-foos," because I think the establishment is almost as much the anti-establishment as anything else nowadays. I mean, seriously. I feel like a rebel being religious in today's climate. That's right, bring the "man" down! . . . that he may humble.) :)

Anyway, I ate a Jell-O cup and some Triscuits so I'm cool. Er, except for that seething sensation in my stomach . . . (Don't I end most every post w/ some kind of bowel dysfunction? Patterns are our friends!)

Bringing ghetto to the grocery store

If I look like a mangy, albeit sexy conformist monkey when I'm clean-shaved, normally clothed, and so on I look like the missing link in a cholo T-shirt when I'm not. As is usually the case on laundry day, I run to the store to buy some quick nothing and use my debit card to get enough change to wash clothes for a small army of orangutangs. Usually I'm in pajama pants, which waft like tufts of textile smoke around my chimney pipe legs. This I can endure long enough to breeze in for a bag o' chips and skedaddle.

Today, however, I was clad in shorts, which as anyone who knows me and my legs can attest, make me look like a top-heavy sailboat. Not only that, I'm wearing a freakishly large Rollin' Hard T-shirt that, due to some demonic possession, apparently does NOT shrink as my others do after repeated washing. So, as pseudo-gangsta/middle-aged "Dad" I saunder into the grocery store feeling as if I could just as well be nude. (Don't linger too long on that; I'm still trying to wash the two seconds of its awkwardness from my mind.) Unfortunately, I must now traverse the ENTIRE store looking, as I promised Liz, for some "spider" spray. I know I've seen it somewhere; however, as my imagination conjures imps, gremlins, and floating heads of doom out of my everyday existence, it was probably a figment of the ol' cerebrum's awesome might, or just a bad Fig Newton.

So anyway, I smartly asked for bug spray and avoided a fastidious conversation w/ the middle-age Macey's woman who showed me to the aisle. There I saw flying insect spray, ant spray, ant and cockroach spray, and cockroach spray. No spider spray. So I bought some latex gloves for cleaning and escaped.

Oh, and right now I'm listening to some wicked weird tune by Fatboy Slim wherein some voice repeatedly says, muddled, "Druggie." Don't get me wrong. Me likey Fatboy Slim. I just don't know how I feel about being besieged by cries of druggie for around five minutes. Now when I look in the mirror I'll have to check to see if my pupils are dilated. Where are my oldies? I need to listen to The Lion Sleeps Tonight. The worst image it conjures is an elaborate puppet show. Nevermind. Don't ask. Well, okay, ask, just wear a plastic sheet. LOL. NEVERMIND.
Ta-ta.

All Hallow's Eve

This post could prove perilously long, since I love Halloween so much. I say that understanding that many a Mormon may not look forward, as I do and have since I was eight or so, to a time of year when people dress up as ghouls, witches, vampires, pirates and so forth, and pull pranks, get sick on candy, etc. Granted, I'm a middle-of-the-road monster, and don't like to celebrate Halloween by making anyone else miserable, so I avoid the more dastardly and destructive pranks ---(the best kind are harmless, even helpful)---but I solemnize the mythological milieu of a holiday that began w/ a belief in the rising of the dead.

As a boy, I would look forward to the book fair but only because I wanted to get books like Daniel Cohen's Famous Ghosts or juvenile anthologies like Southern-Fried Rat and other Gruesome Tales. When Ghostbusters came out, though I was but a wee one,---(I love the word wee!) I would incessantly draw (poorly) pictures of phantoms, fiends, etc. and hand them to my mother in the hopes that we would go. And my obsession w/ the macabre, at least in its most innocent incarnation, still thrives, especially at this time of year.

I only recently learned that it was an innate interest in mythology that had spurned interests I would later have in comic books, science fiction, and most movies.

So, it is with a particular zeal that I dream of completely decorating my house someday in the terror-filled trappings of All Hallow's Eve. A fabulously abbreviated history of the holiday by the History Channel, no less, can be found here:
http://www.historychannel.com/exhibits/halloween/ (You'll have to cut & paste because the "Insert Link" item doesn't work w/ me---accursed technology!)

Anyway, I'm not feeling witty or whimsy, so I'd better stop writing.

Monday, October 11, 2004

Oldies but dirties

Okay, so if you've ever listened to "Under the Boardwalk," you'll understand the above title. Every time I crack into my Time/Life oldies collection, I discover anew the reasons why so many felt that rock n' roll was evil. Of course, "to the pure all things are pure," and it really requires someone as devllish as myself to accurately pinpoint all of the innuendo. (However, in some songs it's just blatant---Under the Boardwalk is basically a song lyrically describing hanky-panky where? You guessed it: under the boardwalk, which brings to my obsessive mind concerns about sand in one's swimming trunks, chafing, or at the very least the presence of various aquatic animalia looking on.)
And if that's not just . . . well, weird, I should mention that Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, and numerous others weren't talking as much about the social revolution of the rising generation as they were serenading for sex. Scandalous? Oh yeah. So word to the wise, you impressionable youth out there. :)

From the original public menace to you . . .

Women!!!

Just a random thought: why must women be so irritatingly irresistible?! Perhaps some clarification is in order . . . Why must women possess this mystique that drives men mad?? Furthermore, why is it that women are then surprised to find men so aggressive?

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Thus looms the portent of a deleterious backslide . . .

Every new week brings with it the worry that I'll just while away my spare hours surfing the world-wide weird, printing off impractical paraphernalia that will no doubt dominate my computer desk, and dutifully ditching my storyboarding class--- (it's been twice now! Curse my fallability!) Still, hope remains while the company proves faithful . . . (Any guesses as to the movie that's from??) I do have those plucky, bright-eyed beefcakes for roomies that manage to motivate and madden me simultaneously. Maybe they will be Sam to my fallacious Frodo?

Maybe I need to stop referencing the Lord of the Rings? I'm certain that the backlash from the Oscars and the trilogy's success in general has already saturated at least the western seaboard with a bad taste in their cinematic palate. Why? When the movies came out I heard nothing but good news except from a few stingy critics. I don't deny a person the right to their opinion, nor would I assume that any film is impervious to conscientious criticism, but I feel that, in terms of the latest batch of popular opinion, the Lord of the Rings is getting a bad shake. C'mon, it's Ian McKellen with a wig! How cool is that?! and who knew? :)

Saturday, October 09, 2004

Meet me, Mr. Psychosis

Okay, so I looked up psychosis and it's pretty much right on the money. Tonight my roomies threw some kind of uber-happy latin shindig and every cell in my epidermis (at least) revolted at the idea. Am I not a party man? I like the night-life. I like to boogie. Or could it be that I am STUBBORN, STUBBORN, STUBBORN!? Hmmm. Food for thought, not to be eaten after midnight. (It gives me the bends just thinking about it.)

If, I may, however: I should justify as I do so well by saying that I honestly feel terrified by said social gatherings with large groups of people, music, and giggly good-times. Of course, I can't clinically verify that I suffer a social anxiety disorder, but even if I did I don't really believe that disorders, especially of the social variety, are anything more than mentally painting oneself into a corner and not being able to leave w/o a good therapist paid at exorbitant rates. So there goes my talent at justification.

Seriously, though, is there anyone else out there who identifies/empathizes/gives a darn? I'm almost certain at least a few people think it's pure idiocy to be frightened of fellow human beings, especially when they're friendly, but I can't help but feel my palms ooze and my brain rattle when I realize I've got to "hang out" in a large group.

Or maybe I'm feeling like Wednesday in Addam's Family Values, stranded at a camp of psychotically chipper white people and forced to endure Care Bears movies. Spewwww!

Ahem! Anyway, as you can tell I could go on forever, if it weren't for a combination of bile and Gatorade mix circling dangerously in my esophagus.

Until later, world!

God is a nice guy . . .

Who said that nice guys finish last? (Rather, it should be that nice guys finish what they start.) Though I esteem myself as a lowly example of what not to do, I'm always happy to know there's forgiveness, especially from a higher being. It makes me want to be nicer to insects. That's right. I'm feeling guilty for hammering a couple of mosquitoes and other assorted "bitey" flying things in my apartment (imps included).

Anyway, I'm not as poetic as some of my comrades, so I haven't anything else to report.

Tune in next time . . . "Same Bat Time . . . Same Bat Channel!" Nana-nana-nana-nana-nana-na! Batman!

Lacking inspiration . . .

I want to write but I can't. I've got a giant melon on my neck that's full of methane. Light something close to it, and it will explode, like the last dirges of a dying empire.

Friday, October 08, 2004

My reviews . . . okay, Ebert, eat your heart out! Er, or don't. And by the way, next time? Get less butter on your popcorn. Seriously.

So, I saw Taxi and Shark Tale, two wacky comedies, and to be honest, I rarely laughed. Whatever happened to the good ol' Groundhog Days comedy? "Come on, all the long distance lines are down? What about a satellite? Is it snowing in space?" Aaaaaaah, that's the good stuff. Funny with sauce on it. I'm watching these, readily digesting what I understand is SUPPOSED to be funny, and yet not feeling. Maybe I need a good hard slap in the face. Maybe I'm just emotionally constipated, and need a laxative.

No matter my personal dysfunction, what is obvious to me is that in both of these movies I wasn't really given a glimpse into why I should care about what happens to any of these characters . . . er, besides them being sentient life-forms. Maybe I'm asking too much of a comedy? I know I identify w/ Phil Connors, a curmudgeon of a weather-man, "ego-centric," mean-spirited, etc. who undergoes a transformation via his supernatural experience and falls for the only woman who isn't suckered by his lackluster ploys. So, what gives?

If identifying w/ the characters is my criteria, I'll most certainly never identify with anyone played by Jimmy Fallon, because of some strange aural perception of him that weirds me out. It's the vibe. He was great on SNL, but my guess is that he should have stayed there. Metaphysics aside I appreciate Queen Latifah's stellar energy and sense of timing. Her performance was the only thing keeping me from writhing in my seat (again, Mr. Fallon), and the reason the movie is worth watching. "Buckle up for safety, mother (tires squealing as she peels out). . .?"

Using the same criteria for Shark Tale, I certainly can appreciate a desire for fame and fortune, but not so much that I would turn a blind eye to a "fish" ---(okay, so I'm a hopeless romantic, even if it is CGI!) w/ Rene Zellwegger's beauty, vulnerability and sweetness. And I certainly cannot relate to so tasty a morsel wanting me the way this er, fish wanted Will Smith's Oscar. However, on the whole it's at least worth seeing if only for the entertaining mafia mien of the shark side of the story, which brings me to an aside. Why call it Shark Tale when it's really about Oscar, not the shark? I wonder if Oscar's species name wasn't catchy enough . . . like Anthias tale? ooh, or Blenny tale?

At any rate, the gas that fuels good family entertainment is more than a couple drops low in Shark Tale, if only because it, like other copies that Dreamworks makes (remember Ants?) tries to guise kid stuff in all too adult clothing. Pixar and Disney seem to have the tried formula. David Thomas at filmcritic.com shares my sentiments: "Ultimately, though, to blame the shortcomings of this movie on the rating is a losing battle. Finding Nemo manages to be funnier and more entertaining with a G rating. That’s not to say that Shark Tale isn’t funny, or entertaining. It’s just much more forgettable."

In not so short, may I say that if you really love to see movies in the theaters as I do, you may want to take these in at a dollar theater if you weren't really excited about them anyway. They've got both good (Latifah, foxy fish) and bad (Fallon, not so funny---they do go together!) elements, but none that makes them worth seeing them again.

Let's go to the moooooooovies!

So I'm going to go see Taxi, which looks to be a quirky funfest, and will most likely turn out to be an utter disappointment, with the exception of Queen Latifah, who can do no wrong in my feeling. It's the whole plotlessness I'm worried about. How is Fallon just going to run into this mad, speed-demon taxi driver when there are hundreds more (and even more ethnically diverse) scattered among the city? It would be grand if she sought him out for some reason. I get unnerved at a protagonist and/or subsidiary characters not having wills and minds of their own; in other words, being driven by a plot as opposed to making one on their own. Harry Potter seems like one of those, though I love the books. He's usually thrust into circumstances instead of engaging them. Plots circle around him; he doesn't create them on his own.

Of course, then we get mired in an argument of plot vs. character, and I just don't have time for that!

P.S. I may end up seeing Shark Tale (ugh!) either today or tomorrow also. Oh, and maybe Shaun of the Dead.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Morning gremlins

So I have a problem getting up before 10ish. Which to some will sound like laziness (and for all intents and purposes I agree), but I wonder . . .
If my happily fictional universe was as corporeal as the abominable mess floating around my computer, then I'd say it was gremlins. Pale things with giant, orange eyes. Oh, and sleepies just flaking off of them. That's right. They're insomnia gremlins. I realize, of course, that it's habit that keeps me up at night (dreaming of giant spiders attacking my . .. er, spaceship?---it's actually pretty cool because I have like a double-mini gun resting on this turret and I just eviscerate them. Hahah! That's your last scurrying, you scurvy vermin!) and in bed until such a terrible hour. Of course, I used to stay up until 5 a.m. and sleep until 1 p.m. back in my draggy summer days a couple of years ago, but I've been trying to improve. Thanks to a not-so-healthy dread of early classes, though, it's been slow-going. (Now I can't take any day classes, anyway, so I don't feel as bad).

Well, at least I'm up! Now to proceed to the 'at 'em stage!!! (Which usually terminates around 3 :))

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

So in my asian cinema class we watched Kaidan (1965), a series of ghost story vignettes from Japan, all of which were so deliciously devoid of "special effects" (i.e., C.G.) and yet still more potent than any recent horror film I've seen. Although admittedly I usually avoid them because they're so predictable, puerile, and overdone.

I suppose that's my beef against C.G.I., because instead of subtly supplementing an engaging story in ebbs and flows it smashes in torrents like a shattering tsunami onto a skeletal plotline. Of course, I'm not so big on plot as I am on character development, but that's gone to the dogs nowadays also. When was the last time you saw a so-called blockbuster and cared about the protagonist, or for that matter, any of the characters? Of course, if you felt that Britney Spears did a bang-up job in Crossroads I'm probably preaching to the wrong choir. . . Let me just say in a conclusion of sorts that I relish those movies, many of them typically Asian, that are visually stunning without being sensory shockers.

Oh, and my usual disdain for human company is once again rearing its ugly head. I've come to despise "normal" people. And with the exception of one quiet fellow who rarely shows himself, I don't know how to enjoy my roommates' company or prodding questions, like: "Are you caught up with homework?" or "Are you coming to prayer?" :) I know as I'm being irritated by those questions that I'm clearly in need of therapy. Any takers?

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

Corn cakes or O'Reilly

I just wolfed down some six or so corn cakes, which are really just like rice cakes. Dry, frustratingly light monstrosities that have no business being referred to as snack food. I want something that will fill the emptiness inside, and I get glorified air. The pathetic downside is that I feel pudgy, like if I had eaten 10 Nutter Butters. So there's the guilt and no gratification, which doesn't make sense to me. And does every grain become a low fat snack alternative? I mean, I don't see white cheddar "wheat" cakes on the shelf at Wal-Mart. And I thought Wal-Mart had well . . . everything, but super cheap and flimsy.

Anyway, I also realize that the only reason I appreciate Republicans, if you can appreciate the irony, is that they don't sound as full of malarky as do Democrats. I mean, I can't help but chuckle along with O' Reilly when he talks about his detractors, or to nod in the affirmative when he questions a Democratic ploy. Does that make me a Republican? I shudder to give in to the bi-partisan buffoonery. Anyway, to anyone who cares, this is me, signing off.

Ugh, oof, aaagh, and other vague bodily emanations

A question: What is the trick w/ reality that makes it so perilously unpredictable? I mean, I haven't had a ninja burst throw my window tossing shurikens, and I haven't won the lottery (which would really be a shocker since I've never bought a ticket ---EVER), so it's nothing dramatic. It's just that gnawing feeling you experience as you're waiting: a telling tick-tock in the brain that makes you feel as if you what you know you have to do you don't want to; or the slow hum of a long, balmy afternoon that makes you feel as if you have too much time on your hands; or just that feeling of you, no noise, no accoutrements, just ---vacuousness. Anyway, I'm probably thinking too much about the strange nuanced sensations that are all so everyday, but I wonder, what does it mean? I mean, besides that I need to get out more?

Old poetry . . .

A grand facade, in gaudy summers dressed,
Sly damsels dipped in bold Diana’s cup
As puckish nymphs will, sporting, make a jest
Of pang├Ęd hearts, and while destroying, sup.

Betrayed by such disguise as nymphets brave:
Defeating downy crowns and azure eyes,
They still enchant the pauper and the knave
Who so deceived do welcome their demise.

So I bereft of means to hie away,
Do clamor like a babe ‘twixt knaves and fools
And thus approve thy visage fair display;
What self-made sight amazes, passion schools.

Though rapt with wan delusion, I adore
The torture of thy beauty all the more.


DREAMS

I’ll make my venue under stars
And dream of places off afar
I’ll rest my head by crystal spheres
Amidst great midnight chandeliers
Afoot brass pearls of porcelain
Asleep in swaths of white
I’ll sing to my sweet chambermaid in silent, crystal night

New leaves . . . a camping necessity

LOL! New leaves!! I was thinking more of the turning over of . . . not so much wildnerness survival, but there you have it! My brain. Enjoy. At any rate, I'm trying to be more of a mover and a shaker, so I thought I'd get an early start and be showered by . . . 1:00! Wow. I'm actually progressing. :) So, I'm a sloth, or maybe an incipient truck driver. Who knows. Anyway, I'd best be off doing, or pretending to . . .

Monday, October 04, 2004

People . . . sassafrassin'@#%%@%@#$%^

Ah, so it is. I might as well be out with it. I'm insane. Certifiable, bona fide, what have you. I say this, dear reader, because people depress me. No, no one disappointed me as such. This malaise did not emerge due to some vulgar experience with druggies, hookers, or pedophiles. Rather, I have the priviledge of basking in the bright glow of Mormonism at its most manic. Concourses of clean, intelligent, thoughtful, witty, well-achieved college kids surround me. Instead of relishing the uber-spiritual surroundings and clamoring to be equally impressive, my lagging heart lulls, even lowers in my chest cavity, and I'm reminded that I either do not belong or may never feel that I do, if only for a shady past and a questionable present. Of course, I'm just brimming with potential, like my mother's old run-down pioneer-age home in Brigham City. The problem? Who will undertake the daunting task of renovation if not me?

So, eh . . . time for a game?

Well, I've gone and done it again: I ditched class. Instead of using my newfound time wisely I instead feel myself leaning towards a good bout of video gaming. Why? Because there's no quicker way to feel better about one's self than to pummel virtual opponents into man-punch. Anyone for a drink?

Oh, and by the by, I've noticed that nary a soul has commented on my blogs (few though they be) and that the only person adding ticks to my hit counter is me. Ah well! I suppose at the very least I can relish the thought of entertaining myself. Now where did I put that kerosene?

The sweet agony of procrastination . . .

Okay, so I realize it's the same day---sue me! I'm putting off completing an assignment that is already a week late, and I'm thinking I'll end up missing the class anyway. Alas, I had hoped to turn over a new leaf as a graduate student. >sigh< C'est la vie! Onward and upward, if only in a diagonal.

Hurrah! hurrah!

Alas, the world waiting breathless can now exhale as I put my superior cerebrum to work on the world wide web ---Haha! But seriously, my good buddy Sam began a blog, and I can't respond to her stuff unless I've got one, too. So there it is! Avocado!